Stacy's Soapbox

Throwing Binkies, Throwing Sofas

2012-01-10T10:36:00.000-08:00

It feels great to hurl a sofa off a second floor balcony.

That much I can tell you for sure.

It's no small feat when you've barely been to the gym in the past year and you've been weighed down by a baby in utero and then in a baby Bjorn and a toddler who wants "horsey rides" every other minute. But I managed to use all of my might and give that old leather sofa a decent fling.

And I didn't kill anyone in the process.

My husband suggested that he throw the sofa over the balcony and that I go down below and "catch it" so that it wouldn't hit any cars parked nearby. I passed on that suggestion.

I told HIM to go down and "catch it."

What brought us to this temporary moment of insanity where liquidating a leather love seat in such an unconventional and dangerous manner seemed like a good idea?

A million moments of insanity prior.

It started in late October, when our 2 and a half year old son asked for one week straight about his newborn baby brother, "Um, Mommy, when's Baby Blake goin home?"

That innocent question soon turned into not so innocent behavior at home and at school. My once angelic toddler started getting daily timeouts in school for throwing wood chips and chucking cars. Thankfully the teachers overlooked his habit of peeing on them on purpose when they changed his diaper and eating sticks on the playground, which clearly only a boy would do. (As if driving to pick up my son with an inconsolable newborn in the backseat isn't stressful enough, I am now transported back to my middle school principal's office when I see my son's teacher approach the car, giving me her "stern face," reporting on his daily shenanigans).

Things at home have not been so serene either. My baby has a case of reflux which had made him, up until this week, the saddest baby this side of the Mississippi. When I tell you that he cried day and night for weeks, I don't think that quite does reality justice. I almost had a heart attack the first time I saw him smile. Didn't recognize him at all.

Thankfully, now everyone is referring to him as "joyful" and "sweet," but it took a long journey through formula/nipple/medicine changes/rocking/swinging/bouncing/upright/and downright insanity to get him to this peaceful destination. Over the past few months, we've had nature sounds in every room. You name it: crickets, waves breaking on the sand, birds chirping. More frequently, we've had the call of the wild - both a toddler and a newborn battling it out for Champion of the Criers.

In the midst of all of this, we managed to go trick or treating, eat turkey and stuffing, light the menorah, see Santa, watch the ball drop in Times Square, while doing nightly feedings and trying not to lose our minds.

Sure, my sweet husband has thrown binkies against the wall (equivalent to a normal person committing murder) and I have thrown a sofa from a second floor balcony, but all in all, I think we may still be up for Parents of the Year.

Our sons are clean, well fed, doted on, and generally "joyful." They are learning to live together slowly but surely. Comments like, "Mommy, I'm gon give Blake a hair cut," (with plastic Handy Manny toy pliers in hand), have not been uttered in a few weeks. And, they're even learning to share. "Mommy, I asked Blake if he wanted a cheerio and he said no." (How a 6 week old conveyed a "no" response to my toddler, I'll never no. I'm just glad the baby didn't "say" yes).

We are 12 weeks out as of today. First time I've had a second to blog. Second to sit. Second to think. So here's to me, to us, to all of you who survived the first 12 weeks, once, twice, or more than that. My hat's off to you, party people!

Wishing you all a "joyful" new year!

A New Canvas

2011-11-01T06:34:00.000-07:00

I swore I would never do it again.
Have another baby.
It wasn't that I didn't want another baby.
I just didn't think I could handle another awful, complicated delivery.
And for some short time I thought my son might be an only child.

But slowly the fear started to give way to hope.
That I could be strong enough.
Endure.
Be courageous.

I thought this time around I would do things differently.
Ask more questions. Feel more empowered.
I made a rockin' "Labor and Delivery mix" on my iphone. Enough songs for 30 hours or so. A tune for every kind of contraction. From Lady Gaga to Bruce Hornsby to Aretha to the Grateful Dead. I read a lot of books. Talked to all the right people.

Then two weeks ago today, as labor seemed imminent, I started googling wacky stuff, like, "Labor and delivery mantras." I felt like I needed a good mantra. I found one that was short and simple:

"Give me the strength.
Give me the endurance.
Give me the courage."

Perfect. As we drove to the hospital in the glistening sun, I remembered these words.

The contractions were mild, but regular, so it seemed like the arrival of our son was nearing. The doc checked me and told me to walk around the hospital for an hour to help the labor progress.

That sounded like fun.

"Do we have time to grab some coffee?" my husband inquired as we exited the doc's office.
"Um, I guess," I said.

Next thing you know I'm a mile down the road at the Dunkin' Donuts drive-thru, hoping my contractions don't start to speed up furiously like you see in the movies.

We headed back to the hospital just to be safe. We walked the perimeter of the hospital parking lot a few times. I reminded my husband that I was Rocky Balboa and he was to be my revered coach, Mickey, in the delivery room.

"Should I yell, 'Get up, you sonofabitch!'" he asked.

"The nurses might throw you out," I told him. "But that's the spirit, yes."

After an hour, my labor had only progressed minimally. But they sent me up to LABOR AND DELIVERY, checked me in, and gave me a room in which to breathe, walk, and prepare for my son's birth. My nurse suggested rocking, rolling, and other new age hypno-birthing options which were discussed in the birthing classes I was too afraid to attend.

While "Coach Mick" emailed on his laptop, I got down to business of my own. I walked, repeated my mantra, "STRENGTH, ENDURANCE, COURAGE," and rocked my hips from side to side while planting my feet firmly on the ground. In the midst of radiating pain up my back and front, I channeled the energy of women around the world. I envisioned a woman in labor in the Sahara, another woman standing in a rice paddy, another woman delivering a baby at the top of a mountain. Then I pictured myself running a marathon, with all of these women cheering me on, holding "Go, Stacy!" signs for me along my route. Finally, I felt them all in the room, whispering to me, "Strength, Endurance, Courage."

If they could all do it, surely I could too.

And this is how I got through 18 hours of labor.

By the time I was ready to push, it took just 5 minutes and my "coach" was right there by my side.

"You did it!" he yelled as our son made his way into the world.

"You have a new canvas now," he told me, feeling the baby's velvet cheek.

Now it's time to add the color.

An Open Letter to the Lady at the Farmers' Market and the Lady at the Apple Store who offered me their unwanted condolences for expecting a second boy

2011-09-21T10:25:00.000-07:00

Dear Ladies,

I don't know you and you don't me.

Yet, when you noticed the basketball "hiding" under my shirt and asked if I knew the baby's sex, and you learned that I have a 2 and a half year old son, and was expecting another son, you felt the need to sigh heavily and say:

"Oh, maybe next time you'll have a girl."

Maybe, Farmer's Market Lady, just maybe, next time you won't feel the need to add your two cents when I'm having a lovely conversation with the man at the deli counter who is slicing my turkey. Maybe you won't assume that I'm having a third baby when I HAVEN'T EVEN HAD THE 2nd ONE YET! And maybe you won't assume that I was "trying for a girl" this time.

And, you, Lady at the Apple Store, you felt the need to pause, blink back a tear in your eye and say to me, a perfect stranger, "It's okay, it's okay," when I revealed I was carrying a 2nd boy.

Thanks so much, Dr. Phil! Of course it's okay. And, it's not just okay, it's fabulous.

Do you crazy ladies know the infinity pool of baby boy clothes that I am swimming in here at my house?

Do you know the fleet of boy vehicles that I have just waiting for another driver to hop on?

Do you know the vast store of little boy counterinsurgency tactics I have picked up in the past few years?

Do you know that I have a toddler who is counting the seconds until he meets his little baby brother? Do you know he can't wait to buy him stuffed animals and take him for walks to the park and zoom cars down the hallway with him?

Do you know how much joy and excitement and laughter and insanity and life that our son has brought to our lives?

Do you know how thrilled we were in that ultrasound room when we spotted what was undeniably a boy part?

Do you know that not all families need both a boy and a girl to be complete? Both are wonderful, but so are families with two boys or three girls or one child or no children at all.

So, please random ladies (and men too), please stop offering condolences to me and people like me. It is so inappropriate.

However, if you spot me in the supermarket a year from now being headbutted by BOTH sons or perhaps worse, now THAT is an appropriate time to offer your condolences to me - or at least withhold judgment when I push my shopping cart with both sons in it 20 feet away from me and pretend that I'm the mother of the quiet little girl who is checking the sugar content of the cereal box on the shelf next to me.

THAT would be appropriate.

Attention All Super Heroes, Please Report to the Principal's Office

2011-08-05T05:18:00.000-07:00

My little guy is about to head off to preschool in a month and the list of rules circulating is already starting to worry me a bit. It's not the drop-off requirements (no yapping on your cell phone) or lunch packing suggestions (a cold pack included) that have me anxious. It's not even the implied ban on head-butting (a favorite pastime which my son has abandoned, but for special occasions).

The explicit rule from my son's preschool that shocks my conscience the most was right there in print when I perused the orientation pamphlet the other day:

"Action/super hero clothing are not permitted to be worn at school as it promotes hyperactivity in the children."

I stopped and read it again. And again. And again.

Really? Banning super hero clothes at a preschool? I think Amish schoolchildren have more freedom of expression.

I started wondering how exactly super hero clothing "promotes hyperactivity in the children." When a two year old dresses in a Hulk tee-shirt, do the other toddlers turn green, instantaneously develop bulging muscles, and start ripping their clothes off? Does a three year old Spiderman scale the school walls during circle time? Do children encourage Superman to fly off the jungle gym at recess?

I am dying to know what kind of alarming incidents the school has encountered in the past that would necessitate such an encompassing ban on superheroes on school premises.

I'm wondering if this rule is really just discrimination against boys cloaked in other language. Gender profiling, if you will.

I mean, don't tell me that princess clothing and tiaras couldn't start a flash mob situation in preschool. Three year old girls would be chucking plastic "glass" slippers at one another and smearing fake lipstick on each other's faces. And if such a riot were not enough for an all out ban on princess clothes, surely the school might consider the fact that princess clothes promote unrealistic expectations about love (much in the same way that rampant porn online does for teenage boys).

As I toy with the parameters of the "superhero ban," I wonder if a cape would be considered a threat? How about an eye mask? What about face paint? Does Lightening McQueen qualify as a "super hero?" Your Honor, I argue in the negative.

My little boy hasn't even started school yet and already I want to push the limits and test the boundaries as much as I know he will. I've heard it before and I'll repeat it again. Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.

Only problem here: it's gonna take a whole gaggle of pint-sized superheroes to eradicate this injustice.

I'm not sure yet if I'll send my son to school in his Spiderman tee-shirt or perhaps something more subtle, like a "F_ _ _ the Rules" tee-shirt (I believe this to be constitutionally protected political speech per the Supreme Court ruling in Cohen v. California).

All I can tell you is they can't ban THIS Wonder Woman from the car drop-off line. I can assure you that once the other moms see me in full super hero regalia, you can bet your ass that all other rules are out the window: the moms will be on their cell phones during drop-off (a big no-no): "DID YOU SEE WHAT SO AND SO WAS WEARING THIS MORNING?!" They'll forget to put a cold pouch in their kids' lunches (god forbid), and they may possibly head-butt their steering wheels, wishing they had come up with such a fashion forward Wonder Woman outfit first.

As for now, I'll remain vigilant, like any good super hero's mom would.

Let's Get it Started In Here

2011-07-25T12:31:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure if iTunes has found a way for fetuses in utero to download new music, but I swear there is a bumping sound track blaring inside my belly. And someone is having a party.

To say that there is dancing going on at the oddest hours of the day and night does not begin to explain it. Baby #2 is doing back flips, the Moonwalk, the Cabbage Patch, the Running Man, and every other dance move from the past 20 years. This kid is rocking out with no regard for my internal organs. He's moshing in the mother of all mosh pits, river dancing up my rib cage, head-banging, rump shaking, poking feet, feeling the beat.

He's a rock star already.

And all I want to do is ask him politely to lower the volume and intensity so I can get some sleep.

I hate to be a buzz kill, but I'm calling "5-0" on this hooligan.

A Good Morning

2011-07-08T08:20:00.000-07:00

It's 7 a.m. and I'm lying in bed, listening to my grandmother snore as peacefully as a newborn. She's sound asleep next to me and I realize this may be the first or second time ever that we've shared a bed.

I'm sleeping in her bed because it's 4th of July weekend and we have a full house at the shore. And by "full house," I mean 17 family members are all under one roof, which may be a record for us.

I'm wondering how my husband has slept in the daybed on the third floor and I giggle at the image he suggested of him sleeping in bed with us, spooning Gram. I guess it's good he's on the daybed.

I hear the waves of the ocean tumbling gently upon the shore outside the bedroom window. Then I hear my little two year old man start stirring in his Pack n Play crib which is in the corner of Gram's bedroom. I see him through the crib's mesh side rolling on his side, huddled in his blankets, sucking his thumb. He smiles before he even opens his eyes. I want him to see my face before he wonders where he is, calls out for me, and wakes Gram.

He sees me smiling at him as soon as he opens his big brown eyes. I wave at him from my spot in bed. He waves tiny fingers back and sings, "Mommy."

I hop out of bed and gather him up, two blankets, monkey, thumb in his mouth and all. He's warm and cozy. "You want to come in bed with Mommy and Grammy?" He smiles. "Yeah."

I place him carefully like a prince in full regalia in the middle of the king sized bed. He is curled up inches away from me and then rolls onto his other side to see Gram. He's inches away from her. "Dat is Grammy," he says pointing at her, almost grazing her nose. She smiles even before she opens her radiant green eyes. "Good morning, doll," she whispers to him.

When I was pregnant with Will, I had a dream about a baby boy lying side by side with my late grandfather. The baby in the dream was in a glass bassinet, the kind they place newborns in right away at the hospital. And, my grandfather was lying in a hospital bed, perhaps the last one I remember seeing him in before he died. In the dream, I thought, "There he is, lying side by side with his great-grandfather." It was very comforting.

But, here we are now, some two and a half years later, and this isn't a dream at all. This is life. As good as it gets.

"There he is lying side by side with his great-grandmom," I think to myself. I realize that he is one of the luckiest boys in the world. And, for me, just a silent observer, tied to these generations with profound love, I am extremely lucky too.

One day, this will all just be a dream, but for now, this indeed is a very good morning.

Blue Cigars For Everyone

2011-06-07T09:25:00.000-07:00

It's a BOY!

Injustice Anywhere is a Threat to Justice Everywhere

2011-05-15T12:38:00.000-07:00

That's what Martin Luther King Jr. once said.

So when I heard of the injustice surrounding a harmless high school prom proposal, I could not sit by quietly. No, I had a bone to pick with the administrators of Shelton High School in Connecticut.

I had never heard of Shelton High School, nor the young man, James Tate, who had single-handedly revived chivalry. But I didn't care.

"I'm gettin' on the horn, and I'm calling the school," I announced at 8:30 the other morning to my husband. I had just caught a glimpse of a segment on the Today Show about a high school senior who was banned from his prom because he trespassed on school property, climbed a ladder, and wrote in tape on the school building:

("HMU" means "hit me up" or "call me")

"Really? Is this REALLY how you're starting your day?" my husband asked, rolling his eyes. He took a deep breath as I punched the numbers into the phone, while I fed our son Cheerios.

"Yes, with whom may I speak about the decision to ban James Tate from the prom?" I inquired. I spoke as if James Tate was my son or perhaps my nephew.

A lady on the other end of the line snorted, "You can talk to me, I guess."

"Okay, great," I replied. "I have to say, I have never heard of a more romantic, creative, and innocent gesture," I began, "and banning him from the prom is just completely excessive and wrong."

"Well, I DISAGREE," the school secretary/hench woman interjected.

"You may disagree, but seriously, there are teenagers doing TERRIBLE things every day, and all this boy did was ask a girl to the prom. He didn't hurt anyone, didn't damage any property. I mean, come on, one day of suspension is enough! I have to imagine you guys are going to reconsider this decision to ban James Tate from the prom?"

"I don't think sooooooo," the secretary sang with glee.

"Well, you're making a huge mistake," I said and hung up abruptly.

"Why did you hang up so quickly?" my husband asked, now fully invested in my battle for justice for James.

"She had no authority. Maybe I'll call the superintendent later."

Within 24 hours, James Tate had hundreds of thousands of supporters, and people from as far away as Scotland and Ireland were emailing his school, petitioning for his cause.

And, guess what?

The school administrators reversed their decision. The school's headmaster suggested that the international circus surrounding her unpopular decision to ban the teen from the prom interrupted the educational mission of the school, and therefore, she would reevaluate Mr. Tate's punishment. She did not acknowledge that she made a mistake.

But here's the bottom line: every email, phone call, television segment and supportive voice helped right a wrong. Maybe one teen boy's plight to get to prom is the most inconsequential injustice in the world that you can imagine, but it's the principle that matters.

If you have a voice, use it.

Power to the People!

And, James Tate for Prom King!

Mommy? Mom-my, Mommy!

2011-05-07T06:10:00.000-07:00

"Is that your favorite word?" I ask my two year old son.
He giggles in the backseat, sucking his thumb and fuzzing his monkey's ears nearly off, so that Mr. Monkey now resembles a bat.
"You're singing that 'Mommy song' AGAIN?"
"Yeah," he sighs.
"You just want to tell me how much you love me, right?"

We sit side by side on the sofa and he leans into me, snuggling up close. I feel his hand tap on mine, his monkey bouncing gently on my cheek. "Monkey's daaancing," he says, with an English accent on the word "dancing." "Monkey's happy."

I kiss his still chubby cheeks hundreds of times a day. "You're just the best little boy, you know that?" He sighs. "How much does Mommy love you?"

"To da moon and back!" he yells.

I want to tell him how charming he is, how much he makes me laugh, how proud I am of him, how much he has made me a better person, what joy he has brought to the world, what magic he posses and passes out like candy.

I can't wait to celebrate Mother's Day with him, but then again, we celebrate that day every single day of the year. I want to thank him for that.

I want him to know that he brings the color, charisma, and yes, the choas to life. He is the exclamation point, the hope, the innocence, the adventure, the most beautiful vista, the heart and the soul.

Of all the things that I have helped create or will create in life, he is, by far, the best.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!

Brown Bear, This is Your Wake-up Call . . .

2011-04-20T05:10:00.000-07:00

In the midst of my hibernation during the first trimester of my pregnancy with my son, my husband declared that he had renamed me "Brown Bear." It was so fitting that I considered changing my name legally, again, but I thought I might face unwarranted discrimination should I apply for a job.

Like a true brown bear, I ate and slept. Mainly slept. I nodded off an hour after I arrived at work and five minutes after I got home at 6 pm. For the night. I slept for 14 hours regularly and was only upright to wander to the bathroom 5 times.

When Brown Bear came out of hibernation, it was with renewed energy, enough stamina to pack up an apartment and move out of the city, even drive a Home Depot truck during the move. It was bye bye, Brown Bear.

But, Brown Bear came roaring back this past February. And, a brown bear who has to chase her wild cub all day long really knows how to hibernate. She can drive a car while snoring, bath a baby half-asleep, doze off on the treadmill. She can sleep for 3 months straight.

"Excuse me, Brown Bear, I need your insurance card . . . " the receptionist said yesterday.

Fine, maybe she said, "Stacy," but when she jolted me awake in my ob/gyn's waiting room, I heard "Brown Bear."

"I think you already have it . . . "

"That's right, I need a urine sample. I knew it was one or the other," she said, handing me a plastic cup.

"Random question," I started, "I heard a rumor that Dr. M. may be leaving this hospital."

"Oh honey, people have been screaming at me on the phone for days. It's true."

"Well, where is she going?" I asked, a bit stunned. This lady had just confused my insurance card for a cup of urine. I thought maybe she was just confused again.

"Nobody knows," she whispered.

"Well, I'll just ask her when I see her," I said.

"No, honey, she's gone already."

"Wait, WHAT? I'm here to see her today."

"No, she's already left the hospital - and she's leaving the practice completely. You'll see Dr. C. today" the receptionist continued.

Just then a nurse called my name. I'm no medical professional, but maybe she should have taken my blood pressure BEFORE they told me my doc was AWOL!

If Brown Bear needed something to seriously wake her up, this was it.

By way of background, I had switched to this doc less than a year ago, needing a fresh start with someone new. I had envisioned this doc, Dr. M, being my best cheerleader in the delivery room, receiving holiday cards with my baby's face on them, perhaps coming to Rosh Hashanah dinner sometime.

Now she was gone. Without a trace.

I started thinking about how I could track her down. I remembered how Bill Murray played a psychiatric patient who stalked his therapist, played by Richard Dreyfuss, in the movie, ""What About Bob?" "Dr. LEOOOOOO MARVIN!!!!" He followed him on vacation, to his home, everywhere.

Maybe if I can find Dr. M., I can put a GPS bracelet around her ankle or Lo Jack on her car and keep it in place for the next 6 months. Maybe I can move in her spare bedroom or go on vacation with her family.

If you can't tell by reading this, truthfully, I am over the flood of emotion that nearly drowned me when I heard the news of my doc's departure yesterday. Today, I am on a mission simply to find her, tell her how much she means to me, bribe her if need be. I understand that things happen in life and even when you're with an ob/gyn for years that doesn't necessarily mean she'll be in the delivery room when the time comes, but I at least need Dr. M. on speed dial.

Know what I mean?

A Picture Worth a Thousand Words

2011-04-13T08:45:00.000-07:00

"What's in mommy's belly?" I ask my 2 year old son.
"A BAY-BEE!" he shouts, arms in the air, smile across his face.

"But, Auntie, how do you KNOW?" my 6 year old nephew grilled me the other day, as only the son of a good lawyer could.

I tried to explain to him in general terms, "Cause the doctor said so," without mention of the white stick with two pink lines, the waves of nausea, minor aneurysm-like headaches, exhaustion, and all the rest.

He wasn't quite satisfied with my response. But, today, I have proof.

It's a picture worth a thousand words.
Of a healthy baby.
A younger sibling.
A boy or a girl.
The next child in line to a family full of love.
A playmate to cousins.
A grandchild to the proudest grandparents.
A great-grandchild.
A spark
of hope
in the midst of a season
that has at times seemed hopeless
for our extended family.

When we saw our baby
in the picture
on the monitor
in the hushed
dim room
we saw
felt
one thing:

LIGHT.

The Return of Wonder Woman

2011-04-05T06:07:00.000-07:00

I'm having a Halloween party and you're all invited.

I have loved Halloween ever since I was a little girl.

I love the costumes, the glitter, makeup, masks, and of course, the candy.
I love the spooky decorations, the parties.
I love it all.

The best Halloween costume I ever had was a Wonder Woman costume that I bought when I was a senior at Michigan. My friend, Tracey, and I drove 30 minutes outside of Ann Arbor to a Halloween Superstore for the perfect costume.

Mission accomplished.

I found a Wonder Woman costume, complete with a bodysuit, cape, bracelets, boot covers, and a tiara. It was actually a child's costume, fit for a 7 year old, and no, I'm not exaggerating. You can ask Tracey.

I chose it because I thought it was a more accurate representation of Wonder Woman than the adult version, despite the fact that I could not zip up the back. I hoped (incorrectly) that my red cape would cover the open zipper and shield my half exposed backside since the leotard (as you can imagine) became the equivalent of a g-string.

The first time I put that costume on, against my better judgment, I ran into the frigid Michigan night without so much as a coat or gloves. I ran 5 blocks to a raging house party. It was a magical night.

I loved my child-sized Wonder Woman costume so much, I tried it on for my sister that following spring when I came home from college.

"Go outside in it, I dare you," she said.

The next thing I knew, I was locked out, with my sister hysterical inside the front window. Instead of banging on the door and giving her what she wanted, I began galloping around our circular driveway, with my cape swirling behind me, waving to confused neighbors as they drove by.

This October, I think it's time for me to bust out my Wonder Woman costume once again.
I don't expect to be able to zip it up. I don't care.
I'm going to rock it anyway.
Then I'm going to race (or fly) to the hospital.
Possibly secure local news coverage -
and become the first woman in America to deliver her baby dressed as Wonder Woman.

Now that would be some Halloween party, right?

March Mishigas

2011-03-26T13:21:00.000-07:00

There is some speculation brewing that I cheated while filling out my NCAA college basketball brackets for the ____ Law Firm pool. Of course, there wouldn't be any such speculation if I was not completely crushing the hoop dreams of the partners, associates, their family and friends. Although I am not currently in the lead, I am dunking past the competition with the most potential points.

I am gearing up with my black socks, black sneakers, baggy shorts, and Fab Five swagger. And I am ready to cut down the net.

But, before I do, I would like to put the rumors to rest. Carol, please stop losing sleep. I did not cheat. It would not have even been possible for me to cheat. I spent a total of 10 seconds choosing my picks online. (How can I be so sure that I used only 10 seconds to make my choices? Because 10 seconds is the allotted interval in which I get anything done in my life that does not directly concern my 2 year old son. I go to the bathroom in 10 seconds, wash my hair in 10 seconds, and when that 11th second ticks, I have a toy car driving up my leg - or the shower door - whichever it may be. Time is up.)

And, if I were so inclined to cheat, trust me, I would have entered a pool with a much higher prize than the mere $140 offered by the ______ Law Firm (I'm not giving them free press here).

Although $140 is obviously chump change, I have a totally different perspective on the possibility of a payout should I win. I am going to collect that $140 as partial severance which the firm failed to pay me when they set me loose on "eternity leave" some time ago.

And, it is going to be quite a shanda.

Mark my words. Next year, there will be new rules requiring that ____ Law Firm pool applicants be actual law firm employees or direct blood relatives. The partners will completely ban ex-employees, such as me, in a manner as ruthless as the deletion of our names from the Firm Phone List without any mention of our departures.

But for now, I'm going to enjoy my road to the Final Four and beyond. Carol and all of you others, watch out, I'm coming for you!

I may not be a college basketball savant. But I am the brain behind the brackets. (I use the term "brain" loosely, as my total final game score prediction exceeded 200 points, which caused my husband to scold me that I was thinking NBA, not NCAA!)

However, now that I find myself closing in on victory, it's clearly my time. Pay me my severance and then sever me from all future pools.

I can accept those terms, Your Honor.

A Spark

2011-03-11T04:52:00.000-08:00

I have been a writer ever since I penned a story in 2nd grade about my uncle being hatched from an egg which was left by aliens on my grandmom's doorstep. I was seven then and everyone in my family raved about what an imaginative yet accurate portrait I had painted.

It wasn't until my senior year at the University of Michigan that I actually took a creative writing class. I hoped it would force me to write the stories that were already swirling around my head.

My professor, Gabrielle, was a 30ish grad student and a super talented writer uninterested in coddling her students. She was serious about the need for learning the mechanics of writing, but also open to breaking the rules once you understood what the rules were.

When I sat down with her in a private conference to review my work, she said of my short story, "This is something. This is really something."

I was stunned.

"There's a big writers' contest coming up and I want you to enter this," she continued. "You need to go home and polish it, because the deadline's next week."

I raced through the Diag with a grin from ear to ear. It was a legitimate stamp of approval. I had never considered submitting my work anywhere up until that point.

But, a week later, I did just that. And, although I did not win a coveted Hopwood Award, it didn't matter. I was thinking in a whole new way.

The last week of class, Gabrielle invited me to come hear her read from her manuscript in front of a large audience of her grad school peers and professors. Hers was a remarkable tale which documented everything from her lesbian relationship to her part-time job as a stripper at a blue collar joint on the outskirts of Ann Arbor. I was floored.

After graduation, I wondered what had become of Gabrielle. Then, I heard through the grapevine that she opened a restaurant, Prune, in the East Village to rave reviews. Next, she was writing a column for the New York Times Food and Wine Section. Then, shockingly, she married a man and started a family. And, finally, recently, her memoir, Blood, Bones, and Butter: the Inadvertent Education of a Reluctant Chef, at last, debuted.

I have been waiting for this memoir since I heard her early musings in Ann Arbor in 1997. Gabrielle is wildly talented and her tale is worth your time so I hope you check it out.

I thank Gabrielle Hamilton for being the first objective reader to say to me, "This is something." And, I thank her for showing me the vast possibilities.

I don't think I'll be opening a restaurant in this lifetime, but who knows about the rest.

Merry Go 'Round

2011-03-07T03:27:00.000-08:00

One month ago, my son didn't want to ride the merry go 'round. He wasn't feeling well on that particular day.

"Mommy, carry you," he kept saying, pulling at my leg. I held him while standing for the duration of the carousel ride, not an easy feat.

But, the other day, he was fired up about the merry go 'round back at the Please Touch Museum. He told me he was ready to ride his own horse.

I placed him up high on the painted wooden saddle and fastened the seat belt. His big brown eyes looked up at the top of the carousel, at the painted horses next to him, and rested, smiling at me. The merry music began blaring from the speakers and we were set in motion. I held onto him so he wouldn't be startled by the start of the ride, but he was fine.

He rode up and down, holding onto the pool, laughing aloud. This was his first time on the merry go' round all by himself.

I thought about a family friend, "Drew," who was deathly afraid of merry go' rounds until he was nearly 9 years old. "Stacy, please take him and show him it's not scary," my dad urged me once at the Ocean City Boardwalk. I was about 10 years old.

I hopped onto the horse next to Drew, who was a ghostly shade, and rode backwards, switched directions mid-ride, stood up on the horse, then reached precariously off the ride to grab a golden ring. Drew laughed and laughed and was no longer afraid. "Now, you have to teach him to ride a jet ski!" my dad laughed as we climbed off the ride. "His mom is afraid of EVERYTHING - and she has made HIM scared of everything too," my dad whispered to me as we strolled along the boardwalk. She later died of cancer and I often hoped Drew was not shaken back into the mindset of fearing the ride.

My little boy squeals with joy as the colors fly by, the music peaks with intensity. I watch his face with such pride.

The past few weeks have been far from a merry go 'round for our extended family. It's been a terrible roller coaster ride, with death-defying turns and no end in sight. Our beautiful two year old niece is in the front seat, her health hanging in the balance. While her incredible parents cling onto her with unyielding strength and love, we've all been along for the ride. We all want her back on a more serene ride. And, thankfully, in recent days, there are glimmers that our niece has her sights set on the merry go 'round once again.

My little boy brings me back to this ride, here and now. He says to me, "Dah so fun, Mommy!" The merry go 'round spins around and around, he rides his horse up and down, the colors spin by in a dizzying dance, the music rises and falls. I lift his little hand and kiss it. "Yes, love, the merry go 'round is the best!"

License and Registration, Sir . . .

2011-03-03T04:12:00.000-08:00

Here's a snapshot:

Me, skipping out of the toy store carrying my best boy.
My best boy carrying a new green Thomas the Train named Alfie.
A teenage clerk trying to keep our pace, carrying a shiny new tricycle.

We pass by school children in uniforms and it hits me that in a few years, he will be THAT age. No longer THIS age, where he's debating which he will drive first: the train or the trike.

"Happy birthday, buddy boy."

"How 'bout da' scooter too?" he asks. "Scooter" could have been "backhoe," "gondola," "bulldozer" or a dozen others. He is a transportation savant and often has dreams about driving the ice cream truck.

"Maybe when you're bigger, okay? Today, we're going to ride your new tricycle!"

"Good idea, Mommy!"

Enjoy the ride, baby boy . . .

Rock Out Wit' Cha Crock Out

2011-02-09T09:13:00.000-08:00

Some (or rather, none) of you have asked how my culinary skills have progressed recently. It's now been approximately 19 months since I've been on eternity leave and in that time, you'd think I would have mastered something other than how to defend against a toddler's headbutt or conquer a Mount Everest-sized pile of clothes in need of laundering. You'd think I'd be a natural in the kitchen.

And you'd be dead wrong.

I STILL cook unidentifiable objects and pass them off as chicken breasts.

I STILL substitute when I don't have the correct ingredients at my disposable. "Can I use Swiss Miss cocoa mix when a recipe calls for cocoa?"

I STILL use my husband's simple phrase, "It's not . . . terrible," as my barometer of a meal well cooked.

But, recently all that has changed.

I had the brilliant idea that a crock pot would change my life. The commercials on TV said so. And I totally bought in. I decided to purchase one for the annual Biscardi Christmas polyanna. I figured since I thought it was a great gift, someone else would too.

Only once the polyanna began, I had second thoughts. As I watched one of my brothers-in-law open a box revealing a large plastic "PIMP" cup, I realized I needed to take matters into my own hands. The chance of me randomly picking a gift better than that shiny new crock pot was slim to none. So, I opened my own gift and feigned excitement.

"Hey, I just saw you wrapping that gift 10 minutes ago!" one of my brothers-in-law outed me. I didn't care.

The Biscardis, they know how to cook. They didn't need this bulky appliance cluttering up their kitchens. I was confident that if Obama himself came knocking on their doors, they could wip up a meal fit for a president in seconds. I, on the other hand, could possibly host Bo Obama, the family dog.

Needless to say, I was the grinch who stole my own Christmas polyanna.

Now it was time to get crockin'.

Here is the thing about a crock pot. You just SHOVE anything and everything into the pot and let it cook. Oh, wait a minute! That's what I've been doing for years! This was the perfect appliance for me.

The beauty of the crock is that your meal comes out perfect no matter what you do! (assuming you've put in ingredients that mix well together and/or followed a recipe).

Clearly, I need a recipe and the internet is chock full of crock pot recipes. I am fairly skilled at penning a shopping list, driving to the market, and racing through the store and check-out 20 seconds before a toddler meltdown.

My trouble with the crock pot is that I still need to handle raw poultry and meat. In years past, I donned surgical latex gloves when picking up raw brisket or ground beef. My crock pot has somehow given me the confidence to go bare-handed, but it still makes me want to barf.

Yesterday, as I was cutting chicken, I realized that I say, "Ew, yesh, ew," throughout the entire process. And, it's a real process because I like to cut off anything that looks remotely suspicious on the bird. So, if a recipe calls for 2 lbs of chicken, I need to buy about 4 lbs because the rest of it I want to chop off, shove down my garbage disposal and never think of again.

Once the chicken was cut yesterday, I was golden. I added chopped onion, chopped celery, cream of chicken soup, gravy, seasoning and I was ready to crock and roll. I put my crock pot on "low" and let it cook for 5 hours. After that, I added some carrots, baked some biscuits, and I had a Betty Crockeresque meal ready for my husband and son.

It was perfection.

Nobody was poisoned.
Nobody was making a bowl of cereal as a "2nd dinner."
Nobody was saying, "It's not . . . terrible."

It was delicious.

And, I'm declaring it right now, on this 9th day of February, in the year 2011: I can officially cook.

Thank you, glorious crock pot.

YOU COMPLETE ME.

A Bris and a Funeral

2011-01-31T16:02:00.000-08:00

Within the past week, I've received the best and worst kinds of news.

A friend's baby was born.

And a cousin died.

In the past four days, I've attended a bris and a funeral.

A bris, welcoming a new baby into the world. A funeral, saying goodbye to a man whose life was cut way too short.

We looked at the perfect newborn, with spiky red hair, and rosy cheeks, bundled up in a white blanket and we blessed him and thought of everything that awaits him in his lifetime.

And, we looked at the casket, and listened to the words of his 6 children (most of them teens), now without their father. We thought of everything that he had done, all of the lives he had created, shaped and touched in his short lifetime.

The moyel at the bris talked of future milestones that this beautiful baby boy would experience.

And the rabbi at the funeral talked about all of the milestones this middle aged man had experienced.

The proud parents stood side by side, wiping tears from their eyes. They said the baby was named after a dearly departed family member.

The grieving children talked about how their dad made time to take each one of them on their own vacation with him every year. They read letters and emails he had written them, telling them how proud he was of them. He had written to one son on his 21st birthday, "You're good at basketball, but you're sick (great) at life! That's the most important thing, to be sick at life!"

The bris ended with great relief and joy; the funeral, with great despair and sadness.

Next week, there will be another bris, a new baby born, and another funeral, a life extinguished. It goes on and on and on and on.

One big circle.

So, knowing that we're on this brief journey, what are we to do?

In the words of my dear cousin:

"Be sick at life."

And In This Corner . . .

2011-01-17T06:57:00.000-08:00

The lights are dim, the TV bright. "Ni Hao, Kai-lan" is on and Kai-lan is teaching my little boy how to say "thank you" in Mandarin.

He's sucking his thumb, but I can see from his eyes that he's smiling at her too. He's debating whether or not he wants to take his thumb out to practice his Mandarin. He opts against it and flips his stuffed monkey around by his raggedy right ear, flicking his finger back and forth.

I close my eyes
and
all of a sudden
something
someone
slams into my head
with HIS head.

On purpose.

I want to say "No, No! No, thank you" in Mandarin, but it's too late.

It's a WWF tournament.

In my bed.

"No headbutts!" I yell, (in English), laughing. "Headbutts!" he repeats, smiling his trademark devilish grin.

"You're troubl-icious!" I tell him. "That's it! I'm changing your middle name."

He jumps on top of me and hovers over me, menacingly. "Ai-plane ride!" he screams.

"No, ai-plane rides, Coo-Coo," I say. I toss him on his back onto the bed.
His hair is mashed on one side like a deranged Justin Bieber and he's right back up, smacking me in the face with his baby paws.

"Hey!" He giggles uncontrollably. "Heeyyyyy!" he mocks me. I flip him on his back and flips over in 2.1 seconds. He attempts a second headbutt.

"No headbutting!"

I level him again and he starts coughing/laughing.

I grab his sippy cup from my bedside table.

"Okay, calm down. Take a sip," I tell him, holding it up to his mouth.

Great, I think. What kind of idiot stops the match to hydrate their opponent?
It's like I'm Apollo and Mick at the same time.

He's hydrated. He's back. He's like El Nino ripping through my bedroom.

He bounces up and down on the bed.

"Sit dowwwwwwwwwwn!" I yell, but it's too late. He flies off my bed and lands on the back of his head. On the floor.

I scramble and pick him up. He's crying and I'm almost in tears.

Great, I think. What kind of idiot cries when his opponent gets knocked out of the ring?

We wipe away his tears together and get cozy back in bed. "Come on, let's watch Kailan," I say. He's clutching his monkey in one hand, he's got the thumb in his mouth, his feet covered with a blankie. He's curled up in my arms and all is right in the world.

Without warning, his head moves towards me like a boulder flying 60 mph.

Great, I think. What kind of idiot would continually risk life and limb by sitting this close to a wild, unpredictable, bull?

A mom.

Fearless.

Fabulous.

Champion of the world.

Throwing Stones

2011-01-13T05:57:00.000-08:00

The tragedy in Arizona has rocked the nation this week and now it seems as though everyone is throwing stones, trying to make sense of what is clearly senseless violence.

In the days after the massacre at Columbine, I wrote down my thoughts which are very similar to my thoughts today.

What Remains

Two boys enter, eyes wide
will their plan go off?
a hail of bullets
snap bang pop
are they fireworks?
screaming madness
chaotic masses of teenagers scramble
duck
hide like soldiers
hunted like animals
boo, laughs the gunman, as a bullet splatters a brain
cuts short the life of a star athlete
a popular student,
a boy
a friend
somebody’s son
hooting and hollering
who’s the next target?
who believes in god?
who’s to be spared?
can they get them all?
thousands of lives shattered in agonizing moments
frantic voices whisper desperate pleas
last loving words into cell phones
images flashed over airwaves
millions hear dark voices
"I hear the gunmen,
help us please! i’m calling from under my desk"
a teacher lies bleeding
"hang on hang on," his students cry
a final look at his children and he
lets go
camera crews in the midst of chaos
is this a primetime movie?
no, it’s breaking news, breaking news: "Bullets ring out at another American school"
call in the analysts, the shrinks, the gun owners, the priests, where are the goddamn parents?
a boy shot in the head hurls himself out a second floor window
a girl screams out the pain of the nation
"he put a gun to my head"
are they animals?
villains?
Satan worshipers?
neo-Nazis?
or mentally ill boys?
somebody’s child becomes a murderer
others are left like rag dolls in twisted horror
tears, questions, and no answers
lost dreams
children who never grow out of their teens
pointing fingers
parents cry out why? how could this happen here?
who’s responsible?
the day after, a child goes off to school
"am i safe, mom?" he asks
thousands of moms lie
secretly cry
pray
hope
for a better day.

4-24-99

And one more thought on the political circus that has overshadowed the terrible events in Arizona. This one, from the Grateful Dead:

"Throwing Stones"

An installment in The Annotated Grateful Dead Lyrics.

Picture a bright blue ball, just spinning, spinnin free,
Dizzy with eternity.
Paint it with a skin of sky,
Brush in some clouds and sea,
Call it home for you and me.
A peaceful place or so it looks from space,
A closer look reveals the human race.
Full of hope, full of grace
Is the human face,
But afraid we may lay our home to waste.

There's a fear down here we can't forget.
Hasn't got a name just yet.
Always awake, always around,
Singing ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.

Now watch as the ball revolves
And the nighttime falls.
Again the hunt begins,
Again the bloodwind calls.
By and by, the morning sun will rise,
But the darkness never goes
From some men's eyes.
It strolls the sidewalks and it rolls the streets,
Staking turf, dividing up meat.
Nightmare spook, piece of heat,
It's you and me.
You and me.

Click flash blade in ghetto night,
Rudies looking for a fight.
Rat cat alley, roll them bones.
Need that cash to feed that jones.
And the politicians throwin' stones,
Singing ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.

[Bridge:]
Commissars and pin-stripe bosses
Roll the dice.
Any way they fall,
Guess who gets to pay the price.
Money green or proletarian gray,
Selling guns 'stead of food today.

So the kids they dance
And shake their bones,
And the politicians throwin' stones,
Singing ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.

Heartless powers try to tell us
What to think.
If the spirit's sleeping,
Then the flesh is ink
History's page will thus be carved in stone.
And we are here, and we are on our own
On our own.
On our own.
On our own.
[Instrumental]

If the game is lost,
Then we're all the same.
No one left to place or take the blame.
We can leave this place and empty stone
Or that shinin' ball we used to call our home.

So the kids they dance
And shake their bones,
And the politicians throwin' stones,
Singing ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.

[Bridge two:] Shipping powders back and forth
Singing black goes south and white comes north.
In a whole world full of petty wars
Singing I got mine and you got yours.
And the current fashion sets the pace,
Lose your step, fall out of grace.
And the radical, he rant and rage,
Singing someone's got to turn the page.

And the rich man in his summer home,
Singing just leave well enough alone.
But his pants are down, his cover's blown...
And the politicians throwin' stones,
So the kids they dance
And shake their bones,
And it's all too clear we're on our own.
Singing ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.

Picture a bright blue ball,
Just spinnin', spinnin, free.
Dizzy with the possibilities.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.

New Year's at Nanny's

2010-12-31T00:31:00.000-08:00

It was a long way down and I was not afraid of falling.

I’ll tell you the truth. I contemplated jumping.

Warm sticky air blew my dark mane around in a swirl. I stood, barefoot, on the concrete, sporting black shorts, a red rhine-stoned t-shirt, and a devilish grin. I leaned far over the balcony railing, staring straight down a dozen stories. I gave it a good, long thought.

I glanced over at my sister. Her feathered dirty blond hair whipped around in the wind. Her sparkling blue eyes speckled with golden dots said what they always said. “Ga head, do it, I dare you.” She was my muse, and I, her monkey.

“Stacy, do it, do it!”

“Don’t you dare!” Nanny hollered through the sliding glass door. Our great-grandmother marched across the living room towards us in her white open-toed sandals, exposing her sheer stockings and two month old chipped pink pedicure. Her baby blue polyester pants hugged her thighs as she swished in our direction. Dozens of elephant figurines watched from their perch on the mantel. (They faced the front door for “good luck,” according to Nanny, a superstition savant).

“Do it, do it!” my sister encouraged.

I released a couple of colored paper streamers from my clenched fist and watched as they floated down, down, dowwwwwwwn. We squealed, “Whooooooooooa!”

Nanny’s Aqua-netted blond hair would have stood on end if it could have moved a millimeter.

“Stacy, that’s against the law!” she shrieked.

“No, it’s not,” my sister whispered to me, concealing her grin.

“You girls get in here right now!” Nanny tapped her long acrylic crimson nails on the glass.

Alissa handed me a noisemaker to see what I would do next. I wound up and released it off the balcony as if I was throwing out the first pitch at the Phillies’ home-opener.

“That’s it, I’m calling the police!” Nanny shouted from the other side of the door. She was too afraid to come out on the balcony. Always was.

“The police? Nanny, it’s New Year’s Eve!” my sister attempted. “They’re only streamers!” Streamers that Nanny had bought for us, assuming we’d have a tame celebration inside her modest one bedroom apartment, with Al Jolson singing, “You Made Me Love You,” softly on the record player.

“I don’t care. I’m calling the police! And you know what they’re going to do?"

Nanny’s made up face flashed scarlet and contorted into that of an angry clown. She shook a crooked finger at us through the smudged glass and hollered, “They’re going to come arrest you!”

I was six years old and my sister was nine.

“They don’t arrest kids,” my sister reassured me, with her signature eye roll.

Nanny stomped into the kitchen and lifted the yellow phone receiver, smudged like a spin-art painting, with coral lipstick and beige foundation. She pretended to dial, watching us, watching her.

She couldn’t fool us. She slammed the phone down, abruptly.

“Come back in here right now, we’ll play “Miss America,”” Nanny begged.

“Miss America” was a game we played every time we visited Nanny and Pop-pop, in their high-rise Hallandale, Florida, apartment. "Miss America" consisted of us dressing up in Nanny’s blond bob wigs, gawdy costume jewelry, and false eyelashes. We caked on her outdated smelly lipstick and clunked around in size 8 platforms from the ‘60s. Nanny loved to pick up a hairbrush (her microphone) and introduce us, even if it was only to the elephants and Pop-pop, who acted as the judges.

“And now I would like to introduce to you contestant number 4. This blond bombshell hails from Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, and enjoys tennis and rollerskating. Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome, Alissa . . .”

“We don’t want to play “Miss America!” I yelled back, shaking my head at her through the glass. My long hair swirled up in the night air wildly.

Nanny would not give up. “I know, we’ll watch Marcus Welby.” Alissa imitated barfing off the balcony as Nanny paced back and forth on the linoleum kitchen floor.

My sister glanced down at the two fistfuls of silver and black streamers that she clutched in her hands. “It’s New Year’s Eve, Nanny! This is what people do!”

“Girls, I’ll make you some ice cream!” Nanny was desperate. “I have delicious vanilla ice cream in the ice box. I’ll make you a bowl.” Ice cream was Nanny’s best dish by a mile.

“Okay, Nanny, we’re coming in!”

“Good!”

I let both fists of streamers go, much to my sister’s delight.

“Girls!” Nanny yelled in a panic. Alissa launched her streamers into the humid air.

“Don’t!”

I felt a rush through my toes on the concrete. It sizzled up my legs to my outstretched arms, right off the balcony, and through the humid wind, over the palm trees toward the ocean in the distance and across the universe.

"HAPPY,

HAPPY,

HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPY,

NEW YEAR!"

Princess For a Night

2010-12-16T05:36:00.000-08:00

I had always wanted to see Prince live in concert.
I had been a fan ever since my mom, exercising questionable judgment, took me to see Purple Rain, the soft-porn film, at the theater, in 1985 at the ripe old age of 10.

I loved Prince then, when he was a just a troubled son, a misunderstood musical genius and a loner, who charmed women into dropping their clothes with a simple devilish grin. I loved his poofy sprayed hair, his dark eyeliner, how he rocked out on guitar with every ounce of his soul.

And I loved Prince even through his "awkward stage" when he wanted to be known simply as a symbol.

Twenty years on, it seemed impossible that I had never seen Prince play live. I could not wait to get my hands on some Prince tickets. And, I didn't just want to attend the concert. I wanted to sit on the floor, preferably somewhere in the first 10 rows.

And, truthfully, I wanted to be called on stage to dance with Prince. I expected to be.

Was this a far-fetched fantasy? I honestly did not think so.

Did I know for sure that Prince would even call members of the audience up to dance with him? I was just hoping. I had seen Bobby Brown and countless other singers do it, so I thought it was a possibility.

I phoned my friend, Emily, to tell her that I had secured 15th row tickets for us to see Prince at the Wachovia Center in Philly, and I added: "You know we're gonna get called on stage to dance with him."

"Oh, we're TOTALLY getting on stage," she replied, genuinely believing in my dream too.

"Let's dress like Apollonia," I suggested. "Do you have any leather one pieces you could bust out?"

"Hm, let me think about it," Em laughed. "Or we could always wear raspberry berets?" she offered.

For weeks our conversations carried on like this. What could we wear/do/say to secure a spot on stage with Prince?

I bragged to my sister, too, about my impending big night with Prince. "Yeah, right," she snorted over the phone. "You'll see," I promised. "I'm getting called up there."

"Well, I'll be in the 5th row, so I won't miss you," she joked.

As the big night approached, I called Emily one last time.

"I'm just wearing jeans," she said, sighing, somewhat defeated.

"Jeans?! What about the leather, the beret? We need to stand out so Prince can spot us!"

"I don't know, I'm wearing jeans," she said. "Why, what are you wearing?"

"Black pants and a shimmery white tank top. I did some online reconnaissance and I saw some pix of Prince from a show in New York last night. He's dressed all in white. So, of course, I want to match him," I said half kidding.

I skipped through my high-rise building's lobby and waved to my favorite doorman: "Hi, Rafiq!"

"Hey princess, lookin' niceeee," he smiled.

"I'm heading to the Prince concert."

"Aw, girl, have fun!"

"Thanks! I'm going to dance on stage with Prince."

"Go get'em, girl," Rafiq replied, shaking his head, giggling.

Prince was electrifying on stage. His tiny stature gave way to an enormous presence, that of a musical genius and a born performer. He owned the stage, which was set up in the round - a complete circle with long walkways extending out of the circle in 6 different directions. The band played in the middle of the circle and Prince danced, jammed, and gyrated about.

Much to my dismay, the Purple One invited two African-American women up on stage to dance with him for the second song of the show.

"NO WAY!" Em yelled from our 15th seats, which may have well been the last row in the arena.

"This is BULLSHIT!" I joked. "I want my money back."

"Well, I guess we'll just have to sit back and just enjoy the show," Em conceded.

Several songs later, I stood up. "I'll be right back, I'm going to the bathroom," I told Em.

On my way back down to our seats on the floor, a heavy set man dressed in all black approached me.

"Are you a dancer?" he whispered/yelled into my ear over the booming bass.

"EX.......CUSE ME?" I responded, fearful he was seeking a stripper.

He saw the panic in my face. "I'm the guy who picks girls to dance on stage with Prince," he continued. My mind screamed, "OHMYGOD! NO WAY! NO WAY! NO WAY! I saw flashing images of me in a music video with Prince.

"Can you dance like a sistah?" he asked.

"Absolutely," I told him. I didn't know what that meant. Didn't care. I could dance. I would dance.

"Great, because you're going up on stage after this song," he said. He slipped a plastic bracelet around my wrist.

I looked around for the hidden camera and the team of producers spoofing me. I saw 15,000 screaming fans.

"Wait. WHAT?!!! I have to go get my friend! She has to come with me!" I yelled back at the guy.

"Ok, but hurry up, meet me up at the side of the stage after this song."

I skipped ran back to Emily and screamed:
"YOU'RENOTGOINGTOBELIEVETHIS (breath)
SOMEMANINTHECROWDJUSTGRABBEDMEANDTOLDMEHE'STHEGUYWHOPICKSGIRLSTOGOONSTAGEWITHPRINCE (breath)
ANDWE'REGOINGUPNOW (breath)
COMEWITHME!"

I think Em lost consciousness for a second and then we bolted up to the side of the stage, jumping hurdles of chairs, shoes, and cups of beer along the way.

"This is my friend," I informed the man, catching my breath.

He scanned her up and down. "Sorry, Prince doesn't let anyone in jeans on stage," he told us.

"I'll TAKE THEM OFF!" Em begged.

"No, you can't take your pants off," the man chuckled, as if he had heard it all before.

"I'll trade pants with you?!" she offered. His pants would have fit 10 Emilys. "No, you can't wear my pants either," he explained calmly. "You need to go back to your seat."

Em was crushed, but she looked at me and did what a great friend would do: "You HAVE to go up. This is a once in a lifetime thing."

"But," I started.

"Just get up there and have fun!" she nudged.

And that was it.

Now, I'm walking up 6 wooden steps with 6 other women who look just like me or a shade or two darker, ready to dance with Prince. Our only instructions:

"Smile, dance, and DON'T TOUCH PRINCE."

I'm thinking those 3 commands over and over again, plus: "Don't trip, don't fall off the stage, and don't look like a deer in headlights."

The stage is sweltering hot from the white flashing bulbs and the energy of the crowd. And, there, right next to me, is PRINCE. Inches away, rocking out on guitar. I am clearly a head above him, despite his high heeled boots. I smile at him, he smiles back and I become part of the show.

He's belting out his hit song, "Kiss," and I decide to work the catwalk down towards the audience on the side of the arena where Em is sitting. I spot her jumping 10 feet in the air (15 rows back) as if she's hopping on a pogo stick. She has a huge smile stretched across her face and she's dancing while jumping.

And then, right there, 5 rows from me and Prince, I see a familiar face. It looks like my sister, only deathly, ghostly white. She spots me on stage and she takes a second to hoist her jaw off the floor. I am pulling out every dance move in my repertoire and pointing at her, mouthing the words, "I TOLD YOU! I TOLD YOU!" She snaps a photo of me and Prince but without a flash, it's too dark to ever see.

3 songs, approximately 15 minutes later, my mission is complete.

I return to Emily and we just start yelling at the top of our lungs. "OH MY GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD!"

"We have to leave!" Em shouts to me.

"Why?"

"I mean, WHAT is going to top THAT? Let's go call everyone we know!"

We do just that.

My parents don't recognize my voice become I'm so high from my encounter with the Purple One. I have to convince them that it's me. "That a girl!" says my mom. "You said you were going to do it."

I don't know if it was the fact that Prince enjoys women with dark features, like me, or the fact that I was dressed to match his entourage, like a lunatic, or if I was just giving off a certain energy that night, like "damn it, I'm here to dance with Prince," but my night as a "princess" made me a believer in believing that anything and everything is possible.

The universe, much like my beloved Prince, is mysterious.

Serenity In Aisle 6

2010-11-30T06:34:00.000-08:00

The grotesque glow of fluorescent lights welcomes me as I walk through the doors. I feel an immediate sense of calm pass through me.

It's not lavender that I smell, but perhaps basil or cilantro.
No cucumber mud masks here, just plenty of cucumbers.

An elderly gentleman smiles at me and shuffles by. A Sponge Bob balloon floats next to Mickey Mouse in the distance. I try my best to ignore them. I stroll casually along, hearing the babble of a baby wrapped up tightly in fleece. I tune it right out.

This is my night. My moment.

Supermarket shopping sans toddler.

Ah, serenity. Serenity. Serenity at the supermarket.

I might as well be at a spa in Sedona wrapped in seaweed. This is pure bliss.

I wouldn't care if the checkout lines were snaked around like those at Disney World. That would just mean extra time for me to be free with my thoughts.

"Stace!"

Oh, wait a minute. Someone's calling my name.

Oh, lucky day! A friend is walking towards me, basking in the glow of her own ingenious idea of leaving her daughter at home with daddy.

"I feel high," I confess, giggling. "Isn't this FANTASTIC, just strolling the aisles without anyone yelling, 'SNACK!'?" She nods in agreement. "The only thing that would make this better: cocktails. Next time, I'm serving cocktails in aisle 4."

She laughs, wondering what kind of meds I'm on and how she can get her hands on some too.

Seriously, I may pour cocktails the next time I sneak out to the supermarket without my little cookie monster. Can you imagine if you're perusing the ingredients on the side of a cereal box and you hear:

"Attention shoppers: Calling all exhausted, hardworking, deserving moms. Were you wise enough to leave your kids at home tonight? If so, come sample some delicious strawberry mojitos in Aisle 3, as well as freshly made guacamole and chips. And that's not all! The bakery department is cutting a cookie cake in your honor."

Would you bolt towards Aisle 3?

What if it had been a particularly stressful day, full of antics, like your toddler standing, no, jumping, in his high chair, throwing chunks of chicken onto the Persian rug and banging trains on the window, with a mischievous gleam in his eye?

The announcement continues: "Looking to make an evening out of this supermarket outing? We've got toilet paper, facial cleanser, and any other toiletries you may need in Aisle 8."

Would you sprint towards Aisle 8? Would you stay the night?

I stroll through the frozen foods section, contemplating this idea. A slumber party at the supermarket. Wow.

But, then I think of my two favorite guys getting cozy at home, watching "Roary the Racing Car" in bed.

It's official. It's time to leave the "spa." It's time to say goodbye to serenity.

It's time to go home.

The Moon, The Sun, and Everything in Between

2010-11-24T08:24:00.000-08:00

"Da MOOON, da MOOOON!" my son exclaims, his little pointer finger poking up towards outer space. He peers out of the car window, into the pitch black night, clutching his stuffed monkey in his left hand.

"Hol, hol!" he yells, his eyes lit up as if the moon has embodied him.

"You want to HOLD the moon?" I ask, laughing, already sure of the answer.

"Yesh!" he shouts.

"But the moon is way up in the sky."

"Oh noooooooooooo," he moans. "Reach! Reach!"

"You can't reach it," I try to explain.

"Mommy reach!" he pleads.

"I can't reach it either. It's way up in the sky."

"Daddy reach?" he suggests.

"Daddy does have long arms . . . .but, Daddy can't reach it either."

"Noooo," he sighs.

"Should we try?" I ask, again sure of the answer.

"Yesh."

I extend my arms up towards the sun roof. If I could just pluck the moon out of the sky and hand it to my little stargazer, I'd gladly do it.

We turn on his stuffed turtle at bedtime, which projects the constellation on his ceiling in blue, green, or yellow. "Da MOOON!" he shrieks.

"Hey Galileo, show Monkey where the moon is," my husband suggests. He stands up in his crib with Monkey in his outstretched right hand, like the Statue of Liberty holding her torch. Monkey's smile seems to grow a bit wider. Monkey catches the magic.

It reminds me of one time when I was home from college for Thanksgiving weekend. Ready for bed, I turned off the lights in my bedroom and my entire ceiling lit up shockingly like Times Square. My sister and her boyfriend (now my brother-in-law) had drawn pictures and notes to me in glow-in-the-dark chalk just for fun. I laughed myself to sleep under the majestic misshapen stars and doodles of Snoopy and Bart Simpson. Not only did I refuse to erase their "masterpiece," but my parents sold the house with my ceiling artwork about a year later to an unsuspecting buyer. It was no Michelangelo but, hey, to me it was magic.

Last night, there was a spectacular rare blue moon in the sky. My son almost "took a heart attack," as they say in South Philadelphia, when he spotted it through the high window in our living room's cathedral ceiling.

"Da mooooooooooon!"

And we had the same conversation that we have almost every night. Hol! You want to hold the MOON? Yesh!

I don't know what it is, but there is something so sweet and innocent and charming about a baby wanting to hold the moon and the sun and everything that is beautiful in nature that makes me want to stop and see things again, as if for the first time. It makes me want to jump up and down, laugh a maniacal laugh like he does, clap my hands, and feel a bit of that joy.

So, whether you have glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling, or clouds fogging your view, take a moment and see - feel - remember - what's out there. A whole universe waiting to be discovered.

Don't let the magic pass you by.

Never Negotiate with a Woman with Road Rage

2010-11-11T11:02:00.000-08:00

We were getting a Prius.
Or so he said.

I wasn't thrilled about the idea.

He said we were going green.
I started to make a scene.

I come from a family of car crazies.
"I need to uphold the tradition of speeding tickets and questionable control behind the wheel," I argued.

I did not believe a Prius could handle that kind of responsibility.

"I need something with pep," I explained.

"The Prius is peppy, you'll see," he said. "Larry David drives one," he added.

I love Curb Your Enthusiasm, but I was not buying a Prius just because Larry had one.

"Just think about it," he begged as he kissed me goodbye and sent me off to my friend's wedding. "I'll see you tonight, after my cousin's party."

"Ok, but can you tell me how to get to the church again?"

He walked me through my turns and I was on my way, driving his slightly tattered generic white sedan. 20 minutes later, I made a panicked call from my cell phone:

"Sorry to interrupt the party, but are you sure you gave me the right directions?"

"Yes, Magellan, just keep driving straight another couple of miles and you'll see it. Love you."

I rolled on, staring at the clock. I had 5 minutes to get to the wedding.

"All weddings start late, they must be starting at least 10 or 15 minutes late," I convinced myself.

10 minutes passed. I made a frantic call:

"I am lost. It is NOT this way!"

"Wait, let me ask my dad," he responded nervously. I checked the clock. A time bomb was about to blow.

"Babe? I AM SO SORRY. It's the other direction."

"WHAT?!!!! I'm going to miss the whole goddamn wedding!" I yelled, pounding on the steering wheel.

"I ---"

"You told me not to print directions because you knew where it was!"

"I'm sorr-"

"I have to go!" I yelled. I stomped on the gas pedal and nearly took out a cyclist next to me. I flirted with tears but got a grip - of the wheel - and floored it. The car barely stayed in one piece as I zoomed up to the church.

I ran clumsily in my heels up to the church door. It was locked. A middle-aged usher in an ill-fitting suit frowned at me and shook his head. I was forced to wait outside. Apparently, not all weddings go off late. I watched the bride and groom kiss from behind a dingy window outside the front door.

I felt my face scorching, my blood pressure jumping off the charts.

I turned my phone off and refused to answer my soon-to-be husband's apologetic calls for the next two hours. When I did call him back, I spoke in a cool and calm voice that is often attributed to violent criminals:

"I missed the wedding. The entire ceremony. LOCKED OUT OF THE CHURCH! I drove like a maniac to get there, but was too late."

"Babe, I am so sorr---"

" I punched the steering wheel . . ."

"You punched ---?" He giggled.

"Sore knuckles and all, I concluded that I need a car with good handling and quick pickup that can handle such situations."

He paused nervously. "Is the Prius . . . ?"

"Off the table," I told him definitively.

"Ok, fine," he conceded. "The Prius is dead."

"Good."

"And, in exchange, you'll never bring this up again?"

"Never again," I said curtly.

We were getting a Mercedes.
Or so I said.

He smiled behind the wheel,
a win-win situation and, all in all, a pre-tty pre-tty good deal.

A 3 Xanax Day

2010-11-03T09:29:00.000-07:00

It's a 3 Xanax kind of day and you know how many I've taken?
0.

It's not like I pop pills on a regular basis, but if I did, today would be at least a .75 milligram day.

It started uneventfully, but I learned quickly that I was dealing with a toddler still hung over from Halloween and the high of playing conductor on a friend's new train table well past his bedtime last night.

Then there were the teeth. Teething never seems to end and today, a new front tooth made an appearance.

All of these things together created the perfect storm.

My son eluded me as I tried to slip his feet into his sneakers. Everything is a game and now the stakes are higher because he is Usain Bolt fast. I finally got him dressed and carried him squirming out to the car.

He eluded me once again as I tried to strap him into his car seat. He arched his back gracefully and slid halfway to the floor of the car before I grabbed him and tried to go in for landing #2. No chance. Landing #3? I circled back again. Nothing.

"Okay, let's go back in and take a nap," I told him. Luckily, I only wanted to run some errands and there was nowhere we had to be.

I shot some Motrin into his mouth with some resistance and considered a shot of whiskey for myself. He screamed and cried and fell asleep 2.5 minutes later. It was great parenting, if I may say so myself.

An hour later, he woke up cranky, but happy to see me. We read a few books and he did a puzzle.

"Let's put your shoes on, okay?"

"CHASE!" he replied, grinning.

"You want mommy to chase you?"

He was already down the hall. I played along. Got his shoes on. Got him in the car on attempt #1. Handed him a football to hold. Forgot the monkey. I forgot THE monkey. MR. MONKEY, to those of you not on a first name basis.

Now, this I knew was a huge risk, leaving home without Mr. Monkey. But, we were already in the car, engine running, and we went.

First, a quick trip to the pharmacy. He was an angel. We played catch in the toy aisle and I let him pick out a matchbox car. We then ventured on to the supermarket and for the first 5 minutes, all was right in the world, or at least the Gladwyne Superfresh.

Then it happened.

He started yelling his favorite new word: "Nack! S - nack! Nack! S-nack!"

Now, I never thought I'd be one of those mothers shoving snacks down her child's throat in the middle of aisle 9, but now I know better. You do what you have to do. I was 1/4 through my shopping list (which I left conveniently at home and was trying to recall by memory). A snack seemed reasonable. I grabbed the nearest thing to me: a chocolate graham cracker box.

I opened it as quickly as a person defusing a bomb. Technically speaking, that's what I was doing. He smiled when he got the first taste of that cracker.

I raced down the aisles throwing in groceries like I had won a shopping spree and time was running out. Then he said another word: "Wa-ter."

I was in trouble.

Not only did I forget Mr. Monkey at home, but I had a purse without a sippy cup full of water. Now this is poor parenting, to say the least. The only reason I didn't have a cup full of water for my little man was because a second before we left the house, he grabbed it out of my purse and ran around, yelling, "Chase!"

"We don't have any water, but we'll get some as soon as we get home, okay?"

It was not okay. He freaked in a way that he rarely has. He threw the chocolate graham cracker at me with such force that it ricocheted off the shopping cart handle and landed in pieces on the floor. Mortified, I scooped up the pieces and threw them into my sweatshirt pocket.

Blame it on the Halloween hangover, blame it on the teeth. I don't know. I picked him up out of the cart and tried to give him some freedom to walk.

Literally 24 hours ago, he was gallivanting around Buddakan like Stephen Starr. Now, he was throwing himself face first onto the floor of Superfresh in the frozens section. I kept walking because I've read that you're supposed to ignore such dramatic conduct from a toddler. It did not stop. He started banging his mouth onto the floor.

I picked him up, tossing more items into my cart in a last-ditch effort.

"All done," I told him as he cried.

We got into a fast-moving checkout line and I tossed my items towards the clerk.

"Here, you want to get down?"

I figured he'd stand right next to me and continue admiring the Sponge Bob balloon he was checking out. Not so. He got that huge grin on his face and started booking. Straight towards the exit. I ran at full speed and swooped him up as he was exiting towards the parking lot.

"Now I have to hold you," I explained as he squirmed back down to the floor.

I was furious at myself for wearing Uggs. I felt myself melting into them, and I wondered if I might melt away completely. I hoped so. My core body temp spiked at 110 when I chased him out of the store for the 2nd time. I ran back in with him under my arm like a football. The checkout clerks cheered as if I had scored a touchdown.

I paid. We left. We got home. He ate a snack. He drank water. I emptied out chocolate crumbs from my sweatshirt pocket. I put him in his crib. With Mr. Monkey. I carried in the groceries.

And I write this now as an alternative to popping Xanax and/or slugging some vodka and, most importantly, to all of the moms and dads who know exactly what I'm talking about, to celebrate us.

If this isn't work, I don't know what is.

Inspiration, Move Me Brightly . . .

2010-11-01T20:20:00.001-07:00

I love being in the company of people who are doing exactly what they live to do. Elizabeth Gilbert, author of the famed memoir, "Eat, Pray, Love" is one of those people. I had the opportunity to hear her speak last night and here's what I concluded:

She's just like us.
Okay, not just like us in a witches and warlocks/Christine O'Donnell kind of way.

She's just like us in a human way.

Liz Gilbert has strengths (writing) and weaknesses (sense of direction, athleticism), successes (publishing) and failures (her 1st marriage). She is cerebral, anxious, charming, honest, intelligent, and witty in the same breath. She is average looking yet exudes an illuminating light. She struggles with real life issues, even amidst fame and fortune. She lives in a small town in New Jersey.

She's just like us.

She's not an expert on relationships or marriage or love. But when asked the key to a good marriage, she responded: "kindness."

Her key to a happy life: "Good work ongoing."

What sets Liz Gilbert apart from us?

Nothing.

She certainly has a gift. And she was gracious enough to share that gift with the world.

Does that make Gilbert extraordinary?

I don't think so.

I returned home last night inspired by Gilbert, but woke up this morning to her true message:

We all have gifts, it's just a matter of sharing them with others, sending them out into the universe. And doing so simply for the love of it.

So next time you're looking for inspiration from a favorite author, singer, (dare I say) politician, look no further than your own mirror. You know what your gifts are. The question is: will you share them with the world?

I'm going to try my best to live Gilbert's simple words and keep

Good Work Ongoing.

Goalie

2010-10-22T05:46:00.000-07:00

I never played soccer, nor lacrosse, nor field hockey. At least not very well. I'm not much of a goalie.

But I'm learning.

Every day, I find myself playing goalie in front of the dishwasher, or bathtub, or (wait for it) . . .

the toilet.

The little guy on offense is formidable competition. He comes at me with plastic fish, toy trucks, stuffed teddy bears, balls, even socks and shoes. He squeals when he scores on me.

He yells, "No, no, no!" when I make a dramatic save (i.e., Mr. Monkey skimming the toilet seat). I spin him around and say, "Go, go, go!" He giggles and comes right back in my direction.

He has other games too. I found a cookie magnet in my new knee high rain boots the other day. There were baby bite marks on it.

He's got some skills in the area of ultimate fighting as well. He head butts me and body slams himself on his stuffed hippo chair.

He recently starting playing "Capture the Flag" with my eyeglasses. Thankfully, they're just for reading, otherwise I'd have to feel my way around to find him. And them.

My bed has been turned into a virtual NASCAR speedway. Exciting? Yes. Treacherous? Can be. There were cars zipping across my back at midnight last night. You should have heard the sound of their engines.

All of these BOYS R US games have turned my world upside down. But, I've got games of my own.

I'm an old pro at the "night-night, Mama / Wake up!" game and I am a master pilot when it comes to airplane rides. In fact, my son is now giving airplane rides to his stuffed animals. I'm wondering if he'll start wiping their paws a hundred times a day too.

Clearly, he could start with Mr. Monkey.

Tailgating With Tots

2010-10-08T09:02:00.000-07:00

Please sing the following lyrics to the tune of "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer":

Stroller got run over at a tailgate . . .
rolling into traffic, Sunday eve
you may think that's no place for a baby
in retrospect, of course, I must agree.

Everyone was drinking too much beer
And next thing you know, I had to "go"
Since I dread porta potties,
I checked RVs for someone I might know

When I returned one hour later,
at the scene of the attack,
the stroller had tire prints on its seat,
and incriminatin' marks on its back.

Stroller got run over by a drunk guy,
rolling into traffic Sunday eve.
You can say a baby should not tailgate,
it was a lapse in judgment, I believe.

Thank god our son was not in it,
He's been takin' this so well.
See him in there watchin' football,
drinkin' beer and playin' cards with cousin Al.

It's not the same without our stroller.
All the family dressed in black.
And we just can't help but wonder:
Should we buy another one or send it back?
(Send it back)

Stroller got run over at a tailgate
rolling into traffic, Sunday eve,
you may think that's no place for a baby
in retrospect, of course, I must agree.

Time to Stop and Think

2010-09-30T04:41:00.000-07:00

Heartbreaking.

The news that an 18 year old college freshman jumped off the George Washington Bridge to his death after his college roommate secretly videotaped his sexual encounter with another man and streamed it live over the internet is just heartbreaking.

By all accounts, Tyler Clementi was an extremely talented musician, devoted friend, beloved son. He was a shy freshman at Rutgers.

And, he was apparently beyond humiliated when he posted on his Facebook page eight minutes before he plunged to his death: "Jumping off the gw bridge sorry."

His roommate and a fellow freshman were arrested and could face up to 5 years in prison for invasion of privacy. No doubt, they will have a life sentence of torment and sorrow.

They probably thought that streaming live video of a gay classmate's intimate encounter was a funny, harmless prank.

But nobody's laughing.

We've all done stupid things and played pranks on our friends. But, in this new age where embarrassing video can go viral across the globe in seconds, the consequences are no joke. And our children need to get that message.

Just as easily as we can all jump online to bully, torment, or publicly humiliate someone else, we can use modern technology to connect, teach tolerance, and spread compassion. In the wake of this beautiful boy's death, I sincerely hope that happens.

A high school classmate said of Tyler Clementi, "When he played his violin, everyone felt something."

When I heard about Tyler Clementi, and how and why his life ended at the age of 18, I felt something.

He's not my son, but he could have been.

The roommate who set up the camera secretly to videotape Tyler is not my son, but he too could have been.

It's time to stop and think. And do better.

Our children's lives depend on it.

Build It and They Will Come

2010-09-23T04:14:00.000-07:00

“Build it, Dad,” my sister begged.

“And they will come!” I chimed in.

My dad could never say no to my sister or me.

Although my family was not particularly religious, nor had we ever celebrated the festive Jewish holiday of Sukkot, my twenty year old sister, home from college for the weekend, decided she absolutely needed a sukkah in our backyard.

If you have no idea what a "sukkah" is, you are in the exact same boat as my dad when my sister pleaded, "Come on, Dad, build one. I've always wanted my own sukkah."

"Really, doll? You have?"

My dad totally took the bait.

We explained to him that a sukkah is a temporary hut for use during the week-long holiday of Sukkot. It is a structure consisting of a roof made of organic material which has been disconnected from the ground. A sukkah is usually constructed outside a synagogue, where congregants gather to hang fruit as an offering of peace and hope.

Did we really know the history and religious significance of a sukkah on the day that we pestered my dad relentlessly? No way.

We simply felt that the construction of a sukkah was a good dare for my dad.

And, because erecting a sukkah seemed much more reasonable than the usual requests my sister made, like a white BMW 5-series, and much less controversial than the purchases she made on her own, like the $600 worth of lingerie from Victoria’s Secret (which appeared mysteriously on my parents’ Am X statement), my dad agreed.

Yes, a sukkah seemed reasonable.

Just one problem. My dad had no clue how to build a sukkah. In all seriousness, he had no clue how to build. Period.

But, if he's a genius in one area, that area is the garden. He is a wizard with wildflowers, plants, trees, garden sculptures, fountains, Buddah ladies, Native American chief carvings, what have you. A landscape architect extraordinaire in his prior life, no doubt.

But this sukkah was a whole different animal.

After all, my dad had grown up in a large Irish Catholic family. His early years were chock full of nuns, rosaries, and sins. He preferred the gospel of Bob Dylan to that of Jesus Christ. And, when he fell for a nice Jewish girl he met in school, the decision to convert was an easy one.

But he converted in his unique way.

He didn't abandon Dylan, he simply incorporated him into traditional Jewish festivities. At my Bat Mitzvah, he convinced the cantor to learn and perform an unforgettable spine-tingling version of Bob Dylan's "Forever Young."

He learned Yiddish expressions from my grandparents, great-grandparents, and great-aunts and even considered starting his own newspaper column, "The Tsatskeleh Sightings."

He loved to dance the Hora at every wedding and often requested to the bandleaders that they rock out to “Chavah Nagilah” “reggae-style.” (Whatever that means. I'm sure only he knows).

So, really, this sukkah dare was right up his alley. It was just off-beat enough for my dad to really dig in deep and go all out.

It was a crisp fall day. He threw on his dark black aviator shades, hopped into his convertible, and sped off solo to find the makings of a sukkah. Within a half hour, he pulled into our circular driveway covered in chicken wire, hay, palm leaves, bamboo sticks, and other foliage which nearly concealed his face behind the wheel. He had bags full of fresh, dried and plastic fruit, customary decorations for the sukkah.

My mom squealed, looking out the 2nd floor window, "Daddy's back! Look outside!"

It was on.

What happened next was breathtaking. My dad single-handedly built the most fabulous sukkah our neighborhood had ever seen. (Not to mention the only one it had ever seen!).

He built it and, just like I had predicted, oh did they come! In droves. Reclusive neighbors, small children, babies in strollers, poofy haired dogs with big butts. Everyone wanted a peek.

Our backyard became a Jewish version of Christmas-time at the mall. Instead of sitting on Santa’s lap, each visitor insisted on having their photo taken standing inside the sukkah.

Years later, friends and family still reminsce about the building of the sukkah. It has taken on a mythical quality, like the building of the pyramids or the Great Wall of China.

It was one man, one vision, and the gathering of one community.

Although my dad was a late bloomer to the Jewish faith, never had a Bar Mitzvah, and may not be able to identify one Hebrew letter, I believe that anyone who builds his own backyard sukkah simply to see his daughters smile surely has some serious soul.

Dress for Success

2010-09-14T06:03:00.000-07:00

It was time for my suits to go. They had been bogarting space in my closet since I was 5 months pregnant, when I could clearly no longer wrestle into them. Some of them still hung in plastic bags straight from the dry cleaners.

I decided I wanted to give them away to someone or several people who would really need them and appreciate them.

I found a website for Dress For Success. The Philly branch has drop-off hours for donations every Monday.

I loaded my suits and my son into the car. I explained our mission to him in 18 month old language. He smiled and pointed out trucks, trains, and airplanes on our ride into the city.

When we pulled up to the Center City drop-off location, I dialed the Dress For Success office. "Could someone please come out back and help me? I have my baby in the car with me, and I have a big pile of clothes to donate."

Within seconds, the door opened and a woman emerged, looking a bit sour. She surveyed my car, then me, suspiciously.

I wanted so badly to tell her what Deepak Chopra once said: "You can have [a soul] and a Mercedes at the same time . . ."

But I didn't.

Instead, I jumped out of the driver's seat, ran around to the passenger side, carefully gathered up my suits and handed them to her. "Thank you so much for coming out to help," I smiled at her. She didn't smile back.

I watched as she counted the number of suits in her arms and thought I saw her eyes light up.

I had considered putting "good luck" notes into the pockets of each of the suits.

But I didn't.

As she turned abruptly to head back inside with the suits, I stood at my car door, thinking of what to say.

I thought about yelling out to her: "Those suits have been with me through graduations, funerals, and everything in between. They have stood before television executives, federal judges and juries, and even maximum security prisoners. They have concealed life's best feelings, like being in love and carrying a baby."

But I didn't.

As she opened the door, I yelled out: "Please wish the women who end up wearing those suits much success and all the best life has to offer."

She spun around, almost startled. A huge smile overtook her face. She looked me right in the eyes. "Yes, I most certainly will."

Good Will, A Year in the Making

2010-09-08T04:47:00.000-07:00

Everyone asks me where I'm sending my son to school.

I tell them I have no idea, I haven't really thought about it yet.

He's only a year and a half and thankfully, we don't live in an area where you need to register your child for preschool when he's just an inch long on the ultrasound.

I guess next fall he'll start somewhere, just for a few hours a day, maybe a few days a week. That's about as long as I can imagine letting him go.

So, this leaves me with one good year with my baby boy. One more year of playground visits and watching him belly laugh on the swings (and even swinging next to him when he points to the vacant swing and says, "Mama.") We have one more interrupted year of play groups, music classes, sledding on snowy days, morning walks along the river, visits to friends and family at our whim. Of course, this coming year will be full of "field trips" to the aquarium, zoo, art museum, apple orchards, and everywhere else.

But, slightly off the beaten path, I've decided to add to his "curriculum" a master class in "good will."

Every week for this entire school year, we'll do something to help others. It may be a small or large act. It may benefit one person or many, near or far. I have some ideas for where to begin, but I am open to suggestions.

What will my baby boy gain from this year of good will? Isn't 18 months way too young to remember these acts of kindness? Perhaps. But, I hope that somehow this year of giving will stay with my son forever, and, even if it doesn't, you can never imagine how one small act of kindness can impact someone else's life.

Mammoni

2010-08-31T05:13:00.000-07:00

I must confess, I never really understood the mammoni.

"Mammoni" in Italian, means mama's boy. And, in Italy, they are as common as gnocchi gorgonzola. More than half of the single Italian men in Italy still live at home with their mothers. It has caused the birth rate in Italy to decline so much that it has become somewhat of a national crisis.

Blame the mammoni.

The mammoni are not all in Italy. This tradition has spread to the shores of America. You've seen them. You know them. Perhaps you are one yourself.

Not sure about the signs of a mammoni?

I had a friend who refused to shop for clothing without his mother by his side, well into his twenties. Mammoni.

My cousin claims he'll live at home in his mom's "compound" until he's at least forty. Mammoni.

I have a brother-in-law who insists on sitting next to his mother at the dining room table, even if that means booting a small child out of "his" seat. Mammoni.

My husband "conveniently" stops by his mom's house in the morning, just so she can make him her delicious eggs, hash browns, and creamed chipped beef. Mammoni (or possibly just hungry because we all know I'm no Julia Child).

The whole concept of the "mammoni" used to make me laugh, scratch my head, tease friends and family.

Until I had a son.

Now, I get it.

I totally get it.

I may not be Italian by blood, but through marriage and spirit, I have somehow created a little mammoni of my own.

I cannot go into the bathroom alone. Even for 10 seconds. If I try, I hear the pitter patter of little feet, bringing me a race car or a light up drum. (Both of which make the bathroom experience much more enjoyable, actually).

My little mammoni says the word, "Mama" at least 400 times a day, with various degrees of excitement and intonation.

He has accompanied me to the eyebrow waxer, the dentist, and, yes, even the gynecologist (where, in a paper gown, I tossed yogurt melts across the stark exam room to him in his stroller, while singing and dancing along to the radio playing, "Heat Wave"). A true mammoni goes where Mama goes.

On rare nights, when he sleeps in our bed, I watch him doze off, sucking his thumb, while rubbing his monkey's ears not only against his nose, but mine too. He curls up so closely to me, if he could "unzip" my belly and crawl back in, I swear he would. Every single night. When he wakes up, two centimeters from my face, he waves at me and smiles sleepily, "Ma-ma."

What can I say?

I've changed my view on the mammoni completely. To you skeptics, I say, don't knock it, 'til you try it!

I've gotta run . . . my mammoni is calling!

Walk With a Llama

2010-08-20T10:28:00.000-07:00

"A-rriv-ing at Berk-shire Moun-tain Llama Hikes, two hun-dred feet."

Has your GPS lady ever mechanically sounded out those magical words?

Mine did the other day, as my husband snorted at our surroundings.

We had just driven a mile up a country road in search of a llama to "walk," and there was not a lone llama in sight amidst a rusted out pick-up truck, empty gasoline canisters and a possessed looking tire swing.

"Great! No llamas, see?"

A mile back down the road lay the beautiful Berkshire Mountains. "Can we please go someplace normal for our first trip to the Berkshires?" he continued.

"Normal is sooooo boring, Old Man Jenkins!" I teased him, poking him in the ribs.

"Why do you want to hike with llamas again?" he asked for the 5th time in 10 minutes, precisely when the llama lightbulb went off in my crazy keppe.

"I read it about the Berkshire Mountain Llama Hike online last week and it just appeared miraculously in GARMIN's 'attractions.' It must be a sign."

"Seriously? You really want to trek with a llama?"

I don't know why he was so surprised. You may recall that I once threatened that I would buy an alpaca for a deserving family in a third world country and name it after him if he didn't pass the CPA exam.

"But I passed the CPA!" he retorted, making a thee point turn in the "land of no llamas."

"Look, we're not buying an alpaca today," I explained, rolling my eyes. "We're simply trekking with a llama."

"And tell me why, again," he said.

"Because it sounds like fun . . . and it's my birthday . . . . and I have never walked with a llama before."

"Your birthday was two days ago," he reminded me with a smile.

"Yeah, but you still didn't give me my birthday card, so my birthday continues every day until I get it."

"That's fair," he replied sincerely. "What's with you and the cards?"

"Everyone likes birthday cards," I told him. "And llamas too."

I searched the internet on my cell phone and read this review aloud:

"Come and enjoy the novel experience of spending time in nature accompanied by llamas. Berkshire Mountain Llamas are known for their sweet dispositions, wooly coats, and unique personalities."

"That sounds like you, babe!" I complimented him.

"These llamas are a real treat for youngsters . . ."

"No, YOU"RE a treat," he shot back, laughing.

"As trusted hiking companions they are clever, gentle and willing to be led by young children."

"Now that sounds like YOU, babe!" he added.

Our son giggled in the back seat. (His favorite book is "Llama Llama Red Pajama," so he quite enjoyed our friendly banter).

"Do you want to see a LLAMA?" I asked him. He kicked his sneakers on the bottom of his car seat and flashed every tooth in his mouth. "Yeah, yeah!"

"You two are both nuts, there are no llamas here," "Old Man Jenkins" declared.

I had to admit, he was correct. I'm not sure if we were in the wrong place or if the Berkshire Mountain Llama Hike company simply could not keep up with competing local attractions. But, my husband made it up to me by riding an alpine slide (a bit tipsy and amidst the threat of wild turkeys on the course), buying me a beautiful birthday gift, and patiently waiting while I conquered a death-defying aerial rope course, like the one I used to live for at summer camp.

As for the llamas, I think we'll check out the zoo this weekend and see if we can find one. Technically, it's STILL my birthday.

The Big Kahuna

2010-08-09T05:11:00.000-07:00

“She is STROOOOOOOONG, capable!” the announcer bellowed in his southern drawl. “Here she comes, folks…she is POWERFUL!”

How I ended up hooting for cowgirls on a frigid summer night at a rodeo in Cody, Wyoming, I’m not sure. Then again, it was my idea.

My college roommate had previously mastered an impeccable swan-dive off the highest bridge in the world and come face to face with a buffalo “knocking” at her door in Kenya. Because she had already toured six continents, and I had just conquered law school, we decided to “see America.” Truthfully, I thought that if I was traveling on my dreaded 30th birthday, and away from home, then it wouldn't really count.

“It looks like a hearse,” I told the car rental clerk in Denver. “I’m sorry, I just can’t pick her up in that thing. Not unless there’s a dead body in the back.”

The clerk rolled his eyes. “The only other car available is that Dodge. It has a v-4 engine, no power windows, no CD player.”

“As long as I can plug in my ipod, I'll take it!” I decided hastily.

Rule #1: A good road trip requires good music.

“Nice wheels!” Sara joked as she hopped into the passenger seat twenty minutes later. She surveyed the car quickly. “She looks like a ‘Gloria!’” I had to agree, yes "she" did.

Rule #2: A good road trip requires a vehicle with a snazzy alias.

We motored, or should I say crawled, west in “Gloria,” stopping at a lovely bed-n-breakfast in Aspen.

“Watch out for the bears, sometimes they come in through the back door!” our host chuckled. I took no chances and locked all eight locks.

Rule #3: A good road trip involves the threat of bears busting up the party.

We stayed in the “Little Nell” room, named after an infamous madam from the 1800s.

“You look like a ‘Little Nell,’” I declared as Sara climbed into the raised antique canopy bed next to me. “You’re petite and you would have made a great 19th century madam!” Sara was flattered.

Rule #4: A good road trip requires a traveling companion with a snazzy alias. Clearly.

Gloria, Little Nell, and I trekked on to Moab, Utah, which may well have been the end of the earth.

We hiked through spectacular natural arches and later wandered into a dive bar, where we were greeted with stares appropriate for serial killers. The gum-chomping hostess spat something about a $4 “membership” fee. We chose not to become members.

We spent my 30th birthday in Jackson, Wyoming, one of my favorite places in the world.

"Now who is brave enough to "cow-girl up" and ride the BIGGGGGGGGGGGGG KAHUNA?" yelled our white water rafting guide over the churning category 4 rapids.

"Stacy is, it's her birthday!" Little Nell volunteered. Ah, thanks, Little Nell.

Rule #5: A good road trip involves a good dare.

The twelve people on our raft cheered and patted my back as Sara thrust me to the front of the raft. There were two gigantic men, perfect strangers, on either side of me.

"Listen," I told them, "I don't care what you do, just do NOT let me fall out of this raft, okay?"

The guide told me to sit up on the puffy part of the raft, hold on to the rope between my legs and dangle my feet over the front of the raft into the menacing rapids. I turned around to catch what I thought might be my final glimpse of Little Nell. She had a huge proud smile on her face, just like the one captured on video moments before she bungee jumped off the highest bridge in New Zealand.

Our raft slowed down to a near complete halt, like a rollercoaster at the top of the track. We plunged head first at a ninety degree angle into the "Big Kahuna."

The rush of water over my head drowned out my screams. I was completely submerged, but for a toe or two. I heard people from the raft yelling, "Man overboard! Man overboard." I was sure I was that man.

But then I realized I somehow managed to stay in the raft. It was one of the bodybuilders who had been sitting next to me who was overboard. Not just overboard, but under the raft. His three children were screaming and crying hysterically. Within seconds, he popped out from under the raft. He appeared fine, if not shellshocked.

"Thumbs up?" yelled our river guide. "Give the thumbs up if you're okay," he instructed.

The children on our raft were inconsolable.

"GIVE THE THUMBS UP!" Little Nell hollered furiously.

He refused to give the thumbs up. He floated toward the raft with a sour puss. But despite his brawn, he could not pull himself up.

Leave it to Little Nell to save the day. She used superhuman strength and sheer adrenaline to singlehandedly hoist and rescue a 250 pound man who refused to give the thumbs up. His children cheered and wiped away their tears.

Rule #6: A good road trip involves a hint of danger and activities you would never attempt in "real life."

“Next stop, Gloria, is Cody, Wyoming! Yeehaw!” Of course, that was after we hit a dozen Dairy Queens across Utah and Idaho. We imagined the locals posting our pictures, warning of the “Blizzard bandits.”

Rule #7: A good road trip requires lots of ice cream.

We stayed at a "horseback riding resort" in Cody, Wyoming, although Little Nell and I had probably been on 2 horses in our entire lives. It was funny how cowboys and cowgirls whom we met were fascinated by our daily existences. “

Y’all are law-yers?!” they asked, eyes wide. “Wow, y’all are like big city law-yers?”

“New York and Philly . . .”

“Amazin,” our wrangler responded, shaking his head, smiling. I think he thought we only existed in the movies.

“Please,” I countered, “you ride bulls for a living!” I definitely thought rodeo stars only existed in the movies.

"We both deal with a lot of bullshit!" Little Nell added, moments before our horses were spooked by a bear on the wooded trail and stampeded through heavy brush, crashing into tree branches.

It was time to head back east.

With hugs goodbye, the cowboys and cowgirls told us that they would never forget us.

Rule #8: A good road trip involves good will.

Little Nell and I hopped onto the mechanical bull at the rodeo campgrounds for one last hurrah. I barely held down my BBQ dinner, and tried to remember the words of the rodeo announcer, “She is strooooong! Capable! Powerful!!!”

Rule #9: A good road trip involves shutting down your computer, cell phone, Blackberry and all other hand held devices banned by the FAA for takeoff and landing. Go ahead, get out there and ride your own Big Kahuna.

PEACE.

ps. If you need some inspiration, here is a great look at the Big Kahuna. It is no joke!

The Fate of Prop 8

2010-08-04T14:45:00.000-07:00

“The times they are a’changing,” the prolific Bob Dylan once sang, and today, with the overturning of California's ban on same-sex marriage, it is clearly evident. A federal judge in California ruled that Proposition 8 ["Prop 8"], the voter-approved ban, violates the constitutional rights of gays and lesbians.

Chief U.S. District Judge Vaughn Walker wrote in his decision: "Proposition 8 fails to advance any rational basis in singling out gay men and lesbians for denial of a marriage license." "Indeed, the evidence shows Proposition 8 does nothing more than enshrine in the California Constitution the notion that opposite-sex couples are superior to same-sex couples."

Proposition 8 (or the California Marriage Protection Act) was a ballot proposition and constitutional amendment passed in the November 2008, state elections. The measure added a new provision to the California Constitution, which provides that "only marriage between a man and a woman is valid or recognized in California."

Thus, Prop 8 purposely stripped many Americans of their civil rights. Same-sex couples in California were denied the right to marry that had previously been recognized by the California Supreme Court. To add insult to injury, gay Californians discovered that their neighbors, colleagues, and people they considered friends were the ones who made this decision at the polls; a monumental decision that impacts the personal fabric of their lives.

Who voted to ban same-sex marriage in California?

The Church of Ladder Day Saints contributed up to $22 million to pass Proposition 8. A whopping 70% of African American voters voted to ban same-sex marriage in California, as did more than half of Latino voters and 49% of Asian voters. What is most confounding and saddening is that all of these groups have been historically oppressed, marginalized and denied civil rights throughout American history. As Frederick Douglass once said, ““Find out just what any people will quietly submit to and you have the exact measure of the injustice and wrong which will be imposed on them.”

Millions of Californians voted to desecrate the civil rights of another group of Americans because of extreme dissociation with the plight of gay Americans and compartmentalization of their own struggles. They cited moral or religious beliefs in support of the ban on same-sex marriage. Dare we forget that these very moral and religious beliefs once supported anti-miscegenation laws, which banned interracial marriage in the majority of states in America. It was not until 1967, in the landmark case of Loving v. Virginia, that the United States Supreme Court declared Virginia’s anti-miscegenation law unconstitutional, which finally put an end to the ban on interracial marriage.

Americans who are harboring bigotry and homophobia need to wake up and see that the right for same-sex couples to marry is a civil rights issue. We cannot forget that the most devastating and dehumanizing laws in American history were too supported by moral and religious beliefs, and often by majority support. In fact, it took the United States Supreme Court in Brown v. Board of Education to finally put an end to “separate but equal” education in America. It was not American voters. It certainly was not the 26 states that supported segregation at that time.

In this new era of hope, we should all broaden our minds, find tolerance in our hearts, and separate our own moral and religious beliefs from the civil rights protected by our Constitution. Martin Luther King, Jr. once said that “injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere….” Thus, just as the district court did today, it is time for all of our federal courts, right up to the U.S. Supreme Court, to take a stand and protect civil rights in America. History has proven time and time again that the majority of voters will not.

I often wonder what we will tell our son about this period of time in American history when he is older. Sadly, many California voters feared that if they did not vote to ban same-sex marriage, their children would learn that it’s okay for a man to marry a man and a woman to marry a woman.

Please.

Let's not forget the times in American history when millions of parents lamented having to explain to their children the possibility of a white person marrying a black person or of a white child sitting next to a black child in the classroom. And yet, as a nation, we persevered and progressed.

Whom you choose to marry is none of my business and whom I choose to marry is none of yours. What I care about is that we all have equal rights.

And, when the day comes where we need to sit down and explain to our son that he can marry ANYONE, regardless of race, religion or sexual orientation, that will be one fabulous conversation, and I will never feel prouder to be an American.

A Mom on the Moon

2010-07-26T05:36:00.000-07:00

I don't know what it is about watching your baby take his first steps that gives a parent such a rush of excitement and pride. After months of waiting and sweet coaxing, our boy is finally mobile. And I am a mom on the moon.

As our son was approaching 16 months old, he was at the tail end of the usual age range that babies start walking. But, he was too busy "driving" his cars and trucks, pronouncing the word "tractor" flawlessly, and throwing a ball like a 5 year old to care.

For weeks, I asked him multiple times a day, "Will, are you STANDING?"
He would flash his toothy grin at me with great pride. "Yeh! Yeh!" He clapped his hands.

"That is soooooooo good!" Do you want to walk today?"
He would smile at me angelically, with just a hint of mischief in his bright eyes, and slowly shake his head, singing, "Nooooo."

So, one morning recently when I asked him, "Do you want to take a step?" I expected his usual negative response. I think he thought this was actually a game. And he was winning, clearly.

"Go ahead. You can do it," I coaxed him from 5 feet away.

"Ma-ma," he said softly, as his little bare feet took their first couple of wobbly steps across his foam play mat in my direction. He fell on his tush and said, "Boom."

I could not believe my eyes. "You WALKED! You WALKED!" I swooped him up into a bear hug and cheered and hollered for his daddy to come see. I danced around the living room with him, laughing.

I was so ecstatic I could have popped open a bottle of champagne, yelled to all of my neighbors to come witness this vision. I debated calling the local news stations where I used to work. ("Yes, I have breaking news! My baby just took his first steps! Send a news crew immediately! And get the chopper up for aerial views!")

My husband ran in and grabbed the video camera and Will took step 1, step 2, "Boom." He clapped his hands and grinned. And he was right back up on his feet. Step 1, step 2, "Boom!" I'm sure watching his mommy and daddy lose their minds cheering probably didn't help his concentration much. But it was a milestone to be celebrated, and that we did.

The moment I saw my baby take his first steps, I wondered about all of the places that his feet would take him throughout his life. I hoped that he would always be safe and surrounded by as much love and joy as he was in that moment. And I felt with great certainty that when he went step, step, "boom," he would always get back up again.

Dear Mr. Air Conditioning Repair Man,

2010-07-13T11:00:00.001-07:00

I was hot in utero, I was born hot, always been hot, I'm hot. Okay?

I would be much more comfortable up to my ears in a snow drift right now, waiting for you, than here in my condo, roasting in this hellish humidity, counting down the seconds til my doorbell rings.

I just ate a popsicle. Stuck my head in the freezer. Nothing. No relief.

My forehead is sticky, my patience worn thin. I just called your boss for the 4th time in 12 hours. Thankfully, she did not refer to me as, "Ma'am," this time. She actually gave me good news. She said the part is in and you're on your way.

I have never been so excited to see anyone in my entire life. I would cook you a feast fit for a king if: a.) I could cook and b.) I wasn't worried about steaming up my kitchen even more than it already is. Come to think of it, I could probably grill you a filet right on my dining room table.

(Knock, knock, knock!)

The gods must be crazy!

Here you are!

YAY!

You're not the same gentleman who tried in vain to fix my air conditioner for hours last week (in between chatting about your baby when you couldn't help but notice mine who was driving his trucks around the living room). I don't care who you are. You are wearing a shirt with an air conditioning company logo on it and you have a small toolbox and that is good enough for me.

"Oh, it's cool in here," you say as you enter my front door.

"You must be coming from hell," I say. My thermostat reads 81. My son's sometime straight hair is in all of its Jew-fro glory.

"Can I get you a drink? Anything?" I ask as if I'm on a first date.

"Not right now, but do you have a stool I could use?"

"Of course, you could use this, or that, stand on my shoulders, whatever you need."

JUST GET THAT GODDAMN A.C. BACK ON, MR. FIX-IT!

I remember a few years ago when my cable was out for a week, I flipped. I called the cable company, "Please, take my oven, my stove, my bathroom, I don't care, just not my cable!"

Now I can appreciate what an idiot I was back then. Air conditioning is vital.

Sir, just hearing you puttering around on my balcony right now warms (or rather cools) my heart.

Please, please, please, Mr. Air Conditioning Repair Man, you suburban superhero, sitting on my dainty little stool where I iron my hair every morning, please make sure my air is kickin' once again. I want to rest peacefully tonight under my down comforter and pretend I'm hunkered down in the middle of a February snowstorm.

As for now, I'm melting. I don't think I'm fit for this climate. I was hot in utero, I was born (in August) hot as hell, always been hot, I'm hot.

Sincerely,

One Hot Mama

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles

2010-07-07T05:21:00.000-07:00

My son zooms around our living room on a baby Harley. He does the "vroom vroom" and all.

He fills and empties his dump truck and carries a Thomas the Train bath toy with him most of the time.

He "reads" car brochures in his spare time and points out every truck and school bus on the road. He can identify the sunroof, window, windshield, and steering wheel. He has never met a vehicle he doesn't like, and that includes wheel barrows and wheelchairs. His face lights up when he sees wheels of any kind and he usually yells, "Whoa!"

I read an article recently, titled, "Even 9-month-olds choose gender-specific toys," and I witness this phenomenon every day with my son. He went gaga for cars and trucks and soccer balls and footballs at about 8 months old. And, it's been off to the races ever since.

I seriously think he is counting down the days until he gets his drivers' license.

He's 16 months old and he sees cars wherever he looks. He picks up a shoe and pushes it along the floor, "Vrrrooom." He transforms plates and even Cheerios into tiny steering wheels and turns them back and forth, with sound effects.

It's amazing to watch. Nature definitely has him wired to love wheels.

Sure, he'll entertain the thought of playing with a baby doll in my old bedroom at my parents' house. He blinks nervously when "Nicole" gets too close to his face and sometimes claps his hands and rolls his arms to impress her. After a few minutes, he yells, "Caar, car," with a Boston accent. And he's moving right along.

He squeals when he sees men working in our development and I make sure to take him outside to see the cement mixers or diggers or whatever equipment is on the job.

CRAZY OLD NYMPHO NEIGHBOR LADY asks, "Whada ya want em to grow up to be a truck driver?"

I smile and respond, "He can be anything he wants to be."

Needless to say, CRAZY OLD NYMPHO NEIGHBOR LADY is not the sharpest pencil in the drawer. Just because my son is obsessed with cars, trucks, and tractors doesn't mean he's going to become the next Mario Andretti, or haul furniture
cross-country for a living, or marry an Amish woman and work on a farm in Lancaster. And, if he did choose any of the aforementioned occupations, I would support him 100%.

As for now, my baby boy has the need for speed, and whatever makes him happy, (within the speed limit) makes me happy too.

Once in a While, You Get Shown the Light

2010-07-01T06:08:00.000-07:00

July 1, 2007 started out as an unremarkable day.

We drove to the shore for my nephew's birthday party on the beach. After a long day of playing with 60 children in the sand and hanging with family and friends, we took a walk on the boardwalk just before sunset. I wore my Wonder Woman flip flops. He suggested we walk on the beach, towards the pier.

His face turned dark, somber, as we strolled along the surf. He said that being at the shore reminded him of his grandmom and how much he missed her. I wrapped my arms around him. We sat down in the sand, watching the waves breaking gently on the shore.

"I had a dream about her the other night," he whispered.

"Was it a good dream?"

"She was wearing some crazy dress and I was telling her all about you," he said, as a couple of tears streamed down his face.

"What did you tell her?" I asked.

“I met this girl, grandmom, and she's the most wonderful person I've ever met . . . I love her so much….I’m going to marry her…and have children with her…and be with her for the rest of my life….”

I responded, “Well, that sounds like a great dream…what was her response?”

“She said, 'Well, what are you waiting for?!'”

Suddenly, while hugging him, I felt him fumbling in his pocket and I started shrieking, “Babe, you’re freaking me out, what are you doing?!”

He dropped down to one knee in the soft sand and pulled something bright out of his shorts pocket. In a sheer panic, I tried to yank him back up to his feet.

"Will you marry me?"

I saw light transfer from his hand to mine and dance back and forth between us.

So Long, Farewell, auf Wiedersehen

2010-06-28T10:04:00.000-07:00

Regrettably, there was no Dunkin' Donuts farewell party for me in the firm cafeteria this morning when I arrived to collect my belongings.

I whisked my little boy through the front entrance in his stroller and down the hall.

"This is where Mommy used to work."

My name plate was still hanging outside my office door. All of my personal effects had been boxed up by a legal assistant already. There wasn't much work to be done or celebrating to be had. I, at the very least, deserved doughnuts, or so I thought.

It's been one year since I learned in a 30 second "conversation" over the phone that my maternity leave had morphed into "eternity leave." Of course, in the past year, I have earned the title, "Employee of the Month (or make that Year)," (along with many of you, I imagine). So, today, when I packed up my car's back seat with my framed diplomas, state bar admissions certificates, and my super cool personal note from Spike Lee, it was bittersweet.

I had my baby with me, two strollers from his fleet, two blankies from his collection, a Thomas the Train bath toy, a little fire truck and a stray plastic fish. I watched him doze off in my rear view mirror, his chubby cheeks pink from the record heat. All was right in the world.

I don't remember what was playing on the radio, but in my head, I heard:

There's a sad sort of clanging from the clock in the hall
And the bells in the steeple too
And up in the nursery an absurd little bird
Is popping out to say "cuckoo"
Cuckoo, cuckoo

Regretfully they tell us Cuckoo, cuckoo
But firmly they compel us Cuckoo, cuckoo
To say goodbye . . .
Cuckoo!
. . . to you

So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, good night
I hate to go and leave this pretty sight

So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, adieu
Adieu, adieu, to yieu and yieu and yieu

So long, farewell, au revoir, auf wiedersehen
I'd like to stay and taste my first champagne

So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, goodbye
I leave and heave a sigh and say goodbye -- Goodbye!
I'm glad to go, I cannot tell a lie

I did leave one thing behind. Underneath my name plate on the door, I wrote on a post-it:

"is gone on eternity leave."

In the meantime, life certainly goes on . . .

Have I Told You That I Love You Today?

2010-06-18T10:35:00.000-07:00

My dad used to ask me this every morning before I headed off to school. He was handsome, charming, and a true gentleman.

Having grown up in the age of free love and rebellion, my dad was also wild and unpredictable. From spontaneous whipped cream fights to screaming contests at the dinner table, he believed that childhood should be one thing and one thing only: happy.

My dad would wake us up at 11pm to catch the midnight Rocky Horror Picture Show on South Street. We would take road trips to Disney World at a moment’s notice, with him howling in excitement at the thought of riding the backwards roller coaster in pitch darkness.

On Halloween, my dad would bust out his legendary collection of costumes. He would run around the house in capes, monster masks, and do just about anything to spook trick-or-treaters, even jumping out of a rocking chair and right through the front window screen.

My dad was always cold, ever since his army days, when he patrolled the German border, through frigid winters. He wore flannel pajamas in July and pleaded for a “hot dinner” every night. He always made sure that we were warm too.

He bought me red fuzzy feet-in pajamas until I was 15 and constantly worried that my bedroom was drafty. Suspecting a problem with the insulation, one day my dad decided to investigate. Wearing his favorite Cole Haan loafers, he slipped into my bedroom closet and busted through to a crawl space. He accidentally stepped off a wooden beam and onto the insulation, which sent him crashing through the ceiling. He landed downstairs, in the dining room, covered in plaster and dust, inches away from the glass table, on his feet! Home improvement was not my dad’s forte, but still, he was our hero, always holding down the fort for his girls.

My dad loved having daughters. He appreciated the little things, like our all day shopping sprees, impromptu “fashion shows,” and the smell of chocolate chip cookies wafting from the kitchen or our Betty Crocker Easy-Bake Oven.

There was just one thing that made my dad absolutely nuts: boys. Let’s just say he was slightly protective. Okay, overprotective. He once threatened an 8 year old neighbor boy who threw pebbles at my sister at the bus stop. But that was nothing compared to the time he chased down and frisked some teenage boys- in his underwear- after they turfed our front lawn at 2 a.m. Or the time he warned an oral surgeon to be gentle while extracting wisdom teeth from my sister and me. (My dad scared the surgeon so much, HE had to be extracted from the office!) My dad always made it clear that his girls were the most important things in his life. He warned a former boyfriend of mine as we were departing for a week in Alaska, “Look, if you see a bear, let the bear eat YOU, tell Stacy to run!”

My dad is young and vibrant, but he’ll tell you he has the mileage. He also has soul. He, who inspired, loved, and cherished us, who lectured us on everything from the lyrical genius of Bob Dylan to the “righteousness” of salmon, who never got rid of my size 3 red cowboy boots in his closet, has something in him that is pure magic.

Maybe it's in his love of nature and garden creatures and shamans of all kinds. Maybe it's in his "isms," such as, "If you're not a little weird, you're not worth knowing." Maybe it's because he's not above speaking to a dog. Maybe it’s the way he twirls us on the dance floor or makes elegant widows feel like schoolgirls again. Maybe it’s the way he delights in hearing his beautiful grandsons say the words, “Pop pop.” Maybe it’s the way he loves my mom, his high school sweetheart, who could not have possibly imagined the journey she was in for when she hopped on his 1965 Triumph motorcycle.

The magic of my father is woven so deeply into every thread of my life. From the steamy summer nights when we’d catch lightening bugs in the backyard, barefoot, in our pajamas, to the long walks on the beach, jumping waves in the ocean, and feeling the sun shining so bright on our faces. Through every season of every year, that magic left a trail of unforgettable memories. Like the time my dad put down the roof of his convertible and drove us through a beautiful snowfall, with us wrapped in mohair blankets, to our new home. He was never short on creativity.

I don’t know if a father is born with this magic or it simply emerges the first time he sets eyes on his newborn baby. I do know that something magical passed down from one generation to the next when my dad asked me, day after day, with a glimmer in his eye, the very same question I would ask him this Father’s Day,

“Have I told you that I love you today?”

First Father's Day

2010-06-16T05:42:00.000-07:00

“I wish it was the 1950s and I could hang out at a bar, smoking a cigar with my buddies while you’re in the delivery room,” my husband sighed, half-joking. He told me this at least once a week throughout my pregnancy.

“Sorry, it’s 2009, and you’ll be in the room!” I explained for the hundredth time, rolling my eyes. “This is all part of the deal.”

“Alright, I’ll be there, but I’m not watching,” he insisted.

When the time came, during a rare March snowstorm, not only did my husband make good on his promise, he even watched.

He watched as I labored on our sofa for 6 hours. He massaged my feet and timed my contractions, jotting down each time he saw me close my eyes and grimace.

He watched as the pain grew more intense. He placed a cool wet washcloth on my forehead and called the doctor.

He watched as I got an epidural. He held my hand when my heart rate dropped and told me about the road trip we would take this summer.

He watched as 10 hours ticked by and doctors and nurses rushed in when the delivery grew complicated. He stood by my side and wiped the hair off my forehead.

He watched as I pushed. He cheered for me, squeezed my hand, and reminded me to breathe.

He watched when our baby boy willed his way into the world. He kissed me. He cried.

And I watched too.

I watched as he lifted our newborn son and kissed him. I saw his heart open and unconditional love flow out.

I watched how he cradled him like a tiny football.

I watched as he fed our baby and changed his diapers when I was in too much pain to do either.

I watched as he slept next to me on a chair in the hospital, never leaving my side.

I watched as he learned how to swaddle better than the maternity nurses.

I watched as he jumped out of bed in the middle of the night to feed our son.

I watched as he changed the baby’s clothes so delicately and bundled him up to keep him warm after his bath.

I watched how he spoke and sang to our son and how excited he was to see his first smile.

I watched as he told our baby boy all of the wonderful things we would do with him as he grew up.

In those seconds, minutes, hours, days, and endless nights, I watched my husband become a man. A father.

And so it is time that my husband gets his wish. For father’s day, in addition to our baby boy, the most precious gift in the world, I’m giving him that cigar that he wanted. He’s earned it. Happy Father’s Day!

(this appeared in the Philadelphia Daily News last year, but I thought it was worth reprinting in honor of my husband's 2nd Father's Day).

The Bad News Babysitter

2010-06-10T11:15:00.000-07:00

Our babysitter can now add "DUI" to her resume.

Let me clarify: our FORMER babysitter, A.K.A. CRAZY OLD NYMPHO NEIGHBOR LADY.

Yes, the woman who brags about her sexual exploits the way other senior citizens boast of the polyester slacks they bought on sale at Loehmanns, now has a DUI under her girdle. At least in theory anyway.

She confessed to my husband that she hopped behind the wheel of her car all boozed up and bumped into a neighbor's car. Her front end damage tells the whole story. It was so bad that she's now driving a rental car, which has developed mysterious dents over the past week.

Did I mention that CRAZY OLD NYMPHO NEIGHBOR LADY doesn't see well either? That's when she's NOT liquored up. She's had various eye surgeries over the past year and she should have her driver's license confiscated or at least locked up in a safe with tiny numbers that only someone with 20/20 vision could see.

CRAZY OLD NYMPHO NEIGHBOR LADY was sipping tea at the small table outside her home yesterday. It was an odd sight to see her with a teacup instead of a wine glass.

"This is my new drink," she cackled to my husband. "Because one glass of wine turns into two, two turns into three, and then I get in my car and . . . "

You know the rest.

" . . . I get in trouble," she giggled, rolling her one good eye.

You're probably wondering why we would ever in a million years have this nut babysit our precious boy. Two reasons: guilt and desperation.

From the moment she noticed my protruding belly, CRAZY OLD NYMPHO NEIGHBOR LADY begged us to babysit. And, one night, we had a rehearsal dinner to attend and no sitter in sight.

We justified to ourselves, "CRAZY OLD NYMPHO NEIGHBOR LADY has a very big heart, loves our baby and our baby, too, gets a big kick out of her, especially when she plays "Bom Bom Butz" with him and they head butt one another.

Maybe it would be okay, for just a couple of hours?"

We called her. Within seconds, she was banging on our door like a disgruntled Census worker.

"Okay, here are our cell phone numbers, here is his bottle . . . "

"Can I just throw it in the crib with him?" CRAZY OLD NYMPHO NEIGHBOR LADY pondered.

"No, they don't do it that way anymore, you need to hold him while he has his bottle," I explained patiently, trying to ignore the fact that my recently ironed hair was starting to frizz from beads of sweat at my hairline.

"And here is his blanket that he sleeps with." I handed her a soft breathable baby blanket.

"We're fine, we're fine! Go 'head, go have fun!" she cackled.

As our dinner rolled on hour after hour, I pictured CRAZY OLD NYMPHO NEIGHBOR LADY holding my baby on one skinny hip, smoking a cigarette, mixing a gin and tonic, while pulling sizzling Shrinky Dinks out of my oven.

I threw back a vodka cranberry. I imagined her feeding my baby Pop Rocks, chasing them with a bottle full of Pepsi, and showing my son how to cruise the Internet for porn.

He's gonna be a good lover! CRAZY OLD NYMPHO NEIGHBOR LADY once told me after my 8 month old patted her cheek, as most babies do.

"Okay, that's it, time to go home!" I announced to my husband abruptly. I pushed back my chair and said the fastest fifty goodbyes possible.

We found CRAZY OLD NYMPHO NEIGHBOR LADY with wild bedhead from being curled up asleep on our sofa.

"He didn't want to sleep!" she bellowed, cackling. "So I brought him back out to play!"

"Was he good?"

"He's a doll! An absolute doll!" she yelled to the entire neighborhood. (Maybe she has hearing problems too?)

As I thanked her and showed her to the door, my husband tiptoed into the nursery to check on our son.

"He's fine, babe, he sleeping like an angel . . . " he reported on his way back to the kitchen.

"Thank God," I replied.

"But . . .

"What?" I spun around.

"he was sleeping with this . . . " He held in his hands a KING SIZED chenille throw blanket that we keep on our sofa.

"NO!"

"Yep."

"That CRAZY OLD . . ."

She must have brought him out to play and he probably started sucking his thumb and fuzzing the nearest blanket in sight, and then she probably tried to pry it out of his hands before carrying him back to his crib. He clearly won that battle (if it was a battle at all) and she figured, what the hell? It's a blanket. He can have it in his crib with him.

"I need another drink."

"He's okay, he's fine," my husband smiled.

"NEVER AGAIN!"

Okay, what should you take away from this cautionary tale?

1. Do not let anyone babysit your child out of guilt.
2. Do not let anyone babysit your child just because you're desperate for a sitter.
3. Avoid a babysitter who has at least one bum eye.
4. Avoid a babysitter who is approaching 80 years old and hits on your husband. Kind of.
5. Avoid a babysitter who has a DUI, or by the luck of the draw, avoided getting one. Don't go anywhere near her while she's in a vehicle.

As for CRAZY OLD NYMPHO NEIGHBOR LADY, she still holds a dear place in our hearts. However, she will never babysit my boy again and if she wants to come over and play, fine, but I am putting away my son's fleet of vehicles. If she wants to hop onto my baby's Harley, dump truck or red wagon, she'll need to pass a Breathalyzer first!

Don't Get Angry, Get Artsy

2010-05-31T06:00:00.000-07:00

The other night, I was a bit perturbed with my husband. The question why is irrelevant. It was my innovative solution that's the focus here.

By the time the clock struck 8 p.m., he was passed out on our bed, snoring 10 decibels louder than his normal angelic sighs. After trying unsuccessfully to poke and prod him awake to give him an earful, I decided I needed to get creative. And by "creative," I mean, crayons.

I bounded with glee into the living room and pulled open the top drawer of our distressed wood wine rack. Hallelujah! A whole arsenal of pristine Crayola products, still untouched by baby hands. I decided a blue crayon might look nice.

I tiptoed up to my husband, who was lying on his side, half of his face exposed. The blue crayon made contact with his upper lip amidst my hysterics, but . . . damn it, it did not leave a mark.

Now, the average temporarily disgruntled wife might have thrown in the smock at that point, but clearly, I'm not average.

I skipped right back out to my stash and pulled out a washable Crayola marker made specifically for chubby baby hands. Green. That would make a nice moustache!

And, oh yes, it did. Not only did I design a gorgeous green moustache on my husband, but also some wiry whiskers on his one exposed cheek. He started turning over as I muffled my roars, doubled over by the bedside.

Then, I got crazy. I flicked on the bedroom light and whipped out my cell phone camera to try to preserve the evidence.

"Babe, stop! Whater you doing?!" he huffed sleepily, tugging the down comforter over his head.

The photo shoot did not go well despite my multiple attempts to capture his moustached mug shot. Hence, there is no photo to accompany this post, so you'll have to use your imagination, just like I did!

The following morning, I heard my husband in the shower forever. The thought of him wiping away the whiskers was as satisfying as a hot turkey sandwich and fries.

Finally, he emerged with a sly grin on his face.

"Babe, any idea how I got a green moustache and some sort of whiskers on my face last night?"

"You came home like that," I told him.

"Oh, really?"

"Yep, I guess your friends did it."

"Um hmmm," he smiled.

The truth was that getting artsy was the only thing that could get me through the night.

So, next time you contemplate going to bed angry, I recommend highly going to bed artsy instead. I think it could solve 99% of marital problems.

As for my husband, he now knows my Picasso pranks are not just empty threats. I have finger paints and playdoh just waiting to be cracked open and I just purchased a baby wiffle bat and a dozen water pistols "for the beach."

Letter From My 2nd Grade Teacher

2010-05-26T10:26:00.000-07:00

Back when I was a baby, my mom made me a phenomenal baby book, full of her handwritten notes about everything from my favorite foods to my tendency to hum while eating. She saved every report card I ever brought home and any comment a teacher ever expressed about me. Here is one letter that I recently found, from my 2nd grade teacher.

It reads:

July 3, 1983

Dear Stacey (sic),

Hope you are enjoying this summer. It is certainly hot! I hope you get to swim a lot. Swim for me too!

I want to thank you for being such a great person in my class. The class was a great class and I miss all of you so much.
I thank you for all the gifts you've given me - great and small over the year - but mostly for being such a lovely, responsive girl. I am sure you will always be doing well in life. It will be my pleasure to watch you grow up and it has been my pleasure to have known and loved you this past school year.

Much love to you,

Mrs. Mims

First of all, this is the nicest (and only) letter I've ever received from a former teacher. Although I never had the opportunity to reply to Mrs. Mims back in 1983, I would like to take the opportunity to do so now:

Dear Mrs. Mims,

I am totally enjoying my summer, thanks for asking! You're damn right, it's hot! (But summer in Philly typically is a roaster). You'll be happy to know that I've been swimming a lot and I'm even teaching my one year old son to swim too. Every time we do a cannonball into the pool, we yell out, mid-air, "This one is for Mrs. Mims!"

Thank you for your kind words about my presence in your classroom. Truth be known, all I can recall about 2nd grade is making a gigantic bed of down winter coats with my three best friends and laying on the classroom floor, bundled up, as if we were bracing for a snowstorm. (I still enjoy a good down comforter to this day!)

Yes, I agree with you, the class was a great class and I miss you too. None of my other teachers ever allowed me to snuggle up on the floor that way, and my college professors especially did not appreciate it.

Mrs. Mims, I have absolutely no idea what sort of" gifts" you're referring to in your letter of July 3, 1983, but I imagine I might have made you a gorgeous lanyard keychain or perhaps a masterpiece of Snoopy lying on top of his dog house. As far as me being "such a lovely, responsive girl," well, you're making me blush! You'll be happy to know that I am doing well in life. (I think).

I'm sure you had all good intentions of wanting to watch me grow up, but the truth is, Mrs. Mims, your letter of July 3, 1983, was the last time I ever heard from you. No worries, though. I have had plenty of wonderful people in my life who have watched me grow up.

It has been a pleasure to have known you and loved- (I think that's going a bit too far now). It's been a pleasure to have known you too. And, just a little tip- if you write that you "love" a student in 2010, you'll probably be arrested immediately as a suspected pedophile. I'm just trying to watch out for you.

All the best,

Stacy (no "e" in my name, k?)

Ride Above and Beyond Rejection

2010-05-23T03:59:00.000-07:00

Rarely do I drive anywhere these days without my son in tow, bopping in the back seat or pointing out trucks and trees that catch his discerning eye.

When I do find myself alone in the car, I, for some odd reason, want to push the outer limits of my speedometer. Run my gas tank not just down to empty, but dangerously beyond. I want to feel the rush of seeing the "---" when I push a button to reveal how many miles more I can drive before breaking down. I want to blast my music. Open every window. And the sunroof. Pass cars aggressively. Floor it.

Don't worry. It's not that I (always) do these things, but I consider them. Being alone in the car is a bit of freedom, both physical and mental.

So, last week, when I took off for Lancaster, PA, to attend a two day writers' conference, I wanted to put down the roof of my car (even though it's not a convertible) and let the wind whoosh through my hair. I had big plans.

I passed sprawling farmland, horse n buggies, and homemade pretzel shops on my way to meet some of the most prestigious authors, agents, and editors in the literary world.

I listened intently in each seminar I attended, jotting down copious notes. One big time literary agent from NYC scoffed as he answered a question from one of us lowly writers in the crowd.

"It's just annoying," he leaned into the microphone on the table in front of him. "I don't understand why some of you actually feel the need to respond to a rejection letter. It's like you reject the rejection letter."

Ok, note to self: don't reject the rejection.

What's true in dating and job hunting is also true in writing.
1. Rejection sucks.
2. But it's a useful learning tool.
3. Reject the urge to wallow in rejection.
4. Remember that the most successful people in the world have experienced rejection.
5. Be patient and persistent.
6. Do what you were meant to do with your life, and
7. If all else fails, put down your car windows, crank up some tunes, put your foot on the gas, floor it, and enjoy the ride.

At least that's what I told myself to do as I rode alone in an elevator, straight back down to reality, after getting rejected brutally by a very bright yet aloof vice president of the Children's Division of a major publishing company. We had a lovely conversation. Really, we did. She told me my idea was terrible, in so many words.

And, guess what? Life goes on. I had nothing to lose but a great opportunity to pitch an idea that I concocted at 3 a.m. the night before.

So, don't feel sorry for me. Rejection is part of life. You know I'm going to hitch up my horse n buggy and keep on ridin'' . . . and once I get that green light, I'm going to gallop off into the sunset. You can bet on that.

Eat Your Breakfast, Beeatch

2010-05-18T07:10:00.000-07:00

How long was this chick going to glare at my baby before my mother bear claws came out?

Start your watch. Ready?

9:15:01 a.m. - My sister and I and our two angelic boys, ages 1 and 2, sit down in a posh restaurant inside the lobby of a hip hotel in NYC, where we had just spent the night. We realize that everyone in the restaurant is either an NBC executive, C-list actor, or ad executive, all preparing for a huge NBC fall show presentation across the street, called the NBC Upfront.

9:15:02 a.m. - My son points out the lovely chandelier overhead and his face lights up. "Daht," he squeals. A woman in her late 30s at the table next to us looks as if she just sipped some spoiled milk. But she's staring at my baby. She looks back at her friend. Then my baby. Her coffee. Then my baby.

9:15:03 a.m. - "See that bitch over there?" I mouth/whisper to my sister. "Yeah, why does she keep staring over here?"

9:15:04 a.m. - We place our drink orders. My boy is hungry and I start fishing frantically through my purse for some sort of "breakfast" before breakfast. She stares. She glares. Now her friend is staring too.

9:15:05 a.m. - I pull out a toy truck, a tiny baby book with my son's teeth marks on the corner and finally, banana and brown rice in a pouch. My sister's eyes dart between me and "Frau Farbissiner" (Ms. Miserable) at the next table. "She's still staring."

9:15:06 a.m. - "Go grab a bagel at the buffet, don't worry about her."

9:15:07 a.m. - I change my tactic of ignoring Frau and I meet her steely eyes head on. I don't know whether this bitch has a bum ovary or just a bad attitude. How could she possible detest my lovable son and adorable nephew (who, by the way, has the sophistication and vocabulary of a middle aged man)? It's not like they're launching banana chunks in her direction, and at this point, if they were, I would count to "20 Mississippi" before I intervened. You know what? I don't care what her story is.

9:15:08 a.m. - I tell my sister, loudly now, "If she looks over here one more time, that's it."

9:15:09 a.m. - DING DING. I glare over at her and say loudly and obnoxiously, "They're pretty cute, aren't they?" I smirk at her and then fluff my son's curly mop of hair. She looks bewildered and pathetic. "They're actually NBC executives, preparing for the Upfront today," I added, just for my own amusement.

9:15:10 a.m. - That shut her up. She didn't throw any more daggers our way. Glare at me? Fine. Mess with my son and my nephew? You're risking life or limb.

9:16:11 a.m. - We realize Frau is not speaking English. She probably didn't understand a thing I just said. But the beauty of nonverbal communication is that one's intentions are abundantly clear. I understood her and she understood me. And, I'm pretty sure she got my real message:

EAT YOUR BREAKFAST, BITCH!

Dear Mom,

2010-05-07T06:44:00.000-07:00

I know that I drove you CRAZY when:

I doodled off the pages of my coloring book and right up my bedroom walls.

I hid from you in the department store clothing racks while you yelled my name in a panic.

I did aerobatic back-flips off our swing-set while you waved a finger at me from the kitchen window.

I stayed out in a snowstorm until 3 a.m., singing and dancing with my best friend while you canvassed the neighborhood for us.

I…. maybe I shouldn’t even mention skydiving!

I know that I made you PROUD when:

after my first 3 years of almost complete silence, I started speaking in full sentences.

I had a starring role in the first grade play, even though I forgot my lines.

I sang and danced in the front of movie theaters as an "opening act."

I brought home excellent report cards, with the occasional note about getting kicked out of class.

You know that you drove me CRAZY when:

You made me eat vegetables and yelled at me when I passed them under the table to our dog.

You cut my bangs unevenly and brushed my hair so roughly that I threatened to call the Child Abuse Hotline, or Gram.

You eavesdropped on my conversations with boyfriends.

You refused to let me go on spring break to Cancun when I was 17 and I missed out on 7 nights of wild foam parties and body shots of tequila.

You might not know, but you made me PROUD when:

You treated everyone with kindness and compassion.

You valued other cultures.

You made me laugh every day.

You cried over the cheesiest television shows.

You blasted loud music and danced around the house.

You believed in me.

You massaged my feet when I was sick and brought me toast cut in triangles.

You made me wonder.

You bought two car seats for your car when your first two grandsons were born.

You cultivated a beautiful marriage.

You spread love, every day of your life, simply by being you.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Love always,

Stacy

A Real Renaissance Woman

2010-05-05T07:47:00.000-07:00

It is midnight on a tiny cobblestone street in Florence and my grandmother is perched on a moped, posing for the "paparazzi" like a 1905s Italian movie star.

She smiles. She's serious. Now sexy. She's working her shawl like a superhero would finesse a cape.

Behind the cameras, we, her grandchildren, giggle, loving every second of this impromptu photo shoot. Here we are in Italy, just the girls, three generations bound by one spirit. And here's Gram, showing us you're never too old to hop onto a random moped just for fun.

We decided to travel to Rome and Florence for all of the obvious reasons: The Coliseum, the Vatican, the Prada, the Gucci. Gram packed turkey sandwiches and snacks, kissed my grandpop good-bye, and jetted off to Rome with my sister and me.

We arrived at our hotel nine hours later to meet up with my cousin. My aunt decided to surprise us all. She showed up at the hotel as we screamed with excitement. The girls had arrived!

The Italians were warm and inviting. Everywhere we went, Gram was treated like a rock star. Men sent her complimentary bottles of wine at dinner; women introduced themselves while shopping. Maybe it was her sheer effervescence from being on a once-in-a-lifetime vacation with her three granddaughters; maybe it was her resemblance to Sophia Loren.

Whatever it was, Gram's spirit wowed us too.

Gram had undergone two heart surgeries in the last few years, yet nothing was going to slow her down. Up at 7 every morning, she would roust us out of bed, lace up her brand-new Nikes, and take us out on the town all day and night.

Exhausted after walking miles, Gram was still the life of the party back in our hotel room. Whether she was posing for funny pictures in her floral robe or telling us old stories, Gram kept us laughing in our beds until 2 a.m. She was in her glory.

We toured Rome and Florence, saw the most spectacular sights, and met some wonderful characters along the way. But the most unforgettable part of the journey was the journey itself: my family discovering the world together; the matriarch instilling in the rest of us a thirst for life, adventure, and simple thrills. Like laughing about the good 'ol days while making new memories. Like eating pasta in the finest Roman restaurants but missing South Philly. Like sitting in a piazza basking in the sun, remembering summers in Ventnor.

Like hopping on a moped at midnight on a tiny cobblestone street in Florence, reminding your grandchildren that life is meant to be lived.

So Long, Lucille

2010-05-04T10:25:00.000-07:00

Lucille. Lucille. Lucille.

Yesterday, we said a painful goodbye.

I heard disgusting squishing sounds as you made your exit and I felt the pressure of the doctor battling you as if he were an exorcist. You were a formidable enemy, Lucy. But, bitch, you're long gone now.

"Do you want to see Lucille?" the doc asked.

"NO WAY!"

No chance was I going to peak through my sealed tight eyelids to check you out, lady. Why would I want to see you, sitting there solemnly in a vial, awaiting your journey to the lab? It was enough that I had to live with you these past couple of months, you little parasite.

Of course, we had our moments. You were the Thelma to my Louise, the Laverne to my Shirley, the Ashford to my Simpson. We had a few nice walks in the park, excursions to the playground. But, still, you were an unwelcome guest.

"I don't want to see her, but what does she look like?" I asked the doc, face-down on the examination table.

"Like the blob!" the doc replied, with enthusiasm.

" . . . with chicken fat," his assistant felt the need to add.

Lovely.

Well, now that I've set you loose, Lucille, I have to admit today has been a bit difficult. No, I don't miss your bulging presence in my back. But I do have phantom pains that have your name written all over them. My exit wound aches, burns, and constantly reminds me of you.

But, I have to say, I feel lucky to have known you, Lucy. Because as big and bulgy and important as you thought you were, busting your way into my back, disrupting my life for a short time, the truth is, you were a big nothing. And, maybe, just maybe, Lucy, in addition to playing cupid for would-be lovers visiting the Mutter Museum, maybe you'll be a lucky little reminder to others to get their weird lumps checked out, cut out, exorcised, what have you.

You're an inspiration.

There, I said it. You happy now?

Still, I am quite content to say, "So long, Lucille!"

Employee of the Month (No, make that Year)

2010-04-28T11:29:00.000-07:00

I have an office in a fancy law firm with my name etched on a plate next to the door. It sits barren.

My college and law school diplomas, Bar and federal court admissions certificates, files, law books, and photos from my wedding collect dust in that office. They are all that's left of me at the firm.

But just because I have a vacant office and no job doesn't mean I'm not working.

Do you know how many hours I have billed over the past month? Year?

None.

I don't fill out timesheets anymore. Time keeps on ticking and my days turn into nights turn into days.

No reason to write down "1.5 hours" for "Singing multiple songs while holding a toddler still on the changing table with one hand, picking up a plastic fish on the floor with my toes and using the other hand to change a diaper." It seems odd to jot down ".5 hours" for "Reviewing Babyproofing Videos on YouTube." And it clearly doesn't make sense to document "2.5" for "Reciting the alphabet," or "6.5" for "Identifying (and cheering loudly for) trucks on the road, in books, and on television."

My rewards these days don't come in the form of a paycheck. The "direct deposit" that I get now is not wired to my bank account, but to my soul. Payment comes daily in the form of smiles, kisses, chubby little hands literally patting my back as I carry my son around like a doll on my hip. Or when my husband tells me every now and then, "You don't know how much it warms a dad's heart to know that his son is so well loved and cared for every day."

One of these days, I'll retrieve my diplomas, certificates, files, law books, and wedding photos from "my" office, if my electronic key card still works. They, of course, are prized possessions for all that they represent. But, what is truly priceless to me is time.

This time.

It only happens once.

And I don't need an office in a fancy law firm to define my fulfillment.

All I need are MY two partners.

Another Mutter

2010-04-19T16:17:00.001-07:00

It had been exactly 13 weeks since I last attended spinning class.

That break allowed me the opportunity to erase all memories of my bruised behind and lazy legs. It was the perfect amount of time for me to convince myself, yet again, that spinning might be fun.

Little did I know that there would be a new member in the class. Or should I say, a new member "with child."

There is a new pregnant spinning chick. (It appears that the original pregnant spinning chick, about whom I blogged months ago, has taken a week off to spin out her baby).

I am shocked and sort of appalled that there are at least two women in the world, let alone my spinning class, who are crazy enough to spin while 9 months pregnant.

Am I just "old school?"

Are pregnant women in 2010 that much more aggressive in their fitness regimens than pregnant women were in 2009 (when I was pregnant)?

I can tell you that my idea of exercise was huffing and puffing up my stairs, rolling over in bed, and running frantically from my living room to the toilet to flush a stink bug (when my husband wasn't home to save the day).

Are ob/gyns recommending spinning these days instead of Lamaze class?

Seriously, what will be next for the pregnant people? Zip-lining? Pregnant paintball? Heli-skiing?

The only thing that shook me out of these endless thoughts was the spinning teacher's entrance.

She bounced in the door on her perfectly tanned and toned legs, all amped up. As she hoped on her bike in the center of the room, she announced to the class:

"Alright, everybody, I have fresh legs today. I haven't worked out in a few days, although I danced for 5 hours the other night at my best friend's wedding. It was at the Mutter Museum. And I would HIGHLY RECOMMEND having a wedding there."

I hung my head and tried to conceal my smile. I felt like I was going to laugh as hard as I used to in 8th grade science class, which would frequently lead the teacher to kick me out of class and make me stand on one square of linoleum in the hallway.

She did NOT just say "Mutter," I chuckled to myself.

A WEDDING? At the MUTTER? This idea was, by far, crazier than puffing up fake hills on a stationary bike with a basketball of a baby under your tank top.

I imagined the bride and groom posing with Grover Cleveland's tumor.

I must respectfully disagree that the Mutter would be a perfect spot for a wedding, (unless you're marrying Marilyn Manson). A funeral, Halloween party, rave, or brief 3rd date at the Mutter? YES. Nuptials? NO.

And, my suggestion on spinning while 9 months pregnant: Do it at your own risk. I'll stick with the zip line.

Mutter, May I?

2010-04-16T08:46:00.000-07:00

I'm considering a donation to the Mutter Museum.

For those of you who have not had the pleasure of visiting the Mutter, it's a museum in Philadelphia "founded to educate future doctors about anatomy and human medical anomalies."

I am not considering a monetary donation. I would like to donate Lucille. So that she may educate future doctors.

I think Lucille (my lipoma, which I plan to have removed from my back in a few weeks) would be right at home with the Mutter's "collection of over 20,000 unforgettable objects, such as fluid-preserved anatomical and pathological specimens and skeletons."

I am not sure that Lucille would be considered a "one of a kind treasure" of the Mutter Museum, like:

The plaster cast of the torso of world-famous Siamese Twins, Chang & Eng,
Joseph Hyrtl's collection of skulls
the preserved body of the "Soap Lady"
the collection of 2,000 objects extracted from people's throats or
the cancerous growth removed from President Grover Cleveland.

But, still. I am pretty sure Lucille would be in good company with the "Soap Lady." She could cozy up to the torso of the Siamese Twins, and, no doubt, gross people out for centuries to come.

I also think a donation to the Mutter is particularly appropriate since it was the site of the 3rd date my husband and I shared. After our 1st date (drinks at Rouge) and our 2nd date (dinner at Radicchio), I thought we needed to try something off the beaten path.

I suggested the Mutter Museum. He was game. My husband claims he knew he wanted to marry me as he watched me stroll along the glass cases, grimacing at one medical abnormality after the next, repeating the word, "Ewwww! Eww! Ewww!"

"Check out Grover Cleveland's tumor!" he pointed out, with wonder and disgust all over his face.

"EWWWWW!"

"Did you see the 19th century stirrups and forceps?"

"EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!"

"I'm so nauseous, I have to get out of here," I finally confessed to him after 7.5 minutes in the museum.

"Perfect, let's go to brunch," he smiled. "That is, if you still have an appetite."

Just think, a century from now, Lucille could be the catalyst for another young couple's union. Their eyes might meet over a dusty glass display case containing Lucille. They might exhale lovingly the very same word at the very same time: "Ewwwwwwwww!" And the rest will be history. When their future grandchildren ask them how they fell in love, they will tell them one word:

Lucille.

The Other Woman

2010-04-13T05:52:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, my husband received an email:

"You know you want me. Don't deny it.
Love,
Lucille"

That hussy.

Home wrecker.

He wasn't going to be fooled.

He replied:

"Good Day Lady Lucille,
I'm a happily married man who has a wonderful wife and little baby boy. Please seek opportunities in other homes. You're not
welcomed here!"

Lucille!

First she moved in on my upper back, now she's movin' in on my man!

"Lucy, your days are numbered in this house!" he tells her. She gets insulted.

I'm living in a bizarro episode of "Big Love," with a lipoma playing the role of another "wife." And I'm stuck with this bitch for at least a few more weeks.

In the meantime, I'm trying to make the best of it.

'"I'm taking Lucille to the playground," I'll say.
"Luce LOVED the fries at Elevation Burger!"
Clearly, I'm trying to expose her to a little culture before she leaves.

My friend, Bess, suggested that if I register for the Broad Street Run (10 mile race) next month, Lucille get her own bib number. Can you imagine if Lucille beats out the Kenyans to win the race? Now that would really be SOMETHING!

Yom Hashoah

2010-04-11T15:45:00.000-07:00

We knew we were going to hell. Our worried parents had warned us, tried to protect us, but we insisted the journey would make us stronger.

Our faces resembled those of old weary passengers. A quick glance at each other's glazed over eyes quickly sent our focus to rest on something safer, our feet, perhaps, or the dusty floor of the car which carried us.

I shut my eyes, but horrific mental snapshots began to unravel as if played back on an old dusty movie reel. History book images of walking corpses, tattered shoes and mountains of nude bodies piled high like tires in a junkyard filled my mind as the dreaded hour drew near. The sun was radiant and eager to usher in the first day of spring.

Breathtaking German countryside whizzed by as my mind spun Hebrew school lessons of scarlet swastikas and mindless soldiers marching in perfect cadence into a macabre montage.

As the local train approached the station, schoolchildren with toothless grins and bright colored backpacks skipped by me and hopped down onto the platform, anxious to get a head start in their playful dash for home. Quietly dazed, my friends and I boarded a local bus en route to Dachau. Peering out of gray windows, I was greeted by a quaint European town that reminded me of so many others through which we had recently passed. I watched plump women riding bicycles with baskets full of groceries, fathers taking the hands of their children, lovers smiling and laughing and strolling through the streets.

I falsely reassured myself that this methodical, yet surreal, daily rhythm of life in Dachau must have been interrupted by the business of mass destruction--- the train loads of expressionless soldiers marching through barbed-wire into the army of the damned, the faint putrid smell of human carnage, the familiar cloud of smoke and quiet gray storms of raining ashes.

The German woman next to me read quietly as we passed one convenience store after the next. The colorful scenes of typical European life were swiftly interrupted by the jerking halt of our bus. Surrounded by suspicious glares of the locals as yet another group of foreigners gathered somberly, we disembarked to witness the town's greatest shame.

I braced myself, and slowly pushed through the entrance gate, reading "Arbeit Macht Frei," ironically boasting "Work Gives Freedom."

Inside Dachau, I separated from my two traveling companions. I paced through the museum, which once served as Nazi bunks and offices. The pictures, memoirs, letters, and prisoner uniforms on display painted a picture of unspeakable crimes. The haunted eyes, emaciated bodies, and pallid cheeks of prisoners bombarded my every move.

I paused in front of a photo of what appeared to be an elderly man, who actually was no more than twenty-five. I stopped to notice not his pain, but his radiant smile; incomprehensible is the capacity of the human poised between life and death to smile for the sake of a photograph and the hope of emancipation. I gazed into the bewildered eyes of living female corpses who, with closely shorn hair and figures which no longer curved, were almost indistinguishable from the male prisoners.

I pushed through the museum's heavy metal doors and stepped outside. Surrounded by death, I shivered in spite of the luminous rays of spring sunshine. As I shuffled down the gravel walk towards the center which once served as the "roll call" square, never shifting my focus from the silent imposing watch towers, I pictured cold and lifeless puppets marching endlessly in a funeral procession for the living, a privilege that the dead would never know.

I envisioned the endless rows of feet which stood, frost-bitten, exhausted, bloated, bleeding, jammed into ragged shoes two sizes too small, barely able to support the diminishing frames of skeletons. I recalled the strength of souls resolved not to be broken by any manifestation of evil, fighting to the bitter end to maintain a thread of dignity. Rocking softly on throbbing heals to find heat, occasionally sneaking a pinch to the cheeks to circulate blood, here they would gather, in every season, waiting to be judged.

They struggled to appear healthy regardless of the most excruciating pain, because one sign of illness meant imminent death. I felt the presence of innocent people from all over Europe: the Pole, Hungarian, Italian, Russian, the condemned, collected from all corners of the map, united here under the sadistic reign of Hitler.

I could hear, "Achtung, Jude!" the familiar shrill command which echoed throughout the square, collapsing the multitude of national identities into one, as the prisoners were called to judgment. Barking SS commanders pointed this way or that way; one towards life and a grunt signifying death. The unmerciful game of selection.

In the center of the square, once marked by thousands of bodies unable to dodge the constant hail of bullets from the towers, a monument had been erected depicting a mass of tangled bodies with agony stretched across their faces. The words "Never Again" inscribed in various languages at the base of the sculpture screamed out to the conscience of each visitor making this journey.

I was suddenly approached by a young man. Through a thick German accent and the help of his cameraman, he introduced himself as an Austrian journalist who was investigating visitors' reactions to Dachau for his newspaper.

"I don't know where to start," I began in a distant and unfamiliar voice, finding that my tears flowed easier than my words. "I....I am Jewish..." I continued slowly and clearly, "My grandfather fought against the Nazis in the war....he....he shot down a plane...liberated a camp in Belgium....my grandparents have friends who are survivors. I've seen their numbers...their tattoos," I rambled, pointing to my arm, as my eyes at last allowed a defiant tear to fall.

"Wan more," he reassured me. "Why vizit Dachau?" I choked back tears threatening to boil over. I leaned in close to the Austrian and whispered, "Every human who enters these gates to remember the past liberates the souls of those who lost their lives here again and again."

Walking the overwhelming grounds in silence, past rows of lifeless trees planted ironically by dying prisoners, I noticed only the concrete foundations of the original thirty barracks remained. A bulldozer had helped clear the conscience of this average German town thirty years ago. As I crossed over a tiny stream to reach the furthest spot of the camp, a floating duck, unaware of the barbed wire and the unmarked grave of masses beyond the hill caught my attention.

I approached the incomprehensible. Standing inside the gas chamber that was disguised as a shower room I envisioned the horror, felt the masses of whimpering bodies who would have stood suffering in solitude.

Finally, I entered the crematorium. I stood transfixed, picturing an assembly line of grotesquely twisted bodies entering the furnace, churning out heaps of gray ash floating softly down to the cold stone floor. Dead red roses marking the site in remembrance caught my eye and in an instant interruption of my flow of conscious, my head began to pulsate as if it might burst, as my entire being longed to scream out, "My God, how many died here?!!!" I stood alone, staring into hell, sensing angels at my side. All I could think was we were all in the wrong place.

Outside now, searching for my two friends, I cautiously allowed myself one picture- something to show my family and friends at home. I carefully chose the location of the main entrance and quickly snapped a photo of the gate ajar, symbolizing the freedom that would never be for so many.

My thoughts immediately turned to my grandparents, living luxuriously in Miami, beautifully tanned, and probably out at the "early bird special," laughing over a bowl of matzo ball soup. Overwhelmed by the urgency to escape, I collected my friends on this magnificent April afternoon, pushed through the heavy gate and walked briskly away from the barbed wire.

*************************************************************************************************************************

In honor of Holocaust Remembrance Day, take a minute to remember:

"Despite everything, I believe that people are really good at heart." - Ann Frank

“Remember the past to make a better future, always have hope, and never give up. Be a true friend even in hard times!” - Gerda Weissmann Klein

"I decided to devote my life to telling the story because I felt that having survived I owe something to the dead and anyone who does not remember betrays them again." -Elie Wiesel

“The aims of life are the best defense against death.” - Primo Levi

"The Holocaust is not only a tragedy of the Jewish people, it is a failure of humanity as a whole." -Moshe Katsav, Israeli President

"Whoever destroys a soul, it is considered as if he destroyed an entire world. And whoever saves a life, it is considered as if he saved an entire world." - Babylonian Talmud, Sanhedrin 4:8 (37a)

Lucille

2010-04-09T10:06:00.001-07:00

A few weeks ago, I felt a strange lump in the upper left part of my back. I assumed it was a knotted muscle, but it felt more like a third shoulder when I moved my hand across it. Gross.

I dismissed it. Forgot about it.

Then, the other night, after begging my husband for a massage, he felt it too.

"WHAT IS THAT? You need to get that checked out."

Great. Now he had me convinced that the clock was winding down on my days left on earth. I thought: should I plan a safari in Kenya? Nah. Should I ignore his comment and the gigantic growth the size of half a tennis ball? Nah. Should I, against my better judgment, research online what this ball in my back is, in the hope of finding a benign explanation? Yes.

"Lipoma, that's got to be it," I thought as I read about a fairly common benign cyst. Of course, I was just hoping that was it. It could have been something else, something terrible.

Yesterday, I went to the doctor. My blood pressure was off the charts because death still seemed a distinct possibility, not to mention the fact that my son's snacks were running low and he was whining for more while watching me from his stroller. My doctor gave a two second check of the lump and confirmed, "It's a lipoma, benign, you should probably get it removed."

Why do I have it? What causes it? Apparently, modern medicine does not provide all of the answers.

"Why anything," my doc replied, smiling, "Have your blood pressure checked again, now that you know you're going to live." Ha. Ha.

So, as much as I've enjoyed carrying around this 1/2 baseball in my back, I think it's time to say goodbye. And, before I say goodbye, I think it's fitting that I name this lump and share her story with you all, in case you too find yourself with unwelcome company at some point.

I will call her Lucille Lipoma. We will treat her like a temporary member of our family. But, we will celebrate when she leaves, which I hope is sooner than her May 3rd ticket out of town. If anyone knows anyone who knows anyone who can get me a quicker appointment with Dr. Greenbaum on Walnut Street, I would appreciate that greatly. I'm not gonna lie, Lucille is cramping my style.

But the good news is, I'm going to live.

Shed a Little Light

2010-04-04T07:43:00.000-07:00

by James Taylor.

Let us turn our thoughts today
To martin luther king
And recognize that there are ties between us
All men and women
Living on the earth
Ties of hope and love
Sister and brotherhood
That we are bound together
In our desire to see the world become
A place in which our children
Can grow free and strong
We are bound together
By the task that stands before us
And the road that lies ahead
We are bound and we are bound

There is a feeling like the clenching of a fist
There is a hunger in the center of the chest
There is a passage through the darkness and the mist
And though the body sleeps the heart will never rest

(chorus)
Shed a little light, oh lord
So that we can see
Just a little light, oh lord
Wanna stand it on up
Stand it on up, oh lord
Wanna walk it on down
Shed a little light, oh lord

Can't get no light from the dollar bill
Don't give me no light from a tv screen
When I open my eyes
I wanna drink my fill
From the well on the hill

(do you know what I mean? )
- chorus -

There is a feeling like the clenching of a fist
There is a hunger in the center of the chest
There is a passage through the darkness and the mist
And though the body sleeps the heart will never rest

Oh, let us turn our thoughts today
To martin luther king
And recognize that there are ties between us
All men and women
Living on the earth
Ties of hope and love
Sister and brotherhood

An Electronic Embrace

2010-04-02T06:27:00.000-07:00

There is a ton of crap on the Internet. We've all glossed over inane postings on Facebook: "OMG! My dog just barfed all over the kitchen floor."

Great.

It is odd that we are all more connected than ever before, but much less connected at the same time. So, it came as a surprise, even to me, that the other day, I reached out and actually made a connection with a woman whom I barely know over Facebook.

It all started when I slipped on my gray Georgetown t-shirt from 1990. It's as thin as paper and as soft as a baby's blanket. I bought it for a friend who loved Georgetown basketball. A friend who passed away way too soon, at the age of 16. I bought the t-shirt to remember him.

In the past 20 years of traveling, gallivanting through college, moving a dozen times, giving away heaps of clothing to good will, I refused to part with "Matthew's" t-shirt. It would have been like parting with a cherished friend. And because I remember my cherished friend every time I slip into this t-shirt, I decided to reach out to his mother.

I composed an email to her, telling her that I have never forgotten her son, his heart and his spirit. I was nervous that my note might dredge up painful memories of the car accident that stole her son. But I took a chance.

And she wrote back, thrilled to hear from me. She was kind enough to congratulate me on the birth of my own son. We exchanged a few more messages and decided we would meet next time she's in Philly.

And then something else amazing happened. I received an email from Matthew's niece, who was born 7 days before he passed away. I provided some funny and poignant memories about her uncle whom she never had the opportunity to meet. I told her how he was a basketball star in school and camp and he had the nickname, "Magic." I told her how he and I commiserated in 9th grade biology class together and how we loved rap music and Camp Akiba. I told her how Matthew had taken his allowance money and bought basketball sneakers for a teammate who could not afford them. I told her how he was a caring friend, a sweetheart, a person whom everyone loved.

It was so simple to reach out over the Internet. It was so refreshing to send messages that actually meant something to me and to the recipients. It was as easy as slipping on my Georgetown t-shirt and imagining the warm embrace of my friend.

If any of you who happen upon this blog would take 1 minute out of your day to post a comment or memory about Matthew Greenburg (if you knew him), that would be fantastic. We could send his family a gigantic electronic embrace. I don't think there is any better use of modern technology than to reach out and send some love. And, we all know, what goes around, comes around.

Soak up the Season

2010-03-26T02:08:00.000-07:00

"Whoooooa!" my son yells, grinning, as the sunroof slides open, revealing the clear blue sky above our heads. Ziggy Marley pumps through the speakers:

"This train is bound to glory, this train
This train is bound to glory, this train
Choo choo choo, choo choo choo
Choo choo choo, choo choo choo"

I glance in my rearview to check on my passenger, bringing up the "caboose." His four pearly whites gleam in the sunlight, his silky hair blows gently in the breeze. He shakes his single maraca with glee.

"Ah, ah, ah!" he grunts, pointing a baby finger in the direction of a school bus he sees coming in our direction. "A SCHOOL BUS? You see a SCHOOL BUS?! Whoooooa!" He loves when I get as excited about a school bus as he is. He flashes a brilliant smile in my direction, so proud that he might as well have discovered a comet.

Now that spring has arrived, there's a whole new vibe in the air. My boy and I are be-bopin' around town, soaking up the sun, enjoying mini-adventures every day.

We stroll by the river, pointing at geese eating scraps of bread, introducing ourselves to fluffy dogs along the way. We watch the scullers move gracefully over the water.

We cruise over to the playground in my son's new push-car buggy. He squeals as a gust of wind blows his bangs around wildly. We zip down the steep yellow slide together. I hold my breath, praying my sneakers hit the ground first, waiting for my boy to say, "Ghen! A-ghen! Ghen!" I always take him down again.

We swing side by side, he in a baby swing, me in a child's swing, singing, "Weeeeee" into the breeze. We wave at the landscapers and admire the beautiful yellow petunias they are planting. We listen to the birds chirping in the trees on the verge of blooming. "They're saying, 'Good morning to you, good morning to you,'" I tell my baby and his big brown eyes light up.

He spots a dot moving across the sky, points his tiny finger up, and raises his eyebrows at me. "AIRPLANE, you see that airplane up there? Wow!" He smiles, thrilled that I see the airplane too.

He doesn't want me to miss one spectacular sight that catches his eye, one sweet sound that sparks his imagination. He wants to share the experience with me. He wants me to get squeal over a helicopter. Catch up to that tractor up ahead. Feel the fur of that adorable Golden Retriever. He wants me to clap my hands, pat my head, laugh with him, and yell "Whoooooa!" at the top of my lungs every time the sunroof reveals the glorious sky.

And, what can I say? I'm a sucker for that sweet little man who says, "A-ghen!" every time that Ziggy Marley song ends. We play it over and over again. He wants me to make the train sounds, and, of course, I always do. I open the sunroof, let the light in and sing wildly to my boy:

"This train has left the station,
This train carries every nation
This train is bound to glory, this train
Choo choo choo, choo choo choo
Choo choo choo, choo choo choo "

And, all the while, I can't help but think, for a little guy, he's certainly got it all figured out.

This is What Success Looks Like

2010-03-18T05:15:00.000-07:00

Forget the bad news for a minute. Forget the skyrocketing murder rate, the homelessness, problems in Philadelphia schools.

And picture this: a story of a young woman’s success, overcoming all odds to achieve.

This is the story of Antionette.

Flashback to 1999, when I joined Philadelphia Futures as a mentor and was paired up with Antionette.

Picture us meeting for the first time at her rough North Philly school. Me, a young professional from the Main Line, walking through the school’s metal detectors, past armed security guards, a bit nervous and doubtful that I would even have enough time to commit to mentoring.

And then there was Antionette, a lovely ninth grader from Jamaica, who took my hand, introduced me to her teachers and friends and convinced me in about 3 minutes that yes, indeed, I would MAKE enough time to devote to mentoring this young girl.

Picture this: our first outing together. Choosing the perfect frame for her honor roll award. The same award that classmates teased her about. Imagine Antionette reading Shakespeare aloud in class, while students snickered at her accent.

Envision all of the new experiences we shared together: sampling foreign foods (me, fried plantains; her, fried dumplings), visiting museums, going to concerts, shopping for a prom dress, meeting each other's families.

Picture Antionette’s mother who believed in her enough to come to every school meeting and mentorship function, who would tell me each time, in her beautiful Jamaican accent, “Stay-a-ce, every ‘ting is al –right.”

Imagine the obstacles that Antionette faced: no school books, burnt-out teachers, overcrowded classrooms.

Envision the environment: friends dropping out of school, getting pregnant, watching dreams fade away. Don’t forget the violence around every corner, fear in the neighborhood, tearful goodbyes to friends.

Imagine Antionette's perserverence: holding down after-school jobs while balancing homework, tutoring, and sometimes cooking for her family. Picture the group of educators and friends surrounding her, insisting on her achievement.

Don't think it was always easy. When life was a struggle for me, when I broke up with my boyfriend, switched careers, wanted to drop out of law school after the first week, it was Antionette who was my anchor. The thought of her persistence made me want more, dream bigger, and do better in my own life.

Together, we navigated through each semester of high school and then on to SATS, college applications, and essays.

Imagine Antionette going to Penn State on a full scholarship, living in the dorms, far from the gunfire on the streets of Philadelphia. Picture her in biology class, statistics, dreaming of a career in medicine or maybe social work or education.

Flash to May 19, 2007. Picture thousands of people in Happy Valley throwing caps in the air as those who love them cheer. Picture Antionette walking across the stage to accept her diploma, the first in her family to receive such an honor, to win such well-deserved distinction. See her standing tall, proudly, in her new suit, destined for greatness, and see me, her mentor, advocate, cheerleader, life-long friend, shedding tears of pride and smiling from ear to ear, knowing that she has made me a better person and, quite possibly, I have done the same for her.

Imagine Antionette’s story is just beginning and think of all of the possibilities in her next chapter.

Believe, out of devastation and despair in our city, the light of hope still shines on.

ONE

2010-03-03T05:27:00.000-08:00

white stick with two pink lines

One
shriek of excitement

One
soon-to-be daddy yelling, "Pee on something else! Pee on something else!"

One
blip on the ultrasound screen

One
tiny thud of a heartbeat

One
tear rolling down my cheek

One
hand squeezing mine

One
million kicks inside of me, a World Cup match in utero

One
month of eating only water ice and grilled cheese

One
ton of money spent on cocoa butter

One
rare March snowstorm

One
trudge through the snow while in labor

One
last walk into the hospital as just the two of us

One
first walk out of the hospital as a family

One
month of sleep deprivation

One
gummy smile

One
giggle

One
"Da-da"

One
"Ma-ma"

One
shiny new white chicklet of a tooth

One
clap of chubby little hands

One
shake of the head

One
bop to the music

One
wet baby kiss on my cheek

One
belly crawl

One
baby singing in the back of the car

One
"Love you"

One
curious finger pointing at everything

One
baby becoming a little boy

One
birthday cake with

One
candle

One
year

One
phenomenal journey.

Never Judge a Book By Its Cover

2010-02-17T04:59:00.000-08:00

Ash Wednesday brings back memories of my second year in law school. I was in the thick of a grueling schedule, tired of lifting books that felt like two tons, no longer phased by the young men on the subway, selling incense and "fine body oils," and bootlegged movies.

I was feeling like a slacker. The only extracurricular activities that I was involved in were Hangman, Tic Tac Toe, and M.A.S.H, which my buddy and I played on my notebook in every class, in between taking notes until our hands went numb.

Then, one day, a guy in class told me about some Irish Law Society, looking for new members to join. They hosted happy hours, networking activities, and even a professional mentorship program. They seemed all welcoming, so I signed up.

Weeks later, I received a letter in the mail, informing me that I was paired up with a state court judge, who was to become my mentor. I called my dad to tell him the exciting news.

He cautioned me, “Well, you’d better tell the judge that you’re Jewish.”

“Dad, WHAT are you talking about! You really think religion is going to come up in our conversation? Plus, it’s none of his business what I am!”

Wednesday came. As I walked five blocks to city hall, I passed many people with ashes on their foreheads. Ash Wednesday? Interesting timing, I thought.

I entered the judge’s office and was greeted by large Irish flags and a group of sweet young women, named Patty, Theresa, Sinead O'Connor. Patty led me into the judge’s chambers and within minutes a wild, ruddy-faced, white-haired, stocky, fifty-something judge cruised in and took his seat across from me, with Patty seated to my right.

“Judge, would you like some coffee?” Patty inquired. It was clearly their morning routine.

“Nope, givin’ it up for Lent!" he declared. That caffeine is just not good for you, you know?” Patty nodded sweetly.

I nodded too, shifting in my seat. The judge smiled and looked across the desk at me. “So, what are you giving up for Lent?”

He literally didn't even get my name or introduce himself.

What am I giving up for Lent? What am I giving up for Lent? What is Lent? I thought to myself, frantically.

Now, seriously, I'd be lying if I said I didn't think of all kinds of things that I could have pretended to be giving up for Lent: Lima beans, vegetables, pork. But I just couldn't bring myself to lie to the judge.

There was dead silence in his chambers. Patty and the judge stared at me, waiting for an answer. I took a deep breath.

“Well, my answer is . . . going to surprise you.”

Dead silence.

“I’m Irish . . . but I’m Jewish.” I smiled at the judge. Total confusion swept over his round face.

Dead silence.

Then the judge snapped back. “Well, what is your Irish side giving up?” He winked at Patty, feeling very wise and witty once again.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't think of all kinds of things that I could have pretended my "Irish side" to be giving up for Lent: soda bread, Guinness bear, sausage. I thought about telling him my "Irish side" was giving up Jesus, but I thought that would surely ruin my chances of securing him as a mentor.

I just couldn't bring myself to lie to the judge, nor myself.

"What's my Irish side giving up? Um . . . nothing.” I replied, somewhat apologetically.

He stared at me blankly. He just didn't get it.

The judge and Patty looked at me oddly, and then the judge broke the awkward silence, “So, where do you go to school?”

“Temple,” I exhaled, “and that’s as in law school, not synagogue!”

The judge kindly offered me a summer internship, but I already had a job at a plaintiff's firm, so I had to decline. He invited me to come watch the proceedings in his courtroom whenever I wanted to pop in. He was extremely generous with both his time and his advice once our awkward meeting hit its stride.

Unfortunately, I only saw my "mentor" one more time, when he was singing a spirited version of "That's What Friends Are For" at the Irish Society's holiday (or should I say, Christmas) party. But, I will never forget that judge and I wonder if he will ever forget the Irish Jew (who's still not giving up a damn thing for Lent). I certainly never expected that I would teach a judge a lesson about not prejudging other people. Leave it to the slacker . . .

Keep the Beat

2010-02-14T05:27:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago, I sat among 5,000 people at the funeral for my friend's father, a music icon. The funeral was a spectacular tribute, complete with stirring gospel and R&B music, and no shortage of heart and soul to go around.

I had never in my life attended a funeral where I tapped my foot along to the music, smiled at the person sitting next to me, or felt so inspired. I sang along to "This Little Light of Mine" with two hundred joyful people in the church choir.

They had spunk.

Exuded spirit.

The congregation knew how to celebrate a life and how to give a proper send-off.

When the charismatic reverend reflected on the long successful career of the dearly departed, Teddy Pendergrass, he spoke of the early days, long before superstardom, when Teddy played drums for Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes.

"He played the beat for someone else!" the reverend shouted. "Imagine that!" The reverend imitated a drummer tapping a drum with his sticks. There were several dozen 'Hallelujahs" and a couple hundred "Amens."

"Let me saaaaaaaaay it again! He kept the BEAT for SOMEONE ELSE!" The middle aged reverend jumped up and down wildly at the pulpit, while the crowd roared.

"Now let me ask you, how many of YOU keep the beat for someone else... so that THEY might shine?"

I thought about how many people in my life have kept the beat for me; all of the people who continue to keep the beat for me. And I thought about the people for whom I have kept the beat and for whom I continue to keep the beat.

On this day of love, and the days to come, I am going to remember Teddy Pendergrass and the incredible gifts he gave to the world.

And I'm going to remember to keep the beat. For my husband. For my son. For my parents. For my friends. For my lonely neighbor. For the child I have not yet met who needs an advocate. For children in Haiti. For people around the corner and around the world.

What could be a better Valentine's Day gift to the ones we love than simply to keep the beat?

Alias

2010-02-05T06:00:00.000-08:00

There is a warrant out for my arrest.

I am so not kidding.

I received in the mail yesterday my "last notice before arrest."

What is my alleged offense?

Marrying a man who exceeded the parking meter limit in a car registered in my name. Shouldn't HIS name be on the warrant?

I told "Timmy Tickets," (AKA my husband) to deal with this matter immediately before I'm pulled over, handcuffed in front of my baby, and thrown into the back of a police car. I mean, seriously, i could wind up in the slammer.

To avoid this outcome, I am contemplating reviving one of my many aliases which I have acquired over the years.

Some viable options are:

1. Baby Boots - This was my "handle" or code name when my family had a CB radio in the late '70s. Every December, my parents, AKA Mr. Sunshine and Foxy Mama, would take my sister and I out of school for 2 weeks, promising our teachers that we would get an "educational experience" on our vacation. Oh yes, we got an education. While talking to truckers over the CB radio on our way down I-95 to Miami, we learned about "lot lizards" (hookers) and "latrine lips" (truckers with dirty mouths).

2. Stace Face - When I was a toddler, my mom's best friend from high school used to shriek this nickname for me at the top of her lungs when she'd see me, terrifying me, even though she was just 4 foot 11, even in her trademark 3 inch red spiked heels. I was so scared of her that I once cannonballed into her swimming pool before I knew how to swim, just to escape her hugs.

3. Mother Fish - When I was around 6 years old, this nickname used to make me so upset that I would tattle to my mom ever time my sister uttered the words, "You wish, Mother Fish!' My mom insisted that my sister stopped using such offensive taunts. My sister creatively changed it up to, "You wish, Potato Knish!"

4. Electric Rollerhead - Can you imagine an arrest warrant out for "Electric Rollerhead," parking meter limit violator, menace to society?

5. Fernanda Barrosa - My phenomenal fake ID that my sister's college roommate slipped to me when I was sixteen. The girl in the photo had black curly hair, bright blue eyes, and was a whopping 26 years old (the oldest possible age I could have ever imagined). It was PERFECT. Until I got busted with it in a bar at Cornell...and then again, at Dave and Busters in Philly. "No hablo Englais" did not work twice.

6. Brown Bear - This was my pregnant alias, according to my husband, who claimed that I was in hibernation the entire first trimester. I would sleep for approximately 15 hours a night and then wake up saying, "Well, I'm awake now...."

7. Wonder Woman - Just let the cops try to stop me once I put on my tiny wonder woman costume, cape and all, and run around outside in a season far from Halloween, which I have been known to do for the amusement of others.

8. Two Pound Ninety - This was my alias while I lived abroad in London for a semester in 1996. I used to scream this out in my best Cockney accent when my two roommates would call out "roll call." "4 pound 30" and '6 pound 70" were their aliases. Must have been the hash.

9. Senator Heenan - Very distinguished moniker given to me by my favorite law school professor every time he would call on me to inquire about mens rea. The LMPD wouldn't mess with a senator, would they?

10. Old Lady Jenkins - "But officer, you must be mistaken! Old Lady Jenkins is a law-abiding, early to bed, early to rise, model citizen. She would never be anything less than ultra vigilant about a parking meter expiration. You must be looking for Old MAN Jenkins, my husband, bad ass bandit to meter maids near and far. Yes, he's the outlaw who swore he would pay the minor violation months ago. He's a clever one, Officer, you need to know. He sometimes goes by the alias, Simcha, the name of our rabbi's husband, which he pronounces like "Simka" from the Lion King (because he's still working on his Hebrew "chah" sound). Officer, he's still getting speeding tickets in the mail from Rome from our honeymoon TWO and half years ago. Need I say more? He's your man!"

Here's hoping one of my aliases will work or that my baaaaaaad husband will resolve this matter asap. My next blog entry may be a letter from jail, much like MLK's Letter from Birmingham Jail. I'm sure the other inmates will come up with all kinds of new names for me behind bars. Wish me luck.

The Superspinner

2010-01-25T07:21:00.000-08:00

Dear "pregnant" chick in Sunday morning spinning class,

I am on to you. I don't believe for a second that you are actually pregnant.

I suspect you snuck into a dressing room at the nearby Mimi Maternity store, strapped on the prosthetic pregnant belly, and slipped out the front door of the store. From there, I believe you decided to throw on some bike shorts and sneakers and head to the gym just to make everyone believe that you are some superhuman being.

I don't buy your act.

No pregnant woman in her right mind would hop on a bike for a grueling hour, only to ride absolutely nowhere, in a room filled with sweaty men and women, some of whom might potetnitally harbor the H1N1 virus or worse.

If my instincts about you are misguided and you are, in fact, actually "with child," I think you might be mentally unstable and I would like to tattle to your doctor about your dangerous extracurricular activities.

Didn't your doctor warn you about the risks of exposing your unborn baby to booming techno music? Aren't you concerned about exhaustion? Falling off the bike?

I'll tell you one thing, if you go into labor in the middle of spinning, while I'm pedaling along to the Black Eyed Peas and glancing at the clock every 10 seconds, I am not going to stand in as your midwife.

Nor doula.

Nor doctor.

Nor nurse.

Nor Lamaze coach.

Sorry. It's not that I'm a heartless pseudo-cyclist, I just would rather not participate in another birth at this time. I hope that you understand.

I am simply trying to get back into some sort of shape, move my muscles a bit, and bop to the music.

In between cursing the creator of spinning, bruising my butt on the rock hard bike seat, gulping down water, and trying to avoid eye contact with the flawless instructor, screaming my name for "encouragement," I have you directly in my line of vision. And I don't appreciate it.

What worries me the most is that in a couple of months, I'll see you again, without that bogus bump. You'll gallivant into spinning, jump on a bike like Lance Armstrong, and you may even have somebody else's baby (or it could even be a doll that cries real tears and pees in a diaper) strapped to your chest in a Baby Bjorn. Everyone will be looking at you in awe, thinking, "Wow, look at her, she just gave birth 72 hours ago, isn't she amazing?" But, I'll still be in the back of the class, huffing and puffing up a hill to nowhere, not buying your shenanigans for one minute.

Okay, so here's your final chance to come clean. That's not a baby in there, is it? That protruding belly button doesn't even look real! Let go of the charade, lady. Otherwise, I'm not coming back to spinning class.

(You may think that I'm just looking for an excuse to get out of spinning ever again. If that's what you think, you're absolutely right).

Yours truly,

the lazy ass in the back of the class, shooting you dirty looks

From Totally Metro to . . . Totally Retro

2010-01-20T07:48:00.000-08:00

Two mesh body sponges hang side by side in our master bathroom shower; one purple, one blue. Neither one is mine.

My Laura Mercier french vanilla body wash is kicked, but for two drops. I haven't used it in weeks.

Someone has been using my sleek black bottle of hair spray and my gigantic round brush to comb his hair.

That's right. I said it. HIS hair.

My husband has a problem. He is totally metro. Sexual, that is.

His eyebrows have a nicer shape than mine. He smells of luxurious soaps, lovely colognes, expensive hair products. He has loads of primping tools, including a Mangroomer, for eliminating hair in hard to reach places, like the back. He sometimes uses my Degree Ultimate Control Deodorant for Women.

Although he was totally metro when I first met him, 3 years ago today, I feel partially responsible for the metro mania that has swept our household.

My man's metrosexuality hit an all-time high when I took him to a specialty soap store in NYC, called Sabon. He rolled his eyes in protest of browsing through yet another soap store, but he indulged me and followed me in. After quickly picking up a few of my favorite things, I met him at the cash register. He was smelling a chunk of brown and beige glycerin soap.

"What do you think of this?" he asked casually. I took a whiff.

"Yum, I love it! What is it?

"Dulce de leche," he read from the label on the packaging. "I'm going to grab a couple of bars."

Within a week, Dulce de leche was dripping from his pores and he was contemplating how Sabon could create other products in the same delicious scent.

"Babe, I emailed the the product development team at Sabon today," he announced one afternoon.

"No you didn't!"

"I did. I suggested that they make a Dulce de Leche candle too."

"Who ARE you?" I yelled, in hysterics.

My man was a mad, mad metro.

And it didn't stop there. He started saying to his buddies over the phone, "Dude, I got this great new soap, you have to try it...." WHAT?! After dining out with friends , he would lean in close to one of his college boys and whisper, "Remember that soap I told you about?" and then slip him an extra bar of Dulce de Leche the way someone would slip a dime bag to a friend.

When friends or relatives would come visit us from NYC, they would bring along pounds and pounds of Dulce de Leche soap at my husband's request.

I thought this was more than I could take. But, then a few weeks ago, something happened.

My metro man came home from Rite Aid with Old Spice body wash and cologne. Let me say it again. OLD SPICE! I wanted to take his temperature. I asked to check his Blackberry for evidence of an affair with some cheesy 50 year old woman with feathered hair. I wanted to know what the hell happened to my metrosexual husband who would ordinarily turn his nose up to such a putrid retro product.

He dismissed my fears, laughing. "I wanted to try something new, that's all. It reminds me of my dad."

"First of all, your dad is ALIVE, and he doesn't even wear Old Spice!" I complained. "It's awful."

"Just give it a chance," he said, slicking his hair to the side like an extra on Mad Men.

"You know I have a nose like a blood hound! PLEASE go back to Dulce de Leche, Laura Mercier, Kiehls....your usual cast of characters. I can't take that Old Spice smell!"

The next day, after he left for work, I grabbed the red family-size bottle of Old Spice body wash from the shower and hid it in a kitchen cupboard while on my tippy toes. He would never find it there.

"Where's my goddamn Old Spice?" he pondered with a western drawl, the second he came home and saw me giggling.

"I don't have a clue," I laughed.

"Come on, give it back, it's starting to grow on me."

"No, the only thing growing on you is all that hair on your chest! You look like a '70s porn star!"

"It's a new look for me," he laughed.

"A small animal could be burrowing in there and you wouldn't even know it!"

Somehow the purchase of Old Spice changed everything. My husband went from totally metro to totally retro. It was like I was married to Burt Reynolds circa 1975. I know, I know, he was a sex symbol. But that was 1975!

I quickly started to miss my husband's well-groomed eyebrows, his gelled spikey hair, his clean-shaven face and body.

I thought a weekend in NYC might do the trick. In the middle of a restaurant in Bryant Park, my sister mentioned, "There's a small Sabon store over there with the other shops." My husband's face lit up.

"Let's go check it out."

There were 100 people crammed into a store the size of my bathroom.

"I'll wait out here," I told him, "but take your time."

I smiled at him through the frosted window. He asked the sales girl to hold up a whole bar of Dulce de Leche soap, the length of my leg.

"Should I get the whole thing?" he mouthed to me.

"Yes!"

And, with that one purchase, my husband went from totally retro straight back to totally metro.

Be My Guest

2010-01-08T09:12:00.000-08:00

Whenever a massive snowstorm hits, I think of three things.

First, 302. 302 was the number that meant Lower Merion Schools were closed. Snow day! When I was growing up, my sister and I would huddle in her bedroom at 6 a.m., crowded around her pink Sony clock radio and cross our fingers that the radio announcer would say that magic number. If we heard 302, we knew we could go back to bed, watch TV all day, go sledding, bake cookies, sip hot chocolate, or anything else we chose. (Remember the days before computers and the internet?). It was glorious.

If the radio announcer called out, "300, 301, 303, 304," we would sigh audibly and head into my parents' bedroom, our heads hanging low. Very quickly, we would prepare a plea deal.

"Mom, school's open, but it's gonna be TERRIBLE out today. I mean, seriously, EVERY other school in the state is closed!" Sometimes we exaggerated.

"The roads are icy, that treacherous BLACK ice, ya know, it's downright dangerous out there." Two powdery inches lay on the ground.

My parents giggled sleepily. They had always taught us to think creatively and argue a position with persistence and flair. My mom would roll over and respond sleepily: "If there's more than 6 inches of snow, you can stay home." By far, the coolest rule my mom ever devised. I would take out a ruler (and sometimes tilt it) and often find 6 inches of snow on our wooden deck out back. AMAZING.

The second thing that I think of when it snows is being in labor at home in the middle of a huge snowstorm last March, curled up on my sofa, watching the movie, Milk, with my husband, not knowing that our lives were about to change forever just 12 hours later.

Whenever it snows, I also think about how my grandparents came to stay with me for a night when they got snowed in at the Philly airport in February 2003.

My mom called me in a panic, "Gram and Grandpop are stranded at the airport!" My mom was known for her creative flair and tendency to exaggerate also.

"What do you mean STRANDED?"

"They sat on the stupid runway for 4 hours and all they got was a bag of pretzels! Now the whole airport is shut down and there's a 2 hour line for a taxi!

The most serious part of this story, the four hours with only pretzels, was not lost on me. "Mom, didn't they pack sandwiches?"

I could not fathom any family member of mine boarding a plane without first picking up/preparing Boars Head turkey sandwiches on rye bread or perhaps a sesame bagel. A good plane outfit was first priority. Sandwiches, second. Photo ID/passport, third. If my grandparents boarded that jet to Miami sans sandwiches they were just asking for trouble.

"Forget the sandwiches, Stacy, do you know anyone with an SUV who can go pick them up?"

I hung up and made several calls to friends, but nobody was venturing out in the blizzard. There was already a foot of fresh snow on the ground and more expected. I called my mom back to tell her the bad news. "It's alright, they're in line for a taxi now," she told me.

"Oh, good." What a relief.

"And they're coming to your apartment, because it's the closest to the airport."

Panic.

"Wait, what?"

"They are going to sleep over."

"In my tiny little STUDIO?"

"Yes, they can't get home to Wynnewood, they can't fly down to Miami until tomorrow at the earliest. And, listen, they don't have anything with them except their carry-on bags. Not even winter coats."

I jumped out of my bed and started "grandparent-proofing" my apartment. I grabbed the long cords from my blow dryer and hair iron and wrapped them up frantically, as they now presented a tripping hazard. I plucked stray sweaters off my walk-through closet floor. I made sure my area rug was not curling in any corner. I scooped a stack of 10 pound law books from my floor and placed them with a thud on my wooden desk.

Next, I pulled out a sponge and scrubbed my minuscule black and white '70s tile bathroom, a far cry from the gigantic marble bathroom that my grandparents called their own in their North Miami Beach condo, where they had been headed before the storm hit.

What would they think of my tiny apartment that could have fit easily into their bathroom? You could practically do the dishes in my kitchen sink while laying in bed. That's how small is was.

I started to think of the positives. My building was right ON Rittenhouse Square, not too shabby. But you would have never known it by the view of the imposing red brick wall from my two windows. If you stood exactly one inch from the windows and you craned your neck approximately 90 degrees, you could make out a sliver of park life below. Nobody ever stood that close but me.

My grandparents' condo was located on an island, which Sophia Loren, a resident herself, had dubbed "the Florida Riviera." Their home had a sweeping wraparound balcony that overlooked the glistening Intracoastal Waterway and the Atlantic Ocean beyond. Hundred foot yachts would cruise lazily by all day long and manatees would pop their heads out of the water happily.

I started rifling through my drawers for clothes that could double as appropriate pajamas for my grandparents. I found a pair of men's scrubs and an XL Budweiser University of Michigan shirt, tattered and well-lived in by my friend, Eric, for 4 years of college. My grandfather was 84 years old, had fought in WWII, and here I was trying to dress him up like a frat boy. I found some large sweatpants and an oversized Harvard sweatshirt, which I thought, in my delusional state of mind, would be perfect for my grandmom,.

I pictured Gram's pink silk robe hanging idly in her Miami condo, wondering what the hell happened to their plane.

The screeching sounds of my next door neighbor singing her heart out and pounding her piano keys flooded my apartment.

"Not again!" I yelled to myself.

"Oh, the weather outside is FRIGHTFUL!" she howled off-key.

My grandparents had a neighbor in Miami who sang too. Whitney Houston.

I put on my ipod and found some Billie Holiday. I cranked the heat up to 75.

I was sure that my grandparents would arrive in foul moods, exhausted and stressed out. Instead, a happy knock struck my door.

"Who issssssssss it?" I asked, feigning ignorance, like they used to do when I knocked on their door as a little girl.

"Mailman!" my grandmom hollered back in a gruff male voice.

The party was ON!

"Yay, you made it!" I greeted them, opening the door. They stood there with light sweaters on, snow-covered Gucci loafers, and huge grins on their faces. Gram's vibrant red hair was sprinkled with snowflakes. "Are you guys okay?" My grandpop held up airplane size bottles of gin and vodka proudly in each hand.

"We brought the cocktails, sweetie pie," my grandpop laughed, giving me his usual bear hug. "We asked for more bottles while we were sitting on that stupid runway," Gram admitted. "Do you have any mixers, doll?"

Within minutes, I was mixing cocktails, mashing tuna, toasting bagels, and, for the first time in my life, hosting my grandparents.

"Sorry my place is so small," I said.

"It's cozy in here," Gram gushed.

"I can sleep out at my friend's house, so you guys can have my bed," I offered.

"You're not going ANYWHERE!" my grandpop boomed in his military tone. "You'll sleep in bed with Gram, I'll sleep on the sofa." And that was that.

After our little cocktail party, we watched the Weather Channel to find out we had 19 inches of snow outside. Of course, you could barely see it from my apartment windows.

Gram was tired. She emerged from the bathroom wearing my oversized Harvard sweatshirt and sweatpants. "You look like a college girl!" She giggled. She soon fell asleep in my bed under my warm down comforter, while watching, What Women Want (of course, this was years before Mel Gibson's anti-Semitic diatribe made headline news).

My grandpop and I stayed up late. He refused to wear my college frat boy outfit. "I've never worn pajamas in my entire life," he declared. Okay. He was a tough cookie. If he didn't want to wear the pajamas, I was not going to argue.

He told me war stories, starting each tale with his signature, "True Story...." He told me about the odd jobs he had growing up, like driving a hearse when he was only 15 years old and without a driver's license. We talked about our family. I told him how glad I was that after some time he had opened up his mind to accept and love my dad, even though he had started out life with a different religion. He patted my hand and smiled.

I covered him with the colorful mohair throw blanket. He was sitting up on my green leather sofa, loafers off. "I feel so badly that you have to sleep like this. You should be in your cozy bed in Miami," I told him. He shook his head.

“Sweetie Pie, we are THRILLED to be here!” he responded.

And I was thrilled to have them.

Happy New Year

2009-12-31T13:18:00.000-08:00

2009 was mighty fine.

It had some mountains, some mole hills, and everything else in between.

It was the year that I became a mother, a feat that still astounds me every single day.

It was the year that I lost my job. And, yes, I still miss seeing the naked couples in the hotel window across from my old office, in case you were wondering.

2009 was the year that I gave birth to this blog as well. Thank you for visiting me here and commenting on some of my most inane ideas and escapades. It has been a fantastic launching pad for me into the world of writing and, more importantly, it has helped me connect or reconnect with many of you, not to mention myself.

Wishing you all the best life has to offer in 2010 and beyond!

S.

A Christmas Miracle

2009-12-22T13:19:00.000-08:00

Here is an update on my previous post, My Solution To World Hunger.

Apparently, the alpaca was enough to motivate my husband to study with fervor and now I am beyond ecstatic to report that he has passed the CPA!

It is a Christmas miracle.

Now, of course, the downside of this miracle is that our good fortune means that a third world family will not receive an alpaca, named after my husband, which could possibly have changed the course of their lives.

But here's the thing: we are so thrilled that Mr. B. is finally a Certified Public Accountant that we have decided to purchase the alpaca anyway, no longer to mock his procrastination, but now to honor his accomplishment.

When we better our own lives, shouldn't we do the same for someone else?

Whether you've recently passed the Bar Exam, potty-trained your toddler, or tied the knot with your significant other, there is always an occasion worthy of an alpaca purchase.

Go ahead, soak in the holiday spirit, buy a beast, and then we can all brag that we are CPAs....Clobbering Poverty's Ass, one alpaca at a time.

Mind Your Manners

2009-12-14T08:20:00.000-08:00

"This is just my second day, ma'am," the young Hispanic woman told the frizzy haired frazzled shopper at the counter.

"Well, call a manager!" the shopper barked back. I rolled my eyes. She looked like she had stuck all of her extremities in electrical sockets and then decided to terrorize the King of Prussia Mall. She had steam coming out of her ears.

"Gloria, can you help me over here for a moment?" the young clerk called to her co-worker, who was straightening racks of children's clothing twenty feet away.

Gloria, a stylish petite woman in her mid-50s walked slowly over to the young clerk who was scanning a two foot long receipt that the shopper thrust in her face.

"It's not 10% off! It should be 20!" the shopper spat.

I looked at her face as it grew scarlet, her hair looked like it was going to jolt out of her head in a fit of rage. I was hoping she might catch a glimpse of me, watching her, and turn around, embarrassed by her poor behavior, or perhaps take a peek at my baby, chewing on a teething toy shaped like a foot. Surely that might make her smile.

She didn't turn around. She glared at the two clerks and continued on her rant.

"I don't have time for this!"

"Ma'am, give me a minute," the older clerk interjected, raising her index finger.

"Don't you dare point at me!" the shopper hollered, pointing an irate finger over the counter in the clerk's face. "I spent $1000 here, I shop here all the time! Do you want to see my receipts?!"

"No, I'd rather not," I whispered to the African-American woman standing quietly behind me, smiling at my boy in his stroller.

The shopper began rifling through her oversized purse, pulling out receipts, tissues, possibly some unfilled prescriptions for anti-psychotics and other things.

I looked at my little angel in his stroller, sucking on the plastic foot. His eyes were wide, his eyebrows raised, as if to say, "Ah, excuse me, Mommy, what is this lunatic yelling about?" I leaned down face to face with him, in his stroller, "Sweetie boy, you're only 8 months old and you have better manners than some adults," I told him, just loud enough for the woman to hear, if she lowered her volume one decibel.

Now, maybe you're thinking this poor woman was just having a bad day. She caught her husband cheating with her best friend, her beloved golden retriever of 15 years just died, or maybe she slaved over a simple meatball recipe and she wound up churning out something that tasted like bison balls.....I hear what you're saying!

We all have bad days, yes. But there is a simple solution for shopping when you're absolutely miserable: stay the hell home and shop ONLINE! Okay? It's quite easy and you don't need to drag the rest of us down into your funk.

The #1 reason to mind your manners, as the "militant shopper" story illustrates, is that when your manners go down the drain, you look like a huge a-hole and you set a poor example for children.

The #2 reason to mind your manners is that you never know with whom you might be messing.

This time last year, I drove to work one morning and merged successfully onto Broad Street and then merged again into my usual parking garage. Now, I could tell that one driver in the line of cars behind me was angry given his incessant honking and hand gestures. But, I am telling you, I made this move every morning and most drivers were happy to let me in. I certainly have cut other drivers off in my day, but this was not one of those circumstances....in my opinion.

When my friend and I exited my car and saw an imposing middle-aged man waiting for us at the front of the garage, hands on his oversized hips, I got a little nervous. He started yelling, "Maybe you didn't know, but you cut off a whole line of cars out there!"

"You've got to be kidding me," I laughed out loud. 'You're hunting me down in the garage to yell at me? I didn't cut anyone off, the cars let me get in. How else could I merge to make it into the parking lot?"

"Next time, you need to go around the block, like everyone else!" he shouted.

"Are you KIDDING me?" I yelled back. (Maybe I dropped a choice word or two in there). "You're accosting a pregnant woman in a parking garage to scream at her at 8 in the morning? What kind of pathetic man does that?!"

I saw his eyes quickly look down. With my puffy black parka all zipped up, I'm sure he had no idea I was seven months pregnant. He started to retreat cowardly, but under his breath, I heard him say, "Next time, you'll go around the block."

Mama grizzly bear came out with her claws. "Next time, I'll do exactly what I just did, which was merge! Next time, you'll check yourself before you go berating a pregnant woman in public!"

He walked away, his head hanging low. "That's right, you keep walking! You gotta be KIDDING ME, like I need this stress first thing in the morning?!" My friend just looked at me with shock and awe in her face. Nobody was going to mess with me or my unborn cub, okay?

In case you need one more good reason, the #3 reason to mind your manners is that people never forget a person with bad manners, or good manners, for that matter.

At least three times a year, my dad, also known as "Mr. Manners," will say, "Remember that time when we took your friend, ______, to see the high school play, Oliver, and she got out of the car and didn't even thank us? "Dad, it was 1983 and she was 8 years old!" I sigh, forgivingly. "Doesn't matter, she had bad manners!"

Of course, this is the same man who would ticket litter bugs $10,000 for each offense and who believes the expression "shut up" should be added to the canon of expletives and is, in fact, much ruder, than a simple F - U.

The greatest compliment my dad ever received as a father was when he was visiting me at college and a long-haired hippie barista told him, "Your daughter has impeccable manners." That was far better than any honor roll certificate or report card that I ever brought home. Even more impressive than passing the Bar Exam. My dad will never forget that.

Okay, so a pothead working at the Ann Arbor coffee joint where I used to study thought I had good manners? So what?

I have come to learn that the little interactions we all share each day, good or bad, really do make a difference.

So, go ahead, smile at a stranger today because you might be the only person who smiles at that person all day or even all week long. Let a pregnant driver cut in front of you. She very likely has a full bladder and is ravenously hungry and needs to get wherever she is going. And, last but not least, say thank you when someone treats you to a third rate high school musical. 26 years from now, someone somewhere will remember if you don't!

Unforgettable

2009-11-25T05:36:00.000-08:00

When my baby is pounding his plastic aquarium in his crib with his feet and I walk into his pale blue nursery and tell him "Nooooooo," in a sweet tone, he looks up at me with a huge gummy smile, forcing me to smile too. It's a moment I wonder if he'll remember when he's older.

My mom always reminds me of the time when I was three years old, coloring angelically in my bedroom and I got so engrossed in my creation that I colored off the page of the coloring book and right up my bedroom wall. My mom walked in, saw the proud look on my face, and simply had to laugh and tell me how beautiful my drawing was.

As my son grows up, I hope he appreciates how encouraging I am of his unorthodox antics too. Last week at music class, I clapped and hooted while he did the Riverdance on top of a large African drum, while all of the other babies, sitting next to the drum, patted it softly with their fingertips. "That's right, you do your thing, buddy boy," I told him, smiling.

I'm sure a few years from now, I'll egg him on to run down the aisle to the front of a crowded movie theater and put on an "opening act," complete with song, dance and jokes, the way my parents used to encourage me and my sister.

I hope that my baby remembers the first time I put him on a swing at the playground, which made him squeal in joy. I will never forget watching his fly-away hairs on top of his head blow in the breeze and the smile on his face stretch wider and wider.

When I speed him around in a shopping cart or challenge him to a screaming contest at the dinner table, I hope he remembers his Mom-mom and Pop-pop started these wild traditions and he is expected to pass them on. And, speaking of tradition, I can't wait until he can run, so that I can teach him the family tradition of racing one another down the halls of fine hotels to our assigned room.

I hope that my son always know how much joy he has brought to my life. When he's older, I will tell him how I danced in the glistening sun down Chestnut Street to my office on the morning that I found out I was pregnant.

I will tell him how his daddy blabbed to restaurateur, Stephen Starr, a perfect stranger, "Hey Stephen, I'm going to be a dad and you're the only person who knows!" simply because he was so thrilled that he had to tell someone right away. I'm sure he will laugh when I tell him that his daddy bragged to toll collectors on the expressway and long lost college professors via email, weeks before we told our family and friends the great news.

I wonder if my son will recall how I drove to work each morning, rubbing my belly, saying aloud what a psychic I met at a wedding suggested, "We don't care if you're a boy or a girl, we already love you so much, and we can't wait to meet you!" I will never forget how his busy tiny feet would poke me in the sides as I played music for him from every era, calling out the song titles and artists' names like Casey Kasem.

I hope that he remembers dancing with me to Jason Mraz, Bob Marley, Michael Jackson and yes, the Wiggles, the way I remember waltzing with my Gram up and down her linoleum kitchen floor.

I hope that my son remembers how his daddy carefully poured warm water over him, as if he was basting a turkey, while he reclined in his baby tub. I hope he knows that his daddy perfected the "Biscardi Burrito," otherwise known as the swaddle, to make sure our baby was always warm. If I buy my boy fuzzy red feet-in pajamas until he is 15, like my dad used to do, I hope he forgives me.

When my baby's tiny fingers trace down my face, reminding me of the way my dad used to trace an imaginary line between three beauty marks on my cheek, I hope he sees the sparkle in my eye.

I hope that he overhears me on my cell phone, while he's snuggled up in his car seat, telling his daddy, numerous times a day, "He's just the sweetest boy in the whole world."

I hope that he remembers me wiping his tears and rocking him in his soft blue glider, the way my mom rocked me on her lap, when I was 29 years old, on the day my grandfather died.

I hope that he never forgets the thousands of times I have kissed his hands, the way my grandfather kissed mine the last night of his life.

I hope that my boy always remembers that he willed his way into the world and truly earned his name. I wonder if he'll remember the very first time I held him and whispered to him, "I'm going to love you every day for the rest of your life."

Will he forget these tiny moments or will they somehow shape the mosaic of his soul?

When he lays his head down, sucks his thumb and snuggles with his blanket, listening to lullabies playing softly in his crib, and me and his daddy laughing in the next room, I hope that he feels the love all around him and thinks to himself one word:

Unforgettable.

My Solution to World Hunger

2009-11-24T10:01:00.000-08:00

My husband has one more chance.
One more chance to pass the 4th and final part of the CPA exam.

He has already taken it more than a couple of times. It is not inexpensive.

He is very intelligent and capable of passing this test. When he studies for the exams, he knocks them out.
He simply has not studied. Okay, maybe that's not fair or accurate.
He has studied in between watching Phillies playoff games, dancing the Horah for the hell of it with me in the kitchen, and making our boy smile by making monkey noises.

He has one more chance.
If he fails the test again, I plan to purchase an alpaca for a family in need somewhere in Latin America.
I plan to name him after my husband.
I figure I should take the amount of money equivalent to the failed test and help improve someone's quality of life.

I have my alpaca all picked out and it looks like this:

Imagine if we all bought animals for families around the world every time our loved ones procrastinated. We could end poverty around the world! (Hang on a minute, I've got Bono on the phone....)

My husband is up for the challenge, I think. But he is now using my logic against me.

With his sass and charm, he has informed me that he will be purchasing a water buffalo, named Stacy Biscardi, for a poor Fillipino village, in honor of my failure to clean up my desk. He will also be providing a goat to a family in Africa due to my failure to remove the clothes from the dryer. In addition, some farmer in China will be pretty amped up to have a new cow thanks to my failure to fold the clothes that I abandoned in the dryer, hoping the socks would pair themselves magically.

So, if any of you are looking to light up a life with a llama, look no further than the exposed dry wall in your kitchen or the trash your husband promised he would take out yesterday. We can all do our part. If you are so inspired, check out heifer.org.

Can you imagine if all of our pitiful procrastination started a global movement? It will all be thanks to my wonderful husband, the CPA (Clobbering Poverty's Ass).

Oh Deer

2009-11-14T03:35:00.000-08:00

A bulletin arrived in our mailbox the other day, informing us of a "controlled deer hunt" taking place in our neighborhood this week.

"What kind of monsters are going to kill poor little deer?" I asked my husband, conjuring up images of Bambi in my backyard.

Apparently, hunters will be out from 2 to 5 a.m. in the woods. The notice advised us, "If you hear gunshots, do NOT go into the woods." Oh, thank you for the warning. I'm usually out walking in the woods from 2 to 5 a.m., stargazing and gathering berries. Right.

Come on. Who the hell in their right mind would follow the sound of gunshots into the woods in the middle of the night?

When I hear gunshots at night, I usually turn over and whisper, "Babe, turn that off!" My husband responds, "Gee whiz, Old Lady Jenkins, it's Law and Order!" Then I get heated. "I don't care what it is, I can't fall asleep to the sound of gunshots and women screaming, okay?"

Needless to say, I don't think I'll sleep well hearing shots fired at innocent deer. But, here's the kicker. "The hunters will be using silencers," the bulletin explains, in a futile attempt to calm my fears. Oh my god. The hunters are world-class assassins. Great.

I wonder if Sarah Palin will be out with the hunters, clad in Armani camouflage (straight from Neiman Marcus), or does she just prefer to shoot animals from the safety of the sky?

I think I might provide arms to the deer to try to even the playing field. Perhaps the deer would agree to pose with my baby for a holiday card if I outfit them with night-vision goggles and help them mount a counter-insurgency.

I could post signs or start a protest to save the deer. I could hide them in my home. Or I could go out in the woods and warn them tonight. "Hey you, Prancer, hurry, go to Gladwyne! You over there....yeah you.... there's safe haven in Haverford, go!"

I'm not sure why I'm this concerned about the deer at all. When I was in high school, jogging on a tree-lined street in Villanova, I came face to face with a deer. We both looked at each other unsure of who would make the first move. The deer proceeded to trot like a horse down the paved road in my direction and I ran like hell, looking frantically over my shoulder, yelling, "What kind of deer chase people?!"

I have come to the conclusion that if I get involved with this deer hunt, it will be my husband tossing and turning, trying to fall asleep to the sound of gunshots and one crazy woman screaming, "Don't shoot! Stop chasing me!"

Deep Thoughts Over Dinner

2009-11-11T09:59:00.000-08:00

"She's a natural, isn't she?" my mom beamed proudly in my direction, as I held my baby on my lap at the dinner table, slipping a saliva soaked strand of my hair out of his mouth, while he sucked his thumb and mumbled something that sounded like, "Oy, oy, oy."

"I knew she would be," my dad responded, "the way she always took care of Snoopy," he finished, dead seriously, with pride in his glistening blue eyes.

Snoopy.

If only I could just throw a leather jacket and some aviator shades on my 8 month old son and put the TV remote control under his "paw" and tell him, "Watch whatever you want and have a great day," motherhood would be soooooooo easy.

Oy, oy, oy.

Don't Mess With a Single Lawyer

2009-11-04T06:02:00.000-08:00

I recently came across an interesting document which speaks to my dating desperation three years ago and also to my dedication to the pursuit of justice.

After a disappointing string of dates with another lawyer, I sought counsel from a friend/lawyer who helped me draft this motion, which I considered filing in the Court of Common Pleas, or at least serving on the Defendant.

(To protect the not-so-innocent, I have changed the Defendant's name, but all other facts remain accurate).

____________________________________
STACY B. HEENAN, IN THE COURT OF COMMON PLEAS OF PHILADELPHIA COUNTY :
Plaintiff, Civil Action No.: 06-12345

v.

JASON R. LAPINSKY

Defendant.
____________________________________

PLAINTIFF STACY B. HEENAN’S MOTION TO COMPEL DEFENDANT JASON LAPINSKY TO PRODUCE THE BRUCE HORNSBY BOX SET

Plaintiff Stacy B. Heenan (“Plaintiff”) hereby moves this Court to enter an Order pursuant to Rule 4019 of the Pennsylvania Rules of Civil Procedure, compelling Defendant Jason R. Lapinsky (“Lapinsker”) to produce the Bruce Hornsby Box Set given to him by Plaintiff on or about November 14, 2006. In support of this Motion, Plaintiff avers as follows:

1. At the end of September, 2006, Plaintiff met Lapinsker while watching the Michigan vs. Notre Dame football game at the sports bar, Fox and the Hound, in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Defendant had receding blond hair and blue eyes and in no way matched Plaintiff's "type," but Plaintiff was trying to be open-minded.

2. Soon thereafter, in early October, 2006, Plaintiff and Lapinsker met for a drink at The Continental in Philadelphia. Lapinsker convinced Plaintiff to try hummus for the first time and Plaintiff agreed reluctantly.

3. At the end of October, 2006, Plaintiff and Lapinsker dined at Twenty Manning in Philadelphia. Plaintiff tried the pumpkin ravioli, the first and last “dinner special” Plaintiff ever ordered. Lapinsker sampled the sea bass.

4. On or about November 2006, Plaintiff and Lapinsker dined at Pesto in South Philadelphia. Plaintiff ate gnocchi, Defendant gorged himself on pasta bolognese.

5. In Lapinsker’s car on the way home from Pesto, Plaintiff and Lapinsker discussed Lapinsker’s love of Bruce Hornsby in light of the fact that Plaintiff was to attend an upcoming Bruce Hornsby concert at the Keswick Theater in Glenside, Pennsylvania.

6. On or about November 14, 2006, Plaintiff and Lapinsker hung out at Lapinsker’s apartment to watch the finale of “Dancing with the Starts,” featuring Emmitt Smith.

7. At this time, knowing that Lapinsker was a big Bruce Hornsby fan, Plaintiff gave Lapinsker her only copy of the Bruce Hornsby Box Set (the “Box Set”) she had received from Bruce Hornsby himself at the Bruce Hornsby concert.

8. This Box Set cannot be purchased anywhere. It is a special, limited edition Box Set, which included special live recordings and a dvd, and was given to all ticket-holders at the concert.

9. Plaintiff waited patiently that night for Lapinsker to make a move, yet he only patted her head and then drove her home. Plaintiff vomited approximately 45 seconds after returning home, probably due to the double dose of birth control she had ingested that morning. The extra dosage was in no way related to any events that Plaintiff anticipated occurring at Lapinsker’s residence but was merely to make up for a forgotten dose the day before.

10. In a later phone conversation, Lapinsker told Plaintiff that he had uploaded the Bruce Hornsby cds from the Box Set onto his i-pod and promised to return the Box Set to Plaintiff as soon as possible.

11. On November 18, 2006, Lapinsker met Plaintiff and her friends at the Fox and the Hound to watch the Michigan vs. Ohio State football game. Lapinsker hugged and flirted with Plaintiff.

12. Lapinsker told Plaintiff he had a holiday party to attend in New Jersey that night. Plaintiff told Lapinsker that he should come back after the holiday party at a normal hour to “hang out.”FN1

13. Lapinsker said he would call Plaintiff later and left for the party.

14. That night, Lapinsker called Plaintiff around midnight, but Plaintiff was sleeping.

15. On Sunday, November 19, Lapinsker and Plaintiff talked briefly. Plaintiff was tired and got off the phone around 10pm.

16. Plaintiff emailed Lapinsker Wednesday, November 22, 2006, to wish him a Happy Thanksgiving. Plaintiff loves Thanksgiving and still gets excited to watch the Macy's Day Parade each year.

17. Lapinsker responded to the email, indicating he would call Plaintiff at some point during the long weekend. FN2

18. To date, Plaintiff has not heard from Lapinsker and he has not returned the Bruce Hornsby Box Set as promised.

FN1 Unbeknownst to Lapinsker, Plaintiff had purchased a toothbrush for Lapinsker and several pairs of new, sexy underwear to add to her lingerie collection.

FN2 Again, unbeknownst to Lapinsker, Plaintiff was planning to ask Lapinsker to accompany her on vacation, either to London or Jamaica.

WHEREFORE, Plaintiff Stacy Heenan. respectfully requests this Honorable Court to enter an order directing Lapinsker to produce the Bruce Hornsby Box Set as soon as possible.

Respectfully submitted,

________________________
Stacy B. Heenan

Dated: January 4, 2007

On January 20, 2007, just a couple of weeks after this motion was drafted, my friend bought me a brand new Bruce Hornsby Box Set and I met the love of my life, hereby making this motion moot. However, I think it remains a good warning to all of those single guys out there: don't mess with a single lawyer!

I've Met My Match

2009-11-02T05:44:00.000-08:00

For those of you wondering if I have encountered "my new trainer" again at the gym, the answer, thankfully, is "no." However, there is a new competitor in town.

Yesterday, I was minding my own business, walking briskly on the treadmill, listening to 50 Cent and The Game on my ipod, when a man who looked like Uncle Fester from the Addams Family chose to step on the treadmill next to me. I looked to my right and counted four empty treadmills. I glared at him and almost pointed out with my finger as you would to a child learning to count, "ONE......TWO.......THREE.....FOUR!"

Was this man just another decoy to make me feel better about how out of shape I am? I sighed in disgust, pumped up my speed to 4.1, turned up my music and started rapping audibly along to the beat:

Hate it or love it the underdog's on top
And I'm gon shine, homie, until my heart stop

Go'head'n envy me
I'm rap's MVP
And I ain't going nowhere
So you can get to know me

The man smelled like a combination of moth balls and sweat. Being that my nose is as sensitive as that of a search and rescue canine, I held my breath, which was difficult to do while jogging and rapping at the same time. I glanced down at Fester's 1974 model Nikes and thought, "Okay, you have met your match! You can beat him in the foot race and win the million!" (For those readers who have no idea what I'm talking about, please see my prior post, My New Trainer).

I accelerated to 4.3, barely broke a sweat, and STILL beat out Uncle Fester in a matter of minutes. Now that's what I'm talkin' about!

Go'head'n envy me
I'm rap's MVP
And I ain't going nowhere
So you can get to know me

My New Trainer

2009-10-23T06:12:00.000-07:00

I was at the gym, which I recently joined, and on the treadmill at 7:41 this morning, thinking to myself how fabulous and empty the gym was and hoping that it would not go out of business. The entire row of about six treadmills on each side of me was empty. It was glorious. No smelly sweaters near me, nobody coughing swine flu droplets nearby. Perfect.

I was listening to Ants Marching on my ipod, reminiscing about sophomore year of college when my friends and I rarely left our Brady Bunch style house, except to go to class, of course, or maybe Hash Bash in the Diag. We played Dave Matthews on constant rotation in those days, that is, when my roommates weren't busy singing Neil Diamond songs or the Frosted Flakes ("Show 'Em You're a Tiger") theme song on the karaoke machine, blitzed out of their minds.

I was feeling the beat and contemplating upping my speed to 3.9, and then possibly jogging at 4.3 when it happened. Some tall blond "runner's runner" hopped on the treadmill next to me. NEXT TO ME.

Now, stop me if I'm wrong, but isn't there a book on treadmill etiquette out there that would suggest you don't get up in someone's grill like that when there are a dozen other empty treadmills available? It was the equivalent to being in a freight elevator alone and someone getting on and standing face to face with you, noses touching.

It was so strange that I thought she might just be looking for a friend, a coach, a date? Was she hitting on me? No. She didn't even glance in my direction. She had the audacity to take the treadmill next to me and then run like a gazelle, forcing me, of course, to pound my speed button from 3.7 right up to 4.5! Oh yeah, now it was a race.

Back before I was pregnant, when someone would hop on a treadmill next to me, I used to like to pretend I was running the final foot race of the CBS Emmy-award winning show, The Amazing Race, with a million dollars at stake. I came up with this bizarre head game as a way to actually train for The Amazing Race, which my friend, Bess and I tried out for a few years ago. (We even went to the Tumi store and asked Tumi to outfit us with racing gear, backpacks, etc. for our television debut, which, by the way, never happened).

So, today was no different, despite the fact that I have not run much at all in the past 14 months. I didn't care. "You can beat this bitch!" I told myself, treading faster in my brand new sneakers, trying not to huff and puff audibly. "This is it! It all comes down to this!" I could see the finish line, smell the taste of victory, envision signing the back of that check.

Then, she ran faster, sensing that I was closing in on her. Okay, short story, she won the million bucks, the pain in my legs sucks.

I'm guessing next time I see that psycho close-runner at the gym she'll be on my shoulders while I'm running. Maybe she was just a decoy trainer hired by my husband, posing as a competitive runner? Either way, I should thank that crazy bitch for giving me a good workout.

Hardly a Housewife - Part II

2009-10-20T05:49:00.001-07:00

It smells like I slaughtered a bison in my kitchen. Was I stirring up some satanic ritual? Nope, just cooking dinner last night.

You would think that after 8 months of being a "stay-at-home mom" that I would have a handle on this whole housewifey thing by now. Clearly not.

Yesterday morning, the sun came out for the first time in four days and I was up early, racing off to the supermarket with a list, envisioning a fabulous dinner that I would make for my husband before he would watch the Phillies beat the Dodgers and I would fall asleep, as usual, two hours before the most exciting game-winning hit in history.

I decided to make meatballs. Now, full disclosure, I have a history with meatballs. Shortly before my wedding, my mother-in-law was kind enough to share with me her secret family recipe for Italian meatballs. I somehow ended up confused by the measurements and I drowned the meat until it crumbled into a runny bolognese sauce. My husband, two years later, still jokes with his mom that she sabotaged my efforts purposely, but we all know the truth; I have little patience for following a recipe meticulously (or perhaps at all).

Which leads me to last night. I called my sister and told her, "I'm gonna make those Villa (di Roma) meatballs tonight!"

"Interesting...." she laughed, foreseeing some dinner debacle. "Do you have all the ingredients?" she asked skeptically.

"Yep, everything except parsley, . . . can I use chives instead of parsley?"

Silence.

"Are you kidding?" she asked incredulously.

"Yes!" I attempted.

"No you're not."

"Yep, I'm kidding, I'm a kidder, I kid!" I replied.

"Oh my god, you're not kidding."

I threw the chives back in the fridge and happened upon some dried parsley in my "spice cabinet." Woohoo. I was ready to rock.

I had already averted a minor kitchen catastrophe with my dishwasher the night before . . . a catastrophe which I, of course, had created. This photograph doesn't quite capture the rushing flood of bubbles, the several sopping wet towels, nor me on my hands and knees, calling my friend in a panic to ask (for the 2nd time in the past 2 years) what the hell you're supposed to put in the dishwasher to stop it from flooding. (Vegetable oil, in case you're wondering).

I had also cleaned up the oatmeal that had exploded out of the top of my rice cooker yesterday morning. Now, I took Products Liability in law school and that was clearly no fault of mine, but rather a design defect. (You see, the lid does not fit properly over the cooking bowl, so oatmeal shoots out the top and flows like lava down the sides of the cooker).

I put some neo-soul music on my ipod and started to get into a groove in my kitchen while my baby slept in his room. I was actually following directions, dicing onion and garlic (after my mom asked me if I knew what "dicing" meant over the phone; thank you very much, I do!). I slicked up my hands with olive oil and rolled what I thought to be the perfect meatballs, mixed with Romano cheese and bread crumbs and, for a brief minute, I felt like an up and coming Food Network star. Until I bathed the balls in olive oil just a bit too long, when the oil was simply not hot enough. (This I realize in retrospect).

I even made my own tomato sauce, if you can believe that. And I was hopeful, so hopeful. Then I took a taste of one of the balls and ugh, spit it right into my kitchen sink. "It's not cooked enough," I tried to convince myself as I pounded a glass of water to cleanse my palate. "Once it soaks in that sauce, it will be perfect. Just like Villa!" I was positive.

I took my little man out for an afternoon stroll around the neighborhood and let my balls and sauce simmer for hours. When we returned, there were no fires to put out, no suds seeping from the dishwasher any more, and it smelled phenomenal in my house. I snuck a taste of another meatball in the pot and ugh, I swallowed it with a grimace on my face. It tasted like meat drenched in oil. Vile.

At this point, it was 5 p.m. and I was hoping for a miracle to occur in the pot before my husband arrived home from work. I was salivating at the sight of pureed peas, squash, and mango chicken I fed my boy, just thankful that he was not old enough to be subjected to his mom's creative concoctions.

My husband walked in the door as I was stirring the balls with fervor, trying to put a spell on them. "It smells like my mom's house," he said, kissing me. "Yeah, well, it's not gonna taste like it!" I replied, spooning ziti and the oily balls into a bowl for him. I made one for myself too, hoping that he wouldn't grow suspicious.

A quarter of the way through my bowl, I stood up abruptly. "I'm having cereal," I announced. "Don't think you have to finish that."

Okay, so I made incredibly awful meatballs once again and ate Frosted Mini-Wheats for dinner for the second time this week. Does that really make me a bad housewife? Probably.

After spending the better part of my day slaving away over the stove, I gave the baby a bath and laughed while he splashed me so much that when I emerged from the bathroom, it looked like I had just come off a log-flume. I'm sure a good housewife would never have taught her newborn baby to "splash, splash, splash" and encourage him to kick his feet as if he's pedaling in the Tour de France. But, after all, he could be the next Lance Armstrong or, with the way his legs glide through the bath water, Michael Phelps?

I did manage to do one good housewifey deed today. I dropped off some clothes at the dry cleaners; in particular, I dropped off the clothes that I wore to a baptism on Sunday. You see, 5 minutes after sitting down at a table of almost complete strangers at the luncheon, I opened a bottle of formula, momentarily FORGOT that I had just unscrewed the cap and THEN proceeded to shake it all over myself, while the strangers shrieked in horror and immediately commented on how bad the formula smelled. Sorry, party people. What happened next, I'm pretty sure was exactly what that the priest had in mind when he babbled on about sin as I was forced to strip down to a skimpy tanktop while the strangers averted their eyes. A good housewife never would have been such a public embarrassment. I thought about crying. But instead I just laughed.

And I laughed when the levees gave out on my dishwasher.

And I laughed when oatmeal shot out all over my countertops and hardwood floors like Mount Vesuvius.

And I laughed when my husband took a bite of my "Villa meatballs" that were really "Killa meatballs."

And I laughed when I woke up this morning and it smelled like I slaughtered a bison in my kitchen.

And, if I'm ever going to get this whole good housewife thing right, I think I gotta keep laughing.

Rites of Passage

2009-09-29T07:04:00.000-07:00

My dad always taught me to drive in the left lane. "Leadfoot," as those screaming in the backseat often refer to him, is a thrill-seeker and he ingrained in me a similar taste for adventure. Yet, he firmly believes in the importance of the "buddy plan," an invaluable lesson he carried with him since his army days.

So, after bidding a cheerful farewell to my neurotic friend who bailed on us to seek asylum with classmates in Florence, here I was in Budapest, with my one Michigan crony, Tracey, who shared my enthusiasm for mild danger and excitement. We were 20 years old, carefree, careless, totally clueless. Taking the advice of those who had come before us, we decided to do something daring--- to stay with a family. I thought my dad would have loved the idea, but I decided to wait to mention it.

Arriving at the Keleti pú station, we were bombarded by babbling Hungarian women offering their homes to us, through pictures and a limited English vocabulary. Shifting and moaning under the weight of our worn backpacks, we quickly chose Isabel, partly because she was the age of our grandparents, warm, spoke decent English, but mainly because her husband, Solomon, drove a car-something we hadn't been in since we'd left London three weeks before.

My first sense of uncertainty hit me with a pang when Solomon drove us "home. "Dad, if you could see me now," I laughed to myself, eyes wide, as we pulled up to a tenement in the middle of a lifeless ghetto. My eyes met Tracey's with a piercing stare as Solomon opened the bullet-ridden glass doors and led us into the building.

Packed like sardines into the tight rickety elevator whose doors scrawled with swastikas spoke to my greatest fears, I was so close to Solomon because of the enormous bags on our backs I could've kissed him. I verbalized this thought to Tracey, certain that Solomon would not comprehend a word of what I was saying. We began laughing hysterically, as did the confused Solomon. The only alternative at that moment was crying.

Solomon showed us to our apartment, which we learned that we would be sharing for the night with two overzealous Russian men in their 40s. In Hungarian, Solomon gave me a brief instruction on how to lock our five doors and then went on his way.

"Shady, shady, shady," I sang to Tracey, strumming my imaginary guitar, singing a tune which soon came to be our endearing theme song of Budapest. After introducing ourselves to our Russian roommates we dropped our bags in the large red bedroom, drew the ragged curtains which covered the window overlooking the gloomy streets below, and immediately locked the door behind us. We listened to the excitement in the voices of our roommates as they whispered in Russian and giggled like two schoolgirls up to no good. The only words that we could make out were "Terazy" and "Stazy." We decided to get out while it was still light in hell.

The neighborhood was desolate, except for a few haggard adolescents and elderly locals who seemed incapable of smiling. Dogs with missing paws and one eye hobbled by us, searching ravenously for any scrap of meat. Accompanied by the dirty crumpled map that Solomon had provided and a point in the right direction by a somber local teenager, Tracey and I set off for the Hotel Gellert, a beautiful spot on the Danube that was famous for its inexpensive but lavish thermal baths. Crossing the river into Buda, we chatted excitedly about how great the massage would feel on our twisted muscles and aching heads, and how good it was to be out of Germany and relieved of the burden who was now probably fine dining in a piazza in Florence while we were roughing it in the heart of Hungary.

Choosing a different massage option than my companion, Tracey and I were separated in the lobby of the gorgeous hotel and advanced to different locations. Sent with a grunt and a shove in the right direction, as verbal communication was completely out of the question, I first encountered masses of naked women, seemingly unaware of their lack of clothing, scurrying about the "locker room." I was unaware that nudity would be part of the deal here. I hesitantly shuffled past the massage room which reminded me of an embalming room in a morgue- naked bodies stretched across six long tables being worked on by gruff overseers.

Shocked, I silently urged my self, Keep walking, until I reached the burly woman who would give me the next clue in this surreal treasure hunt. I handed my ticket hesitantly to the first of many stern Hungarian women who worked the joint, in exchange for a triangular paper robe skimpier than anything I've ever worn in a doctor's office. The back portion was completely nonexistent, as was all rational thought by this time.

As I entered my assigned compartment and slowly yet mechanically stripped off my layers, I began thinking, "Stazy, this is crazy, this is crazy!" I rationalized to my raging doubt that while in Hungary I must force myself to do as the Hungarians do---take it all off. I stared at the ceiling of that damn cubicle at least twenty agonizing minutes before I worked up the nerve to exit.

Self-consciously walking through the locker room, the only reassuring thought I had was that my chances of running into anyone I knew were pretty slim. The fact that nobody spoke a word of any language that sounded remotely like English was now quite comforting. Seeing that there was a waiting list for massages, I was pointed towards the thermal bath until it was my time.

Entering the large steaming room in my skimpy get-up, I was met by the sight of around forty women of all shapes and sizes completely naked floating freely around the huge pool. Astonished by how casually the locals treated their nakedness and even carried on normal conversation, I felt further alienated. "You've come this far," I told my fear and embarrassment, "Don't turn back." With that, I took off my gown, which realistically served no purpose anyway, and floated to a private corner where I began to relax.

Every few seconds, while lost in my thoughts, I would glance down to find myself one hundred percent au naturel in a thermal bath in Budapest and I seriously began to wonder if I hadn't lost my mind. I quickly became overheated and because I truly feared fainting naked with confused foreigners standing over me debating what to do, I climbed out, grabbed my stupid wrap and headed into the embalming room for my massage- a prospect which no longer scared me in the least. Like a fish, I was rubbed, flipped, smacked, and pounded on by an enormous Hungarian woman with baseball mitts for hands. I returned to my compartment forever fearless, dressed and anxiously met up with Tracey only to learn that massages on her side of the hotel were done fully clothed! We dined that evening at New York Bagels, where Tracey tried to get a bite in between fits of laughter and tears of hysteria.

Later that night, locked behind our door in the projects, we watched "Dallas" in Hungarian, with Tracey translating for me a previously seen episode, while the inebriated Russians occasionally scratched at our door, their hushed voices still repeating our names. I slept no longer than twenty minutes that night as my eyes guarded the door and my mind envisioned the handle turning slowly and the foreign men creeping in, whispering "Terazy...Stazy.." The next day we bid farewell in Russian, got the hell out of the ghetto, toured the sights of Budapest and after a rare cigarette at the urging of my traveling companion, eagerly boarded the train to take us to a safer place.

The day after my "coming out" party in Budapest I rode my twentieth train in three weeks, on my final stretch of a ten country tour. Relieved to be back on the "go," I knew the motion would soon end. Just three more stops on my unpredictable adventure, Venice, Florence and Rome, and then the semester would come to a close. Exhausted, I closed my eyes on the magnificent sunset over Vienna, for the first time in three weeks allowing the moving European scenes to pass me by unnoticed.

"Stay, are you hungry?" Tracey interrupted. "I'm good," I responded, "but I have a bagel right in here, if you want it." I searched through my bag and heard a strange jingle. Carefully dumping the contents of my daypack onto the seat next to me, I was amazed by the sight of the temporary set of keys that Solomon had provided for our stay at his lovely abode.

"You will always have a home away from home," Tracey teased as we celebrated my discovery. "And you, my friend, may end up as someone's mail-order bride, Terazy, because guess who has your address?!!" I quipped, smiling. At last I spotted the day-old sesame bagel. Our eyes met with a shared laugh as I proudly held up dinner like the Olympic torch.

Caught up in the wondrous swirl of colorful faces and intriguing places, I looked back with sentiment and to the future with hope. As our chugging chariot moved us once again through the breathtaking countryside of Austria, with the tunes of the Grateful Dead flowing from our micro-speaker set-up, Tracey and I could only look at each other and grin (as we sang along) while the always prophetic Jerry crooned, "What a long.... strange trip it's been."

Hitch a Ride

2009-09-29T03:48:00.000-07:00

I picked up a hitchhiker the other night.

Maybe it wasn't the smartest thing to do, with my sleeping 7 month old in the backseat. But, when a zoftig post-menopausal woman approached my car window as I drove slowly through my condo's parking lot, I could not resist. Her dyed black hair was frizzing up in the humid night air and I saw beads of sweat forming on her upper lip. She tapped on my window with her long acrylic red nails, panting, "I'm lost! Where the hell is 5E? I'm shvitzing out here!"

I quickly surveyed the situation. Was this really a woman or perhaps a man dressed up as a woman? I remembered how Ted Bundy used to put a fake caste on his arm just to garner sympathy from unsuspecting women right before he overpowered them.

Was this person really going to "break the fast" or was she plotting to break my neck?

Was this woman (or man dressed up as a woman) really holding a wrapped noodle kugel? Or was that some sort of concealed weapon? I made a quick decision that it was really a kugel and she was really a woman, a woman going to break the fast for Yom Kippur; a woman tired of walking around a parking lot aimlessly, anxious about being late for her holiday dinner.

"Get in," I encouraged her, "I have no idea where 5E is, but we'll find it."

"Oh, thank you, you're such a doll!!" she gushed at a decibel just loud enough to disturb my sleeping boy. Although slightly irritated by her booming voice, I admired her audacity as she hopped into my car to ride shotgun.

You see, nobody hitchhikes any more.

My great-grandmother used to walk to the grocery store and then hitch a ride home with all of her packages. Seriously. Every single week. "Times were different back then, sweetheart," my grandmom explained recently. "Nanny didn't drive, so that's what she did when she needed to go to the market." Okay.

I, myself, once hitched a two hour ride from Denver to Breckenridge, Colorado, with three teenage boys whom I befriended on the airplane. "I'll meet you at the Loaf N Jug (the local Wawa)!" I told my friend, Mindy, over the pay phone at the Denver Airport. "I thought you were taking the shuttle?" she asked, confused. "Nope, I'm hitching a ride!" I responded proudly. "Wha?" she asked horrified. I don't know if the altitude had already gone to my head, clouding my better judgment, but I sat crammed amongst snowboards, skis, and boots in the back seat of a jeep, listening to the teen boys debut their best teen boy jokes, praying that I would live to see my friend.

Hitchhiking clearly runs in my family. In the early '70s, my dad used to hitchhike all over Europe; that is, once he ran out of gas in his orange VW bus, named Clementine, and was forced to sell her on the side of the road in Germany for 500 bucks. In those glorious days before cell phones and satellites, he and his army buddy, dressed like Tom Petty, in top hats and shawls, used to go their separate ways, hitchhiking, only to meet up days later at a monument in Madrid or a cafe in Amsterdam.

My dad never forgot the kindness of those perfect strangers in Europe and he reciprocated the favor when he was back in the states, a married father. One new year's eve, mid-80s, my parents were driving home from a black tie party with neighbors, and my dad noticed a man on the side of the road, dressed in a tuxedo, with sunglasses on, well past midnight. The man held a cane in his left hand. My dad, traveling his usual 83 mph, made an abrupt stop at the man's feet, as he often did at red lights.

I'm sure someone in the car, possibly my mom, screamed, "Thomas, what the hell are you doing?"

"I'm picking up this hitchhiker!" my dad probably responded emphatically.

"He's not even hitchhiking!" my mom retorted. "He's probably waiting for a cab or a bus!"

"He's coming with us!" my dad announced.

"Don't you dare," the neighbor in the back seat, encsonced in her white mink coat shrieked. "He'll steal my coat!"

"He's blind!" my dad protested, rolling down his window. "Hop in," my dad told the man. "Happy New Year! Where are you heading?" The man climbed in, incredibly gracious.

I, too, got caught up in the spirit of the new year. "Thank you, you saved me! My corns were killing me, walking around that focacta parking lot!" the bubbe in my car complained. My baby in the back seat let out a high-pitched half-cry. "Here we are!" I said, relieved to have finally found unit 5E. The hitchhiker in my car breathed heavily, tucked her kugel under her thick arm, and opened her car door. "Happy new year, doll!" she gushed. "I've never hitchhiked in my life!" she cried, wiping sweat from her hairline. "Thank you!"

"No need to thank me," I said, "just pay it forward and pick up a hitchhiker sometime!"

Coming Down to Earth

2009-09-14T10:04:00.000-07:00

"I went skydiving," I panted to my husband as he carefully navigated the icy roads toward the hospital.

"Keep reminding me," I told him, doubled over in my seat from the waves of jarring contractions. "I jumped out of a plane at 13,500 feet, okay? I can do this!" "You can totally do this, just keep breathing," he said, holding my hand, glancing nervously in my direction.

"I packed barf bags," I half-smiled, opening the glove compartment to expose my stash of plastic bags. I unzipped the puffy black maternity parka that I was wearing, suddenly feeling warm even though I could see my breath in the chill of the car.

"I'll take care of you," he said, his dark eyes reassuring.

I closed my eyes and remembered the plane ride.

"I'm not feeling so great," I yelled to my curly blond haired instructor over the roar of the plane's engine.

"Sit down on the floor," he hollered back. I slid from the bench I was perched on down to the floor of the rickety plane. Some skydiving regular took off his sneaker and offered it to me as a barf basin. "No, I'm good," I lied. My eyes were glued to the 5 foot wide square hole in the floor of the plane just a few feet away from me.

"You didn't just jump out of a plane, honey, you did a BACK FLIP out of the plane," my husband whispered to me as he helped me sit up straight to wait for an epidural. "This is cake." I nodded as sweat poured down my forehead and back, soaking my cotton hospital gown.

I took baby steps towards the massive hole in the back of the plane's floor with my hippie instructor, Rob, strapped to my back. Men and women dressed in colorful jumpsuits with packed parachutes on their backs looked like rag dolls as they flew out of the plane ahead of me. "Here we go!" Rob hollered as I crossed my arms over my chest as he had instructed.

"This might feel a little strange." said the mustachioed anesthesiologist. I closed my eyes and waited for the needle to penetrate my spine.

We back flipped out into the sky. I felt fierce cool wind hitting my face. And then a hand tapped me on the forehead. "Open your eyes!" yelled the skydiving photographer who was face to face with me, soaring through the air. I opened my eyes and saw wind and white clouds zipping by me, and the photographer grinning. "Awesome, right?! Grab my hand," he hollered. Through the force of the wind, I struggled to reach out for his hand with mine. Once we connected, he spun me around like a corkscrew and then let go. I was spinning like a top above the earth.

"It feels better," I told the nurse. "I feel like I'm at a Pink Floyd concert, it's amazing. I feel F-I-N-E, fine!" I whispered to my mom on the phone, while my husband slept curled up in a recliner next to me.

When the spinning stopped, I thrust my right fist out ahead of me, like Superman. I flexed my biceps up, then down, gave a salute, smiled at the photographer as my skin flapped in the wind, outlining my cheek bones. I was euphoric, weightless, soaring through the sky. Little did I know that I was falling.

"I feel nothing, absolutely nothing," I told the young blond nurse after she explained that I was having contractions every minute. "Okay, you're going to start pushing soon," the doctor said from her perch at the end of my bed. "You can do this," my husband whispered in my ear. "You jumped out of a plane!"

Rob, the shaggy-haired hippie instructor strapped to my back, interrupted my poses and grabbed my right hand and placed it on my hip. "Pull the cord!" he hollered.

"It's around his neck," I heard the doctor tell the nurse in a hushed tone. Monitors started beeping. Sweat started dripping. "The baby is not in the right position," the doctor told me. "We're going to try to turn it around."

I yanked the cord and felt a powerful force launch me high into the sky like a rocket. I soared through sky, yelling, "Woohoo!" I heard my parachute open overhead and then felt an abrupt stop. I was suspended in the air. For the first time since I had jumped out of the plane, I noticed the ground below.

"Her blood pressure is dropping," the nurse said, checking the monitor next to my bed. I watched her furrow her brow as she looked at the readings. Without warning, she fastened an oxygen mask over my nose and mouth. I sucked in smokey clouds of air and my eyes grew as big as saucers, searching for my husband's face.

"Am I still here?!" I screamed, suddenly feeling very alone. "Yes," Rob hollered back, chuckling. ""You're still here! We're floating." Our red, yellow, purple, green and blue parachute was up over our heads like a gigantic kite in the sky.

I did not recognize any of the faces in front of me, but they all seemed to be mouthing the word, "Push, push, push, push, push."

"I feel like I'm slipping," I yelled to Rob in a panic. "Here, I'm going to tighten your harness," he assured me. "Look over there, see the ocean? Isn't that beautiful?"

I finally saw something familiar, my husband's face, full of love and fear in his eyes that he could not mask with a smile.

"Forceps or a c-section," the doctor said. "First, we'll try to spin the baby around."

My body was no longer my own. Four doctors, a few nurses, residents and god knows who the other spectators were poked, prodded and watched like I was a 4th grade science experiment. I watched all of them from a place high above my bed. I felt nothing but the awful dead weight of my body from the drugs. My legs felt as heavy as tree trunks when they asked me to help lift them into the air. My mind raced and I tried to think about flying.

I was weightless, drifting through the brilliant blue sky, laughing. "Feels like a dream," I shouted.

The forceps looked like a medieval torture device. They were gigantic metal fireplace tongs, running the length of my arms. They were all I could see down at the bottom of my bed.

"I'm going to . . ." I gagged before I could finish my sentence and the nurse turned me on my side and shoved a plastic basin under my mouth. "That happens sometimes when the baby is coming down," she informed me.

The monitor went wild. "The baby's heart rate is dropping," the nurse reported in a contained panic. "We need to do this quickly," the doctor with the metal salad tongs instructed the team. I wanted to just drift away. The doctor flipped the baby with the forceps as everyone in the room chanted, "Push, push, push, push, push, push! Her voice rising, the doctor yelled, "Here comes the baby! . . . ohhhh.....look..... it's a . . . boy!" another doctor gushed. "He's little, but he has chubby cheeks," someone else chimed in.

I felt nothing. I saw nothing. I heard nothing. I waited for the cry. I waited for the cry. I squeezed my husband's hand and waited for the cry. The deafening silence overwhelmed the room, pained my heart. I saw doctors, nurses, residents, hurrying around.

I waited. And waited. And waited. "No, this must be a nightmare," I told myself. And, at last, a cry. A cry? A cry! A cry full of life, spirit, will.

"You did it!" Rob yelled as we pulled off a picture perfect landing. My feet were wobbly as we touched down on the ground."That was the most amazing thing I ever did!" I yelled as I high-fived my instructor.

"That was the most terrifying thing I ever did," I sobbed to my husband, as he wrapped his strong arms around me. "Amazing, but absolutely terrifying." The doctor walked carefully over to my bedside carrying a tiny, perfectly-wrapped gift. With my tired arms open wide and my husband by my side, I celebrated the journey. And the view, right then and there on earth . . well, there was nothing in the universe more exquisite.

Shabbat Shalom

2009-09-11T17:55:00.000-07:00

The beat of bongos greeted us as we entered the sanctuary. Smiling little girls in sequined headbands and skirts skipped down the aisle and took their seats next to doting parents. Elderly couples walked carefully behind them, calling out, "Shabbat shalom," to familiar faces. A young woman, her bald head wrapped, but barely hidden, tried to quiet her rambunctious pre-teen son.

It was Friday night, September 11th, and this was not the Sha-BBQ that I had envisioned.

Although a driving rain and fierce winds forced the party inside, it did not dappen our spirits. I looked to my left and saw the smile of my friend, Jenifer, and her wife, Cyndi, and their beautiful baby boy, sitting on her lap, digging into a Zip-lock bag full of Cheerios.

"They asked me if I was interested in enrolling him in pre-school here," Jenifer whispered to me. "But he's Muslim," she explained of her African-American foster child. "He's just here for shabbat with us, but he has his own thing," she added, planting a kiss on his cheek. "Got it," I nodded.

"And you know me," Cyndi laughed. "I'm not into any religion at all." I caught a glimpse of the small gold necklace she was wearing.

"Wait a minute, is that a Star of David?"

"Yep, I support my wife . . . and the community. And you gotta see my new tattoo," she continued, her eyes lighting up as she looked at her wife's smile. "I got her Hebrew name written on my arm," she said proudly, pointing to her shoulder. I shook my head, laughing. "Great stuff," I responded, the wine starting to swim around my head as the Klezmer music picked up the tempo.

Two tween girls in front of me shimmied to the sounds and busted out a couple of hip hop moves as the cantor sang. I strained to see just who was rockin' out on the bongos, but it remained a mystery. I couldn't help but hear the lady a few rows behind me to the left who tried to out-sing everyone else in the congregation. I rolled my eyes in Cyndi's direction. "There's always one in the crowd, right?" I didn't know a word of the lyrics, but the vibe in the sanctuary sounded as if Jimmy Buffet might join in. It felt like we were on a booze cruise in the Caribbean.

As the music faded out, we said prayers for the sick, the dying, the departed, for our recently fallen soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan, by name. A nine year old girl stood up and told the congregation that she was praying for her friend to get well so that they could go to the movies, and play games, and do the things that they normally did together.

After the service ended, we all gathered at open tables to nosh on some kosher hot dogs and burgers. Three generations of a family joined our table, thankfully without judgmental looks or curious glances at my gay friends and their baby. The mom introduced her tween daughter, dressed in a brown skirt suit, matching her long dark hair and eyes, and her own mother, with silver hair and hip glasses, and sweet blue eyes.

"Do you do timeouts with him?" the girl asked Jenifer bluntly, who was sitting across the round table, feeding small bites of a burger to her toddler.

"No, honey, not yet, he's too young for that."

"Oh. Do you do headshoulderskneesandtoes?" she asked slurring the words together rapidly.

"Yes, and he loves it!" Jenifer responded. The little girl smiled.

She told us she was twelve years old, but her speech and mannerisms told a different story, of a child delayed cognitively to that of a 6 year old. She looked in my direction and fired off random questions with a piercing stare and a mechanical tone:

"Do you have a dog?"

"Not yet, but I want to get one!" I told her.

"What does your mom say?" she blurted out.

"She says, 'Go for it!'" I told her, not skipping a beat or pausing at the oddity of the question.

I told her that I had a baby who was going to come to Sha-BBQ too, but it was past his bedtime, so he was home with his daddy.

"Did you see the play, Annie?" she wondered in response.

"Yeah, it was really cute. Did you see it? Did you like it?" She nodded.

Her grandmother exhaled an internal sigh of relief. Here we were, perfect strangers, engaging this little girl in conversation, no matter how random, disjointed, or surprising the questions. And we did so without judgment or ridicule or uncomfortable looks.

"Do you like Pepsi?" she asked me, noticing that I was drinking the same thing as she had in her hand.

"Oh, I love Pepsi!" I exclaimed. "Cheers!" I yelled, raising my soda can to meet hers across the table. She smiled at me and clinked my can.

"Shabbat shalom!" Everyone at that table raised their drinks too.

The grandmother sitting next to me turned and patted my hand delicately. "I hope you and your husband join," she said. This community? Where differences are not only tolerated, but celebrated? I nodded back at her. We are already members.

SHA-BBQ

2009-09-01T11:03:00.000-07:00

I had no idea how much I missed living in Center City until I watched an elderly African-American cowboy, ten gallon hat and all, lasso a stationary bike post on Walnut Street today. Exactly three onlookers hooted and clapped while the man smiled broadly, flashing just a few front teeth. I, of course, was one of the three freaks cheering. I even encouraged my 6 month old baby, smiling in his stroller, to clap along as well. You just don't see that sort of thing here in Penn Valley.

But before I go off on a tangent about how boring the burbs are in comparison to the city, where we used to live conveniently across the street from the sex shop, head shop and psychic (yes, all on the same block!), I should tell you that things are about to change. Someone is firing up the grill over at Main Line Reform Temple.

Hallelujah!

SHA-BBQ is coming to town. What?! At first, when I saw the big sign outside the temple, I nearly crashed my car. I thought it meant that Shaq was coming to a bbq on the main line. But, it's even better than that! SHA-BBQ is a bbq outside the temple on shabbat! This has to be the most exciting new concept to sweep the Jewish community since a bubbe accidentally dropped some matzoh in chicken soup thousands of years ago. And I wouldn't miss it for anything! I have somehow enticed my husband into accompanying me to SHA-BBQ, with the promise of kosher hot dogs and a possible game of Frisbee with the rabbi.

So what will actually take place at this shabbat bbq? Your guess is as good as mine. Will the rabbi be grilling brisket or burgers? Will we sing Shabbat Shalom or Kumbaya? And who exactly will be attending this shabbat shindig? I'm guessing Main Line families, members of the temple, well-dressed and educated, looking to spice up their usual shabbos dinner with the family. What will their reaction will be when our crew rolls up? 2 lesbians with their adorable African-American baby, 1 former alter boy turned atheist, and 1 Irish-Jew who used to cut Hebrew school. What a shanda! Will they welcome us with open arms or stare at us, wondering if this is just an ABC 20/20 "hidden camera investigation" to test their reactions? Should I introduce myself as Stacy, or my Hebrew name, Chava, or simply Chavs, the badass nickname my Italian husband gave me?

I'm wondering what I should wear to SHA-BBQ too. Typical temple clothes seem inappropriate and way too stuffy. For some odd reason, I'm envisioning this SHA-BBQ to be like a great western bbq, the kind you would find in Jackson, Wyoming, with real cowboys manning the meat and telling ghost stories of fallen heroes on the plains. I can just see the men throwing in their keepahs in exchange for cowboy hats. I picture a mechanical bull and the cantor reaching his highest notes as he fights to stay on the bucking beast. I can see the rabbi riding in bareback on a wild mustang to a roaring crowd.

I'm not sure if the rabbi will really go all rodeo on the congregation, but SHA-BBQ promises games and sports, so you never know. If the games include bowling, horseshoes, or any parlor games, my husband is sure to be a hit on shabbos. As for my lesbian friends, our gracious hosts at this SHA-BBQ, well, the last time I played any games with them, it was at their "sperm party," when they were trying to decide whose sperm to use for artificial insemination. Needless to say, I don't think we'll be playing "pin the sperm on the egg" at this bbq.

What does one bring to a SHA-BBQ? Perhaps a guitar, although I'm not sure this cantor will be as cool as the one from my temple, who promised my dad she would learn Bob Dylan's Forever Young to sing at my Bat Mitzvah service. I certainly hope that there's a vibe of peace and love in the air, and even some mj would not be opposed. I think I'll leave home the Buddhist prayer wheel that I keep in my living room, which my dad bought for me after spinning it quickly in the store and chanting, "Baruch ata adinoi......that's all I remember....." Yes, that's it. We'll just try to blend in with the people and not draw attention to ourselves. In the meantime, stay tuned for pix and tales from next week's SHA-BBQ.

Shabbat shalom, party people!

Watch out for Warren

2009-08-13T08:23:00.000-07:00

1990

At age 14, I finally reached the pinnacle, Tunk 13, the oldest and coolest bunk in camp. Our new bunk theme song, which we sang at the flagpole, in the dining room, at the pool, and everywhere else around camp, went like this: “I don’t know but I’ve been told, 13 girls are mighty bold. I don’t know but it’s been said, 13 girls give good head!”

We were the pride of Camp Akiba. Role models for all of the little Villagers, the youngest campers.

Nightly raids to boys’ side were what we waited for with baited breath. Taps would play each night around 10 pm, our counselors would be in by midnight, tipsy from their favorite local bar, the Thirsty Camel. We would start gearing up for a raid around 1 a.m. Dark clothes? Check. Sneakers? Check. Flashlights? Check. Cameras? Check. Just the necessities. We would tiptoe around the bunk, so as not to wake our counselors who slept, usually in a drunken haze, on the two opposing cots closest to the front wooden bunk door.

One night, too tired to go on the raid, I decided to stay back with my friend, Lynne. As my fellow bunkmates slipped out of the front door, Lynne and I heard a voice in the night; a voice that was the most terrifying voice a camper could hear: Warren! Warren was the 40 year old peg-legged night watchman who could sense when campers were planning to raid bunks of the opposite sex and would wait outside in the woods to catch them. He was a real life Freddy Krueger who would come out only at night and, legend had it, Warren would sometimes wait under the covers in a camper’s bed, to scare the living daylights out of the camper as he returned from a raid.

“Girls!” Warren hollered. “STOP. RIGHT. THERE!”

Inside the bunk, Lynne and I shuddered at the sound of his voice. Up until that point, Warren was a mere Camp Akiba legend and I wasn’t even sure if he really existed.

“Holy shit, Lynne! It’s W...w..w....warren!” I whispered urgently. Lynne jumped into my cot, throwing the covers over both of our heads. Our counselors woke up in a startled haze and flipped on the bunk light. “Where the hell is everyone?!” one yelled in a panic. At that moment, we heard my bunkmates shrieking, giggling, and running, their sneakers skidding on the gravel outside. They knew that Warren's bum leg was no match for their adrenaline-fueled speed. In his most diabolical tone, Warren yelled after them, “I’ll be waiting for you when you get baaaack!”

“Oh my god!” Lynne panted, gripping onto me, buried under the covers. “Get up, you guys, this isn’t funny!” my counselor prodded in her valley girl accent. “Funny?!!! WARREN is out there!” I insisted, as if he were an ax murderer, hunting down wayward campers. “Turn off the lights, are you crazy?!”

My counselor flipped the light off with a grunt of disgust and climbed back into her disheveled cot. “Whatever, you guys can sit on the field house porch from sunrise to sunset tomorrow, for all I care.” “Sun-rrrrrrrise, sun-set!” Lynne and I began to sing. We giggled and climbed out of bed, feeling a bit safer in the dark. “Where is that psycho fuck?” Lynne pondered, roaming the bunk in her trademark cowboy boots and white boxers, peering out different screened windows from a distance. She walked back over to my bed and pulled the rope that hoisted my window open. The two of us peered out into the pitch black Pocono night and saw nothing but the bunk next door. "I know he's out there," I whispered to Lynne, as the two of us inched closer and closer to the screen. “Boo!” Warren screamed as he popped up into my window, shining his flashlight on his face like out of a horror film. We let out blood curling screams. “I think I’m having a heart attack!” I yelled, laughing, clutching my chest and pulling the covers back over our heads.

My counselor stormed out of bed and flicked the lights on again. “What is it NOW?!” Warren limped up our bunk’s front wooden steps. “Don’t let him innnnnnnnn!” I freaked. My counselors stepped outside on the bunk front porch to meet Warren. I caught a glimpse of his long greasy hair under the porch light and shuddered at the sound of his maniacal cackle. What my counselors discussed with Warren, I’ll never know. Lynne and I continued to scream until we heard him limp back down our bunk steps and wander off into the foggy Pocono night, looking for our bunkmates.

Shore Memories, Then and Now

2009-08-09T15:12:00.000-07:00

33 summers. 5 generations. 1 house.

If this one could talk, it would tell tales of hoagie eating, card playing, wave jumping, sandcastle building, sunbathing, and stargazing. It would tell secrets, of children eating candy in their bunk-beds at midnight and a beloved poodle making “pishy” on Gram's new sofa. It would talk of our family marking our own territory, carving our initials into the Ventnor playground, our footprints in the sand. It would remember sun-kissed, barefoot children, with nicknames like “fudgie wudgie,” a favorite dessert from everyone's favorite ice cream man.

It would recall the strollers, the bikes, the rollerblades, racing out the door to the boardwalk, lazy summer days playing in the sand. The sandcastles, paddleball, boogie boards, and bathing beauties. It would talk of scavenger hunts, running bases, wiffle ball. It would sigh at the thought of sleepy children being tucked into bed, dreaming of the rides in Ocean City.

It would remember Fralinger’s saltwater taffy, butter creams from Jagielky’s, tuna hoagies from Dino’s, Saco’s, and White House, pizza from Jo-Jo’s, milkshakes from Lou’s, cinnamon buns from Michelle’s, and water ice from Mento’s. It would remember being the life of the party, the meeting place for friends and family, cocktail hours, hor d’oeuvres, barbecues, feasts. It would laugh at how messy it sometimes got, with water and whipped cream fights, sand in the beds, and that rebellious poodle making “pishy” yet again. It would talk of the family, gathering around the roulette wheel at the dinner table, launching fireworks from the deck, floating in the ocean, with the older generation in shower caps.

It would fondly remember a father showing his daughter every star in the sky, and a mother who told her to reach out for them. There would be stories of cousins becoming as close as siblings, listening to Grandpop's war stories, learning how to take a wave in from Gram. It would remember all of the hugs, the kisses, and the laughter that echoed through its walls. It would reminisce about Nanny and Pop-pop, and friends, who once walked this shore, and cry in joy at every new birth of a baby who would come to love its walls, its secrets, its memories, its view of the beach, the boardwalk, the birds, the ocean, the dolphins at sunset, the horizon, the past, present, future, this world and beyond.

Through the sound of the waves breaking gently upon the sand, it would whisper, very softly, “Can you remember, even just for a minute, a life as good as this?”

Hardly a Housewife

2009-07-28T06:12:00.000-07:00

"So, do you, like, feel like a housewife now?" my friend and former co-worker asked curiously over taco salads, about a month after I delivered my baby. My hemorrhoids had barely healed and I was delirious from dirty diapers and sleep deprivation. I was much more concerned with sitting than sweeping.

"Not even a little," I laughed, through a bite of lettuce and guacamole. "Not even a tad."

I may be on "eternity leave," but I am hardly a housewife. At least not a very good one.

To be a good housewife, I think, I must go to the supermarket more frequently than once every 5 weeks. And I must buy ingredients that can be used to create an actual entree for dinner, perhaps with assistance from a real recipe. What good are Sourpatch Kids, Puffed Kashi, and Cool Ranch Doritos in my pantry when I have long outgrown the munchies?

To be a good housewife, I know that I must clean often and often means not just the half hour before my housekeepers arrive, in a sheer panic. Sure, in my broken Spanish and over-the-top hand gestures, I can offer my housekeepers anything that I don't feel like cleaning, like my cluttered desk and chair, (which they took, happily), but if I keep that up, eventually, I'll be left without my walk-in closet, refrigerator, and toilet.

To be a good housewife, I'm pretty sure it's my job to keep all bugs, rodents, and other small animals out of my home. There is no excuse for a bird flying around in my living room, shrieking and flapping its wings, banging into the sliding glass door. And there is certainly no excuse for me to be hiding in my bedroom, door slammed shut, while my hungry baby watches me, eyes like saucers, as I scream into the phone, "Send Maintenance now...and send someone with a key! We're trapped in my bedroom and there's no way in hell I'm coming out to answer the door!"

To be a good housewife, I really should entertain. And I think "entertaining" means more than singing lullabies off-key and doing primitive African tribal dances for my husband with the musical accompaniment of Paul Simon singing Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes.

To be a good housewife, I obviously need to cook. A history of starting fires while baking cookies and getting banned from my mom's kitchen for the next year does not help. Neither did the squishy sounds and pops of chicken bones breaking in my 9th grade foods class as my teacher demonstrated how to make chicken soup. Even though I now possess my mother-in-law's famous meatball recipe, the only thing that I can make is a watery bolognese sauce which my husband is kind enough to eat. And although I'm growing basil in my kitchen, I have a long way to go in the culinary arts. Sure, I can chiffinade now thanks to a Williams Sonoma class, but I still can't stand to touch raw meat. When my cousin and I made our first brisket together last winter, we wore surgical gloves and I even considered putting on scrubs. Nevertheless, I am cooking. Recently, I created some concoctions reminiscent of when my sister and I used to mix orange juice and Pepsi back in the early '80s and dare one another to drink it. Last week I made ground sirloin nachos for dinner, inspired by Qudoba. Pathetic.

To be a good housewife, I must do loads of laundry every day. Finally, jackpot! I do, in fact, do laundry from the moment I wake up until the moment I pass out at night and I even do it in the middle of the night, in between making bottles. The problem is, I only do the baby's laundry and I allow mine to pile up like Mount Everest. His laundry comes first because he changes clothes about 8 times a day due to his tendency to spit up as regularly as Old Faithful. I confess, I don't help the situation much. Moments after I feed him a bottle, I dance him around and get him all riled up just because I love to see him smile and hear his angelic laugh. Now I'm changing clothes 8 times a day too. But, so what if the left shoulder of every shirt I own has a spit-up stain on it. Maybe that is the sign of a good housewife. However, I doubt a good housewife would have a mountain of those shirts sitting on her bathroom floor while she's laying in bed blogging.

So, due to my unexpected eternity leave, am I saying, "Adios attorney....hello....housewife?" I don't think so. Not today anyway.

The Client I Can't Forget

2009-07-27T06:44:00.000-07:00

"So you say you like civil rights?"
"Well, tell me, does this inmate have a case?"
60 years old, chronically ill, walks with a cane
Prison guards think he's insane…a real pain
He thinks he's a lawyer, just missed his calling
caught up in drugs, burglary….many things led to his falling
When he yells out, fights the system
They tighten his handcuffs….to stop him from writing
Swollen and bruised, he cries out for help
On a wing, everyone hears….and they've all heard cries before
from their victims, their cellmates….or from their own mouths
But "maximum security" offers none to them now
They are trapped inside a living hell
Where the line between good and bad is too often blurred
Prisoner or guard, the distinctions become absurd
"Yes," he has a case, excessive force
I'm straight outa law school, passionate without remorse
I drive to prison, put on my toughest face
When my client greets me, I take a deep breath
He is my father's age, just walked a different path
I believe your story, look him straight in the eyes
I know what happened, and sir, they heard your cries
You'll have your day in court, judge and jury
We're in this together, it's gonna be a journey
A year passes and we enter the courtroom
dressed in my husband's suit, my client looks dapper, smart, prepared
On the witness stand, he tells his story, and the judge is the only one who cares
The guard says he had contraband
Pen and paper were his weapons, they argued from the stand
My partner and I fight and fight
The jury looks away just like the guards did when his handcuffs were brutally tight
"Well, no broken bones," they say
"I'll believe a guard over a prisoner any day."
The verdict is in and there is no justice, yet a smile appears on my client's face
“I’ll never forget y’all, the dignity you've shown me, or your grace"
We shake hands and send him the suit as a gift
"please wear this, sir, when you are free and need a lift"
"I'll never forget you either, your story, or your face
The dignity you've displayed, your intelligence, or your grace."

Reflections on a job, well, . . . done.

2009-07-16T20:16:00.000-07:00

I am 6 months into my maternity leave and I just learned that it has somehow morphed into "eternity leave."

I have been laid-off. Outrageous? Of course. Unjust? Absolutely. Am I bitter? Nah.

In fact, in my reflective and nostalgic state, I have compiled a list of things that I will miss most about my old job and things that I certainly will not miss. So here it is:

The things that I will miss most:

1. Peering out the window of my Center City high-rise office and catching a glimpse of a topless woman brushing her long blond locks in a luxury hotel room window across the street.

2. Calling my colleague and confidante down the hall and screaming into the phone, "NAKED DUDE! OH MY GOD! NAKED DUDE IN WINDOW WITH WOMAN BRUSHING HAIR! Do you SEE THIS?!"

3. Listening to my confidante reply, "Oh my god! He just took the brush! He's brushing her hair! I can't believe this! I'm blushing, I'm shvitzing!"

4. Hosting "Friday concerts" in my office and playing DJ on my ipod set-up while my friend belted out everything from the Dead's Sunshine Daydream to Neil Diamond's version of Chavah Nagilah despite her complete lack of rhythm.

5. Overhearing one of the partners, a former school teacher, telling an associate sternly, "No hugging in the halls!" when she was caught embracing the mailroom guy.

6. Getting e-vites to sex toy parties hosted by the mailroom guy's baby mama.

7. Opening emails inviting the entire staff to the "caf" for leftover pastries, excess halloween candy, or best of all, hot soft pretzels.

8. Watching 4 out of the 4 parnters fall asleep at the monthly attorney lunch, sometimes with their heads bowing dangerously close to the tuna sandwiches on their plates in front of them.

9. Blindfolding the partners and watching them try to smash a pinata at our firm bridal showers after throwing back a few margaritas.

10. Watching a 10 pound bunny rabbit with a 5 pound goiter hopping around under my associate's desk. Harvard Law School's finest!

11. Celebrating major milestones in my life (engagement, marriage, pregnancy) over Dunkin' Donuts in the "caf," even though certain members of the firm tended to fight over the ever popular "manager's special" doughnut with chocolate frosting on the outside and white cream inside.

12. Seeing the blur of one of the partners whizzing by my office door as she ran faster than a speeding bullet down the hall. (Late for the train? Bursting bladder?)

13. Seeing that same blur whizzing by my office in the other direction. (Was she running suicides through the office? Training for the Broad St. Run?) We will never know.

14. Listening to the double-amputee outside of my office building sing, with great enthusiasm but little ability to carry a tune, "I Just Called To Say I Love You," on his karaoke machine that he rolled with.

15. Keeping the local economy alive by dining out for lunch every day with my girls, eating more guacamole than any human being with my body mass index should ever consume in a lifetime, and laughing about topics that I would not dare post on this blog.

16. Getting urgent phone calls from my friend down the hall, whispering, "Stace, you gotta come help me! I need to pee and I'm stuck inside my suit pants! My zipper is broken! (pause) Can you please bring your scissors?"

Things That I Most Certainly Will Not Miss:

1. Creepy Christmas elves that two partners hid in every nook and cranny throughout the firm when December 1st rolled around. Even the ladies' room was not spared.

2. Suspicious smells and sights in bathroom stall #4.

3. Security updates alerting us about anything and everything deemed a threat; from hundreds of Mumia Abdul-Jamal supporters protesting outside City Hall to a dozen musicians playing string instruments along with a seasonal choir group infiltrating our building lobby.

4. Needing to pump iron at the gym just so I could carry loads of files and boxes to court or a deposition while the partner carried his briefcase only.

5. Getting a new office phone list every day and trying to figure out who had been fired secretly.

6. Smelling the pungent plant in my neighbor's office mixed with the greasy spring rolls he enjoyed eating for lunch. Every single day.

7. Getting reamed out by 25 year old snotty court clerks who would respond to my filing questions by screaming into the phone, "Miss, you really should consult a lawyer!" "Uhhh, okay, thank you."

8. Suffering through painfully awkward silences at attorney happy hours, (hosted in our main conference room) and figuring out how I could contribute to the usual conversations about hunting or UFOS or the complexities of being a vegan in this day and age.

9. Scrubbing the fluorescent orange crumbs from my fingertips after attorney happy hours filled with Jack's, Cheetos, and other orange staples from the 1980s.

10. Getting lectured by the plant lady who came biweekly and frowned at my cactus and other Little Shop of Horrors-looking plant while warning me that I needed to be a good "parent" and "nurture them." "I'm too busy nurturing this baby," I would say patting my protruding navel while throwing back a full box of srawberry Nerds.

11. Counting the times that the partner/former schoolteacher patrolled the hallways each day with her bowl of cheerios, watching us wayward schoolgirls like a hawk.

12. Having to dress up in "business casual" attire for "Casual Fridays," as jeans were strictly forbidden.

Now that I'm on "eternity leave," I plan to gorge on guacamole, wear jeans whenever the spirit moves me, and nurture my baby boy, my writing, and my plants. And here's a security alert: TO THE NEW GUY WHO "TEMPORARILY" took over my office when I was 8 months pregnant, watch out for the topless woman brushing her hair in the hotel window across the street and don't be surprised if you see her give you the finger.