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

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

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

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

What do you think should go inside the yarmulkes?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


~ Anna Quindlen 


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bachelorette- The Last Escapade- Before

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

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

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

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

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.