I have a pet peeve that apparently annoys no one but me. It has to do with the amount of space people leave between them and the person in line in front of them. Inside the bank, the post office or the Dunkin Donuts, the guy in front of me always seems to stand a good six feet behind the customer who is currently being waited on. It’s as if he is fearful of eavesdropping on a confession. Right, I tell the coffee shop cashier my deepest secrets. Don’t you?

“Move UP!” I want to scream. “He’s ordering a large coffee with cream and one sugar, not planning a hostile takeover!”

For years I have observed only men doing this. Women appear much more comfortable cozying up to the stranger standing in front or behind them. A couple of feet of space is more than enough. They don’t act like the male customers at CVS, for example, who allow so much wasted space between them and the person at the counter that I could push four shopping carts – ear to ear – through the space. And this reminds me. I really hate when this happens and I invariably get pushed back down an aisle, where I find myself staring at on-sale Christmas candy. Come on. You know I’m weak.

But lately, I have found that women have begun developing the same habit, backing off from the person in line in front of them, as though they forgot to bathe. Frequently, they are so preoccupied texting or talking on their cell phones that they are completely oblivious to the cavernous spaces they create.

Does anyone else see the irony in all of this? With social media, cell phones, and cameras on every inanimate and animate object, we already have zero privacy. So why do we suddenly feel the need to create a force field around us when we are actually WITH other human beings.

We hold onto our little personal acreage like squatters, forcing the person behind the counter to yell across the room, “Can I help the next in line?”

I hate this part, too.  I don’t want to yell from my otherworldly location, “Make that a double caramel latte with vanilla and non-fat.” Whose business is it to judge me on my breakfast drink? Hah, a double caramel latte with syrup and she bothers with skim milk! I can actually hear the snickers.

Well, I would, if I weren’t standing so far away.

Space Between the Lines is a post from:

It’s a paid gig!

If you are interested, take a look at www.acx.com and plug in my name, Ellie Slott Fisher, or the title of one of the books. They’ll walk you through the audition process.

Maybe we’ll get to work together!

Audition for Audiobook?!?!? is a post from:

It’s easy to put off everything until “after the holidays.” It’s a satisfying feeling, giving ourselves permission to procrastinate. We get to postpone what at any other time of the year, we’d insist upon getting done.

Need to make that dentist appointment? Wait until after the first of the year. Want to start that diet? No sense doing it while we’re still going to holiday parties and finishing off the Christmas cookies.

This week between Christmas and New Year’s is actually a gift. There’s no guilt associated with delaying the inevitable. You’ll never reach that insurance guy anyway because EVERYBODY is on vacation this week. So don’t even bother.

For me, this is unstructured time. I submitted my final grades nearly two weeks ago, and I don’t resume school until the third week in January. I purposely stressed out myself between Thanksgiving and Christmas, finishing next semester’s syllabus and lesson plans so I could spend my month vacation doing what I love most: writing. But even that has a way of evaporating during the Bermuda Triangle week.

Is there really a need to write a new blog? After all, it’s the week between Christmas and New Year’s and my readers are too busy playing, celebrating, vacationing to sit at a computer and read. At least that’s what I tell myself.
While we enjoy this week which soars in and out with the seamless speed of Brigadoon (I’m a total sap for that movie), we know that as soon as New Year’s Day is over, all hell will break loose.

So, enjoy the remaining days of 2011 and even if you match me as an obsessive Type A, know that this is the one week of the year that you can put off today what you can do tomorrow.

The Guilt-free Week is a post from:

“Dress modestly,” comes the first email to those friends of theirs who are not personally familiar with the Lubavitch community. “You’ll sit together, but you can’t dance together. The women will dance with the women, the men with the men.” Funny, how Jon’s bum knee starts to act up. “And dress warmly because regardless of the weather, custom requires that the ceremony be held outdoors.”

So with a little bit of dread and a good deal of curiosity, we drive the one and a half hours to Livingston, New Jersey with friends David and Jackie. I have added black tights to my dressy three quarter length organza skirt and a black tank to wear under my beaded cropped sweater. Despite it being only October 30, it is cold and damp and I have on a long wool coat, scarf and gloves. I don’t feel as much modest, as I do frumpy.

The wedding begins with a bountiful buffet of all sorts of foods and an opportunity to see and congratulate the bride and the mothers of the bride and groom. As a woman, I am allowed to hug Erica. Jon isn’t. He, in fact, heads upstairs with the men who are conducting their own rituals with the groom.

At one point before the wedding vows, the groom comes down to make sure he has the right bride, and returns again to cover her face with a veil as thick as the curtains in Tara. I keep focusing on how gorgeous Erica looks.

As promised, the ceremony is held outdoors in the cold, raw, gray late afternoon. The men in black suits and black hats and the women in warm coats and gloves create a contrast to the bride who looks illuminated in her long-sleeved, high-necked lace gown and thick, opaque veil.

I take in everything, fascinated by a culture that I am unfamiliar with but one that has invited me in as a guest. The bride and groom smile a lot but they do not touch. In fact, up until this point in their engagement, they have not been permitted to touch. That will come after the ceremony, and in private.

We all head into the party – women dancing on one side of a cloth wall that divides the dance floor, men on the other. I am not prepared for how much fun it is to dance to energetic music and with Erica’s friends. No one remains seated.

All evening long the music continues, as well as forms of entertainment for the bride and groom. There is the fire twirler and the man who balances three chairs on his nose. And the dance performed by Erica’s roommates, all of whom don brightly colored wigs for the number. We jump and gyrate until, well, at least until my feet hurt.

Despite the requirement that the men and women dance separately, at one point Ori dances with his daughter. I don’t know whether this follows custom, but I do know there isn’t a dry eye.

As the evening winds down and we say our goodbyes to everyone, I realize I’ve been smiling all night. It has been a beautiful wedding and, maybe a little bit unexpectedly, a total blast.

Jon even forgot about his bum knee.

To LIFE! is a post from:

Book Signing Today in Peddler’s Village!!! is a post from:

Gulp.

I learned a few weeks ago that I will soon become the subject of my book. My daughter, the older of my two children, has become engaged and plans to wed next summer.  Before you say to me, “Uh huh, let’s see how you feel now that the shoe is on your foot!” – let me just say the following:

First, I love my future son-in-law. He’s smart, hardworking, compassionate and, above all, adores my daughter. He’s made it easy for me to approve. I’m not sure he’s yet read Chapter Two of It’s Either Her or Me but he’s instinctively following the single most important piece of advice: Always, always, always put your wife first.

Second, I also love my future mechutonim (a unique Yiddish word that describes the relationship between the bride’s parents and the groom’s parents).  Coincidentally, before our kids ever met the groom’s mom and I had gotten to know each other through some mutual friends.  She generously attended the book launch for It’s Either her or Me and clearly understands how our kids are making a life for themselves. Plus, she loves my daughter.

Whew. Though what’s not to love…

Third, my future son-in-law has not one sister, but two. And from what I can tell they are fond of my daughter, as she is of them. Matter of fact, they seem pretty excited about their older brother marrying my daughter, who, having read the early, raw versions of It’s Either Her or Me understands her role in being a great sister-in-law to her husband’s siblings.

I know the road to wedding planning and thereafter is curvy at best and potholed at worst, but I’m hoping that after I have shamelessly just plugged my book, that I will, in fact, follow my own advice.

My Turn is a post from:

This is not just because I’m an author and bookstores are my stage, but I’m a reader, a lover of browsing, a toucher of paper covers. Bookstores are to me what candy stores are to sweettooths (though I’m one of those, too). And I have to admit to suffering a level of heartbreak with the closing of so many.

Of course, Borders, a place where I have done many readings and signings over the years, is no more. We can criticize them for not getting on board with the eReader like Barnes and Noble and Amazon did. We can say they had become more like gift shops and cafes rather than purveyors of literature. But really, they closed because we are no longer buying books in traditional ways.

Last week, I walked into Atlantic Books in Cape May, NJ, a shop where I have sated many beach reading desires over the years and where I have held my own book signings.  I was assaulted by a STORE CLOSING banner. Like a vulture that comes upon that unexpected carcass, I went in and gathered up a pile of reads at a going-out-of-business discount. I may have been happy at my acquisition but I’ve been grieving over the knowledge that it won’t be there the next time I visit that town. In fact, there will be NO bookstores at the shore since Atlantic is shutting all of them– unless there’s some tiny, independent that is still surviving that I don’t know about. And if you do, PLEASE tell me.

How did we let this happen? After all, books have been around for 500 years!

I am reminded of that scene in the 1960 movie “Time Machine” which is based on the H.G. Wells novel. The main character “George,” played by Rod Taylor, flies on his time machine into the future to a world of apparent paradise,  where everyone is healthy, youthful and serene. (The morlocks living underground are another story). George, desperately wanting to understand how their “future” developed, asks if they’ve written anything down, you know, like in books.  “Books? What are they?” Then one clear-eyed young man has a vague memory. “Books!” And he brings George to what must have once been a library.  The young man pulls back a dusty curtain and an ecstatic George reaches for one leather-bound book. It disintegrates in his hand.

The shame of all of this is that this scene is no longer farfetched. Books in our future will be as unfamiliar to our youth as phonographs and the Pony Express are to us today.

I’m trying, really trying, to understand that this is technology, and the price we pay for a better, safer and longer life is often at the expense of relinquishing something precious. But I can still mourn. I think you might even understand.

If not, then just read my lips…

Bookstores: Lost in Time is a post from:

Lucky me. I got to attend the wedding of Morgan and Lindsay in the unique position of being a guest of both families. I’ve known the couple since before they began dating at 15, which was 11 years ago.  My son, who was best man, his girlfriend, and all his old high school buddies were there. I hate to throw around clichés like magical and spectacular. But honestly, that’s what the wedding was.

It was very untraditional. A magnificent Vera Wang bridal gown in a hue between ivory and butter yellow, and belted around the waist with a long black sash. A multi-tiered artistically rich wedding cake that was cut and put out on plates without any cake cutting ceremony.  No throwing of the bridal bouquet. No dancing until after we had finished our meals. (You could actually enjoy the food and talk to your table mates without screaming.) No tchotchkes on the table, just exquisite displays of yellow flowers.

With all the traditional wedding details avoided, the evening turned into one huge, outdoor party with a truly awesome band and a bridal couple that looked to thoroughly enjoy each and every minute, as well as each other.

Even the weather was perfect, and the venue remarkable. The wedding was held at the majestic Crane Estate. Picture a mini Versailles – maybe not so mini – in Ipswich, MA. The view from the slate patio where we partied for hours was of rolling green hills spilling into the ocean. It was dreamlike.

We boarded three big tour buses to go from our hotel in Salem to the estate so no one needed to drive. The party continued throughout the night with some hardy souls, most notably the bride and groom still dressed in their wedding attire, watching the sun come up. Amazingly the bride looked as gorgeous then as she did when she stepped onto the lawn with her parents.

I’ve spent much too much time today avoiding my work so I could look at the hundreds of pictures on Facebook and relive the wedding. I’m sure I’m not the only one doing this.

Morgan and Lindsay: I know you’re somewhere without Internet and still basking in the events of the past weekend. Just so you know, the rest of us are, too.

Love you guys.

Wedded Bliss is a post from:

I climbed on my bike, took a quick look at my phone to check the time, and rode home.

As soon as I arrived at my back door, I realized my wallet, which contained my brand new iPhone, my driver’s license, several credit cards and a little bit of cash, was missing. I ripped apart my yoga bag, reexamined my bike basket (it’s wire and see-through so that tells you the level of my panic) and nothing.

I spotted my boyfriend Jon on the front porch and asked him to give me a ride to the beach. We climbed in the car and drove the approximate 2 ½ miles to where I had practiced yoga.  So much for any residual serenity.

When we arrived at the spot where I last remembered looking at my phone, and therefore had possession of my wallet, I jumped out of the car and told Jon I would retrace my steps back to the house and would he ask some of the local shopkeepers if anyone had turned anything in.

In my flip-flops I began walking in the street intently looking ahead and from side to side. I figured there were three possible scenarios. Some less than honorable person thought “Bonanza!” and was now enjoying a shopping spree at my expense. Some honorable but rushed person saw it lying in the street and moved it out of harm’s way, say to the curb (where some less than honorable person….) or some really honorable person picked it up and turned it into authorities.

The only good thing about my walking slowly back to the house – despite cursing my earlier circuitous scenic bike route home – was that I began to calm down and consider what needed to be done. First, I would call lifeguard headquarters and then the police department to see if anyone had found it. Then I would go online and check out PA Department of Transportation to report a missing license. Then I would go through my larger wallet and try to figure out what credit cards I had so carelessly thrown into my smaller one. And I would contact those companies.

My call to the lifeguard headquarters turned up empty but my call to the police was successful. Someone named Ethan had found my wallet and had left his cellphone number for me. Ethan’s dad answered the phone. His son – about 14 or 15 – saw the wallet lying in the street right by a parked SUV. Assuming it had fallen out of the car, they left a note on the windshield saying they had found their phone and wallet.

Those people called Ethan and said they had lost their phone and that the missing wallet and its contents belonged to them. But when Ethan’s dad asked them for the name on the license, they obviously didn’t come up with mine. That’s when Ethan said to his dad that maybe someone on a bike had dropped the wallet. Yay Ethan! My hero.

I met the family at a bagel shop less than a block from where I had done yoga. I was grateful but also so unsettled that I never got more than his first name and his dad’s cellphone number. So if you are out there Ethan, let me know, so I can give you a proper thank you.

It occurred to me after I left the bagel shop that if you hadn’t found my wallet, the guy in the SUV probably would have.

Ethan at Area Code 908: I Owe You is a post from:

 I’ve been to too many weddings and bridal showers as the guest of the groom’s family to ignore the potential for a lot of hurt feelings.  Even seemingly minor exclusions can create bad thoughts that tend to sit there, simmering indefinitely like a pot with an endless supply of water.

But I also understand why mothers of brides might feel possessive, not wanting to share their daughter with another woman. I also have a daughter. When she gets married aren’t I going to want to spend time alone with her, helping her select the prettiest gown, the most flattering hair style, and the most breathtaking flowers?

I’ve been with her through every important event in her life; leaving her off at her first day of kindergarten, moving her in and out of dorm rooms and apartments, consoling her when she didn’t make a team, rejoicing with her when she got her first real job. No one shared those ups and downs with me so why do I have to share the happy moments ahead?

Relax. That’s rhetorical. Cause I do.

Including the groom’s mom in as much as she would like to be included matters because this is no longer about just me and my daughter. Marriage is the first life event for our daughters that takes them out of the restricted environment of family. It’s meant to be shared with another family. And it’s the first of many future life events (think grandchildren) that are.

I hope that one day when I become the mother of the bride that I will practice what I write. I know it will take effort and compromise and a thick skin. But I also believe it will be the right thing to do.

As you know, I also have a son.

The Groom's Mom – In or Out? is a post from: