The sound of our bumper dragging along the Atlantic City Expressway got me thinking about space….or, the lack of it. We were scheduled to begin our vacation – a time supposedly set aside for rest and rejuvenation- on Wednesday morning. However, instead of feeling a sense of freedom that usually accompanies a change in scenery and break from routine…I felt like I was taking a timed Calculus exam – at gunpoint. The energy of our house was like a soupy fog hanging over the Golden Gate Bridge: Phil, who has been playing catch-up at work since taking time off for my surgery, was coming home late with his ass cheeks fists clenched. Over the course of three days, Emma had averaged about four hours of sleep. Phoebe, who is going through the Hell otherwise known as the two year molars, spent the same three days with her fingers crammed in her mouth, whimpering “Mommy, Mommy” repeatedly while drooling like a St. Bernard. And then there is me, in the middle of it all, trying to cram shit into suitcases in between episodes of Caillou and lubing up with Preparation H dealing with post-surgical issues. I was moving through mud; emptying the dishwasher felt like a Feat of Strength.

The tension mounted like a pressure cooker until, on Wednesday morning, the lid blew off the pot. Or, as Emma explained tearfully to my 92 year-old grandmother on the phone as to why we were delaying our departure for a few days: “Well, Nanny…this morning everyone here just kind of freaked out. ONE. BIG. FREAK OUT.”

Now, this decision to hang out for a few days was hardly an informed decision. I didn’t know why I thought it was a good idea or what we were going to do at home with no food in the fridge and all our underwear in suitcases….I just knew that we needed to put the brakes on this runaway train for a minute and, incorporate the wise words of Steve from Blue’s Clues: “Stop. Breathe. Think.”

 So I stopped. I sat down on the kitchen floor and rested my head on my knees. I took ten deep breathes, and then ten more. I prayed silently: “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do.”

And slowly, the tension in the room began to release. Phil stopped massaging his temples and announced he was still taking the day off. The girls stopped crying. We decided to go to the pool. We ordered a pizza for dinner. We skipped bathtime. We drank a few beers and watched The Real Housewives of New Jersey. (Nothing like watching a fist fight at a baby’s baptism to make you feel better about your life).

I began to realize that since my surgery, we have tried to jump back into ‘business as usual’ at a frenetic pace, trying to cram in anything that had been missed or neglected over the past three months….even though we all have red flashing “No Vacancy” signs emblazed on our foreheads. We’ve been filling the space we so desperately need. Space to be tired and cranky….space to process the months of Colon Craziness…space to heal.  Trying to pull ourselves together for a road trip was like trying to cram one more scooter into that packed car.

The funny thing is, a few days of down time was all we really needed. By Friday we were on the road to Avalon, ready to jumpstart our vacation with a weekend with my four best friends from college. Who, incidentally, are my ultimate space-makers, because they know me so well, make me laugh so hard and strongly encourage cocktails with lunch.

Somewhere in between mealtimes, naptimes, and hosing down sandy children, we were able to steal some adult moments and catch up on each other’s lives. (And we all know that it is these late night, wine soaked sessions where all the great mysteries of the universe are revealed). As it turns out, this issue of space – or the lack of it- seems to be a universal struggle. Single or married, professional or homemaker, parent, dog-owner, homeowner, or devoted daughter-sister-friend…we all struggle with creating space to just be…or, become.

Somewhere in between Kellie’s breastfeeding breaks, Lynne’s late night Roger Rabbit dance tutorial and the tweaking of Kathy’s E-Harmony profile, we came to the following conclusion about Creating Space:

1. Pencil It In: You literally need to create space for space. Kellie shared that she and her husband reserve Monday nights for ‘free time,’ and alternate week to week. Every Monday night someone gets the kid duties while the other gets to read People Magazine  a book, research law school, stare into space…whatever floats your boat.

2. Two Things Can Not Occupy The Same Place At The Same Time: When Emma and Phoebe try to sit in the same chair simultaneously, it never ends well. The same holds true for the amount of hours in the day. In order to make space for something new- whether that be a job, hobby, relationship, or (God forbid) relaxation – you will need to let something else go…like saying yes to every wedding you are invited to, or the dream that every room in your house will be clean at the same time. Or, The Real Housewives of New Jersey  ironing.

3. Surround Yourself With Spacemakers: Pay attention to the people you spend time with and how you feel when you are with them (and immediately following). Some people make you feel inadequate or guarded…you leave them with a brain crammed with “shoulds:” I should go to the gym, my kids should be fluent in Spanish, etc. Other people infuse space into your body by making you laugh (which relaxes your face) and giving you long hugs (which releases tension from your shoulders). These same people create room in your heart by letting you cry (which releases pent up emotion) and bitch about your husband (which just feels good sometimes releases old frustrations) It is these people who also create space in your mind by reminding you of your gifts. They remind you that you are loved. They remind you of where you came from, while opening up avenues of possibility for where you may be headed…and that you don’t need to go there alone.

These are my kind of people.

This week, I am extremely happy to have a friend visiting from Los Angeles.  Her name starts with L and she was born in the winter, so she is qualified to be my close friend. 

We were on-line friends first, meeting each other in a shady little internet room for women who are crazy about antique textiles.  That sounds better than vintage tablecloths, doesn’t it? 

After chatting about old tea towels for a while, Leslie - an actor who has been in several movies you’ve seen and done tons of TV, commercial and voiceover work – mentioned that she had grown up in the Philadelphia suburbs.  Follow-up questions revealed that she grew up in THIS EXACT TOWN.  She had gone to the high school our kids go to, she had attended the church where we are members, and she had lived in the very house now occupied by our friends Donna and Anthony.  

Like Anne of Green Gables and Diana, Leslie and I are kindred spirits.  We email each other, oh, almost every day.  We once met in person in Santa Barbara for dinner a couple of years ago.  Then,  last weekend, she arrived in town for her high school reunion.  And stayed an extra week so see more old friends, hang out with us, and help me at my vintage sale tomorrow. 

As I write, Les is downstairs ironing a huge pile of linens.  Then she’s going to help me price stuff, and tomorrow, she will assist at the sale.

Two nights ago, Les came over in her rented Hyandai with the roll-down windows (you forget how inconvenient those are) to rescue me when Ian’s car broke down in Swarthmore, as I was trying to retrieve Malcolm from a friend’s house.  Chris wasn’t supposed to drive because of his surgery, but problem solved!  Les was here.

Last night, she and I drove into the city where she helped me work a client event, the lighting of the Christmas tree and lights on Rittenhouse Square.  It’s like having a personal assistant/guardian angel around, one with a caustic sense of humor.

Having her visit this week has been a joy (PS  she was wise enough to stay at a hotel - things here have been a bit chaotic).    I forgot was it like to have another female in the house.

When’s the next reunion?

So when Rob called me a few weeks ago and asked if he could fly me out to the Buckeye State for Alison’s 40^th birthday (today), I really didn’t think hard.  I even agreed to the surprise element which MoB readers know I abhor. 

I have to say it was pretty awesome.  Yesterday, there was a party at an art studio already planned for Alison and when she arrived, there I was, clad in a smock, holding a brush, and standing at an asel – you know like I do all the time.  In Ohio. 

Rob, Al and I were often the three musketeers in college.  I think our tri-closeness may have sometimes intrigued confused people but, alas, there was nothing remotely interesting going on there.  Simply put, they were meant for each other… and I was meant to be the third leg of our stool of silliness.  It has held up well.

Later today we are having a huge dance party.  In our pajamas.  In Rob and Al’s living room withtheir kids because this is what you do with people you love. I brought the CD of cheesey 80′s dance music. (Two words:  Milli Vanilli)  I think it might be the best party of the year.

I hope when the brothers grow up they have friends like I have friends.  You know, the kind who scarily enthusiastically embrace the concept of recreating a Penn Football game photo circa 1989. Or the kind that  you can dance with in your pajamas.  Or the kind who never mention the fact that it took you 8 years to come join the fun once again.

Every time I connect with my friend Julie Mars, I want to write….all the time. I was lucky enough to see Julie on Friday in New York. Her novel, Anybody, Any Minute was recently published and she had a reading in The Village.

The book follows the life of a middle-aged woman who has what Julie refers to as a “nervous breakthrough” and purchases a house on a credit card advance in upstate New York. The characters are complex yet very lovable; the story comes full circle leaving you feel like you just ate a great meal but didn’t gorge yourself. It also sends the message that Anybody Any Minute (duh) can come into your life and change it. Julie in many ways has done that for me and I’m really proud to call her my friend.

I took my first writer’s workshop with Julie at the Taos Summer Writer’s conference almost exactly two years ago. It was a workshop in which you had to share your writing with the group and I was scared s*@tless that I wouldn’t measure up. I imagined a pretentious teacher and annoying workshop people and found just the opposite. It was back then that Julie told me that someday I would have a column of my own. She could see it. When someone who is not your mother tells you these things (and that person happens to be a published author), you can’t help but be inspired.

Since then, I’ve done writing work with Julie in Costa Rica and visited with her out in New Mexico. We talk several times a month about life and writing. She asks the best questions of me – and I always leave our conversations thoughtful and appropriately agitated about my life. It’s truly hard to be a writer – and trust that you are doing the art any justice at all. But when I heard her read the wonderful string of words from Anybody Any Minute on Friday, I was newly inspired to push my writing even further.

Julie has told me she hates getting her picture taken but this is one of my favorites of her so I hope she won’t mind if I POST IT IN CYBERSPACE FOR EVERYONE TO SEE. It was a beautiful sunset on Playa Grande in Costa Rica. No one wanted to swim but Julie. I personally was thinking of Jaws – so there was NFW I was getting in the water no matter how inviting it looked. But she just waded out and swam – totally free from the hang ups and fears that anchored the rest of us on the beach. A metaphor for writing. A metaphor for life.

Stranger Kid 1: Did you see Indiana Jones?

Stranger Kid 2: Yeah – that was awesome. Do you have Super Mario Smash Bros?

Stranger Kid 1: No, but I played it at my cousin’s house once and I told my Mom I have to get it.

Stranger Kid 2: Yeah, dude.

This is the foundation for a long and meaningful tween friendship.

But as an adult – especially an adult with children – it is a truly a feat when you connect with someone completely on your own terms – and click. So it’s easy to raise the white flag on friend making with very good excuses:

“I’m too busy to make new friends. I can’t even keep up with the old friends!”

“I really like her but I can’t stomach her children (or husband)”

“I don’t need any more friends. I have my family.”

Let me tell you that a new friend is a gift. I have been lucky to make a number of new friends over the last several years. One of them is having a birthday today.

In a matter of months, Jennifer has not only become my blogging partner, but also a source of support, motivation, inspiration, and yes, she has become my friend.

How lucky was I to connect with someone who is living a parallel life less than a mile away? Someone who shares my daily angst about work, sons, and husbands? Someone who wants to grow beyond who she is today even though she is already a totally evolved, interesting, and delightful person? As much as I LOVE the MoB blog and can chat with Jennifer for hours about it, I mostly enjoy her friendship.

I asked Chris to send me a favorite picture of Jennifer for my “tribute extraordinaire.” He picked a winner.

Happy Birthday Jennifer! Thank you for the gift you gave me this year. My friend.

Who: Four college friends – Penelope, Lindsay, Jennifer, Melissa (yes, those are our real names)

What: A weekend away

When: 1986

Where: Martha’s Vineyard

Why: Why not? We were all young and unmarried, if not unattached. My boyfriend, for example, was spending the entire summer in Europe. A perfect chance for a girls’ getaway.

Starting today, we reprise that weekend with the same cast of characters, in the same place, to celebrate turning 50, which some of us are doing this year. One of us on July 10. We were in each other’s weddings, we are godmothers to each others’ children, and the godsiblings keep up with each other, cross-country, sometimes in person, mostly via Facebook. The fact that our connections to each other now extend to the next generation is just exactly what we were hoping for back in 1986, when we were sunfried, wearing blue eyeliner, and in our 20′s.

My friends sweetly and generously hatched all of this behind my back, with full inclusion of Chris in the planning. I know we will laugh until we cry, stay up talking until we literally conk out, share memories in a shorthand that only the four of us understand, and return to our four different cities, four different husbands, and 11 different children restored, refreshed, and ready for, hmmm, the next 50 years. We should be so lucky, right?

But then I went to see it.

To our wonderful male readers: I love you but you may stop reading. This post is not for you. You will not get it. My commitment to gender-neutral blogging entertainment will resume on Friday.

To our female readers. Go. Just go see the movie. But don’t go with just anyone. Choose your posse with care. Go with your best friends. Or your sisters. Go with the girlfriends who show up at your grandmother’s funeral. Or the ones who totally rescue you from your less-than -stellar 23r^d birthday. Or the ones who know that you made some undergraduate relationship miscalculations but don’t judge you for it. Because Sex and the City has very little to do with sex and everything to do with friendship.

I went to see the movie with my oldest friend L, and my college roommate, S. (who just happen to have become close friends with one another in their own right, which totally tickles me). It was a night out. But the poignancy was unexpected. I won’t give away the plot but suffice it to say that I welled up more than once. But only during the moments between the four friends. Total girl on girl. I know I am talking about Sex and the City here but it really was all about love and forgiveness. And about caring deeply for the people who matter most.

There are just a handful of humans on this planet who I describe this way:

When I am with them, I am exactly me. Their love and friendship feeds my being. And I leave them completely whole, and bigger than just myself.

Most of these people share my DNA in some form, like my sister. But there are a few others. L and S, to be sure. One lives in Ohio. And a few men to boot – you know who you are. The SATC characters are not molded after my friends — but their loyalty to one another is. I hope everyone out there has a friend who will spoon feed them when they need the help.

But if you go to see Sex, a fair warning: Go out to eat first. Because you leave there wanting to totally spew every secret you ever had to the people sitting next to you. I was best off jumping into mini-van and high-tailing it home before I got too snuggly and verbose.

Two thumbs up – mostly for the company. Yeah, the Sex was pretty good – but I prefer the friendship.