Comfort zone

It’s been a rough week. I’d say grueling, but that’s been banned from my vocabulary.

First the tooth fairy and then a two hours’ wait in the doctor’s office yesterday to have my ear examined. I walked out of that visit with a bagful of sample antibiotics and ear drops. I’ll be popping pills and squirting my ear for at least a week. Meanwhile, I had to rush back to school for evening advisement appointments. Fatigue washed over me on the drive home.

Today, while holding my head at a 90-degree angle and juggling the noon application of ear drops, I glanced up and saw an anticipated email from my daughter. Subject line: Screen Door Options. Sure enough, she was surfing the web looking for the elusive cranberry storm door of her dreams. I had promised it as a birthday gift and time was running out.

With head at full tilt, I clicked on the link and started looking at the merchandise. Nice stuff. I decided to call the daughter so we could discuss her options.

Jenn: “I think a country look, old-fashioned, would fit the house.”

Me: “Yeah, but are you sure you want wood instead of vinyl? (Then diverging from topic because the ear drops are running down my neck and my ear still hurts.) You know I had to go to the doctor’s yesterday. Would you believe I’ve got an ear infection? It’s been blocked all week and …”

Jenn (interrupting): “Mom, you’re doing it again.”

Me (clueless): “Doing what?”

Jenn: “Honestly, you just start to dwell on your aches and pains and go right into the organ recital.”

Me (whining slightly): “Jennnnnn, I’ve had a hard week. First I get attacked by the dentist and then I have a honkin’ stainless-steel plunger poked into my ear. Give me a break.”

Jenn: “Mom, you are not old. You dwell too much on the negative.”
(Paraphrase)

Me (back on topic): “Okay, so which screen door do you like?”

Commotion in the background ... kids clamoring for a DVD.

Jenn: “Sophie, come here and talk to babci while I get ‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer’ inserted for you guys.”

Sophie: “Hi babci. How are you?”

Me (do I dare?): “Well, honey, babci had an earache and she had to go to the doctor's. And he had to look in my ear and put some drops in and give me medicine.”

Sophie: “Oh you poor thing.”

Fireworks exploding on the horizon. Visions of angels dancing on the head of a pin. Rainbows everywhere.

This is why God created grandchildren.

My daughter is still getting her screen door.

Silly Sophie

This just came across my email screen ...

Dear Babci,

I'm sending this picture of silly Sophie. Silly Sophie is my friend. Silly Sophie has a pony tail. Silly Sophie has a grandma -- I love her! And I love you too!

LOVE,

SOPHIE

See? I am so blessed.

Selective memory

I’m sitting here totally baffled by my inability to remember those maternal moments when my two kids really made me wish I had become a nun. I know there had to be some meltdowns, especially during the toddler and teen years, but frankly I can only remember two.

There was the incident with my son, during the heady independence of his second year, wanting to use my dad’s key to open the car door but shrieking and throwing a tantrum when he couldn’t succeed. He refused to give up the key. My dad, who loved taking care of his cars, realized at that moment that the key would probably be next used to run a large scratch across the outside finish. He got Joseph’s attention by whacking him once on the behind. Kid stopped screaming; pop-pop retrieved the key. No one reported us to DHS.

And then there was my sudden encounter with my teenage daughter who had just dyed her hair a bright orange or red. It was a shocker. “You look like a brick $hithouse” were the first words that came out of my gaping mouth. I honestly can’t remember if this was the time that I slapped her. She slapped me back. The air was cleared and life went on. Did we laugh after this attack on each other’s faces? I seem to think we did but I’m drawing a blank. I just know that we never laid hands on each other again in a moment of anger. The hugs definitely won in the long run.

This is what I do remember. Stuff like my best friend giving baby Jenn a “pony ride” down the hallway. I remember my dad carrying his first grandchild up and down the same hallway, singing Elvis Presley’s “Love Me Tender” to her as she fell asleep on his shoulder. I remember bathing new baby brother on the kitchen table, with big sister having an up-close-and-personal view of brother’s tool kit.

“What’s that, mommy?” said the alert Jennster at my side.

“Joseph is a boy. Boys have a penis. And girls have a vagina.”

There you go! It came out quite naturally and I felt proud of myself. A teachable moment.

Jenn went running down the hall, excited to tell the world about her newfound discovery.

“Joseph has a peanut and I have a ‘gina!”

Who could forget the Animal Olympics? The two kids had so many stuffed toys. My mom contributed to the menagerie by crocheting even more. Sometimes I couldn’t find them in their sleep because the beds were covered with their cuddly friends. During what must have been an Olympic year, we held an Olympiad of our own in the hallway. We took turns throwing the different critters down the hall and measuring the distance each one flew. A gold, silver and bronze medal were duly awarded.

I remember our imaginary campouts in living room and bedroom. I would pull a blanket or mom's afghan over us as the tent. We would picture a campfire and roast pretend marshmallows and tell stories. That was always fun.

I remember helping Jenn write her first book. She was about ten years old. It was to be called The Kingdom of Ugly about a land where misshapen and misbegotten people and animals lived and where they came to find, because of the goodness of their king and queen, that being different was not ugly but beautiful indeed. I illustrated some of our story and we have yet to finish the book. It’s still a work in progress. I hope we do complete it for Sophie and Hannah, Ben and Olivia.

I remember Joseph getting a set of drums for his fourth birthday. Mr. Cool, playing alongside his dad on guitar and me on the organ. And Jenn taking music lessons and amazing me when she started playing Bach, keyboard and pedalboard (better than I).

I remember teaching Joseph how to pitch a baseball and making up imaginary call signs as I played catcher. I remember signing him up for a junior bowling league and soccer too; getting up before 6:00am to drive him to early mass so he could serve as altar boy.

I remember Jenn not being tested in grade school for “a special program”. I investigated and found out that only little boys were being tested for the “gifted program”. I was furious. I made some noise and Jenn got a chance to participate as well as the other girls in the grade. Of all the kids who started with the program, Jenn stayed with it from middle school into high school. She won science awards throughout. So much for not testing the girls.

These kinds of memories just pop up when I think of raising my kids. I hope I’m not in the minority, but the good moments continue to outweigh the bad. I was … I am so blessed.

The tooth fairy is dead

I just killed her. The annoying little brat kept chirping in my ear all week that today’s visit to the dentist would be “a piece of cake.” And then I’d get my quarter.

My daughter got on the Mary Poppins bandwagon too. I casually mentioned that I was going in for a new crown and dreaded the grueling prep work. An email soon came flying back.

“Oh Mom, don’t use the word ‘grueling’ for the dentist. Digging out from a hurricane is grueling. Lighten up, lady. It may be a bit uncomfortable but, really, you are so blessed.”

Pumped up by clichés and shamed by reprimands, I got up this morning determined to face my non-ordeal with a stiff upper lip. I should have known that would come later.

I love my dentist. Let me set the record straight in case he ever happens to read this blog. The guy is cool - young, easy on the eyes, pleasant personality and a perfectionist. The last one’s a great trait to have when you’re mucking around in someone else’s mouth. I had a really bad fall several years ago and this man managed to realign and save my front teeth … for that alone, I’d follow him anywhere. His dental assistant is my cousin’s wife, wonderful woman, very calming. It’s nice to have family in the room as the drilling begins.

So off I go, counting my blessings. All shall be well. On a whim, I grab my iPod from the dining-room table and throw it in my purse. I know that they have Muzak in the office but what the heck … maybe I can still find some use for my popsicle stick. (Tiniest iPod – oh I’m so in, thanks to my kids!) I arrive early, ask to use the restroom and notice that my cousin’s wife is not around. Kim, the nurse of the day, tells me that she has gone to Bermuda. I feel a little nip of tension. I often rehearse stressful events in my mind. Now, all of a sudden, I have to replace a constant with a new variable. Kim is sweet; she sees the iPod now hanging around my neck with the adjoining ear plugs. I, the digital diva, promptly show her my toy and she seems impressed – like she doesn’t know how to operate one of these things. Hehehehe. Score one for the senior citizen. I’m making chit chat with Kim, comparing favorite female vocalists. I show her mine; she shows me hers. We promise to write down recommended albums before I leave, which should be in about an hour and a half. I’ve had crowns done before. It usually takes about that length of time.

The doc comes in. More chit chat and then he peers into my mouth, briefly turning into the Godfather and making me an offer I can’t refuse. “How about we do both today? They’re both on top and you’re my last patient.” Bingo! I see the tooth fairy hovering behind the assistant’s shoulder, grinning broadly and gesturing the a-okay sign.

I swallow hard. What a lousy dress rehearsal! Nothing’s going as expected. I was really preparing myself for the one crown today and the other later in the month.

“Oh, sure. Let’s go for it.” This is said without any enthusiasm whatsoever. What would you say to a medical professional leaning over you with sharp instruments in his hand? I could sense his eagerness to dive into my mouth and muck around big time – two for the price of one! It seems expedient and economical, but so did that online dating service which led to love in the afternoon.

What I forget to factor in are the logistics of the whole operation. The one crown is going to live on the east side of my mouth; the other crown is taking up residence on the west side. Before I can say, “maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all”, he looms over me and pops two wads of pre-needle anesthetic into both sides of my mouth. At this point, I fumble and turn on my iPod. The earplugs are already where they belong and soon Eva Cassidy is belting out one of her classics. This is good – mind on Eva, mind off what’s coming next.

Doctor Bob is ready to rumble. Before the last notes of Eva’s tune drift away, he’s back with two needles for the east side and two matching needles for the west side. My gums are starting to panic. Luckily, I’m not feeling any pain … physical pain that is. Mentally, I’m trying to think of every damn stress-management technique I’ve ever learned because now I start to feel a culprit sneaking up on me. Post-nasal drip awakens in the back of my throat. Timing is everything in life. I popped my allergy pills all week hoping this wouldn’t happen.

I go back to counting my blessings as my dentist prepares the silly putty which is about to clamp my jaws together. Before kd lang can whistle Dixie (on my iPod), I am the captive recipient of a full mouth of glob and put back into an upright position so a) I don’t choke while b) I attempt to master swallowing the other glob running down my throat from the post-nasal drip. Challenging, yes. Grueling, no. How dare I even entertain the thought?

If you haven’t noticed by now, I’m an extrovert. I express myself best by talking and interacting with people. With my jaws sealed tight, I can do neither and, oh, breathing would be nice too. Breathing through my nose is tricky. My nose keeps reminding me: “You’ve got swollen nasal passages, you twit. Breathe through your mouth.” My mouth refuses to answer as it is occupied at the time. About now, I decide that I just may sell my firstborn child to a traveling circus to be with that kick-me-clown who’s been threatening her. The word grueling keeps demanding my attention. I tell it to take a flying leap. I’m busy just trying to breathe.

The tooth fairy is fluttering about the room, trying not to meet my steely gaze. She knows I’m not happy.

I close my eyes, try to stop the urge to gulp and swallow, and do the only thing I can do well at the moment: listen to my iPod.

Soon Doctor Bob and his trusty assistant return. He pulls the reluctant putty from my mouth, smiles, and the drilling begins. I think people become dentists just for this part alone. Look at all the playthings – big honkin’ drills, tiny delicate drills, drills that go super fast and spit out water, drills that go agonizingly slow. Hey, variety is the spice of life as long as my dentist doesn’t choose a category like ‘drills that break while in patient’s mouth.’ Luckily, this doesn’t happen. I swear the man is energized by the dual opportunity. While I’m listening to my stereo ear plugs, he’s working on my stereo mouth. I decide to close my eyes again as I do not really want to see him with a drill in each hand. Thankfully, he’s not into showmanship. Methodical and precise, he begins with my east side and then cruises over to the west end of town. I try to be a good patient. He tries to be good and patient. The Drip is getting worse. There is soon a routine: whrrr, whrrr, swish, whrrr, hand up (that’s my I’m choking on my own mucus sign), drill stops, I try to swallow and breathe, we begin again. By now, the iPod isn’t helping all that much and scenes from Marathon Man are running rampant through my head.

And then the unexpected twist makes it appearance. The dentist’s and assistant’s faces turn a bit serious. I notice that their light chatter has stopped. And stuff keeps pouring down my throat. I also notice that Doctor Bob recommends a new bib as mine is getting a bit tainted. Would I like to rinse and spit? Yeah, anything to push Dustin Hoffman out of my brain. I swish and spit and think, “Wow, I’m really bleeding here.” There’s that moment of holy crap, is this supposed to be happening?! Coward that I am, I don’t say anything, thinking that if there’s something I should know about the new holes in my mouth, he will tell me. He stops drilling and asks if I’d like to use the restroom. That’s a new one. Okay. This signals that we’ve got a lot more work ahead of us and he doesn’t want me to pee on his floor while I’m bleeding in his basin. I go to the bathroom and look in the mirror and smile. It ain’t pretty. My mouth is, indeed, full of blood. I try to stay calm and return to the scene of the crime. He tells me that I should have a blood test for clotting factor. We interrupt the drilling as he tries to clean me up and then apply pressure, cotton pads and medication to both sides of my mouth. He is very calm. That’s good as he’s in charge of making it better. The tooth fairy, however, is sitting on the sink, eating a cookie. She doesn’t look upset. Bitch!

I guess it takes about twenty minutes before we can begin again. Oh joy. By now the anesthetics are wearing thin and I really do believe I’ve crossed over into the Marathon Man. We stop. He understands. He pumps me up again.

Finally, after three hours in the dental chair, my temporary crowns are in. Nothing is running down my throat (think blood). I can breathe. Life is good. I wipe the spots of blood off my iPod as Doctor Bob reminds Kim to “sterilize the room completely” after I leave.

The tooth fairy tries to follow me out the door but I turn quickly and catch her with a slam. When I open the door, she is lying very still on the threshold. I don’t bother with CPR.

I’m too busy smiling through my stiff upper lip.

Babushka

The market square was alive with the sound of tourists' chatter and multi-lingual conversations. It was a brisk, sunny day in the heart of Warsaw. The medieval town square, destroyed during WWII, had been rebuilt, carefully and lovingly. The new square was a mecca for artists and vendors. My friend stopped to look at some lovely paintings of the city. She and the artist were soon engaged in conversation and she bought two of his works to take home as gifts. A real find! We had already bustled our way through the crowds, stopping at many of the stalls and looking for potential souvenirs, but much of the younger sellers’ merchandise looked mass-made, cheap and counterfeit. I didn’t see anything of merit. I assumed that there was a stamp on my forehead which glowed and pronounced “American. Easy pitch - easy sell.” So I kept moving on. When I joined my friend at the art exhibit in the middle of the square, it was refreshing to see original and well-done work. I was happy that she found the perfect gift but disappointed that nothing was speaking to me.

And then I saw her. She was standing at the far end of the square, somewhat apart from the hustling crowds and hawking vendors. She was alone. There was a small plastic bag at her feet. And she was holding something tiny in her hand. I had to meet this woman. I pushed my way over to her corner of the world and, as I got closer, I saw the doll in her hand. It was a replica of what the Poles call “krakowiaki” – rural dancers in colorful costumes. There were other dolls like that on the shelves of the surrounding stalls, mass produced. This little doll was different. I smiled and held out my hand. She offered the doll to me to examine. I felt as if I had just stepped back in time, into my grandmother’s house.

This woman, in her worn coat and scarf (babushka), was an outsider – just like me, the traveler. I could tell that she came from peasant stock, from the country. She reminded me of my own babcia (grandmother) who, once in America, worked as a seamstress and loved dolls. She collected dolls as she aged, dressing them up in pretty costumes. I always thought that she tried to fill an unmet need from her impoverished childhood in Poland.

The plastic doll had been lovingly dressed in a delicately stitched skirt, blouse and babushka. This was not a cheap copy to sell at inflated prices to the wandering tourists. This was the real thing. The lady had worked on the tiniest details – fine embroidery on the blouse and skirt, a tiny straight pin to hold the scarf onto the dolly’s head, lace on the panties underneath. It was beautifully done.

I inquired how much in Polish. She timidly told me the price. She was selling these dolls at bargain prices but didn’t seem to realize that she could ask for more. I asked how many more were in the bag. She pulled out the remaining two. Three handmade dolls for my three granddaughters. I had found the perfect gift! I paid her beyond her asking price and she pressed my hand. “Pani, dziekujie.” A heartfelt thank-you. She was done for the day. She could leave her solitary post and return home.

It was I who had the most to be thankful for. A passing encounter with a poor stranger awakened memories of my grandmother, great aunts, older cousins - all now gone. Women who learned at an early age that life was not kind. Women who had calloused hands and tired feet. Women who labored in fields and laundries and kitchens. Women who came from the country. Women who were brave enough to travel to America and let new generations reap the benefits of their hard lives.

Dziekujie bardzo. Thank you very much.

The other two

It’s hard living a distance from your big kids and little kids.

My daughter and family live 300 miles away which involves a jump in the car, along with a small cooler and an iPod, and a six-hour jaunt north through four states and multiple highways. I’ve been doing this for a few years now and it’s become routine. I play mind games as I travel up the pikes … I have my favorite rest stops and landmark mile markers. I think I could put the car on auto-pilot and it would get me there while I just sat and munched my power bars and listened to my eclectic music collection on the iPod. Programming the iPod is a whole other matter (I’m digitally challenged), but I digress. Today’s topic is progeny.

My son and family live 3,000 miles away. The logistics change, a six-hour airplane ride or longer depending on non-stop or connecting flights. And then the fun really begins. A taxi ride into Seattle seaport and a ferry ride across the Puget Sound to shorten the kids’ pickup time from the other end. Once I get into their van, we still have at least another hour’s ride to go. I grew up on the east coast. Imagine my surprise, the first time out to Seattle, to discover that the west coast did not really end there but continued on for another several hours’ drive before reaching the Pacific Ocean. I was expecting Seattle to be the end of the line. I discovered that there’s an Olympic Peninsula which attaches itself to the state of Washington and bulges out like a cauliflower. And I found out that it’s one of the nation’s best-kept secrets: it is amazingly beautiful - a rugged, pristine beauty. I fell in love. I’ve been to see the kids about four times now and have yet to explore the many locales: rain forest, Olympic mountains, lavender and strawberry farms, and finally the Pacific coastline. Oh, I’ve also got the ferry ride to Victoria, capital of British Columbia, on my to-do list.

Joe became a doctor and chose the good old-fashioned profession of family practice. He wanted to do it all: babies to senior citizens. He also wanted to move to a location that was semi-rural and offered his own growing family a beautiful place to live and to enjoy the outdoors. Katie, my sweet DIL (daughter-in-law), is a social worker and wanted to continue to play a part in the community too. So they chose a small seaport town, with Victorian houses and crafty main-street shops, to set down their roots. Joe gets his wish, a diverse population to treat. His practice has continued to expand. Meanwhile, Katie has become a doula and has been offering childbirth education in the same hospital. Their kids are blooming. And so is Katie. Baby #3 is due next month. Before their third baby arrives, I want to talk about the other two.

I feel a bit guilty because, what with Jenn’s blog and all, I spend a lot of time making comments about Sophie and Hannah. This has been such fun for me as a proud grandmom. But, truth be told, I have a Benjamin and Olivia on the west coast who are just as dear to my heart - precious and rambunctious those two.

Benjamin, firstborn of our clan, made his debut the week of his Aunt Jenn’s wedding celebration in the Catskills. I can still remember sleeping in the farmhouse where the wedding was to be held and being awakened to be told that Katie was in labor. She and Joe were hundreds of miles away at the time. So, while I was getting ready to be mother-of-the-bride, I was also preparing to become first-time grandmother. It doesn’t get much better than that.

Benjamin is now five years old and all boy. He thrives on action-hero figures and Scooby Doo adventures. He’s always on the move. And then there was the serious phase of being Captain Underpants. “Mr. Naked Man” was the hero of the day and Ben just refused to keep his clothes on. He has striking blue eyes (like to think they come from my side of the family – good-looking Polish men) and is always ready for a good nighttime read or, better yet, a made-up story. I began spinning some tales about Captain Gruffy Face and his sidekick, Razatazz, which grew and grew. It was hard to remember when I’d fly back to visit just what my pirates had been up to, but Ben remembered and pleaded for more. He was so into it that I drew the pirates for him and sent them to him for his birthday. On one of my departures, Ben accompanied his dad and me on the long drive to the airport. As I reached in to kiss him goodbye and said “I love you”, he looked at me with those big blue eyes and shyly whispered, “I love you too.” Other spontaneous moments have included, “You’re the best, Babci!" (Polish for grandmom) and “Don’t go, I’ll miss you.” Maternal meltdown. I’ll be back! Ben is super inquisitive and questions come rapidly. We were taking a family hike in the nearby state park at Christmas when he casually asked his mom and dad “So why did you decide to have another baby?” That floored all of us. It means that he is no longer such a little boy and starting to figure out his place in the family circle and in the universe. As of this posting, he is the Crown Prince, the only male child, with a sister and two girl cousins.

We were all together at Jenn’s last Labor Day. Joe and Katie flew in and I drove up. What a rare joy to have all your treasures under one roof. That week was so special. The little cousins had a surprisingly good time getting acquainted. The defining moment, though, was my walking into the living room and seeing Sophie, Hannah, Olivia and Ben all sitting on the floor watching a favorite DVD. Ben looked up at me, rolled his eyes and lamented: “Too many girls!” I hope he can handle another sister on the way.

What can I say about Olivia Jane? This little cherub, sunny and blonde, has an infectious smile and a mischievous twinkle in her eye. She’s also sturdy enough to withstand the many assaults of big brother. She can hold her own. This is good in a woman. She loves her baby dolls and is such a snuggle bunny herself, likes to climb up on your lap. But when she gets upset, she lets you have it. Another funny memory: we were sightseeing when Olivia was a baby and she was startled awake. The screams, the fury! She was inconsolable and we all wished we had earplugs. I think this kid is gonna sing opera one day. The storms blow over though and then she’s back to being her sunny self. This past Christmas, she was right there on the floor with me and Ben as we played Scooby Doo and drove in our imaginary ghost-catcher van. I can still hear her giggles.

Lots of excitement and anticipation as these two get ready for a new baby in the house. Benjamin, no doubt, may be disappointed at first with another bundle of pink. But he will be six years old in the fall and moving on to new friends and experiences in school. I think it will be Olivia who will be more interested in the newcomer who will eventually be sharing her sister’s room. Olivia, rocking and soothing her baby dolls, will have a little sister to transfer all that little-girl affection to … after she accepts the fact that the new kid is here to stay. I can’t wait to see how it all plays out.

Love handles

Did you ever notice those “before” and “after” pictures in the diet ads? What would people do if the images were reversed, eh? What if plump was pretty and thin was out of fashion?

It’s really in the genes. I was traveling in Poland, land of my ancestry, last year and couldn’t help but notice that the natives tended to resemble quite a few of my family members when it came to hips and bosoms. Hardy Polish peasant stock. The euphemism seemed to fit.

The Poles love their meat and potatoes … and cabbage and pierogies. It may have been that trip to Poland that started some serious weight gain. I’m still paying for the vacation starch. Yep, the pants and tops have either shrunk or I’ve gotten bigger. I’m afraid it’s the latter. My moment of truth came two weeks ago. I kept telling myself it was my imagination. Finally, I was brave enough to get on the bathroom scale (which had dust on it from disuse). I managed to regain the eight pounds I lost on South Beach a while back. Nuts!

I decided to switch beaches and surf elsewhere (the Web). Ended up having a box of pre-planned diet food delivered to my door. I work fulltime and often have crazy schedules. I don’t have a personal trainer or chef or nutritionist waiting for me with a well-balanced meal and candles on the dining-room table when I get home. Sometimes, living alone is the pits. Feed me please!

Then I had to spend a half day cleaning out my pantry to unpack the huge amounts of incoming food and organize my breakfast, lunch, dinner and dessert. It’s good that I finally mustered up the energy to do this because I kept tripping over the damn box of diet food on my way to raid the refrigerator.

It’s a start. I’ve been drinking my water and nuking or stirring my meals for the past week. My tummy looks bigger – maybe it’s water retention. I plan to get on the dreaded scale only once a week. My next moment of truth is Monday. I will remind myself to laugh if the scale shows that by some fluke of fate I’ve managed to gain rather than lose. And then I shall calmly throw the scale down the steps of my apartment.

I want to lose a modest amount of weight; some people have a more ambitious agenda. I don’t expect miracles – I’m a realist. There’s the age and metabolism factor. And that pesky reminder to exercise is not too inviting. I’m an only child who grew up as a non-jock. I was not allowed to sweat and was the odd kid on the block who roller skated on one skate. You could say my parents were a bit over-protective. Thank God I learned to ride a bike. My idea of exercise is unloading the box of diet food; I swear I lost a couple pounds right there.

I am a little concerned about all the drop-dead gorgeous pictures of men and women in their “after” state, losing 140 pounds or 95 pounds or 200 pounds. Heck, if I lose that kind of weight, I’ll disappear. More power to them, the real heroes of the battle of the bulge. But why do all the pictures show an asterisk and note that say “not typical results”? If not, then what?

There was a time, centuries ago, when a woman’s body was appealing with all its fleshy curves and girth. I think I belong to that forgotten era.

And the beat goes on

I seemed to awaken some longings for homegrown, do-it-yourself song and music when I came out of the closet with my accordion and shared some of my musical background. Thank you, readers, for the heartwarming comments.

Yes, I grew up with accordions and I'll share a secret: I think learning the bass (left-hand) side of the instrument actually gives a richer understanding of chord structure and theory than the piano. I transitioned to the foot pedals on organs so easily because my right brain was already set to "take the chord apart" and add my foot for a bass line. There’s also the touch of the instrument. Accordionists develop a different, softer style than pianists. You caress the keys more than hitting them. I like stroking things. The accordion is portable; the piano is not. It's a fun instrument and yet it's versatile too. There are virtuosos in jazz and even classical arenas. One of my male cousins is now in his 80s and the man can still play up a storm even with arthritis in his hands. He's my role model for senior jamming when the time comes!

My dad was a banjo man - four-string tenor and then electric tenor guitar. He made sweet music. We made sweet music together. He taught me a lot of the depression-era tunes, many of which were actually good foot-tapping music. Guess if you were working your way through the Great Depression, you had to keep up hope and write happy songs.

I still gravitate to the classics of the great pop composers: Gershwin, Kern, Porter and others who turned out some wonderful songs in the ‘30s and ‘40s. Their lyrics and melodies personified romance. The ‘50s brought new stylists and many lounge singers and crooners. Then the ‘60s produced those terrific Broadway musicals of Rodgers and Hammerstein, Lerner and Loewe, Leonard Bernstein and more. Superstars were born – grand dames of the musical stage like Mary Martin, Julie Andrews and Barbra Streisand. I got to see Streisand, front row center, in “Funny Girl”. Wow! I just think the 1930s through the 1960s were the golden age of American songwriting. The songs really told a message and gave hope and inspiration. Wouldn’t it be loverly if we had a new generation of fine pop music like that again?

And then there were the polkas. This was a genre all to itself. Learning how to play a polka (meaning lots of notes, fancy bass work, and very fluid and fast keyboard runs) got you promoted to the front of the class. As I wrote before, the accordion was the poor man’s substitute for the more expensive piano. Yet it challenged the musician every bit as much. Chopin played the piano as a master; wonder what he would have done with a good, folksy polka on the accordion?

Recently, I began to get this crazy idea … move on up to the Berkshires and start a polka band of my own. Who knows? If Lawrence Welk didn’t hire me (and I have the letter to prove it), then I may just have to go out there on my own.

If I do, then all of you who have forgotten instruments in your closets or new dreams of music lessons for yourself or kids, will have to follow my lead. Double dare?!

Memorial Day

For the Young and Brave

What more can one give?
Leaving friends and family
Trusting to come home

Following the call
Putting greater good ahead
Knowing the danger

Wanting to believe
That what you do will matter
Dying not in vain

Life and war not fair
Who validates the outcome
Blood and tears the price

Who once was, is not
Heart beating fast now silent
All around go on

Politicians talk
They do not have the answer
Answer lies within

Only those who die
Have the right to talk of war
Can we still listen?

In remembrance

We never met.

He was the oldest cousin of the clan. I was the youngest.

He was a promising musician. People spoke of his talent and his potential. He was handsome and personable. Everyone loved Johnny.

There was a war raging across the sea. He, grandson of Polish immigrants, was called to duty. He served with the Ninth Infantry Division in Africa. He was wounded, awarded a medal, and sent home on leave. I was not yet born.

He was my father’s nephew but seemed a younger brother instead. We were a very close extended family. My parents had been childless for many years. Johnny felt their excitement over my upcoming arrival and was happy for them. He returned to his regiment with a sad heart. My mother told me that he had a premonition that he would not be coming back.

He continued to write my parents as his division was re-assigned to the European front. By now, my birth announcement and first baby pictures were being sent on. He got the letter and wrote back, wistfully hoping to see me one day. I think my mom was right. I think he knew that he and I would never get to know each other. And, yet, I think we did.

He was a staff sergeant and his unit was among the first in those hellish bloody days after the Normandy invasion to slog up the French coast and into the French countryside to liberate towns along the way. He was point man and died in a burst of machine-gun fire in the streets of St. Lo. He was buried in the Normandy American cemetery in France. His final laurels included the Silver Star and Purple Heart with Oak Leaf Cluster.

When news of his death was delivered to the family, my uncle ran screaming into the backyard, almost out of his mind with grief. This was the firstborn of the family’s new generation, the golden boy. Everyone loved Johnny. I’m sure that my mom and dad were just as grief stricken.

I wonder, as an infant, if I somehow internalized the family’s sorrow. If somehow Johnny and I crossed paths spiritually as he, the oldest cousin, left and I, the youngest cousin, arrived. Two souls meeting briefly.

As I grew, I found myself strangely attracted to this missing cousin. We would visit his parents’ house and I would sit at the piano that was Johnny’s piano and play from the music books that were Johnny’s. I would look at the handwriting in the books, his handwriting. And I would feel as if I knew him, as if he were there, sitting next to me on that piano bench. My musical ability continued to grow. I thought that maybe it wasn’t so much my talent as Johnny just sharing his with me, that I was playing and carrying on a part of Johnny which had been so vibrant and so suddenly extinguished in his youth. He was only 26 when he died.

He came to me once in a dream. I was now in my early 20s, staying with my parents at another uncle’s country house for the weekend. It was early July. There was much laughter and teasing and giggling before getting to sleep. My father’s family was full of fun. We all settled down and sometime during the night, I had a vision of a closed coffin with a skeleton dressed in an army uniform sitting on the floor, leaning against it. A spectral hand was reaching out and motioning for someone to come closer. I just knew this was Johnny. It didn’t frighten me so much as make me worried about just who he wanted to join him. Of course, I told the family the unnerving dream at breakfast. None of us could be sure of the interpretation. Until …

We returned home to find out that my aunt had suffered a massive stroke. Her prognosis was not good. This would have been Johnny’s aunt too. Our fathers’ sister. She lingered for a week or two and then died. She died on July 16, 1964. Twenty years to the day that Johnny was killed in France.

Johnny, may you rest in peace. Thanks ... for the ultimate sacrifice ... and for the music.

Out of the closet

I grew up in a musical family. My dad and his brothers and my cousins and I were happiest when playing pianos, accordions, organs, guitars, mandolins, banjos, and just about whatever we could put our hands on. Family parties always had live entertainment.

My first instrument was the accordion. I grew up over a music studio. We lived in a duplex and my uncle, the music teacher, lived on the first floor. Daily practice was the norm. His calling up the stairs to tell me what I was doing wrong was also the norm. Other kids played with their dolls. I was often tuning up with my dad for some after-dinner duets.

The accordion is a happy instrument. It knows its social standing and is quite content with its humble state in life. Yes, it may never be welcomed in the better salons of the world, but it has been seen in many a saloon. The accordion, in the 1950s, was the instrument of choice for blue-collar families who wanted their children to learn the keyboard. A lot of kids from Polish-American and Italian-American homes were carrying red-and-white-faux-marble Sonola and Rivoli accordions around while actually becoming decent musicians. If you practiced your daily scales and fingering techniques and mastered the Clarinet Polka, you were secretly admired by your peers and knew that you could hold your own against any piano-playing rich kid.

By the time I was in my late teens, we had an electronic organ in the living room and I’d be entertaining friends and family with “Sound of Music” sing-a-longs. Stop laughing. I know it sounds corny as hell. I almost auditioned for Lawrence Welk. Looking back, that would have been the CORNIEST, but I’d be living in Branson now and collecting a decent residual paycheck. There’s something to be said for all those bubbles.

My first job while going to high school was for a piano company. None of the salesmen could play a note; I was brought in to clinch the sale. My job was to sit down and make the customers fall in love with the product. Play a familiar tune, smile a lot, and make it look so easy that the buyer would go home with a piano or organ expecting to soon have my repertoire mastered. I was about 17 at the time and had been playing since I was nine. The five free lessons that came with the sale didn’t exactly turn the customers into virtuosos. It was a good experience though because it introduced me to the world of business and acting. My eccentric boss was a competitive guy who would do anything to make a sale. He would sing “Galway Bay” with an Irish dialect if necessary or take me with him to a poor black church and belt out “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands”. Marty was Jewish. I learned to go with the flow and I even ended up playing with an all-girl combo for awhile. I gave music lessons and thought about what I really wanted to be when I grew up. No visions or mandates appeared. So I kept a song in my heart and continued to make music.

This all came to an end in my 20s when I got married. I never reinvested in my music as fully once the kids came along. I was too consumed with the demands of being a wife and mom. It was great to see both kids get interested in organ and guitar. And for awhile the sound of music was heard once again in our house. I did manage a brief stint as church lady and played the organ for funerals, weddings, and Sunday services. My accordion’s high-profile days, however, were long over.

Years flew by. The kids left home; husband left wife, and there I was - living alone in my very first apartment, still trying to figure out who I wanted to be when I grew up. The accordion, my beloved accordion, was sleeping in my closet. A deep slumber.

Wake-up call. My new son-in-law phones from New York city. “Hey MIL (mom-in-law), I’m directing a friend of Jenn’s in her first show. It’s called ‘My Mom Across America’. She does this one hour of stand-up comedy about a bus trip she takes with her mom across Canada. It’s hilarious – a Korean-American rite of passage! Mother-and-daughter vignettes. I think it’s gonna be a hit. One problem though. The script calls for an accordion. Jenn mentioned that you used to play. Would you consider giving it a try?”

Jaw drops. What did he say? He’s got to be kidding.

“You know, MIL, accordions are really making a comeback. Cajun and French accordionists are playing up a storm.”

Okay. “Er, David. I grew up with ties to Frankie Yankovic and his Polka Kings.”

“Omigod, do you mean Weird Al’s father?!”

“Er, yes, I guess so. Is that good or something?”

“Yeah. It’s terrific! I’m sure you can do the show! Why don’t you come on up and meet the actress and we’ll do an informal audition in our living room.”

So, gentle readers, after years of gloom in a dark closet, my accordion had its rebirth. In fact, I had my rebirth. I pulled that puppy out and, hot dang, it was still good to go. It was 40 years old but the reeds and bellows were fine. I just had to invest in new leather straps.

The rest is show-biz history. Tina Lee, beautiful in her Korean folk outfit, and I, more demure in my black Capri pants and red blouse, played two major venues in New York. One was the Nuyorican Poet’s Café in the East Village. I heard later that this was really “in”.

I’d love to know what the audience was thinking when I came out onstage and plopped myself down stage right - middle-aged broad hauling her squeezebox. Tina then came onstage and regaled the crowd for almost an hour with a really funny true story of mom-daughter dynamics and clash of cultures.

Me? I was so cool. I got to play the Canadian national anthem, “La Vie en Rose", Korean folk melodies, one polka, "Stouthearted Men", and closed the show with “New York State of Mind”. Yeah, the gig went really well.

We even had our own webpage.

I could almost read my accordion’s mind. “Now that I’m out of the closet, I don’t ever want to go back in. Free! Free at last!”

How sweet it is

Just another day at the office she thinks to herself. Herself has been feeling down this week. Clothes are fitting a bit tight. The ever-nagging question of "What do I want to be when I grow up?" has been making its perennial appearance and throwing more gray and blue into the mix. Herself is generally a cheery person and doesn't like to dwell on the less vibrant colors of the spectrum. Even though herself isn't Mary Poppins, she does believe in rainbows and happy endings (most of the time). This past week was just not delivering.

So, another day at the office and herself is feeling sorry for herself. Hmm, that's redundant, isn't it? Suddenly, something unexpected happens. A large bouquet of quite colorful spring flowers arrive for ... none other than HERSELF! A gift from a graduating student who takes the time to say "Thank you for all your help." Nirvana! The beautiful flowers sit on herself's office windowsill and remind herself that, basically, the universe is a good and kind place. The flowers are just the first surprise. A large yellow envelope is delivered. Inside, a gracious note from another student telling herself that she is one of the main reasons this student chose this university. Herself made the other feel "not like a number, but like a real person. A person you were interested in." Herself smiles. She had the privilege and pleasure of handing this student her diploma at commencement.

Things are looking up. Flowers and thank-you notes. Herself finds Hope perching on her shoulder, commiserating about the tight clothes but absolutely gushing about the students who remembered to say thank you.

And the day isn't over. Once home, herself finds a surprise in her mailbox - a small package from Scotland from a close friend who has collaborated with a mutual friend in California (herself's Internet friends) to produce a very unique set of playing cards, photoshopped and laminated and cleverly containing images of herself's favorite sci-fi show. A "belated Mother's Day gift" and "sickie pressie". New friends here, women who could be daughters or sisters. Women who take the time and make the effort to create something unusual and quite special for a long-distance cyberspace companion. Herself.

Life is good. Herself will tackle the problem of the ill-fitting clothes another day.

How am I doing?

I really never expected to be doing this ... you know, blogging along on a semi-regular basis. It's a brave new world. Thanks to my daughter's example, I've gotten on the bandwagon. I've begun surfing around - checking up on a little family in Scotland, my new friends in Canada, and some other lovely people who have wandered over here from Jenn's site. It's a hoot. I'm amazed at the freedom of expression. The younger generation certainly knows how to let it all hang out.

This is a social experiment at least and a whole network of new friends at best. Just a thank-you as I continue to blog and slog along with the rest of you. I've really enjoyed your comments and getting to know some of you online.

Let's keep it going, eh?!

Oh, I'm trying to post my first photo - a creation by a cyberfriend who seems to have captured the family dynamic. Now, let's see if this really does go up ...

Critical thinking

Now, about the play. I saw it twice – front row, back row. The audience laughed and cried. One night I turned to the woman on my right and saw tears streaming down her face. The power of words. Sometimes the lines I thought would draw a laugh, didn’t. And lines that were more enigmatic, did. Go figure. I also got to hang out with the actors and my favorite director and playwright. Everyone was psyched about this show. Well, not everyone. Read on.

The power of words. That’s what this blog is all about.

Did I tell you that my daughter’s a writer? The Muse came to visit when she was just a toddler and decided to stay. This has been both a blessing and a curse. It’s a bit like Tree’s amazing talent. It’s a gift that keeps on giving and never lets a person rest.

Jenn’s mind is usually on overdrive. She is constantly thinking about Life (capital “L” again) and its many manifestations. Add to that, kids and dogs underfoot, a narcoleptic and loving husband, and a house that is constantly in need of attention. I’ve decided to treat her to the cranberry storm door, but that’s another story.

The play seemed to be going well but Jenn seemed anxious all week. Just like good drama, she was waiting for the denouement – the passing judgment of the local critic. This guy supposedly has some credentials and knows what he’s doing. Is being a theatre critic like going to med school? I think not. At least in med school you take the Hippocratic oath and promise to do no further harm. If there is a school of film critics, I think they teach the hypocritic oath – find the most tender part of the writer’s anatomy (usually the brain) and stick a needle in. The power of words.

Jenn lives by words. As an artist, she is so sensitive of what she writes and what she reads. Her energy and ideas are transmitted through the painstaking crafting of words. She is invested in her product. She is, actually, her own worse critic. She cannot not write. The power of words.

The review was not good. Jenn read the first line and would not read the rest. I, in super-protective mother mode, ventured ahead and read the entire piece. My heart sank. The power of words.

Even if she were not my daughter, I would have disagreed with this guy’s point of view. But he’s on somebody’s payroll and has credentials and is entitled to his opinion too. The power of words.

I wanted to make it better, but could not. David and friends consoled her but I knew the review had an impact; hopefully, it was just a glancing blow. The power of words.

This is her craft, her art. It takes courage to write and then to have what you’ve written displayed onstage. It requires a giant leap of faith. And Jenn, who is a kind and generous spirit, is a trustworthy soul. She is also a trouper, my kid. She believes in her work and was so happy with this show’s cast and the beautiful and funny and poignant ways they brought her words to life. That’s why the review seemed so unfair. The power of words.

I am always in awe of her gift. She tells stories of the common man and woman. They sometimes make you squirm and wince, but the dark humor always leads to naked truth and, if you look hard enough, you will see yourself or someone you know in Jenn’s funhouse mirror. My girl never takes the easy way out. She goes deep. And I’m proud of her for that. Jenn makes you think. She’s definitely not a 30-minute sitcom, “slam, bam, thank-you ma’am” kind of gal. The power of critical thinking.

Jenn’s writing reminds me of Flannery O’Connor. I had to read some of O’Connor’s work in a college lit class, actually it was a religion course. At first, some of the more outrageous characters seemed so strange and shocking but, slowly, I tuned into their struggles. They were (like all of us) seeking redemption of one kind or another. There was grace to be found among the ruins.

So, on this Mother’s Day and on this blog, here’s to you my dear daughter. I watched you scribble as a child and later begin page after page of stories and pictures, always telling such imaginative and colorful tales. You were born to write, Jenn. You have stories and characters yet to be conceived. And those you've already birthed have been lovingly tended. You’re a darn good mother!

The show was terrific.

Twinkies and singularities

I just drove back from Jenn’s. It’s almost a six-hour trip but I’ve learned to pace myself and tune in to some of my favorite music which, depending on my mood and the iPod’s random selections, could be anything from klezmer to tango to blues or pop or a good polka. Eclectic tastes for sure. “Variety is the spice of life”, right?

I was planning to do a nostalgic essay tonight on my time with J&D and the munchkins but it seems that my daughter’s blog du jour has detoured me. I need to set the record straight regarding my use of language and somewhat colorful imagination. You have to believe that I’m not really all that risqué. I live a pretty tame life - a single woman in her apartment, no boyfriend (or girlfriend for that matter). My palette contains muted colors. Heck, I don’t watch much television or even go to the movies. I usually ask Jenn for the latest gossip about the stars.

Sometimes, though, Life (capital “L”) does take a turn and add a little excitement or the proverbial “spice” to a mundane existence. You just never know what will be the catalyst. It can be a new play or a college classroom.

I drive up to the artsy-fartsy Berkshires for a week to see Like Home (which contains a lot more naughty words than my spontaneous remarks on Blaine’s anatomy) and suddenly I’m out of my element – I’m WOV (woman on vacation). For a blissful week, I forget my graduating seniors and their term papers. I’m here with my beloved artistes and their progeny and community of like-minded artistes. I get to see the play twice and hang out with the actors. It’s exhilarating. I even cover the box office when someone doesn’t show up. I greet the ticket seekers, collect their money, hand out playbills and restrain myself from revealing that I’m the mother of the playwright (and mother-in-law to the director). There I am, smelling the greasepaint and hearing the roar of the crowd. Hot dang - I’m a theatre groupie!

Seeing Jenn’s play probably loosened me up a bit - so much so that seeing that Blaine guy in his fishbowl just triggered some unexpected thoughts which surprised even me. Never, in my entire life, had I ever thought of the male appendage as a cupcake. Now I’m having such feelings of guilt. Being from Philly and all that, I can’t believe I conjured up a Twinkie instead of a Tastycake! What a traitor I am.

As to the “bl*w job” remark, it’s something that I picked up from watching all those sex-therapy movies in grad school. Another revelation: I attended college as a non-traditional student. I was already in my menopause years by the time I got to study and learn about the many varieties of human love. This was definitely not a “spice” found in my mother’s kitchen.

The kids know how naïve I was when it came to s-e-x. For instance, Jenn went off to college and became a cartoonist for the college paper. She sent me copies of her weekly offerings, really cute and clever stuff. One time, though, she was illustrating an event where some cartoon figure was holding up a scorecard, reading “96”. As soon as I looked at this, I panicked and called her to voice maternal concern: “Er, Jenn, isn’t this really going too far? You know, people are gonna see this and think dirty thoughts.” Luckily, Jenn set me straight on that one and I was no longer numerically challenged, just in time to prepare me for my grad class in human sexuality.

My most memorable teacher was a sex therapist who insisted on having the class over to his clinic for an entire day of indoctrination and desensitization: training films and pillows to recline on. What a guy – he even served popcorn. The movies showed men with women, men with men, women with women, multi-positions, one on one, two on one, groups. Everything you wanted to know … and then some. Eyes were glazed by the end of the day. Popcorn did not take the edge off. We went outside for a break and my classmate looked stressed. I tried to do some compassionate counseling: “Hey, Joe. Are you okay?” Poor guy shook his head and then confessed, “I’m so horny I could hump a tree.”

This teacher even invited us to go swimming nude in his pool. (We all declined. I think he was disappointed.) Looking back, he was a likeable (albeit eccentric) fellow, very touchy feely, and into that whole sharing dynamic that we, as future therapists, were supposed to learn. He would invite his past clients for a little “show and tell” at our weekly classes. I got to meet the nicest people (even before Jerry Springer discovered them). There was a huge guy waiting for his sex-change operation and he had the boldest red nail polish and long blonde wig. He was a telephone lineman and I’m not sure how climbing a pole was gonna hold up after he lost his … and then there was the sweetest pair of senior citizens. She and he were married for years and looked like they just stepped out of Good Housekeeping or AARP magazine - gray-haired elders who happened to have a thing for an open marriage and some ménage a trois every now and then. They placed ads in local papers. Gosh, I wonder if they ever went on to make a documentary: “Grandma and Grandpa do Dallas.” A prominent businessman also made an appearance; he belonged to a transvestite club in center city. The wife supported his, er, proclivity and even helped him shop for his lacey underwear.

Now you see that I’ve done some multitasking of my own, some years back. Education certainly does open one up to the world - in this case, the world of froufyhouhas and hoojackapiffies. Any singular notions I may have had about s-e-x were dispelled when the popcorn was dispensed. And I’m a better person for it, Ollie.

I think I’ll go eat a Twinkie.

It's all in the eyes

There’s an epilogue to my previous post. The last time I spent with my Dad was two days before we lost him. He was retired and he and mom would drive up to visit and play with the adored only grandchildren (Jenn and Joe) maybe two, three times a week. He always enjoyed making or fixing things and this time he had crafted a swing for the kids to be hung from our big old mimosa tree on the side of the house. He needed help so I supported the ladder as he lifted the chains and twisted them around the largest and sturdiest limb of the tree. It was a hot and humid late afternoon and the sun was already starting to sink in the sky, a very peaceful and mellow time of day.

Dad was about three feet above me on the ladder and looking down at me when suddenly the golden rays from the sun reflected in his eyes. What happened next was a gift. My Dad was never one to loudly proclaim his love; he did it indirectly with a touch or the use of an endearing nickname. But looking up at him in that moment, time seemed to stop and I saw all the love in the world coming from his eyes. It was a silent and fleeting affirmation and yet I never felt more loved. The message was there in his eyes – a deep love, a proud love. I think we both sensed that something very profound had just happened as he seemed a bit embarrassed and we went back to the task at hand. Neither of us spoke aloud about what we had just experienced; we just let it be. That was the very last time I looked into my father’s eyes. And it was enough.

Crossing over

My young daughter’s crying awakened me out of a vivid and disturbing dream. I bounced out of bed and rushed into her bedroom to see what was the matter. “Mommy, mommy …”

Jenn sat up and I hugged her while she proceeded to tell me what she had been dreaming. It was the same dream I was having! I listened and could not believe what I was hearing. Yes, she was watching a crowd of people and there was a large body of water and some kind of odd plane ... she described a triangular sort of object {which, at the time, did not resonate}. I saw it too, just minutes before, in my own dreamscape. Then there was an explosion and tongues of fire were raining down as the people watched.

The shared nightmare left me jittery. After calming Jenn and getting her back to sleep, I climbed back into my own bed but it was hard to relax. Something very unusual had just happened to both of us. What did it mean? I had a strange sense of foreboding.

The phone call came the next morning as I was settling the kids down for lunch. First, it was my mom’s voice, crying and somewhat incoherent, and then a stranger’s voice, a policeman. “Your father’s dead. Can you come to the house?” My dad had died of a heart attack, my mom at his side. He died sitting in his car in the garage, rubbing his chest and just thinking he had overexerted himself. My mom went running down the driveway and into the store next door looking for help. The police were called and tried to revive him when they came but, by then, he had passed. It was a sad and sudden ending to a wonderful life. The past night’s dream seemed to be the bad omen I had feared. It had foreshadowed this personal catastrophe.

My dad’s unexpected demise came at summer’s end, 1975. Jenn was five years old. As she grew, we would speak of our strange dream and poppy’s death and how the dream was warning us of what was to come. Yet, we still felt confused about just what “it” was that we saw in the sky – it looked like no airplane or rocket that we had ever seen. Until …

Flash forward to the beginning of a new year, January 1986. A gallant crew of explorers mount a rocket and blast off into space. Hundreds are watching below as the Challenger climbs the bright blue sky. The triangular-shaped shuttle suddenly explodes in mid-air, showering bits of fiery debris into the ocean below. A national catastrophe propels itself onto television screens around the globe. I take one look and know that this was the scene, the vision that Jenn and I had shared. There were no space shuttles in 1975 - nothing for us to anchor our image to. But now we had a tragic confirmation of what we had experienced, on the night before my father’s death, so many years before.

This whole intuitive pre-cognitive phenomenon has made me believe even more in multiple dimensions of reality. I think we are surrounded by mystery every day and need to humbly accept that as part of the fabric of life.

“A faith that cannot survive collision with the truth is not worth many regrets.” Arthur C. Clarke

Fed up with fill 'er up

I just drove back from Jenn’s this past week after spending Easter with the kids and celebrating Sophie’s fifth birthday. The gasoline prices were fluctuating through four states and a long holiday weekend. I deliberately drove past some of the higher-priced locations and kept searching for bargains. Luckily, I drive a Toyota Corolla and get pretty good mileage especially on the long high-speed routes. Ruby likes to open up and run with the big boys. Bless her 135,000 mile heart of gold! My dad, who thought it was time to trade a car in around the 40-45,000 mile marker, would have been incredulous at my driving this ten-year-old car with such an accumulated track record. They just didn’t make sophisticated engines like this when Dad was alive.

Boy, did he love his cars. From the Model-T of his callow youth to the blue Oldsmobile sedan of my baby years to the green Studebaker automatic-drive of the ‘50s and then to the pinnacle of car ownership in the early ‘60s: an aqua-and-white Ford Thunderbird, the classic with three tail lights on either side. Would you believe that my dad taught me how to drive on his new T-Bird?! He even stayed mellow when I caught the side bullet on the door against the frame of the garage as I was learning how to pull in and out of tight spaces. This T-Bird was the delayed gratification of a youthful dream to own a Stutz Bearcat. My dad was just retiring and he was oh-so-ready to buy the T-Bird. He was a blue-collar auto-body welder for 40 years who appreciated a fine-looking and well-made product. It had leather bucket seats in front and a very small backseat where I and my 6’4” boyfriend had to perch if we were going with the folks for a Sunday drive. Most of the time, I let Frank ride up front. Can you imagine how I felt when Dad let me take the car to school? It was quite cool to pick up your girlfriends in a T-Bird. I love that he trusted me that much.

Mom was never quite as excited about the sports car as Dad and I. But then she also rolled her eyes when he announced that he was buying a motorboat about the same time. I think it was that whole male-menopause thing. Some men get crazy in their heads and loins and chase younger women; my dad was chasing another form of recreation - cars and boats that went vroom vroom and let the wind whip past and bring back memories of younger, livelier days. He paid cash, of course, for both mid-life purchases. He never heard of credit cards and would have frowned on that idea too, along with the notion of keeping a car with extended mileage. Even though both investments were short lived, the few years he drove the T-Bird and captained his boat brought so much pleasure and fun for me, my friends, and family members as well. I can still see him at the seashore pier with his jaunty little sailor’s cap and content smile. Captain of his domain. He was a good man and deserved these little pleasures as he grew older.

So, there I am, driving back from Jenn’s thinking about my dad and mom and some of the trips we took when I was a kid. Dad loved to drive and vacations meant car trips up and down the east coast and out to Pittsburgh to visit family. When we stopped at a gas station in those days, you had an honest-to-God owner who bent over backwards to take care of his customer. What service! While the guy filled your tank, he looked under the hood and checked the oil and then did a really careful job on wiping the windows – front and back. Ha! I pulled in to yet one more “mini-stop-shop-gas station” in the state of New Jersey which, for some crazy reason, does not allow drivers to pump their own gas. So, here I am, in the middle of my reminiscing about the good-old days, expecting some excellent customer service. The surly attendant dragged himself to my car, roughly took my speedpass (which, DUH, makes it so easy to set up for pumping), inserted the nozzle and slunk off while the super-expensive fuel gurgled into my gas tank. I had been driving all day – the windshield was, indeed, dirty. “Not my problem” seemed to be the motto. Was I surprised? Not really. Tell me, when was the last time that you actually pulled into a gas station where someone actually gave a damn about you and your car? What’s even more maddening is pulling into a self-serve station, pumping your gas, paying the top dollar and then trying to find a water bucket and squeegee that should be somewhere in the vicinity because IT’S THE RIGHT THING TO DO! But the most infuriating is finding the bucket and seeing that it is empty. Yeah, the milk of human kindness and good customer service are about as dried up as that bucket. What is it about the oil industry?! They’ve got us coming and going. God, would it kill them to offer a little TLC at the pump?!

Gosh Dad, you’re not here to see these new cars with longer performance and fancy bells and whistles: GPS, stereo-surround-sound and cd players, digital this and that … and much larger fuel tanks. It’s quite a different world. People are taking out home-equity lines of credit just to pay for their SUVs and gasoline! The technology has grown by leaps and bounds but the human factor of attention to the customer has been left in a ditch somewhere far behind. I think you got the better deal.

Songbird

A close friend in England introduced me to the music of a young American vocalist, Eva Cassidy. I listened to her renditions of “Somewhere Over The Rainbow” and “Songbird” and then did some research on this amazing singer. Why did I never hear of her?

The sad truth is that she died of cancer ten years ago and much of her music has been published posthumously as a labor of love by family and friends. She never made it big in the eyes of the world; her talent, however, was enormous. She was so gifted and she continues to touch people even now.

Her ability to sing in so many voices - gospel, rock, blues, pop - confounded the talent agents and producers. Many wanted to pigeonhole her into just one niche. She wasn’t marketable. How laughable considering the mediocrity that is passed off as “talent”.

I think Eva had to fly free and do what she was born to do, sing. She sang what she loved, what touched her, and you can’t help but feel that when you hear her. I haven’t been so moved in a long time. So I invite you to spend some time getting to know her and hearing her unique repertoire.

Treat yourself and tune in and listen for awhile. Stay in the moment with Eva, forget your cares and let her take you away with her to that other side of the rainbow. It’s the stuff that dreams are made of and such a welcomed respite from the daily grind.

Peace.

Easter story

It’s a very strange weekend. I’m making final revisions on my latest fanfic while devoting some time to this blog. There’s a powerful story slowly working its way on to Jenn’s blog and I don’t want to intrude on that report. So, I’m trying to keep a low profile. I have some working outlines for future blogs but memories of when the kids were little and when I was a young mother seem to be the menu of the day. I might as well go with the flow …

Here is a short and sweet family classic.

Did you ever notice that many family emergencies usually occur when dad/hubby is not on the scene?! One of the saddest learning moments for my kids took place during the dinner hour while their dad was out of town on business.

I was bustling in the kitchen when my little boy cried out in alarm that "something's wrong with Ginger!" Now Ginger was a gerbil who lived in splendor in a very large cage in the dining room. (We had so many guinea pigs in the basement that we had to find other spots to store the gerbils.) Ginger had been doing her daily exercise routine and managed to catch her head in between the rings of a Slinky and the poor thing strangled. (I know - bad mom, bad mom. Wrong toy in wrong cage. I still have twinges of guilt over this.) I knew as soon as I looked into the cage that the gerbil was gone. I was seriously considering critter CPR.

My son was only 7-8 years old and this was his first experience with the death of a pet. He was crying so hard and when I sadly told him that the gerbil was indeed dead, he took the limp body of Ginger in his hands and dropped to his knees and exclaimed: "Jesus, resurrect this gerbil!"

It was hard for Joseph to comprehend that the resurrection stories he heard in school could not be applied to his favorite pet. I let him hold the lifeless body, still warm, and either he or Jenn decided that they wanted to take a picture. I was speechless and feeling quite inadequate as their mom. I could not make it better. I think we all have moments as parents when not being able to make it better becomes a learning experience for us more than our children. It's very humbling.

It seemed that the kids themselves knew what they needed. So somewhere in the old box of family photos is a picture of two sad-faced kids, tears streaming down their faces, making peace with the untimely loss of a beloved pet.

Epilogue: Ginger had a formal and prayerful burial under our dogwood tree. Ritual is an important part of healing. The dogwood tree became the sentinel for many a burial of our smaller pets. Sacred ground. Joe went on to become a doctor.

Turtle tales

It had to happen, you get to a certain age and the grim reaper catches up with you. A giant tortoise in the Calcutta zoo died recently. He was about 250 years old. I hate to see him go. The old geezer just brought back memories of another guy, a bit younger, but still quite a character in his own right.

He arrived one Christmas eve, compliments of my sister-in-law, the flying nun. Linda would make her seasonal drive up the pike from North Carolina and stay with us. She was a tiny woman with a large heart for social justice and rights of the individual. These rights extended to all the voiceless and unprotected. Seeing a rather large box turtle in the middle of the highway caused her to stop the car, examine the critter, and determine that he, indeed, was in need of an advocate. So she threw him into a cardboard box with a few scraps of Kentucky Fried Chicken and crossed several state lines to bring him to us. The gift that kept on giving.

In keeping with our family policy of naming all creatures (domestic or wild) which graced our midst, we promptly christened him. Actually, the credit may have to go to my sister-in-law. She chose Torquemada. It seemed out of character for this one sad and sick-looking tortoise but Linda, a former Shakespearean scholar, was never one to pass on drama. “What’s in a name?” seemed to be something she took to heart – even trying to persuade me and hubby to name our firstborn “Desdemona”. We preferred Jennifer. But I digress …

Into the chaos of Christmas eve, with a tree being decorated, food being prepared, and kids running amok, came our ailing visitor. On first sight, Torquemada was not something you would want to pick up and cuddle. He had drool running down his tightly clenched mouth; his eyes were firmly shut and surrounded by some type of crusty material. Adding insult to injury, there was a nasty crack in his shell. It was readily apparent that the old guy needed some triage and long-term care. That’s where I came in. That’s where most mothers come in. The holidays quickly passed. Sis-in-law visited local friends and soon left. Kids went outside to play with their new toys. Hubby went back to work. The sick turtle and I were left alone.

Once again, the universe was playing tag and I was “it”.

When my kids were small, it seemed we had just about every kind of creature living at our house at one time or another. I never grew up with pets myself but the maternal biology kicked in and I did what I could to support the next generation. There were guinea pigs (14 in the basement at one point during the height of science fairs and presentations), hamsters, gerbils, white rats, parakeets (who perched on bowls and sipped chicken soup), stray cats (who tried to eat the parakeets), wounded sparrows (one may have been the reincarnation of my dear departed dad) and pigeons (brought to my house by a third-grader in her book bag because she knew that Jenn’s mom would make it well). Reluctantly and without seeking such fame, I became the Saint Francis of Assisi of the neighborhood.

This dude, however, was proving to be my biggest challenge. Torquemada was such a physical wreck. I could envision my own mom shaking her head and warning, “Don’t touch it - you don’t know where it’s been.” Here I was, staring at an unknown entity which didn’t even have the courtesy to open its eyes and give me a trusty wink. Wheezing was the only sign of life. “Knock, knock … who are you?”

Knowledge is power. I started checking encyclopedias and calling pet stores. Eventually some kind clerk took pity on my ignorance and referred me to the local veterinary school; thus began my education into Wild Kingdom 101. I learned how to tell a boy turtle from a girl turtle (it’s all in the eyes - which were still sealed shut) and about age rings on shells, and just about everything a city gal wanted to know about turtles/tortoises.

Days passed, the runny nose and clenched eyes still did not improve. I did what was suggested – provide moist, warm air. However, my methodology was a bit eccentric. Every morning I took the turtle into the bathroom, ran the shower hot and steamy, held him next to my face and crooned: "Nothing could be finer than to be in Carolina in the morning ..." I thought, somehow, that he would take comfort in hearing this since he was so far away from his home state. Nada.

The eyes were still shut and that drippy nose was really not getting any better. Disappointed in the nature books and pet stores and vets, I took the matter into my own hands. I went purely on maternal instinct and started rubbing Vicks VapoRub on his forehead. The morning showers and songs continued but now there was a pungent and pleasant aroma to the ritual. Ah, so soothing. I grew up with Vicks. How could this miss?

In a few more days the nose cleared up and, one beautiful morning in the shower, singing my heart out and holding Torquemada inches from my face, he finally opened one eye slowly (it was red - a male) and almost winked at me. Eureka - contact! I was so excited that I called my husband in the midst of his business meeting to tell him the good news. Needless to say, he did not share in my unbridled delight.

Our invalid made a full recovery and we then transported him to a local environmental center where I was told that he was quite an old gentleman (rings on shell). He had certainly been a patriarch of some North Carolina realm but now he was a senior citizen up north. The zoologist promised to take very good care of him in his twilight years. I phoned the nature center from time to time, just to make sure that he was really adjusting. Last told, it seemed that Torquemada had developed quite a harem of enamored, much younger, female turtles ….

Which goes to prove: the "older men and younger women" craziness cuts across all species of wild life, doesn't it?

Learning curve

You raise kids and watch them go through their adolescent dance of boyfriends and girlfriends, all the time hoping that one day your son and daughter will find that significant other who will become a lifetime partner, a loving and loyal spouse. You hope beyond hope that they learn from your mistakes and benefit from your wisdom. In the end, it’s very much out of your control. So you watch and pray, from the sidelines. You learn to be patient with yourself. It takes time to learn the art of letting go.

I didn’t have a good marriage. It took me years to admit that fact and several more years to take action. As my daughter reminded, “Mom, you needed to be hit by a Mac truck.” I did and I was, figuratively speaking, during a fairy-tale setting in a foreign land. But that’s a story for another day, another time.

My report card was a lopsided split: Couplehood = D; Parenting = A. I’ve chosen to celebrate the positive rather than focus on the negative. My marriage produced two terrific kids who have grown into two amazing adults. In many ways, I’ve learned what it’s like to be in a loving relationship from watching them. They chose well.

I fell in love with my daughter-in-law from the moment she stepped into my life, coming home with the son on a college break. Through the ups and downs of college romance, I secretly hoped that she would one day be “the one”. Eventually, my hope turned into reality. Katie is a sunny blonde who knows how to tease my sometimes serious son; she keeps him honest and she’s certainly not afraid to share her opinion. She is also not afraid to do her fair share of the labor, in and outside the home. My son keeps his end of the bargain too, providing security and love to his growing family. It was so gratifying to see him feeding and changing their first baby, something my own father would have been quite uncomfortable with. Men just did not do those kinds of female things a half-century ago.

I grew up thinking that father really did know best. I was a product of the sanguine ‘50s when moms wore aprons and dads provided the sole paycheck. The universe was filled with constants, no confounding variables. I knew what was expected of me and just how far I could go … dinner at 5:00pm, church on Sunday and family drive, Catholic school for twelve years. It was a safe life. Let’s say I had an extended childhood and adolescence. Oh, did I mention the only-child thing too? It wasn’t until I was married that I realized just how different families could be. That revelation produced quite a long and rather painful learning curve. Somehow though, flawed as we were as a couple, my husband and I got it right when it came to the kids. And they seem to be getting it right with their kids too.

At first, I didn’t quite know what to make of my future son-in-law. My first encounter came in the kitchen of Jenn’s Yonkers apartment. He reminded me of a flashback to the hippies of my generation – a shaggy guy in coveralls, pleasant smile and warm eyes. I, of course, was expecting someone else. Knowing that my daughter would always be a struggling artiste, I wanted to anchor her to some solid MBA grad with a pin-striped suit. Not! Thus began another learning curve for the mater - more letting go of pre-fabricated dreams which were intruding upon my daughter’s reality. David, bless him, had the good sense not to try too hard. He was quite content to be himself and let me get to know him through my daughter’s eyes. And her eyes were filled with love. I soon realized that this gentle man, this fellow artist, was the right match. I was touched to see how they cared for each other. David was a mensch. Yeah, they wouldn’t have money in the bank, but they were already rich in so many other ways. What more could a mother want.

Well, a mother could want … grandchildren. While both couples pursued and completed professional degrees, I kept hearing the daughter and daughter-in-law obsess and worry about their biological clocks and how hard it may be to get preggers. This made me laugh to myself. Mothers just know. I now have four beautiful grandkids, ages five and under, with grandbaby #5 set to make her debut on the west coast this summer. With so much love floating around, I knew they would be successful once they got on task.

I think I’ve learned how to step aside from my children’s lives, at least I hope so. In my letting them go, to make their own choices and create their own stories, I’ve begun to carve out some room for myself to let in new experiences and new stories of my own.

I still have a lot to learn.

Go inside and play

My daughter thinks I need to get a life. Well, she knows I have a life but she’s worried that it’s dull, dull, dull. So, in order to spice it up, she discovered the perfect gift for my birthday, an adult PC device. I kid you not. My intended gift is neither politically correct nor a personal computer. Instead, the Kegelcisor is everything a single woman could wish for. It’s sturdy and solid and shiny and sleek. Frankly, I’d rather have a new sports car.

My intended gift sits on display at select and discreet and not-so-discreet websites for the adult shopper. Don’t waste your time - you won’t find this puppy at Wal-Mart. But you will find it keeping company with rabbits, rock lobsters, eggs, wands and harnesses: a veritable potpourri of silicone, stainless steel, chrome, rubber and the ever popular pink Lucite (better things through chemistry). Did I mention the power supplies? Double AA and triple AAA and watch batteries along with cordless wonders and the live-on-the-edge 110v superchargers. Oops, I apologize, my intended gift is an old-fashioned manual model. I just got carried away. Aside from the Kegelcisor, my favorite item is the mini-combination flashlight-keychain-vibrator. A brilliant idea, don’t leave home without one.

It’s quite mind boggling to even consider the prospect of receiving a rock lobster or a Kegelcisor as a gift. There’s always the delicate question: If it doesn’t fit, can I take it back for a refund? According to the daughter, the answer is yes. However, since the online information reassures that you can establish the right fit by “experimenting with cucumbers”, that should hardly be necessary. I also like the way the stores support self-initiative. One goes so far as to say: “If you want something done right, do it yourself.” Gosh, they are very friendly and encouraging.

I guess my daughter means well. And, heaven knows, I spent over an hour tonight checking out the many colors and models and perky accessories but none of them seemed to thrill me as much as other forms of entertainment; for instance, throwing a bowling ball down the lane and making a 7-10 split. Wow, the feeling I get from that is just so, so … let’s say it tickles my fancy. And then there’s the world of art. Hmm, turn me loose in a museum and let me gaze upon a Georgia O’Keeffe painting and, before you know it, I get this tingly sensation up and down my … and, finally, horseback riding. Sitting in the saddle on a long bumpy trail ride ranks right up there for seat-of-the-pants excitement.

So, yes, I’ll pass on the intended gift. Jenn said they couldn’t engrave my bowling nickname on it anyhow. Such a shame. “Ball buster” would look so awesome etched in stainless steel.

Go outside and play

I awakened to the usual droning newscasts this morning but one of the reports really caught my attention. It seems that there is a battle going on about the banning of recess from the school day. When I web searched the topic, I discovered this isn’t just a battle, it’s a world war. Millions of kids around the world may have one of their basic rights stripped away. I was intending to blog this as a funny piece but I’m starting to think that all these websites and protesters may have every reason to be concerned.

I grew up with a fairly simple agenda: walk to school, sit in class, learn reading, writing, ‘rithmetic, a little bit of Polish (it was a small Catholic school in a Polish-American neighborhood), go outside, run around, play hopscotch and tag, gossip with the girlfriends, giggle at the boys and sometimes fall down and scrape a knee. My parents trusted the school authorities to get it right and teach and nurse and discipline me when needed. There were boundaries and no cell phones to get in the way. I walked home and ate dinner (always at 5:00pm) and then practiced my music and did my homework. This was way before after-school activities and gym teachers. Gym activities were covered on the playground with the running and tag and climbing and jumping rope. Recess was also a lesson in civics and socialization. If you thought a kid wasn’t playing fair, you called him on it. I found out early that there was strength in numbers. Usually, the kids could work out their problems without adult interference. We needed that time in the schoolyard to learn how to connect and get along. We were too busy listening to the teacher and writing from the blackboard the rest of the day.

That was then, a half century ago, and this is now. There are car pools and suburban moms and multi-tasking and multi-schedules. Kids don’t walk to school anymore; they are driven or bussed. Many of them probably have cell phones too. The parents are working from a new paradigm. They are super invested in their kids’ daily lives, perhaps too invested. I think a lot of families are on the edge of panic. There’s no time for a sit-down dinner as mom is working full-time and has to take Johnny or Joanne to soccer practice on Monday, violin lesson on Tuesday, little league or gymnastics on Wednesday, library-enrichment night on Thursday, and sleep-over on Friday. Many kitchens have organizational flow charts on their refrigerators. God, I’m breathless just thinking about it. No wonder the kids are tuning out with MTV and computers. Stop the world, they want to get off!

You would think that all this extracurricular activity would be producing robust and healthy kids. More disturbing news: the big Macs are catching up with the younger population as much as the older. Obesity in children/adolescents is on the rise. It’s probably due to the weekends spent chilling out from all the scheduled activity after school. Kids want to vegetate in front of their PC. And I bet many have their very own computer too. Well, yes, it’s an escape hatch. And not just for kids, eh? I’m blogging right now so I’m just as guilty.

The best release to the demands of parents and teachers may just be the old-fashioned idea of recess, a brilliant concept which worked for millions of kids throughout the decades. Kids need to take a healthy break, need to feel free to just do nothing, away from their hectic, over-scheduled modern lives. Jumping rope and running around will burn up some calories and maybe balance out the sitting at the computer.

I worry that parents are micro-managing their children’s lives. And I worry that professional educators are focusing on testing and outcomes so much that their stress to make a school or school district look good is carrying over to excessive demands on their charges. Schoolbags are now being designed more ergonomically because the kids have so much homework that they must carry tons of books back and forth each day. Doctors are seeing more and more orthopedic problems in the younger generation. Maybe it’s time to separate adult needs for competition from what the kids need and “Get off their backs”.

Quite simply, kids need time to themselves. It’s in the downtime that imagination and dreams are born. Cloud gazing may lead to creative ideas and future goals. Mom and dad, stand down. Teachers do the same. Give the kids some breathing room. And, while you’re at it, take some time off yourselves. It wouldn’t be such a Prozac nation if we all remembered to play.

Buddha, phone home

You can only keep a 15-year-old kid meditating for so long. Just read in the news this morning that a Buddha wannabe has decided to take a long walk into the sunset or sunrise or another dimension. According to the locals, the mini guru has been sitting under a tree since last May and not eating or drinking. But now he’s disappeared.

The villagers are organizing search parties.

If he’s found Nirvana, the kid should be fine. Maybe he’s simply looking for a big Mac.

Tough love

I can see this cross-pollenization of mom-daughter blogs will have to be worked through. Does anyone have an operating manual handy? In the meantime, I'm going to risk this open letter to my daughter at breed 'em and weep. It's the closest I can come to a Hallmark "Get Well Soon".

Dear Daughter,

I nag because I care.

Ever since you and I were first introduced (you knocked first, remember?), I have not been able to get you out of my mind. I was quite new at this whole preggers thing and had no sisters to fill me in. My Polish-American momma and assorted cousins were wonderfully supportive but did not offer much in the way of practical advice, except for my mom’s classic adage: “Don’t worry about childbirth – they expand when they hit the air.” All this because I felt your first kick and expressed some anxiety over my ability to handle the Big Event five months later.

Well, I did handle the BE with all the strength and prayers I could muster - mostly alone in a very small cubicle with a young intern who stopped by once or twice, in between my Hail Marys, to tell me I had a very high threshold for pain. The gauntlet was thrown down with those words. I had to live up to the hype. Say one Hail Mary and call me when you’re fully dilated. Having been the good Catholic school girl, I knew not to question authority. Just offer it up for the salvation of all those pagan babies whose mommas obviously had issues of their own.

Your dad heard the same words too but elsewhere in the hospital. The culture at the time did not really support all this grand sharing of maternal pain and birthing tubs with the daddies-to-be. The mommies were expected to wing it alone with their trust and devotion in the male authority figures who dispensed the orders along with the patronizing platitudes.

Nevertheless, your birth was every bit the Big Event I had anticipated. You came, you saw, you conquered me in the first few seconds I glanced down at your tiny face. I’ve never been the same since. And I got to repeat the wondrous experience all over again with your brother! Who would have thought those Hail Marys could garner such blessings. Childbirth, the gift that keeps on giving. Four unique grandchildren, with another on the way. I’ve got a silly smile on my face as I write this. I secretly think a pagan baby must have adopted me and showered good karma in my path.

Exponentially, you did expand when you hit the air. You grew bigger and I grew with you, learned from you, laughed with you and cried with you. I may have not had all the answers and disappointed you at times. But you never disappointed me. You were my Big Event, my baby girl with the bright searching eyes.

Now look at you, happily married and a mother yourself. Nanny wasn’t so wrong after all, was she? Babies do expand … and so do hearts.

I’m worried about you, a mother’s prerogative. My heart tells me that you have probably been over-exerting yourself and there can be a hundred good reasons for the “ehh” symptoms this past week. But my head tells me that I don’t like that false-positive reading on the EKG and that maybe your bloggers are on to something. And so, I push a little. Send some emails to your brother. Say a few Hail Marys (they seemed to have served me well in the past). And get on your case!

It’s called tough love. Live with it.

Mom xxoo

Toaster crumbs can multi-task

I have had it! Why, in this cyberspace world, do the spammers seem to be winning? Why, even with my megabytes of PC security software and firewalls and anti-spam, do the bad guys seem to find clever ways to slip in among messages from friends and family? I want to hear about Sophie's day in pre-K, not locate a Canadian pharmacy that sells Viagra!

These latest whacko subject lines must be the newest craze in sleazy advertising. Randomized words appear and I start to see red. Invasion of personal mental space.

I guess snake oil will always find a way into the marketplace.