What's Left of My Brain

Full Circle

2010-04-22T12:00:00.003-04:00

Today I helped a fellow writer start her blog. Well, really I just held her figurative hand and uttered tips while she searched and clicked and filled in text boxes. But I was her cheerleader. Her morale booster. Her, dare I say it, resident "expert." (And mind you, the quotes are VERY need for any reference to me as a blogging expert. I have much to learn.)

So as we sat side by side at Starbucks, we learned from each other. I helped her pick a name and an url. She reminded me why I wanted to start a blog: the appeal of writing on a regular basis (its possibly too damning to say "every day" especially when under renovation). I coached her on formats and elements to include. She shared a blog registry for being found and enjoying other blogs. I encouraged her to just start writing her first entry to conquer that "white page" intimidation. She offered a tip from a blogging seminar she'd attended: don't start more than one blog. Which speaks right to me: a gal with three. Three she loves. Three that she created for different audiences. But three that she doesn't keep up with properly. Hmmm.

In our hour and a half together, she found her way into the blogosphere. And I found my way back to my first blog. And why I started blogging in the first place. Thanks Lynne.

Much ado about To Do

2009-11-17T10:05:00.008-05:00

I'm feeling a little overwhelmed by my To Do list for this month. All of a sudden, I have too many big things demanding my attention and too little attention to spread around. I know: whiney whine whine. But indulge me. Just for a moment. I think I'll feel better.

Sometime between now and November 30th, it seems I must:
Write 25,000 words
Buy a bath tub
Make Butternut Squash soup
Pack up four rooms (ok, smallish rooms, but packing, none the less)
Play bumper cars on 95 enroute to Philly for Thanksgiving
Play Super Aunt for four days while in Philly
Buy a shower regulator
Start packing up the kitchen
Move all the books and two large pieces of furniture out of our bedroom
Boss my kids around
Boss my husband around
Eat & drink
Maybe sleep
Walk the dog
Feed the cats
Send out fundraising letters
Throw crap out
Wrap Christmas presents for Philly family
Chair a different fundraiser
Update my facebook status
Update my blog(z)
Calm the dog from all the jackhammering and unfamiliar noises
Find the cats who have hidden from same
Make a birthday cake for my mom
Harass everyone I know who has recently redone their bathrooms
Drink some more
Throw more crap out
Remember to pack presents for Philly family
Consider Christmas card options (slimmer by the minute)
Buy more boxes
Schedule nervous breakdown
Consider sleeping
Drink even more.

There. That should cover me for a while. And thanks: I do feel a smidge better now. Just a smidge.

Sunset Serenity

2009-11-12T11:51:00.009-05:00

I was driving home from dropping my daughter off at acting class last Monday evening and happen to catch a glance of this gorgeous sky as I crossed a river that opens into Long Island Sound. So breathtaking was the view that I whipped out my cheesy cell phone to take a picture just to remember it by. I knew what I really needed to do was rush the last 2 minutes home, grab my camera (and hubby!) and zip back, fingers crossed, to try and capture whatever was left by then.

There is something restorative; life-affirming; magical about a sunset... at least to me. Just standing out in the falling darkness, watching Nature do her stuff is a true treat. (Having my honey at my side was nice too!)

Well, here you go. The sky could not have been more beautiful. Enjoy.

These two were taken from the Old Mil Bridge, spanning the Sasco River.

This shot was taken from the Country Club of Fairfield (shhhh.....).

2009-11-11T15:45:00.002-05:00

NaNo. NaNo. NaNo. It's my every waking thought. It should be my every waking move, but somehow life gets in the way. Or sick kids. Or dinner. Or laundry. Or Facebook. Or... well, you get the idea.

Still, I am on track as of last night. The goal? To write 50,000 words in the month of November. A daunting challenge to be sure. This year I am emboldened. Empowered. Enslaved to my computer. Energized. Insane. (Ok, I was that last year too.) But I am GOING there.

Meanwhile, I am procrastinating here, looking for motivation. I have already paid the bills. Done the laundry. Bossed the kids around (who have the nerve to be home today!). So not much else to do, but go pound out 2,000 bon mots.

Yep. Here I go...

The Little Show that Did

2009-09-15T12:39:00.006-04:00

It is a rare parenting moment when a well-intended event occurs and everyone actually enjoys themselves as had been fantasized about!! And when sweet childhood memories are further buoyed by watching the kids excitedly engaged in the same thing, it's a double whammy! Seemingly unbelievable as well, but I digress.

Such was the happy outcome of our NYC jaunt last weekend to see "The Fantasticks" for my daughter's birthday. A theatrical classic I remember seeing when I was in high school at its original NYC haunt: the Sullivan Street Playhouse in Greenwich Village. It had a show-stopping 42 year run there before closing five years ago and moving uptown to its present location at the Snapple Theater at Broadway and 5oth.

But it's not just good theater that makes a Fantasticks ticket so fantastic. It's the fact that this is musical theater pared WAY down. And still it woos ticket holders and makes teens laugh and clap. Here, in a 150 seat black box theater, there are no Lion King costumes, no Phantom of the Opera chandeliers, no Mama Mia lyrics. What grabbed my kids from opening to close was all the benefits of the intimate setting. Here was theater up close and personal, but with enough drama & surprises (for my son) and memorable songs (for my daughter) to rival the best of Broadway. All a testament to its claim as the World's Longest Running Musical.

The simplicity of the sets and costumes MAKE theater goers pay attention to the story and the actors and the lines. The eight characters are marvelously brought to life with shrugs, glances and grimaces that can be seen and enjoyed by all as the last row is only 6 or 7 rows back. Gems of lines hang in the air for a moment before finding a happy home with anyone who wants to remember one for longer than the show ( a personal fave of mine: "A retinue of scoundrels..."), as there is no need to project to row FF or worse, work around amplification delays. There is even the potential for the actors to break character and offer good-natured chastising any latecomers to their seats, further underscoring the "we're all in this together" ambiance.

Of course the story is as old as time: Boy and Girl meet, fall in love and then have to be torn away from each other to realize what they had was pretty darn good. But once again, the simplicity and intimacy of the production make it clear to audience members of ALL ages, what the moral is and how close to home it is to all of us. It is not lost behind parallels to the Disney movie rendition, or the flamboyant finale choreography.

The guffaws and smirks and singing of tunes that my kids gave me in return for a night of Fantasticks theater far out-weighed the WOW factor of other shows we have seen together. And for a pair of kids whose experiences are usually measured against either the latest video game or the extent of musical appeal, this show was a wonderful "unplugged" family event that delivered so much more..

How Sweet the Berries; How Sharp the Thorns

2009-04-11T13:00:00.019-04:00

Friendships are a lot like blackberries, it seems.... the good ones are juicy and worth waiting for. Worth the time and the energy. Worth the watching and wondering. There are some that look appealing; but you can tell, by a gentle touch, they're not quite ready to savor yet. Even the obvious unripened ones, nestled in the perfect place to be picked, offer promise of more to come, if you can be patient. Then there are those pesky thorns. The thorns are friends who have betrayed, abandoned, or just withered on the vine. No matter how careful you are, one always seems to scratch you on the way to the good fruit.

Like blackberry bushes, some friendships are planted deliberately: nurtured, pruned, well cared for. Easier to harvest with a clear provenance; a known growing location. These are the friendships encouraged by repeated exposure: at school, at work, at worship, at an activity. The shared comfort of a known commonality. Like going to the garden center and letting an expert guide you on your selection. "Part shade? Rocky soil? Low maintenance? Try this." Then there are the bushes that spring up unexpectedly. Sometimes from seeds offered by an existing bush. Sometimes from seeds blown in from elsewhere. These are the serendipitous friendships. The ones involving risk.... a certain leap of faith and commitment to continue...no garden expert wingman.

I've been thinking a lot about friendships in the past two years--how they ebb and flow. How the obvious ones seem to be less cared for and the happenstance ones are somehow more precious. How some stand so strong through whatever life deals them. Challenged by distance or circumstance. Held together by a tenacious bond or even just a wish and a prayer, but sustained, none-the-less. Others fold like a house of cards. Just like that. Years of sharing and caring.... decimated by a single action.... intentional or otherwise. Often there is an effort to rectify things. Just as often, there are those who chose to shut down and drift away. As if to say, this friendship was never worth the effort anyway. Goodbye and good riddance.

To which I say: Dang. Dang that people don't try to put themselves in other's shoes. Dang that one hiccup is deemed worthy of throwing the whole thing away. Dang that in general, friendships are treated as if they are disposable; when they are no longer pretty, or useful or fit into the current state of affairs, they get tossed aside. What happened to reaching out? What happened to caring? What happened to attempting to restore what once was before delegating it to the rubbish heap?

Absolutely there exist poisonous friendships that need to pruned back and even pulled out. But like most things, prudence must be paid. Cutting down the entire berry bush just because the birds got to the berries the week your were on vacation seems a bit extreme. Perhaps the current passion towards organic gardening will offer friendships a more cultivated soil for growth. Seek harmony and think how your efforts will affect the whole system. Don't use any chemicals or synthetics. Work creatively with what nature deals you: storms, pestilence, the unexpected. Revel in the irony that by composting and adding decay, you will be rewarded with a beautiful, healthier product. Still, keep a watch for those thorns.

"FB" = FaceBook or FauxBlogging?

2009-02-27T07:55:00.004-05:00

It is hideously embarrassing to note the date on my last post. Scary monster masks and all. November? I mean honestly. What kind of writing passion or discipline am I trying to nurture here?

I know, I know: holidays and such got in the way. Lame excuse, but I'll go with it. Then came New Year's and I REALLY wanted to post before the calendar flipped. Nada. January scurried by and so did any hopes of meeting a deadline that month. The next month, my birthday sang out before me like a day of writing reckoning. Instead the month moseyed along with vacation and then a week of lunches and frivolity. A twinge of guilt? Maybe. But no blogging. Alas.

Introspection was order. (After all, what else are birthdays good for besides gifts, counting gray hairs and getting your way? But that's another blog all together.) What was my barrier to blog? Not a desire to write (although I will happily grab the gold ring mea culpa during December to defend myself). Not a void of ideas (oddly, they seek my company when I least expect it: driving the car; waiting in line; dare I mention the shower?!). Then the ugly truth wagged a finger at me from my computer screen. "facebook," it whispered. "FaceBook," it chanted. "FACEBOOK," it finally screamed. (I think the "...you moron" part was implied.)

Call me slow, but I was taken aback. Could it be my intimacy with FaceBook was derailing my blogging? Had the convenience of a ten word status or a profile-posted news clip had taken the place of my need to be thoughtful and creative? My need to express myself; to share a quirky point of view; to carouse with fellow readers was being sated by an international house of porn! UGH! I felt lured into a brothel by Big Brother! Sure it was fun, but oh the pain for not being careful. Was I in it for the cheap, quick thrill? Or was I looking for more?

To be sure, FB has its place and appeal. Where else can I find a world of acquaintences at my finger tips? I can chat with friends from near and far, from now and then, from my high school and from my kid's schools. I can feed my Word Twist addiction; monitor the doings of 300 of my closest friends and enjoy the huge internet hug of birthday love when my wall was beseiged by greetings and cheer. But it just isn't the same as my blog. In many ways.

Shrouded in shame, I offered my perspective of FaceBook as the FauxBlog to a fellow writer and FBer. I expected her to look pensive and comment in a thoughtful way. Instead she looked me straight in the eyes with as much patience as one can muster when a friend declares the obvious and informed me that she too has fallen off the blogging wagon in favor of FB. "It fills my need for an audience. I'm kind of ashamed to admit it." Her confession only provided the solace that I wasn't alone.

Just as my daughter's $39 Lands End Fuggs (Faux Uggs) provide only part of the thrill of owning a real pair, FaceBook can only deliver a piece of the blogging pie. And no whipped cream. I now know, FauxBlog can only get me so far. Excuse me while I change my status before I run to the gym.

Leaf Lessons

2008-11-17T14:44:00.007-05:00

It's possible to bill leaf raking as an All-American, full family sport, highlighted by warm memories, team work and clean lawns... but not in my yard. Not because I'm not a fan of this apple pie spirit. I am a huge fan. Especially the part about the clean lawn. But leaf raking at our house this year was ripe with issues. We were not a pleasant scene like this cute unknown tyke pictured here, who at least knows enough to put a cork in it. No, we were more like a remake of Godzilla meets The Titanic. Wild and going down fast.

Maybe if we hadn't already supported the marine industry so generously, we could have tossed some money to the landscaping biz to make the leaves go away, the way we usually do. But not this year.

Maybe if my hubby hadn't been having an affair with his new business proposal and actually spent some of his weekends (the conscious part anyway) at home, he would have been our yard crew cheer leader. But not this year.

Maybe if I hadn't pledged to produce a 50,000 word manuscript in the month of November, foolishly counting on weekends to make up for any shortfall in my word count, I would have been a purer motivating force. But not this year.

Maybe if I had a team of cute tykes raking instead of two teenagers, these children would have chosen charm over chafe and cooperated in the leaf charade. But that was not to be.

Much repetition of expectations and assignments, followed by gnashing of teeth and flailing of arms. Eventually, we fell into a groove. Of sorts. Still, we all cursed the wet leaves, fought over using the blower, bickered about the exact point that a leaf bag has reached capacity and fought again over who got to drag the wagon filled with leaf bags out to the sidewalk and who had to keep working. And pretended to have fun. At least we were showing the leaves who was Boss!

Later, over a glass of wine--OK, a bottle of wine-- I realized the handy lessons learned, that I could apply next year, should we find ourselves in the same position.

1) Leaf raking ALWAYS produces a blister, no matter how good you think the work gloves are that you are wearing. Best to put the band-aid on first.

2) Blowing leaves with the gas powered blower beats using the rake hands down. Until your arm falls off, anyway. Then you might consider letting someone else have a turn. Power tools rock.

3) Requiring the kids to throw the ball with the dog while simultaneously doing yard work approaches pay back for all the toddler interruptions they staged. "MOM! Get the dog away! He is wrecking where I am raking!" Oh. I see. Terribly sorry. (Not.)

4) No roof work should be done when you're home alone, even on a busy street. Not one of my neighbors nor the myriad passing cars driven by people I know noticed my half hour on our front porch roof. Clearly people are immune to their surroundings or maybe just not nosy enough. I could have fallen off and been missing for hours before anyone thought to look. Eeegads!

5) Rake the front yard last. So what if you don't get credit for cleaning your yard until the next day. The passing headlights and if you are lucky, neighboring street lamps, illuminate the work area just enough to allow for progress a good 30-45 minutes past the fall of darkness. Why quit while you're ahead??

6) Raking until 6 o'clock is a heck of a good reason to order take out for dinner. Or, let your son cook. But that's a whole 'nother story.

Don't Touch my Vote!

2008-11-02T12:46:00.008-05:00

To say this has been an eventful presidential race is an understatement. The heated primaries, the excitement of the VP selections, the mere quantity of political emails in my inbox; all milestones on the way to the big event Tuesday. The privilege of our country is everyone's right to chose his/her own candidate. And while I'd love everyone to agree with my voting choice, I have learned to politely nod if someone supports the opposing candidate and change the subject. It's just best not to get wallowed in a discussion cum shouting match. There's the possibility of a drunk Halloween partier to test my metal: informing me his vote was going to the other candidate due to his brother-in-law's cousin having met said candidate. (You're kidding me, right?) But I managed to remain silent.

What I can't stay silent about is those in my community who find it necessary to discredit my vote by taking my lawn sign. My candidate's lawn sign has been fingered twice in last month (three times if you count the friendly abduction that was ransomed back to me via FaceBook), coupled with yesterday's disappearance of my car's Peace magnet. (OK, it was produced by BLD.com--Bush's Last Day--so maybe that was the problem, but for me it was about Peace and not BLD. And we shan't discuss the connection between the two.) Still, someone took it.

There are a few friends suggesting that members of the same political side grabbed them out of jealously and need. There is a larger contingent aghast that the other side would take my stuff in the interest of "silencing" my opinion. Sadly, I think they are onto something. All the reporting of voting irregularities and machine problems only makes me worry further. How low will people stoop to aid their presidential choice?

Regardless of which candidate is (dare I say?) "fortunate" enough to win the election, Americans will need to come together and move forward. I am obviously hoping we are led by my candidate. But until all the votes are counted, and a winner declared....please-- don't touch my vote.

The Next Great Marketing Idea?

2008-10-17T11:11:00.006-04:00

You can't con a con, the saying goes. Or maybe you can-you just have to be really good. Or lucky. I think the same principal applies to markers. You really can't market to us and expect us to become putty in your hands, the way your average consumer might. We see right through those shenanigans. In fact the cornier an concept is, the more we will scoff and mock and point our fingers, securing the unfortunate effort a hook on the hall of shame where all bad advertising efforts are sent to gather dust (and hopefully no further acclaim).

But EVERY once in a while, something stumbles by me, hackneyed piece of direct mail that it might hope to be, and grabs me. Pausing long enough between the mail basket and the recycling bin to pay homage to the dreaded "junk mail," in the same way a fisherman eyes a small, easy catch: out of mild curiosity and professional respect, not really expecting to find a keeper. I might admire the weight of paper used, disdain the teaser on the envelope or marvel at the latest trick to personalize a mass mailing. But bust my waders in the past few weeks, I have found two keepers! (OK, cards on the table here--I really found three, but I'll be darned if I can remember the third one, so it appears that it might not have been so great after all!)

The first came from the camp my son attended last summer. An expensive camp. A camp he wasn't that fond of. A camp no one in our family expects there to be another summer with. But a camp with a shrewd sense of marketing and survival (it is, after all, 116 years old. MY summer camp from the 1970s didn't make it to the millennium and these guys did. But, I digress). Why I opened the letter, I'm not sure; I suspect I knew with the timing it was some kind of pitch and I was curious to see what money and longevity pitch to me. "My dear friends (I paraphrase), In these times of economic uncertainty, isn't it comforting to know you have your son's summer plans for next year, safely in hand. Just to remind you our pre-season discount of $X is good until Y and we don't want your son to miss a spot, etc." WAIT, I thought. I want to be comforted in these times of economic uncertainty (Lord knows!!)!! I want to know what my son is doing next summer and by George, he didn't even LIKE the camp! How can I get a piece of this? Of course, shortly after wringing my heart out in uncertainty, I realized he could just plunder along until March like we always do and that would be fine. But for a moment there, I WANTED, heck I NEEDED that comfort. Dang that camp!

The next zinger also arrived at my doorstep thanks to my son (maybe there is a trend here). This was from some bogus operation called "College Admissions Assistance." While I am sure they have some redeeming qualities, I was not be interested in giving them MY money so that they can turn around and give me THEIR money. Let's just all keep our OWN money and call it a day. But the wording was sly....if you read the letter fast, it had the immediacy of a jury duty summons. It screamed we have your name and are expecting you! "You and your student are scheduled to participate..." We are? We did? What? It sounded like I had already committed to something and shoot--I'd best not disappoint! Yeah, right! It also wooed me with its "(Your name here)'s future is too important to attend." and "you need to attend..." (oh Lordy, my heart's apounding!) phraseology. Wait, I said to myself, head clearing. I'm busy that day. Can't go. Legit excuse. Phew.

But the cleverness bar was raised, just a bit, by those two teams of artists. Skillfully, with the only canvas they had at the time, a business-type letter, they created as siren's call. Tantalizing, engaging, vexing. In my diminished state, I'd best stay away from the infomercial channels. But not for long--my marketer skepticism will be replenished soon. But in the meantime, as you sort through your junk mail in the coming days and weeks, be curious. Wonder just a little bit about what quixotic offerings YOU might be discarding with nonchalance. Have pity on the poor marketers that slaved over the copy, the layout, the client sell....and give a piece a look. It just might be the next great marketing idea!

Dear Abby Sells a Boat

2008-10-01T22:28:00.007-04:00

Unbelievably, I find myself in the position of dispensing wisdom and expertise in the field of sailboats as we list our sailboat on Ebay. I have earned this title as the real resident expert and answer man has fled to Chile for the week to avoid this duty. (OK, not really, he went on business, but as the neophyte, late to the big boat scene spouse, I feel uber challenged in my role as the Answer Gal here!) But did I mention he is generally unreachable, so it's not a pretty scene.

And while I am all for customer service and congenial hand holding in the time of uncertainity and uncharted waters that buying a boat provides, the questions I have received to date range from: "You expect me to know the answer to that?" to "Hello! Are you kidding?" Without my sailor-for-life sweetie, ever time I check my email, I cringe in fear for what I will find! What must know question awaits for which I must supply a polite, knowledgeable answer.... derived from my non-mechanical, limited sailing brain!

Here's a sampling of what I have received in the past three days and the answers I would REALLY like to give:

Q: May I ask why you're selling this boat? Thanks. W
This is a very easy and reasonable question, except for the fact that we STATED why we were selling it in our description. Do people not READ? Yeah, ok, don't answer that. Never mind. You are not smart enough to own our boat.

Q You mention hot water heater - does she have a shower in the head? Thanks M
Of course we DIDN'T mention a hot water heater except to say the boat doesn't have one, so in my ignorant boat owner paranoia, I read this as needing to know about installing hot water heaters. Which of course it doesn't. But still, I sent a panicked email to my hubby. Honey?? Argh. Maybe I am not enough to own a boat.

Q. How much of the motor was rebuilt in 02(valves/bearings)?
Seems like a lot of racing equipment, has this boat been raced o lot?
Also you mention different glass work was the boat damaged (hurricane/accident) and rebuilt ? - jamormellow
I am not embarrassed to admit that this question really sent me over the edge? Engine building? Racing equipment (ok, I knew about this)? Glass work rebuilt or damaged? DAAAA-VIIIIDDDD!!!!! Oh Jarmormellow (I love this name!), just buy the boat—who cares about those pesky little details?

Q. hello, i am in the uk but interested in the boat, i have friends stateside, how long can it stay at the current mooring and what are the fees there, thanks,M
Dear M (who had a lovely British spelled name)--does this really make sense? It is just a tiny boat really. You aren't considering sailing it across the Atlantic, are you? And do your friends even know anything about sailing? But hey, send your friends. We'd love you buy our boat!

Q: I've never really sailed but would be very interested to start and explore LI Sound. How hard would it be to sale a boat like yours and would I be able to move it from your location to Noank, Ct. which is closer to where I live? Thanks for the info - I'm very much interested in the boat. Would you have a survey somewhat recently completed? Thanks again c

Ok- you've never sailed before and you think buying a multi-thousand dollar 30 foot vessel would be a good idea? How about a nice used sunfish or something? Trust me, I would love to sell you my boat, but are you really ready for this? Oh, and by the way, the word is sail. SAIL. If you are interested in learning how to sale, try Loehman's.

And now, Dear Abby has to go make lunch for tomorrow. Someone, please give this boat a loving new home. We already have another one to take care of!!

love, Abby

Has someone got too much time on their feet?

2008-05-19T12:56:00.003-04:00

I didn't know whether to laugh, cry or throw up when I got this email, so I decided just to post it. You decide:

Alright ladies, it's that time of year once again!!! I think we need to be reminded of a few things. So my sisters, PLEASE, raise your big toes and repeat after me below...

The Open Toed Shoe Pledge

As a member of the Cute Girl Sisterhood (start throwing up here, if you'd like), I pledge to follow the Rules when wearing sandals and other open-toe shoes:

I promise to always wear sandals that fit. My toes will not hang over and touch the ground, nor will my heels spill over the backs. And the sides and tops of my feet will not pudge out between the straps. (Duh)

I will go polish-free or vow to keep the polish fresh, intact and chip-free. (Uh oh....)

I will not cheat and just touch up my big toe. (Double Uh Oh)

I will sand down any mounds of skin before they turn hard and yellow. (Yuck)

I will shave the hairs off my big toe. (Double Yuck)

I won't wear pantyhose even if my misinformed girlfriend, coworker, mother, sister tells me the toe seam really will stay under my toes if I tuck it there. (WHY even try?)

If a strap breaks, I won't duct-tape, pin, glue or tuck it back into place hoping it will stay put. I will get my shoe fixed or toss it. (Can you say "shoe repair?" or maybe "garbage?")

I will not live in corn denial; rather I will lean ! on my good friend Dr. Scholl's if my feet need him. (Whatever)

I will resist the urge to buy jelly shoes at Payless for the low, low price of $4.99 even if my feet are small enough to fit into the kids' sizes. This is out of concern for my safety, and the safety of others. No one can walk properly when standing in a pool of sweat and I would hate to take someone down with me as I fall and break my ankle. (This one really spoke to me! Who can resist looking like a teen? Don't. Do. It.)

I will take my toe ring off toward the end of the day if my toes swell and begin to look like Vienna sausages. (Just the image...)

I will be brutally honest with my girlfriend/sister/coworker when she asks me if her feet are too ugly to wear sandals. Someone has to tell her that her toes are as long as my fingers and no sandal makes creepy feet look good. (This is not a question that comes up frequently in my conversations. Am I missing something?)

I will promise if I wear flip flops that I will ensure that they actually flip and f! lop, making the correct noise while walking and I will swear NOT to slide or drag my feet while wearing them. (Puh-Leeze!)

I will promise to go to my local nail salon at least once per season and have a real pedicure (they are about $15 or 20 and worth EVERY penny). (Just say NO to cuticle clipping.)

I will promise to throw away any white/off-white sandals that show signs of wear... nothing is tackier than dirty white sandals. (How can they be white sandals if they're not still in the box?)

Don't keep this to yourself - pass it on to other sisters. (That is ENTIRELY up to you.)

Tell Your Story Walking...

2008-05-14T16:25:00.007-04:00

Today was my first time. And let me tell you, I was full of anticipation. And it did hurt. A lot. Just like I imagined it would. And I didn't have a good time.

So much for the thrill of breaking the $4/gallon barrier on gas. Economy gas (and where, may I ask, IS the economy in $4.08/gal??), that is.

Allow me to get off my bed metaphor and onto my soapbox.

The joke was I was a few towns from home and I needed gas--just to get me back home to my "cheap" station. In reality I knew what gas prices were, but in my head I was "just going to put $5 worth in for now" HA! I had to put in over $8's worth just to get my two gallons to assure an uneventful trip home!

Driving into my local station, I cringed to see $3.99/gal (Oh goodie: I could save 9 cents a gallon--and I was thrilled about that!). But I got to enjoy ever drop of 9 cent savings as I stood waiting for 18 gallons to feed my beloved but gas guzzling Pilot. As I stood there, I watch two cars with geriatric drivers doing their own fill ups. Smaller cars, one an early Taurus hatchback and one an innocuous coupe, I was imaging the pain for their fill up was similar....sticker shock on a fixed income. Perhaps they revisited their parent's stories of the depression or harkened back to the gas lines and odd/even restrictions of my youth. I was glad for a moment I was paying the big check, not them.

But as I looked around me everyone else was in shock too. A high school boy pulled his (or Mom's?) large SUV in and must have only put a few dollars worth in as he was in and out far quicker than I was (and what HS kid would top off a tank when it was more than half full??). Two college guys surely pulled blindly into the station and were clearly surprised to read the price: "Holy Shit!'" one cried out, gesturing towards the sign.

So, the plan is walking. Or biking. Or just not going. It's crazy to consider otherwise. Politics and checkbook not withstanding, I cannot support a $75+ gas habit each week--it's totally insane! And that is saying "crazy like it's a bad thing!" If there was ever a time to embrace exercise and mother nature, this is it. We are all way too dependant on that little thing called gas--let's not be held hostage!

Who let the dogs on??

2008-05-01T11:39:00.008-04:00

The computer I mean. The rest of the family knows the laptop is off limits. You'd think the dog, who spends most of his time as constant companion at my feet while I type away, would know that too. Apparently not. He wasted no time in banging out a missive to his brother in Massachusetts this morning when I walked away. The absolute NERVE!

It is his birthday today...I guess I could cut him a break....

Hey Liam—

How are you, bro? It’s our big day today—right?? Happy second Birthday!! Phew! Do you feel that old? Not me. I prefer that everyone still think of me as a puppy so I can get away with more: like barking incessantly and racing around the house in a burst of energy. Chasing the cats is also good. Of course, we are so darn cute that everyone thinks we are still puppies and growing. But we’re not—I think I weighed 22lbs last vet visit and it better stay that way. I can BARELY fit in my small dog car harness (shhh, don’t tell….the vet has yet put me on a diet yet, unlike those fatso cats I live with). Have you grown at all?

So what are you doing for your birthday? I plan on riding in the car, much ball catching, barking at the mailman and the kids next door….a walk later. I overheard mom say that maybe Matt & Hannah could take me to the pet store afterschool to pick out a new toy. That would be cool. I prefer ones that are either that great Planet Earth chewy rubber or something stuffed that I can handily unstuff and shake the dickens out of (leaving the stuffing strewn around the house is one of my specialties—I think it shows how much I appreciate the gift, don’t you??)

Of course I hope there is ice cream. And not that fake doggy stuff they tried to pass off on me last year. I ate it, because I don’t think I ‘d had REAL ice cream at that point. But my friend Honey (she’s a golden) told me otherwise—try to hold out for the real stuff. (I remember she eventually ate hers ‘cuz nothing else was forthcoming.) NOW I know better. Real stuff or NO stuff!!

Wish you could come over and celebrate, but I know you are too far away. Even Bella is too far for a school night (although we did just have a weekend together when her parents went away)—much fun. Besides, she might not understand how cool it is to be 2, being a June puppy and all.

Can’t wait to see you in August. Hey, can you pass my Birthday wishes onto the crew? I can’t find their addresses on this dumb new computer.

Miss you tons. Love you. ARRRRRRRFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF!!
Rosco

Rainy Days & Mondays

2008-04-28T09:40:00.008-04:00

Yes, they get me down. In fact they seem to get everybody down in our house. The dog refuses to go outside. (Solution: shove him out the door to do his stuff to eliminate "indoor puddles"). The kids refuse to get out of bed. (Solution: pull covers off child and over end of bed to eliminate "re-nesting.") Even I found my motivation to get my butt to the much needed gym hampered. (Solution: uncover son's forgotten key assignment in kitchen clean up and --attempting to earn "mother of the week award" while motivating self to get to gym, drop it off at school, to eliminate ranting and fatness.)

No rainy morning is complete without some tears--and we did have those too. My daughter chose to mostly ignore a multi-hour homework assignment on Saturday (note to self: dust off soap box to practice homework over weekend tirade). Sunday she was in NYC all day singing, so no could do. Sunday night, 7:30pm--OOOPS! The cast aside assignment is suddenly remembered and now critical.

You can guess the rest. Hours spent stooped over the computer keyboard. Multiple urgings from parents requesting speed and completion. Sniffling and self-flagellation over the realization that procrastination is a painful decision.

About 10pm, I opt out. I am beat from Saturday night socializing and a Sunday 6:45am arising (thanks to the aforementioned NYC songfest), so it is bedtime for me--and quick. I bid my farewell to my finally industrious daughter, scattering bouquets of good luck and encouragement as I head for the stairs. My hubby is camped out in the basement on a news junkie festival and I leave him in charge.

Or so I think.

11:30pm. (Or so it seems.) I am startled out of sleep by a whispered "Daaaaad? Daaaaaad! The printer is out of ink." It's my daughter's voice, projecting both concern (over waking up sleepers) and hope (that Dad is still conscious). Her request is immediately followed, without a beat, by "Honey? Where are the printer cartridges?" This is in a much louder, no mistaking it " I expect you to wake up and help me (er, us)" husband's voice. This is lunacy, I think. I am frigging SLEEPING here. Does anyone care? Does anyone appreciate that this should have been done YESTERDAY? I consider ignoring the pathetic pair. Then mother guilt tingling, I acknowledge them. "Look in the dresser in the guest room," I mumble without even moving the covers that might allow them to hear me better. I pull the blanket tighter around me and struggle back to sleep.

No surprise now that this morning, my daughter is a sleep deprived basket case. But I am ruthless. She will drag her tired self out of bed and off to school. Whimpering or no whimpering. Tears or no tears. I am ever hopeful that this might be the straw that breaks her last minute habit. This event is Exhibit A in the today's Continuing Ed lesson. "Come on, let's get going," I prod, checking my mercy at the door.

Breakfast leads to more tears and sniffling. "I'm just so tired," she complains. I roll my eyes at my husband, who stands silently over the breakfast table, unsure of how to react. "I just want to go back to sleep." I steel myself against the plaintive whines. "I'm sure you do. Hopefully you'll remember this next time you have a project to do," I say. I am resolute that she is off to school, tears, fatigue and all, but take pity on her and help pack her backpack while she mechanically shovels cereal into her mouth. Desperate in my hopes that she will "suffer" just enough to remember and learn, I give her an extra tight hug as she heads out the door and add "I love you."

Starstruck

2008-04-09T22:34:00.006-04:00

Remember your first concert? What a thrill it was to finally see a performer LIVE? My first concert was The Eagles at Nassau Colliseum. My ninth grade buddy and I rode with her brother driving in the family Porsche 914 (what WERE my parents thinking?). I remember being truly starstruck when, a few years later, I got to see James Taylor play at SPAC. I must have held my breath the whole trip to Saratoga. I didn't exhale unit I was sitting on the lawn, taking in Jame's first song. What a night!

After attending her first "rock" concert last night, my daughter will never be able to listen to music the same way again.

Throwing school night caution to the wind, I snapped up two very prized seats to see Idina Menzal for her appearance in Fairfield. Knowing that my young fan was becoming completely hypnotized by Idina's voice after having seen Wicked, I felt the school night scramble was a risk worth taking.

We did our Idina research in the weeks leading up to the concert, by listening to clips of her new album and watching the video for "Believe" (don't let the drop dead gorgeous figure in the killer dress distract you from the music) and playing the Wicked soundtrack incessantly. And when yesterday came, the homework was dutifully crammed into the hours between school and show time, leaving a few precious spare minutes to listen to Idina on CD one more time (in case we weren't familiar with her voice yet!).

When we arrived at the wonderful intimacy of the Fairfield Theater Company theater, my daughter began dragging me towards the seats, mysteriously by-passing the CDs and t-shirts for sale. Incredulous, I stopped her. "Don't you want to get the new CD for Idina to sign," I asked. "Don't we need to save seats first?" she countered. I laughed. "The seats are already assigned--we have reserved tickets." But I knew where she was coming from--the piano recital/school concert/drama production race for the best seating. Boy, was she in for a big surprise!!

We ogled all the "I love Idina" t-shirts ("I already have one," she said, noting her "defying gravity" shirt qualified as Idina adoration) and snatched up a CD instead. Into the theater we went, stumbling as I tried to navigate and look at tickets and seat numbers simultaneously. Oh yeah. I was now in for the big surprise. I'd forgotten that we had 2nd row center seats (ahh the value of ordering at 10pm when the email promoting the show first lands in your in box!). My daughter was beside herself, a mere 10 feet from her idol.

We enjoyed a visit from her middle school math teacher who wondered who we knew to get such good seats (and happily not: "why is your daughter out late on a school night?") and then scoped the crowd for other familiar faces. We did spy another 5 or 6 people we knew, but we quit waving when it seemed we were just to show off our great seats. (Really, we weren't!).

About 15 minutes past post time, Idina hit the stage with a bang. She came out smiling ear to ear and ready to rock, which she did for a little over an hour and a half. My daughter was entranced as was every girl under the age of 25--it was quite cute. A positive role model--Britney and Lindsay eat your hearts out!! Idina took us through it all: happy times, sad times, even her years as a wedding and bas/bat mitzvah singer--oy!! She had an awesome stage presence and aside from a few well-placed swear words, bowled the crowd over as she belted out her songs from her newest album, Rent and of course Wicked.

From time to time during the show, my daughter would look at me and grin from ear to ear and then turn back to the stage totally mesmerized. The heck with the school night! We were having a formative experience here!! An occasional whisper ("she sounds so great." or "I didn't know she'd be so funny") made it clear she had not been completely hypnotized by the performer but close enough.

When the lights came up at 9:30 after her encore performance of "Defying Gravity" I had high hopes of leading my tired and contented concert newbie home to bed. Alas, she had other plans. "We have to get Idina to sign the CD, remember?" (Oh yeah, me and my great ideas.) "Let's see how long it will take for her to come out," I said, trying to devise a bail out plan, just in case. My young concert goers face fell. Begrudgingly I offered "OK, we'll wait til 10pm," figuring how long could it take a small band to leave a small theater on a Tuesday night.

LONG ENOUGH.

After careful negotiations, dodging in and out of the cold of the early spring night, my wily daughter nicely convinced me we HAD to stay. So stay we did -- to close to 10:30pm (ON A SCHOOL NIGHT!!) Meanwhile we were added dimension to our concert experience by leaps and bounds. We befriended 2 gals from Southern Connecticut College who were ready to adopt my daughter so that she could realize the dream of meeting Idina (my dreams at this point involved a pillow and a warm bed). I became an unwitting psychoanalyst to a mother who decided not to enable her daughter's ability to say "you ruined my life" (by dragging her away from Idina)--a mother I wanted to point out would find MANY MORE opportunities to ruin her daughter's life in the coming years so why worry about this one. And my daughter learned from a college student at Fordham that she needed to always keep two things in mind when attending college: 1) take a shower every day because unshowered college kids stink (especially when in close proximity) and 2) don't stay in bed all day..(even though college beds are really comfortable). Great advice for sure.

At long last, Idina was released from her corporate theater responsibilities and was ready to receive her fans. Ironically the ever smiling, seemingly approachable every girl was introduced by a handler gruffly informing the crowd : " no posed pictures, keep the line moving." Happily the moment with Idina--restrictions not with-standing--proved all my novice groupie needed to seal the magic of the night. Her two Southern Connecticut guardians even edged her right up close to Idina so she could be sure to get an autograph before the star dashed into the waiting car. From the outside of the small but devoted circle of fans, I could barely see the back of my daughter's head, let alone keep tabs on whether she was close to realizing her dream. But when she turned and flashed me the smile of achievement, I knew we could finally head home.

Get Out of BED!!

2008-04-03T08:37:00.025-04:00

What is it about getting out of bed that we all detest so?

For me (and my children who have inspired me to consider this topic), it is all about wanting more sleep. Desperately. Going to bed earlier is helpful. Staying in bed later even more so. I refer to it as my "family sleep gene."

Though their hormonal teenage status gives them additional credentials is in this department (and don't get us started on school start times!), my kids have always excelled in this area, thanks to the gene. Its strength gave them the gift of sleeping through the night at six months. It translates into being able to sleep in any moving vehicle. Both highly prized, much sought after talents. However, this skill also manifests itself in the need for a crowbar to eject them from bed in the morning. Herein lies the problem that plagues our house.

There are other reasons any sleeper to avoid exiting the warmth of the covers. The cozy factor ranks high of course. After spending all night getting the bed nice and toasty, the covers just so and your body in perfect synchronicity with the mattress, who among us wants to toss that away blithely? Then there is the avoidance factor: something in the day that is just too despicable to bear, at least at the early hour the clock is calling. There's no point in going too deep on the hangover factor, which (besides the obvious fuel of this condition) is really just an unhappy collaboration of the three factors above.

Hangovers are just a self-induced hop away from being sick. And sick in bed is typically an condition fraught with conflict. On the one hand, to enjoy a day sick in bed, you can't not be too sick. Just the right head cold or low grade fever to allow for soup, reading and napping to carry you through the day, back to the scheduled big sleep. Extra covers and pillows included. However, if you are "only" that sick, chances are you should drag your sorry self out of bed and get on with it! On the other hand, any illness providing unquestioned permission to lay low all day is not one worth having! But I digress.

Short of the hangover excuse, my kids have trotted out all these reasons why they cannot get out of bed and go to school. Oddly, none of them seem to work. Unless validated by a thermometer or other mom-approved symptom.

Which brings us back to the original challenge....getting my crazy kids OUT OF BED! I have tried the gentle approach: a good morning coo and a rub on the back. I have tried turning on all the lights (especially the one right in the eyes!) and opening curtains. I have tried pulling off covers. For naught. Loud, crisp clapping sometimes works, the staccato beat jarring brains into action (or maybe just confusion). Sending the dog up to work his magic usually results in losing any ground gained in getting them out of bed as the kids then turn their "get ready for school" attentions to Rosco!! Placing their feet on the floor and pulling them out of bed is sometimes effective, but being that it leaves my sleepy heads too close to their warm nest, it does not have a 100% success rate. There have been occasions when a child extracted from bed has actually RETURNED to the bed after I leave the room. Harrumph!!

And please don't talk to me about alarm clocks. When I finally moved my son's clock (one of the old-fashioned styled double bell NOISY varieties) away from his bed and onto his desk to increase its effectiveness, he rebelled. "Don't move it so far away! I'll have to get out of bed to turn it off!!" EXACTLY! (Even so, he manages to retreat back under the blankets!!)

I haven't given up hope yet. I have stumbled upon two fail-safe options. The first is candy. I found this out on Valentine's day. My children were dressed and at the table with unprecedented speed that day. While I am reluctant to offer candy every day for breakfast, there must be a kernel of learning in there, somewhere! The second is the threat of missing a potential ride to school, which happens when my husband leaves late enough to coordinate with school time. The elusive trick is how to combine these carrots into a plan that works for us all. Or at least me, the mother, trying to get the sleepy heads out of bed!! Preferrably without screaming! Argh.

Only In NYC

2008-04-01T08:12:00.008-04:00

Some people have all the fun. And in NYC you can have it all delivered too. Mostly free of charge.

Here is a service sure to be popular and begs a suburban franchise--SOON!

Click here and give it a gander---Don't be too jealous--you can still play along by making your list of candidates.

The question remains, will this service still be available tomorrow?? You decide.

Bail Out?

2008-03-24T20:32:00.005-04:00

It's so exciting to "be a part of what could be the most powerful shared experience in the world" according to Oprah's website.

Of course it would probably be more powerful if I wasn't always rushing in at the last moment to join my web class, latest chapter barely digested, but there it is. It's truly a bumpy road to enlightenment....for me anyway. We are moving right along, with Chapter Four on the docket tonight and me, once again, slamming the book closed just prior to logging into the webclass (ace student that I am!).

Chapter Four is about the time a reader puts the book down, cracks the knuckles and considers how the whole reader/book relationship is going. This is the point where I have been known to bail on a book. The Shipping News--the Pulitzer Prize winner by Annie Proulx went down about now--shortly after page 120. Historical fiction, if I have even gotten to page 50, has never been known to make it much further (The Many Lives and Secret Sorrows of Josephine B being the singular exception I can think of!) The typical "self help/spiritual" book for me, falls prey at about the same page count. Usually I get distracted by something else and put the book aside, fully intending to return later. It's just that waiting for "later" to come around seems like a fruitless activity! Ever allusive, that "later!"

But onward we press with A New Earth. No Chapter Four bailout for me. And I am grateful for EnO, goading me forward, coaching me on, chapter by chapter. I might otherwise be content with the same old, everyday earth I knew and loved a month ago. Last week: The Core of the Ego. This week: onward to the Many Faces of the Ego & Role Playing. Right now I'll let Bear Stearns keep the corner on bailouts. I gotta go - it's class time!

Driving with Rosco

2008-03-18T08:39:00.010-04:00

Our dog Rosco is particularly fond of riding in the car. (BTW, that's just his body double on the right.) I am not sure his passion is greater than that of any other dog, but it is pretty darn strong. He'll pick any door, any seat, just to get in the car. But his favorite spot is in the driver's lap which ups the fun factor of making turns and navigating the dashboard.

The delight that springs forth from his little muscular body when he hears the words "Do you want to go in the car?" is contagious. He squirms and gyrates, wagging his entire torso in pleasure (no doubt in deference to the fact that his tail was whacked off to a mere stub at birth!)

His fondness for the car may stem from all the fun places he gets to go. It could be a trip to the beach, a run at Lake Mohegan or a visit with his half sister, Bella. Perhaps we'll take him to Vermont where he gets to dig in the snow and sleep on our bed (two things that don't take place in Connecticut). A trip to Cuttyhunk where he is leashless most of the time is high on his list of favored drives. Even short jaunts around town to pick up the kids is a good time, especially with the windows down. (That fine electric window invention offers Rosco easy access to putting his own window down, along with everyone else's. A mere touch of the well-placed paw summons the open air in all types of weather--unfortunately!).

Lately, I am fearful that this passion has morphed into an addiction. (Is it possible for dogs to have car addictions?) It has come to the point now if Rosco sees car keys, he rushes to the door with anticipation. How can we not take him if the drive is quick and local? How can we possibly deprive him of this great thrill? The mournful looks we get as we edge out of the back door, leaving him trapped in the boredom that defines our people-less kitchen are heartbreaking. Yes, yes--we are guilty of enabling!

It appears we've reached a new addiction low. Yesterday, when I came home from Shop & Shop (as my daughter aptly named it years ain her toddlerdom), Rosco and I engaged in a round of ball toss whilst I unloaded the groceries: grab a bag, toss the ball, take bag inside. Go back outside and repeat. This a multi-tasker's dream (this is NOT Rosco's dream!!). As I neared the end of the groceries, the phone rang and I abandoned the car, the dog, the ball (all safely inside the gated backyard, don't you worry!!). A good 20 minutes later, when I went out to shut the car door and claim the last bag, who do I find sitting in the car, but the dog. Happily laying on the front passenger seat, waiting to go somewhere. Anywhere. Ready for the next time the car starts. Ridiculous, I thought.

Until this morning. I am on the phone leaving a message and my hubby is wildly gesticulating through the kitchen window. He's on his way to work. I catch something about the dog as he points at my car and then he waves at me like everything has just worked itself out. Great, cuz I cannot follow him AND leave a coherent message at the same time (heck--leaving a coherent message is sometimes a challenge, period!!). So I pay the whole thing no mind. When I go out to call the dog a while later, he is nowhere to be seen. No jingling sound of his tags. I start wondering: Do I have to look for breaks in the fence? Then I notice the open car door. Aha! I look inside and there, again, is Rosco lounging patiently waiting for his next drive.

I wonder if there is a driving simulator for dogs. With electric roll down windows. Rosco would be all over that. Woof!

Ego a Go-Go

2008-03-13T09:06:00.003-04:00

I would have written earlier in the week, but my ego got in the way. At leastI think that was the problem. That's what EnO (that's short for Eckhart and Oprah, my awaking pals) and I discussed last Monday on line.

The evening was marked with several high notes: Oprah and I were wearing matching large hoop earings; there were only two minor technical hiccups....a mere blip on the radar screen of the first weeks techno-disaster and I actually understood what the chapter was about---and agreed with some of it! Am I waking up, you may ask?? Yeah, yeah...don't get too excited. I think it is more akin to hearing the alarm clock when you are in a deep sleep; not actually being committed enough to rolling over and turning it off. And certainly not getting out of bed. Yes, no doubt, the waking up part is a little in my future still.

But for now, I got the ego thing nailed: the conditioned response, commentary, labeling that goes on as we go through our day...and I always thought this was my sense of humor and appreciation of the great human commedy (which, ok, I am still putting some of my chips in, cuz, well--why not!! (don't tell EnO!!)) Apparently, the more you can strip away the ego, the closer you get to awareness. I'd love to argue this point; some of the most ASLEEP people I know notice NOTHING about their surroundings but again, I think EnO would disagree.

I also learned that the more dangerous activities. the more present you are in the moment--which makes sense. If you are rock climbing or skydiving, you are more present since you can only focus on the task at hand...hopefully. But again I find great humor in thinking about sending the most vapid and self-centered people out on a dangerous missions so they can find true awareness. Very humourous--but then there is my warped mind again!!

I could actually go on some more about the Ego and awareness, but I must hurry and finish chapter three for tonite. It turns out awaking is on a more agressive timetable than I might have planned for. Isn't that always the case?

Video Game Insurgency

2008-03-10T15:14:00.010-04:00

Those of you cohabitating with a gaming fanatic most likely know that yesterday was the highly anticipated, much bally-hooed arrival of Super Smash Bros. Brawl for the Wii--whoohoo!! If you lack the resources of a local gaming master, you might want to catch up. (Heaven knows how you'll get through the day, if not!) Just know it was a day destined to live in infamy.

Some background for all concerned. For a product launch, Nintendo did an excellent job of creating a feverish pitch over a product extension. We are talking mint Crest with sparkles in a new squeezable tube, here. First, know that Brawl is the 3rd iteration of the game, on the heels of Melee and the original "beat on Mario and Luigi fest." How many fighting options, with the same community of characters does one gamer possibly need? (I assume this is a rhetorical question since it was answered with a very annoyed and dispirited "Mahhhhhmmmmm...."). Secondly, the game's original release date was Christmas '07. Then a delay. Then another delay. Maybe there was even a third delay. Who can keep track? All I know is my son, babysitting bucks in hand, was ready to be an owner.

Actually, he was past ready; as a devoted follower, he'd already ready turned over his deposit to the local GameStop to "reserve" a copy (heaven forbid they run out). Then, in the heat of frustration, after one of the several delays, he paid off the balance of the game. "To ensure I won't spend the money on anything else," he informed me. (Protocol thus required a talk about not paying in full and giving others your money when you could be earning interest quickly followed. As well as the lecture about impulse purchases and savings goals.) Still, the damage was done. GameStop had a fully paid "reservation" and I had a fully frustrated gamer. Great deal.

So this past Friday, when he was recognized the usual weekend skiing conflicted with Sunday's release and his fantasy of game acquisition and play time, NOT TO MENTION the "big release party" Saturday night, the insurgency began. "No one cares what I want to do....!!" was the openning salvo. Could we stay home this weekend? No. Could he stay home? No. Could he stay with his fellow Brawl enthusiast? No. Could he....? No. We were all going skiing.

Which would have been fine, since he LOVES skiing, once plunked on a carpet of Vermont's finest fresh powder, far from the temptations of the Wii and Gamestop. Except it was raining on Saturday. We skied anyway. (It wasn't THAT bad, after all.... Just 'cuz I abandoned the slopes once the rain fully presented itself in favor of Time and Again (did I mention an upcoming book group deadline?) didn't mean it was unfit for adventurous children.....). The day ended with a ski group party, co-mingled with the forlorn reminders (by you know who) of the impending party and game release being missed. Thanks for the update.

Sunday dawned, with hopes of a sunny day for all; especially Dad who had to miss Saturday's skiing. Sadly that was not to be. A planned early exodus for singing was also shelved in deference to the now non-performing singer who found herself under the weather. Still ,the campaigning for a timely departure was on the wanna-be-Brawler's agenda. By this time the word "Brawl" was no more than white noise. Enticements including "financially set for life" or "free liposuction with purchase" might have accompanied the declarations of "Brawl," but I wouldn't have heard them. I had surpassed my "Brawl" tolerance.

Finally packed and in the car and making good time, the question was posed, "When will we be home?" with me, the driver, foolishly registering this as a mindless "how much longer" question--which it was definitely NOT. I now know this because the answer I gave "Sometime after 6--maybe 6:15 or so" was met with howls of displeasure (from you know who). These posed only as mere warm up to the verbal diatribe that followed, denouncing skiing, the speed with which we packed the car, the fact that lunch had been consumed before leaving and further fueled by that time honored battle assault: "I never get to do what I want to do." Which was get home in time to pick up the bloody video game. Which I had conveniently shoved out of my mind at the 49nth mention of the game, sometime around 7pm Saturday night. Ooops.

I slowed the car, lifting my foot enough from the gas so as to drop back towards the legal speed limit. I considered my options. How did that oratory address help his case, I asked my gamer. How did he think that made for future parent/child relations OR the hoped outcome. How, if in fact there was ANY chance for that Snowball to make it to GameStop to become one with the treasured game on this, the first day of Brawl frenzy, did he think he should be handling the situation. Feeling the impact of the teaching moment as well as the guilt of a mother who should have known better, I committed a speeding frenzy attempt to get the game--tonight! (Crazy mother, I know!) I now know that accelerating up to 80mph on Route 8 while lecturing (ahem...teaching) your child about life lessons and skills delivers an adrenaline rush worthy of the best video game!

So, with intense concentration, expert lane maneuvering and fingers crossed tightly, we zoomed closer to Fairfield, full of anticipation. The car discussion repeatedly centered back on the fact that "we might not make it" but NOT for lack of trying. The gamer was at peace with that (or at least so he said). As we careened closer to the Merritt Parkway exit, the unimaginable became more of a reality, even as we slowed in recognition of the State Trooper and his spinning lights, acknowledging his prey trapped on the road's shoulder. Outloud I offered thanks to the car who had taken what plainly could have been my hit. I did not stop to offer myself as the true offender. I merely maintained 55mph as we put distance between the sidelined cars and ourselves.

We were getting close. I offered a olive branch of hope to my son. A call was placed with a few carefully selected and delivered words to the GameStop staff eagerly awaiting their 6pm whistle blow. My son's voice, full of anticipation, massaging them into a relaxed state for the 5 minute wait past their 6 o'clock departure. (I certainly HOPED it would be just 5 minutes!) One game devotee swooning over my cellphone to those who earn their keep living and breathing games seemed to do the trick. What would the gamer be wearing to identify himself outside the store, they asked. I offered my black hat, encouraging him to point out it was his mother's, as he instructed them, just to help him keep his image as a desperate but still fashion savvy gamer. But still we needed to maintain speed.

Weaving around the cars slow to move as we rolled up to the green light at our Merritt exit, victory seemed to be within our grasp, but we stil had a mile or so to go. The gamer's sister began to offer up worst case scenarios: what would you do if we ran out of gas now? What if we hit traffic? "I'd get out of the car and run," he replied matter-of-factly. But didn't we know that anyway? Hitting a light about 1/4 mile from the store, I resisted the instinct to lock the doors. "Don't get out of the car," I said not kidding. "I won't, " he assured me, intently willing all the traffic in front of us out of the way.

Seven minutes after closing time and two minutes after our bargained extension, I pulled the car up to the front door of GameStop, barely able to get the car into park before the gamer lept from the car. The image of him dancing and bobbing eagerly around the signs obliterating any view into the store, my brimmed, suburban mother hat pulled down comically over his ears, warmed my cold video heart.

As the manager, whose name I would later learn was Anthony, opened the door for my delirious son, I waved appreciatively. Having participated in a high speed race against time, I suddenly felt exhausted and questioned the sanity of the whole maneuver. Had I persisted in this perilous race to save my reputation as a semi-reliable mother figure? Had I twisted a life lesson into an excuse to speed? But the elated son who exited the store as I pondered, waving his game in triumph washed the doubt from my mind. "Thanks Mom," he said as he climbed in the car, "You are really the best." Oh yeah.

Still Dozing...

2008-03-06T09:43:00.003-05:00

Well, my Great Awakening, Part One, was filled with fits and starts. As my hubby blared CNN Election news from the kitchen, I focused on my laptop, anxious to be "open" to the experience and the lesson. I feverishly resisted the urge to produce a play-by-play blog as I had seen Brave New Films do for the latest State of the Union address. "Invite moments of mental stillness," Eckhart urged. As my kids crashed around upstairs, I considered this idea and pocketed it until bedtime. My floundering begun, and I noted we were 5 minutes into the program.

Oprah would tell me it was thanks to the marvels of technology that 500,000 devoted readers were coming together simultaneously for an Internet event of historic proportions. And for the first 20 minute, I too was part of the history. I was amazed by the number of "people like me" (that's fancy advertising talk) that were on line or on Oprah's show saying "page 52 really spoke to me" or "My husband used to be crabby all the time and now he is a changed man..." Great, I thought. How crabby I be if my spouse outed my emotional status on international web space? Still savoring the line about mental stillness, I sat up when Eckhart threw out "continuous mental noise." Been there, doing that. OK, maybe I could learn something.

Then the technical difficulties began. (Allegedly thanks to those same 500,000 devoted readers.) As did my own crabby factor. Watching the video streaming rate flip from 704bps down to 149 and then back again did little to amuse , entertain or enlighten me. At the time, my conjecture was my Internet stream feed mirrored my own apprehension and comprehension of the material and my endurance was being tested. I felt "they" were already trying to out me as a fraud. (The fact that I was checking my emails and surfing the web in between blips of broken sentences from Oprah and Eckhart and restarting my computer seemed to support this!)

Checking the emails, while taking me out of my spiritual realm did provide me solace in finding out many other people in town (and globally according to the Tech Support page, which I also visited--see I WAS trying!) had the same experience. I had NOT been singled out- yet.

And then the video stream ceased entirely. One. Two. Three attempts and logging off and back of first the website, and then my computer. Nothing.

I as fidgeted in my chair, impatiently waiting any success of latest attempt to resurrect a connection, I began glancing thru the local paper. When I got to an article quoting the DOT spokesperson, Everhart, and began wrestling with the confused concept of Everhart and Eckhart, I knew it was time to call it quits.

Oprah later told me that the full show would be on line the next day to watch, for those of us experiencing "awakening interuptis." Me? I am ready to put chapter one behind me and move onto the sunnier days of chapter two for next Monday's historic event.

Wake up?

2008-02-28T12:42:00.005-05:00

Starting tomorrow, I am going to start waking up. Not earlier. Not without caffeine (Heaven's NO!). Not on the wrong side of the bed (at least not intentionally). But spiritually. At least that is what Oprah told me .

Yes, a few impetuous weeks ago I stumbled upon an invite from every one's pal Oprah enclosed in my Borders email. My Borders email typically delivers pedestrian things like discount shopping coupons and new titillating titles to be bought. It does not usually include an life-altering invitation, other than coaxing $15 out of the closest wallet. Well, you know that Oprah--she's one powerhouse. She waggled her finger at me and with that piercing stare, encouraged me to join her national (international?) webinar book group phenomenon. She told me that I would get to read A New Earth: Awakening to Your Life's Purpose (sounds foreboding already, eh?), guided by its author Eckart Tolle, an experience that was sure to change my life. I like to think my life is generally swell, but being at a career crossroads of sorts, I thought: What the heck. Why not? (I will confess that the attraction of trying this webinar nonsense intrigued me from a journalistic perspective as well.)

So I pointed. I clicked. I joined Oprah's website club and then the book club. Had I sold my soul to Oprah? Or possibly to greater powers?

I decided, however, that I did not want to join alone. I sent out an email invitation to a few crazy and curious friends I thought would not think less of me for trying this "life experience." I invited them to join me on this quest of unknown proportions. One emailed me back right away and said "I'm already in!" I felt slightly emboldened. One told me on the phone I was crazy. I felt slightly demoralized. One probably still hasn't checked her email. The last one, who I was sure was in, was, apparently, not reading her mail at the address I mistakenly sent it to (darn these common last names). Oooops. No doubt the recipient, who I would NOT think loony enough to try this, thought I was just diving into the deep end, sending her the invite. So much for my being awake!

Anyway, my book club buddy appears to already be at the head of the class. ( I, on the other hand, am wondering how many weeks before they discover I am a ideological fraud and toss me out on my spirituality challenged behind.) She suggested I get Tolle's first book and read it to get my bearings. Four weeks later, my request is still clinging to life Fairfield Library's hold list. Apparently the other people who are reading it either for their own good or to prep for the webinar aren't terribly enlightened themselves and have to keep renewing the book--at my intellectual expense!! She suggested I "YouTube" (can that be a verb??) author Eckhart so I can get used to his voice....I intend to, er, before class starts tonite at 9pm. She has plans to convene us between weekly sessions to deepen our experience. (I have plans to try to find enough time to try to read the next chapter between web classes).

And there is the issue of completing the worksheet Oprah sent me (another weekly activity--apparently you cannot awaken without a lot of work!), asking me why am I reading this book and what do I think about religion, humanity and beauty, among other cocktail party conversation stink bombs. Also to be completed by 9 o'clock tonite...hmmmm.....

In the mean time, I am enjoying my pre-awakened daze as I go make soup for my sick child and check my emails. Neither being particularly beautiful or religious, but possibly earning me some necessary humanity points. Stay tuned.

Alice in Wonderland?

2008-02-16T09:44:00.005-05:00

What would you think if you saw a grown woman, average in appearance, carriage and dress, strolling purposefully through the library carrying a large hand mirror?

Would you think it odd? Would you think it vain? Would you think it daffy? Why that accessory? And why is she carrying it freely, versus stashed in a bag until needed.

The obvious answer is she might be in search of Alice in Wonderland. Or did she just want to see how she would look to others, if spotted reading certain books? Was she tryng a new make-up and checking for allergic reaction or worse: performance failure? Does she have spies at the library and needs to be able to look over her shoulder, while burrowing through the stacks? Was she attempting to understand the community context she fits into, a bit player in a global theater? Or was she more fascinated with the intimate glamour she might be exuding, each pore a conquest, each hair trained into place.

Three days have now passed since I took in this sight; this foray into social pschology. And still I am amused; perplexed; intriqued. What do you think?

Perhaps, she really is Alice after all, taking us all into wonder land.

It's Not Just About the Chocolate

2008-02-14T19:21:00.005-05:00

While I am the FIRST to admit that chocolate is a MOST important substance for many occasions, worthy of much consideration, Valentines's Day is not ONLY about the chocolate one might recieve. Here are the benefits of my Valentine's day, playing out all day long as one big the teaching moment. (And unlike in grade school, my lessons did not include any school skills like: be sure to have enough valentines for the whole class to avoid social suicide or don't confess your true love to ANYONE unless you want to hear about it on the playground.)

No, no, my lessons were more prosaic, ready for everyday life application:

*The anticipation of candy is more powerful than ANY alarm clock in getting a middle schooler out of bed on time.

*Magic Cards ARE a boys gift of jewelry.

*All jewelry counts as jewelry for girls. Even silver "lifesavers" on a black chord. Diamonds, move over.

*Receiving roses on Valentines Day really IS worth the 3 time mark-up over tomorrow's price, as you have proof your true love really thought ahead.

*You CAN legitimately give your hubby a gift you would like (e.g., Jackson Browne tickets) as a true sign of affection, and in the spirit of sharing your own interests.

*The dog does NOT care about Valentine's day. He just wants to be fed.

*Ditto the cats.

*Boys DO take the time to notice that their sister has given her parents bigger boxes of chocolate, even if the single piece the brother recieved is far and away his favorite and superior to that in the boxes.

*It is possible to influence the brand of chocolate gift you recieve if you are driving the shopper to CVS at 6:30 the night before (Lindt Truffles, if you must know).

*Valentine's Day is much easier to celebrate when your honey is in the same town, not to mention a lot more fun. ;o)

Happy Valentine's Day and good chocolate eating too.

The Ghost of Christmas Past

2008-01-29T14:21:00.000-05:00

Our house has been haunted. This time for a month, so it's not really a new thing. Rather a ghost that visits and lingers, at first welcomed and then all of a sudden, horribly unwanted. In a instant, that ghost of Christmas Past is no longer a fondly considered visitor, but just a frigging nuisance! And at that moment, the haunting must be banished. The Ghost of Christmas Past must be sent packing.

In normal households, Christmas visits from about mid December on, maybe for a good two weeks. But oh, what fun is that I ask? In our household, we believe in starting early and staying strong through out the month, possibly even into the new year; keeping Christmas alive as long as we feel festively inclined! My bad, to be sure, since I am the one who started the madness years ago (and innocently enough) with a few decorations here and there. Initially, we lived in a one bedroom apartment, so what damage could a few carefully placed holiday trinkets cause? When we moved those few trinkets into a big empty house, they were hardly a bother--insignificant even. But as sure as our annual taxes grew , so did the Christmas trimmings. Again, the acquisitions were well-intentioned.....the motivation of a former city girl with 400 square feet to call her own (or half her own) was merely to spread the good cheer of the season to her new, somewhat larger digs. Who could blame me?

Of course, a proper seasonal blessing can take years to accumulate (uh, I mean acquire), but it appears now we have reached critical mass. A fact underscored by the number of boxes brought down from the attic this year. A several day affair to be sure, as goal of holiday decorating does not include designing around an army of Rubbermaid plastic tubs. To avoid this added challenge, a few tubs are permitted a time to make the trek downstairs, contents assigned to designated stations, empty tubs whisked back to the attic. A few days or a few stair climbs later, which ever comes first, the desired holiday look is realized: one of stockings and pillows; throws and Christmas books, Santas and snowmen....well, you get the idea. Oh yeah, and let's not forget the tasteful white lights and fresh garlands strung across the front porch. Or the gigantic "artificial" (really, let's just call it FAKE!) wreath bedecking our prominent front round window....a delightful task of its own, involving hi jinx on the porch roof (and some prayers for safety). And let me be clear--the tree may not even be in the house at this point. Yeah, yeah, things are possibly a little out of control. Just maybe.

The tree, by the way is incidental. At least in its origins. It goes up in a snap. Almost, anyway(after all, there are 3 stages: the tree procurement, the lighting application and the ornament free-for-all) or at least in an orderly, timely fashion. It is the taking DOWN of the tree that seems to sap me of all energy and patience. Anyone who has done this knows: it starts with the dreaded boxes down from the attic again; then the tree must be stripped--lights, ornaments, God help you if tinsel was employed (reason enough to discourage its use!) and then ceremoniously trotted to the curbside with great care to not leave TOO many needles in its wake. THEN the wrapping of the lights must happen. THEN the wrapping of the ornaments must happen. And somehow all those fond memories relived just weeks earlier, as each cherished memento was rediscovered and proudly hung on the tree, are just a big pain in the butt, waiting to be boxed and exiled for the next 11 months. Once the time has come, that tree can't come down fast enough in my book!

Ok, but back to the general state of insanity brought on after Christmas has passed. What came down, must go up (which is unfortunately in direct conflict with the laws of gravity, and may possibly aggravate the situation). The point at which Christmas present become Christmas past varies from year to year, but I think by about New Years, I am ready to pack it in. Which is FINE again, in a normal home. But in a home hosting a New Year's family visit or a home that immediately becomes a Monday-Friday layover for the skiing weekends launched in January, there IS no good time to banish the stuff. So it begins to haunt, first friendly and convivial; later demonic and mocking until I am opening the front door, fearful that I might actually be attacked by one of the now unwelcome Christmas creatures whose only desire is really to be put out of its misery and back into hibernation in the attic. This is truly when the Ghost of Christmas Past is fully present and ready to take hostages. When the twisted Grinch-inspired thought of "I must stop Christmas from staying, but how?" runs through my mind. Often.

But once again, we squeaked by and skedaddled out of the kidnap threats, hastily summoning all the tubs down from the attic on a random weekday evening. Helter Skelter, cramming cherished mementos into the box mostly closely aligned by label with the appropriate description, little care or concern given to the trappings that had so valiantly served us through the holidays and a rapid hauling of those babies right back upstairs as quickly as possibly. Done.

Until next year, when The Ghost of Christmas Future plots the first visit of the season.

Only 30 More Shopping Days

2008-01-23T21:28:00.000-05:00

Not that this is worthy of more than a mere note at this point, but I just happened to notice that there are ONLY 30 days left til my birthday. A birthday of note it is not; just the day of my birth. Tra la.

The only valid excuse one has all year long to actually get to do what one wants to do and ONLY what one wants to do....so be sure to FLAUNT it!! (I certainly will!)

Now, if you don't want to get caught with your pants down, get shopping! (That means you too, honey. And don't forget--it's your sister's bday too!)

Sicko

2008-01-23T11:44:00.000-05:00

Not as in one who is psychologically deranged. Nor someone who has an interest in the grotesque. Rather as in one infected by ordinary but none-the-less-devastating germs thereby leading to a state of sickness. See also: ME.

I hate being sick, although what self respecting human enjoys it (besides maybe my son who relishes the pursuit of valid, medically qualified excuses, worthy of missing school)? The act of lying in a bed is divine. The pleasure of eating soup to rehabilitate is always welcome. Bonafide permission to lift nothing heavier than the latest paperback best-seller? Works for me. The blessing of a brain so shrouded in congestion and cold medicine fog that you can’t be held responsible for a logical, clear-cut situation analysis? A delight. (Providing the perfect time to clean out a closet or desk given you can’t possibly maintain the concentration required to debate whether to keep or toss items in question. Out it goes, quickly, so you can hurry up and lie down again….giving that throbbing head, those pulsating sinuses a well-deserved time out.)

Even with all those luxuries, I am loathe to give in to the sicknesses winter offers up as accents to an otherwise unadorned season (I mean where is the snow, for heaven’s sake?). Yes, I will gladly take a bye on the gym when my head and body inform me they are FAR from willing to cooperate in anything vaguely resembling exercise. (This is where body and head send me the message that simply getting out of bed and functioning qualify as the exercise of the day). Admittedly, I do try to suss out all available mindless projects: organizing, cleaning, and bill paying— anything robotic, near a flat surface for my Kleenex box works for me. But I mussn’t give in to the state of sick; the abominable monster trying to take me down. Still I try to stumble, from obligation to commitment and back again, attempting to be a contributing member of society, even as a sicko.

In the meantime, life goes on, helter skelter without me. Existing in a delicious confusion of apathy and ignorance may be grand for some, but the rest of the world is cruising along at 70mph, not even checking the rear view mirror to see if I am safely on the sidelines or now flattened on the yellow line. Either way, I am LEFT BEHIND.

So, really, what’s the point? Even trying, I am outta my league. Drat!! Where is the mercy rule? Who can throw a flag on this play? Achy muscles and fatigued body provide further fodder: the result of weekend skiing or merely the illness manifesting itself in a new way…having grown bored with simply playing havoc in my head? A head on the desk provides temporary relief, but soon it is clear that nothing short of a full lie-down will suffice. The need to take my weary body and let it melt into the comfort of my bed (warm blanket pulled up to chin included) prevails. I’m giving in, for now. But not for long.

Blissful Battles

2008-01-14T21:34:00.001-05:00

No more petty sibling fights. No more spousal distress. No more accusations unanswered and left simmering for weeks. And best of all, no more world disharmony. I honestly think around the globe, disputes domestic or international, sound and petty alike can here on out be settled by one particular classic childhood toy. Rock 'em Sock 'em Robots. Nostalgia and harmony all in one. Who could ask for more?

No doubt the envy of many a youth of the 60's and 70's and possibly your child's current fave (especially if you weren't lucky enough to enjoy it "back then"), the promotion of those plasticized robots popularized the ubiquitous cry "You knocked my block off!!" This later became a popular declaration when someone got the better of you. No matter how badly you might have been schooled, you managed to keep your pride by quoting pop advertising in your defense.

Our box found its way into our house today via a nearby ToysRUs closeout sale (yes, imagine the toy giant, licking its wounds and heading back to Wayne, New Jersey). I am reluctant to impulsively run into the jaws of TRU for most anything, let alone an indulgent purchase of Rock 'em Sock 'em. (Albeit this was before the scales had fallen from my eyes.) However, it happened that I was in this same store last week (lucky me) with my son to exchange a flawed camera case acquired as a Christmas money purchase. And what self-respecting juvenile shopping companion would go to a toy store ONLY to complete a return? Never mind an behemoth choked with closeout bargains!

During our hasty run through I spotted a grown man eyeing The Robots, gingerly removing it from the shelf as if to divine purchase guidance just by grasping the box. He looked undecided. "A must have toy for the office," I offered, hoping to provide the reassurance he seemed to seek. (I frankly was now living vicariously, remembering fondly the few times I had played the game as a young guest at some lucky friend's home.) He nodded at me dreamily, still clutching the box. Later, at check-out (even in the quickest of spins you can find SOME on-sale must have), we ended up in front of Mr. Rock 'em, his box still in hand. Good, I thought. He's taking the plunge. And I contently joined him nostalgia land while the cashier rang me out. "Look! He's got Rock 'em Sock 'em Robots," shouted my 13 year old son, somewhat jealously perturbed. "That's a great game....!" You're kidding, right, I thought and hurried through
the transaction to escape with my wallet mostly intact.

But even after we got home, The Robots kept calling me, finding time in off moments to assert themselves. On and off, all week long. All right you freaking Robots, I hear you. Just COOL IT! And I ignored them. Until today. When I found myself at the store next door, with a legitimate errand. All right you insane automatons, I'll check on you, I thought. And there, after much searching, I found the last pristine box...waiting to come home with me and start settling the score.

Once home, the bag barely in the kitchen door, my nosey son whooped in delight of discovery. Let the dueling begin!

So now imagine, if you will, easily establishing who gets to pick the next TV show; how soon the garbage will be taken out; who has to get up with the sick baby; how many beans must be eaten to be excused by Mom. All tireless topics of familial discord. Easily solved by picking a robot: Red Rocker or Blue Bomber, manning the controls and start swinging those jabs. Pay raise tensions? Corporate take-over disagreements? Border disputes? Keep the lawyers and the ammo out of it and let the key players just slug it out. With plastic robots, of course.

My husband and I have already had several practice sessions this evening. It takes a mean upper cut to actually dislocate the head (I am not sure I liked just writing that, but oh well...) and it is possibly to reach a stalemate if neither player is willing to move his player back to reposition for what is certain to be a better shot at the opponent's jaw, but this seems very apt considering the give and take required in life for dispute resolution. And we are darn near ready for the next round of "Whose turn is it to take out the recycling?" when next that bell should ring.

Don't Stick Out Your Tongue Unless You Mean It!

2008-01-10T16:30:00.000-05:00

Way up high on the International Communication Options preference list, miles above hand signals and just slightly south of kissing, lies a time-honored skill and one of my personal faves: making faces. Not only can you easily translate this modality into almost any language, but you provide an assist on emotion delivery that you might never duplicate verbally. It is also an incredibly personal method, as methods go with the general rules of engagement dictating eye to eye contact be established and maintained (or at least that your message recipient is watching) for maximum communication). All accomplished in this one, simple gesture. Amazing.

Now, to be clear, I am not referring to the classic "wagging tongue and waving hands about the ears look usually accompanied by "nah nah" or "I told you so." Domestic communication guidelines would merit infinitely more effort put forth in the form of a clever retort to be credited as a worthwhile message. (Unless, of course, you are under the age of 7; then this might be your best bet at succinct message delivery.) International guidance on this face is, however, found in a separate rule book (translation: you're on your own!).

Making faces can be useful in many circumstances. And the fact that making faces is, at times, the only viable and reliable means of communication adds to their value. To wit:
You are held captive by an evil fitness instructor, in a class that has no known ending. Your strength is waning and your muscles are screaming. Your throat is parched and the sweat beading intensely down your forehead is beginning to obliterate your vision. A lot to impart, for certain. How to communicate all this accurately and tersely to your buddy next to you, as you scamper back and forth hoping not to be tread upon in a pulsating studio where music booms so loudly you can barely focus on the individual lyrics? Simple: Look her (or him) straight in the eye, roll your eyes and stick your tongue out. Quickly, so you don't bite it during the next lunge series. She'll know where you are coming from.

Let's say you are two and words are not yet quite your friends. Heck, for this one, let's say you're 52 and words are your best friends. You are served something for dinner; a unique island delicacy or your first veggies, it matters not. It is just something that is not quite to your palate, yet. The bite goes in, the flavor comes on.... strong. You are possessed by the urge to puke, but manage to refine it into a gag, translating your shock and horror into one beauty of a face. OH, THE FACE! (Note: here, words can only get you into WAY more trouble that the face. No matter your chef's or dinner guests' reaction, best to call it a day, and let the face be your only form of expression on the subject.) By the way, that same face designed to express displeasure over the contents of your mouth is also very handy when you are forced (by your mean mother, no doubt) to ingest any completely vile medicine, such as any type of cough medicine EVER invented or our new family fave: a ginormous Mucinex pill that looks like it could medicate a family of 5, but still must be swallowed whole. The satisfying thing about making a face in cases such as these is not only do you get to present a full bodily reaction to the repulsive substance attempting to enter your body, but you are able to CLEARLY share your disgust for the whole event with anyone nearby. Very satisfying.

Making faces is even handy when you don't wish to have to verbalize your response. In other words, there ARE no words you are able to share at this time. Situations might include mothers hounded by offspring while on the phone, students cornered by parents or teachers in search of a satisfactory explanation regarding something touchy like grades or homework whereabouts, or anyone pursued by a cohort feeling entitled to the details of a story too involved, personal or otherwise gruesome to continue sharing. In this case, the world renowned shoulder shrug ( arms out to your side, palms facing up optional), accompanied by the classic bewildered expression will quickly and cleanly deliver the message that all seeking knowledge are barking up the wrong tree. It's a handy globally appropriate face for any instances of language barrier as well.

It is advisable to not take a new face out into the public arena without at least perfecting it at home, so spending time in a locked bathroom, privately mocking the mirror is, no doubt, a worthwhile use of a face maker's time. Meanwhile, be sure to watch the world around you for facial communication and don't risk sticking out that tongue unless you truly mean it!

Wrapping What's Left of My Brain Around Advanced Mathematics

2008-01-09T15:56:00.000-05:00

Those who know me, know I am NOT fond of math. Ask my kids (particularly if I have to help them and find it necessary to relearn some incredibly banal formula again. OY!). Ask my husband (I proudly fly the Piscean flag over the "How can I be over drawn--I still have some checks left" school of finance). Ask any friend (who knows I tactically use this fear as a shield (more than an inadequacy as I test mighty well in the subject matter) any time someone dares approach me with a volunteer treasurer type job. Uh uh. NO thanks.).

I especially dislike word problems. Particularly ones without the correct answer printed in the back. So when I started considering why exactly I had not posted a response to our Writers' Net daily prompts in the past few days, instead of a sound answer (I was favoring general life insanity), up came a word problem--unsolvable at that, and a cold sweat came a creeping.

It began with "motivation" (or perhaps lack there of) and then "desire." Before I had hit the next stop sign (yes, I was contemplating all this in my head as I was driving back from Trader Joe's), "focus" had joined the mix. So, I ask you. Does "motivation" + "focus" = "desire?" Or rather is it "desire" + "focus" = "motivation?" I feel fairly confident that "motivation" + "desire" x= "focus." More likely "motivation" + "desire" = "goal" which is where I'd like to be, but I did not want to leave focus out of it!

Poor focus. It is a skill, that like my daughter, oft alludes me (the skill, not my daughter, although that happens as well). But it is part of my charm too--the "finger in many pots" appeal. So what have I done the last view days that hasn't allowed me to focus? Well, there was reading (doesn't that have a writing focus?). And of course, there is blogging..(on other people's sites; I guess it would have to be filed as "research" and not "writing." Dang.). Going to hear another writer speak (more research, coupled with my personal favorite: people--watching, talking, learning, connecting...). Does thinking about writing count (in which case skiing would NOT remove my focus!)?

I think the problem is that I like to focus on a LOT of different things (which is what made me a cracker jack account person! ADD on caffeine! A client's dream!). I guess I just choose NOT to focus on one thing, which makes for a HELL of a great time in what's left of my brain as things get to bounce around willy nilly and some crazy, enjoyable connections are made. (The only saving grace in confessing that is I KNOW there are others out there like me, as I have talked to you! I promise not to out you. That is your job, should you chose.)

So I shall continue to chase those amigos--particularly "focus" and to a lesser extent, "motivation." "Desire" seems to be the easiest element to come by. It just has to start hanging out with that true seduction: "goal." And nothing beats sexy math!

I can't play right now...

2008-01-07T16:44:00.000-05:00

I think my mother needs to come over and turn off the computer. This at least is what has to happen when my kids get sucked into the joys of the electronic world, be it internet ethos or a happy game of solitaire, when, in actuality (not to mention out of necessity), they are supposed to be doing something else. Something more important. Something more timely. Ultimately, something with consequences.

I am concerned because that book I am supposed to be reading, Stones from the River is due tomorrow. Not to the library. That would be ok. I could renew it. No, no. It is due to my book group. You cannot renew them. THis is a take no prisoners book group. We came together out of shared frustrations with our myriad book groups of the past. The ones where the latest neighborhood gossip, the last installment of "The Bachelor," the "why I didn't read the book" excuse of the month got infinitely more airtime than the actual book we had gathered to discuss. So now this group, gathered by the love of reading and the desire to escape the "non-book group" is vigilant (in a very pleasant cut off your finger kind of way ;o)) about reading the book -through to the end. Or at least trying to read it through. (This does include me. Really!!)

Right now I am on page 250ish (give or take). Which sounds good, doesn't? But it is 500 pager. A real tome. Gulp. I have less than 24 hours to finish this. During which time I was also planning on: making dinner (maybe the hubby can do that?); cleaning up the ber-loody (love that word--stole it from The Bone People, thank you Keri Hulme) Christmas detritous still holding my home hostage (yes I love Christmas, but I am done with it and I think the group is coming here, but I haven't had time to check the schedule...yet), sleeping possibly and oh yeah, kicking the kids off the computer so they would do their own homework.

This is not really fair though. I did NOT have time to write my prompt on Friday for The Writers' Net even though I did spend a fair amount of time thinking about it -- in between plotting a friend's clandestine rendezvous with a brood of blood thirsty divorce lawyers (ok, apparently they were just lunch hungry, not blood thirsty, but it sounds oh so more interesting, doesn't it?), packing to go skiing, dealing with a sick kid, well, you get the idea.

Saturday came and I was JONESING to write. SO ready was I that I was composing my piece on skiing as I was taking my last few runs--ok, maybe from the beginning of the day (maybe that was why I couldn't quite find my groove this first day out, huh?), but our skiing social life (which I heartily endorse!) got in the way, so no posting for me then either.

Sunday found us on the slopes again and then cleaning up and then, of COURSE I had to READ in the car on the way home and we got home late, and the kids were tired and sick and, well, you get the picture.

Today? Well, forget today. I didn't even log on until about 3pm.... After one of my writing friends called to see if I had fallen down a ravine or something since I hadn't been on line yet. After I blew off another friend's need for a gym spot at 9:30am since I handn't been on line yet. After I whisked thru Stop & Shop (is that even possible? Maybe with self check out.) for soup and OJ for today's sick child (yep--different day, different child--so gratifying!) and then took said sicko to dr for sinus and VERY BAD EAR infection pronouncements--a "3+" she said (on a scale of "what" I am not sure, but my son is milking it for sure). And do you THINK that book has even been in my hands yet today? (Hmmmmm....where IS that berloody book anyway? Good Gravy Marie! Why can't things be simpler, I ask?).

So, sorry, I really can't play today. I have to go do my homework.

Maybe tomorrow.

What in the Wor(l)d?

2008-01-04T16:23:00.000-05:00

Folding laundry in our guest room this morning (don’t ask) I happened to notice that the window’s screen was still in place, anticipating warm weather already passed or perhaps yet to come and that the storm window was tucked up in its happy out of the way summer position. Oooops. Being that it is January 4th in New England, this is quirky enough, warm Fall, notwithstanding. The fact that the chill of New Year’s took a dramatic plunge into the single digits yesterday (did I mention the wind chill?) was a nice counter point as well. HOWEVER, we had just hosted a very cold-blooded friend for New Year’s and she slept, yup, you guess it, in the climatically-challenged guest room. Did I also mention that she arrived toting her own space heater? (For her daughter, she claimed.) Nice hosts, eh? (Feel free to come visit us any time—we’ll do our best to customize your digs as well.)

So as these thoughts ran together in my caffeine deprived brain, what comes out of my mouth, unforeseen and unexpected but “Good gravy Marie!” Huh? Where did that come from? I mean, I recognized it as an expression from my past but I don’t believe it’s visited me in some time. A LONG time! What DOES it mean, anyway, besides, HOLY SMOKES?
Then I realized that just yesterday I’d dug deep into my subconscious to retrieve: “Heavens to Murgatroyd!” This surfaced in response to an email sent to the neighborhood moms announcing that we had not been out (as the desperately social group we are) since September. This was shocking news to me, clearly. “Despicable!” even, as Sylvester himself would have cried!

I was inspired to wonder: what other wacky phrases am I fond of? Of course “For crying out loud” which is something my maternal grandmother used to say a lot. (I tried to name my blog that, but it was taken….for crying out loud!) That at least makes some sense, doesn’t it?
Another phrase that just can’t seem to sit down anywhere and be comfortable (in my brain or in conversation, for that matter) is: “Cheese it—it’s the cops!” I LOVE that one. Maybe because it summons forth all sorts of slap stick chase scenes and such. This guidance could enlighten you some , but I think enjoying the mystery is better.

Sometimes you hear a phrase a lot, but really, how did it come into common vernacular? How did we pick these particular words and give them the meaning they now carry? Such as: “Where do you get off….?” Off what? Off your high horse? Off your throne? Off the loony bus?

Well, I get off here.

What are your faves?

Can we caucus here a minute?

2008-01-03T14:12:00.000-05:00

I want to go to Iowa. Really. Today, don'tcha think? And caucus. Whose with me?

I am very intrigued by this protocol of getting together for several hours with strangers and like-minded thinkers to discuss and influence the upcoming presidential race. Since the 1840's when the state constitution was written, Iowans have chosen to express their candidate preference in this most social and reasonable way. (And please don't make any disparaging comments about Iowans as my grandfather was one, as were his parents. Apparently the Iowa countryside was very soothing to newly arrived Swedes in the late 1800's, but that is a story for another day.)

What edge could one minute with a standardized test-like ballot possibly have over caucusing? You get a thumbnail exposure of each candidate and then you chat and vote! The Democratic caucuses are even more, well, democratic than the Republicans' (comments reserved, please). If your candidate of choice doesn't garner at least 15% of that caucuses' support, you get to vote again! It's a built in DO OVER! Talk about consensus building!

I loved Maureen Dowd's idea of recording your top three choices on your ballot and then the candidate with the broadest appeal moves ahead. Who amongst us hasn't already vacillated between two (or more!) candidates? This way you could pick all your faves! (Or most of them, anyway--there are choices to be made!)

In the meantime, here in Connecticut we have to wait for (ooops--hold on to your socks here--I thought I would be posting a summer date!!), er..... February 8th to play the primary game. (Note to self: hurry up and pick candidate!) But still, no caucusing. Only a solitary, once and for all, pick your fave and hope for the best pen(!!) scratching experience with your fate in the hands of Fairfield's cool new goofy far-from-fool-proof optical scanners. Wait--let me get excited...."yee ha."

See--it just isn't as meaningful or motivating as caucusing.

I still have time to get out there tonight, right? Anyone coming?

Vacation Blues

2008-01-02T08:41:00.000-05:00

Getting back in step after an extended "vacation" at home driven by a company packed schedule and high personal accomplishment expectations is like coming home from an exhausting Halloween night neighborhood rampage with an intense sugar frenzy and and being sent to bed to recover --it just doesn't feel like the right antidote even though you know, somewhere, there is logic to the madness.

Personally, I feel like I need a vacation to recover from my vacation (which is REALLY pathetic when you figure I went (nearly) nowhere, did no packing (unless you include hiding extraneous holiday charms and such), performed no planning (unless you consider the numerous meals researched, shopped for and prepared to accommodate timing and tastes of various guests). So if you acknowledge that I DID supremely enjoy sleeping in late many days (ahh, shades of teenage youth!) and leisurely cups of tea studying cookbooks and making errand and shopping lists, WHAT HAPPENED TO THE REST OF THAT TIME I was going to use so productively? The attic clean-out! The recipe organizing! The kids' rooms takeovers! Didn't happen. The trip to NYC? The hikes with the kids and the dog? The reading....the knitting....the Christmas card sending (yes, let's NOT even go there...)? Lovely ambitions. You get the idea. All my holiday dreams are now merely fond(?) unfulfilled memories.

With "real life resumed," no time to accomplish them! Or at least no borrowed, guilt-free vacation time. Alas....

Even the dog has the post vacation blues. Usually he can't be close enough to me--sitting on my feet or leaning against my legs if necessary, just to remind me he is there. Right now he is upstairs, passed out on a guest-used blanket discarded by me in the hall on its way back to attic storage. As if to celebrate his fatigue. "I've had enough barking at you non-resident guests that keep parading through my house (and I don't care HOW many times I have met you before!)," he might be saying. Or perhaps: "That stomping up and down the stairs is WAY too loud--that is NOT how we do things around here! I've no more energy to police such matters." Or even just a general frustration with the number of visitors refusing to accept their part in the game when a dog toy is laid graciously at their feet. I think he is glad the house is quiet.

Actually, I am glad too. My daughter informed me that I was looking forward to Wednesday morning when everyone was out of the house. (How did she know?!) No one asking for the last known coordinates of something precious (or even less so). No one requiring increasingly bigger fires lit under them (often accompanied by increasingly bigger threats) to encourage progress. No one insisting that the new movie release of the moment was the "must do" activity of the day. Or balking when I suggest that peanut butter and jelly for the third day in a row might contribute to nutrition derailment (when you are over age 10).

Let the teachers have them back! Let the workplace have my hubby back. And I guess, begrudgingly, let the everyday insanity have me back--if only for today. I will briefly succumb to the laundry, the errands, the monotony of the suburban gerbil wheel. But tomorrow I will begin plans anew to beat the time clock and accomplish something grand!

New Year's Eve

2007-12-31T11:49:00.000-05:00

There is a certain irony, musing with what's left of my brain on New Year's Eve. Is it a chance to dump what's left of my brain for calendar year 2007--or at least what is deemed unnecessary--to make room for the wisdom and travails of 2008? Is it just a milestone to note that another year has gone by and that there is that much less of my brain to carry forth to the next calendar year? Is just a chance to consider what I could do with what is left of my brain? Or maybe just a stick in the sand to say: "Hey--it's that almost Happy New Year thing--and YUP--this is the same taxed and tortured brain as before (for better or worse!) and if you are willing to stick with me, I'd be grateful." This of course applies to brain cells and friends, not to mention the questionable talents and skills acquired and hopefully not yet lost over the course of my numerous years. In otherwise, we're all hanging in there....so pop the champagne...we're moving forward!