House Huntin'

So I've decided I will kinda stay here and kinda not.

We've been searching for a dirt cheap cottage/farmhouse near Brian's job up at a university in CT. That way we can go there on the weekends and vacations while Brian can also use it on days when he has to work or teach a class in the evening.

Maybe I'm nuts but it feels right.

That was then. This is now.

This weekend we all went up to the Metropolitan Musuem of Art. Thanks to the wonders of technology, we split up and agreed to meet in forty minutes or so. I went off to the new photography gallery and Ben/Brian went off to the knights, weaponry and musical instruments.

My mom gives us a family membership to the Met every year. Ben has practically grown up in the Met and feels the same way about it that most NY kids feel toward the Museum of Natural History.

I've always thought of this museum as New York's wise, beautiful matron.

After lunch in the cafe, we took one last look at the medieval armor, Revolutionary War swords and ancient Japanese military head gear. After an obligatory purchase in the museum shop, we walked out into the warm sunshine of a NY winter afternoon.

Brian and I reminisced about our pre-Ben days of meeting at the Met after work on a Friday night and walking all the way home it the East Village (approx. 3000 miles - 4000 with heels on).

Brian said "Things changed in the City after 9/11. In more ways then we realized. It isn't the same place."

I'm still thinking that one over.

Small World

I picked Ben up from a play date on Wednesday afternoon. It was the first truly cold day in a long time. We scurried down 10th street and I stopped into Kmart for some luxury items - - rubber gloves and glass cleaner.

Ben was coveting my earmuffs for the last few days so I offered to buy him a pair before we got to the cashier. He didn't take a moment to check out the merchandise before saying "Mom, I don't want to buy my earmuffs here. I want to give my money to small, local businesses. Let's go buy them from one of the street vendors."

Now this approach to consumerism has been my husband's creed forever. Only in the past year has he walked into a Starbucks (out of desperation). In all of Ben's nine years, I've never seen him take a political stand on any consumer issue that stood in between him and the desired object.

A street vendor was selling his winter goods right outside of Kmart. It was freezing and he must have been standing out there for hours. He was covered from head to toe except for his eyes peeking between a hat and scarf. Ben got his three dollar ear muffs and explained his new philosophy.

He just finished reading The Pushcart War, a children's novel written by Jean Merrill and illustrated by Ronni Solbert. It was first published in 1964. The plot focuses on a war between pushcart peddlers and delivery trucks in NYC. As traffic becomes increasingly horrendous in the city, three huge trucking companies try to alleviate their parking problems by running the pushcarts off the curb and out of business. Needless to say, the NY pushcart vendors unite and push back... so the story begins.

What Ben didn't know was the Jean Merrill and Ronni Solbert lived in East Village and were very good friends with my dad. Ronni also wrote and photographed a super cool book I Wrote My Name on the Wall (1971) profiling city kids in their words, kids who never went beyond their neighborhoods.

What goes around comes around. Especially with art.

You've seen one ball...you've seen them all.

At least that's how I feel about the ball dropping in Times Square.

I sometimes think my relationship to New Year's Eve must be how non-Christians relate to Christmas in our culture. Everyone else is at a party that I have no interest in attending. Sounds terrible doesn't it?

I wouldn't mind standing on a sandy cliff overlooking Longnook Beach at the stroke of midnight. The crashing waves and pull of high tide in the frosty moonlight would wash away any trivial thoughts of mankind out there counting the minutes that take us from one year to the next.

Maybe something beautiful will happen this year. Some wonderful miracle that will end suffering somewhere on the planet - - anywhere.

I propose a toast to the possibility of miracles for 2008.

Cheers!

I have work coming out of my....

Sorry folks. Work has been insane.

If it isn't on the internet, Santa won't be bringing it on his slay.

Is it the Christmas season? Who knows. No time to buy a tree yet. And sadly no playing of Christmas music....which is the highlight of the holiday for me.

No sooner do I exhale then I'll be jumping into a car for my 20th anniversary ride down to Maryland and North Carolina for Christmas.

The other day I saw groups of people in Santa outfits roaming downtown going from bar to bar. It's an annual ritual and a pleasant spectacle to behold.

One gang of Santas was wearing kilts instead of red pants and black boots. That particular gang was hanging out with someone in a big Easter Bunny outfit.

Brian and I came out of a party on the lower east side at about 1 a.m. and encountered a good many santas who had been drinking for hours. Luckily no barfing Santas!

Christine's

After a very long week, I convinced Brian and Ben to have dinner at Christine's Friday night. It felt like seventh heaven. I love that place. It's one of my last East Village cozy places still standing.

Christine's sells mostly diner food with specialty Polish dishes. I ordered sauerkraut pirogies and kielbasa. I recognized the wife of the couple at the next table. She works at the pirogi shop a few blocks down the street. Lots of unfancy people enjoying their dinners.

It felt as nice as Thanksgiving.

Speaking of which....we had a wonderful time celebrating the holiday up in Phoenicia, New York - - a poor cousin to its neighbor Woodstock (15 minutes away). The weather was mild enough for us to go hiking in the mountains surrounding the farm house we stayed in with my brother. It was a beautiful, run down true farm house - no fancy stove, no high tech stereo system, etc. The house sits on the edge of a huge stream with the foot of a mountain beginning across the water. You could hear the stream through the closed windows....beautiful, peaceful music.

I brined a turkey and we cooked up a feast while listening to WAMC - North Country Radio. I listened to a Bob Dylan documentary, Alice's Restaurant , a James Taylor performance up in Stockbridge and lots of great local shows. Come to think of it. That felt like seventh heaven too.

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.