I have an absolutely adorable nephew named Nathan and we just returned from Toronto, Ontario, where we attended his Bar Mitzvah. Now, I hate to admit this, but I am one of those people who simply does not enjoy these kinds of events.
Don't get me wrong. I'm thrilled when someone wants to give me the gory details of planning her wedding. I'll listen with rapt attention for hours to hear how she debated over roses or calla lillies for her bouquet. I'll go shopping at party stores with distressed mothers of the Bnai Mitvot crowd and help them pick out give-away toys and give it the same meticulous attention that I would use while choosing the Crown Jewels for the Queen.
Need help slogging through invitation books, trying to find the perfect one? I'm your gal!
In fact, I have planned so many events I can practically do it in my sleep. I know all of the local venues and caterers for special events; which florists are the most creative- the cheapest and the most expensive; I know the photographers, the bands and DJs; I know who makes hand painted chuppahs.
But when it comes to actually attending the event? Nah. Not so much. I'd rather stay home, thank you very much.
My husband still marvels how everyone at our synagogue stressed for weeks regarding the plans for our rabbi's tenth anniversary with us. Will was president of our shul at the time. One night, six weeks before the event, he returned from a Board of Director's meeting distraught.
"No one bothered to form a committee for the tenth anniversary and now they say it's too late to plan the gala. The rabbi is going to be so hurt."
"But you have six weeks," I said.
"They say it's impossible, I tell you," he replied.
I sighed. People make such a big tzimmes for nothing.
"Look," I said, "If you want this gala to go off without a hitch I'll do it for you. What's the budget?"
"Five hundred dollars."
I stared at him as if he had become the pope. "For how many people?"
"At least two hundred."
"Wow," I muttered. Now I could even see the Papal red skull cap on his head. Five hundred dollars for a gala event for 200 people. The man needed a miracle.....or a change in the event.
"Give me 24 hours," I said with a smile.
By three PM I had hired a caterer, came up with a menu of BBQ hamburgers and hotdogs with potato salad, cajoled my son, the pianist, to play for free, convinced my daughter, a triple threat actress, to sing for free, contacted the congregation for old pictures of the rabbi for a memory wall, and had even ordered flowers.
I'm no magician, and I'm not tooting my horn. This took literally three phone calls and a brief talk with my kids. And a promise to take them to the movies. I decided to be the main photographer. I'm good at photography. But I asked several other members to take photos as well. Just in case I screwed up.
I changed the 'Gala' into a country jamboree, with sunflowers and haystacks as decor. Our rabbi is from California and plays guitar. It seemed to fit.
Bottom line - everyone had a blast and I was 24 dollars over budget.
So, with this kind of background for party-planning I sat in the car as we drove to Toronto and wondered why I hated attending these events so much.
And then it hit me.
It's because I'm such a sentimental slob. I blubber and wail at every single gathering! The father gets tearful while giving his speech about how great his kid is and I'm balling my eyes out, sniffling and snorting and blowing my nose and sounding like a snuffle-up-a-gus on a bad day. It's so embarrassing!
Can I help it? No! Not in the least. And it's getting worse as time goes by.
Somewhere down the road, some sadistic idiot decided that a video of the Bar/Bat Mitzvah child's life and family should not only be shown, it must oh absolutely MUST be accompanied by the hokiest music ever created. For example: The Wind Beneath my Wings. Oh Help Me! Forget Kleenex, I need an entire case of tissue boxes to get through one of those videos. And they go on forever.
There is no mercy for us sentimental slobs.
So, imagine my distress when there was a very strict rule made for my nephew's Bar Mitzvah, and it came from Nathan, the Bar Mitzvah boy, himself. No tears.
Was he kidding?
Now, to be fair, I understood where he was coming from. His grandmother is the queen of tears. She cries at commercials even! And cartoons. The grandkids laugh with embarrassment when she cries and they often tease her. It isn't even a family joke. The entire Jewish community knows about her penchant for tears.
So there I am on Saturday night, watching the hokiest of hokey videos about my nephew, breaking out in a cold sweat, gritting my teeth, trying so hard not to cry when Bette Midler sang 'The Wind Beneath my Wings.'
I glanced at my mother-in-law. She bit her lips, but she did not shed a tear. She even got up and gave a speech without crying. Dang!
After the video and speeches I sighed with relief and gulped down a glass of wine. I'd survived without a single tear being shed. Then Will's cousin Maurie came over.
"Maurie," laughed my husband. "You're worse than my mother. You've been crying for nearly an hour."
"I can't help it," she wailed. "Now that I'm older and I'm going to be a Bubbie, I cry at everything. Where has the time gone?"
That was it. I burst into tears. "I know exactly what you mean," I sobbed as we clung to each other. "It's unbearable to see them so grown."
Maurie's sister, Bev, joined us and we stood in the middle of the dance floor hugging and crying. "We'll never wait so long to see each other again," cried Bev.
"Time's so short," hiccoughed Maurie. "No more another day. There might not be one!"
"Oh brother," muttered William and walked away.
As we clung to each other, crying, we looked around the room at all of the elderly women staring at us and nodding their heads. The three of us had just passed over that line of sane, seemingly cold-hearted women into the ranks of blubbering bubbies.
It's not a good feeling.
I've decided that Kleenex might be a really good stock to own. And I'm cringing. I've got a wedding to attend next month.

On June the third my husband William and I will celebrate our thirtieth wedding anniversary. I cannot believe it! The time has gone by in a blink. Whoever knew this simple, uncomplicated girl from Edward Street would marry a Jewish man, who became a highly respected lawyer? Definitely not me.
My husband likes to joke and say that I've stuck with him because I never know when another good year is going to show up. "Year three and seven were good," he says with an adorably silly grin on his face. Actually, I always thought year fifteen was one of the better ones.
So, the big question became, "What should we do for our anniversary, honey?"
Me, I'm not into big celebrations for birthdays and anniversaries. I've been known to miss many. However, I did contemplate renewing our vows. After all, the dishtowels and linens are all worn out, the china has chips and cracks and no one plate matches another - we have had three kids, two of them boys who have rambunctious friends. Plates and glasses break on a regular basis, and spoons magically disappear. But the more I thought about it, the more I decided I just wasn't that into the idea of planning another wedding.
William decided we should have a second honeymoon. Something special - California.
"Of all the places in the world," I said, "California is NOT on my top ten list. It's not even on my top 1,000 list! They have earthquakes for crying out loud. I have trouble balancing at the best of times."
William sniffed indignantly at my protestation. "It's beautiful there and you'll love it."
"I'd rather get a new deck for the backyard," I groused.
"Nope, we're leaving on Tuesday. Get packing."
"Tuesday?" I cried. "Six days from now? I just can't up and leave! I have a radio show to prepare for and a million appointments -"
"Sorry, we're booked. Pack."
Well! That was that. On April 29th I found myself sitting in an airplane, heading for sunny California and with way too many outfits and shoes packed. As usual.
We landed in San Francisco and rented a Ford Edge.....nice car! Then we headed down Highway One south to Carmel. The scenery was beautiful but I was still panic-stricken about those gosh darn earthquakes and couldn't really appreciate its true beauty.
However, Carmel would not allow me to miss it. Every little corner of that town clamoured for my attention. Cliched words like charming, quaint, lovely came to mind.
We spent five days in the Carmel region; going down the famous 17 mile road to Pebble Beach, driving to Monterey and Cannery Row and the aquarium; visiting John Steinbeck's house and the Museum they have in his home town, Salinas. That was inspiring.
Then on the only rainy day we had, we drove south to Big Sur and Hearst castle.
Sequoia National Park and the King's canyon took my breath away. No, no, it really took my breath away. We were 8500 feet in the air, in the Sierra Nevadas. Lack of oxygen. Nonetheless, I loved Sequoia National Park and the Forest of the Giants. Being surrounded by trees that are nearly forty feet wide and tower over 600 feet into the sky is a very humbling experience. It was a strange sensation but I felt as if I were amongst very dear old friends. I found it incredibly difficult to leave them behind. And the bear. Did I mention the bear whose path we crossed?
We went to Napa Valley and had a blast on Cinqo de Maio day. Met some lovely birds in Bodega Bay, crossed over the Golden Gate Bridge and explored San Francisco. A very hilly San Francisco. My little town of Windsor is flat as a pancake. I'm impressed with myself when I do a 4 degree trek on the treadmill. Carmel's streets were six and eight degree slants and that was hard. But San Francisco had them all beat - 45 degree slants, even bigger than that. And being with William, we walked everywhere. We even walked UP the famous Lombard Street.
All in all it was a fabulous trip...and no earthquakes! I didn't necessarily leave my heart in San Francisco, but I certainly left some of it in Carmel and Monterey. And a lot of my heart is with those giants, the Sequioas. California is a wonderful and beautiful place to go for a second honeymoon!