tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8806805990358592382024-02-18T21:05:51.002-05:00On the VergeOn The Verge is virtually everything I have to say about, well, almost everything.Julie Gerstenblatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01543129721507451657noreply@blogger.comBlogger80125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880680599035859238.post-14599784886840323812012-07-18T13:54:00.000-04:002012-07-18T13:54:26.179-04:00Lauren Takes Leave!I am thrilled to announce that my novel, Lauren Takes Leave, is now available for purchase at Amazon.com and Barnes & Noble.com. Click <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Lauren-Takes-Leave-ebook/dp/B008GWEEIS/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1342633867&sr=8-1&keywords=lauren+takes+leave">HERE</a> to go to the book's page on Amazon!<br />
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IMPORTANT! In other news, my blog has been moved to my new website, <a href="http://www.juliegerstenblatt.com/">www.juliegerstenblatt.com</a>. I will not be updating this On the Verge site after July, 2012. All new content -- plus the older posts -- can now be found at one convenient cyber-location. I'd love to have you follow me there!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYuky0riWlKwz3Z7CUdRM2CtZ-FPGZteSy_4xWPMRtqjqvF8n2gA8wYd5ARbsq8XXg1Y3RvTDtEq48tFLR03caKoc-NBNykOtjIz9eWZuXcUEASxYwvX2JQBYwDYqYo16inUN7rv6qPg/s1600/LTL_Cover_FINAL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYuky0riWlKwz3Z7CUdRM2CtZ-FPGZteSy_4xWPMRtqjqvF8n2gA8wYd5ARbsq8XXg1Y3RvTDtEq48tFLR03caKoc-NBNykOtjIz9eWZuXcUEASxYwvX2JQBYwDYqYo16inUN7rv6qPg/s320/LTL_Cover_FINAL.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Julie Gerstenblatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01543129721507451657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880680599035859238.post-25276658111133025522012-06-27T11:26:00.000-04:002012-06-29T11:27:09.080-04:00Summer Cocktails for Moms<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkhos9Dw_icXYCfgUTiZTlgWXNP-uk1W-SpE6NcKNUSDDb7RstJyX7C6djs3jlPmP_2nTkT1j2uUN-yKutyVuhFXVw2Gl6NXUuKSvuY-q3e-LetfY7iM8USBY2iOxQWnDzWz16YNSzZg/s1600/rosemelon3_copy-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkhos9Dw_icXYCfgUTiZTlgWXNP-uk1W-SpE6NcKNUSDDb7RstJyX7C6djs3jlPmP_2nTkT1j2uUN-yKutyVuhFXVw2Gl6NXUuKSvuY-q3e-LetfY7iM8USBY2iOxQWnDzWz16YNSzZg/s320/rosemelon3_copy-1.jpg" width="237" /></a></div>
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We moms have it hard in May and June.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The social calendar that we tend to
throughout the year virtually explodes for the spring season, with graduation
parties and birthday parties and class parties and final exams and proms and
cookies to bake and brownies to bake and teachers to thank and yearbooks to
distribute and camp trunks to pack and backpacks to unpack and trip forms to
fill out and letters to send to camp and Father’s Day to plan and little league
playoffs and final recitals and band concerts and about a million other
obligations that keep our heads spinning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Until now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because now, we
have reached Nirvana.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have
reached the end of June.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
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Ah.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Say it with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The end of June.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now exhale.</div>
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At
the end of June, and well into July and August, Mommy needs – no, Mommy <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">deserves</i> - a cocktail.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
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Here
are some of my personal summer faves. <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/julie-gerstenblatt/summer-cocktails_b_1631413.html">Continue here.</a></div>Julie Gerstenblatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01543129721507451657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880680599035859238.post-58124984565267947632012-06-14T14:37:00.000-04:002012-06-16T14:38:26.663-04:00Relax at Yoga Haven<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I recently got the chance to try a class at Yoga Haven 2,
located at 91 Montgomery Avenue in Scarsdale.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The studio, owned by Betsy Kase, is the new outpost of the
beloved Tuckahoe yoga studio, which Kase first opened 15 years ago.</span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdzLoWsbnDjaOTFg0x7EAKHhxi0i7QP53SvSSf0Fj3gtGpujOqCrQDpD6G3_fnKWIkUxeNrXUPCCMH5PI49omowdRFbhT05yJ8QjJscvok6Q4krZNPJIloDGlz-pw6XZdl9t6JCMFonQ/s1600/yoga2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdzLoWsbnDjaOTFg0x7EAKHhxi0i7QP53SvSSf0Fj3gtGpujOqCrQDpD6G3_fnKWIkUxeNrXUPCCMH5PI49omowdRFbhT05yJ8QjJscvok6Q4krZNPJIloDGlz-pw6XZdl9t6JCMFonQ/s1600/yoga2.jpg" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">This is not me.</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Back
then, Madonna was on the cover of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Time</i>
magazine doing yoga, and people couldn’t believe that you could look like her
from doing only that,” Kase explained.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Now, people have more understanding of it.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the past few years, in addition to growing her studio
across the board, she has seen an increased interest from prenatal clients,
seniors, men, and even children.</span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Eleven
year olds spend 8 hours a day sitting in a chair in school,” she said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then they go to play sports,
sports, sports nonstop, without much stretching, “so they are getting tighter
and tighter,” which can be rough on the body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s why Yoga Haven offers a variety of classes for kids
and teens, including a Monday evening class just for boys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We do handstands and hang from ropes,
and lots of other fun things,” she explained.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
Now,
as you may know from other articles I’ve written, I am into spinning, <i>not </i>stretching. But after pulling my calf from three
consecutive days of fast, repetitive pedaling, I knew that I needed to try
something else. <a href="http://www.scarsdale10583.com/201206122527/the-goods/yoga-haven-a-good-place-to-unwind.html">Continue here.</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span><br />
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<!--EndFragment-->Julie Gerstenblatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01543129721507451657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880680599035859238.post-44282050561227578652012-06-08T08:50:00.000-04:002012-06-12T08:54:38.478-04:00Interview with Annabel Monaghan, author of new YA novel, A Girl Named Digit<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIJVFmWd4sbAiU8OU0gIrbCXF4ZkEK_I9xd5eZvZ8nJUn8-DC_teTTL5gk5E7myynKPyD5mn3M0ddxKz83fbTPYQ8G0QghFoO_Xz4W_Ly5d3sIwGjjl0CGYx9hgp0Os-HKfDS-JV7-SA/s1600/51rxtZAVncL._BO2,204,203,200_PIsitb-sticker-arrow-click,TopRight,35,-76_AA300_SH20_OU01_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIJVFmWd4sbAiU8OU0gIrbCXF4ZkEK_I9xd5eZvZ8nJUn8-DC_teTTL5gk5E7myynKPyD5mn3M0ddxKz83fbTPYQ8G0QghFoO_Xz4W_Ly5d3sIwGjjl0CGYx9hgp0Os-HKfDS-JV7-SA/s1600/51rxtZAVncL._BO2,204,203,200_PIsitb-sticker-arrow-click,TopRight,35,-76_AA300_SH20_OU01_.jpg" /></a>You know that feeling you get from holding a new book in
your hands, excited by the promise of the first few pages? That’s how I felt when I first read <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Girl Named Digit</i> by Annabel
Monaghan. It was a Saturday
morning. My Kindle and I crept
downstairs in the dim morning light and hid under a blanket on the far end of
the couch in the sunroom, pretending that we were still asleep. In that way, I disappeared from my
family’s radar for the better part of the morning, and by the time they found
me and begged for breakfast, I was already hooked on Digit.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
And
that was good news, because before reading her novel, I was already hooked on
Annabel Monaghan.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Annabel and I met in a novel
writing workshop at Sarah Lawrence College in the Fall of 2010. She was there to workshop a project
called Digit, and since her novel was completed and the rest of ours were not,
we read her manuscript first. In
person, Annabel is funny and self-deprecating and humble and smart. She’s the one you want to sit next to
in class so that you can pass notes back and forth and give each other
meaningful eye rolls, as if a continuing education course at a local college is
the same setting as your high school biology lab. (Which, in a way, it is.) By week two, we had our own little
inside jokes. As I sank into my couch, I desperately hoped that her book would
live up to the real her. <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/julie-gerstenblatt/interview-with-annabel-mo_b_1570372.html">Continue reading here.</a></div>Julie Gerstenblatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01543129721507451657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880680599035859238.post-1518442797143427742012-06-07T13:50:00.000-04:002012-06-11T13:54:08.469-04:00Grace's Table: A Restaurant Review in the Gerstenblatt Style<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ7E-0pIwY6HsBplNZObJd1hgDJu8hV2LndUH-kToXbI0ay1hi8RcUpR19bZymiC0TiVXzV0tyep48LSSvrcYAiQNRZaiQ5Wdb7tmskvT2xZ26TdoiSDUg9kNsJDhBIV7NRvXqHLDGBw/s1600/gracetable3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ7E-0pIwY6HsBplNZObJd1hgDJu8hV2LndUH-kToXbI0ay1hi8RcUpR19bZymiC0TiVXzV0tyep48LSSvrcYAiQNRZaiQ5Wdb7tmskvT2xZ26TdoiSDUg9kNsJDhBIV7NRvXqHLDGBw/s320/gracetable3.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grilled octopi!</td></tr>
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There’s no doubt about it:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Scarsdale village, with eight local eateries featuring
outdoor dining options, is the new European capital of Westchester.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Meanwhile, Central Avenue is…
still Central Avenue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That being
said, it’s worth leaving the Village proper (and all the chocolate croissants
one could want) every now and then for fine dining at a pretty spot called Grace’s
Table, located at 324 Central Avenue in White Plains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
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Grace’s
Table is part of the restaurant and marketplace team led by the Balducci and
Doria families, known for the Balducci’s markets, Grace’s Marketplace, and
Grace’s Trattoria.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In other words,
as soon as I heard the name “Grace Balducci Doria” I made a reservation for
dinner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And you should too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The restaurant serves upscale American
fare for lunch Mon-Fri and dinner nightly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They also have a private party room in a wine cave on the
lower level.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
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Brett
and I arrived about 45 minutes early for an 8:30 reservation, checked in with
the hostess, and went to have a drink at the bar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“If you have a table ready any earlier, we’d love to take
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s just that the babysitter
arrived and we had to escape while we could,” I explained.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
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“Understood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you’d like, I could give you this
table right here,” she said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
did like.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We sat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(There are several rooms to choose
from, so you might want to poke around; we were happy to just sit.)</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
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The
table next to us happened to be occupied by two couples from Edgemont that I’ve
known for years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We chatted for a
while and I told them that Brett and I were here on an official culinary
assignment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone got very
excited and started telling me about their tasty selections.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.scarsdale10583.com/201206052511/good-to-eat/graces-table-worth-a-trip-to-central-avenue.html">Continue reading here.</a></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Julie Gerstenblatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01543129721507451657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880680599035859238.post-6424362484279711972012-06-01T09:39:00.000-04:002012-06-07T09:41:23.945-04:00The 10:52 Local<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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A day in free verse poetry</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the Starbucks lanai</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
dappled sunlight</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
watching the trains go by</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
iced grande green tea</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
sweetened </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
two dollars and thiry one </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
cents a day</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
after spin class</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
on a warm spring day</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stay hydrated and,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
finished chatting, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
head to DeCicco’s for</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
taco meat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s Monday</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So that is </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
dinner always</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
before piano practice and after</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
tennis, perhaps a stop at </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the candy store</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Where I steal a mini </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
peanut butter cup from Andrew’s</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
thoughtfully curated bag.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hey!” he shouts, but I unwrap</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
it and, pop, into my mouth it goes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are no calories from candy</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
meant for your kids;</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
everybody</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
knows that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Zoe’s collection is mostly</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
chewy and bad</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
for my temporary crown.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I dig through and hand it back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could have bought</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
a Celine bag</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
with the money spent </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
on endodontics </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
but I needed</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the new tooth </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and the pocketbook</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
is always only a fantasy</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
like the beach house</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and the movie deal</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
so I wave</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to my reflection</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
in the storefront window</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
whenever I drive by.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are always</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
nice things, as</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
my mother would say.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finished shopping</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
for camp clothes</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
all labeled</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Andrew’s first time away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Upon safe return,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
will he still let me kiss</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
him in public?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do you have time for a mani-pedi?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
a friend asks.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have a book to sell and another</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to write</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(there’s always something </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to write, a text, an email</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
a pin, a tweet)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
but sure, mademoiselle.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Zoe and I will bond in July,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
hang out at the town pool</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
apply sunscreen </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and be lazy together.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s so much</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An uncertain world,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I manage it</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
through certain, predictable routines,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and try not to worry</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
like Brett does</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
as another train passes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Digging through the junk,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
we find small bits of beauty,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and in that way</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
life is like the sidewalk sale.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I drink it in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that’s my tale.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Looking forward to </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
summertime in the ‘dale.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Julie Gerstenblatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01543129721507451657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880680599035859238.post-24594883430705686252012-05-31T18:35:00.000-04:002012-06-05T18:36:42.209-04:00My husband the...triathlete?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6HtKiu8UZgqz_mk1ztK4okEHs4t72h_Qgdcyb6_hkrxsPKZzIxYUvErQnSGQA7bUZE1bvVHBJqonksPhMJBebdWixyJipC6tTEKIGQa6H5zt6zed0Fq47hVWaWdnUVryR1DiT2Jxrhw/s1600/Unknown-2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6HtKiu8UZgqz_mk1ztK4okEHs4t72h_Qgdcyb6_hkrxsPKZzIxYUvErQnSGQA7bUZE1bvVHBJqonksPhMJBebdWixyJipC6tTEKIGQa6H5zt6zed0Fq47hVWaWdnUVryR1DiT2Jxrhw/s1600/Unknown-2.jpeg" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;">Artist, yes. Successful businessman, sure. Snarky comment maker, indeed. But here are words I'd never thought I'd utter: I'd like to introduce you to my husband, Brett, the triathlete. When Brett and I met in 1996, he was merely a summertime tennis player, and, when I was not chain-smoking, I occasionally attended a step-aerobics class. In Central Park, we went to Sheep Meadow to hang out instead of going for a run around the reservoir. I thought we were perfectly matched in every way.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"><br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; display: block; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: none; margin-bottom: 4px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"><br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; display: block; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: none; margin-bottom: 4px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;">When we moved in together in Brooklyn a few years later, we joined a gym and attended spin and yoga classes side by side. Skip ahead 12 years, and you will find that spin and yoga is where I still remain. Brett, however, has moved on. Way on.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"><br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; display: block; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: none; margin-bottom: 4px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"><br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; display: block; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: none; margin-bottom: 4px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;">My husband now goes to the gym. A lot. He has a trainer. He does something called box jumps. He wears something called a weight vest. When I said I'd marry him in sickness and in health, I didn't know quite how healthy he meant.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"><br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; display: block; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: none; margin-bottom: 4px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"><a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/julie-gerstenblatt/my-husband-triathlete_b_1558805.html">Continue reading here...</a></span>Julie Gerstenblatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01543129721507451657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880680599035859238.post-89289274460410998802012-05-24T08:44:00.000-04:002012-06-05T18:41:58.661-04:00Juiced!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;"></span><br />
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 15px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
As a journalista, I often have to go where the hard-hitting story is. I make sacrifices, sure, in order to deliver the news about shoe trends and hot new books, but it's all worth it in the end when I see the effects my reporting has on the public. </div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 15px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_ClvhyWe7P7l-FZAwCeC87ehNyEfx-2xlja3YvmewyKiz7t8f3B7FrdoGpyM3tt7YhjXEj3V5pdo6p3B48ZzAf9UDCSzqRXP54YOAUDb55yWjpNYKCy8dN0SeHxJcpCCRCYBVbpYwSw/s1600/Unknown-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_ClvhyWe7P7l-FZAwCeC87ehNyEfx-2xlja3YvmewyKiz7t8f3B7FrdoGpyM3tt7YhjXEj3V5pdo6p3B48ZzAf9UDCSzqRXP54YOAUDb55yWjpNYKCy8dN0SeHxJcpCCRCYBVbpYwSw/s200/Unknown-1.jpeg" width="197" /></a><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Which is why I tried a 3-day juice cleanse at Andy’s Pure Food.</span></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 15px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">I did it for you.</span></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 15px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Well, I did it for you and me. I’ve always been curious about what a juice cleanse entails – will it make me sick? Will it make me skinny? Will it make me healthy? All of the above? And when Onur Ozkoc, the general manager of Andy’s in The Golden Horseshoe in Scarsdale offered to let me try it for free, I decided now was the perfect time.</span></div>
<a href="http://www.scarsdale10583.com/201205222482/the-goods/juiced.html">Continue reading here.</a>Julie Gerstenblatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01543129721507451657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880680599035859238.post-38093207576225075552012-05-14T08:51:00.000-04:002012-05-18T08:52:39.480-04:00Up Close and Not so Personal With 50 Shades of Gray author E.L. James<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwJ2nwW02oCAk4Ma6b-femNI_cCfVBMGCUuS9NRlkn36dOArPUhc08yDBrJH3lU_M6ekeGGsKIznA19eHrL2UC58Mfxzayob1iaGf4dK6i1hj9-Usp9JVTZ-AF6t5B9LiLIeBNBIQ7tA/s1600/DownloadedFile.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwJ2nwW02oCAk4Ma6b-femNI_cCfVBMGCUuS9NRlkn36dOArPUhc08yDBrJH3lU_M6ekeGGsKIznA19eHrL2UC58Mfxzayob1iaGf4dK6i1hj9-Usp9JVTZ-AF6t5B9LiLIeBNBIQ7tA/s1600/DownloadedFile.jpeg" /></a>When I heard that the author of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">50 Shades of Gray</i> was going to be speaking at Willow Ridge Country
Club in Harrison, NY, I immediately emailed my friend, writer Annabel
Monaghan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You’ve got to come with
me to hear E.L. James,” I begged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Annabel
and I met in a novel writing workshop at Sarah Lawrence College about a year
and a half ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the first day
of class, we went around the table and introduced ourselves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was instant kinship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the oft-recycled words from the film
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jerry Maguire</i>, she had me at “I wrote
a YA novel about a math genius that falls in love with the FBI operative hired
to protect her from terrorists,” and I had her at “my main character is a
teacher and mom who lies to her family and her employer and takes off for a
much-needed vacation.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Who
else to sit next to at a 50 Shades luncheon than one another?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m
going to have to think about it,” she wrote back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“On the one hand I want to attend, and on the other, I fear
it might suck out my soul.”</div>
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Understood. <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/julie-gerstenblatt/e-l-james_b_1515632.html">Continue reading here.</a></span><br />
<br />
<!--EndFragment-->Julie Gerstenblatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01543129721507451657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880680599035859238.post-29528310972231227612012-05-11T14:50:00.000-04:002012-05-14T15:11:05.583-04:00GleeCongratulations to me: I am now an aunt. On March 18<sup>th</sup> of this year,
my brother and sister-in-law had their first child, who they immediately started
to mess with by naming Boden Kodiak Medow.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In
my head, I call him Bodie Kodie.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Boden
is the new love of my life.
Certain that I will never ever ever want to get pregnant or have babies
myself <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ever ever</i> again, I am
delighted that others in my family want to do this for me. My plan is that they will do all the
heavy lifting so that I can do much of the holding.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My
plan has gone according to plan, because holding Boden is exactly what I did
for the better part of a week at the end of April. I got on a plane to San Francisco and left Brett in charge
of our 6 and 10 year olds so that I could change diapers and stay up half the
night with my newborn nephew.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Except
that my sister-in-law, Ursula, had slightly different plans for Boden and me. She is trying to train Boden to sleep
without being held, and to learn to self-soothe in the crib. I believe in self-soothing, really I
do. The ability to dig deep and
find inner peace is a great skill to have when you are fired from a job or when
you get a bikini wax. But it is
not something I think a 5-week-old baby needs to master. Don’t get me wrong; I
know how desperate new moms are for some peace and quiet, having been one
myself. But since then, I’ve
trained two kids to sleep and pee and poop at the right times and in the right places
and so I know it all works out fine in about five years. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which
is why I held Boden a lot. Perhaps
even a bit more than his mommy wanted me to. I held him when Ursula took a shower, and when she did some
laundry, and while she mixed his bottles.
I held him through an entire “I Love Lucy” marathon on The Hallmark
channel, which reminded me how much Brett and I are like Lucy and Ricky and how
much I like holding sleeping babies.
Boden and I also watched a bunch of “Friends” episodes as well as some
great “Barefoot Contessa” shows, in which Ina Garten throws small dinner
parties for her friends in the Hamptons.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What
a perfect vacation. Watching as
much television as you want and not feeling guilty about it - while you snuggle
with a cooing relative that doesn’t resent you yet for anything - is a lovely
escape from the real world.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The
other great thing about babies is that they love to be sung to, and I love to
sing. It’s the ideal relationship,
a natural yin and yang. Many
times, after Boden had his bottle and was burped, I would get down to the
serious business of rocking him to sleep with a song or twelve. At first, I was shy, softly murmuring
“Hush Little Baby” and “Leaving On A Jet Plane,” two of my own children’s
favorites, while holding him in his bedroom. But by day three, I got bolder, breaking out the show tunes
and moving into the public space of the living room. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You
need to know this about me: before I was a teacher and a mom and a writer, I
was a musical theater actress. My
love of acting out dramatic renditions of musical numbers began the moment I
saw the movie “Grease” at the age of 8. My mother bought me the record, and I listened to it over and
over again until I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> Sandy. At least once a week, I would have a playdate
with my friend Lisa who was forced to play Danny Zuko to my Sandy, no taking
turns, no backsies. My reasoning
for this was that Lisa was dark haired like Danny and I was light like
Sandy. Plus, she was an alto and I
a soprano. Also, it was my house.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eventually,
I grew less bossy, but never less passionate about musical theater. Due to a wonderful lack of judgment on
my mother’s part, I saw “A Chorus Line” on Broadway when I was about nine and had
memorized the entire original cast recording of “Hair” by the time I was 10. She wouldn’t let me <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">see</i> the movie because of the brief
nudity, but I was allowed to listen to all the dirty words and sing along with
gusto. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At
Edgemont High School, I enjoyed a career as a musical theater gleek, beginning
with, poetically enough, the role of Jan in “Grease” in the 9<sup>th</sup>
grade. Travelling to and attending competitions with the chorus and the a
capella choir are some of my fondest memories of high school. And on Saturday nights, there was
nothing my friends and I liked better than to break into four-part harmony
while gathered around a keg in someone’s backyard. (This sounds a lot uncooler than it was.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lucky
for me, my nephew Boden apparently loves a good show tune, because I am in
possession of a lot of them. When
he was particularly fussy, I sang over his cries with jazzy renditions of “It’s
a Hard Knock Life,” and “Sit Down You’re Rocking the Boat.” Both of these gave me ample opportunity
for dramatic stomping and swaying.
I highly recommend them if you are ever in the company of an
ill-tempered infant.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2EA6Z9R0JU0YG87SgECsurccGoHXUxIVwZc47e_7Ml2YPgBErJnioXJKTa9ThMfZZvouLVspl6CBPrr5pcrUJ1D-5ha6eDQeRSoRlbM3QTK3ifhMM59PfxuPs_Zw-o9q1a0hIqhlILQ/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2EA6Z9R0JU0YG87SgECsurccGoHXUxIVwZc47e_7Ml2YPgBErJnioXJKTa9ThMfZZvouLVspl6CBPrr5pcrUJ1D-5ha6eDQeRSoRlbM3QTK3ifhMM59PfxuPs_Zw-o9q1a0hIqhlILQ/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" /></a>Oh,
we had fun, Boden and I. We worked
our way from Gershwin to Rodgers and Hammerstein and Rodgers and Hart. We hit Andrew Lloyd Webber hard, got
political with Le Miserables (because what child doesn’t find “Castle on a
Cloud” performed with a faux-British accent soothing, I ask you), and then
moved on to “Rent” and “Wicked.” Following
my mother’s good example, I even sang him a few tunes from “The Book of
Mormon.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thanks
to particularly high ceilings and an open floor plan, the acoustics at my
brother’s house are fantastic. As
my voice raised and my eyes drooped along with Boden’s, I imagined that we were
in Carnegie Hall together, or perhaps in the EHS auditorium. At the very least, we were in Tamir’s
backyard with a case of beer and the entire winning team of late-1980’s Madrigals.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Aunt
Julie to the rescue!” Ursula said as I coaxed Boden through the witching hour of
6-7 pm. What she was probably
really thinking was, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">She’s a little off
key. What day is she going home,
again?</i> And, Boden, calming
down finally, was probably thinking, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I
can feel Jean Valjean’s pain like I feel the wetness in my diaper</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I
cried when I left, I won’t lie. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On
the security line at the airport, I noticed a group of teenage
girls….singing. I detected a high school
choir in my midst. Sure enough, Vocal
Color, one of the top 5 all-female, a capella groups in the nation, was on my
flight, headed to New York City for a competition. When we landed safely on the other side of the country, they
broke into song.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And
I sang along. Because I was
grateful to have been welcome in my brother’s and sister-in-law’s home during
such a special time in their lives.
And because I hoped Boden’s brain would keep an imprint of me on it, as
this crazy singing woman who loves him so much. And because, whether I’m happy to be an aunt or excited to
be returning home to my own children, I am always filled with glee.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br /></div>Julie Gerstenblatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01543129721507451657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880680599035859238.post-67725168241582560792012-05-10T14:01:00.000-04:002012-05-14T14:04:11.858-04:00Down Under<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi931qm4uJkw-Yowo7wQiGm2f38JkjmjHuxU5oMPJLQRns57rbc-tfLyZ6dswpivElicwTyuFcXj3brkPjllN583AeXS5DVtJs4K5W3LVfpvrj_FCSYs1uUq6Gi1y0VTfBlmVwS7aSxcA/s1600/DownloadedFile.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi931qm4uJkw-Yowo7wQiGm2f38JkjmjHuxU5oMPJLQRns57rbc-tfLyZ6dswpivElicwTyuFcXj3brkPjllN583AeXS5DVtJs4K5W3LVfpvrj_FCSYs1uUq6Gi1y0VTfBlmVwS7aSxcA/s1600/DownloadedFile.jpeg" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;">Last week, an Australian lingerie company emailed me to suggest that I use my platform as a blogger for the Huffington Post to promote their website. They offered to compensate me for subtly selling their products in my posts, and invited me to contact them for further information.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"><br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; display: block; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: none; margin-bottom: 4px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"><br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; display: block; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: none; margin-bottom: 4px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;">Needless to say, I did not respond. I have journalistic integrity, for starters. But perhaps more interestingly, these people clearly have no idea what kind of underwear I wear. If they did, I seriously doubt they would be asking for my endorsement.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"><br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; display: block; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: none; margin-bottom: 4px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"><br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; display: block; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: none; margin-bottom: 4px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;">Now, why would an Australian lingerie company reach out to a woman who wears sweatpants most of the time and writes from a room over her garage? Good question, indeed. My mind puzzled through this conundrum as I got dressed for the day in my comfy cotton bikini briefs and a bra I picked up at a two-for-one sale at Kohl's.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"> <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/julie-gerstenblatt/underwear-fashion_b_1505846.html">Continue reading here.</a></span>Julie Gerstenblatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01543129721507451657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880680599035859238.post-49923896968441642922012-05-10T12:00:00.000-04:002012-05-14T14:08:42.581-04:00What We Want for Mother's Day (Hint, Hint)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2HdKMYMgEk3tOTrJa3Xo_Ix_UHDUKY8UWa-knvCg6Hu5Yl8yhSxrM5k2M62unzivcM5fbyNhYrF000n303VUEky7jk2QShp6kJkLFb-dRFiaYtMiOYWgIUrymQ672Mm0apCx2zKSqmw/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2HdKMYMgEk3tOTrJa3Xo_Ix_UHDUKY8UWa-knvCg6Hu5Yl8yhSxrM5k2M62unzivcM5fbyNhYrF000n303VUEky7jk2QShp6kJkLFb-dRFiaYtMiOYWgIUrymQ672Mm0apCx2zKSqmw/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></div>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
My friend and I were walking around Pamela Robbins the other
day after lunch, wandering aimlessly, touching pretty things, chatting with the
sales help and the other customers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Amy was interested in a ring from the jewelry case and I, not
surprisingly, had found another scarf I liked in the window.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Amy
tried on the ring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What do you
think?” she asked, extending her arm to arm’s length and moving her head back
and forth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A group huddled around
her hand and decided that the ring was fab.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We immediately agreed that she must have it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Now.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(“We”
might be enablers of sorts, but that’s not for today’s article.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span>“Do
you think I can buy it and then have my husband give it to me for Mother’s
Day?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Amy asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of
course, we all agreed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Doing that
takes the pressure off him and it guarantees that you’ll get a nice little
something that you’ll truly enjoy…since you picked it out yourself!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">There
are people who would disagree with me about this. <a href="http://www.scarsdale10583.com/the-goods/">Continue reading here.</a></span></span><br />
<br />
<!--EndFragment-->Julie Gerstenblatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01543129721507451657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880680599035859238.post-23679277570919480912012-05-03T15:15:00.000-04:002012-05-09T11:56:32.876-04:00Plastic is Fantastic!<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was growing up, my parents did a lot of summer
entertaining, before they divorced and ruined all the fun. Our house in Edgemont had a pretty
backyard with a pool. Since my
birthday is on July 3<sup>rd</sup>, we often hosted outdoor birthday parties,
end-of-the-year school class parties, and elaborate Independence weekend fetes
back-to-back for the first part of the summer season. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In fact, I recall the time between Memorial
Day and July 4<sup>th </sup>as one big party.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My now long-deceased Bichon Frise,
Ellie, would agree, having spent much of that time sipping margaritas from the
half-filled cups left next to people’s lounge chairs and then falling asleep in
the shade. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdsDjmpp4HDEGI2IfFjPj_2m94hy1-u1rOF7AWUokC0gm8aJ8IYFn4JMJEkA0AU-HVhfbccwyIYfla6k2Efu4yTB2FG__Eh1EA5n7WudwjvIWIYpZeHUDKOkLOQI2emcZKaq5UKEN1gQ/s1600/il_570xN.hellerware.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdsDjmpp4HDEGI2IfFjPj_2m94hy1-u1rOF7AWUokC0gm8aJ8IYFn4JMJEkA0AU-HVhfbccwyIYfla6k2Efu4yTB2FG__Eh1EA5n7WudwjvIWIYpZeHUDKOkLOQI2emcZKaq5UKEN1gQ/s200/il_570xN.hellerware.jpg" width="194" /></a>Of note, there was the bat mitzvah
outdoor brunch with an omelet station, the Sweet Sixteen party to which I wore
a rockin’ white, Oscar de la Renta bathing suit, and a Club Med party, during
which my father burned his exposed stomach by grilling without a shirt. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;">For my mother, these
parties were all about setting the table. <a href="http://www.scarsdale10583.com/201205022430/the-goods/plastic-is-fantastic.html">Continue reading here....</a></span>Julie Gerstenblatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01543129721507451657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880680599035859238.post-79867230214249055402012-04-30T16:42:00.000-04:002012-05-09T11:56:45.017-04:00The Perfect Accessory: a husband or a scarf?<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Brett,” I ask my husband, “What’s the weather like
today?” He has just come in from a
brisk run and is panting a bit.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s
nice,” he says, a slight hesitation to his voice. He knows what’s coming next.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Nice
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cool </i>or nice <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">warm</i>?” I ask. “Should I wear a jacket? A sweater? Just a scarf over my t-shirt? Or, like, a scarf <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and </i>a
sweater?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Brett
ignores my questions and walks past me.
“I’m going to take a shower.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Maybe
my leather jacket?!” I call up the stairs after him, but he does not reply.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My
husband of 13 years does not reply because he knows me too well. He knows that I am hardly ever
satisfied with my preparations for the weather and that, somehow, this is his
fault. <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/julie-gerstenblatt/marriage-humor_b_1458964.html">Click here to read the rest on The Huffington Post.</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>Julie Gerstenblatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01543129721507451657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880680599035859238.post-78114232421121470332012-04-27T17:02:00.000-04:002012-05-09T11:57:19.278-04:00American Road Trip<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
What I’m about to say may be considered blasphemy,
especially coming from a former teacher: I love watching television with my
10-year-old son, Andrew. After the
rush out the door every morning, followed by the activities buffet of the
afternoon and the dinner-and-homework sessions of the early evening, he and I
have a standing date each night, a time for the two of us to re-group and
reconnect. We head into the
sunroom, grab some blankets, and sink into the comfy couch. Sometimes we make popcorn.
Occasionally, we grab a handful of Hershey’s chocolate kisses. And then we always grab the
remote.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Andrew
and I are really into reality television.
I know some other television-bonding families that connect via American
Idol, The Voice, or Dancing with the Stars. Andrew and I dabbled in The Sing-Off for a few seasons,
mostly because I used to sing a capella in high school and am an original
Gleek. And, before that, I used to
make him watch Divine Design with Candace Olsen until he finally protested, and
rightly so. That was cruel and
unusual punishment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We
now have two very manly reality favorites. The first is American Pickers on the History Channel. The second is Diners, Drive-ins and
Dives with host Guy Fieri.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My
father-in-law, Steve, is a bit of a history buff (and a bit of a hoarder who thinks
his stuff is worth something) and he’s the one who got us hooked on American
Pickers. This show follows the
conquests of Mike Wolfe and Frank Fritz, owners of Antique Archeology, a store
that features finds from their “picking” forays across America. What is “picking”? Well, Andrew knows all about it. I’m not sure that this year’s New York
State English Language Arts test is going to ask about picking, but if by
chance Andrew needs to write an essay about collecting memorabilia by looking
through other people’s junk, then he’ll pass with flying colors.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pickers
Mike and Frank like to say that they are “uncovering the history of America,
one piece at a time,” as they dig through people’s overgrown yards and barns
filled with collections of miscellanea.
They are looking for “rusty gold,” anything they can make some money
from. These guys are knowledgeable
about all kinds of Americana, but specifically they are passionate about
bicycles, motorcycles, cars and anything else that fits into what they call
“petroliana,” items relating to gas, motors, and gas stations, like big signs
or cans with logos. Mike is a fun character,
who say things like, “If you’ve gotta crawl through dead chickens, raccoon poop
and goat urine to get something cool….do it! What a honey hole!” And Frank is
the master “bundler,” working deals by bundling items together and saying, “So,
how about $120 for all three of these?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Andrew
and I enjoy watching the guys make a great discovery and we like learning the
history about specific items, like a Model A car or an engine for an early
Harley-Davidson Knucklehead. We
also like meeting the characters that own all this stuff, people with names
like Hippie Tom and Dollar Dick.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But our favorite part of the show is
when the guys buy something, but aren’t exactly sure of the value. Will it be appraised at a high enough
price for them to turn a profit?
As we speed through the commercials to find out, the tension is
nailbiting.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Andrew, time for bed,” Brett will
call down from upstairs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Just a minute!” We’ll call back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before
you get all politically correct on me, telling me that television warps one’s
brain waves and that, further, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">reality</i>
television <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i> warps the brain (think
The Jersey Shore), give me a moment to explain. Because Guy Fieri has really enhanced my relationship with my
son.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Watching
Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives (or Triple D, as us insiders affectionately call
it) has made Andrew want to do two things of note: try new foods and travel. Night after night, he and I sit on our
couch with our feet intertwined on the ottoman, and “roll out” with Guy,
traveling across America in a vintage red Camaro convertible. From the Deep South to the Midwest all
in one half-hour episode, Guy has sampled the best of “real deal barbeque”
taking us from Texas to Chicago and Kansas City. In general, Guy’s a really big fan of pigs, taking us
viewers to smokehouses, shacks and holes in the wall, showing us “how it’s
done.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Guy will hold up a giant sandwich
that’s got layers of beef and pork and cheese and sauces between two slices of
homemade ciabatta bread and then he’ll get ready to eat it by doing “the
hunch.” The hunch involves rolling
up one’s sleeves (Guy always wears short sleeves, so that’s not a problem) and
leaning over so as not to drip any grease on oneself. Then you take a big-ass bite. “Now that’s how it’s done,” he’ll say, fist bumping the
chef, a huge grin on his face.
“It’s porktastic.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m so hungry!” Andrew will say. “I want to go there!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That’s just disgusting,” my
husband, Brett will say, leaving the room. “Who eats like that?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We do!” We say, even though, in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">real </i>reality, we don’t. However, Andrew does have a favorite
sandwich at a local diner in town that he swears requires the hunch. Other favorites, like a burger from The
Shake Shack, also require the hunch.
(The hunch adds fun and danger to a meal. You should try it.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What’s really fun about Triple D is
the road trips it has inspired.
When Guy featured a diner in Providence, Rhode Island called Louie’s,
Andrew and I turned to each other and yelled out, “Providence, Rhode Island!” Brett’s whole family lives outside
Providence. “Can we go?” Andrew asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Are you kidding me? Of course!” I said. An enthusiastic
high-five followed, and our first Triple D road trip was planned. (Andrew had
the bacon, egg and cheese and did the hunch. I had the homemade granola pancakes and did not need to
hunch. Brett’s dad had the famed
homemade corned beef hash. I can’t recall if he hunched or not.) Once we got
there, we discovered that all the places Guy has visited have a special stamp
or seal hidden somewhere in the restaurant. We also found a framed picture of him over the grill. The items featured on the show are
highlighted on the menu for easy reference.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Since then, we have hit another
Rhode Island diner on Guy’s list, as well as one place on the Jersey Shore and
two in Manhattan. Gazala’s Place,
right behind the Museum of Natural History, proved to be a nice respite from
dinosaurs and serves authentic, child-friendly Middle Eastern fare. The Redhead, in the East Village, has
the most delicious fried chicken, mac n’ cheese, and homemade, New York
street-style soft pretzels. Plus,
it’s up the street from The Strand bookstore and Momofuku Milk Bar, so we added
those destinations to our tour.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Any time we visit a city in the
future, we will be sure to look up one of the Triple D hot spots and
incorporate it into our travels. America
never tasted so good. With our
bellies full, we might even come across some rusty gold, now that we know what
to look for.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I
have this friend who bans television for her children during the week. I think I’m supposed to admire her, but
instead, I just pity her. Oh,
well. She doesn’t know what she’s
missing.</div>Julie Gerstenblatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01543129721507451657noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880680599035859238.post-89706550245744585272012-04-20T16:30:00.001-04:002012-05-09T11:57:30.930-04:00The Chocolate Wars<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let’s agree to agree: chocolate is delicious, and it’s also
good for you. But, like all great
love stories, this one has a twist: in order to reap any health benefits, the
chocolate you eat should be dark, dark, dark. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt-_zGTxBNWRb3k6OyMfsmztoMJoUsM2n9PihTRSqRx4viz-Z3LDR9_MiyGrVP-6_Jxc6RUun0xkTttlLeilA8faPHXrYzzYjhE1KhkjR-IX6xBFMA_Mo96SPe3DGeTGp4sFRjZId8uQ/s1600/DownloadedFile.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt-_zGTxBNWRb3k6OyMfsmztoMJoUsM2n9PihTRSqRx4viz-Z3LDR9_MiyGrVP-6_Jxc6RUun0xkTttlLeilA8faPHXrYzzYjhE1KhkjR-IX6xBFMA_Mo96SPe3DGeTGp4sFRjZId8uQ/s1600/DownloadedFile.jpeg" /></a>Here
are some Real Facts paired with some Julie Facts about dark chocolate. <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/julie-gerstenblatt/dark-chocolate-taste-test_b_1439161.html">Continue reading article on the Huffington Post.</a></div>Julie Gerstenblatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01543129721507451657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880680599035859238.post-28372000552400715532012-04-17T09:15:00.000-04:002012-04-17T09:15:13.025-04:00How to Get a Book Deal: Tiger Mom, Diet Mom, and Me<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Amy Chua, also known as The Tiger Mother, received a high six-figure
advance for her 2011 memoir. In
this book, she recounts in great detail the ways in which she uses traditional
Chinese parenting methods to drive her daughters towards perfection in the
arts. This is old news, of
course. But now there’s Dara-Lynn
Weiss, aka the Diet Mom. In the
April issue of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Vogue</i> magazine, Dara
writes honestly and openly about the strict parenting methods she employed to
help her overweight seven-year-old daughter slim down. Within a few weeks, she, too, had a
book deal.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What
do these women have in common? The
publishing world would say that Chua and Weiss are both exemplars of the new
“damned if you do/damned if you don’t” parenting genre. If you push your kid too hard, you get
called out. If you act too lax,
you are scrutinized for not demanding more. Either way, if you are willing to throw your daughters under
the bus, there’s always something to write about.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s
not so much about the children in these scenarios as it is about the
mother. The secret to securing a
book deal these days is to expose one’s inner bitch to the world. <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/julie-gerstenblatt/tiger-mom_b_1428776.html">Go to The Huffington Post to continue reading...</a></div>
<br />Julie Gerstenblatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01543129721507451657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880680599035859238.post-81794036998052147132012-04-09T16:57:00.000-04:002012-05-09T11:58:16.606-04:00The Sandal Revolution<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The box arrived from Bloomingdale’s just as my husband,
Brett, was walking out the door to attend a neighborhood meeting one
evening. That’s bad timing, when
the UPS guy comes face-to-face with one’s husband. The uniformed man stands at your doorstep, a guilty look on
his face, as he hands over the goods.
He knows the rules. He
knows he’s supposed to drop the package when your husband is either a) at work,
b) at the gym, or c) has left the house precisely eight minutes ago, but
sometimes he screws up and gets caught.
The husband looks at the return address on the box, sees the name of a
clothing store like Bloomies, or an e-tailer like Gilt, or a
supermegavirtualworld like Amazon, and shakes his head sadly at the UPS
man. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dude</i>, he thinks, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You’re
complicit in her schemes. I’m so
disappointed in you. <a href="http://www.stylelist.com/julie-gerstenblatt/the-sandal-revolution_b_1412212.html">Read the rest of the article on the Huffington Post Stylist here....</a><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDsPjio_DuM7qi8du2D7lspQcwfQtIkJABpH-BxLiBFPi6HuAY9H7tSzgow3CdCV9TlFzt10Qmvguyn7rzCRiejTPWXCGvocs5lFHYzli_EH2KSzTWkwPPry9VO8bf8VsAWoDAWb6AEQ/s1600/1263808_fpx.tif.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDsPjio_DuM7qi8du2D7lspQcwfQtIkJABpH-BxLiBFPi6HuAY9H7tSzgow3CdCV9TlFzt10Qmvguyn7rzCRiejTPWXCGvocs5lFHYzli_EH2KSzTWkwPPry9VO8bf8VsAWoDAWb6AEQ/s1600/1263808_fpx.tif.jpeg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Julie Gerstenblatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01543129721507451657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880680599035859238.post-26126738096687135462012-03-30T20:12:00.000-04:002012-04-02T20:21:16.927-04:00100 Years<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last October, I wrote about my mother-in-law, Linda
Gerstenblatt, who died of cancer at the age of 63. When people spoke to me about that article, they offered
their condolences and shared in my frustration with the over-pinking and commercialization
of breast cancer. My
99-year-old grandmother, however, who reads all of my writing, responded quite
differently to that particular piece. “If
you ever want to write something nice like that about me for the newspaper, I
wouldn’t stop you,” she said, looking across her dining room table at me with a
sly smile. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’d
like to introduce you to Rose Katz, who I call Nanny. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Many of you already know her, since
she worked as a bookkeeper in Scarsdale village for almost 30 years and because
she likes to talk to just about everyone.
Walking around town with my grandmother is like taking a stroll with a
cute puppy or a new baby. Everyone
stops to chat with you because of the marvelous companion on your arm.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE8ku4lt6JsQwhQKYdXj7DNhVEU3ex9ZTzF-Cz4PUhtcp1C4Y-jQ2ZpL1-MUgc48uPuT6lc0jSm9g1OiP4qnzEq9C-anmfP3ddj-FqyxTX4_jlciAKzhhXBQaqBfKCdeDMDHqj2-2ixQ/s1600/P1000547.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE8ku4lt6JsQwhQKYdXj7DNhVEU3ex9ZTzF-Cz4PUhtcp1C4Y-jQ2ZpL1-MUgc48uPuT6lc0jSm9g1OiP4qnzEq9C-anmfP3ddj-FqyxTX4_jlciAKzhhXBQaqBfKCdeDMDHqj2-2ixQ/s200/P1000547.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">me and Nanny</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Nanny is a unique person, who is as
tall on opinions as she is short on height. She has more viewpoints on a variety of topics than someone
half her age. She’ll tell you if
you look good, if you’ve put on weight, and if that lady over there has put on
weight. She likes to compare
herself to the second-oldest woman in the room – who is 80, most likely – and
tell you that the octogenarian looks much older than she does. She might mention that a particular
child at a birthday party is cute, but the mother? Feh.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She has a great collection of
sayings, my grandmother. One that
I particularly like has to do with women who dress provocatively (or people who
call attention to themselves in any way) and then get upset when people notice
or react. “If you don’t want to be
saluted, pull in your American flag,” she’ll dismiss.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“A committee put together that
person’s face…” she’ll begin, shaking her head sadly. “And the committee didn’t agree on nothin’!” Ba-doom, tsz.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What? She asked me to write about her in the newspaper, did she not?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the time of this request, Nanny
and I were sitting in her apartment in White Plains – where she still lives
independently -- drinking coffee that I had brought from Dunkin’ Donuts. I bring my own coffee when I visit because
I don’t trust her Parmalat milk.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The milk is good for weeks!” Nanny
told me once. “Look at the date
stamp.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That’s only <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">before </i>it’s opened,” I said, unable to explain why this was the
case, but just knowing it to be so.
“After you get air into the container, it’s good for a week just like
everyone else’s milk.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, not mine,” she decided. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And
so I decided to stay away from that milk, even though it seemed to be doing no
harm to Nanny. (Perhaps the active
cultures are acting as some sort of life preservative? Like whatever secrets they uncovered in
the movie Cocoon?)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The
thing is, of course, that we cannot know what secrets keep one person alive and
healthy for a full century while others struggle and face a much shorter
existence. In just the past few
months, I have seen examples of lives cut way too short. I have seen families watch a loved
one’s health decline over time and I have seen others surprised by the
suddenness of death. As I’m sure
you know from whatever your own life has dealt you, we don’t always take the
opportunity to speak our hearts while our loved ones are alive and well. (Even if we end up publicly roasting
them a little bit in good fun.) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes,
when my kids are running late in the mornings and the lunches I’ve packed
aren’t nutritious and it takes Andrew 6 minutes to tie his sneakers (why?
Why?!) and Zoe wants to wear head-to-toe sparkles and hates her new leggings <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">after ripping off the tags</i> (why? Why?!) and Brett is rolling his eyes at
something one of us said or did or didn’t do and THE SCHOOL BUS IS COMING,
PEOPLE! it’s hard to stop and smell the roses and appreciate all that’s
wonderful. Once my family is out
the door, I just want to cheer my state of sublime aloneness.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And
then I call my grandmother to vent or get sympathy, and she’s calm, and
relaxed, and she can’t hear that well, but still, she offers an ear. “Whatsamattah, sweetheart?” she asks,
probably while toasting a nice Kaiser roll and putting some (definitely
expired) milk into her morning coffee.
“You’re such a sweet and precious Mommy,” she tells me. This comment, which she says often,
makes me feel both validated in my choice to stay home with my kids and guilty
about sometimes wanting to run away from home. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then she’ll launch into a story.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Did
I ever tell you about what Pop-Pop and I did when you were born?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Only,
like, ten thousand times. “I’m not sure,” I’ll say. “ Maybe you should tell me again.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are few people that I love more
than my grandmother, who will turn 100 on November 1<sup>st</sup>, and there’s
certainly no one older in our family or maybe even yours. She has not asked for a party to
commemorate the occasion so much as what she calls “a celebration of a
life.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t want a big funeral,” she
has said more than once, even though she’s probably going to get one and there
won’t be anything she can do to stop it.
But, I know what she means: why put all that money and planning towards
having the Jersey cousins come all the way over the bridge when it’ll be too
late for her to hear them complain about the traffic? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Instead, although Nanny hasn’t used
these words, I believe she wants a living funeral, a gathering of people around
her -- the same (kvetchy) group that would attend her eventual postmortem funeral,
mind you, Jersey cousins and Long Island cousins and maybe even a few strays that
we haven’t spoken to since the big blow-up at Roey’s funeral in 1990 – that
would come and talk <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">about </i>her <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">to</i> her. Knowing my grandmother, the main event at this celebration
would be her standing at a podium talking about herself to us. Nanny is a very enthusiastic
storyteller. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She would tell you that I get all
my creative writing talents from her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She would also tell you that she’s
singlehandedly responsible for the Rosh Hashanah/Yom Kippur break enjoyed by all
public schoolchildren in the state of New York. (Long story short: she was the PTA president in Park Slope,
Brooklyn in the 1950’s and spoke to someone of influence and from there it gets
a bit nebulous.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so that is why I have officially
kicked off this year’s “celebration of a life” by writing about my Nanny and
sharing my love for her in the newspaper, while she’s here to see me do it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Because - in this unique case, at
least - I can.</div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">To borrow a phrase of my
grandmother’s, may we all be so lucky.</span></span>Julie Gerstenblatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01543129721507451657noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880680599035859238.post-83902908849766068132012-03-14T13:57:00.000-04:002012-05-09T11:58:31.488-04:00Loved the Hunger Games? Other Great YA Books that Adults Should Be Reading<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg86nzBMuPvD4D9jWE6JR2jHKFMtM9Z0ymhQ6oPsdwydwMGfj4Y4lPB8CMSsxwakQtgzodwXdyPSa_9cx8AyjEAx4ABcu2ye5JEHbCRoDzmkkSfGqhL3dOzj-4wB5KrSyR0oaBLG1VEsw/s1600/51bfaZqPpWL._SL120_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg86nzBMuPvD4D9jWE6JR2jHKFMtM9Z0ymhQ6oPsdwydwMGfj4Y4lPB8CMSsxwakQtgzodwXdyPSa_9cx8AyjEAx4ABcu2ye5JEHbCRoDzmkkSfGqhL3dOzj-4wB5KrSyR0oaBLG1VEsw/s200/51bfaZqPpWL._SL120_.jpg" width="131" /></a>Confession: I read children’s books. For fun. Like, all the time. Did you get hooked on Harry Potter? Torn apart by Twilight? Did you Hunger for more of The Hunger Games? Did you think, well, I’ll only do it this one time, because they’re making the series into movies and everybody’s reading them? Well, that’s nothing.<br />
<br />
When I‘m on a YA bender – and, hello world, I’m on one now! -- I read at least one teen title a week. <br />
<br />
For me, reading YA is like having a candy bar in the middle of my lifelong diet. Filled with nougaty goodness, it’s easy to digest and damned satisfying. And, when I’m done, I don’t have to discuss it with my book club. <br />
<br />
Reading YA is like temporarily leaving your grown-up, responsible day job to cut class and hang out in the food court at the mall with your new BFF. <br />
<br />
It’s, like, totally ahmayzing.<br />
<br />
So, without further ado, here are some of my top picks for grown-ups who sometimes wish they could recapture their teen years or who just like reading about adolescence. Maybe you have an adolescent in your house and you can share titles. Maybe you don’t. It doesn’t matter to me either way. I’m a book pusher and this is just good stuff.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.scarsdale10583.com/201203142318/scarsdale-reads/loved-the-hunger-games-other-great-ya-books-that-adults-should-be-reading.html">Read the rest on the Huffington Post...</a>Julie Gerstenblatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01543129721507451657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880680599035859238.post-62129597984721483582012-03-02T09:12:00.000-05:002012-03-27T20:02:21.084-04:00Mommy 2.0<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5A6Fq2CxJ9Gomzi1jq-TY_Th-gs8uKEeq0fbiONrxn7JQZCo94hE2UXNwLpQgpEV-eVcKfv6zrAJHiEfZEqejCXgOw4U_1mmGeiQEtq2NFylr2DxjohpfU9UkcJhOhdhiCRTdlkS7SQ/s1600/Unknown-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5A6Fq2CxJ9Gomzi1jq-TY_Th-gs8uKEeq0fbiONrxn7JQZCo94hE2UXNwLpQgpEV-eVcKfv6zrAJHiEfZEqejCXgOw4U_1mmGeiQEtq2NFylr2DxjohpfU9UkcJhOhdhiCRTdlkS7SQ/s1600/Unknown-1.jpeg" /></a>In 6th grade, I had to write my first big research paper. This paper was so enormous that it took the entire second half of the school year to complete. A serious assignment in all its complex aspects, it brought one of my best friends to tears during outlining. In retrospect, not only was this paper our introduction to real research, it was probably a rite of passage for scholastic stress. <br />
<br />
First, we had to peruse books on famous people, and then we had to hand in a list of three individuals of merit who we were interested in studying. Then the teacher assigned us one of these notable figures.<br />
<br />
I was psyched to get my first choice: Eleanor Roosevelt!<br />
<br />
Like the good girl I was, I went right to work that evening, beginning with a stack of note cards in a new plastic box specifically designed for said note cards. New supplies like this were so exciting. I got a highlighter. My first. <br />
<br />
Before any word could be written on a regular sized piece of paper, the teacher emphasized, we had to fill out 100 note cards. No more, no less. 100 on the dot. Furthermore, our note cards would be graded. A good grade on the note cards was the key to a good grade on the term paper.<br />
<br />
I was really into these note cards.<br />
<br />
I headed into the basement to find my parents’ set of World Book encyclopedias. Dusting off some spines, I found the one I was looking for, removed it from the shelf, and brought it upstairs to the kitchen table. I always did my schoolwork at the kitchen table, even though my parents had recently re-done my bedroom to include an awesome, white formica, built-in desk. (That desk never got any play, which is why I might not ever give my kids desks in their rooms. They can study all they want in our new basement.)<br />
<br />
I found the entry on Mrs. Roosevelt and read through it, excited at what I found. “Mom,” I said, calling out to her while she was making dinner. “Guess what?”<br />
<br />
“What?” she must have said.<br />
<br />
“Most people in our class are studying people who have died, but I get to write about a living person!”<br />
<br />
“Eleanor Roosevelt?” She asked. “Alive?” At this point, my mom stopped what she was doing and thought long and hard. She considered the ceiling. She looked out the window. She might have even counted on her fingers and toes before telling me that this was just not possible. <br />
<br />
She did lots of things to try and convince me that the information from our encyclopedia was outdated. <br />
<br />
But what she couldn’t do was Google it instantaneously or research it on Wikipedia.<br />
<br />
After all, the year was 1982. <br />
<br />
And in 1982, a mother and daughter didn’t have the answers to life and death questions at dinnertime in their kitchen. <br />
<br />
My mother doubted that a woman born in 1884 was still alive in 1982. However, she couldn’t actually prove it to me. All she could tell me was that our set of encyclopedias hailed from before 1960 and that it was probably time to throw them away, since surely by now, man had walked on the moon and the wife of our 32nd president was deceased.<br />
<br />
Zoom ahead to now.<br />
<br />
On the day that Michael Jackson died, my children asked me who he was. Within about 9 seconds, I had positioned the laptop in front of them at the kitchen island and had started streaming the Thriller video on Youtube.<br />
<br />
“That’s Michael,” I said. <br />
<br />
Only the 1982 version wasn’t quite the same Michael as the 2009 version, so then I quickly found some more recent images that the kids recognized as their MJ. “Oh, yeah. We know him,” Andrew said.<br />
<br />
And then, for my own nostalgia’s sake, I found other videos to show them.<br />
<br />
“Who’s that?” Andrew asked. Boy George was singing Karma Chameleon from the front of a paddleboat on a river. He had ribbons in his braids and was sporting that iconic porkpie hat and fingerless black gloves.<br />
<br />
“Is it a boy or a girl?” Zoe wondered.<br />
<br />
“Yes.” I said.<br />
<br />
“Why does he have so much make-up on?”<br />
<br />
“Because it was the 80’s.” I shrugged. Then I showed them some Madonna videos. Zoe and I decided that “Material Girl” was our favorite. Andrew decided that the 80’s were weird.<br />
<br />
A few months ago, while listening to the car radio, my kids wanted to know who Mick Jagger was and why Adam Levine of Maroon 5 had moves like him. <br />
<br />
Upon returning to the house, the laptop and I got to work immediately, pulling up videos and creating an informational, 4-minute Youtube mini-lesson in How to Dance Like a Rolling Stone.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt6PSSENfY1KioeXMktYs1tf4hmRM34ejTiVcvC-JkxR6ZsZ35BZnEbXzOHJlOR_OO6LrBJGbHagcA-lWkwqsfIZeaXYcTM8djZOh-sobEX_bYOWVNwYS-RDRr86ghKL9zCHTh9t2FkA/s1600/images-4.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt6PSSENfY1KioeXMktYs1tf4hmRM34ejTiVcvC-JkxR6ZsZ35BZnEbXzOHJlOR_OO6LrBJGbHagcA-lWkwqsfIZeaXYcTM8djZOh-sobEX_bYOWVNwYS-RDRr86ghKL9zCHTh9t2FkA/s1600/images-4.jpeg" /></a></div>
<br />
Pretty soon, we all had moves like Jagger.<br />
<br />
I’d like to introduce myself. I am Mommy 2.0. <br />
<br />
I know everything.<br />
<br />
What happens if Andrew needs to figure out the phase of the moon on a night that the actual moon is hidden behind clouds? Mommy 2.0 finds the virtual moon online and calls it gibbous. Science homework saved!<br />
<br />
What happens when Zoe has to learn to read using not only books but also an interactive computer program with quizzes and prizes? Thanks to Mommy 2.0, Zoe can learn to read online as well as off, thereby quickening not just her reading ability, but also her ability to read on a Kindle.<br />
<br />
And when Andrew has to study major monuments of Russia, Mommy tells him that she thinks the one with all the pretty colorful spires on top is the Kremlin. But then Mommy remembers that she knows nothing about Russia and, thus, should not be trusted. Using your own knowledge is a classic Mommy 1.0 mistake. A quick check on the Internet confirms this and the homework answer is changed to reflect the correct information: St. Basil’s Cathedral.<br />
<br />
Eventually, a newer, sleeker, thinner model will replace me like a Hoover with a Dyson. Mommy 8.0 will probably have all the info implanted behind her ear with a microchip and she’ll be able to give herself liposuction. But for the meantime, I’m happy with my iPod and iPad and iPhone, doing the light research and fancy footwork that my job as Mommy 2.0 requires. No microfiche to contend with in musty library basements, no dead presidents’ wives to wonder about. If only there were a way to help mitigate all that stress that still comes with our children’s education, what with the note cards, and research papers, and outlining, and test scores and report cards and tears and deadlines and procrastinating and Mommy threats, like, ironically, taking away computer time until all the work is done.<br />
<br />
Could someone out there create an app to help me with that? <br />
<br />
(PS -- Eleanor Roosevelt died in 1962. And I got an A on my term paper.)Julie Gerstenblatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01543129721507451657noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880680599035859238.post-31665846309538569182012-02-22T13:39:00.006-05:002012-03-27T20:03:55.203-04:00Fake Academy Awards 2012Last year, my husband and I created a matrix in order to determine how to win an Oscar in 14 easy steps. <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/julie-gerstenblatt/how-to-win-an-oscar-in-13_b_829882.html">You can view it here on the Huffington Post</a>. <br />
<br />
So, without further ado, from our imaginations to your computer screen, here are the top Oscars that no one in Hollywood will be receiving this year. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Best picture set in France in which all the actors speak with British accents: </span> <br />
Hugo<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Best picture set in Sweden in which all the actors speak with slightly different, untraceable, can’t-quite-put-your-finger-on-where-they’re-from accents: </span><br />
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIQs_HMOCqDi-Ye1jDMmtbeVmFVSPCoUZwMGNupf3Kk0rg0BtT6HUQ_d-PnZ3XHNxCop8_DPvJnqDMPCd3U6XJ_78GJUfNDVweRaC6nmL6GLmdZepSnj30zkP6i6EVViyEfgp9jKklmQ/s1600/images-5.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIQs_HMOCqDi-Ye1jDMmtbeVmFVSPCoUZwMGNupf3Kk0rg0BtT6HUQ_d-PnZ3XHNxCop8_DPvJnqDMPCd3U6XJ_78GJUfNDVweRaC6nmL6GLmdZepSnj30zkP6i6EVViyEfgp9jKklmQ/s1600/images-5.jpeg" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Best period mustache.</span> And the nominees are:<br />
Jean Dujardin for The Artist<br />
Sacha Baron Cohen for Hugo<br />
Glenn Close for Albert Nobbs<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Best dramatic actor on 4 legs.</span> And the nominees are:<br />
Joey the horse from War Horse<br />
Rosie the elephant from Water for Elephants<br />
Maximilian (Blackie the Doberman) from Hugo<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Best comedic actor on 4 legs.</span> And the nominees are:<br />
Dolce (Palmer the Pomeranian) from Young Adult<br />
The dog (Uggie the Jack Russell) in The Artist<br />
<br />
(I’d like to make a prediction here. Uggie is the clear frontrunner, having won this year’s Palm Dog award at Cannes and having already played a dog in Water for Elephants. Palmer the Pomeranian has no prior experience in films and was hard to work with, according to co-star Charlize Theron.)<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Best Acceptance Speech: </span><br />
The Artist<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Best Brad Pitt film.</span> And the nominees are:<br />
Oh, you know what they are, right? In case you don’t stalk him like I do, it’s Moneyball and The Tree of Life. The odds are, that when you take Brad Pitt and put him in a baseball film based on a book about sabermetrics, there is a 37.5% chance of a win, based on prior statistics in which he was nominated for 5 Golden Globes but only won 1, most recently losing to George Clooney for best actor. Now, if you also account for the 4 Oscar nods Pitt’s received over his career, plus the 4 BAFTA nominations, and if you multiply that by the number of children he has, both biological and adopted, you will discover absolutely nothing about The Tree of Life.<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Best dramatic, sad-as-heck movie that was marketed as a comedy: </span><br />
The Descendants<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Best movie that I can’t make fun of in any way, shape or form because of the 9/11 subject matter: </span><br />
Extremely Loud, Incredibly Close<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Best Julia-Child-as-Margaret-Thatcher Award: </span><br />
Meryl Streep for The Iron Lady<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Actress you hope wins so that she doesn’t act out afterwards in anger and retribution:</span><br />
Rooney Mara for The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo<br />
<br />
Best movie in which the director realizes he’s aged out of playing the fumbling, bumbling romantic lead:<br />
Midnight in Paris <br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Best movie based on a novel that took forever to get published, thus giving hope to frustrated novelists, like myself, and the hopeful mothers of these novelists, like my mother, who brag about their offspring at dinner parties despite the fact that their creative, brilliant children haven’t sold a manuscript. Otherwise known as The But Look What Happened to Katherine Stockett Award:</span><br />
The Help<br />
<br />
Think of others? Feel free to add them below. Let’s watch the fake awards pile up, at least until the real ones do this Sunday, February 26th on ABC.Julie Gerstenblatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01543129721507451657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880680599035859238.post-51918102777878676692012-02-15T11:03:00.000-05:002012-05-09T11:58:54.866-04:00Lessons from Downton Abbey: A Jewish American Princess studies the Dowager CountessI admire the British for so many reasons. They have a rich history of beheading enemies of the monarchy without ever compromising afternoon tea. They colonized half the globe and yet managed to ensure that no other colony’s accent would sound exactly like theirs. In particular, I idolize the Brits for their fictional characters. If shipwrecked on a deserted island and in need of reading materials to last a lifetime, I’d much rather have aristocratic and feisty Emma Woodhouse and her charming Mr. Knightly with me than Puritanical Hester Prynne and her pastor, Arthur (yawn) Dimmsdale. Give me Heathcliff and Catherine! Bring me my Bridget Jones! Oh, heck, just give me any book that was later turned into a movie starring Hugh Grant and/or Colin Firth! And, now, thanks to Downton Abbey, make sure that I always have the BBC on my telly. (Yes, even on that deserted island.)<br />
<br />
Turns out, there’s a lot a Jewish girl from New York can learn from the fictional, Victorian-Era Crawleys and their estate in North Yorkshire. In honor of the upcoming finale of Downton Abbey’s second season, I’d like to share some of these delicious bits of knowledge.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">1. </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">Marry your cousin.</span><br />
Clock ticking? Desperate for a mate? Tired of being set up by your mom’s gay hairdresser? Sick of having half of your grandmother’s mahjong group insist they have the perfect guy for a “mature” woman like yourself? Dear Jewess, don’t fret. The next time your dad worries about who will take over his condo in Boca once he passes on, ensure him that you’ve got his back. Promptly fall in love with your cousin and gain an immediate heir to the estate. Now, don’t go screwing things up by, let’s say, screwing a Turk who then dies in your bed or by pretending you don’t love your cousin when you really, really do. Don’t let the cousin go off to war on Wall Street without telling him how you feel. Worry later about the genetic complications this might prompt, including blood-clotting disorders; for now, stay focused on Boca.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">2. Just shut up already.</span><br />
When people ask me how I am doing, I actually tell them. Sometimes, I go on for several minutes, blabbing and spewing and confiding, analyzing and hypothesizing and then circling back to the original point with some sort of diarrhea of the mouth. What can I say? This is nearly unavoidable when the double helix of your DNA looks like Fran Drescher and Woody Allen snake dancing. An English Lady would never behave like that. She would hold her tongue and smile in mixed company, only divulging her true feelings to her maid. Even if she were bleeding internally during cocktails, I like to think she’d keep concerns about her spleen to herself. Perhaps if I wore a corset, I’d feel less like talking, and therefore, become all the more charming. I’d certainly look better. It’s worth a shot. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">3. Use your father’s influence for your own gain.</span><br />
Oh, wait. We Jewish American Princesses have already got this one down. Check it off the list! <br />
<br />
Interestingly, gossip about season 3 of Downton Abbey has some suspecting that Cora Crawley, wife of the Earl of Grantham and daughter of American dry goods multimillionaire Isidore Levinson is actually…gasp…Jewish. With a name like Levinson, it’s certainly possible. And it would help to explain the overlapping behaviors between Jewesses and Countesses, at least in this instance.<br />
<br />
(Read the full piece <a href="http://www.tabletmag.com/scroll/89419/a-rigorous-inquiry-into-lady-grantham%E2%80%99s-jewishnss/">on Tablet here</a>.)<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">4. When and if that doesn’t work, sneak around behind Papa’s back.</span><br />
This is really fun. There is no telling what can be done once dear old Papa is out of the loop. This is how most of my shopping at Bergdorf Goodman was done when I was in high school. Afterwards, I would hide the packages so my dad couldn’t document the trouble my mom and I got into with his Amex. But now I see that this was nothing. When done with the English flair of a Crawley, you can achieve true greatness behind your father’s back. You can fall for your politically-minded chauffer and still have time to dress wounds back at the makeshift convalescent hospital set up in your family’s dining room. You can, with help from your mother and her maid, remove the dead Turk from your bedroom and place him back in his own bedchamber. You can then work a romantic deal with a well-known publisher, exchanging your heart for the safety of your public reputation. Shhh. As long as Papa doesn’t know, then you are not a whore, or a slut, or in fear of being disinherited, disowned, or dishonored. There shall be no dissing whatsoever without Daddy’s knowledge. (Easier by far just to go on a shopping spree, if you ask me.)<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">5. In a tiered society, it’s best to be at the tippy top or the briny bottom.</span>Honestly, the servants and the Dowager Countess seem to have the most fun in and around Downton. There is much to scheme about when you spend all day mending fancy people’s socks and cleaning their underclothes, which explains why O’Brien and Thomas are so delightfully awful. Same with Maggie Smith’s Dowager Countess, the most influential of the upstairs bunch. Once she properly positions an off-kilter, feathered and flowered hat atop her curls, she’s got nothing to do all day but gossip and connive and dream up the next sharp barb. And that’s the way life should be as the top 1%. It’s not as much fun being stuck somewhere in the middle, like me, and like dear Bates. He’s got some money, but he’s also got a limp and had a wife who was a bitch. No one wants to be him. And then there’s Isobel Crawley, who has so little power next to Lady Grantham that she had to retreat to France for a while. She’s no fun at all. <br />
<br />
When all is said and done, in my next life, I’d like to come back as a British Dutchess or Countess or Heiress. Any ess will do. I’d like to have someone dress me for dinner and I’d want to learn how to ride a horse in the countryside without having to worry about my hay fever. <br />
<br />
Oh, and one last thing. I’d like to be able to celebrate Christmas, even if it is fictional and during wartime. Lucky for me, that’s exactly what the Crawleys will be doing this Sunday, February 19th. Now, raise your heirloom quality, cut-glass crystal goblet and follow my lead. Cheers, everyone.Julie Gerstenblatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01543129721507451657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880680599035859238.post-77523041285109263002012-02-03T09:29:00.000-05:002012-03-26T18:18:25.210-04:00Swedish Meatballs, a Storm, and My BasementThe title sounds like the set-up for a joke, where a man walks into a bar with a duck on his right shoulder and a cat on his left. But, really, it’s about my family, Hurricane Irene, and Ikea. As you can imagine, it’s a tragic-comic tale.<br />
<br />
My family and I were on Nantucket when Hurricane Irene hit last August. It was a change over weekend for us, during which time my mom and step-father, Howard, traditionally leave the rental house we all share on the island so that my dad and his girlfriend can come and eat their leftovers. Only, in the days leading up to Irene, the forecast predicted that my mom would not be able to get off the island and my dad would not be able to arrive. In order to decide what to do, my mom and Howard spend the better part of two straight days watching every news report delivered by every wind-and-rain-battered weatherman up and down the Eastern seaboard. Then they went down to the docks to check the ferries and then they came back to the house to worry. When they weren’t doing that, they were calling the Steamship Authority to check on the status of their waitlist placement. <br />
<br />
Meanwhile, back on the beach, my 9-year-old son, Andrew, was pacing. Andrew has a keen sensitivity to bad weather, creating in him some sort of internal barometer that works like a panic button in a home security system. All this talk about Hurricane Irene and our small shelter on an island 30 miles out to sea had him on the verge, ready to detonate. He noticed the swelling Atlantic surf and the dark, hovering clouds. Would we be okay? Would Nana and Howard, now 212th on the waitlist of cars needing to be ferried back to Hyannis, ever make it home? Would the lights go out? Would a tree fall on our house? How would Poppy and Lisa arrive?<br />
<br />
I had questions too. Mine were more along the lines of, what happens if my mom can’t get home but my dad’s plane arrives? For how long can a grown woman live under the same roof with her children, spouse, parents and their significant others without power, eating from rationed cans of Stop and Shop tuna fish?<br />
<br />
I mentally prepared for Survivor: Extreme Nantucket Family Vacation.<br />
<br />
Alas, the storm came and went without much fanfare, as did my mom and Howard. We hugged them goodbye and then prepared for my dad’s arrival.<br />
<br />
My mom called me later that night to say that she and Howard had checked on our house as promised on their way back to the city. <br />
<br />
“Do you want the good news or the bad news?” She asked. <br />
<br />
Our basement had flooded. This actually turned out to be the <span style="font-style: italic;">good</span> news. The bad news was that, because no one had been home, water had been soaking into the carpeting, couch, and walls for over 48 hours. “I knew it the minute I opened your front door,” she said. The smell of wet, moldy carpet had penetrated the whole house.<br />
<br />
Brett immediately went into action, calling our insurance agent from the patio at a local restaurant. Three out of the four of us had a nice dinner, as Brett kept excusing himself from the table to make and take calls. That became the theme of the week, Brett clinging desperately to his last few days of vacation, determined not to fly home to deal with this. He became like that “Can you hear me now?” guy, calling carpet removal companies and contractors from every dune on Nantucket. Hunched over slightly to block the sound of wind, one hand clutching a cell phone as he roamed the beach for a signal: this is how I remember that week with my husband.<br />
<br />
Our thinking was simple. Why fly home to deal with the mess when my mother was already there to handle the clean up? Because when it comes to cleaning up (or packing, moving, organizing, filing, or tap-dancing), there is no one better for the task. <br />
<br />
(I flatter her now publically in order to thank her once again for dealing with the mess and providing us with peace of mind. Although, I’m not sure how reassuring her calls of “Wow, this really is a disaster!” and “It still smells kind of bad, even with the fans” really were, come to think of it.)<br />
<br />
A week later, we arrived home, assessed the damage, and went about renovating. New walls, new carpeting, new paint. Next step: a trip to Ikea for furnishings. We wanted to convey Tween Chic. <br />
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Comedian Amy Poehler once said in an interview that ‘Ikea’ is the Swedish word for ‘argument.’ Brett and I heartily agree. The first argument we had was about which Ikea to go to. Brett said no to New Jersey, and I said no to New Haven. We settled on Brooklyn. The next argument was with our children, who wanted to know why we insisted they eat Swedish meatballs at a furniture store and for how much longer we planned on torturing them with sitting on couches in make-believe living rooms. “Do you guys like this one? Or this one?” I asked. <br />
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“WE DON’T CARE ANYMORE!” Andrew explained, lying listlessly on the Karlstad. <br />
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We had so many decisions to make that we needed a return trip, sans children. A week later, for what reasons I’m not sure, Brett and I headed to New Haven. The argument this time was with a salesperson in the TV storage area, who explained that she was not allowed to help us pick the doors, hinges, legs, handle pulls or inner shelves for our Besta unit. For those of you who are not familiar with the Besta storage unit, there are approximately 427 individual choices one must make in order to build this cabinet, creating over 11,000 combinations on what is essentially just a receptacle for DVDs. The fact that no one helps you with this process, and that the unit comes in a zillion pieces, explains the $400 price tag and my escalating migraine.<br />
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But, in the end, it was all worth it. Thanks to Brett’s design sense and my love of shopping, we have achieved a really groovy looking subterranean hangout, if I must say so myself. For the record, others say it too.<br />
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“I love this!” My friend Jamie oohed, walking around the room for the first time. “And you said it’s all from Ikea?” <br />
<br />
“Yup.”<br />
<br />
“But where did you get the couch?”<br />
<br />
“Ikea.”<br />
<br />
“And this desk?” She caressed its smooth, sleek surface.<br />
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“Ikea. Everything is from Ikea.”<br />
<br />
“But…this chair…?” Jamie said, sinking into a copy of a mid-century Jacobson piece.<br />
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“Eye – Key – A!” I said, starting to laugh. “Everything!”<br />
<br />
(Well, except from the decorative pillows and cashmere throw and glass knickknacks from ABC Carpet and Home. A girl has to live.)<br />
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“It’s perfect!” She declared.<br />
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And it is. It’s cozy and hip and it has lots of seating and a mad awesome flat screen on which I can watch Downton Abbey in peace. <br />
<br />
My basement is now a perfect place to weather the next storm.Julie Gerstenblatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01543129721507451657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880680599035859238.post-82934968048100748322012-01-26T09:27:00.000-05:002012-03-26T18:18:25.225-04:00Sexy Grammar for Dummies: “The Bachelor”The lights are low. I have a glass of white wine in my left hand and a pen in my right. My high definition TV is flickering in front of me like a fire in a faux log cabin on a one-on-one date in Park City, Utah. It’s Monday night, my kids are asleep, my husband is at the gym, and I’m alone at last. Alone with the grammatically incorrect Bachelor, Ben Flajnik, and his sixteen beautiful, grammatically incorrect sister-wives. <br />
<br />
Tonight, I plan on getting serious with them. Tonight, I am writing down all of their infractions and giving a metaphorical rose to the worst offender.<br />
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It’s hard to rock a bikini and lounge all evening in a hot tub while simultaneously keeping hair and make-up in place. Everyone knows that. So imagine how nearly impossible it must be to do so while also confusing subject and object pronouns.<br />
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This is certainly not the first time that The Bachelor (or ette) has featured hotties that lack critical pronoun usage skills. Just to set the record straight: “I” is not automatically proper, no matter what your grandmother told you or how white your teeth are. In recent years, Bachelors Jake Pavelka and Brad Womack unrelentingly and unapologetically pummeled the English language week after week in their search for true love. <br />
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So, when Ben declared in the second episode of this season that it was “Time for Emily and I to explore our relationship,” I knew he was ready to find his perfect match, too.<br />
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Many fans of the show already recognize and accept the grammatical limitations of the participants, but we suffer through the rape of Strunk and White anyway, just for another glimpse of Fiji from a helicopter. But, what fans fail to realize is that they key to who (whom?) is chosen lies within sentence structures, not between the sheets.<br />
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Consider this. After just a few weeks in, I can predict who the finalists from season 16 should be. By cross-referencing the women’s speech patters with Ben’s, I have narrowed the search down considerably. My bachelor matchmaking skills aren’t 100%, but I can probably garner healthier results than the participants, who are wrong 15 1/2 out of every 16 times. I don’t usually brag, but it’s like my very own JDate for Dummies.<br />
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The front-runners include:<br />
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<span style="font-weight: bold;">Courtney </span><br />
We viewers don’t really like her, but Ben does. And ABC loves her for being the bitch that brings in the ratings. In sizing up the competition, Courtney said, “I think her and I are complete opposites.”<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Rachel </span><br />
She doesn’t say much, that one. But she did say, “I have to stay focused on Ben and I.”<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Jennifer</span><br />
“Clay Walker is a superstar. And he’s having a concert for Ben and I.”<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Emily</span><br />
Alas, even the pretty Ph. D. candidate makes mistakes. “I’m worried that, because Ben has such a strong connection with her, any animosity between Courtney and I could result in Ben thinking negatively towards me.” Oh, Emily, your speech is so wrong, but what you say is so right. Stay out of it, and keep your eyes on the prize.<br />
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Here’s what I’d like to see in an upcoming episode. Forget skiing down a hill in San Francisco or repelling illegally into a crater. Take all of the remaining women - wearing cute jean shorts and sundresses, of course - on a group date with Ben to the UCLA campus. There they will bypass the skateboarders and Frisbee throwers and enter the Humanities building, where they will have to strip down to their string bikinis and sharpen their Number 2 pencils. At the start of a bell, they will take the verbal portion of the SATs in a classroom with full-on central air conditioning. The last one to start crying gets a rose from Ben, who, shirtless, hugs her tight while uttering that well-worn Bachelor adage, “If we can make it through this, then there’s nothing we can’t do together.”<br />
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Now that’s some sexy television right there.Julie Gerstenblatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01543129721507451657noreply@blogger.com0