Wholesome travel entry

I’ve noticed during my blogging lifespan that there are certain people who respond positively to the photos of the children sweet stories of my life as a mother. Others prefer any post that has the word vagina in it or other references to body parts or functions or comedic exchanges with Gabriella. The winning entries, as you have probably anticipated, are the posts that contain a little bit of everything. The next few posts will document our summer vacation to Northern Michigan. It will be unlikely that I will reference anyone’s vagina, as this is a wholesome vacation-because vaginas are more hole-some than wholesome. I just wanted to let you know that before I go journaling our trip and posting family videos. For those of you who tune in looking for PG-13 content, you may want to take a break until after our vacation.

My Summer Vacation: Part I

It was an uneventful flight to Chicago and then on to Traverse City, Michigan. We had a 2-hour delay in Chicago during which time we lounged like fancy people at American Airlines Admirals Club. We were at the Admiral’s Club not because I am a member but because I had purchased a monthly membership earlier this month after getting stuck in Chicago for 8 hours on my way to San Diego. There were no weather issues in all of the land, but our airplane suffered a mechanical malfunction, and I had to wait to travel 8 hours later on another plane. I thought $99 for a monthly pass was a good value for an Internet connection, comfortable seating and cocktails.

What made it an even better value was the 8-hour delay I suffered on the way back from San Diego as well ALSO due to mechanical issues. The value of my Admiral’s Club membership is the only silver lining behind the clouds obstructing the flight path of American Airlines’ planes. I landed in New Jersey at 4:30AM my eyes so puffy that it looked like someone had replaced my eyelids with arm floaties. As soon as I walked in the door, Gabriella took one look at me and called her office and arranged to work from home.

And just in case you thought that it was some sort of fluke, during our short stay in the Family Room this trip, we met a young family who was stuck in Chicago for 9 hours due to mechanical faults in their American Airlines airplane. Either American Airlines holds their airplanes to the highest of standards or their planes are one departure away from disintegrating in air. Not so sure that giving American Airlines the benefit of the doubt is entirely sound.

Brenden builds a tunnel out of giant lego blocks for the kids.

Eventually, we left our stranded friends to join the world of the common folk at the gate. I only have until the end of the month to refer to the Great Unwashed at the gate as common because after this trip, my membership expires and I resume my place amongst you – my people – my fellow unwashed.*

We sat patiently as the flight attended invited the First Class, Executive Platinum, Platinum and Gold members on to the plane. The gig was up. Anyone who had come to the gate from the Admiral’s Club now knew that we were imposters. They probably saw our Group 4 status imprinted on our foreheads.

Had it not been for our Group 4 status, however, I would not have witnessed each passenger board the plane including Michael Feller (not actual name). I watched an older couple escort young Michael to the counter after a flight attendant made an announcement asking him to board. Michael was about 9 or 10. His backpack looked like it was filled with snacks, water, books and activities, and he leaned forward slightly from the weight of it. He carried his boarding pass in a plastic pocket hanging from a cord around his neck. I assumed it was his grandparents who held his hand and accompanied him to the front of the line. Michael was practically on the passenger walkway when he turned around. He had forgotten something. He quickly trotted back to his grandparents waiting at the gate and gave them each a full-bodied hug and a kiss on the cheek. The grandparents beamed with love and pride, as Michael turned back around and walked away towards the plane. My eyes started to burn with tears and I looked at Gabriella who covering her mouth so no one could see her mouth quivering. She had watched the same exchange, and we laughed at each other, which helped us fight back the tears.

Once we were in the air and the boys were suitably entertained, I leaned across the aisle to Gabriella.

Deborah: So, why did YOU get so choked up? Were you imagining yourself the parent who let him travel on his own or the grandparent who spent time with their grandson?

Gabriella: I was the grandmother. You?

D: I have a tough time with ‘Good-byes’. They get me every time.

G: And our boys will never have that experience.

D: Of getting on a plane by themselves?

G: Of visiting grandparents.

D: Right.

We both reached for our drinks because there was too much to say.


*Some of my acquaintances are legitimate members of the Admiral’s Club and would be horrified if anyone associated them with the Great Unwashed even if only by indirect reference. To my posh friends, I apologize. You will always be untouchably pure in the Admiral’s Club while the rest of us share chair arms with each other as well as countless germs.

Summer is still here

Why oh why is everyone pronouncing summer over already? It certainly isn’t due to a shift in the weather. It’s still hot and sticky as far as I can tell, and our town pool is still open for business. Is it because school is in session? Here in New Jersey, school doesn’t begin until the day after Labor Day, and Levi doesn’t start preschool until the week after that because Jews don’t value education. There are schools across the land that have opened shop already or will do on Monday. We’re still on vacation.

A part of me envies the parents who enjoy a few childless hours once the kids are in school even if those hours involve grocery shopping or doing laundry or taking the older child’s clothes out of storage to pass on to the hand-me-down sibling. There have definitely been moments when I thought I couldn’t take another hour with the kids, but I can’t turn the page on summer just yet. Please don’t make me.

We have a week’s vacation in Northern Michigan still to come where we will do all sorts of summer-type things not to mention the Labor Day Weekend plans. So I’m still wearing white, I’m still working the tan and I’m still shvitzing in unladylike places. So, when you say “I can’t believe summer is over,” I’m saying, “La la la. I can’t hear you! Summer is still here, so hmm! (insert punctuated, staccato head nod to the side)”

I should be packing for our trip right now. We leave at the crack of ass in the morning. Gabriella has already given me that look - that what are you doing on that computer that it is more important than packing right now? look. Before I started jotting down this blog entry, I was catching up on this season’s Project Runway. I have yet to miss a season, and I was woefully behind. “As soon as this episode is over, I’ll get to packing,” I told her. “I’m taking a break after doing umpteen loads of laundry. Can you please cut me some slack? Get it? Project Runway? Cut me some slack?” She was not amused.

Umpteen is my new favorite number.

To be fair, Gabriella does the actual packing. I do the list making and collecting of clothes and toiletries and all miscellaneous items. Packing is not complete until I have covered our bed with piles of stuff. I have, in the past, tried to put said stuff into suitcases myself, but Gabriella is horrified by my lack of Tetris skills and refuses to allow me packing rights. The only downside of relinquishing packing privileges to Gabriella is that she has ultimate say over how much I can bring. I have mentioned in the past that I am only to bring 2 pairs of shoes including the pair I choose to wear en route. That kind of blows, but I’m willing to make the sacrifice so I can focus what the boys and I are going to wear and what accessories we require. I’m the visionary, and Gabriella’s the implementer.

Deborah: Gabriella, I’m describing our packing roles. Are you ok if I refer to myself as the visionary and you as the implementer?

Gabriella: (eye roll) Fine. Why do you even ask me?

D: So readers know that I’ve vetted the description.

G: Are you finished visualizing now?

D: Yup. All set.

G: Great. I’m going to go implement.

4 people. 8 days. Well visualized and expertly implemented.

BlogHer-doon (BlogHer '11)

Did it really happen? Was I just in San Diego with thousands of lady-bloggers? It all happened so fast, and after months of anticipation, it seemed to become a memory before it even began. Like Brigadoon, it’s a conference that appears but once a year, and all the bloggers look like Cyd Charisse (after I’ve had a few vodkas). And then, and it disappears into the mist. BlogHer-doon.

Before I left, I admitted to my blog wife Vikki that part of me just wanted to curl up in the corner of the hotel room, order French fries from room service and clean out the mini-bar. My dad died only weeks before the conference, and while I wasn’t feeling particularly sad about the man who stopped speaking to me years ago, it did seem a bit odd to be packing party clothes. Vikki assured me we would have a good time. Thanks to her, I did. And it’s not because we cleaned out the mini-bar…because sadly there was no mini-bar! I highly recommend rooming with a hilarious yet sensitive lesbian humor blogger if your dad dies before BlogHer…but you can’t have mine.

I’ll be honest about my third BlogHer conference. I had few expectations. Last year, I had my moment in the spotlight and frankly didn’t think I couldn’t top that experience. I didn’t. But, that’s ok. I wasn’t looking for the spotlight what with the death n stuff. I went to hang out with Vikki and witness her panel-glory as she shared honest and sage advice about peer networking…and sailing. I wanted to reconnect with some of the amazing ladies I met last year and find new energy and motivation to blog. And, I looked forward to time away from motherhood. If I were to glean any words of wisdom at panels or make new friends (obliging me to read more blogs), it would be a bonus. I didn’t even leave room in my suitcase for swag…so I had to ship it home. Hey, that neti pot is bulky, and I preferred not to pack the vibrator in my carry-on luggage.

Was BlogHer ’11 worth the price of the ticket? Yes’m. I got out of it exactly what I wanted.

When I started blogging, I thought I’d write and then people would read what I wrote and that would be that. I was not interested in making friends in a virtual world. I figured online communities were great for those isolated souls who couldn’t find like-minded people in their own towns. But I was set, thank you very much. Eventually, I let my online guard down and came to realize how bionic it is to be able to connect with phenomenal people I wouldn’t have met if not for the blogosphere. And meeting them in the flesh at BlogHer? To quote Lil C talking about the dancers on So You Think You Can Dance this season, BUCK.

Next year, BlogHer ’12 is back in New York. No airfare. No time-difference. No 8-hour delay BOTH FUCKING WAYS during which time I sat in the Admiral’s Club for a $99 monthly fee where I plugged-in, chilled-out and pretended to be fancy. I got my money’s worth.

When the mist dissipates in August, do join me and all the enchanted bloggers of BlogHer-doon for a weekend of merriment and dance and a round of spoons at the BlogHer after-party in our hotel room. Who’s in?

Tsuris anyone?

My father died on the 19th of July. Apparently, he had not been well for some time. I didn’t know this because my parents had stopped communicating with me about 12 or 13 years ago. They chose to have nothing to do with me and had never met my children. They were also not in touch with my sister or my brother and had cut us all off from my extended family when we were children for unknown reasons. Needless to say, it was a shock to learn that at 69 years old, my father was gone. And I never got to tell him exactly what I thought of him.

I thought about not posting anything about the father I had actually lost years ago. I didn’t want to write anything I’d regret later, and I didn’t want to be a downer. This blog has always been a place of entertainment and happiness, and I really didn’t want to throw you this curve ball. Then again, it seemed wrong not to say something. I mean, when a parent dies, that’s kind of significant, I suppose. And, we’re close, aren’t we? I might not tell you every time I fill the gas tank, but you know an awful lot about me. The weird bit is that I don’t know anything about you – unless you’re a friend or family member, of course. So, when I set up this blog to bring a little joy into anonymous people’s lives, I purposefully decided to keep most of the kvetching and drama out. I wasn’t looking to make BFFs through the blog though I did collect a few treasured souls along the way.

There is so much to tell you about my mother, the funeral, the shiva and my magnificent extended family that picked up the pieces and put them back together-picking up where my parents left off. But this is not the time and perhaps not the place. It’ll be a phenomenal book eventually about my absurd family--one day when my mother is gone.

I waited to write because I didn’t want to be bitter or morose, and I wasn’t looking to collect a string of ((hugs)). I’m not good with comfort-online or in person. I waited to share the news because I just didn’t know how to do it without exploding chunks on to the page and leaving you sitting in front of your screen covered in muck and wondering what the hell you were supposed to do with it. And I waited because the mere thought of trying to write any of it down--even an abridged version--exhausted me.

And then, Gabriella saved me from blog-death.

Thursday night, Gabriella came home from work limping on one foot and in excruciating pain. She had no recollection of stumbling or twisting her foot and she couldn’t figure out what had happened. She threw herself on the sofa and refused to move. It had been a week and a day since the funeral. Gabriella had been running the house and keeping the kids out of my hair. Our dear friends had been visiting; bringing food and listening to me describe every twisted detail of the weekend until I was too tired to speak. I had done nothing but sit and talk and cry every now and then. A week after the funeral, Gabriella was incapacitated, and it was my turn to play care-giver.

When she finally emerged from the doctor’s office the next morning, she delivered the prognosis that has kept me well distracted from my own tsuris ever since.

Gabriella: The doctor thinks it’s gout.

Deborah: What?!? snickering

G: It’s not funny. It’s very painful.

D: I know. I’m sorry, but…GOUT? HA! Isn’t that some sort of medieval thing? I mean, I know you’re old, but I’m pretty sure we were born in the same century...ohmygod, this is too funny.

G: Apparently, it’s still around, and it’s not funny. The doctor asked me if there had been a change in my diet or lifestyle recently, and I told her there was a death in the family.

D: We certainly have been self-medicating with food and drink this past week.

G: Yeah, but it’s really a build up uric acid over a long period of time. Maybe our diet this week put me over the edge.

D: I’ve never made it with a girl with gout.

G: And you never will. I’m supposed to go pick up some meds now that will hopefully do the trick.

I pulled the car around to the front of the doctor’s office where there were fewer steps. There was a 80 something year old, white-haired woman in a bright pink, floral house dress leaning over her walker on one side a telephone pole and Gabriella propped against the other side both waiting for a ride. I wondered which one would be more of a liability. In the end, I chose to pick up Gabriella.

G: You are not to tell anyone about this!

D: What?!? You can’t be serious! You’ve got GOUT! I can’t possibly keep this to myself!

G: Deborah! You are not allowed to tell anyone.

Can you see where this is going?

D: But, Gabriella, my dad died! I’m bereft!! It’s like a gift sent to me from the heavens.

G: This gift is painful and embarrassing. Do you know anyone who suffered from gout who wasn’t somebody’s grandfather?!?

D: What are you doing?

G: I’m sending a text.

D: You just told someone that you have gout, didn’t you? Gabriella? Didn’t you?!? That’s it! I’m not holding back.

G: Alright. If you must, but you can only refer to it as its medical name.

D: Which is?

G: Podagra.

D: Shyeah, that's exactly what I'll call it.

I drove to the pharmacy where I collected the meds. “Take one tablet every 2 hours until pain subsides or until diarrhea.” More laughter and clouds parting. A blog was imminent. Gabriella’s on both feet now and off the meds. She’s drinking lots of water to flush out that nasty acid, and we’re both up for a bit of detox.

Thank you my dear sweet Gabriella for allowing me to poke fun at your pain so that I could find my way out of mine. I love you so much my heart hurts. Of course, it might be the mitral valve prolapse, but it’s definitely not podagra.