tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-47418389495725454002024-03-14T11:26:17.958-04:00The Mixed Up Brains of Lisa WeinsteinThe Mixed Up Brains of
Lisa WeinsteinLisa Gradess Weinsteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17817748124515829877noreply@blogger.comBlogger206125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4741838949572545400.post-13893436502966844812019-05-27T17:54:00.000-04:002019-05-27T21:27:06.403-04:00<b>Saying Goodbye to the Kitty Cat</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
We stood in the middle of a bare thread room at a local animal shelter, staring at cages stacked from floor to ceiling filled with a flurry of felines all vying for the coveted role of our new pet.<br />
<br />
Our previous cat, Yin Yang, had recently succumbed to kidney disease. In an effort to assuage our eight-year old daughter Melissa's grief, my husband Bob and I sought to immediately fill the void by welcoming a new kitten into our home.<br />
<i><br /></i>
The shelter staff gently tried to sway us towards adopting an older cat.<br />
<br />
Nope. No dice.<br />
<br />
We wanted to start anew with a baby fur ball to call our own.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisfpoZebdHUZf0RHzy2-mKJ8FcY04UI1ivX62exKqVw1oWwF3D9Jewz2QbEBp6qgv0YfdKrd8WWMdVbwWPejJR5K8himVnV8lE-FThCq4iU-DWyLbm2Ek3zshDB2liD-BhGxU9RR8xpw/s1600/DSC00152.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisfpoZebdHUZf0RHzy2-mKJ8FcY04UI1ivX62exKqVw1oWwF3D9Jewz2QbEBp6qgv0YfdKrd8WWMdVbwWPejJR5K8himVnV8lE-FThCq4iU-DWyLbm2Ek3zshDB2liD-BhGxU9RR8xpw/s320/DSC00152.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
After looking at cats of every size, shape, and color, we discovered a cage hidden in the corner where six babies huddled together, protected by the warmth of their mamma. Melissa pointed to a tiny little guy whose black and white markings eerily resembled the cat we had just lost. As soon as the shelter employee placed the kitten in my daughter's waiting arms, I knew right away we had found the "purr"fect match.<br />
<br />
The shelter had placed a collar around the kitty's neck, engraved with the name Aden, which I found to be quite a silly name for a cat.<br />
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I suggested "Tigger", an ode to Melissa's love of all things Pooh.<br />
<br />
Bob suggested "Gary", after Sponge Bob's pet snail.<br />
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Nope. No dice.<br />
<br />
Melissa nixed every proposed name change.<br />
<br />
And that's how we adopted a kitten named Aden, who quickly chose Melissa as his favorite from among the three humans who occupied his new home.<br />
<br />
"He'll live for a good, long time," I told my second grader. "We'll have him until you're in college."<br />
<br />
Sigh.<br />
<br />
Last week, Aden passed over the Rainbow Bridge, only five days after Melissa had finished her junior year at American University.<br />
<br />
It's heart wrenching to think just how quickly "<i>a good long time</i>" passed us by.<br />
<br />
We stroked him and told him we loved him as he lay on the floor on the upstairs landing, too weak to move. As Bob, Melissa, and I comforted one another, our tears fresh and raw, we at least experienced a shared sense of gratitude that our sweet Aden decided to spend his final hours at home, sparing us the painful task of a watching him "go to sleep" at the hands of the vet.<br />
<br />
It is only now that he's gone that I've begun to realize how intricate his presence had become in our lives. We did things without thinking, like making sure to put the toilet seat down lest he help himself to a "drink", or taking care to <i><b>not</b></i> leave any type of garment or blanket on the floor that we didn't want covered in fur.<br />
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I knew that every time I came through the door after a long day at work, he'd run down the stairs to greet me. Granted, this daily welcome was less about being happy to see me and more about my assigned role as the human who gave him his nighttime meal. But still, his presence at the door had become a source of comfort, woven into the fabric of familiar routines.<br />
<br />
And speaking of meals, I knew that every morning, at least a half hour before my alarm signaled the start of day, Aden would remind me, in no uncertain terms, that he needed his breakfast. The incessant meows, the jumping on my head....annoying for sure, but now sorely missed.<br />
<br />
I knew that each day Aden could count on a good, healthy fight with Bob, who met the cat on his terms, getting down on all fours and playfully swatting him around.<br />
<br />
I knew that Aden loved playing with hair bands, chasing the light from a flashlight, and waiting patiently for each of his humans to finish bathing so he could lick the water off the shower floor.<br />
<br />
I knew I'd find him curled in a ball every night, sleeping peacefully next to Melissa. When she dared to leave her kitty behind in favor of a dorm room on a campus much too far away, he reluctantly crawled into bed with Bob and me, only to return to Melissa's side each time she came home for break.<br />
<br />
And I knew, deep in my heart I knew, that he purposely waited until she came home that one last time, giving her the chance to say goodbye.<br />
<br />
The day after Aden crossed over, Bob and I packed up his remaining food and supplies and donated them to a local animal shelter. While there, I so wanted to take a peek at the kittens, but my much more logical husband pulled me away, knowing if I went inside, I wouldn't come out empty handed.<br />
<br />
Bob was right to stop me. After all, we need time to mourn our loss, to adjust to our new normal without Aden's constant presence.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure if a new cat will fill our lives again some day. Actually I'm not sure of a whole lot of things. Melissa will graduate next year, and I'm not sure whether she'll end up back home or settle in some distant city to follow her dreams. Perhaps, some day, as she embarks on her post-college journey, she'll adopt a new cat to call her own. But I know she'll never forget the sweet little guy named Aden who chose an eight-year old girl as his favorite human, and filled all our hearts with his unconditional love.<br />
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<br />Lisa Gradess Weinsteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17817748124515829877noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4741838949572545400.post-54485392900037323972018-11-25T17:55:00.001-05:002018-11-26T06:56:06.434-05:00<b>Monsters and Witches and Zombies... Oh My!</b><br />
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It seems my three-year old grandson Miles had a problem. Well, several problems if you must know. Despite his parents' best efforts to provide their little boy with a safe, comforting environment, their house had become infested with a huge population of monsters and witches and zombies.<br />
<br />
How do I know this? Well my grandson informed me during our recent Thanskgiving visit. No sooner had I attempted to wrangle him down for a welcome hug did he explain, in no uncertain terms, about the "creatures" who had made <i>his</i> house their home.<br />
<br />
Clearly something had to be done.<br />
<br />
Fortunately, I had brought with me an ample supply of special, super duper, invisible monster spray and witch spray and zombie spray.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXUMo6nc26S0aYjE9f_00JWaJ6_M3KqXDqHqjaRdGNxnm_uYceE3-e3R__HjqAHREgeXa8OKr7kyrkaP9CBzUGzIfCvGamVqDLXUfn2-8yawQl4t4j5JaJLLW52FdCOK6Gne8zEFQO8Q/s1600/46507691_10155991265163177_428955263072993280_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXUMo6nc26S0aYjE9f_00JWaJ6_M3KqXDqHqjaRdGNxnm_uYceE3-e3R__HjqAHREgeXa8OKr7kyrkaP9CBzUGzIfCvGamVqDLXUfn2-8yawQl4t4j5JaJLLW52FdCOK6Gne8zEFQO8Q/s200/46507691_10155991265163177_428955263072993280_n.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Miles, holding his zombie<br />spray, with his Aunt Mel,<br />Mom Jessica, and<br />Papa Bob.</i></td></tr>
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I handed them all to Miles, and he immediately set to work. He sprayed his mother (my older daughter Jessica), his father Brian, his Papa Bob (my hubby) his Aunt Mel (my younger daughter Melissa) and his dog Rocky with the invisible potion, making sure that we were all safe from those cranky cretins.<br />
<br />
However, those monsters and witches and zombies were formidable opponents. It seemed that no sooner did Miles provide us with our much-needed protection, that the potion became ineffective, forcing him to spray us again, and again, and again.<br />
<br />
But it didn't end there. Miles and I crept through the house, ready to pounce on the monsters and witches and zombies that lurked in his bedroom, his parents' bedroom, and the guest bedroom.<br />
<br />
<br />
Try as I might to keep him hiding upstairs (out of the hair of his mother, who slaved away over Thanksgiving fixins in the kitchen) he insisted on returning to the lower level, where we needed to<br />
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find a new power source to vanquish the monsters and witches and zombies.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj362zyyWrXbMWztrky74qPstian5khnI524TIIbqeo_F4pty3daNQNyORS32-8jZP1p3PQiH8yVoC7BufGzjk78jcbSUdjG1aSnoxkXvp9HwLaBgYrgnxQ-Bn6w6DvAxEKAO5W_gya2Q/s1600/46511283_10155991265288177_419929604048814080_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj362zyyWrXbMWztrky74qPstian5khnI524TIIbqeo_F4pty3daNQNyORS32-8jZP1p3PQiH8yVoC7BufGzjk78jcbSUdjG1aSnoxkXvp9HwLaBgYrgnxQ-Bn6w6DvAxEKAO5W_gya2Q/s200/46511283_10155991265288177_419929604048814080_n.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-size: 12.8px;">Miles under the table looking for<br />a new way to vanquish the monsters<br />and witches and zombies.</i></td></tr>
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Unfortunately, that power source could only be accessed by crawling under the dining room table. An easy feat for a nimble three-year old, not so much for my middle-aged, tired body. Yet there I sat, under the dining room table, watching my grandson feverishly input numbers into the imaginary keypad of an imaginary vault, trying to guess the secret code to our new power supply. I mimicked his actions, inputting my own secret code while ignoring the aching protests of my aging bones.<br />
<br />
Bob and Melissa, who sat comfortably on the living room sofa, stole a glance in my direction and stifled a laugh.<br />
<br />
To their credit, I'm sure I looked quite ridiculous.<br />
<br />
<br />
Yet, my efforts had kept the monsters and witches and zombies at bay.<br />
<br />
Indeed, my efforts had saved the day, and we were all able to eat our Thanksgiving dinner in peace.<br />
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<br />
<br />
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<br />Lisa Gradess Weinsteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17817748124515829877noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4741838949572545400.post-21769756494584762782018-09-30T19:18:00.002-04:002018-09-30T19:27:22.176-04:00<b>Watching Parks and Rec with Melissa</b><br />
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My daughter Melissa and I visited the dysfunctional, loveable, and quite hilarious inhabitants of the fictional city of Pawnee, Indiana nearly every night this past summer. I am talking, of course, about the sitcom Parks and Recreation. The brainchild of actress Amy Poehler, the show pokes fun at the hypocrisy of politics by looking through the satirical lens of the employees of the Pawnee Parks and Recreation department.<br />
<br />
Although I had plenty of opportunities to watch the show during it's original run from 2009 to 2015, for some reason I never made the time.<br />
<br />
Until the summer of 2018.<br />
<br />
It started in May when Melissa returned home after completing her sophomore year of college in Washington, DC, located about three hours from our southern New Jersey home. She had been following the show on Netflix, and now begged her parents to join in on her new obsession.<br />
<br />
My husband Bob objected. After all, watching a 20 minute sitcom would pull him away from his favorite pasttime: monitoring cable TV news. However, relentless objections and begging from his wife and daughter became too much for him to bear. He consented to allow us to watch <b><i>one</i></b> episode on his big screen TV.<br />
<br />
Just one!<br />
<br />
So we watched. And to my utter astonishment, I laughed, and laughed, and hungered for more.<br />
<br />
But Bob would have no parts of it. He would not allow these mundane interuptions in his TV viewing schedule. Amid our protests he stomped up the stairs, only to return to the living room an hour later with an expression that rang of smug satisfaction.<br />
<br />
Seems that Bob, in an effort to keep his family far, far away from his big screen TV, had been tinkering away in our bedroom where he sucessfully installed Netflix on our much smaller TV.<br />
<br />
The result?<br />
<br />
Melissa and I (along with the cat) could now snuggle on my comfy bed and watch Parks and Rec to our heart's content. And watch and watch and watch we did. All throughout the summer, during those evening where plans with friends didn't occupy my cherub's time. We grabbed a snack and climbed the stairs, ready to binge three or four episodes of my new favorite show.<br />
<br />
But the best part came when we'd had enough for one night, and I turned the TV to off. Melissa could have retreated to her own room, to her own bed, to get lost in a midst of texts with her own friends.<br />
<br />
But she didn't.<br />
<br />
She stayed in my bed. With me. To talk.<br />
<br />
Indeed, throughout her young life, those precious moments that preceded sleep were always set aside for mother/daughter bonding. From reading stories to my pre-school pal, to battling the knots in my fifth grader's long hair, to solving the challenges of teenager angst, I treasured the closeness of our bedtime routine....a closeness I knew would come to an end.<br />
<br />
Now, bedtime for me comes no later than 10 pm, while she is wide awake, some 200 miles away, spending time with her boyfriend, or her sorority, or on one of the mandatory homework projects that put a dent in her college fun.<br />
<br />
Some nights before I turn off the light, I'll text her a heart, just to let her know she's in my thoughts. I usually don't have to wait too long to hear the familiar ping on my phone, indicating her heart in return, letting me know I'm in her thoughts too.<br />
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It's not much, but it's enough. At least until winter break when we'll once again snuggle in my bed, turn on Parks and Recreation, and pick up where we left off.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFdxoL4WWuDCQnTH3A1ua1oMT80_bLKhhMeHhQTb36mfGtee7Z2ABSB6yt51wa7MzkShpGFF12g2hDMArzV_t-C71_mrfDY_FHoYKh3XuatzraZENE_p7JuCN3QwECMN6zpnQoQcFS_g/s1600/LisaMelissa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="610" data-original-width="345" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFdxoL4WWuDCQnTH3A1ua1oMT80_bLKhhMeHhQTb36mfGtee7Z2ABSB6yt51wa7MzkShpGFF12g2hDMArzV_t-C71_mrfDY_FHoYKh3XuatzraZENE_p7JuCN3QwECMN6zpnQoQcFS_g/s320/LisaMelissa.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bedtime with Melissa has always been mommy/daughter time, until she went away to school. </td></tr>
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<br />Lisa Gradess Weinsteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17817748124515829877noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4741838949572545400.post-61592843516305246012018-04-22T19:19:00.001-04:002018-04-22T21:20:05.570-04:00<b>Happy Anniversary to My Best Friend</b><br />
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We sat at a small table for two, unceremoniously wedged in the corner of a fancy steakhouse located inside of the Tropicana Hotel and Casino in Atlantic City.<br />
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Bob had argued with the hostess, demanding a table near a window, although I didn't quite know why. After all, the spectacular view of ocean waves crashing against the wind-swept white sand beach could only be left to the imagination, for nothing could permeate the darkness of this cold, January evening.<br />
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The appetizers arrived without incident, as did our main meal. We passed the time making small talk, as our server dutifully brought out each course with a smile... diet coke, salad, chicken, steak, a bouquet of balloons....<br />
<br />
Wait? What? A bouquet of balloons?<br />
<br />
I looked at her, a puzzled expression on my face.<br />
<br />
"Oh," she said, stumbling on her words. "We sometimes like to give balloons to nice couples like you."<br />
<br />
My attention turned to Bob. "Are you planning something?" I asked, trying to keep the accusatory tone out of my voice.<br />
<br />
His reaction to my question took me by surprise.<br />
<br />
Angry.<br />
<br />
He seemed genuinely angry.<br />
<br />
"I told you Lisa, you are impossible to surprise, it's going to happen on Valentine's Day, so stop asking!" he demanded.<br />
<br />
Taken aback by his harsh tone, I didn't pursue the topic, and instead tried to gear the conversation back to mundane small talk.<br />
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We finished our meal without further interruption, however, before the server came back to take our dessert order, Bob stood up, an awkward smile on his face. Then, to my utter astonishment, to quote Taylor Swift, he knelt to the ground and pulled out a ring.<br />
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Finally, it all made sense. The desire to sit at the best table, the server's gift of balloons (which nearly ruined the surprise) and Bob's feigned anger. I was officially engaged to be married!<br />
<br />
Fast forward 25 years.<br />
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It was a typical Monday evening and I had just come home after another dreaded workout at the gym. I sat on one end of the sofa, my computer on my lap. Bob sat at the other end, consuming his nightly dose of cable news. I felt tired. I felt sweaty. I felt hot. Yes, I felt oh so post-menopausal hot.<br />
<br />
In an effort to get relief, I put my long, matted hair in a messy ponytail, sitting lopsided on top of my head. Bob turned his attention away from the TV to look at me. "You are so cute," he said.<br />
<br />
That's right. He thought I looked cute.<br />
<br />
He thought his sweaty, post-workout, ponytail-clad wife looked cute.<br />
<br />
And that is one of the many reasons why, after all these years, I am still so in love with this man.<br />
<br />
When I think back to our engagement in Atlantic City, I could barely see beyond that moment in time. The man I loved wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. Nothing else mattered.<br />
<br />
Did I realize that my walk down the aisle would signal the start of something much more significant than a night of dinner and dancing followed by a honeymoon in Hawaii? Did I realize how much my world would become intertwined with his, and the joys, challenges, and obstacles we would face together?<br />
<br />
No. I couldn't possibly have known where life's journey would take us. But I did know that I was going to marry the man who loved me no matter how terrible I looked, the man who made me laugh no matter how silly the joke, the man who had become my best friend.<br />
<br />
Since that night in Atlantic City, we have packed and unpacked our belongings seven times, as each of us took turns following a job to a new location. We saved enough to purchase the single family home of our dreams, and finally downsized to an empty-nester town home. We have held hands during health scares, mourned the death of loved ones, and survived job losses and financial challenges.<br />
<br />
We have savored our vacations, taking delight in each other's love whether we're strolling on the boardwalk at the Jersey shore or crossing Abbey Road in London, England. We have seen concerts and ball games, movies, and broadway shows. And yet, we are just as comfortable with a quiet night at home, on opposite sides of the sofa, or cuddled in each other's arms.<br />
<br />
We started our journey, just the two of us, with that fateful night in Atlantic City, and 25 years later, after marrying off the oldest, welcoming a grandson, and sending the youngest off to college, it's just the two of us again.<br />
<br />
And he still makes me laugh.<br />
<br />
And he still loves me no matter how terrible I look.<br />
<br />
And as we celebrate our wedding anniversary, he is still, more than ever, my darling, my love, my man of steel.....<br />
<br />
My very best friend.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfZMNzAn6N8vr2tErGa6TdD6lZk76g-2rBDCrqoWFXDhkkJn6PlG5TRugw6r4NC3zNqXc6AXMGiPdXzqd7jeeHcsWje2_Z2JcA9aPMMlMnbxQz2nAylR0jVJJijXcyxFjQhmlaKDYZ8A/s1600/OceanCity_MD.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfZMNzAn6N8vr2tErGa6TdD6lZk76g-2rBDCrqoWFXDhkkJn6PlG5TRugw6r4NC3zNqXc6AXMGiPdXzqd7jeeHcsWje2_Z2JcA9aPMMlMnbxQz2nAylR0jVJJijXcyxFjQhmlaKDYZ8A/s320/OceanCity_MD.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bob and me during our anniversary weekend getaway to Ocean City, Maryland</td></tr>
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<br />Lisa Gradess Weinsteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17817748124515829877noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4741838949572545400.post-8038061881947588792018-04-08T17:33:00.001-04:002018-04-08T17:37:43.061-04:00<b>Summer Clothes Shopping</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
It happens in April, same time each year. I stare in confusion at my closet, searching in vain for the cute sun dresses, tank tops, skirts, capri jeans, and shorts that filled the racks last summer.<br />
<br />
Did my clothes get sucked into a some kind of mysterious black hole? Do my clothes now exist within some kind of alien dimension, stuck inside the space-time contiuum?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVbn6IfKsYQqP2Ge9Boa6P5BDZxvwNHFrSNg8ByGMj25cNln_5KmkLO9LhdbqAXhDFBPJTiwo9j1ZpWJb9w_BusAt-6snvXaVb_qh8k2Blt7wn8NM5O37snLIl1KyYHXlSI-TxmXZnYg/s1600/rack-clothes-empty-hangers-colorful-plastic-display-41662354.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="530" data-original-width="800" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVbn6IfKsYQqP2Ge9Boa6P5BDZxvwNHFrSNg8ByGMj25cNln_5KmkLO9LhdbqAXhDFBPJTiwo9j1ZpWJb9w_BusAt-6snvXaVb_qh8k2Blt7wn8NM5O37snLIl1KyYHXlSI-TxmXZnYg/s200/rack-clothes-empty-hangers-colorful-plastic-display-41662354.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
Possibly, because that's the only explanation I can fathom as I face the onslaught of the warm summer months with absolutely nothing to wear.<br />
<br />
That's right. <i>Nothing!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Fortunately, there is a remedy to this tragic situation. In stores and shopping malls across the region, brand new summer clothes beckon, promising to get me through until September... if I just take the time to try them on.<br />
<br />
Easier said than done.<br />
<br />
Trying on clothes can lead to one of two scenarios:<br />
<br />
1. Lisa finds a wonderful array of attractive designs that fit perfectly and flatter her figure.<br />
2. Lisa concludes that she should become a part of the hippopotamus exhibit at the local zoo.<br />
<br />
Scenario #1 = Happy Lisa<br />
Senario #2 = Well....you get the picture<br />
<br />
But wait, finding the perfect fit is only part of the problem. You slip into the dressing room and struggle to zip and button a potential work dress that looked spectacular on the store mannequin. You sneak a peek in the mirror, expecting to be shipped off to the zoo, only to find that, miraculously, it actually fits.<br />
<br />
<i>The dress actually fits!</i><br />
<br />
You turns this way and that, examining your figure from all possible angles. Indeed, the front, the back, and the sides all fall into place. You actually look...dare I say....<span style="font-size: x-small;">thin</span>.<br />
<br />
But wait.<br />
<br />
You examine the front again. What's that beige color poking through the pink and purple flowers?<br />
<br />
EGADS! It's your bra! The darn dress that fits perfectly has one major flaw. You can see right through to your undergarments!<br />
<br />
"You have to wear a tank top underneath," explains my 20-year old daughter Melissa. "That's the style."<br />
<br />
Well perhaps the see-through style is all the rage with the 20-year old set, but for menopausal women like me who are dealing with a steady body temperature roughly equivalent to that of molten hot lava, wearing unnecessary layers underneath something that only Superman should be able to see through is simply not practical.<br />
<br />
So now I have to find fashions that not only fit, but are made of a material thick enough to hide what I'm wearing <i>underneath</i>.<br />
<br />
With this challenge in mind, I set out this morning for the local mall, determined to avoid joining my hippo friends by day's end. Thanks to my perseverance, I arrived back home several hours later, my wallet considerably lighter, but my mood considerably brighter.<br />
<br />
In the closet my new clothes will go where they will safely survive until September, when I search in vain for the cozy sweaters and jeans that filled the racks last winter, and come to the conclusion that I have nothing to wear.<br />
<br />
That's right. <i>Nothing!</i><br />
<br />
Fortunately, there is a remedy to this tragic situation....and here we go again.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>If you like my stories please tell me in the comments section below. </i><br />
<br />Lisa Gradess Weinsteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17817748124515829877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4741838949572545400.post-65344495609218595552018-04-01T19:14:00.001-04:002018-04-01T19:14:49.183-04:00<b>The Weekend Visit Home from College</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
We sat on the hard, wire frame benches inside the Greyhound bus terminal, stifling our yawns, and absentmindedly listening to a cable news program that nobody in their right mind watches so early on a Sunday morning.<br />
<br />
My husband Bob's habit of arriving early for everything meant that we had a half an hour to wait.<br />
<br />
A half an hour of extra time with my daughter Melissa, who would soon board the bus that would take her back to her college, located three hours from our suburban New Jersey home.<br />
<br />
I could have used the time to have one last, meaningfull talk about life and love. I could have used the time to hold her tight, squeezing out enough hugs to last the six weeks until her sophomore year ended, and I'd see her again.<br />
<br />
But alas, there was no need. <br />
<br />
The weekend visit home had been a good one. Despite the mounds of assignments and projects and sorority commitments that filled her obsessively organized to-do list, Melissa came home because she knew that her presence at our Passover seder meant the world to me. Especially this year, the first Passover with an empty seat where my mother should have been.<br />
<br />
During the all-too-short time leading up to Saturday night's holiday celebration, Melissa managed to squeeze in a long, bed-time talk with mom, a Food Network marathon with dad, brunch with friends, and even reluctant time spent on homework.<br />
<br />
Although she seemed so comfortable at home, especially with our kitty cat cuddled by her side, something didn't seem quite right. Not so much with her, but with me. I experienced an emotion that took me by surprise.<br />
<br />
I felt selfish.<br />
<br />
Selfish for wanting the weekend to never end.<br />
<br />
Selfish for wanting to block her path to the bus.<br />
<br />
Selfish for wanting her to come home this summer, and every summer for the remainder of her college tenure, instead of exploring internship opportunities in cities much too far from southern New Jersey.<br />
<br />
Selfish for wanting her to put aside plans to spend part of her senior year studying abroad.<br />
<br />
Selfish for wanting her to return to our little townhouse after graduation, even though a job, a relationship, or (egads) both, may take her into unknown territory, hundreds of miles away from her mother's loving arms.<br />
<br />
Selfish for wanting her to live her life under my protective shadow, instead of following her own path to happiness.<br />
<br />
For as much as I love having her around, I know, for right now, school is where she <i>needs</i> to be. More important, I know, for right now, school is where she <i>wants</i> to be.<br />
<br />
Bob and I watched as the bus pulled into the station, and Melissa joined the handful of passengers preparing to board. We gave her a quick hug goodbye, and quietly walked back to the car.<br />
<br />
The bus was taking her back to her life of projects and parties and sorority commitments and friends.<br />
<br />
Back to where she belonged.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, Bob and I put on our empty-nester hats, and went back home to take a nap.<br />
<br />
Back to where we belonged.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge9oQPveG0PsvseE8btN-32W0-2ofUppyUcd_YrSbNNpULOMLKMtYRU7vukjyWcp7DcsUGSneRQaz2d85w-XTsvT0vUxHERjmsKyjRp8zcSY6CB1IC4MDGzJ4ZDvWoYTJmSNC__CIAJQ/s1600/BusTerminalMelBob.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge9oQPveG0PsvseE8btN-32W0-2ofUppyUcd_YrSbNNpULOMLKMtYRU7vukjyWcp7DcsUGSneRQaz2d85w-XTsvT0vUxHERjmsKyjRp8zcSY6CB1IC4MDGzJ4ZDvWoYTJmSNC__CIAJQ/s320/BusTerminalMelBob.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Melissa and Bob waiting at the Greyhound bus terminal.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<i>Id you like my stories, please tell me in the comments section below.</i><br />
<br />
<br />Lisa Gradess Weinsteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17817748124515829877noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4741838949572545400.post-90182680510437742492018-03-11T17:09:00.002-04:002018-03-11T17:11:09.309-04:00<span style="font-size: x-small;">As St. Patrick's Day approaches, I thought it only fitting to repeat one of my favorite posts!</span><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Melissa vs. The Leprechaun </b><br />
<br />
For my daughter Melissa, St. Patrick's Day marks the anniversary of her "terrifying" encounter with a leprechaun. Step back in time with me, if you will, to March 17, 2007. When the aptly-named third grade teacher Miss Green (I am not kidding) read stories about these fabled, feisty Irish fairies to her young charges, Melissa and her friend Sarah became determined to actually catch one of these mischievous munchkins. Even though leprechauns have outwitted generations of trap-setting Irishmen, two nine year old girls were convinced that they, and they alone, would succeed!<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh645z_BuoYLUIwbACQjhZTM5HK6SoEE_RdeLXYVzStgV2n7IuyEJRhtHDhTRK9ECtZNeEoXdl6k-DGcTXBFlLRbBE_mH20SyymsPOYyMYpThuaBVqSg6OdzMd8GayqZhooDxrbkXdEGg/s1600/ae29cca58795d677d0baef5bb5aa07b9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh645z_BuoYLUIwbACQjhZTM5HK6SoEE_RdeLXYVzStgV2n7IuyEJRhtHDhTRK9ECtZNeEoXdl6k-DGcTXBFlLRbBE_mH20SyymsPOYyMYpThuaBVqSg6OdzMd8GayqZhooDxrbkXdEGg/s1600/ae29cca58795d677d0baef5bb5aa07b9.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
Melissa and Sarah spent hours developing a comprehensive trap-setting plan. Step one involved a St. Patrick's Day eve sleepover, for surely that would be the best day for a leprechaun to be caught in the act. Our house became the designated leprechaun lure, with Melissa's bedroom setting the stage for the over-the-top trap!<br />
<br />
As Sarah and Melissa approached the task at hand, they decided the best way to trap a leprechaun would be to turn the bedroom into a "little green man" resort and spa. Steaming hot water helped to transform a soup bowl into a soothing leprechaun hot tub. Construction paper and green crayons invited the leprechaun to express his creativity, while green confetti and Lucky Charms cereal set the celebratory mood. Barbie dolls were dressed in their Sunday best as they sat ready and waiting for the leprechaun to invite them to play, and of course, gold coins aplenty (the chocolate version) were strategically placed in a bowl in the middle of the floor.<br />
<br />
As the girls put the finishing touches on the trap, they started having second thoughts about their devious plan. Suddenly, it seemed like trapping the little guy would not be a very nice thing to do. But still, they didn't want their hard work to go to waste. That's when Melissa and Sarah crafted a new plan. If the leprechaun came, he would not have to worry about being duped by two nine-year old girls. Instead, the girls would simply observe him at play while they pretended to be asleep.<br />
<br />
With all of the wheels in motion, the only task that remained was to climb into bed and wait.<br />
<br />
And wait.<br />
<br />
And wait.<br />
<br />
And wait.<br />
<br />
And while they waited, excitement turned to trepidation, trepidation turned to fear, then fear turned to terror.<br />
<br />
What if the leprechaun became evil?<br />
<br />
Would he attack them?<br />
<br />
Were they safe?<br />
<br />
WHAT HAD THEY DONE?!<br />
<br />
In the meantime, the "leprechaun" waited and waited and waited for the girls to fall asleep so "he" could sneak in undetected and check into the resort and spa. The "leprechaun", who in reality stood 5' 5" tall, had long brown hair, and answered to the name of "mom", slowly tiptoed into Melissa's room. The girls moved ever so slightly, perhaps sensing a presence. Mom froze, waiting until both girls were silent and still. Then mom tipped over the water, tossed the barbies around, stole most of the gold coins, and used the green crayon to write a note of thanks for the fun.<br />
<br />
In the morning, the girls woke up and were absolutely astounded by the site! The leprechaun had come and played in the bedroom and made a mess and left them a note, AND THEY SLEPT RIGHT THROUGH THE ENTIRE THING!<br />
<br />
As for the leprechaun (AKA - Mom) instead of placing the newly found "gold" in the pot at the end of the rainbow, she stuffed the coins were into the bottom of a sock drawer, never to be seen again...or so she thought.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">~ ~ ~</span></b></div>
<br />
About a year later, I asked Melissa to help me with the laundry. I folded the socks, while she put them away.<br />
<br />
"Mom, why are there gold coins in Daddy's sock drawer?"<br />
<br />
Uh oh.<br />
<br />
Danger! Danger! Think fast! Think fast!<br />
<br />
"Well, the leprechaun must have put them there to hide them from you."<br />
<br />
"Oh, ok. That makes sense."<br />
<br />
I heaved a sign of relief. My naive little daughter actually believed me!<br />
<br />
Or so I thought.<br />
<br />
A few days later as we struggled through the nightly ritual of brushing of her long, knot-infested hair, she asked the question I had been dreading.<br />
<br />
"Mom, are you really the leprechaun?"<br />
<br />
Uh oh.<br />
<br />
"What? No, of course not!"<br />
<br />
"Really Mom, it's ok, you can tell me the truth, I won't be mad."<br />
<br />
"Seriously sweety, I am not the leprechaun."<br />
<br />
"Really Mom, I won't be mad, I promise."<br />
<br />
"Alright sweety, you're right. It was me," came my guilty admission. "I was really the leprechaun, it was me who snuck into your room in the middle of the night."<br />
<br />
Pause.<br />
<br />
Pause.<br />
<br />
"YOU TRICKED ME! YOU LIED TO ME! WAAAAAAAAAAAA!"<br />
<br />
So much for Melissa's promise of not getting mad.<br />
<br />
Oh well. Since I had already blown my cover, I decided to also come clean about the tooth fairy and Santa Clause. Being Jewish, the latter didn't bother her quite so much, but I made her promise not to spill the beans to her friends who still believed in St. Nick. Even though I had spoiled the fun, Melissa's friends still deserved to enjoy a few more moments of childhood innocence.<br />
<br />
In trying to bring to life to my baby girl's imagination, I had donned an alter ego, only to lose her trust once my secret was revealed. If I could, I would become the leprechaun every year, even when she is married with kids of her own. I want her to relish in those childhood fantasies where the existence of little green men is never questioned, and fairies really do exchange teeth for treasure. For all too soon, reality takes hold and childhood evolves into a grown up world, devoid of fantasy and wonder.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
~ ~ ~</div>
<br />
This year as St. Patrick's Day approaches, Melissa and Sarah, now college sophomores - albeit in different states - are both home for spring break. They plan to spend quality time together, and I'm sure they'll flash back to that day, so many years ago, when two 9-year old girls truly believed they had a visit from a Leprechaun!<br />
<br />
<i>If you like my stories please tell me in the comments section below.</i><br />
<i>If you are from Israel, please email me at prleebee@gmail.com to tell me how you heard about my blog.</i><br />
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Lisa Gradess Weinsteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17817748124515829877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4741838949572545400.post-9865118923568672542018-02-15T21:01:00.001-05:002018-06-03T19:41:46.448-04:00<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Proposal to Reduce the Number of Deaths and Injuries from Mass Casualty Incidents</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-f434df4d-9a8a-9f76-a04d-3239abcaf261" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
</span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">It's the same cycle. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">1. Innocent people die in a mass casualty incident. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">2. Politicians send their thoughts and prayers.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">3. The news media shows horrific video from the scene of the crime.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">4. People express their outrage through social media posts.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">5. Advocates for common sense gun control and advocates for gun rights get into </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">heated debate.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">6. A couple weeks go by, people go back to their routine.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">7. No action is taken.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">8. All too soon, it happens again, and the cycle is repeated.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">In the meantime,</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b> nothing is done</b> to stop the senseless injury and death of countless innocent people.<b> </b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">I repeat. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><b>NOTHING IS DONE!</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Through my proposal, I hope to change apathy into action by recommending we finally </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>do something </b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">about the epidemic of mass casualty incidents in the United States. A</span><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">nd, my recommendations do </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">not</span><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> call for a ban against guns.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Discover common ground</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The first proposed step is to bring people on both sides of the gun debate together who have one thing in common, none of them want to see innocent people die from a gunshot wound.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre;">1. Implement a Mass Casualty Incident Task Force made up of the following:</span></span><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Federal, state, and local legislators representing republicans, democrats, and independents</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Gun rights advocates, including those who sell guns</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Advocates for commone sense gun control</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Law enforcement officials at the federal, state, and local level</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Mental health professionals</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Physicians and nurses specializing in emergency medicine</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">First responders</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Educators</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Domestic violence prevention experts</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">IT professionals</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Marketing professionals</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Representatives from Facebook, Twitter, and other social media companies</span></li>
</ul>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="font-weight: normal;">2. Commision a non-partisan, objective study of mass casualty incidents </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"> over the past 10 years, identifying common themes, including:</b></span><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Demographics of the offenders and victims (age, gender, race, religion, etc)</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Type of weapons used (guns, knives, bomb, vehicle)</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Location of the incident (school, business, mall, park, concert, movie theater, church)</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Past history of violence and/or criminal activity among the offenders</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Warning signs, such as threats made against family members, neighbors, or employers; social media posts; or stock piling of weapons</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Motive for the offense, such as anger at a romantic partner, a former employer, or school; hatred against a specific demographic; or terrorism</span></li>
</ul>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">3. Commission a non-partisan, objective study to determine if there is a correlation between the incidence of injury and death due to gunshot wounds and state laws on gun purchases.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">4. Create a task force of law enforcement professionals at the local, state, and federal level to implement strategies to deal with illegal gun trafficking.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">5. Create a toll-free, anonymous hotline to encourage people to report potential threats of violence. Similar to the "If you see something say something" campaign. For example, if someone hears a friend, neighbor, or coworker talk about shooting someone or blowng up a building, take it seriously and anonymously report it. Or, if someone receives personal threats to their safety from someone they know, take it seriously and report it.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">6. Respond to these reports by monitoring the potential offender's actions; obtaining a warrant to search the offenders home, vehicle, emails, and social media posts; and alerting the offender's family, friends, and coworkers.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">7. Create a public safety campaign to promote the hotline using TV, radio, print, and social media.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">8. Implement and enforce laws that make it a felony to threaten someone with violence.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">9. Develop training tools to teach people how to respond if they are involved in a mass casualty incident. (hide, flight, or flee)</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">10. Develop a gun safety curriculum to be used in high schools and colleges to teach students how to safely handle a gun.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">11. Conduct a non-partisan, objective study of the current crimnal background check system in place to prevent certain people from purchasing a weapon. Is the system outdated? Does it provide accurate data? Are there system breakdowns due to computer or human error?</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">12. Work with the military to ensure all offenses committed by members of the military are included in the national background check database.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">13. Enact a federal law preventing those who have been convicted of domestic violence from owning a gun. (Federal law already prevents them from purchasing a gun, if they are convicted of domestic violence they should be forced to surrender guns they already own.)</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">14. Work with domestic violence prevention and mental health professionals to identify warning sign behaviors that could lead someone to cause a mass casualty incident.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">15. Implement a public safety campaign to educate people about these warning signs.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">16. Work with law enforcement, mental health professionals, and legislators to determine a way to monitor and/or prevent gun purchases made by those who are in mental health treatment due to threats of harm against themselves or others.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">17. Require social media companies such as Facebook and Twitter to monitor social media posts of their users and report posts that contain threats against others.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">18. Allow law enforcements officials to obtain a warrant to search a potential offender's home based on threats made on social media.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">19. Educate first responders and emergency room physicians and nurses on responding to a mass casualty incident.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">20. Determine the feasibility and effectiveness of specific ideas by gathering data from smaller pilot studies conducted at the state and local level (instead of rejecting ideas out of fear, emotion, or intuition)</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK8bg4f7EClU1Zpi4vnhej6TasBRdkI_jFpdql6x1zTQsx2e83FxJeS6J19PX_Mr6Q88GZrMgO7V5LO5bHaBhbcipB1UgoaJmkdI_5kqUn0QxpSSU9N5iwpHXDwD9Ocb3GJAvBH0wViQ/s1600/2491.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK8bg4f7EClU1Zpi4vnhej6TasBRdkI_jFpdql6x1zTQsx2e83FxJeS6J19PX_Mr6Q88GZrMgO7V5LO5bHaBhbcipB1UgoaJmkdI_5kqUn0QxpSSU9N5iwpHXDwD9Ocb3GJAvBH0wViQ/s1600/2491.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">All ideas are appreciated. Please share your feedback in the comments section below, and please feel free to share this post with others who want to save innocent lives.</span></div>
Lisa Gradess Weinsteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17817748124515829877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4741838949572545400.post-36121613132457016512018-01-07T18:09:00.001-05:002018-01-07T18:09:20.787-05:00<b>When Your Husband Attempts Vehicular Homicide</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
My home state of New Jersey is known for its famous seashore, as well as dozens of historic villages that boast tree-lined main streets and small town charm. While state residents flock to the beach during the summer months, it is the autumn season where these quaint small towns come to life. Such was the case when my husband Bob and I took my parents to the northern New Jersey town of Chester, with our two-year old daughter Melissa (now 20) in tow.<br />
<br />
We enjoyed a sun-drenched October day exploring Chester's quaint business district, and after a delicious lunch topped off with the requisite scoop of ice cream, we were ready to head back home. Bob took his rightful place behind the wheel, while my father accompanied him in the front passenger seat. I placed our purchases in the trunk, secured Melissa in her car seat, then wedged myself into the middle of the back seat to make room for my mother.<br />
<br />
That's when Bob tried to get away with vehicular homicide.<br />
<br />
Allow me to explain. As my poor mother attempted to get into the car, Bob attempted to drive away. Seems that he had incorrectly assumed that all members of his cargo were safely seated and secured. Alas, t'was not the case, as Bob soon found out, thanks to the combined ear piercing screams of my mother, father, and me.<br />
<br />
He slammed his foot on the brake, and my mother, although a bit shaken, safely climbed into the back seat. As we went on our way, he sheepishly promised to never, ever attempt vehicular homicide again. A promise he kept for 18 years.<br />
<br />
Until last month.<br />
<br />
Bob, Melissa, and I were heading south on the New Jersey Turnpike, enroute home after a pleasant afternoon with my sister-in-law Kristie and niece Kaeli. As is typically the case with the Weinsteins, we needed to "take care of business" - so Bob dutifully made a pit stop at one of the Turnpike's crowded rest stops. Only problem, we were held hostage by bone chilling, single digit cold and wind that had gripped the state, and most of the country for that matter, for days.<br />
<br />
Bob parked as close as possible, we wrapped ourselves in hats, scarves, and gloves, then braved the elements so we could complete our quest. After we had "taken care of business", my sweet husband wanted to spare his wife and daughter the weather's fury by offering to pull the car up to the front door for us.<br />
<br />
Before getting in, Melissa and I decided to switch seats. For the remainder of the journey, she'd take the front passenger side, while I'd settle into the back.<br />
<br />
As promised, Bob faithfully positioned our chariot within a stone's throw of where we stood. Melissa jumped into the front as I opened the door to get into the back. But before sitting down, I had to over come one small problem. You see, because of some long-standing medical issues, I use a seat cushion during long car drives. But to my horror, my precious seat cushion still remained in the front.<br />
<br />
At this point in my story I should remind you of the bone chilling cold and wind. I should also remind you of the crowds that decided to stop at the rest stop at the exact same time, crowds that were now in their cars, impatiently lined up behind my hubby, waiting for him to drive away.<br />
<br />
In his desire to get us out of this predicament as soon as possible, Bob grabbed my cushion and threw it to me. Only problem.....he threw it to the <i>other </i>side of the back seat.<br />
<br />
Now imagine if you will, the following scene.<br />
<br />
The car door remained open. I still had both feet on the ground as I leaned over to reach across the back seat for my cushion. In the meantime, those impatient drivers began maneuvering their way around our car.<br />
<br />
That's when Bob attempted to drive away.<br />
<br />
Yes, that's right. While I had half my body in, and half my body out of the car, that's when Bob attempted to drive away.<br />
<br />
Seems that he had, once again, incorrectly assumed that all members of his cargo were safely seated and secured.<br />
<br />
In the next fraction of a second, I mentally gauged my options:<br />
1. Say nothing, and allow the vehicle's forward momentum to force me to tumble onto the hard asphault of the rest stop parking lot, where I would, undoubtedly, be run over by one or all of the impatient drivers lined up behind us.<br />
2. Dive head first into the car.<br />
3. Scream for Bob to stop as if my life depended on it - because it did!<br />
<br />
I chose option 3.<br />
<br />
The sound that erupted from my mouth could be heard across the parking lot, into surrounding counties, and throughout the state of New Jersey. Heck, my gutteral scream for mercy could be heard by the astronaunts orbiting the Earth on the international space station.<br />
<br />
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Fortunately, I chose the correct option. Bob stopped the car, saving me from my perceived horrible fate. As we continued on our journey, my "sympathetic" husband and daughter struggled to repress their laughter....as I struggled to repress my sobs.<br />
<br />
Gradually, my tears gave way to uncontrollable giggles, as I had to admit that I might have over-reacted just a wee bit.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, my husband sheepishly promised, once more, to never, ever attempt vehicular homicide again.<br />
<br />
We'll see how long he keeps his promise this time.<br />
<br />
<i>If you like my blog, please tell me in the comments section below</i><br />
<i>If you live in Israel, please email me at prleebee@gmail.com to tell me how you heard about my blog.</i><br />
<br />Lisa Gradess Weinsteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17817748124515829877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4741838949572545400.post-45476009342250336052018-01-01T19:16:00.003-05:002018-01-02T07:32:42.637-05:00<b>Watching Movies with Melissa</b><br />
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I snuggled in my warm bed, my daughter Melissa by my side, as layer upon layer of blankets kept the cold at bay. We turned our focus to the TV, where images of Austria's glorious mountains came slowly into view, and a young Julie Andrews sang out those lyrics made famous in the 5 plus decades since its first airing.<br />
<br />
"The hills are alive, with the sound of music".<br />
<br />
My husband Bob, given the choice of watching football or the Von Trapp Family's frolicks for the 574th time, shockingly chose the ball game. But that was fine for my daughter and me! We were comfy, we were cozy, we were singing along.<br />
<br />
Life was good.<br />
<br />
It would be the first of many movies we would enjoy together during her all too short winter break. The fall semester of her sophomore year at American University had ended, the spring semester would start soon enough. But during her break, as New Jersey (and most of the country) was caught in the grip of unprecedented cold, we stayed home, snuggled, and turned on the tube.<br />
<br />
Most of the movies we had seen before.<br />
<br />
Many many times before.<br />
<br />
Yet watching them with Melissa felt like welcoming in old friends.<br />
<br />
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Some, like <i>Frozen</i> were Disney classics, while others, like Will Ferrell's <i>Elf</i>, were a holiday tradition. Some, like <i>Pitch Perfect,</i> I enjoyed for the first time. While others, like <i>Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, </i>I have watched every time it airs, since it feeds my obsession with the boy wizard.<br />
<br />
Watching movies with my girl seemed the perfect way to end what I describe as a year of count downs. You see, throughout 2017, I spent the months, weeks, days, and hours counting down the months, weeks, days, and hours until I would see her again.<br />
<br />
It began in January with counting down the months, weeks, days, and hours until Melissa came home for spring break.<br />
<br />
Next came the count down until my birthday in April when we visited Washington, DC to see Melissa, our daughter Jessica, son-in-law Brian, and grandson Miles.<br />
<br />
Then I started the count down until spring semester ended in May.<br />
<br />
Then came summer, and the count downs came to a welcome halt.<br />
<br />
But time sure didn't.<br />
<br />
Those warm, humid evenings taking neighborhood walks with my girl soon gave way to our new normal with Melissa back in her college dorm.<br />
<br />
And the count downs started again.<br />
<br />
Count downs until our October visit.<br />
<br />
Count downs until Thanksgiving.<br />
<br />
Count downs until the end of the fall semester.<br />
<br />
Then my baby came home....and the count downs once again, came to a welcome halt.<br />
<br />
But once again, time sure didn't.<br />
<br />
I don't want to count down the five days until we pack up the car with what will seem like all of her worldly possessions.<br />
<br />
I don't want to count down the five days until we leave her at her college dorm.<br />
<br />
I don't want to count down the five days until we return to our new normal. Where Bob watches sports and I cuddle in my bed watching movies. Without my girl.<br />
<br />
But nevertheless, here I go again. Two months, one week, 23 hours until spring break.....when the count downs come to a welcome stop, once again.<br />
<br />
<i>If you like my blog, please let me know if the comments section below.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>PS - if you live in Israel, please email me at prleebee@gmail.com and tell me how you heard about my blog.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Lisa Gradess Weinsteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17817748124515829877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4741838949572545400.post-49123438849446243012017-12-03T18:50:00.001-05:002017-12-03T18:55:51.303-05:00<b>The Quilt</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
My high school drama teacher must have liked me.<br />
<br />
That's the only reason I can explain why she cast me in the ensemble of our school show, an obscure little musical called "The Boyfriend." After all, I couldn't sing on key, and my dancing skills were negligible. The perfect, peppy, pretty cheerleaders who also auditioned earned the majority of the stage time, while the choreographer positioned me way in the back, where the audience might not see me turn right while my fellow dancers turned left.<br />
<br />
But still. I had fulfilled a childhood dream.<br />
<br />
I became an actress in a musical!<br />
<br />
The experience introduced me to the castmate camaraderie that comes with being a part of a show. Those perfect, peppy cheerleaders, girls I had viewed (I hate to admit) with envy, became my friends. What's more, I discovered a newfound sense of self-esteem that would stay with me throughout senior year, through college, and beyond.<br />
<br />
That's why, in the spring of 2011, when my 7th grade daughter Melissa told me she wanted to attend summer drama camp, I could barely contain my excitement. As she prepared to audition for the camp show, The Music Man, I knew that my cherub had one advantage over the high school version of her mom....the girl could sing.<br />
<br />
But still, as one of the youngest members of the cast who had no prior experience - like the high school version of her mom - my baby took her rightful spot way in the back.<br />
<br />
But still, it didn't matter!<br />
<br />
Even though my offspring's stage debut found her hidden behind the other 3,492 drama campers who belt out The Music Man's signature showstopper, "76 Trombones", my husband Bob and I still attended every single performance.<br />
<br />
As a thank you for her participation in the show, (and as part of the summer drama camp fee) my little actress received a t-shirt to commemorate the experience.<br />
<br />
Unbeknownst to me, she actually saved that Music Man t-shirt, along with t-shirts from school shows to follow:<br />
<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Annie (8th grade)</li>
<li>Footloose (9th grade)</li>
<li>Les Miserable (10th grade)</li>
<li>Oklahoma (11th grade)</li>
<li>Peter Pan (12th grade)</li>
</ul>
<br />
She also saved t-shirts from:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Her 5th grade elementary school picnic</li>
<li>The day camp where she (begrudgingly) spent every summer from 1st to 6th grade</li>
<li>Her middle school graduation</li>
<li>Her brief foray into the world of athletics when she played defense on the youth association soccer club team</li>
<li>The 9th grade color war competition</li>
<li>Her high school senior class trip to Disney World</li>
<li>Her high school graduation</li>
<li>Her college orientation at American University, where she is now in her sophomore year</li>
</ul>
<div>
The moments of her life.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Moments I treasured.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Moments that, like her first school show. I embraced with the unbridled enthusiasm that comes with being a mom, watching from the sidelines as she celebrated the milestones of her life.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Moments that, all too soon, seemed to slip away.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Or so I thought.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A few months ago, again unbeknowst to me, Melissa (with Bob's help) packed up all of her old t-shirts and shipped them off to North Carolina. Those t-shirts landed in the skilled hands of my niece Amanda, who, with help from my nephew Nick's fiance Kimmie, worked magic with a sewing machine.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The result? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A quilt.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But not just any quilt.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A quilt made up of every one of those t-shirts. A quilt that captures my daughter's journey from a shy elementary school student to the talented, confident young woman she has become today.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When I wrap that quilt around me, I capture all of those moments that seemed to have slipped away. I capture Melissa' passion. I capture her spirit. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When I wrap that quilt around me - a gift given from daughter to mother with love - I capture my baby's heart and keep it close to mine.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Always.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_uYnahyphenhyphenVZQO-O4ZKYV4r9hx0ElsB76RGlFMlKqoRWwnwE9efAEOzJ_4Pv6mVzIKIMGgLqtGyC3D7e0bC1hNtsV9PJybkQfjHjsJZotFiz6r-MkIi_-Gbn9JA9CmRFREGw2bWsOleYtA/s1600/24058783_10155170310053177_802181587090713297_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_uYnahyphenhyphenVZQO-O4ZKYV4r9hx0ElsB76RGlFMlKqoRWwnwE9efAEOzJ_4Pv6mVzIKIMGgLqtGyC3D7e0bC1hNtsV9PJybkQfjHjsJZotFiz6r-MkIi_-Gbn9JA9CmRFREGw2bWsOleYtA/s320/24058783_10155170310053177_802181587090713297_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This quilt, a gift to my from my daughter Melissa, captures the moments of her life</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<i>If you like my stories, please tell me in the comments section below.</i><br />
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<br />Lisa Gradess Weinsteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17817748124515829877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4741838949572545400.post-67796956510131394902017-11-26T19:23:00.000-05:002017-11-26T19:23:01.934-05:00<b>Thanksgiving Without Bob</b><br />
<br />
I sat across from my daughter Melissa in a booth inside a small, Mediterranean-style restaurant, eating a falafel and enjoying our conversation.<br />
<br />
Yet, something didn't feel quite right.<br />
<br />
While Black Friday crowds filled shopping centers and malls across the nation, the stores and restaurants that usually enjoyed a lively Friday night business in this Washington, DC neighborhood were virtually deserted. The business district had all but closed up shop as its steady stream of customers, courtesy of nearby American University, had returned home for Thanksgiving weekend.<br />
<br />
Except for this small, Mediterranean-style restaurant.<br />
<br />
The few people that did venture into the eatery were, no doubt like my daughter, fellow American University students.<br />
<br />
I savored my meal as much as the company, yet, still, something didn't feel quite right. Fellow moms, or fellow adults for that matter, were non-existent.<br />
<br />
I felt strange. Out of place.<br />
<br />
Two days earlier, my husband Bob and I were packing for our Thanskgiving journey to North Carolina to visit his family. We were going to leave Wednesday afternoon and drive straight through, with plans to check into our Raleigh hotel around 10 pm. However, our plans were thwarted when Bob woke up with a headache, chest congestion, runny nose, fever, and unrelenting weakness that rendered him barely able to walk across the room, let alone drive eight hours to North Carolina.<br />
<br />
We were forced to choose between two options:<br />
<br />
1. Both of us would stay home<br />
2. Bob would stay home while I joined his family in North Carolina<br />
<br />
I didn't want to leave him alone, especially during Thanksgiving. But Bob knew how much I had been looking forward to seeing the family. He also knew that if I stayed home, I'd spend my days alone in the house, my only company a contagious husband who would while away the hours fast asleep on the couch.<br />
<br />
He forced me to go.<br />
<br />
But driving eight hours all alone seemed like a daunting task. Fortunately, my elder daughter Jessica and her husband Brian, who live in the Virginia suburbs of Washington, DC, had room in their car. Following an uneventful three-hour drive to their house, I took my rightful place in the back seat next to the cutest toddler alive (my grandson Miles). We picked up Melissa at American, and hit the road.<br />
<br />
What followed was two days of being pampered and fed by Bob's parents, and his sister Stacy and her husband Greg, who opened their home and their hearts.<br />
<br />
On Friday morning as we packed up the car for the return trip to the Washington, DC area, I had an idea. I thought it might be nice to stay an extra day in DC and spend some mommy-daughter time with Melissa. I could take her shopping, or we could do some sightseeing...or both. Plus I thought it would be fun to live like a college student and bunk with Melissa in her dorm.<br />
<br />
Bob encouraged the idea, assuring me he didn't mind if I spent time with the baby girl I so rarely get to see.<br />
<br />
Melissa also welcomed the idea, especially since I volunteered to take her to Target, where she loaded the cart with clothes, shoes, and, of course, plenty of food.<br />
<br />
But as we sat in the small, Mediterranean-style restaurant, discussing the next day's sightseeing plans, I looked around at all of the students and suddenly realized that the prospect of a 52-year old woman spending a night in a college dorm didn't seem quite as inviting.<br />
<br />
What's more, I missed Bob terribly.<br />
<br />
I just wanted to go home.<br />
<br />
Melissa understood. For her, dorm living was the norm. She was in her element. With her peers. She was home, where she belonged.<br />
<br />
For me, home was where I collapsed three hours later, into Bob's welcoming, loving arms.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkIQGbN1mA7XYuWGuQvxQ9VxvZ-PgmRLqg0_OMKhE61O_K2e9n6QQ0Bc-egpLwywyZIdqRMnbYWInMVGQQr3OLB-MjALDBi5qRdoXmiCB2s0469UF_ZYL4v_bxmI-F_eYI6Zk8qGn27w/s1600/Bob_Lisa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="351" data-original-width="412" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkIQGbN1mA7XYuWGuQvxQ9VxvZ-PgmRLqg0_OMKhE61O_K2e9n6QQ0Bc-egpLwywyZIdqRMnbYWInMVGQQr3OLB-MjALDBi5qRdoXmiCB2s0469UF_ZYL4v_bxmI-F_eYI6Zk8qGn27w/s320/Bob_Lisa.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thanksgiving just wasn't the same without my husband Bob.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />Lisa Gradess Weinsteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17817748124515829877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4741838949572545400.post-13483070882670183802017-11-20T19:38:00.000-05:002017-11-20T19:38:14.292-05:00<b>The Monster MRI Machine</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
"You'll need an MRI," said my doctor in the most nonchalant voice imaginable.<br />
<br />
"NO, THAT'S NOT POSSIBLE!" came my panicked reply.<br />
<br />
To him, an MRI is no big deal. I'm sure he sends hundreds of patients <strike>to their doom</strike> to the imaging center for this valuable diagnostic test each year.<br />
<br />
But for me, it is a big deal. It's a HUGE deal.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJIr7jfZGet_aVNZNYR2xAmcXZ2n_AED1IHVYW254STJp5Q92yxv1Al9KEzOZM7BG1Shb9GJue0lpQE0RGnT1Axsay3DJlfRSzSXvhXehuH0YvNqhPG1snimnFfP8Tywu6VWycsjCrmg/s1600/mri.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="291" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJIr7jfZGet_aVNZNYR2xAmcXZ2n_AED1IHVYW254STJp5Q92yxv1Al9KEzOZM7BG1Shb9GJue0lpQE0RGnT1Axsay3DJlfRSzSXvhXehuH0YvNqhPG1snimnFfP8Tywu6VWycsjCrmg/s400/mri.png" width="290" /></a></div>
An MRI to me is akin to being buried alive. Trapped forever in an enclosed tunnel with no escape in sight. No, there had to be another way to diagnose the nerve pain that has plagued me on and off for the past decade.<br />
<br />
But wait, I've read about these new fangled Open MRI machines that don't require your body to be forced inside a tunnel just big enough for a Barbie doll to lie comfortably. An Open MRI would be so much easier because, well, it's OPEN.<br />
<br />
"No dice," came my doctor's firm response. "Open MRIs don't produce good enough scans."<br />
<br />
Seriously?<br />
<br />
If the Open MRI means I won't have to suffer through crippling, anxiety-induced claustrophobia, then who cares if the scan does something as insignificant as produce an <i>accurate</i> report?<br />
<br />
In fact, who cares if I get diagnosed at all. Sorry to have wasted your time doc. I don't need any tests.<br />
<br />
I'll live with the pain.<br />
<br />
But then.......... the doctor uttered those magical three words.<br />
<br />
"I'll prescribe valium."<br />
<br />
Valium, you say? Well perhaps I can consent to forcing my body into a vaccum tube if I can take valium.<br />
<br />
Reluctantly, I scheduled the MRI.<br />
<br />
On the day of reckoning I enlisted the support of my loving and patient husband Bob to take me to the imaging center, knowing that the valium would render me incapable of driving home<br />
<br />
I swallowed the magic pill about 30 minutes prior to the test....and the effects were nearly instantaneous. A warm, comforting wave of oblivion made it's way through my body, settling into the part of the brain that controls claustrophobia (as well as the ability to function - which really didn't matter.)<br />
<br />
I handed my insurance card to the friendly lady at the registration desk (or it might have been my credit card, or my library card, or a photo of my daughter - I'm honestly not sure). Then I handed my valuables to Bob and followed the technician to the back where I entered the.....<br />
<br />
(cue Twilight Zone Music)<br />
<br />
<b>Chamber of Horrors!</b><br />
<br />
The MRI sat there, looking innocent enough. But I knew that its wide, open mouth was just waiting to swallow me alive.<br />
<br />
But thanks to the valium, being swallowed alive didn't seem to be such a terrible fate anymore.<br />
<br />
The technician had seen cases like mine before. Seems that crippling claustrophobia is not a unique problem.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglnfod8m1GQ00JKJi5SySw9tfAWDbOU-kzJHYpLzLtYVa39mV-cj3yXfdDQteAWK8McU8tJYqgUGCqHuVFsH9l9V9Xk7XpOTByifZaWLCuUU6npXSun3iQtCRZxGhEreqQ5H1oSPyjSQ/s1600/e9513a8d324dfd912accab423e93000b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="561" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglnfod8m1GQ00JKJi5SySw9tfAWDbOU-kzJHYpLzLtYVa39mV-cj3yXfdDQteAWK8McU8tJYqgUGCqHuVFsH9l9V9Xk7XpOTByifZaWLCuUU6npXSun3iQtCRZxGhEreqQ5H1oSPyjSQ/s320/e9513a8d324dfd912accab423e93000b.jpg" width="228" /></a></div>
She placed a blindfold over my eyes, shielding my view of the belly of the beast. In addition, ear plugs helped drown out the sound of the machine's terrifying knocks and booms as it digested its latest prey.<br />
<br />
Thanks to the valium, the blindfold, and the ear plugs, the 15 minute test seemed to last a mere 30 seconds. When the technician entered the room and pulled me out of the belly of the beast, my foggy brain soon came to the realization.<br />
<br />
I had survived!<br />
<br />
I bid farewell to the kind technician, then allowed Bob to guide me to the car, drive me home, and put me to bed so that I could sleep off the effects of the valium.<br />
<br />
The Monster MRI Machine put up a good fight, but was no match for "Loopy Lisa", who lived to tell the tale.<br />
<br />
<i>If you like my stories please tell me in the comments section below.</i><br />
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<br />Lisa Gradess Weinsteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17817748124515829877noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4741838949572545400.post-59529536629081707172017-11-12T19:09:00.001-05:002017-11-12T19:09:50.762-05:00<b>The Love/Hate Relationship with My Glasses</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
I listened in horror as the eye doctor uttered those now infamous words to my mother....<br />
<br />
"It looks like she's going to need glasses."<br />
<br />
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMX68Cnunlb7kQbnUsvQLus8loanorGg0027lkokoF5GJxw6ZaxPUvMBhkGr6XAhQrlq0OZPsdTNFpAkh6eCDWJ49Cen6wNpBQlVUvlFZrp0eHICymYGEHucA6PdccLZxTncFwTaXiEw/s1600/glasses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="683" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMX68Cnunlb7kQbnUsvQLus8loanorGg0027lkokoF5GJxw6ZaxPUvMBhkGr6XAhQrlq0OZPsdTNFpAkh6eCDWJ49Cen6wNpBQlVUvlFZrp0eHICymYGEHucA6PdccLZxTncFwTaXiEw/s200/glasses.jpg" width="133" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This is pretty much what my<br />glasses looked like!</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And with those words, the eye doctor sealed the horrible fate of a shy, gawky 10-year old girl. I would forever be known as "Four Eyes" by my peers. I would forever be forced to hide my small face behind the large, thick, round, devoid-of-style frames that were so popular in the mid-70s.<br />
<br />
At least until the eye doctor gave me the green light to switch to contact lenses at the age of 15, which might as well have been 974 years away!<br />
<br />
I don't know why the myopia diagnosis came as a surprise. After all, both my parents wore glasses, and my younger brother Steven would soon follow suit. Only my sister Bev was spared. She wouldn't need assistance with her vision until much later in life.<br />
<br />
It didn't matter that I suddenly had the ability to see the classroom blackboard. It didn't matter that I had stopped bumping into walls.<br />
<br />
I felt awkward. Unappealing. Ugly.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVFjXdCwUgPdtW2SqJnUAM2AJ1rm3RXpvqAgLsLj_ANTaT3nc11Jfhn5iHWZ54-K-jDppQbGkcvIahz3LK2OEgWcHBWV8jQdA2sYtR_YRb82j868egVTbWKo2fHpM-1OOKwV-U0MYxiw/s1600/canstock3316674.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="271" height="143" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVFjXdCwUgPdtW2SqJnUAM2AJ1rm3RXpvqAgLsLj_ANTaT3nc11Jfhn5iHWZ54-K-jDppQbGkcvIahz3LK2OEgWcHBWV8jQdA2sYtR_YRb82j868egVTbWKo2fHpM-1OOKwV-U0MYxiw/s200/canstock3316674.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This is how I viewed the middle school<br />dance when I refused to wear my glasses</i>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
So ugly, in fact, that I hid my glasses in my pocketbook during middle school dances. True, I couldn't see my fingers if I held them in front of my face, but without my glasses, boys wanted to talk to me. Without my glasses I felt popular. Without my glasses I felt, dare I say...a tiny bit pretty.<br />
<br />
Finally, I turned 15 and with it shed my glasses in exchange for contact lenses, which I refused to take off.<br />
<br />
Ever.<br />
<br />
I wore them when I slept. I wore them when I swam. During one summer as a senior counselor at Nock-a-Mixon overnight camp I only wore the right contact because the left lens had torn in half. It didn't matter if I could only see out of one eye. The alternative - wearing my glasses in full view of my new camp boyfriend - was not an option.<br />
<br />
As the years wore on I reaped the benefit of disposable contacts, which allowed me to change them every few days. I also stopped wearing them to sleep, as I grew tired of waking up with my eyes glued together by the force of dried out lenses.<br />
<br />
My eyesight, while quite horrible, remained unchanged throughout my 30s. As 40 rolled around, I received the added diagnosis of an astigmatism, which occurs when the cornea becomes irregularly shaped. It became increasingly difficult to find an effective contact lens prescription. What's more, the eye doctor suggested I switch to glasses - but not just any glasses - bifocals!<br />
<br />
I refused to stop wearing my contacts, but agreed to at least try the bifocals after work during the short evening hours at home, prior to bed.<br />
<br />
I couldn't do it.<br />
<br />
While my husband Bob managed to get used to trifocals, I experienced the sensation of walking through a carnival fun house while wearing bifocals. A "normal" glasses prescription would have to suffice.<br />
<br />
Even though I could see much better with glasses, I insisted on wearing my contacts the majority of time. True, my stylish frames were a far cry from the thick lenses of my childhood, but my vanity still got the best of me. In addition, my glasses simply were not comfortable. After an hour or two they dug into the back of my ears and irritated the bridge of my nose.<br />
<br />
As I crossed the threshold into my 50s, my eyesight continued to worsen. Night driving became downright difficult. I had to squint to see my bedroom TV. I changed the font size on my iPhone and computer to jumbo, but still, I continued to wear my contacts.<br />
<br />
Little did I know that those trusty contacts that had kept me from the petrifying fate of wearing glasses for the past four decades would soon meet their untimely demise at the hands of an unlikley enemy.<br />
<br />
An enemy commonly known as (cue theme from Jaws)......ALLERGIES!<br />
<br />
Nothing worked.<br />
<br />
Allergy medication.<br />
Over-the-counter eye drops.<br />
Prescription eye drops.<br />
<br />
Nothing.<br />
<br />
As soon as I put my trusty contacts in my eyes, goops of allergy-induced gunk would stick to the lenses, making them uncomfortable, and oftentimes, even painful.<br />
<br />
My eye doctor gave me a prescription for stronger glasses. I picked out new frames that felt much more comfortable on my nose and ears. I put on those new frames and marvelled at finally being able to see a crystal clear version of my world....and I never looked back.<br />
<br />
Today, at age 52, the desire for clear vision far outweighs the desire to feel pretty. Although, I must admit my husband, daughters, colleauges, and friends all insist that I look really good in my new frames. So the next time you see me, there's a pretty good chance I'll be wearing glasses.<br />
<br />
Unless, of course, I'm attending a middle school dance!<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqG4wjadTvzT_T1g_cQwaptNIfh5e1e5XBa20emX9-p7mLCSByTGLNwYhasQ9oOH2dMe_m7WuirQ9bz_GX_YvprwJ7Q2T-wfIUl-LUjK8y9g7Y0SK0nAzya_sw2jkci42YTH5zWf-qow/s1600/Lisa_MelJes_Glasses.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqG4wjadTvzT_T1g_cQwaptNIfh5e1e5XBa20emX9-p7mLCSByTGLNwYhasQ9oOH2dMe_m7WuirQ9bz_GX_YvprwJ7Q2T-wfIUl-LUjK8y9g7Y0SK0nAzya_sw2jkci42YTH5zWf-qow/s320/Lisa_MelJes_Glasses.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yours truly (center) wearing glasses while I happily take a selfie with my daughters<br />
Melissa (l) and Jessica (r).</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Lisa Gradess Weinsteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17817748124515829877noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4741838949572545400.post-90123584745111174472017-11-05T18:50:00.000-05:002017-11-05T18:50:40.430-05:00<b>The Cancelled Trip to Washington D.C.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
There are three things that are exceptional about Washington, D.C.<br />
<br />
No, it's not the White House. It's not the Smithsonian. It's not the Memorials honoring Presidents Lincoln, Jefferson, and Washington.<br />
<br />
It's not the Capital Building, or the Supreme Court, or the majestic Kennedy Center.<br />
<br />
The three things that draw my husband Bob and me to our nation's capital time and again are Melissa, Miles, and Jessica.<br />
<br />
Melissa, our college girl, is in her sophomore year at American University. Jessica, our oldest, lives across the Potomoc River in Virginia with her husband Brian and their son Miles.... our precious, precocious, two-year old grandson who "visits" us several times a week thanks to the modern miracle of Facetime.<br />
<br />
"Papa Bob and Mommy Weesa, will you come to my house?" asked Miles during one of those "visits" as he took time out from splashing in the tub to acknowledge that his grandparents' faces had suddenly appeared on his mommy's iPhone.<br />
<br />
"We're going to see you next weekend," said Papa Bob. "Would you like that?"<br />
<br />
"Yes!" came his enthusiastic response, while he attempted to pour water onto his mommy's head.<br />
<br />
It had only been two weeks since our last visit, but Bob and I just couldn't say no to Jessica's invitation to make the trip yet again. Brian would be going out of town and she could really use the help with Miles.<br />
<br />
Our plans were set. We would leave Friday after work. Break up the three-hour drive with a dinner stop. Spend the night in Jessica's comfy guest room, and connect with Melissa on Saturday.<br />
<br />
I counted the days . Oh, who am I kidding. I counted the hours.<br />
<br />
Monday passed without incident. Same for Tuesday. Wednesday began as a seemingly normal day...until I noticed something sinister. A feeling deep in my throat. A tickle. An irritation. Surely it was just allergies. Surely it would go away in a day's time.<br />
<br />
As Thursday dawned, I found it a bit harder to ignore that "irritation", as I turned to cough drops to help ease the pain when I swallowed. By Thursday evening, the "irritation" had made its way to my nose, which decided to close up shop altogether, obstructing my ability to breathe.<br />
<br />
I could not ignore it any longer. The "irritation" had developed into a full blown cold.<br />
<br />
My caring, compassionate husband responded by ensuring I had piping hot chicken soup for dinner, and insisting on sleeping on the sofa to avoid his germ-infested wife.<br />
<br />
"Maybe we should cancel the trip to Washington," he suggested.<br />
<br />
"No!" I replied with stubborn determination. "I'll take cold medicine. I'll feel better. It will be ok."<br />
<br />
He looked at me with skepticism, and retreated to the living room couch.<br />
<br />
I woke up on Friday coughing and sneezing and blowing my nose. Bob again, strongly suggested I reconsider our trip.<br />
<br />
Once again I insisted I'd be fine. My desire to see my girls and the boy far outweighed a silly little cold. I'd pump myself with Tylenol, and all would be well.<br />
<br />
Or so I thought.<br />
<br />
I showered and dressed, ate breakfast, and started to walk out the door for work. However, the pounding in my head could not be ignored. Neither could the sudden onset of the chills.<br />
<br />
The thermometer confirmed my suspicions. What started as an "irritation" had now become a full blown fever.<br />
<br />
I couldn't risk getting my family sick. Plus my "oh so caring" hubby wasn't looking forward to spending three hours in the car with the wife he now called "Typhoid Mary".<br />
<br />
Begrudgingly, I called Jessica and Melissa and explained the situation, then retreated to my bed, which became my home for the next 24 hours. It turned out that both Jessica and Miles were also struggling with a cold, so the cancellation was for the best.<br />
<br />
However Melissa expressed her disappointment. Although I'm not sure if she was upset at not getting to see mom and dad, or not getting the package full of groceries and other goodies we had planned to bring her way.<br />
<br />
On Saturday I felt well enough to venture out with Bob to the post office to mail Melissa her package before retreating back to bed, where I watched six hours of Harry Potter movies.<br />
<br />
By Sunday morning I no longer reached for the tissue box every five minutes. I had regained the ability to breathe, and the coughing had returned to a mere "tickle" in my throat. What's more, the thermometer once again read a normal 98.6.<br />
<br />
Great. Just in time to go back to work.<br />
<br />
Now I'll count the days until Thanksgiving when I get to see my girls and the boy again. Oh, who am I kidding. I'll be counting the hours....and minutes....and seconds.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1d8hk61faVtNE4mCd2_Sazbv5F3wpFrAj3_QF5Q6nmx2TLgpmsmOMdU7vszR764O-7PEMorB34acXCl5O7B_FOW_yox9FjD_VRjd7_fZ0NYKgtoIuHSD878teKHJHoyCmbkaNYpVP5A/s1600/22688095_10155084181513177_7335855129181696679_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1d8hk61faVtNE4mCd2_Sazbv5F3wpFrAj3_QF5Q6nmx2TLgpmsmOMdU7vszR764O-7PEMorB34acXCl5O7B_FOW_yox9FjD_VRjd7_fZ0NYKgtoIuHSD878teKHJHoyCmbkaNYpVP5A/s320/22688095_10155084181513177_7335855129181696679_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pictured during a recent trip to Washington D.C., (from l to r) Melissa, Jessica, Me, Bob, <br />and the handsome dude in the stroller, Miles!</td></tr>
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<b><br /></b>Lisa Gradess Weinsteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17817748124515829877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4741838949572545400.post-15263722487618031892017-10-26T19:24:00.000-04:002017-10-26T19:24:42.756-04:00<br />
I am honored to be a guest blogger on my friend Allison Lazicky's blog Top Notch Teams.<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Life is
“Bluetiful” When… <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">With these words I accepted a
challenge from my friend Allison, who invited me to become a guest writer on
her new blog, Top Notch Teams. The play on the word “beautiful” is a tribute to
Crayola’s new crayon color – “Bluetiful”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The task seemed fairly straight
forward. Write a blog post about anything, as long as it starts with the words “Life
is Bluetiful When…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Only problem is, I’ve been having a
difficult time finding beauty in life of late, and that difficulty has caused
me to search deep within to find meaningful, insightful words to fill the page.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> <a href="https://www.top-notchteams.com/single-post/2017/10/26/Enjoy-Lisa-Weinsteins-BlogLife-is-Bluetiful-When">Click here to visit the Top Notch site and read more > > </a></span></div>
<br />Lisa Gradess Weinsteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17817748124515829877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4741838949572545400.post-36035217427721926822017-10-01T20:10:00.001-04:002017-10-01T20:21:11.694-04:00Selling Our Home - One Year Later<br />
I sat on an old, uncomfortable folding chair in my husband Bob's home office, staring wistfully out the window at the inviting autumn sunshine. Our southern New Jersey community offered a host of Fall festivals and pumpkin picking, but Bob and I had other plans.<br />
<br />
Wonderful plans!<br />
<br />
Exciting plans!<br />
<br />
Plans that would make the entire population of the United States seethe with envy.<br />
<br />
We had the incredible good fortune of spending our entire October weekend going through the 9,756 bags of receipts, invoices, bank statements, medical records, exterminator bills from 1996, used napkins, gum wrappers, apple cores, and other fascinating specimens that littered the floor of Bob's office.<br />
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Yes, we had embarked on the first step of what would become a year-long journey towards selling our home.<br />
<br />
How hard could it be to sell? Sure, our house was built over 50 years ago. Sure, we lived on a busy road with heavy traffic. But still, how hard could it be?<br />
<br />
Our single family home offered 3,000 square feet, an in-ground pool, five bedrooms, four baths, a family room with fire place, an eat-in kitchen, living room, dining room, two-car garage, and a huge yard. Surely everyone who set foot in this fantastic suburban "paradise" would immediately fall in love, just as Bob and I had done 12 years earlier.<br />
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Of course, to us, the house had always been much more than a real estate listing. Bare walls were transformed into a place that provided the warmth and shelter we needed to help our shy first-grader evolve into the confident, college student she has become today.<br />
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We knew, we planned, we told ourselves when Melissa went to college we would put the house on the market. After all, what did two people need with 3,000 square feet? We could stay in the area but downsize, saving on mortgage and utilities so that we could <strike>fulfill our dream of travelling the world</strike> allocate every penny for tuition.<br />
<br />
The first step towards selling our new home? Purge.<br />
<br />
Purge.<br />
<br />
Purge.<br />
<br />
And purge some more.<br />
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Bob's office was just the beginning.<br />
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We soon filled the township dump with Weinstein wares that had outworn their welcome. Broken lamps, abandoned stuffed animals, obsolete electronics, cracked bowls, mismatched tupperware...you get the idea.<br />
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Next step?<br />
<br />
Paint.<br />
<br />
Paint.<br />
<br />
And paint some more.<br />
<br />
Next step?<br />
<br />
Hire a realtor who researched the selling price of "comps" (a real estate term to describe similar homes in the areas) and priced our house accordingly. Based on this amount, Bob and I foolishly anticipated a financial windfall to land in our lap within a few short weeks.<br />
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We prepped for our first open house with nervous anticipation. I cleaned the place from top to bottom and concluded, in our 12 year occupancy, it had never looked better.<br />
<br />
We vacated the house and left our realtor in charge, expecting to return three hours later with news of throngs of people vying for the chance to make an offer. (Cue the diabolical laughter.)<br />
<br />
Our realtor, instead, shared feedback that went something like this:<br />
"This house is way over-priced."<br />
"It needs updating."<br />
"I don't like the floor plan."<br />
"The kitchen border is old fashioned."<br />
"The bathroom fixtures are disgusting."<br />
"This place isn't fit for a family of fleas."<br />
<br />
I digested the opinions of these ignorant people with a heart full of denial. They were crazy, insane, full of crap. What did they know anyway?<br />
<br />
The next open house came two weeks later, where we received feedback that went something like this:<br />
"This house is way over-priced."<br />
"It needs updating."<br />
"I don't like the floor plan."<br />
"The kitchen border is old fashioned."<br />
"The bathroom fixtures are disgusting."<br />
"This place isn't fit for a family of fleas."<br />
<br />
Next step? Lower the price.<br />
<br />
The next open house produced more feedback that went something like this:<br />
"This house is way over-priced."<br />
"It needs updating."<br />
"I don't like the floor plan."<br />
You get the idea.<br />
<br />
Lower the price again.<br />
<br />
Endure more negative feedback.<br />
<br />
Install a new sink and toilet in the master bathroom.<br />
<br />
Edure more negative feedback.<br />
<br />
Lower the price again.<br />
<br />
Endure more negative feedback.<br />
<br />
Remove the wallpaper in the upstairs hall.<br />
<br />
Endure more negative feedback.<br />
<br />
Lower the price again.<br />
<br />
Endure more negative feedback.<br />
<br />
Remove the kitchen border and lower the price again, and again, and again, and again, and again.<br />
<br />
Endure more negative feedback.<br />
<br />
Change realtors.<br />
<br />
Accept an offer of $20,000 less than the drastically reduced asking price.<br />
<br />
Gasp in horror at the 424-page inspection report which concluded that the house we had lived in without incident for 12 years was not fit for human habitation.<br />
<br />
Gasp in horror at the email from the buyer's realtor, which went something like this:<br />
<i>"Our official inspection indicated a 1/4 inch chip in the paint on the windowsill of the 4th bedroom, therefore we demand you give us an additional $3 million to cover the cost of repairs, in addition to your entire wardrobe, your car, your furniture, your cat, and the blood of your first born."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>Enter the next step of the home selling proces...the fighting.<br />
<br />
"I WOULD RATHER SIT IN THIS HOUSE UNTIL IT ROTS TO THE GROUND BEFORE GIVING THEM ONE MORE DIME!" came Bob's "calm" and "rational" response to the buyer's demands.<br />
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After so much time, money, and work, I feared the deal would fall through. What's more, we had put a deposit on a lovely town home in the same area...a town home I desperately wanted to own.<br />
<br />
Much yelling ensued. Followed by my ultimate weapon...tears.<br />
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Finally, Bob threw up his hands in defeat, claiming he could not handle the stress of negotiations. He put the ball in my proverbial court, closed his ears and eyes and let me run with it to the end zone.<br />
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And run with it I did! We even got to keep our cat.<br />
<br />
Aside from the some hiccups with our mortgage application for the new home (<i>produce a signed, notorized affidavit providing the reason for the $10 deposit into your passbook savings account on April 23, 1975</i>) the remainder of the process went according to plan.<br />
<i><br /></i>Today, we sit in the living room on our comfy new sofa. These walls that provide us shelter are now adorned with family photos, representing much more than a mere town house. One year later, Bob and I have transformed this place into our wonderful new home....and we never looked back.<br />
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<i>*This post originally ran on October 5, 2016. It has been edited slightly from the original.</i><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGKwRvh6zcwYkfTh9rsCNH3apN0DVLG4N08AsS1xa4evpMBfQRfc-dYMf0yUOwY8_GQpUrvMMkpqFRcn_TossZ1O2wqZTjlPuX8ZAG_tTvjyLCnk4xu4lanJ0HZ6W9ZFWjhBvIJ1rINQ/s1600/14448768_10154000008913177_7309927410563687508_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGKwRvh6zcwYkfTh9rsCNH3apN0DVLG4N08AsS1xa4evpMBfQRfc-dYMf0yUOwY8_GQpUrvMMkpqFRcn_TossZ1O2wqZTjlPuX8ZAG_tTvjyLCnk4xu4lanJ0HZ6W9ZFWjhBvIJ1rINQ/s400/14448768_10154000008913177_7309927410563687508_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Melissa in the driveway of our new home!<br />
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Lisa Gradess Weinsteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17817748124515829877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4741838949572545400.post-69653169479591063262017-09-11T07:19:00.001-04:002017-09-11T07:19:01.791-04:00<b>Hallowed Ground</b><br />
<b><br /></b>The tiny physician lounge on the first floor of a small community hospital in central New Jersey featured a few comfortable chairs, a conference table, cubicles offering computer access, and a large television set mounted on the back wall. The room, located across the hall from my public relations office, required a key code to enter, and only those who had earned their medical degree were granted access.<br />
<br />
However, on that morning - that fateful morning - the room played host to a sea of humanity who did not carry the title of "doctor". With the normally locked door unceremoniously propped open, the lounge filled up with nurses, therapists, accountants, administrators, cafeteria workers, housekeepers, and me....all gazing in horror at the incomprehensible images on the television screen.<br />
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As the sickening, slow motion video of a jumbo jet <i>deliberately</i> slamming into the World Trade Center replayed over and over, the ticker crawl at the bottom of the screen informed the world that a plane had crashed in Somerset County.<br />
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Somerset County?<br />
<br />
I lived in Somerset County!<br />
<br />
Did the plane crash in my neighborhood? Near my home? Were my husband Bob and four-year old daughter Melissa in harm's way?<br />
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Before I had time to even process these thoughts, I read the ticker more closely.<br />
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Somerset County, Pennsylvania. <i>Not</i> Somerset County, New Jersey.<br />
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My relief, however, was short-lived. People died in that plane crash. In Washington, DC, the Pentagon erupted in flames. In New York City, the World Trade Center came tumbling down.<br />
<br />
We were at war.<br />
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And the world would never be the same.<br />
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Nearly 15 years later, Bob and I turned our car off the highway and wound our way through the rolling hills of the rural, central Pennsylvania landscape enroute to the tiny town of Shanksville, population 245.<br />
<br />
The countryside seemed unchanged. Stuck in time.<br />
<br />
It was not difficult to imagine this remote part of the world as it had been 15 years earlier.<br />
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As it had been on a glorious September morning.<br />
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As it had been before these rolling hills became a final resting place for 40 heroes.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVjjiQVqEuj_HB4Gp20fee-XqpZ0LvEv22c7I_xgUayDQlcCx9YHVWDRs2OjWo9fkrid4Qt1YQTN-tw1W695okjTLBltWLZEEjSM-mS2B4ckavSVto5gLmdm9qxTql10WFwNiQcsYSjA/s1600/A_tour_of_the_Flight_93_National_Memorial_-_01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1199" data-original-width="1600" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVjjiQVqEuj_HB4Gp20fee-XqpZ0LvEv22c7I_xgUayDQlcCx9YHVWDRs2OjWo9fkrid4Qt1YQTN-tw1W695okjTLBltWLZEEjSM-mS2B4ckavSVto5gLmdm9qxTql10WFwNiQcsYSjA/s320/A_tour_of_the_Flight_93_National_Memorial_-_01.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
A permanent memorial now sits atop one of these rolling hills, bearing the names of ordinary men and women who decided to go out fighting, on their own terms, in their own way. Their acts of bravery forced the terrorists to bring the plane down in a lonely, deserted field in central Pennsylvania, rather than our nation's capital. The ultimate sacrifice of 40 unsuspecting heroes undoubtedly spared countless lives.<br />
<br />
Bob and I walked silently through the Visitor's Center, where an exhibit gave a detailed account of the day's events. Thanks to evidence recovered from the passengers' calls to home as well as the black box recorder, officials were able to conclude, with near certainty, what had happened during the final few moments of Flight 93.<br />
<br />
Fifteen years later, people come. Every day they come. They come from near and far. Hundreds of people winding their way through the small farming communities of Somerset County, PA.<br />
<br />
They come to listen. To learn. To understand.<br />
<br />
They come to gaze at a peaceful field once ablaze with an act of war.<br />
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They come to pay their respect.<br />
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For on September 11, 2001, the beautiful, rolling hills of Somerset County, PA, became hallowed ground.<br />
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<i>*This post was originally published on September 11, 2016</i></div>
Lisa Gradess Weinsteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17817748124515829877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4741838949572545400.post-36307609174539771302017-08-20T19:35:00.001-04:002017-08-20T19:35:48.060-04:00<b>Melissa Goes Back to School</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Last September, Bob and I bid farewell to the single family home where our daughter Melissa had grown from a shy first-grader to a confident, college co-ed. New adventures awaited in a smaller house a mere ten minutes away, where picturesque, tree-lined streets and welcoming neighbors made us feel right at home.<br />
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Well...most of us.<br />
<br />
Bob and I unpacked and settled right in, but Melissa, a freshman at American University located three hours away, felt more comfortable and at ease in her college dorm than the place where her parents now called home.<br />
<br />
I often walked into her bedroom, where our kitty cat curled up on the brand new comforter that lay on the hardly slept in bed. Unlike the room in the house we had just sold, this room's bare walls lacked the dozens of posters that defined her childhood. The carpet did not play host to piles of dirty clothes and at least six or seven half finished water bottles. No guitar sat in the corner, waiting for my talented daughter to express herself through song. No sounds of laughter echoed down the hallway. No little girl snuggled under the covers, eagerly listening to me to read a story, and begging for one more kiss goodnight.<br />
<br />
I missed her terribly, but found distraction in the comfort of home. We bought new furniture, hung photos, installed a new sound system for the big screen TV (a mandatory request from Bob), and enjoyed cozy evenings together as the weather grew colder.<br />
<br />
For Melissa, the first semester passed with all of the adventures and anxiety one would expect from a college freshman. Finally, as December blew in, she packed up her things and headed back home for winter break..... to <i><b>our</b></i> home, not her's.<br />
<br />
Although it took less than a day for the dirty clothes and water bottles to once again cover the floor, she still had trouble embracing these new walls as her own. Especially because she knew that her stay would be temporary. Indeed, the holiday festivities came and went. She returned for a new semester, leaving her mommy behind to face the long, cold, winter months without those late night sessions where we talked for hours about friends, family, hopes, dreams, and of course....boys.<br />
<br />
Not a day passed where we didn't talk, but still, I counted the weeks until the semester's end, when my baby would return for the long summer months.<br />
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Sure enough, on a sun-drenched day in the middle of May, Melissa and I strategically forced clothes, sheets, blankets, pillows, posters, storage containers, toiletries, towels, and yes, her guitar into every last nook and cranny of the car and headed away from the college campus towards the home that I hoped she would soon embrace as her own.<br />
<br />
Before long, the guitar took it's rightful place in the corner, the clothes littered the floor, empty water bottles covered the desk, and the cat curled up next to his favorite human who happily shared her bed with him each night.<br />
<br />
Evenings were spent taking long walks in our new neighborhood, where we resumed our deep conversations about all aspects of her life, and mine. She also grew closer to Bob, even consenting to laugh at his jokes instead of the typical rolling of the eyes.<br />
<br />
Her presence filled the house, as our tight-knit family shared laughter, love, and unexpected loss as we mourned the death of my mother who passed away in July.<br />
<br />
Yes, these walls had finally, truly become her home.<br />
<br />
Yet, all too soon, sophomore year beckoned, drawing my cherub back to Washington, D.C.<br />
<br />
I thought saying goodbye again would get easier the second time around.<br />
<br />
It didn't.<br />
<br />
With a sigh I threw away the last of the half-finished water bottles that remained on her now clean bedroom floor. The cat looked at me with confusion in his eyes, as if I were to blame for the empty bed.<br />
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Bob and I will undoubtedly go back to our routine, once again enjoying warm, cozy nights cuddled together as summer's warmth gives way to the crisp autumn air.<br />
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And I'll be counting the days to December, when Melissa says goodbye to school and comes back home.....to my home, her home, <i><b>our</b></i> home.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKAtTQld9oBpBDPZfj4oIYAAOyTkOBi5eS8ye9hMSl2ln0LFUmMBGfGwwh_KCjuIo0QCAXfO5qzNtgnde483ZtMNL1aGwGsTsgyYp2EDZiGjsoA27gBPctOhlymX3hDW1mkynSObqwNg/s1600/Dorm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKAtTQld9oBpBDPZfj4oIYAAOyTkOBi5eS8ye9hMSl2ln0LFUmMBGfGwwh_KCjuIo0QCAXfO5qzNtgnde483ZtMNL1aGwGsTsgyYp2EDZiGjsoA27gBPctOhlymX3hDW1mkynSObqwNg/s320/Dorm.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Melissa in her college dorm, ready to start sophomore year.</td></tr>
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If you like my stories, please tell me in the comments section below.<br />
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<br />Lisa Gradess Weinsteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17817748124515829877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4741838949572545400.post-50982762562010097342017-08-06T17:24:00.000-04:002017-08-06T17:24:11.881-04:00<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>A Tribute to My Mom</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;">On Thursday, July 27 at 9am, I sat in front of the computer, responding to emails, and settling in for a typical day of work. When I saw my brother Steven's phone number flash on my cell phone call ID, I just knew it had to be bad. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;">My mom had not been doing well at all. The past several weeks had brought on a renewed set of symptoms that wrecked havoc on her body and soul with unrelenting fury. I expected Steven to tell me that she had been taken to the ER....I didn't expect him to say the words that still haunt me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;">"Mommy passed away."</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;">Below is the eulogy I wrote and shared during her funeral.</span></span></div>
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<i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">How do you describe the very essence
of a person - their hopes, their dreams, their loves - in less than 2 minutes.</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>The answer is. You don’t.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>But it’s ok, because you really don’t
have too.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>All you need to do is to look out into
the sea of faces who came here today on a sunny, summer Sunday to pay their
respects.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>To honor a memory.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>To say goodbye.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>Friendships than span over half a
century.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>Cousins who share childhood memories.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>Children. Grandchildren. A
great-grandchild. A husband.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>All bound together by the bonds of
love….</i></span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">for my mom.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>My earliest memory is of my mom playing peek-a-boo with me, a happy toddler who took delight in hiding behind the kitchen curtains. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>My last memory is of talking
to her about the subscription to "Highlights Magazine" that she bought for my grandson's second birthday.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>But how do I recount the thousands of
memories in between?<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>Quite simply, I can’t.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>The memories will come slowly,
unexpectedly. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>When I hear Stevie Nicks singing "Landslide" – one of her favorite songs.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>When I watch the "Academy Awards" –
which, for my mom – was an event equal in importance as the Super Bowl was to
my dad.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>When I tune in to Season 2 of “This is
Us” and learn the fate of Jack, Rebecca, Kevin, Kate, and Randall without our requisite
post-episode analysis<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>When the clock hits 7:30 on an average weekday evening. When the phone WILL NOT ring….and my mom will not be on the
other end of the line asking my husband Bob and me to guess the final question on "Jeopardy", her favorite game show. Oh the joy of
getting the answer right when she had to admit that she’d been stumped. Because
beating my mom at trivia was no easy task! <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>When my dad, my sister Bev, brother-in-law Rick, brother Steven, sister-in-law Svetlana, nephew Adam, niece Amy, Bob, daughters Melissa and Jessica, son-in-law Brian, grandson Miles, and I come together,
as we most surely will, to celebrate Rosh Hashana, and Hanukah, and
Passover….while mourning the empty place at the table.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>When I see the beautiful art work
created by Amy, or hear about Adam’s incredible success in the
latest Rubik’s Cube competition….and just know how much my mom would have swelled
with pride.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>When I see my daughter Jessica embrace
her baby Miles, knowing how much my mom loved hearing about the little boy she
affectionately called “the boops”<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>When I look into the eyes of my
daughter Melissa, and see my own likeness, along with the faded image of my mom, reflected back at me. When I hear my daughter sing, and remember my mom’s
determination to come to every school play, every chorus concert, no matter how
lousy she felt.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>I think back on my mom during those
chorus concerts, seeing the tears in her eyes. Tears of joy. Tears of pride.
Tears that defined what was most important – her family.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>I’m sure those tears of joy would have
flown freely had she been here today.To see you. To thank you. To rejoice with you as we celebrate her life.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>Thank you.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk8GYzXvZ96-gj4WwdmWP5BMzEyeZiXZl9byoYLGc31Hl6PWnb_0xiv7xkZFeL8r8MB7eMuMW9FcW9pSMDkVgjRNY0sZx6VPp9J4bSdN-eHL5dolBGeERWdNxThncvOJoSt6S4O8ssOQ/s1600/19059414_10154713354428177_883174482852081889_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="490" data-original-width="960" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk8GYzXvZ96-gj4WwdmWP5BMzEyeZiXZl9byoYLGc31Hl6PWnb_0xiv7xkZFeL8r8MB7eMuMW9FcW9pSMDkVgjRNY0sZx6VPp9J4bSdN-eHL5dolBGeERWdNxThncvOJoSt6S4O8ssOQ/s400/19059414_10154713354428177_883174482852081889_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This photo from my parents' 55th wedding anniversary celebration in June<br />was the last picture taket of us as a family before my mom passed away. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
Lisa Gradess Weinsteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17817748124515829877noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4741838949572545400.post-84750688018092702842017-06-11T18:49:00.001-04:002017-08-06T16:34:57.143-04:00<b>The Transition From College to Home</b><br />
<br />
My daughter Melissa ended her freshman year at American University looking forward to a 12-day trip to Israel, followed by two part-time summer internships that promised to give her great experience...and a some spending money to boot!<br />
<br />
Only one problem left to tackle.<br />
<br />
Work clothes.<br />
<br />
My jeans-wearing college student needed work clothes.<br />
<br />
I promised to take her to the mall, but that thing called life kept getting in the way. As the first day of her summer employment crept ever closer, prime dress shopping hours grew scarce. And so it was that I found myself at 5 pm on a Sunday evening in a department store dressing room, complimenting my offspring on a lovely black and white checkered dress and matching blazer.<br />
<br />
She agreed with my thoughts on the dress, but something about the blazer didn't capture that "fits just right" feeling. I turned to walk out of the dressing room to scout out additional blazer options, when the familiar sound of my cell brought me to a a halt.<br />
<br />
"YOU NEED TO COME HOME RIGHT NOW!" came my husband Bob's panicked voice at the other end of the line.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz8NBNmjDR5UGyPZOa82W44_pGLfgOXm55Ama9qWJtW8qq7RSfXucTl77LyVe8d2uf0DYwyjkRTD_Usk7cXS47huAFRo0iaQxiOvJXvDQOWOCfYB0fALuc8BNJNlDneSgbnL2BIdeuDg/s1600/maintaining-water-heater-2-12g.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz8NBNmjDR5UGyPZOa82W44_pGLfgOXm55Ama9qWJtW8qq7RSfXucTl77LyVe8d2uf0DYwyjkRTD_Usk7cXS47huAFRo0iaQxiOvJXvDQOWOCfYB0fALuc8BNJNlDneSgbnL2BIdeuDg/s200/maintaining-water-heater-2-12g.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
My poor hubby had borne witness to the first disaster to strike our new home, which we had only occupied for a mere seven months. Seems the water heater, located in the second floor laundry room, decided to spring a leak. Two inches of water covered the laundry room floor, but even worse, Bob watched in horror as the unstoppable drip drip drip came through the ceiling and spread out onto our dining room carpet.<br />
<br />
When Melissa and I cautiously walked into the house 15 minutes later, I expected to be greeting by a raving maniac because - suffice it to say - Bob and home repairs don't go well together. But my man surprised me. Instead of scoring a "10" on the lunatic scale, I gauged his mood at a manageable "5".<br />
<br />
Fortunately, he had the good sense to shut off the water supply to the house, thus stopping the drip drip drip from disolving to disaster, but leaving us without the ability to shower.<br />
<br />
He had called a plumber with 24/7 availability, who promised to arrive sometime in the overnight hours. Melissa and I, in the meantime, were consumed by more pressing matters. What if the plumber came but couldn't fix the problem. Or worse, what if the plumber never showed up? The thought of going to work without showering or (egads) washing our hair was simply preposterous. Especially on my baby's first day of her internship!<br />
<br />
Not wanting to impose on anyone, I made a quick reservation at a local hotel. Melissa and I packed our bags and off we went, leaving my poor Bob at home to wait....and wait....and wait...for the plumber to arrive.<br />
<br />
Despite the unfortunate events of the evening, during the drive to the hotel I felt a level of calm and comfort in the company of my daughter. She had left for college last September as a sheltered teen, and had come home in May as an independent young woman. Still my child but yet, a stranger.<br />
<br />
While I had counted the days until her freshman year ended, I must admit, Bob and I had carved out a comfortable routine without her daily presence. As for Melissa, transitioning from dorm living to the quiet of home came with its challenges.<br />
<br />
The homecoming honeymoon gave way to awkward mood swings, angry outbursts, and yes, a few tears.<br />
<br />
We were forced to adjust.<br />
<br />
And some time between her return from college and the night of the broken water heater....adjust we did.<br />
<br />
Without realizing it, I had stopped trying to remember how to act around my daughter. In fact, during our stay in the local hotel, things seemed, well, <i>normal</i>.We talked about college. We talked about friends. We talked about work. We talked about boys.<br />
<br />
We talked and laughed and talked some more. Just like it had been before college took her away. When long evenings were spent sitting on my bed, discussing the details of her high school days. Evenings where I clung to every word she said, so grateful that my grown up teen still wanted her mommy in her life. Evenings that I thought - or feared - would be relegated to a distant memory of her pre-college years.<br />
<br />
Until the night in the hotel.<br />
<br />
The next day, with a new water heater installed, we all returned to our routine. Our wonderful, usual, <i>normal</i> routine.<br />
<br />
But I know that it won't last for long.<br />
<br />
In two months' time we'll be forced to say goodbye yet again as she returns to dorm life three hours away in Washington, DC. But for now, I treasure each day with her home, and give thanks to our pesky water heater for helping us get back to normal.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Lisa Gradess Weinsteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17817748124515829877noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4741838949572545400.post-37522957836637838592017-04-30T20:47:00.001-04:002017-04-30T21:40:43.233-04:00<b>The Cancer Scare</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Although we live a mere 60 minutes from the beautiful, white sand beaches of New Jersey's coastline, my husband Bob and I rarely make the drive these days. Not so when our daughter Melissa,19, was in her elementary and middle school years.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimY7FWIIYEZDisf6kuBXLD7j4fMn3__w4_rsxoCmLePdQllWY4MBsFUDENFQ9gbYCDKgBOnyxLi3nGeu4HZUDiEWgcflorbk3Q0NKz5syhcSBa4DsMGhreSbDkD1zvmzsR44ZKnRdo5Q/s1600/Blue-Beach-Chairs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="139" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimY7FWIIYEZDisf6kuBXLD7j4fMn3__w4_rsxoCmLePdQllWY4MBsFUDENFQ9gbYCDKgBOnyxLi3nGeu4HZUDiEWgcflorbk3Q0NKz5syhcSBa4DsMGhreSbDkD1zvmzsR44ZKnRdo5Q/s200/Blue-Beach-Chairs.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
Back then, weekend trips to our favorite shore town, Ocean City, were a common occurrence. Melissa and her friends would ride the waves for hours while Bob and I positioned our lounge chairs on the sand, safely tucked away under a beach umbrella, shielded from the sun's harmful rays.<br />
<br />
With a good book in hand and plenty of caramel corn from one of the boardwalk vendors, we'd while away the gorgous, sun-drenched days, content, comfortable, and feeling very much at home.<br />
<br />
It was during one of these lazy summer days in August of 2010 that I first noticed it.<br />
<br />
A mole on my upper left thigh.<br />
<br />
My body is no stranger to moles. I'm covered with them.<br />
<br />
But this one was different.<br />
<br />
I had never seen it before.<br />
<br />
The tiny, brown, slightly raised spot appeared no larger then a pencil eraser.<br />
<br />
Yet I knew. I instinctively knew.<br />
<br />
This was melanoma.<br />
<br />
My fears didn't come without justification. I first experienced skin cancer at the age of 27 when a basal cell (the least serious type) appeared on my left cheek. Two or three more basal cells invaded my skin over the years, but melonoma (the most serious type) had never reared its ugly head.<br />
<br />
Until that day. On the beach.<br />
<br />
A month later a biopsy confirmed my suspicions.<br />
<br />
If melanoma is found and treated early, it is usually cureable. But if not, the cancer can advance and spread to other parts of the body where it is harder to treat and can be fatal.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
The good news? I caught it early. But my dermatologist, erring on the side of caution, insisted on going back in to remove a great deal of tissue under and around the site of the cancerous mole...just to be sure that there had been no sign the disease had spread.<br />
<br />
I was left with a huge, ugly, purple scar....a small price to pay for peace of mind.<br />
<br />
As the months wore on and I dutifully visited my dermatologist for follow up, there were no signs of reocurrance, even after that significant five years post-diagnosis milestone.<br />
<br />
I had tackled the cancer and won.<br />
<br />
Or so I thought.<br />
<br />
I noticed it a couple of weeks ago while taking my morning shower. Unusual puffiness around my left groin area. At first I dismissed it as more of those unwelcome rolls of fat that have started to appear in unusual parts of my body ever since I entered the dreaded "change of life."<br />
<br />
"Dang," I thought. "I have to double down on my diet!"<br />
<br />
But upon further review, I second guessed my original assumption. While I certainly do not profess to be a cancer expert, my years of working in health care marketing and public relations taught me enough to know that if cancer is going to spread, it's first target will be the nearest lymph node...which in my case was located in my left groin.<br />
<br />
Yes. That's right. My groin. As unlikely as it seemed, perhaps, over the course of the past seven years, one tiny melanoma cell had broken free and travelled through my body, multiplied, and now decided to appear as something that seemed much more sinister than a roll of fat.<br />
<br />
I told myself not to panic, and decided to do a google search. (NOTE - if you think you have cancer, do not, I repeat - DO NOT - do a google search.) Before long I found myself in melanoma chat rooms reading posts from 130,974 patients who <i><b>all</b></i> had their melanomas come back after a number of years.<br />
<br />
Do not panic. Do not panic. Do not panic.<br />
<br />
Breathing heavy, my heart racing, I decided to keep my fears to myself and call my dermotologist the first chance I got. After all, no reason to worry Bob or anyone ele for that matter, at least until the doctor gave me something to worry about.<br />
<br />
Predictably, I didn't listen to my own advice.<br />
<br />
I decided to show the strange puffiness to my ever so patient hubby. "I'm sure it's nothing," came his attempt at reassurance. "You'll call the doctor in the morning, but I wouldn't worry about it."<br />
<br />
Predictably, I didn't listen to my sweetheart's advice.<br />
<br />
I tried to nod off, hiding my anxiety from Bob who slept soundly by my side. But the fears were insidious. They invaded my thoughts, spinning round in my head until they built to an incredibly irrational crescendo that left no doubt in my mind....I was going to die.<br />
<br />
Bob would be left in a state of total devastation. Who would take care of him? Would he find love again? And my sweet Melissa, a college girl who still needed her mommy. What would she do without me? And my beautiful step-daughter Jessica and her baby Miles. I would never get to see her continue to be such an awesome mommy, or get to watch my precious Miles grow into a young man.<br />
<br />
I could pretend no longer that all was ok.<br />
<br />
Bob awoke from his slumber and held me tight, letting my tears flow freely. His love filled my heart, pushing the irrational thoughts aside and allowing me to return to some semblance of normalcy.<br />
<br />
Two days later I found myself in the dermotologist's exam room, showing him the unusual puffiness. He took one look and shook his head. "That's nothing," he said with authority. "If it were melanoma it would be further down, closer to your groin and it would be a solid lump."<br />
<br />
"Then what is it?" I asked, still concerned.<br />
<br />
He took a closer look and said, "It's just fat."<br />
<br />
Great. I don't have melanoma, I'm just a blob.<br />
<br />
Back home, against my better judgement, I once again initiated a google search. But this time I came back with a diagnosis that perfectly matched my symptoms, a femoral hernia, which appears as a bulge near the groin or the thigh. This type of hernia happens when the intra-abdominal tissues are pushed through a weakened spot in the the muscle cause by overstraining.<br />
<br />
A few days later I found myself in my gynecologist's exam room, showing her the puffiness, explaining my melanoma fears, and my hernia hypothesis. She seconded the dermologist's opinion that it was not a return of the most deadly form of skin cancer and agreed it was probably some type of a hernia. She ordered a CT scan to confirm the diagnosis, and I cautiously breathed a sigh of relief.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, thanks to a family history of melanoma, my bad habit of tanning as a teen, and skin that's covered in moles - I know am still at high risk for melanoma and other forms of skin cancer. In fact, I had a basal cell removed from my forehead last month. That's why I continue to obsessively check my skin and see the dermotologist twice a year.<br />
<br />
The experience of thinking I had cancer strengthened my empathy for those who courageously struggle with the disease every day. It also helped put life into perspective and reaffirmed what is more important to me than anything in the world....my family.<br />
<br />
~~~~<br />
<br />
Signs of melanoma:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>A new spot on the skin</li>
<li>A spot that is changing in size, shape, or color</li>
<li>A sore that doesn't heal</li>
<li>Redness or swelling beyond the border of a mole</li>
<li>Change in sensation, such as itchiness, tenderness, or pain</li>
<li>Spread of pigment from the border of a spot into surrounding skin</li>
</ul>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
To learn more, click <a href="https://www.cancer.org/cancer/melanoma-skin-cancer/detection-diagnosis-staging/signs-and-symptoms.html">here</a>. </div>
<br />
<br />
<i>If you like my blog, please tell me in the comments section below.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Lisa Gradess Weinsteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17817748124515829877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4741838949572545400.post-59581759310509078342017-03-21T12:37:00.000-04:002017-03-21T13:03:24.428-04:00<b>The Heart-Shaped Coffee Stain</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
My husband Bob and I don't travel often, but when we do, we typically stay at a Hampton Inn. Reasonable prices, clean rooms, comfy beds, free breakfast, and best of all....freshly brewed, free coffee available 24/7 that could give Starbucks a run for their money.<br />
<br />
And so it was on a recent trip to visit Bob's family in North Carolina that we found ourselves in our room at the Hampton Inn, coffee in hand...that is until Bob accidentally spilled his precious brew all over the carpet. Acting quickly, I threw a towel on top of the spill, hoping it would stop the coffee from seeping onto our shoes, luggage, etc.<br />
<br />
A few moments later as I busied myself in the bathroom with hair and make-up, Bob called me back to the scene of the crime.<br />
<br />
"Lisa, look!" he said in amazement.<br />
<br />
I poked my head out of the bathroom and, as commanded, took a look.<br />
<br />
The towel had started its job of absorbing the coffee stain, which one could hardly call extraordinary.<br />
<br />
However, the stain had formed itself into a perfectly shaped heart.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOdS8AEIbudZvLzp0ZbW3I9KsdJWteWZ9Yd39BdLjfAsvf4KDD-VeWJY_CvUYm9MMH9iCVWPgE-PNLI3l7rO-bFW6zkwKi7i_cIt0HbYzjIeEIexNCkrQ-zvuPPZtYnhWham9oCDcWbw/s1600/CoffeStain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOdS8AEIbudZvLzp0ZbW3I9KsdJWteWZ9Yd39BdLjfAsvf4KDD-VeWJY_CvUYm9MMH9iCVWPgE-PNLI3l7rO-bFW6zkwKi7i_cIt0HbYzjIeEIexNCkrQ-zvuPPZtYnhWham9oCDcWbw/s320/CoffeStain.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
Extraordinary indeed.<br />
<br />
A coincidence? Perhaps.<br />
<br />
A sign? Much more likely.<br />
<br />
The heart-shaped coffee stain came as I neared the end of a seven-day sprint spent with people I love. The week began when my daughter Melissa, on her college spring break, once again stripped us of our "empty nester" titles as she resumed her familiar presence at home. And as the week inched towards its conclusion, the hubby, the daughter and I made a 9-hour journey by car to Raleigh, NC for a "not long enough" weekend visit with Bob's parents, sister, brother-in-law, niece, and nephews.<br />
<br />
We relished in our brief time together, talking, singing, laughing, eating, playing games, and eating some more (courtesy of my mother-in-law's superb cooking), and all too soon, sharing warm hugs of farewell.<br />
<br />
We had planned the trip to coincide with the end of spring break so that we could make a pit stop on our way home to New Jersey to drop Melissa off at American University in Washington, DC.<br />
<br />
Not one for long goodbyes, Melissa couldn't wait to get out of the car and embrace campus life after a week's reprieve from term papers and professors. Bob and I helped with her bags, gave our cherub a quick squeeze, and reluctantly walked away as she laughed with her friends, secure in the knowledge that this place had truly become her home.<br />
<br />
I climbed into the car, feeling that familiar, overwhelming sense of melancholy that has become an unfortunate part of the "my child is in college" experience. But this time, those feeling would not last long. Our "family time" weekend still had one more treat in store...precious moments spent with our 19-month old grandson Miles and his parents, our daughter Jessica and her husband Brian, who live in the DC suburbs.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVI_Z1QdVpG1fjaKpbVqi80Q-l3TbgH85IoIBEjOoQ2kyWYzHpbJBg8Mt0zjro9JT7QLeNegLevrYF8_jHPFlFD347eJO_2-usef2K42LAUUuRLN77W28n_OCO6RyacO4RhRX40F8xZQ/s1600/Bob_Miles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVI_Z1QdVpG1fjaKpbVqi80Q-l3TbgH85IoIBEjOoQ2kyWYzHpbJBg8Mt0zjro9JT7QLeNegLevrYF8_jHPFlFD347eJO_2-usef2K42LAUUuRLN77W28n_OCO6RyacO4RhRX40F8xZQ/s320/Bob_Miles.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
Bob and I whiled away the afternoon with Miles by playing with toy trains, reading books, and enjoying a walk outside.<br />
<br />
Then, yet all too soon....another goodbye.<br />
<br />
Later that evening I collapsed into bed, wrapping my arms around my sweetheart, whose exhaustion mimicked my own. Within moments we both lapsed into sleep. A warm, sound, comfortable, content sleep.<br />
<br />
Memories of our time with treasured loved ones would soon take their rightful place in our hearts as once again - as was the case before the start of spring break - my world would be shared with my husband...and <i>only</i> my husband!<br />
<br />
Perhaps it was no accident that Bob and I were the <i>only</i> people who bore witness to the heart-shaped coffee stain. Perhaps it was a sign that no matter how many times we say goodbye to those we love, no matter how many times we shed a tear as a daughter or grandson walks away...that the one constant in our lives will be each other.<br />
<br />
And I wouldn't have it any other way.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Lisa Gradess Weinsteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17817748124515829877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4741838949572545400.post-5616483102351876862017-02-26T19:31:00.001-05:002017-02-26T19:45:39.352-05:00<b>The Fire at the Jewish Community Center</b><br />
<b>*<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>When this incident happened two years ago, my initial fear was that this was a terror attack against our local JCC, and that my daughter was in the midst of it. In light of the more than 50 bomb threats that have been made against JCCs across the country since the start of the year, I thought it was an appropriate time to run this piece again. It has been edited slighlty from the original.</i></span></b><br />
<b><br /></b>Two years ago, as vice president of her local B'Nai B'rith Girls Jewish youth group, my then 16-year old daughter Melissa could often be found co-leading chapter meetings or lending her creative skills to a committee of teens planning a calendar full of special events. And so it was on a Thursday evening that I found myself, once again, on my way to the neighborhood Jewish Community Center (JCC) where the meetings are held, ready to fulfill my end of the carpool bargain to drive Melissa and her friend Gabby home.<br />
<br />
With an Olympic-size indoor poor, comprehensive fitness complex, a preschool, a conference center, and dozens of classrooms, the JCC is an impressive facility used by hundreds of people, both Jewish and non-Jewish alike, on any given day.<br />
<br />
Arriving early as I usually do, I loitered in the lobby, flipping through some brochures to pass the time until the meeting ended.<br />
<br />
I didn't pay much mind to the middle-aged man who walked through the lobby following his workout, until he paused in front of the information desk and announced that he smelled smoke.<br />
<br />
To verify this seemingly odd claim, I took a deep breath and, indeed, inhaled the distinctive odor of a recently lit match.<br />
<br />
The elderly woman at the information desk called security, her nonchalant manner demonstrating no sense of urgency, no indication that she had detected the ominous scent that now permeated the entire lobby.<br />
<br />
My thoughts turned to Melissa!<br />
<br />
I know from experience that my daughter tends to linger a bit longer after the official chapter meetings have ended, taking advantage of a few moments to debrief with the other board members. However, as my mind began to make sense of the impending danger, I determined that on this night there would be no such lingering....<b>I had to get her out of the building</b>!<br />
<br />
I propelled my out of shape body up the stairs faster than I thought possible. Here, the smell of smoke became noticeably stronger, leading me to the incorrect conclusion that the fire had started on the second floor.<br />
<br />
That's right.<br />
<br />
The second floor!<br />
<br />
The floor that played host to my Melissa and her unsuspecting friends!<br />
<br />
I raced down the hall, becoming more and more frantic with the passing of each packed classroom. Finally, when I arrived at the far reaches of the second floor corridor, I burst through the door, an emotional wreck of a mom, ordering Melissa and her friends to evacuate.<br />
<br />
"The building is on fire!" I screamed.<br />
<br />
They didn't need to be told twice.<br />
<br />
Together we ran toward the stairs, banging on classroom doors as adults and teens alike poured into the hall, all striving to reach the safety of the fresh air that beckoned from beyond the building's front doors.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2gOdsJbcqCgnj33Ag3CHoCQF6d8u1_mLfkafehe0HGhyE05msDKmc0ySiZpLEVs3-y6zXhNSVLo7DxLuT72DhMt2cxEgOVAwdk7zn52XaQ9PMpsL0qEZU3FsmULhAeZFGd_pwiDH7jA/s1600/a29da86305bba91a9f5fa1de05d9db6c_fire-alarm-pull-station-photo-fire-alarm-pull-station-clipart_2100-2444.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2gOdsJbcqCgnj33Ag3CHoCQF6d8u1_mLfkafehe0HGhyE05msDKmc0ySiZpLEVs3-y6zXhNSVLo7DxLuT72DhMt2cxEgOVAwdk7zn52XaQ9PMpsL0qEZU3FsmULhAeZFGd_pwiDH7jA/s200/a29da86305bba91a9f5fa1de05d9db6c_fire-alarm-pull-station-photo-fire-alarm-pull-station-clipart_2100-2444.jpeg" width="171" /></a></div>
Smoke continued to fill the corridor. As Melissa and her friends descended the stairs, the fire alarms <i>finally </i>began to reverberate throughout the building, providing proof positive to anyone who doubted the danger that they needed to <b>GET OUT</b>!<br />
<br />
We tore through the lobby, only to witness a JCC employee attempting to calm the masses, assuring everyone that the fire had been extinguished and they could come back in. Not wanting to take any chances, I yelled for Melissa and her friends to ignore this attempt at reassurance and to keep going!<br />
<br />
Shaken, but unharmed, Melissa and Gabby followed me to the car, where, during the drive home, we wondered aloud what had started the fire, and if the building had gone up in flames.<br />
<br />
Fortunately, it had not.<br />
<br />
Yet, unanswered questions remained.<br />
<br />
1. What started the fire?<br />
2. Why did it take so long for someone to activate the alarm?<br />
3. Why did an employee tell people it was safe to return to the building, when the large facility was still filled with toxic smoke?<br />
<br />
The next day I called the JCC, expressing my disappointment at how the staff had handled the emergency. A senior member of the JCC's administration listened to my call with grave concern. Tucked away in a board meeting in one of the classrooms on the second floor, he too, had born witness to the events of the previous evening.<br />
<br />
I shared with him the deep-rooted fear that had gripped me since the night before, since I had raced up the smoke-filled stairs in search of my baby. During those tense few moments, only one thought filled my mind - that this was a terror attack, and the name of my innocent daughter would blare across the next day's headlines as the victim of yet another anti-semitic hate crime.<br />
<br />
My fears, though fortunately unfounded, were not without reason. After all, the reports of a self-proclaimed neo-nazi who killed three people at a JCC in Overland Park, Kansas were still fresh in my mind.<br />
<br />
The fire had started on the first floor in the preschool kitchen, and had indeed, been extinguished almost immediately. However, the JCC executive agreed that the alarm should have been pulled the moment the flames had sparked, and that nobody should have been allowed back inside until the fire department - not a member of the staff - gave the ok.<br />
<br />
He assured me that the JCC would use the fire as a terrifying wake up call for much-needed emergency response training so that if smoke fills the halls because of a small kitchen fire - or if flames occur as a result of a something more sinister - the staff will know what to do.<br />
<br />
And now, two years later, the threat has become even more real...and even more terrifying. Since the start of 2017, there have been <a href="https://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2017/02/jewish-community-center-bomb-threats/517299/">53 bomb threats made against JCCs in 26 states</a>, as well as extreme vandalism to to Jewish cemetaries in St. Louis and Philadelphia.<br />
<br />
I am at a loss for words to explain the bomb threats, or the antisemitism behind them. All I can do is provide education and awareness and hope that good will, eventually, prevail.<br />
<br />
<i>If you like my stories, please tell me in the comments section below.</i><br />
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
Lisa Gradess Weinsteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17817748124515829877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4741838949572545400.post-75139482932770292242017-02-05T18:12:00.000-05:002017-02-05T18:12:08.148-05:00<b>Fun With FAFSA</b><br />
<b><br /></b> FAFSA, which stands for <strike>F***ing</strike> Free Application for Federal Student Aid, is a wonderful document that allows you, by answering a few simple questions, to receive unheard of amounts of free money to send your child to college. When my husband Bob and I were faced with the prospect of filling out the FAFSA form, we shouted with glee.<br />
<br />
Ever since my daughter Melissa informed American University that she would, indeed, accept their offer of admission, Bob and I spent many pleasant afternoons working on the FAFSA form. In fact, we were quite dissappointed when we finally hit "submit" because we no longer had the wonderful opportunity to type in our user name and password...to feel that rush of exhilaration watching the page load...to jump for joy when the pop up message informed us that our user name and password were wrong...to sing and dance with unbridled enthusiasm when, after resetting our user name and password for the 3,964th time, we were told that our user name and password were still wrong.<br />
<br />
Yes, when we hit "submit" we were so, so sad, knowing we'd have to wait an entire year before we could relish, once again, the enjoyment that only the FASFA form can bring.<br />
<br />
But wait!<br />
<br />
As luck would have it, a letter arrived in the mail from American University. Turns out they needed additional paperwork in order to provide Melissa with an accurate financial aid package.<br />
<br />
Bob and I popped the cork on the champagne!<br />
<br />
Hooray! We get a chance to work on the FASFA form again!!<br />
<br />
The letter from American University informed us that we needed to submit the following information:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>The federal indemnity doowackleshnort form 392100945556667 Section A, Section P, and Section QZ</li>
<li>The IRS 1962, 1963, 1978, 1984, 1998 federal gumpshum form section XL</li>
<li>The work enhancement student study worker's wages WT, WTH, and WTF form</li>
<li>The independent student aid challenge IRS suggested waiver wages inheritance muggle form 1080 ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ</li>
</ul>
<div>
Yippee!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We didn't have any worthwhile plans this weekend anyway!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>1:00pm</b></div>
<div>
Bob and I sit down at the computer with the following essentials:</div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>All requested paperwork</li>
<li>Scanner</li>
<li>Stapler</li>
<li>Stapler remover</li>
<li>Vodka</li>
<li>Divorce Attorney</li>
</ul>
<div>
<b>1:05pm</b></div>
</div>
<div>
User name and password are incorrect</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>1:15pm</b></div>
<div>
User name and password are incorrect</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>1:30pm</b></div>
<div>
User name and password are incorrect</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>3:00pm</b></div>
<div>
User name and password are incorrect</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>3:30pm</b></div>
<div>
More vodka</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>4:00pm</b></div>
<div>
"WHAT DID YOU DO WITH THE GUMPSHUM FORM?" exclaims Bob.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"It's right here," I calmly respond. "I removed the staples, scanned it, and sent it to my email."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU REMOVED THE STAPLES! NOW HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHICH FORM GOES TOGETHER??!!" he shouts.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"It's not a problem," I say. "I put the gumpshum form over here because I already scanned it, now all you need to do is give me pages 4, 10, and 692 section A, Q, and L of the doowackleshnort form."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"DON'T PUT THE GUMPSHUM FORM OVER THERE, HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHERE IT IS IF YOU PUT IT OVER THERE??" shouts Bob in exasperation.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQELFzoyYqxHrZRik7-s-4ncSvFA9OTTeduUuWtwyLr7h3Nqk6X55lHKb8SV2u2TN21cdTRZvbtZ09k6A0MzlikFcZmciJw3YlrcvsqKTfZBG-IYU3lB9cRH5n2FQ_yizDhbj0kqIusA/s1600/Choke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQELFzoyYqxHrZRik7-s-4ncSvFA9OTTeduUuWtwyLr7h3Nqk6X55lHKb8SV2u2TN21cdTRZvbtZ09k6A0MzlikFcZmciJw3YlrcvsqKTfZBG-IYU3lB9cRH5n2FQ_yizDhbj0kqIusA/s320/Choke.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
"I ONLY PUT IT OVER THERE BECAUSE I ALREADY SCANNED IT!" I exclaim, losing my patience.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Oh, ok. well don't go moving things around," he says, trying to maintain control. "Now the doowackleshnort form wants an accounting of my income since 942 BC."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"No wait," I say, examining the form. "They want my income too, including the $350 I made as a junior counselor at Adventureland Day Camp in 1979."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I am pretty certain they only want my income," he counters.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I don't think so," I object, looking more closely at the form. "Look, it says: when in the course of human events it comes to pass that the borrower of the lending parent's student put her left leg in and shook it all about, then the diameter of the isosceles triangle shall include the guardian parent (s) income as reported on form ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUV."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Right," says Bob with confidence. "That means they only want MY income!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I don't think so," I counter.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>6:30pm</b></div>
<div>
More vodka.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>7:00 pm</b></div>
<div>
Bob frantically searches through 952 piles of paper. "WHAT DID YOU DO WITH THE LETTER!?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"WHAT LETTER!!??" I shout, about to pass out from starvation.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"THE LETTER FROM THE SCHOOL!" Bob shouts back in frustration.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"WHICH LETTER FROM THE SCHOOL. THERE ARE 22,000 LETTERS FROM THE SCHOOL." I ask, trying to refrain from my desire to swat him across the head.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"THE LETTER WITH THE INFORMATION! YOU KNOW THE ONE WITH THE NUMBERS!" comes his incoherent response. "THE FORM YOU LOST WHEN YOU INSISTED ON MOVING ALL OF THE PAPERS AROUND WHEN I TOLD YOU TO KEEP EVERYTHING TOGETHER!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>7:30pm</b></div>
<div>
Sob hysterically. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>7:35pm</b></div>
<div>
Get tissues.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>8:00pm</b></div>
<div>
Wake up the divorce attorney.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>10pm</b></div>
<div>
Hit "submit" and hope for the best.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Ah yes, the FAFSA form. I bet you can't wait until you have a college-age child so that you, too, can experience all of the love and joy that my husband and I shared this weekend.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In the meantime, if you need me, I'll be sitting in a fetal position in my home office, sucking my thumb, and trying to remember my user name and password.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>If you like my story, please tell me in the comments section below!</i></div>
Lisa Gradess Weinsteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17817748124515829877noreply@blogger.com0