Crash

I can remember it like yesterday. At least I can remember parts of it like yesterday. My dad and I were driving the familiar stretch of roadway that connected Jenkintown to South Plainfield. We were en route to a midyear kibitz with a client. It was April and expected to rain later in the day so I had on my nylon, charcoal gray, DKNY, jacket. My dad pulled into a Citgo on Route 202 to refuel. The gas tank was on my side so I put down the passenger window and handed the attendant my corporate AmEx. I sipped my Horizon’s Chocolate Milk as we swapped random chitchat before pulling back onto the roadway. We passed through the Flemington Circle and pulled onto Route 287 heading south. With twenty miles to go, the journey was heading into the final stretch.

This is where I start to go blank. I remember only pieces. I remember watching a car one lane over to the left drifting onto the grassy median. I remember the car was an ugly metallic that sorta looked purplish under the sunless sky. The kind of color you only get stuck with if it's a company car or the last rental on the lot. It pulled off the median, kicking up some dirt, and worked it's way back onto the highway. Then it began to fishtail. In what felt like slow motion, the car went out of control. The front turned, facing the nose perpendicular to traffic. I know I screamed the word “dad” and he simultaneously tightened his grip on the wheel.

Impact.

The front of the other car collided with the front left corner of ours, thereby setting into motion what felt like a choreographed ballet of automobiles careening at 70MPH across morning traffic. I remember pressing my palms flat against the ceiling and I remember feeling like the car was gliding on ice as it spun around. I remember the window automatically retreating into the doorframe and dirt flying into the car. I thought we were rolling. I didn’t know what was happening, even well after the car finally came to a stop on a hill slammed up against a tree.

“Are you okay?” my dad asked.

I looked over at him, the deflated airbag resting in his lap. There was blood on his nose and his glasses were some place other than on his face. I started coughing from the smell of what I thought was smoke. It was just powder from the airbag.

“Yeah, are you?”

“I can’t see shit without my glasses but otherwise I'm good. You were screaming.”

I pushed the door open and stumbled onto the unsteady ground beneath me. I looked out at where we’d been and tried to figure out how we ended up here. Alive, no less. The other car had knocked us across four lanes of traffic, a median, and an on-ramp before we finally made a dead stop against a tree. We now faced traffic head on and my dad’s side of the car was crumpled shut. I turned around and saw the vehicle that hit us pulled off on the side of the road. It was around fifty feet ahead of ours and facing the right way. The driver stood next to his car and remained frozen.

A pick-up truck pulled over.

“Are you okay?”

“I can’t get my dad out. He’s handicapped and there’s no way he’ll be able to crawl across the front seat,” I confessed.

“Don’t you worry, sweetheart. You’re dad’ll be just fine. Believe it or not, it's your lucky day 'cause I'm an EMT. Bob, help me get this guy out.”

I stood off to the side while two strangers kindly and patiently worked to release a crippled man from a crumpled car. They reclined his seat as far as it would go and pulled him through the back. I would have never thought to do that. I would have just tried to manipulate his inflexible legs over the gear shift and out the passenger doorway.

Once my dad was free and standing upright against the car, I went back to locate his glasses. The frames were bent and one lens was cracked. As my dad put on the spare pare he kept in his glove box, a cop took down our version of the accident. Then he offered us a ride to the next exit. Somewhere in Northern Jersey. My dad convinced him to take us the last ten miles to the client, figuring we might as well have the appointment and at least there we could wash up and call for a car rental. The client couldn’t believe he still wanted to conduct the meeting. I couldn’t believe it either.

With the appointment over, we called for a rental and waited outside under the overhang of the building for the automobile. It started to rain. As the car pulled into the parking lot, my dad adjusted his spare pair of glasses and asked me to do the driving. He felt shaky. I did too but I didn’t want to admit it. And so we hopped into the Ford Explorer courtesy of Enterprise. I took a few minutes to get comfortable, adjusting the seat and the mirror and then the seat again. Then I pulled us onto the road and began our journey home. The usual 90 minute drive took a little longer this time around. I had both hands grasping the wheel and I never once strayed from the far right lane.

Road Trip

When my parents bought the house in Florida, they didn’t have a plan. It was an impulse purchase. I know. I buy designer shoes on a whim. My parents buy real estate. As with any impulse purchase, you leap first and think second.

“You guys need to buy a car for Sarasota. Seriously. A weekly rental down there runs the same as the monthly lease on my Saab. And my Jeep was even less.”

“I totally agree with you, PJ,” my dad said, reaching for the latest Road & Track issue. But before he could flip to the pages he'd dog eared, my mom shared her thoughts.

“I want my Mercedes down there,” she firmly stated.

I went silent, knowing full well what was coming next. You know how back in school when the teacher asked a question and you averted your eyes to avoid being called on? That was me. I suddenly became intensely consumed by the rice on my plate. Was it Basmati? Steamed? Salted? How many grains could I wedge between the tines of my fork?

“The Cohans ship their car and the Meyers put theirs on the auto-train,” my dad noted in an attempt to redirect my mom. My eyes lifted ever so slightly so see if the suggestions were being well received.

“PJ, will you drive the car down with me?”

Shit. There it was.

“I’m with dad, ship it,” I said before shoveling a pile of rice into my mouth.

See, travel time between here and there is a little over twenty-two hours. I was being asked to spend just under one entire day of my life trapped in a car with my mom. Let me break it down for you. One day. Of my life. In a car. With my mom. Yes, it’s a luxury sedan with an amazing ride, stellar handling and a supreme sound system. One day. Of my life. In a car. With my mom.

One time we did a road trip together up to New England and she brought an eight hour book on tape. Seven hours and forty-five minutes of it was someone tied to a bed after a sexual romp went awry. As if the storyline didn't already sound wretched, my mom went and made it worse. She accidentally played the last half first and then the first half last. I honestly don’t think this Stephen King story would've been any less dreadful had my mom played it in the correct order, but that's not the point.

Another time, while driving down to Atlanta, my mom forgot to book a room for our mid-drive overnight in North Carolina. Actually, she booked the room but for the wrong night. Turns out Duke was hosting an international convention and the only available resting spot was a pull-out sofa in a conference room at a hotel off the highway. As I rolled around in search of a position that didn’t involve the metal bar ramming into my spine, my mother snoring to my left, all I could think about was the number of post-meeting trysts that had occurred on that sofa bed.

“Put mom on,” I told my dad when I rang their house on Saturday. I didn’t want to say anything more for fear I’d change my mind.

“I’ll drive with you. We’re leaving Friday after work and knocking out five hours. Saturday we’ll head into Atlanta and spend the night with Leslie and the gang. Sunday we’re up and outta there but only after a Goldberg bagel breakfast. That night we’re having dinner at Table because I've been craving their ceviche since April. And Monday, before I catch a flight home, we’re going to that shoe store in St. Armands Circle to see if those Prada sandals I passed on in July are now on sale.”

“I was thinking we could head west first and cut south at Harrisburg,” my mom threw out to test the waters.

“Yeah, no. Don’t push your luck,” I replied.

“Okay,” she said somewhat defeated but still elated I’d agreed to go. “So you don’t want to stop off in Asheville and visit the Biltmore?”

“Oh my God, I would so alter our TripTik path to finally visit the Biltmore! And listen, if you tell me we can spend the first night on the road at The Inn at Little Washington, I’ll agree to drive the car back north when the season’s over,” I offered in a haze of road trip excitement.

“Yeah, no. Don’t push your luck,” she replied.

Being Thankful

It sounds weird to say I’m thankful my dad is sick. Of course I’d rather he were healthy. It’s no fun having a crippled parent. People look at you with a curious and uncertain gaze. Then they get uncomfortable and unsure of what to do or what to say. But at the end of the day, when I step back and look at where I might have landed in life if my dad had been healthy, I take sick every time.

When bad enters an otherwise charmed life of good, you can do one of two things. Either wallow in the sadness of what could have been or figure out a way to just deal with it. I had a fantastic mentor in the ways of just dealing with it. Never once has my father thrown up his arms in defeat to MS. I have. My mother has too. But my father? Never.

“Dad, I don’t think going fishing’s a good idea,” I said ten years back at the dining table in Nantucket. “You have enough trouble remaining upright on dry land, forget the motion of the ocean. Plus, the only way to get on and off the boat is a small metal ladder. Jesus, and if you went overboard, you’d sink like a rock.”

“I’m going. I already called the guys on the boat they’ll help with everything. End of discussion. Anyone up for the Juice Bar? Anyone? Anyone?”

On the bookcase in my dad’s office sits a photograph of him reeling in a fish. Leslie snapped the shot and got it framed so he’d have it as a memory. I love that picture. You can see the strain in his face as he willed his sickened body to crank the reel and bring the ten pound Sea Bass aboard. The fish lost, by the way, and we ate him for dinner that night.

“Dad, I really don’t think you should go on this meeting,” I told him a couple of years back as I sat across from him at the office. “I don’t know how to say this without sounding judgmental but I just don’t think people find comfort in a crippled man. You might be smart and know the business inside and out but your speech is a challenge for many people and, let’s be honest, a walker isn't synonymous with strength and confidence.”

“I’m going. The bottom line is I’m the perfect example of why this guy needs long term disability insurance.”

He went on that pitch. We met at a Starbucks to avoid any and all stairs. My dad was already seated with his walker tucked off to the side when the client joined us. The meeting began and I piped up only when I sensed my father’s speech was too garbled for someone else to decipher it. In the end, we sold the client disability insurance, life insurance and took over as the broker for his company’s health insurance.

Two months ago, my dad said something about retiring. Not because he wanted to dedicate the rest of his life to playing bridge in Florida but because he decided it was getting too hard to secure new business. For the first time, I witnessed my father tentatively succumb to the limitations of his MS.

“You know what, dad? You’ve never given up on anything. Ever. I’ve always admired that about you. Pulling back and retiring isn’t a statement of defeat. But don’t make a decision just yet. Seriously. I’m not going anywhere so you can sit back and think about it for a little bit longer.”

He did just that. He sat at his desk, made phone calls, sent emails and ran proposals. I was too busy with other things to keep an eye on what he was doing. Sometimes he’d ask me to sit in on meetings at the office and help with his speech so he could pitch an idea to a client. Otherwise, I was in the dark.

As I ran out the door last night to go into town to volunteer, I popped into my dad’s office.

“I’m heading out. Do you need anything before I go?” I asked.

“I’m good. Hey, PJ, thanks for all of your help the past few months. I know you’ve been bogged down with our group clients. And even with everything on your plate, you still managed to help me with the individual stuff.”

“Stop being silly, that’s what you pay me to do,” I reminded him.

“Yeah, well, thanks to you, I have my biggest case ever in the works. Took me thirty plus years in the business to land a fish like that. Anyway, couldn’t have done it without your help,” he said.
“I didn’t do anything. It’s all you. And don’t you ever again go thinking otherwise."



PS: Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

The Price of a Compliment

My mom was out of town last week, heading first to Sarasota and then to Atlanta to visit with Leslie and the kids. While she was gone, I’d set aside two nights to eat dinner with my dad. But work got the best of me and I had to cancel on him both times. He felt badly. Not that he was stood up by his daughter but that his daughter was working through pretty much every meal. Luckily, the other dinner plans he’d made in my mom’s absence pulled through. On Friday morning, I plopped into the chair across from his desk to have a quick pow-wow.

“I’ve got three minutes to spare. How was last night?” I asked.

“I met Mike at The Grill. He’s a good guy. Sad childhood, though. He mentioned his mother never once complimented him as a kid. That’s so sad.”

“Wait, mom raised him too???”

It’s a known fact my mother is heavy on the criticism and light on the compliments. Correction, she’s light on the compliments with her own children. Other people’s kids always impress her. She’ll clip the wedding announcements from the Jewish Exponent and send them into work with my dad so I can see who’s making it down the aisle when I’ve yet to figure out where the aisle is. Or she’ll drop little blippets that so-and-so is an oral surgeon or so-and-so just graduated with a Masters from Columbia. Blah blah blah.

The day my mother was scheduled to return home from her Southern journey, my phone rang at the office.

“I just dropped mom at the airport,” Leslie announced.

“We don’t want her. Dad and I took a vote and we unanimously decided you should keep her.”

“Yeah, well, too bad. I’ve had my fill. She’s great with the kids but seriously, yesterday I took a bite of a cupcake and she said something like ‘you don’t really want to eat that do you’ while pointing to my stomach.”

“Um, you’re a size four,” I reminded my sister.

“Yeah but I still have that post-prego-pooch,” Leslie said with a sigh.

“Listen, first of all, she’s a size ten and has no right to tell anyone to lose weight. Second of all, if she utters even the slightest peep of criticism to me in the next seventy two hours, I’m pretty much telling her to fuck off. I’m too stressed to deal with her shit. The other day I told her how I’d worked an eighty hour week and she said something like ‘work isn’t always easy’ as if I otherwise spend my office time reading Cosmo and painting my nails.”

“Wait, that isn’t what you do all day at the office?” Leslie joked.

“Okay, yeah, you’re right. Dad hired me because I’m too retarded to be hired by anyone else. And I’m overpaid and clearly do nothing with my time. Do you know she didn’t say one thing about my volunteering again in Texas? Oh wait, she criticized me for spending my own money to travel back there. I have two jobs and have repeatedly volunteered with three non-profits this year. She’s never volunteered for anything. In her life. Nor has she ever written you or me a thank you note for any of the gifts we’ve given her.”

“That’s because she returns them all,” Leslie pointed out.

“This year I’m giving her cash for Chanukah. I’d give her therapy but according to her, she doesn’t need it. Oy. As much as I’d love to hash up all of the childhood drama that led to $6,000 worth of counseling,” my voice trailed off. “Christ, for what I’ve spent to straighten out my head I could’ve had that Roadster already. Jesus. I just don’t get it. Compliments are free. They cost nothing. And yet she hoards them like they’re worth a gazillion dollars,” I let out a sigh before continuing on. “Anyway, I have a ton of spreadsheets to do.”

“Go work. But PJ, don’t listen to her. I know you work really hard and so does dad. And we’re both really proud of everything you do. You’re really special. And I don’t mean in a Special Ed kinda way.”

“That’s sweet, I think. And you look great, by the way. Seriously. You’re beautiful.”

What If, As Is

Last week I had one of those moments. The kind where I start to fear this is it. Me. Alone. Forever. I hate thinking that way. Which is probably why I usually don’t. On the rare occasion I ponder the thought of an indefinite singleness, I twist it into a positive and find happiness in the notion of a solo existence. I can sleep in the middle of the bed and pee with the bathroom door open. I can let the dishes pile up in the sink and fart without fearing detection. I can delay a bikini wax and not always wear my sexy underwear. But last week the silver lining to being single was absent.

It was just shy of six thirty on Friday night and I was still at the office plugging away. Everyone else had already departed to start the weekend. With my coworkers gone, I clicked the volume of my music one notch louder. In the middle of some Coldplay and an Excel spreadsheet, I heard a knock on the front door. I shuffled to the entrance and released the lock only to be greeted by a lovely vase filled with daisies and freesia and lilies.

“Sign here,” the delivery guy instructed as he handed me a form.

“Who are they for?” I asked with genuine curiosity.

“Paige Jennifer,” he slowly sounded out as he read his paperwork.

“Really?” I asked with disbelief.

Sporting a silly smile stretching ear to ear, I relocked the door, placed the flowers on my desk and reached for the card. Engittorney was pretty much caput and Reading was either caput or married. Either way, I had no idea who’d sent the flowers.

I unfolded the note stapled to the wrapping and began scanning the message. They were from my friend Marylou. She wanted to thank me for organizing our recent return trip to Beaumont and for helping her with some online research for a new job. Personally, I don’t think either of those efforts warrants flowers. Maybe a you-da-bestest email but not a selection of petals in a vase. I just about cried as I pulled back the cellophane and breathed in the gentle fragrance of a fully blossomed lily. As the floral scent tickled my nose, I started to feel, well, emotional.

Part of me was sad because the flowers hadn’t come from a guy. God that sounds so pathetic. Especially coming from a Smithie. But fuck it. Yes, there I said it. I wanted the flowers to be from a man. I’d go and explain it all but I’m pretty sure I don’t have to. You get it without me wrapping words around the desire.

I also felt overwhelmed by this unexpected sense of love. Listen, I know I’m loved in the general sense but this was the kind of feeling I haven’t had in a long time. That someone who didn’t know me all that well went and did something simply for the sake of doing it for me. In an attempt to sidestep the more obvious love landmine my thoughts were gravitating toward, I straightened the flowers on my desk and went back to the piles I’d been pushing around a few minutes earlier.

No matter how hard I tried to work through the moment, to override my emotions with Excel formulas, I couldn’t. There it was. The truth. The absence of love. I’m not talking about the sentiment of love but an actual love, or perhaps a lover. I was battling what-if. The fear I may never find a man who wants to send me flowers just because.

Then I started to question if I’d ever find someone who took me as is, flaws and all. Through thick and thin or in my case thick, thin, a little thicker, thinner and back to thick. Anyway, Marylou hasn’t known me all that long. Our relationship mostly came together two weeks ago when we shared a hotel room in Texas. It was over those four nights together that she saw the real me. All of me, or more importantly all of the things I can’t stand about me. She didn’t care or maybe those flaws just weren’t visible to her. It was all shadowed by the whole of me. I know it’s just a friendship but those flowers, that gesture left me feeling loved as is. I thought I had that unconditional love with Ex. I really did. That’s why I lingered beyond the expiration date. Turns out he had me duped.

I know I bring a lot to the table for a party of two. I’m comfortable in the kitchen. I enjoy taking the time to handwrite a personal note. I can make people laugh to the point of a stomach ache or in Marylou’s case a headache. And I understand that sometimes just pulling someone close and giving them a tight hug can say more than any words. I get it. At the core, I know someone one day will get it too. He’ll figure it all out and scurry to make me his. But for that moment last week, as I sat at my desk on Friday night and looked up at those flowers, that what-if as-is fear got the best of me.

The Difference Between With and For

While I technically work for my father, I also work with my dad’s partner on a regular basis. He’s the opposite of my dad, acting Type A and arrogant to the Nth degree. He’s one of those salesmen who piles on the information regardless of its relevance because as Type A puts it, overwhelming the client makes him come across as exceptionally knowledgeable. Um, if you say so. The bottom line is Type A and I aren’t a match made in heaven but someone’s gotta work with him. The more my dad’s stepped down from the business the more I’ve had to step up.

When I first came on board at the company, I admittedly wasn’t all that interested in the long haul. I saw the opportunity as nothing more than a layover en route to something more exciting and hip like a buyer position with Anthropologie. Until my dream job came through, I hunkered down in the last office of a long hallway. My time was spent either preparing product comparisons or perfecting my Solitaire score. Between the two, I excelled at the latter.

“Do you like working with dad?” Leslie asked me a few months in.

“Dad? Yes. His partner? No. Type A is a total ass and the day I have to answer to him is the day I quit,” I replied.

“Why?” she innocently asked.

“The other day, I heard him yell at dad’s secretary. ‘You have one fucking job to do around here and the least you can do is make sure the goddamn fax has paper in it,’ he screamed. I poked my head out of the office to see what was going on and you know what? He was berating her right in front of a client.”

“Oh my God. What a prick.”

The secretary eventually quit and I immediately became the low man on the totem pole. As a result, I sometimes ended up on the receiving end of his condescending crap. He’d knock me down for taking my time getting licensed or for not knowing everything there was to know about Medicare. But in the last couple of years, something changed. Type A may have continued to claim brilliance but I stopped letting him get away with the erroneous assumption. He was no less human and no more important than the rest of us and I made it my job to point that out.

Now when he comes up to my desk and I’m on the phone and he starts talking to me because he thinks whatever he has to say is surely more important than whatever it is I’m conversing about, I point to the plastic handset at my ear and turn so my back is facing him. When he’s scurrying about the office at his rapid pace and I hear him stumble on the two steps that lead down to another work area, I sometimes yell out “I heard that” so that he and everyone else within earshot knows he tripped. And when he goes and restates what I’ve already said when we’re working together on a presentation, I remind him that the brilliant thought began with me.

So far, it’s worked. Perfectly. Just the other day I heard him stumble on the steps and he said with a chuckle “that was me” before I could even open my mouth. And yesterday we sat down for ten minutes to review an upcoming presentation we’re pitching on Friday. I showed him what data I wanted to use. He made chicken scratch all over my paperwork, asked questions and then sat back, looked at it all and admitted I was right on target. It didn’t even pain him to pay me a compliment. I’d still rather be jobless and homeless than work for Type A but for the time being, I’m more than comfortable working with him.

Did I Mention My Dad Is Awesome?

Back before I came into the business, my dad landed a decent sized client. It was a non-profit in the city that helped connect kids with foster parents. Or at least that’s what I think they did. It wasn’t the easiest organization to decipher because it wasn’t all that organized.

Up until five years ago, the benefit package was managed by a simple, greasy haired controller. His goal was to confuse the staff so they’d need him to decipher it all. Brilliant, if you ask me. Clearly he was qualified for upper management. We all worked well together but eventually he retired and relocated to Florida with his mail-order bride.

The next guy was, well, dumb though he was at least smart enough to put us in charge of making his decisions. My understanding was he spent all of his time shopping for a phone system. He signed a five year deal with a second rate company and then got fired for making the bad decision. Or maybe he left. All I know is one day, when I dialed in and hit # (for the voicemail), 3 (for the office division) and 18942 (his extension), he wasn’t there.

The next controller was a short, fat, prick who liked to toss lines like “I’m a straight shooter” and “you aren’t going to like me” into conversations. Plain and simple, he was a bully. For two years, Prick yanked our chain, threatening to take the business elsewhere. It wasn’t because we weren't performing. He bullied us because it was his way of showing who held the cards. He’d make idle threats and name competitors and then he’d disappear for months at a time, ignoring our calls and emails.

Over the summer, Prick told us he expected our firm to foot the bill for both their human resource software program and their payroll service. We were on board with the HR piece but not so much on the payroll piece. As my dad said when this request was first made, that's like asking us to pay for their electricity. Anyway, we at least had to crunch numbers to see if assuming all of the noted expenses would leave us running in the red. They might've been a non-profit but we weren’t.

Last week, Prick finally responded to three months worth of emails and voicemails from our office requesting a meeting. He rang me in the morning and said he'd be stopping by the following evening to, as he put it, discuss everything. With the meeting on the horizon, my dad and I spent the day before and the day of running proposals, compiling data and constructing presentation materials.

“You aren’t gonna like me,” Prick said with a smirk as he dropped his jacket on the back of the seat and plopped into the chair. I straightened my posture and looked to my dad the same way you look to your neighbor on a rollercoaster just before the car peaks at the top of an incline. “As of December first, another broker's handling the business. They said they’d do it all.”

“Yes, and if you’d returned my calls and emails, you’d know that we were willing to do it all too,” my dad calmly responded. I could tell he was trying to work his psychology voodoo on Prick so I settled back and let him go.

“I’m not here to fight. The decision’s been made. I’m only here so I can be polite and tell you in person,” Prick stated.

“I gotta say I’m a little taken aback by how you chose to handle all this. You have no respect for other people, do you? I mean, why’d you tell us you wanted to review everything if you knew you were only coming over here to fire us?” my dad asked.

“This is everything,” Prick replied with a shrug.

“You know what? You’re a shit. You are a total shit.”

“I don’t need to take abuse,” Prick said before jumping up from his chair and stomping out in search of the exit. He came back a few seconds later to retrieve the jacket he'd left behind, making his first exit that much more amusing. When I heard the back door click closed, I turned to my dad in awe of what had just happened.

“I can’t believe you said that. You called him a shit to his face. I mean, I've wanted to say it all along but I never would have,” I admitted.

“Fuck him. Plus, I'd rather be the guy who told him to his face he's an ass. Don't worry about it, PJ. No money in the world is worth tolerating someone like that. There are more important things in life. Like dinner. Wanna grab a bite up the street?”

"You bet. But seeing you just lost a client, I'm treating."

The Comfort of Home

I exited the synagogue and strolled out to the street with my parents. My dad moved his scooter at a pleasant pace and my mom and I walked side by side a few steps behind. This was the high holiday routine in my family. Only for a few years, the years my dad was too sick to walk and too stubborn to buy a scooter, did we drive to shul and shuffle through the parking lot in search of a vacant spot. I prefer the walk over the drive. Even in the rain. It pairs better with praying.

“I’m going to head home and change,” I said as we made our way up the driveway.

“Ooh. Wait. Can you linger and help me just a little bit? And Paige Jennifer. No Jeans. Okay?”

“Yes I can linger and name one holiday where I showed up in denim.”

“Go get the prayer book from your father,” my mother instructed, ever so gracefully sidestepping my inquiry altogether.

I kicked off my cute heels and slipped into grosgrain flip flops from Target. They’re the just-in-case pair I keep in my car. You know what I mean. Just in case I want to get a last minute pedicure. Or I want to throw on something comfy. I also keep a just-in-case fleece in my trunk. It’s the wintertime equivalent of flip flops.

My mom had agreed to host twenty people later that evening to celebrate the Jewish New Year. There were apples to cut, honey to pour into presentable jars, potatoes to cook, brisket to heat up and cheesecake to decorate with strawberries.

“Shit. The berries are rotten.”

“How’d that happen?” I asked for no reason in particular. It isn’t any wonder the answer I got was a furled brow.

“Never mind the ‘how’ because that won’t help me hide the gaping crack running down the middle of my cheesecake. Can you run over to Wholefoods and fetch me more berries?”

I headed out and returned thirty minutes later with a collection of strawberries that altogether cost more than my monthly condo fee. The smell of brisket and roasted potatoes greeted me as I came through the front door. I put the berries in the fridge and as I moved things around to make room, I came across a bottle of chilled champagne. My champagne. My favorite champagne that I’ve only founnd stateside at Moore Brothers.

My mother shrugged her shoulders when I asked how it ended up in her fridge. I then went outside and popped the cork. It took a good ten minutes and the assistance of my dad's rusty pliers but I eventually shimmied it loose. I went back inside, grabbed two juice glasses, the kind that look like something you’d find at a soda fountain, and poured one for me and one for my mother.

“This is really good,” my mom excitedly said as she alternated sips with slicing stems off the strawberries.

“I know,” I replied while taking a seat on the second step of the back stairway leading up to what was once my childhood bedroom.

“PJ, go home and change. People will be here in half an hour. You have enough time.”

“Nah. It's sorta nice being here. I’ll just go as is. Are you changing?” I asked while staring at my mother in a sweat suit, the kind that was more loungewear and less sweat-wear.

“I don’t have the energy. I called everyone and told them to wear whatever. So seriously, go home.”

“It’s okay. No point of putting on clean clothes for just a few hours. Unless you want me to leave?”

“Goodness no. I like having you home. Wish you came over more often, actually,” my mom confessed as she buried her head in the fridge in search of the currant jelly.

I pushed myself off the step and strolled over to the refrigerator.

“It’s nice being here,” I said. “Now move out of the way. I saw the currant jelly when I shoved the berries in. Oh, and pour me some more champagne.”

Just Say It

What the heck is up with men today? Seriously. I don’t mean to lump an entire gender into one category but can someone please explain to me why most of the time they lack the ability to openly and honestly communicate what's going on inside their heads.

Listen, I understand the whole thing about keeping it interesting at the get go. You don’t want to come across as too pathetic or too desperate. Plus, there’s appeal and allure to the unknown. Blah blah blah. I get it. But being coy and aloof isn’t the same as being a mute.

Example number one can be found in the remote land of Reading. Before even having a first date, this guy invited me to join him on a last minute trip to Chicago. I declined for obvious reasons and other commitments. Reading went on to make comments like “wish you were here” and “only eight days until I get to meet you” (cough, psycho). But hey, at least he was comfortable being forthright with his feelings even if they weren’t grounded in reality.

Then he pulled back. Way back. He did it after the first date and did it again after the second date. So, I Googled him. If you aren’t going to explain what’s going on, I’m going to seek an answer elsewhere. I’m a girl. This is what girls do. Men, write this down some place convenient like on your forehead for quick and easy access in the future.

Only one thing came up in my Google search for Reading, a wedding announcement. Of course this formally gave me the right to do more research. I hopped over to the property records for his county. Before you go thinking I’m the crazy one, I legitimately found this search back when I was pricing out comps for my condo. You can see who bought what when and for how much. It’s a great tool when negotiating a price in a competitive market. It’s also a great tool if you want to try and guesstimate when a possible divorce was finalized.

The funny thing is I don’t give a shit he’s been married. I do give a shit if he isn’t divorced. Why is it so hard to just speak the words? Boys, if there’s any hint it could hinder your ability to act like a normal functioning human being, I suggest communicating about the issue. It keeps speculation and the wild imagination of women like me, the women you’re wooing, to a minimum. And in case you never got the memo, gals usually have a maternal instinct to care for those who are, well, broken. I can almost guarantee you'll get laid faster if you speak openly.

Then there’s Engittorney. Hi there, big guy. Yes, I know you’re reading this, even though you’ve fibbed twice that you have’t. I don’t get it. I’m fine with you reading my rants. I even offered the link but you declined, saying something about wanting to get to know me from me and not from my blog. Sounded great but I totally knew temptation would get the best of you. Always does. It’d be too hard to hold back and you didn’t.

You forgot I could see who’s visited my site, how they got there, where in the world they were seated when reading it and how long they lurked. I may not be a Rhodes Scholar but it didn’t take much brain power to conclude you were the Philadelphian who landed on my page via a Google search for Attorney, Engineer, Paige ten minutes after our second date ended. So I busted you in a playful way. Because like I said before, I don’t care that you’re reading. I do care that you’re lying about it.

“I haven’t read it since that night,” you claimed the last time I saw you.

“But you want to read it, don’t you?” I said with a chuckle.

“Yeah, it’s tempting but I’ve held off.”

But you haven’t. No, I didn’t note your IP address to track your visits. I have better things to do with my time, like research Reading’s marriage and, god willing, his divorce. See, I know you’re still reading because you slipped. As you walked me to my car on our last get together, you asked me about my running efforts. Did I break my world record of seven minutes? The answer's yes. I've upped it to eleven minutes. But what I’m curious about is how could you ever know I was running if you hadn’t read the most recent post?

So here I am, willing to speak and open to honest communication but spending time with those who aren't capable of either. It’s like dating Marcel Marceau sans the face paint and imaginary box. I guess I'll just keep up with my efforts of mingling at social events, dabbling on the internet and just going about my life with the hopes I’ll stumble across a guy who’s capable of speaking his true thoughts freely. Correction. Capable of speaking his true thoughts freely and well versed in the fine art of giving great head. What? Am I being unreasonable? I know, I know. I should drop the communication thing and just hold out for great head.