The Perfect Storm

We attempted a romantic dinner. The Elizabeth Restaurant was incredibly special (http://www.jjande.com/JJandE.com/Home.html) and one would think we had the makings of a perfect evening…

At least it ended with me sleeping in my own bed, and not on the bathroom floor, like the last night of our honeymoon when I woke up to an annulment my new husband had penned (he is an attorney, too!) on hotel stationery and slipped under the locked door.

We met in 1991—the year of the infamous “perfect storm”, a noreaster outside of Boston that inspired the book by Sebastian Junger and subsequent movie starring George Clooney and Mark Wahlberg.

What makes a perfect storm? Three significant ingredients led to the 1991 squall becoming so strong. The first was a low-pressure area southeast of Nova Scotia. The second was cool, dry air moving into the storm from the North. The third, adding fuel to the fire, was a dying hurricane, Grace, which delivered immeasurable tropical energy.

For us it is much simpler, take a high-pressure holiday, like Valentine’s Day, then add in two alpha personalities trying to make sure it all goes off without a hitch, and finally, stage it in some sort of expensive venue that’s bound to backfire. Forced romance is always doomed.

At least we’ve progressed and matured enough so that I am not making him pull the car over so I can get out and hide in the bushes until he gives up and goes away.

We woke up and all was forgiven this morning. In fact, that is probably the best thing to realize…there is always sunshine after rain.

To: Charlie, From: Charlie

We made Valentines tonight. First Born Prince put his younger brother, Charming Baby, and me to work. I was a folder, Sam was a stuffer, and Charlie was quality control. I enjoyed thinking of all the new Ithaca friends in his fourth grade class as I read the names on each card he had neatly lettered. Then I saw it.

To: Charlie

From: Charlie

“Did you do this on purpose?”

“What do you think?”

“Just checking.”

He grinned to himself and merrily put the finishing touches on his stack of sentiments.

The child constantly amazes me. I think it took me the better part of 30 years to learn that we must love ourselves before we can love others. Have you ever noticed how the nicest people are the ones who are kind and giving to themselves? You never heard of Mother Theresa complaining she needed to lose five pounds or stop hoarding shoes.

I think in honor of Valentine’s Day and self-love everywhere, we should all pen letters to ourselves. No one else is better suited to remember all the challenging goals we accomplished (changing cat litter counts), moments of joy we brought to others (telling jokes to the school office staff works), or profound beauty we radiated (coloring your hair is not cheating if you cop to it upfront).

Dear Lisa…

My Funny Valentine

The same guy has been asking me for 18 years if I will be his Valentine. For someone who once declared, “Valentine’s Day is a wife beater’s holiday,” the Professor sure has come a long way.

I knew he was crossing over from cynical old goat to a first-class Romeo about 12 years ago when we were living and working in San Francisco. Wanting to really surprise me, he decided he would craft an arrangement himself.

“I don’t want to receive a florist delivery in an ugly vase with a bunch of cheap ribbon and fern filler!” I reminded him as I was gathering my coat and computer that morning.

“I know. You like plain roses. Given to you in person.”

“Well, yes, but not some big long-stem mafia thing. I like the Victorian nosegays.”

The poor guy really tried. He bought a dozen beautiful red roses and then proceeded to cut them down and tear them apart, hoping to transform the prickly, bushy queens into a tight little bouquet.

“Your husband came in a while ago with a big bunch of flowers, but he’s been in the restroom, with them, for quite some time.”

“What?”

The receptionist gave me a shrug.

15 minutes later my husband emerged from the office toilets with sweat beads on his forehead and a handful of bald roses.

“I tried to make them how you like them, but it just kept getting worse and worse. I thought you would be happy if I got them from the downtown flower market. I know how you love flowers from there. But I don’t think I did a good job. Here. Happy Valentine’s Day.” He thrust the symbol of love at me.

From the corner of my eye, I saw the receptionist slink off to clear the newspaper and floral debris from the waste bins. My husband was standing there looking so earnest that he honestly could have handed me celery stalks and it would have been just perfect.

“I love them. It’s wonderful not having thorns, or leaves, or anything, really, to distract the eye from their beauty!”

We laughed so hard I think I cried. The ladies in the office may have been thinking, “Wow, she is really mad.” Or, “Gee, what a lucky girl.”

Well, it doesn’t really matter what they thought, does it? Because guess what?

He’s mine.

Circle of Life

When I was a kid, I was mortified when my father would show up in his old convertible Mustang, in cut-off Levi’s (with a perm and moustache!), honking, waving, and yelling my name, as if I might not be sure it was him. I would smile and hurry over, wishing I had a father who was quiet, wore khaki pants, and drove a hard-top.

I have prided myself in being perfectly respectable when I go to pick-up my children at school. My sons are always beaming when they see me walking up. Until recently.

“Mom, do you have to wear that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your big black coat. You’re the only one who wears one.”

“You mean because it is so long?”

“Uh…”

“Because it has real fur on it?”

“Um…”

“Is it because it’s too fancy?”

Bingo. I could tell from their body language. I am one of a select few who does not abide by upstate sensibilities. Just when I thought I had it all figured out, too. It’s not like I swear, smoke cigarettes and wear high heels, but I do think I am the only one with a snake-skin messenger bag in the vicinity.

“I’m sorry, boys, but this is my winter coat and it’s perfectly acceptable.”

They look down, knowing better than to challenge Mama Bear.

I zip up my designer dud, slip on my sunglasses and walk toward the only washed car in the parking lot.

“Come on, boys, let’s roll!” I holler in a tone reminiscent of a voice from my not so distant past.

California Style

“Would you like some tea?”

“Excuse me?”

“Tea? I’ll put the kettle on.”

“Sure, unless you have something stronger. Heh. Heh.” Where the hell is the chardonnay?!

There is a universal ritual among mothers of school-age children. When you stop by another family’s home to pick up your kid from a play date, you are either invited in or handed your child at the door. Rather than saying, “Would you like to stay and talk?” they will ask if you’d like a drink. This may or may not have anything to do with how charming and fabulous you are, it is more likely a matter of time. We are ruled by work deadlines, homework schedules, music lessons and sports practice.

In La Jolla, the minute you ring the bell, there is no mystery to sort out.

“Lisa! Get in here right this second and let me open a bottle! How are you, woman?”

Several glasses of wine later, you are lucky to get out the door with your children in tow to make it home and put dinner together before your husband arrives. Socializing is at a premium in California.

I haven’t figured out if the ladies in Ithaca are on a health kick or what, but clearly no one is opening a bottle of wine at 5:00 on a weeknight. They are gracious and friendly but not inclined to drink and gossip and say lewd things about the P.E. coach.

My best bet has been to nod appreciatively at the offer of tea and get to know my new hosts. Once in a while, though, I stumble across a fellow bon vivant; and, as one of my upstate friends likes to say, we hang out “California Style.”

Take a Chance on Me...

Confirmation that I am not nuts comes in the most unexpected ways. I have recently been obsessing about whether or not I should invest all this time in a new career. It would be so much more realistic to pick up my marketing contacts and dive back into an ocean I know how to navigate. Plus, people like the Chevy Chase character in “Community 101” make me wonder if I am dealing with a full deck.

One of the first signs I received that my sanity may be intact was a woman I met when I first moved to Ithaca. She was a cardiologist and a mother. A few years ago she decided to put her stethoscope on the shelf and pull out some paintbrushes. She is applying for her MFA. I have another doctor friend (in La Jolla, mother of three under 6) who also walked away from all the years invested in med school and residency programs and is now a wine maker (second home and business in Napa area) with her husband. (You can follow them at http://www.bruliamwines.com/ and I highly recommend their really amazing wine!)

Even with inspiring role models, I still second-guess myself. Will I be taken seriously? Do I need another degree? Maybe I should stick to tried and true. The negative thoughts get darker and louder when you are pulling yourself away from your children, husband and other parts of your life that are important, too. What the hell am I doing? Why do I think I can write a novel? Who wants to read my crap anyway?

But then, as if my guardian angel got wind of my hesitation and decided to send in a closer, I just met someone remarkable. Her husband was amazing himself, a 78-year-old named-chair Professor who teaches the most popular class in his department at an Ivy League university (he started teaching at age 53). She spent the first half of her career as a psychotherapist and then, when her kids were teenagers, she went to law school and became a successful trial lawyer. All of this at top schools and law firms in Boston. We are talking big time investments of time, money and energy.

So, I have my proof. Yes, it can be done, at any level and at any time. I don’t need an analyst to confirm my diagnosis. I slept like a baby last night, knowing I have all my marbles, and now it's time to go shoot a few.

Deer Valley

Wanted to shamelessly plug my friend Stephanie’s condo in Deer Valley at The Lodges.



First off, Deer Valley is located in Park City, Utah—a short 45-minute drive from Salt Lake City. Even flying in from Ithaca was painless and the drive from the airport to the ski resort is easy (four-lane highways were put in for the 2002 Winter Olympics, so getting up the mountain is doable even in a snow storm).

Once you reach The Lodges, a beautiful building right at the base of the Deer Valley Ski Resort, you are greeted by a friendly staff and escorted to your condo by a bellman. You can reserve my friend’s place as either a suite, one-bedroom or two-bedroom unit. It is a perfect balance of convenience and luxury—ideal for families or any size group. And if you don’t ski, you can board at nearby Canyons or Park City. I loved just relaxing at her place—Stephanie has it furnished mountain chic. I fell asleep in the huge armchair by the fireplace twice.



Staying at The Lodges includes a full breakfast buffet in a dining room above the lobby and complimentary shuttle service to the slopes, restaurants, or other nearby places of interest. We hit Stein Erickson for lunch, St. Regis for après ski and spa, and downtown Park City for dinner and drinks.



There are endless fun things to do both in the winter and summer, so you may need more than a weekend. Check it out:

http://www.deervalley.com/lodging/the-lodges-at-deer-valley.html