I Love You Claudine: Part I

It's second semester senior year and I'm sitting, along with 20 or so other students, in an autobiography writing class. We had progressed through St. Augustine's Confessions to, well, I don't remember what else. This was before the spate of new millennium memoirs.

The professor says, "I'd like to read one of your classmates pieces to all of you." She starts to read, and the first sentence is "Your mother is dead." It's mine. I give an uncomfortable smile which probably gives me away, and put my head down to listen to the rest. I've written this less than 4 months after my mother committed suicide on New Year's eve, 1986.

As I'm leaving the class, my professor pulls me aside and suggests that I try to get the piece published in a magazine. I am flattered and stunned beyond belief. I have to dig it out, I know I have it boxed up somewhere, but I don't think I would find it very well-written.

Basic backstory on my mother:

Holocaust survivor, hidden in a private home in Belgium with her mother and younger brother. Later transferred to a convent because she had started to sneak out of the house causing great potential danger to the host family and my grandmother and uncle. 4 older siblings killed in concentration camps, father shot by the Jewish Underground.

Marries a GI to get herself to the states. Ends up in Philly, gets divorced, gives birth to my oldest brother, gets to NYC, dates some high-powered men. She is a stunning woman.

Goes to work as a receptionist at a resort in the Catskills. Meets my father who is the hired nightclub singer. They get married and move to Whitestone. Pretty quickly have my second brother and 16 months later, my sister.

They all move to Searingtown, Long Island where I am born, eight years after my sister, at a hospital flanked by a Bloomingdale's and an A&S. My mother had pretty much fallen into upper-middle class Jewish Long Island and she seemingly fit right in. She played canasta and mahjong and tennis at our club almost daily.

That's her nutshell, just for context.

Beginning when I was nine, my daughter's age now, my mother had a never ending series of "nervous breakdowns." She'd be hospitalized for about a week each time. This was explained to me with great honesty and I understood as best as I could. The only time she left me a note she tried to explain that she wanted to be with her brothers and sisters. Somehow, it made sense.

Anyway, my life went on like this. My mother would refuse to take her meds (things like lithium) because she complained of the side effects. This of course just exacerbated the cycle. Now knowing what bipolar episodes are, her life was a series of extreme highs and extreme lows. At thirteen, my parents got divorced, my father moved 3,000 miles away to California, and I was left alone with my bipolar mother. The only saving grace was that my brother lived close enough to be there when things became unbearable. He was, and in so many ways still is, my savior.

(I'm going to fast-forward quite a bit here. Just imagine all of this going on until at 16 she booted me out to LA to my father's, which in some ways, was a worse environment than being with her.) A therapist of mine had the brilliant idea for me to look into boarding schools to rescue me from these two hopeless scenarios and off I went for junior and senior year. College followed (I flew, with a trunk, on a People's Express flight for $19.) My mother never set foot on either campus.

By my senior year, my mother's bipolar disorder started to slip into borderline schizophrenia. She would call me to try to convince me that her best friend had turned her family over to the Nazis. She scribbled incoherent notes on the backs of the canvases of her crudely amateurish paintings. I know there was a series of audio cassette rants that my oldest brother swears he has somewhere. At one point she made a breezily delivered passing reference to a suicide pact she had made with a man she was dating.

During the very last phone conversation I had with my mother, she expressed how excited she was that I was coming home for winter break. I told her my plans and when I would be there. I got a ride home from the father of a guy I had a crush on, and I spent the 6-hour trip trying to ascertain whether or not this crush liked me back. They dropped my off at the luxury high-rise I lived in with my mother, and drove away.

I took the elevator up to our apartment and was surprised to find that the door was chained from the inside. I rang the bell over and over and over and got no response. I instantly knew what was behind that door, but I just assumed that my mother would be alone, dead, not at peace, but a tortured soul to the end.

I went to see if her car was in the garage. It was in it's assigned spot, a Nissan Pulsar, the doors unlocked. Propped up on the stickshift, there was a review from what is now New York magazine (formerly, Cue)of the play 'Night Mother. The roles are reversed but here is the premise, lifted from the Wikipedia description:

The play opens with Jessie calmly telling Mama that by morning she'll be dead, as she plans to commit suicide that very evening (she makes this revelation all while nonchalantly organizing household items and preparing to do her mother's nails). The subsequent dialogue between Jessie and Mama slowly reveals her reasons for her decision, her life with Mama, and how thoroughly she has planned her own death, culminating in a disturbing – yet unavoidable – climax.

There is NO way my mother would have planted a clue like that. I had no doubt in my mind. It wasn't her style, and quite frankly, she wasn't all that interested in reviews of the arts and wouldn't have come across this. So, at that point, I knew she wasn't alone.

A long series of events ensued, including my frantically trying to get in touch with any family member who would listen to me and guide me in what to do. I ended up at a friend's about 40 minutes away, making phone calls, trying to track down my siblings who were all on vacation. Somehow, my uncle was contacted, he went over with the police, they broke down the door, and indeed, my mother was dead, lying next to a man, also dead, she barely knew.

By the time I went in the next day, the bodies were gone. The smell was unbearable. There were empty soda bottles everywhere. For some reason there was a man's belt on the floor. On the mirror, written in lipstick, were the words "I love you Claudine."

(Part II to follow soon)

Jews Gone Wild: Phase II

First of all, my apologies to my friend, ummm..."Gladys" above (fake name used to protect the innocent.) We've known each other since we were four so chances are good that I've done much worse than this. No visual could quite exemplify the slow, yet temporary destruction of our middle-aged bodies than this picture taken by an equally hungover person on the ride home.

So, picking up where we left off:

My friend Lauren and I go back to our room at the Quality Inn, the highest of quality for us because we've landed the honeymoon suite(so-named because of a big hot tub in the middle of the room which quickly turned into a horrible looking mess after I dumped the melted ice out of my cooler, forgetting the bag of now-smooshed cheese Combos and M&M's I put in there. I sheepishly call housekeeping and tell them that I'll deal with the mess, and that no, no one threw up in it.)

We get into our king-sized bed (well, the honeymoon suite would be sort of counter-intuitive with two fulls)and quickly fall asleep (Lauren and I both travel with our white-noise machines and worked out beforehand who would bring theirs--hers is much louder and fancier than mine, which come to think about it, pretty much sums up our friendship. She's kind enough to let me drive her Lexus when she visits and I'm always telling her to stop yelling.)

After precisely one hour, our cellphones which have been charging across the room, start erupting with annoying and LOUD rings. Our friends, "Gladys" and Beth yell at us to get up and get moving. We model outfits for each other, flatiron each other's hair, tell Lauren that everything she puts on is fabulous and doesn't make her look fat (however, when she shows up at the bar after I do, she's in a totally different ensemble from when I left her.)

(Favorite story #1--Beth, some time before naps, calls Lauren in a panic saying she can't find her phone. She asks Lauren if she left it in our room. "Gladys" overhears this and points out to Beth that she is, uh, USING her phone to call Lauren about her LOST phone. What's a bit disconcerting about this is that Beth usually plays the role of the most clear-headed of the four of us.)

Our (fantastic and handsome) organizers for the weekend provide a shuttle bus for those who are anticipating being too drunk to drive. There's a group of those adventurous types (and a generation younger) who actually CHOOSE to sleep in the bunks at camp, who spill out of the bus in front of the bar. Another group is shuttled from the motel. (Truly, I know myself well enough to never get drunk enough not to drive, stopping hours before it's time to go, so I drive into town, knowing that the bus is on hand in case I need to use it.)

I'm already sitting at the bar, surrounded by old and new faces. I'm being offered drinks literally, left and right. There's a group of wonderful guys behind me whose names and faces I know, but have known little about throughout the years. They are wonderfully special to each other. Best men at each other's weddings, investors and supporters in each other's assorted businesses and ventures, the Jewish equivalent of godparents to each other's children. One of them orders 10 shots of tequila. They toast to love and friendship. It gets me kind of misty (oh, and I get a shot too.)

My dear friend, Robbie, has taken the glasses off of one of the guys and is passing them around to us, and to assorted bar patrons, snapping pictures of each of us (later, these same glasses are photographed on top of a pizza.) We somehow all look really good in them (example above.)

We're clustered around the front room of the bar waiting for our private room with a hired deejay. It sees like every one of the early-30s group of women is in black. We in our 40s are more like the Jewish version of Chico's. The "townies" in the bar are either looking at us like we're aliens, or not-so-subtly leering at us. We suspect that when the owners of the bar get wind that we're in town, they water down the booze. The shots of tequila are in cups the size of those that are on the tops of children's medicine. Methinks lots of money is exchanged that night.

We make our way to the back room. Lady Gaga, pop singer of the hour, and an artist that we really only know because our CHILDREN are listening to her, kicks-off the dancing. I am often amazed at how well some of these guys dance. My theory is that it's because of all the bar and bat mitvahs they've attended. The women are fabulous and sexy. We totally let loose. I do my annual lap dance for my friend Robbie. I'm 45.

Camera flashes are everywhere. We're captured in some not-so becoming angles. Within 24-hours of being home, there are HUNDREDS of pictures on facebook. We de-tag, we replace our profile pictures with a favorite from the weekend, we comment endlessly. Status updates all talk about how sad we are to be home, how re-entry into reality is really hard. Regional mini-reunions are planned to extend the one-of-a-kind feeling.

Beginning of Favorite Story #2)The night goes too quickly. Buses are reloaded. Eddie M., who I've known since he was about 6, and has turned into somewhat of an icon in one short weekend, gives me a ride to my car. I playfully turn his GPS to give directions in French. I follow him out and when I get to the on-ramp to get back to the motel he keeps going straight. I think that he must know a faster way. I pull in at the same time as the bus. We gather for an impromptu after-hours party in a gazebo on the motel's lawn. A large bottle of vodka is being passed around. A joint travels around the opposite direction of the circle. I think someone has a video camera. Everyone's starving. The vending machine only has pretzels and gum left. Lauren has four slices of pizza in her car. She shares.

After about 45 minutes, Eddie pulls in, not looking very happy. "Does anyone know French??" Ooops. I think he thinks he'll never be able to get it back to English. Thank God I'm a good problem solver. He forgives me.

I think I get into bed at around 3:00 am. At home, I go to bed at 9:30 and read for an hour. I've smoked what feels like a carton of cigarettes. After we wake up and gather our stuff, we meet another group for breakfast down the road at a strip mall. A sign outside says "Voted Best Breakfast Buffet 3 years in a Row! Only $7.99!" That's quite a statement for Torrington, Connecticut, and it takes Beth and me about 5 seconds to agree to try it, congealed bacon and all. Lauren declares the sausage, egg and cheese sandwich she's ordered the best thing she's ever eaten. We are hungover and hungry. We'd eat anything at this point.

It's time for us to go. Lauren, Beth and "Gladys" pile into the rented maroon PT Cruiser to head back to Jersey. I have the shorter trip back to Boston. I have lied to my ex-husband in order to give myself a 3-hr stretch to nap before he drops off our daughter. It's quiet. My head hurts. I expect there are about 125 or so people feeling exactly the same way, off in their corners of the real world. Again, facebook status updates for 48-hours talk about how exhausted we all are. What's most impressive is that we'll rally and do this all over again, undoubtedly in larger numbers, two years from now.

Until then, "Friends, friends, friends, we will always be..."

Jews Gone Wild: Phase 1

The wardrobe and weight loss hysteria starts about two weeks before the actual event. Like girls going to a school dance, middle-aged women trade e-mails and facebook posts about their outfits and where to find great sales on shoes (the guys are more interested in what time to meet on the basketball court and who is going to buy the first round of drinks (Incidentally, I make sure to hang around the guys who are buying. Aah, the wonders of facebook.) I pretend that I couldn't care less about what I look like, that these people wouldn't notice if I came in pajamas because there is a TOTAL lack of judgment, but quite frankly, I berate myself for not starting a diet or exercise routine at least two months prior.

It is very hard for anyone who has never been to camp, spent 2 months away from home, living in a bare-bones bunk with about 20 people who end up becoming life-long friends, to understand a weekend like this, something akin to being on ecstasy without the ecstasy (DISCLAIMER--I have never taken ecstasy, and to my knowledge, there wasn't any at the reunion weekend.)

What's always been most impressive to me is that everyone remembers the summers they spent there: "I was there from 1974-1981." I can barely remember what I did yesterday, but I know that I was at Camp Delaware from 1967-1982. 15 summers. Yeah. I started when I was three.

Okay, so I know that sounds nuts, and when my daughter was three the last thing in the world I could imagine doing was sending her to sleepaway camp (she cried after two days of day camp when she was 6, so clearly, she inherited her father's goyish sensibilities.) The story goes that I came up on Visiting Day, always held smack-dab in the middle of summer, to visit my brother and sister and begged my parents to let me stay. When I type that, it sounds preposterous. Do three-year olds even BEG? So, like all good parents, they left me there (To be fair, my father knew the owners very well, having been there as a camper, and, there was in fact a bunk for the kids of staff, so, there was a place for me.)

This particular bunk was co-ed. I vividly remember a male counselor showering with us with a very skimpy towel wrapped around his waist. Now as an adult, this clearly sounds very suspect. I remember sextuplets (who the hell knows, maybe they were just triplets but that's how I remember it) and I remember the swingset coming out of the ground, tipping backwards, and Regina Cooper gashing her chin. I remember us walking in a line to the dining hall and everyone telling us how cute we were.

I can't recap 15 of the most priceless summers of my life on this blog. I spent 30 months of my life there, a total of 2.5 years. Suffice it to say, I know every inch of that place, I knew where to go to stalk the guys I had crushes on, where to go for some peace and quiet. It was the one place where I was a star of the plays and "composer" of winning Color War songs. It was the kind of place where no matter how popular or picked-on you were in the "real world", noone gave a fuck. The playing field was level from the get-go (except for the girl's softball field which is still a mass of mounds and divots.) But I digress.

It might appear politically incorrect, but "Jews Gone Wild" is what these reunion weekends are all about. Held every other summer on the grounds of our old camp, where over the years bunks and structures have literally fallen in on themselves and subsequently have been demolished, a sample of 4 decades of tri-state area Jews (some with tri-state origins have moved to Florida, perpetuating a cliche that makes me smile) come together, no spouses, no kids, no tagalong friends, to morph into a combination of the "then" them and the "now" them. The accents remain priceless.

Faces are unchanged. "You look EXACTLY the same" is exclaimed hundreds of times, addressed at everyone being seen for the first time by someone new. And you know what? It's true. Our faces really DON'T change. Bodies, maybe. Some noses and breasts tweaked, sure. But, if I were to post a collage of us then, and us now, and had you draw lines between the two, it could be done in minutes.

Sitting on the very strategically-placed porch on Girl's Side, a group of us sit in great anticipation watching as people arrive. We see legs first then bodies from far away, our older eyes straining to see who it is (oh, and also because most of us have smoked endless amounts of pot.) And then "OH MY GOD's" erupt, woman spring from their benches and chairs and get up to hug their favorite old friends. There is the equivalent on Boy's Side, enthusiastic hugs and endless grins. They run up and down the basketball court like they're in their teens, but a bit more slowly. Star athletes from back then often end up with ice packs on their knees or a lingering limp, but this is THEIR highlight, their ultimate joy of the weekend.

Small pockets of friends form in circles, scattered around the lawn, porches, bleachers, or sit on the hard wooden ping-pong tables. Cameras are EVERYWHERE often with one person snapping one group shot out of seven different cameras (this is the reason almost all the group shots look exactly the same on facebook.)

If you are curious to know who is smoking all the pot and cigarettes in this country, truly "representing," come to Winsted, CT the first weekend of June in 2012. I, for instance, smoke once every two years, at camp. That's it. I smoke my brains out and don't do it again until the next time. Trying to justify this is futile, I know.

Instead of wallet-sized pictures of our children, we use our cellphones, digital cameras, Blackberrys and i-phones, passing them around to the oohs and aahs of our friends. Unlike in past years, there is cell service on the grounds, and in some strange unplanned ritual, people use the softball field, walking around the bases with their phones up to their ears. A friend observing this said "Hey, it's the phone lap." I equated it with the scene in Midnight Express when the prisoners are walking around in a circle pushing that thing that hangs down. I don't know why. It wasn't like that at all. Except for the walking in circles part.

The new owners of the camp make us a barbeque lunch giving us a central gathering place to greet all the people who have initially been missed. More pictures. More memories shared. More "nice to meet yous." We scatter, we nap, we shower, we dress for phase 2.

More Fun with Claudine

When my mother came to America from Belgium, her name was Fadga, pronounced "Fella" (yeah, and her mother's name was "Bella.") Anyone could understand that the first thing she might do would be to change her name to something more...pretty. She chose "Claudine", which she pronounced, with her lovely and strong accent, CLOWdine (like GLOW). Sort of softer, but close to that.

She couldn't pronounce her "ths" so "tooth" would come out like "toot." She considered anything North of the Throg's Neck Bridge "New Hampshire." When she got full in a restaurant she would unhook her bra and pull it out through her sleeve and stick it in her pocketbook. She took about 6 sets, one at a time, of little salt and pepper shakers from The Jolly Fisherman where I had my first Shirley Temple and duck la orange. They appeared during Passover and Thanksgiving, my mother's little "winks" plunked down along sections of the dining room table.

So, for those of you unaware of what happens in manic depression, now called "bipolar disorder," there are EXTREME ups and EXTREME downs. When you live with someone who lives on these opposite poles, and rarely in the middle, you learn to anticipate these very dramatic shifts. The ups were MUCH more amusing than the downs, both very disconcerting in their own right, but, they brought her happiness, however fleeting.

My mother would either be in bed for days at a time with the shades drawn, or up, painting pretty terrible paintings, going on shopping binges or dreaming up senseless business ideas that never went anywhere. She'd come home from these shopping jaunts with five of the same shirt in different colors, boxes of shoes, and one time, a life-sized stuffed clown for me. I was 16, and everyone hates a clown.

My mother, who was absolutely stunning, became more "adorable" as she got older. She had a cute little 5'5 body and wore mostly velour sweatsuits or tennis dresses. She never went out without lipstick. She didn't cook much so when it was just the two of us after my parents got divorced we would go to this place that had her favorite dessert--a snowball--chocolate ice cream bathed in chocolate sauce and rolled in coconut. She would start out spooning rather demurely and then duel with my spoon over the last drop. She was incredibly generous with me, never really said no to anything I asked for.

Like her, I love my restaurant time with my daughter even if it is just an excuse not to have to think of something to cook. Oh, and I just "borrowed" two of what my daughter calls "dipper spoons" from a Chinese chain's wonton soup. 4 more to go for a set.

Asylum Ave

a·sy·lum   /əˈsaɪləm/ –noun
1.(esp. formerly) an institution for the maintenance and care of the mentally ill, orphans, or other persons requiring specialized assistance.

I recently drove through Hartford where I'm always sort of jarred by the exit for Asylum Ave. 28 years ago I took that exit to visit my mother at the "Betty Ford Clinic" of mental institutions--The Institute of Living.

Once called The Connecticut Retreat for the Insane, The Institute was for mostly wealthy "insane" people, many a movie star having gone through it's doors (I can't remember if Elizabeth Taylor was there when my mother was or I'm confused because my mother looked so much like her.)

Surrounded by a brick wall and with landscaping by Frederick Law Olmsted, it's a hell of a lot nicer than Bellevue, another place she was admitted during a rather acute manic episode. It was 1982 and I was in boarding school about 40 minutes away. Somehow it was my uncle's turn to do the admitting, my brothers' quota having been met. I'm not sure how long she was actually there, records are destroyed after 10 years, but maybe 2 weeks at the most.

When I went to visit her one weekend, she was all cute and giggly, talking about her very handsome, younger tennis partner. Mom loved tennis. It was one of the only things that kept her out of her busy head, and she was rather good at it, her cute little body in flippy tennis dresses darting about the court. Playing tennis while involuntarily at a mental institution seemed kind of fun and the food was good, just like our tennis club on Long Island! She must have felt right at home.

A few days after my visit, she called me at school, and with great glee told that she had gone "AWOL" from the Institute. I pictured her getting a boost over the brick wall by the handsome tennis player and her scampering to hitch a ride. Actually, I have no idea how she did it, or what repercussions there may have been, but she was pretty damn proud of herself (incidentally, after I posted this yesterday, by brother told me that on the NIGHT he proposed to his wife, he got a call from the hospital telling him that they didn't know where my mother was. He then said to his now-wife, "Oh, let me tell you about my mother." You CAN'T make this stuff up!)

I don't remember how many more hospitalizations there were between 1982 and 1986 when she finally lost steam, but I'm sure Asylum Ave was like winning the lottery of "loony bins-" another term used in turn-of-the-century papers. (There is a wonderful book from last year called "Voluntary Madness" by a journalist with her own mental illness who checks herself into three different institutions and it's fascinating.)

Anyway, this was a tiny piece of life with mom. No reason to feel sorry for me. Again, it's looking back on it from this 45-yr-old perspective that allows me to see humor in such absurdity, plus it makes for great material. Thanks for that, Mom!

The Fine Art of Scaring Men

The writing was apparently on the wall when in kindergarten I paid boys a penny to kiss me. Or maybe it was when I threw a neighbor into a thorn bush and tied him up with kite string (To be fair, he did choke me with my scarf at the bus stop.)

By 3rd or 4th grade I was reckless with scribbled love notes, perhaps with a too-intimidating vocabulary for boys who still chose grunting over speaking. Maybe it was because I was a bit of a behemoth with size C boobs, towering over the other girls in my class . There were many times I would call a guy over, sit him down, tell him how I felt about him, only to hear things like "I really like you as a friend, but..." My girl friends, trying to encourage me, would say "You have a really pretty face and a great personality." Awesome. Thanks.

It was probably as early as junior high that some slimy man stopped me while I was in Manhattan and said he knew some "producer" who was looking for "zaftig" girls. REALLY???? REALLY???

Eventually, most of my "bulk" spread out into a 5'9' frame, curvy in the right places, "pretty face" and "great personality" fairly unscathed. I still blamed not having a boyfriend until 19 on my size, so, I suppose that it helped that my very first was 6'6" (but skinny as a stick.) I think he sort of stumbled into me without really knowing what he was getting himself into, but, we were suddenly having sex for the first time in our lives, and God knows, a 19-yr-old man is not just going to throw that out the window too easily. In the end, I think I scared his FAMILY more than him.

At 23, I met a lovely, funny, but very quiet man who later became my fiance. We bonded over our love of the Flinstones, language and music. It was the first time either of us had ever been in such a heady, love bubble but, well, he apparently fell in love with someone else and we never got married (he eventually married her.) His two best friends are still friends of mine and I know that he has avoided, at all costs, being in the same place at the same time as me. Worked very hard at it, as a matter of fact. I can just see him, all beet red and tremendously uncomfortable. I don't understand why because I would love to see him again, 20 years later, and compare lives. I sense it's fear-based and not his shame over having ditched me for his "soul mate." I can't imagine what he would expect me to do if he saw me.

In my 30s I think I scared a man from Oklahoma, already teetering on the edge, to fully come out of the closet. On a more disturbing note, there was a man who very clearly liked young girls and I think realized, after not being able to "perform" with me, that that was who he really was and has sinced moved to Thailand. An English guy who stood me up and left me frantically worried claimed he was in a car accident and in the hospital but after a carefully orchestrated stakeout with a friend of mine, we discovered he was lying.

Recently, a friend of mine was going to fix me up with someone and said before he and I had met "Don't scare him off!" I was truly insulted by this. It wasn't because a button in me had been pushed but because the implication was that I was so off-putting that a seemingly strong, funny and intelligent man in his late 40s wouldn't be able to deal with me. In the end, we never met, but I am pretty confident that he would not have cowered in fear in my presence.

The most wonderful of men have stood the test of time with me and been drawn to me. These are the ones who love that I go in first for the kiss, that I make the first phone call (my ex-husband said that he never would have made the first phone call and was thrilled that I did), that I talk to strangers and make friends with waitstaff, and that I am effusive with my feelings. Certainly, at this point in my life, it's way too late to change who I am and I have no intention of trying to be something I'm not. I like me and my strengths and hope I pass every ounce of confidence onto my daughter. Perhaps I should advise her though, that throwing boys in thorn bushes is not really the best of tactics and that a good kiss is worth MUCH more than a penny.

Heckling at The Matzo Ball With Cocoa Butter Mark

To the best of my knowlege, my friend Mark doesn't use cocoa butter nor does he have a deep tan. This name was given to him by my daughter to distinguish him from my BROTHER Mark who I also assume doesn't use cocoa butter and really is more likely to burn than tan.

The origins are this: about 4 years ago, not-brother-Mark gave Amelia a Barbie Doll for her birthday, whose special feature was smelling of cocoa butter, Malibu Barbie for the new milennium. I think, 4 years later, she still does.

Throughout our 17 years or so of knowing each other, Mark and I have been on many priceless adventures. The first one I remember is being very stoned and finding an open, rusty gate to an urban garden hidden behind brick walls that I used to see from my apartment. Literally, a la The Secret Garden, it seemed as if the gate had been left open just for us to entertain us while high (I remember being in disguise, sunglasses, trenchcoat and a hat, but, I think this might be a false memory.) Incidentally, ten years later, I got married in what will always be known as The Secret Garden. However, I don't think I was high.

Every Christmas Eve, Boston (and probably cities all across the country) have something called The Matzo Ball to entertain us single Jews, post-Chinese and a movie. For YEARS I have been appalled yet slightly intrigued by a throng of lonely Jewish people looking for love, to later have to tell people that they met their future spouse at something called The Matzo Ball. But, really, who am I to judge? I'm a 45-yr old, single Jewish woman, looking for love.

Anyway, after watching a movie released for Oscar consideration just in the nick of time, and eating and drinking at the bar of P.F. Changs (yes, despite being at the gateway to Chinatown we ate at P.F. Changs--so sue us!), we decided to check out the Matzo Ball.

The door was being staffed by a rather large bouncer (not Jewish, I'm thinking) and the cover charge was too much for us to fork over despite our burning curiosity. Instead, we decided to lurk outside, a few yards from the entrance and just observe. Mark can cut a rather imposing and threatening figure, so with me leaning into him, God knows what people were thinking about what the hell two middle-aged people like us were doing hanging around the entrance to the Matzo Ball.

Activity was rather slow. Occasionally, a pair of giggling women in boots and too-short skirts would be deposited by taxi, or a single man, hands in pockets and head down, would pay the cover and go inside. Every once in a while we would comment on the "Jewishness" of someone's look (we're allowed to do that, because you know, we're Jews)or imagine what a certain guy would be like in bed (oh, right, Mark is gay and we were a teeny bit tipsy.)

Much to our glee, just as things were getting a little dull, a group of 5 or 6 20-something guys got out of a cab, all button down shirts and white teeth, "dude" and backslaps.

"Exuse me," some odd force grabs hold of me. "Can I take your picture?"

The snarky and apparent alpha male of the pack says without missing a beat "What, have you never seen Jews before?"

"Um HELLO, I was bar mitzvahed in Israel," Mark quickly says back, suddenly sounding VERY gay.

"I'm writing an article on The Matzo Ball," I say, "and would just love to have a picture." So, clearly, ruining and slowing down their Matzo Ball momentum, they pose for the picture above. They quickly de-pose, we say thanks, and they re-puff themselves up and go inside.

"Wow, Jewish boys didn't look like THAT when I was their age," Mark says.

After about a 1/2 hour and feeling satisfied that our craving for Matzo Ball knowlege had been satisfied, we walk to the subway, all giggly and amused. I comment that the night has risen to the top of Mark and Gayle adventures (little did I know that less than 6 months later, it might have just been outdone, or at least matched, by our attendance at a fireman's bachelor auction--more on that another time.)

It might not have been long after that that Mark and I, over the phone, decided to simulatenously, join JDate. He had always wondered if there were gay Jews on the site, so in solidarity, we both clicked away at our keyboards, answering questions about what we were looking for. I gave up when I got to the "do you keep Kosher question."

Mark coined 2009 "The Year of the Jewish Husband" for both of us. Well, it's looking like that moniker has been carried over to 2010. Christmas Eve is only 7 months away, giving us plenty of time to put money aside for the cover charge, iron button downs and whiten-up our teeth.

Meeting Darrell

"An impulsive act of one, often leads to a pleasant surprise in another. I truly hope it has done so for you."

27 years ago I was an awkward-yet-happy freshman at Syracuse University, idealistic about so many things. I felt like Katrina from Katrina and The Waves. I walked on sunshine. The bloom was still on the rose.

I lived in an all girls dorm (with a somewhat developmentally slow girl from the Bronx who was swept up in a matter of days by Jews for Jesus.) I think we said maybe all of 100 words to each other in a year. Oh, and one time she threw up (not from drinking, mind you) and left it on the floor for a week.

My dorm was known for having the best dining hall on our side of a massive campus and people would come from other dorms to eat. Every morning I would watch as an extremely handsome, tall, wiry guy with a mustache, blew through the line carrying a rather cumbersome art porfolio. He would get his cereal and sit at a solo table. This was not a man who should have been eating alone. It made no sense. And, there was something very strong in me that said I needed to KNOW him.

Right before Christmas break, I wrote him a card, with the italicized words above (and later had it framed for his 30th birthday), walked right up to him in what I remember as a black mumu and a felt hat (I know it wasn't a mumu but I think Darrell remembers it as being rather Maude-like), said "this is for you" and placed the card and a chocolate santa in front of him. He looked at me, stunned and grateful. The note included my dorm phone #.

When he showed up that very night, I beamed. He came with a poster that he had designed (graphic artist still to this day) and as I remember it, it was a quick and comfortable visit. He told me he was going home to his small town outside of Binghamton the next day for Christmas break and that we would get together as soon as we could when we both came back from our respective corners of New York. And then began what can only be described as a life-long friendship cram session.

For five months, every single week night I went to Darrell's very large single dorm room (his roommate had left school and noone was ever reassigned.) Our ritual consisted of sitting across from each other at his dorm desk, lamp on the side (with a shade that Darrell sometimes stuck his head under in order to help him sneeze), a bong being passed back and forth, and chainsmoking, he Newport Lights, me, Marlboro Reds (because I used to run out of cigarettes before him, I got so used to smoking his, that Newport Lights became the only brand I could smoke.) We managed to learn each other quickly and intensely. I learned that Darrell loves orange and vanilla ice cream. I learned the weird thing about him sneezing.

He would go home to see his girlfriend at SUNY Binghamton every weekend. It only bothered me in the sense that I hated losing our momentum. It was never about having a romantic relationship. Darrell and Angela, now his wife and mother of his two children, have been together since fourth grade. She has never questioned our friendship or stopped him from visiting me for a weekend. I don't take this lightly.

Darrell moved to Manhattan via Brooklyn, really, the only place that makes sense for him to be. Every once in a while, he'll call me all breathless and say things like "Gayle, you should have seen this runway show. The models are like giraffes." Or "the so and so hotel is so fucking cool. I wish you lived here so we could go have a drink." This is in no way to slight Angela, who also likes this stuff but like me, there are things that I think are so "Darrell" that doing them with anyone else seems like a compromise.

Now Darrell and I are both middle-aged parents. I wouldn't dream of going to NYC without seeing him for at least an hour. When this happens we just look at each other and say how fucking fabulous we look. Darrell has aged better than anyone I know. In a way that my gay, male friends don't, Darrell can tell me how "fucking hot" I am (and that's how he would say it, without it being a come on.) We laugh a lot and that laugh is precious to me.

Even though I would have written "Meeting Darrell" eventually, I do it now as a way to remind him how dear he is to me, on the week after his father's death. Darrell, what you have brought to my life is invaluable and namely what that is, is light.

Now go have a cig.

When He Starts Drawing Diagrams on a Napkin, It's A Good Time to Leave

Part I
About 15 years ago I made my maiden voyage to Martha's Vineyard. I was meeting some friends who lived in LA and knew the Vineyard really well (WASPS opening their world to a Jew who wasn't used to crossing water for the weekend.)

I ended up on a small, rough-hewn ferry, not like the ones I've been on since with their wireless and wine. There weren't many people on the boat, just a handful of us, so the handsome, pock-marked man with a calm look caught my attention. I don't remember how we ended up talking (my ex-husband would say that I probably pushed my breasts out and tossed my hair, something he always says I do when I flirt)but I found out that he was the roadie/manager for a band that was playing at a bar in Oak Bluffs very close to where the ferry docks. Somehow I wormed my way into his lunch with the band members at the bar. I probably drank my signature drink from back in those days--a white wine spritzer-- which probably got me tipsy after only one (I'm still very much a light-weight--I now stop after two glasses of non-spritzy wine.)

I can't remember if (let's call him...."Clive") Clive was paying any attention to me but I was comfortable enough to hold my own. After lunch, I walked to my small hotel, very "London bedsit," and probably the only place under $150 a night on the Vineyard. The guys from the band asked me to come see them play that night and I didn't think that there would be any way in hell that my two gay, West Coast friends would come with me to continue my flirtation with a roadie for some hippie-ish bar band. But, well, they did and it actually became their MISSION to get me laid by a roadie for some hippie-ish bar band.

My friends and I had a great time at the bar and the band was surprisingly excellent. When they had played their last set and Clive started breaking down, my friends URGED me to suggest that he come back to my hotel room. Even NOW, in my recently-discovered sexual confidence I couldn't see myself being quite that bold, and back then? Unheard of. The bar lights were flashing last call, and my friend was insisting that I slip him my room number. Somehow, it ended up on a napkin along with my lipsticked mouth imprint and my friend ran to the stage to give it to him. I was mortified. I was thrilled.

Like a ship captain's wife holding vigil, but without the widow's walk and flowy white nightgown I always picture the pacing widows in, I stared out my window almost all night, waiting for Clive to walk up the path to the hotel and come rap at my door. I TRULY believed that it would happen and it would be the beginning of a whole new kind of me. The bed was right under the window and I remember just finally sinking, rather sadly, into sleep. When I left the next morning to go meet my friends, I noticed that they had left a little note taped to a post that said "Gayle's Room" with an arrow pointing in my direction.

(A detail that I can't remember now, but is so typically me): The internet was in its infancy stages but somehow, I found out Clive's home address. He must have told me where he lived (New Jersey? Connecticut?)I found a postcard with a Vineyard sunset and said something about how I was disappointed that he never made it and mailed it off. After that, I ended up at my first nude beach where I had it in me to go topless, and probably like every human being who has ever been there, saw Alan Dershowitz, naked except for a straw hat, strolling along the sand.

Part II

Back in Boston, resumption of real life. The Vineyard always seems so NOT real. Again, details fuzzy, e-mail primitive, but somehow I found yet another way to contact Clive and I received an e-mail back, with some semi-apology about not coming back to the hotel, how he had taken a late-night walk and watched the sunrise. At the end of the e-mail, though, he said that there was something he really wanted to talk to me about in person and wondered if I would meet him in Providence when the band was playing, sometime during that next week. Something he needed to talk to me about in PERSON? Was he going to profess his love for me and needed me in front of him to kiss passionately and carry me away into the Providence sunset? In my mind, that was the only option and I told him that, yes of course, I'd be there.

On the night in question, I had a work barbeque at a board members fancy house. I remember that it was HOT and I was having serious hair worries (this was well before flatirons were available to the masses, when now, every day can be a good hair day.) A few people there knew that I was going straight from there to a "date" and were all very excited for me. I drove the hour-plus thinking of nothing else but how exciting a first kiss would be.

I walked into the rather large place and saw Clive, in shorts, Timberlands and a tee-shirt. We hugged each other and sat down at a high-top table, ordered drinks, some pub-ish food and made quick small talk. Within maybe 8 minutes, Clive pulled a napkin out of the dispenser and took out a pen.

"This is what I wanted to talk to you about." He started drawing boxes and arrows and began to describe something that I couldn't even follow. Why was this man DRAWING DIAGRAMS ON A NAPKIN WHEN HE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE KISSING ME????? It didn't take long before the boxes became a pyramid and I realized what was happening. I became an arrow on the bottom of a pyramid. He thought that I would bring him money and a bump up to the next level. To this day, I'm still confused how "boxes" could make someone rich.

I let him finish his spiel and he went back to setting-up for the band. I was stunned. I was temporarily immobilized. I had an hour and a half drive home and it was already way past my bedtime. All I could think about was how it wouldn't matter anymore if I smoked a million cigarettes because my breath wasn't an issue. I'm pretty certain that I had it in me to laugh, shake my head and not blame it on myself for being deficient in any way.

There have been some other doozies of dates and situations since then, but, I'm sure that this will stand out as one for the "Dates From Hell" record books.

Cupid, Pull Back Your Bow

"You got the tits of a 25-yr old."

"You're dangerous."

"I don't feel like myself when I'm with you."

"I'm really into you."

"I want you."

"I need you."

"You're so beautiful."

"I can't stop thinking about you."

A sample. A SMALL sample of the things I've heard from men in the past 6 months. Maybe even only 5 months.

Some of you might think this is bragging, a dream come true. Don't get me wrong-a lot of it has certainly made me reel and blush and consider that maybe I am as desirable as these men make me out to be. Sadly though, on a Valentine's Day when I'm sharing the couch with a needy, shedding cat, it's making me take stock of what "love" looks like and what it might say when it REALLY gets here.

After a bad and generally futile habit of being the pursuer, I made a declaration to several friends, most of us single, that this year should be The Year of Being Pursued. Fair, enough, yes? Let the men put the effort in, let them be the dazzlers for a change. I think I've lost my dazzle and used up all the tricks up all my sleeves.

When I think back, I'm not sure that I've ever really been pursued for anything other than sex (OH and one time for a pyramid scheme.) I have been a single woman awaiting a grand gesture for 3 years now. I'm smart enough to know that maybe for me, there will never be a fairy-tale, movie-moment ending, but at least, I could hope for a grand gesture. I have fantasized about men sitting and waiting for me on my stoop (well, when I lived in the city and had a stoop.) I have waited for flowers, romantic text messages, the crawling back on hands and knees, the phone call that says "How could I have been so stupid? It was you all along." I have really believed that these could and would happen. So, when a man recently told me that he drove an hour and a half to surprise me at a public place where he knew I would be, I thought that that was the grand gesture that I had been waiting for.

This was just one of many tricks this guy used to practically put me in a trance-like state. I'm not an idiot, but, he was very convincing in his apparent sincerity and had me so confused as to why he had chosen me to be the target of his interest and affection that I just went with it. There were alarm bells and red flags all over the place, and I take full responsiblity for relinquishing. I broke all my newly-made rules and resolutions. At 45-years old, I had become one of the quintessential cliches of what usually happens to much younger people--I was hunted, captured and released.

I have spent WAY too much time trying to analyze this behavior mostly repeating the play-by-play to strong, wonderful female friends who are rendered as confused as I. We always come to the same conclusion--there is no point in EVER trying to understand why men do this sort of thing. We end up angry or teary or empowered. But we don't fucking get it.

I consulted a sampling of male friends--one gay, one a former lover and one, an old, platonic friend. Former lover was confused, said that it sounded like sociopathic behavior and was eager to hear what happened as the story unfolded. My gay friend put it really simply when he explained that sometimes men just "change their mind."

And then my friend Ruben came up with an entire nomenclature and said "aahh...you've met your first Lothario, all easy-on-the-eyes & honey smiles...trust your gut no matter how fine he is or grand his gestures...there's no way you could've seen such an old hunter coming unless you were acquainted with the type."

Then Ruben had me do a very interesting exercise and told me to go over my "list" of men in my past and see if in fact, this hadn't happened before. Well, I pulled out my secret list (come on, we all have one don't we?") and put an "L" for "Lothario" next to five total names. 5 out of, well, a bunch. The first one appeared when I was 22 and then came BACK about 10 years later. He too had me all confused and spun around, and my gut said that something was REALLY off, but I went with it anyway. Another one, a much younger guy, cocky and stunning, used me to make a point and was so mean-spirited afterwards that it made me desparate for an answer as to why he had been so fierce in his determination to "get" me. Of course, I never got my answer.

And then, this. I want to say to this guy, listen, if all you wanted was sex you just should've asked instead of going through all the machinations and an expensive dinner to convince me. I would've done it and it wouldn't have been so fucking mortifying. I want to conduct an interview with him and find out how many times he's done this before, what his batting average is, and why he does it.

I guess this is what makes women (and men too, I'm sure) so suspicious and guarded and jaded about love. I don't want to be one of those people but I don't want to make the same mistakes over and over again. My best friend, Craig says that he's always admired the way I've been knocked down and get right up again. I don't know if I have it in me to be bitter and jaded and NOT get up again. However, I think I need to preserve and protect my heart just a little bit more and hope that the next one, or the one after that, walks the walk in a much straighter line.

Kayakers, Foot-fetishists and Youngest Children: My 6 Months on Match.com

--"A size 8 is too big for me and I tend to like a size 4."

"...yesterday I did kayaking with my daughter at Vermont, and while enjoying it, realized that there is so much similarity with life, in life, you are in your own kayak and it sometimes glides smoothly in the water, sometime bumpy water, sometimes you find that you are having a good company...within minutes, you are pulled by strong water current and the kayaks are now gone even beyond visibility...so true, the water current represnts the time..the time that has only one direction....forward...If not, I wish you good luck in your future journey...our kayaks will then be far far away..perhaps never to be seen again..
well nice talking you...I also love parrots and have a dream of bringing Amazon parrots home!"

"I want to meet the perfect woman... smart, funny, cute, sexy, independent, thoughtful, cool, and very very very ticklish feet...and I will enjoy tickling the very ticklish feet of my next girlfriend :"

It took me about 2 1/2 years after my divorce to do what I said to my friends, "if I ever do this, come over and shoot me." Well, after having been laid-off from a job, getting bored of reading and napping, and in ownership of a new laptop, I joined match.com. How could I not?? They "guaranteed" that if I didn't find true love in 6 months, they'd give me 6 months for free (however, you have to follow all these silly rules, which I apparently didn't do, and not only didn't I find true love, I didn't get 6 more months free. I felt like I hadn't done my homework and I was getting a handslap by some match.com omnipotent power.)

So, the basics for those who don't know: You write a gushy, well-crafted profile, not too cocky but not too humble. You don't reveal your deepest darkest proclivities like "oh, by the way, I pick my toenails" or "sometimes I wear the same bra for weeks." (Oh wait, I take that back and refer you to the foot-fetishist above.) You upload what you think are your most alluring or creative photographs, (which in my case included me only from the neck up, kind of like actresses who get pregnant in real life but it's not written into the storyline on sitcoms who hide behind laundry baskets or couch pillows), answer questions about your birth order, your drinking and smoking habits, and what you want in a date (I refer you to the first quote, this after a very compelling and well-written profile. Picture me getting to that point and screeching to a halt a la Fred Flinstone.)

You then excitedly move on to your search for what you want. You plug in the distance you'll travel, ethnic preferences, marital status, etc., and up comes a "gallery" of photos and attempts at quippy headlines (I can't even tell you how many men use the first line of "Sympathy for the Devil" and think they're being clever. It's like COME ON, you've GOT to be kidding!" You then click on men that look interesting or handsome or whatever, and I hate to say it, look at photos and make snap judgements (oh and for me, if a man thought that "a lot" was one word or if they were in community theater, I clicked "next.") Here's the thing--you can see who's looked at you. I can, they can. So, you quickly how realize how vapid we all really are.

Every day, you get presented with this feature called "Your 5 Daily Matches." Some computer has come up with an algorithm based on things that say "You both like dogs" or "You're both the youngest child" or "You both drink excessively". You skim through and say "yes" "no" or "maybe." OH, and there's this other feature, clearly based on some other survey questions that can tell you, in percentages, your liklihood of matching. So, you might get a 97% match because you both are divorced and have kids, or are liberal, or whatever (my friend has the greatest story about her 100% match that J, if you'd like to share, I would LOVE it--there are wonderful success stories.)

In six months, I chose to only meet 3 men. I can't say that I was being bombarded by e-mails from interesting men. Most that I reached out to, totally ignored me, despite seeming how perfect we were on paper. You try not to take it personally but secretly think "WAIT, I'm so attractive and so perfect! What the fuck is wrong with you?"

The first man I TRULY wanted to connect with, I looked at first, he looked at me, and moved on. I actually sent him an e-mail and said something similar to the above without the obscenity. He loved it (I think) and our banter and similar humor was really telling. I won't go into it, because it was and still is a very special memory for me and not fodder for this, but it was everything I expected it to be. Comfortable from the get-go, easy, fun, remarkable chemistry the whole deal. I have to say, that when there is limited time you are forced into a very quick and intense intimacy and you run the risk of making important decisions quickly. For reasons, again, not for fodder, we were sort of doomed from the start but remain very fond of each other as people who connected in a special way.

So guy #2. Handsome (lots of pictures so clearly he was using that to his advantage.) First sentence was that he had a published book on Amazon(he didn't say it was self-published, but after some quick Googling I figured this out and it sounded DREADFUL.) After some short e-mails, we decided to speak on the phone. The guy didn't laugh ONCE in an hour and half and I think we all know how funny I am. Well, he expressed interest in meeting me and I said ok, and he then cancelled at the last minute (oh and then had the balls to try and "friend" me on facebook! I wanted to fire back and say "Are you fucking delusional" but decided not to waste my breath.)

Man #3. Incredibly handsome, smart, funny, honest, receptive. Again, these good things are not fodder for a blog, but in many ways I've learned more from him than any other man I've ever known. There were many known complications from the get-go, but we adore each other as people, and respect each other as parents and people.

In the end, I've discontinued my match subscription (ALTHOUGH they keep you on and tease you by telling you that's someone "viewed you" but you can't know who unless you rejoin.)

Well, I have no intention of ever joining an online dating service again (ummmm....and if I do, the aforementioned shooting still applies.) Let's just PRAY, that for many, many reasons, I never get laid-off again, be placed on bedrest, and that someone comes and takes my laptop away this time.

To Know Me is To Know Me

Every time I come off a visit with my family, I feel like a teeny, tiny cartoon character who is walking around stomping my feet saying "WHY DON'T YOU WANT TO KNOW ABOUT ME??" "WHY ISN'T ANYBODY LISTENING TO ME?"

This could be the youngest child thing, where all we ever want is attention. My siblings are cool and wonderful people, happy with their lives in general, terrific parents to some terrific kids, but, where I feel I want to probe and ask meaningful questions of them, somehow, maybe knowing too much about the "baby" of the family is too revelatory. Or something like that.

I want to tell them that I'm SO cool and I'm SO funny and my friends LOVE me and men DESIRE me and I get sad, and lonely, and miss our mother and struggle to this day with the residuals of our common upbringing. I want to tell them that I'm getting "fan mail" about my writing and what I'm reading and what moves me and what inspires me. Each of them has their limits and boundaries of what they want to know about me, and what they want to tell me or deflect or when they want to change the subject. I value that I have easy access to one, at any moment of any day, and that my psychologist brother is there to let me vent about my issues and FEELINGS in a way that a caring professional can. Other group dynamics are far more complicated and leave me sad and hurt and questioning every time.

But, there is the flipside, friends, those who know me well, and despite that, still love me and hang in there with me, and newer friends who find me entertaining and often seem VERY surprised to see a glimpse into the "laughing on the outside, crying on the inside" me.

I LOVE being "known" I long to hear the words from a man "I want to know everything about you" (not in a gag-me kind of way, but in a way that really means it, a slow-unfolding of me.) And I LOVE knowing my friends. I am astounded by how much there is to learn about people as their lives change and grow, to observe their epiphanies, their joys and disappointments and to learn more about them by seeing how they react and mold to each and every one. This is the knowing.

The Great Equalizer

There he is...second row, far right, yellow and green striped shirt with Ms. Uzman's hand gently placed on his shoulder. How I would have LOVED to have had my hand on Eddie Ward's shoulder. Eddie is the first boy I ever had a crush on (Oh, I'm the big one in the middle, the 8-yr-old who looks 13, all messy hair and big teeth.)

My 8-yr old daughter, Amelia, has had a crush on the same boy since first grade-Jay Tucci. I've told her about my crush on Eddie, how my heart used to beat really fast when I drove by his house, how I hoped beyond hope that he would be in his driveway. I would call his house in the hopes of him answering, and ended up hanging up on whoever did.

By 5th grade my heart had moved on to someone else, and by junior high Eddie was dating a much "purer" girl than I would have pictured him with (over dinner he revealed that she tried to "reform him.") In our 7th grade yearbook, they won Cutest Couple and I won Best Personality. My world and Eddie's had virtually no overlap and in the middle of 10th grade I moved away.

30 years later, enter facebook. Through a circuitous route, Eddie and I became fast "friends." I had heard a bit about him through a mutual friend about 10 months ago, how he was divorced, a NY City Cop, and that his daughter went to BU. Soon after, he appeared on facebook. He quickly told me that he would soon be in Boston, driving his daughter back to school after break and we made plans to get together.

I just knew that it would be a wonderful and easy evening. Eddie's absolute love and commitment to his daughter just beamed through our brief e-mails beforehand. When you have the joy of parenthood in common, that amazing equalizer, how can some time over dinner and drinks be anything but easy.

We ran into each other in the underground parking lot, both getting to the restaurant at the same time. It was just amazing, seeing this person as a grown man, big and easy smile, FANTASTIC Long Island accent that I have long since lost (except for a couple of choice words that Amelia still imitates every time she hears them.) Eddie's lost his curls (well, all of his hair, actually). Hugs, locked arms. Pure amazement.

Dinner was casual, not rushed. We talked about our divorces, fortunately mine being much "easier" than his. Eddie's wife, due to some circumstances, had left him utterly without self-esteem. The vulnerability was heartbreaking. He has been left to parent two grown children on his own, no doubt, rather brilliantly.

We talked about our work (I felt my very first gun, strapped secretly to his leg) and held a real police badge in my hands. I told him about my work and fearlessness in dealing with some rough kids over the years. My favorite and most astute question that has been asked of me in a long time was "How did you get so tough?" Our very different worlds and upbringing, have toughened us both in very different ways.

This will be the first of many meetings with Eddie Ward. We made some promises to each other about keeping the glass half full at all times and about him forging ahead and after three years, entering the world of middle-aged dating.

I always come back to the sheer joy that facebook has brought me. Some people in my life don't understand this. They'd rather not be "found." It's circumstances like this, though, seeing the first boy who ever stole my heart, at 45, that really keeps that glass half (even 3/4) full.

Fits and Starts, One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

I have to admit, that I've never been one of those people who completes a task. I didn't even carry Amelia to term--she was born six weeks early.

My "tasks" are fluid, akin to resolutions, I suppose. They're not as simple as taking out the trash, cleaning my car, doing the laundry, or cleaning the litterbox for the billionth time. Even those I never do completely--there's always MORE trash, more crap in my car (two moves are now represented in my trunk which I have since covered with a fabric shower curtain, also left in my trunk, I think from that first move) laundry in heaps that get ignored for months. (I have to say, however, that watching the occasional episode of "Hoarders" makes me feel MUCH better about myself and always inspires me to clean my kitchen.)

So my resolutions, my goals, get carried over from year to year, as I'm sure many of you can relate to all too well. In consulting Wikipedia, I pretty much have all of the Seven Deadly Sins covered and others that have appeared to have been left out (mostly involving credit card debt, the accumulation of more beauty products than one human being could use in a lifetime, and rushing into cetain heartache. If in Biblical times there were low-rate, introductory credit card offers, Sephora and match.com, these surely would have been factored in somehow.)

On my resolution list from a couple of years ago I have something that says "Bad Choices" (as in, stop making them.) Kind of vague. This undoubtedly covers many things though, certainly matters of the heart. I do think I've done a MUCH better job at shielding my heart, enacting preemptive strikes instead of a S-L-O-W crawl to certain disappointment. So, yay for me. Maybe I can have a 6-month review this year and see if I can cross that off my list and my "bad choices" will be more about junk food and the occasional shot of tequila.

Visiting Day for a Chubby Kid

On the morning of the most anticipated day of the summer, there is, quite literally, nothing that can hold us back. We're like Beatle's fans breaking through the barrier, and all attempts to keep us in order are futile.

From the top of the hill we can see cars pulling into the parking lot at the bottom, one after the other, a parade of tri-state area license plates. "There's my mom" someone would yell and go bursting down the hill into the arms of their parents. "That's my dog!" Another one.

Visting Day at camp was a day like no other. Smack, dab in the middle of the summer, it was like what visiting hours must feel like at a prison or hospital. Now, don't get me wrong, camp was like Disney--"the happiest place on earth," but it was rather odd to have the real world infiltrate for a day, glamorous, Jewish mothers, cigar-smoking fathers, luxury cars and jewelry, a stark contrast to our tube socks and sweat-shorts. And then, there were the brown paper grocery bags.

To be honest (and camp friends feel free to dispute this) Visiting Day was about FOOD. PACKAGED, store-bought FOOD. We judged the luckiest, most-loved kids by the number of bags their parents carried, (didn't we?) For those of us who had been bunkmates for years, we knew who would get the best stuff and who would share and who wouldn't, who would hide their shit and who would dump it on their beds and divvy it up among us.

There would be Pringles and Freihoffers and Yodels and fruit pies and tuna and cup a soup and squeeze cheese and Ritz crackers and candy and the ripest of peaches and plums. My friend Robin always got bakery cookies from a family-owned bakery in a box tied with red and white string. It was a magical and heady day.

But here's the catch: I didn't get that stuff. I was a bit of a formless and overweight kid and my parent never really let me forget that, even for a day. (My camp friends and I recently discussed this impression that I've had forever of myself as this lumpy behemouth of a pre-teen and teenager. What they said, and I loved this, is that I've grown curves. I'm no longer formless. I'm all curve. Or something like that.) At home, sweets were hidden from me (not very well, I might add) and I was forced to try things like Alba 77 for breakfast (who remembers that?)

Anyway, I would get some fruit and some books. Maybe some lifesavers. I MAY have gotten cheese doodles one year (but it could also be that I'm conjuring those up because I've been wanting some for weeks.)

But, I will NEVER forget the one year, that my dear, always-sweet-and-kind brother Mark, when his day off as a counselor fell within a day or two of Visiting Day, sat down with me on the steps of my bunk with a brown, paper bag. What I remember is that with great fanfare, Mark pulling out a big bag of Tootsie Pop Drops like it was serious contraband. I rememeber thinking that this was the kindest gesture that anyone had ever done for me (and his wife has outdone even that by doing an overnight feeding for me when Amelia was an infant). It's been a lifetime of kind gestures from Mark, but, in his way, he was saying that I was worthy, just like everyone else, of a special treat on Visiting Day.