I’m Not Losing a Daughter, I’m Gaining My Mother….

This summer, the heat is as oppressive as this winter’s weather was interminable. Friday, Kim went out for a run, after her dad told her she’s nuts and came back a minute and a half later, shaking her head, saying, “Dad was right.” There have been at least two confirmed tornados in the New York area. Lindsay and Scott’s tenant, Katrina, comes from Kansas and never saw a tornado; little did she know that she would get the opportunity to see one when she moved here. I’m not complaining, though, because we’ve had more sunny days than I can recall of any summers past. I love the sunshine and the extended daylight. It pervades my soul.

Lindsay counts down the days to the wedding, while I count down the days to my favorite season. It’s difficult to really enjoy this summer, though, because while the number of days diminishes, the things to do increases. Sometimes I feel like the more I do, the further I get from the finish line. Some people make a “to-do” list and check it off; however, that would make me more nervous right now. I don’t really need it because I have Mark yelling at me every day, saying- “Do you know how much we have to do?!!” With 39 days to go, it seems like we have 3900 things to do. And there is a fish tank in my house that is humongous. It is in Lindsay’s room; inside of it are two engagement gifts- her vacuum and toaster oven, still in their boxes. Saturday, I was so frustrated with not making a dent in this never-ending work, I thought of sitting inside that fish tank and just sticking my thumb in my mouth, a sign of “I give up.”

“Why is there a fish tank in her room?” I asked Mark.

“Oh that thing, I had to help lug that thing up to her room. It was a long time ago.”

“I don’t remember. Was I on a business trip?”

“No. I think you were here.”

“I must be losing my mind, then.”

“Probably.”

So, “crazy mother” emerged sometime on Saturday. You know­– “crazy mother” is when you’ve had it and you call your children, wherever they are and start screaming at them. Vaguely I remembered Lindsay and Scott wanting a huge fish tank filled with tropical fish in all varieties. I think Lemon Leaf, the place where we had their engagement party inspired them because Scott loves to hang out by the huge fish tank at the entrance and watch the fish. I called Lindsay- she was at her friend’s bridal shower.

“What are you doing with that fish tank?” I asked her, impatiently.

“We’re selling it in the garage sale.”

“Are you kidding me? There is a fish tank sitting in my house, because you are going to sell it in a garage sale? That thing is a monster- who’s going to buy it?” (I have had garage sales- whenever I do, people drive up and ask me for things I don’t have to sell them. And then, they only want to pay 50 cents for anything anyway. For your information, nobody ever asked for a fish tank.)

“Mom, I am at a shower, can we talk about this later?”

“Your grandmother is moving here in less than a week. I need to make room for her and you still have all this stuff up in your room. When are you moving into your house? I can’t believe this is taking so long!”

“Mom, mom. This is not a good time.”

(I’m probably having a nervous breakdown. And she’s telling me this is not a good time.)

“Listen to me. Nanny is moving in next Saturday. I need room. Your stuff is in my way!”

“Alright. I’ll do everything this Monday!”

She hangs up. That’s what children do when “crazy mother” comes out- they tell them what they want to hear and then hang up.

I am supposed to feel better, but I don’t. There is just too much to do. Sunday morning Mark was waiting for three men, who were my three heroes for that day. One was Lenny, who took our enormous 57-inch rear-projection TV, which takes up more space than the fish tank. Another was our friend, Joey, who took our enormous computer desk and bookcase, which was in my mother’s bedroom to be. The third was Paul, our contractor, who finished up the wall. I wondered if any of them wanted a fish tank. No luck, though.

I packed up the room that will be my mother’s bedroom and then headed to my mother’s current bedroom to pack that up. Kim came to help. We spent most of the day, inside, going through my mother’s papers, bills and whatever she had left from 55 years of marriage. I thought of everything she used to have in the house I grew up in on Avenue K, now most of it given away and the rest condensed into one room. Scott and Lindsay are accumulating all their family treasures and my mother is trying to hold on to whatever treasures she still has room for. I see the sunshine, outside, and think to myself this is something to be doing on a rainy day.

Lindsay wants some of my mother’s precious items, for sentimental reasons- to preserve her childhood memories, to keep her grandmother close always. She already reserved a space for my mother’s tea set in her dining room china cabinet. Almost every object I took to pack had a story attached to it that mom shared. But the best story was about the two burgundy-colored antique plates with illustrations of women that reminded me of a Jane Austin novel. My mom always had them hanging on the wall of anywhere she lived. She told us the story attached to the plates- one that I had never heard before-

These plates are very special to me. I’ll tell you how I got them. I was a very young girl, in my early twenties. I worked for Michael’s and Company, a furniture company; it was on Flatbush Avenue and Dean Street, I remember. I used to walk to the bus every day after work and I would pass this gift shop that I would stop and go into all the time. I saw these plates and fell in love with them; there was just something about them- aren’t they beautiful? I wanted them but I wasn’t married or even engaged. So, I thought why would I buy them? But I still went into that store, almost every day, to admire those plates. I must have been in that store looking at those plates at least 20 times. The lady who owned the store, used to look at me and smile. Finally, she said to me, “Why don’t you buy those plates, you love them so much?” I told her, “I’m not married and I live at home with my mother. What would I do with them?” The lady answered, “Give them to your mother and have her hold them for you until you get married.” So, I bought them. They were about $10 each, I think. And I brought them home and my mother put them in her china closet. When I was getting married, my mother took them out of the china closet to give them to me. I said to her, “Mom, they’re yours. I gave them to you.” “No,” she answered, “You love these plates, that’s why you bought them. I want you to take them and put them in your home.” I felt bad, but I loved those plates so much. There’s just something about them, right? I would like Lindsay to have them. Do you think she’ll like them?

In the midst of all this tumult, planning a wedding, moving my daughter out, moving my mother in, this was such a bittersweet moment- the venerable woman talking about a day when she was in her twenties as if it happened last week. Do I think she’ll like them? My daughter, who constantly goes into the gift shop that just opened about a mile away from us, and also admired a plate The Recipe for a Happy Marriage that she just had to have. She still stops in that gift store, frequently, admiring all the decorative pieces that make a house a home. Like grandmother, like granddaughter. Yes, mom, I know she’ll love these plates and all they mean to you.

I looked out the window and noticed that it had been pouring outside. I wondered if I somehow was responsible because of my thoughts that this was an activity more suitable for a rainy day. We felt relieved that we condensed all her papers into one neat pile that we left in a basket on my father’s desk. I could just picture my dad sitting there, as he used to, looking up at me to show me his approval for what we’re doing.

We left with a couple of the boxes and headed home, with a stop-off at the soon to be newlywed’s house. I gave Lindsay the tea set and she immediately washed it and found a place to put it in her china cabinet. It looked like it belonged there. I also gave her my father’s hammer, which she took gleefully, along with a Lenox vase and some of the decorative plates my mom wanted her to have. When I handed her the “Jane Austin ladies” plates, I tried retelling my mom’s story, then finally gave up and said, “Nanny will tell you. But I think you should keep them- they’re part of who your Nanny is.”

All these things we accumulate, our treasure trove of memories and comfort that we take with us as we try to grasp the past and hold it close to our hearts. I consider us lucky to see my mom’s trinkets being handed down to Lindsay to keep that link from generation to generation.

I also consider myself lucky to have my mom coming to live with us just at the threshold of our first daughter beginning her married life. The timing is right.

Trials and Tribulations

Trial (def.): a test of performance; synonyms- test, tryout, experiment, pilot,

Tribulation (def.): a cause of great trouble or suffering; synonyms- trouble, difficulty, problem, worry, anxiety, burden, ordeal

There’s a hole in my living room wall. The wall used to house my 57-inch rear projection TV, so you can just imagine how large a hole it is. The wall used to be the back of the closet for our spare room. You can walk into that room, literally, through the opening in the wall; there’s no need to use the door. There are also two holes in my $900 rug in the living room, one the size of a quarter and the other the size of two quarters. The hole in the wall was intentional; the latter two carpet holes were thanks to my chewing-stage puppy, Sonny. It’s amazing how you can still love a dog when he exasperates you to no end. Mark said to me today as we left the house, “Where do you think the fibers of the carpet are- in his stomach I guess, right?” “Yep,” I answered, “along with all the bugs and leaves he’s been eating amongst other inedible items.” It’s a good thing I pulled the 2-inch block of sheetrock out of his mouth the other day. It must be at least four times a day that I’m sticking my fingers down Sonny’s mouth to retrieve something that’s not supposed to be in there. The inside of his stomach must resemble Moby Dick’s, I’m afraid.

The intentional hole, the one in the wall, is a minor tribulation. It is due to the fact that my mother is moving into the spare room. She has been residing in an assisted living facility for the last seven years. Assisted living facilities are quite expensive, especially on a fixed income. We have prolonged this situation for as long as possible; however, my mother’s bank account and the current state of the economy, which has negatively affected the growth of her stocks, have speeded up the inevitable. Don’t misunderstand me; I am thrilled that my mother is moving in with us. She’s my best friend. Lindsay and Kim are happy about it, as well. Mark is doing all he can to get the house ready for her, e.g., the hole. However, there are some who don’t share our feelings. For example, in seven years, my mom has made friends at the assisted living facility. Mrs. Horseradish (no that’s not her real name- she just happens to be the owner of a famous company that sells horseradish) is really upset that my mom is moving. But because my mom doesn’t own a horseradish company to help fund her senior years, she needs to move out. The people who work there are also very sad about my mom moving; they already made plans to visit her. My mother is very popular. Then there’s my aunt, my mother’s sister-in-law, whom she shares a suite with- she’s losing her roommate; needless to say, she is quite upset, too. The more intense tribulations, though, lie with my older sister, who is so upset that our mother is moving further out on Long Island, she won’t even speak to me.

Then there was the tribulation, which occurred last night. Mark went to Lowe’s to get the materials (sheet rock and two by fours) to replace the wall in the living room and threw his back out. Ugh. And of course I feel guilty about this because while Mark was hauling and loading and unloading these materials from the store to the car to the house for my mother, I was with the bride for our makeup trial. Yes, I was sitting on a cushioned stool at the MAC counter in Macy’s, while Briana was putting on my makeup so I can get a preview of how I will look on the day of the wedding. Yes. My husband was lugging four panels of sheetrock and several two by fours to get the room ready for my mom while I was getting false eyelashes put on. When I came home, I walked into the bedroom to show him my beautifully made-up face and he commented, with a weary tone in his voice,

“I like it a lot.”

“What’s the matter?” I asked, “My eye shadow is too dark, right?”

“No. I just threw my back out. I’m in agony.”

Uh oh, I thought to myself. “I’m so sorry. Did you take anything?”

“No, because you didn’t buy any Advil. There was nothing to take.”

I am going to hell, I thought to myself.

Not everything goes smoothly. I should have known this. Life is full of trials and tribulations. It’s what gives us things to talk about, to scream about, to laugh about, to cry about, to be elated over or sick over and to write in a blog. The makeup trial went well. I was happy with it even though Briana used the euphemism “mature eyelids” to explain to Lindsay why she can’t put a certain color on my eyes. “Mature eyelids?” I repeated. “Does that mean I have wrinkled eyelids?” I asked. “Yeah,” she laughed, “they teach you in training all these things to say to make it sound nicer.” “What would you call my droopy boobs- ‘mature breasts?’ I questioned, rhetorically. Suddenly the word mature is an expletive to me. But I got over it, until, in the parking lot, as I went to get into the car, I stepped into a big wad of gum. I hate that. Naturally, I cursed the inconsiderate bastard who threw it there. Then I wondered about karma- maybe the inconsiderate bastard was an innocent child? At that moment, Lindsay got a message from my nephew’s fiancé to call her. That’s a little odd, because Lindsay, in the five years she knows this girl, doesn’t really speak to her at all. So, she calls and the conversation goes like this:

(My nephew’s fiancé’s words are in black, Lindsay’s words are in pink, and my reactions are in blue.)

I know we sent back the response card, but I just got a new job and I really can’t take off, so I can’t come to your wedding. I’m really sorry.

(She’s a personal trainer- I would like to know who is going to want to be personally trained on Labor Day weekend?)

Well that sucks.

I know. But you know we’ll still give you a gift.

What do you mean, isn’t Danny coming to the wedding? He is my first cousin.

Yeah, he 's the cousin. I know he put in for the day but he isn’t sure he’s going to get it. I’ll have him call you.

(What’s the point of sending a response card if you’re not really sure you’re coming?)

Another tribulation. This is Lindsay’s cousin who is three months older than her. Almost every baby picture I have of her, including her first professional photograph, is with him by her side. They went to middle school together and high school. She guesses he doesn’t feel close to her- always throws it in her face how his cousin from California is his favorite. He didn’t come to the engagement party either. Never called to tell her he got engaged, didn’t call her to congratulate her on her engagement; nor when she was in the hospital with pancreatitis.

Lindsay looks at me in disbelief. Then she calls him. She gets his voicemail, leaves a message. He calls back. Tells her he won’t know if he can get off from work until a few days before. She tells him that he should know (because he’s making a wedding, too) that you can’t tell the caterer the count a few days before. She tells him she has friends who are cops who are coming- they got the day off. He doesn’t even say he’s sorry. She is very upset. The tone and pitch of her voice says it all. At one point, she’s yelling at him and doesn’t hear him. “I feel like I’m talking to dead air. Are you there? Danny?” Finally, he responds, “I don’t know what to say.” Now, this is a historical moment in the life of my nephew, who started talking before a year old, telling elaborate stories. He is the king of hyperbole and tall tales. And now he’s speechless. Amazing. The most important day of her life and her first cousin, who doesn’t seem to care at all about her, cares even less to be there to share her joy. Amazing.

“You know what, Dan. Don’t worry. I’ll just put you down as a no. Have a nice wedding!” She hangs up. Her trial makeup for the wedding is in jeopardy. She starts to cry. The false eyelashes are getting soaked with her tears. Tribulation tears. Your family let you down tears. I don’t know what to say. We stop off at my brother and sister-in-law’s house. Lindsay cries some more. My nephew, Sam, 16, lets her cry on his shoulder. Aunt Bonni consoles her and tells me my eye makeup is too dark. My brother tells me that he likes my makeup, but hates my red hair because it makes me look like our Aunt Lillian, my father’s sister, whom we all couldn’t stand. He tells me all that’s missing is her green hat. We laugh, at my expense. Ha ha.

We drive home. Lindsay calls my mom to tell her about her grandson. My mother is sad. She feels guilty. That’s nothing new. She always thinks everything is her fault, somehow.

A day of trials and tribulations.

I left this morning, happy to go to work to take my mind off some of this drama. When I come home there is no hole in my living room wall, not anymore. Like magic. That’s nice. My mother has a closet. That's nice, too.

I call my mom to tell her about her closet and room. She tells me about a dream she had about my dad. Here is what she said:

We were in the house on Avenue K. Your father looked gorgeous. We were sitting at the dining room table. He said to me, “We raised four children. It wasn’t easy. But we did it. And they’re all good kids. And they’re all successful. We did a good job.”

I’m not sure what this dream means, but thanks, Dad.

Attention to Detail- The Good, The Bad and The Ugly

Just recently I was with one of my colleagues from Chicago, Bonnie, and while we were catching up, she asked me about the wedding plans. I discovered that she knew a lot already. Surprised, I asked her, “How do you know this?” She responded, “Well I keep up with the blog.” Then she added, “I want to hear some of the good, the bad and the ugly, by the way. This is a mother-daughter relationship, gosh darnit, and there has to be some bumps along the road and I want to hear about them! You should include them in the blog.” Therefore, Bonnie, (and forgive me if I misquoted you in any way), I will respond to your request in this entry- to a degree. Of course this is at great risk of the mother of the bride greatly pissing the bride off. So I will be trying my best to be as delicate as possible.

The mother-daughter relationship is the most complex- I didn’t make that up- Wynonna Judd did. I found it when I began googling some quotes about mother-daughter relationships. Google, as a noun, is my lifeline, and it has become an essential part of this wedding planning journey. As a verb, Google takes me on the road to all the answers I need to any questions I may have. Sometimes this road gets very long and I lose my way and forget what I was googling in the first place, but I can always go back to my Google search and start over again. (Take a tally of how many times you google something in one day- I’m sure you’d be amazed at the number. Or… try not to google for one day- I’d bet you’d go through some kind withdrawal.) Google has been extremely helpful with many of the details of this wedding journey. Details are also what start some of the battles my daughter and I have. As the number of days to this event grows shorter (49 days to go today, 48, tomorrow), the details are growing longer. And Wynonna- you’re right- my relationship with my daughter grows more complex.

It always begins with one question, then, it becomes five questions, then ten. They’re all detail questions. I don’t know the answers to all these questions. Daughters want to believe that their mothers do have all the answers. Except when they’re teenagers. I used to have a quote on my refrigerator during my kids’ teen years that said “Ask a teenager now, while they still know everything”. When I have a question, I just google it- Google has become my quasi-G-d. The detail questions that my daughter asks me, though, I can’t google; for example-

What do you think should go inside the yarmulkes?

How many yarmulkes should we order- 70, 80, 100??

Should we number the tables or should we name the tables?

How high do you think the bump in my hair should be?

Do you want to greet the guests after the ceremony or mingle with the guests?

That last question- the greeting or mingling one- caused some mother-daughter tension in the car yesterday. Of course the traffic certainly added to my anxiety. I couldn’t quite comprehend the difference between greeting and mingling; therefore, I wasn’t sure how to answer. This caused Lindsay to clench her teeth and suck in her breath, a typical reaction she exhibits when she gets impatient with me and has to ask the same question three times. She wasn’t too happy that I couldn’t decide. I wasn’t sure why I had to decide this at that particular moment while sitting in traffic on the belt parkway. Apparently, the rabbi needed to know, which perplexed me even more. And what if I change my mind right after the ceremony and I decide to greet instead of mingle, maybe because my heels are stuck in the grass, where the ceremony is held, and I’m having a hard time getting them out? I might have to mingle while my heels slowly sink into the lawn. Or will it be considered greeting if I am standing (sinking) in one place? Will this throw everything off? Will the rabbi be angry with me? How will I gracefully get my heels unstuck?

And now, compounding this detail thing, Lindsay has been selected to be on one of those bride shows. Yes, our wedding will be videotaped and shown on TV. The show is about four brides who are competing for a honeymoon. They attend each other’s weddings and rate it for the dress, the venue, the food, the entertainment and the overall experience. The one who gets the highest rating wins a honeymoon. Needless to say, Lindsay is positive she is going to win. Naturally, the venue has to approve of being part of this show, with a camera crew of 8-10, and unfortunately the owner of our venue said “No.” However, Lindsay went and schmoozed him, telling him how she has all these hospital bills now and she really needs a free honeymoon. And she changed his mind. I have to say, I’m quite impressed by her for that. Mark, by the way, is completely against this whole wedding show thing. I am on the fence, because I’m nervous about the attention to detail that will be rated by these other brides who will now be guests at our wedding. It’s pressure enough to consider what your friends and family think of your wedding; who needs four complete strangers evaluating it? And that’s not to mention having a camera crew from a TV show at the wedding, capturing all the details on video, like me trying to get my sinking heels out of the grass. Leave it to my actress daughter to find some way to broadcast this event on national TV.

The days to the wedding gets shorter, the attention to detail gets longer. The tension between mother of the bride and bride gets a teeny bit tighter. So, this is when I need some assistance. This is when aunts come in handy. And Lindsay just happens to have an aunt (also named Bonni) who actually does wedding and bar/bat mitzvah planning and has come to the rescue. She’s taken over the attention to details and ironed out the tension between my bride-daughter and me.

For example, while I happened to be with Bonni the other day, Lindsay happened to call her Aunt for some guidance with her long list of questions.

“Lindsay, take a deep breath, and write all these questions down and email them to me,” said Aunt B. Yeah I would have not gotten past the “Take a deep breath part" without one of my daughter’s teeth-clenching and holding her breath episodes.”

One of the questions was about the programs. Lindsay wants the wedding programs to be fans, so people can cool themselves during the ceremony. However, her sister-in-law, Michele, cautioned her that in the videos, you’ll see all the people fanning- evidently, not a good thing.

“Well, I never was a fan of the fans,” replied Aunt Bonni. And just like that, the fans are nixed. That eliminates one detail, thankfully.

Thus, the rest of the attention to detail is gladly handed over to Aunt Bonni, our quasi-J-Lo, as she calls herself. (Remember- Jennifer Lopez in The Wedding Planner?) We’re getting Bonni an earpiece. Hopefully she’ll also keep the camera crew from the TV show in line, too. Anyone who can keep my three nephews in line can certainly manage a camera crew.

There you have it, Chicago Bonnie- the good, the bad and the ugly. By the way, to “test the waters”, Kim, my other daughter, previewed this blog entry before I posted it and was completely in agreement with Chicago Bonnie and had no qualms about her sister being portrayed in some negative way. (Big surprise- eh?) And to quote Kim, she said, “It’s your blog, you can write whatever you want. She’s not perfect, get over it.”

Forty-nine days to go, 4900+ more details and one more quote from one of my favorite authors-

"The world is full of women blindsided by the unceasing demands of motherhood, still flabbergasted by how a job can be terrific and tortuous."


~ Anna Quindlen 


Bachelorette- The Last Escapade- After- or The Mother of the Bride Attends the Bachelorette Party

The house is quiet and sunny this morning. The girls are still asleep. Last night was....interesting. "Interesting" is my favorite euphemism. I have come to the conclusion that my Grandma Fanny, who used to tell me you're mind always feels the same as when you were a young girl, it's your body that changes, might have been wrong. But I doubt Grandma Fanny ever went to a male strip club, or even knew such a thing existed. I would have loved for her to be there last night to ask her how young her mind felt while young men danced around just in a g-string with a flap protecting their package. I would have loved to see her reaction when one of those young men asked if she would like a lap dance. My reaction was a flat out "No thank you." But in my 54 year old mind, I was thinking- My g-d, I could have been this guy's first grade teacher 15 years ago.

We had seats right on the stage. Lindsay was the first bride bachelorette to get a personal show and lap dance. Then I realized my friends' point about how I should not be there. However, according to my two daughters' rendition, they were glad to have Phyllis and me there. We served as the duennas or chaperones. It turns out that this place, in the heart of Chelsea, was way over the top in strip clubs and all the girls were quite appalled at the young mens' behavior. At one point, one of the strippers picked Lindsay's friend, Tana, up and hung her upside down. Then when another one was trying to lift Kimberly in the air, Lindsay pointed a cautioning finger in my direction, saying that's our mother over there. And apparently, my 5 foot stature was menacing enough to ward him off.

It turned out, that the girls, who have been to other strip clubs, felt that this place was on the verge of pornographic and that the strippers acted inappropriately. Isn't it a bit superfluous to be inappropriate when you're stripping in the first place? Perhaps these men never saw the movie or broadway show, Gypsy, about the famous stripper, Gypsy Rose Lee, who invented the classy strip tease. On a side note- Lindsay, actually dated a male stripper. (only once, thankfully). It was in her wilder years. But she learned her lesson and then wrote a little essay about her experience, entitled "Ten Things You Shouldn't Do on a Date With Me". My response was, "This is what you get when you date a stripper, dear."

At one point, one of the young men lifted Katrina, Lindsay and Scott's tenant and new friend, and carried her away behind the stage, ignoring her protests and promising to give her a free show. Phyllis, also of 5 foot stature, earned my full respect and admiration when she ran back to rescue Katrina. (I just stood there, paralyzed.) Then Phyllis promptly reported the incident to the guy in charge, who said that it was that stripper's first night there and last. (Lesson learned- "Never underestimate the power of a short woman.") Finally, the show was over and we were rushed out. So we left, taking with us, the huge box with a cake inside in the shape of a penis, inscribed with the phrase A Taste of Things to Come, pun intented. That was part of the package (no pun, intended)- but we were never given utensils or time to eat it during the very bad show.

And so we walked the streets of Chelsea, with the box containing the penis cake, occasionally eating pieces of it with our bare hands. Lindsay did "Part 3 of Bachelorette Night"- the Scavenger Hunt activities, like- kissing a bald man's head (who happened to be a cop), practicing walking down the aisle with another guy (who happened to be gay) and getting a piggy-back ride from a total stranger (who happened to be harmless, thank goodness). I don't remember doing these silly things when I had my bachelorette party. I went to the Crazy Country Club in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn, where they did a raunchy comedy routine and they just told dumb jokes at the bride-to-be's expense.

And so here you have it. The mother of the bride attends the bachelorette party. I had fun. And I served a purpose. So there. And I got to be with my daughter's friends, whom I adore- Lisa, Julia, Erica, Jaimie, Tana, Gabby and Tamar. And I got to meet Katrina, although, I was not the one to save her. But most importantly, I saw a side of Phyllis, my daughter's future mother in law- the tough side, the "I got your back" side and that really impressed me.

Although, I was informed that there will be another bachelorette party in the Hamptons, to which I am not invited. There are things that they don't want me to see at that one. I can only imagine. But on the other hand, I don't even want to imagine. I'm done. Grandma Fanny- this 54 year old woman, mind and all, is done.