Still going

Birthdays are not always magical but I can say, I had a nice day yesterday for mine. The day started when I came into the office to find my cubical decorated like this: They do this to everyone in the department so we all get a chance to look silly for the day. There is a committee (yes, a committee) that cooks up some goodies and buys bagels and muffins to bring in. Then it was home to my loved ones. It's always a good day when I can get my entire family to be with me for dinner but, being it was my birthday the kids all made an attempt to be there. We had a lovely dinner (which I made) and had nice conversation, and a few laughs. Three awesome kids, one great husband and many good friends. Life is good, and I'm so not done yet.

Woodstock 2008

I've always been a little embarrassed about my going to Woodstock in 69. When I tell people I was there, everyone wants to hear my story. Unfortunately, it really isn't a story worth telling except for the fact that I somehow got there, saw a handful of acts and came home. That alone though makes me bigger than a rock star to my kids and their friends. This weekend I went to Woodstock - the site of the actual concert in Bethel Woods. It has been almost 40 years and being it was covered with half a million people and I was dodging rain a lot, I remembered little of the actual topography of the farm . I was nowhere near the stage and spent most of the time hanging out with people I had met, keeping dry. (See my post from August 17, 2007). But I wanted to go to Woodstock and see the site and new museum. I bought tickets for the Ringo Starr concert that was to take place this past Saturday. In 69, I was in a VW bus with 3 girls and the guy driver. This time, I’m with our two good friends who own a beach front home in Newport and my husband in our E-Class Mercedes. :-). The concert, although I looked forward to it, was secondary. It was the site and museum that was the draw for me. As we exited off the highway, a neon sign revealed that the concert was canceled. The truck carrying the equipment broke down at the Canadian border - they said. Well okay now. Sometimes life works out. The museum was very well done. It took you through the early 60s leading up to the Woodstock weekend with memorabilia and photos of the festival, and then progressed to how the festival influenced life afterwards. The artifacts included the 3-day tickets, like the ones I still have, with their price of $6 per day. There was a copy of the programs that never got distributed. There was a list of the original line up that changed last minute when the first act got stuck in traffic forcing Richie Havens to open the festival. Towards the end of the museum, a little booth with a computer was set up to allow Woodstock alumni to relate their experience. I clicked on a couple of the stories and found I wasn’t the only one who didn’t see many of the acts, swim naked in the lake or get stoned on acid. There were others, just like me, who were there with people, they may never see again, at what turned out to be an experience of a lifetime. Aside from the great, overpriced T-shirt I bought in the gift shop (click on the picture above to get a good look at it), I left with a renewed feeling that I really was lucky to have been part of something good that embodied my generation and will never happen again. When we left, we went to the spot where a monument was placed where the stage was to have been. A woman offered to take the picture of the four of us in front of the plaque. She said she overheard us talking and realized I was at the concert. She wanted to hear my story. So I told her, although I didn't know it then, I know now, it was far out!

26 Years

I was a June bride. A little corny but I was. I always wanted to be married in June. I had my wedding dress picked out when I was 17. It was a variation of a style my mother made for one of her customers, only more beautiful because my mother made it for me. It was a very simple silk, jersey gown that was cut on the bias, somewhat full, from the neckline down. The material gathered with a belt my mother hand-beaded in the design of the Greek key. She told me later that when she started to cut the material, her expertly skilled hand shook. I remember my mother yelling at me while she was making the belt. I was so skinny then and every time she went to fit me, I had lost more weight . I was so nervous. Not because of getting married. I was just worried that I wanted everything to be perfect. I think the belt would go around my thighs now. On June 5th 1982, the day was hot, humid and raining horrendously. Unlike the strapless, backless and shear gowns of today, the dress my mother made had long sleeves with a high neck. Heaven forbid any part of me was exposed prior to my being a legitimately, married woman. She was proud, prim, and proper. I was sweating to death. Last Thursday, Tony and I celebrated our 26th anniversary. We went to NY for cocktails and dinner (guess who's idea that was). The evening started as it usually does when we go into the city, with us stuck in traffic for over one hour and with my husband swearing at everyone that can't move fast enough or change lanes quick enough. He hates traffic jams and it happens on a regular basis when we go to the city. But it was our anniversary so he bit his tongue and I tried to keep him amused. We discovered a few new places in the Meat Packing District where the crowd is not all under 30 (or under 35 or 45 and so on) and the females (like me) are women not waifs. We had cocktails here and dinner here. It was great. We laughed about being together for 26 years and not having anything in common. I pleaded with him to get an apartment and move into the city. He showed me his ideal house plan - this. We are hopeless or maybe hopelessly in love. I suppose if we continue to go for cocktails and dinner, we could survive the rest of our lives like this.

The Jersey Shawh

It's not spelled incorrectly. That is how it is referred to here, The Jersey Shawh, not shore - shawh We drop our Rs here in Jersey (or as they say, Jeasey). So it is the first weekend of summer and a considerable number of the population is down the shawh, uh shore. Each of the Jersey shore towns are distinct to different age groups. Its a shoreline that almost follows the generations in order. Starting with the most southern tip you have Cape May known for its Victorian B&Bs and good restaurants which attract childless couples, seniors and families with children between 10 and 16 years of age. Just north is Wildwood and Wildwood Crest where families with very young kids go. Then there is LBI (Long Beach Island) for families with teenagers. Then comes the towns furthest north of Cape May, Belmar and Point Pleasant. Belmar and Point Pleasant cater to the college age and above crowd. Now it starts to get rowdy with Tiki Bars and clubs. Finally, there is Seaside - the party town for high school seniors and juniors particularly after-prom or on Memorial Day weekend. In recalling the first time I got together with a group of girls to go to Seaside on Memorial Day weekend I was excited for a week before. It was like getting your first pair of high heels and finding a place worthy of wearing them. We rented some junky motel room which was fashionable decorated in a orange and brown shag rug. We had a plan to go to thee hot club on the boardwalk - with fake ID of course. Mine was so terribly fake, I didn't get in. But the night wasn't a total loss. I stood outside the club with all the other under 21s who didn't get in and found consolation on the beach - with a bottle of some horrible, cheap wine. Of course, I got so drunk, my night ended with me staring at the ceiling of my hotel room bed, hoping the room would stop spinning. Typical ending. Even now, writing about it makes my head hurt. So here it is 30 years later, and all the shore towns are the same as they were then. I wonder how that happens. Seaside has not lost its draw. It is still the place to be as a teen and on Memorial Day weekend. That crummy hotel is probably still there (and probably with the same shag rug) and booked to capacity with kids drinking their cheap wine or maybe now, expensive Cuervo but still getting sick off the balcony. This Memorial Day, I am sitting home. For those of you who didn't know, my poor husband came down with phenomena last week and after 4 days in the hospital and, oh the worse, missing his son's Fordham graduation, he is home recuperating. Luckily, he is practically as good as new. Also luckily, my kids are not down the shore. The older ones have been there, done that. Thomas, well next year he will be a senior and there will be after-prom. Let's hope he keeps his head from spinning.

Moments

Motherhood is not what I expected. Some of the most insulting thoughts and words ever bestowed on me have been by the very people I spent countless hours in labor giving birth to. At some point of their lives, well after the age of reason (whenever that was), my children have called me a psycho, looser and a nut job. This along with loosing my dignity in efforts to entertain them and their friends at sleep over birthday parties where I dressed as a witch and flew around the yard waving my arms with a plastic pitchfork trying to scare them (unsuccessfully), supervising the painting of pumpkins which led to one of the kids spilling half the paint on her pretty $40 dress that I then felt obligated to pay for, and sleeping on the deck, under the stars in the camp-out sleepover where the only ones who slept were those not at my house did I realize how hard this job actually was. I should have just taken them to Chuckie Cheese. Today is Mother's Day. In the past, I have gotten some very special gifts that my children have made me. From Anthony a rock covered with stamps. The topiary from Christine that is still in my bedroom. And the fake ruby ring from Thomas that I carry around for good luck. Motherhood is an adventure. I have my moments, some bad, some good. There are gifts I have gotten from my children that they don't know they gave me. Thomas has given me the opportunity to be part of the Armenian community by being involved with the youth group. I am somebody to a lot of people because I am a youth group leader. My daughter Christine has taught me the latest fashion trends. It was because of her I wear skinny jeans and shop at Urban Outfitter and people at work look at me as if I am cool. And Anthony. This week, Anthony, my oldest, is graduating Fordham University. He is the first person in my family to graduate college. Although it is great for him, it is also his gift to me. Awesome. Today, my kids gave me a Mother's Day present - an IPhone. It was great. I felt like a kid at Christmas. What impressed me the most was that they knew that I wanted this. Thank you my loves.

On Being Armenian

Throughout my life, I was reminded of the death and destruction that fell upon my family simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I am Armenian – 100% and this week as every week around this time of the year, there is always a remembrance of the genocide that took place April 24, 1915. On that day, the Turkish government carried out their plan to rid their country of the Armenian population in much the same way Hitler planned the systematic destruction of the Jewish people. All Armenians have a story of someone in their family that either lived or died during this massacre. Mine involved my father. His father, who because he was among the prominent citizens of town, was one of the first to be taken from his home and never seen again. My father, his mother, brother and sister were forced to walk across the desert in what was labeled “the death march”. They somehow made their way to America, except for his 3-year-old sister who died of starvation en route. I was named after her. Growing up in NJ, our social life was only with other Armenian families. We lived near Armenians, spoke Armenian in the house and participated in only Armenian functions. I could only have Armenian friends (think how many of those there were in public school) and my brother and I were not allowed to join after school activities that did not have anything to do with the Armenians. That pretty much limits ones social life to being home with parents and their friends and hopefully, someone who was among them that was of our age. That may sound unreasonable but it was not within my world. Most Armenian parents of the genocide generation practiced that same philosophy of child rearing. Things loosened up for me in high school, but my cousin, even at age 16, wasn’t allowed to leave the house without a grown-up. Many of us from that age can’t ride a bike or swim. These were considered dangerous sports and unnecessary. Keep the kids close and pray they will be safe. There are a lot of good things about being from an Armenian household. We always had company over, even during the week and the cuisine is the best. We always knew there would be a lot of people over when the night before, my mother, an excellent cook, worked most of the night to make our favorite foods.We hold family above everything. The remembrance of the massacre by my generation is once removed from the horrors of the massacre. We grew up hearing about it but never experienced it. We didn’t know it then, but we were held close more for them than for us. They needed to feel we wouldn’t be taken away or led on a march somewhere. Our lives are better now because of the struggles of our parents and grandparents and we respect and love them for it. Today to commemorate the massacre, there is a rally in Times Square. to bring attention to the genocide and how the Turkish government still refuses to acknowledge that this systematic killing took place. I won’t go. Today, I will remember my father, who now as a parent, understand him more and more. Azat & Thomas on their wedding day

My Rocky Mountain High

As a child, I was pathetically un-athletic. Couldn’t ride a bike and never learned to swim. I blamed these shortcomings on my over-protective parents. Having come from foreign countries where they survived wars and genocide, they were convinced that any physical activity outside of cleaning the house would have lead to my death. Then I had kids and I was insistent that they do all the things I couldn’t. They were enrolled in swim classes and learned to ride a bike like normal children. On their own, they even went on to enjoying the winter sports like ice skating, hockey, snowboarding and skiing. Every winter we would head up to Mountain Creek where they would ski for hours and I would sit in the lodge contently reading a book. Until one day. I think kids keep you young. You show them your world and they open yours to what’s new, trendy and different. So it was because of them I was at the mountain every weekend. But it was my husband who decided we needed to get out there and try skiing. So it happened seven years ago I took my first lesson. The instructor felt I should get on the chair lift as so I did. After my first fall, I said oh no and proceeded to walked down the slope. If you think skiing is hard, try walking down the bunny slope. You would think I would have gone back to the lodge and the book but, for some reason, I couldn’t give it up. I have this thing you see. I do something and if I don't get it right, I do it till I do - to a fault (ask Tony about my countless attempts to make chili which I finally gave up at his insistence and one too many bathroom trips). Anyway, I was determined to get this skiing thing down. So after two years on the bunny slope, it started to grow on me. It wasn’t just the skiing; it was the mountain scenery, the feeling of doing something during the winter months and learning a sport that I enjoyed. I went to the mountain to practice during the week. And after a few years, I was even comfortable on some blue trails. But seven years later, my kids had gotten away from it and Tony has moved on to another risky sport (motorcycling). I only skied once this winter and alone. Then at the end of February, one of my closest friends, Chris who now lives in Houston, called me up, feeling she wanted to get away and suggested a long weekend together. I immediately responded that I wanted to go skiing somewhere. I wanted to experience real snow, wide trails and towns geared for the skiers . I am talking to Chris, a girl who grew up in Canada, skiing. Within 24 hours, we booked a flight to Calgary with hotels in the Canadian Rockies. I have to say my excitement was also tempered with the thought that I might be in over my head. For a girl who had never skied outside of New York or New Jersey and was over 50, was I taking on more than I should? But I had to do this. I wanted to do this. So I did it. I can’t tell you how glad I am that I did. It was the most awesome experience I have ever had. We skiing only one day but one perfect day.We stayed at the Sunshine Lodge at the base of the mountain where it is ski in/ski out to five chairlifts going to different mountains. After getting warmed up on two of the mountains, we felt we could move on to a bigger elevation. (Check out the trail map.)We got on the Angel Express chair lift. It started up and up and kept going and kept going and still going. We looked at each other and said “OMG, what have we done”. I was thinking, I probably wouldn't be able to walk down this mountain but maybe I could just stay on the chair lift and go back down. But I didn't. When we finally arrived at the summit, Chris asked a man who was with his family where the green trail was. He had a smart English accent and told us to follow him. He advised if you don’t know where you are going, you could wind up on a black trail. So we followed him every inch of the way. He told me what to do and I did it. I skied fast to keep up the momentum and dug in to keep my balance, just like he told me. When I reached the base it was with an exhilaration I have never felt before. We broke for lunch at the lodge where I had the best chili ever (so that's what it is supposed to taste like). I was in one piece, no injuries and my spirits were as high as the mountain. I thanked my Liverpool guide and his family for giving me the guidance I needed to get me down the mountain and decided I was done – at least for now. Chris and I, joined by two other girls (we were girls this weekend) spent the rest of the weekend in the town of Banff. It is full of skiers mostly from Australia and England who come to ski – lovely. We stayed here and ate a delicious meal here and a great brunch here and woke up to views like this all around us. The Main Street of Banff Lake Louise The water is that color - no touch up here. The girls of the weekend. Aren't my boots the best! I now know how my husband feels when he takes his motorcycle trips. Beautiful country, a little risky and you end the day with a nice glass of wine. I tip my glass to Chris, my Liverpool guide and my husband and kids for making me get out there. I finally can say, I can do one sport. One for my bucket list.