I am the oldest menstruating woman in America. Based on an exhaustive survey of nine of my friends, I am the only 54-year-old in the world who still gets her period every month. You’ve heard of people being young at heart? I’m young at uterus. Since neither my crow’s feet nor my crepe-y elbows are similarly youthful, I’m clinging for dear life to my monthly reminder that it’s not all over. I may not still have it, but I still get it, like clockwork, every month.
But peri-menopause, that’s a different story. That, dear friends, is kicking my butt. Hot…
Life Lessons from the Cha Cha, Rhumba and Foxtrot
I have taken some kind of dance class for most of my life. Little girl ballet classes, teenager Jazz classes, Jewish folk dancing, tap dancing, modern. As an adult, for the past 20 years on and off, I’ve taken ballroom dance. Even with all the lessons, all the hours of class, I still wouldn’t say that I’m a dancer. I’m plenty coordinated (as long as it’s not of the hand-eye variety,) but there’s a difference between being able to do the steps, and being a dancer. …
Maybe You Don’t Have a Passion. And that’s OK.
After a brief stint in corporate writing, I spent the bulk of my career in what I (somewhat affectionately) call the armpit of television: on-air promotions. On-air promotions are coming attractions for TV instead of movies. During my time in the business, I crafted enduring nuggets like “Coming up Next, Robert Urich follows his nose to catch a cocaine dealer! On Spencer for Hire!” (I believe I was nominated for a Pulitzer in Promos -totally a real thing — for that one.) The work was fun and creative. I could wear…
As I get Older, I get Snippier. 9 Things That Bring out the Curmudgeon in Me.
Decades ago, I spent a summer working for Judith Pisar, (who, just to totally name drop, is the mother of our current Secretary of State, Antony Blinken) at the American Center in Paris. I was doing guest relations for the American Center as they set up a performance and event in conjunction with Leonard Bernstein receiving the Legion d’Honneur, France’s highest civilian honor. Guest relations essentially meant being a gofer for the celebrity guests. Getting their food, arranging their taxis, picking up their cleaning…
I’m One Year Older and One Year Crankier
Every year on my birthday, I get a call from an old flame. It’s been nearly thirty years since we stopped seeing each other, and we don’t speak otherwise. But every year, for nearly three decades, he calls me on my birthday, and we catch up. We don’t flirt. We don’t get too deep. He acknowledges my birthday, and I acknowledge how lovely it is that after all these years he still acknowledges my birthday, and that’s that. My husband knows all about it — was even disappointed one year when the…
How The Pandemic Changed My Friendships Forever
Remember when you would see someone for lunch just because? You may or may not have valued their friendship immensely, or depended on them for undying support, or even particularly liked them…but it was lunch. And you liked them enough for lunch right? I mean, why not?
Now, there’s a big why not. Covid.
I’ve approached my pandemic social life (now there’s an oxymoron if ever there was one) like it was the old Weight Watchers points system. Weight Watchers, for those few of you lucky ones who have either never had to…
The pandemic may have started to recede, but my brain is still on lockdown
Years ago, I was at a trade fair where I got to test out a high-tech treadmill that did everything: it told you your heart rate, your BMI and — and I think I’m remembering this correctly — categorized you as either a Rachel, a Phoebe or a Monica. The man at the booth told me to step on and set it to my normal walking pace. I did, and proceeded to ramp up the speed. “Oh,” said the man, “I see you’re from New York.”
Quarantine has not been kind to those of us who help our blond along. So recently, after weeks of growing horror at the state of my roots, I contacted my hairdresser and asked if she would make a masked house call. We sat by the open window in my kitchen, and voila! Blond restored. After I saw my new fab hair, I took this quick selfie:
When I was around 30 years old, I was stopped on the street by a total stranger.
“Nancy Rabinowitz?” she asked.
“Yes.” I said
“I thought I recognized you. I’m E’s mother, from High School? I saw you in all the plays. Are you a professional actress now?” she smiled.
I laughed “Oh no! Not at all!”
Her smile faded “I don’t see why that’s funny. My daughter really wanted to be a performer, and you!” She practically spit at me. “If you weren’t serious about it, you shouldn’t have taken all the parts in High School.“
I was speechless…
Finding Culinary Comfort in Difficult Times
If you think gefilte fish is gross, you’ve likely only ever had it from a jar. Jarred gefilte fish is a gelatinous, odiferous affront. Homemade gefilte fish is light and airy, a meatball made with fish, a quenelle with a Yiddish accent. Comparing homemade gefilte fish to jarred is like comparing bologna to a rib-eye, plastic flowers to fresh, polyester pull-on pants to Prada trousers. …
Just another Neurotic New Yorker bumbling along The Road to F*ck it as I navigate life with a lot of angst, a touch of humor, and a teeny bit of Botox.