Happy Valentines Day

I was in my late 30s.  I had had several, many, tons of failed relationships.  I was working in the Mortgage Banking business.  Hanging out with Carrie.  I had resigned myself to a single life.  I was okay with that. 

I was at a crossroads.  David had moved out of our shared apartment, and on into a new life.  I needed to move on.  Lou Ciullo counselled me.  He said, why pay rent.  Buy. Buy. Buy.  So I put my energies into finding a new place to live.

It didn't take long for me to fall in love with a condo in North Brunswick.  As with so many things in my life, my timing was impeccable.  I bought it for a great price.  I closed on it in Mark Lybeck's office; drank my first single malt that afternoon.  Moved in shortly before Thanksgiving, 1992.

Carrie counselled me.  She said, place a personal ad.  And so I did. My ad read: "Single, Jewish Female.  Fun and Cute.  Seeks single Jewish Male who's never owned a leisure suit".

1993.  Before online dating.  Before cell phones. 

It worked like this.  My ad was in the Star Ledger, along with an 800 number for my suitors to call.  When they called, they got my voice saying this:  (it's a line from a movie; I don't know which.  I got it from Dawn) "At the sound of the tone, tell me everything".  I had a number to call to listen to my messages.

I got many responses.  I made a few mistakes.  There was a man who I agreed to meet for dinner.  He carried a pink sweater, in case he was cold in the restaurant.  He left me cold in my heart.  I picked up the dinner tab, as I didn't want to be beholden to him.  I learned from that mistake.

There was a guy who lived close by to me.  In my new digs.  We had some fun phone chats, I liked him, agreed to meet him.  We went out a few times.  While we were dating, Mike left me a message.  I called him back.  Said, thank you for calling but I just met someone, and I want to give this a chance.  He said, I hope that it works for you, but please keep my number.  If it doesn't.  But good luck.

The local  boy proved to  be a disaster; something about pornography and white cotton panties.  Perfectly acceptable perhaps at some point, but not before the third date.  So I said good bye to him,and called Mike. Mike was happy to hear from me, but he was just getting ready to leave the country.  He said he would call me when he returned.

I went back to my voice mail.  I talked to a Jewish, divorced motorcyle guy.  Not my type; I was into suits at the time, but hey, I figured.  I'll try it.  By this time, I'd worked out a routine.  No more dinners for me; I said, meet me at the mall.  In front of Nordstroms, lower level.    I got to the mall, entered Nordstroms through the upper level, and took the escalator down. 

Here is another of those confessions that I'm not particularly proud of:  As I was riding down the escalator, I could see him, and I knew, just knew that I couldn't go through with it.  I walked right by him, into Nordstroms, and out the main door.  Remember...before cell phones.  When I got home I called him and LIED.  I don't often lie, but I did to him.  I told him that I'd gotten hung up at work and wasn't able to do the meet.  He asked me out for a different night,and I compounded my lies.  I ran into him several weeks later when Dawn and I did our annual March of Dimes Walkathon.  He was one of the Blue Angels working the traffic.  I knew he didn't know me, but Dawn teased me relentlessly; she was going to call him over and introduce me.

I swore off dating.

But then, Mike came back from his vacation, and true to his word, he called me.  I probably shared my dating nightmares with him; I remember he had some of his own.  We took it very slowly.  We talked.  And we talked.  He'd call me from work....we'd be on the phone for hours....he'd put me on hold, come back to me, hold, back, hold back.  We learned so much of each other during our chats.  He was from Union, I was from Irvington.  I'd gone to school with one of his best friends, our music collections were virtually identical.  His mother had known, and played mah jongg with, my mother. 

We set a date.  June 2, 1993.  I was working in the mortgage business.  Sharing an office with Donna Herzog.  I was meeting Mike at the mall.  In front of Nordstroms.  I was wearing a denim mini skirt.  T shirt.  Sandals.  I didn't freshen my makeup.  I nearly cancelled the date.  Donna counselled me.  She said, the man gave up Knicks playoff tickets to take you out.  You can't cancel.  I didn't.

 Later, Mike said to me, I have a confession.  I asked what.  He said, I used to own a leisure suit.   I married him anyway.

Happy Valentine's Day, Mickey.

David...this is how I met your dad.

Today I am a Mensch

Jewish boys are said to pass into manhood on the occasion of their Bar Mitzvahs. The passage is marked by the chanting of a Haftorah, the reading of the weekly Torah portion, a speech, and in some cases, an elaborate party. You wake up the morning of, a little boy, and at the end of the service, you are officially proclaimed a man. 

David took his first step towards this milestone during this snowstorm.

With Mike stuck at work, David took his role as 'man of the house' very seriously, and kept our driveway clear.  We didn't expect him to get home until tomorrow (that would be Friday, February 12) morning, but he called at 7 am to say he was on his way.  Although we'd shovelled twice yesterday, we had another 6 inches or so of very heavy snow accumulated.  I knew that we would have to clear the driveway one more time so Mike would have a place to put his car after his 60 hour shift!

I started on my own, thinking that I'd let David sleep.  But this 54 year old body just wasn't up to the challenge, so I came in and woke David.  He got up, got dressed, grabbed a shovel, and finished the job.  And he did it without question or complaint.

Today, I am a proud mommy.

Oh, and he still had time for some plain old kid fun.

Happy Groundhog Day

To some, Groundhog Day is the celebration of the end of winter.  Or the reminder that there's still more winter ahead of us.  To me, it's the celebration of the life of a dear friend.

Carrie loved Groundhog Day.  It was her favorite holiday.

I met Carrie years ago, early in my career in mortgage banking.  Carrie was beautiful, and flawed, and quirky, and we immediately became fast friends.  She was one of those astoundingly attractive women who did not get by on her looks.  As a matter of fact, she was refreshingly unaware of her affect on others.  And as beautiful as she was, her hands were always a mess; she was always working on one project or another.  She'd tackle anything!

I spent a large part of my single, adult life with Carrie.  We only worked together for a short time, but we continued on as friends.  We had common interests; we'd get together to bake, or can and preserve, or taste wine, or antique, or vacation.  Or do other stuff.  Carrie was the godmother to my cats, Ricky and Lucy.  Carrie organized my cat shower, when I decided I'd adopt them.

Cats were one of Carrie's passions.  She always had cats; always rescued cats; always turned those close to her into cat people.  One of my favorites of her cats was Meatloaf, a big, fat grey tabby cat.  And then there was Arlene.  May she rest in peace, Arlene was one of the ugliest cats I've ever seen.  And she had a terrible flatulence problem. Arlene could, and often did, clear rooms.

Carrie met and married John, and still our friendship remained intact.  As a matter of fact, I saw the movie Groundhog Day with John and Carrie.  Their marriage didn't last.  Our friendship did.  For a while.

Carrie always chose quirky living quarters; no simple apartment complex for her.  There was the storefront in Lambertville before she married John, and the three family in the Berg in Trenton with the funky floor plan after.  To this day though, I covet the home she shared with John in downtown Trenton; a brick, center hall colonial complete with a garret and a butler's pantry.

Sadly, I was the one who blew up the friendship. I'd never, ever done before what I did to Carrie.  I let a man, in this case, my husband, come between me and a friend.  That Carrie even came to our wedding, after what I'd done to her, still astounds me.

I was working at yet another mortgage job when Mike called me with the sad news that Carrie had died. She was 43.  She was still unbelievably beautiful.  She had found her next true love, and was living her dream with him.  We had found peace in our friendship.

She had been having stomach pains, he told me, that she'd ignored.  By the time she went to see a doctor about them, the cancer had spread, and it was inoperable.

I never got to tell her how much I loved her.

I never got to tell her goodbye.  Missing you, Carrie.