Dream Girl

Last night I poured Neil Patrick Harris a cup of coffee and sat down to join him at the café table in my apartment. Across from me, the large picture windows looked out on a chichi Upper East Side apartment in the building next door, where we could see a large party in progress.

I blew on my steaming cup of coffee and asked Neil if he had ever seen a reality show on TLC called “Say Yes to the Dress,” in which women spend money they don’t have at a posh New York bridal shop. He had seen it, he said, and couldn’t believe how ridiculously addictive it was.

We laughed at our shared guilty pleasure.

Suddenly, the roar of the party grew unbearable until a women in a beaded, Cinderella-inspired bridal gown sauntered to the window, looked over at us and called out, “Sorry for the noise!” as she closed the windows.

Neil and I smiled at each other, took another sip of coffee and settled in to chat.

I woke up.

When I was a kid, I would periodically wake up in the middle of the night, run into my parents’ room with a particularly vivid dream, and recount it at length. My mother – in what I believe may have been her most ingenious parenting maneuver – always told me that if you “gave” someone your dream, it couldn’t haunt you. So I went back to bed, free to stop picturing every minute detail.

Sometimes I would remember these dreams during the day, so in order to get rid of them I’d find the closest parent and "give it away."

I don’t think my parental units would appreciate a 3 a.m. wake-up call from your truly at this point in my life, so I hold on to the insignificant dreams, and only unload those that won’t go away. But it occurred to me recently – I have a blog. Yes, I know that hearing about someone else’s dreams is potentially like watching paint dry. But this is my blog! So suck on this, I’m going to tell you my awesome dream and you can…um…skip this post, I suppose.

Sometimes I have cogent story lines in my dreams. I often think I’m picking up a ten year old boy’s thoughts via wifi. (Not the naughty thoughts, though. Those are my own.) There’s a lot of shooting, running and chasing. Aliens. Spies. Astronauts. Secret missions. It’s exhausting!

But on Friday night it was a lot quieter than that. I was in space, floating among the stars. I didn’t have a body; I was just a presence, as if I had always been there. From my vantage point I could see our entire solar system. All the planets were aligned on one flat plane. I could see that the solar system was like one vast ocean, and the planets were peacefully bobbing in this black ocean.

At first I was amazed by the sheer size of my surroundings, and then the dream shifted. I could see that I was a great distance from any other star. I felt a chill, and then the emptiness of the vacuum became overwhelming.

I woke myself up, sprung out of bed and put my feet on the floor. I was thankful to be anchored to something solid. I got back into bed after taking a sip of water, and drowsily hoped that I would be earth-bound for the next few hours.

I went back to sleep and had a nice, normal dream about the newest craze in mass transportation: blimps.

Quick Question...

So what am I supposed to use?!

Murder, She Blogged

I have long held up my lack of gray hair as both lucky and proof that I am not yet old. However, I have realized that old age is not just in the color of one's hair.

The following are five signs that I am rapidly aging even though I refuse to accept it:

1. I abruptly ended a telephone conversation on Sunday night because I was excited that Masterpiece Mystery was starting on PBS.

2. My teeth are falling out of my head.

I was brushing the other day when I noticed a slight jagged edge on the bottom of my front tooth. After dreaming all night that Martha Raye was offering me Polident martinis, I went to the dentist and was informed that I had indeed cracked my tooth due to excessive grinding while sleeping. After a little bondage (or is it "bonding"?), my repaired tooth was sent home with instructions to not open beer bottles and to come in immediately if it decided to take a trip to Paris for the weekend and left me behind with a hole in my mouth. On a side note, I don't understand how I both snore and grind my teeth. You would think one would exclude the other! I guess I'm talented.

(I was reminded of a trip my family took to Florida a couple years ago, where the cap on my father's front tooth popped off. We called him "Farmer Jim," and when he laughed I swear it sounded like "Haw haw haw." We found it immensely funny, even if he didn't. In retrospect, in light of my recent scare, I am trying to have my sympathy. But I do not.)

3. I lose my glasses while I am wearing them.

4. The ringer on my iPhone is the theme song to "Murder, She Wrote."

This has more to do with my love for mystery shows, but I have secretly wanted to be Jessica Fletcher as long as I can remember. She's feisty! She's a successful writer! She solves crimes! Granted, all of her acquaintances die or are accused of murder, but she's always perfectly fine. So as long as I am Jessica Fletcher, and not Jessica Fletcher's friend, there should be no problem.

Jessica Fletcher and two friends/potential murder victims.

5. My family wants to take the car keys away from me because they think I am a terrible driver.

When I visit my parents, they offer to chauffeur me everywhere instead of letting me drive. I am well aware this is not because they are extremely magnanimous or because they are applying for a livery license and need to practice. I am easily lost, directionless, and drive about 20 miles per hour no matter where I am. I can’t merge onto highways, and I once took a detour through Morristown while going to Edison…from Princeton. For those of you who are unfamiliar, that would be like driving from Florida to New York via Maine. (It made sense at the time.)

So, even though I do not have gray hair or wrinkles, I think today is the day to buy that bottle of peroxide and find my local Botoxologist.

I want to be like Jessica Fletcher – not look like her!

Prize Patrol

I wish that just once I would get a message like this and it wouldn't be junk mail.

Dear Nancy:

We are having trouble shipping you your XPS M1530. Please click the link below to confirm your zip code: http:\\please-clam-prize.com\xps1530. Confirmation Code: hdbz409481.

Thank You,
Associate #24149
Shipping Department

First of all, the M1530 is a nice laptop that starts at $1,000. And I like Dell laptops. In fact, I own one.

However, I suspect that "Associate" is not a given name. And that it's a bad sign when the "Shipping Department" isn't attached to an actual company. But the biggest clue that this e-mail promising riches via laptop was not real? The e-mail address was: www.please-CLAM-prize.com.

So, in conclusion, I decided not to clam my prize.

I'm holding out for a free flat screen television.

Market Research

I love my local Rite Aid. Besides their delightful shelf combinations, the scowling man near the entrance who is either an ineffective security guard or an unfriendly store greeter, and their propensity to stock onesies that read "Somebody in Queens Loves Me!", their staff is always looking for ways to improve my shopping experience. And I appreciate that.

Someone at the store has clearly been taking a correspondence class in the benefits of cross-selling. However, I don't think they've reached that point in the pamphlet that mentions how to employ this useful marketing strategy in a subtle and appealing way. For example:

Target demographic: Mothers who never read "What to Expect the First Year" and don't know they can't feed their newborns Gatorade and pizza.

Public service?

Maybe.

However, I quickly realized that this was not isolated when I spotted the following:

If you can't figure out that you need ice in order cool down that sparkling glass of lemon lime Big Fizz (preferred by those who feel Sprite is a luxury), then you don't deserve to be told. Warm drinks for you!

Needless to say, I felt my shopping trip was a success. I went for a bottle of detergent, but left with a smile. I want to hug everyone who works at the Rite Aid. Best store in Queens!

An Abundance of Ethels

On Saturday, my parents held a Rosh Hashanah picnic. Normally, we go to my cousin's house for Rosh Hashanah and Passover, which involve appetizers, dinner and chatting. When I was a child, we would read from the haggadah, which, according to www.dictionary.com, is "a book containing the liturgy for the Seder service on the Jewish festival of Passover."

We never did the entire book, and I was happy to be spared a two-hour prayer dinner so I could instead focus on what was really important – my cousin's fantastic matzo ball soup and to-die-for brisket. I was raised as a happy little heathen, so when the haggadah asked, "Why is this night different from all other nights," I would think, Because I get to eat gefilte fish. We eventually stopped reading on Passover, and instead started with the most important element: food. I'm told the haggadah is still in the room, but we leave each other be.

This year, there was a fantastic addition to the festivities – family from my mother’s side that I had never met. I learned something this weekend: I do not have a small family. Finding this out made me happy. I always envied family reunions where all seven aunts and uncles, 22 first cousins, 13 second cousins, their kids, and various family friends crowded into one house for a lobster boil, sack races and in-fighting. Doesn’t that sound marvelous?

My mother had conveniently omitted (or, more likely, I hadn’t paid attention to the fact) that she has a bunch of first cousins, four of whom I had never met. They were invited to the picnic, and I was slated to be introduced to a few of her first and second cousins and their wives and children.

I was so excited that I started using exclamation points after everything:

“Here are the platters!”

“I’m taking a shower!”

“Did you clean the tables and chairs!”

Not grammatically correct, but I was a little emotional.

With all of these extra people we needed a venue bigger than my cousin's house, where it's normally held. Thus, my secular family ended up hosting their First Inaugural Rosh Hashanah Picnic. It had all the traditional food, including brisket, matzo balls, chicken with brie, spinach and pears, noodle kugel, kasha varnishkes and tandoori chicken. For dessert: cakes from a Lithuanian bakery, fruit salad, gulab jamun and Chocorooms.

Take notes, non-Jews. I will teach you the right way to throw a religious Jewish holiday party.

My long-lost relatives turned out to be lovely and, thankfully, talkative. I learned that I had a great-grandmother named Ethel. She was highly beloved, and after she died, my grandmother’s generation followed the tradition of naming their children after this respected relative. Therefore, my mother has three first cousins named Ethel. My grandmother didn’t like the name, and chose to use only the letter “E” and pick the name Ellen. Smart lady – none of the Ethels like their name. (Even though they did love their namesake.)

There’s New York Ethel. She uses her name, but thinks it’s ugly. There’s Boston Ethel, who goes by “Saf,” an abbreviation of her maiden name. And there’s Florida Ethel, who is referred to alternately as “Big Ethel” and “Tall Ethel.” It wasn’t clear whether she objects to her nicknames or her actual name. I’d understand either way. (On a side note, I find it telling that at 5-foot-7-inches, she is considered the tall one in our family. We are a short people.)

Disappointingly, my dreams of a crazy family reunion were dashed. Not one of my new relatives showed up drunk. No one appeared bitter about their portion of a long-forgotten will or wanted to continue arguments begun in 1968. And all of the children were adorable, well-behaved and friendly.

However, I still have high hopes. You never know who’ll show up next year!

Kosher for Passover

Behold, the nation's first religiously-sanctioned shoe store:


This was taken during a recent trip to Florida. I know there's a big Jewish contingent, which necessitates all sorts of glatt kosher delicatessens and markets, but I'm still trying to figure out which part of the shoe is considered edible.

The tongue?

The sole?