Last week's blog about the Torah Tumble prompted many of you to confess to similar sins. It sounds like a lot of people have been harboring guilt. Thank you all for sharing your religious boo boos--while I don't feel any better about dropping the Torah, at least I know I'm in good company.
I heard two even worse stories than mine about the Torah falling:
A friend of mine and her husband were given the honor of opening the ark on Rosh Hashanah. As you can imagine, the synagogue was packed for the High Holidays, and the Rabbi and the Cantor were up on the bimah with them. When my friends slid the doors to the ark open and the congregation rose, the Torah fell right out onto the floor.
Another friend sent me an article from the Forward about a congregation in Asheville, North Carolina, where they opened the ark on Yom Kippur and TWO Torahs fell to the floor! The silver crown was dented on one, and the wooden handle was broken on the second.
And I heard about two faith based blunders that were not Torah-related. One man was the chair of a luncheon for a rabbinical conference. When the hotel waitstaff brought out the lunch and served it to rabbis of all denominations from around the country, the salad was covered with shrimp.
And finally, the Sisterhood hospitality chair ordered cakes and cookies for the Oneg Shabbat at the Temple for the Friday night during Passover. One of the congregants called her to find out where she had ordered such delicious baked goods, as she had never enjoyed such tasty kosher-for-Passover treats. They discovered that all the baked goods served at the Temple during Passover were made with flour.
Boy, do I feel better!
In addition to your confessions, many of you also suggested remedies for me. The folks in Asheville are considering community service and charitable donations. A lot of you told me that the 40 day fast is the accepted norm, but is shared (one day at a time) by the entire congregation. My girlfriend suggested that a reasonable alternative to 40 days of fasting for me would be 40 days of Jenny Craig. (I can see the ad copy now: Drop the Torah and Drop 10 pounds!)
I received many messages of forgiveness from my friends, my mother, and even my old Hebrew school teacher. One friend said, "You didn't throw the Torah; it's not like you spiked the football." Well, yes, thank you, I appreciate the distinction.
Maybe this has been a good thing. I can't say that I've fasted or even cut out dessert, but I have been making a sincere effort to be more charitable and perform more mitzvot (good deeds.) Maybe it's not a bad thing to drop the proverbial Torah every now and then, and make a renewed effort to step up our charitable games.
But if some of you are about to call and ask me to pick you up from the airport at midnight, or help you pack and move, I'd love to but I'm busy that day.
Monday, September 30, 2013
Thursday, September 19, 2013
The Act of Falling
I was hoping not to tell you this, but I think that my confession might give me some relief:
I dropped the Torah.
For Jews of my generation and background, this is very bad. Very, very bad. We learned that when we dropped our yarmulke (skullcap) on the floor, we were supposed to kiss it. Same goes for our prayer book.
What's a Jew to do when she drops the Torah?
The Torah fell when I was preparing for our Rosh Hashanah service at Friedman Place. I took the Torah out of the ark to practice and find my place. Our Torah is old, and the roller is broken, and it wasn't rotating very easily. I also had my book on the bimah (lectern) to help me find my place, and before I knew it, the fatter scroll quietly unrolled onto the floor.
I was mortified. I checked for damage. Luckily, the parchment did not tear. I carefully lifted the Torah back onto the bimah and kept telling it I was sorry.
I didn't know what I was supposed to do. I wanted to show the Torah my respect, so I started thinking of the Torah as a person. What would I do if I dropped a person?
It just so happens I've dropped a person. In fact, I've dropped two. When I first brought Jesse home from the hospital after a month in intensive care, I put him in Robby's fancy Aprica stroller, which had been idle for a year or more, and took him for a stroll around Meadow Drive. Halfway around the block, the stroller collapsed, the way strollers are supposed to collapse, except not when there are babies in them.
Jesse fell to the ground and started screaming. I could not miss the irony: he had survived heart surgery and a month in the hospital, but that was a cakewalk compared to a summer stroll down our suburban street with me.
The Robby thing was more of a face plant. Don't ask.
Of course when I dropped the boys, they cried and were plenty mad. I checked them for damage, did a lot of apologizing, and kissed them--just like I did with the Torah.
I know that I am not the first person to ever drop a Torah. Every Saturday morning at synagogues all over the world, 13-year-olds take the Torah out of the ark, and they are not trained professionals. I'm sure that sometimes the Torah takes a tumble.
Please don't think I am minimizing this offense. I have been feeling very, very guilty about it, and it's been the subject of a lot of High Holiday silent prayer. I googled "dropping the Torah" and learned the wide range of remedies. I wanted to find a punishment that fit the crime. The most severe is a 40 day fast.
That seems pretty severe.
The least severe is checking to see if anyone else saw, and then whistling as if nothing happened.
I think that ship has sailed.
As I sat in Temple on Yom Kippur, recounting my shortcomings, I asked God to inscribe me in The Book of Life for the coming year. In this season of confession and atonement, where does the sin of dropping the Torah rank?
I guess I'll find out.
I dropped the Torah.
For Jews of my generation and background, this is very bad. Very, very bad. We learned that when we dropped our yarmulke (skullcap) on the floor, we were supposed to kiss it. Same goes for our prayer book.
What's a Jew to do when she drops the Torah?
The Torah fell when I was preparing for our Rosh Hashanah service at Friedman Place. I took the Torah out of the ark to practice and find my place. Our Torah is old, and the roller is broken, and it wasn't rotating very easily. I also had my book on the bimah (lectern) to help me find my place, and before I knew it, the fatter scroll quietly unrolled onto the floor.
I was mortified. I checked for damage. Luckily, the parchment did not tear. I carefully lifted the Torah back onto the bimah and kept telling it I was sorry.
I didn't know what I was supposed to do. I wanted to show the Torah my respect, so I started thinking of the Torah as a person. What would I do if I dropped a person?
It just so happens I've dropped a person. In fact, I've dropped two. When I first brought Jesse home from the hospital after a month in intensive care, I put him in Robby's fancy Aprica stroller, which had been idle for a year or more, and took him for a stroll around Meadow Drive. Halfway around the block, the stroller collapsed, the way strollers are supposed to collapse, except not when there are babies in them.
Jesse fell to the ground and started screaming. I could not miss the irony: he had survived heart surgery and a month in the hospital, but that was a cakewalk compared to a summer stroll down our suburban street with me.
The Robby thing was more of a face plant. Don't ask.
Of course when I dropped the boys, they cried and were plenty mad. I checked them for damage, did a lot of apologizing, and kissed them--just like I did with the Torah.
I know that I am not the first person to ever drop a Torah. Every Saturday morning at synagogues all over the world, 13-year-olds take the Torah out of the ark, and they are not trained professionals. I'm sure that sometimes the Torah takes a tumble.
Please don't think I am minimizing this offense. I have been feeling very, very guilty about it, and it's been the subject of a lot of High Holiday silent prayer. I googled "dropping the Torah" and learned the wide range of remedies. I wanted to find a punishment that fit the crime. The most severe is a 40 day fast.
That seems pretty severe.
The least severe is checking to see if anyone else saw, and then whistling as if nothing happened.
I think that ship has sailed.
As I sat in Temple on Yom Kippur, recounting my shortcomings, I asked God to inscribe me in The Book of Life for the coming year. In this season of confession and atonement, where does the sin of dropping the Torah rank?
I guess I'll find out.
Thursday, September 5, 2013
My Holiday Visitor
It's been a quiet week in Solomonland, and I did not have anything to tell you. I thought I might have to skip a week of blogging. But then, without warning, a stranger walked into my life and brought the excitement I'd been missing!
I've got a skunk.
A big, fat, bold skunk. He trots out from under my backyard deck and scurries across my yard at dusk. He appears to know his way around.
This is not my first skunk rodeo.
I call ABC Humane Wildlife to come set up a trap, as recommended by the Village of Wilmette. ABC promises not to kill the trapped animals. Instead, they take them to the enchanted forest where Snow White lives, and together they will sing songs and frolic in the woods.
Actually, I do not expect to catch this skunk or any others in the trap. My hope is that the skunks will see the trap and move next door to live in my neighbor's yard.
The first day of trap watching is uneventful. I suspect the skunks are checking out the trap and laughing at me.
On the second day, my suspicion is confirmed. The bait is eaten, but no animal is in the trap. My husband and I watch the video on the ABC web site to learn how to re-bait the trap. Skunks like sweet food, so I smear some Sara Lee Honey Turkey with some raspberry jam. My husband looks at my offering and tells me this is one of my top three dinners. (Read here to find out more about smart aleck husband.)
The third day I wake up to a note from my husband telling me that there is an animal in the trap. I go outside and see that the trap has sprung, but because the trap is covered in in brown cardboard I cannot see who is in there. I move the trap with my foot, but it doesn't feel heavy, and I suspect that the skunks came, dined on the turkey and jam, and walked off. I pick up the trap and see something with gray matted fur that doesn't move and I drop it like a hot potato and scream. I call ABC and describe my trauma, and learn that I've probably caught a possum who was, alas, playing possum.
Chris from ABC comes to my house and takes the possum for counseling and rehabilitation. I ask him what he uses to bait the trap, and he says that he usually uses liverwurst and grape jelly, but today he's going to use a little something special to see if he can attract the skunk. I wonder why he didn't use it the first time, and am reminded that I pay $65 every time he comes to the house.
I don't know what Chris' "something special" could be, but tonight the skunks are in for a special High Holiday meal. It's Rosh Hashanah, and there are leftovers. I imagine that in the enchanted forest tomorrow, they'll all be talking about my brisket.
I've got a skunk.
A big, fat, bold skunk. He trots out from under my backyard deck and scurries across my yard at dusk. He appears to know his way around.
This is not my first skunk rodeo.
I call ABC Humane Wildlife to come set up a trap, as recommended by the Village of Wilmette. ABC promises not to kill the trapped animals. Instead, they take them to the enchanted forest where Snow White lives, and together they will sing songs and frolic in the woods.
Actually, I do not expect to catch this skunk or any others in the trap. My hope is that the skunks will see the trap and move next door to live in my neighbor's yard.
The first day of trap watching is uneventful. I suspect the skunks are checking out the trap and laughing at me.
On the second day, my suspicion is confirmed. The bait is eaten, but no animal is in the trap. My husband and I watch the video on the ABC web site to learn how to re-bait the trap. Skunks like sweet food, so I smear some Sara Lee Honey Turkey with some raspberry jam. My husband looks at my offering and tells me this is one of my top three dinners. (Read here to find out more about smart aleck husband.)
The third day I wake up to a note from my husband telling me that there is an animal in the trap. I go outside and see that the trap has sprung, but because the trap is covered in in brown cardboard I cannot see who is in there. I move the trap with my foot, but it doesn't feel heavy, and I suspect that the skunks came, dined on the turkey and jam, and walked off. I pick up the trap and see something with gray matted fur that doesn't move and I drop it like a hot potato and scream. I call ABC and describe my trauma, and learn that I've probably caught a possum who was, alas, playing possum.
Chris from ABC comes to my house and takes the possum for counseling and rehabilitation. I ask him what he uses to bait the trap, and he says that he usually uses liverwurst and grape jelly, but today he's going to use a little something special to see if he can attract the skunk. I wonder why he didn't use it the first time, and am reminded that I pay $65 every time he comes to the house.
I don't know what Chris' "something special" could be, but tonight the skunks are in for a special High Holiday meal. It's Rosh Hashanah, and there are leftovers. I imagine that in the enchanted forest tomorrow, they'll all be talking about my brisket.
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
Friend Me!
Like a lot of you, every morning I wake up and check Facebook to find out all the fabulous things other people are doing without me. I only have 239 friends and most of them don't post anything, but this morning there were some pictures of the first day of school, a few family vacations, and notification of a birthday. This is a big improvement over the usual political messages and cat pictures.
The main reason I check Facebook is to scroll for news of my children. I see my son's name under the heading Find Mutual Friends. It says, "Jesse Solomon recently added 83 friends. Do you know any of them?"
Why um, no, I don't, as a matter of fact. And 83? Seriously?
There are a couple issues here.
First, for the record, I used to know all of Jesse's friends. I knew their parents. I knew where they lived, if their mother worked outside the home, and if they had any food allergies. Hell, I knew if they had a gun in the house.
I realize that was a long time ago, and since Jesse went away to college, I know a lot less. Over the summer when he was in Europe, sometimes I did not know what country he was in, let alone who he was with. This is what happens when your kids grow up.
He just went back to school, and I felt a little bad about his send off. When he left for college his freshman year, both my husband and I flew down to move him into his dorm. We met his roommate, and unpacked his belongings, and made his bed. Sophomore year, I went without my husband to buy my son a bed and dresser, and stock the fridge in his new apartment. This year we kissed him goodbye at the Departure door at O'Hare.
But come on, the kid had 83 new friends waiting for him at the other end. I'm not feeling quite so bad.
I cannot imagine the circumstances under which I could make 83 new friends. Of course my son and I have a different definition of friendship, and a Facebook friend is not necessarily a real life friend. But still, I get the feeling that the other 54-year-olds in my neighborhood are not looking to make new pals. I don't even know how to meet 83 potential friends---maybe I could stand outside of Chico's and hand out bars of dark chocolate.
Most people my age can barely keep up with the friends they have. Unless (and this would be really depressing) you are all out there making friends with each other, but don't want to be friends with me. After all, I'm a fundraiser and a writer. Most of you either give money to my charities or cross to the other side of the street when you see me. Maybe you are worried I'm going to ask for money and then write about you. But I would never do that.
Well, maybe I would. But I would never use your real name. Call me.
The main reason I check Facebook is to scroll for news of my children. I see my son's name under the heading Find Mutual Friends. It says, "Jesse Solomon recently added 83 friends. Do you know any of them?"
Why um, no, I don't, as a matter of fact. And 83? Seriously?
There are a couple issues here.
First, for the record, I used to know all of Jesse's friends. I knew their parents. I knew where they lived, if their mother worked outside the home, and if they had any food allergies. Hell, I knew if they had a gun in the house.
I realize that was a long time ago, and since Jesse went away to college, I know a lot less. Over the summer when he was in Europe, sometimes I did not know what country he was in, let alone who he was with. This is what happens when your kids grow up.
He just went back to school, and I felt a little bad about his send off. When he left for college his freshman year, both my husband and I flew down to move him into his dorm. We met his roommate, and unpacked his belongings, and made his bed. Sophomore year, I went without my husband to buy my son a bed and dresser, and stock the fridge in his new apartment. This year we kissed him goodbye at the Departure door at O'Hare.
But come on, the kid had 83 new friends waiting for him at the other end. I'm not feeling quite so bad.
I cannot imagine the circumstances under which I could make 83 new friends. Of course my son and I have a different definition of friendship, and a Facebook friend is not necessarily a real life friend. But still, I get the feeling that the other 54-year-olds in my neighborhood are not looking to make new pals. I don't even know how to meet 83 potential friends---maybe I could stand outside of Chico's and hand out bars of dark chocolate.
Most people my age can barely keep up with the friends they have. Unless (and this would be really depressing) you are all out there making friends with each other, but don't want to be friends with me. After all, I'm a fundraiser and a writer. Most of you either give money to my charities or cross to the other side of the street when you see me. Maybe you are worried I'm going to ask for money and then write about you. But I would never do that.
Well, maybe I would. But I would never use your real name. Call me.
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
This is Love
Every day I feel the big and small indignities of aging. Off the top of my head, there's my bad memory, my graying hair and my new wrinkles. And I haven't even gone below my neck--my neck! But on Saturday night, I forgot all about my decline to enjoy one thing that gets better as I get older: weddings.
My cousin's daughter is getting married to a young man we all adore. My aunt, uncle and cousins are the stars of the day---people I love deeply. The bride is named after my beloved grandfather, who died several years before she was born. To her wedding, I wear the diamond ring he gave to my grandmother. It is important to me that a piece of her sparkle is in attendance.
When I got married, I thought weddings were about young people falling in love, and their future. But now that I'm well into middle age, I've changed my point of view. Now I experience a wedding through the eyes of a parent.
I know what it is to raise a child. It is not for sissies.
There are the ear infections, and chicken pox, and orthodontist appointments, and dozens of flus and trips to the ER. There are bad teachers, and failed tests, and long division and tutors and ACTs and college visits. There are lessons, and overnight camps and sitting on the bench and being cut from the team. There are drivers license tests, and homecoming dances, and recitals, and travel tournaments, and phone calls after curfew.
And did I mention college tuition?
Doing the hard work of raising children can bring you to your knees. Seeing them walk down the aisle on their wedding day is a moment of grace.
There is an old Yiddish proverb, When the heart is full, the eyes overflow.
The groom smashes the glass, and our family has officially grown by one more.
Now it is my job to eat every passed hors d'oeuvre and make a mental note of each relative's outfit for conversations that will take place over the next days and weeks and months and years. Because when anyone asks, "Did you try the potato latkes with lox?" I definitely want to say, "YES!"
Soon the band is playing Motown which attracts all ages to the dance floor. The grandparents get out there and shake what God gave them, which has become easier since everything shakes. After a few songs the grandparents need water. It's time for us fiftysomethings to show off our moves, until our backs and knees and feet start to ache, and the music passes us by and our children take over the dance floor and are jumping up and down to songs we don't know.
When it is time for the father daughter dance, my cousin and his radiant girl begin in the traditional way. But after a minute, the music changes, and suddenly they are doing the choreographed moves to Michael Jackson's Thriller. I recall my cousin as being kind of a reserved dancer, but he has clearly practiced A LOT, and he is nailing it. There is only one person who could convince him to do this, and she is right by his side.
While everyone is laughing and clapping and cheering, my eyes overflow. This, I think to myself, this is love.
My cousin's daughter is getting married to a young man we all adore. My aunt, uncle and cousins are the stars of the day---people I love deeply. The bride is named after my beloved grandfather, who died several years before she was born. To her wedding, I wear the diamond ring he gave to my grandmother. It is important to me that a piece of her sparkle is in attendance.
When I got married, I thought weddings were about young people falling in love, and their future. But now that I'm well into middle age, I've changed my point of view. Now I experience a wedding through the eyes of a parent.
I know what it is to raise a child. It is not for sissies.
There are the ear infections, and chicken pox, and orthodontist appointments, and dozens of flus and trips to the ER. There are bad teachers, and failed tests, and long division and tutors and ACTs and college visits. There are lessons, and overnight camps and sitting on the bench and being cut from the team. There are drivers license tests, and homecoming dances, and recitals, and travel tournaments, and phone calls after curfew.
And did I mention college tuition?
Doing the hard work of raising children can bring you to your knees. Seeing them walk down the aisle on their wedding day is a moment of grace.
There is an old Yiddish proverb, When the heart is full, the eyes overflow.
The groom smashes the glass, and our family has officially grown by one more.
Now it is my job to eat every passed hors d'oeuvre and make a mental note of each relative's outfit for conversations that will take place over the next days and weeks and months and years. Because when anyone asks, "Did you try the potato latkes with lox?" I definitely want to say, "YES!"
Soon the band is playing Motown which attracts all ages to the dance floor. The grandparents get out there and shake what God gave them, which has become easier since everything shakes. After a few songs the grandparents need water. It's time for us fiftysomethings to show off our moves, until our backs and knees and feet start to ache, and the music passes us by and our children take over the dance floor and are jumping up and down to songs we don't know.
When it is time for the father daughter dance, my cousin and his radiant girl begin in the traditional way. But after a minute, the music changes, and suddenly they are doing the choreographed moves to Michael Jackson's Thriller. I recall my cousin as being kind of a reserved dancer, but he has clearly practiced A LOT, and he is nailing it. There is only one person who could convince him to do this, and she is right by his side.
While everyone is laughing and clapping and cheering, my eyes overflow. This, I think to myself, this is love.
Monday, August 12, 2013
The Not So Great Unwashed
Every once in awhile, my washing machine makes a very sad noise, and it is always trouble. It usually happens at midnight when I am washing a child's uniform for an 8:00 game the next morning, or packing for a long awaited vacation. This time, right on schedule, I hear my washer groan as I prepare to send my son back to college.
I know some families spend a lot of time shopping for new appliances (if you believe what you see on television, and why wouldn't you?) but that is not how we do it. Usually, when we need a new appliance, I get in my car and drive to Abt, and one of their excellent salesmen is sliding my American Express in ten minutes or less. I mean, what is so complicated? I need a washing machine. It needs to clean my clothes. I don't really care what it looks like.
But when I bought my current machine, I made a mistake. It's not a GE or Whirlpool, or something any old repairman can fix. It's a Fisher and Paycal. A wise salesman, noting the size of my children, told me it was excellent for heavy loads. When I hesitated, he lowered the price. And in retrospect, I'm sure he won a cash bonus and his photo was up in the break room for getting that misfit off the floor.
Of course during the sixty seconds I considered my purchase, it didn't occur to me to ask about repairs.
It turns out that when my washing machine breaks, I call Fisher and Paycal to repair it. They are located in New Zealand.
To my knowledge, the Kiwis are not known for their washing machines.
Every time I call, a very polite New Zealander schedules my service. They always pronounce my town "WilMATE." They never come quickly. I imagine they have one service person serving a six state area, and he's driving to my house from Nebraska. Unless of course he's flying over from New Zealand. He'll be here in five days.
We are running out of clean clothes over here. I don't care until I run out of clean sports bras. I know some of you would think, "WOOHOO! I have the perfect excuse not to exercise!" But on these cool summer mornings, I love to run. I'm quite religious about it. It's my only antidote to cake.
So I'm heading to the laundromat in downtown Wilmette. Of course I could take my laundry to any of my friends or neighbors--they would be happy to have me. But where's the blog in that? Stay tuned.
I know some families spend a lot of time shopping for new appliances (if you believe what you see on television, and why wouldn't you?) but that is not how we do it. Usually, when we need a new appliance, I get in my car and drive to Abt, and one of their excellent salesmen is sliding my American Express in ten minutes or less. I mean, what is so complicated? I need a washing machine. It needs to clean my clothes. I don't really care what it looks like.
But when I bought my current machine, I made a mistake. It's not a GE or Whirlpool, or something any old repairman can fix. It's a Fisher and Paycal. A wise salesman, noting the size of my children, told me it was excellent for heavy loads. When I hesitated, he lowered the price. And in retrospect, I'm sure he won a cash bonus and his photo was up in the break room for getting that misfit off the floor.
Of course during the sixty seconds I considered my purchase, it didn't occur to me to ask about repairs.
It turns out that when my washing machine breaks, I call Fisher and Paycal to repair it. They are located in New Zealand.
To my knowledge, the Kiwis are not known for their washing machines.
Every time I call, a very polite New Zealander schedules my service. They always pronounce my town "WilMATE." They never come quickly. I imagine they have one service person serving a six state area, and he's driving to my house from Nebraska. Unless of course he's flying over from New Zealand. He'll be here in five days.
We are running out of clean clothes over here. I don't care until I run out of clean sports bras. I know some of you would think, "WOOHOO! I have the perfect excuse not to exercise!" But on these cool summer mornings, I love to run. I'm quite religious about it. It's my only antidote to cake.
So I'm heading to the laundromat in downtown Wilmette. Of course I could take my laundry to any of my friends or neighbors--they would be happy to have me. But where's the blog in that? Stay tuned.
Monday, August 5, 2013
54, Here I Come!
It's cake season at the Solomon house, my favorite time of year! We'll be celebrating three family birthdays in a period of twenty days, beginning this Friday with mine. (I've sensibly scheduled my Jenny Craig weigh-in for Thursday.) If I play my cake correctly, I'll be eating some every day until Rosh Hashanah, which is sometimes called "the birthday of the world." That should extend my cake streak until almost Yom Kippur--the Day of Atonement.
I love cake. My favorite is chocolate, with white buttercream frosting. It does not have to be from an expensive bakery, and it does not even need to be particularly fresh. In fact, my favorite is the day old cake I eat for breakfast, when it has been in the refrigerator overnight and the frosting is coagulated the way I imagine it will soon be in my arteries.
A few days before my birthday, my husband usually starts asking me peculiar questions. "Have you ever wanted to bake your own bread?" or "Wouldn't it be cool to have a wet suit?" I know he is trying to figure out what to get me. In our early years together I thought that if he really loved me, he would know my heart's desires. That is simply false. They should tell you this at the wedding.
A few years ago, we celebrated my birthday at a great restaurant with both our sons. The boys each gave me a homemade card, which is, frankly, the only gift I ever want. My husband produced a big box with a bow from Nordstrom. I unwrapped the present and found a lovely print dress from a popular designer. The only problem was that he had given me the very same dress a few months earlier for Mother's Day. This made me laugh so hard and for so long that I consider it to be the very best gift he ever gave me.
I don't really care that I am getting older. I know some women who lie about their age, which I have done, but not on purpose-- I just can't always remember how old I am. 52? 53? What difference does it make? It's not like anyone ever asks me. I was born in 1959--if you want to know how old I am, get a calculator.
In celebration of my advanced age, I've decided to start adding the phrase, "God willing!" to the end of every sentence. For example, "I won't have to cook on Friday because we're going out to dinner for my birthday, God willing!" "My husband is getting me a big, expensive gift this year, God willing!" I've noticed that a lot of older people do this, recognizing that life is uncertain. I shouldn't assume I'll always be in control of my destiny, especially if I keep eating so many cakes.
I used to expect everyone to make a fuss over me for my birthday, but no one throws you a party when you turn 54. I am not that crazy about getting older, but what's the alternative? My 92-year-old mother-in-law is the expert at aging, and she always says, "Keep counting!" To which I say, "I will, God willing!"
I love cake. My favorite is chocolate, with white buttercream frosting. It does not have to be from an expensive bakery, and it does not even need to be particularly fresh. In fact, my favorite is the day old cake I eat for breakfast, when it has been in the refrigerator overnight and the frosting is coagulated the way I imagine it will soon be in my arteries.
A few days before my birthday, my husband usually starts asking me peculiar questions. "Have you ever wanted to bake your own bread?" or "Wouldn't it be cool to have a wet suit?" I know he is trying to figure out what to get me. In our early years together I thought that if he really loved me, he would know my heart's desires. That is simply false. They should tell you this at the wedding.
A few years ago, we celebrated my birthday at a great restaurant with both our sons. The boys each gave me a homemade card, which is, frankly, the only gift I ever want. My husband produced a big box with a bow from Nordstrom. I unwrapped the present and found a lovely print dress from a popular designer. The only problem was that he had given me the very same dress a few months earlier for Mother's Day. This made me laugh so hard and for so long that I consider it to be the very best gift he ever gave me.
I don't really care that I am getting older. I know some women who lie about their age, which I have done, but not on purpose-- I just can't always remember how old I am. 52? 53? What difference does it make? It's not like anyone ever asks me. I was born in 1959--if you want to know how old I am, get a calculator.
In celebration of my advanced age, I've decided to start adding the phrase, "God willing!" to the end of every sentence. For example, "I won't have to cook on Friday because we're going out to dinner for my birthday, God willing!" "My husband is getting me a big, expensive gift this year, God willing!" I've noticed that a lot of older people do this, recognizing that life is uncertain. I shouldn't assume I'll always be in control of my destiny, especially if I keep eating so many cakes.
I used to expect everyone to make a fuss over me for my birthday, but no one throws you a party when you turn 54. I am not that crazy about getting older, but what's the alternative? My 92-year-old mother-in-law is the expert at aging, and she always says, "Keep counting!" To which I say, "I will, God willing!"
Monday, July 29, 2013
No Forwarding Address
When I was nine years old, I came home from school and discovered that my family had moved.
It was December 6, 1968, and I was in the fourth grade at East Prairie School in Skokie. I had known in theory that we were planning to move and that I would be attending a different school, but I'm sure my parents were trying to keep everything "normal" so I wouldn't get too anxious. I kept going to Girl Scouts, taking piano lessons and doing my homework. Late in the afternoon of December 6, while everyone in my class was completing a math assignment on the times tables, Miss Pawlkowski told me to return my books to the library. It was the first time it occurred to me that I wasn't coming back.
I got on the bus as usual at the end of the day without much fanfare and rode to my stop at the corner of Brummel and Kenneth. I got off the bus and walked to my house, expecting to see my parents packed and waiting for me. But when I arrived at my house, the shades were all the way up and I could see straight through the house into the backyard. It was empty.
I tried the door but it was locked. I rang the doorbell over and over, not quite sure what else to do.
It was cold, getting dark, and I was hungry. All I had was a box of 64 crayons, some pencils without erasers, and a folder full of spelling tests.
I walked down to my friend Donna Jean Pelican's house and asked her if she wanted to play. I was hoping my mother had left a message with her mother, but Mrs. Pelican had seen the moving van drive away earlier in the day and was clearly a little freaked out to see me.
Their Christmas tree was up, and it looked beautiful. There were ornaments and gifts everywhere, and it was the opposite of my sad house down the block. We played with Donna Jean's Barbies under the tree until it got dark. I could smell her dinner in the oven, and I could see her mother pacing around the house, chain smoking cigarette after cigarette.
I was fairly certain that my family would eventually find me, but I was wearing out my welcome at Donna Jean's. I considered going to another neighbor's house, but I was pretty certain my parents would come looking for me at the Pelicans first. I didn't know what to do, and I started to cry.
That made Donna Jean start to cry, and I thought Mrs. Pelican might cry too.
Finally the doorbell rang and my father walked in. I ran to him as if we had been separated for years, rather than having kissed him goodbye just that morning. He was sure my mother had told me to wait for him at school, as they had not wanted me to see the empty house (oops!) But in the confusion of moving day, it had evidently slipped my mother's mind--I was not the sort of girl who would have forgotten. My father had searched the school, and then started going to my friends' homes.
We hightailed it out of the Pelicans, and started the drive to Northbrook in rush hour traffic. It took a long time to get to my new house which made it seem even further away than it was. I remember when we got there, my mother said, "Did you think we left without you?" as if it were a joke. But I was mad at her--I mean, they DID leave without me! And frankly, I think I turned out shockingly well-adjusted under the circumstances.
It was December 6, 1968, and I was in the fourth grade at East Prairie School in Skokie. I had known in theory that we were planning to move and that I would be attending a different school, but I'm sure my parents were trying to keep everything "normal" so I wouldn't get too anxious. I kept going to Girl Scouts, taking piano lessons and doing my homework. Late in the afternoon of December 6, while everyone in my class was completing a math assignment on the times tables, Miss Pawlkowski told me to return my books to the library. It was the first time it occurred to me that I wasn't coming back.
I got on the bus as usual at the end of the day without much fanfare and rode to my stop at the corner of Brummel and Kenneth. I got off the bus and walked to my house, expecting to see my parents packed and waiting for me. But when I arrived at my house, the shades were all the way up and I could see straight through the house into the backyard. It was empty.
I tried the door but it was locked. I rang the doorbell over and over, not quite sure what else to do.
It was cold, getting dark, and I was hungry. All I had was a box of 64 crayons, some pencils without erasers, and a folder full of spelling tests.
I walked down to my friend Donna Jean Pelican's house and asked her if she wanted to play. I was hoping my mother had left a message with her mother, but Mrs. Pelican had seen the moving van drive away earlier in the day and was clearly a little freaked out to see me.
Their Christmas tree was up, and it looked beautiful. There were ornaments and gifts everywhere, and it was the opposite of my sad house down the block. We played with Donna Jean's Barbies under the tree until it got dark. I could smell her dinner in the oven, and I could see her mother pacing around the house, chain smoking cigarette after cigarette.
I was fairly certain that my family would eventually find me, but I was wearing out my welcome at Donna Jean's. I considered going to another neighbor's house, but I was pretty certain my parents would come looking for me at the Pelicans first. I didn't know what to do, and I started to cry.
That made Donna Jean start to cry, and I thought Mrs. Pelican might cry too.
Finally the doorbell rang and my father walked in. I ran to him as if we had been separated for years, rather than having kissed him goodbye just that morning. He was sure my mother had told me to wait for him at school, as they had not wanted me to see the empty house (oops!) But in the confusion of moving day, it had evidently slipped my mother's mind--I was not the sort of girl who would have forgotten. My father had searched the school, and then started going to my friends' homes.
We hightailed it out of the Pelicans, and started the drive to Northbrook in rush hour traffic. It took a long time to get to my new house which made it seem even further away than it was. I remember when we got there, my mother said, "Did you think we left without you?" as if it were a joke. But I was mad at her--I mean, they DID leave without me! And frankly, I think I turned out shockingly well-adjusted under the circumstances.
Monday, July 22, 2013
And Then We Got Married and Lived Happily Ever After
It was the Fourth of July, 1986, and my fiancé Joel and I were driving in sizzling silence to The Christmas Inn in Aspen, Colorado. We had spent a week camping in the mountains, and it had not gone well. I'd never camped before, or by the way, since. But we were young and in love, and Joel had some idea that if I'd just brush my teeth in the rushing water of a sparkling stream, I'd morph from the city girl I was into a nature girl.
I was not actually a city girl--city girl implies some spunky toughness, some moxie, that in 1986 I absolutely did not have. I was the girl who fretted about surviving the week without a blow dryer. I was soft and spoiled, the most inexperienced sort of girl--I was a suburban girl.
The trip was cursed from the start. We'd flown to Denver with all our camping gear, which took a detour and did not arrive in Denver with us. We slept in an airport hotel overnight, and I was secretly pleased. If we'd been married already, I could have been outwardly pleased, but of course if we were married already I wouldn't have been on a camping trip. The camping equipment arrived the next day, and we headed out of the city in our rental car.
I'd never seen the mountains before, and I was temporarily stunned out of my peevishness by their beauty. That first night we set up our tent, our stove and all our equipment, got cozy in our sleeping bags under the stars, and enjoyed our one successful night in the wilderness.
The next morning Joel could not stand up. His back had gone out from sleeping on the hard ground. If we wanted to eat, it was up to me. I gritted my teeth, gathered the wood, started the fire, made the food, broke down the tent, and loaded the car. Joel was of course just well enough to provide detailed instructions as to exactly how each of these things should be done correctly.
Instead of heading straight home, Joel convinced me that he would surely improve the next day, and we should continue to our next campsite. He was wrong. He remained physically incapacitated all week long, and my main goal each day was to try not to murder him. I came close, but realized that with my very limited map reading skills I could not get back to civilization myself.
It got so cold that I had to wear all my clothes. I lost my hairbrush on Day Four. Without a proper shower, I had devolved from the intriguing nature girl into something far more primal. After a week of 24-hour togetherness and no other human contact, we had discovered everything there was to know about each other. If we'd come home and revealed each other's secrets, no one would have blamed us for canceling the wedding. In retrospect, however, I can think of no better preparation for a long marriage.
To end the trip we had splurged and made reservations at a hotel in Aspen for the July 4th weekend. The Christmas Inn marked our return to civilization, and we hoped, our return to civil relations. It was not a fancy hotel, but we were counting on the luxuries we'd find there to save our relationship: hot water, soap, and razor blades.
But when we arrived at The Christmas Inn, they could not find our reservation. A manager was summoned who said, "Mr. Solomon, we were expecting you last weekend!" Joel dug out his mangled confirmation from the glove box and saw that he had indeed reserved the room for the wrong days. I have never understood how he got the date wrong--it's called the Fourth of July. We had arrived in Aspen for the holiday weekend, and there was (I have to say it) No Room at the Inn.
I won't pretend that I didn't behave badly. After a week of digging a hole in which to defecate, I was not myself. Joel, to his credit, recognized the severity of the situation. He asked the manager at The Christmas Inn if he thought anyone in town had a room. The manager assured us that Aspen had been sold out for weeks, but perhaps there was something in Snowmass, the next town over. He helped us locate a granite countered condo. Joel was in no position to object to the price.
Joel and I enjoyed a fabulous weekend eating at trendy restaurants and attending the Aspen Music Festival. We watched the fireworks in the mountains, and we rubbed elbows with various A-list celebrities who summered in Aspen. It didn't take me more than a few years to forgive him.
I was not actually a city girl--city girl implies some spunky toughness, some moxie, that in 1986 I absolutely did not have. I was the girl who fretted about surviving the week without a blow dryer. I was soft and spoiled, the most inexperienced sort of girl--I was a suburban girl.
The trip was cursed from the start. We'd flown to Denver with all our camping gear, which took a detour and did not arrive in Denver with us. We slept in an airport hotel overnight, and I was secretly pleased. If we'd been married already, I could have been outwardly pleased, but of course if we were married already I wouldn't have been on a camping trip. The camping equipment arrived the next day, and we headed out of the city in our rental car.
I'd never seen the mountains before, and I was temporarily stunned out of my peevishness by their beauty. That first night we set up our tent, our stove and all our equipment, got cozy in our sleeping bags under the stars, and enjoyed our one successful night in the wilderness.
The next morning Joel could not stand up. His back had gone out from sleeping on the hard ground. If we wanted to eat, it was up to me. I gritted my teeth, gathered the wood, started the fire, made the food, broke down the tent, and loaded the car. Joel was of course just well enough to provide detailed instructions as to exactly how each of these things should be done correctly.
Instead of heading straight home, Joel convinced me that he would surely improve the next day, and we should continue to our next campsite. He was wrong. He remained physically incapacitated all week long, and my main goal each day was to try not to murder him. I came close, but realized that with my very limited map reading skills I could not get back to civilization myself.
It got so cold that I had to wear all my clothes. I lost my hairbrush on Day Four. Without a proper shower, I had devolved from the intriguing nature girl into something far more primal. After a week of 24-hour togetherness and no other human contact, we had discovered everything there was to know about each other. If we'd come home and revealed each other's secrets, no one would have blamed us for canceling the wedding. In retrospect, however, I can think of no better preparation for a long marriage.
To end the trip we had splurged and made reservations at a hotel in Aspen for the July 4th weekend. The Christmas Inn marked our return to civilization, and we hoped, our return to civil relations. It was not a fancy hotel, but we were counting on the luxuries we'd find there to save our relationship: hot water, soap, and razor blades.
But when we arrived at The Christmas Inn, they could not find our reservation. A manager was summoned who said, "Mr. Solomon, we were expecting you last weekend!" Joel dug out his mangled confirmation from the glove box and saw that he had indeed reserved the room for the wrong days. I have never understood how he got the date wrong--it's called the Fourth of July. We had arrived in Aspen for the holiday weekend, and there was (I have to say it) No Room at the Inn.
I won't pretend that I didn't behave badly. After a week of digging a hole in which to defecate, I was not myself. Joel, to his credit, recognized the severity of the situation. He asked the manager at The Christmas Inn if he thought anyone in town had a room. The manager assured us that Aspen had been sold out for weeks, but perhaps there was something in Snowmass, the next town over. He helped us locate a granite countered condo. Joel was in no position to object to the price.
Joel and I enjoyed a fabulous weekend eating at trendy restaurants and attending the Aspen Music Festival. We watched the fireworks in the mountains, and we rubbed elbows with various A-list celebrities who summered in Aspen. It didn't take me more than a few years to forgive him.
Monday, July 15, 2013
Dinner Conversation
Every afternoon around 5:00 it hits me. It's like remembering I have a math test in an hour but not enough time to study. You'd think I'd get better at planning after all these years, but I don't. It's a bad, recurring nightmare, every single evening: DINNER! AGAIN!
I'm sick and tired of my own cooking. When I look through recipes for inspiration, I always feel like a domestic dolt. A lot of my friends are devotees of the cooking shows on television, but I can't say it's improved anyone's repertoire. We seem to like watching other people cook more than cooking ourselves. The recipes looks delicious, but I am too lazy to make them. I want a recipe that has less than five ingredients and no more than five steps, and one of the steps should be, "Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes."
I know it was not always this way. In my well worn copy of The Silver Palate Good Times Cookbook given to me by a dear friend, she inscribes, "To one of the best cooks in the business." I think my talent was beaten out of me by overuse. I'm like Nolan Ryan's pitching arm. Okay, I was never Nolan Ryan, but I was better than I am now.
This is not to say that I am necessarily a bad cook. I have eight or nine regulars, and another five or six specials, and another dozen easy fill ins. I have one or two things that my children actually request, although they always first ask if we can order Lou Malnati's.
My husband is a good sport about it. He's appreciative after every meal. We have a standing joke, that everything I make is in "my top three." But once he remarked that my fill in tacos (ground beef, package of seasoning and El Paso shells) was in my top three, and his rating system has been suspect ever since.
Given the amount of time and energy I devote to it, I was surprised to realize I've hardly mentioned the topic of cooking in my writing. I found one essay about a mediocre meal I made for the night before Yom Kippur, and another essay explaining how I gave myself food poisoning.
Luckily, my husband is a great cook, although he does make some mistakes--he thinks of recipes as "suggestions." He likes to cook a big dinner on Sunday night and I am always enthusiastic.
Whenever possible, I give his favorite compliment. Long ago I learned what he considered to be the highest praise: "Do you know how much we'd pay for this in a New York restaurant?"
I'm sick and tired of my own cooking. When I look through recipes for inspiration, I always feel like a domestic dolt. A lot of my friends are devotees of the cooking shows on television, but I can't say it's improved anyone's repertoire. We seem to like watching other people cook more than cooking ourselves. The recipes looks delicious, but I am too lazy to make them. I want a recipe that has less than five ingredients and no more than five steps, and one of the steps should be, "Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes."
I know it was not always this way. In my well worn copy of The Silver Palate Good Times Cookbook given to me by a dear friend, she inscribes, "To one of the best cooks in the business." I think my talent was beaten out of me by overuse. I'm like Nolan Ryan's pitching arm. Okay, I was never Nolan Ryan, but I was better than I am now.
This is not to say that I am necessarily a bad cook. I have eight or nine regulars, and another five or six specials, and another dozen easy fill ins. I have one or two things that my children actually request, although they always first ask if we can order Lou Malnati's.
My husband is a good sport about it. He's appreciative after every meal. We have a standing joke, that everything I make is in "my top three." But once he remarked that my fill in tacos (ground beef, package of seasoning and El Paso shells) was in my top three, and his rating system has been suspect ever since.
Given the amount of time and energy I devote to it, I was surprised to realize I've hardly mentioned the topic of cooking in my writing. I found one essay about a mediocre meal I made for the night before Yom Kippur, and another essay explaining how I gave myself food poisoning.
Luckily, my husband is a great cook, although he does make some mistakes--he thinks of recipes as "suggestions." He likes to cook a big dinner on Sunday night and I am always enthusiastic.
Whenever possible, I give his favorite compliment. Long ago I learned what he considered to be the highest praise: "Do you know how much we'd pay for this in a New York restaurant?"
Monday, July 8, 2013
Going to the Other Side
After more than a quarter century of sharing a bed, my husband and I decided to switch sides.
I don't know how I first wound up on the right side, and I don't think I paid much attention to it in the beginning. But after our son was born, the number of steps to the baby's room at midnight, 2:00, 3:00 and 4:00 seemed to add up. The right side of the bed was closer to his room, and that was some small victory.
When we moved to Wilmette, I once again chose the side closer to the children, knowing by then that no one cries, "Daddy" when they are vomiting at 3 a.m.
I liked my side. In addition to being closer to the door, it was also closer to the bathroom. I could snuggle up into the crook of my husband's arm and clearly see the television. We purchased a headboard that was called a "library bed," and I arranged Tolstoy, Austen and Sedaris right above my head, hoping some of their brilliance would infect my dreams.
But over the last year or so my husband has been a late night wanderer, getting up several times each night. As a lark I suggested we change sides. I didn't really mean it. It's like suggesting he become the mother and I'll be the father--I didn't think it could be done. My side is My Side.
But my husband wanted to try it. I wanted to back out, but I didn't have the facts on my side. There are no longer any children in this house crying in the night. Occasionally I open our bedroom door in the wee hours to see if our son, when home from college, has decided to visit his bed. But this is rare. My husband is up every single night.
We did not switch right away. I needed time to get emotionally prepared. It reminded me of when I was encouraging our son to give up his Binky. "You can do it!" I'd cheer. "Three more days til you give up your Binky!" Then, "Two more days!" And finally, "Today is the day!" As with the Binky intervention, only one of the parties was excited.
We did NOT switch our books and magazines to the other side, which would be the more permanent transfer of real estate. I prepared myself to sleep below a fat stack of golf magazines. Clearly my husband had been harboring the same hopes for magical improvement.
The first night on my new side I had a dream that I was lost on my block. I kept ringing every doorbell on Meadow Drive looking for my house, but I couldn't find it.
A significant problem we encountered was cuddling. I could not fit in my husband's crook and still see The Daily Show. My husband couldn't turn the other way because of a bad back, and so our usual spooning was out.
Each morning I asked my husband how he slept, not knowing what I wanted to hear. Of course I wanted him to have a better night's sleep, but a part of me (not a big part, well maybe a little big) was hoping there was no improvement, and I could go back to my old side.
This morning we made a final decision. My husband was not sleeping any better on my side which I found astonishing, because my side is so much cozier. He's going back to his old side where he will have to trudge the additional eight steps to the door. It's not exactly the Chicago Marathon. I actually think he's looking forward to it.
I can't wait.
I don't know how I first wound up on the right side, and I don't think I paid much attention to it in the beginning. But after our son was born, the number of steps to the baby's room at midnight, 2:00, 3:00 and 4:00 seemed to add up. The right side of the bed was closer to his room, and that was some small victory.
When we moved to Wilmette, I once again chose the side closer to the children, knowing by then that no one cries, "Daddy" when they are vomiting at 3 a.m.
I liked my side. In addition to being closer to the door, it was also closer to the bathroom. I could snuggle up into the crook of my husband's arm and clearly see the television. We purchased a headboard that was called a "library bed," and I arranged Tolstoy, Austen and Sedaris right above my head, hoping some of their brilliance would infect my dreams.
But over the last year or so my husband has been a late night wanderer, getting up several times each night. As a lark I suggested we change sides. I didn't really mean it. It's like suggesting he become the mother and I'll be the father--I didn't think it could be done. My side is My Side.
But my husband wanted to try it. I wanted to back out, but I didn't have the facts on my side. There are no longer any children in this house crying in the night. Occasionally I open our bedroom door in the wee hours to see if our son, when home from college, has decided to visit his bed. But this is rare. My husband is up every single night.
We did not switch right away. I needed time to get emotionally prepared. It reminded me of when I was encouraging our son to give up his Binky. "You can do it!" I'd cheer. "Three more days til you give up your Binky!" Then, "Two more days!" And finally, "Today is the day!" As with the Binky intervention, only one of the parties was excited.
We did NOT switch our books and magazines to the other side, which would be the more permanent transfer of real estate. I prepared myself to sleep below a fat stack of golf magazines. Clearly my husband had been harboring the same hopes for magical improvement.
The first night on my new side I had a dream that I was lost on my block. I kept ringing every doorbell on Meadow Drive looking for my house, but I couldn't find it.
A significant problem we encountered was cuddling. I could not fit in my husband's crook and still see The Daily Show. My husband couldn't turn the other way because of a bad back, and so our usual spooning was out.
Each morning I asked my husband how he slept, not knowing what I wanted to hear. Of course I wanted him to have a better night's sleep, but a part of me (not a big part, well maybe a little big) was hoping there was no improvement, and I could go back to my old side.
This morning we made a final decision. My husband was not sleeping any better on my side which I found astonishing, because my side is so much cozier. He's going back to his old side where he will have to trudge the additional eight steps to the door. It's not exactly the Chicago Marathon. I actually think he's looking forward to it.
I can't wait.
Monday, July 1, 2013
A Toast to Trousers
I'd like to take a moment to sing the praises of one of the great fashion innovations of all time. Sure, we all wore our share of bell bottoms and platform shoes, but those were just passing fancies. I'm talking about the one item that's in the front of your closet that goes with everything. You count on them week in and week out, in sickness and in health, til death do you part. Or maybe not. If I can only take one pair with me into the afterlife, I'm taking these:
Black Pants.
My black pants are the backbone of my wardrobe, always in style and working as hard as they can to do what I wouldn't even consider asking any other piece of clothing to do: make me look thin.
If you are like me, you have several pairs, in different fabrics and shortened for various heel lengths. And each pair is a different level of fancy.
My black jeans, the most casual, are my step up from blue jeans. Black jeans with a t-shirt for lunch with a friend. Black jeans with a sweater and cute boots for a movie with my husband. Black jeans are the answer when you think some women might be wearing blue jeans but you're not positive. Black jeans say,"I will make you look cute and casual but slightly upgraded."
Then we have the workhorse--all purpose black slacks hemmed for a short heel. I wear them with a blazer for a meeting or with a sweater to a play. They are board meeting pants, funeral pants, Friday night at Temple pants. They are practical, professional, can-do trousers. They get a lot of wear, but because they are black, never show it. These pants have been THE answer to the age old question, "What should I wear?" and are the MVP of my closet.
Finally, I have my dressy black pants. Full in the leg, these are the pants I go to put on when I suspect other women will be wearing a dress but it's too cold or I haven't shaved my legs. Full black pants and my green silk blouse have been my date at a dozen holiday parties. Black pants and my ruffled blouse have seen be through January Bar Mitzvah parties. Black pants and a sparkly sweater is my uniform on New Year's Eve.
I love my black pants. I don't think they get enough credit. Day after day, season after season, year after year. Who is always available and ready to go wherever I want to go? Who never makes my butt look big? Who let's me spill my coffee and not have to go home and change?
It's the James Brown of my wardrobe, the hardest working pants in the shmata business: Black Pants.
Black Pants.
My black pants are the backbone of my wardrobe, always in style and working as hard as they can to do what I wouldn't even consider asking any other piece of clothing to do: make me look thin.
If you are like me, you have several pairs, in different fabrics and shortened for various heel lengths. And each pair is a different level of fancy.
My black jeans, the most casual, are my step up from blue jeans. Black jeans with a t-shirt for lunch with a friend. Black jeans with a sweater and cute boots for a movie with my husband. Black jeans are the answer when you think some women might be wearing blue jeans but you're not positive. Black jeans say,"I will make you look cute and casual but slightly upgraded."
Then we have the workhorse--all purpose black slacks hemmed for a short heel. I wear them with a blazer for a meeting or with a sweater to a play. They are board meeting pants, funeral pants, Friday night at Temple pants. They are practical, professional, can-do trousers. They get a lot of wear, but because they are black, never show it. These pants have been THE answer to the age old question, "What should I wear?" and are the MVP of my closet.
Finally, I have my dressy black pants. Full in the leg, these are the pants I go to put on when I suspect other women will be wearing a dress but it's too cold or I haven't shaved my legs. Full black pants and my green silk blouse have been my date at a dozen holiday parties. Black pants and my ruffled blouse have seen be through January Bar Mitzvah parties. Black pants and a sparkly sweater is my uniform on New Year's Eve.
I love my black pants. I don't think they get enough credit. Day after day, season after season, year after year. Who is always available and ready to go wherever I want to go? Who never makes my butt look big? Who let's me spill my coffee and not have to go home and change?
It's the James Brown of my wardrobe, the hardest working pants in the shmata business: Black Pants.
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
Let's Go Fly a Kite!
Like many women my age, I am a huge fan of Mary Poppins. Before it was common for children to watch the same movie dozens of times at home, I begged my mother to take me to the movie theater to see Mary Poppins on the big screen. Like millions of other girls, I thought Mary was practically perfect in every way.
When the live theater production came to Chicago a few years ago, some girlfriends and I made the trip. We loved the show and bought little carpet bag wallet souvenirs and Mary Poppins t-shirts.
I was an easy mark when they advertised the Sing-A-Long Mary Poppins at the Wilmette Theater. If you've never heard of this concept before, it's a special version of the movie with all the words to the songs subtitled so that everyone can sing along. When the Sing-A-Long Sound of Music first came to the Music Box Theater in Chicago, I saw pictures of fans decked out in fabulous costumes. In addition to the obvious von Trapp children, there were dozens of nuns, an alarming number of Nazis, and a couple who came as the Swiss Alps. It reminded me of the midnight showings of The Rocky Horror Picture Show in my youth.
I couldn't wait for Sing-a-Long Mary! My friend Marti and I got our tickets in advance. I used to have a Mary Poppins hat and an umbrella with a parrot handle, and I searched my attic to find them.
Marti told me that our Saturday tickets were for 11:00, which I assumed was 11:00 p.m. But then it turned out they were for 11:00 a.m.
I picked Marti up at 10:30 and at 10:35 we parked right in front of the Wilmette Theater. I was delighted to find such a great parking place! I was expecting a long line of costumed revelers waiting to get inside, but there wasn't one. We walked right up to the box office and picked up our tickets, confirming with the ticket agent that the show was at 11:00 a.m. We went inside the theater and discovered we were the only ones there.
Marti and I laughed and commented that surely more people would come, and in the back of my mind I wondered what we'd do if they didn't. I liked to sing, but it seemed to me that you need a critical number of people in the theater in order to comfortably sing out loud. Marti and I were not enough.
Slowly, people trickled in. I was expecting a gaggle of 50-something Mary Poppins groupies like me, but most of the women seemed younger. Then I noticed that some of them were a LOT younger. Like seven or eight-years-old.
About five minutes before 11:00, a couple dozen families with small children poured into the theater. Only then did I realize my mistake.
A teenaged girl introduced herself to the crowd in a not bad English accent, and showed us the choreography for the songs. For example, A Spoon Full of Sugar required us to pantomime eating off a spoon, repeat three times, and then wave our hands over our heads.
Marti and I practiced these moves without looking at each other.
The lights went out, and Mary Poppins appeared on screen, and suddenly I didn't care who else was watching. It was a delightful movie, and I really enjoyed it, although I'd somehow forgotten the storyline--about Mr. Banks losing his job at the bank--which struck a little close to home since the bank where my husband worked had recently closed. I don't remember having any sympathy for the bankers before.
Marti and I turned out to be the only grown-ups in the theater without children. I can't imagine what the young mothers thought of us. I had expected my peers to join me in a nostalgic celebration of my girlhood, and instead found myself the weird old aunt at the kid's party. The weird old aunt who knew every single word to every single song.
I'd like to think Mary Poppins would have been proud.
When the live theater production came to Chicago a few years ago, some girlfriends and I made the trip. We loved the show and bought little carpet bag wallet souvenirs and Mary Poppins t-shirts.
I was an easy mark when they advertised the Sing-A-Long Mary Poppins at the Wilmette Theater. If you've never heard of this concept before, it's a special version of the movie with all the words to the songs subtitled so that everyone can sing along. When the Sing-A-Long Sound of Music first came to the Music Box Theater in Chicago, I saw pictures of fans decked out in fabulous costumes. In addition to the obvious von Trapp children, there were dozens of nuns, an alarming number of Nazis, and a couple who came as the Swiss Alps. It reminded me of the midnight showings of The Rocky Horror Picture Show in my youth.
I couldn't wait for Sing-a-Long Mary! My friend Marti and I got our tickets in advance. I used to have a Mary Poppins hat and an umbrella with a parrot handle, and I searched my attic to find them.
Marti told me that our Saturday tickets were for 11:00, which I assumed was 11:00 p.m. But then it turned out they were for 11:00 a.m.
I picked Marti up at 10:30 and at 10:35 we parked right in front of the Wilmette Theater. I was delighted to find such a great parking place! I was expecting a long line of costumed revelers waiting to get inside, but there wasn't one. We walked right up to the box office and picked up our tickets, confirming with the ticket agent that the show was at 11:00 a.m. We went inside the theater and discovered we were the only ones there.
Marti and I laughed and commented that surely more people would come, and in the back of my mind I wondered what we'd do if they didn't. I liked to sing, but it seemed to me that you need a critical number of people in the theater in order to comfortably sing out loud. Marti and I were not enough.
Slowly, people trickled in. I was expecting a gaggle of 50-something Mary Poppins groupies like me, but most of the women seemed younger. Then I noticed that some of them were a LOT younger. Like seven or eight-years-old.
About five minutes before 11:00, a couple dozen families with small children poured into the theater. Only then did I realize my mistake.
A teenaged girl introduced herself to the crowd in a not bad English accent, and showed us the choreography for the songs. For example, A Spoon Full of Sugar required us to pantomime eating off a spoon, repeat three times, and then wave our hands over our heads.
Marti and I practiced these moves without looking at each other.
The lights went out, and Mary Poppins appeared on screen, and suddenly I didn't care who else was watching. It was a delightful movie, and I really enjoyed it, although I'd somehow forgotten the storyline--about Mr. Banks losing his job at the bank--which struck a little close to home since the bank where my husband worked had recently closed. I don't remember having any sympathy for the bankers before.
Marti and I turned out to be the only grown-ups in the theater without children. I can't imagine what the young mothers thought of us. I had expected my peers to join me in a nostalgic celebration of my girlhood, and instead found myself the weird old aunt at the kid's party. The weird old aunt who knew every single word to every single song.
I'd like to think Mary Poppins would have been proud.
Monday, June 17, 2013
My Lucky Break
I tell a lot of stories, but the one I most enjoy hearing from other people is how they met their mate. I can never get over how accidental they are--that if you hadn't gone to that certain place at that certain time, your whole life might have been different.
For example, I was engaged to marry someone else.
It ended quite badly, right before the wedding. (Remind me some day to tell you THAT story.)
Anyway, my friend Kathy said she knew the perfect guy for me, her friend Joel, but she didn't want to introduce him to me for a year since I was on the rebound.
About nine months later I was telling Kathy about a new guy that I had started dating (let's call him New Guy). Anyway, Kathy responded, "It's time to meet Joel."
"I don't want to meet Joel!" I said. "I've been on a million fix ups and they've been horrible. I've finally met someone nice! Leave me alone!"
"No," she decided. "It's time to meet Joel before you get serious with New Guy."
She could not be deterred, so with the weekend approaching, I told her to have Joel call me on Tuesday. I had plans with New Guy all weekend, and I figured I could always call Kathy on Monday and tell her to forget it if I decided I wasn't interested.
That's exactly what happened. I had a great weekend with New Guy, and was planning to call Kathy when I got to work on Monday, but our phone system wasn't working. We could receive incoming calls, but not make outgoing calls. That afternoon, Joel called. A day early.
I was pleasant but not encouraging. I said that I would go out with him, but was only available on Sunday night. That way, I could still see New Guy on Friday and Saturday.
My doorbell rang on Sunday evening and I went downstairs to meet Joel. The first thing I noticed was that he was very tall! I had never met a Jew that tall. And handsome too! You'd think Kathy would have mentioned it. We went outside and he opened the door to a 1983 Datsun 280Z. Nice car! I don't ever remember noticing a guy's car before.
We went to Andy's for jazz, a Thai restaurant (I'd never had Thai food before), the Magic Bar where the bartenders did card tricks, and finally Lutz's Bakery for dessert. It was the best date I've ever had. Before or since. Joel admits that he liked me right away and combined all his best dates on the first night.
I spoke to Joel on the phone early the following week, but then he flew to Cleveland to visit his parents.
On Friday I received a dozen red roses from "A Secret Admirer." I did not know who it was.
I didn't tell Joel that last part for several years. When a guy makes a grand romantic gesture, it doesn't help to hear that the girl had no idea it was you. When the flowers came, I hoped they were from Joel but I thought they were from New Guy who may have sensed my sudden lack of enthusiasm. I called the florist, but the buyer had paid cash. There was also a chance they could have been from the ex-fiance, whom I had coincidentally run into.
Since Joel was out of town, I thought I might give New Guy one last chance. He came up to my apartment, saw the flowers, and said nothing. Clearly they weren't from him.
After a couple days, I knew that they weren't from the ex-fiance. He would certainly have called to follow up.
By the time Sunday came around and Joel returned from Cleveland, I thanked my Secret Admirer for the beautiful roses. Since then he hasn't been a secret. We'll celebrate our 27th wedding anniversary in October. I can't help but wonder what would have happened if my office phones hadn't been broken. . .
Did I mention that I heard recently that New Guy became a bazillionaire? But I would not change a thing! Really!
REALLY.
For example, I was engaged to marry someone else.
It ended quite badly, right before the wedding. (Remind me some day to tell you THAT story.)
Anyway, my friend Kathy said she knew the perfect guy for me, her friend Joel, but she didn't want to introduce him to me for a year since I was on the rebound.
About nine months later I was telling Kathy about a new guy that I had started dating (let's call him New Guy). Anyway, Kathy responded, "It's time to meet Joel."
"I don't want to meet Joel!" I said. "I've been on a million fix ups and they've been horrible. I've finally met someone nice! Leave me alone!"
"No," she decided. "It's time to meet Joel before you get serious with New Guy."
She could not be deterred, so with the weekend approaching, I told her to have Joel call me on Tuesday. I had plans with New Guy all weekend, and I figured I could always call Kathy on Monday and tell her to forget it if I decided I wasn't interested.
That's exactly what happened. I had a great weekend with New Guy, and was planning to call Kathy when I got to work on Monday, but our phone system wasn't working. We could receive incoming calls, but not make outgoing calls. That afternoon, Joel called. A day early.
I was pleasant but not encouraging. I said that I would go out with him, but was only available on Sunday night. That way, I could still see New Guy on Friday and Saturday.
My doorbell rang on Sunday evening and I went downstairs to meet Joel. The first thing I noticed was that he was very tall! I had never met a Jew that tall. And handsome too! You'd think Kathy would have mentioned it. We went outside and he opened the door to a 1983 Datsun 280Z. Nice car! I don't ever remember noticing a guy's car before.
We went to Andy's for jazz, a Thai restaurant (I'd never had Thai food before), the Magic Bar where the bartenders did card tricks, and finally Lutz's Bakery for dessert. It was the best date I've ever had. Before or since. Joel admits that he liked me right away and combined all his best dates on the first night.
I spoke to Joel on the phone early the following week, but then he flew to Cleveland to visit his parents.
On Friday I received a dozen red roses from "A Secret Admirer." I did not know who it was.
I didn't tell Joel that last part for several years. When a guy makes a grand romantic gesture, it doesn't help to hear that the girl had no idea it was you. When the flowers came, I hoped they were from Joel but I thought they were from New Guy who may have sensed my sudden lack of enthusiasm. I called the florist, but the buyer had paid cash. There was also a chance they could have been from the ex-fiance, whom I had coincidentally run into.
Since Joel was out of town, I thought I might give New Guy one last chance. He came up to my apartment, saw the flowers, and said nothing. Clearly they weren't from him.
After a couple days, I knew that they weren't from the ex-fiance. He would certainly have called to follow up.
By the time Sunday came around and Joel returned from Cleveland, I thanked my Secret Admirer for the beautiful roses. Since then he hasn't been a secret. We'll celebrate our 27th wedding anniversary in October. I can't help but wonder what would have happened if my office phones hadn't been broken. . .
Did I mention that I heard recently that New Guy became a bazillionaire? But I would not change a thing! Really!
REALLY.
Monday, June 10, 2013
No Kids, Just Cats
When I was 25 years old and living on my own, my parents asked if I'd stay at their apartment one weekend to take care of Duffy. (Duffy was our family dog. He and I were never close.) After receiving my instructions on Duffy's latest preferences and habits, my father whispered to me, "There's $50 in it for you if the dog is gone when we get back."
Now that I am an empty nester myself, I understand the unpleasant angst of caring for the family pet once the family has flown the coop.
I find myself cast as the evil stepmother of two leftover cats. I hope you won't judge me but I've never been too crazy about them. Many people find this a curious phenomenon since I have been living with cats for the last 26 years. My husband loves cats, and I love my husband. You get the idea. When I was fixed up with Joel, our mutual friend Kathy told me that he kisses his cats on the lips, and I could tell she thought this was a good thing.
Joel had two old cats when we met. I quietly tried to calculate how much longer they could possibly live. Tiger hissed every time she saw me and lived to be 18-years-old out of spite. Basil was about as smart as the plant she was named after and lived until 20. After Basil died, I thought my cohabitation with cats was finished, but our neighbor found a fluffy white kitten with blue eyes, and my sons fell in love. The neighbor discovered she was allergic, and asked us to take her.
We soon discovered that Snowy the cat was deaf. You wouldn't think it would be a problem (there's no point talking to cats--they just ignore you) but the cat was constantly startled by my young children, and she would bite them. We tried everything, but she needed a home with a nice old lady who didn't move too quickly and lived on a farm far away (too far to visit) with a lot of other deaf white cats, and that's where Snowy lives to this day.
That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
After Snowy, my sons started asking for a dog. I remembered how much more work Duffy was, and proposed a kitten compromise.
Charlie and Pumpkin were a couple of characters, and were good companions. Charlie thought he was a dog and followed the boys everywhere. Pumpkin thought he was a pumpkin (weighing in at almost 30 pounds) and was a circus attraction for all the children who came to play at our house.
Charlie died unexpectedly from unknown causes (don't look at me.) Pumpkin was put on a strict diet of Catkins cat food. He lost a lot of weight but that turned out to be unrelated to his diet. We didn't figure it out until it was too late.
I thought I'd cleaned my last litter box, but one morning I heard my son quietly crying in his room. Alarmed, I took him in my arms and asked what was wrong.
He said, "Mom, I just miss Charlie so much!"
We found two kittens who were living together at a cat foster home. Noah had recently been rescued from New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina, and he had gotten cozy with PJ.
We all lived peacefully together for the last eight years, but then the boys grew up and left. Now the cats get into mischief since no one plays with them, and when my son came home from college, his eyes got red and watery--this time from allergies. I suggested that since we have lived 26 years with cats, we might try the next 26 without cats and see how that goes. My husband has agreed.
Two friendly cats are looking for a good home.
My treat.
Monday, June 3, 2013
Mayday Mayday Mayday
They say that disasters come in threes, and so it was for me in the month of May.
It started with a call from my son Jesse who was at college.
"Mom, I lent K my car to get his passport pictures taken. I asked him to bring my backpack up to the room before he left, but he didn't. Then he left the car unlocked in the garage. My backpack was stolen from the car."
It was the day before final exams. His computer was in the backpack, along with his books and notes. I gave him the best advice I could about contacting his teachers and classmates, and I told him to call the police.
My Mother's Intuition was nagging at me--it was the mention of passport photos. Jesse also needed his passport to go on his study abroad for the summer, and he had it at school with him. In my 3:00 a.m. sleepless wanderings, I texted, "Where's your passport?"
The answer: In his backpack. It was gone.
Jesse needed his passport replaced fast. There was no chance he could deal with it until after his exams and by then it would be too late.
This was a job for Super Mom.
I don't like to brag, but I am something of an organizational savant. But Jesse was in Miami and I was in Chicago, he was in the middle of finals and unavailable, and the clock was ticking. This was one of the most difficult and stressful things I had ever attempted.
I just deleted four long paragraphs of text telling you what this entailed. It was very therapeutic for me to write it, but it was a terrible read. But if you ever need to replace a stolen passport you should call me. Just make sure you have a credit card with a very high limit.
One of the many documents I had to provide to Rushmypassport.com to procure an expedited passport was a copy of Jesse's European travel itinerary. I had already submitted the form that listed his actual departure date, but in order to get the passport delivered before we left for my nephew's wedding in California, it became clear that I would have to list a different date on a fake itinerary. Although I was nervous about doing this, Rushmypassport.com assured me that they do it all the time, and referred me to their web site to see what to do. Heck, I was only misrepresenting his travel plans, I wasn't committing a federal offense.
Was I?
I am a very law abiding citizen, and I lost two more night's sleep over this. I balanced this against the fact that I would not otherwise receive the passport before our vacation, therefore guaranteeing the loss of eight nights of vacation sleep which is roughly the equivalent of 16 nights of week night sleep for a middle aged woman. I decided to fib.
Forty-eight hours later, my agent at Rushmypassport.com called with bad news.
"Jesse's case is under review by the State Department," he said. "It is out of our hands. The government does not move quickly."
Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, the agent asked, "Is there any chance Jesse has any felonies?"
I momentarily considered this possibility, but was quite certain that it had been discovered that my pants were on fire and I had ruined my son's chance for a summer in Europe. I imagined him living in his childhood bedroom all summer, without a job, sleeping til 2 in the afternoon and furious at me. I knew there was no punishment that the U.S. Department of State could inflict on me that could be worse than that.
We were instructed to call the State Department the next morning to see if we could find out any information (so much for THAT night's sleep) so Jesse and I scheduled a conference call for Friday morning.
I was a mess. Seriously, I was hyperventilating. Our fate was in the hands of the government employee who answered the phone--I was not optimistic. But we discovered a simple clerical error, and our State Department guy was able to fix it and process Jesse's passport. The passport was delivered to us the next day (only $40 more for Saturday delivery but who's counting) and I left on Sunday for vacation. With my horrific skin tanning fiasco. And the security tag on my mother-in-law's suit. Three disasters, all in May.
Helooo June!
It started with a call from my son Jesse who was at college.
"Mom, I lent K my car to get his passport pictures taken. I asked him to bring my backpack up to the room before he left, but he didn't. Then he left the car unlocked in the garage. My backpack was stolen from the car."
It was the day before final exams. His computer was in the backpack, along with his books and notes. I gave him the best advice I could about contacting his teachers and classmates, and I told him to call the police.
My Mother's Intuition was nagging at me--it was the mention of passport photos. Jesse also needed his passport to go on his study abroad for the summer, and he had it at school with him. In my 3:00 a.m. sleepless wanderings, I texted, "Where's your passport?"
The answer: In his backpack. It was gone.
Jesse needed his passport replaced fast. There was no chance he could deal with it until after his exams and by then it would be too late.
This was a job for Super Mom.
I don't like to brag, but I am something of an organizational savant. But Jesse was in Miami and I was in Chicago, he was in the middle of finals and unavailable, and the clock was ticking. This was one of the most difficult and stressful things I had ever attempted.
I just deleted four long paragraphs of text telling you what this entailed. It was very therapeutic for me to write it, but it was a terrible read. But if you ever need to replace a stolen passport you should call me. Just make sure you have a credit card with a very high limit.
One of the many documents I had to provide to Rushmypassport.com to procure an expedited passport was a copy of Jesse's European travel itinerary. I had already submitted the form that listed his actual departure date, but in order to get the passport delivered before we left for my nephew's wedding in California, it became clear that I would have to list a different date on a fake itinerary. Although I was nervous about doing this, Rushmypassport.com assured me that they do it all the time, and referred me to their web site to see what to do. Heck, I was only misrepresenting his travel plans, I wasn't committing a federal offense.
Was I?
I am a very law abiding citizen, and I lost two more night's sleep over this. I balanced this against the fact that I would not otherwise receive the passport before our vacation, therefore guaranteeing the loss of eight nights of vacation sleep which is roughly the equivalent of 16 nights of week night sleep for a middle aged woman. I decided to fib.
Forty-eight hours later, my agent at Rushmypassport.com called with bad news.
"Jesse's case is under review by the State Department," he said. "It is out of our hands. The government does not move quickly."
Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, the agent asked, "Is there any chance Jesse has any felonies?"
I momentarily considered this possibility, but was quite certain that it had been discovered that my pants were on fire and I had ruined my son's chance for a summer in Europe. I imagined him living in his childhood bedroom all summer, without a job, sleeping til 2 in the afternoon and furious at me. I knew there was no punishment that the U.S. Department of State could inflict on me that could be worse than that.
We were instructed to call the State Department the next morning to see if we could find out any information (so much for THAT night's sleep) so Jesse and I scheduled a conference call for Friday morning.
I was a mess. Seriously, I was hyperventilating. Our fate was in the hands of the government employee who answered the phone--I was not optimistic. But we discovered a simple clerical error, and our State Department guy was able to fix it and process Jesse's passport. The passport was delivered to us the next day (only $40 more for Saturday delivery but who's counting) and I left on Sunday for vacation. With my horrific skin tanning fiasco. And the security tag on my mother-in-law's suit. Three disasters, all in May.
Helooo June!
Monday, May 27, 2013
Secure This
If you thought my preparations for my nephew's wedding were stressful (see last week's post), let me tell you about my 92-year-old mother-in-law.
Helen moved to Chicago last year to be near us after living twenty years in Florida. She lives at an independent living facility, which affords her the opportunity to do a lot of things on her own. But shopping for clothes for her grandson's wedding was definitely a daughter-in-law responsibility.
I adore her, and was glad to help, but this was a big job for both of us. Just trying on clothes when you are 92 and have trouble lifting your arms over your head is an exhausting challenge. But eventually we found the perfect ivory suit with a jeweled neckline, size 11 shoes that were flat and comfortable, and new lipstick and blush.
We freshened up her wardrobe for the other days we'd be in California and I made her a list of everything she wanted to take. She borrowed a bigger suitcase from one of her friends and packed a little every day.
We flew to California and had a marvelous reunion with family who had come in from all over the country. We had rented a great house, but it got hectic as we all needed the bathroom to get ready. My mother-in-law allowed plenty of time to put on her pantyhose, which nearly wore her out.
As the time to leave approached, we each came to wait for the others in the family room. I was first, then my sons, and my husband. My mother-in-law finally came out of the bedroom and walked slowly down the hallway with her cane, making a grand entrance.
She entered the family room looking absolutely radiant. I was delighted.
Then she turned to me and said, "How do we get this security tag off the jacket?"
She lifted her arm to reveal a four inch square plastic security sensor firmly attached to her suit.
All the blood ran out of my head and I had to sit down.
The whole family sprung into action. I got on the phone with Macy's to find out if this tag was an ink filled kind that would ruin the jacket if we removed it. My husband ran to the garage to get the tool box. My sons started googling "remove security tag" but were locked out of most sites. Because I have no idea how the internet works, I was sure we were now identified as thieves and at any moment the police would come breaking down our door. Finally my son Jesse hacked his way into a YouTube video which showed us how to disarm the security tag.
The video instructed us to grasp the tag with two pairs of pliers and twist them in opposite directions. My husband manned the tools while the boys yelled instructions. This only succeeded in breaking the tag into smaller pieces. Finally, after 20 sweaty minutes, my husband had whittled the plastic tag down to the metal lock. He could not get it to release.
I had been watching helplessly the whole time and could not believe that all our hard work had come to this.
I said to my husband, "Give me the hammer."
I can only imagine what I looked like with that hammer in my hands. I was furious and desperate--a dangerous combination. I smashed the hell out of that thing.
The tag gave up the fight, unlocked and fell off.
We jumped into the car (okay, the rest of us jumped--Helen does not jump) and raced to the wedding. We ran into bad traffic, and my husband had to call his brother, the groom's father, and tell him why we were late. "Mom had a wardrobe malfunction."
When we arrived, my husband drove past the parking lot down a country road to get as close as possible so Helen would not have far to walk. Not knowing the layout, I was concerned we were driving right into the wedding.
I was also worried that after all our preparations, my mother-in-law would miss the ceremony, but they didn't start without us. It was a beautiful, joyful, perfect wedding, and as soon as the happy couple said their "I dos" I went to the bar and ordered myself a gigantic cocktail.
Helen moved to Chicago last year to be near us after living twenty years in Florida. She lives at an independent living facility, which affords her the opportunity to do a lot of things on her own. But shopping for clothes for her grandson's wedding was definitely a daughter-in-law responsibility.
I adore her, and was glad to help, but this was a big job for both of us. Just trying on clothes when you are 92 and have trouble lifting your arms over your head is an exhausting challenge. But eventually we found the perfect ivory suit with a jeweled neckline, size 11 shoes that were flat and comfortable, and new lipstick and blush.
We freshened up her wardrobe for the other days we'd be in California and I made her a list of everything she wanted to take. She borrowed a bigger suitcase from one of her friends and packed a little every day.
We flew to California and had a marvelous reunion with family who had come in from all over the country. We had rented a great house, but it got hectic as we all needed the bathroom to get ready. My mother-in-law allowed plenty of time to put on her pantyhose, which nearly wore her out.
As the time to leave approached, we each came to wait for the others in the family room. I was first, then my sons, and my husband. My mother-in-law finally came out of the bedroom and walked slowly down the hallway with her cane, making a grand entrance.
She entered the family room looking absolutely radiant. I was delighted.
Then she turned to me and said, "How do we get this security tag off the jacket?"
She lifted her arm to reveal a four inch square plastic security sensor firmly attached to her suit.
All the blood ran out of my head and I had to sit down.
The whole family sprung into action. I got on the phone with Macy's to find out if this tag was an ink filled kind that would ruin the jacket if we removed it. My husband ran to the garage to get the tool box. My sons started googling "remove security tag" but were locked out of most sites. Because I have no idea how the internet works, I was sure we were now identified as thieves and at any moment the police would come breaking down our door. Finally my son Jesse hacked his way into a YouTube video which showed us how to disarm the security tag.
The video instructed us to grasp the tag with two pairs of pliers and twist them in opposite directions. My husband manned the tools while the boys yelled instructions. This only succeeded in breaking the tag into smaller pieces. Finally, after 20 sweaty minutes, my husband had whittled the plastic tag down to the metal lock. He could not get it to release.
I had been watching helplessly the whole time and could not believe that all our hard work had come to this.
I said to my husband, "Give me the hammer."
I can only imagine what I looked like with that hammer in my hands. I was furious and desperate--a dangerous combination. I smashed the hell out of that thing.
The tag gave up the fight, unlocked and fell off.
We jumped into the car (okay, the rest of us jumped--Helen does not jump) and raced to the wedding. We ran into bad traffic, and my husband had to call his brother, the groom's father, and tell him why we were late. "Mom had a wardrobe malfunction."
When we arrived, my husband drove past the parking lot down a country road to get as close as possible so Helen would not have far to walk. Not knowing the layout, I was concerned we were driving right into the wedding.
I was also worried that after all our preparations, my mother-in-law would miss the ceremony, but they didn't start without us. It was a beautiful, joyful, perfect wedding, and as soon as the happy couple said their "I dos" I went to the bar and ordered myself a gigantic cocktail.
Monday, May 20, 2013
Don't Try This at Home!
My nephew got married over the weekend, and I spent the past two weeks preparing my Winter in Chicago body for the Spring in California wedding.
You probably know that the current fashion is to go without hosiery. This is fine if your legs are young. It is also fine if you are too old to care about fashion. I am at that awkward in-between age.
Over dinner one night, I asked some friends what to do with my 53-year old legs. There was universal agreement that I could not wear nude hose. Then I rolled up my pants leg and showed them my scaly, corpselike limb, and a hush fell over the table.
My friend Deb showed me her legs after a treatment of Jergens Natural Glow self-tanner. While the color was slightly unnatural, it definitely looked better than the natural color I was sporting. I drove directly to Walgreens and purchased the body lotion and lathered myself up.
Although the smell was putrid, I did succeed in dying myself a darker color. After three days, I was a glowing bronze! My co-workers commented that I looked tan and rested. The Jergens instructions read that I should "use until desired color is achieved" and "reapply as needed," so I stopped using the cream and waited to see what would happen.
That's when my suntan started to rub off on my bathroom towel.
I was left with the horrid appearance of a disfiguring skin disease. I tried to use the Tan-in-a-Tube again but the dark patches became orange while the pale skin seemed to get inexplicably whiter. Now that my "tan" was splotchy and uneven, there seemed to be no way to get back to a solid skin tone of any color.
I immediately bought Spanx Super Shaping Sheers in black and asked God to forgive me for ever disparaging the miracle of pantyhose.
But now I had a brand new problem: MY ARMS. Of course my dress was sleeveless, and there was no time to find a long-sleeved cocktail dress (if such a thing even exists.) My arms looked like an impressionist painting, but not in a good way. More like Monet's impression of leprosy.
My only hope was my new best friend, the loofah. I scrubbed myself raw searching for my old pale, pasty grayish-white arms underneath my tie-dyed exterior.
I had some success---I found a fabulous Eileen Fisher shawl on sale at Macy's for half price. My skin was particularly ugly in sunlight, so I wore the shawl for the outdoor ceremony and until it got dark and everyone was drunk.
It all turned out fine. Shockingly, my hosiery was not the talk of the wedding. I had forgotten the other maxim of being a 53-year old woman: Unless I came to the wedding wearing a Nazi uniform, no one was looking at me.
You probably know that the current fashion is to go without hosiery. This is fine if your legs are young. It is also fine if you are too old to care about fashion. I am at that awkward in-between age.
Over dinner one night, I asked some friends what to do with my 53-year old legs. There was universal agreement that I could not wear nude hose. Then I rolled up my pants leg and showed them my scaly, corpselike limb, and a hush fell over the table.
My friend Deb showed me her legs after a treatment of Jergens Natural Glow self-tanner. While the color was slightly unnatural, it definitely looked better than the natural color I was sporting. I drove directly to Walgreens and purchased the body lotion and lathered myself up.
Although the smell was putrid, I did succeed in dying myself a darker color. After three days, I was a glowing bronze! My co-workers commented that I looked tan and rested. The Jergens instructions read that I should "use until desired color is achieved" and "reapply as needed," so I stopped using the cream and waited to see what would happen.
That's when my suntan started to rub off on my bathroom towel.
I was left with the horrid appearance of a disfiguring skin disease. I tried to use the Tan-in-a-Tube again but the dark patches became orange while the pale skin seemed to get inexplicably whiter. Now that my "tan" was splotchy and uneven, there seemed to be no way to get back to a solid skin tone of any color.
I immediately bought Spanx Super Shaping Sheers in black and asked God to forgive me for ever disparaging the miracle of pantyhose.
But now I had a brand new problem: MY ARMS. Of course my dress was sleeveless, and there was no time to find a long-sleeved cocktail dress (if such a thing even exists.) My arms looked like an impressionist painting, but not in a good way. More like Monet's impression of leprosy.
My only hope was my new best friend, the loofah. I scrubbed myself raw searching for my old pale, pasty grayish-white arms underneath my tie-dyed exterior.
I had some success---I found a fabulous Eileen Fisher shawl on sale at Macy's for half price. My skin was particularly ugly in sunlight, so I wore the shawl for the outdoor ceremony and until it got dark and everyone was drunk.
It all turned out fine. Shockingly, my hosiery was not the talk of the wedding. I had forgotten the other maxim of being a 53-year old woman: Unless I came to the wedding wearing a Nazi uniform, no one was looking at me.
Monday, May 13, 2013
Hooked
I want to tell you about the day I met my true love, Video Poker.
It was 1987--after Joel and I were married but before we had kids. Those were the days of big hair and bigger shoulder pads. It was my first trip to Las Vegas and it was very cheap---they advertised shrimp cocktails for 99 cents and hotels for $29 a night. Flights were also inexpensive--the main objective was to get people to Las Vegas, and only later to separate them from their money.
I didn't want to go. We were newlyweds, and if we were going on vacation, I wanted to spend our money someplace else, but Joel made plans for us to meet up with his best friend.
Our plane made three stops on the way to Las Vegas, and on one of those stops my luggage got off to stretch its legs. When we arrived in Las Vegas, all I had was the bright pink, purple, blue, green and yellow one-piece jumpsuit I was wearing. I was mortified that I'd be wearing the same outfit all weekend, but of course once I arrived in Las Vegas and saw what everyone else was wearing, I realized how silly my concerns were.
We arrived at our hotel but I had nothing to unpack. I was crabby. Joel suggested we go down to the casino where I imagined we would lose what was left of our wedding cash, but what else was there to do?
Joel showed me around the casino--roulette, the blackjack tables, the slot machines. He sat down at a 25-cent video poker machine and showed me how to play. I sat on the stool next to him and did not move for three days.
I was winning! And then, of course, I was losing, but I kept the memory of winning, and I couldn't stop.
Oh, I did go to the bathroom, and yes, I must have eaten something, but I know for sure that I did not change my clothes. I distinctly remember not wanting to leave "my" machine and risk someone else taking up residence.
Our flight home was on Monday morning at 8:00, and Joel came to fetch me around 3:00 a.m. for a couple hours sleep before heading out.
"You go ahead," I told him, pressing my buttons at lightning speed, never taking my eyes off my cards.
"Sher," he said, "come on up, get some sleep."
"I'm fine," I said. "Let me know when it's time to go."
He was quiet for a second.
"Sher," he said, putting his hand on my arm. "Stop for a second. Look at me."
"I know it's you!" I said. "I recognize your voice!"
It was 1987--after Joel and I were married but before we had kids. Those were the days of big hair and bigger shoulder pads. It was my first trip to Las Vegas and it was very cheap---they advertised shrimp cocktails for 99 cents and hotels for $29 a night. Flights were also inexpensive--the main objective was to get people to Las Vegas, and only later to separate them from their money.
I didn't want to go. We were newlyweds, and if we were going on vacation, I wanted to spend our money someplace else, but Joel made plans for us to meet up with his best friend.
Our plane made three stops on the way to Las Vegas, and on one of those stops my luggage got off to stretch its legs. When we arrived in Las Vegas, all I had was the bright pink, purple, blue, green and yellow one-piece jumpsuit I was wearing. I was mortified that I'd be wearing the same outfit all weekend, but of course once I arrived in Las Vegas and saw what everyone else was wearing, I realized how silly my concerns were.
We arrived at our hotel but I had nothing to unpack. I was crabby. Joel suggested we go down to the casino where I imagined we would lose what was left of our wedding cash, but what else was there to do?
Joel showed me around the casino--roulette, the blackjack tables, the slot machines. He sat down at a 25-cent video poker machine and showed me how to play. I sat on the stool next to him and did not move for three days.
I was winning! And then, of course, I was losing, but I kept the memory of winning, and I couldn't stop.
Oh, I did go to the bathroom, and yes, I must have eaten something, but I know for sure that I did not change my clothes. I distinctly remember not wanting to leave "my" machine and risk someone else taking up residence.
Our flight home was on Monday morning at 8:00, and Joel came to fetch me around 3:00 a.m. for a couple hours sleep before heading out.
"You go ahead," I told him, pressing my buttons at lightning speed, never taking my eyes off my cards.
"Sher," he said, "come on up, get some sleep."
"I'm fine," I said. "Let me know when it's time to go."
He was quiet for a second.
"Sher," he said, putting his hand on my arm. "Stop for a second. Look at me."
"I know it's you!" I said. "I recognize your voice!"
Monday, May 6, 2013
Promoted
I have something wonderful to tell you. I've been promoted!
This came as a total shock to me, like a fat inheritance from an uncle you never even knew you had.
I've been back to work for one year. In 1996 I retired from my career as an advertising professional when my sons were 6 and 3, and I had been a stay-at-home mother for sixteen years. I stayed and stayed until the children grew up and left me. I went back to school to learn ASL, but as regular readers of this space know, my attempts to help the hearing impaired were, well, impaired.
I knew that there was no chance of getting a job in advertising after a 16 year break. But I had an accomplished career as a volunteer during my layoff, and thought I might be able to turn that into a professional job in a non-profit.
When I began my job search, the economy was bad. My odds of finding a job seemed remote. I made a quick-off-the-top-of-my-head list of friends who had gone back to work after ten or more years at home. I counted 17 friends, and only four went back to their previous careers (teacher, nurse, landscape architect and accountant.) Six had taken non-professional jobs in retail or selling something they had created. Five had their own service businesses, consulting on something they knew how to do. Only two had been hired to do something new.
I dipped my toe into the professional world of non-profits with a consulting gig. After impressing the interviewer with extensive stories about my fundraising, board and leadership development skills, she put me in charge of six Excel spreadsheets.
I still think I could have been good at this, even though it was the opposite of my skill set, but when you are a consultant, you are alone at your kitchen table with no one to ask, and if you are 52 years old and have been out of the workforce for 16 years, you have a lot of questions.
I had been hired for the wrong job, and it was painful. Luckily, as I've mentioned before, I have a condition my husband calls, "confidence for no apparent reason." I resigned after a couple of months and pretended it never happened.
Then I found a part-time job doing fundraising for a local non-profit called Friedman Place, a residence for 81 people who are blind or visually impaired. I have absolutely loved it since the day I started.
Recently my boss called me into her office for my one-year review. We talked about the successes we've had this year, and she asked me about my personal goals.
Now to be frank, I didn't have any personal goals--not where my part-time job was concerned. I had fundraising goals, but I had not spent even one minute thinking about this as a career. I had been so happy to have the perfect part-time job that my only goal had been for everything to stay exactly the same.
But my boss wanted me to assume more responsibility and be the director of my department. I had no idea this door was still open for me. I wish I could have seen my own face.
My first question, of course, was whether or not I could still work part-time. I don't think that is the question that Sheryl Sandberg, the COO of Facebook, recommends in her book Lean In.
Anyway, my boss said yes, and so I said yes.
I am so accustomed to being proud of my children, I'd nearly forgotten I could feel so proud of myself.
Yay Me!
This came as a total shock to me, like a fat inheritance from an uncle you never even knew you had.
I've been back to work for one year. In 1996 I retired from my career as an advertising professional when my sons were 6 and 3, and I had been a stay-at-home mother for sixteen years. I stayed and stayed until the children grew up and left me. I went back to school to learn ASL, but as regular readers of this space know, my attempts to help the hearing impaired were, well, impaired.
I knew that there was no chance of getting a job in advertising after a 16 year break. But I had an accomplished career as a volunteer during my layoff, and thought I might be able to turn that into a professional job in a non-profit.
When I began my job search, the economy was bad. My odds of finding a job seemed remote. I made a quick-off-the-top-of-my-head list of friends who had gone back to work after ten or more years at home. I counted 17 friends, and only four went back to their previous careers (teacher, nurse, landscape architect and accountant.) Six had taken non-professional jobs in retail or selling something they had created. Five had their own service businesses, consulting on something they knew how to do. Only two had been hired to do something new.
I dipped my toe into the professional world of non-profits with a consulting gig. After impressing the interviewer with extensive stories about my fundraising, board and leadership development skills, she put me in charge of six Excel spreadsheets.
I still think I could have been good at this, even though it was the opposite of my skill set, but when you are a consultant, you are alone at your kitchen table with no one to ask, and if you are 52 years old and have been out of the workforce for 16 years, you have a lot of questions.
I had been hired for the wrong job, and it was painful. Luckily, as I've mentioned before, I have a condition my husband calls, "confidence for no apparent reason." I resigned after a couple of months and pretended it never happened.
Then I found a part-time job doing fundraising for a local non-profit called Friedman Place, a residence for 81 people who are blind or visually impaired. I have absolutely loved it since the day I started.
Recently my boss called me into her office for my one-year review. We talked about the successes we've had this year, and she asked me about my personal goals.
Now to be frank, I didn't have any personal goals--not where my part-time job was concerned. I had fundraising goals, but I had not spent even one minute thinking about this as a career. I had been so happy to have the perfect part-time job that my only goal had been for everything to stay exactly the same.
But my boss wanted me to assume more responsibility and be the director of my department. I had no idea this door was still open for me. I wish I could have seen my own face.
My first question, of course, was whether or not I could still work part-time. I don't think that is the question that Sheryl Sandberg, the COO of Facebook, recommends in her book Lean In.
Anyway, my boss said yes, and so I said yes.
I am so accustomed to being proud of my children, I'd nearly forgotten I could feel so proud of myself.
Yay Me!
Monday, April 29, 2013
Next
I was a spectacular failure as a 50-year-old sign language student. (See previous posts here and here to read about my sign language classes, and click here if you want to see a video of me signing. This was a class assignment, and is called, quite appropriately, Sheryl's Embarrassing Moment.)
In order to become an interpreter, you need to understand every single word and nuance, and be able to translate it immediately. The key to this is an excellent memory. If you are a certain age, and every once in awhile you can't remember the word you are looking for, interpreting is not the gig for you.
This was a painful realization for me. I had always been a good student, and somehow, with sign language, I was not. I worked at it for hours every single day for three long semesters. It finally occurred to me that if I was interpreting in a courtroom setting, or worse, a hospital, there would be no room for error. I probably could have interpreted for a child, preferably a small one who signed slowly and had a limited vocabulary. And it would have helped if he could hear.
So what was I going to do?
In the short term I hoped to make some quick cash with minimal effort.
My first money making scheme brought me to the Horseshoe Casino in Hammond, Indiana. I spent three and a half hours at the video poker machine (the crack cocaine of gambling) not even getting up to go to the bathroom. I was, at one point, up nearly $100. My problem (and oh, it is a problem) is that I love video poker so, so much that I can't bear to get up from the machine. I would much rather play video poker than have $100.
I never win money in Las Vegas or on a cruise, because there is no deadline, and I can sit at the machine until I get carpal tunnel and all my money has vanished. But after three and a half hours in Hammond, Indiana, my husband was about to drive away without me, and I was forced to choose between cashing out or being abandoned in Hammond.
I left the Horseshoe Casino with $60.
My next cash-for-no-work scheme was my pick in the NCAA March Madness bracket. My family loves basketball and my sons and husband are very conversant about all the college teams and players. You would think that a 50ish suburban mother would just pick the team "in the red jerseys" but in my case you would be so wrong.
When my boys were young, I realized that they LOVED sports, and if I wanted to talk to them about something that they wanted to talk about, I would have to learn about sports too. I started reading the sports section of the newspaper, and then a few years ago I discovered the show PTI (Pardon the Interruption) on ESPN. I don't know who watches this show at 4:30 every week day afternoon, but I doubt I am their target audience. Anyway, the PTI hosts Tony and Mike were very helpful in suggesting possible upsets, and while my sons' brackets were busted after the Sweet Sixteen, I walked away with second place in my husband's office pool and the $200 prize.
The third and final free money scheme did not involve gambling (even I was seeing a disturbing pattern).
I decided to sell my jewelry.
Not my good jewelry, but the gold jewelry that I didn't wear. I rooted through my jewelry box for the orphan earrings and tangled chains, and I found a shocking number of items with Jewish stars. I brought them to a jeweler, and he weighed them on a scale like they were a Weight Watcher's portion. I was hoping for enough money to buy a new purse, but with gold at $1000 an ounce I walked away with a check to put a new roof on the house.
I was flabbergasted, and I started to think about what else we had that I might be able to sell. I started going online just to see what my sterling silverware might be worth. And if I sold the silver, then did I really need my china? And if I wasn't going to be entertaining, I could certainly get a nice price for my dining room table!
I could see this was a slippery slope, and potentially more addictive than video poker.
Alas, I had run out of quick cash schemes. I had done everything to avoid it, but finally there were no other options.
It was time to get a job.
In order to become an interpreter, you need to understand every single word and nuance, and be able to translate it immediately. The key to this is an excellent memory. If you are a certain age, and every once in awhile you can't remember the word you are looking for, interpreting is not the gig for you.
This was a painful realization for me. I had always been a good student, and somehow, with sign language, I was not. I worked at it for hours every single day for three long semesters. It finally occurred to me that if I was interpreting in a courtroom setting, or worse, a hospital, there would be no room for error. I probably could have interpreted for a child, preferably a small one who signed slowly and had a limited vocabulary. And it would have helped if he could hear.
So what was I going to do?
In the short term I hoped to make some quick cash with minimal effort.
My first money making scheme brought me to the Horseshoe Casino in Hammond, Indiana. I spent three and a half hours at the video poker machine (the crack cocaine of gambling) not even getting up to go to the bathroom. I was, at one point, up nearly $100. My problem (and oh, it is a problem) is that I love video poker so, so much that I can't bear to get up from the machine. I would much rather play video poker than have $100.
I never win money in Las Vegas or on a cruise, because there is no deadline, and I can sit at the machine until I get carpal tunnel and all my money has vanished. But after three and a half hours in Hammond, Indiana, my husband was about to drive away without me, and I was forced to choose between cashing out or being abandoned in Hammond.
I left the Horseshoe Casino with $60.
My next cash-for-no-work scheme was my pick in the NCAA March Madness bracket. My family loves basketball and my sons and husband are very conversant about all the college teams and players. You would think that a 50ish suburban mother would just pick the team "in the red jerseys" but in my case you would be so wrong.
When my boys were young, I realized that they LOVED sports, and if I wanted to talk to them about something that they wanted to talk about, I would have to learn about sports too. I started reading the sports section of the newspaper, and then a few years ago I discovered the show PTI (Pardon the Interruption) on ESPN. I don't know who watches this show at 4:30 every week day afternoon, but I doubt I am their target audience. Anyway, the PTI hosts Tony and Mike were very helpful in suggesting possible upsets, and while my sons' brackets were busted after the Sweet Sixteen, I walked away with second place in my husband's office pool and the $200 prize.
The third and final free money scheme did not involve gambling (even I was seeing a disturbing pattern).
I decided to sell my jewelry.
Not my good jewelry, but the gold jewelry that I didn't wear. I rooted through my jewelry box for the orphan earrings and tangled chains, and I found a shocking number of items with Jewish stars. I brought them to a jeweler, and he weighed them on a scale like they were a Weight Watcher's portion. I was hoping for enough money to buy a new purse, but with gold at $1000 an ounce I walked away with a check to put a new roof on the house.
I was flabbergasted, and I started to think about what else we had that I might be able to sell. I started going online just to see what my sterling silverware might be worth. And if I sold the silver, then did I really need my china? And if I wasn't going to be entertaining, I could certainly get a nice price for my dining room table!
I could see this was a slippery slope, and potentially more addictive than video poker.
Alas, I had run out of quick cash schemes. I had done everything to avoid it, but finally there were no other options.
It was time to get a job.
Monday, April 22, 2013
Small World
Although my street was so flooded on Thursday morning that a taxi couldn't get to my house, American Airlines insisted that my 9:30 a.m. flight would depart on time. Of course as soon as I arrived at the airport, they changed their minds.
It turned into one of those Chinese water torture delays. First they told us we were leaving at 11:00, and then 1:00, and then 2:30, and then 4:30. Those of us waiting at gate H6 had the chance to get quite friendly. I struck up a conversation with a lovely couple in their 70's who lived in the north suburbs and were Jewish.
Between Jews who live in the same city, there is never more than one degree of separation. We discovered that the husband went to high school with my mother, their synagogue director had been my Hebrew school teacher, and their granddaughter danced in the same troupe that I had back in high school.
This, I always tell my children, is why you must be nice to everyone. The person whose parking space you steal will turn out to be your grandmother's next door neighbor. When she tells your grandmother that you stole her space, your quick trip to the Jewel for lunchmeat will turn out to be the most shameful thing you have done in your life, and the reason you are not in the will.
While these connections occur often in my hometown, Jewish Geography is also an international game. Several years ago, my husband and I decided to take a cruise during the two weeks of the summer when both our boys were away at overnight camp. Our destination was not that important--our primary criteria was to leave on July 1 and return on July 15.
We found a discounted cabin on a Celebrity cruise with stops in Helsinki, Coppenhagen, Oslo, and several other northern European cities. My mother-in-law, who lived in a Boynton Beach condominium development called Platina, mentioned that she'd heard in the card room while playing mahjong that two acquaintances were going on a cruise to some of those same cities. She did not know the name of their cruise line, or where they were departing from, or even when they were departing. At the time, this did not qualify as "information."
When we arrived on the ship, we realized that there were very few Americans on board, and even fewer people under 70. Every time we saw a younger couple, we walked over and eavesdropped to hear what language they were speaking.
One day while sailing in the Baltic Sea we saw two tiny elderly women who were wearing the same type of colorful jogging suits my mother-in-law wore. They were carrying purses that were quite popular at the Festival Flea Market. We had not met anyone even remotely familiar in two weeks, and my husband decided to find out if these were the ladies from Florida.
"Hello," he said.
Neither woman responded.
"My name is Joel Solomon. By any chance do you ladies live at Platina?"
The ladies remained silent. I thought that these women were probably with the German choir group that was on board and spoke no English.
Joel was not deterred. "I'm Helen Solomon's son."
The two women looked at each other, and then looked at my husband.
Finally, the shorter of the two women spoke.
"Are you the doctor?"
My husband smiled. "No," he said, "that's my brother."
The women nodded.
Joel said, "I'm the lawyer. Has she ever mentioned me?"
It turned into one of those Chinese water torture delays. First they told us we were leaving at 11:00, and then 1:00, and then 2:30, and then 4:30. Those of us waiting at gate H6 had the chance to get quite friendly. I struck up a conversation with a lovely couple in their 70's who lived in the north suburbs and were Jewish.
Between Jews who live in the same city, there is never more than one degree of separation. We discovered that the husband went to high school with my mother, their synagogue director had been my Hebrew school teacher, and their granddaughter danced in the same troupe that I had back in high school.
This, I always tell my children, is why you must be nice to everyone. The person whose parking space you steal will turn out to be your grandmother's next door neighbor. When she tells your grandmother that you stole her space, your quick trip to the Jewel for lunchmeat will turn out to be the most shameful thing you have done in your life, and the reason you are not in the will.
While these connections occur often in my hometown, Jewish Geography is also an international game. Several years ago, my husband and I decided to take a cruise during the two weeks of the summer when both our boys were away at overnight camp. Our destination was not that important--our primary criteria was to leave on July 1 and return on July 15.
We found a discounted cabin on a Celebrity cruise with stops in Helsinki, Coppenhagen, Oslo, and several other northern European cities. My mother-in-law, who lived in a Boynton Beach condominium development called Platina, mentioned that she'd heard in the card room while playing mahjong that two acquaintances were going on a cruise to some of those same cities. She did not know the name of their cruise line, or where they were departing from, or even when they were departing. At the time, this did not qualify as "information."
When we arrived on the ship, we realized that there were very few Americans on board, and even fewer people under 70. Every time we saw a younger couple, we walked over and eavesdropped to hear what language they were speaking.
One day while sailing in the Baltic Sea we saw two tiny elderly women who were wearing the same type of colorful jogging suits my mother-in-law wore. They were carrying purses that were quite popular at the Festival Flea Market. We had not met anyone even remotely familiar in two weeks, and my husband decided to find out if these were the ladies from Florida.
"Hello," he said.
Neither woman responded.
"My name is Joel Solomon. By any chance do you ladies live at Platina?"
The ladies remained silent. I thought that these women were probably with the German choir group that was on board and spoke no English.
Joel was not deterred. "I'm Helen Solomon's son."
The two women looked at each other, and then looked at my husband.
Finally, the shorter of the two women spoke.
"Are you the doctor?"
My husband smiled. "No," he said, "that's my brother."
The women nodded.
Joel said, "I'm the lawyer. Has she ever mentioned me?"
Monday, April 15, 2013
To Be or Not To Be (Jewish)
Not only was I the sole grownup in my sign language class, (see last week's post) but it turned out that I was also the only Jew.
I hadn't been in that position since Mr. Stevens' 7th grade social studies class when we were studying the Holocaust. It's painful to be the spokesperson for your people when you are in the seventh grade. And the Holocaust! Oy! This was not a subject that increased a girl's popularity.
This time around I was a 50-year-old woman in a classroom of adolescents, and I didn't have any immediate plans to reveal who I may or may not worship. There was no reason to point out that I was different--or rather, more different.
But during my coursework learning to be a sign language interpreter, each semester I was required to attend a number of "deaf events," where I was often the only hearing person. The purpose of these events were to help me understand the isolation that a deaf person feels at a "hearing" event, and to learn some of the cultural norms of the deaf community.
The first deaf event was at the Bethel Baptist Church which had a deaf ministry holding services every Sunday morning. Trying to act like I did this all the time, I arrived at 9:45 for Bible study with the Pastor's wife. Worship services followed.
The Baptists were incredibly warm and welcoming to me, and at least they didn't make me feel old. I was asked to come up and introduce myself. I was fairly self conscious about being hearing and being Jewish so while signing, I spontaneously changed my name from Solomon to Sullivan.
The service began with a testimony from a woman whose mother had recently passed away, and it appeared that she was signing how happy she was about it. Clearly, I was not understanding her. I later learned that she was happy because her mother had accepted Christ as her Savior before her death, but since I did not know the signs for Christ or Savior, I had missed that part.
I wasn't sure if I was in the dark because I was a beginner at sign language, or if I was in the dark because I was Jewish. There were a few uncomfortable moments when I was pretty sure that I was going straight to hell. If I was a better signer, I might have asked for clarification, but with my limited vocabulary I couldn't have made much of a case for myself.
My secret remained safe until the following week when I learned that my teacher had scheduled our midterm exam on the first night of Passover when I was expecting twenty people at my home for a seder.
I raised my hand.
"I am Jew," I confessed, signing the letters J-E-W since I did not know the sign.
The teacher showed me the sign. You pull on your long beard. I swear.
Then I pointed to the calendar which showed the Passover holiday. I tried to explain that because of the holiday on Tuesday I would not be in class on Monday night. Jewish holidays begin at sundown the night before--this is difficult enough to explain in English, let alone sign language.
But the teacher drew his own conclusion. "You are very religious?" he signed.
I only hesitated a second.
"YES!" I signed enthusiastically. "Very religious Jew!"
I stroked my long beard for emphasis and got my midterm delayed until the following week.
It was hard to imagine being less cool than I had been in seventh grade, but there I was.
I hadn't been in that position since Mr. Stevens' 7th grade social studies class when we were studying the Holocaust. It's painful to be the spokesperson for your people when you are in the seventh grade. And the Holocaust! Oy! This was not a subject that increased a girl's popularity.
This time around I was a 50-year-old woman in a classroom of adolescents, and I didn't have any immediate plans to reveal who I may or may not worship. There was no reason to point out that I was different--or rather, more different.
But during my coursework learning to be a sign language interpreter, each semester I was required to attend a number of "deaf events," where I was often the only hearing person. The purpose of these events were to help me understand the isolation that a deaf person feels at a "hearing" event, and to learn some of the cultural norms of the deaf community.
The first deaf event was at the Bethel Baptist Church which had a deaf ministry holding services every Sunday morning. Trying to act like I did this all the time, I arrived at 9:45 for Bible study with the Pastor's wife. Worship services followed.
The Baptists were incredibly warm and welcoming to me, and at least they didn't make me feel old. I was asked to come up and introduce myself. I was fairly self conscious about being hearing and being Jewish so while signing, I spontaneously changed my name from Solomon to Sullivan.
The service began with a testimony from a woman whose mother had recently passed away, and it appeared that she was signing how happy she was about it. Clearly, I was not understanding her. I later learned that she was happy because her mother had accepted Christ as her Savior before her death, but since I did not know the signs for Christ or Savior, I had missed that part.
I wasn't sure if I was in the dark because I was a beginner at sign language, or if I was in the dark because I was Jewish. There were a few uncomfortable moments when I was pretty sure that I was going straight to hell. If I was a better signer, I might have asked for clarification, but with my limited vocabulary I couldn't have made much of a case for myself.
My secret remained safe until the following week when I learned that my teacher had scheduled our midterm exam on the first night of Passover when I was expecting twenty people at my home for a seder.
I raised my hand.
"I am Jew," I confessed, signing the letters J-E-W since I did not know the sign.
The teacher showed me the sign. You pull on your long beard. I swear.
Then I pointed to the calendar which showed the Passover holiday. I tried to explain that because of the holiday on Tuesday I would not be in class on Monday night. Jewish holidays begin at sundown the night before--this is difficult enough to explain in English, let alone sign language.
But the teacher drew his own conclusion. "You are very religious?" he signed.
I only hesitated a second.
"YES!" I signed enthusiastically. "Very religious Jew!"
I stroked my long beard for emphasis and got my midterm delayed until the following week.
It was hard to imagine being less cool than I had been in seventh grade, but there I was.
Monday, April 8, 2013
Signs
As my sons got older and I saw my full time mothering gig coming to an end, I spent a lot of time pondering the question: What Do I Want to Be When my Children Grow Up?
I learned that there was a shortage of sign language interpreters, and since I had studied American Sign Language many years ago, I thought it could be a nice second career for me. I enrolled in a program at Harper Community College.
The week before classes began I bought my books and had my photo taken for my student ID. While at the bookstore I bought a Harper Hawks notebook, a Harper t-shirt, and those gym shorts that all the young girls were wearing that said "Harper" on the butt.
I was very excited to walk into my first college class in twenty-seven years. There were two girls already seated. One had hair that was half red/half blond, and the other had a nose ring and braces. They were discussing which soy milk they preferred while eating Fritos and Diet Coke.
I took a seat and waited for someone to walk in who was at least old enough to have had her wisdom teeth removed. I had read all the articles about middle-aged people returning to college. Heck, I had seen them on the TV show Community. But as my classmates filed in, talking about their shifts at The Gap and Starbucks, I began to panic. I was old enough to be EVERYONE's mother.
Our teacher started the class by signing his name and that he was deaf. He signed or acted out what he wanted us to do, and when we really couldn't understand, he wrote on the board. After the first hour we took a break, and I made my way to the girl's bathroom where several of my classmates were already deep in conversation.
The week before classes began I bought my books and had my photo taken for my student ID. While at the bookstore I bought a Harper Hawks notebook, a Harper t-shirt, and those gym shorts that all the young girls were wearing that said "Harper" on the butt.
I was very excited to walk into my first college class in twenty-seven years. There were two girls already seated. One had hair that was half red/half blond, and the other had a nose ring and braces. They were discussing which soy milk they preferred while eating Fritos and Diet Coke.
I took a seat and waited for someone to walk in who was at least old enough to have had her wisdom teeth removed. I had read all the articles about middle-aged people returning to college. Heck, I had seen them on the TV show Community. But as my classmates filed in, talking about their shifts at The Gap and Starbucks, I began to panic. I was old enough to be EVERYONE's mother.
Our teacher started the class by signing his name and that he was deaf. He signed or acted out what he wanted us to do, and when we really couldn't understand, he wrote on the board. After the first hour we took a break, and I made my way to the girl's bathroom where several of my classmates were already deep in conversation.
"The boy with the hat is cute," a girl named Brittany said as I entered a stall.
"His name is Kent," another girl said. "He is in my biology lab."
"Do you know if he has a girlfriend?" Brittany asked.
"I think so," said one of the other girls.
I went to the sink to wash my hands. I smiled at the girls but I could not think of one thing to say.
"I think so," said one of the other girls.
I went to the sink to wash my hands. I smiled at the girls but I could not think of one thing to say.
After break, the teacher put us into groups of three to practice vocabulary. I was put with Kent and another boy named Chris. By the time I moved my chair over to my group, the boys were hard at work.
"How do you say, 'Asshole'? Kent asked. Chris showed him the sign.
"What about 'Shit'?" Kent asked. He looked at me. "Sorry," he said.
It was worse than I thought. I was so old that they had to apologize for swearing in front of me.
I'm not sure if they had any idea how old I actually was. I did sign that I had two children, but the only sign I knew for "children" was to rock my arms like I was holding a baby. I didn't mean to give the wrong impression. Or maybe I did.
By the third week we were practicing questions. Brittany was way ahead of the rest of us. She had deaf parents, and her first language was ASL. She should have been in the advanced class, but she was taking our class for an easy A.
The teacher was asking a series of "Where is?" questions, and it was my turn. He signed the question, but I couldn't understand him. I asked him to repeat it. He did, but it didn't help. I looked around the room to see if anyone else had a hand up.
Behind her book, head down, I heard Brittany across the room whisper, "Candy machine. Where is the candy machine?"
Since our teacher was deaf, he wasn't aware. I signed the answer, "In the hallway."
I was fifty years old and I was cheating.
When the teacher moved on to another student, I nodded my thanks to Brittany. I thought I'd show her a picture of my son. Maybe I could introduce them. She seemed nice.
I'm not sure if they had any idea how old I actually was. I did sign that I had two children, but the only sign I knew for "children" was to rock my arms like I was holding a baby. I didn't mean to give the wrong impression. Or maybe I did.
By the third week we were practicing questions. Brittany was way ahead of the rest of us. She had deaf parents, and her first language was ASL. She should have been in the advanced class, but she was taking our class for an easy A.
The teacher was asking a series of "Where is?" questions, and it was my turn. He signed the question, but I couldn't understand him. I asked him to repeat it. He did, but it didn't help. I looked around the room to see if anyone else had a hand up.
Behind her book, head down, I heard Brittany across the room whisper, "Candy machine. Where is the candy machine?"
Since our teacher was deaf, he wasn't aware. I signed the answer, "In the hallway."
I was fifty years old and I was cheating.
When the teacher moved on to another student, I nodded my thanks to Brittany. I thought I'd show her a picture of my son. Maybe I could introduce them. She seemed nice.
Monday, April 1, 2013
All (Weight) Is Not Lost
I was waiting to see my weight loss counselor, R, at my local Jenny Craig Center. A young woman entered with a baby boy, and I began cooing and clucking at him. The young woman confessed that she was trying to lose her baby weight.
"That's when I started the program," I told her.
She looked surprised.
"How long ago was that?" she asked.
"23 years," I said.
Her face fell.
"Oh!" I said, not wanting her to despair, "But I'm very close to my goal!"
Just to be clear: I first tried Jenny Craig over 23 years ago, when I was trying to lose my baby weight after my first child was born. I lost the weight quickly and kept it off. I went back after my second child. After that, whenever I'd creep up ten pounds, I'd visit my counselor, do exactly what she told me, and lose the weight. In the last 20 years I've returned five or six times. Maybe seven. Eight at the most.
Each time, I ask to see my counselor R who miraculously still works there. The young skinny counselors come and go, but R, who is not young, and perhaps more importantly not skinny, remains.
Some might find this ironic but I do not. Middle aged, overweight women do not want to be told by a size 0 how full and satisfied we will feel after eating Greek yogurt. Seriously, shut the fuck up. When we meet with R, we know she feels our pain.
On January 1, 2013, I once again made the New Year's resolution to lose ten pounds. In spite of reduced portions, plenty of fish and veggies, and practically eliminating cake, on February 1 I weighed exactly the same. I went to see R.
"If we start now," she said, "you can have the weight off just in time for Pesach."
We both laughed. Passover is the most fattening holiday. Everything we eat sits in our stomachs like lead.
Sure enough, right on time, I visited R last week to weigh in and I had reached my goal. After talking briefly about my maintenance program (brief because I could teach a class by now), R and I discussed what we were making for our Passover seders.
"I've made seven kugels," R told me. "One to bring to my sister-in-law, and the rest for friends. Have you ever made a pineapple upside down kugel? Oh my God, it's to die--first you put a layer of brown sugar, then you lay down the pineapple rings. Inside each ring you put a maraschino cherry."
R went on to describe each of the seven kugels including one with chocolate-orange Sabra liqueur and an apple kugel with every kind of dried fruit. R is a fabulous cook.
When I finally got home, my husband asked what had taken so long. I told him.
"You've spent the last six weeks eating bird food, and she is giving a cooking class on matzo kugel? Don't you think that's odd?"
I admitted that perhaps it was not the best weight loss strategy. My husband questioned whether R was "well-suited" to be a weight loss counselor.
"I love her!" I told him. "I LOVE HER! She is the reason I keep going back to Jenny Craig!"
"Yes," my husband said. "I think she is."
"That's when I started the program," I told her.
She looked surprised.
"How long ago was that?" she asked.
"23 years," I said.
Her face fell.
"Oh!" I said, not wanting her to despair, "But I'm very close to my goal!"
Just to be clear: I first tried Jenny Craig over 23 years ago, when I was trying to lose my baby weight after my first child was born. I lost the weight quickly and kept it off. I went back after my second child. After that, whenever I'd creep up ten pounds, I'd visit my counselor, do exactly what she told me, and lose the weight. In the last 20 years I've returned five or six times. Maybe seven. Eight at the most.
Each time, I ask to see my counselor R who miraculously still works there. The young skinny counselors come and go, but R, who is not young, and perhaps more importantly not skinny, remains.
Some might find this ironic but I do not. Middle aged, overweight women do not want to be told by a size 0 how full and satisfied we will feel after eating Greek yogurt. Seriously, shut the fuck up. When we meet with R, we know she feels our pain.
On January 1, 2013, I once again made the New Year's resolution to lose ten pounds. In spite of reduced portions, plenty of fish and veggies, and practically eliminating cake, on February 1 I weighed exactly the same. I went to see R.
"If we start now," she said, "you can have the weight off just in time for Pesach."
We both laughed. Passover is the most fattening holiday. Everything we eat sits in our stomachs like lead.
Sure enough, right on time, I visited R last week to weigh in and I had reached my goal. After talking briefly about my maintenance program (brief because I could teach a class by now), R and I discussed what we were making for our Passover seders.
"I've made seven kugels," R told me. "One to bring to my sister-in-law, and the rest for friends. Have you ever made a pineapple upside down kugel? Oh my God, it's to die--first you put a layer of brown sugar, then you lay down the pineapple rings. Inside each ring you put a maraschino cherry."
R went on to describe each of the seven kugels including one with chocolate-orange Sabra liqueur and an apple kugel with every kind of dried fruit. R is a fabulous cook.
When I finally got home, my husband asked what had taken so long. I told him.
"You've spent the last six weeks eating bird food, and she is giving a cooking class on matzo kugel? Don't you think that's odd?"
I admitted that perhaps it was not the best weight loss strategy. My husband questioned whether R was "well-suited" to be a weight loss counselor.
"I love her!" I told him. "I LOVE HER! She is the reason I keep going back to Jenny Craig!"
"Yes," my husband said. "I think she is."
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Sher Solo
Monday's meeting of the MOB (Mothers of Boys) was perhaps a metaphor for my life as an empty nester.
The MOB is a group of mothers who have only sons--no daughters. We have been meeting the first Monday of the month for the last 14 years. Back in the heyday of our childrearing, we were desperate for each other's counsel. The hard work of raising boys was hair-raising. The MOB listened, urged, cautioned and soothed. They advised me on every teacher conference and playground bully.
But times have changed. Back at our very first meeting in 1998 we discussed whether one child was ready for kindergarten. Now he is a high school senior picking his college.
But we still gather every month. At least I thought we did.
There are eight of us MOBsters. Last Monday, one friend was out of town, traveling with her recently retired husband. Two women cancelled the morning of the meeting. Another just forgot. One came late, and one left early. That left the hostess, who had missed the last several meetings caring for ill parents, and me.
I had cleared my calendar and taken the day off of work. In 14 years I have missed our monthly meetings only twice.
I no longer come for the childrearing tips. I like to hear about this boy's job, or that boy's move, or another one's engagement. But I see, as I sit at the table with so many empty chairs, that as much as I love these monthly lunches with old friends, they have lost their raison d'être.
What will take their place? Being someone's mother is no longer my primary identity. This next stage of life will not be defined by my relationship to someone else. Worst of all, there will be no guidance at yummy lunches.
When I signed up for my very first email address, I combined my first and last name and became Shersolo@aol.com, and it's been my moniker ever since. As I thought of what to call a blog about my new status, my life NOT as a mother, it occurred to me that Sher Solo might be just right.
The MOB is a group of mothers who have only sons--no daughters. We have been meeting the first Monday of the month for the last 14 years. Back in the heyday of our childrearing, we were desperate for each other's counsel. The hard work of raising boys was hair-raising. The MOB listened, urged, cautioned and soothed. They advised me on every teacher conference and playground bully.
But times have changed. Back at our very first meeting in 1998 we discussed whether one child was ready for kindergarten. Now he is a high school senior picking his college.
But we still gather every month. At least I thought we did.
There are eight of us MOBsters. Last Monday, one friend was out of town, traveling with her recently retired husband. Two women cancelled the morning of the meeting. Another just forgot. One came late, and one left early. That left the hostess, who had missed the last several meetings caring for ill parents, and me.
I had cleared my calendar and taken the day off of work. In 14 years I have missed our monthly meetings only twice.
I no longer come for the childrearing tips. I like to hear about this boy's job, or that boy's move, or another one's engagement. But I see, as I sit at the table with so many empty chairs, that as much as I love these monthly lunches with old friends, they have lost their raison d'être.
What will take their place? Being someone's mother is no longer my primary identity. This next stage of life will not be defined by my relationship to someone else. Worst of all, there will be no guidance at yummy lunches.
When I signed up for my very first email address, I combined my first and last name and became Shersolo@aol.com, and it's been my moniker ever since. As I thought of what to call a blog about my new status, my life NOT as a mother, it occurred to me that Sher Solo might be just right.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)