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The Ways of Waze

            My best friend from high school came in from Israel for a family visit recently, and my only job was to find a way to get to where she was staying in order to catch up. It seems like it should be easy to get from one part of Long Island to another, to see an old friend I rarely get to see, but I’m me, so…

“Uh oh.”

            I downloaded WAZE on my phone, per Mom’s instructions, and also printed out a hard copy of the directions from Google Maps to study ahead of time. I’d managed a trip out to the Far Rockaway area a couple of years ago without WAZE, for a visit with the same friend, but it’s a route I rarely drive and I wanted to be prepared.

            And then I had a flare, or a worsening of my symptoms, or whatever I’m supposed to call it. My symptoms have been bad for a while now (exhaustion, pain, brain fog, Psoriasis and Lichen Planus outbreaks, walking trouble, breathing trouble, headaches, etc.), but on the Thursday before the visit things got even worse, to the point where Mom had to drive me to and from work to avoid a possible disaster on the road.

“I can’t watch.”

            I still thought the flare would pass by the day of the visit, though, and I avoided anything stressful or difficult in the days leading up to it, in hopes of recovering in time. But when I got up that Sunday morning, I knew I couldn’t do the drive; I could barely figure out how to open WAZE on my phone and make the directions appear. So Mom volunteered to drive me.

            It’s embarrassing to be an adult who needs her Mom to drive her to a get together, or to what my students would call “a play date,” but it was either be embarrassed or miss the visit altogether.

            Mom and I had both programmed our phones for the route, out of an abundance of caution and anxiety, so even after we’d decided to just use my phone, held aloft in the passenger seat so I could repeat the directions as many times as necessary to avoid missing our exits, Mom’s phone kept talking, in an echo. I finally figured out how to shut down her phone completely in order to make the echoing stop (later I realized that I could just have pressed stop on the WAZE screen, but, as I said, brain fog).

            We still had a hard time following the directions, of course, missing a few turns here and there, and then WAZE told us about a hazard up ahead, too late for us to turn around and change the route, and we found ourselves driving through a lake in the middle of the road. The car swam for twenty feet or so before getting to dry road on the other side, but it survived again.

            In my job as holder of the phone, I also discovered that WAZE likes to put little smiley faced icons all over the screen, which look suspiciously like the hidden pictures in one of my phone apps that I’m trained to tap with my finger until they are all removed and I win lots of points. I was just barely able to stop myself from pressing all the icons, so I have no idea what would have happened to the directions if I’d given in. We’d probably have ended up in Brooklyn.

            But we managed to get to our destination on time and safely, and it was a joy to see my friend again. Mom dropped us off at a coffee place to chat and then spent the next two hours on her own, taking pictures of big rocks and collecting shells at the beach, and then we dropped my friend off back at her sister’s house, with lots of hugs, and started up the WAZE again, a little more hopeful that the drive home would be uneventful. And despite some interesting “short cuts,” leading us behind factories and through one way roads that seemed more like driveways (probably to avoid the lake in the road), we made it safely home to the dogs, just in time for their afternoon walk.

            Ellie was thrilled to see us and zoomed around the yard in circles and figure eights, with breaks to come back and give us hugs and kisses, and Cricket spent her time sniffing scientifically at small patches of grass, searching for messages from her friend Kevin, the mini Golden Doodle, and looking longingly at the steps in front of his building, to no avail.

“He peed here. I know it!”

            And then we were back inside, home, with WAZE silenced and no more left turns to make across traffic, and I was relieved. The fact is, I was incredibly lucky to have Mom there to drive me, and WAZE to help us get there safely, and a good friend to meet with and catch up on all of the life events that can’t be shared in a text. Life has so many moving parts, with so many hazards along the way, but every once in a while the puzzle pieces actually come together. And it’s wonderful!


If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my Young Adult novel, Yeshiva Girl, on Amazon. And if you feel called to write a review of the book, on Amazon, or anywhere else, I’d be honored.

            Yeshiva Girl is about a Jewish teenager on Long Island, named Isabel, though her father calls her Jezebel. Her father has been accused of inappropriate sexual behavior with one of his students, which he denies, but Izzy implicitly believes it’s true. As a result of his problems, her father sends her to a co-ed Orthodox yeshiva for tenth grade, out of the blue, and Izzy and her mother can’t figure out how to prevent it. At Yeshiva, though, Izzy finds that religious people are much more complicated than she had expected. Some, like her father, may use religion as a place to hide, but others search for and find comfort, and community, and even enlightenment. The question is, what will Izzy find?

Walking the Labyrinth


A week ago Tuesday, I went for my social work licensing exam at a nondescript office on Long Island. I was anxious about the exam because it covered a lot of ground (three and a half years of classes, plus whatever else a social worker might need to know), and because the style of questioning is meant to be tricky and confusing. But I had spent months studying and preparing, and I generally do well on tests, so I was managing the anxiety okay. And then I reached the office building and had to find a parking spot. The building I was looking for was in a large complex of office buildings, and even though I’ve been in that area before, I’d never been to that particular building before. When I did my practice drive a week earlier there was a free spot right in front of the building, so I was unprepared for contingencies, like all of the unreserved spots being taken and having to find the underground lot.

E pre groom

“That doesn’t sound good, Mommy.”

I had no idea where the entrance to the underground parking was, and, at first, I ended up in the underground lot for a different building. After wandering around blind corners for quite a while, and finally finding an exit back to the above ground world, I was tempted to just park in one of the reserved spots and risk being towed. But then I balked. I really don’t want to be towed. Or ticketed. Or have to find an alternative way to get back home (I do not have the uber app, or anything like it, on my phone, nor do I have any idea how one might use it). So, with ten minutes left before I was supposed to be at the exam, I went searching for the entrance to the right underground parking lot, and finally found it. Most of the spots underground were reserved for companies in that building as well, but I found a spot on the lower level that was magically free and unmarked. There were no numbers for the spots, or for different sections of the lot, and I didn’t even see a sign for which level I was on, but I had five minutes to get upstairs so I couldn’t worry about that, yet. I found a stairway up to the ground level, and then another to the second floor office suite where I would take the exam, and I made it with one minute to spare.


The pre-test procedures were complex and unnerving: five or six palm scans, two forms of ID, an awkward photo, putting my cell phone into a plastic bag that would have to be cut open at the end of the test, and relinquishing everything except for my ID and my glasses to a locker. I couldn’t even bring my own tissues, or sucking candies (too loud). Then I had to go to a second staff member for more safety procedures: another palm scan, checking my glasses for tech, checking my pockets, and the tips of my ears; I had to push up my sleeves and pat down my pant legs to prove nothing was hiding there either.

Finally I was allowed into the testing room, with my locker key, and my ID for company. I couldn’t make any noise, and I would have to raise my hand if I needed to get up for any reason, which they preferred I not do until I’d finished the exam.


“No wee wee pad?”

The test was one hundred and seventy questions, and, with the tutorial at the beginning and the survey at the end, took me an hour and a half. I spent half the time stretching and shifting and trying to get comfortable in the supposedly ergonomic chair and staring at the blurry computer screen (Allergies? Anxiety? Stroke?). About two thirds of the way through the test I started to worry that I might fail and have to sit through the horror all over again, but as soon as the final survey was finished (Did you enjoy this test? How was the drive? Did you really need those tissues?), the screen changed and told me that I had passed the licensing exam. The drama was over. I raised my hand to be allowed out and they gave me a print out of my score and wished me well, and sent me to empty out my locker and walk out into freedom. Okay, not freedom exactly, because passing the test meant that I would have to start the job search, which was a crushing weight quickly descending on my head, but, you know, free for the rest of the day.

I called home to let Mom and the dogs know that I’d passed, and survived, and suffered mightily, and then went in search of my car.


Except, the route I’d taken up into the building was closed to me in the opposite direction. The actual door that had opened into the building had no handle going the opposite direction, and I didn’t see any other doors nearby. So I went looking for another set of stairs, and went down two levels, and started to look for my car. I didn’t see anything familiar, but I hadn’t paid close attention in the first place, so I wasn’t worried, at first. I walked around the whole floor three times, getting more and more anxious. I called home and got so far as telling Mom that I was lost underground and couldn’t find my way out, when the phone cut off.

c pre groom

“Uh oh.”

So I did the only thing I could think of and retraced my steps up into the building. My legs were starting to wobble with exhaustion, and my neck and back were still hurting from the hour and a half at the computer, but panic carries a lot of adrenaline, and I was moving pretty fast. I tried another route back down into the parking garage and wandered the floor two more times, nothing.

I went back upstairs, and looked for signs I might have missed, and doors I might not have opened, afraid that my car had been towed, or stolen. Eventually, I tried a different floor of the parking garage. I was sure I’d parked two levels below the ground floor, but I was desperate, so I tried going down only one floor. Suddenly there was a sign that looked vaguely familiar, so I kept walking, and walking, and walking, and there it was! My car!!!! Just waiting there for me, not towed away or stolen or made invisible by aliens trying to mess with my head.


I called home immediately and Ellie barked at me, trying to tell me that I had been gone way too long. I felt like a truck was sitting on my back, but at least I wasn’t lost anymore. Mom promised a special celebratory dinner, but I warned her that I could still get lost trying to drive out of the underground labyrinth. But at least wandering in circles in the car took less time than wandering on foot, and I finally made my way out into the sunlight, and on my way home.

I was shaking with leftover tension, but able to drive home safely and get my greeting from the girls and from Mom and eat some dinner. The exam was over, and successful. The trauma of the day was over. But, I didn’t feel any relief. I felt like I was still stuck in that underground lot, with no clear signs telling me where to go or what to do. Even safe at home, with the girls sleeping next to me, I still felt like I was walking that endless labyrinth, and I realized how familiar that feeling has become for me.


“We’re sleeping, Mommy. The story is over.”

I feel like every step forward in my life has been a step into the dark, with no clear signage, and no certainty that I’m even looking in the right place. Even when I can find clear milestone markers, like graduation, or a passed exam, I still don’t feel a sense of relief, because I don’t know which road to turn onto next.

I wish I could say something reassuring here, about how, eventually, I always find my next step on solid ground, but that’s just not true. What feels like solid ground to someone else doesn’t necessarily feel right or solid to me.

The next step is to send out resumes and tap into any contacts I may have, and network (eek!) to find a good first social work job. Hopefully the labyrinth will be more clearly marked in the future, or else I’ll have to bring Cricket with me on job searches, so she can warn me when I’m going in the wrong direction. Or at least let me know when I’m getting closer to snacks.

c post groom

“I’m great at finding snacks. It’s true.”

If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my Amazon page and consider ordering the Kindle or Paperback version (or both!) of Yeshiva Girl. And if you feel called to write a review of the book on Amazon, or anywhere else, I’d be honored.

Yeshiva Girl is about a Jewish girl on Long Island named Izzy (short for Isabel). Her father has been accused of inappropriate sexual behavior with one of his students, which he denies, but Izzy implicitly believes that it’s true. Izzy’s father decides to send her to an Orthodox yeshiva for tenth grade, out of the blue, as if she’s the one who needs to be fixed. Izzy, in pain, smart, funny, and looking for people she can trust, finds that religious people are much more complicated than she had expected. Some, like her father, may use religion as a place to hide, but others search for and find comfort, and community, and even enlightenment.


I Hate Driving on Highways


I will have to drive on a lot of highways this year for school, and I’m not happy about it. I hate the short entrance ramps, and being squished between two trucks, and having no stop signs to rest at. My ability to read road signs and drive at the same time is very limited.

I did a practice drive for an interview a few weeks ago, with Cricket in the car. I had already done one practice drive and I kind of thought it would be good to practice again, with some distractions. I did not realize that Cricket’s car anxiety had ratcheted up quite so high that she would try to climb behind my neck while I was driving and screech at the top of her lungs. She clearly thinks she can drive better than I can. I’m not sure she’s wrong.


Don’t worry, neither one of us is driving in this picture.


“I would be so good at this.”

I’m overwhelmed by the number of highways that even exist on Long Island: the Northern State, the Southern State, the Meadowbrook, the Long Island Expressway, the Cross Island parkway. There are more highways further out on the island, but I don’t know their names, and hopefully will not be required to drive on them any time in the near future.

The worst, for me, are the exits that are so curvy and loopy that they turn you more than 360 degrees around, and some guy behind me always thinks I should be taking this roller-coaster at high speed. Not gonna happen.

I have to stay very present while I’m driving and make sure not to drift off into thoughts, of any kind, because I have a tendency to lose track of lane lines when I’m distracted. And if I get too comfortable, I’ll forget when I need to shift lanes in order to avoid hidden exits that will take me out to the Hamptons (though, that could be nice).


Cricket loves the beach

Driving has never been my favorite thing in the world. It took me a long time to even attempt highway driving because of the speed and the feeling of being pushed along by peer pressure. I can almost hear the other drivers complaining about me from inside of their cars. What’s with this freak only going the speed limit? I want to get home!

In order to manage my anxiety, I do at least one practice drive (preferably two or three) before I have to drive somewhere new for an appointment, so that at least the anxiety of the drive itself can be reduced, and I don’t have to think too much about which lane to be in, or read too many signs to find my exit. Ideally, every place I ever had to go would have a route by the side streets and never require highway driving, but this has not been the case. And, recently, when I’ve found alternate routes that avoided the highways, I found that street names like to change with each town boundary, and three streets in a single town will decide to have the same name, except that one will be a Road, one will be an Avenue, and one will be a Place, as if that makes all the difference and no one will ever get confused.

I am looking forward to the day when we all learn how to Apparate from one place to another. I don’t care if it’s magic, like Harry Potter, or science, like Star Trek. I’m ready. Cricket might need some convincing.


Cricket prefers to travel by foot.