The World According to EDW

I laughed, I cried, it was better than Cats.

Since I can't write about it, I took pictures.

Getting ready:




Being there:






We drank our Cosmos out of Poland Spring half-pints - aka kiddie water. I should have made doubles, but who knew? It's very simple, really. Pour out water into pitcher. Keep cap. Mix up 2 jiggers of orange vodka, 8ozs of club soda, 2 teaspoons of lime juice, and one 4C/Crystal Light Cranberry/Pomegranate mix-in. Stir. Divide between two empty half pint water bottles. Chill. Pack in shopping bag with wrap over it to disguise contents; sneak into theater. Distribute before previews. Enjoy! Only 100 calories, or 2 WW pts.

It was a good time. And all the rest of the pictures are here. Please don't cut me!

Do you know what tonight is?




"Life doesn't always turn out to be your fantasy. That's why you need friendships that are real to get you through it all."

Say what you want about the show, but that is why I love it. They get the friendships right every time. Of course they have fabulous clothes and shoes and they did speak for a generation of women, but it's when they laugh and cry together, when they fight, when Miranda looks at Carrie and that look says "best friend"...those are the moments I kept turning on my TV for.

Tonight, with my pre-purchased tickets in hand, I'll be in line 40 minutes early for the 8pm show. I'm bringing my tissues, my Cosmos, and of course, my girlfriends. Have a great weekend - I hope it's filled with friends.

And in case you are reading this, oh girlfriends of mine, the camera is coming, too. You have been forewarned!

I swore this wasn't going to become a weight loss blog, but I have to write about this. The strangest thing is happening. Clothes are literally falling off of me.

Remember the cute hippy-dippy skirt I bought two summers ago?


Well, I tried to put it on Sunday night, when my parents were over for dinner. It's been a great go-to skirt for casual kitchen suppers. It fell off me. Struck with both disbelief and elation, I had to call my mom into the room. All she could do was shake her head. "You could fit two of you in there!" she exclaimed.

The new pants I bought about six weeks ago are feeling loose, but I just kept washing them thinking the dryer would shrink them. Finally, today, I put them in the donation pile, on top of the blue skirt. I just can't walk around holding them up anymore. I'm in that process with the jeans I bought at the same time, washing and trying to shrink them. Crazy, but I purposely bought these clothes to be transition items, and their purchase prices reflected that.

But then we come to my pajama pants. I put them on tonight, so I could relax and do some editing at the same time. Working at night is sometimes easier than during the day, because after I see a client I have to process what they want, and attack it fresh and for a good block of time. But I digress.

I put on these pj pants, and they fell off me. This is when I wish WW would come with a warning, like, "Warning: Even pajamas can get too big", because I never considered the need to buy all new pj's. Jeans, yes, but pj's, no.

When your weight fluctuates, pj's are your constant. They are what you can always fit into, and it doesn't matter if you look good in them or not. Next to shoes, they are the one thing you can buy even during those heavy times, when all your friends are picking up cute capris and you couldn't squeeze yourself into anything the store carries. When even sweatpants are tight, pj's fit.

Every now and then I reveal something on this blog I'd rather pretend didn't exist, and I think those few sentences pretty much illustrate my new commitment to reality. That was surprisingly hard to type out.

My weight loss comes up nearly every place I go, friends and acquaintances exclaiming that I look skinny, that I look great. Some tell me that I don't need to lose anymore weight, when I remark that I have more to go. I think maybe it's a natural reaction, when you see someone go from obese to overweight*, to tell them that they are fine, that they are normal. Let me assure you, I have no particular investment in the weight of others, but for me, it's not enough to be here. I want to reach my goal. After all, what's 27 more pounds when I've lost nearly 60? (59.8 to be exact, and yes, I am keeping track.)

I was always remarkably unaffected by weight, my own and others. I've always liked my men a bit husky; the skinny ones I could never trust. Who wants a man who doesn't eat? Or, for that matter, a friend? Eating is one of the great pleasures of my life, and I never intend for that to stop. I probably eat more chocolate and good food on Weight Watchers than I did during the time I gained all this weight. And I still don't really care what you weigh, as long as you are happy with yourself.

But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't delighted and sad every time something falls off me. There's a lot of goodbyes to be said, and it's not only the clothes I'm leaving behind. But in the end, that's a good thing.

*This is based on BMI, a hotly debated measurement in weight and health. I choose to accept the BMI values; not every one does. BMI is the reason so many Americans are categorized as obese or overweight.

Conversations I had with myself today, Part One:

"Why don't I have any clothes to wear to a playdate?"

"Because all you buy are tshirts. Do you even go into stores that don't exclusively sell tshirts?"

"How about this Bruce and the E street band one? It's Jersey; even at a playdate this has to play, right?"

"Um, no. Try it with jeans. It's never going to work with those pants. Either be cute mom or don't; you can't have cute mom pants and concert tshirts. Sorry."

"Well, I have cute shirts to wear with these pants, but I don't want to waste them on kids."

"Understood. But has it occurred to you that maybe you need more than one or two tops to wear, and maybe some that are kid-worthy?"

"Yes, but it's not my fault! I have no clothes left! I've had to start from scratch! Nothing I wore last summer fits!"

"Agreed. Still, you need to purchase shirts. Real, actual shirts. Adult clothing. Something in between dresses and hot shoes and jeans and tshirts. "

"Fine! But you know, the whole concept of 'playdate' is stupid, anyway."

"Don't even start with that. Here: jeans, cute sneaks, and your least tshirty tshirt. Now go make friends with the other moms!"


Part Two:

"Do you need a drink after that?"

"Yes. Now I know why I don't do this."

"Well, at least they fed us lunch."

"Very true. Hopefully the kid is equally wiped out and we can just coast this afternoon."

"It wasn't that bad. The other moms were nice, and it killed time."

"Yes. I still do need adult clothes, but this is precisely why I resist the mommy-thing. And never again will I complain about my life or my wardrobe. "

"Well, thank God for that!"

It's Memorial Day. I tossed around the idea of writing a Memorial Day post, sort of explaining why we celebrate, why it was originally called Decoration Day, and why the VFW wants it celebrated on the actual day, May 30th, instead of this three-day weekend business. In short: to honor men and women who died in military service to our country, because you were supposed to decorate the graves of fallen soldiers, namely Union soldiers of the Civil War (after WWI they expanded it to include all wars), and because the three-day weekend celebrations take away from the meaning of the holiday.

So now that we've gotten the civics lesson out of the way, let me unabashedly say that for me, Memorial Day is the start of summer. I know it's not technically summer, but I don't want to hear it. It is summer.

This weekend we did a lot of things, none of which I took pictures of. Friday Nick was off of work, so we both went to see Emily play soccer, or rather play games with a soccer ball. Her coaches are two British guys who work for this big, national soccer education company. I know they get work visas and come over here for a time, but I'm not sure how it all works out. The other moms and I discuss it, how we know they'd rather be drinking on weeknights instead of waking up early and teaching soccer all day in the sun. Total grown-up soccer lads, but hilarious, and really good with the kids.

Saturday and Sunday we did yard work, clearing things out, planting and planning. Saturday night we had dinner with my godson and Jackie and Andrew, and met my godson's girlfriend. In case you are keeping track, he's now 15 and on girlfriend number 5. And I am offically feeling old with that knowledge bopping about in my head. Sunday night we had my parents over for dinner, which was nice. We ate off my grandma's dishes, the same dishes I used for book club last weekend. I unpacked them just for that occasion, because ever since I got them in the dividing of my grandma's things, I'd always envisioned my friends coming over and eating off of them. In the movie edition of my life, there's wine and champagne and friends and glasses clinking and my grandma's dishes on the table.

Which was pretty much how it went, but I digress.

Today we went to the beach. It was beautiful and sunny until the most incredible wind kicked up, bathing us in sea-water cold. Sweatshirts were not enough; we had to give it up and trek back to the car, back to our home. Which ultimately was okay, because we have a lot of beach days ahead of us. Later, we went to Jodi and Greg's for dinner, which was a lot of fun. We played croquet and ate burgers and watched "The Muppet Show". That is a great night to us.

The start of summer is so much memory and possibility to me. It's all the summers of my life together, and all the future summers, too. It's something I love and wait for, when the days are rainy and gray and it seems like the sun will never break through. But summer always comes, no matter how long it seems I've been waiting.

"I no doubt deserved my enemies, but I don't believe I deserved my friends."
-Walt Whitman

Nearly a year ago, M and I struck up a correspondence about marriage, sparked by her comment on one of my posts. I can go on and on about friendship, but I don't write about marriage very much except to say I think it takes work, or to gently poke fun at myself or my husband. After writing and reading emails and some phone conversations with other girlfriends, something came to me. Some of my friends will say that they feel lucky to be married to their husbands. I don't say that. But yet I say that about my friends all the time.

I can distill this predilection of mine to a really simple thought. I think I deserve Nick, and I think I'm lucky to have my friends.

I think Nick is a great guy, one of the best, if not the best, guys out there. But I think I deserve him. I don't think I'm lucky to have him, although I'm sure I am. No, I think he's my match, my equal, that it's not luck to be married to him. It's a choice I made, a guy I picked, a marriage that works only because we work at it. There's no luck involved. I feel I deserve someone who loves me like he does, and that, also, he's not the only person in the entire universe I could have married. He's the only one I did, and I'm rather ecstatic about that, but he wasn't my only shot at love, my only hope for a stable, loving marriage or a happy life.

But yet, I feel lucky to have my friends.

Listen, maybe this makes me an ingrate, or a shitty wife, or a crappy person. Perhaps I have too much confidence for my own good. Possibly you have pin-pointed why I think marriage is work. You might even feel sorry for Nick, or think my priorities are out of whack. That's your choice.

Why do I feel lucky to have my friends? Because I think they show me extraordinary kindness and love, and the kind that goes beyond what most people have with the people they call their friends. There's a lot of shallow friendships out there, and address books are littered with the names of people we don't speak to anymore.

But my friends are different.

Not all of them, no. But my real friends, my good friends...they are extraordinary. They love me for who I am, not who I should be. They like just the way I am, even when that way isn't so perfect. No matter what passes between us, the good and bad, they are still my safety net. I know we are there for each other, and the rest of the crap doesn't matter.

I have a lot of girlfriends, but even in this rarefied group of amazing women, there is a handful that stands out.

These few are my family by choice (and one by birth, but I'd pick her in a second). We may live in the same town or across the continent. They may have known me since birth or only for a few years. That's immaterial. If home is not where you live, but where they understand you, then they are home to me.

If you look at them, one by one, you will see women whose affection is boundless, but not cheap. Hard-won describes the sisters of my heart. But once in their heart, they don't stop loving you. There's no selfishness and there's no invisible line - just watch one of them with my daughter, and tell me that woman isn't her aunt. I dare you. They are smart, they are resourceful, they are resilient. They speak to my soul.

It is true that I have an amazing man. But he is just one man, and next to him are these women, all of them amazing, and this is why I am lucky. To find one true friend is a miracle, they say, whoever "they" are. But to find a sisterhood of them? That is highly improbable, but that is what has happened to me.

I think, in the end, I am in agreement with Emily Dickinson, my favorite poet. She wrote, "My friends are my estate." If nothing else, I am rich in friends. They are my legacy to my daughter, love to be passed down and cherished. They are the legacy of my life, and my heart. I have wondered for years what to write about, and it has never been clearer that if I write at all, it will have to be about them. For what else do I know so well, but friendship to end all friendship? The best parts of me are them.

I have gone over the 60 posts in limbo, aka my Drafts folder. They just go there to die, because seldom do I revive one and publish it. Still, I keep them, just in case. They're not bad posts; they just didn't get to see the light of day, much like some mixes I've made, ideas for books, and the package I meant to send to Molly before she went to Disney World. She's there now, and my bet is she's doing just fine without my good intentions.

That's one of the things that piss me off - good intentions. We don't get credit for good intentions. Heck, we don't even get credit for what we do accomplish. I think we need sticker charts for adults. A smiley face when you refrain from rolling your eyes at yet another boring story, a star when you have sex even if you don't feel like it but your partner does. And then, when you get enough stars or smiley faces, you get a reward, but something better than the Mc Donald's and plastic toys we try to foist off on kids.

For the record, my daughter doesn't have a reward chart, but maybe I'll institute a house-wide one. I'm warming up to this idea. We could all decide on what our big rewards would be, and what we got credit for. No more whining about not being appreciated - you could see your appreciation right there! I could get credit for making dinner even though I had ennui that day, and Nick could get credit for...something he does that I don't appreciate. I can't recall what that might be, because I was probably not listening to him. But I'd get credit if I did listen!

We could extend this idea...take it to the streets. Secretly or not, we all think we deserve nice credit. For instance, when you let someone go in front of you, you expect someone to let you go. It's only fair, right? Well, if we racked up nice credit we could just gleefully cut people off on bad days and not be a jerk! Instead, we could laugh all the way home! Justified superiority, there's nothing like it.

I think it's time to stop avoiding my work and the bills I have to pay, so I leave you with this: what do you think you deserve credit for? What goes on the reward chart in your mind?

Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday to you
You live in Vancouver,
But you love Brooklyn, too.


Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday to you
You drove me to Richmond,
Which was a nice thing to do.


Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday to you
I love you, my friend,
And your taste in great shoes.


Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday dear Richelle,
Happy Birthday to you!

Blogging is a interesting way of writing. There is always the choice to write it straight or to tell a story. Do I write the bare bones, or do I take the path through the woods? Who am I writing for, anyway? Does it matter?

I admire bloggers who can write it out straight and not sound pedantic. I admire those who never lose sight of who they write for. I admire those who tell you what you are waiting for, the ones who hit the right note. I admire those whose paths are clear enough for me to follow.

I write because I forget. I write because I want to capture the moments, commit them to my memory, tell the story of them. I write because I have whole days I'd like to put in a box and keep - the funny, the sad, the tense, the silly, the sublime. All of it.

But my shame is that I forget it all.

Maybe the writing helps. Maybe it's just a poor substitute for my memories of my life. All this time, for probably the last 30 years or so, for as long as I can remember, I have liked fiction more than reality. I have liked the stories I told and retold, the words I fashioned. I have liked my view of myself, very much so.

Last night, in Vancouver, we went to see the band Cake. They have a song called "Sheep Go to Heaven" and the line in it I love is, "As soon as you're born you start dying, so you might as well have a good time".

This sentiment resonates, and it's why I book plane tickets to go see friends. I have lots of imperfections in my life, in myself. I hope that one of them isn't failure to love properly. That would be nearly unforgivable. Debt and bitchiness and fervent opinions can be moved past, but not to grab onto what you have is sheer stupidity.

So I can tell you that we went to Steveston the first day and ate fish and chips. That we went to Stanley Park and the Aquarium, that I saw Beluga whales for the first time. That we ate hot Montreal meat and satay and sushi and spotted prawns and Canadian wheat berry. That we drank beers I'd never heard of, and lots of champagne. That Richelle was surprised and pleased and Rob was so excited to see us. That we made new friends and walked across a scary bridge and survived many a heated discussion. That Richelle drove me to Richmond for a bag when I already had one, and that we went to the No.5 Orange and that yes, Vancouver is a beautiful city and so green.

Or I could just say that I have discovered I like reality, in all its harshness and imperfection. I like it very much so. And I like remembering, because when your reality looks like this and the pictures bring it all back, what's not to like? Maybe, this time, the only story that needs to be told is the one we aren't done living yet.


I would be absolutely remiss if I didn't thank my beloved friends Rob and Richelle for the last five days. I love you both.

I'm not here.

Nope, not here at all. In fact, I am several thousand miles away from my home, which isn't this computer, exactly, but still.

A week or so ago I told Richelle we were coming to Vancouver in August. I lied. I know it's wrong to lie, especially to your friends who are apt not to trust you after that, but lie I did. We are not coming to Vancouver in August. We are in Vancouver this very minute.

This was a surprise for Richelle, and I hope it went well.

Pictures to follow!

When you think of a woman's club, chances are you think old, stodgy, wealthy, and very possibly, inconsequential. Outdated. Relics of the past.

You could not be more wrong.

In May of 2006 I attended the induction of Mary Pat Marcello, the New Jersey State Federation of Women's Clubs President 2006-2008. I was there not because of my involvement in women's clubs, which was non-existent. I have never been a member of a women's club, and I never knew anyone who was before I met my mother-in-law. No, I was there because my mother in law is best friends with Mary Pat. I have written about MP before on this blog, referenced her, really, in the stories of my life.

For the past 12 years, she has been part of my celebrations, big and small. We spend Christmas Eve together, we often vacation together, and for three years we worked together. In those three years, Mary Pat went from being my mother in law's best friend and part of my husband's universe, to being my friend.

It's quite remarkable, the transformation. Often the people in the lives of your people are respected and loved, but not known for themselves. They are mostly seen through the filter of their friend, their child, or their friend's child. Happily, Mary Pat and I transcended that, and while I will always know her through her best friend, her daughter, and my husband to whom she was another mother, I also know her as a woman and a friend.

For the past 30 years, she has been a Federated woman, a role she embraced, a role that brought her challenges, leadership, a resume to die for, and of course, friends. Last night was the convention, and the end of her administration, so many of us went to show our support as many years of working towards this position came to an end. But in doing so, I learned, again, about the power of women and the absolute relevance and need for women's clubs today.

For the past two years, the national and thus the state agenda has focused on domestic violence awareness. To this end, members used all the resources at their disposal, from legislation to education to reaching out to victims in their own communities. The power of this organization on a national level is astounding. Last night, at the NJ State Convention, the efforts of 200 clubs statewide were celebrated. It was a big reveal, done in sobering tone - for every number that represented a dollar amount raised, a fact was read. Statistics on dating violence against teen girls, number of domestic violence deaths in NJ in a year, and number of incidents were shocking. The most frightening was the number of women who have been abused by their husbands...1 in 3.

But, at the end, a sign of hope...the amount of money raised in two years to help victims of domestic violence in NJ.


$607, 433.15. In two years. A remarkable accomplishment.

Mary Pat was close to tears are she thanked the women in the room for giving a voice to the voiceless. I was close to tears at the power of these women who gave of their time, talents, and selves to help women and children.

GFWC has a proud history of service, as does NJFWC. I have touched on only a small part of what they do, and mentioned nothing about their vast opportunities for women, the different types of membership, or what they accomplish on local, state, and national levels. They are not a cookie cutter of ages, races, or economic status, as I had incorrectly assumed so many years ago. They are diverse, and their diversity is their strength. They are survivors, too, of breast cancer, of domestic violence, of every single thing they work to change. They give hope knowing what it is to feel hopeless, strength knowing what is is to feel weak, and financial assistance knowing what it is to feel the pinch.

So next time you think women's clubs are outdated bastions for snobs and old biddies, think again. They are, on the contrary, some of the most accomplished and caring women you could ever hope to meet, and I am proud to include my friend Mary Pat in the sweeping, broad generalization.

And now for more pictures!

Madame President, her husband, daughter, and son-in-law:


Madame President's daughter and Moi:


The rest are here. Thanks for reading.

We are in the process of getting the kitchen/dining area walls ready for painting. Nick sanded last night, and dust is everywhere. There is no obvious attempt at containment of any sort, and he's lucky he's in NYC today and not home tonight, because I wanted to kill him when I found dust in my living room, dust all over the napkins.

It's dusty here. Did I mention that? This life of dust (Did I mention it's all over some work I was doing? Like, work for money? Money that pays for sanders and paint!) lead me to reflect on the story of painting my daughter's room, just a few short months ago.

The weekend in question was harmonious to the nth degree. Never a good sign. Nick loves to rearrange furniture, so when I suggested we move Emily's bed, he was all over it. Then we took down the world's worst shelves ever, that he has hated since we first put them up. I made noises about painting the room and Nick disappeared, only to reappear with spackle. Man, we were rocking.

I should mention that this is how we embark on every not-so-major project. If it's not expensive, we dive in. Ask questions later. It works for us. It works very well. So we headed to the local home improvement store. We found a great border and some accessories. Even better, they were on clearance, so the $15 border was only $2.44! Score! Add that to the gift certificate in our hot little hands and we were money, baby, money.

Emily loved her new nightlight and slept great in her new room configuration. We were ready to paint! Sunday we did some lovely little family things, spent some time with Nick's dad, and even ate Nick's favorite fast food. Then we went to the paint store.

I am a pro at picking out paint. I'm adventurous, confident, and don't second-guess. I am amazing! I was with Nick, however, and I like to include him in some decisions. Nick's color-blind, kids. Nick can draw you a map of any place he's ever been, but he's not Mr. Color Wheel. Shit, he wakes me up to ask me if his clothes "go".

Well, we splurge on the good paint, the kind we've used before and loved. We go with the bolder color. We go home. Nick paints. I run some errands with Emily and once home, run upstairs to see how it looks.

It looks like a rave. It looks like I was on Esctasy, had some Pepto, and puked it up on the walls. Let me show you:



If it looks slightly normal in the photo, let me assure you it was anything but in person. I felt like going insane even standing in that room. There's no way Emily could sleep in it. So what do I do? Freak out, of course. Then head back out to get rescue paint. I spent far too long waiting for assistance in the local home improvement store, but was rewarded by two employees who seem to be somewhat charmed with me and my predicament, especially when I explain the crack-E-Pepto part to them.

We installed Emily downstairs, on her sleeping bag princess bed, and Nick went to work on the primer. White walls are good.



The primer takes years to dry. I get older, Nick gets older, time passes, it's like Rip Van Winkle. Emily doesn't fall asleep, of course.

We paint it the rescue color. It looks pretty. It looks nice. When it's dry, I go in and hold up the paint chip and the border. They don't match. They don't kind of not match, they are completely wrong. I call Nick. He grabs the paint can. And the bastards at the local home improvement store, they have given me the wrong paint.

I kid you not.

I live with it for a day. It's nice, but it doesn't match. It's not what I want. I demand satisfaction! (50 points if you start singing "Glove slap, I don't take crap." 25 if you know where that's from.)



I go back to the local home improvement chain I now hate. I tell them they gave me the wrong paint. They don't seem surprised. They give me the paint I wanted in the first (second?) place. I go home. I waver. I decide it needs to be done. Nick paints the room for the third time, not counting the primer coat.

Finally, a room for Emily:



So I guess the moral of this story is, things will work out despite the dust I have to wipe off my clients' documents, the dust we have to remove before we have a simple sandwich, the dust that is going to end up on my dear husband's pillow to greet him when he comes home tonight. Also, if you sand and get dust everywhere, make tracks. Post haste. If you are lucky, by the time you come home your wife will have gotten her extreme annoyance at you out in a blog post, where it can live forever on the Internet. But on the plus side, you get to keep all your limbs.