Redux: The Best Snowstorm Story I've Got

There's no business like snow business, so time for a retread.

When we lived in Brooklyn in the mid 90s, we had two parakeets: Guido and Rudy. Unusual for a parakeet, Rudy could talk and it was pretty hilarious. He'd say things like "Lemme out, goddamit!" and "Beam me up, Scotty!". If one of us had a bad cold we'd suddenly hear Rudy "coughing".

One fateful morning we approached the cage and Rudy was puffed up like a big snowball (this isn't the snow-part of the story. Bear with me.) Below him lay Guido, dead as a doornail. Emma, age 9, was devastated (but at least she didn't have to spend the night with the corpse like Rudy had). She put Guido in a little box, took him out to the backyard of our brownstone and buried him. Then she sent him a postcard, addressed to "Quido, Heaven." (She could never pronounce "Guido". Some Italian SHE is!)

A few months later, Rudy was acting strangely. My husband Tony took him out of the cage and instead of flying around, he walked on the kitchen table like someone failing a sobriety test. Seeing his distress, Tony cradled him and the bird died in his hand. Very sad. Emma wanted to bury Rudy right next to Guido, but this was the winter of 1994 (storm after storm) and about 3 feet of snow covered the backyard. What to do...what to do...

Tony got some plastic wrap and wound it around the stiff little body of Rudy, and put him in the freezer to keep him preserved until he could get his proper burial. Every time the snow was about to melt, we got slammed with another storm. We knew that Rudy's internment would have to be postponed until Spring.

A few months passed and I got pregnant, so we made plans to move from Brooklyn to Greenwich, Connecticut during the summer so I'd be closer to my job.

A few weeks after the move in July, I bolted upright in bed one night and yelled: "RUDY!!!!" Yep...we had moved out of the house in Brooklyn leaving a Rudy-sicle in the freezer for the new tenants. After absorbing the horror of our mistake, we could not stop laughing. (And I'm pretty sure that "we found a dead frozen parakeet in the freezer" made a good story for those people as well, after the vomiting stopped.)

Happy Birthday, Lucas

My little guy turns NINETEEN today. How the heck did that happen? Why, just yesterday (wasn't it yesterday?) my water broke around 1AM on a Sunday morning. Within an hour we were driving from CT to NYC, the Pulp Fiction soundtrack blasting. One of the sometimes amusing and sometimes infuriating things about Lucas' dad was his coffee addiction. He could.not.function.without.coffee. So, for the last month of my pregnancy we had to make a pot every night before bed just in case, because if he didn't have time to make and drink coffee he wouldn't have been able to drive me to the hospital. Or, he would have fallen asleep at the wheel. (This coffee thing was chronicled in this post.) So, while I paced around the house contracting and cursing, he drank his coffee. We woke 9 year old Emma, put her in the car and off we went. Instead of yelling "son of a bitch" with each contraction along the way, I sang "Son of a Preacher Man". It worked just as well.

Lucas was born only 3 hours later. (Don't let anyone tell you that a short labor is better. I did it without drugs, as I had done 10 years earlier for Emma, but it wasn't easy.) Emma was present for all but the final few [intense] minutes, and she even gave him his first bath, right there in the birthing room.

He was a really amazing kid from the start. He walked at 9 months, spoke clearly by 18 months, in full sentances. It was almost creepy, because he never talked 'baby-talk'. No mother-translations were necessary. He imitated people. He told jokes. He learned to use the computer, working the mouse independently, before he turned 2 years old. He read the first Harry Potter book when he was 4. But along with his staggering intelligence came a tortured sensitivity, not terribly different from his dad's. He once told me that he was a "70-year old man in an 8-year old body". Then he lost his father, which gave him more to deal with than any 8 year old should have.

Quirky and interesting, empathetic to the pain and suffering of others (Katrina victims and citizens of Haiti have been on the receiving end of his generosity). Maybe experiencing his own devastating loss has created an understanding that most kids don't have. Still, he has remained a funny and entertaining kid to be around.

Someday, I hope he'll feel like an 8-year old boy in a 70-year old body. In the meantime, he's got a few adventures ahead of him.

And did I mention that it's Elvis' birthday, too?

Hello Stranger

Baby boomers have struggled for years with hypocritical "don't use drugs!" warnings to their own children, when in fact they themselves have almost no recollection of the late 60s and early 70s. But what about the standard message to avoid 'strangers'?

I've had online friends since I was pregnant with my son in 1994. Then, when I adopted Kelso in 2003, I joined a forum for other greyhound adopters and connected with people there. I started this blog in 2005 and have maintained online relationships with many other bloggers and readers of this blog. With VERY rare exception, I have never met these people and don't even know what their voices sound like, what regional accents they have, how tall they are. I don't think of them as anything less than my friends. Yet, when my son recently talked to me about some of the 'friends' he plays a video game with via Skype, it took every ounce of muscle control to keep my eyeballs locked in place. "They're not your friends!" I wanted to shriek, followed by "Don't smoke pot!"

Then I thought about my online people. People who supported me through all kinds of family drama, divorce, death, a myriad of illnesses as well as sharing in the many joys in my life over these years. I feel completely and totally connected to them, their families, their children I've watched grow, marry and have children of their own. I've felt crushed for them when they've lost someone close: human, canine, feline or even reptile. We've made contributions to each other's fundraising efforts, supplied votes in online competitions and in one case held an online memorial service for a woman who died after having her baby...and then each made one square for a quilt for that baby to keep. She'd be almost 19 now, like my son.

Sure, there have been jerks. There have been 'catfish'. One of those catfish fooled a LOT of intelligent adults with 'her' blog. This is something I did teach both of my kids...that you don't have to be stupid to be duped by someone online, that people who do this are very very good at it. If they were good people they'd be Oscar-winning actors. And believe me, I still think it's dangerous for children to interact online with people they don't actually know.

But for me, if I were to subtract all of the people I've met online since 1994 from my life, a big hole would remain. Even my doomed foray into online dating gave me fodder for a pretty funny blog post called "Dates with Nuts". The internet has forced us to redefine a lot of things not the least of which are the words 'friend' and 'stranger'. And maybe even family.

You Can't Make This Stuff Up - Redux

Given the bizarre coincidences that happened this week (the guy from Chesebrough Ponds who recognized me here in NOLA, 15 years later, AND the fact that my son's roommate shares my birthday and his mother shares my son's), I had to repost this which is clearly the most incredible coincidence I've ever experienced in my life. I challenge you to tell me a better one:


I know I haven't posted in a long time... sorry!! But something happened tonight that is too long for Twitter OR Facebook, so here I am. I'm also posting this on top of another bizarre incident I reported back in '07, so you can see how weird my life is in general.

Last week, I received an email from a company called Camp Meds. They are handling all medications required by campers at my son's (and apparently many others') camp. I'm not crazy about the idea, because you have to pay a $50 handling fee and you really don't know who is doing the handling.

Anyway, to increase my anxiety a little more, the email I got from them was intended for someone else, and attached to it was the personal profile and prescriptions of a camper who is NOT my son, along with a copy of the girls' mother's insurance ID card, phone numbers, etc.

I was horrified. I let them know and they pretty much blew it off as a "mistake". On Friday I decided to call the mother in Seattle to let her know what had happened.

She called me back today. We talked for awhile, she gave me her email address so I could forward the email to her, and then she said "You live in Westchester, right?" (she knew from my area code). I said yes, and she said she used to live in NY, but on Long Island. I asked her where on Long Island and when she told me the town, I said that my son's dad came from there. She initially thought he had MY last name and said that she didn't know the family, but when I said HIS last name she said, "Oh I knew them! I used to hang out at their house! Tony used to buy us liquor... I went to high school with Cindy..." She knew the whole damned bunch.

I still cannot believe it. And I thought the story below was the weirdest thing that ever happened to me...







--------


Pay close attention to all the details, for each one is critical to how this story plays out.

I normally leave my house at about 7AM and get to work at 7:30. This morning, because I was watching the news from Minneapolis, I left at 7:50. No biggie, except I knew there was a big management meeting/announcement taking place at 8:30 and I wanted to be sure to get there on time for that.

Since I pulled into the parking garage at 8:25, I went straight to the meeting instead of dropping my things off in my office first.

Most people had settled into their seats already, but I found one open chair next to my boss. I had to climb over a bunch of people to get to it, but I did it.

After the meeting was over, the 200 or so attendees filed slowly out. A woman walking next to me noticed my little shopping bag from a jewelry store in a town near mine. "I love that store!" she exclaimed. "Me too," I replied.

Then she said, "I used to shop there because I lived in V--- (my teeny town)". "I live in V---" now", I replied. "Oh, do you live in the O--- Condos?" "Er... yeah", I said...now getting a little creeped out. "Where in O---- do you live?" she asked. I told her my street name. She looked pale. "I lived on that street too...what number?"
"173", I said. "I lived at 172", she replied. By this time, both of our jaws had to be scraped off the floor.

Now, I tell you... what are the chances?? Like I said, normally I would have arrived at work early enough to drop my little shopping bag in my office. I could have sat ANYWHERE in that room of over 200 people. I've been sick all week, so chances were good I wouldn't even have been at work today.

I'm buying a lottery ticket. Seriously.

Testing Testing 1, 2, 3...M

Making good on my threat to resurrect the blog, but need to see what this new Blogger is all about. Hopefully someone will leave a comment so I can see what I'm up against here. Really don't want to have to start a new one in Wordpress.

Do the Math

The terrorists are responsible for the rise in texting while driving. Yes, here's my theory: Since 9/11, we not only have to watch the news but we also have to read a CRAWL of other news at the bottom of the screen. So the message is, it's not ok to do only ONE thing at a time. We read while watching TV, play computer games while we're on the phone, and therefore feel guilty if we're 'just' driving. At the very least, sitting at a red light without doing SOMETHING feels like time wasted. So the next time someone rear ends you while sending a critical "OMG" to her BFF, thank Bin Laden.

Back By Popular Demand - Christmas 1962

You know, Hollywood really isn't "Tinsel Town". Brooklyn, NY circa 1962 was most definitely Tinsel Town. Not to mention Ugly Slipcover Town, Hideous Lamp Town, and Flocked Wallpaper Town.

Still, I hope you enjoy seeing these old photos, mostly to check out the hot toys of the period. (My sister is holding a Barbie with a blonde bubble hairdo). These were a few of my all time favorites! The "Showboat" by Remco included the characters and scenery for four different plays. My favorite was Heidi, and my friend Andrew, not yet out of the closet at 8 but already a theater buff, always wanted to play "Frauline Rottenmeyer".



Here's a closeup:



Another huge favorite that year was the "Haunted House" by Ideal. All I remember about it was that there were tons of little doors and windows to open, and that it scared the crap out of me. What's not to love? Please note the black and white bowling bag in the background. Bowling-related gifts were big in my house. See the previous post re: the bowling obsession.


And here is my mother, who'd usually venture out of bed at about 10 AM, hours after we had ripped through all the booty.


My father wasn't big into getting up with us at 5AM, but I think he did most of the shopping and definitely made sure he bought stuff that HE would like (note the "Service Station" in the first photo). And when I was about ten, he bought me a HO Slot Car racing set and I honestly remember he and my uncle elbowing us out of the way so they could go head to head with 3" Lotuses and Porches. Whatever!

A Very Tacky Christmas Redux

Had to bring back this fan favorite, but it's been enhanced for your re-reading pleasure.







Never let it be said that I don't post unattractive photos of myself. This was certainly one from my five-year "awkward phase", but I couldn't resist. (Don't I look like the daughter of Edith Prickley? C'mon... you know I do!)

Christmas, 1960, Brooklyn NY. Click on the photo to see the important details: Fake tree, dripping with tinsel, sitting atop a room fan. Manger, not under the tree (because that spot was reserved for the room fan), but instead topping the Admiral television set (that TV had a record player in the drawer...snazzy!), under the bowling trophies. As mentioned previously, bowling trophies were everywhere in my house...including several on headboard shelves over my parent's bed. Hey, whatever turns you on! Note the Astro-Base, one of my favorite toys. Since I was the third girl, I lucked out and got all the cool "boy" stuff. And notice the game "Finance" which was clearly the bargain-basement version of Monopoly. My parents were the king and queen of Brand X.

In the background is my Aunt Mary, all primped up in what appears to be a dress with petticoat, and conversely there's my Dad, who clearly hasn't shaved for days.

It appears that someone also bought me a coat for Christmas and left the price tag on. That must have been my mother. (Why should Santa get the credit? She paid good money for that coat!)

And speaking of my mother... here's a classic Christmas moment from her: When my eldest sister got married and had kids, my parents would always visit them for the holidays. One year, when my niece (who was probably in her late teens) had opened a gift from my parents, she rose, said "Thanks, Grandma.." and went to give my mother a kiss. Ever the practical one, my mother waved her off and said "We'll all kiss at the end."

(When my father died in 1995, my sister and I sat together at the funeral and in one of those "break the tension" moments I looked at her and said, "We'll all cry at the end.")

The Ghost of Halloweens Past...

As some of you already know from past blog posts, I *love* Halloween. I thought I'd just post a bunch of Halloween pics from past years, apologies for those you've already seen.

Emma's first costume, a race car built around her stroller so she could "march" in our local Halloween Parade in Brooklyn.




Lucas as Clark Kent:


Lucas as Dexter (of Dexter's Laboratory on Nick)


Lucas as Waldo. I love Ebay.


Me as "Old Spice", the newest Spice Girl, for an office party:


And my all-time favorite photos... Emma as a "wacky travel agent" at age 10, and Lucas... the cutest damned Alfalfa at 10 months old.





In more recent times, we've included Kelso in the fun:

The cop and the convict:



"Greyhound's Anatomy":


Little Red Riding Hood and the Wolf Dressed as Grandma:




And in case you think I've lost my mind, consider where I'm coming from. My mother dressed me as the Virgin Mary for Halloween. I wasn't sure whether to ask for candy or a room at the Inn.

Desperate Times Call for Desperate Measures

I haven't blogged in AGES, but I want to win this so badly and one of the ways I can do this is to promote it here!

SOMEONE I know and love has a birthday coming up, and that someone would love this...

Wicked Witch Ruby Slipper Bookmark Giveaway!

Unreality TV

With the impending death of All My Children, I just had to repost this with a few updates




Before there was "Reality TV", there were Soap Operas. I confess, I TiVO "All My Children" every day and watch it every night. My sister and I will usually devote at least 15 minutes of our daily phone calls to discussing what happened in Pine Valley that day, as though we were talking about people we actually know.

And in some ways, we do know them. We've been watching since the beginning, and Erica Kane reminds us SO much of our middle, evil sister that we feel completely familiar (and familial) with her.

Soap Opera life has some very distinct advantages, as well as some general oddities that seem to exist in every sudsy town:

- Most people appear to have jobs, but few ever have to show up for work.

- Almost everyone in town works at the hospital. This usually leads to family members treating other family members (when and if those medical professionals actually show up for work). There are no doctor's offices, no pediatrician's offices. Kid gets a cold? Take her to the hospital!

- People frequently commit crimes (trying to kill others, for example) but the police are rarely called. Pine Valley has a Police Chief but he usually lets the would-be murderer go free once he gets the nod from the would-be murderee. (And he just illegally swapped his dead newborn with a box o' baby that was left in a patrol car. Nice one, Jesse.)

- Soap opera people never get colds but they frequently lapse into comas, go blind, get trapped in floods, develop amnesia, get stuck in quicksand and get kidnapped.

- Soap opera houses (even mansions) are never locked. People walk in and out at will.

- Only in soap operas are housekeepers named "Lucretia".

- Soap opera people often fake their own deaths. Generally, if a body is not found, you can be fairly certain to see the "dead" person again once their attempt at non-daytime TV fails.

- Soap opera people never say "goodbye" when they finish a phone call, have only recently started using cellphones and NEVER watch TV unless someone in town just got arrested.

- Pregnant women develop a belly, but don't gain weight anywhere else.

- Soap opera kids should be morbidly obese because moments after entering a room they are always whisked away for cookies or ice cream.

- No one ever has pets.

- People frequently come back to town looking like someone else, after "amazing plastic surgery" which apparently also involves a voice transplant.

- Soaps take "love/hate relationships" to a whole new level.

- One of the aforementioned hospital jobs is apparently "hair and makeup", since comatose women continue to be completely madeup and coiffed.

- Almost everyone winds up finding out they have children they didn't know existed, including the women.

The best soaps are the ones that don't take themselves seriously, which is why I love AMC. My favorite Erica line of all time was years ago, when she was married to and hated Adam Chandler. Adam had been kidnapped and Erica was getting ransom notes. She suggested to her mother that a good way to get rid of Adam would be to refuse to pay the ransom. When her mother looked horrified, a reassuring Erica explained, "But Mother! I'M not going to kill him... the kidnappers are!"

Gotta love it. Gonna miss it.

All in the Family

Having most of my online time sucked by Facebook and Twitter has meant very little or no blogging for me. Oh, I run a rerun from time to time but haven't taken the time to really WRITE. I'm determined to do more actual writing this year. We'll see.

In the meantime, I'll use this space to shamelessly plug the new blog that my daughter Emma has started. It's a children's book review blog called Short Easy Words like "What About Lunch?".

She really understands what children like, and many of her reviews are/will be written after "test driving" the book during story time at the Scholastic Bookstore in Soho where she works.

If you have kids or know anyone who does, pass it on!

Six Weird Things

A blog post from 2006, pertinent because of #4. I have not collected these in a long time, but now I can add one to the list: Jared Lee Loughner.

My blog buddy Metro Dad posted a meme called "Six Weird Things About Me That I Haven't Blogged About Before". Since I'm pretty uninspired in the writing department these days (work is sucking my brains out), I figured this is an easy one to keep you entertained:



1. I have been struck by lightning.
Yes, I really have been. I was about 22 years old, sitting in my apartment watching an electrical storm. I sat on the window sill with my hip against the metal casement window, and my foot on the radiator. Perfectly grounded. The next thing I knew, it felt like someone had thrown a rock through the window and I did air time across the room. I was shaking and crying and had a nice big burn on my thigh. I know now that I should have been checked out for neurological damage, but I didn't know it then. Being struck can lead to all kinds of things like depression and anxiety, both of which I have. Who knew?

2. I cannot stand beans of any kind.
Can't even be in the same room as a bean. This is really because my father tortured me with them as a child...the classic "eat them cold for breakfast the next morning" scenario. Baked beans, kidney beans, and worst of all...lima beans. Not the green ones, the white "cannelini"variety. The pivotal incident happened when I was about five. That night at dinner he told me that I didn't have to eat my lima beans. I could not believe my good fortune! Too good to be true! Indeed...when it was time for dessert, I got a big bowl of vanilla ice cream -- riddled with my previously discarded beans. I had to eat the entire thing until I gagged. (My mother recently told me that the intention was to get me to like beans by 'disguising' them. Uh huh.) I can barely write this paragraph without vomiting.

3. I am named as Inventor on an International Patent application.
I developed a web-based application for the multi-billion dollar company I work for, at a point in time when the type of work I do was rarely managed by computers, let alone web-based applications. The patent was for a "method of doing business" and I wrote the document myself (our patent attorney didn't understand enough about what the system was). The patent has been pending since 1999, but since other companies have since developed similar systems, we are no longer pursuing it.


4. I collect newspaper clippings about murderers and serial killers whose names contain either "Wayne" or "Lee".
You would not believe how many there are! AND... one extensive study of serial killers was conducted by Wayne State University. You cannot make this stuff up.

5. I never test drive cars before I buy them.
I know, it makes no sense. But at this point in my life it's tradition. (The same rule does not apply to husbands, although I can't say the test-drive has helped me anyway.)

6. I have an irrational fear of bees.
I have never been stung, but I worked as a research assistant one summer to an allergist who was doing a report on bee sting deaths in the US over a 10 year period. No conclusions could be drawn. Some people, like beekeepers, had been stung a million times...then, BAM. Dead. Others had never been stung before. First time, BAM. Dead. Some knew they were allergic and were being treated. Didn't matter. Some dropped dead, some went into anaphylactic shock, one was in a coma for 30 days, one had complete internal hemmhoraging. While other 16 year old girls were working at the supermarket that summer, I was transcribing accounts of doom and gloom and having a recurring nightmare about getting a box of bees in the mail. Twilight Zone, I think.

Why I Became a Feminist

My annual Thanksgiving weekend blog post!




Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving turned me into a radical feminist. Or, maybe I was born one and Thanksgiving just confirmed my inate belief that women have traditionally been treated (sometimes willingly) as second-class citizens.

Of course it wasn't just this particular holiday that validated my beliefs. Every Sunday, during the eleventy-seven course extravaganza known as "dinner", the same dynamic would be present. But I refused to buy in, even as a little girl.

In this photo, I am seven years old. I'm wearing an apron, as is my grandmother, my mother and my middle sister (for some reason, my eldest sister on the near left either escaped kitchen duty or shed the apron immediately afterwards. (My mother also seems to be either admiring the nasty perm she forced on my stick-straight hair, or she's thinking "You'll wear the apron and you'll LIKE it..."

I didn't mind the prep work all that much. My grandmother always made the macaroni from scratch. (the term "pasta" was never used. It was macaroni, no matter what it looked like.) She'd let us knead the dough and then she'd roll it out and cut the squares of ravioli or strips of lasagna. She'd lay a sheet on her bed, sprinkle it with flour, and place the finished pieces on it to dry. Also placed there were the strips of dough that would never make it to the table...gobbled up raw like so many strings of licorice. We loved the raw dough.

We'd stir the gravy (no, not sauce or tomato sauce...it was gravy), helped roll the meatballs, cut the provolone into little squares for antipasto. We sliced the pepperoni, put the turkey in the oven, rolled up the braciola (pronounced: bra-JOLE) and prepared plates of salad that featured iceberg lettuce, black olives and a red vinegar that came from the wine cellar in our basement. All of that was kind of fun.

The meal was generally a festive event (unlike our daily family meals, which are fodder for another post altogether). Everyone drank homemade Chianti (even the kids, and my mother who would offend everyone by putting orange juice and ice cubes in hers), and stuff themselves with everything from soup to nuts. Quite literally: Minestrone, antipasto, macaroni, meatballs and other meats, followed by salad, turkey, fruit and nuts. My grandfather would entertain us by cracking walnuts on his bald head. Then, percolated coffee accompanied by cake, pastries and cookies that were also sometimes made by my grandmother...particularly the anisette cookies with pignoli nuts. Those were my favorites.

But it was the after-party that infuriated me. The women would begin clearing the table and marching like lemmings back into the kitchen to clean up. Remember, this was before dishwashers and Teflon. We're talking HOURS worth of pot scouring, washing and drying dishes, wrapping leftovers, wiping down counters and tables and collecting linens. The men would do the thing that has spawned cliches to this very day: sit around the living room and watch TV, with their belts and flys open to free their bloated bellies.

By the time I was 7 or 8, I'd take advantage of the commotion and slip away. Thanksgiving would usually take place, as it did here, in my grandparents' apartment upstairs from us in our two-family home. I'd make my way downstairs and in the peace and quiet of my room, or better yet our "finished basement", I'd read the newspaper. When I began to do this on Sundays as well, I'd tiptoe down there and read the Herald-Tribune and my favorite comic strip: Miss Peach (little kids with giant heads).

As an adult, I once dated a guy whose family still functioned this way on holidays. The women cooked, the women cleaned up. The men ate, the men digested. When he suggested that I join the feminine cleanup brigade, I asked if we were going to pick up the plates with our vaginas. He decided to help out, and I was happy to assist him.

A Loss of Innocence - An Annual Repost

We were never safe. We just thought we were, and it's hard to remember what that felt like. As significant as BC and AD, 9/11 changed everything.

I've always been a morning news person, usually flipping on the TV as I get dressed for work, background music to the routine of my daily life. For some unknown reason, that day I got up, got Lucas and Emma off to school and went to work without turning on the television or even the radio in my car. (Because I work in CT, we had moved from the city to be closer to my job in 1994.)

On the morning of 9/11, as I drove to work, my cellphone rang. It was a friend of mine, telling me that a plane had hit the towers. I started laughing, thinking that he was pulling my leg because of plans we had made to go to Windows on the World in a few weeks. He kept trying to tell me what had happened, and I almost hung up on him. Then, he told me about the Pentagon and my stomach fell. I knew, then, that he was serious. And that we as a nation were in trouble.

I don't remember the rest of the drive to work. I got there and stood in the lobby of our building, watching CNN on the plasma screen TV and seeing the towers fall. I remember one of the marketing managers saying, "We need to kill the fuckers!" We all stood there in shock, not knowing what was really happening, seeing the images of an enormous dust cloud chasing frantic crowds around narrow street corners. We tried to think of people we knew who worked in the towers, or who may have had meetings there that day. Mostly I remember thinking that this was it. That World War III had started and my children would not live to see adulthood.

If you did not live in NYC or the tri-state area at that time, there are memories I can only try to describe to you. In the days that followed the attacks, the weather was almost inappropriately beautiful, and the skies without ANY air traffic left us in an eerily quiet state. Like when the power goes out in your house you realize how loud your refrigerator really is. People were extraordinarily kind to each other. We looked into each others eyes and felt a connection like never before.

Having grown up in the city and spent most of my adult life living in Manhattan and Brooklyn, I had to get down there as soon as I could. I wanted to hug my city. On the Sunday after the attacks, I took the train to Grand Central, with my camera and a notepad to record my experience. As the train made its way to the city, the doors opened at one stop and several menacingly loud "gangsta" guys got on the train and started banging on the doors, seeming to enjoy the fear that they could so easily instill in the passengers whose nerves were already frayed. The rise in adrenalin was plapable. The big bad thing had happened. Now, anything was possible. We got to the city without incident.

I walked from Grand Central Station to Canal Street, which is probably about three miles, taking pictures as I went. There was still a sense of hope, that the moms and dads and brothers and sisters and children on the flyers might somehow be found. But the prevailing sentiment, the most powerful and overwhelming hope, was that our government would not use this event, use our pain and our loss, to start a war.

There were two songs I heard that day as I walked. One was Kate Smith singing "God Bless America" (what this little boy is listening to on a gramophone in Washington Square Park).


The other was John Lennon, pleading that we "Give Peace a Chance."


Here's the video I made. Wish I could say "enjoy". (put your sound on)

These ARE the Good Ol' Days

Since there's a new variation of the old "Good Old Days" email circulating right now, I thought I'd repost one of my favorite blog posts/rebuttals for your entertainment.

OK, this "Good Ol' Days" thing has been making the email rounds for the past few years, so I like to repeat this post from time to time. It's my personal rebuttal, and I know lots of you don't agree, but hey... that's what makes blogging so much fun, right? The 40s, 50s, 60s and 70s might have been the "good ol' days" for straight white adult men, but that's about it. So here we go, line by line...

“We were born in the 40's,50's,60's,70's.
We survived being born to mothers who smoked and/or drank while they carried us."

We survived? How many people born in those decades were born prematurely, and/or at a ridiculously low birth weight? How many now have cancer, asthma, diabetes, eating disorders, alcoholism and a host of other ailments? Yep...let's bring back those good ol' days of smoking and drinking while sporting a big belly full 'o baby.

"They took aspirin, ate blue cheese dressing and didn't get tested for diabetes."

Yeah! And don't forget the boozing and puffing!

"After that trauma, our baby cribs were covered with bright colored lead-based paints."

Which apparently DID cause brain damage, based on the number of people who continue to circulate this thing.

"We had no childproof lids on medicine bottles, doors or cabinets and when we rode our bikes, we had no helmets, knee pads, elbow pads, butt pads etc."

You know, my kids' lives have really had the fun sucked out by all this "safety". I mean really. Who was ever hurt by a good skull-cracking, or by downing a bottle or two of Drano?

"As children, we would ride in cars with no seat belts or air bags. Riding in the back of a pick up on a warm day was always a special treat."

I especially liked it when we slammed into another car at about 80mph. (no speed limits either!) That feeling of sailing through the air is just something that can't be described, because those who experienced it are DEAD!

"We drank water from the garden hose and not from a bottle. We shared one soft drink with four friends, from one bottle and no one actually died from this."

And there was something kind of COOL about having the same oozing cold sore as all of your friends!



"We ate cupcakes, bread and butter and drank soda pop with sugar in it (or a brewski in the case of my little cousin Joe here), but we weren't overweight because WE WERE ALWAYS OUTSIDE PLAYING!"

Except when we were at the dentist, or getting whacked upside the head for being “hyperactive”. And as statistics bear out, you're most likely overweight NOW.

"We would leave home in the morning and play all day, as long as we were back when the streetlights came on."

In fact, we'd keep track of how many men exposed themselves to us in the course of a day, or try to take us for a ride to shop for a new puppy. Or, we'd get to spend unsupervised "playtime" with our horny older cousins. Poor kids these days have to wait until high school to see someone else's genitals.

"No one was able to reach us all day. And we were O.K."

See above.

"We would spend hours building our go-carts out of scraps and then ride down the hill, only to find out we forgot the brakes. After running into the bushes a few times, we learned to solve the problem."

Actually, crashing into an oncoming garbage truck was even better. We were the original "Jackass".

"We did not have Playstations, Nintendos, X-boxes, no video games at all, no 99 channels on cable, no video tape movies, no surround sound, no cell phones, no personal computers, no internet or internet chat rooms..........WE HAD FRIENDS and we went outside and found them!"

Until we grew up and sent this stupid list to everyone in creation on the [horrors] INTERNET!

"We fell out of trees, got cut, broke bones and teeth and there were no lawsuits from these accidents."

Newsflash: no one is making money from "accidents". It's negligence that costs you.

"We made up games with sticks and tennis balls and ate worms and although we were told it would happen, we did not put out very many eyes, nor did the worms live in us forever."

Funny thing, a kid on my block actually DID lose an eye to a stick. But hell, that's why you get two, right?

"We rode bikes or walked to a friend's house and knocked on the door or rang the bell, or just walked in and talked to them!"

It was REALLY cool when we walked in and their mom and dad were doin' the wild thing!

"Cheerleaders and little league had tryouts and not everyone made the team. Those who didn't, had to learn to deal with disappointment. Imagine that!!"

Yeah. That came in handy when those over-sensitive females or other undesirables wanted to be on the team. And now you have all those fat cheerleaders. What is this world coming to?

"The idea of a parent bailing us out if we broke the law was unheard of. They actually sided with the law!"

This one brings back a particularly heart-warming moment in my own childhood when my father advised us: "Don't ever tell me the nun hit you or I'll give you twice as much." Man, I miss him.

"This generation has produced some of the best risk-takers, problem solvers and inventors ever!"

Not to mention psychiatric patients, child molesters, and serial killers.

"The past 50 years have been an explosion of innovation and new ideas."

You mean innovations like the aforementioned personal computers, the internet, child-safety caps and seatbelts?

"We had freedom, failure, success and responsibility, and we learned how to deal with it all! If YOU are one of them! CONGRATULATIONS! You had the good luck to grow up as kids, before the lawyers, and the government regulated our lives for our own good."

And if you're one of the unlucky ones who ate lead paint, overdosed on your mother's Valium, or became a paraplegic after being thrown from your father's pickup truck...OH WELL!! At least you had fun!

Puppy Love

The first post I ever put on my blog about Kelso...Original post date 1/6/05. In honor of his passing this past Saturday night, I thought I would post it again.
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Two years ago, I made the decision to adopt a retired racing greyhound. My son's dad was diagnosed with terminal cancer and I thought that adding a dog to the family might help with the inevitable loss (god, was I nåive). Getting a puppy was out of the question, so I began to investigate various breed rescues. A friend at work told me about his neighbor's greyhound and I went online to do some research. Lo and behold, I came across REGAP of CT, submitted an application requesting a "big, docile male who is good with kids" and within 2 weeks we had our boy.

He arrived with the name Zider Zee (blech) but since racing dogs aren't too attached to their names we changed it to Kelso. This was a little nod to my father, who loved horse racing, as Kelso was a famous horse who ran in the 1970s.

I cannot remember life without Kelso. As I type this, he is sleeping at my feet with his head settled heavily upon my insteps. As with most things I do, not only did I fall in love with Kelso but I became involved with greyhound adoption efforts. Now that we live in Westchester County, NY, I am associated with Greyhound Rescue and Rehab

So...thinking of getting a dog? Please don't buy a pedigreed dog from a breeder (or god forbid a "puppy broker"). Rescue a mutt from the pound, or if you have your heart set on a purebred dog...consider a retired racing greyhound. They are bred as athletes, not for a cute nose or curly tail, and as such have fewer genetic health problems.

Woof.

Run Sally Run!

My father, Sal, died in 1995, about four months after being diagnosed with lung cancer and having successful surgery with a good prognosis. He, however, was convinced he was dying and managed to will himself a fatal heart attack. My mother was never very good with sick people, including us, exhibiting far more exasperation than empathy. For that reason we felt lucky that she didn't have to nurse him through a long illness, because Florence Nightengale she ain't.

Her complete disconnect from anything emotional didn't take a hiatus on the day of his funeral. You might think that the most shocking moment was when, during the post-cemetary gathering back at her house, she emerged from the back bedroom cheerily holding up a pair of my dad's golf shoes. "WHO'S A SIZE 9??" she called out to the stunned friends and family, some of whom nearly choked on their ziti.

But that was actually NOT the classic moment of the day. That took place at the gravesite, after a solemn ceremony and the lowering of his flag-draped coffin. The funeral director took the flag, folded it gently and gave it to my mother. Everyone rose to walk back to their cars, but instead of following along she ran up to the poor man and said "Do ya take Discover??"

You can't make this stuff up.