Puss face

26 Jun 2021 6 Comments

by wifemothereventplanner in I need to tell you about this right now Tags: , , , , , , , ,

A couple of nights ago I met some friends for dinner at a cute Italian restaurant that we’ve been to often. We sat outside in perfect weather under lemon trees and twinkle lights.

The day at work was rough and busy and I was thrilled to be done and away from the computer.

When we were seated we commented that the place was packed. Lots of big tables and parties going on. Good for them. Back to life.

I was with some dear friends, one of whom, Gail, is a teacher in a hard district a few towns away. She’s a spit fire of energy and cracked us up all night with stories from her classes.

It turned out that the place was so busy it took us almost 3 hours to get through our dinner. Our waiter hurriedly came to say hi, gave us the specials and that was it for 15 min. Poof. Gone. When he came back we ordered a salad to share as an appetizer, and he quickly vanished again. We had to flag him down to get silverware. We had to remind him after our salads that he never took our entree order. He never once refilled our water. He dropped a bread basket but no butter or oil.

I was less than pleased. You know I like my bread.

The company was fantastic and we were having a wonderful time. But ofcourse I was also seething quietly about the service.

To be fair we weren’t the only table ignored. The tables around us had the same issues. And to also be fair, we watched the waiter hustle and try to cover all the tables he was serving.

But ofcourse I was still pissy. I wanted my fork. I wanted a napkin. I wanted my butter. Waaaaaa, cried the baby.

After we finally got our meal, which was delicious, and the restaurant began clearing out a bit, he finally came over to check on us. He also acknowledged how slow everything had been and thanked us for our patience.

I don’t know if I would have said something, but I know I would have been quiet and had a puss face on. It’s something I’m working on.

My puss face. Or as my husband says,” THE face”. You’ve probably only seen my smile face. My happy face. My laughing face. Which is the one I have on for the majority of the time. But those that love me have seen the other one.

Before any of that could happen, Gail looked him straight in the eye and said,” wow you are really busy tonight. You need help out here.” As she said it, I watched his shoulders drop and a soft smile drape his face. “Thank you for saying that” he said. He went on to explain that they are completely swamped and can’t find people to work. That was his 7th day of working both shifts.

Like a good teacher, Gail steered us (me) into the right behavior. I sat there thankful that her kindness and humanness made up for my puss face.

I took a deep breath and joined in on chatting with him. I was embarrassed that I couldn’t see what she saw. A person just doing the best they can. Someone hustling to cover a room too big for one person to cover.

I’m sharing this to keep me accountable. Sharing this to say it’s ok to be wrong and course correct. But I’m really sharing this so we can have a Gail appreciation moment today.

Let’s all be like Gail today.

Have a good day everyone and put your puss faces away.

oil and vinegar

12 May 2021 6 Comments

by wifemothereventplanner in Brave New World Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

May 12, 1996 was a Sunday. Mother’s Day.

It was also the day that my husband and I eloped.

Today is our 25th anniversary. Our silver jubilee!

Last night at 10:40pm my husband of a quarter of a century said,” what do people do for their 25th anniversary? A party or something?”

He’s all mine ladies. Has been for multiple lifetimes according to some. Let me explain.

Because I like to throw money away, I go to a lot of psychics and readers. One of these readers told me that Joe and I have been married before. Many times. During many lives.

Really? Us? I loved hearing it and yet instantly doubted it.

“That’s so funny because really we are like oil and water” I said,” very different”

The reader took both my hands (this was way before Covid) and looked me dead in the eyes.

“Oil and water? No no, that’s not right. You are oil and vinegar. You emulsified. Transformed. You are perfect together” she said.

I cried ofcourse. And gave her a big tip. All these years I walked around thinking we were oil and water. Never mixing. Two different to combine. She turned it upside down. Or maybe she right sided it. She may have been a total hoax, I’ll never know. I didn’t go back to her again. I was afraid the magic moment would never happen twice.

So today, to celebrate this union of salad dressing, I thought I’d share some moments from our 25 years. These pictures doesn’t show the fights and pain and anger and sorrow – which are in between these happy moments.

It’s been good and bad and better and worse. It’s been everything you can probably imagine and everything you’ll never know. Thanks for letting me share.

How it started…

90s dorm room fashion! Denim on Denim
He went to an empty classroom and surprised me with this. I walked out of my class to go to the next one and he was there, waiting to show this to me. Creepy and cute
So many questions with this one. 1) Why did we feel the need to take a pic in front of Walmart? 2) We brought a camera to Walmart? 3) Who the heck took the pick?

We graduate and elope!

May 12, 1996, East Hampton NY
This is where our honeymoon pic should be. But because we eloped so quickly the first trip my new husband took was with his best friend to London and Amsterdam. Every new marriage should start with a trip apart. Not
This was a year later. Our honeymoon trip to Bermuda. I look at this pic and only see my healthy, shiny hair. I have issues.

This next set of pics is called – BABIES HAVING BABIES (on purpose)

Kera in my big belly, our NYC railroad apartment
Sure! Stand in the middle of Lexington Ave in NYC with a newborn in your hand. Totally safe. You’re in good hands baby girl!
Jack in my big belly, Fishkill, NY

Since it’s my Jubilee (said like Elaine says fiancé on Seinfeld), I’m going to be indulgent and keep sharing…

Joe told us he was taking us to tour Martha’s Vineyard. In reality we toured all the spots they filmed the movie Jaws. I was less than pleased.
Brussels for the day. We took the metro from Paris. Everyone spoke English.
Ugly sweater contest that I won but my neighbor stole the votes (I know what you did Jeff!)
I now like a beach thanks to this man. I also like an umbrella, a visor, and SPF 100.
One of my favorite pictures. Nothing makes him happier than a belly full of steak. I think I had creamed spinach that night. Thanks for nothing Peter Lugers.

The years, the months, the hours. I remember every minute of it, and yet it’s a blur! From the missteps we made, to the mountains we moved together, I’m so happy we went for it.

Love you Joseph.

Don’t try to buy milk at a hardware store

12 Apr 2021 4 Comments

by wifemothereventplanner in Brave New World Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Isn’t that a great line? It’s not mine.

Heard it yesterday from a not-that-old wise woman in my life.

It fits so much of what I struggle with sometimes. All the time.

Why am I buying milk (or milk substitute in my case) from the hardware store?

It’s not the store’s fault. The store has told me very clearly what they sell. Hammers, nails, tools etc. Why do I keep walking in expecting other things?

I’m not really talking about milk. Or hardware stores. But you knew that.

I’m talking about people, I’m talking about jobs, about relationships, and situations. I’m talking about my day to day shock and awe when someone or something turns out exactly as advertised. No surprises.

I’m an optimist, I think. Actually I’m a wanna be optimist. I want to believe that everything has a best intention and that if it goes South, well, that is not the norm.

Back in 1991 I fell in love with a dude who is most certainly not an optimist. He’s suspicious. Of everything. And everyone. All the time. He expects things to go South…daily. Forget milk. This is the guy who thinks the hardware store isn’t even a hardware store. I believe it comes from his upbringing. I wonder if we surveyed all the people who grew up in New York City or any city, we’d find similar traits. Last week a can opener went missing and he was convinced it was “stolen”. By who? Why? Where? Can’t find a screwdriver? Probably stolen.

In the last few decades we’ve rubbed off on each other. He’s become surprisingly upbeat. He’s opened up to being very social and outgoing. The person who would dread dinners and plans with people, now loves them. He’s rubbed off on me too. I’m a bit more skeptical and cautious. Not a bad thing.

I grew up in a bubble. The bubble was made up of carbs and sitcoms. When I left that bubble I went to the movies. Not to see gritty dramas about life in the mean streets, no no no. I went to go see every cheesy teen flick that came out. This was before rotten tomatoes started ruining my good time. I saw tons of rotten movies. Loved every minute.

So the part of my brain that should have developed some hard lessons about life and people and reality basically played 80’s theme songs in a loop. Vapid but happy.

Junior and senior year of high school were different. Different people. Different experiences. Carbs and sitcoms replaced by… well… other things.

Those are the years I started my slow and steady stockpile of expectations. A long list of demands from the universe and everyone in it. I wanted. I deserved. I demanded.

Sometimes it worked. Most times it didn’t. But I kept it up.

Those lists of demands only grew when I had kids. Oh boy did they grow.

Once they came I couldn’t imagine anyone not being completely taken with them. Who wouldn’t want to spend all their time with my angels?? Turns out…lots of people. Not everyone is cut out to show the amount of love and attention you expect people to shower your kids with. Most are capable of the minimum. But I didn’t get that. I loved the people who loved my kids. End of story. It was a simple equation for me. If you didn’t make time for them, there was no time for you.

It was harsh. Too harsh. I didn’t know that those people, the ones who never checked in on my kids, the ones who treated them like side props, I didn’t know that that was the best they could do. They didn’t know they had to do more. No one ever told them. They had no milk. If that’s what I needed, I had to look elsewhere. Didn’t mean they were bad people. It just meant they had different things to offer me.

Oh the hours of mental torture I could have saved myself if I just let it go! I’m not saying be a pushover. It’s good to have expectations of people and situations- I have LOTS of expectations. And standards. I still have a very high level that I need people, places and things to meet. But not all people. Not all things. It’s freeing to realize that my level of demands and expectations has a wall. It cannot and will not always be met.

Maybe that job won’t ever realize your worth? Maybe you’ll have to leave. Maybe that partner you have will never want to travel to Africa, go with a friend instead. Maybe we can’t expect it all in one place or thing or person. It’s frustrating. I want the all-in-one model. The Target, the Wal-Mart model. But there are no all-in-one people. No all-in-one jobs. There is no all-in-one life.

This is not revolutionary thinking. You’ve heard this all before. But I always need a reminder when I find myself slipping, being angry.

I have to take a moment and think. I have to make sure. Make sure I’m walking down the right aisle. Make sure I’m in the right store. Sometimes I am. When I’m not – I leave. There are other options.

Thank you Kathy ❤️

East Should Not Meet West!

16 Nov 2020 4 Comments

by wifemothereventplanner in Cooking! Tags: , , , , , , ,

STOP THE MADNESS! Somewhere I think Sophia Loren is turning in her grave.

I know, I know – lots of things wrong with that statement. First of all, Sofia Loren isn’t dead. But you know she would be horrified. Second of all, stop the madness!

Turmeric is good. Agreed. Not arguing that. Before all the “woke” people in the world found it, my parents were pushing it like they were herbal pimps. It played a huge part in my life – just ask the drawer full of stained Tupperware in mom’s house.

But why… WHY…do we have to go off the deep end??

Pasta with turmeric?? Who is this for? Are there pasta lovers that refuse to eat foods that normally have turmeric?? They can’t just have chicken tikka masala once a month like normal people? What’s next? Pasta with adobo? Pasta with sumac?

Please. Stop mixing shit up. Leave something alone…I’m begging you! You know what I expect from my box of 99 cent Ronzoni? Literally nothing. I expect no nutrients. I expect mostly empty carb calories. It’s fine. Leave. It. Alone. Go ruin something else.

Intermittent slowing

21 Oct 2020 4 Comments

by wifemothereventplanner in I need to tell you about this right now Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

I love breakfast. It’s my favorite. It’s always been my favorite. Growing up it was the only meal we had at home that resembled what other people ate…kind of. I mean my parents didn’t make coffee, they made chai, but we did have toast! It wasn’t made from soft, fluffy white bread like Wonder – we had something that was literally called Brick Oven. Brrrrrick oven. The name literally told you what it would feel like in your stomach. But at least it wasn’t Indian food. Although sometimes it was Indian food, but that’s another story.

I’m an early riser. Even in high school I woke up early. These days it’s 7am on average in Covid days because I’m not commuting. Before that, I was up at 5:30 or 6 and out the door by 7:30ish. That’s a lot of breakfast time. So much breakfast time that on some days – not always – I had two mini breakfasts before lunch. Two! And because it was mostly non-protein…even though it was simple stuff (toast, etc), it didn’t help. Help what you ask? Help my di….my die…. my diet! Phew. There I said it.

I never say that word. Shockingly I’m hardly ever on a diet. Seriously. I know I probably should be, but I’ve never been obsessed with my weight. I mean in high school I wanted to be thinner and I started walking more and lost some weight before college, which was great. My first few years of college I actually lost weight because the food was gross (this is pre-vegetarian friendly years in the country), this was also great. Plus I was in love and drinking my suppers away – it was all good.

I’ve talked about this before, food was a really important part of my childhood. What other family do you know that drove from Harrisburg, PA to Queens, New York for lunch? Ours did. We did it multiple times a year. That’s also what counted as “vacations” for us.

I was never thin. Ok maybe that’s wrong. I was thin for about a year in elementary school. I had pneumonia and an enlarged heart situation. Spent a few months in the hospital and then bedrest for another few months. I missed half a year of school. When I went back everyone was very curious and I felt famous. I’d lost a lot of weight, my hair had grown out and I was a bit yellow from an iron deficiency. Not exactly hot stuff, but I loved it. It was very dramatic and fun. By the summer it all wore off and I got back to my normal self. The life threatening illness was fun while it lasted.

My parents never talked about my weight. I never remember my mother or father ever saying anything positive or negative about it. It just was what it was. That’s not to say I didn’t try all the new fads and classes that came out. I’ve done Spin class, Zumba, SlimFast, the Beyonce cayenne cleanse, yoga, Weight Watchers, etc. I tried them all, but mostly because I was curious and I’m into new things. Did I lose weight, sure. But I never fluctuated all that much. 5 up/5 down if I was lucky. I was also never that devastated or excited by any of it.

Now, at 48, I’m not on any real medication (besides Progesterone which has changed my life, we can talk about that someday) and I haven’t had any real health issues (knock on a BIG piece of wood). I’ve never had a doctor sit me down and say,” you need to lose weight.” This could also be because I avoid doctors as much as I can but whatever.

All of this is a very long winded way of saying…I’m not that into diets. Ask my friends. I don’t really talk about it. I’m not really that interested. I know beautiful, dear people that go from one plan to another. That are in a constant state of diet. There’s always a comment about what they’re eating and how bad they are doing. It’s seems sad to me – and exhausting, but I get it. I think I’m the freak here, I get it.

At the beginning of Covid we tucked in and started doing what everyone did. We cooked. We baked. We ate. We drank. We’re still doing it. Shockingly – I didn’t gain weight. I didn’t lose weight, but there was no uptick. While I was cooking, baking and drinking I listened to podcasts. Lots and lots of podcasts. One was about Intermittent Fasting (IF). Basically reducing the amount of time in a 24 hour period that you can/should eat. It’s not about what you eat exactly – it’s focused only on when you eat.

There’s 3 big methods of IF: alternate day fasting, periodic fasting and daily time restricted fasting. The podcast I listened to was about alternate day – which is restricting calories to 500 on fasting days (every other or every two days, however you choose to do it). The health benefits are beyond just weight loss. Clearer mind, better mood, etc. It also seemed less restrictive because it doesn’t focus on what you eat, as long as you’re staying to a calorie reduction. I mean you can’t eat donuts as your only meal but it seemed doable. So I tried it. It was super duper hard. Not eating for a 24 hour period was not my thing. I only did it for a couple of days. One day fast/one day eating. It lasted only 3 days. By the 2nd day of my full fast I was done. Did I eat a vat of ice cream – no. But I needed a meal. I was light headed and not feeling great. So I was done. Back to my usual.

A few weeks later I was reading an article about another method of IF. Daily time restricted fasting – or 16:8. Don’t eat for 16 hours, eat for 8. That seemed like a small change. 7 of those non eating 16 hours would be sleeping hours. How hard could that be? Again I was curious. So about two months ago, maybe more, I started doing it. No food until noon or 1pm. Then I eat normally until 7pm or 8pm. I’m still trying not to go nuts during the day but I’m not doing any real restrictions. I have a carb. I have a glass of wine. Maybe 2. It wasn’t easy, I’m going to be honest. I like my morning time and I like my breakfast, as I’ve said. But it wasn’t that hard either.

Something started to change. Something really really slowly started to change. I lost a pound. It took me a really long time, but I lost a pound. Then I lost another. Slowly. My clothes started feeling better. No one can really tell. Then we went away for the weekend and I had a piece of coffee cake for breakfast. The next day I had another piece. But nothing happened. I came home and went right back to the 16:8. No big deal. A few days later I lost another pound.

Again – will anyone notice, probably not. It’s really a small, slow, and I do mean slow, change. But it feels good. And it doesn’t feel like a diet. More importantly I’m still doing it. The longest I’ve ever done anything else is Zumba (and I may get back to that too!).

Just sharing my very long, very slow moving journey. I’ll be hitting my goal weight (although I don’t really have one) by 2027.

The bearded lady wants to give you some advice…

15 Jan 2020 5 Comments

by wifemothereventplanner in I need to tell you about this right now Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

I was just going to write this to my daughter, but I’ll share my thoughts broadly – you’re welcome.

Thanks to Ulta, Sephora, and YouTube stars like Jeffree Star (RIP his relationship to Nathan) – we all think we are skin/make-up experts. Believe me, I’m the leader of that group. I’m all about knowing and trying every single product that comes out. I’ve written many many blogs on my love of all things that can smooth, flatten, brighten, tighten, etc. I’m for all of it. I also love getting a good, violent facial. Scrape it, squeeze it, laser it…bring it all on. But I’m really nervous about something that’s been creeping up everywhere.

Dermaplaning. At home. With expensive or cheap tools you can buy online or at a local store near you. The benefits they tout are vast. Remove peach fuzz and have more radiant, glowing skin! Make-up goes on easier and lasts longer! Skin feels and looks smoother and softer! Sounds like a revelation. But it’s not. It’s shaving your face. Just plain old shaving your whole face. The razors look different than the ones we use on our legs, but the concept is the same.

Listen ladies, I get it. I’m hairy too. If you saw me with my natural eyebrows and upper lip, it wouldn’t be pretty. I mean I was a junior in high school before I detached my unibrow. As a mom, I was ahead of the pack letting my daughter know we could wax, shave, peel anything she wanted whenever she was ready. I think that was in 4th grade. Believe me, I get it. And, if I’m honest, I’ve had days where I didn’t have time to go get a quick wax when I reached for my razor and took care of my upper lip issues. There’s no shame in that game. You do what you need to.

But this idea of shaving your face …no no no. Just don’t do it. Remember when they told us that pencil thin eyebrows were cool? Or that fat free bread would help us lose weight? All lies. Don’t buy into it!

Your peach fuzz is fine, leave it alone. Your uni-brow and mustache are not, take care of that now. Please people. Let’s go back to our face masks and charcoal treatments and put the face razors down. I love you.

Call it the “everything’s fine” filter….

08 Oct 2019 Leave a comment

by wifemothereventplanner in Brave New World Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Sometimes the picture doesn’t tell the whole story. We all know that. This is the age of social media. We filter, we tweak, we tune-up. Every post or pic looks like it was smooth and effortless. I thought I’d share one of my favorite pictures from this past weekend and give you some scoop on what happened right before this cute shot was taken.

First, some context: It’s my cousin’s baby shower. That’s her in the adorable dress with the adorable bump. We were so excited to celebrate with her and her hubby.

My sister and I had helped her plan all the details. I wanted to be there early enough to help set-up so I came the day before. Drove to my hometown, spent the night with my mother.

I Got up early, showered and came down to breakfast with my parents. I was dressed for the day but didn’t have my make-up on or my hair done.

My mother said, “I like your gown.” Hmmm – gown? It was a long dress for sure, but I didn’t focus on it.

Some more context: the night before, after dinner, my mother had laid out nightgowns for me in the bedroom. This may seem strange to many people – I think an immigrant parent is needed to fully understand this. There’s always a clean nightgown waiting for my stayover. There’s also a brand new toothbrush, toothpaste and anything else you need. If, for any reason you ask for something my mother doesn’t have for you… you better know that there’ll be 19 of those things next time. To make up for this time. It’s very sweet. On this visit, however, I’d brought my own pjs. I’m 47. It’s completely normal to want to wear my own pajamas. Right??

This did not go over well. She’d laid out a winter one and a summer one – what was the problem? Why couldn’t I just wear those? After a 10 min of conversation, I convinced her that I was ok but so thankful for the options. I had my own nightgown.

Back to breakfast. Once done, I ran upstairs, put on what I considered a full face of make-up, blew-out my hair before the eventual drop of humidity would kink it out, and headed out the door. As I was leaving my mother said,” oh you’re changing out of your nightgown at the party?”

It took me a minute to catch-on. My what? I calmly smiled and said, nope, this is my actual dress for the party. Not my nightgown. Up until that moment I thought it was a really cute dress.

What’s the moral of the story kids?

Yes, just wear her nightgown.

Anyhoo I’m in such a good mood about the shower I don’t even get fazed. I get into the car, in my nightgown dress and head to the venue.

In the car were the flowers, the cupcake toothpick flags, the pink and pumpkin colored chocolate covered strawberries, the gifts, the welcome sign and some other things we needed to decorate. Because I didn’t have enough stuff in my car, I made a pit-stop and bought balloons – just in case.

I pulled up to the venue, parked right at the front door blocking the small entry way but decided it was ok because it was just for a short time. I just wanted to run in and grab a cart to take all the stuff inside.

I came back outside with the cart, opened the driver’s side door to unlock the trunk, dropped my keys on the seat and pushed the unlock button and shut the door. But it wasn’t the unlock button. I locked the car. For the very first time in as long as I can remember… I locked my keys in the car. Right on the front seat. An hour and a half before everyone was going to show up.

Did I mention I also left my purse in the car? Did I mention my phone was in that purse in the car?

I stood there staring at what I’d done for about a minute and the baby momma-to-be showed up. I put on my biggest smile and said, “can I have your phone?”.

Long story short – everyone should have AAA or is it Triple A or maybe Triple AAA. It’s worth every penny. Especially when you’re blocking a major entrance to a venue with your big old Subaru and have everything you need for someone’s party in the trunk. Everyone should also always serve mimosas at baby showers.

We got everything out. 30 min to spare.

So now look at the picture again. A couple of mimosas and a quick break-in later, everything was as perfect as it looked. Nightgown dress and all.

High highs and low lows

18 Sep 2019 Comments Off on High highs and low lows

by wifemothereventplanner in Brave New World Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

August. You crazy, nutty bitch. You’ve given and you’ve taken away. You’ve made me insanely happy and insanely sad. At the end of this year, when I think about all the best times and the worst times – I’ll think of you.

I’ll think of my daughter finishing up a summer in New York City doing an internship. She loved the work. She loved the city. She loved her roommate. Every time I spoke to her I heard excitement and confidence. I don’t know what I would have done if a child of mine hadn’t loved the city that I love. I would have gotten over it, sure. But I would have held a grudge, truthfully. I would have looked at her with a raised eyebrow…. what’s there not to love? But thankfully she felt exactly the same way I feel. Her exit interview with the CEO included an offer for her to come back and work there. Ofcourse it did. Who wouldn’t want her? A high high for sure. This is her below – one in from the left..the one with the big smile on her face.

When she finished with that internship and finally came home, we all went away for our annual summer vacation. This year, to Iceland. It seemed more like a week on the moon. Beautiful. Striking. Gorgeous. Everywhere you turned looked like a green screen version of reality. Even now, when we look at photos – they look fake. And the country is as friendly as is it beautiful. We spent a week exploring, climbing, hiking, swimming, eating and sometimes fighting (let’s be honest). But it was still perfect. Another high high.

While my girl was spending her summer bulking up her LinkedIn profile, my son spent the summer learning how to surf. He never took a formal lesson (to my chagrin), he just learned from friends. He fell in love with it. Which made total sense. He’s a great swimmer, he loves his skateboard….ofcourse he’d love surfing! It all added up. Once he’d had his fill of beach trips he started looking for a job. I suggested he take a lifeguard class, and miraculously, he agreed. He passed the class and got a job as a lifeguard at a local cougar haunt..errr I mean gym. My little baby boy was going to save lives! Ok…not really. But he was going to watch little brats while their parents got drunk at the pool bar – that’s something to be proud of right? The kid who I have to sometimes remind to brush his teeth, got a job. He had to fill out a W9! What is happening here??!! A high for sure.

I have one more little high. My work team got together for an offsite. We met for a day of eating and drinking and swimming. No agenda. No work talk (that wasn’t juicy gossip). Just fun. It’s a humbling, lucky thing to get along with the people you work with. It’s a miracle to like them. Maybe even love them! This group of people that I work with makes the job feel like fun. And we’ve been through some ugly times. I mean…ugly. But at the end of the day – we stick together. I can’t imagine my time at this company without them. High high! This pic isn’t from this year but I love it.

So that leaves the low. The low low.

And it really was the lowest low.

About a year and a half ago, my husband’s aunt was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer.

Let me back up.

Mary Ohl was born Mary Dahill – we all called her Dee Dee. Sister to Terry and Peggy. Mother to her boys. Wife to Dennis and then Walter (or Teddy, as we know him).

Fiery redhead and New York City hellraiser, she spent her early years drinking, working and causing overall havoc. Eventually she settled down – had her boys – and became a nurse.

By the time I met her, she had already retired. She was no longer a nurse. She no longer drank. No longer raised havoc – atleast not in the bars in the city. By the time I met her – she was a devoted mother to her son Dennis. Dennis was born with a form of retardation that she never actually explained to any of us. All we knew was that he was special needs, but I’m not sure we could ever verbalize what he had. Which is exactly how she liked it. She told me once that during Dennis’ early years, she tried to ignore his disability. She pretended it didn’t exist. She ignored it. She had a ton of guilt about those fuzzy years that were drowned in alcoholism and dysfunction.

It wasn’t until she got sober that she found her true calling. To give Dennis a life. A big, full, complete life. She spent over two decades researching every resource avialable to him, every opportunity due him. She joined national organizations, gave speeches, helped find programs to help him – anything she could do to solidify his independance, she did. She even helped other parents find the same resources she found.

Today, Dennis is a happy, nurtured man. He has a job. He lives on his own (with some angels who take care of him). He makes his own decisions and choices. He loves music and he loves to dance, like his momma.

As a mother, I think I’m doing all I can to make my kid’s lives better. I usually feel pretty good about it – until I compare it to what Dee Dee did. The cold, hard focus she had to make sure he had everything owed to him was and is a lesson.

She was amazing. She had a wicked sense of humor, she was overly generous but at the same time – she held a mean grudge. She laughed hard. She yelled hard. She was a dycotomy, like all amazing people are.

We found out about her Cancer from other people. She never called or told anyone. In fact she was pretty pissed when we all showed up to her hospital room before her surgery. Even then she pretended all was well, annoyed that we were making such a big fuss about it.

The day she came out of her surgery, she started planning Dennis’ 50th Birthday party. And boy was it a party!

12 months after that, a few weeks after Dennis’ 51st birthday party, she took a downturn. There’s a Tom Petty song that I think of whenever I think of her….it’s called “Swingin”. The line in the song is, “..and she went down….swinging”. That’s Dee Dee. Swinging.

We came back from Iceland on Saturday. We went to go see her on Sunday. She passed a day later. The lowest low. The bottom of the lows. An angry low. I didn’t realize how angry I’d be. I hated them all. The hospital. The doctors. The oncologist. The social workers. The nurses. I felt like they all betrayed her. Betrayed all of us. Why didn’t they prepare us for how quickly things would go downhill? Why didn’t they tell us how drastic the road would be? It was a low low low.

But, in all honesty, I think if you would ask her, she wouldn’t agree. She lived on her own terms. She did exactly what she wanted to do. She never ever followed advice or listened to anyone – stubborn to the end. She lived every day after her diagnosis by her own terms. Her rules. She was a force of nature. And nature is beautiful and destructive and unpredictable. It all makes sense. It’s probably exactly as she planned it.

August is over. September is here. This weekend our family will celebrate new babies coming this fall and spend time planning a happy wedding next summer. The weekend after that we continue the celebration with another family wedding, and the happy times continue. Just like Dee Dee would want them to.

Here’s to the high highs and even the low lows. I hope they never end.

Je m’appelle…

22 Apr 2019 Leave a comment

by wifemothereventplanner in Brave New World Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Hello world! Or hello 825 followers if I’m being more precise! First post in over a month but who’s counting? Are you counting? I hope so.

A lot has happened since we chatted last. Some work. Some home. Mostly TV. More to come on that later.

Today’s post is about my name. Yep. Mi nombre. A few weeks ago my daughter’s boyfriend (adorable guy), asked if he could interview me about my first generation childhood. He said it’d take an hour and he’d ask me questions about my childhood, adolescence, etc. My answer was yes, of course. An hour to talk about myself as if I was on Oprah (not the new Super Sunday version…the old 4pm talk show version)? Who would say no to this? Not me. Not the gal who literally started a blog thinking people were dying to know crap I did and do and think about. Anyway it was so much fun. He promised to share the final version of it with me and if it’s flattering and makes me out of be some national Indian treasure, I’ll share it with you.

I’m telling you about the interview for two reasons. 1) to show off, obviously 2) because it got me thinking about my childhood. I don’t think I’ve ever spent that much time talking about how I grew up since…well since I started dating my husband and he grilled me like the FBI. But lately, something has been coming up. For some reason, in the past year, maybe 2 years – I’ve gotten a lot of questions about my name. Specifically…how my name is pronounced. Even more specifically – how I’m letting people mispronounce my name.

My name is Neha.

It’s an old-school Indian name derived from the Sanskrit version (Sneha). It means love and tenderness – which will come as a big surprise to those who usually use other words to describe me. You know who you are. In the proper Indian dialect (choose your favorite), it’s pronounced Neigh-Ha. Neigh…like what horses say, and a very soft ha. Not like a karate chop HA! That’s how my very young, wonderful parents imagined my name being said all over India.

Except my young, wonderful parents didn’t stay in India. They hauled ass to the USA. Jackson Heights, Queens to be exact – in 1979ish. To get the exact date I’d have to call my mother and disclose why I need this info, to which she’d say I’m giving super personal info to strangers on the internet who want to kill me. True story. My mother thinks the internet is out to get me. She’s right of course.

Let me set the stage. Jackson Heights today is not what Jackson Heights of the late 70s/early 80s was. Today, there’s so many Indian immigrants that have settled there, they call parts of it Little India. Back then it was still mostly immigrants, but there was a broader mix – Chinese, African, Puerto Rican, and some Italian and Irish to balance it out. In today’s Jackson Heights – my young self would have had other Nehas to mix and mingle with. My young self would have gone to a school full of other people that looked, talked, lived like me. But that’s not how it was.

My dad was a pharmacist – the reason we came to the US was for his job. My mom was a teacher in India but her certifications weren’t accepted here, so she got some random part-time work. My parents did one thing. They worked. They didn’t socialize. They didn’t have hobbies. They worked. I had a job too. One job. School. That’s all I had to do. My entire focus was school (and TV. Indians love TV. It’s a stereotype I know, but it’s also true). As was the case for most of my elementary and middle school life, I was the only Indian in my classes – and sometimes in the school.

I don’t remember the first time I said my name to someone outside my family. I wish I did. I wish I could remember how and why my name began being pronounced like Leah…as if it was spelled Neah…Knee-ya. It all makes sense. I’m sure I wanted to fit in. I’m sure I wanted to not be different, but I don’t remember making a calculated effort to change how people pronounce my name. But maybe I did. I definitely wanted to assimilate. I wanted to dress like everyone else, eat like everyone else (lost cause), date like everyone else. My idea of a perfect boy was a blonde, blue-eyed dude with a one syllable name. Speaking of names, I would have given up a limb to be called Kelly, Jane or some other really white name, so maybe this was the closest fix. I just wish I could remember that happening. I probably need some deep therapy to remember, but the irony is that I remember other things really well from that time. The Saturday night line-up…. Dance Fever followed by Love Boat and ending with Fantasy Island. I remember the slice of pizza my mom got me every Friday after school – this was early 80s NYC pizza. Big. Flat. Foldable. I remember getting a Rubix’s Cube. It was my parent’s favorite kind of toy. Quiet, cheap, and portable. I remember all kinds of useless info. The moment that changed the way people said my name? Not so much.

I’m going to interrupt this line of thought for a quick moment. One of the things I get asked often when i’m trying to explain why my name is pronounced the way it is, is this question,” well how does your family say your name? Do they use the wrong version too?” No. No they don’t use the “wrong” version. They don’t use any version. My family almost never, and I mean literally almost never, calls me by my given name. For the majority of my childhood I was known by a pet name – a loving moniker – Bittu. And it’s pronounced how it looks. Bit-To. It means “little one” or “little thing” or something like that. That’s what my parents, aunts and uncles called me. Once I had cousins old enough to talk, they called me Didi. Which means “big sister”. I know what you’re thinking…I’m a cousin, so why call me a sister? It gets even better. Now every member of the family calls me Didi, including my parents. Confusing, right? Listen – I can’t explain why all Indians are confusing – I can only explain the ways I’m confusing. Are you still with me? Are you over it? Bored? How many times have you checked your insta? Tell the truth. I just needed you to have some background since I assume you’re making a case in your head about why I’m a psycho.

So after Jackson Heights my parents moved us to the hub of diversity and inclusiveness known as Albany, NY. No offense if it’s gone through some major change and my sarcasm no longer applies. Remember when I said I was the only Indian in the school growing up? Well in Albany I was the only person of color in the entire school! And it was middle school to boot. Good times. Actually they were good times. I have been incredibly lucky in my life and have always met friends who helped me through. In 7th grade something amazing happened. Two Pakistani girls moved to town. Twins. Huma and Asma. We immediately became friends. They were my first ethnic friends! I mean I tried being friends with a girl named Chang back in Queens but she was allowed to hang out less than I was so it didn’t work. I enjoyed my white friends whose parents let them come to my house for hours with no issue. Anyway – back to my first brown friends. They had just moved here from London. Dad was a doctor and divorced (scandal!). They came to the US to be closer to his sister. They all had these amazing accents which somehow cancelled out their “otherness” and made them hugely popular. It didn’t hurt that they were loaded and had a house with a pool (a rare jewel in Albany). Their dad worked crazy hours and the girls were mostly home alone – another bonus. I loved their house. It was the opposite of my house. No one cooked. My house smelled of ginger and garlic all day. Their house smelled of…nothing. Heaven. The twins’ dad was the first person to tell me that I was mispronouncing my name. Lucky for me his daughters were mortified and told him to never to talk to me again and I moved on.

Actually my family moved on. We moved from Albany to Harrisburg, PA. Again, Harrisburg today has a full, lively Indian culture. Back then? Nada.

My dad believed any religion was good religion – so I went to a Catholic High School. It was diverse”ish”….but guess which population there was only one of? That’s right people. Still me representing all Indians. Dot. Not feather.

It wasn’t until I went to college in NYC, where I minored in religion (by mistake) and had to join a club as part of my Religions of the World class, that I met a whole bunch of Indians. I joined The South Asian Club for two long months. They were a nice bunch – most of them had grown-up in Queens, in the exact neighborhood that I’d started out in. Turns out Queens went full-on Indian soon after we moved out. On another side note – by this time I was dating a half Irish/half Ukrainian New Yorker. That’s right people, he’s blonde, blue-eyed and most of the time has a one syllable name. All my dreams really did come true. Anyway this new bunch of friends all tried to educate me on the correct way to say my name. I left soon after. Not just because I didn’t want to be lectured to, in all honesty, I left because they met on Friday mornings at 8am – which didn’t work with my Thursday night at Terminal Bar schedule.

I’ll speed up. The 90s were vapid. No one really cared what the origins of my name were or how to say it correctly. Easy peasy. Even the early 2,000s were a non-issue. It wasn’t really until the last few years when people started getting “woke” that it came up again.

The 20 year old intern who asked me gently if I knew how to correctly pronounce my name. Yes, thank you. Next. The well meaning friends who have other friends who pronounce the same name differently. Yes, I know. I get it. You feel like you’ve been doing me wrong. But you haven’t! I swear. It’s not you. It’s me. Well, technically it’s not me, it’s my name.

You know I even went through a real immersion-into-my-culture phase in high school. We would go to India every year at that time to visit relatives (relatives who also never ever called me by my formal name). I was way into the culture, the movies, the food, the language – all of it. I was a Junior in high school and all I wanted to do was be different. I was thrilled to show-off my funky jewelry and henna’d hand. But even during that time – I never thought about changing the way people say my name. What does that mean? What does that say about me? I dunno. I’m sure there’s a million ways to dissect it. To “help me”. I’ll have to find a therapist and have them give me an answer. Or maybe I’ll Google it.

My point is this…aren’t you glad you made it to the point! Mazel. You’re almost done. My point is that however it started, and whatever reason I did it or maybe someone just started calling me that and I went with it – whatever – it’s how I’d like you to pronounce my name. Yes, the wrong way.

Trust me – it’s a daily struggle. People say my name in all different ways. Correct, incorrect, messed up, etc. I don’t mind any of it. I met a wonderful friend last year through work who is French. We had a long discussion about this. She told me that in French – the direct translation of Je m’appelle isn’t “what is your name?”. The meaning is “what do you want to be called?”. I love that. Je m’appelle Neha (knee-ya).

In conclusion, I’m moving to France. Au revoir.

Previous Older Entries