A Comforter is Not a Bedspread...And Other Observations

About a Boy

2009-09-03T23:51:00.002-04:00

The young man squirmed in his folding chair--slouching, turning, sitting up straight, until he finally turned the chair around and straddled it, his tattooed arms folded on top of the back rest. His leg bounced up and down fervently, moving so quickly that his entire body seemed to be vibrating. His dirty-blondish hair was covered in a baseball cap with a rim that at first faced forward, then sideways--first to the left and then to the right--until it found its final resting place facing down his back. As I observed his somewhat uncomfortable behavior, I wondered if his demeanor was just as awkward. It was my first night at a church meeting intended for people with “broken” lives due to addictions, disorders, family issues, and any other of a hundred reasons we as people fall apart. I was attending at the request of my husband, who had been going to these meetings for just over a year to deal with some of his own demons.

I listened intently as various members of the group shared their experiences; some painful, others triumphant. And then the young man spoke up. I can not remember exactly what he revealed that night; I only remember that the young man who I first judged as being a hyper, vague, “tough guy” was nothing more than a kind, vulnerable, struggling boy whose main concern seemed to be not hurting his parents any more than he felt that he already had in his life. My heart broke for him and his struggles. My husband introduced us after the meeting. His name was Tim.

Over the course of the next few months, Tim would attend our weekly meetings with his parents—two lovely people whose devotion to their beloved son’s healing was nothing short of remarkable. Although Tim seemed to be in a state of uneasiness throughout each meeting, he would become amiable and funny once it came to a close. His charm and humor were endearing, and when my daughter, Kayla, started to attend the meetings with us, I knew that Tim would be appealing to her as well.

Kayla and Tim hit it off almost immediately. After one of the meetings about two months ago, Tim ran up to me with the enthusiasm of a five year old, his blue eyes lit up like a child on Christmas morning: “Can me and Kayla go bowling??” he asked. They both giggled like kindergartners, a far cry from the 23 year old boy and 19 year old girl that they were. “Of course!” I told him. “And how nice of you to ask my permission!” I said, almost sarcastically. Tim said thank you, my daughter said good-bye, and off they went.

At home a little while later, my husband and I heard a gleeful ruckus coming in the front door. Tim and Kayla bounded in, laughing about a joke only they were in on, and looking for something to eat. My husband was very comfortable around Tim, and didn’t care to change his stunning outfit of sweat shorts, black socks, flip-flops, and a very hairy chest. Upon viewing this lovely sight, Tim snorted, “HEY, SEXY!!!”, and we all broke out in a fit of laughter. Before long, Tim and my husband were having a “moonwalking” contest in the kitchen. Gas was passed and being blamed on the dog. In all of this craziness, I thought to myself, “I have never seen Tim in this light-hearted before. What a far cry from the person I thought he was the first time we met. He’s truly one of a kind.” The kids decided to watch a movie, and my husband and I turned in. I felt happy and at peace that my daughter found such a wonderful friend. I felt hopeful for Tim and encouraged by his journey to find God’s true peace in his life.

Sadly, Tim passed away in his sleep last weekend. As a person of faith, I struggle with the question of “why” and the feeling of “it’s not fair”, and every other thought that goes through one’s head when a young person dies. It just seems so very wrong. The only comfort I can find now is the knowledge that he was truly seeking God every week at church and at the meetings; he was letting go of the demons that took control of him for so long. He was in a place of preparedness to meet our dear Lord…I’m not sure if he was in that place a year ago, or if he would be in that place a year from now. But for today, in the here and now, he was.

Tim lived life on the edge. He was extreme in everything he did: some things were fun, such as surfing and snowboarding; other things could almost border on destructive. But the one thing he did to excess—the ultimate extreme—was love his family. And my soul aches for them today, as the object of their love can no longer be physically seen and touched, but only felt inside of their broken hearts.

As I looked at the grave site—the grey metal coffin, covered in surfer and skater stickers from top to bottom, the rainbow of flowers strewn all around it, and the sun gleaming on it so brightly that it hurt my eyes—I had a vision. I saw Tim looking down at all of us with a huge smile on his face, saying, “That is the most AWESOME coffin!!”

…And he was the most awesome person.

God bless you, Tim. You will be sorely missed.

Nurture, Nature, and Hoping for the Best

2008-08-25T22:03:00.009-04:00

We all know that children are like gardens; each child is as different as a lilac bush and a tomato plant, but they all require certain care in order to grow to their full, unique potential. And although in most cases, we will reap what we sow, we also have to figure in those months of drought, or those seasons of locusts that threaten to destroy what we've carefully tendered for so long. In the case of teens however, the season of drought could be a dehydration episode from a week-long losing streak at beer pong; and we all know the "locusts," those friends/boyfriends/girlfriends that seem to want nothing more than to take our precious flowers and eat them alive. But somehow, we manage to get through it. Finally, it's time for the harvest; the bountiful cornucopia of knowledge, maturity, confidence, and independence.

Sunday, we dropped my daughter Kayla off at college. Well, "drop off" seems a bit minimal. It was more like we moved her and every ounce of her belongings in, and all that was missing was the chihuaha. My Elle Woods wanna-be seemed as though she was completely taking over her double-dorm room (oh, excuse me...it's not a "dorm", it's a "student residential hall" or some nonsense like that), and I feared that Kayla's very sweet roommate and her family might think my daughter a tad high-maintenance. I personally never viewed her as such until that day. Sadly, most of what she brought were items that both her stepmother and I felt that we could not live without...I could pretty much guarantee that we could have made it up in one car instead of two if we had just stayed out of the packing end of it. But alas, there is a bridge and a toll between Kayla and the rest of us, and I guess we just wanted to make sure we could avoid paying $5.00 each way just to bring her a lint roller or some triple antibiotic. She's pretty much all set.

So here I am, wondering where on earth the last eighteen years of my life went, and reflecting on whether or not I nurtured her as well as I could have, should have. The subject is really moot. I think we all do the best we can at a job that has no formal training and doesn't even come with a manual. We wing it, and we hope for the best. And I might say that right now, I'm happy with the way Kayla blossomed. I look forward to seeing her in full bloom someday, and she has many wonderful seasons ahead of her.

Now, onto my real garden of soil, weeds, and hopeful plantings. The strawberries are coming along as expected...I did get four or five tiny, sweet fruits back in June, and I think that's appropriate for a first planting. I hear that next year, they'll be taking over my yard. The grapes did not fare so well; as a matter of fact, they were looking rather anemic this morning. I decided to feed them with some makeshift plant food: egg shells, lettuce bottoms, lemon skins. I have no idea what I'm doing, but it sort of resembled compost in its early stages. I'm hoping the vine thinks it's yummy.

But my fig tree...aahhh, this is the trophy of my yard. I don't know why I planted it...something to do with my late grandfather growing figs most of his life, and no one carrying on the tradition (the same goes for the grapes...I planted them with the hopes of resurrecting his tradition of growing his own fruit and making his own wine. Why this skill was never passed down through the generations is beyond me). I was never particularly close to my grandfather--he passed away at the ripe, old age of 92 when I was a teen--but I'm really starting to appreciate how he lived his life. He grew his own food, and he consumed it. Of course, he also started each day with a supposed concoction of whiskey, raw eggs, and sugar. But hey, he was still standing on his own two feet until he died...

I digress. Back to my figs.

As I've mentioned, I wasn't sure if I'd like figs, but after reading about their nutritional value, I decided I was going to have to eat them whether they tasted good or not (for example, figs contain the highest overall mineral content of all fruits: a quarter-cup serving provides 244 mg of potassium, 53 mg of calcium, and 1.2 mg of iron). Although the newly-planted tree only produced about 15 fruits this year, next year we should be plenty prepared to can, preserve, and just plain eat these tasty, nutritious little dumplings. I'm feeling very hopeful, and I feel like I really accomplished something this summer. Lots of things, actually.

Now, if only I could figure out the task of pruning and protecting this tree (which I have to do with items such as burlap, I hear). But that's another story for another day.

A Fresh, New Start

2008-08-13T15:27:00.006-04:00

Over the last few months, my appearances on Blogger have been short, not always sweet, and very sporadic, to say the least. When I started dabbling in the Wonderful World of Blogging, this was not my intention. I vowed to create and post an article at least once a week; looking back, I did briefly accomplish this. However, general interest topics were becoming more and more elusive to me, and all this writing about myself started to seem a wee bit self-centered and--dare I say it?--narcissistic (those of you who know me, know this is one of my favorite words to use to describe many people here in my neck of the woods). It was all about me, me, me...or rather, my problems, my problems, my problems.

At one point in the not-so-distant-past, I was feeling very depressed and did not want to bring my relatively upbeat blog down into the abyss of hopelessness...so I simply chose not to write at all. I "closed up" my blog with a farewell that included expressing my hopes to rekindle some of my artistic ability and turn it into (hopefully) something that might lead me towards a real career doing what I love. That never materialized, and the people closest to me noticed. Some of their attitudes may have even bordered on pity. It was quite embarrassing.

In time, however, I realized that the only way for me to get back on track with my life was to make some drastic changes to it...some of which were not at all easy or comfortable. But the most vital alteration to my day-to-day existence was my decision to quit my job after three fairly secure, routine years. The position had become one of stress and frustration, all of which I was taking out on my family and even my friends. Something had to give, and it had to give at once.

My relationships with the people surrounding me are precious; I have taken the time to feed these relationships, care for and nurture them, and I have been rewarded with a bounty of love and trust as a result. I took the time to sow this love and trust carefully and abundantly; unfortunately, I found that I also had to take time to do some pruning. I had to weed out anyone or anything that I felt was harmful and destructive, and would cause strangulation of what I considered to be strong roots.

What I reaped has been priceless. The quantity of relationships I once had may not be there, but the quality of the ones that have remained will carry me into my old age. With my resignation, the concern over my relationships was taken care of. One down, a few more to go.

As for my art, I have something in the works that should be ready for copyright in the next two weeks. I believe in my project with my whole heart, and have taken steps to market it internationally via the world-wide web.

Two down. Are there more?

Yes, there is this one thing. I still love to write. I still love to blog. So with the advent of my return, I have decided to try to take the blog in a different sort of direction (for me, anyway). Instead of whining about family relationships, delving into world issues, and being overly-concerned with my financial future, I have decided to journal my attempt at getting back to the root (pun intended) of what I really love: nature, growth, and simplicity. I have decided, along with my husband, that the time has come to make all those "dreams" I have written about a reality. Just because I can't have my country home right this minute, doesn't mean I can't start to learn how to do everything I want to once I do live there. Although there are many things we long to acheive, one of them is trying to learn how to self-sustain. And there ain't no reason on earth I can't start practicing right here on Long Island!

This spring, I planted several Italian Essentials, as I like to call them: tomatoes, basil, parsley, oregano, grapes, and a fig tree. This is my start. This is my pre-school, or perhaps even my kinder-"garden." By the time we own that country home, we'll practically have master's degrees on everything important, like how to store vegetables and fruits for winter use, to that most crucial of subjects, Wine-Making 101 (admittedly, I doubt I can self-sustain without a nice red). Today I even started to make my own compost and joined an international home-gardening community web site.

Dang it, this time I'm determined to just do it. And I really think I will.

Many thanks to my inspiration for this post, Simply Me. Her PA garden (not to mention her pure, easy, country hospitality) makes me long to be a better person, let alone a better gardener. I want to eat and share home-grown salad every day, not just on weekend getaways!

A Lesson...I Think

2008-06-11T22:40:00.001-04:00

I killed two birds yesterday. Not one, but two.

Of course, it was an accident. I didn’t intend to render my feathered friends lifeless in one split second, but it happened.

I was driving along a side street with four of my individuals. I was in my company van, which is actually a 2008 Honda Odyssey, and not an immense 15-seater which one would usually expect me to be driving, considering the company I work for. We had just finished shopping for an elderly man, who is housebound, and were on our way to drop his groceries off to him.

As I coasted slowly down a side street, I noticed two birds entwined in what I assumed was a mating dance of some sort: flittering up and down, twirling around, and generally lacking any concern for the rest of the goings-on in the world, namely a van driving down the street.

And then it happened.

As I opened my mouth and spoke “Look at those silly birds!” they careened uncaringly down towards my wheel well. I heard a slight thump, and then took a large gasp of air.

“Oh no, I think I hit the birds!” I cried. As I peered through the rear view mirror, I saw it: a small wing sticking up from a brown lump in the middle of the street, almost as if it was waving “bye-bye.” My individuals were partially worried, but willing to keep on driving. I, however, had to turn the van around to view the horror of what I had done.

As I pulled up, I did not see two bodies, but one conglomeration of feathers and guts. Relieved that one bird possibly escaped this torturous demise, I rolled down my window to grieve over the one with less luck.

And then I saw them…legs. Not two, but four. I had killed these birds so heinously that their little bodies actually blended together as if they were one. Which quite possibly was their original intent, but I assume in a much more rewarding and satisfying way.

I’m still trying to figure out the lesson here, or the irony. I’m not having much luck, though.

Sort of like the time I decapitated a squirrel on Halloween, just as little ghouls, goblins and princesses were starting to appear in the streets in their quest for treats. I ran it over after it played “red light, green light”, going back and forth in the street, when it finally ignored the command of “red light” and decided to keep on going anyway, heading for my car on the driver’s side. I slammed on my brakes and noticed that it didn’t come out on the passenger side as I had hoped. I turned to look out my window, wondering if anyone had actually witnessed this murder firsthand. I saw two little old ladies in their lawn chairs at the house next to me, their mouths hanging open with painful looks on their faces.

“…He didn’t make it, did he?” I asked them.

They shook their heads “no.”

“…I ran him over, didn’t I?”

They nodded their heads “yes.”

I got out of my car and nearly passed out from the carnage. I’m not even sure what happened to the top of his head…all that was left was his bottom jaw and the rest of his body.

The ladies kindly gave me a garbage bag and a roll of paper towels. I picked up the poor little varmint and put him in the bag (and he was a hefty little critter, too…I’m betting he weighed at least five pounds). I know I could have left him there, but I figured it would be a really bad “trick” for the kids to see as they crossed the street from one house to the next. I cried as I threw him out in my garbage pail on the side of my house, and whispered a small “I’m sorry” to the universe.

Again…what was the lesson here?

I know they were only animals, but to take a life is ghastly even so. Yes, I am the person who will try to scoot the bee out of the house before I spray it with hair spray (hey, it works, and it’s not as poisonous as Raid). I am the person who cried uncontrollably when I saw the rat dying from the food he ate in the trap the county had placed in my yard. I have a definite fondness for all of God’s creatures, sometimes to a fault.

Perhaps these things happen to remind us of how precious life is, and how quickly it can be over. Maybe God allows his lesser creatures to be sacrificed so that we can be awakened to the relationships that are dying around us, the relationships that could end in a split second and won’t ever be healed because of our pride, our stubbornness.

I know I have a few of those relationships in my life. I’m sure we all do. I’ve been reflecting on how to mend them, how to restore them to their original beauty. But just as the critters made bad choices that hurt them, this is how it is in life as well. The birds’ lifeless little bodies will never be separated and the squirrel will never get his head back. So we have to accept it, mourn it, and bury it (…or at least throw it in the garbage). And then we move on.

On Reflections and Good-byes

2008-02-10T15:47:00.000-05:00

“Do we have a plan?” I turn my body around from my comfortable right-side fetus position and roll to face my husbands inquiring eyes.

Sleepily, I ask him, “What do you mean, ‘a plan’?”

“A PLAN,” he stresses. “You know, like, for our future. We spend all this time ‘dreaming’ about what we want and what we’ll have, but what do we actually do that will lead us to having it?”

He did have a point. I have spent so much time writing of my dreams and desires on this blog, but have yet to put into place any sort of plan of action to help make them a reality. In my half-awake fog, I asked him if we could talk about it in the morning. He looked concerned, his eyebrows lying arch-less, straight across his forehead showing an emotion that was not quite describable at that moment. He swung to lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. I closed my eyes and fell asleep within seconds, not giving much more thought to his query.

On Sunday mornings, I enjoy watching Joel Osteen, a “smiling” pastor who some find more inspirational than gospel-driven, but someone who makes me feel good about the future nonetheless. In my area, he is on several different television stations consecutively from 7:30 a.m. until 9 a.m., of which I usually catch the 8:30 showing on USA network. I turned the T.V. on in my usual fashion, stirring my husband enough to make him sleepily give me the remote, and lowering the volume so he can quickly go back to sleep.

This morning, however, he did not go back to sleep. As a matter of fact, he sprung up in bed and said, “Make it louder!” After Joel’s usual introduction that included a mild joke, he immediately went into his sermon…which just happened to be all about “having a plan for your future.” He described such things as identifying what are merely fantasies and what are actual God-given dreams; he urged his listeners to write down their plan of action for one year, five years, ten years, even twenty; and he gave examples of how sometimes sacrifices have to be made in order to make the changes necessary to move on in life and to achieve your goals. This is the point in the message where his words started to hit home for me.

What some of you might not be aware of is that I was given a gift from God. Well, over the years, I have been given many gifts from God—my children, my husband, my friends. But what I’m talking about is the gift he gave me that was ingrained in me from the moment of my conception. I was blessed with the ability to draw and create, the gift of artistic ability and imagination. I would be remiss if I did not mention how I’ve spent years pushing this gift aside—it would even become a burden sometimes—and how I took for granted the complements and praise that I would receive for my creations.

About two years ago, I found a folder full of drawings and paint designs from a brief stint I held at a local college twenty years prior, majoring in art. I pulled out sheets of paper with characters that I had created, some that almost frightened me at their irony (the tiny island with one lone palm tree in the middle of the ocean with several cartoon sea creatures conversing around it; and the various vegetables with faces, arms, legs, and even names that I had created around the same time. For those of you who are lost right now, I’m speculating that I could have had a hand in creating “Spongebob Squarepants” and “Veggie Tales” had I believed in my own artistic ability when I was younger). I began to realize that by ignoring my gift, I was quite possibly throwing away the opportunity to have a very successful future.

And so, at this time, I have decided to make the very large sacrifice of discontinuing my blog until further notice. This decision makes me extremely sad, as I feel that it has been an outlet and a source of inspiration to me for the last year and a half. Reading all of your blogs and “blogging” with my “blogging buddies” has been a gift and something I looked forward to on an almost daily basis. I have learned so many different things from all of you, each one heartfelt and cherished. Although we’ve never met, I feel as if we’ve been friends for years. And it saddens me more than you know to have to give up this wonderful community of gifted writers and dear human beings for now.

I have decided to make the attempt to push myself a little farther, to force myself to grow. I can not sit back anymore and believe for a day when my dreams come true; I have to be pro-active and make them happen myself. I will consciously take the time I’ve spent on my computer, and turn it into something that I hope will become very productive for my family, and most of all, for myself. I know I have success up my sleeve. It’s time for me to pull it out.

So farewell—for now—my dear friends. I have come to adore each and every one of you, and I will be sure to check in with all of you every now and then. You have all inspired me, and I am lucky to know such wonderful people. God bless you.

(Please feel free to drop me a line now and then at againali@gmail.com. I would love to hear from you!)

Patience

2008-01-18T21:12:00.000-05:00

I used to think I was a woman of little patience. As a matter of fact, “God give me patience” was a daily, if not hourly, mantra of mine ever since I gave birth to my two children (and acquired two new ones from a remarriage).

As life moved on, and those stressful incidents still occurred (does any parent get through the child-rearing years unscathed?), I became frustrated that all I seemed to do was ask for patience, and all that seemed to happen was that I encountered more episodes in my life that required, well, patience.

And then my “Eureka!” moment happened. How would I know that God was giving me patience unless it was tested? What I should have been praying for was, “God, please just let me sail through life without a worry.” NOT.

Let’s fast forward to my current position as a lead activities coach, working with developmentally disabled young adults. If ever there was a job where one’s patience would be tested, this is it. Although most of my individuals are adept at performing their duties and interacting appropriately in the community, there are occasions where one of them will not handle a situation in the best manner (for instance, this week on my birthday, one of my individuals pulled my hair and slapped me because I honked the horn of our minivan to prevent someone from backing into us). But in actuality, they are not the problem. It’s the general public that I need patience with.

Today, while I was food shopping for a senior citizen with four of my individuals, I encountered impatience at its finest—and it wasn’t expressed by me. After our last item was scanned at the register, I told the young cashier that we needed five packs of cigarettes—Kent 100’s, to be exact. The young man got his manager over, and she unlocked the cigarette cabinet. She perused up and down, across and diagonal, to locate even a single pack of our desired brand—but no luck. She explained that all they had were regular Kents (since I’ve never been a smoker, I had to ask her what the difference was). I inquired as to whether or not they could be returned if he was not happy with them. She told me she would check, and she’d be right back.

As I turned around, I noticed a woman had unloaded her groceries behind me. She looked at me in a somewhat annoyed manner, and I graciously told her that I was sorry for any delay I was causing. The cashier looked at me and said, “Your total is $41.50.” I politely told him that I was waiting to see if I could purchase five packs of cigarettes, and I couldn’t pay yet. With this, the woman behind me scowled, “Can’t you just pay for what’s there, and pay for the cigarettes later?”

(I felt my heart start racing, and my blood start pumping. She didn’t really just say that, did she?)

I politely told her that it was impossible for me to do that, being that the senior citizen we were shopping for only gave us one check. She scoffed at me and said, “Well, he shouldn’t be smoking, anyway!! Why don’t you just get him another brand??”

(Okay, did she just say that, too? My blood starts pounding in my ears to the beat of my now-dashing heart.)

I finally looked her in the eye and said, “Ma’am. If I was shopping for your father…and he was all alone in a studio apartment…and he gave me a list of things that he wanted, and I was responsible to purchase them for him…wouldn’t you be happy that someone cared enough to get exactly what he wrote on his list?”

With complete disgust, she exclaimed that everything was “ridiculous”, and she didn’t have time to wait there any longer. She abruptly started throwing her items back into her cart, and then backed out without looking, crashing into another woman who was unfortunate enough to stand in Checkout Aisle 9. She turned and looked at this other woman, snarling that she shouldn’t bother waiting there, and that I was taking too much time (happily, the other woman just shrugged her shoulders and gave her a blank stare). As she gave me one last, nasty look, I looked at her and said, “Ma’am, instead of becoming all upset over being in line at the supermarket, why don’t you look at it this way? Maybe—just maybe—you were meant to wait. Did you ever stop to think that because you had to wait behind me a few extra minutes, I may have prevented you from having a car accident later in the day?”

Well, that was about all she could take.

She said something about “rude”, and stormed off into the sea of carts waiting at Checkout Aisles 8, 7, and 5.

For a moment I stood there, astonished. Here I am, explaining to her that I’m shopping for a man who is unable to do it himself. With me, I have four individuals with special needs, two of whom are very obviously handicapped with Down ’s syndrome and Cerebral Palsy. And with all of that in consideration, this woman could not even spare three minutes out of her selfish time. Let’s be real; who doesn’t wait in line at the supermarket? Isn’t it a given?

Ironically, the second she stomped off in her rage, the manager came up to me and told me to purchase the cigarettes; they would have no problem returning them as long as we had our receipt. We paid for everything with the single check the man had given us, got our receipt, and walked toward the exit.

As we strolled down the exit aisle, I couldn’t help but wonder if our friend, Ms. Uptight, was in the midst of checking out (as the woman who was behind her at Checkout Aisle 9 was almost finished doing). Gleefully, I spotted her standing behind not one, but two people at Checkout Aisle 7. And better than that, she spotted us.

Walking through the parking lot, it occurred to me: Perhaps all those years of praying for patience had finally paid off. Although I may have gotten more instant gratification from throwing a bagel at her head and telling her to jump off a bridge, I held onto my dignity (and the dignity of the individuals I was with). I was proud that I kept it together. And in the end, as un-dignified as this may sound, I came out on top (in other words, I *WON*!)…

All in a Day's Work

2008-01-11T21:11:00.000-05:00

The waves lulled gently, softly…their easy motion becoming more powerful, louder, closer…the sound was overbearing now, as if the swell was right in front of me and ready to break over my head…

Oh, wait. It’s just my Homedics alarm clock. Although it says 6:20am, I subconsciously know that it is 6:08am in real world time, and I flail my arm around its vicinity until my hand makes contact with the snooze button. The surf will be up at least three or four more times before I actually put my feet on solid ground.

I decide to make eggs for my three high-school kids, who are good-naturedly chiding each other to move over in our tiny bathroom so each one can take turns spitting out toothpaste or plucking their eyebrows over the sink. I had stopped doing this for about a year and a half; however, I began to realize that they were running out of the house with empty stomachs more often than not, and the thought of them running out of fuel in the middle of Global History was not a notion I relished. Hence, the frying pan has come out of weekday retirement once again.

-----------------------------

I hurriedly park my car in the lot, and look over to the passenger seat to grab my bag and my lunch. As I lift up my thermal cup, I realize the top wasn’t screwed on right and now there is a one-inch puddle of Trader Joe’s Irish Breakfast Tea (with a generous dose of milk and one sugar) sitting in the round cup holder in my console. I sigh, run into work, seize a generous amount of paper towels, run back out to my car, and stuff them into the puddle. Procrastinator that I am, I decide to let the towels soak up the mess, which I will attend to later. The soaked cloths are still there as I write this fourteen hours later.

My workday is hectic, as usual. There is paperwork to be done, reports to be filed, and no office with peace and quiet that would help me to attain these goals. One of the senior citizens that we shop for calls me up early in the morning, crying: “Lisa, I think this is it. I haven’t eaten in five days, and I’ve lost six pounds. I think the Lord is taking me home, and it’s my time. I have to go to the hospital, but I’m too weak…can you please come here with some people and help me pack a bag? Sob….”

Well, I know very well that this is not Mrs. C’s time. As a matter of fact, I tend to think that Mrs. C. is just about as healthy as a horse, physically…but emotionally and mentally, she is suffering. All alone, with no children, I have grown attached to this persnickety woman in her eighties who talks of her Christianity often, but seems to become irritated with just about everyone who doesn’t comply with her wishes regarding food items, mail retrieval, and scotch tape.

I talk to my supervisor and take two of my individuals to her home to help her pack, wash up, put fruit in the refrigerator, take out the garbage, and wash and dry some dishes. Oh, and I also put in a phone call to her doctor, who—ironically—has been my doctor for half of my life. She is worried that he is too busy to call her back (and she’s probably right, although that was not the case 22 years ago). I pull some clout with the receptionist, and they call her back five minutes later. She doesn’t want to wait in his office for two hours—she’d rather wait in the hospital for four. I leave her all dressed and ready to call the ambulance, and she blesses me over and over. She hands my individuals all the singles she has in her wallet--$3.00—and tells us to wish her luck.

-----------------------------------------

After the buses finally leave the hub site at 3:20 and all is quiet, I hear a buzzing noise coming from my bag. Realizing that I hadn’t turned my ringer back on since a school meeting Wednesday night, I flip open my phone to see five missed calls. My son informs me that our older dog, Freedom, has gotten sick all over the kitchen floor and he’s never seen so much crap in his entire life. He takes a picture of it with his phone and texts it to me. It’s not a pretty sight.

I race home to view what looks like serpentine land mines of poo in every square inch of my kitchen. Astonished, I stand there in disbelief that one dog, even a large one like Freedom, could possibly have bowels that copious. As I clean up the fallout of what I surmise was the result of either the morning’s pouring rain or an item of food or drink that wasn’t on the doggie menu, the phone rings. I pick it up and hear Mrs. C. on the other end: “Oh, Lisa…this is terrible, I’ve been at the hospital for hours, and I can’t get a cab home! I don’t know who else to ask…could you please come here and pick me up?”

Of course, I say “Of course…” followed by, “…Just give me a few minutes to finish something!”

I rush out of the house and race to the hospital. Mrs. C. is waiting for me, looking and sounding like someone who is definitely not…um…sick.

“How did you make out?” I ponder as I drive her home.

“Oh, Lisa…this is just my stomach acting up from that virus I had the other day. I’ll be fine, and my blood is perfect! But oh, Lord, Lisa…there was a ninety-seven year old woman next to me, and I tell you, I do NOT want to be here when I’m ninety-seven. I just don’t know why God keeps me around when I just want to go home to Him.”

The conversation then goes into her neighbors who refuse to get her mail for her or who snub her. She wants to know why she’s being tested. I think to myself…don’t we all?

I come back home and decide that I definitely need to cook something containing onions and garlic to get rid of the smell that two washings with boiling hot water and Lysol disinfectant have not removed. When that doesn’t work, I put up an apple pie candle. Eventually, I just cook some flounder. Honestly, I’d rather smell fish.

-----------------------------------------

My ex swings by to pick up my son. He’s taking him to Dallas to see the Giants play the Cowboys. I can’t pay my water bill, but he can make plans to fly out of state to see one of the most talked about games in years, and multiply his expenses by two by bringing my son along with him. Sigh.

------------------------------------------

This evening, as I stood in the kitchen cleaning up some dishes, my husband snuck up behind me and hugged me while he kissed my ear. Some soft country music that he had found on his navigation ipod was playing in the background. He swayed me back and forth and I closed my eyes as he whispered, “I love you.” Time stood still, and the stresses of the day all faded into the mixed potpourri of odors that still lingered in the air. As I melted into his arms, I thought to myself before I opened my eyes…”Whether or not you are poor or wealthy…fortunate or unfortunate…right now, with your eyes closed, all that matters is how you feel in this moment…you can open your eyes and see wealth, or you can open your eyes and see poverty. But in this instant, the only thing that truly matters is how you feel in the here and now.”

Yes, my life can be stressful. It is definitely hectic, and it is sometimes really unfair. But the realization of living in the moment is becoming so tangible to me. I am really starting to understand the importance of being “present” in the present…I spend an awful lot of time dreaming of my future. But really all I have is today…this minute. And you know what? It’s not all that bad.

Ringing Out the Old

2008-01-02T22:10:00.000-05:00

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days of auld lang syne.

Although I have sung these lyrics at the stroke of midnight every January first for most of my born days, seldom have I ever stopped to think about what they really mean. Apparently, the definition of "Auld Lang Syne" means "old long since," or "old long ago." So as I follow the theme of the song in accordance with the New Year, I find myself faced with some provoking questions: Should old relationships be forgot, and never brought to mind? Should old times be forgotten as well?

At the stroke of midnight on 1/1/08, I was confronted with the cold, hard truth...and the answer, in my case, was a resounding "yes."

For almost three years now, I have been caught in a limbo of love, compassion, anger, and hurt. A relationship that was very dear to me was ruined as a result of a lie, or rather many lies, told by someone with the power to manipulate those closest to him with the artful precision of a master puppeteer. This relationship did not die an instant death; because of the relative connection, our paths continued to cross on holidays and special occasions, therefore preventing a wake, a funeral, and a mourning period, so that I could finally move toward the final acceptance of knowing that what once was, would be no more. I wanted so desperately to heal, to have closure.

I was naive enough to believe that healing might actually come out of these forced reunions; that old feelings of silliness and sisterhood might override any current feelings of betrayal and underlying loathe. I tried to make it right, to make it "normal." Lord knows, I tried. But eventually I came to realize that it wasn't up to me, nor was it in my power, to try to control the situation. You see, the man behind the curtain was running the entire show, and continued to maneuver all the controls even after the curtain was pulled back to expose all of his deceit. As long as he had those by his side who still believed he was the great and powerful man he pretended he was, who still needed to live in their emerald castle and drive on golden streets, he could fly his balloon wherever he wanted, dropping sandbags down to squash the rest of us who continued to look up instead of down.

This year, I've decided to make a resolution, perhaps for the first time in twenty years. I resolved that, for now at least, I have to let go of the prospect of restoring this relationship to it's original condition. I have to let go of the responsibility of "making it all better." I have done all I can, and there is only one person now who can repair this broken connection. I can not allow myself to feel hope and promise, only to be shot down and critically wounded by someone who has allowed themselves to be under the influence of so many people and things. This battle has consumed me in every sense of the word...it has affected other relationships, it has stifled my talents, and it has turned me into someone I don't recognize anymore. I can not let something so negative have so much power in my life. In other words, I have to let it go. I have to let it go for good.

-For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We'll take a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

Perhaps one day we will drink that cup of kindness together; perhaps we can do it for "auld lange syne", and completely bypass the years of emptiness and unrest. But I can not think about that day at this time. For now, it is over, and I will accept it. I will move on, and not waste one more minute of my life worrying over something that's not mine to worry about anymore . I will place it where it belongs--in God's hands--and let Him do the rest. Perhaps He's been telling me all along that this battle was never mine to fight to begin with...after all, the lines were so unfairly drawn. So I will accept human defeat, and let it lie in the fate of the supernatural. The only relationship I will work at healing right now is the one between me and my soul.

Happy Holidays!

2007-12-23T13:39:00.001-05:00

Since my last post was so self-pitying and depressing, I thought I'd cheer everyone up (including myself) with a little Christmas movie of my family. Unfortunately, my husband's audition didn't go too well due to excessive egg nog consumption, so he didn't make the cut. But all in all, I think Santa was pleased...

...Enjoy!! And have a wonderful, blessed holiday week!!

Dust Bunny's Christmas Movie

Confections and Confessions

2007-12-18T00:07:00.000-05:00

You know, while they’re going down, eating freshly-baked cookies certainly seems like the right thing to do.

Just picture it…the warm, sweet vapors that rise up through your nose as you place the cookie near your lips, making your mouth water in preparation for the bite you will take of the slightly crisp outside of this sweet little orb, then further down into its softy, chewy center, while tiny bits of melted chocolate touch your taste buds and send your endorphins into a tailspin.

(Okay, right about now, I’m sure you are all thinking that I spent WAY too much time over at Loving Annie’s alter-ego blog!)

…Then of course, you wake up in the morning, look in the mirror and realize that you can actually see that wonderful confection hanging on for dear life to the outside of your thigh.

Okay, tonight it was either a choice of wine or Reese’s Peanut Butter and Chocolate cookies. I started with the wine, but soon remembered that I had to drive my son to jazz band practice and then go visit a home-bound elderly woman right after that. So I drank a few sips, and then left it alone. After visiting with my friend and then picking my son back up, I began to realize I still had that “empty” feeling deep inside.

The funny thing is, I know that feeling isn't hunger or thirst. Quite frankly, that emptiness is just another form of frustration, of feeling out of control of a life that’s actually supposed to be mine.

Take my husband’s ex (please!) for instance. I have had my share of good and bad experiences with this woman and I like her...I really do. But lately her discourteousness just takes the proverbial cake. Three years ago, when her daughter came to live with us, I made the mistake of allowing her to come and visit her daughter whenever she wanted. Of course, her daughter was not at the lovely age of fourteen back then. Now, the ex will call my stepdaughter on her cell phone to tell her she’s outside my house. My stepdaughter then tells her to come in, but does not get up to let her in. Within seconds, I will hear my un-knocked door opening, and there she is in all of her blond-haired, skinny-body, designer clothing glory. Added to this is the fact that within several minutes, they will start arguing like two teenagers (which is okay for one of them)…and then a full-blown fight will ensue. Of course, by this point, I am hiding in my bedroom just to escape, feeling like a prisoner in my own home.

The other day, she came in while I was cleaning my house with crazy hair and no makeup. I ran into my bedroom until she was safely ensconced in her daughter’s room and until the voices rose high enough for me to plan my breakout without the embarrassment of her seeing me. I quietly grabbed my walking poles from the hall closet, and tip-toed really fast out the front door. As I pounded the pavement with my rubber-tipped staffs, I subconsciously kicked myself in my butt for not being able to just stand up for myself and for the sanity of my house. And I never finished cleaning, either.

Then, of course, we have all of the other lovely family holiday drama going on, with jail birds and women that eat like birds and me turning into a cuckoo bird from all of it. And let’s not forget that I am supposed to go visit a college that’s five hours away on Thursday with my daughter and my ex-husband, who drives like Mr. Magoo on crack cocaine.

Okay, but back to the cookies.

I could’ve gotten on my treadmill. But no, I baked cookies. And I ate them. A lot of them. And now I feel like crap. But when I pass that cookie jar again, I know somehow that worthless feeling will go away, and visions of chocolate chips will dance very attractively in my head. And I will happily dance with them, at least for a minute or two.

But for you, my dear blogging buddies, I wish cookies eaten in joy and not frustration. I wish many happy hours of holiday delight spent stress-free with the ones you love most. May the wonder of the season embrace you with the things that matter most to you. Most of all, may God bless you and yours now and in the coming New Year. Happy Holidays!

(For some creative holiday reading, please visit Berserker Norway...she posted a lovely little article about "Thanks and Giving.")

More Thoughts on Blessings

2007-11-28T21:49:00.000-05:00

This post was inspired by Paul, who made a very interesting observation about the difference between “having a sense of gratitude, especially for the simple things” and “blessings.” He made a reference to people in other countries, who are a lot less fortunate than us, and how can they be blessed when they are in a constant state of lack.

Here are my thoughts on “blessings”:

I tend to think that blessings are all relative. What it comes down to is that perhaps the people in third-world countries are not on the same mental realm as we are, and I certainly don't mean that in a cruel way--only a realistic one. Here in America, the land of plenty, we tend to equate “blessings” with “money”, or things that are purchased with money. In other words, the more money you have, the more “blessings” you have…or so it would seem. However, the people in third world countries who are starving every day probably feel "blessed" each minute that they remain alive. They feel "blessed" when they can eat twice in one day. They feel "blessed" when the CARE plane arrives with some much-needed supplies and medications for their children. They feel "blessed" that there are caring people in this world who will make time for them and try to help them.

Unfortunately, people here in America feel "lack" if they can't get to drive a Mercedes—that tends to be the attitude of an awful lot of people around where I live—but for that matter, there are people in every county in every state of the USA who are poor and starving, also, not just in third world countries. Most of these people have the ability to appreciate the little things that they are "blessed" with, like a roof over their heads, even if it's at the local shelter; or a hot meal, even if it’s at the local soup kitchen. In my profession, I see less fortunate people all the time. But when I delivered a Thanksgiving meal to a struggling grandmother and her two little grandchildren, the gratefulness I encountered was humbling! The little girls must have said thank-you at least ten times each, and they couldn’t have been more than four and six years old. It was a blessing from God for me to have the pleasure to meet such appreciative small children…they are truly being raised in the light of God’s Grace. And I imagine the small feast I brought was considered a blessing to them, as well.

I also see elderly people at the senior center we volunteer at who still “hoard” food, even though they are not for want at all. I would imagine some of them experienced the repercussions of living through or right after the Great Depression and were raised to be frugal, even if they came into money later in life. So even though they are “blessed” with money that could make their lives easier, they choose to live meagerly. That’s one of the reasons I personally don’t consider money the only “blessing” one can have. It obviously doesn’t make a difference to some people for many reasons. And when it comes right down to it, the most obvious difference between America and third world countries is that we have plenty of money, and they don't.

Let’s say I won the lottery right now, and came into several million dollars. Would this be a “blessing”? Well, to me, it would be a blessing to be able to pay off my bills. I could be a blessing to someone else by having the money to give to a family in need, or an organization with a good cause! But to me, that’s where the “blessing” ends. All the money would be good for after “fixing” my stressful problem is to basically purchase, in excess, many things that my family and I most likely do not need. That’s when the “blessing” becomes the “curse”, if you know what I mean.

I don't believe that God favors anyone. The world is the way it is, and it has been like this since the beginning of time. If there were no places on earth that were less fortunate than any others, and everyone had everything they ever wanted, we would be a very unappreciative planet indeed. And quite frankly, what would be the lesson? What would be the point of existence?

...Who really feels more "blessed"...the person who just got a meal for the first time in three days, or the person who just left the Mercedes dealership with a new car?

...Do people in poverty-stricken countries actually know what they don't have? Do they even care, or do they just want to make it through another day?

So “blessings” to me are the things in our lives that you just can’t put a price tag on. In my last post, I mentioned blue jays and dog smiles…and I can add to that list my husband's smiling face and the friend who takes time out of her busy day to pick up dishwashing detergent for me. Perhaps it’s the ability to appreciate these small things that’s the actual “blessing”—maybe a blessing is not a “thing” at all.

Perhaps a blessing is really just a moment of appreciation.

I believe that this life--our mere existence, whether "fortunate" or "unfortunate"--is but a drop in the bucket of an endless universal eternity. At the end of our earthly existence, it won't matter one bit what any one person had or didn't have. We may not enter into this life alone, but we certainly leave it with nothing but our souls. I believe that there is a God who will appreciate how much we appreciated what was truly important while we were here. And perhaps for that, He will “bless” us with the gift of eternal life.

Blessings

2007-11-21T22:39:00.000-05:00

I have to be honest. I try very hard to present a positive image when I post on this blog. However, what started as a blank canvas for my dreams started to become nothing more than the whipping boy for my gripes.

As I sit here at my computer, this night before Thanksgiving, I think of how I should be reflecting on why my life is blessed in so many ways, but all I can think about are family situations gone awry that the holidays only tend to magnify.

I find that sometimes, I just can't let things go. No, make that a lot of times. I tend to have a "victim" mentality, and I allow myself to feel persecuted, most of the time by the same people, over and over. This way of thinking is so unproductive as far as turning out positive outcomes...but it certainly produces a whole bunch of negative ones. I often wonder why I care so much, but I'm starting to really understand that how I feel doesn't make one bit of a difference to the people I allow to upset me. I only end up chasing my own tail.

My purpose in writing tonight is not to convince you, my blogging buddies, how blessed I am. It's for me to remind myself why I need to smooth the hairs down on my back, release my tense, arched body, take a deep breath, then expel the pent-up frustration into the dark, foggy void of this night.

...So here's my "thankful" list for this year:

I am thankful for my health, for without it I wouldn't be able to enjoy the other things in my life that I'm thankful for.

I'm thankful for my husband, who is not only kind and understanding, but he's pretty darn cute, too.

I'm thankful that my daughter got on the honor roll for the very first time in her life. Even though she's a senior in high school, we couldn't be more proud.

I'm thankful that my son still tells me he loves me in front of his friends.

I'm thankful that my stepdaughter started telling me she loved me first upon closing a phone conversation.

I'm thankful that my stepson has a wonderful job that will take him in a positive direction.

I'm thankful that I got to see my dog sleeping with a huge smile on his face. Yes, it was a smile.

...No, it was 2:30 in the morning and I didn't get a picture.

I'm thankful that my other dog, despite his 427 lumps, is happy and pain-free.

I'm thankful that I woke to three beautiful blue jays outside my kitchen window this morning.

I'm thankful that no matter how stressful my day is at work, one of my "guys" will inevitably make me crack up--deliberately or not. They are treasures, just the epitome of purity, innocence, and honesty. And gas.

I'm thankful that my house is clean and all I have to do is bake two apple pies tomorrow morning...all while the Macy's parade is on (it's not Thanksgiving until I see Santa Claus...which doesn't really make sense...).

I'm thankful that my cousin is going to cook tomorrow. She's the best chef in the family, and her home is always welcoming and comforting.

I'm thankful for Merlot. Cabernet, too.

And I'm thankful for all of you, dear bloggers. There is not one of you who hasn't made me think, care, and most of all, smile.

Most of all, I'm thankful for God. I rest in the knowledge that even though I tend to try to "fight my own battles" and save up my prayers for a rainy day, He's with me, always....just waiting in the wings for me to ask for His help.

If you'll excuse me, I really think I have to have a chat with Him right about now.

In the meantime, I wish all of you a wonderful, blessed, joyous Thanksgiving. May your plates be full and your hearts be fuller.

Retraction

2007-11-10T09:37:00.000-05:00

Okay, I apologize.

I should've delved a little deeper into my subject matter on my previous post before I made any "wondrous" claims, and I didn't.

My bad.

However, I will say this: I do believe in the general concept that the FDA will not benefit financially from approving herbs for consumer use. I do believe that there are indeed treatments from natural sources that can cure diseases, quite possibly even cancer (there are many groups of people who just don't get cancer; I believe that there are reasons for that. I also believe that there are reasons why my area has the highest concentration of breast cancer in the entire country. I'm just tired of the speculation; let's spend the money and find out why already, instead of wasting it by paying people who sleep at their desks or hold shovels for contractors). Having successfully eliminating high numbers of h. pylori bacteria from my stomach using mastic gum capsules instead of the two antibiotics prescribed to me (that I refused to take for the yeast infection they would inevitably cause), I will most likely always opt for the natural treatment first.

I digress. Let me get back on task here.

Thursday, I retrieved a letter from my mailbox addressed to me. I opened it up and started reading it in front of my husband and stepson. Apparently, because my "profile" (huh?!?) from my order of the Kevin Trudeau book was so special, I was one of a very select few people who would receive this invitation to belong to a private organization that would help me to realize my full potential in every area of life. I was told that I "knew" deep down in my soul that I possessed great talent and skill, and that this secret organization would help me to bring it out and succeed in ways I never dreamed possible.

I'm not quoting here for fear of being sued, but by the time I got to page two, all three of us were laughing our asses off. Apparently, there are major celebrities who I see every single day that belong to this "secret association", some of whom are extremely prominent (okay, I don't know about you, but a certain celebrity with the initials "T.C" started to come to mind). I began to guess the intent of this letter, and tossed it aside for future amusement when I had more time to read it.

Another thing that annoyed me was that I was also signed up to a web site that I can NOT get out of....I don't even know the address...and they take $9.95 a month out of my checking account for this "health care" site. They automatically sign you up for it when you purchase the book, and tell you that your first month is free; you can cancel at any time after that. What they DON'T tell you is that when you call to cancel, you will be on the line for 45 minutes listening to an advertisement for all sorts of natural products and books that repeats itself every ten minutes...and no one will ever pick up the phone.

I should've known something was up when the original operator who I ordered the book from tried to get me to order every other product under the sun, and then told me that just because I called, I won a trip to Las Vegas for two, and she wanted to give me all the details. I told her no thank you, I wasn't interested. She tried relentlessly to guilt me into taking this amazing trip, but I finally cut her off and said "Thanks, but no thanks. Are we done?"

Silly me. It was probably a great opportunity to go hang out with all of those "famous" members of the "secret association".

Well folks, I guess it's true...I've been had. And I'm sorry I promoted my ignorance onto all of you.

Thanks to Matthew for inspiring this post.

It's All About the Money

2007-10-31T19:34:00.000-04:00

I like to read. And although I enjoy fiction, I find that what really holds my interest are books that lead to some sort of outcome on my part, be it self-help and spiritual("Your Best Life Now" by Joel Osteen; "Secrets of the Vine" by Bruce Wilkinson), or books on nutrition and healing ("Prescription for Nutritional Healing" and "Prescription for Herbal Healing" by Phyllis A. Balch, CNC). I even adore certain cookbooks, such as Sophia Loren's "Recipes and Memories" (this is really just a lovely book with Italian peasant meals much like the ones I grew up with...but what makes this book wonderfully special are her various stories about her family and her enjoyable accounts of her lifetime experiences that seem to coincide with each recipe at hand). However, the book I just started reading, from what I've read so far up to Chapter Three, could've been written by me, myself, and I. I am aware that it's controversial. It's called "Natural Cures 'They' Don't Want You to Know About", by Kevin Trudeau. I'm sure some of you scoff just hearing his name.

Well, I don't. I believe him. Drugs are big business, there is no doubt. Take, for example, the advertisements for prescription drugs that NOW HAVE COMMERCIALS ON NATIONAL TELEVISION. You sure wouldn't have seen that twenty years ago. The list of side effects that they have to announce alone makes you wonder how desperate someone is to get to sleep or have some sex (more on the latter later). I actually started laughing when one of the prescription sleep drug ads warned consumers to contact their doctor if they experienced any of the following: Talking in their sleep, walking in their sleep or driving in their sleep. Yes, driving. So apparently, the FDA knows that certain people who take this sleeping pill may, in fact, get into their car wearing their nightcap and their puffy-eye gel blinders, and go for a joyride at the expense of innocent people everywhere while counting sheep at the same time. But an herbal "sleepy" tea has to have a warning attached to it that it is not approved by the FDA. My goodness.

And back to that sexual "magic" pill that of course was approved by the mostly-male FDA with no problem: Viagra. I can almost just hear them in the boardroom now...

"How much money do you think we can make off of a pill that guarantees a man an erection?? I mean, this stuff is so powerful that they might have a woody for four or five hours...but who wouldn't love that?!? And, okay, obviously most of the population that requires erectile help consists of older gentlemen who are probably on some sort of heart meds, but hey! We'll put a small warning on there not to take nitro glycerin at the same time that they decide to get frisky. When it comes to the more important organ, you know the penis will win out over the heart every time!"

I'm sorry, but to me, any organization that will approve a drug that will give a man an erection over an herb that may cure certain diseases for life is just not respectable. And I have touted this opinion for several years now, even before I started reading Kevin Trudeau's book (and a footnote here: I don't even know if he delves into Viagra. As I said, I've only gotten to Chapter Three).

Twenty-two years ago my mother died in our house. The attending physician was a new associate to our longtime family physician, who just so happened to be on vacation at the time of her death (he loved my parents, and would've been there for them in a heartbeat). I had never met this new associate, but when I spoke to him on the phone, he gave me all the comfort that I could ask for: "I don't want you to worry about a thing; if she needs more morphine to help her to not die in pain, I'll prescribe it. No matter what time of day or night that you need me, I will be at your house." What he offered to do for us was so generous...I knew this doctor was special.

Well, yes, he was special, and he was also adorable and right out of med school. After my mom's death, every ache and pain I had of course meant cancer of some major organ. "Dr. M" tolerated my bi-monthly visits with grace and aplomb, and was always understanding and kind, no matter how crazy my imagined ailment may have been. But let's fast forward about twenty years.

I still see Dr. M. Most of my family has given up on him...they said he spends one minute with them, prescribes them some new, fabulous med, and shoves them out the door. For some reason, he really does spend time with me and my brother; I'm assuming it's because we were two of his first patients, but I'm also assuming that it may have something to do with my mom being one of the first deaths he attended to. As much as I adore Dr. M., I had noticed in the past couple of years that he was way too "gung ho" about handing me samples of new drugs, and a prescription for them as well. Anti-depressants were his cure-all to everything. After he realized that I would take the samples, read the contraindications and throw the pills out, he started to beat me to it and throw the inserts out right in front of me, and then hand me the sample, stating that he really wanted me to take the pill and that it would help me; I shouldn't waste my time reading about all the side effects that most likely wouldn't happen to me.

Well, of course, being the great skeptic that I am, I started to doubt that Dr. M. was caring about my well-being at all. It really seemed like he was trying to make some sort of "sale"! It was just about this time that a friend of mine began working in his office. She told us that there was not one day she had to buy lunch because every single day of the week, lunch was catered in by one of the pharmaceutical sales reps! And I thought to myself...why? It started to become crystal clear to me just how corrupt this business of "healing" people was. No one was "healing" anyone. They were merely treating symptoms with various drugs, and apparently getting some sort of "kickback"...they didn't care what the cause of anyone's ailment was, or if it could be treated with something a little more natural. As long as the patients were sick, the doctors could benefit. If they were healthy, the doctors couldn't make a dime. It became all about the money.

What really clinches things for me are nursing homes. Not only was my dad in one; my work takes me into a very prestigious facility almost weekly to volunteer with my developmentally disabled individuals. What I have witnessed is frightening. When I asked to see my dad's med sheet, there were two pages of meds listed that he was taking. What was sad was that some of the meds were given solely to counteract symptoms caused by the other meds. What was even sadder was that my dad basically didn't even know where he was, and slept through most of his day. This is a quality of life?

When I volunteer at the nursing home in my area (where the minimal cost per month is $13,000 per patient), all I see are people sleeping through the remainder of their lives, being woken up only to take their meds and to get bathed. It really does make you wonder who is benefitting here. Certainly not the families of the patients, who have to watch them dying a slow death, sometimes for years. And most certainly not the patients themselves, who are so far gone they have no say in their own lives anymore--and they are so drugged up, they don't even care. No, I'm sorry, but the only people who stand to benefit anything at all from situations like this are the owners of the nursing home, the drug companies, the pharmaceautical companies that supply bandages, gauze, syringes, etc...and even Kimberly-Clark! There's not one nursing home patient who doesn't wear Depends. This is not speculation; this is the truth as witnessed from my own eyes.

I don't know where all the craziness will end. As a matter of fact, I don't believe it will end at all in my lifetime. It seems as though the world now worships money and power more than God Himself; I've even heard people try to reason that what they're doing is the "right" thing because they stand to make money off of it; meanwhile, what they are doing may only stand to hurt someone else. And to them, that's okay, as long as they see the green. I don't understand this way of thinking, and I don't think I ever will.

In the words of the dying, melting, Wicked Witch of the West: "OH, what a world, what a world!"

A Funny Thing Happened...

2007-10-26T08:44:00.000-04:00

Funny things happen to me when I "vent" on my blogs. Any time I'm being the slightest bit negative, or sharing personal stories that I really need to keep to myself, things happen all around me that let me know that what I'm doing is...well...not exactly the best way to go about it. I seem to be reminded time and time again that this is not the blog I originally started...a blog that was more positive, and not a "venting venue" for all of my personal struggles. I enjoyed my blogging in the previous year a lot more than I do now. I was sort of reminded of this in the past week.

After creating another blog for the "darker" posts (which really aren't "dark" at all...they're just me whining....oops, I mean venting), I discovered that that blog was just as easy to locate on the internet as my "Comforter" blog. It wasn't hidden. Which meant that anyone could find it just by entering my name on "Google" (my advice for anyone who doesn't have a blog and is considering creating one...DON'T use your full name anywhere in your blog if you don't want to be "Googled." Not even on your profile. They will find you). My blog and personal information came right up on the first page, and the second as well. This is very scary to me...especially considering the fact that I just posted an article about a man who wronged me who will be permanently out of jail next month. Not a brilliant move on my part.

But besides all that, I've been starting to allow myself to fall down that slippery slope of negativity. It wasn't just apparent in my posts; my whole family has made various comments over the last month about my "depressed" attitude. I'm not exactly sure why I seem "depressed"; I'm so very thrilled about my successful surgery, and I had no idea a month ago how wonderful I'd be feeling right now. Years of health issues and fatigue caused by organs that didn't funtion properly are now in the past; at this moment, I feel like I could conquer the world. My guess is that since I've been home from work, I have no routine, and I am definitely a person who operates a whole lot better with one (of course, this has nothing to do with my disorganization...however, I do like to know that things will happen at the same time every day or will go about in the same way every day, even if it means the same mess will appear in the sink every night by 6:30pm).

Or perhaps it's because of a whole host of other problems, stemming from money to family issues. I really don't know. But what I do know is that being negative has not helped me move one step closer to anything I hope to accomplish in life, whether it's something big like moving to the country, or something small, like just being the best person I could be (maybe I have those juxtaposed, actually. It could be a very "big" thing to be a forgiving, kind person, and God only knows if I'll actually ever move anywhere...so that's not such a big deal right now).

After posting on my other blog about a not-so-nice family situation, I received some very positive comments from people, one of whom I didn't even know (thanks, Sue). I was reminded that my position in life as a woman who follows the teachings of Christ is to practice forgiveness at every turn. It's not for the other person; it's for me and my own peace of mind. Simply Me is always there for me to explain the psychological aspects of why people behave the way they do, and helped me to understand where certain people were coming from from a "mental" point of view. This in itself helps me to release those angry feelings, and to bring on a more sympathetic outlook. And really, it does feel so much better not to be angry. Actually, it gives me almost a feeling of power to be able to let go of the family drama. Just to take a step back, and let everyone else deal with the nonsense, the unkindness, and most of all, the lies. I do know my truth. And no matter what anyone says or what anyone believes, nothing can change the truth.

So with that, I have decided to delete the post from my other blog. I want to take this blog into the direction that it was originally intended to go, with posts such as Positive Dreaming and Happy Is as Happy Does. I will most likely keep the other blog for title purposes (I liked the way it was sort of in conjunction with this blog), although I don't particularly know what kind of material I will be posting on it at this time. Time will tell.

Thank you to all of you who were genuinely concerned with my feelings and offered up such comforting words of encouragement. This "blogosphere" has certainly been a great blessing in my life, and I'm so grateful to all of you for your kindness.

Shut Up and Wake Up

2007-10-08T10:40:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, I realized that I was in a “funk” of sorts. It all started when my husband and I actually took ten minutes to discuss that most loathsome of subjects…our finances. When we realized that our debt was not moving despite our efforts to keep our credit cards at home in a drawer, we decided that our only options to release the stranglehold of the credit card companies immediately were drastic at best, and not going to be popular with the kids in the least.

Of course, the most desirable option for us as a couple would be to sell and move out of state. I paid a fraction of what my house is worth now, and even with refinancing and a home equity line of credit, I could still pay everything off and have plenty of money leftover to purchase a home and put security in the bank. Plus, from the research I’ve done, we could have a house twice the size with 10 times (or more) the amount of property. However, in doing so, our kids would have to leave their suburban, Abercrombie & Fitch high school and try to adapt themselves into the John Deer Institute of Agriculture and Levi’s. Not a popular option.

None of our other options have them doing the happiness jig, either. They range from not going on our annual family vacation to Lake George to selling our house and renting another in the area until the kids graduate. Although the latter would be overwhelming, it has thus far been the only option that anyone has even considered. However, trying to find a house to rent for half of what we spend every month on our bills and that’s large enough to fit a family of six has proven quite impossible. What’s a person to do?

Well, I decided to go to church. In regard to the aforementioned funk, I was beginning to feel sorry for myself and to question if God was actually even hearing anything I’ve had to say in my prayers. I felt stressed, I felt option-less. I figured if I was going to find an answer somewhere, it would probably be in the House of God. Or at least in the parking lot.

…Which is where I started to come to some pretty sad conclusions about myself upon walking towards the entrance.

Earlier that day, I read of a fellow blogger whose grandson was facing cancer head-on, enduring all sorts of painful tests and procedures, and coming through every one of them like a trooper. All this kid wants to do is go to school with his friends, and yet he’s stuck at Ronald McDonald house for weeks at a time. I thought of this brave boy and his amazingly strong grandmother as I walked through the rustic lot, wood chips crunching beneath my feet, and the fresh smell of cedar filling my nose. This awareness suddenly brought feelings of gratefulness and shame at the same time before I even walked through the church doors.

You see, I was alive to smell those chips. To feel the light breeze on my skin. To hold my husband’s warm hand and acknowledge his constant supportive attitude toward my needs. I started to realize that God had heard some really big prayers of mine in the past few months. Even though I’d been worried over my finances for years, they won’t kill me. Ovarian cancer could have, however, and although it was in my family history, God answered my prayers for health. How dare I complain about Chase or Citibank. I was healthy, and I was present. I had one good ovary left; I had my hair.

Shame on you, Lisa.

Appropriately, the pastor gave a sermon about our words…how strong the small orifice of our mouth is, yet how the words that come out of it have the power to hurt…or to heal. At the end of the service, he handed us little cards that we were to use as a tool for the upcoming week. This piece of thick paper, called a “mission card”, had the week’s objective on top: “Shutting up.” Underneath the title, it had a small list written next to the word “Stop:”

A. Complaining
B. Lying
C. Gossiping

Underneath that list was another:

“Each time you mess up, you will:”

A. Start the month over

or

B. Give one dollar to charity

By the time I had gotten to my car on the way out, I was up to three dollars already. Two gossips and a complaint, and that happened in the church lobby.

In those moments, I decided that, for at least this week, I am going to try to speak more positive words not only into other people’s lives, but into my own as well. What good is it if I’m positive towards others around me, but I can’t seem to convince myself that I’ll ever be out of debt? And what good is it if I’m never grateful for the things that I have been given for longer than five minutes? Perhaps my debt is in lieu of something much worse. I’m sure that my fellow blogging buddy would take ten million dollars in debt if it meant that her grandson had perfect health. I think we all would.

So in other words, I’m shutting up.

…Wish me luck.

When Things Were the "Best"

2007-09-26T10:00:00.000-04:00

After watching me obsess over the whole Graceann issue last week, my daughter finally asked me where my yearbook was, so she could get a visual. I told her it was in the basement, and she dug it out with great enthusiasm. I showed her Graceann’s high school picture, and then we jumped over to the best section. You know, “best dressed"…"best looking"…"best hair", etc.

Graceann had won “best body.” When my daughter viewed the picture of Graceann in her white man-tailored, buttoned-up shirt tucked into her high-waist chinos with a small, thin belt, her mouth opened. Almost forlornly, she stated: “This girl would never win ‘best body’ in my school.” When I looked at the picture, I realized she was right. As a matter of fact, the only reason we knew that Graceann had a nice figure was because she was a cheerleader. She would never dream of coming to school in a micro-mini skirt with a miniscule tank top combined with a push-up bra that gave her more cleavage than one sees in a Victoria’s Secret catalog. None of us would have done that. Somewhere along the line, modesty flew out the window and headed so far down south, it made it to Antarctica. Add to this the large amount of young teachers coming into the schools, and you’ve got a recipe for disaster. After going to “Back to School” night last night and meeting up with teachers who looked like they were hiding surfboards under their desks, I wondered how these young men could possibly teach a class without being distracted by the ocean of boobs in front of them.

Although we both agreed that the girl who won “best looking” was, by far, the prettiest girl in the school (and she was really nice, too, and now she’s a doctor…don’t you hate those girls?), she was shocked when she saw the girl who won “most popular”. “Mom, how was this girl the most popular girl in the whole school? She’s not even amazingly pretty, and she’s a little chunky.” Wow, I thought. So this is where our kids’ heads are at.

I looked at my daughter in disbelief, and she kindly retorted, “…Not that she wasn’t nice, or anything. But she would never win in my school, either.” I told her that not only was the girl who won “Most Popular” really nice, she was on every sport, she was one of the cheerleading captains, she was captain of “Heraea” (girl’s sports night) every year amongst other clubs, she was smart, and she knew just about everyone in the whole entire school. Surprisingly, my daughter looked at me and said, “I wish it was still like that now.” Admittedly, I felt her pain.

Perhaps there are more young girls out there than we would imagine who are tired of keeping up with their peers. Who are tired of starving themselves or throwing up to achieve some unnatural state of emaciation, just so they can fit into clothes from Abercrombe & Fitche. But what are we, as adults, doing to rectify this situation?

Absolutely not one damn thing.

Let’s take a look at our teenage girls’ (and younger) role models…Britney Spears, Paris Hilton, Nicole Ritchie, and that ever-popular Long Islander who lives one town over, Lindsay Lohan. These young women (dis)grace every magazine cover at the supermarket checkout stand. We idly watch as Britney walks around with no underwear, exposing herself and not even seeming to care. We as adults watched in horror as Nicole Ritchie starved herself down to 80lbs., while the attention she received only ignited our teens’ fire for their own attention even more. And as cruel as this sounds, Paris Hilton seems to be nothing more than the world’s biggest slut. Which is sad, because she seems to be the nicest one out of her group. Haven’t her parents taught her anything about morality?

Speaking of parents, we here on LI get to watch firsthand the antics of Dina Lohan. This woman’s actions speak volumes…she’s the “white Oprah Winfrey”?!? Hello!

Ms. Lohan…I know some of your friends. Some of them are only friends with you because they are narcissistic attention-mongers just as you seem to be. And then there are the others who “knew you when.” Those people are shocked at your behavior. They are shocked at your parenting skills (or lack of them). When your daughter was making a movie in L.A. at the vulnerable age of 17, living in a hotel by herself, and begging you to come out there every week, why didn’t you go? As a matter of fact, if Lindsay’s career was so important to you, why didn’t you just up and move your family to California? Your other children were certainly young enough to make the transition. Perhaps you were too busy trying to fulfill your own selfish career needs here in NY. When we hear stories such as the one about you being at a party with your daughter and introducing yourself to George Clooney as her “assistant” because according to you, once you say you’re someone’s “mom”, men don’t want to know from you…well, what do you expect us to think? Apparently, you thought that Mr. Clooney was just going to drop everything for you. I don’t know him from a hole in the wall, but I do know this: there has been less gossip about George Clooney in the last ten years than you’ve had in the last ten months. He seems like a gentleman who appreciates honesty (how many times has he said he’s not getting married?), and to be embarrassed by the fact that you are someone’s mom makes you as shallow as they come. Shame on you. Your daughter had the talent to be something amazing for years to come. Why don’t you step out of the limelight, and be what she needs in order to get back on her feet…her MOTHER. Not her competition. Perhaps the caption should read "Bizarre."

Whew…I feel better.

Sadly, I have no idea how to make the situation better. It seems as though I fight an uphill battle with my kids every single day about one selfish thing or another. They are surrounded by narcissism and self-absorption everywhere they turn ( as a matter of fact, so are we…if I hear the name OJ mentioned one more time in conjunction with a “not guilty” verdict, you will hear my scream around the world). It is getting harder and harder to be a parent, and it’s much more stressful than when our folks raised us (and I don’t even think they’d disagree, even though they walked ten miles to school every day in the snow, barefoot). I try my best every day, and I hope for the same. Yes, sometimes I feel like running away. But perhaps someday, all of this stress will be worth it. Lord knows, it would be a lot easier to ignore my kids and only worry about myself. I guess in some way, I should be thanking the parents who have done just that. They’ve given us a glimpse of the horrors of being a child’s “pal” instead of their “parent.” And in most cases, even though I know they love their kids, the outcome is not good.

(The following video clip is supposed to be funny...but quite frankly, I found it appalling and hypocritical. What are your thoughts?)

http://crackle.com/c/Moving_Targets/Role_Models/2005534#ml=fk%3Drole%2520models%2520video%26fx%3D%26o%3D7

The Big Chill

2007-09-18T11:50:00.000-04:00

(Please see update in comments.)

It all started with an email from a high school friend titled, "Bad, bad news". I opened it up and read a very cryptic note that gave me the chills: "Just heard....GraceAnn passed away last night, something about a train in Bellmore last night.She has 2 boys.... not sure what happened...holy...."

My first thought was to blame this damn Long Island Railroad, with it's infamous gap problems. Although I hadn't seen Grace Ann since right after high school (somehow, she never made it to any of the reunions), I always remembered how tiny and petite she was (she even won "class body"). I was saddened to think that a beautiful woman was lost to the claws of the LIRR because of her miniscule stature. But what really gave me the creeps was that I had woken up that morning at 4:30am, and couldn't go back to sleep. Since I'm within walking distance of the train, I kept hearing it's slow and steady chug-a-chug as it came in from the towns just east and west of us. It would be picking up the early birds in my own town who either wanted to get to Manhattan early enough to deal with the lines at Starbucks, or to drop off the night owls who spent a weekend in the city. Twice, I heard the honking of the express train, warning all passengers still waiting on the platform to stand back and keep clear of the tracks. But for some reason, a vision of someone nameless and faceless kept creeping into my head. My daughter had shared a horror story with me a few months ago about a passenger who met an untimely demise after being hit by a train at another station, and I couldn't stop thinking about this person and how scared they must have been when they realized that they weren't going to make it. I actually had to say a prayer to get this vision out of my head so I could go back to sleep. When I read the devastating email, I couldn't help but think how ironic my thoughts were.

I decided to look up the local newspaper online and see if anything was in the obituaries. While I didn't find any information there, what I did find after doing a quick search was disheartening: "Woman Killed by LIRR Train in Apparent Suicide."

...Suicide?? No, it couldn't be. People like Grace Ann don't commit suicide. She was one of the most popular girls in high school: a beautiful girl who was captain of the cheerleading team, a bright student, a smile always on her face. She married her high school sweetheart, and they had two teenage boys. There was just no way it could be a suicide. She wouldn't do that to her family; not to her husband, her kids, even her parents, who I heard are still alive. I don't understand. Dear God, I just don't understand.

When someone is crying out for help and feels like dying, sometimes they go a gentler route and take a handful of pills with some strong alcohol. Or they'll slit their wrists and lay in a warm bath tub. Or they might sit in their running car inside the garage so they'll go peacefully and easily (and unknowingly). In all these instances, there is always the thought that someone might find them and actually have the time to save them, and quite possibly, that was the outcome they were hoping for in the first place. But when one throws themselves in front of a speeding train, they are absolutely sure and certain of what they want their outcome to be...and it's the final ending of death.

Although I search for answers, there are none. I can not begin to imagine the pain that she must have been in to take her life in such a violent, disfiguring, permanent way. The "what if's" swim around in my head, only to be sucked into the whirlpool of helplessness. If I feel this badly after not having seen her in so many years, what must her family be going through? And those children...being a teenager is so hard emotionally as it is. Are they feeling guilt? Are they accepting all of this? Or are they just as shocked as the rest of us? Could someone have helped her? Was her depression obvious? And the most disturbing thought of all...Dear Lord...where is she now? The questions are unending, and none of them have definitive answers. But the one that haunts me unendingly is only short and sad: Why?

Annie introduced me to this wonderful video several weeks ago on her blog. I only wish Grace Ann had seen it before she took her own life. It's just a reminder that no matter what, all is not hopeless. You always need to keep the faith...and you always need to know you're not alone. God bless her family. And God, in your mercy...please bless Grace Ann.

Lifehouse Video

What Would You Do? (A Personal Poll)

2007-09-13T14:26:00.000-04:00

I have been dealing with the repercussions of my actions before my operation for a few days now.

I had my reasons for doing (or, actually NOT doing) the things that I did in the weeks and days leading up to the surgery. Now, I would like honest opinions on how YOU would've gone about it. I'll be honest myself; I'm hoping you'll agree with me so I don't feel crazy. But if you don't, I want to know why...and I will accept your opinion and ponder it in order to humble myself a little and try to see things from another's perspective. Just some background:

I was once very close with a relative through marriage who I'll call Linda. Linda's husband Mitch was never on the up-and-up and was involved in a scandal in our area that caused him to be sentenced to prison for a few years. Right before he went in, he made a very inappropriate phone call to me that my husband caught the tail end of. We did not know how to tell Linda, so we told her parents (who are also my husband's parents). After a while, my husband couldn't take it anymore and confronted Linda and Mitch. Mitch denied his actions to the whole family and tried to depict me as a drug addict who had the hots for him (his own fantasy; Simply Me can vouch for me on this one). Since Linda is very, very beautiful, the family had a hard time swallowing my story. Needless to say, Mitch spewed hatred towards me and my husband and even wrote the nastiest of letters to us displaying this hatred after he went to prison. Eventually, he was caught in all sorts of lies while he was away, and the family realized that he probably was to blame for what happened after all. However, Linda and I stopped speaking on a personal basis and only made small talk whenever we saw each other. It was very uncomfortable.

Fast forward 2 1/2 years. He has done most of his time and is now in a program that allows him to come home on the weekends. Thankfully, we have not had to cross paths with him or her at all (no holidays yet). However, I was now faced with my surgery and all the frightening aspects of it that I had posted about. I decided to keep the information of my surgery to myself until the last minute, and requested that my husband do the same. While we were waiting for the results of the CA125 test, however, my husband became distraught and told his parents what we were going through. When I saw them, they asked if they could do anything for me, and I requested that they keep it to themselves and not let Linda know, because she would then tell Mitch. My point was, I wanted all the positive thoughts and prayers that I could find during this difficult time. Under no circumstances at all did I want someone who loathed me to have any opportunity to wish me ill will while I was on that operating table. My in-laws respected my request and did not say a word.

I had told my husband that once I was out of surgery, he could tell whomever he wanted to; he could shout it on the rooftops. His first call was to his mother, who works in an office with Linda and their other brother, Ralph. He told her that everything went well, there wasn't any cancer, and that she could pass the word along to Linda and Ralph ( I had previously told Ralph's wife what was going on, but she also didn't say anything). I imagine that's where Linda first learned of my surgery in the first place. That was last Thursday. On Friday, my in-laws came to visit me at the hospital, and on Saturday, Ralph and his wife came up. It is now one week later, and I haven't heard from Linda. Sadly, she hasn't even called her brother to ask him how he was faring through all of this.

Through the grapevine, I am hearing possible reports that Linda is insulted that she wasn't called personally about my operation, and as far as she's concerned, she doesn't even know that it took place. I consider that standing a bit on ceremony; does it really matter how you heard the news? Either you're going to call, or you're not. To blame someone else is just giving yourself an easy way out of making the effort to be a grown-up and just pick up the phone (that's my humble opinion...I doubt she would've called, regardless).

My question to all of you is this: If you were faced with an operation that was absolutely frightening to you; if you knew that one found cancer cell meant a complete hysterectomy and possible chemotherapy...would you want to take the chance that someone would be thinking bad thoughts about you while you were on that operating table? Or would you rather go into surgery knowing that you had the best of blessings and sincerest of prayers from people who honestly cared about you?

Home and Healing

2007-09-10T16:12:00.000-04:00

I wanted to write a quick post today to let you--all of my dear blogging friends--know that I came through my surgery just fine, with nary a cancer cell in sight. I am feeling very lucky and very, very blessed right now, and I wanted to say "thanks" to all of you who took the time out of your own hectic lives to pray for me and send me good wishes. I don't know if I would've had the positive attitude that I felt going into surgery if it was not for the knowledge that there were so many people rooting for me.

And God bless my Dylan...he saved my sanity today by lending me his laptop, since I can't make the trip downstairs yet to get to my own! I'm not much of a television person, so this was a true blessing. Also, "Simply Me" and my cousin Tina are bringing me some books to read, so I'll be set for the week!

So once again, thank you. I know I've said it before, but I truly don't know what I would've done without all of my wonderful blogging buddies throughout this ordeal. You are the BEST!!!

Gratitude

2007-09-02T09:58:00.000-04:00

After a week of hearing about tragic accidents involving children--many life-altering, some fatal--I felt an overwhelming need to express gratitude towards God for blessing me with my kids.

Last night, all of my teens were home by 11pm. Kristin was safely ensconced in her room, IM-ing with her friends. Kayla and Dylan were on the couch, battling it out on "Guitar Hero", having a ball. David...well, I was hoping he was safe, being that he and my husband were camping at that dreaded "13th Lake" (http://acomforterisnotabedspread.blogspot.com/2006/10/first-and-last-time-for-everything.html). But they brought so many cans of baked beans with them, I'm sure the bears had no desire to go anywhere near their tent.

I love my children with all my heart, and I thank God that he grants me each day with them. I may have a messy house; I may have financial woes; I definitely have some annoying health issues. But I was blessed with a wonderful family, and to me, that's all that really matters.

Special blessings to Annie (http://mylifeasannie.blogspot.com/), and my friend Vinnie and his family in Oregon.

If anyone can remind me how to rename a web address to just say the person's name, please feel free to tell me.

I'll See You In September

2007-08-28T07:04:00.000-04:00

(The following post was entered in a 9-11 writing challenge. For more information about the challenge, please visit http://cathysplacetoblog.blogspot.com/ --If I had time, I'd figure out how to link that the right way--forgive me! Speaking of time, I'm not sure if I'll have any to write or post a blog in the coming week, and from the experience of having the same surgery exactly twenty years ago--almost to the day--I'm not sure how long it'll be until I can sit at my computer for the extended amount of time that it takes me to write my stories! So this post should tide me over for a while. Please do not feel the need to vote for me--I enter these contests merely to challenge myself. Thank you all again for your prayers and good wishes.)

September 11, 2001 will be ingrained in everyone’s memory forever—people throughout the world felt its effects and sensed the horror of this tragic event. However, I doubt that any two people were personally affected the same way, even if their tales are amazingly similar. Every soul carries the burden of 9/11 in a different manner, because as humans, we are all so amazingly different.

The weather was beautiful on that day. It was one of those crisp, wonderful, late-summer days that made a person so thankful to be alive. However, here on Long Island, we have many days like that in September. For the last six years, I have caught myself saying, “The weather was just like this on 9/11.” Who would’ve thought that something as simple as a dry, cloudless day would bring up memories of that tragedy?

I am reminded every day of the heartbreak of several neighbors as I drive past their houses; homes that are now vacant of husbands and fathers who were fallen heroes or sitting ducks at Cantor Fitzgerald. Where there used to be a wonderful skyline view of Manhattan on our drive to the beach, the empty space to the left of the Empire State building renders the picture incomplete. There has not been one occasion that I have crossed over a bridge or under a tunnel that I have not though about terrorism; the signs on the toll booths stating, “If you see something, say something” just confirm my fears even more. For six years, I have felt that my area is nothing more than a giant bull’s eye. No matter how I try to go about my daily business, something as insignificant as a plane flying too low overhead will cause my mind to revert back to the events of 9/11.

In my quest to eliminate my anxieties and not walk around in a constant state of fear, I realized that I needed to try to educate myself on the different cultures involved in that fateful day. Although it is hard for most of us to refrain from herding all members of a certain religion or culture into the same mental corral, I have tried to understand that all people are different, no matter where they come from or what they call themselves. It is extremely hard to live a peaceful life in my area if one is prejudiced in any way; this island is filled with people from every different race, creed, and culture you can imagine. It is unfair to blame all Muslims for the radicals who were involved and continue to be involved in their quest to destroy our country, just as I would be offended as a Christian to be associated with radical Christians who kill and maim other humans when they bomb abortion clinics. I know there are many, many people who disagree with me. But the reality is we only see what’s shown to us on television, or what we read in the newspapers. Unless we seek to educate ourselves, many of us will continue to live with constant feelings of hatred and anger, perhaps even going so far as to hurt or kill someone who doesn’t deserve it. I am not “romanticizing the enemy”—I know the enemy exists. I am merely saying that we are not hearing the voices of the thousands of Middle Eastern people who want peace just as much as we do. We’re only hearing about the ones who don’t.

I do still fear further terrorism; no matter how I can empathize with innocent people, the reality is that the radicals are still on their mission to bring us to an end. I worry about how I will get my family off the island in the event that a bridge or a tunnel is destroyed. I worry about whether or not I should store water and canned goods in my basement. I worry that my youngest will not finish high school in time for us to finally move off of this island before some other tragedy happens. The damage has already been done to our kids. They have already witnessed their friends losing parents in the towers. They have grown up in a time where they have known nothing else but the real and palpable threat of terrorism. Its existence is ingrained in them; they will never have an age of innocence, and the sadness is that they don’t even realize it’s missing.

I long for a simpler time, a time that was a reality in my life. A time before I had to imagine escape routes and hiding places. I realize a time like that does not exist anymore. The best I can do is put my fears into God’s hands, and live each day to the fullest.

"Reproductive Reflections", or "An Ode to my Organs"

2007-08-18T12:08:00.000-04:00

(Male readers, you are being forewarned…some very graphic, intimate female topics will be disclosed in this post…view at your own discretion…)

After volleying back and forth between the need for my surgery and my doctor’s own impending hernia operation, we finally settled on September 6th to be the day that I start a life of freedom from the bondage of my menstrual cycle and leave behind the years of blood-soaked car seats, second-trimester sized bloating, and my stock in Playtex, Kotex, Stay-Free, and Always. I should feel liberated in some way, shouldn’t I?

Truth be told, I am very melancholy over this whole experience. Although my menses has sometimes been very wicked to me throughout the 33 years of our oppressive relationship, my female organs have been the vessels of miracles, from egg to human being. They’ve worked hard for me, perhaps too hard, and are now suffering as a result. They are being strangled and leeched upon by foreign objects, and I feel their painful cries for help—literally. As with an old dog who is full of tumors and whose every step is achingly slow, I am put in the position of sending my organs to their eternal rest—and it seems strange, almost immoral in a way. I feel as if I should have my doctor put them aside and let me see them to give them one last good-bye—and to say, “thank you for all you’ve done.” To bless them before they’re sent off to their disposal, a process that I have no knowledge of and shudder to think about.

If you think I have lost my mind, join the club. When I shared this desire with my 17-year old daughter, she told me I was weird and that she wishes she could never have her period again (I told her, “God forbid.”). My husband had no words—just a stare and a very wide mouth. Well, maybe it isn’t the “norm.” Perhaps I can say my farewells in my own silent, retrospective way before I go into surgery. I’m sure this would make everyone else more comfortable with my mental state; although I’m sure that my doctor has heard stranger requests than that.

I realized the other day (during my period, of course) that this would be the last time I would ever have to deal with cramps, bullet-shaped cotton products, and multiple frustrated visits to the bathroom at work. Was I sad? Well, yes, in a way. Although we haven’t always been the closest of companions, this “friend” has visited me monthly for most of my life. To me, it represents youth and vitality, femininity and fertility. If that factor is removed out of my life’s equation, I am left to feel—in a word—old. Or am I?

In the most preferred circumstances concerning my surgery, one ovary will be left in my body. The reason for this is so I don’t experience “instant menopause”, and become a victim of osteoporosis before I’m fifty. This also means that I will still be waging my monthly war against that all-time favorite adversary of everyone’s—female and male—PMS. In some way, that has to keep me feeling young. However, the bout of PMS I just experienced earlier this month was so severe, I ended up cutting off all of my hair. Nine inches of hair—nine. For some reason, I thought this would look “cute.” It would be easier; no more hour-long hair drying and straightening sessions. But the person staring back at me in the mirror isn’t “sassy” and “sexy”—she just seems old. It has gotten good response from those whose opinions I value the most—my husband and relatives, my good friends—but I know some acquaintances are wondering, “Why?” My cousin actually came right out and asked me. The truth is I don’t know why. Maybe I did it because I always wanted to feel what it was like to have hair this short. Maybe I did it because I thought it would be easier. Or maybe I did it just to feel alive. To take a wild chance, to know that I could be brave. In reality, I may never know. All I am certain of at this point is that I look much, much better with hair than without.

The “Eleven Year Glitch” factor seems to be coming into play again. Here I am, 44 years of age, and I’m once again experiencing a life-changing event in an eleventh year of my life. Strange, isn’t it? Perhaps this time, the change really will be for the better. I spent years with severe fatigue, bloating, and pain—I’m now hoping to come out of this feeling refreshed and renewed, and ready to take on the world. I know the void inside of me will only be making room for more hope, more energy, and most of all, more spirit. My life has only just begun.

Thank You

2007-08-06T19:43:00.000-04:00

I have not been able to think straight for five days. No matter what I was involved in at the moment, no matter how cheerful I might have been--that sneaky, little, black cloud of despair would start drizzling on me until I found myself in the middle of a downpour of hopelessness, resignation, and defeat. If I hadn't said it before, I was really, really scared. Twenty-two years ago, my mom succumed to ovarian cancer--and now I might be facing the same fate as her, only fifteen years earlier than when she received her diagnosis.

The internet is no help. I tried in vain to stay away from any websites that dealt with the downside of ovarian cancer, but did find myself on one about survivors. It was actually an advertisement for Cancer Centers of America. One woman had unexplained gastrointestinal symptoms for months before an acquaintance filled her in on the silent symptoms of ovarian cancer. Her doctor suggested a CA-125 test, which she received promptly. Her results revealed a number of around 1,125. When she asked him what was considered normal, he stated "Zero to 35." Needless to say, she was startled, and very, very frightened.

She was alright because of Cancer Centers of America, according to her videotaped message--which quite honestly, seemed a little contrived to me. My doctor had already told me the "normal" range, but that if the results came out around 300, he would operate immediately. The numbers obsessed my every thought this weekend. What if it was 50? What if it was 100? What's a "normal" tumor marker number for a fibroid (which can cause the numbers to be high)? I found myself planning my demise, unable to be certain if I was going to be up for the fight of my life. Oh well, I thought, my kids know I love them. They'll be affected, but they'll be alright--they have so many people around them who would give them support and who would love them. But God, all I could think of was, "...But not as much as I do." I want to be around to see my great-grandchildren.

Then I remembered...my God is bigger than my problems. He's certainly bigger than some cancer cells. So I gave my troubles up to him, gave a request for my desired outcome, and then acknowledged that it ultimately would be his will, not mine, that would prevail. I chose to believe that he wanted the best for me, like any parent would for their child. Every time I started to feel gloomy, I repeated these thoughts, or prayers, in my head. I also took comfort in knowing that my family, friends, and blogging buddies were praying for me...the support was unbelievable.

I called the doctor's office early this morning looking for my lab results. They said that they were not in the morning batch, and that I should call back at noon to give them a chance to come in the afternoon batch. I called back at 11:58am, and got the answering machine: "Your call is important to us...." Yeah, yeah. Blah, blah.

"...Listen, I know no one wants to call back the person waiting for CA-125 results, but the 'not knowing' is absolutely killing me. I can't think of anything else, and I'd appreciate it if someone could just let me know if you've even gotten the results back yet. Thank you so much."

Ten minutes went by; no phone call. Two hours went by; no phone call. I finally called back at 5:00, and the receptionist told me that the lab girls were gone for the day. "But I left a message...a really desperate message! Now I'm worried! Maybe they didn't call back because it's really bad!!" The receptionist, hearing my concern and fear and understanding it, calmly asked which doctor I saw, and then put me on hold. When she came back, she told me that they would call me back as soon as the doctor was done with his patients. Wow. Was that supposed to be reassuring?

I started to cook to take my mind off of everything. At about 6:30pm, my cell phone rang. The caller ID said it was my doctor's office. It was the point of no return...my future, my destiny in this life, was residing on the other end of that phone line. I picked up the phone and meekly said "Hello."

"Hi, Lisa? This is Dr. B's office! I'm just calling to tell you that your test results were in the normal range!"

"...My test results?? For the CA-125??"

"Yes, they're in the normal range!"

"...They are?? Are you sure??"

(laughing) "Yes, it's right in front of me."

"...Um...do you have a number?"

"Yes...it was a five."

"...A FIVE?!? Are you sure?!? The CA-125 test?!?"

(laughing again) "Yes, it was a five. Now you can enjoy the rest of your day!"

I broke down in tears, thanked her, hung up, and dropped to my knees. I immediately thanked God, and continued to do so over and over again until my son walked in and asked if I was feeling alright.

So this goes out to you, my dear, sweet, wonderful, blogging buddies....THANK YOU. Thank you for your support, your encouragement, and most important, your blessings and prayers. Someone up there heard you, and I will be forever grateful for your thoughtfulness.

...You'll never know how much. God bless each and every one of you.

What Do We Deserve?

2007-08-02T17:52:00.000-04:00

I would like to think that a lot of us wish well for our fellow human beings. That our general instinct would incline us to feel happiness when someone succeeds at something that they worked hard for and stayed honest about. That we would genuinely wish our fellow man good luck as they set off on a new venture that they’ve dreamed of for a lifetime. That we would be proud of a child who just got a dream job at the ripe, old age of 20.

The last scenario describes a situation involving my stepson. Let me state for the record: he is a gem. He has never given me or my husband an ounce of trouble. He’s responsible, respectful, and he has big dreams for his future. Any parent would be proud.

And proud we are. We do wish him the best and we do wish him success. However, something that he did—and moreover, something that he said—made me feel…how can I say it? Inadequate. Incompetent. Deficient, ineffective, imperfect—any one of these lacking words would fit. Sprinkle a small amount of resentment in for good measure. What was it that caused my soul to deflate just a little? He went out and bought himself a brand-new car. A nice car. And I’m proud…I really am. But he didn’t even start his new job yet…he hasn’t even started his training. I asked him if he was sure that he could handle the payments. He assured me that he worked it all out, and he should have absolutely no problem. And then he came up with a philosophy that is generally age-appropriate for him, but worrisome all the less: He said that he deserved it.

Now, in my lifetime, I have seen some pathetic, nasty people make gains and strides over others more “deserving” in areas of business, home and car purchases. On the other side of the coin, I have seen honest, hard-working individuals—most of whom would be considered to be people who “deserved” the best—end up with family issues, health concerns, and failed businesses. When my son said that he “deserved” to have that car, I immediately thought of myself and his father: two hard-working, sacrificing individuals ourselves who have tried and succeeded to blend a family and create a loving household. Yet we are driving second-hand cars. As a matter of fact, we are living in a house that’s many square feet too small. We struggle financially to stay afloat and to keep a roof over our kids’ heads. Don’t we “deserve” something nice? Is my son being arrogant, or is he merely just trying to justify why he made such a large purchase before he even knew if he was going to like his new job? Or is this the sad state of today’s youth: they honestly believe that they only “deserve” the best of everything, just for merely existing?

Quite honestly, he was working very hard at a company that his family members owned prior to attaining this new job. He learned the business, put his whole heart into it, and made the company a lot of money. However, all of his efforts weren’t really compensated. As a matter of fact, there were times he may have felt taken advantage of just because he was part of the family. So in the grand scheme of things—or at least in his own mind—he felt that he had really devoted himself to his work in the last two years, and if his higher-ups weren’t going to acknowledge him, he at least could acknowledge himself. He made the break from the family and set it in stone by buying the car—now he has to make this new job work. And he will, because that's the kind of kid he is.

Today I went to discuss surgery for an ovarian cyst with my doctor, a wonderful soul who I know for many, many years. As I sat down in his office and we began our discussion, the seriousness of my condition was becoming apparent. What I merely thought was a menstrual cyst gone wild seemed to be a major cause of concern for my doctor. He stated that he wanted an oncologist in the operating room with him and that after they removed my ovary (my ovary?), they would immediately biopsy it to see if there was any cancer (wait…you mean ovarian cancer?). If it was benign, everything was all good and they’d close me up. If not, they would have to remove both ovaries, fallopian tubes, my uterus, my cervix, peritoneal tissue, lymph nodes, and something called an omentum that I didn’t even know existed. And that would be that.

…Is this what I “deserve”? Where is my new car? Heck, where is my 5,000 square foot house in the mountains, full of servants to wait on me hand and foot??

Amazingly, I don’t feel resentful. I feel challenged. And I do know I “deserve” better…but maybe the art of going through a rough time with grace and strength and coming out on top makes all the physical, “deserved” things more appreciated.

…Or maybe we come to realize that they just don’t really matter at all.

Birthday House

2007-07-25T23:05:00.000-04:00

Every once in a while, a memory will creep up on me like a kitten waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse. Once it hits me, I am startled by what it evokes; actual thoughts and visions clear as day and feelings as powerful as if I only experienced them an hour ago.

Such a memory occurred to me last week for reasons unknown. Bits and pieces scattered throughout my mind of events that took place forty—yes, forty—years ago. I am talking of the time I appeared on Paul Tripp’s Birthday House.

Paul Tripp’s Birthday House was a live television show taped here in New York City. The first episode aired on Monday, April 1, 1963 and starred Mr. Tripp, who was “kid-TV’s” first educator. Several lucky kids in the metro area would come down to the “Birthday House” to celebrate their special day with such characters as “Mr. Knock Knock,” the birthday gift-giving closet and “Mrs. Oven” who would bake and present the kids’ birthday cake to them at the end of the show. As one of the show’s biggest fans, I was enamored with the different puppets, the pretty ladies who dressed and spoke so eloquently, the fun games the kids would play, and of course, the dapper Mr. Tripp himself.

You can imagine my surprise when one day in 1967, out of what seemed to be the clear, blue sky, a postcard handwritten by Paul Tripp arrived at my house and announced that I had been chosen to celebrate my birthday at “The Birthday House.” I knew every quirky character on that show. I had every song memorized by heart. I had every puppet in stuffed-animal form sitting on my bed. One would think that this would be the absolute highlight of my whole four years of life on this earth. Why, then, did I sit on the top of the steps and cry my eyes out? I can still see my mom sitting next to me, trying to convince me that I would have a wonderful experience, and saying over and over again, “…But isn’t this what you always wanted??” Well, yes, I thought it was. Until it became a reality.

The train ride into NYC was most likely my first, and so enjoyable that I can remember it with perfect clarity to this day. One of my parents asked me, “What does the conductor say before the train starts moving?”…and it was all over with. After my first “ALL ABOARD!” and the subsequent laughter and applause from every other passenger in our car, I was hooked on the attention. I must’ve said “All aboard” four hundred and fifty-seven times, much to the enjoyment of my parents and eventually to the chagrin of the passengers who sat there dreaming of ways to invent the impossible mechanism that could play all of their favorite music while they wore earphones so as not to have to listen to the annoying child one minute longer.

I only remember bits and pieces of being in the studio. At one point in the show, Mr. Tripp sat all the kids down on a small set of wooden steps. As I positioned myself up high in the back, I recall him asking us questions I can’t remember, but that I answered in unison with the other kids.

That, and the huge, prominent mole above his left eye.

I can honestly say that I could not remember that mole ever making an appearance on his show for even one brief second. But that day, there it was in all of its mole-ly glory, riding up and down on his eyebrow every time he excitedly told us a story or sung us a song. For reasons that are only valid to a four year old, the advent of that growth put me in a state of petrified fear and prevented me from participating in the rest of the show. Although I was present, I couldn’t take my focus off of it and constantly had to be redirected by one of the pretty, eloquent women, who seemed to be losing their graciousness and poise as each minute progressed. Before I knew it, Mr. Tripp was also turning into a regular human, and started to become curt with me as well. Where were all the perpetually, impossibly nice people that I saw every day on my television? Who were these people telling me where to stand, telling me how to act, and being…well…not nice to me??

I couldn’t take it anymore and did what any self-respecting four year old would do: I started to cry. And cry. And cry some more. So much so that my dad had to come and take me off the stage.

And there it was. My fifteen minutes of fame, over in five.

I don’t remember much after that. But I do remember watching the episode in my living room with my mom, who apparently forgot what events took place that day until she was reminded by viewing the footage. “Lisa!! Look at you!! You’re just standing there!! I can’t believe it—you nagged me and nagged me to be on that show, and you just stood there and did nothing!!” Believe it or not, I do remember feeling regret…probably for the very first time in my life. Why didn’t I move? Why didn’t I participate and sing along with the characters? Why was I afraid of the puppets that I adored when they were inside my TV set? Why can’t I just have another chance? Hey, now there’s an idea!! I’ll just go back on the show when I’m five. I’ll bet there’s not a mole around that can scare me when I’m five!

Well, of course, my mom didn’t think that was such a great idea. And ultimately, the show went off the air six months after my birthday anyway, so it wasn’t an option.

Most people I talk to do not remember "Birthday House." The internet doesn't supply much information, although the pictures I found almost brought me to tears from the memories (good tears and good memories). Hopefully, the next time I'm asked to be on a television show I'll be able to behave myself in a more mature manner. I think forty years can make a difference...

(Paul Tripp: 1911-2002. Rest in peace...thanks for the memories!)

Somewhere Over the Wine-bow

2007-06-16T19:14:00.000-04:00

We sat at the small table and picked up our menus, the awkwardness apparent but growing less dense as the minutes passed. I had given my brother Joe a $60.00 gift certificate to this small Italian restaurant for his 60th birthday. Being the frugal and fair man that he is, he refused to use it on himself and his wife, Janeard, unless Al and I went along—he felt that it was way too generous a gift, and would not accept no for an answer. We agreed to meet there on a Friday night when there was a live jazz guitar duo there, adding some evening ambiance to this otherwise bland little room that was actually the “restaurant side” of a pizzeria.

My brother and I have an odd history. Due to our sixteen-year age difference, and the fact that there were never any other children in between us that may have created some kind of bond, we were never particularly close. I’ve known Al for ten years, yet I can count the number of times that he and my brother have actually been in the same room together, let alone out to dinner. Over the course of his years, Joe seemed to drift away from our family and most of his friends. Where I am very forgiving almost to the point of being someone who is the equivalent of a throw rug, my brother tends to hold grudges in order to keep the wall around him impenetrable. Our differences are apparent in other areas as well: I have a varied taste in music; Joe basically can not understand why they even bothered to produce music after the early sixties. He does not understand the point of screaming a rock song or having a course called, “The History of Hip Hop” at our local university. I actually saw him cry for the first time the day Bobby Darren died.

…We won’t even get into the subject of movies. He's still reeling over the fact that they actually made "Mannequin 2."

Being that Al had to finish a job and was running late, we waited to order our meals until he showed up. Of course, we did not wait to order some wine. After tossing around whether we should buy a bottle of wine we had all never tried or just have a glass each of the house wine, we opted for the latter. This particular merlot was a fine choice for the three of us, being that we’re all lightweights when it comes to drinking alcohol. We sipped and chatted, and the minutes that passed seemed to take away any tense feelings that were present, turning them into fond sentiments full of shared memories and silly laughter. I do admit; it felt good to laugh like that with them. I truly began to wonder why it was that we hardly ever got together.

Al arrived, looking as handsome as ever, and ordered his usual Grey Goose martini with three olives. Joe laughed at him, openly wondering how Al could possibly handle drinking that “rocket fuel;” my brother admitted that he would be passed out under the table if he imbibed in one of those. With a few sips, Al caught up to our level of giddiness, and we all engaged in conversations ranging from “Casablanca” to the “most beautiful, perfect head of broccoli” that my brother ever saw in his life at a local farm stand.

After their break, the musicians noticed our lively, little table and upon their return, came over to inquire if we had any requests. Of course, Joe asked for “anything by Frank Sinatra,” and I requested their wedding song, “Happy,” by Bobby Darin. The lead guitarist told me that he wasn’t sure if he had ever heard of that song, but he promised he’d try to look for it in his song book. Joe told him that he probably wouldn’t find it, but that he’d be happy if he just played some classics. They went back to their guitars, and continued to play some wonderful, old standards that fit the atmosphere perfectly.

In the meantime, we were served our sumptuous dishes. We continued to eat, drink and chat as the music played on in the background. I’m not sure what it was that caught my attention, but as I took a break from talking, I noticed that the lead guitarist was softly playing “The Christmas Song.” I leaned over and looked at him, and he winked and smiled as if he knew I got the joke. Never one to keep my mouth shut and just let things be, I shouted out, “Hey!! You’re playing Christmas music!!” Al looked at me in bewilderment and snorted, “Are you crazy? Have another drink! They’re playing, “Somewhere Over the Rainbow!! How can you not know what they’re playing? You just made me watch that stupid Meg Ryan movie for the hundredth time last week, and they play it at the end of the movie!! Every time!!!” Chuckling, Joe and Janeard chimed in that yes, it was indeed “Over the Rainbow” and maybe we all had had a little too much to drink. I stopped to listen for a minute…and I immediately felt embarrassed. My goodness—they were indeed playing “Over the Rainbow.” I looked around to see how many other tables were filled with people who may have heard my drunken outburst, and I meekly uttered an “oops,” followed by, “Wow, this pasta dish is delicious!”

…”How about those Yankees?” probably would’ve worked better. I started to feel that the cobwebs were really taking over my middle-aged brain.

Recovering from the Christmas blunder, I decided to continue enjoying myself and my family. We had such a good time, we didn’t realize that the whole restaurant had cleared itself, and we were the last ones there. We got the check, and my brother opted for a quick bathroom visit. As we sat at the table to wait for him, the jazz duo packed up their guitars and headed in our direction toward the front door. They came over to us and apologized for not being able to find the song I had requested. We assured them that it was fine, and that their selections were just as enjoyable. With that, the lead guitarist looked at me and laughed, “I can’t believe you caught on that I was playing “The Christmas Song!” The rhythm man chimed in that he couldn’t believe it either—that they do this on occasion just to see if anyone is actually paying attention.

SCORE!! I excitedly jumped up from my seat to give them both a high five. “I knew I wasn’t crazy!!” I exclaimed. I turned to Al, who looked both surprised and relieved at the same time; surprised because he really didn’t hear it, and relieved that his wife was, indeed, not suffering from dementia. When Joe came back, he laughed with us as well and also seemed thankful that his sister was not just another loud-mouthed, drunken fool who’s inclined to random outbursts of nonsense. Actually, being a musician himself, I think he was actually disappointed that he didn’t hear that sneaky riff as well! As strange as it sounds, I really was relieved myself. There is something quite unnerving about being so certain of something, beyond the shadow of a doubt, and having everyone tell you otherwise. You can tend to feel a bit crazy.

One thing I am certain of is that I will have to do this again with them soon. Life is really too short to not get together with the ones you love!

Beleaguered

2007-05-25T09:27:00.000-04:00

I don’t know what’s going on with me lately. I used to be so…I don’t know…capable. If life were a circus act, I would be the clown on the unicycle, spinning dishes on sticks with a hula-hoop around my neck, all while juggling flaming bowling pins with my left foot. Now, it seems as though I’m having trouble even riding a tricycle and honking my nose at the same time.

What happens to us when we approach…dare I say it…middle age? Why do we become so overwhelmed? Why do we waste time questioning our past choices, our past decisions, and our present selves? Or—as much as I hate to admit it—what if it’s just me? What if I’m in my own pre-perimenopausal world of cynicism, my very own planet filled with mountains of hurdles and oceans of doubt?

Back in September, when I entered the “MORE” magazine modeling contest—purely on a lark, and not expecting anything more than something interesting and fun to blog about—I felt fairly comfortable with myself, my career, and the choices that I’ve had to make throughout the years that led me to where I was at that time. But when I peered through the latest copy of the magazine—the issue that listed all ten finalists, and the three top winners—I felt like such a loser. Not because I wasn’t a finalist in a so-called “beauty” contest. I felt discouraged because the women who won were all successful, self-assured, and at peace with themselves. Out of the ten finalists, four of them were doctors. Count it—four. And one of those four was also an officer in the Air National Guard. Another woman was a world-champion equestrienne who owned her own stables and took breaks by riding her Harley Davidson Sportster (a “beautiful white” one, at that). One was a CEO of a corporate image group; another was a beautiful actress and successful artist. Yet another was the director of a rape care center that she founded in New Jersey, and the grand-prize winner was a former sales director. Oh…and how can I forget…one of the women was the Executive Vice President of Fox Searchlight Pictures—silly me.

I’m not envious of these women. I’m really not. I’m actually proud of them. I’m happy that I’m part of a generation that doesn’t put limits on a woman's ability to achieve her goals. I guess what I feel is a certain amount of frustration. How does one follow their dream when they have a mortgage to pay and they’re responsible for carrying the health insurance for their family through their job? How does a woman continue her education when she works full-time and still has to come home and be a caretaker? You know the routine; making dinners, washing clothes, and doing any of the other eight million blood-sucking, life-force draining errands that we feel responsible for in order to make the house run in a somewhat efficient manner.

Maybe someone in their twenties or even their thirties would be able to handle a balancing act like that. However, following one's dream is usually easier when one does it right out of high school. Admittedly, I spend a lot of wasteful time rehashing the past choices of my parents. I wanted to go to school for art—I was gifted with the ability to copy most anything that I laid my eyes on from a very young age, especially cartoons. My parents felt differently; having been a part of the World War 2 generation, they felt that the only way that I could be successful was to be a legal secretary, a career that I loathed to even think about. My mother actually told me that I would never make any money “doing art." This notion was based solely on her vision of artists as being poor souls who sat on the side of the road selling their paintings, not because she didn't think that I had any talent. How reassuring.

Now, I know that they meant well. They truly wanted me to be a success, even if success meant that the highest promotion I could get would still always keep me beneath someone else. I went to school for business, but of course, dropped out before the semester ended. I was given a choice; either stay in school for business, or go to dental assisting school.

Please, mom, let me take art courses. This is what I want to do.

But of course, the answer was no. I was going to have a steady career if it killed them. I went on to become a dental assistant, a “career” that lasted two short years. In the interim, my mother became very sick. Toward the end of her life, she agreed to let me go back to school—for art. She actually encouraged me to go. Sadly, it took the realization of her own mortality and her own missed dreams to finally understand how important it was for me to try to achieve my goals, not anyone else’s.

I started school in January of 1985. The first semester, I pulled a 3.5 average; sadly, my mother took a turn for the worse, and died August 1st. Heartbroken, my father wanted to sell the house. I quit school, took a full-time job working for a finance company, and moved out. A few years later, I married and became a full-time mother. Subsequently, I divorced and floundered around in various careers; none of them satisfying, but all of them allowing me to pay my mortgage and bills.

When I was married to my first husband, I had everything I could ever dream of; he was successful, we had a beautiful house, and I had two wonderful children whom I adored. However, I always felt that something was missing; so much so, that I used to cry about it quite often, wondering what was wrong with me. Suffice it to say, when I met and married my second husband, I found that I no longer felt this emptiness—not in my relationship, anyway. Now, there seems to be some kind of drive inside of me. I know I need to be doing something, creating something…working toward some kind of personal success that will get us out of our financial hole and satisfy my desire to be acknowledged for my achievements. The only trouble is that I'm overwhelmed on a daily basis just trying to live life. Not that I'm complaining--I love my life--but I'm not sure how any creative ideas are going to surface if they're constantly being buried by the pressures of work, home, and the fact that there are just not enough hours in one day.

For months, I had been looking at a wayward maple sapling that had grown in the most unlikely of spots. It abutted a cement wall that has stairs behind it going down to my stepson's room in our basement, and was growing sideways through other, more established bushes just to get some sunlight. I knew that this determined little tree was going to eventually break the cement, and I told myself over and over to take it out and replant it in a more desirable spot (like right in back of my deck so I wouln't have to look at my neighbor's crumbling roof anymore). One day, I finally found the time (and energy) to embark on this project. It was even more difficult than I had imagined. At one point, I was hanging over the cement wall with my feet dangling toward the bottom steps just to try to dig the roots out. When I tried to dig out the roots on the other side, I had to crawl under the buggy bushes and got scratched up and itchy. I eventually loosened the roots enough so that my husband, who had just gotten home from an estimate (and thought I was out of my mind) was able to give it the final tug that pulled it out, as he balanced with ease on the top of the wall. The point of telling this story is that when I finally replanted the tree--as I had dreamed for months that I would--I felt such a sense of accomplishment. Yes, it was very difficult, and at times I was almost tempted to chop it down instead of continuing to dig it out. But now I have a strong sapling that will someday grow into a beautiful tree that will provide shade for my deck in the summer and block the undesirable view from my back door in the winter. And it will no longer cause the foundation to crack.

God knows, I don't want my foundation to crack.

Quite possibly, this experience is a metaphor for my future; the future that lives in my dreams and seems impossible in the natural to acheive. But if I remain determined, if I remain hopeful...then maybe I can replant my desires, my abilities, and my spirit in more productive soil. I just have to pray for the clarity of mind to remain focused on higher ground.

(Footnote: My blogger is being very weird. I have re-edited it a hundred times, and it keeps doing what it wants...it won't let me put spaces where I want to put spaces. I give up!!)

A Mom's Lament

2007-05-13T22:46:00.000-04:00

Today is Mother’s Day.

I awoke this morning to watch a pastor on television discuss how it’s unfair to judge people from what’s on the outside, and I immediately think of my husband’s sister, who has a terrible habit of doing just this. Although we used to be like true sisters, there was never a time when I left her presence that I wasn’t wondering what she would find about me on that day to knit-pick on. She, of course, is perfect. Perfect face, perfect teeth, perfect body. She lives in a perfectly decorated house in a perfectly expensive neighborhood. After my husband and I had a falling-out with her husband (who in my opinion is the farthest thing from perfect, except for maybe being a perfect sociopath), she outwardly decided to tell me whatever she was feeling at any given moment, no matter where we were. A comment was made by her husband and backed up by her that my house was disgusting, and we should clean it up. Now, I admit; I am not the world’s best housekeeper, but there is never a time when anyone is invited here that this house is not as perfect as it’s going to get. It may not be big, but it is charming and cute, and more importantly—it’s happy. When people come over, they never leave. I’d rather visit a comfortable small house and feel welcomed than walk into a museum and not be allowed to sit in the living room. But I digress.

After watching the pastor, I went to church with my kids. This is a new church that they attend with their dad and his wife, and after visiting it on Easter, I found that I enjoyed the general atmosphere and message, and decided to start going on a more regular basis. My ex and his wife were there, as expected. We all kissed hello, and my kids and I sat next to them three rows back from the pulpit. The pastor spoke of prayer and of faith, and toward the end of the service, we were directed to either sit in our seats or go to one of the four stations that they had set up for specific prayer, something they don’t usually do. I walked with my kids over to the “relationship” station, and listened to one of the women of the church as she led a prayer. “Dear Lord, help us to give this problem to You once and for all. Let us understand that we no longer have to carry the burden of it on our shoulders; that You are there to carry it for us and see us through. And dear Lord, if we need to forgive someone, please help us to do so.” I immediately thought of the relationship with my sister-in-law, and prayed to God once more to take this encumbrance from me and to give me the strength and grace to behave like a Christian when I saw her later today for Mother’s Day.

To make a long story short, we all had a pleasant brunch at a local restaurant. My sister-in-law and I sat across from each other, sipping casually on mimosas and making innocuous chatter throughout our meal. As we were all leaving, we stood in a small group by the bar and chatted about upcoming dates and events. My sister-in-law got a look of horror on her face, and said, “We never had a cake for Al today! That’s not right; we were told that we’d have a cake for his birthday on Mother’s Day!”

Okay, I admit it. My house was a mess on May 2nd, my husband Al’s birthday. There is no way on God's green earth that I would've had someone who once told me my house was "disgusting" over in the state that it was in, not to mention the fact that we all had work and school the next day. We decided to keep our celebration to just us and the kids that night, at my husband’s request. After not being able to come up with an alternative date to have a cake for the rest of his family (who were very insulted that they weren’t invited to our little ceremony), we had settled on just bringing one to the restaurant on Mother’s Day. But alas, that was almost two weeks ago, and I suffer from a terrible brain cloud.

Yes, it was my fault. I forgot the cake. I forgot we were even supposed to have a cake. In my mind, we had already had a cake, and his birthday was over and done with. But in my husband’s family, this is some sort of mortal sin. You just don’t forget the cake. Period.

My sister-in-law turned to her mother to continue her rant. “The person who said that they would have a cake for him on Mother’s Day should’ve made sure that they brought a cake for us to sing to him with!” She then turned and glared at me with pursed lips and chevron eyebrows. I stammered a reply, shrugging my shoulders and forcing a giggle as “…I can’t believe I forgot!” dribbled out of my mouth. She rolled her eyes, turned to her other brother and shook her head.

…I decided to leave before behaving like a good Christian was not an option.

Later in the evening, my stepdaughter came home from spending the day with her mom. I was in the kitchen when she came in; she made no effort to come in and say hello to me, so when I saw her sitting at her computer, I offered a greeting. Without turning around, she said, “Oh, hi! Happy Mother’s Day.”

That was it.

Our home is far from your average American household. From what I can tell, we are the only “Brady Bunch” family living in our town. I’m sure that my neighbors have gotten plenty of earfuls and eyefuls when our ex-spouses come to visit the children. Several times a week, my stepdaughter’s mom will come inside my home to spend some time with her. On occasion, she has actually plopped herself down in my stepdaughter’s bed and gone to sleep. More often than not, they just fight as most 14 year old girls will do with their mothers. The only difference is that I’m in the house listening to their argumentative banter, wishing that I was in Bermuda or Belize. Brooklyn will even do on most days.

Recently, when my stepdaughter and her mom came into the house after being in Florida together for five days, the girl stormed right into her room and the mom gave me instructions that she was to be punished until Friday. As I looked at this woman with her new tan, her long blonde hair and her slight body, I felt a twinge of envy. As she left the house to go do whatever in the world it was that she wanted to do with no obligations, I fell into a downright jealous rage. But for the sake of the child and in order to keep the peace, I swallowed my feelings and reminded myself that there were worse problems in the world than me not being able to go wherever I wanted to at the drop of a hat.

Suffice it to say that I am the one who takes care of the motherly duties every day with this child. I pick her up from school. I sign tests. I cook dinner. I fold her clothes. If she needs to be picked up from anywhere, I drop whatever it is that I’m doing and I go pick her up. Yet with all of this, she did not feel the need to get me a card.

I hate to admit it. But I’m hurt…and sad. Her 20 year-old brother called me and told me he loved me. I don't really do much of anything for him. But my stepdaughter didn't even give me a hug.

And so, once again--as I have done so many times--I will take a deep breath and try to reason away why people are the way they are. And with a little luck, I will come to a conclusion that is probably not true, but makes me feel better, anyway.

"Simply" Maria

2007-04-28T10:38:00.000-04:00

As the saying goes, some people come into your life for a reason, a season, or for a lifetime. Like most people, I have had experiences with all three. I used to think that “lifetime” friends were those that I’ve had...well...most of my life. But I was fortunate to meet some great women in my 30’s that I know will be part of my life for many years to come. My dear friend Maria E., or “Simply Me” as she’s known in the blogging world, is one of them (she should not be confused with the “other” Maria from “S.E., Baby!” fame—I have two “best Maria’s” in my life)!

My "Marias"--Maria E., Maria P. and me...the infamous "chin" picture--yikes!

I can remember the first day of school back in 1997, walking my son into his kindergarten class and feeling a little melancholy that my youngest was now in grade school. Having been through this experience before with my daughter, however, my emotions were in check and I felt confident that he was going to have a great day as I left the class. On my way out, I noticed a very pretty woman leaning over to peek into the room—and she had eyes filled with tears.

“Are you alright?” I asked her quietly. “Yes, I’m fine,” she replied as she wiped away tears from one eye, and then the other. “I’m just emotional today…this is my only son, and I can’t believe he’s in kindergarten already! I just hope he’ll be okay.” I told her that I knew what she was feeling, and assured her that he would be fine. We introduced ourselves and spoke briefly through her sniffles. From that moment on she became one of my closest friends. In addition, our sons became best friends as well, and are still close to this day!

We’ve seen each other through good times and bad, and our relationship has grown to the point where we can finish each other’s sentences. I’ve learned so much from her, and I value her opinions because she’s so intelligent—not only on a “textbook” level, but on a spiritual level as well. When I’m struggling with an issue, she’s always there with good advice that reasonable, supportive and fair.

On a recent, beautiful Sunday morning, we played “phone tag” as I tried to respond to a message she had left about creating a blogroll. When she finally got in touch with me, she was in her car on her way to Homegoods, which is actually more like a “Super Marshalls” with more...well, home goods. She asked if I would like to join her and I jumped at the chance, still being on the lookout for my rooster clock and all. We were both “kid-free” that weekend, which made for a clean getaway on both of our parts with no hassles. I got into my sweats, threw on a baseball cap to hide my makeup-less face, and jumped into her car. We decided that we needed some tea from 7-11, got it, and then set out on our 15 minute drive to the North Shore.

Our conversation in the car went from the kids to our husbands to how we both knew spring was in the air. We delighted in the sounds of the different bird calls that we could hear from the open windows, and laughed at the fact that we could get so deeply into a conversation about something as trivial as birds. I started to speak about living in the country and she finished my sentence for me in unison with my exact thoughts. Amused and chuckling, we told each other how thankful we were that we decided to just spend some time together at the last minute, since we are both usually so busy.

Me and Maria at her country home in PA

As we walked into Homegoods, I veered over to the right and immediately found the perfect rooster clock. As a matter of fact, they had rooster everything, so I engrossed myself in picking out the perfect additions to my soon-to-be rooster kitchen. Maria was carefully choosing the perfect bargain, and after about a half-hour of shopping separately, we both ended up in the bath and beauty aisle. Showing me a scented lotion, she started to tell a story; almost as if she were not just telling me, but the two customers around us as well (she’s very friendly and entertaining like that).

As she finished her story, a man’s voice spoke out: “Hey, Lady! Do you come here often?” We looked up to see my ex-husband standing there with a smirk on his face. Ironically, he was passing by Homegoods on his way home from church, and decided to stop in with not only my children…but Maria’s son Jonathan as well! Jon had had a sleepover with my son at my ex’s house the night before, and went to church with them (Maria was unaware of this because it was her ex’s weekend, too). Our kids were laughing out loud that we all happened to be in the same store at the same time—and we thought it was pretty coincidental as well!

Jon, Kayla and Dylan at Jon and Dylan's 8th grade graduation

We all chatted for a little bit, and then my ex left with all of the kids. Maria and I went to the checkout with our treasures, and decided that we wanted to stop into Au Bon Pain next door for a snack. On the way in, we started talking about what we usually eat for breakfast and at the exact same time, we both blurted out that we bought Trader Joe’s Blueberry Oatmeal during the week! We stopped and stared at each other with our mouths open in disbelief…then we cracked up. On our way home, we took a back road and I mentioned to Maria that we were going to pass my very favorite house in our town. She said that she knew exactly what house I was talking about, and queried if it was the beautifully restored, old Victorian with the wraparound porch. Of course, it was…and once again, we laughed at how much we think alike!

I am so thankful for my dear friend Maria. She “gets” it, and has helped me to “get it” over the years as well. She understands how the simplest, smallest things can bring one joy—like our excursion to Homegoods—and her enthusiasm for understanding the deeper meaning of life is infectious. She has the ability to build people up, and treasures everyone in her life for their quirky qualities. She never speaks badly about anyone, which is the quality of a true friend; I know when I walk out of her door, she only has kind things to say about me, and would never gossip behind my back. I love her to pieces, and I thank God that He brought such a special person into my life.

Me and Maria at my daughter Kayla's Sweet 16, December 2005

...you can visit Maria at her blog...

Life...How Did I Get Here?

A Strange Day

2007-04-10T19:36:00.000-04:00

For people who have been through the pains of divorce, this post might seem a little impossible. As a matter of fact, those who are still married might find this story a little hard to swallow! But it is, in fact, true. I have never hidden the fact that I live a very unconventional life in an extremely conventional town, but this one might be for the books.

My days are always interesting. I work at a job that brings me in contact with all walks of life, and I love working in such a diverse environment. I am always involved in some sort of fascinating event once I get home from work, being that there are so many people with varied interests and basic needs living in my home.

But then there are the “ex”-tended family members. I speak of the “ex”-husband and the “ex”-wife.

Shortly after I came home from work one day last week, my son informed me that his father was picking him up in a few minutes to take him to the car show in NYC. Almost as if on cue, his dad pulled up in his Mercedes. I walked my son outside and gave him a kiss good-bye. His father rolled down the window with a humorous look of confusion on his face.

“Why did you laugh last week when I told Kayla that I was taking opera lessons?” he queried.

“HA! I don’t know. It just struck me as funny,” I chuckled.

“Heh-heh…um…why?” he continued, his face now becoming very serious.

“Well, I just had visions of when you used to ‘fake’ singing opera, and I guess I never really thought you’d take it seriously.”

With that, he coerced me into coming over to the car so he could show me what he sounded like.

“Oh, you have a recording of it?” I asked.

“No, I’ll sing it for you right now! Kristine got me this music, and I’m gonna sing ‘Oh, Solo Mio’,” he exclaimed as he held up a CD case with nothing but penne pasta on the cover. Italian Karaoke…what will they think of next?

He placed the CD into the dashboard. Within seconds, he was belting out an impressive operatic vocal as my son sat in the passenger seat and gave me some “egad” looks every so often. My neighbor across the street stared at the car in bewilderment as he rolled his garbage down to the curb. "OHHH, SOLO MIO!!!" I stood on my lawn with a bemused look on my face, not able to determine if he was really good, or he was just acting that way.

When the song was over, I complemented him and told him that he probably should’ve taken opera lessons long ago, as his voice seemed to adapt to it quite nicely. He seemed pleased with my complement, and drove off to the car show with my son. I walked up my lawn toward my front door and started to laugh, just thinking how funny it was that my ex-husband was having a Luciano Pavoratti moment in front of my house…and that I just gave my neighbors one more thing to talk about.

About a half hour later, the other ex stopped by to see her daughter. Exhausted from working as a nanny to two small children all day, she plopped down in a chair in my stepdaughter’s room and tried to start a conversation with her. Eventually, an argument ensued about money and clothes and things that are of major importance to an almost fourteen-year-old that really aren’t all that life-altering to an adult. I admit; I hear them argue almost every day. And I do remember what it was like to have that almost-fourteen-year-old myself…I think whoever teaches the eighth grade is either a pure saint, or they’re completely out of their minds. I always mind my own business, and let them work their problems out on their own. But on this particular day, my stepdaughter hit below the belt regarding money and her father’s chosen profession. Now it became my business, and I marched myself into her room with a look of pure disappointment across my face. I stated my case to her, stuck up for her mom a little bit, told her I loved her and reminded her that she should appreciate all of the wonderful things that she has in her life instead of worrying about everything that she doesn’t have (which wouldn’t affect the quality of her life one way or the other, anyway). I left the room and went to pick up my daughter at work. By the time I came back to the house, the mother was sitting on my couch with her daughter lying in her lap as she stroked her hair. “We’re having a peaceful moment,” she tiredly confessed. I left them alone, and went to the kitchen to speak with my husband who had just come home from work.

“…I think we should ask Tina to come to dinner with us,” I weakly stated.

“Okay. That’s fine,” he replied. I was shocked that he answered so quickly…and so positively.

It was our “Thursday night” dinner night, our Pietro’s pizza-fest, our sacred night of family bonding to which strangers were not easily invited. We are very protective of our quality time together, being that it’s the one night that we are all in the same room at the same time. To let someone else share in our tradition was…well…it was the right thing to do that night. Tina was gracious and thankful that she would be able to spend some time with her children. She expressed her appreciation over and over again, and finally gave me a hug and said, “I’m so happy that we can all get along like this.” My thoughts exactly. But we’re not done yet.

We met up with my stepson at the pizza parlor. He was a little surprised to see his mom there, but sat next to her and gave her a kiss hello. My daughter’s boyfriend was in town from school, so he attended this gathering as well. We were all engrossed in various conversations, when the door opened and my son walked in…followed by none other than the other ex…his father. We invited him to sit down and have some pizza, and although he declined at first, he finally sat and ate along with the rest of us. My daughter commented to her boyfriend and I that people wouldn’t believe that we could all sit together like this and enjoy each other’s company. It was really weird, she said. I told her I thought it was great.

Although this day was interesting, to say the least, I will always remember it as a precursor to the various important family events that we will all be tied to in the future—marriages, first home purchases, grandchildren, just to name a few—and I am ever so grateful that our children’s milestones will be reached with a peaceful family to support them. It may be weird, but it works.

(From left to right: David the ex, Dylan, Kristin, Mike the boyfriend, Kayla, me, my husband Al, Al's son David and Tina the ex)

Happy Is as Happy Does

2007-03-10T18:04:00.000-05:00

I recently wrote of the importance of dreaming, of believing for positive things in your life and being proactive as far as attaining your goals. Over the past few weeks, I’ve been reflecting on my life and where it stands right now as far as my happiness is concerned. How happy am I, really? Am I anywhere near where I wanted to be at this point in my life? And if I do have dreams, am I sure of what they really are…and do I really believe that I can attain them? What if I did reach my goals…would that be the point in my life where I say, “I’ve gotten what I’ve always dreamed of, and now I’m totally happy”? Then what…where do I go from there? My list of questions can go on and on…and on and on. I’m getting tired of asking them.

We recently had some small work done in our home—nothing major, just trying to make some storage space where there was none. We added a linen closet in the hall and a small pantry in the kitchen (imagine living without those for 10 years), and a storage bench in the portico with wainscoting around the walls. I must admit; the latter has made me very happy. Although we’re not completely cleaned up from this chaotic activity, my bench has turned a somewhat boring entrance into a cozy, country foyer. It has “welcome” subliminally written all over it! There are hooks to hang your coat and hat upon entry and some shelf molding to hold a few sentimental knick-knacks. I realized after my husband put the last stroke of polyurethane on the seat that my home was becoming my dream for the future…and I haven’t even moved yet.

This revelation brought on comforting, if not confusing, feelings. I thought that I was only supposed to enjoy my country home when I eventually moved and had a home that was actually in the country. A home that was a hop, skip and a jump from a small main street that looked like it was out of a Normal Rockwell painting. A home that had views and wildlife aplenty. But here it was…my dream, only a little smaller than I imagined and in an area that was just a little less rural.

When I thought about it, however, I realized that my town is pretty countrified for my location. Our main street has old Victorians and Arts and Crafts period homes scattered throughout its tree-lined path. Right down the block we have two lakes in a nature preserve that are home to a various array of wildlife, not to mention some amazing four-season views. I am actually walking distance from anything I could ever want: restaurants of every persuasion, pizza parlors, ice cream shops, a country gift store and a country furnishings store, just to name a few points of interest. We even have a “5&10” that sells everything from a Snickers bar to a towel bar! And let’s not forget the local McDonald’s and 7-11—two great destinations for teenage boys who love to eat, and both a few short pedals of a bike away.

Of course, I do need to mention that we are also walking distance from the Long Island Railroad, which of course means that there are smelly buses going up and down our charming main street as well. The street empties into a three-lane highway with such unattractive locations as car dealerships, car washes and oversized self-service gas stations with their own quick-marts. And there’s not a mountain in sight. But there is Jones Beach, which is a lovely place to visit when there’s not twenty million people there on a hot, summer day. You get the point.

I was on my way home from work the other day (also within walking distance, I might add), and I drove over the small bridge that divides the two lakes. I peered over to my left and saw our two town swans locked in a loving gaze floating on the half-frozen water. There were Canadian geese and mallard ducks diving for mysterious underwater snacks. The seagulls floated through the air across the lake, their stark whiteness in high contrast to the dark brown sticks of the winter trees. If I took a picture of this, I thought to myself, no one would ever believe that it was on Long Island. I began to wonder why I haven’t hiked in the preserve for over three years, when its beauty was at my disposal. I also wondered why I only walked to work once last summer, especially since I so enjoyed the early morning activities of nature—the countless varieties of birds singing their unique songs, the fresh breeze rustling the leaves in the trees. I soon began to realize that sometimes our own happiness is right in front of our faces, but we can’t see it because it’s too close. Imagine placing your hand directly in front of your eyes and opening them; would you be seeing a hand, or a big blob of darkness? However, as you pulled the hand slowly away from your eyes, it would eventually take on the image of what it actually is: a hand. I think that’s what happened to me that day. I no longer saw a blob of a life; I took a step back and saw someone who was pretty darn happy. That someone was me.

As we lay in bed that night, my husband turned to me, leaned over and set his head upon my chest as he pulled me closer with his arm. I stroked his hair, watching the scattered grays dance upon the thick, black mass of waves. I felt an immense calm come over me and, almost as if he knew what I was thinking, my husband whispered, “I love you so much.” I realized in that instant that I was one of the luckiest women I knew. I thought of the thousands of people who would probably give all of their worldly possessions away if it meant that they would be able to have a partner who truly loved them for who they were. I thought of how fortunate I was that I had a man who never made me feel guilty if the house was a mess, because he honestly understood that I only have so many hours in my day. I appreciated that he always made me feel desired, even on the days when I wasn’t, well, so desirable. I realized that this was as good as it gets and it was pretty darn wonderful, to say the least.

As I reflect on my life, I realize that many of the dreams that I had for my future never materialized. At 44 years of age, I’ve seen my share of failures; I’ve also seen successes I never thought possible. I know that I will continue to reach for goals until the end of my life, for “a man without vision shall perish.” However, if I never move to my home in the mountains; if I never become wealthy and have anything and everything I want at my disposal; if I never realize even one of my dreams…I can say with confidence and clarity that at this moment in time, I am truly a happy woman. I finally “get it.” We’re not guaranteed tomorrow; it’s so very important to appreciate what you have today. And I thank God I’m one of the lucky ones that do.

A Typical Conversation

2007-02-28T19:20:00.000-05:00

Lisa: "You know, what the heck. I'm having a glass of wine." (pause while uncorking and pouring) "S.E!"

Maria: "OH...you know what? 'S.E'. right back. I've been 'S.E-ing' for a while now!"

Lisa: "'S.E'. Mmm, that's good."

Maria: "SOPHIA!! I know you can come up with a sentence for 'single'! This kid, I swear...she can write poetry and you should hear the songs she writes! But she can't come up with a sentence for 'single'! You know what, Sophia? I know you can come up with a sentence for single!!" (distant whining in background: "But I need help!! You have to help me!")
"SOPHIA!! That's it! You're going in your room to do your homework. Let's go."

Lisa: "I used to go through that with Dylan all the time. Drives you crazy."

Maria: "You have 31 minutes from right now to get this done!! You stay up here in your beautiful room at your beautiful desk, and you get this done. And for every minute over 31 that you don't get your homework done, you lose that much time watching TV. And I'm not kidding!!" (more whining in the background)

Lisa: "...So, what's going on with that house you were thinking of buying?"

Maria: "Oh, that's funny that you asked that! We had a long discussion about that one and the other one today." (An hour-long conversation ensues talking about the pros and cons of both houses in consideration, plus a trip to the internet to view said houses online by Lisa. Maria's son is on her computer, so she attempts to view said houses on her television, which produces a stream of semi-obscenities from her mouth) "What the hell!! What the hell is wrong with this damn thing!! OH!! THERE IT IS!! REMAX!! Wait a minute. WAIT!! Oh, for crying out loud! I just missed Remax!!"

Lisa: "You can't just go back and get it?"

Maria: "No, I can't explain it. Stupid thing. This thing is so stupid. And I can't even find the damn house. OH MY GOD, I'M FREEZING!! What is up with this thermostat? I gotta raise the heat. And my kids are walking around barefoot. Sigh."

(Dylan now bellows, "MOM!! I'm hungry!! What're we eating?" from upstairs)

Lisa: "Dyl, one minute, I'm coming. (stands up) "WOO!! HAHAHAH!! Wow, that was some glass of wine!! Oh my gosh, I'm so woozy...how am I gonna go to work in an hour?"

Maria: "Work?? Why do you have to go to work tonight?"

Lisa: "Monthlies are due. That's part of the promotion, I have to do a bunch of paperwork. But I can't go there until 8:00 because they have two yoga classes there tonight."

Maria: "Really?!?"

Lisa: "Yeah, for the guys. Dylan, one second. Hold the plate steady, because when I drop the cranberry sauce into it, it's gonna fall. You got it? Okay, hold on." (an attempt to loosen cranberry sauce from the can ensues) "DYL!! I told you to hold the plate!!"

Dylan: "HAHA....Mom, I got it!! Hurry up. I'll take that peice. Just give me that one."

Maria: "SOPHIA!! I'm not helping you!! You can write a sentence for 'single', this is ridiculous!! This kid is driving me crazy. Did you see the kitchen on the house in Pheasant Run? We really wanted a center island. I can't explain it, it looks smaller in person."

Lisa: "Well, the house is beautiful, and it has everything you want except a center island. I think it's a no-brainer."

Maria: "I know, but I can't explain it...SOPHIA!! You do NOT need my help!! You've been working on your homework for three hours!!"

Lisa: "Maybe you should tell the teacher that she takes three hours to do her homework. They might be giving her too much."

Maria: "OH, she just doesn't want to do it. She wants me to give her all the answers, and she just putts around and plays with the dog while she should be doing her homework. It's so frustrating!! Oh, my God, I'm freezing. I can't take this."

Lisa: "I'm cold now, too."

Maria: "Me too. Sigh. So what else?"

Lisa: "Nothing much. I'm just on EBay looking for rooster clocks."

Maria: "...Rooster clo....AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!!!!! OH my God. You're looking for Rooster clocks?!? HAAAAAAAAHAAAAAAAAA!!!!!! Oh, I can't help it. That sounds funnier every time I say it!!!!!!!! HAHAHAHAHAAAAAAA!!!!"

Lisa: "HAAAHAAAHAAAHAAAA!!! I know...HAAHHAHAHHAAAA!!! Rooster clocks!!!! "

Unison: "AAAHAAAAHHAAAAHHAAAAHHAAA!!!!!!"

Maria: "Sigh....that was so funny..."

Lisa: "Hehehe...rooster clocks...ha!"

Maria: "Oh, here's the other peice of pajama...I was looking for this..."

Lisa: "HAHAHAHAHA!!!! 'piece of pajama'??? Chuckle.

Maria: "SOPHIA!! YOU ABSOLUTELY CAN FIND A SENTENCE USING THE WORD 'SINGLE'!!!! HOW ABOUT, 'MY MOTHER LOSES HER MIND EVERY SINGLE TIME HER DAUGHTER DOES HER HOMEWORK!!!!"

Lisa: "HHAAAAHAAAAHAAAHAAHAHAHAAAAA!!!!!!! I CAN'T TAKE IT!!!!!"

Heh heh...that was some gooood wine. ;0
...and that definitely wasn't the rooster clock I ended up with!

The Eleven-Year "Glitch", Part Three

2007-02-26T17:48:00.000-05:00

(I have decided to delete this post due to the sensitive and personal nature of the subject matter. Although it wasn't read or responded to by anyone involved, I felt that it was more important to keep the peace that we've all worked so hard for rather than to dredge up the past. Once you've healed from something, there really is no point in bringing it all up again. I feel that I've moved on and I'm happy with my life...a life I wouldn't have had if I hadn't gotten divorced.)

So there you have it. A cross-country move when I was 11; my mother’s death when I was 22; and a divorce from my first husband when I was 33. I turned 44 a month ago—another “eleventh year”—and I’ve decided that his will be my year of success. If my life is going to change, it’s going to change for the better. It has to—I promised myself. And I won’t break a promise.

The Eleven-Year "Glitch", Part Two

2007-02-14T22:46:00.000-05:00

(Recently, I was nominated in the categories "Happiest Blog" and "Most Inspirational Blog" on the "Share the Love Blog Awards". Since I didn't win in either category, I felt that it was okay to post this somewhat melancholy story!)

I guess I should go back in time just a little to explain the circumstances regarding my birth (okay, so that’s going back more than “just a little”). My parents married when my mom was 19 and my dad was 23. A year later, my brother was born. My parents, who both came from families with four children, tried for years to have another child. Both of them went through testing to determine if there was some sort of physical problem as to why my mother couldn’t conceive. After years of being told that there was nothing wrong with either one of them, they gave up trying and accepted that their son would not have a sibling.

When my mom was 36, she had something called an “umbilical cyst” removed from her abdomen. A short time later, she found herself pregnant—with me. Needless to say, it was almost like the Second Coming when I was born! My parents were overjoyed, and I was spoiled something terrible, not necessarily with physical things, but with getting my own way (the phrase, “Can I have some cheese and crackers with that whine?” comes to mind).

That being said, I became a lazy kid—and I got even worse as I entered my teens. Why bother cleaning my room when my mom would eventually do it anyway, because she hated a mess? I didn’t have time to help her cook or do the dishes—I was too busy with my social life—and she never really pressed the issue, anyway. To ease my guilt (I guess I actually had some kind of conscience and wasn’t a total monster), I would tell myself that she liked everything done her way anyhow, so what was the use of even trying?

The years went on, and my mom continued to do everything for me…and I continued to go on my merry, selfish way. I remember her saying that she got me into “Driver’s Ed” a semester early so that I would be able to drive her around (she never drove due to “macular degeneration” and there was no such thing as “Lasik” surgery back then). What’s sad to me is that I can remember driving my friends everywhere—sometimes even in a compromised condition—but I really can’t remember my mom sitting next to me in the passenger seat. I know I must have driven her around sometimes…I must have. But I can’t remember.

The height of my self-centeredness came the night that my mom gathered our little family together to tell us that she had cancer. She was upset, and so was everyone else…but in pure Scarnato fashion, my brother went back to his apartment emotionless; my dad poured himself a drink; and I asked my mom if she would mind if I didn’t cancel my plans to go out “clubbing” that night…after all, it was Friday. She looked at me in a way that reflected sadness and expectancy. She wasn’t shocked at my request, nor did she ever want to disappoint me in any way. I left the house feeling a twinge of guilt, and proceeded to drown my sorrows on the dance floor and in a glass. I was well aware of how much I sucked as a human being that night.

That was when I was 20. For the next 2 years, my mother dealt with chemo, radiation, hair loss, weight loss, even friend-loss (you truly find out who your friends are when you’re sick). My brother’s wife, who lived upstairs in our two family home with my brother and their two kids, took on most of my mom’s responsibilities, including cooking and washing the clothes. Sadly, I have no recollection of why I wasn’t doing those things back then. Perhaps I was too busy running away and holding on to any semblance of my spoiled existence. It may have even been possible that I knew that she would die, and I’d be left with all of the responsibility for my dad and myself—and that was too harsh a reality to face. I can recall yelling at her to get off the couch and fight for her life…asking her why she was just laying there, day after day, waiting to die. Begging her to go to Sloan Kettering, by far the best cancer research hospital in our area, perhaps even the entire country. She refused, saying it was too much for her, and I shouldn’t worry because her doctor knew what he was doing. I questioned myself as to why I was pleading with her to get off the couch. I knew I really wanted her to get well; no matter how I behaved, I loved my mother. But sometimes I get a sick feeling in my soul that maybe I needed her to get better so that MY life could go back to normal.

I finally began driving my mother around…not to the stores or to a friend’s house as I could have before…but to the hospital for testing, or the doctor’s office, or to an occasional treatment. Why didn’t I ever drive her to a restaurant for lunch when she was well? Why did I always give her a hard time? Why was I so damned difficult and selfish? While the “why’s” fell down upon me like cold, hard sleet, my mom’s condition started to deteriorate. The end was drawing near and not one person in my house was prepared for it.

There was a round-the-clock nurse at our home, a lovely woman who supported the family and eased our burden. My mom’s condition was to the point that when she took a breath in, she exhaled a moan of pain. Constantly. It was the most horrifying thing to listen to, knowing full well that we were all helpless to comfort her. I used to pray at night to God that if He wasn’t going to let a bolt of lightening strike her and cure her, could He just take her home with Him so that she could finally be in peace? Again, the guilt engulfed me, as I wondered whose pain was going to be eased more if she died—hers or mine.

The last day of her life is both lucid and a blur. I know that, after a fight with the oncologist and a prescription for an increased dosage of Morphine from our own family physician, my mom’s pain started to subside. Her moaning decreased, but her visions increased—she was muttering “Hi, Mom” about an hour before she passed, apparently to her mother who had died seven years earlier. I know that there were family members around, people sitting all over our living room while the clock ticked, making small talk about anything and nothing at all. I know it was a beautiful, dry, hot first day of August, and that I took a walk to the hairdresser down the block where my cousin was getting her hair cut. I remember thinking how clear and blue the sky looked, and how fresh the air smelled. My cousin drove me home, and I remember when we walked in the door that I didn’t hear my mom anymore…and I thought she had passed while I was gone.

The nurse called me into the room and told me that my mom had a few minutes left. I looked at her frail little body, so weak and yet so beautiful. I kissed her forehead that had the aroma of peaches or some kind of fruit…I’m not sure what it was, but she smelled like that often during her last few weeks. I spoke to her gently and told her I loved her. I told her some other things that I just can’t remember. But when I touched her arm, it felt cold. I noticed that her chest was barely moving. A wave of something came over me—I’m not sure if it was fear, sorrow or regret—and I started wailing, “Mommy!! Mommy!! Don’t leave me!!” To this day I don’t remember who dragged me out of the room. But two minutes later, the nurse came out, walked directly over to me, placed her hand on my shoulder and said, “Lisa, I think she’s gone now.” That was it. It was over.

My mom died on a Thursday. Since the cemeteries on Long Island don’t bury the deceased on Sunday, and we needed time for our relatives from California to come out, we decided to bury her on Monday. I say “we”, because at some point in the last few weeks of my mother’s life, I became somewhat responsible. This became apparent the day after her death, when we went to the funeral home to make arrangements. I went with my dad, my brother and one of my uncles, who supposedly came with us for “moral support”, but did little more than sit in the office in a drunken stupor. As the funeral director spewed out various necessities to us in succession, I noticed my father becoming more and more confused. At one point, he looked at me and said, “What do you think?” With those four words, I entered into adulthood.

I took control of everything from that moment on, from picking out the casket to lending the director a picture of my mother and telling him, “Make her look like that.” I held my head up high at her SRO wake, welcoming long-lost friends and relatives, dealing with a godmother I never knew that I had and chuckling over an ex-boyfriend who cried harder than I did. I was strong that day, and in the days that followed. I felt different. Life, as I knew it, was over. I was now a full-fledged grown-up, and there was no turning back.

(The third installment of "The Eleven-Year Glitch" will be posted next week.)

The Eleven-Year "Glitch"

2007-02-04T13:39:00.000-05:00

Someone recently commented to me that they would like to know several things that I consider strange about myself. Although the list could go on and on, I wanted to specify one particular aspect of my life that I myself consider “strange”. And that’s what I call my “Eleven-Year Glitch”.

Several years ago, while reviewing the altering events that happened in my life, I came to realize that they all happened in an “11th” year. The first event, when I was eleven, involved a huge family migration from New York to California. I admit; at first, I was excited to go to this far away land that my father spoke of so enthusiastically. But as time went on (and I listened in on more of my mom’s phone conversations with her friends), I realized that the only reason he wanted to move was because his sisters and father wanted to move…and they only reason they wanted to move was because their famous brother had just moved there (he was Frank Sinatra's comedian, Pat Henry). Everyone was enamored with a vision of endless celebrity encounters and the promise of a more glamorous lifestyle (at least, that’s what it seemed like to me). I will admit that the thought of leaving for California with my cousins (even down to taking the plane flight together) made the event all the more bearable. But once we actually got there, we ended up moving to different towns--my cousins to Calabasas, my family to Thousand Oaks. Although I got to see them often, I wished we were going to be in school together.

The harsh reality of moving to California for me was that, although it was indeed beautiful, I was at the worst possible age to move to a place where I felt as if I didn’t even speak the language (and was reminded of it every single day of my life by my peers). From the very first day of school, the other students taunted me. At recess, a dirty-blonde, long-haired, tan-legged typical California girl walked up to me with her accessory Barbie friend and told me that if I wanted to fit in with anyone, I would have to actually look like I lived in California, and not on Mars. She informed me that “We don’t wear nylons here.”

First of all, what the heck is a “nylon”?? You mean my stockings? Well, fine then, I’ll toss them as soon as I get home. But don’t blame me if you need sunglasses to look at my legs.

And the next tidbit of advice: “You can’t wear those kind of shoes here, they’re not in style.”

What are you saying?? That these white, high-heeled clogs with a strap in the back aren’t considered a fashion “do”?? Fine, I’ll break my mom’s heart and toss them too. Even though I wore them when I was a bridesmaid in my brother’s wedding last year.

And the third and final enlightenment: “We don’t bring purses to school. And when we wear them, we don’t put them over our necks, we just let them hang on our shoulders.”

Purses... Purses?? I’m confused. Back where I come from, a purse is something you put your spare change in. Could she be saying that my whole, entire pocketbook was indeed a “purse”?? Fine…fine. I’ll ditch the “purse” also, although I have no idea how I’m going to carry all of my lip gloss around. Or do we just wear Chap-stick here?

Last year in my school in New York, we all fought over who was going to sit with the new girl at lunch. I guess in California they don't operate that way.

What would’ve been great was if I actually gave her some New York attitude and said the things that I was thinking. Instead, tears just fell down my cheeks as I sat there and nodded my head in mock agreement. And in true movie fashion, she gave me a fake, sweet smile and said, “Okay?” and got up with her non-speaking, expert face-making friend and strutted away—laughing the whole time. I went home and told my mom I was never going back.

Of course, I was forced to go to school every day anyway. I would stand on the lunch line listening to the strains of “NEW YAWKA-PAWKA!!”, or my all-time favorite, “GIMME A KWAUGHTA FOR A CUP-A-WAUGHTA!!” I cried every single day for several months. Then a funny thing happened…I hit puberty in the middle of sixth grade, along with a few other awkward girls. We became friendly, and by seventh grade, I was feeling as if I could finally fit in with most of my peers. I created a couple of close friendships (I still talk to one of those friends every couple of years), and life went on. By eighth grade, I was totally adjusted to my California lifestyle. And of course, as fate would have it, as soon as I felt comfortable I was told that we were moving back to New York.

I don’t remember much from the final few weeks in Thousand Oaks. I can’t even remember packing up my room, or what I did with my beloved Elton John poster in his jeans and short fur jacket. But one memory that’s always been crystal clear to me is the car ride up my street, leaving my house for the very last time to go to the airport. It dawned on me that I didn’t feel as if I were leaving home; I felt as if I were going home. And I was happy.

Next week I’ll post about my second decade “Eleven-Year Glitch”—stay tuned!

Positive Dreaming

2007-01-21T14:37:00.000-05:00

“…In my mind I’m goin’ to Carolina

Can't you see the sunshine

Can't you just feel the moonshine

Ain’t it just like a friend of mine

To hit me from behind

Yes I’m goin’ to Carolina in my mind…”

Aahh…the poetic lyrics of James Taylor, someone whose music I’ve come to know and appreciate more and more in recent years. His relaxing tones, easy voice and entertaining storytelling are something that I find I am able to appreciate as the years go on, especially in a time where most songs on the radio contain lyrics that consist of about five words, and are only intelligent enough to be able to describe some variation of sex using phrases I’ve never even heard of. Although I really don’t know what Mr. Taylor was imagining when he wrote this song, I can tell you that for me, this song represents my present…and my future.

My life in the last ten years has been anything but what I imagined it to be when I was young. I suffered through a divorce, I was a single parent for several years and then married a good man that came in a package deal with two children…plus an ex-wife who had trouble finding stability in her life, and a family that was mostly wonderful, but with problems of their own that unfortunately sometimes stemmed out to us. He was a painting contractor…the “finishing guy”…and although he had a business that was a well-oiled machine, he was never going to be in the six-figure income bracket, no matter what he did.

I had baggage of my own with two kids with Tourette syndrome…and the ADHD that goes hand in hand with that (we suffered through many screams and tears just to get homework done in two hours that should’ve taken 20 minutes). I also had an ex-husband who could be very unstable himself. Although I had returned to school in my early 20’s to major in art, I did not have the opportunity to finish because my mom had passed away, and my dad needed to sell our house. Shortly thereafter, I married and had children. After my divorce, I found myself floating from job to job just to find something enjoyable, lucrative, and that allowed me to leave at 3:00 so I could be home for my kids in the afternoons. I eventually ended up with two out of three (lucrative, part-time jobs that require no former schooling are a rarity on Long Island, and I imagine just about everywhere else as well). Still, I am not where I feel that I'm supposed to be forever.

Enter the power of positive thinking, and the ability to “dream”.

I admit that in my past, I had a tendency to be a “defeatist”—you know, the person whose personal dictionary features the words “I can’t”, “I’ll never” and “If only”, amongst other negative catch-phrases. The culmination of negativity inside of me surfaced after my mother had died. Hadn’t I spent years praying to God every night to “please never let anyone in my family get cancer, have a heart attack, acquire any fatal diseases”, and basically never, ever die? Why didn’t God hear me? I was so twisted in my thinking, that I felt as if everything was useless, and that maybe there just wasn’t a God after all, and we really were a cosmic accident. How could He let her die?

I realized after her funeral that one of my very dear friends, Ann, did not show up to the wake, nor did she even bother to call me at this heartbreaking time. When I brought this fact up to my best friend, she told me that Ann couldn’t come because she was in the hospital having surgery for…cancer. I remember thinking, “Cancer?!? But she’s only 22!” Ann eventually had to have three surgeries (the first initial one to remove an ovary, the second one where she was opened and closed immediately because the hospital was not equipped to handle the severity of her case, and the third time to remove all of her female organs—a complete hysterectomy before she even turned 23). I found it amazing, however, that during her chemotherapy, losing all of her hair, feeling sick as a dog—she was able to keep an upbeat attitude, and only believed for the best. She kept her sense of humor, even if it was self-deprecating, and tried to keep everyone around her thinking positive. I believe one of her biggest tools was a book called, “Love, Medicine and Miracles”, by Dr. Bernie Siegel. She gave me the book and insisted that I read it...telling me it would help me, even though my mom was not around anymore to benefit from it herself.

Reading this book opened my eyes to the power of positive thinking. I started to see how a negative attitude could prevent even the strongest of people from attaining health and vitality. Dr. Siegel describes how people can “will” away something as simple as a cold—how a child who was very sick one day could miraculously feel better the next day if they knew that they were going to do something enjoyable, such as go on a field trip. I started to understand what happened to my mother—she heard the word “cancer” and immediately gave herself a death sentence. There was no positive thinking on her part, except that she was “positively” going to die! Even though we, her family, begged her to go to Sloane Kettering (one of the most prominent cancer hospitals around, and located a mere 40 minutes away from us), she refused to go, saying it was “too much” for her. I don’t know about you, but I would go to the ends of the earth if it meant that I might have a chance to live a quality life and have a brighter future. I’m only sad that my mother wasn’t able to benefit from Dr. Siegel’s positive beliefs while she was still alive, especially since she had one of the most “curable” forms of female cancers.

Through the years, I tried to read more “self-help” books and tried to get rid of the negative framework in my brain. I found that for me, the secret to thinking positive was to have hope for the future, or a “dream”. When I went through my divorce, I got through it by thinking that God felt that I deserved to be treated better, and that there was someone else out there for me who would appreciate me. And I was right…I met a man who seemed to have positive thinking ingrained in his genes, which only helped me more. But imagine where I would be today if I stayed bitter and negative…if I didn’t allow myself to “dream” for a better future. It frightens me to even think about it.

With our situation being what it is, my husband and I have had our share of ups and downs—not with each other, but with those around us. Because we refuse to feel defeated—and there have been times when we were unsteady and almost fell into that pit—we are usually able to handle everything that comes our way, and trust me, there have been some “doozies”. Throughout it all, however, we have been able to overcome the negative with positive thoughts about our future. A future which seems to encompass the peace and tranquility that we desire in our lives right now, but because of our obligations, are unable to attain at this time. Occasionally, I'll do something as simple as placing an inspirational picture or decorative piece strategically in our home...something I'll pass often that will remind me of things that are yet to come, such as the "Dream" sign that rests upon my fireplace mantel. Sometimes the simple things really do count.

One of our dreams is to own a home in the country. A nice, big place with plenty of property so our kids can visit with their families and have room to “run around”. A place where we look out our window and can’t help but feel positive because the view will allow nothing less than a sense of wonder an awe at the miraculous beauty of nature. A place where our friends and family can go to escape the negativity of their own lives, even if it’s only for a day or two. In my dream, I’m cooking breakfast for the multitudes and making them my famous pancakes, bacon, eggs, and coffee. The snow could be falling outside on the evergreens, with my Christmas tree twinkling in the corner of the family room…or the summer sun could allow us to sit on the deck and soak up the view of mountains rising majestically over a lake, blooming flowers and wild birds gathering around the birdfeeder located just outside of my vegetable garden. There’s soft music playing in the background, and everyone is relaxed, de-stressed and un-pressured. However, since this is but a dream right now, I decided that I can not allow myself to wait until we own said country home to feel the pleasures of what I long for.

This morning I decided to make my pancake breakfast for the gaggle of teens that slept over last night. I put on James Taylor, and listened intently as “Carolina in My Mind” played in the background:

“In my mind, I’m goin’ to Carolina…can’t you see the sunshine…can’t you just feel the moonshine…”

In reality, I know that I’m in my crowded house full of teens that come with all of their teen stressors. I know that today is Sunday, and another stressful week of work awaits me tomorrow. I realize that there are family issues that are a long way off from being ironed out at this time. But I’ve “...up and gone to Carolina in my mind”. In my thoughts, I imagined myself in the country, cooking over my old stove in a kitchen at least twice the size of the tangible one I was standing in. I did “see the sunshine”, and I felt happy, as though I did have a taste of “moonshine”. Yes, right now that country home—which will most likely not be anywhere near a Carolina—is all “in my mind”. However, I believe with all of my heart that someday, somewhere—if we continue to think positively—our dream will come to fruition. My proverbial “Carolina” will finally be my reality.

Footnote: Ann is currently 44, has been married for almost 20 years, and has two beautiful adopted daughters.

For further insight on positive thinking, I invite you to visit Carine at http://www.carine-whatscooking.blogspot.com/ and read her most recent post. And for proof positive that a peaceful life in the country can be attained, pop on over to Matty’s post "Never Say Never" at http://runningonempty-matty.blogspot.com/.

The Hero That Brought Our Family Together

2007-01-11T22:08:00.000-05:00

Stepfamilies are a unique bunch. Depending on the circumstances, the union of a man and a woman who each have children of their own can be wonderful, mediocre or downright disheartening. My husband and I were very fortunate to have kids who not only get along, but have a genuine love for each other, even though they don’t share the same genes. This is a true blessing, and we consider ourselves very, very lucky.

With times being what they are, however, my husband and I were finding that we weren’t seeing all that much of the kids. Which is actually kind of funny, because most days, the three younger ones are here at the house—my stepdaughter downstairs in her room on her computer, my daughter upstairs on her computer, and my son outside riding bikes with his friends and popping in to raid the refrigerator every half-hour or so. I would love to say that I have the time to take my daughters somewhere every afternoon so that they’re not holed up staring at their monitors, but the sad truth is that I’m really busy. I leave my very active job and pick up my kids from school…and that’s when the second half of my day begins. By the time I finish picking up my kids (one at 2:30, one at 3:10, the other at 4:00 because he has track), running errands (supermarket, post office, bank, etc.), taking them to work, doctor and dentist appointments, supply shopping—you name it—I don’t usually get to start dinner until after 5:00. That’s when the third half (okay, the third third) of my day starts…eating, cleaning up from dinner, perhaps squeezing in a walk, a yoga class or the gym, showering…I don’t have time left over to do much of anything other than collapse into bed.

About two months ago, my husband and I decided that we really needed one night a week where all six of us sat down at a table together and ate dinner, instead of the two, three, or—if we were lucky—four people that usually showed up. We picked a pizzeria in a town close by, and now on Thursdays we all gather and catch up with one another. Since we realized how much we enjoy each other’s company, this has turned into quite the event, especially for the pizzeria owners. They told us that they look forward to our visits (and our antics) every single week! Around Christmas time, we decided to take a family portrait which consisted of the red checker table cloth for a background, and each member’s head atop a different condiment—garlic powder, salt, pepper, cheese, etc.—the owners admired the fun we were having so much that they requested a copy for themselves!

Yes, Thursdays are fun, but there’s still the empty hole that’s left between Friday and Wednesday. Enter “Guitar Hero”. If you’re not familiar with this video game for Playstation 2, let me introduce you. “Guitar Hero” is a game that consists of a mini-guitar (we have two), a disc, and a TV screen. Along the lines of “Dance Dance Revolution”, one has to press the chords (five different colored frets at the neck of the handheld guitar) to famous rock songs as the corresponding color comes down a little “runway” (or guitar neck) on the screen. Here is the history of the game in our family:

Last Christmas, my daughter requested this game from “Santa”. She received it, only to realize afterward that we no longer had “Playstation 2” because it had broken (it helps to note here that my children’s dad gives them his “hand-me-down” game systems…hence the reason that I wasn’t even aware that we didn’t have “Playstation 2” anymore, because they basically had every other game system, so no one ever informed me). A year went by, and “Guitar Hero” sat in my daughter’s very messy closet, totally untouched…perhaps waiting for the day that we relented and spent the $110.00 to buy a used “Playstation 2” so it could finally be used.

On Christmas Eve of 2006, we went to my cousin’s house for the festivities. During the course of the night, my son went into the basement to play video games, and came across “Guitar Hero”. That was it. One game, and he was hooked! After Christmas, he took all of his gift cards and gift money, and went to the game store to buy a used “Playstation 2” so that he could use his sister’s “Guitar Hero” that’s been gathering dust in her closet for the last 12 months. That was December 26th, and he hasn’t put the game down yet (except for his daily visits to school…and he’s actually playing “Freebird” as I write this)!

Before we knew it, “Guitar Hero” had become somewhat of a phenomenon amongst the four kids. Where there used to be the silent clicking of computer keys, there was now the blaring electric strains of Guns N Roses, Boston, and various other artists followed by the screams, moans and belly laughter belonging to none other than—you guessed it—our kids! Most of them skipped over the “easy” and “medium” level, and made it to the “hard” level within a week. My son and daughter took it one step further and didn’t quit until they made “expert”—quite a feat for only having the game for a week! Oh, and did I mention that my husband and I have gotten in on the action as well? Not only do we play with our kids, but just the other night we battled guitars to Cheap Trick’s “Surrender”. Nothing like a little healthy competition between a couple to spice things up…especially when I win!

Okay, I know. I’m exuberant over a video game. Yes, I realize that it may seem like I've finally fallen off the deep end...after all, I am in my 40's. I'm supposed to hate video games and blame the demise of our country on them and MTV. And although there may be some valid reasoning to that, all I can defend myself with is that there is no sound sweeter in this world to me than the hysterical laughter of my four kids, especially when it’s in perfect harmony in my living room. A heroic feat by any means!

Remembering Lou

2007-01-01T16:52:00.000-05:00

(It's hard to condense a long life into a short post...which is why this one's longer than usual! But there's a reason that I needed to tell this story today. I would like to introduce you to my father, Lou.)

This is a condensed story of my dad, Louis Francis Scarnato (or, "Luigi Frangisci Scarrrrnato", as he used to love to pronounce it). Lou spent most of his childhood in Brooklyn, NY. He was the oldest of four children, born to Joseph and Rose Scarnato. During his teenage years, he acquired the nickname of “Screwy Louie”, a name affectionately bestowed on him by his own family. Apparently, my dad went against the grain…he had his own agenda, whatever that was, and he did his own thing apart from the family most of the time. However, he held a very special place in his heart for his beloved grandmother, who lived close by. He would visit her almost every day, plop himself down in her kitchen, and eat her homemade bread that she baked each morning. According to him, he would occasionally miss school in order to spend time with her.

One of the first major life events that sculpted my dad’s future was the death of his grandmother. As the story goes, she died in the kitchen where she spent most of her time, and my father apparently witnessed this horrible scene. I say apparently, because each member of our family has heard a different version of this particular story, but irregardless, his life would never be the same. He had often said that his grandmother was more of a mother to him than his own, and he missed her terribly. He spoke of her even after he was a grandfather himself.

When Lou was 18, he went to a party with several cousins and friends. He noticed a very beautiful, young girl conversing with her friends on the other side of the room, and just knew he had to meet her…but didn’t quite know how to go about it. During the course of the party, a game was played where the girls picked papers out of one hat, and the boys picked papers out of another hat. Each paper in the girl’s hat had an item written on it—for example, “coat”—and the boy’s hat contained papers with things that would go with the items that the girls had, such as “jacket”. The boy and girl who had the similar match would then be coupled off to dance together. Very cunningly, my father found out that the pretty girl’s paper said “brush”…not good, because his paper said “fork”! So he found his friend who had “comb”, and bribed him into switching papers with him! And history was made with a switch of two small scraps of paper. He met the woman who would eventually become his wife—his “Helene”.

At nineteen, my father joined the Air Force and went off to do his duty in World War 2. He flew thirteen combat missions, crashing once and finishing his tour of duty with many, many stories that he would tell for years to come. When he came home, he married Helene (who eventually took the "e" off the end of her name), and they began a life together that would produce two children (myself being one of them), and that would last until she died of cancer and was buried on their 40th wedding anniversary in 1985.

My dad loved to perform. He taught himself to read music and play the piano, and wrote several songs throughout his life, including “My Helene”, which he had copyrighted and published. He was a master at “boogie woogie”: his jazzy style could make anyone tap their toes and jump out of their seat. The piano literally bounced up and down when he played! Ironically, his younger brother actually became a famous comedian, working with the likes of Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin and Sammy Davis, Jr. My father often tagged along with his brother and loved to be a part of this stellar crowd. No matter what, however, my dad never once showed any envy or jealousy toward his beloved brother. He was always happy for him, even though deep down we knew he must’ve wanted even a little taste of fame for himself.

Lou plugged away at being an engineer. The man could fix anything, and often did…there was always someone calling our house with a request for him to come over and fix a washing machine, a dryer, a dishwasher…and he would be more than happy to stop whatever he was doing and help them out. His sense of direction was unmatched…he loved maps, and could get himself anywhere without making a mistake. However, he did tend to suffer from extreme road rage, and would drive 40 minutes out of his way to chase someone who cut him off, being sure to use his extended vocabulary of curse words the whole time. We’re not quite sure why he did this; but it seemed to satisfy some primal urge inside of him, and he eventually would calm down and get back on track!

Yes, his temper was very intimidating sometimes. Although he never laid a hand on me as a child, there wasn’t one time that he yelled at me that I didn’t wet my pants! He didn’t yell often, but when he did, watch out! True to his “screwiness”, within five minutes of him causing me to empty my bladder, he would be sheepishly laughing and wondering how I could be so scared of him. The man truly had no idea that he could be scary; he honestly didn’t view himself that way! Unfortunately, this might be the reason some people call me “Looney Lisa”.

Although I could go on and on with endless stories of my dad (there are always future posts to write), let’s fast forward into the future a little, after my mom had died. My father loved my mother. He really, truly did. He was not always the best-behaved husband; he did like to drink a little too much sometimes. But when that woman was sick, there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for her. After her death, he went into a depression that seemed to last for years.

Eventually, he acquired a rental apartment in a senior complex. This literally saved his life—he began to perform at holiday functions, and helped organize a comedy/musical troupe that traveled to different senior centers throughout our area. He was THE MAN. There wasn’t one woman who didn’t want to be with my dad…his white hair, his impeccable dress…and he always smelled really good, to boot! But one woman caught his eye, and since her name was “Helen”, he decided that this relationship was meant to be.

Lou and Helen carried on a little love affair for several years at the senior center before deciding to move to Florida together. My brother and I were not thrilled with this arrangement; Helen didn’t want to get married because she was still collecting social security from, um, one of her former husbands. She wasn’t the warmest of human beings, and we weren’t really sure what her intentions were concerning my father. But being the stubborn Italian that he was, he went anyway, and they purchased a small home on the East coast.

My dad didn’t visit too often once he moved, but he seemed happy and was continuing to delight people with his piano playing at the clubhouse, and keeping busy by playing golf, riding his bike and working as a “greeter” at Wal-Mart—the perfect job for him, being that he was so outgoing. Over the course of the next couple of years, we noticed that he was drinking a little more, and calling to complain about his companion after imbibing in one too many. It seemed he was having an issue over her refusal to marry him, to really commit. Little did we know what was to come.

In his 75th year, at a holiday party at the clubhouse down the road, he began to argue with Helen. He drank more martinis than I care to mention and became agitated and obnoxious, as he often did if he drank anything other than beer. Helen became annoyed at him, and walked home from the party. My father drove home a short time later, pulling the car so far up the driveway that he almost went through the house. He stumbled out of his car; wobbling, he lost his balance and fell head first into the windshield. That blow most likely knocked him out, and he fell down onto the cement. Watching all this from her window, Helen decided that she was going to leave him there rather than see if he was okay. A short time later, some neighbors knocked on her door to inform her that he was lying in the driveway, and only then did she make an effort to bring him inside. Nothing was done for my father. No ambulance was called. He was put to bed, and that was that. He wasn’t himself the next day, or the day after that; by day three, he was wetting himself and he didn’t know his name. Helen finally got him to the hospital, where it was discovered that he had a huge hematoma on his brain due to the fall. Surgery was imminent. Only then did she call me to tell me the whole saga, and I was quite surprised by her honesty.

He seemed to make it through the surgery with flying colors; his speech was a little slow, and he was unable to move as quickly as he once had. He seemed on the road to recovery until he developed more blood on his brain, and had to have another surgery. During this period, I would fly down and visit him several times, each time my heart breaking more at his deterioration. Eventually, he recovered enough that Helen thought it would be a good idea if he flew up to New York for my son’s First Communion.

The last time my father had visited , about six months before his accident, he sat at my piano and played for what seemed like hours. He had on his Izod sweater and his neatly pressed jeans, and his thick, white “combover” made him look ten years younger than what he actually was (he learned how to “fake” having hair the professional way from Frank Sinatra’s stylist years before…this wasn’t your everyday, greasy, three-haired “combover”). But the man who came off the plane in a wheelchair was feeble and old-looking; there was no hair on the top of his head, only scars from the surgeries. His legs were skinny, his trunk was puffy. But then, there it was: That crooked, warm smile and the slurred joke about not being able to go to the bathroom for three hours. He was still Lou.

He was still able to walk short distances, and he enjoyed himself at the communion and several other outings during his week-long stay. He went back to Florida with a good attitude, and I really felt that there was hope that he would improve. I was wrong.

More blood developed on his brain, and he had to have another surgery. He then had several “mini-strokes”, and really started to deteriorate to the point that he could no longer walk or use the bathroom. Helen did her best to take care of him; I believe that she felt guilty for what she had (or hadn’t) done several years before on that fateful night. But eventually, he became too much for her to handle, and he had to go into a nursing home. The last time we visited him as a family, he was unable to remember my name…he knew that he knew me, he just couldn’t place where he knew me from. When I told him I was his daughter, I was never really sure if he was telling the truth that he remembered me. He didn’t remember his grandkids, and he especially didn’t remember my husband or his children, either. But he was so pleasant and kind during our visit…he didn’t speak much, but when he did, he always tried to have a humorous demeanor about him. Once when he dozed off, we spoke with his roommate, who was listening to Frank Sinatra CD’s. He told us how he loved to listen to Frank, and other artists from that era. I said to him, “Well, then, you must LOVE my father’s stories about Frank Sinatra!” He looked at me curiously, as if he had no clue what I was talking about. I added, “I’m sure my father told you about his brother, the comedian, and all of his Sinatra stories?” His roommate looked at me sadly and said, “Your father doesn’t talk.” I knew then and there that Lou was no longer himself…only a mere shell of the vibrant life force that had graced this earth for 83 years.

Last December 31st, Helen called me to tell me that my dad wasn’t doing well. They thought he had pneumonia, and it didn’t look good, but he had pulled out of pneumonia before and she wasn’t sure what was going to happen. The next morning, on New Year’s Day, I called the hospital and spoke with his nurse. She told me that he was probably not going to make it this time, and made it clear that he could last a day, several days, maybe a week. I hung up the phone sadly. This was how it was going to end…and the next time I saw my father, it would be in a casket. Something came over me, and I immediately called the airline to get on the next flight. I made arrangements for my kids, and decided to fly myself down to Florida for 24 hours. I just knew I had to be with my dad, to see him one last time.

I always flew into Orlando airport when I visited my dad. There was an airport closer to the nursing home, but it was small and inefficient, and I couldn’t fly on Delta or Jet Blue to get there. Orlando was an hour away from the nursing home, so I knew once I got off that plane that I had to bolt to the rental car booth and pick up my vehicle. Of course, there was a problem with the car they assigned me, and I had to wait several minutes for them to get me another one. I felt anxious, like time was wasting away, and I tried to calm myself down so that I could drive the dark, desolate Bee Line Expressway with a clear head.

I drove for a little over and hour, and finally found the hospital after accidentally going in the direction of the nursing home by habit. I parked the car and ran into the emergency entrance, the only entrance that was open, being that it was now 11pm. I inquired with some very kind security gentlemen as to how to get to the second floor, and they pointed me in the right direction. When I got to the second floor nursing station, a quiet, soft-spoken nurse asked me who I was there to see. When I told her “Lou Scarnato”, she held my hand and looked at me. “I want you to know that he’s nearing the end,” she softly said. “I didn’t want you to be surprised and I wanted you to be prepared for that when you saw him.” I thanked her, and assured her that I knew he wasn’t doing well and that’s why I made the trip down.

The hospital was quiet and peaceful. There was soft lighting and remnants of Christmas still decorating the counters and moldings. I had never seen a carpet throughout a hospital, but this place seemed more like an upscale hotel with its hunter green and gold, grand-designed wall-to-wall. The nurse walked me to my father’s room, which was dimly lit, the window curtain still opened to the black night outside. My father lay still and quiet, his mouth open as if he were about to snore. “Oh!!” she yelped, and stopped in her tracks. “…I think he just passed!”

“…Right NOW??” I said unbelievably. “You mean, just this minute?!?”

“Yes, yes…I was just in here a half-hour ago! He must’ve waited until you got here.”

Well, well, I thought. Isn’t that just like Screwy Louie? Always in a rush to go where he wanted, when he wanted. He didn’t want to wait anymore. He wanted to be with Helene. He wanted to be with his parents, with his beloved grandmother…even his pets, animal lover that he was. Couldn’t he wait just five minutes longer? But it dawned on me. He did wait. He waited for me to take that three-hour flight. He waited for me to drive an hour down that dastardly Bee Line Expressway; he waited for me as I got my streets mixed up once I got into town. He waited until I got to the hospital…and waited until I got to his room. Yes, he did wait for me. I walked over to his body, still warm with tiny beads of sweat on his forehead. I kissed him and gave him a hug. I spoke to him and thanked him for waiting for me to get there. Then I looked out the window into the still of the night and imagined my father and my mother, hand in hand, waving to me from outside. I knew with all of my heart that she had come to take him to his new home, and I felt great peace.

I admit, I did think to myself, “What a way to start the New Year.” But in essence, I knew that the year was starting off on a positive note, as strange as that sounds. My father could finally be Lou again. He was finally free of living in the prison of his own, non-functional body. He was at peace with God, whom he loved and respected his whole life. And that led our family to peace.

During the moment of worship usually reserved for prayer at his wake, the priest stated that instead of the usual spiritual music that he normally played, he decided to find another piece that he felt would better suit Lou. He asked us to bow our heads in prayer, and clicked the “play” button on his tape player. To our surprise, a piano started to play the most lively, fun-loving “boogie-woogie” music we had heard since the days that my father had played for us! And I knew that wherever Lou Scarnato was, he was playing once more.

Louis Francis Scarnato: April 2, 1922—January 1, 2006. Happy one-year anniversary in heaven, Daddy.

A Little Behind

2006-12-31T13:13:00.000-05:00

To all of my dear fellow bloggers,

Just a note to let you know that I haven't fallen off the face of the earth.

This has been a whirlwind of a week, and I have barely had time to catch a breath, let alone have some quiet time to sit and write the post that's been in my head for several weeks.

I usually go through a very mild "depression" after Christmas is over...I am one of those people who gets a real kick out of decorating, visiting, driving around looking at Christmas lights, listening to Christmas music 24/7...well, you get the idea. I do go a little overboard. I am fortunate enough to still have the ability to feel that "Christmas spirit" the way I did as a child. No, not all day, every day...but every once in a while, it sneaks up on me, and I feel such joy. It's almost addicting.

So here I am, on New Year's Eve, feeling the "blues" once again. It's as though one of my very dearest friends has come to visit for a month, and warmed my heart during their whole stay. This friend brought light into my life, gave me moments of peaceful pleasure, and brought melancholy tears to my face as well. But now my dear friend has to pack up and leave, not to be seen again until after Thanksgiving, 2007. And I will miss this friend dearly. Tomorrow I will help my friend start packing, and I will remind them how very much their visit has meant to me, this year and every year.

I will be back tomorrow with a post about another very dear person who touched my life...my dad.

The Best Memory

2006-12-22T19:07:00.000-05:00

Ten Christmases ago, I spent my first holiday season as a single mom in my new home. It was small and charming, but just perfect for me and my two kids, who were 8 and 5 at the time.

I know that the lie of “Santa Claus” is something that can make certain people cringe, but I admit it…I had my kids reeled in hook, line and sinker that the old, chubby guy came down the fireplace chimney every year. He was a great bargaining tool once Labor Day was over: “You’re gonna get coal in your stocking from Santa if you continue to fight like that!!!” Or, “You’d better do your homework, or Santa’s gonna tell Rudolph not to slow down when he flies over our house!” Thankfully, I didn’t have to use these threats often, as the sheer joy of the season would usually promote a sense of compliance and an attitude of easy-going-ness within my kids that was unexplainable.

That year I went a little overboard with my credit card. I was feeling a little displaced, and I wanted to make sure that my kids had a wonderful holiday despite our family circumstances. Once I put my kids to bed on Christmas Eve and was sure that they were asleep, I began to take out the gifts I had bought them “from Santa”, and place them under the tree. There was barely one inch of our tiny living room that wasn’t covered with presents! What couldn’t fit under the tree ended up on the couch or leaning against the wall. Presents were everywhere, and I began to get depressed thinking about the bills that would show up in January.

Since we had gone to bed late the night before, my kids slept in on Christmas morning. By about 10am, I couldn’t take it anymore, and I called upstairs with enthusiasm to tell them that Santa had been there while they slept! I heard their little feet hit the floor as both of them jumped out of bed and came running down the staircase, which ran along the side of the living room. About halfway down the steps, where the living room first came into full view, they stopped dead in their tracks and gasped; their mouths hung wide open.

“DYLAN!! WE MUST’VE BEEN REALLY GOOD THIS YEAR!!!” my daughter excitedly exclaimed.

Yes, my sweet angels, you were.

May you all have the healthiest and happiest of holidays, and may God bless you and yours in the coming new year.

Of Honesty and Integrity

2006-12-17T14:15:00.000-05:00

As we all try to traverse through this journey called life, we invariably come to crossroads in our path where we have to make decisions. Sometimes these decisions seem small and insignificant, such as “Should I go for the caffeine, or stick with the decaf?” As unimportant as that choice may seem, choosing the caffeine could have serious consequences such as heart palpitations or an inability to fall asleep. However, a decision such as this rarely affects anyone else other than the person making it. It is the larger, more significant choices in life that usually create a ripple effect, the choices that may impinge on other people…and as I age, I find that selfish decision-making, unfortunately, has become an acceptable part of society. It seems as if people are no longer concerned with how other people are going to react to their decisions, as long as they themselves are getting what they want—quite possibly at the expense of someone else’s feelings or even the quality of their life. It also seems that people have forgotten what the word “integrity” means: the quality of possessing and steadfastly adhering to high moral principles or professional standard. Sadly, integrity has become nothing more than a dinosaur facing extinction: an Ice Age of narcissism covering it and leaving nothing behind but the fossilized remains of a more innocent, honest generation gone by.

One public example of this was the recent fiasco involving OJ Simpson, and the release of his book called, “If I Did It”—and the subsequent TV special that was to coincide with this release. When I first heard of this implausible concept, my mouth fell open, and I was certain that this was the end of humanity as we knew it. I couldn’t conceive that any human being with a soul could make a decision to pay this man even one dollar to write a book so repulsive and offensive. Everyone involved with this debacle made unbelievably narcissistic, self-serving decisions—all for the sake of the almighty dollar. Where was the concern for the Brown family? Hadn’t they been through enough? And most importantly…where was this man’s concern for his own children? Irregardless of how he felt about Nicole Brown Simpson, she was their mother. It wasn’t enough that he made a horrific, irreversible decision that ruined his children’s lives years ago…now, because of his lust for money, he decided to rub salt on their wounds as well. I personally signed petitions and wrote to whomever I could to put a stop to this horrifying event—and the thousands of us who made the decision to take the time to voice our opinions about it thankfully won. It made me feel as if all of humanity was not “lost”; that there was still some power in making the “right” choices.

Over the last few years, I have had to deal with certain individuals who have put so much emphasis on power and money, that they have forgotten how to deal with living, breathing human beings. They have no respect for others’ feelings; they trample whomever “gets in their way” with nary a thought or a concern for the outcome of their actions. They honestly don’t care what other people think—as long as they are instantly gratified and feel that they have gotten what they believe that they wanted. They lie, they cheat, they steal…it doesn’t matter, because the only thing that’s important to them is what they think they need at that moment. The sad part about all of this is that these certain individuals are still not happy. They constantly strive for the ultimate prize: the gold ring of endless elation that they believe will only be attained by fulfilling their every desire and whim immediately, if not sooner. They’re on the "Train to Nowhere", thinking that each new station is where they want to get off until they actually get to that destination. At that point, they realize that they’re still not satisfied, so they stay on the train, thinking that the next station is going to be the one that fulfills all their dreams and they can finally attain what they’re searching for. Sadly, these people will probably spend their whole lives on this train. They’re still riding the tracks as I write this. They will always be looking for “something better”, and will never be grateful for what they are blessed with right now. I actually don’t feel anger at these people; I feel pity.

I don’t always make the right decisions, and I’m sure that we all, at one time or another, have greatly regretted some that we’ve made. However, I would like to believe that most of us genuinely care about how our decisions affect those around us—that we would honestly be hurt if a choice we made hurt someone we loved or cared about, or that guilt would overwhelm us if we tried to be dishonest at our place of business. It’s not always easy or convenient to make the decisions that we know are “right”. I truly believe, though, that holding onto our integrity reaps the ultimate reward of self-respect and the trust of others—two of the most important qualities one can possess.

I am a Yearly Decorator

2006-12-07T21:39:00.000-05:00

(The following is an essay that I wrote November 16, 1978 for English class. I was 15 and in 10th grade. I have always stressed that everything that I’ve posted on my blog is the truth. Ironically, one of the first “A-plusses” that I received in high school—this essay—is completely made up and a total lie! I don’t think there is one shred of truth in there. I didn’t even use my real first name! I hope that you enjoy my very first fictitious post! )

Well, it’s that time of year again, the time of cheer and goodwill towards men, love, joy, peace, snow—and decorating. Yes, it’s that time when our living room becomes a cheerful victim of my annual decorating job. Scattered all around it are seasonal trinkets of tiny angels, trees, snowmen and Santa’s, with candles gleaming in the windows, wall-to-wall- wreaths, and of course, a giant, jovial tree in the corner that is fat and plump and seems to say, “Everyone is welcome in this home as long as they have love in their hearts” to every person who walks in the front door. ...Can we say "run-on" sentence?

I always try to make everything look as seasonal as possible, even the piano and television, who both get equal amounts of tinsel and false snow. Spelled out across the mirrored wall are the sparkling words, “Merry Christmas”, and songbook after songbook piled on carol books and what-not are on the piano bench, just sitting there patiently waiting to be played. Beneath the twinkling lights in the big front window are three well-carved candles: One red and one green each on the outside, and in the middle a sweet, white angel, all three flickering in the small breeze my father makes as he walks past. I don't think I ever saw my mom light a candle in my whole entire life, unless she was at church. And tinsel and false snow? Not in the "White Glove's" house. It was waaay too messy.

Last but not least, of course, is the beautiful Christmas tree resting in its corner that it will stay in for a few more spirited weeks. A bit modern, it has blinking lights all around, silver garland, and a beautiful lit-up star that sends little butterflies down in your stomach fluttering away. But mostly the tree is antique-looking with balls and bells and angels and stars dating back over forty years. Underneath the tree are presents from each member of the family and for each one. Okay, some of that's true...we did have some real old ornaments, but they were actually bunches of grapes. At least I didn't write about our previous aluminum tree.

I am sad the day I have to see all my treasures going back to the cellar, but I am glad I made so many people smile when they walked into the room.

By,
Lee Scarnato ...I think I was right on schedule for the "I hate my name so let me use a cool nickname" phase.

Santa and Bruno

2006-11-30T10:09:00.000-05:00

Every family has its holiday traditions, and ours is no exception. We are Italian, so therefore our big night is Christmas Eve. We serve several courses of various kinds of fish: fried calamari and shrimp cocktail for appetizers; mussels marinara and baccala balls as a first course; and a delicious red clam sauce with aldente linguini for a main course that only my aunt and my cousin can create in their special way every year. There is red wine aplenty, and after dinner we serve whole nuts with a nutcracker and fruit to pick on such as tangerines, pears and grapes. Dessert consists of the usual Italian fare of cannolis, Sfogliatelle , Napoleons and rum cakes, and of course, my famous varied-flavor-of-the-month-brownies made from scratch. Christmas music by Frank Sinatra is a given.

In between courses, we pause for a game of “Initials”…for example, we’ll write “Merry Christmas” down one side of a piece of paper, and right next to it, we’ll write it again, but going upwards (that would make the first two initials “MS”). We place an egg timer on the table and set it for 5 minutes, and begin to find celebrities, athletes and even cartoon characters that match the initials (for instance, “MS” could be Mark Spitz, the Olympic swimming champion who won seven gold medals in 1972). The person who has the most “for real” names when the timer goes off wins! What they win, we still don’t know.

Sometimes we’ll place a sticker on everyone’s backs when they arrive with the name of someone famous written on it. The point of that icebreaker game is to ask other people yes or no questions about who “you” are and figure out what person is stuck on your back (for example, one year my then-58-year-old, rap-hating brother “J” had “Eminem” stuck on his back…it took him all night to ask the right questions before he guessed who he was, and once he did, we all fell on the floor laughing at the expression on his face)!

In years past, we had a wonderful tradition of singing “The Twelve Days of Christmas”, assigning each of the twelve days to different people who would sing their part of the song on cue. My dear, departed Uncle Murray was always the “Five Golden Rings”, and he sang it in his best baritone to all of our enjoyment. Sadly, as our parents passed on, the tradition of this fun song seemed to pass on with them. However, the young people decided that it was time to build some traditions of their own, and one Christmas about 15 years ago, Santa and Bruno were born.

Santa and Bruno are sorry-looking Christmas creatures played by my two nephews, Chris and Chris (thankfully, they aren’t brothers!). Santa has a cotton ball beard taped onto his chin, each puff hanging single-file down to the end of his neck. His hat is a classic Claus cap, but his pants vary every year from disco pants to ripped jeans to green tights. Bruno, his red-dot-cheeked-sidekick, always wears an elf cap and elf ears, even if he has to create them himself out of various household items. They arrive sometime around 11pm and hand out personally crafted presents to everyone in attendance. However, these are not your usual handmade gifts. These are very, very special Santa and Bruno gifts.

The first year of Santa and Bruno, I got a piece of sidewalk chalk with a face drawn on it and a pushpin nose. This has become my signature gift every year since, although some years it varies by color or even theme (I believe one year the chalk was dressed in Barbie clothes, and another year the pushpin had a propeller on it). There have been gifts such as my husband’s “Health Food Starter Kit” which consisted of a dried-up baby carrot inside of a round film case. Or the time my cousin got a “Diet Utensil Set” that contained a spoon with three holes drilled into it and a fork with no prongs. My sister-in-law got a thong made out of duct tape once. But our favorite gifts seem to be the ones that they bestow onto my brother (of the afore-mentioned “Eminem” fame).

Knowing the borderline hypochondriac that he is, Santa and Bruno are always careful to create just the right item to pack in their sack for “J”. Three years ago, “J” got a fortune cookie that was configured out of some unidentifiable food. When he opened it up, his fortune read, “You have 20 minutes left to live.” Okay, so it wasn’t funny to my brother. But it had the rest of us rolling because we understand his death paranoia so well. One year he got a membership to the OJ Simpson Fan Club. One of the best gifts that “J” ever got was labeled “My First Pool Toy” and was made out of a wooden handle, two feet of rope and a 10 lb. round weight. After that, he wondered if someone was trying to tell him something.

The funny thing is, every year Chris and Chris seem to miss Santa and Bruno’s visit, and only show up after they’ve left. What’s even funnier is that the whole family goes along with it every single time; we all put on our sad faces and whine that if only they arrived 5 minutes earlier, they finally would’ve met Santa and Bruno!

Okay, I have a weird family, it’s true. However, our love of laughter keeps us going even through the worst of times…and trust me, we’ve seen our share. But I find that it’s traditions such as these that make for the wonderful memories that we have that bring out our Christmas spirit every year. Our Christmas Eve celebration has always been exceptional in days gone by, and will continue to be special in the years to come. With Santa and Bruno, how could it not be?

Happy Holidays!!

Thanksgiving Day Debacles

2006-11-22T20:29:00.000-05:00

During my first marriage, Thanksgiving was always at my house every year. I preferred it this way because I could have both of our respective families over at the same time, and there was none of that “who’s-turn-is-it-weren’t-we-at-your-mom’s-last-year” nonsense going on. I certainly had enough room, and everyone was always willing to come. For the most part, our families got along, even if it was a contest between the two as to who was the loudest.

My Turkey Day feasts eventually went off without a hitch, but this was not so in the beginning. The first Thanksgiving that I ever hosted was in 1988. I invited both families over, and my brother-in-law S, who was still single at the time, decided to spend the night before at my house and help us out in the morning with the preparations. I had never cooked a turkey before, nor had I cooked much of anything prior to that day, but I figured that it couldn’t be very hard…all I had to do was put it in the oven with some butter, salt and pepper. Heck, I could handle that.

I got up that Thanksgiving morning about 6am in order to go to the turkey farm that was ½ hour away and pick up my fresh turkey. I got back some time after 7, and came back to find S and my husband, D, awake and hanging out. I took the turkey out of the packaging, and placed it on my table. Something didn’t look right; the turkey looked closed. Wasn’t it supposed to be hollow? I called D and S in to see what they thought. At the time, S was in medical equipment sales, and after viewing the solid turkey, he got a brainstorm to take a laser machine out of his trunk and try to laser open the poor bird.

I can not even begin to explain what the scent of raw turkey flesh smells like when it’s being burned open by a ray of red light. All of the wonderful holiday essences that should have been wafting through my house that morning turned into a smoky, dead-skin odor that even made the dog want to stay outside. I finally couldn’t take it any more, and decided to call up my cousin, T (who graciously taught me how to cook after my mom died, and who was coming over later that day for dinner), and ask her for her advice.

“I’ve never in my life heard of a “closed” turkey…are you sure it’s solid??” she queried.

“Yes, there’s just a tiny hole, but it’s solid inside of the hole!” I answered back in a panic.

“…Are you telling me that when you spread the legs open, that there’s no cavity there?”

“…Ummm…when I spread the legs open…??”

Embarrassingly enough, it was at this moment that I realized that the three of us had just spent the last half hour trying to burn a hole into the turkey where its head should’ve been! We also realized that we were supposed to untie the legs…and once we did, lo and behold, there was the cavity. We had a great laugh, and went on to have a really fun Thanksgiving, especially when that story went around the table!

My next turkey fiasco came nine years later. I was newly divorced, and it was the very first Thanksgiving that I was spending in my new home. Although my cousin T volunteered to have dinner at her house, I insisted that it was my holiday and my marital status was not going to stop me from cooking a delicious Thanksgiving dinner.

The only problem was that my brain was not functioning at full capacity yet since the demise of the marriage. I purchased a frozen turkey for the first time and didn’t realize how long it would take to defrost. It was also the year that T insisted that I stuff the turkey, something I had never done before (I always cooked the stuffing on the side). That morning, the turkey seemed to be pliable, and I cooked my stuffing and shoved it inside of the bird at 11am. It was a large bird, and was supposed to take over 6 hours to cook. This meant that we could have feasibly begun eating at about 6pm…so I told everyone to come at 5. My sister-in-law, J, was in charge of the vegetable platter for an appetizer. I put out some chips and dip, and left it at that…none of us wanted to fill up on junk before the hefty dinner that we would eat.

Mostly everyone showed up at 5:30, technically a half-hour after the turkey was to be done. For some reason, however, it just wasn’t cooking. We decided to take out the stuffing and place it in a separate dish…but when we did, it was soggy and covered in bloody liquid—and worse yet, it was cold.

“Lisa…did you defrost the turkey all the way??” T asked.

“Uhh…yeah, I thought so…I mean, the inside was a little frozen, but I figured it would cook.”

“You can’t cook a frozen turkey, you turkey!! And you especially can’t stuff it!!”

Now it was closing in on 6:30, and the turkey was still nowhere near done. The vegetables had long been devoured, as well as the chips and dip, and now everyone was famished. We held on for another hour, served some more drinks and then checked the turkey again. To our disbelief, there was still pink juice flowing out of it, so we placed it back into the oven again. To make a long story short, we finally took that bird out of the oven about 8:15pm! We put my cousin’s husband, R, in charge of the slicing. All of the women were running around the dining room trying to place the rest of the food on the table, refill wine, etc…when all of a sudden, we hear, “T?? Ummm…Can you come into the kitchen for a minute?? I don’t know what this is.” My cousin left to go see what the matter was, and we began to hear loud laughter coming from the kitchen. We ran in to see R holding up the package of giblets that he had just pulled out of the cooked turkey! It seems that in my haste, or rather, in my state of first-time singleness, I had completely forgotten to take out the giblets packed in paper. J started to laugh so hard that she actually wet her pants. To this day, she retells this story to everyone she meets…and it is definitely one for our family history books!!

(My family has since outgrown this house as far as having any holidays here…and I actually HAVE to do the “Whose year is it?” routine now…but at least I don’t have to risk having any more kitchen flops. Then again, they do make for good storytelling!)

25 Things I Realized Today

2006-11-21T22:24:00.000-05:00

1. That teenagers are the most difficult people to deal with
2. That my superiors at work are not always the smartest people
3. That I will always be tired at 3pm no matter what I do
4. That I spend at least 75% of my life waiting for my kids, picking up my kids, driving around my kids and arguing with my kids
5. That steak in a stir fry can not overcook or it gets tough
6. That I appreciate my house, after watching my neighbor’s burn down today
7. That firemen are underrated
8. That I don’t care for teenagers
9. That yoga is really hard
10. That I like yoga anyway
11. That even after taking a yoga class, if I have PMS, my family can still push my buttons enough to make me start throwing pots and pans
12. That my ex-husband can make nasty comments to me and still hurt my feelings
13. That I have my ex-husband on the same list as teenagers
14. That my present husband, as perfect as he is, can still argue with me over something as mundane as tuna fish
15. That teenagers are really selfish
16. That one of my dogs smells really bad
17. That I have fear deep down inside that my dreams will never come true
18. That I like to type
19. That wine can really help PMS
20. That it’s really hard to lose weight
21. That the media has turned Christmas into the equivalent of having sex with a prostitute—trashy teasing leading to the big climax, and BOOM! It’s all over, and there’s not even any afterglow. And all your money’s gone.
22. That some parents raise kids that would damage or steal another kid’s cell phone
23. That someone can have no job and no kids, and still have to see if they can squeeze you into their schedule
24. That I can’t live without chocolate
25. That God blessed me with a beautiful life…but did I mention that I’m not crazy about teenagers?

Tales from the Basement, Conclusion

2006-11-17T22:49:00.000-05:00

Al sure was sneaky. He told me to invite our families over for my 39th birthday, when what he was really doing was arranging our engagement party…a surprise to not only me, but to everyone else as well! Just several hours after he placed that beautiful ring on my finger, we were announcing our engagement in my living room to a dozen or so stunned relatives. Everyone was thrilled, and to our happiness, so were our children. Life was just wonderful, and I wasn’t even aware that it was about to get better.

We decided to get married as quickly and as reasonably as possible, and began our search for a place to do so immediately. Although I had had the whole nine yards for my first wedding, Al was married at his parents' house by a justice of the peace, and they all went to a local restaurant afterward. This time he wanted a big shebang, complete with tuxedoes, gowns, a great reception hall and a DJ and dancing! After visiting a few unexciting halls and outrageously-priced caterers, we visited a local catering facility on the recommendation of Al’s mom. When we sat down to talk to the manager, he snapped his fingers and a waiter brought us a fine array of Italian fare from appetizers to desserts. All this, and he poured us a huge glass of wine each! He sat with us for quite some time, speaking to us as if he’d known us for years. The price fit our budget, and we signed on the dotted line for September 1, 2002.

In the interim, I felt strongly about having a spiritual ceremony and being married by someone religious, so I went to my Catholic parish and met with a deacon who performs marriages outside of the church (a deacon is sort of like a priest who’s able to get married and have a family). We clicked with him immediately, and he was going to be able to incorporate some of Al’s Jewish traditions (Al was raised in a Jewish/Catholic home). We had to do some research first, as Catholic rules state that on my original baptismal certificate, there had to be no mention of my first marriage. Since I was originally married by a rabbi with just a priest present to say a prayer, I was hoping that this wouldn’t be a problem…and when I went to the parish of my childhood, not only did the baptismal certificate make no mention of my previous union, but neither did the church’s official “marriage book”. We were in the clear!

Those eight months were the fastest of my life, and before I knew it, we were arriving at the church rectory for our final meeting with the deacon to tie up any loose ends concerning the ceremony and to confirm our Scripture quotes. I knew something was wrong the minute the deacon came down to greet us. His face was ashen, and he could barely lift the corners of his mouth to form a smile. When we got into the office, he sat us down and told us that somewhere, somehow…even though he didn’t mention it to my original parish…the priest who came to my first wedding went right to the Diocese (the big cheese of churches in our area to which whom all other churches report to) and recorded my first wedding there. The deacon sadly said that he even got into a fight with the secretaries at the Diocese because it stated in the record book that I married someone with a different first name than my ex-husband. But it was to no avail. He looked as if he was going to cry when he told us that he couldn’t marry us unless we got an annulment…something that was going to take a year to process and had a price tag of several thousand dollars. I did not share their belief that the only way I could be forgiven by God was to “buy” my forgiveness. That night, 3 days before my wedding, I walked out of the Catholic church forever.

It was the Friday before our Sunday wedding. Al and I were frantically searching through the yellow pages for someone who could marry us—who just happened to be available in 48 hours. We finally found a woman who was free at 12 noon on Sunday…she was half-preacher/half-justice of the peace. She convinced us that she could perform an interfaith wedding just fine, so we held our breath and jumped. She would just have to do.

Before we knew it, the big day arrived…pouring rain and all. I was so happy that morning; I wouldn’t have cared if there was a tornado! We tried to stick to tradition as best as we could, given our very untraditional circumstances, so Al, his son and my son slept at his parents’ house the night before and got ready there; the two girls and I stayed at my place. I had splurged on a hair stylist to come to the house and make us gawgeeous, and she did a wonderful job on all three of us. We were supposed to be picked up by my cousin and her family in their caravan at 11:00, but due to unforeseen, “too many people trying to use one bathroom” circumstances over at her house, they didn’t pick us up until 11:30. I was just a little panicked, as we still had to take pictures and the ceremony was supposed to start at 12, but I kept my composure. I knew they must’ve felt bad enough, and to tell the truth, I don’t think that there was anything that could have gotten me down that day, I was so elated. Our photographer, thankfully, was way more organized and had taken pictures of all of the groom’s family before we got there (it actually was amazing that the groom’s family was even there first, as they are usually running more on Pacific time)! We took some more pictures and then headed towards the ceremony room where we would meet the preacher/justice of the peace for the first time.

The first thing I noticed was her hair. It was blazing red, shoulder length and halfway between curly and frizzy (again, it had been pouring, so I chalked it up to the poor thing having a really bad hair day). Her makeup was garishly done as well; she was a cross between Lucy Ricardo and Mimi from the Drew Carey show. She was very serious, but also very animated; it was strange, because every time you thought she would at least crack a smile, she didn’t…like maybe she couldn’t, because of too many Botox injections, although she didn’t strike me as the Botox type. Miss NoSmile told us in a very bossy way what we were to do and when…and all I could think of was that I couldn’t think of anything and my mind was going blank…how was I going to remember all of her instructions? She said good-bye, and that she’d see us at the altar. The time had come. I just hoped I didn’t make a fool out of myself.

Our kids walked down the aisle to the beginning strains of “From This Moment” by Shania Twain. Shania had started singing by the time my brother walked me down the aisle, and the words from the song fit the moment beautifully. Al looked so handsome in his tuxedo; I locked into his gaze and strayed only for short moments that required me to light a candle or place a ring on his finger. Before we knew it, Miss NoSmile had married us and we were walking back up the aisle with people clapping and cheering!

I don’t think I ever smiled so wide in my whole life.

The reception afterward was so much fun that it completely flew by; five hours seemed like five minutes, and everyone had a wonderful time. The highlights of the wedding were my now-stepson making a tearful, heartfelt toast to us; and my then-12 year old daughter and her cousins singing beautiful three part harmony acapella to “Longer” by Dan Fogleberg. I remember looking around at one point and reminding myself to appreciate everything that was going on…to really acknowledge that my two cousins from California were here and having a fantastic, if not inebriated time…that my mom’s sister and her family were there, people whom I love dearly but never see because of the distance factor. I truly never felt so happy in my whole life. And I was about to get happier!

My now-in-laws set up an amazing “after-party” at their house, so my new husband, our kids and me loaded our bodies into our mini-van and left the catering facility to head over there, along with about 25 other people. I almost think the after-party was more fun than the reception! There was impromptu dancing, singing, lots of drinking and just a plain, old great time being had by all. My cousins from California were bonding over the bar with my husband’s brother. My predominantly anti-social brother was smiling most of the time and actually chatting it up with people that he most likely would never have talked to on any other day. My cousin T, who’s like a sister to me, was actually doing shots for the first time in about 10 years, which was a hoot to watch! At one point, my brother and my cousin S from California were talking for about an hour straight…really a rare sight, because my brother is the oldest cousin in the family, S is the youngest, they live 3,000 miles apart and hadn't seen each other since my first wedding! The party continued until the very wee hours of the morning, and everyone reluctantly said their good-byes and went their separate ways.

Al and I climbed into bed together as husband and wife for the very first time, and well, I don’t remember much after that. I do remember the next morning, however. Our kids came into the room and jumped on our bed, everyone laughing and just feeling indescribable joy. I also remember thinking how lucky I was to be blessed with this loving new husband, this amazing new family and to be living in this incredible new moment—I truly felt as if I had it all. And it’s been a wonderful, interesting journey ever since.

(Postscript: Al's "cave" downstairs in the basement is now being occupied by his son, who just turned 20. Although we miss our little "escapes" down there, nothing beats having your partner to keep you warm every night and to make you smile every morning when you wake up to their sweet face.)

Thank you to all of our Veterans who served our country so well-especially you, Dad...rest in peace.

2006-11-11T10:07:00.000-05:00

Tales from the Basement, Part 2

2006-11-10T23:49:00.000-05:00

(Okay, I must be honest. I’ve been writing a post all week that I couldn’t get quite right until tonight, when I just deleted the whole thing. I finally realized that I did not want to relive a lot of what I went through during my courtship with Al—there are just some things that don’t need to be repeated and put out to the whole world, such as my former tumultuous relationship with his ex-wife. Although in retrospect, some of the stories are quite comical, there are some that are very heartbreaking. I have come such a long way with her and understand her so well now, that to repeat any of these stories almost feels like a betrayal. So we’ll just have to fast-forward a little into the relationship…)

When I met Al, he was renting a room from his friend, a divorced chiropractor who rented out 3 bedrooms in his large home to other single/divorced men. Al had been living there ever since his separation three years prior to our meeting, and was the only one renting at the time that we began dating. He had one room to himself and was in the process of fixing up another room for his kids, but his chiropractor friend made the decision to turn that section of the house into a large apartment for a family.

I was in the throes of single, working motherhood and messy-kid-syndrome: my kids had nowhere to have play dates save for their bedrooms. By the time the respective parent came by to pick up their child, the bedroom would look like an explosion at the Toys R Us warehouse. I would then muster a phony, “Oh, that’s okay, don’t worry, we’ll clean it up after you leave!” when the parent expressed concern about their child helping to clean up. Most days, I found it overwhelming to deal with my own kids, so I was usually willing to compromise and clean everything myself if it meant getting all the extra kids floating around the house to go home in a timely fashion so I could have some peace and quiet.

My unfinished basement was being rented out pro-bono to a family of unwelcome tenants—I believe their name was “Rodent”—and I had a brainstorm that it would be a great idea to build a playroom, laundry room and studio apartment down there and kick these freeloaders out once and for all. Al and I were dating over a year at this point, and after some lengthy discussions, we decided that he could move into the studio apartment and pay me rent, which would basically cover any raise in my mortgage from refinancing the house to pay for the work.

The construction was done beautifully by my cousin’s husband, and Al moved into his “cave”—one bedroom with a small living area, and a tiny bathroom with a stall shower. Although there was a separate entrance—just in case things didn’t work out with Al, and I had to rent to someone else—he used the front door to come and go, and I eventually caught on that the neighbors thought that he had moved in. But not into my basement. Into my bed.

Anytime that I would mention that Al lived in a studio apartment in my basement, I was met with expressions of disbelief. “OH, come on!! You know he doesn’t live down there.” Or, “Yeah, right…and he puts up with that nonsense, going down to the basement every night without complaining.” And my all-time favorite: “Lisa, I’m sorry…but that’s…weird.”

Weird?!? We weren’t married. Neither of our divorces was final yet, even after all that time. We had kids… impressionable kids, for crying out loud! The very last thing that I wanted was for my daughter to witness her mom sleeping with a man in her bed every night that she wasn’t married to…and then, God forbid, having it not work out. So why was that…weird?

We continued our “weird” living arrangements for several years. My divorce became final; he was having difficulty coming to agreeable terms with his ex, even after 7 years. Once his divorce became official, I made the request that we become “legitimate”. Yes, I enjoyed our little “rendezvous” in his cave once I put the kids to bed—no one could hear us down there, that’s for sure—and I know he liked to have his own place to “escape” now and then. But it was becoming increasingly important to me to build a relationship based on the real commitment of marriage; not only to set an example to our children, but for our own emotional investment into our futures. I wanted someone to share my life with as a full-fledged, committed partner; it didn’t work out the first time, but I believed that Al and I had what it took to be there for each other through anything.

One wintry Saturday afternoon right before my 39th birthday, I was outside in the dog run picking up dog poop with a plastic bag on my hand, as my pooper-scooper had broken and had yet to be replaced. Al came to the back door and told me that he absolutely needed me to come inside right that minute, as he wanted to show me something. I came inside with bag still on hand, a little annoyed that he interrupted my wonderful hour of crap-slapping. He chided me to come into the living room, and I relented, still with the bag on my hand, so as not to lose any time in my race to get back out into the field of land mines. To my complete and total surprise, all of a sudden he dropped to his knees and popped out a small, square box. I sat there in disbelief, subconsciously thanking the heavens above that I was right-handed. He looked at me with the most loving, sincere face and…well…you know the rest. I of course started to cry, and we hugged for what seemed like an hour. There I stood; no makeup, a winter hat on my head, a bag for a pooper-scooper on my right hand, and the most beautiful solitaire diamond on my left. I never felt more loved in my whole life.

(Next installment…our wedding day. Absolutely the most wonderful day of my life.)

Tales from the Basement, Part 1

2006-11-03T10:30:00.000-05:00

(As many of you may know, I was remarried several years ago to a man with two children. I thought it might be time to share the story of our, well, “different” courtship!)

I tucked my kids into bed, kissed them goodnight and stood there for a moment, staring at the adorable yet anomalous sight of my two little ones sharing the same queen-size bed. Not my bed, mind you…but the bed of my estranged husband which resided in his brand-new, single-guy apartment. The large house we had once owned together was now occupied by a new, hopeful family; my children and I were going to be homeless for a couple of weeks until we were able to move into our tiny new abode. D, my almost-ex, was kind enough to stay with his girlfriend for awhile and loan us this one-bedroom bachelor pad. I walked out of the bedroom and took a good look at my surroundings, searching fruitlessly for a morsel of our life together. Nothing here but masculine towels and dinnerware, drawers full of bland, stainless-steel cutlery and such novel items as “gas passes” and ticket stubs for concerts we had never gone to.

I wondered how this could be happening. The past year had been such a blur, and now that I had time to just sit and think, I couldn’t believe how surreal my life had become. This was it. If I previously wasn’t sure that our life together was completely over, I sat within the confines of proof so solid, it hit me in the head like Babe Ruth’s baseball bat. I suspected it before, but now the truth was staring me down between the eyes: It was time to move on.

I called my friend C and told her that I was finally ready to meet her friend Al, after she had tried unsuccessfully for the last five months to get us together. Al. What kind of name was that, anyway? Albert, Alfred, Alan? I imagined him saying, “You can call me Al”. I had visions of a combination of Chevy Chase and Paul Simon running through my head, no matter what kind of “killer smile” C said that he had. I gave her the phone number to D’s apartment, and figured I’d just try to get through my days of traipsing my kids back and forth to day camp and trying to concentrate on my job.

I had been through my share of rotten blind dates, perhaps set up by unsatisfied wives who had fantasies about men that they themselves would never get to sleep with. One of D’s cousins had previously set me up with her “tree guy”; a tall, fair-haired handsome man that had a personality to match his profession—he was nothing more than an empty stump with no personality. When he asked me how long I would have to date somebody before I slept with them—“…six days, six weeks, six months?”—I promptly excused myself and said that I was late to pick up my kids from the babysitter. My next blind date, another friend's "deck guy", had a much better personality but insisted that we meet at a nightclub, which should’ve been my first red flag. He brought his “best” female friend with him to our blind date, which should’ve been red flag number two. When he told me that there was always surgery to correct the fact that my breasts were not the size of Pam Anderson’s, the third red flag was shoved down my throat so far that it rendered me speechless. I meekly squeaked out that I had to use the ladies room, and snuck out of the club. I raced back to the angelic, sleeping faces of my beautiful children, excused the babysitter and cried my eyes out. Is this what dating in my 30’s was going to be like?

Al called within a few days after C gave him the phone number. His voice was deep and smooth; his tone was kind and gentle. He had an explosive laugh that was childlike and almost innocent; I knew in my heart that this man was never going to ask me ridiculous questions that had no answers, nor expect anything from me that wasn’t natural and real. We agreed to meet the next night at a small pub in my new town. He told me that he’d be wearing a black tee shirt with blue jeans, and that he had a white van. C had told me that he was about 5’ 10”—a little tall for me, since I don’t like to crick my neck to kiss someone—and she said that he was really cute, reminding me of that “killer smile” once more (she couldn’t help herself, being a dental hygienist).

I was so nervous that I failed to notice any white vans in the parking lot. I checked my make up in the rear view mirror, and slowly took a deep breath while stepping out of my car. In front of the bar stood a man in a black tee shirt and blue jeans; however, this man was clearly about 6’ 2”. I stared at him for a minute from a distance as he spoke in a very animated way to another gentleman outside of the pub. He didn’t look anything like what C had described, and his active expressions had me confused. This man just didn’t seem like the calm, relaxed man that I had spoken to. I took another deep breath and told myself that I needed to give him a chance, that someone who seemed that nice on the phone had to be at least half as decent in person.

All of a sudden, out of the corner of my left eye, I saw someone coming towards me. He gently spoke my name, and I turned around to see an amazingly handsome man slowly walking toward me from a white van. His eyes lit up as he flashed his pearly whites, and my heart stopped. As corny as it sounds, I felt like a princess watching her prince step off of his white steed. I stopped gawking long enough to remember that we hadn’t gone in the pub yet…there was still time for this guy to ask me a dumb question or make a rude comment. There was still a chance that he could turn out to be a total idiot once he was face to face with me. I smiled at him, said hello, and we walked into the pub.

We sat down at the bar and looked at each other. He smiled at me again and asked me if I wanted to see a picture of his kids. A picture of his kids?!? Can he be that wonderful?

I thought to myself…here’s a man who knows who he is, and what he’s about…and he’s not ashamed by it. He’s not trying to cover it up or hide it until he has no choice but to expose it. He’s a dad, he loves his kids, and they’re the biggest part of his life. And he wanted to share that with me first and foremost.

We exchanged pictures back and forth, laughing and sharing stories of children’s antics that a tree stump just couldn’t appreciate. After a wonderful evening, he walked me out to my car and kissed me on my cheek. I noticed when he hugged me good-bye that he was no more than 5’ 8”, and our bodies were a perfect fit. I went back to D’s apartment where my niece was babysitting. She asked me how my date went, and I told her the truth: that I had just met the man of my dreams.

(Stay tuned next week for part two of “Tales from the Basement”, which will give a glimpse into the very crazy world of two parents dating!)

It's a Small "World" After All

2006-10-28T15:22:00.001-04:00

(In my last post, I mentioned that I had another "coincidence" tale regarding my sister-in-law. The following is also a true story!)

A fellow blogger, whose writing I respect and admire, told the story recently of a friend being “outed” about her daily habit of tuning into “All My Children” for the last couple of decades. I guess we have all been guilty of watching the soaps at one time or another, and many of us probably chose to “out” ourselves in the hope that the person we were talking to would be just as enthusiastic about their daily dose of unreality as we were.

My grandmother had gotten me into “Days of Our Lives” when I was ten. I know, I know…I was a little young to be quite so interested in the drama of the soap world, but back then you didn’t need an “M” rating to watch the passion between Doug and Julie. Dare I say that it was…wholesome?

Eventually, I became addicted to “Another World”, which followed “Days”. I was pregnant with my second child at the time, and I spent a lot of hours alone and longing for adult interaction. Watching the soaps, I found that I could transport myself into “another world”, even if it was only for an hour. I lived vicariously through the passion, love and emotion of the characters on the show. I fell in love with a rogue character (whose name I will keep anonymous out of respect for the gentleman who portrayed him), and couldn’t wait to tune in every afternoon to see what trouble he was cooking up that day. A few years later, after my marriage had ended, I was presented with the opportunity to attend an "Another World" luncheon. When I met this gentleman in person, I thought that he was just as charming and adorable as he was on the show. So about a month later, I decided to write to him and send him my picture and my phone number.

Less than a week later, I received a phone call from a man stating to be this actor. At first, I didn’t believe that it was him…and then I gained my composure and enjoyed a 30 minute-long conversation with the most smooth-talking Romeo that you could imagine. Little did I know what I was getting myself into. He called the next day, and told me that his house on Long Island was “under construction”, so how would I like to meet up with him at his hotel in Manhattan for lunch? Then we could pay a visit to Victoria’s Secret, so he could "buy me whatever I wanted” and, according to him, we could go back to his hotel where I could “model” all of the outfits for him!

Okay, I admit…I was feeling a little desperate after my husband left me for someone else, but thank God I wasn’t stupid. I politely told him that I would consider it (I already knew the answer was no, but I will admit...if I were a different kind of person...say, to the tune of Paris Hilton...it could have been fun). He told me to think it over and that he would call me the next day.

He did call the next day, and the next day after that. The clincher was when he called one afternoon right after my kids came home from school, and they started to have a rip-roaring fight over a toy. They ran through the house like Tom and Jerry and finally ended up between my legs, crying and whining while I embarrassingly stood there on the phone and exclaimed “What can I say?!? This is my life!!” He politely told me that he had to go, and would call me again tomorrow.

I never heard from him again.

Well, life goes on. Several years later, I remarried and became very close with my new sister-in-law. One day, while we were having a ladies night at her house, she started to tell the story of when she dated “this guy from Another World”, and she went into detail about how all he seemed to care about was getting into her pants! I stood there in amazement, and said, “Hey, wait a minute!! That’s my story!!” She looked confused, as did all of the other women in the room. It turned out that she actually dated this very same soap star for a few weeks and came to realize, as I did, that although he was a really nice guy, he was definitely a player and not worth investing any emotion into. We laughed over the similar stories and pointed out how small the world actually was that the two of us were “involved” in some way with the same male star of a soap opera.

I no longer watch the soaps, and haven’t for about 9 years. I found that once I met my present husband, my life became a soap opera of its own with ex-wives, ex-husbands, ex-girlfriends, ex-boyfriends, his kids, my kids, our families, our friends…who needed to watch it when I could live it every single day?!? Although I admit...I could use the commercial break now and then.

Strange but True

2006-10-22T21:41:00.000-04:00

Years ago, when I was married to my first husband, my in-laws were trying to rent out their house in Florida. They were living down there for a couple of years, but decided to come back to New York when they discovered that they missed their children and grandchildren too much. The process of trying to rent out the house became cumbersome; they had to keep flying back and forth between the states to interview prospective renters, and they weren’t happy with anyone that they met. Finally, they found a young couple with a small child who were moving down to Florida from NY. They presented themselves to be responsible, and seemed to have the financial clout to faithfully make their rental payments every month.

One day my mother-in-law decided to share with me the specifics of the couple who had now been renting the house for a few months. She spoke of the wife, and what a good mother she seemed to be to her little son. She told me that she was pregnant with her second child, and that she seemed like a lovely person. The only thing that bothered her was that this girl’s husband seemed too young to be making the salary that he did. She said that she didn’t trust him, but what could she do? They were making the payments and keeping the house up. I assured her that everything was probably fine, and chalked her mistrust up to her feeling out of control all the way up in NY, and her tendency to judge everyone and everything that she couldn't understand.

I had nice memories of the Florida house. It had a huge, unfurnished living room, a Florida-white kitchen, a cozy den with a small couch off of the kitchen and a screened-in pool to match the dozens of other screened-in pools that surrounded the man-made lake in back of their home. My kids spent many hours in that pool when they were little, and would spend way too much time chasing the lizards that would speedily crawl across the patio during the day.

A couple of years later, the couple decided to move, and my in-laws knew it was time to sell the house, as they were getting too old to continue the draining process of trying to rent it out. Right about this time, their son and I began to go through our divorce. I began to slip away from his family as well, and pretty soon I was on my own raising my two children. I only had contact with my ex-husband for child support purposes.

Eventually, I started dating a man who would later turn out to be my next husband. During the first month that we were dating, he showed me various pictures of himself and his family. One picture in particular caught my eye; he was in a pool, and it looked somewhat tropical and familiar.

“Oh, that was my sister’s house in Florida,” he said when I asked him where he was.

“Did she live in Boca Raton?” I queried, “Because that looks like the same neighborhood that my ex-in-laws lived in.”

He said that he thought so, and we decided that it would be quite funny indeed if it was the same neighborhood, and they in fact knew each other. He went on to show me some more pictures, and I forgot about it.

Several months later we were at his parent’s house to celebrate his dad’s holiday of Passover. His sister was there, and we started to chat about nothing in particular . She asked me where my kids were. Coincidentally, I told her, they were also celebrating Passover with their dad at their grandparents' house, right around the corner at the local senior citizen complex. She asked if I was talking about the senior complex that was a stone’s throw away—I answered “Yes…we can literally walk there!” She then asked me what my kids’ grandparents’ last name was. When I told her, her face dropped.

“Anita and Jack????” she answered in amazement.

“Yes, that’s them! Why?”

She answered, “...Because I rented their house in Florida!!”

There was a moment of silence in our state of sheer disbelief. Imagine that! When I looked at the pictures of my boyfriend at his “sister’s house in Florida”, and said that it resembled my ex-mother-in-law’s house, it actually WAS my ex-mother-in-law’s house! He and I got a kick out of the fact that we swam in the same pool with our kids, albeit at different points in time. We laughed at how there seemed to be an over-abundance of lizards at that house, and how all of the kids spent lots of time unsuccessfully trying to catch one. We all wondered what the chances were that the world could be so very small.

I eventually got married again, and my husband’s sister and I remained close. One unfortunate footnote: My ex-mother-in-law was right. The husband did make his money too fast, and didn’t do it in the right way. Now he's "away", and she and her kids are the ones paying the price.

...I guess sometimes mother-in-laws are smarter than we think, as much as we hate to admit it.

(this wasn't the only coincidence that my sister-in-law and I shared. Next time I'll tell our other small "world" story!)

The Early Bird is a Partridge

2006-10-15T21:15:00.000-04:00

I knew it was bound to happen, but I admit, I forgot. Unfortunately, it happens every year, and every year I forget just the same.

I promised myself I would not go to the mall until at least November, so as not to see anything that would remotely remind me of Christmas…but apparently, I’m only good at keeping my promises to other people, and I’m very disloyal to myself.

Our girls needed winter clothes, and my husband said that we should go to the mall and get them some. Yes, my husband. I don’t know about anyone else, but the shock of hearing those words come out of his mouth made all rational thought leave my brain. I was too busy getting him out the door and into the car before he changed his mind to remind myself that the mall was off limits until the week before Thanksgiving.

No, I’m not the Grinch. I’m not uttering “Bah, Humbug” under my breath at the sight of a department store gone Christmas wild. The fact is, I absolutely LOVE Christmas…it happens to be the most wonderful time of the year (to me and Andy Williams). But the problem I find is that every year the decorations come earlier and earlier, doing nothing but numbing us all to the joys of the season and the thrill of finding the perfect, meaningful gift while listening to your favorite holiday songs piped over the store speakers. Instead, we all go about the season fretfully trying to find outrageously priced items in exclusive stores for people who put more emphasis on the gift-giving aspect of the holidays than actually enjoying them for what they stand for. We buy right into the marketing world’s ploy to get us to spend more money sooner by “getting us into the Christmas spirit” with decorations and lights, only to have the stores pull them right out from under our feet on December 26th , when we can finally relax and enjoy them.

When I was little, the stores didn’t decorate for the holidays until the day after Thanksgiving. Somewhere along the line, it became the day after Halloween. Now, it’s October 15th, more than 2 months away from Christmas, and there are trees and lights throughout the mall. Pretty soon, we’ll be seeing Christmas trees on top of the sunscreen display after the Fourth of July (actually, this may have already happened in a few places).

The other aspect of the pre-holiday season that gets to me is the once-novel “24 Hours of Christmas” music played by select radio stations. I thought it was great when one of the stations in our area decided to expand their Christmas music play list to the week before the actual holiday. Another radio station joined in the next year, and for the week before Christmas you were actually able to flip to another holiday station if you couldn’t stand to hear one more “Pah-Rum-Pum-Pum-Pum” on the one you were currently listening to. Flash forward to last year: Now there are at least four stations playing Christmas music 24/7, and one of them actually had the nerve to start the Monday before Thanksgiving! The ironic thing is that all of these stations will stop playing Christmas music completely at 12 midnight December 25th, which for some of us is right in the middle of our celebration. Talk about post-holiday depression…our gathering hasn’t even ended yet, and the media has already moved on to the Super bowl.

In my family, Christmas week was always considered the week after the holiday, and it wasn’t unusual to still be listening to Nat King Cole right up to New Year’s Eve. Friends and relatives were still stopping by to visit throughout the week, and it was still as festive a time as the previous seven days. Now, Christmas is run by the supreme evildoer of all time—money. Christmas becomes as disposable as a toddler’s dirty diaper on December 26th. It has no use anymore, and no one wants to look at it because it makes them sick.

I long for the days when the holidays still had meaning; meaning other than end-of-year corporate financial statements. When taking a stroll or a drive on a peaceful night to view decorated houses brought more joy than an iPod Nano. When a cup of homemade eggnog could warm your heart better than any outfit from Abercrombie and Fitch. When gathering with friends by the fireplace to watch “It’s a Wonderful Life” was more desirable than running serpentine through the mall, rushing from crowded store to crowded store while people sneezed on you, cut you in line and stepped on your toes without even so much as a “Pardon me.”

My son actually asked me today, in all seriousness, when we were going to put up the tree. When I reminded him that we do it the day after Thanksgiving, he replied that it’s almost Halloween, and Thanksgiving is “only, like, three weeks later”. My point is valid…he has fallen prey to the early signs of the season, and his internal clock is off-kilter. He should be having visions of candy-corns and caramel apples, but instead he’s seeing sugarplums.

Dear God, give me the resources to help my children learn to savor the Christmas spirit in the season that it belongs in. I don't want to spend the next two months falling prey to the media and the mall. I want to relax and enjoy the gatherings at my friends' houses during the month of December. I want to bake sugar cookies from scratch while Frank Sinatra croons about those J-I-N-G-L-E Bells the night before Christmas Eve. I want to sit in the living room where the only light comes from my tree and the fireplace, while getting chills up my spine as Celine Dion sings "Oh, Holy Night". You just can't enjoy these things in October.

At this rate, it might be over before it even begins. As long as I never hear one of my kids say, "Mom, when are you taking down the tree already?", I guess I'll be fine.

Coming to Terms with Present-Day Life

2006-10-11T21:31:00.000-04:00

(I realize that this article should've been posted a month ago, but I didn't think to write about it until this week. My apologies for the untimeliness.)

Nine years ago, I moved to a small town on Long Island that is presently my home. I was newly divorced, and the small Cape Cod-style house that I purchased was just perfect for a single mother and her two small children. The large front yard was ideal for impromptu soccer and football games, not to mention tag and whiffle ball. The cozy backyard had a deck off of the dining room where I would spend many a Saturday morning sipping tea in an Adirondack chair under the trees that hung over from my neighbor’s property. The inside was small, but charming; the living room had wood floors and a wonderful brick fireplace, and the kitchen was done in a warm and comforting oak. My bedroom was on the first floor; each one of my kids had a small bedroom upstairs. I couldn’t be more grateful for my adorable little home, or more thankful for where it was located.

As the years rolled on, I eventually couldn’t go to the local supermarket without seeing someone I knew. I belonged to the Catholic Church, and apparently, so did most of the town. No matter where you went—dentist, doctor, dry cleaner—you were bound to see someone familiar. And I loved every second of it! I took great pleasure in waving to people I knew while strolling down the main street and admiring all of the beautiful homes, most of them older and some even designated landmarks. This street would be the sight of our yearly Little League Parade on opening day. I would walk along the sidewalk as my son and his friends strutted proudly down the street displaying their team banners. I remember thinking back then that life doesn’t get any better in a place like this, and I would be happy to live here for the rest of my life. I was content, and I was safe. That is, until 9/11/01.

I realize that no matter where you were on that day, be it as close as Pennsylvania or as far away as Hawaii, 9/11 gave you a new reality. I left work after the first tower fell, and raced to my cousin’s house several blocks away from my own. Together we went to our children’s schools to see if they were letting them out, which they weren’t. We decided to go to our local supermarket and stock up on canned goods and water. We perused the aisles for anything that we could store in our basements, God forbid we had to hide out below ground for any reason. When we left the store and drove down our main street on that beautiful day, all I can remember thinking was how insecure and uneasy I felt. I wondered if I would ever feel safe again.

Being so close to the events of that day changed my mentality in a way that I can not even describe. As the days went on, there was a strange stench in the air as ashes and small, feather-light particles fell sporadically from the sky. Then the funerals started…all day events for dozens of people around the area who perished in the towers. Some were from Cantor-Fitzgerald; countless others were firefighters and police officers who worked in the city but lived in and around our town. Everyone knew somebody who died in the tragedy, myself included. It was a sad, surreal time and it will be with me for as long as I live.

As it stands now, you can’t go over a bridge or through a tunnel without reading several signs describing what “strange activity” would look like, and “If you see something, say something.” I can’t help but feel that we are a giant "bulls-eye", and the scariest thing of all is that if the bridges and the tunnels are destroyed, we are stuck here on the island without a way off. My once-perfect Shangri-La has become nothing more than a prison to me, and there’s not one thing I can do about it. If my husband and I did not have ex-spouses to worry about and our kids were little, we would’ve been out of here a long time ago. Add to everything the outrageous cost of living on this island and my dream has become my nightmare. My house is worth three times what I paid for it, but the taxes in this area went up as well and have earned the honor of being the highest taxes in the nation. Don’t let me forget to mention that there are now six people living here instead of three. And we have new neighbors that moved in next door from Queens, who decided to cut down every beautiful tree in their backyard, leaving my deck the heat equivalent of Death Valley. This same neighbor actually asked us to remove a very old, large maple that’s justthisclose to his property, to which of course, we said “No way!!” (I’ve always wondered about this, anyway: Don’t people come to this area for the trees and for the fact that they don’t want to live in a cement jungle anymore? Why does everyone from the city always cut the trees down, and try to make this town look like where they came from?). Sometimes, I just want to scream in frustration. Other times, I just feel helpless and hopeless.

My husband and I have made a pact that we will move away from here when our youngest graduates high school in 4 ½ years, God willing. Whether we do it or not, we need the dream to get us through each day. Neither one of us has ever been very good at living in the matrix, which a lot of people do around here; floating around almost as if 9/11 never happened or was a dream, and that nothing horrible like that could ever happen again. My own physician told me that most of us don’t even realize the stress we’re under just existing in a post-9/11 world (for example, I never used to think about anything while crossing the previously-mentioned bridges except the upstate destination that I was headed towards. Now my whole thought pattern changes when I read the safety signs, because I’m reminded of the reality of living in NY). Our dream home will most likely be a log cabin up in the mountains with enough room for our kids and their families for generations to come. Yes, this is our vision…and as the bible says, “A man without vision shall perish.” Or in other words, as I mentioned in a previous post, “If you give up your dreams, you die.” We’re not ready for that yet, so we will keep on “keepin’ on”. It’s a matter of our sanity—and our survival.

A Day in the Life

2006-10-06T17:34:00.000-04:00

I noticed that several people mentioned the infrequency of my posts, and it got me to thinking about the reason for my tardiness. Procrastination definitely plays a role, this I know. However, I have a very crazy life. As I sit here in my basement to type even these few words, upstairs Tony Bennett and Frank Sinatra are singing “The Lady is a Tramp”, my husband is running the bathtub faucet and traipsing up and down the stairs next to me with huge buckets as he changes the water of our 90-gallon fish tank, and my stepson is in the next room playing a new rap song that he wrote and recorded. All this, and the dryer is running as well. Who can concentrate?

I knew deep in the recesses of my Word program, I had typed a description of one particular day this year because it just seemed incredibly hectic...so I decided to share it with you (…please bear in mind that this was not written for a post, only for my need to vent, so the grammar may not be perfect). For those of you who ever wondered…

A DAY IN THE LIFE

Wake up, start getting ready for work. My daughter says she’s ready, but takes another 3 minutes after I’ve gotten into car to actually come out, now wearing a different outfit than 5 minutes ago. We drive to the high school, she’s early for once. Go home to pick up other two kids, get my lunch, kiss husband good-bye and apologize for not being passionate the night before and falling asleep in 30 seconds flat. Inform him that I am not a man, and I need more preparation than climbing into bed to get my engine humming. Get kids off to middle school, give my son the daily lecture about not being ready on time and does he think he’ll be able to follow this rule since it’s already May and I’ve been repeating it daily since September? Ask him to please get out of the car and go around the back of it like my stepdaughter does so I can bolt to work, since he once again made me late. He argues that I will only save a few seconds than if he walks in front of my car, and although he’s probably right, I just need to feel that I’m at least that much closer to work by peeling out of the parking lot and having the kids breathe my burning rubber. Race to work, make it there with 3 minutes to spare. Get participants off of buses; copies of bus lists have everyone’s name cut off, so I try to make new ones while at least 20 out of 35 people vie for my attention about such things as runny noses, last night’s function, someone said something mean about someone else, someone’s going to a bowling dinner tonight, etc. Try very hard to validate everyone’s conversation without screaming and running for the hills. After about 20 minutes, I’m instructed to take 6 participants to another day hab site so they can spend some time there while we entertain some new kids at our site who are ready to graduate high school and move on to the “Next Step” (our program). I take them; one girl starts complaining, ready to cry, that it’s too squishy in the back seat of the van, her ankle hurts, why does she have to go to the other site, it’s not fair…within 5 minutes, someone says something that cracks her up, and she continues to laugh uncontrollably for the next 10 minutes. Drop off these 6 participants and return back to my site to pick up 4 other participants that will come to a job at a senior center in Pt. Washington. We have to leave early because of the impending HS group that’s coming, so I decide to kill time and go to WalMart to see Marie Osmond, who’s signing autographs for a new book or something. She’s supposed to be there at 11am, so I figure if we leave WalMart at 11:10, we’ll still make it to Pt. Washington Senior Center by 11:45. After listening to much griping from my guys about waiting around for someone they’ve never even heard of, we leave after realizing that it’s 11:10 and she will be late. We get into the van and head off to Port Washington. My daughter calls me on my cell phone and tells me that she doesn’t feel well, can I come and get her (no). I tell her to call back at 1:00, and I’ll see what I can do. All 4 participants fall asleep in the van; one boy is talking and snoring at the same time, if that’s possible. We finally get to Pt. Washington, and go in our usual entrance. We’re informed by some strange lady that we have to go “under the church” for the senior lunch people that we’re supposed to serve, due to the fact that the regular lunch room is decorated for someone’s anniversary party. We start wandering around all of the buildings, and end up down cement basement stairs that have no railing (she did say, “under the church”). I have two very unsteady participants, and I try to help them down the creepy steps. We get to the door at the bottom and there’s no handle, no one answering our knocks, and an extremely dark, gloomy room on the other side of the door glass. One of the senior citizens is wandering around as well; he can’t find his way either, so he tells us that he’ll go look while we try to make our way up from bottom of the stairs. He finds the location across the parking lot in the actual church (..and on the main floor, besides). We go in, and everyone has already begun eating lunch (we’re supposed to serve them). We sit down to eat our lunch; I shove my pb&j down my throat and get up to collect everyone’s garbage. One of the seniors chews food, puts it in a napkin and hands it to me. We then get up and leave, 20 minutes later. We get back to the site, and I’m rushed out to go to a “company picnic” meeting at the Plainview office that I stupidly volunteered to be a committee leader for in our site. My daughter texts me on the way there: “Can u come get me” (no). I apologize, tell her I love her and to hang in there. We discuss different things in the meeting. It ends at 2:00; the leader of meeting says, “Don’t worry, you can go home and still get paid for 2:30.” Yes, but I have my site’s van (my coordinator’s suggestion), and I only get paid until 2:15. So I race back to the site, and realize once there that I still have 5 of the participant’s books to write up. I’ll have to do them tomorrow, I figure, and I better leave to get my daughter, since it’s now 2:20. Get my daughter who is miraculously better, and now wants to drive the car. We go to nail salon to pick up her books that she left there last Friday. We go home, she immediately goes on computer, I go upstairs and eat ¼ box of cereal while picking through mail…tax return checks are in there, but not what I hoped they would be. I leave to go pick up my son. He gets into car and immediately starts asking if I can take him to the game store because he has early birthday money, it’s burning a hole in his wallet and he needs to spend it NOW (he didn’t actually say that, but he may as well have). I say no, not until his tutor leaves later on. He sighs and says that I would always do this for my daughter and starts with the guilt crap. I dismiss him, and he immediately forgets about it to tell me to look at a video on his phone, which I can’t do because I’m actually driving. So I pull over, look at a video of something that only he understands, and say, “Oh, that’s nice!” Suddenly, someone with a gas scooter goes flying past the open passenger window, scaring the pants off of both of us. My son laughs for 5 minutes, because he thought it was a lawnmower doing 50mph. We go home. I decide to start paying some bills and figure I’d better get the charities out of the way because I’ve been using their address labels for about 8 months and never sent them any money. I realize after a while that my dog, Freedom, has an appointment for a lump on his leg in 15 minutes, so I rush him out of the door while my other dog starts barking and running around like crazy because it’s not him going out. We get to the vet, and Freedom immediately pees like a racehorse onto the floor and the entry mat. They have to call someone in to clean it, while I stand there embarrassed because every person in the waiting room has obviously never seen a dog pee before, judging from the horrified looks on their faces. In the waiting room there is a cat in a basket (yes he’s real, and he just sits in a basket), guinea pigs, hamsters, an iguana and a very friendly, loose parrot that Freedom decided he wanted to taste—so they put us in a room by ourselves to wait for the vet. At this point, Free gets so nervous, he pees and starts to crouch for a poop, to which I screamed, “NO!!” and one little piece fell out. I scrounged around for paper towels, picked it up and wrapped it tightly. He paced and paced, all the while shedding hair like ticker-tape confetti, most of it landing on my clothes (why am I wearing black sweatpants?). I realize he probably has to go badly, so I take him outside where he makes such a mushy poop that I can’t even pick it up with the paper towel I brought out. Not to mention the 5 minute pee he took on a tree…I think he was a camel in another life, he holds a lot of water. We finally go back in and see the doctor, who loves Free but thinks he has a bad cancer from oldness…$200 later, we leave with antibiotics, powder, and the knowledge that he needs surgery for another $500. And if they find the bad cancer, he’ll need chemo. I go home to find my son with the tutor, who sympathizes with Freedom’s fate. My husband is there, getting angry at the cost of the vet and the unnecessary comment that we should put an old dog through chemo. My stepdaughter’s mother keeps calling and wondering where she is (we are too; we just figured that her gymnastics practice went on long because of a meet tomorrow). And my daughter surfaces to tell me she’s going out with my favorite person, KS (a boy she’s liked since she’s 12 who constantly leads her on). And, can she have money? I give her $3 and my son throws a fit that see, he’s right, I only give to his sister. The house is a mess, I’m trying to heat up leftovers, and all of a sudden I feel goo on my bare foot and realize that one of the dogs just threw up in the kitchen and I stepped in it. To which the tutor gets hysterical laughing. We eat, and I tell my son I can take him now. We go….

That’s how it ended, most likely because something ELSE came up that night to interrupt my writing! However, we did find my stepdaughter, my son did get his video game, my dog is still alive (so is the parrot), and we all lived happily ever after.

A First (And Last) Time For Everything

2006-10-02T22:32:00.000-04:00

I usually consider myself a fairly “earthy” sort of person. I really enjoy nature; so much so that I drive my kids and friends crazy just admiring something as minute as a late October bloom on a fading rosebush, or a floating autumn leaf with blazing reds and oranges covering it’s delicate skin. I was absolutely thrilled this past June when a family of Baltimore orioles decided to build a nest on a tree branch in my front yard! Never having seen them in this area before, I relished watching all of their activity early in the morning while sitting on a bench, relaxing with a hot cup of tea. For the last 17 years, our annual family vacation has taken place in Lake George, NY, in a modest cabin amongst the fragrant, tall evergreens with a wonderful view of the crystal-blue lake. Yes, nature is something that usually brings me peace of mind, and a feeling of spirituality, a connection to the earth that I can’t explain.

Because of my love of the great outdoors, I thought that it would be no problem to go camping with my husband, something that I had never done before in my entire life—strange, because I really do appreciate all that this wonderful earth has to offer. What I didn’t realize is that most of what nature has to offer is better off being admired from a distance—a very sizeable distance.

At some point in what I’m convinced was a very inebriated conversation, my husband and his brother decided that they should take their camping-virgin wives to a remote spot that they had accidentally found earlier this year in upstate NY for a weekend of rugged camping. I was very wary at first, as I usually prefer to wash my pots and pans in filtered running water, not a protozoan-filled lake. And of course, there’s nothing like using an actual toilet with tissue paper as opposed to squatting by the base of a tree and using leaves. As the official camping day approached, I began to have feelings of dread. How am I going to handle not being able to shower or wash my face for two days? I guess this means no makeup…that’s a scary thought. So, with baby wipes in tow and a few of my daughter’s Pond’s facial wipes on hand, we packed up our small bags and closed up the house.

We decided to leave at 6:30 p.m. instead of 4 p.m. so as not to get stuck in major NY traffic. We went to my brother- and sister-in-law’s house to pick them up, and once he was finished packing everything except his After Nine tuxedo, we left. After doling out walkie-talkies, my brother-in-law, R., drove my husband in his car, and I drove my car with my sister-in-law, E. We had lots of catching up to do, and the ride seemed to be going pretty quick to me, since we were going towards Lake George and I’ve made that trip so many times. We stopped once to get gas and use the restroom, and once to relax and eat dinner. By the time we drove through Lake George, it was 12:15 a.m.…a little late, but we purposely did take our time.

We drove along the road that was supposed to lead us to our destination for about 20 minutes until my husband walkie-talkied me and said that nothing looked familiar. We all pulled over into a parking lot, and R. called up OnStar to help out (not my mode of choice; I prefer a good, old fashioned map myself, but since my husband and R. had no idea where they were going, it wouldn’t matter if we had NASA guiding our course). OnStar said we were going in the wrong direction, so we backtracked and went down another road. Word to the wise: Don’t trust OnStar. Especially if they sound confused, and take over 15 minutes to give you some sort of idea of where to go. We were led up a mountain road that became more desolate and dark with every passing minute. When we finally passed a sign for a town that I knew was about 30 miles east of the area that my husband said the campground was in, we decided to turn around.

On our way back down the mountain, we encountered a state trouper and asked him for some help. He took out a pen and drew on the map that we had in the back of the car, telling us “exactly” where to go. Hallelujah! It was now closing in on 2:15 a.m., and we were ready to crash. How we were going to set up camp at this late hour was beyond us, but we looked at it as some sort of “Little Rascals” adventure, and figured we’d wing it as long as the turtles didn’t march into the lake with our lanterns.

Caution to every tourist visiting the Adirondack region: Don’t trust the State Troupers. They’re bored. There’s not much going on up there, so they need to create their own excitement. As we drove down yet another road with no lights, no cars and nowhere to pull over for what seemed to be an hour (hey wait…it’s 3:15 a.m.…it WAS an hour!), we realized again that we were not headed anywhere near where our destination was, and that the State Trouper was probably laughing his fool head off by this time, knowing that he sent us to North Deliverance, USA. E. started feeling very uncomfortable stomach-wise from eating at the afore-mentioned rest stop, and was starting to get upset. She walkie-talkied R. and started yelling at him about his lack of a sense of direction, his lack of consideration, her horrendous stomach ache and something regarding the heads of turtles. He proceeded to beep back and a lovely fight ensued for about 5 minutes until we happened upon a mirage in the middle of all that darkness.

I guess mountain people need to relax and have fun just as much as the next person, but we found it awfully strange that there was a bar in the middle of nowhere and we hadn’t passed a gas station for 45 minutes. E. was happy that she could finally use a bathroom, but when she viewed the patrons leaning on each other to keep each other standing upright and the grand total of 12 teeth in the entire room, she decided to just let loose right there in the parking lot. She wiped with some Dunkin’ Donuts napkins left over from the onset of our trip, and ran back into the car. We concluded that there was no one in that bar sober enough to wonder who the stool-dropper was; they’d probably all be worried that it was one of them, and they just didn’t remember. Since there was no Dunkin’ Donuts within 50 or so miles of this town, we figured the added element of the commercial napkins would throw their brains into a tizzy.

As if things couldn’t get any worse, it started to pour, and at one point we had to swerve our cars so as not to hit what R. thought was a baby bear, and I thought was an alien. At 4 a.m., we passed by a popular ski slope and happened upon a small Alpine-themed motel. There was no one in the office, so my husband switched spots with E., and we all curled up as best as we could in our car seats to sleep. At about 7 a.m., I awoke to a tattooed, Harley-Davidson tough guy staring into our windshield. I nudged my husband in a panic, and he opened the window. This mean-looking thug actually turned out to be the owner of the motel, and in his very Long Island accent (thank God!), he empathetically asked what time we got in. He apologized for sleeping in his house next to the motel and not above the office as he usually does, but he said he couldn’t imagine anyone coming to this area on an “off” weekend, in the rain, after 1am. Ha. For $30, he let us stay in a room with 3 queen sized beds until we were ready to start our trek to find a campsite that E. and I now figured was a figment of our husbands’ over-active or liquor-induced imaginations.

After catching a quick nap and freshening up a bit, we hit the road again at about 9:30 a.m. to a camping destination that the Harley guy said we’d really like, since E. and I had had our fill of trying to find some delusional fantasyland that may not even exist. As we approached the area, ominously called “Thirteenth Lake”, our husbands realized with glee that this was actually the campsite that they had been looking for all along! After conversing about the chances of us ending up there after all we went through, and how the men could even forget the name of that lake, we pulled into a gravel parking lot with about 3 other cars. We started to unpack in the rain, which thankfully subsided to just a sprinkle here and there as we took almost 3 hours to set up camp. E. reminded me that we needed to sign our names into a journal-type book that was housed in a compartment on a small, wooden stand that was put there for our own safety in case we got lost in the woods. I was a little put off when I saw that Mike Meyers had signed in, but I assured myself that we were probably amongst hikers with a good sense of humor.

There was no denying the beauty of Thirteenth Lake. The mountains were breathtaking and covered with evergreens mixed with trees whose leaves had begun to change. The lake was peaceful and quiet, save for the sound of faint cricket chirps and the occasional call of a loon or a hawk. There was a beaver dam and felled trees that they had excavated all on their own. Since this was state land and not an “official” campground, throughout the day we would see scattered hikers and fishermen coming through the small trail next our setup.

After a deliciously campy lunch of hot dogs and hamburgers cooked on the campfire, we took turns on a raft and rowed out into the lake. We hiked just a little to sense our surroundings, and conversed with a couple in their 50’s that were backpacking their way up the mountain to camp out, a first for the woman as well. As evening approached, E. and I popped open some wine, and the boys got out their martini-shaker (what camping trip would be complete without one?) for their mixed vodka drinks. We cooked filet mignon steaks and some more hot dogs for dinner, and wondered how our digestive systems would hold up for the remainder of the trip. We hauled any food remains and garbage to the car, against the advice of one hiker who suggested that we hang our food from a tree to discourage the bears, as they’ve been known to actually break into cars when they’re hungry enough. We all decided that we’d rather have the bear destroy our vehicles than to have him sit with us staring at a bag of scraps hanging in the air, waiting for us to lower it down so he can have a midnight snack. After all, he might get impatient and decide that one of us will suffice.

About the time that we realized that we couldn’t see 5 feet past the campfire and the lake had completely been engulfed by the darkness, we heard our first coyote howl. E. became paralyzed with fear, holding a flashlight in each hand, and I started to chop some wood with an axe to get my mind off of the impending night that I would have to spend with nothing separating me from the wildlife except the thin nylon of my tent. The guys, of course, loved every minute of this adventure, although I tend to think that vodka can give one a false sense of security, not to mention a real sense of stupidity. After a few hours of playing “Guess the Noise Coming from the Woods”, we decided that the fastest way to daylight was through a good night’s sleep, and we retreated as couples into two tents.

I was feeling a little jumpy at first, but the continuing strains of “Ghetto Superstar” coming from my brother-in-law’s cell phone ringtone library next door helped to drown out the lonely coyotes and put my mind at ease. I had just fallen asleep when I heard a faint scratching at the tent next to my head. Since we had kept the campfire on for light, the shadow on the tent wall exposed a leaf that was slowly drifting down the outside of the tent. I decided to help it along, and flicked it with my thumb and forefinger. The wind started to pick up, and the rain started to fall again. I heard R. (or was it E.?) snoring, and there was finally enough background noise to lull me to sleep again.

I again awakened to another leaf skimming the side of the tent, and as I turned over to flick it off, I realized that the shadow of this leaf was heading upwards, and had four legs and a tail. I screamed and my husband woke abruptly, looking bewildered and reaching for his Machete next to the blow-up mattress.

“It’s just a lizard, what’s wrong with you?! Go back to sleep!”

“I can’t sleep! Whose idea was this?! I can’t stand this anymore! Please tell me it’s after 5 a.m., so I know that this night is almost over!”

He lit up his watch, and I saw 2:45. Oh well, I thought to myself. It’s not 5 a.m., but at least I must’ve slept a little.

“It’s 12:45.”

“No it’s not, it says 2:45!!”

“Well, you must’ve missed the ‘1’, look.”

All I could think was, how can this be? It’s only 12:45, and daylight won’t peek through this pitch dark for at least another 5 hours. How am I ever going to fall back asleep??

We lay there quietly, trying to ignore the fact that now that the wind died down and the rain stopped, we can hear the coyotes loud and clear. They’ve been calling each other all night. Haven’t they found each other yet? Apparently, it’s so dark that they can’t even see each other, and they have to play a game of howling Marco Polo until they do. The minutes rolled slowly by, and I wondered why I didn’t hit any of my friends up for a Valium before I left.

Just when I finally started to relax and drift off into a not-so-peaceful slumber, I heard the footsteps. What was even scarier was that my husband heard them, too, and sat straight up.

“What is that?!?!?” I inquired in a panicked whisper.

“SSHHHH!!!! Don’t SAY anything!!!” He anxiously whispered back.

“OH MY GOSH…IT’S MIKE MEYERS!!!!!”

I felt as if I were going to faint…give me a bear, give me Bigfoot for crying out loud, but don’t let there be some deranged nut walking around in that darkness looking for unsuspecting campers to dismember!!

“Stop it!!! It’s not Mike Meyers!!! It’s probably a bear, just BE QUIET!!!”

Whatever this creature was, it began sniffing between the tents, which actually put me in a panic that we really were dealing with a large mammal of some sort. Hopefully one that already ate dinner, I thought to myself. We waited for what seemed an eternity even though it was only about 5 minutes, and finally, the footsteps headed towards the woods and out of our camp. My husband and I tried to convince each other that a bear wouldn’t just scratch open our tent for no reason and eat us (even though he told me to get my head away from the side of the tent), and that they really didn’t like to eat people anyway, only berries and fish. Yes, that sounds good! Berries and fish, not humans! Okay, let’s huddle real close and pray with all of our might that we will fall asleep and wake to a glorious, sunny, critter-free morning.

We finally woke up around 7:30 a.m.…but not to glorious sun, only more ominous clouds and occasional sprinkles. The rain held off long enough for us to cook a delicious breakfast of eggs and bacon on the campfire, but as we were packing up to leave, the skies opened up and drenched not only all of our belongings, but us as well. Even the men were exhausted and anxious to get on the road, so after about 2 hours of soggy, muddy packing, we headed down the mountain. Good bye, Thirteenth Lake. It was quite an experience, but I will never visit your human-void, critter-laden shores ever again.

As we made our way back towards Lake George, the skies started to clear up as if to say that our nightmare was truly over. We decided to spend the day in town, and after some light shopping, a nice lunch and a great game of laser tag, we started on our journey back to Long Island. As we were driving, my husband asked me to tell him honestly how I felt about my first camping experience. Although I don’t think he was completely surprised, I know that he was slightly disappointed when I told him that it was probably my last. I assured him that although I enjoy sharing new adventures with him, to me this was the equivalent of dragging him to the mall at 6:00 a.m. for Macy’s One-Day sale, trying on 12 different outfits, 24 pairs of shoes and finally ending up at the Estee Lauder counter for a total makeover, complete with full facial hair removal.

Some things in life are strictly there for men to enjoy and I believe that camping is one of them--along with the Ultimate Fighting championship, Jackass movies and AC/DC. Other things, such as Glamour magazine, Victoria’s Secret and Nora Ephron movies are best enjoyed by women (alright, maybe with the exception of Victoria’s Secret). On the slim chance that I become melancholy for sleeping in the great outdoors, I’ll stick to pitching a tent in my own backyard, where I only have to worry about the opossums under my shed. On second thought…

“MORE” Fun Than Usual Today

2006-09-18T20:46:00.000-04:00

(This post was started on Saturday, September 16. I wasn't able to finish until today.)

As I approach my mid-40’s, I find myself in a place where I didn’t expect to arrive while traveling on this road called life. But the journey, with all of its detours, brought me to a destination that I’m becoming more comfortable with every day. I think I’ve finally come home. And that home is in my own skin.

Today, with the encouragement of my husband and the supportive company of my two daughters, I decided to trek into New York City and enter the MORE Magazine Modeling Contest. What’s the big deal, you ask? Well, for someone like me, who grew up with no confidence, this was quite the big step. I don’t know why I never believed in myself growing up—or as an adult, either. It wasn’t like I had parents that were always putting me down, or abusing me in any way. I don’t recall a major incident happening in elementary or junior high school that would have scarred me for life, such as throwing up in the middle of a chorus concert or walking around with my skirt tucked into my pantyhose. Whatever this “curse” is, my 60 yr. old brother has it as well. And for all I know, this alleged “curse” could’ve been the reason why my dad had a problem with alcohol. But whatever the explanation is, entering modeling contests is just not something that someone like me does. Until today, that is.

I want to be an example to my daughters; a positive example. I want them to have dreams and desires for their lives that they are not afraid of reaching for. How can they learn these important lessons of life with a mother who is constantly afraid to take that chance, a mom who persistently waits for everything to be “perfect” before she can act on her ideas? They can’t. I realized that I needed to enter this contest for them as well as for me. I was breaking this “curse” once and for all, and I needed them to be with me to experience risk-taking at it’s finest.

You see, I am short. I’m not too short, but I only stand about 5’2” (well, maybe a little over that…I stretched it a bit and put 5’3” on my registration form). Models, as we all know, are tall and thin. Amazon tall and reed thin. As we approached the offices of Wilhelmina Modeling Agency on Park Avenue, I noticed that there was a very long line of hopeful, over-40, would-be models, and quite frankly, most of them were towering over me. And, I might add, most of them were very, very pretty with attractive figures to match. Although the contest rules state that height and weight are not considerations, I noticed that all of the former winners prancing around outside the agency were at least 5’6”, which is probably short by Wilhelmina standards, and they did not weigh much more than 120, if that. Okay, what am I doing here?

I internally calm myself down so as not to externally paint an insecure picture to my girls, all the while trying to tell myself that I really do have a right to stand on that line, even if I didn’t actually believe it. After all, I am over 40. There were, um, about three other women who were about my height. And although I’m no Angelina Jolie, I don’t really think that I’m a dog. Okay, maybe I can fake this…stand up straight. Take a deep breath. Be social, turn around and talk to the six-foot tall, gorgeous blonde woman behind you.

As my girls were taking pictures of themselves modeling in numerous poses with the ever-important backdrop of a New York street and all of its activity, I decided to turn around and face the competition in back of me. The six-foot blonde was talking to a beautiful black woman, not much shorter than she was. They stopped their conversation, and directed their attention towards the tall, dark-haired woman in front of me…and then looked down at the diminutive little woman that they failed to notice, almost with a look of, “Oh, how cute!” on their faces.

We engaged in some small talk about the unusually hot September day we were experiencing, and how we hoped that our makeup didn’t melt off of our faces by the time we made it up to the front entrance of the modeling agency. Since we were around the corner and couldn’t even see the entrance, we knew our chances of keeping our faces intact were pretty slim. We began to loosen up a bit, and proceeded to complement each other on how nice we looked, and how great most of the women on line kept themselves for being over 40. “Well, I’m not really ‘over 40’, I’m ‘over 50’”, the 6-foot blonde announced. My girls, who were by this time sitting on a window ledge next to the line comparing their “modeling” photos on their digital cameras, looked up for the first time in the half hour since they plopped themselves there. “You’re not over 50,” I sternly scolded this clearly delusional woman. “There’s no way.”

“Yes, I am! I’m 56, I’ll be 57 soon!”

“No, you’re not.”

“No, really, I am!”

“………”

Yes, I was speechless. Okay, she looked like she might have had just this much work done. But 56?!? Her body looked like Elle MacPherson’s! Her hair was long and golden like a teenager’s! Where were her wrinkles?!? Wow, I thought, she deserves to at least place in the top 10 finalists. But then she announced that she had entered last year, and nothing happened. She also lived in California, and planned on entering out there as well when she got home from visiting her friend here in New York. I began to wonder again what in the world I was doing on that line. If a six-foot, beautiful blonde who’s 56 can’t even make it to an honorable mention in a modeling contest solely for women past middle age, well then, I sure have a lot of nerve even standing there.

Eventually, one of the reps comes by and gives us our forms to fill out. If we don’t have a picture, she states, they will be more than happy to take one for us once we get in. We wait a little longer, and now the six-foot blonde is talking to another very pretty blonde behind her about—I knew it—Botox. The smaller blonde states that she will never live without her Botox, and the six-footer agrees. I asked the smaller blonde if it hurt (“Yes, very much”). I asked her when was the last time she got it done (“Well, I’m actually due to go soon, but I don’t like how it looks when I first get it done. I wanted to come here and have a little…I don’t know…” “Expression?” I blurted out. “Yes! That’s it!” she replied). I asked her how old she was (“Fifty-four”). I decide at that point that I will probably dump my “Frownies” by age 54, and take up Botox. These women look great. As for the cost of Botox versus “Frownies”, well, I’ll just pull a Scarlett and worry about that tomorrow.

Finally, we get closer. The entrance to Wilhelmina is now a lipstick’s throw away and I’m feeling relieved. A very nice man comes out and announces that anyone who wants to have their makeup touched up by professional makeup artists should stay in line, and anyone who doesn’t, up to ten people, should come with him. I tell my girls that we should go for the whole experience, and we decide that I should wait just a little longer to see what it feels like to actually sit in a makeup chair like a real professional model, and be “made beautiful”.

We arrive inside the building and are immediately escorted up the elevator to the second floor. When we walk out, there looks like a mardi-gras going on with balloons everywhere, gift bags from one end of the room to the other and beautiful displays of prizes that you could win from a drawing of tickets that we filled out earlier while on line. We are informed that whoever wants a touch-up needs to stand to the right; whoever doesn’t can go into another open room, pay their registration fee and have their picture taken. By this time, my girls are having a blast. My older daughter, who wants to be a magazine editor, points out an office cubicle and says that she wants to work in an office “just like that”. Both she and my younger one are still taking photos, and when I finally get into the makeup chair, I feel like I’m part of a fashion shoot with all the flashes going off.

The makeup artist blots me a little, and proceeds to put the slightest bit of bronzer on my face, and then some blush. She thinks my eye makeup is fine, but decides to put some berry-colored gloss on my lips. Oh, no. Do I really want lip gloss? My makeup looked so nice when I left my house, and now she’s putting gooey glop on my lips, and it’s not even clear. It’s berry-colored. I start panicking to myself that I’m going to look ridiculous, but my girls are loving every inch of my lips (well, every millimeter, anyway). I leave the chair, thank the adorable young makeup artist, and walk toward the next line, the final frontier of the day’s agenda.

I watch now as women from every walk of life traipse back and forth from registration to “photo shoot”. I don’t quite know when it happened, but at that moment I realized that I wasn’t nervous anymore. Yes, a lot of the women were tall, but there were definitely some that were not. There were some that were heavy, and some that were probably great-grandmothers. They were every different color and shape, and yet everyone was the same in that room. We were all asserting our inner being who guided us to this point in life where we could say, “I’m okay with myself, and I can do this.” I am willing to bet that at least half of the women there, myself included, would not have gone on this cattle call in their twenties. Cattiness has been replaced with encouragement. Jealousy has been replaced with admiration. How far we have come as women. How far I have come from the self-doubting, insecure person that I was. I allowed myself to take a chance and enjoy an adventure just for the fun of it, all the while showing my girls how important it is for your self-worth to take risks. It doesn’t matter if I win the contest; I’m a winner already just for having the nerve to show up. And I’m darn proud of myself for that.

I’m called up for registration. I pay my entry fee, and off I go to have my Polaroid taken. I stand in front of the camera, and allow myself to experience the joy of being right where I am at that moment. I smile, and the camera flashes. Before I leave, I wait just long enough for the picture to start developing…

My girls and I had a wonderful time today, an experience not to be forgotten. We got to see the inside of one of the world’s most famous modeling agencies, we chatted it up with interesting people, and we just had plain, old fun doing something completely out of the ordinary for us. As for that Polaroid…well, let’s just say that it may not resemble Cindy Crawford, but staring back at me was someone who was truly, sincerely happy in her own skin. What’s not beautiful about that?