The evites went out on Sunday afternoon. Within minutes, I had four responses. My sister wasn't flying in, but the locals would be out in force. As the day went on, my inbox was filling up with love notes from the invitees. They were delighted to be asked, even if 3pm on Tuesday was inconvenient or impossible.
When Mom asked if she had anyone to invite, I assured her that there were a lot of people who would enjoy the chance to wish her well. Besides, I told her, we'll have cake and ice cream and champagne, and everyone needs a snack in the late afternoon. She and I had made our presence known in the Happy Ladies Club, back before I intersected with bullets. We'd bowled, we'd lunched, we'd walked with women younger than she and older than she and we were welcomed with interest and affection. I figured that I could ask those women to attend without the whole thing looking staged.
Once I started through my contact list, I found lots of pockets of love to include. Burtt and Ernie were thrilled to get the chance to meet my mom, to see my face, to show off how well Burtt is recovering, to talk to TBG, to meet my brother. Nurse Nancy, whose healing hands and pressure saved my life on the sidewalk outside the Safeway, entered the room in the arms of my brother, who introduced her to one and all as THE Nancy. He's right, of course.
But mostly it was the Happy Ladies Club, women who look like the women who've always been in my mother's life, comfortable, settled, of all shapes and sizes but each one willing to spend an hour with a friend. For them, the cake and ice cream were the cherry on top of a pretty special afternoon.
None of them had been to the pod-castle before, and none of them were prepared for it. Watching their reactions to the open, airy public spaces, G'ma's charming personal apartment, the friendliness of the staff, was comfort to my soul. Though she never wanted to live with me, and I never wanted to invite her, it's always a tug when I leave her behind... with strangers.... to fend for herself. The smiles on the guests' faces was fabulously confirming.
I was the one getting the present. I felt that way all afternoon.
No Presents, PLEASE was the request, though, if you must bring something, bring chocolate was on the very next line. There were fancy milk duds, and Godiva, and bags of goodies... all chocolate. The chocolate from the chocolate cake with chocolate frosting and the two types of chocolate ice cream was coating her lips as she smiled, and thanked the givers. The cards were chosen with care, and the notes were filled with love... and amazement. 90 is a true milestone and, amidst the revelry and the story telling, the waves of conversation kept returning to that fact.
G'ma was feeling proud of herself by the time the last guest left. She wore her cardboard tiara into the dining room, something she'd never have done in her old life. She walked right to her chair, and accepted birthday greetings with a smile. Brother and I walked out with smiles on our faces and joy in our hearts.
It's not what I'd imagined her dotage to be. She is calm and accepting and unafraid, adjectives which never would have been used when she was 60 or 70. I look for myself in her, and I hope I see that same willingness to agree when wiser minds must prevail. The ability to cede control without panic or recriminations is, I think, G'ma's greatest gift. She is aware enough to know what she doesn't know, but that's not the center of her day to day existence. She seeks the peace, the comfort, the familiar, and she smiles as time passes.
It's not giving up, it's acceptance.
She's 90 and she's happy.
I can accept that.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
On Growing Old
Bunionella called this morning. We spent as much time talking about our mothers as we did about our daughters. Our stories are different and the same, our reactions equally confused. There's no Dr. Spock for us. We're on our own, muddling through the best we can.
She's coming to terms with making some demands of her own. Making decisions for another, making choices for another, directing the life of another takes its toll. If we don't look out for ourselves along the way, who will be there for her when we are lying, helpless, on the couch, unable even to think about the situation let alone do something to make it better?
"God help me if...." and I finished her sentence with my own worst nightmare. Our conversation took a turn to the bizarre, the what-would-be-worse scenarios filling my ears. Until bullets interrupted the reverie, it never occurred to me that I would be anything other than a spry 102 year old, bending and stretching and moving and thinking with the best of them. Now that I am more grounded in reality, the what-if's feel much closer.
I'm sure my mother never imagined that she'd be this infirm. She has her moments of disgust with the whole situation, but she's never really asked for much along the way, and this time of her life is no different, it seems.
She was born 90 years ago today, February 19, 1923. As I recall, it was a snowy day in Brooklyn, and my grandparents took the trolley or the bus or the train to the hospital and there's no one left to ask which one it was. There's only G'ma, with her blunt cut and her sparkling blue eyes and the knowledge that she doesn't remember anything, doesn't know where she lives, has no notion of what-to-do-next. She also has the certainty that none of that matters.
She has her chocolate and sole possession of the remote control. Someone does her laundry and cooks her meals and does the dishes afterwards. She is happy to see me and tells me she is happy where she is living. I could ask for more, but I'm not sure where to direct the request.
I know many 80 and 90 year olds who outdo me in logic and reason. The Iron Duke, Aged Parm, Mrs. K, Miss Jane... they read and write and think all day, every day. That was my mom, too. The woman who'll be cutting the cake and wearing the tiara as we pop champagne and drown in chocolate may not remember the party by the time she goes to bed, but, in the moment, she'll be having the time of her life.
I'm not sure I really ought to ask for more.
She's coming to terms with making some demands of her own. Making decisions for another, making choices for another, directing the life of another takes its toll. If we don't look out for ourselves along the way, who will be there for her when we are lying, helpless, on the couch, unable even to think about the situation let alone do something to make it better?
"God help me if...." and I finished her sentence with my own worst nightmare. Our conversation took a turn to the bizarre, the what-would-be-worse scenarios filling my ears. Until bullets interrupted the reverie, it never occurred to me that I would be anything other than a spry 102 year old, bending and stretching and moving and thinking with the best of them. Now that I am more grounded in reality, the what-if's feel much closer.
I'm sure my mother never imagined that she'd be this infirm. She has her moments of disgust with the whole situation, but she's never really asked for much along the way, and this time of her life is no different, it seems.
She was born 90 years ago today, February 19, 1923. As I recall, it was a snowy day in Brooklyn, and my grandparents took the trolley or the bus or the train to the hospital and there's no one left to ask which one it was. There's only G'ma, with her blunt cut and her sparkling blue eyes and the knowledge that she doesn't remember anything, doesn't know where she lives, has no notion of what-to-do-next. She also has the certainty that none of that matters.
She has her chocolate and sole possession of the remote control. Someone does her laundry and cooks her meals and does the dishes afterwards. She is happy to see me and tells me she is happy where she is living. I could ask for more, but I'm not sure where to direct the request.
I know many 80 and 90 year olds who outdo me in logic and reason. The Iron Duke, Aged Parm, Mrs. K, Miss Jane... they read and write and think all day, every day. That was my mom, too. The woman who'll be cutting the cake and wearing the tiara as we pop champagne and drown in chocolate may not remember the party by the time she goes to bed, but, in the moment, she'll be having the time of her life.
I'm not sure I really ought to ask for more.
Happy Birthday, Mommy
Monday, February 18, 2013
Special Time with Miss Texas
You can read it in advice columns. It can be told to you by friends and teachers. But actually doing it reinforces the truth of the matter: kids like having your undivided attention. The secret that's often unrevealed is this: grown-ups like having kids' undivided attention, too.
It had been a long day, an exhausting week, an emotionally tumultuous time for me, for my friends, for the world. The President spoke to the country, responsible gun legislation was on everyone's mind, my opinion was sought. Elizibeth turned 15 and went to her first formal. Parental insensitivity had been discussed and dismissed in draining, heart-wrenching, nearly-teary conversations. Good deeds had been done, blog posts missed and posted late, sensations returned with little explosions of pain announcing their arrival, weeds sprayed, classes attended, and there I was, Friday afternoon, in the Schozz, on the carpool line, thirty minutes early. Some things never change.
Miss Texas and I were going to follow her agenda for the whole afternoon, starting with my being the first car on line to pick her up after school, Christina-Taylor's school, the one with the playground we created clearly visible from the parking lot. I spent some time missing my little friend before Miss Texas bounced into the back seat, shaking me from my reverie, startling me just as my kids did decades ago. Some things never change.
It had been a long day, an exhausting week, an emotionally tumultuous time for me, for my friends, for the world. The President spoke to the country, responsible gun legislation was on everyone's mind, my opinion was sought. Elizibeth turned 15 and went to her first formal. Parental insensitivity had been discussed and dismissed in draining, heart-wrenching, nearly-teary conversations. Good deeds had been done, blog posts missed and posted late, sensations returned with little explosions of pain announcing their arrival, weeds sprayed, classes attended, and there I was, Friday afternoon, in the Schozz, on the carpool line, thirty minutes early. Some things never change.
Miss Texas and I were going to follow her agenda for the whole afternoon, starting with my being the first car on line to pick her up after school, Christina-Taylor's school, the one with the playground we created clearly visible from the parking lot. I spent some time missing my little friend before Miss Texas bounced into the back seat, shaking me from my reverie, startling me just as my kids did decades ago. Some things never change.
Miss Texas was wearing her "Lawyer Shoes."
They can't be worn at school; no one could run in those little heels.
They are perfect for Special Time afternoons, though.
They make a wonderful sound on the tin floor and the wooden planking.
She signed us in, just as CTG signed us in that sunny Saturday morning in 2011.
I do seem to spend a lot of time with little girls, don't I?
I think that's why I smile so much.
Our GRIN aprons kept our clothes clean.
My ties barely made a bow in the back.
Miss Texas had to pull hers around to the front to keep it together.
I love first graders who can tie a bow.
The paint sat on the mantle behind our table.
Those dollops on the pallette (two new words for Miss Texas)
would be used to put three coats on the beads.
Establishing a strong connection between the pointed stick and the hole in the bead
took no small amount of concentration.
Then, we began to paint.
There was a large group of 20 and 30 year olds sharing our space.
While we were using fat brushes and blowing to speed up the between-coats-waiting-period,
they were painting silly faces
 |
| (photo by Miss Texas) |
and creating multi-colored masterpieces.
Ours may not have been as amusing, but they put smiles on our faces nonetheless.
We cleaned up our own mess,
though this picture is staged.
Miss Texas is a quick and competent cleaner-upper-girl.
She was done before I could gather my camera and my purse and meet her at the sink.
Then, it was time for snack.
We hadn't stopped on our way downtown.
We were anxious to get going, and it was a long drive.
But tiny tummies need nourishment, so off to Eegee's we went.
While the ham sandwich was tasty,
it was the ranch fries that made us smile.
What are YOU doing this afternoon?
Can you include a little one in the activity?
I promise you smiles and laughter and love.
Lots and lots of love.
Friday, February 15, 2013
Making Valentines With The Big Kids
It
was Valentines Day at the Prince/Amphi campus, and the celebration
was in full swing.
There
was lots of love to be shared
We
covered the tables at the far end of the cafeteria with wrapping
paper
and
spread out the stickers and the markers and the tape and the
design-punches
next
to the candy in the baskets.
Next
year I'm bringing five times as much candy; it was gone after the
first lunch period ended.
Some
went on the cards.
Some
went in the mouths.
I
brought deckle edge and jagged edge and curved edge scissors.
As
always, the stickers were a big hit.
Much
time and attention were devoted to placing each one, just so.
The
glue sticks were dry and useless.
Scotch
tape was a semi-satisfactory substitute.
This
was a lunch time project, and though we tried to keep the food away
from the crafts,
we
were sometimes less than successful.
Some
artists were chatty
while
others took a more serious approach.
Some
of the cards were sealed
and
some were filled with verbiage.
One
Direction (the newest boy band, we were informed) was a common
theme.
As
one who debated the relative wonderfulness of George vs Paul vs John
vs Ringo,
I
suppose I shouldn't judge.....
The
candy was requested, never grabbed.
These
are very polite middle schoolers.
There
were some spelling issues
and
some fairly fabulous faces
decorated
and redecorated until they were just right.
The
boys weren't shy about participating, either.
In
fact, one of them created my favorite card of all.
All
it took was $25 in supplies and less than two hours of time.
All
we got were smiles and thanks and hugs and gratitude.
It
was, we all agreed, a pretty good deal all around.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
On Watching Westminster
I never wanted a dog. I never missed having a dog. I walked my Siamese cat on a leash exactly once; he escaped and I had to chase him under the neighbor's hedge. That was it for pet care for me.
My brother received gerbils for his Bar Mitzvah from my uncle, who didn't ask my parents for permission to bring living things into their home. I never touched them. I never played with them. I rarely watched them. I wasn't sad when he sold them to a friend, or gave them to the pet store.... until they refused to take any more babies. Breeding like rabbits? Try breeding like gerbils....they were everywhere.
The Big Guy grew up with dogs, loves dogs, didn't mind having a dog. Big Cuter was with me; he could take it or leave it. The problem was the fourth member of the family. Little Cuter needed a dog. She had to have a dog. Life was incomplete without a dog. She would care for it, tend to it, insure that it never intruded inconveniently into my life space. A dog was essential. She was 4.
She studied dogs. She read about dogs. She watched television about dogs. She pretended that she was a dog, an activity I enjoyed until she insisted that I walk her on a leash. At that point, I diverted her attention to something less grotesque; I could not walk my daughter on a leash. Just could not do it.
This turned out to be more than a passing phase, and TBG and I were losing interest in the arguing. We agreed that she could have a dog when she turned eight, all the while assuming that canines would go the way of princesses and vanish into the ether.
No such luck. Her interest magnified, blossomed, gained intensity.
Then, we moved to California, the edge of the country, far from the only babysitter she'd ever known. Promising her a pooch was the only thing that stopped her tears. She was 7... a year younger than she'd been imagining that she would be a pet owner. She could hardly wait to leave. Unfortunately for Little Cuter, we rented for a year, and the lease precluded pets. She suffered silently for twelve months.
Two days after we moved into the home we'd purchased next door, she woke us up demanding her dog. She had waited patiently. She hadn't nagged. She was now more than 8 years old and she wanted her dog and she wanted it now. There was no arguing. She was right. I was naive and said, "Sure."
We piled into the car and drove to the Humane Society. She chose a beast of the right size and we took it to the enclosed yard to play. Within minutes, Big Cuter and I were rubbing our eyes, sneezing, itching. He was a delightful beast, but breathing was more important than satisfying her needs. We were out of there and home to shower off the dander before she could work up more than a disgruntled pout. I promised that we'd find her a dog tomorrow. It never occurred to me that it would be a problem. Then, I turned to the Pets For Sale ads in the paper (this was the 20th century, remember)and realized that no one advertises "well behaved hypo-allergenic dog for free" in Marin County. Or in Sonoma or Napa for that matter.
In fact, the only dogs which were available immediately were dachshunds. There were lots and lots of dachshunds. We chose one and brought him home and nursed him through mange and coerced him to bathe and tried, in vain, to teach him to fetch or roll over or beg. In all fairness, he excelled at Sit/Stay. Since it involved no action beyond inaction, I'm not sure it's all that much to brag about but it's all we've got.
As we watched the Westminster Dog Show last night, we heard breeds described as loyal, fierce, inquisitive, commanding, mischievous. We saw bright eyes and bushy tails and sleek coats. Mary Carillo is the perfect sportscaster for this event; she says what I'm thinking as it pops into my head. Yes, that one is hair with a face, that one is a cotton swab, this one requires no maintenance at all. There were fast dogs and proud dogs and helpful dogs and loving dogs. I heard myself rejecting them and desiring them and I hoped that TBG wasn't listening too closely.
He's been saying that he's going to get a dog once he has his knee replaced; he's looking forward to walking it. I keep reminding him that there's also poop patrol and mopping up indoor accidents and vet visits to consider. I keep reminding him that I've already assumed responsibility for a dog once in our marriage, because, although she tried her best, an eight year old can't really clean a carpet to my satisfaction. I'm not looking to repeat the performance.
On the other hand, having a cold nose snuggle up under my arm on the couch would feel pretty good right about now.
My brother received gerbils for his Bar Mitzvah from my uncle, who didn't ask my parents for permission to bring living things into their home. I never touched them. I never played with them. I rarely watched them. I wasn't sad when he sold them to a friend, or gave them to the pet store.... until they refused to take any more babies. Breeding like rabbits? Try breeding like gerbils....they were everywhere.
The Big Guy grew up with dogs, loves dogs, didn't mind having a dog. Big Cuter was with me; he could take it or leave it. The problem was the fourth member of the family. Little Cuter needed a dog. She had to have a dog. Life was incomplete without a dog. She would care for it, tend to it, insure that it never intruded inconveniently into my life space. A dog was essential. She was 4.
She studied dogs. She read about dogs. She watched television about dogs. She pretended that she was a dog, an activity I enjoyed until she insisted that I walk her on a leash. At that point, I diverted her attention to something less grotesque; I could not walk my daughter on a leash. Just could not do it.
This turned out to be more than a passing phase, and TBG and I were losing interest in the arguing. We agreed that she could have a dog when she turned eight, all the while assuming that canines would go the way of princesses and vanish into the ether.
No such luck. Her interest magnified, blossomed, gained intensity.
Then, we moved to California, the edge of the country, far from the only babysitter she'd ever known. Promising her a pooch was the only thing that stopped her tears. She was 7... a year younger than she'd been imagining that she would be a pet owner. She could hardly wait to leave. Unfortunately for Little Cuter, we rented for a year, and the lease precluded pets. She suffered silently for twelve months.
Two days after we moved into the home we'd purchased next door, she woke us up demanding her dog. She had waited patiently. She hadn't nagged. She was now more than 8 years old and she wanted her dog and she wanted it now. There was no arguing. She was right. I was naive and said, "Sure."
We piled into the car and drove to the Humane Society. She chose a beast of the right size and we took it to the enclosed yard to play. Within minutes, Big Cuter and I were rubbing our eyes, sneezing, itching. He was a delightful beast, but breathing was more important than satisfying her needs. We were out of there and home to shower off the dander before she could work up more than a disgruntled pout. I promised that we'd find her a dog tomorrow. It never occurred to me that it would be a problem. Then, I turned to the Pets For Sale ads in the paper (this was the 20th century, remember)and realized that no one advertises "well behaved hypo-allergenic dog for free" in Marin County. Or in Sonoma or Napa for that matter.
In fact, the only dogs which were available immediately were dachshunds. There were lots and lots of dachshunds. We chose one and brought him home and nursed him through mange and coerced him to bathe and tried, in vain, to teach him to fetch or roll over or beg. In all fairness, he excelled at Sit/Stay. Since it involved no action beyond inaction, I'm not sure it's all that much to brag about but it's all we've got.
As we watched the Westminster Dog Show last night, we heard breeds described as loyal, fierce, inquisitive, commanding, mischievous. We saw bright eyes and bushy tails and sleek coats. Mary Carillo is the perfect sportscaster for this event; she says what I'm thinking as it pops into my head. Yes, that one is hair with a face, that one is a cotton swab, this one requires no maintenance at all. There were fast dogs and proud dogs and helpful dogs and loving dogs. I heard myself rejecting them and desiring them and I hoped that TBG wasn't listening too closely.
He's been saying that he's going to get a dog once he has his knee replaced; he's looking forward to walking it. I keep reminding him that there's also poop patrol and mopping up indoor accidents and vet visits to consider. I keep reminding him that I've already assumed responsibility for a dog once in our marriage, because, although she tried her best, an eight year old can't really clean a carpet to my satisfaction. I'm not looking to repeat the performance.
On the other hand, having a cold nose snuggle up under my arm on the couch would feel pretty good right about now.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Detroit Auto Show, the G-7, and Me
It can be revealed, at last. My mystery trip to the mid-west in January had a particular purpose, a purpose I was not at liberty to share. Now that the videographer has created his masterpiece, I am free to repost the pictures and tell you all about it.
That's the G-7... the Group of Seven... the women JeanKnowsCars.com assembled last month... the lucky ones chosen to tour the Detroit Auto Show on Media Day. Yes, that is I, your friendly correspondent, right there in the middle. If you look closely, you can see my cane assistive device walking stick hiking pole leaning on my green purse behind me. Vanity, thy name is A/B.... I tried to look as able-bodied as possible all afternoon. Sometimes, I succeeded.
We had answered a prompt on the JeanKnowsCars website, emailing Jean's sister-in-law the reasons she should include us in the group. In typically adult fashion, mine began "Pick ME! Pick ME! Pick ME!" and ended with a reminder that I had sent the staff brownies for the holidays, as a thank you for being so kind to me when I visited in October. Bribery in advance seemed to work; I was in!
Paying my own way to Detroit (I really wanted to do this!), stopping off to visit Little Cuter and SIR on the way, spending two nights in a hotel with sole control of the tv's remote, that's all part of the story.... parts that anyone who's ever taken a business trip or made a side trip to say hello to family can fill in.
The main event is something that couldn't be replicated. I've never been part of anything like it.
We were to meet "by the big statue of Joe Louis in the lobby of Cobo Hall" at 1pm. Laura Sky Brown, chauffeur and Executive Editor extraordinaire, parked the car as I made my way across the street and into that lobby, where, despite all assurances to the contrary, it was perfectly possible to miss that statue. Fortunately, the smiley face behind the Information Desk could aim me in the right direction. Past twenty-somethings in dark suits and shined shoes, past women-who-should-have-known-better in 5" spike heels, past a glow-in-the-dark muscle car and fast food vendors and journalists with laptops resting on coffee stained formica tables, my stick and I made our way to what was obviously the main entrance to the venue.
Joe Louis had a big butt. I should know. I stood behind it, catching my breath and looking for my group.
The photo gives only a glimpse of Jacqueline's left foot, but those feet.were the first I identified as part of the G-7. Leopard print short boots said "I am a woman with opinions," and sure enough, she, like the rest of us, certainly had enough of them. That worried us, until we were reassured by the videographer
that there would be no audio accompanying the video of our visit.
she had only to turn her head to ask the senior vice president of Toyota's automotive operations. To his credit, he didn't flinch. Instead, he spent twenty minutes with the seven of us, talking design and function and gender preferences. We had to be torn away.
Women make 64% or 85% of the car buying decisions in American households.... I can't remember exactly. Suffice it to say that we are a demographic to be reckoned with, and JeanKnowsCars provided the venue for us to make our opinions known.
What the creators of the G-7 hadn't counted on was just how much fun we would all have. There were no drama queens. There were no pushy broads. There were seven fabulous and fascinating women who weren't afraid to share themselves with others. There were no topics we didn't cover. There was no holding back. We had nothing in common and everything in common and somehow JeanKnowsCars got it absolutely right.
We ended our dinner with a spontaneous group hug. The only issue unresolved? Where are we going next?
We had answered a prompt on the JeanKnowsCars website, emailing Jean's sister-in-law the reasons she should include us in the group. In typically adult fashion, mine began "Pick ME! Pick ME! Pick ME!" and ended with a reminder that I had sent the staff brownies for the holidays, as a thank you for being so kind to me when I visited in October. Bribery in advance seemed to work; I was in!
Paying my own way to Detroit (I really wanted to do this!), stopping off to visit Little Cuter and SIR on the way, spending two nights in a hotel with sole control of the tv's remote, that's all part of the story.... parts that anyone who's ever taken a business trip or made a side trip to say hello to family can fill in.
The main event is something that couldn't be replicated. I've never been part of anything like it.
We were to meet "by the big statue of Joe Louis in the lobby of Cobo Hall" at 1pm. Laura Sky Brown, chauffeur and Executive Editor extraordinaire, parked the car as I made my way across the street and into that lobby, where, despite all assurances to the contrary, it was perfectly possible to miss that statue. Fortunately, the smiley face behind the Information Desk could aim me in the right direction. Past twenty-somethings in dark suits and shined shoes, past women-who-should-have-known-better in 5" spike heels, past a glow-in-the-dark muscle car and fast food vendors and journalists with laptops resting on coffee stained formica tables, my stick and I made our way to what was obviously the main entrance to the venue.
Joe Louis had a big butt. I should know. I stood behind it, catching my breath and looking for my group.
The photo gives only a glimpse of Jacqueline's left foot, but those feet.were the first I identified as part of the G-7. Leopard print short boots said "I am a woman with opinions," and sure enough, she, like the rest of us, certainly had enough of them. That worried us, until we were reassured by the videographer
When Dolly, all the way to the right in the photo, wanted to know why the Furia, Toyota's concept car looked so "cheesy"
We saw the twelve vehicles JeanKnowsCars.com considered the most important reveals of the show. There was the Corvette Stingray
taking form-as-function to a new level.
There was the BMW 4-series,
and no, I don't believe the 6'6" Teutonic gentleman holding the cliip board could "get into that back seat with ease."
We walked past the Ferrari
We saw Ford's F-series concept truck,
and marveled at the neon lights on the running board. It will never make it into production, but that doesn't mean a girl can't hope. It was just that kind of an afternoon.
Press passes are hard to come by, are jealously guarded, require a picture id to obtain. Along with access to the floor of the show, the passes gave us the opportunity to rub elbows with the woman who designed the interior of Lincoln's MKC concept car, to get up close and personal with the undercarriages and back-seats, and gear shifts
and gas pedals,
and wheels,
to eat fresh baked cookies and drink espressos and Perrier, and to have our voices heard.
What the creators of the G-7 hadn't counted on was just how much fun we would all have. There were no drama queens. There were no pushy broads. There were seven fabulous and fascinating women who weren't afraid to share themselves with others. There were no topics we didn't cover. There was no holding back. We had nothing in common and everything in common and somehow JeanKnowsCars got it absolutely right.
We ended our dinner with a spontaneous group hug. The only issue unresolved? Where are we going next?
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