Farvel

My son just left for Europe. Thought you’d enjoy a timeline of his departure:

Three months before:

Him: I’m going to Europe.

Me: Really? When?

Him: I’m not sure.

Me: For how long?

Him: Again…

Two months before:

Me: Something arrived for you from Amazon.

Him: Awesome, my lederhosen!

Me: Excuse me?

One month before:

Me: Another package here for you.

Him: YES! My dirndl!

Me: Isn’t a dirndl for women?

Him: Traditionally.

Two weeks before:

Him: Can I get Vienna sausage through customs?

One week before:

Him: (Playing video games)

Me: Shouldn’t you be getting prepared?

Him: (Looks up and throws on German Alpine hat). I’m ready.

Me: My error.

Five days before:

Him: Can you drive me to the airport on Wednesday?

Me: Sure, I’m off.

Him: I’m flying out of Newark.

Me: Forget it.

Two days before:

Him: (Doing nothing).

Me: Aren’t you leaving tomorrow?

Him: I had the day wrong, my flight is Thursday.

Me: Shouldn’t that have been an important piece of information?

Him: Seemingly.

One day before:

Treats me to a European costume fashion show, showing me all of his outfits.

Me: You’re not going to walk around wearing those outfits, are you? I mean, is this a joke?

Him: No joke. Of course I’m going to wear them.

Me: What if you get arrested for stupidity?

Him: It will be worth it.

The day:

Him: Cleans out car, arranges transportation, looks for passport, gets last minute Euros, packs, wonders where he will park at JFK, calls travel companion, picks travel outfit, gripes and groans about running out of time.

Him: Ok, I’m out of here.

Me: Way to not leave everything to the last minute.

Him: Thanks, Mom, your support means a lot to me. Farvel.

Carry On

I’m proud to say that I have become an almost expert packer. I mean, there are professional “packers.” Seriously. They have websites, they are packing “coaches.” That’s not me, but I have my travel carry-on down to a science.

If you’re traveling this summer, and need a packing makeover, here are items you SHOULDN’T pack.

Heels you can’t walk in. Bring kitten heels or sling backs for dressy occasions. You’ll wear those high heels for 20 minutes, feel miserable, and long for your Ugg clogs.

A heavy raincoat. Bring a poncho, or a tiny umbrella. Those heavy raincoats take up way too much room.

Neck pillow. These are ridiculous. Don’t you feel ridiculous in them? What a waste of space. There are collapsible pillows that take up to no room.

A bunch of adaptors. Bring a universal adaptor, not a variety.

Dry clean clothing. Wash and wear. Wash and wear. Wash and wear. Get my point? Even my dressy clothes can be thrown in a washer and hung to dry.

Excessive skin care products. Get an all-in-one cream, or buy one at your destination.

Bon Voyage! Thanks to T&L for tips.

Good Squishy

(“Bad Squishy” will be tomorrow’s post)

I had the greatest flight attendant from Tampa to Raleigh. She was a young Southern girl, tough, super-efficient, quick and polite. I’ve been around young leaders like this before- I’ve experienced them as students, as team leaders, and as hostesses. It was the first time I have ever led a group of people in a round of applause for a flight attendant- we were all in agreement. She was incredible. You would have had to see her in action to understand.

For some inexplicable reason I had a connecting flight in Raleigh, so I was a little kerfuffled. I also had neglected to book first class for my second flight. Must’ve forgotten to tick off that box. No biggie, even I can handle 90-minutes in coach. But I was quickly reminded that I was headed away from the paradise and good manners of sunny Tampa and back to “Chews-and-Then-Spits-Out-Razor-Blades” Philadelphia.

The Tampa airport, if you aren’t aware, is like a pretty mall, with pretty stores selling pretty merch. I saw a fluffy purple unicorn display, a neck massage demo, and the requisite Bose store. Fresh fruit cups and fresh flowers spilled out of ice bucket displays, and friendly baristas were busy concocting delicious frappes and lattes for their adoring public. The flight was as sweet and chipper as our attendant, and when it landed a little late, the attendants had us stay seated so that people trying to catch tight connections could get off first.

Truly a feel-good experience.

Then I boarded my Philly flight. Remember that scene in “Finding Nemo” when Marlin and Dory are playing with the happy light, then realize it’s an anglerfish?

 

 

Yep. Good feeling's gone. Tune in tomorrow for "Bad Squishy."

Flah

Being back in Tampa after three years of being away was both strange and wonderful. There is a saying that the more people you see in an area who are jogging for fun, the higher the rent. And in this case, the higher the price of drinks.

Yeah, Tampa.

The outside deck bar and lounge area were the same- overstuffed chairs overlooking the River Walk and billion-dollar real estate properties nestling in and around 25 million-dollar yachts. The men were still “I run the world during the week, and then I golf, walk my Corgi and sail my yacht on the weekend” gorgeous. Listen, normally about 1 out of 50 men are my type, and that’s being kind. In Tampa, it moves to about 8/10. If I look in one direction, another silver fox sneaks up on me from another direction.

Jeez freaking Louise.

The pool area is the same, as is the conference center. Drink and food prices have skyrocketed so drastically that several members of my dinner party laughed audibly when our separate checks arrived. I got the laugh of the night as I signed for my one glass of Pinot Noir and asked the waiter if a vineyard came with it.

The floating tiki bars and paddleboarders are still floating down the canal, and the requisite bachelor/bachelorette parties once again took over the property, as well as weddings, conventions, and golf conferences, you name it. For a week I enjoyed sitting in the middle of all of that happy buzz, reveling in every minute of beautiful women and men coming and going in their busy lives, all of us just happy to leave the last two years in the past.

I had packed for this same trip in March of 2020, my bags by the door. The Tuesday before my departure, I remember getting a strange email. Something called covid was forcing the directors of the conference to cancel. I remember being baffled by that.

Two years of a dystopian nightmare, and I’m back, in a sort of reclamation kind of state. I thank Tampa for being so welcoming, so constant, and just so… Tampa.

A Dream Deferred Part II

On an innocuous Thursday I was on my way to an appointment, realizing my summer job offer to work in Alaska would be the following day. With dreams of glaciers and bears floating through my mind, I smiled at the thought of not having to spend another loathsome summer in a hot, humid, tourist beach resort, summers that I can no longer endure physically or emotionally.

I sipped coffee and checked my emails before my impending consultation meeting, when my phone rang. I looked down. My youngest son. I answered.

“Mom, where the mozzarella? I’m trying to make pizza.”

“In the bin.”

“No, it’s not. It’s only swiss in there.”

“Oh, well why don’t you try it, you might like it.”

“Ew, no I won’t.”

(Really loud noises through the phone)

“What is that screaming?”

“It’s Dustin. He’s happy because I can’t make my pizza.”

(Hear singing in background: “No mozz for Tommy, tough shit for Tommy, hahahahaha….!!!”

“Put him on.”

“Hold on.”

“Hi Mom.”

“Why are you making fun of your brother?”

“Because it’s funny that he’s so mad right now that there’s no mozzarella cheese in the house.”

“Leave him alone.”

“Fine. Mom, where can I go for breakfast? Like what’s open?”

“How should I know? I’m an hour away, make some calls.”

“Calls? Why would I do that? Calls to where?”

“Wherever you’re thinking of going.”

“I don’t know where I’m going, so how can I call? That’s why I called you.”

“Oh my God, leave me alone.”

“Ok hold on, here’s Tommy again.”

“Mom, can you pick up mozzarella on your way home?”

“I have a meeting, I’m not going to be home for another three hours.”

“That’s o.k.”

“Has it occurred to you to drive five blocks to the supermarket and buy it yourself?”

“My truck is still snowed in.”

“So shovel it out.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Jesus, let me go, bye.”

Hear his voice trailing off…

“…bring home cheese!”

Finish meeting, on way home. Phone rings. Third son, Facetiming me  from his kitchen in Philly.

“Mom.”

“Hi.”

“I have a question about potatoes.”

“What about them?”

“What are these?”

Quick glance down.

“Sprouts.”

“Sprouts?”

“Eyes.”

“Eyes?”

“Why are you repeating everything I say? They’re fine, just pull them off.”

“You’re sure they’re fine?”

“Positive. If you’re so worried, why don’t you go buy new ones?”

“Buy new ones? Why would I do that?”

“Alright, fine. Good luck.”

“Bye Mom.”

I went home that night and removed myself from the candidate pool. I knew if I heard the offer over the phone, I would take it.

I said no. And not because there is still cheese to buy, breakfast to make, and sprouts to pluck. It’s more complicated than that, and I don’t fully understand it myself. I’m not used to saying “no” to myself. So it was a tough call.

But one thing I do know. Alaska is not going anywhere. I’ll get there.

A Dream Deferred Part I

(Disclaimer: This blog is in two parts. And while the content might sound inflammatory to the lay reader who does not know my sons, please be aware that the following material was cleared and approved for publishing by my boys, as they are good sports).

One phone call.

That’s all that separated me from spending the summer of 2022 in Alaska and working at one of the most elite resorts on the Kenai Peninsula. One phone call that would tick off another item on my bucket list: to spend a summer in Alaska.

Choosing to tackle anything great requires forethought, preparation and diligence. Just like scoring tickets for the Masters’ requires a lottery, Groundhog Day advance reservations, and New York Fashion Week calling in every favor you have in your social arsenal and then some, the process for spending the summer in Alaska is arduous.

Planning to work in Alaska for the summer of 2022 has been simmering on my back burner for almost a year. I visited the lodge in 2021, and fell in love with it. I got to know the proprietor and some staff, and the idea began to form in my head: “Why not me?”

Why not me?

When I asked her, the proprietor told me to start early. Send a letter of interest in the fall. Applications open in December. Interviews are in January. You’ll know by February.

I followed all the rules. I wrote a great letter of interest, had a successful Zoom interview with Lantz, bugged all of my friends whose names I had used for references, finally had a great phone interview with Laura.

“Great Mary, we’ll let you know Friday.”

 It was in the bag, so it was time to speak to the most important people in my life to whom I go for all important decisions.

My sons.

A few weeks ago, through some strange twist of fate, all three boys were home at the same time and preparing food in the kitchen. I made them stop, look at me, and focus. You must say this to boys.

“Stop. Look at me. Focus.”

Then I posed the question:

“I’m going to be offered this job. It would be a big commitment for all three of you, taking care of the house for twelve weeks. What do you think? Am I crazy or can we pull it off?”

They all stared at me, and each boy proceeded to give me a different answer. If you know my sons, you might think you know who said what, but you’d be wrong.

Boy 1: (Appraising me, and nodding): “Wow, what a great opportunity. That’s hard to pass up. Not sure about the viability of it, though. Let me think about it and get back to you.”

Boy 2: (Nodding through mouthful of food): “So go. Sounds great.”

Boy 3: (Staring at me): “What’re we gonna do about food?”

One leading with his mind.

One leading with his heart.

One leading with his love for Belgian waffles and sausage links.

By Thursday of that week I had decided to take it, despite the obvious logistical nightmares:

Getting there: If I flew, I would either have no personal transportation or I’d have to do what the young kids do when they get there, which is to buy a clunker for the summer. If I rented or bought a car from here and drove, I’d have to drive through Canada, and Laura told me some horror stories about that situation.

Communal living: What if my roommate talked all the time? Had mental problems? Was a young kid and was shagging all the time? Am I too old for that?

The complete isolation of the lodge: The isolation of the resort is what I loved about it, but without a car, I couldn’t even go out to dinner, or do touristy stuff on my days off unless I caught a van ride.

But I didn’t care about any of that. I decided to say yes and figure logistics out later.

(Part II Monday)

Baby Ellie

To anyone who has ever posted a cute picture of themselves riding an elephant at an elephant sanctuary:

You didn’t visit an elephant sanctuary. You visited a place that profits off of hurting elephants. And you don’t love elephants. If you loved elephants, you would know that you should never, ever, ever, ride them.

First of all, to even get such a huge and powerful animal to let you sit on its back, that elephant’s spirit has to be broken so he will not toss you off. You are sitting on top of a broken animal.

You proud so far?

Second, if you’re riding an elephant, it means that elephant was once wild, but has been caught, trapped and imprisoned. As long as people pay to ride elephants, elephants will continue to be snatched from the wild and from their families.  

Shameful.

Third, it is not unusual for a trapped elephant to be disabled and old, so they are simply worked until they collapse, sometimes up to 20 hours a day. And you are contributing to that elephant’s tortuous life.

Say cheese!

Fourth, elephants can carry diseases that humans can catch. Now you’re endangering the elephant AND yourself.

Moron.

Fifth, just because they’re big and strong doesn’t mean their bodies are designed to carry people, saddles or packs. Your cute little Instagram picture could be contributing to that elephant’s misery in the form of spinal problems and skin sores.

Sheesh.

People who post pictures of themselves riding elephants are just as dumb as Walter Palmer, the dentist who illegally killed Cecil the Lion on a safari. Called “the most hated man on Earth,” Palmer got so many death threats for the killing of Cecil that he had to close his dental practice, change his name and move. But guess what? He’s hunting again, this time rare sheep in Mongolia. He tried to keep himself out of the picture posted on social media, but someone leaked it. He has received more death threats.

I truly love elephants. I am obsessed with them. And one day I am going to visit my favorite elephant sanctuary that specializes in rescuing baby elephants who have lost their families due to poaching, natural events or human interaction, like elephants who sometimes fall down man-made well or ditches.

The sanctuary I am going to would never let you ride an elephant, or even touch them except during supervised visits. For an hour or two a day you are allowed to observe from behind ropes as the babies eat, interact with their caretakers, or play in the mud and water. There is even something you can do where you lie on the ground, and if a baby elephant wants to play with you, you get lucky and he will snuggle with you, rub on you or climb on you like you are his personal jungle gym. But you can’t go near him, he has to come to you, and this is all supervised.

That’s gonna be all me.

Until I go, I donate generously and adopt a baby every few months, and watch him get the care he needs until he is old enough to be let out into the wild sanctuary with the older elephants. They are eventually reintegrated into the wild, but years later bring back their own babies to visit their beloved caretakers, the way students visit their old teachers and coaches.

Stay off those elephants.

I Heart Phil

Milltown Mel died this past Sunday, three days before his big prognostication. And since East Brunswick can’t find another replacement, it looks like Groundhog Day in New Jersey is canceled for 2022.

But don’t worry, there are Groundhog Day celebrations all over the country. I personally have been trying to make it to Gobbler’s Knob in Pennsylvania for ten freaking years.

I want to do the whole thing. I want to stay in the Barclay Bed and Breakfast. I want to sit in a greasy diner, I want to have lunch with Phil, go to the Groundhog Banquet, visit Hogspitality Village, and Party! All! Night! The last celebrated Party All Night! featured Jim Cantore as Master of Ceremonies. I’m still mad at him, but I would have liked to see His Royal Hotness host that celebration.

(The story? You missed it? I was this close {pinching my fingers together} to getting an interview with Jim Cantore. I got in touch with his agent, and then Jim left a voicemail on my phone to schedule it. By the time I called him back, he had blocked me. Why call me then?!! Who is he to not call me?!!! One day I will tell him to his face what I think of the way he treated me).

What am I going to say to him, you ask? I’m going for something along these lines:

Anyway, every time I try to make reservations for GHD, something gets in the way. It was wrestling tournaments for the longest time. Then ski trips. Then I couldn’t get my husband to go. Then the pandemic spoiled the fun. Now my work schedule is too chaotic.

What’s it gonna take for me and Phil to finally meet?

And scoff if you will, but Groundhog Day is a big deal in Pennsylvania. You can’t just decide to stay in Punxsutawney at the last minute. Reservations need to be made, spots claimed, plans made.

If I’m gonna do it, I’m gonna do it right.

2023 is my year.

The Cost of Resetting

Want to reset in Telluride?

Hell yes, I thought to myself, as I clicked on the Instagram link. The private, ultra-luxury wellness and trekking retreat promised to give me a week that would change my life.

You know I’m always up for life-changing experiences, and since I have ten days to decide if I’m going to travel in February or work, I’m investigating all possibilities.

This seems promising, I thought. I’ve never been to Telluride. I kept clicking.

Half-day treks, chef-designed cuisine, restorative therapies and spa services. Break out of tired patterns. Tap into your highest potential.

Yeah, baby, Mary likey.

I kept scrolling. And scrolling and scrolling and scrolling. You know what this means as well as I do. They were building up the program before they revealed the price.

Want to take a guess? Let’s look at it this way: Including tip, breakfast out for a family of four now costs about $100, dinner out between $200-$300. A week’s worth of groceries for a family of four now costs about $300. I used to fill my tank for $35, now it costs $60. I got my kid Panera bread last week on the way home from a consultation, and three small items were $30.

(Side shopping note: if you’re a woman who likes to shop, join the Nordy club. I popped into Nordstrom over the weekend, and found a belted sweater that would look good with my leggings and boots, and was pleased to find out I had a $50 note. I took that sweater home for nothing. It’s worth it)

In the book Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell, there’s a rule that goes like this: it takes 10,000 hours of intensive practice to achieve mastery of complex skills and materials, like playing the violin or getting as good as Bill Gates at computer programming.

For example, if you’re a teacher, you’re teaching 30 hours a week, not including meal breaks, meetings, grading papers or outside improvement activities. You’re in the classroom about 35 weeks a year, which equates to about 1,050 hours a year. So if using Gladwell’s theory, it would take the average teacher about 10 years to reach mastery.

Take it from an educator: that’s about right. If anything, in ten years you simply have control and structure. Artistry takes longer.

Then there’s the song, “10,000 Hours” by Justin Bieber and Dan and Shay. Apparently it takes 10,000 hours and 10,000 more to really know a girl’s heart. So if you marry her, you can expect to sort of understand her in six years, with an added cushion of another six. Again, sounds right.

If you haven’t guessed it yet, yes: resetting in Telluride costs just under $10,000. It promises:

5 sunrises (not enough)

15 trail mates (too many)

70,000 steps (that’s about .07 cents a step, or is my math wrong?)

I commend them for trying. The travel industry will probably never recover from the nonsense of the last three years, or at the very least for many years to come. Expedia owes me flight credits, won’t take my phone calls, and have refused to reimburse me for trips that were cancelled due to Covid. They refuse to reimburse anyone, for that matter. That’s what bankruptcy looks like.  

Shame.

Nevertheless, is it possible that resetting can be had for less than $10,000? Tune in tomorrow.

Spring break is gonna be slamming. For the love of God I hope it gets here soon.

(Note: the pesky, finicky Universe has decided for me, as it often does, as to my fate in February. Looking like work, folks. I’m glad for it, but spring break can’t get here soon enough).

Home Base

There was a video circulating on Instagram of a thirty-something man packing boxes and looking around his childhood home as he gets ready to vacate. As he looks from room-to-room, he doesn’t see empty shelves and bare walls. He sees shadows of memories.

Family game night.

The beloved family golden retriever snuggling with the family on the couch.

Happy Christmas mornings.

Silly hi-jinx with siblings.

Pillow forts in the living room, army men battles, video game contests, piggy-back rides, and laughter. Always laughter. As he flips off the light, the video flashes to his father.

“Ready?” his father asks.

He slightly nods, but the answer was clear.

No.

No “child” with a happy childhood is ever ready to move out of his childhood home. I myself look around my living room as I write, and I see this:

The back room where we set up the ball pit when they were toddlers.

The dining room table where heated games of Monopoly, Clue, Jenga, Poker and Risk were played (and still are).

Their three stools at the kitchen island, where millions of talks took place. Talks about life, death, love, education, sports, disappointment and acceptance. I can’t even look at those stools without hearing their laughter echo through the house, at their simple joy of being together.

The corner of the hearth where our dog Mojo laid on the first day we brought him home. When he was full-grown he could barely fit even his head there, but he always tried and always seemed surprised that he wasn’t that little fluffy puppy anymore.

The ballustrades that they would hang from like they were Captain Sparrow.

The spot where they built pillow forts.

The wall in the kitchen that has pencil skritches and initials for height checks.

And the yard. Football catches, baseball catches, kickball games, miniature golf tournaments, Halloween displays, Manhunt wars, laid-back patio hangouts, summer cookouts with paper plates, sidewalk chalk, bike rides, light saber wars, plastic Fisher Price cars, drone experiments, surfboard waxing, and always, always, always, hordes of kids, even now.

I appeared as a guest on a New Jersey podcast last week, and we discussed how hard it is for older parents who have outgrown an area and want to move on, but our children still come home. We want to see the world, but we also want to keep the childhood home as a touchstone for our children, keep it as a place they can return to, again and again, to seek safe haven from the world, even for a brief respite. Another guest laughed while describing her joy at watching her “kids” return for holidays and immediately pull open the refrigerator door.

“Isn’t that silly?” she asked. “I love watching them bang through the front door and pull open the refrigerator. It’s such an intimate gesture, only something our kids do.”

We all agreed that the stuff our kids do kills us. The way they come home and flop down on the couch. How they love the smell of your candles, or what you’re cooking, or of your fresh coffee. The way they begin stalking around the room, making phone calls and plans with their friends. The sound of their music while they shower. My favorite?

When I’m downstairs working or cooking or listening to music, and the three of them are all upstairs, and I can hear them laughing at something that has nothing to do with me. They have always spoken their own “brother” language and have always had their secrets. Just hearing them mumble from their three rooms and crack each other up melts my heart like an ice cube in July.

So if we can’t or won’t sell, we compromise. Most of the time somewhere else, holidays here, travel in-between. And that is where I reside at this juncture in my life.

I ain’t selling my house.

So as I tie up the last few loose ends of my life here in Jersey, I join the ranks of many other older Americans who can enjoy the best of both worlds. That of the thrill of travel and independence, and that of the warmth and comfort of home. I leave these streets, these skies, these sidewalks to the young families who live all around me, who are busy raising their children in a lovely community. But ultimately, it’s time to move on.

And nothing could be better.