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 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!

 

 

 

 

 

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

 
 

A One of a Kind Story February 5, 2013

Filed under: middle age,single,Uncategorized,Women's Humor,Women's Issues — 3lastnamesblog @ 2:47 am
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 I knew “it” was in the box labeled “Jackie’s Memory Stuff”.  In that box was everything from my wooden shoes from Holland (didn’t all kids go on family vacations to Europe?), to the 1991 Massapequa Post cover of my sister and I with our kids on our lap coming down the big slide at the St. Rose Fair (the irony of the Jews at the St. Rose Fair) and of course all those pictures and letters that someday my daughters will read when I’m gone (just like Bridges of Madison County) and realize  that their mom was not sitting home alone on the weekends they were at their dad’s.

Just as I hoped, I found “it” – my very first letter to my pen pal.

It started back in second grade. (You’re thinking to yourself, wait, isn’t she 50? How does something from 43 years ago have any relevance?  Be patient!) It was the 1969-70 school year. My teacher (Miss Rice) announced that we were going to have “pen pals”. She explained she had a friend that taught second grade in Ft. Wayne Indiana and they were going to match up their students so we could write to each other.

A few weeks later a letter arrived at my house. (In those days nobody worried about giving out your home address). It was dated January 16, 1970. Enclosed was a picture of the most beautiful blond-haired girl I had ever seen.  It read:

Dear Jackie,

          I am your new pen pal. I have a puppy and his name is Bullet. Do you have a pet? What is his name? I go to bed at 8:30 and sometimes 9 o’clock. What time do you go to bed? I have one sister and a dad and a mom and me and my puppy. Do you have a sister or a brother? Please write soon.

                                                                                      Your friend,

                                                                                      Beth Anne Nartker

From that moment on a lifelong friendship was born. Beth and I continued to write non-stop through the rest of elementary school, middle school, high school, and college. I remember telling her I was engaged….

Then of course real life stepped in and the letters became farther apart and eventually ended. But not for one moment had I ever stopped thinking about her and wondering how her life was going.   Remember, there was no internet, Google, Classmates.com, or Facebook back then.

But now there is! A couple of years ago I had the idea to search for her on Facebook. I used the first name “Beth Anne” and came up empty. After months of trying different variations, finally up came a picture of the same beautiful blond-haired girl. I recognized her immediately.  I messaged her on Facebook, “I’m not sure if you remember me….”

Well she replied that of course she remembered me, had been thinking of me as well and had also tried to find me on Classmates and Facebook . (But let’s face it, with all my last names, that’s an impossible feat!)

We picked up right where we left off, taking time to update each other on the past 25 years.  Just recently, after Hurricane Sandy, Beth (now living in Arizona) reached out to me and the girls. I expressed my gratitude for her concern especially from her of all people. She didn’t understand what I meant by “you of all people”. I explained that her concern meant even more to me, considering we had never even met! She responded, “I paused for a moment when I read your comment that we have never met as I actually forget that is the case! I feel I know you so well and consider you a dear friend – and we will meet some day. : ) xoxo”

So, it can happen. Two people who only correspond through the written word (we have never even spoken on the phone) can cultivate a life-long meaningful relationship. Perhaps I should’ve written to inmates instead of going on Match.

So I ask. Do we meet and run the risk of realizing we are total strangers that have nothing in common? Or do we give ourselves the chance to finally wrap our arms around the lifelong friend we’ve grown to care so much about?  I’d ask somebody who’s been through this before, but like I promised, this is a one of a kind story.

pen pal letter 1 (2)pen pal letter 2

pen pal pic        pan pal recent

 

Best Friends Forever (I Hope) August 30, 2012

Filed under: Humor,middle age,Turning 50,Uncategorized,Women's Humor,Women's Issues — 3lastnamesblog @ 2:36 am
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I have been blessed with many great friends in my life, but one stands out among the rest. It’s my BFF Liz.  It’s a deeply rooted friendship. We celebrate our children’s milestones, we applaud each other’s successes, we keep our deepest secrets and we mourn our greatest losses.  We met when we were just young teens in Jr. High and our friendship has spanned more than thirty years. It’s an enduring relationship because we give and take. She gives, I take.

In high school, Liz and I were very different. She played sports; I was in drama club and chorus. But she was very supportive of my interests. As a matter of fact, Liz never missed one of my performances. Whether it was a concert or four nights of a play, I could always count on her to be in the audience.  Now ask me how many of Liz’s games I attended. Not many.  And by not many, I mean none.  Well, I was busy with rehearsals!  Plus, it wasn’t like I’d be in a heated auditorium with comfy seats. I’d have to climb steep bleachers in my high heels and endure bad-hair weather! (In our yearbook there’s an outdoor picture of me and Liz. She wrote, “One time in four years your hair was messed up; glad somebody got a picture of it!”)

Liz and I both stayed home for college. We commuted everyday to school and had part-time jobs. She worked at Harmon Drugs, I worked at”the mall”.  After work, around 9:30 PM we would meet and go to a diner. One night we went to TWO diners. Those were wild and crazy times. But it was during those years that Liz started traveling with my family. My sister was married and my parents wanted me to have a companion, so Liz came along. My favorite story was when Liz and I met two cute guys our age in a Florida hotel lounge (the drinking age was 18 back then).  I claimed the short blonde; she had the tall brown haired guy. We went up to their hotel suite. (Only now do I understand why my father went totally ballistic when he found out about that.) After some alone “couple” time Liz asked if we could switch guys and I gave her the blonde. So don’t say I never did anything for her!

Time quickly passed and before you knew it we graduated college and were married women. I was the first to have a baby and as luck would have it, Liz wound up babysitting Julie while I taught school.  Her son had just been born and she stopped working in the city. She needed the money and I needed the sitter so it worked out perfectly for both of us. Many years later, it was just assumed she would watch Gabby. We never even discussed it. On Labor Day, Liz just said, “I’ll pick Gabby up tomorrow” and that was that.  Of course, what she didn’t tell me was that she was pregnant (with her second child).  She didn’t want me to worry that I’d have no one to watch Gabby for the few weeks after she gave birth. So she waited until she had found a fill-in to tell me.  All in one breath she said “I’m pregnant but I HAVE SOMEBODY TO WATCH GABBY!” Gee, if I had known, perhaps I wouldn’t have asked her to “help me” put together my patio furniture the week before.  There she was on her hands and knees, hammering and screwing while I’m pouring her iced tea.  How was I supposed to know she was pregnant?

Some things never change. Last Summer I wanted to fill in my garden beds with some perennials. Liz graciously volunteered to bring over some cuttings from her own garden to save me the expense of buying new plants. She came over with all the plants, a huge bag of soil and a shovel. (She knew me well enough to know that there was no way I owned a shovel, let alone ever dug a hole.) So, she dug the holes and I put in the plants. It was extremely hot out and I was sweating profusely. I said to Liz, “Ya know, I don’t remember ever sweating this much as a kid when I did manual labor”. Liz’s response to me was, “I don’t remember you ever doing manual labor!”

A year ago was Hurricane Irene.  I love when I tell people I had to evacuate and they picture me in a high school gym on a cot. The truth is, Liz opened her home to me and it was like staying in a Bed and Breakfast. She made a gourmet dinner and for breakfast the next morning (after a sleepless night) she made a fresh pot of coffee, eggs, bacon and English muffins. Would it have killed her to make potatoes?

Of course I told Liz my next blog was going to be about her.  Kiddingly she asked, “Am I going to read it and wonder why we’re still friends?”  But the truth is, I had already asked myself that same question.  So I decided to dig out our yearbook and look back at our relationship.  She wrote, “What I love about you most of all is your outstanding wit and personality which seems to draw people to you… Knowing you has made me a better person… You instilled confidence in me I guess I always lacked…Your friendship means more to me than I could ever put down in words.”  After reading that, I realized I must’ve been giving something all these years!

She ended with, “Remember the old and look forward to the new”.  And that’s exactly what we’ve done for the last three decades. Best friends forever?  Not a doubt in my mind.

 

Om Sweet Om July 7, 2012

Filed under: Humor,middle age,Women's Humor,Women's Issues,Yoga — 3lastnamesblog @ 12:03 pm
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If you’ve been reading my blogs, you should be able to sense that I think… a lot…all day long…about every possible scenario… in every aspect of my life. I tend to “what if” the hours away, which can lead to a”bit” of anxiety (those who know me are laughing right now at the “bit”). Ok, I’m a little on the nervous side. But I’ve been that way my entire life. For instance, my daughter is now in Eastern Europe and Israel for the summer; I wouldn’t even go to day camp. At least I own up to it.

A little over a year ago, I was discussing the approaching summer vacation with my therapist.  She knows I become anxious over the summer because I have too much time to think. She suggested I take up yoga. Now why didn’t I think of that!? It’s meditative and I happen to be pretty flexible (which if you’ve been lucky enough to be with me at a party  that’s serving alcohol,  you’ve probably seen me attempt to put my leg around my neck.)

So I immediately began to investigate the best yoga studio. All arrows pointed me to Om Tara Yoga Studio in Massapequa. Next, I had to get a great yoga outfit. If I was going to make an ass out of myself, I at least wanted to be fashionable doing it. And let’s not forget I needed a fancy yoga mat with matching carrying case. Studio- check.  Outfit- check.  Mat- check. Now all I had to do was actually go.

I’ll always remember my first class.  I didn’t want anybody going with me. When I was there, I didn’t want to make new friends. I just wanted to remain anonymous. My instructor’s name was Barbara, a young sweet girl. There were lit candles and incense burning. It seemed quirky yet somehow soothing.  I had NO CLUE how to do the poses, but it was a supportive atmosphere. During a part called “savasana” you’re supposed to just lie there and not think, but of course I was making a grocery list.  At the end, everyone (except me) chanted “Om”, which up until then I thought was just a myth and quite frankly seemed silly.

Fast forward a year.

My goal of remaining anonymous failed tremendously. Within a few sessions I made a dear yoga buddy and it turned out my yoga instructor, Barbara, was not only Jewish, but she blogs! Now, I don’t “do” yoga, I “practice” Yoga. I call poses “asanas” and I know them by their Sanskrit names. I know the 7 chakras and the colors associated with them. I use ujjayi breath, yoga mudra, focus on my drishti and “om” louder than anyone in the room.  Plus, I have a killer collection of yoga pants.

But I still have a far from perfect practice. My shoulders need to relax during Virabhdrasana 2 (Warrior 2) , my hips are uneven during  Trikanasana (Triangle Pose)  and the owner of the studio has remarked that my pinky toe (yes, my pinky toe) is positioned incorrectly during  Dandasana  (Staff Pose).  Alas, I will never be going to the yoga Olympics.  However, if there’s a cute, straight guy in class, I can hold in my stomach continuously for an hour and half while stretching, extending, inverting, twisting, bending and balancing. How many young yoginis can say that?

I may still make a “To Do” list in my head during savasana, but I can say without hesitation that I am my happiest, calmest self when my yoga class is over…at least until I check my cell phone. Hey, temporary peace is better than no peace.  Namaste.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Just Relax May 29, 2012

Filed under: Humor,middle age,Women's Humor,Women's Issues — 3lastnamesblog @ 9:16 pm
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I don’t know about you, but when I’m given the command to “relax”, it causes me to do just the opposite. Nothing relaxes me less than having someone tell me to do so. That being said let me tell you about the day of the year I hear it the most.

It’s the day my sister (older by 3 years, 9 months) and I have our annual visit to our gynecologist for a checkup and our radiologist for a mammogram. The reason we go together every year is because they are both in Manhattan, and I don’t do Manhattan- not alone anyway. The offices are on chic Park Ave, so we powder and puff, put on our best shoes and handbags and off we go.

The drive into the city is an adventure in and of itself. My sister drives her giant SUV like a bull in a china shop- she just plows right through.  Now, if I was ever in a war, I’d want my sister driving my tank, but not so much on the FDR Drive. Every trip, we have at least 3 brushes with death.  “Relax” she says.  Relax? I’d rather be getting my pap smear than be in that car.

Our first appointment is at the radiologist. You ladies know the drill. My sister and I are escorted to small rooms to put on the blue gown, opening in the front.  The rooms are a calming pale blue with magazines, so we can “relax” and forget that our breasts are about to be pressed into tortillas. The doctor comes in (who happens to be a stunning woman) to give me a quick look. As she examines me, she always asks me where my sister and I are going for lunch. I tell her we’re going to the small café down the block, but the truth is we’re going to the Jackson Hole and getting the biggest burger known to man, with double cheese, sautéed mushroom and onions, french fries and extra pickles. No bun of course, we’re not pigs.

One year, I had the dreaded “We just need one more picture”. Usually that’s code for “The doctor sees something suspicious and wants to get a better look”. With sheer panic and fear I set out to find my sister in the maze of small, blue rooms.  After barging into two wrong rooms, I finally found my sister. I slammed the door open and wailed”THEY WANT ONE MORE PICTURE” and quickly continued on to meet my fate. But in that second, I stopped thinking about my impending doom. I couldn’t get the vision of my sister out of my head. Why is it that her blue gown looked like a designer dress from Bloomingdales while mine made me look like a Holocaust victim? Only my sister could have it wrapped and tied so perfectly she could wear it for a night out on the town. She was even accessorized.

Next we go to the gynecologist. It’s just down the block. We walk hand in hand; the reason being I’m afraid we’ll get separated and I won’t be able to find my way. (Yes, down the block, but it’s the city!) My gynecologist is the kindest, most gentle, elderly man with a South African accent that could melt your heart… except when my legs are in stirrups and he’s coming at me with a contraption that resembles the jaws of a triceratops. Yes, I know; I must”relax”.

Well, this year’s visit ended with a kicker. We were walking back to the car discussing our exams when my sister told me the most upsetting thing I had ever heard. The doctor told her he could tell she wasn’t in menopause because she had the vagina of 23 year old! WHAT?????  I mean, my podiatrist told me I had the feet of a woman half my age, but that still makes my feet older than her vagina, and who really cares about feet anyway?  This meant she had me beat! No matter how good I try to look, no matter how thin I try to get, she’s won. She has the younger vagina.

So now I have to wait an entire year until our next visit and I will not”relax” until I find out the age of my vagina. And it better be 22!

 

1 in 5 ?

Filed under: Humor,middle age,single,Women's Humor,Women's Issues — 3lastnamesblog @ 9:10 pm
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The TV commercial for Match.com says that 1 in 5 couples now meet on online dating sites. If that’s the case, then perhaps my online dating experience can be of some help to society.

First, the basics. Everyone’s age ends in a “nine”.  Thirty-nine means you’re in your forties. Forty-nine means you’re in your fifties and fifty-nine means you’re eighty. “Separated” means married and looking to cheat. “Slender” means fat. “Entrepreneur” means unemployed and a baseball cap in every picture means balding.

At 49 (now for perpetuity) I seem to be the “it “girl for the 60 and over crowd. Men with white hair fill my in-box promising me compatibility even though they’re a “bit” over my age range. A BIT over my age range? Methuselah is younger than these guys.  So needless to say, I can’t wait around for men my age to email me, I have to search them out.

I have a very intense screening process. When I finally do send an email it’s after three days of examining the pictures and profile like it’s a crime scene investigation. And no matter how handsome and successful he may portray himself to be, if he doesn’t capitalize his I’s or know the difference between “your and you’re”- he’s out.  Smiley faces is a deal breaker too. Pictures of his pets- enough said.

So let’s say he gets through the first round and we email each other. I’m not interested in having a pen pal so I suggest the phone right away.  When he calls for the first time, I do not answer the phone. This is not game playing; this is the next part of the screening process. I have to listen to see if I like his voice and I must analyze his message. “Okie doke” and “Alrighty then” will not get him a return phone call.

If he can survive the phone message and the obligatory first conversation, we set up a date. The chances I’m going to like him are slim to none. For instance, I schlepped all the way into the city only to be met by a man wearing the same brown, suede earth shoes I wore in seventh grade. That was it for me. On another date the guy was wearing “slacks”. You know, the kind with a belt that’s pulled up practically to his chin. He reminded me of my Uncle Itchy and as much as I love my Uncle Itchy, I do not want to date him.  One guy had a tattoo of a bull’s-eye over his heart…NEXT!   Another  guy  had me meet him at the Spartan Diner. He sang Broadway tunes so ridiculously loud from our booth everyone in the diner started singing along. I picked up the check. He thought it was because I liked him, but it was so I could get the hell out of there as fast as I could.

A couple of months ago I had a nice date set up, but I was dreading it all day. My mother said I was the only girl she knew that had a date with a Jewish doctor for dinner at a nice steak house and was in a bad mood from it. But just as I expected, I didn’t like him. He said his “ch’s” funny. And he had bad eyebrows. But the creamed spinach was delish.

I admit it; I’m a man’s worst online dating nightmare. There’s probably a skull and crossbones next to my profile picture. But, I’m on a hiatus from Match right now and have hidden my profile. So all the men out there on the internet can take a big sigh of relief. There’s no chance our paths will cross anytime soon.

 

The Countdown to 50 May 28, 2012

Filed under: Humor,Women's Humor,Women's Issues — 3lastnamesblog @ 10:46 pm
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My 40’s has been a wonderful time for me. Besides for it being the only decade in which I haven’t gotten a divorce, I can look back on it with a certain amount of pride. After all,  I’ve  furthered my career,  raised my children to be productive members of society and so far the Oil of Olay creams have been pretty good to me.

I wasn’t looking forward to turning 49. I just would’ve preferred to rip the band-aid off fast and go straight to 50. That’s all people talk about anyway when you’re 49- the countdown to 50. But when I turned 49, I was so sure I was going to be “fifty and fabulous”, that I almost couldn’t wait to get there.

Then I turned 49 ½.

Let me tell you about being half way to 50…Every morning you look in the mirror and gasp.  Aside from your “laugh lines” increasing exponentially,   gray hair overtakes your entire body and when you tweeze- it’s your chin. The other morning my reflection was Moses when he came down with the Ten Commandments, except in a pink robe.

If you can pull yourself together enough to make yourself presentable to the world, maybe you’ll do a little shopping   to cheer yourself up. That’s what I did just a few days ago. First stop- Lord and Taylor, second stop my therapist. You see, the dressing rooms are designed to torture. The mirrors allow you to see your full body from the front and the back.  Was that squishy, dimply, sagging, blinding white thing that took up the width of a 3 paneled mirror my ass?  No wonder my Spanx   don’t work!  I remember seeing something like that in a Ripley’s Believe It or Not, but I believe it was on a Russian centenarian with a goiter.  Ladies, do not bother to diet and exercise- Mother Nature has her own plans.

I can see neither close nor far.  I try to get into every silver car in the parking lot until I finally get to mine. For me, 32 degrees does not mean snow- it means maybe I won’t sweat that day.

Did I mention I didn’t get a divorce?