The "Possessed" Stuffed Animal

Ask anyone who has ever visited the Build a $5,974 Stuffed Bear Store, and they'll tell you, be prepared to take a second mortgage on your home before your little cherub feasts his or her eyes on the rows and rows of animals just waiting to be "adopted" by a nice family like your's!

Once inside the store, you must DO MUCH MORE than merely stuff your child's chosen Bear.  You also have to purchase clothing for your Bear, lest you bring home a naked Bear and are accused by the Department of Stuffed Bears and Family Services of Bear Abuse.

After your child personally cranks the fluff machine to fill his or her Bear with fluff and stuff, it's onto phase two.  This is the point where sweet, and oh so greedy compassionate sales people show your offspring the wide range of latest Bear fashions so that your new Bear will be, without a doubt, the coolest, most stylish Bear on the Block!

Bear shirt - $39.93
Bear pants - $24.74
Bear shoes - $25.63
Bear cheer leader outfit - (Because you never know when you'll be bringing your Bear to the next professional football game) $76.39
Bear super hero costume - (Because you never know when your Bear will be called on the save the world) - $64.73
Bear water bowl - (Because in your child's mind, the Bear is real, and will need to drink!) - $10.95
Bear bed - (Because merely sleeping in the same bed as your child is not good enough - your Bear must have a bed of its own.) - $35.71
Total: Your second mortgage

My 15 year old daughter Melissa received her first delightful taste of Build a Stuffed Bear at the age of six while we were vacationing in Disney Land in California. (Who needs Mickey Mouse when you can stuff your own animal?)  Although the store's name suggested it only carries bears, the animal selection extends far beyond the bear genre.  With patience, Melissa examined the thousands of bears and dogs and cats and monkeys and kangaroos and elephants and beavers and snakes lying there, limp on the shelves, just waiting to be stuffed.

My daughter gave her choice careful thought, and finally picked a black and white dog that she happily named Biscuit.  After we purchased the mandatory accessories for Biscuit, he immediately became a part of our family, in more ways than one.  Melissa took him everywhere!  With tender love, our "2nd child" accompanied us on cars, trains, cruise ships, and planes.

Yes, there were many more visits to Build a Stuffed Bear, and animals of all shapes and sizes joined their cousin Biscuit under our roof.  But none of those "inferior" animals were awarded that special place of honor next to Melissa in her bed each night.  No, those less loved stuffed toys ended up ignored, lying in a pile in her toy chest underneath puzzles and blocks and coloring books.

Over the years, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and friends have added to Melissa's stuffed animal collection, but still, none compared to Biscuit!  Finally, as my daughter evolved from an innocent baby into the throes of adolescence, we gathered up the 3,953 stuffed animals that littered every nook and cranny of her bedroom, shoved them into three huge boxes, pushed those boxes down the hall and abandoned stored them in our spare bedroom.

Yes. We abandoned stored every last one of them.  Except Biscuit.

Even though her favorite black and white stuffed pup no longer accompanied us on vacation, he still remained a steady presence on her pillow every night.  A tender reminder of her sweet innocence, and a sign that perhaps I could hold back time.

Recently, as rain pelted the windows, Melissa sat in the hallway while I carried a mop, broom, paper towels, bucket of sudsy water, and plenty of sponges into our spare bedroom. Unfortunately, I had neglected this particular area of our house for years, and had made a vow to finally get in there and tackle nearly a decade's build up of of dust and dirt.

Task number one - go through the 3,953 stuffed animals that had been lying there, ignored for years.  I thought that some of them might hold special meaning for Melissa.  So out of courtesy to her, before I simply donated the entire box to charity, I held up each animal, one by one, to see if there were any she wanted to keep.

Melissa smiled as each toy brought back treasured memories of how and when it came into her life. Yet she consented to give the majority of them away, content to let her collection bring happiness to another child who may not be as fortunate.

As I neared the bottom of the box, I picked up a yellow doll called "La La" from the Teletubbies (the worst children's TV show ever created).  We both laughed as we remembered how much she used to sit for hours watching the antics of the dreadful Teletubbies.  Then, after she shook her head to indicate that "La La" was no longer welcome in our home, he joined his animal friends in the hefty bag that would soon make its way to Goodwill.

Suddenly, Melissa and I distinctly heard the sound of "La La" coming from the depths of the bag.

In a high-pitched voice as clear as day, he said......................................................

"Bye Bye"

We started at each other in horror!

Did "La La" know we were giving him away?

Could "La La" be possessed?

Would "La La" crawl his way out of the bag in the middle of the night and take out his revenge,  Chucky style, on his former owner and her mother???

So Melissa and I did the only thing we could think of at that moment.

We laughed!

And laughed!

And laughed some more!

Oh well, if "La La" does decide to attack, at least Biscuit will be there to protect my daughter, for Biscuit still holds his place of honor on her pillow.  Somehow, I don't think Melissa will ever part with Biscuit.  For as long as he stays, she holds onto a piece of her early years, and I get to cling to my baby, for just a wee bit longer.

"Biscuit", who came into Melissa's life nearly 10 years 
ago, still holds his place of honor on her bed!




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Mother of the Bride Dress Shopping

Last September, after a hectic holiday dinner involving some 15 people, my step-daughter Jessica and her boyfriend Brian helped us clean up, lingered a bit until everyone had said their hour-long goodbyes, and then closed the door behind them in preparation for their three hour journey back to Washington, DC.

No more than five minutes passed when my husband Bob, 15-year old daughter Melissa, and I heard the door creak open again.  Curious, we made our way to the front foyer only to see Jessica and Brian standing there, unsuccessfully trying to hide their sheepish grins.

"We wanted to be the first to tell you, and we wanted to wait until everyone went home," said Jessica, a hint of anticipation in her voice.

Bob and I met each other's eyes.  Were we about to hear the announcement that we'd hoped would be coming for months on end?

Indeed, we were!  Jessica and Brian were going to be married!

Although bursting with excitement, the announcement would have to wait until Brian officially presented Jessica with a ring.  Until then, I vowed to uphold my commitment to secrecy, and in true "spy" fashion, I told my two best friends, all of my co-workers, the hair dresser, the dry cleaner, the mail man, nobody!

As the December holiday season approached, with a beautiful diamond just dazzling on Jessica's hand, we could finally start talking about the wedding!  Slated for August, I thought I had plenty of time to lose 3,000 pounds so that I could fit into the perfect, sleek, "out of the pages of a fashion magazine", mother of the bride knock 'em dead dress!

Fast forward five months.

The wedding is now less than 90 days away, and I am completely perplexed that my daily intake of pizza, pasta, pretzels, and frozen yogurt has not helped me achieve my weight loss goals.  I mean....the yogurt was even fat free!

Sigh.

Last month, my oh so patient friend Angelica agreed to accompany "Orca the Whale" to several dress shops in hopes of finding the perfect fit.  Part of my challenge lies in my age.  At 48, I am not the typical age of a mother of the bride.  In fact, Jessica and I are only ten years apart. (No, I am not married to an 89-year old man. Bob happened to be quite young when Jessica came into his world.)

Our first attempt at finding the perfect dress yielded limited results.  The racks were filled with dresses of the wrong size, style, color, and fabric.  What's more, when I explained my proud status as mother of the bride, seemingly helpful sales ladies pointed me in the direction of dresses designed for 69-year old, size 28 women.

Sigh.

On our next attempt, we made the short journey down the road to David's Bridal, where a much larger selection offered a glimmer of hope. After nearly breaking the zipper while attempting to try on dresses that were the same size as my professional work clothes, I finally consented to allow Angelica to bring me a (gulp) LARGER SIZE.

In the meantime, I called Bob and told him to set aside our retirement savings for therapy, as every woman knows that the need to advance to a larger size results in a nervous breakdown.

Finally, I tried on a dress that could possibly work. I managed to get the zipper up without needing gastric bypass surgery, and, after stealing a glance in the mirror, I thought, "Hey, I don't look half  bad!"

Still, logic told me that the perfect dress might still be waiting, somewhere hidden in a crowded clothing rack at a fancy boutique in a far away land.  So I did not purchase the "not bad" dress, but took plenty of photos in case I changed my mind so that I could always go back and order it online.  I also held onto the ridiculous possibility that I might actually drop a pound or two and could order the smaller size. (Yes, I'll address this delusion during my therapy sessions.)

Yesterday, Angelica and I again resumed our search for the impossible to find dress. We walked into a fancy boutique and the sales lady, envisioning a huge commission, greeted me with a warm smile.

"I am looking for a dress for my step-daughter's wedding," I explained with a slight hint of hope in my voice.

"How nice," she exclaimed!  "Is your budget over or under $1,000?"

Thunk! (The sound of me fainting)

Under.

Significantly UNDER!

After the smelling salts brought me back to a state of consciousness, Angelica and I tried to think of a polite way to gracefully leave the store without having the sales lady think that my budget would barley get me a dress made out of a paper bag.

Sigh.

Well, at least I can afford some frozen yogurt, and lots and lots of therapy.

My "oh so patient" friend Angelica and me!



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Frozen on the HIGH DIVE!

The diving board loomed thousands of feet into the air.... reaching heights of epic proportions and nearly touching the clouds.

Well, at least that what it seemed like from the perspective of a "not so brave" 13-year old girl.

Sure, I could swim.  That skill had been perfected early on thanks to forced lessons at summer camp and the insistence of my father who picked up where the swim instructors left off.  In fact, I could even perform a fairly decent dive.  I'd stand at the edge of the water in the deep end of the Olympic size pool at Southampton Swim Club, making sure that at least one or two of the cute teenage lifeguards were watching.  Then I'd push off, entering the water head first with the skill and grace that surely would have earned me a "10" at any professional competition. (In reality, the more appropriate score probably would have been a "2".)

But take a head first plunge off the HIGH DIVE?!  No way!  That feat was reserved for the mighty, the brave, the fearless...AKA... the popular teens.

In fact, the sign in front of the HIGH DIVE might as well have read:

Gawky, chubby, 13-year old girls with braces, glasses, and big noses not admitted.

The terrifyingly tall HIGH DIVE loomed over the aptly named "diving tank".  A smallish, 12-foot deep pool reserved only for jumping, flipping, flopping, skipping, or diving off of one of two boards:

1. The normal, regular, run of the mill type of board, situated a mere two feet above the water

2. The.......... (cue the Jaws theme music) HIGH DIVE 

Occasionally my friend Joy and I would take turns on the low dive, happily waiting in line for the chance to strut our stuff on this simple, inviting, not so scary board.  

Then, one day, life as I knew it changed forever.

Joy got in line for the HIGH DIVE.

No, this could not be happening.  My friend could not abandon me!  We had made a silent pact born out of fear of breaking every bone in our body.  We would not, could not, should not ever, ever, ever, go near the HIGH DIVE.

It didn't matter that taking the 20,000 foot plunge off of the terrifying apparatus would give me the sliver of a chance of being inducted into that oh so exclusive club of "popular" kids who apparently came into this world without a fear of anything.  Yes, I wanted to shed the title of "nerd", but I  simply didn't have the nerve.

I watched with jealousy as Joy climbed the ladder to the sky, stepped tentatively on the 

HIGH DIVE, walked to the edge, and took the plunge.

When her head reappeared from the depths of the pool, a huge grin showcased the delight on her face.  "It's not that scary Lisa," she encouraged with enthusiasm. "Seriously, you should try it!"

With terror in my heart, I took my place in line for the (yes, you guessed it -  the theme from Jaws is playing again) HIGH DIVE!

At least seven kids stood in line in front of me. Then six.  Five! Four! THREE! (GULP) TWO! (Yikes)  One! (AAAHHHHH!!) 

MY TURN HAD ARRIVED!

I put one foot on the ladder, then another, and up and up and up and up and up and up I climbed.

Finally, I reached the surface of the HIGH DIVE.

I tiptoed towards the edge of the board, telling myself over and over that I could do it.  Finally, there I stood, at the very tip of the board, looking down at the water below and facing three choices.

1. Jump to my death.

2. Turn around, face utter humiliation, and climb back down the ladder.

3. Do nothing.

Much to the dismay of the 3,985 kids now lined up waiting to get their turn on the 

HIGH DIVE, I chose option number three.

Quite simply...I froze.

I'm not sure how long I stood there at the edge of the board, contemplated the horrible situation I had created.  The jeers of my fellow jumpers echoed as if from a distant planet.  

"Just jump already!"

"Jump or climb back down!"

"You are holding up the line!"

"C'mon, stop it, stop being such a coward."

"Just jump"

"Just jump!"

"JUST JUMP!"

Eventually one of the cute lifeguards got into the act, kindly encouraging me to make a decision so that the rest of the kids who were not total geeks could actually enjoy their day at the swim club.

Still, I froze.

The jeers of the crowd below grew louder.  Kids young and old as well as the grown ups who were usually too busy playing cards or gossiping to care about such mundane things as swimming stopped what they were doing to investigate the ruckus at the HIGH DIVE.

Five minutes turned to 10....then 15....then 20.

Still, there I stood at the edge of the HIGH DIVE, frozen in terror.

Drastic times called for drastic measures. In came the BIG GUNS....the owner of the swim club.

He made his way over to the diving tank, and the kids in line parted ways to make room for his approach up the ladder.  

At that moment, for reasons to this day that are still unknown....I threw caution to the wind..... 

and 

and

and

I......JUMPED!!!

Bravery had triumphed!  

When I emerged from what I has assumed would have been my watery grave, I swam over to the ladder, climbed out of the diving tank, turned to Joy and said...............................................

"That was fun!  Let's do it again!"

The HIGH DIVE at Southampton Swim Club, circa - mid 1970s. In retrospect, it probably was not quite as high as I had imagined!  Also, sadly, the swim club no longer exists, as the valuable land now plays host to a housing development.

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Melissa Writes a Song

This beautiful, original song was written and performed for me on my birthday by my incredibly talented 15-year old daughter Melissa. I nearly flooded the house with my tears. Listen and you'll understand why!

Listen to the song here!

I have no idea how to write a song

Should it be this short, can it be that long

I wish all the words would come pouring out

but it's not that easy...

I don't even know where to start

Can I just say that you are my best friend

The one who's there for me when on one else is

Keeping me calm with your soothing voice

You make my problems seem not as big as they once were before

You are my hero disguised as someone helping me find my way in life

No words can say just how much I love you

We may sometimes fight but that's ok

Cause that's how teens and moms will act now a days

I know you always have my back

It seems like time moves way too fast

When we spend moments together I just want it to last

Can I just say that you are my best friend

The one who's there for me when on one else is

Keeping me calm with your soothing voice

You make my problems seem not as big as they once were before

You are my hero disguised as someone helping me find my way in life

No words can say just how much I love you

But when I go away in four year's time
I know you'll miss me

I really can't imagine a life without you
But hey don't you worry, it will be alright
Cause you'll be hiding in my dorm room at night

Can I just say that you are my best friend

The one who's there for me when on one else is

Keeping me calm with your soothing voice

You make my problems seem not as big as they once were before

You are my hero disguised as someone helping me find my way in life

No words can say just how much I love you

A collage of photos of my beautiful Melissa and me!

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I originally posted this in celebration of Valentine's Day 2012 - now as I prepare to celebrate 19 years of wedded bliss with the man of my dreams on April 23, it seemed only fitting to post it again.  Happy anniversary to my Bobby Bear!! I love you!

How I Met My Husband: The Bunny Suit

Earlier this evening I received a pleasantly surprising phone call from my brother Steven.  Seems my name had been drawn from a basket full of names of people who had helped support an organization called “Hearts for Autism” by entering a raffle drawing for an assortment of goodies.

When the call came, I had been sitting on the sofa in our family room, my hair pulled back in a most unflattering style, sweat pouring from my skin after a spin on the exercise bike.  I wore my classic green sweatpants purchased when dinosaurs walked the planet, and my torn and tattered Beatles Yellow Submarine t-shirt purchased during my pregnancy 15 years ago, a shirt I refuse to part with…for sentimental reasons. 

I turned to my husband Bob and proudly announced that I had just won a basket full of beauty products.  His immediate response, without skipping a beat:  “You don’t need a beauty basket.” 

And that is why I am still so crazy about this guy who came into my life two decades ago, thanks in part to my job at a day care center and my ability to look adorable in a bunny suit.

Ok, I’ll explain.

While in college as an education major, my sister Bev (who is now a successful kindergarten teacher) took a job at a local day care center to get some experience under her belt.  When the center needed some extra part-time help, she approached me with the offer.  Although the job wouldn’t help with my goal of becoming a journalist, I figured it provided a few extra bucks and the chance to cuddle with some adorable toddlers.  Little did I know that day care center would lead to my first position in the real world.

Following my graduation from Temple University with a degree in journalism and public relations, I began the arduous task of scanning the Sunday paper for relevant positions (again, this happened in the prehistoric era, career builder and monster were not even figments of anyone’s imagination yet) sending out resumes, and hoping for that phone call from a company, any company, expressing their interest. 

Surprisingly, my day care experience, not my writing skills, caught the attention of the Muscular Dystrophy Association (MDA).  They had a new fund raising program called a Hop-A-Thon, where children in day care centers asked people to donate a penny per hop to support “Jerry’s Kids”.  Since I had worked in a day care center, the MDA felt I’d be perfect for the job!

During my two year tenure at MDA, my supervisor introduced me to Bob Weinstein, a TV director with a local station in Philadelphia.  Bob had been tasked with directing the local portion of the annual Jerry Lewis Labor Day Telethon.  I’ll admit, I was smitten, but didn’t think the guy even knew my name.  (A true assumption, I learned years later)  Bob had eight years on me, and a teenage daughter!  What would he ever see in a younger woman like me?

Although I left MDA to move onto greener pastures, I stayed in touch with my former boss.  So it did not come as a total surprise when she called me one day, but the favor she asked threw me for a loop.  A local day care center had won the distinction of raising the most money through the Hop-A-Thon program and had earned an appearance on a local children’s show called “Captain Noah”.  My former boss asked, or should I say, begged me to join the children on the show, dressed in a bunny suit!

I immediately jumped at the opportunity, only because of the slim chance that I might run into Bob while at the TV station.  At this stage in my life, I had been on and off with the same guy for four years, a relationship that had become one of convenience rather than emotion.  Like most women my age, I longed for a long-term relationship that would lead to marriage, children, the house with the white picket fence….you get the picture.

I walked into the TV station lobby not really sure if Bob would even show any sign of recognition.  However, unbeknownst to me, my former boss had told Bob about my crush.  Sure enough, he came through the lobby as I waited to go in, and fortunately, I had not yet donned my bunny suit.  He hugged me and said how great it was too see me.  My hopes were raised a tiny bit…now if only I could get through this performance without my Bob seeing me in a bunny suit.

I joined the toddlers in the studio, floppy ears and all, for the taping of the show.  When the director called it a wrap, I retreated out the door, longing to get back to the dressing room and out of my getup as soon as possible, lest Bob see me in fully bunny regalia.  I had barely walked two feet when another door opened and into the hall walked, you guessed it….Bob Weinstein!  Words to describe how I felt at that moment include, “mortified” “embarrassed” “horrified” and did I mention, “mortified”?

Since that fateful day, I’ve been blessed with my beautiful inherited daughter, Jessica, and my 14-year old love of my life, Melissa.  We’ve been through six different homes, job losses, health scares, and now, a steady phase of stability.   Recently I learned that, when Bob saw me in the bunny suit, he thought I was adorable and sexy.  Over two decades later, as I sit here in my well worn sweat pants and tattered t-shirt, he still thinks I’m adorable and sexy.  Bob, for all that you are, and for all you have given me, I love you!  

My husband Bob and me during a trip to the Happiest Place on Earth - happy 19th anniversary sweet heart, you are the love of my life

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Defining Love

During our courtship, I often asked my husband Bob, if he thought I was pretty.  The answer I longed to hear came from years of crushes on unrequited loves, and years of longing for the perfect man to see beyond my self-described imperfections and sweep me off my feet.

However, when I posed this question to Bob, I did not get the answer I longed to hear, but a response that took years to fully understand.

"I don't think you're pretty Lisa, I think you're beautiful."

Is there a difference?

Indeed.

And this weekend I tried to explain that difference to my 15-year old daughter Melissa as she struggled through an English class assignment to write an essay on the nearly impossible task of defining love.

I looked at this child and grappled to find the perfect way to put into words why "beautiful" is a world apart from "pretty", and why "beautiful" comes so much closer to love.

When Bob and I began dating, the obvious physical attraction certainly played a role in our destiny.  Yet the more we spent time together, the more our connection evolved based on shared interests, laughter, tears, and mutual respect.  We both grew to so deeply enjoy the person we had chosen to date, and eventually marry.

Whenever a fancy occasion such as a wedding requires me to squeeze into a new dress, painstakingly cake on make-up, and spend hours curling my hair, he always thinks the finished product is "pretty", but still...he thinks I'm "beautiful".

Is there a difference?

Indeed.

Whenever I am sick, and spend hours in bed, surrounded by tissues to nurse my Rudolph-red nose, clad in a t-shirt and sweat pants, and too tired to roll over let alone take a shower, he may not think I'm "pretty", but still... he thinks I'm "beautiful".

Whenever we argue, and yes, we sometimes do, he may be angry or frustrated, he may think I'm stubborn and overly sensitive, but still... he thinks I'm "beautiful".

Now, as I attempt to explain that concept to my daughter, I also try to help her understand that the deep, deep love that earns the title of "beautiful" exists not only between couples.  It is the love a father has the first time he holds his newborn son, the love that is shared among siblings, or the special bond of love between best friends.

In my case, it is the desperate love I have for this wonderful, special, incredible, child who I am so proud to call my own.

So Melissa, as you go through life, you need not compare yourself to anyone, nor impose any self-described imperfections  Embrace all that you are, and all that you are destined to be.  And please know that I love you, because you are "beautiful."

Me with my "beautiful" family, Melissa and Bob



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The Girlfriends Reunion

I walked into the crowded Sunday morning scene and made my way through the throngs of brunch-goers until I found them. There they stood, Fern, Jackie, and Linda, waiting patiently at the front of the line.

Amid hugs and laughter, we complimented each other's clothes, shoes, nails, handbags, and of course, the most important feature....hair!

"I got blonde highlights!" I exclaimed, much to their approval.  "I can't believe it took so long, now I'll never go back, since it does such a great job covering up the grey!"

They all nodded in empathy and reluctant understanding.

It had been six months since our last gathering, and despite our best efforts to close that gap of time between visits, life just gets in the way.

Our bonds of friendship formed during those first, few uncertain weeks of our freshman year at Temple University in Philadelphia, PA.  Eager to put my awkward high school days behind me, I embraced college life with a vengeance and couldn't wait to make new friends.

I spotted Fern on campus almost immediately.  As young girls who lived within walking distance of one another, we had witnessed the closeness of our elementary school friendship fade as we chose different high schools...and different paths.  Perhaps fate put us both at the same lunch truck during our early days at Temple.  We reconnected....and never looked back!

Next came Linny.  I didn't know when I walked into the crowded lunch room of the student activities center that a life-long friend awaited me among the sea of unfamiliar faces.  She sat at a table with a girl I knew from high school, who also happened to be the only person I knew in the jam-packed room.  Not wanting to suffer the indignity of (gasp) eating alone, I walked over to her table and timidly said hi. I received a warm welcome from my high school friend, who introduced me to the rest of the bunch.  Linny and I chatted like old friends, and when we decided to exchange phone numbers, we both pulled a small phone book with the same exact cover design out of our bulging book bags!  We knew, right then and there, we had connected...and we never looked back!

(*Note to my younger readers: back in the day of the dinosaur, we actually had to hand write phone numbers onto the pages of a book, instead of using the "will not be invented for another 25 years" smart phone)

Jackie and I solidified our friendship sitting in a booth at a local diner in the waning hours following a frat party.  Introduced by a mutual friend who shared the meal with us, our unabated laughter echoed of the walls of the nearly empty establishment.  "She's one of us!" Jackie proclaimed to our mutual friend. And with that, we connected....and we never looked back.

The priorities of our college years seem almost laughable now.
-boys
-weekend plans
-boys
-lunch and gas money
-boys
-studying
-did I mention boys?

Sigh.

The intervening years since college have been at times, exceedingly kind, and at times, full of challenges.

Graduation parties gave way to first jobs, second jobs, third jobs, and lost jobs.  We sent wedding announcements and birth announcements. We rented apartments and purchased first homes.  We moved away and moved back home again.   We have laughed together, cried together, discussed, and debated.  We have let months go by without contact, then picked up where we left off...as if time had no boundaries.  We watched our babies grow up and our parents grow old, and sadly...said goodbye to some of them who left us forever.

Now as we sat together, sipping coffee and eating omelettes, the conversation ranged from raging hormones to overactive bladders to everything in between. We complained about our teens, and bragged about our teens, and shared pictures of our teens.  We wondered where the time went and why we were getting invitations to join AARP, all the while struggling to see the menu without our reading glasses.

We begged the waiter to ignore the line out the door and let us stay longer....to laugh longer....to support each other longer.....to enjoy being with each other longer.....for just a few precious moments longer.  For we knew, all too soon, goodbye would come, we'd return to our worlds, and this brunch would become nothing more than a memory, although a good one at that.

We reluctantly paid the bill and lingered outside, braving the slight chill in the early spring air in our attempt to extend the visit just a wee bit longer.  Finally, as we hugged each other one last time, we promised to not let another six months go by without getting together again.

Then we each got into our cars, tucked our memories safely away, and returned to the routine of our lives.

Fern, Jackie, Linda, and me ...not wanting to say goodbye!

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