Relax at Yoga Haven

I recently got the chance to try a class at Yoga Haven 2, located at 91 Montgomery Avenue in Scarsdale.  The studio, owned by Betsy Kase, is the new outpost of the beloved Tuckahoe yoga studio, which Kase first opened 15 years ago.

            

This is not me.

“Back then, Madonna was on the cover of Time magazine doing yoga, and people couldn’t believe that you could look like her from doing only that,” Kase explained.  “Now, people have more understanding of it.”  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.

            

“Eleven year olds spend 8 hours a day sitting in a chair in school,” she said.  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.  That’s why Yoga Haven offers a variety of classes for kids and teens, including a Monday evening class just for boys.  “We do handstands and hang from ropes, and lots of other fun things,” she explained. 

Now, as you may know from other articles I’ve written, I am into spinning, not stretching.  But after pulling my calf from three consecutive days of fast, repetitive pedaling, I knew that I needed to try something else. Continue here.

The 10:52 Local

A day in free verse poetry

On the Starbucks lanai

dappled sunlight

watching the trains go by

iced grande green tea

sweetened

two dollars and thiry one

cents a day

after spin class

on a warm spring day

I stay hydrated and,

finished chatting,

head to DeCicco’s for

taco meat.

It’s Monday

So that is

dinner always

before piano practice and after

tennis, perhaps a stop at

the candy store

Where I steal a mini

peanut butter cup from Andrew’s

thoughtfully curated bag.

“Hey!” he shouts, but I unwrap

it and, pop, into my mouth it goes.

There are no calories from candy

meant for your kids;

everybody

knows that.

Zoe’s collection is mostly

chewy and bad

for my temporary crown.

I dig through and hand it back.

I could have bought

a Celine bag

with the money spent

on endodontics

but I needed

the new tooth

and the pocketbook

is always only a fantasy

like the beach house

and the movie deal

so I wave

to my reflection

in the storefront window

whenever I drive by.

There are always

nice things, as

my mother would say.

Finished shopping

for camp clothes

all labeled

Andrew’s first time away.

Upon safe return,

will he still let me kiss

him in public?

Do you have time for a mani-pedi?

a friend asks.

I have a book to sell and another

to write

(there’s always something

to write, a text, an email

a pin, a tweet)

but sure, mademoiselle.

Zoe and I will bond in July,

hang out at the town pool

apply sunscreen

and be lazy together.

There’s so much

I don’t know.

An uncertain world,

I manage it

through certain, predictable routines,

and try not to worry

like Brett does

as another train passes.

Digging through the junk,

we find small bits of beauty,

and in that way

life is like the sidewalk sale.

I drink it in.

And that’s my tale.

Looking forward to

summertime in the ‘dale.

My husband the...triathlete?

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.

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.

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.

Continue reading here...

100 Years

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. 

           

I’d like to introduce you to Rose Katz, who I call Nanny. 

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.

me and Nanny

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.

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.

“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.

What?  She asked me to write about her in the newspaper, did she not?

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.

“The milk is good for weeks!” Nanny told me once.  “Look at the date stamp.”

“That’s only before 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.”

“Well, not mine,” she decided. 

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?)

            

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.) 

            

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 after ripping off the tags (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.

            

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. 

Then she’ll launch into a story.

           

“Did I ever tell you about what Pop-Pop and I did when you were born?”

            

Only, like, ten thousand times. “I’m not sure,” I’ll say.  “ Maybe you should tell me again.”

There are few people that I love more than my grandmother, who will turn 100 on November 1^st, 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.” 

“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? 

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 about her to 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. 

She would tell you that I get all my creative writing talents from her.

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.)

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. 

Because - in this unique case, at least - I can.

To borrow a phrase of my grandmother’s, may we all be so lucky.

How Old is Too Old?

My son, Andrew, wants to know when he will be old enough to get a dog. The answer, scientifically speaking, is “When Mommy thinks you’re old enough to hear her curse when the dog chews through her Ugg slippers.” My daughter, Zoe, wants to know when she can get her ears pierced. The answer to this deep conundrum is, “At double digits, or once you remember consistently to flush the toilet every time you go. Whichever comes first.”

To vote, the magic number is 18. To drink, it’s 21. To start driving, 16.

Everyone wants to reach these markers of maturity, the signposts along the road of life telling them at what age they can begin. But people rarely stop to think about when they should just stop. Like, when exactly is one’s grandma too old to drive? It’s a slippery slope. Where to draw the line? (From experience, the answer in my family is, “When she gets into a major-minor accident in which police are involved although no one is really hurt except her ancient Oldsmobile and an Oak tree in White Plains.”)

Which brings me to the burning question behind today’s article: At what age should a grown wife, mother, and columnist just say no to learning hip-hop in a friend’s basement?

How old is too old?

To give you context for this physical and ethical dilemma, I’d like to first present some evidence from my mother, the 65-year-old tap-dancer.

“Ma,” I asked, calling her cell phone in the middle of the afternoon and interrupting her day with this crucial question, “How old is your tap dance teacher again?”

“Oh…” she thought, “80, 81. Why?”

I explained the topic I was wrestling with.

“Betty is not too old, she just has to wear sunglasses in the studio because the wall is so bright that it hurts her eyes. And she also holds on to that wall for balance.”

“Okay, thanks, Ma.” I was ready to hang up, having gathered enough research.

“And we kind of made our own tap shoes. We had the taps put onto orthopedic oxfords. They have arch support!”

“I’m confused…did you do this for Betty, or for you?”

“For both of us. Susan is the only other member of the class, and she’s still under 65, so she can wear regular tap shoes.”

Go, Susan!

So, of course, based on my fine genetic dance lineage, I went to the hip-hop class.

My friend Jen, who was hosting this event at her house, sent an email invitation including the date and time. She also mentioned that our instructor, Wadi Jones, is world-renowned.

As if that makes any difference to me. What am I? Hip-hop know-it-all, Jazzy JulieG? Did she think I wouldn’t show up if the teacher were just regular, because I’m such an accomplished hip-hop snob?

No, I went because it sounded like fun.

Right away, I realized I was not dressed correctly. Most of the women donned sneakers and sweatpants. I was in stretchy pants (good for movement) but a wool sweater (very bad for perspiration). My friend Kate, in her skinny jeans and riding boots, made me feel much better about my poor choice of hip-hop gear. Who knew that we were really going to dance? I thought it was kind of a joke, because I think everything is kind of a joke.

But Wadi is no joke. I know that now, because I have seen him spin on his head.

To learn the hip-hop routine (yes, routine) we put down our cups of sauvignon blanc and formed a few lines in front of Wadi, who was on the platform stage in Jen’s basement (yes, stage). He taught us how to pop and slide and glide and pump and walk (yes, walk. It’s just a grapevine). We learned important technical aspects of the ancient art of hip-hopping such as how to point correctly, with thumb facing down instead of up, so as not to appear like a cowboy with a fake gun. We even gave input, so that, when I jokingly said that one lurching-like move reminded me of something out of Michael Jackson’s Thriller video, Wadi changed the move and called it the Jackson. Eventually, when put to music (LMFAO’s Party Rock Anthem), the combination went something like this: “5, 6, 7, 8, and Jackson, and Jackson, and Jackson, and Jackson, and slide, and slide, and walk, walk, walk, walk, stop.”

Every fifteen minutes, I took off more clothing. My socks and sweater now lay in a corner by the couch. I wiped my brow with the hem of my shirt and piled my hair into a bun. People were panting. My back ached.

“It’s time to learn the cat daddy,” Wadi announced.

“Oh, good. I was wondering when you’d do that,” I said.

“It’s like you’re rolling a wheelchair.”

Now the man was speaking my language. I rolled my wheelchair quite successfully.

“Next we’re going to dougie.”

I wanted to know if he knew a move called shvitzing through my tank top. I also wanted to know why my moves had so much bounce, making them less gangsta and more cheerleadah.

After an hour plus of hip-hopping, my brain and body were tired. I couldn’t keep up and I kept forgetting the new part of the routine. But I was having a great time. We all were.

“We should do this again!” Someone exclaimed and a bunch of us nodded our sweaty heads in agreement.

“We should practice and then perform as a flash mob at elementary school pick-up!” One columnist declared. (What? Hysterical idea, no?)

Another woman decided that we might lend ourselves out as the entertainment for the teacher appreciation lunch in the spring.
After Wadi left, we stood around chatting about the kinds of things middle-aged women talk about, like doctors’ appointments and vacations. My friend Maya, pregnant with her third child (yes, pregnant and hip-hopping), asked if I could recommend a good local mohel. We had quickly returned to the status quo, but I like to think that we had all been changed in some small way.

I know that by the next day, I had changed. My sciatica was radiating pangs of regret down my backside, and my Achilles tendons were sore (yes, Achilles tendons. Told you I was too bouncy.)

“What did you expect?” My oh-so-supportive husband, Brett, asked at breakfast. “That’s what happens every time you decide to do a back flip off a diving board or perform some gymnastics.” He imitated my voice and continued. “Look, I’m going to do a double round-off!”

“That’s not even a thing,” I said. “It’s a round-off back handspring. And it hurts like hell.”

In my mind, I’m 16. I’m a gymnast and a cheerleader and my eyes work just fine without reading glasses. In my mind, I can move with the best of ‘em. I bet, if you asked Betty, the 81-year-old tap dance instructor, she would say she feels the same way. Because, on the inside, we’re all young. We’re agile and strong and wrinkle free and dancing our asses off.

So, how old is too old?

Don’t ask me.

Working out? Listen Up! What will be your gym anthem of 2012?

Certain songs make me nostalgic for a particular time or place. The first kiss song. That break-your-heart, break-up song. The crackling ember campfire song that makes me long for sleep away camp even though I hated sleep away camp. When these tunes come on the radio as I’m driving along in my SUV, I am instantly flooded with memories. Air Supply, Donna Summers, Joanie Mitchell. I know I’m lame (and old), but, as long as the windows are up, I sing along.
And then there are the Gym Anthems.

If you go to the gym a few times a week like I do, then you know what kind of tunes I’m referring to. Think top 40, heavy-bass, techno/dance music.

Gym Anthems are songs that come on the car radio and make me think of doing push ups. Of pedaling as fast as is humanly possible on a stationary bike in a Cycling class. Of counting reps as I do bicep curls with 2-pound weights in hand. Rihanna. LMFAO. Flo Rida. The strangest sensation comes over me when I hear one of these tunes outside of the walls of the gym. I’ll be driving to pick up my kids from school, and bam, on comes Rihanna’s latest and greatest, the one that sounds like this: “We fell in love in a homeless place….” and it’s like I want to start running on a treadmill at a 4% incline.

My response to Top 40 music is Pavlovian.

I’m pretty sure that’s when Rihanna imagined her album going platinum or whatever, she did not sit around with her producers fantasizing about some 40-year old suburban woman recognizing her #1 single as a cardio torture song.

I’m pretty sure that this tune was meant for rocking out at a club.*

*And, no, New York Sports Club doesn’t count.

Similarly, when Adele wrote her amazingly sad ballad “Someone Like You,” did she sit at the piano during a creative explosion and think, “I want to write the hottest cool down song of the year?” Does Adele know that every time I hear this song, I am stretching my hips after spin class and basically staring at my own crotch? DOES SHE KNOW THIS? I really feel like this is important information to share with the artist. I could use her own lyrics and everything, saying, Adele, I hate to turn up out of the blue uninvited, but I couldn’t stay away, I couldn’t fight it….

So. This phenomenon got me thinking. Since so many people will be heading back to the Stairmaster this January, with a renewed club membership and a renewed sense of purpose, I thought I’d help you find the right tunes. What would be some fun pairings of music and gym activities for the New Year, like partnering wine with cheese or wine with a glass? What will be your ultimate Gym Anthems of 2012?

Here are some teams to try.

Doing box jumps:
“Never Again” by Ja Rule

Running up and down stairs while your trainer looks on menacingly:
“Titus Andronicus” by Titus Andronicus

Getting stuck in the last row during a filled-to-capacity spin class:
“Fat Bottom Girls” by Queen

Counting sit-ups with the occasional wink-and-nod to your hot self in the mirror:
“Gold on the Ceiling” by The Black Keys

Subtly adjusting one’s package, surreptitious nose digging, picking of thwedgie (thong wedgie), or yoga farting:
“I Wanna Do It” by Sonny and the Sunsets

Running on a treadmill while watching a Zumba class through a glass partition:
“Armada Latina” by Cypress Hill, featuring Pitbull and Mark Anthony

Sizing up the competition before a group fitness class begins, such as, who brings her own yoga mat, wears the newest Lululemon tank, has the biggest pocketbook hanging off the thinnest arm….you know, basic stuff like that:
“Fly” by Nicki Minaj & Rihanna

Bouncing on an elliptical machine to a Guilty Pleasure Song that you don’t tell anyone you bought, and, when a friend walks by, you immediately change over to Coldplay on your ipod:
“Love you Like a Love Song” by (yikes) Selena Gomez

Strutting and/or Peacocking and/or bending over the water fountain provocatively:
“Can’t Touch This” by MC Hammer (men)
“Vogue” by Madonna (women)

Relaxing during a shower and a steam using bath products pocketed from a W hotel:
“5 O’Clock in the Morning” by T-Pain and Lily Allen

Waiting in line for a post-workout smoothie in your Free City hoodie:
“Pumped up Kicks” by Foster the People

Sitting on the couch after deciding not to go to the gym in order to catch up on new episodes of The Bachelor:
“This Year’s Love” by David Gray (Yes, there’s a song for that. Turns out, there’s a song for everything.)

Good luck, gym rats and couch potatoes. Let me know what you’re listening to while signing up online for your favorite spin bike, or doing tai chi, or reading Self magazine….

The Counter-Resolution Revolution

Happy New Year, everyone. In thinking about what to say at the beginning of 2012, I have decided to copy Harvard Business Review bloggers Peter Bregman and Dorie Clark. Instead of just divulging what they want to accomplish in the New Year, they each wrote their own lists of what they will try to ignore in 2012. Making a list of what not to do? Now, that’s something I definitely can do.

1. I am not going to rip out pages of recipes from magazines and pretend that I am going to cook them someday. I am not. Ever. Going. To. Make. These. Recipes. There, I’ve admitted it. I have a problem. I rip out about 10 recipes a month from magazines like Martha Stewart’s Living and Food and Wine because the pictures look so appealing, and I think, I can totally make that! Not only can I make it, I will, and when I do, my life will improve! Dinner conversation will elevate with that meal on the table. I will throw elegant, simple dinner parties! And then I’ll get to buy myself a new outfit! So I rip. And then I pile these recipes in a corner in my kitchen, and then I file them in binders based on type of dish (I have an entire binder of side dishes, another for main courses, one for desserts…you get the picture) and then….nothing.

Guess what? These papers do not magically turn themselves into food. No parties with snazzy apps and rosemary-infused cocktails jump from the two-dimensional glossy world into the real 3-D of my kitchen island. Knowing this, I’ve tried to cut back. Now I only let myself tear pages of things that seem do-able. Like spicy mixed nuts. That’s something achievable, right? Or butternut squash and apple soup. With the mixed nuts as garnish, perhaps. But who has the time? Or the energy? Or the fingers? Last week, I actually cooked a full-on 3-D meal three nights in a row (using an actual cookbook, not the collection of random pages, of course). The first night, I burned my ring finger when a bubble of oil from the frying pan got me. The second night, I put a baking dish in the over without a mitt and burned a knuckle. The third night I cut my hand while chopping vegetables.

In the New Year, I am ordering in and gifting my culinary magazines to the dentist’s office.

2. I am not going to pretend I read the Harvard Business Review, or any other news-related periodical for that matter, besides The Scarsdale Inquirer and the Sunday Times. When I name-dropped above, you thought I was smart, didn’t you? You thought, wow, Julie reads scholarly periodicals. Nope. Truth is, my husband, Brett, reads the Harvard Business Review and everything else, and then he emails me links to articles he thinks I would like. He’s the clever one. I am merely arm candy. And I’m tired of it. In the New Year, I am not going to sit around looking cute and getting lost in fiction the way I always have. Occasionally, I am going to curl up with the newspaper and turn ugly with frown lines.

3. I am not going to be bothered by people who do things that bother me. Like the woman near me in spin class who totally can’t get on the beat and has no idea how to do tap-backs (don’t ask). This irks me. It threatens to take me out of my zone. But I resolve to shut her out, this symbol of rhythm-lacking humanity, in order to find peace with myself.

Same with the curly-haired woman sitting in my sight line at the diner who plays with her curls. She digs deep with her pointer finger and grabs one, and then curls it around her finger and then plays with it. Then drops it – I can breathe now – and then picks it up again. I almost say something to this woman, but what is there to say? Listen, there’s no denying that I am a crazy person. But, I really can’t focus on my Greek salad because of your compulsive hair-twisting habit, so could you maybe just sit on your hands until your food comes? Thanks!

In the New Year, I will try not to say any of this out loud.

4. I am not giving up on books in 2012. I have a Kindle. But, still, I like to buy books. Real books with real pages with real sounds and scents when I hold them close and turn the pages. Ah, a book! In my hands! With a glossy dust jacket, and some heft. It’s so delish. (I know, I know, I should be reading the newspaper. Perhaps on my Kindle?)

There are definitely times when I use and enjoy my Kindle. Like, when reading a ginormous tome like Laura Hillenbrand’s Unbroken or Ken Follet’s Pillars of the Earth. An e-reader is perfect under such weighty conditions. Or, when going on vacation. I tend to read a lot when I’m away, and so it’s fun to load up my Kindle with a nice list of books, and then see how many I can get through while ignoring my children on the beach.

But a list on a Kindle isn’t quite the same as a stack next to my bed. Each book in that stack is filled with promise, each unique in size and feel, and, thus, each creates a distinct and separate reading experience.

Furthermore, I am not giving up on bookstores. There is something so wonderful about browsing and dwelling and discovering that gets lost with the point-and-click efficiency of Amazon. Not that I don’t love my Amazon Prime. But that’s for another article entirely.

5. I am not going to read and respond to emails during certain stretches of the day. A lot of people have this on their list, I know. In general, I am not a super-plugged in person, and I don’t feel I spend too much time in the virtual world. But, I do notice that my attention is pulled towards the laptop in the kitchen during dinner-and-homework time, which is the exact time when I should be focusing on my children. It’s become a habit that makes me seem efficient, as I can respond to emails quickly while my kids work quietly. I am nearby, so they can ask me for help when they get stuck on something. (Not that I’m much help with 4th grade math.) But, because the computer is at the desk, I end up sitting with my back to Andrew and Zoe the entire time. I have realized that this is rude, and not just because of where I sit. 5:00-7:00 at night is not my personal work time. It is my time to work with my children. I will keep the laptop closed. I shall make dinner and – no, wait, I can’t do that anymore…I shall flip through a magazine instead – no, wait, I can’t do that anymore - I shall use this time to read the newspaper! Yes. And, as for my emails? You will hear from me eventually.

I hope this inspires you to think of things to ignore in 2012. And, as long as I’m not on your list, I approve.

Octoberfest

On a chilly weekend last October, my family and I headed to Providence, Rhode Island for something called WaterFire. (When translated into the dialect of the people of the smallest state of the union, this event is known as WatahFiyah.) WaterFire is pretty much just like what it sounds to be; bonfires are lit on the waterways that run through Providence, illuminating the river and carrying the scent of a giant campfire throughout the capital. Downtown streets are closed to allow for pedestrian traffic, and music plays while visitors shop and eat at carts set up by local vendors.

I kind of hate WaterFire. I’d do anything not to go.

“But it’s so beautiful,” my mother-in-law would say.

“Too crowded,” I’d complain.

“It’s a work of aaht,” she’d explain for the umpteenth time.

“Too commercial, too forced,” I’d say.

And yet, here I was, attending WaterFire. Why?

Because the final WaterFire of the season, the one held in October, honors people living with – and dying from -- breast cancer. This event, known as Flames of Hope, is sponsored by the Gloria Gemma Breast Cancer Resource Foundation. My mother-in-law, Linda Gerstenblatt, would be a torchbearer. She received this honor because she was fighting breast cancer.

Before the actual bearing of the torches, there were several hours of waiting around in the New England cold. During this time, my family and I bought pink cake, pink hats, and pink fleece gloves. A tent was set up selling all manner of motivational knick-knacks and “fun” breast cancer t-shirts, such as the ones touting “Saving Second Base.” Uch.

“Seriously?” My husband, Brett, asked when I ducked out of the tent and told him about these seemingly cute but completely offensive t-shirts. I looked at my mother-in-law, who was trying to smile and keep her spirits up, though I know she was already exhausted from the day of rehearsal and preparation. The main event – with motivational speakers and then the parade of torches – was still over an hour away.

Linda was already well into a two-year prognosis for an aggressive form of incurable, inoperable breast cancer. Five years earlier, she had been treated for another, curable form of breast cancer. Over the past 18 months, Linda had been diligently marching through rounds of chemotherapy, and when one stopped working, she would try another.

Linda was so beyond saving second base.

The game she was playing followed completely different rules. Her goal was to outwit the cancer cells and buy time by constantly staying one breakthrough drug ahead of the tumors. Her goal was to attend my son’s bar mitzvah.

My son is nine.

So, please excuse me for being cynical.

That night, I knew I should be more upbeat. I knew that the event was raising money to support local breast health organizations. But I had taken off my pink-colored glasses and now everything around me felt fake, from the pink-ribboned teddy bears to the pink LED light up ribbon pins. People were eating funnel cake while my mother-in-law was dying. Some vendors were donating money to breast cancer research while others were clearly profiting from the disease.

“It’s like a cancer carnival,” Brett said, as if reading my mind. “A breast cancer theme park.” It was so true. All we needed was a pink-ribboned Minnie Mouse to turn this into Disneycancerland.

And yet, my mother-in-law, wearing a pink satin ribbon on her coat, seemed to be…into it. But when I asked her if she was having a good time, she merely shrugged.

I kept my jaded opinion to myself. This wasn’t about me.

As the darkness fell, it was time for the parade of torchbearers to head down to the riverfront. My children and Brett and I waited by a metal railing along the route, hoping to catch a glimpse of GG (short for Grandma Gerstenblatt) as she walked by. By then, the temperature had dipped into the 30’s. The so-called motivational music was the theme song from Titanic. Titanic! What genius picked that? It had been a while since I’d seen that film, but I felt pretty sure it didn’t end well. For like anybody. Instead of feeling emotionally transcendent, I kept picturing Leonardo DiCaprio with icicles hanging from his chin slipping under the surface of the Atlantic. I took a cleansing exhale and watched my breath form a smoky ribbon. And then my mother-in-law marched by.

When I returned to New York, I felt so depressed. Why couldn’t I do a better job at rallying? Why couldn’t I just put on a happy face, stay positive and catch the spirit of breast cancer Octoberfest?

What was wrong with me?

And, moreover, what had gotten into Linda?

You see, the first time my mother-in-law was diagnosed with breast cancer, she wanted very little to do with pink culture. Fine, she would wear a little pink, but that’s because she always wore a little pink. (And decorated with more than just a little pink. The exterior of her home was painted that color. Oh, and the interior too. And the leather couch in the den? You guessed it.) So, if it wasn’t the color that sent her running, what was it?

Maybe it was a form of denial – like, if I don’t join the rally, then I don’t really have breast cancer. Maybe it was too overwhelming to look at masses of strangers embracing each other over a shared trauma and find a way in, while still keeping your selfhood intact. Because with the diagnosis of breast cancer -- much more than with any other disease – a woman becomes an unwitting part of the party and the voice and the cause and the race and the walk that has become de rigueur. She becomes a torchbearer.

And, in a way, so do the people who love her.

But an interesting thing happens when much of the battle cry is about getting your passport to survivorship. Since this incredibly strong culture has been built around “She-roes” - strong women fighting breast cancer so publicly - there is very little space for those who just want to rest. Those whose faith is failing. Those whose bodies just can’t keep up, whose lungs, as my mother-in-law’s did, begin filling up with fluid until it becomes impossible to breathe.

On July 16th of this year, Linda passed away. She was 63 years old.

The other day, I headed to Bloomingdales. I know this seems really off topic, but stay with me here. You see, Linda loved Bloomies. After treatment at Dana-Farber Cancer Center in Boston, she and my father-in-law, Steve, would head to Bloomingdale’s for some retail therapy and a frozen yogurt. Linda especially loved Bloomingdale’s during October, when it was all aglow with pink for The Cause, and when fall fashions were ripe for the picking. Last year, she and Steve read through their Think Pink catalogue in anticipation of a cancer-infused buying spree. There would be pink lipstick to buy and pink frozen yogurt in the café.

Only there wasn’t any of that. The store hadn’t received the items mentioned in the catalogue, and the yogurt was only available on Tuesdays.

They left the store with nothing but actual breast cancer.

When I walked into the store in White Plains the other day, I couldn’t help but think of Linda. I was immediately drawn to the middle aisle on the first floor, in that space between the escalators. An art installation is there, with cartoons by breast cancer survivor Marissa Acocella Marchetto. This artist calls herself, and the book that is being turned into a movie, Cancer Vixen. “Instead of seeing myself as a victim, I see myself as a vixen,” she writes. “If you can’t see yourself overcoming something, then you won’t do it.”

Ouch.

Excerpts for her cartoons adorn the walls. In one, the vixen stares down cancer, a tall figure shrouded in grey, like Harry Potter’s dementors, only curvier. “Cancer,” the caption reads, “I’m gonna kick your butt! And I’m gonna do it in killer 5-inch heels!”

Linda fought a brutal fight. And she loved her high heels. But one nasty side-effect of some chemotherapies is neuropathy that robs you of the ability to feel your feet. This happened to Linda, so that it eventually became unsafe for her to wear those beloved heels. And it eventually became too hard to kick cancer’s butt, even with a mother-in-law’s iron will.

I applaud people who use their negative experiences to fuel their passion for living. I love that so many breast cancer survivors feel motivated to help themselves and others in the fight. I understand that there is power in numbers, and that people need support when they are down.

But what ultimately motivated Linda to join the fight? To this day, I’m not entirely sure. She did not communicate her feelings well, which exacerbated my own confusion about how to act around her and whether or not to embrace the pageantry that went along with the breast cancer cause. Linda was a tough nut to crack. Sometimes, she seemed to be enjoying an event, while at other moments she seemed resigned, like she was acting out of a sense of obligation. But, in the end, I believe that she wanted to be helpful, and she wanted to be heard.

This October, both my sister-in-law and father-in-law will carry torches in Linda’s memory. Together we will walk in the Making Strides campaign in Providence with our GG’s Gang t-shirts. We will keep marching, and we will keep fighting, and we will wear our pink, because that’s the way Linda would have wanted it.

Weather or Not

I come from a long line of Women Who Dress. No matter how insignificant the occasion, we make sure we have just the right thing to wear for it.

Take my grandmother, for example, who never learned how to swim. But did that stop her from getting all dolled up in a bathing suit costume for 1920’s Coney Island? I should say not.

“I wore black stockings, rubber dress shoes, and a bathing suit that hit my knees,” My grandmother explained on the phone to me one night.

“Sounds hot,” I replied.

She laughed, reminiscing. “Yes, well, I was quite a beauty back in the day.”

“No, Nanny, I mean literally. Like h-o-t hot. On the beach in summer, in stockings and rubber shoes!”

“Did I mention that the bow on the bathing suit had to match the bow on one’s head?”

“Now that’s cool,” I added, confusing her completely. In the 1920’s and 30’s, my grandmother was absolutely “in” on the beach, even if she never actually went swimming.

Jump ahead to New York City, circa 1988. My parents moved in to the city from Scarsdale as I headed off to college. My mom had to adjust a little bit to urban life after years in suburbia. Walking the dog was a relatively new concept, for example. In Westchester, my mom could just open the back door and let Ellie out in the backyard. But in Manhattan, my mom had to take her out for actual walks.

Which begged the question, What to wear when walking the dog?

I mean, my mom was out in public. On the Upper East Side. In broad daylight. For a good ten minutes, a few times a day, in all seasons, all types of weather. What was a woman who dressed with shoulder pads supposed to do?

Walk the Dog Outfits were required.

Many of them.

Every time my mom and I would shop, she’d be looking for more appropriate clothing for this specific purpose. The barn jacket that wasn’t too long or too short? Perfect for walking the dog. The new Hermes scarf? Throw it on over any sweater and you can walk the dog in it! Ballet flats that looked like her Chanel ones but weren’t the real deal? Walk the dog in quilted fabulousness!

Now you will understand me. You will understand why, when I heard that torrential rains were forecasted a few weeks back, I did not think, oh, maybe I better stay home and hope that a tree doesn’t fall on my house. No, my first thought was, it’s a perfect time to get those Hunter rain boots I’ve been stalking.

After all, one must be prepared, no matter the occasion. And this occasion was calling for some really bad weather. Like the Katz-Goldberg woman I was, I hoped to weather the storm in style.

So you don’t think me callous or shallow, my shopping excursion took place on the Thursday before the now-infamous Saturday hurricane/Nor’easter. I had no way of knowing just how devastating this storm would be, or how seriously it would affect the Village and its inhabitants.

I merely did what any fashionista would. I got all excited deciding what color rain boots to get.

Of course I fell in love with the one color that was out of stock. They were coming in Monday or Tuesday, at the very the latest, I was informed by the saleswoman. Our eyes met. “But you probably want them before that,” she acknowledged. “Like for this weekend’s rain.”

“Yeah, that was kind of the plan,” I agreed, picturing myself dancing through puddles on the streets of Scarsdale Village, a jaunty umbrella in hand, humming “Singing in the Rain.”

I sighed and left the store, my name on a waiting list, trying not to be too disappointed. The brown Hunter rain boots were not meant to be, not yet at least. I would have to weather this storm in my Uggs.

Of course, the last thing I was thinking about was footwear, when, 48 hours later, I found myself driving across the George Washington Bridge, returning from a bar mitzvah in New Jersey with 50 mile an hour winds whipping my car from side to side.

I had precious cargo with me, in the form of my son, Andrew, in the back, and my former bathing beauty of a 97-year-old grandmother in the passenger seat next to me.

We now all know what happened that night, as the rain and wind wreaked havoc on our local area. My family was very lucky, as we never lost power, and no trees fell on our house, property or street.

Without plans for my educationally-deprived children on the Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday after the storm, we ended up frequenting the diner, strolling the mall, and finding other, similar places to hang out and pass the time lest we go completely mad.

But with so many tress down and traffic lights out of commission, it was hard to reach the ice cream place. As I circumnavigated Edgewood and parts of Heathcote, I felt like Magellan, on the verge of charting a course westward to find the Spice Islands. Only my ship of sailors and I were bound for the land of chocolate covered gummy bears.

Land ho, we eventually made it! And what did we find when we arrived? The Last Licks Refugees.

There is really no other term to describe the homeless, powerless mothers and their sugar-high kids, wandering the Golden Horseshoe, left to their own devices without a school schedule to keep them sane.

Here were moms forced by circumstance into living with their very own mothers-in-law, with no discernable end date in sight. From wherever they were temporarily housed, be it the remote corners of New Rochelle to a luckier block of Scarsdale proper, it was Last Licks to which they came and congregated each day, telling tales and licking cones of fat free soft serve. Tales of frustration and spoiled food, of sleeping on couches, raising their voices at the people at village hall, begging, please, get that 1000 pound tree off my street. I cannot live with my in-laws another moment. My children must attend school. We love school!

My heart went out to these powerless masses, to the mothers and fathers who felt so adrift without their home base.
My cell phone rang as my kids and I were finishing off a pound and a half of candy while learning card tricks from Magic Al.
The shoe store had my boots!

We walked the few paces from Last Licks to retrieve them. My post-storm reverie had me wearing the new purchase while shin-deep in water in a neighbor’s basement, helping to bail them out. Forget singing in the rain!

But, alas, upon inspection, the Hunters were damaged. “We expect the re-order to come in about three weeks,” I was told. “We’ll call you when they arrive.”

I smiled and left the store, my name on another waiting list, not at all disappointed on this sunny day. After all, there would be other storms, other chances for rain. No one wants bad weather, but we know eventually it will come.

And next time, when it does, my boots and I will be ready.

Mirror, Mirror

My daughter, Zoe, is on her cell phone again in the back seat of our car.

I try to tell her that we have almost arrived at gymnastics, but she shushes me with a combination death stare and pointer finger in mid-air. One minute, Mom, that finger tells me. Can’t you see I’m busy, the look signifies.

She’s blabbing away to Tanner Oberstein, her boyfriend.

“Yes, Tanner,” she coos. “I miss you too, Tanner.”

I roll my eyes into the rear-view mirror, hoping she’ll take the hint and get off the phone.

As we pull into the parking lot, she makes her goodbyes. “See you soon, Tanner Oberstein.” There is a pause as she listens. “What’s that? You want to marry me?” Her eyes light up and she giggles before snapping her blue plastic Cinderella phone shut. Zoe gazes out the window, past the grey sky and asphalt, into the rainbow-hued Disneyland of her imagination, and sighs contentedly.

I don’t like to stereotype, but my 4-year-old daughter is such a girl.

Some of it is totally my fault. Like the fact that she enjoys getting her nails done. I confess: I introduced her to this activity, mostly out of desperation. How could I get a much-needed pedicure on a Saturday afternoon, with child in tow? Why, have her pick a color and get her nails done too!

I swear, I only planned on taking her the one time. That was it. It wasn’t supposed to become a “thing.”

But the women in the salon loved her and told her she was so cute. They complimented her clothing choice and they painted pretty flowers on her thumbs.

No one ever offers to paint flowers on my thumbs.

And I thought her self-selected outfit was kind of tacky, thank you very much. What other girl wears a pink and purple costume tutu over Capri-length blue leggings? With a sparkly tank top? I mean, besides from Madonna, circa 1984? It’s embarrassing. Adorable, they said. Your daughter is too sweet.

Zoe left the salon feeling like a million bucks. I walked around the room shelling out about a million bucks in tips to all the nice ladies who made Zoe feel like the princess that she’s pretty sure she is.

I used to worry about what people would think of me if I let Zoe march around in whatever zany combination of clothing she wanted to wear. Would they think I was negligent? Or worse, color-blind? Would they see us together and whisper, “What a shame. There goes a woman who cannot get her daughter to listen?”

But after a few tearful fights about wardrobe choices, I backed off. I won’t say which one of us ended up crying, just that Zoe always gave me tissues when I needed them, and patted me on the back, saying softly, “It’s okay Mom.” Then she went about her business of getting dressed as much like a sideshow attraction as was humanly possible as I re-applied my mascara and looked forward to preschool drop-off.

Sometimes I’ll just watch Zoe and wonder, where does this somewhat frightening – albeit cute -- behavior come from? How much of her girlitudes link directly to me, and how much is passed down through the ages?

Like the Taylor Swift Mylie Cyrus Phenomenon. I’m no geneticist, but I’m pretty sure there is a hot pink, sparkly genetic marker in Zoe’s DNA that causes unrestrained love for these female entertainers. I can’t explain her obsession (and that of many of my friends’ daughters as well) any other way. She was born with it.

While listening to Hannah Montana in the mornings, after she dresses, or before, or right in-the-middle, Zoe puts on her make-up. This involves Q-tips and blush brushes and a great deal of privacy. No one is allowed into her room while she’s getting ready.

There’s even a sign on her door that says so.

When Zoe looks at me as a female role model, what does she see? I hope I inspire more of a foundation in her life than the correct application of foundation.

(The other day, Zoe was scribbling furiously in her notebook. She told me she was writing an article. Now that’s more like it!)
But don’t even get me started about her shoe fetish.

It began, as many stories do, with a pair of espadrilles. It ended, as many stories do, with the following pronouncement: “They hurt my feet, but I love them.”

Now, who hasn’t said that about a great pair of toe-pinching, heel-rubbing, Band-Aid-needing shoes? But, I ask you, how many people say it at the age of 4?


Should I laugh, or should I worry?

I’ve settled on a little bit of both.

When Zoe “flirts” on her pretend phone with her pretend boyfriend, I worry that, someday, she will get her real heart broken by a real boy. I see in her my own enthusiasm for love, which, combined with an active and romantic imagination, can really backfire. Growing up, it was easy for me to assign wonderful traits to boys who really were not so wonderful or deserving of my attention. I hope Zoe is wiser than me, and that she doesn’t fall so hard, so fast. Unlike her mother, I hope she spends more time studying mathematics and less time doodling hearts on her notebook paper.

And I worry that our little power struggles will only grow as she grows, until she’s 12 and she slams the door on me and I yell at her and she yells back at me and I’m on the verge of moving out because we’re living in one of those horrible teenaged TV dramas. I worry that someday she won’t talk to me about her life any more, that she will roll her eyes at me when I ask how her day at school was. Maybe she won’t want to get her nails done with me anymore, preferring her friends’ company to mine.

But there’s still plenty of time before all that happens. If it ever does, that is. (Turns out, I have some Disneylike fantasies of my own, complete with mom and daughter Happily-Ever-Afters.)

So I take her to get her nails done now because I can.

At the salon, I study Zoe’s reflection in the mirrors lining the wall opposite us. Her feet swing far from the ground, her hands barely reach across the table to the manicurist. Today she has decided on two colors, and she instructs the manicurist to paint every other nail blue or purple, accordingly. “Just file, not cut,” she adds with authority.

Then Zoe turns to me. “What are you looking at?”

“You.” I shrug. “And me.”

“Okay.” She smiles, letting me.

Once Bitten

Do you know what makes me feel old? Vampire books.

Betcha didn’t see that coming. Truth is, neither did I.

A few weeks ago, I walked into Borders and started browsing. I made my way through the “New and Noteworthy” paperbacks, beyond The New York Times bestsellers, and past the 3-for-2 sale table. But nothing was calling my name.

I ended up wandering into the back where the YA/Teen section lives, realizing I hadn’t done that for a while. You see, my love for teen fiction runs almost as deep as my love for my own offspring. And it’s been around a lot longer.

But it’s hard to be completely faithful, you know. I’m a very busy person, and I can’t make room in my life for everyone all the time.

I swear, I only turned my back on it for a moment. A few months, at the very most.

And now I’m feeling guilty. Because, based on what I witnessed in Borders, it appears that I have been paying too much attention to my young children and not enough time to my first love. In the short time that I have been away from her, my teenager fiction has grown angry and dark.

In bookstores like Borders and Barnes and Noble, the brightly-covered “Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants” series and tartan-plaid and striped “Clique” titles have been shelved, along with anything else that might be considered “too cute” to teens. Instead, Goth-like paper candelabras hang theatrically over a huge new section of tables and displays promoting all things…vampire.

Almost every book in the section has a black cover (or blackish purple, or purplish black, give or take a touch of midnight blue) and uses what I can only describe as vampire font (something Vlad the Impaler and Dracula might choose were they to email each other). The craze started by Stephanie Meyer’s “Twilight” has picked up speed at an alarming rate. The proliferation of teenage vampire serials is bloody frightening.

To begin, there’s the Christopher Pike “Thirst” series, promoting “Human urges. Fatal consequences.” There’s Richelle Mead’s “Vampire Academy” (five books in all, so far), “The House of Night” novels by Kristin and PC Cast, and Smith’s “The Vampire Diaries.” In Alyson Noel’s “Immortals” series, it appears that the main characters are not vampires themselves, but I have a feeling they run into some, since they have “traveled through countless past lives – and fought off the world’s darkest enemies – so they could be together forever.”

Isn’t that sweet?

My personal favorite is “Intertwined” by Gena Showalter. The cover art is cool, and just check out this blurb: “Most sixteen-year-olds have friends. Aden Stone has four human souls living inside him. One can time-travel. One can raise the dead. One can tell the future. And one can possess another human.” I mean, talk about over-scheduling your teenager! Really. Someone has to tell this guy that he doesn’t have to be all things to all people. These days, I hear The Ivy League is looking for kids who excel at one thing.

Like just being a vampire.

Moving on.

As far as I can tell, there are at least six “Vampire Kisses” novels by Ellen Schreiber, who used to write fun, peppy things like “Teenage Mermaid” and “Comedy Girl” before realizing that what teens want these days are not fishy teens or funny teens but dead and/or possessed and/or ghost teens. So she wisely jumped on the bandwagon and is probably making a lot more money by doing so, if you don’t mind me saying.

In short, vampires are to teens what Chick Lit was to housewives a few years ago: an overnight publishing sensation.

I’m totally and completely out of the loop on this phenomenon. It’s not like I didn’t know about the “Twilight” series, it’s just that I sooooo didn’t care. I read the first 250 pages of “Twilight” and put it down, much to the (vocal and somewhat hostile) displeasure of my 6th grade students (and even some of my grown-up friends). Team Jacob or Team Edward? Whatever. And that’s the part that makes me feel disconnected, because I just don’t care about these vampire books, nor about the vampire blockbuster movies that spin off them, nor about the teens that become famous for playing vampires and werewolves in these movies.

Which brings me to “People” magazine.

Who are these supposedly-famous people in “People?”

I even asked my husband, Brett, if he could identify anyone in the latest issue. We had flipped through half of it without recognizing a single face.

“I recognize him,” Brett pointed with satisfaction.

“Yeah, but…” I began.

“What? He counts.”

“That’s the president.” I said. “Of the United States.”

“He’s in the magazine and I recognize him.” He smiled. “I passed your little test.”

“Ugh!” I groaned, turning the page and seeing fangs.

“What?”

“There are even werewolves in “People” magazine!”

“What do people see in such creatures?” Brett wondered, adding, “I wonder if the Obamas let their daughters read those types of books and see the “Twilight” movies.”

Good questions, actually.

Ones that I was now on the verge of calling them to ask. Right there from the teen section of Borders. With all these vampires staring at me, canines exposed.

Until I saw it. On the display shelf.

VC Andrews’ “Flowers in the Attic.”

Amidst the new millennium’s immortals and other, dark netherwordly creatures, there was a repackaged, black-covered homage to my youth. Hands trembling, I picked it up to find that it was actually the complete, 5-book Dollanganger series, including “Petals on the Wind” and “If There Be Thorns.”

The first of these books, published in 1979, was so popular that it shot to the top of the bestseller’s list in only 2 weeks and remained there for almost 4 months. So much pressure was put on the author to meet demands for a sequel that the publication date for the second was pushed up by several months. These books caused a stir. They were a teen sensation.

There was even a movie version, back when I knew who the people in “People” magazine were.

I loved theses gothic horror novels.

They made my heart beat fast.

As I sat there on the floor of the YA section in Borders, clutching one of my favorite teen series of all time, the world became whole again. Because, it turns out that I’m not out of touch with what’s hip and cool with teens. I just experienced it already, three decades ago, with a different sort of hero and heroine and a different sort of forbidden love.

Remember getting swept up like that?

Let’s hope that every teen experiences that sensation, of reading something so exciting, so fundamentally nourishing in its content that she cannot tear herself away. For a few stolen moments, the real world becomes less important than the world inside those pages.

Teenaged vampires. Huh.

It’s a trend I can really sink my teeth into after all.

Grow Old With Me

Do you remember where you were for New Year’s Eve, Y2K? Then good for you! Maybe you could help me remember where I was that evening. Because a whole decade has passed in the interim, and suddenly, my memory is not what it used to be.

In order to find out the answer to my Y2K mystery, I turned to my slightly younger and therefore perhaps more sharp-witted husband, Brett. He was of no help.

“Was that the year we went to San Francisco?” I asked.

“Perhaps,” he shrugged, returning to his newspaper. It was the morning of December 31st and I was recalling New Year’s Eves of yore.

“We saw Titanic out there. Was Titanic released in 1999?”

“Don’t know,” Brett shrugged. “Perhaps.”

I quickly went over the computer and checked on imdb.com. “No, Titanic came out in 1997.”

“Huh.” Brett replied. “Interesting.”

“Fine. You don’t care.”

“Not really, no.” Then he looked up from the paper and smiled reassuringly. “We were probably at Jodi and Evan’s, like we are every year.”

“Impossible. We didn’t even meet them until New Year’s of 2000.”

“Oh. Well then, there goes that theory.”

“I think I’m losing my mind.” I challenged, my voice rising slightly. “You don’t care that I’m losing my mind!” You see, I just finished reading Still Alice and now fight off troublesome thoughts of early-onset Alzheimer’s whenever I cannot recall a chunk of my own life’s information or when the words I need hover just beyond my mind’s reach.

Brett put down the paper and came around the kitchen island to give me a hug. “You’re not losing your mind, Julie. You’re just turning 40.”

Well.

There you have it.

2010 is the year I turn 40, everyone. I’m coming out. Loud and proud. And somewhat stunned.

“How did this happen to me?” My 97-year old grandmother asked me recently, staring into my wrinkled eyes with her own wrinkled eyes. “How did I become someone with a 40-year-old granddaughter?”

“I like totally don’t know, Nanny!”

Could time just slow down already? It was scaring my poor old grandmother.

Looking back, there were some neon yellow signs along the road of life telling me that I might be more than just older than I was last year. These were signs that I might actually be aging. This last year of the decade, the one that signified my upcoming movement from my late thirties into my early 40’s, was particularly telling.

It began with a phone call to my father last spring. He’s an ophthalmologist who always tells me not to worry when I call to describe an ailment – any and all ailments -- to him. Like, “Dad, my elbow hurts when I bend it.” His response? You guessed it: “Then don’t bend it.” Other treatments of his include ice packs, cold compresses, sleep, and time. As in, “just give it some time. You’ll be fine.” In short, he’s not an alarmist. So, when I realized that in order to write articles on my computer and actually see the words written on the screen, I had to squint or use 18-point font, I called my dad for some reassurance.

“I can’t see,” I told him.

He required clarification of my sweeping overgeneralization. “You mean, you can’t see where? When you drive at night at try to read street signs?” He asked.

“Yup. Can’t see.”

“How about when you look at the computer?”

“Can’t see.”

“What about reading a book or magazine?”

“Can’t see, can’t see, can’t see!”

“So come into my office and I’ll examine your eyes. And, Jules, do everyone a favor and take the train, please!”

And that’s how I ended up with one set of progressive lenses and umpteen pairs of reading glasses. I never really adjusted to reading with the progressives, you see, so now I have a pair of colorful reading glasses in every room in the house and in every pocketbook I carry.

I’m one of those ladies now. One of those, “Wait, just let me get out my glasses…I know they are in here somewhere…oh, where oh where did I leave them…ah!” ladies. When I saw the Meryl Streep movie “It’s Complicated” last week, I laughed at all the jokes about aging and thought, wow, Meryl’s character has some really snazzy purple reading glasses…I wonder where she got them? (A shout-out to all the hip, older women out there: La Dentelliere at home has some great, Streepworthy readers!)

When I accidentally left my glasses at home this past summer and found myself with a book and a beach but no way to read, I called my mom in a panic. “I need reading sunglasses!” I cried, desperately. “Do such things exist? Cheap and quick!” She relayed the magic cure: Eyebobs. Eyebobs are a miraculous invention for the mildly reading handicapable among us. They are over-the-counter, moderately priced, moderately chic sunglasses with a magnifying reading lens built in on the bottom. I even wore them in the Hamptons.

Yes, the Hamptons.

Because here’s one amazing part of growing older: I didn’t care what anyone thought of me in my slightly uncool, certainly not Chloe sunglasses.

Okay, maybe I cared a little bit, but being able to see was finally more important than being seen.

In the past decade, I’ve learned how to shift focus. True, my memory might not be what it was, and my eyes have become a little blurry, a little more mellow in their intensity. But I’m starting to see that these are all metaphorically good things. Because if I cannot remember what our argument was about, then I’ll be hard pressed to stay mad at you for very long, Brett. And if I can’t see perfectly clearly, then I cannot judge the extent to which my wrinkled forehead is truly, horribly, in-need-of-injections, wrinkled.

I know I’m not the first to write about aging in this way; Nora Ephron did a lovely, comic job of feeling bad about her neck. I’m just the first one to write about me aging in this way.

Welcome to my new column for 2010: Julie, on the verge of turning 40.

I’m interested and excited to see where this topic will lead me. I hope you are, too.

Wishing you a very happy and healthy New Year, however many candles may top this year’s cake.

That's Life

My four-year-old daughter, Zoe, came home from preschool the other day with a great idea. One of her little friends had brought an actual, live animal into the classroom for “show and share” time, and Zoe was inspired. “Can I bring my hermit crab to school, Mommy? Pleeeeeze?”

“Of course!” I agreed. “What a fun idea! We can take the crab out and let him walk around on the carpet. Your friends can even take turns picking him up.”

Unfortunately, when we got home to tell Sponge Bob Square Crab the good news, it was too late.

I recognized the signs of Sponge Bob Square Crab’s expiration right away. The poor thing, usually tucked tightly into his shell (hence the moniker “hermit”), was limply hanging out, exposing his entire face, neck and both claws to the elements. He was not just resting. He was resting eternally.

Zoe and my seven-year-old son, Andrew, were not as certain about Sponge Bob Square Crab’s demise, having never experienced death up close. “Oh, look, Zoe,” Andrew began, “I think your crab is getting ready to move into a bigger shell!”

That big shell in the sky, I thought, holding my tongue.

Shame on me. All I said was, “Uh, yeah, maybe that’s what it’s doing. Let’s wait for Daddy.”

I have some classic moves as a parent. One example that springs to mind is the “Why don’t you wait until Nana comes to visit” move. This strategy allows me to get out of buying my kids expensive things like tap dance shoes or video games, but then they get them anyway. I also have been known to use the “Your teacher won’t let you” excuse when I don’t want my kids to bring something particular to school. I have no idea whether or not the teacher really won’t let this item into the classroom, but it seems reasonable enough to my kids, and so they stop fighting me and put the toy away.

But my best, by far, is the “Let’s wait for Daddy” move. “Let’s wait for Daddy,” is code for “Mommy doesn’t want to handle this. Mommy is going to put you to bed, have a glass of wine, and make Daddy play medical examiner on the corpse of a deceased crustacean when he gets home after a long day in the city.” It also means, “Then Mommy is going to make Daddy break the sad news to you at breakfast tomorrow and bury the thing in the backyard before he takes you to the bus.”

It takes a village. Truly.

Anyway, before there was Sponge Bob Square Crab, there was Superchick.

Superchick was born last spring in an incubator in Andrew’s first grade classroom. Although a lot of the eggs did not hatch, Superchick and one other (aptly named Fluffy) made it into this world.

The first weekend after the chicks hatched, one of Andrew’s friends took the pair home to care for over the weekend. Andrew was there for a play date, and when I picked him up, he begged to be able to take the chicks home the following weekend, if the teacher selected him.

So, sure enough, the following Friday, I got the call from Andrew’s teacher, Mrs. B. Mrs. B is awesome. She’s really into teaching and really into the kids. She’s calm and organized and a lovely person. She’s the kind of teacher you always want for your children and sometimes are lucky enough to get. So when Mrs. B asked me if I’d like to take Superchick home for the weekend (Fluffy having already been taken to the farm earlier in the week), naturally I said yes.

The first day with Superchick was, hands down, the most fun I’ve ever had with a chicken. We took her out into the sunny backyard and watched her climb all over the rocks and peck at the grass. I have video of her stepping over Andrew, lying in the grass, and resting in the crook of his arm. Superchick was so lively and strong and silly. She had this wobbly little chicken walk and she chased Zoe up the hill, following as she called “Here, Superchick! Here!”

On Saturday morning, Superchick seemed lethargic. She couldn’t find her footing on the feeder, and kept slipping off it and landing on her soft little butt. I took her out of her cage to see how she managed on my kitchen floor, but her balance was no better. Up, down. Up, down. Every time I would right her, she would slip back onto her tush.

I kept a close eye on Superchick while lying outright to my kids about her condition. “She’s just so worn out from playing yesterday with you guys!” And “Let’s let her rest. She’ll be much better tomorrow.” I shooed them out of the house to attend birthday parties and to go to the park.

Late that Saturday night, I found Superchick lying flat on her furry back, feet up in the air. She looked over at me and sighed through the glass. Superchick wasn’t dead (yet), but she sure was pretending to be dead and it was freaking me out.

“I’m on the verge of killing the beloved class pet! I damaged the circle of life! I am a failure as a mother!” I confided to Brett. “This is a disaster!”

I hardly slept that night, picturing Superchick lying prone in her cage, never able to lay eggs for the world.

I emailed Mrs. B the first thing Sunday morning. She wrote back immediately, asking me to call her at home. An intervention was quickly arranged. “Let’s meet at the elementary school. I don’t want the chick to die in your house,” Mrs. B explained.

“Neither do I!” I agreed. “Good plan.”

I woke the kids to tell them the “exciting” news. “Guess what? Mrs. B called to tell me that Superchick is going to the farm TODAY! We have to get her ready. Right now.”

So the kids and I propped her up in her cage only to watch her topple over again. We put her in the car and headed over to our rendezvous spot with Mrs. B.

“Hi!” She smiled as we stepped out of the car. I rolled my eyes at her, but kept up the charade.

“Hi, Mrs. B! We are soooo excited for Superchick’s big day!” I fake-enthused.

“Yes!” Mrs. B began. Then I opened the car door, revealing Superchick’s glass box. “Holy…I mean, how do you do, Superchick…? Wow, you look…just great…?” she trailed off, momentarily losing the ability to stay enthusiastic.

Superchick, lying on her back with her feet straight up in the air, just turned her head toward Mrs. B and sighed.

“Andrew,” Mrs. B said, regaining her composure and looking my son in the eyes, “Thank you so much for watching Superchick this weekend. You did a great job.” Her sincerity brought tears to my eyes.

Because he really did do a good job.

And I probably did, too. But sometimes these delicate little creatures just don’t make it, even under the best of circumstances.
At least that’s what I tell myself when I think of fate of that poor little fuzzball, Superchick, and of Sponge Bob Square Crab as well.

You know what will make me feel better?

A dog.

Definitely!

Married...with Children

News flash! According to a new, long-term US study, people who are married with children are not all that happy.

Now that’s not exactly what the study reports. “After analysis of all the data, the researchers found that 90% of the couples had less satisfaction in their marriages after their first child was born.” I’d hate to think where it went from there after the second, third, and – dare I suggest it – fourth offspring joined the family.


The study also states that “children increase stress on marriages.” Really? Huh. I hadn’t noticed. I’ve been so busy enjoying potty training, projectile vomiting, tantrums, time-outs and homework that I haven’t even seen my husband Brett in weeks. How would I know if there was stress on our marriage, when all we do is talk about the kids or email each other about bills? Pure bliss!

Obviously, those of us who are married with children didn’t need this study to shed light on the matter. But now we have scientific information! Hard, cold facts! There it is in black and white: life was more fun B.B.

Before Baby.

In B.B. 2001, Brett and I spent three magical weeks traveling through Italy. We sipped cappuccinos and watched the sun sparkle on the ocean in Capri. We toured Tuscany, going from one wine tasting to the next. We visited Rome and Florence in all their summer glory. We bought Prada and Gucci. We ate delicious pasta and saw incredible artifacts everywhere we went.

And then we took a pregnancy test. In Italy. It was a beautiful moment, a spectacular place to discover this happy news. I remember climbing the hills in Positano that day, Brett and I holding hands, carrying between us our own special little secret.

Suffice it to say, I haven’t been overseas since.

But now that my children are a little bit older, I’d like to really start traveling again. Yes, sometimes I like to travel with them, but to call that sort of trip a true “vacation” would be misleading. Traveling with your kids is like moving to a different whine-zone. We usually meltdown at 6:00 Eastern Time, but this week, we are facing bad attitudes in Central Mountain Time. Although we have room service here, which is nice!

Last year, Brett and I were both working full-time. When trying to plan for a vacation, we faced a feeling familiar to working parents: guilt. “Can we go away without the kids during their school vacation?” I whispered to Brett one night over dinner.

Sensing that his own parents may be trying to ditch him, my son Andrew’s head snapped up from his mac and cheese. His big doe-eyes searched my face and then Brett’s. “What are you guys talking about?”

“N-nothing,” I stammered. “Just on the verge of planning a great family vacation!” And so, we decided that a tropical resort with a terrific kids’ club would be the perfect compromise. Brett would get to play tennis, I’d get a massage at the spa and read six novels, and the kids would make lifelong friends while learning how to swing from a trapeze. Then we’d meet every day for lunch at the all-you-can-eat buffet. What a happy, well-adjusted family we’d be, just like those people in the TV commercials! What could be better?

The first thing we didn’t anticipate was the toddler room at the Kids’ Camp. Two-year-olds cry in the toddler room. All day. They have snack, they cry. They paint, they cry. They get taken to the beach in fun little golf carts? Cry, cry cry in harmony. It’s like a twisted game of monkey see, monkey do. One starts, and the others follow along. Zoe took one look at the group and, naturally, burst into tears. When I picked her up two hours later, she was still crying. She had gone swimming and played in the outdoor gym area, the counselor told me. But had she ever, for one minute, stopped crying, I asked? No.

Andrew’s experience was not much better. When we picked him up at the end of his first day in Kids’ Camp, he looked like a war-torn refugee. His hair was a mess, he was wearing someone else’s shorts, and his bathing suit could not be located. “What happened?” I asked.

“You left me! You said you were coming back to get me after swimming!”

“But it is after swimming!” Brett explained, motioning to the schedule.

Apparently, the schedule that Andrew’s group followed was not the one Brett and I had followed. We planned to get him at 2:00, but Andrew understood things differently. A counselor explained. “He has been waiting for you for three hours. He thought you may have forgotten him.”

At which point, Andrew collapsed into a heap at my feet, dehydration and shock finally settling in. Once we roused him, he declared in no uncertain terms that he was NEVER GOING BACK THERE and furthermore that he HATED THIS STUPID ISLAND and when could we go back HOME?

Andrew still hasn’t recovered fully from that “vacation.” I suggest that, if you ever meet him, you do not utter the words “Dominican Republic” in his presence.

Ask anyone else who has taken their toddlers on an airplane or into a different time zone, and you’ll get mixed responses at best. Recent example. My friend Kate had decided, much to everyone’s surprise, to take her three children, ages 6 and under, to California by herself. Dave was recovering from surgery and couldn’t make the trip. It would be fine, Kate reasoned, once she got to Disneyland and her awaiting, helpful sister-in-law. The only hard part would be the flight.

Ah, delusional Kate. Raise your hand if you are already laughing at her. Let’s look back, shall we? Kate’s flight out there with the kids went well. But by day two, things had taken a turn for the worst. It began with downpours and frigid weather. This was followed by 4:00 am wake-ups every morning by her two-year old, whose circadian clock was all messed up from travel. Next came pneumonia that resulted in three out of the four of them needing antibiotics.

The list of disasters was biblical.

Kate came home and started taking five-minute mini-vacations alone in her car. “Is it lame to go away alone? I’d like to be all by myself for just one 24-hour stretch. Is that too much to ask?” Kate pleaded as we ate pizza with all five of our kids one night.

“Here,” I sighed. “Have some more wine.”

That’s why, these days, more often than not, my friends and I dream of real escapes. I picture myself lying on a lounge chair on powdery sand, with nothing but the turquoise sea in front of me. No “Mommy, will you help me build a sand castle?” No, “Mommy, you said you would swim with me again!” Spending time with my children is wonderful and lovely and fleeting, and I know it. Rationally, I understand how precious these years with them are, and just how fast they will go.

But sometimes mommy just needs a break!

I explained this to Brett last August, after two months of Julie-the-cruise-director, on-duty lifeguard patrol, and he agreed. Our tenth anniversary trip to a tropical destination was greenlit. I booked us at a four-star resort for the first week in December. A real vacation in 2008 A.B.

After Baby.

And then the place was hit by a hurricane.

Our money was refunded in November, but by then, Brett had lost any enthusiasm for travel. “Let’s just stay home and be miserable like everyone else,” I believe were his final words on the matter.

But anyone who knows me knows that I don’t really listen to Brett. I gave him two options: he could baby-sit the kids while I went away, or he could come with me. And so began our weekend at a posh boutique hotel in New York City.

When I tell you that the cool, roof-top lounge was closed twice when we tried to go there, and that the only reservation time we could get for the swanky bar was at 2:00 a.m. will you be the least bit surprised? No, of course not. You are a wise reader, catching the sarcastic tone of my narrative and knowing that this couldn’t possibly have turned out to be the Happily Ever After vacation that I had hoped for.

As Brett and I tried to sleep one night, there was some sort of traffic jam on the streets below. For a good hour and a half, we lay in the dark listening to honking cars mixed in with angry shouting from frustrated New Yorkers. Expletives in a myriad of languages flew up to our windows. I tried to pretend it was the sound of palm trees rustling in the balmy wind.

“Happy anniversary, honey.” Brett murmered. “I got you something very unique.”

“What’s that? I can’t hear you over the sound of the ocean waves!” I shouted.

“A parade in your honor. One honking taxi for every day that we’ve been married. That’s roughly 3,650 honks.”

“That’s so sweet of you. I’ll tell all my friends about it when we return from this tropical paradise. G’night.”

“G’night.”

That night, I missed my bed. In my quiet house. With my beautiful, sleeping children in the rooms next to mine.

Vacations are great that way. As much as I love to get away, by the end of the trip, I always find that I am excited to come back home. Especially now that I have children.