Our Near Death Experience

One of the down sides to being a pet owner (there are not many) is ensuring they are cared for and loved while their humans go on vacation.  We recently found a wonderful pet sitter who simply adores our cat, and I can now go away knowing he'll be comfy in his own home, with his own bed, his own litter box, his own food, etc.

However, before meeting our cat sitter, my husband Bob and I dragged my poor kitty Aden, kicking and screaming, to a local kennel.  The only advantage to putting up with his cries of  "Why me?" as we drove to the kennel, was the knowledge that we would be rewarded with dinner at a nearby restaurant that serves the best cheese filled bread this side of the Mississippi.

After sadly bidding a fond farewell to Aden, Bob, my daughter Melissa, who had recently turned nine (she is now 14) and I jumped back into the car, looking forward to chomping on the cheese bread!  It had been over a year since we had visited this restaurant, and Bob and I were not entirely sure of the best route to go from Point A to Point B.  (Yes, it is hard to imagine not simply plugging in our trusty ole GPS Unit, which had not yet been introduced for consumer use)

We made our way onto the highway, and soon noticed the giant sign alerting us that yes, indeed, right here, on this very spot, stood the restaurant we had been searching for!  The only problem was, although the sign stood out clear as day, we were completely perplexed as to how to get from one side of the highway to the other side, where the entrance teasingly beckoned.

Bob made a u-turn, drove a bit, then made another u-turn, as I navigated, keeping the giant sign in my visual range.  Suddenly, Bob realized the entrance couldn't be more than a few feet away.  All he needed to do was make another turn and drive straight into the driveway.  Only problem, before steering the car into the parking lot, he had to cross over a road full of non-stop, oncoming traffic.

I should pause in my story for one moment to share that I rarely trust Bob's driving skill.  It is an ongoing bone of contention in our marriage.  (To be fair, the feeling is mutual, and he says I could benefit from 10 more years of driving school)  Bob thinks I am too cautious, while I feel he is too aggressive.  As a passenger I tend to needlessly jump, yelp, gasp, or scream when I think Bob is about to cause a major collision.  These reactions (or overreactions, as it were), usually cause Bob to slam on the brakes, nearly causing the accident I had fretted about, and making him extremely angry!

So, when Bob began to drive, full speed ahead, into what he perceived to be the entrance to the restaurant, overwhelming instinct told me he did not realize he had to cross over a road with oncoming traffic.  Thankfully, I let out a BLOOD CURDLING SCREAM, forcing him to slam on the brakes.  Had he continued, our car, and every precious thing in it, would have been slammed, head on, by dozens of cars travelling upwards of 60 miles per hour.

If I hadn't screamed......

We sat in silence, trembling, watching the traffic whiz by, and trying to comprehend just how close we had come to a tragic demise.  Fortunately, in the back seat, Melissa had not been a first-hand witness to the incident, sparing her from the rush of relief now flooding our emotions.  A few moments later, the steady stream of cars subsided, and Bob cautiously made his way across the road and into the entrance.

Still deep in thought, we made our way into the restaurant and followed the friendly hostess to our table.  However, neither of us picked up the menu, our desire for cheese bread momentarily kept at bay by the still fresh memory of our near death experience.  Bob looked at Melissa, then at me, his eyes expressing the horror he tried hard to hide.

"I could have gotten us killed," he said, full of remorse and pain.

I reached across the table and placed my hand on top of his.  "Shake it off," I said, trying to convince myself as well.  "It just wasn't our time."

I would not describe myself as religious, however, at that moment, I visualized God sitting up in heaven with an enormous book, the book of death.  I imagined God looking through the pages until he reached the name "Weinstein", shaking his (or her) head and saying, "Nope, not ready for them yet.  Better make Lisa scream."

That's it.  As matter of fact as it sounds, it just wasn't our time.  The thought provided some measure of comfort, and allowed us to come to terms with what had happened.  Fate, or God, or perhaps just coincidence, had prevented our untimely death.

Our meal came, and we tried, at least for Melissa's sake, to downplay the incident and enjoy our long-awaited cheese bread.  Gradually, our hands stopped shaking, our hearts began to beat a bit slower, and we were able to embrace the moment, a simple dinner together, happy to be alive.

Now, when I flinch, jump, or shout while Bob is at the wheel, he no longer expresses his anger, for he is reminded of how my overreaction nearly five years ago, literally saved our lives.

Quite simply, it just wasn't our time.

www.lisagradessweinstein.blogspot.com
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Melissa vs. The Tick

I suppose only those who have considered a career in entomology are the only folks who can truly say that they love, really, really love, those tiny, slimy, scary, horrifying creatures who crawl, buzz, bite, and sting.  Yes, that's right...I am talking, of course, about BUGS.  It's a well known fact that most of us have an aversion to these disgusting members of the animal world, but you'll be hard pressed to find a family who hates them more than the Weinstein's.

I blame our bug-o-phobia as the reason we avoid going where insects naturally live, namely, the outdoors.  Our idea of a hike involves a walk down the driveway to get the mail.  Our idea of camping involves making reservations at the closest Hampton Inn.   Forget about throwing open the windows to allow the fresh spring air into the house, because creepy crawlers could find their way through the miniscule holes in the screen, invading our home and sentencing us to live under their supreme command!

Today, at 14, Melissa has overcome the aversion to the outdoors,(her parents have not) and has since hiked and boated, enjoying both activities immensely.  However, two years ago, when she learned that her end of year sixth grade class trip would involve a trip to a nature conservancy, complete with hiking, boating, and becoming one with the woods, she greeted the prospect with caution.

Sure enough, the note home warned parents to be sure their children wore long sleeves and long pants, and doused themselves with plenty of bug repellent.  Melissa complied, of course, and, with every inch of her skin covered with the horrible smelling spray promising to keep the creepy crawlers away, off she went.

Thus, her day of  "extreme nature" came to a close without incident....or so we thought.

Later that evening, much later.....the middle of the night, in fact..... the sound of danger awoke me with a start from a deep, sound sleep.

"MOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!!!!!!!!" came the terrified cry of my offspring, now standing at the side of my bed.

I jumped up, filled with fear, thinking the worst, and ready for combat.  A groggy glance at the clock put the time at 2:00 am.

"WHAT'S WRONG?  WHAT'S WRONG?" came  my panicked reply.

"I FOUND A TICK ON ME!  I FOUND A TICK ON ME!"

Oh.  That's all, I thought.  From the sound of her screaming, I had assumed that perhaps she had broken her arm, fractured her skull, was bleeding from ever orifice, etc.  A tick, in my opinion, did not constitute an emergency.  However, my daughter, convinced of her impending death, begged to differ.

I flicked on the light and took stock of the situation.  Sure enough, a tick had embedded itself in her upper thigh, no doubt enjoying a hearty diet of "Melissa-flavored" blood.

Bob, who now realized that further attempts to sleep amid the chaos would be pointless, decided to lend his "expertise" to the situation.  "You could try pulling it out with a pair of tweezers," he suggested.

Great.  Bug surgery at 2:00 am.  I couldn't wait.

I walked into the "operating room" (my bathroom) with the patient in tow.  Melissa sat down on the toilet, trying to stem her tears, and worrying that if the tick didn't kill her, my attempts at a surgical removal surely would.  I shuffled through my makeup bag in search of the advanced technological equipment I would use to perform this delicate procedure, namely, the tweezers I use to pluck my eye brows (and grey hairs).

Next, I performed the comprehensive, clinical sterilization of said surgical equipment.  This involved a desperate search for alcohol, which I found hidden in the back of the medicine cabinet behind cough medicine, ear drops, and band aids.  I poured the alcohol all over the tweezers until I was sure, based on my years of medical training, (none), that all germs had been removed.

With the extensive preparations now complete, the surgery would now commence.

With precision accuracy, I grasped the tick with the tweezers and pulled.

Nothing happened.

I pulled again.

Nothing happened.

I pulled again.

Boy, this stupid tick seemed determined never to leave Melissa-land.

I pulled again.  This time it seemed to wiggle, just a bit.

"MMMMMMMMOOOOOMMMMM, YOU'RE NOT TRYING HARD ENOUGH" came Melissa's renewed cries.

Sigh.  So much for my years of medical training. (None)

At this point in the delicate surgery, Bob decided to come in and serve as my surgical assistant, a move not really appreciated by the patient or me.  In response to his suggestions of "try it this way, try it that way,"  I thrust the tweezers in his face and offered him the chance to take over the role as surgeon, an opportunity he flatly denied.

Finally, the tick began to budge, and using all of my strength and determination, I pulled that dang thing out of Melissa's thigh.  Or at least I pulled out most of it.  No doubt, a few dark spots remained....enough for the creature to come back to life as a zombie tick, and wreck havoc on my daughter's insides.

I knew that ticks carried the threat of Lyme disease, however, I also knew we had found the little devil early, and could start Melissa on preemptive medication should the doctor deem in necessary.  Therefore, on a scale of 1 to 10, my level of worry at that moment hovered around a 3, and I tried to convince my still terrified daughter to go back to bed, a command she promptly disobeyed.

Finally, with the reassurance that she could miss school in favor of an emergency trip to the doctor first thing in the morning, she drifted off to sleep.  As the new day dawned, I frantically made calls and emails to reschedule meetings and assignments, then begged the doctor's office to please squeeze my daughter into their hectic schedule so they could convince her she was not going to die.

Sure enough, the doctor said her chances of contracting Lyme were very minimal, and she didn't even need any antibiotics.

Melissa: 1
Tick: 0

Game over!

www.lisagradessweinstein.blogspot.com
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Late for the Principal's Breakfast

Moron: (adj.) Used to describe a woman who, upon learning that her 14-year old daughter has been invited to the Principal's breakfast in recognition for earning a place on the Honor Roll, writes down the wrong time on her calendar.

Used in a sentence: I am a moron.

Sigh.

The irony of this sad tale is, my husband Bob and I pride ourselves on our promptness.  If our flight is at 10am, Bob insists on a 6am airport arrival.  If our movie is at 7pm, we'll be first in line at 6.  If our dinner reservation is 8pm, we're sitting at the bar by 7.  I wake up a half an hour earlier than necessary, get to work 15 minutes earlier than necessary, and arrive for doctor's appointments 20 minutes earlier than necessary (with the hopes that perhaps they'll call me back to the exam room sooner).

So, when I thought I had to be at Melissa's middle school at 8:30 am, I planned on leaving the house at 8:15 since the school is only two minutes away.  The first inkling that all had not gone according to plan came when my cell phone let out a familiar ding, alerting me to an incoming text.

"Where are you?" were the words that appeared on the screen from my frustrated daughter.

"Text her that we're arriving now," I instructed Bob, wondering why she seemed to be fretting when, according to my calculations, we were still a few minutes early.

The second sign that our plans had gone amiss came when we pulled into the parking lot and were greeted by an endless array of cars, forcing us to choose a spot near the street.  Yet, despite the lack of spaces, there was not another human soul in sight.

Hmmmmm.

I started to pick up the pace, my heart full of worry.  Being late just did not exist in my vocabulary.

We entered the school only to find the cafeteria filled with parents and students, all listening attentively to the Principal.   Melissa waved her hand, and we made our way through the crowd to her table, all eyes upon us, all of them thinking, "Melissa's parents are late, those morons".

The worry, regret, and horror I felt at our grand entrance was mirrored in the look on my daughter's face.  Fear, worry, frustration, and hurt showed clearly through her eyes, which glistened a bit, fighting back the tears.  Horrible can not even begin to describe my feelings at that moment.  To think, even for a half an hour, that Melissa had feared we might not come.  When I had learned about this prestigious honor, I knew I wouldn't miss it for the world.  I had told my boss I would be in late, I had told my friends of her achievements, I had counted down the days.  And now, when the big moment had finally arrived, I became a bonehead (see definition of moron).

I must clarify here that Bob takes no blame or responsibility for our blunder.  It is a well known fact since we both said "I do" 18 years ago, that I am in charge of all social engagements.  Therefore, he looks to me to take the lead, and lead I did, right into our oh so grand, embarrassing entrance.

After our unsuccessful attempt to seem nonchalant, we made our way to Melissa's table, now devoid of any spare places to sit.  Some of Melissa's friends made room for Bob, while I scooted to the other side of the table to squeeze between two sympathetic moms.  Fortunately, the ceremony had just started.  We had only missed the breakfast portion of the event, not the awards portion.  (Although, I admit, my hunger pangs made themselves known as I longingly stared across the room at the bagels and pastries which were now off limits.)

We listened with enthusiasm as the Principal congratulated all of the students, and cheered as each of Melissa's friends, in alphabetical order, stepped up to accept their certificate of achievement.  The girls responded with looks of horror that grown adults would actually have the nerve to cheer for them!  I mean, how embarrassing!  We were doing an extremely terrible job of "officially pretending we didn't exist" per our teens' standard request.

After all of the students had certificates in hand, and the Principal pronounced the event officially over, Melissa and her friends gathered in the back of the room for photographs.  Moms and dads grabbed their cameras, positioning themselves for the perfect angle for shooting a moment in time.  The kids had known each other since first grade, and now had the pleasure of sharing one more memory together before closing the doors on their middle school career in one month's time.  Melissa, whose eyes now glowed with happiness, relief, and, a bit of embarrassment at the frantic attempts of an assortment of moms and dads to get the group to look their way.  She smiled along with Micaela, Sarah, Hannah, Emma, Sabrina, Natasha, John, Daniel, Jason, Nick, and Zack.  Thoughts of our late arrival long forgotten....except by me.

I walked out of the school cafeteria with moms I have known for years, laughing and reminiscing, clinging to the moment, reluctant to walk away and return to our jobs and responsibilities.  My good mood lasted until I got to the car, when I had time to reflect.  Despite the wonderful event, I seemed unable to divert my focus from being late....and as a result, subsequently causing Melissa to be upset on a day that should have been so special.

Eventually, my guilt subsided, and I forced myself to laugh about my blunder, realizing it would, at least, make for a good blog!

Melissa, I love you so much and I am so proud of you for working so hard to get good grades, and I promise I will always double and triple check the time from now on.  After all, I never again want to experience another tragedy as a result of arriving late.........I MISSED BREAKFAST!!

www.lisagradessweinstein.blogspot.com
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Guess Who I'd Like to Meet in Person!

This has been somewhat of a strange week.  Last Sunday, as Mother's Day dawned, I woke up feeling like someone was jabbing an ice pick into my throat.  Scheduled for brunch at my mom's house, I nearly cancelled...but thoughts of her disappointed voice on the other end of the phone prevented me from going with my gut.

I should have gone with my gut.

We came home a few hours later, and I promptly threw my weary body onto the living room sofa.  Ten  minutes later I tucked a blanket around my shivering limbs, and asked my husband Bob and 14-year old  daughter Melissa if they, too, were freezing cold.  Melissa, clad in shorts, stared at me as if I had three heads.

"No Mom, it's not cold in here," she replied.

Hmmmm.

I drew on the tiny bit of energy still left in my bones and trudged upstairs to the bathroom, threw open the medicine cabinet, dusted off the ole thermometer and popped it in my mouth.  Sure enough, two minutes later the mercury confirmed my suspicions.  Somehow, somewhere, I had contracted a fever.

Monday and Tuesday became bed-bound days, as the fever lingered.  Wednesday I returned to work with a normal temperature, but an ice pick still stuck in my throat.  What's more, a second, more pointed dagger had lodged itself in my ear.  Tired and frustrated, I struggled to make it through the mandatory activities of my week...thus ignoring one of my true passions, this blog.

So when I logged back on, my frown turned upside down when I discovered a fellow blogger had "tagged" me, thus telling the world that she considered my blog good enough to share!  Thank you Monica from Monica's Tangled Web http://monicastangledweb.com/ - your shout out meant the world to me, and put a happy ending on a dreary week.  Check out Monica's delightful and witty blog, you'll enjoy it!

As part of this honor, I must now answer a series of questions.

Pop Tarts - frosted or unfrosted?  For this question there is no contest  (drum roll please)  FROSTED!  The delectable pop tart takes me back in time to my counselor days at Camp Nock-a-Mixon where, as a special treat, about once a week, as a group of bleary-eyed little girls made their way into the dining hall for breakfast, a basket full of pop tarts would be waiting to greet them, just sitting there in the middle of the table.  A free for all followed, with dozens of little hands grabbing for the best flavors!  Of course, as the counselor and supposed "adult" of the group (is 19 considered an adult?), I should have sat back and let the little ones have their pick.  But heck no, I wanted a chocolate frosted pop tart, and I didn't care how many eight year old girls I had to push out of the way!!!

What's your favorite quote?  "It is our choices that show who we truly are, far more than our abilities." J.K. Rowling

What are your proud of?  Hands down, no contest, my daughters!

Jessica, my inherited daughter, came into my life at age 15.   As a teen, community involvement held a special place in her heart, but unfortunately upstaged the need to study, causing her grades to suffer.  However, that passion has carried her throughout her career, and today, she lives in Washington, DC, fighting for the rights of working men and women as a union executive.  Not stopping there, a few weeks ago she gave me even more to brag about.....a photo with President Obama!  My sweet, little Jessica who used to keep her be room so dirty you could not see the floor, is now hobnobbing at the White House with the President!!!

My love of my life Melissa!  As she nears the end of her middle school career, I marvel at how much she has matured!  I credit much of this to a deep-rooted appreciation of music, a passion which gave her the impetus  to audition for, and be accepted to the All South Jersey Chorus.  She also appeared in her middle school's production of Annie, performed in her school chorus, entertained the crowd with two solo performances, and received straight As, earning her place on the honor roll to boot!

What ambition do you still have?  I would like to publish a book of all of my blog posts, and became a best-selling author!

Who would you like to meet who is still living?  As many of my regular readers know, I have an obsession with Harry Potter.  I would love to have lunch with J.K. Rowling and ask her how she created this incredible, magical world that has morphed from fiction into somewhat of a suspended reality for me.  Reading about Harry's adventures over and over takes me away from the daily demands of my "real" world, until I wonder, maybe Hogwarts does exist, but as a mere muggle I just can't see it!  (Yes, I am a goober, I know)

However, if pressed on the issue, the one person I would love to meet, even more than Harry's creator, is Paul McCartney!  Two years ago, Bob and I took Melissa to see Sir Paul in concert in Philadelphia.  I had seen him twice before, as had Bob, but for Melissa, this should would count as her first!  We introduced her to the Beatles at a young age, and I am convinced the lads from Liverpool played a strong role in her passion for music.

I don't know what I'd say to Sir Paul, (after being revived from my fainting spell).  I know that Bob and Melissa, with much more musical knowledge than I, would discuss technique with him.  I guess is I would just thank him for letting the world have access to his incredible talent and for creating such timeless music.

During the concert, my thoughts drifted to the two Beatles no longer with us.  John, robbed of life by a mad man, and George, who sadly succumbed to cancer over ten year ago.  The world will always wonder, how much more could John and George have given, if given the chance to live?  But with Paul, happily, we don't need to wonder.  As I watched him at the piano, hitting the notes to the timeless, iconic classic, "Hey Jude", I wondered if this would be the first.............and last time Melissa would see him.  For he is aging, and, although I hope he'll keep going forever, tomorrow never knows.  (For my non-Beatles readers, tomorrow never knows is the title of a Beatles song).

So Paul, please let me know when you are free for lunch, I'll pencil you in!!

Alrighty then, back to reality.  For the second part of the honor, I must "pay it forward", which is not hard to do!  I am officially honoring the following terrific blogs by tagging them!  Check out my fellow fabulous writers, and thank you for visiting my page!

1. Everyday Underwear: http://www.everydayunderwear.com/
2. My Dishwasher's Possessed http://mydishwasherspossessed.blogspot.com/
3. One Sister's Rant http://gypsyroxylee.wordpress.com/
4. The Pepperific Life http://pepperrific.com/
5. Spilled Milkshake http://spilledmilkshake.com/

www.lisagradessweinstein.blogspot.com
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Mom, You Moron

Imagine if, instead of giving birth to precious cherubs, we gave birth to insta-teens.  I can just picture the scene in the maternity unit delivery room.

Doctor: "You're almost there Mrs. Jones, just one more push, just one more push!"

Mrs. Jones: "AAAAAHHHHHHHHHH"

Mr. Jones: "You can do it honey."

Doctor: "Almost there....almost  there!"

Mrs. Jones:  "AAAAHHHHHHHARRRGGGGGHHH!"

Doctor: "Congratulations!  It's a girl"

Mrs. Jones: " Sob! Oh my goodness she's so beautiful!  Can I hold her?  Kiss.  Kiss.  Sob!"

New born teenage girl:  "Ug, mom, that's gross, don't kiss me in public!  (sigh of exasperation)  What is all of this goop on me, it's going to make my hair frizz, can you go to the drug store and get me some of that stuff so my hair won't frizz?  I need to take a shower.  Did you wash my Aeropostle skinny jeans?  Hey doc, can you hand me my ipod shuffle?  Mom, seriously, will you stop crying you're embarrassing me!"

Sigh.

I'm not quite sure when or how my 14-year old daughter Melissa went from never wanting me out of her sight to seriously wanting me nowhere in sight.  As a toddler, she became quite the appendage, always attached to a spare limb or two.  Sure, she loved her dad, but he just paled in comparison to the great and oh so powerful "MOMMY".  

Today, I have morphed into a moron.  She does not use this adjective on me out loud, but I can tell she is forming these words inside her head after every response to every thing I say or do.

6:20 am
I happily walk into Melissa's bedroom.

Me:  "Hi sweety, good morning, time to wake up baby girl!"

Melissa: (barely lifts her head, shifts her body slightly, rolls over and slowly opens her eyes) "Why do you wake me up every morning like I am five years old? (you moron)

7:00 am
Melissa is in the bathroom fussing with her hair

Me: "Sweety did you eat breakfast?"

Melissa, rollling her eyes: "Yes." (you moron)

Me: "What did you have?"

Melissa: "Why do you always need to know what I ate, I am fine, I eat fine, I had a banana and oatmeal." (you moron)

7:20 am
At the bus stop

Me: "Good luck on your science test today."

Melissa: "It's not science it's social studies." (you moron)

2:30 pm
I am at work, and I call Melissa to see how her day went.

Me: "How did you do on your social studies test?"

Melissa: "Mom, why do keep asking me, I mean, it wasn't that hard." (you moron)

4pm
Melissa calls me at work

Me: "Hi sweety, is everything ok?"

Melissa: "Everything is fine.  I was wondering if you could stop on the way home and pick up some poster board for me because I have a science project due tomorrow." 

Me: "Sure sweety"

Melissa: "Thanks Mom, I love you" 

(For the record, it should be noted, that I am NOT a moron when I am doing her a favor)

6pm
I am cleaning up the dinner dishes, Melissa is in the family room watching TV.

My husband Bob: "Melissa, the cat left a present for you."

Melissa: "I can't change the litter now I have to take a shower! (you moron)

(Yes, Bob has also earned this prestigious title)

Bob: "I've asked you 20 times today to clean the litter so do it NOW!"

Melissa (stomping into the room to clean the litter) ALRIGHT JUST STOP ASKING ME TO DO IT ALREADY! (YOU MORON)

8pm
Melissa is getting her clothes ready for the next day

Melissa: "Mom, what did you do with my black belt?"

Me: "I didn't do anything with your black belt, did you look in your hamper, did you look in the laundry room?"

Melissa: "I looked everywhere!" (you moron)

Alas, there are two days of the year when I am not a moron

1. My birthday
2. Mother's Day

Today is Mother's Day!  A sore throat kept me up most of the night, and when I finally stumbled down the stairs at 11 am, Melissa sat waiting patiently for me, her finger on the remote.

"Mom, come see!" she beckoned.

I groggily sat down, as a video started playing on our DVD player.  The first scene showed Melissa holding up a card which proclaimed to me, "Happy Mother's Day."  Then, with my talented cherub singing the Fleetwood Mac classic "Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow" in the background, the video showed images of Melissa, my inherited daughter Jessica, Bob, my BFF Fern, and various, assorted family members...all engaged in wonderful, happy memories!

Sometimes, the most precious of gifts cannot be purchased in any retail establishment, and Melissa's video is certainly the case.  It meant as much as all of the hand made cards she has created for me over the years....for the mere fact that they were created by her.  Now that she is older, and evolving nearly as fast as the technology she used to create the video, I have more advanced Mother's Day sentiments...but beautiful sentiments just the same.

So my dear sweet Melissa, thank you for your wonderful, fabulous video!  Thank you for making me the happiest mom in the world, even if tomorrow I'll go back to being, yes, you guessed it - A MORON!

www.lisagradessweinstein.blogspot.com
"Like" my blog's Facebook page by clicking the link at the top right side of this blog!

Comments and feedback are encouraged and welcome. For some reason, many people have told me they have left a comment, but it has not appeared. To leave a comment, click on the arrow next to "comment as", then choose "anonymous". If you would like to include your name, please leave your name in the body of your post. Once you have posted your comment and chosen anonymous, then hit publish. Check the page the make sure your comment appeared. You can also "Like" my blog's Facebook page and comment there - like button is on the upper right side of this page.

The Bunny Mobile!

I am fortunate to have the members of my family within an hour's drive.  Mom and dad still occupy the same house I called home until I ventured into that brave new world at the ripe old age of 23.  My sister and brother and their respective families are in the Philadelphia suburbs.  Visits to see them merely require a quick trip over the bridge from New Jersey into Pennsylvania.

For my husband's family, this is not the case.  One of ten, My husband Bob came from the Brady Bunchish melding of two families, bringing a mom of four and a dad of six together under one roof.   Today, those siblings are scattered all over the place.   New York, New Jersey, Nevada, and North Carolina are the states that now play host to Bob's siblings, so we treasure the rare opportunities we get to spend time together.

Last year, Bob, my 14-year old daughter Melissa, my inherited daughter Jessica, and I made the nine hour trek to Raleigh, North Carolina for our annual eat-fest.  With a Passover seder on Saturday night at my in-law's house, and Easter dinner on Sunday with Bob's sister and her family we packed plenty of stretch pants to handle the extra load!  All too soon, Jessica had to return to her job in Washington, DC, but we decided to stick around for a few more days.

On Monday, Bob, Melissa, my 14-year old niece Amanda, and my mother-in-law journeyed to the movies, then headed to a local restaurant for dinner.  (We were still full from our eat-fest, but, no surprise, that didn't stop us)

As we made our way from the car, the strangest site caused all five of us to stop in our tracks.   Occupying a parking space directly in front of the restaurant sat a teeny, tiny, miniscule car.  Only big enough for two medium-sized passengers, the car brought back memories of the old Volkswagon punch buggies, only smaller.  However, the size of the car is not what grabbed our attention, but rather, the decorations that jutted out from every nook and cranny.  Seems the owner had chosen to celebrate Easter by transforming his car into a rabbit.  Long, furry ears stood straight up from each window, wiskers were affixed to the front, while the bumper boasted a bouncy bunny tale.

We laughed in disbelief, walking around the circumference of the car, unable to believe our eyes.  Finally, Bob, anxious to sit down to dinner, cleared his throat, giving the signal for his family to move on.

After a perky, young hostess sat us in a booth, nestled among walls filled with sports and rock memorabilia, we opened our menus, then gave our order to another perky, young waitress.  No sooner had our food arrived, a large, burly looking man with wild hair and a beer gut appeared at our table.

"Folks, I saw you outside laughing at my car," he said in a deep voice, dripping with perceived antagonism.

We glanced at each other, not sure whether to jump and run, or nonchalantly continue digging into our ceasar salads and spaghetti.

"I like when people laugh at my car," he went on.  "Folks, your dinner's on me."

And with that, he turned and walked out of the restaurant.

A silence born of disbelief descended upon our table, until my mother-in-law finally asked, "Did he just say he was buying us dinner?"

We all nodded, noncommitedly, for none were truly sure if, indeed, a total stranger who we thought might beat us to a pulp for laughing at his car had paid for a full course meal for three adults and two teenagers. 

We all talked at once trying to figure out why someone would extend such a random act of kindness, still not believing it had truly happened until the waitress confirmed that yes, Mr. Rabbit Car had indeed picked up the check.

We continued eating, but surprisingly, we were not overcome with gratitude or renewed faith in humankind.  Rather, I am a bit embarrassed to admit, we all felt a bit.....suspicious.  After all, things like that simply did not happen in real life!  Yet, happen it did.

Feeling full once again (those stretch pants came in handy) we made our way outside.  Bob and I both scanned the parking lot, half expecting the owner of the Bunny Mobile to hold us up at gun point.  Yet, the rabbit ears, whiskers, and tail, nor their driver, were nowhere to be found.  Still, we couldn't shake the suspicious feeling, even after we returned to my mother-in-law's house.

The stranger's generosity made for a tall tale, told to everyone I knew.  All reacted in disbelief....yet I'm not sure why.  We are not unkind people.  Everyday I experience kindness at the hands of strangers who hold  doors, smile and share a greeting while in line for their mandatory morning coffee.  But the kindness of strangers usually does not extend beyond these benign attempts at sincere civility.

The incident left me wondering, what would happen if we all decided to pay it forward and do something nice for people we didn't know. 

How would you react if a complete stranger purchased dinner for you?   And what if he drove a Bunnie Mobile? 

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Let Them Eat Pie!

It is a Saturday evening, and, since my 14-year old daughter Melissa is sleeping at a friend's house, Bob and I jump on the rare opportunity to have an actual, real, live "Date Night". 

We eat a bit more than we should during dinner, (calories officially don't count during "Date Night"), savoring every bite of bread, salad, steak, potatoes, and, to top it off, ice cream!  (No, we're not gluttons, there were no calories, remember.)

Bob let's out a sigh of contentment, and promises to return to the "Starvation Plus Package Plan" diet as soon as another day dawns.  We waddle out of the restaurant, get in the car and make our way to the movie theater.   Along the way, Bob turns down a street that seems somewhat familiar to both of us.

"Hey," says Bob.  "Isn't this the Pie Road?"

I giggle, knowing he is referring to the location of a local farmer's market that just happens to be the purveyor of the world's most delicious pies.  How do I know this?  Because about a year ago, Bob, Melissa, and I tasted every single one of the dozens of pies created by this wonderful place.  How did we just happen to taste all of these pies?  Well I will tell you in one word.....SAMPLES!

Yes, samples!  Samples of pie!   Wonderful, yummy, delicious, pie! Blueberry pie! Apple pie! Boston creme pie! Pumpkin pie! Pecan pie! Lemon meringue pie! Coconut custard pie!  You name it, they had it!

We had not intended to become professional pie tasters when we drove into the parking lot of the farmer's market.  We had recently turned the calendar page to reveal the month of October, which meant if I did not procure pumpkins, chrysanthemums, and a scarecrow for good measure, it meant that I would earn the title of "terrible mother".  After all, according to Melissa, every single house in our town already had their Halloween decorations on perfect display!

So off we journeyed to the local farmer's market to purchase pumpkins when, much to our surprise, they invited us into the back room (along with dozens of other customers) to taste a teeny, tiny piece of pie.  Of course, their goal was to wet their customers' appetites, hoping after they tried a small sample, they'd rush to the register to buy the pies, giving them a leg up on dessert for their upcoming holiday feasts. 

What they didn't count on was the Weinstein family!

The samples were diplayed in a tantalizing array of miniscule cups, each big enough to hold about 1/2 a spoonful of pie.  Bob scanned the rows upon rows of cups, and decided to try an apple pie sample.  Melissa chose blueberry, while I, being the only human in the world who doesn't like baked fruit (I'm weird, I know) chose pecan.  We threw the 1/2 spoonful down our gullet and almost lost our balance in response to the explosion of delectable flavors that greeted our mouths.  Without saying a word, we looked at each other and silently agreed, one sample just wan't enough.

We nonchalantly went back to the counter.  Bob grabbed pecan, Melissa chose pumpkin, while I took a boston cream.  Aaaahhhh......heaven!  Two samples just would not suffice.

Back to the counter we went, trying to blend in with the crowd.  Bob chose blueberry, Melissa chose apple while I picked another boston cream!   Our eyes watered.  We looked down at the three cups in our hands and again, silently agreed.  What would it hurt if we took one more?

A half an hour later, we each had a tower of tiny cups in our hands, having consumed the equivalent of five whole pies.  (Calories don't count when you are eating samples)   By this time we had developed an official "pie tasting" strategy.  One of us would stand in line while the other two would pretend to be browsing throughout the rest of the store.  When the people who worked at the counter were distracted, the person in line would grab three or four tiny cups, then bring it to the other two.  We'd gulp down our sample, and send another pie taster on their mission.  (Great values to share with our daughter, I know)

Finally, we started to notice some strange looks being thrown in our direction from both the customers and staff.  So we retreated to the register, paid for our pumpkins, chrysanthemums, and scarecrow, and left the store....without buying any pie!

A few weeks later, I did go back and purchase four pies for Thanksgiving, so the farmer's market  acutally benefitted from our gluttony.  However, the next time they advertised their free pie samples, I noticed in small print at the bottom of the ad:

 "For everyone except the Weinsteins".

www.lisagradessweinstein.blogspot.com
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My Car Horn's Possessed

It is Sunday evening at 11pm and I am relaxing in bed after a quiet, uneventful, yet productive day.  Mixed matched socks are finally folded after weeks of separation inside the laundry basket.  Dirty towels which graced the bathroom floor are finally clean and safely tucked away in the linen closet.  Dishes are sparkling, trash is on the curb, tomorrow's outfit is ironed, the alarm clock is set, and the covers are straightened just right. 

I pick up my new book (Come Home by Lisa Scottoline) and prepare to get lost among the pages, when my thoughts are rudely interrupted by the unmistakable blare of a car horn issuing its repeated BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP.

I put the book down and make my way to the window, hoping against hope that my next door neighbor is to blame for the noctural noise.  Unfortunately, I am guilty as charged.   As a stare at my car, the interior lights are flickering on and off with the rhythm of the horn.  No sooner do I begin to wonder how my car horn could have gone on by itself, when something incredible happens.  The horn in Bob's car joins in the fun, adding a bit of harmony to this late night crazy car concert.

I continue to stare out the window with an incredulous expression.  I rapidly conclude there can only be two logical reasons why BOTH of our car horns have decided to go on, seemingly of their own accord.

Option 1. Someone is trying to break into our cars.
Option 2. Both cars are possessed.

Uh oh.  Both options are equally terrifying!

I ignore the fact that my 14-year old daughter Melissa has slipped into a peaceful slumber, open my mouth, and let out a blood curdling scream that sends my better half running to my rescue.

Fortunately, Bob has a rational explanation.
Seems the culprit had not been Option 1 or Option 2.  Bob and I both have sets of keys to each other's cars.  When Bob had emptied his pockets, the keys hit the desk in his home office in a way that caused the panic button to go off on my car.  Hearing the noise, Bob naturally assumed the culprit had been his car, so, he pressed the panic button on his car keys, with the intent of turning the horn off.   In reality, the first car horn to go off had been my car.  So when Bob thought he was turning his car horn off, in reality, his actions produced the opposite effect, namely, turning his car horn on.

So now Bob has not only caused both car horns to go on, he now has to contend with his lunatic wife who thinks a criminal, or even worse, a ghost, is trying to get into our cars.  Finally, as Bob explaines over the din what had happened, I reach for my keys, point them out the window in the direction of our active automobiles, and produce the welcome sound of silence.

As we climb into bed, giggling at our silliness, a tired and grumpy Melissa shouts from her bedroom, "You guys are nuts!"

I couldn't agree more.

www.lisagradessweinstein.blogspot.com
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Comments and feedback are encouraged and welcome. For some reason, many people have told me they have left a comment, but it has not appeared. To leave a comment, click on the arrow next to "comment as", then choose "anonymous". If you would like to include your name, please leave your name in the body of your post. Once you have posted your comment and chosen anonymous, then hit publish. Check the page the make sure your comment appeared. You can also "Like" my blog's Facebook page and comment there - like button is on the upper right side of this page.