Empty Nest-ers Unite!!

 

                                                                                                                    Photo: Unsplash

When my son went off to college, I cried. A lot. Every time I saw a school bus, I would get teary. The CD in my car was cued up to "Sweet Dreams, Little Man," by the Dixie Chicks. I was a wreck every time I listened to it.

When my daughter went off to the same college two years later, they drove down our country road in the same car. (We were still living in Pound Ridge, New York.)

My husband and I waved goodbye and shouted, "See you at Thanksgiving!" 

When the car was out of sight, we made two large Gin & Tonics, took out the cigarettes, and ate a bag of Cape Cod Chips. For dinner.

Full disclosure? It was grand!

To all of those experiencing a quiet house after dropping off your progeny at college, have a look at my Huffington Post, "Empty Nest, New Beginnings."

Although you might not have an immediate house-wide celebration (like we did with Child #2), be patient. After 18 years of raising your child, it's natural to take some time before you appreciate not having to worry about their post-party driving. Bid adieu to the feeling of guilt that the refrigerator is running on low. Adios to nagging about deadlines and homework. Take a back seat. 

There is something liberating about not shopping for dinner and feeling the angst of "What should we eat tonight?" No more worrying, 

"Did they not make their bed in the morning?" Feh. 

"Do I care if they're late for class?" Meh.

Relax. You're gonna love it. (Believe me!)

"Escape From Gel Nail Manicure Hell: Words From a Former Addict"

Originally published in MEDIUM, "Age of Empathy"

Escape From Gel Nail Manicure Hell

Words From a Former Addict

Bonni Brodnick

4 min read

·

Jun 14, 2022

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Photo by KARTIK GADA on Unsplash

My name is Bonni. I am a recovered gel nail manicure addict. After several years of falling into this beauty trap, my fingernails sent me a message, loud and clear: They wanted to breathe.

No doubt, the durability of the gel nail procedure is remarkable. With it, you can confidently use your nails and not feel worried about scraping the crud from the bottom of dirty pots or even slamming your nails when you reach for the car door too fast. Put your piggies through practically anything, and your model-perfect manicure will remain intact.

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Photo by the Author

How do you get gel nails?

The manicurist will remove any nail polish you have on, then soak your hands in a small, tepid, soapy water bowl that you only wish was large enough for your whole body. Finally, they clip any hangnails or overgrown cuticles. You are now ready to say goodbye to your natural fingernails.

Between the five layers of gel nail polish, you slip your hands into an ultraviolet oven contraption. This is a miraculous curing method that seals each coat. (In other words, you are “curing” your nails.) After two-plus hours, you are ready to join the Legion of Those Who Have Beautiful Nails.

You may hear the frequently asked question: “Are those your real nails?”

“Yes,” you respond. Go ahead. Hold them up so you can see, too. Your hands do look gorgeous.

Now, how do you get rid of gel nails?

Push forward three weeks. You are now crashing from the high of having stunning nails. The top gel starts chipping like broken china. Your under-nail has grown, and an unnatural ledge appears between the gel polish and your actual nail.

Against all warnings from your sister and friends — picking off the polish yourself is about the worse thing you can do. For it is also peeling off layers of your actual fingernails. The result is painful, and your nails will now be paper-thin.

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Photo by the Author

So it’s back to the salon.

They take cotton balls soaked in high-octane nail polish remover and put them on top of each nail. Then the tips of your fingers are wrapped in aluminum foil, just like little potatoes at a clambake.

Minutes later, the aluminum foil is unwrapped. To your horror, the old gel nails look like peeling skin or wilted petunia petals. The Eggplant Violet color that looked so screamingly chic three weeks earlier now looks soft and wimpy.

Next comes the Dremel, which is a carpenter’s tool for sanding. Your “nail technician” drags the Dremel over the surface of your nail bed to smooth it out.

You will begin to see powder particles floating in the air. Those powder particles are your fingernails. You are breathing in your fingernails.

You promise yourself that you will stop doing gel nail manicures at some point soon. (Maybe after your birthday party. Oh, geez, then it’s the holiday parties.)

Three weeks pass, and you’re ready for a new set of gel nails. But you suddenly remember: WHY am I doing this again? Didn’t you promise yourself you would stop?

When the manicurist gets to the Dremel part to make your nails smoother, you get nervous. You ask in a tone that’s hardly audible.

“Can I just have a clear polish this time?”

Your manicurist smirks. You become paranoid. Seconds turn into minutes into hours. “But the gel nail lasts so much longer,” the manicurist says, looking straight into your eyes. You wince, then share the stare. “Please, just clear polish.”

Congratulations! You are now unburdened by the shackles of gel nail addiction.

Behold your new nails au natural! Get a load of those healthy-looking half-moons! Sure, your hands are less dramatic and glossy, but you have finally quelled your obsession.

You no longer have to put up with the annoying question, “Are those your real nails?”

Because, babe, you can finally say it. “YES!! These are my real nails.”

Bonni Brodnick is the author of “My Stroke in the Fast Lane: A Journey to Recovery” and “Pound Ridge Past, now in its second edition. She is an award-winning communications specialist and a member of the Pound Ridge Authors Society. Bonni is also an ambassador for the American Heart Association and a proud Stroke Survivor. Visit me at bonnibrodnick.com.

Read more of my writing:

Part I: Seeing With Cross-Eyes

My World in Double Vision

medium.com

My Wedding Dress Still Fits (25 Years Later)

Go Figure!

medium.com

Gingerbread House on Steroids

Frank Lloyd Wright’s “Fallingwater” Sets the Standard

medium.com

 

Originally appeared in MEDIUM, "The memoirist"

Man, can this guy sing and write lyrics, or what?

James Taylor & Me: How We Met

The rock-a-bye of Sweet Baby James

                                                                      Courtesy of Discogs.com

It was a summer night on Martha’s Vineyard when I was introduced to the captivating sound of sweet baby James. “Sunny Skies,” “Steamroller,” and “Oh, Susannah” were just some of his songs that captivated me and millions of baby boomers who could sing along in the key of C Major.

“Who’s going to Teen Night?” my mother asked.

Teen Night took place every Thursday night at the Chilmark Community Center, which was just down the road from us. My siblings and I hopped in the back seat of our Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser station wagon. This was the design where there were slivers of window on the sides of the roof. When we drove into New York City from our home in Maplewood, New Jersey, I remembered it feeling “cozy” to look out and see the lights of Park Avenue.

Here on the Vineyard, it was glorious darkness and stars.

What was Teen Night? Firstly, you obviously had to be a teenager to get in. The evening entailed hanging out in the big room and getting snacks in the smaller room. And, for me, it was a hormonally appropriate excuse to flirt and make out by the tennis court with one of the most popular 15-year-old boys in Chilmark at the time.

One night, after flitting around the basketball court pretending that I knew what I was doing, I heard a rumor.

“There’s a concert by some guy who lives on the Vineyard,” one of the kids was saying. “Who wants to go down to Beetlebung Corner? C’mon! It’s free!”

We gathered under the fluorescent lights in front of the Community Center parking lot. The band of teens walked the two-and-a-half minute hike to Beetlebung Corner. Bats flying amidst the tree limbs at night always cast an eerie ghostliness.

Just beyond, across from the church, was a huge field strewn with hay. We climbed the bales and could sit wherever we wanted. And we still didn’t know who was playing, only that it was a some local who played guitar.

The song “Sweet Baby James” rang out over the calm Vineyard night.

“There’s a song that they sing when they take to the highway,

A song that they sing when they take to the sea,

Song that they sing of their home in the sky,

Maybe you can believe it if it helps you to sleep,

But singing works just fine for me . . .

It was the heartfelt simplicity and emotional musicality of none other than James Taylor. As a lullaby dedicated to Taylor’s nephew and an ode to his own relationship with music, I was a goner.

James Taylor had me swooning.

James’s songs are in the perfect range to sing along. And can you imagine now going to a concert in a field laid with hay, not knowing who you were going to see for free, and it’s JAMES TAYLOR?

In the fall, I returned to high school for my sophomore year. Among the cool things I brought home from my summer on the Vineyard (along with the latest footwear fad: a strange leather sandal that only wrapped around the big toe) was the music of James Taylor. A new J.T. craze had begun.

Be silent my heart.

Bonni Brodnick is the author of “My Stroke in the Fast Lane: A Journey to Recovery” and “Pound Ridge Past, now in its second edition. She is an award-winning communications specialist and a member of the Pound Ridge Authors Society. Bonni is also an ambassador for the American Heart Association and a proud Stroke Survivor. Visit me at bonnibrodnick.com.

Read more of my writing:

Misophonia: Do You HEAR What I’m Hearing?

The loudness of living

muddyum.net

Escape from Gel Nail Manicure Hell

Words From a Former Addict

medium.com

Addicted to Watching Ships & Surfers on YouTube

Who gets the biggest wave?

medium.com

Life

Celebrity

Music

Teens

Memoir

 

Grandson + Bebe + Granddad: A Summer Afternoon in Brooklyn

What a delightful and delicious lunch in Brooklyn with our grandson. From the moment my husband and I held his hands outside the apartment building to returning him home two and a half hours later, he never stopped talking. What did he say? Indecipherable! Caught a word here or there, like "Mater," "Doc Hudson," and "Lightning McQueen" in the movie "Cars," "Mahones, touchdown, yay!", "vroooooom," "That's a blue bus," staring at the Heinz ketchup bottle and making pretend he's reading, "Five, five, five." One story was followed by another.

Received a text from his mother later: "Spoiler: It's a lot of stories about cars, Formula 1, and most of them end in crashes."