Questions & Answers

Self portrait
12/23/11

Songs: Those Were The Days, by Mary Hopkins
           Good Life- One Republic


What a year.  A triumvirate- our third baby was born, eight days later my Dad died, then three weeks later Oprah went off the air. And that was just May.

I'm still not sure which of the three had the biggest impact on me. For sure, sweet baby Henry John brought me the most joy. Oprah going off the air brought the most joy to Danny. And my Dad, John G. passing over to the other side fulfilled the promise of joy to him, albeit certain sadness for us.


It was a tough and tenuous year. A good year. Someone once said there are years for questions and years for answers. This year held both. June brought the beginning of this blog and the end of a few friendships. An answer. July brought new friends. Trip to Charleston, SC, delicious hip food, great mossy oaks, hundred degree heat. Questions, answers. August slipping into bad old habits, questions. September reaching out, questions. He has a girlfriend, I'm married. Answer! Birthdays, trips, first teeth, first playdate, first grade. Packing up the childhood home, reflecting on old photographs. Instead of looking for myself in the frames as a not-born-yet, as a baby, as a toddler, seeing for the first time my parents as new parents, new homeowners, newlyweds. Answers. September eleventh ten years. Questions. Answers.  Running, writing, ruminating. Laughing with old friends, reconnecting, smiling through tears, tears of questions, tears of answers, tears for fears. Seven year anniversary, you're still here? I can't believe how lucky I am that you're still here with horrible me. I can't believe how lucky you are that you're still here with the great I am. Our twenty year high school reunion. Everybody the same, everybody different.  She has a biopsy. He's sitting up, he's cruising, he says Da-da. He's seven months old, he's been gone for seven months now. Reaching out again, he still has a girlfriend, I'm still married! Hello, Goodbye. It's cancer. Great music, more writing, 160 views a week, how deep will be my mark?  Agent-rejection, self-acceptance. Trip to LA. Acceptance, acceptance. Questions, answers. Picking up, putting down. Holding on, letting go. Thanking God. Humility. Full bellies. Full circles. Full stops. The missing friends sent me Christmas cards. I sent the missing friends Christmas cards too. She's going to beat it. Welcome 2012. Beat that.

Please leave a comment here.  Thanks!

Want What You Have

Song: Beautiful Nightmare By Beyonce

When I lived under my parents roof, (I was going to say, "growing up" but that is a work in progress) "sleeping in" was discouraged. If I was lazing around in bed after nine o'clock, noise was made, shades were yanked. Now, if you know me, you know I love me some shut eye. So, logically I spent many nights sleeping over at choice friends houses, where the rules were more favorable to one inclined to what our British friends call  kip.

In one of my favorite homes, the moms' motto was "Never wake a sleeping baby." Never mind that the "baby" was twenty-one and hungover. Snapping a shade exposing Baby's eyes to harsh sunlight when Baby had cotton mouth? Not on her watch. I'd fold myself between the 600 thread count sheets, appreciating heaven, dreaming of glasses of water and being adopted.

Seems my tots have not inherited the gene. BOO! Not only are they up at God awful pre-crack of dawn daily, they never seem to want to submit to Snoozeville, the happiest place on earth. Why don't they want to share my guilty pleasure? Why do they fight it so? They scream and cry at me when I announce, "Dinner, bath, bed!" If someone came to me and said, "I'm going to feed you, then bath you, then read you a story and put you in your bed." I think I'd cry tears of joy. I think the emotion would be overwhelming, "You're going to do what? For me? baaaaahhhh." I can't even imagine. But no, they act like I'm taking a chain saw to Mickey Mouse and the Magic Castle.

Anywho, jk.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas! Yeay! I hate holidays. Anyone with me? Bah. Humbug. Sorrell. Sorrell about that. It's just like a stress fest. I can't. We did our holiday card last weekend. I had to fight with Tiny Prints all week to get it made. They didn't want to use the picture I chose because it was "too grainy" and "the kids look yellow." Well aren't we picky. "Proceed." I ordered. Out of 76 shots it's the only one where all three are looking in the same direction and nobody's crying.
"But your children's faces are yellow. And grainy."
"It's a Christmas card." I said. "I'm lucky I have kids."
"That's a marvelous attitude M'am." She said.

M'am. They say it without hesitation now. It used to be a question and I'd stop them and say, yeah, no, it's Miss. or even Missy. Condescend to me, anything, but don't you, M'am,  me. But now, it's just there. Thanks M'am. You're Welcome, Kid. Kiddo.

It's good. A wonderful teacher I had David Razowsky once said, "Want what you have." He spoke about it. For instance, if you felt you were in a scene on stage with a lame partner who didn't give you anything, like a heartbeat, he suggested instead of complaining or getting frustrated, to enter into that space, to accept it. To want it. To want it to be no other way and to go from there. To want exactly what you have in any moment, anywhere and go from there, to treat whatever it is that you have even if you hate it, even if you think it's crippling you and love it as a gift to use to your advantage. The great part about Raz was that listening to him wasn't just a lesson in acting it was a lesson in life. He had a good attitude, M'am.

True Dat!

This Thursday Night Post is actually a Friday Morning Post- all this weeks' rain had me down right depressed. So instead of writing my post last night I chose to eat my weight in Mint Chip and watch horrendously awesome reality T.V.. Baseball Wives anyone? My Secret Pregnancy? Yeah, I went deep. I was asleep by eleven and woke up to a sunny day. Victory.

I have reopened my little actor's studio. It's called,  My Little Actor's Studio. Isn't that catchy? My friend Eileen Weller came up with it, thanks again Eil. www.MyLittleActorsStudio.com, register your little munchkins or bigger munchkins K-12 there. Classes start January 23, 2012. I can't wait.

Many people hold the notion that acting is about being a good liar. Quite the contrary, acting is about telling the truth. Acting classes are for helping the artist achieve the truth in an organic way so that they don't look like fools and annoy those they are being paid to entertain. When you see bad acting it is not because they are bad liars it is because they are bad at telling the truth. One of the greatest acting-isms, is that "the truth reads". So, if you are feeling happy and it is a sad scene, unless you can get yourself into that true place of sorrow, your body will be telling a different story than the text you are speaking. As humans, we always buy the body language and tone of voice over the actual spoken word. We are genius at figuring these signals out.  Unless we're falling in love and then, well, we believe that the other person loves us no matter their language, bodily or spoken, we become goofballs. *Then, hopefully the message is received before a restraining order is issued.

Let's say you ask your wife, who has her shoulders slumped, eyes cast down, "What's wrong?" and she stares at the floor, kicks a rock and says, "Nothing" .
"Are you mad I bought you a treadmill?" You ask cheerily.
"No, its fine." She says, through tears.

Now, this is a funny scene, but its only funny if the actress, in this case the wife, can really get to a place of truth, of near or actual tears and the husband is legitimately clueless. Comedy, no matter how outrageous, only works when based in truth. And of course drama has to be pure or its comical, in a bad way. Think of some reality tv! It's difficult to tell the emotional truth, because those feelings are private. Acting is about being private in public, in life we are taught to cover our emotions from a very early age. Acting classes are about reaching emotional truths and conveying them freely. It took me two years at the Actor's Studio after my initial audition to be free enough to be able to cry, laugh, even walk on stage without looking affected. And then it had me singing, "I love a parade!"

Anyway, I guess I'm just speaking to those people who say things like, "She's such a good liar, she should be an actress, she'd win an academy award." NO, Son. Rephrase please, you would not believe a liar, a good performance is based on believability.  "She's such a good truther, she should win an academy award."

Have a good week!





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Pillow Talk, Kinda

Song: Chasing Pavements by Adele.

This post is dedicated to my friend Mary who always says she would like to spend ten minutes in my mind (and not a minute more). Here's a snippet from my weekend trip to Los Angeles. I hope you get something out of what may only amount to a dizzying whirl around my brain.

"Mama, Is the Easter Bunny half man, half bunny?" My son, Colbert, 6, hollars an inch from my face as if it's 7:30 a.m. in New York and not 4:30 a.m. California time. We are in California, it's been two days but he's not adjusted.

"No." I whisper, eyes quickly shutting after being shocked out of sleep. "He's all bunny."

"THEN WHY IS HE LIKE FIVE FEET TALL?!" He asks, exasperated.

I start laughing. I've never thought of that.

"And what does he do the rest of the year? Does he just hang out with Santa Claus and The Tooth Fairy and Cupid?" He is serious. He wants an answer. This could go on until 5a.m., forever.

"I don't know, baby, I think Cupid works all year." I am starting to wake up and connect,  "Actually,  The Tooth Fairy probably works all year too."

"Yeah, prollaly." He agrees, cuddling in.

So much about this exchange had me thinking. How come I never questioned why the Easter Bunny is "like five feet tall"? He can't be real, real bunnies don't grow to five feet and carry a basket and stand up and shake hands at parades. I don't even have to Google "Bunnies" to know that. I mean I have known forever that he's not real, in fact, he's been me for years, but I never thought about how tall he was, a dead giveaway.  And Cupid? How does he know about Cupid? I love Cupid. Speaking of, how come this is my pillow talk? Hunh? Cupid? Chest pump and bump.

Cause I'm the luckiest, that's why <3.

No, Cupid's not the thing, there's something here about the Easter Bunny that I need to figure out. Or at least trip over until I fall back to sleep. How many Easter Bunnies are in my life? People, things or ideas that can't possibly be real but that I accept as such, things I never question? How about relationships that are about as real as the Easter Bunny? A couple come to mind.  A girl who tells me she's my best friend but doesn't know the name of my blog or that I had another baby, I just laugh, go along with it, that's okay, she's fun, she's not my best friend but if she thinks I'm hers, what do I care?

I get a lot out of the Easter Bunnies in my life. Not everything has to be so black and white and sterile. I love the romance of the Easter Bunny. Delightful and temporary. That a big fat fluffy rabbit used to come and leave me a basket of sugary treats, made my month. Now that I am the Easter Bunny, it makes my day (hectic)!

That a situation may also be a lot of big fat fluff is okay, too. I mean, of course, finding out that something, or worse someone, you thought was real, is in actuality an Easter Bunny always stings, but it shouldn't break your heart. It's not like finding out your husband is a serial killer or your mother was duped by a Ponzi scheme. It's a wake-up call not a bucket of ice over the head. It's not Santa. It might be The X-factor audition and Simon telling you you are horrid, miserable. It might be an imagined fling. Like my friend who thought she was having this complicated romance as the guy in question is posting pictures of his girlfriend on Facebook... nope not complicated, not in existence! He showed up resembling a relationship, cute, kind and chatty, and she began to fantasize that something more magical was happening. Game show "X". Like the Easter Bunny, he's kind of a bunny, but really he's just a man in a fun get-up, a symbol of youth perhaps fertility.  An Easter Bunny is a situation that might best be looked at as an important reality check. It's important to have big dreams and a vision, it's fun! Just keep it real so you don't get too wrapped up and end up living in a fantasy land. Hey, Alice in Wonderland, feel free to fall in the rabbit hole, there's a lot to learn down there! Just come out! So it's a situation where all you have to do is ask yourself one or two obvious questions to get your answer. Why is he like five feet tall then? What does he do the rest of the year? Does she know the name of my blog? Or my baby?

I have a fondness for my Easter Bunnies, they continue to serve me. Deep down I know what's real. And there's really nothing wrong with a five foot tall person in a rabbit suit pretending to be a bunny. Unless of course, you try to go home with him.. And then his pink ears and his big white head come off and it's a little Japanese man.  That could be confusing, and potentially dangerous, but maybe it could be great! You may end up with really satisfying pillow talk. That's up to Cupid <3.
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Bradley Cooper Boy Crazy

Song: Don't Take The Girl by Tim McGraw

First, I want to talk about my former Cohort IV Actor's Studio MFA program member, and this year's People Magazines contested Sexiest Man Alive, Bradley Cooper.  How funny and ridiculous that people are up in arms over who dons the title. That would totally happen to me, except that I would never be nominated (I can barely get the people I know to so much as put a "like" by my fb blog,  nonetheless convince the world they should pay money to see me), but say I was,  people would definitely cry "Bullshit!" or at least cough it into their sleeve. Or maybe not, maybe, everyone would be totally behind me, "Yes, she is the sexiest man alive!" Can you imagine? How awful. I think I even saw some banners go up by the Occupy Wall Street people, a cause they are clear on, elbow, elbow. But he won and how great to even be considered?!

He was just another guy in my class. Granted he was rumored to get his hair done by a designer salon and had a deluxe wardrobe, but that he has catapulted himself into super stardom is nothing but nuts. When I see Bradley I don't think, "Wow, sexiest man alive" I think, "Holy crap, Bradley? How the hell did he do that?" It takes so much to even get an audition. To get some perspective think about every movie you've ever seen and every extra in it. Think of a stadium scene in one of them, everyone of those extra's wants to be the star. Then think of every show, every commercial...

We weren't tight, but I remember in our third year of grad school, him telling me he wanted to quit because he had gone on about forty auditions in that week alone and hadn't gotten anything, he was scared. I was like, "Pull yourself together, at least you're going on auditions, those people don't even know the rest of us slobs are alive." Well, he sure ran with that advice. So, kudos to you Coop. After working through my pangs of jealousy, it's exciting to see someone reach that kind of success. It not only makes the world smaller, but achieving a dream feel possible.

Second, I'm boy crazy. If you are a repeat reader you know that I am the mother of three little boys. Well, two little boys and an infant. I wonder sometimes if God wasn't trying to hammer me over the head with how good boys are, something I never understood before having sons. I mean, let's get clear, I always loved boys, but I considered them as mercurial and naughty as the devil himself. One day he loved me the next day he couldn't remember my name or one day he was cute and washed and funny and the next he was nasty and smelly and lame. Or I'd get the "ew's". The ew's is the experience of waking up to the reality that your prince charming is really a pasty toad.

In my mind boys and girls couldn't have been further apart. Especially since boys had no feelings, at least not the way I did.

And then came Colbert, my first son. I swear rays of golden light shot off of him the second he came into the world. Then, all he had were feelings and his feelings became the center of my life. He just turned six, so I bare in mind that puberty might change things, but right now he and my 3 1/2 year old Julian have the biggest hearts and the sweetest intentions of anyone I've ever known. More than me. Well, now I'm exaggerating, but you get my point.

I'm awakened to a whole new way of seeing the world. I'm almost convinced that the men of my and my friends past weren't beasts, they were scared. I was never taught that. For instance, before a birthday party or when I do the drop off at school I have to give Colbert a warm up talk. It seems he has such anxiety that his stomach knots and he can't speak or make eye contact. So we take deep breaths and discuss our strategy.

"Someone will say hello and all you have to do is smile and say hi back." I say, and then I think a bit, from his point of view, "you know forget saying hi back, just smile, if it's too much."

It rarely works. Whenever I'm with him a bunch of girls run up and say "Hiiiiii! Cole-bert! Heyyyy!".  Most of the time, he keeps walking, head straight ahead, his hand squeezing mine. Sometimes though, he finds the courage and musters a nod. Now if I were one of those girls I'd think he was a snotty little boy. But being his mama I know he's simply terrified. New eyes on life I tell ya. A whole nudder perspective, like.

Seeing people working from fear has carried over to all of my relationships, it helps me be more understanding. Sometimes, I can even see where I, myself am connecting to the fear of a situation instead of the truth. But this is very hard, my fear wants to convince me that monsters are real, it wants me to shrink and play small. So usually I need someone to give me a pep talk too.  Maybe one day, if I'm a good example, or I tell him the story of Bradley Cooper, it will be Colbert.

I love this song by Tim McGraw, it makes me feel the heart of a boy and how lucky and great it is to be a girl loved by three.

House Hunters Senseychelles! and a Video Clip of my audition. Yikes.

*when I previewed this my click on links were only showing as light gray instead of the obvious bright blue, so If you see light gray or faded gray type, that's a link...click on it if you want. *

HGTV's House Hunters International is a great way to find relief from The Real Housebyatches while fantasizing about living in a majestic farmhouse in the south of France for $260,000., instead of wondering if every interaction you have with your girlfriends ends in being verbally torn to shreds behind your back. Talk about a win-win. 

There are a variety of House Hunter shows, there's plain House Hunters who are persons searching for properties in various parts of the United States. I'm not even posting a link. A lot of these folks are not dropping big dollars, just FYI, so if you're interested in shopping for a mid-range splanch in Seattle, that's your baby. For my money, there is only H.H. International. I'm an escapist with no budget and big dreams who loves learning about foreign lands surrounded by sandy beaches. Being transported with a young surfer family to the Seychelles and deciding amongst several waterfront properties with a pool and a staff, fully furnished for less than I'd pay for an unheated garage on Long Island, is my idea of a good time. I'm also partial to House Hunters Million Dollar Buyers, those are harder to come by.  Selling L.A. is a great one for swanky pads, major budgets, glib agents and mostly young buyers, as is Selling New York, I love watching those jerks.

But you may find that Property Virgins is your bag. That's where people enjoy watching first-time cash strapped home buyers walking around saying things like, "Well, she didn't love the kitchen." and "We were hoping for more of a walk-in." "He's not prepared to go up another thousand." That doesn't do it for me, but, like I've said, I'm into fantasy, big enchiladas, lots of cheese. You may have a more practical nature.

Either way each couple is shown three homes to decide on. We watch them kick the bricks around all three and then at the end they decide, in drum roll fashion, which one they are going to buy. It's fun to guess.  And love them for guessing right (picking the one I wanted) or call them morons for picking wrong (the one my husband wanted). Finding that they picked the one you knew they were going to pick but that you yourself wouldn't want to be in eyeball distance of also satisfies.  I just learned through this gals blog, Hooked on Houses, that some of it may be a sham. Meaning, some of the couples may have already purchased one of the three homes before the episode was filmed. This doesn't bother me. I am hooked on houses. Especially far off ones, with beaches oh, and surfers. Hey, I'm married not dead. Wink, wink. Up top.

On another note...I mentioned that an agent requested seeing me "on tape". I was happy to but there were three obstacles 1.) I hate seeing myself on tape. 2.) I hate listening to myself on tape. 3.) I did not know what such nebulous phrasing meant, nor what the word nebulous meant. I decided to speak a short introduction of myself and then to write/sing him a song because I feel like the only time bragging is cool is when its being rapped...

 "Imagine me not workin' hard, yeah right, picture that with a kodak, better yet go to Times Square take a picture of me with a kodak" - Pitbull-por exemplo...

We filmed it and sent it in yesterday. It's got it all, air guitar with finger picking, country music, rap, white woman horrible rapper accent, necklace made of tinfoil, salad dressing and a carrot. Do yourself a favor and watch the great Melissa McCarthy on SNL doing Hidden Valley Ranch if you haven't seen it, (where have you been??) beforehand. IT'S ICONIC and I reference it. I also reference his wifes blog Divamoms.com, thought it couldn't hurt. But then I didn't mean to but sorta imply I'm going to cut his member in half...so it got weird...hey, it happens (shoulder shrug), hope you like it:)

Here's my link its on youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yazQIDBBuTs.

Script.
Free-style Intro.
I'm just gonna tune up here for a second. Meee-mee. Brian, Stern, mee-mee-mee mee, Stern, Brian.
Country singing:
Oh Brian Stern there is so much to do, I can't seem to find my path that's why I need you.
Oh Brian Stern I know you launched J. Hud, did you even get her skinny? Cause now we like her butt.
Oh Brian Stern...wait a second this just...feels ridiculous i need something with a little more pizazz a little more bass, what's this? (pick up tinfoil necklace) yeah, that's it.

Rap a puh puh puh a iggy iggy iggy...
I got kryptonite dreams, silver screen visions,
I need you to hook me up and make some good decisions.

I could host morning like Hoda and Kathie Lee or kill it like Billy and Kit on T.V.
I think I'm serious, people tell me I'm funny, Brian I don't care just show me the money.

I got three kids to feed and a dog to walk,
I gotta do more now than talk the talk.
I put on a Crest White Strip while I'm mowing the lawn
I was feeding a baby when I wrote this song.

Brian I know you've got kids too and a hot Divamom of a wife
Now its time for you to pass me the knife.
I'll slice it, dice it, cut it in half,
No idea what i'm saying just to make you laugh.

Acting, writing it aint' no thing my hubby took note before I got the ring
Ring, ring, call me, Call Me Come Alive!
Forget that put me on Saturday Night Live

I'm like Melissa McCarthy with sex appeal
Sucking down dressing now that's the real deal.
Lorne Michaels, Spielberg- those are my people.

If Hollywood is the church? Then my face is the steeple.
Peace. I'm out. I'm out. I'm out.

Please leave a comment here tell me what your favorite show is, Thanks!

The Rett Set

"Big Fat Penis!" I call, "What's up?"

I call into the living room of the apartment we share on 77th Street in New York City. The apartment, Rachel, or Big Fat Penis, as I call her, secured for us.

I was a senior at NYU, she was a first year grad student at Columbia, she was earning her Master's in Social Work.  We had met three years earlier at the University of Rhode Island before I transferred.  We became roommates. She always did everything right, for everybody. I'm not really sure as nicknames go why she ended up with Big Fat Penis, but she took it in stride, then called me the same thing. It became our greeting and then our way of communicating our feelings.

"Hey how's your Peen?" I'd ask.
"Pretty plump. Yours?" she'd say.
"Feeling limpish," I might confess.
"Oh, no, what's wrong with your Peen?" She'd ask.
"Test today."
"Oh." She'd understand, pausing to look at me.
"It's okay it'll be plump soon, I studied up." I might say, on the bright side.
"Totally, keep it plumpy." She'd say, before I headed out. "Later Peen."
"Later, Big Fat Penis."

We've been in the periphery of each other's lives since 1996. Keeping in touch over beginnings, middles and endings like weddings, births, holidays and funerals. We always call each other Peen.

We have babies close in age, my middle, her last, born within days of each other. When I heard about her first born daughter Zoe, coming down with Retts syndrome, I researched what it was. I write, "coming down with" because for the beginning of Zoe's life she was thriving, like any healthy baby and then, as I learned happens with Retts, she started declining. It's one of lifes cruelest tricks.  Rett's is a genetc disorder almost exclusively in girls where the baby is growing and learning like any other and then at, before or around two years old starts to lose everything she learned, like saying her baby brothers name or holding her sippy cup.  Her life expectancy is not long.  Even if you don't have kids it's not difficult to imagine how devastating the situation is, although we will never know the hell of Peen's day to day frustration and agony, every day a new kind of test, the kind she can't study for. She has a bright outlook, appreciates the little moments.  She still says, when I ask, some day's are plumper than others.

So when she sent out this letter about her fundraiser November 9, 2011 (pasted below), I thought what little could I do? I could raise a little bit of awareness for Peen and her family, maybe raise some funding for Rett research that there may be a cure to reverse the syndrome in Zoe's lifetime, which is miraculously looking more and more possible. Please read it and pass it on, feel free to repost my blog. Let's help Reverse Rett. The Rett set, the coolest kids around. Thanks.

Please leave a comment here. I am trying to build a community! Thanks!

True Friends

Most of you have probably seen this you tube clip, I linked it at the end, it is worth revisiting. For those who haven't you are in for a treat! I have the same reaction I did the first time, heartwarming tears and reconnected to faith.  I am doing a special post tomorrow, I hope this one tides you over until then.

Think of the special friends, maybe even people (!), in your life that you would not have otherwise connected with and the selfless acts you have done or can do for them whether it was staying by their side or letting them go.

Above is a picture of my mom's dog Girlie, an eleven year old golden lab, doesn't it look like our faces are fused together? Kinda freaky! ahah! Well, she is living with us now and she is so sweet, we are so happy to have her warming up (stinking up and shedding all over) our home.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZDZaWgf_bk0

Good week all! xx!

Please leave a comment here. I am trying to build a community on the blog page and can't figure out how to transfer facebook comments. Plus, as a bonus, if you post anonymous no one has to know you like me. Thanks!

Reunited

Song: Are you Ready? by Fatty Gets A Stylist

I peek into my local consignment shop Look Twice in Rockville Centre, NY (my other favorite is Revival in Roslyn, NY) and spot a cutie right away. She's on a bar full of crowded hangers but her frilly three quarter sleeve is cut on the bias and dangling at just the right angle. I take her out carefully, she's lace and delicate. I look at her label, she's lace, delicate and Anne Fontaine. Tags on, never been worn. Score. I put her on over my sundress and turn to the shop girl.

"Where." I ask. "Am I wearing her?" 

"Somewhere awesome and soon." She says.

"Totally." I say, noticing the shop girls nineteen-forties style, "Aren't you a kick?"

"Well." She says.

We both laugh.

But it's August and I have no where awesome to go to but the beach and my little Annie would be overdone to say the least. Then I ask myself, "Self, who was I just talking to at the beach about going somewhere?".  I search my brains files....Jeanne Marie... the reunion!

I feel like I see most of my class regularly either by face or facebook and my boyfriend was in another grade, so it's not the type of affair that is weighing heavily on my mind. The reunion, for me, is more like a fun night out than a nerve racking nail biter.  Still, I want to look gewd.

"My twenty year high school reunion is in October!" I say, expecting the shop girl to be just as excited as me.

"Perfect!" She says, just as excited as me. It's not soon, but it's awesome.

It doesn't occur to me until now that its likely sad that I am two months out from having an occassion to wear my killer blouson. Well, not really, sad. Let's not digress.

So. Last week my mom was over and I tried the top on for her. Like I said, it's all lace and well, see- thru.

"It's Anne Fontaine." I say. Staring in the mirror mesmerized, not remembering feeling this way about a shirt. "It's like a $350-$400.00 shirt. I got it for $98.00."

"It's gorgeous." She says, but her face doesn't match her words."What will you wear underneath it?"

I am looking in the mirror at the way the poet collar rolls and falls over me and thinking maybe I could get away with wearing nothing underneath it. We fit so well, it would be a shame to shove a camisol in between us. My head angling left than right. I am not sure I see anything indescent. I think it looks, sexy.

"I don't know, I feel like I might as well, in ten years no ones going to want to look at them anyway."

"I feel like I don't want to look at them now." She says.

I shoot her a snide sideways glance.

"What is that expression you say, "Better to be pitied than censored?"

"Why don't you get a mamogram?" she asks, optimistically.

I turn quickly and glare at her head on.

Now, you may be thinking my mother is clearly suffering a break from reality or merely switching the subject. But I can assure you, she is not. I know exactly where she is headed.

"That's a good idea." I say sarcastically. "I'll go get my ta-ta's clamped in a vice, not because I need a check up...but for the paper pasties they give you during the exam. That's normal."

My mom is laughing. I love hearing her laugh.

My mother laughed the way some ladies do ~ Paul Simon

I want her to laugh harder.

"As opposed to going to Victoria's Secret for ten minutes and twenty bucks and getting something sweet and smooth, I should make a doctors appointment, wait in the waiting room, go through a horrendous boob squishing physical, just for the stiff irritating paper bag cut outs, risking a paper cut." I say, "to wear under my shirt on a big night out!"

She is laughing really hard now. I love hearing her laugh.

"I bet they could get you in this week." she says, dabbing a laugh tear.

"When people ask me why I'm crazy?" I say, "I'm pointing to you."

"Okay" She says, shrugging her slim shoulders, "I don't mind."




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Jogger

Shout out to my marriage, survived and celebrated seven year (itch) Monday October 10, 2011. We went to Great Adventure.  What better way to symbolize our time together than roller coasters? We had a blast. Road everything twice, no kids. The park is surprisingly clean and actually.... pretty! I sware, highly recommend. Oh and bring your wallet and patience, get the fast pass. It's worth it, so awesome to free fall and just be out there.

Anyway, I've mentioned my anxiety and now my roller coaster (haha) so I've started running in the morning, listening to awesome music, Pumped up Kicks, by Foster the People. I love this song so much that when Danny's brother, my kids uncle, bought them white patent leather high tops with black trim and fluorescent piping, I nearly cried. Tears of joy. Pumped up kicks! I would never and now I love them. Merci amu!
   
Better run, better run, faster than my bullet. 

Will I ever get sick of it? Probably tomorrow. And I'm convinved I've got The Moves Like Jagger and that Whole Food's got the key. So much to dig. Especially the people that are just waking up as I move by. So far there's Pancakes and Secret Smoker.

So dawn is breaking and everytime I get to this house I smell smoke. Cigarette smoke, from the backyard. She must be in the driveway, the person, I think she, cause I just do, cause that isn't now but one day maybe could be me, but for the grace of God. And each time I am surprised. I thought maybe once, a bad day, but nope last four times, thar she blows. And every time I think, really? At seven a.m.? Do people still do this? Seems so 1990's to me and 1950's and like the word jog, and the soda, Tab, 1980's for sure. And I'm in the middle of "i sware i'll behave... take me by the tongue and i'll know you." Feeling as sexy as that song is. And then the smell. And everytime I want to run up her driveway, tell her I can smell it, and demand a drag.

Next is pancakes. A gorgeous front porch, it must be ten feet deep, an old Victorian painted out in rich tans and browns. The woman comes out and walks her long front walkway to retrieve her paper in a velvet brown robe that (coincidentally?) matches the house. She has a big ass and a cozy gait. I can see inside her open door to a dark foyer, opening to rooms on either side, I'm not there long, I'm moving, like I said, but I think I bet she's going in to eat pancakes. I sware you can almost smell the syrup.

More later, I'm so tired. I'm going to listen to my pumped up kicks and hit the hay.

Best all, love you!!

p.s,forgot to mention got rejected by an agent for my new novel, BUT am sending out a tape to a big agent, who will look at moi.  it's an introduction through a friend, i hope i don't disappoint.  i think i'll post the link to my audition here if its good enough. Kinda freaked out, and would love feedback. But then i'm also like whatever, I have nothing to lose so why not risk it? Do you know what I mean? No seriously? Do you? Where are you not risking and should be? Or risking too much?

Crazy right? Peace and stay in the day.

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Courage!

SO. Steve Jobs passed. I've been thinking about the word courage. I'm not sure I am capable of the amount of courage it takes to stand up and be what you believe or who you are everyday. But I know I admire most those that do. And then I was thinking of the small moments of what that would take and what it means. And that this post would be about saluting all of those who did that, every day, every moment in a world where it is always easier to put your head under the covers and claim noncompliance, or compliance but no real speakable, or noncommendable and then commendable voice.So many obvious choices, Bill Gates, Abe Lincoln, Coco Chanel, Steve Jobs, Steve McQueen, Alexander McQueeen, to all the queens, Jim Morrison,  Lady Gaga, The Cure, Madonna, and what the heck, while we're on pop stars, Britney. Then I thought about the men and the women I know who have had courage in so many seemingly small ways; the man who said "I do" when really he meant, "I think I do, but what about her shopping sprees?" The woman who said "I will again." After hearing the words "this is no longer a viable life.", how she knew something closer to terror than she ever imagined in those nine (really ten) months than she ever knew she could possibly withstand and got pregnant again. Or the woman who is knocking on the door to forty and would give anything to hear those words, just once. Or to the woman so close to my heart who determined to say "i do" when no one thought it was a good idea and then goodbye after six kids and forty-five years, sell her house and hear from the "stager" that all her worldly possessions would be better put in boxes as they were looking for a look more suitable to a "contemporary neutral buyer". To my favorite kid at the Duncun Donuts drive thru who has a tattoo on his neck in cursive declaring his birth sign "Capricorn" and who I tell everyday as i pick up my coffee to go, "you are going to be so successful, you're a kid in a world where working here isn't cool, but you're a Capricorn and doing it, SO Cool!" ( he'd be cooler if he gave me free coffee but it never works. jk, kinda.)  To the people who land on their shins one day and show up and say, "hi my name is" when they'd rather drown in vomit. or the man who even though it seems like it's not a big deal in 2011 comes out and say's "i dig dudes."  That's courage. We are all so courageous. Showing up to work, showing up to life. Putting the ring on, taking the ring off. It's a lot. It's not revolutionizing technology, but its the ability to send a forward saying I thought of you today, even though I'd rather tell you off today. To show you care. To risk caring. To say hello, to say goodbye.

So I raise my glass, To Steve Jobs, (that I wish will be filled once again only with sparkling water), to all of you courageous courtiers. Those of us who risk everyday, show courage everyday. I love that. I love you.

Good week all, please feel free to share your courageous moments, I live to hear them, S!



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Get Lost

You disappeared without a trace. As if I meant nothing to you. As if we meant nothing to each other.
At first I wasn't sure if I really lost you. If you were gone for good. I tried calling you, again and again, walking from room to room. I'd think he's here, he's got to be in here. Just one more time, please, answer me and be here.  Of course, you never picked up. How could you? I was devastated. I am devastated, still, even though anyone with eyes would think I never cared, that you had been easily replaced. But if you showed up tomorrow I'd gladly return what I have to get you back. What I have now looks better, shinier and new, but it's not the same. So much was lost when I lost you, the images, the memories. The agony of your betrayal. I put you in my world, an all access pass, whoever I knew, you knew. You were with me all the time, we were together all the time. How did I become so careless? I took my eyes off of you for one minute and....

Everything we had was lost in that instant. I must have replayed that night in my head a hundred thousand times. I can never figure it out. It makes no sense. You were there and then you weren't.

But I should have seen the signs You stopped taking my calls as often, you started dropping off as if you couldn't quite hear me anymore. When I grabbed you, you'd freeze and I'd have to backtrack, massage you to get you to act normal again. When our time together used to typically be so easy, now it was strained. I see that now. I didn't want to then. I wanted it to work.

Oh, cell phone. I miss the way you buzzed in my purse. The way you took pictures and videos so easily, capturing all of my favorite moments, moments with my family, friends, pets, clothes, the new bathroom. It had been so long since I backed you up, again, I know that is my fault. I got careless, took you for granted. And now all the pictures of the boys with the new baby are memories in my head, never to be seen in a frame other than my mind. Oh me oh my. Why? Why? Why?

But you know what? I'm done with you anyway.  I've got a newer version, that can actually work in the dark, unlike you, who stammered around half blind, missing everything.  Plus, my case is better, its a hard one and way better than that floppy rubbery thing you used. Who needs you anyway? Not me. I'm glad you got lost, stay lost! "Lose" er!

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Apaco Lacooney

It's the tenth anniversary of one of my favorite shows, Antiques Roadshow. Monday night I watched maybe one of the greatest episodes ever, Jackpot! AR is on the short list for a few reasons.
                  1. The people.
                  2. The appraisers.
                  3. The finds.
                  4. The dramatic stories/history behind each piece.
The people (and me) are rarely aware of what they possess.  It's this innocence juxtaposed against the appraisers expert knowledge that makes each segment unendingly endearing and intriguing. It gives me hope everytime.

"Where did you say you came into possession of this pot?" **
"I bought it at a yard sale in 1986."
"It's a fine example of American folk art. Maybe the best." The appraiser rubs the pot. "See there's no glaze? Glaze didn't start happening until the eighteenth century."
"You're kidding." The pot owner looks at the pot with new eyes, seeing it, like us, for the first time as something more akin to magical than something to hold loose thumb tacks.  "I knew it was special, I just had to have it."
"This pre-dates glaze." The appraiser says, gravely.
"Pre-dates glaze..." The person mouths the words without sound, her eyes transfixed on the pot.
"How much did you pay for this?"
"Oh, maybe two dollars." The person looks embarrassed.
"Two dollars." The appraiser says expressing a burst of air,with a bit of a chuckle indicating that the pot maybe worth three hundred times that. I get a butterfly. I can't take my eyes off the screen.
"Look here, underneath see this mark? This is the mark of Apapo Lacooney." He puts his hands through his hair. "Apapo Lacooney almost never worked in pottery. This is so rare." My heart skips a beat. I have to know. What is it worth?!
"So you paid two dollars."
"I think so, five is my limit, so..."
"Well, you do have some condition issues, there are some scratches in the interior, but that said." He looks at the owner. "Conservatively. At auction. I'd say this Apaco Lacooney is worth at least. $25,000."
"uh, oh my. I um." The person, like me is dumbstruck. Flabbergasted. "I uh, had no idea, I, hahah! That's great. phew."
"Without the scratches I'd say $30,000. Still, not a bad return on your investment?" The appraiser asks.
"No, not at all. I'm speachless. Thank you." They stare at the pot. "My husband said it was ugly. Now how'em gonna get it home."
They laugh together, we laugh together. That idiot husband, she's rich!
** the story is entirely made up from my imagination, if there is an Apaco or Apapo Lacooney, its a coincidence. And I want ten percent.

This week there was a man who had inherited a letter to an editor of one of the most famous and often reprinted newspaper editorials.

"DEAR EDITOR: I am 8 years old.
"Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus.
"Papa says, 'If you see it in THE SUN it's so.'
"Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?

"VIRGINIA O'HANLON.
"115 WEST NINETY-FIFTH STREET."

The response to this little girls letter was so inspiring I cried real tears. It is as true then, September 21, 1897 (this week 114 years ago), as it is now. I hate to rush the seasons, but couldn't we all use a little Christmas in September?

God Bless Antiques Roadshow, may they have decades more for us and of course love love love PBS.







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Astronomy Lesson

A snippet from the day that I thought was pretty cool/ironic/funny.

True story. Tonight around 7pm.

"Mama, come quick!" Julian, the three year old hollers from somewhere not in the tub where he is supposed to be with me and Colbert, almost six.
Luckily, I find him. (dry humor, bc our house is not big.)
"You rang?" I asked.
"Mama look!" he said, standing naked by his bedroom window. I come up behind him.
"The sun made the sky red," he whispers, in a voice that could be the cutest thing I've ever heard and an expression to match.
"Yes," I said.
"Why it be's like that?" he asked. "Why the sun do's that to the sky?"
"That's the sun doing what it does," I said. "It's called a sunset."
"It do's that everyday?" he asked.
"Yup, whether we watch or not, or like it or not, the sun is doing her thing." I said. I can't grasp science so I attempt profound.
"Like me, Mama." he said still looking at the sky "I do mine."
"Yup." I said. Containing myself. "And I do...mine."
"Can I see Mama, can I learn?" Colbert comes in, a wet noodle from the tub. These are words I've never heard him ask, I don't want to lose momentum.
"Sure, look." I said. "It's the sunset."
"It's beautiful red." Colbert said.
We are having a moment like real people. It's almost like walking through a gallery with cohorts. I almost don't recognize them as my children. It's surreal in a way.
"Yup, we were saying that the sun is just like people. We are what we are whether anyone watches us or likes us or not. We could beg the sun all day not to rise or set but it will. We simply be what we are."
 "Colbert be's a jerk." Julian said. Here it comes, "And you, Mama."
Zing.
"Sometimes, sometimes we can all be jerks." I said.
"I not! I not a jerk!" He screams and starts a sweltering meltdown shattering our reverie.
Thar she blows.
"No, shhhh, of course not. Just me and Colbert." I said, eyes up to heaven, I wink at Colbert.
"Julian's a big fat jerk." Colbert adds.
 "Okay, Let's get your pajamas on." I said. "And no more name calling or you'll both be on the naughty step."

Said the sun to her sons.

Collection

Cleaning out my old bedroom.  Top dresser drawer, pictures, key chains, costume jewelry, letters, everything addressed to Sue McMahon, my maiden name. Then, address books, a Filofax. I take a look in one of the address books, it has the characteristics of Latter Day Saints women, its Laura Ashley floral and puffy and it ties with a satin ribbon, like their dresses and hair.  I look under C to see if a certain C is there, it seems I put the D's where the C's should have been. Chris Dunne and an address at Fairfield University. It's his handwriting, he put his address in there, probably at a high
school graduation party. I'm happily surprised but it's bittersweet. I can't remember that I ever wrote him. We were more acquaintances in the collective of a big group of middle and high school friends than penpals.

Was it Septemeber 11th? or 12th? Beth's house, she and her husband Alex have an open house for anyone who want to be together in the wake of the attacks. Lists of names of people missing come in. We're from a white collar commuter town. The lists are long. Chris Dunnes on one, he was in one of the towers, along with a bunch of others. Friends seem optimistic in an eyes glazed frenzied sort of way. I go to the bathroom and get sick.  When I look in the mirror I think that my body knows something my brain can't comprehend.

Years earlier, (or was it just one year earlier? just months?) Beth and Alex's wedding. I wear a navy and white striped sleeveless Ralph Lauren full length dress and a broad rimmed white hat with navy sash. I think I look like a knock out, KO. Walking into the ceremony I see my friends mom, I know she gets a kick out of me and my hat. We both start laughing as much as you can in church. I step into a pew, Chris Dunne and Jimmy Horn are standing behind me.
"Looking good Sue..." Jimmy said.
"Why thank you, Jim" I reply with a wink. I think I notice Chris snicker so I squint at him and turn around.

I spend the rest of the ceremony imagining my own wedding.
"Do you Susan Marie, take James Horn..."
"You bet I do." The congregation laughs, our wedding is upbeat, we're a blast. My hat's a veil.

Later at the reception, a tremendous summer evening, cocktails at sunset on the lawn of a mansion. Chris Dunne saunters over.
"Thought I saw you giving Jim the eye in church." He said.
"Thought I heard you laughing at me."
"Yeah, I whispered to Jim, "Someone tell McMahon to get the collection basket off her head." He said.

My eyes turned to slits, even though I'm laughing inside. Bottom line, nothing is less sexy then calling a female by her last name especially when her last name ends in the sound "man." And turning my fab hat into a collection basket... There goes being Mrs. Horn.

"Good one." I call, "Bartender!"

Blink and You'll Miss Me

SO. My mom is selling her house. Our house. The home we six grew up in, the one we eight lived in for the better of thirty some odd years, those two for a full thirty seven. To the hoarders picking at our junk parked by the curb its a frame with flat tires, to me I see a shiny red ten-speed, the double upper case RR's intertwined at the base of the curly handle bars, my first wheels, a Rolls Ross. I remember when my dad agreed to buy it for me at a bike shop in South Hampton. That sounds very daddy's little rich girl, we weren't rich and it wasn't like that. That's why I remember it. I'm not sure who's face looked more shocked as he paid, me or my mothers. My brothers and sisters weren't even jealous. If this could happen to me, what could happen to them? Don't mess with a miracle. Bite the insides of your cheeks and act like your heart isn't beating out of your chest or it might disappear. But it didn't. My first bike. I rode it to Jen DeSimones house around the corner, she had the same one in blue. We hugged, O.P. shirt to O.P. shirt.

A few days ago my sister brought me an envelope full of pictures, a picture of me on my bike amongst the pile. My face, you'd think I had scored a Gold Medal, I look as proud as if I had done something, actually trained and prepared for years for the gold medal moment and in retrospect I guess I did. Getting Johny G. to part with a hundred bucks was as sure a feat as any 100 yard dash, a triple lundy off the high dive, no splash.

I miss him.

Then today a friend from the beach sent me pictures via Kodak Gallery thereby connecting me to a whole world I knew and forgot about since I no longer remember to even download my pictures.  I found an album on there I uploaded in 2009. I can't believe how much has changed in two years. I especially can't believe how much my Julian has changed, that I actually started questioning why we called him Butterball. I remember being confused when anyone including (especially) strangers would come up to me and tell me he was huge.  I have long suffered from a reverse anorexia, where in my mind's eye I'm as hot as humanly possible and then I see pictures and I'm like, who's the fat chick? oh, sh*t never mind, move on, its me. Anyway, I guess I see my children the same way. I remember making a video called Baby Fat in answer, everyone seemed so jazzed at how fat my baby was I thought "Well, you can have one too! Fat suits for babies!" it was to poke fun and say who cares but now I see the pictures and think I may have taken those comments a tad too personally. And more distressing see the pictures from when I was 23-28 and wonder why those people weren't around then to tell me I was shorty 140. Could have helped things. A lot. 

I have downloaded the slide show yes, that's what this blog has been reduced to. Come watch my slides:) It's set to music. Unfortunately, the photo's my sister gave me aren't digital, big darn there, SO bummed I can't show you how fat I was. But please enjoy these. As if there weren't enough ways life is showing me how fast it all goes this year...My dad was here and now he's not, there were two and now there's three and he's teething and first grade starts next week, and my younger sister became a mother yesterday and it will be the tenth anniversary this September 11th, and, and. All the ands.  

I hope it will help me and you to slow down and enjoy the ride and maybe make your own album (it was only $4 dollars:). Although I feel like I am constantly pulling myself to stay "in the moment", after finding this album and having no recollection of any of those days (did I really make cupcakes with buttercream frosting and a variety of toppings?) these days I'm going to try not to blink. I don't want to miss a thing.

Good Week all!! xx!

puff puff give

SO. Us here on the south shore of Long Island may have noticed that we are in the midst of a thunderstorm or as weather reporters would say, t-storm. The real feel averages 78 degrees. Did you get that? Real feel? LOVE weather reporter lingo. Anyway. Who was out in it? Yours truly. Why? Digging smokes out of the garbage of course. WHY ELSE?

Come back with me. My arms around your shoulder, we're strolling back to Mexico in December, we're at the airport. We bought three cartons of cigarettes at the Duty Free because although I was pregnant and only smoking like four butts a day ( hah! gottcha. I didn't smoke four butts a day! I smoked four packs a day! gottcha again.) Okay, so we bought cartons of cigs for those in my hubs family who smoke because we didn't want Jen Anistons perfume or a Longchamp bag and can't pass up free duty. But when we tried to give the cartons of cigs to Danny's family they said they quit again and preferred to buy by the pack as a deterent to smoking. Okay. Pay ten bucks for a pack when we bought you a carton for free. Guess we should have brought back silver or something lame like that. Whatever.

So. As a foreward thinker I presumed, "Well I do like to smoke every now and then and whence this baby is out, that'd probably be a good time."

But when I had my baby nothing felt grosser. But then my father passed and the baby wouldn't sleep and the kids want to beat the hell out of each other anxety kicked in and those smokes started calling me. I tell ya! I could just feel them in their plastic duty free bag, up there all sexy on the top shelf of Danny's closet, "Come on Suze, light my fire."' Jim Morrison sang.

Oh fine. What's one? And since then, I've gone through packs. About one every two weeks.I even put them in a shopping bag to donate to a real smoker. Cause for me, it's not a daily grind, I'm not hanging outside under awnings, yet. Well, I wasn't. Until tonight.

But let's go back. Walk with me, talk with me. Now it's Tuesday night, we're reaching for the smokes, just gonna sneak one outside while everybody's asleep, brush our teeth real quick and take a bath in the sink before we get back into bed. Instead, we stop, grab the bag, the one we filled thinking we'd donate them to Good Will, and decide we should chuck 'em. Throw these dirties in the garbage, who needs donated smokes anyway? What kind of a death gift is that? Them being in the house is too much of a temptation.

I threw them out. I'm free. I'm never smoking a cigarette again. That was so easy. Yeay me!!

As I'm driving home tonight I see that Danny has gotten home before me. The garbage is already out. The shopping bag with the goods is in the garbage. By the curb. It's thundering, it's lightening. The infant needs a bath. The kids need baths and story and bedtime. S%$#!!. How am I going to rescue my garbage before the storm hits the curb. By rushing. By acting peculiar and overly stressed and even more bizarre, sweet.

It all gets done. The storm is looming. I don a trench coat over my nightgown and put on a straw cowboy hat made for my three year old and run to the puffs. I should have some dignity and roll the trash cans to the back of the house but then the lightening is so bad and its raining I decide who needs dignity and dig right there on our busy road, cars passing, the name Julian, written across my puny cowboy hat in glitter, the rain drizzling down my legs and find the Lord & Taylor bag, coffee grinds and mango peels scaling the once proud carry all. I dash back up to the house.

And all of the doors are locked. No joke. I felt like Meg Ryan in A Man Loves A Woman. Because that's where addiction takes us. From I'll have just one, to standing in an electrical storm holding a sloppy bag and ringing the doorbell, playing it off. Like its some kinds of normal. I imagine this conversation as I wait, biting the insides of my cheeks, holding my bag, in Julian's hat, in the rain and thunder and lightning, nightgown dry, trenchcoat soaking wet.

I imagine he answers the door.
"What's up?"
"What's up with me? What's up with you?" I say, "Who puts the garbage out the night before? A nerd? What did you do take a prep course for the SAT's? Call your mom on her birthday?"
"Um, Yeah, and you did/do too."
"Whatever, I'm cool. I was cool when I smoked and now that its not cool, I don't."
"Pretty sure you do. "
"Pretty sure, I'm only saving these hundred dollars worth of cigs to donate to those in need."

And then in real life,  Danny answers the door.
"Hey, baby."
"Hi."
"He finally went to sleep." He said. "Nice hat."

Stank So Good

SO. We're driving down to the beach, me and my sons, Colbert (5 1/2) and Julian (3) (baby was home with sitter).  Colbert, who sits in the third row of  the minivan typically shouts me questions like, "Did you know Aniken is Luke Skywalkers Father? Mama? Did you? Answer me, Mama." With an assertiveness I only wish I posssessed back when I was trying to land a part or a better agent or any modicum of respect. But this day he says, "Mama, I'm never going to leave you. Ever." I think, how sweet.
"I'm never getting a job, or having a wife, I'm going to rot on your couch watching t.v. for my whole life." he said.
Hmm, unexpected turn.
"Now, why would you know that's something I wouldn't want?" I asked, because at 5 we haven't addressed him rotting on the couch for the rest of his life.
"Because you hate the Wii and my shows and you only had me so I can buy you a million dollar beach house where you can watch Oprah." He said.
By George, he's daggone telepathic, I think. Should I turn around and hit Atlantic City? If he can read my mind like this, imagine how he can read cards?
"No honey, that is not why I had you," I said, "I had you so you could buy me a MULTI million dollar beach house. and so you can be Oprah."
He cracks up laughing. "told you so, Mama." And then a pause. "You love Oprah more than me." he said. "No, baby." I said.
 "Yes you do, you always want to watch her."
"Well, whenever you come into our bed you sleep on daddio and not me, but I don't think you love him more than me." I rationalize.
"Your armpits smell, Mama." Julian interjects. Sounding bored stiff from his seat directly behind mine. His eyes looking out the window, in a perpetual roll.
"Seriously?"  I asked.
"They stink." Colbert affirmed.
Now, I know my pits stink,. What I didn't know was that anyone else could smell them,. least of all my baby boys and that they talked about them. Now I have to say I've never suffered from body odor, but after I have a baby, for some reason, hormones maybe? For about six months I have this fabulous condition I like to call Stank Pits (that's the technical term). I have to say it's one of my favorite parts of the whole, for me, dredful experience of pregnancy in the fourth trimester. I love it. I probably shouldn't, but, I gotta admit I sneak a wiff now and then and practically get high off my stench. It's SO good. Comparative to leaking an SBD in an elevator and looking around at the faces as they register the smell. I know none of you have ever done that, but ask around or give it a shot. Few pleasures in life compare to the smell of your own gooze (farsi for fart). I'm not sure why and I get totally disgusted when my husband or someone else lets one loose, but my own? Gold. Pure Joy. Okay, this post has taken a detor. I hope it made you laugh. If not, lay a goose and see what happens. It's kind of like the gates of heaven open up and a sound that relates bongs throughout your being. I wish it on all of you. just not anywhere near me. 

Good Week my Larvae!! Cause even gross can be good! xx!!

FlowYO

All the talk about the Debt Ceiling had me thinking about my own financial ways. I wasn't taught to spend foolishly, preferably, not at all. Last week, end of July, I showed my mother the one tunic I bought all summer on sale at The Rack and her response was "Where are you getting all this money?"  I was tempted to look over my shoulder for a Benz with tinted windows and fifty inch chrome spinning rims, license plate, FlowYO...Well, not really, but I'm hoping that's funny.

In my mind I'm restrained when it comes to spending therefore I don't need any additional watchdogs barking at my wallet. Kinda how I feel like since I push a stroller on the sand most days I shouldn't have to go to the gym. Yet I can't seem to save any mula or firm up my "core". So, a gal turned me on to http://www.mint.com/, a budgeting application that along with a flow graph and tracking devices, divides all your spendies up into a pie chart, making everything easy to see.  I heard about the app a while back before I downloaded it. I was skeptical because the word budget, like listening to Jean Chatzky, gives me hives. However, after only two months I am gobsmacked. It shows that whether I have five dollars or five thousand, it's spent the same- in a careless, necessity last gust that leaves me thrilled but no wiser. 

I didn't even know what I was spending on. Here's a for instance for ya-we live close to a Home Goods. Now, I could sware I didn't even enter the joint in the last eight weeks, but according to my Mint pie chart, we could move to a more sizable house with a more sizable mortgage and as long as it isn't within a bird call of Home Goods we'd be in clover.  Like in everything else, awareness is the first unlocked door to success. Now, I'm thinking of more important goals, that master bath I mentioned in Souther, college funds, (a second tunic?), not to mention donating lots to the famished in the Horn of Africa for starters and I'm not going to get them met wasting good coin on picture frames and throw pillows. So, check it out.  I hope it can help, but the license plate FlowYO, is all mine.... Funny yet? Eh.

Good Week!! Savey no spendy!! And never ever lendy!! jk. xx

The Fifth Agreement

Many of you liked The Four Agreements post best, and by many of you I mean my mom. This week had me thinking on trust in friendship. I hope you will take any of my posts and apply them to your own life.

Trusting yourself and trusting others. When to stay in, when to walk out. That is a big question and weakness for me. We need to learn to forgive ourselves and others for saying and doing careless things. We all do it. Well, all of you do it. I’m perfect. That's the fifth agreement. Be Impeccable With Your Word. Don't Take Anything Personally. Always Do Your Best. Susan Saraf is Perfect. (and so are you:)

Here’s an excerpt directly from pages 58-59 (I had a hard time stopping its all so good)

            “When we really see other people as they are without taking it personally, we can never be hurt by what they say or do. Even if others lie to you, it is okay. They are lying to you because they are afraid. They are afraid you will discover that they are not perfect It is painful to take the social mask off. If others say one thing, but do another, you are lying to yourself if you don’t listen to their actions. But if you are truthful with yourself, you will save yourself a lot of emotional pain. Telling yourself the truth about it may hurt, but you don’t need to be attached to the pain. Healing is on the way, and it’s just a matter of time before things will be better for you.

            If someone is not treating you with love and respect, it is a gift if they walk away from you. If that person doesn’t walk away, you will surely endure many years of suffering with him or her. Walking away may hurt for a while, but your heart will eventually heal. Then you can choose what you really want. You will find that you don’t need to trust others as much as you need to trust yourself to make the right choices.

            When you make it a strong habit not to take anything personally, you avoid many upsets in your life. Your anger, jealousy, and envy will disappear, and even your sadness will simply disappear if you don’t take things personally.

            There is a huge amount of freedom that comes to you when you take nothing personally. …The whole world can gossip about you and if you don’t take it personally, you are immune. Someone can intentionally send emotional poison, and if you don’t take it personally, you will not eat it. When you don’t take the emotional poison, it becomes even worse in the sender, but not in you.”

That last line seems out of step with the proliferation of love but hey, if you're looking for a motivator...

Good week! xx

I SO wanted this to be a fun one...

A few weeks ago I went to the post office. I dred the post office, especially when I have kids in tow. I've never been there when there's no line, and the staff, though pleasant enough when I finally get to them ripe with frustration and attitude, seem to get a perverse thrill at taking their time. A gentleman in his late sixties was standing behind me and my three year old son, I had my infant strapped to me in the carrier. I was doing my best. The man said hi a few times to my son, he had an aggressive vibe. My son who, although obviously not shy, turned his face and shook his head. He dissed him. The man looked hurt, I felt proud. Then my toddler getting bored and busy checked himself behind the cart that sells Fedex packs and such. I said, "Come here, if mama can't see you, someone could take you from me." To this the man threw up his hands, "See, you shouldn't do that, you shouldn't scare him! That's why he doesn't talk to people like me." I looked at him with compassion. "Exactly." I said. "I just shouldn't even bother, people like you will never get it." he said.

Oh but I do. I do get it. What this man I never laid eyes on before expected  from me and my three year old was something I'm glad we didn't deliver. First of all, what was his stake in getting a three year old to acknowledge him. Weird. Second, it didn't bother me, my son talks to his grandparents, friends and people we know. What does he need to talk to this random for? Listen, I wish we lived in a world where a grandfatherly like figure can be trusted, of course I do. But that is not where we live. We live in a world where most people are good, but its not worth the risk of promoting that because of the some that aren't.  *Incidentally, Channel four news reported this morning that of the 20,000 missing persons reported in NY every year, the majority are runaways, 200 are abducted but mostly by family members and only 2 have been killed since 2004.

A friend went to buy furniture at Bloomingdales outlet on Voice Road on Long Island yesterday. The salesman, Jeff, took great umbrage at her four year old who wanted her attention. He glared at her little boy and this is what he said. "Can't you see I'm talking to your mother? If you interrupt us again I will put you in my car and take you on a big adventure, you will never see your mother again and she'll never know where you are." My friend said it was like a flip switched in her brain, she lost it and rightly got the manager. I hope he lost his job, but will that just teach him to not say it next time and do it instead? Only thoughts lead to actions. He has told us who he is.  As the great Maya Angelou says, and Oprah quotes often, "The first time someone shows you who they are believe them." What do we need to wait for? Stuff and cuff, Jeff. See ya!

I'm heart sick over that sweet little boy, Leiby Kletzky. I thought of the mother going over the route with him, not wanting and wanting to give her son his first triumph of independence. Maybe she said, if you get lost ask someone. Burrough Park, notoriously safe, trusting. Her waiting, her realizing. (Btw, notice she hasn't posed for pictures and partied it up.)  I cried for her and her husband. My husband shed tears too. That poor family. The terrified innocent boy. The Huffington post did a great job reporting and the comments are worth reading. I felt better knowing thousands agree on the devastation, not blaming the parents and that this monster should be tortured and killed, his own parents prayed for. All except for, "Martiniandabotoxchaser", who said, obviously under the influence of too many chasers, and I paraphrase, "I really just hope they are sure they have the right person, it would be horrible if they are accusing the wrong person." THEY FOUND THE LITTLE BOYS FEET IN THE MAN'S REFRIGERATOR!!? With bloody butcher knives. He confessed. What more do you need?  I bet Martini is working for the other team, probably has body parts in her fridge and needs to be looked at too.

I had to tell my five year old, who has a penchant for running as fast as he can -away from me. No matter what I do/say to him I can't get him to stay reasonably by my side. I had to risk him having nightmares in his bed last night so that he wouldn't risk living a nightmare somewhere some unknown place else.  I didn't provide all the gory details, but gave enough that by the time it was bathtime he asked about it again. "Will the bad man go to jail?" he asked. "Yes, forever." I said, sadly, doubtful.  "and lots of shots!" My three year old who didn't know the story jumped on board, I thought "Gunshots? That's the spirit!" "They take him to the doctors office and do's shots, mama, lots of lots of shots." He said, pumping his chubby little fist. Oh, bless.

That man in the post office may be right.  I may be wrong to use fear to try to keep my kids as safe as I can, but I hope forever that the worst fear my babies can relate to is shots at the pediatrician.

How do you feel? What do you think?

Do we always need to go with the flow?

**I have tried to check the right boxes on this (for me) complicated format, hopefully it will be easier to leave a comment on the blog, but thank you so much for the emails and visits, we broke 600 this week! 

The Four Agreements

Repost- Originally published July 7, 2011

I know I shouldn't because everyone is but I just can't not. Casey Anthony. I mean, seriously. I don't know if she did it or not, I wasn't there (seems that's where you needed to be in order to convict) but shouldn't her not caring, in fact partying for the MONTH she didn't know where her toddler was be punishable by...I don't know...death?! Or at least something? If I lost my child for twenty minutes, I'm telling everybody, I'm a bereft basket case,  not to mention a day! Thirty days! I'm not drinking, partying, posing for pictures with people in da club, like Holla! Let me rephrase that, if my neighbors kid was missing for a day, I'm not partying. I don't even think I could have a bar-b-que if my neighbors kid was missing, maybe after two weeks, but even then- am I turning the music up? Game time call. Criminal.

Oy. So in a world where family can be counted on to test our strength, coupons seem impossible to figure out and sociopaths roam free, here's what I read to gain peace and understanding:

The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz. His teachings are not easy to live by, but they can make living life easy.  (And if you can buy a few copies and get that dream to come true- that the people you want to change will take the hint - life is even easier!) Some genius said, Genius finds the easiest way to do everything. Go be a genius. Make your life easy easier.

These are the four agreements (he's also added a fifth...but that's... later.)

1. Be Impeccable With Your Word. (Use your words in the direction of truth and love. Your word can create heaven on earth but it can also create hell. Also silence is deadly. Be brave enough to show up and express yourself.)

2. Don't Take Anything Personally. ANYTHING, anything. Everything people do is because of themselves and their point of view. It's never about you. Someone calls you a terd, its about them, someone tells you you're a goddess (I get that alot), its about them. Someone doesn't call you back, it's about them (oh, no strike the goddess this is the one I get alot).

3. Don't Make Assumptions. (We don't know what is going on, ask questions instead of making assumptions.)
Sample conversation:

"You didn't call me back- what? You's think I have flee's?"
"No I was getting a haircut."
"Oh, so glad I asked ya's, how's it look?"
 "Decent."

4. Always Do Your Best. (You can't ask yourself for more than that.)

So this is my feeble summary, in no way do I do it justice (hey, I kind of feel like a Florida juror). But I hope I teased you enough that you buy the book, even if you use it once, its worth it.  Hint. Hint. <3

Georgie Wash

This is how we were:

"I tried to read that book on George you gave me, Dad,"I said. "I couldn't even get through one paragraph-so hard."
"I read that and four others." He said.
"Who can get enough." I said, laughing.