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She did lots of things to try and convince me that the information from our encyclopedia was outdated.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

Happy Campers

My 9-year-old son, Andrew, recently went on a mini-sleep away trip with his day camp. He was gone for a total of 5 days, which is hardly anything, but it gave me a microscopic view of what many of my friends experience when their children go off to camp for the whole summer. What I felt as I prepared for Andrew’s departure was a cocktail of emotions, made up of three parts packing frenzy and one part heavy dread. Add a twist of sunscreen, stir with a tennis racquet, and shake vigorously until nauseous.

Before I knew it, I was kissing Andrew farewell. “Bye!” I called, as the bus rounded the bend, “Have a great time! Mommy’s going to have a heart attack now and wash down some aspirin with a glass or two of sauvignon blanc!”

The next morning, my friend Andie called to check in on me. She was a pro, having already survived half of her first summer with her older child at camp. “Did you check for photos yet? I bet they’ve posted some.”

“Ohmigod, you’re right! I have to go!” I exclaimed. And then I hung up on her.

Sure enough, there was Andrew, smiling at the camera. He was scaling the rock climbing wall and zipping down the zipline. He was mountain biking and fishing.

He seemed like a happy camper.

But all I could see were the long pants he was wearing.

I turned to my husband, Brett, who was standing over my shoulder, peering at the same images on our laptop. “I packed him 6 pairs of shorts. Why is he wearing long pants on the hottest day on record since 1951?”

“Who cares?” Brett said. “He’s alive!”

But my critical Mommy eye couldn’t let it go. Did he have trouble finding the shorts? Did the counselors rush him out so fast for breakfast that he only had time to grab what he could, in complete survival mode?

Happily, I can report, the next time we saw pictures of him, Andrew was holding a frog and….wearing shorts! His black and grey Adidas shorts and a Rolling Stones t-shirt, in fact.

Which he was also wearing when he stepped off the bus two days later.

Brett and I embraced our son in our driveway, grabbed his duffel bag from the back of the bus, and decided that Andrew had definitely gotten taller.

I waited a good thirty seconds before jumping in and asking whether he had, as I suspected, been wearing the same clothes for seventy-two hours straight.

“I couldn’t find my stuff!” he said. “I wrote you a letter asking you to tell me where my toothbrush and hairbrush were, because I couldn’t find them. Did you get it? Why didn’t you write back?”

No, I didn’t GET IT! And how was I supposed to help him find his toiletries through the U.S. Postal Service when he was only gone for 4 nights? I was on the verge of getting rather upset with him until I realized that Andrew has had no real prior experiences with mail (or unpacking, for that matter). My digital-aged child must think that regular, old-fashioned, snail mail works just like email, only you write it down instead of type it. And, poof, it gets there instantly!

Honestly, this child knows more about how Harry Potter gets mail via owl than about how our muggle postal system works.
Sweet. Naïve. I hugged him a little harder. And then I brushed his teeth.

The next day, I got the letter.

“Letters?” My friend Casey laughed, when I told her the story. “At least you got one. My son never writes. Never. I got him that fancy camp stationery, with the check-off boxes, so that he doesn’t even have to work too hard to correspond with us, and then I pre-addressed the envelopes. And you know what I got?”

She paused here for dramatic effect. So I took my cue and said, “No, what?”

“I got a piece of notebook paper, torn out with like half of it missing. I don’t even know where he got the notebook. And on it was written three words: Send poker chips.”

“I love it!” I laughed.

“And, he put a stamp on the piece of paper, and then another one on the envelope, like they are stickers.”

The only item her son wanted for visiting day was a six-pack of Mountain Dew.

I guess all a boy needs to be happy at camp is something cool to drink while playing poker. I bet if he writes again, it will be to ask for some Cuban cigars.

A few days later, I was having dinner with a bunch of moms, all of whom have at least one child at sleep away camp. “I write to my daughter a lot,” my friend, Lisa, said. “So I just tell her what I’m doing. Like, today I went to work. This weekend, I cleaned your room, and tomorrow I’m cleaning your brother’s. Stuff like that. And you know what she wrote back after receiving a few of those?”

She paused for dramatic effect. “No, what did she write back?” We asked.

“She wrote, Dear Mom, stop writing boring letters about your life. It’s boring. Love, Lindsay.”

“No!” we laughed. Then we drank some more sauvignon blanc.

The stories kept flowing with the wine. Leila’s daughter writes in code. “She’s never texted in her life, but her writing is filled with abbreviations. Dear m + d+ z. How are u? The next time I write to her, I’m just going to throw down a bunch of letters all over the page and see if she can figure out what I’m trying to say!”

Deena had a similar experience. “Carly wrote about some girls that she’s having trouble with, but she’s got a solution. I am going to C U W (I think). “What does that mean?!” Deena wants to know. 8 grown women were around the table, several of us with advanced degrees, and we could not decipher Carly’s strategy.

Deena arrived on visiting day to discover that all fourteen pairs of her daughter’s socks were missing. Gone! “Can’t you borrow some from your friends?” She asked. Uch, Carly said, definitely not. She wanted to lose a dozen more of her own. “She can borrow someone’s bikini but not their socks? I don’t get it,” Deena mused. But of course she sent the socks.

Allie had seen photos of her son and had skipped over the Happy Camper mood, as I had, in favor of a critique. “Charlie has one green t-shirt and one green pair of shorts. Somehow, these two items found each other from the vast wardrobe I sent, and, every time I see a picture of Charlie, he’s head-to-toe green. It’s driving me crazy!”

She bet her husband that Charlie would be wearing all green on visiting day. She won.

Conclusion: the boys wear one thing all summer, while the girls prefer to dress in each other’s clothes as much as possible. In the end, most of it has to be thrown out anyway.

And while they are having the best time ever, we are worrying. (And also having a pretty good time.)

I guess the bottom line is this: are our children safe and happy? And, if so, can we accept their independent fashion decisions while simultaneously hoping for the best hygiene outcome possible? Can we believe that, come September, our happy campers will revert back to writing in complete sentences?

I’ll bet you ten poker chips, a Mountain Dew, three packs of socks, and a green t-shirt that we can.

Summer Lovin'

My 9-year-old son, Andrew, wants to go to sleep away camp next summer, and I guess I’m going to let him, even though my heart will feel like it’s being ripped in two when he steps on that bus to depart. Zoe will follow a few years after, breaking my heart all over again. As my husband, Brett, and I prepared to tour some camps with our children over 4th of July weekend, we reflected back on our own camping days.

Brett loved camp. He went to some magical place in Massachusetts for like 14 summers or something, ending up as counselor of the year and forever branded with “Living Legend” status. (Brett fans will not be surprised to learn that his bunk was always the cleanest, and therefore the model bunk visited by touring families.)

Meanwhile, up in Maine, homesickness was settling deep in my stomach. It wasn’t so much that I didn’t like the idea of being a camper. It’s just that, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t help feeling like this was the wrong camp for me. While other campers in other parts of the Northeast were boasting about “living 10 for 2”, I couldn’t wait to return home to Scarsdale after my 8-week sentence was up.

Why didn’t I love camp? Let me count the ways.

1. No boys.
I attended an all-girl, uniformed camp without electricity that required a plane ride because it was that far away from boys. You know those 80’s camping movies, like “Little Darlings” and “Meatballs”? I assumed camp would be like that, filled with raids to the boys’ side and underwear hung up the flagpole. I thought we’d have food fights and dances and color war and that Matt Dillon and Kristy McNichol would teach me how to smoke cigarettes behind the shower house. I assumed there would be an inspirational soundtrack playing as we won the softball game against our rival camp.

I couldn’t have been wrong-er.

Instead, my camp had lots of singing girls swaying back and forth with their arms around each other. When not singing, these girls liked to ride horses. Oh, and we had pine trees. Lots and lots of pine trees.

2. No pool.
My camp did not have a swimming pool. Only a lake. And everyone knows the truth about lakes, right? They are teeming with creatures waiting to kill you. Don’t pretend you don’t know this. Every time I swim out too far into a lake I worry about being dragged down to the murky bottom by either a seaweed monster or the Lady of the Lake. (Here’s the narrative running through my brain when I am on the verge of entering a lake: The LOTL was murdered here long ago, and now she waits. In her long white nightgown, her skin glowing white-green, she waits for unsuspecting feet to kick by her. And then…and then…well, you know the rest.)

Yes, I really believe that.

My lake had other creatures in it, too. There were microscopic bacteria in the lake. After we swam, we had to line up and tilt our heads to one side and then the other for eardrops that smelled like grain alcohol and prevented us from getting nasty infections.

So, was my camp lake in Maine the most beautiful sight ever? Yes. Was I afraid to swim in it? Absolutely. Did I have a lovely, heated swimming pool in my own, empty backyard in Scarsdale, just waiting for me to dive in? You betcha.

Ah, the irony.

3. No canteen.
I honestly thought that this “canteen” thing was a myth until I visited camps a few weeks ago and saw it with my own eyes. You mean, my friends weren’t lying when they said that they got candy at camp and had a game room to hang out in? With electricity? Seriously?

And then I began to uncover other truths, so that “canteen” became synonymous with all the fun things that people did at other camps that I did not do at mine. Like, for example, they didn’t go hiking in the rain. In inclement weather, they went to the movies. And ate candy. In fact, these camps were not quite as outdoorsy or rustic as mine in any recognizable way.

My birthday is July 3rd, which means I was at camp for this particular celebration for four consecutive summers in the early 1980’s. And when I tell you that, on my birthday, I was always canoeing down some river in New Hampshire or on the top of some mountain in the rain drinking water from a metallic-tasting canteen, I am not stretching the truth.

This is not my idea of a good time, people.

My daughter Zoe also has a summer birthday, and I will not leave her out in the rain. That’s why the camp tours are so critical to a mother like me. I am picking a camp that will allow her to spend that special day eating cupcakes while smiling at boys and doing water aerobics in a heated swimming pool overlooking a lake. At dinner, she will not wear a brown and white uniform but rather her favorite tie-dyed tank top. She will visit the canteen as the sun goes down, enjoying the satisfaction of a Milky Way bar while looking up over the lake into the Milky Way. And when the counselors say “lights out,” they will not mean it metaphorically.

The Gerstenblatt clan toured three lovely camps over 4th of July weekend, each one tricked out with golf carts (driven by adorable male counselors) so that we didn’t have to walk to the soccer field/roller hockey rink/tennis courts/skateboard park/senior camp/zip-line/anywhere at all.

I am happy to report that we have made our selection. It’s a co-ed, non-uniformed camp within three hours driving distance from home, featuring tons of electric power. There’s electricity in the bunks, stadium lighting for evening games on the fields, and air-conditioning in the main house. While there are plenty of opportunities for outdoor adventure, there are also indoor, rainy-day activities so that no one has to catch pneumonia on her birthday. (Unless she really, really wants to. This camp offers lots of choices.)

While boys and girls have separate activities, there are certainly opportunities to develop crushes and flirt at evening campfires.
It’s not “Meatballs”, exactly, but it will have to do.

The lake doesn’t even look that scary.

Born this Way

When my husband, Brett, and I first fell in love, we were really in love. You know what I mean: madly, blindly, passionately, blah, blah, blah. We were probably really annoying to outsiders, so taken with each other were we. We, like, studied each other’s faces and stuff. Remember doing that? Anyway, I lived in Greenwich Village at the time, and Brett and I would walk around the area on weekends, with no plan in mind. Perhaps we’d dip into a café and read all afternoon, or see a great indie flick at the Angelika before grabbing some Thai food and a couple of drinks.

Then we’d go back to my place.

Brett would take one look around my cluttered studio apartment and sigh, instantly sober.

I could almost feel the love being sucked out of him, tainted by 600 square feet of the real me.

Brett would try to make the best of it. He’d gamely step over the piles of my students’ notebooks by the door and try to sit on the couch, which was covered with laundry -- some clean, some dirty -- it was hard to tell which. Or we’d approach my small, glass-topped breakfast table and try to find room to put down the items we had picked up at the farmer’s market that day, to no avail. We’d have to just stand there and hold them. At some point, Brett would make the mistake of entering the kitchen and opening the refrigerator, which would reveal a two-month old pot of chili ripe with mold. And not much else.

I reasoned that if I never turned on the lights, I could keep our romance alive.

But here’s the funny thing about someone with a touch of the OCD going up against someone like me. Brett knew. Even with his eyes closed, he knew. And eventually, he had to confront me about it.

“I can’t stay here anymore!” He declared one Saturday. It was the start of a holiday weekend, and the thought of camping out in my pigsty for the next three days was seriously skeeving him out. He was on the verge of hightailing it back to Brooklyn.

I looked at him, and then I looked around my beloved apartment. It was cluttered, and disorganized, and slightly dusty where it wasn’t mildewy. It was how I had always lived. It was who I am.

If Brett really loved me, he’d accept me for me. I argued my point: I was born this way. Right?

Brett wasn’t buying it. He’d try to imagine a future with me, but it was hidden under piles of mail. That day, he took me by the shoulders and led me into my walk-in closet. “Look at this,” he said. “Your pants and shirts are all mixed together. Nothing is facing the same direction. Your sweaters – those that even made it in here to be folded – need to be arranged by color.”

“Isn’t that only done in boutiques?” I wondered.

Brett shook his head sadly. “I love you. But we are going to change you. We are going to make you Neat.”

And so began my conversion to the clean side.

I’m happy to say that I’ve been clean and neat now for the better part of 15 years. But occasionally, there are periods of decline. There are times when, out of habit or familiarity, or when faced with stress, I just slide back into my old ways.

When I’m writing, my desk is cluttered with multiple drafts of a project. And, for a while there, I had a nice relationship with an entire closet above the garage. I commandeered it as my own little hellhole, but Brett found out about it and now it’s immaculate again.

Last summer, the issue of Gerstenblatt Home Organization (or GHO) was taken to a new level, when I attended a charity event and won a raffle. Someone won a basket of beauty products. Not I. Someone else won a necklace from a local jeweler. Not I. Someone else won free personal training. Not I.

I won a 4-hour session with a home organizer.

Oh, yea. I tried to contain my enthusiasm.

The home organizer was delightful, and fully supportive of my issues. She came to evaluate my home’s areas of need, and we devised a plan to organize my daughter Zoe’s room, using those 4 hours. It was actually fun to work with someone else, and we chatted and listened to music, and threw out half of Zoe’s collections of beads/strings/things with one part missing.

I thought I was done.

But Brett was so happy with how the initial wave of cleaning had gone, that he signed up the home organizer for a bigger project: the kitchen. Operation GHO was officially underway.

It was quickly determined that I had several organizational obstacles to tackle in the kitchen. One, I am apparently a hoarder of little slips of paper. This was driving the home organizer crazy. “Here’s one!” she’d chirp, handing me a crumpled tiny list of grocery items. “And another!”

The organizer suggested that I use one larger spiral notebook for all my lists and keep it centrally located by the phone and small kitchen desk.

But, you see, I enjoy my little pieces of paper. Some of them are purple post-its shaped like tulips, and some are polka-dot paper from a pad, and others are the backs of envelopes. There’s always an element of surprise and whimsy to my lists! It’s fun, as long as I remember where I put them.

But, then, as a concession to the modern age, and as a way to try and re-organize, I started to make lists using an app on my iPhone. That is a pain in the neck, people. Seriously. What’s wrong with writing lists on little slips of paper? Don’t tell the home organizer this, but I am back to my scraps and I LOVE THEM.

She then recommended that I get some folders and label them with a label maker. Love the label maker. I could type and print out labels all day! But using these labels to help keep me organized? Not so much. It turns out that just because a folder is marked “To Do” doesn’t mean I Does.

At the end of the process with the GHO plan, I was exhausted from having to be so neat all the time. I began to see my husband in a new light. Maybe Brett is the one with the problem, not me, I reasoned. Maybe his need to have the couch pillows perfectly lined up like soldiers before retreating to bed is not normal and my desire to let them remain nicely indented with the shape of one’s butt is normal.

Maybe, all this time, I have been putting up with his nuttiness, and not the other way around!

But I love him – obsessive/compulsive habits and all -- and indulge him in his organizational neediness, knowing he can’t help it.

He was born this way.

How not to relax on your vacation

1. Book a massage.
The first thing I do after reserving a room at a resort is call their in-house spa and make a reservation for a treatment of some kind. The second thing I do is stress out about a) the exorbitant fee and b) the choices available. Do I want Swedish, deep tissue, hot stones, lavender and honey, or one that wraps me head-to-toe in cellophane like a modern day mummy? For 50 or 80 minutes? Will I be taking a mineral soak along with said massage? Have I heard about their one-of-a-kind rain tunnel? No? It’s a must!

Fine, fine. I tell them to sign me up for all of it, as long as I have a female masseuse who doesn’t hurt me.

In fact, if she barely touches me, that would be perfect.

Because, here’s the thing. I don’t even really like massages. I’m only there to lounge in a terrycloth robe and drink tea infused with jasmine while reading my book to ambient musak.

I put the date on my calendar and wait.

2. Prepare for the massage.
Upon check-in at the hotel spa, I am told that the 20% gratuity will be added to my bill so that I don’t have to worry about tipping anyone. Great.

Only, how do they know that I’m going to like my massage that much? What if it isn’t that enjoyable? Then I’ll have to speak to the manager and try and get a refund and I really don’t like conflict and then I’ll be more stressed out than I was walking in the door.

So I’m sure I’ll love it!

I am led around the corner and introduced to the keeper of the keys. She takes me to my locker and presents me with the much-anticipated terry robe. She tells me that, as a part of my mineral soak, I can walk around the pool areas and water-treatment rooms, some of which are co-ed. “You can wear your bathing suit or go naked, that is up to you.”

Now, I don’t know about you, but I don’t really like to be naked. Even just around myself, I prefer to be clothed.

I am not one of those ladies who can dry her hair in the locker room with a towel around her waist, her boobs just bobbing around, gossiping about which trainer left for a better job at another gym.

Add strangers to the equation - including men, for goodness sakes - and a bathing suit is definitely called for. The style I have packed for today is a full-coverage black one piece with ruched sides and a self-skirt. This bathing suit is larger than most of the Kardashian’s wardrobe.

I adjust my ginormous Lycra wet suit and tighten the belt on my robe. I’m ready for my mineral soak.

I am led to a row of bathtubs, one of which is filled with suds. Next to the bath, there is a plate of strawberries, orange slices and three cucumbers. I am told that the cucumbers are for my eyes.

I have to wonder why there are three of them.

This doesn’t relax me.

I am directed to get into the bath and to sit sideways. “The minerals affect your ability to sink – they tend to make you float right out of the bath!” My tour guide explains. So, although the tub is over six feet long, I have to smush my body in the top corner, keeping my legs sort of folded underneath me, and hook my right arm around the metal rod running the length of the tub. “You good?” She asks. I try to give her a thumbs-up, but don’t want to move my hands for fear of floating away.

She leaves me to my “peaceful” soak. I cannot really put my head back, because when I do, my legs shoot up and break the surface like Shamu at a Sea World show. I have trouble reaching the cucumbers, but manage to put them over my eyes. They sting. I now cannot grab a strawberry since I can’t see it because I have burning cucumbers on my eyes.

Did she say she’d come rescue me in 10 minutes? Or was it 15?

This is fun.

I hold on tight to my fetal position and try to think heavy thoughts.

You are the Titanic, sinking, sinking, down, down, down.

Not working.

Eventually, my tour guide reappears, and I say a little prayer of thanks to the heavens. “Alright, then, time to move to the rain tunnel!”

Now that’s an understatement if ever I heard one.

Twenty or so rain jets arranged in a grid greet me from the ceiling. Twenty or more greet me from the sides, and another 10 or so sit underfoot. It’s designed like a human car wash.

More directions come, but this time they get lost in the loud current. “Use the loh on your ske to cle,” is what it sounds like to me. She hands me a jar of exfoliant and makes circular motions around her arms. I nod, scrub and then head for the tunnel.

As I walk through the punishing storm, I feel like Forrest Gump in Vietnam:
“One day it started raining, and it didn't quit for four months. We been through every kind of rain there is. Little bitty stingin' rain... and big ol' fat rain. Rain that flew in sideways. And sometimes rain even seemed to come straight up from underneath.”

When I emerge, my sinuses are clear but I can barely stand upright.

“Now you need a steam,” the tour guide says, meeting my tsunami-ed form at the other side. I nod and shake the rain off me like a Labrador, starting at my head and ending with a really satisfying butt shimmy.

Then I enter the glass-tiled fog.

Ah. Eucalyptus. Steam. I sit. Peace at last.

Until I try to breathe and realize I can’t.

There’s no air in a steam room. So now I think I’m dying. And the more I try to breathe, the harder it becomes to do. I’m sucking at hot, heavy, mint-scented clouds that won’t budge. I’m on the verge of having a really good panic attack.

It must be 400 degrees in here. My skin is going to start melting off.

I try to see through the fog to read the temperature on the wall, only I can’t see past my outstretched hand.

This place is like a giant glaucoma simulator.

My grandfather had glaucoma. Now my aunt does. I start worrying about genetics.

And suddenly, I “see” it: this is what my future will look like! Blurry around the edges, everything encased in mist.

I have to escape this chamber of horrors.

I pull the door of the steam room open and take a giant gulp of pure, non-eucalyptus infused air.

Step 3. “Ready for your massage?” My tour guide smiles.

I waddle behind her, fully submissive now and prepared to face my fate. I have lost the feeling in my lower extremities, and am numb everywhere else.

Bring on the hot stones.

There's a Guy for That

A few weeks ago, on a spring teaser of a glorious Saturday, Brett and I took our children to get new bicycles.

You see, they had grown over the winter, my Andrew and Zoe, as children are wont to do. One day, everything was status quo, and the next, their pants were short, and their wrists stuck out of their long sleeve shirts. When seated on their old bicycles, they were all elbows and knees. Even their heads had gotten bigger, as determined by the woman who helped us select not only bicycles, but new safety helmets too.

So we upgraded to the next size, color, shape, and model of gear for the season ahead and handed over the credit card.
Then we brought the shiny equipment home and stared at it proudly.

Now all we needed to do was teach the kids to ride.

I began typing. “Do you have a good bicycle teacher? I need a guy.” I selected a bunch of friends from my address book and hit send.

The emails responding to my question poured in the next morning.

The best one came from my friend Laurie. “No, but I’ve got a grill guy, a camp lady, and a guy to help you cut the line at Disney, if you need.”

Good to know! I took the name of the camp lady and continued opening emails until I happened upon one with a bike guy.

It’s not that I’m lazy. Although I sort of am. It’s not that I’m uncoordinated on a bicycle, even. Though I definitely am. It’s just that, when it comes to certain tasks, I feel ill-equipped and would rather put the job in the hands of a so-called professional.

I mean, no one would expect me to fix a broken dishwasher, clean my house’s gutters, or teach my kids math when they get to the high school, right?

There are experts out there for tasks like that, with technical knowledge, whom we have traditionally deferred to. Like the auto mechanic, the plumber, and the SAT prep team. No one would bat an eye at me for hiring one of them. But at some point, these trades evolved through a type of upper middle class Darwinism, creating what I’d like to call the Tier II specialists, a species that helps to make life’s overwhelming tasks seem more manageable. Although this Tier II cohort of connoisseurs is certainly not necessary, they have become part of our regular vocabulary. Think baby nurse, party planner, college guru. It used to be that you could burp your own baby, plan his bar mitzvah, and write his college essay for him all by yourself. But thanks to cultural evolution, there’s a guy (gal?) for that.

Let’s go one step further. I like to think that I can read a book, get together with some friends, and discuss said book over cookies and wine. But there are those who might insinuate that my leader-less book group is incomplete. What we need, apparently, in the armchair of importance in the corner of our living rooms, is a paid, professional reading liaison. This person asks us the same questions about the text that we can filch off the internet or find in the back of our reading group paperbacks, or -- dare I suggest it -- come up with ourselves!

Now that’s a cushy Tier III niche market industry right there.

Let me explain. Tier III specialists include the nichiest of professional niches, such as the guy who picks up dog poop from your back yard for you should you have an electric fence. That way, you can just let your dog out the back door to conduct her business and not have to walk her or clean up after her.

Yes, there’s a guy for that.

I’m suddenly thinking about getting a dog.

Because, in this ever-increasing world of specialized technical knowledge, I’ve come to see that we don’t have to do it all. In fact, we don’t have to do much of anything!

Is it learned helplessness? Do we just give up too easily if we have the money and/or lack the time and interest to complete these tasks ourselves? Or, is it based on some sort of fear that, if everyone else is doing it a certain way and you don’t, you’ll end up losing out somehow? I’m not sure.

There’s the IT guy who fixes your internet connection, the home organizer who re-arranges your kitchen pantry for maximum efficiency, and the personal shopper who examines your closets and tells you what to keep, what to toss, and how to wear that old blazer so it looks fresh. (Hint: belt it and roll up the sleeves. I just saved you $75 bucks.)

Now let’s take “camp” as a category. There’s someone to help you select your child’s sleep away camp and then someone to tell you what to buy for that camp and then someone to put nametags in the camper’s clothing. There’s someone who will package and send bunk junk to him in Maine, and then someone else entirely to boil his disgusting after-camp laundry and yet another person to pick lice out of his hair when he comes home scratching.

On a nice day last summer, Brett and I were in front of our house with Andrew and Zoe, not teaching them to ride their bicycles. I turned to watch my neighbor for a while, who was also out enjoying the day. He was walking back and forth across his lawn, pushing something.

“What is he doing?” I asked Brett.

“Seriously?” Brett replied, giving me an odd look.

“Yeah.”

“Julie, he’s cutting the grass.”

Can you believe it?

My next door neighbor actually mows his own lawn! How retro is that? Manual labor!

It’s gotten to the point where my brain cannot even register people who take it upon themselves to complete tasks that could be doled out to a sub-contractor.

It’s a slippery slope from personal trainer to bicycle tutor, that’s all I’m saying.

Maybe you taught your own child to ride his bicycle. Maybe you even view this task as a rite of parenting passage, and you proudly admit how you taught all three of your kids to ride in the park next to your house. Well, good for you.

Metaphorically speaking, I am not that guy. I am the guy that needs that guy.

Dear reader, you are going to have an opinion about this, I am sure. And that’s fine. That’s why I air my comical -- if not somewhat deranged -- life in the newspaper. So that you are entertained, a. And to perhaps spark some conversation on the train platform, b. Please, turn to a fellow commuter and ask them: what tasks that you could have accomplished yourself did you hand off to a so-called guy, like a baton in the great relay of life? And, how did delegating that responsibility make you feel? And, conversely, which tasks are those you do yourself?

And, finally, if you know a guy who can come and re-grout the concrete between my front steps, could you please let me know? Thanks a ton.