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.

Kink

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

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.