STRIVE

The other day I stayed home from work with a fever and bronchitis.

Of course my cold doesn't stop the world from turning and since I live in the city that never sleeps I got to stay home and do five loads of laundry. I then had to pick up my son from school and walk over to Pier 40 on the west side highway where he has his baseball afterschool session.

There's nothing like having a fever in 90 degree heat with no voice or breathing capacity. And like all devoted 9 year old boys, my son couldn't give a shit. As long as the old broad shows up with a sports bar and a Gatorade - life is as it should be.

So I sat there baking in the afternoon sun like any other masochistic over compensating mom with a high pressure career would. After a point even the nannies started taking off for some shade and water.

I wandered down Washington Street and found a dunkin donuts on the first floor of a carpenter's union building - talk about excellent product placement. The store must be making money hand over fist. I sat there for 10 minutes in the glorious air conditioning listening to the theme of St. Elmo's Fire blasting out of the sound system. I must have been near the end of my rope because I actually became nostaligic for the 80's....which was actually a great decade for me. It's just that St. Elmo's Fire had nothing remotely to do with it.

I resigned myself to return to the Sahara like sports complex I escaped from and and began walking behind a lively young woman in beautiful athletic gear. She had the word STRIVE tattooed across the back of her neck in all caps. I stood behind her waiting for the light that would deliver her to the bike/running path along the Hudson River and me to another thirty minutes in the blinding sun.

Here she was. A young hopeful twentysomething - inspiring the world with one word. STRIVE. All I could think of was - what happens if she runs into a jag in her life (like we all do) when we sit on our asses and deconstruct after the loss of a job, a relationship, a family member, or a dream?

What happens when she doesn't live up to the back of her neck and it shows? What if she became a heroin addict or an anorexic?

I've decided that if I have a tattoo placed on the back of my neck it will either say:

SHIT HAPPENS

or

DON'T FOLLOW ME. I'M LOST TOO!

The Bitch is Back

I've been totally out of the blog mode for the last few weeks. My life is seriously insane. I just need to get into a routine and things will be cool again.

The original title of this post was supposed to be "Fuck My Fucking Cellphone". My beautiful, nice, low key cellphone died a few months ago. I replaced it not knowing that I could keep my old number.

It's been chaos ever since. This new rogue phone of mine has a terrible number that I just can't embrace. I'm an 8 girl. I've always been an 8 girl and this new phone number is a friggin tribute to the number 7.

7 is just so nowhere with me. I refuse to memorize this new number. It's like I'm dating down with this number and I just don't want to invest the time.

But I'm not dating down. It's more like I have an arranged marriage with this new phone number and there is no getting out of it. I have a bloody mental block against my cellphone number! Insane.

And to boot, my new phone can take photos (who cares) but it has NO icon to tell me when I have messages SO I never check my messages until it is toooooo late. Friends look at me oddly because I never refer to their calls. One of my closest friends lives in L.A. The phone plays a critical part in our relationship. He just told me I could basically F Off for not returning his calls in the last two months.

This is NOT good.

What? Me Worry?!

I need to do all this stuff at once

1. Get to cruise control with a big fat promotion and the huge fundraising responsibilities that go with it.

2. Find a new home in a foreign non east village place.

3. Find a new school for Ben maybe in NYC maybe not depending where we live so I have to apply out to four distinctly different schools.

4. Get all our finances in order....and I use that term loosely.

5. Have total responsibility for school drop offs and pick up (for the first time in seven years).

Welcome to the hell that is my life right now. Now you know why my blogging has slowed down to a halt.

9/11

It's been six years. And each year as it approaches I wonder if this will be the year that I don't feel the tears welling up in my eyes the night before.

I was so happy that it was raining and gray out this time around because it was so spectacularly sunny and beautiful in 2001.

I'm lucky to have an office with an expansive window facing the mammoth Riverside Church - a beautiful landmark along Riverside Drive by West 120th. They rang the bells to commemorate when each building collapsed (around 10 am). I was so thankful to them for not forgetting or putting it behind them like so many New Yorkers have (because they must).

In the morning I was listening to WNYC discuss 9/11 - what small events were planned, coupled with a few brief interviews. My son Ben kept on shutting off the radio - which was really odd. Then I asked why and he said "mom, I don't want to hear about 9/11 anymore, it's in my life everyday." So we turned off the radio for good.

9/11 had a terrible impact on Ben. He was almost 4 and stood on the roof with us as the second plane crashed and the first tower fell and chaos began. He watched his parents freaking out and started crying and hitting the television when it showed the second tower crumbling - and sensed his parents confusion and fear. For months afterwards he crashed his planes into his building blocks and drew pictures of the towers falling. It was very hard on him.

He must have overheard some of our conversations with concerned parents and friends about whether to get out of the city (we refused to), what the hell the white dust was covering our windows, the terror of the anthrax scare that killed someone on the subway and the neighborhood plastered with pictures and flyers of lost loved ones, having to wear surgical masks for two weeks because the air was unbreathable and having to show an I.D. to get to our homes below 14th street. And all of the firemen and emergency workers driving up and down the empty avenues digging up the dead in the debris. Now they are dying and begging the government to recognize their illnesses. A fine thank you.

I know I'm going on and on. It's gone. But the scar is permanent.

Coney Island Cyclone(s)

So, where were you on Labor Day? I'll tell you where I was.

First I was here watching the Brooklyn Cyclones beat the Staten Island Yankees.

I MORTIFIED my son by bringing carrot and celery sticks with us...can't help it...it's the Alice Waters in me! He chomped on them discreetly but was almost certain that someone in the park would find me out and make a citizen's arrest. He literally forced me to cover the veggies with my hands for fear of being discovered.



Then I was here with Ben as we watching Brian practicing his own brand of therapy:

I love watching my husband on the Cyclone. He's so liberated and thrilled to be there. I love watching everyone on the Cyclone. I guess it's my brand of porn. I love watching people being absolutely thrilled and out of control.

Brian insisted that I have to join him on this plunging colossus for his birthday. I used to LOVE rollercoasters but after a wicked bad middle ear infection followed by a severe case of vertigo, I put rollercoaster rides right up there with pelvic exams. Looks like I'll be saddling up for both this fall!

Yeehaa!

Glad to hear the Coney Island will be open for the next few years...at least that's what I understand from the news.

The 2007 Howl Festival

One of the last relics of the East Village that somehow managed to survive gentrification.

But where is Wigstock 2007 to go with it?!!

It's like a eating a cupcake without the frosting.

No....it's like a eating a cupcake without your six inch heels, false eye lashes, sequined miniskirt and Dusty Springfield wig on.

Lady Bunny....say it ain't so!

For more info on the HOWL Festival click:

HOWL