"Someone will babe, someone always will"

One moment chewing a straw while crushing a can of Fanta
(50" of solid truth)

Song: Umbrella- Rihanna
Old Spice Sprayed a Man of My Son, babe


I was upset about something I did. Something so critical and shamefully disappointing- I cannot remember it now-less than a month later...

I do remember rummaging through the den, the back entry cubby holes, and rifling through jacket pockets talking to myself, "Ugh, man, I can't believe I did that..." "How could I have..."

When my 8 year old started helping me out with the thing. And by helping me out I mean he stood close by and watched my frenetic bustling. I exhausted the space and moved into the kitchen. I guess I lost something. I cannot remember why I feel like I spoke out of turn and not lost something but am positive my actions were about finding something. I am prone to loss.

Colbert (8), my oldest light-hearted son, joined me again. Then propping himself up on a steel swivel stool, he set himself up to set me straight. His gentle voice consoled me with his delivery yet it was forceful in its wisdom. Without a trace of preaching, he simply wanted to make his mom feel better- to help me down from the latest hook I'd hung my self-worth on. Ugh, not his job.

"Mom, life's about making mistakes and correcting them. It's not about being right because there's always a mistake in something."

I looked at him in awe. I was searching through coat pockets coming up empty, here was a pocket of truth. Then quickly, hold that thought. One thing I never lose is scrap paper and pens- I pulled open the junk drawer and got to scribbling. This was brilliant, I never remember brilliant.

The next dispensing words of wisdom to his little Mom.

I wrote his truism down as fast as I could.

"Wow. Colbert that is so... plus to be so young as you to think that, articulate it and share it with me..."

"You shouldn't worry so much Mama," he said. But in a hairpin turn I had gone from planning his coronation to skeptic.

 "Who'd you hear that from?" I chided. "Spongebob or iCarly?"

"No one Mom," he said. Still in his quiet voice. I felt bad, cheating him, cheating our moment. "I'm sorry Bruss, well," I sighed as I read his words again-clinging to the permission they gave me to try again...Life's about mistakes and correcting them, it's not about being right because there's always a mistake in something. "I love that Colbert, that is exactly right," I said. "So was it me? Did you get that from me?" Hehe.

Hard core love

I fastened his words with an inspirational magnet by Emerson, thinking Emerson who? Colbert in the hiz. I studied the sentence again. "I can't see the wrong in that."

"Ohhhh, Mama." He shook his head while looking down, (he joked, serious time was over), poor woman, you've so much to learn. "Someone will babe, someone always will."

Babe. Babe?!

Addiction Is The New Gay

Song: Rehab by Amy Winehouse b. 1983-2011 RIP

Candle light vigil for PSH-he saved lives by being a sober example for many years and now being the proof that it took using for less than one to end his own. I lit my candle for that and his sweet generous brilliant theatrical soul- though iconic was still no match for his addiction. 

Addiction is the new gay.  Gay is the old black.  Do I need to tease this out further?

I guess I should since addiction is the new gay and unlike the old gay, which is by and large accepted as not only not a choice but a matter of fact, not faith.  While addiction is still largely considered a choice and a moral defect. I am not of that opinion and spend my time primarily with people who are also not of that opinion. I came to uncomfortably realize this week that I have been cocooned in a way- sheltered by a world of creatives and healers. I was legitimately surprised to read so many "blaming""shaming" responses upon the death of Philip Seymour Hoffman. He was a genius, genius doesn't choose to break their kids hearts. He was an addict, addiction does. I thought everybody knew that, or most everybody. This piece by Andrea Peyser, was the fruity glaze on the cake of ignorance. No time to read it? No problem- her choice of bio photo, reminiscent of SNL's the Church Lady character, says everything we need to know. "Well isn't that special?" Her piece also gave me a slight giggle reminiscent of how the most strongly opposed to homosexuality were soon enough paper macheing floats for the gay pride parade. 

Up until recently it used to be outrageous to come out and say you liked to make out with a man if you were also a man.  It used to be the thing that kept super hero's closeted and cave men popular. It kept major talents like Ellen Degeneres, you know her right? Ellen? Who keeps you laughing and uplifts your soul with her wit and generosity of spirit? It kept her unemployed. When she came out her show was canceled and she was dropped like a cell call in the middle of Yellowstone Park. Can you hear me? No. Nope, you cannot. You can't believe that something you think you know as truth is false. That it must be accepted because it is written into human nature but not your own. How can anyone be different when we are all the same? That doesn't make sense. That doesn't give anyone control.  That's what we need- control. You feel this way or my world will not make sense and I need it to make sense so no to you, you homo, you degenerate drug addict, you alcoholic. Ellen sacrificed the cash and prizes so that she could take off her mask. Now we celebrate her, but it wasn't always that way. I wonder, if she admitted she was a recovering addict tomorrow,  if we'd think her jokes were as funny, her charm as sweet, would she be employable? *For the record that is a hypothetical idea, I am not saying Ellen is an addict-at all.

"Isn't she the best? She's not really gay, I think it's an act," my mom said the other day as we were watching Ellen. She said it not to be offensive, or glib but with a wink in her voice, like she knew her old pal and her old pal wasn't one for beaver. I know my mom, like most woman of her generation, it's just too big a leap. She wasn't taught anything about homosexuality. It basically never existed. Then when all of the gays started coming out of the closet and she found out about it, it was weird. So to say that someone was playing at gay-that in itself is a world of change. That to be gay would be considered cool? An act to get higher ratings? That's progress. Being gay was (and still is for many not living in heathen cities like New York or San Francisco) the worst possible fate. Now, NFL players are out. I'm not gay, but I never thought for a second that I could decide to be. Therefore, gay people wouldn't either. The logic played out in my head like this; being gay=being shunned+no heterosexual sex=misery. Who would choose to be gay unless they were gay? Voicing that being gay "was a choice" was a belief that if contradicted would make you a person worthy of a lynching. Absolutely ostracized.

Matt Damon standing next to me & amongst the crowd

at 155 Bank Street- the disease that doesn't discriminate
Couldn't resist taking pic:D. Awkward.

So it is with addiction. The logic is the same. No one decides they are going to be a slave to drugs or alcohol, lose their jobs, ruin their lives and their families to get high. They are experimenting or going along with the crowd then it adds up. This thing is a salve, an escape from some form of pain. Once an addict takes the first drink, the first pill, the first needle...they have no control. Then what felt good stops working- it's a quick downward spiral into hell. The job of this understanding is not to condone. There are a host of people to consult on how to best school us on how to treat an addict so they can get sober- for free or for mega bucks. I am not one of them. All I am convinced of, is that it is a disease. Progressive and fatal. The only choice is treating it or letting it progress. Addiction is baffling, painful, a home-wrecker - a host of horrendous things- but it is not a choice. Non-addicts have a choice- they try something and then say, 'oh that was a horrible hangover, no more for me,' they say, 'man that felt strange, no thanks.' Addicts don't have that. They try the substance and it fills that gap like nothing did before and their brain says, "MORE." Nothing else is considered after that. They are not thinking about how the alcohol/drug money should go toward the rent or the way their mom will blot her tears in worry or the way they look, sound or even if they will survive. They are thinking, "more." That's all. After the first hit, there is no choice. There is death or institutions. The only way for an addict to survive is by abstaining from that first drink/drug. We shaming them for a disease they would not choose does not help that effort. And for a person whose body is rigged to call for that first one, it is an effort requiring God-like assistance. Isn't that more comfortable to accept anyway? Wouldn't you rather put the blame on the disease than the person? I would. I would much rather my loved one be under the spell of his biology than opting to make me miserable. Blaming the addict makes a victim out of the blamer. Do you want to be a victim? Look how that addict is hurting me! Really, that addict is simply acting like an addict and needs help.  You can't shame an addict into recovery, the same way you can't shame a homosexual into heterosexuality. The difference is being a homosexual isn't an express train to the cemetery (although the shame of it drove Tyler Clementi there.) If an addict has a choice, you are telling them they can stop at anytime and they can't.

So let's think about that the next time we shun someone we hear is an addict. How we all love a moment of "I may not be great but I'm better than THAT." Think about how helpful your gossip, eye-rolls and finger wagging will be to them, their parents, or their spouses and their kids when they are dead. How can a loved one come out to you if you are cold? Think about how much bigger a pay-off you would get by understanding-or praying for the will to understand. Then thank God that today you have a choice. Hopefully, it will take even less time than it did with homosexuality for the majority to come around. Then you can pat yourselves on the back for your forward thinking.  Until then fake it till you make it. Who knows what's in store, the life you save may even be your own.

SpunkerFLY Woman of the Month - January!

Song : You Gotta Walk That Lonesome Valley-  Pete Seeger  RIP i love you!!! thank you!! <3

Okay, so it's not my favorite place, but thanks to Dr. Andrea Botar it's not my least favorite either-I think. Still, I get antsy in the chair and although Dr. Botar is pure professional, (she doesn't attempt to chat you up while you have a wad of cotton and a suction in your mouth), I did get to asking her some questions during a root canal- hey why not.

I couldn't believe her story.  She came to New York when she was thirteen speaking limited english. Then without any fanfare or pity jumped right into her new life in an entirely different culture. Once establishing a dental practice after buying out a supposed reputable dentist, she has found herself succeeding against nearly impossible odds.

I am honored to have you on the blog and feature you as a Spunkerfly Woman of The Month.  

1.      Where did you grow up and how did you get to Long Island?

I was 13 when I came to this country from Romania (but of Hungarian ethnicity) with my parents, I guess basically I grew up in NY.

Why Long Island? After having practiced for many years in the city I felt as a mother I could stay closer to home if my new practice

Is close to my residence and my son’s school. I certainly didn’t want him to go to any school, I tried to pick a school with a good reputation and to find residence near it.   Commute just didn’t work for me. I want to spend whatever extra time I have with my son/family.

2.      Becoming a dentist is a long hard process what made you choose it? 

I was going to become a pediatrician. However, the more flexible hours and the fact that I didn’t have to spend years in a hospital made me think twice about becoming an MD. I also enjoy very much working with my hands. I love art and sculpting and dentistry

involves both. I got lucky, I got into the advanced 7 yrs NYU program at the last moment (1 week prior to deadline) I guess it was meant to be.

3.      You were hit hard by Hurricane Sandy, what happened? 

Go see Dr. Botar and your teeth won't look like this! 

Complete wipe out!!! I lost everything.  What’s even worse is that the insurance didn’t pay for anything and the landlord sued me for

The damages that the building suffered- and he won!!!  So now I pretty much worked all year for paying the bank note, the attorneys and the landlord!!!

4.      How has it been to rebuild your practice since?  I love your office it looks beautiful. Thanks.

It was difficult, God must have taken pity of me and said: here, this building is for your future business.  I’ll give you a little break…there was a large piece that covered it, the complete article is on our website www.botar.com. 

             Basically I had no other choice but to make it work and restart again, otherwise I would have lost the business as well. And my sanity.

                 I don’t think anybody really understands.  The government allocated millions of dollars are still locked up after more than a year has gone by

                 And only God knows when and if anything will come of it.   It’s very disheartening to say the least.

                 But you got to stay optimistic and keep going. Nothing is easy in life, especially if you want to be good at it.

5.      What challenges do you face being  working mom and commuting? 

I guess I am pretty lucky, only ½ hr one way from home to work. No trains, subways, buses needed. A car is enough.

Thanks Andrea!!! You are an awesome dentist and a remarkable woman. 

You can download a bunch of stuff from my website www.botar.com

And the article is on the website as well… so help yourself.

Thanks again for doing this for me, I wish a Happy New Year to you and your family.

Hugs, kisses, Andrea

Shut Up, Go To Sleep

Song: My Kind of Love-Emeli Sande

I finally got Henry (2 1/2) down at 9pm. Two hours past his bedtime, the only thing that made me feel better was the thought that "at least he will sleep through the night- for once." 

How often my mind misguides my emotions. My emotions misguide my mind? Either way.

At 11 o'clock I was reading, finally! Danny was watching TV, when we heard a low cry. It was an indecipherable cry. One we pretended wasn't happening at first and then I muted the TV to see if it was our youngest and not a cold, frightened outdoor cat. By 11:01 there was no doubt the noise belonged to us.  He was wailing. What was going on with this poor baby? Normally he started howling at 4am.  

Bummed, I cannot find the original artists name to give
credit this idea, but it wasn't mine! I just made a version.

"I think he wants you," I said.
"Why?" 

"Because he's yelling 'Daddy'," I said. 

Danny went to Henry's room. It got quiet. Then I saw Danny holding Henry outside our door. He was shielding him from the view inside our room in case I balked. Henry started crying again. 

"Oh, yea," I said. I realized what was being weighed and waved him in. Poor guy. (Make it stop.)

He has started coming into our bed. Not enough to call it a habit, but he's started. I know from our older two that it can go either way. Our oldest came in every night until he was five, "Oh, what's the big deal? It's not like he's going to climb into bed with us when he's 15? Let's enjoy it." I said. Kicking. That's the big deal and it happens way before 15. It starts hurting, shocking you out of sleep, when they're over a foot and a half. And the sleeping sideways is the big deal. They sleep sideways so you're scrunched hanging onto the edge of your bed like a rock climber in the middle of the night. It's not enjoyable. Breaking bad, wasn't easy. It took until he was five to give First Born the heave hoe. Then our middle guy came in maybe twice? Now, occasionally once a month if that. I can deal with the kicking and the sleeping sideways once a month because the rest is so precious. However, the few times Henry's come in he has plopped down into the middle of our King sized bed and crashed immediately, never moving. What could be easier? I love easy. Especially when I was about to find out if Hardy moved in with The Irishman *. 

Henry wiggled his way to the middle. His eyes were closed. But instead of a quick conk- he quieted down for about fifteen seconds. Then he started yelling at us, cranky old man style yet with a lisp and a poor grasp of consonants. 

"Turn off the TV! Turn it OFF!" His eyes remained shut tight. We started laughing. Having a two year old yell at you is funny, a two year old yelling at you behind closed eyes to go to sleep is ridiculously funny. "It's not funny! Turn it off!" We stopped laughing. Poor Henry. Little boss man. It's so hard to be taken seriously. Handle With Care...

"Off!" he begged. 

I was reading* so it was no sweat by me. Click. Off. Danny looked at me like, thanks. 

Half a second went by where he seemed soothed, when another demand was issued. 

"Stop it. Thstop it. Turn it out!" He barked, pissed off. "Shut off! Turn off the light!" 

"But Henry, I'm reading," I said, in my most gentle soothing way (= annoying.) "We brought you in here but-"

"SHUT UP! Shut up the light and sleep!" he said. 

Did lil homey just tell me to shut up? Nah, he got that confused. He meant "shut up the light." Whatever "shut up the light" means, it makes more sense to me than my baby angel telling me to shut up. We never say shut up. We think it. 

"But I don't want to, I want to read-" 

"SHUT UHP!! Shut up and stop it! Go to sleep," he demanded. "Do it!" 

Okay, that time it

Creeping to coup

was clear. He told me to shut up. But he was crying and screaming so I felt bad for him and a bit scared. 

Well, I was a little sleepy.  

Without looking back at Danny or Bossy Pants, I switched off the lamp. 11:04pm.**

I woke up at 4am. Terrified of the Stalin reincarnate sleeping between us, I was afraid to move. I could not risk calling his name, but I think Danny came to at about 4:30am. When he whispered my name in a tone that begged not to get his ass kicked by our two year old, I was relieved to have a comrade. After a few rounds of barely audible whispers, we forgot about the sleeping dictator and went over his putting us down for the night.  "Unbelievable, did you hear him tell me to shut up?" "That was the funniest part," "Not really, I mean, it was funny but it was kind of sad. A baby saying shut up?" "Oh, please... Shut up." Haha. "Thstop it."It was nice to be able to laugh without getting yelled at. 

Henry slept until 6am. Our voices woke him. He was smiling, kissing us, laughing, glad to be in bed with his folks.  Us glad we were back to being his favorite people, us glad he'll always be ours, us glad I will never wave him in again. :) 

*(If you're looking for a great read-The Imperfectionists By Tom Rachman)- Let me know what happens with Hardy. Her name tells me it won't be easy.

**All told, it took him 4 minutes to get us to sleep. All this time we've been reading stories, telling stories, getting water, a blanket, a bear, singing, dimming lights, turning up lights, getting into bed with them- when all we had to say was, "Shut up! Stop it and go to sleep!" Abusive, maybe, and sure it lacked a certain tenderness but genius in its economy of time and with such clear directive. Hmm, something to consider.