Not to scale.

I did something last weekend that I never, ever do. That goes against every bone in my body. (And no, it’s not some Tantric sex thing.)

I arrived in a town without a hotel reservation for the weekend.

Ay Dios mio.

Or as my people would say: Oy vey.

The town was Key West which is only a 5 hour drive for us and my husband and I go there at least once a year. The only problem with the weekend we picked? There weren’t a lot of rooms available and what there was seemed really expensive.

I am a planner. I make long lists of things to do. Send myself emails so that nothing falls between the cracks. Lie in bed with my mind humming with thoughts of what might happen if I forget to wash my towels tomorrow.

Needless to say the thought of winging it on a weekend made me nervous. (Though I think that I’ve gotten better about it in my older age.)

But I admit it. At first, I was totally stressed out. Who goes on a trip without having their hotel room all figured out? (Rhetorical. I know people do actually do this.)

I had to have a long talk with myself and say, “Self, there’s nothing to worry about. Hubs said he would be in charge of this. And he promised me that we wouldn’t be sleeping in our car.”

Seriously, what’s the worst thing that could happen. It couldn’t be any worse than my last trip to Las Vegas.

Hubs’ plan was for us to get down there on Friday afternoon, park the car and walk in and out of places until we found someplace to stay. Luckily, I mentioned this plan to my mom who had a better idea: To call the Key West Innkeepers Association’s 800 number. The organization functions as a clearinghouse for over 100 of the B&Bs and hotels on the island. Last minute availability? They know what’s there.

The Frances Street Bottle Inn

So the minute we pulled in to town, we gave them a call. (Though you can call them in advance.) We ended up in Old Town, right where we wanted to be, at a bed and breakfast called the The Frances Street Bottle Inn, owned by the uniquely charming Mark Kohler. The inn has a big porch surrounded by large trees and is on a quiet street. Our room had a private entrance and a king size bed. It was clean and comfortable. Problem was, Mark didn’t have anything available for Saturday night. His parents were coming in to town and he wouldn’t make them sleep on the couch. So we had to ante up a bit and get a room at the Casa Marina Resort on the other side of the island.

The Casa Marina Resort

The Casa Marina is a historic hotel built by Henry Flagler that opened in 1920, seven years after he died. It’s truly a beautiful and luxurious property with two pools and a beach. Since we weren’t planning on spending too much time there, it seemed a bit of a waste of money. But our options were slim so we took it. We were there less than 20 hours and slept for a good part of that time. But the bed was fabulously comfortable and I would have been more than happy to stay there another night. If familial duties hadn’t beckoned to us back at home.

Once I knew where we were going to be sleeping, I was able to relax. And we did some of the things that we love to do when we are in Key West.

• Walk around Old Town and admire the architecture.
• Do a lot (and I mean a lot) of people watching.
• See the glorious sunset from Mallory Square.
• Eat two amazing meals at Santiago’s Bodega (because one was not enough) and one at Cafe Sole.
• Hold hands and make out in public.
• Sleep in both mornings.
• And of course, become intimate with one another. Again. And again. And maybe one more time.

I think I’m over my fear of traveling by the seat of my pants. Wonder where we’re going to go next?

Saturday night’s sunset.

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The new refrigerator. Isn’t she a beauty? Wonder how long I’ll leave the yellow stickies on her.

My refrigerator died two and a half weeks ago. After 14 years, almost to the day, the poor thing had finally had enough. And its death was not surprising.

My family worked that fridge hard. Babies to teens. First marriage to a second one. While all around it, things changed. New paint color. New flooring. Two new dishwashers.

For the last four years, the ice-maker has been broken. If you came to my house, you probably wouldn’t have known it didn’t work. We still got ice out of the chute on the door but only after we had frozen water in trays and dumped them in to the receptacle inside. We called it Polish ice.

(Hubs is Polish. He came up with that name. And he made most of the ice. Our kids are lazy and would rather drink warm water than make the ice.)

We are lucky because we have an old fashioned fridge, with the freezer on top, in our detached garage. We use it primarily for drinks and poultry that we buy in bulk. So the Saturday night we discovered that the fridge was dying, we were able to move everything out there.

Then we went online to order a new fridge. No big deal, right? The space where our refrigerator lives is on the smaller size so we were limited to what would actually fit. There was one that we liked, and our neighbors had the same one, so we ordered it.

At first, the delivery date was four days later. Ok, I could live with that. A day after that, the delivery had been pushed back for another week. Hmm. And then, over two weeks later.

But I didn’t want to start the search all over. And Home Depot had the lowest price. So we decided to wait. And wait. And wait.

In the meantime, every school morning, at 5:30 am, I was in and out of the house. Going back and forth between the kitchen and the garage. Bypassing the Sanford and Son-esque mess on my back porch. Bikes, propane tank, the backs to the front seats of my 1999 Audi, an old guitar case and two pairs of Rollerblades. Not to mention a case of paper towels that I dislike and refuse to use because they are non-absorbent.

In and out. Taking a coffee cup out there to fill up with milk. Half-asleep. Plus a pyrex cup to fill with more milk to make my kid hot chocolate. Fifteen minutes later, I would be back out there gathering the fixings to make the first breakfast of the morning.

Scrambled eggs with cheese for breakfast for the early high school kid. Plus orange juice. Then I would have to put everything back for an hour until it was time to make pancakes for the later middle school kid.

With the door chiming each time while the other members of my household slept soundly.

In and out.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I got sick of it pretty quickly. Especially each time the storm door hit my arm and made me slosh a little milk on to the floor. Or drop an egg. Or when I would forget the butter and have to go outside again.

But then yesterday, something magical happened. Home Depot showed up. When they said they would.

And now I am the proud owner of a new fridge. And I can’t stop thinking about it. I didn’t even want to go to work yesterday. I just wanted to stay home and hang out with my appliance, drink cold water out of the door and listen to the ice cubes drop.

I’m so happy. And relaxed. I honestly didn’t think a new appliance could make me feel this way. Like I just got laid.

I know. There’s something wrong with me. But you already knew that.

Four of my favorite pictures from the old fridge:
My kids when they were little and the second best cartoon from The New Yorker.
(Note the grease marks and stains.)

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Three generations

It started with the feet.

A few years ago, my daughter started sharing my shoes. Flip flops and sandals but not my wedges. Too young for that.

She got her ears pierced and she started wearing some of my earrings. And the diamond necklace I got from her father after she was born. (Only for special occasions.)

Then she started trolling through my closet. Little cardigans. Camisoles. Sweatshirts.

Now she’s passed me in height. Just a little taller. But she has some more growing to do.

And we’ve started sharing boxes of tampons. Bought from Costco in bulk.

I don’t mind sharing things with her. Sharing everything with her.

And now that I’m here, in this place as the mother of a daughter, I understand why my mother has always shared her things with me. Well, more than just shares. Generously gives. Her new striped cardigan with the tags still on it. Her blow-dryer whose power I admired. The best garlic press ever that isn’t made anymore.

And it’s not just material things. We lend our ears. Our shoulders. We give our hearts. Even when we don’t get back the same.

No matter what, we’re always there when our kids come back for more. Because they always do. Even after they’re all grown-up, married with kids, divorced and re-married.

This is what mothers do.

Thanks Mom. For this. And for showing me how to be a good mom.

Happy Mother’s Day.

I love you.

My new favorite striped cardigan.
Thanks Mom!

PS And yes, I am a mother to a son as well. That’s a whole other thing. For another day.

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Big Sean on the stage at Sunfest 2013

My daughter and I went to see Big Sean last Thursday night.

Yes, Big Sean. The rapper who sings Dance A$$ with Nicki Minaj. Who denigrates women with his lyrics.

My almost 14 year-old kid has a thing for rappers. And explicit music.

And that makes me uncomfortable. Sometimes.

But it opens up a lot of conversations about respecting yourself, being with people who are respectful and making it clear that your body belongs to you and nobody else. And as much as I dislike some of the lyrics? Well, I like the conversations.

When the line-up for Sunfest, our local music festival, came out, and I told her that Big Sean was playing, she started crying tears of joy. Really.

My daughter is tough. And I don’t mean like rough and tough. I mean she’s a teenage girl and she’s tough with me. Hormones, becoming more independent, hormones, trying to find her self. She’s got all of that going on.

So if there’s something that she is enthusiastic about, that she wants to share with me, her 47 year-old mother, then I’m going to do it. (I have my limits. Belly button piercing, tattoos, and nipple rings are all out. Just kidding about the nipple rings. I mean, they’re out but that’s not something she’s asked for.)

So I told her we would go. WE. Me and her. Which wasn’t even a question in her mind. She wanted to go with me. (Yea!!)

I paid extra money for us to be in the reserved area right in front of the stage. Big Sean sings a lot about drinking and smoking pot so I figured that the kind of crowd he would draw would be one that I would want my kid to be a little isolated from.

And when we got to the stage, we were really pleasantly surprised by the set-up. The Stand, as they call it, was a nice sized area blocked off from the rest of the crowd with a barricade. We could almost touch the stage. And it wasn’t very crowded. Unlike the general attendance area behind us. We even felt a little bit like VIPs.

(Did I mention that there were torrential downpours that night? I was wearing rain boots and a poncho. And looked like a drowned rat. The oldest drowned rat there. And my kid was the youngest.)

Once we were settled in to our spot, my daughter turned to me and said, “I’m so excited that I’m shaking.”

Then she asked me what that smell was and we got to have a conversation about marijuana. I was happy to have the conversation with her. And even happier that she hadn’t known what the smell was. (She’s going to high school in a few months. It’s going to come up sooner or later.)

And then Big Sean came out and started doing his thing. And though it’s not my thing, I got in to it. I raised my hands up. I pumped my fist in the air. And cringed when he put his hands down his pants and said explicit things like f#@k and pussy though not in the same sentence.

There was my kid singing along the whole time. Doing that rap body bob, back and forth.

And in an hour, it was over. Relatively painless for me. Heavenly for her.

We stopped on the way home to get a take-out pizza. And came back to the house to sit in the den, have a late dinner  and look through the pictures and the videos from the night. She went to bed bubbling over about how this was the greatest night of her life.

And how much she loves me. And thank you mommy for taking me.

The next night we went back to Sunfest, doing a complete 180, and heard Ed Sheeran play. He’s the red-headed British pop singer who sings the hit The A Team about a drug addicted prostitute. Sheeran was nominated for a Grammy for that song.

(I guess no one sings about puppies and rainbows anymore.)

I know there are other parents who might be in disbelief that I took my daughter to see Big Sean. Especially when there are so many other things that I’m strict about. The clothes she wears. The places she’s allowed to go with her friends. The amount of time she spends on social media.

And my thoughts about her listening to this type of music? I’m not thrilled with it. But she’s going to find a way to listen to it no matter what I do. Radio is free.

So go ahead. Judge me. Or better yet, don’t. I don’t judge you when your kid shows up at my house with her ass hanging out of her shorts. Or when I see the language she uses on her Facebook page. Or when the selfie she posts on Instagram shows her midriff and she has a way too mature come hither look on her face.

We’re all just trying to raise our kids the best that we can.

I know my kid. I pick my battles. She and I talk about most everything. Including Big Sean and his lyrics. And I love that about our relationship. She does too.

Our conversation is never-ending.

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Inviting but not at 4:00 in the afternoon.

I am a new woman.

No, I didn’t have a boob lift.

And no, I haven’t lost those 10 lingering pounds.

And most definitely not because I’ve discarded my identity and am starting over in Las Vegas. (Though that does sound appealing at times.)

I’m a new woman because I’ve decided to do this one little thing every single day. One little thing that will give me a fresh outlook on life. That will calm my sometimes fraying nerves. And that might even get my husband laid more often.

I’m making my bed each and every day.

You might think that this is a little extreme. After all it’s just a bed. Just the place where, most of the time, you sleep. And sometimes you experience ecstasy. Both by yourself and alone. (Those books in the closet help.)

But something happens to me when I walk in to my bedroom and see the bed, tucked in to its little alcove, all made up. With the eight pillows, including those two dark grey furry squares that I got from Target for $6.99 each, positioned just so.

It makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something.

It calms me.

Seriously. The serenity of a made bed even helps me when I’m PMS-ing.

And at the end of the day when I take off all of the extra pillows, pull down the covers and slide under the sheets, it just feels right. The sheets aren’t tangled up by my feet. The comforter is in the right place.

I sleep better.

Now if I could just get those rascally kids to make theirs. Oh well. I guess that’s why their bedrooms have doors.

All made up. Serenity now.

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(Partial) Class of 1983

What to wear?

Are my roots showing?

Do I need to get my mustache waxed?

These were some of the things that I was thinking about in the days before my 30 year high school reunion.

Then, of course, there were also these thoughts: Who’s going to show up? Will the women all be fat and the men bald? Will my first, second and third crushes be there? Will I still think they are cute?

After changing my outfit twice, applying HD foundation and borrowing a few things from my mother, I walked in to my reunion. Almost thirty years to the day after my graduation.

And it wasn’t what I had expected.

I don’t keep in touch with many people from high school. Other than my BFF, I keep up with a few here and there through Facebook.

So my expectation was that sure, it would be nice to see some of my classmates. And interesting to see some of the others.

But what I got was so much more.

And I’m kind of embarrassed that I thought it would be otherwise.

The night was cozy. And comfortable. And filled with lots of laughs.

I mean these are people who I knew from the time I was in 7th grade. Young. We were a small class. Less than 90 kids. And we grew up together: physically and emotionally.

I went through all of my teenage milestones with them. The first time I got high. The first time I got drunk. And threw up at a party. The first time I obsessed about a boy. The second time I obsessed about a boy.

There were heartbreaks and triumphs. We had parents who got divorced. There were people around us who died.

And then we graduated together, heading out in to the world to all do our own thing.

I had forgotten how close I felt to these people, my classmates. Who I know since way back when.

The evening went by too quickly. Way too quickly. I could have stayed longer, playing musical chairs as the evening wore on, moving around the room to talk to everyone who was there.

It was a very memorable, boisterous night. Hair catching on fire. Hand shadow dogs barking at our senior picture slideshow. A few broken wine glasses. And a bromance.

My husband, who didn’t go to school with us and only knew two other people walking in to the party, had the time of his life. He said it almost felt like it was his reunion.

And while the girls looked good. Really good. The boys? Wow, they looked even better. Sure, some of them had a little less hair but what a handsome bunch.

I woke up the next morning smiling. Running through my head were thoughts of all those I had talked to. What a reunion.

Class of 1983, you are awesome. And forever in my heart.

What a difference 30 years makes. Or does it?

Top Image via Mycki Ratzan

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Me and my BFF. Graduation Day 1983. I liked her dress better. Yes, they’re different. Slightly.

I’m going home this weekend for my high school reunion.

I graduated 30 years ago.

Thirty years is a long time.

A really, really long time.

I don’t keep in touch with too many people from high school, though my memories are fond.

I was a little shy then. And definitely a late bloomer.

But still, I enjoyed my high school years.

The Scarsdale Diet. Getting boobs. Drinking Tab. The big hair. Playing softball. Coveting my best friend’s blue velvet Calvin Klein pants.

(It’s a wonder I never had a boyfriend in high school.)

Of course, a lot has happened since then.

I’d like to think I’ve changed. For example, I’m no longer shy and I don’t drink diet soda. Though sometimes I still have big hair. And think about those pants.

Here’s kind of the Cliffs Notes version of my life since then:

I went to college and lost my virginity. (Yes, in that order.)

I backpacked through Europe with my BFF.

Then settled in NYC. (In a one bedroom illegal sublet. Got evicted on April Fools’ Day.)

I worked at Bloomingdale’s. (In the men’s underwear department.)

Then went to graduate school. (For an MBA not an Mrs.)

I worked for a newspaper.

And got married. (For the first time.)

My son was born. (My little monkey-boy.)

I moved back to South Florida. (But not to Miami.)

Then had a daughter.

I got divorced.

And was happy. (Boy, was I happy.)

I started working as a bookkeeper.

Thought about being a writer.

Fell in love and got married. (Again.)

Blended a family.

Became a writer.

And am still happy. (Most of the time. Except for when my teens are mouthy and the laundry is piled too high. Oh, and when my husband snores.)

This isn’t where I thought I would be but I’m happy it’s where I ended up.

And I’m looking forward to hearing about the lives of my classmates. I hope they’re happy where they ended up too.

Me and my brother. Prom 1982. No, we didn’t go together. He went with our now stepsister. I went with my 6th grade boyfriend.

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Watching a movie. At home. (2006)

Talk about a role reversal.

This past Saturday, all three of our teens went to the movies.

Without us.

The 16 year-old boy had asked if we could drop him off at the theater so he could meet up with a half a dozen of his friends from high school.

Sure.

But then his 14 year-old sister and his 15 year-old stepsister said that they wanted to go too.

Which of course, their brother tried to kibosh.

(He’s at the age where he still sees his younger sisters as liabilities. I told him that when they’re all a little older, he just might want them around. Especially if their cute friends are with them.)

After some negotiation, where it was agreed that the girls would stay far away from their brother and his friends, an equal amount of money was disbursed and I drove them all to the movie theater.

This was a first time occurrence for me and my hubs. Yes, the kids have all been to the movies by themselves, at different times.

But to have all three of them out on a Saturday night just felt odd.

Especially when I realized that we had just given them $20 each. That’s a total of 60 bucks. Just for the three of them to go to the movies and get something to eat.

Seriously?

Well now what we were supposed to do? Go out to dinner and drop another $60?

And it was only then that I realized the role reversal going on.

When our kids were little, we would occasionally get a sitter and go out. (Only occasionally because every other weekend the three of ours were with their other parents. Divorce and all.)

Now we had just given the money that we used to give to the sitter to the kids.

And we were going to be the ones staying at home. Eating leftovers.

Hmm.

We ended up making the most of our few hours of quiet time. We sat on the front porch for a while and shared a bottle of wine. We ate some leftovers. And for entertainment, we watched Anthony Bourdain’s new show, The Layover, on the computer. (It was the Seattle episode. I’ve never been there and now I definitely want to go.)

I don’t think a repeat $60 movie night is anywhere in our kids’ near future.

Unless of course, they all get jobs.

In the meantime, they can invite their friends here, rent a movie and eat our leftovers.

And we’ll sit out on the front porch and share another bottle of wine. (Because that was really nice. Until it got buggy.)

Sounds fair, right?

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Hoover Dam 2011

Sometimes, I worry about sex.

Yes, me. I know, it’s odd. Right?

I mean, I’ve written about sex a lot. I’ve reviewed multitudes of sex toys. I’ve even used the term “anal” here a few times. (Gasp!)

But here are two of my worries.

One, I worry that I don’t put out enough.

Sure, hubs and I go through active periods. Thursday nights when the kids aren’t with us. Every other weekend when the kids aren’t with us. When we go on vacation and the kids aren’t with us. (Note the no kids theme.)

But we miss some opportunities here and there. Not in the mood. Mind too full of other stuff. Too tired. Shouldn’t have had that second dirty martini. And that half a bottle of red wine.

And two, I worry that my husband may not want to bone me because, well, I’m not in good shape right now. Yes, I said it. I’m a few or ten pounds overweight and I’m not even finding myself attractive. (Did you know that you can gain weight in your vagina?)

Sure sometimes I look at my ass in the mirror and think, “Yeah, I’d tap that.”

(Sorry, I’ve been listening to my kid’s inappropriate music. Some how, it makes it seem better if we’re listening to it together. Don’t judge.)

But then other times, I look in the mirror and all I see are love handles, saggy breasts and a pouchy middle-aged C-section stomach.

But the other morning, for a few minutes, I didn’t worry about putting out or the shape of my body.

We had just had sex for the first time in two weeks because first, my husband had been out of town. (He went to Las Vegas with two guy friends.)

And then I had been out of town, in Northern California, visiting my brother. When I got back, I was jet-lagged, felt fat from all of the artisanal eating and hadn’t groomed myself in a week because well, I was traveling without my husband and sleeping by myself.

Plus, there were too many kids in the house.

But last Sunday morning we were finally alone. We had slept in and were just lying in bed. And I knew what was coming.

I’ll spare you the XXX rated details. No TMFI here. I’ll just say that it was worth waiting for all of stars to align and for all of those stars to get the fuck out of the house.

After, we were downstairs, dressed and ready to go on a nice long power walk together. My hair was up, which it hardly ever is. I had no makeup on, just sunscreen. And my hubs looked at me long and hard and said to me, “You’re really pretty.”

My first thought was he’s just saying that because he wants to have sex with me. But then I remembered that we had just had sex.

My response? “Well, at least I know you mean it because you’ve already gotten laid.”

And with that we walked out the door.

True love. No worries.

 ”A match made, if not in heaven, then somewhere else where some Divine Being has a sick, but wonderful, sense of humor.”

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My heart is beating rapidly but all I’ve done is walk up the stairs.

My head is full of things I have to get done.

I actually have a pain on one side of my brain and I’m contemplating waking my husband up and telling him that I’m having a stroke.

But I decide if it’s my time, then it’s my time. And my thoughts move on to more important things:

Let’s see, I have to return those two library books that are overdue. I think I owe 30 cents.

I must make an appointment for my annual exam.

Did I leave the garage door open?

I need to wash the towels.

I can’t forget to buy more steel cut oats when I go to the grocery store tomorrow.

Needless to say, I can’t sleep because this goes on for most the night until I decide to get up and start my day.

I come downstairs and make my coffee. I’m going to need it.

I feel like I’m in a panic.

Out of control.

My stomach hurts.

Things that don’t usually bother me? They’re making me crazy.

The house feels messy.

There’s my bag by the stairs filled with clothes from our short weekend trip to Miami for my niece’s Bat Mitzvah. But there are only a few things in it. Shouldn’t be a big deal.

There’s laundry overflowing the basket but there’s always laundry to be done so that shouldn’t bother me too much.

The sound of my husband blowing out his nose in the bathroom is making my hair stand up. But he does this every morning and I’m usually okay with it.

My kid is moving slowly this morning. Again. I’m going to explode if I have to tell her to hurry up or she’ll be late again.

Everything is amplified a million times and I don’t even know how I’m going to make it through the day.

Until I realize.

I’m due to get my period this week.

Everything makes sense now. (Except for the fact that at the age of 47, I should recognize this feeling more quickly.)

I mention this to my daughter as I’m driving her to school. (Late.) Thinking that, by my sharing this, it’ll help her understand the feeling when it happens to her.

But she just says, “I figured that’s what was going on. And I’m sorry I was late.”

And just like that, I feel better. Not normal but better.

So fuck you PMS.

I’m going for a run and you can go to hell.

Until, of course, I see you again next month.

How I felt this morning.

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