In Vegas, And All In (The Family)

 

Mom has tried her best to make
us all feel like a family. We’re a blended mishmash of adults –
children who each lost one parent at too young an age and watched with
tempered happiness as our remaining parent remarried. So it hasn’t
always been an easy fit.

For several years, Mom and
her husband have encouraged all of their children to sit respectfully
at each other’s tables, gathering for religious holidays and all five
of our babies’ birthdays. She has set us up on evenings out together,
encouraged us to seek advice from one another, facilitated the trading
of hand-me-downs. And over time, I have to say, we have gotten to feel
much closer.

Still, when faced with yet
another Thanksgiving crammed into Mom’s dining room with my 16-person
“family,” I contemplated mainlining tryptophan and sleeping through
the whole ordeal.

Thanksgiving was difficult
enough before Mom remarried. For a few years, the traditional turkey
side dishes included tongue. There never seemed to be enough room at
the table, and Mom usually spent more time thinking about the centerpieces
than the actual food.

Last year we got out of Thanksgiving
by spending it with Zev’s best friend, Aidan, and his parents at a
restaurant. No mess. No fuss. No marshmallow yams. This year, we one-upped
ourselves and headed to Vegas.

The plan was simple: Gather
Zev, Aidan and his parents, Mark and Keren, stick the whole lot of us
in a rented minivan and drive out to the desert for turkey and white
tigers.

We would liberate ourselves
of so-so food and weird family dynamics and spend the weekend showing
Zev all the bizarre sights of Vegas with his best friend in tow. I started
looking forward to the road trip – however difficult I knew it would
be. And I was especially excited to spend Thanksgiving gobbling turkey
without having to do a lick of work. Best of all, we’d be in a small,
controlled group. Just six of us, able to have a conversation and attend
to our kids.

A few weeks before the trip,
Keren told us that she was bringing her nanny. And then that another
couple and their toddler would be joining us at the restaurant for dinner.
OK. Well, that’s a bit bigger than we had initially discussed, but
it’s still great. Hubby made the reservations for 10 people.

If you’ve ever balanced raw
eggs on the tip of a toothpick while trying to suppress a sneeze, then
you have some idea of what eating at a fancy restaurant with three toddlers
is like. At all times, at least one of the boys (usually mine) was being
ushered out into the artificial daylight of the “outdoor” shopping
area to prevent complete meltdowns. I had to spend all my parental capital
before the meal arrived just to ensure that Zev’s dinner didn’t
consist entirely of walnut bread and olive oil. If there were conversations
going on, I didn’t catch any of them.

At 10 p.m., with Zev still
undecided about whether to eat his fistful of turkey or throw it at
Aidan, I called Mom to check in.

“Thanksgiving was nice. It’s
over, though. Everyone left,” she said, sounding relaxed. She told
me some of the highlights and ran down the list of people who came –
a list that was suspiciously short.

“Wait,” I said, “Where
were Galit and Bruce and the twins? And where were Lilac’s parents?”

It seems we weren’t the only
people who thought it best to avoid the madness of the holiday by heading
out of town. Mom told me that the bulk of her usual dinner guests all
fled north this year.

All of us, she said, were in
Vegas.

“Wait,” I said. “They’re
all here?”

I could hear her try not to
laugh over the phone.

I thought only Hubby and I
would think to seek sanctuary in one of the most dizzying places on
Earth. That only we would consider the open-all-night, anything-goes
madhouse that is Las Vegas a suitable place to get a little peace and
quiet.

Instead, the majority of our
blended clan concocted the identical plan, scheming to avoid being in
the exact same place … by being in the exact same place.

No wonder Mom laughed: It must
run in the family.

Happy Holidays. Here's A Big Box Of Nothing.

Before my birthday one year, my grandmother sent me a brown paper
package containing a present and a note. I can't remember what was in
the package, but I remember the note quite well. In it, she told me
that this would be the last birthday gift I would ever get from her.

I
was a teenager, too old to be getting birthday presents, she explained.
Besides, she had so many grandkids (and was starting to have
great-grandkids) that it was just no longer reasonable for all of us to
expect lovely brown paper packages each time the Earth spun around the
sun.

That's it. Store's closed.

She worded it quite
sensibly, and I didn't take it personally. But I do remember thinking
that I was being penalized for the fact that I had so many cousins –
something that was really beyond my control. Why not just scale down
our presents – scarves instead of sweaters – rather than do away with
them altogether? I didn't get it.

Now I do.

Every year,
through the miracles of births and marriages and new friendships, our
holiday shopping list grows and grows and grows. We're blessed to have
so many people in our lives – particularly so many young children.
Unfortunately, our bank account isn't similarly blessed.

Hubby
and I wandered into a kids' boutique recently and found some
ridiculously adorable clothes – Harley-Davidson wear for 6-month-old
Louey. A Baby Phat outfit for Zev's little cousin, Natalie. Princess
gear for Noa and Mia. Trucks for Aidan and Jonah (and Zev, of course).
Stuff for the twins and for the other cousins. Plus there are the three
babies who hatched in the last three months – they should probably get
some Hanukkah and Christmas presents. Ah! And I can't forget Will and
Olivia (though I'm at a loss for what to get a 14-year-old boy).

Then
there are the birthdays: My sister's birthday is coming up. As are
Jeff's and Brill's and Hubby's and Yvette's. Sylvia will be turning 1
soon.

I walked around the store, arms laden with absolutely
perfect – and perfectly expensive – presents and started to do the
math. I was never good at accounting, but I'm fairly certain you don't
want minus signs in front of your numbers.

I noticed a
toddler-sized Guess outfit. And a dress that was selling for more than
I paid for my shoes. When I spotted a baby-size fur coat that I'm not
entirely sure was faux, I put down everything I had been holding.

"This is not going to happen," I said to myself. I walked out of the store.

I
have never had a problem with the commercialization of the holiday
season. I'm a Jewish girl from Southern California, so Christmas never
meant much more to me than candy canes with my Hanukkah gelt and
pictures – just pictures, mind you – of snow.

I have always
loved giving (and getting) holiday presents, and prided myself on
finding just the right doodad for every person on my list. But that was
back when my list was much, much smaller.

A few days after my
nonshopping excursion, I talked to a friend who does PR for a major
gaming manufacturer. He said people were buying as many electronics
this year as they ever did before – except everything has been scaled
down: Blenders instead of plasma screen TVs, DVDs instead of DVD
players.

"Scarves instead of sweaters," I thought to myself.

But
the economy of scaling down doesn't mean much when you're buying in
bulk: Seven $10 presents are still more expensive than one $50. I
thought about baking my holiday presents (that's something my PR friend
has been doing for years – with much success). But I don't bake, and
getting something that came from my oven would be a treat for no one. I
also don't sew, knit, draw or paint.

So this year, to celebrate
the holidays, all the adults in my life can expect the only other thing
I can offer: nothing. Yes, friends and family, your kids will be
getting lovely presents, but you … well, aren't we getting too old for
this whole gift exchange thing?

That's it. Store's closed.

Happy holidays.

Dear Me

Dear Mayrav,

My husband dresses like a schlub and won't listen
to any of my brilliant sartorial advice. How best can I convey that a
stained shirt and ripped jeans is not "an outfit?" – Mayrav, Orange
County, Calif.

Dear Mayrav,

I'm glad you asked. If you're
like me – and I get the distinct feeling you are – you've already tried
buying Hubby some super-hip/ridiculously-great-looking clothing to
supplement that collection of Chewbacca T-shirts he calls his wardrobe.

You've no doubt tried leering at other men when you're out
together in public, saying things like, "Now that guy knows how to
dress."

You may have even "donated" some of his more offensive
garments to Goodwill – not that you felt much good will toward them,
even before the ketchup stains.

Supposing all of these efforts
have failed, there is only one thing left you can do: Give birth.
Preferably to a son. Preferably to one that looks like a shrunken-down
version of your husband.

In a few years time, your "little man"
will be able to walk around on his own, smile, talk – and completely
rock a sweater vest with Kenneth Cole dress shoes. Send your boys out
into the world together; next to your spiffy spawn, Hubby will look
like an underpaid "manny."

Fashion Island security guards will
follow slowly behind the pair for several minutes, trying to assess
whether to report a kidnapping. Other dads (at least those wearing Marc
Jacobs) will shrug their shoulders at your spouse, as if to say, "Dude,
didn't you get the memo?" Trust me, dress your child smartly enough and
your man will suit up in no time.

Sure, it's manipulative, but
so is playing "Blister in the Sun" in a room full of Gen Xers just to
watch everyone compulsively clap four times after the intro. And who
hasn't done that?

Having a child might sound like an enormous
length to go just to get your husband to sport a sports jacket. All
those sanctimommies out there will tell you that motherhood completely
changes your life/priorities/sleep patterns/libido/metabolism/financial
security/memory – and a host of other things that I can't remember
right now. They'll tell you that having a child just to pressure your
husband into dressing better is at best "irresponsible," and at worst
"certifiable."

But whom are you going to listen to, women who
have given every aspect of child rearing careful, considered thought,
or the woman who gets your man into Kitson?

Still reading? That's what I thought.

Dear Mayrav,

Should I get a second dog? – Mayrav, Orange County, Calif.

Dear Mayrav,

No.
One small dog greeting your guests with violent yapping is annoying.
Two is off-putting. Three is reason enough never to visit.

Dear Mayrav,

But I really want one. – Mayrav, Orange County, Calif.

Dear Mayrav,

Seriously. No.

Dear Mayrav,

I
am trying to be more eco-friendly and have cut back my consumption of
bottled water. Trouble is, I can't seem to find a reusable water bottle
that is both slender enough to fit my cup holder and large enough not
to require multiple refillings throughout the day. What would you
suggest? – Mayrav, Orange County, Calif.

Dear Mayrav,

Funny
you should ask – I've been having a similar problem. You could try
leaving the house with two reusable bottles and keep one in the car.
The trick will be to remember to bring them both back inside at the end
of the day, lest they should get all funky and moldy by the next
morning.

If that doesn't work, go back to plastic bottles and
buy yourself some carbon credits. Or a Prius. Better yet, post your
question to readers of a large daily newspaper and see if they offer
any viable options – or a free Prius.

Dear Mayrav,

I'm a
stay-at-home mom who put her career temporarily on hold. How can I tell
if now is the right time to go back to work? – Mayrav, Orange County,
Calif.

Dear Mayrav,

This is a difficult and extremely
personal decision. One best made by you and your family. But if you
find yourself lonely during the work day – perhaps writing yourself
little letters – now may be the time.

No Sugar In Your Bowls

I'm not giving you any candy tomorrow.

Don't come to my
darkened door. Don't look for my jack-o'-lantern. You can play all the
"tricks" you want, but there will be no treats to be had at Casa de
Mayrav this All Hollow's Eve.

Store's closed. Goodbye.

Oh,
quit your whimpering. You had your chance. For years, I bought great,
big Costco bags of candy, rushed home early from work, set up families
of lovingly carved pumpkins on my doorstep and waited. And waited. And
waited.

You never came.

I have always loved Halloween – the
pageantry, the costumes, the candy. As a little Jewish girl, I
appreciated any holiday that didn't begin with long hours of prayer and
end with brisket. I could never understand the people who turned the
lights off in their homes and waited out the night without passing out
a single piece of sweet holiday cheer. What kind of witch would
actively avoid a holiday as cool as Halloween?

So when Hubby and
I got our first apartment, I was so excited to give out candy I could
hardly speak. I wanted to dress up as a witch and deliver sweets from a
dry ice-filled caldron. Hubby talked me out of it, but he couldn't
dissuade me from buying three different kinds of mini chocolate bars
and a large orange bowl to hold them.

"No one will come," Hubby
said. Our street was populated by musicians and artists and stray cats.
There were exactly no kids on our block. Plus our wood gate largely
obscured the view of our front door from the street.

"Of course they will come!" I said.

Of
course, you didn't. I was waiting for you, you massive throngs of Darth
Vaders and Dora the Explorers. I had dreamed of adorable little faces
and grabby, sticky little hands. Years after being young enough to go
trick-or-treating myself, I wanted to feel part of this ridiculously
fun holiday. You were supposed to give me a role in all this revelry.
So where were you?

That first year, exactly two kids showed up,
Dracula and his little princess sister. I was so overjoyed to see them,
I gave them each two giant fistfuls of candy and made them pose for a
photo with my stuffed gorilla. The following year, not even they
returned.

Since then, I've spent every Halloween like a grown-up Linus, waiting pathetically for the Great Pumpkin to appear.

When
we moved to our first house, Hubby and I went to a party on Halloween,
but we were careful to leave that big orange bowl full of candy at the
door with a note, saying people should take just one piece.

Either we had very conscientious neighbors, or – more likely – the Halloween Horde failed to show up again.

Our
candy bowl was similarly untouched last year at our apartment. So this
year, when Hubby offered to do the Halloween candy shopping, I told him
not to bother.

I'm sick of snacking on all the Snickers you fail
to claim. Sick of waiting like someone's neglected grandmother for you
to show up at my door.

You had your chance, but now it's too
late. We're not buying any more candy for you – and we always bought
the good stuff, too. None of that candy corn/circus peanuts nonsense.

I
don't know where you've gone all these years, what pleasant little
cul-de-sac you favored in place of my eager abode, but I hope you're
happy there. Because this year, there will be nary a Butterfinger to be
had around these parts. We're taking Zev (or, as he'll be known that
night, "Chewbacca") to a carnival, and we'll be leaving our front porch
lights off.

That's right. All those years of rejection have
turned me into one of those darkened-home witches who always puzzled me
as a child. So this year, I'm greeting you all with the Halloween
equivalent of "Bah humbug" – namely, a doorbell ring that goes
unanswered.

(Unless, of course, you really are going to be coming
this year … in which case, well, maybe I should buy one little bag of
candy. Or three.)

Snoring in the Lap of Luxury

There must be another Mayrav Saar out there, one with a much bigger
petty cash drawer than mine, because I've been getting a ton of
catalogs and e-mails for luxury goods lately.

Every time I open
my inbox, I'm confronted with things I could not possibly afford. A $16
bar of Coco Chanel soap? Seriously? If I don't go to the grocery store
soon, I'll be showering with Windex.

The only reason Coco
Chanel (and Coach, and Louis Vuitton, et al.) is likely targeting me is
because it's banking on my weak constitution and need to be liked.
Surely, if I want to be in the "in crowd," I'm going to seek to wear,
drive and, apparently, bathe in the "in products."

But these
agents of opulence are wasting their time on me: I've evolved beyond
the point of coveting my neighbor's Italian handbags. Right now, all I
aspire to is a good nap.

I'm overworked, stressed out and, I
suspect, not alone in feeling this way. Drive on the freeway at rush
hour and peek through the windshields of the cars behind you. You won't
have to look hard to find the bleary-eyed guy in the Benz yawning into
his Bluetooth.

Every high-end designer on the planet is
clamoring to create "affordable" clothing lines for Target and other
hoi polloi hot spots. But instead of a lifestyle of luxury, what they
really should be marketing is a lifestyle of lounging.

I'd buy it in a second.

For
months, a furniture store near my house kept a big Moroccan-looking
daybed in its window. And for months, I'd walk by the window and
fantasize about buying it, but I couldn't figure out why. It wouldn't
go with any of the furniture in my house. And, really, it looked a
little cheaply made.

It took me awhile to realize: I don't want
a daybed. I want the time to recline on a daybed. I couldn't envision
the thing in my house, but I could (and did) see myself curled up on
it, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a book in the other.

That
realization served me well for a while. But I recently suffered a
momentary memory lapse (probably due to lack of sleep), forgot all
about my daybed epiphany and impulse-bought a couch. I walked into a
furniture store, saw a big, overstuffed couch. And I bought it.

This
is not the way I normally make large purchases. But, oh, this couch.
It's so deep my feet barely dangle off the edge of it. I don't really
even need an ottoman (but for an extra $600, I bought one, too). It's
fluffy. It's seductive. It requires its own ZIP code.

I had to
sell our coffee table to make room for it, and its monstrous size means
I'm going to have to buy a larger area rug. But, I told myself, just as
fashionistas make sacrifices for fancy clothes (try walking a mile in
their 5-inch Christian Louboutin heels), so, too, does this comfortista
give up a few things for the sake of something soft to sit on.

Hubby
is quite pleased with my purchase (which is good, since I told him it
is his anniversary present). Toddler Zev is equally pleased with our
"brand-new, pretty couch." But now that it's in our home, sprawled
across our living room in all its overstuffed glory, I'm having second
thoughts.

It's not that the couch doesn't look great in our room
(well, actually, it doesn't; that will be remedied with the new rug).
It's just that my beloved couch has been in our home for a few weeks
and I have yet to spend a relaxing afternoon cuddled deep into its
cushions.

In fact, at this very moment, it is sitting there,
eyeing me cruelly while I write this a few feet away. I'm working, but
it's beckoning me to rest.

Come here! Ignore your deadlines, and let me hold you. Why did you buy me if not to snuggle?

Like
a woman pulling a maxed-out credit card from a Gucci wallet, I'm
finding that having the appearance of something – whether it's wealth
or leisure time – isn't enough. I may have the world's best couch
potato couch, but it's doing me no good while I'm in the fryer.

Buying into a lifestyle – whether it's one of luxury or lounging – requires more of a commitment than I was willing to admit.

So,
no, I don't want any of the sparkly, leathery things being advertised
in my stack of catalogs. But I would love to lie on my couch, thumb
through those pages of luxury goods and dream – perchance to sleep.

Facebook: I Don't Get It

I've been be-Friendstered. I've been 'Spaced. I've been Linked In and
Twittered. And now, I guess, I'm Facing yet another social networking
site.

But even as I build up my profile and choose my "friends,"
I know that in a few short months I'll have completely abandoned this
"community" that now occupies so much of my time.

I have joined
Facebook, the social networking site that had previously been available
only to college students. Initially, I ignored all invitations to join
the site, but then Kate started a page for me (thanks, Kate), and so I
ventured online to see what, exactly, I was up to.

Back in the
Stone Ages of Friendster, I was gung-ho about social networking. I saw
it as a natural extension of the increasingly immediate, connected way
people were communicating. Why call someone on the phone when you can
convey a message to a whole swath of people that includes video,
graphics and sound? It's like you're saying to your friends, "Take a
look at the inside of my brain."

But as these sites progress and
morph and compete, I'm finding that the content of my brain has become
dull and stupid – as has everyone else's. A quick run-down of the
Facebook messages I've gotten recently:

"You have one Vampire invitation!"

"Your friend Anne sent you a Hot Potato!"

"Dear
Victim, you have been bitten by Luke! Click the 'Start Biting the
Chumps" button to become a Werewolf and start biting other chumps! You
can also fight other Zombies, Vampires and Werewolves now!"

Great. Now I'm going to have to show up at a vampire party, looking like a werewolf with potato-seared hands. Thanks, Facebook.

At
least on MySpace the silly garbage I got came from musicians that I
like a lot. And yet, Facebook is being portrayed as not just the Next
Big Thing, but the Future of All Things.

News stories hail
wunderkind Facebook creator Mark Zuckerberg, 23, as the next "Bill
Gates or Steve Jobs." The guy is worth about $3 billion, and says he
expects Facebook to evolve into the biggest database in the world – a
populist spreadsheet of all that is popular.

Kate says she thinks
Facebook is an invaluable tool for a freelance writer – which is why
she signed us both up. And a Wired magazine columnist predicted that
one day your Facebook page will serve as be-all identity document, with
hospitals logging on to check your medical records and the IRS "poking"
you for your 1040s.

It's hard to reckon all this hype with a site that suggests I while away my time posting "graffiti" on a friend's "Super Wall."

Lisa
Bee may have the best explanation for the current Facebook frenzy:
She's on it because all the young people in her office are on it, and
she doesn't want to seem out of it.

"I work in an office full of
whippersnappers, and many of these people do not have MySpace profiles.
This makes me feel old," she says.

She has a "Facebook tutor," a
twentysomething co-worker, who walks her through the vagaries of Super
Walls and Compare Requests, a woman who wonders why Lisa Bee doesn't
use her real name on her home page.

"It's like, the Internet Igrew
up on? Mean streets, kiddies. Mean streets," she explains. "And
Facebook is all about getting every last piece of information about
you. At least MySpace felt fun."

I contemplated her response
for a long while. When we're pining for the "fun" days of MySpace
(which was all of, like, three months ago), it's clearly time to
declare social networking dead. We're not being social. We're not even
really networking. We're just typing in bits of data about ourselves
that one day will be sold to the highest bidder in a giant
direct-marketing campaign.

But because I feel some kind of
generational obligation, I, like Lisa, will continue to "poke" my
friends and to chug along until it's finally no longer cool to do so.

There are only so many werewolf bites one girl can endure.

Cotton Balls And Vacant Stares

I need cotton balls.

I need cotton balls, and this need has
filled me with such dread I can feel the blood freeze in my veins.
Because needing cotton balls as I do means I need to make a trip to the
corner drugstore. And I'm fairly certain that if I step foot in that
place one more time, I will lose my mind.

I hear there was a time
in American history, when drug stores were hangouts. Places filled with
knowledgeable, friendly folks who were happy to fill a prescription and
fetch you an egg cream.

The only hanging out I've ever done at
drug stores is in the snaking lines at the cash register, waiting in
vain for some counter cud-chewer to comprehend why the 80-year-old
cancer patient at the head of the line does not want to go home with
only half the medications his doctor prescribed.

Now, I make no
claim to brilliance: I volunteered for a life of journalistic poverty.
I still don't know all the state capitals and sometimes I mix up my
right and my left. But I'm not in charge of dispensing life-sustaining
medication to people. And all that I ask, is that the people who are be
smarter than me.

"Um. Yeah," I had one vacant-eyed clerk tell me recently, "they, um, don't make this medicine."

"You mean, the medicine my doctor prescribed?"

"Yeah."

"You're
telling me you have no record of the medicine my doctor prescribed?
That he just made up the name of a drug, wrote it down and sent me here
as a joke?"

"Oh. Um. No," she said. "It's in the computer, but we don't have it."

"So they do make that medicine," I said.

"Um. Yeah, I guess."

"Mind ordering it?"

"Let me get my manager."

I'm
sure not everyone who works at these chains is stupid. There are
probably some future MacArthur fellows populating the drugstore
workforce. And for all I know, I have even interacted with these folks.

But
I don't remember them. Because, unlike any other service industry,
ineptitude in a drugstore stands out as an affront to humanity. We can
all live with a flighty waiter or a bookstore clerk who has never heard
of Salinger. Or, even, a newspaper columnist who doesn't know Hartfort
from Helena. But we really, really need some bright bulbs at the
drugstore.

Drug stores are all we have when we have nothing – in
the middle of the night, when our health is poor, and for some, when
our lives are in jeopardy. How sad, then, that in our darkest hours, we
are forced to contend with people who pretty much scream, "We Dare You
Not To Have An Aneurism In The Face of Our Stunning Stupidity."

So
when all I need are a few cotton balls – cotton balls I stupidly forgot
to pick up with the groceries earlier this week – I think: "I can't do
it. I can't go in there." I will shred up an old T-shirt and use the
scraps until the next supermarket trip. I will rearrange my schedule
and go to Target tomorrow. I will…

"Sweetie," I say, throwing my arms around my husband. "Mind heading out to the drugstore? I need cotton balls."

"Sure," he says.

I
smile. I watch him from the living room window, waving as he disappears
down the street, and I think to myself, "Stupid people aren't all bad."