Mom of Merrill Manor

Lucky

2011-11-26T20:03:00.000-08:00

I’ll never forget that he chose me.

As an adult, until that day that I met Lucky, I had previously been a cat person. Save the one wonderful dog (Daisy) from my childhood, I had always been around cats.

So when a 50 pound, spotted Dalmatian mix kept jumping into my car’s passenger seat every time I left a certain boyfriend’s home circa the year 2000 – all I thought was, “oh, no…I don’t know what to do with a dog!”

My then boyfriend, Brian, a committed animal lover, had rescued Lucky and was keeping him until a “forever home” could be found. Lucky at the time was very feisty and true to his part Dalmatian nature, very crotchety. Lucky felt that it was his calling to be ‘top dog.’ But, as Brian already had Rascal, a beautiful Belgian Malinois, Lucky felt like a second class citizen and was definitely not okay with his status. He was constantly growly around Rascal and itching for a fight.

And during the time I dated him, every time I left Brian’s house, Lucky ran out and jumped into the passenger seat of my car…with his front paws folded over and clearly suggesting in his stance, “Let’s get the fuck up on out of here!”

Eventually, Lucky stopped going back to Brian’s house and so did I. Brian and I broke up a short time later and I kept Lucky by default.

Blending Lucky into my home was not easy. My then 6 year old daughter was delighted with having a dog. However, she had two strikes against her in Lucky’s eyes. She was a child (and therefore deserving of suspicion - again he was true to his Dalmatian roots) and she was a competitor for my affection. We did everything short of tying a pork chop for Taylor to drag around behind her to help in fostering any affection in him for her. (Wait – we may have done that!) In the end, the best antidote was time. Taylor grew, older, wiser and in height and eventually he saw her as another leader in our pack and ceased his petty growling with her.

When Lucky first came to live with us he was not neutered. This lead to more than one episode of him running off in search of a mate whose promises of pleasure he smelled in the breeze. I remember a neighbor from two developments away bringing him back after one of his walkabouts in search of a good time.

A funny memory I have of that time is when I finally did have him neutered in the hopes that it would keep him more of a homebody and somewhat less cantankerous. I gave Taylor the plain, but age appropriate explanation of what neutering our dog meant, and what changes we might expect or hope for. I took Lucky with me to pick up Taylor from school a couple of days later, shortly after his “snip.” He surveyed the elementary school children waiting to be picked up and uttered a continual stream of a guttural growl that Taylor heard when she got into the passenger seat. Taylor settled and buckled herself in. After listening to Sir Growly-Guts for a bit she sighed, “Mom, the ‘balls thing’ didn’t work.”

I am pretty sure that during those years when it was just the three of us (5 if you include the two cats we had) that Lucky served as a protector and guardian. While other homes in my neighborhood had been broken into...ours was untouched. Likely Lucky's greeting grin didn't come off as a welcome to any potential burglars.

And he did grin…every night that I would get home I was greeted with a toothy grimace that was Lucky’s way of saying, “Hello! Glad you’re home! Thought you’d never get here!”

Then came Donnie.

My now husband moved from upstate New York to South Florida to live with Taylor and I in October of 2004. Lucky was used to sleeping in bed with me back then, his head on the pillow next to mine. Though he had become grudgingly accepting of Taylor, he had NO intentions of giving up his favorite spot in the bed right next to me. That first night was a nightmare. Lucky positioned himself on the bed next to me and Donnie told him to move over. There was growling, snarling and yelling. Then Donnie and Lucky took the fight outside (of the bedroom.) Whatever happened (neither of them ever told) – Donnie had taken position as lead in the pack. And from that moment on, Lucky and Donnie were best buddies.

Donnie is a dog person and Lucky really benefited from that.

After Donnie and I married in 2007, I flirted with the idea of having another baby. As a tonic to this notion, we instead got a Chihuahua puppy for our first anniversary in April of 2008. We were extremely nervous about how Lucky would react to the new addition.

We soon saw that our fears were for naught. Lucky was patient, gentle and kind with Minnie. He showed her where to “go” outside, what is okay to bark at and other proper doggie behaviors. We couldn’t have asked for a better teacher for Minnie. And, Minnie seemed to have a positive effect on Lucky. He had a renewed bounce in his step and both Donnie and I remarked how he seemed to act younger.

However, over the past 18 months Lucky has had a slow but marked decline.

At first, he failed to be able to jump into bed with us. A trampled, circled space in between us on the bed had been his spot. Once he had several failed times, we made him a comfy bed next to ours.

Then he fell down the stairs a few times. He loved being with and following us throughout our home. But once he took a few hair-raising tumbles down the stairs, we blocked off the stairway. To make him feel less lonely, we spent many nights sleeping on the couches downstairs to be with him.

Then he started to lose control of his bowels. Lucky had previously always been fastidious in that regard. I knew that it embarrassed and pained him to leave a mess. But after several episodes where our furniture was involved, we regulated him into the kitchen and dining area of our home.

Then he lost complete control of his bladder. So we were forced to limit him to just the dining room. We hated it as much as he did and turned to our vet for answers.

With crossed fingers and heavy hearts, we started rounds of steroids and other medications for Lucky under our vet's supervision 5 weeks ago.

Nothing helped or made any difference.

With the understanding and blessing of our vet, we made yesterday’s appointment a few days ago. While that may sound calculated, I was grateful to have this Thanksgiving with him. Lucky had his fill of turkey, stuffing and any other treat he wanted.

I was very proud that my now 16 year old daughter opted to be part of yesterday’s heart-wrenching farewell. This is not easy for any of us and it is in a teenager’s nature to hide their head in the sand. But my Tay, in her stoic nature, came with us and stayed with us and Lucky through the very end. I am so proud of her. Owning and loving a pet is really fun – until the end, saying goodbye, which is the really hard part. And she demonstrated incredible maturity.

All three of us drove him there, cuddled him and pet him during his last moments. The details are morbid and horrific, so I will spare you.

Lucky was an incredible, complex and loving dog. He made me feel safer during my years as a single Mom and protected me and my daughter. He completely fell in love with my husband who ceaselessly cared for him, particularly during his older years. He taught our beloved Chihuahua, Minnie how to be a proper, house-broken dog (and unfortunately passed along his fear of thunderstorms.) He was fiercely loyal and loving towards us, his “pack” family.

There will never be another dog like him. He was one of a kind.

And, he was a converter. He made me, a former cat-owner into a dog lover.

Dearest Lucky – I hope you are jumping after squirrels and rabbits right now, with the bouncy legs that you once had. And, that you are getting to spoon and snuggle close with someone until we are reunited with you.

I will never forget that you CHOSE me – I don’t know why you did, but for that, I am eternally grateful.
.

It takes a village...or an Island

2011-11-22T18:47:00.001-08:00

Life has been frenetic around these parts, for sure. I have had a couple of very close friends sadly move very far away. One of whom, I helped in driving her back to her hometown in Tennessee. I have been travelling for work (which I will do more of in the coming weeks.) October heralded both of my parent’s birthdays, my daughter’s Sweet Sixteenth and my parents anniversary (which they celebrated at Fantasy Fest in Key West!) When we rounded the corner of November, my husband celebrated 42 years on this good green Earth making him the same age as me after our annual 6 week 1 year age disparity. (The duration of which he never fails to call me a cougar at least once.) My sister-in-law came to visit us last weekend from Maine, which was wonderful and activity-filled.

I have been making plans for upcoming holidays and vacations. Early December I go to NYC for a seminar which I will lengthen slightly to see a friend in New Jersey. Spring Break 2012 I will be in Orlando with Taylor and her BFF. Donnie and I will celebrate 5 years of wedded bliss in Las Vegas in April.

However, Key West and my connection there is never far from my mind. With scheduled time off reaching into summer of next year I often wondered when…oh when…will I get to visit my adopted hometown again?

I feel the pull even more keenly due to some recent events.

A local Key West and nationally featured photographer and acquaintance of mine, Rob O’Neal, was involved in a scooter (his) versus an automobile (a tourist) accident a week ago. You don’t have to be a statistician to know which vehicle wins in that scenario. Rob was badly injured and is now at a hospital in Miami. He is facing surgeries, rehabilitation and a lot of recovery time. You can see his beautiful work here: http://robo.zenfolio.com/

As I pull for Rob in his recovery and pray for his speedy return to doing what he does best on the island of Key West, I am truly heartened.

Via Social Media (namely Facebook) I have watched as “my” adopted community of Key West has quickly circled the wagons. You would think that in such a touristy and transitional area that the idea of being neighborly would be hard to come by. Not the case here – Good people have set up a Facebook page to manage official updates, organized benefits and coordinated drop offs and donations. Local businesses have offered their space, goods and services to benefit the cause for Rob.

The flurry of activities and the clear sense of community makes me so incredibly proud. Well, at least adjacently so. While I am not yet even a freshwater conch (a new resident of Key West can’t become one until after 7 years of residence), I still feel that I am a part of this vibrant, loving, accepting, creative and loyal society.

My last visit “home” to Key West was with a friend, Janet and my sister, Michelle last June of this year. Michelle had travelled there with me before and Janet had been there previously but not with me. After pedaling endlessly through the streets and hearing my well-worn anecdotes about Key West, Janet said to me, “These are your people!” She went on to say how lucky I was that I had found a place…a commune of like-minded people that I feel connected to. She is right. I count several residents as good, true friends. People who treat friendship, connection and kinship as sacred. I found my voice as a writer due to one of those connections.

And I do feel fortunate for that.

As you have read in this blog or heard me say, Key West holds my heart. Now more than ever. Please visit Rob’s page, purchase one of his 2012 calendars, http://www.roboneal.com/roborecoveryfund.htm
or simply include him in your thoughts and prayers.

One Human Family is the motto of Key West. It has become mine as well.

In Memoriam

2011-09-15T20:56:00.000-07:00

Cliff’s passing was sudden and very sad. Below is a story that I had written a couple of years ago. I really like this memory of him and it is what I will read if I am asked to speak at his memorial.

Saturday, April 4, 2009

Late one night a couple of weeks previous to the above date, I was in our downstairs bathroom and heard some skittering and scratching behind the wall. I came out of the bathroom into our dining / kitchen area and saw a tail disappearing behind the oven vent that runs along the top of our kitchen cabinets. I was completely freaked and told my husband, Donnie about it the next morning. Much to my irritation, he was a little dismissive. However, he too heard, but did not see, whatever it was a few nights later. Soon after his auditory confirmation of an uninvited guest, he went about setting up some “humane” rodent traps in the area where I told him I had seen the “tail.” I did not share any of this with my then 13 year old daughter, Taylor as I did not want to get her all freaked out as well.

That balmy April 4th Saturday evening we were hosting my good friend, Janna and her new boyfriend, Cliff over for tapas and cocktails. While the four of us were sitting on our patio chatting, Taylor was sitting on the computer in the living room. (Watching Jonas Brothers videos on You Tube, I am sure.) Suddenly, Taylor came outside and said, “Mom, there is something in the cabinet making noise.” I said something to the effect of:

“don’t worry about it…didn’t want to tell you, but we think we might have a mouse…Donnie has put some traps down…no big deal.”

But she insisted that I come in to hear what was going on, and so I did.

Inside, standing in my home at the edge of my kitchen it sounded as though a 250 pound lumberjack was thrashing around on top of the kitchen cabinets. (She was mistaken when she thought the noise was coming from IN the cabinets.) I came outside and told Donnie, “It’s bad, come inside.” My friend Janna has a ‘first responder’ type instinct, so she immediately leapt up and was followed closely by Cliff.

All 5 (Donnie, Taylor, Cliff, Janna and me) of us stood in the entry to the kitchen and were witness to the thrashing about and then the poked-up head up of some sort of rodent up there.

Upon seeing the thrashing rodent, Janna started screaming, which kicked off my own special brand of high pitched screaming. Taylor started screaming as well and stood on an ottman clutching Minnie, our Chihuahua, to her chest. Lucky, our Dalmatian started barking and jumping around. It was a melee.

I watched as Cliff picked up a chair and started to head towards the corner of the kitchen where the noise was coming from. I understood his intent immediately. He was going to stand on that chair, reach up and grab the intruder in the trap. With this knowledge and having no desire to have a part of mission-catch-a-rodent, I fled back outside to the patio with Taylor in tow. Janna was close behind us. My daughter loudly whispered to Janna, “Your boyfriend is crazy!”

A few minutes later, Cliff confidently strode out of the house and carried the vermin (which I insisted was a mouse, even though everyone else had seen it and had identified it as a RAT) to our community’s dumpster. My trying-to-be-helpful-and-now-semi-emasculated-husband was right behind him.

Ugh, how nice. Nothing like a rodent break-dancing above the cabinets in your kitchen to get a dinner party going. So much for me trying to be the consummate hostess. I wondered if Janna and Cliff would ever come back for dinner.

As they were leaving that night, Cliff leaned in and told me somewhat ominously, “Where there is one, there are usually more.” And of course, he was right.

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That is one of my funniest and strongest memories of Cliff and I think is one that kind of sums him up as I knew him. He was cool, calm and collected in times of crisis. He was generous in his actions. And he was sage and wise about many things. I witnessed his kindnesses towards my soul sister, Janna on many occasions. I knew him to be adverse to adversity, a lover of animals, a student of nutrition and cleansing, a fellow reader and lover of books. And all in all – just a nice man.

The post script to the mouse (aka rat) story is that Janna and Cliff did brave coming over to our home again. Several times. As a matter of fact, the four of us had many happy times together. The most recent was a weekend afternoon trip to the movies not too long ago. All of us were on bikes; Janna and Cliff on the Harley and Donnie and I on our little Vespa. We had a lovely enjoyable day filled with camaraderie and laughter. I remember with clarity how Cliff and Donnie were chatting away in the lobby of the movie theater found each other to be movie soul-mates.

Cliff, we miss you. Wherever you are - may you find the best books to read, the best gyms to work out in, the best movies to watch and the best friends to do these things with. Until we join you.

May peace and love be with you.

The Tenth Anniversary - Never Forget

2011-09-11T18:44:00.000-07:00

Yes, I will never forget.

• That morning at my new (7 months then, now 10.5 years) job.

• MSNBC.com and CNN.com being down due to the huge unexpected traffic to their sites.

• The co-worker that has a sibling as a pilot and was awash in worry.

• The corporate e-mail allowing employees to leave at 11 AM.

• Picking up my sweet 5 (now 15) year old daughter from school early.

• Trying to shield her from my crying and shaking.

• Talking to my then friend and now husband who called from the Orlando airport where he was scheduled to fly from there to Boston.

• Spending the rest of the day watching news updates in horror.

I spent a moment in silence this morning honoring all who lost their lives on that beautiful September day 10 years ago.

And I thank and genuflect in gratitude to all of those who fight for my freedom. I spent this Sunday lazing around, going to the market and readying for the upcoming work week. I was able to do this freely thanks to those who are actively fighting to keep the evil and hate at bay.

Make sure you kiss your loved ones and tell them how much you love them. Every day. I know I will.

Quitcherbitchen (a nod to Teri Garr)

2011-08-11T19:16:00.000-07:00

(The above is a great shot that Taylor took which showcases her talent and includes the puzzle mentioned in the below post)

I spent some time this morning feeling down, whining and kvetching due to some double-whammy news I received yesterday. I was bemoaning the fact that much of my “disposable” (ha) income for the next few weeks will be going towards roof repair and my daughter’s wisdom teeth needing to be pulled.

Then my kvetching amplified.

My Boo-hoos:

I haven’t had time to write…work is so unrelentingly busy…my home is a mess…I am so unappreciated…I work out every day and no one notices…nobody likes me and I’m gonna go eat worms.

And no, smart asses, I am not PMSing right now.

After spilling my tale of woe to a good friend, she gave me some much needed chiding.

The roof repairs? Are BECAUSE I have a roof over my head. Taylor’s dental work? Is BECAUSE I have a beautiful, healthy daughter. My life is fine…and in fact it is actually very comfortable.

This brought me back from Planet Bitches-O-Lot.

My gripes are clearly of the ‘First World’ variety. (As opposed to the Third World kind – lack of clean water to drink, dubious shelter, not knowing where your meals will come from or even if they will come, fearing for your own life and the lives of your children…and so many other worries that thankfully are not part of my everyday reality.)

I look around me this evening. Husband obsessively finishing a puzzle. Daughter ‘allowing’ me to make her a quick dinner, which she consumes while watching her step-father and I triumphantly throw the last pieces of the puzzle into place.

We all have our health. We have an incredible, loving family and dear friends spreading wide on both sides of our nucleus.

I won’t remember having to fix the roof or pay for Tay’s dental work in 5 years time.

Inconsequential.

What I will recall in 5 years and what will stay with me are all of the other small things, the tangibles and intangibles of being blessed.

In other words I need to quitcherbitchen.

I promise will post about my emotional reunion with Taylor and our subsequent stay in a beautiful home on a Lake in Maine – I just had the moment of passion to write about my state of mind right now.

Being Annoyed & Teenage Werewolf

2011-07-01T20:16:00.000-07:00

About a year ago, I read a really great book about parenting a teenaged daughter. My friend JP had recommended it, while we were perusing the shelves at our local Barnes & Noble, as she had seen some positive reviews about it. As the book was located in the Parenting section, I initially demurred. I am not typically one for anything that smacks of “self help.”

However, the subject matter was close to my bleeding, worn and ragged Mom-of-a-Teen heart and the premise was very interesting.

My Teenage Werewolf by Lauren Kessler is about her journey with her own pre-teen and teenage daughter. As writer with an anthropological focus and as a Mom with a vested interest, Lauren vividly details the rocky, desperate and loved filled trip.

Most amazingly (to me), in the name of research, she actually shadowed her daughter to school. She tagged behind her in the hallways of Middle School, catching snippets of conversation and sat in the backs of classrooms, a front row observer of the class and caste system of her daughter’s Middle School life.

I just found that to be so, so…cool. And brave. On both of their parts.

The book was extremely well written, kept my “I Don’t Like Books From the Parenting Section” attention easily, was thought provoking, relevant and made me tear up with it’s spot on authenticity.

After finishing the book, I looked online and found that the author, Lauren Kessler has a blog. Her daughter is a very occasional contributor. (Again, how cool!)

Because I am a geeky reader and favorite writers are my celebrities, I followed her blog. Sometimes I commented on it – and I was thrilled when Lauren responded.

A few weeks ago, I spent one Friday evening (much like this one) catching up on my favorite blogs. Lauren’s entry on her ‘My Teenage Werewolf’ caught my attention. The title was On Being Annoying and was a mini-rant about macro and micro irritations with her now older (but still a teen) daughter. At the close of her post she solicited comments from other Moms to tell tales of woe and annoyance.

So I did. Below is my comment:

Now that Taylor is almost 16, our ‘werewolf’ years have started to improve.  Similar to the baptism by fire of entering them three years ago, I am now noticing that she is demonstrating occasional flashes of the (nicer) woman she will become.  However, we are not out of the thicket of teenagedom yet, so here are my top three annoyances: 

#3. Earbud(s) I am with you on those little cochlear implants. Only in my case, it is just one. Taylor likes to position one bud in her left ear…hidden by her hair. I, like you Lauren, listen to talk radio in the morning on the way to school. And I know that she does this (the one bud) specifically so that she can CHOOSE which information stream / music she prefers at any given moment. This includes selectively hearing her Mother’s voice. 

#2. Recognition. I grew up as the first of 5 daughters. There were not a lot of extras for any one child. But as an only child, Taylor has traveled extensively. She has wanted for very little. She has an iPhone and wears trendy hypster attire. She is attending an exclusive camp in Maine. I have sacrificed and worked hard to ensure that she gets the best education, medical care and extracurricular activities. When she takes these things for granted…it makes me crazy. 

#1. The bedroom wastebasket. I realize this can sound trite given numbers 2 and 3. But, bear with me. She has a wastebasket in her bedroom. She drinks soda in her room (which I have asked her not to do.) She chucks empty cans and paper plates into that wastebasket until it overflows…and apparently expects the trash can fairy to deal with it. I keep up with the wastebaskets in every other room – I naively expected that she would routinely empty hers. Not so. Last Tuesday found us having to eat dinner out…so we could bomb her room for all of the ants who had rightfully laid claim to her bedroom – given all of the empty soda cans and all!

It wasn’t until this evening, when I had the time to catch up on my blogs again that I realized that my little mini tome had been mentioned in Lauren’s most recent post entitled ‘More Annoying Stories.’ She referenced the previous post and her entreaties to the blogosphere to share stories. She shared the the entries she had received from other Moms, and had something special to say about my own contribution:

In the she’s a slob category, there were a number of vivid tales involving overly ripe gym socks, cosmetic encrusted wash cloths, Doritos-ed bed sheets and post-snack kitchens that looked post-tornado. However, my absolute favorite story in this category – one that put in perspective my own daughter’s horribly annoying habit of blanketing her room with wet towels – came from a mother who had to bug bomb her daughter’s room. The girl chucked empty soda cans and paper plates into her bedroom waste basket (It goes without saying, doesn’t it, that she isn’t supposed to have food in her room.? It also goes without say, but I’m saying it anyway, that she never empties the waster basket.) The room was overrun by ants…thus the aforementioned bug bomb.

At first, I was SO excited ! My comments were mentioned in a blog…a blog by a favorite writer! My initial enthusiasm about being mentioned was very quickly tempered…with the humbling realization that my story had been picked as a “best of the worst.”

***Sigh***

Oh well, so my kid is a slob…no news there. But apparently writing about it is blog-worthy.

Post Script: Cleaning out and re-arranging her room last weekend (which required multiple trash bags for the refuse I found under her bed) was an exercise in patience.

But - I still can’t wait to see her. (In 15 Days)

2011-06-25T20:45:00.000-07:00

I have been away from my blog for a while. For the most part I have been very busy, having strategically scheduled a very activity-filled couple of weeks after my daughter’s departure for camp. Being busy did not eliminate the raw hole in my heart, but it certainly helped. The frenetic schedule kept me focused, task and results oriented, and gave me various reasons to get out of bed each morning, with a full agenda to accomplish.

Taylor left 2 Sundays ago, with two heavy bags (and my heavy heart) in her hands. The scene at 6 AM at Palm Beach International was not completely unlike the one the year before. The three of us sat together on a bench just outside of security and watched other campers and parents arrive. (Just as we had done the year previously.) We saw many familiar faces and some new. However, this time around both Taylor and I were imbued with a sense of confidence. We both knew the routine of separation. She was less nervous and more excited; I was less naïve and more prepared.

I hugged her very tightly to me, right before she was going through security and embarking on her 5 week summer adventure. Big fat tears rolled down my face as I felt my chest constrict in pain.

A few hours later Donnie and I met some friends in Fort Lauderdale for an outing on their boat. (As much as I was tempted to stay under the covers in bed, which is where I had retreated to after our early morning return from PBI.)

It was a lovely afternoon, balmy and sunny.

It was one of those days in beautiful South Florida that makes one exclaim (whilst standing on a sandbar and clutching a frosty adult beverage in one hand and catching a tossed football in the other), “We live in paradise!” We are blessed with a network of great friends and I was incredibly grateful for the chatter, the inclusion and the camaraderie.

48 hours later, I was Chicago-bound for a work conference. Actually, the conference was in a hotel that was right next to the O’Hare airport. So I was not actually in Chicago, the city.

The Data Reporting Workshop I attended may not sound sexy to a lot of people, but it really got my brainy / nerdy juices flowing. I got to spend quality time with people in my same line of work who came from some huge “name-drop-type” brand companies. We shared reporting techniques, best practices and of course the impact of Social Media and Social Response to our industry.

I did get in early enough the afternoon before the conference started to venture into the city via the train…an activity that I likely wouldn’t have done on my own. My co-worker and friend, JP, is an expansive person and a lover of life experiences. She easily convinced me that the day we arrived we should get into the city, see and do something important and have a slice of Chicago pizza. So we did. We went to the Sears Tower (now called Willis) where I tricked my brain into allowing my feet to step onto a glass platform 103 stories up. Later we went to an authentic Chicago Pizza joint. (Still too thick for my tastes, I prefer NYC style pizza.)

After coming back from Chicago, I was home only one night before leaving for a girl’s weekend in Key West.

As I have mentioned previously, Key West, for many reasons, holds my heart. I just feel at home down there. After numerous recent visits, I no longer feel as though I have to fit every one of the friends that I have down there, nor a bunch of activities, into a few day time frame – I know now, with certainty, that I am coming back. I just get to relax, touch base with familiar faces and places and revel in the peace that the Island brings me.

For this particular trip, I brought my aforementioned co-worker and bestie, JP and my sister, Michelle. Though Michelle and I are separated by 10 years (I am the first and she is the third of 5 sisters), we are extremely close. I felt very fortunate that she was able to take the time and accompany me down to my geographical heart on the Southernmost tip.

We “girls” sipped Mimosas during the day and good wine in the evenings. We guzzled good old H20 while riding our bikes for hours. We rid our bodies of any calories or toxins via the heat and exertion in sweat equity. We went on a somewhat touristy bike tour. I looked (as I always do) at available Real Estate.

We also got to spend a raucous (to us) Saturday evening with my good friend and writing coach, (who for the purposes of anonymity I will call “Tink”) having cocktails at the Porch and a delicious, healthy dinner at a new restaurant, Amigos.

All in all, it was a lovely, wonderful weekend and I was sad when it ended.

Upon my return to reality this week, I was able to dive back into my work, with only a few tear-inducing thoughts about my daughter disrupting my daily routine.

I have received one letter from Taylor and it sounds as though she is having the time of her life.

3 more weeks to go until we reunite. Before then, I am planning for Tink and her family to come up from Key West and visit us for the Fourth of July Weekend.

This weekend Donnie and I are going to Orlando to say Bon Voyage to my cousin and her family who are moving to San Diego.
After that, it will be time to start planning our trip to Maine to meet Taylor at camp and then spend a family vacation week on a lake in Maine. Our ‘Maine-iac’ friends and family will be joining us. We will celebrate a momentous birthday of one of Donnie’s sisters.

So, I am half way to the summit of “missing Taylor.” At any given moment, I wonder what she is doing and how she is doing.

That wondering is coupled with a strong sense of pride. She is stretching the legs of her independency, while I am finding out who I am besides being a Mom.

With those growing pains I am realizing that our future, while tethered together for just a few more years, is looking pretty bright.

I, she…both of us…just might make it through this.

Wish us luck.

Distraction

2011-06-10T20:06:00.000-07:00

http://photos.parents.com/parents-cover-contest-2011/23/2011/70

I am TOTALLY stressing about Taylor leaving for Camp in a mere 31 hours.

However, one of the things that has distracted me and made me happy is seeing my friend’s baby son rise up in the ranks in a contest to be on the cover of Parents Magazine. This babe’s parents are Adem and Lauren. Adem was my sister Michelle’s boyfriend back in her Middle School days. He is an awesome guy – so our family has stayed in touch with him.

I had the pleasure of seeing him and meeting his lovely and witty wife, Lauren and their adorable son Rhys when they came down to So FL a couple of months ago.
Rhys is quite adorable and photogenic.

So it comes down to this shameless plug…please click on the link and vote for Rhys!

http://photos.parents.com/parents-cover-contest-2011/23/2011/70

Never fear, I will post about Taylor’s departure and my subsequent teariness after Sunday. My heart already hurts.

Prelude to Goodbye - Part Two

2011-05-26T19:48:00.000-07:00

Last year when Taylor left for camp, I knew it would be challenging to be without her. I just didn’t realize how much it would hurt – nor how keenly the realization of her growing up and away from me would sting.

I pretty much melted down the Monday after she left last summer, while I was getting ready for work. Once I was at my (wonderful) place of employment that morning, I decided (given my puffy, swollen face and my inability to string a sentence together without dissolving into tears) that I would take refuge in an empty cubicle in another building (close to my core team, but far away from my cross-functional teams that I typically work with on a day-to-day basis.) One of my co-workers patiently spoke to me through the cubicle wall. “Are you okay?” she whispered. The only response I could muster on that day was, “I.Don’t.Wanna.Talk.”

My disposition did improve slightly over the ensuing days. I knew that my daughter was having fun, having new experiences, making friends from around the globe and gaining the all-too-important confidence necessary for navigating this life on her own.

A few weeks later, when Donnie and I flew to New York City to see my (our) daughter after her stay at camp, the week in Maine with family and friends and then the few days with one of my best friends in NYC, I could barely contain myself. I knew that my feeling was rightfully one sided…but I was still looking forward to being able to embrace her, to see her.

My Mommy (somewhat-worthy-of-therapist-couch) neuroses were apparent when Donnie and I exited the plane at the Airport. I started to sprint for a cab. Donnie had other ideas. He decided that he needed a coffee at an airport vendor. I stood beside him…tapping my foot and glaring at him. “Really?!?” I said, “Can’t you wait???” My subsequent reunion with my daughter was tearful. (on my part, of course)

I realized soon after that I would have to steel myself for the future.

And part of that future is now just a few days away.

Taylor loved camp so very much. And, was completely committed to going back for a longer stretch of time. Initially, I wanted her to work for it.

Then, after she got into the academic-heavy program at her High School, I told her I would pay…as long as she had all As and Bs. She met her academic requirements, even in the College course she has taken this year as a High School Freshman. So I paid (quite a price) for her to attend camp this summer for 5 weeks.

Now we are 14 days from her departing for camp in Maine. The camp is old-fashioned and eschews cell phones, computers and television. They encourage being outdoors, swimming, boating, archery and creativity. This is all lofty and good, but, I can’t talk to her during her stint at camp. I can send one way e-mails and she can send snail mail. And, I won’t see her. Nothing, nada from June 12th until July 15th.

As I have stated before, this feels like a dress rehearsal for the final flight from the nest. I believe that it is because of that knowledge that I have become somewhat clingy and a bit teary in recent days.

Where has the time gone?

It seems like only yesterday I was trying on the term ‘daughter’ and introducing the idea into my everyday life and lexicon.

I baked birthday cakes for her and decorated them. I spent long lovely evenings with her – when it was just the two of us – cooking or ordering takeout, watching movies and cuddling. I was there when she learned how to walk, speak, shop, swim, fish and negotiate. Ages 2 through 9 were dreamy and wonderful. Ages 10 through 14…notsomuch, but all part of the ride.

Through the past 16 years of our shared life, she has been there…traveling this journey with me. Now she is taking that first tentative step out of our safe nest practicing for the final flight.

As am I.

She’ll be back after 5 weeks. And I know that the next time she leaves, it’ll be for good.

While I feel bereft and oh-so-very-sad at the thought, I am also feeling my heart expand with pride. I know I have tried my damndest to be a really good Mom and I know that she is a great daughter. She is brave, (braver than I was) smart, (smarter than I am…but please don’t tell her) and incredibly empathetic. (Towards humans and animals alike.)

As certain as the tides change, she will continue to grow towards her future. I will continue to try my best to grow as a parent alongside of her.

There are just three more High School years…then I imagine, she is off to college.

I am quite sure that this will not be my last post about Tay leaving…but I would love to hear from others who have survived not only the tumultuous teens, but those who have also then been smacked, painfully, upside the head and heart with the reality of the soon-to-come empty nest.

From Margaritaville to Mosh Pits

2011-05-07T21:44:00.000-07:00

The weekend of April 23rd was a busy and very musically enhanced one for us. I had the good fortune to attend two concerts, one on Saturday and one on Sunday. They couldn’t have been much more diametrically opposed.

Saturday, April 23, 2011

Saturday’s concert was more of an all day event. Jimmy Buffett was making his annual sojourn to South Florida. I love Buffett’s music and have been a fan since I was introduced to it at seventeen, whilst boating and waterskiing on the South Florida Intercoastal Waterway.

Since then, his music and celebrity have been woven into the fabric and soundtrack of my adult life in various ways.

The actual concert didn’t begin until 8:00 PM but, Donnie and I arrived at 11:30 AM to help prepare for an event for my work. (The company I work for makes products under Buffett’s well-known brand.)

I was a only mildly surprised to see that some die-hard Parrotheads (the self-applied moniker of Jimmy’s most ardent fans) had already begun setting up for tailgating by that time. Yes, a full 8-½ hours prior to the show. These hardy folks would spend the entire afternoon in the sweltering South Florida sun, drinking, barbequing, and playing catch while listening to Buffett music.

This was after setting up intricate temporary homes consisting of tents, with generators to power blenders, portable grills, tables, chairs, coolers, food, drinks, outdoor fans – all of which were festooned with blow up colorful parrots, grass skirts and any other brightly colored accoutrements. And of course this was before they would file into the venue to drink some more and listen to the man himself.

Though I have attended several Buffett concerts and tailgates in the past, I was still impressed by the sight and the fortitude of its dedicated hard-core members.

When my work commitment was complete, we assisted in some clean up and headed home for a mid-day break. I just couldn’t entertain the idea of remaining out there in the relentless sun all day. Plus, we needed to let our poor dogs out for a potty break.

We returned to the venue a couple of hours later, with a friend and co-worker of mine who caught a ride with us as she had a ticket to the show, as well. Shockingly, we were able to reclaim our close parking space and rejoin a group who were all seeing the concert together. We ate, drank and chatted up friends in the relative comfort of a large festive tent complete with all of the amenities. As we did so, I thought (as I often do) how fortunate I am for so many things – a great company to be employed by and brilliant, engaging and likable friends, and a wonderful husband to share the experience and music with.

We enjoyed the subsequent concert wholly. Jimmy never fails to put on a good show. We had great seats, but his exuberant energy always creates such an intimacy with his audience, that every seat is a good one. It is a gift of performing that I have only witnessed in a few artists.

We left just as the final song was beginning in order to beat the crowds and were back home by 11:30 PM.

Sunday, April 24, 2011

The next day (which was Easter Sunday*** ) I was exhausted from the previous day’s activities. However, I knew I needed to gird my loins for another concert.

A couple of months ago, my fifteen year old daughter, Taylor had expressed quite a keen interest in a band called 30 Seconds to Mars. It is headed by lead singer Jared Leto, an actor known for his roles in movies such as Requiem for a Dream and Panic Room. When Taylor enthusiastically showed me the music videos featuring the band, I pointed out that the lead singer had been the heartthrob in the coming-of-age TV series My So Called Life, which had aired back in the ‘90s and which she and I had watched in its entirety when she was 13 via DVD.

Given this new information, she squinted at the computer monitor and proclaimed him “still hot.” And, even though he was sporting a pink Mohawk in his band’s video ‘Closer to the Edge.’ – I had to agree. Plus, the band’s music was very reminiscent to me, both lyrically and in sound to the band U2.

I was heartened to hear that she had expanded her musical palette beyond the “JB’s” (Jonas Brothers and Justin Bieber) that had until recently dominated her listening tastes.

So, excited by Taylor’s interest outside of bubble-gum pop and knowing that music is one of her biggest passions, I did a quick internet search to discover that 30 Seconds to Mars would be playing live in an Amphitheater right here in West Boca Raton on April 24th, Easter Sunday. I purchased 3 regular open seating tickets (foregoing the $300 Golden Tickets that included a meet and greet with the band) thinking that if she didn’t have a friend who would want to go, Donnie would accompany us. I was also a bit nervous that perhaps her interest in their music might be fleeting and wane in the coming weeks.

I needn’t have worried.

I presented the tickets to her a week prior to the concert, as an early “Easter basket” gift. She was even more surprised and gleeful than I could have imagined and immediately invited an equally happy friend to join us for the concert.

We arrived at the concert venue that Sunday afternoon a full 2 ½ hours prior to the 7:00 PM show time. I was unfamiliar with the amphitheater and hoped that we would have some time to mill about, find a good seat and take in the views.

However, what greeted us when we got there was just a line that had formed at the closed gates. Her friend arrived shortly thereafter to join us – thankfully with fortification in the form of McDonalds and soft drinks.

We sat (again in the hot unrelenting sun) for the better part of two hours. There were perhaps 50 people in line in front of us. And as the minutes of waiting ticked by, the line behind us extended into the hundreds.

I took in the people in line. There were quite a few Mother and Daughter pairs, a testament to Jared Leto’s generation-spanning appeal. There were plenty of unaccompanied pre-teens and older teenagers. Mixed in with the rest of the crowd there were also numerous (what Taylor would term as) “goth” looking individuals in the waiting queue who sported very unique hair styles and piercings.

This band certainly attracted quite a diverse assembly.

The gates of the venue finally opened. Taylor, her friend and I were able to secure a spot right in the middle, directly in the front of the stage. While I was delighted with our coveted spots, I grew increasingly uncomfortable as the growing crowd pressed in on us.

I am not one for close proximity to a lot of other people, especially strangers. I am fine on a bustling street in New York City or corralled in assigned seating at a theater. But put me in an unleashed, uncontrolled throng of humanity and you can witness my dissolve.

So, during the opening band (a great, new start up band by the name of CB7) I practiced deep Lamaze-like breathing and willed myself to just let go and enjoy. When CB7 finished, we thankfully were joined by another friend of Taylor’s, and her Mom and the Mom’s friend. (Why I was thankful will be explained momentarily.)

Once the headliner, 30 Seconds to Mars (30STM), took the stage and Jared Leto shouted to the crowd “take three big steps…forward” (when I thought that three steps back would have been advisable) the crowd of hundreds pushed forward insistently.

There was suddenly a shove from behind. I stumbled and quickly righted myself. The other Mothers and I looked indignantly at the offenders behind us. There was a group of young men directly behind us who were staring up at the stage, zombie-like and throwing their bodies in that general direction. I did shove back, and like the uncool Mom that I am, reminded them (in my shouty-loud voice) that there are children here, BE CAREFUL!

Like trees bending to the wind, the crowd of people around us started to sway in accordance with the force created by the fans. Being familiar with my personal limits and quirks, Taylor had warned me earlier (being more unexpectedly wise in this particular situation) that I may have to take leave. We had already decided upon a meeting place and that I would carry all purses or personal items if I should decide to flee.

Though I greatly wanted to stay put and enjoy the music from my ideal front-and-center spot, my neuroses won out. I grabbed Taylor’s arm and I am quite sure that the look on my face was one of horror. I fully expected that the same terror would be reflected in her features when she turned her head to look at me. Instead, what I saw on her face was pure glee. She was one with this scene. I asked for her backpack, which she handed to me gratefully. I then grabbed the arm of the Mother of the other friend of Taylor’s and gasped, “Are you staying here?” She was completely nonplussed by what was going around her (further solidifying that fact that I am the nutty one) and responded with enthusiasm, “YES!” I told her that I had to get out of the crowd. Both she and her friend looked at me with surprise that I would willingly give up my prime standing spot. They promised to watch Taylor and her friend, as I elbowed my way out.

I found a spot very close to the side of the stage where I had a great view of the band and could kind of see what was going on where my daughter and her friends were.

Only after the panic and adrenaline had lessened their course through my body, was I was able to process emotion and thought again.

I felt guilt – it began to consume me almost immediately, even though I had left Taylor and her friend with other Mothers. Where are they…OH, I see their hands…waving pumping fists..they must be okay, right?

And then, Holy shit – I am 41 years old and somehow unwittingly found myself on the sidelines of an almost mosh-pit. Aren’t I supposed to be too old for this?

A few moments later….it looks like fun! After all, when some of the enthusiastic fans migrated ever closer to the stage, I was immediately reminded of some of my younger days. I used to circle and dance around the edges of mosh-pits! I was there when the term was invented, dammit!

I was torn between my adult Mommy and my carefree youthful self.

I found a few other comrade Mothers who had chosen to watch the concert from our shared view point. I soon realized that my fear was (mostly) unwarranted. From where I was, I also got a close up view of the lead singer becoming enamored with a fan who was wheelchair-bound. Jared insisted that he be carried onto the stage in order to enjoy the experience up-close.

The other Moms I had huddled with on the sidelines were also fans of 30STM's music, they had young sons and daughters in the crowd in front of the stage and they had no personal desire to be a part of it. One woman, a photographer had met Jared Leto in person, another had taken her 17 year old daughter to see as many 30STM concerts as they could reasonably get to or afford, and another had not only her 13 and 15 year old children in that mass of humanity in front of the stage, but also two high school exchange students. (Who would certainly return to their respective homeland countries with a slightly skewed view of the USA.)

The girls returned to me after the last song, relatively unharmed and just simply vibrating with excitement and breathlessness. “Best concert EVER!” was their refrain while I dusted of my last vestiges of worry and concern. We purchased complementary t-shirts for them to wear to school the next day and went home.

The dichotomy of the two wildly different concerts hit me a couple of days later. I felt as though I had straddled some sort of musical, lyrical span between my youth and my adulthood, all in one 36 hour period.

From the guitar strumming soothing ‘Come Monday’ to the energetic beats of ‘Kings and Queens.’

I am simply amazed at how music can define a decade, evoke feelings, span generations and join people.
So tell me, how has music moved you? What are your memorable concerts? Does certain music make you feel like a certain season of yourself?

*** I am Christian and do recognize the sanctity of the day. He has risen, indeed.

Single Mom and Tide Change

2011-04-15T22:21:00.000-07:00

I was a single Mom for many years. 6 to be exact, from the time Taylor was 2 until she was 8 and Donnie came into our lives.

When I was a single Mom, it didn’t seem like a big deal. I simply did it. I took Taylor to school, I went to work, I picked her up, I came home. Then I did the Mom things like cook dinner and help with homework and cared for our two cats (Hemingway and Fisher) and one dog (Lucky). Rinse, Repeat.

Granted, I had lots of help. Taylor’s Grandparents and Aunts on both sides were simply invaluable as they cared for her outside of school hours, shuttling her to appointments and filling in where and when I couldn’t. And her Father was also very much involved and later her Step Mother as well. This family cell with Taylor as its much loved nucleus was a poster child example of “it takes a village to raise a child.”

I became a single parent again over this past week. Donnie had to travel for work to Alabama. He left on Sunday evening, and was not due to be home until Midnight on Friday. Taylor’s Father was also traveling for business this week, so it left a 6 day stretch of uninterrupted single Mother time. ***

I soon realized that there are a lot of things that are different now than 7 years ago as I stepped into my well worn single Mom shoes again.

For one, my career is much more fulfilling and with that, more demanding. In the past few years, I have become used to having a couple evenings a week to spend a few hours catching up on e-mails or squinting over a spreadsheet after I get home. If Taylor was not with her Father, she and Donnie would watch one of “their” shows or even go to a movie. He has also become King of the Kitchen and makes dinner almost every night in our household.

Our pet situation has also changed over the years. One of our beloved cats (Hemingway) passed away and Fisher, the lone remaining feline of the house has developed diabetes and now requires twice a day shots and a special diet. Lucky the aforementioned dog, who has been with us since Taylor was 5, can now be described as geriatric – and that is being kind. He must be regulated to the downstairs as he falls if trying to navigate the stairs. He cannot control his bladder or bowels very well anymore (much to his embarrassment) and has to be let out at very regular intervals or we suffer the consequences of a very unpleasant clean up. And then of course there is Minnie, my Chihuahua baby substitute, whose health is very robust but who also requires the same love and care as all of the other sentient beings in the household do.

Then of course there are the major changes in the being who put the ‘Mom’ in single Mom to begin with, my Daughter. No longer the sweet, amiable and loving child she was at ages two through eight, she is now a teenager and has fully presented in the last couple of years all of the adjectives that the chronological term implies.

So even though I entertained fantasies of long meaningful talks, cuddling and watching movies with Taylor during our week of togetherness, I have been in the teen daughter trenches long enough to know that reality could almost literally bite. As I have written about before, we are in the throes, the war zone really, of teenagedom. I am not her favorite person anymore, my responses to her ‘what’s for dinner’ question are typically met with whining and eye-rolling. (No matter what is on the menu.) Any comment or remark either of us would make to the other could spark the smoldering embers lying just below the surface of our tenuous daily attempt of truce or cease fire.

So, I tried to be realistic about our week together. Just us and our everyday grind. Expecting the best, but preparing for the worst, as the old adage dictates.

It was a busy week. I was up every day at 5 AM to give myself ample time to care for our needy menagerie, caffeinate myself, get Taylor rolled out of bed and do my own three “S’s.” (Don’t know what those three S’s are? Ask me offline.) During this week Taylor had her FCATS (the Florida school standardized testing that has become a State recognized event). In addition to this and my professional responsibilities I had to get her to the Orthodontist as Minnie had delightedly taken a nibble of her retainer ($250) and we had to go to her pediatrician to get her physical done and forms signed as a requirement for her camp this summer. Lucky the dog did deposit several messes, one of which was rolled in and necessitated me scrubbing the floor on my knees at two AM one night. We were never home before 5:30 PM, at which time I would throw down my purse and briefcase and usher the bladder-challenged out the door.

And to top everything off, during our phone conversations over the duration, Donnie told me that his trip was not going as well as expected. He would not be home Friday, then Saturday was looking grim as well.

By the time today (Friday) rolled around, all I wanted was to put my comfies on and curl up, perhaps with a book and preferably in the fetal position. I picked my daughter up this afternoon and realized with surprise that she was not concocting a sleep-over or a get together with a friend. She said, “Can we go see a movie together, Mom?” With the fantasies of doing ‘nothing’ dancing in my head and a negative response poised upon my tongue I thought back over the week.

There had been very few verbal missiles thrown at each other. There had been a sense of camaraderie, and indeed there were offers of help from her. “I’ll let the dogs out, Mom.” And “I’ll help you carry the groceries in.” We had been a team again…soldiers in arms so to speak, instead of at war.

So, I capitulated. After a brief stop at home, we went to the movies, smuggled in some verboten Arby’s Beef and Cheddars in my purse into the theater and had a thoroughly enjoyable a Mom and Daughter date night.

Perhaps the week alone with Taylor helped me to see that she is maturing, growing in increments beyond the “terrible teens” and into a lovely young woman. One who I love hanging out with, talking with and continuing to guide as even she guides me at times.

She got me where it hurt a couple of times over the week. Once during one of our only verbal skirmishes we had she called me out on something that I said that was petty. “See Mom, I only act like THIS, when you say things like THAT.” (She was right, I had stooped, allowed my feelings to come out in an inappropriate verbal way.) And then again but not intentionally, when we were at the pediatrician’s office for her physical. She was eyeballing her chart while the nurse was copying down the dates of her inoculations. Later in the car she said without accusation, “I looked at all of the signatures of when I was getting my shots when I was little. It was mostly Grandma, or Mimi, or Dad and sometimes Grandpa.” I was filled with Mommy guilt.

As it turns out, Donnie will come home tomorrow. Taylor and I will already be at the Delray Affair (she is participating in a ‘mob flash’) when his flight arrives. Then she and I are off to the Miracle League where she volunteers.

Despite the long hours, being a single Mom this week wasn’t such a bad thing and had several little learning moments along the way. Even going to the movies tonight with Taylor when I initially didn’t feel like it reminded me of a framed poem that I had on my daughter’s bedroom wall when she was a baby, one that I have seen in numerous other nurseries:

The cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow,
For children grow up, as I've learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust go to sleep.
I'm rocking my baby and babies don't keep.

While the specifics are a little different, the main gist remains the same. Stop, slow down and be present for your child’s life. Your time with them is all too brief.

*** I know I am fortunate. The help that I had while raising Taylor was nothing short of amazing. Her Father is very engaged, not absentee. We have many family members who look out for us. She and I have always been cocooned in a strong web of support.
To the thousands of Moms whose husbands are in any form of the Military who experience much greater trials while their Husbands are on duty or assignment and also to all the Moms who experience parenthood on their own, regardless of the circumstances…my hat is off to you. Comparatively, I’ve had it easy. I realize that.

The Un-Government Experience at the DMV

2011-02-12T16:05:00.000-08:00

Taylor has been bugging me ever since she turned fifteen, at first coyly and then more urgently, “when can I get my permit?” My response was that when she figured out what the requirements were and had prepared and studied for the test that I would take her to the DMV. My daughter then threw herself, uncharacteristically I might add, into the task with abandon. She appeared at home one evening last November with a couple of State issued books about roads and signs and how drinking and drugs can affect your driving.

A couple of days later she asked me for my credit card. “For what?” I asked. “To take my tests,” she replied. As it turns out, all a 15 year old has to do to get a permit in this state is to take a $25 test online, get a certification of completion in the mail and voila…just show up at the DMV and get your picture taken. I felt the whole process was somewhat lacking in the checks and balances department, but who am I to say?

After she received the certificate in the mail (on the second try) we decided to head down to the DMV on the last day before the holidays. She was out of school and I was already on holiday from work, so the timing seemed opportune. Apparently the timing was also great for the DMV employees to leave work an hour early to get a head start on their own celebrations, so the office was closed by the time that we got there.

Another try on one of the last days of the year was unsuccessful as well. By noon, the DMV was not taking any more people in as the wait time already exceeded their hours of operation. This little factoid should have set off warning bells, but we decided that the next time that Taylor had a late start for school for LTM at 10:30, (Normal school time is 8:30 – and getting one’s permit does not count as an excused tardy) we would be first in line when the DMV opened at 8:15 AM.

Which, is how we found ourselves at the hallowed doors of the DMV this past Thursday, at 7:30 AM sharp. Well, not exactly at the doors, more like a block away because the scene that greeted us was this:

There was already a line at least a hundred strong of the tired, poor, huddled masses in front of us. I espied folks with coolers, lawn chairs and reading materials. I sighed and muttered, “Geez, I remember sleeping out for a Madonna concert…but not for my permit!”

“Right!?” exclaimed a petite woman in front of me. She had questionable hair and teeth and her attire suggested she was a fellow ‘80’s alumni who had not left the look back in the decade where it belonged.

An older gentleman in mustard colored corduroy pants and a patterned sweater sidled up to the ‘80’s alum in front of me, kind of doing a sideways dance to cut in front of us. He appeared to be clutching an iPad in a protective folder. I eyeballed his curious and nervous two-step and decided magnanimously to let him stay in front of us.

A couple more women joined the line behind us, not connected in any way save the fact that they had arrived at the same time. One of them, who favored watching rap cartoons (who knew there was such a genre?) on her smart phone (without earphones) mentioned that she had been there the previous morning and she had seen an older man say something about not having his meds and just collapsing on the ground.

‘Good God,’ I thought. All of us in line had been making commiserating remarks about the disorganization and the inconvenience of waiting in line at an ungodly hour for the DMV, but not that it was health or life threatening. I subtly cast a glance around me to asses anyone who might suddenly have a case of the vapors. (As it turned out, my identification skills were weak.)

Chit-chat with our neighbors ceased and the ambiance of camaraderie dissipated once the doors were opened and people were slowly allowed to file in. The culture shift in the line reminded me of the phenomenon that happens when emergency vehicles are closing in from behind you on the road. You and your fellow drivers make way considerately, but once the blaring sirens are in front of you, it is every man for themselves – trying to be first in order to ride the ‘ambulance wake.’

We were all business now.

We were probably about 20 feet from the entrance when two employees came out of the building and started shouting for anyone not in need of a State ID or Driver’s License. Mr. Mustard Colored Corduroy pants in front of us said to one of the bellowing employees that he had lost his license. She said that he needed to stay in the line and pointed vaguely to the spot right in front of Taylor and me.

Dejected, Mr. Corduroy walked back into line and then for reasons known only to himself and God, decided that he would step over the low rope-like hanging chain that stood suspended between posts as a line of demarcation between the sidewalk and the pavement of the parking lot. His first leg he hoisted over just fine, but when he tried to pull his other leg over, his foot caught and forward he went.

It was one of those surreal slow motion moments. Initially, he started to fail his arms to stop the fall but then discontinued the effort. (I assume this was a misguided effort to save his iPad.) Instead, he elected a path devoid of self preservation and allowed his skull to be the direct point of impact.

I heard the ominous crack, dropped my bag at Taylor’s feet and rushed to his side (being very careful when stepping over the chain.) Several other people were at his side immediately, too. His face was still on the ground, and his body was facing away from me. He was making some sounds, and from what I could understand, he was trying to say that he was okay.

The same (bitch) employee to whom he had spoken was there when he finally got to standing with assistance. She said she would bring him a chair. He told her he was worried about losing his place in line. She procured a chair, sat it in the parking lot, facing the waiting-in-line crowd and told him that he didn’t have to worry, he wouldn’t have to wait in line. She left and the poor man sat there in his chair, clutching his intact iPad. He kept trying to shoo people away, saying he was fine. But as he sat there, I could see that he wasn’t.

Where his forehead had connected to the pavement, an enormous welt had begun. It didn’t even take two minutes to form and a fine stream of blood trickled from it down his face. Additionally concerning was the fact that his nose was misshapen and had widened and I realized in retrospect that the crack I had heard was from his nose breaking. He looked dazed and anxious. I hung back and tried to get someone to agree with me that he needed medical attention.

I was just considering calling 911 and how that conversation would play out when the (bitch) employee pushed through the throng of people again. “Excuse me, M ‘am,” I said touching her shoulder, “I do think that he needs to have medical attention.” The (bitch) employee brushed me aside and said she had to go open the gates for the EMT. I was relieved that Mr. Corduroy would get some much-needed assistance. But I couldn’t help but wonder about the fact that our local emergency team had been called out twice in two mornings. How many times does it take before someone says, “hmmm, perhaps there is a flaw in the system at the DMV”?

After Mr. Corduroy was safely being treated, we entered the building. I was greeted by a sign above my head that said, ‘Welcome to the DMV – The Un-Government Experience’ and to my right was a snaking line that reminded me of the S shaped lines that one would encounter at Disney World.

We had snaked through about half of it and my heart lifted a bit. The line was moving a bit quicker now, and I was shaking off the adrenaline that had coursed through me after Mr. Corduroy’s mishap, now that he was getting the medical attention he needed. I was still a little stressed about our paperwork (we had no fewer than 8 documents clutched in a folder) but internally assured myself that we had everything we needed. I was even able to chuckle when I saw this sign that warned anyone approaching this employee's desk, NO QUESTIONS:

Then, the loudspeaker came on; “for those of you who are in line for a State ID or Driver’s License, the system is down. We are on the phone with Tallahassee. The problem seems to be State wide.” Taylor and I exchanged glances. I was ready to throw in the towel. “Let’s come back tomorrow” I pleaded, “there is still time to get you to school on time.”

As only one with a singular goal can do, she rallied. She pleaded with me to just give it 15 more minutes. So I did. We had already come so far. Another (bitch #2) employee came through the line checking our paperwork. We were given a slip of paper that said OK on it and then shortly after, we were given a number and told to “wait in the lobby.” (a huge misappropriation of the noun)

I will spare you the details of our wait and the well dressed and well spoken Centenarian, who arrived with her nurse, to whom I proffered my seat and who fully expected to renew her Driver’s License. (The fact that she had been driven there by the nurse was inconsequential to her.)

Taylor and I listened numbly to the numbers being called. We heard “A101!” and I said to Taylor (much to the amusement of those in hearing distance) “Shit! I have never heard higher than 81 called at the deli line at Publix!”

Our number was finally called, and we high-tailed it to the designated station.

And sitting there was our final nemesis, a pleasant looking, clueless woman who went by the name of Frances.

I excitedly asked Frances which of the forms or documents she would prefer first. She accepted all of them, complained that another employee should have taken us. She shuffled our documentation around and said, “Now HOW do I do this?” Her voice came out gravelly and with a twang. Sort of like Marge Simpson meets a dedicated 2 pack a day smoker.

By this time, my eyebrows have met my hairline so often during this journey that they are fused together. I willed an exhale through my nose.

Frances decided to ask one of her co-workers how to process a Permit. “Hey Aaaaprilll,” she shouted, “how do you do one of these?” She redirected her attention to the papers in front of her and made a few key strokes on her computer. A few minutes later, she turned her head to squint her eyes towards the person she had asked the question of. Then her eyes shifted back to her computer screen and she mumbled, “That’s why she didn’t answer, her name’s Auuuutumn…not Aaaaprilll” and then she chuckled.

Though Frances was befuddled, spoke to herself frequently and sported an admirable mustache, her hearing was much more acute than her knowledge. We realized this when I pointed out our former comrade in DMV arms from the ‘lobby’, the Centenarian lady. Frances heard me whispering, let out a guttural guffaw and said, “Yeah, we’ll see if she gets her license renewed. Ha.” The knowledge that Frances possessed bat-ears forced Taylor to communicate with me via text while I was standing a mere 6 inches away. “Figures we would get the only person who doesn’t know what she is doing!” I had to stifle a chuckle at my daughter’s ingenuity.

I will say in Frances’ defense, she was the most cheerful person that we met that morning. Perhaps ignorance truly is bliss.

I did have to coach Frances through some steps of the process (which should have been 10 minutes, but which took 30.) I had to remind her that Taylor’s Birth Certificate was in her scanner and that the Parental Approval form rested on her printer. But, when Taylor’s photogenic moment finally came and she stepped in front of the blue screen, nervously adjusting herself for the permanent photo, Frances became the Patrick Demarchelier of the DMV. One shot and done. I smugly (Hey, I had few opportunities to feel smugness during this experience) noticed that the young woman next to us insisted on multiple shots from her DMV employee. Frances came through, as Taylor looks absolutely beautiful in her State of Florida Permit photo.

Taylor still had to answer a few more questions from Frances. Such as, has her license ever been revoked, has she ever been arrested for drugs or alcohol…oh, and does she want to be an organ donor?

This last question prompted Taylor to look at me with questioning eyes. “Do I want to be an organ donor, Mom?” Now, this is deep stuff for a 15 year old who is not legally considered an adult. (Now, why didn’t they include this little tidbit in one of the online courses or tests? Let the kid think about this at home and perhaps speak about it with their parents?) Without telling her what my feelings were, she decided ‘yes.’

Then all of a sudden, we hit the summit of our epic climb up Mount DMV when the coveted State Issued Florida Permit landed in her hot little hands. Eureka! We did it!

And then, my internal voice toned in and said, ‘Oh shit.’
After 15 years, 3 months,22 days plus 3 hours, I am a parent of a licensed driver.

Despite our trials at the DMV and also somewhat because of them, I am a little shell-shocked and surprised.

But my daughter? Is elated. She is a licensed driver in the great State of Florida.

eegads, wish me well.

The Tale of Key West and Two Hits

2011-01-07T20:15:00.000-08:00

We spent last weekend in Key West, to ring in the New Year in my favorite place on the planet. I have written before about how this funky, lovely little Island town has somehow captured my heart with its many fine attributes.

One of the things that I find attractive about Key West is the people. Well, rather the locals. Due to my many sojourns and my mutual interests with the folks that call Key West home, I have made some friends. And it was a friend who graciously and generously sponsored our trip during a holiday weekend, which otherwise we could not have well afforded.

This trip, we drove my efficient, sleek, pretty, brand-spanking-new Prius, Daisy down there. Even though I had only purchased her a month and a half previously, I just knew it was her destiny to make many trips to the Southernmost tip. I was excited to ‘stretch her legs’ and count the mile markers down US1 to the final destination for the first time with her.

Once there, we parked Daisy in front of our host’s lovely little Conch home in the private parallel parking in front. (As seen in the pic above) She sat there for the duration of the trip, unmoving and soaking up the warm subtropical sun as Donnie and I always rent a scooter to get around when we are down there.

Scooters, bikes or your own two legs are definitely the preferred modes of transportation in Key West. The streets are Lilliputian in size and the other auto drivers on the road are mostly either taxis (fast and careless) or tourists (drunk and clueless.)

Donnie and I just love to spend entire afternoons just scootering around and reacquainting ourselves with the Island…stopping off at the Bookstores (the Used Book one or Voltaire’s), naming off now familiar sights and most particularly, looking at the architecture and Real Estate.

We have been talking more and more about the re-adjusted dream of not selling our listed townhome in Delray and moving locally, but instead just staying put and instead investing in some sort of Real Estate in Key West. Ideally it would be an income property, a project and a vacation destination. Then it would be a future retirement, a family reunion spot and finally it would be a legacy for our daughter and future generations. (Lofty, I know – but aren’t most dreams?)

We happened upon a very special property during our outing on New Year’s Day and in a fit of pique and optimism, I contacted the listing agent to make an appointment for the following morning to see it before we left town.

We arrived a few minutes prior to the agreed upon time of 10:00 AM the next morning. While waiting under the trees and gazing at our fantasy home, my phone rang. I looked at the incoming call…it was our host.

Our host is a wonderful, creative man. He is a local author, an entrepreneur and is deliciously enigmatic and charismatic. He is also a dichotomy of outgoing and introspective. When I first met him, I was enchanted. Our friendship blossomed quickly and as I said before, it was only because of his good will that we were even staying in Key West.

Hearing his voice on the phone while we stood and waited for the Realtor is not what unnerved me…it was WHAT he said. “There is a very nice man here, who knocked on the door. He said he hit your car.”

I was in a state of disbelief, and for a moment, knowing that our host is a prankster, started looking around for a hidden camera.

MY CAR WAS HIT? I quickly realized our host wasn’t joking, asked him to please accept the information being offered from the person claiming to have dented my Daisy.

We did tour the property, which is very promising and then raced back to our host’s home. Daisy still sat sweetly in the sun, waiting for us. Our host was not around, but the information left by the driver who hit the car was left prominently on our host’s desk.

After returning home, I did call the number left on the ragged half an envelope while regarding the copied Auto Insurance card suspiciously. I needn’t have worried. The “Hitter” (which would make me, or Daisy, the “Hittee”) couldn’t have been nicer or more solicitous. He was deeply sorry and promised to do anything to help with the repairs. Upon calling the Hitter’s home (out of state – he had been on his last day of vacation) Insurance Company, I received similar treatment. They assured me of their intent to honor the minor claim and gushed about how long the “Hitter’s” family had been their client and how nice all of them were. All I could do was agree.

And truly, I am grateful. Key West is a paradise, but it is also very transient. My new car was hit by a spiritual young man who carried not only good insurance…but, something rarer nowadays…a conscience.

Daisy is scheduled to have her cosmetic surgery Monday afternoon. The damage was minor and I know she will look as good as new.

But just like Paul Harvey…there is a “rest of the story.”

This very evening, I was sitting outside of a popular Mexican restaurant in the posh downtown Boca area known as Mizner Park. Several girlfriends and I were celebrating the birthday of one of our own.

While sitting there, munching on chips and sipping Margaritas, we all heard an awful CRUNK noise. We all turned our heads to see a car pull away after hitting another one, right in front of us. I leapt up from the table and chased after the offending car, copying down the make, model, color and license plate. We called security and all they did was stick a note under the windshield wiper of the little black convertible VW bug that now had a sagging front bumper. I did add my name and number and hope that they contact me so that I can provide the details that I have of the “spineless twit” who left the scene.

I have come full circle; I went from a plaintiff to a witness in just a few days.

Our lives are indeed, at times, shaped by those that we meet along the way.

“Hitter,” I apologize for your moniker in this blog as you deserve a much better one. However, I wasn’t creative enough to think up a better one. I thank you for having moral fortitude to knock on a stranger’s door and admit to a mishap. Let it be known, I am a kindred spirit. And I am truly grateful.

“Spineless Twit,” I make no apologies. You hit someone else’s property, caused financial and property damage and fled the scene of your crime. I have done the best that I could to identify you.

“Host,” I am proud to call you a friend. You are indeed an enigma…but that is part of your charm.

What makes a man attractive? (An Ode to My Husband)

2010-12-25T16:53:00.000-08:00

(The idea for this post germinated this morning after taking the campy Christmas photos of my husband, he ever the good sport)

When I was a teen and in my early twenties, we didn’t call the opposite sex ‘men’ – they were ‘guys.’ Furthermore, my friends and I didn’t call them handsome or sexy, they were ‘cute’ or ‘hot.’

The term ‘cute’ was usually reserved for pretty boys. They were the universally attractive ones with angular faces and aquiline noses, sometimes with long surfer locks and sometimes clean shaven with neat, short Ralph-Lauren-catalogue type haircuts.

The term ‘hot’ was a little more ambiguous and up to personal feminine interpretation and taste. Hot guys (for me at least) were the bad boys, with a hint of danger in their swagger and a mischievous sparkle in their eyes. They also seemed to have that elusive brand of magnetic charisma that could draw you in.

As most women do over time, I learned the lesson. A guy who’s first credentials were cute or hot were great to look at and sometimes fun to be with…but for the most part lacked the substance needed to go the distance.

Though I never altered my number one favorite physical feature (beautiful eyes), I have certainly expanded my palate when it comes to what is attractive. After becoming single again on the eve of my thirties, I came to value the ability to hold a conversation, which goes hand in hand with intellect. I noticed humor and wit. I looked for close familial relationships and long friendships.

When I began to date my now husband, I realized I had hit the jackpot. He had been literally under my nose as a close friend before we had ever decided to become a couple. I had always thought of him as cute and hot (when we first became friends) and now think of him as handsome and sexy.

I can add confidence to the long list of his positive attributes.

Last Christmas, we had posted a picture of him lovely cradling our Chihuahua, Minnie under the Christmas tree on Facebook. His pose was accidentally somewhat reminiscence of Burt Reynolds in a Playgirl layout (but clothed). He weathered quite a bit of good-natured ribbing from his pals up North.

This year, I was dying to anniversary the picture, and had him take up this pose. Of course, this photo on Facebook had the desired effect. Lots of comments, LOLs, OMGs and one EWW (from my 15 year old daughter.) All in good fun.

And my husband, my lovely husband, had enough confidence to do this in the name of laughter.

Since coming to Florida to live with Taylor and I, my husband has embraced not only me and my daughter (who he treats as his own), but also my family and friends. He has extended his good nature and love to my daughter’s extended family. He has cultivated a network of buddies that he plays sports with. He has become the pet whisperer in our household, cleaning up messes and giving the newly-diagnosed diabetic cat his twice daily shots. He is loyal…completely. To his family, to us, to his job.

He is not a saint, just to be clear. He can drive me nuts at times. But that is perfect, because neither am I.

I look again at the cheesy photo I took this morning and marvel at the image of the confident and loving man that is my husband.

And I think how not only how handsome and sexy he is, but also how cute and hot.

Today, on the anniversary of Christ's birth, I am grateful for so many things...my daughter, my family, my health, my profession...and also for my husband.

Merry Christmas.

The elephant in the room (would be me)

2010-12-03T19:05:00.000-08:00

I have fattened up. Much like the turkeys from last month. And, I don’t like it one bit. Unfortunately, when I am happy and settled in a relationship or marriage, I tend to look a bit plumper. WTF is that?

Every time that I have been single, lonely and yearning, I tend look my best. I have no appetite and I become wispy-waisted. Or, if there is a flirtation in my life (hi angst- ridden cute boy, talkin’ to you here.)

I do try. Lately I have eaten fruit for breakfast, whole wheat bread with low fat peanut butter and low sugar grape jelly for lunch. Dinner is a crap shoot as I may have a business dinner or not. I am also mindful of the fact that my slender father had a heart attack and a quintuple bypass. My health is hereditary.

I hate the extra pounds. I think longingly of the days when I fit into a size four. (I am now a size twelve). I try really hard not pass my body issues onto my daughter, who is already proclaiming a hatred of her thighs.

Next week I start boot camp (I do LOVE working out – with a friend) I so want to reclaim my body. Not only just to its former self but also as a proclamation.

I FUCKING ROCK.

See you on the treadmill.

Parenting a Teen (A Rant)

2010-11-12T20:43:00.000-08:00

Parenting a teen is a thankless job. The trials of parenting your child when they are a teen are fraught with land mines, emotional and otherwise.

A few examples of the choices and questions presented to the parent of a teen might include figuring out when your teen can navigate a mall when not under your eagle-eyed gaze, how to give them just enough privacy with which to hang themselves and when to have the REAL discussion about drugs.

(Thanks Nancy Reagan, I do believe you had good intentions, but when my 6 year old daughter came home after experiencing one of your ‘Just Say No’ campaigns at school and stated that she WOULD NEVER TAKE drugs, I simply asked her what a drug looked like. Yeah, as you would imagine, she had no response...so please, give the kids something tangible to work with here.)

When you are the parent of an infant or toddler, as that parent you get all kinds of advice; breastfeed or bottle feed? Which disposable diaper is the best...or if you are the crunchy variety like I was, which cloth diaper service? Which books to read to my little burgeoning piece of grey matter? And oh, how people would comment on my daughter's looks. How beautiful, cute, charming, dimpled and sweet. Praise about her adorableness used to abound.

But now that she is 15 and in the throws of teenagedom, I get few notices. Gone are the well-meaning helpful remarks about her diet and growth...nary are the comments about how adorable she is. The new sound bytes include how much she looks like me, how tall /big she is...and is she babysitting yet?

I insert comments about the trials and tribulations of raising a teenaged daughter into conversations with peers and they are mostly met with raised eyebrows and statements like “well, does her Dad own a shotgun?”

Granted, the daughter of my tales does not endear her to people. She is mercurial at best. (But if you are a stranger or a co-worker of mine, no doubt you will be charmed be her alter ego; the engaged, participatory and friendly version of herself.)

True to her age and science she can be hormonal and sullen in one moment or sunny and whimsical the next.

But, she is still a child - albeit one that is navigating her way into adulthood. She still needs me, for just a few more years. And, these are probably the toughest years that I will weather as a parent.

So where are the accolades, showers, commiserating blogs and advice that I received 14 years ago when she was an infant? Where are the Mommy play-dates, birthday parties and community of my daughter’s toddlerhood?

***Sigh***

Not only is parenting a teenager rough, it also makes a parent of a teen feel a bit isolated.

Buying a Car

2010-11-06T22:18:00.000-07:00

I have never been a car fanatic. I have never spent countless dollars attaching a spoiler, adding rims or installing an expensive stereo system on any of the autos that I have owned.

I do however, have long term relationships with them. Some of those relationships were a bit abusive (on my side, when I was younger) and some were longer lasting than others.

A somewhat brief history:

My first car in 1987 was a rust-colored ’83 Toyota Tercel, that my father bought for me after I graduated and started working while taking college courses. As my parents had been naming their vehicles in alphabetical order since they had married, I gave him an ‘A’ name, Aloysius. Aloysius was my first ‘car love.’ He had a sun-roof, was easy on the gas and afforded me the freedom that I so craved when I was 17. Though he is sorely missed, I am glad he isn’t around to tell of the tales of my late teens and early twenties exploits that he was witness to and (an innocent) part of.

I ran Aloysius into the ground. My next car in 1991 was a Toyota Corolla; she was bright red and had a manual stick shift. This time, though my Dad made the down payment, I was responsible for the monthly $100 monthly loan payments. She had only 30,000 miles on her when I got her, but someone must have loved her as a racing car. She had spoilers, loud speakers and several two-lettered monikers after her make and model. Betty Boop was fast, sassy and sexy (as was I at the time.)

By the time Betty Boop was nearing the end of her life in 1996 (Like I said, I was really hard on and neglectful of, my autos in my youth) I was married and had given birth to my only Daughter.

My Daughter’s Father and I purchased an early SUV, an Isuzu Trooper together, shortly before her birth. We imbued him with the moniker “Big Al.” And it was Big Al who made the trip from the hospital to home with my Tay after she was born.

Taylor’s father and I parted ways when she was only 2. Betty Boop had expired and Big Al was our only shared vehicle. Thankfully, my ex’s parents gave him an aging Volvo.

In 1998, my beloved Grandmother decided that Neons were the cutest things on 4 wheels...and thus, she purchased one for me outright. We went to Carmax one day...I commented on a pretty bright blue one...and all of a sudden she was mine. I named her ‘Betty Blue.’ I had decided on going back to a B name after my separation from Taylor’s Father. I figured I would re-start with the naming process.

Betty was my car through Taylor’s younger years. I was SO proud of her, and the fact that she was owned outright (due to my Grandmother’s generosity.)

From 1998 through 2003, Betty was my vehicle. She gamely took me to work and traveled with me as I picked and dropped off my Daughter at school or with one of her loving Grandmothers.

In the beginning of 2003, she started to fail and show signs of needed repairs that were beyond my (at the time) meager means.

In February of 2003, I was driving past one of the car lots on the street just to the East of me and espied a beautiful Chrysler Sebring Convertible. Her top was down and her pretty sage green paint sparkled in the sun.

I pulled in and a few hours later, Casey was my new pride and joy.

I remember the next morning when Taylor and I got up to go to work / school and we greeted Casey in the parking lot of our development. Taylor turned her big brown eyes towards me, “Is she REALLY ours, Mommy?” she inquired. “Yes she is,” I replied.

As she is a convertible, Casey has been my later-in-life (late 30s) sexy car. She was the first car that I owned outright, without a father or a husband. It was thrilling to drive her with the top down. No matter my frame of mind, every time I drove her topless...I was elated and any previously dark mood turned sunny.

She and I have been together for almost 8 years now. Just recently, she has shown some signs of age - brought about more quickly because of the strains that my new husband has challenged her with. He drove her through a deep rain-water puddle (the water was up to the doors) about a year ago. Her engine coughed and sputtered...and died. We gave her a new engine (heart transplant) and she ran as much as she could and very tenuously. These lat few months she has expelled some unseemly noises...of an over-wrought transplant engine and of something knocking about where her tail light was replaced.

She gave me a last hurrah on the way home during my lunch hour on Friday. She started leaking fluids and stank of gas and / or oil.

I took a half day off on Friday. I knew it was time. Time to put my beloved Casey to pasture - and time to finally realize my dream of owning a Hybrid.

My sister works for Toyota...so when I knew I had to purchase a new car - it was an easier decision. I was blessed with employee pricing, along with zero percent interest.

So yesterday, I became the proud owner of Daisy - the Toyota Prius Hybrid.

My monthly payments will mean a definite change in budget for our little family.

But I am happy with my purchase and with my decision.

I look forward to many miles with Daisy - and I am praying that she keeps me and my Daughter safe in the years to come. (Taylor will likely get her license while driving Miss Daisy - no pun intended.)

So tell me about your important cars and what they meant to you....

Voting

2010-11-04T21:50:00.000-07:00

I am so sorry, I didn’t vote on Tuesday. (I was traveling.) But in case anyone in interested…here are my thoughts.

This last election was so fraught with finger pointing and pontification that I was glad that I didn’t get to vote. The platforms of the electees were so lost in accusations; I didn’t know who stood for what.

But below are my beliefs:

I am in favor for a woman’s right to choose. The day that Roe vs Wade is overturned is the day that I will run for office! And you can quote me on that. I.e. Stay Out of My Womb!
I am in favor of same sex couples being able to marry and being able to have the same rights of hetero-sexual couples. Geez, same sex couples have been around since Moses left Egypt! Give it a rest, stop crucifying them! And for god-sakes, stop bullying young teens that come out. We have already lost enough beautiful young men and women – it is shameful.
I am in favor of marijuana being legalized, and having the same laws governing it as we do for alcohol. So many people I know smoke or take the occasional toke. (I don’t, it never did agree with me) But, in-act laws around it to ensure no one “smokes and drives.”
I am in favor of welcoming all aliens. We are the US of A, we’ll find a way. (Plus, I am the daughter of a once-upon-a-time alien from Cuba.)
I am in favor of banning all fire arms. I know that the right to bear arms is in the Constitution…but that was written in the days when that was the only way to keep the peace. (If you need a reference on how a country survives without guns – just look at the Netherlands.)

Okay, so given the above I would be labeled a Democrat (which is what is stated on my voting card), but really I am a pacifist. Make love and not war and all of that.

But my bottom line is this, we are:

One Human Family.

2010-10-28T20:23:00.000-07:00

I have always loved Halloween, as a child and today.

My Mom is very much a “crunchy”, tree-hugger-bakes-with-wheat-germ kind of person, and always has been. So, when I was a kid, Halloween always meant a free-for-all of otherwise forbidden national brand chocolate candies wrapped in plastic, emblazoned with their signature brand names and colors.

But, Halloween also meant traditions. We carved the pumpkins after scooping out the guts with our hands. Mom roasted the pumpkin seeds in the oven. Oh, they were yummy! Drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with sea salt. Plus, Halloween was the gateway holiday to the rest of the yearly banner ones, Thanksgiving and Christmas. Halloween was the first of the yearly trifecta.

I remember vividly posing for the camera when I was 7, wearing a store-bought, polyester (flame retardant!) costume with the accompanying smiling plastic mask which hid the real smile on my face. I was Lucy (of Peanuts fame) and the first of my four sisters, Cristi, was Linus.

My parents added to our family at a rate of one sibling every 5 years (until the 5th one, who came just a mere 13 months after the 4th). And since I was the oldest, and due to my parent’s time and finances (or lack thereof), I became the Make Up Artist and Costume Designer.

Halloween would roll around and my questionable skills would be called into service. I made one sister into Holly Hobby, that next one into a witch. I painted blood onto faces, applied lipstick and did hair. And loved every minute of it.

We sisters would canvas the neighborhood together and heeded the Halloween etiquette - if the porch lights were on, that meant we could go and knock on the door and herald “trick or treat!!!” If the porch lights were off, that meant that the residents were not offering any goodies.

Later in my teen years , I still escorted my younger sisters through the neighborhood. I stood on the street and encouraged them to go up the walkway and beg for candy. I was never part of a gang that toilet-papered houses or threw eggs. (Mind you, I was not a model child - I did rebel later. But I always believed in and upheld the sanctity of a child’s Halloween.)

When I bought my first home when I was 22 (the one that I still live in 17 years later), I was so excited when the first Halloween rolled around a few months later. I bought the pumpkin. I carved it and lit a candle in it. I roasted pumpkin seeds. I had a huge bowl of chocolate ready for trick-or-treaters. I sat outside expectantly.

And no one came.

My neighborhood is not filled with children. It is a townhome community. The few children who do live here, their parents wisely drive them to another neighborhood to collect their booty of sweets.

After I had Tay, I did the same. I would take my daughter trick or treating in one or both of her grandparent’s neighborhoods. I also took advantage of the local Mall’s Halloween festivities. Every store in the Town Center Mall would have someone at each store-front, offering candy for the children and promotional coupons for the adults.

I did take great pride in Taylor’s costumes. She has been in costume for every Halloween since her first one 12 days after she was born. She was a Pea-In-The-Pod that first year...later she was Annie, a Kitten, Jane from Tarzan, a Fairy complete with BIG wings and elfin ears (oh, how she hated the gluing on of those ears!), a witch, Hermione from Harry Potter. I spent hours - delighting in creating and planning for her costume each and every year.

Now that she is 15, I don’t get to dress her up anymore. And Taylor tends to go to her Dad’s house, which is located in more of a traditional neighborhood, so she can see her little sister (from her Dad’s side) get dressed up and go out Trick-Or-Treating.

I still don’t get trick or treaters at my door. And I have stopped expecting to and buying the candy (which I would subsequently eat.)

But,the magic and the promise of this holiday continues to thrill me. Thanksgiving, Christmas and cooler weather are just around the corner.

I now satisfy my creativity by dressing up my Chihuahua. (ha, ha - and see the picture at the beginning of this post)

What are your Halloween memories? Do you encourage Trick-Or-Treaters or shun them? Do you unleash your inner spirit and dress up? Do tell.

And - Happy Halloween!

The People Along the Way - San Francisco

2010-10-24T16:13:00.000-07:00

Note to my reader(s) - my ill friend mentioned in the previous post is still fighting, and showing signs of progress. Thank you for any prayers you may have offered.

-------------------------------------------------------

I have always had a soft spot in my heart for Northern California. Not the least of which was for the fact that I conceived my daughter 2 hours south of San Francisco 16 years ago.

This was the third time I had visited the area. The first time was with my ex, when we conceived my daughter; the second time was but a day’s drive through with my parents, my 4 sisters and my 9 year old living souvenir, Taylor. This third time, I came for a work / industry conference. (Note: Taylor's 15th birthday was during my sojourn to San Francisco - please submit this to the Bad Mommy of the Year Awards)

I buckled myself in for the long (thankfully direct) ride from Miami to San Francisco last Saturday morning. I was just about to (prematurely) take a celebratory photo of the empty seat next me when a middle aged, slight in build, ethnic (either Hispanic or Asian) man sat down in what was to have been my leg rest. I nodded politely and made the universal sign for “not interested in chit-chat” by taking out my iPhone earbuds and plugging them into my ears. Mind you, this is my MO during any air travel. Though I cannot sleep (and perhaps because of this fact) I tend to keep to myself and read or stare out the window for the duration. The only seat mate who can pry me out of this habit would be my daughter. (Or perhaps a celebrity. But the likelihood of encountering a celebrity in coach is pretty minimal.)

I needn’t have worried about the slightly built ethnic man as he removed a (pink and black) sleeping mask from his carry on and positioned it over his eyes just after take off.

Heartened by his demonstration of non-interest, I sat up a little and glanced towards the aisle, somewhat willing the drink cart and the Diet Coke to come my way. It was then that I noticed my seat-mate’s peculiarity. His silky gossamer (now I notice it is hot pink edged with black lace) sleep mask took on a bit of an S & M feel as he had snaked both of his arms under his own seatbelt and had clasped his hands in supplication, cupping his crotch - the total image of which would have been appropriate in a Mistress’ dungeon.

Needless to say, I chose to avert my eyes as much as possible from my seat-mate for the duration of the flight to California and switched from Diet Coke to a mini bottle of cheap but still useful Cabernet Sauvignon.

Once landed in San Francisco, I had a couple of hours to kill and took a cab after checking into my hotel in Union Square to Pier 39 and Fisherman’s Wharf. Having been to these touristy destinations on two previous trips, I felt free to just wander, people watch and have an over-priced lunch at the only restaurant that did not have a wait on Pier 39. I did have a moment of panic when my credit card was initially declined when paying for my lunch. It turned out that my hotel (in the first of what was to be several transgressions by this particular hotel) had charged my credit card for 4 times the amount of my stay, amounting to over $5,000. I am a person of modest means and usually charge very little...so my credit card company had wisely seen to it that a hold was put on my account.

The hotel staff member I spoke to was apologetic, the charge was removed and I went to bed early, my circadian rhythms still very much on an East Coast vibe.

I was up bright and early the next morning to join a colleague and some friends / contacts of hers on a tour of wine country...in a limo. Yes, ‘lil ole me, on a LIMO tour of Napa Valley. It was decadent and perfect and I have decided is the ONLY way to tour Napa Valley. I thanked my colleague for inviting me and our hosts for having me repeatedly and stopped just short of genuflecting.

This was only my second time to Napa Valley. The first time was during that first trip to North Cali with the first husband. Back then, we actually had to drive a rental car with map in hand (before the days of GPS) and one of our stops was at the Sutter Home Winery and we thought that it was the ultimate in wine. (Give me a break, I was 25 years old.) And as a matter of fact, Taylor was conceived during an evening a few nights later when we split a bottle of Sutter Home White Zinfandel. (AKA the go-to girlie drink of the early 90’s)

This time, our group was under the advisement of the limo driver, who is a Napa Valley native and who took us to several vineyards and wineries that fly under the radar for most tourists. We made 4 stops - Jessup Cellars, Silver Oak Cellars, Regusci Winery and Chimney Rock Winery.

My favorite of the stops by far was Jessup. Our group of 5 was treated to a private tasting complete with different cheeses, crackers and chocolates to help enhance the flavors of the wines. Our host, a sommelier-in-training, was wonderful and his uniqueness also enhanced the experience.

He was a tall and robust man, with friendly crinkling blue eyes and a blonde goatee that might remind one of a Scandinavian version of Grizzly Adams. This likeness proved to be prophetic as he later told us a story that had our group talking about him for the rest of the trip.

After someone in our group had brought up Oprah (the why, I believe had something to do with Real Estate), our Jessup host casually mentioned that he had met her, and that she was not the friendliest person, but perhaps it had been a bad day for her. When pressed as to how he had met Oprah, he told us the story of having been mauled by a bear as a child; specifically he was picked out by a man-eating bear in a camp full of boy scouts. The story was terrifying and defied belief, though it’s truth was carved in scars upon his head and on his hands, clearly made by the bear's teeth. He was non-plussed by his own story and seemed to take some pleasure in it - not just by shocking us tourists, but by reminding himself by the re-telling of how wonderful his life is now. He is very close to receiving his certification as a sommelier, he truly relishes what he does and he is engaged to be married. (And oh yes, to close the loop, he had been on an episode of Oprah about people who had survived animal attacks - that is how he had met her)

Meeting our Jessup host, the sommelier-in-training, was one of the highlights of my trip and solidifies what I love about travel - meeting the people.

My Conference began in earnest the next morning. I spent the next couple of days listening to amazing people both in my industry and adjacent to it. As my own company has recently dipped it’s toe into Social Media, I found a couple of sessions extremely relevant. One was with a couple of attorneys who had a give and take presentation about the FTC’s recent rulings and one was with someone who was from “behind the curtain,” an employee from Facebook.

I do believe that a lot of us listening to the Facebook employee were so taken by her insights and message that we would have held her down after the session ended to tell us more. And she was so energetic and excited about the subject matter, she would have stayed.

All in all, I did drink “the kool-aid” of the conference. This particular non-profit organization really does a phenomenal job of making newcomers (like myself) feel welcome, encourages sharing of information to promote best practices and knocks down walls of preconceived competitiveness.

The end of my stay was marked by two more diametrically opposed experiences.

I had a closing session early on Wednesday. My flight was slated for 8:45 PM, a red-eye from San Fran back to Miami.

I checked out before my early session, and asked to have my bags held until later in the afternoon. I then went to the concierge desk and asked to have the ‘Super Shuttle’ scheduled to take me to the airport by 7:00 PM.

My last session wrapped up around 1:45. I then went to the Bank of America ATM I had espied earlier, withdrew some cash for the trip home and sat in the posh hotel lobby.

I was uncomfortable. I didn’t really belong in this lobby anymore. Though I am a corporate professional, I felt like an interloper or a squatter of some sort. Thus, after seeing the Super Shuttle on the curb, sitting idle with no passenger, I decided to see if I could move my take off time up by a couple of hours and at least feel like a squatter in an International Airport, where everyone is - it kind of levels the playing field.

The woman at my hotel concierge desk couldn’t have been less helpful. Though I let her know that the shuttle was sitting outside without passengers, she said I could not possibly take that one. While at the desk, a young woman whom I vaguely recognized from the conference and inquired about the same thing. Could she hop on the Super Shuttle that was currently parked on the street? How much was a cab to the airport (three times as much.) The young woman walked away.

I dejectedly walked away from the concierge desk and was about to settle into one of the lobby chairs when the young woman came charging back through the doors and said quickly and quietly but excitedly, “You want a ride to the airport? Come on! He has room!”

So, I found myself on an earlier Super Shuttle, chugging away from San Francisco, having a wonderful conversation with that young professional woman, who like myself had chosen to have one child, a daughter, and had made the sacrifices that always accompany reproductive decisions. It was a delightful conversation, and at the airport I gave her my card and wished her well and told her I hoped she was in time to tuck her toddler into bed.

My trip to San Francisco was a conundrum...it mixed past and present...pleasure and business and passed all too quickly. I am grateful that I had the opportunity to go. I recognize, that in this economy, a trip to solely enrich a career path is a rare thing.

And again, be it the conference, the tours, the city...I was truly enriched...by the people along the way.

Don't Sweat the Small Stuff

2010-10-08T20:41:00.000-07:00

Never underestimate the power of prayer, the force of love, the gift of family and friends...nor conversely the ironic fragility and brevity of the beautiful life we are living.

I found out today that a friend and co-worker of mine had fallen ill. He is not someone that I speak to every day and actually, more recently his career path at my office had made our crossings of paths less frequent. But every time we do speak or hang out, his infectiously snarky, witty and wry nature makes me laugh. As his house is within a stone’s throw of my own, we kept making verbal promises to get together...to have cocktails and chat...and to let our mutually spoiled, over-indulged four legged fur children have a play date. Every time I thumb through my contacts on my phone and see his name, I think ‘I have to remember to call him!’ and smile with the promise.

His illness is as severe as it was sudden. A bacterial infection has compromised his heart, started laying claim to his organs and is threatening his life.

Upon hearing the news this morning, I set out with another co-worker and headed to the hospital. I had spoken to yet another friend and co-worker (shouldn’t we coin a term for these seminally important people in our lives? However, both Froworker and Criend sound too trite) who was already there and had been there for awhile. Although she had warned me not only about my ill friend’s appearance if I should see him, but also about the size of the gathering crowd, I was still shocked when I arrived - to witness the number of people that had gathered in the waiting room.

Titles, seniority and management levels were washed away with tears and brushed aside with tissues. People - family really - huddled in groups and milled about, murmuring words of comfort, whispering updates, prompting positive stories and updates.

I was heartened to hear while I was there, while waiting to be able to see him, that the physicians had identified the particular insidious bacteria that was invading my friend’s body had been identified and that they were going to war with specific ammunition aimed straight at it.

Also, permission had been granted that my friend’s fur child, who is his heart on four legs, would be able to come into his room for awhile. I know how deep my friend’s bond is to this animal and smiled outwardly and cheered inwardly when he was carried through the waiting room into the MICU room where his Papa was laying and fighting.

Indeed, when I was finally able to see my ill friend, amidst a tangle of tubes and importantly beeping machines, his fur baby was by his side on a table...quiet and still and intent, watching over his Papa.

My time with my friend was brief - I just wanted him to know that I was there, that I was still planning our puppy play date, that I fully expected his quick and expedient recovery and that I loved him. Despite the environment and the probing feeding tube, my brave friend was able to reciprocate the sentiment.

Though my visit was heart-breaking and the situation was tenuous, I left the hospital today with an overwhelming sense of gratitude, pride and community.

I have always known that I work for a great company. Since shortly after I started, it was always my goal to continue with this company until retirement. My company has consistently demonstrated generosity and equanimity even in economic times of strife. I have even often joked that if you were to slit me open, my blood would pour out in the various colors of our multiple brands.

And today, one of the values that our company heralds as one of it’s core - people - was abundantly apparent as we circled our wagons around one of our own. Family, irrespective of it’s origins, is a lovely and mighty force.

So What IS Normal?

2010-10-04T18:17:00.000-07:00

(My Cousin, Nicole and myself at Michelle's Wedding)

I thought that I was done, finished, finito. This past weekend heralded the completion of “my year of weddings and events.”

As you may have read previously, I was honored to be the Matron of Honor for two weddings this summer. Additionally, my daughter traveled - and my family traveled...to Maine, to New York City and to the Florida Keys.

Last Saturday was the wedding of my sister, Michelle. It took place in a lovely botanical garden in Fort Pierce, FL. It was my last wedding of the season.

My husband, my daughter and I drove the hour and a half back to our home yesterday. When I got here, I promptly threw myself into bed and stayed there...napping on and off and didn’t fully get up or shed my jammies until it was time to go to work this morning.

Then today, somewhat groggily, I began what I believed would be my ‘normal life’ once again. Driving Taylor to school, getting to work and immersing myself in e-mails, spreadsheets and presentations.

And then I realized this evening, after some thought, how far from getting back to what I would think of as ‘normal life’ I am.

I am a single Mom for the balance of the week (Donnie had to travel yet once again for work and left early this morning) - not ‘normal life.’

We still haven’t resolved the house status; leave it on the market at a much lower price or take it off the market? - not ‘normal life.’

We also haven’t decided on whether or not we will retire my beloved Chrysler Convertible, Casey and get a new car (this decision being intrinsically tied to the one above) - not ‘normal life.’

I am leaving for San Francisco for a conference in little over a week (and over my daughter’s 15th birthday, no less - yes, please add this one to my BMOTY award submissions) - not ‘normal life.’

Though it is a bit farther off, I have once again volunteered to host Thanksgiving in my woefully small abode and must begin plans, calling people, organizing...again - not ‘normal life.’

So I just have to sigh with the realization that while the next few weeks and months on the calendar do not mark any marquee type events, my new but not ‘normal life’ will likely be only slightly less frenetic than the one that I have lived over the past 9 months.

I long to take a moment and smell life’s roses -

Does anyone else feel as though life is just rushing at them?

Paradise Found

2010-09-29T19:21:00.001-07:00

Ahhhh, Key West. A vacation destination whose very name conjures in many people’s minds mind sun, sand, icy drinks garnished with the ubiquitous umbrella and a debaucherous nature second only to Las Vegas.

My Key West, while not chaste by any means, is quieter and certainly less flashy.

I love the architecture. The homes in Key West’s Old Town boast the biggest historical district in the US and derive their shapes from a veritable melting pot of influences. They hail their architectural notes from England, from ship builders, from the Bahamas and from economic and industrial necessity. Boiled down, they are referred to as “Conch Homes.” I must say that owning one, even as a rental that I can visit every so often, is my heart’s desire.

I love the history. Key West is the second oldest city in Florida (St. Augustine being the first - natch) It has a very colorful history of Indians, Pirates, Wreckers, Cigar Makers, Spongers, Politicians as well as (and relatively more recently), Writers, Poets, Musicians (Jimmy Buffet, anyone?) and dreamers. (Mel Fisher, one of the greatest dreamers of our time - “Today’s the Day!” - has a museum in Key West with his name on it and is a testament to all of us who dream big.)

I love the vibe. The acceptance. Be who you are, and what you will be. Key West was progressive in that it was one of the first cities in the US to openly embrace alternative lifestyles. Indeed, Richard Heyman, elected in 1983, was one of the nation’s first openly gay Mayors. But, the ‘live and let live’ culture is not limited to same sex relationships. It is pervasive throughout the Island. You like to knit? Talk to doorknobs? Walk aimlessly? Or somehow live on the fringe of society’s accepted norms? As long as your quirks don’t harm anyone, you are accepted here - and you will likely find other like-minded folks.

I love the people. In general the people, particularly the locals, are friendly. They smile, wave and ask how you are. And, after the slow burn which led to a fiery love affair with this place...I found myself cultivating relationships with some of the folks that I had come across during my visits. As time passed, I was no longer just a groupie of favorite destination...I had made friends. All of them different, and all of them important. I know that with certain ones, I have made a connection that is life-long.

To celebrate my sister’s bachelorette party this past weekend, I was able to take all four of my sisters to Key West. In a quite militant style, I took them on tours, on bike rides and generally schooled them on my adopted home. A couple of my sisters had only cursory visits in the past...one had only been exposed to the party side of Duval Street.

As this was the first time all five of us had been on vacation together...as adults...without parents...I hired a local photographer. I wanted him to to take some photos as a memento of the occasion, and hopefully get a great shot of all of us as a gift for our parents. (One of the proofs, which did not make the cut, is at the beginning of this post.) We went to the Key West Botanical Gardens, which was absolutely beautiful and absolutely HOT! for the photo session.

I felt so proud as I led my 4 sisters through the streets on bikes, circling the Cemetery...and took them to Sunset celebration on Mallory Square...walked with them on the Ghost Tour...showed them the historical bits in East Martello.

It was like I was home.

And once I came back to my ACTUAL home yesterday, the one that is my current address, where I live while I pay my bills...I was a bit morose. Perhaps even a little depressed.

I yearn to go back. To the Island that holds my heart and now is the location of friends. I scour the Internet...Where is the cheapest house in Key West? What will it take to renovate it? How soon can I go back?

When I already live in an area that many would consider paradise, I think it may be selfish to push the paradise envelope farther.

But a girl can’t stop dreaming, right?

A Quick Post

2010-09-23T20:20:00.000-07:00

I have been writing, I swear.

I have written invitations, thank you’s, e-mails (many of those, as they are the veins that my company’s blood courses through), agendas, and most certainly in my head and in the notebook where I scribble ideas for writing topics.

But not here, which is where I wish I had more time....or made more time....to do so.

I leave again tomorrow for yet another trip. This time, to my geographical heart, Key West. A trip to celebrate one of my sister’s impending nuptials. Five sisters in all and this will be the first time that all of us have traveled together, on our own, sans parents. I am sure this trip will provide much fodder for my writing.

Another topic of writing close to my heart - I have also gotten a glimpse of Taylor’s next phasing of adolescence. While still challenging, this next phase brings a cool breeze of fall against the last 12 months of scorching hot summer teen angst and disquietude.

I will be back on this page again. But before then, I will be stretching my legs, peddling my feet and opening my mind down on the Southernmost tip.

Sept 11th - A Rant

2010-09-12T17:17:00.000-07:00

On the surface, I largely ignored the importance of yesterday’s date. Mostly because it is tough when I do take the time to reflect on the chaos, the fear, the utter horror and the collective loss of lives and innocence on that day. However, my thoughts have never strayed far from it.

I was already at work Tuesday, September 11, 2001 when the first murmurs of a commuter plane hitting one of the towers circulated in the office. I naively took the news in stride and tried to focus on my work. The subsequent hit to the other tower was verbally reported as a news helicopter that crashed into the other building.

Then reality sunk in. I kept refreshing news websites, but they were all intermittently down due to the unexpected large number of hits. In my office, people started to gather in the offices and conference rooms that were equipped with televisions to watch the carnage and the news reporters do their jobs while weeping.

I just stayed at my computer and shouted out updates as soon as I received them. After the plane hit Washington DC, I remember vividly reading the incorrect report that the entire Mall in DC was on fire.

It was then that I began to inwardly panic. We. Are. Under. Attack. My mind repeatedly envisioned the opening sequence of the 80’s movie, ‘Red Dawn,’ and figured that today would unfold along the same lines. It may not have been the Russians, but someone who hated the US was coming en mass to fuck us up.

Though it was delayed due to disbelief, my next thought was overwhelming and visceral - my daughter. I needed to be with her. I needed to hold her and protect her from whatever evil forces were intruding.

My company thoughtfully put out a memo via e-mail that stated we could leave the office if we felt the need to do so. Though under normal circumstances, I am a workaholic, I didn’t need a second invitation...I was outta there.

I dropped everything and ran to pick Taylor up from her school. I felt panicky as I drove the few short miles. She was surprised but happy to see me. (As the fates would have it, this was an “Early Dismissal” day.)

I can’t remember exactly what I said to her. I just remember that I told her that bad men had crashed planes into big buildings. I am sure that this day was not one of my prouder Mommy moments as she could not have missed the terror and despair on my face.

Once home, I put her in her room to watch a movie and nap and then barricaded the doors and the gate. I sat shaking, on the couch and watched the news.

I made phone calls...to my family and to friends. I needed to hear that everyone I loved was grounded and safe. It must have been a universal feeling as my phone rang incessantly with incoming calls. One of them was from my future husband, who was at the time just a friend. He was stuck in the Orlando airport. He was booked on a flight that morning to Boston, where he was to have had an interview for a potential new job.

It was a relief in the ensuing weeks to celebrate my birthday and to continue to parent my almost 6 year old daughter. My psyche needed a break from the endless stream of news on the TV and the internet. It was just too overwhelming and heart-breaking to take in and mentally digest.

However, I realized that I had turned inwards too much and had ceased to be participatory in life and present for Taylor. This was made abundantly clear one evening about a month after 9/11. I was in the kitchen and making dinner for Taylor and I. The evening news was droning on in living room.

“Mommy, MOMMY - come quick!” Taylor screamed. I ran into the living room, wiping my hands on a dishtowel and looked down at my unharmed, beautiful daughter. She pointed at the TV where the evening news was replaying events from that horrible day. She had tears in her eyes and the fear that squeezed them there was apparent.

“The bad men crashed the planes again!” she wailed plaintively throwing her little, innocent body into my grasp. I woke from the stupor I had been functioning under and murmured reassuring things into her ear while holding her closely. It was just a video, the bad men weren’t coming to get her and she was safe.

While I suffered no immediate losses on September 11, 2001, my heart lost a little chunk of itself for the sorrow for all who did.

And I am angry, deeply angry at all of the human beings who planned, carried out and condoned the actions.

May you all rot in hell for coldly and cruelly taking the lives of almost 3000 innocent people that day...for removing the innocence of America....for making the entire globe live in a place of fear...and other for many unhappy, unnatural things.

But selfishly and personally...god damn you for making my daughter’s world an unsafe place to live in.

2010-09-10T20:28:00.000-07:00

Taylor and I returned recently from Maine. (Donnie stayed behind to drive down to Connecticut for business.)

It was the first time that I had been back to my Husband’s home state in 2 years and it was my 5th visit in the 6 years he and I have been a couple.

My first visit in, 2004 (with Taylor in tow - she has always accompanied me or later us, on our sojourns to Maine) was when Donnie and I were newly in love and doing the long distance thing. The official goal of this particular trip was to “Meet the Parents” as well as the “Protective Friends of the Inner Circle.” The trial by fire went well - I now address Donnie’s parents with the familiar Mum and Dad and one of the inner circle of friends was actually my Matron of Honor at our wedding. But, a side benefit of that trip was that I fell in love with this quiet, throw-back, nature-infused part of the world that was very unlike anything I had ever known.

Subsequent events brought us back to Maine over the ensuing years, including one rainy weekend in October of 2005 for Donnie’s parent’s 40th Wedding Anniversary and the wedding of our good friends, Tim and Britney. (Hereafter and forever known as “The Weekend I Didn’t Get Engaged” - but that is another blog post of its own.)

Our last visit in late summer 2008 was for his 20th High School reunion, which took place in a giant field...complete with strains of 80’s rock coming from a cover band on a wooden stage that overlooked dozens of campers and tents.

Despite our almost yearly trips back to central Maine, Donnie has spoken wistfully and fondly of the Piscataquis Valley Fair and his desire to go home for it. The Fair is an annual event that has been (in part) run by his parents for many years and has been a big part of his and his sisters’ halcyon childhood memories. However, the timing of the fair in late August was always inconvenient as Taylor was always in her first few days of school by then.

But this year, I finally capitulated and booked a week-long trip for Donnie to go and be a part of the Fair preparations with his parents and also got Taylor and myself up there for a long weekend.

The experience didn’t disappoint. Our vacation was jam-packed with activities. And of course, the Piscataquis Valley Fair was our Copernican event.

Prior to leaving I made joking remarks about the skillet tossing contest to Donnie and his friends and family. Thusly, I found myself signed up on Saturday for the official Skillet Tossing Contest. I didn’t even warm my arm up and left my chances to the skillet tossing Gods(esses).

The Skillet Tossing contest is divided into groups, according to age. I found myself in the second heat along with my two sisters-in-law and my good friend, Lori (afore-mentioned Matron of Honor.) I was ever-so-grateful that I was not alone and prayed quietly that I would not shame my Maine family.

I quickly was ‘learned’ that a Skillet Tosser is not limited in her throwing technique, (overhand versus underhand) but must she (yes, one must be a she - this was a completely female competition - with a touch of misogyny) not touch the line. I choked a bit on my first throw as the MC / Announcer / Barker was heckling me a bit about having married into “all of those Merrills.” But, on my second throw, I tossed my skillet 35 feet. I felt I had thrown respectably and knew that some other women had thrown a shorter distance and some much farther...but was not prepared for what was to come.

Apparently, there is a skillet throwing dynasty in central Maine...and these women are uber-competitive. 2 women in my age group and one older shamed me and all the rest. The longest throw was over 80 feet...a distance I would consider driving.

After getting spanked in the Skillet tossing contest, (well, actually my Mother-in-Law placed 3rd in her group), we all wandered off to take in the rest of the fair.

There were rides (not that I rode them), livestock displays as well as horse and tractor pulls. I was sorry to miss the Frog Jumping Contest and the Pig Scramble. Taylor happily joined Allie and their contemporaries for a few blissful, unsupervised hours at the Fair. The rode the rides, and walked the traditional teenage loop around the valley which was undoubtedly steeped in hormones.

Later that evening, we celebrated Ronnie’s 40th Birthday Party (Donnie’s best friend from waaaaay back and the husband of my friend Lori.)

On Sunday, a group of us went boating and tubing on Sebec Lake. As Taylor had spent some quality time tubing on Sebec during her Epic Summer Trip in July, she had been looking forward to getting her parents on the tube...and watching while we were tossed about like rag dolls and drowned like rats. We ended the day at the lakeside camp of a friend of a friend for tidbits and drinks. The view and the camaraderie made me question my intended choice for my housing dollars....should we forget getting a house in Boca and instead just invest in a camp on the lake in Maine?

Monday we spent with Donnie’s wonderful parents. Taylor got an invitation to go back out on the lake that day and I pretty quickly acquiesced. I knew that Big Don (As he is known in these parts and also as Donnie’s Father) wanted to drive us around and show us some land and figured that Tay would be sad and surly if she came with us knowing that she was missing out on the comparatively fabulous time on Sebec.

After a scrumptious breakfast served by Deanne, Big Don sat shotgun in our rented mid-sized vehicle and directed us to a spot about 15 minutes North East of Milo. Big Don had set his sights on a good-sized plot of land and was considering purchasing it.

Unreachable by any vehicle save snowmobiles or four-wheelers, we walked the path alongside the untouched piece of Maine land that he was yearning for. I was struck by the beauty and wildness of undeveloped land. During our hike, Big Don showed us where he would plan on building a road, which trees he would sacrifice to the lumber industry, where he imagined a bridge crossing the creek and where he thought a good spot for a camp might be.

After our adventure, the Merrill family (Donnie’s parents, Donnie and I, Taylor, sister Dina, sister Darcy and her two children Jake and Hillary) convened at Don and Deanne’s for a farewell feast of lobster (natch - we were in Maine) and steak.

The next day, after tearful goodbyes, we were on our way home...back to South Florida and the crazy, faced-paced tempo of the life that we know.

I love Maine...I love the wildness of the terrain, I love my husband’s family and friends, I love the architecture of the homes and buildings, I love that this area doesn’t just give lip service about days gone by...but actually lives by a credo of a better time.

Laughter and Embarrassing Moments

2010-08-24T19:43:00.000-07:00

As a balance to previous posts about my angst, I wanted to post about laughing.

I love laughing. I love when something tickles me so much that I can’t help but double over, tears streaming from my eyes and my breath coming in ragged snorts through my nose.

I recently picked up one of Taylor’s Teen Mags which regularly have a “most embarrassing moment” section. In these Teen Magazines, the embarrassing moment is usually about an audible fart or (oh the horror) leaking menstrual blood at an inopportune time.

As sophomoric as the reading material was, it made me think about my most embarrassing moment...which many of you have heard, but it is good enough to bear repeating.

Plus, I enjoy making others laugh, probably more than I like laughing myself.

Many years ago, I worked for a well-known adoption attorney. As you might imagine, our office was pretty serious, what with the business at hand. And it was made up almost exclusively of women.

I was newly divorced at the time, and to say that I was ready to dip my toe into the dating pool would be an understatement - I was ready to swan dive into the deep end.

I had gotten married and had my daughter relatively young and thusly had missed the dating craziness that many women experience in their early twenties. So I was ready to if not sow, but at least prune, my wild oats.

It was my job to sit at the front desk at the office. I welcomed clients, answered the phones and managed files on the computer and in the drawers.

One day, a group of electricians came through the office, to check on and replace lighting fixtures throughout it. Which is how a deliciously handsome, slightly scruffy, jeans-hang-in-just-the-right-way man was climbing a ladder right in front of me, in the waiting room, just outside of my welcome window, and just outside my grasp.

I craned my neck through the window and peered (towards heaven) upwards and asked “Would you like some coffee?” I batted my eyelashes shamelessly. He replied, “No thanks, Ma’am.” Non-plussed by this initial brush-off by my man candy, I continued to batter him with offers of coffee or (me) water. All of my offerings were declined and the young man seemed in a hurry to rush off, ladder tucked under his arm.

Through one of the office windows, I noticed the electrician’s van outside and its panels that were marked with the name of the company, and noted that they also offered air conditioning services.

During my lunch hour, I found myself riding in the elevator down to the ground floor with an older gentleman, who’s shirt bore the same company name as (the shirt on my heart’s desire) the van parked outside. During the elevator ride, I talked him up, asking about the young man with the (cute ass) brown hair and blue eyes. The older man sized me up and let me know that the (cute-ass guy) young man I was inquiring about , was 18 (EIGHTEEN) and was engaged to be married to the owner of the business’s daughter.

I coughed and stuttered and probably muttered, “Oh, that’s nice.”

Then I tried to really save myself.

Remembering the van outside, I thought I would tell him that I might need air conditioning work sometime (never) in the near future.

I opened my mouth. What I meant to say was, “When my Air Conditioner blows, I know who to call.”

What came OUT OF MY MOUTH was, “When my Air Conditioner goes, I know who to blow.”

The last four syllables of the terribly misplaced sentence were still being said, out loud like a cartoon character with the words hanging over her head...when the elevator doors opened - and the shocked, concerned (and frightened) face of my 18 year old man- candy was staring right back at me.

Man-Candy literally turned on his heel, and sprinted away. The older gentleman, sensing my need to be alone with my utter shame, quietly stepped past me.

I never saw either of them again.

So please, share your stories of complete embarrassment...let me know that I am not alone with my size 9 mouth.

Just Trying

2010-08-23T19:53:00.000-07:00

My crazy, fast-paced, frenetic summer is coming to its conclusion.

I kicked off the summer with wedding celebrations for one bride (my friend Deb) and am finishing it off with the wedding celebrations of another (my sister, Michelle). I am Matron of Honor for both.

Sandwiched in between was Taylor’s Epic Trip (2 weeks at camp, several days in Maine and a glorious week in NYC), our family of 3’s cruise through the Western Caribbean and our Manhattan experience together.

Next on the agenda is our trip this weekend back to Maine to spend time with my husband’s family and friends during the Annual Pisquataquis County Fair, followed by a 4 day Bachelorette weekend for my sister in Key West, FL in late September.

October 2nd is my Sister’s wedding day which will punctuate the end of a whirlwind 12 months. It was just shy of one year previously that Deb got engaged and honored me with the request that I be her Matron of Honor. Michelle’s engagement and subsequent request came just a couple of months later.

In amongst all the wedding plans, special occasions and family trips, we have been living our lives. Sometimes I feel like we are barely holding onto them. The details have become buried under the avalanche of Important Events.

During these last twelve months, Taylor completed the 8th Grade, her final year of Middle School. After initially being denied for the High School Choice Program of her preference, she got in at the 11th hour and is now in her 2nd week at Boca Raton High in the illustrious STEM (Science Technology Engineering and Math) Program. In the last few weeks, I have become much more painfully aware of how much she is growing. Not in her height, but in her faux sense of maturity that can only worn by a young teen.

Donnie and I have both been nose to the grindstone at work. We are both exceedingly grateful for our jobs, but the increasing responsibilities, which are no doubt (and understandably) due to hiring squeamishness of our respective companies, have put us on professional full throttle.

This past year, I have also enjoyed a 6 month process of exploring my writing capabilities with a wonderful and wise writing coach. The process was extremely invigorating and enforced a discipline in me with regards to my writing. As I told her towards the end of our sessions, “I feel more like a writer now, and less like someone who is trying to write.” This was another small, but important milestone tucked into the crevasses of the Mountains of Important Days.

I am thinking of all of the other small, but important moments of the last 12 months. My Father losing his job, my Grandfather celebrating his 102 year, a cousin ready to deliver her second child, a friend in crisis, another friend losing her home, a sister dealing with unemployment, another sister in marital distress. All of these are important LIFE moments - and I hope that despite all of the ‘have-to’s’ that littered my calendar, I was an adequate enough woman, sister, daughter and friend to be present for all of them.

I really hope I was.

Me and a Model

2010-08-13T20:28:00.000-07:00

Before last week, I had absolutely nothing in common with Gisele Bundchen. Actually, I kind of really disliked her.

Gisele was the leggy model who stepped into NFL Football star Tom Brady’s life when his former girlfriend, Bridget Moynahan was still pregnant. Gisele postured and posed after her boyfriend’s son was born and made very incendiary proclamations about how she loved the child “like her own.”

She and the NFL lothario got married and now have another baby. She then came under fire for proclaiming that childbirth was not the god-awful painful endurance that most women have believed it to be.

She said, “It wasn’t painful, not even a little bit. The whole time, my head was so focused—every contraction, the baby is closer, the baby is closer. So, it wasn’t like, ‘Oh, what pain.’ It was, ‘With every contraction, he is getting closer to me.’ I wanted to be conscious and present for what was happening ... I didn’t want to be anesthetized. I wanted to feel. The second day, I was walking, I was washing dishes, I was making pancakes in the kitchen.”

Reading her quotes was a bit unsettling, because all of a sudden, I have something in common with this freak of nature model who I had previously considered an insensitive interloper.

You see, I have always maintained (to mostly disbelieving audiences) that my experience during childbirth was (while not completely pain free) a really satisfying and exhilarating experience. Yes, it was hard work. Yes, there were some moments during it when I asked if I could take a break and finish later. But, I was an awake, alert and active participant in the birth of my daughter.

Just recently, Gisele exposed herself to more criticism when she stated in an interview that there should be a law that required new Moms to breastfeed their infants for at least 6 months.

The backlash and increased hatred towards her was immediate.

While a law for women to breastfeed for 6 months is certainly unreasonable and unconstitutional, I am now an unlikely ally of a widely disliked supermodel. (***Sigh***)

Because I kind of get where she is coming from.

First I will say that breastfeeding is not the easiest thing – it is a ‘learned art.’ Manipulating an infant’s tiny, searching and impatient lips into the “correct” position on your swollen, sensitive nipples within hours or minutes after delivery is just the first challenge. Continuing down the path of exclusive nursing is yet another.

It requires perseverance, patience and dedication to the goal of breastfeeding. But, once you hit 6 weeks, you are in the groove…in the ‘honeymoon’ phase. For some reason, nursing is pretty much seamless after that time mark and you and your infant become a nursing couple.

Obviously, I breastfed Taylor. It was more of a destiny than a choice.

My own Mother bucked the norm in 1969 and not only had her husband in the delivery room when I was born (during a natural childbirth,) but also chose to breastfeed. (Yes, my parents were wanna-be hippies)

My Mother went on to have 5 daughters. 3 were “homegrown” and 2 were adopted.

Mom decided when she was going through the adoption process for her 4th daughter, who she mistakenly thought would be her last, that she wanted to breastfeed. Just as she had successfully done before.

During the excruciating and invasive adoption process, she used a breast pump to reawaken her body’s reflexes. By the time our family welcomed 3 month old Lara into our home, Mom had successfully gotten about 50% of her milk supply to come in.

Baby Lara became part of our family, and Mom breastfed her with the assistance of the Supplemental Nursing System (SNS).

3 months later, my Mom learned that Lara’s birthmother was pregnant again, and requested that the new unborn child be placed in the same family as the first.

It took about 5 minutes of discussion between my parents. They wanted this newborn – who would be blood related to the daughter they already called their own.

After Lydia (the 5th sister) was born, my Mother then tandem nursed two babies, who had not been born of her body.

So of course, when I birthed my own baby…there was no question. - I would breastfeed.

My nursing experience was 22 months in length and not without challenges. But, I look back and am so grateful.

When I went to Taylor’s pediatrician’s office for her first illness, he commented on the fact that her file was so slim. She was a stranger to the doctor’s office…a robust and healthy 3 year old. (I quietly and secretively attribute this to breastfeeding.)

When I went to a birthday party for one of her friends when she was 6…I casually polled the other Moms, whose children were all in the Gifted program – they all had breastfed. I felt momentarily vindicated.

Now that Taylor is 14, and I am far removed from baby discussions…I get way less validations that my choice to breastfeed was right.

I look back at Gisele. She is a model, a Mom and she breastfeeds and she is outspoken about it.

While her sound bites may be incendiary, I applaud her and her convictions. I myself have had friendships challenged due to my convictions on the subject.

May every baby just get a moment at the breast.

Happy Breastfeeding Month

Camp

2010-07-31T21:52:00.000-07:00

Taylor loved Camp…I mean, she really, really loved camp.

I was nervous as all get out to send her away, to a remote spot in Maine. For 2 weeks. Without a cell phone. Without computer access. No communication with the outside world.

She was in charge of her own decisions, laundry, oral hygiene, cleanliness, appropriate attire, manners and daily general direction. Did I mention without cell and computer access? (AKA without my ever vigilant and vociferous reminders of what to do and every day love affirmations.)

She apparently blossomed during her stint at camp. She made friends with campers and counselors.

She tried new things, new activities, made friends that she would have never made before. (Including new friends from France.) She went white water rafting and sailing. She did crafts. She signed up for sports that I would have never previously believed she would be interested in.

She became a new, more experienced, more daring, more open version of her former self than the one I put on a plane in early June.

Even her Grandmother (Her Mimi, who is my own Mom) said after she returned, “Whatever you paid to put Taylor in that Camp, it was well worth it. She is a different and more amiable and happy girl.”

Taylor said to me (when I FINALLY talked to her after she left Camp), “I didn’t want to leave, Mom!”

I was never sent to sleepaway camp, so I am among those who “don’t get it.” But, I have spent a lot of time listening to what Tay has shared as well as listening to ‘This American Life – Thoughts on Camp.”

From the moment she left camp, Taylor has been begging me for a 5 week long stay next summer.

I let the thought germinate. Next summer she will be almost 16. She might have a High School boyfriend by then.

Suddenly, sending her to camp (that non-communication, won’t be able to affix my stink eye on her while she enjoys outdoor activities) seemed a whole lot more palatable.

The sticker price is not.

This summer I sent Tay for the early (relatively cheaper) session in the beginning of June. It was less expensive than the other sessions as most children (with wealthy parents) don’t get out of school until a couple weeks later.

Her camp sent me an e-mail announcing that if I signed her on NOW for next summer – I would get another $700 discount.

So, not knowing if I would get a bonus next year, or if I could save up the necessary funds, I put the decision in Taylor’s court.

(Note – same 2 week early session is $1300 as opposed to $1600 from this year. All 5 weeks she is requesting would be $4995)

My prerequisite is that Tay must get a job (note – she is only 14) for me to consider putting her in camp next summer for 5 weeks.

At first, she was all onboard with the idea. “Of course Mom, I’ll get a job and help!”

Then, this week, reality set in when I took her to Publix to apply for a job.

Publix has a convenient employment application lobby kiosk. Initially, Tay wanted to skip this week and start the next one because of sleepover plans. I quietly acquiesced.

But, I told her later in the car that I would take my cues from her. If she felt that getting together with a girlfriend took precedence over work, then I would see camp as a secondary priority and would conduct myself as such.

Before you think I am being too harsh, I will tell you that Donnie and I are considering delaying our epic trip down US1 so that Tay can realize her vision of going to camp one last time. (She will be too ‘old’ after next summer)

After seeing the enormous positive change in her, my wonderful and patient husband is completely onboard with having her go back to camp, and is one with sacrificing (delaying) our dream vacation one year.

Initially, Taylor was okay with me (us) sacrificing OUR dreams. However, once I schooled her on the ‘unfairness,’ she began to see that her decisions impact not only her, but everyone around her…which is an important lesson.

As she might work at a minimum-wage-earning job, I know it will not make a dent in the 5K needed for her 5 weeks at camp next year. However, I feel that she has to put in a little sacrifice and a little hard work…is that wrong?

The picture above is of Taylor at Camp…I loved it as it was candid.

Have you ever gone to camp? Am I being too harsh? Please share…

Being a Teen

2010-07-27T19:22:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine sent me this picture via Facebook this morning. It was taken before heading out to Junior Prom – circa 1986.

Ahhh, 1986. Reagan was President, George Sr was his Vice President. In January, the Challenger exploded moments after take off, killing all 7 on board including the woman who was supposed to be the first teacher in space (there is a local school, Christa McAuliffe Middle, named for her.) Top Gun was the top movie and television programming was rife with family oriented sitcoms like The Cosby Show and Family Ties. (Reality shows wouldn’t make an appearance in the US for at least another 8 years with the debut of the Real World in 1992.)

And as for me? I was an insecure and shy 16 year old 11th Grade High Schooler, about to go to my first Prom.

While I have recently unearthed several similar photographs from the same time frame, it still startled me to see my 16 year old face, staring into the camera, in a shot that I either haven’t seen in 24 years or possibly never had.

I look serious…or perhaps I am trying to look sultry, I can’t remember. I do recall that I was disappointed that I didn’t have a date of my own for Junior Prom. Instead, I had a blind date; a friend of my girlfriend Laura’s boyfriend. So perhaps my gaze is arranged strategically in a poker face as to not betray any nervousness.

I have little memory of the evening, except that my girlfriend had a wonderful time with her boyfriend – and that my date was just as nervous and uncomfortable as I was.

Poor guy. I wish I could remember his name (was it Paul?), and track him down (though that would surely creep him out) and give him a check for $100 to cover what I am sure was an expensive evening for a teenager when he would have been much happier staying home playing Dungeons and Dragons…or whatever non-uber-uncomfortable-blind-Prom-date thing he liked to do.

I re-posted the picture later today on my own wall on Facebook, as sort of a “ha, ha, look at me…look at the funny hairstyle (and GLOVES, for gods sakes!)” Many of the comments I received were about how much Taylor looks like me. Which of course, is complimentary, but also stunned me into thinking again…in the picture, I am only about a year and a half older than she is right now. (How in the hell did that happen?)

The realization of how close in age my daughter is to the ‘picture me’ gave me pause. Today, she is right there where I was. A teenager, one foot planted in being a little girl with one toe testing the waters of womanhood. Literally begging to throw on the cloak of adulthood, yet shedding it quickly enough when the pressures are too intense.

I look back at the picture of the teenage me, and see her a little differently than I did initially (Though I don’t think I look so different now, ahem.)

She has no idea what lies ahead. She has only hopes and dreams. And, a naïve blind belief that there is good in most people.

Given what I know is ahead in my own life after that photo was taken, (and what lies ahead for my own daughter), I want to give the ‘picture me’ a hug (which I am sure would be unwelcome if my own teenager is any example) and tell her that things really do turn out okay.

• You won’t drive to LA to be a movie star…but you’ll look like one in your twenties
• There will be no knight in shining armor…but when you are ready, the right man will come along that treasures you and treats you like a movie star you once believed you would be.
• You won’t be fabulously wealthy…but you will have enough wealth to be fabulously happy
• Your work will not be not what you imagined…but different, and better than you imagined
• You won’t ever be intimidated…because you’ll always know you are the smartest person at the table
• You will not live in a castle…but every day when you step through the threshold of your humble abode, it will feel like one.
• You will not have 6 children…you will have one, a child who embodies, and is, all the best attributes of 6 children

• Believe me, you will be happy…

So have you ever looked back? Seen a picture of your teenage self and wanted to guide them? Or a desire to pass on words of comforting encouragement to your children?

I Heart NYC

2010-07-14T20:24:00.000-07:00

To my (few) readers: apologies as the following blog is more of a diary – and a bit lengthy.

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We marked another milestone in our busy summer when we returned home from New York City yesterday with my daughter.

Donnie and I arrived on Friday late afternoon into JFK and took a cab to our friend’s (Courtney, Shattuck and their 2 ½ year old son, Trent) Upper East side apartment where Taylor had already arrived a couple of days earlier.

As much as I had fantasized about a meaningful, heartfelt reunion with my darling progeny when we locked eyes for the first time in 23 days, the reality was a bit anticlimactic. After I greeted our friends (and kind of pushed them aside) my daughter rose from the couch where she had been sitting with a shy smile. I clutched her close to me and held onto her shoulders fiercely…long after her embrace had relaxed. “Oh, Mom,” she said, “You’re not crying again are you?” And yes, I definitely was.

We all had take-out that night at the apartment and then Courtney and I were afforded a rare “Mommy’s Night Out” while the husbands sat at home. She and I sampled 3 different glasses of white wine in three different establishments all within a two block radius. Though this was my 4th visit to NYC, I was still taken by surprise by the convenience of everything, the proximity of buildings and human beings and the sheer efficiency of space. The latter I was reminded of during a visit to the Ladies Room (nix that – the one and only BATHROOM in a wine bar) when I had to shimmy sideways and turn around to use the commode.

The next morning, as Al Roker had proclaimed it would be a great day for New Yorkers to “clean out a closet or two” due to expected torrential downpours, we decided to visit the Museum of Natural History.

Because the promised deluge had not yet started, we gamely decided to walk through Central Park to get to the Museum. Central Park was the first landscaped municiapal park in the United States. It opened to the public in 1859, after much political debate and planning (and sadly the displacement of some 1600 low income residents.) Today its 843 acres boast a well known Zoo, running and walking trails, basketballs courts, concerts and other events…and many, many other things, including (kind of) the museum we were on our way to see just outside of its Western border.

We entered the Central Park just above East 76th Street. Within just a few strides, the hum and amped up feeling of the city streets was gone and was replaced with the rustle of the trees, humidity dripping from leaves and the occasional shout of a child. We skirted the Conservatory Pond; the model sailboats in it mostly still on this un-busy summer day. We walked uphill past Loeb Boathouse and watched as florists carried unbelievable multi-colored floral arrangements into the back for what must have been a wedding later in the day. We passed a Karate lesson in action and had to stop for a moment (huffing and puffing from the exertion) to allow a race of runners and bikers pass by on Central Park West. I was enchanted as always by this enormous green oasis in the middle of the big city.

We finally entered the American Museum of Natural History and I had to stop myself from just laying down on the floor to soak up the cool and air conditioning. According to its website, The Museum of Natural History is “one of the world's preeminent scientific and cultural institutions. Since its founding in 1869, the Museum has advanced its global mission to discover, interpret and disseminate information about human cultures, the natural world and the universe through a wide-ranging program of scientific research, education and exhibition.”

Upon arriving, we purchased tickets to see “Hubble,” an IMAX film about the troublesome Space Station. Before show time however, we managed to scoot around quickly to see many of the exhibits, including my favorite – the enormous life-sized Blue Whale suspended from the ceiling in the Milstein Hall of Ocean Life. The Hubble film was entertaining and a little unsettling with the images that the orbiting telescope has taken of the earth. (I find the idea that we are able to see birthing and dying stars BILLIONS of light years away with such clarity a bit unnerving.)

After lunch in a swanky area of the Upper West side, Courtney and Shattuck took their young’un back home and Taylor, Donnie and I went back to the museum for another hour. The three of us felt smug when we saw and knew that the rendition of the Coral Snake in the Reptiles and Amphibians exhibit was incorrect (red didn’t touch yellow as it should have.)

I wanted to walk back to the apartment but was vetoed and we cabbed it back…just in time to rest up and get ready to go to a Broadway Show.

Originally, we had plans to see a High School friend of mine perform in HAIR. Much to my great disappointment, (and I am sure, hers) the production closed a few days before we arrived into town. Since our friends had already seen Wicked (which I have heard is the BEST!), we opted instead to see Promises, Promises which is a re-make of the ‘60’s film “The Apartment” starring Shirley Maclaine. The big draw to the show was Kristin Chenoweth (I have always admired the tremendous voice housed in her diminutive body) I was also looking forward to seeing Sean Hayes (from Will and Grace) as well as the Tony-winning performance of Katie Finneran.

The 5 (I didn’t want to leave Taylor out of the experience) of us had a lovely Italian dinner in the theater district before seeing the play.

After dinner we made our way down busy Broadway to the theater. I had managed to get us seats in the 8th row for the show. The performance was electrifying…especially when Kristin first made her entrance and the entire audience started whooping and hollering. Sean Hayes was spot-on hilarious. The dancing and songs were knee-tapping. There was just one little thing, which as the show went on became the White Elephant in the middle of the room. Kristen had this thing on her forehead, right at the widow’s peak of her wig. It reminded me of a Bindi, but it was too high to be one.

During the intermission, I was in line for the bathroom in front of two Broadway / Chenoweth groupies. I listened to them chirp away about their drama school and how one of them knew Kristin and how FABULOUS she is. I dared to ask of them, “since you know Kristin, can you please tell me, what is that thing on her forehead?” One of them answered me, but not without disdain, “that is her microphone. All Broadway stars wear it there.” I replied that I had seen several Broadway shows (well, this was my second) and I had never seen that before and that I found it to be distracting. The Cheno-goupies sniffed, silenced and looked away from me. Oh well.

Once I retuned to my seat, I found all of our seat mates engaged in a heated discussion. “WTF WAS that on her forehead? So distracting!” I passed along the new information I had obtained and everyone sighed and agreed that the microphone on the forehead was a disruption to the performance.

After the play, we walked Broadway once again to catch a cab back to the apartment. We all agreed that tomorrow would be the day to walk the Brooklyn Bridge.

We woke bright and early Sunday morning and took 2 cabs to Chinatown. After walking the sidewalks of Chinatown and Little Italy, we circled back and got to the walking entrance (smelly, piss and feces covered steps) of the Brooklyn Bridge.

The sun was hot, my legs were tired, my daughter was complaining every step of the way…but we did it! We walked across the Brooklyn Bridge. We bought t-shirts from an independent artist who positioned himself on the first leg of the journey. We wondered why someone would leave a pink furry hobby horse at the top spire, we talked about getting to Grimaldi’s Pizza under the bridge, close to the water.

Grimaldi’s was supposed to be our Mecca after walking so far. It was mentioned in the guide books as being the “place to go” in Brooklyn after walking across the bridge. The best pizza in all of New York. Our tired group dragged our feet up Old Fulton Street and saw the Promised Pizza Land….with a LONG line outside 15 minutes before the restaurant was supposed to open. We did a quick vote among us and decided that hunger won out over prized destination….and enjoyed Pizza and beer at a Pizza place NEAR the one we intended to visit. My husband and Shattuck enjoyed home brewed Brooklyn # 2 beer. As my husband would say, I like my beer like my women, “dark and bitter.”

The next day (Monday), I was committed to showing Taylor SoHo. I knew this would be the likely place for her to see celebrities and the likely place for her to find a funky little store that she liked and that was within my budget.

When we entered one of the stores, I knew we hit the jackpot when she said to me, “I feel bad…can we ask them if we can stay a bit longer?”

So I sent Donnie, Courtney and Trent down the street to get fortifying beverages at Starbucks. While they were gone my girl twirled, hemmed and hawed and plucked t-shirts off the rack – she was in her element. In the end, we left with 4 really super cute tops that she will wear in High School.

If and when we have the opportunity to come back, I think that SoHo and the Village would be the places that Taylor would like to explore.

We said goodbye to our friends yesterday morning. During the late morning meal, Trent was a bit fussy, perhaps anticipating the final “bye, bye.” He and Tay had become close – and Trent referred to us as HIS friends. As in “where are my friends Mama?”

I am grateful beyond words that my friend Courtney took in my daughter for a couple days – and introduced her to some of the City’s more genteel parts.

I am also grateful that she and her husband sponsored our family’s most recent romp through the Big Apple.

I hope that someday I can repay the favor.

So – have you been to NYC? Do you love it or hate it? Any thoughts?

Memories, misty water-color or cold hard digital

2010-06-23T18:41:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned in a previous post, there are several other blogs that I read. One of them, jennster wrote a very evocative post about the mementos that she saves. Letters, journals, photo albums and yearbooks.

It got me to thinking as I share the same tendency.

To wit: I committed one large cardboard box to all of the written memories of my younger years. It contains the clandestine notes that I saved (from various teacher’s grips) from Middle and High School; the love notes scribbled on scrap paper; and the lengthier letters, still stuffed in their original envelopes from friends or paramours who were not close by. There are also the poems that I wrote, when I envisioned myself as a tragic teen poet while listening to (and heavily borrowing from) Air Supply, Journey, and REO Speedwagon.

Additionally, I have carefully kept all of my Yearbooks. I have tucked newspaper articles into the pages that tell of the triumphs of my former classmates as well as those that contain the obituaries of those who have passed.

And my photos…I would be bereft without them. My childhood and teen years are painstakingly logged by my long-ago-sophomoric hands in now water damaged and smudged photo albums. There are a couple of photo books that contain pictures from my early twenties…and then of course there are the albums from Taylor’s babyhood. Those pictures of her first smile, first movement, first solid food, first (insert milestone here) experience and in various poses with her adoring family are lovingly catalogued.

Once she hit 5, and I 30, the photos remained in their developer’s envelopes. I rely on my handwritten dates of when they were developed to pile them in a haphazard way into several large boxes.

Now, a decade later, many of my memories and photos are in a different place. One that gives me unease. For the last 12 or so years, in this age of technology, most of my correspondence with old and current friends takes place via e-mail or more recently on Facebook. I already have one whole HUGE, ancient old desktop computer I cannot bear to part with because I know it contains the equivalent of a cardboard box full of e-mails from my late 20’s and early 30’s. Also, too much of my daughter’s youth has been captured via a digital camera.

An entire generation has their memories on soft copy. As convenient as it is…it is too easily erased.

When I travel to NYC the second week of July, I have strong desire to bring my trusty 35 mm Canon A1 and a notebook. Otherwise, many years from now when I am gone…there may not be a record of when I see my daughter for the first time in 30 days…for all posterity.

To underscore my thoughts on real versus digital images, Edith Shain died today. She was the young nurse grabbed for a dip and kiss which was captured in the iconic photo (and the one at the beginning of this post) that embodied the end of WWII. I can’t help but wonder if that fleeting, yet triumphant moment might have been overlooked if Alfred Eisenstaedt had a digital camera.

So to all the horders and holders, how do you feel about trusting your memories to the digital age? How to you hold onto your precious hard and e-copies of your memories?

A Prelude to Goodbye

2010-06-18T20:22:00.000-07:00

I never imagined it would be this hard.

I put my 14 year old daughter, Taylor on a flight to go to sleep-away camp for two weeks last Sunday.

When she finishes her 2 week camp, she is not immediately coming home but will continue her summer adventure. Traveling from a remote lakeside in Maine, she will then stay with my sister-in-law Dina in Portland, ME.

Dina is a single gal in the city and is hands down the “cool” Auntie. She will treat Taylor to a least a day or two in the relatively metropolitan city of Portland. Taylor and Dina have a special bond…which includes the Twilight series of movies. Conveniently (and serendipitously) the movie ‘Eclipse’ releases during the time Taylor is with Dina, so they will get to see the third movie of the series together, just as they have the first two.

Then, Dina will drive Taylor to the middle of the state of Maine, to stay with my wonderful In-Laws and friends of ours.

My Mother-In-Law and Father-In-Law live on a farm, in a house that is more than 100 years old, in Milo, ME. A real honest-to-god farm. Don and Deanne are the most wonderful people. Big Don is the salt and sage of their little town and Deanne is its heartbeat. They are looking forward to hosting my daughter and spoiling her in the way that only Grandparents can do.

My other sister-in-law, Darcy lives in the area with her two beautiful children, Jake (12) and Hillary (8). They all also have said how excited they are to see Taylor and spend time with her. I have a feeling that Hillary will be glued to Taylor’s side every chance that she gets.

Then Taylor will also visit our friends, Ronnie and Lori Towne and their daughter, Allie. Ronnie and Donnie (insert laugh here) have been best friends since grade school…Lori was my Matron of Honor for my wedding to Donnie…Taylor and Allie have been best buddies for all the years that their parents have been friends and traveled together.

Then my travel-happy kid will get on a flight from Portland, ME to NYC. She will be picked up by another good friend, Courtney, who currently lives in on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.

Courtney (another “cool” Auntie) also has plans to spoil Tay and take her for a pedicure in the big city.

After Taylor spends a couple of days with Courtney in NYC (which she is supposed to be babysitting, as a “Mommy’s Helper”), Donnie and I are flying up to NYC to meet her.

Our family will then spend several days soaking up NYC…staying with the Groomes, and taking in a Broadway Show.

I have spent countless hours ensuring a memorable trip / vacation for Taylor.

The day previous to Taylor’s departure last Saturday, I drove myself (and her) crazy with my ever increasing and shrill inquiries…”DID YOU REMEMBER TO PACK…(insert necessary item here)”

I pride myself on being level headed, results oriented and a general cool customer all the way around. But when faced with saying goodbye to my darling daughter, who had been the focus of my life for almost the last 15 years, I kind of fell apart.

Knowing that this was the dress rehearsal for her inevitable final leap from the nest, I was teary…no, I was soggy from the tears.

I keenly miss her right now, even though I know she is enjoying the experience of a lifetime.

I just didn’t expect to miss her this much. As she has been the focus of my life…it is definitely difficult to refocus on anything else.

I hope the next four years pass VERY slowly.

I would love to hear how anyone else (mothers / parents) survived sleep-away Camp, High School, College…without their heart breaking…

Cruising

2010-06-13T17:48:00.001-07:00

As I mentioned previously, I just returned from my first cruise on Friday. Well, it was my first cruise that lasted longer than a few hours. As a product of South Florida, I have been on several day, dinner and evening (read gambling) cruises.

This was the first time that I carried luggage aboard and had to surrender myself to the whims of an unknown captain, his boat and its hyperactive schedule. In tow were my husband (who had already been on a cruise) and my 14 year old daughter (who never had been – but was salivating at the prospect of freedom at the ‘teen club’ and late curfews that I had promised her.)

I felt agoraphobic and like I had a touch of vertigo the first evening. There were just SO many people, and the tour to the upper deck to the water slides made me dizzy.

The next day, we landed in our first of two destinations, Key West. Now, I absolutely love Key West. I have visited so many times, and I probably bore people with my endless verbal facts about its history.

However, we were there to witness the marriage of my friend Deborah and her new husband Peter. Thus, we were there only a brief time. Back onboard, Deborah and Peter had a lovely reception, which ended a couple of hours prior to sunset.

I went up to the Lido Deck, which housed most of the dining and also the pool. It was here that I could have the best view of the ocean that was sponsoring our trip across its surface. The Lido deck was also the best spot for people-watching. As I sat and thought about my own aversion to cruising, I was also afforded a front row seat to those who embrace this type of travel.

After a couple of days, I started to categorize them…and put them in my own buckets of people “who like to cruise.”

There were some larger groups, not just in numbers, but also in girth. They were seated at tables, just like myself, but they usually had mounds of food in front of them. I termed them as the “Foodies.” All of the meals, snacks and formal several course dinners onboard are included in the price you pay before you sail.

Food is one of the starring attractions for these cruisers. Food is available, however you want it and wherever you want it (including room service to your cabin). It is easy to get caught up in the feeding frenzy.

I am normally not an early eater. A cup of coffee and some fruit is typically my fare prior to noon. But on a cruise? Which verboten starch would I prefer? English Muffin? Or perhaps a flaky croissant? Fuck the fruit, as there was also REAL (not turkey) bacon being loaded onto my plate.

The more formal evening dinners had three courses with multiple choices: appetizer, main course and dessert. We sampled everything. Until, with my gut heavy and my bowels unregulated I put a stop to the gluttony by the second day. Just because the food is there, doesn’t mean I must eat it. But, the “Foodies” definitely have their place at the table. (A little pun intended.)

There are the "parents." The ones that were trying unsuccessfully to herd their children in one direction. I witnessed younger parents trying to corral their children while they, the parents, were having beers at the pool. They were continually negotiating with each other as to who would get next “watch” over the little screaming, shouting, slippery-wet ankle biters that were their progeny.

I also watched a single Mom with her little girl navigate the deck and pool area. Her entire trip consisted of watching her 5 year old girl leap in and out of the pool. My heart leapt out every time I watched her watch her daughter. Her gaze was not annoyed…but gently joyous as she watched her daughter frolic. I was reminded keenly of when I was a single Mom.

Then there are the "Cruisers." Usually middle aged, they want to cruise…just for the sake of it. The ports of call are just bonuses. I happened upon a couple of them on my first night…and was heartened by their joie de vivre. They tended to sit quietly on an upper deck in the evenings to watch the sun set.

Then there is us. A quiet family. Willing and grateful Cruisers by accident.

On the third day, we took in the hot sidewalks and shopping of downtown Cozumel. Jeez, those shop owners were as relentless as the sun that beat down on us. Though we were in port until 10 PM, our tired little family of three dragged ourselves back onto the Ship at 5:15. And then we all took loooong naps.

The last night, I went up to the Lido deck once again. We were cruising back from Mexico to South Florida. Our location was right in between the Dry Tortugas and the North Western tip of Cuba. I was enjoying being in the moment, sailing across the sea, my loved ones close by.

Suddenly, I noticed two pelicans, flying alongside the boat…almost at eye level. I marveled at them. How far had they come? Had they seen the oil in the water and come out this far to get nourishment?

Then the pelicans dove down into the water in tandem, both of them catching fish…and stayed at the surface gulping their booty and bobbing in the waves as the Cruise Ship left them behind. As they disappeared from view, I said a little prayer for them and wished them health. Despite the icky, awful mess we have left for them in the Gulf.

Initially, my darling daughter had proclaimed the entire cruise affair as boring. She had met just a handful of contemporaries in the “teen club” she had so yearned to be a part of. (She is 14 and a half – I had convinced the director that she could be placed in the 15 to 17 group rather than the less desirable 12 to 14 group.)

However, on our last evening on the ship, Tay met a young man. One so polite that he insisted on walking her to her room.

All of a sudden, my daughter was feeling the heartbeat that all of us have felt as teenagers. She was at turns dreamy and then moody.

Her heart’s awaking is the biggest stop on for her this tour… and I thank God that I get to be a part of it. She was so eager to tell me what happened He was kind, he wanted to meet her Mom, he plays video games. He is taller than her. She sucked in her breath when he played with her hair. They kissed.

I am grateful that my daughter had this experience and that she shared it with me. I am even more grateful that the young lad lives in Texas. (ha, ha)

I also read a fantastic book whilst onboard. “This Is Not The Story You Think It Is: A Season of Unlikely Happiness.” It is a phenomenal tale of positive thinking and finding peace within yourself. It was the perfect book to read on this trip and at this juncture in my life.

Cruising was a very new experience for me…and one I am thankful for. I return to the office that I love (and that pays my bills) tomorrow. I would love to hear any insights from those who love to go on cruises…did I miss something? Should I plan another?

Bon Voyage

2010-06-06T19:56:00.000-07:00

Not that I am a prolific blogger, but I will not be blogging for a good 6 days at least. Tomorrow morning, my husband, my daughter and I leave for a cruise. The stops are Key West and Cozumel.

It is also the destination wedding of my good friend, Deborah. While “cruising” has never been my thing, I am excited to be a part of her wedding as the Matron of Honor.

Actually, going on a cruise is just a tad terrifying to me. Images of Titanic dance through my head. And though class traveling rules no longer apply, I made sure that our family’s room was above sea level and not below decks in “steerage.”

I highly doubt that there will be any icebergs between Miami and Cozumel, but I just feel more comfortable with a window (well, porthole) above sea level.

However, on our journey from Key West to Cozumel, we may encounter the oil slick. Which sickens me…every time I read about it or now see the ever increasing photos of wildlife coated in it and dying from it.

I remember as a South Florida child of the 70’s, every time I went to the beach I could expect to have tar on my feet and legs. Indeed, alongside of the outdoor showers at the top of the beach there was always a turpentine station back then. It was just expected that beach goers would have tar (oil) on their bodies.

I just realized in light of this recent catastrophic event that the turpentine stations of my childhood had been long gone. My daughter has gone to a local camp every summer and has never experienced tar in her hair or on her legs. Another case of not realizing what you have until it’s gone – a clean and safe ocean.

Now I worry about the next generation. The formerly pristine and beautiful Gulf of Mexico may well be a hot mess of decay.

I just hope that BP follows through and cleans up as much of the mess as possible.

I return from our cruise on Friday morning. I will be documenting the entire time, via the netbook my husband thoughtfully gave to me. And, I will post my experiences upon my return. (Not willing to pay the price for international internet service)

My best wishes to Deborah and Peter, the Bride and Groome we are honoring and traveling with. (Just finished coaching my Husband through the final draft of his best man speech!)

Bon Voyage!

A Passing

2010-05-28T22:30:00.000-07:00

Tonight was a celebration of women-hood for me and 12 other women when we went to see Sex and the City 2. I totally enjoyed the movie, clapped and laughed out loud in the appropriate parts.

I walked out of the theater and checked my phone, as I always do when my daughter is away from me.

My iPhone proclaimed that I had one missed call and a voice mail from Amy. Amy is my daughter’s step-mother…and as much as I had always hoped for a close relationship with her, it has never been so. So, upon seeing her number on my phone, I had a chill of advance warning. As I rode the escalator down from the theater, I listened to the very unexpected message she had left, and I heard the dreaded news. Taylor’s Grandfather, who had been battling cancer and then pneumonia, had passed late the previous evening. Amy had the forethought to call me and let me know in advance of her and her husband breaking the news to Taylor. My heart broke.

I struggled to keep my emotions in check, and from the tears rolling down my cheeks. I got into my friend Deb’s car to go back to my house for an “after party.”

I called Amy on the way back to my home. I am very grateful that as challenging as it must have been for her, Amy handed the phone over to her husband…my ex…I was not able to control my emotions by this point and just said, “I am so sorry…let me know if there is anything I can do.” He just said, “It’s really sad.”

I spoke to Taylor later this evening. She kept saying, “I’m FINE Mom.”

But she was choking on the words.

I wish that I could be there for her – to hold and reassure her. But right now, given that she is with her Dad and his family, all I can do is pray.

When I found out that I was pregnant with Tay, her Father and I chose to share the news with our parents in a very individual and special way.

We gave each of them hand written notes, sharing with them which of the traits that they had that we hoped that our daughter would inherit. To Richard we wrote that we hoped our unborn daughter would get his artistic skills and dry humor.

Tay has both of those traits – in spades.

Richard Oakley, thank you for making hand-made birthday cards for your grand-daughter, thank you for picking her up from school when I couldn’t, thank you for teaching her to fish….thank you for providing a wonderful example of how to love.

Thank you for being such a wonderful Grandfather. You are already missed so very, very much.

For the love of Killer (Whales)

2010-05-26T19:33:00.000-07:00

I don’t remember exactly when I began my love affair with killer whales. I only know that it has been long and passionate.

Like many Floridians, my family made annual sojourns to Walt Disney World and Sea World. My parents would pack the wood paneled station wagon full of their ever numbering daughters to make the three hour trip to Orlando. Dad always did the driving and Mom would do the over-packing. My Mother’s priorities when it came to traveling with her family seem a little funny to me now. We HAD to wear flip flops every step when walking around in the hotel room and even had to wear them into the shower…lest we catch Athletes Foot. (We even called them “shower shoes”)

However, for breakfast we were served crackers with Cheese Whiz on them…so that we could save money by not eating in a touristy, expensive restaurant. While I understand the logic behind both, it just seems like such a juxtaposition to save a child’s soles in the evening while rotting her gut the next morning.

While I always enjoyed Disney, The Happiest Place on Earth and eagerly awaited riding on my favorite rides, it was the trips to Sea World that fed my junior soul.

The sea lions; how cute they were and how they could bark on cue. Huge and humorous looking because of their considerable girth, they could always make me laugh.

The sharks; how deadly they looked gliding through the water. To me their movement compared to the other fish looked like the aquatic version of the purposeful march of a blood-thirsty soldier next to the ambling walk of a civilian.

Once the new exhibitions at the park later opened I also loved the penguins, especially the ones with the adorable orange plumes on their heads (Rockhoppers), and the Moray Eels. The serpentine Morays were languid and mysterious…to this day scientists are unsure of some of their most private habits, like how they mate and bear young.

Of course there are the dolphins; the perennial crowd favorite. Lightly leaping, smiling and cavorting with their trainers. As much as they seemed to be everyone’s favorite sea mammal, they seemed just a tad too pedestrian to me. They lacked an edge.

Then, there are my favorite, the majestic, striking looking and awe-inspiring Killer Whales. Orcinus orca. Sea World has built their parks around this unlikely captive animal.

The Orca is actually the largest of the dolphin family. As such, they are not only very intelligent animals but also very social ones. In the wild, they typically reside in pods dominated by a matriarch and can live to be 90 years old. Their diet, depending on their social structure can be anything from fish to other marine mammals. They communicate…vociferously. They can plot and plan. And they are HUGE. An adult male can weigh in excess of 6 tons.

I felt a special bond when I learned during a trip to Sea World when I was just a few days past my 16th birthday that the first “Baby Shamu” had been born, just one day after my own. (It was only when confirming dates for this blog posting that I learned that it was the only captive Orca baby to survive longer than a few days.)

Later, when I lived in the Orlando area in my early twenties, I had a season pass to Sea World. I got to tour the exhibits at my leisure. I took in many ‘Shamu Shows.’ Back then, the park employees ignored you if you stayed in the stadium to watch the beautiful whales.

I remember, with great clarity, going up to the glass at the front of the empty stadium…where I caught the eye of one of the Orcas doing her laps. I raised my left arm and bent to my right. She did the same. (Well, actually her ‘arm’ was a fin) Next lap around she hesitated and did a “spy hop,” looking at me, a good portion of her bulk out of the water and over the glass. She settled and kind of slid back in and did another lap.

This time, when she came back around and stopped again, I was ready. Armed with the memory of the movements I had witnessed the trainers doing, I spun around and she copied me. We moved closer to each other and I saw the playfulness mixed with the intelligence in her eyes. I backed away and she did the same. I dipped my head down and then threw it back…then, I was completely doused with a mixture of salt water and whale spit. (I had asked for it!) She dove back into the water.

This close encounter coupled with my burgeoning knowledge of this amazing species served to turn me into a total Orca Whale groupie.

I have become a devotee of a certain artists, including the renowned Whaling Wall one, Wyland. I actually scheduled a vacation around watching him create his 13th mural in as many weeks in Key West in the early 90’s. I still love and covet his work today, even though I cannot afford it.

I belong to groups on Facebook who support and track our beautiful Orca whales in the wild. Lately, there have been many controversial posts about Tillicum, the Orca that has now been involved with 3 human deaths. (My opinions on that would be another whole post)

I have decorated my home with photos, mementos and bric-a-brac that all contain the ocean to some degree and more specifically, Orcas.

As some of my readers may know, I am Matron of Honor for a wedding this June. And, my MOH gift was a crystal rendition of my favorite marine mammal, in sparkling black and white.

More permanently, when I chose to ink my almost 40 year old aging body with a tattoo, it was with the image of an Orca and her baby, as a representation of myself and my daughter – done creatively by Mike Haugh, tattoo artist extraordinaire in Key West (well, Stock Island), FL. (The image in the beginning of this post)

Being an Orca lover has become part of me over the years…it is part of who I am.

Going to Victoria BC to see them is my number one fantasy destination.

At the end of the day, one of the things that resonates the most with me is something I read quite awhile ago.

All mammals originated in the ocean. Then they all crawled onto land. A few went back into the sea. The rest stayed.

Now I ask you, who was the wiser species?

SATC

2010-05-21T19:48:00.000-07:00

Last Friday I got up at 2:30 in the morning. My alarm was buzzing and my husband gently shook my arm. “Honey, the tickets are available,” he said. I shot upright, and staggered to the computer. Eureka! He was right. I had been stalking the Boca Raton Cinemark Theater site for the last two weeks, waiting for this very moment. Adrenaline was rushing through my veins and my hands were shaking as I clicked to purchase 16 of the highly coveted seats. I waited for the confirmation e-mail and then had to drink a cup of Sleepy Time tea to calm myself enough to go back to sleep for a couple of hours before the work day.

Why all the fuss and the sacrifice of sleep? Premier Tickets to see Sex and the City 2.

By saying ‘Premier,’ I am not referring to opening night. The movie will actually open the day before (which I find odd – what movie opens on a Thursday?) But for me, Premier means seeing the movie in a very posh fashion. Here in Boca, our movie theater has an upstairs restaurant, bar and theater. The seating is assigned and they are comfortable, plush love seats. There is real food and cocktails for purchase and free popcorn with an assortment of optional flavorings. I was first introduced to seeing a movie in this elite fashion by my friend Di when we saw Dreamgirls a few years ago. Since then I refer to seeing a movie in regular seats as ‘sitting in steerage.’

It was here that I saw the first Sex and the City (SATC) movie in 2008 with 7 other bright, beautiful women. This time around, I strived to bring even more lovely women to celebrate the movie with me. And after my early morning ticket buying – I stand triumphant.

I was late-comer in the game with regards to SATC the TV show. I rented the first season on DVD on a whim, intending the rental to be a balance and distraction for a Super Bowl Party and ended up watching it straight through. I absolutely fell in love with the characters and the writing. I was single at the time, and the story lines spoke to me in volumes.

After my first taste of the show on DVD, I upped my cable package with a subscription to HBO. Every Sunday night was eagerly awaited. Many times I hosted Cosmo nights at my humble little abode. (To this day, give me a good bottle of vodka, cranberry juice, Cointreau, a lime wedge and a shaker and I will make you the best Cosmopolitan you’ve ever had.)

When the finale of the show aired, me and one of my best friends sat crossed legged, inches from the TV as to not miss a minute. (And to drown out loud, playing children in the background.) Tears rolled down my face when Big announced to Carrie, “you’re the one.”

When the first SATC movie came out, I eagerly invited friends to share the experience with me. It was one of my best memories ever.

This time, I have upped the ante and there will be 15 other women with me, watching the ever important story line with me.

I am SO not a joiner, so I have wondered, what makes SATC so special to me?

Firstly, character association. I have taken several tests to determine which SATC character I am most like.

As much as I want it to be Samantha, most of the time, test results proclaim that I am Charlotte. The Do-gooder, the planner. The One Who Wants to Marry. (Egads- and please send help.) But, this association is not all bad. Charlotte is a sticky glue that keeps the girls together. Her Pollyannaish view of the world is not entirely unlike mine. I have a firm belief that everything will work out well – as it is supposed to.

Occasionally, I get the Carrie result. The writer. The one who documents for all of posterity.

But, I never end up with the result that I am like Miranda…even though her character (businesswoman) is a part of me as well.

To this day, my favorite scene from the HBO TV Show is the one where the four girls are having breakfast and Samantha says, “I am dating a guy with the funkiest tasting spunk.” There are quick camera angles of all of the girls exchanging looks…and then Charlotte gets up and leaves, shoving open the door of the restaurant purposefully. Miranda leans into Carrie and says in an ominous tone, “…and she’s never coming back!” I laughed out loud.

I love these fictitious women – with all of their faults and foibles.

These women represent all of us, in some way or another. It is the unending story of women’s friendships that keeps me hooked on SATC and keeps me coming back….year after year. And I am grateful beyond any words that I have women friends in my life. They (Rachel, Janna, Janet, Deb, et al) keep me sane.

How about you – which SATC character are you and why?

Blogging and Gratitude

2010-05-01T19:45:00.000-07:00

The last few days have been busy ones, and my opportunities to touch fingertips to key board have been scant. Responsibilities have bullied my brain and directed any chance I might have to write or blog towards other priorities.

However, I did want to get back out into the blogosphere to say Thank You. To my writing coach, who has encouraged my fledgling creative process; to Di, who put my words onto page that she contributes to (trianglemom2mom.com) and to anyone who has taken the time to read what I have written, in my own little corner of the world wide web. I am humbled by the hits, the comments and warm e-mails that I have received. Though I read many blogs and am quite gifted at finding ANYTHING online, I am quite the neophyte when it comes to blogging for myself.

I have had great examples in the last several years with respects to blogging. After receiving accolades on mine recently, I did start to think about the ones that have inspired me. Regularly, I will pull up these blogs – some of the authors of are strangers to me and some are friends. I read them with great anticipation, while enjoying a cup of coffee in the morning, not unlike sitting down to read the local newspaper. I frequently refer back to some favorite posts, as well. I truly believe that anything worth reading once, is worth reading again. (Just ask the numerous shelves of my dog-eared and well loved books.) I do comment occasionally.

As a shout out and with gratitude, these are the blogs that have inspired me; hence another list.

http://dibookblogetc.typepad.com/my_weblog/ Di’s blog. It was the first one that I started to read and keep up with regularly. Initially, her blog was focused on books she had read and her reviews of them. How nervous I was to make the initial book recommendation to her! Di’s book reviews on her blog were interspersed with tales of her family life, which were always entertaining, lively and succinct. It was because of her voice via the written word and our shared love of books, that I fell in “friend love” with her – which has now spanned in time 4 years and 4 states in distance.

http://backinthegoodoldworld.blogspot.com/ My friend and former co-worker Cathy’s blog. After she exited corporate, Cathy and her photographer husband, Dick traveled extensively, driving for much of it domestically and then flying abroad. Cathy’s posts are always stirring and Dick’s photos complement her words evocatively. They have recently settled in a little town in AZ, and I am anticipatory for the stories their new grounded life will bring.

http://crockpot365.blogspot.com/ Stephanie O'Dea resolved to use her Slow Cooker every day for one year beginning January 1, 2008. As an employee of the company that makes the most famous brand of Slow Cookers, I followed her blog almost religiously. She came up with some fabulous, creative recipes that year and has continued to share new dishes since then. She has now appeared on Rachael Ray and some morning shows, all the while bringing awareness to the brand that I work for and the art of Slow Cooking

http://jennnster.blogspot.com/index.html My friend Di (see above) recommended this blog to me as Jen and I were planning our weddings at pretty much the same time in 2006 / 2007. I have enjoyed reading Jen’s takes on her wedding plans, the day itself, being a Mom, buying a home and most recently, being unemployed. Jen has a very real and honest voice that resonates.

http://motherhooduncensored.typepad.com/ Kristen Chase is an unorthodox voice for mommies. She tells is like it is with no holds barred about motherhood, breastfeeding, being a wife, in-laws (dubbed “sin-laws”) and sex. Reading her blog will remind you of the time you split a bottle of wine with a good friend and let the epitaphs fly. She also hosts a radio show http://www.mominatrixradio.com/ about having a spicy bedroom life…while being a parent.

http://ramseyandpablo.com/ (Okay so this is more an “official website” than a blog, but I still love it.) Chad Dressen is just a regular mid-western guy, with a knack for catching his two dogs (a female Doberman, Ramsey and a male Chihuahua, Pablo) doing hilarious things on film. I tuned into his youtube videos just as their popularity was turning into a phenomenon. I am even more of a fan as Chad has turned the popularity of the pups into an opportunity to promote animal activism.

http://amammainthemaking.com/ My writing coach’s blog. For quite awhile, I had been struggling with how to incorporate and / or manage the creative writer within me. Cricket only posts every so often, but her words are always meaningful and evocative. This inspiring woman has gently prodded me onto a creative path…of writing. Writing has always been in my character, but it just took a wise soul to help me get it out. She is extremely artistic, in many venues and is always an inspiration. I admire her not only for her writing, but also for the person / woman / mother / partner that she is. I am also very grateful for the guidance she has provided me.

My choices in blog reading may be a bit eclectic – but that’s probably in keeping with my personality. I am always open to reading more, so I ask you, what are your favorite blogs? And why do you read them?

And again, I humbly thank you for reading mine.

The Anniversary of a Family

2010-04-22T17:14:00.000-07:00

Like many wives, my feelings towards my husband are not always the most charitable. The dirty shirts thrown carelessly across the back of a chair, the cereal bowls with coagulated remnants stuck to them left to rot in the sink, and the forgotten chores could all make a saint swear. And trust me, I am no saint.

And don’t even get me started on the communication challenges that seem to be a universal complaint among wives. Blank stares when asked a question, monosyllabic grunts that are supposed to be proxies to an intelligent response and the selective hearing.

It was our third wedding anniversary yesterday.

With all of our current activities and near future plans, our lives have felt like a Buick trying to keep pace on the autobahn. Thus, we had decided awhile ago to keep this anniversary low key…and had casually and even dispassionately tossed out a couple of ideas about maybe somewhere to have dinner. Indeed, only a day before, with my mind trying to reprioritize which “have to” came first, did I realize that it was the day before my third anniversary – and my husband was not even home. He had left on Sunday to fly to Philadelphia for business and I, at the time, had only bitched at him about missing out on personal family time on the weekend…and didn’t even think to admonish him that he was going to miss our anniversary. He actually did make it home in time to take me to lunch and pick up my (our) daughter after school.

But yesterday, on the 3rd anniversary of the day we had pledged ourselves to each other, with one simple act, my husband reminded me about why I love him. And how much I do, which is even more deeply than the day that I married him or during those heady first weeks of falling in love with him.

It was not because of a surprise gift of jewelry or some other grandiose token of love. All of the things that we have going on in our lives require significant financial investment, so we had agreed that gifts would not be exchanged, even ones that might be “shared” like a weekend to Key West or Las Vegas. While doable, they were probably not wise decisions at this juncture.

It was not because he came home in time to take me to lunch. Lunch was nice, and I got to take him to the restaurant that I frequent during my lunch hour due to their outstanding Chicken Tortilla Soup that I have raved to him about. I found reason to get pissy during lunch, as he took a work call while we were seated together in a booth and were trying to reconnect after his absence. When a prolonged sigh did not do the trick in getting him to hang up the phone, I dropped my soup spoon onto a plate and it clattered loudly enough that other patrons looked at us.

It was not because of where he took Taylor and me to dinner. We went to Bru’s Room, which for any reader not from the South Florida area, is a popular restaurant, Sports Bar and watering hole. I gamely entered another submission into the Bad Mother of the Year Award Annual Competition (BMoTY) and sat with my 14 year old daughter in the bar portion of the restaurant. (She certainly didn’t mind – Burgers and Nachos are amongst her favorite dishes). However, my husband’s heart WAS in the right place – they had a Buzz Trivia game going on last night which is something we have enjoyed doing as a family in the past. (If you have ever played the Buzz Trivia game, BEWARE if you notice that "DTV" has logged onto the scoreboard.)

It was not what he wrote in his card to me. It was Flintstone festooned, and while he may bear a passing resemblance to Fred, I do not have red hair nor am I as wispy waisted as Wilma. But in fact, the kind, more lengthy proclamation of his love on the blank left hand side of the card had been encouraged by my daughter. She helpfully coached him that simply writing “yabba dabba do!” above his signature was not ample enough. (I have taught her well.)

It was because of his card to Taylor – which was a surprise to both me and her. She was too embarrassed by the outward display of affection from her Step-Father to read it in front of us. She ducked into another room and reappeared a few minutes later and mumbled, “touching.” I thought she was being sarcastic which would be very normal vernacular for her current teenage self. I held out my hand, and asked to see it. “Why?” she asked, “You’re just gonna cry.” She handed it to me and looked over my shoulder to read it with me. The card itself was benign, but what he had written in it, to her, was not:

“April 21, 2010

If you really think about it, this day is as much of an anniversary for you and me as it is for your Mother and myself.
Today marks the day you became my daughter. And while you might think this day does not include you, I say it is not complete without you.
These past 3 years have enriched my life and you are a significant part of that.
Happy Anniversary Daughter

Love Always.”

She was right. I cried.

All Roads Lead to Home - The Best Places

2010-04-12T22:24:00.000-07:00

Our family has a VERY full dance card this summer. We are going on a cruise, part of which is the wedding of a good friend of mine that I am blessed to be the Matron of Honor for. Our cruise ports in Key West and Cozumel, Mexico. 1 day after we return home, I am sending Taylor to sleep away camp for 2 weeks. For the duration of which we cannot be in contact. (Which she likely feels is a blessing.) After Tay spends several more days in Maine after camp ends, she will then fly down to NYC to stay with close friends of ours, where we will meet her a few days later in mid July for a long weekend as a family.

After several weeks of work (for us adults) and babysitting (for Tay) at home, we will then all go to Maine for a State Fair in August.

September ushers in birthday season, and I will also host my Sister’s Bridal Shower and Bachelorette weekend, which will take place in Key West.

So many moving parts….so many places to be. I look forward to all of the events that I get to be a part of….but all of this planning got me thinking…where are my favorite places (that I have been) on Earth?

(Note to the reader: I have not traveled extensively outside of the US, but have been to most States within the continental US)

Here are my top ten (so far,):

 Monterey, CA: This little seaside town was made famous by John Steinbeck’s Cannery Row. Now very touristy, it has retained some of its quaintness and is a less expensive alternative to its sister city to the South. I also had to proclaim this one a shout out as it was the location of my most important conception.

 San Francisco, CA: What’s not to love? The diversity, the cultures, the architecture are almost all unique to this beautiful city on the bay. Stroll through Chinatown, take a ferry to Alcatraz, amble through Pier 39. I was so happy and proud to take my personal living, breathing souvenir of ’95 back to San Fran and Monterey in the Summer of 2004.

 Cocoa Beach, FL: A gorgeous, neglected piece of Florida’s Northeast coast, it was home to me for a short time in my early 20’s. As a part of the Space Coast, it has struggled to hold its own. I was here during the first shuttle take off after the Challenger, which in this town, at the time, was a momentous occasion.

 Washington DC: Believe it or not, all of the greatest pieces of history are available to be seen at no cost. The first time I passed through here, I remember seeing the Constitution, the original document, under a thick piece of glass… and thinking, “Oh My God, I am reading the REAL Constitution!” I have since brought my daughter back to this place, once, with my Sister Lara when they also got to experience the Holocaust Museum among many other historical places and again when I sent her with her 5th Grade class.

 Chicago, IL: I visited this town for the first time as an accident. I was stuck (as I am sure many have been) on a layover in O’Hare. I spent the night many miles away from the airport in an uptown Hilton. I tried to get a slice of pizza the next day in a highly recommended Pizza place. After confirming that I was “lunch for one,” the host asked me if I wanted to have pizza. I looked around me and affirmed, “Yes, pizza for one.” He then advised that the restaurant had run out of cheese. (WTF?) One nursed beer and one HEAVY piece of Chicago pizza 2 hours later, I was one my way to the airport. I was impressed by the city, and its history…but not by it’s pizza. Too thick.

 New York City, NY: I went to this city for the first time to try to save my marriage; I was scared of everything and very young. The second time, I came when my Father was fighting for his life in Upstate NY, and he challenged me to take my Mom and my Sisters to the city, while he was having a quintuple bypass, which I did. The third time was just for me (and Tay) I was lucky enough that good friends of ours lived on the Upper East Side. My friend Deb, Taylor and I got to experience the city like locals. I am looking forward to doing it again soon,

 Bentonville, AZ: Yes, the birthplace of Wal-Mart. I found this little funky conundrum of a small town burg to be right up my alley. A mix of past and present, it contains small town living and big business all in one little cow patch. Plus, the best burger I have EVER had was in a little burger place right next door to the Wal-Mart Museum.

 Milo, ME: I was truly a fish out of water in Maine. I had zero experience with the quiet country living, but I found my husband’s hometown to be beautiful beyond words. What an amazing family he has…and I get to be part of it! What amazing New England homes. How I wanted to sneak across the street and see how THEIR home looked! (Those of you who know me know which home I am talkin’ about!) Milo has become a part of my heritage as well, and I am thankful and anticipatory. I am now also appeciative that this area will be part of Taylor’s upbringing.

 Boca Raton / Delray Beach, FL: I am a sucker for being at home. I live in paradise…and I for that I am lucky. Believe me, I never forget how beautiful my hometown is or how wonderful my life is.

 Key West, FL: This town holds my heart. I have visited endless times, I have shelves of books about it, I now know endless tales about its history and some of its more famous (and infamous) inhabitants. I now have friends and acquaintances there. I can point out and name the architecture when driving past it…Eyebrow, Bahamian, Queen Anne…all beautiful to me. There is such a sense of acceptance and love in this little island town that boasts such a great history.

Like some sort of groupie, I keep striving for even bigger stars in my travels. But, I have a feeling the all of the roads will lead me right back home.

Where are your favorite places?

Here We Go Again

2010-03-28T16:19:00.000-07:00

I bought my first home nearly 18 years ago when I was 23 years old and a newly-wed. I was so proud of the modest 2 story, 2 bedroom, 2 ½ bath Townhouse in Delray Beach, which boasted 1,288 square feet of living space. It had a large fenced in patio, no lawn to speak of and is identical to many quad-type residences with the wood shake shingle slanted roof that are ubiquitous here in South Florida.

This is where I still live today.

I have lived at this address now longer than anywhere else in my life. In these walls I spent the all days of my first marriage; experienced my one and only pregnancy (the actual conception was off premises – but that is another blog post). Later, I became a divorcee and single Mother, student, then career woman. I met my wonderful 2nd husband, Donnie, on this patio 12 years ago. He and I cohabitated here and it is where we have spent the first three years of our married life. My daughter, now 14, was raised here. Her home address has not changed since birth.

The Townhouse has been my calm in the not-so-proverbial storm. I have protected it as best as I could, as it has protected me, from the numerous hurricanes that have plagued this area. I have nailed up plywood over the windows and once to the patio gate in an irrational fear of looters. After Hurricane Wilma did the worst damage, tearing the wooden fence out of the ground and ripping out the South side of the mansards, I managed to get myself voted onto the HOA Board of Directors. This was so that I could ensure the passing of a document change that would put the responsibility of the mansards into the hands of the Association and then helped manage the project to get all of wood mansards in the Community changed to a uniform stone-coated steel. (To the winds of our next hurricane, as long as they don’t exceed 150 miles an hour, I say: Bring. It. On.)

Despite the Townhome’s smallish size, it has been large enough that I have been able to host family and friends for sleepovers and provided longer-term shelter for friends in transition. I have thrown everything from a small informal dinner party for 4 in the dining room to a more lavish catered Champagne brunch for 25 al fresco on the patio. I have had Happy Hours, play-dates, surprise birthday parties, movie discussions, SATC Cosmo nights, Trivia and Scrabble competitions and many, many just me and Tay “ST”s (which means ‘special time.’) here.

I have lived a life here.

However, even before Donnie moved in with Taylor and I in Fall of 2004, I had been experiencing a feeling that perhaps I…or we, had outgrown our little home. Once he moved in, the walls were definitely bursting at the seams.

In August of 2008, right towards the end of the housing boom, we put the place up for sale. Unfortunately, our timing also coincided with the recession and the dearth of the housing market. During the ensuing 12 months, we had quite a few showings. We’d get a phone call from an agent and one of us would have to rush home in the middle of the work day to do a last minute spiff-up and take the dogs out of the house for an hour time frame. This made for an uncomfortable, tenuous and stressful existence. After a year of doing this, our listing expired without us ever receiving an offer. Donnie and I opted to let it remain off the market. I stopped dreaming and bookmarking pages on realestate.com and chose instead to sit back, take a breather and to lick my Real Estate wounds rather than jump right back in to the craziness again.

Last month, I had finally saved enough money to put a down payment on a new car. I have lusted after the Toyota Prius ever since I drove one as a rental several years ago. My sister works for Toyota, so between the Family and Friends dealer pricing and the financial incentives that Toyota has been tossing out like beads on Mardi Gras since their recent recall troubles, the timing seemed right.

My family (consisting of Donnie and Taylor) did a quick about-face at the news of my car-buying intentions. They both knew that given lenders’ skittishness in today’s economic climate that me buying a car would mean the end of any hope of moving for at least the next several years. I was vetoed. In my own family.

Thus, this morning, I signed another contract with our Realtor. (Who has had my implicit trust and my back since High School and who’s acronym is the trendy BFF.)

Once again, we are off to the Real Estate rat race. Endless days of keeping our home “show-ready” and allowing strangers to tramp and poke through it and pass judgment. Nights of hoping all will work out, searching online Real Estate sites for a potential new home and number crunching on the waiting spreadsheets as to how much we will make if the house sells for X dollars and what our future mortgage payments may look like.

I am melancholy and conflicted about the whole exercise. Naturally, I am excited about the prospect of moving and making a new house into a home for our family. But, I feel that just recently I was finally at a place of acceptance that this little Townhome would be our permanent residence – sometimes you have to readjust your dreams to welcome new ones, right? As mentioned, this place has not been so bad, and has housed many, many memories that make it a home. Additionally, I am still experiencing the sting of not even getting one stinking, even lousy offer during the year that the house was for sale previously. (Not unlike the feeling of being picked last for kickball when I was in grade school.)

In the end, I am afraid I may have jinxed myself. I am remembering the words that I uttered as a proclamation when moving in here, oh-so-many-years-ago, with my first husband, after a very prolonged mortgage approval process and the back-breaking work of unloading a U-haul with all of our meager belongings (we couldn’t afford movers.) Sweeping my arm towards the towards the cubby closet under the stairs, I said, “You’ll have to bury me under those stairs, because I am never moving again!”

Here’s hoping those were not “famous last words.”

2010-03-26T22:55:00.000-07:00

I have always had pets in my life, an animal companion of some sort or another.
Even going back to before I was born, my parents got a dog, a female Boxer who they named Daisy Mae to practice their tender paternal ministrations on prior to having a human baby of their own. By the time I came into this world, Daisy was 2 years old. My parents were nervous about their newborn daughter being around such a large, rambunctious and daunting-looking dog, but Daisy treated me as if I were her own pup. The black and white photographs taken of me learning to crawl also show the snout and ear of her along side of me, as she was scooching her belly across the rug beside me, protectively.
Daisy Mae passed away when I was in my early teens. At the time, I was too wrapped up in the selfishness that is part of being a teenager. It is only now, with age, that I mourn, miss and am grateful for the companion that she was. My parents never got another dog. In future years, Mom became the proverbial “Cat Lady,” and I swear her address was passed along from one cat to another as many found their way into her home and heart.
When I moved out on my own, owning a cat seemed to be the thing to do to turn my apartment into a home. My first husband and I adopted his brother’s cat, Hemingway. Later, when he and I divorced, I got to keep the Tabby, whom I nicknamed Hemy.
When my daughter, Taylor was 2, I ended up with another cat named Fisher (who is circling my legs now) Fisher was named for Mel Fisher, who found the Atocha. (“Today is the day!”) Fisher was originally supposed to be a gift for someone else, but when the plans fell through I was instructed to return him to the cage at the vet’s from whence he came. I looked at him, all black fluff with big yellow eyes and knew I would keep him. Poor thing, Fish has always been a second class citizen in our home. When he came to live with us, Taylor was a toddler and would repeatedly smash his kitty nose into his food bowl exclaiming, “eat kitty, EAT!” And then came Lucky, my skittish, loyal Dalmatian.
Lucky decided I was his perfect owner when I was dating his foster Dad in 2000. I would leave my boyfriend’s (at the time) home, and Lucky would race out of the house and hop into the passenger seat, and look at me expectantly. The boyfriend would say, “well, seems like he wants to go with you…you want to keep him for a couple of nights?” After this scene was repeated several more times and after the eventual break-up (with the boyfriend, not the dog,) Lucky was mine for keeps. It was not an easy transition. Lucky was a growler and true to his breed, not a fan of children. Nonetheless, my daughter adored him unconditionally. I did everything short of tying a pork chop around her neck to foster a positive relationship between dog and daughter. But, despite all of my efforts, Taylor and Lucky were never close and instead maintained a distant yet respectful relationship.
Though Lucky has always seemed to be lawsuit waiting to happen, I have to say I have never had a more devoted and watchful companion. I do believe (given several break-ins around the neighborhood during a certain time-frame) that he has truly been my protector, especially during the years I was a single Mom. He and my (current) husband had to have a come-to-Jesus when Donnie first moved in to establish who was the alpha dog. Once the dust settled, Lucky was as happy if not more so to see Donnie than me to come home at the end of a work day. And, Donnie, being a true animal lover, has embraced Lucky as his own and has provided him with love cuddles and treats.
The only time that I have seen my husband cry was the day that we put Hemy down, a couple of years ago. Hemingway had been ailing for quite awhile. By this time, he was 20 years old. I had been in denial about the inevitable and it was my daughter who suggested that perhaps the time had come. My Tabby, Hemy was miserable, vomiting all the time and sluggish.
All three of us took him to the vet’s office. We were in the room when the shot to calm and sedate him was administered. Both Taylor and I were crying softly and quietly petting him. Then, I heard the most heart wrenching sound behind me – my animal loving husband, who could not shed a tear over people dying…but for a cat that he had a tenuous relationship with…was truly in mourning for the passing of our beloved cat.
Then came Minnie. I have always willingly mocked folks that cater to their small dogs. I snickered at them, the ones who carried their beloveds in the grocery store. I prejudiciously laughed out loud at the Bocahontases who pushed their diminutive pwessusses in buggies through the mall.
Then, after an ill-advised purchase of a Chihuahua puppy at a PET STORE (never do this – always adopt), I fell head over heels, completely, irrationally in love with a dog. I do believe that the firm “shutting the door on my fertility” had something to do with it…but, for whatever reason, I am now one of THEM. To wit, Minnie in her Buggy at the Renaissance Festival.

Minnie has had a huge effect on our lives. We hired a personal dog trainer for ten weeks when she first came to live with us. We got our vet on speed dial. She came on vacation with us (on a plane!) She has been my joy, my cuddles, my companion for the last two years. And yes, I imagine she is a baby substitute. (But she will never talk back to me or sass me!) After 2 years, Minnie is still the pleasant focus of our lives. She is fully housebroken, trots into her crate on demand and knows and responds to all basic commands. She curls up with me at night, nestling her head into the crook of my arm, and sighs…as though this is the position she has been waiting to be in for her entire life.
Taylor, for as much as she is pushing away from me, acts jealous about Minnie. It is almost as though she has a sibling competing for parental attention.
But yes, with Minnie, I have gotten to that irrational stage of love for my dog…I have become one of ‘those’ people that I used to mock and ridicule.
Though I may be a bit extreme, I would love to hear comments about the pets that you have had…..

The Best Days

2010-03-20T23:16:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was a really good day. Firstly, Fridays are my favorite day of the week. And, it felt as though the nasty cold that had kicked my ass every day since last Sunday was finally, gradually relinquishing its hold on my head, sinuses, body and disposition. I also had a busy yet productive day at work. Then, as the proverbial cherry on the top of the cake of my day, I attended a happy hour to celebrate the return to town of a woman who was once a co-worker and who’s grace, poise, beauty, gift for writing and zest for traveling and living I admire greatly.
During the happy hour event, I got not only to briefly touch base with her, but also connect on a more personal level with other people from work, which was very satisfying. When I drove home afterwards, I put the top down on my beloved convertible, Casey, and turned the radio up. I thought, “it is a good day to be alive.”
I got home, got onto my computer and arranged a girl’s night out for late May, for the opening of the movie Sex and the City 2. I sent the invite out to at least 20 women and got another thrill when I received 4 confirmations back within a few minutes…and this was at 10 o’clock at night.
I was really heartened and inspired by having such a great day. I wanted to call people and say “this was SUCH a great day.”
By this morning, I was thinking…what constitutes a great day? And what are my top ten? Thus I was inspired to create a list.
Unlike Letterman would, I list them in no particular order (except the last one is the best!):
1. 10/1987 - The day that I realized I was in love for the first time – It was a knock your socks off, passionate, all-consuming love. And, like many first loves, it did not last. But, I will never forget him nor the passion that consumed my late teens and early twenties. (I am still in touch with him sporadically, which makes me happy…I like to know that he is well and healthy.)

2. 02/1995 -The day that I found out I was pregnant with Taylor – my mildly raucous behavior earlier on had made me irrationally fear that I had affected my ability to conceive. The stick that I peed on 5 minutes later produced a little plus sign that put my fears to rest and changed my life.

3. 04/2007 -The day that I married my husband – I had already been living with my husband to be and had been friends with him for the better part of a decade. But on our wedding day, when my nerves were amped up and I was questioning everything…he took my hand in his and the quiet, resolved, unshakable look in his eyes made everything okay and right. To this day, when he takes my hand and looks in my eyes, I feel that my world is level, loving and where it is supposed to be.

4. 03/1999 - The day that I found out that Taylor was gifted – I suppose this one is a little snooty, but I felt such great satisfaction the day that I got the results from the private psychologist that her dad and I had hired. My kid is smart! Not only was she smart, but she was in the range of genius! Mind you, I would have loved her no matter the intellectual package she would have come in. But at the time, I felt vindicated. I ate well during pregnancy, ate protein in the last trimester to boost her developing brain cells, I breastfed her until she was 22 months.

5. 06/1995 - The day I found out she was a she – I always imagined myself having a girl. So, when the ultrasound tech asked me during my one and only scan of my one and only pregnancy, “Do you want to know the gender of the baby?,” I hesitated. What if it was a boy? I might need some time to readjust my thinking. But my husband at the time saved me by saying “YES! Yes, we want to know.” The tech confirmed what my tenuous heart already knew….that I was having a daughter.

6. 01/2007 - The day of the Girls Luncheon prior to my wedding – It was as though all the stars were aligned. My Matron of Honor came down from Maine. All of the women I care most about came to a little Mexican restaurant in downtown Boca. The lunch only lasted 2 hours, but the glow I felt from being surrounded by such bright, beautiful women has lasted years.

7. 05/2008 - The Movie Sex and the City – I got to see this movie, surrounded by wonderful women I call my friends in a very posh way. I booked tickets early and had 7 lovely girlfriends come to watch a very important movie (to me) with me. We got to have cosmos, wine and real food and nestle comfortably in great seats. After the movie, we came to my house to discuss it.

8. 02/2003 - The day of my first bonus – It wasn’t a great amount, but I felt recognized and felt really positive about the work I am doing with the generous company that I am still employed with today. The bonuses have just gotten better, but the pride I felt that day cannot be topped. It is a great company to work for.

9. 10/2002 - The day that I asked him to kiss me – otherwise a lot of things would have never happened.

10. 10/1995 - The birth of my daughter – Never did I ever imagine that I would be so present during the birth of my own child. When my midwife said, “reach down and pull your baby out, I did just that. I then lifted her onto my chest and began the relationship with Taylor, the beautiful creature who is now my 14 year old daughter.

So what about you? What are the happiest days of your life?

My Daddy

2010-03-13T17:59:00.000-08:00

Many things define me a person. Dutifully, I always top the list with the Mother and Wife titles first, but I must admit, I do take a great amount of pleasure in my career in corporate. Much more so as I have been able to share this with my Mentor, who is also my Father.

It was a career born of necessity at first. I was a single Mother of a tiny little girl and I had to make a living to support both of us. So, I took an entry level position in a well known company. And I have stayed with the same company, my upward trajectory continuing to rise, for the last 9 years. I found that I was really good at what I did and, having a natural proclivity to taking on any task, I was well-liked by any supervisor that I had. (Not necessarily so by all of my peers – but that is a different post.) When my dedication and hard work was recognized by my being promoted to a management title in under 3 years, my Father noted that I had beaten his personal record of the same milestone.

My working in big business had a special effect on my personal relationship with my Dad. Growing up, neither my Mom nor my four sisters or me could ever really say what he did in his line of work at IBM – though we certainly benefited from its spoils. My Mom never worked outside of the home. My sisters and I never wanted for anything - though we may have said differently during our childhood raised in tony Boca Raton. The Health Insurance we had would be unheard of today; go to any doctor, for any reason and 100% of the costs were paid for.

Now in my adulthood as I also worked in business, my Dad finally had a contemporary in his family. We would e-mail each other stock prices and business articles. Every so often, we would meet up for breakfast before our busy days at our respective offices. In the ensuing years, he became my sounding board as I faced increasingly difficult situations and people to work with. His advice was sound, sage and always came from a place of doing the right, ethical and moral thing, while never sacrificing face.

Thankfully, I inherited his driven Cuban work ethic and his advisory strategies were easy to implement. As the years passed I could tell my Dad was proud of me – proud of the Mother and businesswoman I had become.

I was equally, if not more, proud of the father, husband and man that he is. Miguel came to this country at the age of 15. His own Father, my Papi, fled pre-Castro Cuba, having seen the writing on the wall and desiring a better life for his family. My father entered High School not knowing the English language and was unfamiliar with the culture. He attended University of Florida, where he met my Mother. They married and settled in Ft Lauderdale. Early on in their marriage, he worked as a surveyor for I-95. Then, the tech company International Business Machines set up an office and manufacturing facility in Boca Raton. My Dad was hired as a line worker on the manufacturing floor in 1967.

IBM underwent many changes over the years, as did my father, who also got his Graduate Degree while working. Once a gruff disciplinarian (“wait ‘till your Father gets home!”) my Dad morphed into a loving, grateful, wise and generous soul.

His selfless nature was apparent when he had a heart attack in December 2004 while in upstate New York on a business trip. I myself was on the road for business when I got the call informing me of his situation. He had to have a quintuple bypass. I quickly booked flights and had 3 of my 4 sisters, my Mom and myself by his bedside that night, before he went into surgery. I was a mess…my eyes were welling from the tears I would shed and from the ones that had already slid down my cheeks. I held his hand and told him how much I loved him. And, at that moment, when he should have been making statements about his mortality and how scared he was to have his chest cracked open…he asked me to take my Mom and my sisters into New York City. I argued briefly that I had already seen the city and that it was 45 minutes away by train. He collared me, and made me promise that while he was in surgery, I would take the family to Manhattan. I did just that, because he asked me to (in a militant way – my sisters hated me) and marveled how he was able to think of his family and not of himself in such a harrowing time.

Through it all, Miguel continued to be a devoted employee of IBM. His supervisor at that time of his heart attack was (thankfully) a wise and considerate soul herself. And, over the next 6 years, my Father continued to spend time with (with a renewed devotion that only the’ near death’ can do) his family and poured every other part of himself into his work at IBM.

Then, at the beginning of this month, he got the news that every employed human being dreads. His supervisors positioned it that he was being “resourced out.” Essentially, my Dad was let go after 43 years of loyal service.

When he called me to tell me while I was out having dinner with a friend who is also a co-worker, I started to cry immediately. I know how much this means to him; that he was not allowed to put himself to pasture quietly…but was forced to do so. And I was so angry. Angry that he was denied his own exit, that he was fired instead of being able to plan his own departure from the workforce.

Unbeknownst to me, he knew the end was near and was already playing the game to ensure a hefty package. (As had been advised to him by the same wonderful woman who had once been his manager when he had his heart attack and is now his mentor)
He seems okay with it. He has been given March 31st as a final date. He already has thoughts on what he will do next in his career and is adamant that this one experience does not sour him on his entire career with IBM.

I am the one who is not okay with it. I want to confront someone, with fists flailing, and land a knuckle on whomever fired my Daddy.

A Sister's Birthday and Musings on Social Media

2010-03-06T21:42:00.000-08:00

The house is blessedly quiet (save for my husband’s snores from the couch) after a raucous, activity-filled day that started at 6:30 this morning.

We hosted my middle sister’s 31st birthday celebration this afternoon. And while I love spending time with my family (roll call this afternoon included my parents and 3 of my 4 sisters, their significant others, my Husband and my daughter), I always find myself over stimulated and a little stressed with the effort of trying to be the consummate perfect hostess. Thus, as the troops departed to see a late movie and my daughter joined them, I exhaled a quiet sigh as I wiped down the kitchen counters one last time.

I decided to post a picture of my birthday-celebrating sister on Facebook when I logged onto my computer to do a little writing this evening. Getting onto Facebook is a rarer occurrence for me these days ever since a wise and trusted advisor counseled me on the addictive and creativity-sucking nature of Facebook and Social Media in general. Now, I hop into that time warp medium every several days to post a picture or respond to a message rather than hourly to read acquaintances’ incessant Farmville updates.

When I logged on, I was greeted with a friend request from someone that I was friends with in 5th Grade through High School. While I had not spoken to her since the last day of Senior Year, I was happy to hear from her and to see that she was doing well with a beautiful family. I wrote her a quick note to tell her as much.

I thought about Taylor and telling her that I had reconnected with a friend that I knew from an age even younger than she is now. Just contemplating that blew me away. ..Taylor is meeting people and making friends that she will know or remember, when she is 40 years old.

Then my mind wandered even further. And I started to wonder…will she ever “lose touch” with someone? When everyone of my daughter’s generation has a My Space, Facebook, LinkedIn or Twitter account, ‘Auld Lang Syne’ may no longer have a literal meaning.

Likely, my daughter will never have to search for someone that she was once close with – they will never have stopped being ‘e-friends’ or ‘connected’ or ‘linked’ or whatever the future vernacular may be. Tay will probably never be surprised by the sender when opening an Inbox or Mailbox, or a snail mail letter for that matter…because everyone she has knows or has ever known will be electronically linked to her in some way or another.

I am conflicted as to if this is a good or bad thing. I do love hearing from old friends, about the paths that their lives have taken and take great satisfaction that our once-upon-a-childhood-friendship made enough of a lasting impact that they remembered me and wanted to reach out. Conversely, I have actively stayed friends with only a handful of people since my childhood and through adulthood. My private club, while not unwelcoming..is exclusive. You must pay your dues to get in. With all of the busyness of my life and my family’s, I feel like I do not have the extra bandwidth to be a good friend to many more people.

I read an article recently about the Facebook phenomenon by a psychologist who wrote that the human brain maxes out at about 150 friends. Yet, many Facebook users count far many more than that as their “friends.” I think again of Taylor, and how she will define friendship and relationships as she transitions into High School, then College and into adulthood.

This whole line of thinking then lead me to remember a quote that was used by a man that I dated several years ago. Okay, so it was on his search engine profile page (an early form of Social Media) – and he and I are no longer in touch. (Obviously, he and I were the second out of the three options below.) But, the sentiment still resonates.

“People come into your life in 3 ways; for a reason, for a season or for a lifetime.”

Already Missing Her

2010-03-03T18:28:00.000-08:00

Today I made plans to send my daughter thousands of miles away from me this summer to go to camp and visit family and friends. The physical distance we will have complements the emotional one that has crept insidiously into our relationship in the last few years.

The complexity of a teen daughter and mother relationship may be a common story, but it feels uncommon to me. My once sunny and amiable child turned into a young woman who is unfamiliar. Her moods are mercurial and usually sullen. And, while I know intellectually that this is part and parcel of raising a daughter, these moods still surprise me. And, I am not always proud of my reaction to them. Most of the time, I take the eye rolling, deep sighs, sassiness and back-talk in stride. Other times, I lash out, raising my voice and punctuate my anger and frustration with profanity.

The change did happen slowly. Perhaps this was Mother Nature’s way of giving me time to regulate, just as 9 months of pregnancy gave me time to adjust to the idea of becoming a Mother in the beginning of this journey. And the surprises that come with being a Mom have happened with some regularity since she was born.

Not the least of which was the surprise that I felt when I realized recently she is very much her own person; evidently, personality is not hereditary. I was a shy, reserved child. She is excited, nay, overjoyed at the prospect of being independent and meeting new people at the camp she will be attending on a lake in Maine. She cares not a whit that she will know no one.

Given all of the strife between us, you would think that I would be all too happy to send her away for a month. But, as I read the glowing online testimonials from other parents of children who attended this camp, my eyes welled. Soon, enough tears came that I was grateful no one poked their head into my office for a good half an hour this afternoon. The tears came from an overwhelming multitude of emotions. Pride – of the fact that I am able to provide her with this life experience and of her pluck. Happiness – for her as she has been pining for this experience for years. Mourning – a baby, a little girl she is no longer. And sadness – I will miss her dammit. She is the chunk of my heart that grew when she grew under it. When she leaves, she will painfully excise that vital piece of me and take it with her.

College looms, just 4 short measly years away. The passage of which she will spend pushing farther and farther away until that final leap out of my nest. I just hope that someone is ready to come over armed with a good bottle of chardonnay and a box of tissues in the Fall of 2014.

Cheering

2009-10-30T23:49:00.000-07:00

A couple of years ago, when Tay was in the 6th Grade, she made the Cheerleading Squad at her Middle School.

Cheerleaders must not only lead the cheers during Basketball games in her school, but also maintain (as in most sports) a minimum grade point average, as well as exhibit exemplary behavior and be an all-round positive example for other students. Tay was so proud to be one of the few chosen to represent her school. She accepted her duties readily. She seemed to glow and mature with the responsibility.

As she was doing well in her mostly advanced and / or gifted classes, was (thankfully) a child who was cautious and steered well-clear of trouble and was a contentious all around “good kid,” the requirements to stay on the squad came easily to her.

After a bout of the flu, which resulted in her missing some practices, which in turn resulted in her Mom (me, natch) attempting to communicate with an uncommunicative coach, which resulted in some unfortunate conferences with the school staff…Tay was not able to be a Cheerleader the following year in her 7th Grade.

The story of what happened is long and convoluted. There were tears shed and teeth gnashed.

But, my persevering daughter never let her dream die.

This year, her school has a new Cheering Coach. Tay, along with several of her contemporaries attended a Cheering “boot camp” of sorts this week for 3 days and then had try-outs for the squad on the 4th day. Tay was anxious and she was rusty. She practiced nervously and endlessly for me…dissecting each and every move that she had been tasked with remembering.

I was nervous for her. What if, after the painful memory of last year she didn’t make it? Of course, I would comfort her, be her ally and her rock in the storm. But what if she did? Of course I would be ecstatic for her, celebrate with her and rejoice that something that she has so desired was finally in her grasp. But I would also then start thinking about the schedules, the additional reminders about homework after a game and naturally, the image that I have in my own mind about the reputation of a Cheerleader.

As it turns out, I get to worry about the latter, as my girl made the squad. The tempering of the joy came from Tay herself.

She was of course very happy that she had made the squad. But she was also very sad. A good friend of hers...who had been practicing with her just as diligently, had not made it. Tay felt disloyal for even thinking of anything celebratory.

This made me even prouder of her. In her moment of triumph, she was thinking of others...not of herself.

Tay: I know that you will be demonstrating your “outer” Spirit at games and rallies in the months to come. However, it is your inner Spirit, Taylor, that makes me stand up and cheer.