join the women’s movement and run the whole shebang herself when there was still time.
Not only has my dad put three daughters through college and kept his wife living in proper Long Island style, but he’s expanded the business beyond Great-Grandfather Grossman’s wildest pushcart dreams. In a whirlwind of salesmanship, President Hallberg wined and dined all the big-name interior decorators within a thirty-mile radius to send their sofas and dining chairs and ottomans to him, then worked his way through the New York Design Center on Lexington Avenue, using his interior-decorator clients as references and building the business to include major furniture manufacturers. I once asked my mother how she felt sure enough about my father to marry him after only three months. “Are you kidding?” she said. “The man can sell anything.”
I was two and my mother pregnant with Jocelyn when we moved into the Roslyn ranch house. My parents joined acountry club even though my mother doesn’t play bridge and my father doesn’t like golf, but he said country-club membership made good business sense. He’ll do anything if it makes good business sense. They attend country-club dances, eat country-club buffets, and swim in the country-club pool. At home, my father bought his fish tank and set up a Ping-Pong table in the basement. He’s an excellent player and hustled his way through several semesters’ worth of college tuition thanks to his finesse with a paddle. He’s spent most of his marriage grumbling, “Goddammit, Bitsy! How’s a man supposed to play Ping-Pong when the table’s covered with laundry!” It’s a running joke. Ever since the Costco opened less than five miles away in Westbury, the Ping-Pong table is also stacked with Kirkland fabric softener, Kirkland paper towels, and Kirkland tissue boxes, along with Costco-size ketchup bottles and boxes of Kellogg’s Corn Flakes the size of studio apartments. Overflow items are stored in my parents’ garage, next to dried-out gallons of Benjamin Moore paint, rakes, brooms, a snowblower, lawn mower, and a couple of cars. I haven’t seen my father play Ping-Pong since I wore a night guard.
For the longest time I wondered what interests my parents had in common aside from raising a family, and what would hold their marriage together once their three daughters were grown and out of the house. I was too young to see the nuances of their connection. My parents are happy. They adore each other’s quirks. I envy couples like them, the ones who get it right from the get-go. How’d my mother really know that the young man she met in a Village music barwould build her a lifetime pedestal? What was it about Ziggy Grossman that earned my grandmother’s fierce beyond-the-grave devotion? Did it take blind love—or blind luck?
When Evan turned out to be Evan, my family circled the wagons and changed the narrative. He was a snake-oil salesman. He was never sincere. He was trouble from the get-go. He went from being Son-in-Law Extraordinaire to (hushed voice) Molly’s mistake . They’re eager for me to find a replacement, but they’ve never rushed to embrace any of the new boyfriends I’ve served up.
Russell hates accompanying me to Long Island. He claims his hay fever gets aggravated from all the trees and lawns. He had to work the Saturday before Father’s Day and bowed out on taking the train to Roslyn on Sunday. He said he needed to stay home and call his father. Apparently he thinks Roslyn doesn’t have phone service to St. Louis.
When I first brought Russell to Long Island, I’d say the reviews were mixed. I’d also say that now that I’ve reached age thirty-nine, expectations for me have lowered.
“Does he like the Knicks?” my father asked.
“Does he give family discounts?” Jocelyn asked.
Lisa’s never met Russell, so her opinion doesn’t count.
“Nice looking,” my mother said. “He reminds me of someone I’ve seen in the movies. Although I
Not only has my dad put three daughters through college and kept his wife living in proper Long Island style, but he’s expanded the business beyond Great-Grandfather Grossman’s wildest pushcart dreams. In a whirlwind of salesmanship, President Hallberg wined and dined all the big-name interior decorators within a thirty-mile radius to send their sofas and dining chairs and ottomans to him, then worked his way through the New York Design Center on Lexington Avenue, using his interior-decorator clients as references and building the business to include major furniture manufacturers. I once asked my mother how she felt sure enough about my father to marry him after only three months. “Are you kidding?” she said. “The man can sell anything.”
I was two and my mother pregnant with Jocelyn when we moved into the Roslyn ranch house. My parents joined acountry club even though my mother doesn’t play bridge and my father doesn’t like golf, but he said country-club membership made good business sense. He’ll do anything if it makes good business sense. They attend country-club dances, eat country-club buffets, and swim in the country-club pool. At home, my father bought his fish tank and set up a Ping-Pong table in the basement. He’s an excellent player and hustled his way through several semesters’ worth of college tuition thanks to his finesse with a paddle. He’s spent most of his marriage grumbling, “Goddammit, Bitsy! How’s a man supposed to play Ping-Pong when the table’s covered with laundry!” It’s a running joke. Ever since the Costco opened less than five miles away in Westbury, the Ping-Pong table is also stacked with Kirkland fabric softener, Kirkland paper towels, and Kirkland tissue boxes, along with Costco-size ketchup bottles and boxes of Kellogg’s Corn Flakes the size of studio apartments. Overflow items are stored in my parents’ garage, next to dried-out gallons of Benjamin Moore paint, rakes, brooms, a snowblower, lawn mower, and a couple of cars. I haven’t seen my father play Ping-Pong since I wore a night guard.
For the longest time I wondered what interests my parents had in common aside from raising a family, and what would hold their marriage together once their three daughters were grown and out of the house. I was too young to see the nuances of their connection. My parents are happy. They adore each other’s quirks. I envy couples like them, the ones who get it right from the get-go. How’d my mother really know that the young man she met in a Village music barwould build her a lifetime pedestal? What was it about Ziggy Grossman that earned my grandmother’s fierce beyond-the-grave devotion? Did it take blind love—or blind luck?
When Evan turned out to be Evan, my family circled the wagons and changed the narrative. He was a snake-oil salesman. He was never sincere. He was trouble from the get-go. He went from being Son-in-Law Extraordinaire to (hushed voice) Molly’s mistake . They’re eager for me to find a replacement, but they’ve never rushed to embrace any of the new boyfriends I’ve served up.
Russell hates accompanying me to Long Island. He claims his hay fever gets aggravated from all the trees and lawns. He had to work the Saturday before Father’s Day and bowed out on taking the train to Roslyn on Sunday. He said he needed to stay home and call his father. Apparently he thinks Roslyn doesn’t have phone service to St. Louis.
When I first brought Russell to Long Island, I’d say the reviews were mixed. I’d also say that now that I’ve reached age thirty-nine, expectations for me have lowered.
“Does he like the Knicks?” my father asked.
“Does he give family discounts?” Jocelyn asked.
Lisa’s never met Russell, so her opinion doesn’t count.
“Nice looking,” my mother said. “He reminds me of someone I’ve seen in the movies. Although I
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