Yesterday night, after dinner at an Italian restaurant in Brooklyn, I asked David if he’d drive to where my grandmother lived when I was born. The area is called Borough Park and is now inhabited by an ultra-Orthodox sect of Jews, called the Hasidim.

I remember my frequent Saturday visits to Grandma Fannie’s when I was a little girl, in the  fifties.  My mother, sisters and I would climb the two flights of steps to her apartment in an old building. The dingy hallway always had a smell that I hated, but it disappeared once we were inside. I remember helping my grandmother hang the wash on a clothesline that ran from her bedroom window, across a courtyard to another building; eating at the dining room table that went on and on, and doing my homework at a desk in the corner of the living room. I swear I remember writing a paper on the explorer’s at that spot.

Brooklyn in the 1930s

My grandparents ran a luncheonette in Brooklyn

My aunt Sylvia was around 30 at that time, unattached and still living with grandma. I would sneak looks inside her closet to see her shoes, handbags, hats and jewelry, which all seemed so glamorous.

David and I pulled up to the building, which looked pretty seedy. The door to the hallway was ajar, so I ventured into the filthy vestibule, which was packed with children’s bicycles. The smell was the same as it was half a century ago, if one can remember smells.  I started up the steps and heard children’s voices inside grandma’s old apartment. I tried desperately to imagine myself at 10, standing right where I was, but, of course, I couldn’t. I was tempted to knock on the apartment door, but turned back.

I had an eerie feeling during this brief visit to the neighborhood where my parents lived when they met.  My mother’s parents, Rose and Sam, ran a candy store-luncheonette, located in Fannie’s building.  It’s now a tacky grocery and gift store.  I pointed out where the old-fashioned lunch counter had been and could almost see my grandpa making me a malted in the green Hamilton Beach gadget. He poured it from the stainless steel pitcher into a  cone-shaped paper cup that sat in a plastic base with a handle.

I wished I could share my memories with my grandparents and parents. No one is alive who remembers the way it used to be. My sisters were too young to recall the details. The texture of our lives is awesome.

My 29- year-old daughter, Simone, surprised me when she showed up at my office yesterday morning. “I have to tell you something,” she announced. “Noel and I got married.”

“Oh my god, Mone! Congratulations,” I said, hugging and kissing her. “Are you pregnant?” I spontaneously asked. “No,” she chuckled, knowing I’d ask.

As you can probably tell by now, Mone isn’t a conventional young woman. She and Noel have been together for six years. They’re in love, but Simone has definitively announced, on more than one occasion, that she didn’t want to get married.

“So, how did it happen?” I asked.

“Noel just came out and asked me. We went to City Hall.”

My daughter’s marriage was two weeks ago. Her boss and a co-worker were witnesses. No one else was invited. Not I. Not her dad. Not her brother. Not Noel’s family.

“I was a little worried to tell you. I thought you might be mad, because we didn’t tell anyone,”  Mone said.

“Not one bit. I am thrilled that you have made a commitment to each other,” I answered. “I assumed you were never going to marry.”

I called Noel a couple of hours later. “Is this my son-in-law?” I asked. “I am so happy for you.” Noel reiterated that he and Simone were nervous to tell me. I was actually more surprised that they felt this way than by their marriage. It would have been nice to witness the ceremony, but Simone and Noel’s happiness is most important to me. Besides, I’m not sentimental or a big fan of ceremonies.

Many young women plan their wedding day for months and months, register for pots, pans and blenders, and have more showers than some people take in a month. The preparations consume them. The bride and groom’s families often end up in a mini war.  The wedding has no more meaning because it costs $50,000 and involves more preparation than a Presidential Inauguration. I spent little time preparing my own (small) wedding, in 1968. My daughter apparently inherited my who-cares-about-a-wedding gene.

Simone and Noel have one photo from the ceremony and a short home-made video. I share the photo with my FOFriends.

I have never seen Simone and Noel argue. She got him to go back to college and he’s graduating NYU in a year (on an academic scholarship, too.) He supports her emotionally, as precious few men know how to do. From everything I see, I think they make a darn good couple.  Noel isn’t only smart; he’s a handsome dude.

I wish Simone and Noel a life together of health, joy, mutual respect, humor, mental stimulation and good sex. Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Sayers.

P.S. M and N, Just don’t show up at my door one day with an infant in your arms and say: “Meet your new grandchild.” I”ll need plenty of time to prepare for that.

“Finally, one of my dreams came true,” I heard a boy, around 10, say to his dad as they passed me on the street today.

The kid’s statement made me smile, and then I realized I’m not a big dreamer, except when I’m asleep.

I never dreamed that a tall, dark, handsome and rich man would sweep me off my feet. I married a tall, fair, handsome man, who wasn’t the sweeper type. I was the breadwinner.

I never dreamed I’d live in a pretty house, with a big backyard, surrounded by a white picket fence. The biggest space I’ve lived in during the last 40 years has been a 1,400-square-foot apartment. The only thing surrounding it was other apartments.

I never dreamed I’d be like June Cleaver, surrounded by a completely  normal, smiling and content family.  I’m a mix of Roseanne, Dorothy, Lucy and Alice Kramden and my kids are definitely not Wally and The Beav.

I never dreamed I’d be a divorced, self-sufficient woman and mother to two grown children who call me “Maz” and “Geri”;  that I’d  wear hearing aids, have thinning hair and upper arms I’d prefer to cover; that I’d spend my sixties sitting in front of a machine that connects me with thousands of the world’s greatest women.

I never dreamed I’d open something  called an email from one of these women and read: “Geri, I have to tell you, I really miss Oprah. She was my connection to the outside world and what was going on that I didn’t know about and the show gave me some good conversations. Even though she was my neighbor, we never met, and there is an empty part of my day that hasn’t been replaced. Nate doesn’t quite do it, although he really is very cute (I  did meet him at a neighborhood block party a few years ago and his mom is an old friend of a friend in Minneapolis, where I lived for a while). All this to say that when I read your blog I feel like there is a real person out there. I find myself replying to your comments. So thanks! (Even if you are long distance). If you have time you ought to come down [to Florida] for a few days and play with us. It would be a blast.” Maxine

Maybe I’ve never allowed myself the luxury of dreaming because I’ve compulsively spent so much time doing. I don’t dream of the possibilities of tomorrow because I think everything is possible today. No matter. How could I have possibly dreamed of leading such an interesting and fulfilling life, filled with people like Maxine? Now, if only I could have dreamy arms!

“He isn’t a pleasant person but he inspires people to do their best work.”

Political journalist, John Heilemann, was referring to Steve Jobs, the man who changed the meaning of the word “Apple” and has announced his departure from the most highly valued company in the world.

I like John’s description of Jobs. It affirms to me that many really smart, creative and passionate people aren’t winning popularity contests, but if they inspire others to do great things, what does it matter?

A demanding and inspiring boss usually makes as many demands on himself as he does on others. Contrast this with a nasty boss who also is lazy and not especially talented. When a man like this became president of the company where I worked, I wondered how I’d survive. He was drunk when he returned from lunch, he arbitrarily and publicly shouted at employees and he had a ridiculously inflated view of his editorial abilities, which were, at best, mediocre.

He wasn’t wild about me but wouldn’t fire me because he knew I was good at my job and he needed me. I humored him until I could humor him no more. Then I left his employ, 13 years ago, to start my own business.

I wish I had had the opportunity to work for a man like Jobs. I have driven myself incessantly throughout my career but would have liked a brilliant boss who could have taken over some of the driving. How exciting it must be to work with such a powerhouse.

It stinks that Jobs is sick. He is only 56. He deserves to enjoy the fruits of his labors.