I met my friend, Patty, and her sister, Donna, at a resort in Sarasota. They live in Florida; I was flying down to meet them. I posted on Facebook about my absolutely delightful, serene few days- which it was! However, with me there’s always a story.
It started the night before I was leaving. I was all packed and ready go. I was easing into bed when I heard “CRACK”. I apparently left my glasses where I shouldn’t have. My leg landed in just the right way that it cracked my glasses perfectly in half at the bridge. It was physics at its finest- like that succinct karate chop that splits a board of wood. Of course these weren’t my ten dollar reading glasses from CVS, these were my expensive prescription glasses that I can’t replace in the airport gift shop. I only wear them when I’m not wearing my contact lenses, but I minimally need them in case there’s a fire in the hotel in the middle of night and I need to find my way out. I’m literally blind without them.
I tried fixing them with what I had on hand- tape, Gorilla Glue, string- nothing was working. It’s now close to 10:00PM so I decided to Door Dash Crazy Glue. It cost close to 20.00 for a 4.99 tube of Crazy Glue but within 30 minutes it was delivered to my door- priceless!! It took me about an hour and several phone calls to my sister but I eventually got it to work. The mend was far from invisible and I got Crazy Glue all over the lenses but it didn’t matter because I only needed them for the outside and rare chance I needed to leave in a hurry.
Yada, yada, yada, I TRULY had a wonderful four days in Sarasota as I posted on Facebook upon my return.
But here’s the story not depicted…
For the entire trip “they’ were calling for a possible snowstorm on the day I had to fly home. Anyone who knows me knows that I am a weather junkie and follow the weather like a day trader follows the stock market. I am not one to be caught off guard. And quite frankly I wasn’t this time either. I was tracking the storm closely. There was plenty of hype about the intensity of the storm but the onset of the storm was going to be hours after I was supposed to land so I was good to go! I went to sleep on my final night confident there would be no kink in my plans for the next day. I woke up to no changes in the timing of the storm and my flight was on time! It was all systems go. I even had time for my morning walk. I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth and when I came out I had a text from Jet Blue, “YOUR FLIGHT HAS BEEN CANCELED.” This has never happened to me before but I did know that if I didn’t book another flight immediately it could take days to get home. So I jumped into action and immediately booked a flight for the next day. I really had nothing to worry about- I had a flight booked, I’d stay at Patty’s overnight and she would drive me to the airport in the morning. However, the reports for the storm seemed to be getting worse with the storm taking place overnight into the next day. There was a growing chance that the flight I booked for the next day could get canceled too. As gracious as Patty was about me staying with her, I had many reasons I needed to get home.
I continued to problem solve. I found a flight leaving in a couple of hours that same day. The only problem was, it was taking off from Tampa an hour and fifteen minutes away from where we were staying. We would have to leave NOW!!!! Patty and I had to make a split second decision. “Let’s do it!!”, we said in unison.
Patty ran to get her car from the hotel parking garage. Fortunately her sister had her own car and could pack up for the two of them and take all their belongings home. I had packed my clothes the night before but I still had all my toiletries – the hair products, the face lotions, the body potions, the face roller, the gua sha stone, the make-up, the electric toothbrush, the perfume…get the picture? I threw them all into my back pack, and wouldn’t you know, I didn’t even have time to put in my contacts lenses.
So with no make up, untamed hair and wearing my Crazy Glued glasses I ran to the parking garage. Patty screeched up and yelled “GET IN!” I hopped in and we were off! With an optimistic shared panic we were on an adventure!! Every minute shaved off the GPS arrival time felt like a victory. Let me tell you, Patty was manipulating that steering wheel like a Formula 1 driver! I was in awe! We were racing against time and winning!
Then seemingly out of nowhere, a dense fog rolled in. You know, the kind that grounds airplanes. Are you kidding me? We were going to make it to the airport in time only to have the flight canceled due to fog? My mood was sinking. But as we neared the airport the fog began to lift and so did my spirits! WE MADE IT! I still had to take a tram and get through security which I did with time to spare.
I got to the gate looking like a frantic bag lady.
I found a seat next to a nice couple from Long Island. I mentioned what a stressful morning it had been because of the storm.
It’s come to my attention that May is Melanoma Awareness Month and being that I have been recently diagnosed with Melanoma (on my ear lobe), I thought it’s as good of a time as any to tell you about my recent spray tan experience. But before you go and get all worried, it’s stage 0 Melanoma “in situ” which means it’s non-invasive and unlikely to spread. I’ve chosen to wait till after my daughter’s wedding in June to have the surgery.
Hence, the spray tan. I was about to visit my daughter in Florida and for obvious reasons my days in the sun are over. I’ve used Jergens self-tanner here and there but I figured I should step it up a notch seeing as the Summer was coming and I was likely to be doing this with some regularity.
Now, I vaguely remember having a spray tan about a decade ago. The only thing I remember about it was that it left me emotionally scarred. Other than that, I’ve pretty much blocked the experience from my mind. But I do remember liking the tan.
So I did some investigating and I found a young lady who rented space in a salon in Massapequa. She was highly rated. The website was impressive and she had all kinds of unlimited monthly plans which motivated me since this was going to be my new lifestyle. I imagined myself looking like I vacationed in the Caribbean. I booked the appointment on line for the day before my trip, sprang for the rapid tan, received a text confirmation, and crossed my fingers this time would be better.
I was a little nervous. I texted my daughter, “What do you wear for a spray tan?”
“Just a thong”, she replied.
It was all coming back to me now…
The day had arrived. I followed the long list of instructions leading up to the tanning- shower, exfoliate, no moisturizer, wear loose fitting clothes- the list goes on. I decided to wear a strapless bra and my normal underwear. I could’ve just worn my one-piece bathing suit (the only kind I own), but this was my version of being “daring”.
The girl was lovely. She asked me how tan I wanted to be on a scale from one to ten; a ten being like you just spent the summer in the South of France. I said “eight”.
She then gave me a plastic cap to put on my head to cover my hair (think lunch lady) and told me to take off my clothes and place them on the chair. I was waiting for her to leave the room but it was soon apparent that I was going to be stripping down to my underwear in front of this young lady. She then had me step onto some type of flimsy paper covering for the soles of my feet and told me to walk over to the footprints on the floor and stand there. So try to imagine me in my underwear with a plastic cap on my head shuffling over to the footprints on the floor. Better yet, don’t.
She instructed me to widen my stance and raise my arms like in an airport TSA scanner. I profusely apologized for the appalling sight standing in front of her and advised her not to look directly at me as it might burn her retinas. Then she told me to turn around. All I could think was “this poor girl”.
I somehow made it through, albeit I was not left with one shred of dignity. But I was TAN! She gave me a card with a long list of post-tanning instructions and I even bought the special soap that won’t wash off the tan and helps to maintain it longer.
I followed the directions to a tee. The first step was to wait four hours then just rinse in the shower, warm water only, no soap. I set the timer on my phone like it was NASA counting down to a lift-off; T-minus four hours. My alarm went off and I sprang into action. I jumped into the shower, watched the excess tanning solution go down the drain, and hopped right out. I gently patted dry (no wiping as per the instructions).
I looked in the mirror and the tan was GONE. A minute ago I was the Coppertone baby, now I’m Wednesday Addams. I remembered getting a text for the confirmation so I tried texting that number with my dilemma. She quickly responded, “No worries, it takes 24 hours to develop”. Ok, doesn’t sound like the “rapid” tan I paid for, but at this point I didn’t have much recourse. By this time tomorrow I’d be in Florida.
I finally arrived at my daughter’s and the first thing she said was, “I thought you were getting a spray tan?” Cue the Debbie Downer music- womp, womp. No tan ever developed, NOTHING, except of course on my stomach which hasn’t seen the light of day since my birth and never will. So yes, I’m officially done. Spray tans and I are parting ways, because in the end I’d rather be pale and proud than tanned and traumatized.
Last Sunday my plan was to have a lazy day of hibernation which meant lighting a fire, binge watching TV, and reading a book. But before I hunkered down I wanted to go for my daily walk and to the car wash to get the filth off from the recent snow. I didn’t plan on leaving any specific time- whenever I finished my coffee and crossword puzzle.
This particular morning I didn’t put on any make-up before leaving. And when I say no make-up, I mean NOTHING- not even tinted moisturizer. Now this is quite unusual for me considering I put on lipstick to get the mail. In addition, I didn’t even bother to change out of the sweat pants I slept in- I was only going to get right back in them when I got home. I put my unwashed hair into a frizzy ponytail, and out the door I went. Let me make this very clear. I’ve had the flu and looked better. But, who am I going to see at the car wash or out walking when it’s 30 degrees?
I set off for the Seaford Carwash and when I got there the line was wrapped around the block. It wasn’t worth waiting an hour when I could go tomorrow on a weekday. So I decided to skip it and just go for my walk. I was already in Seaford, so I figured I’d take my walk at Wantagh Park which was only one traffic light ahead on Merrick Road. (I usually walk in Burns Park closer to my house.)
I parked, began my walk, and in the distance I saw someone running slowly in my direction. I was relieved to know I wasn’t the only one in the park. Then as the runner got closer there was something familiar about him. He was bundled up so I couldn’t see his hair, but wait, was that….
“O ????”, I questioned out loud. (I’m using only his initial to protect the innocent- me!) Now for those of you who don’t know, O and I broke up a year and half ago after 3 years of dating. That’s the last time we spoke- no calls, text, or emails since then. The last thing I said to him was “Fuck You!”
Now, I ask you, WHAT ARE THE CHANCES??? He’s a runner but he usually runs on the Long Beach boardwalk. Actually, our paths had randomly crossed a few times this Summer in Long Beach, but he didn’t see me and I didn’t see any reason to approach him.
But I guess the Universe wasn’t taking no for an answer.
O heard his name, looked over and stopped running. I think we both were in shock. My first thought was, “Dammit, I look like SHIT!” We began to chat with the obligatory pleasantries- how are the kids, etc… He seemed indifferent, distant and was ICY COLD toward me. Quite frankly, this was pissing me off. Did he not get the script??? He’s supposed to be on his knees begging my forgiveness, lamenting how he let the best thing that ever happened to him get away. And I’m supposed to say, “Too bad for you, that ship has sailed…”
But instead, this came out of my mouth- “You know, I may have pulled the trigger on this relationship but you locked and loaded the gun!”
This of course started a very unproductive and unnecessary discussion about our relationship. Believe me, I could have eviscerated him with my words and won this war, but why? I already had closure. And after this, if there was ever a scintilla of regret or doubt in my mind about ending the relationship, it was gone. He was never Mr. Right. He was Mr. Right Now. Thank you, Universe, for giving me the clarity I didn’t even know I needed.
O’s last words to me as he walked away was a very sarcastic “Well, see ya ‘round”.
This time I didn’t say a word. I didn’t say “Fuck You” but you can be sure my bruised ego wanted to.
Now, if this was a rom-com I’d continue on my walk and Barbra Streisand would be singing “Someone I used to Love” in the background. But it’s not a movie, it’s my real life. So instead my sister called me to tell me her refrigerator broke.
At least the encounter with O stopped me from thinking about all the other crap going on in my life, for a little while anyway. The next morning in full make-up (I learn from my mistakes) I went to get my car washed. There was a raggedy old man behind the register. He told me the price and when I handed him my credit card he looked at me and gently said, “Things will get better, don’t look so sad”. And there it was. Through this homeless looking man dressed in a flannel plaid shirt the Universe had spoken. And I listened.
Filed under: Humor — 3lastnamesblog @ 11:22 am Tags: Humor
I originally wanted to name my blog “You Can’t Make This Stuff Up” because stuff like this only happens to me. But now lucky Owen is along for the ride too.
You may have seen the pictures on Facebook from our recent vacation to Upstate NY then on to Niagra Falls, Canada. We started the trip in a quaint small town called Cazenovia. Owen was participating in a triathlon nearby. He had participated in this one before; he lived in a neighboring town for over 20 years.
Our first night we checked into the Brewster Inn. The woman at the front desk asked Owen, “Do you have identification?”. He said, “Yes,” but he thought she said, “Are you on vacation?”. So the two of them stared at each other for what seemed an eternity and she finally said, “WELL?”. So Owen said, “Well what?”. And she said “DO YOU HAVE IDENTIFICATION?”. Owen and I giggled thinking it was a funny miscommunication, the lady at the desk—not so much. She shot us a look and we tried to refrain from laughing, which only made us want to laugh more. But we held back as much as we could for fear of getting sent to the principal’s office. This unfriendly attitude seemed to set the tone for our stay.
We got the key (a real key, not a card that you swipe) and walked the one flight up to our room. We had a great deal of trouble getting the key to work, but that’s part of the charm of these old inns, right? The room was poorly lit so we opened the black-out shades. We realized immediately we only had two choices— a dark room, or everyone in the parking lot looking into our room. We chose the dark room.
After being in the car for hours, I had to use the bathroom. The toilet didn’t flush and I couldn’t get out of the bathroom. I literally couldn’t open the door. I banged on the door and yelled “OWEN!!!! I CAN’T GET THE DOOR OPEN!!” Owen, in his best German accent, says, “Vhat’s the secret passvord, Frauline?” I have to say, it made me laugh. More importantly, he got the door open and fixed the handle on the toilet. And by the way, the bathroom was so dark Helen Keller could do a better job putting on her make-up.
The hotel had a beautiful adjoining restaurant set on a picturesque lake. The food was delicious and despite the somewhat off-putting attitude of the waitress, we had a delightful meal. Our vacation was off to a great start!
We turned in early because we were getting up at 4:30AM for the triathlon. It was a cool night so we wanted to open the windows but one of the windows didn’t have a screen so we put on the air conditioner instead. It seemed to be working when we fell asleep but in the middle night we woke up SWEATING. I fiddled with the air conditioner, but the fan was clearly broken.Eventually we just opened the one window with the screen, but there wasn’t enough cross ventilation. By the time we figured it all out it was 4:30 AM. We missed almost an entire night’s sleep. Imagine how exhausted I was watching Owen swim a half mile, bike 12 miles, and run 3 miles! We decided we would say something when we got back to the hotel. At this point “charming” inn now stood for “old and run down” inn.
When we got back to the hotel I was too exhausted to deal with it, so I went back to the room while Owen went to the front desk. I had to get the maid to help me get into my room because that damn key wouldn’t work. She literally was kicking the door to get it to open. Only a few minutes later Owen returned to the room. Now, it’s not easy to ruffle Owen’s feathers but he was obviously upset. He had spoken to one of the co-owners who said she needed to “assess the situation”. I’m not sure what that meant, but he suggested I go speak with her, perhaps I would have better luck.Turns out what he really was thinking was,“Wait till this chick gets a load of a Jewish woman from Long Island.” I set out on my mission with the same philosophy I taught my daughters —BE NICE FIRST!
A few minutes later I returned to the room, “ Well, we’ve been kicked out of the hotel!”
Now, all this owner had to say to me was “ I’m sorry you didn’t sleep well, let me look into it and see what I can do for you”. Just validate my feelings! But instead this amazon of a woman was unapologetic, rude, condescending, spoke over me, and made me feel like we were lying just to get money off our bill! My final words to her were, “Who’s above you that I can speak to?” and when she told me “nobody’ I said, “Well that explains why this hotel is in such shit condition!” and I started to walk up the stairs. As I was walking up the steps she yelled over to me that we’re no longer welcome there, our reservation is no longer valid and we needed to get out. It was the old “You cant fire me, I quit” routine. In other words, before we could decide on our own to leave, she was kicking us out.
(Hang in, I haven’t even gotten to the good part of the story yet!!)
I had no intention of leaving. We had tickets for a boat ride in Skaneateles and a dinner reservation for prime rib. I was NOT going to let that woman ruin my plans! So we left for Skaneateles. On the way there, Owen gets a call from this BEOTCH. I can hear her screaming and she didn’t let him get a word in edgewise. The bottom line is, we decided to go back and pack our things. This woman is unhinged. So we turned around and on our way back we quickly made a reservation in a different hotel.
Now for the good part: when we got back to our room there were at least 5 people in there (including the owner) packing up our things, throwing them into plastic bags, clothes crumpled up, etc. The owner said I THREATENED HER LIFE, and we needed to leave immediately. Yeah right, I’m going to sic my posse of retired teacher friends on you, better watch your back!! At this point she and Owen were inches apart and she was egging him on to hit her (which of course he would never do). By now, most of our things had already been thrown into the lobby. I asked if I could just check the room to make sure they had packed my medication and the door was literally slammed in my face. We went to the lobby to get our stuff and get the hell out of there. That’s when we saw a policeman pull up, which THE OWNER had called! Owen told me to get in the truck and stay there, this is a small town and this guy might have free breakfast at this Inn everyday. I took his advice. I was already imagining spending the night in jail or even worse having to call my daughters and ask them to bail me out. Fortunately the officer was a nice man and actually felt sorry for the white-haired 66 year old man and retired school teacher who just got kicked out of their hotel.
However, because they had swooped up all our stuff so quickly, we were still able to make the boat ride! If it wasn’t for the one picture a nice lady took of us, I would have no recollection of it. The entire time all we talked about was how we were going to take this lady down and her establishment along with her! But we eventually calmed down— nothing a good pear martini couldn’t fix.
For the most part we were able to let it go for the rest of the trip and at one point we even laughed hysterically over it. When we were crossing into Canada we were kidding about how we were going to be detained at the border for questioning about our incident at the Brewster Inn. We were fugitives on the run! We did feel validated, though, when we read many reviews by customers who found the owner to be as vile as we did. I’ve attached one such review below. And remember— for every one bad review there are ten more, people just don’t write about it. I wrote a review but this woman is so unbalanced I’m afraid to post it.
Let this be a lesson to all— you never know who you’re dealing with, so approach with caution! Ultimately we weren’t charged for the night we spent there. We got the room for free, but boy did it cost us.
Skaneateles Lake
A Review From the Brewster Inn Facebook Page:
Sherie Kennedy Dates doesn’t recommend The Brewster Inn
My boyfriend and I stayed here Friday night for a friends wedding. The food and service staff were wonderful. The chef and sous chef are creating incredible dishes. During the reception the front desk staff realized they made an error and put us into the wrong guest room. They decided to move us to another room in the main building of the hotel and came to let me know after the fact. I asked why they didn’t let us know before moving us, but assured them that it was no trouble, as everyone makes mistakes. The following morning as were packing to leave, we realized that my boyfriend’s wallet didn’t make the trip to our new room. In a panic I went to the front desk and let the desk clerk know. She seemed slightly irritated and said she would send a housekeeper over to the other room to see if the new occupants had discovered it. An hour had passed and it was approaching check out so I went back to the desk to see if anything had turned up since we didn’t receive a call. She said that nothing had been found. I asked her what the next step would be and explained that his whole life is in his wallet. Including licenses he needs to perform his job that aren’t easily replaceable. Again she appeared uninterested and irritated. She said please wait, the manager is on her way here. The manager (who I just found out is actually a co-owner) was extremely rude and treated us like we were trying to get something out of the establishment for free. She even said “let me guess, your wallet also has thousands of dollars in it” and rolled her eyes. After a few high conflict moments she agreed to let us go look for ourselves. The wallet was exactly where we described it in the room. We received No apologies, no offer of anything to make it right for us. I’m extremely disappointed that an establishment of this caliber could be managed by someone that would treat her guests that way. Especially when she and her team were at fault. We will not be returning and will be sure to let our friends and family know how we were treated. The management team should have been very concerned for us and offered solutions. Instead they thought it would be appropriate to belittle us and be condescending. How disappointing.
Exactly ten years ago I wrote my very first blog “The Countdown to 50” and to celebrate the anniversary I thought I would write “The Countdown to 60.” But before I put pen to paper I re-read the first one to remind myself of what I said. (The link is below if you’re interested, if not keep scrolling to continue)
DITTO!! Everything still holds true a decade later!
EXCEPT, what was I so tortured about? Looking at my 50’s from the back end now, I’d LOVE to have that body I was complaining about 10 years ago. And so what if I thought every silver car in the parking lot was mine, I still think every silver car in the parking lot is mine and I have a white car!! And to think I complained about all that tweezing! Now my morning routine is brushing my teeth and putting on my eyebrows.
And my daughters are way more than just “productive members of society”. They’re all grown up now with lives of their own. Julie is a Director at a marketing firm and married to a wonderful man. Gabby is an Art Director at an advertising firm and lives half the year with her Pro-Golfer boyfriend in Florida. ( I actually won’t mind if she settles in Florida— as a Jew I know one day I will wind up there because as Jerry Seinfeld says, “It’s the law”)
My girls know I’m ready to be a grandma. Ten years ago I would’ve cried myself to sleep if one of them got pregnant. They were too young to be mothers, but more importantly I was too young to be a grandmother! Now, I’d be happy with anything-a grand puppy even! Fortunately my sister has 3 precious granddaughters (my great nieces) and she shares them with me. Any time they visit Mimi in Massapequa they know they’re going to see Crazy Aunt Jackie. I’m pretty sure they think we live together.
Of course these beautiful children come from my nephews and their lovely wives. (We’ve been busy throwing weddings this past decade, but those are stories for another blog.) The point is our family is growing and our holidays are hectic and loud and we need to set up two long tables to make room for all of us, the high chairs, and the boosters. My sister and I wear slippers and aprons and bounce the babies on our knees so the others can eat. By the end of the night we’re in crippling back pain from all the shopping and cooking and cleaning. It’s official— we’ve turned into my mother and my Aunt Rozzy. But we wouldn’t have it any other way.
However, I must also mention that in the last decade I’ve retired, replaced therapy with yoga, am in a solid, stable relationship, have time to travel, read books, take classes— and even though I can’t remember why I entered a room, I can still conquer the Sunday NY Times crossword puzzle.
Sure I’m older, but I’m a lot wiser too. I know not to complain about turning 60. Aging and everything that comes along with it is a blessing. So when I write The Countdown to 70, I only hope I can still say DITTO and that our family will be lucky enough to need THREE tables at the holidays!
I remember being given a key to the studio by Jacqui, Om Tara’s loved and respected founder. It felt like one of the single greatest achievements of my life. When I started there I had never taken a single yoga class and now I’m one of the teachers— with my own key!
I use the key to enter the studio. Today I’m not there to teach a class or take a class. I’m there to say farewell.
The first thing I see is the sign-in book on the front desk. It is open to March 15, 2020. Of course it is empty because classes were cancelled that day. Everything was cancelled that day. We were hearing words like quarantine, isolation and social distancing but they were not yet part of our everyday vocabulary. Everyone was prepared for a rough few weeks but no one expected it to turn into months. Sadly, my beloved Om Tara was one of the pandemic’s many casualties.
I venture into the studio alone. I light some candles, burn some incense, and make myself a cup of my favorite tea that I only drink at the studio. (I’ll spare you the part about me trying to turn on the air conditioner, located up by the ceiling, without the remote control. Let’s just say it involved several props and was probably my finest yoga pose ever achieved at the studio.)
Finally, I roll out my mat, get myself into a comfortable seated position, close my eyes and I start to reminisce. If my life was a sitcom (lately more like a drama series) this is the montage episode.
My face blurs and ripples like I am going into a trance.The music starts to play (I envision “What a Wonderful World” by Louis Armstrong). Then the flashbacks begin. The class is moving in beautiful unison doing sun salutations. Next we’re listening intently to one of Jacqui’s Dharma talks. There we are at a magical Reiki healing circle and now at a beautiful candle lit Winter Solstice ceremony. I see us meditating with Lama Gursam. Next we’re chatting animatedly during a book club meeting. I smile as I recall dangling from the rope wall. I clearly see us sitting on the floor during teacher training surrounded by mounds of papers and books. I remember stringing malas and getting Henna at our graduation. I recall the laughter and the tears brought on from a stirring or recognition from within.
But most importantly, all of the above would mean NOTHING if it wasn’t for the beautiful souls of the Om Tara community. It’s the people, not the four walls that make a space sacred. I mean, if we maintained a connection on Zoom these past few months, then we can do it anywhere! Fortunately, Jacqui has the perfect space in her house for us to gather and her dream of teaching from her home will be fulfilled. We will bring our light and love with us.
Feeling content, I roll up my mat, blow out the candles, grab a bunch of my favorite tea to take home, then I remember I have to turn off that darn air conditioner! Ugh!
I am finally ready to leave, and like Mary Tyler Moore on her series finale, before I close the door behind me, I take one last look around. I am not sad. I am grateful for everything this space has given me over the past eight years. When one door closes, another door opens. Goodbye, Om Tara. I look forward to the spin-off.
My yoga teaching training graduation was just the day before and I was still basking in the afterglow. Looking down at my Henna adorned hand, I wished it could be there forever and never fade away. I was feeling good about myself and the hard work I put in these past eight months. It was well worth it. I didn’t just learn about yoga, I learned about myself— and today was the first official day of the new yogic me.
It was also my dear friend Karen’s birthday. I texted her to wish her a happy birthday, and almost immediately after I pressed “send,” she was calling me on the phone. “She must want to have dinner tonight,” I thought. But that wasn’t the case.
On the other end of the phone was Karen yelling, “I LOST MY FINGER, I LOST MY FINGER, MY FINGER IS GONE!!!!” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My heart began to pound and my breathing became labored. She proceeded to tell me she’s on her way over to my house. “ARE YOU CRAZY,” I yelled, “I WILL COME PICK YOU UP!” But she explained to me that she’s already driving— she thought she could drive herself to the hospital, realized she couldn’t make it, and was only a block away from my house.
So much for the new yogic me, I was hysterical. So of course, just as I do whenever I’m hysterical, I called my boyfriend Demos. “KAREN LOST A FINGER, SHE’S ON HER WAY OVER, I MIGHT HAVE TO GO GET THE FINGER SO THEY CAN REATTACH IT, AND BY “I”, I MEAN YOU!! One thing about Demos, he was born to come to the rescue. He jumped in his truck and was on his way.
Karen arrived with her hand wrapped in a rag and blood dripping down her arm. I grabbed a towel, ran it under water and told her to wrap the finger tight and hold it up. I COULDN’T look at it; I can’t deal with blood and wounds. I made the decision to call an ambulance because I wasn’t sure how much blood Karen had lost, there’s a finger that needs to be retrieved, and I was shaking like a leaf. Karen was LITERALLY hopping around like Tigger, not knowing what to do with her nervous energy. She was crying over being a freak with a missing finger. You’d think perhaps the last eight months of studying yoga might kick in at this point and compel me to say something like “BREATHE”, or “RELAX”. But no, I told her I know lots of people with missing fingers.
In what seemed like an eternity for the ambulance to arrive, Karen explained to me how all this came to pass. There were bad storms the night before and her electricity must’ve gone out. She was leaving for work and her electric garage door wasn’t working. She opened it manually and pulled her car out. She then went back to close the door, but it was heavy with a lot of momentum and her fingers got caught between the panel openings. She managed to get all of them out…except for one.
Finally, I saw the emergency vehicles on my block. I ran out into the street and waved them down to my house. The first thing they noticed was the “blood” on my hand. “It’s Henna”, I explained.
The EMT had good news and bad news. The good news was, Karen lost “just the tip” of her finger, but unfortunately they don’t reattach the tip, there’s not enough blood flow. The bad news was, she still needed to go to the hospital. At this point, I was wondering what was taking Demos so long to get here. Just then he pulled up and explained that he got a speeding ticket!! Now, the irony of this is extraordinary because I am constantly telling Demos he drives too fast and the one time he actually has a good excuse to speed, he gets a ticket. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to getting the tiniest bit of satisfaction from that. What kind of yogi am I?
I called Karen’s sister to let her know what was going on, Karen got taken in the ambulance, and Demos and I brought Karen’s car home before heading to meet her at the hospital. When I pulled into her driveway, I saw the finger hanging out of the garage door. I can never un-see it. I had Demos take a picture of it. Why? Who knows?
I arrived at the hospital and told the nurse my friend was just brought in by ambulance. She told me I have blood on my hand. “It’s Henna,” I said. I found Karen and as we waited for her to be seen by a doctor, we started to brainstorm how she’s going to cover this up for her son’s wedding in December. We’re thinking there’s probably enough of the nail bed left to attach a long fake nail to cover the stump, or at the very least she can wear long satin gloves like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. If anyone can pull that off, it’s Karen. Believe it or not, this conversation brought us comfort.
To speed up the story– Karen’s sister and son arrived. Her sister told me I have blood on my hand, I told her it’s Henna. I left. They called in a plastic surgeon and she had a skin graft to cover the tip of her finger. They put the finger in a splint, her arm in a sling, bandaged her up, and sent her home. Her sister called me with an update and I promised to check in on her and make sure she eats…
The story’s not over. I called Karen to say that I’m going to pick up dinner and bring it over to her. She proceeded to tell me that her finger somehow slipped out of the bandage and she couldn’t get it back in. She tried calling the doctor to no avail. I told her to keep it covered with something, ANYTHING, so it doesn’t get infected and I will be right over to take her to the walk-in emergency clinic. When I got to her house I accidentally caught a glimpse of the finger and had a mini freak-out. So much for Namaste and all that crap.
The first clinic we went to refused to see her because with the splint on the finger and the sling on the arm, it looked to them like more of an orthopedic type situation and the visit would be considered a follow-up, so they turned her away. We decided to try one more walk-in place before heading over to the hospital ER. I said to Karen, “TELL THEM YOU HAD YOUR FUCKING FINGER CHOPPED OFF TODAY AND THE BANDAGE FELL OFF AND YOU NEED IT WRAPPED! STOP BEING SO FUCKING NICE!” They took her.
On the way home we stopped to pick up a couple of salads at a local pizza place. There was a nice man having a slice with his young son. He looked my way and pointed to my hand. I said, “It’s not blood, it’s Henna”. He said, “I know, my wife graduated with you yesterday!”
I dropped Karen off home knowing she was bandaged, fed, and not in too much pain. I felt oddly at peace. Then it hit me— Yoga Sutra 1.33! I’m summarizing here, but it says there are only four “keys” and four “locks” in the entire world. Use the correct key with the right lock and you will find peace. I showed compassion for the unhappy, one of the four key and lock combinations. Here I was thinking my yoga had failed me, when really it was what propelled me throughout my day. I went home with a renewed pride in my yoga journey. I looked down at my Henna and thought….” It really does look like blood”.
You might recognize my title from the famous Clairol slogan. It implied that Clairol’s hair color was so natural looking that only your hairdresser knew it was dyed. However, in my case, my hairdresser knows way more than that! It could be my Real Housewives tagline!
I’ve known my hairdresser Rose since my days at McKenna Jr. High. Well, I didn’t actually “know” her, I knew “of her”. She was the one we all called “Cher” because she looked just like her. (If any of my old time friends are reading this, they know EXACTLY who I am referring to). Man was she COOL. She had a sophistication well beyond her years. I mean, she was so mature, she acted like she was in eleventh grade or something. She had long hair, wore make-up and had clothes that included black and leather, two things I wasn’t allowed to wear until I was in my twenties! I, on the other hand, was very happy in my Huckapoo shirts, Levi corduroys and Earth shoes. I had a “shag” haircut and aviator glasses (no, not sunglasses- just eye glasses to see). And man, I thought I was ROCKIN it!!
Needless to say, other than the hallways of school, our paths did not cross too often. She was busy riding on the back of motorcycles while I was in my bedroom belting the soundtrack to Streisand’s Funny Lady. So how did these two opposites get to be the best of friends?
My hair has always been a resounding issue in my life. It is a constant source of worry (it’s too humid out, it’s too dry out, my hair is too frizzy, too flat, too short, too long, too curly…..) After high school, it took me years to grow out the layers from my shag which resulted in hair similar to Rosanna Rosanna Danna from SNL (back in the day when it was actually called Saturday Night Live not SNL- kind of like Kentucky Fried Chicken and KFC). By this time I had been through several hairdressers and I decided to try the new hip hair salon in Massapequa called Imaginations. I had my hair washed and was escorted to my chair and there to greet me was CHER! She looked as cool as ever with her big hair, cut-off sweatshirt (a la Flashdance) and motorcycle boots. I on the other hand, had my wet hair wrapped in a towel and a plastic gown over me. I hesitantly told her that I remember her as far back as Jr. High and she of course had no recollection of me. Why would she? Something tells me she didn’t go to many of the school plays or spring concerts.
She proceeded to tell me that she wanted to put layers in my hair to bring out the natural curls. WHAT? NO WAY! I had just spent a traumatic four years growing them out and you want to put them back in? She insisted she would keep the layers long and it would create beautiful soft, silky curls that will finally free me from all my hair-stress. Well, one of two things was going to happen as a result of this haircut. Either I was going to sue the salon or I was going to latch on to this girl like a puppy in a pound and never let go. I’m happy to say it was the latter.
As our friendship grew I don’t think Rose realized what she was getting herself into. When she gave birth to her first child she decided she was no longer going to work from the salon but rather out of her house. Her husband was going to build a salon set-up with a chair and sink in the spare room. I had been calling and calling for an appointment but there was no answer and I desperately needed a haircut. Finally Rose answered the phone and let me know she had given birth a day and a half ago and had just gotten back from the hospital. “What great news!”, I exclaimed! I was truly happy for her but to me the great news was that she was home and could possibly cut my hair! Never wanting to disappoint me, she told me she had nothing ready but to come over anyway. So while her mom held the baby, she washed my hair in her kitchen sink and gave me a great haircut. That was over 22 years ago and since then, my dear friend has never let me down. She has cut my hair with a bad back, migraine headaches, 2 days post surgery and wearing a mask.
But amazingly enough, as we grew older our lives became increasingly similar. We were both single moms raising our children the best we could with the circumstances we were under. We supported each other during our struggles and applauded the triumphs. We watched each other become independent, confident middle aged women being thrown back into the dating world. We cried, we sighed, we gasped but most of all we LAUGHED. It’s amazing the things you’ll open up about while your hair is saturated in dye with a shower cap on it. I can confidently say, there is nothing left unsaid between us, and I mean NOTHING! I still chuckle when I think about the time Rose, how shall I say it, was in a “compromising” situation and all she could think of as itwas happening was “wait till Jackie hears about this one!” Now with technology we don’t have to wait. We’ll send texts as a situation is unfolding so we can be there for each other in real time.
Our conversations through the years have included but were not limited to: our kids, boyfriends, sex, work, money, sex, fashion, TV, sex. And of course we often reminisce about our Jr. High days and how unlikely it was for us to become so close. But here we are. And when I say “only my hair dresser knows for sure”, the last thing I mean is hair dye!
My boyfriend hunts. This is quite extraordinary considering we met in yoga and I can’t think of anything more un-yoga like than hunting. However once I got past all the Bambi parables, I was able to accept it and have even learned quite a bit about the hunting “culture”.
I used to think hunting was just grabbing your rifle and heading for the woods. No, no, no! Hunting is actually a sport with rules and regulations. Hunters first must obtain a license and will only hunt during the legal season which is just two weeks in November. Some hunters have motion detectors on their secluded property with monitors in the house so as not to miss any potential game while they sleep. They rise in nearly the middle of the night, shower with special soap that eliminates any and all human scent. They dress in camouflage coats, orange hats and heavy boots. They set out for the woods in the dark of night, rifle in hand, climb up to a tree stand and…..WAIT.
Yes, you heard me correctly. Hunters don’t really hunt, they WAIT. They sit and hope for a deer to come to THEM. Well no wonder it’s such big deal when you finally kill one! Yes, it takes spot on reflexes, and precision aim, but still, wouldn’t it be easier and quicker to just go find the deer?
This is why women don’t hunt animals. We don’t have time to sit around and wait. However, we do hunt; it just doesn’t involve deer and woods. For instance, I just went hunting last week. Let me tell you about it.
My daughters (Julie and Gabby) and I had just finished a lovely Sunday dinner I had prepared. Julie, on her way home, dropped Gabby at the train station. Gabby called me from the station and said that Julie can’t find her cell phone (a brand new iphone) and asked if by any chance she had left it behind. I searched and searched but found nothing. Julie then drove back to the house to search herself. Nothing. In addition, we used flashlights and emptied every item from her car. Nothing. The locator feature didn’t work because the phone was dead. Finally it occurred to Julie that she may have driven away with the cell phone on the hood of her car, remembering that she put it there while she was making room in her backseat for Gabby’s things. I immediately told her to go trace her path but she told me she had already done so on her way back.
Now I could tell you about the screaming and yelling on my part, but that’s not the point of the story. And in hindsight, I can’t really fault her, because that particular gene she has definitely inherited from me considering there is not a store, restaurant, or restroom in which I have not left my cell phone, pocketbook, keys, glasses, wallet, umbrella or all of the above.
So, Julie went home and I was left alone with my despair. I got into bed and tried to relax. I watched TV for about 45 minutes but something was gnawing at my gut. My motherly instincts were telling me to go hunt for the phone. So I rose from my bed in the dark of night, put on my robe and fuzzy slippers, and with car keys in hand headed out into the cold, windy night. Slowly and methodically I traced the route to the train station, waving on the cars behind me to go ahead. Then after about 2 miles…I FOUND THE PHONE! There in the reflection of my high beams, like a deer in the headlights, was the pink Otter Box. With my spot on reflexes and precision aim, I pulled up next to the phone, opened the car door and swooped up the phone into my hand. SCORE!! The phone only had some minor damage which was able to be fixed! HEIGH HO THE DAIRY- O!! If I could mount that phone on a plaque and hang it in my living room I would!
So to all the women out there that have saved the day, I say this. We may not hunt with a license, special wardrobe or a weapon, but our instincts are KILLER!
I am a Jewish minster. I know what you’re thinking. A Jewish minister is an oxymoron like jumbo shrimp and sugarless candy. But I am not a contradiction. One of the definitions of minister is “a person serving as an agent for another by carrying out specified orders or functions”. I will be doing just that when I officiate my friend’s wedding. It was a long and arduous on-line process to become ordained. I had to fill in my name, address and telephone number and press “Get Ordained”. But please, no formalities are necessary. Minister Jackie will do just fine.
I will be officiating the wedding of my dearest friend John to the love of his life, Eric. It is a gay, interracial marriage with a Jewish minister. I am honored to be part of a ceremony that does not discriminate based on sexual orientation, race or religion. It’s just about the love. In New York Sate a notary republic cannot perform marriage ceremonies. But I can. This may sound like a farce, but let me explain why I think I am the most qualified person to marry these two gentlemen.
First of all, John and mine’s relationship began over a decade ago. He started teaching in the same school as me and we became quick friends. I knew when he told me I was the funniest woman he knew, he was going to be in my life for a very long time. I’m not sure John realized exactly what that meant for him.
You see, I have some issues. One of them is, I am afflicted with a new disease every week, at least in my head anyway. John has humored me through glaucoma, lymphoma, deep vein thrombosis, Lyme’s disease and most recently carpel tunnel syndrome. Several months ago, I was sitting next to a man at a bar with a terrible cough. I was sure he had given me Tuberculosis. I was with my sister when I diagnosed myself and told her I had to call John immediately to let him know of my most recent illness. She reminded me that John had just gotten his gall bladder removed and that maybe I shouldn’t bother him. Was she kidding me? Everybody knows that TB trumps gall bladder! Needless to say, I called John and he sympathetically listened as I explained my bout with TB. I mean c’mon his gall bladder surgery was laparoscopic. That’s like what, one stitch?
John is also my Karaoke manager. By that I mean, he is the lucky one who gets to go with me to Karaoke every week and listen to me sing the same songs over and over. Also, when “regulars” come up to me to say hello he quickly whispers in my ear their names because he knows there’s not a chance in hell I will remember them. He also is equipped with the names of the bar tenders, my colleagues, my neighbors, my students’ last names and distant family members because one never knows who you’re going to run into at Karaoke.
Another responsibility John has is to answer certain questions such as “How does my hair look? “, “Do I look fat in this outfit?” and “Can you notice this zit on my face?” This of course is a no-win situation for John. You might think that just to play it safe, he should lie. However, John has tried that, only to find himself in deep trouble when I see a picture of myself and clearly the zit looks like a second nose on my face. So now John has a politically correct response to which men all over the world should take heed…. “Well personally, I think your (hair) looks great, but I know it’s not how YOU like it to look”. Genius! When I ask my boyfriend similar questions I actually hear him think aloud, “Hmmmm. How would John answer this”? I think I understand now when John told him “She’s all yours!”
But I have helped John too. I have given him much advice both professionally and personally. Actually, when I first met John he wasn’t “out” to his parents yet. He was nervous about telling them and I told him I was certain they already knew. My advice was to keep it simple- sit down to dinner and say ‘I’m gay, pass the ketchup”.
And finally along came John’s love Eric and it was love at first sight (for me that is, I can’t speak for John.) He has fashion and decorating sense where John is lacking. Together they make the perfect gay man. At our first meeting we played a game. By the colors I chose Eric was able to tell me about every aspect of my personality including my sex life. This was my kind of guy! I knew when Eric told me I looked so much younger than my age; he too was going to be in my life for a very long time. I’m starting to think I’m like a duck- throw some bread at me and I’ll cling to you till you start running from the park.
So I ask, who better to marry these two men than me? They will not be giving their vows to a stranger, they will be speaking to ME, someone who loves them and is invested in their future. I am ordained by the power of this friendship. They have to answer to a higher order- ME! They just better make sure they speak the truth, because I want to look good in the pictures.
I would like to end with the Seven Blessings that are traditionally recited at Jewish weddings. Below is a non-denominational interpretation of these blessings which I feel perfectly fits the union of John and Eric. I would like to take credit for this version, but I found it on line.
May you be generous and giving with each other
May your sense of humor and playful spirit always continue to enliven your relationship
May you always respect the diversity of human kind
May you act with compassion to those less fortunate and with responsibility to the communities of which you are a part
May you appreciate and complement each other’s differences
May you always share yourselves openly with your friends and family
May your home be a haven of blessings and peace
Can I hear an Amen Sista! (Okay, that one was mine!)
I love you, John and Eric and can’t wait to celebrate YOU on your special day!
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