World Daughter’s Day is celebrated on January 12 each year and in its honor, here is what I would like to say to my daughter:

I won’t be around when you’re an old woman and I never possessed the power or ability to create an amazing you, but I always believed that you were extraordinary.

I hope that the way I lived and worked will stick in your brain and remind you that challenging times mean nothing in the scheme of things, and will only make you stronger.

When your hair turns grey and your skin sallow, I hope your eyes shine as brightly and magnificently as they do today.

I hope you remember that your happy todays are equally as important as your unhappy yesterdays.

I hope you dance—even if it’s slowly and you’re not that good.

I hope you have a husband, a child or a friend you can spend the end of your life with.

I hope your mistakes and the mistakes of those who love you have long ago been forgiven and maybe even forgotten.

I hope you face your fears and scare them away.

I hope you belly laugh, dance like a fool, and sing at the top of your lungs—a lot.

I hope you do work that you love, but if not, that you always aspire to be the best at what you do.

I hope you let your children be children, and when they wreak havoc, jump up and down on their beds, or snuggle with each other under the covers to share their deep dark secrets when it’s way past bedtime, you let them.

I hope you celebrate every birthday with those you love, but as importantly, you find time to share your special day with someone who loves you.

When you look out the window and you see the snow blanketing the streets, take your kids out for a sleigh ride—no matter how late at night it is.

More important than having children you adore, I hope you have children that adore you. But always remember that you need to be patient, loving, attentive and kind to be worthy of their adoration.

I never have to hope you’ll shine because I know that’s who you are.

And I hope. I really, really hope…that you remember me fondly and with love.

While cleaning out my attic many years ago, I found a dusty old box marked “special.” It looked like my handwriting, but a much younger redaction. I opened the carton with genuine excitement, having literally forgotten the contents it held.

It was a patchwork quilt, a birthday gift from my grandmother on my twenty-first birthday. There was a card in the box, with an image of a beautiful yellow rose.  I opened the card and the sadness I felt took my breath away.  I couldn’t bear to read her words and closed my tear filled eyes, and tried to remember her, as she was that day.

The memory was so loud, I could actually hear the excitement in her voice as she chattered on in her thick French accent, while I ripped apart the meticulously wrapped package. I could almost smell the sweet aroma of the fresh baked cookies she was making for me that day.

My beloved grandmother, my surrogate mother, was a seamstress. And although we had very little money, I always wore gorgeous and elegant clothes.  We would pour through the pages of the latest fashion magazines and together picked out the most beautiful designs. “This is made for you,” she would proudly exclaim, tearing page after page out of the magazines.  She needed no pattern—every measurement of my body had been devotedly memorized in inches and yards.

She had a job boxing bullets on an assembly line all day—but at night, while others were sleeping, there she was, hunched over her sewing machine, working feverishly to complete something special for me—a dress, coat, suit. Her way of saying “I love you.”

The memories, in flashing snapshots kept coming—one after the other. The sound of her sewing machine, and the gentle humming of her favorite tune. The puppy we picked out when I was five. The clownish self-portrait I painted for her, that she hung so proudly over her bed. The multi-colored sweater coat, I still wear to this day. Her mother’s treasured cameo pin, worn near and dear to my heart. Her fear as she lay dying in my arms.

And now, better late than never, the flashback of the day she proudly presented me with my birthday gift. I struggled to recall my younger self, opening the beautiful card with the single yellow rose and reading the message inside. “A patchwork quilt for your 21 years,” it said.

The quilt was truly magnificent. Handcrafted, full of vibrant colors, large enough for a king size bed.  And yes, I recollected thinking that while I thought it was beautiful, I was slightly disappointed in her choice of gifts. At twenty-one, I was moving around a lot and didn’t even have a bed large enough for this patchwork of remnant material.

Remnant material?

A sharp pain spread across the center of my chest. I frantically pulled the quilt from the musty, old box, laid it on the floor, and caressed the hundreds of squares of material lovingly.  Why, this was no patchwork quilt of remnant material.  This was a pastiche of every dress, suit and article of clothing my grandmother had so laboriously made for me during my first twenty-one years.

A patchwork quilt of me.

The red dotted swiss I wore at a surprise party for my ninth birthday, the hunter green velvet I wore for my sweet sixteen, the lavender satin from my prom dress, the yellow silk jacquard worn on my first job interview.

Overwhelmed, I wrapped myself with her labor of love and cocooned myself in the yards of memories, shivering from the realization of what I had just discovered.

How could I have missed her sentimental intention? How shallow had I been, to think this patchwork of my life was merely remnants of old material?

I cried then for the lost opportunity to embrace her tightly and to express my reverential sense of gratitude to her for preserving my life in this way.

As my tears stained my grandmother’s masterpiece, I spoke out loud, apologizing to my selfless and lonely grandmother for all the time lost, asking her forgiveness for not understanding or appreciating the powerfulness of my heirloom.

Swaddled in my precious gift, still clinging to my birthday card, I was consumed by the heart-wrenching memories that are but a patchwork quilt now.

In 1995, I received the Rosh Hashanah card above, from my then seven-year-old daughter Ariel.

It was the first card she ever gave to me. And she sent it via the post office, stamp and all. I was impressed.

The Rosh Hashanah card arrived on September 25, which coincided with my late grandmother’s birthday. So it had even more significance for me.

When I opened it, there were two hearts—one purple and one red. Connecting the two hearts was a red and purple blob.

“The little purple heart is me,” Ariel said proudly. “And the big red heart is my brother.” (Her brother and my first born, was eleven years old at the time.)

“And the yin yang in the middle is you, Mommy.”

I was the yin yang?

To fully comprehend the significance of being the yin yang, I looked it up in the dictionary.

Two principles, one negative and feminine (yin), and one positive and masculine (yang), whose interaction influences the destinies of creatures and things.

At that moment, I felt terribly important. Almost overwhelmingly so.

In an instant, I forgot about all the tsuris which was eating away at me. I put aside how tired I was, and how defeated I felt.

And the constant drudgery of work, work, work, suddenly became more palatable.

And even my divorce, several years earlier, shattering my dreams and my children’s innocence, seemed almost acceptable at that moment in time.

“I can do this,” I recall saying to my weary self.

Because I was the Yin Yang in my daughter’s life.

The red and purple he/she that conjoined two very special hearts.

In early 1967, my mother sat me down to inform me that once she remarried in August, we were moving from Bridgeport to Westport Connecticut.  I wasn’t pleased. In June, I was graduating from St. Ambrose Catholic Grammar School in Bridgeport and was planning on attending Notre Dame Girls Catholic High School in the fall.

But my mother’s marriage and relocation plans put the kibosh on my high school aspirations.

I begged her to let me live with my grandmother and attend Notre Dame Girls, but she was convinced that Westport was going to be the best thing that ever happened to me. She sang its praises and was convinced that our lives were going to be forever changed, and in the most incredible ways.  The streets were safe, the residents were famous, and we were soon to live amongst the classy and well bred.

So what? I was popular. I had tons of friends. And I was looking forward to attending Notre Dame Girls with my buds. Who cared about classy?

But plead as I might, the decision was made. We were moving to Westport in August of 1967.

And that’s when fashion became center stage in my life—like it or not.

As someone who wore a school uniform for eight years, fashion was of little importance to me.  Plus, being at the bottom rung of the money ladder, we had bigger fish to fry so to speak.

But my mother was obsessed with finding the right dress for me to wear to her wedding, as well as future fashion plans for how we would present ourselves to the Westport world.

First came the marriage outfit—an orange paisley accordion pleated dress with matchy shoes and purse. I felt like a fruit salad. I was a Bridgeport girl. Paisley wasn’t big in the Bridgeport hood, and neither was orange. But I tried to suck it up and felt extremely self-conscious all wedding day.

The reception took place at Longshore Country Club. This was my first foray into the tony town of Westport. As we drove through the massive trees flanking both sides of the picture perfect rustic road leading to the reception, it painfully dawned on me that I was probably not going to fit in here.

Moving day was scary, and lonely.  Westport was a mere 12.2 miles from Bridgeport on I-95, yet worlds apart. We pulled up to the long driveway on a tranquil, dead end street, to a magnificent house. I couldn’t believe we were actually going to live there.

Having spent my first 14 years sharing a room with my mother, I was ecstatically enjoying my lavender and lace boudoir. And I actually had a piano in my room. I was pinching myself to make sure it was all real.

But it soon became tortuously clear that my rags-to-riches life change was going to be a swirling whirlwind of anxiety, rejection and pain.

Immediately following the wedding, we went to Country Gal in Westport for some bathing suits, cover-ups, bathing caps and sunglasses. My mom was frantically preparing me for my pool debut at Longshore.  There weren’t a lot of swimming opportunities during my Bridgeport years. And I had a near drowning experience as a youngster, so swimming, and any associated attire was not my forte.  So it should have come as no surprise to me, that my pool induction would be an utter and total failure.

What was my mother thinking when she convinced me that I looked tres chic in my bubblegum pink daisy embellished bathing cap and matching one piece daisy patterned suit? And let’s not forget the pair of daisy-shaped sunglasses I wore, to pull the whole ridiculous look together. I was maybe 90 pounds, and a lanky, awkward, pink spectacle.  I observed with intense interest Muffy, Buffy and Stuffy prancing around the pool flirting with Chip, Skip, and Topper.  I jealously witnessed this incredibly gorgeous blonde Adonis they called Oakes, throw Bitsy in the pool. I left the pool that day feeling profoundly ugly, convinced that I would never be part of the in crowd. I hung out at that pompous pool every sunny day for weeks, and those kids never gave me so much as a glance, let alone a chance.

My back-to-school shopping trip took place in early September at Country Gal, along with every other young girl in town. Main Street was packed with beautiful people, dressed to the nines, browsing, shopping, and chatting with friends who they saw coming in and out of the stores. Everyone knew everyone.

The young girls my age, many of whom I recognized from the Longshore pool, were wearing rainbow colored fabric pumps with chunky heels, that I later found out were “Pappagallo’s.” Their statement shoes matched their flashy floral shift dresses, which my mother whispered to me were Lily Pulitzer’s. The first question that came into my mind as I warily viewed my brightly adorned peers was “Pink goes with green?”

The Westport girls had perfectly flipped hair; many wore eye framing side bangs. Their moms sported beehives and up do hair in elaborate coiled arrangements. They were all picture perfect, and I was beyond intimidated. On the contrary, my frizz ball hair was parted down the middle and pulled straight back into a messy nub.

The clothes my mother chose for me were way out of my league, ridiculously pricey, and nothing I would ever consider wearing. I never saw so many shades of pink, purple, yellow and green all mixed into one extremely busy and ugly tent dress. Thrown into the mix were a few madras, polka dot, paisley, and striped ensembles, accessorized with Emilio Pucci scarves and textured tights.  To complete the wardrobe, my mother splurged on Mary Jane flats, square toed patent leather slip-ons, and kitten heels. As I hid in the Country Gal dressing room to avoid  the it girls, I was praying that my Bedford Jr. High School debut was going to be more successful than my Longshore pool coming out.

My first day of school was a blur—except that I will never forget the giggling girls whispering about my black and white polka dot dress, red tights and red Mary Jane’s. One girl called me the Mod Martian. Unfortunately, the name stuck. So did Theresa the Greaser and Olive Oyl. Suffice it to say, I had a heck of a time making friends. I was finally able to muster up a few misfits, and together we struggled our way through ninth grade.

But that didn’t stop my mother from trying as hard as she could to trend me up. I added go-go boots, jackets with frog buttons and mini dresses designed by Mary Quant and Pierre Cardin to my repertoire. But try as I might, I just couldn’t break through. All those well-bred, rich little girls wouldn’t give me the time of day.

My mother was desperate for me to assimilate, and ultimately signed me up for a program called “Junior Years.” It was a charm school-like ten week course run out of the Westport Women’s Auxiliary Club; or some such name.

It was at Junior Year’s that I realized so much about my young self. I was a quick study: Less was more, I conquered my frizzy hair (thanks to the Girl from Uncurl), and kept all clothing super simple.

The program was sponsored by Cover Girl, and I became an expert at hair management while downplaying my ethnic look, with just the right amount of makeup. I was determined to start Staples High School as a new and improved Teri. I had declared war on myself, and I was going to divide and conquer. To this day, I still call makeup my war paint.

I traded in my floral shifts and Mary Jane’s for cheap Landlubber jeans bought at a local Main Street store called Functional Clothing, and stopped trying to be someone I wasn’t. I also stopped slouching for fear someone would think me too tall, and wore those tight fitting Landlubbers proudly, not giving a damn how skinny I was.

On my first day at Staples High School, not one person from Bedford Jr. High even knew it was me. I had managed to reinvent myself, and it turned my life around.

I recently blogged about the Y Chromosome, and I might be breaking girl code here, but I feel compelled to illuminate the broad assumptions about us X’s to all you Y’s out there.

Call it a Father’s Day gift.

It’s all about the X chromosome, and the sooner you figure that out, the better for you.

Two wrongs don’t make a right, but two X’s make a female.

According to the Los Angeles Times, women have more genetic instructions since they are the product of two X chromosomes. Thus, we have more depth and complexity than men. Okay, the LA Times was talking about gene complexity, but I am about to prove to you that yes, women are way more complex and way deeper than the mighty machismo.

Women want 20 to 30 minutes of foreplay; men give us maybe 20-30 seconds.  How do you think the phrase wham bam thank you ma’am got its start?

A woman spends an average of two years of her life looking at herself in the mirror. A man spends six months. Men check out their reflection as often as women do, but women take longer looks, due to the necessary maintenance a woman has to do in front of a mirror. Hello.

A woman speaks about 7,000 words a day; a man speaks about 2,000.

Men are all about the basics. Women are all about details, details, details.

If you guys want a happier relationship with your women, you need to let them be the boss of the house. Listen up guys, and just say yes.

We will tell you over and over and over again what we don’t  want, but we rarely let you in on what we do want. You’re supposed to know, poo brain.

When we’re running late and tell you we’ll be ready in five, this really means at least 20 minutes. You can while away the time, and do something constructive. Like taking out the garbage that has been stinking up the house for way too many days. You might even have time to wash and wax the car.

If she asks, “Is there some importance to today?” you messed up big time, stooge head.

And don’t believe her when she says “You’re the boss.” You are NOT the boss. You’re just a pompous womp.

And when she complains that you never talk to her, don’t fill the silence for the sake of it. It’s too damn late. Crickets are better at this juncture.

When your woman tells you that “I’ve only had sex with (insert an infinitesimal number here) men.” She’s a liar, liar, underpants on fire. But NEVAH let on that you don’t believe.

Telling us to “Relax,” is suicide. So is, “Why are you so emotional?”

And don’t ask too many questions; unless she calls you out for not asking enough questions.

When you’re trying to sneak in a nap and it sounds like a herd of elephants just ran across your bedroom, get your ass up and do something worthwhile.

Never blame her behavior on her hormones. EVER.

Ask her multiple times if she’s okay. That’s good and shows you care.  But don’t tell her to smile. That’s not good. That’s just BAD.

When she says she’s “okay,” or she’s “fine,” she is NOT fine, and she is NOT okay. We shouldn’t have to tell you that.

When she says, she barely drank; she’s drunk.

When you catch her flirting, and she tells you that “he’s just a friend,” big trouble is brewing.

When she proclaims that she didn’t expect you to understand; she definitely expected, but you ditin.

When she promises that she won’t get mad if you just tell her the truth; do not, I repeat, DO NOT fall for this.

And if she tells you that she is not the jealous type. JEALOUS!!!!!

“Never mind,” means you’re a moron.

If she says, she’s 130 pounds.  She’s at least 140. DO NOT QUESTION.

“I’m not in the talking mood,” means talking to a brick wall would be more constructive.

When she say’s “go ahead,” this is NOT giving you permission, so don’t do it.

When she says “Forget it, I’ve got it covered,” you are definitely in the dog house.

And when she says the dreaded “we need to talk,” this is B.A.D.

When she asks, “You’re not wearing that, are you?”  You need to change.

When she asks you, “Which part of no didn’t you understand?” Give whatever you wanted to do up. ASAP.

And when she wants to know if you have to do that right now? Don’t answer. Just stop.

And last but not least, when she says “I’m done,” run out quickly and buy a very expensive piece of jewelry. Remember, diamonds are forever.

You’re welcome!

[This blog post is unusually long. But it’s about my cousin Pam (pictured above), who was unforgettably unusual. So in memory of her, please stick with it and I hope you find it worth your time.]

Relaxing on my pergola swing recently, I reveled in the greenery and inhaled the scent of fresh grass and spring air. The trees were sprouting first buds, and everything smelled of new growth. I was peaceful and serene and swayed on the swing, taking in nature and reminiscing. Then melancholy swept over me, and I couldn’t help but recall all the nights I sat on that swing, arms locked with my step-cousin Pam, watching the sunset.

The first time I met Pam, I was thirteen, and she was fourteen. She was strikingly beautiful, and I was skinny, lanky and—awkward. It had been a stressful week leading up to the memorable Sunday that I met Pam back in March of 1966.

My mother had recently gotten engaged. That was her good news. Her bad news was that she and my soon-to-be stepfather had never told his family about me.

I didn’t know if his family even knew that my mother had married once before, but they apparently knew nothing about me. So according to my mom, she was going to have a sit down with his family to break the news. I called it “The Telling” when I wrote about it in my diary that night. I wasn’t privy to The Telling outcome, although I did overhear bits and pieces when my mother spoke about it to my grandmother— and it didn’t sound like it went well at all.

A few days later I was informed that my mom was taking me to meet my soon-to-be step-family for Sunday dinner.  Oh, joy. My diary entry called it “The Meeting.”

[Going back and reading through my ancient journals has been incredibly cathartic, but they have also brought back those deeply recessed feelings of imperfection, inadequacies, and downright fear. Why I continue to torture myself reading through the volumes of my diaries is beyond my comprehension. But I simply can’t stop myself.]

Back to The Meeting.

I was scared to death to meet the step-folks, but I felt better when my grandmother said that she was coming as well. She was always my rock and protector, so I was very relieved, although still a bundle of stress and nerves. In preparation for The Meeting, my mother was running around with a new purpose, buying fancy clothes for the three of us. Since it was a struggle to put food on the table, I thought the clothing purchase was excessive. And then there were the do’s and the don’ts. Do be polite, do be quiet, do be respectful. Don’t embarrass, don’t blab, don’t overshare.

In the days gearing up for Sunday dinner, I prepared myself for being observed, analyzed, and inspected. And based on my nearly perfect eavesdropping skills, according to my mother and grandmother, this turkey was probably not going to win any prizes.

Some soon to be step-family members were not attending the dinner at all, mortified at The Telling, which made the event even more worrisome and dramatic. On the day of The Meeting, I overheard a conversation between my mother and grandmother and picked up the word “awkward” as my mom described me. I immediately ran to my dictionary to look up the definition, while my grandmother responded with “She’ll grow into herself.” Awk·ward  adjective.  In the wrong direction, lacking skill, turned the wrong way, causing or feeling embarrassment or inconvenience.

I ran from the dictionary to the mirror.  My dark, frizzy, out of control wavy hair was pretty awful; even I had to admit.  My nose was big and my skin a little too dark. It seemed doubtful that I was going to “grow into myself.” And most certainly not by Sunday dinner.

The Meeting started out uncomfortably unpleasant, and I was a self-conscious inner mess—until Pam walked up to me and gave me a genuine and honest feel-good hug.  “I have always wanted a girl cousin my age,” she said as she welcomed me into the living room, genuinely excited to meet me. And just like that, The Meeting was behind me. Pam had saved The Meeting day.

From that day on, the two of us were sisters from another mother. I was closer to Pam than anyone else in my new family, or for that matter, anyone else in my old family. And since my mom was an only child, I had no aunts, and no cousins, so I treasured my close relationship with Pam. And to my surprise, so did she.

We spoke on the phone often, had sleepovers at her house, sneaking out to smoke cigarettes, and rendezvous with her guy friends. I always told Pam that her beauty was a huge bonus for me. She was a magnet for all the cute guys, and as her plus one I got to reap the benefits of her good looks. And she also helped to transform my awkward self into a substantive, confident woman. It sounds corny, but she was hugely instrumental in my personal growth. Were it not for Pam, I might still be that gawky, klutzy, meek wallflower.

Thirteen years old, turned into high school graduation and I went away to college while Pam stayed local, so we didn’t see each other very often. But we made sure to keep in touch via letters, cards and phone calls.

She became a clothing buyer for a well-known Connecticut store called Brooks Hirsch—I became a Delta Flight Attendant. Pam got married; I got married. She had kids; I had kids. She lived in Connecticut; I lived in New York. Time, distance, and everyday life made it harder and harder to stay in touch, but we made sure to speak on the phone regularly.

Pam had the perfect life—a gorgeous, loving and successful husband, two beautiful children, a magnificent home, and genuine happiness. Me? I was in the throes of a divorce storm. I respected and looked up to Pam for her advice, her compassion, and her unconditional love for me. And just like when I was thirteen, all I wanted was to be like Pam.

And then came Pam’s storm—one of epic, and incomprehensible proportions. Her son was diagnosed with bone cancer when he was a toddler. She was beyond devastated. There was no consoling her, but I so tried. When I would speak to her on the phone, she was weary, distant, broken. But she would always thank God for her husband.

After her son’s diagnosis, she was never the same lighthearted and radiant Pam again. How could she be? But she had hope. She had faith in God. She had her beautiful daughter. She had her beautiful son. And most of all, she had her strong, determined husband to comfort her and keep her going.

Until she didn’t. While Pam was in Boston at the Children’s hospital trying to save her baby son, her husband had a massive heart attack and passed away at his office desk. He was in his thirties.

I tried to comfort her, but she was heart shattered and despondent. Who wouldn’t be? And the Pam I knew and loved was gone, replaced by someone else in Pam’s beautiful but broken body.

Her beloved son survived his toddler bout of cancer, but he passed away at age 20 from a recurrence. Pam and I spent countless hours before and after his death, trying to figure out what the hell happened to God.

I am a convert to Judaism, and one of those High Holy Day Jews who go to temple for an hour here and there on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, the most reverent and solemn Jewish day of the year.  A day of fasting, praying and reflecting, and known as the Day of Atonement, all prior sins will be forgiven on this somber day. It’s also the day for remembering our lost ones—those who have left this world for another.

In the days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, God opens the book of life and begins with the first name in the book, reviewing each name—each life—one by one. Who shall live and who shall die?  That’s the question asked on Yom Kippur. The great book of life lying open and exposed, revealing names—some re-entered into the book of life—some left out. It is of the utmost importance for Jewish people to survive the ten-day period between Rosh Hashanah, which begins the Jewish New Year, and Yom Kippur.

Why am I telling you this? Because Pam’s son died the week between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.

Pam accompanied me to temple the year following his death. As a Catholic, she knew nothing about Yom Kippur, the prayers or the service, yet every prayer uttered that day had a haunting significance for her—and me.

“On this day life and death shall be written in the Book of Remembrance…Man was not created but to perish… Love and faith leave their imprints in the hearts of loved ones…All must crumble, in their time be shattered…When the memories of our dear departed spur us on to nobler aspiration, in our hearts they live enshrined forever…Deathless, timeless, living on in others.“

The mood of Yom Kippur is dark, so I suggested to Pam that we leave. But she firmly grabbed hold of my arm and wanted to stay. The prayers were commonplace to me—I had read them hundreds of times, but she was deeply moved, and more mentally and physically present than I had seen her since her son passed. She needed to hear more.

So we participated in the Yizkor service—something I had never done before.  Yizkor is the memorial service for the dead, and together we tearfully read the beautiful passages from the High Holiday Prayer Book.

“Though we are separated, dear mother, in this solemn hour, I call to mind the love and solicitude with which you tended and watched over my childhood, ever mindful of my welfare, and ever anxious for my happiness. Many were the sacrifices that you made to ennoble my heart and instruct my mind.  What I achieved is because of your influence, and what I am, I have become through you…the lessons that you imparted unto me shall ever remain with me. If at times, I have failed in showing you the love and appreciation, which you so worthily deserved, if I have been thoughtless and ungrateful, I ask to be forgiven.  I pray that your spirit inspire me to noble and intelligent living, so that when my days are ended, and I arrive at the Throne of Mercy, I shall be deemed worthy of you, and to be reunited with you in God.  Amen.”

Pam asked me if she could keep my High Holiday Prayer Book, and I gladly gave it to her. Over the next couple of years, she told me that she read those passages often and even shared them with her Grief Recovery Support Group.

Soon after, Pam started complaining of headaches. I told her it was stress. Her headaches turned out to be cancer, and I had no response for her when she sat me down to break the paralyzing news.  She had a year or so to live, and I was hearing her words but mostly concentrating on not screaming. WHY? Why did all this ruinous devastation happen to one beautiful inside-and-out person?

After her diagnosis, we seldom spoke about it. She brushed it off as if it was nothing, and she made it so easy for me to feel comfortable and free of guilt.  She never led on to anyone on the outside that she was terminal. Only her close family knew.

In between her radiation and chemotherapy, I would drive to Connecticut and take her out for dinner and drinks. It was always an out of body experience—me so full of life, and Pam barely hanging on, wearing that wig she despised, but as always, dressed to perfection. The two of us tried so desperately to make sure cancer couldn’t stop Pam from glamming it up and having an enjoyable night out with me. And we desperately tried to recreate the old days—before her son passed. But those days were over.

Pam held her head high the entire time she was sick, and she walked with dignity until the end.

We only talked about her imminent death one time. We both had a little too much to drink one night, and while watching the sunset on my swing, she told me not to worry. She was going to be okay. She was looking forward to seeing her son and husband. She was tired. I cried, and she consoled. Can you imagine? Pam consoled me.  But that was Pam.

Two days before she passed away, I sat at her bedside for a last unfathomable goodbye. I was trying to compose myself and be strong for her. And then my best friend and cousin Pam was gone.

For the next few months, I thought non-stop about Pam and contemplated the meaning of life, the finality of death—and why her. I asked my friends and family for guidance—for answers, but they had no answers for me.

How many times had I picked up the phone to call Pam, to gossip about one thing or another—only to painfully remember it, and clutch the handset close to my heart.

And then life and time took over, and Pam became a beautiful, sad memory.

But as I sat on the swing she loved, with no Pam to lock arms with, I was lonely and mournful, and no closer to the answers I so desperately sought.

Happy 63^rd birthday Pam. I pray that in death you finally found the peace and happiness you so deserved in life.

(Photo description: The human Y chromosome (the stumpy one on the left) holds the code for “maleness;” the mighty X on the right holds the code for “femaleness.”)

Basic biology has it that girls are girls because they have two X chromosomes— those thingies inside cells that carry our genes. Boys are boys because they have one X and one Y.

Y might look puny next to X, but as Mark Twain once said: “It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog.”

Speaking from experience, I can’t live with Y. And I can’t live without Y.

When my husband does something stupid I always ask myself, why ? And then I answer my own question with: Blame it on the Y chromosome— the essence of masculinity.

As I have mentioned in past blog posts, pretty much everyone in my family has the same thing to say about The Teri Tome: PLEASE DON’T WRITE ABOUT ME. I feel like Taylor Swift, sans the long legs, beautiful hair, perfect teeth, wrinkleless lips, and her gazillions of dollars.

So I’m going to attempt to write this Y Chromosome blog without implicating anyone in particular. Except that me is me.

Me [Getting ready for a wedding]: Does this dress make me look fat?

Him: I like a little meat on your bones.

Me: Are you kidding me? That’s really offensive.

Him: You asked.

Me: Just say no.

Him: No.

Me: Thanks for nothing.

Him: Can I throw something else out there?

Me: Really? You haven’t said enough?

Him: I don’t like you in red.

Me: Too late now. You’re stuck with red meat on the bone.

Him: Now you’re going to be mad at me?

Me: You think I look fat. Why wouldn’t I be mad at you?

Him: You don’t look fat. You look healthy.

Me: Stop talking.

Him [Driving to the wedding]: Now you’re going to give me the silent treatment?

Me: I have nothing to say.

Him: Next time you ask me the fat question, I’m going to reframe it and throw it right back at you.  

Me: Fine. (To all you Y’s out there: When a woman says fine you need to shut up because she’s not happy.)

Him [Stopping on the steps to the wedding and staring into my face]: Listen, you look beautiful. My bad. Let’s kiss and make up.

Me: Not to worry. (What I really wanted to say was: Not to worry butt face, you’ll pay for your stupid mistake later.)

Now we are meeting and greeting people, and air kissing and hugging, and all I’m thinking about is the meat on my bones. Plus, does red accentuate my stuff?

After the ceremony, I rushed to the ladies room to check out my fat red self.  As I thoroughly inspected myself in the mirror—I GASPED!!!!!

There it was—a near dead gnat stuck in a goop of gloss on my right upper lip.

HE WAS GOING TO BE SO BUSTED.

Me [Trying to stay calm with the gnat still affixed to my lip, while pointing at it]: Did you not notice this ginormous gnat on my face while you were begging to make up?   

Him: It’s not that ginormous.

Me [Wiping said gnat off my lip with his suit pocket handkerchief while saying nothing]: (Saying nothing is something and means everything, and Y’s should worry when this happens.)

Him: So now you’re mad at me because a gnat drowned in your lipstick?

Me: Lip gloss. And I spoke to a thousand people like that.  

Him: You spoke to about twenty people.

Me: Whatever. (My way of saying screw you.)

Him: Let’s go eat.

Seven Orthodox Jewish siblings, ages 5 to 16, died early Saturday morning of March 21 in a raging Brooklyn house fire that sent their mother Gayle Sassoon, and teenage sister Siporah (15) smashing through second-story windows to escape. Their father was at a religious retreat in Manhattan at the time. The fire was the city’s deadliest since March 2007.

The medical examiner said Elaine (16), David (12), Rivkah (11), Moshe (8), Yeshua (10), Sara (6), and Yaakob (5), died of smoke inhalation. I pray that’s how they died.

As of March 21, Siporah was in critical condition at Staten Island University Hospital North, while her mother was placed in the hyperbaric chamber at Jacobi Medical Center in the Bronx as she fought for her life.

The smoky inferno was ignited by an untended hot plate used to keep food warm in the first-floor kitchen, as the Sassoon family slept upstairs on the Sabbath, officials said. Their home had no smoke detectors.

News of this disaster brought back my own horrific memories of my mother’s “accident.” When I was fourteen years old, we had a cooking fire in our home, and my mother suffered devastating third-degree burns.

The memory of the suffering and pain my mother endured for years, made me extremely vigilant about cooking with oil, candles, fireplaces, fire detectors, electric cords, and the like.

When I became a mother, I never allowed my children to light candles, or come anywhere close to the stove or extremely hot liquids.  I embedded into their brains the importance of fire safety. Unfortunately, it took the “accident” to educate me about home fires and the crushing destruction they can cause.

I wrote the short story below when I was in high school, several months after the fire in my own home, and amidst a very dark time in my life.

MOMMY

Machines were doing her breathing, and a heart monitor loomed near her bed.  She was a tangle of needles and tubes, unmindful of the nurses, doctors and commotion surrounding her.  I sat there in a dream, no a nightmare–wishing to awake.  But there would be no waking from this nightmare.  I reached for her hand, searching for a place to caress. A small spot free of burns and bandages.

“How do I look?”

There she stood, like a movie star.  Tall and slim, she wore a magnificent suit of hunter green velvet.  The long, straight skirt fashionably hugged her curvaceous figure.  The tightly fitted jacket accentuated her small waist and long slender neck.  Her shoulders back, her head high, she was a vision of loveliness in her dark green suit.  Green was her color.  It matched her eyes so well.  Those captivating green eyes of hers.  Everyone who saw them commented.  “They shine like emeralds.” … “Eyes like a cat.”… “Green like the sea.”…

But to me, they were the eyes of a queen.  Queen green.  Sparkling, radiant, luminous.  Magazine eyes.

Her eyes provided a mere backdrop for the rest of her face.  Her ivory complexion laid the foundation for her stunning silhouette.  The chiseled nose was a perfect ski slope, and her ruby red lips made her teeth look even whiter.  Her ash blonde hair, pulled into a chic French twist, framed her elegant features. 

Her style was unquestionable.  Her beauty formidable.

“Well monkey face, how do I look?”

Seventeen years older than me, she bent close to me for my answer.  Mischief, youth, and excitement filled her amazing green eyes.  The scent of sweetheart roses permeated the air around us.

“You look like Grace Kelly mommy.  No, I take that back…More beautiful than Grace Kelly.”

She raised herself then, with a satisfied smile on her face.  And she ruffled my hair, pulling herself straight like a marionette.  I fell to my knees and hugged her legs, gently stroking the soft green velvet.  Closing my eyes, I held her adoringly.  

When I opened my eyes the room was cold.  The rough material of her hospital gown and bandages chafed my cheek.