Random Acts of Madness

2007-11-02T18:03:00.000-07:00

Murder, Incorporated

I'm sort of a snob about my driving. Not that I'm super-talented or anything; I hit plenty of curbs when I'm parking. It's only that I'm careful in and around our town. Now that I spend nearly every day at the elementary school and with our children and their friends, I sort of feel as though I know every family in town.

And I don't want to kill anybody's child. So I'm careful. And I'm a little arrogant about how careful I am. "Check me out," I tell myself as I'm rolling along at 30 mph. "I mean, did you see that full stop back there?"

And then it happened. Yesterday, as I was crawling along one of our little suburban roads (with a line of beeping, road-raging maniacs on my tail), I squashed a squirrel.

There was just no avoiding the damn rodent. He practically threw himself under the mini-van. In fact ... now that I think back on it a little bit, I'm sure that I saw a look of hopelessness on his little varmint face. Despondency, even.

So what do you think ... squirrel suicide?

2007-10-03T07:03:00.000-07:00

I Want ...

.. to have Keith Olbermann's love child. Because smart is sexy. Because every used-to-be-geek in America eventually grows up, and some of us quietly cheer as this take-no-prisoners Journalist takes the Powers that Be to task for their sins (whether of Omission or Commission) every night on his show.
And because, for the love of God, it's about time somebody stood up. I'm inspired; I'm grateful; and I just want to cry. But I think I'll become an activist instead, because my I want my kids so see me Stand Up for them, my beliefs and my country.
Bravo, Keith. And get yourself a flack jacket, for Chrissakes. We can't afford to lose you to one of you-know-who's crazy minions.

2007-09-25T12:08:00.000-07:00

Activism 101

We have a little groundwater problem in our town. Simply put, we have too much, and it has nowhere to go. So my PTA (that's the Parent-Teacher Association) and I arranged a little Advocacy Nite at school, and we wrote all of the local politicians to ask for help.
Then, I hand-delivered the dozens of letters all over the County.
Last in line was the County Executive, whose office is in a well-secured County Office Building. I approached the guard booth, handed over my driver's license, and announced that I was a representative of our elementary school PTA, and that I wished to drop off some letters to the County Executive.
The two guys in the guard booth hardly blinked. The one with my license in his hand was madly scribbling some information onto a piece of paper. Then, without looking up, he addressed me: "Are they expecting you?"
I dipped my head forward, and stuck my nose through the hole in the Plexiglass that separated us. Then, I spoke:
"Honey," I told him, "no one expects the PTA."
He peered up at me, and burst out laughing. He scribbled a small hot-pink Visitor pass, and handed it through the hole.
"You go right on up."
That's right, people: don't mess with Mom!

2007-09-18T08:03:00.000-07:00

First Day of School!

Because there's no better way to celebrate Fall than to miss the bus ...
All's well, now, and my little sweeties are settled in elementary school!

2007-08-21T17:52:00.000-07:00

Not So Hot in the Baby-Sitting Department, Either!

My sweet friend is on bedrest during this (her fourth) pregnancy, and so I thought I'd take her three sons home to our place for a while to play. Two of them are shown here (flanking my Maddie and Thom at Center), having gotten into Maddie's dress-up stuff.

Apparently, I should spend less time in the kitchen, and more time monitoring the little ones in my charge!

2007-08-13T19:25:00.000-07:00

Mother of the Year

Let's face it: I should have been standing right next to my little son as he tripped over and fell against the wall, lacerating his little skull. And I should have warned him against jumping around with that stupid Power Rangers helmet on (he obviously can't see worth a damn with the thing on, and it has since been put in the trash).

But I wasn't, and I didn't. I was in another room at the time of the accident, and all I could do afterwards was hold him down in the ER while they stapled his head back together (I took this photo while we waited to be seen; I'm going to post it someplace so I'll always remember the cost of a lack of vigilance).

I was as cheery as possible throughout the whole ordeal - so as not to overly frighten the little fellow - and I rewarded him with a warm bath and as many cuddles as he could stand.

Every time this sort of thing happens I feel a little like the tenth runner-up in the Mother of the Year contest. Sigh!

2007-08-06T16:27:00.000-07:00

The Bitch is Baaack!

My mom took the family on what I've been calling a "Cruise to Nowhere." My Canadian husband hastily adds: "Canada is not nowhere!!" But since he elected not to get off of the ship and visit The Fatherland, it's acceptable to ignore him.

I've got to get back into a rhythm ... for now it'll be fun just to check in with my old friends! You all look fab-u-lous, by the way!

2007-03-05T06:23:00.000-08:00

Another One Bites the Dust

This morning, little Maddie appears to be falling victim to the demon stomach flu, and Thom is complaining of a mystery "pain in the ass." I'm trying not to take that one personally.

And of course I'm selfishly hoping that I'm not the next to fall ill or - even worse for Momma - that my husband will become sick!

2007-03-04T04:39:00.000-08:00

Poor Thomas!

My little peanut started with the stomach flu at 4:00am this morning. I've done two loads of bedding so far, and I do believe there will be more before we're done. He's got it "from both ends," as they say. And my mother's intuition tells me that it won't be long before we're making full use of all two and one-half baths in our little house.

What's that, you say? Where's Daddy in all of this? He bolted from the house a half hour ago with our as-yet-healthy oldest.

2007-01-26T17:24:00.000-08:00

Why Not?

I went ahead and wrote my first fanfic. Then I published it at fanfiction.net. Because I'm just that much of a glutton for punishment.

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/3342236/1/

It's called "Cold," and it began as a silly idea that I shared with Kate and Jill. I'm no Finn, but I guess this is reflective of where I am right now.

2007-01-26T16:52:00.000-08:00

The Long Goodbye

My mother's first cousin Andrea died today. She was in her early fifties. Back when she was 19 years old and on her honeymoon, Andrea had a nasty fall. She was diagnosed with MS.

In the early 1980s, Andrea's hemophiliac husband contracted HIV from a tainted blood transfusion. He passed it to his wife without knowing he'd been exposed. He died within ten years, but she kept going.

And going. Andrea was one of those positive forces of nature. You could simply not get the girl down. I guess that's why her death is so oddly shocking. The woman had two -- that's two -- fatal diseases, and yet she never seemed to be actually dying.

If you are so inclined, please say a little prayer for our angel Andrea, and for her only daughter J. Thanks ...

2007-01-05T05:40:00.000-08:00

So Long, Farewell ...

See you all in a few days!

2006-12-28T11:13:00.000-08:00

The Language of Christmas

I recall (back in the days when I was young and dating) hearing lots of talk about "The Language of Flowers." You know, the manner in which one might creatively express respect (daffodils), affection (red chrysanthemum) and virginity (orange blossom), to name a very few.

So, on this Christmas morning, as I opened the gifts which my dear husband had lovingly chosen for me, I just had to ask myself: "What sort of message am I to infer from a Daisy Seal?"

Okay, so it's not exactly a flower. More like a superheated foodsaver device. But it's got that "Daisy" bit in the title, only without the usual connotation of "childhood innocence."

Don't get me wrong, I know exactly what he meant to convey with the purple bikini underpants and the push-up bra. It's just ... vacuum-packed leftovers? What's up with that?

2006-12-17T19:18:00.000-08:00

Holiday Wishes

Mike and I attended the company's annual Holiday Party on Saturday night. It was a nice opportunity for me to catch up with the wives of his engineer colleagues. We all have the same look: "He was cute when I married him, I swear!"

Just kidding. (Mike's still sort of cute; he has all of his hair, and his pocket protector has been permanently retired.)

I'm happy to report that I did nothing to embarass my husband, and I was completely sober throughout the evening. On the flipside, I was repeatedly assaulted by geeky engineer-types who thought it positively hysterical to sneak up behind me, place an ice-cold bottle of beer against my shoulderblades, and watch me leap for the chandeliers. Mike was drunk off his six-foot arse, and so was unavailable to come to my rescue.

Note to self: next year, no bare shoulders. Second note to self: next year, taser!

2006-12-14T18:24:00.000-08:00

Lazy

My husband was just talking (his first mistake) about how, in a few years, our kids will be in Junior High, and I'll have to get up "early." I cocked an eyebrow at him, and watched as he prepared the noose, and slipped his head right on through.

"Because, you know, you sleep 'till like seven, and you're still tired all the time."

I wasn't really prepared to have to give the Mommy's-on-duty-24/7 speech this evening, but since he insisted on prompting me, I improvised a little.

And screamed right in his ungrateful little face. Because the truth is, women are the first line of defense against midnight fevers and vomiting; we do do the lion's share of the chores. They can call it nagging, but that doesn't mean what we're saying isn't true.

"And don't kid yourself, sucker," I said as I glared into that treacherous mug of his. "I know what's out there in the wife department, and what you need," I paused for emphasis, "you ain't gonna get from some Martha Stewart, up-with-the-birds Uber-housewife."

He knew it. He kissed me and apologized.

But he's not getting any monkey love for at least a week. 'Cause if Momma ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.

2006-12-12T19:18:00.000-08:00

A Christmas Mitzvah

Every year my Mom does a big bash for Christmas Eve. Too much food, too much fun, just ... too much. And, every single year since there was a "family" in our family, we've had a visit from a real live Santa Claus. He brings a few presents and some holiday cheer to the whole assembly, and then departs before anyone notices that he smells like Grandpa, or that he’s wearing Uncle Ernie’s shoes.

In our house, Santa is decidedly non-sectarian. He brings gifts for Christian and Jew alike (because we usually have plenty of both), and everyone gets to sit on his lap. The problem in recent years, however, is that the kids are getting smarter and more inquisitive, and it's getting harder to find a Santa capable of fooling our little detectives, even for a few moments.

But this year's gonna be different. My sister and her husband are hosting an old friend of his for a couple of weeks, an Israeli Special Forces Something-or-Other who's in town for the holidays. His name is Ori (or something equally sexy and exotic), and he’s agreed to wear the Big Red Suit.

I think I’ve mentioned my little Catholic-girls-gone-wild fetish for the sons of Israel. Every one I ever dated treated me like a goddess, and my mother will never, ever forgive me for The One That Got Away back in 1994. So I’m positively quivering at the prospect of Ori, resplendent in the velvet suit and white wig, beckoning for me to sit in his lap and tell him what I really want for Christmas.

There’s just one problem: Mike and I are supposed to spend this Christmas Eve with his parents, as we do every second year. But I think that my flu shot must have been defective or something. I feel a little fever coming on …

2006-12-06T17:34:00.000-08:00

Today I thought ...

I watch over my children as though my sanity were dependent upon their survival.

Then I realized: it is.

2006-12-05T05:28:00.000-08:00

Vincent D'Onofrio ...

... is going to be at the NBC Experience this morning signing copies of the Season 2 DVD. And, despite the fact that I am within shouting distance of NBC, and that I love each and every one of my far-away (yet devoted) LO:CI friends, I'm afraid that I won't be able to get myself there.

"Chain me to the bedpost," I begged my husband.

"Pardon?" he replied, a little astonished.

"It's just that I'm afraid I won't be able to resist the urge to head on over there and scream in his face like a teenager on crack: 'Ann wanted to be here, but she's planning a wedding! Jill has a teenage daughter and two dogs! Kate has boys and a congregation! Jen has a child and a business to run! Riccie is up to her knees is new technology and a grandchild! Finn is in Israel, for God's sake! I'm here for them!!'

"So please - if you love me - lock me in the basement and hide the car keys, won't you honey?"

"Of course I will, darling," he replied, and kissed me on the forehead. "Now go take your meds."

Again, I'm sorry for having failed you all.

2006-11-29T17:35:00.000-08:00

Santa, baby!

I finished my Christmas shopping today. Well, except for Maddie's dance instructor and the "class gift" we'll be organizing for the kids' teachers.

Can I help anybody out?

2006-11-18T13:16:00.000-08:00

Thin Ice

If I look back on my life, I think it's fair to say that every "good" idea I've ever had turned "bad" at roughly the same moment. What was that moment, you say?

Right around the time the first penis walked into the room.

Today it was "Disney on Ice," and a dozen six year-old bladders on an impossibly long ladies' room line. I had a "good" idea, which I'd borrowed from countless trips to Broadway plays and the Metropolitan Opera: I took over the nearest men's room and converted it into a temporary ladies' room. The little girls marched in, and I stood guard at the door, waving off the few Dads who were seeking some relief.

Then, the aforementioned penis arrived.

"There are little girls inside," I said as he attempted to enter. "They couldn't wait."

"It's okay," he replied, brushing past me, "I take my little girl in here all the time."

He rushed to a urinal and - as God is my witness - whipped it out and went. Thank goodness all of the little girls were still safely in their stalls (taking their sweet little girl time), and he was out of there in a flash. But I was horrified at his behavior, and at my complete and total inability to protect those to whom I'd offered a safe place to pee.

After it was over, I apologized to my friend (she was with the kids while I "guarded" the door, and had a front-row seat for the show) for my impotence. She was sweet and forgiving, but I was left to face some hard truths. One, that I lack the gravitas of a 60 year-old grandmother standing outside an opera house bathroom and daring any man to enter. And, two, that men are pigs.

2006-11-15T14:10:00.000-08:00

The One on the Far Left is Mine

Because I'm not afraid of heights and, let's face it, sometimes a girl who's barely five feet tall just plain needs the tallest fella in the photo.

2006-11-14T22:07:00.000-08:00

Honey Bunny

Best. Night's. Sleep. Ever.

2006-11-12T16:42:00.000-08:00

Mother of the Year

Just when I was beginning to feel that I'd come into my own as a mother ...

This past Saturday I loaded my two kids into the family SUV and headed to the YMCA for our weekly swimming lessons. As we disembarked the vehicle, I noticed that young Thomas (age 4) was wearing one blue shoe, and one brown one. I would have loved to have been able to blame him for this little fashion faux pas, but the truth is that I was the one who dressed him, head to foot.

Oh yeah, did I mention that they were both the LEFT shoe?

2006-11-06T16:29:00.000-08:00

What's Up Doc?

There was a moment, just before 7pm, when I thought it had all been a dream, and that I hadn’t actually agreed to host an adult toy party in our suburban home. But then the doorbell rang, and two lovely young women entered. They had rolling suitcases which, I soon learned, were full of demo vibrators.

I had about a half bottle of blueberry port in me, which is a good thing if you’re about to be the guinea pig at a sex party. Once the crowd had been loosened up with a little massage oil and pheromone lotion, it was my turn to try a little “Enhancement Cream.” I was dispatched to the ladies room and told to apply a small amount of the stuff to my “center.” My sister (the veteran of many such parties) had warned me about this:

“Some of my friends said it’s like squatting in a patch of eucalyptus; I sort of felt like my crotch was on fire.”

Thankfully, my experience was more “eucalyptus patch” than “firecrotch.” But it was still embarrassing. And that was before the vibrators started circulating around the room.

I’ve always thought that a really high-end vibrator should resemble a piece of modern art, full of womanly curves and gentle slopes. But it seems that the folks at Disney are moonlighting in the adult toy biz; all of the stuff we were shown was adorned with woodland varmints and sea creatures.

I know you all don’t care about this. Get to it, you hussy! Tell us what you BOUGHT!!

Okay. I bought one of those woodland varmint-vibrators. I haven’t used it yet (yeah, you get the stuff right away, lest you come to your senses post-party and cancel your order), because I’ve been busy with the other stuff I bought. There’s the Massage Mitt with the built-in vibrator, then there’s O-Ring with the built in vibrator … detecting a trend? I even bought the firecrotch stuff, just because I thought it might make for an interesting conversation.

$250 later, I must say that my husband and I are happily entering the Electronic Age of our sex life (both the Massage Mitt and the O-Ring were for us to enjoy together). And no, I will not give you all of the sweaty details. This is true love, after all. But I will tell you that, when my friend Jen has a party later this year, I’ll be picking up a few more goodies.

And I promise that – when Bugs Bunny and I do finally connect – I’ll let you know if it was worth the $50 bucks.

2006-11-04T13:44:00.001-08:00

Finding Nemo

All I remember is this impossibly tall mother of five staring at me while she cranked up the speed and intensity of the demo vibrator in her hands. (The thing had flashing lights and a clitoral stimulator in the shape of a small woodland creature, I swear.) She was saying something like: "Can you feel your clitoris now?"

And all my blueberry port-addled brain could think was: "This is not what I expected, but I like it!"

More later ... I promise!

2006-11-01T07:15:00.000-08:00

Comfortably "6"

And not too damn happy about it. Freakin' Halloween candy!!! Plus, I sugared myself into the first migraine I've had since June.

I'm headed to the kitchen to bag it all up and get it the hell out of here; the engineers at Mike's place will eat anything.

By the way, we are T-minus two days from my first-ever "Passion Party." The link to the good stuff is: igniteyourpassionnow.com

You have been warned!

2006-10-29T07:00:00.000-08:00

Getting to the Bottom of It All

I've been a little reluctant to go clothes shopping since my recent weight loss. (Well, not so recent; it's been over a year.) But I broke down a couple of weeks ago and hit the local Old Navy in search of a pair of jeans that actually fit. This is sort of a novelty for me, because I'm only about 5 feet tall, and pants hardly ever fit me.

Once in the dressing room, I found that the loss of 18 pounds has put me into a size 4 of something called the "short, low rise, curvy, boot cut" jean. Of course, I could give a rat's butt what they're called. They said "4," and so I bought them.

Then I stuck them in the closet. Until last Friday night, when Mike and I headed out for a party at the home of one of his work colleagues.

And as I stood on the front porch, a tray of homemade chocolate-covered strawberries in my hands, my husband grabbed my newly-teeny tushie and said: "Your ass looks great in those jeans."

It wasn't exactly a Hallmark moment, but that Canadian son of a bitch so got laid that night.

2006-10-26T12:08:00.000-07:00

Shattered

Today I got to do one of those "fun" Classmother things: a field trip. We went to some smelly, muddy pumpkin and livestock farm, and I was having a wonderful time with my daughter and her first-grade class.

And then we got to the goat pen. "Miss Debbie," our intrepid tour guide, began to explain that - despite the fact that these were female goats, many of them were sporting what looked like little goat whiskers on their chins. The word she used was "beards."

A second later, my daughter's teacher pointed to the goat and chimed in helpfully: "Oh, she's Italian."

And, as God is my witness, every last illusion I had about the sanctity of the teaching profession was shattered in that instant. I was stunned, but I felt the need to respond, and to at least let her know that I'd heard her, and that I didn't agree. So I said: "Well, I'm Italian ... but I have no beard."

Once again, I'm amazed at how comfortable people are in expressing their bigotry in polite company. Never you mind that, here on Long Island, you can't swing a dead cat without hitting an Italian-American. And forget for a second that if I don't look Italian, with my short stature, dark curly hair and dark eyes, then nobody does.

I don't know what to do. I don't know if I can ever look that Pennsylvania farm girl in the face again. If she was dumb enough and insensitive enough to make a crack like that in my presence, what the hell is going on in that classroom when I'm not around?

2006-10-22T20:43:00.000-07:00

I Needed ...

... to cry my eyes out today. I'm not sure there was any one reason for it. It was just the crushing weight of work, motherhood, marriage, friendship, citizenship and modern life. I needed a physical release, and crying is both cheap and socially acceptable.

I checked the four-hour 1993 video version of "Gettysburg" out of the local library, because there's nothing like the senseless death of more than 53,000 men over three short days to get the waterworks going.

And of course, for me personally, there's the final, devastatingly brilliant performance of Richard Jordan as Brig. Gen. Lewis Armistead. He gives a couple of very emotional speeches, and then gets mortally wounded just as he crosses the Union army lines. The real Gen. Armistead died of the wounds he received at Gettysburg two days after the battle ended. Richard Jordan died from an inoperable brain tumor within a year of completing the film. He was fifty-five years old.

Anyway, I'm too exhausted to go into the details of why this performance and this film were just what I needed to achieve catharsis and (I hope) wake ready to face life again tomorrow. You'll just have to trust me.

Goodnight, Richard.

2006-10-15T12:20:00.000-07:00

Who Wants to Live Forever?

A friend of mine is a Breast Cancer Survivor. Actually, she's just about to have her reconstructive surgery, so it's a fairly recent thing. And I'm not sure she puts herself in the "survivor" category yet.

Recently, she's been talking a lot about her fears of reoccurrence (as so many in her position do), and I've found myself with a lot to say -- but without the will to say it. Maybe it's because I live with The Thing in My Head. You know, the thing that could explode some day and rob me of my speech forever. (It could also kill me, which would be a total bummer.) Or maybe it's because my kid sister has a bum heart, and has been told her whole life that she shouldn't plan too far into the future.

Who knows? But I just think that you can decide either to let the fear dominate your thoughts, or you can decide to just find a place in your mind to store that information and go forward. Personally, I've chosen to live in a blissful state of denial. Because what the fuck can you do about it, anyhow? You can either live scared, or you can choose to go on. And if the worst happens, I guess I'll deal with that later.

Maybe it's just a little too soon for my friend. And, yeah, I've been brainwashed enough by pop-psychology to know that you can't tell people how to feel. But there's a little tiny part of me that wants to hug her and say: "Eat anti-oxidants, exercise and control those things in your life that you are able to control. Beyond that, you need to put the fear someplace far away and just live, okay?"

That's insensitive, I know. I just hate to see her stuck and upset and worried all the time.

2006-10-12T17:24:00.000-07:00

Dog Gone

We had the pleasure of "Pennie Lane's" company for 10 days, during which the little bitch (literally, a female of the species) shat her way through every room in the place. Twice a day. This, despite the fact that we continually walked her.

So there'll be no dog in our home come the Spring. Because, after six straight years of cleaning up baby poop, I just ain't ready for dog shit. Not yet, anyway.

2006-10-11T10:29:00.000-07:00

Men Suck

Sorry. It's just that I was halfway out the door to the Bridal Shower from hell (three hours away and in another state), when I noticed something in the back of our SUV, peeking out from behind the suitcases and the eighty-eight hand-made shower favors I'd spent days putting together.

Golf clubs.

I closed my eyes and rapidly shook my head, the way you might if you were convinced you'd seen a ghost. But when I re-opened my eyes, they were still there.

And that, dear ladies, is how my husband advised me that he'd elected to completely abdicate his paternal responsibilities, and not watch our son while I helped host a shower for the biggest, most pregnant bitch in Connecticut.

2006-09-27T18:59:00.000-07:00

Ask, and Ye Shall …

… get your stupid ass kicked, that’s what.

Sorry. I need a minute to get hold of myself. There; that’s better. It’s just that I recently agreed to dog-sit my favorite Aunt’s mini wiener dog – to the complete and utter delight of my kids, and to the utter horror of my husband – and there was a bit of a firestorm.

“Is the dog there now?” He phoned from work, knowing full well that, yes, the dog was in the house. “You know,” he continued, “I don’t recall being asked.”

And that was when I lost it. “Asked?” Was he kidding? Because, if that’s how it works, my life just got a whole lot simpler. He’s never “asked” if I’d like to do the dishes, wash his underpants, clean the house, make his dinners or perform any one of several dozen assorted sexual acts. (Okay, he may have asked for some of those.)

But seriously: I was ready to crush him like a bug. And then I had an inspiration.

“Sweetheart,” I said gently, “no one is going to love you any less just because there’s an adorable little beastie in our house. The children are happy, I’m happy, and we’re doing a very small favor for the woman who – if you recall – brought us together.” I paused for emphasis, and then went on. “And just for your information, we don’t have to ask each other for this sort of thing. I trust you with all sorts of decisions, and you are seldom required to reciprocate. So SUCK IT UP!”

Then I told him I loved him, announced that we were having filet mignon and roasted veggies for dinner, and hung up the phone.

In the spring, we’re getting a damn dog of our own. And I’m not freakin’ asking!

2006-09-27T11:07:00.000-07:00

"Shaking hands with the bald man in the boat"

Thanks, Axe! That's the best euphemism I've ever heard for a sex act. Most of the men I've met never got past "hiding the salami." But that's men for you ...

More later ...

2006-09-23T13:02:00.000-07:00

The Estrogen Brigade, Worldwide Edition

First of all: you naughty, naughty girls. Who knew that, out there in the quietest corners of our little world, there were women simply buzzing with the knowledge that - as Momma often said - women don't really need men, after all? (The "buzzing," as I've learned, is the sound of a dozen or so battery-powered somethings being wielded by some very determined ladies.)

I'm having some computer "issues," but I hope I'll soon be able to share with some of you the scanned images of the stuff they're asking me to welcome into my home come November 3rd. And then there's the lubes. And also the video tutorials.

But, until then, I'll just sit here, red-faced, and try to recall what in Heaven made me think that I was this open-minded, this adventurous, and this liberal. And I'll try to decide, all on my own, whether my new vibrator ought to have a separate clitoral stimulator.

2006-09-19T20:04:00.000-07:00

Our Passion Party ...

... is set for Friday night, November 3rd. My children will be having a sleepover in the next town (lest some killjoy feel the need to phone Child Protective Services and report me), and my husband will be hiding under the bed in the Master Bedroom whilst my ladyfriends and I test-drive various and sundry "equipment" intended to scare the bejesus out of our suburban husbands.

I cannot wait. I'm serving shrimp cocktail and chocolate-covered strawberries and something with whipped cream. I'm also providing a taxi service to my girlfriends, so that they can have every bit as much fun as they'd like (and drink all of the alcohol I intend to provide for the occasion), without fear of crashing their mini-vans on the way home.

My friends "H" and "J" have announced that their husbands would like to attend, but there's no way I'm allowing that. After all, I was a virgin until I was twenty-one (that Catholic shit is hardcore), and these things require small, incremental steps. So: NO MEN. Besides, this is about women, and self-expression, and coaxing an orgasm out of your but-honey-Tiger-Woods-is-about-to-clinch-it lifepartner.

This is better than freaking Christmas ... and I haven't even seen the naughty stuff yet!

2006-09-15T11:24:00.000-07:00

Toys, but not for Tots

Sorry that I've been MIA these last couple of weeks; the Back-to-School rollercoaster had a few extra twists in store. But I'm hoping to get myself back on a regular schedule, and to leave myself some "Mommy Time" for posting and other diversions.

The next such "diversion" is going to be an adults-only "Toy Party," which I'm planning to host in my home. This came about because - as it happens - I'm more sexually liberated in my mid-thirties than I ever was in my early twenties (read: dumb-ass self-conscious virgin), and my husband has proven himself up to the challenge. Altar boy, my ass!

I'm sure that there's an etiquette to this type of thing, and of course I can't invite just anybody in town. What would the PTA say? What would the Brownies say? What would my MOTHER say?

That's a real issue, as it turns out, because I think Mom might actually be interested in something like this ... and I'm scared shitless. Simply put: I have GOT to figure out a way to do this without having her attend. It was enough to have witnessed the PG-rated pawing that Dad subjected Mom to each night as she prepared his dinner. I don't need to know what the Modern Maturity version of sexual conduct looks like.

Nor does my Mother, whom I adore, need to watch me choose a vibrator.

Anyway, plans for "Project Orgasm" are well underway. I will keep you apprised.

2006-08-29T20:37:00.000-07:00

Bye-Bye Summertime!!

It's been a long, lovely summer. The kids and I have swum in the ocean (from beaches in two states), the Long Island Sound and the largest lake in Connecticut. We've visited family and friends, and have attended about three hundred separate parties and events.

But now it's over, and it's time for fresh sneakers, sharpened pencils and that "new backpack" smell. 'Cause I've had it with all of the fun and insanity, and if these kids don't go back to school soon, I may just "happy" myself right into a psychotic break.

2006-08-28T11:38:00.000-07:00

Mistress Heidi

I'm part Polish, and those of my maternal grandmother's relatives who didn't leave Poland at the start of World War II were killed by the Nazis during that long, bloody war. So I've always been a bit wary of things German, and of German nationalism in particular. I'm not proud of those feelings, especially since I frequently find myself lecturing the people around me about tolerance and love. But then somebody suggests we head out for Bratwurst, and it all goes to hell.

Then I met Heidi. Well, not met her exactly, just caught her act a few times on "Project Runway." Week after week I watched Mistress Heidi taunting the would-be designers, berating their choice of fabric or their lack of fashion sense. And - I swear to God - when she dismisses each week's loser with a crisp "Auf wiedersen!" I can actually hear a horsewhip cracking in the background.

These days I have to limit my exposure to Heidi and her dominatrix-like thrashing of the designers. Just the other I day I heard myself urging her to bitch-slap some poor idiot who'd put a beautiful girl in the most horrendous outfit ever created. "Yes, Heidi," I yelled at the television, "punish him again!"

And as I turn off the TV, breathless and glowing from another session with Mistress Heidi, I am acutely aware that this woman - this beautiful woman - has relieved me of my last and most firmly-held bias. Danke.

2006-08-27T20:27:00.000-07:00

Lewis F***ing Black

... is the funniest son of a bitch to ever rock Westbury Music Fair (or any other venue, for that matter). I just got back from the show, and my insides hurt from laughing.

If you haven't caught his act on "The Daily Show" or seen his stand-up, you are missing one of the great comic talents of our time. Seriously. I would leave my husband for this guy. Funny trumps just about anything in my book.

He's cynical, wired and insanely bitter about the state of the world and its inhabitants. And I find this to be an irresistable combination. (Plus, I've always had a Catholic girl's fascination with Jewish men, and I've never been disappointed.)

Kudos, Lewis. And if you're ever in the market for a gently used shiksa, give me a buzz ...

2006-08-24T14:11:00.000-07:00

St. Lucius the Flatulent

My sister lives in Connecticut, in a gated community that makes Wisteria Lane look like Dogpatch. The stories she tells about the very rich, very drunk ladies whose husbands abandon them (and their ADD children) in sprawling summer residences make me glad that I'm a year-round resident of Smalltown, USA.

The most recent such tale involved a drunken 40th birthday party, and an adult game of Truth or Dare that mostly centered around the ability and/or willingness of the Community wives to engage in fellatio with their sex-obsessed husbands. At the end of the evening, the menfolk were busily congratulating my brother-in-law and expressing their jealousy. You can guess why.

When sis related the tale in her usual isn't-that-just-so-funny? way, my jaw hit the floor. "Cheese Whiz," I told my sister, as our five kids ran around at our feet, "you're about two seconds from a key party." It took her a minute, but my 35 year-old sib finally took my meaning. "Is that a swinger thing?"

Where, for the love of all that is good and holy, did I go wrong with this kid?

And then it hit me. Even though my kid sister has recently converted to Judaism, and worships at a lovely Temple in another town, the rest of the Community spends Sunday mornings on bended knee at the town's biggest Catholic hot spot: St. Edward the Confessor. And what they don't tell good old St. Edward, they apparently reveal to each other over Merlot and shrimp cocktail.

So I'm thinking of making a petition to re-name the sanctuary to something that is more reflective of the zeitgeist in this little sex-charged suburb. Maybe you all could help? So far I just have a few:

St. Gene the Wart-Ridden
St. Angus the Lecherous
St. Maynard the Intoxicated
St. Cleve the Wife-Swapper

Irreverent much? You bet your sweet rosary ...

2006-08-17T09:26:00.000-07:00

The Bitch is Back

Had a great time on vacation, despite the usual insanity and temper tantrums (not all of it was me; the kids had their moments too!). But more about that later. I'm busy touching base with all of my girls and making sure that the world didn't collapse whilst I was away.

2006-08-10T18:46:00.000-07:00

Vacation!

August is the month when I haul my little honeys up to Connecticut to hang with their paternal grandparents, cousins and assorted family members. This year, we'll also spend a day at a Rhode Island beach, and finish off with a couple of days with my sister and her three little beauties. On the very last day, I'll be sitting for five kids, ages two through eight, while sis and her husband attend a bris three hours away. (I'm willing to have portions of my own anatomy sliced away in exchange for some help with the babysitting.)

I'll see you all when I get back. Keep our big friend warm for me until I return, okay girls?

2006-07-31T17:21:00.000-07:00

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!

2006-07-28T21:09:00.000-07:00

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 ...

2006-07-27T04:59:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-07-20T06:57:00.000-07:00

A Little Late ...

Happy Fourth Birthday, Thomas!

2006-07-15T12:29:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-07-13T09:47:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-07-10T06:54:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-02T23:30:00.000-07:00

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 ...

2006-06-30T19:28:00.000-07:00

Bye-bye, Vacation Bible School!

Vacation Bible School (VBS) is kind of an odd week for me every year. I’ve been experiencing a bit of a crisis of faith for a while now, and yet I truly want to share this fun, worthwhile program with my kids. Plus, each year there’s a part of me that looks to my little charges for some evidence of the childlike faith that I once had. Maybe I’m just looking for a way to re-connect. Who knows? The point is that, every year, something wonderful and unexpected comes right on up and bites me in the ass. It’s my little VBS Miracle.

This year, it came in the form of a little boy named Brandon. He was in my class last year, and his Mom is one of the other teacher/volunteers. Halfway through the week, she came up to me and told me that Brandon was very upset, because he’d wanted to have me for a teacher again this year.

And I just about fell over. Because I remember Brandon from last year. He’s a dear, sweet boy, but – like most other five year-old boys – he's a fidget factory. So the entire week last year was: “Brandon, honey, pay attention to Pastor Bell. Brandon, sweetie, please give your attention to the music teacher.” And of course: “Brandon, stop hitting Matthew/Maxwell/Danny in church.”

Now, I never called him a name, I never raised my voice and I was always encouraging of his singing and his crafts. But I still figured that this little kid must hate my guts, because I was on his fidgety little butt nonstop for the whole week.

Just goes to show you how wrong you can be about the effects your actions are having on a child. So today I tousled his cowlicked hair, gave him my best VBS smile and told him that – for sure – we’d be together next year.

And then I sat down to try to figure out how this little boy got so smart and I got so dumb. I tried to get back to a time when I was five, and my Mother’s was the loudest voice on the playground. When I knew that, no matter what I was up to in the house, she was listening and seeing and knowing. And how I was absofuckinglutely certain that, no matter what happened to me in my often financially-uncertain childhood, my Mother loved me enough to yell at me when I needed it.

Someone told me that Reese Witherspoon recently said: “If you’re not yelling at your kids, you’re not spending enough time with them.” And there’s something in that. It’s not about tearing your kids down and making them feel badly just for the sake of proving your dominion over them. It’s about setting reasonable limits, watching out after them, and – in the end – showing them that rational, tempered discipline is just another form of love.

And that’s my little VBS lesson for this year.

2006-06-30T12:30:00.000-07:00

The Mother of All Divas

I went to see Madonna at Madison Square Garden last evening. It was a Mother's Day gift from my Mom - a nite out with my sisters and our favorite Aunt Theresa (she's the cool Aunt of your childhood; mom/dad's youngest sib, and the one who let you eat ice cream from the carton when she babysat).

So Madonna, being Madonna, decreed that there ought be no air conditioning for the 20K fans in attendance. Apparently, it's bad for the vocal chords. So we sweated, and she sweated, and I guess everyone got about what they expected.

And, may I just say: the personal trainers and dieticians who keep her looking and moving like that at 47 (and after the injury she recently suffered) are some sort of freaking magicians. Either that, or the woman has a sagging, wrinkled portrait hidden away in the attic of that English manor of hers ...

2006-06-25T17:02:00.000-07:00

This is Me

... and my Maddie, on the day of her end-of-year Kindergarten show. She was dressed as a kangaroo, and she did a fabulous job. Of course, I'm a little biased. But if your Momma won't show up at your Kindergarten show and howl like an idiot, who will?

And yes, even though we don't share hair color, eye color, skin tone or any other physical characteristic, she's mine. And I have the C-section scar to prove it.

2006-06-23T18:41:00.000-07:00

Wacky (Tacky) Wisdom

Every once in a while I'll recall some piece of sage wisdom from my childhood, or some comedic bit from college or law school that gave me a good giggle. It's usually a pro pos of nothing, but I've never before had a place to share these little pearls. So here's the first of what I hope will be many bits of Wacky, yet oddly Tacky, Wisdom.

Recently, a dear friend who underwent a double mastectomy began the painful reconstructive process. So we've been discussing boobs a lot, and in particular the size her new ones ought to be (I'm just awed at the prospect that you could have two which are roughly the same size and shape). Her husband thinks that her slim frame deserves a whole new look, and so he's pushing for his dream: D cups. And I was reminded of a piece of a comedy routine I heard years ago. If I could recall the source, I'd credit him. It goes a little like this:

"In Paris, they say that the perfect sized breast should fill a champagne glass.

In Brooklyn, it should clog a toilet."

I don't know why I find that funny, but I do.

2006-06-17T06:11:00.000-07:00

Do Not Go Gently

Into That Good Night

Okay, so some of my Blog friends are taking a sabbatical. Which I totally get. But I felt the need to tell them that I adore and respect them, and that I am not removing the links to their used-to-be blogs.

Because hope springs eternal. And because I think - with all of the insanity on the planet - it's nice when good-hearted folks find each other.

2006-06-15T07:50:00.000-07:00

Alive!

Okay, so the dreaded blood poisoning never materialized, and those nasty red streaks on my arms are fading away as we speak. Which means that, thanks to concerned family and friends (and three kinds of antibiotics), I'm going to live. And that's good news.

Thanks so very much for the good wishes and prayers; it all means so much!

And, as I've just recently been reminded, we women ignore our own health and well-being far too often. So: listen to your body, take your medicine, be your own health advocate, and get sufficient rest. The laundry will wait, for crying out loud. Your family, friends, kids and grandkids need you more than they know.

The alternative, as I've recently discovered, is enough antibiotics to trigger The Mother of All Yeast Infections.

2006-06-14T10:07:00.000-07:00

Happy

Flag

Day!

Here's Thomas, enjoying the Flag Day celebration at Maddie's elementary school. I wish I'd photographed all of the flowers that our little hard-core PTA group planted on Monday afternoon ... they were a hit with the crowd.

Less popular were the giant welts on my wrist, where some demon insect bit me as I planted, and the angry red lines which radiate out from said welts and up my arms. I went to the Urgent Care Facility (read: "Doc in a Box") Tuesday evening, and the lovely physician's assistant there looked at my arm and said: "Oooh, you're gonna need to go to the ER for that!"

At the ER, they pumped me full of IV antibiotics and sent me home. Where it promptly got worse, and the pain in my elbow really began to concern me. And so, today, I went to see my lovely primary care physician (he really is). He gave me a shot in the ass of still more antibiotics, lest I wind up with sepsis (read: "blood poisoning") and croak.

Shit, and I thought the poison ivy was a pain ...

But, Happy Flag Day ... and thank God for antibiotics!

2006-06-13T08:50:00.000-07:00

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

I've just been informed that, during our "Father/Daughter Luau" last Friday, some juvenile delinquents broke into a third-grade classroom, stole some hermit crabs and trashed a teacher's desk. So I spent the morning at the elementary school, apologizing to everyone in sight, and trying to get rid of this ache in the pit of my gut.

I hate it when something like this happens. It just ruins the whole thing for me ... And may they get hit by a truck as they skate home on their "heelie" shoes!

2006-06-11T09:52:00.000-07:00

"Relay for Life"

Last night myself and a few of the elementary school parents participated in the annual "Relay for Life," a 12-hour overnight walk-a-thon (6pm to 6am) to help raise money and awareness for the American Cancer Society. District-wide, more than $70,000 was raised. Our little team raised the most of any single organization at last night's event, around $4,000.

It was 40-something degrees out last night, and the wind whipped at us non-stop. There were teenagers passed out all over the field, but the adults kept walking. Must have been all of the coffee and conversation.

But, if you'll excuse me, I'm going back to bed now.

2006-06-09T19:55:00.000-07:00

The Father/Daughter Luau ...

... was a smashing success. We had about 185 dads and daughers, including my Mike and Maddie. There was the usual fun (a limbo contest, hula lessons and inflatable beach balls), and the K-5 girls had an amazing time. All in all, it was worth the grey hairs and stomach aches that its planning inspired.

I'm looking forward to next year's event ...

2006-06-05T20:35:00.000-07:00

“It’s not brain surgery, after all.”

I love it when people say that something is or is not “brain surgery.” Because I know a little something about it, and, as a consequence, I feel uniquely qualified to make such an assessment.

I recently learned that I’m not the only one with these qualifications. That revelation, and a friend’s recent post about peace and death, have had me thinking about all of this again. So here goes:

Eleven years ago I was a 26 year-old lawyer working in New York City. I took a late lunch one Tuesday afternoon and met up with an assistant district attorney I’d been dating in the Astoria section of Queens. After a very pleasant lunch, he began walking me back to the subway.

And then I collapsed, unconscious, on the street. When I awoke in the ambulance, my date explained that I’d had a “little seizure,” but that I was not to worry. He would stay with me for as long as I needed, and – he was sure – we’d soon get the answers to the questions that were written all over my face.

Except the answers weren’t what I hoped. In the coming days, two very competent neurosurgeons at two of the best hospitals in Manhattan made the same pronouncement: I was afflicted with a rather nasty Arteriovenous Malformation (“AVM”), and – unless I allowed one or the other of them go rooting around in my cranium – I was likely going to die.

In the movies, this is the point in the story when everybody breaks down crying. There’s a lot of hugging, and a fair bit of hysteria ensues. This is especially true when the story concerns ethnic types, such as my own Italian-American family. But this wasn’t the movies, and there wasn’t any hysteria. I just listened to what each of the surgeons said and, after I’d digested the concurring opinion at Mount Sinai hospital, I decided to allow them to go ahead and give it a try.

The doc at Mount Sinai made no guarantees; he was hopeful, but he was also careful to advise that the surgery itself was risky, and that I might suffer long-term consequences. I heard him, except that the whole time he was talking, I was quietly peering over at my mother. She looked more terrified than I’d ever seen her, and I knew why: the thought of losing a daughter before her fiftieth birthday was simply incomprehensible. So I just said yes. As in: get it the fuck out of my head -- now!

In the week between the diagnosis and the surgery, I made my peace with the universe and settled my affairs. I also cleaned up my office, and disposed of anything I didn’t want found in the event I had my ticket punched. Then, just in case, I bought some scarves to cover my head if I lived and was able to work.

As is so often the case, the cure was a bit worse than the disease. My brain swelled after the surgery, and I lost the ability to speak and/or comprehend language for several interminable days. It was a little frustrating. I was also abused by a nurse in the Neuro-ICU, but was unable to speak or write to tell anyone about it.

And, once that passed, I got the news that – oops! – it wasn’t a potentially-fatal AVM at all, but a more benign condition known as a Cavernous Hemangioma. And the topper: the CA was nestled so deeply in my brain that the surgeons had been unable to remove it during the seven-hour procedure. Back, as they say, to square one.

So there I was, eleven days in the hospital, half-bald, looking like the Bride of Frankenstein, and so fucking grateful for my situation that – if I’d been able to speak English – I would have shouted from the rooftops. Because, in the end, I’m still here. And, even with the occasional “hello” I get from The Thing in My Head, life is still pretty good. I’m fond of reminding myself, “Other people live with so much worse.” And I mean it every single time.

Even if what happened to me was exactly like brain surgery.

2006-06-03T18:28:00.000-07:00

Thank You!!!

Dear Miss Judy and Miss Jill:

My brother Thomas and I just wanted to say thank you for what you both did to make our Mommy so happy. We know it was something good, ‘cause she baked us cookies and made us chocolate milk. And then she let us eat it all on the living room couch!

So we figure that you two are like the big people version of the Tooth Fairy. Because Mommy was saying something about dreams coming true and “fairies” or “fantasies” or something else with an “f” at the beginning of it. And then she went upstairs to her room with a bunch of stuff in her hands and closed the door and turned on the TV up there. Usually when she does that, Thomas and I try to sneak on up there and get into bed with her and watch TV too. Only we got cookies down here. And chocolate milk. So we are sure not moving.

Anyways, Thomas says that if you’re not the Tooth Fairy, then probably you gotta be those beautiful Angels that Grandma is always talking to. So thank you again, Angels. If you were here right now, we’d share our cookies with you. Well, probably.

Love, Maddie and Thomas

2006-05-23T15:48:00.000-07:00

Dead

For the past couple of days, my husband has been complaining about a foul smell around our backyard shed. He asked me if I’d noticed the smell, but I’ve simply been too busy this week to investigate. The truth of the matter is, I secretly suspected that it might be some figment of his imagination.

Today he came home from work a bit early to satisfy himself once and for all that he wasn’t crazy. He emptied the shed and, finding nothing more interesting than some weed killer and the kids’ toys, began pulling rocks away from the base of the structure. At this point – and being the dutiful wife that I am – I headed out into the yard to lend some moral, if not physical, support.

And then I smelled it: Death. Michael was covering his nose and mouth, and he was in some obvious distress, so I got down on my belly and pointed a flashlight underneath the shed. “You smell it now?” he gagged, and I nodded. “Yes, I do.”

And then I saw it: fur. And a little eye socket without an eye. “It’s likely a cat,” I told him matter-of-factly, as he prepared to vomit. “They like a little privacy when their time comes.”

Now, my Michael’s a good soul. He’s also been in some of the more awful hellholes that the world has to offer, and he has smelled some rather nasty stuff. But he wasn’t ready for the whole circle-of-life thing. “I think I can get it,” I said quickly, letting him off the hook in much the same way as I did when our children vomited in their car seats, or pooped right through their diapers and onto everything within a half-mile. I popped back into the kitchen, got a barbeque fork we never use (and will never use again), and began to remove the corpse from under the shed.

And for some reason I can’t explain, I just started talking to it, right there in the yard, while Michael tried not to upchuck and the kids were inside watching Shark Boy and Lava Girl. “I’m so sorry, sweetie,” I told the poor dead thing, “but this is no one’s idea of a proper resting place.” I deposited it into the family wheelbarrow, and Michael hauled it off to the woods. I was tempted to say a prayer, but chastised myself for the very childishness of it all.

Then I went inside to finish cooking dinner, and to confront my own mortality in a way I haven’t since 1996. And I decided the following: the next time I wake up to pee at 2:00 a.m. and find a spider in the master bath, that man of mine had better leap out of bed to mash it …

2006-05-21T17:14:00.000-07:00

One
Oh, to be young and carefree ... and able to pee whenever and wherever the urge strikes! This is my Godchild, who celebrates her first birthday this week. She's sweet and adorable and she has no idea what "global warming" is ...

2006-05-14T16:08:00.000-07:00

Happy Mother's Day

This is my Mom, and my little Maddie, at brunch in New York. We had a grand time eating blueberry and banana pancakes, french toast and (Holy cholesterol, Batman!) eggs Benedict.

And I didn't cook one damn bit of it! Hope you all had a great day!!

2006-05-13T05:28:00.000-07:00

The End is Coming ...

The end of the school year, that is. My daughter's kindergarten class is dressing up as Kangaroos for the closing ceremonies, or whatever they're calling it. So I mocked up this kangaroo cap and offered to make 20 of them for the class. (Earlier this year a friend and I made 450 "gold medals" for the K-thru-5 Reading Olympics, so I figured it would be a snap.)

However, I've been summarily rejected by the Class Mother, so you're the only ones who will ever see it. Oh, well ... it's not about me. It's about 20 adorable kids in sub-par kangaroo caps.

By the way ... when did I become this?

2006-05-09T11:36:00.000-07:00

David Blaine ...

... is alive, at the end of his recent underwater stunt. And I feel compelled to say, "So what?"

I can't find anything particularly life-affirming or socially-redeeming about this bit of theatre. I don't even think it's good performance art. And if he truly wanted to call attention to something "important," he should have done the whole thing from Darfur, not Lincoln Center.

2006-05-07T21:24:00.000-07:00

Almost Mother's Day!

And, thanks to my little stinkers, I've earned the right to have "mother's" brunch in New York City with the whole Estrogen Brigade.

So, tell me ... what can I bring back for all of you?

2006-05-05T17:10:00.000-07:00

Listen Up!!

Today I was informed by my three year-old son’s preschool teacher that he refuses to hold his crayon correctly, that he lags far behind his peers in paper-cutting and that, as a consequence, he’s in danger of being unprepared to enter Kindergarten. A year and a half from now.

And this is not the first time I’ve gotten this type of report about my little son. The time before, the teacher asked whether I’d had Thomas’ ears checked. “He appears to have a hearing problem,” she said.

“No,” I countered. “He doesn’t.” Then I went on. “What he has is what every man I’ve ever known has. And it’s not a hearing problem, it’s a listening problem.” I uttered this statement with the certainty that can only come from having retreated to the furthest corner of the master bedroom closet to open a bag of chips in peace, only to have my little boy come dashing up the stairs and through two closed doors to find me, saying: “Mommy – have you got chips in there?”

The preschool teacher’s jaw hit the floor. But I was done talking, and so I swept my little man into my arms, kissed him on his chubby little cheeks, and took him home.

So what if he can’t cut a circle? So what if he refuses to hold his crayon in the proper manner? He’s three, for the love of God. And if he wants to cut zigzags and color like a deranged maniac, I’m prepared to accept that.

And someday, when they’re swearing him in to the Supreme Court, I’ll recall this day and smile.

2006-04-28T08:54:00.000-07:00

I Think ...

... that my husband has found my blog. I guess it was just a matter of time; he's far more computer literate than I. But he's not talking, so I can't be sure.

So this is for you, baby: Please know that I love you, and that you have my whole heart. But I need my girls and I need my outlet.

So go on now, please, and let me spew my frustrations and my joys out into cyberspace. If something's really up, I promise you'll be the first to know.

Oh, and it's veal parmesan for dinner tonight ... so be on time.

2006-04-27T10:51:00.000-07:00

Destination ... Love!!

As promised, here's my beautiful first cousin, and his equally beautiful bride. (She looks like a movie star in person, too!) The wedding was intimate and special, and I finally had something great to do "in between" the ceremony and the reception: I swam in the ocean!!

I ended my evening in a hot tub with some family, sipping champagne under the stars above St. Thomas. Since both the kids and the husband were at home on the mainland, it was completely relaxing. And I have no guilt. (Well, I am Catholinc ... so maybe a little guilt!)

... and I am SO doing my "second" wedding in exactly the same fashion. :)

2006-04-25T14:34:00.000-07:00

Just Because ...

These are my babies. I'm always mentioning them, so I thought you all should see them. That's Maddie on the left (age 5), and Thom on the right (age 3). They're a miracle, and every day with them is a blessing.

Of course, I'm not Mother Theresa or anything. So there are days when I'd trade them both in for a hot shower and a Ceasar salad.

But what the heck. They're mine; they were hard to get; and I love them more than my own life.

2006-04-17T07:48:00.000-07:00

Never Mind ...

I spent Easter week (and week-end) chatting up friends and family about what is or should be "typical" with regard to my oft-discussed sexual problem. (For you newbies: lack of frequency.)

I love my husband; I really do. He's created an amazing life for me and for our children, and he puts up with just about all of my quirks. Plus, he tolerates the family. And I know you know what that's worth. It's just that I was, let's say, desiring something more than what I've been getting when it comes to sex.

So what I found out this week was surprising, and a little painful. Apparently, three-to-four times weekly is right where we ought to be "at our age" and with kids the ages our kids are (three and five), and I'M the one with the problem. My sister actually struck me on the arm ("What are you, a freakin' rabbit?"). That was the "pain" part of the revelation.

So that's it. No more complaining. And a big jucy porterhouse this evening for the man of the house. It seems he's earned it.

2006-04-11T14:57:00.000-07:00

Polygyny

Idea no. 2 for improving my sex life, that is. Can't you just imagine? Two paychecks; two lawn-cutters; two spider-mashers.

And two chances for a little tumble ... just to make all of those dirty dishes, smelly clothes and poopy nappies fade into memory!

SIGN ME UP!

2006-04-08T05:11:00.000-07:00

Cat on a Hot Tin ...

I'm about at the end. One of the cruel jokes of the universe is that men peak sexually at age 19, and that women reach the same mark until their mid-thirties. Or so the scientists say.

I need more regular sex. Irregular sex would be fine too, I'm not that particular. But more and more these days I find myself occupied with thoughts of how to go about getting it without actually triggering divorce proceedings on the other end.

The first idea is this: a work slowdown. Works for the Unions, right? I'm picturing mountains of laundry, unbathed children and -- God save us all -- microwave dinners. (Since last night's selection was homemade macadamia crusted flounder with mango/papaya salsa, I'm guessing this would be noticed first.)

At this point, I'll treat it as a research project. Keep logs. That sort of thing. Unless he gets the hint and starts keeping up his end, if you catch. Because if you think I'm hanging it up at 37, weighing what I did in High School and with a few moves of my own left, you're insane.

2006-03-13T19:31:00.000-08:00

Slumming with the Lutherans

I was raised Catholic. But, like my gender and my ethnic background, I’ve always thought of my religion as a bit of an accident of birth. I mean, it’s not like anybody asked me; they just poured water over my head at six weeks old and proclaimed me a Papist.

So I love to hang out with people from other religions – Christian, non-Christian, etc. – to see how the rest of the world views God, the Goddess, or whatever. I’ve always felt that the surest way to ensure tolerance is through understanding and exposure. So I “expose” myself as much as possible through friends, community and the like.

It’s a journey that my sisters also undertook; the results for them included adult choices that led one to Judaism, and another to Protestantism. I think that’s cool. [Actually, it makes me feel a little bit lazy for adhering (in whatever small way) to the Catholicism I was born to.]

But it’s cool, and the resulting syllogisms are baffling in their simplicity: I love my sister; my sister is a Jew; therefore, I love Jews. I love my other sister; my other sister is a Presbyterian; therefore, I love Presbyterians. Where’s my Nobel Peace Prize? I’ve also been trying to get my Mom to pursue an old interest she had in Wiccanism. I’m already picturing the bumper sticker: “That’s no Witch; that’s my MOM!”

And for the past couple of years, I’ve been teaching at a summer Vacation Bible School (“VBS”) program at one of the local Lutheran churches here on the Island. They have the same program at the local Catholic parish, but I thought it would be fun to hang with the Lutherans. So I grabbed my own kids, and the neighbors’ kids (Methodists), and off I went to teach four and five year-olds about love and forgiveness. Lutheran style.

VBS is the most insane week you can imagine: 140 kids running and screaming through the church and an attached school, trying to learn a few bible lessons and three songs over five three-hour days. And the Lutherans are great at it. The Pastor, whom everybody refers to as “Pastor Bob,” is a grandfather. [Of course, I find this totally amazing, because I’m used to celibate priests.] They run the whole thing like a boot camp, but everybody – and I do mean everybody – has a blast. So I’m going back again this year, and I'm taking my kids with me.

I called over to Pastor Bob this week and told him to be sure and include me on the teacher list for Summer 2006. “I’m the Catholic,” I reminded him, “from last year. Do you remember me?” He said of course he did. The fact that I’m not part of his congregation didn’t matter. Isn’t that great?

2006-03-10T10:16:00.000-08:00

I've Been Tagged

This has never happened to me. A tag "virgin," if you will. And I can't imagine why anyone would care, but here goes ...

1. Do you have a nickname (other than your blogger nickname)? My college friends had one for me.
2. If so what is it? "The Apologizer."
3. What is your favorite memory as a child? Playing in our back yard sand box (which was most of the yard, really).
4. What relative did you like the most?
My Grandma Grace. I once broke a gigantic ugly vase in her house, and I cried like I wanted to die. She pulled me aside and said: "Why not come back over tomorrow? I have some other strange stuff I'd love for you to break!"
5. Who is your best friend? I've never had one (a "best" friend, that is). Is that weird?

I'm supposed to tag five other people, but I lack the self-esteem to obligate anyone. (What thinkest thou of THAT, Dr. Huang?)

2006-03-07T11:53:00.000-08:00

Profanity "Lite"

I adore profanity. I really do. There’s just nothing like the feeling of letting loose with a really robust four-, five- or six-letter word describing some bodily function, sexual organ or (most commonly for me) the biological imperative. It’s like punching a hole in the wall, or kicking a clump of turf across the yard. It’s an actual physical release.

And, goddamnit, some days I just need it.

Men get to express their anger and frustration in all sorts of physical ways; they have sporting events (whether they are participating or simply hollering at their TV sets), hobbies (hunting comes to mind) and a thousand other diversions that permit them to release their anger in any number of socially acceptable ways. Women, on the other hand, have far fewer of these.

Personally, I find that screaming “FUCKER!!” at the top of my lungs as I drive around the lovely person who’s just drifted into my lane while endeavoring to dial a cell phone works pretty well for me. Calms me right the fuck down. So fucking shoot me.

There’s just one problem with my love of profanity, and my penchant for spewing it at my fellow drivers in particular: I have two small children, at least one of whom is in the car with me as much as 90% of the time. This presents a major problem for me. Not a minor can’t-make-the-mortgage-gonna-lose-the-house sort of problem. A MAJOR freakin’ problem. (By the way, “freakin” just doesn’t do it for me. I need the bleep-able version.)

So, as I have frequently done when faced with similar problems, I just negotiated myself a little solution. And now, when I feel the need to metaphorically crush the skull of someone who’s just stolen the last available parking space on 38th Street, I let loose with what I like to call “Lite” Profanity. Basically, I decided that my kids can handle a small amount of well-chosen, judiciously-applied profanity, especially if it means that Mommy will feel better and not crash the car into the nearest available postal box. Simply put, I have reserved to myself two profane words from among those that I consider to be marginally “kid-friendly”: crap and jackass.

And if I’ve ruined them for life, I’ll just have to live with the guilt. Jackass!

2006-02-26T17:04:00.000-08:00

Estrogen-Fueled Rant o' the Day

No funny story today. Just a mini-rant about married sex.

I love it when married men roll their eyes and complain about their exhausted wives, too tired from chasing after kids and doing laundry (and blah, blah, blah) to have a decent roll in the hay any mid-week night. Because I have a little secret for all of you single girls, and for all of you no-longer-marrieds who bore the guilt and stain of this baulderdash.

Simply put: it's horeshit. And I could prove it, any night of the week, except for one thing: my husband can't stay awake.

So now you know. The big, ugly truth about over-tired housefraus and uninterested soccer moms is that it's DADDY who's too tired for sex.

Enough said. I'm headed out for some D batteries, a little K-Y jelly, and those anti-snore strips (guess who THOSE are for).

2006-02-19T17:52:00.000-08:00

March Madness

It’s that time of year again: time for men everywhere to become glued to their television sets as their alma maters (and should-have-been-my-alma-mater-damnit!) vie for a shot at the NCAA Championship in college basketball. Over the course of several weeks, 64 teams will be slowly whittled down to two. They’ll go through lots of cool-sounding tourney rounds: “The Sweet Sixteen”; “The Elite Eight”; and then “The Final Four.”

And then, finally, the NCAA Championship. I know all about it, you see, because my sweet love’s should-have-been-his-alma-mater-damnit! is the University of Connecticut: “UCONN.” And in 1999, on a cold night in March, the UCONN Huskies won their first-ever NCAA Title. It was the most frightening night of my life.

Everything started out okay, of course. The game began, and my darling was pacing the floor and biting his nails, alternately cheering and screaming at the television. [Did you know that, if you yell extra special loud, they can actually hear you, right through the TV? Well, I’m married to an electrical engineer, and he seems pretty darn convinced.]

I mean, things were going pretty well, and then it happened: the game ended, the players and spectators stormed the court, the Huskies climbed ladders and began cutting down the basketball nets (this is some sort of basketball tradition that, like out-of-control body art and corn row hairdos, is simply beyond my limited powers of comprehension), and everyone was cheering. My husband, who thought he’d never see this day, was dancing around the living room, positively gleeful.

And then it happened. My big, strong, strapping husband jumped onto the couch, threw his arms around my neck, and started crying. More like weeping, really. Big, wet, girly tears.

I froze. I mean, I could hear voices in my head saying: “Crying proves he’s sensitive,” and “Real men cry, too.” One of the voices was mine. Because, until it actually happened to me, I believed all of that piffle. I thought men crying was just fine and dandy too!

But suddenly it was right there in front of me. Living color. Wet and salty. And I was completely and utterly horrified. All of those theoretical male tears – the ones I was so “okay” with – had in no way prepared me for the reality of a bawling thirty year-old six-footer with cheek stubble and hair growing out of his ears.

I mean, how could I possibly have children with a man who cried after a basketball game? Who would protect us from the things that go bump in the night? Who would hold my hand and reassure me when the little ones got sick? Who would hold me up when things got really, really scary?

As it happens, it’s the same fella who cried when the Huskies won. It’s taken me six-odd years to figure that out, but there it is. And this year, as we head into yet another championship season, I’m looking a little forward to the Final Four, and to what comes after. And if I’m very lucky, maybe I’ll get to see a tear or two from my big bear …

2006-02-05T06:53:00.000-08:00

A Fish Tale

My husband’s niece is a nanny in another state, and the stories she tells about her little charges make me want to kiss my own spawn until they scream to be let go. Here’s a true one for the ages:

A mother of three decides one day to take her children to the local aquarium. She has a 10 year-old with Down’s Syndrome (which is irrelevant except to suggest that he’s a rather strong boy, with a much younger child’s impulse control), and two younger children.

While in the aquarium, the mother suddenly notices that her 10 year-old has wandered off, and a panic ensues. She enlists the help of several aquarium personnel, and they begin to search for him. A few moments later, he appears, except that he’s absolutely soaked, from his sneakers right on up to the backpack he always wears.

By this time, the mother’s nerves are shot, and so she leaves the aquarium and loads her kids in the van for the trip home. It’s a this point she notices that her son is not only wet, but he smells awful, too. She vows to give him a bath – and to get the story about the dunking he’s obviously taken – as soon as they return home.

As they reach home, the woman is nearly sick from the smell coming off of her son. She opens the front door to the house and – whoosh! – the child speeds past her and up to the bathroom, backpack in hand. He closes the door behind himself and locks it.

The poor woman has now completely lost it. She bangs on the bathroom door, demanding to be let in. She can hear water running inside, but her son refuses to answer. Frightened, she finds a way to get the door open. She swings it wide, preparing to chastise the child in that way mothers do when they’re quite angry, but equally happy to see that a child is alive and healthy.

Her son stands before her, his backpack open on the floor. Just then, she detects a bit of movement out of the corner of her eye. To her left, in the family bathtub, is a penguin. And on the floor, in her son’s backpack, is a pile of penguin poop.

Post-script: As my niece tells the story, the good folks at the aquarium came to collect the little bird, and everyone survived the incident. The workers reportedly told the lady that, but for her child’s special needs, they would have had no choice but to call the police.

I took my kids to the local aquarium here on Long Island yesterday, as I do every couple of weeks or so (the benefits of “membership,” don’t you know). My 5 year-old daughter’s favorite thing to do is to feed and pet the stingrays at the touch tank. No backpacks allowed!!

2006-02-01T20:38:00.000-08:00

A (True) Poopy Tale

I was in our basement office one recent afternoon, busily checking my e-mail, planning for ballet class with my daughter, and dealing with various other issues, when my three year-old son announced from the floor above: "Mommy, I've got poopy."

Now, I know exactly what that means: "Mother, would you please change my diaper, as the excrement inside is burning my tender flesh?" So, I called back to him: "I'll be right there, Baby." Because that's our routine. He tells me he's pooped, and I go on up and change him.

Except that someone has apparently changed the routine, and forgotten to tell Mommy. Instead of waiting the 30-40 seconds it would have taken me to get upstairs, my son decided to remove the offending receptacle, and slide his poop-encrusted backside down 13 steps to the basement. Thirteen CARPETED steps. "Here, Mommy," he said, offering the filthy thing to me. He was smiling. He was also, as you might imagine, covered in poop from his waist to his ankles. Before I could think about it, I’d swept him up in my arms and headed out the office door … ensuring that I, too, was now covered with poop.

As I exited the office and headed for the stairs to the main floor, I stopped dead. There before me, on thirteen carpeted steps, was a giant skid mark. Right down the center. I looked at my grinning, disgusting little offspring, and regretted for the first time that fateful evening when I advised my husband: “No, I’m sure I’m not ovulating this week.”

Then I headed upstairs, dodging the smelly stuff along the way, and tossed the giggling little poop-machine into the tub. I peeled off my filthy sweater, and went to work on the stairs. My son was laughing at – nay, “mocking” – me, as the phone rang: “Mom! You’ll never guess … poop everywhere … HELP ME!!” She was calm, and agreed to immediately head on over. I hung up the phone, just in time to see my little one draining the water from his tub. He was laughing harder, if that’s possible, and began dancing naked on the bathmat. I wrapped him up, dried him and dressed him. New nappy, new clothes. But still no clean sweater for Mommy.

I SWEAR I didn’t realize that I was, well, basically topless. I was sweating from the cleaning and the warm tub and the fear that if I didn’t work fast, I’d NEVER eradicate the smell and the stain and the …

Suddenly, the doorbell rang. MOM!! I raced for the door. Help had arrived! Except … it wasn't my Mom.

It was the FedEx guy. As soon as the door opened -- I mean as SOON as that cold gust of wind hit my bare chest, I knew I was done for. My mind raced. “Act natural,” I thought. Natural? And then he spoke: "Will you sign for this? Your neighbors aren't home to receive it."

What could I do? I signed. He left. My humiliation was complete.

2006-02-01T20:08:00.000-08:00

My Trophy Guy

Okay. My husband is totally gonna kill me for this one, so don’t let it slip.

The other evening I was rushing around doing all of my usual Mommy chores, including the whole “laundry collection” thing. So I headed upstairs to the Master bath to get the dirties out of the hamper. I was in such a rush, I failed to notice that – beyond the obviously-closed door – the bathroom light was on. So I just threw open the door and headed inside.

And then I stopped dead in my tracks. My jaw hit the floor, and I nearly fainted. You see, I’d caught my poor, dear, sweet husband in the act.

No, sillies, not THAT act. Though I must confess that he probably wishes he HAD been up to "that." I mean, having your wife catch you with the Victoria’s Secret catalog in one hand, a dollop of hand cream in the other, and your pants around your ankles is one thing ... but THIS?

You see, he’d gotten into my makeup case, and was quietly applying some moisturizer to the just-visible creases at the corners of his baby blues. My husband, it seems, was trying out my wrinkle cream.

Now, you hear stories all the time about how men are a hundred times more vain than women. About their convertibles and their trophy wives. Even about their plastic surgeries.

But my six-foot sweetie? I bit my lip ‘till it bled to keep from laughing. And then, in a show of love and solidarity unmatched since I sponge-bathed him after a surgery 6 years ago, I stepped into the bathroom, quietly closed the door behind us, and opened one of the vanity drawers.

“Here, sweetie,” I said softly. “This is the stuff you use for nighttime.”