Him or Her?

The other night as David and I sat on our 3rd floor porch overlooking Boothbay Harbor in Maine, all was right with the world.  The air was crisp, the moon illuminated the sky and lights outlining the sailboats and footbridge reflected in the water.  It couldn't have been a more peaceful and romantic setting.        

As we snuggled up to one another on the loveseat, a car pulled up on to the gravel at our B&B.  First we heard a door open, and then we heard this:    

"Why can't you ever let me drive?  I want to drive, just like you do.  Do you know how that makes me feel, that you always say NO?" and so on until a minute or two later, when the couple came upstairs and saw us sitting outside the bedroom next to theirs.  Surprised, she said hello and they scurried inside.  

          

I was glad that they saw us, hoping that signaled an end to her fury, but once they closed the door, her irritation with his not allowing her to drive morphed into more.  They probably didn't realize or care that their windows were open, and if it weren't for David watching a ball game on his iPad, I would've heard every word. 

"Why did you ask me to pack a clean outfit every day when I haven't seen you change your shirt every day this whole week?" the woman asked.  She said if she could ask Louise, his former wife of 18 years, Louise would say he didn't change every day either.  I wasn't sure what the relevance was of bringing up his ex-wife or his dressing pattern other than to express the resentment she feels about Louise, the fact that he wouldn't let her drive because he was a control freak or a million other things.  

He didn't say much until she brought Louise into their argument, which is when he fired back.  "All you do is 'yap yap yap' and I'm sick of hearing you yap yap yap....You drank too much at dinner.  You're a gold digger....yap yap yap...stop talking, you talk too much...yap yap yap."  Yes, she did prove herself to be an incessant talker, but it also seemed that she had valid complaints about his offending her whereas from my perspective by his very nature he was arrogant and condescending.  Even though I was drawn to listening to this play out, it was disturbing that what I was hearing could well be a marriage on the rocks.     

After 10 or 15 minutes of back-and-forth mud-slinging, there was total silence, which lasted for the rest of the night.  I found this even more disconcerting than their arguing. 

I assumed when I whispered to David that this guy is a real jerk, he'd add his own expletive remarks, but that's not how he responded.  First, he told me to stop eavesdropping.  Then he said she talks way too much and he wouldn't be able to tolerate her either.    

Yikes!  How is it possible that we heard the exact same exchange and got such different vibes?  Or is this the way it plays out most of the time; that women align themselves with women and men with men? 

That calmness I felt gazing into the harbor was gone; I became upset and worried.  I was not only disgusted with the husband's patronizing ways but was so alarmed by the sudden quiet that I pictured something awful having happened.  What if we saw only one of them at breakfast?  If it would've been him, I'd be forever mad at myself that I didn't intervene; if she was alone, I'd have to suggest a good lawyer.  I also realized I wouldn't recognize either one of them by their faces, only by their voices, so I hoped one or both would speak up to make his/her presence known.   

         

Hours later while awaiting breakfast, I heard an enthusiastic "Good Morning!" tinged with a southern drawl. I knew her voice instantaneously.  I was relieved when she walked in and proud of her grand entrance, with her head held up high, despite the challenges of having such an impossible husband.  I felt validated that I'd been right and David wrong; she exuded positive energy and the CEO - as she referred to him in the midst of their heated argument - appeared just the opposite: miserable and grumpy, following behind her, not making eye contact with anyone, his tail between his legs.

Just as he did every morning, Phil, our B&B host, gave us a preview of the breakfast menu.  He asked if everyone was OK with French Toast covered with blueberries and Maple Syrup.

There were lots of "oohs and aahs" and then each guest - about 10 of us - replied individually with an appreciative "Yes, please" until I heard HER voice again.  "Just bring us one plate of food and we'll share," she told Phil.  He replied by joking that he's made enough for everyone to have their own plate.  She insisted that they wanted just one plate for the two of them and that would be plenty.  Again, the CEO was silent.

And then my loyalties suddenly switched.  She was grating on MY nerves at this point. What a nag she was!  Why couldn't she just be quiet and let Phil do what he wanted to do, which was bring each of them a plate, let the CEO have whatever he wanted and she could eat or not eat as well.   I was now in agreement with David's comment from the night before, that neither one of us would be able to tolerate her.  What a control freak she turned out to be!

Normally if David and I leave the dining room before the others, I'd be sure to make my signature comment, "Have a great day!" but I couldn't bring myself to even look in their direction.  I was too frustrated with each of them and so agitated as well that it wasn't clear who the jerk really was.  The CEO or the yapper?  Which one was the victim?  It was a big blur to me with my heart but untrained eyes and ears dictating my reactions.

I walked away exhausted by the complexity of relationships.  What really happened between them the night before?  Was their exchange merely harmless banter, or did it eat away at the core of their marriage?

And then I decided that David's approach had been a good one:  Just increase the volume of the ball game and call it a night.  

Woo Hoo!

I’m on vacation!

That means I have a bona fide excuse to leave behind my To-Do List and conduct myself as if I don’t have one, even though just days ago I was obsessed with crossing things off it.

Right?  Easier said than done.

I was hoping to take a hiatus from those lingering concerns I carry with me in everyday life in time for check-in at the Belmont Inn, a lovely B&B on the coast of Maine that David and I have visited a few times over the years. I gave myself 5 hours door-to-door to make this transition to vacation mode, the most pressing matter on my To-Do List at that time.  After all, vacationing is serious business, and I didn’t want to waste a minute of this precious getaway.

Every year I seem to find the need to give myself a pep talk about learning to let go for one week out of 52, how lucky I am to be in a place I love with the man I love, how much fun we have indulging on big fat juicy lobsters and how wonderful it is to hang out at the marina or do nothing at all.     

   

Most of all, I remind myself that life is more than the summation of my To-Do List accomplishments.

As I would’ve guessed, I fell a bit short of my goal; I didn’t taste freedom as quickly as I’d wanted; that is, until I cracked open that second lobster, when the only thing left “To-Do” was to truly enjoy it. 

Connections

"Are you 1404's daughter?"

"Are you 1404's daughter?

After the second time, I looked around to see who was saying this and to whom she was saying it to.

Then I realized she was talking to me.

I was in the elevator of my mom's apartment building.  I've been called many things in my life, but this was a first. 

When I said, "Oh yes, I am her daughter," the woman said to me, "Your mom is so nice. She always smiles at me."  This made me smile inside (and maybe outside) all day long.

For the 10 years my mom's been there, I've often been asked,  "Are you Florence's daughter?" and each time I get a flashback of all the times I've been called something...the Councilman's daughter, so-and-so's sister/sister-in-law (take your pick), so-and-so's wife (again, take your pick) and so-and-so's mom (take your pick once more and don't forget Shea Doggy),  etc. etc.

In my younger years I used to wonder why can't I just be ME? Why are people always intent on making a connection?    

These days, I see connections as gifts that fall from the sky. They often bring to mind important relationships, provide opportunities to hear stories about people I care about, or inspire flashbacks that take me to places I haven't visited in a long time.         

One of the more emotional connections occurred recently at the Promenade shops in Marlton, where I was signing a receipt - as Judy MINCHES.  The saleswoman asked me if I have a son.  I wasn't sure what to say.  Yes, I have a son named Mike, whose last name is Heiman, but she saw me write Minches, so that's what she was referring to.  And yes, I have a stepson, Matthew Minches...I was a bit uneasy as to where this was headed, yet I knew the exchange would be touching and memorable.  She proceeded to tell me a heartwarming story about Matthew, when he was her son's camp counselor the summer he got sick.  

Even though tears streamed down my face without warning - so startling to her that she switched gears immediately and started talking about how much she liked my eyeglasses - I felt truly lucky that I happened to stop into a store I rarely go to on that particular day.              

It's amazing how just a few words from someone we don't know about someone we do know can give us knowledge we may not have and take us to places we might not otherwise go.  

My Mom

Tomorrow (Monday, July 28th) is my mom's 97th birthday.

She just taught me a HUGE lesson, which I will never forget.

First off, she can relay a very powerful message very simply.  Perhaps she'll lay the groundwork with a few words, may repeat them from time to time, and then once we're clued in and start watching her facial expressions, all the prompts become clear. 

What I had been seeing with Mom over the past six months, just to give some background, was a rather lackluster demeanor after what I'd always believed was a spirited approach to life.  I didn't know whether to be alarmed as in DO SOMETHING FOR HER or to understand that she's feeling rather disenchanted with her lifestyle. The question Is it a funk Mom's in or is there more to it? began haunting me.

I also knew that she'd been experiencing sadness and loneliness as friends she'd made in recent years had either passed or moved away.  I was kind of waiting for the prolonged mourning period for them to lift at some point - enough to return to her relatively "normal" self - but I wasn't sure that was even possible.

Mom lives at the Watermark, a retirement community at 17th and Vine in the Logan Square section of Philadelphia.  She and my dad moved in a decade ago, he passed a year later, 2.5 years ago she began to need 24/7 care and about 1.5 years ago, she became wheelchair-bound. 

In recent years, what had become the most important aspect of Mom's life in my eyes and most likely that of my siblings was that we knew she was well cared for and safe with her loving caregivers.  I have to admit I didn't think about much else. 

A few months back, however, that changed.  Mom in her wheelchair and I took a walk to the local park that she and I had frequented many times.  She seemed enthused at the suggestion to go but didn't say much other than "Look at the verandas" when we got there. 

As I sat there watching her appear so happy to be outside - as well as gazing up at the verandas of a local apartment building - I began to recall Mom's enjoyment of the outdoors, feeling the air on her face and the wind in her hair.  Unfortunately, she doesn't get outside much these days.  The combination of living on the 14th floor of the high rise, waiting for elevators and having to walk a few minutes to get to some greenery aren't factors that work together to easily satisfy her longing to be out in the open.  Consequently, she's often cooped up inside.       

While she was probably daydreaming about verandas, I was recalling her morning routine at home when we all lived together.  The first thing she used to do when she got out of bed was to look out the window to the park across the street, as well as at our own lawn and garden which she spent many hours cultivating.  She loved and still loves the beauty and fragrance of flowers and watching the birds fly and hearing them sing.  For years she gave me glass birds and bird books and all sorts of other bird items that honestly I didn't care for at the time but knew I would at a later date. 

So this "veranda" comment gave me a sinking feeling in my stomach. It's not like she says so much that I can tune out half of it.  She says far too little to disregard anything.   Her comment also fed right into my concern that her children need to sit up and take notice.  Why was she so focused on the verandas?

Loving someone elderly can be challenging.  They are physically and emotionally fragile, and it's really difficult to figure out the complexities of their thinking and comments at times.  All we can do is try. 

With that in mind, I asked Mom..."Should we be looking for a new place for you to live?"  She paused for a minute and then said, "I'd like that."  And so her message was delivered, in just a few words, and following her prompts.

The search began, first in Philly.  It became clear that wheelchair-friendly apartments don't come with verandas - at least the ones I explored.  What they do come with is a plethora of generously-sized door openings and wonderful access to everything in the bathroom and the kitchen, for starters.  But still, no verandas.

Skip ahead to today.

Mom is now scheduled - she still has time to change her mind - to move in to Spring Hills - an Assisted Living Community - in Cherry Hill. No verandas, but easy entry to the outdoors, to their lovely garden and fountains, and hopefully the birdies will stop by and say hello.

True to form, Mom is going for the gusto.  She's excited about her opportunities for a fresh start, to make new friends, to re-invent herself, and to make the most out of her life.  Right now, she's talking about trying to walk again.    

Her message is clear:  It's never too late to want more out of life, and to go for it, too. 

Is there any better lesson a mom could teach her kid? 

Don't "Ma'am" Me

All the waiter has to do is call me "Miss" instead of "Ma'am" and I'm good to go.

Yes, even if the service he provides stinks.  

Likewise, call me “Ma’am” and nothing’s getting past me.  Slow service will be reflected in his tip, no doubt. 

“Miss" tickles me pink; “Ma’am,” needless to say, doesn't.     

Perhaps “Ma’am” was at one time a term of respect, to show deference for older folk, in which case I could decide I've earned it and even appreciate it.

But I don't; instead, I cringe when I hear it.  I want to say, "So I look like your mom, do I, young man?" but since I realize his mom could look far younger than I do, I bite my tongue.         

I'd rather be "Miss" to feel like I’m 14 again, or 24, or 34. Heck, even 44 sounds good. 

"Ma’am" makes me feel, well, the opposite, like I’m closer to 84 than I am 24. Yikes, I am.

It should be reserved for our moms, no exceptions.

Card me too and I’d double the tip.

When You're Hooked, You're Hooked

Craft shows are so much fun, and yesterday's Haddonfield Craft Show was no exception.  I find the imagination and talents of the artists incredibly inspiring.  There's always something cool to watch in the making, like a silk scarf or hanging lamp from recycled plastic pieces. There's often an item that makes me ask Is this for real?  and this time it was an expandable hat made from heavy-duty paper.  There was also something so beautiful that it stopped me in my tracks...a most amazing quilt caught my eye, and then once I entered the kiosk, the one to its right was just as fabulous. 

But what I was drawn to the most was what I've always been drawn to the most...from 14 to 54 and all the decades in-between...all that tie-dyed and batik stuff.  It doesn't even matter what it is. Tie-dyed? I want it.  Batik? I want it.  I was in my glory to see 5 or 6 kiosks with an exciting inventory of these shirts, socks, dresses, sweaters, scarves, hats, bags and a whole bunch of other items in far more vibrant combinations than what I used to make in my basement with RIT dye packaged in small cardboard boxes the size of instant pudding.

So it may come as no surprise to you that once again, I couldn't resist...I bought myself a tie-dyed infinity scarf and even went this route for a baby gift with onesies and socks (why not start them out early).  I'm not sure if I'll enjoy wearing my scarf more or draping it over something in my home office so I can glance at it throughout the day.  Had I been to the show alone, I probably would've purchased the very large tie-dyed T-shirt that I could've worn to the beach or to bed, but my husband shook his head "no," probably afraid - with good reason - that I'd start living in it.

So what is it about these designs that I find so appealing?  A "tie" to my past?  The hippie in me?  Freedom of expression?  Bursts of color?  Somewhat simpler times?  I have no idea.

For years - maybe between my 30s and 40s, when I'd be out shopping and would see a tie-dyed shirt, I'd tell myself, You've outgrown this, and I'd keep walking, most likely looking back longingly.  But then the greatest thing happened.  My kids went to day camp at the JCC and, for a couple of years, the camp shirts they were given were tie-dyed.  Sometimes they even made tie-dyed shirts during the art period.  My younger daughter loved them and would tell me all about how she made them with rubber bands, etc.  She started to want other t-shirts and long-sleeved shirts and sweatshirts with the tie-dyed motif. She was hooked.

She commented to me last year, when she was going into her third year of college, that she thinks she's outgrown the tie-dyed look. I was sad but understood where she was coming from (been there, done that).  

But guess what? On the Ocean City boardwalk this summer, I caught her looking at them again.  

July 4th

Nothing like the sweet taste of freedom.

July 4th is a time to party under fireworks and at BBQs and to celebrate how far we've come as a nation. I'm happy to do that, as long as we can also footnote some of those segments in the Declaration of Independence where we need to improve as free thinkers and as a civilization and not simply to point to political party dogma, for example, as an excuse for our unjust behavior.

Heavy duty stuff aside, these public displays of patriotism always take me back to my own rendezvous with freedom at distinct periods of my life - in far less consequential ways - but monumental for me as a young adult, nonetheless. 

The first time I recall squealing over my newly-earned independence occurred when I was 16 years old got my driver's license, which meant I was free to go anywhere and, essentially, do anything.  I was - in a word - e l a t e d.  A few years later a friend and I wanted to spend the summer in Atlantic City and we got jobs as tram drivers on the boardwalk.   I can still feel the thrill of looking forward to this adventure.  My next emancipating milestone took place as a result of my first "real" job that provided my first "real" paycheck, which sent me flying, as I was able to make move out of my parents' home.  These days, I feel incredibly liberated to walk out of my office around 5 pm on Friday, knowing I don't have to return until 8 am on Monday. 

I know that the various freedoms I've reveled in over the years have been possible because others before me have fought battles that have paved the way for me and my loved ones, my coworkers, my neighbors and my peers to have choices and dreams which wouldn't have been possible in another age.  I try to tell this to my children, as I'm sure my parents tried to teach me:  It wasn't always like this.   

Had I been born just 75 or 100 years ago, my life as a woman would've been very different.  Take voting, or lack thereof, for women.  There are times I vote in today's elections - when honestly I have no idea who is on the ballot and for what position - simply because I am free to do so.  I was afforded this right because of the grit and determination of the Women's Suffrage Movement and the brave women (and men) in earlier times.  That is reason enough for me to vote.

Had my sister been born in 1900, perhaps she wouldn't have announced her lesbianism in high school as she did some 40 years ago and she may never have seen the day when lesbians and gays could marry.

At night on the holiday itself, in lieu of seeing fireworks, my husband and I watched the gut-wrenching "12 Years a Slave."  I'm still reeling in the horror of it.  I don't know what is more shocking:  the fact that people could treat others so poorly, that people viewed blacks as inferior simply because of the color of their skin, that so many slave owners got away with such atrocious, criminal behavior or that they'd be able to live with themselves for behaving that way.

That's the thing when dissecting the freedoms we as a nation have acquired.  None of them came for free.  Each advancement was achieved through blood, sweat and tears.  Too many are tied to events that have been so incredibly damaging, making me feel as ashamed as I am proud. 

So as the weekend dies down and I transition back into the work week, I will no doubt find myself daydreaming about the opportunities I relished as a free young woman in a relatively free society, that aren't tied to anything disturbing other than, say, growing pains.