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.

Glee

Congratulations to me: I am now an aunt.  On March 18^th 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.

            

In my head, I call him Bodie Kodie.

            

Boden is the new love of my life.  Certain that I will never ever ever want to get pregnant or have babies myself ever ever 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.

            

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.

            

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. 

            

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.

            

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.

            

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. 

            

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 was 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.

           

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 see the movie because of the brief nudity, but I was allowed to listen to all the dirty words and sing along with gusto.

            

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^th 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.)

            

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.

            

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.”

            

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.

           

“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, She’s a little off key.  What day is she going home, again?  And, Boden, calming down finally, was probably thinking, I can feel Jean Valjean’s pain like I feel the wetness in my diaper.

            

I cried when I left, I won’t lie. 

            

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.

            

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.

American Road Trip

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.

            

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.

            

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.

            

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.

            

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?”

            

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.

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.

“Andrew, time for bed,” Brett will call down from upstairs.

“Just a minute!” We’ll call back.

           

Before you get all politically correct on me, telling me that television warps one’s brain waves and that, further, reality television really warps the brain (think The Jersey Shore), give me a moment to explain.  Because Guy Fieri has really enhanced my relationship with my son.

           

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.” 

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.”

“I’m so hungry!”  Andrew will say.  “I want to go there!”

“That’s just disgusting,” my husband, Brett will say, leaving the room.  “Who eats like that?”

“We do!” We say, even though, in real 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.)

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.

“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.

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.

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.

           

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.

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.

Mommy 2.0

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.

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.

I was psyched to get my first choice: Eleanor Roosevelt!

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.

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.

I was really into these note cards.

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.)

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?”

“What?” she must have said.

“Most people in our class are studying people who have died, but I get to write about a living person!”

“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.

She did lots of things to try and convince me that the information from our encyclopedia was outdated.

But what she couldn’t do was Google it instantaneously or research it on Wikipedia.

After all, the year was 1982.

And in 1982, a mother and daughter didn’t have the answers to life and death questions at dinnertime in their kitchen.

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.

Zoom ahead to now.

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.

“That’s Michael,” I said.

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.

And then, for my own nostalgia’s sake, I found other videos to show them.

“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.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” Zoe wondered.

“Yes.” I said.

“Why does he have so much make-up on?”

“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.

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.

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.

Pretty soon, we all had moves like Jagger.

I’d like to introduce myself. I am Mommy 2.0.

I know everything.

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!

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.

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.

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.

Could someone out there create an app to help me with that?

(PS -- Eleanor Roosevelt died in 1962. And I got an A on my term paper.)

Swedish Meatballs, a Storm, and My Basement

The 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.

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.

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?

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?

I mentally prepared for Survivor: Extreme Nantucket Family Vacation.

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.

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.

“Do you want the good news or the bad news?” She asked.

Our basement had flooded. This actually turned out to be the good 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.

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.

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.

(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.)

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.

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.

“WE DON’T CARE ANYMORE!” Andrew explained, lying listlessly on the Karlstad.

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.

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.

“I love this!” My friend Jamie oohed, walking around the room for the first time. “And you said it’s all from Ikea?”

“Yup.”

“But where did you get the couch?”

“Ikea.”

“And this desk?” She caressed its smooth, sleek surface.

“Ikea. Everything is from Ikea.”

“But…this chair…?” Jamie said, sinking into a copy of a mid-century Jacobson piece.

“Eye – Key – A!” I said, starting to laugh. “Everything!”

(Well, except from the decorative pillows and cashmere throw and glass knickknacks from ABC Carpet and Home. A girl has to live.)

“It’s perfect!” She declared.

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.

My basement is now a perfect place to weather the next storm.

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.

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.

Leaving on A Jet Plane?

A note: This article was written by my husband, Brett, as a joke. He emulated my writing style and vented about me the way I always do about him. And then I read it and laughed and decided it was good enough to appear in the newspaper. My editor agreed. Enjoy!

“A.M. or P.M.?” I asked my wife, Julie, as we sipped our morning coffee. It was a lazy Saturday and we were catching up, preparing for the week ahead.

“What do you mean?” she asked. I pointed to the email she had forwarded to me the day before. “According to this itinerary, you are leaving for Miami on Monday night, at 8 PM, not on the 8 AM flight you told me you were taking.”

“WHAT?!” She ran to the computer to verify her mistake and then immediately got on the phone with the airlines. Julie was on the verge of tears. Now, not only was she going to be late for her beloved Saturday morning Spinagogue, but also she wasn’t leaving for her three-day junket until a full day into it. She’d arrive just in time to pick up the tab for the dinner she had just missed. She had no choice but to pay an extra $300 to secure seat 19F on the 6:00 AM nonstop.

Readers of her articles know that Julie prides herself on disorganization and last minute decision-making. Remember, she was “born this way.” But here is the funny thing: she is hyper-organized when it comes to getting out of town. She’s been known to book family-free getaways nine months in advance. This trip to Miami had been in the works ever since her friend Gaby announced last winter that she and her family were moving to Missouri. Before Gaby had even sold her house or packed a single bag for the Midwest, Julie decided that a sympathy sojourn was a necessity, a must-have that would save her friend from a life of utter misery. “We’re going!” she told me, trying her best to make it sound like a request instead of a de-facto conclusion. “We’ll make sure it’s not over a weekend.” She was already logged on to Expedia.com. “The kids will be in school most of the time I am away,” she said, tapping furiously at the keyboard. “It will be easy.”



My wife sleeps in late. Like everyday. She claims she's catching up from her days and nights of breastfeeding. Mind you, that was almost a decade ago. Julie is just not a morning person. In fact, she isn’t an afternoon or evening person either. Brunch and naps are more her style. But at 3:43 Monday morning, Julie was up and about.

Frankly, I was impressed. She proved that she could motor. She awoke without an alarm, dressed, brewed a cup of coffee and jumped in a cab within fifteen minutes flat. I promised not to take this personally. But Zoe did. She awoke at 6:30 and asked, "Did she leave? Already?" And with her big black “Puss in Boots” eyes and her tiny quivering lips, she declared, "It will be okay. We'll be a family again on Wednesday.”

“We’ll be a family no matter how broke or hung-over mommy will be when she returns,” I assured her.

Andrew and Zoe are fairly independent. They are intimately aware of their responsibilities, A-F day schedules, extra curricular activities, pick-ups and drop-offs. So it was a surprise to them that Julie left us two pages of notes to aid our stay-at-home adventure. “It makes mommy feel better.” I noted. “This way, she’ll be able to blame me for anything we didn’t do.”

I am entirely comfortable and capable of taking care of things around our house. Julie affectionately calls me her “house husband,” because shopping, cooking, cleaning, carpooling and generally having things in order keeps me sane. So the hour-by-hour, meal-by-meal breakdown my wife prepared made me chuckle. “Really, the kids eat dinner... every night?”

However, Julie was kind enough to leave several things off the list. Like the fact she had no gas in her car. I guess, in her world, SUVs run on rainbows and butterflies. And there were no instructions on how to comb Andrew's hair so he'd look good for his debut performance at the Fox Meadow Classical Cafe. "Dad, it’s in front of the entire fourth grade, so don't make me look like a dork!"

Julie also neglected to inform me that our cleaning lady was not coming on her regularly scheduled Tuesday, but rather on Wednesday. This happenstance threw the whole ratio of ready-to-wear vs. ready-to-wash smiley face sweatpants out of sync and added a late-night load of laundry to the list, since Zoe only wears one kind of pants these days. Disposing of the now moldy meat lasagna that Julie lovingly made two weeks prior would have to wait too. "Have Maria take care of that." Julie texted.

I couldn't. Nor could I leave the beds unmade on Tuesday. Even though I had an important meeting to get to in the city. The thought of a sink filled with pots, pans, bowls and dishes from Monday night's taco and pasta fiesta made me lightheaded. The least I could do was organize the mess for Maria. Perhaps I could stack things by size and color? I’ve done so before. Instead, I cleaned it all and missed my train. But at least I could think clearly again. 



On Wednesday I was feeling a bit fatigued. And this is how I made a fatal error. I decided that designer cupcakes for the kids would be a just reward for having been exceptionally well behaved while mom was away. The candy-by-the-ton and the Entenmann’s chocolate loaf cake my mother-in-law provided just didn’t spoil them enough. But I forgot about the principle of multiple choices. More choices = more happiness. Rushing home from the city to pick the kids up from school, I didn't leave enough time to find the "right" cupcakes. Instead, I settled for two, fancy we-hate-those-kind-of-cupcakes from Magnolia Bakery. In an instant, I went from "you are the best mother-father" to feeling like the dual role was one too many.

Tears flowed as the "I miss mommy" time bomb exploded. My tears. Now, I was on the verge. I had endured the kids’ anxieties and insecurities. Tickled their backs "like mom does" to help them fall asleep. Completed the list and then some. But one $3.50 dark chocolate cupcake brought me to my knees. 



Just then, Julie sent me a text. With emoticons! Sweet relief was on the way home. While my wife had bonded with her best friend, got inspired about her writing and generally enjoyed her three days of freedom, I was here, holding down and decluttering the fort for her inevitable return. Which, by some divine interruption, was delayed, and so Julie waited past midnight for her 47-pound duffle bag to arrive on a separate flight. It too had its own itinerary and up-charge. 



I missed my wife. I really did. Not because I had to fill in for her. Not because I had to supervise the electrician, or pitch in at the elementary school, or car pool for karate, Nutcracker rehearsal and Hebrew school. And not because I had to make beds, brush teeth or bathe babes. I missed her because she wasn't here to laugh at - or with - me. 



I am looking forward to taking a solo trip to Miami someday too. I think I'll take a break from being my wife, by being my wife. 



Brett Gerstenblatt makes frequent appearances as a character in his wife’s humor columns. Currently he is considering starting up a house-husband-for-hire service in Scarsdale.

That's Not Athlete's Foot

I don’t know about your family, but in mine, we like to use sayings. Sayings are efficient. They cut through the specific and hit on the general, thereby making a universal statement that Everyman can relate to. Why say “I thought my life would be better once I bought those new Chloe boots, but now that I have them, I realize they look great but can’t be worn in the rain/snow/weather of any kind,” when you can sigh and mutter, “The grass is always greener.” Right?

In my family, we like to go one step further. We like to actually create these sayings. We capitalize on our unique experiences and turn them into generic catchphrases that we can use over and over again, whenever the…boot fits. So to speak.

After years of safekeeping, I am here to share these maxims with you. Should you find yourself in a predicament and lack the verbiage needed to describe what happened, perhaps my family can come to your rescue.

I’d like to begin with an oldie but a goodie: making meatloaf. This story involves my aunt, JaJa. When JaJa was 22, she was newly married and living in Maryland. Being young, JaJa was a little bit clueless about grocery shopping and cooking. So my grandmother would buy meat at her kosher butcher in Brooklyn and bring it with her on visits. Each package would be clearly labeled as to what the meat was to be used for and how to prepare it. All JaJa had to do then, after her mother went back home, was cook the meals as directed. One night, after JaJa and her husband, David, both came home from work, they looked in the refrigerator and found a package marked “meatloaf.” It was already late, and they were starving. But what choice did they have? JaJa went about making meatloaf.

Now, meatloaf requires a lot of ingredients. Salt, and pepper, and egg, and water, and maybe some onion and breadcrumbs and who knows what else. And then, it requires a good hour and a half in the oven.

At some point as they cleaned the kitchen and watched the timer, David turned to JaJa and asked, “Couldn’t you have just made hamburgers with that ground beef? We would have been done eating by now.”

Have you ever made an elaborate production out of something that really has a basically simple solution? Have you, perhaps, complicated a situation that could have been so straightforward? Then you, my friend, have made meatloaf.

For the record, to this very day, my aunt has an award-winning ability for making meatloaf out of most any situation. Perhaps you, too, have a friend or family member like JaJa.

Next up: That’s not athlete’s foot.

It’s a tragic tale, really, involving my foot and some kind of bumpy, itchy, red rash that was growing on it. I showed the foot to my husband, Brett, who married me in sickness and in health. “What do you think it is?” I asked. He took one look at my toe and left the room.

“Well, I think it’s athlete’s foot!” I called after him. After all, my dad is an ophthalmologist. Because he is a doctor, and because I look a lot like him, I can diagnose almost anything.

I went to CVS and loaded up on fungal foot spray.

I can’t believe I’m telling you this.

Anyway, it didn’t get better, this rash. In fact, it definitely got worse. So much worse that I was having trouble walking. The rash had spread across the bottom of my foot and became angry looking. I caved, and headed to a real doctor.

“I think it’s athlete’s foot,” I told the dermatologist.

He was across the exam room when I took off my shoe and sock, but even from a distance, he could tell. “That’s not athlete’s foot,” he said. He shook his head and told me that, whatever it was or had been, it was now seriously infected. I needed to get on antibiotics stat, and, with a foot like that, I really shouldn’t fly to the Bahamas in three days as planned. (I took half of his advice.)

Now, whenever Brett or I wonder what kind of minor ailment we or our kids have, we smile and say, “I can tell you one thing: that’s not athlete’s foot.”

Last up: The problem is the underpants.

When my son, Andrew, was 3, I sent him to a preschool summer camp that required he be potty trained. He sort of kind of wasn’t. But they didn’t have to know that, did they? I mean, as long as he was out of diapers and wearing underpants, he (and I) met the requirement for attendance.

And it’s not like I hadn’t tried. For the six weeks leading up to the start of this camp, we had been in full-on basic boot camp underpants training. Andrew had gone commando. He had been in lockdown. He had done squats and lifts and jumps on the potty, and then, for good behavior, he had been given M&M’s in the mess hall. Andrew had been a very good little soldier, but still, he was wet.

But I was 9 months pregnant. I just needed Andrew to cooperate.

On the day before I was to be induced with this second child, I got a call from Andrew’s preschool teacher. The message explained that Andrew had peed through his pants, and also through his extra pants, and also – mysteriously – through his shirt. They were able to find him some girl’s pants from the lost and found and a top from the dress up corner, and he was currently enjoying his lunch. But maybe, when I got the message, I could stop by with several more back up changes of clothing.
At the classroom door, I took one look at my son and cracked up. He was wearing green cargo Capri pants that rolled at the bottom and was bare chested, with a red silk vest. With his tanned skin and shaggy hair, Andrew looked just like Aladdin.

I took my prince of thieves home. Over snack that afternoon, we had a heart-to-heart talk about the baby that was arriving the next day and the darned potty, and all the factors that were complicating our lives. “Mommy, I know what the problem is,” Andrew said. “The problem,” he paused, “is the underpants.”

Sage wisdom.

So, whenever the problem turns out to be exactly what it looks like, then your problem, my friend, is the underpants.

Dressing for Success

“Where are you coming from?” My friend Amy asked as we chatted briefly in town. I was dripping sweat from head to toe. “Lemme guess? Spin?” She asked. I nodded, feeding more quarters into my parking meter. “I can’t do spin,” Amy said. “I don’t…”and here she tilted her head skyward, searching for the right words.

Let’s pause. For instructional purposes, I’m going to ask you to guess the end of her sentence. Remember, it began with “I don’t.” Was Amy’s predicate:
a) like sweating profusely while pop music pounds in my inner ear, or
b) enjoy riding a stationary bike to nowhere, or
c) have the right outfit.

If you guessed c, then this is the article for you.

Press play.

“Not true!” I said. “You don’t need an outfit. You just need leggings.” I inspected Amy’s legs, which were already clad in tight black lycra. “Like those! You’re good to go.”

And then I invited her to join me any time she wanted to try a class.

We waved goodbye. I watched her go, a thought bubble developing in the empty air between us.

Who was I kidding? Of course she needed an outfit.

Here’s why. A few years ago, I was struggling to complete my doctoral dissertation. It was a bitch. I had just received feedback on a round of revisions that I felt were satisfactory; my doctoral committee disagreed. I had to re-write about 100 pages of text and I didn’t know if I had the mental or physical endurance to do it. I didn’t even know if I cared anymore about finishing my degree. So I did what any self-respecting 38 year old woman would do in such a situation: I scream-cried to my mom on my cell phone about it after dropping off my children at school, with a narrative that went something like this: “I-can’t-won’t-do-this-anymore-hate-them-me-you-Brett-all-suck-getting-fat-want-to-give-up-so-mean!” I hung up on her mid-panic attack and drove around for a while.

Then I went to the gym.

I took a deep breath and entered a 9:30 stretch and strength class, grabbing some 2-pound weights. I selected a spot on the carpet that seemed like a good location based on my ability; just left of center from the middle of the square room. And then I caught a look at my reflection, and panicked all over again.

When my friend Sloan entered the class, I took one look at her and burst into fresh tears.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her sharp blue eyes showing concern. She came and sat next to me.

I told her about the failed attempt to complete my dissertation. “And,” I added, gaining momentum, “everyone in this class is wearing LONG pants and I have on these wide, weird, CROPPED ones!”

“Oh,” she said softly, her consoling eyes gazing around the room. “That’s true.”

But then Sloan gave me some wise advice: It was a problem that was easily fixed. All I had to do was to buy a nice, new pair of long, lean yoga pants. I’d feel better the next time I came to class because I’d blend in. The dissertation? She was sorry, but her advice couldn’t really help me with that.

You may be rolling your eyes at me now, thinking that I’m only going skin deep to believe – and, further, to admit in the newspaper to believing – that what I wear to a stretch class or what my friend Amy (or anyone else for that matter) wears to a spin class (or any other venue, for that matter) matters.

But it does.

We all know that old adage to “dress for success,” which has certain connotations for the business world. In our careers, we have been told to dress more like the part we want to be (boss, leader, corporate somebody) instead of the part we really are (harried mom, student, corporate nobody). Put on a power suit and feel powerful, the advice goes. Well, I would like to suggest that the same is true for gym attire.

I am not what you’d call a big fan of exercise. I lack some pretty elemental hand-eye coordination, making the catching and throwing while running portions of sports implausible. Plus, I am in no way competitive. I could seriously care less if I win or lose on the field. In fact, I used to try my hardest to be picked last for teams in gym, and then wished with all my might to be positioned somewhere on the fringe of the game or deep in the outfield.

Not every sport has an outfield in which to hide. But, they do all have uniforms. Standard outfits, some basics for what to wear while playing (or pretending to play) said game. And so, for me to feel competent and comfortable while at spinning class or in yoga, I need to dress the part. Much like a secretary who hopes someday to have the corner office, I dress for the back row of spin class like I’m someday going to be front and center.

This requires a few pairs of basic (but cute!) leggings and tanks that I can mix and match and grab and go. Having a uniform like this makes my mornings stress-free and makes me feel athletic, even though I’m totally not. In my exercise clothes, I feel like people look at me and say, “Oh, she’s so fit! Look at Julie going off to spin class again.” What they don’t know is that, sometimes, I drive right from spin to my favorite bakery.

They may notice, however, that I do not wear the newest, latest, couture fashion tank, nor do I wear bright leggings or clothing studded with bling. This kind of adorable hipness I reserve for the true athletes. They’ve earned it, what with their triceps and biceps and sculpted shoulders, shoulders that I’m not sure I even have under all the layers of croissant. Part of me worries about over-dressing for the part, calling attention to my weaknesses (spinning really fast while standing) instead of my strengths (rocking out on a hill and singing along with the tunes). When I lack the skills, I’d rather be doing it in a basic (but cute!) uniform that doesn’t attract too much attention.

So, to answer your question honestly, Amy, yes. You require an outfit. Embrace it. Own it. Do it. It’s okay. I’ll help you pick it out, if you’d like. Then you’ll have the right gear for the occasion, and it will be one less thing to worry about. And then we can hit the gym together in style.

Today I can do four push-ups. Tomorrow, after I put on my Lululemon yoga pants, I can most certainly imagine myself doing five.

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.

The Same Me, Only Better

I want to live on Nantucket. Let me qualify that: part of me wants to live there. The artsy, romantic, writerly side of me is drawn to the moors, and the fog, and the endless views of blue water. This tiny island off the coast of Massachusetts inspires in me a sense of calm, of freedom, of anything-is-possibleness, like no other place in the world. On Nantucket, I would be a better writer, a better mother, a better wife, a better me.

On Nantucket, I would cook, and bake, and goshdarnit, I might even sew. I would grow my own vegetables in a garden I tended to myself and then can those vegetables for the long winter months. I would collect berries and make pies, preserving the leftover fruit as jam, in jars with those cute little fabric tops. I’d give this jam to people as gifts.

I would not watch The Bachelorette on Nantucket.

My weak-ankled children would ice skate, since that’s pretty much all there is to do off-season on Nantucket. Andrew would grow tough and broad, learning to breathe with a huge mouth guard attached to his palette, playing ice hockey and skating backwards. Zoe would join the championship figure skating team in winter, spending her summers surf casting for stripers off Quidnet.

On Nantucket, I would eat striped bass caught by my daughter.

I would fillet it on the beach with my bare hands.

On Nantucket, I would dress more J Crew and less Pamela Robbins. I would choose Sperry Topsiders as footwear in an un-ironic way, because they are practical. Not because they now come in metallic silver and gold. I would wear a bright yellow rain slicker as my every day outerwear, so that someone would notice me in a nor’easter and therefore be able to rescue me if a gale-force wind swept me down Main Street. (The rain jacket I have now is really cute. It’s from Barney’s. It’s like this wheaty-tan color, and has three quarter sleeves and that you can roll up or down, depending on how wet you want your arms to be.)

We’d get a dog, or maybe two. Forget my idea of a toy-sized, hypo-allergenic suburban fluffy puppy with a little “poo” or “doodle” in it (think cockapoo, goldendoodle, schnoodle, cavapoo). What we’d need in the New England wild is a pair of Portuguese water dogs, animals that swim the Atlantic surf with gusto, taking pleasure in long runs on the beach with us.

Speaking of which, I wouldn’t have to seek out opportunities for exercise on Nantucket, because my daily existence would just be so active. I’d bike to the market. (Don’t laugh.) And, even though I’ve never in my life tried this, I’m sure I’d be an excellent paddleboarder. Just for fun, I’d cruise through the marshes and bogs, boarding in Polpis harbor to investigate the native flora and fauna. In fact, I’m sure that I’d get so good at paddleboarding that I’d start taking sunrise yoga classes on a paddleboard, even though I am not a particular fan of a) sunrises or b) yoga.

What would my husband, Brett, do on Nantucket? The question is, what would he not do? He’d paint en plein air, whenever the mood struck and the light was right. He’d just pull over his truck and hop out, grabbing his folding French easel and pastels from under the tarp and dragging them onto the beach grass. He’d surf. He’d create. He’d distil his own vodka. He would not shave. He’d be.

As a pair, we’d certainly be well received, and not just as That Funny Jewish Couple Out In Eel Point. No, we’d have much more to offer the year-rounders than New York shtick.

Immediately, people would notice our keen intellect and diverse talents (I can write my name upside down and backwards, in script; Brett speaks a little bit of Dutch) and we’d be asked to apply our savvy to their Nantucket-specific conundrums. We’d be invited to lecture on someone’s yacht, and neither one of us would vomit. And, in that way, we’d endear ourselves to this community of fisherman and fisherwomen, restaurant owners and shopkeeps, bartenders and raging alcoholics, becoming as intricately woven into the tapestry of the island as cashmere is woven into a $2,000 Nantucket Looms blanket.

“So, why don’t we do it?” Brett asked for the thousandth time. We were enjoying a few beers at Cisco Brewers, while a local musician played guitar, Zoe already his biggest groupie. Andrew was playing lawn games with my father-in-law. The rest of us were inhaling a brick oven pizza made on site. “Why don’t we just move here already?”

“Because,” I said for the thousandth time.

I realize this argument is lacking in strength.

“Now is the time,” Brett pressed. “I’m in between jobs. You can write from anywhere. The kids will adapt. You always say you want to live here.”

Tons of excuses flooded my brain. I’d miss my mom. We love our house. The kids have friends in Scarsdale; I have friends. There’s no Bloomingdale’s on Nantucket. They don’t get the good movies on island fast enough, like that lame, quaint town in Cinema Paradiso. We just paid our temple dues, so we can’t leave for at least another year.

And, while all of that is true, or true enough, it doesn’t really get to the heart of the issue. For as much as I like to imagine that my heart belongs to Nantucket, it really beats right here. I grew up in Edgemont; there are still pictures of me in old theater production posters lining the high school hallway. I went to college upstate, moved to the city, and then settled in Scarsdale.

Did I…“settle” by picking a life that is so predictable, so similar to the way in which I grew up? Sometimes I wonder. But each time, I come to the same conclusion. Nope. I chose to live here above all other places, even Nantucket. Although I entered the main office at the Nantucket Middle School once in the late 1990’s and asked if they had any job openings for English teachers, I was relieved when they said no, and I never followed up by submitting an actual application for the following academic years. Instead, I applied to the Scarsdale school district.

Oh, I talk a good game, and I can fantasize with the best of them. But let’s be real here: what’s so great about living on an island with three lighthouses and no traffic lights? Sure, it’s got gorgeous vistas, but what a schlep. I mean, Nantucketers have an entirely different definition for away games at the high school than we do. Think Somers is far? Try Martha’s Vineyard. In January. I can barely make it to rec basketball at Fox Meadow; you think I’m putting Andrew on a plane to Chattam to compete?

And, by December, the gray weather really starts to wear on one’s psyche. As a diversion, there’s only so many sailor’s valentines one can make out of shells before developing a pirate’s accent and a permanent twitch.

“I have the perfect idea,” I said to Brett. “Let’s compromise. Summers on Nantucket, and the rest of the year in Scarsdale.”

“Great. So the solution is to have two houses?”

It makes perfect sense. After all, the same me, only better, already lives in two homes: the real and the imagined. And for a while, anyway, I guess that’s how it will stay.