43 is the age to be. At least for me it is, as of today.

I have no problem with the numbers creeping upward and the hair graying faster and the lines being just that little bit more visible. I have no trouble being 20 years older than some of my daughter’s teachers, or hearing that her 6th grade classmate has a mother born in 19 - how can that be possible - 78. I relish the years behind me and look forward to those ahead. I truly believe that I wouldn’t be who I am if I hadn’t experienced everything in my life exactly the way I did. That means that there was rhyme and reason for everything. It also means that what I can’t pinpoint reasons for today, also has inherent meaning. Which is quite a relief, considering.

Bottom line, aging is far better than the alternative. Take it from one who knows.

What I do have problem with is always feeling stuck in a stop-gap between young and old. Just when I’m thinking I’ve crossed that invisible line into real-life grownup years, being not “just 40″ but firmly planted in my fifth decade, I realize that most of my friends are older than me and that I am viewed as being young, even if they are only a spry 45. What’s up with that? And I know that people don’t understand my disdain at being thought of as young. It stems from my childhood and always looking younger than my age, which at 19 or 20, is not a good thing. I just hate it when someone says “You’re so young,” as I liken it to them saying that I have far to go, like the past is insignificant and the only worthwhile and meaningful times are ahead. Frankly, based on life experiences, I’m probably 73. 83 if you factor in stress. I suppose that would explain needing hair color every five weeks.

Saturday night I went to a fancy schmancy 100th birthday party. Well, it was a 50th birthday party for two of my friends, both turning 50 - so it was a celebration of 100 years. In country club style with a somewhat swanky crowd I nibbled on caviar and drank top-shelf. I mingled a bit and laughed a lot. I was seated at a table with people I know and like, some on their own, some couples. It was easy conversation and fabulous food - the best you can get ’round these parts. With over 100 people in attendance there were moderate amounts of roasts and toasts of the hosts, and then the band started to play. Musicians and singers, instruments, microphones, speakers…and my table anticipated some great dance music and were greeted with slow and steady, um, muzak? I looked at my friend on my left and we laughed. We were probably the youngest people in the room, we realized. But we were baffled. This couple was turning 50, and the music was reminiscent of the 50’s. But not the twisting, shouting, Grease-style 50’s but the pre-rock and roll 50’s. We knew all the music, it sounded great, but I found myself then stuck in a birthday rut, even though it wasn’t my birthday being celebrated.

I was faced with an internal question that I shared with my friend. Was the music making me feel old because I am a contemporary, friend, neighbor or colleague of all the people that popped up on the dancefloor — or was it making me feel young, because I thinking that a little more volume and a revved up tempo would really add a nice touch.

But I was in the minority. The dance floor was packed with swinging arms and swaying hips and many off-beat grooving feet, not to mention some very snazzy clapping.

“What a bunch of white people,” my friend leaned over and whispered in my ear. Both of us being white and Jewish, it was especially poignant.

“Old white people,” I added.

We pounded the table in laughter.

I guess I answered my own question.

On the way home from a Temple fundraising spaghetti dinner where eight of us razzed and hassled and harried my daughter, our server, for two hours, I was telling my friend K — who is not Jewish, but was with us for this event — about the next time I’m going to Temple.

“I’m going for Purim”, I said.

She turned her head and looked at me quizzically.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“You’re going there For PORN?” she stage whispered . Our combined four kids filled the back seats of my SUV.

“PURIM!” I said laughing. “It’s a holiday, P-U-R-I-M.”

“I was going to say!” K replied, eyes wide. “Because if your Temple offers spaghetti AND porn — I am SO converting!”

I’m not an all-purpose purse kinda gal. I change purses. I match them not only to my clothing and the activity, but to my mood and perhaps even the weather. And if it doesn’t quite fit, well, I’m uncomfortable all day long and chances are I’ll change before the day is through.

And that is why there is are closet shelves in my bedroom lined with purses/pocketbooks/handbags. But the problem is bursitis in my shoulder, thank you Father Time and Fashion Weekly. Most of these are designed to hang from, you got it, my previously preferred body shelf — the shoulder. They are now destined to sit gathering dust, waiting to be grabbed and filled and swung over my shoulder - ouch - for a day at the ballpark or a night on the town.

Whether beaded or pink or green or white; leather or tapestry; these zippable, snapable, cinched icons of fashion just don’t have the same panache dangling from the crease of my bent elbow. No matter how hard I try to pull off the “I’m supposed to be carrying it this way” look, it simply looks like…mama needs a new black purse. And frankly, I’ll be having none of that nonsense. There may be many fashion faux pas in my past and a handful in my future, but none of them ever include carrying the wrong purse.

So, in honor of my birthday, I went on an expedition for that new black purse. One that would not swallow my keys until I was late for work. One that would not disguise my cell phone as an old bag of mini pretzels or my calendar as a wad of Kleenex. One without a plethora of pockets and hidden compartments. I needed one that was not too big as to look like I’m heading to the beach on any given Wednesday, but not too small to hold everything I need to remember everything I have to do. It also needed to be made to hang on the arm or be held in my hand. And I needed a zippered top because I’m often seen flinging like bags all over the SUV to make room for the kids and their friends, and everyone is aptly embarrassed when there is no zipper, most of all, me.

And being a purveyor of purses and someone who covets the latest style, I could not bring myself for something so basic - so necessary - to go anywhere except where I could peruse the latest and greatest trends and pay the highest possible retail sticker price to ensure I was indeed buying this year’s model, or even better yet, next season’s design.

And, by golly, I think I’ve done it…and in record time with the ease of still being 42, but looking forward to jumping the fence to 43.

I scoured the ones with the tassles and the embellishments, the ones that were leather and the ones that were canvas and oh, the ones that were a little of both. I fondled the suede and the patent, and then, did something I’ve rarely done before. I veered off the beaten track and eyed a small gray leather “alligator” tote.

Gray, you say? I know. It’s not black. But isn’t it? Gray matches black. I pondered. Gray matches blue. That was convincing.

Gray is for winter and for spring and — breathe — I think it might work in Fall and Summer too. A multi-seasonal fashion accessory. Was this too good to be true? It’s not too big, not too small, and it zips shut. It has a pocket for my phone and room for my wallet and maybe even a trial size hair spray, but most definitely my lip gloss AND my lip pencil.

This gray purse was going to be my new black purse.

And it’s not the price I paid or the thrill I got or the anticipation I feel…it’s the fact that to me, this was a necessity. The right purse for any outfit - be it jeans and my favorite tee, or a velvet cami for a night out with friends - just makes me feel finished, polished and ready to go.

And now, with gray purse in hand, I will — without excruciating shoulder pain.

There have been only two times in my son’s life as a student that he has expressed even a modicum of enthusiasm in his studies.

Once, he was in sixth grade. His Social Studies class was learning about ancient Egypt. “Learning about ancient Egypt is cool,” he said one evening. And before he could say Cleopatra I was grabbing a pencil and scrap of paper. “What did you say?” I asked knowingly. He laughed. He knew that he rarely if ever exhibited enthusiasm for knowledge that didn’t have do with baseball cards or football stats. I wrote it down, word for word. “Learning about ancient Egypt is cool.” I added the date and made him sign it. I wanted proof positive that he enjoyed learning about at least one thing during his junior high days, and this was my vehicle. A signed affidavit on orange construction paper. At that moment I pictured him a archeologist digging in the desert in search of new and groundbreaking artifacts. That picture has since faded, but the memory of laughing hysterically and him signing the paper proving he had at least a passing interest in some history, remains dangerously in tact.

The second time was just a few weeks ago. My son was sitting at the computer he shares with his sister, his back to me, a mere five feet away at my makeshift card table turned desk. He was working on a book report for his Freshman Honors Reading and Writing course. “I like writing,” he said. And he turned to look at me. Wide eyes and with a smirk I replied, “I wonder where you got that?” He laughed. It’s a laugh deep in tone and pure of heart. “How do you become a writer?” he asked not of me, but for himself. And he swiveled his chair around, again laughing, realizing what he had said, and to whom.

A few days later he handed me some stapled pieces of notebook paper. “It’s a story I wrote,” he said, “if you want to read it.”

In a childlike fashion he handed it to me while I was cooking dinner and quizzing his sister on her vocabulary words. I asked him if I could save it for a time when I wouldn’t be interrupted, but that I’d be thrilled to.

“What did you write it for?” I asked as an afterthought.

“Nothing,” he said, “I just wrote it.”

I glanced at the pages. Four college-ruled sheets, filled. Written in pencil with his neat penmanship. I knew that I would be reading this story sooner rather than later. And I did.

It was fiction…complete with vivid descriptions and the makings of character development. There was a plot with a beginning, a middle and an end. There was a lesson. And since we tend to write what we know and love, it was indeed a story about sports. But what I saw not between the lines but on them, was talent. And even more so I saw interest. I asked my son if I could call his English teacher, or his Writing teacher, and he said yes. I want this propensity and momentum to continue. I want it harnessed and nurtured, because not only was my son writing on his own, he wanted to be read.

Weeks have passed and I’ve seen scribbling of more stories and read some of others. He is writing in notebooks when he’s not playing Xbox or gallivanting with his posse of Freshman boys looking for social venues in small town America.

Today, I picked up my son and a gaggle of his friends from school and deposited them at the local restaurant. On the way, en masse they told me that out of thousands of submissions, my son’s was one of six in the high school newspaper’s sports section today. I glanced at him and he smiled.

A byline…and way ahead of schedule by my estimation.

“Copycat,” I said jokingly, and bopped him on the head with the rolled up paper. Then when I dropped them all off I sat idled in the car and turned to page 18. It was a 50-word blurb about being at a great sporting event…and this is what it said:

“I was there when the White Sox won the World Series. Being able to go to their first World Series since 1959, nobody knew what to expect. Some sights were unforgettable; lines as long as you could imagine and faces brighter and more excited than you’d
believe possible.”

I felt a rush of emotion akin to pride, but somewhat different. I felt a sense of relief.

In 2005 when the White Sox made it to the World Series, the sun shone in my son’s life for more than just a second. It was less than a year since his father had died. The winning season for the Sox brought my son indescribable 13 year old joy, even in the midst of a diagnosed depression. I’d made a big decision the night before tickets went on sale, that no matter what or how, he was going to be there. And he was. I purchased two tickets to Game One of the World Series at Chicago’s Cellular Field, in good seats. I did not get the tickets through the lottery or by standard means. Through a broker, I spent over $2,000 for each ticket. I didn’t bat an eye – or tell anyone what I’d spent. And while on the surface it might have appeared indulgent and irresponsible, it was critical. I knew that I couldn’t pin a price tag on hope.

So when I sat on my son’s bed that morning, and told him that a family friend would take him the game - he threw his arms around me. I told him I knew how important it was to him to see the Sox play, and that I wanted him to have a blast. And then I told him that I also bought the tickets so that he would see something else. I wanted him to see first-hand that good things – really, really good things — were going to happen to him in his lifetime, even without his dad. And I hoped that this was proof, and the first step to believing.

It was not a callous statement, it was a statement of fact. He was too young to grab onto at that moment and I’m sure he didn’t believe me. But that baseball game was my promise to him — one of normalcy, of brushes with greatness and of hope for a bright future — that I knew would linger in the back of his mind.

And it has.

Today is my Blirthday…my Blogiversary…or whatever you want to call it. All I know is I’m having a Blarty and you’re all E-vited.

One year ago I posted my first post and since then I have been blessed by becoming part of the wit and wisdom of the mom-blogosphere.

I’ve done more reading of blogs than I have of novels, magazines or newspapers. I’ve learned about more people, more points of view and laughed more than I had in a long time.

In the past year I’ve also written more than ever before. I’ve become an savvy blogger, a contributor to several websites, and (drumroll please) a published writer.

The only things I haven’t done in the past year are clean out the closet in my laundry room and lose weight. Those things have been waiting so long for me to get around to them, what’s another year, right?

As real life has vexed its muscle, and gotten in the way a bit, my blogging has waned, I know. But that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten my roots. And while I’m well aware that my own drive and determination have enabled me to maintain a blog and write essays and articles worthy of being read by those not related to me by blood or obligation, I also know that it was, and is, the feedback and support of my blogging and IRL friends that gave me the kick in the pants…to kick it up a notch.

So, for all you do, Kvetch Blog readers, this one’s for you.

THANKS FOR A GREAT YEAR!

Sometimes when the sun shines in the winter and you’re indoors, it’s easy to forget how cold it is outside. And sunshine comes in all shapes and sizes. It’s the size of the blue sky and the shape of the rays that beat through the winter giving the a slice of warmth on the carpet just big enough for the figurative cat. It’s as small as the patches of ice and snow that melt regardless of the temperature, baring a patch brownish green ready for crocuses. It’s even the taste of the lemonade at dinner that reminds you of a picnic. And its the smell of flowers. Flowers in winter make me forget the cold.

It was days before Valentines day and years before divorce. My husband left for a warm-weather conference which was not unusual. He expressed regret at not being home for Valentines Day. He had given or sent me flowers on that day for than fifteen years at that point. It was never a candy day, or a date day or a romance day…it was a day, though, that I could always count on receiving flowers. Usually his favorite, which he always mistook for my own, the gladiolas were always appreciated and lovely. This year he left on one of those sunny winter days, amidst a aura of silent discontent and suspicion.

Later that day I received flowers and the note read, “Sorry I won’t be there on Valentine’s Day.” I thought that was probably the sweetest thing he’d done in recent history and resolved that my misgivings were merely insecurities run amok. Beautiful and statuesque, the yellow roses, not gladiolas, graced every room I went into. I carried the vase so I could be sure I wasn’t dreaming. And I wasn’t.

The next day I received pink roses. The day after, yellow. Peach and white followed and finally, on Valentine’s Day, I received two dozen red roses.

Five days in a row I received roses and every day the delivery man was met with my same surprised eyes and look of gratitude. By Valentine’s Day, I just waited my turn, but was no less gracious or grateful for both the actual flowers, and moreso for their implied meaning.

But not long after that, good memories wilted like petals. I knew that I did not know if my husband was away at this conference networking — or working it.

I think there should be a way to leave some memories unfiltered, without the blessings that are sometimes a curse — insight and hindsight.

It’s a kid’s dream come true here in Mayberry. It’s a snow day. The kids are thrilled but much like Charlie Brown, I am struggling to see the bright side. Call me awful but this is an annoyance and interruption in my week, and I thinking that my suggestion to now have the kids attend school Saturday to give me back a day of peace make up the work, won’t go over very well.

My daughter was awake and alert a full thirty minutes before I’d normally have to drag her out of bed. Add this to the fact that she was off yesterday for Lincoln’s birthday (that’s a tradition here in Mayberry, as we ARE 3 hours from Springfield, Illinois) and that my son has off next Monday for President’s Day, AND that in two weeks they both have a four-day weekend…I’m wondering which day exactly is it that I have off?

Oh yeah, I think that’s on the calendar some time in 2014.

My biggest mistake of the day? I told the high schooler he could stay home and then changed my mind. OOPS, his school is open. It’s the only high school open within a 50 mile radius, and changing my mind didn’t go over very well. So guess who is still in bed and will be wanting a lunch different from the one in the paper bag on the counter?

I’ve gotten a half dozen phone calls from parents because I, am 4-1-1. Apparently no one but me can find the school closing information on the tv, radio or online. My daughter is getting calls from her very excited classmates, one of whom will come here for the day while her parents go to work. I offered, and don’t mind really, because that means I am not responsible for her snow day entertainment.

I am taking no one anywhere today, and have forbidden Nickelodeon or ESPN from being on any TV within earshot. I have a meeting that I’ve moved to my house. Other people are welcome to go out in a blizzard, I won’t. I have columns to write and stories to pitch. I have books to read and laundry to fold. I have sanity to foster.

I don’t often ramble or kvetch here anymore…despite my blog’s name.

It is good to get back to one’s roots.

On one afternoon about five years ago, I was in my kids’ bathroom battling laundry and stopped mid-sort. I sat down on the side of the tub, still sage green as we’d yet to update it. It never bothered me - it was a neutral, palatable and non-offensive, and for the time being it was fine. Just like my marriage.

I carried the cordless house phone around with me throughout the day and into every night, lest I miss a call telling me when my husband would be home, or when he wouldn’t. I waited seemingly patiently but always with anticipation. I opened every curtain and jumped at every passing car. I assumed that when he was home, I knew where he was. I’ve learned since that someone can be right next to you and somewhere else at the same time.

I took the phone out of my pocket and dialed. I had eaten macaroni with the kids for lunch. Powdered cheddar was stuck in my throat. I rarely phoned him at work during the day. He was either embroiled in surgeries that lasted for hours and up to his elbows in blood and gadgets, or at clinic with a three-hour backlog of patients.

Tension in the household was weighty and mutually deliberate, like the ring tones that went on and on until answered. I never liked confrontations but this one had been brewing for years. Brave enough to unveil what I’d been thinking, yet too cowardly to do it in person, this time I didn’t hang up.

I asked for him and always revelled in saying it was his wife. I imagined it sent the entire office into a tailspin with with eyebrow raising and looks flashing over counters and from behind patient charts.

“What’s up?” he said.

“Somethings wrong,” I answered.

“With one of the kids?” He was puzzled, not annoyed.

“No,” I said. “With our marriage.”

With a moment of silence I imagined he closed his office door, for all I know he could have been garnering witnesses.

“I know you haven’t been happy. Neither have I.”

I took a very deep and audible breath. “Are you sleeping with C?” I asked.

Without hesitation, he said he was not.

But he did admit, after some prodding and a list of examples, that there was a lot of emotional energy going in directions other than the marriage and home. He couldn’t deny the lack of time he spent with us, the way he worked when I knew he didn’t have to, the social events to which he claimed spouses weren’t invited, or the inuendos and mentions of friendships I had no part of. I didn’t watch Oprah for nothing. I knew about emotional affairs and how detrimental they could be.

“I am cavalier about our marriage,” he said.

I thought Cavalier was a Chevy, but I nodded even though he couldn’t see. So, while I was spending all my waking hours obsessed with what was or wasn’t going on outside my marriage, he was enjoying himself, perhaps with a modicum of guilt. Or at least I hoped.

“Do you think you’d like to go to therapy?”

And I started to cry. Between short gasps of breath I rattled off the people I knew who’d been in marriage counseling and whom ended up divorced or exactly where they started, including C. I rambled about knowing we would work it out.

He meant I should go into therapy on my own.

Until that exact moment I had never considered it, thinking it for the weak of spirit, heart and mind. I know now it’s exactly the opposite.

I thought that call would lift a weight from my shoulders, but it got heavier. The same shoulders that tightened each night I got into bed, the ones from which I swept my soaking wet hair when I sweated through the nights, the shoulders that hunched when I paced the halls of my house, hour after hour, not knowing really anything at all, the shoulders that participated in my daily tension headaches and the ones that carried the weight of a family and marriage on them at all times now also carried the burden of absolute uncertainty.

And while I thought I had just opened floodgates of honesty, it was merely a trickle. In hindsight I know that is a good thing, because honesty can be nauseating, even digested in small portions.

I don’t remember how that conversation ended. I sat there for what couldn’t have been more than an exaggerated moment, because there were two children and two dogs frolicking around the house oblivious to the hurdle that had just been jumped and the race that was about to be run. I splashed cool water on my face and didn’t dry it, disguising my tears as an effort to cool off and the redness as having gotten something in my eye.

I picked up the laundry and walked through the bathroom door into a hallway I’d never seen before. It was almost time for dinner.

As many of you know, I have been doing freelance writing around the internet and also, quite fortunately, in print. So, although I’ve never linked to myself in the newspaper here, I’ve decided to do so today because so many of you read the previous articles when I talked about them, and gave me such wonderful support and response.

My daughter said, “But mom, it’s the THIRD time you’ve been in [that paper].”

I explained that doing what I love - and feel I need to do - and getting recognition for it (as well as a check) is something that still makes me Shake. My. Head. I believe that the thrill will never go away - and that the rush will never dissipate - because it will always be amazing to me that my ideas written in my own words would appear in print and circulated to millions in a well-respected newspaper. I’m not trying to be coy, it’s quite simply surreal and more than I ever imagined possible…although I hoped, and worked to make it happen.

In any event, I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

If you happen to have access to a hard copy of the paper - you can see a photo of me in all my 1983 glory! If not, well, you’ll just have to imagine it.