Temp Outside: 95 Degrees

Temp Inside: Cooool!!

These are my little stinkers, on their first official visit to the Museum of Natural History in Manhattan. We saw dinosaur bones and a life-size model of a blue whale (no kidding). It's one of those New York childhood rites-of-passage; you live here, you go to the Natural History Museum. I was so excited to share it with them, because I still recall my own childhood trips there.

I'm taking the kids to Connecticut for a few days to visit my Mother- and Father-in-Law. Their son will not be accompanying us on this trip (he's working), but my in-laws are really missing the kids ... so off we go!

See you all on Friday!

Sarah Bernhardt, Eat Your Heart Out

Because that's my girl, "Elf #2" in her camp production of a re-worked tale of Hansel and Gretel.

I'm glad for her and her absolute glee at being able to recall every cue, and to state her lines with a confidence that still eludes her Momma. But because life is forever "interesting," we have a little issue ...

Maddie has Strabismus, which I guess used to be called "lazy eye" or "squint." It's very subtle in her case, but we were recently told (by a surgeon) that she ought to have surgery. My husband and I did some soul-searching, but because there are serious risks involved, and because Strabismus kids more often than not require several surgeries to get their eyes "straight," we're pursuing another route.

It's called Visual Therapy, and it's sort of like physical therapy for the eyes. It sounds like just the thing, and we're very excited about it. Maddie is an excellent candidate, so we're told. Except that, unlike the surgical option, visual therapy is not covered by insurance. (Apparently, the geniuses at HIP/Vytra majored in Penny Wise and Pound Foolish whilst in college, and would therefore rather spend potentially thousands on multiple surgeries than try to fix our little girl with some weekly therapy.)

Of course, the therapy's not cheap. It's upwards of $100 per session.

So wish me luck while I pursue a multi-pronged attack. First, one more "opinion," from a doc who will hopefully have some suggestions as to how we might pursue coverage. Second, a planned appeal of the Denial of Coverage (four years ago I fought Empire Blue Cross to get coverage for a $300K lung transplant for my father-in-law, and won). Third, independent research into the field of Visual Therapy, and - I hope - the discovery of tools to begin the process at home while the other two options are working themselves out.

I'm going to have to remind myself to be patient while this all falls into place. It'll be Halloween at least before we have any resolution ...

The Gift that Keeps on Giving ...

Is Poison Ivy, just in case you were wondering. It's two weeks of itchy, weepy awfulness that makes me want to run screaming to Alaska (where, my childish brain assumes, they have none of the demon weed).

But here on Long Island, we're positively lousy with the stuff. Which is why I always ask Michael (who seems to be immune) to pull it out of the ground for me. And that's exactly what he did yesterday. He pulled it all out -- bye, bye, nasty buggers!!

Except that this morning I awoke with a bloom of red itchy welts across both butt cheeks and down the back of one thigh. Which means the following: (1) henceforth, we will be hiring a professional to remove the offending plants; (2) my husband needs to be re-educated in the area of personal hygiene; and (3) thank God my sweet love is an ass man, because I cannot imagine walking around with a pair of Caladryl-crusted tits through half of August.

A Little Late ...

Happy Fourth Birthday, Thomas!

If You are So Inclined ...

Please say a prayer today for all of the innocents caught in the MidEast violence, including of course Ann's baby granddaughter, who is among the youngest witnesses to the horror.

And if you're not one for praying, then please at least send whatever positive "energy" you posess directly to Haifa, and to my favorite author, our dear Finn.

Stay safe, honey. I am worried sick about you.

My Body: Love It or Leave It

Having spent the better part of twenty years hating my body, I think I’ve finally decided to abandon all of that and just go ahead and love my short, matronly self. It gelled for me by accident late last night, and inspired a rather NC-17 posting that I removed almost immediately.

I’ve been spending a lot less time lately trying to hide my naked, bore-two-beautiful-children self from my husband of eight years. He made a comment about 15 months ago that could have kept me feeling a little insecure, and a lot shy, but instead I immediately lost twelve pounds and threatened to take my newly attractive ass, and our two children, and hit the road.

But then I decided to go in another direction (because I really do love the idiot), and I quietly started to expand his “horizons” in ways that he hadn’t expected. And, I hasten to add, in ways that no twenty year-old, flat-tummied Catholic girl I’ve ever known would consider doing. So hubby clammed up but quick, and he has once again become a frequent worshipper at the temple that is my mid-30’s body. And since that is the subject of this nonsense, I now return to it:

I’m still in the gym five times a week, but I’m doing what I like – a vigorous cardio workout – because I’m now primarily concerned with the health of my heart, and not the size of my waist. (I intend to be here to play touch football with my grandkids.) And I have no plans to go out and buy midriff-baring (read: stretch mark-baring) blouses or leopard-skin high heels.

But I’m done beating myself up, staying out of the pool when I really want to swim, and crying every year as bathing suit season approaches. Fuck it. This is me. Love me or leave me.
And by the way … see that idiot with the puzzled look who could barely get out of bed to head off to work this morning? My body did that, too.

Ginzo a Go-go

This weekend I had the opportunity to introduce my half-Canadian offspring to a little bit of their mother's ethnic history. We made the brief journey to the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn, to the church where my Grandparents were wed, for the annual "Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel." Along the way my Mother got to show the kids her church, her Catholic schools, and some truly excellent food.

This ain't San Gennaro, ladies. "The" Feast includes more than just games and food (though of course we stuffed ourselves silly with brasciole and zeppoles); it includes a re-enactment of the heroic and selfless deeds of Saint Paulinus. He, the faithful know, offered himself in trade for the sons of the Italian village of Nola, many of whom had been captured into slavery by an invading Turkish army around 410 AD.

The re-enactment is accomplished by building a 50-foot lily-covered statue (the lilies give the statue its name: Giglio) with Saint Paulinus at the top, and a huge boat (pictured above) for the "Turk" to ride in. Each has a 10-piece band on top, and 100 steel-shouldered men underneath. There's also (quite invariably) a 350 lb. guy with a 6 oz. trumpet in the boat. Just to be sure that the lifters earn their wine, you understand.

The "lifters" - who are fueled by homemade wine and testosterone as much as they are by their faith in God - carry the statue and the boat through the streets of Williamsburg to the utter delight and awe of the crowd. For their efforts, each one of the lifters is rewarded with a tee-shirt, a couple of red and white carnations, and whatever they want to eat or drink for the rest of the week. And none of them goes home alone. This I know because my Mother's cousins used to lift, in the days before they had children and wives and mortgages.

So, salut! And praise God! And, for the love of Saint Paulinus ... more powdered sugar on the zeppoles!!

olmcfeast.com

America's Favorite Pastime ...

... is baseball, of course. And so tonight I went off to Game Three of the "Subway Series" between the New York Yankees and the New York Mets. It was at Yankee Stadium, which was a treat for me. I'm from Long Island, so I've been to Shea (home of the Mets) about six dozen times, but I'd never before entered The House That Ruth Built.

It was great fun. It rained, but I bought a Subway Series ball cap to keep the rain out of my eyes and then sat out in my seat - six rows from third base - to let the rainwater soak right through my tank top and cool me off for the first time all day. It was amazing, and sort of a turn-on (yeah, I'm a little bit of a freak). But then the weather cleared, and the game began.

I grew up with the Mets. It was required of me. But I have to say (however grudgingly) that the Yankees have it all over my team when it comes to "cute." (A notable exception is Randy Johnson, of whom my Grandma Olympia would surely have said: "It's a sin to be that ugly"). And they have fabulous names like Derek and A-Rod and The Big Unit. (Can you say "phallus," boys and girls?)

I have no idea why I'm posting about this. It's after two am, I've just gotten home, and I'm way too wound up for sleep. Maybe it was all that testosterone ...