The Tide Always Turns…Easter 2013

In my office, which is located in the far left corner of my house, my desk sits facing the window which looks out to my Leland Cyprus trees that never change.   On my desk is a small silver box in the shape of a shell; it is engraved with the epigram ‘the tide always turns’.  My friend, Dorothea, whom I met at work, gave me this box as a gift.  It was during one of the many transitions we were going through and was meant to lift my spirits. 

I am blessed with many friends in my life.  Each friend knows different sides of me, except for my best friend of 36 years, Meryl, who knows every side to me. She is the muse to my emotional self.  But Dorothea- she is the muse to my intellectual self.  She has always been my cheerleader and makes me believe in me.  If it were up to Dorothea, I would be the CEO of the company.  Of course I think she has an inflated sense of confidence in my abilities, nevertheless, it is always good to know someone out there has faith in you.  She is also very much like me, as well, and even though we were raised in different religions- she a Catholic and I a Jew, we both have very similar spiritual beliefs. 

I look at my box now and think of the one person whom I miss so much, always, but especially during this time of year- my brother-in-law, Scott.  And I can’t help but picture him sitting on his beach chair watching the tide turning on the seashore next to his home.  I can almost hear the peaceful cadence of the waves if I close my eyes.  That seashore was obliterated during Hurricane Sandy this past October. 

The tide always turns….I googled the expression and found that it is a metaphorical statement of the nature of life. It signifies that good or bad, things change.  It reminds us that when things are going well, appreciate it while it’s happening, because at any moment this can be altered.  Conversely, when things are bad, endure, because eventually the tides will turn and good things will come.

I remember the good times of Passover and Easter, the times when we had our Seders, when my dad would slice the brisket, the way he would read the Haggadah, in that false deep voice, trying to be funny.  I remember when my mom used to dress us up for Easter, even though we were Jewish, Easter bonnets and all.  Both holidays represent a paradox of persecution and redemption, of oppression and hope, of the nature of life.  Both have eggs to symbolize new life. They both come at the onset of spring when nature begins to bloom. 

We resumed our Passover celebration this year, without my brother-in-law, Scott, but thankfully with my sister-in-law Maryanne and my two nieces- Pinot and Sancerre- her dogs.  We recalled a past Seder that Scott was at when I had a mouse in the house and he called it Mickey Mousekewitz and said that he replaced Elijah that year.  It was bittersweet.  This year, Lindsay had to drink the grape juice instead of wine because she is pregnant. 

Today, we will celebrate Easter with Maryanne and our extended Kolenovsky family.  We will eat the traditional dish that Barbara makes of eggs, ricotta cheese, oranges and lemons, from their Italian tradition that represents the good and the bad, the sweet and the sour.  Before we start to eat, Barbara will lead us in prayer and remember the ones from our families who are not with us anymore.  Last year we tearfully added Scott, my brother-in-law, to the list and Lindsay and Scott’s first baby, a boy, whom she lost at 12 weeks of pregnancy.  This year we will add an aunt and Barbara’s dog, Pepper. 

This Easter, Lindsay is full with child- my granddaughter, due towards the end of spring.  I look at my box now, with its inscription.  It is empty inside, revealing nothing except the mystery of life.  I will one day leave this box to my granddaughter, along with the pearls my grandmother left to me.  I hope that it will serve as a reminder to her to always enjoy the good times and when the sad times occur, to know that the tide always turns. 

Happy Passover and Happy Easter to all. 

I Have Never Been to Paris…But My Money Has

I sometimes believe I have psychic abilities.  I suspect that many who are reading this right now are thinking I’m delusional or a little crazy- psycho, perhaps, rather than psychic.  Think what you will but I have concrete reasons to support this strange phenomenon.  I even applied for a part time job once as a psychic on the Psychic Hotline. 

It was the summer I had broken my foot and was unable to work at a sleep-away camp as a drama director as I had planned.  I felt I needed to do something interesting to add to my repertoire, so why not be a part-time phone psychic?  I saw the advertisement for it in the local newspaper.  The interview was on the phone, naturally, and after I answered some questions, the lady on the other end said, “When can you start?”  When I went to pick up all the materials for the position, which consisted of a script and Tarot cards, it started to arouse my suspicions.  The instructions were to follow the script as closely as possible while trying to keep the other party on the phone as long as possible.  She never told me what exactly to do with the Tarot cards except that the directions were on the box and I should use them at my discretion.  I never went through with it; I discarded the script, which was definitely unscrupulous, but I did keep the Tarot cards.  Although, I ended up putting the cards away after they unnerved me when I used them a few times and they forecasted unfavorable things that did ultimately come true, mostly related to my abysmal financial situation at the time.  I thought that I might have awoken an innate ability of supernatural powers, which scared me half to death.  Eventually, I threw the Tarot cards out too.   

Even though I have disposed of the Tarot cards and renounced any dabbling in the telepathic world, my subconscious defies my intentions.  This occurs when I dream.  There have been several occasions where my dreams foretell the future.  Kimberly, my second born, was handed to me in a dream the night I believe she was conceived.  I remember distinctly her coloring and features.  Nine months later, that same dark haired baby girl I gave birth to was exactly the one I met in that dream.  And I dreamt of a baby girl, kicking her feet, whom I knew was Lindsay and Scott’s daughter to be before they  even told me Lindsay was pregnant.  There have been other times, but because I refuse to partake in the metaphysical, I promptly forget them.  But what happened this past Friday is too eerie to forego.  Especially, since Friday was March 15^th- synonymous with the Ides of March, a day of forewarning.

It was in the morning, when I had fallen back to sleep.  In the dream I was in Paris, France.  My friend, Michelle, was with me.  I don’t know why Michelle was with me, possibly because I happened to bump into her and her husband, Mitch, last week at the mall.  My father, who’s been dead for over five years, was there, as well, although I couldn’t see him- I only “felt” his presence.  I remember being in a large, beautiful house with many stairs.  A person told me if I wanted to rent a room in this house it was $800 a night.  I said that was too much.  The person told me there was a car outside I could take to go look for a room.  I was hesitant to drive because I don’t know how to speak French.  There was a couple I noticed in the dream.  The man was in a wheelchair and the woman couldn’t walk too well, either.  I helped them go down the huge staircase.  That was the dream.  It could have gone on, but, Sonny, my dog, woke me.

After I took Sonny out and fed him, I decided to check my bank account because this Friday was payday.   Then I decided to check my expense bank account because my American Express bill was due.  This is when I slowly realized that my psychic powers had emerged, once again.  My account was in the negative- and there was a pending transaction of an ATM withdrawal for $651.54.  I looked at the amount, stunned, knowing I have not used this card in weeks.  Then I looked at the description and was dumbfounded when I saw that the transaction occurred in Paris, France.  Yes. Paris, France.  Where I had just been in my dream. 

I quickly called the bank and explained to the customer service representative that I was sure I had a fraudulent bank withdrawal.  She looked it up and confirmed that it was Paris France.  I told her my dream.  She was amazed.  I didn’t tell her the rest of my psychic history, but I certainly thought of it myself. 

It is Sunday now and I’m still trying to figure out this enigma of my dream of Paris.  My father being in the dream might have been the warning to check my money because he was always worried about money.  Add that to the fact that the cost of the room to rent was also blatant that money was an issue.  I do not know what helping the physically challenged couple down the stairs means.  I have looked up what stairs in dreams means and it says that going down a flight of stairs means you are regressing back into your subconscious. It also refers to the setbacks that you are experiencing in your life.  That could be related to when I first dared to flirt with clairvoyance when my foot was broken.  Who knows?

I have tried to connect this somehow to my grandma journey- for example,

Will the baby’s name be of French origin?

Or…

Will she study in Paris, France one day?

Or better yet…

Will I take my granddaughter to Paris, France one day?

Or..

Should I be called the French nickname for Grandma- Mamie or Meme?- I kind of like that.

I do not know.  All I do know right now is that my petite fille (granddaughter in French) is coup de pieds (kicking a lot). (Thank you Google translator and my cousin Andrea who's been to Paris and speaks some French.)  I witnessed another sonogram and the technician kept remarking how active she is, just like the baby in my dream.  I met the new ob-gyn on Wednesday.  He’s very nice and he calls everyone “Honey”. 

What I also know is that I have never been to Paris, but my money has….

 Au revoir.

   

Hot Pink Swarovski Bow Booties…Grandma is a Sucker

When I was a teacher, back in the day, I remember my bulletin board around this time of year was usually around the theme of “March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb.”  This week certainly was an example of that quote.  There were wintery mixes of sleet and rain, then on Friday morning, about four inches of snow covered our neighborhood again, making it look like a Currier and Ives print (almost).  But on Saturday morning, the sun reappeared, strong enough to make the snow disappear and the air warm enough for me to wear my leather jacket.  It was a delightful relief and could’ve brought on a bout of early spring fever.   

What exactly is spring fever anyway?  Does it really exist?  What are the signs and symptoms?  How does it affect grandmothers with a dwindling bank account who are expecting granddaughters to be born and of course will need clothes?  Does it make these grandmas buy things like hot pink Swarovski bow booties for an infant who hasn’t been born yet?  In my world, the answer is yes.  Or I just might be the biggest sucker grandma ever.  Am I proud of this?...no.  I think it’s some sort of addiction.  As a matter of fact, I know it’s some sort of addiction.  Didn’t they make a movie with Isla Fisher on this addiction based on the book by Sophie Kinsella? 

It all started when I was little, my mother used to take me to Kiddie Toggery, our neighborhood children’s clothing store on Flatbush Avenue, a block off King’s Highway in Brooklyn, New York.  We used to walk there because my mother didn’t drive.  It didn’t matter, though, because at the end of that long walk from Avenue K, there would be racks of beautiful clothes to try on.  The storeowner, Mr. Gorman, would roll out the red carpet for my mother, probably his best customer, because she didn’t have one little girl- she had three little girls.  I remember that my mother used to buy so much for us that she couldn’t carry the bags home- so Mr. Gorman would pack everything up in a box and someone would deliver it.  My sisters and I would wait for that box and eagerly open it when it arrived to take out our new apparel.

There were many stories from my childhood associated with that store.  One, my mother loves to tell, that I don’t remember, about a red dress that I fell in love with.  My dad was there during that shopping trip and when I tried the dress on he noticed that it had a lot of work on the front of it and he was discouraging me from getting it.  He kept on saying, “That’s going to be very hard to iron.”  But I only wanted that dress and persisted.  My mother finally said, “Alright, George, don’t worry- THIS dress I’ll iron.”  After she said that, Mr. Gorman and his sale ladies broke out into laughter.  After all, it was the early sixties- what men, if they weren’t tailors or dry cleaners, ironed?

There was one story I do recall, quite vividly, though.  I was about six.  After a shopping trip to Kiddie Toggery for our spring clothes, I had a fight with my mother. I don’t recall what the fight was about, but I was so upset with her that I decided to run away from home.  I packed up my clothes and put on my vinyl print raincoat because it was pouring out.  I was on the front porch, opening up my umbrella, when Mrs. Brady, from across the street, was coming up the steps, probably to have a cup of coffee with my mother.  She smiled at me and said, “Hello.”  I mumbled hello back.  Huge globules of rain fell behind her.  My mother was standing by the screen door. 

“Where is she going?” asked Mrs. Brady. 

“She’s running away from home,” replied my mother, matter-of-factly. 

“Oh, that’s nice,” responded Mrs. Brady. 
I turned around to my mother, "When the clothes come from Kiddie Toggery, you'll send them to me," I said. 

“Oh no,” replied my mother, “When the clothes comes, I am giving them to the new little girl who’s coming to take your place.” 

I didn’t say anything.  I continued to walk down the stairs trying to manage my bag of clothes and my umbrella in the deluge of rain that was falling.  I got as far as the sidewalk in front of my house.  I wasn’t sure I knew where I was running away to–probably my Aunt Dorothy who lived in the apartment building a block away, across the street.  I wasn't allowed to cross the street yet.  And it was a very big, busy street.  And it was raining very hard.  I looked at the street.  I looked at the rain.  I thought about the clothes from Kiddie Toggery and then about the new little girl who would wear my new clothes.  I didn't like her and I certainly didn't want her wearing my new clothes.  I turned around and came back up to the stairs.

“Oh, you changed your mind,” my mother said, sardonically, when I returned back to the porch.

“No,” I responded defiantly.  “It’s raining now.  I’ll leave tomorrow.” 

Naturally, I never ran away.  I waited for that box of clothes to come because when you have a clothing addiction, that’s the consolation. 

My clothing addiction re-emerged when Lindsay was born.  She was always dressed in the latest couture- designer baby clothes bought in Widensky’s on Schenectady Avenue in Brooklyn.   The owners of that store attended the same synagogue as we did and my parents became friends with them, so we’d get a discount.  I didn't clothe myself stylishly at that time, throwing on cheap sweats and a t-shirt, while Lindsay wore Guess overalls.  She was my little doll that I could dress up and the clothes were so much cuter than the selection of clothes that I had to choose from.  This continued when I had my second daughter, Kim.  Once I went to parent-teacher conference night and Kim’s teacher said to me, “I love the way you dress her.”  I don’t remember anything else she said about Kim- that is, how she was doing in school; I just was so pleased that she recognized her sense of fashion or more likely my sense of fashion. 

And now, I am awaiting the birth of a granddaughter.  Already, there are bags of clothing waiting for her, as well.  I find myself lured by an invisible force to the children’s clothing department wherever I am shopping.  Just the other day, I went to buy Mark new underwear and socks in Century 21 because he hates to shop.  I became “trapped” in the girl’s infant wear department for over an hour. 

I’m also going in to stores I have not gone to in years.  I had to suffer through the non-stop-talkative, know-it-all saleslady in Denny’s while I went through the racks of pricey clothes there.  You ask her one question and she proceeds to tell you everything she knows that you didn't ask her about babies and offers advice about anything from how to swaddle the baby to why I should order a nurse for my daughter even if she doesn’t plan on using one.  I brought Lindsay into Denny’s and this saleslady scared the hell out of her when she said, “Don’t buy that, it’s too small.  Your baby could be seven or eight pounds when she’s born.”  “I’m not having a seven pound baby- how will I push her out?  I’m only 4’10!”  Needless to say, we will not be returning to that Denny’s. 

There’s also the Internet and Lindsay has instilled a new addiction in me to this website called Zulilly’s.  Zulily’s doesn’t have sales- they have events.  And if you don’t get to the “event” in time, a little sash will appear on the corner of the picture of the outfit you covet for your granddaughter that says all out.  This leads my daughter to send me texts at 9:34am on a Sunday that say “Zulily ASAP diva daze!!!!!”  (Yes I am not exaggerating- there were five exclamation marks.)  And this leads me to buy hot pink Swarovski bow booties for an infant who hasn’t been born yet, which also leads me to buy not one, but two diaper covers to match the hot pink Swarovski bow booties for an infant who hasn’t been born yet. 

Do I blame this on spring fever?  Even though it isn’t spring just yet.  Still, the snow from this past week is melting as quickly as my funds are depleting.  And spring is due to arrive in ten days while my granddaughter is due to arrive in 90 days (smile).  And I can’t wait to put those hot pink Swarovski bow booties on her perfect little feet. 

The irresistible Hot Pink Swarovski Bow Booties

The irresistible feet of my granddaughter

Men

It is finally March.  I'm ignoring the snow that coats my lawn, bushes and the rooftops and focusing, instead, on the sun that's pushing its way through the kitchen window to kiss my shoulder as I write this week's blog.  26 weeks down, 13 weeks and 6 days to go.  Tallulah, my granddaughter, (not really going to be her name, I remind you) is now the size of a cucumber.  A cucumber- how could that be?  For two weeks she was the size of an eggplant- most cucumbers I buy are smaller than eggplants.  Where is this guy, who made up these baby development correlations to produce, shopping, I wonder?  And the reason why I refer to him as a male is because I suspect he is since most men I know don't go to the supermarket often, at least not Tallulah’s grandfather.  Therefore, in protest, I refuse to use these comparisons any more and I'm not buying any cucumbers this week because I don't like cucumbers- their seeds annoy me and they give me heartburn.

Tallulah weighs 1 pound, 12 ounces and is probably about 15 inches long.  I have the latest sonogram of her perfect profile on my iPhone, which I will add to this blog entry.  Her hearing is developing, so I have to remember to sing to her when Lindsay comes over.  Actually, Lindsay, who tried out for American Idol nine times, should be singing to her, too and reading to her, as well.  I think she should forego the nursery rhymes they suggest and read her something like Anne of Green Gables or Charlotte's Web. Instead of spiders scaring a child away, my granddaughter should be exposed to the wonders of spiders through rich literature that is timeless. 

Tallulah’s taste buds are developed now, too, and apparently she is able to taste what her mother eats from the amniotic fluid.  So tonight, Lindsay and Scott are coming over for dinner and Grandpa is making his tasty eggplant Parmesan.  He already peeled the eggplants and has them sitting on the counter in a colander layered in paper towels with a pot of water resting in top.  He explained that this method is necessary to get all the moisture out of the eggplant.  I don't know where he learned this, perhaps he switched from the National Geographic, Military, History or DIY channels while he was flicking the TV remote and saw it on the Food Network. Or, more likely, I just wasn’t paying attention when he told me where he heard this.  

At more than half way along, Lindsay and Scott have made the bold decision to change obstetricians.  They were unhappy with the office of their current ob-gyn as well as with the other two doctors in the practice.  Surprisingly, my daughter is now using a practice with all men, something she thought she would never do.  She believed only female gynecologists "understood" women's health issues.  But she is very happy with these male doctors.  One of them is a bit of a comedian.  When she asked him what she could do for her back pain, he responded with "When your back hurts, your husband needs to buy you gifts."   Obviously, this male gynecologist understands her. 

Presently, Grandpa Mark is anxious to begin to fry the eggplant in preparation for the dinner he's making even though it’s not even 11am.  He is grumbling at me to go to the supermarket to get more breadcrumbs and eggs, which we have run short on.  And although, I am still in my pajamas and still writing my blog, while he is dressed, he keeps asking, "When are you going to the store to get the eggs and breadcrumbs?"  You gotta love men.  Yesterday, Lindsay asked Scott to make her breakfast and his response was- I just cleaned the kitchen.  So, here's the dilemma- is it better to have a husband who cleans or one who cooks?  I would just like one who shops.

And this is why most men probably do not know the accurate size of fruit.

Off to the store...see you next week.