M y little boy is going to sleepaway camp.

My husband is gleeful; I am laying out sackcloth and stocking up on ashes. The boy’s father thinks it will be a great experience build his self-esteem increase his confidence help him forge new friendships.

But he’s my youngest and I envision all kinds of horrors awaiting him in the Catskills: snakes nits toe fungus an entire month of pizza-and-French-fry-type nutrition… I order a book entitled Survival in the Wilds of the Borsht Belt which I hide under the industrial-sized sunscreen and insect repellent I smuggled into his luggage.

I drive him to the bus. It’s raining but I’m wearing sunglasses for obvious reasons. He strides up the steps of the bus without a backward glance.

Hubby comes home in buoyant spirits. (Although I do catch him looking kind of wistful when he thinks I’m not looking.)

“We have four weeks of vacation!” he announces joyfully. I am wondering which one of us can leave our jobs long enough to travel to and from any kind of attractive destination. And who’s paying for it.

“Look we don’t have to go on any kind of formal [read: expensive] vacation ” he explains with his usual maddening male logic. “We should just go away each weekend. That would mean four relaxing restful mini-trips!”

Ever the optimist I ask “But who will want us???”

“The kids?” he suggests.

“That would be fun but not exactly restful… unless you enjoy a red-headed spitfire barreling into you every hour or you love reading Way Too Much Challah Dough way too many times to little Simchee…”

“How about your brother Eli? Don’t he and Rechy have a place in the country?”

Y’know he’s pretty smart… for a man.

I take a moment to envision myself relaxing on Shabbos afternoon in a sunny grassy bungalow colony. I am lounging on a collapsible chair the sun warming my face while a gentle breeze cools the air. It’s just me Family First and a tall glass of Diet Coke on ice. It’s totally quiet save for the cheerful tweeting of the birds and the occasional flutter of a butterfly’s wings.

It takes me all of 12 seconds to agree. Now all I have to do is reach Rechy.

I flip open my phonebook and find a number labeled “Eli and Rechy — Bungalow” followed by a bunch of question marks. I know her cell phone number by heart but I’m sure they don’t have a signal way up there so I’ll try this number.

The phone rings 43 times. (I am nothing if not tenacious.)

“Hah-low?” The voice clearly belongs to someone from Eastern Europe who has been collecting social security for quite some time.

“Um… Hi! Is Rechy there?”

“Broooochy?”

“No Rechy. Rechy Stein.”

“WHO is this?”

“Who is this?” I counter smartly.

“I asked you foist!” Wow. She’s tough.

“My name is Perel Grossman and I’m looking for my sister-in-law Rechy Stein. Isn’t this her number?”

“Pehrel? Pereleh? I used to hev ah frend named Pereleh. Vee called her Peruchka…”

“Hel-LO? Do I have the wrong number? Is this the Steins’ bungalow?”

“Shoor is mameleh. But dis phone is for de gantze colony. You know… I tink I saw Brooochy going down for ah svim!”

“You mean Rechy?”

“You say tomato und I say tomahtoe!” [Breaks out in song] “You say pohtaytoe und I say po-tah-toe…”

“Oh. Well. Okay, thank you.”

“You’re verrry velcome! Zeit matzliach!”

Well, if I can’t reach Rechy, this is not going to work.

Moments later, my phone rings. It’s Rechy. Mrs. Shainkiffel told her,“ah zeesa goil mit deh numen Pereleh” called for her. Well I’ll be!

We chat for a few minutes. I make believe I really miss her and want to catch up. She waits patiently to find out why I really called. After an appropriate amount, I go in for the kill, asking if any bungalows are available to rent for a Shabbos. Even this Shabbos, for example.

She takes the bait and insists we stay with her and Eli. There’s plenty of room, she asserts, since the girls are at camp. Groovy!

A few days later, we are inching our way to the Catskills with thousands of like-minded people. It’s terribly humid but we don’t want to waste gas as we crawl along the highway, so we roll down our windows and I entertain myself by watching in the flip-down mirror as my newly set sheitel frizzes up before my eyes. To my husband’s dismay, I insist on belting out an entire series of hartzig, shmaltzy songs.

He points out that he has already proclaimed his car a No-Shwekey Zone on our last car trip.

I threaten to start “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall.”

He knows when he’s been beaten.

Somehow, we make it to the Catskills about ten minutes before Shabbos, which leaves me no time to repair my melting lipstick or the eyeliner creeping from its intended home, the better to highlight the dark circles beneath my eyes. We unfold ourselves from the car, schlep our four suitcases from the trunk (Three are mine. Actually, three and a half. I allowed Yosef to put a few things into my fourth bag), and make our way to the bungalow.

My dear brother appears at the door.

“Perel,” he warns with fake solicitude, “that fourth step is not too strong so maybe you shouldn’t step on it.”

I growl back at him. Some family dynamics never change.

Rechy welcomes us, complimenting my new permed look. I take in the silver-specked linoleum covering the floor of the tiny vestibule, its corners curling up to reveal the raw wood beneath.

“How swanky! A foyer!” I pronounce.

“That’s our dining room.”

They show us to our closet-cum-bedroom and warn us not to sit down too suddenly on the furniture, rather to slowly ease into a sitting position.

“They’re kind of… um… antique and easily shocked,” explains Rechy apologetically.

The Friday night meal is very pleasant, especially since I didn’t peel, cut, dice, cook, or bake anything. Plus my sister-in-law is an excellent cook. But sleep escapes me that night, as I am kept awake by loud animal noises outside (was that a cheetah?) and the insane buzzing of a berserk flying insect. Claustrophobia forces me to the kitchen table, where I am discovered in the morning, dozing in a position voted Most Likely to Land a Person in a Chiropractor’s Office.

At least morning offers the promise of cool fresh air, pine-scented breezes, and the delight of perusing a magazine in a beach chair later in the afternoon, as I dreamed I would.

That dream is shattered by a loud crash that sets the melamine dishes a-shakin’. A flash of lightning follows, ushering in a deluge of Noahide proportions. Rain drenches the grounds, putting a muddy end to my summertime fantasy.

The men go to shul and I decide to daven. I tend to pace when I daven. That morning, my pacing consists of taking one-and-a-half steps in one direction, then another one-and-a-half steps in the other direction. Like a reverse Charleston, with kavanah.

Lunch is gloomy, although nobody else seems affected by the bad weather. I stare at the sheets of slanting rain, and pray the whole bungalow doesn’t get swept into “The Luch.”

“Remind me, again, why you guys schlep out here every summer?” I ask, all fake innocence. Nobody deigns to reply.

After the meal, the oilam is soon blissfully napping. Though I am completely exhausted, I know sleep will escape me, so I don’t even try. As it is, I am afraid to get too close to the wall against which my bed is set. Are those cracks in the spackle or… tarantulas?

Frankly, I am bored, which is admittedly a new feeling for me, though faintly familiar from adolescence. I wander around looking for something to read; anything, really. Sadly, I forgot my magazine at home. I am forced to settle for a dinner journal.

The weather outside is still the picture of misery. Inside, not much better. Condensation has formed on the windows as the humidity outside rises. I am alternately hot and sticky, freezing like a chicken (an old Grossman-ism), or sucking in forced air, as I move between the stuffy bedroom with its drippy, rattling A/C, and the Chamber of Horrors laughingly called the Dining Room, with its narrow column of hurricane-level winds produced by the rusty iron fan in its corner.

We hereby salute Yeshivah Gedolah of South Carolina…

In Recognition of Rabbi Yishmael Adarabah…

In Loving Memory of Mrs. Shterna Yenta Kleinrothfeld ob”m…

Rechy finally emerges from her room, calm and rested. Out of pure, pure pity, she offers to play a game with me. I am instantly transported to fourth grade.

“Whaddaya wanna play?” I ask. “Kugelach? Chinese jump rope? Malach/galach?”

She rolls her eyes and whips out a yellow sack of Bananagrams. We play a desultory game for the next hour, as I form words: gloom, mud, mold, puddle, cockroach, and humid.

Meanwhile, my husband and brother are really enjoying each other’s company, trading divrei Torah and weird historical facts that bright males with excellent memories tend to collect:

“… and he was the only officer ever to hold the title of commander-in-chief of the US Fleet AND chief of naval operations!”

“What was his name, again?”

“Admiral Ernest King!”

“No kidding! Well, you know that the highest-ranking Confederate general, Samuel Cooper, was actual a Northerner, right?”

“I think I read that somewhere…”

Rechy looks from one man to the other, then blurts out, “There are two of you??!”

“What a waste of brain cells!” I comment.

The rest of Shabbos passes like a dream. A nightmare, that is. I fall asleep during Shalosh Seudos, slumped over in my white formica chair with silver spangles. When I awake, my mouth ajar and dry, it’s time for Havdalah. We pack quickly, thank Rechy for a “really special” Shabbos, and take our leave. My brother doesn’t even have a chance to warn me about the broken step, as I jump from the porch directly to the ground to hasten our departure, and land — splat — in a puddle. The perfect end to a perfect weekend.

Monday morning at work, my husband is already sending me ideas about the upcoming Shabbos:

From:yosefmenachem@nottheinternetchasvshalom.org

To: perelg@working2hard.com

How about Uncle Yaakov’s summer home? Can we wangle an invite?

From: perelg@working2hard.com

To:yosefmenachem@nottheinternetchasvshalom.org

I am so done with the Catskills. Tonight I plan to excise the area from our “I Love New York” map.

P.S. Unless we are considering a hotel? I saw an ad in Mishpacha about a program that looks great!

From:yosefmenachem@nottheinternetchasvshalom.org

To: perelg@working2hard.com

If we go to a hotel, I have to be all sociable and nice to people, and you know how much I hate that. Besides, it’s probably expensive.

From: perelg@working2hard.com

To:yosefmenachem@nottheinternetchasvshalom.org

C’mon, you can be nice for just one Shabbos, can’t you? And we get a big scholarship if we’re not “yet” frum. Can’t we pretend?

Tuesday night, the phone rings. It’s my daughter. The oldest one. The one who still cares about her mother.

“Ma? You know we’re going to my in-laws’ summer house this Shabbos, right?”

“Yes,” I answer just a wee bit tersely. Sure, I spent a soggy, boring Shabbos in a Catskills bungalow, while THEY relax and have fun in a summer home, complete with carpet and central air. Do I sound bitter?

“Well,” my daughter continues breathlessly, “my in-laws want you and Daddy to join us for Shabbos!” she ends triumphantly.

“Really?” I’m flattered. And surprised. I guess they’ve forgiven us the Ming vase thing. I’m so glad. I mean… it wasn’t really my fault…

And so, that Friday we find ourselves happily winging our way to the Poconos. As we drive, and drive, and drive, I start obsessing…

“Yosef? Did we close the garage door?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Cause remember that time we came home from Boston and found it wide open?”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Yosef? Did you pack the phone charger?”

“What difference does it make at this point? It’s not like we have time to run back.”

Here, again, the maddening logic of men.

As we arrive, the grandkids swarm around the car.

“Did you bring us prizes?”

“Or nosh?”

“Savti, look at this lizard! Wanna kiss it?”

We follow the luscious scent of baked chicken into our mechutanim’s summer home. I am pleased to see that it is cozy, tastefully appointed, and lovely. I feel reassured that this weekend will be just what the doctor ordered, with no co-pay.

We soon learn that quite a bit of company is coming to the H’s for Shabbos, and that we are billeted at the empty cottage of our host’s friends. Ooooh! A cottage just like this, all to ourselves! Thank You, Hashem! We are directed to a charming home just a few doors down and entrusted with the key. We quietly slip our old, ratty, duct-taped baggage out of the trunk and into the house.

I look around and sniff. Well, it’s a little raw. They probably just bought it and are redecorating. We find a note on the kitchen table, propped up against a bud vase holding a single pink tea rose. It reads: Welcome to our home! We’ve prepared the guest room upstairs for you. First door on the right. Good Shabbos.

We mount the stairs — creaky but serviceable. We swing open the door — charming. Sloping ceiling, hardwood floors, fluffy floral comforters. The quiet and serenity is soothing. But only for a minute. Then I realize that the quiet is due to the fact that the A/C is off. Mostly because there is no A/C. And it’s 112 degrees in the shade up here. Good thing it gets so cool in the Poconos at night.

We struggle to pry open a window that was painted shut. Finally, success is ours! But it doesn’t help much.

We wisely make our way back to the H’s, to the kids and the cool. The meal is noisy but enjoyable. We reluctantly return to the cottage, which has cooled off by now and is almost pleasant.

In the morning, I wake to the sound of a door being slammed, as my husband leaves to shul. I sit up, smack my head against the “charming” sloped ceiling. I drop back down, groan, and doze again. A buzzing at my ear prompts me to sit bold upright and… smash! This cycle repeats itself until I give up and kind of slither out of bed, then pull myself upright limbo-style.

I shuffle off to the ladies’ room and cast a wary glance at the mirror. I gasp. Not only am I less than a vision of loveliness (evidence that the myth of 24-hour makeup is just that), but my eyes are mere slits in the center of puffy blobs on either side of my nose. Dashing back down the hall, I enter my room cautiously to avoid the wild pitch of the sloping ceiling, and rummage around in my bag for an antihistamine.

I am a proud hypochondriac and travel in style, with bottles of Advil, Mucinex, nasal rinse, sinus meds, and various other potions to alleviate virtually any kind of physical distress, no matter the cause. Rarely do I use any of this medication. Unless I forget to bring it. My hand closes on the Benadryl and I gulp down a tablet with a swig of tepid water from my trusty water bottle.

Dressing quickly, I daven and then head over to the mechutanim’s cottage, bracing myself for the choruses of “What happened to YOU?!” I spend most of the Shabbos seudah on the couch, sporting a bag of frozen peas on the right side of my face, mixed veggies on the other.

Just when my face starts looking and feeling more human, I am besieged by the grandkids, begging me to walk them to “The Lake.” Not wanting to be a spoil-sport, I muster up the appropriate level of enthusiasm (“Do I have to?!”) and allow myself to be hauled to The Lake. Within seconds, I launch a sneezing jag that definitely would have earned me honorable mention in the Guinness Book of World Records, if only a Guinness rep been around to witness it. This is followed by streaming, itchy eyes and that lovely throat scraping sound for which we allergy sufferers are famous… Another round of Benadryl and a box of tissues sustain me until Shabbos is over.

One more successful, ruach-filled, relaxing Shabbos for the Grossmans.

The following Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday, my husband and I are careful not to make eye contact or speak about anything nonessential, for fear of broaching the subject we are both avoiding. Finally, on Wednesday night, we turn to each other and simultaneously blurt out, “About Shabbos…” Turns out, we both have the same idea: No invitations, no guests, no fuss. A quiet “couple” weekend, replete with tons of reading, resting, good, simple food and possibly a shiur, if I need to poke my head out and get some air. Thursday night, the phone rings.

“Don’t answer it!” my husband commands. “And no texts either! Draw the shades! Don’t respond to the doorbell! We are excommunicado! I am determined to have this quiet Shabbos!”

“If you say so. But I think it’s our daughter. The one we rarely hear from. And judging from the caller I.D., she’s called a few times.”

A look of concern crosses his face as he lunges for the phone. His face splits into a wide grin.

“Hi, Ora from Bora Bora! Oh… Mommy said you should call? Oh… no baths tonight?? No water??”

“BE STRONG!” I command my husband sternly. “Let them bathe in bottled water!”

“And Mommy is so tired?? So very tired??” He sounds way too sympathetic.

“How about take-out?” I yell into the phone.

“And you miss us, huh??!”

Uh, oh. Stick a fork in me. I’m done. They are all coming for Shabbos. But of course.

Friday morning I find a message from “Olga at Shabbat.com” accepting my invitation for this Shabbos. Invitation? I do remember her name, and I recall a hosting request from her a couple weeks ago, which I had to turn down. I think I suggested that she “keep in touch” regarding the next couple of weeks. Guess this was her way of keeping in touch. She ends her message with, “and since I will be traveling most of the day and don’t have a smartphone, there’s no way to reach me, so I look forward to seeing you later today! :)”

Smiley face, indeed…

Finally, I get a text at about noon: “Any chance you are able to host a single mom and her daughter who have no place to go? She mentioned you by name. Of course, if you can’t have her, don’t worry. She can just stay home. She says she has a couple of cans of tuna and two matzos. No pressure. Let me know!”

I rush around like a maniac the rest of the day, shopping and cooking and baking and making beds. In the end, it all turns out okay. Shabbos is wonderful but kinda noisy; full of crashes and sticky globs all over the floors, adults trying to converse, while kids lock themselves in bathrooms and decorate each other with my Bobbi Brown lip gloss. Lots of schmoozing and giggling and wailing. (Um… the wailing was me).

Once the company leaves, we set about putting the house back to its usual state of abnormal normalcy. It takes until Wednesday night to wash the linens, locate the missing small appliances, and put the CD player back together again. I think I did a pretty good job and I kinda like the way the music plays backwards now.

My son will be home in a few days. We have just ONE SHABBOS till we won’t be free; one more weekend to try to find the perfect mix of socialization, menuchas hanefesh, and oneg Shabbos. So far, we’ve bombed, but we’re still hopeful!

We’re open to ideas and, of course, invitations. I don’t want to put you on the spot but what are you doing this Shabbos? Looking for company? Two reasonably well-behaved quasi-adults with a decent bottle of wine? Maybe we can throw in some flowers, too. This is your last chance for this year. So c’mon, now. Don’t be shy.

(Originally featured in Family First Issue 554)