A Martini Toast

DD

March 23, 2026

Grace and Kindness

Dearest Doreen,

On Friday night, November 24, 1989, you were an OB/GYN resident at Saint Barnabas, and I was in (false) labor. I was 23, nervous, and completely agog for the arrival of our firstborn. Our best friends were due to arrive at our apartment on Center Grove Road in Randolph, but the (false) labor gods clearly had other plans for us.

I remember telling our downstairs neighbor, Donna Grumka, to let Trish and John in. There was no way that my nugget was arriving that night, and I knew, with every degree of certainty, that we’d be back to open the Kanga Rocka Roo and the Snugli baby carrier that Trish and John bought us. Jewish “law” says you can’t open gifts before the baby is born healthy, but I figured that 39 weeks was far enough along to break a little rule.

When we arrived at the hospital and I was all checked in, the most adorable, brilliant, kind, and comforting strawberry-blonde-haired goddess told me that she was the resident who would be monitoring me and assessing my progress. This goddess understood that I was just a baby having a baby, and she told me that she delivered her first when she, too, was quite young. As she checked to see if I was dilated, she so gently let me know that I wasn’t dilated and that what I was experiencing were Braxton Hicks contractions. I asked her if she knew how long until I delivered my heart, and she said she was pretty certain it would be sometime that weekend. While excited beyond measure, I needed to know that she would be on call, as in the hour that we spent together, I knew I was in the presence of greatness. She promised that she would be, and she sure was.

Dr. DeGraaff (Doreen), you were there when, after a weekend of back labor, Mike Milano brought my baby girl, Marissa Faith, into the world at 7:21 AM on Monday, November 27th. Four centimeters was all I would dilate, so he performed a C-section to safely deliver her to us. Truth be told, he actually performed a figurative defibrillation on me, because that was the day my heart officially began beating.

I remember you visiting me in my room, and you held my gorgeous girl with such love. At that point, I think you had only had your son, Christopher I believe you told me his name was, and I looked at you with even higher regard, knowing that you balanced motherhood and being a doctor.

We met again when Marissa was a teenager; her skin was heavily blemished, and one of her doctors thought she might have polycystic ovaries. You ran some tests, prescribed some medicine, and promised us that, when she was ready to have a baby, you would immediately put her on Clomid. We arrived at your office with so many questions and so much trepidation, but, true to who you are, we left with our fears assuaged and our hope turbocharged.

From the time Marissa was not quite 16, all the way until she was 24, she endured 8 surgeries and 13 hospital stays. The Ulcerative Colitis diagnosis in 2005 led to the removal of her colon in 2010, and while most girls her age were sporting Longchamp or Coach bags, my warrior wore an ostomy bag for a year. Fortunate enough to have the pioneer of the J-Pouch as her surgeon, Roo’s bag was reversed after a year. What a nightmarish year it was, and the blockages that ensued the next 4 years were pulverizing. I’m sure you know much of this, as you have been her doctor for quite some time. I’m not sure if you read the blog, however; http://www.marissasurgery.wordpress.com is where to find it.

Dr. DeGraaff, Marissa and I have been estranged for some time, which you probably already know. You probably also know that she is married and a mom herself now. Though I don’t even know her second daughter’s name, and I only know her first daughter’s name because a former friend of mine inappropriately and hurtfully shared the information with me, I am so grateful that she was able to conceive, carry, and deliver healthy babies. While I don’t know it for a fact, I’d bet the farm that you played an enormous role in her dream coming true, and I will forever be enamored of and indebted to that strawberry-blonde-haired goddess who was there when my dream came true.

May your retirement bring you all you so richly deserve, and may you enjoy the magic that you have brought to so many. Congratulations!

Marla

No comments on DD
Letter to Melissa, April of 2021 – Not a repost, just a post that I’m finally willing to share

March 19, 2026

Grace and Kindness

Dearest Miss,

Our trip to Florida is over, and I’m tan, relaxed, sad, and reflective. Suffice it to say that our week was inundated with laughs, festive beverages (“I like sweet drinks and I cannot lie”), realizations, appreciation, tears, and both the renewal and continuation of a lifelong
friendship. We figured out who the other is, and we were, pardon the cliché, the ying to each other’s yang.

Miss, from the time I was a little girl, I was always looking for approval. I didn’t mind working twice as hard to get people to love me halfway; I just wanted to be accepted. Did I need to compensate because I was chubby and not the prettiest, or was it that I was missing somebody to tell me I was valued unconditionally? I was smart, that’s for sure, but always being pushed ahead in school just put me so behind emotionally. My lack of confidence and my insecurity became, and in reality still are, paralyzing.

I wish I remembered more about the early years of growing up. Quite honestly, with my memory being as strong as it is, thank Goodness, it begs curiosity how those early years are such an impenetrable blur. Clarity begins to surface as I shudder at Zane Reisman literally
biting my ass when I was 8 years old, and then to Steven Wintner locking me in his basement when I was an early teenager. Truth be told, being locked in that basement was the defining moment of my life, and one from which I could never recover.

I’m not sure what led me to the Wintner house that afternoon; I guess I thought he might actually like me. Little did I know that, together with his friends, I was just the target of a cruel plan, a practical joke, a gangbang. By the time it was over and they released me, I walked the 2 blocks from Commerce Street to Oliver Place, more terrified of the wrath I would incur from my parents than the mental and sexual abuse I had just endured. I couldn’t tell my parents about my ordeal, as I was afraid that they would justifiably retaliate and go after Steven and his friends. I’d be a further outcast, and, maybe even worse, I would upset my parents.

Miss, I’ve been searching for love and for somebody to love me my entire life. I’ve made such poor choices in my quest for finding that man who could make me feel safe and satisfied. Sex is still so unfulfilling for me, and, as you know, I didn’t have my first orgasm until I was 31. I didn’t even know what one was, but how could I when my first experience was so violent and unsolicited? And, my mom, may she rest in peace, never had the “talk” with me, which, especially after my abortion, would have been warranted and appreciated. Instead, I was screamed at, ridiculed, and called names. Oh, wait, let’s not forget that I also had to switch high schools.

I often wonder, though seldom doubt, if Lisa told my kids about my abortion. For a while, I wonder if she even knew, as my parents always feared how she would treat me. Remember, Lisa was in charge. Whom am I kidding, Miss? We both know that, as soon as the moment presented itself, she swooped in with all of the news about my “indiscretions.” I have to laugh though, because when Lisa was a freshman at Cornell, she didn’t come home the first Thanksgiving because her suitemate, Colleen, a preacher’s daughter, was pregnant
and was going to have an abortion. Lisa wanted to stay with her. Go figure that Colleen’s abortion was acceptable to Lisa.

Miss, little by little, you will receive my stories from my past, and, maybe they’ll even be published one day. James Patterson had a book called, Suzanne’s Diary for Nicholas, so maybe I should title mine, Curly Top’s Collection for Adorable One. These stories will surprise you, shock you, touch you, enrage you, and empower you. You will marvel at my resilience, and you’ll root for this warrior to attain the victory she so desires and deserves.

Miss, on our trip, I couldn’t help but feel like I should have had so many more stories for you. Sure, we talked non-stop and filled the time with nary a silence, but I should have had so much more to share. There were dozens of people about whom I should have been able to boast and chatter – my 3 kids, my 2 sons-in-law and their families, and, most importantly, my 2 granddaughters. It is so inhumane that I am incomplete, and I am sorry.

I try so hard not to bring stuff up that could dampen or darken the mood; you know I’m a pleaser and an entertainer. Thank you, however, for letting me vent when I needed to and also for subtly being able to point me towards tomorrow. I would sometimes feel the breath come back into my body when I looked over and saw you in the bed next to me.

Finally, Miss, my mom was everywhere in Florida, but I focused on the good times instead of the hurt. Pushing the positive memories straight to the front, I found myself missing her face and her voice terribly. I thought a lot about the last months of her life, and I hoped so
desperately that she didn’t suffer. I often wonder if she knew how much I suffered every day, and, if she did, did she care? Was she allowed to care? Who knows, perhaps she had demons, too? Perhaps there was a basement in which she was locked, or a man who bit her ass when she was just a young girl.

I love you more than you will ever know,

Marla

No comments on Letter to Melissa, April of 2021 – Not a repost, just a post that I’m finally willing to share
Accountability

February 19, 2026

Grace and Kindness, Healing, Practice What We Preach

Everyone is talking about Prince Andrew, the pedophile. He is indeed that. Folks are incredulous that, albeit stripped of his official royal title and now arrested, he is still in “line” to become the King of England. These people, such bigshots slamming Britain, but where are they to address what is happening here, in our country?

There are more black lines of redaction in those Epstein files than there are visible words. Young girls were trafficked, raped, and terrorized, and we’re blacking out names to protect Trump and his wealthy and entitled posse of criminals? Pam Bondi, the Attorney General, reading from her flashcards of hateful insults at a Congressional hearing last week, wouldn’t even look at any of the victims. She turned that hearing into a gaslighting stratagem of, “What’s wrong with you people for even caring about this?” Calling Jamie Raskin, a lifelong public servant, ‘a washed-up loser lawyer” was so appalling, ugly, and insulting not only to him, but also to the Office of the Attorney General that used to carry such clout and honor.

They’re so obsessed with the word loser. That’s their go to, their across the board dig. Anybody, whether it’s a politician, a musician, a talk show host, a journalist, even a prisoner of war who might not agree with them, is immediately called a loser. It’s so ersatz and so preteen.

Jamie Raskin is no loser. In addition to how respectfully and unselfishly he has represented the state of Maryland, he also fought cancer shortly after his son committed suicide. No parent should EVER have to lose a child, in ANY WAY, and trust me when I say that we are not losers. We are gold medalists in an Olympic event in which we don’t want to compete.

Where is the accountability for America’s pedophiles? Where is the decency, the concern, the outrage? Threatening war with Iran, conquering Venezuela, wanting and oftentimes placing the Trump name on every building, airport, tunnel, and landmark that he wants to, with nobody telling him, “It’s not okay, and it’s not going to happen.” Laughing when people are killed, tortured, tossed, and threatening nearly every single amendment in our Constitution, where has humanity gone? Where has patriotism gone?

Folks, for those of you with daughters, think about the young women who suffered such atrocities and damage at the hands of these wealthy men (and women). Will these women ever have peace? Their names weren’t redacted, just the names of the monsters who preyed on them. We’re protecting the predators, and while I’ll never understand that, I understand it even less when you do so while wearing a piece of religious jewelry. From what I understand, the man you’re representing didn’t condone pedophilia, hatred, torture, or revenge. He believed in humility, righteousness, love, compassion, and forgiveness.

1 comment on Accountability
Louis, Vroom Vroom, and Jewish by Choice

February 17, 2026

amartinitoast.com, Grace and Kindness, Healing, Marissa, Rebecca, Zachary

I only know one of my sons-in-law, and, though I haven’t seen him in just about 12 years, I still feel that I know him well. Quirky, loyal, adorable, hyper, aloof, supportive, and creative are only a few of the many adjectives I’d use as descriptors, but, if I’m honest, I’d probably put brave at the top of the list (I’ll get to it later).

Marissa met Louis at post-prom. She had actually gone to prom with somebody else, but her date wasn’t available for the after plans. Marissa’s group was going down to Long Beach Island, where they were staying at the beach house of somebody’s friend, Matt. Matt was a classmate of theirs, and though Roo didn’t know him well, her friends did.

The kids drove down to LBI after the prom, and Marissa called me pretty late. I knew that she had arrived safely, thank G-d, and I only wanted her to have a good time. I was always worried that a flare of her Ulcerative Colitis was forthcoming (she still had her colon at this point), and I panicked when I heard from her so late at night.

Her voice was so peppy, so happy, and so melodic as she asked, “Mommy, is it okay if I date Matt’s brother?” I asked her about him, and she told me how cute he was, that his name was Louis, how seamless their chitchat was, and how comfortable he made her feel. The resounding, “Yes!” I gave her on the phone was followed by Jay storming down the steps, getting right up in my face, and, to my memory, though this is the ONLY sentence in this blog for which I wouldn’t sit for a polygraph, shoving me in the shoulder. Through gritted teeth and in the most demonic voice, he threatened (and this is verbatim), “Don’t you ever tell my daughter that she can date a shegetz.” For those of you who don’t know what a shegetz is, it’s a non-Jewish male.

I always hoped and assumed my kids would marry within our faith, but it certainly wasn’t grounds for disownment, like Jay would forewarn them. Of course, for the girls, matrilineality would prevail and their children would automatically be Jewish, but not for Zack. Actually, in Jay’s eyes, it wasn’t for the girls either, but more to come on that.

Nothing in the world was more important to me than my kids being happy, especially since I didn’t really have a happy childhood. I’ve already touched on quite a bit of that, and, if The Guardian or the Huffington Post accepts and publishes my submission, you’ll really understand so much more. But, for now, know that I overcompensated for my sad past by trying so hard to make sure my kids were safe, heard, protected, and indulged.

I covered for Marissa for months, lying to Jay about her whereabouts when she was with Lou Lou. The first time he came to pick her up, all of Thurston Drive was shaking from the “vroom vroom” of that black Ford Mustang (sans muffler). Here I was, completely willing to be the figurative (and probably literal) shield for my girl, but what was I to do with the “vroom vroom?” We managed, until we needed to sit down with Jay and tell him the truth.

Needless to say, I was to blame. By telling her it was okay to go on one date, that led to the same “slippery slope” that he often mentioned when I tried to bring something not explicitly marked kosher into the house. He was so angry at me (no surprises there), and he told her that, should they continue seeing each other and become engaged, he would need to convert. He also made it crystal clear that, when they had children, the children were not permitted to go to Louis’s parents’ house for Christmas or any religious holiday. Labeling it harsh and unreasonable, I tried to intervene, but, we all know how life ended up for me. Ironic, right?

I know that Louis converted, which is why I referred to him as brave before anything else. It isn’t easy being Jewish for those of us born into my often tackled and targeted religion , so making the choice, even if it is for love, should be lauded and saluted. And, with the extra restrictions and directories placed upon him by my ex-husband, my son-in-law’s bravery should be recognized.

May we all show our valor and begin to heal wounds, fill chasms, repair rifts, and clear consciences. May we have the resolve to say, “That’s not okay,” and “It’s time to not just break the literal and figurative ice, but actually melt it.”

1 comment on Louis, Vroom Vroom, and Jewish by Choice
60

January 7, 2026

amartinitoast.com, Broken Heart, Healing, Zachary Jaffe

It has been too long since I’ve blogged, and I’m not sure if it’s laziness, exhaustion, denial, progress, or just simply getting older. This Friday is the day – the day I’ve dreaded for so long, the day that first number turns from a 5 to a 6, the day I have earned, and the day I didn’t think my heart would survive until. As a profound believer in rites of passage, I am pulverized that these wrinkles, these body aches, these reading glasses, these stretch marks, and this plethora of gray hairs are not accompanied by the giggles of grandchildren and their precious handprints and mini-Picasso artwork on my refrigerator.

As most of my readers know, it’s also my Zack’s birthday. He’ll be turning 32, but I only had him for 21 of those years. My Sportchop, the Most Handsome Man on the Planet, and my forever Chuckles is living a life about which I know nothing. I pray it’s a happy and healthy one, and I remain so grateful that we share the same birthday and that G-d blessed me with him and his sisters.

Friday will not go without hoopla, and I’ll be celebrating with friends who have become my family. Our favorite restaurant, Aldo’s, will be the location for the festivities, and there will be no shortage of booze and schmooze. With a couple of surprises up my sleeve, I will honor my New Year’s resolution to be completely in the moment, embracing those who stay, love, support, hope, console, encourage, and continue to be my pillars and buttresses.

It has been a year, and last month alone brought the anti-semitic atrocities of the Bondi Beach carnage, the egregious Brown University shooting, and the senseless and shocking stabbings of Rob and Michelle Reiner. Then, 35-year-old Tatiana Schlossberg, JFK’s granddaughter, tragically passed away from cancer, leaving 2 babies behind and sustaining the Kennedy curse. Prices and hatred are up, morale and decency are down, and each day brings vile, toxic, threatening, and vengeful social media posts from the White House. The cost of healthcare has become prohibitive for so many, and our president and his clown car of cretins are deriving such pleasure from the suffering of others.

We just returned from a cruise on the Queen Victoria, where I honestly felt like a princess for 7 days. The people, the cabin, the entertainment, the food, and the ports of Bruges, Amsterdam, and Cherbourg were downright enchanting, and the civility and cordiality of all with whom we fraternized were noteworthy and remarkable. It was never lost on us how fortunate we were to be on the voyage, and we blotted up every ounce of the luxury that Cunard was serving.

One particular highlight came in the form of meeting the lovely Karen and Paul. Gorgeous inside and out, we first met them at the Gin Bar and bonded over way more than the cocktails. We spoke of triumph, truth, and tribulation, and I felt as if our friendship was so much more than fledgling. The laughs were so frequent and fluid, and the conversation was so real. It’s funny, because we had exchanged phone numbers and emails one morning early on in the cruise, and I told Karen that I would send her my blog when we returned home. I didn’t need to though, as she found it on her own and had read it before we met that night for drinks. I’m not sure how she found it, but I was glad that she did. For so long, I have kept my story and myself so guarded, but now it and I can be found. And, as I thought about it, I decided that maybe I can be found because, for the first time in my life, I’m not lost.

Happy New Year to all, Happy Birthday to my Zack, Happy Birthday to me, and peace, love, and grace all around.

2 comments on 60
Happy Endings

September 30, 2025

Grace and Kindness

Sometimes, I will blog often. Though each entry takes me hours because I need for it to be perfect, I will occasionally tackle the challenge more than once a week if I’m in crisis or if I really need to say something. Today, both are true.

I just finished watching the television show, Mad Men. It first came out in 2007, and it was the stunning Jon Hamm’s breakout role. He was an advertising executive, and the show’s 7 seasons plunge you into the hedonistic, overindulgent, and, quite frankly, unrestrained world of advertising in the 60s. Excessive smoking, drinking, infidelity, and backstabbing (which, coincidentally, is probably also what Jay told the kids is the name of my autobiography), were all over every episode, and I won’t even begin to touch on how the show embodied the message that women should make dinner, look pretty, schedule appointments, and rarely think.

I have to say that this show was riveting. Dark yet funny, aggravating yet auspicious, realistic yet unlikely, and sexy yet repugnant, all 92 episodes, at some point, left me feeling sad, envious, unfulfilled, energized, defeated, frightened, stirred, galvanized, hopeful. The writers and the actors certainly did their jobs effectively, as one can argue for days about who, in fact, realized and reached their happy ending.

What, actually, is a happy ending? Once upon a time, it was the name of an ice cream sundae that one could get at Friendly’s. It was small, but it did the job of topping off that Fishamajig or SuperMelt with something yummy. A happy ending is also what some people get at the end of a massage, where the masseuse brings you to orgasm after putting you in a relaxed state of bliss. (Did you think every blog would be PG)? A happy ending is what we’re used to and hoping to read about in fairy tales, especially since the heroine has usually gone through the tortures of the damned before she can even think about her happy ending.

My happy ending will have the 3 who matter most, their spouses, and my grandchildren (who probably won’t be babies anymore). I, woefully, will have missed out on the “I’m pregnant!” announcements, the pregnancies, the births, the “What do I do, Mom?” and the “Did this happen to you, Mom?” The delicious scent of a newborn mixed with the intoxicating combination of Dreft, Desitin, and Johnson and Johnson Baby Shampoo will have to be a memory I pull from storage, when the 3 who matter most were small. I won’t get to play my famous “Oh, I Don’t Think So” game that elicits such giggles and squeals of joy, and the indentations on the chubby little wrists and ankles will probably have filled in.

Maybe, however, if I’m lucky, I’ll still get to give my renowned foot rides, attend sporting events, dance recitals, and school plays, cook my medicinal and traditional matzo ball soup, and embrace my religion again. Just as my 6th grade students share their weekend plans during our five-minute, end of the week, “Gibbering with Jaffe” sessions, perhaps my grandkids will tell their teacher that they’re having a sleepover at Grandma’s or that Grandma is picking them up from school to go to a Sabrina Carpenter concert. And maybe, just maybe, that Grandma will be me.

3 comments on Happy Endings
September 23rd, 2025 -(5786)

September 24, 2025

Grace and Kindness

Today is Rosh Hashanah, the beginning of the Jewish New Year. The day marks the creation of Adam and Eve, the birthday of the universe, and a time where Jewish people, like me, reflect on the past year while simultaneously planning for the next one. We dwell on our mistakes and overstay our visit at the Hotel of Regrets and What Ifs. Many spend the day in synagogue, and some, again like me, spend the day in their own heads.

Today is also the anniversary of the day I met Jay. 42 years ago today, while I was walking to a party and Jay was in the Student Union, a mutual friend introduced us. An obvious imbalance from the genesis of our relationship, I suppose Jay’s candle of common sense and calm and my flame of fire and fun thought we just might be a match and possibly make a glow of it (see what I did there).

Jay was far more religious than I, and I think that religion was the ultimate decimator of our marriage. I resented how it was shoved down my throat instead of spoon-fed to me in appropriate portions. Always proud of my religion and glad and eager to be an active participant, I didn’t understand why I had to sell my soul for my kids to go to public school. I didn’t understand why the girls, even at the ages of 6 and 8, couldn’t wear a skirt or a dress even half of an inch above their knees. I didn’t understand why, when we were out of the house, we couldn’t eat what we wanted. But, most of all, I didn’t understand how somebody could pretend to wrap himself in the poncho of piety, when he was actually waiting in the pews to pounce and destroy.

Rabbinical sermons this holiday will, without a doubt, discuss the situation in Israel and Gaza. Israel will be the focus, along with the need for us to continue to put them at the forefront of our concerns for our heritage. I am grateful for my heritage, but, let me be clear in that, first and foremost, I am an American Jew.

On October 7th of 2023, Israel was attacked by Hamas, and they are still waiting for hostages to be returned. These young, beautiful, innocent people were merely enjoying a concert, and the revolting and monstrous murders and kidnappings were beyond the pale. Israel (finally) had the sympathy of the world, and the world saw the persecution right up close. Through the horrors came support we didn’t even know we had.

Now, Netanyahu, as he tries to stay out of jail, is annihilating Gaza. The starvation and the obliteration are NOT who we are, and we’re sadly losing the sympathy and the camaraderie that was almost groundbreaking. Hamas needs to be demolished, but we have got to get this fire under control.

The state of our country here is dire. Jimmy Kimmel being pulled off the air last Wednesday was nothing short of evil, egregious, and retaliatory. What happened to Charlie Kirk was devastating, repulsive, and sickening, and Jimmy Kimmel, like every normal human being, made that clear up front.

Charlie Kirk’s widow said that she forgives the person who shot and killed her husband. That’s an enormous gesture, and, though I’m not a scholar of Jesus by any means, I know that forgiveness was what he so often preached.

Folks, as the Jewish people usher in the New Year, 5786, let’s all show grace and love towards each other. No matter our religion, our political affiliation, our demons, our education, or even our stock portfolios, let’s pull each other up with tenderness and appreciation. As somebody who has lost everything and would relish some forgiveness herself, I know what it means to be beaten up. I know the lacerating pain of not having the 3 who matter most on Mother’s Day and birthdays and holidays, but I never let that stop me from treating others with empathy and compassion.

Shana Tova to all!

1 comment on September 23rd, 2025 -(5786)
Setbacks and Voices

August 1, 2025

amartinitoast.com, Barbara Starsky, Can I be your grandma?, Cunard, Flakowitz, Grace and Kindness, Marissa, Rebecca, Zachary

We all have different ways of dealing with stress. Some people go to the gym and treadmill their trauma. Many will scream and confront, while a fair portion might retreat. Some eat too much or too little, while others befriend a Bellini and a blackjack table. For me, I write. It doesn’t happen immediately, as I need to internalize everything first, making sure I’ve completely and adequately tortured myself in the process.

This summer began with an enchanted and elegant Alaskan voyage on the Queen Elizabeth, guaranteeing Cunard a customer for life. Proudly taking on the role of the “youngest old person” and relinquishing my role as the “oldest young person,” I basked in the magic of every glacier, every fjord, every whale, every afternoon tea, and every British accent.

We returned home in time for Bob’s birthday, and 2 of his grandsons came to celebrate. Oh, did we have fun! From the slides to the toys to the books to the rocks to the Oh, I Don’t Think So chasing game that I used to play with my own kids, this chasm inside of me was temporarily cushioned, insulated, sequestered. And, taking everybody to our favorite restaurant, Aldo’s, brought even further joy as people there unknowingly addressed me as Grandma and commented on the state of delight and pure bliss into which these children clearly escorted me.

When the kids left, and before I headed back to my house, Bob looked at me and just said, “tragic.” Though I was pretty sure I knew what he meant, I still asked for clarification and elaboration. He said that he knows how much I suffer without my kids and grandkids, and he knows that it’s tragic that I don’t have them in my life. “But,” he said, “what’s the most tragic is that your grandchildren don’t have you in their lives. They’re the innocent ones here, and they are missing out on a grandmother who is so young, so fun, so caring, so vibrant, and so big-hearted.”

The rest of July has been difficult, and the majesty of the Queen Elizabeth and Alaska seems like so very far away. Though I won’t elaborate too much here, I seem to have had a setback in my voice. It’s not my Fran Drescher or my Marvelous Mrs. Nasal physical voice that has been impacted, but my “you can’t talk to me or treat me that way” voice that has taken a hit.

I have worked so hard on loving and respecting myself. With the help of my therapist, my job, relationships, and loyal friends who are truly the sisters I never had (and I do have a sister), I have learned that I have value. I am flawed, damaged, broken, and incomplete, but I have value.

We were recently in Florida, (yes, we went from the invigorating chill of Alaska to the damaging heat of Florida), and the last day of our trip brought us to where my mother had lived and a couple of her old stomping grounds. Both of us were agitated, the feeling having nothing at all to do with each other, and when we walked into my mother’s beloved Flakowitz of Boynton, positively starving, I wasn’t fully surprised when I couldn’t stop crying.

My mother’s house was next, and sneaking in the side gate of Platina felt both illicit and wonderful at the same time. I showed Bob the outside of 5139C Europa Drive; knocking on the door seemed wrong and intrusive. I was feeling so paradoxical, as the nostalgia and reminiscences of the idyllic time I spent there with my kids was darkened by the reality that I never got to say goodbye to my mother. It still eats away at me, and I don’t wish this feeling on anybody, especially the three who matter most.

The Seminole Casino at Coconut Creek was our next stop; my mom loved that place and I wanted to show it to Bob. We had a drink at the bar and were heading to play a little, when all of a sudden I heard a man telling a story to somebody. The words, “and that Jew,” stunned and halted me, and I questioned him on what he just said. He admitted to saying it, and when I told him that I was Jewish and incredibly offended by his label, he could’t stop apologizing. It had been a difficult week where I stifled my voice and swallowed my self-worth, and now this vignette of anti-semitism just had me shaken to my core.

Folks, don’t ever let anybody rip out your proverbial vocal cords. Speak up for your neighbors and for all of the communities that are being persecuted. Speak up for yourselves. We are living in such challenging times, and our voices are not only being edited, but actually deleted.

I’ve got to go find a Bellini and a blackjack table. Happy August to all!

1 comment on Setbacks and Voices
Coming Home, Going Home, What and Where is Home?

May 3, 2025

Abandonment, Barbara Starsky, Broken Heart

We just returned from a magical Spring Break in Portugal, but, after 7 days, I turned to my person and said, “I’m ready to go home.” Being the “Overthinking for 300, Alex” type that I am, I probably shouldn’t have said that, because it weighed on me throughout the entire flight back to New Jersey. Where is home? What is home? If nobody is waiting for you, is it home? I think the turbulence in my mind was even more frightening than what we were experiencing as we crossed the Atlantic on United flight 145.

I will turn 60 in January, and as I enter what would generously and fairly be called the last third of my life, for some reason I recall what David Cassidy, Keith Partridge himself, said to his daughter on his deathbed. He was only 67, so he only experienced a bit more than two-thirds of the 90 years with which I think everyone should be blessed. He said to her, “So much wasted time.” Imagine that, Keith Partridge, a heartthrob and icon at 20, talking about wasted time?

Was David Cassidy just thinking he could have done so much more with his life? Perhaps, but David Cassidy and his daughter, Katie, were estranged for a significant amount of time. He was obviously contemplative on the extra and deserved time, for both of them, that they could have and should have had together. Fingers weren’t pointed, blame wasn’t assigned, he was just commenting, with his daughter right next to him at his bedside, while he was about to officially “go home,” that so much time was squandered.

I spend substantial time thinking about my own mother, and how much I miss her and regret the time we never got to share. As I have written before, several times in fact, my mother was flawed. But, she was mine, and though I try to show grace and let go of the detestation I feel for my sister, my sister forbade my mother from having any contact with me. Let’s be clear and understand that my mother was fully at fault, and again I will reiterate how seamless Sophie’s Choice was for Barbara Starsky, but she was given an ultimatum by my sister. She was afraid and she was a coward, but she was threatened by a mobster who orchestrated a gang mentality against me.

My mother was an extremely pretty lady, stunning at times, and I was always surprised she didn’t have any work done when she got older. She was vain, which is not a bad thing, as looking attractive matters. It’s not everything, but pride in one’s appearance, especially when one begins showing those unrequested though inescapable signs of aging, conveys a zestiness and an “I’m not going down without a fight” vibe.

I saw my mother for the last time in 2016, though she didn’t pass away until 2021. She got in so much trouble from my sister, or, as she liked to say, she “paid the piper” when I went down to Florida to spend time with her. Pathetic, isn’t it, that she got in trouble from her one daughter for seeing her other daughter? I reached out to her after that, but we rarely connected. I did get a birthday voicemail from her in 2019, on my 53rd birthday (I am crying hysterically right now, as I just listened to it), and she told me that she loved me, that she wanted to hear my voice, and that she wanted to see me. I was actually playing Mah Jongg when I saw and heard her voicemail, and when I called her back and after we spoke a bit, I put her on speaker so that she could say hello to a couple of my friends whom she knew. I was so happy that she had called, and I told her I would LOVE to see her and to just name the place, date, and time. I suddenly felt resurrected, visible, valued, loved. My mommy wanted to see me. I mattered. I had a home.

She never reached out after that.

On April 6th of 2020, a few weeks after the world went into lockdown, I sent this to my mom:

Dear Mom,

There’s a quote by Maya Angelou that I’ve thought about a lot over these past years. Powerfully and impactfully, she wrote, “I can be changed by what happens to me, but I refuse to be reduced by it.” With that said, I’m reaching out to you.

Mom, I don’t know that you are going to get this; perhaps Lisa intervenes and has control over everything in your life. I’m actually hoping that you’re at Lisa’s right now so you don’t have to be alone. Regardless, we’re in a pandemic, and I care about you. You’re my mother, after all.

I’m not going to be emotional, political, intellectual, accusatorial, or banal. I’m just going to tell you that I love you, that I hope you’re safe, and that if you need anything at all, just let me know.

Marla

This was her response:

what a nice surprise! I love you too and hope you are safe…mom

Between March 24th and June 9th of 2020, I received 16 Explanation of Benefits statements for Zack. He was still on my insurance, and, because his birthday is in January, he was able to stay on it until he was 26 years and 356 days old. I was terrified by these constant EOBs, as I had already been receiving 5 years of them, many of which were for services and tests a young man in his 20s should not need or have to suffer through.

After the 16th EOB and nobody answering me about what was going on with Zack, I called my mother. Apparently, my niece had just arrived there and was going to be bringing my mother to Atlanta, where my sister lives. My mother screamed at me that Zack was okay, but that she was not well. She kept screaming at me, told me that she was down to 88 pounds, and she asked why I hadn’t called her. She said Jay had called her. Jay, the monster who tried to and successfully separated me from both of my families – the nuclear one I created with him and my nuclear one from growing up. Jay, the person she couldn’t stand because she always felt he undermined me, especially and most delightfully in front of her. Jay, the person who destroyed her daughter …

At the end of the conversation, she screamed, “I love you.” I was shaking, crying, alarmed, and confused. Why did she have to yell at me? What was going on with her health? I would never know.

After that day, their story was that I learned my mother was not well, and I never reached out. The truth is, I wasn’t allowed to. I had tried to reach out PLENTY over the years.

I don’t know what my mother looked like at the end. My mind still thinks of her looking like she does in the paperweight I keep in the desk where I write. She is barely 40, with a magenta blouse and a face that really did look like she could be Elizabeth Taylor’s twin. It was school picture day, and, back then, the teachers received a paperweight with their picture package. I asked her if I could have it, and I haven’t let go of it since. After all, she was my mom. She was my home.

1 comment on Coming Home, Going Home, What and Where is Home?
10 Years

April 3, 2025

A Mom Without Her Kids, Abandonment, amartinitoast.com, Broken Heart, Forgiveness, Grace and Kindness, Healing, Marissa, Rebecca, Zachary, Parental Alienation, Tragic Divorce, Zachary Jaffe

Ten years ago today, my life ended. How then, you’re probably asking, can I be writing this blog? Fortitude? Resolve? Resilience? Self-torture?

I still play his voicemail from the night before he left me; many of you have even heard it. So chipper and stoked, he shared that he got the internship at ADP, the one for which he so desperately hoped. Mentioning that he was going to surprise me with the news when he saw me, he just couldn’t hold back the well-deserved announcement. I’m glad he didn’t hold back, as his delivery was so ebullient and precious. I can actually say every word of it in my sleep, but that’s what happens when you listen to something every day for 10 years. That’s actually 3,650 times, and, while I know it’s unhealthy for me, it’s all I have.

He was going to his dad’s for the first night of Passover, and he was supposed to come to me for the second night. He never showed.

Zack and I were always so close. The quintessential mama’s boy, he was so easygoing and warmhearted. His compassion and altruism were apparent from such a young age, and I remember going to see The Iron Giant with him when he was only 5. He cried and cried, and Jay turned to me and told me that I was turning Zack into a sissy, a wuss, a girl. It was only the first of dozens of times Jay would tell me that, but I could never equate humaneness with a lack of machismo. In fact, I’m not sure anything enhances the Y chromosome more than tenderness.

I miss my children so much. My mother used to say, once my sister and I gave her grandchildren, that we kind of took a backseat to them. I learned that firsthand from her, as I was so easily scrapped, dumped, discarded, and junked. For me, however, and keep in mind that I’ve never met my grandchildren, it is my kids whose backs I will always have, even now. Even now, as I want to post the voicemail that Zack left me 10 years ago, and I want to post the last birthday card he gave me, I won’t.

A dear friend of mine recently tried to find Zack for me, and she left a letter for him inside of his mailbox. Her beautiful husband had actually written the letter, chronicling his somewhat rocky relationship with his own parents and the pivotal and profound reconciliation that followed. Regretting the time he lost, he was grateful for all that he found. He left his phone number in the letter, with fingers crossed that Zack might reach out.

My friend never imagined she would get such a toxic and threatening phone call from an enraged and boorish woman. This woman had clearly read the letter, but said she had no idea who Zack was (her bestial tone begged otherwise). She told my friend to never show her face anywhere near there again, and my friend was shaking. Believe me, this friend is no Sensitive Susie; she is a tour de force and a force of nature and she does not cower easily. She was rattled.

I don’t know who this person was, but I know who my son isn’t. Maybe, as my mother said, Zack is brainwashed, but I pray that he is not surrounding himself with such uncouth people. I pray he is living his best life, being true to his benevolent soul, smiling when he thinks of all of the concerts we saw and all of our inside jokes, and getting ready to settle down and have his own family.

Zachary Daniel Jaffe, I love you and I miss you. Know that you will always be my Iron Giant, and may your gracious soul find its way back to me one day.

No comments on 10 Years