Don't Stop Believin'

Don’t settle. Don’t panic. Just wait. You will know.

 

My mother, who will turn 99 years old in October, drilled this mantra into the hearts of her four daughters throughout our entire dating and mating years. My parents lived one of those fairy tale love stories with my father proposing on their very first date. My mother laughed him off until she realized that he wasn't kidding. They were married just three months later and adored each other every day of the nearly 50 years they were together. 

 

As my sisters and I searched for our Prince Charmings we kissed a pond-full of frogs, hoping that their abundant warts would magically disappear. We tried so hard to limbo into love, but the bar my parents had set was pretty darn high. Just when we began to question my mother’s sage advice, two of us got married in the same year.  And while my sister Nancy’s union didn’t last into old age, she did produce my favorite niece and nephew. 

 

As cousins, the daughter and Olivia are the closest thing to a sister each will ever know. They swapped plenty of their own frog stories through the years with nothing healing their hearts like Nana’s marriage mantra. It gave them hope. It gave them calm. It gave them courage to get back on those dang dating apps. 

 

Just about two years ago, the daughter, and subsequent maid of honor, called in a love alert. 

 

“Don’t say anything yet, but Olivia went on a date last night. She thinks she’s found her person.” 

 

Perhaps because I’m living my own version of a happily-ever-after story, I immediately bought into it and started peppering the daughter with the pertinent questions. Is he rich? Is he handsome? Is he smart? Knowing of course that the yet to be determined were the only questions that mattered: Is he kind? Is he a good person? Does he love Olivia? 

 

It turns out that yeah, he is all of those things and more.

 

On a Friday evening in early September, Olivia and Kevin tied the knot at a beautiful old estate in the Philadelphia suburbs. Nancy, the mother of the bride, has extraordinary vision as well as the talent, the connections, and the wherewithal to bring those creative inspirations to life. So it was no surprise to any of us that the venue was decorated with adorable touches that epitomized the couple’s personalities. There were dozens and dozens of hand-baked cookies made by the incredible Mary Crate, golf-clubbed flower arrangements, cupcakes (almost) too pretty to eat, golf balls with fun sentiments printed on them, a mini-golf course by the barn, an abundance of food and drink, and an eight-piece band that kept four generations of guests dancing the whole night long. 

The highlight of the party came when Olivia and Kevin choreographed and karaoked their way through Journey’s Don’t Stop Believin’ (they didn't), You’ve Lost that Lovin’ Feelin’ (they haven’t), and that ever-fun I’ve Had the Time of my Life.

 

 

It was a night of pure joy with everyone the two of them love (and some whom they don't) all together, celebrating their union.  

Somewhere between the bacon-wrapped scallops and the donut wall, I started blinking back sentimental tears realizing that a niece or nephew’s wedding is about as good as it gets. You’re right there in the lineage line, without the stress of hosting…or paying. My three kids along with two significant others came from across the country to share their familial love with their cousin and her new spouse. As any empty-nester knows, when all your adult offspring are together in one place (as long as it's not living in your house), it brings fuzzy feelings to a parent's heart. 

I suspect I've attended close to 100 weddings in my long-lived life. And despite all the time and travel (not to mention money) that has entailed, there's still no event I enjoy more than celebrating the first day of the rest of a life together. It goes way beyond toasting the happy couple – it’s the fun of witnessing the merging of two (sometimes more) families composed of completely different characters (and there are always characters), the blending of friends with both sordid and solid histories, and being part of the pile of hope that the newly united couple will indeed make it.

 

Everyone smiles on their wedding day -- it’s the days and years after when the bills need to be paid, the children fed, the toilets plunged that the real work begins. Which is why when you start in a place knowing absolutely and unequivocally that your partner is THE ONE, all the minutiae of life is a whole lot easier to navigate. 

 

Here’s to Kevin and Olivia, and to the parents who made them, the siblings who tortured them, the cousins who envied them, the friends who supported them, the bosses who hired them, and the dogs who adored them. 

 

If your happily-ever-after is even a fraction as much fun as the day you were married, it will certainly go down in the books as a love well-lived.

My wise old mother will likely not make it to Olivia and Kevin’s tenth, let alone 50^th wedding anniversary, but for the rest of her life she will beam with pride and love, knowing that her first-born and first-married grandchild did as she was told.

 

Don’t settle. Don’t panic. Just wait. You will know.

Joyful, joyful, we adore thee

   

                                          

When we vowed our eternal friendship as college freshmen, we had no idea what we were signing up for. We were just a bunch of 18-year-old girls living a life in which our biggest challenges were figuring out how many classes we could skip without flunking out, how many beers we could consume without passing out, and how many boys we could kiss along the way. 

We grew up (debatable), got married, pursued careers, bought houses, birthed babies, had body parts finagled, lost jobs, siblings, and parents. We found our places in society, dabbling in PTAs, art leagues, floral design, elder care, massage therapy, classrooms, butterflies, blogs, Bunco and book clubs. We created unique worlds for ourselves with different family dynamics, issues, and goals. But every one of us knew that wherever we went and with whomever we lived that the girls would always be a top priority. For nearly half a century we’ve gotten together as often as possible and touch base weekly with a relevant Quote of the Week sent on the text chain. Whether those words of wisdom are ignored, raise an eyebrow, or spark a conversation, they serve as a continual reminder that we are never more than a millisecond away.

 

Within our group there are different configurations of our friendship. Some of us see each other only on our annual get-together. A couple of us talk on the phone on our morning walks. A few of us keep in touch with another’s children or siblings or friends. But generally, the way we know each other’s families is through the stories we tell.

 

And sorry, significant others. We talk about you. All.The.Time.

 

We know which guy is the most likely to ride a bicycle 100 miles for charity, and which one rides just for the joy of pedaling. We know who loads the dishwasher correctly and who has never, not once put a dish away. We know which one does the most cooking, drinks the most beer, watches the most TV. We know who controls the money, who is the most stubborn, who is the most appreciative and the most appreciated. We know who can build a deck and who can’t hang a picture, who is most likely to go away with the guys, and who prefers a solo fishing trip. We know who brings home flowers and who needs a prompt to remember an anniversary. We know who encourages, who tolerates, and who is oblivious to the girl's trips. We know the snorers, the socializers, the skiers, the lovers, and the fighters. 

 

We all ended up with guys who love us madly (how could they not), support our whims, tolerate our quirks, and try their best to keep us happy. Some of us complain louder than others, some sugar-coat more than others, some are more dramatic than others, and there’s no doubt some of us have been luckier than others. But in the grand scheme of things, we’ve all done good. 

 

Every now and again we catch a look at the significants through our own objective eyes. It happens as we are sharing a table at a wedding, talking politics over a bourbon, meeting in New York City, sailing through the Penobscot Bay, or cheering from the soccer bleachers in Central New Jersey.

 

Suddenly we see a totally different creature than the one we have known through the myriad eye-rolling, snarky, or sickeningly sweet love stories we’ve heard. We see the miser pick up the dinner tab, the anti-social spouse work the crowd, the heavy drinker sipping soda, the perfect partner making a major faux pas. These real-time, real-life insights remind us that the venting, romanticizing, or worshiping words we share with the girls are just words. Words spoken merely for validation, advice, or support from those we’ve loved longer than the men in our lives. And that no matter how much we’ve been told, we will never, ever know what love looks like in any heart other than our own. 

 

But we can get a pretty good idea. 

 

Larry, perhaps the least likely to intentionally screw up a high holy day, died on Mother’s Day after an exhausting bout with a grueling cancer. His first grandson was born in early June so the girls gathered in Atlanta last month to support our friend, Susan, and to celebrate the circle of life with a baptism and a memorial service.

 

It was a beautiful weekend filled with friends and family and a very funny priest. After all the pomp and circumstance, held in the same sanctuary in which we had toasted Jessie and Chris's nuptials, we reconvened at Sue’s place. Back at the house that Larry had renovated we found ourselves amongst faces familiar to us from the wedding two years prior – perhaps more sober but not necessarily more somber. Humor worked its way into our quips and conversations as we swapped stories with friends and family who each had their own unique relationship with Larry. 

 

There were siblings who knew him since the day he was born, children who knew him since the day they were born, friends who worked with him, laughed with him, and prayed with him. There was the seven-week old baby who was hugged by more hearts in that one day than in his whole long life combined; sugared-up toddlers, lovable Gen Z-ers, multiple millennials, boisterous baby boomers, a 90-year-old great grandmother, and an old, tired dog snoring on the living room floor dreaming of long walks with her beloved Larry. 

 

So much love, so much grief, so many woulda, shoulda, coulda's. Yet somehow through the sharing of narratives, connections, and perspectives, joy found its way in. A video highlighting Larry’s twinkling blue eyes showed us the multiple facets of a well-loved man. He was not simply a father, a son, a brother, a buddy, an uncle, an in-law, a co-worker, a mentor, a coach, a patient, a boss, a cousin, a parishioner, a builder, a fisherman, a dog’s best friend or a best friend’s husband. 

Larry's soul showed itself in many different ways.

While contemplating life and death and the myriad layers of love and loss, I've realized that our tears, and grief, and memories are ours alone to have and to hold. Yet no one can lay claim to another person's soul. Because souls are fluid little things, flitting from place to place, person to person, touching down and making their impact in the most curious of ways.

What an honor and privilege it is to witness what a soul has sparked; the inspirations, the convictions, the knowledge, the dreams, the talent, the love, the smiles, the grandchildren. And how heartwarming it is to know that all the while our own souls are out there doing the very same thing. 

Perhaps that's all it takes. A bunch of commingling souls working their magic to make sure that we can feel the joy in the midst of our sorrow. 

What a good soul you shared, Larry. What a good soul.

A new kind of DNR

 

“Remember that time when we went to Harrisburg with those random guys we met at the Fall Ball?” Girlfriend Number Three (names redacted to protect the guilty) gasped.  

Pregnant pause.

 

“That was me. Alone,” Number One responded. 

 

“It was?” Three said, crinkling her nose. “I could have sworn I was there.”

 

“You absolutely weren’t there. That’s why the story is so appalling. And why you should all be thankful I am still alive.” 

The six of us tittered and continued regaling each other with stories of what we should and shouldn’t have done over the course of our 50-year friendship. 

 

We were gathered in Higgins Beach, Maine for our annual get-together at one of the girl’s (we’ll always be girls) family homes that we have frequented ever since we met in college. Sitting on the porch overlooking the crashing waves we jumped into each other’s stories, filling in details, asking impertinent questions, and hijacking the mic. It’s what we have always done, some of us more than others, blaming our loquaciousness on being verbal processors.

 

But somewhere between the stories of the moldy bird seed on the white wedding tux, the Mexico boating incident, and the infamous arrest – all stories we’ve been a part of and / or heard hundreds of times – it became apparent that some facts were no longer facts at all.

 

“You were a sociology major,” Girlfriend Number Four challenged. “You didn’t even take computer science.” 

 

“Are you sure?” Number Six asked with furrowed brow.

 

“Positive!” Numbers One through Five effused in unison.

 

Somewhere during that weekend – in the car on the way to Ogunquit, or when eating lobster that had been wild-caught just hours before, or while walking past the old-age home on the cliffs – talked turned from rotator cuffs, foot surgeries, and neuropathy to wills and funerals and DNRs. 

 

“What does DNR stand for again?” Number Two asked.

 

“Do not remember,” Number One snarked.

 

And thus DNR became the weekend’s theme.

 

When one of us stumbled on a detail we just declared, “DNR.” If one of us lost a word, like what’s that brown liquid you add to an Old Fashioned, or where do you keep those things to dry the dishes with, or pass me some of that green stuff – we just called it as we saw it, another DNR. 

 

We hooted over our ingenuity and cackled our way through another drink.

 

This year Number Three came up with a novel idea – a non-eating, non-drinking Sunday night activity. A month prior to our gathering she challenged us to participate in a book club, choosing The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes. 

 

The Sense of an Ending is a thought-provoking novel that delves into memory, time, and how we construct our own narratives. It explores the intricate workings of memory, how it can shape and reshape one's history, relationships, and identity. It underlines the significance of introspection and how our narratives of the past might sometimes distort the reality of our actions and their consequences.

 (Summary taken straight from Google. Believe me, I’m not that smart. Or succinct.)

The non-readers in the group as well as those of us who DNR what we’ve read minutes after we’ve closed our kindles, agreed that it was spot on – short, profound, and perfectly appropriate.

 

It made us realize that while our ever-advancing age is indisputably a factor, perhaps our blips can be attributed simply to having been blessed with a life jam-packed with more memories than our brains can keep up with.

 

We may bumble and blank, falter and flail, misremember and downright lie, but as long as we don't forget those who have been by our side crafting our lives chapter by chapter, we'll all be just fine. While lifelines come in different shapes, sizes, and personalities they all are built on the same foundation. I foresee a future in which one of us tosses a rope, another grabs on tight, one sheds tears as we spiral, and yet another roars laughing as we reemerge. 

And I have to hold on to hope that not one of us will ever, ever say that we DNR being loved. Loved for who we once were, who we are now, and who we will become.

Even if we forget some of the details along the way.

 

Winning Big in London

  

“Let me get his straight,” said a friend who clearly did not know the great lengths I’ve gone to make my life worth talking about. “You went all the way to London for a baseball game?”

 

If this sounds familiar, it’s because I went all the way to France to play cards last fall and was incredulously questioned about that trip as well.

 

Our friends Donald and Theresa moved to Rennes almost two years ago -- right after the annual Hearts tournament. The rules, in place for over 40 years, clearly state that the winner hosts the next tournament. Don won and eleven of us traveled overseas to honor our commitment. 

 

So when he asked if my ever-loving spouse and I would like to meet at the MLB London Series to watch the Mets get trounced by the Phillies, it was a no-brainer. 

 

I grew up a Phillies fan, going to Connie Mack Stadium with my father, then Veterans Stadium with my friend Patty. She was in love with Manny Trillo. I was in love with he’s not broiled, he’s not fried, he’s shake and Bake McBride. Though it was tough choosing between the likes of speedy Lonnie Smith, gambling Pete Rose, and the great Michael Jack Schmidt.

 

My spouse grew up an Orioles fan and embraced the Phillies briefly, presumably to win me over. We moved to North Jersey and instinctively knew we could never be Yankees fans, nor did we have much interest in the Mets. Because it was back in the pre-historic, pre-internet days, there was only so much we could do to stay loyal to our roots. We followed box scores, occasionally caught a glimpse of our home teams when they played a local game but I became a peripheral fan at best. Once we started producing athletes of our own, I had no time or interest in watching professional sports until the playoffs.

 

And then came the summer of 2015. My kids had all hung up their cleats by then and I found myself flipping through channels, tired of the HGTV home renovation reruns. I happened to land on the Mets at the precise moment that the Wilmer Flores drama was playing out. To save you the google, when rumors started flying that Wilmer had been traded mid-game, he reacted by shedding real tears on the field. He wasn’t actually traded until years later but he instantly became my favorite player in all of baseball, because that’s how I tend to pick my favorites. A couple of days later Yoenis Cespedes, in all his gold-chain glory, joined the squad and I was hooked. The Mets became my team. Of course it helped that they made it to the World Series, albeit with a little Matt Harvey pitching fit that cost them the ring.

 

In 2016 we became Mets season ticket holders and it’s been a roller coaster of a ride ever since.

 

We had a rocky start to our vacation. The dog had already been delivered to his Rover.com home. The suitcases had been opened and shut multiple times to add just one more pair of shoes, one more jacket (because suddenly the high was expected to be in the low 60s), and an extra phone charger (proved worthless because my universal adapter apparently wasn’t universal in the UK). I had my finger poised on the Uber app when I received the oh-so-sorry text that our flight had been canceled due to technical difficulties. We were rebooked for the following day, with a layover in Houston (3 hours and 45 minutes in the opposite direction) and two middle seats. Thanks to the advice of my travel agent sister, we persisted and eventually got it sorted, as the Brits say. We ended up with a direct flight with two adjacent aisle seats but still lost a full day in London. Worse things have happened. 

 

After a sleepless but otherwise uneventful flight, we took a 40-minute train ride to the Liverpool Street Station. As we ascended from the underground, we caught sight of Donald and Theresa, waving their arms and shouting our names in American. Our adorable airbnb was a two minute walk, right in the heart of Spitalfields, a vibrantly funky neighborhood home to multiple pubs that hosted stand-around-outside happy hours. Following the “rule” that you shouldn’t sleep until bedtime in order to avoid jet lag, we walk, walk, walked through the city, ending up on London Bridge and subsequently on a picturesque boat ride down the Thames, serenaded with corny commentary.

 

Over the next couple days we tested our bunions with multiple kilometers recorded in miles on our fitness apps. We saw all the sights, including St. Paul’s Cathedral –the ever-loving spouse being the only one who would fork over the 30 dollars to walk down the aisle that launched Princess Di into despair; Buckingham Palace; Tate Modern; Trafalgar Square, which was filled with MLB pre-game shenanigans; Passyunk Avenue London, a bar and meeting place replicating the raucousness of Philly-dom; and paid a visit to the Bloomberg London office. 

 

After confirming our identity with the spouse’s stateside newsroom ID, we were free to roam the building. We walked out of the lift on the sixth floor and there stood Serendipitous Stephanie, a  colleague whom the spouse had also just happened to run into on an Amtrak train last summer when she was in the US. After touring this spectacular building, picking up some free caffeine and snacks and talking with some of the reporters and editors, one of whom I had met at a Mets game two summers back when she still lived in New York, I put in a request for my spouse’s job transfer to London.

 

Wherever we went, it was abundantly clear that there was something American happening. Our plane had at least two dozen people donned in Mets or Phillies gear and we couldn’t walk half a kilometer without someone saying, “Go Birds!” in reference to Donald’s ever-present Eagles cap. The city felt like a cross between a Taylor Swift concert and the Olympics with perfect strangers bonding and cheering on their heroes. 

 

The crowds at the games were overwhelmingly dominated by Philadelphia fans, maybe because they were one of the best teams in baseball while the Mets were struggling to stay barely above worst team status. We did note though that the English spectators tended to wear Mets rather than Phillies gear, perhaps just a preference in team colors, but more likely they thought they were getting a great deal on that authentic deGrom jersey. Of which we saw many. 

 

What I didn’t realize when I was in the thick of Philadelphia-ism was how, shall we say, passionate the fans are. Sitting In the row behind us was a family with two adolescent kids. After the dad booed the fifth Met in a row, I turned around in all my blue and orange glory and said, “That’s so mean. Don’t boo us!” 

 

“That’s just what we do,” he said good-naturedly. “I even boo my own kids.” 

 

I’m no stranger to this kind of behavior. Donald and my spouse are notorious competitors. They trash-talk through the fantasy basketballs season, battle about bringing home the Hearts trophy, and defend their beloved sports teams while mercilessly mocking the opponent’s yips, injuries, and stupid plays. They roll their eyes when I feel sorry for the losers and don’t appreciate my compassion for the mothers of the athletes. They believe in taking home the gold. 

 

As was expected, the Mets lost big the first game but pulled out an incredible double play to end the second game with a W. A perfect split series that made the trip worth it for both sides. Honestly, I would have been fine either way, but both Donald and my spouse wanted a full-out sweep for their respective teams. 

 

The baseball games were played at London Stadium which is home to the West Ham United “football” team. The 20-minute walk back to the train with 55,000 sports enthusiasts was a feat unto itself. Along the route security in neon vests would periodically exercise crowd control by holding up stop signs. The crowd would oblige, halting and jawing in jest until the signs turned back to GO. At one of the stop points a guard remarked, “This is incredible. You would never see opposing fans sitting alongside one another, let alone walking together amicably after a football match.”

 

And that’s when the Pollyanna in me reared her pretty little head and I got those familiar goosebumps in my heart. I knew better than to say it to the guys, but it truly didn’t matter who won or lost over the weekend in London Stadium.  

 

After all, not everyone would entertain the idea of attending a series of contrived baseball games in the land of the royals. Let alone make it happen. Not everyone has friends who will jaunt over from France and have the refrigerator stocked with Diet Coke upon your jet-lagged arrival. Not everyone has friends who understand how a single wrong decision over something as innocuous as which cross-body bag you carry can make or break a day. Not everyone has buddies who have endured the test of time and travel and at the end of the trip say, “Where to next?” and mean it. 

What a win. What a win.

Manifesting the Oui

“You do realize,” the daughter said, somewhere in between do you want to go to the beach and do you want pasta with your chicken parm. “That your default response is always no.”

“No it’s not!” I replied. “I say yes to everything.”

 

The daughter, the sister and the niece exchanged knowing smirks.

 

Olivia, my favorite niece, is marrying her favorite person in September with her favorite cousin who happens to be my favorite daughter, serving as maid of honor. We decided to do a mother-daughter Mother’s Day weekend in Charleston where Olivia’s mother, one of my favorite sisters lives.

 

Olivia and the daughter (mine, not hers) had just returned from a jewelry store where they created personalized necklaces. Olivia’s charms included the number six which is her future wedding date; a dog bone in honor of her loveable mutt, Bob; and a heart, for obvious reasons. The daughter’s choices were a flying pig because, duh, all things are possible; a horseshoe magnet to attract the attractable; and an evil eye to ward off life’s unpleasantries. They both added a charm etched with the word, Oui. Olivia will be saying yes in September and the daughter is vowing to say yes to new people, places, and experiences.  

 

“Oh, I need a oui!” I exclaimed.

 

“You can’t just get one. You have to earn it.” 

 

“How?”

 

Which earned me those knowing smirks again. 

 

“Manifest it,” said Olivia.

 

Believe it or not, I was once a full-out oui girl. 

 

“Want to go to Galax, Virginia for a folk festival?” asked my friend, Ann. 

 

“YES!” 

 

There were no worries about where would we stay, anxiety over impending rain, or words wasted on what ifs. Even if it had entered our minds that a tire might blow out on Skyline Drive in the middle of the night and then happen again an hour later, I seriously doubt we would have brought a spare spare. Some things were not meant to be pre-angsted about.

 

 “Want to spend the summer in Arizona?” suggested same friend.

 

“YES!”

 

Off I went across the country on a Trailways bus. Three glorious days of breathing in, breathing out the unlovely aroma of back-of-the-bus air freshener, brushing teeth in stainless steel sinks in bus station bathrooms, and ultimately befriending unwanted seat mates. 

 

“Let’s go to Florida for spring break!”

 

“I’m in!” I responded without hesitation.

 

So we hopped into my Ford Pinto with two guy friends, surfboards on the roof, sleeping bags in the trunk, driving through the night until we hit Sebastian Inset where we slept on the beach. Not in a tent on the beach. On the beach. A perfect vacation complete with a nice dose of sun poisoning. 

 

“We should just go down to Ocean City,” Patty and I concluded when there wasn't any fun to be found in Wyndmoor. An hour-and-a-half later we were knocking on boarding house doors looking for a ten-dollar-a-night room. No vacancy, no problem. We would surely meet new friends at the Anchorage (seven beers for a dollar) who would house us for the night.

 

I have had a life time of spur of the moment adventures including a pre-internet, late-night drive with my beau (who realized my worth on that trip and proposed soon after) to our nation’s capital to drop off a resume at the Washington Post (he didn’t get the job); a 300-mile round trip to see Jackson Browne in concert, getting back to college three hours before a final exam; sleeping in the back seat of an unlocked car at a truck stop somewhere in Nebraska; biking Grand Cayman in 95 degree heat with no map or water; toasting in the New Year in Moscow; singing karaoke off-key at a pig roast in the Philippines; succumbing to a frighteningly authentic shaman-run sweat lodge on a lesser-known Caribbean island; zip lining in the mountains of Jamaica; and perhaps scariest of all, trying to blend in with the debutantes at a Beaux Arts Ball in Philadelphia. 

 

Though I once welcomed airplane turbulence with a gleeful whoo hoo and would jump into a stranger’s car without a second thought, I wasn’t completely fearless. I was the only second-grader who refused to pet a snake on a class trip – back in the days when it was OK for teachers to publically shame an eight year old’s phobia. I never went downhill skiing knowing for sure that the young and handsome ski-renter dude would scream, "Do we have any skis for someone this heavy?"  I never jumped off Indian Head in all those years of vacationing at Charleston Lake with Rachel. And I never tried heroin. 

 

Somewhere along the line I got way more cautious/sensible/mature/scared/neurotic. I began hemming and hawing and verbally processing every possible scenario that would or could go wrong. And that eventually morphed into being the one who apparently always leads with NO. Yet, at the risk of another eye roll from dear sister, daughter, and favorite niece, I must contend that I am indeed a positive person. 

 

I believe with all my heart that people are not inherently evil and do I not ALWAYS make excuses for the bad guy? When my washing machine bubbled over onto my brand new laundry room floor, did I not remember that children are dying in Gaza?  Am I not the one who, despite entertaining every potential catastrophe, knows that in the end things usually turn out okay?

 

It’s just the getting there that can be hard for me. 

 

Sometimes though, I surprise myself as well as those who know me best.

 

“I’m shocked you'd let a stranger touch you,” the sister said after I gave a thumbs up to a Saturday massage.

 

Somehow I’ve made it this far without experiencing a naked-on-the-bed massage and it never occurred to me that it should be something to be nervous about. And I wasn’t, until the masseuse spent more time coughing than massaging.

 
“Don’t worry, I don’t have Covid,” she said, planting the seed, but luckily not the virus.

 

“What time are we going to the beach tomorrow?” I asked as we drank cocktails out of our stripper man straws later that day,

 

I used to love the beach and could lie prone for hours on end with no sunscreen. Today’s me has a very strong aversion to it. I’m not sure exactly when it happened – but it was likely a culmination of all my sand and surf traumas that festered beneath the surface until they had nowhere to go but no. It may have stemmed from the time my sister Emily left me for dead in a riptide in Cape May. Or that infamous 1974 Bahamas beach adventure with my friend Madge. Or the aforementioned Sebastian Inlet vomit-inducing skin baking. Or the special July 4^thsurprise that could only have meant an engagement ring, but turned out to be a day trip to Sandy Hook with my ever-loving-spouse-to-be and his college buddy, Bruce. In his speedo. 

 

Because the weekend was supposed to be all about Olivia, I had preemptively surrendered and accepted my fate. I packed my swimsuit, had my kindle queued up to a Jennifer Weiner beach read, and may even have allowed one of my favorite people to slather sunscreen across my back. I could deal, knowing that those annoying grains of sand wouldn’t be lingering in MY car or MY house. 

 

“No, we’re going shopping on King Street instead,” they answered, too in unison for it not to have been previously discussed. 

 

In the past few weeks since yearning to earn my oui, I have done a great deal of reflection on my rote responses. And I must concede that there have indeed been a lot of instant no's:  No I won't apply for a job like that. No I won't go there on vacation. No I won't buy a used car. No I won't sit in the middle seat on an airplane. No I won't eat octopus (just can't get past those suction cups). No, I won't drink a beverage, any beverage without ice. No I won't get another dog after our old hound finally expires. 

And that string of no's actually made me a little sad. After all, doesn't everyone want to spew positivity? 

The other day I got an all caps text from the daughter. 

SOMETHING TRULY AMAZING HAS HAPPENED !!

Pause for effect. 

 

LILY AND I ARE GOING TO LYON TO SEE TAYLOR SWIFT NEXT WEEK!!! 

I grinned a great big grin. 

All is not lost! 

Despite my now well-documented proclivity to saying no, it brings me great joy to see that manifesting the oui is alive and well, living its best life in my DNA.

Letting Leo Live his Life

 

Parenting is hard. 

I could have stopped at two kids. But my warped reasoning was that unless I was outnumbered, I would have nothing to complain about. I already had one of each brand, so any contrasting personality traits would be automatically attributed to gender. I wanted to experience firsthand the differences between two brothers or two sisters. And I really wanted one more maternity leave. Yes, this was truly the thought process behind having that third child. And somehow my illogic trumped my ever-loving spouse’s very founded fear that I was already two children beyond my mothering capacity. 

We both knew before he was conceived that Leo (or Phoebe had he been a girl), was going to be the last of the offspring. So I extended my maternity leave from three months to five and since we had to pay for it anyway, plopped the other two in day care three days a week. I lugged little Leo from lunches with the girls to dental appointments to trips to Target because I had never had an infant who didn’t melt down in public. Or maybe he did, or they didn't, but by number three I just didn’t notice. I was living the life.

 

We lived in a crowded little Cape Cod house in those early days. I had no fear of burglars (or worse) coming in through the ground floor windows nor did I worry about not hearing a wailing child. So the older two had downstairs bedrooms while my spouse and I slept a full flight away. The other upstairs bedroom was a combo guest room / office and because once you have three kids you no longer get a lot of overnight visitors, it became Leo’s room. He would fall asleep to my tap-tap-tapping on the computer after six or seven or ten rounds of Owl Babies, a  book that ended with “I love my mommy!” said Bill.  

 

As the baby of the family Leo fell into place, deferring to his bossy older sister and volatile big brother. But he learned to defend himself, and after being attacked one too many times at daycare, bit that bully right on the fleshy part of his arm. He learned the fine art of stubbornness, climbing on top of the family car refusing to venture in to the annual Memorial Day party at the Schaeffer’s. Parents of well-behaved children simply shook their heads and said, “He does it because you allow it.” 

 

By five years old he was tamed by the no-nonsense, if this is what you want, this is how you get it, Coach Leon. Leo found his focus with the Teaneck Titans and became a devoted and disciplined baseball player with a plan in place that would lead him to the big leagues. And while the other two didn’t lack in their athletic prowess, pursuing cheerleading, wrestling, softball, basketball, soccer, football, gymnastics, and baseball, Leo was the one who devoted his life to the sport, never wavering, never complaining, always moving forward toward his goal. 

 

Despite shoulder surgery and persistent pain, Leo earned a spot on a Division I roster only to give up his dream at the end of the fall season. You can read that story right here.

 

It was a heartbreak to some, a shock to many, and to others an “I never would have let my kid quit baseball after spending that much time and money.”

Our biggest fear was that he would drop out of school all together, but sure enough, four years later, Leo graduated from Rutgers University with an “I can’t believe you let him switch his major” degree in Philosophy. 

 

After so many years of if you want to play on a travel baseball team you have to do this. If you want to be on an elite team you have to give up that. If you want to play in college you have to do this. If you’re serious about playing beyond college you can't do that. We knew we had to let Leo figure out how to live the rest of his life without a prescribed path in place.

 

There was a stint of student teaching, a season of driving for Uber Eats, a couple of freelance movie production gigs, some pretty fascinating but unsubmitted screenplays, summers at horse shows on our friend’s food truck. A little of this, a little of that. But nothing that even vaguely resembled a roadway to a career. And of course there were a lot of, “How can you let him live at home when he doesn’t even try to get a real job?” comments. 

 

I struggled, I really did. I was raised way more conventionally. I moved out of my parents’ house in my mid-twenties and would have been laughed out of any conversation (albeit lovingly) that started with, “But I don’t want to spend my whole life working 40 hours a week just because society tells me I have to.” 

 

Oh honey, how lucky you’d be to land a job that only required 40 hours a week. I’m not sure I ever had one of them until I started freelancing. And even then I was working all but eight hours a day, writing ad copy and battling my time-consuming offspring. 

 

Call it a mother's intuition, or pure lack of a better idea, but for Christmas three years ago I gave Leo a membership to a meditation center here in Teaneck. 

 

“There’s no way I’m doing that,” he said.

 

“Oh, but you have to,” I said for perhaps the first time in his life. 

 

And that was the beginning of the life that Leo has chosen to lead. 

 

He has twice walked the Camino de Santiago, a 600 (give or take) mile jaunt through Spain. He has been to ashrams in the Catskills, lived in a tent two different times for months on end at the Sivananda Ashram Yoga Retreat in the Bahamas, been on a silent retreat near Joshua Tree, spent a couple months at a center in Sacramento, and has just finished an intense 500-hour advanced yoga teacher training course. 

 

Once one of the biggest fans of BBQ ribs this side of Memphis, Leo is now a vegetarian. He eats healthy foods, thinks healthy thoughts, and is in better physical shape than he was as a 17 year-old baseball player. He doesn’t ask for money. He doesn’t have a credit card. He never has a Christmas list. He is kind, introspective, and a really fun person to banter with over topics like karma and reincarnation and why the soul and spirit are the most important gifts we possess.  

 

His father still belts out in the most random of moments, “GET A JOB!”

 

And I have to admit, I vacillate between thinking (not saying), “You’re 28 years old. It’s time to DO something,” to “You’re ONLY 28 years old. Do what you love while you can.”

 

But what has set me free as a parent was a real palm to the forehead epiphany. By the time Leo needs to tap into his 401K plan that he’s missed ten years (so far) of paying into – I’ll be long dead and it won’t be my problem. 

 

So today on the 28^th birthday of my free-spirited youngest yogi child, my thoughts go back to the very words I uttered when he hung up his cleats 10 years ago. 

 

Long may you run, Leo. Long may you run.

Dashing my dreams in Dayton

“You really have a way of getting people to spill their life stories,” Newfound Friend Number Two remarked while sitting in a Marriott Hotel lobby in Dayton, Ohio last week. This was in response to the rather innocuous question of why did you move from Colorado to Asheville? Her answer had everything to do with death and dying. She was caring for an aging-out-of-life parent and a spouse (whom she still loves, so no upside there) who has six months to live. As the conversation grew, so did my awe. I don't have a nurturing bone in my body, I confessed to this friend who was a stranger not ten minutes before.

“But you have three kids!” she scoffed. “Of course you're a nurturer.” 

 

Oh honey, if you only knew. 

 

Newfound Friend Number One shared the story of a brain injury her husband sustained at a construction site. Not an ultra-debilitating brain injury, but bad enough. It wasn't due to a fall from a collapsible scaffold. Nor was it a head-hit from an errant crane. It was an act of God. While hanging a bigger-than-life-sized crucifix, the cable snapped and down they went. She weeps a lot. I witnessed it. Not, she claims, because of her life but because of the HRT.

 

Newfound Friend Number Three who protected her loved ones from an in-house grizzly bear (for real, not a code word for a family member) by locking herself in the bathroom, resides in rural Virginia amongst a slew of less ferocious animals, and does a really impressive contortion of character when given a mic.

 

I watched the UConn vs Iowa women’s basketball semi-final with Number Four, a woman from Newtown, Connecticut. Yes, that Newtown. The one where the most heinous of humans slaughtered a school-full of children, forever scarring every single resident of the once obscure town. But before long we were connecting on a completely different level – laughing as we shared stories of our sordid youth and (lovingly) rolling our eyes about the youth we in turn had raised. 

 

Along came more and more Newfound Friends including the travel writer from Atlanta who apologized on behalf of her parents for gracing her with the name of a stripper; the proudly-confident, fluorescent-pink haired voice-over professional from Oregon; the Cincinnati mother who, against (almost) all odds, birthed an IUD baby – kept it, loved it, had two more; the trans man from Boston who self-deprecatingly laughed his way through the absurdity of his newfound body.

 

As well as author Anna Quindlen, actor Kathy Kinney, and slam poet Barbara Fant, I met a cat/dog (take your pick) woman with synesthesia (google it) who admitted that despite growing up in the same county as I, got the heebie-jeebies looking at my purple sweater with its big, bold orange flowers. There was the one who proposed to her spouse on Leap Day in the tail end of the last century (still married) and appeared on E. Jean Carroll’s talk show at the same time I was working at CNBC. I probably wrote the promo copy. I was sure I had bored the asymmetrical-haired woman from California with my Taylor Swift ticket acquisition story until she handed me a friendship bracelet (look up the TS / friendship bracelet correlation if you don’t inherently know this) adorned with four white beads: 

E   B   W   W

 

Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop

 

And that's where I was with my newfound friends. 

Last fall my Moth-winning, story-telling cousin, Karen, asked if I wanted to attend this event with her. I responded with a resounding YES, just as long as we can have separate rooms. You know, the sharing of snores, fans, and bathrooms can foil the best of friendships. 

 

Erma Bombeck has been my idol for as long as I can remember – I’ve read all of her books multiple times and at different stages of life beginning when I was a teenager torturer, right through to the years when I became a torturee.

 

I hate to think there’s anyone out there who hasn’t been touched by this incredible writer, but just in case…the upshot is that over a span of 30 years beginning in the mid-sixties, Erma wrote about life as a suburban housewife and mother back when it wasn’t in vogue to poke fun at those (including oneself) who chose that path. She was funny, smart, inspirational, cutting-edge, and oh, so profoundly human. 

 

For as long as I have professed to be a writer, I’ve been inspired by this plaque hanging above my desk: 

Gotta admit, I was nervous in the midst of these people. Sure I can write. I pen a blog and post it to Facebook, sweating it out as I count my likes. I can whip up a tear-jerker of a eulogy for someone I don't even know. I can get a kid into college with a killer essay (their moral issue, not mine). I can write ad copy for products I would never use, websites for sites I would never visit, birthday poems for those turning 21, 50, and hopefully 100 (my mother is currently 98.5 years old). But put me with some 400 random strangers, all of whom are legit writers, and my knees quake way worse than the tremor that hit my home state on day two of the conference. 

Even since my first piece was featured in the Oreland Sun back in second grade, I've dreamed of becoming a published author. (Note below the obvious reason for not aspiring to become a poet.)

Tommy got a brand new gun,

Let's go out and have some fun.

Christmas is a time of giving, 

And I'm so glad that I am living. 

When I attend my class reunions, which I always do, somewhere between "How many kids do you have?" and "Are your parents still alive?" comes the inevitable "Have you written your novel yet?"

I've written three. They're all incarcerated in my computer and will never see the light of day. 

I felt totally out of my league at this workshop, surrounded by so many masterful writers. Still, I got to my classes early, took copious notes, jotted down meaningful messages, and didn't play a single game of Words with Friends during any session. 

"So what was your biggest takeaway from the Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop?" my friend texted upon my return. 

"I'll get back to you on that," I answered.

I've been mulling it over for a few days and finally saw that lightbulb icon flashing above my head. 

I didn't learn a thing about sentence structure or grammar nor did I figure out what a dangling participle is. But I did learn something way more important. 

It's okay if we're not the exact version of the writer we dreamed of becoming our whole live-long lives. It's okay and perhaps even necessary to pirouette, to pivot, to rewrite our goals.

And if we cut ourselves a break and stick with what we do best then maybe, just maybe, when we meet our maker, whoever he, she, they, or it turns out to be -- we will finally find peace within our prowess. If our words touched even one single soul, stirred one heart, changed one perspective, or made one human smile, then we have done what we were put on this earth to do. Even if we're not the most published, the most popular, or the most talked about writer in the history of the world.

I learned that as we bumble our way through to the pinnacle of our pens, not to get stuck on the I'll never be and the I wish I were voices running rampant in our heads, but rather to embrace the I am. I AM a writer and so are all those newfound friends of mine. We are witty, weird, wacky, wordy, whimsical, wayward, wise, and wonderful writers. 

However we craft our words, whether it be in the form of a novel, a poem, a podcast, a Moth story, an essay, a memoir, a speech, a Substack, a news article, an ad campaign, a TikTok, or a blog born while sipping bourbon in a hotel bar, we all have the power to make the world a better place.

And that, my friends is quite a gift.