New Name, New Look, New Year.

Gosh, I have so much to say (type), I don't even know where to start. I guess chronological order is always the most logical way to approach starting. Sometimes alphabetical works, too. But in the case of story-telling and recounting events, chronological will do. So here we go.

Since our last encounter, the Bride and her fiance - maybe he deserves a capital letter; let's call him "Hubby" - got married! Wahooo, and mazel! But before they got married, there was mikvah, and henna, and rehearsal(ah), and makeup, and hair, and everything. And while they were getting married, there were sweaty bridesmaids (mostly Small Asian Friend and our other college friend who may or may not have a name on here as of yet, but whom I shall now declare to be called "Boston Brit," but not me because I only sweat normal person amounts, while these ladies tend to "glisten," as they say, more than average) pained toes (followed by happy toes when Boston Brit and I donned our toms during the party part instead of our strappy heels), and a pear martini spilled completely down the front of my dress (entirely my fault). It was an extremely joyous occasion, complete with two hours of hora-like circle dancing, one problematic dance with a bride-hunting cantor, silk bouquets, and a college reunion. Wowwee, the level of fun that was had could only have been predicted by the incredibly appropriate lyrics "I got a feeling...that tonight's gonna be a good night [sics all around]." Oh, and I can't forget about the next day. There was brunch. Buffet-style. Which means seconds, possibly thirds for some people I won't name who came down from Boston for the occasion and then drove back to Boston that night.

Then came the Jewish new year. This is the best time of year to be a Jew. It's better, even, than Hanukkah (which really isn't all that great compared to other holidays where you get to eat more and have more fun). I jetted to the Island to see Mother and Pops, attended the obligatory service, and saw the cousins. Two of my cousins have given birth in the last month. Another just celebrated the first birthday of her adorable small child. In the past two years, the average age at Rosh Hashanah festivities has dropped by about 15 years. It's marvelous. Kids are impressed by sunglasses and sparkly shoes in ways that grownups (other than Boston Brit) just aren't. Their parents, sadly, didn't get to spend much time with other adults (what with the feeding, changing diapers, rocking, packing, unpacking, crying), but at least everyone agreed that their babies were really cute! Maybe next year. I just hope they ("they," meaning the babies) don't become more stylish than me. That might make me sad. So, we had all the works - challah, apples and honey, knishes, and all the dishes whose names I can't remember, but whose tastes leave a lasting impression on my 'buds all year long - all the fam, and all the sunshine. My family is pretty great. It was kind of perfect. (Apologies for the sap. It comes out sometimes. Feel free to ignore it.)

The next morning, Mother and I hopped in the ol' wagon (it's actually new, and actually a 2-door regular car, but it sounds so much cooler to say "the ol' wagon") and headed up to visit The Famous Auntie Bevy, Gramps, and eventually, Sister. Boston was the same terrific time as usual. Dinner with TFAB and Gramps and the gang, followed by Richardson's (possibly the best ice cream ever), and a stay at a hotel without wireless (how is that even possible?). Did I mention the B family loves to eat? Ok, good. I didn't want that to slip past you.

Then Mother and I headed even further north, through the farmland, across the border, and into the land of Cabot Cheese and maple syrup - the Great State of Vermont. (As a side note, doesn't it sound so great to say "the Great state of ____"? It was so smart of whoever came up with the word "state" to make it rhyme with "great." You can make any state sound fabulous by sticking it into that phrase. "The Great State of Iowa." "The Great State of Oklahoma." These states are not really great. But putting those few words in front of them makes them so alluring. Just something to note.) Sister told me she lived in a town with one street. She told me there were horses and carriages (for real). She told me there was one bar in this town. And she told me that the next town over was 11 miles away. She also told me that she drove across the border into New Hampshire to buy groceries. I did not believe Sister. I did not believe her one bit. I, as you may have gathered, am prone to use of hyperbole. I thought Sister might have that same tendency. Then I visited her.

There really is one road. I didn't quite get a look, but it's probably called "Main Street." That sort of name usually goes over well. The law school is beautiful (Vermont Law School - look it up.), the town is "quaint," as they say, and the Cabot Cheese and maple syrup were delicious. The biggest problem wasn't the small town or daddy long legs infestation. No, it was the fact that someone had mistakenly flipped the switch to turn on the heat in all of the basement apartments (to "test" something, someone claimed) and then neglected to turn it off. Sister's apartment was nearly 90 degrees when Mother and I arrived. As I mentioned above, I am not really a sweater. That night I sweat a ton. The insufferable heat aside, I loved the visit. I met Sister's two friends in law school. (Side plea: people at VLS, be Sister's friend. She is very nice. And very smart. And maybe she'll let you have my old outlines.) (Just kidding. Sister does not need my help making friends. She has lots, but two good friends are really all one needs in a town of 25 people, right?) I visited the one bar in town. I thought Sister was showing me where the outhouse was, but she was, in fact, pointing out the school gym. Those of you fortunate enough to be friends with me on facebook can find the photo I posted of Sister's gym and decide for yourselves what such a structure should be used for. In any event, Sister is having a ball up there, and with all the trees and clean air, I doubt she'll ever come back to New York. Perhaps I will move there. Give it time.

This post is way too long. I was planning to explain the blog's new name and new look, but alas, you will have to wait until next time to hear the story behind my re-branding. Enjoy the crisp fall air and pumpkin spice!