Notes of a not-quite-crazy mom

I spent many weekends in my 20s riding New Jersey Transit from Port Authority in New York City to the Tom’s River, N.J bus station. My dad was semi-retired by that time and he would dutifully pick me up and drive me the rest of the way to our home on Long Beach Island. “What will you be wearing?” was his constant joke, as if he wouldn’t recognize me when I walked off the bus. My mom never joined in on this ritual, but I felt her just the same. It was on one of those rides that I wrote this piece.

Natalie Roth Meyers is sitting with her knees tucked to one side on the light blue couch beneath the lamplight. She’s reading and her red eyeglass frames are edged a little low on her nose, so if she looks up, you just see her eyes, not eyes and glasses. She’s holding a rumpled Kleenex in her right hand, her left gently cradles the book and page. There are eight to ten pillow by her side in oranges, pinks, yellows, reds and violets. She sewed most of them: some are Mexican purses she converted, some are bandanas sewed together, some were gifts from overnight guests. My mother can never have too many pillows. If you look in from the street, you see colors, light, and a woman reading. I am on my way to her. The bus smells of stale air and it has a quiet inner vibration. I don’t switch on the light above me. Instead, I close my eyes and listen to Jersey Shore radio on my Walkman. I drift a bit, wondering if she’s picturing me here, in this uncomfortable seat, as she turns her page. I can feel her look up and I open my eyes to stare out at the pines. Later, when I reach the front walk, I stop—staring in at the picture I’ve envisioned. And just as I breathe in the sea air and hear the surf and gaze in, just then I want to freeze the moment, to own time. The beauty of my sidewalk view is all twisted up with this feeling somewhere inside about when the picture won’t be there anymore, about when my mom won’t be there anymore. And so I stand outside for an extra beat and catch my breath. My sneakers squeak across the wooden porch boards. I see her as I pass the side window; she closes the book and looks up. I enter, careful of catching the screen door before it slams behind me, and the images are in immediate focus. The bus rider meets the couch sitter. We don’t begin here, we just continue.

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I was reporting a profile on Sanjay Gupta, CNN’s Chief Medical correspondent, when his long-tiime producer told me that when things get crazy in the TV World he has a running joke . He tells them: “C’mon guys, this isn’t brain surgery.” I love that because a) he’s a guy who actually performs brain surgery and b) it immediately puts things into perspective. So I started to try saying it to myself every time something/anything made me nervous. I have a big interview in which I’m expected to get a lot in a short period of time under intense pressure: This isn’t brain surgery. My computer starts to malfunction and I have four deadlines. This isn’t brain surgery. My daughter flips out because she needs a project done yesterday—I throw in the brain surgery line to calm us both down. I’ve been practicing Bikram yoga for nine years and up until a month ago, I got nervous every time I walked into the hot room because the next 90 minutes were so physically hard for me that I feared that I wouldn’t be able to make it through. I know this is not rational, but who on the planet –besides Christopher Hitchens—is always rational? So I tried an adapted version of the mantra in there. This isn’t brain surgery, it’s just yoga. And guess what? I relaxed and had a great class. I have kept it up and while it doesn’t guarantee a good class, it does allow me to ease up on myself and my own expectations. Adding tension doesn’t make things go better. Michael Jordan once said that most people speed up when they got nervous, but that he slowed down. So think M-JAY or think SAN-JAY but don’t even entertain the idea of visiting the trash talker inside of your own head. Relaxation helps with everything—whether you’re taking a test, giving an important presentation at work, taking it to the hoop or trying to talk about something that makes you angry. Next time you’re in a situation where you feel your blood pressure rise— slow down, breathe, and remember: It isn’t brain surgery.

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I sit on the family porch in Beach Haven, New Jersey sipping coffee and thinking about nothing much. There is a lone seagull strutting in the middle of the street and about five seconds ago a hummingbird flitted by. Couples pushing strollers pass, as do joggers, morning dog walkers and folks on the way to the corner store for coffee, a newspaper or a myriad of gourmet breakfast choices. Today there is a west wind, but usually we get a breeze from the south. It’s almost constant and my mom, who was brilliant enough to buy this house 38 years ago, used to call it “natural air conditioning.” This old porch is the most peaceful place I know. Early in the morning my brother Muzz and I sit together. Sometimes we talk about life, our children, our work, books, music, health care. Sometimes we keep each other company in silence, reading or working on laptops and sometimes we do nothing at all. We just bask, side-by-side in the quiet and the contentment we share at being here with our children, who sleep upstairs. They emerge one by one, sleepy-eyed and quiet. We love them up because this is a time when they’re too tired to resist. My brothers’ two daughters are here with a few of their girlfriends, my two daughters are here, and last night at four a.m. a nephew arrived with a couple of pals.

We like having lots of kids around. And as they get older and begin their own adult lives, it’s fun in a different kind of way. There is no more rubbing sunscreen onto little bodies or having to patrol the gang in the ocean from water’s edge. Instead we exercise together. Yesterday I had 6 young women in the living room joining me for Ken-Po X—one of the workouts I do on video. We laugh, we sweat, and later we run into the 62 degree ocean to cool off. Everyone helps with the housework, the laundry, the cooking and the after dinner clean-up. We all love sitting at the table post meal and just talking, telling old stories. Last night my brother was recounting his days as a dishwasher at a local seafood restaurant (I worked there as a waitress) that’s now been replaced by a more upscale dining establishment. He talked about how he came home so smelly that my mom would make him rinse off in the outdoor shower in the darkness with his clothes on before she’d let him come inside. He laughed hard over the day one of the dishwashers, a guy with a fondness for working in an altered state of consciousness, tried to break the dish-carrying record and triumphed in the dish breaking record instead.

My brother and I will retire to our rooms well before the kids return from their evening activities. We sleep with a breeze at our heads and wake up to do it all over again, starting with the porch and taking it from there. As I sit here and type, my brother heads off on his morning bike ride. I remain, alone on our comfy outdoor furniture from Target, and exhale. There is something so secure in the feeling of my bare feet against the wooden planks below. “New Jersey agrees with you,” is how my boyfriend describes it. A grandfather carrying a newspaper passes, trailed by a grandson wielding a baguette. The breeze picks up, a monarch butterfly lands on the front yard stones. I lean back and mentally wrap my arms around the moment. I wish I could give this safe, serene contentment to the world. If there is something more perfect than an early summer morning on the porch, I don’t care.

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Okay, so this morning I got my tires rotated at Big O. I’m sorry, but don’t you just love that sentence? I think “having your tires rotated,” should be a sexual term. Doesn’t it just sound like victory in the bedroom? What better complement could you give a guy than, “Baby, you just rotated my tires?” Or maybe, “Honey, thanks for the oil change. I was really due. “ Man, I am just beginning to explore the joy of car metaphors. On the other hand I DID just have my oil changed and whenever I do I’m reminded of how much I love mechanics. Especially the guys in my zip code that I have come to trust and that laugh at my jokes when I compare myself to my ancient Toyota in terms of maintenance and mileage. I think this dates back to my deep and abiding love for the Car Talk guys. I have interviewed them many times over the years, including once when the brothers Magliozzi insisted I use the money I made from the interview for a new Anti-Lock Braking System. (I did.) That must have been longer ago than I thought because Danny at Louisville Tire & Auto—don’t you know I think of the place as Louisville T&A— told me that my front brakes were 90 percent shot. This was not a surprise to me. The two people that have driven my car in the last few months, my boyfriend, Scott, and my friend Kathy Klein have both mentioned to me that they’ve never been in a automobile with worse breaks. “They work, “ is my defense. “You just have to push down really hard.” Kathy drove the van with a crew of kids a mile into town while I walked, and then refused to drive it back. So it was less than shocking when Danny went into an earnest explanation—complete with hand gestures—about the current brake scenario and what’s wrong. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that what he said made no sense to me. I got that glazed, information-overload-coma look on my face like I had in high school Trigonometry. I remember vividly the day when the bespectacled Mrs. Roseborough told me that a line went on forever. Really? Forever? But hey, she added, “You can’t actually SEE it. You have to IMAGINE it.” And I’m supposed to roll with that. Math class always felt like a bad drug trip—all hazy and dizzying— and I didn’t do drugs. Judy Sklarsky, however, who often sat behind me, was frequently stoned and that seemed to help her grasp the concepts. To me, however, math was this leaden planet of non-understanding. I smiled back at Danny over the Louisville T&A counter and didn’t go into shock at the number ($570.00) I saw written down on his little clip-boarded sheet of paper even though that is not a small amount of scratch to me. Not that it matters, I know it’s necessary and because I trust these guys (meaning they are worth their mechanic’s weight in gold) I also know that they will take the duct tape off the back left light and try to re-glue it and that they actually care about doing a good job. I wouldn’t let them in on this, but secretly I also like sitting there while they work and reading or writing on my laptop because it’s nice to be hanging out in a small business in a small town that is thriving because good guys are doing good work. And especially because I know that when I can actually get over my rather massive fear about my oldest daughter having her learner’s permit, the brakes will be in good stead. The King is dead, but the minivan lives. Tom and Ray would be proud.

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I hit my milestone on Sunday, July 11, surrounded by 40 or so of my women friends. Below is the speech I read to them and they asked me to put it up on the blog, so here goes:

I’m not really thinking about this as a birthday party so much as an “I’m The Luckiest Girl in The World” event. I feel blessed with every healthy year I get. And blessed on like a million other fronts—but I wanted to celebrate with all of you because I am so exponentially blessed by the women in my life. You are my community and you hold me up. You listen to my rants, laugh at my jokes, hold my hand when I need it, wipe away the tears when they come, collectively pray that sometime in this century I will have a man that lives in my zip code, and occasionally cajole me into trying to dress nicer or brushing my hair.

When I was at a very low point in my life, Liz Mulvahill dropped a plate of cookies on my porch with a postcard that read: More medication, please. Beyond the fact that it was sound advice, it made me realize what I DID have. The card, by the way, is the work of my sweet and funny friend Anne Taintor who sent napkins for this event. When my mom died, M.C. and Jeff Vincent showed up on my doorstep with open arms and soap from Williams-Sonoma because they didn’t know what the Jewish traditions around grief were. I don’t know what the Jewish traditions around grief are either, but my vote is M.C. and Jeff at the door with soap from Williams Sonoma. My dear friend Alison is here from New York and though many of you don’t know it, she has practically furnished my entire house. It should really be called “The Alison Gwinn Gift Museum.” Priscilla Lacy reads my blog religiously and leaves lovely comments. It just melts my heart to know that no matter what, Priscilla is reading. When she learned that one of my dreams was to speak Spanish, Lina Ollinger tried hard to teach me. And guess, what? She’s still trying hard to teach me. Eliza Karlsson is another one who drops cards by the front door, or the perfect vase with peonies, and offers tea during all emotional weather. Karen Leh was the best office mate/colleague a girl could have. Grandma Jean taught me that we may be “small pieces of leather, but we’re well put together,” and she shows me by example how I want to be when I grow up. Ashley Devery and Lori Llerandi, well, I just look at them and want to be a better person. When I wanted to start a blog my creative friend from college, Ana Hill put everything aside to help me. Like everyone else in this room, I know I can just make a phone call and help is on the way. Ana Tenzer has been my hermana from day one, teaching me the most creative Spanish curses, always making me laugh or calm down and treating me to monthly dinner dates where she won’t let me within shouting distance of the check. There are so many of you here who just smile at me on the sidelines and I feel better. Who meet me for a beer, or a hike, or urge me on in yoga class. Or hug me whenever we’re lucky enough to run into one another. We don’t always have time for long conversations but the hugs have long shelf life. There’s Shanie Fey who urges me through death defying yoga postures and lets me bask in her amazing karma several times a week. And let me just make an observational aside here: You know beyond doubt that you’re getting old when guys you think are cute would be way more interested in your daughter. And especially when you tell people you’re about to be fifty and they don’t act surprised. I mean not even the slightest bit. So god bless, Kathleen Passwaters who practically fell out of the minivan when I informed her of this birthday. And then there’s our hostess, the first Coloradan I met. Our daughters Juliana and Annie were still in strollers when I attended Jenny’s annual Halloween extravaganza. And I thought, this lady makes Martha Stuart look like an amateur. As if that weren’t enough, she has an amazingly wonderful Superman of a husband who’s always game for a celebration. Over the years I have counted on Jenny’s generous heart and her loving friendship, her companionship at the movies, her perfect hand-writing and our FAC tradition with Theresa and Liz, et al. I knew Jenny would host the world’s best birthday and she knew it was all on her shoulders when she asked me, “What colors are you thinking?” and she saw my mouth drop open in stunned silence. “Colors Jenny? What do you mean by that?”

It was like the time my brother Muzz went out to dinner with another family and the waiter asked him whether he wanted lamb kabobs or beef kebobs and he said “ I just want plain shish.” I come from plain shish stock. My father had a tradition that on big birthdays he would give everyone gifts. I’d like to extend that today, with CDs of some of my favorite songs for all of you. My mother wasn’t big on birthdays but she liked a good bagel with nova, and she loved lunching with her girlfriends so I’m sure she’d approve. Both my parents taught me all about love and respect and being a solid egg in the world. All of you, further that education. You make me rich beyond measure and I would just like to say from the deepest part of my heart: Thank you for being my friend.
I love you.

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