Relax at Yoga Haven

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

            

This is not me.

“Back then, Madonna was on the cover of Time magazine doing yoga, and people couldn’t believe that you could look like her from doing only that,” Kase explained.  “Now, people have more understanding of it.”  In the past few years, in addition to growing her studio across the board, she has seen an increased interest from prenatal clients, seniors, men, and even children.

            

“Eleven year olds spend 8 hours a day sitting in a chair in school,” she said.  And then they go to play sports, sports, sports nonstop, without much stretching, “so they are getting tighter and tighter,” which can be rough on the body.  That’s why Yoga Haven offers a variety of classes for kids and teens, including a Monday evening class just for boys.  “We do handstands and hang from ropes, and lots of other fun things,” she explained. 

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

The 10:52 Local

A day in free verse poetry

On the Starbucks lanai

dappled sunlight

watching the trains go by

iced grande green tea

sweetened

two dollars and thiry one

cents a day

after spin class

on a warm spring day

I stay hydrated and,

finished chatting,

head to DeCicco’s for

taco meat.

It’s Monday

So that is

dinner always

before piano practice and after

tennis, perhaps a stop at

the candy store

Where I steal a mini

peanut butter cup from Andrew’s

thoughtfully curated bag.

“Hey!” he shouts, but I unwrap

it and, pop, into my mouth it goes.

There are no calories from candy

meant for your kids;

everybody

knows that.

Zoe’s collection is mostly

chewy and bad

for my temporary crown.

I dig through and hand it back.

I could have bought

a Celine bag

with the money spent

on endodontics

but I needed

the new tooth

and the pocketbook

is always only a fantasy

like the beach house

and the movie deal

so I wave

to my reflection

in the storefront window

whenever I drive by.

There are always

nice things, as

my mother would say.

Finished shopping

for camp clothes

all labeled

Andrew’s first time away.

Upon safe return,

will he still let me kiss

him in public?

Do you have time for a mani-pedi?

a friend asks.

I have a book to sell and another

to write

(there’s always something

to write, a text, an email

a pin, a tweet)

but sure, mademoiselle.

Zoe and I will bond in July,

hang out at the town pool

apply sunscreen

and be lazy together.

There’s so much

I don’t know.

An uncertain world,

I manage it

through certain, predictable routines,

and try not to worry

like Brett does

as another train passes.

Digging through the junk,

we find small bits of beauty,

and in that way

life is like the sidewalk sale.

I drink it in.

And that’s my tale.

Looking forward to

summertime in the ‘dale.

Plastic is Fantastic!

When I was growing up, my parents did a lot of summer entertaining, before they divorced and ruined all the fun.  Our house in Edgemont had a pretty backyard with a pool.  Since my birthday is on July 3^rd, we often hosted outdoor birthday parties, end-of-the-year school class parties, and elaborate Independence weekend fetes back-to-back for the first part of the summer season. 

In fact, I recall the time between Memorial Day and July 4^th as one big party.

My now long-deceased Bichon Frise, Ellie, would agree, having spent much of that time sipping margaritas from the half-filled cups left next to people’s lounge chairs and then falling asleep in the shade.  

Of note, there was the bat mitzvah outdoor brunch with an omelet station, the Sweet Sixteen party to which I wore a rockin’ white, Oscar de la Renta bathing suit, and a Club Med party, during which my father burned his exposed stomach by grilling without a shirt. 

For my mother, these parties were all about setting the table. Continue reading here....

The Chocolate Wars

Let’s agree to agree: chocolate is delicious, and it’s also good for you.  But, like all great love stories, this one has a twist: in order to reap any health benefits, the chocolate you eat should be dark, dark, dark.  

            

Here are some Real Facts paired with some Julie Facts about dark chocolate.  Continue reading article on the Huffington Post.

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.

Silence of the Iberian Ham

A few weeks ago, I wrote an article about two Type A–ish people (namely me and my husband, Brett,) traveling abroad and trying to strike the perfect balance between hitting all the major sites and just chillaxing with the natives. This second option is not always easy for us to do and is something we call “living among the Romans.” (If you want to know why, read the first article, entitled “When in Rome.” You can find it, and all of my other articles, archived at http://julie-ontheverge.blogspot.com. Shameless plug. But if you are reading this online, you've already gotten there!)

So, I’m going to pick up where I left off. Brett and I had been in the lovely city of Barcelona for four days now, and still we had not really dined among the Spanish. We had eaten some nice meals, yes, but always with the sense that everyone around us was also a tourist, brought to the same destination as recommended by a similar guidebook, reading off an English menu and relaying their orders to English-speaking waiters.

But not this night, oh no. This night would be different! By declaring it with an exclamation point, we felt that the statement just had to be true! This night, the guidebook would not be consulted. The hotel concierge would be blown off. Brett and I were going rogue. We were dining on a hunch, determined to infiltrate the real Barcelona, the one that the Spanish didn’t tell the Americans about.

Because, by day four, we had this sinking suspicion that the Spanish were, in fact, keeping stuff hidden from us. Maybe there was this “official” list of great restaurants that the board of tourism was releasing to the rest of the world, and then, maybe there was this special list for Spaniards to enjoy in peace.

Or maybe, just maybe, we were completely paranoid and delusional.

In either case, we were off to dinner.

Cuines Santa-Caterina, in the Born district of Barcelona, was our destination. Right away, we loved it. We were greeted in Catalan, seated in the cool, open-market space, and handed menus in Catalan.

Now that’s more like it, Brett and I agreed, high-fiving each other like the lame Americans we are. We consulted our menus greedily. It didn’t matter that we couldn’t read a word. It all looked so yummy.

Our waiter came over and stared to speak to us in Catalan. We nodded and tried our best with broken Castilian Spanish to make it clear that we had no idea what he was saying. I consulted the wine list. Pinto or Rosado, I wondered? Which was the red wine? Must be Rosado. Tinto, I concluded, would be white. Yes. Based on my own limited knowledge of Spanish wines, I then ordered a bottle of somethingorother from the list. The waiter paused, unsure of my order. Then he smiled and made grand hand gestures; we smiled and pantomimed back. Satisfied by something I showed him from the menu, he scribbled on his pad and walked away.

Wow, that was challenging! I sighed, letting some of the tension from that exchange leave my body. This was not going to be easy, Brett and I agreed, but the experience would be well worth it in the end. Of that, we were certain. We gave each other the thrums up signal, like the lame Americans we are.

Our waiter approached and, before I could find any words in any language with which to object, opened for us the bottle of pink wine that I had apparently ordered.

“You ordered rosé?” Brett barked.

“Uhm?” I answered. “I guess?”

“But we don’t drink rosé!” He reminded me, a little too harshly, I thought.

“Well, tonight we do!” I said, smiling nervously at the waiter who now sensed our international trouble in paradise. (It doesn’t matter the language, you call tell when a married couple is not getting along, si?)

I took a taste and nodded to the waiter. “Bene.” The waiter bowed and left.

I was so freaked out I had stared speaking Italian.

“It’s not bad,” I said, trying another sip.

“Whatever. Let’s just order,” Brett said.

Three times our waiter approached and three times we sent him away. “Not yet,” I said. “Uno minuto mas.” There. That sounded more like Spanish.

Back to the menu we went. Since the menu was divided by both region (Mediterranean, Asian) and food type (vegetables, meat, fish, rice), some of it was easier to read than others. Gyoza and ebi maki, for example. Other words jumped out at me at random, like “foie,” “calamari,” and “pimientos,” but not one dish in total was translatable. “Hamburguesa amb salsa de bolets” meant that I’d be presented with a hamburger with some kind of salsa on it, right? But exactly what was that salsa going to be? There was just no way to know. And, further, what was this Fideua, sitting there all by itself under the charcoal-oven/pasta categories?

Brett and I were starving in a fine dining establishment, incapable of ordering a meal.

Our waiter sensed this and swapped himself out for an English-speaking waitress. The phrase “Hello, may I help you?” never sounded so pretty as it did that evening.

Our new waitress started to help us translate the menu line-by-line. Then, in mid-sentence, she paused. “Wait. You don’t have English menus?”

“”You have those?” Brett asked. “Great! Bring ‘em on!”

Within five minutes of receiving them, we ordered our meal and relaxed. We were getting a few different tapas and the Oven-roasted Iberian Pork for two. My goal was to eat pork with every meal while in Spain, and so far, I had managed this feat quite easily.

“Do you think that’s enough?” I asked the waitress.

Her eyes went wide. “Oh, yes!” But she didn’t elaborate.

“Perfect.” For the heck of it, I even ordered us a half-bottle of real red wine.

Oh, how quickly we had returned to out natural state as helpless American tourists! And how happy we were about it.

The apps were nice, the red wine red, the crowd Spanish. We were digging Santa Caterina.

The waitress came by and gave us a lovely dish that we were sure we hadn’t ordered, of matchstick fries and new potatoes with two dipping sauces. We inquired. “Oh, yes, that’s yours. It comes with the pork.” Then she started pushing items aside on our table to make room for the main course.

Drumroll, please.

From the kitchen emerged a sizzling cast-iron tray of substantial proportions. The entire restaurant – noisy, crowded, high-ceilinged – fell silent in the presence of this dish. There was a collective intake of breath as the Oven-roasted Iberian Pork for two was brought the length of the restaurant and then laid before us.

Imagine a pig, and then cut it in half. Then imagine all the ribs on one side of that pig, seasoned to perfection and broiling in pinkish brown loveliness right under your nose.

It was simultaneously the most glorious and most repulsive thing I have ever laid eyes on, much less consumed.

Brett raised his eyebrows and grabbed a fork. I watched as he sunk the tines through the crackling skin and then pulled away a tender, moist bit. He kept pulling, until a nice pile of bite-sized morsels lay in front of us.

“Well done, Clarisse,” I said, trying to sound like Hannibal Lecter. “You have silenced the Iberian Ham.”

People were staring. We didn’t care. People were whispering, pointing. We didn’t care. We had found our way into the core of Spanish culture, and we loved eating its heart out.

When in Rome

Nine summers ago, my husband Brett and I traveled through Italy with my brother and some friends. For the second and third weeks of this 3-week trip, my friend Lisa and her husband, Jon, joined us. They arrived, unpacked, and promptly slept off their jetlag. Then they slept some more.

By the third morning of what we viewed as our friends’ complete lack of get-up-and-go-ness, Brett and I started to get anxious. We sipped our cappuccinos and examined our watches from the courtyard below their room. Time was a-wasting, and there were ruins to see! According to Frommer’s, there were at least 17 churches to visit, several important, historical walking tours to amble, and a whole lot of pasta to consume. There was no time to vacation on this vacation…didn’t they understand that?

“Holy Ceasar, get the heck out of bed!” We would groan under our breaths. And then we would scribble a note for them and slink off to do our own touring.

On day four, we made a group decision to rally en masse, and we headed toward the Vatican. The pope was addressing the public; we could watch him glide by in his Popemobile and bless us in several languages. It didn’t seem to matter that we were Jewish in the face of so much Catholicism. When in Rome, Brett and I decided, best to just go with it and meet the Pope. After all, the guidebook recommended it highly, rating the activity with a full star!

As the group of us stood in St Peter’s Square that morning, Lisa and Jon made a decision. They were blowing off the Papal address. Nor were not going to see the Sistine Chapel with us afterwards.

“But…what are you going to do, then?” We asked, guidebooks in hand, mouths agape.

“Live among the Romans, I guess,” they shrugged. And then they disappeared behind some columns, Michelangelo-less.

Lisa and Jon returned to our villa that evening with stories of cafes and bicycle rides, markets and more markets. I had images of them cruising down stone alleyways, honking the horns on their bikes a la Life is Beautiful, or splashing each other with water from the Trevi Fountain in Dolce Vita-filled bliss.

Then they cooked a glorious dinner with fresh, local ingredients. Several bottles of Chianti were consumed.

There was something to this notion of living among the Romans, Brett and I later determined, though we were still not ready to give up our Frommer’s. But the catchphrase and its meaning took hold in us over the years. Indeed, whenever we found ourselves enmeshed in a culture and its ways, we would recall it, somewhat tongue-in-cheek. Visiting cheesy waterparks on the Jersey Shore? Brett and I call that “living among the Romans.” Eating clam cakes and “milk chowdah” in Narragansett, Rhode Island? Doing what the natives do; simply living among the Romans.

Which brings me to Barcelona.

Brett and I had the great fortune of visiting this lovely city a few weeks ago, in celebration of both my upcoming 40th birthday and the completion of my doctorate. We went in full-on Julie and Brett style, with guidebooks in hand, articles cut from recent magazines (with sections underlined and highlighted), and inside info from Gwenyth Paltrow’s website, Goop. We had a Master Plan, a day-by-day itinerary.

We gorged ourselves on Gaudi, poured over Picasso, and marveled over Miro. We followed every guidebook suggestion about where to eat, and were “rewarded” for this by being seated next to Americans and British at every meal. Everyone around us was reading off of an English menu and ordering the same three items.

It was a little bit depressing, truth be told. I mean, I had come to Spain to, you know, see the sights. But hadn’t I also come to see Spanish people…doing their Spanish people stuff? What was that, exactly? The guidebooks just didn’t say.

One event on our list of “musts” was to dine at a tapas bar called Inopia. On her website, Gwenyth writes that she would “fly al the way to Barcelona just to eat” here. That endorsement would have been enough, but Inopia also comes with major kudos from Frommer’s, from my friend Debbie, and also from a recent magazine article. So, getting into the spirit of Barcelona, we headed out for a late dinner, arriving at 10 pm.

Just before the taxi pulled up to the restaurant, I noticed a woman desperately trying to flag down our cab. Her arms were waving madly and she was jumping up and down in her platform sandals, three companions by her side. At that moment, I had this weird vision. For one, I knew that she was an American tourist, like me. I just sensed it in my bones, in that “I see dead people” kind of way. Also, I knew that she was in this section of town just to dine at Inopia, probably hearing about it as I had from several sources. Plus, I imagined that she had bought those white skinny jeans she was now hoping up and down in at Scoop in New York City, in anticipation of this upcoming trip to Barcelona. And that, further, she had totally planned the night’s ensemble imagining herself eating the world’s best patatas bravas while showing off her trendy look.

What concerned me was the apparent distress accompanying this woman’s whole look. Hadn’t she just eaten a great meal? Why was she so hell-bent on getting into my cab? But there wasn’t time to answer these questions. She and her friends faded into the darkness as our cab sped past them and stopped on the next block.

I shrugged off my disquieting vision and hopped out in front of Inopia, where couples stood waiting. While Brett paid the taxi driver, I approached a man taking names and asked how long the wait would be. We were prepared to wait in line for perhaps an hour just to get in the door. What we weren’t prepared for was being told that no more names were being taken for dinner that night.

“You mean…I can’t eat here? At all?” I gasped.

“No. Not tonight.” The host replied.

“Brett!” I screamed. “Hold that cab!”

“Huh?” He asked, standing in the spot left by the cab exactly half a second before.

Explatives flew as I explained out current state. It was 10 pm, we were stuck on a secluded street in a nowheresville section of Barcelona, and we would not be eating Gwenyth Paltrow’s favorite tapas! We were f*&%ed.

Just like that Scoop woman, I now understood.

I was on the verge of tears. Brett approached the host and spoke quietly with him.

He returned a moment later and took my arm. “This way,” he said, leading me away from the famed restaurant.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked, not too kindly.

“Well, I asked the guy who is not taking names where he would eat right now, and he told me about a place he likes. Two blocks up, make a right.”

“You mean…we’re going to…live among the Romans!?” I laughed, the tension created by the scene outside Inopia leaving my body.

“Looks that way,” Brett smiled back.

And so, we found our way to La Clara, a lovely little spot for tapas. We sat at the bar, ordered the ubiquitous tortilla, some cheeses, and yes, the patatas bravas, and had a nice, relaxing meal together, doing as the Spanish do.

A few nights later, we dined with the afore-mentioned friend Debbie at Michelin-star rated Cinc Sentits, and relayed our story about the failed attempt at Inopia.

“La Clara?” She responded. “That’s supposed to be great. They were reviewed quite favorably in The New York Times, in the same article as Inopia.”

Please insert your eye roll here.

Funny that a comment indented to make me feel better should actually have the opposite effect.

Were Brett and I ever truly able to live among the Romans in Spain?

Tune in to my next article and find out.

Life Cycle

I am not much of an athlete. I’ve thought long and hard about why this is, and I’ve narrowed it down to two factors. For one, I lack depth perception. And, for two, I’m a little bit lazy when it comes to physical activity.

As you know, it takes all types of people to make the world spin. There are people who can run around on a field, kick balls or throw passes, and then score goals. Then there are those who can cheer for these people from the safety of a warm bench on the sidelines, sipping hot apple cider under a plaid blanket and looking cute. There are those who can maneuver not only their bodies, but a lacrosse stick as well -- simultaneously! -- and those who can write about them for the local newspaper.

Some people get a healthy glow about them during exercise, while others turn an unnatural shade of purple.

Some can work on a dissertation for ten years, and others can ride a bike.

Guess which one is me.

The first (and only) time that my husband, Brett, took me bicycle riding was on Nantucket. I assured him that I sucked at riding, but he would not be swayed.

Our relationship was relatively new. Dear Brett still believed that anything with me was possible, if only he loved me enough.

“Brett, I suck at this.” I said for the umpteenth time, securing my helmet and walking the rental bike down a dirt path near our cottage.

“It just takes confidence, and practice. You’ll see how easy it is. Your only problem is that you’ve never biked with me before. I’ll be encouraging and supportive.”

“Can’t you be encouraging and supportive about my desire to read four books while sitting under an umbrella on Cisco? In return, I’ll be super encouraging and let you go on a solitary bike ride to Madaket if you want. Heck, go all the way to ‘Sconset! Just let me be.”

He shook his head no. “Three miles. Straight, flat road. From here to Bartlett Farm and back. Easy as pie.”

“Pie! Can we stop and eat pie at Bartlett Farm before heading back?”

“Sure.”

“Mixed berry?”

“Whatever you want.”

I took a moment to deliberate. I was the verge of tasting those freshly picked purple berries as they oozed out from under a crumbly crust. I was also, possibly, on the verge of actually breaking a sweat.

This was a tough call. But there was to be pie. “Okay, I’m in.” I smiled.

We hit the road. This isn’t so bad after all, I thought, biking in front of Brett so that he could keep an eye on me. We had gone about a half a mile and I was starting to like it. A car passed by. Then another. Then several more.

“Stop!” Brett called. There was panic in his tone. “Julie! Stop right now!”

It took me a moment to remember how to brake. I stepped off the bike and turned around. “What happened?” I asked. “Are you okay?”

“Me!?” Brett guffawed. “Me!?”

“What? Me? I was just biking.”

“You swerve into traffic every time a car passes by! It’s like you’re drawn to the cars, by some sick magnetic pull.”

“Oh, yeah, that.” I shrugged. “It’s from my lack of depth perception. You see, I can’t really tell where the road is, where the car is, and where I am.” I used sophisticated hand gestures to illustrate my point.

“But, you’re going to get hit by a car!”

“No kidding! I told you I couldn’t ride a bike.” I put my hands on my hips, striking the classic “I-told-you-so” stance.

“I thought you meant that you couldn’t handle the riding part of riding a bike. Not the oncoming traffic part.”

“Nope. I can ride a bike perfectly well, if only I could do so in a bubble. Like on a bike that never moves.”

“A bike to nowhere.” Brett added.

“Exactly!” I agreed. “A bike to nowhere would be perfect for me.”

And that’s how I fell in love with spinning.

Spinning – riding a stationary bike to nowhere – is my sport. It requires hardly any hand-eye coordination, occurs in a climate-controlled environment, and is accompanied by loud pop music. Most importantly, there is very little chance of ever getting hit by a car while spinning. Need I say more?

My only problem is that I often walk away from a spin class feeling a little disappointed by some aspect of it. The music was annoying, or the teacher wasn’t that great, or the guy next to me smelled bad. Not long ago, I encountered a trifecta, with the convergence of 80’s heavy metal, an obnoxious teacher singing along to the heavy metal, and the slowest, sweatiest, smelliest person in the continental US just to my right. I endured it for 45 minutes, but I never went back.

Alternatively, sometimes spin class is just plain boring.

Enter Soul Cycle, the newly-opened spinning studio above the newish CVS, located at the corner of Popham and Depot roads. Soul Cycle has been popular in NYC for years now, which means that, as a complete suburbanite, I’m only learning about it now. The studio has been opened for about a month here and it already has devoted, obsessed followers. You know the type: people who sign up online for their favorite bike and/or instructor days in advance. Slightly intimidating, well-attired individuals clad head to toe in Lululemon spandex. People who are already really, really fit.

If there is one thing I will never be, it is obsessed with exercise. But I will say that I am really digging this workout. It’s crazy and intense and anything but boring. Plus, some of the instructors are a little bit insane. And I mean that in a totally good way! Great spin teachers need to be endorphin junkies in order to set the tone and pace for the rest of us. They need to dance around a bit, play interesting music, and show some personality. Soul cycle instructors inspire and motivate me, even as I sit on the bike and wonder if my legs will ever move as fast as theirs. (The answer to that is no.)

By the end of the 45 minutes, the room is so steamy, it appears to be raining inside. Indeed, some individuals are so sweaty, they look like they have been rained on. (Pretty image, isn’t it? The ambient candles around the room have kept the space looking and smelling relatively fresh, though.)

On my way out of the studio, I wipe some condensation from the fogged mirrors lining one wall and examine my appearance. My skin is bright purple, as expected, but I don’t care. I’m smiling, and exhausted.

After 39 years, I’ve found my so-called sport. It may not be social, like tennis. But it’s an exercise I love and it’s something I can honestly say I don’t suck at.

So, the next time you take your real bicycle out on the Bronx River Parkway, give a little wave in my direction. I’m up there, in the spin studio, happily pedaling as fast as I can to nowhere.

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 201: Summer Reading for Adults

Last week, in Part I of this summer reading guide (written for pre-teens and teens), I confessed that I am a bookstalker. This is a person who follows people around bookstores and tells them what to read. Since writing this, several other bookstalkers have come out of the woodwork to tell me that I am not alone and that they, too, bookstalk strangers.

Why would someone do this? I can’t speak for the others; after all, they just might be crazy. However, I bookstalk because I am a little bit bossy and also pretty passionate about reading. I like to think that I can make the world a slightly better place, one book recommendation at a time.

I tend to use my superhuman book sense on kids, since they are less likely to harm me for butting into their reading life than adults are. Also, they are cuter than grown-ups and get excited about reading in a jump-up-and-down kind of way. However, with summer just around the corner, I sense some grown-ups are jumping up and down too. I figured you might as well do it with a good book in hand.

Ladies, I just read Kelly Corrigan’s memoir “The Middle Place” and I cried like a baby. Now that may not sound like a glowing recommendation, but it is. Oh, what a nice little read. Moving, real, and deeply personal, this one has it all. Do yourself a favor and read the essay about the power of female friendship included at the back of the book in the privacy of your own home. Unless you want to blubber in public, that is. My sister-in-law heard Corrigan read the essay in her own voice through an online version that I can’t wait to listen to myself.

Now, here’s the rest. “The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society” is set on a small English island occupied by the Germans during World War II. In this poignant and witty tale, readers get to meet a wide variety of quirky and charming characters who pass the time of their occupation by forming a book group. This is not a traditional holocaust tale, but rather an interesting look at what life must have been like on the periphery of war.

For more historical fiction, try Geraldine Brook’s “Year of Wonders,” and Lisa See’s new novel, “Shanghai Girls” (to be released May 26th). For lighter, contemporary reading, grab Elin Hildebrand’s “A Summer Affair” (comes out in paperback June 1) and Jane Green’s “The Beach House,” both set in Nantucket. Can’t get there this summer, thanks to the economy? Sit at the town pool with a big straw hat and pretend you are out in ‘Sconset with these characters. And if you’d like to read about (and hopefully also be in) the Hamptons this summer, try Jane Green’s newest, “Dune Road,” to be released on June 16th. Read anything by Jodi Picoult and then give her books to your high school or college-aged daughter.

If you want to read along with me, I’m reading “The Help” by Katherine Stockett because, if for no other reason, a book that gets 5 stars based on 275 reviewers on Amazon deserves my attention. I’m also going to try and get my adult book club out of our leper-and-plague-infested-reading-rut (otherwise known as our “Great Books About Awful Things” phase) by suggesting that we read “Secrets to Happiness” by Sarah Dunn. This novel, about a New York City writer and divorcee, got a nice review in The New York Times Book Review last weekend. Also, according to Amazon, it contains “witty prose” and, although, bordering the chick-lit genre, “it's smarter than the usual single-in-the-city fare, and funnier, too.”

If you want to read along with my husband Brett this summer, try the new Elmore Leonard book, “Road Dogs,” which came out earlier this month. “And, because we live in the suburbs, I’m interested in reading John Cheever’s new biography,” Brett adds.
“You know it’s 800 pages long.” I interject.

“Revise that: I’m interested in reading some of “Cheever: A Life.””

Also on his list is “The Watchmen”, the graphic novel that inspired the movie and Micahel Chabon’s “The Mysteries of Pittsburgh,” which Brett calls “the sleeper hit of the summer.” It has also been turned into a movie, “though the book is much better than the movie is going to be, trust me,” Brett adds with uncharacteristic swagger. It’s about a recent college grad who does something to cross his gangster father. Hey – you can give it to your recent college grad!

Our friend Dave is reading “The Best Nonrequired Reading 2008,” put together by Dave Eggers, which he calls “a compilation of random nothing, actually,” and has just finished Adiga’s “The White Tiger,” a sarcastic critique of the inequity in Indian society, about a taxi driver and the corruption surrounding him. “All fiction. I used to read a lot of nonfiction but have lost the vibe recently,” he added. I can’t imagine why – reality these days being such fun! Escape, much?

There is also “City of Thieves,” about a man’s survival in Russia during World War II, based on stories told to the author by his grandfather, and “The Book Thief,” also set during World War II, which is already considered a modern classic. Anyone and everyone over the age of 14 should read it. No pressure. You just have to.

I’d like to take a moment to thank all the people who give me advice when I’m looking for my next great read, from my book groups to local librarians and booksellers to my mom and my friends. To be a good bookstalker, you have to know when to give advice and when to take it. You have to keep lists. You have to be open to the possibility of trying different genres and new authors. You have to have what I call a “balanced reading diet.” Sometimes you have a full meal and sometimes you just have a snack. Sometimes, you skip the protein altogether and just go straight to dessert. And that’s what summer reading is all about, if you ask me: sugary beach reads. Yum.
So please, read something delicious, something you just want to devour. I think we all deserve a little indulgence this summer, don’t you?

If you want a more personalized list of titles, either for you or your children, just ask. After all, I’m always happy to bookstalk you.

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.

Married...with Children

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

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


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

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

Before Baby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The list of disasters was biblical.

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

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

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

But sometimes mommy just needs a break!

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

After Baby.

And then the place was hit by a hurricane.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“G’night.”

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

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

To Be or Not To Be…on Facebook?

Julie is going to write about Facebook today.Julie is starting her article this way in order to explain to everyone that it is not normal to write about oneself in the third person, as one is prompted to do on Facebook.

Julie once had a tennis coach who taught entire lessons in the third person. “Watch Pat hit the ball!” the pro would say. Julie would start scanning all the courts for someone hitting the ball, thereby missing her own teacher as he served. The lessons confused Julie and she never really learned how to play tennis well as a result.

Julie has lots of things to say about Facebook. *****Phew. That’s about as much as I can take of myself in the third person. I am a bit concerned that, if you are unfamiliar with Facebook, the above exercise just went over your head. You didn’t get it. You didn’t think it was funny. And then I thought, well, then too bad for you. Facebook has over 175 million users, so even if you aren’t a member, you should really be up to date on these things. It’s a phenomenon of ginormous proportions. According to recent statistics, the fastest growing demographic on Facebook is their 35-54 year old segment, which grew at a rate of 172.9% in the first half of 2008 and then doubled to a growth rate of 276.4% by January of 09. That kind of rapid acceleration has to be worth something. I fit in (the low end of) that demographic. So naturally, I had to take a look. After some coaxing through the form of an online tutorial from my high school friend Sarah, I joined Facebook this past January. I did so for a number of reasons. One: I am always looking for a good topic for this column, and I thought Facebook might give me some solid nuggets. Stories are always on my mind. Two: after my high school reunion, Facebook quickly became the natural meeting place for old friends. The irony of this isn’t lost on me. I had lived just fine without any knowledge of these people for the past 20 years. Now I know strange and somewhat intimate details of their everyday lives, sometimes every day of their lives. When someone from my high school class is making soup in California, or scores an 8 out of 10 on a Brady Bunch trivia quiz, I hear about it. Snow on the first day of Spring? I can tell you that no one was happy about that. Where to go to get the best Sweedish meatballs? Ikea. That one came with pictures posted next to the comments so I could see how good those meatballs tasted. I’m not sure that’s fair, actually. “Mmmm…I’m eating something awesome right now.” What’s missing? “And you aren’t. Hahaha.” Actually, I like Facebook best when there is a hint of Schaedenfreud involved. A friend in Vermont is having a hard time getting her kids to fall asleep? I am on the verge of writing back: sucks to be you right now! Another friend tried making homemade hamantashen and now her kitchen is a mess and the pastries look disgusting? I tell her I’ve been there, done that. Now I buy them at the bakery. I also like having a leg up on local gossip. The other day my mom called to tell me that an old friend of mine was getting married. I practically yawned in her face.
“Mom, that news is, like, so last month! She’s been having trouble finding just the right green for the bridesmaids’ dresses.” “How do you know all of that? She lives halfway around the world!” “She and I are friends on Facebook. Duh!” was my unkind response. “And, did you know that she’s been to 47 of the 50 United States?” My husband Brett did not want me to join Facebook. He was concerned that he wouldn’t be able to compete with all that social noise, and that somehow, once I entered the portal, I would be lost to him forever. “You don’t trust me?” I asked him point blank one evening. “You think I won’t write my dissertation anymore, or remember to get the kids from school, or write my articles for the paper, or pretend to go to the gym like I always do if I join Facebook?” “I’m not saying that, exactly….” He looked sheepish. “Okay. I am saying that. I think you will succumb.” “Dude: it’s not a cult.” I rolled my eyes. “Get over yourself. I’ll be just fine.” Brett continued. “My real fear is that you’ll become one of those people who talks about Facebook with people who aren’t on Facebook and don’t care about Facebook. Like me. The only way I’ll be able to reach you is virtually.” Now, it is true that Facebook is the ultimate timesuck. It’s like an online college dorm, with people pranking each other and knocking on each others’ doors to chat about bs while in their pj’s. The best thing about college was that, no matter the time of day, there was always someone around to hang out with. And in some ways, Facebook is like that. It is an amazing tool for social networking in a technocratic world, and it’s available 24/7. But I have to say that, for me at least, it’s not quite like going into a room filled with actual people and calling out, “Hey! Is anyone in here up for some beer pong?” Maybe it’s just a function of my age. When I was growing up, friends had to call me at home if they wanted to reach me, and I had to do the same to get in touch with them. I remember being so nervous about getting a boy’s parents on the phone that I actually had to write out a little script for myself about what to say if one of them answered. (And then I needed a second script of what to talk about with that boy.) Nowadays, kids seem to skip this step in the social equation. I have a friend who is the mother of two teenagers, and she’s amazed by how quiet her home is, even with tons of socializing going on. “No one ever calls the house,” she said recently. “I have a hard time keeping track of who my kids are texting on their phones and chatting to online. I’m really not the gatekeeper to their interactions, the way my parents were to mine. It’s weird.” Is this new form of communication superior to good old casual hanging out? Brett and I decided to imagine what it would be like to bring the Facebook format of socializing to life. “Okay, so we are out to dinner with Kate and Dave. Go!” I prompted Brett. “So, Dave,” Brett began, pretending to be talking to a good friend of his. “If you were a shoe, what kind of shoe would you be?” “Hey, Kate,” I began, turning to the empty space to my left. “Can I challenge you to a game of word twist, perhaps?” “He’s a loafer.” “She said she’d prefer Scrabble.” “Hmm.” Suddenly, we missed our friends. We wanted to see them in real life. So I got on Facebook and sent Kate a message. Wanna come over for dinner? Bring the kids. Let’s be noisy! ******* Julie is having actual dinner with actual friends on Sunday. She is actually, really and truly very excited. Julie might even tweet about it on Twitter.