Joy. It sprouts in childhood, more for some than others. There are people who can look back and see privilege and great parenting while others would like nothing more than to skip the shrink once in a while. I can stretch all the way back to a time before my babysitting years, when I held my mother's hand and rested my head on her lap, and one thing remains clear: that there has always been, for me, a thread of innocence, one that gives me comfort and good, solid roots from which I can thrive and learn to love on my own.
Possibly the fondest memory of my childhood lies in the gifts that my mother gave me. And her gifts came to me in the simplicity of food with her purest intentions. Everything bruised was healed with a hug and a Hershey bar. Oh, the Hershey bar. It melted between my fingers and had the power to melt my heart. It was usually hidden from us so that my brothers and sister and I wouldn't eat it all in one fell swoop. Sure, my mother hid things from us and chocolate was no different. Christmas gifts, Easter eggs, desserts. But we didn't look for those items, only the Hershey's. Now that I am older I am pretty convinced that she meant to hide that rich block of deliciousness so that we would find it. I think she knew we would look for it, and she wanted us to have that satisfaction of finding it. Now that's love.
Once, While my mother was at work, my brother Dave, the "bag of bones" (we called him that because he was so dreadfully skinny) climbed up on every counter top, the kitchen table, the dining room hutch, every possible spot out of reach until he snagged the 16 oz. bar. The funny thing is, we never worried that we'd get in trouble for eating it. And we ate it so fast, I only remember that it was worth standing on the counter, reaching back into the dark dusty cupboard, and wolfing it down before my mother pulled into the driveway.
Her little gestures of love spread quickly, and we all learned how to give back. I started with the source: my parents. At that time, my parents budget was tight, so my mother chose to buy these tiny cans of frozen orange juice from concentrate, the store brand from Finast. There was just enough in a prepared pitcher to fill the six little yellow glasses that we drank from every single morning. Not a drop more, and of course, nothing less. One morning, I couldn't have been more than seven or eight, I climbed out of bed before the rest of my family. All the doors to the bedrooms were closed. It was early just before Saturday sun up, and so I made my way down to the kitchen. I don't know, for the life of me, what possessed me to do it , but I decided that I was going to "make the orange juice." I pulled up a chair to search the freezer for a can. There it was, the last one. My mom used to run it under hot water for a minute to loosen it from the sides. Empty contents into a pitcher. Fill 3 cans of cold water and pour. Stir. Serve. I could do that. I've watched it done every morning for 6 years! I filled that Tupperware pitcher, poured two little, plastic, yellow glasses all scratched and chewed around the rims, and carefully brought them to my room where I waited until I heard my parents talking, the signal that told me it was okay to go in.
"Here you go."
"What's this?"
"I made it myself.... Is it good? Do you like it?"
"It's delicious."
Joy. Innocence. Love.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Remembering September 11th
It was a positively perfect day in New York City. A crystal clear sky would, in a sad and scary moment, turn dark and ugly. It was the third day of my career as a kindergarten teacher in a public school below 14th Street. My daughter and son, who were in third grade and kindergarten respectively, attended a different school nearby. My son was sick that day, and so my husband was on his way with him to the doctor's. They had just dropped our daughter off.
My class was loud that morning, and it would continue to be for the next nine years; one of many things in this world I simply cannot change. I had a student teacher and a student helper from NYU. Both were lovely. Both were so genuine and new. My principal was iron tough, but she saw the best in me when I let out the best of me. My classroom was across the hall from our busy main office, the one that bustled with vocal, loving parents, administration and teachers. My classroom was on the ground floor where street noise could always be heard, but not on this day.
I remember that there were announcements over the intercom. There were always announcements over the intercom. I paid little attention to them. I was far too determined to get my 24 five-year-olds to sit in a circle, and multitasking the acts of commanding and listening was not my strongest skill. So our school secretary entered through my closed classroom door. I always kept the door closed. It was too noisy for a main floor hallway.
She asked, "Do you want to call your husband?"
"Why would I want to do that?"
"Aren't you listening to the announcements?"
"No. Why?"
And that is when I learned the news. I didn't believe it. In fact, I remember saying aloud, "Are you sure? That can't be true." It was only steps from the front door of our school to the avenue that stretched her arms all the way to the burning buildings. I had a very clear view. I would witness the world change as I once knew it. I didn't want to believe it.
Within a short time, parents picked up their children, and K-110 became the holding room for all the children who innocently waited. I didn't know the parents well enough on that third day of school to even know which adults paired with which children. I had only faith. We all had to dig deep into our faith that day and in the days to follow.
Within a short time there was a line wrapped around our block for blood donations at the hospital. We thought blood would be needed.
Within a short time cell phone service would stop. I called my husband but was unable to reach him. Later when we found each other on the street, he told me that he saw the plane hit the World Trade Center. So did our son. He told me that he cried on a corner. We all cried.
Within a short time, there would be no cars on the streets. Just quiet pedestrians. And amidst the shock and stillness of our city, American flags would billow from windows.
Within a short time the New York skyline would be changed forever. The towers would crumble. And I would not remember what they once looked like. Why hadn't I taken notice? I had just been there the week before for a new teacher workshop. Why hadn't I noticed?
September 11th never gets easier to understand or endure. It still leaves me chilled. After watching the memorial service today on television, I felt the need to go downtown and just be. There were protests and crowds and even a blindfolded man wearing a t-shirt that read 9-11 Was an Inside Job.
Tonight I will say a prayer for all of us: for the families of the victims and for all whose lives were taken from them. I will marvel at the Ground Zero beams of light and at the way they will kiss the heavens from dusk till dawn. I will notice.
I will remember.
My class was loud that morning, and it would continue to be for the next nine years; one of many things in this world I simply cannot change. I had a student teacher and a student helper from NYU. Both were lovely. Both were so genuine and new. My principal was iron tough, but she saw the best in me when I let out the best of me. My classroom was across the hall from our busy main office, the one that bustled with vocal, loving parents, administration and teachers. My classroom was on the ground floor where street noise could always be heard, but not on this day.
I remember that there were announcements over the intercom. There were always announcements over the intercom. I paid little attention to them. I was far too determined to get my 24 five-year-olds to sit in a circle, and multitasking the acts of commanding and listening was not my strongest skill. So our school secretary entered through my closed classroom door. I always kept the door closed. It was too noisy for a main floor hallway.
She asked, "Do you want to call your husband?"
"Why would I want to do that?"
"Aren't you listening to the announcements?"
"No. Why?"
And that is when I learned the news. I didn't believe it. In fact, I remember saying aloud, "Are you sure? That can't be true." It was only steps from the front door of our school to the avenue that stretched her arms all the way to the burning buildings. I had a very clear view. I would witness the world change as I once knew it. I didn't want to believe it.
Within a short time, parents picked up their children, and K-110 became the holding room for all the children who innocently waited. I didn't know the parents well enough on that third day of school to even know which adults paired with which children. I had only faith. We all had to dig deep into our faith that day and in the days to follow.
Within a short time there was a line wrapped around our block for blood donations at the hospital. We thought blood would be needed.
Within a short time cell phone service would stop. I called my husband but was unable to reach him. Later when we found each other on the street, he told me that he saw the plane hit the World Trade Center. So did our son. He told me that he cried on a corner. We all cried.
Within a short time, there would be no cars on the streets. Just quiet pedestrians. And amidst the shock and stillness of our city, American flags would billow from windows.
Within a short time the New York skyline would be changed forever. The towers would crumble. And I would not remember what they once looked like. Why hadn't I taken notice? I had just been there the week before for a new teacher workshop. Why hadn't I noticed?
September 11th never gets easier to understand or endure. It still leaves me chilled. After watching the memorial service today on television, I felt the need to go downtown and just be. There were protests and crowds and even a blindfolded man wearing a t-shirt that read 9-11 Was an Inside Job.
Tonight I will say a prayer for all of us: for the families of the victims and for all whose lives were taken from them. I will marvel at the Ground Zero beams of light and at the way they will kiss the heavens from dusk till dawn. I will notice.
I will remember.
Friday, September 10, 2010
I'm Thankful For...
- Sean, The man who rubs my shoulders nearly every day, and loves me even when I'm ugly.
- Sam and Liam, who make me proud and give me reasons to laugh when I feel like crying.
- Rose and Steve, who know just the right thing to say when I need them to say it, and are always ready with their outstretched parental arms.
- Carol, who calls me just to talk about nothing when we don't have something to talk about.
- Fritz, the man who makes me feel like I'm the only person who matters and cooks like a master chef.
- Steve and Dave, who drive 90 miles to pick me up and bring me home. Just because.
- Anna, my sister in law, an amazing listener, who puts everyone first. She's a gem.
- Trisha, my surrogate sister, who keeps me grounded, hoists me through windows and invites me to her house for sleepovers when I'm sad.
- John and Louise, who sent me their son and welcomed me into their loving hearts and their beautiful home for 17 years.
- Shannon and Dan, the rock of relationships, whose commitment to marriage inspires and upholds.
- Karen and Scott, who teach us all to stay close, no matter how far away we are.
- Brian and Mary Kate, future travel partners, sharing their love of wine, food, family and friendship.
- Erin, the in-law who makes me laugh the most, plays the best music and provides endless conversation on long walks through diverse landscapes.
- My 12 beautiful nieces and nephews, who grew up too fast, and gave me priceless memories in California, Pennsylvania, Connecticut, New York City, Lake Tahoe, Yosemite, Santa Cruz, Hawaii, St. John, parks, playgrounds, and even Starbucks.
- John, who reminds me when it's an "odd year" so that we don't forget to get together and catch up.
- Kim, my friend of 20+ years who has more spirit than any saint, any angel, anyone I know.
- Joaquin, my loving and giving and dear, dear friend whose words of wisdom stay with me years after he speaks them.
- Michael, whose five songs saved on our answering machine give us the giggles every time we play them.
- Nina and Meg, who gave me too many childhood memories to mention, but I'll not soon forget. Do paranoid people really have personal problems?
- Jeannie and Jack, who keep me close to God, never letting me lose sight of Him, even when I'm nearly blind.
- Dianne and Ray, who know that there's never too much or not enough, so our holidays are filled with just the right food and just the right love and 20 lbs. of mashed potatoes.
- Erin, Jimmy, Trev, Rich, Mike, Anne and their gorgeous, perfect children whom I don't see enough. It is their love that prevails and stops time so that we can reconnect when we reunite.
- Uncle Eddie, who, at 90-something, will surely live to be 100, setting the bar of inspiration high for all of us who think that we can't.
- Mrs. Palmer's Pumpkin bread.
- Kelly, who believes in me, lets me be self-deprecating, and then bathes me in her confidence.
- Michelle, whose door is always open for advice, who always makes time to listen and wears a big smile no matter what.
- Hetal, who has made me a better mathematician, and who knows anything is possible even when I don't.
- Hindy, whose warm hand inspires me to write, to teach, to dream.
- John who makes the best seared red and yellow peppers stuffed with grilled tuna and navy beans over a bed of cous cous.
- Jamie who inspires me to get off my arse and stay in shape so that I can look half as good as she.
- Beth, who introduced me to Banana Grams and reminds me that it's okay. It's always okay.
- Anne, my kindred spirit, who would throw herself in front of a train for me.
- Ashley, who tells me I'm hot, even when I'm not.
- Frances, a master, whose honesty and giving nature makes me feel like I matter.
- Eve, a musical genius, an unsung heroine, who always has time to listen.
- Jessica, who I wish I still worked across from. She makes it so easy to pop in, say hey, and shoot the breeze.
- Carla, who launched my teaching career with her example and has always been one of my favorite people.
- Bob, my neighbor: in a word: Hilarious. Please don't ever stop being funny.
- Henry, my mailman who, for two decades, has unconditionally said, "Hi, how you doin'? Alright. Have a good day. You take care."
- Robin, who shows us what it takes to look for our lives and find happiness even when pain and grief can engulf.
- Pamela, whose zest for song and unending passion for life finds magic in everything she touches.
- Uncle George's Silly Goose Club. Thanks for letting me join.
- Judith who has watched my children grow up and has fed us with her love and groceries. She's the salt of the earth.
- Calvin, the a staple on our block who keeps everything clean. The mayor of our complex, may he never retire from our hearts.
- Benny who "smelled some-ting" when I smelled it, too. It was behind the stove hanging by it's electrocuted tail. His sheepish grin is a monument in my life. Does he really have to move back to Malta?
- Mike who scares me with Halloween masks, sneaks up on me when I'm the last teacher in the building and would do anything in the world for me. Anything! He is a role model who lives with honor.
- Love.
- Friendship.
- Family.
- Time.
- Peace.
- Joy.
- Life.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
The Fountain of Youth Doesn't Runneth Over
I know a lot of old people. Plenty of them are family, friends, colleagues and neighbors, and few, if any of them, complain. They move through life nearly invisible to the masses, surely encountering aches and pains on a day to day basis, enduring weaknesses that they simply didn't have at 20 or 30 years old. Some are inflicted. Others are restricted, and I just don't hear them gripe.
Maybe I'm not listening.
I know they wake up with ailments. I remember as a little girl listening to the older people sitting around the dining room table. They seemed old to me. Everyone looks old to an 8-year-old. They would speak the Italian romance language, but I knew it was about everything but romance. I could see the worry in their eyes and the sufferring in their sunken cheeks. My grandmother spoke with a flowered cloth hankie in her hand. My aunt folded a paper napkin at the edge of the table, over and over, into a long strip. Both embraced their solemn Italian manner, their Catholic worry, repeating their mantra: "Oh dio mia."
Heck, today I was sure I'd been hit by a truck last night. But there was nothing on the news about it. How could they miss it? I think my hip is still in the street with the wreckage! And my elbow. And my knee. And my sciatic nerve. (Oh, Sean has a field day with that one. He says: "I keep telling everyone, I've been married to a pain in the *&% for 17 years." )
Here's the tricky part: I'm certainly not old. My kids seem to think we're living in a college dorm which explains the dirty dishes in their bedrooms and the nail clippers found between the cushions of the sofa. My husband seems to think I'm 24 which explains why he keeps selecting bikinis for my summer beachwear. Enough said about that one. And my mother has truly forgotten my age since she insists I audition for American Idol even though acid reflux has taken over my vocal chords like the Mt. Vesuvius lava.
The reality of the middle years, and that's all I'm willing to divulge about my age today, does not exactly compare to a walk down Easy Street. So I rise, caffeinate, tweeze, and get through it keeping in mind the lessons I've learned from the Italian women who once spoke to me in a language I couldn't translate, but learned to understand.
Sean made the bed this morning humming "One love...One heart. Let's get together and feel alright."
How fitting.
Maybe I'm not listening.
I know they wake up with ailments. I remember as a little girl listening to the older people sitting around the dining room table. They seemed old to me. Everyone looks old to an 8-year-old. They would speak the Italian romance language, but I knew it was about everything but romance. I could see the worry in their eyes and the sufferring in their sunken cheeks. My grandmother spoke with a flowered cloth hankie in her hand. My aunt folded a paper napkin at the edge of the table, over and over, into a long strip. Both embraced their solemn Italian manner, their Catholic worry, repeating their mantra: "Oh dio mia."
Heck, today I was sure I'd been hit by a truck last night. But there was nothing on the news about it. How could they miss it? I think my hip is still in the street with the wreckage! And my elbow. And my knee. And my sciatic nerve. (Oh, Sean has a field day with that one. He says: "I keep telling everyone, I've been married to a pain in the *&% for 17 years." )
Here's the tricky part: I'm certainly not old. My kids seem to think we're living in a college dorm which explains the dirty dishes in their bedrooms and the nail clippers found between the cushions of the sofa. My husband seems to think I'm 24 which explains why he keeps selecting bikinis for my summer beachwear. Enough said about that one. And my mother has truly forgotten my age since she insists I audition for American Idol even though acid reflux has taken over my vocal chords like the Mt. Vesuvius lava.
The reality of the middle years, and that's all I'm willing to divulge about my age today, does not exactly compare to a walk down Easy Street. So I rise, caffeinate, tweeze, and get through it keeping in mind the lessons I've learned from the Italian women who once spoke to me in a language I couldn't translate, but learned to understand.
Sean made the bed this morning humming "One love...One heart. Let's get together and feel alright."
How fitting.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Guest Writer
Today, I received in the mail the following letter. My mom sent it to me. She had found it among some old cards and notes that she saved in a box. This one was written 17 years ago, one month before Samantha was born. It has been poorly copied so the picture that accompanied the letter is unclear, and I chose not to include it. It doesn't matter. There is so much power in the written word.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
World Traveler
I am always intrigued by travelers. That people actually go to places like Italy, France and Mexico. What's more, they go for the weekend! No big deal. A bachelorette party in Vegas? Why not? Rome for Thanksgiving? Perfetto!
Heck. I was never even invited to a bachelorette party in Vegas. I just didn't know anyone during my twenties who did that. For many reasons, money, time, interest, it wasn't in the cards. Besides, we were all actors. We didn't have any money. I simply did not grow this body into a world traveler. Yet around me, flourishing gardens of travelers were taking root in my network of friends. Some headed to Paris. Others to Greece. How about Australia or The Galapagos Islands?
And so it remained through my thirties and now in my forties, I dream of a trip to Italy, but I board the Staten Island Ferry.
Good times.
The thing is, I'm a mess at airports. We're not a good match. When I do get to an airport, I can be found rushing to the ticket counter with my mismatched backpacks, longing for just one bag on wheels, barely able to afford the trip I happen to be taking, let alone the multiple 3 oz. containers I needed to pack all of the haircare products and Victoria Principal's skincare I have shoved into every zipper compartment in the Jansport! And juggling the boarding pass and my purse and my Advil and lip liners? Forget it.
"Good Afternoon Ma'am. May I see your boarding pass?"
"Boarding pass? Ummmmm....." (Gosh, what does it look like...fumble...fumble) "Is this it?"
"Yes. May I see some ID, please?"
(Scramble. Empty out every card in the wallet. UFT. New York Public Library. Duane Reade. A Band Aid? What the heck is this doing there?) "Gosh. I can't seem to find my driver's license, sir. How about this?"
"Your Blockbuster Card? Uhhh, No Ma'am. Do you have a passport?"
"Yes! Of Course! I HAVE a passport. Yes. Yey me! And it has one stamp on it from my trip to the Caribbean."
"Congratulations. The passport please?"
Once, I navigated my kids and I through Central Park in a snow storm. We had to get from The Met to The American Museum of Natural History. It's a simple walk. Start at the East side, cross to the West side. It's basically a straight line, but not when I had anything to do with it. Our straight line turned into a COMPLETE CIRCLE. I didn't understand how that could have happened. We left the Met, passed by a big lake, threw a few snowballs and 45 minutes later I stumbled upon some teenage attitude:
Kids: "Mom? Is that the Met? Isn't that where we started?
Me: No! That's The Museum of Natural History!
Kids: "No its not."
Me: "Yeah....it is!"
Kids: "No, Mom. That sign says Fifth Avenue."
Me: "What the....Oh my gosh you guys! I am sooooo sorry!"
So to learn that there are actually people out there who do this sort of nomadic thing all the time, colleagues, friends, business travelers like my brother-in-law who never leaves home without his GPS, I am in great wonder of it all. I want to be that person. You know, the one who takes three trips a year. The one who has all the hotel toiletries in a basket in the bathroom vanity. The one who actually has mileage points. The one who gets to the airport an hour before rather than enduring four hours of people watching and $5.00 cups of coffee simply because she didn't want to miss her plane.
Once, I traveled home from San Francisco alone leaving Sean and the kids behind. It was a big deal for me to find my way to the gate, then sit by myself, through a terrible movie, in "brace for impact" turbulence. Okay so it wasn't that bad, but I have a low threshold for turbulence. We were delayed because the storm had put the breaks on the baggage claim at JFK, and as a result, I was in a cab at 1:30 in the morning heading back to Manhattan, my trusty carry on, purse and big green duffel bag in tow. The windows were fogged and we seemed to be on a highway for quite some time, when I suddenly looked out and saw Manhattan passing by. Panicked, I was certain the cab driver was kidnapping me to Staten Island. Imagine, this coming from someone who can't even find her way around Waldbaums let alone the streets of New York City. I couldn't tell you if I was on the Belt Parkway, the BQE, the Inbound Gowanus; these were highways I had heard Megan Meany mention on Today in New York, but couldn't identify if my life depended on it. And I really thought my life depended on it. I was certain the bridge we were suddenly approaching was the Verrazano Narrows. I would be tied to a cement block and thrown into the Hudson in a matter of minutes. Someone, save me.
The cab whizzed over the large black body of water, the mouth of the Hudson, swallowing me up like a...What's that street? Delancy? Oh Dear God, thank you. Thank you.
Heck. I was never even invited to a bachelorette party in Vegas. I just didn't know anyone during my twenties who did that. For many reasons, money, time, interest, it wasn't in the cards. Besides, we were all actors. We didn't have any money. I simply did not grow this body into a world traveler. Yet around me, flourishing gardens of travelers were taking root in my network of friends. Some headed to Paris. Others to Greece. How about Australia or The Galapagos Islands?
And so it remained through my thirties and now in my forties, I dream of a trip to Italy, but I board the Staten Island Ferry.
Good times.
The thing is, I'm a mess at airports. We're not a good match. When I do get to an airport, I can be found rushing to the ticket counter with my mismatched backpacks, longing for just one bag on wheels, barely able to afford the trip I happen to be taking, let alone the multiple 3 oz. containers I needed to pack all of the haircare products and Victoria Principal's skincare I have shoved into every zipper compartment in the Jansport! And juggling the boarding pass and my purse and my Advil and lip liners? Forget it.
"Good Afternoon Ma'am. May I see your boarding pass?"
"Boarding pass? Ummmmm....." (Gosh, what does it look like...fumble...fumble) "Is this it?"
"Yes. May I see some ID, please?"
(Scramble. Empty out every card in the wallet. UFT. New York Public Library. Duane Reade. A Band Aid? What the heck is this doing there?) "Gosh. I can't seem to find my driver's license, sir. How about this?"
"Your Blockbuster Card? Uhhh, No Ma'am. Do you have a passport?"
"Yes! Of Course! I HAVE a passport. Yes. Yey me! And it has one stamp on it from my trip to the Caribbean."
"Congratulations. The passport please?"
Once, I navigated my kids and I through Central Park in a snow storm. We had to get from The Met to The American Museum of Natural History. It's a simple walk. Start at the East side, cross to the West side. It's basically a straight line, but not when I had anything to do with it. Our straight line turned into a COMPLETE CIRCLE. I didn't understand how that could have happened. We left the Met, passed by a big lake, threw a few snowballs and 45 minutes later I stumbled upon some teenage attitude:
Kids: "Mom? Is that the Met? Isn't that where we started?
Me: No! That's The Museum of Natural History!
Kids: "No its not."
Me: "Yeah....it is!"
Kids: "No, Mom. That sign says Fifth Avenue."
Me: "What the....Oh my gosh you guys! I am sooooo sorry!"
So to learn that there are actually people out there who do this sort of nomadic thing all the time, colleagues, friends, business travelers like my brother-in-law who never leaves home without his GPS, I am in great wonder of it all. I want to be that person. You know, the one who takes three trips a year. The one who has all the hotel toiletries in a basket in the bathroom vanity. The one who actually has mileage points. The one who gets to the airport an hour before rather than enduring four hours of people watching and $5.00 cups of coffee simply because she didn't want to miss her plane.
Once, I traveled home from San Francisco alone leaving Sean and the kids behind. It was a big deal for me to find my way to the gate, then sit by myself, through a terrible movie, in "brace for impact" turbulence. Okay so it wasn't that bad, but I have a low threshold for turbulence. We were delayed because the storm had put the breaks on the baggage claim at JFK, and as a result, I was in a cab at 1:30 in the morning heading back to Manhattan, my trusty carry on, purse and big green duffel bag in tow. The windows were fogged and we seemed to be on a highway for quite some time, when I suddenly looked out and saw Manhattan passing by. Panicked, I was certain the cab driver was kidnapping me to Staten Island. Imagine, this coming from someone who can't even find her way around Waldbaums let alone the streets of New York City. I couldn't tell you if I was on the Belt Parkway, the BQE, the Inbound Gowanus; these were highways I had heard Megan Meany mention on Today in New York, but couldn't identify if my life depended on it. And I really thought my life depended on it. I was certain the bridge we were suddenly approaching was the Verrazano Narrows. I would be tied to a cement block and thrown into the Hudson in a matter of minutes. Someone, save me.
The cab whizzed over the large black body of water, the mouth of the Hudson, swallowing me up like a...What's that street? Delancy? Oh Dear God, thank you. Thank you.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Let's Celebrate!
Did you hear?
Curves are returning for fall fashion. Thank you Mr. Gunn!
Jennifer Aniston was spotted on two dates in ONE WEEK! How does she do it?
NY Jets Derrelle Revis after a month of holding out for more money received a hero's welcome today. Way to go Derrelle.
Randy Jackson's the only Idol judge left.
Good Gosh. What is this world coming to?
Curves are returning for fall fashion. Thank you Mr. Gunn!
Jennifer Aniston was spotted on two dates in ONE WEEK! How does she do it?
NY Jets Derrelle Revis after a month of holding out for more money received a hero's welcome today. Way to go Derrelle.
Randy Jackson's the only Idol judge left.
Good Gosh. What is this world coming to?
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Another Sleepless Sunday Morning
This morning I woke up again at 5:15. What is it with me? When I have all the time in the world, I can't sleep. And when I have no time, all I want to do is sleep. Guaranteed, I'll be sleeping during Father Peter's sermon this morning, and just when I realize it, I'll open my eyes, and he'll be looking right at me!
Busted.
Now, I know that there are positively more productive things one can do at this hour. Some people read. They read The Bible, finish a great biography, run and get the paper. Some cook. They start with fresh baked muffins, make Sunday gravy, brew up a pot of coffee. And others pray. They pray to the gods of physical fitness. Joggers, bikers and yoga gurus throw on their trusty pair of sneakers and work up a good sweat before starting the day.
Sean is golfing. Lucky him.
These are great options. And I believe that the secret to success is through the choices that we make. Everything we do is a choice. Everything! Absolutely EVERYTHING. Think about it. We make simple choices: Should I have a burger or a salad? We make more challenging choices: Should I fire that girl or give her one more chance? And then there are the life-altering choices: Listen to my heart and marry this person, or heed the warnings of virtually everyone I know and let this one go.
Take the right fork and you're sittin' pretty. Take the left one, and, well, all bets are off. This is not to say that peaks and valleys won't pop up now and then. Life can be a mighty long journey, paved with a whole mess of bumps along the road. Still, when I look at the big picture, it's CHOICE that gets me over, under, and through all those bumps.
So I chose the computer this morning. I found postings from 2 hours ago! People are actually up at 3:15am? I'm thinkin' they just got home from a night out with friends or maybe a date. Gosh I want to be up at 3:15. And I want to be sleeping right now! I want to be like the masses, resting my mind so that I can wake up fresh and free from the inevitable bags under my eyes.
And then, there are the thoughts. In my case, it's thoughts gone wild. Like tornados, they spin out of my control, and over coffee I am in an abyss. A flip flop of worries and wishes. It is a curse, I tell you. A flaw in my gene pool. And the next thing I know I'm changing the shower curtain, burning the toast, and having an argument with someone in my head. And it's only 5:45!
I'm going out for a run.
Busted.
Now, I know that there are positively more productive things one can do at this hour. Some people read. They read The Bible, finish a great biography, run and get the paper. Some cook. They start with fresh baked muffins, make Sunday gravy, brew up a pot of coffee. And others pray. They pray to the gods of physical fitness. Joggers, bikers and yoga gurus throw on their trusty pair of sneakers and work up a good sweat before starting the day.
Sean is golfing. Lucky him.
These are great options. And I believe that the secret to success is through the choices that we make. Everything we do is a choice. Everything! Absolutely EVERYTHING. Think about it. We make simple choices: Should I have a burger or a salad? We make more challenging choices: Should I fire that girl or give her one more chance? And then there are the life-altering choices: Listen to my heart and marry this person, or heed the warnings of virtually everyone I know and let this one go.
Take the right fork and you're sittin' pretty. Take the left one, and, well, all bets are off. This is not to say that peaks and valleys won't pop up now and then. Life can be a mighty long journey, paved with a whole mess of bumps along the road. Still, when I look at the big picture, it's CHOICE that gets me over, under, and through all those bumps.
So I chose the computer this morning. I found postings from 2 hours ago! People are actually up at 3:15am? I'm thinkin' they just got home from a night out with friends or maybe a date. Gosh I want to be up at 3:15. And I want to be sleeping right now! I want to be like the masses, resting my mind so that I can wake up fresh and free from the inevitable bags under my eyes.
And then, there are the thoughts. In my case, it's thoughts gone wild. Like tornados, they spin out of my control, and over coffee I am in an abyss. A flip flop of worries and wishes. It is a curse, I tell you. A flaw in my gene pool. And the next thing I know I'm changing the shower curtain, burning the toast, and having an argument with someone in my head. And it's only 5:45!
I'm going out for a run.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
For Dad
My dad’s birthday is approaching. He’ll be 81.
This lovely man, who once climbed a ladder and painted our three-story colonial, who was the king of bocce and barbecue at every family picnic, who became my personal human diving board at Jennings Beach is now plagued with health tribulations. He suffers from diabetes, heart disease, the aftermath of a stroke, hearing loss and prostate cancer currently in remission. And to top things off, he is missing his ring finger, which fell off when he fell off some scaffolding in his 20s. The effects of these series of unfortunate events should have stopped him years ago, for no one in his family ever lived past 70.
But my dad prevails.
Perhaps it’s my mom’s Italian cooking. She’s crazy good at it, and as his primary care provider, she waits on that old soul hand and foot. No one has been more effective at such a task as she:
“Rose,” he calls from his leather recliner. “When are we gonna eat?”
“When do you want to eat?”
“Now!” Then there’s the pause. Wait for it. Wait for it. “What are we havin'?”
“What do you want?”
“What have you got?”
Fifty-five years of this, in sickness and in health, as promised. Nothing has stopped this man. He remains the scrabble king who, dare I say, is rarely beat, though my brother begs to differ. He is a master at the 1000 piece puzzle, hunching over the board on the dining room table sharing the midnight crickets’ shift.
Perhaps it’s his unending head-held-high approach to life that singles him out in a crowd of otherwise negative people. I sure do know a lot of fatalists; Complainers who take comfort in bashing and blame. But Steve assures us that any of that is a “waste of time.” So he is quiet unless there is something funny or positive to say.
Still, I find it unbearable to see him this frail. It's just so unfair. Simple tasks like walking up the two stairs to his house leave him out of breath. Buttering toast puts him in a quandary when the bread slips to the floor. Swallowing toast without choking is a rarity. As I watch him getting in and out of the car using every bit of strength, I wonder how he can even tie his shoe. The simplicity of daily life provides my dad with enough challenge to warrant a nap. And then another. And then another.
To me, Steve is a hero. An inspiration to all who let the world, with all of her faults, invade the space of the true happiness God intends for us to have. In the sunset of his life, My dad beams more like the dawn.
This lovely man, who once climbed a ladder and painted our three-story colonial, who was the king of bocce and barbecue at every family picnic, who became my personal human diving board at Jennings Beach is now plagued with health tribulations. He suffers from diabetes, heart disease, the aftermath of a stroke, hearing loss and prostate cancer currently in remission. And to top things off, he is missing his ring finger, which fell off when he fell off some scaffolding in his 20s. The effects of these series of unfortunate events should have stopped him years ago, for no one in his family ever lived past 70.
But my dad prevails.
Perhaps it’s my mom’s Italian cooking. She’s crazy good at it, and as his primary care provider, she waits on that old soul hand and foot. No one has been more effective at such a task as she:
“Rose,” he calls from his leather recliner. “When are we gonna eat?”
“When do you want to eat?”
“Now!” Then there’s the pause. Wait for it. Wait for it. “What are we havin'?”
“What do you want?”
“What have you got?”
Fifty-five years of this, in sickness and in health, as promised. Nothing has stopped this man. He remains the scrabble king who, dare I say, is rarely beat, though my brother begs to differ. He is a master at the 1000 piece puzzle, hunching over the board on the dining room table sharing the midnight crickets’ shift.
Perhaps it’s his unending head-held-high approach to life that singles him out in a crowd of otherwise negative people. I sure do know a lot of fatalists; Complainers who take comfort in bashing and blame. But Steve assures us that any of that is a “waste of time.” So he is quiet unless there is something funny or positive to say.
Still, I find it unbearable to see him this frail. It's just so unfair. Simple tasks like walking up the two stairs to his house leave him out of breath. Buttering toast puts him in a quandary when the bread slips to the floor. Swallowing toast without choking is a rarity. As I watch him getting in and out of the car using every bit of strength, I wonder how he can even tie his shoe. The simplicity of daily life provides my dad with enough challenge to warrant a nap. And then another. And then another.
To me, Steve is a hero. An inspiration to all who let the world, with all of her faults, invade the space of the true happiness God intends for us to have. In the sunset of his life, My dad beams more like the dawn.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Can It Be That I've Had Too Much Time Off?
It's a good thing I work.
Working gets me out of the house, away from the half of a homemade Barefoot Contessa Carrot Cake that has taken refuge in my thighs.
Working gets me into the shower and out of the p.j.'s I've slept in, had lunch and dinner in, and even went for coffee in.
Working helps me see that there is life after the next guest on Martha.
Working alleviates the aggravation I endure when my kids sleep till 12.
Are there meetings for this? Something like AA or Gambler's Anonymous or Get the Heck off the Couch Anonymous?
Oh sure, there are plenty of things one can do in lieu of working, and having a wallet busting at the seams is not even a prerequisite. For example, I saw a "like" on Facebook this morning (yes I was on it at 6:30 this morning) that read, "If you have time to go on Facebook, you have time to exercise." Definitely. I've had time to race the seagulls along the river, have breakfast with Billy Blanks, and even pedal my fanny to the GWB. All of these take about an hour. Instead, I found out who just improved her pedal sachet recipe, and I discovered a company that actually makes money on designer toilets. Bed Bath and Beyond even sells wooden toilet seats that look like checkered cutting boards...Just in case I plan on slicing vegetables when I pee!
If exercise isn't my thing, I could volunteer, go to mass, have lunch with a friend, visit my mom (no forget that, I gained 5 pounds the last time I visited her) plant some tulips outside, have coffee on the Highline, stroll through the Union Square Green Market, browse the sale racks at Anthropology, visit the dentist, use my Key to the City...
Did you know that there are break dancing cats, vagina trees and dear God! can you believe Anne Hathaway cut her hair off?
It's a good thing I work.
Working gets me out of the house, away from the half of a homemade Barefoot Contessa Carrot Cake that has taken refuge in my thighs.
Working gets me into the shower and out of the p.j.'s I've slept in, had lunch and dinner in, and even went for coffee in.
Working helps me see that there is life after the next guest on Martha.
Working alleviates the aggravation I endure when my kids sleep till 12.
Are there meetings for this? Something like AA or Gambler's Anonymous or Get the Heck off the Couch Anonymous?
Oh sure, there are plenty of things one can do in lieu of working, and having a wallet busting at the seams is not even a prerequisite. For example, I saw a "like" on Facebook this morning (yes I was on it at 6:30 this morning) that read, "If you have time to go on Facebook, you have time to exercise." Definitely. I've had time to race the seagulls along the river, have breakfast with Billy Blanks, and even pedal my fanny to the GWB. All of these take about an hour. Instead, I found out who just improved her pedal sachet recipe, and I discovered a company that actually makes money on designer toilets. Bed Bath and Beyond even sells wooden toilet seats that look like checkered cutting boards...Just in case I plan on slicing vegetables when I pee!
If exercise isn't my thing, I could volunteer, go to mass, have lunch with a friend, visit my mom (no forget that, I gained 5 pounds the last time I visited her) plant some tulips outside, have coffee on the Highline, stroll through the Union Square Green Market, browse the sale racks at Anthropology, visit the dentist, use my Key to the City...
Did you know that there are break dancing cats, vagina trees and dear God! can you believe Anne Hathaway cut her hair off?
It's a good thing I work.
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