Grace's Table: A Restaurant Review in the Gerstenblatt Style

Grilled octopi!

There’s no doubt about it:  Scarsdale village, with eight local eateries featuring outdoor dining options, is the new European capital of Westchester.   Meanwhile, Central Avenue is… still Central Avenue.  That being said, it’s worth leaving the Village proper (and all the chocolate croissants one could want) every now and then for fine dining at a pretty spot called Grace’s Table, located at 324 Central Avenue in White Plains. 

            

Grace’s Table is part of the restaurant and marketplace team led by the Balducci and Doria families, known for the Balducci’s markets, Grace’s Marketplace, and Grace’s Trattoria.  In other words, as soon as I heard the name “Grace Balducci Doria” I made a reservation for dinner.  And you should too.  The restaurant serves upscale American fare for lunch Mon-Fri and dinner nightly.  They also have a private party room in a wine cave on the lower level.

            

Brett and I arrived about 45 minutes early for an 8:30 reservation, checked in with the hostess, and went to have a drink at the bar.  “If you have a table ready any earlier, we’d love to take it.  It’s just that the babysitter arrived and we had to escape while we could,” I explained.

            

“Understood.  If you’d like, I could give you this table right here,” she said.  We did like.  We sat.  (There are several rooms to choose from, so you might want to poke around; we were happy to just sit.)

            

The table next to us happened to be occupied by two couples from Edgemont that I’ve known for years.  We chatted for a while and I told them that Brett and I were here on an official culinary assignment.  Everyone got very excited and started telling me about their tasty selections.

            

Continue reading here.

           

           

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

Dear Scarsdale,

Welcome back! I hope you enjoyed the Hamptons/Europe/the New England coast/horseback riding in the Grand Tetons (circle one). Here’s what I did while you were away.

June:
After nine summers camped out at the Scarsdale Municipal Pool, I have become an expert at understanding its culture. This year, I entered the complex and immediately began a strategic assessment so as to determine the perfect place to sit. The pool is a bit like a middle school cafeteria that way; everyone knows that once you’ve picked a spot, it’s hard to switch out and become a member of another locale. So the first day at the pool is critical. Sun or shade? Hill or valley? Near the new moms or the new grandmas? Find some other Fox Meadowans, or branch off? As Brett and I perused the grounds with our children, chairs strapped to our backs, it all became clear: this was make-it-or-break-it time.

After some deliberation, we settled on the Greenacres Knoll, a grassy rise equidistant between the baby pool and the main pool, favored by a few families from one part of the village. With growing excitement, we realized that neither or our children, ages 8 and 5, would be spending much time – if any – in the two smaller pools this summer. When my children were little, I waded through the baby pool for weeks on end, only wet to the ankles. Then I spent a summer or two submerged mid-thigh, and then the following two fully soaked. Last summer, we turned a corner, and I didn’t even have to get wet! And, now that Zoe, my younger one, is a confident, able swimmer interested in doing handstands in the main pool when not diving off the high dive, we could literally turn our backs on the baby and medium pools.

Truth is, a kid could defecate in one of those small pools and throw up in the one, closing both indefinitely, and it would not affect our nuclear family’s happiness in the least!

We had progressed.

July:
The phone rang one afternoon as I was home working on my novel, jarring me out of my creative spell. I saw the ubiquitous “Scarsdale Public Schools” number pop up on caller ID, and immediately assumed Zoe had been hurt at rec camp.

Turns out, she had actually hurt someone else. “Hi, Mrs. Gerstenblatt, this is Jill, over at Camp Sagamore. We had a little incident at the pool today, in which Zoe hit her friend, Daisy.” Oops, I thought, cringing. I had never received a call like this, one in which you instantly feel like the worst mom ever. As a former teacher, I had certainly made those calls, and now I hoped that Jill over at Camp Sagamore would not think less of me and that Daisy’s mom would forgive us both. “I’m going to call Daisy’s mom next,” Jill explained. “Please tell her that I am soooo sorry, will you?” I begged.

When I asked Zoe what happened, she explained it like this: “Well, Daisy was talking to me in the pool and I wanted to swim. And she just wouldn’t let me! So I punched her.” She took a deep breath. “And then, she punched me back. In the wiener.”

Which is worse, I wondered, sending Zoe off to kindergarten with a strong left hook and her own sense of justice or with an incorrect understanding of her own genitalia?

During the same week, my son Andrew came home from his swanky private day camp – complete with door-to-door bus service each day -- with an announcement. “I think I want to go to sleep away next summer,” he said, between bites of his cookies and milk. I might have gasped. I looked at him across the kitchen island, fighting back tears. “But – but – you said you’d always live at home, even when you went to college! Even when you got married! You never wanted to leave me!” Andrew shrugged. “Yeah, well, I changed my mind. Plus, day camp is getting a little old.”

Well, excuse me. Maybe next summer, we should trade places. I’ll go to swanky day camp with water slides and zip-lines and he can go to the Scarsdale pool and try to find the perfect, quiet spot in the shade in which to read, preferably upwind of the sewage drain and downwind of the distracting chatter of the circle of friends on the knoll.

August:
There is nothing I love better than trying on last season’s cashmere over my workout clothes in 95-degree heat while fighting off others who want the same item because it’s now 75% off.

That’s right: the first weekend in August brings the Scarsdale sidewalk sale! Of course, the sidewalk sale is a bit like the Jewish holidays; they come early or late but never on time. This year, the first weekend in August was actually the last weekend in July, but whatever. I’m not going to try and explain the complexity of this. I’m only going to say that I put it on my calendar and I came, I saw, and I conquered.

The sale, like the pool, has its own, unique culture. You basically find yourself half-naked in the back of a store like Pamela Robbins, giving strangers advice about what to buy. “Oh, my God, that looks awesome on you,” I said to a woman that I see regularly at spin class who basically ignores me, and I her. But today, bolstered by fashion at deep discounts, we could not only speak to one another, we could become each other’s temporary BFFs. “You think?” She asked, turning this way and that in the mirror. “Yes, I think!” I enthused, thinking, Duh, Dolce and Gabana, what a no-brainer. “Here, try this, it’s too small for me but it will probably fit you perfectly.” I added.

Too small for me? Had I just admitted that she was thinner than I was? Who was I, and why had I become so nice? Anyway, after 9 minutes of love-fest, we parted ways. I knew we’d see each other at spin class, but I waved goodbye like she was going to sleep away camp. “Talk to you next year!” I joked, sort of.

August is also when I head to Staples to buy school supplies. The third grade list wasn’t so bad; it was the kindergarten one that got me.

“Twistable crayons, thin and thick markers, and colored pencils, all have to be branded Crayola?” I said aloud in the middle of the store, to no one. “15 thick glue sticks?” The list also included two large boxes of tissues and pump soap and a Purell, plus two containers of wipes per child. At 48 wipes per container, that’s 96 wipes. Let’s say the class has 22 children in it. That’s 2,112 wipes per classroom. I pictured the kindergarteners, very clean and germ-free, stuck to their seats with all that glue, like something out of The Little Rascals.

But, then I thought, given Zoe’s track record, glue might not be such a bad idea.

Is Andrew on the verge of going to sleep away camp? Will Zoe make it through kindergarten without being sent to the principal? Will I ever finish writing my novel? The school year of 2010-2011 has all the answers. Stay tuned.

Your Pal,

Julie

School Daze

Imagine, if you will, a suburban household at 8:15 a.m. Let’s just pretend that the house exists on a quiet, shady street, in the middle of bucolic bliss. Like perhaps in a village 30 minutes north of New York City.

Oh, what the heck, let’s just call it Scarsdale.

So it is 8:15 in the morning in Scarsdale, and it’s September. And in this particular place at this particular time, the household goes into momentary panic mode. For argument’s sake, let’s just pretend that there is a mom and three elementary-aged kids inside this abode. Now, I’m just guessing here, and remember that this is pretend, so I can make up all kinds of crazy stuff if I want to, but I think the mom is shouting at two, if not all three, of her children, at this very moment.

“Molly, put on your shoes!”

“David, where is your homework? Did you do it last night? Did you put it in your homework folder?”

“Remember the permission slip!”

“Don’t forget that you are going home with Tyler after school!”

“Please eat your lunch today – I packed your favorite!”

“Brush your hair!”

“Brush your teeth!”

“Pee!”

“The bus is coming!”

“The bus is here!”

“YOU MISSED THE BUS!!!”

It is now 8:16 am. The children pile into the minivan with an over-the-top, harried mom, who is on the verge of cursing under her breath in all manner of colorful language. She cannot believe that the children need to be driven to school again when she pays taxes for the convenience (and green-ness) that is known as the yellow school bus.

If all that carbon monoxide is green, that is.

Is this your morning?

Welcome back-to-school, everyone! Happy September to you all. Hope you had a nice, relaxing vacation down the shore or up the coast or right here in the middle.

My summer was lovely, thanks for asking.

Yes, I missed you too.

For those of you who know me, you know that I always – and I mean like 30 plus years of always – go to Nantucket for my summer vacation. Not this year. This year, my children and Brett and I tried something different, something novel, something completely in-law-less.

First, we went to the Jersey Shore. Way down. Exit 13 off the Garden State Parkway, where no Scarsdalian has gone before.
Down there, people come from Philly, and random parts of Pennsylvania that I’ve never heard of, and even Delaware. I didn’t see anyone I knew. For seven relaxing, sun-filled days, I didn’t see any Bodyfit or Circle of Friends stickers on any cars, or any New York license plates whatsoever.

“What’s that accent I keep hearing everywhere?” I asked Brett one afternoon in Cape May, as we strolled the quaint Victorian streets with our kids. “Is it…southern?”

“Yeah. We’re in the beginning of the south, you know.” Brett teased.

“New Jersey was a part of the Confederacy?” I paused, trying to think back to 11th grade. “Really?”

So close to home, and yet a world away from all the New Yorkers in Massachusetts.

On the Jersey Shore, we played a lot of mini-golf. We ate something called “water ice” which is basically Italian Ice, only somehow better. Creamier. Like sorbet. (Brett thinks they removed the national label for political correctness. I’m like, “is the term ‘Italian Ice’ derogatory? Since when?” We debated this for quite some time. When on a family vacation, you can do this sort of thing since no one has to leave to catch a train to the city or a bus to school.) On the Jersey Shore, we walked the boardwalks and spent six hours straight in inner tubes at a water park and then rode on huge Ferris wheels perched next to the Atlantic. We bought hermit crabs painted as Sponge Bob and kept them as pets in fancy cages bought at the five and dime in town. We jumped off a private dock into the bay located right in our own backyard. And we all had a blast.

But wait: there’s more. Then we spent a week in the Hamptons, reconnecting with our peeps. Get-togethers with different friends from Scarsdale moved seamlessly from lazy afternoons on the beach to tranquil evenings all together, with wine in hand. Every day was more restful and beautiful than the next.

And then September 7th arrived and my summer came to a screeching halt.

Registration for fall classes nearly sent me over the edge. Is Andrew elite enough for junior elite tennis? Will Zoe get off the waitlist for preschool gymnastics, and will her name be selected by lottery for the coveted Wednesday Coach Terrific class? Will my doctoral committee member who is on sabbatical in Sweden (or Denmark? Maybe Norway? Definitely not New Jersey) ever get back to me about revisions to chapter five of my dissertation?

Coming home after summer vacation is like being in a car commercial: I go from zero to sixty in under five seconds.

To manage the stress of September, I tried to plan ahead. Really I did. This year, I went to Staples for school supplies over Fourth of July weekend in order to beat the back-to-school crowds. Only they hadn’t gotten their back-to-school shipment in yet. “Come back in, like, August?” The girl behind the counter said. “You know, when everyone is like shopping for back-to-school stuff?”

“But, you see,” I wanted to tell the clueless sales girl, “that’s exactly when I go on vay-cay-shun!”

Some people handle back-to-school planning differently. To stay ahead of the crowd and get a leg up on the latest fall trends, my friend Sloane did some clothes shopping for herself on one of the muggiest days of the summer. “I bought leather leggings,” she confided as we watched our kids splash in the town pool a few weeks ago.

“In August.” I countered.

“Yeah. It was like 94 degrees out.”

“You so needed those.”

“I did. And the cute booties that go with them. Now I’m all set for fall.”

Sloane is going to be styling’ in her black leather leggings with coordinating booties and I still cannot locate 5 inch Fiskars scissors to satisfy the particular demands of a second grade school supply list.

But the worst is behind me now. The kids are successfully off to school -- with or without scissors -- and the after-school activities have been lined up for the most part, with coordinating carpools in the works.

And now that it’s underway, I remember how much I love September. New books, new clothes, a hint of chill in the air. The promise of something; a fresh start. A few hyper moments each morning are worth it. Because once the kids are out of the house and off to school, I can breathe in that clear fall scent in relative peace, and look forward to the season ahead.

Whatever it may bring.

With or without leather leggings of my own.

Bookstalking 101: Summer Reading for Kids

Are you ready for summer reading, boys and girls? Moms and dads? Children of all ages? I am. And I’m going to tell you what to read this summer, because I’m pushy like that. And also because I care.

First of all, let’s start with the kids. The school summer reading lists are coming out, marking my favorite time of year. There’s nothing I like better than a slightly clueless 12 year old roaming a bookstore with his or her mom or dad in tow. Why is this? Because I love books. And I love giving advice. Combine the two, and you’ve got my favorite pastime: giving people advice about what to read.

I’m a little bit embarrassed to admit this, but I actually stalk families at Borders.

“Don’t say that you stalk them,” Brett told me while reading a draft of this article. “That’s kinda creepy.”

“But that’s what I do! Like, in a friendly, helpful kind of way. I’m a bookstalker.”

“Yeah. See, that’s creepy. Call it something else. Like Booktalker.”

“I don’t like that. It sounds too much like horse whisperer.”

So, what I mean is that, occasionally, I “follow” families around the aisles in the back of the store and listen in just to get a sense of whether or not my services are needed. And if so, I pounce.

Imagine me hiding behind a copy of the latest Secrets of My Hollywood Life by Jen Calonita (a must read if you are a 10-14 year old girl, btw. So good!). I am pretending to be absorbed with the text, like Clark Kent with his newspaper, on the verge of fighting crime as Superman. Only I’m a female, and I don’t wear glasses. Plus, I would look weird in all that spandex. But you get the idea.

“I think this one seems good,” a mom might say to her son, clearly exasperated after ten minutes of failed attempts with different titles. “Get this one.”

The child crinkles his nose at it, as if the book smells like moldy cheese. He’s not convinced that this is what he wants to read during rest hour at camp.
Besides which, “this one” is a 400 page monster of a classic with words printed so closely together that even I might fall asleep by page 7. This boy must be saved! It’s time for the Bookstalker.

“Hi, there,” I’ll begin, putting on my most friendly, wide-eyed facial expression. “I know a lot about these books. Maybe I can help. Tell me what you like to read.” It’s usually as easy as that.

The mom smiles and relaxes as she hands me the school’s summer reading list. The child is so stunned that he drops the tome that he was holding onto my toes. But that’s the price you pay as a bookstalker. Sometimes, matching kids with appropriate texts can hurt just a little bit.

Now, I must admit that I am pretty well-read in the YA genre (young adult, natch), having spent over a decade as a middle school English teacher. And although I am no longer teaching middle school, I do meet regularly with a bunch of enthusiastic (and by that, I mean loud) 13-year old girls for a monthly book group. We eat home-baked goods while throwing jellybeans at each other, and I try to get them to talk about the book. It’s fun. Really.

And when I’m not reading YA lit with them, I’m reading it with my grad students. As professor to these 25 teachers and teachers-to-be, I lead discussions each week about new, noteworthy and classic titles in the genre. The adults don’t throw jellybeans like the kids do, surprising as that may be. But they do have just as strong opinions about the Twilight series.

If you are a middle schooler, or a parent of such a creature, listen up, because I’m only gonna say it once.

Obviously, read the entire Lightning Thief series. The fifth and final installment just came out on May 5th, and the movie version of the first book will be released next year. The author, Rick Riordan, spoke at the Scarsdale Middle School in March, so he’s become a bit of an institution already around here. It’s what we in the business of bookstalking call a “no-brainer.” If you like those, read Kiki Strike or The Mysterious Benedict Society. Read Susan Beth Pheffer’s Life as We Knew It because my teen book group loved it. If you are interested in questions about life and death, read Elsewhere and Heaven Looks a lot Like the Mall (both of which I would call Lovely Bones lite). Read Diary of a Wimpy Kid for laughs and The Graveyard Book if you want to get spooked.

If you are a girl going into 8th grade, read Dairy Queen by Catherine Murdoch, and when you finish it, read the sequel. Read anything and everything by Sonya Sones. Read Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson. (Not my book group girls – please, read it with me in September! Wait! Don’t cheat! I’m serious! And don’t throw that at me!) Read Wintergirls or Thirteen Reasons Why if you like to get depressed, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. And if you are an older boy (8th -9th grade and up), read The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian because Sherman Alexie rocks, or Cory Doctorow’s Litle Brother (a sort of play-on-words of Orwell’s Big one).

And, yes, I know I sound ridiculous saying “rocks” about an author.

If you want to read along with me this summer, I am going to read The Hunger Games, by Suzanne Collins. It’s destined to be the next runaway hit for teens. I can’t wait to put on the sunscreen, lie on a beach chair, and dig in to this futuristic, dystopian tale.

Don’t worry, grown-ups. It’s your turn next week.

Making Friends with the Past, Part II

In case you didn’t read it or don’t remember, Part I of this series took a hard look at the somewhat misguided preparations I made for my 20th Edgemont High School reunion. When last you saw me, I had secured the perfect outfit for the event but had an ill-timed encounter with a dermatologist and her v-beam laser.

“So, what else is there to say?” my friend Jessica asked. “How can you even have a Part II? Everyone knows that the biggest piece of the reunion experience is the getting ready component. Did you lose the ten pounds? Get a boob job, tummy tuck, or Botox? How’s your hair? How’s your husband’s hair?”

Like me, Jessica had graduated from high school in 1988. She had recently attended had her own 20th reunion on Long Island. She talked like such an expert that she may also have crashed some others, just for fun. I hung on to her every word.

She explained that the event is really just about the women. “They all look great, better than they did in high school. But the guys get old and bald. The captain of the football team is now fat, and the brainy nerdy guys are the best husbands of the bunch.” She shrugged like this was common knowledge.

I pondered it for a minute. “Your husband is bald.”

“Like a baby.” She added.

“And mine was a brainy nerd.”

“Doesn’t Brett still brag about winning the perfect attendance award in high school?” Jessica asked.

“And he’s a good husband.”

We nodded in unison. “Amen to that.”

Case closed? I wasn’t so sure. My friend Steve, with whom I was planning the reunion, was the captain of the football team in high school, and he still looked great. I decided to put Jessica’s logic on my brain’s back burner.

And before I could say Karma Chameleon, the months of anticipation were past. On a crisp evening last October, Brett and I headed into the city for the reunion.

Had anyone changed dramatically, I wondered? It was time to find out.

Now, there’s two ways I can go with this story, from this point on. I could either tell witty anecdotes filled with quippy dialogue, filling you in on all the details as Brett and I chatted it up with my ex-boyfriend and some old frenemies. I could mention that everyone looked great, not just the women. I could tell you that, at two in the morning, the last of the group made its way down to the street from the roof-top bar where we had spent the evening. My prom date, a mild-mannered pediatrician, patted Brett on the shoulder and smiled, declaring that he was now one of The Guys. I could tell you that, as Brett and I debriefed on the ride home, he decided that my ex-boyfriend, Joe, a graduate of my class who I dated after college, was his favorite person at the event.

“Really!? That’s so bizarre!” I declared, shaking my head.

“What? Joe’s a cool guy. He’s smart and funny and interesting, and…”

“And he broke my heart, remember!”

Brett was quiet. “Good thing he did, too.”

“Huh. Hadn’t thought of it that way. Remind me to send him a thank you note.”

So, that’s one way to re-tell this story. This is the other.

In a lot of ways, this reunion was surreal. Two decades have passed, and yet, as soon as I think of high school, I can go right back there. If I watch an 80’s movie like Valley Girl or hear a certain long-forgotten song, my reaction is actually visceral. It’s as if there is a souped-up DeLorean with a flux capacitor waiting outside my house to zoom me back to 1987.

This ability of mine to go back to the future proved to be both good and bad. In response to the reunion, I immediately acted like a teenager again, focusing on all the outward appearance stuff and feeling irrationally insecure. The main difference this time was that my 38-year old brain could talk the inner teen down from the ledge. Yes, I could obsess about what to wear and how I looked, but concurrent with those actions, I understood just how silly my behavior was. I also knew that none of it really mattered, having the benefit of 20/20 hindsight.

Also, as much as I remember about those good old days, I also seemed to have forgotten quite a lot of it as well. Here’s an awkward moment: when an old friend tells you a story about you and you don’t remember it at all.

“How could you forget that?” Paul asked. “It’s like the best memory I have of you,” he said.

“Well, then I’m so glad you have it!” was all I could come up with in response.

I didn’t know what to say. Is the appropriate retort something like, “Please don’t take it personally! If I knew how to not forget I would have definitely remembered!”

Perhaps more than the wrinkles, that made me feel old.

Although my forgetfulness was not a hit with that particular friend, senility worked really well with the female frenemies. I was able to go up to them and be like, What did I hate you for? Oh, who the heck remembers? Come here and give me a hug! Call it time and distance; call it mellowing out and maturing. Call it early onset dementia, if you must. There was something really beautifully “kum-ba-yah” in all that collective memory loss.

The morning after the reunion, there was more socializing to do. It was like an after-prom party only instead of going to the beach we held a bagel brunch in the EHS cafeteria. This was a family-friendly event, with a magician entertaining our children in the senior lounge. Several teachers and administrators from the district came by to say hello.

At one point, I was standing next to my former 6th grade teacher, a man who I have known since I was 10, pointing out to him my kids and husband, and discussing my own career as a 6th grade teacher. I was simultaneously wishing away a little bit of a hangover, cursing at myself for having that extra margarita and for staying out so late. I was actually on the verge of asking him for the keys to the nurse’s office so I could grab some Tylenol.

Now that was an exceptionally surreal moment.

The principal of EHS then took us on a tour of the campus, pointing out the changes made in the decades since we’d been students there. We kind of marched in a line behind him, which made me feel a little bit like I had for 7th grade orientation, only I wasn’t wearing my rainbow-banded blue tracksuit this time. But as I turned to my right, I realized that I had gone on that very tour with Lindsay, who stood beside me now. Granted, her two-year-old son was having an absolute meltdown, and his screaming was preventing me from hearing anything the principal was saying, but other than that, it was just the same as it was in 1983.

On the walk, I got to take a moment to visit a memorial set up for Lois Van Epps, one of the most wonderful teachers that I have ever known. Although I had said goodbye to her in my mind years ago and had tried to honor her in my own teaching, I had never been to the spot on campus dedicated to her memory. There was something very moving about that for me, but I figured that if I burst into tears, my former classmates might think I was crazy in addition to senile. I pretended instead to have hay fever as I dabbed at my eyes and said another silent farewell to Ms. Van Epps.

My memory may not be what it used to be, but as I strolled the campus, a mantra of recollections filled my mind.

Here’s where we took our senior class picture.
Here’s where that backpack flew out the second floor window.
Here’s where I stood at graduation.
Here’s where a junior made fun of me when I was a freshman.
Here’s where Mr. Mallia blew things up in the name of science.
Here’s where I hit a car in the parking lot.
Here’s where I hit another.
Here’s my picture from the musical Grease.
Here’s where I hung out with friends on warm days.
Here’s where I hung out when I cut gym class.
Here’s where I hung out.
Here is where.

The reunion weekend was fun. And it flew by. Just like high school.

Making Friends with the Past, Part I

It was around this time last year that I had to face a harsh reality: my 20th high school reunion was quickly approaching. I don’t know why this news sent me into a panic, but it did. I suddenly felt really old. Overnight, my laugh lines turned into wrinkles, and purple bags formed under my eyes. This rapid deterioration couldn’t be all in my mind, could it? Was it the fear that I would soon have to face the clique of girls that always reminded me of that classic movie, Heathers? And what about those friends that I had lost touch with, whether amicably or not-quite-so? Did I really want to deal with all the feelings the past might stir up? In short, was I ready for this reunion?

While I was mulling this over, a website had been set up, and people from the Edgemont High School class of 1988 were now chatting online.This is what I heard through the grapevine, at any rate. I couldn’t actually verify the fact that my former classmates were reconnecting via this new-fangled, post-80’s technology because I had decided not to follow the link sent to me by Sarah, one of my best friends from high school.And that’s because I had decided that I wasn’t going to go to the reunion.


“I think that’s a wise decision,” my husband, Brett, concurred. He and I were waiting for a table at the diner with our children one Saturday morning last March. In the 10 minutes that we were standing there, I had run into about 5 people I knew from high school.“Every day in Scarsdale is like a reunion for you. I say, save the 85 bucks per person and take a walk around the village, waving at all the people you’ve known since the mid 70’s. Call it a reunion.”


He had a point.And he was on a roll.“Clearly, you should not go to the reunion. You loved high school. We go out with all these ‘Edgemont couples’ – people who actually married their friends from high school, and it’s like some sort of convention where I don’t know the language. You guys are like Trekkies. I don’t think I could take a whole room of you people, gushing about the good old days when you went to Madonna concerts and wore finger-less lace gloves, or smoked cigarettes while eating fries dipped in gravy at The Mont.”


He had another point.High school really was fun, come to think of it.“You had friends you loved, and teachers that you loved so much that you decided to become a teacher yourself. You moved back to your hometown! You were even a cheerleader! Yeah, you totally shouldn’t go to that reunion.”


I was detecting some sarcasm from my normally sarcastic husband.“Okay, I hear you. I’m like the poster child for it,” I admitted. “I’ll probably end up going. And you’ll probably have to come along. But please, let’s get one thing straight: I was not just a cheerleader. I was a cheerleader who made fun of cheerleaders. It’s the essence of who I am. You know, insider/outsider.”


“Whatever. Did you wear the little skirt? Did you jump up and down and shout rhymes at athletic boys?” 


I nodded. “Then you were a cheerleader. You did not take a political stance.”


“I’m not sure about that. Senior year, we put together a very impassioned petition stating that cheerleading was indeed a sport and therefore worthy of exemption from gym class. It was highly politicized.”


“And how’s that turn out for you?”


“Some of the squad had to make up gym credits over the summer in order to graduate.” 


The memory of it made me wistful.By the end of that breakfast, I had decided to go to the reunion.That night, I went online and updated everyone with my 20-year story in about a paragraph of text. I also casually mentioned in that note that I would be glad to help Steve, now living in New York City (and married to another EHSer, of course), who had come forward to organize the reunion.


The next day, my phone was ringing.“Hey, Julie! How’d you like to plan this thing with me?” Steve asked. By the end of the week, I had gone from not attending the reunion to actually co-chairing it.


“Now, that’s my cheerleader!” Brett winked.I dug through the attic to find my pom-poms. Goooooo Re-union!!!


******


Spring turned into summer and summer into fall. Before I knew it, the scent of football season was in the air. The reunion was now a mere 4 weeks away. RSVPs had been pouring in from across the country and around the world. I had been connecting with people via email that I hadn’t seen since graduation. The experience was strange and exciting at the same time. I was starting to really look forward to this event.Dana was coming from Bulgaria. Sarah from New York City. With them by my side, I could walk into that reunion and feel confident.As long as I had the right outfit.It was time to get my game on.


Several trips to the city later, I had fourteen options and nothing to wear. Was the black cocktail dress very Jackie O. or very Nancy Reagan? Were wrap dresses so 2005? And should I wear fierce boots or stiletto heels?I was having trouble focusing on anything other than the big R.


My book group had witnessed enough, and was on the verge of kicking me out. On a Tuesday in early September, they cornered me in a corner of Lila’s living room. Lila spoke.“We need to stage an intervention. We’ll be over Friday night at 7:00. You’ll try it all on for us and we’ll decide.”


“But…” I began.They held their paperbacks up to me, as if to strike. 


“No buts! We’re coming. End of story.”


To take my mind off the costuming issues, I decided it was high time to see my dermatologist. There were capillaries on my face that needed zapping.“Now, this might sting a little bit,” the doctor with milky-white, perfectly unwrinkled, rosacea-and-mole-free-skin warned. “Like rubber bands being snapped against your cheeks.”I looked at her and thought, I’ll endure almost anything to have skin as blemish-free as yours. Bring on the rubber bands!


“Also, you will have some bruising. It might take a few weeks for your skin to heal fully.”Bring on the bruising! I have 15 days! 


Now here’s a little lesson for you folks who, like me, might not see the danger in those words. If a doctor ever says to you that “there might be bruising,” you should stop right there and ask some questions. Like, how bad will that bruising be? And, for how long will that bruising last? And then you should up and run, even if only wearing a backless paper gown. Because, otherwise, you will end up like me.I left that office $400 poorer and in a deep state of psychic disarray.


In the first hour post-procedure, my face looked so bad that I thought, surely there has been some mistake. The v-Beam is lauded by movie stars precisely because it doesn’t cause any bruising. There is not supposed to be downtime between the procedure and the perfection.For me, the not-Angelina girl, this harmless laser caused 12 days worth of brownish blackish, bloody-looking pustules that threatened to take over the entirety of my face.“Remember that guy who got shot in the face by Dick Cheney?” Brett asked me as I sat to write this article. “I didn’t want to tell you at the time, but you looked just like him.”


Thanks, honey.


In order to take my mind off the bruises that I was sure would keep me disfigured for life, I decided to go back to obsessing over what to wear. I headed into Scarsdale village for one last look around before the book group intervention that evening. And at one store, I found something that could be perfect. It was a shimmery dark blue dress with a deep v-neck and some stretch to it. Accessorized with a thick black belt and a little cardigan, it felt very me.But since the return policy would leave me with a store credit if I changed my mind, I had to be certain before purchasing it.I looked at my watch. 12:00. Which of my friends might be on-call at this hour? I dialed Janie, my friend from high school who now lives in Edgemont with her EHS husband. I explained my precarious situation to her voicemail. It went a little something like this: “I’m-in-the-village-and-I-need-help-deciding-what-to-wear-to-the-
reunion-because-as-you-know-I-am-a-crazy-person-help-me-
my-face-is-all-messed-up!!!!”

Next person on the list: Lila from book group. She already knew how insane I was, having planned the intervention. She answered the phone and I explained.“Oh, I’d love to come see, but I’m getting a pedicure. Can’t leave the chair.”


“Are you getting a pedicure in the village?” I asked, an idea forming in my mind.


“Yes….”


“Then I’m coming to you.”Don’t you just love shopping in a small town? The saleswoman in the store shooed me out, seemingly not too worried about the fate of the dress and whether or not I would ever return with it. I marched over to the nail salon, price tags flapping all over me.A few people stared and I smiled back. Then I remembered what my face looked like. People weren’t gawking because of my outfit.


Lila loved the dress. So did the woman in the pedicure chair next to her, as did all the ladies who worked there. My second bit of advice to you is this: if you ever need an opinion about something, just walk into a nail salon. Doesn’t matter if you know anyone there. You will have a captive audience, a committee of commentators!“Honey, turn around. Let me get a good look.” An elderly woman called from the front of the salon, where her fingernails were drying by the windows. I obliged.“Very pretty. But what happened to your –?”


Want to know how it turned out?Seeing the clique of girls? Former boyfriend? Prom date?Tune in next week.

Reflections of a Recessionista

The weekend before Black Friday, there was a huge sale at Saks in Manhattan. This surprised everyone, because it wasn’t advertised and because it came a week earlier than expected. You see, the after-Thanksgiving sale at Saks is legendary. Every year, fashionistas of all ages drag their turkey-hangovered selves out of bed at some ungodly hour just to line up outside the Hallowed Doors of Saks so that they can be the first ones in. These lucky few get the best selections in sizes and styles and the best deals, as the savings drop from 50% back to 30% after 12:00 noon. Well!

Not this year, ladies. This year, if you weren’t at Saks the Friday before Black Friday, you basically missed the boat. Let me tell you what I know. And then, let me tell you why it matters.
First of all, I wasn’t there, so I am relying on data collected by a fellow fashionista, my friend Dana. Dana fell upon the sale accidentally, merely by walking into Saks to buy some cosmetics. “It was insane! I’ve never seen anything like it!” she told me afterwards, shaking her head as she reported that women were literally snatching up 8-10 pairs of brand spanking new Jimmy Choos, Manolos and Pradas for about a hundred to two hundred dollars a pop. She said that the shoe salon looked like a bomb had been dropped into the middle of it. I immediately pictured a scene from some black and white World War II drama where a shell-shocked woman wanders around aimlessly among the rubble, calling out for her lost loved one. “Tods! Tods? Where are you, Tods!?” Smoke and ash hang in the dead air around her, but she must go on.

The second day (yes, Dana went two days in a row), Saks had hired security to watch over the horders. Women were fiercely clutching snakeskin pocketbooks they didn’t need or want just because they were so darn cheap. Dana found this absolutely fascinating to watch, like some sort of sociological experiment. Her normally restrained step-mother even purchased three pairs of shoes retailing for $1,700 for a little over $400.

At this news, my already palpitating heart started to do the Macarena.

She and I happened to be 4 blocks away from Saks on the Sunday of the sale, walking around the city with our children. She turned to me, a knowing look in her eye. “I think we should go,” she said, left eyebrow raised conspiratorially.
I glanced longingly in the direction of Fifth Avenue. “I do need some black boots,” I sighed.

“Then you’ve gotta go there. Like, now.”

I was on the verge of saying yes.

So, here’s the thing.

I didn’t go.

Why? Because it sounded too tempting, too amazing. And although I feared I’d be missing out on The Chance of a Lifetime, I also worried that my credit card and I might not get out of there alive. The fact of the matter is, a year ago – six months ago – I would not have even hesitated. Of course I would have marched right in there and shopped. It’s a sale, after all! Good deals to be had on beautiful designer items! There’s nothing wrong with treating yourself now and then.
Except when the “now” is, well, now.

Welcome to my world: I am a recessionista.

What is a recessionista? On the surface, it seems fairly self-explanatory: it’s the way a fashionista behaves in response to a recession. The recessionista -- or “frugalista,” as William Safire prefers -- is still glam, but on a (much tighter) budget.

So, what does being a recessionista really mean, for us here in Scarsdale? Let’s take a closer look.

Have you cut back on haircuts, blowouts or color in recent months, or perhaps switched salons so that you are not paying New York City prices for your coiff? You are a recessionista.

Have you dug out a vintage pocketbook from the back of your closet and fallen in love with it again, instead of buying the latest Balenciaga? That’s a classic recessionista move. (And a great recycling technique, too. Very anti-consumerist. Bravo!)

Are you considering getting rid of that second (or third) car, the little sporty one that only goes out with you on Saturday nights? You are a recessionista.

Have you stopped decorating your living room, calling the sparse furnishings and lack of art “The New Minimalism?” Rock on, recessionista.

Is your next vacation being scraped together with frequent flyer miles and Amex points? Now that’s a practical, globetrotting, recessionista.

If it’s time to cut back on personal training, take a jog around the track, recessionista!

An important note: some things are worth fighting for. I have a friend who, no matter how dire the situation becomes, will never give up on getting her eyebrows waxed once a month by her beloved top-secret groomer in the city. Babe, I’m here to say that holding on to one or two time-honored rituals like that is completely recessionistic, too. A recessionista knows what makes the most sense for her, her family’s wallet, and her extraneous facial hair.

And lastly, I’d like to say that, somewhere, a line in the sand must be drawn. My friend Jodi really wants some red-soled, stiletto Louboutins. She understands that now just is not the time for such frivolity. However, desperate times call for desperate measures. When last we spoke, she actually contemplated getting some spray paint and – you see where I am going with this and it isn’t pretty – turning the soles of her Nine West pumps red.

“Those would be your LoubouNOTs,” I declared. “And doing that is just downright depressionista.” I shivered. “Let’s hope we never get there.”

The fact of the matter is, we – as fashionistas, Scarsdalians, and Americans -- were maybe more than just a tad bit out of control before. It’s time to prioritize and to do a little soul searching instead of sole searching. If Obama can trim the fat and cut back national spending, isn’t it time we do the same at home? Don’t just do it because you have to economically. Do it because cutting back is the right thing to do.

So, my fellow recessionistas, chin up. I know old habits die hard. There will certainly be an adjustment period as we learn to accept that less really is more. For the time being, how about we try this: I’ll let you borrow my slouchy Chloe bag if you’ll lend me your YSL tote.

Who knows? If we go for lunch after, it may even feel like real shopping.