A Few Words About Wedding Expos

I’ve been putting off writing about this. Why? You ask. Because when you write about something, you can’t avoid reliving it and wedding expos are now added to my list of “Things I Promise Myself I Will Never Do Again”. This is after I went to just two wedding expos, which was two too many. The first one was when Lindsay wasn’t even engaged yet. Her friend had gotten engaged and she had promised to meet her there. I volunteered to go because I thought it would be fun and for some reason, I anticipated there would be food there. (One hint of advice. If you still decide to go to a wedding expo after you read this and you expect to eat there, your chances are slim to none.)

There is a predictable structure to wedding expos. First thing you do is get on line behind all the other soon-to-be brides to sign in so they can get all your information to give it away to all the vendors and you then can be inundated with mail, phone calls and email from them. After that, they give the bride a large bag, which the bride hands directly over to her mother (if she’s there) to schlep all the magazines and brochures and cds in while she (the bride) has her arms free to talk to all the vendors. As you proceed past all the tables one after another the bag gets heavier and heavier with all the chazerai of wedding planning. The bag eventually gets dumped in your dining room or any other place where you dump your stuff when you come into your house and no one ever bothers with it again, except to add it to the trash pick-up.

One thing I’ve decided I never want to be is a vendor at a wedding expo because all you do is say the same thing over and over again. I know this because while I was resting between tables and Lindsay was discussing all the different options, I heard the vendor from the next table saying the same thing with the same inflection, intonation and hand motions to each bride. I tend to wander off at wedding expos, a habit that my daughter finds very irritating, in case she wants me to hear what a particular vendor has to say even though I’ve probably heard it being told to another bride three times before while Lindsay was at the previous table, or she might need me to add things to the bag that I’m carrying for her, which is starting to give me bursitis of the shoulder.

The first wedding expo I went to, we stayed the whole time. As a matter of fact, Lindsay’s friend, whom we were meeting, left right away, probably because she had no one to carry her bag of wedding planning stuff. We remained to hear all the DJs and bands perform. Since there is no food and no liquor, you have to hear this while you’re possibly very hungry and not particularly “happy” or buzzed from a libation. If the performances sound good then, you should book them. The problem was that the DJs and bands we saw seemed like they didn’t want to be there as much as I.

The second wedding expo I went to was to kill some time after picking up my mother to take her to see the wedding dress. We had about two hours to spend at the expo and then make it to a 7:15 appointment. The incentive for this expo was that they advertised that they would serve food. So, Lindsay, my mom and I went. I thought it might be fun for my mom, too; however, it was just more of the same. And there was no food until later on- after we planned to leave for our appointment. I found myself wandering this time to vendors who were nice enough to set up bowls with candies in them. Of course that meant I had to pretend to be interested in what they were selling and listen to their spiel. One DJ, who looked more bored than I asked me if I was the bride. At first I was surprised to be asked that question, then I thought “why not”, so I told him "yes". Then I made up this elaborate romantic story about meeting my high school sweetheart on the Internet and how we both never settled down and now we were getting married for the first time. I thought this would dispel both our boredoms. I was quickly brought back to reality when I heard Lindsay yelling for me two tables down, “Mom, mom, why do you keep disappearing? I need you to hear this.” I just excused myself while the DJ looked at me, puzzled. Before we even got into the main room, there were about 12 tables stationed at the foyer outside the door and it was so crowded that it was a challenge to hold the now two wedding-planning paraphernalia bags I was carrying and navigate my 85-year old mother through the horde of people.

And this is what you’ll see when you do get into the main room, one after another- photographer/videographer; DJ/Band; wedding favors; florists, make-up artists, travel agents, wedding officiants; wedding cake bakers and even erotica (I call it Shtupperware). At the erotica table I asked the lady to explain every single contraption. She asked if I would like to make a party for a free gift. I told her I couldn’t because it was on my list of “Things I Promise Myself I Will Never Do Again”. I was cranky and starving. When we got the wedding cake table, they had samples of the different kinds of flavors of cakes in the size of a thimble. I am not exaggerating, at all. I begged for a sample of each one. I ate every one in three separate teeny bites to savor the taste of food. I looked at Lindsay and said, “Please, let’s leave.” She was done with it too. And my poor mother was just bewildered by everything. As we walked out the door, I thought of my list I began 23 years ago:

Things I Promise Myself I Will Never Do Again

1. Have another baby.

2. Host another slumber party for seven year olds.

3. Drive to Florida.

4. Host a Tupperware or Shtupperware Party at my house, even if tempted by the free gift.

5. Host another slumber party for 12 year olds.

6. Drink two blue martinis (unless I don’t obey numbers 2 and 5).

and I added

7. Attend a wedding expo.

To Lindsay On Her 27th Birthday….

It is Friday night, the 18^th of September, the night before your birthday. It’s almost numbing to me to think that you are 27 years old. I remember when you were still a little girl (maybe 6 or so) and I used to read the Metropolitan Section of the New York Times and I found that poem of a mother talking to her daughter who was turning 18. It was so beautiful that I cut it out and put it into my journal to save for you when you turned 18; it felt like it would be so long before that day would come. But, before long, in an instant, it seemed, I did give it to you on your 18^th birthday. I hope you still have it.

I looked in the card store today to find a card for you and I realized that since I am writing this blog, I might as well write you a card. Of course I bought that funny card with my recorded voice singing on it. I hope you like it and keep it just like the poem.

It’s coincidental that it’s the night before the first day of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. You were born on the second day of Rosh Hashanah. I had eaten my second holiday dinner at your grandma’s house and I didn’t think there was room for you in my belly anymore after all that Jewish cooking. Daddy and I went to Meryl and Steve’s apartment before we went home and I was saying how full I was and Meryl took out her step stool and made me walk up and down to try to induce me into labor. It was quite funny when I called her at 12:30am to tell her my water broke after I went to bed that same night. That was also an experience; we had a black Celica package and Daddy was so nervous that I would ruin the seats. He made me sit on towels on the way to the hospital, the same hospital you pass every day now on your way to work. You were three weeks early. We hadn’t even painted your room yet and didn’t order the layette. We were not ready. But you were. At 8:04am, you arrived, not even eight hours of labor. When they finally put you in my arms, the whole world changed for me. I felt that my sole purpose on earth now was to protect you. I have never been so overwhelmed and overjoyed at once. Don’t think for a minute now that just because you’re getting married and “leaving me” that my instinct to protect you will ever dissipate. And there isn’t a Hallmark card that I’ve seen so far that says anything like that.

Now that you’re getting married and it’s less than a year away, I am reliving the feeling of being overwhelmed and overjoyed simultaneously. Last night we went to measure you for your wedding dress. Each time you put it on you look more and more beautiful. We glanced at each other knowing what we were both thinking when the other bride came out in the dress that was beautiful on top, but looked as though she fell into a chicken coup on the bottom with all those feathers. I said she could always use that dress as a feather duster after she gets married. After that girl, was the pregnant one, who had on the “maternity” wedding gown. It was a fun night. Then I turned to you and said, “What do you want for your birthday?” “My wedding dress,” you answered with a little glint in your eyes. Well, you’ll never forget what you got from me on your 27^th birthday, that’s for sure.

It’s so easy to have Hallmark say it all for you and then just pay $4.00 and sign your name. It’s not so easy to say what you really feel…how magnificence and fragility can coexist when you think about your children.

I will always think of you, first, as that tiny little pink bundle in my arms and how I felt as if I were holding the universe.

I will always be in awe of your energy and confidence.

I will always be sure that you will find a way to succeed in everything or anything you do.

I will always be here for you

I will always adore you

I will always love you

forever and ever and ever

Have a Wonderful Year

Happy 27^th Birthday

Dreams, Reality, Falling In Love and What Do I Want To Be When I Grow Up?

When I was little and people used to ask me that inevitable question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I used to reply, “I don’t care, just as long as I’m famous.” It’s true. That was my ultimate dream, no matter what profession; I wanted to be illustrious in it. My “five minutes of fame” happened when I was in 6^th grade. If I would recall it, it would go like this:

On the first day of school, Mr. Gallant, the principal, walked into my class and began pontificating about us being the graduating class and how special that was and how special we were because we were the IGC class (Intellectually Gifted Children). There were three other classes and they were tracked from 6-2 to 6-4. If you were in the “2” class, you were up there, but not intellectually gifted; the “3” class had the “average” kids and the “4” class-well- would be referred to with a little sorry shake of the head, as the “bottom” kids. (Those days, the educational system was not about raising self-esteem for all students.)

Well, Mr. Gallant wanted to make sure that we knew that we were the top class and therefore, we should win all the awards at graduation. I listened attentively. I wanted to win an award. He proceeded to tell us about THE principal’s award- the one he presented at the graduation ceremony- the most prestigious award- THE Charlotte Schlenker Memorial Award for English. Then, he recounted that when he was standing outside at morning line-up, one of the sixth grade line monitors turned to him, while admiring the line of younger students she was in charge of, and said, “Mr. Gallant, aren’t they superb?”

“This girl, who uses such wonderful vocabulary, this girl is the kind of student who will win the Charlotte Schlenker Memorial Award for English,” said Mr. Gallant, with a quick, sure nod of his head and then he turned and left the room. I sat there as he walked out of the door. My heart sunk. I thought to myself, “I’ll never win that award. I don’t even know what superb means.”

The year went on. We learned a lot- Arithmetic; Greek history; Science, etc., etc. My favorite subject; though, was Creative Writing. I remember writing short stories, poems, limericks; I loved to write. Graduation day approached and students were chosen to win awards. I never thought I had a shot after Mr. Gallant had walked out of my class 9 months before. What I didn’t know either was that the Charlotte Schlenker Memorial Award was given to the best writer in 6^th grade.

And in June, my mother got a phone call from my teacher, Miss Guinan. I won the principal’s award and I was going to be presented with it at graduation. I remember standing up on the stage, feeling a little bit famous, in my yellow A-line chiffon dress, next to Mr. Gallant, as he spouted about Charlotte Schlenker, a former teacher, and how much this award means. I stood there on stage, listening and thinking to myself, “And I still don’t know what the word superb means.”

At that point in my life, I decided to become a writer, a famous writer, of course. But then, adolescence emerged-not a pretty thing, and I sort of forgot about wanting to become a writer and even forgot to write. In High School, I remembered. “Hey,” I said to myself, “I remember! I want to be a writer.” So, I took up Journalism as my major. However, all the confidence I had from being on the stage in my yellow dress beside Mr. Gallant, totally disintegrated with Mrs. Sosnow, a stern English teacher, who always wore her hair pinned in a large brown bun at the nape of her neck. All she did was criticize my writing. I was worn down by her constant negative feedback. I let Charlotte Schlenker down. I let Mr. Gallant down. I let myself down. So, I switched majors. I was good in Art; as a matter of fact, very good. Art teachers were much more supportive than Mrs. Sosnow. I realized, also, that there were famous artists too. I put my heart and soul into Art. Art had fewer boundaries and rules and I could be wildly creative. I once sculpted a nose, which I glazed blue. It earned me a high grade.

Naturally I entered college as an Art major. This was short lived when I found out in college that Art majors are required to take Art History classes, which were taught in enormous lecture halls. We sat there, viewing endless slides, while listening to the boring Art professor drone on. It was painful. I was faced again with the inevitable question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Although, this time, I was the one asking me. My mother offered a possible solution- become a teacher. “No. Don’t want to do that. Definitely no. Don’t know any famous teachers, either.” I thought to myself. Besides, all my friends were studying Education. I knew I was different. I became a Theater major. That, I figured, would be the most sensible route to fame. I could sing, too. After all, I was the lead in the senior play in High School. Four years later, after various roles; for example, a Jewish mother in a Neil Simon play and on the other end of the spectrum, a nun, twice, in two other plays, I graduated with a degree in Theater. Of course, my mother kept asking me, “What are going to do with a degree in Theater?” “Be an actress,” I replied, confidently. “Don’t you want to meet someone, fall in love, settle down, get married and have a family?” my mother inquired. “Not really,” I responded. I did mean it at the time. Then my friend introduced me to Mark and we started dating. One night he asked me not to see other guys. I said okay, but that weekend I had a date with another guy. I was determined to not be serious about any guy. The pivotal moment was when we were walking in the snow one night. I remember how peaceful and beautiful it was. We were discussing our futures and I said to him, “I’ll be on Broadway and you’ll come to see me with your wife and kids.” He looked and me with sad eyes and just pouted, without saying anything. That’s when I knew and I thought to myself, “You’re not going to be on Broadway and you’re probably not ever going to be famous, but you are going to marry Mark.” Not only did I marry Mark, settle down and have two kids; but, eventually, after realizing you can’t do much with Theater degrees, I became a teacher. This made my mother very happy.

Life passed like it always does, quickly. All of a sudden the two adorable little girls you have are two grown women in a blink of an eye, it seems. Life is cyclical. You see yourself in your children and that’s when you see history repeating itself. Lindsay turned out to be very much like me. She could even sing. And she loved to act. After a brief period of wanting to be a veterinarian when she grew up, she changed her mind and decided early on that she was going to fulfill her dream (and mine) and succeed in acting and singing. She went to a Musical Theater conservatory at first, but then switched to a regular college and majored in Media Studies as a back-up plan. After she earned a bachelor’s degree, she concentrated on pursuing her passion- to be a performer. She gave it her best shot, much more than I ever did. She tried out for American Idol nine times and even made it pretty far. She performed in community theater. She even got her SAG (Screen Actors Guild) membership and got to work with very famous actors, mostly doing background work. I would go off to work in some school as a teacher trainer, while she would get to spend the day with Catherine Zeta Jones, Will Smith, or even Angelina Jolie. Her big break was going to come. She was sure of it. She came very close many times. She almost got a feature role with Richard Gere. She almost got one of the leads in the national tour of Hairspray. Almost. Almost. It was so close, but so far away and she was getting older, even though she still looked 16, which is pretty good for an acting career. And she was struggling, financially.

Why don’t you become a teacher? I asked one day, the day I became my mother.

She looked at me with psychic daggers.

No. I will never be a teacher. I am not YOU. I will never give up my dream! She responded adamantly.

Then came Scott. I knew. I saw it in his eyes. I saw it in her eyes. It was only a matter of time. They fell in love. That’s why they say “fell” in love, because you can’t plan these things, even when you’re Charlotte from Sex and the City. Lindsay moved into Scott’s apartment; but she was determined not to give up her dream. She continued to do background work; she even got Scott some background work. (They’re both on an episode of Law and Order.) When, they started to get very serious, she started to look for a real job, after the stock market dropped and the banks began to fail. There were no jobs, even with her “back-up plan degree”. Then, they got engaged. One day when I came home from work, she said to me, matter of factly, “I registered for Graduate school. I’m getting a degree in Special Education.” I looked at her for a second and thought to myself who is this girl and what has she done with my daughter, Lindsay? But out loud, I said “Oh, how nice.” “Well, do you think you can pull some strings and get me a job as an assistant teacher while I get my teaching degree?” she asked. “I’ll see what I can do.” I said. She is now working in a Charter school as an assistant teacher, making a steady income and doing on-line courses at night. “And don’t think I’m giving up my dream because of this. After I get this Masters degree, I’m going to register for another graduate program for Theatre Education.” She assured me, “I just need to do this now because I’m getting married and starting a family soon and this is the best thing to do.”

Yep, I’ve heard these words before…in my own head.

I never gave up my dream either. I even accept my Academy Award, occasionally, after I finish blow-drying my hair, for example. I stop for a second, hold the brush as if it were my “Oscar”. “This,” I say into the mirror, “is proof that you should never give up your dream. I want to thank my family who always gave me the inspiration to pursue that dream. I want to thank Stephen Spielberg for believing in me and my script…blah blah blah blah blah…” I imagine myself wearing a yellow dress just like when I accepted the Charlotte Schlenker Memorial Award for English and then I imagine putting the "Oscar" right next to my 6th grade award on the shelf....sigh, then reality kicks in and I'm back in the bathroom. sigh.

And the Year Begins....

September 5, 2009. Officially one year away until the wedding. It's a beautiful, warm, sunny day- not typical of the summer this year, or the "summer that wasn't" as I would call it.

Practically everything is done. The hall is booked, the DJ is booked, the photographer and videographer are booked. The dress is picked. We bought the shoes, which is no small feat when the bride's feet are so small- a size 4 1/2 - 5 1/2 and most shoes start at a size 6.

All we have to do is save and wait and wish...

We wish for a day as beautiful as today. It would be perfect and they could have their ceremony outdoors as they hoped for, with the Great South Bay as a backdrop, under a cloudless blue sky. I try to imagine a year from now and I get tense with anticipation. I let my imagination take over and I can see Lindsay, joyful and glowing. I can see Scott, handsome as ever, smiling under the chuppah. I can see my mom, walking down the aisle, on the arm of my nephew, Max, proudly escorting her with a great sense of purpose. I can see Mark and I besides Lindsay, choking on our emotions. In a year...

So, what do I do today, when it's a year away? I spend the day with my three children because that's what it is now. Scott reminds me more and more of my dad as he shuts all the light switches off in my house and then lectures me on how I should look at my electric bill every month to see the difference in charges when I do that. And I say out loud, "My dad must be channeling me through Scott." Then Lindsay decides to take me shoe-shopping again because she found another pair of shoes, less expensive and she thinks better than the ones we bought at another store, with 20% off. As a matter of fact, the ones we bought, originally, are 20% off in the other store. We drive to Westbury to see the shoes. Lindsay still isn't sure. The new ones she finds are not as comfortable. I tell her, "They must be comfortable." Scott is very patient. We call the original store in Massapequa- they will honor the 20% discount. So, we drive from Westbury to Massapequa. Lindsay and Scott are so cute. They call each other "Babe".

"What do you think, Babe?"

"Whatever you want, Babe."

It's Babe, this, Babe, that.

When we get to the shoe store in Massapequa, I notice a little corner in the store that has shoes marked down 50% in different sizes. I find two in a size 5 1/2. I bring them to her. She loves them. She tries them on- very comfortable. But she can't make up her mind. What shall we do? Simple. We returned the original pair and bought the other two and still got a refund of almost $10. We're all happy. Lindsay has two pair of shoes. I saved $10 and Scott doesn't have to watch "Babe" try on any more shoes. It's a good day; a good sign.

We go food shopping with Babe and Babe. Kimberly is getting nauseous with the "Babe" and "Babe" thing. Lindsay turns to Scott and says, "Babe, it's a wonderful day and we're getting married a year from today!!"

And Scott turns and says, "Tomorrow will be even better because it will be less than a year."

...awwww.

364 days and counting down.

The Lobster Couple Cooks Lobster

There are over 900 channels on my TV and I have very little interest in what's on most of them, except for two- which becomes sort of an obsession. The first one is HGTV. Love it. I love watching the beginning to end- transformation in 30 minutes. For example, a couple has an impractical, outdated kitchen at the beginning and then at the end- viola!-it's perfect, beautiful and bigger, too! Or, another woman wants to turn her bedroom into a "zen-like" retreat and with divine intervention from Candice of Divine Design, anything and more this woman has ever dreamed of becomes reality. She cries tears of joy and surprise. Candice, who's about 7 feet tall, smiles from ear to ear- mission accomplished.

My other channel of choice is The Food Channel. I can only apply so much of what I learn from HGTV- but with The Food Channel, all it takes is a trip to the supermarket and the proper cooking utensils. I love Iron Chef and when Alton Brown narrates as if it's an olympic event. I dream of being one of the judges who get to taste all the delectable dishes, that are "plated" so appetizingly, and then make comments, like, "Hmmm...the ginger really gives it a surprising tang." My favorite show, at the moment, is The Barefoot Contessa, starring Ina Garten. I want to be one of Ina's friends, although I don't travel in circles with movie producers and famous architects. Ina can make a tuna sandwich seem like a gourmet meal. And she's so calm and content all the time.

Last Sunday, Scott, the groom to be, was sitting on the couch, flicking through the channels (like most men do) while waiting for Lindsay. It was time for The Barefoot Contessa, so I suggested he watch with me. The dish- lobster mac and cheese. One thing about Ina's dishes, you want to just run out to the supermarket to buy all the ingredients and then just get to work in the kitchen. What made lobster mac and cheese so perfect for the lobster couple was that Lindsay's favorite food is lobster and Scott's favorite is cheese (any kind) and well, who doesn't like macaroni? The real selling point, though, was Ina referred to this as "comfort food". You see what I mean? I just want her to adopt me. The dish and the flyer from Fairway advertising lobsters for $4.99 per pound were an opportunity you couldn't pass up. "Let's make it," I said, "Tonight!". Ten minutes later, we all (Lindsay, Kim, Scott and I) piled into the car and drove to Fairway. Scott had never been to Fairway and Lindsay and Kim had, but didn't like it. This turned into a life-changing event because they all decided that Fairway was a great place to shop. (You know you're domesticated when you get more excited about food shopping than clothes shopping.)

There was a long line ahead of us for the $4.99 per pound lobster, of course. When it was our turn, I ordered the lobster steamed. The fishmonger replied, "Nope, ma'am, we don't steam 'em here- we don't even have a steamer." I never made lobster before. I turned to Scott. He never made lobster before. He read my mind. He nodded, reassuringly. "I can do it," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "All we need is a big pot." (Did I mention I love him?) "I have a big pot," I said, reassuringly, although I wasn't so sure it was big enough. And when we got home, my confidence sunk when I saw the size of the pots I owned and the two three-pound lobsters. (You can't underestimate the importance of the correct utensils on these cooking shows.) This led me to say to the lobster couple, "Do you have a lobster pot on your registry?" They looked at each other with wide eyes and immediately went online and added a lobster pot. That didn't do much to help our present situation, though. And so the fun began. Scott said that you had to stroke the lobster's head to calm it down before you boiled it. Kim left the kitchen in protest- she is one step closer to becoming a vegetarian again and can't abide by slaughtering your meal to be; in other words, she was on the lobster's side. Coco, our dog, was quite agitated over having such a large, moving thing in the house that was not human; therefore, I had to stroke her head. I remarked about the scene from the movie, Annie Hall, which got blank stares from my three children. "You never saw Annie Hall?" I asked. I went online to Youtube and searched the scene. Hysterical. The best part was when the lobster crawls behind the refrigerator and Woody Allen says, "We should have gotten steak- they don't have feet." And then I thought to myself that the filet mignon was also on sale for $4.99 per pound and that would have been a whole lot easier.

One thing about the Barefoot Contessa- everything always goes so smoothly and seems so simple. Not so in the Feldman household. We had a hard enough time fitting two three-pound lobsters into the too-small pot and timing the macaroni and preparing the cheese sauce with all the spices. It looked more like the Iron Chef in my kitchen and if Alton Brown was narrating, he would be saying, "And there they go, banging into one another, again, as they drain the macaroni from the pot and pull one lobster out of the other pot, which seems a little too small." But, we did it. One word to describe this experience- tumultuous.

And then in the end, sitting down to taste our lobster mac and cheese.....

"The Gruyere really brings out that nutty, unexpected flavor."

...By the way,this weekend, I'm making the filet mignon, without feet.