Exhaustion

How do you know you are truely wiped out?

You eat stand at the counter eating peanut chews straight from the bag, until you look down and see fifty empty wrappers- anything to keep your eyes open.

You sit down to help your daughter with homework, you close your eyes for a second while she finds the right page, then you hear her yelling at you to wake up.

You chat with your sister on the phone, when suddenly you hear a busy signal, realizing you fell asleep talking to her.

You sit down at the dinner table and when someone passes you the food platter, you drop it.

You try to have an early "canoodle" with your husband and midway, you fall asleep.

You are on the couch reading your child a book, you fall asleep for two hours in a sitting position.

Does any of this sound like you? If yes, then you ARE exhausted!

Always the Hostess Never the Guest

The nicest thing happened to me today. While spending time in Upstate New York in a little bungalow, I got invited out for dinner with my kids to my sister in laws summer home a short ride away. I know its not the grandest thing to ever happen, however it is for me as I am always the hostess and never the guest.

Most weekends, I host at least ten dinner guests Friday night. Very often I have family sleep over at my home for the weekend, making it a constant slew of meals, clean ups, snacks and more straightening up. At any time people come knocking on my door and are met with a bite to eat and a friendly ear.

Today however, we were met with a delicous dinner, friends for the children, a visit to the little farm where the children played with chickens, bunnies and a friendly goat. To top it all off, my sister in law gave me a little gift. The whole evening is such an anomaly that it is causing me to write this blog.

A few weeks ago we were in South Africa where we stayed in someone's cottage for just about two weeks. The loveliest food basket was placed in our room, along with body creams, fresh fluffy towels and comfy beds. The hostess was the sweetest and most gracious woman. After week one, the oddest thing happened, she had a complete turn around and became much less inviting to say the least. I would have left had I had the choice, but my circumstances did not allow me to. I learned a lot from that stay on either end of the spectrum.

Although I do enjoy hosting, I like to experience being the guest for it provides me insight of what or what not to do when entertaining or hosting. Thank you to everyone that has ever hosted me for teaching me what to do when being the hostess. And should you ever need a place to stay or a warm meal do not hesitate to call.

Saying Goodbye

For the past few weeks, my daughters have been going to a local day camp. They meet the bus daily at a popular park and ride off the highway where many other day camps pick up their campers.

The most amazing thing I find is watching the various mothers put their children on the bus and say goodbye.

There is one lady who works out at the same gym as me. She is perfectly fit, in the tightest black short shorts and black tank you have ever seen. She pulls up in her shiny navy blue mini van. As soon as the bus pulls up, she hops out, shuffles her two boys out of her car and into the bus without so much as a wave goodbye and a backwards glance with a have a great day. She probably doesn't want to be late to her tennis lesson, followed by personal training.

The same bus doesn't pull away so quickly as there is another mom and her daughter saying goodbye for an eternity. This mom is thin, but not fit, her hair pulled back in a long ponytail, with a black stretchy headband pulling her bangs back. After her extended goodbye to her child, she tells the bus to wait, she forgot something. She scampers over to her car and gets the forgotten item and brings it back to the bus. Then stands there and watches the bus pull away. I am amazed at how every single day there can be a forgotten item, perhaps it is staged, I sense major separation issues in the future.

As this bus leaves another one comes, out of this one a cute teenagers hops out and directs the children onto the bus. After the children get on and the bus seems full it waits. About five minutes later a old red Pontiac four door sedan pulls up. A mom with frizzy 80 styled hair in baggy turquoise pants and mismatched shirt slowly gets out, gets her two kids from the back of her car and leisurely saunters over to the bus. All I am thinking, is that how can she be late every single day? How come she doesn't pull right up to the bus? She moves as if she doesn't have a care a in the world, she watches the bus pull away and then quickly pulls out of the lot.

I am enamored by the scene that unfolds each day. So much so that I look forward to drop off time. I can probably go on and on describing each mom down to their footwear, however our bus pulls up.

It is definitely a school bus, obviously an old, un-air-conditioned school bus, yet something is off because it is the not the traditional yellow of a bus but instead it is painted daffodil yellow, an odd bright yellow that reminds me of bananas before they are ripe. It stops, I get out, I am somewhat fit, my hair is somewhat brushed, my outfit somewhat put together. My kids wait for me at the door of the car, I give them big hugs and kisses, walk them to the bus, wait for them to get on, as they get on I wish them a great day and then make sure they have a seat. I walk back to my car and wave as the bus pulls away.

I wonder if anyone even pays attention to us. I am hoping if they do they see a loving mother, who looks somewhat put together, with her well-adjusted children, who wants to make sure her kids are okay and happy before heading off for the rest of the day.

Do You Have Heat?

Connecticut was experiencing single digit night time temperatures and expecting 13 degrees the next morning. As I am dosing off to sleep, my phone rings. "Do you have heeeaaaat?" my mother asks in her almost I told you so, sort of caring, but also warning voice. Of course I have heat I tell her, my mind suddenly filled with thousands of doubts. Did we pay the oil bill? When did they deliver last? Did I make sure that the thermostat was set to be extra hot in the morning? I thought they called the other day, was it because something was wrong with my account? Did I call them back? Who remembers....

I then asked her if she had heat and she assured me that she did. The following morning my five year old daughter was shivering at breakfast. Convincing myself she was just a drama queen I told her to get herself an extra sweater which she did. I then proceeded to up the heat some more to get the kitchen nice and warm for the remainder of breakfast. After a few minutes, I still felt cold so I ran to check the thermostat. 62 degrees it read. I was about to faint. I had set it to 72, why was it at 62? I shook my husband out of his deep sleep accusing him of not paying the bill when he just mumbled to me that he was cold, go away, and of course he paid the bill and he had no idea what I was talking about.

I sent the children off to school in many layers and then ran outside to check my oil tank indicator. Sure enough, it had cracked from the cold and all that remained was an orange floaty device. Great. I called my fuel company. The assured me that my tank should technically have at least a half a tank of oil, they would send someone out immediately. I reset my oil burner, but it shut right off.

The delivery man came, we had plenty of oil. The repair man showed up, the house was nice and warm. The oil burner started working again after I decided to reset it just one more time. However, we of course overdo for an oil burner cleaning and that is what caused it to shut off. This would only happen on the COLDEST day of the year so far. Otherwise what fun would it be?

My real question here is, what is with mothers? Are they supposed to make you doubt yourself and question the very basics of what we take for granted? I am sure my mom only had the best interests at heart when she called to check if I had heat. But what possessed her to think that I wouldn't have heat? Why would she call me like that and put all those doubts in my mind? I wonder if my thousands of doubts somehow called on the universe to make my oil burner turn off so that I would have this story to blog about and make my mother "right." But "mom is always right" will be in a post for another time.

Psycho Saks Sale

After spending a really quite enjoyable weekend at our relatives in the Lower East Side, my sister in law mentioned the famous annual Saks Fifth Avenue sale of December 26, where everything from the season's sale is an additional 50% off from 8am until 12pm and then 40% after that until closing.

Desiring some gorgeous designer shoes, hopeful that they would be somewhat affordable I agreed to go with her. We rushed to get out of the house arriving at Saks at 9:30 am. Late.

As I walked in I heard a mother tell her daughter, "there is nothing left to buy" i looked around, to me it seemed that there was plenty, plenty to buy. Crowds pooled around the elevators, some of the more serious shoppers had furrowed brows, deep in thought as if they had a running list in their heads of how to tackle the 10 floor madness and kept reviewing it so that they wouldn't dare forget.

Others had more relaxed faces as they chatted with their shopping buddies, talking about what they already purchased on floor one, the cosmetics, perfume, and small luxury item floor and what they hoped to get on the next floor.

As we got off the elevator on floor 8, the shoe floor, we were ushered into a roped line. A roped line! Every few minutes the bouncer allowed a few more women to enter the shoe section. I was flabbergasted, blown away, I was actually really embarrassed to even be part of it. The bouncer finally allowed us on to the floor, we found the section with our sized shoes. Most of the shoes were on the floor being shoved onto hopeful feet. Others were tossed carelessly in a growing pile. Shoe sales persons were actually on all fours on the floor trying to salvage the commodities from being trampled.

I approached an interesting looking shoe and touched it, "excuse me!!!!!" I jumped aside as if struck by an electrical current, I did not realize but I had encroached upon a sacred pile of shoes set aside by a somewhat unattractive 25 year old young lady. "I was merely looking," I murmured, as she glared at me accusingly. I basically lost interest in the shoe section after that.

After sometime on the various floors I ran into a girl who confessed to me in a very frantic and worried voice that she could not understand why she had not found anything to buy. A year or two prior to this she would have found a minimum of six pairs of shoes to buy and at least ten other items. She continued to tell me that since she's had a child she finds herself spending more carefully. I listened to her, and tried to congratulate her on surpassing the stage in her life of thoughtless and mindless shopping and being more cautious with her money. After bidding her farewell, I spotted her making her rounds again, just a few more times, still looking anxious, hoping she did not make the awful mistake of NOT buying anything and making sure she did not miss the items that may call out to her.

The demographic in the NYC Saks was mostly Jewish people, lots of them religious. Many of them ultra-Orthodox. I wondered if they saved all their money to come to this annual sale and buy whatever they fancied or if they just demanded of their husbands a huge wad of cash as they fled their homes in search of the perfect silk designer scarf to add to their already huge scarf collection, making it the only colorful item in their mostly black wardrobes.

There were also a few teenagers, obviously religious, dressed in black head to toe; black blazers, black skirts, thick black tights and designer flats. Each held a bag of purchases I am almost positive they did not need nor could afford, yet the thrill of telling their friends they made it to the sale and got this and that designer item so that they can stand out from their peers was too enticing. All I could think of, was how bad I felt for their parents and how their ridiculous purchases would really not make them any happier or unique.

At last the most interesting of shoppers were the tourists, mostly orientals toting huge stacks of dollars literally sweeping their arms across the shelves of designer handbags piling them up and buying them all. Any item in the store which carried a designers logo or emblem they had to have. After all, the point of having designer items is that everyone can tell that they are designer.

After about two and half hours we left. I did not buy a thing. I am neither pleased nor displeased that I did not find anything to buy. Rather, I am intrigued by what I learned about the human race and wonder how many of the shoppers today are tossing and turning tonight wondering if they should have gotten their Jimmy Choo sandals in both the sand and the dust color.

Gym Lady

I've been going to the gym for years now. About a year ago I noticed a woman in incredible shape. Mid height, small build, great figure, fabulous muscle definition. She always had her thick red hair in a high ponytail and wore nice, but not ostentatious gym clothing. She takes the 9:30am classes on most days. She walks confidently and I admire her level of fitness and commitment to working out.

About a block from my house there is a road that I frequent, on it there are many big beautiful homes. There is one in particular with a white picket fence that I always say is my "dream home." Big, three car garage, beautiful siding and garden. I drive by slowly so that I can glimpse to see if the inside would suit my lifestyle of huge Shabbat dinners and constant entertaining.

This past Friday, while rushing to the gas station on the way to the highway to pick the kids up from school, I noticed red-haired gym lady standing in the driveway of her gorgeous house, my "dream house." Even though I was rushing, running late, I still slowed at the house as a matter of habit. I could not believe my eyes when I saw that gorgeous gym lady was standing in my dream houses driveway.

I guess you cannot have it all. Who knows what this woman's life is like. Or what the inside of her house looks like. I am not envious of her as to be envious of what she seemingly has is shallow, and I don't want to be shallow. But appearance-wise, wowee, gym lady has got it made!

Have You Ever Heard of John Larson?

Everyday when I leave my house, especially on the brisk windy days of fall, I see a man from down the street taking his daily walk. He is dressed in a beige leather bomber, jeans, sneakers, big glasses and a bright red hat, most probably knitted by his 90 year old neighbor who gave it to him for a holiday gift, pulled down around his ears and forehead. He wears a serious face yet not one that has much concentration. It more seems like he forgot how to smile, or no longer knows how to show emotion on his face.

He walks with a limp, his right leg slower than his left. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets. He walks up and down the main streets and side streets. Many times he wonders onto our street, making his rounds around the adjoining cul de sacs.

Occasionally he will start up a conversation with you. The first thing he asks you is if you've ever heard of John Larson. No, you have already asked us, is the usual reply. He says he doesn't remember because he has no short-term memory.

Give him another second and he will go on to tell you that he was once a normal young adult. He was at a party and got into the car with his friend to go home. They were both drunk. They crashed, his friend died, he survived. DON'T EVER DRINK AND DRIVE he says slowly and forcefully, in his eerie monotone. John Larson is dead and me, he continues, I am not the same person I once was, nor will I ever be.

What's amazing to me is that this was a man who once had his whole life ahead of him, and all opportunity and potential ripped away from him on one fateful night. For the rest of his life he is a walking, talking reminder of this. Remarkably, his house is directly across the street from the local high school, a place where the message is most pertinent.

Who knows what his life would have turned out to be had he not been in that accident, however now he relays this message from person to person, sometimes repeatedly. With his compromised understanding of social boundaries he literally shares this with everyone he meets and perpetuates the memory and message of John Larson.