During this time I found my hands covered in paint as I existed in a haze of messy comfort. I blasted classic rock ‘n’ roll and JP Saxe’s “If the World Was Ending.” I drank wine and I stayed home.

Professionally, I’m a senior communications advisor and former founder of my eponymous communications agency. Over the years, I published a non-fiction book and many first-person essays and interesting features for a variety of media platforms. Staying home meant I had plenty of time to work, but I was quickly faced with a new, unfamiliar feeling: the inability to string two words together.

Overwhelmed with a brain fog that rivaled my pregnancy years, I fielded calls from clients as they asked, “How do I pivot to stay in business?” Voices filled with desperation and panic, I hopefully doled out good advice. To this day, I still can’t utter the word pivot, apparently due to a phenomenon called “semantic satiation”.

A period of self-reflection and solitude, masks and misinformation, sparked the genesis of my art journey. In a Mel Robbins’-esque style, here is what I’ve found to be true: if you can’t stop thinking about something, then it is worth exploring.

The journey that started six years ago as a novice’s canvas of disbelief has evolved to be more subtle. As I learn and experiment with my paintbrush, my messy creative process has become a therapeutic way to work through heightened emotions. My mixed media and message-spewing pieces were welcomed on display at the Romany Kramoris Gallery in Sag Harbor, New York. Now, three shows later, I thought I would take a moment to reflect on my process.

HOPE

My very first painting, “HOPE” was an outlet for my sanity: personal reflection, a daughter abruptly snatched from college and back in the nest all while watching a world in disarray. George Floyd, and countless other examples of rising hate in our country, ignited a need to say something. I pieced together phrases like “the world needed to press pause” and “mask in my pocket.” I was inspired by disbelief and an ubiquitous worldwide sense of despair. The deep dive of my creative process was captured by editor Jessica Mackin for James Lane Post.

Daughters

On womanhood. This work encapsulated my deep feelings of pride and love for my daughter as she navigated the many milestones in college amidst a pandemic, in addition to shifting family dynamics. It also portrays the bond I shared with my late mother and the women before her. The colors and words are also representative of pride and self-acceptance.

Circle of Life

Stages and ages recycle in what history has termed the “circle of life”. At its core, patterns repeat over decades and generations. I pulled inspiration from vintage images and antique objects to convey this big message on a small canvas.

Life of Rock

Turn off the news, turn on the music. Life of Rock is my most recent piece that pays homage to just a few of my favorite classic rock artists: Phil Collins, Genesis, Fleetwood Mac and Madonna, and their records that defined my generation: Life before doom-scrolling and constant screen distractions.

It took a few years but I finally understand the genesis of my inspiration and how it has become an integral part of who I am today. I realized that my years of writing and storytelling could also be shared on canvas. Often, big life changes – divorce, aging parents or happier ones like weddings and birthdays – tend to spark new inspiration. It’s a way for us to channel our collective and individual crap into making art.

Find something to wash away the dust of everyday life.

The inevitable shorter days ahead inspires a messy emotional recipe filled with awe and melancholy. It was around this time last year I met Julia – a true force of nature and a rising public relations star working in New York City. Public Relations, an industry that has defined me for decades, created an automatic bond between us. She was 24 years old. I was nearing 60.

A Gen Z creative luminary, Julia was a guest this summer weekend with Emily, another rockstar cohort from my daughter’s orbit.

They arrived – a tornadic force – via the Hamptons Jitney bus.

There we were: three 20-something hotshots – two ginger-haired and one brunette – and me, well, color-treated. It was during dusk that these forever-college-bonded, estrogen-pumping young women walked in and lit up my weekend. Any sadness about the shorter days ahead quickly dissipated.

A sunset tiki boat ride was the highlight of the weekend. But it was the unplanned, short bursts of connection and fulfilling interactions that surprised and inspired me as we shared time. Any and all generational differences faded away. I learned a lot too. They were an amazing sounding-board for my business ideas. I work with clients in industries that are always looking for new ways to capture the attention of this demographic. These three were my tequila-infused focus group.

I remember thinking, at the end of the day, we are all just women. Any differences were simply advances made over time that are simultaneously amazing and perilous – such as the incessant incoming information that impacts their worlds each and every second of the day. Of course, many other things are for the better: healthier food choices and career opportunities made possible by years of shattered ceilings. Though in many ways, things today are more complex than ever as we all navigate the dystopia of the world, I thought to myself as I grabbed a Diet Coke while they sipped on their prebiotic sodas.

I found myself reflecting on the 48-hours they were in my orbit. Observations worth sharing after this rosé-lubricated, fun and eye-opening weekend: three women on the verge of their lives and me, wiser, wrinklier and a bit more tired. They stare at their screens while I sift through magazines and newspapers; they have apps for restaurant recommendations, I have names on post-its scattered on my desk; they are bombarded by GLP-1 ads, we had Weight Watchers’ commercials and, for some, good ol’ fashion discipline; they have a world more divided by politics and instability with everything on constant display, we had more secrets, sacrifices, sojourns and real-life surprises.

But, at the end of the day, my daughter and I really are the same, just like my mom and I and her mom before her. We were simply just coming of age in worlds with different noises swirling around. Feminist and activist Gloria Steinem famously said, “We need to remember across generations that there is as much to learn as there is to teach.” As women, we share a generational-defying, unifying thread.

And with Julia, the juxtaposition of our client servicing, PR-industry reality in a changing, AI-driven industry versus my experience at her age, was in the forefront of my brain – from our daily outfits to where and how we do our jobs.

For me, it was experience before #MeToo and daily banter at the water cooler. We wore appalling, below-the-knee suits, often with questionable jackets and shoulder pads. Sneakers got us from point A to point B and we stashed a second pair of acceptable office shoes in a desk drawer. Now, hybrid options mean Gen Z can work barefoot a few days a week and actually walk their dogs, all the while Zoom-ing their way to success. There is the good and the bad regardless of the decade. Today, I miss some of the proverbial water cooler chatter and, well, they are missing out too as this in real life time is, well, important.

Yes, so much has changed over the years yet so much is the same: career, kids, cost of living? Does it matter in the end?

Yes. It does.

At the end of the day, we are all navigating this challenging, overwhelming and beautiful life full of choices to be made, whether at the office or on Instagram. Distant memories of my daughter’s stages and ages buzz around my brain. The world has changed and every generation has its challenges. I find comfort in knowing we’re bonded throughout the generations.

As my sister and I always say, with irony, “we all end up emptying the dishwasher.” It rings true for every generation. Life is full of love and laughter, along with work, hard conversations, and never-ending to-do lists. Each generation has its own set of tools to deal with it. So to my weekend guests, remember to live in the moment, take a break from scrolling and look at the sunsets. You can even thank Gen X for wearing the ugly office clothes so you don’t have to. In return, I can thank you for allowing me to go barefoot, empty the dishwasher and listen to a podcast while working from home today.

Photo courtesy of Bill Waterson / Alamy.

It’s not the laugh lines that necessarily reveal my age. I simply love newspapers. Delicious ink mixed with sunscreen, each page-turn leaving black smudge marks on my legs as I stare at the ocean. I wrestle heroically with the paper, expertly folding pages as I struggle to prevail against the elements. I cling to this yearslong ritual, picking up coffee and absorbing the good, the bad, the world in print. “Why don’t you just read the news online?” some ask. “I love my newspapers, magazines and my smudge tattoos," I say. My neck is a topic for another time.

Photos courtesy of PopUp Bagels

I read somewhere that bagels are the edible hugs of the breakfast world. For many, the bagel is a taste of home, a comforting reminder of childhood and family gatherings. PopUp Bagels is this and more.

This fast-growing bagel chain and its notorious, buzzworthy cream cheese and butter schmears are disrupting the world of bagels. Only in business for a few years, it’s a recent phenomenon. The company sparked a new bagel sensation, bringing long lines of fans and weekly schmear surprises that make even the most jaded and passionate bagel connoisseurs take notice, with flavors like dill pickle and brown sugar cinnamon. Its fresh-baked bagels draw the usual, comfort-seeking fans, but it’s the schmear surprises that blow up on Instagram and drive crowds to every location.

Adam Goldberg

PopUp Bagels was conceived during the pandemic, when founder Adam Goldberg began baking to pass the time. At first, it was all about a deep dive into baking sourdough bread. This hobby soon turned into the art of bagel-making. A few months later, with the help of his cousin, a perfect, high-quality, delicious bagel recipe was born. Friends, family, and fans couldn’t resist. Goldberg started selling them by the dozen, all from a backyard pick-up window. The rest, as the saying goes, is, well, bagel history.

“We love being on the East End,” said Goldberg during a recent interview. Currently located in the popular Amagansett Square and working with Meeting House as a local partner, PopUp was determined to serve its customers in the Hamptons. “We just simply focus on making great bagels and making people happy,” he added. Investors, business executives, and celebrity fans agree. “It’s all about a streamlined business model with a schmear twist.” A-listers, including actor Paul Rudd and athletes J.J. Watt, T.J. Watt, Michael Phelps, and Michael Strahan, are all fans and invested in the company.

Why is PopUp Bagels an industry disruptor? Yes, they are great tasting. The bagels are boiled and baked fresh daily. Its menu is a pared-down version of the typical bagel chain. It serves plain, sesame, poppy, salt, and everything bagels, and only two varieties of cream cheese (plain and scallion). It’s the limited-time cream cheese and butter schmears, rotating weekly, that set the brand apart. It works. This minimalist but clever formula is driving the brand’s surging popularity. Each unique, weekly surprise sells out each time.

With ongoing, ever-present car traffic typical of the summer season, the company has really figured it out — not an easy feat. Consumers in the Hamptons this summer can simply pre-order, grab it, and go: grip, rip, and dip — usually as you walk away or get into your car.

When asked if there was any popular go-to favorite to bring to the beach, Goldberg smiled and said, “I personally don’t like sand in my schmear.”

Adam loves and knows the Hamptons, having spent a lot of time on the East End in years past. These days, he is traveling all over, passionately working to keep up with the brand’s growth. There are currently 12 core brick-and-mortar locations, as well as numerous pop-ups. An additional 15 locations are planned for the coming year.

He still has his favorite East End stops, including lunch at Bobby Van’s, Montauk’s Marram’s boutique resort hotel, and, well, simple and delicious food, of course — all easy to find in the Hamptons.

We discussed some upcoming fun events and other PopUp Bagel news. What is planned for the July 4th weekend for PopUp Bagels? “Of course we have an incredible schmear planned for the holiday weekend,” said Goldberg. And, for bagel-loving local followers who live a bit far from Amagansett, look for a Westhampton location next year.

Bagels are a circle of happiness, it has been said. That is certainly true if you eat a PopUp Bagel.

I turned 50 this year.

If you were born in 1965, so did you. I wasn’t alone. Champagne bubbles practically emanated from Facebook as countless friends and “friends” celebrated in all kinds of ways.

But, for some, it was also a year of tremendous loss. Some of my close friends said their final goodbye to a parent.

This all hit me around July, as I found myself once again with a heavy heart, coordinating the delivery of yet another shiva platter from yet another distant kosher deli. Or flowers. Or ordering more wine.

Then, only weeks later, there I was, writing a toast or a card for a friend turning 50, happy memories floating through my head.

2015. A year of marking milestones. For some, a year of saying goodbye.

With birthdays, I could just feel some of the celebrations. Then, the bubbles popped. I would see a post from an old high school classmate with the news of a devastating loss. Comments like “Happy Birthday” and “Welcome to the club” were then followed with “Sorry for your loss,” “No words” or something similar. Tears replaced bubbles. The collective “celebrating” was farcical, yet wonderful. The collective grief was palpable.

We were celebrating as if we were one, my fellow 50-year-olds and me. A group 50th. A group milestone. We were also mourning collectively — even for those thankfully not saying goodbye in the same way. We all — the 1965 collective, the 1983 high school graduating class, the ones who went to college without laptops or cell phones — felt the passing of time. Of course we celebrated — some publicly, some privately. We reflected, we made changes, we considered changes and we delayed changes.

We all know that big birthdays are milestones. That goes without saying. We may be struggling, we may not. We may be a mess as hormones dip or waistlines expand and children grow up. We may be in a really great place, euphoric even — like “50 is the new 40“ bullshit. It doesn’t matter. We shared in this milestone. And, of course it’s a great one — but also: WTF and OMG.

And for anyone in this group fortunate enough to still have parents or a parent, we are all still feeling these goodbyes in the pit of our stomachs. It comes with our anchors disappearing, whether it’s in the same year as reaching this important milestone or just in other, quieter ways.

A collective consciousness.

Collective mourning.

A collective party.

A collective holy shit.

A collective meltdown.

A collective appreciation of life.

A collective sense of unbearable loss.

The passing of time.

It can be easy to forget to take time to mark the moment by yourself, especially while saying goodbye symbolically, metaphorically or literally. But I say to the other 1965-ers: Don’t forget the bubbles. It’s important.

And, to my friends who didn’t quite want to celebrate yet, even if they turned 50 — for any, any reason, keep a bottle on ice. Take your time. And remember: As you freak about silly realizations like The Rocky Horror Picture Show turning 40 and Back to the Future turning 30 and how James Spader looks now versus how he looked in all those great 80s movies (I still love him), I have one thing to say — even Jon Cryer, aka “Duckie,” is turning 50 this year! We are in good company. And, thankfully, I no longer want that DeLorean from the movie. It’s too low to the ground anyway…

Happy Birthday. Sorry for your loss.

Leave it to Oprah. Just as I was struggling to find the best words to talk about blueberries and write my first post, I picked up a recent issue of O Magazine and decided to do some mindless reading. And there it was: A great article about food, featuring the perfect quote from Winnie-the-Pooh that somehow made it all come together: "When you wake up in the morning, Pooh," said Piglet at last, "what's the first thing you say to yourself?" What's for breakfast?" said Pooh. "What do you say, Piglet?" "I say, I wonder what's going to happen exciting today?" said Piglet. Pooh nodded thoughtfully. "It's the same thing," he said.

And that's exactly it. Or at least, that is what blueberries have come to represent to me— exciting possibilities. For the past two years, I have told myself that I need to eat blueberries every day or at least frequently, because they are one of the most healthful foods-packed with antioxidants that counter bad habits (and I certainly have some), low-calorie, and easy to eat. In fact, experts say just a handful a day can do some great things. According to studies, blueberries have the highest antioxidant capacity of all fresh fruit, aid in reducing belly fat, and are natural anti-depressants!

“For me, they are not just a fruit; I imagine one huge blueberry as the mascot for feeling less ‘stuck.’”

I have told myself that if I can successfully consume them daily, blueberries will be a powerful statement that I am starting on a new and different path. For approximately 24 months I have purchased them, even splurging for the organic variety, and they remain uneaten in my refrigerator. The best intentions are soon followed by an inevitable craving for carbs, eggs, or something else in the morning. Without fail, they sit in the fridge, taunting me, changing each day from a vibrant, bluish-purple hue to slightly brownish in color, shriveling symbols of failure. In fact, I cannot even tell you how many times I have disposed of a container of blueberries, uneaten, raisin-like, tossed in the garbage. For me, they are not just a fruit; I imagine one huge blueberry as the mascot for feeling a bit less "stuck." If I could eat and enjoy them, then for me, like Pooh, blueberries would represent something more-moving in the right direction, being "unstuck," sticking to goals. It would mean that something exciting could happen. So for this week, I bought blueberries on Monday and was determined to eat them every day for a week. There they were, sitting on the shelf at the store, those ubiquitous plastic containers holding dozens of those things at a time. I grabbed two containers and went to pay. Maybe it was my imagination, but I think the cashier was laughing at my determined expression.

From past experience, I knew this was only the first step; it would mean nothing if I threw them out again. I also knew I could not go "cold turkey" and skip carbs completely. So on the first day, I threw a handful on my half a bagel with cream cheese. I am not kidding. That's what I did. The next day I had a handful "on the side" with my eggs and toast-a colorful accompaniment. The following day, I smiled as I ate them simply with yogurt. Progress. I was getting there; all of a sudden, I felt the satisfaction that only happens when you say you are going to do something and actually stick to it. By week's end I was on the run, having a banana and a handful of those blue things on the way to the gym an hour earlier than usual. Hey, I was on to something.

Such a simple little thing that is good for you. I did it. This little, stupid change has pushed me out of the starting gate. I hope it will be the fuel I need for the next 51 weeks. I hope that on whatever week I set out on bigger challenges, I will be inspired by my blueberry project. Regardless, Week One is over. I hope I don't have to ask myself, "What's for breakfast?" going forward. I hope blueberries and other good things find their way into my meals without me even thinking about it. I doubt it will be foolproof but I can hope. But, I do live in New York City: home of the best bagels in the world. Thank God they will always be just a block away. I think I have even seen blueberry cream cheese . . .

“Yes, you should definitely get it,” I say to my daughter, my beautiful roommate. We have been sharing space since her college graduation, my pandemic-divorce and her deep dive into a first job. Go gently into the real world, I think to myself.

What a strange ride it has been. Sometimes, while simultaneously preparing for an evening out, she magically appears in my bedroom, “Can I borrow that black shirt and that gold heart necklace?” she asks as I examine my upper-lip.

I scream inside, just a tiny bit. She is years away from understanding our generational disparity and what is needed to prepare for a night out. I smile anyway. Who would have thought we would be roommates, just us, the last couple of years?

She drops Amazon boxes, chaotically, on the couch as she walks in. “I hope my oil pulling mouthwash and snail-mucin cream arrived.”

“Your what?” I ask, exasperated. It doesn’t take long to separate our respective deliveries.

I may toast with champagne, just a little, the next time I’m getting ready - my jewelry intact with beautiful silence, devoid of the sound of her daily steps in the living room or separating our deliveries. Undoubtedly though I will feel her absence.

I love my roommate. I even love the wonderful, challenging and unexpected moments as we both forge forward in this crazy world.

Still, I may be just a little relieved when the packages are simply, beautifully and solely filled with my Melatonin, under-eye cover cream, a new tweezer and my Over-50 multivitamins.

You are my favorite roommate. I will miss the sound of your daily steps.

When are you coming for dinner next week?