A Martini Toast

60

January 7, 2026

amartinitoast.com, Broken Heart, Healing, Zachary Jaffe

It has been too long since I’ve blogged, and I’m not sure if it’s laziness, exhaustion, denial, progress, or just simply getting older. This Friday is the day – the day I’ve dreaded for so long, the day that first number turns from a 5 to a 6, the day I have earned, and the day I didn’t think my heart would survive until. As a profound believer in rites of passage, I am pulverized that these wrinkles, these body aches, these reading glasses, these stretch marks, and this plethora of gray hairs are not accompanied by the giggles of grandchildren and their precious handprints and mini-Picasso artwork on my refrigerator.

As most of my readers know, it’s also my Zack’s birthday. He’ll be turning 32, but I only had him for 21 of those years. My Sportchop, the Most Handsome Man on the Planet, and my forever Chuckles is living a life about which I know nothing. I pray it’s a happy and healthy one, and I remain so grateful that we share the same birthday and that G-d blessed me with him and his sisters.

Friday will not go without hoopla, and I’ll be celebrating with friends who have become my family. Our favorite restaurant, Aldo’s, will be the location for the festivities, and there will be no shortage of booze and schmooze. With a couple of surprises up my sleeve, I will honor my New Year’s resolution to be completely in the moment, embracing those who stay, love, support, hope, console, encourage, and continue to be my pillars and buttresses.

It has been a year, and last month alone brought the anti-semitic atrocities of the Bondi Beach carnage, the egregious Brown University shooting, and the senseless and shocking stabbings of Rob and Michelle Reiner. Then, 35-year-old Tatiana Schlossberg, JFK’s granddaughter, tragically passed away from cancer, leaving 2 babies behind and sustaining the Kennedy curse. Prices and hatred are up, morale and decency are down, and each day brings vile, toxic, threatening, and vengeful social media posts from the White House. The cost of healthcare has become prohibitive for so many, and our president and his clown car of cretins are deriving such pleasure from the suffering of others.

We just returned from a cruise on the Queen Victoria, where I honestly felt like a princess for 7 days. The people, the cabin, the entertainment, the food, and the ports of Bruges, Amsterdam, and Cherbourg were downright enchanting, and the civility and cordiality of all with whom we fraternized were noteworthy and remarkable. It was never lost on us how fortunate we were to be on the voyage, and we blotted up every ounce of the luxury that Cunard was serving.

One particular highlight came in the form of meeting the lovely Karen and Paul. Gorgeous inside and out, we first met them at the Gin Bar and bonded over way more than the cocktails. We spoke of triumph, truth, and tribulation, and I felt as if our friendship was so much more than fledgling. The laughs were so frequent and fluid, and the conversation was so real. It’s funny, because we had exchanged phone numbers and emails one morning early on in the cruise, and I told Karen that I would send her my blog when we returned home. I didn’t need to though, as she found it on her own and had read it before we met that night for drinks. I’m not sure how she found it, but I was glad that she did. For so long, I have kept my story and myself so guarded, but now it and I can be found. And, as I thought about it, I decided that maybe I can be found because, for the first time in my life, I’m not lost.

Happy New Year to all, Happy Birthday to my Zack, Happy Birthday to me, and peace, love, and grace all around.

2 comments on 60
Happy Endings

September 30, 2025

Grace and Kindness

Sometimes, I will blog often. Though each entry takes me hours because I need for it to be perfect, I will occasionally tackle the challenge more than once a week if I’m in crisis or if I really need to say something. Today, both are true.

I just finished watching the television show, Mad Men. It first came out in 2007, and it was the stunning Jon Hamm’s breakout role. He was an advertising executive, and the show’s 7 seasons plunge you into the hedonistic, overindulgent, and, quite frankly, unrestrained world of advertising in the 60s. Excessive smoking, drinking, infidelity, and backstabbing (which, coincidentally, is probably also what Jay told the kids is the name of my autobiography), were all over every episode, and I won’t even begin to touch on how the show embodied the message that women should make dinner, look pretty, schedule appointments, and rarely think.

I have to say that this show was riveting. Dark yet funny, aggravating yet auspicious, realistic yet unlikely, and sexy yet repugnant, all 92 episodes, at some point, left me feeling sad, envious, unfulfilled, energized, defeated, frightened, stirred, galvanized, hopeful. The writers and the actors certainly did their jobs effectively, as one can argue for days about who, in fact, realized and reached their happy ending.

What, actually, is a happy ending? Once upon a time, it was the name of an ice cream sundae that one could get at Friendly’s. It was small, but it did the job of topping off that Fishamajig or SuperMelt with something yummy. A happy ending is also what some people get at the end of a massage, where the masseuse brings you to orgasm after putting you in a relaxed state of bliss. (Did you think every blog would be PG)? A happy ending is what we’re used to and hoping to read about in fairy tales, especially since the heroine has usually gone through the tortures of the damned before she can even think about her happy ending.

My happy ending will have the 3 who matter most, their spouses, and my grandchildren (who probably won’t be babies anymore). I, woefully, will have missed out on the “I’m pregnant!” announcements, the pregnancies, the births, the “What do I do, Mom?” and the “Did this happen to you, Mom?” The delicious scent of a newborn mixed with the intoxicating combination of Dreft, Desitin, and Johnson and Johnson Baby Shampoo will have to be a memory I pull from storage, when the 3 who matter most were small. I won’t get to play my famous “Oh, I Don’t Think So” game that elicits such giggles and squeals of joy, and the indentations on the chubby little wrists and ankles will probably have filled in.

Maybe, however, if I’m lucky, I’ll still get to give my renowned foot rides, attend sporting events, dance recitals, and school plays, cook my medicinal and traditional matzo ball soup, and embrace my religion again. Just as my 6th grade students share their weekend plans during our five-minute, end of the week, “Gibbering with Jaffe” sessions, perhaps my grandkids will tell their teacher that they’re having a sleepover at Grandma’s or that Grandma is picking them up from school to go to a Sabrina Carpenter concert. And maybe, just maybe, that Grandma will be me.

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September 23rd, 2025 -(5786)

September 24, 2025

Grace and Kindness

Today is Rosh Hashanah, the beginning of the Jewish New Year. The day marks the creation of Adam and Eve, the birthday of the universe, and a time where Jewish people, like me, reflect on the past year while simultaneously planning for the next one. We dwell on our mistakes and overstay our visit at the Hotel of Regrets and What Ifs. Many spend the day in synagogue, and some, again like me, spend the day in their own heads.

Today is also the anniversary of the day I met Jay. 42 years ago today, while I was walking to a party and Jay was in the Student Union, a mutual friend introduced us. An obvious imbalance from the genesis of our relationship, I suppose Jay’s candle of common sense and calm and my flame of fire and fun thought we just might be a match and possibly make a glow of it (see what I did there).

Jay was far more religious than I, and I think that religion was the ultimate decimator of our marriage. I resented how it was shoved down my throat instead of spoon-fed to me in appropriate portions. Always proud of my religion and glad and eager to be an active participant, I didn’t understand why I had to sell my soul for my kids to go to public school. I didn’t understand why the girls, even at the ages of 6 and 8, couldn’t wear a skirt or a dress even half of an inch above their knees. I didn’t understand why, when we were out of the house, we couldn’t eat what we wanted. But, most of all, I didn’t understand how somebody could pretend to wrap himself in the poncho of piety, when he was actually waiting in the pews to pounce and destroy.

Rabbinical sermons this holiday will, without a doubt, discuss the situation in Israel and Gaza. Israel will be the focus, along with the need for us to continue to put them at the forefront of our concerns for our heritage. I am grateful for my heritage, but, let me be clear in that, first and foremost, I am an American Jew.

On October 7th of 2023, Israel was attacked by Hamas, and they are still waiting for hostages to be returned. These young, beautiful, innocent people were merely enjoying a concert, and the revolting and monstrous murders and kidnappings were beyond the pale. Israel (finally) had the sympathy of the world, and the world saw the persecution right up close. Through the horrors came support we didn’t even know we had.

Now, Netanyahu, as he tries to stay out of jail, is annihilating Gaza. The starvation and the obliteration are NOT who we are, and we’re sadly losing the sympathy and the camaraderie that was almost groundbreaking. Hamas needs to be demolished, but we have got to get this fire under control.

The state of our country here is dire. Jimmy Kimmel being pulled off the air last Wednesday was nothing short of evil, egregious, and retaliatory. What happened to Charlie Kirk was devastating, repulsive, and sickening, and Jimmy Kimmel, like every normal human being, made that clear up front.

Charlie Kirk’s widow said that she forgives the person who shot and killed her husband. That’s an enormous gesture, and, though I’m not a scholar of Jesus by any means, I know that forgiveness was what he so often preached.

Folks, as the Jewish people usher in the New Year, 5786, let’s all show grace and love towards each other. No matter our religion, our political affiliation, our demons, our education, or even our stock portfolios, let’s pull each other up with tenderness and appreciation. As somebody who has lost everything and would relish some forgiveness herself, I know what it means to be beaten up. I know the lacerating pain of not having the 3 who matter most on Mother’s Day and birthdays and holidays, but I never let that stop me from treating others with empathy and compassion.

Shana Tova to all!

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Setbacks and Voices

August 1, 2025

amartinitoast.com, Barbara Starsky, Can I be your grandma?, Cunard, Flakowitz, Grace and Kindness, Marissa, Rebecca, Zachary

We all have different ways of dealing with stress. Some people go to the gym and treadmill their trauma. Many will scream and confront, while a fair portion might retreat. Some eat too much or too little, while others befriend a Bellini and a blackjack table. For me, I write. It doesn’t happen immediately, as I need to internalize everything first, making sure I’ve completely and adequately tortured myself in the process.

This summer began with an enchanted and elegant Alaskan voyage on the Queen Elizabeth, guaranteeing Cunard a customer for life. Proudly taking on the role of the “youngest old person” and relinquishing my role as the “oldest young person,” I basked in the magic of every glacier, every fjord, every whale, every afternoon tea, and every British accent.

We returned home in time for Bob’s birthday, and 2 of his grandsons came to celebrate. Oh, did we have fun! From the slides to the toys to the books to the rocks to the Oh, I Don’t Think So chasing game that I used to play with my own kids, this chasm inside of me was temporarily cushioned, insulated, sequestered. And, taking everybody to our favorite restaurant, Aldo’s, brought even further joy as people there unknowingly addressed me as Grandma and commented on the state of delight and pure bliss into which these children clearly escorted me.

When the kids left, and before I headed back to my house, Bob looked at me and just said, “tragic.” Though I was pretty sure I knew what he meant, I still asked for clarification and elaboration. He said that he knows how much I suffer without my kids and grandkids, and he knows that it’s tragic that I don’t have them in my life. “But,” he said, “what’s the most tragic is that your grandchildren don’t have you in their lives. They’re the innocent ones here, and they are missing out on a grandmother who is so young, so fun, so caring, so vibrant, and so big-hearted.”

The rest of July has been difficult, and the majesty of the Queen Elizabeth and Alaska seems like so very far away. Though I won’t elaborate too much here, I seem to have had a setback in my voice. It’s not my Fran Drescher or my Marvelous Mrs. Nasal physical voice that has been impacted, but my “you can’t talk to me or treat me that way” voice that has taken a hit.

I have worked so hard on loving and respecting myself. With the help of my therapist, my job, relationships, and loyal friends who are truly the sisters I never had (and I do have a sister), I have learned that I have value. I am flawed, damaged, broken, and incomplete, but I have value.

We were recently in Florida, (yes, we went from the invigorating chill of Alaska to the damaging heat of Florida), and the last day of our trip brought us to where my mother had lived and a couple of her old stomping grounds. Both of us were agitated, the feeling having nothing at all to do with each other, and when we walked into my mother’s beloved Flakowitz of Boynton, positively starving, I wasn’t fully surprised when I couldn’t stop crying.

My mother’s house was next, and sneaking in the side gate of Platina felt both illicit and wonderful at the same time. I showed Bob the outside of 5139C Europa Drive; knocking on the door seemed wrong and intrusive. I was feeling so paradoxical, as the nostalgia and reminiscences of the idyllic time I spent there with my kids was darkened by the reality that I never got to say goodbye to my mother. It still eats away at me, and I don’t wish this feeling on anybody, especially the three who matter most.

The Seminole Casino at Coconut Creek was our next stop; my mom loved that place and I wanted to show it to Bob. We had a drink at the bar and were heading to play a little, when all of a sudden I heard a man telling a story to somebody. The words, “and that Jew,” stunned and halted me, and I questioned him on what he just said. He admitted to saying it, and when I told him that I was Jewish and incredibly offended by his label, he could’t stop apologizing. It had been a difficult week where I stifled my voice and swallowed my self-worth, and now this vignette of anti-semitism just had me shaken to my core.

Folks, don’t ever let anybody rip out your proverbial vocal cords. Speak up for your neighbors and for all of the communities that are being persecuted. Speak up for yourselves. We are living in such challenging times, and our voices are not only being edited, but actually deleted.

I’ve got to go find a Bellini and a blackjack table. Happy August to all!

1 comment on Setbacks and Voices
Coming Home, Going Home, What and Where is Home?

May 3, 2025

Abandonment, Barbara Starsky, Broken Heart

We just returned from a magical Spring Break in Portugal, but, after 7 days, I turned to my person and said, “I’m ready to go home.” Being the “Overthinking for 300, Alex” type that I am, I probably shouldn’t have said that, because it weighed on me throughout the entire flight back to New Jersey. Where is home? What is home? If nobody is waiting for you, is it home? I think the turbulence in my mind was even more frightening than what we were experiencing as we crossed the Atlantic on United flight 145.

I will turn 60 in January, and as I enter what would generously and fairly be called the last third of my life, for some reason I recall what David Cassidy, Keith Partridge himself, said to his daughter on his deathbed. He was only 67, so he only experienced a bit more than two-thirds of the 90 years with which I think everyone should be blessed. He said to her, “So much wasted time.” Imagine that, Keith Partridge, a heartthrob and icon at 20, talking about wasted time?

Was David Cassidy just thinking he could have done so much more with his life? Perhaps, but David Cassidy and his daughter, Katie, were estranged for a significant amount of time. He was obviously contemplative on the extra and deserved time, for both of them, that they could have and should have had together. Fingers weren’t pointed, blame wasn’t assigned, he was just commenting, with his daughter right next to him at his bedside, while he was about to officially “go home,” that so much time was squandered.

I spend substantial time thinking about my own mother, and how much I miss her and regret the time we never got to share. As I have written before, several times in fact, my mother was flawed. But, she was mine, and though I try to show grace and let go of the detestation I feel for my sister, my sister forbade my mother from having any contact with me. Let’s be clear and understand that my mother was fully at fault, and again I will reiterate how seamless Sophie’s Choice was for Barbara Starsky, but she was given an ultimatum by my sister. She was afraid and she was a coward, but she was threatened by a mobster who orchestrated a gang mentality against me.

My mother was an extremely pretty lady, stunning at times, and I was always surprised she didn’t have any work done when she got older. She was vain, which is not a bad thing, as looking attractive matters. It’s not everything, but pride in one’s appearance, especially when one begins showing those unrequested though inescapable signs of aging, conveys a zestiness and an “I’m not going down without a fight” vibe.

I saw my mother for the last time in 2016, though she didn’t pass away until 2021. She got in so much trouble from my sister, or, as she liked to say, she “paid the piper” when I went down to Florida to spend time with her. Pathetic, isn’t it, that she got in trouble from her one daughter for seeing her other daughter? I reached out to her after that, but we rarely connected. I did get a birthday voicemail from her in 2019, on my 53rd birthday (I am crying hysterically right now, as I just listened to it), and she told me that she loved me, that she wanted to hear my voice, and that she wanted to see me. I was actually playing Mah Jongg when I saw and heard her voicemail, and when I called her back and after we spoke a bit, I put her on speaker so that she could say hello to a couple of my friends whom she knew. I was so happy that she had called, and I told her I would LOVE to see her and to just name the place, date, and time. I suddenly felt resurrected, visible, valued, loved. My mommy wanted to see me. I mattered. I had a home.

She never reached out after that.

On April 6th of 2020, a few weeks after the world went into lockdown, I sent this to my mom:

Dear Mom,

There’s a quote by Maya Angelou that I’ve thought about a lot over these past years. Powerfully and impactfully, she wrote, “I can be changed by what happens to me, but I refuse to be reduced by it.” With that said, I’m reaching out to you.

Mom, I don’t know that you are going to get this; perhaps Lisa intervenes and has control over everything in your life. I’m actually hoping that you’re at Lisa’s right now so you don’t have to be alone. Regardless, we’re in a pandemic, and I care about you. You’re my mother, after all.

I’m not going to be emotional, political, intellectual, accusatorial, or banal. I’m just going to tell you that I love you, that I hope you’re safe, and that if you need anything at all, just let me know.

Marla

This was her response:

what a nice surprise! I love you too and hope you are safe…mom

Between March 24th and June 9th of 2020, I received 16 Explanation of Benefits statements for Zack. He was still on my insurance, and, because his birthday is in January, he was able to stay on it until he was 26 years and 356 days old. I was terrified by these constant EOBs, as I had already been receiving 5 years of them, many of which were for services and tests a young man in his 20s should not need or have to suffer through.

After the 16th EOB and nobody answering me about what was going on with Zack, I called my mother. Apparently, my niece had just arrived there and was going to be bringing my mother to Atlanta, where my sister lives. My mother screamed at me that Zack was okay, but that she was not well. She kept screaming at me, told me that she was down to 88 pounds, and she asked why I hadn’t called her. She said Jay had called her. Jay, the monster who tried to and successfully separated me from both of my families – the nuclear one I created with him and my nuclear one from growing up. Jay, the person she couldn’t stand because she always felt he undermined me, especially and most delightfully in front of her. Jay, the person who destroyed her daughter …

At the end of the conversation, she screamed, “I love you.” I was shaking, crying, alarmed, and confused. Why did she have to yell at me? What was going on with her health? I would never know.

After that day, their story was that I learned my mother was not well, and I never reached out. The truth is, I wasn’t allowed to. I had tried to reach out PLENTY over the years.

I don’t know what my mother looked like at the end. My mind still thinks of her looking like she does in the paperweight I keep in the desk where I write. She is barely 40, with a magenta blouse and a face that really did look like she could be Elizabeth Taylor’s twin. It was school picture day, and, back then, the teachers received a paperweight with their picture package. I asked her if I could have it, and I haven’t let go of it since. After all, she was my mom. She was my home.

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10 Years

April 3, 2025

A Mom Without Her Kids, Abandonment, amartinitoast.com, Broken Heart, Forgiveness, Grace and Kindness, Healing, Marissa, Rebecca, Zachary, Parental Alienation, Tragic Divorce, Zachary Jaffe

Ten years ago today, my life ended. How then, you’re probably asking, can I be writing this blog? Fortitude? Resolve? Resilience? Self-torture?

I still play his voicemail from the night before he left me; many of you have even heard it. So chipper and stoked, he shared that he got the internship at ADP, the one for which he so desperately hoped. Mentioning that he was going to surprise me with the news when he saw me, he just couldn’t hold back the well-deserved announcement. I’m glad he didn’t hold back, as his delivery was so ebullient and precious. I can actually say every word of it in my sleep, but that’s what happens when you listen to something every day for 10 years. That’s actually 3,650 times, and, while I know it’s unhealthy for me, it’s all I have.

He was going to his dad’s for the first night of Passover, and he was supposed to come to me for the second night. He never showed.

Zack and I were always so close. The quintessential mama’s boy, he was so easygoing and warmhearted. His compassion and altruism were apparent from such a young age, and I remember going to see The Iron Giant with him when he was only 5. He cried and cried, and Jay turned to me and told me that I was turning Zack into a sissy, a wuss, a girl. It was only the first of dozens of times Jay would tell me that, but I could never equate humaneness with a lack of machismo. In fact, I’m not sure anything enhances the Y chromosome more than tenderness.

I miss my children so much. My mother used to say, once my sister and I gave her grandchildren, that we kind of took a backseat to them. I learned that firsthand from her, as I was so easily scrapped, dumped, discarded, and junked. For me, however, and keep in mind that I’ve never met my grandchildren, it is my kids whose backs I will always have, even now. Even now, as I want to post the voicemail that Zack left me 10 years ago, and I want to post the last birthday card he gave me, I won’t.

A dear friend of mine recently tried to find Zack for me, and she left a letter for him inside of his mailbox. Her beautiful husband had actually written the letter, chronicling his somewhat rocky relationship with his own parents and the pivotal and profound reconciliation that followed. Regretting the time he lost, he was grateful for all that he found. He left his phone number in the letter, with fingers crossed that Zack might reach out.

My friend never imagined she would get such a toxic and threatening phone call from an enraged and boorish woman. This woman had clearly read the letter, but said she had no idea who Zack was (her bestial tone begged otherwise). She told my friend to never show her face anywhere near there again, and my friend was shaking. Believe me, this friend is no Sensitive Susie; she is a tour de force and a force of nature and she does not cower easily. She was rattled.

I don’t know who this person was, but I know who my son isn’t. Maybe, as my mother said, Zack is brainwashed, but I pray that he is not surrounding himself with such uncouth people. I pray he is living his best life, being true to his benevolent soul, smiling when he thinks of all of the concerts we saw and all of our inside jokes, and getting ready to settle down and have his own family.

Zachary Daniel Jaffe, I love you and I miss you. Know that you will always be my Iron Giant, and may your gracious soul find its way back to me one day.

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Who I Am

January 16, 2025

Grace and Kindness

And they’re off …

My Art of Writing kids have just listened to Who I Am, by Jessica Andrews (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jd9zYKLepCw), and I’ve asked them to tell me who they are. They’re all over this assignment, and, crazy though it is, at 13 and 14, many of them know exactly who they are. I’m envious, and I’m enormously impressed.

Though they know much of who I am, they won’t know everything until they’re savvy enough or old enough to find and read this blog. They won’t know that the weight I carry is not just in this well upholstered belly, but also in this demolished heart.

I have kids in front of me who have lost parents, one from illness and two by suicide. There is a child for whom I have bought clothing. Two have recently come out as gay, and two go by different names than the names given to them by their parents. Athletes, scholars, thespians, and artists, they are bewitching.

My Gifted and Talented kids are on the S.S. ExPO Elite, appropriating the role of a famous person of their choosing. Dwayne Johnson, Benjamin Franklin, Nikola Tesla, Steve Harvey, Michael Jackson, and Michelle Obama are only 6 of the 30 folks competing to be the last person remaining on the boat, and they are fierce. They must thwart their shipmates’ attacks on their accomplishments and their character, eventually resting on their own laurels.

May these kids always be able to choose who they are and who they want to be. May they feel safe enough to explore, probe, and investigate the outside world and their inner identities. May they know that they are valued, and to that student of mine who lost her mom back in July, I see you and I know it’s your birthday today. I hope you enjoy your cupcake and gift, and don’t forget that you are strong, you are loved, and you are admired by so many.

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Legacy

January 15, 2025

A Mom Without Her Kids, Abandonment, amartinitoast.com, Legacy, Parental Alienation, Tragic Divorce

I often think of the word legacy, but not in the traditional way. Normally, one connects the word to something positive that’s bequeathed to you or bestowed upon you, making one’s life literally or figuratively richer or easier. It’s one of those words, like influential, that, on the surface, seems uplifting and benign. But, when delved into and scrutinized, the possibility of a negative implication crystallizes.

The trauma of the kids’ departure from my life has left me with a legacy of fear and distrust. Each day, I wonder who else will abandon me, and it’s such a suffocating and pathetic feeling. It’s also exhausting, and it not only controls my now, it also controls my future. After all, if my own children could reject me, why wouldn’t others?

I know I’m a good hang and that I offer laughter and light. I know that people enjoy me and appreciate how much I care about them and their families. A marvel to some and an inspiration to others, my strength is undeniable. So is my sadness …

How can I believe in tomorrow, when I barely get through today? How can I tell you all that I’m really not self-sufficient, that I need your hearts more and more, even if it’s just in the form of a daily emoji? Is there a way to express my fragility, without fearing that I’m being needy?

I went to dinner last night with a dear, dear friend. We’ve known each other for almost 3 decades, and nobody can hand me the truth or ask me the hard questions like she does. Articulate, direct, earnest, and brilliant, she sees right through me. She’ll call me out, pump me up, fill me in, propel me forward, pat my back, and set me straight. She doesn’t sugarcoat, and she doesn’t make false promises. I don’t think she thinks my kids are ever coming back to me.

Had I known that my kids would only be mine for such a short time, would I have made different decisions? Would I have left when I wanted to, and not succumbed to Jay’s threats? Would MY legacy be that “I came, I saw, and I conquered?” instead of “I came, I saw, and I cowered?”

Thank you all for the birthday love, treats, cards, dinners, and trips. I love you all.

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Leap Years and Apologies Without Caveats

December 6, 2024

Apologies Without Caveats, Barbara Starsky, Broken Heart, Forgiveness, Grace and Kindness, Healing

My mother used to say that she hated leap years, and they really made her panic. In fact, as the ball dropped to usher in 1988, her spirits did, too. Though sometimes a drama queen, she did have an uncanny sense of knowing when the stars weren’t aligned or something wasn’t kosher.

On January 8, just 8 days after that damn ball dropped, my Grandma Mollie died. She was 88, and she had lived a full, albeit difficult, life. She had five children, 10 grandchildren, a dozen of what would be 18 great grandchildren, no money, and a husband who was ill and died young. Even more remarkable, however, was that this uneducated little woman from Poland, who worked in a factory and who wore support hose before they were cool, was more insightful than those with multiple degrees.

If I’m honest, I’ll tell you that it was my Grandma Marian, my mom’s mom, who was my favorite. She and my grandpa were more fun, but they were younger, they were a couple, and they had the means to spoil us. We were also their only grandchildren.

In the wee hours of the morning on February 28th, only 7 weeks after Grandma Mollie died, Grandma Marian dropped dead of a heart attack. She was 72, and nobody expected it. Oh, sure she had been to handfuls of doctors in the months prior because she wasn’t feeling well, one of whom even told her that she was a ticking time bomb. Oh, sure her face was downright ashen and her tests came back indicative of heart disease, but, no joke, her energy, her sense of humor, and her willingness to love and forgive everybody had us all drinking the denial flavored Kool-Aid that she and my grandfather were knocking back.

2024 has been a pretty woeful and wretched leap year, especially these last few months. With the car accident, the insurance debacle, the stolen purse, and last week’s vertigo episode, I’m counting the seconds until 2025. Sure, there have been sprinkles of tinsel and dashes of glitter, and good fortune has come in the form of passport stamps, student smiles, and hugs for and from many whom I love and who have needed me as I’ve needed them. I’ve even somehow mustered up the courage to see pictures of my children and all of their sweethearts. I didn’t think my fractured heart could handle it, but, oddly enough, seeing them healthy and happy was reassuring and reposeful. I am their mother, after all, and nothing will ever change that.

As this year comes to an end, may we all hold onto hope. May we take a step back and not have to be in the center. May we apologize without caveats, and may we understand, appreciate, and thank G-d that we don’t know and so often can’t relate to what another person is going through. Believe me, the person going through it wishes she wasn’t going through it, either.

Wishing you all grace, love, and light in the coming NON-LEAP year.

Marla

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Past, Present, Future, and Very Tense

November 4, 2024

Can I be your grandma?, Marissa, Rebecca, Zachary

Somebody from my past, who was enormously important to me, used to tell me to be kind to myself. I’m not really good at that, and I never was. Somebody enormously important to me in my present recently told me, when we were discussing the power Jay and my sister still have over me, that the “enemy of my enemy is my friend.” While I, of course, know what that expression fundamentally means, I found it almost cathartic to listen to what this person was saying and its relevance to me.

I am my own worst enemy. Feeling devoid of value because my kids and grandkids are not in my life, I am my own enemy. I am clearly my sister’s enemy and Jay’s enemy, so, if I’m also my own enemy, I must be Jay’s and Lisa’s friend. Powerful …

So, I need to change, right? It’s not easy. Everywhere around me, people are with their kids and grandkids, relishing in all of the rites of passage with which they’re currently blessed. God, I miss those days. From the delicious chubby baby nuggets who only wanted to be held (I never wanted to put them down), to the toddlers running around and sharing every morsel of enthusiasm they’re devouring, I miss it and I want it. I actually need it.

As a teacher, I am lucky enough to be around kids every day. Though humility and constantly being on a diet of having no self-worth kicks in regularly, I know I’m a solid teacher. More importantly, however, I know that I’m a caring teacher. The kids feel safe coming to me; they know that their needs are paramount and will always surpass my own.

I’ve been lucky lately to spend time with some little people. One of them, a 9 month old whose smile is only outweighed by the creases in his wrists and pulkes (chunky thighs in Yiddish), helped fill a crushing void in me. Walking around a store with him in my arms, albeit for only 20 minutes or so, refilled a cavernous tank in me that has been running on empty for years. I’m so grateful to his parents, and I’m making it public here that I will watch anybody’s baby, toddler, child, or teen, anytime you need. I’m a grandma without her grandkids, a mom without her kids, and I have a lot of love and a lot of energy.

Ir’s too early in the morning right now to revisit my own childhood or my kids’ childhoods, but I hope it’s not too late to share a message about tomorrow, which is Election Day. I am going to write a few things that, according to Trump’s dictatorial aspirations, might land me dead or in jail. Well, Mr. Trump, this last decade of not having my kids has killed much of me and landed me in a proverbial prison where the shackles are harrowingly tight and so seldom come off.

I could make a plea as a woman, as a Jew, as a Jewish woman, as an American, as a mom whose kids survived because I was lucky enough to have the Lamborghini of health insurances, as a grandma, as a teacher, as an empath, as a Democrat, as a rape victim, and as somebody who will, one day, even after a quarter of a century of working as a public servant, need her Social Security. I could make a plea to every person Donald Trump and his crew of racist, anti-semitic, homophobic, and contemptuous cronies have been fear mongering and gaslighting. I could make a plea to those two older women who were sitting at the bar last week at Earl’s in Peddler’s Village, feeling all empowered in their shiny bedazzled Trump hats. He’s not your friend, ladies. He wants your Social Security and your soul, and he wouldn’t give you the time of day if he saw you.

The economy is strong. Jobs are up. Inflation is down. This hateful speech has to stop, and the Supreme Court needs to get back to its job of being that fair and final stop of justice on our nation’s Monopoly Board. It can’t be Trump’s Get Out of Jail Free card.

May kindness and decency prevail tomorrow.

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