Proceed with Caution

My younger sister is learning to drive after all these years.

I'm really proud of her because it's always been a challenge she was reluctant to take.

So she's taking lessons here in Manhattan. After two or three classes, they put her on the friggin' FDR Drive!!!! Then they drove through the South Bronx.

They say that fear can be a great motivator.

My younger sister on the FDR Drive is like teaching Janis Joplin to drive during a NASCAR event.

But hell, she's still alive and so everyone else.

Go Speed Racer!

May the Force be With You

Ben and I were talking about the problem the Catholic Church is having recruiting men to the priesthood.

He started to chuckle to himself and said "Maybe in the future they'll develop robot priests who can marry people."

Now that's something I'd like to stick around for.

Veteran's Day

the CBS five-month study found that vets were "more than twice as likely to commit suicide in 2005 as non-vets." Chillingly, though the Veterans Affairs Department estimates that "some 5,000 ex-servicemen and women will commit suicide this year,' that's a lowball estimate. Said Keteyian: "Our numbers are much higher than that, overall."

Update, 5:30pm: CBS has just released some of those numbers: "At least 120 Americans who served in the U.S. military killed themselves per week in 2005, CBS News learned in a five-month investigation into veteran suicides. That's 6,256 veteran suicides in one year, in 45 states."

- I'm not very good at statistics but do those numbers mean that more vets return home from war and commit suicide than have died in the war each year?

Good Night Sweetheart

The working mom gig is presently in overdrive. Sorry for being out of touch so long.

Tomorrow morning I leave for a business trip for three days.
I just kissed my son good night and told him I'd miss him.

How many moms and dads in the military have done that - will do that? Are having to do that more than once? What about the single parents who are saying goodbye to their kids and leaving them with whoever they can after signing up for the National Guard?

Do people give a fuck about this war and the toll it is taking on these children? Not to mention the children of Iraq?

RED SOX RULE!!!

RED SOX ARE #1!!!!!

THANK YOU JESUS!

FINALLY - - I GET BACK TO A NORMAL LIFE...

UNTIL APRIL 2008!

THEN WE START ALL OVER AGAIN!

Cool Poem

Poem: "35/10" by Sharon Olds, from Strike Sparks: Selected Poems 1980–2002. © Alfred A. Knopf, 2004.

35/10

Brushing out our daughter's brown
silken hair before the mirror
I see the grey gleaming on my head,
the silver-haired servant behind her. Why is it
just as we begin to go
they begin to arrive, the fold in my neck
clarifying as the fine bones of her
hips sharpen? As my skin shows
its dry pitting, she opens like a moist
precise flower on the tip of a cactus;
as my last chances to bear a child
are falling through my body, the duds among them,
her full purse of eggs, round and
firm as hard-boiled yolks, is about
to snap its clasp. I brush her tangled
fragrant hair at bedtime. It's an old
story—the oldest we have on our planet—
the story of replacement.

Sucker

I've always felt that advertising copywriters are the bottom feeders of our society but I must admit to being a bit moved by the Liberty Mutual "personal responsiblity" ad campaign that they keep running over and over again during the ball game.

I don't know...maybe I'm just cracking under the pressure of the World Series.

Souless

If I read one more article asking the public "has New York City lost it's soul?!", I will most definitely puke.

Where was the glare of the media spotlight for the last several years while unbridled gentrification efforts drove out just about any bohemian/working class/old immigrant/edginess left in the East Village?

My family has been in the East Village for five generations. I'm not naive to all the ups and downs this neighborhood had faced. But it always had a creative soul....until now. It's gone and it's unbelievable to me. Ann Magnuson once said that the East Village was becoming a theme park for the privileged. It's true. How sad.

Red Sox Nation

Red Sox 3 / Indians 2 bottom of the 6th.

How many post seasons can this little family of mine take? It's getting a bit frightening.

Ben is getting older and louder. Brian had made a radical break from his WASPY demeanor with cheers and jeers going off the testosterone charts as each inning progresses.

Without prior discussion with yours truly, Ben informed me that his father now allows him to use the word "asshole" when referring to the opposing team in post season Red Sox Games.

I don't have the energy to challenge male tribal rituals. I'm sure Margaret Mead would agree.

Footnote

Something else happened when I lost my bag with all my ID and important stuff in it.

As I was hurriedly peeking into every friggin' garbage can from Tompkins Square Park to Cheyenne Wyoming searching for my stuff, a weird realization came over me that made me pause - if only for a few precious minutes.

Now that my wallet, keys and phone were all gone - I was without formal proof of my identity - or at least it felt that way for a moment.

A profound feeling of relief swept over me.

I didn't have to be who I am anymore. I could just say fuck it and start again with a new name and any other new things I could think of.

I could have a karmic do-over.

Remember do-overs when you were a kid? How wasted they are on youth!!! Somehow the prospect of wiping the slate clean made me feel expansive and liberated.

Then I got it all back. And life went on as planned.

Lost and Found

Over a week ago I lost my bag.

It was Sunday and I was going to the gym. My bike is not in the city so I used a spare that didn't have any baskets in the back like my trusty cheap old girly red bike does.

So I took a bungy cord and wrapped it around my gym bag and onto the bike rat trap. I optimistically left the building and about three minutes and ten blocks away from my house, I realized my bag had fallen off my bike.

My heart stopped as I frantically rode back home retracing my steps. It's a miracle I didn't get killed riding into oncoming traffic as I barely took my eyes off the ground. Alas, the bungy cord was in front of my building which meant that the bag fell off the minute I left.

Brian and Ben were playing catch in Tompkins Square Park. They keyed me into the apartment and the canceling of debit and credit cards began. I was more terrified at the prospect that I also lost my keys together with all my ID - extending a generous invitation to be robbed at a later date.

I didn't care as much about the IPOD, the cell phone, the two monthly metrocards, and the cash.

I just wanted my keys, my ID and my loyal and good hearted red wallet. It was a purchase I made at a street fair at Astor Place.....after I got robbed in the Columbia University area after my second day at work three years ago.....also in October.

It's funny what really matters to you.

Well, I sat on my bed, drenched in sweat and despair and burst into tears....and I do mean burst. I cried like a school girl. Ben looked frightened at first, then came over and wrapped his arms around me. In his nine years, he'd never seen me fall apart before. I apologized for freaking him out and explained why I was freaking out.

"Mom. It might be a good idea not to put everything important into your wallet."

Sage advice.

I gained my composure ,went outside and started checking all the garbage cans in Tompkins Square Park, figuring that anyone who took my bag wouldn't be too keen on marching around town with "Barnard - Women in Leadership Conference" emblazoned on their knapsack.

One hour later someone rang our bell and announced "I've got an ID for you". Some guy from the park staff across the street handed my husband my ID and basically took off, insisting that they didn't find anything else. Thirty minutes later, he rang the doorbell again. This time I went down to speak with him. He said they did have my bag and that he'd take me to pick it up at the office in the park.

So I got my bag back and trust me folks, in New York that is nothing short of a miracle.
Apparently it was left hooked to a fence sans IPOD, phone, cash...etc.

I was just glad to be reunited with the stuff I cared about most.

Let's face it. That cell phone was a dead end relationship from the start.

Net Flix

I LOVE Net Flix.

Some stuff I've rented and loved

Waiting for Guffman (Seen it before but still love it)

Garden State

Blades of Glory (Will Farrell and my husband are soulmates)

And after much encouragement from fellow bloggers, I will rent St. Elmo's Fire if only to pay tribute to Demi Moore's outfits and hairstyles.

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

The Cake that Dare Not Speak Its Name

My birthday is on August 28th. My brother Mike's birthday is on August 11th.

We are definitely two people who NEVER treat our birthdays as "just any other day".
For his 40th birthday this year, he and his boyfriend traveled through Guatemala, Belize and part of Peru (cut short by a bit of an earthquake that killed several hundred people).

My brother travels all over the world all the time for work. For fun he likes to travel through developing countries, especially the ones prone to terrorist alerts and natural disasters. He spent most of this last vacation traveling through jungles, climbing Mayan ruins and meeting assorted mountain mystics. He saw huge snakes, tons of monkeys and slept in the jungle at night with all of the loud jungle sounds blasting through his hut window.

Me? Well I went to Cape Cod and tried to channel Edna Saint Vincent Millay between swimming, biking and eating ice cream cones.

The point is that my brother returned and asked that I bake him a birthday cake - since we were both away on the sacred date.

He wanted a coconut cake. AND IT HAD TO BE MOIST. And bits of fresh pineapple in the cake would be nice because he enjoyed eating that in Guatemala....when he wasn't stepping on frogs the size of chickens in the rain forest.

So I baked him a cake last night - angel food. And made the coconut frosting to go with it.
I was tired and feeling sad about not being super excited to move somewhere that is not here.
I felt my best vibes were not going through that cake.

When it was done I showed it to my husband and announced that it sucked. It was not as picture perfect as I wanted it to be. Sometimes when I'm bummed out by something I cook, I immediately chuck it.

The cake was on the fence. It could go either way. Brian knew it and demanded that the cake be allowed to live out its natural life.

This afternoon on my way home from work I bought some individual coconut cakes from Black Hound (a FABULOUS bakery on 1st Ave between 10th and 11th). I presented Mike with the three perfect mini cakes and my snowball explosion cake as evidence that I did indeed try to fulfill his wish. He and his boyfriend cast the gourmet cakes to the side and dove into my coconut cake. They loved it.

But boys love coconut cake no matter what. A fact I've noted throughout my life.

OK I admit it....

It's my birthday.

And there's a lunar eclipse that is blowing everyone's socks off today.

Something about this day brings me back to eight year old Ellen every time.

Makes me smile.

Which is why I never work on my birthday.

It's against the law for eight year olds to work.

Unless it's at a lemonade stand.