Prelude to Goodbye - Part Two

Last year when Taylor left for camp, I knew it would be challenging to be without her. I just didn’t realize how much it would hurt – nor how keenly the realization of her growing up and away from me would sting.

I pretty much melted down the Monday after she left last summer, while I was getting ready for work. Once I was at my (wonderful) place of employment that morning, I decided (given my puffy, swollen face and my inability to string a sentence together without dissolving into tears) that I would take refuge in an empty cubicle in another building (close to my core team, but far away from my cross-functional teams that I typically work with on a day-to-day basis.) One of my co-workers patiently spoke to me through the cubicle wall. “Are you okay?” she whispered. The only response I could muster on that day was, “I.Don’t.Wanna.Talk.”

My disposition did improve slightly over the ensuing days. I knew that my daughter was having fun, having new experiences, making friends from around the globe and gaining the all-too-important confidence necessary for navigating this life on her own.

A few weeks later, when Donnie and I flew to New York City to see my (our) daughter after her stay at camp, the week in Maine with family and friends and then the few days with one of my best friends in NYC, I could barely contain myself. I knew that my feeling was rightfully one sided…but I was still looking forward to being able to embrace her, to see her.

My Mommy (somewhat-worthy-of-therapist-couch) neuroses were apparent when Donnie and I exited the plane at the Airport. I started to sprint for a cab. Donnie had other ideas. He decided that he needed a coffee at an airport vendor. I stood beside him…tapping my foot and glaring at him. “Really?!?” I said, “Can’t you wait???” My subsequent reunion with my daughter was tearful. (on my part, of course)

I realized soon after that I would have to steel myself for the future.

And part of that future is now just a few days away.

Taylor loved camp so very much. And, was completely committed to going back for a longer stretch of time. Initially, I wanted her to work for it.

Then, after she got into the academic-heavy program at her High School, I told her I would pay…as long as she had all As and Bs. She met her academic requirements, even in the College course she has taken this year as a High School Freshman. So I paid (quite a price) for her to attend camp this summer for 5 weeks.

Now we are 14 days from her departing for camp in Maine. The camp is old-fashioned and eschews cell phones, computers and television. They encourage being outdoors, swimming, boating, archery and creativity. This is all lofty and good, but, I can’t talk to her during her stint at camp. I can send one way e-mails and she can send snail mail. And, I won’t see her. Nothing, nada from June 12th until July 15th.

As I have stated before, this feels like a dress rehearsal for the final flight from the nest. I believe that it is because of that knowledge that I have become somewhat clingy and a bit teary in recent days.

Where has the time gone?

It seems like only yesterday I was trying on the term ‘daughter’ and introducing the idea into my everyday life and lexicon.

I baked birthday cakes for her and decorated them. I spent long lovely evenings with her – when it was just the two of us – cooking or ordering takeout, watching movies and cuddling. I was there when she learned how to walk, speak, shop, swim, fish and negotiate. Ages 2 through 9 were dreamy and wonderful. Ages 10 through 14…notsomuch, but all part of the ride.

Through the past 16 years of our shared life, she has been there…traveling this journey with me. Now she is taking that first tentative step out of our safe nest practicing for the final flight.

As am I.

She’ll be back after 5 weeks. And I know that the next time she leaves, it’ll be for good.

While I feel bereft and oh-so-very-sad at the thought, I am also feeling my heart expand with pride. I know I have tried my damndest to be a really good Mom and I know that she is a great daughter. She is brave, (braver than I was) smart, (smarter than I am…but please don’t tell her) and incredibly empathetic. (Towards humans and animals alike.)

As certain as the tides change, she will continue to grow towards her future. I will continue to try my best to grow as a parent alongside of her.

There are just three more High School years…then I imagine, she is off to college.

I am quite sure that this will not be my last post about Tay leaving…but I would love to hear from others who have survived not only the tumultuous teens, but those who have also then been smacked, painfully, upside the head and heart with the reality of the soon-to-come empty nest.

From Margaritaville to Mosh Pits

The weekend of April 23rd was a busy and very musically enhanced one for us. I had the good fortune to attend two concerts, one on Saturday and one on Sunday. They couldn’t have been much more diametrically opposed.

Saturday, April 23, 2011

Saturday’s concert was more of an all day event. Jimmy Buffett was making his annual sojourn to South Florida. I love Buffett’s music and have been a fan since I was introduced to it at seventeen, whilst boating and waterskiing on the South Florida Intercoastal Waterway.

Since then, his music and celebrity have been woven into the fabric and soundtrack of my adult life in various ways.

The actual concert didn’t begin until 8:00 PM but, Donnie and I arrived at 11:30 AM to help prepare for an event for my work. (The company I work for makes products under Buffett’s well-known brand.)



I was a only mildly surprised to see that some die-hard Parrotheads (the self-applied moniker of Jimmy’s most ardent fans) had already begun setting up for tailgating by that time. Yes, a full 8-½ hours prior to the show. These hardy folks would spend the entire afternoon in the sweltering South Florida sun, drinking, barbequing, and playing catch while listening to Buffett music.

This was after setting up intricate temporary homes consisting of tents, with generators to power blenders, portable grills, tables, chairs, coolers, food, drinks, outdoor fans – all of which were festooned with blow up colorful parrots, grass skirts and any other brightly colored accoutrements. And of course this was before they would file into the venue to drink some more and listen to the man himself.

Though I have attended several Buffett concerts and tailgates in the past, I was still impressed by the sight and the fortitude of its dedicated hard-core members.

When my work commitment was complete, we assisted in some clean up and headed home for a mid-day break. I just couldn’t entertain the idea of remaining out there in the relentless sun all day. Plus, we needed to let our poor dogs out for a potty break.

We returned to the venue a couple of hours later, with a friend and co-worker of mine who caught a ride with us as she had a ticket to the show, as well. Shockingly, we were able to reclaim our close parking space and rejoin a group who were all seeing the concert together. We ate, drank and chatted up friends in the relative comfort of a large festive tent complete with all of the amenities. As we did so, I thought (as I often do) how fortunate I am for so many things – a great company to be employed by and brilliant, engaging and likable friends, and a wonderful husband to share the experience and music with.



We enjoyed the subsequent concert wholly. Jimmy never fails to put on a good show. We had great seats, but his exuberant energy always creates such an intimacy with his audience, that every seat is a good one. It is a gift of performing that I have only witnessed in a few artists.

We left just as the final song was beginning in order to beat the crowds and were back home by 11:30 PM.

Sunday, April 24, 2011

The next day (which was Easter Sunday*** ) I was exhausted from the previous day’s activities. However, I knew I needed to gird my loins for another concert.

A couple of months ago, my fifteen year old daughter, Taylor had expressed quite a keen interest in a band called 30 Seconds to Mars. It is headed by lead singer Jared Leto, an actor known for his roles in movies such as Requiem for a Dream and Panic Room. When Taylor enthusiastically showed me the music videos featuring the band, I pointed out that the lead singer had been the heartthrob in the coming-of-age TV series My So Called Life, which had aired back in the ‘90s and which she and I had watched in its entirety when she was 13 via DVD.

Given this new information, she squinted at the computer monitor and proclaimed him “still hot.” And, even though he was sporting a pink Mohawk in his band’s video ‘Closer to the Edge.’ – I had to agree. Plus, the band’s music was very reminiscent to me, both lyrically and in sound to the band U2.

I was heartened to hear that she had expanded her musical palette beyond the “JB’s” (Jonas Brothers and Justin Bieber) that had until recently dominated her listening tastes.

So, excited by Taylor’s interest outside of bubble-gum pop and knowing that music is one of her biggest passions, I did a quick internet search to discover that 30 Seconds to Mars would be playing live in an Amphitheater right here in West Boca Raton on April 24th, Easter Sunday. I purchased 3 regular open seating tickets (foregoing the $300 Golden Tickets that included a meet and greet with the band) thinking that if she didn’t have a friend who would want to go, Donnie would accompany us. I was also a bit nervous that perhaps her interest in their music might be fleeting and wane in the coming weeks.

I needn’t have worried.

I presented the tickets to her a week prior to the concert, as an early “Easter basket” gift. She was even more surprised and gleeful than I could have imagined and immediately invited an equally happy friend to join us for the concert.

We arrived at the concert venue that Sunday afternoon a full 2 ½ hours prior to the 7:00 PM show time. I was unfamiliar with the amphitheater and hoped that we would have some time to mill about, find a good seat and take in the views.

However, what greeted us when we got there was just a line that had formed at the closed gates. Her friend arrived shortly thereafter to join us – thankfully with fortification in the form of McDonalds and soft drinks.



We sat (again in the hot unrelenting sun) for the better part of two hours. There were perhaps 50 people in line in front of us. And as the minutes of waiting ticked by, the line behind us extended into the hundreds.

I took in the people in line. There were quite a few Mother and Daughter pairs, a testament to Jared Leto’s generation-spanning appeal. There were plenty of unaccompanied pre-teens and older teenagers. Mixed in with the rest of the crowd there were also numerous (what Taylor would term as) “goth” looking individuals in the waiting queue who sported very unique hair styles and piercings.

This band certainly attracted quite a diverse assembly.

The gates of the venue finally opened. Taylor, her friend and I were able to secure a spot right in the middle, directly in the front of the stage. While I was delighted with our coveted spots, I grew increasingly uncomfortable as the growing crowd pressed in on us.




I am not one for close proximity to a lot of other people, especially strangers. I am fine on a bustling street in New York City or corralled in assigned seating at a theater. But put me in an unleashed, uncontrolled throng of humanity and you can witness my dissolve.

So, during the opening band (a great, new start up band by the name of CB7) I practiced deep Lamaze-like breathing and willed myself to just let go and enjoy. When CB7 finished, we thankfully were joined by another friend of Taylor’s, and her Mom and the Mom’s friend. (Why I was thankful will be explained momentarily.)

Once the headliner, 30 Seconds to Mars (30STM), took the stage and Jared Leto shouted to the crowd “take three big steps…forward” (when I thought that three steps back would have been advisable) the crowd of hundreds pushed forward insistently.





There was suddenly a shove from behind. I stumbled and quickly righted myself. The other Mothers and I looked indignantly at the offenders behind us. There was a group of young men directly behind us who were staring up at the stage, zombie-like and throwing their bodies in that general direction. I did shove back, and like the uncool Mom that I am, reminded them (in my shouty-loud voice) that there are children here, BE CAREFUL!

Like trees bending to the wind, the crowd of people around us started to sway in accordance with the force created by the fans. Being familiar with my personal limits and quirks, Taylor had warned me earlier (being more unexpectedly wise in this particular situation) that I may have to take leave. We had already decided upon a meeting place and that I would carry all purses or personal items if I should decide to flee.

Though I greatly wanted to stay put and enjoy the music from my ideal front-and-center spot, my neuroses won out. I grabbed Taylor’s arm and I am quite sure that the look on my face was one of horror. I fully expected that the same terror would be reflected in her features when she turned her head to look at me. Instead, what I saw on her face was pure glee. She was one with this scene. I asked for her backpack, which she handed to me gratefully. I then grabbed the arm of the Mother of the other friend of Taylor’s and gasped, “Are you staying here?” She was completely nonplussed by what was going around her (further solidifying that fact that I am the nutty one) and responded with enthusiasm, “YES!” I told her that I had to get out of the crowd. Both she and her friend looked at me with surprise that I would willingly give up my prime standing spot. They promised to watch Taylor and her friend, as I elbowed my way out.

I found a spot very close to the side of the stage where I had a great view of the band and could kind of see what was going on where my daughter and her friends were.





Only after the panic and adrenaline had lessened their course through my body, was I was able to process emotion and thought again.

I felt guilt – it began to consume me almost immediately, even though I had left Taylor and her friend with other Mothers. Where are they…OH, I see their hands…waving pumping fists..they must be okay, right?

And then, Holy shit – I am 41 years old and somehow unwittingly found myself on the sidelines of an almost mosh-pit. Aren’t I supposed to be too old for this?

A few moments later….it looks like fun! After all, when some of the enthusiastic fans migrated ever closer to the stage, I was immediately reminded of some of my younger days. I used to circle and dance around the edges of mosh-pits! I was there when the term was invented, dammit!

I was torn between my adult Mommy and my carefree youthful self.

I found a few other comrade Mothers who had chosen to watch the concert from our shared view point. I soon realized that my fear was (mostly) unwarranted. From where I was, I also got a close up view of the lead singer becoming enamored with a fan who was wheelchair-bound. Jared insisted that he be carried onto the stage in order to enjoy the experience up-close.

The other Moms I had huddled with on the sidelines were also fans of 30STM's music, they had young sons and daughters in the crowd in front of the stage and they had no personal desire to be a part of it. One woman, a photographer had met Jared Leto in person, another had taken her 17 year old daughter to see as many 30STM concerts as they could reasonably get to or afford, and another had not only her 13 and 15 year old children in that mass of humanity in front of the stage, but also two high school exchange students. (Who would certainly return to their respective homeland countries with a slightly skewed view of the USA.)

The girls returned to me after the last song, relatively unharmed and just simply vibrating with excitement and breathlessness. “Best concert EVER!” was their refrain while I dusted of my last vestiges of worry and concern. We purchased complementary t-shirts for them to wear to school the next day and went home.

The dichotomy of the two wildly different concerts hit me a couple of days later. I felt as though I had straddled some sort of musical, lyrical span between my youth and my adulthood, all in one 36 hour period.

From the guitar strumming soothing ‘Come Monday’ to the energetic beats of ‘Kings and Queens.’

I am simply amazed at how music can define a decade, evoke feelings, span generations and join people.
So tell me, how has music moved you? What are your memorable concerts? Does certain music make you feel like a certain season of yourself?




*** I am Christian and do recognize the sanctity of the day. He has risen, indeed.

Single Mom and Tide Change

I was a single Mom for many years. 6 to be exact, from the time Taylor was 2 until she was 8 and Donnie came into our lives.

When I was a single Mom, it didn’t seem like a big deal. I simply did it. I took Taylor to school, I went to work, I picked her up, I came home. Then I did the Mom things like cook dinner and help with homework and cared for our two cats (Hemingway and Fisher) and one dog (Lucky). Rinse, Repeat.

Granted, I had lots of help. Taylor’s Grandparents and Aunts on both sides were simply invaluable as they cared for her outside of school hours, shuttling her to appointments and filling in where and when I couldn’t. And her Father was also very much involved and later her Step Mother as well. This family cell with Taylor as its much loved nucleus was a poster child example of “it takes a village to raise a child.”

I became a single parent again over this past week. Donnie had to travel for work to Alabama. He left on Sunday evening, and was not due to be home until Midnight on Friday. Taylor’s Father was also traveling for business this week, so it left a 6 day stretch of uninterrupted single Mother time. ***

I soon realized that there are a lot of things that are different now than 7 years ago as I stepped into my well worn single Mom shoes again.

For one, my career is much more fulfilling and with that, more demanding. In the past few years, I have become used to having a couple evenings a week to spend a few hours catching up on e-mails or squinting over a spreadsheet after I get home. If Taylor was not with her Father, she and Donnie would watch one of “their” shows or even go to a movie. He has also become King of the Kitchen and makes dinner almost every night in our household.

Our pet situation has also changed over the years. One of our beloved cats (Hemingway) passed away and Fisher, the lone remaining feline of the house has developed diabetes and now requires twice a day shots and a special diet. Lucky the aforementioned dog, who has been with us since Taylor was 5, can now be described as geriatric – and that is being kind. He must be regulated to the downstairs as he falls if trying to navigate the stairs. He cannot control his bladder or bowels very well anymore (much to his embarrassment) and has to be let out at very regular intervals or we suffer the consequences of a very unpleasant clean up. And then of course there is Minnie, my Chihuahua baby substitute, whose health is very robust but who also requires the same love and care as all of the other sentient beings in the household do.

Then of course there are the major changes in the being who put the ‘Mom’ in single Mom to begin with, my Daughter. No longer the sweet, amiable and loving child she was at ages two through eight, she is now a teenager and has fully presented in the last couple of years all of the adjectives that the chronological term implies.



So even though I entertained fantasies of long meaningful talks, cuddling and watching movies with Taylor during our week of togetherness, I have been in the teen daughter trenches long enough to know that reality could almost literally bite. As I have written about before, we are in the throes, the war zone really, of teenagedom. I am not her favorite person anymore, my responses to her ‘what’s for dinner’ question are typically met with whining and eye-rolling. (No matter what is on the menu.) Any comment or remark either of us would make to the other could spark the smoldering embers lying just below the surface of our tenuous daily attempt of truce or cease fire.

So, I tried to be realistic about our week together. Just us and our everyday grind. Expecting the best, but preparing for the worst, as the old adage dictates.

It was a busy week. I was up every day at 5 AM to give myself ample time to care for our needy menagerie, caffeinate myself, get Taylor rolled out of bed and do my own three “S’s.” (Don’t know what those three S’s are? Ask me offline.) During this week Taylor had her FCATS (the Florida school standardized testing that has become a State recognized event). In addition to this and my professional responsibilities I had to get her to the Orthodontist as Minnie had delightedly taken a nibble of her retainer ($250) and we had to go to her pediatrician to get her physical done and forms signed as a requirement for her camp this summer. Lucky the dog did deposit several messes, one of which was rolled in and necessitated me scrubbing the floor on my knees at two AM one night. We were never home before 5:30 PM, at which time I would throw down my purse and briefcase and usher the bladder-challenged out the door.

And to top everything off, during our phone conversations over the duration, Donnie told me that his trip was not going as well as expected. He would not be home Friday, then Saturday was looking grim as well.

By the time today (Friday) rolled around, all I wanted was to put my comfies on and curl up, perhaps with a book and preferably in the fetal position. I picked my daughter up this afternoon and realized with surprise that she was not concocting a sleep-over or a get together with a friend. She said, “Can we go see a movie together, Mom?” With the fantasies of doing ‘nothing’ dancing in my head and a negative response poised upon my tongue I thought back over the week.

There had been very few verbal missiles thrown at each other. There had been a sense of camaraderie, and indeed there were offers of help from her. “I’ll let the dogs out, Mom.” And “I’ll help you carry the groceries in.” We had been a team again…soldiers in arms so to speak, instead of at war.

So, I capitulated. After a brief stop at home, we went to the movies, smuggled in some verboten Arby’s Beef and Cheddars in my purse into the theater and had a thoroughly enjoyable a Mom and Daughter date night.

Perhaps the week alone with Taylor helped me to see that she is maturing, growing in increments beyond the “terrible teens” and into a lovely young woman. One who I love hanging out with, talking with and continuing to guide as even she guides me at times.

She got me where it hurt a couple of times over the week. Once during one of our only verbal skirmishes we had she called me out on something that I said that was petty. “See Mom, I only act like THIS, when you say things like THAT.” (She was right, I had stooped, allowed my feelings to come out in an inappropriate verbal way.) And then again but not intentionally, when we were at the pediatrician’s office for her physical. She was eyeballing her chart while the nurse was copying down the dates of her inoculations. Later in the car she said without accusation, “I looked at all of the signatures of when I was getting my shots when I was little. It was mostly Grandma, or Mimi, or Dad and sometimes Grandpa.” I was filled with Mommy guilt.

As it turns out, Donnie will come home tomorrow. Taylor and I will already be at the Delray Affair (she is participating in a ‘mob flash’) when his flight arrives. Then she and I are off to the Miracle League where she volunteers.

Despite the long hours, being a single Mom this week wasn’t such a bad thing and had several little learning moments along the way. Even going to the movies tonight with Taylor when I initially didn’t feel like it reminded me of a framed poem that I had on my daughter’s bedroom wall when she was a baby, one that I have seen in numerous other nurseries:

The cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow,
For children grow up, as I've learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust go to sleep.
I'm rocking my baby and babies don't keep.

While the specifics are a little different, the main gist remains the same. Stop, slow down and be present for your child’s life. Your time with them is all too brief.



*** I know I am fortunate. The help that I had while raising Taylor was nothing short of amazing. Her Father is very engaged, not absentee. We have many family members who look out for us. She and I have always been cocooned in a strong web of support.
To the thousands of Moms whose husbands are in any form of the Military who experience much greater trials while their Husbands are on duty or assignment and also to all the Moms who experience parenthood on their own, regardless of the circumstances…my hat is off to you. Comparatively, I’ve had it easy. I realize that.

The Un-Government Experience at the DMV

Taylor has been bugging me ever since she turned fifteen, at first coyly and then more urgently, “when can I get my permit?” My response was that when she figured out what the requirements were and had prepared and studied for the test that I would take her to the DMV. My daughter then threw herself, uncharacteristically I might add, into the task with abandon. She appeared at home one evening last November with a couple of State issued books about roads and signs and how drinking and drugs can affect your driving.

A couple of days later she asked me for my credit card. “For what?” I asked. “To take my tests,” she replied. As it turns out, all a 15 year old has to do to get a permit in this state is to take a $25 test online, get a certification of completion in the mail and voila…just show up at the DMV and get your picture taken. I felt the whole process was somewhat lacking in the checks and balances department, but who am I to say?

After she received the certificate in the mail (on the second try) we decided to head down to the DMV on the last day before the holidays. She was out of school and I was already on holiday from work, so the timing seemed opportune. Apparently the timing was also great for the DMV employees to leave work an hour early to get a head start on their own celebrations, so the office was closed by the time that we got there.

Another try on one of the last days of the year was unsuccessful as well. By noon, the DMV was not taking any more people in as the wait time already exceeded their hours of operation. This little factoid should have set off warning bells, but we decided that the next time that Taylor had a late start for school for LTM at 10:30, (Normal school time is 8:30 – and getting one’s permit does not count as an excused tardy) we would be first in line when the DMV opened at 8:15 AM.

Which, is how we found ourselves at the hallowed doors of the DMV this past Thursday, at 7:30 AM sharp. Well, not exactly at the doors, more like a block away because the scene that greeted us was this:



There was already a line at least a hundred strong of the tired, poor, huddled masses in front of us. I espied folks with coolers, lawn chairs and reading materials. I sighed and muttered, “Geez, I remember sleeping out for a Madonna concert…but not for my permit!”

“Right!?” exclaimed a petite woman in front of me. She had questionable hair and teeth and her attire suggested she was a fellow ‘80’s alumni who had not left the look back in the decade where it belonged.

An older gentleman in mustard colored corduroy pants and a patterned sweater sidled up to the ‘80’s alum in front of me, kind of doing a sideways dance to cut in front of us. He appeared to be clutching an iPad in a protective folder. I eyeballed his curious and nervous two-step and decided magnanimously to let him stay in front of us.

A couple more women joined the line behind us, not connected in any way save the fact that they had arrived at the same time. One of them, who favored watching rap cartoons (who knew there was such a genre?) on her smart phone (without earphones) mentioned that she had been there the previous morning and she had seen an older man say something about not having his meds and just collapsing on the ground.

‘Good God,’ I thought. All of us in line had been making commiserating remarks about the disorganization and the inconvenience of waiting in line at an ungodly hour for the DMV, but not that it was health or life threatening. I subtly cast a glance around me to asses anyone who might suddenly have a case of the vapors. (As it turned out, my identification skills were weak.)

Chit-chat with our neighbors ceased and the ambiance of camaraderie dissipated once the doors were opened and people were slowly allowed to file in. The culture shift in the line reminded me of the phenomenon that happens when emergency vehicles are closing in from behind you on the road. You and your fellow drivers make way considerately, but once the blaring sirens are in front of you, it is every man for themselves – trying to be first in order to ride the ‘ambulance wake.’

We were all business now.

We were probably about 20 feet from the entrance when two employees came out of the building and started shouting for anyone not in need of a State ID or Driver’s License. Mr. Mustard Colored Corduroy pants in front of us said to one of the bellowing employees that he had lost his license. She said that he needed to stay in the line and pointed vaguely to the spot right in front of Taylor and me.

Dejected, Mr. Corduroy walked back into line and then for reasons known only to himself and God, decided that he would step over the low rope-like hanging chain that stood suspended between posts as a line of demarcation between the sidewalk and the pavement of the parking lot. His first leg he hoisted over just fine, but when he tried to pull his other leg over, his foot caught and forward he went.

It was one of those surreal slow motion moments. Initially, he started to fail his arms to stop the fall but then discontinued the effort. (I assume this was a misguided effort to save his iPad.) Instead, he elected a path devoid of self preservation and allowed his skull to be the direct point of impact.

I heard the ominous crack, dropped my bag at Taylor’s feet and rushed to his side (being very careful when stepping over the chain.) Several other people were at his side immediately, too. His face was still on the ground, and his body was facing away from me. He was making some sounds, and from what I could understand, he was trying to say that he was okay.

The same (bitch) employee to whom he had spoken was there when he finally got to standing with assistance. She said she would bring him a chair. He told her he was worried about losing his place in line. She procured a chair, sat it in the parking lot, facing the waiting-in-line crowd and told him that he didn’t have to worry, he wouldn’t have to wait in line. She left and the poor man sat there in his chair, clutching his intact iPad. He kept trying to shoo people away, saying he was fine. But as he sat there, I could see that he wasn’t.

Where his forehead had connected to the pavement, an enormous welt had begun. It didn’t even take two minutes to form and a fine stream of blood trickled from it down his face. Additionally concerning was the fact that his nose was misshapen and had widened and I realized in retrospect that the crack I had heard was from his nose breaking. He looked dazed and anxious. I hung back and tried to get someone to agree with me that he needed medical attention.

I was just considering calling 911 and how that conversation would play out when the (bitch) employee pushed through the throng of people again. “Excuse me, M ‘am,” I said touching her shoulder, “I do think that he needs to have medical attention.” The (bitch) employee brushed me aside and said she had to go open the gates for the EMT. I was relieved that Mr. Corduroy would get some much-needed assistance. But I couldn’t help but wonder about the fact that our local emergency team had been called out twice in two mornings. How many times does it take before someone says, “hmmm, perhaps there is a flaw in the system at the DMV”?

After Mr. Corduroy was safely being treated, we entered the building. I was greeted by a sign above my head that said, ‘Welcome to the DMV – The Un-Government Experience’ and to my right was a snaking line that reminded me of the S shaped lines that one would encounter at Disney World.

We had snaked through about half of it and my heart lifted a bit. The line was moving a bit quicker now, and I was shaking off the adrenaline that had coursed through me after Mr. Corduroy’s mishap, now that he was getting the medical attention he needed. I was still a little stressed about our paperwork (we had no fewer than 8 documents clutched in a folder) but internally assured myself that we had everything we needed. I was even able to chuckle when I saw this sign that warned anyone approaching this employee's desk, NO QUESTIONS:





Then, the loudspeaker came on; “for those of you who are in line for a State ID or Driver’s License, the system is down. We are on the phone with Tallahassee. The problem seems to be State wide.” Taylor and I exchanged glances. I was ready to throw in the towel. “Let’s come back tomorrow” I pleaded, “there is still time to get you to school on time.”

As only one with a singular goal can do, she rallied. She pleaded with me to just give it 15 more minutes. So I did. We had already come so far. Another (bitch #2) employee came through the line checking our paperwork. We were given a slip of paper that said OK on it and then shortly after, we were given a number and told to “wait in the lobby.” (a huge misappropriation of the noun)




I will spare you the details of our wait and the well dressed and well spoken Centenarian, who arrived with her nurse, to whom I proffered my seat and who fully expected to renew her Driver’s License. (The fact that she had been driven there by the nurse was inconsequential to her.)

Taylor and I listened numbly to the numbers being called. We heard “A101!” and I said to Taylor (much to the amusement of those in hearing distance) “Shit! I have never heard higher than 81 called at the deli line at Publix!”

Our number was finally called, and we high-tailed it to the designated station.

And sitting there was our final nemesis, a pleasant looking, clueless woman who went by the name of Frances.

I excitedly asked Frances which of the forms or documents she would prefer first. She accepted all of them, complained that another employee should have taken us. She shuffled our documentation around and said, “Now HOW do I do this?” Her voice came out gravelly and with a twang. Sort of like Marge Simpson meets a dedicated 2 pack a day smoker.

By this time, my eyebrows have met my hairline so often during this journey that they are fused together. I willed an exhale through my nose.

Frances decided to ask one of her co-workers how to process a Permit. “Hey Aaaaprilll,” she shouted, “how do you do one of these?” She redirected her attention to the papers in front of her and made a few key strokes on her computer. A few minutes later, she turned her head to squint her eyes towards the person she had asked the question of. Then her eyes shifted back to her computer screen and she mumbled, “That’s why she didn’t answer, her name’s Auuuutumn…not Aaaaprilll” and then she chuckled.

Though Frances was befuddled, spoke to herself frequently and sported an admirable mustache, her hearing was much more acute than her knowledge. We realized this when I pointed out our former comrade in DMV arms from the ‘lobby’, the Centenarian lady. Frances heard me whispering, let out a guttural guffaw and said, “Yeah, we’ll see if she gets her license renewed. Ha.” The knowledge that Frances possessed bat-ears forced Taylor to communicate with me via text while I was standing a mere 6 inches away. “Figures we would get the only person who doesn’t know what she is doing!” I had to stifle a chuckle at my daughter’s ingenuity.

I will say in Frances’ defense, she was the most cheerful person that we met that morning. Perhaps ignorance truly is bliss.


I did have to coach Frances through some steps of the process (which should have been 10 minutes, but which took 30.) I had to remind her that Taylor’s Birth Certificate was in her scanner and that the Parental Approval form rested on her printer. But, when Taylor’s photogenic moment finally came and she stepped in front of the blue screen, nervously adjusting herself for the permanent photo, Frances became the Patrick Demarchelier of the DMV. One shot and done. I smugly (Hey, I had few opportunities to feel smugness during this experience) noticed that the young woman next to us insisted on multiple shots from her DMV employee. Frances came through, as Taylor looks absolutely beautiful in her State of Florida Permit photo.

Taylor still had to answer a few more questions from Frances. Such as, has her license ever been revoked, has she ever been arrested for drugs or alcohol…oh, and does she want to be an organ donor?

This last question prompted Taylor to look at me with questioning eyes. “Do I want to be an organ donor, Mom?” Now, this is deep stuff for a 15 year old who is not legally considered an adult. (Now, why didn’t they include this little tidbit in one of the online courses or tests? Let the kid think about this at home and perhaps speak about it with their parents?) Without telling her what my feelings were, she decided ‘yes.’

Then all of a sudden, we hit the summit of our epic climb up Mount DMV when the coveted State Issued Florida Permit landed in her hot little hands. Eureka! We did it!

And then, my internal voice toned in and said, ‘Oh shit.’
After 15 years, 3 months,22 days plus 3 hours, I am a parent of a licensed driver.

Despite our trials at the DMV and also somewhat because of them, I am a little shell-shocked and surprised.

But my daughter? Is elated. She is a licensed driver in the great State of Florida.



eegads, wish me well.

The Tale of Key West and Two Hits

We spent last weekend in Key West, to ring in the New Year in my favorite place on the planet. I have written before about how this funky, lovely little Island town has somehow captured my heart with its many fine attributes.

One of the things that I find attractive about Key West is the people. Well, rather the locals. Due to my many sojourns and my mutual interests with the folks that call Key West home, I have made some friends. And it was a friend who graciously and generously sponsored our trip during a holiday weekend, which otherwise we could not have well afforded.

This trip, we drove my efficient, sleek, pretty, brand-spanking-new Prius, Daisy down there. Even though I had only purchased her a month and a half previously, I just knew it was her destiny to make many trips to the Southernmost tip. I was excited to ‘stretch her legs’ and count the mile markers down US1 to the final destination for the first time with her.

Once there, we parked Daisy in front of our host’s lovely little Conch home in the private parallel parking in front. (As seen in the pic above) She sat there for the duration of the trip, unmoving and soaking up the warm subtropical sun as Donnie and I always rent a scooter to get around when we are down there.

Scooters, bikes or your own two legs are definitely the preferred modes of transportation in Key West. The streets are Lilliputian in size and the other auto drivers on the road are mostly either taxis (fast and careless) or tourists (drunk and clueless.)

Donnie and I just love to spend entire afternoons just scootering around and reacquainting ourselves with the Island…stopping off at the Bookstores (the Used Book one or Voltaire’s), naming off now familiar sights and most particularly, looking at the architecture and Real Estate.

We have been talking more and more about the re-adjusted dream of not selling our listed townhome in Delray and moving locally, but instead just staying put and instead investing in some sort of Real Estate in Key West. Ideally it would be an income property, a project and a vacation destination. Then it would be a future retirement, a family reunion spot and finally it would be a legacy for our daughter and future generations. (Lofty, I know – but aren’t most dreams?)

We happened upon a very special property during our outing on New Year’s Day and in a fit of pique and optimism, I contacted the listing agent to make an appointment for the following morning to see it before we left town.

We arrived a few minutes prior to the agreed upon time of 10:00 AM the next morning. While waiting under the trees and gazing at our fantasy home, my phone rang. I looked at the incoming call…it was our host.

Our host is a wonderful, creative man. He is a local author, an entrepreneur and is deliciously enigmatic and charismatic. He is also a dichotomy of outgoing and introspective. When I first met him, I was enchanted. Our friendship blossomed quickly and as I said before, it was only because of his good will that we were even staying in Key West.

Hearing his voice on the phone while we stood and waited for the Realtor is not what unnerved me…it was WHAT he said. “There is a very nice man here, who knocked on the door. He said he hit your car.”

I was in a state of disbelief, and for a moment, knowing that our host is a prankster, started looking around for a hidden camera.

MY CAR WAS HIT? I quickly realized our host wasn’t joking, asked him to please accept the information being offered from the person claiming to have dented my Daisy.

We did tour the property, which is very promising and then raced back to our host’s home. Daisy still sat sweetly in the sun, waiting for us. Our host was not around, but the information left by the driver who hit the car was left prominently on our host’s desk.

After returning home, I did call the number left on the ragged half an envelope while regarding the copied Auto Insurance card suspiciously. I needn’t have worried. The “Hitter” (which would make me, or Daisy, the “Hittee”) couldn’t have been nicer or more solicitous. He was deeply sorry and promised to do anything to help with the repairs. Upon calling the Hitter’s home (out of state – he had been on his last day of vacation) Insurance Company, I received similar treatment. They assured me of their intent to honor the minor claim and gushed about how long the “Hitter’s” family had been their client and how nice all of them were. All I could do was agree.

And truly, I am grateful. Key West is a paradise, but it is also very transient. My new car was hit by a spiritual young man who carried not only good insurance…but, something rarer nowadays…a conscience.

Daisy is scheduled to have her cosmetic surgery Monday afternoon. The damage was minor and I know she will look as good as new.

But just like Paul Harvey…there is a “rest of the story.”






This very evening, I was sitting outside of a popular Mexican restaurant in the posh downtown Boca area known as Mizner Park. Several girlfriends and I were celebrating the birthday of one of our own.

While sitting there, munching on chips and sipping Margaritas, we all heard an awful CRUNK noise. We all turned our heads to see a car pull away after hitting another one, right in front of us. I leapt up from the table and chased after the offending car, copying down the make, model, color and license plate. We called security and all they did was stick a note under the windshield wiper of the little black convertible VW bug that now had a sagging front bumper. I did add my name and number and hope that they contact me so that I can provide the details that I have of the “spineless twit” who left the scene.

I have come full circle; I went from a plaintiff to a witness in just a few days.

Our lives are indeed, at times, shaped by those that we meet along the way.


“Hitter,” I apologize for your moniker in this blog as you deserve a much better one. However, I wasn’t creative enough to think up a better one. I thank you for having moral fortitude to knock on a stranger’s door and admit to a mishap. Let it be known, I am a kindred spirit. And I am truly grateful.

“Spineless Twit,” I make no apologies. You hit someone else’s property, caused financial and property damage and fled the scene of your crime. I have done the best that I could to identify you.

“Host,” I am proud to call you a friend. You are indeed an enigma…but that is part of your charm.

What makes a man attractive? (An Ode to My Husband)

(The idea for this post germinated this morning after taking the campy Christmas photos of my husband, he ever the good sport)

When I was a teen and in my early twenties, we didn’t call the opposite sex ‘men’ – they were ‘guys.’ Furthermore, my friends and I didn’t call them handsome or sexy, they were ‘cute’ or ‘hot.’

The term ‘cute’ was usually reserved for pretty boys. They were the universally attractive ones with angular faces and aquiline noses, sometimes with long surfer locks and sometimes clean shaven with neat, short Ralph-Lauren-catalogue type haircuts.

The term ‘hot’ was a little more ambiguous and up to personal feminine interpretation and taste. Hot guys (for me at least) were the bad boys, with a hint of danger in their swagger and a mischievous sparkle in their eyes. They also seemed to have that elusive brand of magnetic charisma that could draw you in.

As most women do over time, I learned the lesson. A guy who’s first credentials were cute or hot were great to look at and sometimes fun to be with…but for the most part lacked the substance needed to go the distance.

Though I never altered my number one favorite physical feature (beautiful eyes), I have certainly expanded my palate when it comes to what is attractive. After becoming single again on the eve of my thirties, I came to value the ability to hold a conversation, which goes hand in hand with intellect. I noticed humor and wit. I looked for close familial relationships and long friendships.

When I began to date my now husband, I realized I had hit the jackpot. He had been literally under my nose as a close friend before we had ever decided to become a couple. I had always thought of him as cute and hot (when we first became friends) and now think of him as handsome and sexy.

I can add confidence to the long list of his positive attributes.

Last Christmas, we had posted a picture of him lovely cradling our Chihuahua, Minnie under the Christmas tree on Facebook. His pose was accidentally somewhat reminiscence of Burt Reynolds in a Playgirl layout (but clothed). He weathered quite a bit of good-natured ribbing from his pals up North.

















This year, I was dying to anniversary the picture, and had him take up this pose. Of course, this photo on Facebook had the desired effect. Lots of comments, LOLs, OMGs and one EWW (from my 15 year old daughter.) All in good fun.

















And my husband, my lovely husband, had enough confidence to do this in the name of laughter.

Since coming to Florida to live with Taylor and I, my husband has embraced not only me and my daughter (who he treats as his own), but also my family and friends. He has extended his good nature and love to my daughter’s extended family. He has cultivated a network of buddies that he plays sports with. He has become the pet whisperer in our household, cleaning up messes and giving the newly-diagnosed diabetic cat his twice daily shots. He is loyal…completely. To his family, to us, to his job.

He is not a saint, just to be clear. He can drive me nuts at times. But that is perfect, because neither am I.

I look again at the cheesy photo I took this morning and marvel at the image of the confident and loving man that is my husband.

And I think how not only how handsome and sexy he is, but also how cute and hot.


Today, on the anniversary of Christ's birth, I am grateful for so many things...my daughter, my family, my health, my profession...and also for my husband.

Merry Christmas.

The elephant in the room (would be me)

I have fattened up. Much like the turkeys from last month. And, I don’t like it one bit. Unfortunately, when I am happy and settled in a relationship or marriage, I tend to look a bit plumper. WTF is that?

Every time that I have been single, lonely and yearning, I tend look my best. I have no appetite and I become wispy-waisted. Or, if there is a flirtation in my life (hi angst- ridden cute boy, talkin’ to you here.)

I do try. Lately I have eaten fruit for breakfast, whole wheat bread with low fat peanut butter and low sugar grape jelly for lunch. Dinner is a crap shoot as I may have a business dinner or not. I am also mindful of the fact that my slender father had a heart attack and a quintuple bypass. My health is hereditary.

I hate the extra pounds. I think longingly of the days when I fit into a size four. (I am now a size twelve). I try really hard not pass my body issues onto my daughter, who is already proclaiming a hatred of her thighs.

Next week I start boot camp (I do LOVE working out – with a friend) I so want to reclaim my body. Not only just to its former self but also as a proclamation.

I FUCKING ROCK.

See you on the treadmill.