My Mom's Yahrzeit

This past week, on the evening of December 22, David and I lit a yahrzeit candle for my mom.

This is a Jewish custom that takes place on the anniversary of the date of the loved one’s passing, when the mourner kindles a memorial candle that is to be lit for a 24-hour period, until it extinguishes on its own.

The date is based on the Hebrew lunisolar calendar, in which months are lunar but years are solar; on the Gregorian (or civilized) calendar, the date for the one and only Florence Cohen is January 10.

Without realizing why, I had channeled my inner Florence the night before the yahrzeit, when I had reached for the one pair of pajamas that always reminds me her. This set is flannel, has a matching top and bottom in a very colorful winter pattern (mine has snowflakes), and the top is short, boxy, is button down and has a collar.

On the morning of December 23, with the candle still burning, my daughter Allison called from work to ask a question about punctuation for a memo she was writing. The words she was writing were “members satisfaction,” and “members” in her correspondence was both plural and possessive.

She was pretty sure that the apostrophe would go after the “s” in “members,” but after debating it multiple times due to a co-worker’s questioning of it, she started to waver...should the apostrophe go before the “s?” Thus, the call for help.

For the minute or two that we talked about where to place the apostrophe, I became my mom. She, like I, had talked it through with our daughters and assuredly weighed in. In this case, using an apostrophe after the “s” (s’) at the end of a plural noun to show possession was definitely the way to go.

My mom was a master of the English language, and she was a stickler when it came to punctuation and grammar. I so appreciated that she could get me out of any kind of writing pickle I had created, but there were times she’d get carried away with the explanations and would lose me at “participle” and other verb tense rules that never fully sunk in.

The sense of déjà vu I experienced - with a twist, given that instead of my doing the asking, it was my daughter this time - on the date of my mom’s yahrzeit, was especially sweet.

I often wonder which memories of me my kids will hang on to.

Perhaps they’ll write a blog post about them one day.

King of Boxes

David and I are a couple of stashers: I have a plethora of note and greeting cards for every occasion, wrapping paper, gift bags and the like; he could open a packing store with all his boxes, peanuts, cushioning and other related shipping supplies.

He gets great joy in his box collection, as his boxes are always in motion and are tied to his favorite hobby of listening to music. Boxes come in and go out of our home with the equipment he has bought or sold, as well as the music itself, that he buys or trades.   

Every time he receives a package that doesn’t house equipment, he assesses the quality of the box to determine whether it’s a keeper. If it passes the test, he’ll most likely reuse it for music or something else. He has also bought boxes in various sizes to be sure he’s equipped for every possible scenario.   

Our attic and shed are filled with boxes, and sometimes I also see them lying around in other rooms waiting for him to determine whether they’ll make the cut – or go straight to recycling. There were many times, I must say, when I have wondered Who needs all these boxes, for goodness’ sake? 

I’ve become much more aware of all these goings-on since the pandemic started. I guess that’s what happens when you’re with someone 24/7, when everything is on display. It’s not like the old days when I had a life out of the house and didn’t always know what was happening in it.

I get my own deliveries from Fed Ex and UPS, as I do way more shopping online than I used to. I’ve taken a liking to testing out shoes from my favorite brands – FitFlop and Taos, which in large part are no longer found in stores – although I know my mom would cringe if she knew I was buying shoes online. She would, however, be happy to know that I’ve gone from stylish to supportive.

Since I cannot resist a good sale, I recently ordered FitFlop sandals and boots but, after trying them on, I decided to send them back; rather, to ask my resident box-meister to do it. I was a bit nervous about this though because, for whatever dumb reason, I tossed the original outer box, which was very large to accommodate the boots. This would mean he’d 1 – ask me where the box is so I’d have to admit I got rid of it before I knew about keeping the boots and then 2 – he’d have to dip into his coveted inventory for my return, and I wasn’t sure how he’d feel about that.

Although he did ask why I tossed the box when I told him I’d be returning the shoes, he seemed pleased for the return ($) and then he right away went into problem-solving mode for a solution. He ended up cutting apart 2 boxes to make 1. It was perfect.

I told him I’ll be a good sport and take my box to UPS so that he doesn’t have to 😊.

Now that I see how simple – and cost free with FitFlop – it is to order, try on, and return, I may do this more often! It’s even easier than driving a whole 5 minutes to DSW, which is more interested in selling kids’ shoes and J Lo stilettos than comfortable footwear for old ladies like me.

I always like when my stash helps him out with a card or for wrapping a gift, but his stash has a lot more potential for me than mine does for him.   

Being married to the King of Boxes is, for me, a match made in heaven.  

It's A Start

I am proud – and embarrassed – to say that this past week I donated blood to the American Red Cross for the first time!

It only took some 45 years to do it. When I was much younger, I was afraid of needles, and then when I got past that – somewhat – I was busy with kids, busy with work, busy with life.

A month ago, I took a walk with my girlfriend Bobbi who was telling me about her life: caring for her parents, her husband, working...all the things I’m not...and oh yes, giving blood in the upcoming week.

Eeeeek...No more excuses! I went online when I got home and made an appointment. I could not believe all the location choices, the one I chose being just 5 minutes from my house.

The outing took about one hour, starting with my answering questions along with a health screening to check my vitals, both done to verify that I’m in good health and would be an appropriate donor. The woman assigned to me checked my pulse, blood pressure, body temperature, and hemoglobin level.  Next time I donate, I can utilize their app for a quicker check-in, although each visit will still require a mini-physical.

The draw itself took about 10 minutes and collected about one unit of blood – one pint – and once it was complete, I was instructed to sit down for a few minutes and have a bag of cookies. Boy, that was a change, to be told to eat something sugary. I had Chips Ahoy and fruit punch...No guilt because I was doing what I was instructed to do. Besides, I needed refreshments to replenish some of the body’s fluids and nutrients and boost my energy level. 

In a month or so, I’ll be able to log on to the site and see the results of my blood tests, along with my blood type too that I should know but only vaguely think I remember. I learned that donated blood will be tested for Hepatitis B, Hepatitis C, HIV and other viruses/conditions before it is OK’d for a recipient.

I’m happy that I was able to do something that could help another person and potentially save a life, and all I had to do was lie down on a padded bench. Donations are essential for trauma patients and people undergoing a variety of situations including surgeries, transplants, chronic illnesses, blood disorders and cancer.

It’s also true that at any time, I could be the one needing blood, reliant on others to have donated, but it recently dawned on me: How can I expect it would be available for me, if I haven’t done my part to give it?

I texted my friend after my experience because I was so excited about it and wanted her to know she had inspired me. I also told her that I plan to donate as often as the Red Cross allows one to do it, which is every 8 weeks, or up to 6 times each year.

When I asked her how many times she had donated, she was thrilled to say that she had recently received notification that she is just one donation away from 6 gallons of blood, as she has donated 47 times!

I will never catch up to her (obviously), but I feel good to be part of the team!

The Silent Kind

I wish this wasn’t the case but, the longer I live, the more I learn about new medical issues, and much of the time I had never heard of them until a loved one or I experience them.

After several primary office visits and months of coughing – along with a handful of other symptoms that some might think are TMI to share – I landed in the office of an ENT at my doctor’s suggestion to unravel what had become the million-dollar question: Do I have Allergies? Reflux? Something else?  

The ENT and I discussed the situation and even though I had been dreading the diagnostic laryngoscopy procedure (that was to be done right there in the office) for no reason other than because I am a big baby, I was excited when she said that I’ll know if I have reflux before I leave the office.   

The scope took under 2 minutes, if that, and wasn’t nearly as unpleasant as I had anticipated. Fewer than 10 seconds later, she said “This is ‘Silent Reflux.’” I knew of reflux, but silent? Who knew there was such a thing?

Silent reflux or “LPR” for laryngopharyngeal reflux differs from the more common reflux known as GERD (gastroesophageal reflux) because traditional reflux symptoms such as heartburn and indigestion are NOT present, thereby making LPR a bit tricky to figure out.

With LPR, stomach acid travels up the esophagus and spills into the throat or voice box (pharynx/larynx). It is when these acids make contact with the food pipe and vocal cords that the irritation/discomfort/burning can occur. With GERD, on the other hand, the acid settles into the esophagus and poses different problems.

This is my understanding of Silent Reflux 101. I still have a lot to learn, but first...How do I pronounce what the L in LPR stands for...laryngopharyngeal?

lə-ˌriŋ-gō-ˌfar-ən-ˈjē-əl, -fə-ˈrin-j(ē-)əl – according to the Miriam-Webster dictionary.

Given this diagnosis, experts advise a change in dietary habits which includes the restriction of spicy, fried and fatty foods (NBD - no big deal); citrus fruits (NBD); tomatoes (ugh); chocolate (double ugh ☹); peppermint (NBD); cheese and garlic (ugh); and caffeinated and carbonated beverages are best taken off the table. In addition, I’ll be trying out a PPI (proton pump inhibitor) that will hopefully work as expected.

So where does this leave my obsession with Trader Joe’s dark chocolate covered almonds? And my love for tomatoes eaten right off the vine that David grows in our back yard? And cheese for my omelets? And that scrumptious hot green tea?

I’ve sure enjoyed all this stuff over the years, but I realize that as we get older, our bodies don’t work the way they used to. This unfortunately leads to new ailments that impact us in one way or another, requiring us to act. With this LPR finding, I realize I’ll have to make some changes but, all things considered, it could be worse.  

Like everything else – and the title for a recent blog post – it’s all relative.

Meow, Meow

Everyone knows that the male species does its own thing when it's good and ready – not a moment before – and “October” has been no exception.

To combat the pandemic blues last spring – in May 2020 – my dear old friend Bonnie and her younger daughter, Rachel, rescued three-year-old October, born in a litter with “April,” “May,” and “August."  

Longtime cat lovers, they were pretty excited to have a furry friend to keep them company and occupied, given all the hours they spent at home, alone together. Besides, Rachel wouldn’t be living with her mom forever, and my girlfriend liked the idea of having a companion for the long haul as well as rescuing one of the many animals in need of a loving caregiver.

When they brought October home, Bonnie and Rachel were chomping at the bit to cozy up with their new roommate. For his first few nights with the ladies, October was, as you might expect, rather shy, tentative, perhaps frightened. He spent most of his time hiding behind the clothes dryer or under the TV cart, where Bonnie placed a mirror on the floor so they could keep their eyes on him. She also picked up a pheromone diffuser for cats, hoping it would help to alleviate his stress.

While October warmed up to Rachel first, it wasn’t for at least a year that he began to pop in and out of Bonnie’s bedroom, heading straight for the windowsill or the door. He then started to stroll in and sniff around but not settle in; he continued to inch toward her while keeping a safe distance. 

Finally, after a year-and-a-half, I woke up to this text: 

“October spent the night in my bed!”

Bonnie has had some pretty special moments in her life, but I get the feeling that October's first show of affection and trust may have been one her most fulfilling ever.    

She has begun to climb into bed earlier on occasion in the hopes that he'll join her and the two of them can snuggle while watching TV. When he’s in the mood, he keeps her nice and warm, sleeping next to or on top of her or folded into her legs.

“I had more pep in my step this week,” she said, warning me when I ooed and aahed that while her little "love bug" is sooooo affectionate, it's only on his terms.

It's All Relative

Four years ago, I was asked to babysit for Grandbaby No. 1, one day each week. While I was sooooooo excited, I began to wonder...Am I up for this? Would I remember anything about taking care of babies?

Our babysitting days were Tuesdays, and each one was exhausting! When the day with Eliana ended around 4:30 or 5, I was comatose. On Wednesday, I could hardly move. My knees were sore, my back hurt, my arms throbbed.

Once Ethan, Eliana’s younger brother, was just over one year old, I was asked, “Will you babysit for the 2 kids?” I thought OMG, is this going to be possible? One child was a lot. Would my body survive? Would we be able to give each attention and meet their individual needs?

I said “Yes, of course,” but these concerns swirled around my head.

I summoned a wonderful Mother’s Helper for extra support those first couple of months of this new arrangement, certain that two kids meant at least two sets of eyes and ears were optimal to ensure that I’d be returning the kids intact, with no scratches or horror stories to be told to the parents.

On my feet all day long, continually getting snacks/meals, changing diapers or hanging out in the bathroom, playing with puzzles and other games, switching the remote from the Descendants 2 to Mickey Mouse Club to the Descendants 3, picking up one and then the other and trying periodically to do both, I began to realize just how easy one kid had been, which of course I did not realize at the time.

Just as I was settling in with the two, our youngest grandchild May and her family came to stay with us for a few weeks. Although I had volunteered to babysit and wanted very much to do it, there was a component of this plan that impacted me in a familiar way: how would Tuesday madness play out?

Contemplating three kids, two kids no longer seemed so tricky.  

It just so happened that I was telling a girlfriend about the challenge ahead for my Tuesday tripleheader, and she said, “I will come help you!” I had no shame in taking her up on her very kind offer. Even with her assistance, three seemed like a lot to manage, although I admit I was loving it at the same time.

Their stay with us is coming to an end and, as much as it has been chaotic to be responsible for the three at one time, I found myself wishing that Zoey, Grandbaby No. 3, was here too. She’d have had such fun getting in on the action with her cousins and I’d have loved being surrounded by all of four of our delicious grandbabies.

 

To Give is to Receive

This holiday season, David and I are participating in a couple of Hanukkah Pollyannas.

I think they are eons of fun, especially these days when the brainstorming can be quick and easy online, and the shopping can be completed in a fraction of the time and with much less energy than it would take to check out things in person. Sending the gift directly to the recipient without having to wrap it up and take to the post office is icing on the cake.

Given that I have a good amount of free time on my hands, I don’t mind turning the search for the perfect gift into a project; however, I can see a busier person or the non-shopper wanting to streamline the task.

Regardless of the scenario, I think there is an effortless and very valuable gift out there that people seem to either overlook or have very strong yay or nay opinions about: gift cards.

To me, they are a fabulous option. They are sold everywhere, and they can always be put to good use.  It would be highly unlikely that someone would react to one by thinking “What a dumb gift,” or “Gee, that was a waste; who am I going to give this to?”

David, on the other hand, thinks gift cards are dressed up cash and that this type of gift should not be permitted with a Pollyanna or it will seem like everyone is just shuffling money from one person to the next.

To that, I say...So what? Is that a bad thing?

He is a believer that people should choose something personal and creative, and while that’s a nice idea, it may not be practical. Even though we live together, I still don’t always know what to buy for him. But, if I think I know what someone would like, or I intentionally want to give him or her something specific, that’s a different story.

I reminded David that he seems to appreciate when my kids get him Lowe’s gift cards to put toward whatever he’d want there, and he agreed they’ve come in very handy since he is always there.  

Exactly my point.

It’s true that a gift card may not be much fun to pick out, or be one of the more innovative gifts to give, but it leads me to wonder...

Who exactly is a gift designed to please: the person choosing it, the person receiving it, or both?

P.S. My favorite stores are...

You’ve Got (A Lot Of) Mail

I have a love-hate relationship with my email.

I absolutely love that no matter what day of the week it is, regardless of the time, or what my mood might be, I’m going to be showered with a lot of attention...

...Via my inbox.

Even though most of what I get, perhaps as high as 95%, is a combination of information out the wazoo, promotional offers, and requests for donations – and has nothing to do with me personally – I am OK with that.

I am thrilled that without having to search for material, it is easy to keep updated with news and opinion pieces that touch on my identity as a woman, a Jew, a liberal, a Garden State resident and so much more. These emails force me to open my eyes and think about the universe beyond my own cocoon. On the flip side, I am often tempted by and succumb to the deals advertised on promotional emails which I don’t need and never would have known about had I not been on everyone’s distribution list.

For years, I’ve tried to keep up with the volume of email by periodically deleting and unsubscribing so that I wouldn’t be inundated with more than I could handle, but lately the number of incoming emails has multiplied: what started as 10-25 a day way back is now a minimum of 250 or 300, accumulating to a couple thousand in no time at all. Last week, I had an ENORMOUS number of emails sitting in my inbox, the majority of which I hadn’t opened.

While I have tried with limited success to prevent a burgeoning email situation, I’ve also done poorly when it comes to maintaining order in my portion of cyberspace. It’s a field I know little about and am fine keeping it that way, given that David provides all the tech advice and help I could possibly need; however, with that personalized service does come periodic lectures about inbox organization. These discussions always make me cringe because they require me to take on a more aggressive housekeeping mentality.

One day last week, I got a Google notification – an email, no less – which stated that I am running out of storage. I wanted to quickly delete and pretend I had never received it...so I did! But then I thought better of it and fessed up to David, because I knew if I didn’t tell him in a timely manner about this potential problem, I’d end up paying for it at a later date which would include his saying with some attitude that I didn’t see it because I had way too many emails to comb through.   

So, I held my breath and showed him the crazy message I had just received, assuming he’d figure out what needed to be done. It was no surprise that he came up with a solution, but it wasn’t a simple one. He ended up spending a big part of the morning deleting 108K...yes...108,000 emails, with me on edge the whole time that he’d trash something I'd want to have later. Of course, I’d probably never know, in all that inbox chaos.

I am relieved that this Google warning is no longer looming over me, and David is revved up that I might join his team of savvy email users, but I told him...not so fast. Keeping up with my email as I understand it should be handled feels like it will be an endless and tedious process, and I’m not sure I’m up to the task. 

In the end, I know it is to my advantage to keep things in order since, as time goes on, I’m more and more dependent on my online world.

In fact, my messy closet is probably less impactful than my out-of-control mailbox.

Then and Now

Grandbabies are one of the most incredible delights that life offers older folks like us if we are lucky…and, admittedly, David and I are, in this area. We get to babysit 2 of our 4 grandkids – Eliana and Ethan – every week and have extended visits with our 2 daughters: Allison (baby Zoey) and Lauren (baby May), both of whom live a distance away.  

These are built-in opportunities for me to relive some of my happiest years when I was in my 20s and 30s and home full-time with my little ones.  

Some of my favorite memories involve all the times we walked to a local playground, with me pushing the kiddies in the stroller. When we’d leave home, I’d always wonder if I’d make it the 15 or 20 minutes to our destination without them getting antsy and requiring snacks or any other action, such as carrying one in my arm or bending down to hold his/her hand (while also navigating the stroller). All of these maneuvers were typical especially for Allison, who preferred climbing out instead of kicking back and enjoying the sights.

At the playground I’d run around with the little munchkins, come home for lunch, play outside in the afternoon (and conk out soon after the last one went to bed). For a woman in her 30s, all of these repetitive movements like bending, kneeling, crawling, lifting, and running after the little ones weren’t a big deal, although in thinking about it now, I wonder how I did it then day after day, year after year. 

It is an altogether different story for this 60+-year-old. Standout moves above and beyond the usual stuff include, for 4-year-old Eliana, lifting her above my head for a couple of minutes (or was it just one, or 30 seconds?) to reach the monkey bars and walk with her in this position while she grabbed for each rung.  

For 1-year-old Zoey, a couple of our walks in the stroller this past week required me to hold her upright while she dangled midway on my body as she pushed the handle, instead of sitting in the darn thing. While this may sound like no big deal, and you may wonder why I am talking about this, I say Try this move! It ain’t easy! I had to take a Motrin before bed. And the next morning.

The biggest difference between then and now is that, in the past, I never gave thought to the physical requirements of the job but today, my mind lets me know that my body may struggle to deliver.

Evolving Family Relationships

Reflecting on family relationships seems to be a common theme for people as they approach middle age – or before – and I was no exception to this practice.

When I was in my early-40s and my parents were in their mid-80s, I was coming to terms with the fact that, at some very sad time, I was going to lose them. Since my primary communication with my parents went through my mom, I started to wonder what would happen if she passed first?

Being that my parents were married – to each other – I’d often see both of them when I’d visit. The usual pattern was I’d hang out with my mom or go out to lunch with her while my dad usually went his own way, given I wasn’t interested in discussing politics or the law.

This would mean, if he outlived her, that he and I would have to learn to converse 1-on-1 in order to forge some kind of bond, the way that daughters of divorced parents have to do when they are thrust into a situation of dividing their time between parents.

I didn’t share this unsettling thought with anyone; I just revisited periodically and told myself I need to be prepared, should this scenario occur.

When my dad passed away 16 years ago – about 10 years before my mom died – I was able to put this matter to rest. I then turned my attention to the second issue that had popped up periodically in my head: Would the 4 siblings continue to have a relationship with each other, when our mom is gone?  

Recognizing parents as the glue that binds a family, it didn’t seem like a crazy question. We siblings had spent years with both parents and then only our mom celebrating birthdays, holidays and other occasions…if we weren’t physically together, we’d often be on the phone discussing them. What would we talk about once she passed, other than our memories of her?

Our first get together without her felt so awkward, I recall, without our matriarch to gather around but, over time, we rallied in the wake of our becoming orphans to learn that it’s up to us now to carry on as a family.

We have found plenty to yap about – even though conversation is still a bit heavy on Philadelphia politics – but with group texting threads, Zoom events, coming to the aid of one another as needed, small group gatherings and planning for more, the 4 siblings plus 4 in-laws have created a very strong and caring unit, all on our own.

These days, I find myself thinking about the next generation – our kids – and how they will handle relationships with one another once we are gone. One might say it’s more complicated for them, given there are step siblings in the mix, but this family model provides them with additional opportunities for close relationships, should they so choose to make the most of them.

I hope they do.

Game Set Match

What a fun, oftentimes tense tennis tournament the US Open was, filled with lots of twists and turns.

While I wouldn’t want such drama and mystery in my own life, on the court it’s highly entertaining. Sometimes I find it too emotional, as I struggle with a tendency to get attached to some female players for various reasons and then get all stressed out if a player I think should win or “deserves” to win ends up losing, which happens all the time. The lack of predictability in this game is mind-boggling.  

Before it started, I figured that the World No. 1 Ashleigh Barty or No. 2 player Aryna Sabalenka would come out on top. It didn’t seem like rocket science to make that assumption. But, early on, Barty was shockingly eliminated in an upset by Shelby Rogers, the No. 43 player, which left Sabalenka, in my mind, the likely champion.

She made it to the semi-finals, but she was beaten by the fairly unknown 19-year-old Leylah Fernandez, ranked No. 73. Surprisingly, Fernandez met another unknown, 18-year-old Emma Radacanu – a “qualifier” who had been ranked above 300 – and the 2 teen underdogs battled it out. In a highly competitive final, Radacanu was victorious. This win not only netted her $2.5 million but improved her ranking to No. 23.

I was thoroughly exhausted – emotionally and physically – by the time this tournament was over, and I know I wore David out with all my questions and constant assessments. While he is used to all the ups and downs in sports – being a Giants, Rangers, and Mets fan – this is all fairly new to me.

To help me keep it all in perspective, he offered 3 guidelines:

1 - No one “deserves” to win; view each game with a critical eye. This isn’t the place for the “Everyone deserves a trophy” mentality that I had as a young mom when my kids played sports or my feeling that one athlete should win because she had a longer history than the others and so the match means more to her, or because she’s going through a divorce, or has some emotional difficulties she’s trying to work through, yadda yadda. Athletes have to prove themselves with each and every game, with a true champion the one who can do this time and time again.

2 – Expect inconsistencies. Tennis players are on their own when they play in a singles match – there’s no hiding within or behind a team – and no one plays the same each time. They are impacted by all kinds of things like their physical and/or mental state, opponent, weather and so on. Some days a player can be incredible; the next day, she might not be able to get in any first serves.

3 – Get used to being disappointed. I shouldn't get so invested in a player that I feel too sad if she doesn’t win, because it’s going to happen over and over, and feeling down could cause me to lose interest in the game which would be unfortunate since it is the one sport I truly enjoy watching. 

I’m working hard to follow these tenets, but I can’t promise I’m not going to shed a tear if my favorite player loses in the next tournament.

Big Girl School

Our oldest grandchild, Eliana, will be 4 next month. Today, she entered a public Pre-K program near their home.

“I’m going to a ‘Big Girl School,’” she had said enthusiastically many times this summer. I had heard her parents refer to the Big Girl School too, and I assumed they coined it that to differentiate it from the preschool program where she had been enrolled.

Last week, with her first day approaching, I asked if she’s excited that that she’ll be making new friends with the boys and girls in her class.  

“Not boys,” she said, “Just girls.” 

“You don’t want to play with boys too?” I asked. “No,” she said emphatically.  

I’ve never seen Eliana not have fun with anyone, including her brother and older and younger male cousins, so her comments were a bit surprising.

And then it dawned on me after a few more go-arounds of this conversation that perhaps to Eliana, a Big Girl School meant a school just for girls, and that’s how she’s been picturing it.

So, I asked her: "Do you think your school is just for girls, NOT boys?” 

She looked sooooo relieved and said with all her Eliana charm, “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

Given that the program was set to begin shortly, I let her know she’d be going with boys too, so she wouldn’t be shocked and off her game when she saw them in her room.

Since she’s enjoyed going to school with boys and girls her whole little life, I think her resistance to boys now was due to the fact that the thought of them conflicted with her vision of life in her Big Girl School.

We happened to be babysitting for Eliana right after the Pre-K orientation, and she came over in great spirits. She told us that in her classroom she’ll be sitting in a group of 4, which will include a red-head girl named Emily, along with…2 boys.

And she was smiling, too!

Rosh Hashanah

With the Jewish New Year fast approaching, I am looking forward to the start of Rosh Hashanah, followed by Yom Kippur, so that I can tune in to High Holiday services going on at my synagogue…from home.

I’ll be streaming them on Zoom, just as I did last year, most likely with my eyes closed for a big part of the day. I might even appear to be dozing here and there, but it won’t be out of boredom.

It’ll be more like the trance I’ve experienced during my foray into Yoga, or how I picture the practice of mindfulness, which I’ve been told is all about eliminating distractions and instead focusing on the here and now. 

Attending virtually instead of physically will prevent the usual tug of war between my sight and hearing senses. It will allow me to indulge in my favorite aspect of religious services: the sound of prayer in its many forms.

I will close my eyes and listen to the soothing tone of the rabbi’s chanting, the chilling power of the cantor when he sings and the handful of inspiring congregants of all ages who have practiced really hard to learn a Torah portion – in Hebrew – to read aloud to the entire congregation.

At times, I’ll even channel the day’s thoughts to where they’re supposed to be: reflecting on the past year, repenting for wrongdoings, and also working toward a better version of myself for the upcoming year.   

However, I will also miss a lot by staying home, such as the lovely faces of my dear friends, the joy of watching multiple generations together and the very special memory of seeing where my former father-in-law would have sat if he were still with us.   

Shanah Tovah...Wishing You a Happy, Healthy and Peaceful New Year! 

Matthew

A few days ago, I read that in a city in Japan called Okinawa, there are over 900 people who have lived over 100 years.

This kind of impressive fact right now – as we approach the end of August – was a real shock to the system, given what was creeping up on the calendar.

Today – August 29, 2021 – is the 11^th anniversary of the passing of my stepson, Matthew Bandler Minches.

How is it conceivable that Matthew’s life abruptly ended when he was just 20 years old?

I am no further along with my “Why?” inquiries like “Why Matthew?” or “Why do bad things happen to good people?” or “Why take someone so young?” than I was when he got sick.

No matter how often I revisit these weighty questions in the hopes that they might lead me to experience internal peace, I have found no possible explanations mighty enough to stand up to such a heartbreaking and tragic loss.

A few days ago, I shared with David that my upcoming blog post would be about this longtime quest.

He was quick to respond that this is an impossible goal and that my efforts are futile. To make his point, he likened the emotions of Matthew’s passing to a person who has lost his or her leg. Whether it’s Day 1 or 1,000 or 10 or 20 years later, there are times when one forgets the loss and moves along in a “normal” way…but always returns to the reminder of the loss and sometimes it is just as painful as Day 1. He also said he knows that any good feeling is temporary.

He has shared with others who have suffered similar losses that the pain never goes away and that “you just have to learn to live with it.”  

Knowing David as I do, he has done a pretty good job of that.

Luckily, we have many memories that make us smile and one in particular always makes me laugh. I know I’ve shared it before, but it’s a special Sunday memory, and since today is Sunday, I can’t resist.

The Sunday rule that Matthew and I enforced was that David couldn’t say anything negative. I wouldn’t describe him as a negative person, but he’s a realist, and unfortunately a lot of topics we discussed led to his negative comments. However, Sundays were the one day that he had to refrain.

When he slipped, which happened often, Matthew would call him out on it. I can still recall those exchanges in my mind. 

He did this with such joy.

A Salty Situation

A comment on my neighborhood Facebook group about a salty veggie burger at a local restaurant sparked a heated exchange among readers.  

The original poster said that she and her husband went out to lunch at a popular eatery. At first, she felt her burger was excellent – the best she’d ever had – but, as she continued to eat, she became aware of how salty it was. She said that salt is a concern for them “and may be for you.” Her last sentence was that her husband’s fish sandwich was "not at all salty.”

There were 93 comments on this post within a 24-hour period.   

Most responses fell into 3 categories: 1 – praise for the restaurant, including kudos for their caramelized cauliflower and potato skin appetizers; 2 – appreciation for the information from those who watch their salt intake; and 3 – debate about whether the original poster should have taken to Facebook/social media to talk about her salty burger.   

One individual also suggested that the moderator was at fault for approving the post, stating that it could potentially harm the business.  

This Facebook group was created years ago to act as a forum for locals to publicize “a good meal or a favorite restaurant, a business opening or closing, a fun activity to do, a yard sale” and so on. The essence of this group as I have viewed it all along is to support local businesses and bring the community together as we go through our lives in the same general vicinity.

It’s a very active group with a lot of exposure; there are continual requests for recommendations for everything from where to take your dog for grooming to dermatologists to restaurants, as well as all other matters pertaining to Cherry Hill.

It is moderated by a seemingly level-headed, positive guy who lives and works in the area – he’s a business owner himself – and whose good intentions shine through everything he writes. 

Responding to the poster who said the original comment about saltiness should not have been allowed, the moderator said the woman who posted about her experience is kind-hearted and genuinely wanted to provide information that could help others. He also stated that she was in no way bashing the restaurant and that all this buzz – with the ensuing plethora of positive comments – could in fact increase their business.

My reaction to the original post differed from his; I summed it up as a negative post that was not in the spirit of the Facebook group that is supposed to highlight the positive. While she did say she initially felt her burger was delicious, I think her comment about the saltiness combined with it being a problem for her and that it could be for others negated the compliment and instead cast an unfavorable light on the meal and, therefore, the restaurant.

This, coupled with the fact that her opinion was unsolicited, made me feel that talking about it on a Facebook group of 17,000+ members was not necessary; Yelp or Trip Advisor or other social media platforms designed for restaurant reviews would have been better choices if she felt she had to share her experience, but perhaps there was no need to do this at all. 

David felt differently than I did; he agreed with the moderator that this was NOT a negative post and that it was good information to know. As someone who often orders veggie burgers, he was glad to be given the head’s up so that if he does go there, he would probably not order one; however, he was impressed by the enthusiasm of other menu items and is now interested in checking out the place.    

While neither one of us would have written the post – we wouldn’t want to be the seed for starting a thread which might be viewed as damaging – David did say he would respond to a question about a particular business even if the answer wasn’t positive. I’m not sure I would; in fact, I probably wouldn’t.

Here is my question for tonight: How should we view social media and on-line groups?

If I was engaging with a group of friends, I would always be honest about a business or meal. Are these groups an extension of “friends” or should they be viewed with more caution? Honestly, I am not sure where I fall on this question. While I don’t want to see a business fail due to online comments that aren’t really vetted or verified, having feedback about an establishment can be invaluable.

What do you think?

 

 

 

 

Jean

Girls can make each other feel great…or like crap.  

A day trip last week to Ocean City with my 28-year-old daughter Amy was filled with conversation about a variety of things, including the power that girls – and women – possess that can dramatically impact one other.

We found ourselves exchanging stories about when we’ve been dumped without there being a known cause to warrant that, and how bad it felt at the time.  

Our stories were similar, but hers involved a couple groups of girls who collectively turned their backs on her while my experiences focused on individuals who did that, with one super memorable situation occurring when I was in junior high, about 50 years ago.

I met Jean as I started 7^th grade – our first year in the school – when we were assigned seats near each other in homeroom because my last name started with C and her name with a D. I was so happy to make that early connection in large part because I didn't know many others at the school, other than for my lifelong friend Bonnie who got involved with chorus early on and my other new (and now old) friend Marilyn, who sat in front of me in English class.  

Jean and I hung out a lot that year and, because she lived nearby, we went to her house quite often after school. We also talked on the phone at night and on weekends and shared lots of secrets about the boys we had crushes on, dissecting every word they ever said to us.

On the first day of 8^th grade, as I was sitting at my desk eager for Jean to arrive so we could resume where we left off a couple of months before – we hadn’t seen each other much since school let out in June – there was a sudden stillness in the room: a very LOUD silence, as she entered.

W O A…she was NOT the Jean I knew! This NEW Jean had a super stylish feathered haircut, she was wearing make-up, she shed her glasses, her braces came off and she had a whole new and fashionable – as in tight – wardrobe that accentuated her fabulous figure. While I may have seen bits and pieces of the transformation that occurred during the summer, I did not witness the full picture until that moment.      

I also realized she appeared to have the attitude that went along with it all which, sadly, simultaneously signaled the end of our friendship. Jean had become “cool” and chose to spend her time with others like herself who were known as the popular kids.

In retrospect, I wonder if she stopped talking to me and that explained why we weren’t friends anymore or if I felt too intimidated by her new persona that I stopped wanting to be with her. I think it was the former that occurred, because I can recall feeling rejected…but emotions are complicated, especially to make sense of them when we didn’t have the self-awareness to dig deep into our feelings. We were, after all, in our early teens, when everything was in a muddied state; most of all, our hormones and sense of self.

Every now and then I wonder if what I think happened is what she thinks happened…if she ever gave us any thought at all.

Strangely enough, Jean’s childhood home is on the same city block as my dentist, so I find myself reflecting on this friendship every time I get my teeth cleaned. I always look at her house as I pass by, wondering if I will see her walking around – and what if anything I’d say if I did.   

Lately I’ve been extra curious about Jean, so I decided to check her out on Facebook. After some digging for her last name, I was able to locate her on social media. She actually looked similar to how she did in 8^th grade, although there was no entry newer than 2017. I googled her again and found a phone number, but I haven’t called it.

Some people believe that once something is “over,” it should remain in the past. I’m often ok with opening the door a second time, but given we were friends for just 1 of my 61+ years, I’m not sure this idea makes any sense.

It is bizarre to think that while I’ve given her a good amount of thought for a half century, she might not even remember me.

Old Friends

One of my dear friends who moved to Arizona over 15 years ago came to Philly last week to visit her mom. This led to a gathering at my house of four girlfriends who go way back, three spouses, and one  delicious Chinese food meal.

Two of these girlfriends are grandmas and two have engaged kids, so that right there is a lot to talk about, although we’ve never run out of subject matter, e v e r.  

We all congratulated the girlfriends on the engagements and began to talk about potential wedding plans for their kids but, before long, the conversation shifted to when WE were kids and got married. Can old friends ever get together and NOT talk about the old days?  I hope not!

In the midst of all the chatter, one of the girlfriends had a flashback of another friend (not in attendance) who was a bridesmaid in one of our weddings and transformed discarded fabric from the alterations process to wear as a ribbon in her hair – a very ingenious plan, we all agreed then – and now.

She also had a vague recollection of a lavender color for the dress and matching ribbon, and although these memories of hers sounded familiar, my thinking about them was foggy. We also haven’t seen ribbon girl in decades, so there hasn’t been any reminiscing with her or about this for a very long time.

Flashback girlfriend was pretty sure that ribbon girl made her stylish mark at MY wedding – my first wedding – but another of the dinner girlfriends didn’t think that was the case, wondering if ribbon girl and I weren’t friends during that time period.

It was up to me to break the tie, but I couldn’t. Was ribbon girl in my wedding, or someone else’s? Did my bridesmaids wear pink, lavender, or a different color?

I have tons of pictures with all these girls although not many of us at our weddings...but, then again, we didn't have smart phones some 45 years ago to snap a picture quickly, just disposable cameras at the tables.    

So how would we ever figure out the answers to these pressing questions? Then it dawned on me…there was a way we could know for sure.

I turned to David and asked if he’d be OK if I took out my OLD wedding album. As I expected, he said he didn’t care.

The men seemed shocked that I still had it, but the women got it. It is too important in the history of my life and my kids’ lives to dispose of this album just because the marriage didn’t work out. One day, my kids may appreciate seeing their parents so young, at their own wedding, with grandparents, a great grandmother, aunts and uncles, and lots of friends. But if not – and they don’t want it, because everyone says our kids don’t want our things – they can toss it.  

After flipping a couple pages, I had my answers.  

Ribbon girl WAS in my wedding!

And all the bridesmaids – other than my sister, who was my maid of honor – wore a lovely dusty rose/mauve gown.    

Dinner with my girlfriends was one of the highlights of my summer so far, and it reminded me of this  quote: “You can’t make old friends.”

Maine!

I am so lucky that, many moons ago, David’s kids went to camp in Maine.

On the night before or after visiting day, or both, he’d stop at a lobster pound and devour an enormous lobster that he would tell me about later – the fun, gluttony and luscious nature of it made my mouth water – and that, coupled with his description of the beauty of Maine sealed the deal: one day, he and I would experience it together.   

Some 15 years ago, we began our Maine summer tradition, starting at Bar Harbor, where we thoroughly enjoyed Acadia National Park and the surrounding areas, as well as the charming Ogunquit, with its scenic Marginal Way and Perkins Cove. These locations left us wanting to explore more coastal towns and since Matthew, David’s son, had taken a camp trip to Boothbay Harbor and liked it so much, we decided to go there next.   

It was love at first sight for me, both exciting and immediately comforting, like an old pair of jeans, or a familiar smell that made me relax at once. Since then, the more I go to Boothbay Harbor, the more I want to go, and the more at home I feel.

For the past decade, our Maine jaunts have been divided between Boothbay Harbor and Camden, a picturesque town on the water, but once the innkeeper we knew and loved sold her B&B and two of our favorite eateries closed (including a fantastic lobster pound), we haven’t had the same desire to return.

After we were vaccinated this past winter, we felt encouraged to go somewhere we had sorely missed. We made our reservation for Boothbay Harbor only and I, for one, could not wait.

We were met in Portland after landing last week by a monsoon (thanks Elsa) and chilly temperatures (60s), but we did not care. We drove directly to our number one lobster spot called Boothbay Lobster Wharf, a working lobster dock where you can dine and watch local fishermen unload their catch. It takes some 25 minutes from ordering the whole steamed lobster to diving into it so, as I waited, I looked over the tie-dyed sweatshirts, picked one out and put it on immediately, not only to warm up but to help me remember that moment forever.

Once the lobsters were ready, I was so happy to savor each bite, made even sweeter as I marveled over the grit involved in keeping the lobster industry alive. It has taken massive efforts in every direction to maintain the livelihoods of lobster fishermen due to the challenges of climate variability and change, crippling tariffs, and other factors impacting every aspect of the business, and this was all before COVID created severe upheaval and closures.  

When we arrived at our B&B, everything looked status quo – especially with check-in time corresponding with low-tide and muddy flats as compared with the beautiful site of water during high tide. The proprietor welcomed us back with a nice big smile and then shared with us that the shortage of help has handicapped businesses throughout the town.  

Later that evening, when the rain let up a bit, I took a walk on the Boothbay Foot Bridge, the singular best place in all of Boothbay Harbor. This is a 1,000-foot wooden structure that connects one side of the harbor to the other, built originally in 1901 by Luther Maddocks for $1,500, with many renovations and repairs since. The views to and from this bridge are stunning, day and night, and feeling that harbor breeze as if we are walking on the water itself is just heavenly.   

As I look back at all the years we’ve spent in Maine, what comes to mind is not what we’ve done there, but how we feel there.

Blueberries!

 July is the start of National Blueberry Month, so the publisher/owner of the newspaper I write for in the Pine Barrens of New Jersey asked me to do a feature about a relatively small local blueberry and cranberry farmer who might really appreciate publicity this time of year.   

I was excited for this story given my love for blueberries, which I could eat 365 days a year. Plus, I’ve never written about the farming industry, and whenever I get an assignment that opens my eyes about something new, I’m grateful for that opportunity.

I called the farmer to arrange a time to meet at his farm. He seemed excited that he’d have someone to show around, given that they haven’t had many visitors since COVID. Before that, he said, they had given tours to school children and were open to customers, some of whom did not let the pandemic get in the way of their blueberry cravings.  

We came up with a day for me to visit, and he told me to come around 9ish. He gave me a quick overview of where he was located, but I told him there’s no need to do that; I’ll plug the name of the farm into the GPS.

That morning, I left about 20 minutes early, just so I wouldn’t be late, and this way I could drive around a little, maybe do some blueberry shopping. I blasted my Top Songs for the Car CD and went on my merry way.

I had always enjoyed the ride to Tabernacle because I leave behind the congestion of busy suburban traffic in favor of less traveled roads, open fields, woods and isolation from the rest of the world, all of which I never realized was so close to us before I started working for this newspaper.

Once I arrived at where the GPS instructed me to go and the street name confirmed it, I turned in to what soon felt like a driveway to nowhere. It was hard to picture a school bus filled with children or customers making this trek, even if these blueberries are something special.      

As it happened, this was the wrong road; while the street name was correct, a woman gardening outside told me that to get to the farm, I’d have to re-enter the same street from the other side. She tried to make it seem like no big deal, but for someone like me with no sense of direction and totally inept in the woods, I knew it was easier said than done.

The GPS continued to bring me back to the route I didn’t want, and for the next hour – which included my calling and texting the farmer, getting gas because that extra 45 minutes of driving caused my fuel light to go on and then getting so agitated that I had to get to a bathroom – I still could not figure out how to get to my destination.  

I was feeling somewhat embarrassed that I was going to be so late – if I ever got there – and I wanted to pull over and cry, curse, say Forget It! altogether…but that would be even worse for me personally and professionally if I didn’t show or looked like a wreck when I got there. So, I pulled myself together and continued my journey.   

And guess what?!!?? I finally found the place!

The farmer was super nice about it, and after a tour of the packing plant and a delicious dark chocolate cluster of blueberries he had offered, I was able to put the very harried ride behind me and get to the business at hand.  

While hearing him talk, I was aware that I had never met a man before who expressed such emotion and passion about his life and work. He’s a 6^th generation farmer who talked at length about the importance of family support at home and on the farm, the dedication required every day and every night, the stress that accompanies this kind of lifestyle, the economics of owning a farm and much, much more. What he emphasized most of all, however, is his love for the land and not being able to imagine living anywhere else.

“If I didn’t have these Atlantic white cedar and pine trees and scrub oak around me, I don’t know how I’d act…There are folks who live in the city, and they think nothing different…They love the city…New York City would terrify me. I’ve only been in Philadelphia 3 times in my life…Dump me out here in these pines anywhere and I’m happy as a meadow lark.”

As he spoke, I realized he and I are opposites…dump me in a city anywhere (almost) and I’d feel more comfortable than I did driving around for miles and miles in the Pine Barrens.  

I wonder...what would explain this? Is it just because we grew up differently - he as a “Piney” and me, as a city girl? 

I think familiarity goes a long way toward shaping who we are...and who we become. 

Father's Day Gifts

For Father’s Day, I wanted to find a special something for David.  

I googled Father’s Day gifts to see if there was anything that popped out at me. He’s one of these guys you’d say has everything he wants and if he doesn’t have it, he doesn’t want it, or he’d have bought it himself. But I like giving presents, and I know he likes opening them, so I started to explore what the internet had to offer.  

Good housekeeping ("60 Best Father’s Day Gifts 2021”) was one of the top 5 search results and the first I checked out when I performed this search at 3 a.m., after one of my bathroom trips that left me wide awake.

In prior years, my searches have been disappointing, because they have been so stereotypical of what people think of for men, yielding such results as those related to beer, cooking on the grill, sports, jokes and patting dad on the back with “Number One Dad” items. None of these  created any kind of spark in me (other than perhaps the grill) that I’d want to buy for someone I want to honor.  

However, this search on goodhousekeeping.com had some potential overall, even though I was initially discouraged when I saw numero uno on the list was “Cooling Pint Glasses” for beer.

There were all the usual culprits mentioned above, including a “Best Farter Ever” mug as the 2^nd suggestion which, call me a curmudgeon, doesn’t seem worthy of this kind of list. There were some items, however, that caught my eye in a good way because, unlike others I recall from the past, they seemed to reflect the man of today: a gift card for a master class in a variety of areas including cooking, photography, music and so on, a History-by-Mail six-month subscription and a book called “100 Hikes of a Lifetime,” cool athletic wear, some electronics and lots that fit in the broad category of all things food. 

One thing that seemed way over the top was a scotch-infused toothpick gift set. That truly is for the man who has everything.

I found it interesting that on that whole list, there were only a few items that related to being a dad, including a personalized “Super Dad” book and a customized portrait of the whole family. I was most fascinated by the “Dad Hoodie,” a manly version of a diaper bag that a dad would wear as a vest, with or without a sweatshirt.

I still didn’t find anything on this list that I’d buy for David, or any of other items that I’d want for myself other than the book on hikes.

Given that I was still wide awake at about 3:45 a.m., I decided to scroll through the Mother’s Day suggestions to see how they compare.  

I was surprised and not surprised at the same time that the first item on Mom’s list was called “What a Difference a Day Makes,” which is a burlap print with the most important dates of her life, starting with the date she got married and then the date the kids were born.

So the first recommendation for dad is a frosty glass for an ice-cold beer, and the first for mom is framed artwork displaying important dates, starting with her marriage. Why is this not the first suggestion for dad, or why is the first suggestion for mom not a frosty glass for a cold one?

It was clear that most of dad’s recommendations are for his own pleasure, with mom’s being family oriented.

What did I learn from this hour-long research project? 

That, in some instances, the world has recognized the changing roles of moms and dads. In many cases, dads are doing much more than what used to be expected of men, certainly compared to when I was growing up.  

My guess is that despite these advances, stereotypes may prevail, with men being men and women being women…although we all might interpret this differently.  Hopefully I haven’t offended anyone by making this comment.

What did I end up getting David, you wonder?

An oldie but a goodie: a beautiful glass picture of his daughter and granddaughter, with big smiles on their faces.

Ironing Things Out

My girlfriend was having a baby shower for her daughter-in-law in the midst of COVID, so the party was going to be virtual. My friend had the idea of sending a plain white onesie to each of the invited guests in advance of the party along with some paints and other decorating materials. Willing participants would have the opportunity to create a unique design and show off their artwork as entertainment during the party and then send it as a gift for the new baby.  

She told me everything she was going to include in the bag, one item being a decal that would require being ironed on to the onesie. Then it occurred to me: how many friends of the new mom actually own irons?

When David and I moved in together, we had 2 irons. When my daughter and her husband moved in together, they had 0 irons.

Ironing is a part of my past from way back, when men’s dress shirts were worn to work every day and had to look freshly ironed and hard, as stiff as cardboard.

I can remember coming home for lunch when I was in elementary school to the smell of starch, and I’d be so excited. I’d say to myself “Annie is here!” and I’d follow the sound of the water bubbling in the iron as it turned to steam, and there she’d be, sweating over the hot iron.

Annie was my parents’ housekeeper, and she came to our place on Tuesdays. She always greeted me so warmly like she was genuinely happy to see me, and I think she was, because I liked to sit with her, especially when she was ironing. I’d watch every move she made with her big hands as she turned a wrinkly hankie or dress shirt into a crisp beauty. The transformation was incredible!

Now that I think about it, almost everything she ironed was white: my dad’s hankies, his shirts and even the sheets! I always admired the color contrast between her dark hands and the white surfaces.

Annie was very tall and didn’t say much, but when she did talk, her words were meaningful. She told me to pay attention to how she ironed, so I could learn.

Start with the cuffs and collar, she’d say, then go to the buttons, move to the areas below the collar around the front and back, next do the back area, and end with the front panels on either side of the buttons.  

There were plenty of don'ts, too: Don't leave the iron in one place on the item for too long, or you could burn the material; don't leave the material in one spot, or you could create creases; don't iron over the buttons but instead use the point of the iron to go around the buttons; don't use too much starch - use just the right amount, and so on.  

She would let me practice with my dad’s square hankies, and she critiqued me as I went along, showing me where to place my hands so I didn't get burned, how to fold the hanky if it was monogrammed, how to give a finishing touch to it once it was folded, and many other tricks she had up her sleeve.

Over time, I started to do a pretty respectable job, and then my mom would give me hankies to do on my own. I remember being unhappy when she went from buying all cotton and rather thick ones to some thin fabric mix that didn’t get so crinkly, because they didn’t require the focus or finesse that Annie spent so much time teaching me.

For the most part, my ironing without guidance went well, until I went beyond hankies and took the initiative of gathering all the clean laundry to iron. Included in this collection was one of my sister’s very wrinkly black bodysuits she wore for dance. It had short sleeves, with pink on one sleeve and a blueish-turquoise color on the other. It looked like it’d be a piece of cake to iron, given it didn’t have long sleeves, buttons or a collar. I pictured her being so impressed and pleased that I had ironed it for her.

Of course, if I saw this fabric today, I’d know it wouldn’t need to be and shouldn’t be ironed. It was nylon I think, with a lot of stretch.

Needless to say, the iron stuck to it and burned off the entire iron-shaped area. I remember the horror I felt looking at it in disbelief. It was ruined. I was so scared I’d get into trouble, and I think the joy of ironing was taken away from me right then, forever.  

I don’t recall what happened after my mom and sister saw what I had done, so it couldn’t have been catastrophic; however, whenever I iron today, I always have a flashback of that moment in time.

I do wonder whether ironing is yet another one of the skills that will not be passed down to the next generation.

Beware of the Killer Table

For years, David and I have been talking about getting a new coffee table in our family room.

The conversation started when we began to babysit for our granddaughter Eliana, now almost 4, when she was just a few months old.

For years, we’ve had a heavy glass circular tabletop with a beveled edge that sits on a metal base, with a custom faux finish. I absolutely love the table, even though this is what David had in the house he shared with his first Mrs.

Just to give you a sense for the configuration of the room, the table is placed in front of the sofa, and diagonal from a chair with an ottoman. 

This room isn’t necessarily where we are most often, but it’s where we’d watch one of Eliana’s princess movies or a show that Ethan might like.

The issue we are concerned about is if one of the kids bangs into the table…OUCH (think cuts, blood and scars, my worst fears)…NO NO NO, Not on our watch.  

Last year during COVID we ordered some kind of upholstered ottoman that could act as a table, but the item was delayed three times until we cancelled it altogether and put the plan on HOLD.  

Now we are back to babysitting the kids and, with this duo on mind, we find ourselves ruminating once again about a replacement table that would be softer in a collision, just in case.

Last Saturday, I told David that by the end of the weekend, I wanted this issue resolved.     

I went to LoveSac, a new store nearby which boasts some pretty cool characteristics for their furniture, including the fact that it’s easy to keep clean. “You had me at washable,” I told the saleswoman.

The next day, I went to a few more traditional places, and while we could have purchased something, I wasn’t thrilled with any of the choices. They were either too big or too small, and one had a waiting period for delivery of a minimum of 4-7 months.

As I’ve mentioned in prior blog posts, it's important for me to cross this off my to-do list – and more importantly, to keep the little kiddies safe. I told David to pick one of these options.

"How about I wrap the tabletop in foam pipe insulation to eliminate the concern about the sharp edge?” he asked. 

Wow…Genius!

David had talked about doing this last year, but then the subject was dropped when COVID changed everything, and I forgot about it. Turns out his delay in executing it was due to the fact that we had stopped babysitting and he knew it wouldn’t take long to do when the time was right. He was also hoping I'd find a nice replacement, which didn't happen.

I’m not going to lie; this table is unsightly!!! It looks like it is in the middle of an unfinished makeover, like we just moved in and have yet to remove the packing materials off the table; however, I can breathe easier now. Plus, Eliana and I worked on a Frozen puzzle that would not have been possible on any of the upholstered surfaces. And when it’s time for Play Doh, this surface will be ideal.

It may just be a temporary fix, I'm not sure...it could last a month or a year or more...as long as the little ones don’t think the foam is fun to play with and start pulling it off.  

We shall see...

The Lasagna Method

These days I have more time than ever, yet I’m consumed with saving more time than ever, especially when it comes to meals.

It wasn’t always this way; I used to embrace the whole dinner process, albeit lengthy at times. I’d start combing through recipes for creative and tasty dinners, which often led to a supermarket trip, followed by a long prep and often a big mess before and after dinner. 

Then one day I noticed our focus shifting, from satisfying our taste buds to clearing our schedule, as if we really need that extra time.  

In a nutshell, we’ve taken on “the lasagna method.” This is the kind of meal that can stretch and stretch and stretch…it can always feed one more hungry mouth and/or – more to the point for us – last for one more meal.    

This trend started without much fanfare, just by buying as big a piece of salmon as would fit into the pan, so we could have it the next day(s) or night(s) hot or cold, because we discovered we like it chilled on a bed of greens as well.

Then one day David came home from the market with 4 fillets of branzino instead of the usual 2, so we could have the same yummy meal the next night too, he said. The “experiment” went so well that now he always buys 4...While so delicious, even the second night, I can’t go past 2 nights with this fish; it is the kind of meal that goes from delicious to gross fairly quickly.

Now I’m approaching all my meals in this manner. Why make marinade for 3 chicken breasts that will work for 1 or 2 meals when I can make marinade for 6 breasts and multiple meals and have it hot or cold, whole or sliced? There’s even plenty for Shea Doggy to indulge in this way, too.   

This will work well with one of our other staples too: penne with red sauce, sautéed vegetables and shrimp. When I think of all that labor required for one meal, with few leftovers, if any, I am floored...Why on earth did I not think this through, until now?!??! There are also multiple mix-and-match combinations with these ingredients that can fill our tummies for the better part of a week. 

What does this all mean? We are only in the kitchen now a fraction of the time we once were (for preparing, not eating 😊) Who says you can't teach an old dog new tricks?

Don’t worry folks. I still love my daily shower.