A Word From the Weiss

        “Good news!” the text message read. Who could resist that, no matter what they were doing? What I was doing at that particular moment was walking my dog, Latke. But seeing those words, which had been sent by someone I know and love, I let curiosity get the better of me. I stopped instantly and dropped everything – everything but the leash, that is – in order to investigate further.
        I read. Latke lurched. And the rest was not just history, but a horrific disaster of (to my mind) epic proportions.
        Before I could even open the message, my iPhone practically flew out of my hand. Not like a bird taking flight, though. More like a torpedo hurtling mightily toward a target. That target was evidently the sidewalk, and in less than a second my phone came to a crash landing, detonating on impact. Like a piece of toast falling on the buttered side, it landed face down, causing the glass screen to shatter into a mosaic of jagged chips.
        Yikes!
        Miraculously, the phone was still functioning, so I was able to retrieve that good news. I’m not telling you what it was, though, nor whom it was from, because that person might feel guilty. Of course, he or she was not to blame. I’ll tell you whom I blamed:
        Latke.
        And upon hearing what I hollered in response to the situation (something far from fit to print here), she appeared quite contrite. Not nearly contrite enough, though, if you ask me. (OK, if my daughter has told me once, she’s told me a thousand times: DO NOT WALK AND TEXT! But the text I was receiving was good news. Can you blame me?)
        This, of course, was far from the first time I’d dropped my phone. It might not even have been the first time I’d dropped my phone that day. I’m what you might call a total klutz, and as we all know life is busy and “stuff” happens. Stuff happens to me.
        There was a time when my phone was housed in a sturdy yet clunky case called an OtterBox, so that when this “stuff” happened to me, nothing happened to my phone.
        For my birthday this year, though, back in January, my daughter surprised me by designing and ordering an amazing custom-made phone case for me from Zazzle.com.
        Fashioned in pale aquamarine, which is my favorite color, it was embellished with the logo that Allegra designed for me last year – a redhead proclaiming “Because Nice Jewish Moms Know Best.” Above this was printed the message, “Call your mother!” Below it, in elegant script, was the name of my website, NiceJewishMom.com.
        Made from a hard but rather thin plastic, this accessory did not include a screen protector and was not nearly as effective a shield as the rubber Otterbox I’d been using. Who cared? It had been made by my daughter. For my birthday. And it was so damn cute!
        So I’d thrown caution to the wind and used it for months, dropping my phone with such frequency that countless chunks of the case had chipped off around the edges. But until now I’d never dropped it on something as hard and damaging as concrete.
        This awful scenario transpired the Friday afternoon before Mother’s Day weekend. My husband and I were due to leave within a few hours to go hear our daughter sing, and we were departing early the next morning to spend the weekend in New York City. Before doing all of this, I had a gazillion and one things to finish, and I was running late. Now what was I going to do?
        I’ll tell you what I did do. I used my phone (which was still operating in all respects) to phone the nearest AT&T store. The fellow who answered said that they did not repair phones, but that they could sell me a new one and I might even be due for an upgrade. The only way they could check was if I went over in person. So I did.
        Another fellow there named Alex verified that, having gotten my current iPhone 4S about two and a half years ago, I was indeed due for an upgrade. If I got a new phone from them, then I would have to sign a new two-year contract (not a problem). However, I then would not be eligible for a new phone for another two years, meaning that I would not be able to get the much-anticipated iPhone 6 when it’s released this coming fall.
        Did I care? Hardly. I’m not what you’d call a techie. I could care less what kind of car I drive or phone I use. All I really wanted was to be able to take pictures of my kids over the impending weekend. And, of course, to continue to receive calls and text messages (preferably bearing more good news).
        That said, Alex enumerated my options. I could get another iPhone 4S for only 99 cents, but he didn’t recommend doing that because Apple was likely to phase them out.
        I also could purchase a new iPhone 5C for $99, or a 5S for $199. Between those two options, I vastly preferred spending less, not more. But there were complications.
        Before I could obtain a new phone, I’d need to back up my current phone onto my computer or the Cloud, whatever the heck that is. This was something I’d never done. And Alex said I had so many photographs on my phone that this task would require hours.
        Hours that I didn’t have.
        As a stopgap measure, I asked if there were a screen protector he could sell me so that the shattered glass on my phone didn’t cut my face or crumble further. AT&T carried one for $20, he said, but he admitted that I might be better off running across the street to Marshall’s, where I might find an even better one for only 5 bucks. So I did.
        Back home, I tried to back up my phone with Alex’s instructions, but had so many photos on there (mostly of my kids) that this was going to take an estimated 22 hours. That was time I definitely didn’t have.
        So we left to hear Allegra sing. And I managed to take even more pictures of her.
        And the next day, before leaving, I Googled “iPhone screen replacement in NYC.”
        I discovered that there were plenty of repair kits on the market, some of which could be purchased for as little as 5 bucks. But I knew I didn’t have the smarts for that.
        There were also plenty of places in Manhattan that would do the job for me, in as little as 20 minutes and for as little as 75 to 100 bucks.
        The place that most piqued my interest, though, was Repair Wizard in the Astoria section of Queens, because we’d be staying in a hotel in nearby Long Island City. And when I called them, a forthright, plain-talking guy named Roman answered the phone.
        He assured me that he offered prices competitive with any I’d find in Manhattan. But what clinched it for me was his candor, which convinced me that he was honest.
        He said that he could replace my screen for $50, but that the material he’d use was cheap and might only last a month. For $75 instead, he could make it as good as new.
        He also told me bluntly that the $99 iPhone 5C was a piece of junk that broke easily, and that I shouldn’t accept one even if AT&T offered to pay me to accept it.
        As for getting a 5S for $199 instead, he said, “When you can buy a phone for $200, what’s the point, as opposed to getting the phone fixed for $75 and it’s as good as new?”
        It was a wonderful and action-packed weekend, as I detailed here last week, and I didn’t have so much as a moment to think about backing up to the cloud, let alone getting my phone fixed. But I did manage to take even more photos, mostly of my kids.
        And on Monday afternoon, on our way home after staying over on Sunday night to hear our daughter sing yet again, we drove straight to Repair Wizard in Astoria.
        Roman Davydz operates his phone repair business out of his Uncle Steve’s store, K & D Jewelry on Ditmars Boulevard in Queens. I was surprised to discover that he was only 25, barely older than my daughter. I was also a little surprised – and pleasantly, I admit – to discover that he wasn’t just very savvy about phones. Judging from the large chai hanging from his neck, he was also a landsman – a fellow Jew.
        Yes, I know this shouldn’t make a big difference to me, but let’s be honest. It does. If I’m going to do business with someone, I’d just as soon make it another MOTB (Member of the Tribe). I’m so conscious of being part of a tiny minority in the world that I feel like we have to support one another. If we don’t patronize each other, who will?
        Roman, meanwhile, seemed to be unpleasantly surprised when he saw my phone. Although he had no doubt that he could replace the screen, he said that he could only do it with a phone that had been updated to Apple’s current iOS system, 7.1.1. This is something I’d been unable to do because I didn't have enough gigabytes (!?!) available because – have I mentioned this yet? – I had too many photos stored on my phone.
        He offered to perform this operation for me by temporarily downloading my treasure trove of pictures onto his own computer. Yet I had considerable trepidation that he’d be unable to execute this operation in reverse. After he installed the new program, how would there possibly be enough room left to reinstate all of my precious photos?
        Still, he was the expert. I’m just a nice Jewish mom. So I gave the go-ahead.
        This procedure required a great deal of time (although fortunately not 22 hours). And while I was there waiting, Roman reassured me that I was doing the right thing.
        One alternative would have been to go to the Apple store, but this was something he didn’t recommend. “Apple can replace your phone,” he said, “but they replace it with a phone they refurbished, and then they fix your phone. The next customer who comes in with a broken phone, Apple gives them your repaired phone. So what’s the point of having somebody else’s problems when you could stick with your own problems?”
        I could easily see his point. “It’s like getting somebody else’s husband when you could stick with your own pain-in-the-ass husband,” I observed brightly.
        My husband laughed. He thought I was joking.
        Then Roman went on to divulge how he had parlayed his job working at his uncle’s jewelry store into his brisk sideline of fixing cell phones.
        “We had a jewelry store customer, and she was constantly questioning me about a special jewelry order.” One day, he and his girlfriend were driving somewhere, and when he got out to pump gas, a text arrived from the customer on his iPhone, which he'd left inside the car. “My girlfriend sees the message, doesn’t believe it’s from a customer, and slams the phone on the stick shift.”
        The glass screen shattered.
        That put him in the same boat that I’d been in, only with a better attitude… and more aptitude. He found a do-it-yourself repair kit online for $30, and after half an hour of work had fixed it himself. That led to an entrepreneurial brainstorm. “I put up an ad charging $50 and ended up with a line down the block and 10 or 15 customers a day.”
        Indeed, while we were there, as many people stopped in for phone aid as jewelry.
        And we were there for quite a while. After my photos finally had been transferred, I watched with horror as Roman disassembled my phone, bit by bit and screw by screw. Would he – or all the king’s horses and all the king’s men – be able to put it together again?
        But after peeling off the damaged glass, he deftly reassembled those gazillion pieces and applied a perfect new screen right before my eyes. Then, as part of the deal, he threw in a free screen protector made of a hard, clear material called Gorilla glass, which he normally sells for $20. He also gave me a new Speck hard plastic grip case, which sells for around $35 online, but he gave to me gratis in my choice of color (you guessed it, aquamarine).
        He also sold a matching case in ruby red to my husband.
        Then came the moment of truth, when he attempted to reload my photo archives. Actually “moment” might be a poor choice of term. This took nearly an hour, and while I was waiting, his uncle Steve, who had since joined us, insisted on cleaning my rings.
        This led me to confess that I couldn’t remove my wedding ring. No, let’s be honest. I hadn’t been able to remove that band of gold for over 20 years, since the first Bush Administration. Even a sea of hand lotion wouldn’t get it to budge over my knuckle.
        This, in turn, prompted Steve to fetch several pairs of industrial-strength shears and try to cut the ring off my finger... preferably without taking the finger along with it.
        I was terrified that he might cut my skin as well. But the truth was that I’d now lived in fear for decades that I might have some kind of medical emergency, and they would have to cut my ring off in the hospital, where I doubt they would do nearly as good a job.
        I also had lived in fear that I would go to Lux, Bond & Green, the best-known jewelers in my town, and they would offer to do it for me and charge a small fortune.
        Or, more likely, a large fortune.
        Uncle Steve insisted on enlarging my wedding band, as well as a gold horoscope ring that my father had bought for my 17th birthday, and said he would do both for $60.
        It sounded like a steal.
        He also cleaned my grandmother’s gaudy diamond cocktail ring, which suddenly sparkled much more brightly than back when Grandma or my own mother had worn it.
        But before I could begin to celebrate my good fortune, Roman handed over my repaired phone, and I discovered that it had managed to upload only 70 photos, a mere drop in the bucket from the original 2,300-plus.
        No, I did not erupt the way I had during the original damage. But I was not pleased.
        Roman calmed me down by assuring me that all of my photos were still safe on his computer, rather than somewhere in the stratosphere. But just to make sure he wouldn’t mess up again, he wanted to experiment by uploading them onto a spare phone he had. This might take another hour.
        I’m a relatively normal, red-blooded woman, and while I was waiting yet again, I couldn’t help ogling all of the jewelry lining the walls and cabinets throughout the store. I was particularly charmed by the many golden pendants that came in an astonishing variety of shapes, from elephants and pineapples to tiny typewriters with pearls for keys.
        But then my eyes lit on the gold Stars of David, and I knew what I wanted most. The one I chose was tasteful and delicate, and my husband asked Uncle Steve to wrap it up for our next anniversary. Now all he has to do is remember where he put it two months from now, in July.
        By now, between the pendant, the $85 Roman charged me for the screen repair (a bit more than the original $75 he’d quoted), $60 for the ring enlargement, and $13 for shipping, we already had exceeded the $200 I might have spent on a brand-new phone.
        Roman was also nowhere close to having finished downloading my gazillion photos, and we needed to get going. So he offered to send them to me on a disk, along with my rings. So we bid our new friends a fond farewell.
        At that point, we unfortunately discovered that we had neglected to feed the parking meter all this time, and that we had gotten a ticket, adding $35 to our total. No matter.
        My phone not only looked brand-new, but was operating better than ever before. Without all those photos slowing it down, all of its former glitches had been resolved.
        It was like I no longer had my own pain-in-the-ass husband; I had someone else's husband. Or maybe it was still my husband, but it didn't look like my husband, and it was no longer a pain in the ass.
        (Just kidding!)
        And a few days later, a package arrived via UPS. Inside were my missing photos – all 2,381 of them on two discs. Plus my enlarged rings, which now gleamed like new and slid easily onto the fingers that had swelled after I gave birth to two wonderful kids.
        I’m also happy to report that the next time I dropped my phone, which happened before long, thanks to my new aquamarine case it didn't shatter.
        It bounced.
        So maybe dropping my phone wasn’t such a disaster of epic proportions, after all. In the end, it actually turned out to be a fortuitous thing, even among the best things that has ever happened to me (beyond, of course, my giving birth to my two wonderful kids).
        And I guess I know who I have to thank for that.
        Latke.
        Oh, yes, and that person who sent me the good news.

A Word From the Weiss


        Happy Mother’s Day to all of you mothers and others from NiceJewishMom.com! And in honor of that incomparable occasion, a tale of two (nice Jewish) moms.
        My mother was a remarkable woman, and I’m not just saying that because she was my mom.
        She endured plenty of adversity in her life, but also had plenty to be proud of, not the least of which was that she raised my very successful brother. And, of course, me.
        In that regard, despite her being a hard-working woman before most women worked, and going through a messy, prolonged, and profoundly acrimonious divorce, she remained a deeply devoted mom. 
        Bunnie, as she was known to all, also obtained two Master’s degrees, taught thousands of kids with learning disabilities to read, was an incomparable cook, avid tennis player and whiz at bridge into her 80s, and founded a popular group at her temple known as the MT Nesters.
        Yet the one thing in life of which she was most proud was that she was listed in the Marquis books Who’s Who in America and, even better, Who’s Who in the World.
        Never mind that this badge of honor required her to pay a hefty fee each year to receive copies of these books, and even more for personal plaques commemorating it. She paid those fees, bought those books, and stacked those plaques in her living room.
        Having retired at the age of 74, she had no office in which to hang those engraved wooden slabs attesting to her great distinction. Yet she liked to keep them in plain sight, a reminder that she was not just another mother. She was important. Worthy. Someone.
        A true “who” among who’s.
        Of course, she was proud of other things in her life, most of all her grandchildren. She also was one smart cookie and liked to point out at frequent intervals, whenever she found something that was missing or unraveled some conundrum, “I’m so smart! I’m so brilliant!” Yet those books and fake oak plaques remained her main claim to fame.
        I will allow that this was some measure of distinction. Not everyone (or everyone’s mother) is listed in Who’s Who.
        Yet I must confess that I was mystified by this – both that what I privately dismissed as a cheesy vanity-press ploy could imbue my mother with a sense of validation… and that these tributes (along with being a card-carrying member of the brainiac society Mensa) were the life achievements upon which she dwelled and kvelled.
        Yet I came to appreciate her participation in this dubious enterprise in a way that I never could have anticipated. On the day that she died, five years ago, my brother and I went to the funeral parlor to make the necessary arrangements… only to be abruptly informed that I had precisely 10 minutes to write her obituary in order to get it into the next day’s paper.
        It was essential to make this deadline because Passover began two days later. We had to hold the funeral the very next afternoon, and I wanted people to know about it.
        Having just lost my mother hours earlier, I wouldn’t have had the presence of mind to do anything of the sort had I not happened to have with me in her purse – along with her reading glasses, wallet, assorted pillboxes, and copious sucking candies -- the bio that Who’s Who had just mailed to her to update, listing every crucial detail of her life.
        There, in one comprehensive run-on paragraph, were the names of her parents, only sibling, and children (us); the dates of both her marriages, as well as her divorce from my father; every college degree she’d ever earned; every job she’d ever held; every school at which she’d ever taught; her professional affiliations; her love of tennis, cooking, and other hobbies; and, of course, her long-prized membership to Mensa.
        I used this outline as my guide, and within the allotted 10 minutes I pressed “send.”
        Then I filed the mini-bio back in her purse for safe-keeping, never ordered those books or paid either of the enclosed bills ($247 for the standard edition of Who’s Who in America and $347 for Who’s Who in the World) and never thought much about it again.
        Until, that is, about a month ago, when I received an intriguing email from someone I didn’t know named John D’Agostino, identified in the subject line as “This is your formal invitation.”  
        “Dear Valued Candidate,” it began.
        
        “You were recently chosen as a potential candidate to represent your professional community in the 2014 Edition of Global Who's Who. The premier networking organization for distinguished professionals.
        “Once finalized, your listing will share registry space with tens-of-thousands of fellow accomplished individuals across the globe, each representing accomplishment within their own geographical area.
        “To verify your profile and accept the candidacy, please click here…”
       
        Share registry space with tens of thousands of fellow accomplished individuals?!? Really? No, my heart did not skip a beat. Nor was I filled with rapture at the prospect of representing my professional community. Although time was that I labored for decades as a serious journalist, I’m now just a lowly blogger.
        I have no professional community.
        This was not the first time I’d gotten such a query, but I usually ignore them. This one managed to pique my interest, though. I was undeniably curious about it because it asked me to verify my profile, which made me instantly begin to wonder: What did my profile say?
        All I had to do was click on that link to find out. So I did. Can you blame me?
        The link led me to a form asking for my name and industry. (Wait. If they didn’t even know my industry, then how could they have my profile? But what the heck.) I filled it out, pressed continue, and got an email back saying that I would receive a call in a few days from a representative who’d interview me to complete my profile.
        Two mornings later, just before 9 a.m., someone named Michael Sheehy called from Covington Who’s Who, a company evidently based in Hollywood, FL. Not wanting to waste my precious time, or his, I stated flatly that I wasn’t interested.
        Yet this news did little to discourage him. He simply fast-forwarded his spiel, bypassing the offer for a lifetime membership, which cost $800, and proceeding directly to their lowest level available, “only $99 for a one-year trial membership."
        Trying to be polite, which is more than I do for most telemarketers, I stood firm. I wasn’t going to give him a dime, I declared. This still did nothing to dissuade him. Instead, he went on to explain that all options included a voucher for two round-trip flights to any of 40 destinations, including London, Spain, California, and Florida.
        Suddenly, I was all ears.
        A roundtrip flight? To Florida? Or even Europe?
        "What’s the catch?" I asked.
        “Catch?” he asked. There was no catch. There were merely two black-out dates, Christmas and New Year’s, and the flights were good on virtually any airline.
        Sure, it sounded too good to be true, but within seconds I found myself giving him my complete career history. He asked everything from why I had gone into journalism in the first place to what my charitable affiliations, personal interests, and hobbies were. For accuracy, I ran downstairs to forage in my office for my most recent resume, determined to give him the correct names of all the awards I’d won way back when.
        If this info was going to be distributed to tens of thousands of professionals, or even just fellow bloggers, then I wanted to get it right.
        After about 20 minutes of this banter, Sheehy asked for my credit card info, which I dutifully surrendered.
        Only at that point did he reveal that in addition to the $99, there was a $29 fee for processing and handling. Also, to get a copy of the book itself would set me back an additional $199. The plaque, if I wanted one, cost $129 more, as I recall.
        I didn’t want the book or plaque and balked at paying so steep a handling fee. But then I thought about those airline tickets again and pictured myself in Paris.
        "What the heck,” I said, and I authorized the payment. In return, he gave me his name and number, saying he would continue to be my personal representative.
        An hour later, I began to think about what a good deal this was and to wonder why both of my kids couldn’t be in Who’s Who, too. They might be young, but they were professionals. They were both “who’s,” too, and both were eager to travel. Maybe I should get them to call and register as well.
        Then, five seconds later, just as I began to dial my son’s number, I suddenly came to my senses. The deal didn't just sound too good to be true; it was. I’m normally savvy, as well as automatically suspicious of everyone trying to sell me something. Why hadn’t I checked the company online before giving my credit card information?
        Then I quickly Googled "Covington Who’s Who." And I thought, “Yikes!"
        Innumerable grievances popped up, indicating that this so-called “professional networking service” had operated a scam for many years under a different name, Biltmore, until it finally had shut down, only to reappear as Covington Who’s Who.
        A common complaint was that the promised airline flight vouchers never arrived. Another was that to take advantage of the “free” flights, you had to pay for an overpriced hotel for a minimum of three nights.
        One unsatisfied customer, referring to the firm as “an unbelievably predatory bunch of frauds,” stated that after realizing it was a scam he’d contacted his credit card company to block any charges, yet they’d managed to go through anyway.
        The outfit had evidently racked up countless complaints with Better Business Bureaus throughout the country. Many people complained that they had called to cancel after the books they’d ordered never arrived, but never received a refund. One victim reported that an entire year had already passed without any recourse.
        Also, as one consumer column pointed out, the original solicitation that had begun “Dear Valued Candidate” contained many red flags, not the least of which was that if my being singled out for distinction “really involved a selection process… you would expect the email to address you by name.”
        I realized in an instant that I’d made a drastic mistake. So I phoned Michael right away and told him that I had changed my mind.
        Sounding almost hurt, he said that was too bad because my information had already been processed.
        “Well, un-(expletive) process it," I told him.
        Michael then transferred me to “Ellen,” who was supposedly in "accounting," to whom I repeated my desire to cancel. She asked if she could ask me why, and I said no, figuring that any explanation I offered would simply open it up to debate.
        “You don’t understand,” she said. “I’m asking you if I can ask why you want to cancel.”
        “Oh, I understand perfectly,” I rebuffed. “And the fact is that you're free to ask. I am simply not going to answer.”
        “Fine. Have a nice day!” she retorted curtly. Now, that was something I was willing to discuss… and debate.
        “I don’t want to have a nice day!” I replied. “I want to be assured that you are not going to process my credit card and charge me $128.”
        She huffily confirmed that she wouldn’t and said to have a nice day anyway.
        That, of course, was far from enough to fill me with any confidence about these people, who were clearly gonifs (Yiddish for “thieves”). So I quickly called our credit card company and was told that no charge had been processed yet, but that the best course of action – short of canceling our card and getting a new one – was to put a temporary hold on the card until further notice.
        Of course, it wasn’t easy living for the coming days without using the credit card on which we normally put most of our expenses. But the worst part of all, beyond the sense of shame and humiliation, was having to confess to my husband, who’s a consumer and business reporter at a large local paper, that I'd been so easily duped.
        Then again, this gave him a juicy subject to write about in his consumer column that week. It also prompted him to confess that he’d backed his car into a snow bank the month before and broken the tail pipe, which cost $400 to repair, another act of sheer stupidity that he felt made us even.
        Now, there’s something I’d really like to debate.
        Over the following weeks, we continued to monitor our card online to see if Covington tried to process a charge. (So far, so good.) I’m also happy to report that I’ve since received three more emails from them inviting me to join, and I simply pressed delete.
        So, who’s who? I dunno. Who are you?
        What I do know is that you are not what you have or what people say or write about you. Rather, you are what you do… or don’t.
        There are hundreds, thousands, maybe even tens of thousands of accomplished individuals, perhaps even professionals, who have fallen for that scheme and maybe lost their money, but I managed to get mine back.
        I’d like a plaque commemorating that.
         (I’m so smart! I’m so brilliant!”)
        I loved my mother, and I loved her mother. But it breaks my heart that my mother’s mother never told her how incredible she was, so that my mother had to pay others to do it.
        Maybe I should start keeping a current copy of my resume in my purse, or in plain sight in the living room, just in case… although all I mostly want people to remember about me is not all the jobs I held, or stupid awards I won, but how much I loved my kids.
        I think that qualifies me to be listed in Who’s Who, too. Who's Who Among Nice Jewish Moms, that is. (Why isn’t there such a book?)
        If there were, I'd make sure that my mother was in it. I think she would be proud.

A Word From the Weiss

        Before I begin to unload about the latest week of misadventures in my life, a quick word from our sponsors.
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        To order, check out the new Nice Jewish Mom store on the navigation bar at right. And please order soon to guarantee receipt in time for Mother’s Day.
        Hope that wasn’t too cheesy!
        And now back to your regularly scheduled blog.
          
        When my husband first mentioned the dinner dance that his law school class was holding last weekend in honor of its 45th reunion, my first reaction was to ask how much it cost. And my second reaction, upon hearing how much it cost, was to say NO WAY.
        I mean, seriously! Sue me, sue me, what can you do me? For one single evening out, even at the ultra-posh albeit stodgy Waldorf Astoria, I was not about to spend that.
        But as the week wore on, being a nice Jewish mom, I let the guilt start to set in.
        His good friend and law school classmate Rick was flying up from Miami with his wife Lynn and their daughter just for the occasion. And as much as we’d promised to hang out with them while they weren’t at the dinner, how much time would that actually be?
        Plus, they were paying not only for the dinner dance, but also airfare and three nights at that exorbitant hotel. Wasn’t shelling out for the gala the least that we could do?
        So on Friday morning my husband called the reunion committee to determine if it were still possible to attend. Big surprise. It was! Even bigger surprise: We were entitled to a discount if he worked in public service. He said that he was a newspaper reporter.
        “Close enough,” they replied.
        And suddenly the issue was not should we or shouldn’t we, but merely what to wear?
        Although my husband attended NYU law school way  back when (make that waaaaay back when), he only practiced law for all of about 10 minutes after graduating and hasn’t exactly kept up with many of his classmates. The only other person we knew who'd be attending was his former roommate Lee (at left), and the last time I had laid eyes on him was at our wedding almost 30 years ago.
        That, by the way, was also the very first time I’d laid eyes on him. As I said, my husband has not exactly kept up with his class.
        So the only people we were really interested in seeing there were Rick and Lynn. But considering that they live in Miami Beach, we were really interested in seeing them. Sure, we’d gotten to catch up with them when we’d escaped Siberia for a week in South Beach in February. But beyond that, our face-to-face interactions tend to be few and far between.
        That may be why, the moment we arrived at our hotel late Saturday afternoon, my husband began hounding me to get ready ASAP, which he expected to happen in 10 minutes flat. Was he out of his mind? (Don’t answer that.) But seriously. I can easily get ready in 10 minutes flat to go walk my dog. But for a dinner dance? At the Waldorf? Given my age, stage in life, and state of disrepair, we were talking more like a matter of days.
        He kept saying that he was going to phone Rick to make sure he saved us seats right next to them, until I finally exploded and said that he was behaving beyond OCD. At first, he hadn’t wanted to go to this event. Why, suddenly, did his life depend upon getting to it?
        But finally, after duly slaving over my hair, nails, makeup, and so on, and putting on my favorite ‘40s-style dress, I realized this was as good as it was gonna get, and we left... while we were still young.
        Of course, we were not staying at the Waldorf Astoria ourselves. Whether or not that legendary hotel might be to our taste, the lap of luxury is not in our budget. Our budget had booked us into a Best Western in Queens. (No luxury. Not even a lap.)
        But soon enough we made our way to this Art Deco landmark in Manhattan on Park Avenue between 49th and 50th Streets, and up to the Conrad Suite, on the fourth floor, where the grand soirée was already underway and cocktails were being served.
        Not being much of a drinker myself (and being stuck in a sort of cultural time warp in which Sex and the City still rules as the height of cool), I asked the bartender for a Cosmopolitan. This is a pale pink drink normally served in a martini glass, consisting of vodka, Triple Sec, and fresh lime juice with just a splash of cranberry added for color.
        What he gave me was more like vodka and cranberry juice in a large wine glass. But the operative word here was probably “large,” and after about four sips I didn’t care.
        Given that 45 is not a particularly notable year, the school had lumped us in with the class of ’64, which had turned out in droves, as well as black-tie, to mark their 50th. And considering that they were 75 and up, you had to hand it to these merry gentlemen. And I do mean “gentlemen,” as opposed to “ladies and…” I soon was accosted by a matronly redhead in a blue sequined dress who began babbling to me in a heavy accent that she’d enrolled at NYU from Argentina as one of only two women in their entire class.
        She also told me quite a bit more, I think, but those were essentially the only words she said that I actually understood.
        My husband, meanwhile, managed to track down one of the few men from his class who had bothered to turn out for this illustrious event. He and this fellow, whose name was Ron, did not remember each other from 45 years ago, but Ron knew Rick.
        But wait. Where was Rick? The party had begun at 6 p.m. and it was already 6:30. Yet he and Lynn were nowhere to be seen.
        Whatever. A waiter wandered by proffering a silver tray. “Lamb chop?” he asked.
        I’m trying to become a vegetarian. But we were at the Waldorf. Why the heck not?
        Ron said he had chosen to attend at the last minute after being urged to come by Rick, whom he’d run into earlier that day. He’d also seen Lee, my husband's former roommate, who was no longer coming. Oh, well. After 30 years, I might not have recognized him anyway.
        Ron had come from Philadelphia for the occasion. I asked him why his wife hadn't joined him and he replied that he’d been divorced for 20 years. That made me feel a little like a fool. OK, actually a lot.
        But then another waiter stopped by with crab cakes. Never mind that they’re trayf. What’s better than crab cakes? Besides, I’ve never kept kosher. Didn’t mind if I did.
        By now, it was nearly 7 and the party staff was urging us all to proceed to dinner. My husband stopped to get another drink at the bar, then we entered the dining room. There were only two tables for his classmates. One of them was already completely full. The other was completely empty.
        We joined Ron at that table, which was way in the corner. My husband, who remained anxious to sit beside Rick, tipped over the two chairs beside him. Ron said that Rick was the only person he knew there and he wanted to sit next to him too.
        So I made room for Rick to sit between them and for Lynn to sit beside them, and went to sit across the table all by myself. Whatever. It’s not like I don’t see my own husband every single day. All the tables were already set with the appetizer, an elegant-looking, tricolored mound composed of undetermined vegetable matter, garnished with a wig of watercress and embellished with concentric circles of a syrupy Balsamic sort of sauce.
        They also were set with glasses full of the wine that accompanied the first course. This was white and indescribably delicious. I’m normally what you might call a cheap date. I can have one drink or one glass of (cheap) wine – not both – and that puts me right to sleep. But even our reduced admission price had been rather hefty, and this stuff was free. So what the heck. Didn’t mind if I did.
        Ron and my hubby were seated so far across the table that we couldn’t converse. Where were Rick and Lynn? My husband decided to call them. They were on their way. Phew!
        They finally breezed in with their daughter in tow. Rick had decided that Gabrielle, who is 13, couldn’t spend the evening in a hotel room on her own. She begged to differ. At the very least, she didn’t want to spend it at a fancy dinner with a bunch of lawyers. 
        She spent the bulk of the rest of the dinner looking at her phone. I spent the bulk of the rest of the dinner listening to Lynn trying to get Gabrielle to stop looking at her phone. But I personally didn’t blame the girl for looking at her phone. The class of ’64 had launched into a series of self-congratulatory speeches about their illustrious past. It took an immeasurable amount of self-restraint for me to stop looking at my own phone.
        But now the second course was being served – filet mignon with baked butternut squash and sautéed kale. Yes, I really am trying to become a vegetarian, but that meat was unbelievably delicious, especially paired with the red wine that accompanied it, which was unbelievably delicious too.
        Dessert, surprisingly, turned out to be just a modest plate of petit fours and chocolate-dipped strawberries plus French macarons (nothing like our Passover coconut macaroons) in assorted pastel shades. But just when we’d finished eating our fill, it turned out that this was just the pre-dessert, like a practice round for dessert -- maybe just the dessert appetizers -- and along came what was evidently the real dessert, individual fallen chocolate tortes served with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.
        As appetizing as these looked and tasted, at this point the speeches resumed, accompanied by a song. Someone from the class of ’64 had written new lyrics to “As Time Goes By.”
       I’m afraid I couldn’t manage to catch them all.
       But maybe that was just as well.
     
        Remember this you must
        A trust is still a trust,
        A crime is just a crime
        Law's fundamental rules still chime
        As by goes time.

And when two lawyers fight
They both say "I am right"
Of that there is no doubt
But EBT's and cross exams
Will bring truth out...
             
It's still the same procedure
To justice it will lead ya'
The case is yours to try
The world will always welcome lawyers
As time goes by!
           
        Seriously? (How about this -- Don't play it again, Sam!)
        Just when I thought I couldn’t stand one more word or verse (even though I'd already easily polished off both glasses of my wine), dinner was pronounced officially over and everyone was asked to proceed to the dance segment of the evening.
        By now, Gabrielle, who is a very sharp and supercool kid, but still a kid, had clearly had more than her fill of the over-70 crowd – a crime to which all three females at our table might have pled guilty – but our husbands were still lost in combative and presumably lawyerly conversation. So Lynn invited me to go up to their room to powder our noses and help Gabrielle get settled for the night.
        I must admit that I was deeply torn between morbid curiosity to see how the other half of our group lived (or at least vacationed) on the one hand and, on the other, extreme dread to discover just how far off from luxurious our own digs doubtless were. But curiosity won.
        I went.
        And far be it from me to even try to describe how spacious, bordering on palatial, their accommodations were, complete with a king-sized bed and expansive sitting area.
        As for their mammoth, marble-lined bathroom (nearly the size of our own bedroom), I have just one word for you.
        Bidet.

        I'm willing to bet there isn't a single one of those in Long Island City. Or maybe even a single person who knows what one is.
        From there, we elected to rendezvous with our male counterparts in the Starlight Ballroom, up on the 18th floor, where the dance portion of the evening was being held. As we entered this opulent banquet hall, consisting mostly of an enormous dance floor, we spied our escorts beside yet another open bar. This one was stocked not only with wine and liquor, but also assorted liqueurs like Kahlua, Amaretto, and Drambuie.
        I asked for a Frangelico and cream on the rocks. This wasn’t such a bad party, after all.
        Out on that dance floor the size of New Jersey, a single couple was shaking a leg. Four legs, to be exact. However, they were dancing to the strains of a nine-piece (18-leg) band. What was wrong with this picture?
        Yet Rick suddenly grabbed Lynn and began to swing her around. So we joined in.
        Then the band launched into “We Are Family,” originally sung by Sly and the Family Stone, and I coaxed Ron to come join us as I mouthed the words to the song emphatically. After all, we were becoming some kind of crazy family, linked by law, weren’t we?
        The ceiling was lined with navy blue and white banners stating the years of all the alumni there celebrating five-year milestones, from the class of 2009 to the class of ’64. Evidently, the room had been relatively deserted until now because the class dinners had been staggered in time, with our group of codgers designated for the early-bird special. But soon enough, much younger revelers began rushing in, leaving the dance floor mobbed.
        There were dancers who thought they were hot stuff on the dance floor but weren’t. There were dancers who thought they were awful on the dance floor and were. And there were dancers who were pretty awful on the floor, knew it, and just didn’t care.
        Where did we fall in that crowd? The jury's still out on that. But I liked the last group best of all.
        Actually, I know exactly where we fell. My husband may once have been a lawyer (albeit for about 10 minutes), but he’s fundamentally a very silly person and a very silly dancer. And whether or not he’s as good on the floor as he thinks (he’s not), we always have fun.
        By pure coincidence, the very next day I saw posted on Facebook an image bearing a word that I had never before heard.
        The word, taken from Middle English, was “balter,” and here’s how it was defined: “To dance gracelessly, without particular art or skill, but perhaps with some enjoyment.”
        That’s exactly what we were doing, and every time we stormed the floor once more upon hearing the opening strains of a song that we liked, it could have been called a “balter dash.”
        Which was a lot more satisfying than any of the speeches we had heard earlier, which consisted, in a word, of “balderdash.”
        That is not to cast any aspersions on lawyers. Why, some of my best friends are lawyers. My brother and sister-in-law are both lawyers. My own husband was once a lawyer (albeit for about 10 minutes).
        Nor is it to cast any aspersions on NYU’s School of Law. Why, Amal Alamuddin (the woman of the moment, being George Clooney’s brand-new fiancée) went there herself, during which time she clerked for Judge Sonia Sotomayor. Of course, Alamuddin, a Beirut-born human rights lawyer, was nowhere near the NYU reunion. She was off in London or somewhere, helping to defend WikiLeaks founder Julian Assange in his extradition case with Sweden… and, of course, getting engaged.
        But if dancing was not the forte of most barristers at the ball, then there were other diversions for these princes (and princesses) who were more churlish than charming.
        Chief among them was a photo booth set up near our table. About the size and dimensions of a phone booth (remember those?), it was only ample enough to accommodate two at a time. No matter. My husband’s old classmate Carol and her husband Ray had joined us for dancing (and yes, more cocktails), and the seven of us took turns piling onto each other’s lap so we could mug for the camera four at a time.
        Was this the dinner dance we had wanted to forego, mostly to save a little dough?
        Most fun ever!
        For those who had already managed to work off dinner on the dance floor, there was also a separate room offering a Viennese table groaning with cream puffs, pies, pastries, and other posh desserts.
        Evidently, the "real dessert" had just been a warm-up round for the dessert buffet.
        By now it was well past midnight, and by my count my husband (after four cocktails and about five glasses of wine), had already consumed more than his money’s worth. And although I’m not much of a drinker, as I said, I was a very satisfied customer too.
        I was also a very tired one, and when Rick and Lynn soon began making their exit, we agreed to call it a night, too.
        Unfortunately, poor Ron now realized that the next train back to Philly didn’t depart until 3 a.m. He declined my offer to see if there might be a room at our Best Western. But my husband had what he thought was a far better solution… at a far better hotel.
        He gallantly introduced Ron to a small, gray-haired lady we found wandering in the hallway whose name tag indicated that she was there celebrating her 50th reunion. Evidently, we’d somehow found her – the only other female member of the class of ’64. And she had a room of her own right on the premises.
        Ron seemed to appreciate this noble gesture even less than he’d welcomed mine.
        My husband later told me he’d learned that Ron’s 70th birthday had begun at midnight. I can only hope that wherever he slept, he had some fun and eventually found his way home.
        As for us, we stopped in the restrooms on our way out, and the individual stalls in the ladies’ room were so large and glitzy that even they put our hotel room to shame. Maybe Ron could have stayed there.
        The next afternoon, after we’d managed to more or less wake up, we met Rick’s family and our own kids for brunch and a little shopping in Soho. But with my niece Suzy and Aidan’s girlfriend Kaitlin in tow, our group was so large that we barely got to chat. So it was a good thing we had bitten the bullet and gone to that damn reunion, after all.
        Still, in the course of asking everyone what they did, I managed to hear Rick note that his ultimate ambition in life was to have a job he enjoyed so much that he’d do it for free.
        It wasn’t a startling revelation, but profound enough to give me a sudden epiphany. Maybe that’s exactly what I have myself. For as much as I kvetch in this space now and then that writing a blog has no monetary reward, I clearly do enjoy it enough to do it for free. For if I didn’t enjoy it, why would I have continued doing it weekly for over three years?
        So in the end, I learned a lot and have two small bits of motherly wisdom to impart.
        1)    If invited, go. It’s almost always much more fun to show up than you ever would have anticipated.
        2)    If you’re satisfied staying on the cheap, do not peek in on the other half’s hotel.
        I also have a new word to propose – blahg. Definition: to write gracelessly, without any particular art or skill… or shred of financial compensation whatsoever… but perhaps some enjoyment. Maybe even a lot.