The Maybe Chronicles

Two-faced on Facebook

THE MAYBE CHRONICLES—Being left behind, online.

Did I really need to know that Sandee S.—one of my closest friends from high school, someone who taught me each and every syncopated word to ''Moondance" on the flag twirlers' bus, whom to this day I owe all knowledge of mascara application, blow-drying and the proper technique of sash belting—flew up from Florida to visit our old New Jersey neighborhood... and didn't bother to call me? If it weren't for Facebook, I would have remained blissfully unaware.  Then again, if it weren't for Facebook, she wouldn't have noticed my recent visit with Sandy C., my best friend from high school, which prompted Sandee's post saying what a great reunion it must have been. Which, to be social, I felt compelled to answer—meaning I had to go to her …

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Lori Sender

6:55 pm on Saturday, June 12, 2010

Thanks Melvin, I'm just happy for the read. I guess I come easily to self-deprecation, never saw Housewives of NJ, too busy writing and worrying.   more ›

The Maybe Chronicles

The Maybe Chronicles: Blue

Surviving a dreary day.

It's wet and overcast on this Tuesday morning, nothing unusual to the day. My son goes off to school, I begin my chores by sweeping downstairs, and my husband sits at his computer looking for a job. We're relatively new to the ranks of the unemployed, almost three months now, but today, for some reason, with its dull, gray-drab palette, its heavy wall of cloud, there's a gravitas to our situation. Like we've arrived, firmly, at this place... terra incognita. And that it's not going away, these circumstances. It occurs to me, that I should at least attempt to shake it off with a spin class, or a run to Stop & Shop for a case of seltzer, or a call to a friend. But I feel immobile in all the dreariness. Yesterday, we were riding bikes on the …

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Lori Sender

12:35 pm on Sunday, May 30, 2010

Sorry to hear about this Melvin. I know there's a silver lining to all this: spending more time with family, being creative and finding things on the cheap, appreciating that homecooked meal with jugged wine, on and on. But when it gets rainy and that mood hits, it's just plain tough. Maybe we should start a group, meet at Starbucks once a month, and commiserate. But only through the rain.   more ›

The Maybe Chronicles

Baseball Days

'The Maybe Chronicles' makes a new friend at a Little League game.

I'm sitting in the bleachers at Citizen's Park, with my new best friend, Star—someone I've been cozying up to four times a week over the last six weeks, two hours at a stretch, or three, depending on the innings, the weather, the score. She's someone I find myself closer to at the moment than any of my closest friends. We are, after all, deeply enmeshed in a full-out, baseball-mom high-intensity relationship. Meaning, we support each other when it's one of our sons' turn up to bat, a fly ball in their vicinity, or, as on this long, tired day, a need for some deeply felt commiseration. My son's up at bat. He has that look, that ever-so-slight shyness and mostly imperceptible insecurity, I can detect 20 yards away. "Strike one!" "Oh, great…

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Postcards from a Staycation

The Maybe Chronicles hits the road in its own living room.

It's spring break, nine days ad infinitum, and I have not a clue as to a vacation plan for our family. Our neighbors across the street are in Hawaii, zip-lining and volcano-hopping is my guess, while my 10-year-old son's closest friend is in Newport, most likely dining on a bowl of thick clam chowder with a side of restaurant-baked warm bread. And here I am, in the kitchen, drumming "In-A- Gadda-Da-Vida" on my son's back. "What's that?" Ben asks. "What is that song?"  "It's 'In Da Gadda Da Vida,'" I say, as my husband calls out from the dining room, "In a Gadda." "It would be 'In Da Gadda Da Vida' if Danny DeVito said it," quips my son. "Who is Danny DeVito anyway?" He looks at me in earnest. "How did you learn that song?" How appropriate…

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A Glorious Spring Day

The Maybe Chronicles has had enough with this down economy.

OK, so when is this economy going to turn around already? It started in, what, late 2007, so by now we should be seeing signs of improvement. I feel like I'm waiting out the war, albeit a smallish war, like the Falklands, and if we can just hold out a bit longer we'll have ridden this thing to the end. But each month it's getting tougher and tougher and soon, I swear, I will break down and buy something. And not just some high-end sliced peppered turkey at Whole Foods or Mama Alia's spicy hummus… I will march myself into Bloomingdale's, past dish towels and wooden spoons, straight into ladies designer clothing. And then, my friends, I can no longer be held accountable. I can feel the weariness. A Netflix movie doesn't do it. The Olympics …

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Sitting at a Beachside Café With My Father

A eulogy for a fallen father.

My father died this week. He lived a long, full life.. 87 years worth, most of those years any one of us would have been happy to have lived. I tell myself this over and over, that he was a lucky man, that he shared a remarkable love story with my mother, so long ago, that he truly was blessed. But still I feel miserable. Alone. Lost. Wanting more of him. I really do feel like a 10-year-old girl. Little lost orphan.  We would meet for lunch, down the shore. By then he had already begun to show signs of dementia and with it an unexpected sweetness. Gone was the gruffness I saw as a kid, which continued throughout my college years, into my thirties. Now it was just the two of us, sitting face-to-face at some beachside cafe, talking with long…

Conquering the Laurentians—An Exercise Class

What gets 'The Maybe Chronicles' sweating to the oldies?

After more than two decades of mediocre stabs at an exercise regimen, I seem to have stumbled upon one that not only works for me, but also brings out my wholehearted unabashed devotion. At first, I admit, I was wary, as my sister claimed it was the hardest workout she'd ever had, and I'd heard similar excruciating tales from friends. But once I got in the saddle—yes, that's the name for the seat—and slid my foot into that nicely secure toe cage, I was off and riding, so to speak. Within the confines of that stationary bike, spin class was the perfect blend of mind imagery, terrific music (assuming the instructor has a decent ear) and honest-to-goodness towel-saturated sweating. I'd close my eyes and actually feel the steep grade of those …

Life Lessons

The status quo keeps shifting.

Two nights ago, in the middle of the night, my son didn't climb into our bed. Same thing last week. Come to think of it, it hasn't happened in over a month. He's 10, going on 11, and I know this is the part where he's on to the next. I remember being his age, just his age, as that was the year my parents moved us from our small town of Bradley Beach to the wealthier suburb of Ocean Township. I was right where Ben is now—smack in the middle of fifth grade-- when my father pushed me through the door of that classroom, leaving me standing there, guilty as charged, before those flinty-eyed strangers. Lately my husband talks about jobs in China, or Kansas City, but it might as well be 10 miles north of our town. It would be a different town, a …

Balancing Act

The 'Maybe Chronicles' copes with the economy.

My husband thinks he's Philippe Petit, skipping across the cable bridge at Frost Valley YMCA in Claryville, N.Y., like some highly-seasoned tightrope walker. He looks silly, bouncing up there above the half-frozen creek, smiling and joking, carefree as a schoolboy. We're on our first day of a three-day trip with five other families, and by all appearances, it's a winter wonderland out of Vermont or Canada, only in the more accessible Catskill snow, beckoning us with family activities—snowshoeing, cross-country skiing, environmental hikes, and good old sledding. Looking at my husband frolicking away, you'd never know it's been a year of financial disaster sidestepping. For many in his company, it was a cold-cocked layoff, for others, a wait…

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Survival Instincts

The Maybe Chronicles learns to let go.

So there it is, my 10-year-old son and a friend, are set for a walk into town—by themselves. This is a first… for him, yes, but mostly, for me. He grabs a $10 bill from his toy bank, gives me a perfunctory hug and heads out the door to join Spencer on his skateboard. I watch through the small window of the front door as they turn the corner and are gone.  This is what I don't say.   "What do you say if a stranger approaches in his car?"  "You're not my father!" he'd say as a seven year old.  "What if they have a dog?"  "I'd run the other way." "What if he's dressed as Mr. Policeman?"   "You're not my father!" No quotes from The Runaway Bunny and not a word of busy traffic. I try with all my might to put a muzzle on it, and I do succeed, …

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Lori Sender

8:29 pm on Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Thanks DC!   more ›