10/27/11 1:00am
10/27/2011 1:00 AM

Thinking about getting married but can’t seem to find the right guy or gal? I’ve got some news. If you can wait it out for just a couple of weeks, there’s some help coming to the North Fork. That help is a good old-fashioned matchmaker, name of Dolly Levi.

Now this Dolly Levi will be available to all North Forkers Nov. 11-13 and 18-19. She’s here courtesy of Riverhead Faculty and Community Theatre and will meet you at Riverhead High School. Actually, she’s appearing in “Hello, Dolly,” a musical detailing Dolly’s adventures. Dolly has such a big heart I’m sure she’ll meet with you after a show should you desire her matchmaking magic. Who knows? You might be settled into domestic bliss by Thanksgiving.

Believe it or not, there are some happily married folks on the North Fork. I’ve even met a few. They’ll be going to “Hello, Dolly” not for a consultation but just because they like musicals. Matter of fact, I’ve heard some North Forkers sing and I’ve seen some North Forkers dance. They’re pretty good. But most of us are not so talented and sing and dance only when we’re alone in our kitchen. That’s why we enjoy seeing the good stuff on stage.

For example, Denise Balzaretti has a favorite musical and can be found humming some “Bye Bye Birdie” songs in her Cutchogue home. Denise especially likes one of the Birdie songs, “What’s the Matter with Kids Today.” Remember? “You can talk and talk till your face is blue, but they still just do what they want to do. Kids.”  Now I say nothing, absolutely nothing at all, is wrong with kids today, though Denise vehemently disagrees. She says kids should work harder. You know, that may be true of all of us.

But even Denise didn’t work all the time. She told me her mother and her Aunt Margie began taking her to Broadway musicals when she was only 9 years old. That’s the kind of work I like, Denise.

There are some Birdie lyrics I like, too. “Gray skies are gonna clear up, put on a happy face.” There’s the tough-it-out musical outlook that’s seen this country through some pretty hard times.

Forget bye-bye and say hello to Bob Kuhne of New Suffolk. Get him talking about music and he’ll tell you all about that rock band he played in when he was 18 or so. He was the guitar and keyboard guy and said the band appeared in “places” in Nassau County. Of course, I asked him what places and Bob’s reply was generic: “Bars.”

Now, however, Bob and his wife seek out musicals on Broadway and in theaters on Long Island like Mattituck’s North Fork Community Theatre. Bob’s favorite is “Phantom” — not, Bob said, to be confused with “Phantom of the Opera.”

The music of “Phantom” is “much, much better than the music in ‘Phantom of the Opera,’ ” claims Bob. Well, that’s an opinion some North Forkers may disagree with. But I have to give Bob this: There are lyrics in “Phantom” that seem to sum up the very essence of music.
“You are music, beautiful music, and you are light to me.” To a lover or to life itself, music illumines.

As for me, I recall to this day the joy I felt seeing Rex Harrison and Julie Andrews in “My Fair Lady.” And, of course, every high school musical my daughter appeared in quickly became very special. Especially “Fiddler on the Roof.” You look at your children and, yes, swiftly go the days.

But there is one bit of music and lyrics from the musical “Oklahoma” that has always moved me — more so as I get older: “We know we belong to the land, and the land we belong to is grand.” Whether that land is the North Fork or the whole darn USA, what could say it better?

Well, we’ve danced and sung our way to the finale. Before the parade passes by it’s time to plan for a couple of glorious hours with Ms. Dolly Levi. Then, right after the show, just walk straight up to that wonderful woman and sing out what’s in your heart. “Hello, Dolly, well hello, Dolly, it’s so nice to have you back where you belong.”

Ms. Lombardi is a resident of Cutchogue.

10/20/11 1:00am
10/20/2011 1:00 AM

Back in the day, we corresponded chiefly by postal mail; nowadays we call it snail mail — and it’s no wonder. Technology has equipped us with fast ways of communicating, what with email, Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, etc. (Perhaps this is the reason the U.S. Postal Service is going broke.)

Like many folks, I’m inundated with email. I receive a good amount that pertains to my work and the rest can run the gamut, from hilarious to downright disturbing. It’s the latter I wonder about.

I suppose it’s because we’re fast approaching election year 2012 that the same hate-filled emails that circulated in 2008 are beginning to go viral and infiltrate my in-box. Surely I can understand why one may not support President Obama, but why put forth such blatant misinformation? It’s the same old unsubstantiated rhetoric that calls into question the president’s religion, patriotism or country of origin. (And let us not forget the birth certificate brouhaha.)

In August 2011, a claim circulated that President Obama wasn’t wearing his wedding ring in observance of Ramadan. (Ramadan in 2011 was from Aug. 1 to 29.) The email stated in part: “So it’s just a coincidence that Muslims are forbidden from wearing jewelry during the month of Ramadan??? (Think about that one.)” More blah, blah, blah, then, “And how convenient to be on vacation in Hawaii over Christmas so he doesn’t have to have a Christmas photograph of him and his family attending Christmas service.” I received this email at least three times, but who’s counting!

When I lived on Staten Island, I worked with a Muslim physician. We spoke recently and he informed me that Islam has no rule prohibiting the wearing of jewelry during Ramadan. Incidentally, my neighbor was killed in the Sept. 11 World Trade Center attacks, so I get it; but I also get that adrenaline-pumping emotion is a dangerous thing. We’ve got to bypass destructive emotions and think rationally: All Muslims aren’t extreme radical terrorists; likewise, all Italians aren’t cold-blooded Mafioso killers. You get my drift.

I received another gem attributed to historian and author David Kaiser. The email compares the United States to pre-Nazi Germany. It states: “The savior at the time was Adolf Hitler, who also proposed change; how coincidental that President Obama’s platform was change.” Mr. Kaiser notes in his blog, “History Unfolding,” that he didn’t pen this piece.

There’s no law saying we must like the president, so why obsess about his religion or whether he wears a flag lapel pin? Instead, we need to focus on substance and delve into the heart of the challenges facing our nation. And if you don’t agree with this administration, unlike the Hitler regime, we’re free to give our elected officials the boot. Why spend time worrying about nonsense?

Speaking of which, I received an email titled “Spend Wisely.” The message asks us to imagine that a bank would deposit $86,400 in our account daily. We are the only ones who can spend it, and what we don’t spend would be taken away from us. Each morning we would get another $86,400 to spend, but the bank can end the deposits without warning.

This magical bank is time. Each morning we awaken to receive 86,400 seconds as a gift of life, and when we go to sleep at night, any remaining time is not credited to us. What we haven’t lived up to that day is gone forever. Each morning our account is refilled, but the bank can dissolve our account at any time, without warning.

The sentiments expressed in the aforementioned email are quite sobering and hit me where I live. In reality, I squander a lot of time. Not only did I forward this thought-provoking email, but I read it daily.
But, funny thing, this lovely piece, to date, hasn’t gone viral. In fact, I received it only once. Something to ponder, eh?

Ms. Iannelli is a resident of Jamesport.

10/08/11 12:43pm
10/08/2011 12:43 PM

For everything there is a season. And on the North Fork, the yard sale season is a long one. From early spring until a few weeks from now, when folks start thinking storm windows, we put our stuff out on lawns, on village greens, in driveways. Then it seems just about everyone stops by to browse, perchance to buy.

Know what caught my attention recently? A yard sale on Main Road in Cutchogue. Those who ran the sale, members of Old Town Art and Crafts Guild, gave it a name: Trash to Treasure. That sounded fine till I thought about it a bit.
I imagine there’s no trash at a yard sale. Every item is a kind of treasure — if only for its history. Who first owned it? Where was it made? How far has it traveled? What memories does it evoke? Why, the history of our lives and times might well be read in yard sale items.

So I stopped at the Trash to Treasure sale and looked around. Just as I thought. There, on the very first table, was a pre-1920 Victrola. A windup Victor Talking Machine. That’s exactly what was printed on one of the Victrola’s wood panels.

I told the Victrola’s owner, guild member Anne Engelhardt, that I recalled a Victrola just like hers. Back in the 1940s, my across-the-road friend Marilyn often asked me into her home, where we spent time listening to some old guy named Caruso. He was pretty good, according to Marilyn’s parents, but Marilyn and I were more interested in someone much younger named Sinatra.

On to the next table. Here I met Riverhead’s Gayle Wagner. Most of Gayle’s offerings were clothes and I paid special attention to a blue denim jean jacket Gayle called “vintage.” According to Gayle, it was fashionable in the 1960s. This particular jacket had the original price tag still attached. I don’t remember what that price was but I do know Gayle sold the jacket for one dollar. Some buy. I’m wondering if people can be described as “vintage.” If so, I guess I qualify.

Then to a table, actually several of them, belonging to Ginny Kuhne of New Suffolk. Ginny must have come to Trash to Treasure via truck, she had so many items displayed. For example, just in case I planned on making a crepe paper costume for Halloween, I could have purchased a 1952 book of patterns put out by Dennison’s. I remember working very close to that “party store” on Fifth Avenue in New York City back in the late ’50s. Kind of a predecessor to Michaels in Riverhead.

On another table Ginny had three black velvet skating skirts, brand-new, from Lord & Taylor. Ginny said they dated to the 1940s and I believe her. I know I really wanted one of those skirts when I ice skated on the lake in Flushing’s Kissena Park. But my mother ignored my pleas and dark brown leggings were the dowdy substitute. Oh, well.

And look over there. Ginny had full-page laminated ads for a late 1930s Borden’s product called Hemo. Back then a pound of it cost 59 cents. Add a spoonful of Hemo to a glass of milk and you could “pep up your step.” Now in the ’30s I was pretty peppy and never did taste Hemo. But I did enjoy seeing featured in Ginny’s ads several early Borden friends. Their names? Elmer the bull and Elsie the cow. Those two had several offspring: Beulah, Beauregard and the twins, Larabee and Lobelia. I have a suspicion Elmer and Elsie drank plenty of Hemo.

Just before I moved away from Ginny’s tables, I spied some large photos framed quite elegantly. Each photo showed a stylishly dressed man or woman from the 1800s. How stern and severe, how prim and proper they looked. Ginny said such photos were in demand. They are called “instant family” photos and when hung in your living room can add luster to your family tree. I’ve start searching around for a Joshua Chamberlain look-alike photo. He was a pretty cool guy and my Civil War hero, a guy I’d be proud to have in the family. No luck yet, but I think the North Fork will come through for me. Just about everything is stored in our attics.

I left Trash to Treasure with lots of memories and more than a few treats from the bake sale table. After all, 1940 or 2011 — a brownie is a brownie and an oatmeal cookie will always be meant to be dunked in a cup of cold milk.

Ms. Lombardi is a resident of Cutchogue.

10/04/11 3:15pm
10/04/2011 3:15 PM

When I was a kid, returning to school in September was either welcome or fraught with a case of the jitters. There was, however, one thing I could make book on: I was invariably assigned to write an essay about what I did or learned during my summer vacation. I’m going to take a cue from the days of yore and tell you what I learned from our beautiful 14-year-old granddaughter, Ariana.

When Ariana visited us in July, she brought not only her bubbly personality, but also an array of pencils, tubs, tubes and other mysterious makeup paraphernalia. (I guess it runs in the family. I’ve been known to lug around an arsenal of anti-aging products while vacationing.)

One afternoon, I sat on the bed and watched as Ariana applied goop to her face and made up her eyes. Lord knows how, but she came off looking completely natural. When I asked Ariana how my makeup looked, she scrutinized my face (a gal of a certain age gets uncomfortable with close-up inspections) and said, “Pretty good, but …”


Ariana picked up a brush and began dabbing here and there.

She held up a mirror and asked, “Better?”

I answered with a delighted, “Yes.”

Our trip to the nail salon enlightened me further. I selected my usual sheer pink nail polish, while Ariana was deciding between neon blue and green sparkle. When she suggested I try one of the sparkle polishes, I considered it, but only briefly. I remembered that I was the assigned chalice administrator on Sunday, and green sparkle polish might be a tad distracting to the communicants. Ariana choose the blue and I must say, it looked lovely — on her, that is.

Shopping at Tanger was a mind-boggling experience. We bypassed my favorite haunts and headed straight into the teen clothing stores. Sales associates who looked to be in their ‘tweens showed Ariana the latest fashions. Music was blaring, kids were swarming and the moms looked weary. Oy!

Ariana taught me the nuances of texting. Now I love texting almost as much as talking. But the most fascinating experience, by far, was my Facebook makeover.

I have a lukewarm relationship with Facebook. I keep an account to stay abreast of the local, national and global news, and that’s about it. I find it scary that folks can reshape themselves in the hope of being friended by other users and, similarly, with a mere click we can unfriend someone.

That being said, on the last afternoon of her stay, Ariana showed me how she could alter her Face­book profile picture using Photoshop.

Ariana asked, “Want me to airbrush your picture?”


I looked over her shoulder and wow! There was a smiling me, looking five years younger. Encouraged, I said, “Ariana, do more.”

“OK, watch this.”

She set to work, and magically erased 10, then 20 years from my picture. Talk about reversing the signs of aging! Meanwhile, Frank, with keys in hand, was waiting to drive Ariana home. I forgot about the picture until …

I started receiving comments about my profile picture. I logged in to Facebook and, sure enough, there, on my profile page, was my retouched picture. One Facebook friend commented, “Ceil, Long Island agrees with you; you’re looking younger.”

I often wonder about the forever-young Hollywood crowd featured in those glossy magazines. I realize they probably look ordinary — wrinkles, bulges and all — until they are airbrushed to the max. Mystery solved.
Well, folks, I’m Facebook challenged and clueless on how to get my original picture back on my profile page. I’ll figure it out eventually, or send Ariana an SOS. For now, I’ll let my picture stand.

The fact that I’m lying to the Facebook community, and myself, is a tad disconcerting, but what the heck. If the Hollywood crowd can get away with it, why not the Riverhead crowd?

Ms. Iannelli is a resident of Jamesport.

09/21/11 1:28pm
09/21/2011 1:28 PM

It’s not a happy ending. The last page reveals Borders bookstores nationwide are closing. That, of course, includes the Riverhead store, where, over the years, thousands of North Forkers have browsed and bought.
Seems the chain failed to keep pace with electronic technology. I can relate to that. It takes me 20 minutes to set the microwave clock each and every time the power goes off.

No matter. The story here is books. I’m pleased to say most North Forkers get their very own books from many sources in addition to Borders. On our fork there are several small independent bookstores. They’ve served us well for years. Then there are the other book suppliers, some a bit unconventional, but all geared to keep us turning pages.

For example, I volunteer once a week at a Greenport thrift shop. Clothing, pots and pans, toys — all kinds of stuff, including shelves and shelves of books. Over time I’ve gotten everything from cookbooks (100 ways to prepare meatloaf and still all mine taste the same) to Margaret Truman mysteries, to Thoreau’s “The Maine Woods,” to a biography of Teddy Roosevelt I’m in the middle of right now.

My husband, on the other hand, spreads out catalogs of books on the kitchen table and orders his reading by mail. From one of his favorite catalogs we’ve dozens of books, from aviation history (I like that Glenn Curtiss guy) to steam railroads (Durango & Silverton is tops, I think). Just say that whenever a book catalog arrives in our mailbox, my husband drops from sight for hours.

Out East Marion way there’s a very fine gent, Dr. Bill Emerson, who claims he gets “95 percent of my books at yard sales.” And I’m sure Dr. Bill has a good number of books because he’s a professor at Queens College. A math professor! That’s pretty impressive. It’s possible I’ve seen Dr. Bill at yard sales. But I doubt it. Unless he’s looking for fabric, too. Does he quilt, I wonder.

Now I figure if Dr. Bill buys lots of 30-dollar books for one or two dollars each, that’s a whopping savings each year. Like maybe $28 saved on each book purchased. See how good I am at math? Perhaps Dr. Bill could find me a position in the math department at Queens College.

This next book spot might very well be reserved for readers over the age of 21. Because the “help-yourself-to-a-free-book” rack is just inside Peconic Liquors in Cutchogue. Folks drop by to donate books or select a book and the whole North Fork community benefits.

On a recent afternoon I spent a half-hour browsing through the books and saw quite a variety of titles — from “A History of Western Political Theory” to a few romantic novels by Phyllis A. Whitney to some scary stuff by Stephen King. All these are guaranteed to keep readers in good spirits.

Let’s not forget North Fork libraries. Book sales are frequent and some of our libraries even have their own “bookstore.” You can purchase books, for example, at Southold’s Book Cottage or at Riverhead’s Yellow Barn.
And listen to where Jane Minerva, retired Cutchogue librarian, gets many of her books: The reuse area at the town solid waste facility in Cutchogue. Jane’s home contains packed floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Jane claims she never gets to dust all those books. But she does read them and that’s what counts. Matter of fact, you’ll find bookcases, lamps and comfortable chairs at the reuse area. Everything needed to enjoy a book.

Well, here we are. Electronic reading devices seem to be taking over and we’re told someday a child will ask the incredible question, “Mom, what’s a book?” But for now, let’s not worry. North Forkers will continue to fill their homes with books because they know a book in hand is worth two on a screen.

Ms. Lombardi is a resident of Cutchogue.

05/30/11 12:49pm
05/30/2011 12:49 PM

It’s been a year since Frank had a routine stress test that landed him in the hospital. He underwent quadruple bypass surgery (on our sixth wedding anniversary, no less) and suffered a myriad of health challenges. Nowadays, Frank is ready for an Olympic tryout, and I’ve tendered my resignation as chief of the health police. Folks, it was a stressful and exhausting job.

Once, when Frank fell asleep on the couch, I panicked, shook him awake and screeched, “Don’t you ever do that again!”

Frank groggily asked, “Sleep?”

See what I mean? Last summer was the pits. Time seemed to stand still, yet the rest of the year flew by.

Isn’t time tricky? The American author Henry Van Dyke thinks so, too. He writes, “Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve, too short for those who rejoice, but for those who love, time is eternity.”

When we were kids, September marked the beginning of a long, tedious school year. Summer felt like it was eons away and, on a kid’s timetable, it was.

Gals, remember prom mania? An eternity, and then some, passed while waiting for our heartthrob to call. Unbeknownst to us, our heartthrob picked up the phone 200 times and put it down 200 times — just waiting for the right time to invite us.

During our early teens, turning 18 was light years away. That magical number held the promise of a driver’s license and freedom. Or so we thought. Then, the hard edges of reality came into play and we joined in life’s waiting game.

Generally, pregnancies last nine months; however, most gals will attest to these truths: It felt like a lifetime before Baby was born. Moreover, the ninth month felt like two lifetimes. And after Baby is born, Mommy, Daddy and Baby are awake at all hours of the night. Those baby-crying sleep-deprived times appeared to last forever.

Then there are the things that brought us to our knees: the death of a loved one, the betrayal of a friend or a divorce. The pain was incessant and we wondered if there would be an end to our suffering.

Conversely, some of us are at a stage in life when time is speeding up. A dear friend recently marked a “big” birthday. She couldn’t believe how much life she’d already lived, and I fully get it.

My kids are grown men, yet Mom-brain still conjures up two little boys. Frank and I just celebrated our seventh wedding anniversary (thankfully, not in the hospital). How can that be?

I’ve always been the proverbial party gal. I’m surprised when the witching hour arrives and it’s time to call it a night; furthermore, I’m more surprised that I’m not tired!

The time spent with my kids, who live on the West Coast, has a dizzying effect — and it’s not just jet lag. One day I’m on a plane heading west, then in a flash, I’m on a plane heading east.

Here are some puzzling observations: When we can’t wait for something, it takes forever; and when we dread something, it knocked on our door yesterday. Doesn’t the gate in the airport seem further away when we’re running late and closer when we’re early? One summer seems to morph into another, though it takes the same 365 days.

And here’s a biggie: Bob Dylan turned 70 on May 24. Jeez! Where did the time go?

To answer my own question, the time didn’t go anywhere; nor does it pass quickly or slowly — it simply passes. I suppose we interpret time through our own lens, and still, everything that happens takes place in the eternal now. Bewildering, huh?

You’d think with all the technical advances, a savvy computer programmer like Mark Zuckerberg, who with some buddies created Facebook, hasn’t fashioned a program that could fast-forward through the hard times and pause the good times.
I’m just sayin’.

Ms. Iannelli is a resident of Jamesport.

05/04/11 9:23am
05/04/2011 9:23 AM

It was time for a new pair of sneakers. Being an avid walker, I go through a couple of pairs a year. Lately though, buying sneakers has become a tad more complicated.

Until I had a knee issue, my sneaker-buying scenario went something like this: Upon entering a shoe store, I immediately flagged down a sales associate and requested walking sneakers. Within a few minutes, I was usually shown a pair that fit. I paid the bill and bada bing, bada boom, done.
Oh, well. That was then. Back to now.

I did my homework online and headed to a sporting goods store. Upon entering said store, I felt a wave of dizziness. Jeez! Sneakers everywhere. I wandered up and down the aisles until I found the much-touted brand that, according to my research, was the state-of-the-art. Yikes! There was a plethora of boxes neatly stacked on the shelves. To make the choice easier (?), charts were posted next to each style giving the particulars: support, less support, cushioned, toning, flexible, etc. (Way too much information!)

As I was rummaging through my purse for reading glasses, a sales associate wearing a Rugby shirt and — what else?— sneakers asked, “Need help?”


He smiled and asked, “What brand of sneakers do you wear?”

My brain flashed to the beat-up pair on my closet floor.

“Not sure.”

His smile faded and he gave me a quizzical look. “Not sure? Well, umm … no problem.”

As he began pulling boxes from the shelves, my mind reached back to a time when I could buy sneakers at the supermarket. They could be found in a bin somewhere between the meat and vegetables. The sales associate broke my reverie by placing several boxes at my feet.

I feigned interest as he carefully pointed out the differences between each sneaker. Following his technical jargon was impossible, and I soon became weary of the whole sneaker thing. Finally, after trying on numerous pairs, I hit upon a pair that felt good.

“These are great,” I said. “I feel like I’m walking on air.”

The sales associate rewarded me with big smile and asked, “Do you need workout clothes?”

I giggled inwardly. My workout clothes consist of Frank’s sweatshirt which, owing to the difference in our heights, is more like a sweat-dress. I usually just put on a pair of worn sweats (my son Jeff’s castoffs), a Yankee baseball cap (mine) and sunglasses. I shun makeup, save for sunscreen. This is quite a departure from the self that I show to the world.

I followed the young man to the clothing section and spotted some outfits that were colorful, to say the least. I threw caution to the wind and purchased a purple outfit, complete with a matching headband.

The next morning, I donned my new gear and applied makeup.

Frank was drinking his coffee and asked, “Where are you going in that, umm, get-up?”


He gave me a slow once-over and said, “Nobody will recognize you.”

One of the high points of walking is meeting the many friendly folks, cats and dogs — OK, one dog is not so friendly.

That morning, I waved to the regulars, but didn’t receive the usual “Hiya” back. The unfriendly dog, who normally barked on cue when I passed, was silent; the kitty scampered away; and one gal asked, “That you, Ceil?”

Despite not being recognized, there was a newfound bounce in my step. I was convinced that my new sneakers surpassed any others I had ever worn.

I was still on a sneaker high when I returned home and changed into jeans. I picked up my old sneakers from the closet floor and was about to trash them, until I noticed the brand name. I turned them over and examined them very carefully.

The chuckle in my throat turned into a big belly laugh. Lordy, lordy! They were identical to the sneakers I had just bought.

Ms. Iannelli is a resident of Jamesport.

04/05/11 12:59pm
04/05/2011 12:59 PM

Benjamin Franklin is credited with saying, “In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.” With all due respect to Mr. Franklin, I feel he left out another of life’s certainties: disappointments.

Disappointments are tricky; they don’t come in a one-size-fits-all package. They can feel like a hammer blow to the heart, a kick in the gut or a pervasive sadness. Disappointments are usually ushered into our lives by unmet expectations. This undisciplined twosome pals around together and has the power to make mincemeat out of our emotions.

Back in the day, I worked with a physician who expected his son to follow in his footsteps. The son, a gifted artist, had other dreams. Lordy, lordy! There was enough disappointment floating between father and son to fill Yankee Stadium, twice. The son stood his ground and pursued his dream. When I saw them recently, the physician proudly introduced his son as “the next Picasso.”

I’ve subscribed to the notion that parents should become progressively obsolete; consequently, my sons were encouraged to become self-sufficient. Carving out new lives for themselves, they settled on the West Coast. Ouch! Although I’m incredibly proud of them, having 3,000 miles between us, is not exactly what this mom had in mind.

Dr. Dorothy Tennov coined the term “limerence” to describe the first stage of a romantic love. Research suggests that when we’re in limerence, chemicals are released, giving lovers that crazy head-over-heels feeling of bliss. (Essentially, we’re on a natural high and living in a fantasy world!) We view our love interest through rose-colored glasses and what we see is perfection personified.

Then it’s goodbye to fantasy and hello to reality. Our lover is somewhat imperfect, the rose-colored glasses have become a tad cloudy and the troublesome twosome, expectation and disappointment, enjoys a field day. Nevertheless, at this juncture, limerence can morph into lasting love.

Here’s a commonplace occurrence: We work our tail off for a company, we meet all the required deadlines and, on our own dime, we bring the boss a Starbucks latte every morning. Ready for the punch in the gut? Your buddy in the next cubicle got the coveted promotion and is now occupying an office with a view.

When I was working as a medical practice manger, I had an assistant whose work was top-notch. I was disappointed when she was denied a salary increase due to budget constraints. Shortly afterward, the top brass asked me to invent a job and hire the director’s relative. Oui!

Friendships wane, and most times it’s because we expected something that our friend failed to provide. Even if the issue was trivial, their nonperformance can cause us to feel let down. Alas, it’s the silly, and the not so silly, day-to–day disappointments that can sap the joy from friendships.

Right about now, you may be thinking that expectations are killers — and you’re probably right. Let me pose an interesting conundrum: Should we give up all our expectations in order to forgo disappointment? Or should we set our expectations high and hope for the best? And shouldn’t there be a middle ground between unrealistic expectations and no expectations?

Boiled down, disappointments can be as simple as things we expected to go one way, but go another. And here’s the rub: Even if our expectations are realistic, the folks we expected to deliver are human and, therefore, fallible.

Some folks cope with disappointments by whining (my favorite), crying foul, crying tears, stomping feet, slamming doors, going into lockdown mode. And these strategies may work, but only for a while.  
Eventually, we’re going to have to make peace with the thing that doesn’t bring us peace. Or to put it bluntly, we gotta just get over it.

Ah, me. Then again, the expectation that we can “just get over it,” may be easier said than done!

Ms. Iannelli is a resident of Jamesport.