Category: amartinitoast.com

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.

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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!

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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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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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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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Rosh Hashanah, 2024

October 2, 2024

A Mom Without Her Kids, amartinitoast.com, Broken Heart, Forgiveness, Healing, Tragic Divorce

I’m not one to write twice in a week, but I think that will be the only way for me to get out of this darkness. Having just shared my blog with one of my young and beautiful colleagues, I watched her look at me with such shock and such grace. Her reaction mimicked those of so many who learn my story, perplexed how this person who shows up to life with energy and zeal is, in reality, so completely severed. The person and the vicissitude do not match up.

Today would be my dad’s 91st birthday, and, as I have written before, my life wouldn’t look like it does if my dad had been around. My dad was a warrior, not a coward; a peacekeeper, not an agitator. So aware of Jay’s gaslighting, even as the Alzheimer’s progressed with unsolicited velocity, I often wondered if he knew how much my sister hated me.

My birth announcement was a notecard, and on the front of the notecard, it said, “Lisa Has a Sister.” My name and information about me were on the inside, but, even back then, I didn’t have an identity. My parents’ world was completely about my sister and her feelings, and they willingly laid the lifelong path of eggshells on which they would walk around her.

It is not hyperbolic when I write that there was only one picture of me from when I was a baby. Growing up, it was customary to enlarge a baby picture for one’s Sweet Sixteen, as the guests would sign it and share their affectionate best wishes. Going through the pictures with my mother, it was a symphony of, “No, that’s Lisa. No, that’s your sister. Oh, here. Nope, that’s your sister again.” I have no idea if the one we did find is even me, but it looks so very much like my Zack that I’ll have to keep the faith that it is me.

My mother used to tell me how sickly I was as a baby, that I was yellow and needed gamma globulin shots. Who knows? Maybe that’s why there were no pictures of me, either that or because they didn’t want to upset Lisa.

Gosh, how Lisa would love when I got in trouble! Probably her happiest moments were when the belt would come for me, yet I would cringe when she would get in trouble. I would try to protect and defend her. She was my sister, and when the neighborhood kids picked on her, I was up in their faces, with my chubby hands on my chubby hips, imploring them to get away from her.

I can’t remember if I was 17 or 19, but my parents were away on vacation with another couple. It was summertime, Lisa was watching me, and we were both temping in the city. On the bus home, I had, what I didn’t know at the time, was a panic attack. I couldn’t breathe, and I felt like the walls were literally closing in on me. I told Lisa, and she took me to the hospital. Immediately confirming that it was indeed a panic attack, Lisa asked them to drug test me. She was so proud of herself for doing so, telling my parents the minute they got home. How disappointed she was when the test came back clean! I had never even done drugs, and still don’t, but she so desperately wanted to tell my parents that I had.

There is so much more to write about Lisa, and I will. From her hateful and harmful relationship with Jay, to the merging of their black souls in their effort to destroy me, I’ll write it. Her post at Rebecca’s college graduation, which was captioned, “So glad the whole family is here,” when I wasn’t there, immediately identifies who Lisa is. She never wanted me to succeed, to be happy, to have any of my parents’ attention (or money, but we’ll save that for another day).

For now, as the new year begins and Jewish people around the world head to synagogue to ask G-d to inscribe them in the Book of Life for another year, I’m doing it my way. I haven’t wronged anybody this year, and I really don’t need to apologize, and all of the magic of the holiday sadly no longer exists for me. But, for the first time in my life, I am standing up for myself, ready to begin sharing my book and my story. It’s the only way that I’ll be around to hopefully ask G-d in the traditional way to inscribe me in his book next year.

Shana Tova!

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Wake Me Up When September Ends

September 30, 2024

A Mom Without Her Kids, Abandonment, amartinitoast.com, Grace and Kindness

I am sitting in my classroom with my 8th grade Art of Writing dolls, and their prompt is to share about a time when they felt vulnerable. This prompt does not come from nowhere, as I just finished explaining to them about how vulnerable I was left at 2:45 this past Saturday. I was robbed at the blackjack table in Atlantic City, when somebody literally stole my purse right from under my feet.

We were at such a lovely table, with a dealer who couldn’t lose. His “joie de vivre” kept all of us there, even as he was turning his 15s into 21s so seamlessly. The other folks at the table were gracious and friendly folks who, like us, enjoyed every part of the game, even and perhaps especially the social aspect of it.

My purse was on the floor, with my feet planted firmly on it. Yes, I turned around to get my glass of champagne from the waitress, but, to my knowledge, my feet were still on my bag. All of a sudden, I realized that the bag wasn’t there, and everything stopped as I ran to security. Nobody at the table had seen a thing, including the dealer and the pit boss, but it didn’t take long for the cameras to show the man who grabbed my bag so quickly and boorishly. He apparently ran to the back of the casino and pulled out my treasure trove of a wallet, taking the entire wallet and my bottle of medication.

My wallet, which was a Louis Vuitton wallet, had everything in it. Six credit cards, 2 bank cards, my driver’s license, and, probably worst of all, my social security card. Oh, let’s not forget the two blank checks. Security was helpful in quickly locking all of the credit cards, as the thief did not steal my phone. The police came and took all of the information, and there I stood, feeling so weak and violated.

Two weeks ago, it was the car accident that wrought such havoc for me. Then, the whole ordeal with BMW and the insurance company took over as the situation commandeering my palpitations. And, as I shared my story with my munchkins today, at least five said, “Why do bad things keep happening to you? You’re the nicest person.” What these kids don’t know, however, is that I’ve had far more than a purse stolen right from under my feet, so this, too, shall pass. And, my identity was taken a decade ago when everything that mattered the most to me was appropriated.

Stay safe, friends.

MJ

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What Does Lucky Actually Mean?

September 13, 2024

amartinitoast.com

The school year has begun, and, like I do every year, I concentrate on getting to know all of my students. As a 6th, 7th, and 8th grade teacher, and as the Gifted and Talented teacher, I do have some repeat customers. They are with me for all 3 years, and it is truly a gift that keeps on giving. Their curiosity is limitless, and their ability to reach higher is unbounded.

I also teach Art of Writing to all 3 grade levels. Though these children are not officially labeled “Gifted and Talented” like the others, they bring their own brand of magic and commitment. My goal is to make them love to write, the way I do, and perhaps help them appreciate and recognize the value of and in the written word.

Regardless of whether these charming chickens are my Art of Writing students or my Gifted and Talented students, the 6th graders are new to me every year. The day we meet, I am the hopeful and enraptured kid at my own birthday party, just waiting to see what is hidden inside of all of those “presents.” And, they are my presents.

I have a little 6th grade girl in my Art of Writing class, and as tiny as she is, her voice is tinier. Leaning in to hear and attend to her every word, she so quietly asked me if I have my own kids. Without hesitation, I told her that I have 3 adult children, and that my 2 girls each have 2 girls of their own. She responded so softly, “I think they’re lucky.”

I started thinking about luck, if it exists, if we play a role in it. The nature of the word implies that it’s completely random, but I do think that, whether by the face or the family we’re born into, or the charisma we cultivate, we do have some say in our circumstance.

I left school at 3:30 yesterday to go get a long-awaited massage. The place I go to a handful of times a year is so calming, and my masseur, John, almost makes my Xanax superfluous (the operative word is almost, so let’s not get ahead of ourselves here). A Keith Urban lookalike with a Dalai Lama temperament, he knows just what to do to loosen this chubby Jewish chick’s proverbial corset.

I pulled into a spot directly in front of the spa, but I was a tad early. Thinking I had time to go get gas, and knowing that I was only allowed to park in the spot for 90 minutes, I figured my timing would be perfect if I killed 10 minutes. I didn’t figure that somebody would slam into my car as I backed out of the spot.

As a degreed teacher of English, irony is never lost on me. It’s probably my favorite literary device. How ironic that I was going for a massage to relax, and I had a car accident instead. How ironic that I called my insurance agent earlier in the day to ask him why my car insurance is now $420 a month, when I have no accidents and no tickets. How ironic that my gentle and cherubic fledgling 6th grader thinks my kids are lucky, but they don’t.

I’m going away with one of my besties to see Jon Stewart this weekend. The first time we did a getaway, a man had a heart attack in front of us at the steakhouse where we were eating. The next time we did a getaway, a car was on fire on the opposite side of the road we were on. Something always seems to happen when Thelma and Louise head on one of their trips, and yesterday, this girl’s brand new BMW x3 was rear-ended so hard that the muffler and the catalytic converter aren’t even attached.

You know what’s really ironic, however? It’s really ironic that, while I continue to be challenged and rear-ended in the literal AND figurative senses of the word, I still consider myself lucky. I’m lucky that nobody was hurt yesterday. Unlike the man who hit me yesterday whose wife just died, everybody important to me is healthy. I’m lucky that I get to teach in a school and in a town where children and adults are valued. I’m lucky that I have girlfriends who are my sisters. I’m lucky that I get to go away this weekend with people that I love.

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