How Snoopy Ended Up in the Oven

I knew something was amiss when my brother, no more than 24 at the time, appeared at my high school in his bright orange Toyota Corolla, mid-week, at the end of the school day. He worked in Manhattan and lived in Queens so his sudden appearance made no sense.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” I asked, always happy to see him, but posed the question with a great degree of trepidation.

“Well,” he said, having to steel himself before continuing, “Mom has you booked on a flight to California. Tonight.” I knew what this meant. I was being shunted to my father’s in Los Angeles.

I have no memory of what I said as I sunk into the passenger seat. I had become numb to certain blows in my life, but this was a big one, bigger even than my mother’s half-hearted suicide attempts I had endured since I was nine. This was her controlling MY life, not her own. This was her taking her index finger and flicking me across the country like a menacing mosquito. Flick.

“I’ve cancelled your flight. You’re going to come stay with me until we figure this out.”

This was all happening way too fast. I was in 10th grade with several weeks until the semester ended. My brother lived a good 35 minutes away and would have to drive me to Long Island and then drive to the city, and then somehow reverse it all at the end of the day. California was the last place on earth I wanted to be. I had an incredibly full life. Why was this happening??

“We’ve got to go to the apartment to get your stuff,” he said.

“Is she there?” I asked with pure anger and fear. “Do you know why this is happening?”

“Yes, she’s there. She apparently read your diary and thinks your using drugs.”

“WHAT?” This was all way too much to process.

“She read something about your friends using cocaine and doesn’t think you should live around them anymore.”

Okay. This was the biggest stretch I had ever heard. I had no desire or inclination, at 15, to try cocaine. I was a really good kid with good judgment who had only smoked pot a handful of times and had absolutely no interest in alcohol.

Our apartment was only about a 15-minute drive from school and in that short time my numbness started to churn into anger. When my brother and I let ourselves in my mother was sitting on our orange couch, in the corner where she spent her days when she wasn’t laying in total darkness in her bed, discolored and worn from her constant presence. I stood across the room from her, my brother by my side, and seethed. I don’t remember my words, but I remember the feeling, an anger so deep in my chest that if I wasn’t human, I would have roared. She just sat there and stared at me.

“WHERE’S MY DIARY?” I screamed.

“I’m not giving it back,” she said with a look of defiance so icy cold that I wanted to shake her.

“Mom, give it back to her,” my brother said.

She said she was keeping it as “evidence” that I was hanging around with the wrong crowd. She said that she also didn’t like the way I was writing things about her.

“GIVE IT BACK,” I said much more insistently.

I’m not sure what finally convinced her, but she went into the kitchen and came back with a singed copy, burnt to a crisp around the edges, the Snoopy cover fallen off its binding. She had tried to burn my diary in the oven.

There were pink square pieces of paper with her name on them marking certain pages. I later had a chance to see what was so compelling, so awful that it made her choose to banish me to an unknown place where my father and his girlfriend had JUST moved in together. Most of those pink squares have since fallen out but most of my teenaged words were typical of adolescence, nothing more incriminating than crushes and the occasional curse word.

How does a 15-yr old process something like this? I went through the motions of grabbing some stuff, not knowing how long it would be until all of this was resolved. I went to my brother’s who, for at least three weeks drove me to school every day, slept on the floor of his bedroom, and who entertained me, with his wonderful roommate, with their rendition of Steve Martin and Dan Ackroyd being “two wild and crazy guys.”

With many steps in between, including an amazing surprise going-away party that my friends held for me at a restaurant, I did end up spending the second half of 10th grade in the affluence of Los Angeles. I have never felt more out of my element. The school was HUGE with trailers for some classrooms, where I initially hung around with the misfit crowd in my neighborhood. I met my first gay friend who belted out songs of angst by Linda Ronstadt and Heart. Things got a bit complicated when we met a boy in our neighborhood and found ourselves both falling in love with him.

For my father and his girlfriend (now his wife) the timing couldn’t be more horrendous. They had lived together for less than a month before I landed in their laps. Things were not easy for any of us. The prevailing theme was that I had been sent there to be a spy, a pawn, in my father’s new life. By the end of 10th grade, it was decided, with not so subtle prompting from my father that I attend boarding school back east. The place was my savior.

I took with me years of deep scars and met my peers, some with even deeper ones. We were all a bit beyond our years that had been accelerated by uncustomary life experience and we all were made to feel safe as we transcended the history that came with us, protected by the stunning Berkshire mountains, and, each other.

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,
When he beats his bars and would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings –
I know why the caged bird sings.
--Paul Laurence Dunbar, “Sympathy”


The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
- Maya Angelou's poem "Caged Bird"


This morning in my prison writing workshop, a young woman awaiting sentencing broke down in tears as she shared that she had recently been falsely accused of assault. There is no doubt in my mind that she was telling the truth. The circumstances were more guilt by association and she had the strong feeling that she was judged solely on the color of her skin.


“I’ve never laid my hands on ANYBODY,” she said emphatically and convinced me more than anything I have ever been convinced of in my life.


Usually, when a woman in the class ends up in tears, and it has happened in every class I’ve led, the other women keep quiet for a moment, let her cry and then comfort her. Today was a very different scenario, the women dishing out more tough love than compassion. Even her cellmate, who had grown very fond of her, described it as a “lesson,” one that should remind her to start hanging out with a different crowd. Another said to make sure that in any car she’s in the head and brake lights work, that there are no “works” in the car, and other necessary precautions to keep her from being an obvious target. She continued to cry and said “All I want is to be home with my babies for Christmas, and instead I’m here.” It was devastating and I PRAY that the judge believes her and that all she gets is a slap on the wrist and gets to go home to her “babies.”

After the class there was an “inspirational concert” performed by 9 inmates led by one of the incredible social workers who work in the program. The concert was combined with a “graduation” from the 2-week orientation program and a celebration of a few women who had completed their GED. It took one woman 6 years, but she did it, and when she stood up to accept her certificate, the pride on her face was immeasurable.

Before the concert I wondered what could possibly inspire these women to move them to sing. They were in prison, many withdrawing from drugs, most having had their children taken away, but they still wanted to sing. The first of three spirituals that they sang is called “Precious Lamb of God,” and the message couldn’t be more clear:


When I always didn't do right
I went left, He told me to go right
But I'm standing right here
in the midst of my tears, Lord
I claim You to be the Lamb of God

Even when I broke Your heart
my sins tore us apart
But I'm standing right here
in the midst of my tears
I claim You to be the Lamb of God

New life can begin
for You washed away, washed away every one of my sins
Whom the Son sets free, is truly free indeed
claim You to be the Lamb of God.

One of the women from my morning class had previously said people always assumed she was mean because she never smiled. She sang a magnificent solo and a smile never left her face. The women giggled when they messed up a lyric or when their little dance moves got of sync, but, they were up there, having fun, lifting their voices up to the prison ceiling, the officers in uniform on the stairs above, and I guess, to God.

At the end of the ceremony, an administrator gently acknowledged that yes, the holidays were coming, and yes, they were not in an ideal setting. I had asked one of the staff earlier what happens on Christmas day and she said, “It’s just like any other day.” When the woman said to the crowd, “It’s GOOD you’re here, it could be worse,” and the women nodded their heads and said “You’re right,” I understood what she was saying. They could be dead, they could be stumbling through traffic high on meth, they could be jerking off some stranger for $5.00 so they could buy a pack of cigarettes.

We all have our version of “worse,” and we are all so quick to judge women like the ones I spend an hour with every other week. Clearly, this time of year is spun as a time of gratitude but for so many people, there seems to be little to be grateful for. However, if all it takes is to sing to make us feel inspired, and to make us laugh at ourselves for forgetting the words to a song, well, I’ve learned yet one more thing from these incredibly strong women.

How It Feels to Die

I was utterly convinced that I had a brain tumor. There was no way that you could have convinced me otherwise. I was around 23 and I happened to have a couple of really minor dizzy spells. In my mind, dizzy = brain, brain=tumor. There was no other possible explanation.

I had a serious boyfriend at the time (serious enough that we later got engaged) and he watched me devolve into a huddled mass that lived under the blankets in my bed. I lay there in fear of my impending death. I have a disturbing journal entry from that time that reflects my utter certainty that I had a limited time to live. My boyfriend called a good friend of mine and had her come over to check on me. I remember her sitting on my bed, stroking my hair, trying to reassure me that it was nothing. In my mind, she was coming to say goodbye.

I had made an appointment with my doctor who, not finding anything wrong with me, referred me to a neurologist. “I’m sure it’s nothing, but…” In my mind, that referral was the indicator of doom. Clearly, my doctor thought that a neurologist WOULD find something and she could pass off being the bearer of the inevitable bad news.

A few nights before the appointment my boyfriend insisted we go to the movies to take my (dizzy) mind off of things. Whatever it was we went to see completely eludes me. What I remember is sitting there in fear, not observing or hearing a thing, my dizzy spills getting worse. For some reason, I went into the lobby to call my father from a payphone. I was experiencing a full-on nervous breakdown, an antiquated term, but one I heard many times in regards to my mother. I was having a nervous breakdown, on a payphone in a move theater lobby, while my father listened. I was 23.

My father lives in California so the time difference was advantageous to him scrambling to call some of his contacts on the East Coast to get me in to see someone as quickly as possible. He called me back on the payphone with the number of a psychiatrist who his friend described as a “pussycat.” He had a Jewish last name.

I was able to get an appointment with him the next day. He was an older man, probably in his late 60s early 70s with a very calm demeanor. I had been in therapy on and off since I was 16 so I knew how it worked. I ran through my bullet points like I had hundreds of times and he listened and nodded in the way that therapists do.

A lot of people don’t realize that hypochondria to this degree is a symptom of depression. The dread, the fear, the self-sabotage and all that comes from the twirling spiral downward. I left his office with a prescription for Prozac when it was the newly lauded drug of the century.

Within the same week, I went to the neurologist for a brain scan. I held my breath as he came into the room after reading the results. “You’re fine,” he said smiling. Instantly my dizzy spells turned into little invisible vapors that swirled out the top of my head. Bye bye brain tumor.

Some time after that I thought I had ovarian cancer. It wasn’t nearly as extreme an experience but until I went to the doctor I was convinced that there was something the size of a grapefruit growing inside of me. My meds were “tweaked” and all was well. Until about two weeks ago.

For some reason my ability to breathe smoothly got all fucked up. I felt like there was a catch somewhere between my clavicle and my throat. No wheezing, no blood being coughed up in gobs, just…different. I began to incessantly google “symptoms of lung cancer.” Every day. Lung cancer and mold allergies. I tried to imagine which drag of a cigarette I had taken before I finally quit had run amok. One thing that really scared me is that apparently arm and shoulder pain is a sign of metastisized lung cancer and I’ve had pain in my arm for months. I can easily recreate the pain, clearly muscular, and in fact, I even chose to get a cortisone shot for it about six months ago. But, this didn’t matter. In my mind, the orthopedist wasn’t equipped to see a spot on my shoulder with simple x-rays and it’s been growing at a rapid pace ever since.

I questioned everyone. Are you having trouble breathing? Is it a dry feeling? Does it feel like this? Everyone had coughing and chills and fever. They wheezed and coughed up gunk. Clearly, I was the only one with lung cancer. I thought of what it would be like to have to tell my extremely sensitive daughter. I thought about my husband who I had just found the perfect love with. I thought about how the word would get out. Would I write a post on facebook? Would I be one of those people who smiled through it all and never told anyone until all my hair fell out?

Chances are pretty good that I DON’T have lung cancer. I’ve felt a bit more normal the past few days. I don’t know why I bring this on myself. Why, when I am at my happiest am I expecting it all to end? Why do I choose to sabotage my bliss? I don’t have answers for this, but perhaps, after 20 or so years, it’s time for another meds tweak.

Release

When I go to the prison to teach my writing workshop it’s not as simple as just walking through the sliding doors at the entrance and breezing past a person at a desk with a quick wave and a smile. It is a very deliberate process, which after many months, I’ve pretty much gotten down. I wait in line, sometimes behind an attorney, sometimes behind a family member of an inmate who is told that they have to wait until visiting hours in order to see the person they just took several buses and trains to see. The guards who staff the desk have to take their time to follow all of the unique steps of each visitor. You can’t get pissed at them like you might a supermarket checkout person in training. In this context, it’s pretty critical that they follow the rules and not miss a beat.

At this point I already know to have my driver’s license out of my wallet to exchange for my purple-ribboned badge, with a very bad laminated picture that identifies me as a volunteer. I get my locker key and throw everything in except for a pencil, a notebook and my reading glasses. (I keep my fingers crossed that an inmate in my class won’t suddenly go on a rampage, grab my pencil and start stabbing the rest of us in the neck and eyes. I keep a VERY close eye on it.)

This past week there was a guard at the desk who I had not seen before. He was frazzled and flustered in a way that the unflappable and very sweet Luis never is. As he was attempting to untangle my purple id tag from the orange ones which were tangled with the blue ones, a guard emerged from a side door and asked all of us to step back behind a stanchion. There was more hubbub than I had yet to experience during my time there and the woman who I report to, who has become a friend, told me that it was “Release Day” for the male inmates. Soon, a line of men, mostly black and Latino in their twenties and thirties, dressed in street clothes, began to file through the door, while a guard said “Congratulations” as each one passed. In all there were about twelve, some with grins on their faces, some just staring straight ahead. Everyone around me seemed unfazed by what was occurring right in front of their eyes, the officers and staff having witnessed this procession endless amounts of times. To me, it was one of the most profound things I had ever seen and has left me with a sense of non-closure, never knowing what will happen to these men on the “outside.”

By then my badge had been found. I walked through the metal detector escorted by the supervisor of the program I volunteer for and waited while the security officer pressed a button that opens an old and clunky sliding door. When it closed behind us, I flipped my badge at the next checkpoint and waited for the next old and clunky sliding door to open, where I was taken up by elevator to my class.

The group seemed bigger than usual—about 17 or so women, somewhat indistinguishable from all the other classes I've taught. As usual, there were always some who said “Good morning,” or complimented me on my clothes, and always the one who wouldn’t smile, would roll her eyes the second I started to say what I was going to be doing with them before putting her head down on the table.

“I want you all to tell us something that people would be surprised to learn about you,” I asked them. “Something that would surprise them.” Silence.

“Come on. We ALL have things about ourselves that are interesting that people wouldn’t assume just by looking at us.”

A white woman somewhere in her 40s with a few missing teeth raises her hand.

“I play guitar and the harp.”

“I’ve been a ballet dancer since I was three and now I teach little kids,” said a beautiful and very young Latino woman.

I point at the eye-roller, a black woman in her 20s with cornrows and dark circles under her eyes. She smiles slightly and seems impressed that I've called her out.

“I’m an ice skater. I been ice skating since I was 4.”

A white woman with black stringy hair and bright blue eyes shouts out from the back, “I’ve skydived 7 times.”

“I’ve peed in every state in the country.”

“I’ve traveled through Europe,” this from a young white woman with track marks on her arms.

“Okay, these are all great. I want you to write about how these things make you feel. Tell me about what they do for you. You’ve got about ten minutes.”

The guitar player reads about wanting to gain her father’s love and approval by learning how to play guitar because it’s something that he does. The ballet dancer talks about how dancing makes her feel, how it frees her mind and her body. A woman who makes orthopedic shoes talks about how it helped her with her 30-yr heroin addiction. The ice skater describes the feeling of complete freedom on the ice, how it takes her mind off of everything else. The young woman who has traveled extensively giggles when recalling the innocent trouble that she and her best friend got into as 17-yr olds in Italy. The orthopedic shoe maker has begun crying and finds herself unable to speak. The women all acknowledge whatever pain she is feeling by not speaking for a moment.

The skydiver who oozes deep sadness talks about how freeing it is to take that plunge, how when you're up there nothing else matters. She speaks a bit angrily about not feeling that air on her face while she's in prison and acknowledges that it's no one's fault but her own. She explains how angry it made her every time I looked at my watch because time doesn't MATTER in prison (She made it very clear that she wasn't blaming me for this, but tried to explain how I can take time for granted.) She said how angry it made her that I could walk out the door and into the beautiful day that it was and feel that air, and live my day, filling up my time however I wanted, while she, yet again, had fucked up her life. She thanked me for allowing her to write about the thing she loved the most.

When time was up and the women began filing out, the young traveler said "I have to tell you that I LOVE that skirt," which was met by nodding heads and compliments on my boots. The skydiver was the last to leave. I told her to hold on to that feeling of the air on her face, that release, and to do whatever she could to experience it again. She looked at me with such intense gratitude, but at the same time seemed utterly resigned to having to serve her term in misery and self-loathing.

You May Ask Yourself, Well, How Did I Get Here?

Tomorrow I have what is now my 6^th annual parent-teacher conference. My ex-husband and I will sit at student desks with their attached chairs that barely accommodate my spreading thighs and his growing gut. We might feel ashamed of our sometimes lack of organizational skills when it comes to the shuttling back and forth of our daughter and the things that get lost in the shuffle. We’re not the Poster Parents for keeping the details together ( as I write this, she has a day off for a “teacher professional day,” something they seem to have a lot of, and, well, we didn’t know this until 3-days ago and had to scramble to find someplace for her to go.) The best part, though, is that he and I are in this together and both will admit, in this arena at least, we’re not exactly “Parents of the Year.”

I have never felt as old as I did when we had our first parent teacher conference back in kindergarten. It was a rite-of-passage that blind-sided me. How the hell was I old enough to be sitting talking about the future of my (very high verbal skills, not so great in math) 5- yr. old child? I was more caught up in that than the content of the meeting. I smirked while my ex-husband engaged in the conversation. I now do everything MY parents did—I sign permission slips, quiz her on her social studies homework and vocabulary words, while I have to fob off the math homework on my husband or stepsons because as my parents would say, “I don’t understand this “new math.” I still feel occasionally strange being called “Mom.” Aren’t I too YOUNG to be someone’s “Mom?”

For me, and I will never forget this, was the epiphany that I had in college, shopping at a local supermarket with a friend, that becoming an adult was the second it occurred to me that I could actually choose my own cereal. If Fruity Pebbles ended up in my cart it was because I wanted it to. I didn’t have to argue about it with anyone. My choice. I feel bad for my daughter having to hear an endless stream of “nos” every time she unleashes the “Can I have this? Can I get this?” but she will some day experience the joy of throwing that first box of cereal made of cookies into her own cart.

As I’ve moved up in my field, I’ve also found myself in the unlikely role of being a supervisor. I EVALUATE people. I MENTOR people. When did I become any sort of expert that I am looked up to as a mentor and guide? When did I become the person that people who have reported to me are complaining about me to their friends saying what a bitch I am or telling them how great I am? Am I feared when I have to call someone into my office to confront them on something they’ve done? I still have to hold back tears in these situations because I hate confrontation of any kind.

I'm not going to like that day when I am offered a seat on the train simply because I look too old to be standing. I don't want to be the old couple that is called "cute" by people in their 20s just because I'm holding hands with my husband. None of these are original thoughts, I know, but as I turn 47 in just two days, I find myself wanting to run and flee, in the opposite direction, down the timeline, from a big giant statue of a 5 and a 0. I ADORE my life. It is absolutely everything I want it to be (except for never having the money part) but there is something about mortality that doesn't sit very well with me.

Dairy Barn, Chicken Delight And The Soda Man

When I look back, I continue to be amazed by how EASY things were living on Long Island in the 70s and how very quaint some of our every day conveniences seem in retrospect. These things pre-date drive-thru ATMS, (although you could speak to an actual LIVE teller from your car and stick your deposit through that tube that got sucked up like Augustus Gloop in “Willy Wonka), drive-thru pharmacies, drive-thru dry cleaners, and grocery home delivery. Today, we could live our entire lives out of our cars as long as drive-thru Starbucks never go belly up.

Dairy Barn, pictured above, is total iconic Long Island. Before I confirmed otherwise with friends, I vaguely remembered driving INTO it, like a meat locker version of a car wash. As you can see from above, that’s not quite how it worked. You drove up to a window, and gave some young kid (who of course seemed so old to me at the time) your order which usually consisted of bread (they only had white, squooshy bread), eggs, orange juice (not the best, I might add), butter, etc. The guy would disappear into his inner, refrigerated sanctum, slide the glass doors closed and start pulling things off shelves. Then, he would reappear with our bag, my mother would pay, in actual CASH, and off we’d go.

Perhaps these trips were a stop gap between deliveries from our actual MILK MAN! Yes, we had a MILK MAN who would creep up our back porch stairs, and leave glass bottles of milk in a tin box which made a distinct sound when the lid slammed shut. The coolest thing about the Milk Man was that he brought bags of Halloween candy too! Was it free? Did my parents order it so it was one less thing they had to worry about? I never ONCE laid eyes on the Milk Man or received an answer to this one remaining mystery of my childhood.

Not only did we have a Milk Man, we had a SODA MAN. For the life of me, I can’t imagine why we needed a bi-weekly CASE of soda, glass-bottled with non-screw off caps, but I do know that it made my brother, who my mother referred to as the “soda jerk” (only in this particular context, not in life) very happy. There was “cola” and orange and cherry and lemon-lime, such artificially pretty colors all lined up in a heavy plastic, red crate-like tray. When it was finished, and on some designated day, the empty bottles would be left somewhere and like magic, they’d be replaced by a whole new case of pretty-colored liquid.

The soda was kept in the garage next to our extra freezer. This freezer was nothing short of miraculous. About once a month a delivery truck would pull up and a uniformed man would wheel, dolly-full by dolly-full, boxes of glorious frozen food. There were gorgeous and perfectly sized and flash frozen pork chops, steaks, ground beef and lamb chops along with the most delicious croissants I have EVER tasted. There were cans of concentrated orange juice, bags of frozen French fries that were all stacked so lovingly that I wasn’t allowed to touch anything. Perhaps this was a foreshadowing to my first job during the summer right after graduating from college as someone who SOLD, over the phone, going down the Syracuse-area phone book name-by-name with a ruler to keep my place, the exact same service. My job was to convince people to allow a salesman into their home, to discuss the benefits of having something like a side of beef stored in a freezer that they may or may not already own. After that, my job was done.

Growing up when my father was either working late or at a hockey game, we would have the great fortune of ordering from Chicken Delight. OHMYGOD. The chicken, fries and very soft rolls would come, broken out into the individual meals we requested, in two domed cardboard plates stapled together. It came with little packets of honey (which I never ate) and wet naps. It brought instant happiness into our home.

Home delivery of crappy-yet-totally-delicious food is so pervasive now that it shocks me that my favorite local Chinese place has the gall NOT to deliver. "Wait, you want me to GET UP and DRIVE the HALF MILE to your little hovel of a kitchen just for the best Chicken Chow Foon around???? Fuck YOU!"

Back then you didn't have to pump your own gas (truth be told, I will choose full serve over self despite the higher prices) but you did have to stand and wait in an actual line with actual standing humans at McDonald's. You had to walk into an incredibly hot and LOUD dry cleaners with that dry cleaner smell instead of having someone pass you your clothes through a car window. There was certainly charm (not to mention human interaction) in those day-to-day things while now we just scream into a speaker with a faceless person on the other end.

Never Quite the Cool Girl

I’m standing, leaning against a railing, slightly raised from the dance floor watching my two friends dancing to Siouxsie and the Banshees’, “Kiss Them For Me.” One’s just moving her shoulders ever so slightly, the other, her arms outstretched above her head looks like a slithering snake in slo-mo. There’s almost a homoerotic quality to them, the subtlety and pure sexuality they are exuding. I have never looked that cool in my life.

My movements have always been LARGE. I speak large, I sing large and I tend to take up a lot of space when I dance. There is nothing subtle about me. I’ve always been more Katrina and the Waves, “Walking On Sunshine” than Siouxsie Sioux.

I was always on the cusp of cool, more B+ than A-list. At camp, school, college and after, there was always something that I was left out of, some after-hour activity that I was never asked to join. At camp, there were the raids and the midnight eating of contraband food that the counselors would sneak back from town. In high school, a pretty WASPY boarding school in the Berkshires at which I was part of only a handful of Jewish students, I walked around in a huge, puffy, PURPLE ankle-length coat like a dancing California Raisin.

Post-college friends of mine would stay at the bar or a party and dance on tables while I was sure to be home and in bed by 11. They’d leave with guys they had just met and wakeup, hungover and awkward.

The truth is, and people tend to be surprised to discover this about me, is that I have never been the party girl that I somehow appear to be. At camp I used to cry because my bunkmates wouldn’t shut up when I was trying to go to sleep. I’ve never bar-hopped or pulled an all-nighter. I’ve never taken hallucinogenics or thrown up from drinking. It wasn't until my early 40s that I did my first tequila shot, but now, during the week, I have no problem getting into bed by 9:30. At this age, there is no reason to wonder about what I might miss when I duck out for the day. Back then, I’d be in bed regretting my decision not to live a little bit more.

I certainly knew in which contexts that people didn’t know quite what to make of me. I missed the mark on fashion and I didn’t have that certain posture, that way of holding myself that says “I don’t give a shit what you think of me.” I think there were some friends who were embarrassed a little bit by me, and sensing that, I would try to be quiet and just go with it. Now, I couldn’t care less about what people think of me and know it instantly. I essentially let the person I feel it from know by throwing that vibe right back at them with a stare that says “I’m on to you.” At this age, “cool” doesn’t matter. People generally tend to like me and if I’m wearing jeans that are bordering on mom jeans, I just cover them up with a long, last-season tunic.

I'll Have The Corned Beef, Lean, A Pound of Chopped Liver, and the Chocolate Babka

Two nights ago a miracle in the form of an attractive 70-yr-old woman appeared, like Glinda the Good Witch in her ephemeral bubble, waving her magic wand. POOF! Leftover food from her Yom Kippur break fast appeared on the empty kitchen countertop at my friend’s house. Bags of bagels and tubs of whitefish salad, piles of lox and pans of kugel materialized like the poppy field that Dorothy and her nice friends get high and fall asleep in. In my delight, I suddenly found myself clapping my hands like a seal.

Where I live there is no easy access to food like this. Twice a year Whole Foods trots out buckets of chopped liver and brisket and I stand in front of the case wide-eyed, like a kid watching someone put a final squirt of whipped cream on a sundae. The Whole Foods employees look rather horrified as they are faced with the task of spooning the chopped liver into takeout containers, undoubtedly thinking, “This is not in my job description.” I want them to believe me when I tell them that it’s better than ice cream, but clearly they don’t believe me. And, when people ask if it’s like pate, I don’t betray the integrity of what it is—chicken liver, chicken fat, onions and egg. Just like people call Target, “Tar-jay,” I don’t buy into this notion of “let’s make it sound fancy” because it’s NOT. It looks like cat food, it’s got tons of cholesterol, it smells, BUT, it is the most delicious thing you’ve ever tasted.

It’s not an original subject, talking about a Jewish cultural connection to food. Every race and religion has one. My Puerto Rican husband will go to the ends of the earth for the perfect paella. An Asian co-worker of mine taught me to cook with bok choy and talked about the culinary wisdom her Thai father continues to pass on to her. We all love to gather around and eat food that is familiar to us with those that we have done it with before. My husband is not going to pick up the last remaining hunk of gefilte fish with his fingers like my brother would. New friends are not going to hang around in the kitchen and peel the skin off of a roasted chicken and shove it in their mouth like my sister would. At my former (Catholic) sister-in-law’s house, I would get a hand slap if I pinched a glob of stuffing, and be forced to eat the green jello mold that was a family tradition (no so bad, actually).

Despite the bad memories that have recently taken up more space in my brain, I will always give my father credit for creating one of the lovliest rituals of my childhood. Like Jews all over the the tri-state area, my father would get up early and hunt and gather. He would go to the not very originally named “Hot Bagels and Bialeys” which flashed in neon on a storefront, stand in line, and tell the guy behind the counter what to include in the baker’s dozen. They were picked from bins like the ones above, WAY before there were blueberry and chocolate chip bagels. The poppy seeds from the poppy seed bagels and the salt from the salt bagels would get mixed up with the onions from the onion bagels, so by the time he got home, the bottom of the paper bag looked like a dumped spice rack. We’d come back to them after eating, wetting our fingers and rolling them in the mixture, licking them off our fingers.

He would also go to what is called an “appetizer store” and get cream cheese and chives, whitefish rolled in wax paper, lox, muenster cheese and sometimes herring in cream sauce. With the resulting breath it’s no wonder we spent our Sundays in separate rooms.

When the question comes up, "What would you want your last meal to be?", you know, which happens a lot, I would go for everything in both of these pictures. In honor of my mother, I might ask for a pot of boiled beef flanken which looks like this:

I'd throw in some rice pudding, a linzer tart and I'd HAVE to have chocolate chip ice cream, which incidentally, was the only thing Timothy McVeigh, Oklahoma City bomber, asked to have as his last meal. He certainly wasn't Jewish.

The Year of the Jewish Husband

After a couple of years running through the vast sea of non-Jewish men, my friend Mark and I decided that 2010 would be "The Year of the Jewish Husband." Our “dating” lives seemed to parallel each other. There was a period of time when we were both, um, “entertaining” black men, younger men, Latino men, and just plain old white guys (not “old” white guys, just your run-of-the-mill white guy.)

Both of us had quite a flurry of men after we had both ended long-term relationships, both with white Catholic guys. I was married for 7 years and Mark was with his lover for the same amount. 2010 seemed like the time to buckle down and find the man that our mothers always hoped we would.

In a previous post, “Heckling At The Matzo Ball With Cocoa Butter Mark,” I end with our very short-lived desire and effort to join JDate. I was in my sunroom lounging on a chaise, glass of wine nearby, laptop on my, well, lap, and Mark was undoubtedly at a Starbuck’s, complaining about noisy kids, with his laptop on a table. We said, “One, two, three, GO!” and logged on to the registration page simultaneously.

The questions went something like this:

“What tribe do you belong to?”

a) Ashekanazy

b) Sephardic

c) Really bad Jew

d) Other

“What am I?” Mark asked?

“Well you’re kind of dark so just go with Sephardic.”

“What dietary restrictions do you follow?”

a) I keep kosher, of course. That way I get to have 2 sets of Crate and Barrel dishes!

b) I put bacon on everything.

c) I’m on a liquid fast.

d) Other

“How many times have you been to Israel?”

a) HELLO, I was bar/bat mitvahed in Israel!

b) Never. I’m too afraid to fly.

c) Once but it was so hot I just stayed in my hotel

d) Other

At this point, I knew I wasn’t the type of Jew they were looking for, and after a quick search of “Men seeking Men,” Mark decided that he wasn’t either.

We gave up and went on to talk about other more pressing things, like who got eliminated on Project Runway or the cute black bartender we both had a little crush on at our favorite dive bar. Onward and upward!

Around three or 4 months after this, Mark met someone that he seemed very excited about. Mark has the great ability to be cautious, to not get ahead of himself when it comes to relationships, but I could tell that he was hopeful about this one. His last name is Nunez. From then on, he has simply been know as “The Nunez.” He’s Dominican and a real throwback to 2009 when, for me at least, it was “The Year of the Dominican.”

Not long after, just as I was about to throw in the towel on match.com, I met my now remarkable husband, whose last name just happens to be Rodriguez. Yeah. Now, instead of “The Year of the Jewish Husband,” it has become “The Century of the Jewtino.” We have even invented a cocktail—a Jewtini which is a delightful combination of rum, Coco Libre and Manischewitz, which premiered at our Jewtino Passover. If we had a spokesman he would look something like Geraldo Rivera or Juan Epstein from "Welcome Back Kotter."

We have both found true love in these incredible men. Everyone adores "The Nunez" and Ricardo Rodriguez. Mark and I have never been happier. He told this story at my wedding celebration and of course brought the house down (when he wasn't tearing up as he is known to do). We have no regrets for closing out "The Year of the Jewish Husband." We adore our spicy Latino men for everything they are and we love that we still bring out the "Jewish" in each other, throwing around the occasional Yiddish phrase while the men look on and grin.

Digging (Too?) Deep

I had an upsetting conversation with a friend the other day about my mother. It brought up a lot of stuff that I hadn't talked about in a while and his reaction made me realize, as he said "That's a lot to be carrying around with you." I tend to forget that sometimes, and have moved through my life as if it was just the script that was written for me. I've even gotten it down to bullet points. (I refer you to a post from last year--"I Love You Claudine Part I.")

It hasn't gone unnoticed that "I Love You Claudine Part II" has yet to be written. It's the magnum opus, the granddaddy post, and after the conversation with my friend about what follows after Part I, I'm not sure I have it in me to go there, at least right now. I covered the "Part I" in years of therapy, but discontinued before the "Part II" came up.

I'm not trying to be cryptic and I'm sure I will get there eventually. So many of my previous posts are pieces of a complicated puzzle, the prequel as it were, from the Holocaust to a double-suicide. That's the interesting part--my mother being a Holocaust survivor was always the first in the bullet points. The DOUBLE suicide, not so much. Some of my best friends claim I never told them about the double part. I find that really interesting. Is it that ONE suicide is hard enough to learn about than throwing in the other detail? Is it way too incomprehensible? It does tend to be doubly-dramatic, and more troubling, I guess, than I've ever let-on.

My brother has asked me who would be interested in reading all of this, and I'm not sure I've come up with an answer that makes any sense. It is certainly a compelling story and it is a way of sharing with people who have known me for many years to get the complete picture. I also love that the strangers who have stumbled upon my blog or been referred to it by friends, appreciate this for the writing, in addition to the narrative.

In any event, it's obviously just a part of me. I'm not "crying on the inside and laughing on the outside." The light side of me prevails through the darkest of memories but I don't ignore them. I either deal with them head on at that moment or push them away for another time. Maybe that's what I'm doing, at the happiest time of my life--just dodging the dark side.

Like A (Gefilte) Fish Out of (Its Jar Of Gelatinous Stuff)

Last night for work I attended a party at a home in the wealthiest suburb of Boston, which according to Forbes magazine has the 97^th most expensive zip code in the United States. According to public record, the house has an estimated worth just shy of $2 million.

For 16 years I have made a living essentially asking rich (or as my boss has taught me to say, “well-resourced”) people for money for the variety of human services agencies I’ve worked for. I’m good at my job because I feel really passionate about the issues I’ve raised money for—at risk youth, the homeless, teen moms—and, I’m not afraid to ask anybody for anything.

These small events are a great and easy way to make money. Board members host at their lovely homes and invite their friends who also live in lovely homes so they can learn more about the work being done at our agency and ultimately whip out their checkbooks and give tons of money on the spot. I’ve planned about 30 of these and have been everywhere from an expansive apartment overlooking Central Park to sitting on couch cushions in a funky Park Slope townhouse, where I'm certain the hostess must have hid her hookah pipe before her guests arrived.

The picture above is the image Google came up with when I searched for WASP. I have absolutely nothing against WASPS. My best friend is the epitome of WASP. The couples at the party weren't quite so...pink or young, and sadly there were no perfect labs there, but Boston, really because of its proud blue blood history, has a lot of people who look like this, much to their credit. And, I LOVE that woman's dress.

Every once in a while, when I was still speaking to him, I would mention to my father some event or situation where I may have had conflict with a boss, or some other work or social conflict. The first question he would ask was "Are they Jewish?" It seemed like the most preposterous question in the world to presume that there was some rampant anti-Semitism in every interaction I had with non-Jewish people. In some cases I've been the first Jewish person someone has met and after that rather surprising admission I feel like they should meet another one first because I'm not exactly the poster child for Judaism. Even my first husband, a Catholic, ended up knowing more about my religion than I do.

I can't know this for sure, but I think that most people feel most comfortable around their own. When I go to Long Island or Manhattan, I feel at home, like being there brings out the authenticity in me that isn't the same in Boston. I have two Jewish friends here who I am very close to. When I first met the second one, we were out on our inaugural getting-to-know-you coffee, and I whispered to her, "Are you Jewish?" in the same way that people whisper about cancer. There was some instant understanding, like we belonged to a secret club. It's just how it is.

I am very proud of who I am. People seem to learn quickly that I'm the child of a Holocaust survivor giving me some bizarro Jewish seal of approval. That being said, I wouldn't know that tonight is Rosh Hashanah if I didn't have Jewish friends on facebook all wishing each other a Happy New Year. I won't go to services tomorrow or on Yom Kippur.

Of course, the people at the party were lovely and engaging. They didn't condescend to the teenage mother who came to speak about our programs. Of COURSE I wasn't the first Jew they had ever met. I might have been the least in shape person there, but certainly it's not because I'm Jewish. It's because I'm kind of a slug.

Sometimes, when I'm in a situation where the women are naturally blonde and the men are in Brooks Brothers I feel like this:

That's my issue, and noone else's. I am certain in SOME situations, that could be the case (as a matter of fact, with some statements said to me like "Jews are cheap, right?" and in one case, "Is it true that Jewish girls love to fuck?") I'm reminded that maybe that is what I represent to some incredibly ignorant people, but in reality, not to the rest of my orbit.

So, to all of my delightful Jewish friends, I wish you a very Happy New Year and an easy fast.

"Poor Prep," Or How I Failed My First Colonoscopy

“It’s kind of like drinking the beach,” my lovely and way-too-young- to-have-had-ANY–experience-with-colonoscopies coworker warned me.

“Sounds awesome,” I said. My boss told me it wasn’t THAT bad (Clearly, I have the kind of relationship with my colleagues where we can stand around and talk about our colons.)

For about twelve years I’ve had these random, double-me-over stomach cramps that come out of nowhere. I can feel them coming on slowly and then within about 3 hours, they hit full force and I literally can’t stand upright because of the intensity of the pain. I simply refer to them as my “flare-ups.” I used to have them about 3 times a year, but they’ve become a bit more regular now. The one upside to this is that I get to walk around with prescription painkillers (one being valium because my doctor is the best doctor EVER) in a wonderful little case that a dear friend gave me that says “Happy Pills” on the front. I’m slightly in love with my “Happy Pills” case.

After 12 years of stumping my primary care physician we figured it was time to go see a specialist. He’s such a lovely man, which I suppose helps in his line of work. I remember when doctors used to say “You’re WAY too young to have such and such,” but now they say “Well, you’re getting closer to the age when…” Fuck you, lovely colon doctor.

I left his office with a scheduled colonoscopy for two months later and a packet of information about what and what not to eat 24 hours in advance with urgent and asterisked sentences about having a ride home and the usual hideous side effects that would scare the hell out of anyone. My packet soon became part of the detritus on my dining room table that when not looking, my husband would put in a box along with an entire week’s worth of mail, magazines, catalogues and bills.

A few days before the procedure my doctor’s assistant called to confirm my appointment and to make sure that I had everything under control. “Yep,” I said, willing the paperwork to be among the piles in that box. 2 days before the appointment I found it and also discovered my first mistake: “No seeds or nuts within 7 days of the procedure.” Oops.

The clear liquid diet that begins 24-hours before the procedure, includes about 7 things. No matter how hard I stared at it, the list didn’t get any longer. Jello (NOT RED!), broth, popsicles, clear grape juice, clear soda, coffee with COFFEEMATE (probably the WORST sacrifice of the entire ordeal), tea. What I couldn’t understand is why I couldn’t drink white wine since it’s basically white grape juice gone bad. Vodka is about as clear a liquid that exists, but nope. No vodka or wine on the list.

I filled my prescription for my jug of “the beach” and tried to make eye contact with the young pharmacist so he would acknowledge the pure HELL I was about to go through. He didn’t take the bait but I’m sure as I was leaving the counter I heard he and his co-workers break out into hysterical laughter, falling to the floor while clutching their stomachs.

At 9 am the morning before, you have to drink a small bottle of what tastes like flat alka-seltzer mixed with Sprite. I know not ONE human being who hates alka-seltzer more than I. According to the many testimonials I googled, something was supposed to “happen” within an hour. My sweet husband just kept on looking at me saying, “I’m so sorry honey,” as I waited, like waiting for your water to break, but without the mind numbing pain. 10:00, nothing. 11:00, nothing. I decided to try to take a nap, which I managed to do rather well. Many more hours of nothing while I sucked on tangerine fruit bars and choked down a mug of chicken broth.

At 5:30 I confronted the beast—the jug of HELL! The instructions say to drink an 8 oz glass every 15 minutes putting the last sip approximately 4 hours after you start. You’re provided with flavor packets to choose from which do NOTHING to disguise the fact that you have to drink an endless amount of slimy, salty water FOREVER! Again, within an hour, all hell is supposed to break loose (no pun intended). I set up camp in our bathroom—Sunday paper, crossword puzzle, candles, the jug and my 8 oz glass by my side. That jug taunted me like a character that keeps appearing in the scenes of a horror movie. It didn’t get any emptier and neither did I. Nothing. Hours and hours of NOTHING.

I’m a mutant freak. I’m broken. This is practically impossible. All the people on online message boards said that they had become limp rags, chained to their bathrooms. And me? Nothing. I settled in to watch the Emmy’s, miserable, a cleansing failure, and went to sleep.

At 2:30 there was a breakthrough—the skies opened up and assured me that noone noticed that I had poured about 24 oz down the drain. I was forgiven! The sign I had to look for was “clear effluence.” I was going to do it!

By 6:30 am, I thought, ok, I can hold my head up high and walk in to experience, what my aforementioned co-worker said was like “having a huge hose with a camera stuck up your ass.” Good times!

I had to sit with a nurse before hand, the id tag already affixed to my wrist, presumably in case I died and they needed to identify my body. She asked me questions about my “prep” and I told her that it took a really long time to finally work. She asked me to describe the color it had gotten to and pointed to the laminated tan top of the table.

“Is it this color?” Silence.

“Is it more beige?” I felt pressured, interrogated, guilty, so I just said “Yeah, it’s more beige.”

She then proceeded to tell me what was about to happen and what I could expect. Noone told me that I was going to need OXYGEN. Noone told me that in recovery, I’d be surrounded by people, with partitions between us, who wouldn’t be allowed to go home until they “tooted” (her word, not mine.) She told me that I might experience short-term AMNESIA but assured me that I’d remember the conversation we were having. REALLY? I thought I was just going to be in a room with my lovely doctor, “consciously sedated” watching the whole thing on high-def tv!

I signed stuff, put on my gowns and slippers and was escorted into the room. I was immediately besieged by three nurses who started clipping, cuffing, sticking and shoving shit everywhere. The oxygen thing freaked me out and there was a snarky nurse barking questions at me. My doctor appeared all sweet and lovely, told me how to position myself, and stroked my head to assuage my nerves. He pushed a sedative through my iv and from that point on, I remember very little. I DO remember that something was amiss, that I might have been told that they couldn’t do the exam because I wasn’t “empty” enough. I knew I had let everyone down and was rolled into the recovery room.

Under the heated blankets and in and out of a deliciously deep state, I felt horribly guilty. I had wasted everyone's time. I had endured 24 hours of torture for nothing. As I was taken out of recovery and told I could leave, I was handed a piece of paper that in big, bold capital letters said"POOR PREP." It advised me that I needed to have a repeat colonoscopy within 2 months. I hung my head in shame.

I soothed myself with an enormous peanut butter and jelly sandwich, steak and mint chocolate ice cream. The following morning I waited for the office to open to find out exactly what had happened.

"I feel like I failed kindergarten" I wailed into the phone when the secretary answered.

She laughed and said, "Well, the doctor has a new "recipe" he wants you to try for next time."

Was he going to send me to the fancy Colonics place in the desert that I had read about in The New Yorker?

"He wants you to be on the liquid diet for 48 hours, drink two bottles of the (stuff that tasted like Alka-Seltzer) and drink TWO JUGS of (the stuff that tastes like the beach.)

"HELL NO!" (and FUCK YOU secretary I used to really like!) I said rather emphatically.

"Well, you're getting to the age when you have to do this anyway, " she said back.

"Yeah, in FOUR more years!"

At that point, she got a bit frustrated with me and told me she was going to have the doctor call me back. I still haven't heard from him and most of all, I hate that he thinks I didn't follow the rules. I won't tell him about the (36oz) of stuff I dumped down the sink. I will promise to be a better colon cleanser next time. I will promise to note the color, even take a picture with my i-phone, of my most recent "effluence." I will tell him that his gentle stroke of my head did not go unnoticed. I will beg him, and the colonoscopy gods, for forgiveness.

"My Angel From God"

When I first started my not-profit fundraising career I worked for an agency that served homeless women and their children. These were women living in homeless shelters, often with multiple children from infancy on. The mothers were mostly teens into their early 20s with so few choices and obstacles that it's impossible for me to fathom.

When I was there, about 14 years ago, the agency was in its infancy but with funding from some of Boston's wealthiest supporters it has grown exponentially. The concept is amazing--provide quality daycare to pre-schoolers while their mothers can focus on getting their GED, finding work and essentially do what they can to secure permanent housing.

Whenever I needed a break from my work, to clear my head and remind myself what I was raising money for, I would go down to the infant/toddler room. It's impossible to explain how instantly that place put things into perspective for me. They were gorgeous kids, just like kids anywhere, loved, happy, stimulated, silly, all with personalities of their own. Seeing them at naptime, on their mats or cribs, was ridiculously perfect, and even though my daughter is now 10, there is still something in watching her sleep that makes my heart melt.

For reasons that only the gods know, a little boy, still not yet walking or talking, was plunked down into my life, not by a stork or anything, but by the kind of fate for which there is no explanation. Kids have always been drawn to me because I pay attention to them, but D__ and I had a "connection," a certain invisible line that attached us together. I'd watch him doing his thing through the glass door to his room, and when he would spot me he'd come running over with his arms reaching for me to pick him up. I'd often come down at nap time to settle him down when his teachers couldn't. I watched him move through the stages of walking and talking.

Throughout this time, I got to know D's mother, E__ , who would often defer to me when D__ would get unruly or cranky. She was at a loss sometimes for how to handle D__ and his older brother R__ who was about 4 at the time. She was just 18.

E__ was quiet and walked around covering her mouth because she was embarrassed by her teeth. She often wore a scarf around her head because she hadn't had time to do her hair. The boys always looked great, hair done, sometimes in donated clothes that were a bit too big. I used to think that she was ashamed to be around me but now I know, after all these years, that she was just grateful.

After I left this particular job, I stayed in touch with E__ and the boys. My ex-husband and I would take them trick-or-treating in the fancy neighborhood where we lived, both left cradling a sleeping child in our arms before putting them to bed on our living room couch. We felt great sadness driving them home, to what is called "scattered site housing" in one of the worst neighborhoods in Boston. The kitchen ceiling was falling down, a cat with fleas went in and out and the stairs to the basement were about to fall apart. One time someone called the police when they saw my husband trying to wrangle D__ from running around a Friendly's parking lot because they thought he was abducting him.

E__ and I became pregnant at around the same time. It was my first child and her third. She had met a seemingly wonderful man who had become the male role model the boys had never had, and he was thrilled that he was going to be a father. During her pregnancy there were some health issues that came up that she didn't quite understand and she asked if I could be the contact for her doctors, something called a medical proxy. I followed her through her pregnancy, as I was monitoring my own, and she had a beautiful baby girl, 2 weeks before mine. I was the one and only visitor she had in the hospital.

My ex and I went to visit at the holidays, bearing gifts for everyone. As we were leaving one year E__ pulled out beautifully wrapped gifts for the three of us--a glass chess set for my husband, a bubbling rock fountain for me, and a doll for my daughter. This from a woman who barely had anything.

Within the year, we had lost touch. Phones were disconnected, the Dept of Children and Family Services wouldn't give me any information but I was able to confirm that D__ was attending the middle school in the neighborhood where they used to live. I asked the administration to give my phone number to E__ which she never received. And then, one day, 5 or so years after losing touch, I checked to see if R__ was on facebook, and he was. I e-mailed him and that night, I got this message from E__:

"...you have been a big part of my life and i never for got about you. i talk about you to everybody cuz you were there when i need you and when i had nothin and nobody. im a much stronger women now thanks to you. from this day on i want us to never part again.

you have have been my angel from god . you have been though everything with me and the things i tell you my mother will never know cuz you care and have a better understanding. i thank you i know you have your life with your family.

now when thing get the best of me and i can't handle it no more i know you will be there. i now i don't have much but when ever you need us we are here for you to."

When I visited them for the first time after so many years, I cried seeing how big and beautiful the boys had become. D__, now 15, and I just stared at each other and smiled. My daughter and J__, E__'s little girl went upstairs to play while I sat on the couch with E__, the boys right next to me, listening and grinning.

Recently, I received a call from E__, crying, telling me that her boyfriend had been spending what little money they had on porn and prostitutes. She was terrified to take the kids and leave, but had started to go to counseling for the first time in her life. She seemed empowered and only a few weeks ago, after being on a waiting list for ELEVEN years, received a Section 8 certificate so she could find a better place to live closer to Boston. My daughter is already planning on what Bratz doll she's going to buy J__ because she remembers how much she loved them.

E__'s words are some of the most meaningful I've ever received in any context. I'm not motivated by the need to be recognized or praised. In this case, I was lucky enough to have been captivated by a child who brought me into a world I never would have entered in any other context. Pay attention to the things that compel you for you never know what places they may take you.

The Deadly Sin of ENVY

This is the entrance of the summer "cottage" of Cornelius Vanderbilt. I have walked into that room about 7 times over the years and it always leaves me completely breathless. You can't see it, but to the right of that chandelier are massive doors that lead out to a ridiculously expansive lawn that sits on the Atlantic Ocean.

The square footage of the Breakers is 65,000 and today would be worth $310 million. Today, Vanderbilt's net worth would be $183 BILLION while Bill Gates is worth a piddly $40 BILLION. Warren Buffet recently lost $27 BILLION when he saw his stocks lose some value. As of March 2011, Mark Zuckerberg was worth $13.5 BILLION and Facebook, in June 2011, was worth approximately $84 BILLION, give or take.

I'm not going to go into the extraordinary history of this place that took only 2 years to build. It is impossible to describe without seeing it but it literally brings tears to my eyes. I get this great sense of ENVY walking around, standing at the top of the grand staircase looking down over that great hall below.

My husband had never been to Newport until yesterday. Along with my daughter we toured 3 houses (the behind-the-scenes servants tour, sort of the American Gosford Park or Upstairs Downstairs, is the most fascinating hour you will ever spend), my husband marveling over the systems--the circuit breakers, hot water tanks and the secret tunnels where coal was driven in on tracks right into the boiler room--while my daughter and I imagined ourselves taking baths in the marble bathtubs and having seven or so "costume changes" throughout the day. The closet space is ridiculous and the writing desks are so fucking ladylike and elegant it makes me want to cry.




Although somewhat masculine, the library above is where I tend to linger the longest on the self-guided tour. The upper rectangular panels are made out of Spanish leather to mimic the leather bound books in the collection.

Okay, let me get to my ultimate point: My 10-yr old, like me, looked over the grand entrance and said:

"This makes me sad that I can't live here. I mean, the kids used to slide down those banisters on plastic trays!"

"I know what you mean, honey, it makes me kind of sad too."

Guilded Age Society people wouldn't like me very much. I'm kind of loud, and I'd put my elbows on the table. My guestroom would be a mess and I'd leave makeup stains on the towels which would really piss off the maids in charge of laundry. I'd push the buttons to call the butler just for fun and send things down the dumbwaiter to see where they ended up (My daughter compared the dumbwaiters to the elevator in her Barbie Dreamhouse.) I'd sleep too late for croquet and they would call me lazy.

On the way home, as we drove the 10- mile loop with the ocean on our left and other ridiculously gorgeous homes on our right, my daughter again mentioned how sad she was that she couldn't live there. She asked how she could live in a place like that and I told her that basically, people of great wealth have invented something. "But everything has already been invented," she said. I again tried to explain that people like Vanderbilt invented things that people didn't know they needed, but then couldn't live without. "Kind of like facebook," I said, because God knows, we couldn't live without facebook. (I'm still praying that someone invents the perfect umbrella which I hope the man who invented the Dyson is working on.)

"You could marry Justin Bieber," I suggested, who incidentally, as of this writing, is worth $85 million.

Jews Don't Camp

I know this assertion will create backlash and anarchy from all those Jews who love to camp, but until someone invents a portable Tempur-pedic mattress, or finds me a place like the above "guest teepee" on Ralph Lauren's ranch, this Jew isn't going camping. Spare me the "OMG, you would LOVE it," or "Just try it once," or "There's nothing better than sleeping under the stars," because I will ignore you. Yes, I went to sleepaway "camp" for 15 summers of my life, but the closest I ever came to camping there was sunbathing on a towel on the softball field.

I have also asserted that "Jews Don't Golf, " "Jews Don't Hike," "Jews Don't Fish," mostly to get me out of things I don't want to do (The golf thing has been ruined for me after watching Larry David and his Jewish posse golf on "Curb Your Enthusiasm" and I actually DID fish once off the Santa Monica Pier.)

Until I had my daughter I would have said that "Jews Don't Sled." Growing up on Long Island I don't think I ever saw ANYONE sled, period. Noone came knocking on my door and said, "Hey, wanna go sledding?" My brother who lives in Vermont, got my daughter to try it at a fairly young age (he is the only one who gets her to try new things) and I tried it too, screaming and laughing the whole way down the little hill on the grounds of a church. Since then, I have tried tubing and loved it (I refer you to an earlier post, "Don't Forget to Drag Your Feet") and have recently discovered the joy of being pulled on my husband's speedboat on a tube, bouncing on waves with water pelting my face.

I tried to rollerblade once because it looks so graceful and easy and, after putting them on, my friend left me standing in the middle of an empty parking lot off-season in Provincetown, and walked away as I stood there, immobilized by fear and unable to move. I begged and pleaded for him to come get me, and after catching his breath from laughing so hard, he took pity on me and pulled me to the car.

Those are things that have looked fun and I've tried them. Here are things that don't look fun at all:

Jumping out of a plane

Bungee jumping

Standing up on a rollercoaster

Walking on stilts

Splits

Fixing a flat tire

Walking in stillettos

Sumo wrestling

Fire eating

Hot dog eating contests

Beer bongs

I think that having kids is a great barometer to get us to try new things, and maybe when my daughter starts to get over her own fears, of which there are many, I'll get right up there with her and carve a pumpkin or something. Yes, in case you didn't know, Jews Don't Carve Pumpkins.

How Would YOU Answer This Question?

"Give me 10 reasons why I should live?"

This is my BEST friend of over 25 years, in a crystal meth haze, over the phone, from Los Angeles. This is my BEST friend who after 10 years of sobriety has kept the secret from his closest friends that he's been snorting and shooting meth for ONE YEAR. People he sits next to at work every day and the multitude of incredible friends he has met over the years through AA had absolutely NO CLUE that this was happening right in front of their eyes. He told them in June and asked them not to tell me because my life was "too happy right now."

So what do you say when you're asked that question and you feel like the answers will either make him live, or push him further over the edge? There are so many cliches, of course like "A million people love you," etc., and I found myself getting stuck after #3. It was like a game show (and NOONE loves a game show more than he does) and the clock was ticking. I was a total failure.

Of course he knows that my mother killed herself and after 25 years without her, I could easily come up with a much bigger list than just 10. But, the question left me stammering, and it was like the needle of the record had just been screeched across the vinyl.

He's always had a flair for the dramatic. I know what song he wants played at his funeral. I really pushed back hard on him, not coddling him, even making him laugh at himself a little bit. However, in some moments of what seemed like complete lucidity, and I swear that he seemed like his normal self, he would start talking about the people who were following him, the ones who were tapping his phone and controlling his life.

I found this out late in the game and when I reached out to his good friend in LA voicing concern that I hadn't heard from him, he had the very rough job of filling me in on the total downward spiral that occurred within the year. The words were coming out but I just couldn't make the connection that this was happening to my BEST FRIEND. He was sleeping in CRACK HOUSES? He was SHOOTING UP? When I saw him at my wedding in January and again on Memorial Day he was HIGH ON METH?

It's now been 48 hours of constant texts and phone calls between a group of about 10 or so of us who are making up his "village." The time difference is a bit frustrating for me, being one of the only ones on the East Coast, and everyone keeps forgetting who told what to who. It's fucking exhausting. We're all professionals, some of us are parents, who have now put aside everything to get him into rehab. Loyalty is a remarkable thing. I'm in awe of what has become nothing short of heroism in his friends who are sitting with him, dealing with insurance companies, leaving work to check up on him, talking to doctors, all in the name of saving the life of someone who is loved by everyone he meets.

Secrets and Lies

When my mother committed suicide somewhere between Christmas and New Year's Eve, 1985/86, someone made the decision not to tell her mother, who was about 90 at the time. This was a woman who watched 4 of her six children get taken away to concentration camps, witnessed as her husband was shot on a street in Belgium and had worked miracles to keep my mother and my uncle, the two youngest children, alive. As mentioned in previous posts, she somehow found her way to the Jewish Underground and found a couple to hide them in their Bruxelles-area basement for about 2 years.

The way I understand it is that she was told that my mother was living in Arizona in a restful and peaceful place where she couldn't be contacted (I refer you to my post about my dreams.) I can't imagine that she believed this and when I found out about it, I was stunned. I know it was to protect her but I didn't agree with the decision.

My grandmother was a very loving woman, barely 4'11 who spoke only Polish and Yiddish and a smattering of English. She lived in a teeny little apartment in Brooklyn and was most proud of a painting she had of a fountain that when plugged in, lit-up and simulated falling water. When she knew I was coming to visit she'd fill her bowl of sour balls and go out to buy pound cake. She would wait outside for us and would beam with delight when she saw us, and walk us to the car, waving her sweet little wave when we left. She spent most of her time sitting on a bench outside with her friends with her cash stuck into her bra. She lived to be close to 100 subsisting apparently on boiled potatoes and Manishewitz.

My mother and her mother had a very strange relationship. On the Jewish holidays when my grandmother would come over and help cook Passover dinner, there was a lot of yelling in Yiddish. My grandmother would say "SHA" to quiet things down. I have absolutely no idea why my mother seemed to dislike her so much. What it did for me, was to model a mother/daughter relationship where my grandmother was so desperate for my mother's love, and my mother just seemed annoyed all the time. One of my biggest regrets in my life was not taking the time to know her, while emulating my mother's indifference and annoyance.

When she slept over, my grandmother would take her hair out of her tightly wound bun and I would be sort of freaked out by her silver hair that reached 3/4 down her body. She would brush it while wearing her white nightgown and often brush my hair while I just got annoyed that she would accidentally brush my face. She would take her clacking teeth out and put them in a glass and leave them in the bathroom. She never went out without lipstick.

Many years ago I found a document, written in French which came from an Israeli governmental agency addressed to my grandmother. It's not so hard to make out the language that starts out (my loose translation): Dear Mrs. Kempinksi, I regret to inform you that (three of my four aunts and uncles are listed by name with their birth and death dates and the concentration camp numbers they were assigned) and died here:

Malines (Mechelen) concentration camp was situated in a former barracks by the river in the city of the same name in Belgium. It was appropriated by the Germans in 1942 to serve as an assembly camp for all the Jews of Belgium and other 'undesirable' groups. The camp was divided into several groups including those to be deported; nationals of neutral countries or Germany's allies; borderline cases (ie mixed race); political prisoners and, in the final stages of the camp's existence, Gypsies.

There was a set of boy/girl twins. The girls first name was Minda which is now my daughter's middle name. One of the sons is listed as whereabouts unknown.