3lastnamesblog

Behind Every Facebook Post Is a Story December 27, 2025

Filed under: friendship,Humor,Women's Humor,Women's Issues — 3lastnamesblog @ 10:45 pm
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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. 

They said, “What storm?”

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I’m Breaking Up with Spray Tans (Forever This Time) May 9, 2025

Filed under: aging,Humor,Women's Humor,Women's Issues — 3lastnamesblog @ 4:35 pm
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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. 

Stay out of the sun, people.

 

The Universe Has Its Own Plan January 31, 2025

Filed under: dating,Humor,love,single,Women's Humor,Women's Issues — 3lastnamesblog @ 11:14 am
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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.

Click on link to hear “Someone I Used to Love”

Wantagh Park
 

The Countdown to 60 March 18, 2022

Filed under: aging,family,Humor,Mothers,Mothers/daughters,Women's Humor,Women's Issues — 3lastnamesblog @ 5:12 pm
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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)

https://3lastnamesblog.com/2012/05/28/the-countdown-to-50/

So, The Countdown to 60?

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!

 

 

 

 

 

The Montage Episode June 14, 2020

Filed under: friendship,Humor,Uncategorized,Women's Humor,Women's Issues,Yoga — 3lastnamesblog @ 4:00 pm
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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.

 

Just The Tip May 3, 2019

Filed under: friendship,Humor,middle age,Women's Humor,Women's Issues,Yoga — 3lastnamesblog @ 10:36 pm
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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”.

 

 

 

Only My Hairdresser Knows for Sure January 2, 2017

Filed under: friendship,Humor,middle age,single,Turning 50,Uncategorized,Women's Humor,Women's Issues — 3lastnamesblog @ 8:51 pm
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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 it was 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!

                             img_4770

 
 

MLS is the Match.com for Real Estate January 8, 2016

Filed under: dating,love,Real Estate,single,Uncategorized,Women's Humor — 3lastnamesblog @ 11:07 pm
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Over the years I’ve come up with some interesting parables. I particularly like my “finding a mate is like shopping for shoes” and “August feels like one long Sunday”. But while selling my house, a new comparison dawned on me- Multiple Listing Services (MLS) is the Match.com for Real Estate. This goes for any of the real estate websites- Trulia, Zillow, etc.… It’s so obvious, I’m surprised no one has ever thought of it before.

To begin, you create a profile. You need to put up lots of pretty pictures that make your house look its best, highlighting the selling points. Next you add some narrative such as the neighborhood, convenience to stores or railroad, and who you think would be the ideal buyer for your home. Then, its time to talk money. But instead of your salary range like on dating websites, you give the listing price. One thing is for sure, only serious buyers need inquire.

Once you upload your profile, the waiting process begins. The profile has gotten a lot of hits, but why hasn’t any body asked to see the house? Is it not attractive enough? It looks better in person, I promise! Is it too expensive? I’m negotiable! All these doubts start sinking in. The house you once thought was move-in ready and a great value doesn’t seem so inviting anymore. Maybe I’ll paint some rooms and spiff up the curb appeal a bit.

Eventually someone appreciates the allure of your home and wants to see it. Elated and excited, you set up a time to meet; the sooner the better! When the doorbell rings you have butterflies in your stomach. Will he like me, I mean, my house? Will this be “the one”? You repeat this process many times. Some showings are longer than others. Some buyers seem more interested than others. And please, don’t get my hopes up and say you’re going to call if you have no intention of ever doing so. Occasionally you will have a second “date” and sometimes even meet their children or parents. I’ve even had contractors and engineers come, only to have the deal fall apart without any reason or warning. It’s an emotional roller coaster.

Then of course, there’s the real estate agent who plays the role of your mother. “Ya know, you’ve had your house on the market for quite a while now, maybe you should lower your price”, to which I hear, “ya know, you’re not a spring chicken anymore, maybe you should lower your standards”. Or if you get a low offer the agent will say, “Ya know, there’s a lot of competition out there”, for which I hear my mother saying “Ya know, there’s a lot of competition out there.

The neighbors like to chime in too. “Did you here the Johnsons are in contract?”, they say with pity in their eyes. The Johnsons live down the block, have the same model house as mine and have listed their house only 30 days ago for a comparable price. Their buyers never even came to see my house! Why not??? What’s wrong with me, I mean, my house?

Despair starts to set in. Where is that special someone? Where is the lid to my pot?  Maybe I should just give up my dreams and take my house off the market. NO, NO, NO! Snap out of it, girl! You know you have a beautiful, spacious home, in a prestigious neighbor. There are plenty of people that would love to live there! You must continue to be positive and move ahead with your plans!

But I am happy to say, when you least expect it, a match comes along! In my case, it wasn’t even from the website, it was from the For Sale sign on my front lawn. Love at first sight. When it’s the right one, you just know it.

And oh yeah, a match came along for me too, at yoga. Love at first sight. When it’s the right one you just know it.

 

 

 

So, here’s what happened this weekend… March 30, 2015

Filed under: family,love,middle age,Women's Humor,Women's Issues — 3lastnamesblog @ 10:14 pm
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Demos and I were heading upstate to spend a peaceful weekend at his beautiful house set on 25 secluded acres in the woods of Brown Mountain in the town of Gilboa. Before we left, Demos called a friend “up there” to make sure the roads were passable, after all, we were just coming out of one of the worst winters in history. As we were approaching his “gated community” (please do not envision some condo community, this is a metal fence between two trees) the roads were down to the pavement and there was little snow to be seen, just as his friend had said. However, his friend did not make the ascent to Demo’s property, which apparently is some country unto itself. As we were making our way up the long, winding path in the woods, the road was suddenly covered in a foot of snow. Before we could even process what we were driving in, the truck skidded off the road and we landed sideways in a ditch. Ok, looking at the pictures, we weren’t exactly sideways, but it sure felt that way from inside the truck! Despite Demos’ protests I immediately got out of the truck thinking, “If this truck is rolling over, I am not going to be in it!” So I jumped out into waist- deep snow, made my way to the trunk and immediately demanded my two Vera Bradley bags. If the truck was tipping over with Demos in it, then I needed my stuff! But the truck was stuck and so were we. We were at least a mile or more from the house with no cell service. We had no choice but to make the trek uphill in a foot of snow to the house with a landline telephone. We decided to take just the bare essentials. Demos took food and water; I took both my bags with my blow dryer, hair products, make-up, face creams, moisturizer, fuzzy robe, Ugg slippers and all my clothes. With bags in hand, I somehow made it up the mountain, sinking knee deep with every footstep. Thankfully, it was still daylight and really not that cold, but still, it was not a pretty scene. We made it to the house which had been completely closed down for the winter. Demos called a friend from the landline who arranged for someone with a tractor to come and pull his truck out of the ditch. I told Demos to just turn on the electricity and not to worry about the heat and water which had to be turned on from a crawl space under the house. We were running out of daylight and time was of the essence. He jumped on an ATV quad and started back down the mountain. The quad got stuck and he had to come back to get another one with bigger tires. That one got stuck too. Now it was dark. So with just a flashlight, Demos headed down the mountain on foot.

But, alas, woe is ME! I was alone in that house with no heat and running water! I noticed that the snow we tracked in was not even melting. The temperature in Gilboa had gone down to 14 below zero this winter and right now, the inside of the house was less than 32 degrees.  I had to think quickly and save myself. Aha, the electric space heater! I went in the bedroom, closed the door and plugged it in. And then, well, I read a magazine. For the first hour, it wasn’t so bad. Then my imagination started running away with me. What if Demos doesn’t come back? At what point do I call 911? Do I wait another hour? Two hours? You have no idea the stress and duress I was under!  Demos might’ve been in the cold, dark woods, but at least he knew what was going on! About a half hour later he came back to the house to find me frantic and hysterical crying. He couldn’t feel his hands and toes, but big deal! If he hadn’t come back soon I was going to have to melt snow to flush the toilet!

Gratefully, a couple of hundred dollars later all ended well. A huge tractor with a plow pulled the truck out of the ditch and then plowed a path all the way to Demos’ gate. That still meant we had to walk a bit of a distance to the truck every time we wanted to go out, but it was way better than being stranded. After Demos finally calmed me down, he still had to shovel the snow to get to the crawl space under the house, slither in and turn on the heat and water.

It was quite a night and we collapsed into a long, deep sleep. At least I did.  I noticed it got a little cold, and I heard Demos get out of bed, but I thought he was just hungry or thirsty. Actually, I heard him get out of bed THREE times, but I thought he was just REALLY hungry or thirsty. Turns out the heat stopped working and Demos had to get dressed, go outside, go under the house and push the reset button for the heat. Of course he didn’t want to fall asleep until he knew for sure the heat was fully working so he kept getting up to check the thermostat. I’m happy to say, when I woke up in the morning the house was toasty warm and I had no idea there was ever anything wrong with the heat. I got up and made my Honey a breakfast of eggs and delicious sausage we had picked up at the German deli on our way up.

After a relaxing morning, we set out to do some errands and pick up some things we needed for around the house. When we came home we headed back up the mountain. I was displaying symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but we were making it up the mountain with ease until…..

…we see the “neighbor’s” car stuck and completely blocking the road. They were a lovely young couple with two small beautiful children with a car full of groceries. But, who gave a shit about them! There was no f*ing way I was walking up that mountain again!!! To make matters worse, I had just found out that the delicious sausage I had eaten that morning was made from venison! How much could a girl take, I ask you? Thankfully, Demos was able to help them get their car unstuck. Unfortunately he had to BACK HIS TRUCK DOWN the winding, slippery mountain so they could get their car to safe ground. Then they piled in our truck with all their stuff and we drove them up the mountain to their “gate”. I have no idea how, where, when or if those people ever got out of their house again, but I’m sure they figured something out. I can’t worry about them. I have myself to worry about. The snow will probably be melted in a few weeks anyway.

So, still suffering from PTSD, I decided I did not want to go see a movie in town (45 minutes away) that night. Heaven forbid something impeded us from getting up that mountain again, I would just lose it. So I cooked a yummy dinner and fell asleep by 9:00PM. It’s exhausting watching Demos do all that work.

That night the house was filled with strange happenings (the ceiling fan turned on by itself, weird noises, loud bangs) all of which Demos had to get out of bed to investigate.  I didn’t even care if the house was haunted, as long as I didn’t have to climb that mountain again. In the morning, Demos left to try to dig out the two quads that were stuck in the snow. (No luck, by the way). I took a shower while he was gone. When I came out of the shower I found him sitting in the kitchen with his foot in a bucket of snow. He had badly twisted his ankle! OMG! Are you ok? Are you in pain? Can you drive? Does this mean I have to lug everything to the car myself???? But my handsome, gallant boyfriend told me he would do everything himself. He said he’d rather have two sprained ankles than risk me getting one. Awe!! How sweet!! But then I realized he’d rather have two sprained ankles than me having one  because that would mean  a lot less whining and complaining and no trip to the emergency room. So Demos piled up a sled with all of our things and made a few trips to the truck, hobbling in the snow, pulling the sled behind him.  Ah, chivalry is not dead!

As we headed home and reflected on our weekend, Demos said, “Ya know, as long as we are together, it’s a good weekend.”  “How true”, I said.  “As long as we’re together and I have a blow dryer with an outlet near a mirror, its good weekend!”

 

A Hunting We Will Go November 16, 2014

Filed under: family,Humor,Mothers,Mothers/daughters,Women's Humor,Women's Issues — 3lastnamesblog @ 3:26 am
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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!