The DMV

This story begins at the Division of Motor Vehicles, where I went to get my driver’s license renewed.

I sat for about 20 minutes as people came and went, all asking each other how long they had been waiting.  The camaraderie among us was strong, mostly because everyone talked about what brought them in that day.  There were also a handful of men and women who were emphatically trading stories about how rude and/or inept the employees always are and that they would rather do anything than come to the DMV. 

Once my Number 80 was called, I walked to the designated desk to process my application. I braced myself to experience the worst.   

The woman I was assigned to, who I will call “Patty” for her St. Patrick’s Day T-shirt, took my paperwork without looking at me.  She turned it from one side to the next a few times.  Here we go, I thought.  My anxiety was mounting.  So, I did the only thing I know how to do in situations where I am at the mercy of someone who, honestly, scares me a little, similar to how I approach the phlebotomist at LabCorp:  I make small talk. 

I asked Patty how her day had been going so far, even as she stared downward at her desk. She replied, actually lifting her face to look at me for the first time. She then asked if I noticed the pink sweater on one of her coworkers.  HUH? That question came out of the blue.  I thought I misheard initially—at a time when I was anticipating her instructions to stand back and smile or don’t smile—whatever the rule is these days—for my license picture. 

I didn’t see a pink sweater and nervously told her; a minute later a woman with a pink sweater made an appearance—I will call her “Pink”—and sat down.  Patty explained that she gave Pink her sweater because of Lent.  What do you mean? I asked.  She said she (Patty) was channeling her efforts during Lent to do something she has dreaded for years:  purging her closets.

   

We may as well have been having tea somewhere; she sat back in her chair and told me in great detail how awful she used to feel being surrounded by overstuffed closets that prevented her from actually seeing what was inside and how out of sorts she felt in her own home.  She let out a sigh of relief when she told me that she and her daughter get along better these days because they don’t argue so much about the 18-year-old’s clothes: now, those piled on the chair or floor are no longer the easiest to reach.  Patty actually said that purging her closets has changed her life.

I wondered if Patty shared her breakthrough with anyone else. I didn’t see her engage in other personal chatter, but I couldn’t imagine that I was the only one with whom she expressed her newfound joy.  Little did she know, closet organization was right up my alley.  

      

This recent hobby of mine started several months ago when I began to feel that this country was falling apart.  No matter where I looked, people were hurting one another with venomous words or killing each other with guns.  Nightly, I asked myself what kind of world have I brought my kids and grandkids into?        

This angst became magnified when I’d get into bed, as David was drifting off to sleep in the comfort of his C-pap.  It was in the darkness—when the lights were out, the room was quiet, and I was alone with my thoughts—that I would stew for hours.

Counting sheep as my mom periodically suggested didn’t do the trick; I needed a more potent plan of action to combat these fears.  I began to count backwards from 100 by 3s since it was somewhat challenging initially but over time became boring so I went to counting backwards by 7s which was, I admit, too challenging to be relaxing. I also tried reciting the alphabet backwards because I know my kids can do that but I struggled with that too and gave up. 

And then I figured out the closet trick, and it’s never let me down. It literally works every time.

In a nutshell, once David reaches for his C-pap, I close my eyes and begin strategizing:  How should I set up the clothing in my closet?  Should I group my shirts by color, length or season?  Should tie-dyed shirts stay in the front of the closet or move to the back? Where should I place year-round clothing?  What can I give away, donate, toss?  Should I have a system in place to rotate what I wear so I’m not always seen in the same few outfits?  It’s minutiae at its best, focusing on details that don’t matter, not distressing in the least.  Before long, I’m hearing the birdies…it’s morning in no time.

The beauty of this new practice is twofold:  not only do I fall asleep quickly but I can make practical improvements in my life as a result.       

I wanted to share all this with Patty because I was pretty sure she’d get a kick out of it given that we’re on the same wavelength about our closets and perhaps other aspects of home orderliness as well, but she was so deep into her own storytelling that I didn’t get a chance.   

Who would have ever thought Patty and I would connect on this level, having just met in the DMV?

It goes to show that, on any given day, one never knows what we share with the stranger in front of us. 

One For All

Being one of four siblings in my childhood home was neither good nor bad.  It was, in a word, predictable.

Dinnertime was a shining example of predictability.  One of the meals in my mom’s regular rotation consisted of broiled chicken made with a host of seasonings – most likely she sprinkled tarragon, oregano, salt, pepper and paprika.  I can smell them now, as I write. 

Once we were all seated at the dinner table, the platter of chicken would be placed in front of the eldest person at the table:  my dad first if he was home or my brother Mark, who was 11 years my senior.  And from there it would be passed in age order.

Yup, I am the youngest of the four.

I often talked myself through this, never questioning the status quo aloud, but asking myself privately why I was always the low man [woman] on the totem pole, why I was always the last one invited to the dinner party.  For parents who touted the democratic way of life, this was…well…undemocratic.  Back then, though, I accepted that this is what happens when you’re the fourth kid.    

For the most part, I was fine with the routine of being the last one to delve into the platter—and it certainly kept me from eating too much—but I did draw the line in my head when it came to hot tea, which my mom offered after dinner. 

“Who wants hot tea?” she’d ask.

This always felt like a trick question. 

Yes, I wanted hot tea, but that wouldn’t be what I was getting when I responded, “I do.”

It would just mean I’d get a cup of something hot but, for me, it would most likely be water; as with the chicken, the tea bag was passed around the table in age order.  Yes, one tea bag for as many as 6 people. 

If my dad was home, he’d get the strongest tea; Mark who always partook would get the second or third strongest; Denis would go next and Sherrie too before me.  For some reason I have blocked out where my mom, a tea drinker, would have fared:  would her tea be brown or clear? 

It was a tall order for that little Lipton’s tea bag to flavor anywhere from 3 to 5 cups of tea before it got to me.

Here’s my attempt at rationalization.

My mom was born in 1917 and lived through the Great Depression in her grand mom’s home; so sadly, her mom passed away from the flu epidemic when my mom was just 6 mos. old.  My grand mom did her best to care for her family and put food on the table by boot legging wine.

I can understand how the Depression changed its survivors.  Life was hard, money was tight or non-existent, there was always the fear that they wouldn’t have enough, wastefulness was incomprehensible.

It’s no wonder, therefore, that my mom seemed to believe that one tea bag for a family of six was appropriate; why “waste” more than one if everyone wants the same thing? 

At times I thought, but didn’t dare say, “How about we switch it up today and let the baby of the family go first?” Even second or third would have been an improvement.      

Old habits die hard, and even though it wasn’t my old habit I’m struggling with but rather my mom’s, the tea bag has tormented me all my life.

I just can’t get the one teabag-per-meal—or was it one-teabag-per-day?—rule out of my head. 

  

I agree that my mom was right that it’s wasteful to use a tea bag just one time, but by the third or fourth dip, it is flavorless.  So when should I draw the line?  When is it the right time to use a new tea bag?        

I can obsess all I want about this when it’s just me—I can and do use my original tea bag for multiple cups of tea—but the issue is more pronounced when others also want a cup of hot tea.

There is no way in good conscience I could give Amy, the youngest of the bunch, a tea bag that had been used multiple times before I served her tea.  Even if I could, she’d never let me get away with it.     

The other day, Lauren and Amy were both home and said “yes” to my eternal question, “Who wants hot tea?” Right away my thoughts were focused on how I’d handle the tea bag distribution; luckily, I was partially saved from this dilemma, however, when the girls chose different kinds of tea: Lauren wanted decaf and Amy, green. Two varieties call for two tea bags, end of story.  Whew!

But then I saw my mug sitting on the counter with the used green tea bag inside, waiting for my next cup.  Should this be for Amy?  It would be good enough, I was sure, and I could even get another couple uses for myself afterwards.  I’m fairly certain that’s what my mom would have done in this situation.

But I didn’t do that.  I gave Amy a new one, because David was lurking and I wanted to avoid his commenting on my obsession with the tea bag because his general feeling is each person who wants tea should always have his/her own unused bag.

I did cringe an hour later when I threw out all the tea bags.  Did Amy really need her own tea bag, and why didn’t I save it to use later?   

Some things I can do without guilt, like toss the supermarket plastic bags that contained tomatoes or cucumbers or apples, which my mom used to wash with soap and hang up to dry and reuse. That’s another smell I can still remember, and not fondly, either.  

Anyone want to come over for a cup of hot tea?

Better get here early!

Birthday Coupon

I can’t resist coupons, let alone special ones sent to me in honor of my birthday, from local stores I frequent all too often.  

Add a coupon to a clearance item with an additional percentage off this time of year, and wow, that’s a no-brainer purchase.

One afternoon when my birthday month (January) was fresh and new – let’s say January 2—I headed to the Promenade in Marlton, on the hunt to explore one of my favs, J. Jill, coupon in tow. 

A woman with a great big smile and a very pretty top I had seen in the window welcomed me into the store and asked me how my day was going so far.

Her warmth was a quick reminder of some of the reasons I like to shop there:  the sales people are very friendly, forthcoming with sale information, helpful and never pushy.   

After exchanging pleasantries, I went on my merry way to search for the lucky item(s) that would be coming home with me that night.

The woman with the huge smile passed me several times, commenting every few minutes.

“I have that…that looks nice with so many things…try this on!”  She was a little more outgoing than the other women I was used to, but I was fine with it and found her happy mood to be infectious:  now I was walking around with a smile too.        

At one point, confident we had become buds, I told her she looked very nice in her tunic.  She pointed to the section of the store where it was hanging.

She was clearly delighted with the compliment and told me she fell in love with the top at first sight because she knew it would flatter her figure.   

“I don’t know about you, but all my weight is in my back side and thighs,” she said…and then she proceeded to pull up her top to expose her midsection and most of her bra, to her cleavage.

I had a couple thoughts running through my mind:  1 - Is she expecting me to do the same thing, because that’s not happening and 2 - I’ve never seen anyone at J. Jill do this before, and I wonder what her co-workers feel about her sales technique.   

She then pointed to her belly, rubbing her hand up and down and then turning around to show me that her butt and legs were her “problem” areas.

When she finally pulled her tunic back down to where it belonged, I thought to myself she’s pretty bold, showing one of her customers up close and personal what she saw as her body’s flaws.  That is something I wouldn’t have done. 

   

I continued to collect more to try on from the clearance section while struggling to balance all my items, with hangers digging into my forearm and strangling my wrist, rendering me almost unable to look at other items on the rack.  A serious world problem, for sure.

Usually by now one of the sales people would ask if she could put my items in the dressing room, but my friend was nowhere to be seen and no one else was paying attention to me.   

A minute later there she was again, commenting on the sweater jacket I was reaching up to see.  Just as I started to respond, the jacket fell off the hanger and on to the floor.  I looked at her, she looked at me and then everything came crashing down.           

I could tell my voice was shaky and my tone desperate when I asked if she could help me, but it didn’t matter.  She kept walking. 

I felt abandoned. She had been so eager to disrobe in front of me but couldn’t find it in her heart to lend a hand?  So typical of relationships that fail!  But from a J. Jill salesperson? 

I started to ruminate about what was going on.  Did I offend her by asking for help?  I then felt ashamed that I asked, bordering on paranoid that I had done something wrong.    

About five minutes later, once I had cleaned up my mess on the floor, she came over to me and asked, “Do you think I work here?”  

WHAT???

I didn’t know what to say.  Didn’t SHE think she worked there?

I said “yes…you don’t?”

She said “No, I just like the clothes.”

OK…so she undressed in front of me…why?

I was still feeling rather embarrassed that I thought she was a J. Jill employee, when she was a shopper, just like me. 

I was relieved to go into the dressing room and shut the door, until I heard this:

“Some lady asked me for help because she couldn’t hold all her stuff and she thought I worked here.”      

Now wait just a minute.

I opened my door and saw her standing in the middle of the dressing room area with her arms crossed like a parent about to discipline her children.  

She looked right at me and asked why I thought she worked there, with all the other women in the dressing rooms looking at me too. The pressure was on.

I didn’t even know where to start, so I didn’t.  I closed the door, tried on my pile of clothes and chuckled inside when I heard someone else tell mystery woman she thought she worked there too.   

I left empty-handed; my coupon transformed into entertainment for the afternoon, far better than a sweater that would have gotten lost in my closet anyway.  

Florence

On the third anniversary of my mom’s passing (January 10), I’m feeling quite…reflective.

First off, let me say my mom was an amazing woman:  a trailblazer, organizing unions when she was just in her 20s, mobilizing a neighborhood force—Ogontz Area Neighbors Association—in the 1960s in Philly, fighting segregation in the community and in the schools, acting on behalf of the voiceless for civil rights, youth programs, a local library and so much more. 

She was on the front lines, and behind the scenes too, always so serious and determined. 

Yet, she also reveled in the simple pleasures, often reminding me to take time to smell the flowers.

For her, that advice was as literal as it was figurative. She cherished the hours she spent working in her garden, tending to the rose bushes and petunias and lilies of the valley.    

I didn’t want to plant and weed and water like she wanted me to. I didn’t get what all the hoopla was about with flowers.  Sure, they were colorful and pretty, but they were time consuming and dangerous too.  As a kid, I was always getting pricked by the rose bushes on our lawn when we played tag or chased lightening bugs at night. 

In my teen years, I had more important things to do than take care of flowers, like talk on the phone endlessly with my friends about boys: who liked whom, who said what to whom, etc.  It never got old.  It made my mom crazy.  

Fast forward decades later…my mom was living alone in an apartment, and we all wanted her to be aware just how special we knew she was.

In an effort to do that, my sister and I would always bring her fresh flowers; sometimes, it was unclear whether she was happier to see me or the new bouquet (I’ll have to ask Sherrie if she felt that way too).

Upon replacing the wilted arrangement with the fresh bunch each time, I noted another downside of flowers—this time in a vase, not the ground—their shelf life is very short.  With few exceptions, they go from being vibrant and full of life to sad and on their way out in no time at all.

Well, I still don’t want to garden, and I continue to spend a lot of time talking to or texting with my friends about anything and everything, but one thing that changed when my mom passed away is my relationship with flowers. 

I now have one…and it’s a loving one, too. 

    

I even buy them for myself from time to time, based on what I would have picked for my mom on any given day.

I’m not sure if it’s the flowers themselves, or the reminder to take time to smell the flowers, that I find so compelling.

Either way, I was so touched recently when my daughter Allison told me she bought sunflowers for her home because she knew I loved them…because my mom—her Bubbe—loved them.

I am glad it didn’t take a lifetime for Allison to appreciate one of my mom’s—and now my—passions.  

Hanukkah 2017

On the first night of Hanukkah, my true love gave to me…2 gifts.

One was big, and one small, both of which David said would fit the “silly and fun” theme he was going for this year. 

He first handed me a Styrofoam box closed tightly with heavy-duty packing tape. 

      

I detached the top half after prying it open with scissors and without my glasses I squinted to read “Whole Lotte Love.” 

“Awwwww, how sweet,” I said to my romantic husband.  It reminded me of the “My Guy” mug I bought him one Valentine’s Day, with print reminiscent of “The Dating Game” show I was obsessed with for much of my teenage years.   

I appreciated David’s sentimentality, wanting me to have a mug that declared his love for me, like he had from me.

“Take it out,” he said, and I was entertained to see how pleased with himself he was with this gift. I guess I wasn’t moving quickly enough because he wiggled it out on his own, eager to show me the full design.

And there it was…that face.

Let me start by saying this is no ordinary face.  Those yummy cheeks, those eyes (when they are open – or even when closed) that delicious punim (Yiddish for face) belongs to our very first grandchild, Eliana. 

It’s true…I’m smitten.  We all are.    

In this picture, her eyes are closed and she’s sucking her thumb.

When I lift the mug to sip my hot tea, I will be close enough to kiss her. 

There’s no better picture than this, other than say…another one of Eliana. 

As for David’s second gift to me: the big box.  

   

It was a game of Tip It, one of my favorites from way back.

So thoughtful of him to want me to have it; we had just laughed about the little man who balances his body using his nose on a long pole, surrounded by discs that have to be removed without his falling off.  

It was a very thoughtful gift, except for one thing:  I brought my childhood game to our house when we married, almost 14 years ago.

“Did you just wrap it?” I asked quite confused, wondering if he took it out of our closet.

I don’t know why he’d do that; he’d never done that before and let’s face it: that would be a weird thing to do. But, we’re getting older, and anything’s possible. 

Then I realized that he bought a “new” one, apparently not knowing that we already had one.  

So, we got another great laugh out of the game, again.

Then he wanted to play right away, so we did right next to the Hanukkah candles.

And I won – not that I’m keeping track, of course.

It was indeed a silly and fun first night, topped off with some Eliana sweetness.

What's so hard about being NICE?

I drove an extra five minutes yesterday to get my labs drawn at a new LabCorp, instead of returning to the site I had gone to for the past few years, which I found after I left the place before that.

If this location doesn't work out, I'll be searching for a different LabCorp, although it may seem silly to drive a farther distance when I can be at one within 5 minutes, which includes stopping at a red light. 

But the employees at the last place were, at times, so NOT NICE, which always turns my stomach (even more so perhaps when it's empty for my fasting labs). 

My husband said - forgive me if I have mentioned this before - that I place too much of an emphasis on whether people are NICE.  Who cares, he asked?  I'm not in a relationship with the person who draws my blood; he/she should be judged for job performance, not bedside manner.  

I see his point.  I might even agree with it.  But, I can't live by it.

I'm generally a very loyal customer.  If I find a pleasing scenario, I'll be back time and time again.  I've gone to the same hairdresser - in Philly - as she's moved around,  since I was 20.  The same dentist, also in Philly.  The same B&Bs in Maine, for at least 10 years.  I even go to the same restaurant where the owner kisses all his female clientele (one of my more recent blog posts), much to my chagrin.  At least he's friendly.

Saturday's LabCorp experience was positive, so I'll stay put for at least one more visit. The woman behind the counter greeted me with a smile.  I knew right away this place was going to be better than the last, already in wonderful contrast to my experience at the LabCorp closer to my home, where employees in the dead of winter with snow on the ground made everyone who arrived a few minutes before the official 7:30 a.m. opening stand outside while they laughed and carried on inside, drinking their nice hot cups of coffee.  And then when they finally unlocked the doors, in unison the staff shouted orders to sign-in quickly, take a seat, and be ready for a longer wait if we didn't make a scheduled appointment online. 

I tolerated that behavior because the prior Labcorp experience was even more insulting.  Once I was sent home because the phlebotomist detected gum on my breath and, since I was scheduled for "fasting" labs, she told me I had to leave and return the next day since I did not follow directions.  Another time, the receptionist said I had to pay upfront or I could not get the labs drawn, even though I read her the sign on the wall in front of us both which stated that payment is not required at the time of service. 

A third time - my final visit there - the woman assigned to take my blood reprimanded me harshly that I sat down in the wrong room and, therefore, would have to wait while she helped the other customers first, even though it had been my turn.  Clearly, I was a bad girl. Worse than scolding me, she was annoyed, and I became panic-stricken that I had upset her, which is not something I wanted to do given she would be coming at me with a needle.  So, I did the only thing I knew how to do taking into account the level of desperation I felt:  I complimented her on her earrings, her hairdo and even her scrubs.  I think she actually forgot I annoyed her because she seemed so happy that I noticed her sense of style.  That was sick on my part to flatter this woman, I admit.  But, the plan worked.  She was very gentle, despite my well-deserved fears.

Maybe being a phlebotomist isn't the most enjoyable job in the world, or maybe no one really wants to be at work at 7:30 a.m. on a Saturday - I get it - but there's no way I can separate one's abilities with overall presentation, especially when it's so poorly delivered.  Life's way too short to get abused at LabCorp.

I'll never see it any other way:  

Niceness matters everywhere.

Thanks but No Thanks

Nothing like a big juicy kiss from a tall, dark and handsome stranger now, is there?

No!!!

But this isn't about that. 

What I am talking about is a kiss - not juicy, but with lip involvement - his, not mine.  And it's coupled with a full body embrace, too. 

Oh - and it isn't from my husband, either.

Sounds tantalizing, right?

Well, this display of affection is consistently delivered by the proprietor of a restaurant that my family and I have frequented over the years - every time I enter and exit, and every time one of our daughters enters and exits.

It's not that it's offensive, but it's kind of creepy.  Why is this his routine?  It's not like I'm kissing him back or nuzzling in to get closer - I'm kind of a limp stick figure - one would think he would find this dance of ours rather dissatisfying.    

He's like Richard Dawson from Family Feud.  Dawson seemed way more excited to get a kiss from one of his contestants than the right "Survey Says" answer.  It seemed to me that the game show set-up fed right into his deep yearning to get affection any way possible.     

  

Certainly my family doesn't have to frequent this restaurant if we don't want to, but we like it.  It's one of about 5 to 10 places in our rotation, so it plays a valuable role. I don't want to make our world any smaller.

One day last week, I saw him visit table after table, kissing at least one woman from each group.  He looked like Don Juan working the room. 

     

Maybe I'm being too hard on the guy.  Perhaps a kiss is his way of showing that we customers - the female ones, anyway - matter.   Does it beat being taken for granted?  Maybe. I'm not sure. 

Other restaurant and shop owners make us feel special in different ways.  One greets us with a big smile, another asks how we've been, another will immediately show me what's new and different, another one adds yummy surprises to our meal and gives us candies when we leave (she knows the way to my heart)...everyone has his or her way of showing appreciation.

My husband also thinks this guy's enthusiasm is a bit over the top, and one of our daughters suggested I tell him Thanks but No Thanks, but I'd rather do what she and I did the last time.

Since he usually hangs out near the front door, we waited until he went behind the counter, and then we made a run for it, exiting without our goodbye kisses.  Call it passive aggressive, but it was effective. We at least were pleased with the outcome,

Will he get the hint? 

Probably not.