Friday, February 23, 2024

The Making of a Mother

                                       

“Exactly 32 years ago, you were ABOUT TO BECOME A MOTHER!” the daughter texted me last night. “What are your reflections on your performance so far?”

I sat with that one for a minute.

 

My water broke on a Saturday morning, a week before my due date, a day before her eventual birth. I called my doctor who said to wait a couple of hours (finishing up the back nine?) and to meet him at the hospital in the afternoon. 


I know I was nervous. But I also knew that I had a better chance of being a good copywriter than being a good mother, so did what any model employee would have done. I drove the two miles up the hill to CNBC, dropped off copy for a brochure and left notes for all my friends and bosses on their desks apologizing that I wouldn't be in on Monday. Then I came home, grabbed my overnight bag (with a baby-sized baseball uniform for the son I was convinced I was having) and, along with my ever-loving spouse, headed to the hospital. 

 

Thirty some hours later, the daughter was born by c-section. I called my sister who was pregnant with number two and had had number one surgically removed a year and a half earlier. 

 

“I don’t know why EVERYONE doesn’t request a caesarian!” I gushed from the recovery room. “I  feel great.”

 

“Wait until tomorrow,” was all she said.

 

She was right. That belly slice pain, especially if I had to cough, or poop, or feed a baby or talk on the phone or lean to the right, lean to the left, was well ... suffice it to say, I felt every tug on every stitch and deep beyond into my womb.

 

But that proved to be the least of my parenting pains.

 

The daughter was perfect for the first week. She was adorable, alert, ate well, slept well, was oh, so smart, and she let anyone hold her without a single fuss. Our apartment was filled with flowers and food and friends and we were boiling over with love. 

 

Week two was when it hit hard: life as we knew it was gone for good.

 

That perfect daughter picked up a case of colic that lasted an eternity. She cried every night for hours and hours and hours and then more hours. In the midst of this brutal betrayal, we had planned to drive to Philadelphia to introduce our darling to a group of our besties. I argued that it wasn’t fair to our still childless friends to bring such a loud and obnoxious thing into their home. 

“Oh, she’ll be fine,” the ever-loving father said. 

 

And once again, he was right. She was delightful. Somehow, that month old daughter inherently knew how to work the room.

 

And that’s kind of how it’s been for the past 32 years. She tested her mother, mesmerized her father, tortured her brothers, and totally enchanted the rest of the world. 

 

We went on to create two more kids in rapid succession which resulted in the kind of chaos I still can’t believe I survived. I continued working part time until the youngest was three and a half and the creative services department at CNBC was dissolved. I wholeheartedly believed I could have a lucrative freelance career working from home while raising three young children. 

 

As the ever-working spouse worked ever-longer hours, the under-working me was completely and utterly overwhelmed. Yet we plodded along.

 

The Lion King which played on a perpetual loop in the basement eventually morphed into mommy and me classes, swim lessons, dance classes, soccer games and ice hockey tournaments. There was Sunday school, summer camp, cheerleading competitions, basketball games and football combines. Baseball, baseball, and more baseball. We drove in the old minivan to vacation spots in pretty places (scheduled around sports of course). With my friend and savior, Claire, at my side, we became PTA presidents and the motivating mothers behind every sports team in town. I spent and hours and hours driving kids around, feeding strays, turning a blind eye to things they thought I didn’t see, sitting on rain-splashed bleachers, helping friends of friends of friends with college essays and offering refuge on our basement couch to those who needed it.

 

I battled through without ever once, not even for a split second, thinking that I had mastered this mothering thing. 

 

But when the daughter asked for a self-evaluation of my parenting skills, I thought about how far we've come. All three of my kids are now launched, out in the world, doing good things. They are honest, responsible and kind humans who are well loved and (mostly) do the right thing.


“I think in my early years my performance was sketchy," I responded. "But the overall rating is an A+, because well, look at what you’ve become”

 

I then thought about last August when the daughter and I went to Los Angeles together to see Taylor Swift . She told me I had to dress up in concert garb which we both knew was way beyond my capabilities. And so I comprised and wore a T-shirt with the title of one of Taylor's songs on it: 



this is me trying


There's so much I should have done but didn't. I spewed words in rage that I'll forever regret and left unsaid things that could have made all the difference. I should have taken more deep breaths and offered less bribes. Worried less about mess and more about fun. (Though this is my solemn vow, I will never, not even with grandchildren whom I will undoubtedly adore, ever allow finger painting or grape popsicles inside my house).


I could have said yes when I said no and should have said no when yes made it easier for me. I could go on and on with my coulda, shoulda, woulda. 


All that aside, I know that I always, always tried. 


And now, thirty-two years into this journey, I can say with confidence that sometimes simply trying ends up yielding pretty good results. 

 

Happy Birthday, to the beautiful daughter who made me a mother. 





Wednesday, February 14, 2024

All You Need is Love





Despite a life bursting with love, I have never been a fan of Valentine's Day. 

 

I love chocolate, I love flowers, I love being loved. But because my birthday falls five days prior to this heart-filled holiday, come February 14th my bouquet is still blooming and the feels are still feeling and I don't really need anything more. Though I would always accept more chocolate, as long as it’s not defiled with nuts or fruit or unidentifiable fillings. 

 

I have a spouse who, no matter what I do, will always love me and will never leave me. He may not understand the way I load the dishwasher, but has learned to simply rearrange the plates and bowls rather than battling it out. I don't take too much offense; after all, he's the one who does the unloading. 

 

I have three children who adore me now that they now longer live with me. I have the friends of those three children who still send me Happy Mother's Day texts filled with love and thanks for all that baked ziti (not to mention those bottles of Hennessy). I have friendships I’ve maintained since I was four years old, high school pals, college cronies, Hearts friends, Mahjong friends, TV Guide and CNBC friends, Teaneck friends, bleacher buddies, mermaid friends, church, cruise and book club allies and even Facebook friends of friends I’ve never met. I have unconditional love from a dog whom I try to hate, but as his hips get sorer and his anxiety heightens, I realize he’s not so unlike myself and my heart softens.

 

I have a kind and loving 98 year-old mother, a perfect niece and nephew, a crew of cousins (once, twice or never removed) and three sisters with whom I'm very close. Sure, we’ve had our moments, like when I physically accosted one of the older sisters in an adolescent fit of rage or tortured the younger about the dancing dress that lived in her childhood closet. But I’ve always known they’ve loved me in spite of myself. There was never a time in our lives when anyone in our family didn’t speak, nor did we ever cringe at the thought of being together. Well, at least I didn’t. Who knows what was going on in their heads.  

 

Of all my many shortcomings, I certainly do not lack for love. 

 

So why can't I embrace this lovingest of holidays?

 

My deep-seated disdain stems from way back when – the years between the all-inclusive Snoopy valentines of elementary school until the day when I finally had a valentine to call my own. Those were long and lonely years despite the ever-present love in my life. My first and only true valentine was delivered when I was 28 years old and I've held him close ever since. 

 

The bar for love was set pretty high in my house. My father proposed to my mother on the night they met. She scoffed him off, yet they were married three months later. They produced four daughters in rapid succession and loved each other madly until the day my father died. An occasional slam of a kitchen cabinet was the extent of the parental discord we witnessed while growing up. Through the years as we each asked that age-old question,“How did you know he was the one?” my mother’s eyes would fill with tears and she’d say, “Oh, honey, when you know, you know.”

 

I never got anywhere near knowing. Until of course, I knew. 

 

But until I knew, there were a lot of long, hard years to navigate. 


I belted out Janis Ian lyrics in those Valentine's Days of lore, knowing for sure I'd never know love. But I had hope. I wrote entries in my journal stating why I would be a perfect girlfriend, I chose names for my unborn children and picked the song to which I would dance at my future wedding. Every one of my friends, EVERY. SINGLE. ONE. (which was far from the truth) had a significant other. Meanwhile I was just praying that the guy on the bar stool next to me would at least ask my name. 


     "I learned the truth at seventeen

That love was meant for beauty queens
And high school girls with clear-skinned smiles
Who married young and then retired
The valentines I never knew
The Friday night charades of youth
Were spent on one more beautiful..."


But miraculously, every year Valentine’s Day turned to St. Patrick’s Day and being unlucky in love is somehow a whole lot easier when you’re dressed in green. 

 

All I ever wanted out of life was a happy marriage filled with children, to become a famous author and to have as much fun as humanly possible. I didn't think it was asking for much, but age and wisdom has taught me otherwise. Having fulfilled two of those three dreams actually makes for a pretty perfect life. 


Today as I woke to scores of loving wishes from family and friends, I recoiled. But then I reconsidered. I have been so very lucky in my life that I decided to come at Valentine's Day from a place of love and to bestow loving wishes of my own. 

 

To all my friends who are alone, whether by choice or circumstance, my wish is that you always love your life, no matter who is or isn't by your side. That you don't pile all your hopes and dreams into finding that perfect partner, because a partner ain’t nothing if you don’t have yourself. 

 

To all those who are in a relationship with someone you shouldn't be with, I hope that you find the strength to leave, and to take time to recreate your happiness. You may not believe it, but being alone is better than being with someone who makes you lonely. 

 

Most importantly to my children, each of whom are in different chapters in the book of love, I hope that we as parents have done enough. That we have taught you how important it is to wait for the right one. That you have learned that the wrong one will never be right no matter how hard you wish it to be so. Don’t waste a single moment on someone who doesn’t recognize your value. 

 

And if your life doesn’t give you the he she or they of your dreams, know that you will never be alone. You will always be loved. By your family, your siblings, your abundance of friends. And if you also love yourself, that will always be enough. 

 

Life is long. Life is fun. Life is love. 


Happy Valentine’s Day to all the loves of my life! 


Especially to those who, like me, love to hate this highest of holy love days. 







Monday, January 29, 2024

The Stuff Legends Are Made Of


 


My three sisters and I grew up perched beneath the pedestal listening to our larger-than-life father retell story after story. So many of his narratives revolved around his athletic prowess which amused, impressed and made us ever-determined to chase sports dreams of our own. 

 

Of course back then, Title IX was in its infancy and there were no Olivia Dunne’s making millions off of NIL deals. And so, our lofty aspirations hit the ceiling with landing a spot on the high school team.

 

My father, George, was a standout athlete at Ambler High School, as was well documented by many varsity letters and a scrapbook filled with news clippings from the Ambler Gazette and the Philadelphia Bulletin. One of his favorite tales to tell was when he broke his nose playing basketball. He delighted in the fact that he bled all over the brand new gymnasium floor at Springfield High School but refused to come off the court. Because of course in those days, you didn’t have to. 

 

My father was captain of the basketball, football and baseball teams and went on to play baseball and football at Dartmouth College. There was the story that ended with him kicking his helmet into the stands and another had him playing baseball against George Bush the elder – who was then nothing but another George – once the Georges had returned to their respective colleges after the war. 

 

In his grown-up years, my father was an avid, year-round, weekend golfer, taking off only when the greens were covered with snow – and on Christmas – the one day of the year my mother prohibited him from playing. Over the course of 50-plus years on the links, he boasted three holes-in-one. Whether it was luck, skill or cosmic alignment, it still looks good on the resume.  

 

Having never spawned that coveted son, his four girls were raised to watch, play and care deeply about sports. We banged tennis balls against the back of the house, hit plastic golf balls across the front yard, jogged with the dog around the block, shot baskets in the driveway, swung at a tether ball hanging from a tree in the woods, played four square on the street, ping pong in the basement, and softball for the Wildcats, a team coached by none other than my father. We consistently watched the Phillies, the Sixers, the Eagles and every golf tournament that was ever televised. In high school I played lacrosse and field hockey and even played in college for one full week. 

 

Beyond playing softball with the financially-famous Ron Insana and David Faber when we all worked at CNBC, and infamously striking out Bianca Jagger (yes, that Jagger) at my ever-loving spouse’s company softball game, I hadn’t played an organized sport in decades. Unless recovering from hip and knee replacements or sidelined with other surgeries, I have always walked, bicycled and dabbled in heart-pumping cardio conditioning at the local gym. But other than being Apple watch fitness buddies with my sister, daughter, niece, and friend Ann, I hadn’t  competed with anyone but myself in a long, long time. 


Though I was internally hesitant last summer when my friend, Robin, asked if I wanted to round out her pickleball foursome, I responded with a resounding YES! After all, I was an athlete. How hard could it be? 

 

I loved the game immediately and thought I was oh, so good. I could land a serve into that far back corner, keeping it in bounds by mere centimeters, most of the time. I was able to hit the ball out of the air, and go back-and-forth, back-and-forth, until the other team slammed it over my head. I could often keep the score straight and loved watching my heart rate rise on my aforementioned watch.

 

We were taught the basics by Rita, a patient and knowledgeable coach who went on to become a favored off-the-court chum. We played outdoors until the temperatures plummeted and Rita encouraged us to seek out an indoor facility. Playing with random strangers in a weather-controlled environment would surely help us reach our pickleball potential.

 

Robin and I found a place to pickle and we headed with confidence to bergenpickleballzone, signing up for Low-intermediate Open Play, where 18 people rotate in and out of games for an hour-and-a-half. We clearly weren’t beginners – after all, we had played at Overpeck Park a good fifteen times – so figured Low-intermediate was exactly where we belonged. If we proved to be too advanced for the rest of the group, we’d humbly move to a higher level. 

 

With my brand new paddle in hand – a very fun and fashionable one, I might add – I strutted my way onto the court. It didn’t take long before the eye rolls and loud sighs confirmed that I was definitely not where I was supposed to be. Suffice it to say that those sighs and eye rolls were not in response to perfectly executed spin shots or awesomely extended volleys. 


It took me a couple of weeks to muster up the courage to return. But when I did, I signed up for a string of instructive clinics run by the very accomplished, not to mention supportive and adorably lovely Cindy. One of her gifts is being able to divvy us up into groups without the less-skilled realizing they’d been teamed with the even lesser-than skilled. Her classes gave me the courage to sign up for another open play session. But I’m no masochist, so this time I joined the beginners. And while I was clearly not one of the top players, even my self-deprecating self admitted I was not the absolute worst.  

 

Still, I internally reeled. “How can I be so bad at this? I’m an athlete!” 

 

To which my past responded, “Or are you?”

 

And so I looked at my life through the lens of hindsight. It’s a full truth that as a high school hockey goalie I prayed that the ball stay on the other half of the field way harder than I ever prayed when lying on a gurney awaiting my double mastectomy. Full disclosure, when I was Junior Junior (not even Junior) Golf Champion that summer, it was because there were only two other kids in the tournament and one of them forfeited. And I have to confess, the reason I didn’t play basketball had nothing to do with being too short, but rather being too short of breath running those suicide sprints. 

 

Putting aside my past, my genes, my pride, I’m determined to keep pickling as long as my limbs allow. I’ll play with the best and worst of them – those who have inflated egos or deflated senses of self, those who were former tennis players or are current bake-off champions, those who roll their eyes when I swing and miss and those who laugh at themselves when they do the same. 


I may not be the stuff legends are made of, but the fact is, I am who I am . And who I am became abundantly clear when I paid my monthly membership dues, unabashedly clicking the Senior Discount button. 

 

 

Friday, December 8, 2023

What's that word ...?


 “Decoy!” I texted my friend Assunta. “The word is decoy.” 

This was a while ago, back when Taylor Swift attended her first Kansas City Chiefs’ game. I was somewhat surprised to be having this conversation because most well-adjusted people my age don’t engage in speculation about the rich and famous whom we will never, ever meet nor should ever, ever profess to know. I’ve always considered Assunta well-adjusted. She was the daughter’s middle-school Creative Writing teacher, is married to a musician (not of pop star ilk), and is a member of my cerebral book club. So, a two-sided Taylor Swift conversation with one of the aforementioned cerebrals was an unexpected treat. 

 

The banter had to do with Matty Healy (IYKYK) and whether that relationship was real or “what’s the word – you know when you do something to throw someone off track?” 

 

I looked at her, baffled. After all, she was the English teacher. I was just the writer. 

 

“You know what I mean, when it’s not real, like you're trying to divert attention.”

 

I knew exactly what she meant but had no idea what the word was.

 

But I eventually remembered. 


Decoy.

 

Back in the day when child-rearing was all consuming and I consistently had ten thousand things swirling through my mind – who gets picked up from practice at 6 pm, when are parent-teacher conferences, where is the away baseball game, who needs poster board for a science project, when is the first college essay due, whose birthday is tomorrow — I kept an excel sheet. Color-coded. Of course that didn’t help unless I had the document right in front of me.

 

So, so, so many times I’d bolt out of the car after a pick-up or a drop-off or a circular journey around town hooked on a particular task that needed immediate tasking.  It was usually nothing terribly earth shattering – rather something along the lines of tick medication that I was already two months behind in administering. I’d put “tick, tick, tick” on repeat but by the time I hit the kitchen, the tick had tocked and a thousand other thoughts had taken precedence. I knew there was something I was forgetting, but couldn’t for the life of me remember what it was. 

 

Much later, after opening a kitchen cabinet, I would find the tick meds stashed next to (if not on top of) the Fiestaware and would thump my palm to my forehead, “Duh. That’s what it was. The dog.” 

 

When I commiserated with my mother she answered with a smile that said, clear as day, “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

 

All too often I’ll get something in my head that I absolutely must have. Like NOW. But by the time I click into Amazon, I have zero memory of what was essential just moments earlier. Which is why I end up with seven new items on my porch the following day. Same thing with social media. A particular person will pop into my mind and I think – hmm, I wonder if they’re home from vacation yet? I’ll go to check their page and poof – the very essence of that individual has completely disappeared, sending me off to look up random elementary school friends instead. 

 

I have a zillion note pads and sticky notes within a pen’s reach at all times. In the car, at my desk, on the kitchen table, next to the TV, on my bedside table, even in the bathroom. I’ve tried eco-consciously typing into my phone, but it’s too hard to remember where I put my reminder. On any given day I might stash it in Notes, put it on a voice message or in a text sent to myself. Not that I don’t forget where that scrap of paper went, but it usually resurfaces – in the pocket of my jeans, in a random desk drawer or crumpled in my cross-body bag along with my Amazon returns receipts – and always enough days, weeks or months later that I wonder why it was ever something I needed to write down in the first place.

 

I can deal with the brain blips. But it’s the evaporating words – the words that are the way I make my (meager as it may be) living, the way I make my friends (and enemies) the way I process my neuroses and the way I save myself from total implosion – that cause me the most pain. And because I am of a certain age, I’m constantly wondering if younger others are scrutinizing me even more closely, looking for signs of my imminent demise. 

 

I rely heavily on my thesaurus and have been known to google “what’s the word for when you forget words” only to get a response like this: 


When this happens, language scientists use the terms "anomia" or "anomic aphasia" to describe the condition, which can be associated with brain damage due to stroke, tumors, head injury or dementia such as Alzheimer's disease. 


And so I keep googling until I get a less dire diagnosis.


If the inability to recall words, phrases, or names is a temporary but debilitating disorder it is known as lethologica.


Not that I'll remember, but it's nice to know there's a word for it. 


I thought when I lost my mind I’d have no idea what a particular item is. Like I would wonder why it’s in my house and for what purpose. Instead, I can describe the object to a T (tee?). It’s that thing that I spend half my day in front of, you know the machine that turns my thoughts into words, that brings out the arthritis in my fingers, that houses my bank accounts, blogs, Christmas present lists, phone numbers, recipes, you know – that thing that sits on my desk. 

 

You mean your computer?” my 98 year-old mother responded.

 

I try to keep my mind sharp by playing multiple word games a day. Though, believe me, I know the real word for that – procrastination. I play Words with Friends, Boggle, Word Wipe, Spelling Bee, Wordle, the maxi and the mini New York Times Crossword puzzle every day. The NYT crosswords get more difficult as the week progresses. I can only finish Monday and Tuesday puzzles without help – though every now and then I can get through a Wednesday. To enhance my doing of nothing, I’ve started on the crossword archives. Just today while doing an April of 2020 (Monday) puzzle, the clue read “Band on the Run” band. I know this. I know it is Paul McCartney. And his now deceased wife, Linda. It’s not some obscure rapper or new-to-the-scene rocker. I lived this era. I saw them in concert. But couldn’t for the life of me pull the name of the band out of the recesses of my brain. 

 

“If I’m like this now, what’s it going to be like when I’m your age?” I moaned to my mama.

 

“Who are you again?” she asked. 

 

“I forget,” I answered. 

 

The difference being, she was kidding. 

Sunday, November 5, 2023

A Different Sort of College Reunion


 “Did I ever tell you the story about (fill in the blank)…” I begin.

“Yeah, you did,” comes the quick response. 

 

And yet, I forge ahead and retell my tale. I see the eye rolls, I really do. But in my heart I believe some stories are worth telling more than once. Or twice. Or three times. 

 

Such as this serendipitous story of a friendship that almost didn’t happen.

 

When the daughter left for her freshman year at the University of North Carolina, the ever-loving spouse and I dropped her off, danced a little freedom jig and drove the old minivan 500 miles home to experience life with a mere two kids at home. 

 

A few weeks later the daughter called to ask if we’d be coming for Parents’ Weekend. ALL her friends’ parents would be there and I would definitely LOVE them. Naturally, she had already connected with all of them, and noted that she was the ONLY one whose parents had yet to take them all out for dinner. I somewhat doubted the accuracy of that statement (after all, she’s my daughter … plus the fact that one friend hailed from Denver, one from Cleveland, one from the western wings of New Jersey and one from Asheville – which though closer -- was still a good 225 miles from campus).

 

“Absolutely not,” I answered maybe a little too quickly. My entire life's purpose has always been to make and keep as many friends as I possibly can, but I just wasn’t feeling it this time. Maybe it was that I had just been diagnosed with breast cancer or perhaps I’d simply aged out of my need to befriend people who would only be in my life for four short years.  

 

I did visit once that year (not on parents’ weekend) and listened with half an ear to how great all the parents were, along with declarations that I would regret not getting to know them. 

 

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

 

Sophomore year, I drove the daughter back to school with the old minivan chock full of uber-important possessions and lugged box after box up to the second-floor bedroom while the daughter took multiple hug-breaks with friends she hadn’t seen for oh so long.   

 

And that's when I met the parents. 

 

“I told you,” the daughter texted me under the table at a group dinner that night.

 

“You’ve got to come meet Sandra and Stephen!” Carla, the Denver girl’s mother proclaimed. “They live on Franklin Street.” 

 

“Who are Sandra and Stephen and why would I want to meet them?” I asked, thinking, here we go again.

 

Sandra and Stephen are pillars of the Chapel Hill community, not to mention alumni, sports enthusiasts, cheerleaders and, hands down, the warmest and most welcoming people I have ever met. But at this point, it was just hearsay. I hadn’t yet met them.

 

The story of Sandra and Stephen began when Lauren and her parents were flying from Denver to Chapel Hill freshman year. At the gate, a chirpy blond-haired woman befriended them, surmising that Lauren was heading to UNC for college.

 

Sandra and Stephen were in Denver visiting their grown son and his family and were returning home to Chapel Hill on the same flight. 

 

“Call us,” Sandra said, handing Lauren her number. “We’ll be your surrogate grandparents while you’re in college.”

 

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

 

But there was something about Sandra and Stephen that warranted that first call. And the second. And the hundredth. 

 

Sandra and Stephen live in a big, beautiful house on the main street of town, an easy walk from campus. And because they are the warmest, most welcoming people in the world, they opened their home to all of us parents, inviting us to stay there, singly or en masse, whenever we were visiting our children. I mean, who does that? 

 

For the rest of their college days, the five girls and the parents (me included) scheduled yearly weekend visits at the same time so we could all hang out – Sandra and Stephen’s serving as home base and party central. 

 

I often think that as much as I loved my parents, when I was in college, they and their friends were the last people I would want to spend a weekend with. But times have changed and clearly we are way cooler than our parents could have ever hoped to be. These girls are either really good actors or actually enjoy hanging out with us.

 

And just like that, it was graduation day. We rented out Sutton’s, the iconic Franklin Street drug store / eaterie, which features photos of the likes of Michael Jordan (and our daughters!) hanging from the ceiling. One of the fathers surprised us all by hiring the Clef Hangers, UNC’s renowned a capella group, to serenade us with their songs like Pharrell’s Happy, making us weep.

 

We wept with joy, pride and yes, sadness. Because it was over. That beautiful four-year (or as I’m always reminded, in my case three) unique, intergenerational friendship. We knew the girls would always be friends, there’s something about consuming kegs worth of beer that seals the deal. After all, I still get together with my freshman friends, almost half a century later. But the parents, would we really keep our vows to keep the embers burning? Would we ever go back to Chapel Hill? Would we attend the girls’ weddings? Would we know their babies? 

 

Yes. Yes. Yes, And yes. 

 

Since their graduation in 2014 we’ve gotten together almost every year – mostly in Chapel Hill, though we did deviate for Julie and Joe’s wedding in Asheville and Lauren and Rob’s in Denver. And yes, we love the significant others as much as we love the girls, well.. almost as much. But when 2022 came and went without a full-out reunion and we were well into 2023, we knew we had to make it happen. It would be so easy to allow bulging bellies, newborn babies, plummeting back accounts, stressful jobs, over-extended travel budgets, and just plain, old, ordinary busy lives to serve as perfectly appropriate excuses. And before long it would be another year, then a decade, then two and our Chapel Hill friendship that is so uniquely wonderful would be marked merely by holiday greetings, occasional zoom calls and texts with multiple emojis that would ebb and flow over the rest of our lives. 

 

Or, we could just not take no for an answer.

 

Two weekends ago, nineteen of us reunited at UNC. The “kids” who are now 31 year-old adults, along with their spouses, a soon-to-be-spouse, the six-month-old Tate and 22-month-old Theo got dibs on Sandra and Stephen’s house and the parents were relegated to a local hotel. 

 

We ate, we drank, we did trivia, we visited the old stomping grounds, we watched the Heels suffer their first football loss of the season. We celebrated Sandra’s milestone birthday, the birth of the boys, the new baby brewing, but most of all, we celebrated 13 years of friendship (12 in my case, because well, you know…). A friendship that almost didn’t happen. A friendship that could so easily slide into a fond memory. A friendship that reminds us of what we learned long ago in Sunday School, or less long ago during Pi Phi initiation, or just from long years of living: 


Be not forgetful to entertain strangers; 

for by this some have entertained angels unawares. 






 

Tuesday, October 17, 2023

Hearts in the Right Place





“Let me get this straight,” said a friend who clearly did not know the great lengths I’ve gone to do the right thing. “You went all the way to France to play cards?”  

I’ve driven through the night, surviving not one, but two, blown out tires (and a ride with a trucker to get a new spare) on the dark and windy Skyline Drive, all to see John Prine and Bonnie Raitt somewhere way down deep in Virginia. I’ve attended three parties in one night in far-flung locations so I didn’t have to choose between friends and lovers. I transferred colleges not for the curriculum but for the proximity to the school and friends I was leaving behind. I chose to go on a cruise as the world was shutting down with Covid. I went on a round-trip late night date to DC with my future spouse, who was merely a fling at the time, so he could drop a resume off at The Washington Post. Then later that year, when the fling was flung, drove to Florida for the same purpose. I walked out of the hospital after a hysterectomy and went directly to the Little League field. I promised I would, and did, dance at a wedding three weeks after a double knee replacement. We took two cars to the daughter’s college graduation, then I drove 511 miles home in the middle of the night with the youngest so he could play in the next day’s baseball game. Perhaps craziest of all, I traveled to Myrtle Beach for a cheerleading competition – on an overnight chartered bus filled to the brim with sleepless, screeching teenagers.  

 

I spend a lot of time and energy debating whose feelings and I should or shouldn’t hurt, weighing the perceived importance of doing or not doing and over-analyzing the very real financial impact of the decisions I may or may not make. But I didn’t have to think twice about flying to France for the annual Hearts Tournament. After all, this is what we signed up for. 

 

Forty-odd years ago I landed my first “real” job. Though TV Guide magazine looked good on a resume, none of us were there to build our careers. We were in it for the perks – the four-day work week and the age-appropriate co-workers who became core friends. There were just a handful of us who actually worked there but our group quickly grew to include significant others, downstairs neighbors, law school classmates, Bacchanal buddies and their scientists and a random artist met after a Mummer’s Parade mugging. 

 

Before we knew it, we were all hanging out in Fishtown (we were cool long before Fishtown was), drinking beer (lots and lots of beer), watching Phillies games, feasting in deliciously inexpensive South Philadelphia restaurants and renting a beach bungalow for six weeks each summer. 

 

The card playing part of our friendship began innocently enough – just a bunch of drunks sitting around a sticky oil-clothed table in Brigantine, filling the hours between steaks on the grill and sunrise with a friendly hand of Hearts. But competitive forces brewed beneath the surface and before long, Jim was recording not just wins and losses but hours played. And believe me, there were many.

 

After a few years, the Brigantine community caught on that despite the fact that we were hard-working, full-fledged adults, we were light years away from quieting down at a reasonable hour. Our landlord was asked to no longer rent to the loud group of communals and the Brigantine Beach House became just one more memory. 

 

That’s when we decided to make the Hearts Tournament a real thing. Nancy and Eddie found the perfect trophy on a trip to Mexico – a shadowbox full of skeletons playing cards – and Jeff, our favorite artist, later created a stained-glass base. We vowed to play once a year. For the rest of our lives. 

 

And so we have. There’s about a dozen of us who play, some with more fervor and stamina than others. Some are die-hard competitors, some come for the food alone, some would rather socialize than play, and some still can’t win for losing. Whoever claims the trophy gets to display it in their own home for the year, but then has to host the next tournament. Which means providing snacks, dinner and of course, breakfast for those who spend the night. And many someones always spend the night. There’s also a loser’s trophy which has taken up semi-permanent residence in Teaneck. 

 

In August of 2022, Donald won the tournament. In September he and his wife, Theresa, sold their worldly possessions and moved to Rennes, France. With the trophy. 

 

A few weeks ago, as required, 13 of us gathered on a rooftop in Rennes for the annual Hearts Tournament. Theresa and Don were hands down the best hosts ever, though Bob and Nicole have done a pretty good job in their Pocono palace. But hey, this was our first transatlantic tournament so they get killer kudos. 

 

We spent four days in Rennes, then another three in Paris and saw tons of noteworthy sites and ate pounds of noteworthy baguettes and croissants. But nothing could hold a candle to The Official Hearts Tournament Almanac of Fact and Ephemera, a bound booklet gifted by our esteemed host that documents our highs and lows over the years. Suffice it to say that Donald’s witticisms make my words sound like garble and we laughed our way through his truisms, exaggerations and as the Big Guy would say, blatant lies. But there wasn’t a non-constricted throat in the house as we read his tribute to Young Ed whom we lost in 2019 to a cancer as rare as he was. 

 

Spewed during the course of a good game of Hearts are recurring words, questions and sentiments that include: 

 

“Whose got the bitch?” referring to the Queen of Spades which is a card you mostly want to avoid.

 

“He’s shooting!” referring to shooting the moon, which means taking all the hearts plus the aforementioned bitch, and if done successfully is a good thing.

 

“Remind me how to play,” referring to me. 

 

“What round are we in?”

 

“What time’s dinner?” 

 

But the most loaded question of all, “Have hearts been broken?” 

 

A week to the day after returning from our fun-filled France adventure, one of us – the zen-est of us all, the one who walked just as many kilometers as the rest of us, the one who voluntarily took the recycling around the corner and filled the water bottles at the grocery store, the one who is neither the youngest nor the oldest, the one who doesn’t drink, the one who is loved just as much as the rest of us (or more) -- suffered what they call the WidowMaker heart attack. The one where there’s a total blockage of the main artery. 

 

Spoiler alert: Thanks to the would-be widow’s quick thinking and expert driving skills, he made it to the hospital in time and we were all spared the ultimate heartbreak. But it kinda gets you thinking. 

 

In over four decades of friendship, we’ve all had our share of pain, sorrow and suffering. We’ve seen each other through divorces, deaths, layoffs, joint replacements, cancers, relocations, tournament losses and ironically, a fair amount of heart surgeries. 

 

Have hearts been broken? 


Sooner or later, the answer is always yes.


Which is perhaps why this tradition has become so important. Both the biggest losers (arrow emoji over my head) and the strongest winners (star next to my ever-loving spouse's name, knowing that comment will make Donald's blood boil) understand that in the end, Hearts is not about the cards in your hand, but the people at your table. 




Sunday, September 24, 2023

Ta Da!




“Don’t use the kitchen while I’m away,” I warned the ever-loving spouse when I traversed to Traverse City a couple weeks ago.

“Why not?” he asked, incredulously. 

 

“Because,” I blathered. “It’s not ready.”

 

He rolled his eyes and complied. At least I think he did. I wasn’t here. 

 

Almost three months to the day after the first sledgehammer exposed rotted beams behind the walls (due in full to our ignoring a years-long shower leak), the new kitchen was complete. 

 

Except, of course for a litany of minor misses and that would never have been noticed had we not spent our golden years’ nest egg on the renovation. There were a couple biggish things, like the new, supposedly in-stock refrigerator that inexplicitly hadn’t yet been delivered and the wrong sized microwave that had been delivered, but all-in-all, it was ready to go.

 

But I wasn’t. 

 

It seems that I didn’t want to actually use the kitchen. I just wanted to look at it and revel in the clutter-free counters, the shiny cabinets that actually close (soft-close at that), the junkless junk drawers, the yet-to-be-smudged stainless steel dishwasher, the custom pantry void of expired food, the crumb-free silverware tray, the beauteously wallpapered powder room with a gasp! chair-height toilet seat. 

 




I wanted to invite the world in to see the one room in our house that was clean and bright and looked like a high-end Airbnb listing. For some reason, my spouse actually wanted to move the pots and pans back into the drawers, put food back into the cabinets and maybe even cook a dinner in the new oven. 

 

“You do know,” I said, relaying my sister Emily’s advice from when we moved into our first house eons ago. “That wherever we put things now is where they’re going to stay for the next 20 years. I just want to be a little more intentional in how I put the kitchen back together.” 

 

Another eye roll. Another take out dinner.

 

But finally, the new refrigerator came, the old one moved to the garage, the old-old one to the dumpster. My sister, Nancy, was coming to hang wallpaper in the powder room that, as in many 95 year-old homes, opens right into the kitchen, and I knew I would get more than an eye roll if I hadn’t done made any headway.

 

And so on the Thursday before Labor Day, I began unloading the boxes and boxes of kitchen paraphernalia that I had so deliberately labeled and stacked in a corner of the basement. In no time at all, the kitchen was back in working order.

 

That very afternoon our neighbor, Jim, rang the doorbell with a baggie of fresh-caught tuna in tow. 

 

Excited for my inaugural meal, I asked how I should cook it.

 

“A little bit of oil, sear it for a few minutes on each side and you’re good to go.”

 

I hadn’t cooked in quite a while and perhaps went a little overboard on the oil. Maybe a lot overboard. Because that oil sprayed and splattered onto my new zellige tile backsplash, dripped beneath the unblemished burners on the stainless steel stove, splashed onto the unsullied granite counter top and turned the hood’s shiny grease filter a nice shade of yellow. 

 

But the tuna was delicious. 

 

Over the course of the renovation, not to mention weeks (months) before, I fretted and fussed, waking up in the middle of the night panic-stricken that I had actually chosen to do this. My poor sister, who can do this kind of thing in her sleep, was the receiver of most of my angst (not to mention thousands of texts). Naturally I couldn't unleash my full fears on the ever-loving, after all, I was the one who begged for this. 


I worried obsessively if my hardware would look okay, if the tile floor would break too many glasses, if the rustic purple backsplash was too purple - or too rustic - if the left-placed toilet paper holder would prove bothersome, if the in-cabinet trash would eternally smell, if the wall color was too light, too dark or too out of fashion, if the mid-century modern clock matched the décor, if, if, if…..

 

I still turn to my right instead of my left to flick the light switches on and off, walk to the wall for the trash can that is now tucked seamlessly within a cabinet, and haven’t yet broken my habit of leaving doors and drawers ajar, despite the help of soft-close hinges. But the counter tops are still clear, the table devoid of anything but random newspapers that can be stacked and recycled in seconds and I smile every time I walk into walk to the kitchen, still shocked by its transformation. 

 

Like driving a new car, it all gets easier after that first scratch and like birthing a baby, you realize (eventually) that it was worth the pain. Then one day as you're roasting that chicken and smiling because the ice-maker still works, you start to wonder what exactly it was that made you over-obsess. Then in the course of a conversation with a friend who asks how bad it was, you answer with muted memory, "Oh, it wasn't bad at all." 


And that's the day you call the contractor and say, "We were thinking of redoing the basement..."