The Rusty Cadillac

I am driving home from work with the rest of the workaday schlubs. Nothing unusual. Not tonight - another night. Well it could be any night. Listening to some music on the radio, or perhaps NPR, or perhaps catching up with my Mom. Or just driving and observing.

Now of course, I am driving carefully, defensively, but I am also wondering who people are in the cars around me. It's a hot muggy day - at 5:30 the temps are still pushing above 90F. There is an old Cadillac in the middle lane that I observe. Rust eating away at its once magnificent doors. I mean to drive such a gas guzzler in this environment where gas runs an extra mortgage payment each month, well it doesn't seem he would consciously choose this vehicle. He's not ostentatious in the "I drive a Hummer" way. I don't despise him because of the guzzler, I feel sorry for him. The man driving it has the windows rolled down - maybe his A/C doesn't even work. His hair is wavy and the wind is just blowing through it. He's looking around observing cars - admiring their make I imagine, while his car moves along with a slight bounce, maybe needing shocks. No, he's driving this car because he needs to. Somebody gave it to him and he needs wheels to get to his job. For he does not have a career. He has a job. And there is a song on the radio "The Road Goes on Forever" sung by Robert Earl Keen.

And I am nervous looking at him as I am making up his story. This happens every now and again. Happened one evening when there were helicopters above and oops, should have not come this way - police activity. One car after the other speeds by. When I catch up at least 7-8 police cars (marked/unmarked) have one SUV pulled over and surrounded with a long haired guy cuffed and in the front while they rip his SUV apart. He looks a little scared but is trying to play it cool. And I am nervous. And I wonder what does he sell? How much time will he do? Does he not have a life worth living? Did someone set him up?

I imagine that these people make me nervous because they seem to be too close to the people that I grew up with, in the crappy town that we called "home". And too close to the lineage that would have us all addicted to drugs or doing time. I don't know what separated us from some of the common street thugs that we grew up alongside, perhaps even had an illicit transaction with. Not to say that I come from a family of criminals, but what separated us from them? We are closer to this ilk than to that guy in the next lane passing me on the left in the nice white Volvo, Columbia University sticker in the rear window and nice neat haircut (he could be this guy's lawyer). Intellectually, I imagine we belong in the lawyer's circle, but some crappy birthright has me feeling sorry and relating to the schlubs. Don't ask. I am as far removed from this ilk as a person who sprung fully formed from finishing school would be. That's right I tell myself.

"Does anyone else feel nervous in their cars?" I wonder as I turn up NPR and click the A/C up a notch and continue on my journey home.

NOTHING TO SEE HERE...

Truly. But there is something to see at CENTRAL SNARK. where I talk about everybody's favorite Pansi. Pansi was an instant favorite from the moment I read her "G" meme entitled appropriately enough (oddly for Pansi), Pansi's G String. So head on over, get your links on there and have some fun. Oy, it's 11:00 and I'm schvitzing already...

Head on over to the Snark, it's much cooler there.

Happy Birthday to Mr. Scissorhands!

Come on out - we know it's you in there!

Alright just another day, play along with us. Mr. Scissorhands almost makes it hard to celebrate his birthday - almost. I will celebrate the opening of an envelope and luckily my kids take after me in that regard. Adrian's much more lowkey about it. What is wrong with him I say? Our birthdays are two weeks apart yet you could drive a Cadillac down the divide of how we each would spend it.

Not to worry, he just doesn't know how much he wants to celebrate it. We'll remind him by waking him in the morning kids in bed, breakfast ready for him - a few streamers strewn about. Then we'll let him lead the way of how he wants to spend his day. We'll just always be around him with a streamer in hand and some confetti in the odd chance that he says "Hey throw one of those here I'm ready to celebrate". Or chances are he'd be happy to have a remote control to himself, watching news and sports. Hey it's his birthday, we're only here to ruin it for him!

You know we're getting older - all of us right? But today at my daughter's Visiting Day at camp (which became a washout due to heavy rains), I remembered why we make a perfect pair. The car was parked in an adjacent parking lot - a little bit of a schlep considering the weather. Adrian began to take his mocassins off as we exited and I of course, said "What are you doing!". His response "I don't want them to get ruined". Me: "You'll step on something, just run - fast!" Then I said "Uh oh, what about my new bag?" Since it was a birthday present from him, he takes an interest. "Put it under your shirt" I say. So we head out the door him with my pocketbook under his shirt running as fast as the wind, me following behind running as fast as I can (which is fast for less than an 1/8 th of a mile, then it is more of a limping trot because I begin to laugh hysterically. Mostly because it dawns on me that it looks as if he has stolen my purse so I begin to yell "Stop! He stole my purse! Help, stop him!" Nobody is around and it is pouring but it just strikes me as rather funny.

In the meantime, he has already reached the car and pulled up to me soaking wet laughing when I recount what I was shouting after him to which he replies "Very funny Gina, get me arrested". Well you must admit it would make a good story. Guess what? I think we make a pretty good story as is.

Happy Birthday Scissors, sure do treat me right!

May the wind take your troubles away...

I love this picture and I love the song (Windfall by Son Volt - "both feet on the floor, two hands on the wheel, may the wind take your troubles away...").

This will not be a long ambling post - just a caption if you will. This picture was taken last summer on an ill-fated ferry ride to Block Island from Montauk (Oh Tali, one more to cross off the "Good Ideas Gone Bad" list). Well, not to be dramatic - seasickness was the worst suffered that day by Scissorhands and just fear of the big waves by the kids. Leaving me to have to hold it together and care for the three of them. Mainly because they all turned on me as it was my idea.

But before things went awry, it is Scissorhands holding Julian. The day was to become one of the worst days for the ferry that summer, high waves rocking the boat, everyone needing to take cover beneath deck - quite symbolic really.

This picture is so beautiful in its simplicity that I never tire of looking at it. Here in this quick second the camera seems to catch Adrian's full embrace of his role as Dad holding Julian on his journey through life, especially when facing the tough choppy turbulent waters ahead, and Julian's confidence that he will (peppered with my simple advice to just keep looking at the horizon).

The proof is in the picture.

Goodbye to Aunt Margie

I had an Aunt Margie - "Big Aunt Margie". Big Aunt Margie because her and my Mom's brother - my uncle, was also married to a Margie who was shorter, hence "Big Aunt Margie". She was tall, sort of statuesque. Aunt Margie spent her life with undiagnosed mental illness(es) until recent years. She just passed away about a week shy of her 83rd birthday which would have been today. The facts about Aunt Margie's illnesses are somewhat nebulous. Fact seems a bit ironic a word when used in describing Aunt Margie. Facts were not important - dreams were. Here's what I remember about her.

She would come to visit us at our home. She would arrive by bus to our town and get off and ask children playing in the street "Do you know where the "Lampshade" family lives?" One would think she would come armed with our address, one would be wrong. Not to worry, she was always led to us. She would arrive looking to my child's eyes like a movie star from another era - almost the silent era. Here it was the 1960's/early 70's, and Aunt Margie would still wear her hair longish with "bologna curls" and a silk headband. Simply dressed but just so. Her nails were always done nicely. Not too long and she polished them with a white pearlish polish. She would tell me the proper way to cut and file my nails, still remember that to this day. Also remember her sparkling blue eyes with her dark hair. The thing that was best about her was that she actually sat and listened to and talked with us children. When relatives came to visit in my house, the kids were sent packing after being able to have a little of the sweet treats while hanging on the words of the elders and trying to get one in edgewise. With Aunt Margie, I could be wrong, but I believe she preferred the time talking with us kids - we indulged her stories, actually encouraged them. She would laugh and say "Oh Gina-belle tell me what monkeyshines you've been up to!" We would laugh - a little at her, but mostly with her.

Yes what drew us to her most were those stories - or the promises. I'm going to take you on the bus to New York and we'll visit museums! Something about life sized dolls and FAO Schwarz. Well, I am sure she meant that she dreamed of taking us. Truth is those dreams worked nicely for us as we didn't really care to separate the fact from the fiction. Yes, she would recount her trips to museums and fill my sister and I with awe at the visuals of their contents. I remember her being enamored of The Fricke Collection housed in a mansion formerly owned by one Mr. Fricke, a mansion that was built "to make Carnegie's place look like a miner's shack". Truth is she lived in one room of a boarding house and spent periods where she wouldn't answer the door or talk to anyone. She didn't have a telephone. She was the 2nd oldest of my mom's big Irish family (actually the third counting a sister Elizabeth who died as an infant). It didn't seem that they always had much patience for Aunt Margie's monkeyshines throughout their lives, but they tried, particularly my Uncle. Finally her "golden years" saw her at long last getting her own apartment in a senior center with views of the very city in which she may or may not have visited every museum along Fifth Avenue. No matter, this was a fine backdrop for those dreams.

My sister and I once shared an apartment and one Thanksgiving played host to Aunt Margie and our youngest sister and her husband, Fran (or Frank as he became known that day). Aunt Margie was very astute, sharp as a tack - remembered everybody's birthday, but kept calling him Frank. As I look back, I believe she may have seen through "Frank's" monkeyshines and was calling him this on purpose. Aunt Margie loved to take in your whole essence. That day, she sat on my bed looking at my jewelry as the turkey cooked in the oven and suddenly but gently rolled off onto the flokati rug on the floor. We were all laughing (as it had happened so unexpectedly and well, gracefully), but this time definitely with her. "Oh Gina-belle, time for a new mattress!"

Anyway, I look back on their generation - my Aunt Margie had she been properly medicated may have had a chance for a life lived a bit more purposefully. A hard knock life for sure as it were. She lived her days out on disability and I'm sure disappointed by the current batch of movie star mags that she was purportedly obsessed with in her youth. Those were the days of movie stars!

I did not attend the funeral - it was done all in one shot (so to speak). Viewing and mass of Christian Burial to follow then off to the cemetery. Being Jewish now, the whole thing is rather uncomfortable for me - it is verboten to view a dead person and I agree whole heartedly with this. I prefer to pay my respects to Aunt Margie this way. Let the person be buried and sit around for the week after and tell great stories and eat cake. And talk about museums and dreams.

...maybe finally visit the Fricke Collection.

What the deuces! I've been tagged.

By a nice blogger named Pavel.

Pay him a visit because he posts 5 times a day (he's a tech guy, you know how theyare) and odds are something will be amusing to you. He's speaks so sweetly of his children and, well I'm a sucker for that. Now go see what fun he has provided for your viewing pleasure today.

Since Pavel is a nice guy, I'll play along. He said such nice things about me, I'd be a witch not to. Just be warned Pavel, of the undesirables this may attract.

The questions went something like this:

1) What is in your bag? Happiness and a warm gun. Oh and a one-way ticket to Palookaville. Hey, I go bragging about what's in my purse and the next thing you know someone has alleviated me of its weight. I'm no fool.

2) What is in your fridge? Let's take a stroll on over:

the usual condiments, some Fage Greek lowfat yogurt, Brewer's Yeast, coffee beans, coffee grinds (nice variety), bottled Poland Spring Water for the go, leftover Moroccan chicken and brown rice with olives and mushrooms.

Look we have all the requisite fresh fruit and veg (which although we are not British, call it veg as an homage to Wallace and Grommet - the kids love to use the line "Veg bad" from when Wallace is trying to hypnotize the "wererabbit"). Let's see - whole ground flaxseed meal, skim milk, soy milk, soup cubes of various stripes to give that homemade soup the extra umph, some pita bread that's seen better days, brown rice, barley and double A batteries in a container. Homemade chocolate cake that is neither chocolate nor cake (Neva, please explain) and "keeflie" a Hungarian word (Ariel, are you out there?) for a homemade croissant type food. Both made for my children by the loving hands of my mother in law. Eggo whole wheat waffles (freezer), oj and the other staples that you can't do without nicely round out the contents. Oh and milk items we tend to keep toward the left and meat items toward the right as we keep Kosher. We remain stocked as we eat out rarely and prepare a weekly Friday night Shabbat meal. Okay pizza delivery here and there. Next.

3) What is in your closet? Oddly enough clothes, shoes, pocketbooks, lampshades, bulbs, xrays of my husband's knee or is it his back? My husband has about eight authentic soccer jerseys - USA, AC Milan, etc., etc. with Brazil lovingly but disgustedly tucked back to the bottom for now. That's about all that I am at liberty to share.


4) What is in your car? Let me think - my travelers prayer (no wisecracks), a hamsa that Tali made at camp hanging from my rearview mirror, lots of cd's, a car seat, an outdated insurance card (really officer, my insurance is current - it's just the card is outdated), the spoils of the day from the kids' last trip in the backseat; and in the trunk - some hand wraps from the gym when I took a boxing class a few times (haven't been there in quite some time), Tali's 3rd grade science project and Vincent from the Sopranos. Now see I've told, I have to kill you.

Riveting I say. Well, I am sure you are all fascinated and cannot beat a hasty enough retreat to peer into your own fridge. Come on, take your head out, I see you in there... care to play?

Veg baaaadd!

What a Difference a Year Makes

Okay folks, the party's over. Now gather round children, I'd like to share some wisdom about life. Sure call me trite, you won't be the first (but see if I care, I'm at "that age").

A Few Things That I've Learned or Remembered This Past Year:

That My Mother-in-law's not so bad (until the next crazy thing like telling my daughter it was all my fault that she didn't get to come to the Chanukah party and hear her play violin episode). Not true - I simply refused to beg her to come. She's not read my horoscope for the year which reminds everyone the stubborn streak a mile wide most cancerians are cursed with. Yo G, give the ole gal a break, she'd give up a day of her life if it meant spending this one with her grandkids.
Lesson: Respect your elders.

Bring my daughter shopping: While window shopping along Austin Street recently, a pair of sandals caught my eye. Tali and I went inside so that I might admire them up close, say on my feet. When the man got my size, Tali said to me, "They cost too much, I mean they're only sandals and you could get three pair for that price at Payless." The man just laughed and we got him to knock $10 off the price.
Lesson: Don't be afraid to speak your mind.

Who needs a personal trainer?: My son, Julian has an inner charger which keeps him on full strength. His enthusiasm is infectious though, so when he lures me into the backyard and I attempt the "lay on the lounge chair" move, he'll say "C'mon - chase me, Mommy!". Anyone with a pulse would not be able to resist that little tilt of his head. Besides, his running in place feet off the ground cartoon maneuver alone is worth the price of admission.
Lesson: Forget how tired you are.

Don't be afraid to purge: No, not that way, (although that can be freeing), but edit out old things that you don't really need. Truth is I had a fire in the apartment building I lived in, hereinafter referred to as "The Great Fire of '89". Lost a lot of personal effects. You think I learned to travel light? Nah. But, over the past year or so, I have begun to reassess what is worth buying/collecting/keeping. Keeping those impulses in check.
Lesson: Time is too precious to spend it dusting.

Go easy on those you love and even easier on those you don't: Let's face it - intimate relationships are work. Have I mentioned that I've sometimes been a shirker in this regard? Not yet? In due time. Sometimes the stresses and challenges of every day life can make you feel ready for a cage match with your partner (hint, smart money's on me). Give yourself space and perhaps a blog.
Lesson: Don't forget to say I love you and I am sorry (and not necessarily in that order).

Develop your sense of smell: You'll waste less time cleaning out your refrigerator and wasting time on situations that are not worth it. I try to explain this to my children, although it seems, as per usual, they are already wise beyond their years and often teach me in this regard.
Lesson: Listen to your inner voice.

Don't be a jellyfish: Whether you are Black, Jewish, a soldier, an American, a Muslim, a Buddhist, a woman, a man, a child, the garbage collector (ours' just retired and he was a good friend to Julian), Christian, whatever - be proud of who you are and don't be afraid to stand for what that is.
Lesson: Being popular is highly overrated (I think).

Get up off your tuchus: Being accountable is a very important quality. Mr. Scissorhands has taught me both sentiments in our life together. I am/was/a recovering procrastinator. This is the absolute worst quality in an individual and one that is unfortunately part of my genetic make-up (hey when the present day wasn't very promising, forestalling became a viable option). So much is missed by putting off as you often spend more time backpedaling. Lesson: Carpe diem baby! (Background music grows stronger to James Brown singing, "Get up offa that thang, dance and you'll feel better".)

Get more sleep: Lesson: see previous lesson.



Postscript: I love New York - where else can you start your weekend square dancing in front of Lincoln Center and end it listening to the fireworks in the distance celebrating the Italian World Cup victory (or maybe my birthday)?

Happy Birthday to Me!

All together now: Happy Birthday to You! Happy Birthd... Hey, it's my blog, my birthday, I can lead the Birthday Sing-a-long if I like.

Ooh, I love birthdays. Love them. Not in the - "What did you get me for my birthday?" sense, ach terrible. Although, if you need an idea, well this caught my eye:

I just love the whole celebration of your very own day. Whatever I do on this day, I do so with an extra spring in my step. Call me an opportunist, but you'd be a fool not to parlay it into some comp items along the way - say letting the cat out of the bag before you pay for that latte at your favorite caffeine drinking establishment. Hey, it worked last year. Go ahead, be shy if you like and see where that gets you (reaching into above purse and five bucks the poorer).

Of course, this unabashed celebration of things birthday may have some small weak root attached to my childhood. I know, doesn't everything? In this case, four of my siblings and I shared the birth month of July - one four days ahead on, yeah that's right - the 4th! Now I just had a flashback to one of said siblings (my Irish twin) and I having a little party in our kitchen thrown by my mom and our little core group of neighborhood girls over. Our cake? A tier cake comprised of mini-donuts stacked up! That was inventive last minutes thinking, Ma. No matter, point is - we celebrated!

So, since it is my birthday, I'll not blather on - I need to rest up before I head out on my Birthday Mission! The art is to act casual, but always, always drop that little birthday nugget right in. A few friends that will join in on the celebration:



Hold onto that cake there fella, I need to look the part when I go out celebrating!

Now, the only rule I have is simple: if you stop by here today (and you family members know who you are), you must leave a birthday wish. Simply said, simple rules. If you can't abide by them, just scoot on now. But just see how that works out for you at our next family gathering. I'm sorry, did that sound menacing? Ah, you know me, you'll never see it coming.

Pass the cake around and join in...Happy Birthday to....

Cool by Association?

Someone is looking for someone like you. I look around suspiciously - me? A married 40 + woman with two kids, bills to pay and not enough time as it is. View singles in your area. View them doing what? They don't stop - those e-mails which began in earnest coincidentally about the time I started blogging.

Along with the offers - credit cards aimed at "hip" people who eat at the right restaurants, listen to the right music on their ipod (would this be the time to admit that I don't own one), go to the right clubs (without being shown the rope) and eat the right cheeses. Become a food critic...okay, can't I just do that from the comfort of my own home? Well, they did say they'd pick up the tab. Still, no thanks.

Apparently I don't fit the blog demographic, yet many of the blogs I visit (no offense) don't seem to either. How refreshing is it that in this world where posers are upheld as the ideal, my niece who does fit the demographic is off in southern India working on harvesting silk worms on her summer before her senior year at college. Well that was last week, she seems to be eager for the next assignment. She's working with families who probably earn about $17 a month. I am incredibly proud of her for being just the type of person for whom above ads would be meaningless.

But enough about that little do-gooder:) Back to me - nights out, fine food, dancing!

Who am I kidding? Even if they picked me up in a limo to deliver me, I would politely decline. I couldn't be happier than when in my own home, in my own jammies, barefoot, dancing the "Numa Numa" with my kids in the kitchen. Hey, you think it was easy getting past Adrian on the ropes - I had to wear my stylish jammies.

No Sleep til Brooklyn!

Take the F train to Avenue P. That was our trip for one year - give or take. Tuesday nights after work. But first, there was the initial meeting with the Rabbi we were to study with for that coming year. Adrian and I. One of my brothers took to calling me "Little Yentl - on the train to Brooklyn" and he did mean it lovingly. But after that first meeting, which was after a disaster of a missed real first meeting (oy vey), I was not feeling the love. Well, you know that the end result was and is that I eventually convinced a Bet Din (Jewish Court of Law) that I was a sincere convert (the fact that one of the "rabbis" seemed to be sleeping, well if nobody's asking, I'm not telling). It was a cold day in November. I don't remember the date on the American calendar exactly - the 19th perhaps? But I remember it on the Hebrew calendar as the 25th of Chesvan. Jewish Calendar. We celebrated by going out for pizza at a Kosher Pizzeria and taking the F train back home. To celebrate further, we bought a Kiddish cup to use for Friday night Shabbat blessing of the wine and Shabbat candlesticks to use when welcoming in the Sabbath. Devil in the details, funny I remember them all. It was a grayish sort of cold late fall day - those really short days of November.

Oddly, any giving birth for me - to myself as a Jew and to both of my beautiful children, has taken place at this time of year; always a magical time for us.

I was the one who sprung the question to Adrian - no, not that one. The I want to convert, what do you think question. It meant so much to him. It meant so much to me. You see, here's the thing about being Jewish (and I speak from both sides of the coin) it ain't easy. No, not in the every day sense, it's part of my fiber now, but in the societal sense. You see, Adrian did not know he was Jewish for maybe the first ten years of his life. He grew up in communist Romania and practicing one's religion wasn't high on the list of Things To Do. His father told him at that time and explained what some of the repercussions of being Jewish had been. A lot to take in for a boy not yet bar mitzvah. This was before Adrian was going to begin a journey to a new land - America via Italy first. He envisioned the streets to have cowboys roaming them and landed at JFK in March to a blizzard. Welcome.

That's just a little background. He has lost much of his family to the Holocaust - grandparents, uncles, many others - gone. His mother survived along with her sister and a cousin. Their parents and brother didn't fare as well. So for me, it was never a question of what our identity as a family would be - Jewish. I feel it deep within me.

It became even more poignant and important when years later as Tali (my daughter and then about three years old) was being bathed by her grandmother and she tried scrubbing her arm, asking "Grandma, why won't this come off your arm?". The numbers from Auschwitz. Luckily I had made my mind up long before this occurred. My children are Jews, we are a Jewish family. We are extremely proud of the heritage implied by that.

I may not be as observant a Jew as my Rabbi would have liked, but I'm as sincere a Jew as you'll meet.

Oh, now before I forget, head on over to that kvetch, Doug's place, and see, coincidentally who his Wednesday guest is...Waking Ambrose

I GET THE SWING!

This day was a bit surreal.

Always feel guilty (not really) when I don't make it outdoors when the sun is blaring (we were all happy in our own way). Kids played and fought, I straightened about actually accomplishing a few things and hubby watched World Cup (unhappy about both outcomes). And I slept - yes I slipped a nap right in there, almost 2 hours with my little boy Julian. Laid down to get him to take a nap and I sailed right into the mystic. Hey, it was for the greater good, let those amongst you... A summer afternoon nap - what better way to start off July? I never get to nap. Problem is that when I do, I always wake up in a fog which stays with me throughout the day. Go ahead, drive your Buick right through.

Then, Louis and Clarks that we are, struck off in search of the new playground that I had mentioned to Tali (my daughter) over lunch earlier in the day:

Me: Maybe we'll go to a different playground that I saw.
Tali: Which one?
Me: The one outside Forrest Park - it has a tire swing.
Tali: I don't like tire swings.
Me: Oh, this is a nice one - it's not dirrrty. And, we're sure to get a turn because this playground is never crowded! I'm going on it. Julian's going to want to go on it.


We even scripted a play about it:

Scene One: A seemingly nice woman looking normal enough, enters park with 2 young children (husband has been left home to segue from World Cup Soccer to MLS). This first scene finds the other park dwellers suspicious of the woman's motives as she approaches the tire swing.

Act one and ACTION!:

Mother (played by me, yes, a stretch) races the little girl to the swing and almost knocks her over.
Park Dwellers (played in unison by Tali, age 8) raise eyebrows in shock and furrow them in disdain
Mother "Oh I was just trying to save you from getting hurt, here, let me help you on the swing" as she casts an eye in the Dwellers' direction to ensure they've bought into her ruse.
Park Dwellers: nod head approvingly and look back at their papers, etc.
Mother elbows daughter in an effort to knock her off swing
Park Dwellers: raise eyebrows in shock and disdain
Mother: "Oh, that was a close one, that bee was heading right for your mouth!"
Park Dwellers nod head approvingly and continue tending their own children.

You get the gist. Thing is, we crack each other up so much, we just keep building on the theatre of the absurd.

So we went to the park and got there for oh, 7:45. In NYC and summer time, that's the night shift reserved for we the people of leisure. We don't wear watches on the weekends. We're not uptight about when we play - we do so when the spirit moves us. Oh - who am I kidding?

Once a slug, always a slug.

Enjoy your weekend folks - get a nap in if at all possible. And remember, if you only go out at night, look at what you'll save on sunscreen.

Before you go for that nap, though, head over to Puppytoes' pad no time post. No, not because she mentions me as her new best friend forever, but because she's funny and it's a good post (park dwellers gaze up over papers suspiciously...).

Can this marriage be saved?

Every time we do it - we argue.

He has shouted in anger - "go to someone else, I'll pay!" I cry, "but why should I pay when it can be taken care of right here, at home, by my husband? Is this not covered under the laws of Moses and Israel in our Ketubah (marriage contract)" I plead helplessly.

I should have heeded the warning signs early on. I am fussy and like it done a certain way. He likes creative control and doesn't like me sticking my hands in where they don't belong. His words.

I'm always last on line - fit in where time permits. Well sometimes, I'm too tired, sometimes, he is. Sometimes we both are. But he always makes time for the paying ones. Oh yeah, then if I get to the point where I just can't do without, we wake up early and take care of business. I snipe accusingly, "if I paid perhaps I'd get the proper attention that I deserve".

Then came the children...oh, the children. They have no idea. If we didn't have time or were too tired before, well you can only imagine adding two small children to the mix.

Well, counseling is out of the question. He's gone to "workshops" and "seminars" on his own. I ask bitterly, "what good does that do if you don't try your new techniques on me"? He may be right, maybe I should just go to someone else...then, he'll see. He'll be begging for me to come back.

What can I say - it's not easy being married to your hairdresser...

Wait, what did you think I was talking about?

Pomp and Circumstance

Tomorrow is a momentous day in the Scissorhands Household.

Julian, alias Choo Choo, graduates from Pre-K. From the wonderful school he started when he was about two. So why do I keep breaking down into tears whenever I think about it? Because this is my baby and this isn't just any graduation. He is leaving the comfort of a school that is so perfect in every way. It is geared towards childen with developmental delays, although some classes are integrated, which means they are composed of typically developing peers along with children with mild delays and may have up to 20 chilren in it.

Now Julian's class - these are the kids that experience life by grabbing it strongly! There are 11 children in Julian's class - 1 teacher - the cutest guy you could ever want teaching your child because he looks like a typical twenty-something guy - kinda tall, the cool hair cut, sports playing kind of look. He's sort of shy. I would love to fix him up with my niece, but that's another story. But when you watch him with the childen, well they respond and love him. There are also four assistants. The makeup of the classes has been largely composed of boys - present class included, just two girls - Tanisha and Tianna.

And that's where the love story of our time begins - Julian and Tianna. Oh they are the cutest couple. Tianna is tall and thin - Julian average height for his age, is just a little over her shoulder. They find each other and are drawn together in all activities. Brendan (Julian's teacher) has said that they could be playing on opposite sides of the playroom but they make their way to the middle and there they hug oh so tightly. Many of the children in his class, Julian included, also have various tactile/sensory integration issues. I saw this at their Olympics last week. At the end, they were sitting together - Tianna absent mindedly stroking Julian's soft hair, Julian rubbing Tianna's braids. It's sort of an absent minded thing they do - unaware of that inner urge for touch. Sort of how Julian must run his hands along surfaces - he craves the "feeling". Then they looked at each other - and kissed, on the lips. Now that wasn't absent minded! And they laughed, and they kissed again. Then Tianna got mad about something and turned away, but they were back together before long. Of course, Mr. Scissorhands was taping with the video camera and was like "Way to go, Idaho". But they are the sweetest. I will be sure to take many pictures tomorrow of them.

You know - a child like Julian works out quite fine for me - can I ever hug my children enough? Can it ever be tight enough? The problem is loosening the grip for the next educational phase.

And more importantly, will there ever be another like Tianna?

Anyway, if you haven't done so, there's a lovely contest at Sar's the Belle's Brawl and you may just want to cast a vote G's way. Now get out of here you crazy kids and let me cry alone.

Happy Father's Day!

This the goodbye offererd by our office, I don't even know what to call her - secretary (for kindness' sake), to the mailwoman!

Now that just gets me all steamed up! Is the mailwoman a father? Does she even like her father? Is her father serving time upstate? Is he dead? The list could go on and on. Perhaps she's married, but if so, it is her husband's Father's Day, technically. Then again, perhaps she's not married. This has been building up since May when I read a post in Courting Destiny (can't seem to get the link, but you can link from my sidebar, it's the 5/18/06 post) in which Pia discussed her outrage at a comment by a columnist in California stating that our legacy is how our children turn out. Well, I'll opt out of that one. One of my dearest friends is neither a mother, nor still has her's here on earth, so my agitation is triggered by the thoughtlesness or plain stupidity of some people in offering these greetings. I think Dear Secretary X means well, but really she should just master transferring calls to voicemail and skip the greetings.

The point is I can't say these things aloud and I am ever so nice as I try to teach the woman what skills she hasn't seen fit to acquire in her 30 plus years of employement, so I must bash her in print. I am sure I will pay in karma (if I am not already in too deep) if I recount the thought I had when she mentioned some health difficulties she had had in the past which included that of being in a coma; so in that interest, I will not print them. Suffice it to say, all this tongue biting must come out one way or another. Let me not get started on the corporations who decide shuffling dead wood is better than just setting it adrift.

Look, if you're looking for Hallmark sentiments, click on next blog. This is not to say that I don't think my husband is the best father there could be to our children.

"It is a wise father that knows his own children." William Shaekespeare

This is one of the things that I love about Adrian - he knows his children and deals with anyone in a no nonsense way who would indicate otherwise. Case in point: seems there was some sort of "altercation" in the lunchroom involving our dear daughter. As luck would have it Adrian was picking her up from school when the School Misguidance Counselor came running up to him to tell him of what Tali had purportedly done. He listened for a moment and said "Something's wrong - that doesn't sound like my daughter. Why don't you investigate a little further". Truth is, Daddy-O was right. The boy eventually confessed with a little pressure. But believe me when Tali does something wrong, he already knows it.

We are both, thankfully, the same when it comes to celebrating these days - low key. Kids make us cards and some little hand made gift. If I happen to see something that is so fitting as I did recently for him - an audio book entitled, Born to Kvetch, appreciating the Yiddish language, then I pick it up for him. Otherwise, I will make Sunday breakfast (since he makes it every other Sunday of the year) and he will be free to watch World Cup games until his voice is hoarse from yelling, GOOOOOAAAALLLLLASSSO!

To all who celebrate - Happy Father's Day, especially those who cannot be with their children today. And to all - have a good day.

To post or not to post?

I think I know the answer, but forge ahead I must.

It seems like the blog gods are conspiring against me. Weekends away, days off devoted to family, no internet connection. They may get the idea that I actually enjoy time with those I love. And I do. But I realize how much I have enjoyed my short stay thusfar in the Blogosphere. I get a little cranky without my daily dose. I think my friends will forget about my simple little spot, and what with my new avatar. I never really had a chance.

Tap tap tap tap tap. What to write about.

Here's the thing - I'm in way over my head. That's right, present company included. I have fooled you all up to this point, perhaps not, actually. I have fooled you into believing I have something of value to share. I may have even given you a small glimmer into those little nuggets. But, apparently this is as far as I can take it without being personal and writing about myself, so it's been nice knowing you and perhaps I should just keep a personal journal and call it a day. I wish you all well. Bye-bye.

I mean really, isn't it just a bit tawdry to start talking about my lack of education, growing up in an alcoholic family, and many false starts to life that landed me up in the witness protection program? Well not exactly, although that is how I once referred to it. I moved away from my home state (not far) but moved, changed religion and go by my married name. I did have a nose job, but only because I hated the bump that was in the middle of mine - quite natural really. I probably didn't even have to tell you that as you would never have noticed. But, I'm beginning to kind of like you characters.

I'm beginning to abhor coloring my picture a certain way. Sometimes life is fun and there will be a fun story, but sometimes life isn't so fun - I'm not sure why. And maybe it's just okay to color it all blue.

SEND A SALAMI...

My car reeks of salami.

This, as a result of my role as food trafficker for my mother-in-law.

Food is not the central thing in life - it is life itself. Try living without it and I quote. She does present a cogent argument. My mother-in-law and her sister speak, oh five, six times a day. Who am I to knock it? Some chat on the phone, some e-mail and blog. They have the phone, they talk. The length of their conversations, not long; the topic - food, sales, shopping market circulars. Oh, and of course, the grandkids, but first food and what's on sale where. If she knew that as I type this I have no idea what a half gallon of milk or a dozen eggs go for at our local store, no less at 4 different locations, she would ask "Oh, you guys are rich? Put one dollar to one dollar, you get two dollars". Truth is, I am sure not a soul alive could save money the way this woman does, but she has not been to a movie theatre in ten years on the other hand.

Now the reason my car reeks is that MIL's sister mentions that she is running low on salami. She dare not run out, her son - the doctor (please know to say that with a Jewish inflection - just trying to be helpful) eats it. Dr. Salami (a renowned plastic surgeon) would die a thousand deaths if any of his patients could see him in his parents' quaint Queens home chowing down on the stuff. Back to the price wars: MIL to sister, "How much do you pay? I can get it cheaper on 99th St." And so, it comes down to me to deliver the contraband from time to time enroute to work. Often, I don't know what I'm trafficking, only if it requires refrigeration. Only today, I forget and realize when I am leaving, nope won't have enough time to deliver in the am. Call MIL from the car "Let your sister know not to expect me this am, I got a late start, I'll stop by on my way home"...MIL: "Oh, that's a shame, she already opened the door and is waiting for you. It's okay Gina, go this evening." Right. Have a good day. I no longer feel guilty or annoyed by these comments. I just breathe, ohmmmmmm, and reply "Feel good - talk to you later".

Well, when I get to my office, I look at the salami in the bag (along with a bottle of sleeping pills - don't ask) and think, I'm not bringing that into my office and so leave it there in the back seat.

When I get into my car this evening, it reeeeeks! The smell is still in my brain. Actually, it's probably in my hair. I drop it off at her sister's and now the fight over currency. How much is it? I don't have this privileged info. She calls. Now they're in a fight over sister not paying this time. MIL owes her for flour and sugar on sale last week at Pathmark. Sister shaking. Me? I just want to go home, thank you. Calm sister down, go out to my VienerMobile, open windows - wide and drive home.

I draw the line at manure for their gardens. All right, I'll deliver it in the morning then.

HOW I LEARNED TO STOP WORRYING

and love to blog.


I'd like you all to meet G, my new avatar. I could have gone on for some time like this, no avatar - just a G.


To be sung to the tune of "Just a Gigalo":

Just a G, I know
and everywhere I go,
bloggers know the post
I'm maiming.

Well, you'll excuse me if I just had too much fun at Doug's today. You see, he's really not supposed to know we can have fun without him, no less have a big bash! Cake, drinks, limbo - the works. I didn't bring the potent potables as I'm not much for the drink, but I didn't exactly stop it. Yes, for that I am guilty. It was at this point in the party, when Kyah walked in to see me with a lampshade on my head leading the Conga line. She abruptly left and upon her return, invited me to check my e-mail.

I admit to being somewhat nervous because perhaps I had shimmied under the line of good taste and shamed myself in Doug's nice orderly place; exhorting all to "Fight for your right to Paaaarty" (I mean Doug was at the polls, appropriate I thought). He seems to care about rights.

Anyway, there in the e-mail is the above lovely lady with the lampshade - a gift from my dear new friend Kyah to be my very own avatar. It was the best gift I have received in some time - well in the blogosphere (so as not to hurt any real family member's feelings). Quick recoup.

So here is the new G, sure to be making the rounds and even more social now that she has a lampshade to hide behind.

Just in time for summer - all the barbecues, pool/beach parties...Better get my sunblock out.

Now, whether or not the links work, well my apologies dearest Doug and Kyah, if not. I am still in the 90 day probationary period.

Here comes Choo Choo!

Who knows how the whole nickname thing gets started? Actually, you usually know how they get started, but just how and why they end up sticking takes on a life of its own.

Tali is Noopsie, actually Daddy's pretty much the only one who still uses this one. Noopsie of course evolved from Snoopsie which evolved from Snoopy which evolved from Munchkin. I agree, Tali is a perfectly nice name. When Julian came along and Adrian (Mr Scissorhands-yes, nickname) called him Noopsie, well Tali had to remind Daddy that one was taken. Musing aloud - Adrian said "well, let's see, I dub thee Doopsie. But that's not enough on its own, you need more of a title. Okay, I dub thee "Choo Choo el Doopsie!". Choo Choo for short, we silly Americans shorten everyone's name.

Julian is 4 1/2 years old and not a day goes by that I do not call him Choo Choo. Adrian's mom calls him "Chootchlee", some sort of Romanian/Hungarian take on it. My entire family asks "how's Choo Choo?" in conversation, all with different inflections - ddddeeep voice Choo Choo, quick and high tone all together ChooChoo, like the sound of the actual engine, chooooo chooo! We have a long running joke recalling how I would try to get Julian to eat by saying, "Choo Choo, chew" or "Chew, Choo Choo" or just "Chew chew chew", cracked him up every time.

How's Choo Choo? Let's ask him as someone did this evening. "How are you Julian?" Choo Choo's response "There was a dead bug." Oh? "Yeah, it was resting" Hhhm? "Maybe it ate too much honey". Sticky situation. "When's your birthday Julian" (a non-family member asking of course) "in July" called over his shoulder. Close, November. It is at this point that such conversations lose their appeal for Julian. He does not like to be cornered into this area that he does not excel at. Apparently, the dead bug was the most impressive part of Tali's violin recital. Certainly worthy of mention - over and over and over. But this is just a tiny glimpse into Choo Choo's world.

The developmental apple cart was upset just a tiny bit at Julian's 15 month well baby check-up. All health issues fine - growing well, happy, sweet, an all around joy, rarely cries, still breastfeeding. Conversation with Julian's pediatrician:

Dr. R: Any words yet? Me: Babbling, he's trying. Dr. R: Trying to take any steps? Me: Ummm, trying, mostly still prefers crawling, though. Patty cake? Doesn't really now that you mention it. How does he indicate what he would like, does he point? I remember joking (maybe pleading), "Could it be that we take such good care of him, he never needs to indicate?" I asked weakly. Probably not. Dr. R. had begun to lay the groundwork by saying, "You know, in and of itself, his not walking and talking yet don't concern me so much - some children are just late bloomers. But coupled with his not reaching some of the "play milestones" makes it a little different. So let's have him come in a little before 18 months and we'll see how he's doing. I know I had begun to feel that sense of unreality, that surreal quality of floating and not hearing anything else as I dressed up Julian, paid the copay and traveled home. Sure I talked to Julian as I always did, sang to him on the way home in the car as I blinked back tears, but I was just not present in my body at that time. Then I regrouped (probably as someone blared on their horn when I sat at the green light) and came up with all the reasons that Dr. R. was wrong. Julian was discriminating, not delayed. He chose not to play patty cake - it really is an overrated game! He kinda liked peek-a-boo. Now peek-a-boo, that's a game! He liked to play with my hair, it soothed him.

Truth is I never compared my children. I just didn't. I mean sure in the, "oh he reminds me of Tali when he makes that face. His hair is a little darker than hers come to think of it - both curly though". That really was the only sort of comparison that I did. Tali was a girl - Julian was a boy. Story goes, girls are quicker in general on the early developmental scale, boys take their time. Besides, Tali was early with everything. She started talking early - 8 months, walking 12 months. By 15 months, she pretty much had the whole developmental thing sewn up. She was a girl, Julian needed a little more time - who was I to rush him and make him feel badly?

Fast forward - with a little trepidation, but what joy, Julian took his first three steps between Mommy and Daddy on our front walk at 17 1/2 months! Right about then we did go back to Dr. R who gently walked us through the developmental issues and recommended we have him evaluated through the state's Early Intervention Program (EI) which we did. If you think I felt sucker punched after Dr. R. first broaching the topic, you can only imagine how we felt after we went through the various evaluations at our house and read the subsequent written evaluations. To qualify for therapy under EI, you need to display significant developmental delay (33%) in one area or at least 25% in two. Julian was delayed in cognitive, gross motor, fine motor and yes those damned play skills. Suffice it to say, he aced the test and therapies commenced shortly thereafter.

Julian received therapies at home every day from Monday to Friday. One day O/T P/T, next day Speech O/T, next day Special Educator P/T, etc. All handled with Choo Choo's usual good nature. Julian was seen by a Pediatric Neurologist, had an MRI of the brain and spine - normal. If you've ever been to a neurologist, well they're not fun. They are very matter of fact it seems to me when discussing your child's neurological make-up. Julian has no "diagnosis", per se. He struggles with global developmental delay and sensory intergration issues. This loosely translated means that Julian craves deep physical input and does not always realize when he has crossed the boundary of too much of a hug - say to kids on the playground, or when he is a close talker, say when his nose is up against his buddy's cheek. Even though he walked, his balance was off and he fell - a lot. Between his second and third year, so many pictures of him had black and blue marks on his beautiful little face. He broke his femur and had to be in a spica cast (a cast that is on both legs and ends up above the waist). Can't even go into this one here.

The one thing that Julian was off the charts in was charm! I can't properly put into words how the joy that he brings us just breaks your heart it so dynamic. As Adrian said early on when he was only a few months old , "is there a magnet in that little heart of yours"? It's how it feels to this day, he draws you in and you are his.

We all know, there are no easy answers when it comes to matters children. Julian has made great strides, his balance is a lot better. He still grapples with expressing himself and having meaningful conversations with people outside of school and family. When that occurs, he'll just turn on the charm and ask "Want some tea Mrs. Nesbit?" He's having a pretty hard time with writing and hence avoids it if at all possible. He's in a wonderful preschool and of course, still receives all of the various therapies. The key is to being the take no prisoners sort of advocate that we as parents have become. It's worked so far. Public speaking is not my favorite thing to do, but put me in a board room with various people of different disciplines deciding my child's fate and just try to shut me up. And Adrian just cuts to the chase - this is what he needs, how are you going to get that for him?

My inscription on his cast (on the bar that connected and kept his legs in place to heal) - here comes Choo Choo! Here comes Choo Choo indeed.

Tails of a Misspent Youth

If I Were Half a Blogger

I would really love this blog thing to work; if only for me to actually have an outlet to jot things down. But I have to tell you, it's trying my patience more than getting the kids out the door in the morning. Eeek, I realize I may be pigeonholing myself as a "mommy blogger". In that case, well, it is what it is cause it ain't what it ain't.

But back to blogging and frustration. I really wish there was a blogging 101 course. That's a lie. What I really wish is to find someone - techie - to come on over and sit next to me and carry out my requests to set the blog up just the way I'd like it. Someone to just show me - I am a visual person and that's how I learn best. Talking talking, blah, blah, blah - too much information! My links all set up just so, a funny or thoughtful saying posted at the top. Today it would read something like: "WTF!" Still here? Sorry about that. That's no way to treat a guest!

The point is I am acutely aware that I have slipped into a generational gap that there may be no extracting myself from and which has nothing to do with age, to a great extent. Sure, I know how to type, and somehow on my computer at work, I am more comfortable. Well what with a Help Desk at my beck and call, how much trouble can I get into? Whatever programs I need at work, I just know them - create a spreadsheet, no prob.

But the Internet has always been just a place for me to look up info, check out ebay and adios! The e-mail thing and I'm done.

Okay now my MIL is on the phone, where can this day go from here? Does someone have a quaalude? Just kidding. Really.

On a separate note, today is the Jewish holiday of Shavuot which simply translates to weeks and is so named because it is celebrated seven weeks after the second day of Passover. As the story goes, this is when the Torah (Bible) was given to Moses - sort of the short version. Litle joke, Moses addressing his fellow Jews after meeting with G-d: "The good news is - I got him down to ten. The bad news is - adultery is still in". Badum dum!

It just may be a sign - I'll open myself up to the possibility of receiving some sort of commandment today - a spiritual message if you will.

Thou shalt not stress about your blog.