Lounge Chair Lady

Last year on Mother's Day, I wrote a post about my Mother's Day gift: a lounge chair. This year, I was honored that a version of that post (see below) was selected to be read in the Listen To Your Mother show in NYC at Symphony Space. Tonight, while my own mom sat in the audience, I shared the stage with 15 other women (and 1 man) all reading their own humorous and heartfelt pieces on motherhood. It was an extraordinary experience. 

And then I came home, took off my plastic multi-colored beaded lanyard bracelets given to me this morning and kissed my snuggly boys goodnight. A perfect Mother's Day. 

Lounge Chair Lady

 

I got a lounge chair for Mother's Day.

I love it. Those wooden slats represent the promise of a Lounge Chair Lady's life.

Women who have lounge chairs read the latest issue of Elle Magazine while letting their toenail polish dry. They sip pink lemonade out of plastic cups that look like they're glass cups. Mosquitoes don't pester them and the sun never overheats their iPhones. Women in lounge chairs don't have children. Or, they do have children, but they're wildly independent. Women in lounge chairs have something in the oven; it smells so good, you can smell it from their lounge chair.  

I bought mine a fluffy white cushion. While the saleslady was ringing it up I pretended that I am a person who can keep cushions white. I dismissed my knowledge of impending drippy ice pops. "Not on my chair," I thought with bravado while she swiped my debit card. 

I went home and sat on my white cushioned lounge chair and dreamt of what mother's day would be, now that I Am A Lounge Chair Lady. 

...  

I wake up leisurely. Anna, from Downton Abbey, stands at the foot of my bed. "Morning M'Lady," she curtseys. Sunlight streams into my bedroom as Anna hands me a Cinnabon. It's just an appetizer though; Michelle Obama is awaiting my company for breakfast. She's spending Mother's Day visiting Moms across the land, just to say "thanks." She's already been to my girlfriends' houses - she's invited us all to the White House later for a party where Vera Wang will greet us with fancy dresses.  

Julie Andrews brings my children up to see me. They're wearing matching outfits made out of curtains. They sing a precious song and call me Mother. They give me necklaces made out of Macaroni & Diamonds.

Meanwhile, downstairs my husband is dashing in a tuxedo. A limo waits outside. Coach Taylor from Friday Night Lights is our chauffeur. He hands me a glass of chilled champagne. We drive to the beach and windsurf without pulling a single muscle. My hair is not frizzy and I'm not a bit self conscious in my bathing suit.

All my relatives show up for a picnic. Everyone is healthy and in a great mood. They're all wearing white with sassy, vibrant accent pieces. Sand gets in nothing as we spread out to eat perfectly portioned sandwiches and salt & pepper potato chips. My Granny has brought banana cream pie from Chicago for dessert. It has no nuts so everyone just puts their epi-pens away.  

My dad, my kids and I build the world's biggest sand castle and the record keeper from the Guinness Book of World Records is there to give us an award. Julie Andrews keeps it in her pocket so it won't get lost.

Oprah stops by with Gayle to say hi. We all agree to meet up later at the White House party.

I cross my arms and blink and suddenly everyone is home.  My kids are thrilled it's bed time.  I sing to them, and Julie Andrews compliments my voice.

"Happy Mother's Day, Darling," my husband says, and whisks me off in Airforce One. I dance with the president until it's time for Tina Fey's speech. She winks at me. She's read my blog. "Call me," she mouths. And just as Barbara Streisand gets up to sing... 

...

I am hit in the head with a soccer ball. Turns out my lounge chair has been declared "goal!" And moments later ... a pirate ship. 

And so on this Mother's Day, I set my imagined chilled champagne aside and accept the fact that my "Lounge Chair Lady" status will simply have to wait. Instead, today, I raise a sippy cup of organic, no-sugar-added apple juice, to tiny pirates, short soccer players and white cushions already spotted with fruit punch.

Dear Starwood Preferred Guest Customer Service

photo: waxingdiaries.blogspot.com

Dear Starwood Preferred Guest Customer Service,

Well, if I wasn't a Preferred Guest before, I certainly am now. At least, to the window washer outside my hotel window this morning at Westin River North in Chicago.

I'm not an exhibitionist by nature. I consider skinny dipping an enormous adventure. In fact I believe the only times all bets have been off in a public place were during the delivery of my two sons, when to be honest, I would not have cared if a window washer had been dangling precariously outside my window. In the throes of labor & delivery the confines of day to day modesty cease to exist, and any Tom, Dick or Window Washer is at best, unnoticed.

But this morning, I was not in labor. I was simply starting my day; deciding which underpants to wear, when a man appeared outside my 16th floor window. Now granted, he was wearing a yellow helmet and brandishing what might have been a sword if it hadn't been a squeegee, so he did have a super-hero air about him. I'll give him that. But even if he had been Spider-Man himself, that would not have prevented me from throwing my panties in the air, screaming bloody murder and dropping to the ground, naked and panicked.

Lying naked on a hotel floor is disgusting. I know your housekeeping staff takes great care to keep the hotel clean, so please, take no offense. But it's a fact, Jack. No one should ever set their bare tush on hotel carpet. You've seen CSI. That floor is narsty.

Now please, allow me to give credit where credit is due. The unintentional Peeping Tom perilously swinging in the yellow cage outside my window, was equally startled, and it turns out quite chivalrous. Gentlemanly as all get out, after giving me a quick wink and a smile, he turned his head while I scrambled to an un-viewable corner of the room. I wrapped myself in a sheet and shut the curtains in his face. I hope he didn't think I was being rude.

"Are you OK?" my husband shouted from the shower.

No, Starwood Preferred Guest Customer Service. No, I'm not OK. Before I got out of your (quite comfy) bed this morning, I had no intention of baring it all to a middle-aged man in an orange pinny. You see, far be it from me to assume the gentleman's sexuality, but there was something in his wink & smile, that made me feel quite certain, that moments like the one we shared this morning, are what he might consider, a job perk.

I'm not entirely sure what I expect you to do to rectify my moment of uninvited exposure, but I felt I'd be remiss to not share with you my experience, in the hopes that other Starwood guests don't find themselves face to boob with a window washer too.

All the best,

Sandy Rustin Fleischer

A Toast to My Little Brother & His Bride ...

On Saturday May, 4th my little brother, David, married the love his life, Rachel. Here is my toast to them ...

Photo: Maypole Studios

You know when you want something so bad you spend all your wishes on that one thing. All your birthday candle wishes. All your wish bone wishes. All your penny in a fountain wishes.  Well, when I was five years old, that's how bad I wanted a brother.

David was my kindergarten wish come true.

Until ...

No, no, no ... I promised myself that I would not resort to tales of David's notorious toddlerhood. After all, he's a man now. He's a lawyer! AND - to my utmost joy - He's found a smart, beautiful, incredibly organized woman to marry him.

So you see, there's no need for me to regale you with details of how he bit the babysitter. Oh sorry, let me clarify, the babysitterS. For he bit them all.

No, tonight is not the night, for me to tell you about the time David, steeped in his imaginary play, pretending to be a dog, LICKED the arm of the terribly strict, Austrian man who lived across the street and had come to our home for dinner, which my mother had prepared for him in an effort to ease his stress after his house had caught fire. Yup - David thought it would be a great idea to lick that man's arm right after the salad plates had been served. Just, ya know, lick 'em, from wrist to elbow. I still remember what my mother's face looked like in that moment.

But you see, now that Baby Baby is a tall, grown, man ... oh - see there I go sharing embarrassing nick names with all you lovely people that see my brother as the scholar and outdoors-man he's grown to be. Awww, little Baby Baby. You're such a big boy now, it's hard to even remember the time I caught you peeing in the backyard. In the winter.

Speaking of nick names, over the years David really has had his fair share. Baby Baby was a name David gave himself when he was first learning to speak. But my father used to be famous for his creation of nick names. In fact, I know most of my brother's friends at one time or another in their youth, on one sports field or another, were gifted a ridiculous name by my father. But he reserved the best names for my brother. Bubba came first. David was so fat as a baby, Bubba just kind of made sense. And so it stuck, until David became Milton the Spillton after one too many juice spills. Or often, in public, just Milton. Often at restaurants, my dad would greet the host with something like, "Yes, we'd like a table for 4, just for me, my wife, my daughter, and my son Bartholomew. Or some nights Melvin. Or he'd just go balls to the wall and introduce my brother as Schmendrick.

So you see, it wasn't surprising that my brother developed a knack for creating nick names as well.  When David was first learning to speak, he had a hard time with the letter S. So, he dubbed his buddy Sam, a short, chubby toddler, Ham. And Sandy was hard for David too. So I, was called "Honey" for a short, sweet time. But perhaps the best "nick name" David ever gave to someone, was when he was about 5 years old.

We had just moved to our new house. That's about the only detail you need to know about this story. We were new on the block and my parents, being friendly, sociable people were doing their best to make nice friends and be neighborly. My brother was monkeying around in the front yard. I don't remember really what he was doing, but whatever it was, it was nuisance enough that, while my mom was inside slicing cucumbers, a neighbor scolded my brother. What happened next remains a bit of a blur, but suffice it to say, what I really remember was the sound of the knife dropping in a pile of cucumbers, when I, in all my tattle-tale glory, ran into the kitchen and announced - "Mom, David just called the neighbor lady Vagina Breath."

I mean could a kid put together a worse insult? It was as if David had been born to test my mother's innate sense of etiquette and propriety.

So, you can understand, how if you'd told us twenty five years ago, that one day a woman as classy, and well mannered, and put together as Rachel is, would fall for my babysitter biting, foul mouthed little brother, we would have doubted you.

And yet, I grew up wearing my "big sister" bedazzled sweatshirts with pride. Because, David always remained my very first wish come true.

And thank goodness it did. I thought I wanted a brother when I was five. Now, I know, I really needed one. Life, as we all know, is not always fountain wishes and silly nick names. David and I learned that reality in our youth.  And yet, despite the challenges that our family has faced over the last 20 years, it is the silliness, the laughter, the afternoons of puppet shows and playing pretend, the hours spent with a basketball playing HORSE in the driveway, and finding each other for Shabbat dinners at summer camp ... it is those moments that make David my Baby Baby.

David is the smartest person I know. Besides, perhaps for my own two sons. (C'mon I'm a Jewish Mother, what do you want from me). His compassion has guided his life's work, as daily he struggles to help those less fortunate than he. He cherishes nature, and his friends, and his dog. He is opinionated, yes, but he lives his life by his beliefs. Which not many people are able to do. I admire him deeply. AND NOW ... he's managed to get me a sister.

I mean ... could this story get any better?!

Rachel is the kind of girl who I know in my heart of hearts, never ever ever, has called anyone Vagina Breath.

My brother is the happiest I've ever seen him. The calmest I've ever known him. His flowery blue eyes, flower more since being with Rachel. She has grounded him. And it has been a privilege to watch it happen.

Amongst David's many adventures, he spent some time in Greece. And fittingly it is The Greek Myth of Zeus that reminds me of David and Rachel. The tale of Zeus details how in a fit of rage at human kind, Zeus sends down lightning bolts that separated, once whole humans, into two halves. Women and Men. And with dramatic, wicked laughter, Zeus left mankind and woman-kind to figure it out. They were left to roam the earth and find their other half.

Leave it to two of the brightest people I know, to out-smart Zeus. Well done, David & Rachel.

So I raise my glass, to my brother, my childhood wish come true, and his bride, my sister-in-law, a wish I never knew I had.

I wish that all your wishes come true.

L'Chaim.

LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER 2013

I AM GIVING AWAY A PAIR OF TICKETS TO 

THE "LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER" NYC SHOW!

Next weekend I am honored to have been chosen to perform a piece I've written for the NYC Listen to Your Mother show at Symphony Space. 

Below is the scoop on the show - check it out!

TO ENTER TO WIN A PAIR OF TIX: 

Simply re-post a link to any of my blog posts (dealer's choice) on Facebook or Twitter by WED MAY 8th at noon. I will randomly select a winner! 

DETAILS: 

On Sunday, May 12 at 5pm at Peter Norton Symphony Space on New York’s Upper West Side, the Listen To Your Mother Reading Series (www.ListenToYourMotherShow.com) will give “Mother’s Day a Microphone” as the city and an inspirational group of women and men come together to celebrate motherhood and parenting in a meaningful new way. Included in the cast of the New York City show are former Editor in Chief of Redbook Magazine Stacy Morrison (now Editor in Chief of BlogHer.com), comedian Jaime Fernandez, New York City creative writing teacher Susan Buttenwieser, social justice attorney and LGBT activist Nívea Castro and author Tracy Beckerman (whose book Lost in Suburbia: A Momoir comes out in early April)... AND me!

Showcasing moving, socially relevant and humorous stories about a range of modern mothering experiences, the Listen To Your Mother Reading Series is a unique national event taking place this May in 24 cities across the United States. The series features local established writers and performers taking the stage with local first time writers and performers as they share poignant personal essays in front of live audiences, making for an unforgettable experience and a worthwhile way to celebrate Mother’s Day.

The NYC production will be donating 10% of proceeds to the non-profit national hunger relief organization Family-to-Family and their Hurricane Sandy relief efforts (each Listen To Your Mother show/city donates 10% of all ticket proceeds to local non-profit causes that support women and families in need).

Born of the blogosphere and mothers who publish online, the Listen To Your Mother Reading Series is changing the way America celebrates Mother's Day, one story at a time. Started in Madison, Wisconsin in 2010 by humorist and blogger (and fellow OSRUI alum!) Ann Imig, it has evolved into an exciting national storytelling series and every show’s process, from auditions to rehearsals to the final performances, are shared online via social media. Last year the series took place in 10 U.S. cities and has expanded to 24 this year.  

The Listen To Your Mother Reading Series NYC Show will take place on Mother’s Day, Sunday, 5/12 at 5pm at Peter Norton Symphony Space (2537 Broadway at 95^th Street). Tickets are $25 (advance), $30 (at the door) and can be purchased at www.ListenToYourMotherShow.com/NYC. 

For more information on the Listen To Your Mother Reading Series please visit www.ListenToYourMotherShow.com.