Sep
04
2013

Netflix Fever

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My Grey Gardens set up in my bedroom where I like to watch Netflix. A lot.

My Grey Gardens set up in my bedroom where I like to watch Netflix. A lot.

I am totally sick.

But never fear, I’ve been through this kind of thing before.

The symptoms usually come on quietly at first.

I’ll find myself lying on my bed in the middle of the day for a spell and before I know it, three hours have slipped by and it’s time to make dinner.

Pretty soon, whole weekend days – nice, sunny days – are spent alone in my darkened room.

Do I have a fever? Negative.

Am I depressed? Nah, although I am a little down on myself lately for wasting many perfectly good hours that could have been used for more productive purposes – like food shopping, perhaps, or paying my bills. Writing content for my blog would be nice, too.

Instead, I am addicted to yet another TV series that I am inhaling in two- and three-hour increments in the comfort of my bedroom courtesy of Netflix.

My kids bought me a Roku for my birthday, which my daughter skillfully hooked up to the TV in my room, so now I don’t have to access Netflix through the Wii in our family room or on my laptop if I want to remain lying on my bed and fulfill my Grey Gardens destiny. (Among my beautiful Roku’s many tricks, I can also access shows and movies through Amazon, Hulu Plus, HBO 2 Go and listen to Pandora, to boot.)

“I’m never going to leave my bedroom,” I said to the kids when I opened my birthday present.

“That’s what we’re hoping,” one of them told me. Oh, how we dislike each other come August each year.

My obsession du jour is the steamy ABC drama “Scandal,” which I totally ignored for two seasons but then the non-stop hype over the star Kerry Washington – culminating in a Vanity Fair cover story this summer – was more than I could bear. So in the interest of being well-versed in all-things-pop-culture, I got onboard last week and started watching Season 1.

And by now, I’ve said adios to about 20-odd hours of my life as I am now tearing through Season 2 and marveling at Olivia Pope’s drop dead wardrobe – you should see the fabulous mix of drapey silks and cashmere basics she wears in gorgeously-soft neutrals – and the actress’s ability to get all lip-quivery and teary by both the threat of public recrimination or the advances of her super-hot boyfriend president.

It’s a little bit like eating box of Cheez-Its: totally salty, you know you should stop but you just need a little bit more.

Prior to my imaginary stay in the cutthroat world of D.C. politics, I spent the earlier part of the summer in a women’s prison in Connecticut while savoring the 13 episodes of Netflix’s newest series, “Orange is the New Black.”

The characters are so rich and complex, and their back stories are so compelling, that it more than makes up for some of the pretty raunchy moments that may give prudish viewers pause. And the creator is the same woman who came up with “Weeds” and I mean, who didn’t have a crush on Nancy Botwin at some point?

I also spent some time this summer slowly making my way through “Arrested Development,” which has me legit bursting out laughing a few times each episode. It’s all so ridiculous. Like, neverernude? C’mon.

I got hooked when my oldest set up camp in the den, which is right across from where I work at the kitchen table, during the week he had off between the end of spring semester and the start of his summer job.

I couldn’t see the television as he cranked through the early “Arrested Development” seasons that rainy week, but I could hear some of the insane things the characters would say – like the mother, Lucille Bluth, telling one of her adult kids, “You’re my third least-favorite child,” or saying to her daughter, “I don’t criticize you! And if you’re worried about criticism, sometimes a diet is the best defense.”

After listening to a marathon of episodes over that week I knew I needed to go back and watch the craziness for myself. My whole family has gotten on board with the show by now and I’ve even caught the 10-year old watching episodes on his mini iPad via Netflix. He and I even had an “Arrested Development” marathon one night last week, which I know is an insanely inappropriate show for a little boy to watch, but he’s the fourth and I’m tired. And he really is my little Buster.

Over the last 12 months I’ve whiled away countless hours binging on “House of Cards,” “Game of Thrones” and “Breaking Bad,” while the world went on without me. And I think I’m one of the 10 people that watched all 13 episodes of Netfix’s wildly-panned horror series “Hemlock Grove,” which I did over the course of one weekend last spring. (What can I say? I’m a sucker for monsters.)

In the meantime, I’m supposed to be reading Middlemarch for my book club and writing a book of my own.

But who has time? I’ve got to get through the last 9 episodes of “Scandal” and make sure Oliva and Fitz are back together going into Season 3.  And I am thinking about revisiting all 5 seasons of “Friday Night Lights” and totally need to catch up on “True Blood.”

No wonder there’s no food in the house.

What’s on your DVR or waiting in your Netflix queue?  Your secret is safe with me. Shhhh.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Aug
28
2013

Mismatch.com

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My sister gave me this tank top years ago and even though it’s worn out and my kids are way too old for me to wear it any more, I just can’t bring myself to throw it away.

I went on a date last night with an amazing guy.

Really, we were totally on the same page and I thoroughly enjoyed his company. I liked chatting with him and watching how he talked with his hands. And he was really cute, too, with beautiful blue eyes.

And it wasn’t anything fancy, either, our date. We grabbed some grub from the local pizza joint and then decided to ride bikes to the supermarket later to get some Ben & Jerry’s to accompany an Arrested Development marathon.

I mean, the guy knew just what I liked. But of course he would, we’ve been living together for 10 years and I’m actually the kid’s mom.

It’s just the two of us this week – with the two older kids back at school and Kid #3 away at the beach through Labor Day with friends – and a preview of what life will look like in two years when that third child goes off to college.

My son even referred to it as a date at one point and I started thinking about how fitting it was, having a quality evening with a great guy on the cusp of what I like to think of as Operation Date.

It all started, as these things often do (no, not on Facebook this time) in my therapist’s office. On her couch, specifically, which I’ve never lied down upon but where I have found myself crying on numerous occasions and a few times doing some role playing of assorted relationships in my life that vex me.

My therapist is the perfect combination of supportive, yet firm. Like, she always “hears what I’m saying” but she’s not about to encourage me to feel sorry for myself.

She also gives nothing away. She makes me work for my enlightenment. Like after I read a book she had recommended – among many she has suggested over the years – I walked into her office the next week and asked, “Why didn’t you tell me I was codependent?”

She just smiled and shrugged her shoulders.

And in response to questions I ask like “What should I do?” and “How should I feel?” my therapist calmy asks in return, “Well, what do you want to do?” or “How does that make you feel?”

The point is, she never tells me what to do. It’s maddening.

So, imagine my surprise when, during our last session in July, she threw down the gauntlet and issued a challenge.

“Do you think you can go on three dates before we meet again in a month?” she asked.

It had come to that. Even my all-patient therapist was like, “Start dating, already.”

I know. I mean, I’ve been legit divorced for three years and separated at least a year before that.

And to be honest, my focus initially was not on me but my kids and making sure they didn’t have that yucky rug-pulled-out-from-under-them feeling. Not to mention, I’d just come out of a 20+ year relationship – what was the rush? I had plenty of my own baggage to sort through, why start trying to shoulder somebody else’s?

But here’s the truth of it: for as much as I go on about my fear of traveling to Greece alone or how scary teens can be, I am totally terrified of dating.

It is scarier than snakes, zombies and spiders combined. All day long.

But of course, I’m not going to let these things hold me back so on Sunday, I signed up (again) on Match.com.

I signed up probably around the same time last year, but my heart was never in it. I was freaked out by any pokes that came my way or dudes whose eye I had caught. Not to mention I lost the password to the email I had set up for the account and thus couldn’t access anything if I tried.

But this time is different. I was texting with a girlfriend yesterday and announced, “I am going to start dating like a motherfucker.” I am treating this like another job and going to sift through the duds to find some potential gems.

I got this advice from this pretty fabulous woman I met not long ago who married later and thus was better versed on the dating scene than someone like me who pretty much married her high school boyfriend.

We were sitting on the back deck of the local Irish bar, and after she finished encouraging me to sign up with an online service, waved her hand at the assorted not-impressive dudes standing around the bar, and said, “I mean, do you think you’re going to find someone here?”

But so far, it’s a lot of duds. It’s almost comical, really. One gentleman began his email, “Hi, Hunny” (stop, no please don’t say that to me) and another looks exactly like that prison guard on Orange is the New Black they call “Pornstache.”

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I needed to give you the visual.

And they are all in their 50s and live in like Kew Gardens or Bayonne.

I suppose I could be the one poking or getting my eye caught, but I’m just not there yet.

This is not to say that I don’t want to find someone to watch Arrested Development marathons with and eat straight out of the Ben & Jerry’s tub (naturally we’d each have our own pint).

Someone who asks me if, instead of cutting through the soccer fields and bank parking lot in town, I’d rather ride our bikes the long way home.

Because with him, of course I would. All day long.

 

Aug
26
2013

Parenting 101: The Good, the Bad and the Yucky

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405091_466573723395477_1792569133_nAs a blogger, I try to balance sharing my life’s story with protecting the innocent.

Well, usually it’s the not-so-innocent who are howling about what I write here and looking for protection.

I want to be honest, to write about the yuckier side of life here, but I also don’t want those I love to feel thrown under the bus as I tell my version of what’s happening. And that’s really all it is, my side of the story.

But I’m a manipulator, too, because like everyone else I have an innate desire to paint the picture I want the world to see. I mean, it’s what Facebook was built on.

I want you to think that I had a passel of kids and then went through this super-crappy divorce but have come out the other end all enlightened and spreading joy and happiness throughout the land.

But that’s just not the case.

I am highly flawed. I often don’t know what to say in important conversations or how to course correct when situations veer wildly off-track. My knee-jerk response to challenging situations is to shut down. I just opt to do nothing and leave the issue woefully unaddressed. I avoid conflict like it’s tuna fish.

And I hate to apologize.

I’d like you believe that while there are the occasional blips in my house – like kids leaving crusty dishes in the sink or my freaking out over loud music while driving to school – overall my family is generally on solid ground.

But that just would not be true. We are on slippery ice and just when we find our balance, we see cracks threatening to spread beneath our feet. Stability can feel tenuous, at best, sometimes.

I wish I could tell you my recent whirlwind trip south to bring my college kids back to school was a bittersweet ending to a nice summer together. I wish I could tell you that the days leading up to it were filled with quality time together and that we all realized how much we loved and would miss each other.

But that would be a lie.

I was happy that the oldest two were about to disappear for three months. I had had enough of them this summer to see me through to Thanksgiving. And they, I believe, of me.

And by the end, I had stopped speaking to the oldest, who drove himself back a few days earlier. In fact, his dad and I brought his sister down and got her set up in her new off-campus apartment and we never even saw him.

We are that mad at him right now.

And I don’t know what to do, how to resolve the situation. How to wrap my brain around the idea that sometimes – regardless of how long you breastfed them or how many books you read to them or nagged them to practice their instrument or eat their broccoli – your kids will make decisions that disappoint you.

Maybe, as with so many parenting situations in the past that seemed so dire when I was in the thick of them – like when one kid refused to take Honors English or another returned home late one night bombed – time will help to make sense of the situation.

The passage of time and distance from the situation has allowed me to see that a child has got to want to be challenged academically, not pushed into it. And that kids are stupid and sometimes drink too much Fourloko.

So this trip did not result in any picture-perfect moments. There were no heartfelt embraces or Come-to-Jesus reckonings. It was more like, “Good-bye and good luck.”

On the bright side, I did spend the eight-hour drive home with my ex-husband and we had pleasant conversation. He even came into the house – for the first time since we split up for good four years ago – to use the bathroom and then fixed something that had been broken and ignored forever.

I mean, you couldn’t have told me these things were possible four years ago.

But then later that night, he sent me an angry text, assuming the worst of me about something unrelated. He couldn’t just call and say, “Hey, I noticed this, what’s up?”

He immediately went on the offense and sent a text that zinged a “WTF” at me.

But unfortunately, I just couldn’t deal. I thought about calling to talk to him about it. To assure him I harbored no ill will towards him and apologize, once again, for doing something that pissed him off. But I just didn’t have the energy.

I left it somewhere on the side of the road during the long drive home.

Aug
23
2013

the college good-bye

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I drove eight hours yesterday for the big college move. Again. He’s a junior and she’s a sophomore at the same school, and the novelty — at least for me — is wearing off.

And while things aren’t as shiny and exciting as they were two years ago, I can guarantee that the two-day excursion will still include a very expensive trip to WalMart, at least one meal at a fast food restaurant and chardonnay (that last part is for me).

It makes me think back to the big moment, two years ago, when I said good-bye to my oldest, and what a milestone that was in my life, and thought I’d share an essay I wrote in retrospect.

I’ll let you know how it feels to be an old pro when I return next week (I figure at this rate, by the time my youngest goes in 8 years I’ll be able to just send him by himself).

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There’s a picture pinned to the bulletin board in my kitchen — half hidden by silly greeting cards and bumper stickers that I’ve collected — which has become our iconic family back-to-school photo. In it, my two oldest children stand on the front stoop of our old house, a basket of late-summer impatiens drooping behind them, on the occasion of the oldest kid’s first day of preschool, just shy of his fourth birthday.

Pinned to the front of each of their shirts is a construction paper nametag that had been sent by the teacher to be worn on the first day of school. My son’s has his name on it and my daughter, who is only 17-months younger, is wearing the tag that had been sent for me to wear, but she assumed it was for her and who was I to burst her bubble? So I pinned it to her little white polo shirt and, if you didn’t know any better, you would have thought that it was her first day of school too, the way she puffs out her chest and looks directly into the camera, her lips forming the “ch” of “cheese.”  Her big brother stands beside her, looking away from the camera and grins at her, as if to say, “Can you believe this?”

That picture started a trend that we’ve continued on the first day of each school year ever since – even with the addition of two other children and when our world got a little rocky when the kids’ dad moved. Of course, as they got older, the kids would gripe about my “obsession” with organizing the first day of school photo op. Last year, that sweet oldest son, who looked at his sister with such love and excitement on his first day of preschool, actually flipped the camera the bird after I wrestled him to the front stoop to document the first day of his senior year of high school.

I kid you not.

Over the years, I have not been as diligent about documenting certain events that I did when the kids were younger. The Christmas slideshow is no longer an inventory of each gift the kids received and really, do we need to memorialize every Easy-Bake Oven or Harry Potter Lego set that comes into our house?

But back-to-school photos I strictly adhere to.

I got creative and copied that iconic first-day-of-preschool photo to make a card for my son to open after we dropped him off to start his first year away at college. It was tucked into a bundle of frames his sisters and I had picked up at Target and filled with family photos, all tied in a big bow and left on the desk in his dorm.

In the note, I reminded him of the occasion of the photo and how proud I was of the person he had become in the years since the picture was taken. I wrote in the note that I knew he would continue to excel in college as he had throughout high school and looked forward to watching what he would do next.

The whole family had driven the eight hours south to see him off and get him settled in this new chapter of his life. We hung his posters and made his bed and all took a ride over to the local Wal-Mart for extension cords and light bulbs. We walked around the sprawling campus with the rows and rows of imposing grey stone buildings and picked up his software for his major and the million-dollars worth of textbooks at the bookstore.

And when it seemed we could do no more, I left the bundle of photo frames on his desk and had him walk me and his sisters out to the car in the lot behind his dorm to say good-bye.

It’s that moment you’ve kind of been anticipating your whole career as a mom. The moment when you have to push your little bird, whose gaping mouth you’ve been lovingly placing worms into for years, out of the proverbial nest. It’s scary to imagine how hard he’ll need to flap to stay aloft. Or how empty the nest will seem without him.

We stood by the car and my oldest daughter, who had stood next to her brother so proudly on our front stoop so many years before, turned and wrapped her long arms around him to say good-bye.

Then my son stepped in front of me and I knew the moment had arrived to say all the things I had meant to say — like reminding him to floss daily and to say no to drugs and study hard — but all I could do was throw my arms around his neck and cry. Then I felt his back moving as he sobbed and was grateful that he, too, was sad. And it was then, that my younger daughter snapped our picture with her camera.

It’s the newest addition to our first day of school photo gallery and perfectly captures what it’s like to watch your child leave your nest. In it, my son’s back is to the camera and his head leans down towards me in an embrace. My face is contorted in an ugly cry and my arms hug him tight around his back with my left hand wrapped around the back of his neck, holding it the way I did when he as an infant.

We pulled apart and wiped our eyes and said our final good byes and I somehow navigated the car through the traffic-clogged roads surrounding the dorms and eventually back onto the highway. The girls and I sniffled a little bit more, and then settled in for the long drive home.

I sent him a text the next day to see how he made out his first night in the dorm and if he had found the pictures and card we had left on his desk.

“Yeah I got them thank you,” he texted back. “Sad card.”

His text continued, “When you get the chance, can you send me my basketball I left in the garage?”

And it seemed that his wings would work just fine.

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Aug
20
2013

in good company

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DSC_0100 I took a big bite of freedom earlier this month, tearing into it with a fierceness I didn’t know I could muster. And as I greedily swallowed all that aloneness in big, ragged pieces, I realized that it was the most liberated I’d been since I became a parent almost 21 years ago.

And it tasted fucking good.

I’ll admit, at first it seemed kind of strange, like some weird-flavored Dorito, you know like the Zesty Taco or Enchilada Supreme varieties. But the more freedom I tasted – really inhaling its full blast of flavor  – the more I wanted to stuff that shit down my gullet.

And I am here to report that (unlike the weird Dorito), only having myself to worry about for nine days tasted super-sweet.

In fact, I’d compare the usual mom getaway stuff – like going to get a massage or away on a girls’ weekend – to those little bits and pieces of bland honeydew melon used as fruit salad filler here in the U.S.  But when you go some place exotic and bite into the same type of green fruit, you can’t believe the difference. “Now this is a melon,” your brain shrieks as you lick the juice running off your fingers.

Going off by yourself for an adventure is sweet and juicy and you can’t stop reaching for just one more slice of it.

This is how I would best describe what it was like to leave my everyday life as a single, working mother of four kids behind to sail around the Greek islands for a week by myself.

It rocked.

And in retrospect, the memory has become all the sweeter as I’ve return to seething, end-of-the summer angst at home with my kids stressing about bedding for college apartments and U-Hauls to cart said bedding and assorted pieces of furniture to school.

I returned to find there’s one child who STILL can’t get a handle on what the rules and regulations are here in my house. Plus there’s a green pool in my backyard and a sizzling electrical socket in my daughter’s room, and massive layoffs coming at my company. And the cat just barfed.

And all I can think is: “Can’t someone just grab me a beer and let me sit here in the sun and read?”

Because it’s hard to shake how sweet it felt to have no responsibilities for a week. A fantasy, really, that everyone should step right up and sample.

I decided to book the trip after seeing another single mom’s photos of the same excursion to Greece on Facebook last year. I was longing for some real adventure and tired of waiting around to find a travel companion to accompany me.

I think I suffer from a by-product of living in New Jersey, which the incredible Junot Diaz described in The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao as: “A particularly Jersey malaise – the inextinguishable longing for elsewheres.”

So I pulled a Single White Female on my friend and made my reservation for the same trip for beginning of August.

But the goal of the trip morphed over time and while at first, my giant ego worried that people would feel sorry for me for going on vacation alone, that eventually became the whole point of the journey.

I am a person who enjoys living in the cozy little box I’ve built for myself – often ordering the same meal whenever I go to certain restaurants because I know what I’m getting – and am not naturally inclined to venture out of my comfort zone. And I certainly try not to do so alone.

But one of the benefits of my divorce has been learning to stand on my own. To show up for parties and dinners solo, which means I might not have a wingman to sidle up to if I need to take a break from being sociable, but it also liberates me from having to wait for someone else to finish a drink or telling a story or having fun before I can leave. I can just pick up my bag and walk out the door. Sometimes I don’t even say good-bye.

So as the departure date drew nearer, I fretted about all those meals I’d be eating alone and whether I’d feel like a third wheel as the only non-paired person on the week-long sailing trip (I met up with two couples and a pair of friends).

It was a challenge figuring out how to get over myself and stop worrying about what other people might be thinking, and focus instead on what I thought and what made me happy.

And if you are a parent, you know that that is about as natural as well, pushing a baby out of your bottom. It just doesn’t feel right. But somehow, it is.

I’ve especially enjoyed the reaction I’ve gotten from people when they’ve learned about my solo trip. I’ve liked watching their faces change as I explain how I went off to Greece alone and then maybe I get a fist bump or a “Wow” in return.

My college roommate called to welcome me back and said, “I can’t even go to the movies by myself.”

And the taxi driver who drove me from my hotel in Athens to the Acropolis couldn’t believe I was a single woman travelling alone in a foreign country. “No family?” he asked. “No one?”

“Ah, okay, it’s good, it’s good,” he finished, but I could tell he still thought it was kind of crazy as I stepped out alone into the hot Athens sun.

But the most interesting reaction came from the Korean lady who owns my dry cleaner. I ran in the day before I was to leave on my trip, begging her to hem an adorable pajama-y bottom pants I had just bought and desperately wanted to take with me. She finally relented and as she pinned the bottoms of the gauzy fabric for hemming, she asked me where I was going.

“Greece,” I told her and she looked up at me with widened eyes, pins clenched between her lips.

I went back to drop some stuff off to be cleaned after the trip and she asked me how it was. I told her it was great and somehow it came up that I had gone by myself.

“What?” she asked. “I couldn’t go anywhere alone,” she confided.

This is a woman who speaks English with a heavy accent and obviously came to the United States from some place else. Like, she’s had to step out of a comfort zone or two as some point in her life but still feels uncomfortable being by herself.

Some day I hope to return to Greece with a companion; someone to swim with in the salty Aegean and look up at the blanket of stars at night overhead and wake up with to the sound of a rooster crowing at dawn.

But I had a bigger journey to make this time around. I needed to go someplace a little scary and know, no matter what, I’d always be in good company.

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Aug
13
2013

8 Things Not to Pack to Sail the Greek Islands

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High atop the island of Patmos, Greece.

In case you’ve been living under a rock, which is what I consider anyone not as fiercely connected to Facebook as this blogger, I just returned from a nine-day trip to Greece.

“What?” you’re thinking. “This would be coming as a total shock were it not for your non-stop posts about this trip over the past few weeks.”

I know, it’s probs getting annoying but please, indulge me, this is so out of my sandwich-making-laundry-folding box that it was kind of a big deal.

I spent some of yesterday dragged down by jet lag after returning late Sunday and a little bit of crying because of it (welcome to Crazytown) but rallied last night to finally unpack my giant suitcase and decided to share a list of things that might have been better off left at home.

  1. Hair Dryer – After the first day of sailing, you will no longer be worried about whether your hair is straight, much less frizzy.  Following a few days of gusty summer Greek wind and numerous dips in the salty Aegean, your hair will take on a nest-like quality, kind of textured and crunchy, much like the beach towel you brought from home that dries out each night pinned to the ship’s lines. Stick a clip in your hair in much the same fashion and move on.
  2. Eye shadow – It’s nice to think you’ll need your usual variety of eye makeup for tarting up to go out: a base, a darker one for contouring and another shimmery affair for highlighting and trying to perk those lids up a little, as we in the over-40 set sometimes need to do. In the end, some mascara and lip-gloss are all you’ll need to feel dressed up after your day out at sea. And besides, see #3.
  3. Sexy lingerie – Unless you’re interested in the heavily bearded taverna owner who takes your souvlaki order and then later plays the accordion while deftly clenching a cigarette between two fingers throughout an entire song, you are not hooking up on this trip. You will, however, be glad you got around to the bikini wax, as you’ll be spending a considerable part of the trip walking around in a bathing suit. Consider it a public service.
  4. Running Clothes – You might think that going for a quick run through the hills of a small Greek island would be the perfect way to start the day, but unless you set out when the roosters start crowing around dawn (and roosters always seem to be crowing at dawn), you will wither under the intensely hot Aegean sun. Not to mention you will spend much of your time picking your way through prickly brush on pebbly paths past curly-horned goats chewing on leaves and watching you go by. And you know they will be judging you. No, the most exercise you will get will be snorkeling through a cave or going below deck to grab yourself another beer. Your bathing suit will suffice for both endeavors.
  5. Travel-sized shaving cream – Yes, of course, you assume that onboard you’ll retain the same standards of personal hygiene that you keep at home and as such, will want to keep your legs smooth and stubble-free. But when faced with the reality of the contortions required to shave your legs using the hand-held sprayer pulled out from the sink in the tiny head (I’m getting all nautical) you’ve been assigned for the week, you start to reassess your priorities and reason that no one’s really looking at your shins or knees anyway (again, see #3). You’ll discover that it’s a remarkably quick jump between your usual high levels of personal maintenance and Lord of the Flies living.
  6. Your favorite straw beach hat – It’s a staple in your summer beach bag for a day on the beach in Jersey, the bucket shape fitting snugly on your head and fending off harmful rays from your sadly-aging face and heavily-processed hair. And while it’s perfect for sitting on your beach chair with your toes dug into American sand, that thing does not stand a chance against the strong August winds that blow in gusts across Greek beaches. And if you try to keep that chapeau on your head whilst sailing it will be floating in the Aegean within seconds. Go instead for the jaunty pirate look and tie a scarf on your head that will not only keep your hair from getting any more crazy blonde than it’s already become this summer but will help mold your locks into a shape that will be ready to be clipped for dinner out later that evening (See # 1).
  7. One-piece bathing suit – It’s super-cute — a black, strapless number from JCrew that screamed Mediterranean glamour when you ordered it — but in reality, no one, not even old dames (like, gals even older than yours truly) in Europe wears a one-piece bathing suit. And it’s really so hot sitting under the mid-afternoon sun that you begin to understand the desire to wear as little as possible. The suit will come in handy, however, when you finally get to Athens at the end of your trip and pull it on to sit and read at the hotel pool for a spell to cover up the incredible bloating brought on by more beer and bread than you’ve had in half a year. Your tummy — which has begun to resemble what it looked like while four months pregnant with your fourth child — will feel good, hiding under all that shirred Lycra.
  8. Trepidation – In theory, this all seemed like a great idea: going off on a grand adventure solo and gathering up lots of odds and ends to write about for months, maybe years, to come. But as the departure date looms closer, you’ll start to freak out a little and spend an inordinate amount of time talking and writing about your anxiety. Fuck that. Just go and have fun and embrace that you have been blessed at this moment with the opportunity to pick up and visit a far away place by yourself. Get in the goddamn arena – Teddy Roosevelt-style – and take it all in. And anyway, with all the other stuff you’re inevitably going to pack and not need, there won’t be any room for fear in that bag.
Aug
05
2013

fuck you aarp

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I found an invitation to join AARP in my mailbox on the eve of my 47th birthday. The nerve.

Adding insult to injury, not only do I discover how deep the crows feet are getting around my eyes as I approach my 47th birthday, but the assholes at AARP thought it was time to reach out and invite me to join their sorry old asses.

And to them I say, “Fuck you.”

They can have me in three years.

Why I travel solo
Aug
01
2013

eat, pray, blog?

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Why I travel solo

Francois Rabelais

Sometimes I think I should have turned to screenwriting, rather than blogging as a creative outlet, because I tend to see things in cinematic terms. In my mind, I’m always composing the (improbably cheesy) Lifetime movie based upon, of course, The Life of Amy.

Like one morning last spring I was jogging up a hill  listening to the very end of The Beatles’ “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)” on my iPod.  You know it’s the song on Abbey Road that you imagine must have been inspired by major hallucinegens because it’s a lumbering loop with a psychedelic-synthesizer laid on top of it and it builds in intensity just like my climb. Just when you think it will never end, it suddenly breaks, and there’s a beat of silence, and then the plucky first chords that begin “Here Comes the Sun” start to trill right as I reached the top of the long hill.

It was so epically heavy and then light and free and made me think of my struggles, not just the hard work trying to get to the top of the freaking hill, but the hill as a metaphor for all that I’ve had to overcome over the last few years: the divorce, dealing with angry teenagers, going back to work full-time, becoming the gal I really want to be.

I imagine how I’d use that moment in my Lifetime movie, maybe it’s towards the end and I’ve had all the attendant struggles and made my way through and as I’m slogging up that hill, the Beatles pounding in the background, I hit the top and we do a quick cut to something super-happy as “Here Comes the Sun” skips in. And this is going to sound so cheesy but in my make-believe story, sometimes that scene is a wedding, like it’s some Shakespearean comedy or something and we’ve just emerged from the woods.

Poetic license, for sure.

But whatever that scene is, it represents the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.

There have been plenty of other scenes looping through my head over the last four years as I’ve moved from an unhappy and unsure wife and mother to someone who knows who she is and what she wants.

In my movie, there would definitely be that scene when the checkout guy at Trader Joe’s asked for my phone number while bagging my humus (guess that’s not all he wanted to bag, ba dum tss).

Of course there would be a scene or two showing the truly low points of my life, like a blow out with one of the kids or the super-sad scene of my ex-husband and I standing in front of a judge in a dreary courtroom on a hot July afternoon and swearing before God and our very expensive attorneys that we no longer wished to be married.

And then later, we’d see how I pulled into my driveway and sat in the car and cried.

Sometimes the movie takes a turn towards the macabre, like when I’m looking around at all my fellow plane passengers pre-flight and imagine we’re all going down in a fiery crash, a la Lost or Airport 1975.

But sometimes I need to help my movie along a little and have to plan some real-life adventures from which to draw inspiration for upcoming scenes, which is what I’m about to do.

One part Mama Mia, two parts Shirley Valentine and 10 cups Eat, Pray, Love (math’s not my thing, yo), my sojourn begins Friday when I take off for Greece for about nine days.

I can’t even tell you how ridiculous that sentence was to write. I can’t believe I’ve had the balls to pull this thing off.

So here’s the plan: I fly from Jersey to Toronto for a quick stop and then across the Atlantic (gulp) to Athens where I land Saturday morning. I will then hang out there for a few hours (worst part of trip) until I catch a flight to Samos, an island in the eastern Aegean Sea and the birthplace of the Greek philosopher and mathematician Pythagoras.

It’s there that I’ll meet up with my group of seven travelers who will climb aboard a 50-something foot yacht and sail around the Dodocanese Islands, off the coast of Turkey, for the week.

I know, right?

We’ll finish up the following Saturday morning and I’ll fly from Leros – population just under 8,000 – back to Athens where I’ll spend the rest of the day checking out the Acropolis and all the attendant sites and ruins. I catch a plane home the next day and arrive back in New York Sunday night.

I know, this all sounds fabulous. Who doesn’t dream of sailing the Greek islands? It’s the trip of a lifetime.

But I’ll let you in on a little secret: I am really not that intrepid. If I could just stay in my comfort zone, I’d probably spend my life going on spa vacations with girlfriends and taking the kids to Disney.

But I don’t want either the make-believe Amy or the real Amy to be that comfortable; because it’s only when we’re uncomfortable that we grow (or at least that’s what my therapist keeps telling me). My divorce sucked and all but, man, did I figure a lot of things out about myself.

And, who wants to watch a movie where nothing really happens?

So here’s my dilemma: My plan was to leave the laptop at home and take copious notes while away and blog about my experiences upon my return.

But recently, a number of friends/followers have suggested they’d enjoy more immediate updates.

So tell me, should I blog my adventures real-time or share when I get home? Or am I just imagining that my life is more interesting than it really is?

Either way, I can’t wait to find out what happens next in the movie.

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Jul
29
2013

10 Things I Learned at BlogHer13

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The view from my room at the Sheraton in Chicago was not shabby. Who knew a lake could be so big? #getoutofjersey

I got back late Saturday night after three whirlwind days in Chicago where I saw none of the city, other than the fabulous view outside my hotel window, but did have a front row seat to dozens of amazing and inspiring speakers at BlogHer13. Herewith, a report of what I now know:

  1. Sheryl Sandberg is a rock star.  First of all, she looks amazing close up; she’s tiny, has fabulous skin and a great blow out. She came down to where we were all eating breakfast before her appearance/interview Saturday morning and was quickly engulfed by dozens of women trying to catch a little of her feminist pixie dust. I have such a girl crush on Sandberg right now that even I abandoned my normally passive demeanor and elbowed my way up front. While waiting for my chance for a photo op, I watched as she interacted with the other bloggers, shaking each one’s hand and asking where the woman lived and then patiently listening to anecdotes about how that woman had been inspired by her book to lean in. She then took two of those stories – complete with the women’s names and where they were from – and referenced them during her interview on stage. Like, that’s a pro, man.

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    Breakfast with Sheryl Sandberg at BlogHer13 in Chicago. Highlight!

  2. I lack common sense. No one does well on three hours of sleep. Inherently, I know that. But it took me so long to pack for Chicago – like put all the stuff that had been lying in piles around my room into my bag – that I found myself blowing my hair dry at 11 p.m. with a 4 a.m. airport pickup looming just hours away. And then, because I truly enjoy personal sabotage, I sat up with a big glass of red wine and watched Colbert until midnight. I looked like someone had punched me in the face by about 5 p.m. the next day and quickly passed out after the wine that accompanied my room service dinner (salad and fries: heaven) hit my bloodstream.
  3. You are apt to overlook packing vital technology when overtired. When you’re operating on about 3 and a half hours of sleep, it’s really easy to overlook the iPad that’s been charging next to your bed all night, just about 12 inches from your head, and leave it on your nightstand as you scramble to get out the door. #imadope
  4. She’s just a regular girl. Like me. To unwind or “lean back,” as they say, Sandberg told us that she binges on TV and recently finished seasons of Girls and Nashville. Seriously, we were separated at birth.
  5. Sometimes, all you need is a pal or two. I immediately connected with Emily Grossi of Em-i-lis during our pre-conference session after admiring her fabulous Coach strappy heels and sassy shorts. We picked up Heidi Jeter (no relation to Derek), who blogs at Still a Dancing Queen, the following day after I noticed her sitting by herself on the shuttle bus. I recognized her from my session the day before as I walked past, and when I sat down a few seats behind I thought, “This is no way to make friends.” I got up and plopped down in the seat next to her and said, “Hello.”
  6. Forget alcohol. Nothing cures the fear of flying like striking up a conversation with the really cute, chatty guy sitting next to you on the plane. I skidded into the airport for my return flight Saturday night and made my way to my gate with about a half hour until boarding. I quickly made my way to the closest bar and guzzled some red wine so I could sleep through the flight home. (I find dozing through takeoff and landing is the best way for me to keep from obsessing about crashing throughout the flight.) As I pulled out my classy neck pillow and prepared to nap, I said something to the guy next to me and two hours later – which included enough turbulence that the captain had us fasten our seatbelts – we were landing in Newark. Now if the universe would just put another cute, friendly guy next to me I won’t have to pop the Valium my mom slipped me for my flight to Greece this weekend.
  7. Talking about writing a book is not the same as actually writing the book. I went to numerous break out sessions on book writing and getting your work published on other sites or publications and learned that none of that is going to happen unless I do the work. Dammit.
  8. The world is not overrun by people from New Jersey. In fact, it wasn’t until the third day of the conference that I even met another person from the Garden State (shout out to fellow Jersey girls: Brooke at carpool candy and Lisa at Mom a la Mode). There were women at BlogHer from all over the country: Seattle, Montana, Milwaukee, Los Angeles, Florida, Wahington, D.C. and lots of women from the Chicago area. It was great to be reminded the world doesn’t begin and end with the Greater New York City area.  Who knew?
  9. You could do nothing all day but read fabulous blogs. Prior to BlogHer, I couldn’t really find any blogs I wanted to follow. But after attending Friday night’s Voices of the Year event – hosted by Queen Latifah (who was 45 minutes late) and featuring bloggers reading from this year’s winning posts –I  couldn’t believe the depth and breadth of writing out in the blogosphere. Everything from figuring out you’re gay, to sex after 40 to the perils of crafting. Something, and someone, for everyone.
  10. I can choose intimidation or inspiration. After meeting and hearing all these smart women who take their craft so seriously, I
    Leaning in at BlogHer13: What would you do if you weren't afraid to fail?

    Leaning in at BlogHer13: What would you do if you weren’t afraid to fail?

    have decided to choose the latter. I choose to be motivated by a community that cares about the best tense for writing a memoir or what makes a blog post funny (comparing your kids to hamsters, perhaps?) rather than surrender to my inner Debbie Downer.  Because the overarching message of the whole lean in thing is asking yourself the question, “What would I do if I weren’t afraid to fail?” And maybe between the inspiration and all that pixie dust, I’ll become a better blogger, too.

 

 

Jul
26
2013

birds of a feather

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IMG_2694For many years I did freelance reporting for small local newspapers. I’ve always loved covering an assignment — whether it’s a municipal meeting, community day or a wrestling match — and boiling it down to the most relevant bits and painting the picture for my reader of what transpired.

But because I worked as a freelancer, I had very little interaction with fellow journalists and for many years, I was the only reporter I ever really knew.

So when I started my current job three years ago as an editor of an online news site, it was thrilling to sit down at our first team meeting with 10 other reporters.

“I love being with journalists,” I remember one of my new co-workers and now pal declared as we sat down at a the time, and I recall feeling really intimidated by that statement because surely they must have sensed that I was a fraud.

I felt that I had done an adequate job giving the impression that I was some seasoned reporter but was convinced that the jig was about to be up.

I am having a similar sensation here again at BlogHer.

I really don’t know any bloggers in real life (other than my fabulous friend Barb at Wow, I’m a Widow Now), and yesterday I met tons of real-live-bloggers. Some I’d even read about or followed prior to this big conference. And it was kind of intimidating.

But cool, too, to once again be in the presence of like-minded people. And someone even had read my blog prior to the conference!

But maybe sometimes intimidation is what we all need. It pushes us out of that comfort zone (like being content with publishing just one post a week) and challenges us to do more. To be more.

In less than a few hours I’ll be in a room with over 4,000 bloggers and getting revved up for the next two days by none other than the mega blogger Ree Drummond of The Pioneer Woman.

But I’ve got a cute outfit and a new friend or two, and sometimes cute clothes and a pal are all a girl needs.

If nothing else, I get to stay in a fabulous hotel room, as evidenced by my early morning view from my window above.