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. 

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..." 

              

Long Live

 

 

Full disclosure. I am tone deaf. I prefer listening to books over music, I generally can’t identify a song until well into the lyrics and I immediately lower the radio when riding in a car with my offspring.  

 

But I’m certainly not a music monk. I’m first on the floor when Burning Down the House pops into a playlist (earning wide-eyed stares for my offbeat flailing), I belt out every word (off-tune) to Piano Man as it plays in the 8^th inning at CitiField and I smile with nostalgia whenever I hear Peaceful Easy Feeling (another story for another time). 

 

As a youth I went to just about every concert $7.50 could buy, rotating between the Spectrum, Tower Theater and the TLA in Philadelphia. It didn’t really matter who was playing, it mattered who was going. Which is why I was just as likely to attend a Beach Boys as a Deep Purple concert.  

 

Back in 1991 as a pre-parenting last hurrah, my music-loving spouse and I went to New Orleans for Jazz Fest. In 2012 I saw John Prine at a small venue in New Jersey and last month listened to a slightly known band play under the stars at a small town festival. And that is just about the extent of my musical ventures over the past 32 years. 

 

Which may lead one to wonder how – and more importantly – why – a woman who has aged out of middle age, ended up at SoFi Stadium in Los Angeles, screaming with the Swifties last Saturday night. 

 

I have loved Taylor Swift since I first heard You Belong With Me on CD repeat in the minivan as I carted the daughter from soccer to softball, from gymnastics to cheerleading, from sleepovers to boyfriends’ houses (not one in the same). I have always been somewhat star struck, googling the rich and famous and later having “informed” conversations about their lives. But that’s more likely a search for “what did Francisco Lindor name his second daughter,” than a full-out follow on all forms of social media – which is what I do with Taylor Swift. I know her mother’s Great Dane is named Kitty, that she is exactly one month older than I am (the mother, not the dog), that her brother went to Notre Dame and her grandmother was an opera singer. I know which of her exes made their way into her songs and who her favorite friends are. 

 

The daughter and I exchange texts about her as if she is someone we actually know. 

 

“Did you hear Taylor might be back with Joe?”

 

“Rumors. All rumors.”

 

“It’s so sad. She really loved him.”

 

Yes, I am well aware that what I know about this pop icon is absolutely nothing.  

 

Fast forward through the eras, through boyfriends and breakups to last November when tickets went on sale for Taylor Swift’s first concert tour in five years. 

 

“I’m going,” I announced.

 

Along with millions of others, I registered online for a presale code. Unlike the multitudes, I didn’t really understand what this was all about. After all, most of my concert tickets had been purchased from a booth in the back of Korvette’s department store in the Cedarbrook Mall.  I was asked to list four choices of venues and I typed in New Jersey, New Jersey, Philadelphia and on a whim, Los Angeles.

 

I got the code, a feat unto itself, I later learned – for the LA show only – and was instructed to go online in the early hours of November 15 to get in the queue which could possibly, but my no means guarantee me being able to actually purchase tickets. 

 

It didn’t take long for me to realize the ridiculousness of the whole scenario. Was I really going to fight for a concert ticket at my age? Would I even be able to survive in a mega-stadium with 70,000 other humans? And in what world did it make sense to fly across the country to see a pop star, whom yes, I professed to love … but come on. 

 

And so I bagged the whole silly idea. 

 

If you recall, the day tickets went on sale, Ticketmaster crashed and the world went mad. I self-praised my good judgment for not attempting to battle the masses. But. Mid-afternoon I got an email saying that the glitch was fixed and west coast ticket sales would open back up at 6 pm. I had finished my Wordle, had chopped the spouse’s dinner shrubbery, Jeopardy wasn’t on for another hour, so what the heck? I logged in. Again, I know nothing of queues and spinning circles, but it soon –  and I mean within mere minutes – became clear that I was about to score. I texted the daughter. 

 

“Hey, it looks like I’m going to get tickets for Taylor Swift. You in?”

 

“Mom. You’re NOT getting tickets. My friends and I have been online ALL day. It’s not happening.” 

 

Three minutes later, I sent her a screen shot of the two lower bowl, right-behind-the-VIP-tent seats that I had purchased for a small fortune. But, I reasoned, amortized over all the years of not going to concerts, it was a pretty good deal. 

 

Anti-hero no longer. I was the MAN. (See what I did there, fellow fans?) 

 

When we checked in to the hotel last weekend, the aging desk attendant greeted us with a grin, “You girls here for Taylor Swift?”

 

“Uh, duh,” I said. 

 

He laughed.

 

“No, really. We are going.”

 

When he realized his ageist faux pas, he tried to dial it back. He earnestly asked what I was going to wear, referring to the fact that “everyone” dresses up for the show, picking one of Taylor’s eras to commemorate. 

 

I am not a dresser-upper. Not for nothing. Not for no one. 

 

But this was different. I was going to be totally out of my element, not to mention my peer group. And while I would never lie about my age, and don’t care (that much) how wrinkled I am,  I do have this inexplicable need to stay agelessly relevant. So for weeks I had run the gamut of choices through my mind – I could wear a shiny bodysuit, a fringe-filled skirt, a blazer and Louboutins, a ball gown, a top hat, a folksy, floor length dress, or just call it a day with bright red lipstick. 

 

I finally decided that I best related to one of her lesser-hits and had the song title custom printed onto a t-shirt: 

 

this is me trying

 

More perfect words were never worn. 

 

As we walked into SoFi Stadium I felt an overwhelming … something. My throat got a bit tight and my eyes a tad watery. I looked around at all those jubilant faces, mostly women, mostly less than half my age, and I was overpowered with … something. 

 

As is typical, I engaged random strangers in conversation.

 

“Mom, read the body language,” the daughter quipped. “They doesn’t want to talk to you.” 

Oh, but they did. With in minutes I was gifted two friendship bracelets (a line in one of Taylor’s songs morphed into the making and exchanging of bracelets at concerts) even though I didn’t have any to trade back (you have to draw the line somewhere.) I gave the daughter a smug smile. Like all my other sentimental bracelets, they’re going to stay on my wrist until they fall off. 

 

“But how was the SHOW?” my spouse asked after I gushed about the malls being stocked with Taylor outfits, the airplane filled with concert-goers, the city alive with pre-concert electricity, the little girls in front of us passed out from overload.

 

Oh yes, the show. Well the actual show was amazing. It was like nothing I’d ever experienced. Three hours and fifteen minutes, 44 songs filled with theater, dance, style, lights, effects, conversation and pure joy.  There were multitudes laughing, crying, singing, shrieking, hugging and swaying. Not that I have any 21^st century comparisons, but to me the concert was a spectacular spectacle. 

 

But Taylor Swift is more than the show. So much more.  

 

Which brings me back to the why. 

My spouse, who can identify Taylor Swift’s voice but really only knows “The Romeo and Juliette” song because Richie belted it out in one of The Bear episodes, mocks my idol mercilessly. 

 

“Is she going to sing another mean song about one of her boyfriends?” 

 

“Mean? Are you kidding me. She’s the nicest person in the world!” I protested. 

 

Granted, she does sing a lot of songs about her past, present and future love life. And while I will forever remember the guy at that party with whom I had an hours-long conversation after which I deemed him to be the one (you guessed it, he didn't call) and falling in hopeless love with the one who later became my ever-loving spouse, her tales about newfound and unrequited love are not why her songs resonate with me. 

 

I used to think it was because she started out as a Pennsylvania girl growing up in the exact town where we traveled for our very first of hundreds of baseball tournaments. Or because she’s a kind human, a self-proclaimed people pleaser, a masterful marketer and an absolute genius of a writer.

“There’s no way we’re going to get through this concert without sobbing,” the daughter warned me as we headed for the show.

That's when it hit me.

 

My love for Taylor Swift wasn’t all about me.

 

As a three-time mother, I think I can vouch for the fact that living through an offspring’s pain hits us twice as hard as it does hard as it does the child. And three times harder than it ever hit us when we went through it ourselves. Of course said child will roll their angsty eyes in denial, but once they’re in our shoes, they’ll know we’re not lying. Every heartbreak, every mean girl, every dashed dream ricochets through a mother’s body and soul, over and over, long after the slashes have turned to scars. 

 

Taylor Swift has perfectly penned the story of our lives. Mine, the daughter’s, and the millions of other hopeful souls in the world. But of course that’s the magic of a master storyteller – somehow everyone believes that the tale was spun specifically and solely with them in mind. 

 

As smoothly as it all went, as amazing as the experience was, as much fun as we had, I know that I don’t ever need to go to a stadium concert again. 

But I promise you this. Some thirty years from now when I'm well into late-stage old age and the daughter's the age I am now, we'll be the first in line when Taylor Swift announces her residency show in Las Vegas. 

Long live all the magic we made. 

A Wedding Story

“You know you can say no,” a random woman I befriended at the beauty parlor snorted after I overshared that I was going to my 87^rd wedding that weekend. 

I may actually be under-estimating the number of weddings I’ve attended in my life. All I know for sure is that when we moved across town 17 years ago, I dumpstered all 63 (I counted) wedding invitations that I’d been saving since 1980. In hindsight, I would have been better served purging my Aunt Mary’s china (boxed since her death in 1988); half, or even a quarter of the 10,000 books that overflow EVERY room in our house; or at the very least, the 30 lidless-Tupperware containers that tumble to the floor on a daily basis. I’ve often wished I had kept the invitations, if for no other reason than to solve the myriad memory-slipping debates:

 

Was Susan’s wedding at the same Long Island venue as Allan’s? Was Jack’s reception really at The Fort? How many years have Peggy and Pat been married? What was Peter’s ex-wife’s maiden name? 

 

As it stands, I have to trust the memories, some hazier than others, as I recollect the many, many nuptials I’ve witnessed. There was the wedding at the St. Regis Hotel on a snowy December night, the picture-perfect August afternoon at Trentadue Winery in Sonoma and the Phoenixville church where the white tuxedos got stained by bird seed (an early attempt to be eco-conscious). There was the fully-masked ceremony on the Puget Sound, the lavender farm in Wiscasset, Maine, the McGuire Air Force Base-d event in New Jersey, the beach bash in Fort Lauderdale and the love shack on the Ocean City boardwalk. There was the VFW hall in Chippewa Falls, the Holiday Inn on the highway, the Pearl S. Buck house in Perkasie, the manor overlooking the Hudson River and the New Orleans courtyard wedding complete with a brass band. 

 

I was at a wedding that was evacuated when the fire alarm blasted in the midst of the I-do’s, one at which the groom’s drunken mother slid her way across the dance floor, one where the bride’s father took the stage to play drums with the band and many, many featuring a maid of honor who interjected inappropriate college memories. I’ve witnessed couples as they connected through the love of Jesus Christ, by the power of God, beneath a Chuppah, in the eyes of an unnamed higher power and by online-certified BFF officiants. I’ve heard both original vows that evoked audible sniffles and biblical pronouncements wherein the wife promised to obey her husband, only to defy him (good for her) before the first dance. I’ve seen ugly crying from mamas who can’t let go of their sons, fist-bumping fathers who are happy to get their daughters off their phone plans and siblings whose distaste for their new family member is palpable. 

 

I’ve been to weddings held in backyards, barns and beaches as well as formal fetes thrown in country clubs, repurposed mansions and skyline ballrooms. I have drunk from both kegs and champagne flutes, been served wood-fired pizzas and food-truck fare as well as oysters on the half-shell and chateaubriand. Not to mention the many, many, many plates of rubberized chicken francese, twice-baked potatoes and green beans sprinkled with slivered almonds.

 

And while so many weddings seem to fade into one another, there’s always a reason why I keep saying yes. 

Last weekend's reason was Anthony.

 

I’ve known Anthony almost as long as I’ve known my own kids. And because he’s not my kid, I’ve been able to enjoy his antics and adventures with minimal distress. Anthony is that kid who drove the family car, booked a solo trip to Italy and took a plunge into the Hackensack River all by the age of 12. Born into a family of older brothers and multiple mischievous cousins, he navigated his childhood operating way beyond his years. 

 

Because he’s not my kid, I’ve been able to simply shake my head over his impulsive decisions, roll my eyes at every transfer of school or job or state, and pretend to love even the most dubious pieces of body art that he started penning long before his peers. 

My ever-loving spouse (aka Coach Dave) and I spent a lot of time with Anthony in his formative years. As team mom for the Titans baseball team, this kid was with whom I consulted about hotels and flights and sprinter vans.

 

Meanwhile, he was the one riding shotgun in Coach Dave’s 20-year-old, un-air-conditioned, Toyota with the hand-cranked windows, never missing a tournament that offered the opportunity to show off his cannon of an arm. Anthony would orchestrate the four-or-more-to-a-room sleeping arrangements, putting himself in the best possible position to sneak out and roam the hotel corridors once Coach Dave settled into his snoring.

 

Anthony is fun and fearless, and (thus far) has managed to land just this side of the law. Which clearly has less to do with his behavior and more than a little to do with the many cops and multiple angels that constitute his extended family and friends. 

 

Among those angels is his father, Phil, who died after a long and gnarly illness when Anthony was 12 years old. Phil was a beloved father, husband, coach and friend and the world took a big hit when he passed. He has remained very much alive in the hearts of all who knew him and more than one of us have wondered if Anthony would be the Anthony we know and love if he hadn’t lost his father when he did. And most of us agree that some of Anthony’s life choices are better off viewed from heaven. Anthony grew up to be his father’s mini-me, more so than any of his siblings. So it was only fitting that, though his two older brothers who both had their weddings in different Julys, Anthony was the one who managed to get married on his father’s actual birthday.

 

Anthony is now a married man so I wouldn’t want to dwell on any past and fleeting romances. But suffice it to say, when I met Jacqueline a couple years back at a Yankees-Mets game (“we” won, Anthony lost), I knew that she would be his bride. 

 

“Be nice to her,” I said to Anthony. “Do NOT screw this up.” 

 

And to Jacqueline, “God bless you.”

It’s impossible to describe Anthony in mere words. He’s more like an experience. And no matter how long you've known him or what adventures you've shared, the take-away is always the same. There's absolutely no point in trying to figure out what makes him tick. 

 

Last Saturday, over 200 people gathered for Anthony and Jacqueline’s wedding. From the tearful father-daughter dance exuding mutual adoration to the sob fest that ensued when Anthony took the floor with his mother, (“No!” the mother insisted earlier that week, “I’m NOT going to cry.”). From the piped-in cloud-like smoke to the photo booth to the sparkling fireworks and thrones upon which the bride and groom perched. From the abundance of gourmet food and free-flowing bourbon to the spot-on toasts and heart-felt love. From the cascading stairways and crystal chandeliers to the marbled hall and spectacular floral arrangements . From the dozens (literally) of bridesmaids, groomsmen, Bible readers, grace givers, flower girls and ring bearers to the authentic Italian music and hand-held flags – this celebration was Anthony and Jacqueline personified. 

 

“Such a waste of money,” a jaded divorcee grumbled when I recanted the magical evening. 

 

While I’ve never wallowed in excess cash, and cringe at the mere mention of wedding costs in relation to my own offspring – should they choose that path – trust me on this one. However many dimes were put into this event, not a single one was wasted. 

 

A wedding is fun and festive and full of friends and family who (hopefully) support the couple. It’s a living testament to who you are and from where you came. It’s the coming together of two separate families complete with all their quirky ways and the commingling of two sets of life-long friends and influencers. If you pay attention, you can learn an awful lot at a wedding.

 

What I’ve learned from decades of wedding-going is that some couples were destined to be together and others should never have swiped right. Some marry despite a slew of objections and others marry because of them. Some marry for beauty, others for money. Some marry for security, others for escape. 

But whatever the reason, weddings are fueled not just by love and joy, but by an overwhelming sense of hope. Hope that the relatives will behave. Hope that friends will have fun. Hope that there’s no wardrobe malfunctions, that the dance floor rocks, the sparklers spark and the shrimp stays fresh. But most of all, the celebration is filled with hope that the love couple gets their storybook ending. 

 

There’s nothing particularly remarkable about Anthony and Jacqueline’s story – after all, swooping in on another guy’s gal is perfectly acceptable – at least once the dust settles and broken hearts heal. But there definitely was something extraordinary about their wedding day. Beyond the pomp and circumstance, there was an overpowering emotion that coursed through the hearts of every one of those 212 guests. Whether it presented itself in a sigh of relief, a high-five, a smile, a check, a toast, a tear, a hug, a blog, or a thousand heart emojis, the sentiment was the same. 

Anthony and Jacqueline's story is far from over. Still to come are plenty of suspenseful scenes, massive amounts of dramatic content and tons of character development. As friends, family and angels watch the plot twists unfurl, we'll all share wistful smiles. Because we know that each and every one of us is responsible for a paragraph, a page or a chapter in their much deserved happily ever after. 

Kitchen Chaos: Part One

“This isn’t the first time you’ve done your kitchen, is it?” my friend, Robin, asked when I started jabbering on our walk the other day. 

I furrowed my brow until I realized I've been talking about re-doing my kitchen for almost 20 years.

 

Once upon a time we were living in a chaotic little house on the other side of town, cooking in an apartment-sized galley kitchen complete with a brick-look linoleum floor. There was no outlet nor place on the counter to house the microwave and toaster – essentials in the care and feeding of seven, nine and eleven-year-olds. So the appliances sat askew between the dog food and recycling bins on a wobbly IKEA cabinet in the dining room, which was not really a dining room at all, but a four-season, completely shaded sun porch. The kitchen itself was dark and dingy– the kind of dinge that curled and yellowed the plaid contact papered walls. 

 

Somehow, someway, I convinced my ever-loving spouse that it would be in our best interests to knock out a wall, update the cabinets, counters, floors, walls, ceilings, exhaust fan, appliances, etc, etc, etc and finally experience the joy of cooking. 

 

I didn’t have much of a vision beyond an inexplicable, unwavering desire for red countertops, a demand my handsome contractor received with a cocked eyebrow. But the client is always right, so there’s that. 

I knew nothing of construction or costs or the toll it would take on our tumultuous family lifestyle. But my sister, Nancy, knows these things. More importantly, she knows what I can and cannot endure. She reasoned that since we were already bursting at the seams perhaps we'd be better served by putting that money into procuring more space rather than more bling. 

 

I responded loudly and emphatically, as I am wont to do. There was absolutely no way I would or could pack up a family of five and move. I’d rather die stacked in squalor than attack that animal. 

 

But she had planted the seed. And before long it germinated into full-fledged house hunting. 

 

Again, I didn’t have much of a vision. All I knew was that I wanted new. 

 

Which was why when my friend, Kerri, told me about a house for sale next door to hers I refused to look at it. It was built in the 1920s which made it old. 

 

“Trust me, it’s perfect!” she protested. “They’ve renovated it. Just come look.” 

 

“I’m not buying an old house,” I said and went to check it out.

  

As I rolled my eyes up the creaking stairs, I conceded that yes, it oozed charm and yes, it had that long longed for front porch. But despite the newly refinished hardwood floors, updated bathrooms, and the huge inhabitable basement and attic, it was still an old, un-air-conditioned house.

 

I made our way into the kitchen where the realtor, who grew up in the house, began to apologize. 

 

“I knew whoever bought our childhood home would want to do their own kitchen renovation,” she said. “So I couldn’t bear to tear out my mother’s …..

 

RED COUNTERTOPS.”

 

Needless to say, we’ve been living here for more than 17 years. 

 

That 1960’s Formica kitchen has served us well. But years of hard living with dogs and children and children’s friends and children’s friends has taken its toll. And so when the oven took its final breath in tandem with the pandemic, I re-launched my campaign for a new kitchen.

 

My spouse and I found ourselves at a standstill. I was ready for an assisted living community two decades ago. He wants to stay in this house until death do us part, and perhaps beyond. I suggested that he visit me in my warm-weather cruise-ship-on-land every month or so. He conceded that one kitchen would be more fiscally responsible than two residences.

 

After pouring over Pinterest, Houzz, random websites and Facebook pages for months, I pretty much knew everything about remodeling a kitchen – including every possible contractor scam, cabinet debacle and unfixable mistake that could or would happen. I learned that I absolutely did not want a farmer’s sink, needed a built-in for newspaper recycling (those four papers a day fill a kitchen corner quickly), would rather have cold, hard tile than try to match hardwood with the rest of the floors, had zero interest in a counter-depth refrigerator and would rather die from whatever it is in a gas stove that is killing us than switch to electric. 

 

But there were so many, many other decisions that I simply could not make, even though I was so, so far from having to make them. Light switch and outlet location; cabinet color, cabinet style, cabinet brand, cabinet pulls; sink color, style, substance, as well as faucet brand, style and finish; lighting – chandelier, recessed, pendant or all of the above; backsplash – bright and bold, subway or square, blue, yellow, green, orange or a multi-colored funky pattern; countertop – quartz, quartzite, granite, marble, stainless steel, maybe even concrete; new sliding door or buff up the old; wall color, trim color; oh, and don’t forget the powder room; appliances – keep the newish old ones hoping they’ll last another five years or scrap them all for new and fancy, which would of course mean even more decisions. 

This is what looped through my brain as I spiraled and stalled. Friends lost their enthusiasm, no longer offering their help. I assured the ever-eager spouse that I had it all under control, not able to admit my anguish after begging for the kitchen for most of our married life. And so the days and weeks and months, and yes, years ticked by. Without a workable range. But we did have a really trusty toaster oven.

 

Finally, this past fall after yet another handsome contractor finished a gnarly project next door, I nabbed him, signing and sealing the deal with a start date the week before Thanksgiving. Now one of my many claims to fame is that I have never hosted a Thanksgiving dinner and never plan to. Though that was my excuse for delaying the demolition, truth be told, the holiday had nothing to do with it. It was pure, unadulterated fear. 

 

For the next several months as I continued to read and rely on all those social media posts for personal advice, one jumped out at me. “Just keep in mind,” a recent renovator wrote. “It is only a kitchen.”

 

For sure. It’s not like having a bilateral mastectomy, or a hip replacement when you still have a four year old, or getting both knees replaced at the same time. It’s not like having a hysterectomy or losing your gall bladder to pancreatitis resulting in a three-week hospital stay while thick in child-rearing. I’ve done those things and survived them all.

I continued to channel my It’s only a kitchen mantra every day until May when I could stall no longer.

 

I know that I am hashtag blessed and fully acknowledge my champagne problems (one of them being the inordinate amount of money I’m spending to see a certain singer who penned that tune). I am also well aware that we live in a world of unhoused humans and suffering souls and people being persecuted for how they vote, who they love and how they look.

Though as much as I'd love to claim it so, none of the above have any place in my kitchen decision resistance.

More likely it's because those chaotic, complaint-filled days weren’t so bad after all. Maybe all those chicken-roll ups and make-shift tacos weren’t worthy of the venom-spewed “I’m not a short-order cook!” – because, well, I was. Maybe those bottles of vodka hidden in plain site that mysteriously turned to water were actually a godsend – at least they were drinking in our house, not out driving the streets. I think of all the mismatched silverware, half of it brought here from the Hargraves' house, glue globs on the counter, the birth announcements, wedding invitations, graduation pictures, magnets filled with silly sentiments like, “If you haven’t grown up by 50, you don’t have to,” all adorning the old and still magnetic refrigerator. The deep scratches on the brand new, meaning hours old, dining room table caused by an over-zealous sixth grader doing his homework, the screen door that keeps the dog out but the flies in, the rippled vinyl floor, the bright blue walls, the red peace sign, the polka dot curtains that as the daughter says, “it’s like living in a clown house.”  

I’ve been trying to figure myself out my entire life. And sometimes when I give it enough thought, like 20 years, it suddenly all makes sense. My kitchen indecision has nothing to do with not being able to choose between quartz and granite, Agreeable Gray or Accessible Beige, overlay or inset cabinets. All of them will work just fine. But none of them will bring back that clown-house of a life that I juggled so precariously for so very long.

I plan to enjoy my calm and peaceful renovation. I will try not to freak out when the first cabinet chips, the ice maker stops working or the grout gets dirty. I will continue to remind myself that it is only a kitchen. 

But when i finally get to my new and shiny assisted living facility, I promise you, the first thing I'm going to do is replace the inevitable dull decor with...you guessed it...red countertops. 

The Best Yet

“Sorry girls,” I said over a zoom call with my five college friends shortly before our long-scheduled trip to Costa Rica. “There is absolutely no way I can go. They are finally starting our kitchen and I can’t possibly not be here.”

 

My comment was met with deafening silence. 

 

Followed by, “Why don’t you change the start date of the construction?”

 

My friends had been hearing about the latest of my champagne problems for months and though they have put up with a lot from me, understandably could not understand why I was so worked up. But worked up I was. So worked up in fact, that I couldn’t see the forest for the trees (insert appropriate kitchen metaphor) – and the only solution I could see was to cancel my vacation. 

 

Meanwhile, one of the girls was simultaneously holding down a job as she hammered out papers and studied for tests in the final weeks of finishing up her well-earned college degree. Another’s husband was having a fairly common, yet still quite concerning, cancer surgery eight days before the trip; one was expecting her first grandbaby; another had a spouse newly diagnosed with a not yet symptomatic, but terrifying disease. In the interim, our most seasoned and sensible traveler was busy booking drivers and researching fun, trying desperately to underscore the negativity that was brewing beneath (and above) the surface.

 

Yet because it was my kitchen, my life, my muddled brain, no one’s woes were worse than mine. I reasoned that they’d be better off without me and my never-ending stresses and stories. The more worked up I got, the less appealing the vacation became. Weather.com promised temperatures in the upper 90s with hideously high humidity. The main tourist traps were hours from where we were staying and we were highly advised not to rent a car which meant over-priced excursions with private drivers. And worst of all (at least for those of us who like their sleep and don’t eat before lunchtime), a house mom would arrive every morning between 7:30 and 8:00 to prepare breakfast and clean up our mess. I figured I’d be much better off staying home, emptying cabinets and fussing and fuming about why and how we had accumulated so much stuff. I would wallow in the sick comfort of my own little world and would ultimately enjoy that more than say, a Tempisque River tour that left before sunrise – you know, to beat the heat. 

 

But of course I went. I always do.

 

When the day came, the six of us staggered our alarms, waking up between 1:30 and 4:15 for our pricey, early-morning departures from four different cities. The adrenaline built as we texted each other, documenting our hopes and fears of layovers and luggage that may or may not make it to our second planes. We swapped stories about the oversized man with the splayed legs touching our thighs, reviewed our movie choices of I Wanna Dance With Somebody and When Harry Met Sally, groused about the chronic coughing of our seat mate, exuded about the young and fun couple who were also heading to Las Catalinas for a weekend wedding, and of course asked if anyone had done the Wordle yet. 

 

Miracle of miracles, all six of us arrived at the Guanacaste Airport in Liberia, Costa Rica, breezing through customs within an hour of each other. Every piece of our collective checked luggage appeared, albeit much of it filled with a plethora of precautionary items we’d never use in a month of Sundays. And didn’t.

 

Our new favorite human, Javier Vargas of LovingCostaRica.com was waiting with a sign and a smile right outside the airport door in the not-as-oppressively-hot-as-we-feared tropical air. He ushered us into his air-conditioned van filled with ice-cold beers and water. We bumped over roads worthy of lawsuits back home and stopped at a grocery store where Javy picked out the freshest vegetables and juiciest fruits for our house mom to transform into the banquet of the day.

 

We rented our casa from a friend of one of the girls and while the skeptic in me felt sure the web pictures would lie, it was quite the opposite. The house was beautiful and Las Catalinas was a town created with me in mind – modern, clean, car-free, cobble-stoned and ocean-viewed with infinity and lap pools, bars, corner stores, all with the kindest of workers and the friendliest of people, complete with big red dogs loping from house to house. 

 

“So, what’s the theme for the week?” I asked that first night while sipping Costa Rican rum in the plunge pool directly outside the living room door.

 

“Best Yet!” chirped the best of the bunch. 

 

“Done,” we all agreed. 

 

We met Daniella, our adorable culinary artist of a house mom, early the next morning. I pantomimed vomiting when it was necessary; explaining that one of us was allergic to pineapple or that another was hung over. But we soon discovered what we should have known all along – there’s an app for everything, and soon we were conversing like fast friends. 

 

A few of us headed to the hills to hike our way to beautiful vistas of a Caribbean-colored Pacific Ocean, dodging iguanas and snakes and lord knows what other creatures along the way. We left about 9 am with promises of a good meal upon our return. We reasoned that we’re young, in shape and tough as nails and that 85 degrees wasn’t really all that hot. Well, an hour and a half later we realized that heat stroke is real, that climbing mountains is not as easy as walking neighborhoods, and that you won’t have to pee on the trail because you can’t possibly drink enough water to make up for what you sweat out. 

 

But what a feast it was! Baked plantains, bacon, scrambled eggs, fried cheese, fresh fruit smoothies, rice and beans, chicken, home- made tortillas, and tons of guacamole, pico de gallo, all of which doubled as afternoon snacks, and made believers of even the most die-hard non breakfast eaters in the group.

 

We hung out at the pools, walked on the black, volcanic-sand beach and rode the waves. We befriended the wedding party guests who had arrived in droves and were gifted pounds and pounds of delicious tuna they had caught and couldn’t consume before their weekend party was over. We had meals in terrific restaurants with beautiful views and laughed and cringed as we retold the stories of our college days. 

 

Then came the dreaded river cruise excursion that I had adamantly refused to go on. My plan was to sleep late, catch up on Words with Friends and finish The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell for book club the following Monday. I had zero interest in getting up at 4:15 to look at birds and bugs. 

 

But of course I went. I always do.

 

Our best buddy, Javy, drove us through the Costa Rican country side, stopping for coffee or, in my case, diet coke, doughnuts and bathroom breaks. We boarded one of those roofed river boats with open sides and saw crocodiles, anteaters, bats that camouflaged as snakes, coatis and white-faced monkeys that would have rested on our heads had one of us (guess who) not freaked out about the potential physical contact. And then there were birds. Herons of multiple sizes, shapes and colors; white ibis, spotted sandpipers, crested caracaras, mangrove swallows, turquoise-browned motmots, ringed kingfishers, boat-billed flycatchers, social flycatchers and great kiskadees. If I were a wildlife lover, it would have been paradise. As it were, I am a people lover, so it all worked out fine. 

 

From there we went to Guaitil for a deliciously authentic Costa Rican lunch followed by a pottery presentation by the brother and sister duo, Jordy and Karina. As indigenous artisans, they gave us a touch of culture and history in return for the purchase of decorated bowls that now sit at each of our houses back in the States. 

 

We did a little more exploring with Javier giving us the rundown on everything from why there’s no gun violence in Costa Rica (you need to pass a psychological test before you can buy one – imagine that), to the country’s economist president, to the burning of sugar cane fields and the abundance of machetes. Of course we got details on way more interesting things, which are better not revealed in a public forum. 

 

A week later, three of us headed home while the more adventurous trio went inward and onward to the rainforest region. One of the girls went home to care for her recovering husband, another to meet her new granddaughter and I to fuss and fume some more over the impending destruction of my kitchen. 

 

As we get older and unwiser, it’s so much easier to just say no. Or in my case, to say no loudly and rigidly followed by a tail-between-my-legs repeal of my staunch stand. 

 

My glass may always be half empty but the half that isn’t will always be filled with the things that matter. I don’t ever have to see another iguana or howler monkey or active volcano, but I can’t imagine living this life without eating and drinking and laughing with friends who love me despite myself. I can listen to the same stories on a continuous loop and will forever and ever love to muse over the silly, stupid things we once did. 

 

And still do. 

 

Which is why this trip was The Best Yet.  

 

Until of course, the next time.