3lastnamesblog

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 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!

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

One Year Later November 19, 2013

Filed under: Eulogy,family,middle age,Mothers,Mothers/daughters — 3lastnamesblog @ 2:41 am
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This was written for my mother’s unveiling on the first anniversary of her death. It was meant for family and close friends but it received such a  positive response that I decided to add it to my blogs…..

One Year Later

Hi Mommy. I know you watch over us and probably know everything that has happened in the past year, but the thing I miss most is talking to you. So I want to use this opportunity to update you on the family, plus you can’t answer me back….

You’d be happy to know that your beautiful home sold in one week for the asking price. Moreover, you should feel quite flattered that the couple who bought it wanted everything- the furniture, window treatments, art work and even the accessories. You should be even more flattered to know that it was a gay couple, and well, you know they have the best taste.

Since your passing Marla has spent literally every day of the past year settling your estate. For the last 12 months she has been in contact with real estate attorneys, estate lawyers, expediters and stock brokers. She has been faxing, emailing, copying, scanning and over-nighting documents. She has been the point person for the credit card companies, Medicare, the health insurance company, the hospital, the ambulance, the wheelchairs, the hospital bed, and the oxygen tanks. To put it in one word, she has been “Marla”.

I, on the other hand, have been busy fulfilling your dying wish for me. I joined AARP. I kept hearing your voice “For sixteen dollars you get so many discounts”. So I finally did it. And I have to say, I love the insulated tote bag they sent me and I never miss out on my free donut at Dunkin Donuts with every purchase of a large beverage.

Your grandchildren continue to thrive. Robby and Lindsay finally moved into their co-op. They made it into a modern, cozy nest for the two of them. I know, Ma- it’s hard to believe Robby is a married man and owns real-estate in Manhattan, until of course you see all his Legos displayed everywhere you look in the apartment. That Lindsay is something, isn’t she Ma?

Now wait till you here this one, Mommy. Remember when Sam changed his major from Architecture to Industrial Design and Marla called me at school to tell me we had a “family situation”. Well, believe it or not, Sam is now working at an architecture firm, doing architecture work! I can hear the “I told you so” from your grave. But the truth is, he’s hoping it will lead to a job in the design department, which is of course what he really wants to do. And Mommy, if you saw his new Facebook profile picture, he looks more like George Clooney than ever.

Now on to your Julie.  You’d be proud to know that Julie now has her own social media company ”Julie Katz Inc. “ She has been working very diligently establishing her company’s presence on the internet as well as keeping abreast of all the new trends in marketing. Now all she needs is a client. Kidding aside, we are all very proud of her but Julie lost her greatest advocate when she lost her Nana. I’m sure by now all of South Florida would’ve known about your granddaughter’s Fortune 500, international marketing business, because to you, that’s exactly what it would be.

I think out of all your grandchildren, Gabby felt your loss the most being that she had so many milestones this year- prom, graduation, getting accepted to FIT, her 18th birthday. Your picture is the screensaver on her phone and it was her idea to wear your “Cecile” bracelet to all her special occasions so she felt like you were there with her. As a matter of fact, she told me the only reason she was looking forward to your unveiling was so she could wear every piece of your jewelry.

Well, it’s true what they say- life goes on. But it is never the same.  As long as we have each other to lean on (and Gary to keep watching over us) we should all be fine. Just know Mommy that we all so deeply miss you and think about you with every passing day. We promise to honor your legacy by continuing to live a life of which you can be proud.

 

Blog Interrupted May 22, 2013

Filed under: Humor,middle age,Mothers/daughters,single,Uncategorized,Women's Humor,Women's Issues — 3lastnamesblog @ 9:01 pm
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    I originally started blogging because I had a lot of free time, which is just a nice way of saying I had no life. But now my life is becoming busy and it’s interrupting my blog! Here’s what you’ve missed:

#1) I learned how to play Craps   I was at the Tropicana in Atlantic City. I had always watched my father play craps and I was interested in learning. So I casually sauntered up to the craps table. It was a fifteen dollar minimum bet, which for me was out of the question, so I just watched. The only thing I knew about craps was that you don’t want to throw a 7 or 11.  As the game progressed I asked questions of the man standing next to me as well as the dealer who after a while gave me that look to either bet or step away from the table. So eventually, with much trepidation, I took the plunge and placed 2 chips on the table. Apparently I placed them at a point in the game when they can’t be placed and they were handed back to me.  But the dealer talked me through and gradually I started to get the hang of the game, placing more and more chips on the table with each round. Each player seemed to get three or four chances to throw the dice and before long the dice were passed to me. So after choosing my dice I took my very first roll. The dice barely made it across the table. “SEVEN”! Oh no! I felt terrible that on my first roll I was out. But I immediately learned that at certain times of the game it is GOOD to roll a seven and that was one of them! The dice kept being returned to me and I kept rolling. There was a crowd gathering and lots of hootin’ and hollerin’. A crowd of young men in their twenties kept cheering me on, “Let’s go Shooter, C’mon Shooter!!” (Apparently I was “Shooter”.) At one point the man standing next to me told me if rolled an eight the table was going to erupt. I had no idea why I wanted an eight, but I prayed for one anyway. “EIGHT!” the stickman shouted and the table went crazy. This exhilaration continued for the better part of an hour. When my roll was finally over everyone around the table applauded and I got high fives throughout the night in the casino. I was a star.  But I forgot to mention the best part- my winnings! One dollar.

#2) I shot a gun. Well, a rifle actually. Now before you start to panic, I did not go from being a JAP (Jewish American Princess) to an NRA militia maniac (as my friend Dean put it). I simply shot at a target and was quite awful at it too. Perhaps I should have visualized an ex boyfriend or two… But, the most fun came from reading the comments to a picture I posted on Facebook of me aiming the rifle: “Oh G-d, you’ve turned into Sarah Palin” (Shelley) and “This gives new meaning to Jackie’s big guns” (Scott) as well as the myriad of inquiries if I had been kidnapped or joined a cult. Nope, none of that, just some good old fashioned red-neck fun. I reckon.

#3) I rode in the back of an ambulance. (No, this had no connection to me shooting a gun.) I was with my daughter, Gabby, who was in severe pain (She’s absolutely fine now). I called an ambulance because we needed to get to the hospital FAST! When the ambulance arrived the EMT strolled into the house like he was arriving at a garden party. “CAN YOU WALK A LITTLE F—ING FASTER PLEASE; MY DAUGHTER IS ROLLING ON THE FLOOR IN F—ING PAIN!!”  He neither altered his gate nor commented on my remark and after what seemed an eternity, we finally left for the hospital. When I inquired why we weren’t speeding and passing red lights. I was informed that only “happens in movies”.  Huh?? “YOU HAVE GOT TO BE F—ING KIDDING ME! WHY WOULD I CALL A F—ING AMBULANCE THEN? JUST YESTERDAY TWO F—ING AMBULANCES SPED BY ME!”  Where is my rifle now?? I’m pretty sure the EMT was happier to arrive at the hospital than I was. However, things weren’t much better at the hospital. It’s as if they did not see my poor daughter lying on the stretcher writhing in pain. But after much yelling and cursing and moaning and groaning (that was from me, not the patient) they finally gave her pain medication. By now it was the middle of the night and needless to say, I was a bit out of it. Thankfully my sister was with me (with Dunkin Donuts muffins and coffee of course). My daughter was finally resting quietly. The nurse asked me about diarrhea, vomiting and fever and when I told her I had none of that, my sister oh so gently reminded me, “THE NURSES ARE TALKING ABOUT GABBY, YOU IDIOT! “  I am sure the hospital staff is still talking about me.

Next up, I’m planning on going horseback riding. The last time I came close to a horse was in fourth grade. I was afraid to go near it and I threw-up from the smell.  Either I’ve evolved or I’m going to get one hell of a blog out of it.

 

My Mother’s Eulogy November 12, 2012

Filed under: Eulogy,Mothers,Mothers/daughters,Women's Issues — 3lastnamesblog @ 4:19 pm
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Fifteen years ago at my father’s funeral my sister and I each wrote eulogies. At the shiva my mom asked, “What are you going to say about me, that I made a great banana cake?”Well it happens that a few weeks ago I told my mom that I’ve had that opening line to her eulogy for years and years. At first I wouldn’t tell her but then I thought why not; it’s not like it’s going to spoil it for her! So when I told her what it was she laughed and said “I still think the same thing!”

Due to my mother’s extraordinary strength, she was able to live alone in her home throughout her illness. Two weeks ago my mother called 911 and was rushed to the ER. Turned out she was passing a kidney stone- no easy feat for a woman in her condition. I came down to Florida and when I walked into her house I thought to myself what a beautiful, bright, spotless, airy, fresh home it was. Everything was in its place- the bed was made, no dishes in the sink. No one could ever tell that an old sickly woman lived there, let alone one who was rushed off to the hospital. If I had been rushed off by ambulance and someone came into my house, they would think it was looted. But my mother’s home looked like it could be photographed for a magazine. I remember thinking she will never get the hospice services she wants with a container closet as neat and organized as hers. But the epitome of her organization was leaving my sister and me all the information we would need to plan her funeral right on her kitchen table. Well actually, the note was addressed to just my sister. My mother had enough foresight to know that Marla would manage her grief by springing into action mode, while all I’d want to do is nap and have cinnamon Pop-Tarts (which of course, she had a box of in her pantry).

Somehow my mother was always right. I would speak to her every day on the phone and a typical conversation would go something like this…

” Hey Ma, what’s doing?

“What should be doing?”

“How do you feel?”

“Eh whatever, but what, you have a cold?”

“I don’t have a cold, Ma”

“Well you sound stuffy; you have a cold don’t you?”

Ma, I feel completely fine, I DO NOT HAVE A COLD!”

“Alright. What are you doing this weekend?”

“I’m going to the beach on Sunday.”

“Sunday? I heard rain for Sunday in New York”

“Ma, it’s supposed to be beautiful on Sunday. You’re telling ME the forecast for New York from Florida?”

Well, I never did go to the beach on Sunday…. because it was raining…and I had a cold.

Of course if you know anything about my mother, you know she lived for her grandchildren, Robby, his wife Lindsay, Sam, Julie, and Gabby. She somehow made them each feel like they were her favorite to the point that they would actually argue over it. Robby would say, “Nana loves ME the most because I’m the first born grandchild. Julie would say, “Nana loves ME the most because my mom and I lived with her and grandpa for 2 years. Gabby would say, “Nana loves ME the most because I’m the baby of the family”. And Sam would say, “Nana loves ME the most because she thinks I look like George Clooney!” But the love she gave them was only mirrored by the love she received. Seldom have I ever seen grandchildren that adored their grandmother the way they do. And to their credit, she was well aware of their adoration till her very last day.

Robby and Lindsay’s’ wedding was this past August (2012). We knew there was no way my mom was going to pass before then and risk dampening the festivities. She wasn’t able to be there but she was able to watch it streaming live on her computer, connected to her TV. Like everything else in her final years, she made the most of it. She invited friends and family, catered food and created her own celebration. She wanted to be included in all the talk and excitement and tried never to seem maudlin that she couldn’t attend, even though we all knew it was killing her inside. When my mother finally received the DVD of the wedding she spent hours and hours poring over the footage- rewinding, freeze framing, slow motion- it was like she was investing who shot JFK.

Gratefully, my mother’s mind was 100% until her last breath. Her friends and family were not ready to let her go, but she wanted to go. Independent and strong till the very end, she wanted to end her life on her own terms, with grace and her dignity intact- and that is exactly what she achieved.

And about that banana cake…Just a few days ago Gabby and I were cleaning out the refrigerator at the beginning of what is now day 9 of the power outage from Hurricane Sandy. I found in the freezer a piece of banana cake that my mother had made that I’ve been saving. I don’t know why I’d been saving it, but for some reason I never wanted to throw it out. Gabby said, “Mom, no matter what, don’t ever, ever throw out that piece of cake no matter how much mold it gets covered in.” So now in my empty refrigerator sits baking soda and the last “piece” of my mother we will ever have.

Mommy, I love you so, so much. Rest in Peace, you’ve earned it.

 

Prom June 16, 2012

Filed under: Humor,Women's Humor,Women's Issues — 3lastnamesblog @ 8:53 pm
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I’m starting a support group. It’s for mothers of teenage daughters going to the prom. The first topic of discussion will be shopping for the dress. My daughter, Gabby, insisted we go to Estelle’s Dressy Dresses, along with the rest of the south shore teenage population. It was jammed with girls and their mothers all grabbing wildly for the same tacky dresses. Nobody told me I was going to need armor. But like soldiers in battle, Gabby and I kept our heads down and plowed on through until we had at least a dozen dresses to try on.

 We waited 20 minutes just to get into the dressing room. When we finally got in, it was sheer mania; hoards of hysterical girls shrieking and crying like at a Justin Bieber concert.  After navigating the mounds of dresses and hangers on the floor, we were lucky enough to find a dressing room with a semblance of a curtain.  My modest daughter had me hold the fabric tightly together so that not a crack of light could be seen through it. She didn’t want anybody seeing her get changed yet she didn’t mind coming out in a dress that exposed 90% of her body.  Naturally, every time I liked a dress I got the “Ma, are you kidding me” look.  But eventually we managed to find a dress we both liked that didn’t have a pull or snag in it. For that reason alone we had to buy it.

Next, it’s all about the hair and make-up. The appointments are set, as are the mani/pedi and eyebrows. We are still in negotiations over the spray tan.  These can all be topics for future support group sessions.  The mothers out there who have been through this before know exactly what I am talking about.  After all the pampering and primping, there’s no guarantee she’s actually going to like it. The up-do may have a strand out of place, the make-up may be a shade off, there may be a stray eyebrow hair or a dangling cuticle. Any of these can lead to an international incidence.

But that’s not all, there is more to plan for.  It seems that after the prom, the new tradition is to go to a “Prom House”.  Apparently there is security and a chaperone (probably someone’s 22 year old brother and sister).  No one is allowed out, no outsiders are allowed in. No alcohol is permitted. There is a pool but no life guard.  There are about 30 kids and they reside there for two nights. Somehow I was convinced that since they stay in one place, this is a “safer” alternative. I MUST HAVE BEEN DRUGGED!

Yes, I have completely LOST MY MIND and am allowing my daughter to stay two nights at a house in Sag Harbor with her boyfriend. The truth is, she’s been dating this boy for quite a while and he is a very reasonable, mature young man.  I trust the two of them to make responsible choices.  WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME!!?

I think I gave in partly because I am living vicariously.  I think back to my own prom, MHS 1980. I wore the same gown I wore to my sister’s wedding. I did my own hair and for make-up, my sister put eye shadow on me. I polished my own nails. What’s a pedicure? My date was “just a friend”. Is it any wonder I’m looking forward to my (I mean Gabby’s) prom?

But the truth is that my prom date and I have remained dear friends till this day. We went our separate ways romantically (no he’s not gay) but our friendship has lasted more than 3 decades. Come to think of it, Gabby should only have the enduring relationship with her prom date that I had with mine.  So, to Gabby and Danny, have a wonderful, magical time.  And remember, I AM TRUSTING YOU TO MAKE GOOD DECISIONS!!!

Hopefully Gabby and Danny won’t be drinking any alcohol, but I can assure you, I will be having plenty!

 

March 6, 1930 May 31, 2012

Filed under: Humor,Women's Humor,Women's Issues — 3lastnamesblog @ 2:19 am
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If you have been enjoying my blogs, then I must give some credit to my dad.  He had a gift for storytelling and a knack for descriptive language like no one else. I’d like to think I inherited at least a small portion of his talent.

First, a brief description of my father. He was a salesman. He sold wallpaper, but if you ever asked him what he sold he would always say “himself”.  He was a sincere salesman, which in most cases is an oxymoron, but not in his case. He had white hair, dressed impeccably, drove a huge Caddy and always had a cigarette in his hand. He traveled the country non-stop, yet most of my childhood memories include him sitting in his chair in our living room reading the newspaper- dressed to the nines, of course.

Here’s an example of how my father expressed himself. A typical dinner conversation would include: “Cecile (that’s my mom), I’ve eaten in 5 star restaurants throughout the country. I’ve dined where celebrities and royalty have dined, I’ve been to restaurants so exclusive they don’t even have a sign on the door, but none of those meals Cecile, none of those meals can compare to your meatloaf.” And the truth is,  he truly meant it.

Back when I was in college we were on vacation in Hollywood Florida at the Diplomat hotel. It’s one of the very rare times I remember seeing my father in a bathing suit. Let’s just say he wasn’t the “outdoorsy” type. Picture a man in designer bathing trunks, a matching button down short sleeved top, a perfectly blow-dried comb-over, a gold watch, gold bracelet and the palest skin ever seen outside of Antarctica. I remember him walking slowly toward us with a slight limp, even whiter from the 3 bottles of suntan lotion he put on… ”Cecile (long drag on the cigarette), Cecile, I’ve had impacted wisdom teeth, I’ve had my neck in traction, I’ve had my gall bladder removed, but nothing Cecile, can compare to the pain between my toes from these rubber thongs.”

Anyone who knows my father knows you can’t mention him without mentioning “the diner”. The Shore East Diner to be exact.  Somehow, we always wound up at the diner. Even after a night on the town in the city, we found ourselves having coffee and hot chocolate at the diner. We would eat there every Saturday for lunch without fail. When my mother, sister and I would start complaining about the table we were seated at and my father would say, “For God’s sake, we’re not moving in!”

So, one time back in my twenties,  my back went out and my sister had to take me to the emergency room. I remember lying on a table in the waiting room because I couldn’t sit upright.  My sister bought me a hamburger, mashed potatoes and a donut from the hospital cafeteria. It was literally one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten (other than my mother’s meatloaf, of course). Shortly after, my parents arrived. They had been in the city having dinner. My mother was in her mink coat (not yet politically incorrect) buttoned up to her chin.  It was 6 thousand degrees in the hospital but for some reason she refused take that coat off. Finally at 2:00AM, after 4 long grueling hours and a huge needle stuck into my back, it was time to go home. My sister wheeled me into the parking lot with that look on her face that she was clearly tired of waiting on me. I had that look on my face that one might have after getting a shot in her back. My mother was still in her mink, her face beaded with sweat. My father took a puff on his cigarette and said “Meet at the diner?” And, of course, we did.

Many years later my parents moved to Florida because, as Jerry Seinfeld puts it, it was the law. One of the last conversations my mother had with my father in the hospital after his heart attack was, “George, the girls are coming down”. He could barely speak, but whispered from under his oxygen mask, “That’ll be nice… just the four of us… like old times.”  But my sister and I didn’t make it in time.  He passed away while we were in flight. That was 15 years ago.

March 6 was his birthday. He would’ve been 82.  And in honor of his birthday – you guessed it- I’ll be going to the diner.  Happy Birthday, Daddy. I love you.

daddy in bathing suit

 

The Sweetest Place on Earth May 29, 2012

Filed under: Humor,Women's Humor — 3lastnamesblog @ 9:30 pm
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As Memorial Day weekend approaches, I think back to one of my most memorable. It was when Julie, Gabby and I went to Hershey Park.

Now for me, driving to Hershey Park was a journey. It entailed the Belt Parkway and a bridge. But the drive was part of the adventure and we were prepared. We had snacks, maps and Julie made a CD of songs we could all sing.

We decided to leave Friday night so we could go to the park first thing Saturday morning. We stopped for an early dinner to avoid traffic and by the Verrazano Bridge we were already hoarse from belting out songs. Happiness abounded.

I’m not exactly sure where we were, but suddenly something happened with Julie’s contact lens and apparently she was going to need a corneal transplant if I didn’t pull off the road so she could get her contact solution out of the trunk. So I quickly pulled off the next exit and surgery was averted. However, it was a lot easier to pull off the highway, then to get back on. I must give credit to Julie’s navigational skills, she managed to get us back where we belonged but this was not after a scene which resembled The Exorcist meets Fight Club.

At about 1:00AM my car finally rolled into the hotel parking lot. The three of us got out of the car drained, dazed and disheveled, but with a sense of pride that we actually made it.

We all got right into bed and drifted off to sleep immediately. However, I was awakened by what sounded like hogs with the flu. I quickly realized it was snoring, coming from both my daughters. They were like drunken truck drivers. I swear it was making my bed vibrate. I gazed over at them trying to take solace in their beautiful cherub faces fast asleep, but all I could think of was their poor husbands…

The next morning they woke up ready and raring to go. I was like a limp noodle, but that was ok because my only plan was to sit on a bench and drink coffee while they made a mad dash from roller coaster to roller coaster, each more death defying than the other.

The day had just begun. It was only the second roller coaster. I saw Julie and Gabby on the ride and we waved at each other. It was then I happened to run into my school’s PTA president. We engaged in quite a lengthy conversation and when it was over I looked for Gabby and Julie. They had to have been off the ride, because I waved to them at least 10 minutes ago. I couldn’t find them anywhere. I couldn’t call them because I was holding their cell phones. So there was nothing else I could do but sit on the bench and wait.  After about 20 minutes I started to get pissed. Those selfish bitches couldn’t wait for me? They had to run off to the next roller coaster without me? But I knew I couldn’t leave that spot because then they’d never find me. I waited another 20 minutes which felt like 2 hours. Now my anger was turning into fear. Where could they possibly be? My imagination was starting to run away with me. I waited another 20 minutes and now I was hysterical. My children were missing! In a panic, I asked a vendor if it was possible to have someone paged and he said no. So I found two security guards walking the grounds.

“MY CHILDREN ARE LOST!” I cried.

“Ok, Mam, stay calm. Where did you last see them?”

“ON THE RIDE!”

What are their names Mam?”

“JULIE AND GABBY. ONE IS WEARING A BLUE SHIRT AND THE OTHER WHITE…”

“And their ages, Mam?”

“TWENTY-TWO and FOURTEEN”, I sobbed!

Just as the guards gave me a look like I was nuts, I spied from the corner of my eye Gabby and Julie walking slowly toward me with a worried look on their face. Why in the world is Mommy talking to security? Did something happen?

Filled with relief, I ran over and gathered them in my arms. It turned out they had been waiting in line the whole time and had just gotten off the ride. I have no idea who I waved to, but apparently it was not my own children. I’m not sure who thought I was more crazy, the security guards or my own kids but for the rest of the day, every time I passed any security guards they looked at me kind of weird. I think word got out. “Crazy Lady walking!” as my daughters put it.

To get back at me, the girls made me go on a ride with them. It was a kiddies’ roller coaster with a mouse’s head on the front of each car, but don’t let that fool you. They didn’t call it “Wild Mouse” for nothing.

Sometimes a picture speaks a thousand words.

 

 

 

 

Four

Filed under: Humor,Women's Humor,Women's Issues — 3lastnamesblog @ 9:14 pm
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On Saturday Night Live they do a commercial spoof about the birth control pill Seasonique, which I happen to be on. The commercial begins with serene women in flowy skirts strolling in the park on a beautiful spring day. They are chatting about how freeing it is to be on Seasonique because you only  have  your” friend”  4 times a year…but when you DO .…the commercial then cuts to these same women  who now resemble Rambo, wielding machetes and slinging machine guns . To you this may be funny. To me this is my true life story.

It starts as an ordinary day. The sun is shining, the children are laughing and playing, the mailman whistles a happy tune. Then slowly the storm clouds start to gather overhead. The birds stop chirping. People in the street start running for cover. Dogs start barking because they sense something undetectable by humans. Yes, I have ovulated.

But, I will never admit to PMS.  It’s YOU not ME!  Must you crunch those pretzels so loudly? Do you really have to blink?

Here’s an example of one of my typical PMS outbursts. One day I came home to find the butter out. To me, butter is like LSD, it can only lead to destruction. In a PMS rage I bellowed, “WHAT HAS BEEN GOING ON IN THIS HOUSE WHILE I WAS OUT!!?”   “IS THIS HOW I RAISED YOU?” “MUST YOU INFLUENCE YOUR  SISTER?” “IS THIS WHERE YOUR LIVES ARE HEADED?” And of course, no matter what the fight I have to throw in, “DO YOU KNOW WHO PAYS FOR THIS BUTTER?  And finally I collapsed into a torrent of PMS tears.

Of all the wonderful traits I could’ve passed on to my two daughters, PMS seems to be the most dominant.  Occasionally, the three of us have PMS simultaneously. This means triple the sobbing, triple the yelling and triple the cursing. This continues until our house literally implodes upon us. And there we are, digging our way out of the rubble; the shattered pieces of our lives surrounding us. We silently stare at each other knowing we are all thinking the same exact thing…….wanna get some frozen yogurt?

For all my friends and family who have experienced my PMS and have lived to tell about it, I thank you. At least now it is only once every season.  My next one will be around Valentine’s Day. I wear black on Valentine’s Day.  Need I say more? Don’t say I didn’t give you fair warning.