When they all visited New York recently, I had a playdate with my niece, Dara.
I retraced the steps of Greenwich Village, where Monica and I had once walked, with Monica's only daughter — who inherited my family's face, decisive personality, and last name. I think that Monica and I picked up where the other had failed, filling in what was missing in the other's life.
Monica was a 26-year-old Wasp quitting her job as a New Yorker assistant to work on a novel.
I was a 22-year-old Midwesterner escaping Jewish-princess-hood, enthralled to inherit her ,000-a-year magazine gig. When I ogled a sexy staffer, she said, "Already tried him; he's a loser." Reading my essay on culture shock, she said, "Kind of trite.
Admittedly, our friendship has been shaky, and I’m nervous about signing a lease with her for a year. You can also follow along on Facebook and Instagram. You can read about me here, peruse the archives here and read popular posts here.I suddenly felt grateful to Monica, who fulfilled the role of Midwest mommy, while I'd basked in the big-city lights.The best present I ever gave my folks was sending them the replacement womb to carry their grandchildren.