Mother of the Bride: A Wedding Journey

Afterword

2010-11-07T11:38:00.000-08:00

INCONGRUITIES

Wedding by the Water With 190 Guests- $35,000

Honeymoon Vacation to Los Cabos, Mexico (Lindsay & Scott didn’t win)- $15,000,
A Healthy Child- Priceless

All right, it’s a little “cliché”- my title- but I couldn’t resist. It is two months since the wedding. The fall has set in. The air is crisp and chilly; this morning I could see my breath as I stepped in my yard to let Sonny out, dead leaves crackling under my feet on the frost covered grass. I love the fall, although, there is something beautiful and sad about it at the same time. The picture postcard trees are full with illuminated warmth of colorful leaves and then in a blink of an eye- they are bare and skeleton-like preparing for the coldness of winter. It’s like life- and it’s incongruity.

This blog I began remains a part of me. And because of so much left unfinished- the wedding show Lindsay was a part of and her discovered congenital health problem- I needed to write an “Afterword” which would in some way complete it even though there really are no completions…life goes on and new journeys begin. However, there were parts to this journey that didn’t reach the destination as the wedding had. The first part was the unexpected illness that we had found out about which put Lindsay in the hospital twice with bouts of pancreatitis. It also prevented her from going on the honeymoon she and Scott had planned because of the stent that was left in her bile duct. The second part was the impending outcome of the wedding show that Lindsay had appeared on, which was a competition ultimately for a honeymoon. Lindsay and Scott thought for sure that, in all fairness, they should win that honeymoon, not only because they felt that they had the best wedding but they deserved it because of all she went through.

On October 22^nd, Lindsay and Scott hosted their first official get-together at their new home. The occasion- to watch the wedding show on The Learning Channel and find out if they had in fact, won the honeymoon. Naturally, they both knew the outcome but were under contractual obligation and had to sign a release stating that they would not reveal it before the airing of the show. It was a much-needed juncture to soothe the “after the wedding” blues we were all feeling. The anticipation of seeing our wedding and all of us on national TV brought back the excitement of the wedding itself. Lindsay, it seemed, got the most airtime of all the four girls in the competition and not only did the camera love her, but she was hysterically funny. And then the moment came to disclose the winners and to everyone’s shock and dismay- it was not Lindsay and Scott, even though they scored the highest on “overall experience” and “venue”. Lindsay came in second. To this day, everyone who watched- even people who didn’t know us felt Lindsay should have won. Winning isn’t everything though; it’s all the way you look at it. The consolation prize was seeing Lindsay on TV. My actress daughter- finally was not in the background of some movie or television series as she had been in the past. On top of that, Phyllis, her mother-in-law, came to the conclusion that she was really made for this. It was bittersweet- beautiful and a little sad at the same time; just like the fall.

The most important journey we had to complete, though, was Lindsay’s surprise illness. Dr. #1, whom we had put all our faith and trust into, turned out to be a complete disappointment and really didn’t have any answers or any cure to her condition. We moved onto Dr. #2, who performed a fourth ERCP and disclosed the most viable solution was surgery…on her liver- and recommended one of the most renowned surgeons- Dr. #3. Voila! There was a cure. We had traveled the “yellow brick road”, which was rocky and full of obstacles when the “click of the shoes” to get us to the desired destination was where we should have gone all along. Still, the thought of surgery was quite unnerving. However, as doctors #2 and #3 had told us- it was the only way to completely prevent bile duct cancer, which she had a 50% chance of getting by the time she was 50, without the surgery.

On Wednesday, November 3^rd, Lindsay, Scott, Mark, Phyllis and I went into Manhattan for the operation. We spoke to all the doctors who explained patiently what was going to take place, including her anesthesiology team- Drs. Zhu, Wu and Lu. (I did not make that part up.) We said farewell to our tiny Lindsay- wife, daughter, daughter-in-law as she entered the operating room looking beautiful and frightened at the same time. Memories of the first time I dropped her off at Pre-School surfaced that moment. I recall the trepidation I felt as she entered those enormous big doors to the school even as the kind-hearted school aides guided her in as I said goodbye. That first day was long and hard without her. But the doors to that operating room were not as kind- they were the “whale’s” mouth to me even as the kind-hearted nurses guided her in. That day was the hardest in my life. We waited together and in silence as Lindsay’s diseased bile duct was removed, along with her gall bladder and then replaced with a piece of her intestine that was sewed on. Three and a half hours- the longest three and a half hours I ever endured. Finally, Dr. #3, my real hero, came out to find us. His smile said it all. He took my hand to shake it but held it instead as if he knew that’s just what I needed- the touch of reassurance. The touch of the end of the nightmare… you can wake up now- it is going to be okay. He told us all that it went well. She will be fine.

Scott and Lindsay spent the night of their two-month anniversary in the hospital. It wasn’t much of a celebration but they had each other and a much brighter future to look forward to. He brought her beautiful flowers. She was still very much in pain, though. Scott has been by her side the whole time. He is her rock now, her comfort….in sickness and in health. The recovery will be four to six weeks. They have planned to take their honeymoon in February. Her digestive system has been reconstructed although my daughter is quite concerned about the scar on her perfect flat belly and whether she will ever be able to wear a bikini again, especially on her honeymoon. I will always look at that scar as a reminder of fall – beautiful and sad at the same time, as incongruous as life.

All destinations are reached now; let the new journeys begin.

The Destination: It Was Perfect- And A Day of “Verklempt”

2010-09-07T07:52:00.000-07:00

Verklempt (or farklempt) Yiddish- extremely emotional- on the verge of tears

It was 4:30am, although I awoke after maybe two hours of sleep at 4:00am. The doorbell rang and there was Teresa, our hairdresser, equipped with blow dryer, curling iron, brushes, hair ornaments, bobby pins, tons of hair spray and her usual big smile. “Good morning,” she giggled, “I think the only ones up are us and Newsday.” And so it began- the day- THE DAY of the wedding. Teresa set up shop in our dining room. At 5:00am, Holly, the makeup artist, arrived with her tools. At the crack of dawn we were all wide-awake, getting ourselves beautiful. At 5:30am, the videographer, Chris and assistant Kim, arrived to start chronicling the day’s events. Soon after, came Dee, the photographer. It was like a movie set- hair, makeup, props and cameras. They took pictures of everything- the rings, the shoes, the jewelry, the invitation- in distinct ways. One time I came into my bedroom and there was one of them, Dee, I think, who was standing on my bed, taking a picture of Lindsay’s wedding dress, which was sprawled out on my pillow shams. Another time, he asked me for a couple of sheets, which were draped over Lindsay, who was undressed, to take interesting seductive bride photos of. It was a frenetic whirl of many things going on at once, that ironically, were very well organized. I started to write down some dialogue that was worth noting, just to write something to remember this day tangibly:

Lindsay: “Holly, can you make my pimple disappear?”

Mark: “Can I use the bathroom yet?!”

Me (after Holly applied my mom’s makeup): “Mom, you look like a movie star!”

Mom: “I am a movie star.”

Mark: “Can I use the bathroom yet?!”

Anya: “I’m Anya, the photographer.”

Mark: “Oh…the forty-seventh one!” then “Can I use the bathroom yet?!”

I probably will always recall the doorbell ringing almost every five minutes as people arrived- my brother-in-law, Scott, dropping off Stephanie, my niece; Lindsay’s friend, Jaime, coming to get my mom, Stephanie and my other niece, Julianna to drive them to get their hair done at the neighborhood salon that opened extra early for the bridal party; the day of coordinator, Danielle, running back and forth between our house and the salon to check to make sure everything was on time; our next door neighbor, Nicole, coming to pick up Sonny to watch him for the day for us; the florist delivering the bouquets. We had to be at the Riviera by about 9:00am to start taking photos of the bride and groom, bridal party and family. At around 7:30am all the bridesmaids, Erica, Jaimie, Julia, Julianna, Lisa, Michele and Steph were in my house, hair and makeup done, along with the two flower girls, Gianna and Marisa and were ready to get dressed. Luckily, I had asked Diana, my mother’s companion to come in the morning to help my mom get dressed; she was a godsend. My mother had asked me about ten times where we had put her shoes. I told her they were right on the top shelf of her closet. I knew I should have taken them down, but I thought Diana would be able to find them. I was relieved when my mother appeared all dressed and looking absolutely gorgeous. She sat down on a chair across from me in the dining room. Then it hit me. I think it was around the time that Kimberly informed us that the brooch she bought to put on her maid of honor dress to make it a little different from the bridesmaids’ dresses had broken. After a whole week of me being the calm one and Lindsay being the stressed one, we switched roles- Lindsay became the calm one and I started panicking. While I was getting my hair curled, I asked my mom to come and hold my hand. The photographer, Dee, noticed this and thought it was an opportune time to take a picture. So he started snapping shots of me and my mom as she calmed my nerves by just holding my hand as Teresa did my hair; then he snapped shots of just our hands, and then he brought Lindsay’s hands into the picture, making sure all our diamond rings were showing- three generations of hands. Teresa finished my hair and sewed on Kim’s brooch. A hairdresser who sews- what more could you ask for?

Finally it was time to get Lindsay into her dress, while being photographed, of course. We were running behind schedule. He suggested I get into my dress first, for the pictures. My dress had what my seamstress called an invisible zipper, which was going to be tricky. I prayed…to the G-d of zippers to come through for me, while Lindsay and Danielle and I think two others tried to zip up the tricky, invisible zipper. My prayers were answered. Then Lindsay noticed, “What is that black and blue mark from?” That’s when I remembered just last week I had walked backwards into a wall at work and said to my self, “Perfect, you are going to have a black and blue mark on your back that is not going to be covered by the dress you are wearing to Lindsay’s wedding.” “It kind of matches the color of your gown,” Lindsay said. My gown was a light, flowing one shoulder with an embellished bustline and ruche bottom in a silvery slate blue. “Don’t worry, Holly will cover it up,” Lindsay reassured me. Holly applied some make up on it. The next zipper I prayed to the zipper G-d for was Lindsay’s after I hooked what seemed like 25 hooks on the corset attached to her modified, mermaid-wedding gown, while being photographed, naturally. The zipper G-d came through again. Earings. Necklace. Bracelets. Rings. More photos. Then shoes. Then head piece. Then Veil. More photos. The Limo arrived. Somehow, sometime during all this hustle and bustle Mark was able to get into the bathroom to shower at last and get dressed in his tux. He looked so darn handsome. We all looked beautiful. The sun had risen during all our primping to a magnificent blue sky reminiscent of my father’s eyes and coincidently matching the color of my mother’s dress. We were ready to leave. One minor problem- we had one bouquet missing. Someone called the florist. The bouquet was at the Riviera. We all packed into the limousine and headed to the wedding. At that moment I was glad I lost that argument with Lindsay and Scott about not needing the limos they insisted on. I looked at Julia and Erica and remembered the times I sent Lindsay off with them in limos to Junior and High School proms. I looked at Lisa and remembered Lindsay’s first year of college and all her acting years. I reflected on how the years had flown by and realized how much more rapidly this day was going to fly by. I could see the glorious blue sky enveloping us outside the windows of the limo. That blue sky was my father looking down on me, I decided. I took it in, all of it. I relished that moment. The weather was a perfect 10. Lindsay was sitting next to my mother in the limo. She looked so beautiful. It was like a dream, but better.

We arrived at the Riviera at 9:30, a half hour behind schedule, but not too bad. Phil and Phyllis, Scott’s parents were there already. Phyllis looked elegant in her gold organza gown. Vickie, the best caterer in the whole darn world, was preparing us for the reveal- when Scott sees Lindsay in her wedding dress for the first time. We got the extra bouquet, thank goodness. Things were going okay. My sister-in-law, Bonni, and best wedding planner in the whole darn world came in right after us- but her expression worried me. She told me that my brother, who was in charge of her three sons while she got the rest of the stuff together, forgot to take my 12-year old nephew, Max’s jacket. Max was the groomsman, who was walking my mom down the aisle. I looked at Max; yes indeed, he did not have his jacket. My brother, with my nephew, Jake, had to go back to his house to get the jacket. I prayed to the G-d of photos that my brother and Jake would return in time to be in the family photo.

We headed out to the back by the gazebo, elegantly decorated with tropical flowers, at the end of the paved aisle, overlooking the water on the Great South Bay for the reveal. Lovely swans sat on the water. Somebody asked me about my black and blue mark.

We all watched as Scott faced the Great South Bay and the photographer and videographer shot the scene of Lindsay coming up behind him dressed as his bride, until he was told he could turn around and see her for the first time. It was so sweet when they saw each other. Indescribable. They looked so happy. He picked her up and spun her around. The photographers started taking the photos, while the things for the ceremony were set up and the DJ set up his equipment. He took pictures of the bridal party first, then Scott’s family, who were all there, as we stalled waiting for my brother-in-law, sister-in-law, who just had back surgery and was not moving too fast these past days along with their son and my sisters and brother-in- law and nephew and my brother and nephew, who would have been there if it weren’t for the jacket he left behind. Finally, everyone came, except for my brother and nephew and now they’re not in the family picture. Even though I thought maybe we would get another opportunity when he arrived, it never came.

Guests were arriving; we were rushed past them as we went to take our places for the ceremony. Lindsay and Scott went to meet with the rabbi to sign the ketubah- Jewish marriage contract. My mother told me she was having problems with her shoes. I looked down at her feet and saw that the strap kept slipping down, then I looked more closely and horrified, I realized- THESE WERE THE WRONG SHOES!! I wanted to kick myself for not taking the right shoes down from the closet. It was totally my fault. Diana found shoes that were similar, but they were the ones that my mom wore on her 50^th wedding anniversary. They were not the newer, more comfortable ones we just bought. There was nothing I could do. I asked Danielle, the day of coordinator for some advice. “Take her stockings off. Then her feet won’t slip in them.” I grabbed my two sisters to help her do this. It worked, thankfully. Meanwhile, more and more guests were coming in. I became so overwhelmed with excitement and happiness. We just had the ceremony to get through and then we could just relax and celebrate, as Vickie, the best caterer in the whole darn world had promised.

We waited by the doors to the garden as they seated the guests. I saw my friends and family. Almost everyone in the world whom I loved was there to share our joy. I was bursting with emotion. I couldn’t think of the word that described how I was feeling, but I knew there was one. The DJ began the music and Max walked my mom down the aisle, followed by the bridesmaids in their red dresses, holding their tropical colored bouquets beside each groomsmen. The best man walked down next. Then, Phil and Phyllis walked Scott down the aisle in Jewish tradition. After them, came the flower girls, Gianna and Marisa, dressed in white with red sashes, throwing flower petals from their baskets. Next, came Kimberly, maid of honor, extraordinarily beautiful on this day, glowing. And then it was our turn. A little over a year had passed. The planning was done. Every detail, put together, with some minor upsets. I was the mother of the bride; Mark was the father of the bride. We were at the threshold to a milestone that parents dared to dream of. It was one of the most precious moments of my life. Mark turned to me, happy tears filling his eyes and said, “I think I might lose it.” I knew. He felt it too. He was bursting- but I couldn’t think of that word to describe the feeling. I put my arm in his as we walked down the steps, down the aisle, looking at Vickie, for the cue for where to stand to wait for Lindsay. The song “Feels Like Home” began to play, as Lindsay had planned, as she walked towards us. It was everything I ever dreamed of, but more.

And Mark and I, the parents of the bride walked our little girl (I can still call her a little girl because she’s only 4’10”) down the aisle as the blue sky surrounded us and the blue water of the Great South Bay sparkled like stars, just beyond the gazebo/chuppah, as the most important people in our lives stood to watch us. We each kissed her on either cheek, and left her for her groom, Scott, to join her and walk together down the aisle as we joined the Rabbi and Phil and Phyllis under the chuppah.

The ceremony was so lovely, pure and heartfelt. The rabbi talked about the Jewish customs of marriage; we helped by reciting the seven blessings. But the most touching part was when Scott and Lindsay read their vows. It was the first time anyone had ever heard them. How blessed I was to witness this, to see Lindsay and Scott, never taking their eyes off one another, so happy, so happy. I breathed it all in. And I thought, I will never question whether heaven exists, because I was right there at that moment- a place where only blue skies, sparkling water and genuine love exist. I will cherish that moment for as long as I live. They exchanged rings- Mark’s father’s and my mother’s rings were used (something old, something borrowed). Phyllis and I were presented with roses. They poured red and beige sand in a jar to symbolize uniting the two families. Scott broke the glass. A hum of Mazel Tovs. And a kiss. At the end there was the special surprise, Phil and Phyllis’ wedding gift- the releasing of the white doves- the first, to symbolize the people no longer with us- my dad, Mark’s parents, Aunt Laura, Phyllis’ parents and Phil’s parents. Then the second, to symbolize the marriage of Lindsay and Scott. The doves flew out of their heart-shaped cages into the blue sky- separately, then joined as a flock in the picture perfect blue sky– splendid! I was bursting with emotion, again. I heard everyone was. I was told there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. I still couldn’t find the word to describe it.

The party began- there was an indoor/outdoor cocktail hour with steel drums playing on the patio outside. It made it feel like you were on a cruise. The guests were saying it felt like a destination wedding. The three other brides from the reality TV show were there with the camera crew from TLC, but you never would have known it. They blended in. We mingled with them. They loved the ceremony. Everyone loved the ceremony. A few more people asked about my black and blue mark.

Everyone loved everything. I know I doubted “perfect” before, but everyone kept telling me it was perfect. They kept using the word “perfect” to describe it, to describe everything about it. Perfect. The food. Perfect. The DJ. Perfect. The Chocolate Fountain. Perfect. Kim’s speech that brought her to tears and everyone else; Mark’s speech that brought him to tears and everyone else. The father/daughter dance to Heartland’s I Loved Her First, followed by a surprise song of Red Rubber Ball- the song Mark and Lindsay used to sing together all the time. The mother/son dance. Perfect. Lindsay surprising Scott by singing him the Madonna song, True Love. Perfect. My mom looking so beautiful, even though a little uncomfortable with the wrong shoes on. It was an amazing, glorious day, weather and all.

But besides being perfect, everyone was bursting with emotion. I think Bonni cried through the whole day. At one point, Meryl, my best friend, who came all the way from Florida with Steve, her husband, who were there at my wedding 32 years ago, who made me walk up and down their kitchen stool to try to induce me into labor the night before Lindsay was born, turned and said to me, “Oy, I’m so verklempt!” That’s the word! That’s the word I couldn’t think of- Verklempt! Then Bonni turned to me and said, “I’m verklempt, I’m just verklempt!.” I think at least ten more people came over to say they were verklempt, mostly if they were Jewish, because it is a Yiddish word. However, I thought I did hear my friends, Janet and Cathy tell me they were verklempt and they’re Italian, although, maybe I’m just imagining it. In any case, I’m sure they’ll be saying it in the future.

So it’s over, officially. It was. It was two days ago. It was spectacular. The best day of my life, for sure, except for when I gave birth to my babies; however, I looked a lot better at the wedding. And yes it did go by fast. That was no surprise. So what. Because while it was happening, it was everything I ever dreamed of, but a million times more amazing than that. And it was perfect- except for my brother and nephew not being in the family picture, my black and blue mark and my mother’s shoe mix-up. It was as perfect as that evanescent butterfly, briefly kissing your skin, as delicate as a baby’s touch.

Monday morning, after I went into my mom’s closet and found the right shoes that we bought but she didn’t wear, I said to her what I thought my Grandma Fanny would have said.

You know, ma. You were supposed to wear those shoes to the wedding. Even though they were uncomfortable. Those were the shoes that you wore to your 50^th wedding anniversary party. It was a sign- they were ‘good luck’ shoes for Lindsay and Scott’s wedding. This means they are going to have a long and happy life together.

“You think so?” she asked me.

Yes. I really do.

The journey is finished. All good things come to an end at some point. I hung my mother of the bride dress up in the closet and hung Lindsay’s wedding gown in what used to be her room. What will I do now? I’m a lot relieved and a little sad that it is all behind me. What will I do now? I think to myself. I can dare to imagine another wedding, with my little butterfly, sweet Kim, as the bride- (Mother of the Bride, Two???). What will I do now? Well right now, I am savoring the sweetness of perfection in my memories of being the mother of the bride. And I’m also feeling a little verklempt.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday- The Last Week of the Journey, The Road to Perfection

2010-09-04T20:21:00.000-07:00

Today was the last day of this wedding journey. Tomorrow is the destination. Two hurricanes passed by yesterday without incident. Triumphantly, the sun glistened brilliantly this morning outside my kitchen window while Sonny laid on his side on the window seat, fast asleep, unaware that one of the most important days of our lives is just one day away. We bought him a tuxedo vest, despite protest from Mark, so he can be part of the photographs and memories of the wedding day. We had a hectic week of last-minute preparations. I feel as triumphant as the sun when I look at “The Friday List” of things to do that is completely checked off with things accomplished. I am just as elated looking at the “The Saturday List” mostly completed.

If one more person tells me that the wedding day is going to go by so fast, I might scream. The whole week flew by. A week full of daily drama and disappointments, though minor. The problem with brides is that they need to take the word “perfect” out of their expectations. Perfection does not exist. It is the elusive butterfly that appears for an instant, and then flutters away defying you to remember its magnificence. If everything were perfect, there would be no stories to tell. We have a lot of stories to tell about this week. A lot of interesting, funny stories- the kind that you weren’t laughing at while it happened to you- the kind that make life worth living.

The best thing about this week was that I had my mother here to witness it, to share it, to reminisce with me. I must have turned to her at least once every day to say what would I do without you? Her response would always be the same- what would I do without you? During all the driving around and in and out of places, she would tell me stories about her wedding. She remembered every detail and every story- funny, sad and disappointing stories. I made her tell them over and over again as we ran around doing errands.

I remember growing up loving to go through my parent’s black and white wedding album. I used to gaze at the famous picture of her whole entire family at the time- The Waltzers. She was the youngest of eight children- six boys and 2 girls and the last to get married. There were already thirteen grandchildren by the time her wedding took place. The famous picture was of my mother’s parents, all her brothers and sister and their spouses and their children sitting around my mother and father, the bride and groom. That picture was like the Mona Lisa to me- the Waltzer family. When my parents celebrated their 50^th wedding anniversary, my cousin Nancy had that picture blown up into poster size. And when my mother and Aunt Semmie moved into a shared suite at the Bristal Assisted Living, my cousin Garie also had blown up a copy of that same picture and had it framed. I think that photograph means the same to a lot of my cousins.

When my mother was getting married, she told me how her parents couldn’t really afford to make her a wedding. She knew she had to have some kind of wedding, though, because she always promised my cousin Regina, her niece, that she would be her maid of honor. My mother told my grandma that many of her friends’ weddings were paid for by their siblings. So, all her brothers chipped in and made her a wedding. They were all musicians- pretty famous musicians; so naturally, my mother had a first rate band for her wedding because all my uncle’s friends were in it. The Waltzers had a way about them- they could make beer look and taste like champagne. My Uncle Ruby used to say all the time, “We’re the greatest!” Whatever money they pooled together wasn’t much- just enough to make a cocktail hour- ceremony in a synagogue, then drinks and hors d’oeurves in an adjoining room. My uncles told my mom- “This is like a society wedding.” She wore a beautiful light blue wedding gown- strapless- just like Lindsay’s. The seamstress made her a jacket to cover her shoulders for the ceremony. It was the hottest day of the year. And in 1952, there was no air conditioning. To make matters worse, the rabbi, delayed at a funeral and stuck in traffic, was two hours late. My grandma, the one whose optimism I inherited, turned to my mother and said, in her Polish accent “You veren’t supposed to have gotten married until that hour- tventy minutes after 3:00. This is vhat vill make the marriage vork.” Everyone ate the hors d’oeurves while waiting for the rabbi, everyone except for my mother. She didn’t even eat at her own wedding. Almost everything that could go wrong went wrong. But her dress was beautiful and her wedding album showed happy smiling faces of family and friends dancing to the music and having a good time eating all the hors d’oeurves. And Grandma was right- their marriage lasted 55 years.

This week my mother was like a good luck charm, guiding me through all the dramas of a bride seeking perfection. A very stressed bride, who scrutinized her wedding gown when she picked it up, who had her eyebrows waxed and came out of the room as if it was the end of the world because the lady made them too thin. This was a scene where she was hyperventilating in the car, crying and hyperventilating to her makeup artist, Holly, who had to make a special trip to pencil in her eyebrows again. Problem solved. All this stress, however, caused a pimple, the size of Texas it seems to Lindsay, to appear on her chin, one day before her wedding. And what does everyone say to her? –“Don’t worry, you’ll be beautiful, the makeup and the photographers airbrushing will cover everything- it will be perfect. The day goes by so fast. It will be over before you know it.” Stop saying that already!!!

I don’t want it to be over. I honestly don’t. What will I do? Today I went into Michael’s Craft Store- I think I’ve been in there fifty times this year. I suddenly realized this was the last time I will have a reason to go there for anything for this wedding planning year. It made me sad. When I got home, I saw that Mark had hung the “Here Comes the Bride Banner” on our front door. I added the wedding bells and gold ribbon. We went out for dinner, the last time as a family of the four of us (with my mom, of course), the last time when Lindsay will be a Feldman. We ate at our favorite Thai restaurant, the one where we held Lindsay and Scott’s engagement party. Yes. It went by so fast. Tonight, I must get a good night’s sleep. I have to be up at 4:30am to start the day. The long-anticipated day. It will fly in like that evanescent butterfly. I will try my best, as I’ve been told by many to soak in every single moment, to take it in, in its full dimension. Because all too soon, it will be a two-dimensional photo album that my granddaughter might gaze at one day. Now that would be perfect.

And the Cast Grows Larger…

2010-08-29T06:45:00.000-07:00

Yes. Cast. Because my daughter’s wedding is not only a wedding, but also a TV show. Yes. We have joined the millions of other people who have become part of the growing phenomena of reality TV. The show that Lindsay is on is about four brides competing for a honeymoon. The brides attend each other’s weddings and rate them. The highest rating wins the honeymoon- valued at about 15 to 20 thousand dollars. So, there will be three extra people at the wedding, who will be critiquing it on camera eventually to be shown on national TV. Naturally, everything has to be perfect. And that means if there’s a bone in the filet of fish, you will lose points. For sure. The reality of the reality TV show became more actuality when we (and when I say “we” I mean about eight of us) were meeting with our very favorite wedding caterer, Vickie, to make and pay for the final arrangements. The actuality struck me when Vickie said the words “camera crew”. Those two words-camera crew- were not in our vocabulary when we began this journey. But life-as this year has proven- holds many surprises.

The night of making final arrangements was towards the end of a very hectic week of dealing with the unexpected- the unexpected in terms of Sonny our almost eight-month old Cockapoo puppy. It began with my dreams. I am a little bit psychic and my dreams sometimes are premonitions of what is to come. I am sounding a little strange, but I think many writers are a little atypical. Anyway my dreams foretell the future in some way or warn me about things. One night I dreamt that Sonny ran away. The next day as I was doing some work in the kitchen and I dared to allow Sonny to wander aimlessly around the house, I went to check on him. He has a cat-like habit of walking on the back of our sectional. And that’s just where I busted him- eating my English Ivy plant that was supposedly out of his reach. So after scolding him and sticking my fingers down his throat to see what I could retrieve, I googled “if your dog eats an English Ivy plant..” And the responses I got were “call the vet, take him to the vet immediately, call the ASPCA," etc. etc. Obviously, this was not good news. So I called the vet. “How much did he eat?” Dr. Gotthelf asked. “How much did you eat?” I asked Sonny. Sonny didn’t know, nor did I. “Do you have hydrogen peroxide in the house?” Dr. Gotthelf inquired. “If I did, it would surprise me,” I responded. “Well, give him a tablespoon with a dropper and he should throw it up. Then watch him for the next 24 hours.” I went looking for the hydrogen peroxide and was surprised to find it in Kimberly’s bathroom; however, I could not locate a dropper. The only thing remotely close to a dropper was my turkey baster. So Sonny boy got a hefty shot of peroxide basting down his throat. In less than five minutes he threw up on my $900 rug that he’s been chewing holes in. I was able to see how much English Ivy he ate along with all the tissues he’s been stealing out of my mother’s garbage pail. He was fine for the rest of the day, but unfortunately my $900 rug is in really bad shape. The next night, I had another dream about Sonny; he was running around the yard, then disappeared and came back with different hair. The next day, my mother and Diana- who is my mother’s companion and takes care of Sonny for me also- were sitting in the backyard when I came home with some groceries. As I was unpacking I saw Diana come through the sliders and leave through the front door. I followed her. I noticed that she was holding Sonny’s leash and collar, but there was no Sonny. “Is everything alright?” I asked, knowing it wasn’t. “No,” responded Diana, “Sonny got through a hole in the fence and is in the yard of the neighbor behind you. I’m going to get him now.” There was supposed to be no way for Sonny to get out of the backyard because Mark had checked for holes in the fence but he must have missed this one. I decided to go back to my backyard while Diana tried to retrieve him the other way. I was going to rely on the slight possibility that Sonny would come when I called “Come”. Sometimes Sonny comes; but only when he decides he’s good and ready. First, I went to the bushes and called over the fence to the neighbor behind me, whom I never met, “Is my dog still there?” I yelled. “Yes,” responded a man’s voice. I couldn’t see him but he sounded a little nervous; I thought I heard Sonny romping around like a lunatic on the other side. “Can you get him out of here soon because I’m afraid of dogs,” said the voice of the man. Wonderful, I thought. I called, “Sonny!!!” And then, as if appearing from thin air- just like in my dream, out came my very naughty puppy, although his hair was the same; however, at that instant, I did realize how much he had grown over the last few months. Whew! I went to sleep that night, relieved and hopeful that I would have no more dreams.

On Thursday, Kim, my mom and my sister-in-law, Bonni met at the Bridal shop for the final fitting of Lindsay’s gown. As we were waiting for Lindsay, a girl came over to me to introduce herself; she said she was Danielle. At first, I must have looked a little puzzled, then she further explained, “I’m the day of coordinator.” I remembered that Lindsay had told me about Danielle- that this was a barter type of deal. Scott and Lindsay were helping Danielle and her fiancé out with their stuff, in exchange for Danielle being Lindsay’s day of coordinator. The TV show will also give Danielle some publicity for her day of coordinator business. Dan, Danielle’s fiancé was building Lindsay and Scott’s deck in the backyard also as barter for Scott’s being the DJ and photographer for their engagement party and Lindsay doing Danielle’s makeup. [Dan and Danielle- cute- sounds like Phil and Phyllis (Scott’s parents)]. Danielle explained to me what exactly she’s going to be doing the day of the wedding. “I will be taking care of Lindsay- helping her put on her dress, helping her go to the bathroom, fanning her if she’s hot- all the things you won’t have to do so you can take care of yourself, not worry about Lindsay at all, and enjoy the wedding.” I wanted to say where were you the last 27 years? There could have been many times I could have used a day of coordinator to take care of Lindsay, especially the time I lost her on the beach, when she was 6, for the longest 30 minutes of my life.

So, we had an entourage for Lindsay’s final fitting. However there was one point when I forced myself to tune out and fade out everyone except for my older daughter and me as I admired her in her wedding dress. It was my “moment”. I allowed myself to revel in this moment, to embrace its significance as a milestone in my life as a mother. I thought for that one instant how incredible this moment is- as incredible as when I held her for the first time in a pink hospital blanket- a moment any mother dares to imagine. Then I let my mother in my moment- for it was just as incredible for her to see her first granddaughter in her wedding dress. Then I let her Aunt Bonni in my moment, who adored her as her first niece, her quasi-little girl before she had children of her own. And then, Kim came in my moment, who must have been thinking how she used to play bride-dress-up all the time with her older sister, and possibly might be imagining herself in a wedding dress some day. And finally, what the heck, I let Danielle in my moment, even though I just met her, because after all, she was the day of coordinator. The dreamlike scene ended abruptly and it became frenetic and hectic as usual, with all of us asking questions and making sure that every single part of that dress was as flawless as possible before the seamstress puts her final stitches in.

Our busy night continued as we sped off to the caterer, meeting Scott there and the florist. We had to go over every last feature of the wedding, from the table linens to the centerpieces to the runner for the aisle, blah, blah, blah. Everyone was talking at once. Everyone had ideas and more ideas and better ideas. At one point, I got up to sit next to my mother, the only one not speaking. She leaned over to me, “I think you need about two more coordinators,” she said in her most facetious voice. Vickie, our caterer, finally put on her teacher voice and shut us all up. “I think we have too many chiefs here,” she bellowed. The cacophony ended; though, only for about ten minutes while Vickie ran the show. Then it began again. It seemed to last forever. Bonni said at one point, “I have a manicure in 12 hours, let’s wrap this up.” I got up to ask about using a restroom; I didn’t want to disrupt the wedding that was going on while we were meeting. Vickie directed me to a smaller bridal suite right at the bottom of the staircase. It was a lovely little room with a beautiful private bathroom. When I came back, I asked Vickie, “Can that be my and my mom’s bathroom during the wedding?” “That’s the room where the camera crew is going to be,” she responded. She must have seen me wince at that. “But I’m sure you can go in and use the bathroom while they’re there,” she added, appeasing me, with a big smile and a few nods for added emphasis.

Yesterday, we went to Teresa, our hairstylist. I had my hair dyed, keeping it my new red shade, which everyone seems to like and did a trial for my hairstyle for the wedding. Bouncy big and little curls. We went over the logistics and time frame for next week with Teresa. We will begin at 4:30 in the morning with our makeup, hairstyling, and dressing and then camera crews..yes…camera crews.

Lights, camera, action… my daughter’s wedding- one week from today.

"All right, Mr. De Mille, I'm ready for my closeup"

Yikes

2010-08-22T07:12:00.000-07:00

Yikes..Two more weeks. Mostly everything is behind us now on this wedding journey. The only thing ahead is the wedding itself. Last Tuesday we had the rehearsal dinner with most of the players, minus one bridesmaid- cousin Julianna from Arizona and groomsmen, Herb, who was at a Yankee game and Chad, whose whereabouts were never explained to me. Anthony, from the Riviera, directed us in what he thought was the right order as we directed him in what we thought was the right order. Of course, the Rabbi did write down the right order and it would have come in handy if Lindsay remembered to bring that list. So, in reality, we never actually rehearsed or we rehearsed the wrong order because as we went over the Rabbi’s list of the order, it was quite different. Consequently, I’m very confused now. Do I walk Lindsay down the aisle with Mark at the very beginning as she appears at the end, or do Mark and I walk down the aisle first, turn and look as Lindsay comes in and then walk her down the aisle? I have no idea. One thing I suspect, though, is that I will probably not have remembered this anyway if we rehearsed it correctly in the first place.

The rehearsal dinner took place a little earlier than usual because Michele, Scott’s, sister is due to give birth next week. A lot going on here. A lot of wonderful things.

After the rehearsal, we went to Sergio’s for dinner, hosted by Phil and Phyllis, Scott’s parents. They wrote a touching speech/toast, which Phil read, expressing their pride in Scott and their joy in him finding Lindsay and welcoming our family to their family as our children marry. Then, we ate; we drank wine; we laughed. It was lovely, even though, oddly, everyone got a different kind of piece of cake at the end.

I have a checklist in my head of all the things that need to be done and all the things that have been done. The seating, which was an absolute nightmare, is finished, I think. Every time Lindsay called me to help her with the seating, I kept telling her I couldn’t help unless I see it. It was finally accomplished with Phyllis’ help. We’re still debating over whether to have programs and menus or just programs or just menus. I don’t know when that’s going to be settled, but I’m getting tired of being asked the question Should we have programs and no menus or menus and no programs or both programs and menus or neither. And my answer to all of the above is, “Ask Aunt Bonni.” My sister-in-law, Bonni has become the go-to gal for all the final details. Thank goodness. She’s been a wedding planner before and I didn’t want her to “work” for Lindsay’s wedding at first because I wanted her to be a guest, but she’s more than happy to do it and I’m more than happy to have her do it. So now, when I wonder why Lindsay hasn’t been calling me ninety times a day to ask me questions I can’t find an answer to, I find out that she’s been calling her Aunt Bonni ninety times a day.

Dresses. Yesterday, mom’s dress got crossed off the list. We went to the store to pick it up. She looks absolutely elegant in her lacy, silvery blue gown with sparkling sequins glittering throughout. My gown is at the dressmaker, being altered. The only possible problem with it, as the seamstress explained to me, is the zipper, which is the kind that gets stuck, sometimes. Wonderful. She promised she would try to fix that. I am trying to be optimistic about that. I know Kim’s dress is being altered and was two sizes too big because she lost weight. Her shoes, which needed to by dyed, will be ready, we hope, three days before the wedding, but I’m trying to be optimistic about that, as well. And the final fitting for Lindsay’s wedding gown will be this Thursday, after a whole day of final details at the Riviera with Aunt Bonni, the florist and whoever else Lindsay told me was going to be there.

Everything needs to be perfect. Not only because we want it to be perfect to begin with, but also now because it will be televised on a TLC wedding show, where Lindsay is competing against three other brides for a honeymoon. So, the three brides will be there, as guests, and they will be critiquing and rating the wedding on film. Mark is not cooperating about signing the release for his appearance on the TV show, so I might be on camera walking down the aisle with a man with a pixilated face. I’m going to be optimistic that Mark will change his mind and that my zipper will zip, though. That is my mantra for the next two weeks- BE OPTIMISTIC.

Optimism is my armor, my shield, because in these final days, the unexpected still makes appearances; for example, now Mark has a double hernia and needs surgery. We are scheduling this for right after the wedding and keeping him away from lifting any heavy objects and not doing any exotic dance moves at the wedding.

Optimism. Deep breath. Positive energy. The right order. Two more

weeks…….yikes….

TIME...

2010-08-15T12:20:00.000-07:00

You can tell that the summer is coming to a close when the morning air is crisper and the days grow shorter with an earlier dusk. It’s like when great parties are ending or vacations or wonderful movies or your favorite song. It’s like when you take those last three bites of a luscious lemon meringue pie. You want to savor every last morsel. You want to stop time. But time controls everything. It is the director and you are the player. Exactly three weeks to go to the wedding. I get a pang in the pit of my stomach when I think of that. The final weeks of this journey. A matter of time…to get to our destination.

About three years ago, I went to a psychic with Lindsay. My friend, Dorothea, recommended her. It was the winter of 2007 and she lived somewhere in Queens, I think. I do have all the information, including everything she told me, recorded in a journal I used to keep in my bag. However, with all this moving in and out of rooms and storing everything in boxes, I have yet to find that journal. I have reread those pages again and again, so I have mostly all of them memorized. I believe her name was Karen (the psychic). She had a garden apartment amidst a complex of identical garden apartments and I recall we had trouble locating hers and almost gave up. When we finally got there and were inside, I remember her smiling serene face, then the distinct odor of marijuana mingled with the smell of cats. I thought to myself yeah, this is one of those times of my life where I will be spending my money frivolously. Of course Mark had validated that before I left. But it only cost $40 per hour, so I didn’t think it was too high a price to pay for a vacuous experience. She had tarot cards to tell your future; I had used tarot cards before and they turned out to be startling accurate. Anyway, as she gave us information, we shuffled the cards and she would say, “Give me five,” each time. I tentatively would turn over my five cards, hoping they were good ones. There were many things that she told both me and Lindsay that did come true, almost immediately. For example, she knew we were going on a trip and she predicted a delay on the flight, which did happen. A few times she told me I would be okay financially, which was good to hear, because I never seem to have enough money. Then she said that I would be receiving a large sum of money and asked if I had a lawsuit pending. “No,” I told her. “I am expecting a bonus from my company, but definitely no lawsuit.” “Well,” she responded, you are going to get money from some kind of legal transaction, so I just assumed a lawsuit. I definitely see a legal transaction, though.” This certainly perplexed me, but in a good way. It’s always nice to hear that money is coming your way. I still had time to ask more questions towards the end, so I asked about my mother and gave her five more cards. “I see her in a house, with a lovely garden.” “What?” I responded, “There is no house. She lives in an apartment in an assisted living residence.” “I can only tell you what the cards tell me and I definitely see a house.” “Whatever,” I replied, but thought to myself there goes my 40 bucks down the toilet. After we had left, I told Dorothea what she had said and Dorothea told me that she knows of people who use her and what she tells them doesn’t necessarily happen right away; it might happen years later. “Okay, “ I answered, “we shall see.”

That was 2007. A little less than three years ago. This past Friday I just returned from a week away at a continuing professional development conference with my company. They shared big news- we were bought by a large, billion dollar company. The stockholders had a meeting with the attorney. I am a stockholder. He informed us that we were going to get a cash-out on the deal. One very smart thing I did in my life was to buy into my company as they were becoming for-profit. My investment quadrupled. Karen, the psychic, was right- a legal transaction. And just at the right time, when I am coming down to the wire with coming up with the final cash for the wedding. My payment should come four days before the wedding date. What a relief. I thought again about the other thing that Karen had told me about my mom being in a house with a garden. It suddenly occurred to me- my mother was living in a house! My house! And her room overlooks the garden in my backyard. Goosebumps covered my arms.

Time ticks by. Last year we were celebrating the first weddings in my circle of friends, Roselee and Joey’s daughter, then Janet and Rob’s daughter. This year as we journey towards our daughter’s wedding, Roselee and Joey welcomed a granddaughter. Last night, we visited. I held beautiful little pink-skinned Mya in my arms- the first grandchild. It was like heaven on earth. Roselee showed me a book that Janet had given to her about being a grandmother. Inside she had written that we should keep it in our circle of friends and pass it along as we all become grandmothers. I looked at Roselee and Joey’s daughter and son-in-law, Michelle and Mike, now parents, although, they are still kids to me. I used to get so upset with my own parents when they regarded us as “still kids” even when we were parents. Sometimes time stands still when we see our kids. Sometimes we wish it would. Because, in reality, time turns us from kids to parents to grandparents.

Time. A colleague and mentor of mine, Sally, once said, “Narrative is movement through time.” I’ll never forget that time. We were sitting in a conference room in Washington, D.C. around a long shiny dark wood oval table. Sally, one of the most brilliant women I will ever meet, was telling us how to understand the narrative genre of writing. It was as if she had given me the Holy Grail at that moment. Anything I’ve ever read or written suddenly was illuminated from that day on. The art of telling a story is movement through time. It is as if the past, present and future is encapsulated in your life stories.

I began this entry in the morning and it is now past 3pm. The day is flying by and I still have so much to do, like get my gown altered for the wedding. I have a 5pm appointment tonight to do that. Tuesday night is the rehearsal dinner. Soon it will be next Sunday and we’ll only have two more weeks, then one. I only hope I have the time to get everything done, but only time will tell.

August 5, 2010

2010-08-05T11:57:00.000-07:00

It is a sticky, cloudy and drizzly morning. The date is August 5, 2010. One month from today our journey will end and the wedding we’ve been planning and anticipating will take place. I sincerely hope that the weather on that day is nothing like today.

Now the final countdown begins; however, last month, July 2010, was a whirlwind of life changing events that threw my emotions in all directions. That’s a lot to say, considering the year I’ve had. The month of July was moving month, moving Lindsay out of my house and into her house; moving my mother out of her room at the assisted living residence and into a room in my home. It was a month of breaking down walls, putting up walls, building closets, clearing clutter, painting, shopping, packing and planning. Everything had to be ready for my mother’s move on the last day of July. And even though Lindsay had not completely taken all her belongings out yet, on Friday night, July 30, she said goodbye to her room, her sister, her puppy, her dad, and then to me. It was to be her first night with Scott in their new home, finally ready enough to live in. I put my arms around her petite 4’10” body for a bittersweet hug and quietly sighed, “Have a nice life.” She laughed, “Oh Mom, I’m gonna be five minutes away.” “I know,” I answered, solemnly. In that moment I wanted to go in reverse; to go back twenty years, pick her up with young arms, carry her back to her room and read her a bedtime story before tucking her in for the night. She would laugh at me if I told her that was what I was feeling; she would never understand until one day, if and when she has a daughter who leaves to begin her own life. Moving in, moving out, moving out, moving in, moving emotions, moving on….

I didn’t have the luxury of feeling all weepy and sentimental for long, because the very next day I had to get to my mom’s place to move her. There were still more boxes to pack there, as well, and the anticipation of hoping to fit all of my mother’s furniture into my spare room. I arrived at 8 am and my mom, aunt and I went down for my mom’s last breakfast at the Bristal. Everyone was so sad about my mom leaving. There were cards and gifts and hugs and tears. Through all this, I couldn’t help thinking what the wizard said to the tin man in the Wizard of Oz- first that a heart will never be practical until it is made unbreakable, then, that a heart is not judged by how much you love; but by how much you are loved by others. That said it all. My mother was leaving Oz that day and finally coming home. Later on, she told me she couldn’t help thinking that living there was a journey she had to take and that she learned so much about herself from that experience. I marvel at my mom- how positive she always is; even during the most frenetic times, she could just stop and be reflective.

My brother came over to help us, thanks to Bonni, my sister-in-law’s not so subtle hint- the movers are getting to your mom’s at 9am, Martin. “Do you think I should go over to help?” was his response. Now, that’s a really good idea, I’m glad you thought of that! (Bonni’s reply). We had three wonderful moving men who had to work around my brother and I packing up last minute items and my mother looking a little overwhelmed and worried and wanting so much to help. They even added an unplanned extra stop- dropping off my father’s desk- the iconic symbol of the memory of my father-at my brother’s house before taking the rest of everything left of my mother’s life to my house.

I considered the probability of my mom thinking to herself how her life had become minimized to three men, her daughter and son carrying everything she owned onto one truck. I thought about her parting with my father’s desk, the one thing she had left of him, now becoming part of my brother and who he is. This is what we do in life- we maximize- we minimize, we grow- we shrink, we get- we give it away. We grow such deep attachments to the possessions accumulated in the lives we share; it makes it difficult to part with some of them.

Finally, with Kimberly back at my house orchestrating how everything should be placed, by 1pm, everything was done. And everything fit. It was an enormous weight lifted off my shoulders. And my mother was happy; she said she felt like she was home. I must say her room is the prettiest one in the house. And I think Sonny, our puppy, is going to be her best friend. He follows her around, constantly, wagging his little stub of a cropped tail. My house is beginning to get more in order; my dining room table is back in the right place; there’s less junk piled around in boxes. The amount of garbage that accumulated through this process required bulk pickup. Mark needed a dolly to bring some of the stuff out last night. But this morning, everything was gone, including that humongous fish tank. Some things are easy to part with.

My nephew, Max, home from sleepaway camp, came to stay this past week to keep my mother company while I went away on a two-day business trip on a very, very small plane. Lindsay came over on Tuesday with one of her baking books and the three of them (Max, Lindsay and my mom) had a baking party. Lindsay loves to bake and always dreamed of the day that she would bake things with her grandmother. When I returned home that night, they couldn’t wait to get me to taste the most delicious chocolate cinnamon cake with banana sauce.

The last month wedding details are being done. Yesterday Lindsay, my mom and I went to the Judaica store to order the ketubah- Jewish wedding contract. The saleslady at the store commented on our three generations of women. While we were at the store, I noticed a little onesie for a baby that said “Forget the Moyol, It’s a Goyol”. I pointed it out to Lindsay and my mom and said if my friend, Roselee’s daughter, Michelle has a girl, I’m getting that for her. When we returned home, we found that the box of yarmulkes were delivered to my house, too. Last night, Lindsay came over to do the seating arrangements. That was a tedious, argument-provoking endeavor. Tonight, we have the second fitting of Lindsay’s dress. Meanwhile, while we are planning, life is happening, all around us. My company was sold. Now I don’t know what will happen to my job. Oh well.

It is August 5, 2010 and while we wait for one more month to pass, the waiting is over for our dear friends, Roselee and Joey because on this day, their first grandchild, Mya Jade, a goyol, is born. Life is happening all around us. Mazel Tov.

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

2010-07-28T05:27:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-21T19:29:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-18T07:41:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-11T05:16:00.000-07:00

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.

Bachelorette- The Last Escapade- Before

2010-07-10T14:30:00.000-07:00

This past week, we have had intense summer heat- yes intense! But I am not complaining- at least this summer, unlike last year’s; we are having temperatures that belong to summer. But today, Saturday, the pressure built in the sky and it rained a glorious shower, straight- pouring raindrops fell upon the street outside my windows dancing up and down on the pavement and blacktop. Poor neighbor Gail, across the street was having her annual garage sale; luckily, she had tents up to protect her merchandise, but I doubt they did much good.

There’s something about a summer shower, when you’re tucked inside watching from your window that lifts your spirits- mine at least. I sit, with Sonny, on my window seat. He glances at me whenever he hears the crackle of thunder. James Taylor plays on a CD in my kitchen. I just finished exercising and when it started to pour, I did something I haven’t done since I was a kid. I ran out the sliders to my backyard and danced in the rain. It was less than a minute, but enough time to wash away the residue of a particularly bad week I had at work that began with witnessing a man getting CPR at the 34^th Street station of the “2” train on Tuesday morning. That sight haunted me until Friday.

The red tape put up by the police.

The EMT crew working on him, the sound of the paddles as they made their final attempts.

The vision of his bare chest as he lay on the hard subway platform, his grey hair, his shoes and socks- lying there sprawled and lifeless.

The people watching while other people tried not to watch.

One thing I am sure of, we all had a sense of our own mortality that morning. After a long Fourth of July celebration weekend, we were all brought down to reality. I wish I could’ve heard everyone’s thoughts as we all witnessed the same event- possibly the last day of a man’s life. And what were his thoughts before he went down- were they similar to mine this past December morning when I was rushed to the hospital? What is happening to me? Is this the end?

Did he die? I still don’t know. But I said a prayer for him either way.

And now, the sky is making its own noise, reminiscent of the fireworks of last weekend. I am lazy today. I am guiltily enjoying my summer rain shower. We needed this rain, it’s been so hot, lawns were turning brown. They’ve been threatening that there is a water shortage; however, I don’t believe them- what happened to all the water that was collected from the deluge of this past summer to winter? There has to be plenty left of that. In a few minutes I have to take a real shower and get ready for Lindsay’s bachelorette party. Yes. I am going. And so is Phyllis, Scott’s mom. Even though my friends are telling me I am not supposed to go, I’m going anyway. Lindsay wants us there. We are going out to dinner and then to a male strip club. I don’t particularly like male strippers but I’m going anyway. I am going to behold my daughter’s last adventure as a single lady. We are prepared; we have lipstick in the shape of a penis, condom lollypops and an assortment of other tacky bachelorette party paraphernalia. And I owe it to this blog to go to the bachelorette party. It is yet another event to document on this journey. The rain has stopped. I am waiting for Phyllis to pick me up. We are driving in. The girls are taking the train. I don’t like what I’m wearing and I’m uncomfortable in it. Lindsay is bedecked with a veil attached to a headband with devil ears and a sash proclaiming her the bride.

To be continued…..

I’m In Love

2010-07-04T05:56:00.000-07:00

I’m sitting on my kitchen window seat, while the light of the morning sun embraces my shoulder and illuminates my typing fingers. My shadow sits on the wall next to me; it waits for each move I make just to exist. Outside, the morning dew glistens on my lawn. Sonny is at my feet; he can’t make up his mind between curling up and drowsing or looking out the window as day breaks. The coffee maker fills the quiet room with its irregular cadence. I’m in love with the summer of 2010. Yes, I’m sure of it, it is true love.

This past week, Mark and I took a much-needed vacation. We didn’t go anywhere, to an exotic island or a different country. There was no money for that, every bit of money goes towards the wedding. Luckily, though, the weather made this week feel like we were in Aruba. We enjoyed our backyard and all its amenities. Mark alternated between drifting on the raft in the pool, lying on a lounge chair or dosing in his hammock under the trees. He is as tan as he was when we returned from the cruise to the eastern Caribbean. He is rested. He is in love, too, with Sonny. Sonny is in love with him, as well. You could tell Mark is his favorite. He follows him around the house and watches his every move.

During the week we have taken Sonny for long walks, on the trails of West Hills County Park and in our neighborhood in Hicksville. I’m in love with my neighborhood, with its lush landscaped lawns adorned with arrays of flowers and bushes. I’m in love with the simple, but lovely houses, each with its own decorative stamp of either a stone-paved driveway or front porch or window shutters. Each day we took alternate routes up the uniquely named tree-lined streets- such as Cottage Drive, Wishing Lane, or Cloister Avenue. Last night, we met a woman watering her exotic garden of perennials. She had an assortment of lilies in every shade. She let me take a whiff of one- its fragrance lasted till I got home. She gave us advice on how to bring our flowers back to life. The day before we met another woman with a labradoodle and a poodle. She made homemade bones. Her name was Ginny. She grew up in the house she lived in. We talked about everything, her husband’s recent death to cancer, how she cared for both of her parents, and most of all, about dogs. While we talked, little 12-pound Sonny played with her 100-pound labradoodle.

Yesterday, we began with a breakfast at Starbucks to take to the dog park and ended with a delicious, extravagant dinner at Taco Bell. We were right near Shake-a-Paw, where I bought Sonny, so we went in to browse and interact with some puppies. Mark fell in love with a brown Labrador retriever, but she stayed in the store. Scott and Lindsay came home late last night, he exhausted from working on their house, she from working a second job selling cakes at Costco’s to pay for all the unexpected their house is costing. I made them dinner at 10:00pm, a simple, but home-cooked meal. Kimberly even relented and had something to eat, too. I’m still in love with being a mother and caring for my children, now blissfully happy to have three of them.

We took care of some wedding plans this week. Wednesday, we went to the florist in Long Beach and Lindsay, along with advice from Aunt Bonni, made the final decisions on the bouquets. On Monday, Lindsay had her first fitting of her wedding dress. I fell in love with that dress all over again and the vision of Lindsay being a bride. Monday was the only day, it rained- just briefly in the evening. Summer rain, steamy summer rain, leaving that indescribable scent in the air. We ran to the car, protecting the veil and headpiece more than ourselves, from the rain. My mother says that rain is a sign of good luck; hopefully she is right and this is the good luck rain that sprinkles us now and stays away on the day of the wedding.

It is July 4^th, we have our annual get-together at Barbara and Eric’s house with our usual group of friends. We will laugh and eat and drink and talk. Last year, we talked about Roselee and Joey’s daughter’s wedding that was a month before and Janet and Rob’s daughter’s wedding that was coming up in October. This year we will talk about Lindsay and Scott’s approaching wedding and the baby- Roselee’s and Joey’s first grandchild due in August.

Tomorrow, our last day of vacation, we made plans with Roselee and Joey to have bagels for breakfast on the beach. It is not Aruba, but with good friends to share time with, it doesn’t matter what beach you’re at. Besides, Long Island beaches are pretty nice.

Sunday morning, breakfast with Mark and the Beatles on the radio. Today I want to savor summer, bathe in it, taste it, and relish each bite slowly. But I’m laughing at Mark chasing Sonny who somehow got a tissue and is busy shredding it into pieces all over the rug and running up the stairs to avoid his father’s admonishment. The Beatle’s “Getting Better” plays in the background. It’s getting better all the time….and

I’m in love. Happy 4th of July.

The Right Shoes

2010-06-28T13:14:00.000-07:00

The Right Shoes

69 days to go. Oy. Every day seems to go by more quickly now. I get a little twinge of panic when I realize how close this wedding is. I think of what has to be done. Tonight will be Lindsay’s first fitting. Last night we picked up her veil and headpiece. It is just what she wanted at half the price of the one we originally had the deposit on. She even likes it better because it has more “bling” on the veil. The vision of my beautiful daughter as a bride is becoming clearer now, when I dare to imagine it. I see myself looking at her, but it’s hard to picture what I will look like. I do have my dress, it’s hanging in a white plastic bag in my closet. I didn’t make an appointment yet for my alterations because I hadn’t gone for shoes yet. Lindsay has two pair of shoes for her dress because she couldn’t make up her mind and fell in love with both. Shoes are a big deal for a woman. You have to find something attractive and comfortable at the same time. This is no small feat- pardon my pun.

The day that I picked up my dress, my friends, Barbara and Roselee, were with me. I tried it on for them and they enthusiastically approved. Afterwards we went to lunch. In the car, we started to talk about the right shoes for the dress- silver was the best, we all decided. I was sitting in the back seat and then the bickering began- Barbara and Roselee’s bickering; I just sat in the back and like a tennis match, my head went from Barbara to Roselee as they argued about the shoes I should wear.

The Tennis Match:

Barbara: “They should be stylish. High, silver, with straps.”

Roselee: “If they’re too high and they kill her feet, she’ll be miserable, trust me.”

Barbara: “Roselee, what do you want her to wear- “old lady” shoes? She has to look elegant.”

Roselee: “If her feet are hurting, she won’t look elegant. Comfort is more important. At Michelle’s wedding, I wore the most comfortable shoes. It was the best decision I made.”

Barbara: “You’re taller than Jeannie; she needs something to give her height. Believe me, it will add to the glamour of the dress AND it will make her legs look good.”

Roselee: “She has to walk around in them for a whole day, not to mention dance in them. If her shoes are hurting her, she’ll be sorry. It won’t matter how glamorous they look.”

And on and on it went. I didn’t say a word, even though they were talking about my feet and my shoes. I think they even forgot I was there. I decided, to myself, while they were squabbling, I would go on my own for a pair of shoes. However, I kept procrastinating. A dozen or so coupons came for the discount shoe stores- DSW, MJM; they all expired. I was “dragging my feet”-pardon my pun, again. But, in my defense, I have a problem with shoes. I buy the wrong shoes much too often. I couldn’t even count how many pairs of shoes are in my closet. Many of them go unworn- because in the shoe store they seem perfectly comfortable, then when I wear them for one day, I either get blisters or I become somewhat crippled. I don’t have a good track record for shoes, in spite of the fact that I have a lot of them. I also have bad feet. Hammer toes. I probably need surgery. But every time I considered having the surgery, I had an occasion coming up. The thought of wearing one of those grotesque boots on one foot and a flat shoe on the other did not appeal to me or my vanity, so I opted to suffer the pain.

In the ‘70s, I used to wear those huge platform shoes. It gave me the opportunity to be 4-5 inches taller than my original 5 feet. Once I learned how to walk in those shoes I was happy to have a taller image, except of course, when the taller girls would wear the same platform shoes and it all would be relative and spoil my illusion. My dad, peeking out from the newspaper he was always reading, used to shake his head and say, “The men who invented those shoes must hate women.” I would just shrug off his comments and click my tongue at him. “You’re going to kill yourself in those shoes!” he would yell. I did break my foot once from a pair of shoes, but those were my Aerosoles and they were low heeled and practical. My foot just turned in a hole in a parking lot; I could hear the crack in my fourth metatarsal of my left foot. Six miserable weeks in a cast only confirmed my decision not to go for foot surgery and have to schlep one of those boots around while I healed. The whole broken foot experience has always left me a little bit shoe-shy, nonetheless, because if I could break my foot in a sensible pair of shoes, who knows what can happen in a high pair of “lady-hater” shoes?

My best shopping is always done when I least expect it. Take my puppy for example; I had no intention of buying him. We were in the Delco Plaza shopping center by my house, intending to go to the pizza store. We took a short detour to the pet store and four hours later there I was carrying Sonny out to the car. We never did get to have pizza that day. This past Thursday, my 32^nd wedding anniversary, I went to Delco Plaza. My intention was to go to the card store to buy Mark a card. This time my detour was Shoes, Etc., a little boutique that has a great selection of shoes, clothes, bags and costume jewelry. I’ve bought a lot in that store, so I decided to check it out to see if my shoes for my dress would be in there. Immediately, when I walked in, the owner asked me if I was looking for anything special. “As a matter of fact, I’m looking for a silver pair of shoes to wear to my daughter’s wedding.” Remembering, the exchange between Barbara and Roselee, I added, “They need to be stylish and comfortable at the same time.” “Okay,” the owner said, “I have the perfect pair for you.” And after disappearing in the back of the store, he came out with a box and took out these sparkly silver gorgeous pair of platform heals. There were rhinestones everywhere, even on the three-inch heel. “They’re lovely,” I said, “but will they be comfortable?” “These are the most comfortable shoes, I promise you,” he replied. “I’m a little suspicious about men who tell me high heels are comfortable,” I told him. “My father warned me about them,” I added. “I promise you. Try them on.” I sat down. He removed all the tissue packing and put the shoe on my foot and even buckled the strap. This was unusual.

The several last pairs of shoes I bought were in either DSW or MJM- a warehouse for shoes, they call it. And that’s the way it feels. You walk in and there are countless aisles of shoes that make you dizzy and lightheaded. You have to walk down all these aisles in search of a shoe and then find your size. Usually there are at least ten other shoeboxes piled on top of the shoebox with your size on it, if there is a shoebox with your size on it. Of course you have to put the shoe on yourself once you find a place to sit and then find a mirror to check out how they look. Then you have to take the shoes with you, if you are considering them, as your search continues down all the other dozens of aisles. Naturally I am the klutz who can’t manage carrying the shoeboxes gracefully in my quest. I’m dropping the box or the lid to the box. One of the shoes goes rolling down an aisle. I look like a world-class idiot. That’s when one of the 15 year-old people who work in the store comes over to offer me one of those netted bags to carry the shoeboxes in. Then I really feel like an idiot. But they never offer to find me my size or buckle my shoe for me. Ever. That’s why I have been putting off shoe shopping and that’s why Shoes, Etc. should be the only place to buy my shoes from now on. A shoe store should make you feel like Cinderella. Not only did the owner of Shoes, Etc. buckle both my shoes, he even got another size for me to try on and buckled both of those, too. And he got me a cushioned insert when I told him the ball of my feet hurt a little. But what really “swept me off my feet” was when he said, “A beautiful woman like you needs a pair of shoes as beautiful as this.” He happened to be right about them being comfortable because the platform balanced out the high heal. Just in case, though, he told me to take the shoes home and wear them around the house for a week to make sure they’re comfortable. He would take them back and return my money if I’m not happy.

So I found my shoes on my 32^nd wedding anniversary. It was also the day that there was speculation that a possible tornado touched down on Great Neck, Long Island, where Mark works. I will always remember this because Mark kept calling me while I was in the shoe store to give me updates- this also reminded me to get him an anniversary card, the original reason I went to Delco Plaza in the first place.

I have been wearing my shoes about a half hour every day in the house, as recommended. Today I even danced in them while Sonny watched me curiously. The first day I felt a stab of pain in my right pinky toe, but today, there was no pain at all. I think I’m going to keep them. 69 days and one step closer….

Spring Shower

2010-06-20T09:13:00.000-07:00

We are bidding farewell to spring, 2010. It’s a sad farewell because this past spring was just about the loveliest I will ever remember (except for Lindsay’s hospital stays). The weather could not have been better, summer-like days, few rain-showers. And one big shower- the bridal shower that we threw for Lindsay- that turned out as picture perfect and charming as any I could have imagined. I could look back on that day with a smile and a sense of accomplishment.

It was a mild Sunday morning in the beginning of January, one of the very few, that Kim and I traveled from east to west, then west to east on Jericho Turnpike to search for a venue. We began in Floral Park- the Queens-Long Island border. My friend, Dorothea, recommended the first place we went to. The minute we walked into it, Kim and I said simultaneously, “This is it.” With its coral painted Tuscany- styled ambience, an outdoor garden and nostalgic brightly colored paintings, including one of the “Little Rascals”, it just took our breath away. It was named after the Little Rascals’ teacher. How serendipitous is that? I was a teacher. Kim is a teacher. Lindsay is a teacher assistant. I couldn’t have dreamed a place more perfect. And they served brunch! That’s just what I wanted- a bridal shower brunch! (Although, Lindsay did say afterwards that she’s really not a breakfast person- who knew?) Kim and I went through the motions of looking at other places on Jericho Turnpike, even though we left a $100 deposit, immmediately; it was just for something to spend the rest of the day on. Not one place compared and not one place served brunch. It was settled.

Lindsay wanted a surprise shower. We kept the secret very well. We even showed her the invitations, at her insistence, covering the date and the place. She had no idea- she thought she was going to her cousins’ graduation party. Her aunt even sent out faux e-vites. And then someone blew it, with a slip of the tongue, a week before. We came so far and then one sentence just ruined the whole surprise. Lindsay was quite upset, naturally. I was almost relieved- first, because I was not the one to slip, then, because I didn’t have to conceal everything anymore. Then Lindsay said- I want everything else to be a surprise- the decorations, the games, the centerpieces. Centerpieces? Did she say centerpieces? What centerpieces? I had decorations- I put together a wishing well, which Kim and Lindsay’s friend, Jaime, decorated beautifully. Jaime also made a cake, which was gorgeous beyond all expectations. Best friend, Lisa, had all the games planned. Sister-in-law, Michele, had a special poem planned. What centerpieces? And then Lisa told me she’s doing the centerpiece game where someone at each table wins the centerpiece. I knew the restaurant was putting vases with fresh flowers at each table. I doubted they would allow anyone to take them home. I had to, now, in one week, think of what to do for six centerpieces that someone would want to win, no less. Back to Michael’s, the craft store. Back to the Styrofoam aisle, and the scrapbook section and coming up with different ways you can use pipe cleaners and decorative foam hearts. I went to sleep, each night, trying to think of ideas. And then it came to me in a discount store a block away from my office. I spotted bracelets- six of them- exactly the same as the one Lindsay and Scott brought me home from Aruba. That would be a nice prize. As if there was a muse placing a symbolic light bulb above my head, I thought of THE CENTERPIECES. Each table had a vase, filled with sparkling rocks, with one of the bracelets wrapped around it. Coming out of the vase were pipe cleaners with foam sparkling hearts and in the center, was a Styrofoam heart, covered in a sparkle foam sheet of either gold, white or silver and bearing one of the theme words for the ingredients to a happy marriage- Live, Love, Laugh, Dream, Trust, and Faith (also Lindsay’s middle name). The place cards, instead of having the boring: Table 1, 2, etc., had Live, Love, Laugh, etc. It took me one night to design and decorate the centerpieces. What a relief, then I realized I never wrote a speech.

I googled “Bridal Showers” for inspiration because I couldn’t think of what to write for Lindsay’s speech- me, the writer, or writer wannabe. I found out some interesting facts- like showers began in 1890 for girls who were too poor to have a dowry. The intention was to “shower” the bride with gifts to fill her home. I needed the muse that helped me think of the centerpieces to return and inspire me to write a suitable speech to give to my daughter on the day of her shower. Kim and my mom became my muse and assisted me with writing the following poem:

To my daughter, Lindsay, on her Bridal Shower:

Showers

On the day you were born, I loved you so,

I showered you with kisses from head to toe.

As a baby and a toddler you were my bundle of joy,

And I showered you with all kinds of toys.

Quickly you grew and clothes became your passion,

I showered you with things to wear in the latest fashion.

When you became a teen and outgrew all your toys,

I had to shower you with caution about all those boys.

And now your wedding day is almost here; soon you will be a spouse,

So, we’re showering you with gifts to fill the rooms of your house.

May married life ahead be bright and sunny,

And your days be showered with love from your honey.

And whatever showers come your way,

May the love in your heart be the sunshine to brighten your day.

Holding a glass of champagne punch, I toasted Lindsay after reading her poem, above. A delicious brunch was served; although, my bride-to-be daughter had a special dish of lobster ravioli prepared just for her, because she’s not a breakfast person. She can’t even pronounce the word “breakfast”- it comes out “brefixt”, for some strange reason. We tease her about it all the time. Ironically, as I write this on father’s day morning, Lindsay is cooking pancakes for her dad.

Lindsay’s shower is a beautiful distant memory. Everything turned out as wonderful as we had hoped. The games were a success, the food was delicious and the cake- was the “belle of the ball”. Even the weather cooperated. Thunderstorms were predicted all week, threatening the use of the outdoor garden, but thankfully they didn’t come until after all the gifts were packed into the car and we drove away, tired, relieved and ecstatic all at once.

I thought of all the stress that proceeded this important event in our wedding journey, how at one point, I even said, “I can’t wait for it to be over.” But when I was in the moment, looking at my two pretty daughters smiling and my beautiful mother kvelling*, I wanted to freeze time. My friend, Roselee, said to me- “We stress over all these occasions and it all works out in the end and then they’re over in a minute, and you say to yourself now what do I do?” She was so right.

The next day on Monday, I worked with a group of teachers. One of them just had her wedding that previous Friday; I could tell when I looked at her perfectly French manicured nails with a line of silver glitter on each one. She looked almost sad when she talked about her wedding. “I feel like I didn’t even get to enjoy it and now it’s over,” she told me, dolefully. It was a quick reminder of how we have to live in each moment and a caution to me about making sure how we all must thoroughly enjoy the wedding yet to come.

*kvell- (Yiddish) to beam with pride and pleasure

Moon Over Mumbai

2010-06-06T06:19:00.000-07:00

Sounds soothing and romantic, even a little mysterious, right? It’s actually the name of my nail polish. Well, not even nail polish- my new soak-off gel lacquer. It’s the latest fad in manicures- stays on for two weeks, doesn’t chip, protects your nails and lets them grow without ruining them. If you don’t want to continue, you just soak them off and you are free of any future obligation, if you so choose. I chose to continue- the cost is a little more than a manicure, but it lasts longer. And now I have ten equally long, beautifully manicured “Moon Over Mumbai” nails. Prior to this, I had been neglecting my nails for a while. With the wedding approaching, I had to think about covering all the bases. I went through the whole acrylic period and wrap period. This entailed commitments, which were more time consuming than the soak-off gel lacquer. Add that to my commitment to touching up my roots and I was a slave to my appearance. And then you have routine visits to the gym, of which I am a shameful slacker. In the summer, you must get pedicures, lest anyone sees your just plain feet. Oh and I failed to mention all the hair removal requirements. The curse of being a woman is working hard to improve every detail of your body, while your body constantly has its own agenda.

Of course, when you’re in your fifties, you get a slight break with menopause when you no longer have to worry about your friend, “Flo” showing up. But then, the side effects are the hot flashes, which cause the $50 dollar make-up that you just scrupulously applied to hide all your wrinkles and discolorations, stream down your décolletage. As you are trying to salvage whatever make-up remains, you notice a whisker, dark and daring jutting out of your chin. You swear that whisker was not there two minutes ago when you were putting on your makeup. That thing never would have missed your eyesight, even though your vision is getting weaker. The whisker is disgusting. At the beginning I had taken to naming each one- after the seven dwarfs- “Grumpy”, “Bashful”, “Dopey”, etc. Now, I just name them all “Godzilla”, after the beast that they really are. I scrounge through my drawer to locate my tweezers to remove Godzilla. Naturally, I can’t find the tweezers right away. I curse in frustration; but my determination takes over because I will never leave my house knowing that beast is hanging onto my chin. Do you know what the most essential beauty product is? Answer-a good pair of tweezers- yes, that’s it. I have a pager for my cordless phone, which I am constantly losing. I need a pager for my tweezers, because they are more important. While anxiously digging through my cosmetics drawer, stuffed with things I don’t have any idea why I keep in there anymore because I haven’t used them in years (bobby pins, for example), I notice my lovely “Moon Over Mumbai” nails. I stop to admire them. My instant calm brings on good karma and I spot my tweezers sparkling under an ancient pot of lip-gloss. I raise the tweezers to pluck out the beast- he is thick and bold, but I win, with the help of the magnification side of my makeup mirror. Like a surgeon, I carefully remove this persistent, unwanted growth. Beauty conquers the Beast.

It’s a battle, a constant battle to maintain your beauty. But in that battle you still need to preserve your sanity. That means finding the right places to assist in your beautification regimen. That’s a job in itself. You need a place that is not a factory and that makes you feel special. My hair salon is perfect for this because there’s cappuccino, which the assistants will bring to you. And there’s my hairdresser, Teresa, who is also my quasi-therapist. We were using a nail salon, that didn’t look like the typical nail salons. It had a huge rock garden landscape with water cascading amongst tropical plants. The whole ambiance was aesthetic and relaxing; however, it was located in a strip mall with a very popular grocery store and the parking lot was a nightmare. By the time you got a spot, and got into the salon, you wanted to bang your head against the rock garden.

One weekend, Kim and Lindsay and I drove around searching the neighborhoods for other nail places. There was one on each corner, sometimes even two, but none of them offered the atmosphere of the one we were using. Until Kim, on her own, discovered a new one, just opening, five minutes away with a much better parking lot. There was no rock garden, but there were comfy couches, dark wood floors and it looked like Architectural Digest inside. As a matter of fact, amongst the magazines to read, there were several copies of Architectural Digest. The owner explained that she used the magazine to decorate. She wanted an atmosphere to relax her clients and keep them feeling that this is a time for them to pamper their bodies. When you get your pedicure, it’s in a bamboo bucket and the huge cushioned leather chair reclines all the way as they give you a fourteen-minute foot and leg massage, included in the price. Kim did good. This is our new place for our manis and pedis. We even reserved the date for the whole wedding party.

Getting beautiful and pampered simultaneously. Who needs a battle all the time in the quest for beauty? If you have to spend so much time on your appearance, why not do it with tranquility? I’m even thinking of cancelling my gym membership and joining a yoga studio. I just need to find one that charges only $10 per month.

Kink

2010-05-23T07:50:00.000-07:00

Two weeks ago on a Thursday after work I went with Lindsay to look for a headpiece and veil. There was a trunk show at the store where she bought her wedding gown. She put on a sample of her dress to match it up to the veil. Mary Lou, the salesperson that sold it to her, was there. Lindsay had weighed almost 90 pounds on that night; she had put on some much needed weight after having pancreatitis. It took two hours to decide that the first headpiece she tried on was the one she wanted and to find a veil reaching her fingertips with enough “bling”. Bling should be Lindsay’s other middle name. Bling is in the description of everything that Lindsay has ordered to plan this wedding. “It has to have bling,” she says, with a sparkle in her brown eyes and a nod of her head. Even the invitations, which didn’t come with bling, had bling inserted onto them. A tiny luminous Swarovski crystal was carefully glued onto the middle of each motif at the top of every invitation, over 100 of them. There was an intense discussion beforehand about whether to put one crystal or three. Too much bling can be tacky while just the right amount of bling is elegant.

The headpiece and veil were blingy and elegant, with a price tag that defied my imagination. I had no idea toile, which weighs next to nothing, can be so expensive. Both the headpiece and veil cost more than half the price of what I paid for the dress. I nearly fell off the fancy little cushioned stool I was sitting on when Mary Lou brought me the sales ticket. I suddenly realized that the phrase “What price range are you looking in?” was never stated. Exhausted and in a small state of shock, I just handed over my credit card, which Mary Lou had to release from my tense grip. I regretted that moment dearly. But how could I say no after we had invested two hours of our time deciding? However, two days later, my practicality triumphed when I explained to Lindsay that it was just outrageous to spend so much, without looking into other options. She had heard about a lady, Adi, who sells headpieces and veils from her home. We cancelled the order and made an appointment with Adi for the following Friday night. Then came the kink.

The kink was revealed on Wednesday night. Lindsay had to go back for the procedure to remove both stents that the doctor had put in her to repair her twisted pancreatic duct and bile duct. The stent from her pancreatic duct was supposed to pass naturally, but didn’t. It had to be removed with the same procedure that he did to place it in there. So, he decided, why go back to remove the other one and have to go through anesthesia again? Let’s just remove everything. The appointment was set for Wednesday morning and Mark was going to go with her because I had to work in Stamford, Connecticut that day. I was really not happy about not being there for the procedure, but Lindsay would not change the appointment. I left my cell phone on while I was doing my workshop to keep in contact with Mark. At about 11:30, he called to tell me that recovery did not go so well. They suspected she had to be admitted into the hospital again. I was 50 miles away. I left Stamford, Connecticut, flying down the rain-slicked I-95; I do not think the wheels of my car hit the pavement at all. I was not aware of the speed I was travelling, but I do remember the constant hum inside the car as I defied time to get to my daughter. If you listen carefully, you can hear panic; it envelops you in a vacuum. It forces you to focus on every uncomfortable millisecond that passes. It is callous and insensitive.

When I arrived at the hospital, Lindsay was being admitted to a different unit this time, a private room in the “M” wing. She was still in a drowsy state from the anesthesia, but it was clear she was in a lot of pain again. Her amylase level was 2003; lipase was 8232. Higher than the last time. Pancreatitis, round two. Dr. Stark explained the problem. A kink. There was a kink in her bile duct, like a kink in a hose. The cause for the kink was a choledochal cyst, which is a congenital deformity. It occurs during the first 45 days of fetal development. It was my fault, after all, I felt. What did I do during those first vital days? I had to do something wrong- take an aspirin, perhaps, or twist in the wrong direction. It’s silly to blame myself, I know, but nevertheless, I do. What’s so cruel is that this has revealed itself during what is supposed to be one of the happiest times of our lives. I take a deep breath. It is not a sigh of relief. It is a sigh of anticipation. For now, the doctor had to put in a new stent, one with pig-tails that rotates and will hopefully correct the kink. If that doesn’t work, he will try a different stent. If that doesn’t work-surgery- very invasive, complicated surgery. One day at a time; I say; we will take it one day at a time. And hope for the best.

The stent has to stay in for at least three months. That is three weeks before the wedding. It is too risky to remove it then because every time he does the procedure, there’s a great chance that she will get pancreatitis again. So, Dr. Stark says he will wait until after the wedding. The stent walks down the aisle with Lindsay. In sickness and in health….with or without stents. The honeymoon has to be postponed because there is risk of infection. She can take antibiotics with her, but I say no- I am not letting her go to St. Lucia with a stent and a pill. She will have to wait. One day at a time. And hope for the best.

I returned to work last Monday. Thursday I went to my office. I sleep deeply on the Long Island Railroad, now. As I walk through Penn Station, I carry a heavy burden on my shoulders, blending in with the frenetic hustle of the crowds of people. Sometimes, there is a man who plays an organ, right before the entrance to the “2” subway. He was there this Thursday. He is in his eighties, I think, with silvery white hair and leathery brown skin. He must have osteoporosis, because his head hangs down over his slumped neck. Maybe he has a kink, too. A mechanical monkey claps its cymbals right beside the baskets where people drop their money in for his music. He plays the same song all the time. I always stop, no matter how hurried I am, and find some coins or a dollar to place in one of the baskets. And every time I do, without fail, he lifts his heavy head, and waves his hand to thank me. His smile is broad and sincere. It is in that moment, I am almost certain of the presence of G-d. It is the organ-player’s smile that lifts the burden from my shoulders.

This time, Lindsay was in the hospital for five days. She is now 87.9 pounds. We went to Adi, the veil lady’s house yesterday. We found a veil with bling that costs $250 less than the veil in the store. She will make a similar headpiece for $200 less. We continue with our wedding planning, even with a kink in the journey. One day at a time. And whenever I feel the weight of the kink I think of my organ playing man lifting his head and smiling. And I hope for the best.

This is blog #36. 36 is double chai. Chai in Hebrew means 18 and life....a good sign.

Palindrome

2010-05-09T05:35:00.000-07:00

Mom. The word mom is a palindrome. A palindrome is a word or phrase, which reads the same in both directions. It is derived from the Greek palindromos, meaning running back again. Didn’t the father in My Big Fat Greek Wedding say that the root of every word is Greek? I guess he was right.

It makes sense that mom is a palindrome; it should be the example- the mother of all palindromes, don’t you think?

Mom begins life and life begins mom. That’s a palindrome sentence. It’s also a true statement.

My Mom-

Sweet Sylvia. Funny lady, my mom. My main gal. The one who’s always there for me, anywhere, anytime. Sylvia started “late in life” getting married and having children. Of course, what was considered late in life in 1952 was 28 years old. Lindsay will be almost 28 when she gets married, but in 2010, that’s considered just about right. Funny how things change.

Sylvia was told by her doctor, sometime in 1953, that she probably wouldn’t be able to have any children, after unsuccessfully trying to get pregnant. She went home, dejected, and decided with George (my dad) that they would just go on and make a life without kids. Doctors can be wrong, though, and in April 1954, Sylvia had Marjorie, a strawberry blonde, green- eyed little girl, inheriting my father’s fair features. Then in April 1956, she had me- dark like her- black hair, dark brown eyes. Claire was born on my birthday (never forgave her) in 1958. Three girls in a row; the April girls.

Genevieve, our next-door neighbor and mom’s good friend, had four kids. When her youngest was born, I begged my mother to have another baby. I remember it well. I was by the stove while Mom was cooking, pleading with her to have a baby. “No,” she told me, “three is enough.” The next thing I recall was being in the car with my parents, returning from the doctor and trying to eavesdrop on their conversation. Mom was upset, but I sort of got the gist. “Are you having another baby?” I asked, excitedly. “Yes,” she said impatiently, while she was deeply embroiled in the discussion with my dad. I was elated. I kind of got that Mom was not. That’s because she was scared. She was pregnant, but also had a tumor, which she carried along with the baby for nine months. In April 1962, my brother, Martin, Sylvia’s miracle boy, was born. He was over eight pounds; the tumor was the size of a grapefruit. But all was well. And my dad smiled from ear to ear. I could touch that smile; it is so vivid in my memory.

Four kids and my mom; we were her life. I knew that. And through most of it, she had her mom, Grandma Fanny, living with us. She took care of her mom and us. Her life began with us- the life she always wanted- to be a mother. It was her job- basically her only job. She will tell us stories, new stories all the time about her life before us. They are wonderful stories- but to me- my mom will always be my mom and that is where her life began for me. Mom begins life.

Me, a Mom?

I remember the day that I told my mom that I would probably not ever have children. I said to her “looking at young girls wheeling babies in carriages depresses me.” I could just picture the puzzled expression on her face. But she didn’t dissuade me; she just said, “Okay. Whatever you want. Just make sure you finish college and are able to support yourself- whether you have children or not.” Best advice she ever gave me. She always listened carefully, never really told me what to do; just planted seeds. She was a seed-planting mom.

Well the rest is history. I met Mark, fell in love, got married and my life began again when I found out I was pregnant. Three months later, I began to bleed heavily and thought for sure I had miscarried. I went to the doctor and after the examination he told me that the pregnancy was probably terminated. He sent me for a sonogram to check further. In 1982 you had to wait to go for a sonogram, which was usually done in the hospital. I had to wait two long days. In those two days, my pants wouldn’t close and on the night before the sonogram, I felt a strange sensation in my stomach, like butterflies. But I still believed what the doctor told me- there was no baby anymore. Doctors can be wrong, though. And while the technician was doing the sonogram, she said, perfunctorily, “there’s the baby’s heart, beating.” “What baby?” I said, shocked. “Your baby,” she laughed. Life begins mom.

On September 19, 1982, my life began as a mom to Lindsay and on August 1, 1986, my life began as a mom to Kimberly. I had a life before. It was a good life. This one is better. I am blessed.

I found the first Mother’s Day card I ever got that was hand-made by Lindsay. It said “Happy Mother’s Day” on the front. She put dots on the bottom of all the letters to make the print fancier and glued on colored glitter in the shape of hearts. Inside it said:

Thank for…giving me what I really need and that’s a hug I love you

To: Mom

and for…buying what I need

and for…giving me love and care.

and for….helping me with my homework.

and for….kissing my boo-boo

and for…Taking me to school from: Lindsay

Lindsay and Kimberly…thank you for giving me a life as your mom. And Mom, thank you for giving me a life.

Mom begins life and life begins mom. A very special palindrome.

The moment a child is born, the mother is also born. She never existed before. The woman existed, but the mother, never. A mother is something absolutely new. ~Rajneesh

Happy Mother’s Day.

Flashback, Flash Forward

2010-05-02T06:40:00.000-07:00

No matter how much I try to remain in the present, my mind takes over and I have either a flashback or flash forward. Of course, there are times that I’m just having a hot flash and disconsolately in the present for that. It is May, already. April came and went in a flash. The day of my birthday, the 22^nd, was uneventful, a day of work like any other; until I was surprised at home when Mark, Lindsay, Scott and Kim hid Sonny from me and then brought him out, golden fur, decorated with a red bow. I got my first “mother-in-law” birthday card from Scott, which I will treasure always. And then Phil and Phyllis- Scott’s parents- yes, I chuckle every time I say their names together, too- came over to join in singing me happy birthday while I blew out the candles on a fancy cake.

126 days left of this journey. Thursday, at last, Scott and Lindsay officially closed on their house. That was a journey in itself, with the typical back and forth of uncertainties and frustrations of buying a home and getting a mortgage. Even up to the day before the closing, there was a problem and they were unsure that the deal was going to go through. A roller-coaster ride, just like most anything in life. I kept telling them, “Everything will be alright, you’ll see.” And, luckily, I was right; my daughter and future son-in-law will reside in a lovely little cape five minutes away from us, four if there’s light traffic on Jerusalem for a left-turn and I make the light on Hempstead Turnpike. When people ask me how far it is and I tell them this, I add- “it’s as far as the umbilical cord will stretch." It’s also five minutes away from Phyllis’ and Phil’s house- equidistant to both sets of parents- one set to the north and one set to the south. I flashback to the days when Mark and I got our first apartment- a stone’s throw away from each of our parents. Friday night dinner at my parent's house, Sunday night dinner at Mark’s.

And now the work begins- breaking down old walls, putting up new walls- demolishing, building and making it their own. I came home from work early on Thursday and Kim and I decided to go over to Scott and Lindsay's house to congratulate them. Before we did, I called my best friend, Meryl, in Florida to find out what the traditional things to bring to a new home were. She told me sugar, salt, bread, a candlestick and matches. Although she couldn’t really explain what each one stands for. My mom, as always had most of the answers; sugar is for a sweet life, salt is for a little spice, bread- so they should always “have what to eat”. She never heard of the candlestick and matches. I brought them birthday candles and decided that it meant they should celebrate a lot of birthdays there. Who knows; it sounded good. The sugar, salt, bread, birthday candles and matches went in a large red gift bag and of course, I also bought them one of those sappy little plaques with a sappy little saying about a home. Kimberly bought them a beautiful azalea, bursting with pink buds.

Lindsay greeted us at the door, holding a large Ziploc bag filled with ice on her head. “What happened?” I asked, a little panicky. “I got hit by a hammer,” she responded. “Your future son-in-law lost the grip to the hammer because his hands were all sweaty. It went flying…and landed right onto the top of my head. He said it was like it was happening in slow motion and I told him it couldn’t have been that slow, because I had no time to move away from the flying hammer.” Always a little drama when it comes to Lindsay. It makes sense that she’s an actress.

I looked around at Scott and Lindsay’s future home; presently the floors are filled with torn sheet rock and nails. Lindsay led us around, explaining how the furniture will be placed and how they will rearrange the kitchen. I tried to flash forward beyond the demolition to picture what it will look like. My mind got carried away as I walked to the backyard and I could almost hear my future grandchildren giggling and playing in the grass. I shook myself back to reality, when I noticed how overgrown and weedy the grass was and the monstrous, diseased tree, smack in the middle, that must, unfortunately be cut down.

It’s a lot of work that needs to be done. But they are young and strong and have handy, wonderful friends to help them, besides for Mark, who is excited to be part of this project. When I got home later, I noticed Lindsay and Scott’s boxes, still piled by the wall of my dining room. “Another few weeks,” I tell the boxes, “and you’ll be out of here.” I am happy and a bit sad all at once.

By the time we returned home, it was too late to make dinner. Mark and Kim and I decided to go to our favorite diner. We were sitting next to two older couples, who caught my eye for some reason. As they left, the older of the two gentlemen, slowly and carefully got up from his seat. I could tell this was difficult for him. He was bent over, his spine circling towards the floor. His wife, looking much younger and better than he, helped him put his jacket on. And that’s when it clicked. I realized that the older man was my former boss, the one I worked for when I was getting married. He and his wife were even at our wedding. I saw perhaps a glimmer of recognition in her expression, but I chose not to say anything to them. I whispered, excitedly to Mark, “You know who that was- Al- my old boss. Look how old he got.”

Then the flashbacks began, as a comfort, at first. Mark and I had both worked in the store where I worked for Al- at the jewelry concession. Mark had worked in the small appliance department, before I got the job. It’s where we met. I had bought a tape recorder from Mark and he called me to find out how I liked it and then he asked me out. The rest is history, as they say. It’s also where I met Meryl; we worked together. Mark and I started reminiscing about all the people, who worked with us, telling Kim the stories from the past. There was Bebe, the alcoholic, who worked in the jewelry department, too, who fell asleep one night smoking a cigarette and set her apartment on fire. She wanted to get a face-lift because her skin was so wrinkled from the booze and cigarettes, but she was too chicken to do it, so she sent her husband first, as the guinea pig. He ended up getting the face-lift and looked 20 years younger than she did; she never got up the courage to do it herself. Then there was Fran, tall skinny, nutty Fran, with her huge boobs that entered any room two minutes before she did. We laughed, remembering the time she was rushing past Meryl who was pregnant with Matthew then. Her boobs literally knocked Meryl into the garbage pail. I could just picture Meryl, sitting in that pail, with her enormous belly sticking up and her feet dangling on either side. We were laughing so hard that we couldn’t get her out of the pail. Flashbacks.

That night, after all the memories faded, as I was lying beside Mark in bed, I thought of Al and how old he got. He had to be younger than we were now when we got married. Maybe he was close to 80 now. 32 years. The flash forward started to come over me. “Mark,” I said, with angst, “He got so old.” “Who?” he answered, trying to sleep. “Al. He got so old. It’s only 32 years. Just think, that will be us in 32 years. We’ll be old like that. Maybe even bent over, like Al. It’s so depressing. And that’s if we even make it another 32 years.”

“Go to sleep, Jeannie,” Mark sighed, “Let’s just get through tomorrow.”

Wedding Dresses, Puppies, and April Rain

2010-04-25T06:19:00.000-07:00

Good things. Spring is about suddenly noticing all the green that’s around and tulips- colorful and optimistic, alongside azalea bushes- with their ephemeral pink blossoms. It’s about listening carefully for singing birds that have returned. It’s about enjoying the sound of fresh April rain pattering on a Sunday morning while a playful, curious, happy puppy bites his toys, misbehaving occasionally to chew the shoes someone left out or the bottom of the furniture. Winter is a distant memory, its colorless, acrimonious resolve carried away.

Lindsay was released from the hospital on Tuesday, all 88 pounds of her. She had lost 6 pounds. When I brought her home, it reaffirmed my decision to get my puppy, Sonny, who greeted her excitedly, as she entered the house. It’s still melancholy coming home without Coco loyally awaiting our return; but that sadness is diminished with our golden boy jumping into your arms and licking your face with puppy kisses (not to mention the fact that he blends in perfectly with the color of our couch). I know the antibiotics cured Lindsay in the hospital, but the spring sunshine and fragrant air and Sonny are helping to restore her health more at home. She is trying to introduce food back into her system, gradually, to put her weight back on, so that her wedding dress doesn’t fall off of her.

Yesterday, the three of us, Kim, Lindsay and I, went to the bridal shop to see Lindsay’s wedding dress for the first time. Of course, we had seen her in the dress, before, but this was her dress- the one that was ordered to fit her petite little body. We were supposed to do this last Thursday, but pancreatitis stole that moment from us. We stood outside the door as the salesgirl helped Lindsay get dressed. This is one of those moments in life, when you want to stop time, just to take in each and every precious detail. The anticipation of seeing your girl in her dress for the first time…and then the door opens and there she is. My heart, breaking just a week ago from seeing Lindsay curled up in a hospital bed, is rejuvenated from this delicate and beautiful sight. It takes my breath away.

It is Sunday morning. Everyone is sleeping, except for me. I am enjoying the green outside my window, the rain quietly beating on the lawn and thinking about my girl in her wedding dress.

Amylase- 526, Lipase-2000

2010-04-18T05:48:00.000-07:00

4/17-18/10

I didn’t know about amylase or lipase until now, nor did I need to know. I expected this journey was going to be about learning and using the vocabulary of wedding planning- such as “crumb catcher” neckline, names for exotic flowers and even new names for colors- like purple haze. I feel as if I am in a haze right now…my insides feel raw and exposed, my shoulders are heavy with the weight of anxiety. My little bride lies in a bed 10 minutes away in a hospital I passed quite often that gave me no reason to enter before now. She is in pain- a pain I wish to grasp and set into my own body. But nature only gives us the ability to feel the pain while we are birthing them and then we are helpless after that.

I never imagined being bombarded by all this medical jargon and have to know it and understand it. But who plans on being in so many hospitals in one year? Beginning with me and my heart valves, I know more about the parts of the body, how they function and various diagnostic terms than my little middle aged brain can handle. And that’s even with being a fan of Grey’s Anatomy, Private Practice and House. Lindsay’s lipase levels are at 2000 (down from 6000). They should be at anywhere between 150 and 286. Her amylase levels are at 526. Normal range for those levels is between 50 and 115. I am sitting by her hospital bed looking at the pink blossoms on the tree outside the window reminding me spring is here. The hum of nurses outside the door reminds me we are here. In the hospital. Again.

It began with a stomachache, with the typical symptoms…nausea, vomiting, etc., etc. Three weeks. Doctor visits. Sonograms, MRIs, CAT scans, blood tests. Gall bladder? Maybe. Her bile duct (the tube that leads from her gall bladder to aid in the digestion process) was dilated (enlarged) to 11 millimeters when it should be 5 millimeters. This means there is a blockage- gallstones one would think. But the sonograms, MRIs, CAT scans reveal no gallstones. Doctor is stumped, sends Lindsay to a gastroenterologist, who is also stumped, sends her to a specialist, Dr. Stark, who is my hero. He gets the Hallmark card now. Dr. Stark does a procedure called ERCP. ERCP? Definition: endoscopic retrograde cholangio pancreatography. This is a technique in which an endoscope, with a camera on its end, is passed down the esophagus, through the stomach, and into the duodenum. The entrance of the common bile duct into the duodenum can be viewed through the endoscope. Next, the surgeon can pass a special instrument on the end of the endoscope into the common bile duct as it enters the duodenum. Did I lose you? Welcome to my world of gastroenterology. In simpler terms, I have beautiful pictures of my daughter from her engagement photos and lovely pictures of her bile duct, gall bladder, liver and pancreas, not to mention the rest of her digestive system. Included in those photos are two stents, which the doctor inserted so that he could fix her “plumbing”. She also had a sphincterotomy, which means “cutting of the sphincter or muscle that lies at the juncture of the intestine with both the bile and pancreatic ducts”. In other words, Dr. Stark fixed that, as well. He calls himself a “plumber for the stomach”. I call him my champion. The real root of the cause- a genetic anomaly- her pancreatic duct crossed over her bile duct. At least I’m pretty sure that’s what it was, after a very patient Dr. Stark, explained it to me about nine times.

This was supposed to be a morning procedure, in and out- in by 8am, out by 12pm. Recovery was supposed to be easy. Lindsay even made an appointment to try on her wedding dress that night, which had just come in last week. Plans. Plans. Plans. What did John Lennon say? Life is what happens while you are busy making other plans. Smart man, John Lennon.

Recovery was not easy. Poor Lindsay was in too much pain. “What could it be?” I asked. “Pancreatitis,” Mary, the attending nurse said, hesitantly. “What is that?” I asked, my head hurting from too much information at this point. “Inflammation of the pancreas,” Mary, replied. Mary is also on my “Heroes” list. Mary was very funny. She kept on telling Scott that this is good practice for the next 60 years. When Lindsay asked him to throw away her used tissue, Mary said, “Get used to it. One day, she’ll be asking you to put her teeth in a jar.” Anyway, at 1pm we knew, she wasn’t getting any better. She had to be admitted into this hospital, that I had passed so many times, without a second thought.

And now she has been in the hospital for four days. Pancreatitis. Lipase- 2000; Amylase- 526. Lipase and amylase- these are the digestive enzymes made by the pancreas. Now I know this and so do you. Pancreatitis- another “itis”. Add that to the list of the maladies my 27-year old daughter has faced in her lifetime- appendicitis, viral meningitis, three surgeries and a broken wrist. My heart breaks. My sister and brother-in-law came and brought my mom to the hospital yesterday. She sat down next to Lindsay, reached for and held her hand. She didn’t say a word. But in those few minutes, her actions spoke all the emotions I am feeling. I am broken. I want to cry out to G-d, if he is there, if he will listen. “Why?” “Why now?” All of this- me, my dog, my daughter- why? And I hear nothing but the lyrics to John Lennon’s song-

Out on the ocean sailing away,

I can hardly wait,

To see you to come of age,

But I guess we'll both,

Just have to be patient,

Yes it's a long way to go,

But in the meantime,

Before you cross the street,

Take my hand,

Life is just what happens to you,

While you’re busy making other plans..

It is Sunday, now. Spring is what’s happening while my daughter is in the hospital, still. The birds are singing outside my kitchen window; the trees are turning from white and pink blossoms to green. It is quiet as the sun slowly rises, casting light against the lawn and touching my shoulder. My little puppy, Sonny, sleeps sweetly and quietly in his crate; Kim and Mark are sleeping, too. The only ones awake right now are me, worry and concern. I am anxious to call the hospital to find out how my girl is doing. My poor girl, who through all this, I realize is quite lucky. Her love, her fiancé, her hero (and mine, too, as well), Scott, has stayed by her bedside- slept in the hospital with her, through it all. “He really loves you,” Dr. Stark told her. “While you were in pain, it looked like he was feeling the pain with you.”

In sickness and in health…

Lucky girl.

What more could a mother ask?

For her lipase to go down to 150 and her amylase to go down to 50. Please.

Sonny Days

2010-04-04T20:01:00.000-07:00

Lately, I have noticed the ubiquity of rain boots, the shiny somewhat hideous ones that come in a range of colors and patterns, from plaid to polka dots, from black and white to all different hues of the rainbow. At first I saw them in just about every store, most often, the discount stores where they were lined up at the window, the newest fashion statement; the answer to looking “smart” during a rainy miserable day. Initially, I did not purchase those rain boots because, although I am prone to tag along with any new fashion trend, I believed that once I bought a pair, there would be no rain to wear them in. Ha! Then I started seeing those boots on many, many ladies, young, old, middle-aged, on any given rainy day, which have become many rainy days. It was as if the boots in the windows had willed this interminable rain, snow, sleet, etcetera. While my feet were either dodging puddles or getting soaked by the inability to avoid them, I began to feel envious of those smarter women and I gave in. I became the proud owner of a very stylish pair of rain boots, my Chanukah gift, from my two daughters and future son-in-law. Not only am I now prepared for all this relentless rain, I march through it, my feet, socks and the bottom of my pants dry and unaffected. I have found a way to make the most of this deluge that keeps returning.

And so, on a rainy Monday, almost a week ago, I was overcome by another moment of surrendering to circumstances “beyond my control”. Lindsay, Kim and I were returning from an appointment with my neurologist, Dr. Handsome and charming with a sense of humor. It’s always a good thing when your doctor can brighten your day and give you a clean bill of health. It was still early, though, and still quite miserable outside, the clouds and precipitation had won their crusade against the sun yet again. Lindsay said, “Let’s go to the pet store, pleeeaaseee…” with her most endearing brown pleading eyes, reminding me of the five year old she once was. It was a month and two days since Coco’s death. I had reached the “acceptance” stage of grief; however, I still had bouts of anguish from time to time. It would well up right from my heart and then release itself in a sorrowful sigh. I would be jealous of people I would see walking their dogs. I felt cheated, empty. There was a void I needed to fill.

I had started to look into rescuing a dog from a shelter. We even visited a couple of shelters, in person and online. I played with some dogs, cute adorable puppies. No connection was made, though. And it’s not as easy rescuing a dog as one would think. There was a scrutinizing process I was not aware of; e.g., how big is your yard? Is it completely fenced? What kind of fence is it? How tall? How many hours per day will the dog be left alone? How do you plan to take care of the dog when someone is not there for 11 hours? We had a dog. We took very good care of it. She had a loving, wonderful home. Yet, we had to prove we were worthy of rescuing a dog. We also needed to make that connection, too- that connection that I felt 9 years ago, when Coco melted my heart as I held her in my arms. I knew that once I found the dog and I passed the qualification process, I would fill that emptiness that pervaded my soul. We had every intention of rescuing a dog, too. But all dogs need homes, don’t they?

So, it’s a rainy Monday afternoon and in my fragile, saddened, frustrated state, when my daughter looks at me with her imploring brown eyes, luring me to the pet store, I say, “Okay.” Blame it on the rain. It’s like those rain boots staring at you from the storefronts on almost every other block in Manhattan. “Don’t you want boots?” I hear in my head as I see them in their colorful row against the windows. Puppies are much more convincing than boots, though. We entered the pet store. I had no intention of buying a puppy, I promise you. I would never get a puppy without Mark, either. My guard was up, or so I thought. But as we came into the room filled with screeching, yapping and squeaking and an assortment of colors and patterns of puppies, one little golden buff colored pup came immediately up the glass to greet us. It resembled a baby Golden Retriever; it was too cute to be real, looking like a stuffed animal come to life. This dog could have been the picture in an add for “Don’t Ya Wanna Buy a Puppy” “What is that?” I inquired. “A Cockapoo,” the young worker replied. “Ohhhh, that’s what Scott and I want!” Lindsay said, immediately. A Cockapoo is a mixed breed- a Poodle and Cocker Spaniel- really a mutt, but nowadays, the new term is “designer dog”. “What is it- boy or girl?” I asked. One of the workers there, a young man, did a quick check, as he put his hand beneath to lift it, “Boy”. “Your father wants a girl.” I said to Lindsay. We went through to see the other dogs- very cute. No connection. We went back to see our buff colored greeter. “Can we take him out to play with him?” Lindsay asked. Big mistake. So the young man, Jordan was his name, put us in one of the interaction rooms. We sat on the floor. Jordan gave us the pup. He came right to me and climbed up on my lap and fell asleep. Uh oh. There it was- the connection. My heart, the aching one, suddenly felt a small tug. Uh oh. Then it was the battle of the wills. I was not in the position to buy a puppy; Mark wasn’t there, either. The situation was, though, that the position of the puppy was making this process very difficult. He would not leave my lap.

After three and a half hours, yes, three and a half hours of being in the interaction room, I had to make a decision. I started to think of names…George, no, Charlie, maybe, then it came to me- Sunny! What could cure the gloom of a rainy day?- Sun-ny! What could ease the melancholy of my heartache over the loss of Coco- Sunny! And he had a little bit of a golden tint to him, as well. And then something really strange happened. Lindsay saw the guy she dated from J-Date (right before Scott), whose name was Scott also, come into the pet store. She gasped, then, made sure to flash her diamond engagement ring as he noticed her. Jordan came over to see if we made a decision. “What was that guy looking for?” she asked Jordan. “He’s looking for a Cockapoo.” I gasped, then. It was at that moment that I knew that if I left the dog there, someone else would take it home, quite possibly, that other Scott. I felt the same as if I would feel if I were to leave my infant in a hospital after I gave birth to it and another family would take it home. We called Mark at work. Of course he was fuming. “No. We were going to rescue a dog.” No. I don’t want a small dog.” “No. I don’t want a male.” “No. I can’t believe you’re doing this without me. We were supposed to go together!” He was right, but what could I do? I was in love. “Do what you want.” Mark said, bitterly, and hung up.

I was in a pickle. I remembered the stories my mother used to tell about my grandfather, Morris, who used to bring home stray dogs from the neighborhood. “He followed me into the car,” he used to tell my grandma, Fannie. “I couldn’t get him out. So I brought him home.” Grandma Fannie would just shake her head, sigh, and let the dog stay. One time, my Uncle Jack, not a dog lover, had been away on a music gig and returned to his own home in the middle of the night only to get attacked by the latest mongrel my grandfather had brought home. I had never met my grandpa but I could certainly sympathize with his dilemma of debating over whether to keep a dog that he had bonded with, even though the circumstances were different. To me I had two choices: 1. Bring the dog home and deal with Mark, or 2. Stay in the pet store, forever. One way or another, Sunny and I were meant to be.

It took me a year and a half to buy a pair of trendy rain boots. It took me four hours to buy a designer dog. But boots don’t have brown puppy dog eyes, a cute little black nose and Cocker Spaniel ears. They are practical and serve a purpose by keeping your feet dry, but they don’t sneak into your heart and fill it with sunshine on a rainy day. A friend of mine, Liz, said, “He saved your soul, didn’t he? Isn’t it amazing how they know when we need them?”

We left the store with a furry bundle, who seemed to know all along he belonged to us. It was still raining. As I was pulling out of the spot in the parking lot, the girls started to yell, “Look ma, look at the license plate of the car next to us!” I looked; it said “SUNNY 00”. It was meant to be, I guess.

Of course Mark was quite upset when he got home. He marched into our bedroom and shut the door, leaving the dog very bewildered at this new person who didn’t want to hold him and shower him with kisses. Then about fifteen minutes later, Mark emerged, still angry, but went over to the crate and took the dog out. They both fell asleep on the couch for an hour, snuggled up together. “This is our son, Mark,” I told him, when he woke up. “It’s going to be ‘Sonny with an “o””, he said. “Whatever you want.” I replied.

Now, every day is a Sonny day with my new boy. Mark has about 27 photos and five videos of Sonny on his Blackberry that he proudly shows off to everyone. I hope this is the dog we take into our retirement years. My friend, Roselee, says his name already sounds like an old Jewish man’s- Sonny Feldman. Mark still wants to rescue a dog- a larger female, with black hair; he wants to name it Cher.

LIFE…

2010-03-20T15:23:00.000-07:00

goes on. The wedding planning continues. Less than six months away. My daughter’s eyes sparkle every time she unveils the new countdown. “One hundred seventy days!” she exclaimed the other night, “Honey, we’re getting MARRIED!!” She giggles in a high-pitched voice, reaching out for Scott.

It’s the first day of spring today, leaving behind one of the most stonyhearted winters of my life. The weather has been perfect the last several days in the aftermath of damage from storm after storm. The sun seemed to have disappeared during those dark weather days; not today, though, as I sit in my kitchen and feel its brilliance settle on me, reassuringly.

Life goes on.

We have endured ups and downs, elation and disappointment, relief and worry. We can also say it in reverse- downs and ups, disappointment and elation, worry and relief. I have always felt a bit hesitant to fully experience happiness, since I was a child. I never knew why, possibly because I’m an old soul who realizes the impermanence of things. There’s a Taoist story that I’ve come across a couple of times and that other authors have referred to that illustrates this concept. It’s titled “Maybe” and it goes like this…

An old farmer had worked his crops for many years. One day his horse ran away. When his neighbors heard the news, they came to visit. “Such bad luck,” they said sympathetically. “Maybe,” the farmer replied. The next morning the horse returned, bringing three other wild horses. “How wonderful!” the neighbors exclaimed. “Maybe,” replied the old man. The following day, his son tried to ride on one of the untamed horses, was thrown, and broke his leg. The neighbors again came to offer their sympathy on his misfortune. “Maybe,” answered the farmer. The day after, military officials came to the village to draft young men into the army. Seeing that the son’s leg was broken, they passed him by. The neighbors congratulated the farmer on how well things had turned out. “Maybe,” said the farmer.

Many “maybes” have come and gone these past few months. The deal on the house that Lindsay and Scott are buying almost fell through a number of times. They had to renegotiate. Right now, things are looking better. I still hold my breath until they have the key in their hands, until they sign the last of the countless number of signatures they will write at the closing.

Two nights ago we met the florist, Christina, at the hall to preview the flower arrangements for the wedding. My daughter amazes me sometimes in her attention to the very last detail of everything she wants. I have to pause, in awe of her, as she describes each facet of the table centerpieces, the cake, the bouquets, using her tiny delicate hands to articulate the significance of the colors, shapes, and sizes and of course, sparkle effect of each element. Vicky, the caterer, was there, as sparkly, herself, as ever. She was working with another couple but had to come out to express her approval of the centerpieces with her usual enthusiasm and humor. Vicky was born to do this- plan weddings. She always lifts my spirits. She even commented on my new red hair color. And she continues to refer to Lindsay and Scott as the “Lobster Couple.”

The lobster couple, despite their intense attention to detail and elegance, still have that cute little simple side to them. They could get just as excited over lobster as Taco Bell, which is what we all had for dinner last night. This is what I love about them- their fervor in everything they do. I hope they never lose that beautiful spirit, that zest for life. And then, it could be just their youth. Have I somehow lost that in my middle-aged frame of mind? And if I have, can it be reborn, somehow?

A cluster of colorful exotic flowers, from the sample centerpiece Christina created for us, sits in a vase as I enter my house now. I used to always buy fresh flowers every time I did my food shopping. Kimberly once asked me about this and then kept my response as a quote on her Facebook page: “Flowers are important. They remind us we’re alive.”

Recently, I stopped buying flowers even though I swore I never would. I switched to a plant with a flower blossom, in its place. Then, I’m even embarrassed to say, I supplanted that with wooden roses- faux flowers- shameful. It was because I was weary from constantly throwing out the dead or dying flowers. I should have respected their short lifespan, instead of avoiding their inevitable demise. So today, as a tribute to the first day of spring, I bought bright, yellow, fragrant daffodils in Trader Joes. Two bunches, $1.49 each.

Thank goodness for spring. If I were to link the seasons to life, spring- you would be birth. Summer would be youth, autumn would be age and winter would be death. The life cycle. Simple and profound all at once. I think that makes sense.

Anyway, I am so ready for spring.

Life goes on.

Life begins. Again.

Coming Home…

2010-03-07T08:17:00.000-08:00

has been very difficult this week, very. Leaving home has been easier, though. It’s a new response to the comings and goings in our house, without our sweet, faithful, furry Coco there to greet us as we return or keep vigil when we left. It was her home more than anyone’s, actually, because she was always in it. A constant. A predictable certainty in our lives.

We set up a shrine for her- all her favorite toys, her blanket from my bed, photos of her as a puppy and through all the nine years we had her, her treat container and her collar, silent now- but reminiscent of the jingling it made when she was alive. I could almost hear it, growing more distant as each day goes by. Her fur still remains, not only in the bag they gave us when she died, but also all over the house. She used to bark angrily at me whenever I used any of those sweepers to remove her hair from the couch or the cushion of her window seat. It would make me yell and laugh at her at the same time. I can’t bring myself to do that now. I feel it would affront her absence. Lindsay found a piece of her fur on her pants while she was at work. She meticulously took it off and put it inside her sweater, close to her heart. All we have now is remnants of her fur, this shrine and our memories, which we share frequently- memories that make us a family

My Internet surfing has changed from diagnosing the symptoms of Coco’s illness to chat rooms where people, who recently lost their pets, congregate. That lasted about five minutes; chat rooms are definitely not for me- they’re frenetic and confusing. Then I found a website about grieving and pet loss, written by a veterinarian. The five stages of grief, as applied to mourning the death of your pet-

Denial- my denial appears in the automatic reactions I have when I drop a tissue to quickly pick it up so Coco doesn’t get to it and eat it. She loved to eat tissues. Quickly, I realize I don’t have to do that anymore and the shock grabs at my heart.

Anger (or lashing out)- Yes, definitely did that- to the poor young guy at the counter of CVS photo department. I indignantly blamed his equipment for cutting off one of my pictures of Coco I had printed, only to find out when I came home that the picture was cut off to begin with. I have gone back to the photo department, with my “tale between my legs”, so to speak, to reprint these photos. I think the poor guy is afraid of me- I thought I noticed his hands trembling when I came to the counter. Oh well, it’s not me; it’s the stages of grief- you were, unfortunately, at the receiving end, poor young guy.

Bargaining- I did the bargaining when we found out Coco was terminal. I made a deal with G-d that if s/he made her well I would be the one to take her out first thing every morning. When she died, I constantly went over in my mind the things I could have done differently to prevent this whole thing; for example, did I hit her on the head to scold her when she was naughty and give her the brain tumor? Jewish guilt, a hereditary flaw. My Aunt Dorothy suffers from that, as well. To this day, she thinks she gave my Uncle Fintz a brain tumor from throwing a can of peaches or something at his head when they were children.

Depression- Enough said. Looking at every empty spot she used to lay in depresses me.

Acceptance- We’re getting there. The compassion of others is helping. Our family and friends have been wonderful during this time- sending cards, messages on Facebook, calling to “check” on us. We have even heard from friends I haven’t spoken to in a long time. All this has been an immense source of comfort. Even from strangers. A kind woman and her husband sent me a message on Facebook after she read my blog. They told me they have a Coco, too- a Lab Golden mix. At the end of their note, they said that my Coco is “now closer to the almighty and lending assistance with good deeds for you and your family.” Coincidently, on the day she sent me this message, Lindsay and Scott heard good news- their mortgage was approved on the house they are in contract with. Hooray!!! I looked at the message again that this woman had sent to figure out how she would know me and my blog- and found out we are connected by a mutual friend- Sheri- Scott and Lindsay’s real estate agent. Another coincidence? Or perhaps, not. This mere, yet meaningful event has led me to the “acceptance” stage.

Bad things happen and good things happen, too- the Yin and Yang of life. There is death; there is life. There is sadness; there is happiness. The day after Coco’s death, a week ago, that night at dinner, my mom was with us. She had a glass of wine and before she drank, made a toast “Only good things from now on.” I looked at her and said, “We’d like to have only good things, but bad things do happen and without them, we wouldn’t have the good things, really.” We needed this good thing, now.

And now, Lindsay and Scott have a house. A place to make memories, a place for their love and their lives to grow. A backyard for children to laugh and play and for dogs to run. A place for coming home.