Full House

Sometimes my heart has a mind of its own.

After five wonderful days in London, I helped my teenage daughter pack her bags. We took the Tube to Victoria Station, and then the Gatwick Express to the airport. I went up to the British Air desk with her to check-in (as an unofficial "unaccompanied minor" — in other words, she didn't need an escort or a humiliating placard hanging round her neck — she couldn't use the kiosk). We found the departures line, which turned round a corner toward security. 

And that was it. 

In a moment, she was out of sight and I retraced our steps back into the city. Alone.

So, in my head on that long ride, I played out all that we had done and all that my daughter was about to experience. She was going to Barcelona to stay with the family of a delightful girl we hosted last summer. Her ten days would include riding at an elegant Spanish dressage center, touring one of the most beautiful cities in the world, trying new foods, learning about a new culture, making new friends. I knew (in my head) that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and I also knew (in my head) that my daughter was so fortunate, so blessed to be able to do such incredible things.

But, in my heart ... ? Well, that's a different story.

Of course, I don't want to keep her from these adventures. My hopes and plans revolve around her becoming a confident, independent adult. It's not like I'm going to lock her up and shield her from the world. (It would make me rather like the mother in Carrie, wouldn't it? And we all know how that turned out.)

This wasn't our first parting either, just a slightly more exotic one. When she was only six weeks old, I went back to work, leaving her for ten whole hours each day with a nanny (who, thank goodness, was wonderful and quickly became part of our family). Throughout her early years, I frequently went away on business, assuaging my guilt by buying her unnecessary tchotchkes at airport gift shops all around the country.

The first year she went to sleepaway camp, I cried the entire way home from Connecticut (two-plus hours of tears; my husband was very understanding). Really, it was pure torture. Three weeks with no contact except letters and postcards. It was a horse riding camp and she adored it. I counted the days until her return. She went again the next summer, and to a different camp the next. I got braver.

Many of my friends are empty-nesters now. They tell me to enjoy it. To relax, go out, get to know my husband again. I try. Without my daughter, I revisited some of my favorite parts of London: Kensington Gardens, for instance, and Portobello Road. I did all the things I wanted to do. But, there was an emptiness in my chest. A sort of hunger behind my solar plexus. And, when we returned to the States without her, everything was a little lonelier than I remembered. For the next week, I threw myself back into work (not difficult after ten days off and 450 emails). I tidied up her room. The time passed slowly. But, it passed.

Last night, I stood in Terminal E, outside customs at Logan Airport. I knew her flight had arrived, but the process is notoriously long. So, I brought recent copies of The New Yorker and Vogue. Still, it was hard to concentrate. 

And, suddenly, she was back. 

She was back with a million stories to tell — and quite willing, happy even, to be hugged in public.

I know I'm going to have to start steeling myself. These partings will only increase in length and frequency. And, college is looming. It's still two years away, of course, but at this stage, I know that two years will fly by. It isn't nearly enough time. I know this in my head.

And in my heart.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com. 

Two Left Feet

Even under the most ideal circumstances, packing for a trip can be a challenge. 

(Not that I would know about anything remotely like ideal circumstances. I am, after all, the mother of a teenager.)

Prior to our recent trip to London, life in our household was a bit chaotic. We juggled sophomore final exams (not fun, believe me) and two horse injuries (a bruised leg and a cut eyelid, not fun and also quite expensive — those vet bills add up). We had to coordinate a house-sitter (my sister) and rides to the airport (my sister-in-law). And then there was that little snafu with the wrong helmet. 

But, eventually we got it all done, got to the airport, and got on our plane. The flight was fine. As per usual, both my husband and daughter were able to sleep. And, as per usual, I was not. I can't help it. The seats are uncomfortable and my mind is racing. I watched Frozen and read a few back issues of The New Yorker.

These days, hotels in London are prohibitively expensive. But, I was able to find a "flat" (as a Yank, I can't help but smile) in Hampstead. I'm a big fan of Airbnb, and you would be too. A one-bedroom apartment, full kitchen and bath, five minutes from a Tube station for about one-third the cost of a single hotel room.

Jolly good!

Early Friday morning, a little bleary-eyed, we had arrived and were unpacking for our stay. Suddenly, I heard ...

"Oh nooooooooooooo ....!"

My daughter held up her riding boots. Two of them. Both left.

"Mom, I'm soooooo sorry."

Let me explain. Back home, she owns two pairs of these boots. The older ones are used for lessons and mucking about the stable. The newer ones are in better shape and she wears them for clinics and competitions. But, here's the rub. Both pairs are so perpetually caked in mud and dust that it wasn't obvious which was which. Despite my constant "clean your boots" refrain. (All right, that's another story.)

Being rather a stress-freak by nature, I try to maintain my cool in these situations. ("It's a thing, not a person.") This wasn't the end of the world, I assured her. It was an inconvenience and would cost us some money. That's all.

Little did I know.

In addition to all our fabulous bat mitzvah activities, London sightseeing, fish and chips, and pubs, we would just have to find a tack shop and buy some boots. How hard could it be? We were in England, after all.

The Brits love their horses. From Velvet Brown to Lady Mary to Queen Elizabeth herself. In the movie What a Girl Wants (which we watched at least a hundred times when my daughter was younger), not-yet-crazy Amanda Bynes hugs her stuffy grandmother. The older woman explains "No hugging dear. I'm British. We only show affection to dogs and horses." 

Thanks to my smart phone and our adorable flat's adorable WiFi, I found a tack store about four miles northeast of us. Of course, we didn't have a car and the Tube didn't go there, but we would manage somehow. Meanwhile, my husband jumped online and found a famous sporting goods store, Lillywhites, that had a large selection of boots and a location in central London. (Must say "Well done, old chap!")

We were tied up with bat mitzvah activities all weekend, and my daughter was heading to Spain Tuesday, so Monday morning she and I went to find Lillywhites. Despite a huge selection of equestrian gear online, the store had only one pair of boots that looked more like fashion wear than sports gear. I asked if there was any other place we could look and the associate immediately said, "Harrods," but warned that they would be "rather expensive."

Rather was right!

Harrods, arguably London's most famous and fashionable department store, did indeed have a lovely equestrian department. In fact, they had my daughter's exact boots. Really. For exactly $513 more than we paid for them back home. Really. They were a higher price to begin with and we had to factor in the dismal exchange rate. 

To my daughter's credit, she didn't even think about asking me for them.    

That afternoon, we toured Shakespeare's Globe and that evening, we had tickets for a show — only a couple of hours in between and it was my daughter's last day in London. My husband to the rescue again! He found a  Decathlon Sports store and this time called ahead to make sure they had boots in stock. My daughter and I raced to the Tube and took it out (way out) to Canada Water, a freshwater lake and wildlife refuge (and, sporting goods mall, apparently) where we met several of the queen's swans and finally, finally found some boots.

We made it back to the flat in time to change and go to the show. And my daughter made it to Barcelona the next day with two boots.

One left. One right. One happy girl. One tired mama.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com. 

Headgear for Heading to London

I haven't posted for a while, but I have a really good excuse. I was out of the country.

(How I love saying that! As someone who didn't make it across the pond until I was 25, it has been a source of adult delight that I'm fortunate enough to visit other countries from time to time. And particularly wonderful that I'm able to take my teenage daughter.)

Two years ago, my daughter and I went to London for the amazing bat mitzvah of my best friend from high school's oldest daughter. Ten days ago, we headed back for the equally amazing (yet utterly different) bat mitzvah of the girl's younger sister.

Although the celebrations were unique, we experienced some distinct similarities. In both cases, we had only about 36 hours between the end of school and the start of our trip.

Can you say ... "Stress!"

It would have been bad enough to face two finals Wednesday prior to a flight on Thursday, right? Wrong. My daughter had to add a concert in Boston (One Republic with The Script — two of your favorites, right? Mine too. Not.) and a trip to the stable. There was no way she could actually fly across the Atlantic Ocean for two weeks without saying a sentimental good-bye to her trusty steed. In between all of her commitments, I needed to do laundry, wrap up some client projects, write an essay about the 4th of July, and pick up my sister who was coming in from New York to housesit.

"British Air, take me away!"

Everything was more or less under control, when I heard my daughter pull into our driveway. She immediately called up the stairs with what sounded like worry — no, it was more like panic — in her voice. She realized as she was walking into the house that she had grabbed another girl's riding helmet instead of her own. No big deal?

No. Big deal! Big, big deal.

After our bat mitzvah weekend in London, my daughter was scheduled to fly to Barcelona, where she would be riding with our friend (and recent exchange student) at one of Spain's premier dressage centers. There was no way she was going without a helmet and, sadly, there was no way she could simply borrow the one she had inadvertently borrowed. It didn't fit.

Of course, my daughter needed a shower and hadn't even begun to pack. And, we were getting precariously close to our departure time. So, ever the quick-thinker, I put my sister in charge of the duffel bag and drove to the stable myself with the purloined helmet in hand. Thirty minutes there, thirty minutes back. (Sixty minutes total that I really didn't have.) Crisis averted.

I'd warned my sister that they needed to work efficiently, but also think through everything carefully. My daughter's agenda included four dress-up bat mitzvah events (two nice dinners, services, and a wild party at a Camden Town club, complete with DJs, dancing girls, smoke machines and lasers), comfortable shorts and tops for sightseeing, riding clothes and gear, and beachwear. (We've had some packing issues in the past. Too many of this, too few of that. Most recently, it was an ensemble for an evening at the theatre: heels, a dressy top and trendy belt all meant to go with a particular skirt that somehow hadn't made it into the suitcase.)

But, I was pleasantly surprised. I arrived home (expecting chaos) and found a number of well-organized piles ready for inspection. Everything fit (including two tubs of frozen cookie dough for our Spanish friend — don't ask) and we weren't even over our weight limit. Within the hour, our driver arrived and we headed to Logan airport. 

We had somehow pulled it off (yet again). 

Or so we thought ...

Next post: "Footwear Follies" or "The Battle of the Boots."

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com. 

Back to Zumba, Ouch!

When the going gets tough, the tough go to Zumba. 


Or used to go anyway.


After five weeks off, I finally went back to the gym. Ouch! I am one hurtin' puppy. For the past three years, I've been a pretty consistent worker-outer. Dance classes (Zumba and Nia) 3-4 times a week, yoga 2-3 times. But, you wouldn't know it right now.


When school ended the third week of June, my teen daughter and I headed to Europe. We had a bat mitzvah in London, followed by a few days in Paris. Back in the states, I had to get three weeks worth of work done in a day and a half before we went up to Maine (along with my husband this time) for an annual sailing trip. It would have been lovely to go to the gym in between those back-to-back vacations. 


But, who am I kidding?


Now, you may think I spent my ten days abroad eating les bon bons and sipping le vin blanc and not exercising. Mais non, mon ami! All right, there were plenty of bon bons and wine, but there was also plenty of exercise. Let's see ...


We walked all over London. My daughter and our two young English friends walked from brunch in Mayfair to Oxford Street (and teen fashion mecca Primark), then from Oxford Street to St. Johns Wood. Not sure how many kilometres that was but it took us an hour and a half, and we simply had to stop for ice cream along the way.


I danced my tuchus off at the bat mitzvah. I was familiar with a lot of the music from Zumba and actually used some of the moves from my class out on the dance floor. It was extremely gratifying when an older gentleman who was once a dance instructor at New York's Tavern on the Green told his wife that I "had the moves." I've repeated the story several times. So many times, in fact, that my daughter asked, rolling her eyes, "Yeah, yeah, you're never gonna forget that one, are you Mom?"


We continued the vacation workout in Paris. We had just four days to cover ... well, pretty much everything. We walked to and up Montmartre, and climbed to the dome of Sacre Couer. We walked down 350 steps to the Catacombs. We walked the halls and gardens of Versailles. And, on our last full day in the city of lights, we walked up the Eiffel Tower. You see, three of the four elevators were out of order. So, we could stand on line for the only one in operation, or we could save €5 each and walk. About halfway up, suffering from a bit of acrophobia as well as muscle fatigue, I had the distinct feeling that the outside staircase (kind of like a never-ending industrial strength fire escape in a cage) was shaking. "No, Mo-o-om, it's not," groaned my daughter. She was right. The staircase wasn't shaking ... my legs were!


The view was magnificent, as we expected. I paid too much for a bottle of water and we took about a hundred pictures. Then we had to walk back down. Toward the end of our descent, a display showed the relative heights of various international structures. It also informed us that our climb had been the equivalent of going up and down a 43-story building. (It was probably a good thing that I didn't know that from the start.)


Our final Olympic-level vacation feat was dragging our overloaded luggage a mile — uphill — to the Gare du Nord to catch the train to Charles de Gaulle. Every muscle ached.


Every. Muscle. In. My. Body. Ached.


Then, a bit of jet lag, a bit of advertising copy for clients ... and we went sailing. I didn't do much (hoisted the mainsail along with all the other guests, hiked a little on an island). But, somehow or other, my back went out on our last morning. I  curled up painfully in the rear of the car for the drive home and limped around for another two weeks afterwards. My guess is that all of the Paris exertion caught up to me, exacerbated by the tiny "careful-not-to-hit-your-head" bunk in our schooner cabin. 


Isn't it fun getting older?


Extra Strength Tylenol is a wonderful thing. And finally, after a few pain-free days, I went back to Zumba. I was not very coordinated; I didn't know the new routines; I was drenched in sweat. But, here's the worst of it. In my weeks away, someone stole my spot! For three years (hello, three years, people!), I've stood in the second row, all the way on the left, near the stereo and the stacked step equipment. I liked my spot. I could see the instructor. I could see myself in the mirror. I was close to the action but not in the very first "look-at-me-cause-I'm-all-that" row.


Now, I'm stuck in the back, on the right. Boo.


It just goes to prove what I've always secretly feared, you can never never never stop working out. You must stay committed. You have to feel the burn. You have to drag your sorry booty to the gym or face the consequences.


You snooze, you lose ... your place at Zumba.

Shopping: The International Language of Teen

I've joked that my daughter's and my trip to London and Paris last week was a "greatest hits" tour. Indeed, between the compressed schedule and all of our wonderful bat mitzvah commitments, there was no time to dilly-dally. We had to cram as much into as few days as possible.


On Saturday, we had four hours or so between services at the synagogue and the big celebration that evening. I considered suggesting a trip to the Tate Modern or a visit to Kensington Palace, but I knew what would make my little globe-trotter happy. 


Shopping! And, we knew just who to ask for advice. 


The younger sister of the bat mitzvah girl is a determined tweenage fashionista. She plans to make a career as a designer and I look forward not only to buying some of her certain-to-be fabulous ensembles, but also to attending the retrospective of her work they will someday present at the Metropolitan Museum's Costume Institute. Until then, we will have to settle for her expert insider tips.


She immediately suggested Oxford Street if we were looking for the latest trends. And, specifically, she encouraged us to visit one very special place.


Now, I've always loved England: Shakespeare, Jane Austen, high tea, nice manners. When I think of the nation's capital, I picture Buckingham Palace, Parliament, Westminster Cathedral, those adorable red phone booths. But now and forever more, when I hear the word "London," I will think of ... Primark.


Primark is a mecca for London's hip and stylish, a vast, colorful temple of overstocked, underpriced frippery. Anything you're looking for — from lacy lingerie to sky-high heels, shorts, tank tops, pocketbooks, flip flops, mini dresses, maxi dresses and dresses somewhere in between — at prices that start at £1 and £2, and go up to maybe £25 for a not-so-very-Burberry trench coat. 


This isn't exactly investment shopping. Will the stuff you buy last long? Oh, I sincerely doubt it. But, that's jolly good and hunky dory because those stonewashed, acid-rinsed, low ride, leopard print jeans are only going to be in style for the next five minutes anyway. And, speaking of the latest and greatest must-have item, my daughter was desperate for bright orange denims. We had looked everywhere (trust me, everywhere, everywhere, every-frrrrkin'-where) but to no avail. And, you guessed it.


Right there, right on the ground floor of Primark, right between the career blouses and the ladies' pajamas, was an entire ... rack ... of ... (wait for it, wait for it) ... bright orange jeans! OMG!!!


Having spent considerably more time shopping than we had planned, we quickly gathered our purchases: the holy grail of pants, some shorts, a cotton shirt, some bras, and a tunic for me (yes, even I was not immune to the power of Primark). I suggested that my daughter choose a size or two larger than she would wear in the states to be on the safe side.


Back at the hotel, we tried on our treasures. My tunic, which was an XL, fit as though it was an XS. It was silky polyester printed to look like a classic scarf. And, it did look like a classic scarf — like a classic scarf wrapped tightly around an enormous sausage, thank you very much. I was only out a few pounds so I decided to bring it home and donate it to the school's thrift shop. Oh well.


Unfortunately, I was not going to get off that easy. My daughter tried on her jeans and, alas, found that they too were cut much smaller than they were labeled. Everything was, in fact. "All right," I told her. "We'll go back to Primark after brunch tomorrow."


For our second Primark pilgrimage, we brought both our young British friends along. Their parents deserved a bit of a break after all the festivities, and it gave the girls a chance to hang out. We arranged a place to rendezvous, and I went in search of customer service. For future reference, it's in a hot, dismal corner of the store behind Primark's gigantic shoe department. One hour and fifteen minutes. I was on line for one hour and fifteen minutes. That's one hour and fifteen minutes that I will never get back again. 


Meanwhile, the girls were going gaga over all their options. Once I left customer service, I found three very happy campers and we quickly paid for everything and moved on. 'Farewell, Primark,' I thought to myself. 'At least I won't have to come back here until my next trip to London.'


Wrong!


Back at the hotel that evening, my daughter tried everything on again. At home, she wears a size 3/4, so she had originally bought a pair of size 6s. This time, to be safe, she had grabbed a pair of 10s. We were shocked to see that they were at least as tight as the first pair. Shocked, that is, until we realized that the hanger had said 10 but the pants were a 6. Oh no.


Our train to Paris was the next day at 11:30 am. I pulled out my iPad and checked Primark's hours. They opened at 9. If we were there early and if the customer service line wasn't too crowded, we just might make it. So, I spent my last morning in one of my favorite cities in the world, once again, at Primark.


"You know," I told my daughter, as we settled into our seats on the train a bit later, the third and final pair of orange jeans packed safely in her duffel. "You do have the best mother in the world."


"I know," she smiled. And, I think she actually believed it. For a full hour or so.

The Teen's Speech

We received the first "Save the Date" email over a year ago. Our good friends who live in London not only invited us to the bat mitzvah of their eldest girl, but my daughter was asked to make a special "friendship speech."


My husband bowed out of the journey; we had an annual sailing trip scheduled for the following week, and it was just too much time away. But, my daughter and I were really excited to go. Although she had been to London before, she was very young and remembers just bits and pieces (like the pool at our Cotswolds hotel and the trampoline in our friends' garden). Our only worry was whether or not she would be out of school yet. With even a handful of snow days to make up, we would have had to fly to the U.K. Friday night, attend services and the party Saturday, and fly back Sunday. Ugh!


Luckily, we had a snow-free winter — a rare and wonderful thing for New England. I told the bat mitzvah girl that it was a good sign. (I didn't mention anything about global warming.)


As I've already stated, we have known about the bat mitzvah and the speech for more than a year. So, my daughter, being a typical teenager, planned exactly what dress she would wear, exactly which shoes, exactly how she would do her hair. 


When did she write her speech? 


That would be exactly on the plane going over. On my iPad.


In her defense, we had already made a list of all the things she wanted to mention. She had also agreed that a poem would be the best approach. But, as a mom who likes to do things well in advance of deadlines, I was starting to stress.


As per usual, my daughter pulled it off. (I don't know why I'm surprised. Her entire middle school career was built on last minute papers and projects for which she somehow always earned A's.) She wrote the poem quickly, and I proofread it and made some suggestions. I did insist that she rehearse it in our hotel room a few times. Other than that, she had it covered. (Her exact words would be: "It's covered, Mo-o-om." Complete with an eye roll. But, I digress.)


Our young friend read her Torah portion beautifully in services and the party was fantastic. There were elaborate candy-covered topiary centerpieces on the tables. (In a brilliant move, paper bags were passed out as the evening ended so that these works of edible art could be broken down and taken home to enjoy later.) There was a DJ with two back-up dancers, a photo booth (which, I have to say, was enjoyed by many an adult as well as the kids), sparkle tattoos, sunglasses, hats. And, the entire gala took place in the stunning St. Pancras Hotel, a place so grand and glorious and otherworldly that it was used as a set for the Harry Potter movies.


When it was her turn, my daughter got up, took the microphone, and though she confessed later to being a little nervous, she was splendid. All-in-all, the teen's speech — and the celebration itself — was a great success.


Here now, for your reading pleasure is ... 

"Ode to a Bat Mitzvah Girl"

On a New York morning in 1975,

(Many years before we were even alive,)

Our mothers met with very little fuss.

Think about it — they were the same age as us!

They were forever friends, just like the song,

Through colleges, weddings and some years in Hong Kong

My mom heard you'd arrived, she just had to meet you;

It would take a whole weekend to properly greet you.

She flew off to London, didn't take me with her.

(Excuse me, what am I, chopped liver?)

But, that didn't stop us from becoming fast friends!

In New York and Massachusetts, our playdates had no end!

In 2003, we visited — oh, what a scene!

The London Eye, pony rides and that keen trampoline.

I was only 6, you just 5 and your sister was 3,

But, no doubt about it — she kept up with you and me!

Pretty soon, you came to visit us in Marblehead.


We had loads of fun, all three of us in one bed.


And that first trip was the time I absolutely swore,


Nothing could hold us — not a lock, not a door.


I would give you a midnight tour of my house;


You and your sis promised to be quieter than a mouse.


But through the duration of that entire six-day trip


I never once hosted such a tour, what a gyp!


My alarm clock malfunctioned without a single qualm,


Was it fate, was it luck or was it ... my mom?


We also went to the club to swim in the pool.


Oh how good the water felt, so nice and so cool!


The beach was such fun, the ocean great too,


With all of its colors, deep greens and sea blue.


We all cruised the harbor, you even drove the boat.


Trust me, you drove better than my dad, that old goat.


The many years have merged into what feels like just a few.


Each year, we have changed and we just grew and grew.


Through thick and through thin, we have stayed special pals,


From the U.K., from the U.S., we are fab-u-lous gals!


We may have our differences, we may have our sames.

(How cool you and my mom share your first names!)


So whether I say tomato or you say to-mah-to,


I say potato and you say po-tah-to,


There's just one last thing to say on your bat mitzvah weekend.


Mazel tov, mazel tov, I'm so glad you're my friend!

Her Royal Majesty, Super Dope

Pity the printshop responsible for Queen Elizabeth's business cards. Just one of her many official titles is: Her Majesty Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God, of Great Britain, Ireland and the British Dominions beyond the Seas Queen, Defender of the Faith. 


But, the Black-Eyed Peas Star will.i.am has a less formal moniker; he simply calls her "super dope."


I have to agree.


Like a lot of other women my age, I once idolized Princess Diana. In fact, I remember her wedding like it was yesterday. I was working a "graveyard shift" at my college's conference center, sitting the front desk of a dorm-turned-hotel from midnight until 8:00 am. Most nights, I brought magazines, a sketchpad or journal to while away the time. But in the early morning hours of July 29, 1981, I was glued to the television. What a fairy tale it all seemed!


Of course, the world soon learned that in the case of the Prince and Princess of Wales, there was to be no happy ending. And, the media had a field day detailing the former Diana Spencer's flaws. But, despite it all, she re-invented herself into the image of a modern-day royal, one with a big heart and utterly human touch.


When Diana died, I was eight and a half months pregnant with my daughter. I sat on the couch and sobbed as Elton John sang his new interpretation of "Candle in the Wind," "Good-bye England's Rose." (Truth is, by that time pretty much anything — a Hallmark ad, a puppy — made me cry.) The mother of two young sons and a woman who had already affected so many and might have lived to do so much good. By anyone's count, she died too young.


With Diana gone, I cancelled my subscription to Royalty magazine. I resented the Windsors. They didn't know a good thing when they had it! There is simply no way that Diana would have been cavorting about with Dodi Al-Fayed if Charles had been faithful or the Queen had been a warmer mother-in-law.


But, I think I underestimated Elizabeth ...


• While still a princess, she worked tirelessly during and after World War II, not only to contribute to the effort but to rally and comfort her people
• She serves as the constitutional monarch of 16 sovereign states, and head of the 54 members of the Commonwealth of Nations (just think of all the frequent flyer miles)
• She awarded the Beatles Members of the Order of the British Empire 
• She survived her "annus horribilus," including the scandalous separations of her two sons and the devastating Windsor Castle fire
• Despite the fact that she is the traditional head of the Church of England, she has worked to achieve religious tolerance and freedom
• She has owned more than 30 corgis
• And, nobody — and I mean nobody — wears a coat and matching hat quite like she does!


Shakespeare wrote, "Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown." I get the sense that Elizabeth doesn't allow herself to lose any sleep because she knows full well that she needs a full night's beauty rest to get through each day. I sincerely doubt she has ever called in sick.


Over the years, I've definitely mellowed in my opinion of her Majesty. (I still can't quite stomach her eldest son, though.) Today, I find much to admire in Elizabeth. She has served her nation and her people with a sense of lifelong duty that we would be hard-pressed to find in many leaders of this country. She works her royal butt off. She is smart and can be quite funny. And, this weekend, she will celebrate 60 years on the throne. 60 years. That's a lot of tea and crumpets.


My tween daughter and I are heading to London at the end of June for a bat mitzvah. After three days of festivities, we'll have just about 36 hours to do any sightseeing before we head off. We are going to try and see a play, do some shopping, visit a museum. And, although it's been many (many, many) years since my daughter dressed up as a princess, Buckingham Palace is also on our list.


It's rather high on our list.