On my last trip to Las Vegas at age 25, I played roulette every day after swimming.  One afternoon, Richie Havens gambled at the same table as I did. He didn’t recognize me.

Now several decades later, I am heading to Vegas this Thursday to speak on a panel at AARP’s national event.   As an AARP columnist, my beat is late-life love.

Talk about material. Between my first and second marriages, I had six-month to two-year relationships and one to several dates with men who were terrific, decent, kind, smart, obnoxious, creepy, nauseating, angry, and nuts.  I turned my experiences into essays for magazines and newspapers.  Occasionally I wrote about the swell guys. I had more to say about the loons.

My life raft through the dating trenches was my parents’ wisdom.   Now with the AARP event falling between Mother’s and Father’s Days, their spirits and smarts are with me more than ever, particularly in terms of love.

My first steady beau following my divorce was a bad boy.  Billy Bigelow without a carousel or voice.  “He’s missing that fine coat of polish,” was how my mother put it. “I see why you like him.”  Huh?   In college I thought I was to find someone WITH that fine coat of polish.  A brilliant  future, too.  Mom went on, “He’s got that special manly quality.” When I told her I doubted he was my forever guy, she said, “I see that, too.  If you get married again, make sure that physical thing is there. It’s the glue.”  When I asked if she had ‘that thing’ with Dad, she blushed. “Can’t you tell?”  Wow!  Great news, Mom and Dad! Great news!

Fast forward to my 50s.  I brought the well-dressed, polished good boy I was seeing to the nursing home to meet her.  When she and were alone, I asked if she liked him.  “I’m not the one who has to like him.  You do.  What I think doesn’t matter.”  At that moment, I recalled trying on clothes in the fitting room at Berger’s in Buffalo when I was 8. My mother thought a plaid dress with a full skirt looked pretty on  me.  I was not sure. “You’re the one who will be wearing it so if you’re not sure, let’s not buy it,” she said.  We left the store without the dress.  Decades later, I left the ‘polished’ guy.

Trust my gut! Enjoy physical love!  Mom’s surprising, yet powerful lessons influenced me—big time—as did her constant reminder “Good things take a long time to develop” when she saw my frustrations with learning to play piano, revising my work, mothering, and men. After sharing a dating horror and saying, “I can’t take this anymore,” instead of coddling me or attending my pity party, she said what she’d said on previous occasions when I wanted it all to happen fast, “Of course, you can.”

My father and I were great pals.  We invented  games and words, painted by numbers, and played cards, Ping-Pong,  and beauty parlor during which I’d style his balding brush cut into one of my two favorite hair-dos: a bouffant or parfait.  Whatever the activity, we had a hoot.  Dad was fully engaged. I got the message I was good company and that others—girl friends and eventually a man—would feel the same way.

His regular advice as I got older that “It only takes one” served me well when an editor rejected my work and when I had an awful time with a man. I ‘got’ that we do not click with everyone nor are we supposed to.  Despite spending a lot of time with guys who missed the mark, I ‘got’ too that I had something to offer a terrific, non-jerk of a man.

Thank you, Mom and Dad for teaching me about patience and persistence, for making me think I was fun and fine just as I was, and for the confidence and chutzpah I needed to carry on.  How I wish you were here now to see me with “My One.”

(This appeared in a different form on AARP’s website.  Link to previous AARP columns)

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This appeared in The Buffalo News (May 10, 2013 op-ed page) in a slightly different form.

As a new grandmother this Mother’s Day I am thinking of my own, both gone from this world almost 50 years, yet reminding me how they showed up, and helping me in the role.

In 1964, a week after my Grandma Davidoff died from surgery complications, my Grandma Cohen, about to pay a shiva call, got hit by a car crossing the street at my aunt’s house and died immediately. We did not find out what was in her covered casserole dish.   I did not, as I had for Grandma D, find the words to write a poem.

Intensely social and conventional, Grandma C judged my quirky, misunderstood mother who struggled to fit in. She would come to our house for Friday dinner wearing a dark dress and long face, tighten her lips when we kissed her, and check in with Mom in the kitchen, where a disagreement might ensue.  At the table, she bragged about my country club uncle and the life he afforded his family, disapproving of my father’s preference for literature to making money, showing little interest in me.

On Sunday visits to Grandma Davidoff’s, I got hugs when Dad and I walked in. Then she put freshly baked kichel (sugar cookies) on a plate on the kitchen table. “Just for Nancy,” she would say, sitting me down, her eyes gleaming.  Dad walked around shoving one after another into his mouth. “No one bakes like you, Ma.”  Although I thought her kichel were dry, of course I agreed.

At age seven, on a car trip to Florida, I listened to her stories of two Russian sisters, Mashington and Tashington,  in the back seat with my head on her lap.  After four days, she told my parents, “I never knew how smart Nancy was.”  I reminded her I hardly said a word.  “That’s why,” Grandma said.

She did not drive.  Once or twice a week after school, even as a teenager, I visited her while my mother did errands. We watched “Our Five Daughters” our favorite soap opera. I hated when Mom picked me up.  Later I called Grandma to continue our ‘soap’ discussion but really because she made me feel loved.

Every member of her clan felt that way. Anyone who did not think we were the smartest, most special people on Planet Earth would get a look from Grandma Davidoff. Yet when my Aunt Dora, her younger daughter, came running home with a suitcase, railing about her spouse, Grandma told her, “I bet he has something to say, too.”

The mutual respect and adoration between Grandma D and her brood comforted me. The tension between my mother and Grandma C hurt. I believe Grandma Cohen suffered from depression and, feeling guilty she passed it down to Mom, could not embrace her or her children.   I understand now, too, that praise and affection were hard.

She showed up when it mattered–to take me to the movies on Saturday; to shop for school clothes when my mother was hospitalized; and to help bury my turtle. When Myrtle died, I insisted on having a funeral.  My mother, already sick and spending afternoons in her room, would not participate. I needed a substitute mom.  “She’ll come in a dark dress and long face,” I said, asking Dad to call Grandma Cohen.  Sure enough, a half hour later, she appeared in our backyard wearing both. My father dug a hole in which I placed Myrtle in her bowl. Then my sister, Dad, Grandma and I put dirt, daffodils and dandelions on my little turtle’s grave.

I am sorry I had no couplets for Grandma Cohen. I have promises now for my grandson. Should he get and lose a pet for which he wants a funeral, I will be a respectful mourner and stand beside him wearing the appropriate dress and face.  In the meantime, I will shower him with pride and praise and kisses and hugs, reminding him with a gleam in my eyes that he is the best. The brightest.  Special.

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1. At the last session of my spring Wednesday night writing workshop, my lower back/leg pain, for which I’d been taking meds, acted up, making it difficult to sit.  My student, B, who speaks her mind freely, said I looked pale and unwell. I am a card-carrying truth teller in many ways and in most areas; however, I never understood the point of telling people they look tired or unwell or pale.
2.  The following day, I did not get into a postpartum mood as I often do at a semester’s end.  I got to a neurologist–Dr.V–who banged on my knee, had me do leg raises and sent me for an MRI.
3. A few days later: Four doctors and a repeat:

–the eye doctor, at my post-op visit, confirmed I had 20/20 vision.  I came home to the following phone messages:
–my husband’s doctor reporting the results of a recent procedure were ‘negative’
–my longtime internist checking on my eye and back
–the neurologist saying he got the MRI results.  Please call.
–the neurologist again. Better I come in.

4.The next day, I went to see Dr. V. He pulled up a chair next to his desk and sat me down. “I don’t hear well.  It’s easier for me with you here,” he said, then mumbled that he’d waive my co-pay but would bill my insurance company for this visit.  Of course.  My diagnosis: nothing is ruptured or herniated. I have “bulges” or “protrusions” which will probably heal on their own.  I do not need medication, second opinions, or physical therapy unless I want them. PT, he said, is best for muscle strengthening and if not done right, can harm.  I asked for a PT script just in case.  On it, he wrote the diagnosis, which includes the words “lumbar spine.” And under it, “PLEASE TREAT GENTLY.”

5.I intentionally left out something earlier about my last Wednesday night class to round things out now as I come to the end.  B, who had mentioned I looked pale and unwell, was the last student to read her work.  It was poignant and beautifully written, surpassing everything she had written before. We were blown away.  After we critiqued it, she looked over at me and quite loudly said, “I improved because of Nancy.  She made me go deeper and gave me the space.”  A lump formed in my throat. Her comment touched me. I have always understood the point of acknowledging who one is and what he or she has done. It’s among the most human things we can do. Who cared what B said earlier?

We’re all a mix, aren’t we?  Things balance out. My Wednesday nighters renewed their vows with me. They will all take my workshop again in the fall. In the meantime, I put the neurologist’s prescription in my top dresser drawer. “Please treat gently.”  Of course.

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You are getting notice of my new blog post on Tuesday morning at the same time that I am getting my new eye.  Not a whole eye.  A lens. The surgeon is removing the mature cataract in my left eye—two years ago he removed the mature one in my right–and is putting in an artificial lens. And not because I am a repeater or older (aren’t we all?) he is also providing car service to and from his facility.  It is a simple, quick procedure.* My first went well. The surgeon is renown.  Still, they will be taking my blood pressure a zillion times between my arrival at the facility and their wheeling me to the operating room. And I’ll be signing a zillion more forms. To stay calm, collected, and happy, here are the things I did the past several days with my “in sickness and in health” person and my good eye.

–Had brunch with my kids and grandson. He gave me a million smiles. I gave him a million hugs.

–Had a favorite dinner at my favorite neighborhood Japanese restaurant where I’ve been going for thirty some years.

–Spent a day in Montauk, eating fried clams and homemade ice cream, staring at the ocean, and remembering why we love Montauk.

–Bought a new, much needed bed.  I have had the old one much longer than I have had my husband.  Nothing further or raunchy to say on the subject.  Just wanna avoid back pain and sciatica, sleep better or at least past 3:00 am and….

–Keep the music alive. We do that not just before surgery but regularly. In small and big ways. We sure did that at Radio City Music Hall seeing Leonard Cohen. After skipping onto the stage, he told the audience that he didn’t know when we’d all meet again, but for the evening, he would give us all he’s got. He did. He began with DANCE ME TO THE END OF LOVE and ended close to midnight, doing several songs after rocking our worlds with HALLELUJAH. Then he skipped off the stage and into the night.

Trying to put Leonard Cohen’s magic into words is just ridiculous.

So good-bye to you until we meet here again. I must drop four kinds of drops into my left eye before my chariot/car service arrives. Tomorrow I may be singing, “I Can See Clearly Now” and “There’s a Bright Golden Haze on the Meadow….”

For now and always… HALLELUJAH!

*At my age, it is best to call the fixing, inserting, removing and replacing the doctor does a “procedure.”

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order in

stay in

come in(from shopping, the gym, the snow or rain, or from work where you were successful or unsuccessful leaning in)

sleep in

go out

freak out

stretch out

veg out

work out

pig out

lighten up

spruce up

wash up

sit up

sit down

simmer down

quiet down

keep it down

If you’re not too tired after doing your ins and outs and ups and downs, maybe you can:

have it all

have some

have something

read something other than the nine million articles about leaning in.

The End

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Last week was family-rich and full. My husband and I saw all our kids and grandson in new and different ways.  He had lunch alone with our son-in-law. I had lunch alone with my stepdaughter when she was in town.  Just great! My stepson came for my meatloaf the same night we had a longtime, our-age friend.  Their common interest–movies–and similar sense of humor—both yuck it up over EVERYTHING—made it a fun night.

Then there’s our grandson.  One day mid-morning when I was in the middle of work, my daughter called to see if I wanted to join them for lunch-hour gymnastics. As a Grandmother-in-Love, I pressed ‘Save,’ turned off my computer, flew to the subway, caught an express, and within 45 minutes was parking his stroller with 40- some other strollers in the gym hallway and then sat on the floor in an enormous circle and sang Itzy BitzyTeeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini with the moms and nannies while 40-some babies—all six months  and younger—napped, spit up, stared at us, and stared at the teacher who came around and picked each one up so they’d be flying monkeys. I have 97 photos of Our Flying Monkey doing UP, UP, UP and sucking his thumb. Three days ago, on his 6-month birthday, I watched him in a swimming pool—held by his parents–and then gave him a picture book I wrote, gave him a bath, put him to bed and with his other babysitter—my husband–stared at the  97 photos he took of the water baby.

Lotsa firsts.  Lotsa treasured moments with our clan.

The same week, we had a different kind of moment. It’s making me think, not kvell.  We saw Clive Davis talk about his new book, The Soundtrack of My Life at the NYU law school. Why? I’ve had a tiny, tiny interest in the music business and in Davis’s career since I interviewed Barry Manilow in the 1970s after Davis found “Mandy” for him.  I like listening to people who love their work and rose to the top of their professions. Most of the men in my immediate family, like Davis, are lawyers who do not lawyer.   NYU law school is in our ‘hood. I know where the toilet is.  The event was free.  I love ‘free.’

The interviewer started right in with something I hadn’t known that came out in the book: Davis’s bisexuality. He hammered away questions. Davis—being as political as his book and as the Clintons—was smooth and succinct and careful answering. He’s had two wives, then a fourteen-year relationship with a male doctor—a Jewish doctor, natch—is now in a long one with another man and describes himself as bisexual. My husband and I discussed bisexuality afterwards. I’ve since discussed it with the girls. Are some people bisexual?  Or just more sexual?  Can a person really be attracted to both?  One friend said she thinks women can be bisexual, but men are either straight or gay. I dunno.  Is there a simple answer to this one?  Any thoughts you wanna share?

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I came across this Twain quote the other day. Love it. Love him. His book, LETTERS FROM THE EARTH was on my father’s night table when it wasn’t in his hands. Twain and Shakespeare.  Shakespeare and Twain.  Lucky us to have had them.

Lucky me to have had the mother I did. For many reasons. Here’s one: 50 years ago, late one afternoon, she appeared in the living room where I was watching some moronic soap opera on TV.  “Read this instead. You’ll understand me better and maybe make a better life.” She handed me THE FEMININE MYSTIQUE.  When I told the girls at school that my mother gave me the book, they were shocked.  They had heard that it was like PEYTON PLACE and CANDY.  Forbidden.  Their moms had not put it in their hands. Or read it themselves.  Or encouraged their daughters to break from convention and rock boats. I devoured the book in a few sittings.  Wow!  Thank you, Betty.  More important, thank you, oh yes thank you, Mom.

Last week, I went to three book events for three erstwhile students, two in one night.  All three are courageous women. They wrote stories about their challenges and those of other strong women.  Two started their books in my class. They worked hard.  Stayed with it. Persisted.  Revised.  Hung in.  And revised some more. Yay!

On Saturday, my AARP piece, 50 THINGS THAT ARE BETTER THAN SEX appeared on a big AARP site with a picture of Paul Newman. Paul was one of my 50 items. So far, over 2100 ‘likes’ have appeared along with almost 300 comments. About Paul’s sex appeal, looks, and eyes.  Of course.  About the things they like better than sex. And about what a pathetic sex life I must have.  Seriously!  So, to my literal-minded readers: I sometimes write with my tongue in my cheek.  That was among the reasons the AARP editors hired me.  Yes, cool hand Luke was sexy.  Always. But we’re talking fantasy and the screen. My 50 THINGS….is a humor piece.  Pu-lease, you needn’t worry.

An article appeared in this past Monday’s New York Times called “More Than One N.Y.U. Star Got Lavish Parting Gift” about the high six-figure yearly incomes and homes the university president and other top level administrators get when they leave their jobs.  I swallowed that with my first cup of coffee.  With my second cup, I read my emails. One was a letter from NYU explaining that adjunct instructors—I am one–will get future appointment letters and all correspondence electronically to cut costs and save money. Some things change.  Some never do.  Some want to make me puke.  But hey,  much in my life is better than my adjunct salary.  At least 50 things.

LOVE ‘N STUFF, Nancy

ps. my new AARP column is up. link:  www.aarp.org/home-family/home-family-experts/single-dating-sex-advice-kelton

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My current AARP column, 50 Things That Are Better Than Sex, can be found at this link: www.aarp.org/home-family/home-family-experts/single-dating-sex-advice-kelton along with my last three columns.

My editor calls it “Nancy’s Favorite Asexual Activities.”  Had I written the column three days ago instead of last week, I might have had 52. I just finished reading Sonia Sotomayor’s memoir, MY BLESSED WORLD and saw the movie, QUARTET.  I recommend both.

Love ‘N Stuff,

Nancy

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To my stepson:

I never knew a fencer before.  You’re great!  I ‘get’ why your dad is so proud.  I’m looking forward to coming to your matches.  And to having many more family dinners out so you can continue rolling your eyes and laughing at me for suggesting we share and split what we order and then be the first to stick your fork in my food.

To my grandson:

My friends, who are grandparents of older children, tell me it keeps getting better.  How could that be?  You are beyond anyone and anything I dreamed of, expected, or imagined. Adorable. Sweet.  Riveting.  Observant. An angel.  And so squishy and cuddly.  Everything about you: you smile, your noises, your ‘you’ make my heart sing. I love you, little baby. You are my precious valentine.

To my son-in-law:

If I were to pick a husband for my daughter, a father for my grandchild, and a son-in-law for me, I would clearly pick YOU.  You are a kind, giving, loving human being.  And terrific company, too. Your smile and personality light up every room you are in. The place you occupy in my heart is enormous and special.  You are a card-carrying mensch.

To my father in heaven’s card room:

I wish you could meet the new guys in the family.  Oh Dad, you’d love them, too!

You are no doubt the Don Corleone in the bridge games up there with everyone coming by to ask your advice and pay respect.   I respect and love you every day and in every way for:

–running up Covington Avenue holding the back of my bike until I could ride alone, telling me then and so often afterwards to hold on tight, keep on pedaling, and not get thrown by bumps;

–playing card games and whatever I wanted including beauty parlor when I styled your balding brush cut into one of my favorite hairdos:  a “bouffant” or a “parfait.”

– laughing at everything (including what I’d say), and showing me life was fun

–teaching me to enjoy my own company

–showing me how to forgive

– insisting I find work I love

– insisting I be my own person and not keep up with the Joneses, whom you said were clueless;

–reminding me regularly that with both love and work: it only takes one.

To my husband, my one:

Every day I am grateful that:

–I found you

–you didn’t say “no”

–your feet are firmly on the ground

–your heart is so big and so generous

–your head is on the pillow next to mine.

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To Brenda:

We became acquainted less than a year ago when you started reading my blog.  I think it was with THE JOYS OF NOT DOING YOGA which your friend or teacher suggested you read.  I was delighted you found me.  You became one of the first readers each Tuesday to leave a comment here.  Your kind words have been warming my heart.

To Margie,

When you welcomed me at your front door and into the clan on the day of your father’s funeral,  I knew immediately we’d be friends.  In the last five years, you’ve shown me the plank and boat poses, showed up in big and small ways at events, on the phone, and when we stay at your house, and have reassured me about so much when we get a chance to talk. Thank you for being such a loving sister-in-law.

To the female members of my new AARP community:

As a seasoned insomniac, I do some of my corresponding with you in the middle of the night. What a fun gabfest!  I hope we have many more conversations about men, children, health, exercise, dreams, regrets, and all our other stuff. Here’s to our continued pajama party!

To Inez ,

I’m thinking of pajama parties now.  Remember ours? You were my first best friend and the  first one to sleep at my house when we were 7 or 8.  I was—I think the second after Karen Yenoff –to sleep at yours.  Our made-up games and our putting one over on your grandmother, Nonny Colman, when she babysat were a hoot.   Big deal that you were very pretty and I was good in math.  Big deal that as we got older you had lots of boyfriends carrying your books and I had lots of books to carry. It was hard back then.  I’m over it now (sort of) because you were and are a treasured friend.  I could not have cleaned out my father’s closet in Florida without your help and love.  Thank you for staying in close touch, for continuing to exchange news about our lives and photos of our grandchildren, and for decades of sharing laughter and ever so much more.

To Judy,

No way could I have gotten through my divorce, years of single mothering, dating, and long lonely nights if you were not upstairs in the building with dinner, clothes from your latest line, the most current magazines which I always took home and an open door and heart.  I was touched when you initiated a conversation with me in the mail room thirty three years ago, invited me to brunch, and after we began hanging out together a whole lot told me that I was the first person you ever pursued for a friendship.  That the doormen and building staff thought we might be a couple was not all that surprising. We were—still are—in sync.

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