When a Woman Lies

I was flipping through the television channels on Sunday night when I stumbled on Oprah’s Master Class. Iyanla Vanzant was on. She was saying that men and women lie about things differently. Men lie to bolster themselves—to appear better than they are. Men lie to make themselves look good in front of others—irrespective of  feelings.

Women are motivated by other factors.

They lie to diffuse and distract. Women lie to draw attention away from themselves—to appear less than what they are. Their lying is tied to empathy—they do not want others to feel badly.

At a recent gathering with girlfriends, one woman was describing an amazing event that she had been invited to. And while discussing what to wear and how to accessorize it, another friend said in a very complimentary way If you need help you can always ask Karen.

I was completely uncomfortable. I was nearly annoyed at being singled out. I imagined all the other women in the room thinking I am just as fashion savvy as she is.

And so I scrambled to downplay the compliment. I did not want anyone to think that I thought that I could do a better job than they could have. So I said That’s not true—any of us in this room could figure out what to wear and how to accessorize it.

And then—as is my nature—I thought to interject a bit of humor because I also did not want to offend the person who had given me the compliment. So after denying being more skilled at the what to wear issue I said—but then again I do have 3 daughters-- and so I guess I have three times everyone else’s experience—so maybe she is right after all!

Diffusion, distraction, denial and empathy is so very exhausting.

And what I know for sure is that any man in a similar situation would have jumped at the opportunity to have been touted better than his friends. In fact a man would have listed why he was better at even more things. He would have extended the compliment—not sought to squelch it. A man would also not have worried about the feelings of every other man in the room.

The only feelings that would have mattered would have been his own.

Which is why the response of woman being asked by another woman Does my butt look big? will often say—Are you kidding? Just look in the mirror. I wish my butt looked as good as yours.

Even if it is a total lie. 

A Nightmare Solved

When I have disturbing dreams they fall into two categories: the naked dream and the I forgot to go to class/do my homework dream.

Interestingly, when I was younger I always woke up before finding a solution to my dream’s dilemma; but now while in the crisis of the sleep cycle I often manage to solve it--either by finding the time to get the homework done/study/arrive on time or procuring clothing to cover my private parts.

And in last night’s dream I found myself both naked and late to school while in the company of my neighbor, my best friend, and a not-so-best friend. I can only assume that what prompted this imagining was the decision to not post a “thought” today. I must have felt shame over not having completed my “homework.” But before I woke up from my nightmare my mind found some handkerchiefs on a shelf and tied them to make a halter-top and skirt. And then a taxi showed up so I did not have to walk to class. I was no longer naked nor would I be late.

And when I prepared my morning coffee I thought hmm maybe  that dream was telling me something: I am indeed in control of my guilt and shame.

Because sometimes our only obstacle is ourselves. All we need to do is get out of our own way. We always hold the solution if we listen to what is inside.

And hopefully tonight I will dream of flying—my favorite dream. It is what my mind imagines when I feel complete and in charge--which is what I am. Because I am no longer naked or late to class—my problem is solved--and your reading this post is proof of this.

Unanimous Decisions

In the front of the room, long tables were situated to face the audience. Seated were the administrators, the attorney, as well as the five Board of Education members.

The crowd of residents, parents and students practiced their impassioned thoughts silently to themselves in preparation for their turn to speak.

An undercurrent of contention pulsed well before any words were spoken.

On a winter's night in 2009 people left their dinner tables to implore the Board of Education to either keep graduation on Sunday or to move it to Saturday morning.  And when the allotted time for public comment had ended, the president of the BOE called a vote: the president and one other member voted to move graduation to Saturday morning, but the 3 remaining members voted to keep graduation on Sunday for one more year.

The crowd cheered in hearing the 3-2 vote in favor of keeping the traditional Sunday date.

And that is when the President of the Board of Education called a brief recess.

The crowd hollered that private discussions were in violation of open meetings law (OML).

But the five members left the room and conversed in private anyway. The attorney for the district remained silent.

And when the 15 minute conclave was over, the president called for a re-vote. But this time all five members unanimously voted in favor of moving graduation to Saturday. After that private discussion three of the five BOE members completely reversed their vote and sided with the BOE president.

The audience protested--- but it did not matter. The president said so moved.

And two months ago a friend who had been in the room with me that February night four years ago said What do you make of the unanimous decision the Board of Education made to extend the Superintendent’s contract along with giving him a hefty salary increase-- particularly in face of budgetary constraints and cuts?

And I said based on personal experience and what I had witnessed in the past with this regime, I could not help but wonder whether the BOE’s decision on the superintendent’s contract was unanimously unanimous or made to be unanimously unanimous behind closed doors.

It is something I will never know for sure.

Because fool me once shame on you, but fool me twice--- well that’s an entirely different blog post altogether.

Is Sharing Caring?

When I was a freshman at Manhattan College, my cousin Rich was a senior. One day he pulled me aside from the crowd and did something that he had done since he was a little boy: he covertly offered me a piece of gum and then swore me not to tell anyone where I got it from.

He did not want to share.

There was a debate on the news last week about a Montessori school that imposed a strict no sharing policy—and not just about food as it relates to allergies. No. This policy stated that no child was mandated to share a toy or book or even a solitary crayon with anyone if they do not wish to.

It flew in the face of the Mr. Rodgers-esque sharing is caring—or share and share alike philosophy of early childhood learning. It seemed contrary to what all children are taught.

The school based its policy on the premise that every child is entitled to their own private time and private space. They added that forced sharing is a kind of bullying—and that instead of teaching charity, forced sharing taught entitlement and instant gratification. They also felt that learning to say “no” for a child was also an important life skill.

I do not think they are off base.

Children need to wait their turn. It teaches patience. It’s okay to want to play alone sometimes.

As with everything in this world, it’s about intent—deciding whether sharing is about altruism or about control. Intervention is required therefore on a case-by-case basis.

And I did not tell anyone from whom I acquired my piece of gum. I protected my source. I kept my supply secret. Because everyone has the right to distribute their gum to whomever they like—without guilt.

And my cousin grew up to be a very generous man—particularly with his family. But even so, I suspect he still kind-of hoards his gum and tic-tacs--- as is his right.

Better Equipment

The day I received my Callaway clubs my golf game changed. Without modifying my swing in any way, I hit the ball longer and with more precision.

My handicap dropped.

And for as many years as I have been married I have not had the reputation of being a stellar baker. My cookies and brownies were always either too raw or granite-like. The only baked good I was ever able to master was an Aunt Jemima coffee cake which I baked in my countertop toaster-convection oven.

But after 22 years my gas range became un-repairable. And after intensive research and too many trips to too many appliance stores I purchased the cooking vessel of my dreams: 5 burners with a 3 rack convection oven.

And this past Saturday I prepared brownies exactly as I had for the last 22 years—except I baked them in my new convection oven.

They were perfect—moist yet flaky on top. They did not resemble my former brownie-bricks.

They looked exactly like the photo on the Ghiradelli box.

Because sometimes it is not the Indian, it’s the arrow. Sometimes the equipment completes the preparation. Sometimes a forgiving club compensates for a not so forgiving swing.

Which is why my new oven has a nickname—Big Bertha—after my favorite driver. This new oven will take me to the next level. She will allow me to go the distance and become a champion.

A Lovely Event

At the end of the entranceway, I was greeted by two white gloved members of the wait-staff. One had a tray of cabernet and the other had a tray of fried mini-crabcakes—which was followed by trays of fried wontons and other fried mini-delectables.

It was a lovely cocktail hour.

Dinner did not disappoint either— béarnaise dressed filet mignon with salty fried onion slivers, butter roasted potatoes, and 2 or 3 asparagus. For dessert we were served a gooey chocolate delight with ice cream.

The band’s music was low-key—with little chance of raising one’s cardiac beats per minute.

And yet as lovely as this philanthropic event was, I could not help but notice that this delicious high sodium fat-laden dinner with no aerobic activity seemed to be in violation of its cause—The American Heart Association.

Heart-healthy is not an adjective that could be applied at any point during the evening.

And so I can only conclude that perhaps the agenda was not just to drum up funds for the coff-ers, but to drum up bodies for the coff-ins.

Hair Dye

Old ladies do not look like old ladies so much anymore.

This generation of older women (like my mother)is much more active than the one that preceded them—athletically, socially and intellectually.

Yet I believe the biggest reason for their sustained youth—the thing that most separates them from their mothers—is hair dye.

Back in the fall after having had my hair colored, my mother, upon seeing me said I love your blond hair—pretty soon you are going to look like me!

But as much as I love my mother and think she looks wonderful for her age, I did not perceive this as a compliment. I took it as information that I needed to bring back to my colorist.

I had become a victim of the Over-Blonding of America.

Haircoloring 101 postulates that as women age their base hair color must be lightened. It also postulates that in order for the base color to seem natural, highlights must be added to add natural shine and contrast. The highlights are also intended to hide the gray.

Superficially this has merit but in everyday practice this theory has morphed into a monster. The theory has been taken too far.

Because brunettes should remain fundamentally brunette. The base color should only be a step or two lighter—a natural dark chocolate brown  should be brought down to a medium brown not caramel blond. And the highlights should look like streaking the sun might have done-- and not painted on blond. Because when hair that was naturally dark brown is over-lightened it washes out the complexion-it has the opposite effect of which it was intended. Over-lightened hair ages women. And the root thing is a whole other disaster—dark brown roots + gray mixed with light brown hair and blond—it is not a good look. The grey is not less but more noticeable among the 3 other shades of hair color.

And I have been battling to get this point across to my colorist until my last appointment when I noticed that one of the beauticians in the shop had had her hair ombred.

I found the solution (literally).

My colorist modified the trend for my length hair and my age.

And so now my hair is a step or two lighter than my natural color at the root/base and then slowly (about 3 inches from the root) lightens down the shaft. At its lightest, the color is no longer blond but medium/light brown. I think my color looks more natural and my complexion is not washed out. And the root growth is no so outstanding.

  

And in the 1960’s---beginning with my mother’s generation—the root of it all---the advertising for Miss Clairol asked Does she? Or doesn’t she? 

There is no need to ask that question anymore. Everyone does. The better question is How well is she doing it?

The Marathon

On the day of the Boston bombings it just so happened that I went out to dinner with some women I had the blessing to have worked with in the past.

One of the women recently endured the untimely death of a family member.

The death was tragic—something no one would wish on their worst enemy.

Yet the woman remained strong—like steel.

Because when bad things happen we have no choice but to put one foot in front of the other—to not remain paralyzed—to avoid being overwhelmed by the whole by concentrating on slivers of forward progress.

We run all marathons one step at a time.

And victory is sometimes not measured by the distance to the finish line, but the satisfied incremental snapshots along the way.

Zoolander and Dogs

In the movie Zoolander, Derek, the male model, can only turn right when he walks down the runway.

He claims he is not an ambiturner.

When I would ask Jasper, my Wheaten terrier Give me your paw he would always extend his right one. And if you asked him Give me your other paw he would extend his left-- but he did not raise it nearly as high and he was always a little bit off balance.

Cosmo, my Goldendoodle, is different. If I ask him Give me your paw he always extends his left. And if I say Now give me your other paw he physically cannot without falling over.

And in thinking about this whole paw situation I wondered if dogs, like humans, have a dominant side of the brain. Are canines right or left paw-ed?

The research says yes—along with cats and horses too.

And if a right-handed (right-lead) horse is asked to run on a left handed (counterclockwise) track the animal will trip and fall over at the turn. Right-handed racing horses can only make right turns. 

It would seem horses, like Derek Zoolander, are not ambiturners—and it is nothing, as the character Matilda Jeffries says in the movie, to be ashamed of.

A Best Friend

I am a big fan of Say Yes to the Dress. It is something my husband tolerates watching with me on a Friday night when we do not have social plans.

And on every episode, the salesperson asks the bride—Tell me something about your fiancé. The answer  always  is My fiancé is my best friend.

I recently attended a black tie fundraiser. At one point during the cocktail hour I tapped my husband on the arm and said Oh my God—that Herve Leger is amazing.

My husband turned around to locate “the man” I was talking about. And when he only saw a woman in a form fitting red dress did he say Who and where is Herve Leger? And have I ever met him before?

And while it is a sweet and complimentary thing to say, no fiancé or spouse can ever really be your best friend. Only your best friend can ever be your best friend. A husband will always only be your best companion.

Because every one of my best friends knows that Herve Leger is a dress, Judth Leiber is a bag, and David Yurman is a piece of jewelry. And unlike my spouse, a best friend is in agreement with me that Say Yes to the Dress is a better pick than the hockey game on a Friday night.

Full Disclosure

Last week a DJ on morning radio asked his audience to call in with a secret that they have been keeping from their spouse.

A woman called in to say that she hadn’t told her husband that she caught her 9 year old son watching porn.

The woman felt conflicted.

I think co-parenting works really well when the children are very young. It serves children well to see their parents as a united front so that they cannot play divide and conquer. But at some point full disclosure 100% of the time and team parenting just doesn’t work. It isn’t concordant with reality. There are some things that are best left off the need-to-know spreadsheet—either because they are issues that resolve themselves in a timely manner and are no longer relevant when the other parent pops into the picture, or because one of the parents (typically a mother) understands that bringing in a team of surgeons when a mere Band-Aid is needed is not the better way to go.

Which is why when the press hammered Michelle Obama for referring to herself mistakenly as a single parent, I had a good giggle. It was a Freudian slip at its finest. Because all mothers, whether they have a spouse or not, at some point realize that they are single—that they are the solitary monarch of parental rule. Mothers are the immediate and proximate judge and jury-- with no need to solicit advice from an outside litigator.

And when I heard that woman confess her sin on the radio I thought Just wait lady---that will be the least of many secrets you keep---And one day, when your child is grown, you will tell your husband and laugh. And you will be happy you kept it all under wraps and handled it all on your own.

And your children (and husband) will be glad too.

Most People

I recently read an article which documented something that I had suspected for a long while: Most people view the world through the lens of grades 9-12.

One of my oldest Garden City friends has lived in this town all of her life—not an uncommon thing. She is also one of the kindest people I know. Her harshest words at their wickedest might be called quietly objective.

And it is in this spirit of nice that upon learning that a new young member of our club was also member of the “XYZ” family said Oh I wonder if you knew my younger sister—in what year did you graduate from the high school?

The young member replied with zeal In the championship year!

My friend was a bit baffled by the response and so she timidly inquired the championship year? And the member said affirmatively Yes--the only year the high school ever won the state championships in ….(and then she listed all the sports for both girls and boys).

It wasn’t exactly the information my friend was looking for—but she chose not to pursue it any further.

I, on the other hand would have said with a touch of irritation What numerical year did you graduate?

Because I am nowhere near as nice as my friend.

Perhaps I am not like most people. I think that what happens in high school, should stay in high school.

Helicopter Moms

Elissa, one of my best friends, was at a luncheon last week with me. It was a birthday celebration for Lola--one of both our mothers’ mutual friends who turned 75.

At one point Elissa and I had a discussion about helicopter Moms—we acknowledged that while we both were helicopter-ish, compared to some, we did not even live near the airport.

And hours later as I reviewed the day’s events and recalled my pleasure in having spent time with a dear friend, I remembered how it came to be that Elissa was in my company in the first place.

It was arranged.

My 82 year old mother got it in her head that I needed a friend at the luncheon. And so she called Elissa’s 78 year old mother who then called the 80 year old hostess of Lola’s party and asked her to extend an invitation to Elissa.

I am almost 53 years old and my mother is still making playdates for me.

Geeze….Talk about helicopter Moms…

Teaching To the Test

Marie Braccia, the Stewart Elementary School principal, was the first person I ever heard say: In this school district we do not believe in teaching to the test.

It was one of the most ridiculous things I ever heard of. Because like it or not, the world operates on tests and test scores—especially the standardized ones.

Higher grades reap higher benefits.

And so one must prepare for all tests—by studying and practice.

The goal is to become a good test taker—which by definition means attaining a grade either commensurate or greater than one’s book knowledge.

It is precisely why my children’s free public school education cost me the equivalent of a year’s worth of tuition at a private secondary school. I hired tutors so my children could ace their exams.

And this maximized grade philosophy extends to the job market where employers impose an additional test--the personality test—to create more discernment. Prospective hires must score highly on a qualitative psychological quiz-fest with no correct answers-- only wrong ones. An outstanding transcript and resume from a quality university, experience in the field via meaningful internships and multiple interviews from a candidate is no longer enough.

One might be led to believe that this is a test that cannot be taught to—unless you google how to pass a personality test or hire an employment coach.

And the most recent occasion I heard the In this district we do not believe in teaching to the test was by the current Superintendent of Curriculum. But what I know for sure is that both the former and current administrations lied in this regard. If the school district really did not believe in teaching to the test there would be no AIS (academic intervention services) or extra help sessions or review classes for NY State Regents, APs or SATs. There would also not be entire Board of Education meetings dedicated to showcasing the district’s standardized test scores. Teachers would not gain or lose their reputation by how well their classes performed.

Because life is always about test scores---and those who practice and prepare. A’s are always better than B’s. And the correct answer to question #37 on the personality exam: You work hard because it pays off most definitely is: I strongly agree.

All is Fair....

Post dinnertime, when Jasper was still in good health, he often enjoyed chewing a bone. Cosmo, seeing Jasper’s enjoyment, would then seek to steal it away.

But no fight ever ensued.

Cosmo would simply lie nose to nose with Jasper in silence. And the second Jasper was distracted or came up for a breath of air, Cosmo would stealthily snag the bone and slink away.

Jasper, aged and with impaired eyesight, was left bewildered by the disappearance of his calciferous treat. Telepathically I could hear him say Where the hell did my bone go?

When I said my final good byes to my girls when I dropped them off at college, I did not head directly home. I always left the next day. This was done on the advice of more seasoned parents. The theory was that sometimes a child realized too late that they needed something they had no access to purchase. And so the parents could make a final rescue.

And the morning after I kissed Briana goodbye in Lewisburg Pennsylvania my husband and I had breakfast at the Country Kitchen—a restaurant which lies in the rear of a very very large country store. And it was while walking about the store that something caught my eye—a 24 inch stuffed Golden Retriever that I knew Briana would fall in love with. It would be a parting gift. The problem was it was the only stuffed Golden Retriever in the store—and it happened to be in the arms of a sweet 4 year old girl walking with her mother.

And so I stalked the little girl—watching and waiting. I also eavesdropped on her conversation which at some point went something like this: Mommy can I have him please?—he’s sooo soft. And the mother replied Okay-- but not now—I will get it for you when we are done with breakfast. Put the dog in the basket over there. He will be safe for now—I promise.

And the minute the little girl turned her back, I swooped in and headed for the cash register.

I never turned back.

My little girl needed that pup much more than a 4 year old.

It is six years later and that stuffed Golden Retriever still sleeps in bed every night with my sweet Briana.

I have no clue as to the fate of that little girl.

Because Cosmo and I are cut from the same cloth. We understand that growling and aggressive behavior may not be as productive as silent prey. Timing is everything--you snooze, you lose. All is fair in love and war.

And opportunism is just a synonym for peaceful combat.

Men Vacation. Women Collapse.

Men vacation.

Women collapse.

It’s all about the job description.

In my case my husband has one title in life: comptroller. And so he prepares for his some time off by getting ahead on his paperwork, delegating to his underlings, and creating an out-of-office autoreply on his email or voicemail. His only remaining chore is to gather up some clothing that is already pre-organized by me to put in the suitcase. His only worry—like most men—is about himself.

And technically women do the same thing—but for a few caveats. The key difference is, women have multiple job titles. In my case I am household manager, laundress, head of preventative disease control, animal care specialist, elder care advisor, housekeeper, shopper, chef, secretary and child psychologist. I am everyone’s personal assistant. And so with all those titles, getting ahead of my work is not just time consuming it is also completely exhausting. I am also without any underlings to delegate to not to mention that I am forbidden to have an out-of-office auto-reply  on my iphone. So I may not worry solely about myself like my husband or any other man, I must worry about everyone else along with me.

So when the other day a best friend questioned if she was a crazy person for paying all the bills, getting every stitch of laundry done, cleaning the house, food shopping for her 20-something year old and setting up her dog and Mom for the week—not to mention packing and organizing the boarding passes, car service and hotel confirmation---prior to her vacation—my response was simple: No--you are not a crazy person at all. And if not you—who?

Keep Calm and Carry On

There is a wall hanging in Samantha’s apartment designed to inspire her and her room mates. It is a replica of a British World War II propaganda poster. It reads Keep Calm and Carry On.

Samantha was driving home from college and called me on her cell phone:

Sam:  Mom, I think I am lost. I cannot tell if I am going in the right direction on Route 440.

Mom: Well what does the GPS say?

Sam: I don’t know it’s not on.

Mom: Okay well maybe you should put it on.

Briana called from the car on her way home from work:

Briana: Mom there is a bug in my hair and I can’t get it out!

Mom: Are you near an exit?

Briana: Yes.

Mom: Well then get off so you can remove the bug safely without getting into an accident.

Kara calls me on a Friday morning:

Kara: Mom I fell out of my (lofted) bed last night and I have a bump on the back of my head, my vision feels weird and I am nauseous. What should I do?

Mom: Kara--one of the best hospitals in the entire country is steps away from your dorm—go to the emergency room--you have a concussion.

And all these events were recalled yesterday when a friend’s daughter had a posting on Facebook which parodied the poster in Samantha’s apartment. Instead of saying Stay Calm and Carry On it said Freak Out and Call Mom.

The latter phrase is much closer to reality.

Accessories Make the Outfit

Accessories make the outfit. This is what my friend Tina’s mother, who was a debutante in her youth, told us girls before we went out for the night.

Without even searching, the dress that I hoped to find for my black tie optional  wedding in May found me. I walked into Lord and Taylor and hanging on the end of the sale rack was the exact dress I had in mind serendipitously displayed in my size and price point.

In fact the price point was a bit under my projected budget.

I was elated.

It is a fitted French Connection coral-pink silk above knee dress with sheer long sleeves and a v-neck. Around the cuff of the sleeves and neckline are fine gold beads and sequins.

It is perfect.

But for as perfect and well-priced as the dress is, the accessorizing is incomplete. I need better foundation wear than what is currently in my lingerie drawer. I also need new shape wear and pantyhose. I also need a pair of statement earrings and killer gold shoes with a matching clutch bag.

And then there is the preening process—hair, makeup, nails and depilatory.

All the extras will cost me approximately 5-6  times the price of the well-priced dress—extras that are necessary to sublimate the style.

Because while Tina’s mother was correct in teaching us that  accessories make the outfit, she forgot to mention its corollary: A well made-outfit  makes for indigence. Accessories make you broke.

Two Different Shoes

I was at a Welcome Wagon dinner many years ago when I looked down at my feet and noticed that I was wearing two different shoes. They were both black patent leather with grosgrain bows at the toe; but one was a kitten heel and the other one was a straight up 2 inch heel.

I feared the other women would notice.

Two years ago right around Christmas time at the end of a long shopping day I looked in the mirror and saw that I had lost one of my round cut diamond stud earrings.

I was heartbroken. I had worn them virtually every day since I had received them. But my husband, good man that he is, replaced them on Christmas morning. But the cut of the diamonds was different—the new ones were square.

And two weeks ago when I got back to my hotel room in Atlanta after a long shopping day, I found one of my earlobes to be naked. Once again, I had lost a diamond earring. And so my inventory has been reduced to  one round and one square cut ear bauble.

But unlike the woman of 20 years ago who feared judgment from other women for wearing two different shoes, I could care less about judgment for wearing two different earrings.

I am happily wearing an unmatched pair with no desire to replace either cut.

In many ways I feel free. It sets me apart from the crowd. I embrace the quirkiness. I welcome the reviews.

Because when you arrive at a certain age self-acceptance sets in. Priorities shift. Humor sits behind the wheel. And your aging skin becomes comfortable irrespective of what pierces it or who meets its gaze.

A Toy Story

The car ride was tense—filled with apprehension and concern. Approximately an hour into our journey home from our rental home in Beach Haven New Jersey my daughter Briana realized she left Andre the seal, her beloved stuffed animal, in the nightstand. And while we had a cell phone in our possession, it was the mid 1990’s when service was spotty.

We needed to wait until we got home to inquire about Andre’s welfare.

Cosmo’s favorite toy is a red Kong ball that was formerly Jasper’s. And it differs in design from the current Kong model because it is perfectly spherical—there is no cut out for a cookie to be placed inside. The ball is particularly bouncy and can withstand Cosmo’s power chewing.

He took red ball everywhere—including to bed (my bed) at night.

Yet for all his attentive care, red ball went missing sometime in mid-January. And despite an intensive search under every piece of furniture in every room and in every square inch of yard space, it was gone.

So for his birthday I replaced it with the current model---the kind with the cut out.

But it wasn’t quite the same.

And for the last 2 months, whenever I would go up to the third floor bedroom Cosmo would follow me but for whatever reason, would not jump up on to Samantha’s bed like he always did. Instead he would sit as if asking for a cookie. Then he would look at me and then the bed and then back at me again. Sometimes he would try to speak and say Arr Arr Arr. But I could not figure out what he was telling me. There was nothing on, around or under the bed.

So finally on our last trip upstairs I asked him Is there something here you want? And he looked at the bed again.

And as I felt around on the duvet—something I had done 20 times before-- I detected a sphere beneath  the covers.

It was original red ball.

It was found at last!

And when we got home from Beach Haven New Jersey we called the owner of the rental property as to Andre’s whereabouts. The toy was indeed in the night stand where Briana had left it. The stuffed animal was safe and about to embark on a journey homeward via Federal Express.

And days later, Cosmo’s favorite toy is still beside him—he does not let it out of his sight. He is too fearful of losing it again.

Because there is nothing like the love of a favorite toy—for both children and doggies. And nothing so sweet as the joy that ensues when the owners are reunited with their missing.

Black Tie Optional

I knew the invitation was coming. And when it arrived it did not disappoint—it was elegant. And so I scanned for the primary piece of information: the venue—which was very very very upscale. And then I located the most important tidbit of information: the attire--- which said black tie optional.

Of the three choices: black tie, black tie preferred or black tie optional, it is the latter that causes me consternation.

I am comfortable with black tie---by definition it requires all men wear a tuxedo and all women adorn themselves in formal splendor—long gowns and beads. It means that I can easily figure out what to wear—it is something I might already have it in my closet.

I am also comfortable with black tie preferred. Because  that infers that the hosts really really wish that you to be dressed to the nines but are accommodating Uncle Ned and Aunt Millie who will not attend if they cannot chose something hideously outdated  and slightly inappropriate that they purchased long ago and yet still want to get another wearing out of. Black tie preferred means that that scale will be tipped towards the very formal---the overwhelming majority will be in black tie--which also means that I can easily figure out what to wear and I might already have it in my closet.

But black tie optional is a conundrum---attire may range from office wear to the red carpet. So I will not know where my level of formality should lie within the population of attending guests until I arrive at the event when it is too late to change.

I prefer a smaller window—more direction--I neither want to be over or under dressed. 

And I don’t do LBD’s in the month of May—which is the month of the event--because I have my own rules about little black dresses. I never wear solid black to a wedding in the spring or summer---it reminds me too much of a funeral.

And so I must keep my eyes peeled for something that looks optional—a dress that is above knee, not black, very dressy, but not too formal. It need be not too understated but not too blingy. It will also need to look NYC chic as the venue is in Manhattan. And a little bit of skin is okay but I must be mindful that the boss and his wife will be in attendance. I also must be age appropriate—not dress like a Housewife of  Orange County or a Golden Girl. And finally the dress must look and yet not be expensive.

It will be a lot of work.

Attire is easier for a man—they may wear the same outfit whether it is black tie, black tie preferred or black tie optional. All men have to do is pull their tux from the back of the closet and decide the color of their pocket-square.

And if they are lucky, like my husband, they won’t be doing that either—they will have their stylist a.k.a. their wife doing it for them.