nonjudgmental as Howard Mellnick.
“You know, Shelley,” he said, “this could turn out to be a good time to prove yourself. To yourself.”
Easy for him to say; he didn’t have Ross Morgan looking over his shoulder, waiting for him to fail. Still, she kind of liked the sound of it. “When I referred to my new accounts as the dregs, that was actually a compliment. I have no idea how I’m going to suddenly turn them into producers.”
“I think you’re up to the task.” Howard Mellnick smiled. “And I can’t wait to hear all the gory details.” He flipped his yellow pad closed, signaling the end of their session. “Just remember that torturing Ross Morgan is only a perk—not your main goal.”
“Right,” Shelley said as she stood and prepared to leave. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”
On Sunday afternoon Judy stood at the entrance to the Temple Kol Chaim social hall and surveyed the hum of activity inside. Today’s Bar Mitzvah Expo, which was to bar and bat mitzvah planning what a Bridal Fair was to weddings, was in full swing.
Scanning the crowd for her coordinator, Judy waited for the expected rush of adrenaline, but nothing happened. Which was very strange indeed.
She could still remember the excitement of her first expo four years ago, when she’d spent an entire afternoon visiting each vendor, nibbling catering samples, watching videos, and listening to demonstration CDs.
At home afterward she’d spent a euphoric afternoon poring over the brochures and promotional items. With wonder, she’d contemplated the caterers and event facilities, the photographers and videographers, the goody basket creators and personal shoppers, even the security companies specializing in hormonal thirteen-year-olds.
Entertainment options had ranged from a lone guitarist to the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra and included the ever-popular DJs, who came with emcees, light shows, and crates full of party favors, as well as the all-important crowd motivators.
It had all seemed so incredibly exciting.
You could have a video of your child’s life. Or photos of the guests applied to buttons they could wear home. Concession stands, celebrity look-alikes, jugglers, magicians—name it, and it could be ordered à la carte or as part of a package. The sky and the depth of your pockets were the only limits.
On that fateful day she’d understood that her son’s bar mitzvah was more than a ceremonial trip to adulthood. It was something she could throw herself into; something that required more than chauffeuring and cheerleading. It was her opportunity to make her mark.
Judy had read every word of every brochure, and then she’d hired the ridiculously expensive Mandy Mifkin. Together they’d come up with the Roman gladiator theme and turned Jason’s bar mitzvah into the gold standard against which all other such functions were measured—at least in the highly competitive suburb of Atlanta where she lived.
But today, Judy’s competitive juices refused to flow.
She was contemplating slipping out the way she’d come, when Mandy rushed up and enveloped her in a hug.
“It’s so crowded I didn’t see you standing here,” Mandy said. “Come.” She turned to lead the way back into the exhibit hall. “I want to show you the invitation I told you about.”
The crowd parted before them like the Red Sea. Mandy nodded regally as they passed through the throng of women, and Judy heard the awe in their voices; “togas,” they mouthed to each other. “A lion in a cage right next to the gift table.” Another nodded importantly. “I heard the rabbi wore a toga under his robes.”
The room was thick with their admiration and envy, but Judy felt no answering sense of pleasure or accomplishment. In fact she felt as if she were having an out-of-body experience—the kind those briefly dead people described in which they levitated up into the air and watched the hospital staff trying to revive them. Everything around
“You know, Shelley,” he said, “this could turn out to be a good time to prove yourself. To yourself.”
Easy for him to say; he didn’t have Ross Morgan looking over his shoulder, waiting for him to fail. Still, she kind of liked the sound of it. “When I referred to my new accounts as the dregs, that was actually a compliment. I have no idea how I’m going to suddenly turn them into producers.”
“I think you’re up to the task.” Howard Mellnick smiled. “And I can’t wait to hear all the gory details.” He flipped his yellow pad closed, signaling the end of their session. “Just remember that torturing Ross Morgan is only a perk—not your main goal.”
“Right,” Shelley said as she stood and prepared to leave. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”
On Sunday afternoon Judy stood at the entrance to the Temple Kol Chaim social hall and surveyed the hum of activity inside. Today’s Bar Mitzvah Expo, which was to bar and bat mitzvah planning what a Bridal Fair was to weddings, was in full swing.
Scanning the crowd for her coordinator, Judy waited for the expected rush of adrenaline, but nothing happened. Which was very strange indeed.
She could still remember the excitement of her first expo four years ago, when she’d spent an entire afternoon visiting each vendor, nibbling catering samples, watching videos, and listening to demonstration CDs.
At home afterward she’d spent a euphoric afternoon poring over the brochures and promotional items. With wonder, she’d contemplated the caterers and event facilities, the photographers and videographers, the goody basket creators and personal shoppers, even the security companies specializing in hormonal thirteen-year-olds.
Entertainment options had ranged from a lone guitarist to the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra and included the ever-popular DJs, who came with emcees, light shows, and crates full of party favors, as well as the all-important crowd motivators.
It had all seemed so incredibly exciting.
You could have a video of your child’s life. Or photos of the guests applied to buttons they could wear home. Concession stands, celebrity look-alikes, jugglers, magicians—name it, and it could be ordered à la carte or as part of a package. The sky and the depth of your pockets were the only limits.
On that fateful day she’d understood that her son’s bar mitzvah was more than a ceremonial trip to adulthood. It was something she could throw herself into; something that required more than chauffeuring and cheerleading. It was her opportunity to make her mark.
Judy had read every word of every brochure, and then she’d hired the ridiculously expensive Mandy Mifkin. Together they’d come up with the Roman gladiator theme and turned Jason’s bar mitzvah into the gold standard against which all other such functions were measured—at least in the highly competitive suburb of Atlanta where she lived.
But today, Judy’s competitive juices refused to flow.
She was contemplating slipping out the way she’d come, when Mandy rushed up and enveloped her in a hug.
“It’s so crowded I didn’t see you standing here,” Mandy said. “Come.” She turned to lead the way back into the exhibit hall. “I want to show you the invitation I told you about.”
The crowd parted before them like the Red Sea. Mandy nodded regally as they passed through the throng of women, and Judy heard the awe in their voices; “togas,” they mouthed to each other. “A lion in a cage right next to the gift table.” Another nodded importantly. “I heard the rabbi wore a toga under his robes.”
The room was thick with their admiration and envy, but Judy felt no answering sense of pleasure or accomplishment. In fact she felt as if she were having an out-of-body experience—the kind those briefly dead people described in which they levitated up into the air and watched the hospital staff trying to revive them. Everything around
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