Thirty-Eight - (Plus Three)

Thanks for the Giving....

2011-11-22T22:33:00.005-05:00

Yes, it's that time of year when everyone starts foaming at the mouth for stuffing and for thanking. It's also that time of year when everyone claims, "I'm not just thankful on Thanksgiving, but everyday!"

I think that, yes, we're all guilty of becoming quite vociferous about what we are grateful for in the weeks prior to Thanksgiving and up until the day. I also think that most of us, if not all, truly are thankful all year long even if we don't always talk about it as much as we do during this time of year.

While I've been feeling awfully down and out these days, seeming to complain A LOT, (even if not to others so much as I do to myself), I really do try to continue to remind myself of the gifts I am most thankful for, (Fourteen and Ten the absolute most, natch...) and that any and all bullshit needs to fall to the wayside; the way, WAYside. Of course, the "wayside" seems to have relocated itself to my lap so it's not as easy to escape said bullshit. But I'm going to try to expound upon my appreciations in life in my "2nd Annual Thanks Blog." (Who am I kidding? I'm sure I will forget to do this next year and the year after, so maybe I should take out "Annual" and just keep it at "2nd (and probably final) Thanks" blog.

Thanks for the Giving....

Thank you to those who have given me opportunities: whether it be an employment opportunity, one to speak my mind, or just an opportunity to try something new - Thank you.

Thank you to those who have given me support. I probably wouldn't crumble completely without it, but I'm glad to have it so that I don't have to find out.

Thank you to my family and my very, VERY select few friends for yelling at me all the truths I hate to hear, for listening to me vomit out my problems without hanging up the phone or punching me in the face. That alone takes restraint (the not punching me) and I appreciate it. If you do ever decide to punch me, just don't break my nose. It may be the one thing on me that I half-way like and also that is NOT big on me at the moment, or has ever been, for that matter.

Thanks for the Receiving...

Thank you to those who have received me into your lives completely. You are my truest, most beloved friends. By receiving me into your lives, that also means you have taken on not only me, but my hypochodria, my horrifyingly low self-esteem, my big mouth, my love for large belches, my sporadic neediness, my self-doubting monologues, and the occasional hyperventilating-from-crying-too-hard phone call and/or visit to your home at any hour (or a sickly combo of both. Sorry "D" but you're the best at keeping me calm.)

And as an extension of that, thank you for receiving me and my family into the circle of your families. Thank you, too, for receiving my whole-hearted efforts of being just as good to all of you as you all are to me. I may not be perfect and I may not always succeed at everything, but thanks for allowing me the chance to give you, or try to give you, something I want you to have; my love, my heart and my all.

Thanks for the Loving...

Again, this is another extension of the previous friends and family shout out. Sometimes it can be difficult to love someone when they are experiencing tough times, so I thank those who have loved me no matter what. You have continued giving your unwavering support and shared with me your strength, wisdom and advice, whether I have taken it or not. It seems I should actually take the advice, rather than just listen to it.

Thanks for the Loving, Fourteen and Ten. My babies have shown me love through their strength and maturity. I admire them even if they don't know it, or even if I don't always show it. Blessed, I surely am.

A special thank you to a person whose love has meant more to me than they know, who, especially during this year, has re-defined to me what love is. No easy feat since you have raised that bar quite high - maybe even to unattainable levels.

Thanks for the Leaving...

And to those who have removed themselves from my life, truly, I thank you. (and NO, this is not referring to my divorce at ALL. Just clearing THAT up just in case. Moving on...)I am thankful that I no longer need to put up with drama, nor do I want to. I have all the drama that attaches itself to simply living the life as a single, working mom. I have learned from those people who have detached themselves from me that they're not worth my efforts and that I am worth more than those people made me feel. So thank you again, but most importantly, FUCK you, too. (For the record, feeling worth more doesn't mean flipping people off in my blog is beneath me or that I am better than that. I'm still working on some shit, people. :)

So, to all I say, Thanks for the Everything and please remember to consume human amounts of food on Thursday.

The Story of My iPod....

2011-07-31T16:52:00.006-04:00

I guess I didn't have "What it Takes." "Things Just Ain't the Same" anymore but "Who Knew?" All I wanted was "A Little Respect" but "Enough is Enough." You can "Go Your Own Way" now.

They say to "Play at Your Own Risk," which I did, but you were too "Caught Up" in your "Control." You can't have it "Any Way You Want It" all the time. "I Don't Wanna Be" with "Someone Like You" - "I'd Rather" take my "Freedom" over bullshit any day.

"Sorry Seems to Be The Hardest Word" but I think it's a nearly impossible one. "You Say My Eyes are Beautiful" and that you're "Amazed" but that's all "Wordplay." No more "Clockwatching" or "Hangin' By a Moment" for me anymore. "One Day in Your Life" you will be "Sorry," "American Boy," but right now, just take your "Saturday Night" and stay "Away From Me." Ya know, "It Takes Two" but you just want to "Do Your Thing." I am no longer "Seventeen" and won't stay "Caught Up in You." You can be "Mr. Lonely" for all I care.

I don't "Love the Way You Lie" at all. "If You Don't Want to Love Me" I can't "Make You Feel My Love" nor are you worth it. "I Don't Know Why" I refused to see this but I suppose I'm "Lucky" I did now. I guess "Heaven Must Have Sent You" so I could learn a lesson but of course if "Falls On Me" to do your dirty work. "I'll Be" totally fine, as always. "Never Again," though...

"Hurt?" yes. But "Big Girls Don't Cry" "Because of You."

So, "Fuck You."

And that, my friends, is the story of my iPod.

Man-Child, How I Love Thee....

2011-07-22T09:53:00.009-04:00

I think the last time Thirteen listened to direction or offered me unforced affection was probably when he was still in the single digits. I loved when he would call me Mama and when he actually enjoyed sitting with me. When I smothered him with, “I love yous” he always happily returned the love and sentiment. Long gone are the days when I didn't have to wrestle him just to get a smooch. Anything that began with, "Could you please..." was met with very little resistance (if any at all). And when we were together and I started a discussion, his little lispy self eagerly participated. We talked about Spider Man and the Green Goblin, or which suit jacket he wanted to wear with which costume, who his friends were and what they did together or whether he wanted liverwurst or fried bologna for lunch (back when he still ate on his plastic superheroes plates. Awww....).

These days, there are maybe three things he says to me, and two of them are requests: "Jill, can we go to GameStop?" or, "Can you make me Ramen?" (And, um, yeah, I don't know what's with the "Jill" thing. Apparently, he thinks he is now an adult conversing with someone other than the person who dragged around an extra 70 pounds to carry, nourish and give birth to his large-ass baby self). And the third thing - his favorite thing - is to say no to anything and everything I request or say like, “Please brush your teeth, boy.” He makes no bones about his answer: no hesitance before compliance, no annoyed look - simply, NO. And that's written in capitals because if the words took shape as they left his mouth, they would be in capitals (36 point font, bolded and italicized, too).

Once in awhile I try to put that fucker into place, but he's been testing out his man-voice and his man-size on me and, unfortunately, I can't set him straight that easily. He's got about 7 inches in height on me and about 60 pounds of weight and even though he's still my kid, he manages to use that to his advantage. I think he thinks he can at the least shut me up but shutting me up ain’t ever gonna happen (for the record, it's nearly impossible).

But I, Ol' Forty-One, have always been a softie no matter how hard I try to lay down the law. I usually (and stupidly) relent and just do things myself. I also grudgingly accepted that the love he gave so freely as a little boy would never be given freely again.

A few weeks ago, right before he turned "Fourteen," my tough-ass boy surprised me. I had just gotten home with Princess Nine and he called out to me.

Fourteen: "Mommy!"

Concerned that he wasn’t referring to me by name, as was his newest preference, I stopped in my tracks. And it wasn’t “MA!” either. It was a sweet, mommy.

Ol’ Forty-One: "What do you want?"

Fourteen: "Come watch Harry Potter with me."

I am typically banned from his man-child cave unless bearing food or money, so the shock of the invitation (and the delivery of said invitation), and the fact that I had neither viddles nor green on my person, sent me running with a fire under my feet. He was on his bed getting ready to watch one of the HP movies and when I went to him, he made room for me on his bed.

Now the moment the blur of my racing body passed Princess Nine, quick footsteps followed me into his room.

Nine: “Mama, I waaaaaant you.”

She's not one to stand for any inattentiveness on my part.

Forty-One: “Sorry, kid. Brother has beckoned.”

Arguing, appeasing, and bribing moments later, we three were settled. Nine with one of her girly fashion books, me next to Fourteen and Almost Four even got in on the act and tried to fit her puppy self on the bed, too.

But the love didn’t end there.

Imagine my disbelief when Fourteen held my hand and kind of cuddled up next to his little old Ma. By the look of death in her eyes, I knew Nine wasn’t thrilled , but I was. For all his tough-boy, hormonal bullshit, for all his bad-ass non-compliance, for all his whatever elses, it made me realize that no matter what happens, he still loves Ol’ Forty One and needs to show it once in awhile.

And oh, Man-Child, how I love thee, too.

Ol’ Forty - God Bless My Mess

2011-05-04T16:16:00.004-04:00

Have you ever met those types of people that are so put together all the time - not a hair out of place, always wearing cleaned, crisply-pressed clothing, make-up never smeared, house always spotless with a place for everything? Yeah, well, I have and I am definitely NOT one of them.

I probably shouldn’t admit this, (although I have in other blogs) but I think nothing of rolling out of bed, (and yes, I have actually rolled and fallen out of bed) and going as is to the deli/friend’s house/Home Depot/pick-up-my-kids-wherever-they-may-be. I have gone out of the house with the previous night’s mascara smudged all over my eyes and I enjoy wearing my leopard slippers to 7-11. It’s just me; I can’t help it. Ninety-nine percent of the time, I just accept that I’m sloppy; it’s too much of a hassle gettin’ coiffed all the damn time. Let me add that my house suffers from that same state of disarray that I suffer from, too. And because of that, I don’t want anyone coming over. (Well, only my very closest besties who know me, understand me and who still love me for some mysterious reason).

But then there’s that teeny, tiny one percent of the time when something strange and unfamiliar comes over me. Sometimes it’s caused by something as simple as walking into someone else’s home and feeling envious of they’re organizational skills. Other times it’s only after I’ve tripped/slipped/banged up parts of my body which always results in deep, dark, painful bruises that I decide it’s time for a change. But the other day, it was when a friend wanted to come by (one who does not yet fully know me, one who does not yet completely understand me, and one who of course because of the previous two, can not yet love me), that I decided it's time. It still remains a mystery to me why I bother to try though. I'm way too long in the tooth to change but, shit, one more time wouldn't kill me.

Yesterday, my entire lunch hour was spent buying cleaning supplies and I went home armed with a plan. Damn it, I was going to be organized to some degree even if it was to the smallest degree ever. I would eventually open my rickety old door and welcome people in without turning even slightly pink with embarrassment. When someone asks me if I have a toothpick, I will know exactly where they are! (Note to self: buy toothpicks). If someone needs a fork, they will be in the drawer, cleaned, dried and with all its other little fork friends in its little fork-shaped space and not mixed up with the wrong crowd of sharp knives. Paper and pen, you say? In that drawer over there, and yes, the pen has ink AND a cap. That was the plan. WAS.

When I got home I lugged all my cleaning supplies into the house. After I banged myself on the box of stuff in the entryway (one day, I will call it the foy-yay), I felt the rush of excitement that only the thought of possible unclutteredness could bring. I was feelin' it.

First, I decided to get dinner done AND the dishes so I started to make meat sauce for my son and meatloaf for tomorrow with the extra bit of cow I have left over. Popped that into the oven while stirring the meat on the stove. I got out a pot to boil water for the ziti. Damn, I thought, I’m on a roll. I figured I'd make my brisket and get that done, as well. So, I grabbed my trusty old glass Pyrex dish and put it on the stove because I had no counter space. Shoulda known everything was going too smoothly....

BOOOOOOOMMMMMM!

The entire glass baking dish exploded all the fuck over, knocking my can of sauce (no comments, please. I’m a Jew and don’t make real ‘gravy,’ people. Baby steps......) Glass everywhere: in the meat sauce, in every crevice of the stove, all over the counters, floors, in the dining room carpet, and of course a piece had to take a chunk out of my foot.

Sauce everywhere, including my brand new, on-sale, light-colored capris, and blood just running out of the gaping fucking hole in the top of my foot. I tried to look at it but I thought I saw bone and decided outta sight, outta mind and covered it with 12 cotton balls.

Fast forward past the ex husband coming over to possibly take me for stitches, (but shrugging it off when I asked if he thought I needed a few); past my besties coming over to make sure I wasn’t gonna lose my foot or pass out from loss of blood, past my poor, usually-non-helpful-but-struggling-to-sweep-up-sauce son, past my daughter asking too many questions as usual.... I thanked God again that nobody lost an eye from flying glass (or a foot). When I finally hobbled off to bed all throbbing and full of bacitracin, my house was still a fuckin’ wreck.

All I can say is that one percent will always be a lost cause because I will always be a fucking disaster.

God Bless My Mess.

Definition: Love

2011-04-28T13:05:00.005-04:00

I never, ever stop analyzing - my mind turns everything over and examines things from every possible angle in order to find the meanings, reasons and purposes of everything I've experienced in my life. One of those things that I've been thinking deeply about has been the true definition of love.

It's probably safe to say that most of us are well-versed in the Corinthians passage, "Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy..." Ok, so...yeah, it's all that. But oh, there's so much more.

It was as I was contemplating where I am in my life and what it is that I want that I realized how much more there is to it. Everyone probably has their own definition of what love is and it's something we all want, we all need , but do we all have that kind of love as we each define it for ourselves? I recognized in that moment of thought that it's been through every experience and through every person I've met, whether they had a positive or a negative affect on me, that has helped me to understand what love is - and is most certainly not - to me. I suppose I've taken little pieces of each moment or experience with the people who've come into and gone out of my life and put them together to make sense of something so powerful and significant. While it can be difficult to define with words, I think I've finally come to what I believe is an accurate definition - again, to me. With all my thinking (and listening to a lot of Adele lately), this is what I feel:

Real love awakens the five senses: touch, taste, smell, sight, sound. It intensifies your sense of humor, your sense of self, your sense of all that surrounds you. It moves you in all ways -to tears, to laughter - it, encourages you, and it turns darkness into light. When you feel that love, it captivates you and nothing can change it, repress it or offend it. No argument can shrink or weaken it because with pure love, your heart is bigger and stronger than your pride.

You know it's always there. It awakens in the morning with you and sleeps with you at night. It runs through your veins no matter where you go and you feel its presence no matter what you're doing or who you're with. Physical distance doesn't dim it, illness doesn't deter it, and mistakes don't make you question it. It lives and dies with you. Your heart is always content, your soul infinitely full, warm and complete.

....and that, my 5 or less followers, is what it's all about.

Ol' Sappy Forty. ----> Take a listen.... Make You Feel My Love

MMMBop... Yeah, that's Right.

2010-12-02T23:38:00.013-05:00

I randomly hear the song MMMBop by Hanson (waaay back then) (usually at Wal-Mart and some idiot that works there inevitably has to make some stupid announcement over the loudspeaker as soon as it comes on....) but every time I do hear it, it makes me happy. Well, happy and sad. Happy because it's fun to sing but sad because the words are just so...true

I thought about the song tonight for some reason even though the last time I heard it was maybe a month ago in the mall. Yes, it sounds silly with the MMMBop, buh dip uh dop chorus but hey, the three Hanson brothers wrote it when they were really little so you have to expect a little silliness in the lyrics, don't you? But after all the MMMBops and buh dip uh dops are sung, the other lyrics truly do have a significant meaning. When it saturated the radio stations in 1996/1997-ish, (I remember I was a big load o'pregnantness with Thirteen at the time), I was hooked on how adorable the brothers were but really, I was in awe of their talent and drive, as well. Who comes up with these kinds of lyrics at the ages 9, 11, and 13?

You have so many relationships in this life
Only one or two will last
You go through all the pain and strife
Then you turn your back and they're gone so fast
Oh yeah
And they're gone so fast, yeah
Oh
So hold on the ones who really care
In the end they'll be the only ones there
And when you get old and start losing your hair
Tell me who will still care
Can you tell me who will still care?

Listen, I'm not saying the lyrics are completely genius, but maybe just a smidge.

It's so true that you have so many friendships and relationships in your lifetime but really...how many of them will last? So you have 6,854 friends on Facebook but of those 6,854 friends, how many really care and will still be there when you need them? When you're old and start losing your hair, (or maybe if you're like me, you start growing some in baaaad places), who will be there to buy you a toupee or to help you pluck your chin? Huh? Who?

When the chips are down, the ones that slink away are the "MMMBoppers": in an MMMBop they're gone, in an MMMBop they're not there as the great Hansons sing. As much as I love to sing the song because it's catchy and and the buh dip uh dops are challenging to sing, it makes ya think: Aren't there people in your life that really are there for the long-haul while others are just gone like that? ::finger-snap:: I have come to the conclusion that I've had, and no longer desire, too many of these sorts of people - these MMMBoppers -in (and apparently) out of my life. I'm so done with that. I want the people who will wipe my nose with their sleeve when I'm crying and have no tissues; I want the people who will feel the lump on my ribs/head/neck/toe/armpit so they can assure me I'm not dying; I want the people who will listen to me (and join me) when I laugh so hard or cry so fiercely that sound no longer actually comes out of my mouth. I want the people who don't care that I went to the deli for coffee in the clothes I slept in the night before, come to their house in said clothes and proceed to sit around for a few hours of gabbing. I want the friend who will sniff my pits in public to assure me I don't smell as bad as I think I do when I break out in some weird nervous sweat. I want the people who can tell me my faults without secretly enjoying it because somehow it makes their faults seem less...um.... faulty.

On the other end of that, I do not want people who laugh with me but behind my back knock me down or or do hurtful things intentionally. I do not want people in my life who begrudge me my successes, (even as few as they might be), but still. I do not want anyone in my life who doesn't add anything positive to it. And yes, I believe the friends that will pop the zit on my forehead or look down my throat with a flashlight are, indeed, adding something positive. They are accepting me for who I am, warts and all, and whether humoring my hypochondria or allowing me to boo-hoo to them about something, this is what friendship is about to me. Being there, no matter what.

Friendships and relationships take so much work but if you want great ones, whether it be with siblings, parents, friends, significant others or spouses, they can be as only as good as you're willing (and they're willing) to give and to make them be.

You have so many relationships in this life
Only one or two will last....
You go through all the pain and strife
Then you turn your back and they're gone so fast...

I never did and still don't give a shit that people laugh at me for liking Hanson (currently) and MMMBop but I have always found the lyrics so profound.

I often do wonder, in the end, who will be the only ones there.... ???

If Pride Had Calories, I'd Be 9,000 Pounds.

2010-11-30T05:19:00.005-05:00

Boy, turning Forty came with more shit than I could have imagined - some good and some bad and some, well... I guess some newly-acquired knowledge. (I guess that can fall under either category).

Everything has changed for me and I'm not sure how I feel about that. I'm now questioning the virtues, the ideas, and everything else I've always believed in.

We all have a certain sense of pride, dignity, and integrity; some of us have small egos, while others have inexplicably ginormous ones; some people are self-righteous, while some are humble; some are conceited, while others are completely self-deprecating. There's well-deserved forgiveness and equally, well-deserved blame. And then there's the truth. The truth is a concept that has different meanings, or so it seems, to everyone.

I've come to a conclusion that all of those things mentioned above are full of great meaning and also full of shit at the same time. Yes, while all of those virtues and traits are fine and dandy, there has to be some sort of balance between them, as well.

I'm always able to swallow my pride if and when I have to. Sure, it tastes bad going down but, hell, when I have to do it, the results have always been worth it. Shit, if pride had calories, I'd weigh 9,000 pounds. What amazes me, though, is how other people allow their pride to get in the way of things and how they make their decisions. Sure, it's a wonderful thing to have pride in yourself and in your character, but when it prevents you from seeing situations from another person's perspective because, God forbid your ego takes a punch in the gut, is it really that important? When it comes to losing out on something significant in your life, is it not worth taking that small hit? I've always believed that nobody is that fucking great to take that hit.

But there's another, darker side to that, as well. A small ding in your pride is one thing. But when you let go of it almost completely, that's a problem. Like I said, balance is key. I've been to that side, where I've tossed all my self-respect to the ground and had it dragged through the mud for something I believed so strongly in, something so worth it, but in the end, unfortunately, all that did for me was make me feel foolish. But in another way, it was a good lesson in learning that whole 'balance' thing I mentioned. Wear your pride like you wear your winter clothing: in layers. Sometimes, you have to shed a sweater when it gets too warm, but at least you still have something still on so you don't get too cold. Does that make any kind of ridiculous sense? (Oh, my three readers, I've been up since 3:50 am. Please try to figure that one out on your own.)

Another thing I've come to realize with age is that I hate how people skew the truth in order to soothe themselves, to make themselves look better/smarter/superior to others, or just because the real truth isn't something they can accept for whatever reason. Damn, I've told the truth even when it shed me in a bad light but to me, it was the right thing to do. Sure the truth is always easier to say when it makes us look good, but I think it shows more character to admit it even when it doesn't. People dance around it, they twist and turn it, they ignore it, they exaggerate it.... To look the truth right in the eye though? (Mostly) unheard of.

Which brings me to forgiveness. I've had so many experiences in my life with so many people where this was an issue. I've forgiven people in my past for things I probably shouldn't have forgiven them for. But who says I'm so great or high and mighty that I shouldn't give others another chance (or two, or ten, or endless ones, which has been the case many-a-time). Why are too many people so intent, though, on being unforgiving? Is it their stupid dignity that gets in the way? Are they in some way partially to blame in some way, shape or form and can't accept that? Do they feel that forgiveness is a sign of weakness? I don't know about anyone else, but to me, being able to forgive is a sign or strength.

I hate questioning all I've ever believed in, all the virtues and ideas I've had about people and life, but every day, something causes me to do so. Certainly, I am far from perfect and at one time or another have had the scales tip too greatly on the pride/truth/integrity/whatever side. But I am human. I recognize these things about myself and I always want to find a balance; I strive for it.

We all have to look at ourselves in the mirror every day and remind ourselves that the person looking back at us is the one person we have to make decisions for and live with forever. When I feel like I'm losing my own sense of self or have done something I am not too proud of, I never revert my eyes from that reflection - I face it and try to do the best that I can to change or make up for anything I need to. I don't want my ability to forgive or to be honest or any of those other things to become unrecognizable to me. But sometimes they do and unfortunately, it's because I've allowed people and bad experiences to do that to me. I don't want that, and I really don't want to question myself and who I am because at the end of the day, warts and all, I still want and like to be Ol' Forty.

Thanks Be

2010-11-24T18:10:00.004-05:00

Normally, I just say little prayers in my head and thank God silently. But here's a list to my three readers of what I am thankful for:

1) My kids, Thirteen and Nine. The lights (and pains in the asses) of my life. Nothing would be the same without you two. Even though life has changed for all of us, all is still pretty damn good and for those things that are a little shaky, Ol' Mama Forty will make it all good. I love you two to pieces.

2) My family (Ol' Sixty Eight, Forty-three and even Ol' Forty-Eight). No matter what, you are all constants in my life through the good, bad and the-fucking- so-ugly-it's-ridiculous.

3) My friends. The ones I met through my kids' school, the ones who I've known through my own schooling and the ones who've gone away and come back. You all are the people who I hold near and dear to me, sometimes nearer and dearer than other times. ;-)

4) My sense of humor. It gets me through all those aforementioned good, bad and so fucking-ugly-it's-ridiculous times. I laugh at myself constantly even when I want to scream. Who else can walk into work with a bra hanging off her shoulder and laugh all day?

5) My sense of who I am. It's taken me years to figure it out but I finally know. I no longer care so much how others perceive me because perception is just that - we all see things differently. My truths are the most important to me because I know what I believe, I know what I mean, I know my own intentions. If someone else chooses to see it differently, then so be it. As long as I know what I know.

6) My determination. I have done things that I never thought I would do. I have pushed through things I never thought I could get through. I have achieved certain goals that, at one time or another, seemed unattainable. Sometimes it takes me years and years to accomplish what I want to, but I always find a way.

7) My belief and desire to forgive and be forgiven. Everything and everyone deserves chances - sometimes one, sometimes two, sometimes countless. Most, if not all things, can be worked through. At least I think so.

8) Pizza and Pindar. (come on... we knew that was coming)

9) The opportunity(ies) to speak my mind. We should all be able to do so no matter what.

10) People that tell me my bra is stuck to my shoulder. I am so thankful for you.

11) Food Network. The day isn't complete without the Neelys or Paula Deen, y'all!

12) My dog, Almost Three. She's a little nutty lately but she wags her weapon-like tail at me and always smiles when I need to see one.

13) Discount stores. How else would I be able to buy a wardrobe for under $100?

14) Suavitel fabric softener. My clothes smell yummy all for the low price of $7. Who needs Downey? (well, except for the one below...)

15) Robert Downey Jr. Period.

16) To those that love me through it all... no matter what. You make my days brighter knowing that you believe in me and the person I truly am even when I fuck up, which I will admit to doing here and there ;)

17) My age-earned wisdom. Even though sometimes I'm off the mark, at least I'm reasonable enough to know and understand WHY I'm off the mark. Age does have its benefits.

To be continued.....

Ol' Forty

An Open Letter.....

2010-11-18T21:24:00.002-05:00

How many times have you had conversations in your head with people who you need to speak with but you can't for some reason? How many times have you wanted to bawl someone out who fucking deserved it but you can't because it would cause too many other things to snowball so you just hold it in? How many times have you eaten a really good fucking slice of pizza and wanted to hug the person who put just the right amount of cheese on it and baked it to a bubbly brown? How many times have you just had a damn day/week/month/year that was so crazy, you wished you could address everything and everyone involved personally?

For me? It's been millions. So here's an open letter to all:

Dear The Idiots I Have Recently Encountered:

Thank you for showing me that in order to make yourselves feel better, you make up lies and embellish stories. Not only have you fucked up parts of my life, but you've also made me realize that 99% of people are just selfish assholes and I can no longer have faith in most people. Somehow, someway, I will find the strength to delete you all from my stupid Facebook account.

Dear Former Employers Who Have Treated Me Like Crap:

You have taught me many a lesson in being an employee. I will no longer be able to be honest to a fault about who I am and what I want because you have taken advantage of that and have treated me like a worthless piece of shit. Lesson learned and I pity the fuck that crosses me again in the work place.

Dear Friends Who Are No Longer Friends:
Oh, just fuck you. So not worth more words than that.

Dear People Who Have Stood By Me:
Well, thank GOD there are a handful of you. What would I do without you?

Dear Selfish People:
I have given you 100% or more of me. And when I make a mistake, suddenly I am like the plague. How sad it is that all the good I have added to you and your life (lives) is instantly forgotten. I guess human error is unheard of when all you can do is think about yourself(ves), Carry on with you life(ves) and leave me the fuck alone. I will no longer give more than I should and that's too bad.... because, damn, I can give an awful lot. You screwed all the people that I may encounter one day in the future.

Dear Pizza:
You make me feel full and warm and happy when I am sad and down. You soak up my wine just enough so that I feel cozy and lovely. Thank you for being ever-present at the mere cost of $4.50 for two slices of your heavenliness. I heart you.

Dear Paycheck:
I worked really hard for you and you made me smile amidst any gloom and doom I was experiencing. God bless you.

Dear Debit Card:
Thank you for seeming to be endless lately. I have enjoyed swiping you at Nordstrom, Marshall's and TJ Maxx for the past three days. Please don't disappoint me when I need to go to Toys R us.

Dear Westbury Liquors:
Pindar Winter White for $9.99 a bottle...the big one. No more explanation needed.

Dear Me:
I am bruised and hurt by people who were/are supposed to know who I am and what I am about. But I will fight like a mother fucker to not let them get me down. I know the truth about everything and that's all that matters. I will make sure I let myself heal and then move onward and upward. I will no longer beat myself up for mistakes, wrong decisions or anything else. Please keep remembering these words when I can't sleep at night when I think of those bruisers and liars and selfish people who make me feel horrible.

Dear New House (even though you're not really new and sort of old but you're new to me):
I like you and will make you my home.

Love Ol' Forty who no longer gives a fuck.

A Hairy Situation - An Open Letter

2010-09-10T13:50:00.004-04:00

Dear Hair Follicles:

You're fired.

You're services are no longer needed from my eyebrows down. It has come to my attention that you've all been working overtime without permission and have taken it upon yourselves to pick up some day laborers as well. Please cease any projects you are working on now and vacate from those premises immediately.

I no longer have the desire or the funds to find new ways to remove the over-production of hair in places that make hair-removal necessary. My legs have endured too many cuts, bruises and scrapes as it is, so I refuse to use anything else on them that might cause bleeding, require immediate medical care and cause possible scarring. It has come to a point where I need to carry tweezers with me at all times for plucking emergencies.

Cease and desist any and all hair growth from my face down. I have sustained red, mustache-shaped burns over my lip in my efforts to be hairless along with an angry mob of blisters above my eyebrows. Because of your insistent desire to over-produce and because of the pain my poor face has endured, my only choice is to fire you all and just consider going with the Tom Selleck look. Please don't take it personally.

You are all very hard-working, dedicated follicles with potential for continued growth. I've heard my scalp has lost some employees and the ones that remain are lazy and unmotivated. All applicants are welcome.

If you all feel qualified, which I know you are, please make the journey to the top of my head and begin work immediately. It would be nice to brush my hair without gathering it all up afterward from the floor, sink, counter tops, my dog's head or the front of my shirt. It would also be nice to have more than three strands in my ponytail, which I can only hold together by one of those tiny rubber bands kids use when they have braces. I am not greedy and I don't require much at all. My only preference if anything is that when you begin producing, please make it that nice hue of brown rather than that wiry silver that seems to be all the rage up there.

Love and Ponytails,
Ol' Forty

A Heads-Up to Santa....

2010-09-05T11:21:00.003-04:00

Dear Santa...

I know I am going to win "Meanest Mother Award" but please by-pass my house this year. I know it sounds unreasonable to ask you to do such a horrific thing, but let's review:

- Thirteen no longer believes in you so... screw him. Why go out of your way to bring him 652 presents he tosses aside, some which he never winds up using anyway?

- Eight is onto you, as well. She's a savvy little creature. But at least she pretends to believe: she helps me leave you cookies and milk and always wants to wait up so she can hear Blitzen and gang trampling on the roof. But she will always keep up the charade, that little schemer, because she now wants a laptop, an iPhone, a pink convertible car with leopard-striped interior and exterior (no, not a Barbie car - a real one), an iPad, anything with a lower-case "i" prefix, actually, and a Blackberry. If you decide to fly by, just drop an "iCarly" video into my mailbox and keep going. PLEASE.

-I busted my old ass going through my basement, or what I should really call, The Toy Graveyard From Hell, aka - Someone,-Please-Break-Into-My-House-of-Toy-Horrors-and-Steal-Everything. I carried up approximately thirty board games, boxes and bags of Legos totaling probably thousands of tiny pieces minus the ones my nephew, Fifteen, claimed to ingest a few years ago "just because" and the ones my dog probably munched on, three boxes of books, maybe 10 of those books, if that, read, a Leap Pad, a ghetto-version Lite Brite (which anyone who knows me knows I spilled half the pegs on the way up the stairs), and a shit-load of puzzles. Nevermind the half-colored Spiderman, Dora and princess coloring books I tossed.

Five over-stretched garbage bags later, I'm still not even close to having anything resembling a clean house. There are still:

- Twenty baby dolls, some with newly streaked blue hair, most naked, all neglected.

- BINS and BINS full of body parts: Green Goblin/Spiderman/Superman heads, arms, legs, wings, feet. You name it, my kids dismembered it.

You get the idea.

If you really need to drop by, come pick that stuff up and give it to kids who enjoy using the stuff. I'm throwing that shit out on the driveway to make a few bucks so you better come before I sell an entire Game Cube system with 100 perfectly good games to the lady who doesn't speak English except to say, "No, a quarter."

Dude, we're really Jews who become conveniently Catholic in December anyway.

Just a heads-up.

Shalom...
Ol' Forty

I'm Going to Kick Your 3rd Grade Teacher's Ass

2010-09-03T13:42:00.005-04:00

Today as I was driving, I bypassed my annoying, evil iPod to see what was happening on the air waves. Every station was saturated with the same shit I hear all day, everyday, whether it's on the radio or blasting from Thirteen's iTouch. Finally I settled on, I'll Be Missing You by Puffy P. Diddy Daddy. Something old, yet new compared to everything else.

But then it happened - I heard it.

Every bref you take....

I suddenly felt venomous towards Puffy Diddy Daddy's third grade teacher.

Seriously, why is this man rich? Clearly, he has not been able to master the difference between the sounds th make and the letter f and people pay to hear him mangle the alphabet?

Then I got to thinking: I've heard waaaay too many people do this. Unless you're under the age of 12, (and that's very generous) or you have something physically preventing you from proper pronunciation, please learn how to say the following as these are the most common (that's so fucking sad) and the most annoying:

birthday, NOT berfday.

breath is NOT bref

While I'm on a rant, if I see one more apostrophe where it doesn't belong like on the end of a plural, NON-possessive, or another error where their, there and they're is concerned, I'm going to find the offender, force the name of their third grade teacher out of them, and kick their ass hard. The same goes for your and you're. Really.

I'm by no means a grammar snob, but if you think so, then you can Thuck Oth. ;-)

The Smell of Defeat

2010-08-25T16:14:00.002-04:00

Come a little closer and take a whiff - no, not of my ridiculously expensive perfume that I will never, ever, ever be able to purchase again. Not that. Come on, smell... Got it now? It's strong and it's the other scent I've been sportin' lately, which, by the way, is quite costly in its own way and is called, "Eau de'Feat." There are several translations and/or pronunciations in English:

1. Oh, Defeat!
2. Oh, fuck.... defeated again!
3. Fuck My Life
4. Really? Why? Whyyyyy?

and my favorite...

4. My boss is a mother fucking hairy prick who has no compassion, human decency, or interpersonal skills who thinks his pocket bulging full of money (and probably only money, if ya know what I mean) make him better than everyone else.

I wish someone could explain to me why I decided to forgo the usual "interview smile and head-nod" and went with, "be forthright, be relaxed and be yourself." What, I ask you, was the point of being forthright to this potential employer (who went from "potential" to "actual") when all he did was take advantage of that? And is it really too much to ask for that same courtesy in return? Whoever can explain those mysteries to me, please also shed some light on a possible reason(s) why when someone employs a very eager, smart person who's willing to learn (and can learn!) anything that the employer constantly speaks to this employee with contempt, impatience and disrespect.

What happens to people when they become successful? Do they turn into selfish, arrogant fucks immediately? Or are there prerequisites for being successful, like they need to possess inner-scumbagdom (yes, that's a word: my word), or have complete disregard for the less-than-human folk that they employ?

I have approached my job searches in several different ways: the above mentioned "interview smile and head-nod" combo, then I've used that one along with the "outgoing-personality-willingness-to-learn" approach, and then I've gone the "Full Monty" approach - just being completely honest about who I am, what I want and why I think I'm a good hire. That's probably what helped me get my current position, although I think somehow my honesty and willingness fucked me in the end.

What is it that employers want? They place ads which take time for people to carefully respond to but then don't have the courtesy to respond back in kind. Then the rare few who do call you in for an interview, put you through a four-interview process over the course of weeks, hire you, then proceed to treat you as if you left your brain back in your health club locker. But, because we all need that green paper, we take it. We take all the bullshit because we have to. We work harder to prove ourselves, we bite our tongues when we should really lash them out with venomous words, then we work even harder to prove ourselves more and then we get screwed. Or at least I did.

Because this position I have is seasonal, most of the staff is laid off for either the entire summer or for part of the summer. Me? I got off for August with my re-hire date near Labor Day. But I never heard exactly when. So I emailed the Prick. After treating me like shit on his shoe (I have witnesses!)he sends me a negative email in response. He accused me of having a 'bad attitude.'

An overview of the beginning:

April: Four-part interview with Prick and his interview side-kick, Fat Pork Sword
Second week in: Mother Fucker Side-Kick Pork Sword bullied me into silence.
Every week following: Sarcastic remarks, no eye contact when speaking, rare acknowledgment of my existence.
Oh,, and apparently, when either of them raised their hand in my face, it meant, You, Woman. You no speak.

Many disdainful looks, snide side-comments and snickering between the two of them, and one-too-many belittling grammar corrections later, I was thrown into an ocean of "do this with little or contradictory instructions" and basically told to swim. When I asked for help, the hand went up in my face and I was spoken to with contempt.

I feel defeated. Not completely, where I'm gonna lay down in a puddle of my own tears, but enough where I reek of it already. Add a few other disappointments and struggles (to be announced in a future blog of misery)and I feel the urge to warn people to stay away from me as the smell of defeat is pungent and will curl your nostrils.

I know mine are. And like I mentioned earlier, it's a costly scent. It's costing me a little of my self worth and confidence.

Thank Yous Long Overdue

2010-08-03T09:17:00.014-04:00

I'm a big believer in thanking people (even if my gratitude isn't always so sincere). Here we go...

Thank you...

... to the guys/girls/old men/little-kids-with-manners/creepy-dudes who hold doors open for me even when I'm a hundred feet away. Way too kind.

... to the lady who just stumbled off the curb probably thinking that because she was next to a huge truck, nobody saw. But I did. Much needed chuckle for an already-shitty morning.

... to my 3rd grade teacher who encouraged us to get extra credit points and by doing so, brought out the wanna-be-writer in me.

... to my professors in college for continually helping me to hone my (so-called) craft. (and for letting me sit in your office listening to all my tales. You know who you are!)

...to the people who actually take the time to read what I write. You five people ROCK!

... to all those wonderful, loving people out there who have taken it upon themselves to knock me down and kick me while I'm there. Again, more people who ROCK!

... to my puppy, Two and a Half - you make me smile daily. :)

... to my sister, Forty-Three. A girl needs to have someone in life who she can share a secret language with. You know what the raised left eyebrow means in any given situation. Thank GOD.

... to whoever it was in my family, (Sixty-Eight?) that I got my sense of humor from.

... to those who have taught me harsh lessons. Those are the ones I will never, ever forget.

...to Pindar Winter White - you make my evenings more enjoyable.

... in the same vein, to the Local Liquor Store for amusing me by taking my suggestion half-way seriously of having a card to stamp every time you come in. Every ten bottles gets you a freebie. (Come on, guys - Subway used to do it!)

... to Senor Frog's in Mexico. Period.

... to Seth MacFarlane. You are a comic genius and I don't care who isn't with me on that one. (also to TVLand for running all those Roseanne marathons for when Ol' Forty can't sleep).

... to Anne Murray for singing a song that makes me cry like a fucking idiot. My iPod seems to be a source of pain and self-punishment somehow. Maybe I should set it on fire.

... to my fantabulous boss for paying me that unbelievably HUGE mountain of cash every two weeks just so he can have someone to sneer at daily. It is SO fucking worth it.

... to anyone who loves me, warts and all.

... the guy at the nail place who gave me a really long and quite awesome foot massage recently. My toe nails looked lovely in that shade of red, btw.

... to all those who never cease to amaze me.

... to my daughter, Eight, for having that wicked Mizrahi sense of humor. She's 59 pounds of solid love and companionship and she makes me laugh.

... to my son, Thirteen, for shocking the shit out of me with his strength and courage. Yes, he whimpered when he got his ear pierced but he didn't even flinch in the face of something else that should have knocked him down.

... to Eight and Thirteen. Never have I been more proud of the two of them. When hit with shitty news, they were both courageous and understanding. I love them more than life.

McDonalds Ain't So Bad....

2010-04-16T18:34:00.004-04:00

I picked up McDonald's for the kids last night. Ya know, they say it's not good for you but honestly, last night, I was happy to give it to them. Here's the looooong reason why:

About 10 days ago, I mentioned in my blog that self-pity was useless. But yesterday, at least for a few hours, I felt like total shit and dare-I-say, pitied myself a wee bit. I know there are waaaay worse things in the world but when utter frustration takes over and when with every step forward you are thrown far back, sometimes you just can't help it.

I had to take my doggie, Two, to the vet. She's been a fixture there since September. Here's a run down:

March '08 - I adopted the sweetest puppy in the world, three and a half months old.

Sept. '09 - Said puppy started limping on one leg. Within weeks, she couldn't even walk. After an emergency visit to the vet on a Sunday night at ten pm, Lyme disease was ruled out but X-rays were needed. Yay to the yay.

Oct. '09 - After sedation and x-rays, both the poor girl's knees were deemed busted up. She needed ACL surgery. Within weeks, knee #1 was done. Cost: oh, I don't know. Between x-rays and surgery and meds, let's go with somewhere near three grand.

Three weeks after said surgery - My dog couldn't use her tongue. She was drooling like mad, had breath that could kill small animals and/or humans. Seriously. She chomped her water instead of lapping it. Many phone calls and visits to the vet later.... Vet was stumped. I was instructed to roll her food into balls and put them in her mouth. Dog dropped from a slightly overweight 72 pounds to a skinny 60. Ol' Forty was at her wit's end. Suggested plan of action from Vet, (who had been fabulous, sympathetic and even tried to discount me where she could, bless her): take her to the neurologist.

PLEASE NOTE: If at this point you're reading this and saying that Ol' Forty has got to be kidding and she is a fucking idiot, please move along and click back to your Facebook/MySpace/Twitter account. For all the animal lovers out there and for those who want to believe there's hope for human kindness in the world, I hope you continue...

Somewhere between November '09 and December '09 (I can't even keep track but whatever): I took Two to the neurologist. Hours later:

Dr.: "Your dog, Two's, tests seem all fine. She's not banging into walls or staring into space, is she?"
Forty: "Noooooo! She's perfectly normal except for smelly drool and a dead tongue.
Dr.: "Well, let's do an MRI. It's around $2,000."
Forty: -----------
I paid my consultation fee and blew outta there.

January '10 (ok, now I'm just pretty much guessing with the time frame but it's not the point): My dog's licker got its ticker back. Slooooowly but surely. But then she got all kinds of ear infections. Oh, and she was still limping and wouldn't sit down. I started walking her, trying to at least strengthen her knees. I fed her anything that she wanted. If she had wanted to, say, eat my cats, (both Almost Eighteen), I would have let her have them, too, at that point. I was desperate for her to be normal again. Leaving Eight in the room at dinner time was questionable as she is small, probably chewy and most def delicious. Anyway...

Things started seeming better for awhile. I mean, after what....almost four thou later, they'd better be. So, recently I decided to let Two play with her old dog pals, just to see how she'd do. She played, she was happy and so was I. But then I noticed her ear was missing hair. WTF?, said I. Then itchy, scaly lumps appeared. Fuck. After about 2 weeks, Ol' Forty became suspicious. I refused to believe Two could have another ailment. Two is... only fucking two for God's sake. "Let her have some good health, damn it! Please! She's just a baby!!!" I yelled up to God. (ok, I really didn't do that but it certainly would have been fitting).

But no. No, no, no...

I Googled "lumpy, scaly, dog ears" then I took Two to the vet yesterday for confirmation. Hell, she needed her shots anyway. So, since my suspicions were most likely correct, Vet scrapes the ears to do cultures and let's me know not only does Two have an ear infection, but it's yeast and bacteria. And the other test for the ear scrapings will come back in 4 weeks but to get the antibiotics in case. I drag my sad, sorry, completely self-pitying self to the counter, dig out my hot Visa and recoil when I'm told, "$550. Oh, and you have one more RX to fill at CVS." It's grand to be me! I bet you're all jealous.

When I dropped Two off at home, I tried to rationalize how it wasn't her fault for being a lemon of a dog health-wise, but Forty-Four's instead just because he picked her out. I went to CVS and handed in my 'script. When I saw a look of fear in the pharmacist's eyes, I said a prayer for my kids. I knew something horrible was coming and that when I got home, God, help them if they even blinked too loudly or if they looked at me wrong.... I knew my mood was going to change.

Pharmacist: "Five hundred dollars.Generic."
Me: --------------------
Pharmacist: "Nine hundred for name-brand."
Me: --------------------

I called Vet, got a "cheaper" ($132) 'script and then cursed all the fucking way to McDonald's to pick up Unhappy Meals.

(Just shut up. I know this is long...)

So I'm in McDonald's, spewing to the man behind the counter how I just spent a shit load of money on my pathetic dog and while he's smiling politely, I figured he was probably really plotting to over-salt my fries. I move over when I'm through assaulting his poor ears with tales of animal and wallet woe so that two really old ladies could hobble up to the counter. I watched them, thinking that maybe McDonald's was an exciting Friday night out for them yet they looked so happy. One of them turned to me and smiled. There's nothing like the smile of a baby or an old person to melt my stupid heart and I couldn't help but smile back. The one lady and her even-older looking, really-struggling-to-walk chum ordered their burgers, fries, Diet Cokes and apple pies together. They shakily took out crisp bills from their wallets, and waited for the man to give them their change.

McDonald's Man: "Here you go, Sweetheart."

He placed his hand under the one woman's hand and held it, carefully making sure she wouldn't drop any of the coins.

McDonald's Man: "Why don't you go find yourselves a table?"

She smiled at him and then smiled at me, asking if there was even an empty one around as she slowly turned to look. I pointed two out to her and looked into her old, truly sparkly eyes. I looked back at the McDonald's Man, who was hurrying about trying to get through the dinner rush. How nice, I thought. Really, when do you see people slow down, speak so warmly to the older folks, making sure they don't lazily hand over change so that it falls all over the counter or floor? How many times do you hear people call a complete stranger, and not even condescendingly but with utter sincerity, Sweetheart? Who ever takes the time to act like they give a shit about other people? I rarely come across a counter-person or cashier who is pleasant.

After such a crappy, pitiful day for me and Two, it was witnessing the tiniest, simplest act of human kindness and respect that left me feeling all gooey inside.

McDonald's ain't so bad for ya, now, is it?

Just wonderin'.....

2010-04-07T23:40:00.004-04:00

What's going through the mind(s):

...of people who walk across the mall with twelve people in their shopping posse like they're getting ready for a game of Red-Rover? Move the fuck over, get in single line formation, and let the fast-walkers pass!

... of the person who's driving 6 miles an hour with their blinker on and stops at every corner to look for the name of a street when there are people with road rage behind them who actually KNOW where they're headed and needed to get there ten minutes ago? Pull the fuck over and get a map/gps/make a phone call.

...of the person who has his windshield wipers on full speed after three drops of rain and is driving as if there's a hurricane? Again, either pull over if you can't drive with a splash of water on your window, stay home, or use public transportation. Just get the fuck off the road.

...of my son, Twelve, when he tells me he doesn't need to wake up until 7:30 am to get to school by 7:45 am because he's so tired but THEN tells me his "eyes adjust better at 6:30?" What kind of logic is that? I hate when people speak in tongues I just can not comprehend. Even when said person/people are my own creation(s).

... of the old woman who slowed down just to give me a nasty, dirty look while I was walking my puppy? I wondered if young(er) women and sweet animals somehow offended her. What a bitch, old or not.

... of my daughter, Eight, when she asks me a question and I answer her directly and then she re-asks the same question, and I answer her again directly but still, she continues asking. Is eight plus six NOT fourteen or something? Does she want the sum to be another, somehow better number?

...of my cats when I decide to make the bed (because, as my family knows, a made bed equals an entirely clean house and once the bed is made, housework is completed)and they jump on the bed and decide it's nap time? Do they really need to force me to yank the sheet as hard as I can to knock their old asses off? (It's hard to be nice anymore since they puke all over and pee on random plastic bags).

...of people who don't say something but think you should just KNOW it automatically somehow? I mean, when I ask a question at work, shouldn't that be a clue that I don't actually know the answer to begin with? Can I just get an answer minus the smug look and the attitude? (bad ending to my workday today, obviously)

... the people who work in Subway? When I tell them, "JUST turkey and olives...nothing else" why do they insist on asking if I want cheese? Mayo? Lettuce? "No, dude, I said I only want turkey and olives.That's IT." "Would you like tomatoes then?" I have Subway-rage, too.

...of my family when I say I'm going to the store, "do you want anything?" and they all say "no", even when I ask three times. Then, when I come home with $200 worth of shit, they THEN tell me what I should have gotten. One of these days, a jar of pickles is gonna fly across the room and if someone happens to be standing in the line of fire, well then... whose fault is THAT?

...of the people in Ace's Liquor store when I went in the other day and 'suggested' they get those cards you punch for each visit so you can get a free bottle after ten or twelve purchases? I mean, I was in there at least three times this week, so...

...the dude in the gym that forgot he has a lower body, too? Can you PLEASE work your thighs and calves? Do you think that because 300 pounds of your 305 pound body are in your upper, nobody's going to notice your legs are the width of a sewing needle? And while I'm at it, nobody wants to hear your grunting and groaning when you lift 800 pounds. Put it the fuck DOWN if you have to scream. It's distracting while I'm trying to listen to Manilow.

...of kids that have to spit a huge goober on the sidewalk JUST as I'm walking by? What, you couldn't have waited until I passed? You wanted me to see the slime from your throat?

...of the guy that practically blocked my exit from a club one night with his posse, wooing me with free raviolis from his store? Really? Is that the best line you can come up with? A ravioli? If I was single, I'd be all over that shit. ::::NOT:::::

...of the person giving me a pedicure, especially when she starts digging under my toe nails with that sharp, metal tool? I know what's going through mine: "OUCH! "STOP TRYING TO MURDER MY TOES! WHAT DID THEY EVER DO TO YOU?"

... of people who need to use an entire shopping wagon for a roll of tin foil and a bar of soap? Do you not realize that there are no more wagons and I am carrying a case of beer, a 12-pack of paper towels, a case of dog food and my own tin foil?

... of the mother/daughter duo that walk all over Merrick with their ever-changing hair colors and flat-ironed bangs? Must they change their color every week? Do they think they're suddenly unrecognizable and nobody can tell it's the same pair sitting in Dunkin Ds with their 5 bag-loads of nonsense?

... of my poor hairdresser when he sees my name in the appointment book? The only real clue I have is that he's said on many occasions to me, (including today), that "you're always interesting." I'm choosing to think that that is good.

....to be continued :)

Ol' Forty xo

Charles Atlas Has Nothing on Me....

2010-04-06T09:05:00.005-04:00

I always thought of myself as utterly weak: weak spirited, weak attitude, weak in will. Scared of what people thought of me; terrified if they were right. My confidence was non-existent, my fears overwhelming, my attitude always dipped to the negative side.

I now beg to differ with those old thoughts.

Difficult times made me want to crumble. Nasty people made me cry and question myself. I swam in an ocean of self-pity, always looking for someone to throw me a rope to drag me to safety before I drowned. Come to think of it, it's possible that that dependence on others was my biggest weakness, my hugest downfall. It's also possible that it also set the tone for how I felt about myself.

It never occurred to me that there was one person that I should have looked to for saving me: yeah, that's right - the one, the only....me.

There had to come a point in my life that I realized, hey, this is my life, not any of the assholes who came and went, who belittled me or betrayed me; not those who took advantage of my kindness or caring; not my family's; not anyone's: it's mine.

And that point has come now, even if midway through.

I'm a terrific thinker, even if I do over-think at times. But I toss everything around in my head until I either a) find an answer, b) get tired of hearing my own voice in my head (which is usually what happens), or c) until I make a discovery. I'm going with "b" and "c" and I'm good with that.

I've discovered through all my thinking that throughout my life, I never acted or reacted to things in a healthy way; a mentally healthy way. What, really, was or is the point of self-pity? It does weaken you and it holds you back. I'm sure the lack of self-understanding as a kid and immaturity as a young adult lent a hand in that, but there's only so long a person can use that as an excuse, say into your early twenties. As I started experiencing more and more painful things, as life got a little tougher, I still threw out that stupid fucking water-logged rope, wanting to be pulled into safer territory; a place where someone was waiting with potential answers to my life's questions and problems. I always wanted to put my life into someone else's hands. Shit, I allowed other people's opinions of me to shape who I thought I was, so... why not let them save me and be mental muscle, too?

Still though, when I think into the past, no matter how much I listened, how hard I tried, how much I wanted resolutions, nothing stuck. And I never understood why - until now. When it comes down to it, nobody but me can fix anything that's meant for me to fix. If a person can't fit into my size eights, how can I expect them to walk for me? No matter how many times my friends or family have tried to pick me up when I started to fall down, when they had to let go and back away, the only way I could stand on my own was by tying my laces tightly and finding my own strength. Nobody can hold me up, throw me a rope, or convince me of anything unless I'm willing to believe in myself and believe I can do it. Even if I wobble around, if I remain upright on my own two feet, hey, that's better than falling into a heap any day. The point is, it's ultimately my decision to stand or fall, laugh or cry, to try hard or wave the white flag, to sink or swim. And come to think of it, I don't think I ever really did crumble or drown. Obviously, I'm still here. So, it's possible that I always had the fins but was too afraid I wasn't a strong enough swimmer. Kind of like Nemo.

I've somehow made it this far in my not-by-any-means-horrible-life but through a life of self-doubt and uncertainty. I don't think I could have if I didn't have strength of some sort. And I sit and think about this all the time: where did it come from? Was it always there? If so, why didn't I use it? And then I think, well... maybe it had to be built up and stored for a time when it was needed the most. Maybe I needed to be weak in order to gain strength. Maybe I had to hop over piles of dog shit in order to find that clean spot of grass. Maybe the first part of my life was a pop quiz where I had to get half (or all) the answers wrong so that during the second part of my life when I have to take the real test, I'll be better prepared with better answers. Maybe I needed to walk a certain path in order to find the me that I'm meant to be. Maybe, just maybe, finding and embracing who I am is truly the key to strength - period.

And I think I've found her. Shit, I think I'm embracing the hell out of her, too. She's not half bad.

For all my mistakes, past and present, I'm becoming more and more okay with them as time goes on. I realize that I have to be. I know all my experiences made me who I am and because of that, I finally know what makes me tick, what makes me laugh, what's worth crying over. I know what my capabilities are, what's important, and the kind of people I want and need in my life and the kind of people I don't. I know when to care, when to not care, and when to be indifferent. I know that I still err in judgment at times, but I understand that it's okay because I'm human. And I know that sometimes you can control things and other times you can't and when you can't, then the only thing you can do is cross your fingers and hope for the best or hope that things will be what they're supposed to be. I realize life is difficult but it's up to me to make the best of it and to live it. And sometimes, you just gotta fucking roll with it and right now, I'm rollin'.

Finally, I can listen to other people's opinions, take them in, and decide whether I agree or not. It's no longer crucial for me to have everyone's approval. I no longer feel completely dependent on other people to make my choices for me. I finally feel like I can jump in an ocean and swim, even if sometimes it's just doing the doggie-paddle. I've put my weathered rope away because I want to swim as far as I can across the ocean on my own, riding the waves and drifting when it's calm.

I guess I can thank God that I've known weakness, otherwise I'd have never recognized my strengths.

Ouch

2010-03-22T19:57:00.008-04:00

There are so many times in life we utter the words, "I'm sorry." We bump into someone as we're rushing out of the grocery store and say sorry as we hurry on our way, barely looking back; we forget to send in our kids' permission slips/snack-drink money/party treat for school and offer our apologies; we step on the dog's 6 months-post-surgery leg and even apologize to her. (Poor puppy. Baaaad Forty.)But you get the gist. We toss out those words probably on a daily basis and most likely we genuinely do mean them, but we often say them because it's just what you do; it's good social etiquette. When you say "I'm sorry" though, especially for larger, more significant wrong-doings, meaning those words is equally as important as uttering them.

I remember being a little kid and for whatever stupid, stupid reason, I made fun of one of my friends. Maybe I was trying to be funny, maybe I thought it was cool - I don't know. I just specifically remember feeling like a horrible person for being so mean to someone who didn't even deserve it. My little eight or nine year old self knew how wrong I was because I felt so damn awful. So I marched up to her, a little nervous to admit what a jerk I had been, and told her I was sorry. Thankfully, she accepted it. I learned that when you do something wrong, (and recognize it), you can be forgiven and given another chance. I'm going to guess and say that it was probably from then on that I never feared apologizing to anyone again whenever I was wrong. To this day, I still don't. And why should anyone, really? Smaller sorries, larger sorries - meaning them is what really matters. Meaning them and learning never to make the same mistake again that caused the need for apology in the first place. While I think small accidents or wrong-doings deserve an apology suited for the "crime,' I also believe it's the larger, more significant things where the sincerity behind the words "I'm sorry" need to carry more weight.

It's always been my belief that when you hurt or offend someone and you are aware of it, apologize. It doesn't make you weak or look foolish; it does just the opposite: it makes you stronger for recognizing that you're fallible and for letting others know that you are, too. Being wrong sometimes, (or even a lot of times), is part of being human. We'd have nothing to learn from if we never made mistakes, and quite frankly, if we were always right and perfect and smiling and happy, I think we'd be boring, too.

There's probably not a day that passes that I don't utter one of the smaller, "I'm sorries" to someone at work or one of my kiddies. Those are just part of daily living and part of respecting other people. But recently, I made an error in judgment that, at the time, I didn't think was wrong at all. But because of the other (offended) person's response (or lack thereof) to what I had said, it made me step back and think, What did I say that was so bad? Why would she be so upset?. Or maybe it was the idea behind my words. I went over what was said - at least 15 times - in my head. I knew the original point I'd been trying to make to her, but I decided from her reaction that maybe I went about it wrong. Or maybe it was just one of those things that should have never been mentioned to her at all as it wasn't even a big deal (in hindsight, anyway). I asked my friend to please tell me why and how I'd upset her, what was my mistake. I wanted to know her side so I could understand where I went wrong. But she didn't want to talk to me except for a few pointed words. I apologized anyway but still no response.

This wasn't an "I'm sorry" tossed-over-your-shoulder-in-the-supermarket type thing. I offended/irritated/hurt someone with my words which I never, ever meant to be hurtful. I was upset and hurt about something and voiced it but after all was said and done, I realized that maybe not every little thing has to be brought up front and center for discussion or analyzing. Maybe I read into something and made more of it than it was. Maybe I need to learn to censor my thoughts and feelings sometimes because everyone doesn't have to know them at all times. Maybe I was just...stupid.

I made a mistake and judging by the deafening silence that followed, an even bigger one than I realized. But I am still sorry even if I wasn't forgiven.

But I guess sometimes maybe being unforgiven has to teach us a lesson, too.

What's It All For?

2010-03-15T22:34:00.003-04:00

What's it all for? is a question my sister, Forty-Two, and I always ask each other when we're sitting in her kitchen, doodling on newspapers, snacking on leftovers, and bitching about life.

I sit and wonder this while I'm by myself, as well. I wade through all the memories in the depths of my mind, picking out the ones that make me question who I am and the choices I've made and I agonize over the answers I come up with. I should have been stronger/tougher/bitchier/selfish are usually some of the things I realize in hindsight, but alas, there are no do-overs.

The pains I experienced in my past were severe and emotionally paralyzing but they certainly have dissipated over time. Back when these experiences were happening, I never did think I would get through in one piece, but somehow I did. Somehow, I pulled through, even if weakened and in disrepair. And the more hurt I endured, the lower my self esteem dipped. And the lower that dipped, my vulnerability soared.

It's tough, too, because for as long as I can remember, I've always worn my emotions plainly on my face and in my stance. Unfortunately, others mark you as overly-sensitive when they see that, (which, to a degree, I've always been) and also view this unfavorably. Apparently, when you are sensitive, you're also open to hurt because of the vulnerability that comes with it. Oddly enough, I always thought being sensitive was one of my better qualities, but growing older and surviving the deaths of friendships has taught me differently.

Any time I ran into a problem, whether it was with people or situations, I always thought I had what it took to get through: reason, understanding, sensitivity, the ability to listen, the gift of being verbally articulate , the desire to learn how to be better and the desire to make others happy. And damned if I know why, those qualities never served me the way I needed and hoped that they would. In the aftermath of any situation, I always found myself wobbling and unable to steady myself. How did all of those things I prided myself on being backfire? I always replayed these things over and over in my head ad nauseum until I couldn't even stand to hear myself think anymore. All the whys and how could I have done things better or different swirling around my over-worked noggin. And no matter what, I always winded up feeling disgusted with myself and blaming myself for things I knew weren't even my fault or in my power. All these qualities in myself that I thought were so integral to being decent and caring were always spit back in my face. If those things in me weren't good enough, then what the hell else was there?

Well when Cynicism crept up on me, tapped me on the shoulder and baited me to come play, I had my answer. I didn't really like it, especially when Distrust, Skepticism, and Caution followed. When my Inner Bitch boiled up, I found it too difficult to really unleash her. I still wanted to be good and do good by all. Now, don't misunderstand; I'm not saying I always handled everything perfectly - I am human and faulted - but I'll be damned if anyone can ever accuse me of not trying my hardest. But all these newer things were hanging around me so much and I wasn't sure if I liked them. It wasn't who I was or who I wanted to be. But it seemed that everyone else befriended their inner bitches and their inner-cynics so I wondered if that was the way to go?

I've found that for me, it wasn't, but I tried to find a happy medium. Through the years, I've tried to incorporate these unfamiliar things into how I handled myself in sticky situations. Mostly, I have been able to balance these things out: I am still sensitive and wear my happiness/anger/disappointment/name-an-emotion-any-emotion on my face, but I am able to hold back the tears and really think things through using my newer, more cautious, cynical self to complement my older self. Things that formerly caused insomnia for months now only have the power to irritate me for a day. Or two. Okay, who am I kidding? A week at least.

And now that I'm that wonderful, hopefully magical age of Forty, I realize that all of those past bad experiences have just been par for the course that is life. My life now is not quite a smooth ride by any means, but somehow I'm finding I'm able to use the past experiences of pain to my advantage. There's something to be said for going through many damaging storms - if you're smart, you don't toss aside the damaged parts: collect them and prepare to use them to build something (someone) stronger and better prepared for the next one that comes blowing in.

That's what it's all for....

Faulted, Flailing, Failing, and Forgiveness (at Forty)

2010-02-17T23:04:00.004-05:00

How's that for an alliterative title?

Last night, something, or should I say, someone happened to me. But I have to say something first before I actually write about what that was and who it was. (Okay, it was Eight).

I've never had great confidence in myself, but over the years I've come to accept the things I will never be and the things I probably won't ever have. But, I have also finally decided that there's something that I actually like about myself: I am comfortable with my outgoing personality, my ability to be silly and have fun, and sometimes even my verbosity. I highly believe in the powers of the written and spoken word and encourage people to communicate whenever and however they can, be it by letter, email, face-to-face - whatever.

I noticed from the time Eight was a mere One and A-Half that she was a talker. Her vocabulary was astounding for her age and she amazed her pre-school teachers when, at barely Two, they said she could probably run their class. (Swear to Thirteen Billion, they said that.) And yes, I wrote only days ago how her chatterbox ways were grating on me and yes, I still mean it (although not as emphatically). Over the years, though, it has been becoming my happy realization that Eight is like me in the one way in which it's okay with me that she is: she, like me, is silly and fun, but mostly I'm thrilled that she uses her words. And last night, I found out just how articulately and thoroughly she knows how to express her small self with those words.

We sat together until midnight, the two of us holding hands, the two of us crying. First, she stared at me with her huge, blue eyes and cried while she spewed her innermost feelings about her troubles with school and how she's already worried that she's not smart enough for third grade and will never be smart enough for college because she's struggling with math (for the record, she is quite bright). She confessed to using a calculator when she was struggling. She told me about the mean children at school and her feelings about not having a younger sibling (because as she told me, she would know just how to be the perfect older sister and take wonderful, loving care of a brother or sister); she explained how it makes her feel sad when I am on the phone and how I shoo her away; how she hates herself because she annoys everyone and how nobody calls her first for play-dates and how she's always the one asking. Suddenly her age-appropriate clothing is now ugly, she feels incapable of everything and anything, and she thinks I don't want to spend time with her. She doesn't understand why I do things that she can't do with me and why I get upset with her when she asks me where the ice cream is. She wanted to know why I yell at her all the time.

I looked at my Eight in disbelief.

In my own defense, she gets a disproportionate amount of attention in comparison to Twelve and I most certainly do spend time with her and I have gone above and beyond for her as a class parent and even when I wasn't the class parent. And because she's a child, she seems to need me most when 1) the phone rings (it's always the best time to tell me that she has a hole in her sock or that she can't find her Polly Pockets), 2) we are watching a movie we've seen 18 times and after only getting three hours sleep the night before, I doze a bit, 3) she is fully involved in a movie or a game and I decide to write or check my email because, well... I fucking enjoy doing it , or 4) I go out once every two months and she can't bear to be without me even though she's going to sleep anyway.

Anyone that's a parent can relate to these things, I'm sure. It's quite frustrating to never be able to close the bathroom door to pee without someone trying to break in or tell you a really loooong dream she had through the door. We all know it's impossible to have an uninterrupted adult conversation because even when we walk into another room for privacy, there are always footsteps not far behind. I've tried to talk to Eight about how I need grown-up time and privacy, just like she needs her private time with her little friends. I've tried to let her know that sometimes I need to be able to think a complete thought without it being interrupted. It's not mean, it's just... true. I've also tried to explain to her that she needs to be respectful of me and the very few things I ask of her (and her brother) and to be a good listener. Shit, my kids really have it easy here - too easy. So when I ask either of then to brush their teeth at least once a fucking day, they can comply to the request without an argument. Right?

But she was right on some levels and man, to see my faults and possible misguidances through the eyes and mouth of my Mini-Articulate-Me threw me. Maybe all these years that I thought I had my parenting skills down pretty pat, I didn't. I had always thought since the time my kids were able to move around as infants that it was best to speak to them as small people rather than speaking to them all goofy and babyish all the time, as they would learn better communication skills that way. I was right, too, since my kids both were exceptional speakers and were always able to communicate clearly as soon as they learned their first words. But maybe I went too far. Maybe by trying to reason with them all the time and by me trying to be honest and explain things to them was the wrong way to go. Maybe although bright and communicative, Eight just still wasn't understanding my explanations. How could she not understand that it's rude to interrupt a conversation just because she feels the need to tell people she saw a caterpillar or the dog farted? How could she not understand that if after the tenth, "please brush your teeth" they still weren't brushed, that my yelling isn't because I'm mean, but because I'm frustrated?

But those aren't the real questions. They're: How the hell don't I - Ol'Forty - understand that she is just eight; my Eight? How is it that even though it all sounds reasonable to me, a supposedly reasonable, intelligent adult, that it might be completely unreasonable gibberish to her? How is it that she sat there, so maturely, yet so gripped by her sadness that she just couldn't stop sobbing and saying horribly awful things, that I never realized just how small and vulnerable she truly is?

All I could do was cry with her, apologizing.

Forty-Four came down to see what the commotion was about and just stood over us, glaring down at me. He later chastised me for crying in front of Eight, standing by his belief that it's too scary for kids to see their parents cry. He said she was just in a mood and the gist of the rest of that "conversation" was that I shouldn't have indulged in her alleged "mood."

Maybe I've expected my children to understand too many things that were far beyond their comprehension. Maybe I've been a little harsh here and there because my own private, non-child-related things are pressing on me.

But even if I screwed up in some ways with my kids, I stand by my own belief that they can know their parents are humans and as humans, we are imperfect. Parents make mistakes and should always apologize when they do. There is absolutely nothing wrong with showing emotion to those you love, whether big or small, or with asking for forgiveness, no matter who you are.

I learned a lot in my almost-two weeks of being Ol' Forty. A friend recently told me there's always room for improvement with everything and I applied that to this situation. Certainly, I can always improve my parenting skills and with Eight's confessions and insights about how she feels about things in her life and how she feels about me at times really opened my big, green orbs. I learned that even my child can humble me and that she can also be quite profound. I learned that I have a lot to learn.

That scene will play in my head forever, I am sure. It will serve as a reminder of many things:

- My kids can be exceptionally deep and thoughtful. And everything they say should be considered.
- While they need to be loved and entertained, I still stand by my children needing to learn and respect adult/child boundaries.
- Even if my kids are frustrating the shit out of me, I need to step back and make sure my responses are appropriate and based on their actions and behaviors - not based on anything else.
- The unconditional love we give them is fully reciprocated. Eight told me I was the best mother and how I am never, ever wrong.

But in the end, even if have a wonderfully articulate child, even if I have tried to explain the unexplainable to her in the past and have to learn not to anymore as she is still just a little kid, I still had to make sure she knew and understood that I am human and fallible (of course, in smaller words).

"Mommy was wrong," I told her. "Please forgive me."

And she took my face in her little hands and did.

This is Forty Telling Eight to... SHUT UP!

2010-02-14T12:00:00.007-05:00

Nota Bene:

I love my kids more than anything ever in this world. Anything. Morning coffee. That first bite of a hot slice of pizza. More than getting an A when I felt I deserved a B. I even love them more than when I lose five pounds without actually dieting… Now for all that know ol’ Forty, you know that’s love. Big time, huge love. But seriously… my kids are my life. The absolute loves of my life. (Even if I'm totally bashing them on Valentine's Day.)

That being established, as much as I do love them, those two kids of mine are little manipulative, spoiled fuckers.

Part of the reason I don’t sleep at night is because I’m so excited to be watching my television alone on my tattered, worn, ripped and stained ugly fucking floral couch. I sit there exhausted, eyes all blood-shot and burning, yet relishing in the fact that I am finally by myself. In my own quiet. Again, I love those kids, but one of them doesn’t shut the fuck up and the other won’t speak to me unless asking for lunch money, video game paraphernalia or food. So, this blog is dedicated to the big mouth in my life, Eight.

Example:
When I wake up, especially on a weekend morning, I really look forward to my pot of hot, liquid breakfast with a splash of vanilla creamer. No rushing out the door in thirty degree weather with a wet head, no ironing work clothes - it's just me, browsing Crackbook at my leisure, checking all my e-mail and if I'm feeling ambitious, I might do a word scramble to make sure I didn't lose any brain power during my three hours of sleep. But the second my foot hits the bottom step, all I hear is (what starts out to be) a sweet voice coming from the depths of the sagging couch cushions.

Eight: “Mom, I want a bagel.”
Ol’ Forty: “We don’t have bagels.”
Eight: “What do we have?”
Ol’ Forty: “English muffins, toast, pancakes, waffles, eggs, cereal, cereal bars…”
Eight: (who must have apparently lost her hearing during the night) “Can I have a bagel?”
Ol’ Forty: “We don’t HAVE bagels I said.”
Eight: “We don’t have anything!”
Ol’ Fucking Pissed Forty: “How about chocolate chip pancakes?”
Eight pauses. Then: “Can I have a bagel toasted with butter?”

Now this is always in the first three minutes of my (barely) wakefulness. I stand there, vision all blurred because I always forget my glasses and there are always clumps of mascara in my eyes. Plus, I still have to free the morning pee.

Ol’ Pissed, Tired, Already-Impatient Forty: “WE DON’T HAVE ANY BAGELS, DAMN IT!”

Whimpers from the cushions.

Eight: “Why do you always yell at me?”

I ignore the crocodile tears and the incessant chatter that follows which is coming from the living room as I make my pot of breakfast. I wait with my mug under the dripper, willing it to pour out faster so I can sit down. I’m already exhausted.

Just as I sit:

Eight: “Mom, watch ICarly with me.”
Ol’ Forty: “Okay, let me drink my coffee first.”
Eight: “I want coffee.”
Ol’ Forty: “No.”
Eight: “Yes.”
Ol’ Forty: “No.”
Eight: “Yes.”
As I pour her a cup of coffee in her Disney mug, adding a ton of vanilla creamer to it, I think to myself how she can’t possible talk while sipping and it will grant me a few minutes of morning peace.

Eight: “I Carly’s on!”
Ol’ Forty: “Wait until I’m ready. Give me a few minutes.” Pause. “Drink your coffee.”
Eight: “Ok.”

I sip, I read, I think about all kinds of shit I have to do. I glance up at the paused DVR.

Ol’ Forty: “What are you doing?”
Eight: “Waiting for you.”
Ol’ Forty: “No, just watch something else until I am done!”
Eight: “Ok.”

Ten minutes later, she’s staring at the paused screen still.

Eight: “Mom, remember when I was two and I wore that raincoat….?”

I can’t remember making the fucking coffee at the moment.

Eight: “Mom, can I play with someone today?”

Fuck, here comes the barrage of questions, requests, and the “I want that/get me/buy me” demands.

Eight: “Mommy, can we play the Wii? Mom, remember when the dog came home for the first time? Mommy, can we get another dog? Mom, when the cats die can we get another cat? Mommy, can we go to Canteen and get a new shirt? Mom, where’s my bagel?”

I finally tell her she has to SHUT up. Yes, I really do. I am evil but my ears hurt.

While she takes a deep breath to prepare for her next slew of demands, I take advantage of the 30 seconds of quiet and tip toe to the bathroom to pee. The moment I’m in there, the door swings open. Eight forgot to tell me that her teacher made fried rice for snack the day before and that she needs to bring glue to school. I try to make a mental note to lock the door next time, although the little thing knows how to break in anyway.

Forty-five minutes and half the pot of coffee later, I plop myself onto the spring-less, ripped couch that really needs to be brought outside and set fire to. Eight presses ‘play’ on the DVR remote and ICarly comes on. I actually love the show and watching it also gives me an excuse to still remain in a sitting or laying position.

We sing the opening song and then wait for the first scene. A minute into it, Eight is now playing with her bag of Japanese erasers, her American Girl dolls and the dog’s hairbrush, talking and chattering to herself.

I glance over at her.

Ol’ Forty: “Didn’t you beg me to watch this with you?”
Eight: “Yes, I’m watching,“ she says as she’s hanging upside down on the couch, brushing her doll’s hair, singing some Selena Gomez song and yelling at the dog in between verses.
Ol’ Forty: “Shhhhhhhhhhhh already!”

So, there I am, sitting through the show she hounded me to watch from the second I walked down the steps and now that I’m doing what she wants, she lost all interest. I watch it by myself as she ignores me and when it’s over, I get up to do my own thing.

The moment my computer is open, there goes the mouth again.

Eight: “Where’s my bagel?”

(P.S... Happy Valentine's Day, you sweet, demanding, chatterbox.)
(P.S.S. Eight, although slightly miffed at first, gave me her blessing to post this)

Thirty-Eight Plus TWO - Holy Shit - Now I'm F****** Forty

2010-02-06T12:49:00.007-05:00

Wow. It's here. Today. The big one. The one I never thought I'd make it to. Forty. I can barely type it.

But you know, so far, it's really not so bad. Eight made me "coffee-in-bed" (bless her little heart, the "on" button wasn't working on the coffee machine and she couldn't get the milk carton open. I didn't mind helpin' her one bit when she came up with the carton while I was all bleary-eyed in bed. God forbid Twelve help her.) Anyway, she also made pancakes (again, with my help as Twelve was too busy with his Playstation 3 head-set on and was in video-game bliss) and she answered the phone all morning taking birthday messages for me while I rested. What I am finding, though, is that with the journey to forty comes the culmination of at least some wisdom and a little bit more acceptance. Forty brings decisions, (some that are life-altering), realizations, (the ah-has! we all heard about from Oprah) and the Grand Puba of all... the "fuck its/yous/thats". Sometimes I like those the best. It means my skin is thickening and that I'm not running around with my tail between my legs all the time. Certain things and experiences are still a little frightening to face in some ways, but also exciting in others. I don't know - maybe forty is going to be better than twenty. Mentally at least. What follows are some observations, lessons and some things I've accepted up to this point in my life:

For starters:

- These days, I wait anxiously each month for the "beast" to come, NOT for fear that if it doesn't I could be pregnant, but out of fear that its absence could mean I might be experiencing those types of changes that indicate I will be growing hair in bad, more-visibly unacceptable places. When that shit happens, I'm just throwin' in the fucking towel.

- Gone are the days when I'd fling my bra off ASAP in order to free the girls. Now I sleep with said bra in hopes that I can re-train them to lay where the good Lord intended. But really, it's like trying to re-elasticize a rubber-band. Impossible.

- The allure of a thong is wearing off. All thongs and anything resembling a thong have somehow migrated to the bottom of the undies drawer. Not to say that I completely ignore them altogether, but lately I have more important concerns for my ass than whether I have panty-lines. The temptation of the three-pack of Hanes bikini undies hanging in Target's intimate apparel aisle won out one day: I circled around with my wagon and finally threw in the stupid pack. For a moment, I even considered going up a size AND to briefs just for the sheer promise of MORE comfort. Comfort over style is totally age-related, although it has yet to completely win. I am not ready to give in to panty lines AND the promise of total comfort and belly-coverage all in one shot.

- I have accepted I've reached that level of uncoolness we all dread as parents. Here I am, thinking I can kick ASS at Wii Just Dance, but all Twelve has to do is wiggle his hips and flick the Wii remote and he wins - every fucking time. And then there I am laying, on the couch, winded and sweaty and listening to chants of "DORK DORK DORK" coming from his wise-ass self. Is it wrong that I've come ::thisclose:: to saying "fuck you" to my child out of sheer frustration?

- Not to say I don't want to look nice when I leave the house, but I've found as I get older, I don't care so much about how awful I look sometimes, either. I mean, really... sometimes it's easier to fall asleep in what I'm already wearing and much easier not to have to get dressed again in the morning. What...? I have to be fashion conscious just for school drop off and a stop at 7-11? I don't know if throwing a sweatshirt over my recycled outfit really does constitute a brand new outfit or if it just means I'm old and lazy. (pause) Okay, so after re-reading that, 1) it sounds yucky, and 2) I've decided that yes, I AM old and lazy. But because I know for a fact SEVERAL people who've done that, too, (and there are a few people I can add to that list with some degree of certainty), I don't care that I actually wrote it. Some of you are nodding to yourselves saying, oh my god! I'm not the only one! Don't deny it.

- The fact that I don't care that I wrote that above means something BIG for me.

- As I get older, the more I enjoy saying really bad, offensive words. I can't help it. I LIKE it. I say them often, too. Even to my mom, Sixty-Seven. (Well, she says them, too, so.... we're even).

On a more serious note, I really have come to many things leading up to this decade of my life. I've realized that in my quest to please others, I've oftentimes made things harder for myself and allowed other people to hurt me. I know now that I can't always please everyone and it's okay. And those that have hurt me are long gone from my life and it no longer affects me negatively. They're in my past for a reason: lesson learned, moving on.

I've learned that the further I am from perfect, (or trying to be), the better off I am. My faults make me strive to better myself, they motivate me, and they keep my determination alive to fight for what I want and need. Perfect, truly, is overrated and I've come to like and accept my idiosyncracies.

Life really is a journey and sometimes our paths veer off to places we never knew existed or ever thought about taking. But, as Frost said:
"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference."
So, if my life takes me onto a different path, well damn it, if it ends up making all the difference, then so be it.

And finally, I have met and I have known many people in these 40 years and while some have come and gone, they were probably there for some reason. Maybe I learned what I needed, (or didn't need, for that matter) from these people, or maybe they came and went because their paths took them another way. Whatever the reason, so be it.

Then there are those that came and went, who added nothing to my life but heartache. I've learned not to cry over experiences or people like that in life anymore - they're not worth the tears or the emotional exhaustion from crying them. I've learned how to weed out the good from the bad because of these types. While I say "good riddance," I'm still grateful for the lessons I've learned.

Then there are those friendships that have sustained throughout the years; those that have been unsinkable through the good times and the stormy ones. These are the friends that are considered as part of my family. These are the people I know who love me.

So, tonight as I celebrate this milestone, I raise my chocolate martini glass to these people:

-To those who have touched my life, whether in the past or present, I am nothing but thankful.
-To the people who make me cry from laughing so hard, and you all know who you are, laughter is most def the best medicine for anything that ails a person.
-To the people who move me to tears simply because of the admiration I have for them, or for sharing their struggles, and for demonstrating their strength during these struggles. How wonderful and generous that you've invited me into your lives and allowed me to stay and share with you.
- To the people who bring out the parts of me that I never knew were there,(or the parts of me that were there but were afraid to come out), and who allow me to be exactly the person I've come to be at this ripe ol' age. Throughout my life, I've often wondered who I was and what I was all about because I've never had the confidence or courage to see things in myself and allow them to just "be." Then unexpectedly, this person who's always struggled with herself finally does come out and does so quite naturally and without much fanfare. I see the same face in the mirror, but I see a different person behind the visage. People who have come into my life and who have helped me, even unknowingly, with this type of self-discovery and acceptance are the types of friends everyone needs. I'm grateful to have them because the gift they've given me is priceless. I do hope and pray they know who they are, and if they don't, well... there will come a day I will make certain they do.

So, as Thirty-Eight Plus Two (a.k.a "Forty"), I finally seem to be learning things in life, -things about people, things about myself -that have great significance and staying power. While I count my blessings of what I have and what I once had, I am looking forward to what else lies before me, what path my life may take, and the people I may encounter. And along the way, I hope that I, too, can touch people's lives in a positive, memorable way.

Love and cheers from Ol' Forty.

Cigarettes and Paco Rabanne....

2009-12-26T15:00:00.002-05:00

I remember certain things about my dad: how he wore the ugliest boat shoes ever; how soft his silver hair felt; how he liked to eat his eggs mixed with potatoes and his tuna fish soaked with tons of lemon juice. He drank only coffee and water when he wasn’t drinking scotch, he loved watching the Rocky Horror Picture Show, and every once in awhile, I saw him reading a book, which made him seem more interesting to me for some reason. I remember the rock paper-weight I painted for him was in his top bureau drawer along with all the other things he probably forgot were there, he owned too many pairs of white socks that nobody ever wanted to match up and roll into sock-balls, and he smelled of cigarettes and Paco Rabanne.

However, going fishing with him when I was a little girl probably remains my most significant memory because those were the only times I actually spent time with him at all. We’d wake up at some ridiculous hour, maybe 4:30 am, pack up our bologna sammies, a thermos of water and some chips, and then get our poles together for our day on the water. We’d pull into Freeport’s Nautical Mile while it was still dark outside, unload all of our stuff, and bring it onto the boat we’d spend half the day on. Then we’d go find a stool at the counter in the greasy diner where we always ate our before-fishing breakfast of eggs, toast and home fries. By the time we were done eating, the sun would be up and the morning actually looked like morning.

We’d settle into our spot on the party boat, defrost our spearing and squid and wait to depart. I always felt awkward being alone with my dad because I really didn’t know how to have a conversation with him. But by the time the boat pulled away, that awkwardness dissipated. My dad would talk about the buoys, and how the captain knew where to anchor and just anything about fishing in general. I’d ask him questions and he’d always be happy to provide the answers. By the end of each fishing trip, I had a lot of fluke in my bucket and a new appreciation for the kind of relationship I could have with my dad.

Until I became a teenager, that is, and I eschewed fishing trips with my dad for nonsense time with my friends, trips to the mall with my boyfriend, or simply the allure of my warm bed. I was too cool and too busy for my dad, or so I thought, and as an adult looking back now, I would bet my eyeballs that he probably felt at least a little bit deserted and disappointed.

As kids, we all think our parents will live to be gray, shrunken shadows of their youthful selves so how could I have known I should have ditched my friends in order to hurry up and make memories with my dad because he’d be dead by the time I was nineteen? At almost 40, I don’t have nearly enough memories of him to be at peace with his death. He missed too much:

…my first experience at college, even if it was only Nassau

…walking me down the aisle and dancing with me. To this day, it’s too hard for me to watch anyone dance with their fathers.

…the joy of being a grandpa. After suffering with 4 females his whole life, he missed enjoying 2 grandsons and one princess.

…holding his oldest daughter’s hand through brain cancer and survival, and holding up his wife, as well.

… seeing all three of his girls as women, watching us stumble through life, picking us up when we fell down, cheering us on when we deserved it or simply because we needed it. And boy, do I need it now.

…teaching his grandkids how to bait a hook and how to tell when it was a fish or a crab biting the line.

…seeing his granddaughter at her first dance recital, being dissed by her dance partner but taking control to a roomful of applause.

…seeing his grandson –my son - on stage dancing like nobody’s business, shocking the shit out of everyone, especially me.

…watching me make that monumental walk across the Hofstra stage at almost 40 years old, finally earning my Bachelor’s Degree.

Admittedly, this blurb is pretty random and is basically just a self-serving recognition of my mistakes as a kid and my sadness at those realizations as an adult. It’s frustrating knowing I have to make an effort to remember his voice and how very few times I spent alone with him. I hate knowing I’ve spent half of my life without him and how I forgot what having a father is like. I hate the fact that I will never be able to know what kind of relationship I could have had with him as a grown daughter, instead of only having memories of being a young, selfish teenager.

I know there’s nothing I can do because, even though I hate to say this, but it is what it is. I suppose if anything at all, the tiny consolation of having a few memories will have to carry me through.

At least until they fade…

Have a Magical F****** Day

2009-09-03T00:15:00.006-04:00

Whoever said that Disney World is the happiest place in the world where dreams come true never went there with my two kids.

Let’s start at the beginning:

My kids have been begging me to visit Grammy Sixty-Seven for years. Camp was ending with three weeks of nothingness looming before them so I said, why not? I booked the flight, packed three carry-, ons, and waited for our day of travel.

I white-knuckled it about two hours into the Jet Blue flight before finally ordering a small bottle o’ calm. My $6.00 friend-in-a-bottle soothed my rattled flying-nerves enough so that when we landed in steamy Ft. Lauderdale, I felt ready for the week ahead.

Or, so I thought.

It all started off pleasant enough: we were greeted by a thrilled Sixty-Seven and her side-kick, Forty-Seven. We had some dinner, had some drinks, and settled in. The following day was spent by the pool as my skin sizzled and the kids swam with Auntie Forty-Seven.

What to do tomorrow? I thought. Surely, we can’t just swim every day. We can swim at home in NY. So, I informed Sixty-Seven that the next day, we were packin’ it up and heading out to see Mickey and friends.

The next morning I was greeted by two very unhappy looking people that resembled my children. We threw the bags in the trunk, brought a bag of snacks for the three -hour ride, buckled up, and headed out.

The ‘are-we-there yets’ started as we pulled out of Sixty-Seven’s parking lot.

Thirty-Nine: “We’re going to Disney World, damn it. It’s fun!”

Tired mumbles and Nintendo DS noises responded.

Now typically, I don’t drive anywhere that’s not just a quick jump onto the Meadowbrook or more than a half hour away, never mind driving in an unfamiliar state for three hours with two children and a mother who has no highway experience. Oh, and not a written direction in sight.

Thirty-Nine: “Do you know how to get there?”

Sixty-Seven: “Yeah, sort of.”

Just know that this came from a woman who can find anywhere in the US by taking side roads but yet, (as I found out the last day of Disney) needed to write down four words of direction on a scrap of paper just to get to the street out of the resort. “Turn right on Victory Lane.” Anyway…

The driving part turned out to be simple- straight down the Florida Turnpike- but the drama in the backseat conjured up an image of my dead father yelling at me, Forty-Two, and Forty-Seven on the way to our yearly summer visits to Montauk. My eyes were bulging and the veins in my head pulsating; all I needed was an unfiltered Camel hanging out of the corner of my mouth.

Thirty-Nine: “Shut up back there. I’m not driving three hours to Disney for you two while listening to this shit the entire ride there.

Where’s a bottle o’calm when you need one? Why aren’t they excited to go on the fucking Mad Hatter’s Tea Ride? Whose stupid idea was it to go to Disney?

When we got to our All Star Music resort, everyone was walking around, smiling brightly while handing out Mickey Mouse stickers and Disney pins. Everyone who greeted us was optimistic that we’d have a magical day. When we departed the Customer Relations area a half hour later with reassurance that my five-year old hopper passes were still usable, and with twenty five stickers and four My First Trip to Disney pins, their voices echoed behind us to have a magical day. The idea of having a magical day seemed unfathomable to me since these people hadn’t been in the car ride all the way there, but I wanted to believe I would.

When we got there, I decided that magical seemed too strong a word to associate with our day so far. As I forced Twelve to go on the Mad Hatter’s Tea Ride, all I hoped for was to have an unviolent day, or just a day that didn’t include law enforcement, hair-pulling, name-calling or medication of any type. We sat down and I immediately asked Twelve not to spin fast, since I’m old and had more potential to vomit. Twelve spun the fuck out of the tea cup anyway. I yelled. Seven got dizzy. Twelve got pissed.

I wobbled off and headed to the Haunted Mansion, telling Seven it’s fun more than scary. She seemed good with that, seemed being the operative word.

As we finally got to the black doors that we waited twenty minutes for, standing in four individual pools of sweat, Seven tore away in fear. I couldn’t help it: all of Magic Kingdom heard my rage over her cries of terror. We plunked our asses down outside, my inner, immature-self refusing to talk to an uncontrollably crying, yet apologetic, Seven. I envied the people coming off the ride, all happy with their stupid Disney dreams coming true. But when I saw little three and four-year olds coming out completely unscathed and without a hint of fear in their eyes, potentially scarring them for life, I pretty much folded my arms, stomped my feet, and pouted while I waited for my other brat to come out.

Seven: “Boo-hoo. Boo-hoooooooooooooooooooo”

Thirty-Nine, close to tears and forgetting for a moment that I was, in fact, an adult: “It’s my favorite ride! It’s NOT scary! STOP CRYING!”

(I know one of you out of my small reading audience is saying what a mean, horrible bitch-of-a-mother I must be. To you I say… shut the fuck up). Onward….

After what seemed like an unmagical eternity in hell later, Twelve and Sixty-Seven came back. I dragged Twelve back onto the twenty minute line, and finally got my ridiculous ride that was now tainted by my guilt. The fun had already been sucked out of it by Seven. But Sixty-Seven took her to see the parade anyway while I jumped onto the moving, little black car, and swirled through the Haunted Mansion with the hitch-hiking ghosts, simultaneously reminiscing about being on that ride with my dad, Forever Fifty-Two, thirty years ago. It made me forget what an asshole I had been to my annoying, yet pathetically cute, sobbing child, even if just for a few moments.

By the time we got off, Sixty-Seven looked drippy and irritated. Apparently, while I was trying desperately to find a second or two of enjoyment, Seven had been displaying her infuriatingly strong, and obviously heat resistant will to my mother. According to Sixty-Seven, my child glared at her through a mass of oh, I don’t know, one million people closing in around her, seemingly unaffected by the fear of getting lost or snatched up. I mean, really, I can totally understand her crazed fear of scary fake corpses in a fake haunted mansion while her mother would have held her hand. I mean, that is way, way scarier than standing in the midst of millions of weird, sweaty, smelly strangers wearing mouse ears.

After yelling at her to obey her grandma and giving my people-are-crazy-and-can-snatch-you-away-forever speech, we left the area to find some other kind of torture. My mother and I walked around grumbling how we were both shocked that my kids seemed to be the only ones on the planet that seemed to hate Disney. I replayed everything in my head from the night before to that moment, trying to see where I went wrong when I offered to take my kids to a fun place. I had prodded them into the car that morning, excited for them, and for me. I felt like a good Mama, trying to make the last of their summer break fun, happy, and enjoyable. I had been intent on overcoming my fear of driving three-plus hours on an unfamiliar highway in an unfamiliar state, which I did, and I got us all there in one piece, thank God. But almost from the moment we saw that sign welcoming us to Walt Disney World, Where Dreams Come True, I saw only misery on their faces and heard nothing but complaints.

Anyway, the day continued like that. All day. All fucking day. And after cursing and yelling at unruly children in the happiest fucking place on earth, my former tingly feelings about being a good Mama dissolved into, where did I go wrong and why are my children so ungrateful?

We flew around on Aladdin’s ridiculous carpet for all of thirty seconds, grabbed a $40 freakin’ basket of chicken fingers, but, alas, we at least all finally agreed that The Pirates of the Caribbean was acceptable to all of us. The Buzz Lightyear ride was the hands-down winner of the hateful day, which we topped off with A Small World.

As we were leaving the park, Twelve and Seven decided that they needed snacks. Succumbing to the pressure of non-stop whining, I spent $6.50 on an ice pop, an ice cream, and a small dose of just shut the hell up. Then I just watched as the ices melted down their arms anyway.

Vendor: “Can I get you something, too?”

Worn and Weary Thirty-Nine: “No, thanks.”

Vendor: “I’ll give it to you free, just because you’re a great mom.”

Huh?

Now, venom is sooooo not allowed in a place where princesses and happy, yet, ginormous mice, dogs and ducks wander around inviting joyful children to join them for photo-ops, but I had been feeling venomous all day. But just because you’re a great mom sounded so nice, so welcome, so completely Disney-ish and an unexpected departure from the nasty crap I had been hearing all day. He didn’t whine when he said it, or complain about anything, nor did he sneer at me. And this, coming from a complete stranger who didn’t know that I was on the verge of cursing out my children several hours ago. This, from a guy wearing a ridiculous get-up forced on him and others like him throughout the park who normally I’d be laughing at if I had any more venom left, but strangely enough, in that moment, I didn’t. The exhaustion of defeat had just about dissipated, all because some dude in a red and white striped costume offered me a free $4.00 cup of soda and a pleasant, if totally unfounded, compliment.

Thirty-Nine, (totally allowing this stranger’s kind words to seep into whatever part of my spirit had not been crushed, which was miniscule): “Um, a Diet Coke, please?”

He handed me my drink and I walked away, ignoring my arguing children and their sour, red, melting faces. The fact that he didn’t have any alcohol handy to spike my beverage somehow didn’t even bother me, either. My lip twitched. I almost smiled.

Maybe I left Disney without having a “magical day” as I was oft told to do, and maybe my dreams didn’t come true because they were crushed to death by my children’s utter dislike and disappointment, but at least I didn’t leave there dehydrated.

Pole-Dancing with the Dead

2009-08-22T18:05:00.009-04:00

So I already know that my sweet, mild-mannered son, Twelve, is smart, yet unfocused, and a class clown, yet in a reserved kind of way. Luckily, he's also CEO material. Whew....

Psychic: "You know your dad is here telling me these things. He's here with about 30 other people."

I looked around this woman's very normal, very child-friendly living space, picturing all these transparent-like Casper-ish figures standing around as if at a party. I made a peace sign with both hands and said, "heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeyyyyy!" I mean, really, what does one say to a room full of dead strangers?

This was the same psychic that Sixty-Seven spoke to a week earlier. She was kind enough to alleviate my worries about the son I am constantly telling to open a book and study; the kid I always think of as me, Thirty-Nine, in boy form. She said he needs to find focus. I sat there thinking that I had told him the same damn thing as the school year ended: that he better start focusing when he hits seventh grade in September, and just because he does well without even trying, he better start actually trying. All in all, she described my beautiful Twelve perfectly.

But then, she hits me with:

Psychic: "You're daughter is a force to be reckoned with."

Here it comes....

Psychic: "When this one enters a room, you know she's in the room."

No shit... really?

Psychic: "You know, your father's here holding up his pinkie. He's telling you she's got him wrapped around hers. He's enamored with her."

This, I already knew from Sixty-Seven's reading.

Psychic: "But this character and a half, she outshines her brother. Not that he doesn't have a personality, because he certainly does, but your girl outshines him."

Poor Twelve. In the shadow of this tiny force. And she said it would always be like that. Always.

Sigh

Psychic: "This is the wild child."

Thirty-nine: "I knoooow!"

Psychic: "She'll take care of him."

Thirty-Nine: "I knoooow!"

Psychic: "You know, you won't see your son from ages 14-18 or 19. He'll be in and out all the time."

I nodded. It didn't surprise me since he's already been pulling away from me as it is. At twelve.

Psychic: "You know, you weren't a bad kid yourself. But you have a wild side nobody knows about."

Well, until that moment, anyway. And it was a secret between only me, her, my dad and the 30 or so other dead people chillaxin' with us. And now, you guys. All six of ya.

Psychic: "Your girl... now that's your pole-dancer."

Thirty-Nine: "I knooooooooooooooow!!"

It was the longest one-syllable word ever uttered.

Psychic: "She's the one you'll be giving the Breathalyzer tests to at 2:30 in the morning."

I laughed out of fear, but also acknowledgment. I knew this shit deep down anyway. After all, she is my mini-me in looks, so she might as well be it in personality, as well. God help everyone.

I know that this woman wasn't told one thing about me. She was actually going to cancel my appointment because she didn't feel well, but she told the person who made the appointment on my behalf, "that woman Sixty-Seven's husband is hangin' around still. Why? Am I seeing her daughter tonight?" When her agent confirmed this, Psychic said, "No, I can't cancel. I have to speak to her."

And speak to me she did. She told me what she told my mother the week before, (about dear old Dead Dad), but she also touched on three specific things in my life with dead-on (pun anyone?) accuracy. I'm going to keep her visions regarding that personal part of my world to myself, but while my life story unravels, I'm going to pull out the six pieces of paper I scribbled on while she spoke to re-read them every once in a while to see if any of it applies. Who knows? Maybe it will, maybe it won't. I can't help believing in her though since this is the only psychic I've been to where I came away feeling....reassured and comforted.

I'm sure there are at least 4 out of the 6 of you reading that think it's all bullshit. Forty-Four certainly does. But if I ever find Seven wrapped around a pole one day in the future, beer on her breath, I'll be blogging about it and you'll be begging for this psychic's phone number.

Like White on Rice

2009-08-16T10:58:00.014-04:00

I'm always awake; the noise in my head is so fucking loud. New problems, old problems, solved problems: they're all game for some re-thinking. I'm still trying to figure out why I dated a boy/man who was five years older than me when I was in 9th grade. Five years of my life were completely devoted to him, and the next 25 had been sprinkled with thoughts of regret over why the hell I was so devoted to him.

My mind doesn't shut off. Little things, like how bad I'm going to feel in the morning when I have to leave my dog alone, to the larger things, like how I'm going to pay for school, consume me. These things sit in my head, heating up as the day progresses like kernels of corn sizzling in a pot of hot oil waiting to pop. And when my head hits the pillow at one or two in the morning, the popping is what keeps me awake until three.

There's so much discontent in my life, but even on the days when life is sitting well enough with me to a certain degree that I can actually start a task and carry it through to completion, I still don't feel any peace of mind. I often wonder why it is I can't put anything to rest. No matter how hard I try, nothing's ever dealt with and then forgotten; nothing ever has closure.

One particular relationship in my life barely had time to blossom before it was cut off; the person moved away, leaving a huge question mark what-iffing me to death for a long time, just like many other things before that and after. Friendships that I had thought sat on solid ground always seemed to end without warning or explanation, leaving me, again, faltering and wondering. But of course the biggest lack of closure, and the most significant one, was regarding who killed my father and why.

It's been almost 20 years since he's died and now that I, Thirty-Nine, am approaching Forty, I've come to accept he's not here, and have tried to reconcile his absence from mine and my children's lives. It's a difficult thing to attempt, but I never give up trying. After all, I have no choice. But even so, there will always be that desperate melancholy that permeates my soul when I see grandpas and grandchildren together.

Sixty-Seven called me up the other most shittiful day with Forty-Seven on the line. The two of them together meant something was a-brewin'. Apparently, they had just gotten off the phone with a psychic and needed to inform me of what had happened. Over the past 20 years, we have talked to psychics: some on the phone while they searched through old coffee grinds to "read" our fates, and others in person. Some seemed to say a few remarkably accurate things, while most just generalized. We've been to George Anderson, one of the first famous mediums to blast into the public eye claiming to communicate with the dead. My family read his books voraciously; they explained how he learned of his "gift" of communicating with dead people and how he couldn't be disproved. We suddenly had a tiny spark of hope: maybe there were people in this world who really might be able to help us communicate with our dad so that we could finally get some answers. Then we found John Edward. He, too, communicated with the dead. We read his books and watched his television show and even saw him in person. We still hoped for answers even when we weren't able to get them from either medium. But that day, two days ago, that awfully shitty day-in-the-life-of-Thirty-Nine, was somehow different.

Sixty-Seven: "This psychic told me I had a daughter with one child, and another daughter, my youngest, with two. She said the oldest grandchild has an attitude and a half and is a crack-up. He's also sometimes a prick."

We all laughed. Accurate enough.

Sixty-seven: "She then said my youngest daughter has a son who's sweet and mild-mannered."

Awwwws all around. My boy, Twelve.

Sixty-seven: "And listen to this."

I sensed something good, but never this good:

Sixty-seven: "She described Seven to a T. She's a princess and a yenta and a half. (laughter) She said Daddy can't get enough of her and he's with her all the time, protecting her. In her exact words, he's with her 'like white on rice.' He gets such a kick out of her because she reminds him of you as a little girl. He's always with her."

I cried the moment the words fell out of Sixty-seven's mouth. Just the thought that my dad was with my baby girl -protecting her, hovering around her- made me weak with relief. And belief. I never believed anything so much in my entire life and nobody will ever convince me otherwise.

Sixty-seven was flabbergasted as well. She said she was sure the first boy in the family, Fourteen, would be the focus of his dead grandfather's attention; never once did it cross her mind, or our's, for that matter, that Sassy Seven would have been the one Grandpa liked to hang around.

I wiped my eyes and fetched the now-burned chicken nuggets out of the toaster oven.

Thirty-Nine: "Here, Seven. Sorry they're burned."

I handed her the plate, phone still cradled on my shoulder. I couldn't help myself:

Thirty-Nine: "Hi dad."

Sixty-seven and Forty-seven laughed.

It was funny in a way, but serious in another. Funny that I addressed my dead father as I handed my daughter her lunch, yet serious in the way that now when I look at her, at her heavy-lidded eyes that we always joked were like her Grandpa's, I see my dad. Almost literally.

We were told by this psychic woman that my father is always with us, watching and protecting. We were told he loves my mother now more than he ever did. We were told that my father's father saw the gun and immediately came down and brought my father's soul quickly to heaven. We were told that his biggest regret is how he left us alone and in such a mess.

Sure, we might be gullible. But if someone told you after 20 years of whys, what ifs, and I wishes, that your daughter was being protected everyday by her grandpa, wouldn't you, too, believe?

It's the kind of closure I always dreamed of...

"Seventy-Two"

2009-06-07T02:15:00.001-04:00

Today, June 7th, would have been my dad's 72nd birthday and this December marks the twentieth anniversary of his murder. I have spent half of my life without a dad, and to tell the truth, I don't really remember what it's like to even have one.

Every year, when either his birthday, Father's Day, or the anniversary approaches, I tell myself , "Just don't think about it too much. Don't walk around or mope so people will know I am thinking about him. I can think about him, (or not), and cry about him, (or not)." Trying not to think about any of it just makes his absence even more overwhelming, which, of course, makes me cry anyway.

Last night I was looking at some pictures my mom posted on her Facebook page and I was so taken by both my parents' youth, their beauty, their...togetherness. It struck me that once upon half-a-lifetime-ago, I had parents - plural. In that other part of my life, never did I imagine that there would be any parenting done by anything less than two people.

As a kid, I always imagined that when I was a grown woman with my own kids, I'd return to my parents' house - my childhood house- to watch them "grandparent" my children. I struggle now, still trying to imagine what it would have been like. Would my dad be more interactive with them than he was with me? Would my mom have the kids sleep over on weekends and make them teddybear-shaped pancakes in the morning? Would my mom even wake up before 10:30 to make the pancakes? Would my kids climb the same tree that my sisters and I climbed in the backyard? My life seems punctuated with endless question marks. You know, I actually rent out small spaces in the worlds of "what-if," "it's not fair," and "why us? why me?" It's not even like I want to be in any of those places; real estate there is automatically included in the "losing-a-loved-one" package.

On any of the occasions that would typically honor my father's life, like today, it's his death that somehow winds up dominating my mind. It's not the memories of his life, or the memories of the (very) few things we did together that pop into my mind, but the way he died and what my entire family is missing because of his death that saturates my thoughts. However, there are years when his birthday comes and goes almost as if it's like any other day, but maybe because my kids have to be somewhere or the day is simply over-scheduled enough to keep my mind mostly occupied. While I always acknowledge the day somehow, even if silently to myself, and allow it to pass dry-eyed, I will still call my mom just because I want to acknowledge it outloud for her.

So many years have gone by now and all of the people in my daily life have no clue who my father was, including my husband and children. My mother recently said that she wanted to write a memorial to him on the twentieth anniversary of his death because, "I want people to remember him, to remember he was here." Maybe it wasn't in those exact words, but pretty close. When a person passes away, all you hear is that person's name for some time. But then what happens after those first few months or even a year? Nothing. Nobody ever mentions it again, as if that person never existed at all. At least that's how it feels. Certainly, I don't expect anyone to say my dad's name in casual conversation every day for the remainder of my life, but it would be nice if someone had a random memory to share with me about him. I'm a huge believer in sharing; I do it all the time. I remember seeing a friend many years after high school and telling her how I still remembered the smell of the soap in the bathroom of her childhood home, and also a funny story about her father, who had since passed away. She seemed so grateful to know that someone remembered those things, especially about her dad. Honestly, I told her because they were happy memories for me and I really wanted to share them just for the sake of reconnecting through that old childhood bond, but in the end, I was thrilled that it made her feel good on a completely different level.

I feel so accustomed to silence where my own dad is concerned. Sure, every once in awhile you have to tell someone that your loved one is dead if it comes up in coversation, and sure, he or she says they're sorry. As sorry as anyone might be, there's a certain disconnect to their sympathy because they never knew the person who died. I really wish someone in my life actually knew him, knew he existed which makes me understand my mom feels compelled to write a memorial in honor of him. Last night, feeling overwhelmed with life and feeling sad looking at the old pictures of my parents, I started to cry for a few minutes. Nobody wants to be sad alone, so I went downstairs to sit with my son and my husband but I started to cry again. My son asked me what was wrong and I said, "Tomorrow would have been your grandpa's birthday." Neither of them said a word. Their complete, yet faultless, disconnect to my sadness was because neither of them knew my dad nor understood my loss, but their silence made my grief even more suffocating. So, I called my mom.

I really never know exactly how I'm going to feel on Father's Day, when I have to give cards to my husband's dad instead of my own, for instance, or on my dad's birthday, like today. Maybe I'll mention it to my friend if we're on the phone, or I'll call my sister and talk about how old my father would be if he was still alive. Maybe I'll say hi to him when I finally go to bed, in the dark, at the end of a long day full of child-related activities. Maybe I'll cry alone, like I've done many, many times.

What I do know is that I love him and I'm heartbroken that he's not here anymore. But at one time, he was here. For all of you who never knew him, or for all of you who knew I once had a father but don't remember him, his name was Nathan Mizrahi.

And today, he's "Seventy-Two."

Jazz Blues

2009-05-19T23:36:00.029-04:00

Tonight I watched my son, Eleven, play his trumpet in one of his last Jazz band concerts in elementary school. This was the third time this week, (and the fourth time in the past two weeks), that I went to whichever school his jazz band "tour" was stopping at to play their groovy tunes. Each time, I couldn't help but stare mostly at the tall boy standing in the back row; the boy who is now taller than his mother; the boy whose mustache has been darkening by the day; the boy who's quickly looking less like a boy and more like a man. I stared simply out of shock because this boy is my son.

I brought my camcorder tonight and zoomed in to watch him as he blew into his trumpet. It was a fight just to get him to go to the concert, partly because he didn't want to miss baseball, and partly because he constantly claims he isn't interested in jazz band, or any band, for that matter, at all. So, we gave him the choice to play most of the game with the option to leave early to get to the concert. He said if he couldn't play the entire ball game, he wasn't going to play at all. This confused me, though, since whenever I tell him he has a baseball game, on nights when there are no conflicting concerts or anything else, he insists he's not going to play ball, either. I can't figure out what this kid wants and that was exactly what I was trying to do as I zoomed in on his face; figure out what was going on inside his head.

He looked sorta bored, sorta sad, even, whenever he removed the trumpet from his lips. His shoulders looked all slumpy, which is not unusual for him, as this posture is his norm when he's not feeling confident in himself. I nudged Forty-Three in the ribs, partly to hurt him, but mostly to get his attention.

Thirty-Nine: "He's all slumpy. He has no confidence."
Forty-Three: " ."

No, that's not a typo; Forty-Three is a man of limited responses. He just sort of nodded in agreement.

But I didn't need any response anyway. As a mother, I knew what I needed to do regardless of whether Forty-Three had anything to grunt in agreement or disagreement about. When the last sounds of Louie Louie faded out and as the children started filing off the stage, I found my son's band teacher and thanked her for the wonderful work with the band and the music program. I also thanked her, as I'm apt to do in my end-of-the-school-year thank you notes, as well, for her utter belief in my son and his innate musical ability. I wanted him to play a solo in the concert and expressed how sad I felt that he simply lacked the desire or the confidence to do so. It was difficult not to break down in tears, as again, I am apt to do when I talk about my kids, when I thanked her for encouraging him endlessly, and even admitted to her that I felt that not only was he letting her down by not practicing his instrument, but that I, too, was letting her down because I couldn't force him to love the trumpet or make him play like she believed he could play. She told me not to give up on him because even though next year in Junior High school he would probably lose interest, (lose even more interest, really), he might get it back. (unfortunately, though, I am not hearing wonderful things about the school's musical department, so.... a big "uh-oh" right there).
By the time we got home to watch my DVR'd American Idol, I still couldn't help thinking about my Eleven: an awesome trumpeter, an impressive home-run-hitter, a phenomenal third-base man. On top of that, he's also a smart, handsome kid with a good heart and a sensitive little soul. I stopped the DVR playback for what turned out to be a good ten minutes in order to tell my unconfident child some things he needed to hear.

I told him that because he has so many people believing in him, he needs to try to believe in himself, as well. Maybe it's wrong to do so on some level, but I told him that I never believed in myself and that I still struggle with that every day of my life - and I'm close to forty years old. I told him that I always allowed other people's negative opinions about me to become my opinions about me instead of believing all the good things I really knew to be true about myself. Every teacher he has ever had since preschool only had glowing things to report about his capabilites. Use them, I told him. Don't waste your youth trying to be too cool, or sitting in front of video games all day. Take the love and encouragement from your teachers and from us to feed your talents. Yes, I'm annoying, yes, I push you, I continued, but all for good reason. I wanted to play the piano and the drums, but I never got to. I never had the push that you have. Take advantage of it, I implored. I only do these things because I see how disappointed you are in yourself, how you don't think you are any good. Youth is when you can explore what you like, what you're good at. This is your time to blossom, I said.

He was laying on the loveseat, his long legs and big feet hanging over the side. I could see the thicker hair on his manlier-looking legs. But the way he was looking up at me was so child-like, so innocent. For the first time in, wow, I don't even know how long, I think he was actually listening to me. And not the one ear to me, one ear to Family Guy kind of listening, but absorbing listening. My tear ducts let one or two drops sneak out. You don't even know the depth of my love or pride, I added.

Eleven didn't turn away from me like he usually would even though I knew he was exhausted and that he just wanted to watch Adam Lambert and Kris Allen sing their final songs. He looked up at me, waiting. I added as much as I could, as much as I could articulate at 11 PM and with only 8 hours of sleep in two days. I, too, was so tired, but I took this "alone time" as an opportunity to share my desires with him as a parent. I begged him to learn from me, not because I am his mom, or only because I'm older, which we all know doesn't always mean wiser, or not because I know everything there is to know, but only because in this instance - the believing in oneself department - I know whereof I speak. The gist of everything I was talking about came down to using his youth, talents, and the push from his educators and parents to his advantage and not to let it slip away before it was too late.

He fell asleep, still in his black pants and white button-down, sprawled on that small couch. It still hurts me that I can no longer lift him up, carry him upstairs, change him into his Spiderman pajamas, and tuck him into bed. But if I can lift him up in other ways, then so be it.

As adults, we always wish we knew then what we know now, and when we were children, we thought we knew everything. I still don't know why my son looked so unhappy on that stage tonight, whether he really was just bored, or if he was feeling anxious just because he's Eleven going on Twelve and that's what eleven year olds going on twelve look like. Was he up there wishing he was at baseball? Was he up there angry that I was clapping proudly in the audience?
Was he up there thinking about a negative observation his friend pointed out earlier today that made him feel self-conscious?

As a mother, I can only guess about these things, but I do hope that now when my son has that certain look on his face, that maybe he's thinking about something important I once told him.

The Beginning and the End. Period.

2009-04-10T12:53:00.001-04:00

On February 8, 1982, 2:50 PM, that sudden, desperate need to pee hit me, but because it was almost time to pack up and get on the bus for home, I debated whether or not I could hold it in. My bladder must have heard my internal debate because it somehow communicated that a slow leak would be inevitable if I didn't book it to the girls' room - and fast. After getting permission from my teacher, I ran as best as one could run while pressing one's thighs together. Finally, and thankfully, I made it without peeing myself first. When I glanced down mid-pee, I noticed something on the undies I'd swiped from my sister's drawer that morning (because they were so cool). The realization that I'd just gotten my period, two days after my twelfth birthday, made me dizzy. And excited. I couldn't wait to get back to class to tell my friends. But I first had to tell my teacher, a woman I strongly disliked, so she'd let me go get a maxi pad from the gym teacher, as we'd been instructed to do when we had the sex ed class a few months earlier.

Twelve-Year-Old Me: "Mrs. O'Hara, I need to go see Mrs. Duchin."

Teacher, eyeing me up and down: "Did you get your period?"

Either I came back into the classroom leaving a trail of blood behind me, or "Mrs. Duchin" had been previously determined by the the faculty to be code for "student got her period." I nodded the affirmation of my womanhood, and ran out the door. By the time I left the locker room in the gym, I had something stuck to my undies equivalent to the size of a canoe. Wearing sweatpants didn't help, as the huge bulges in the front and back looked suspicious. I tied my sweatshirt around my waist, ran back to class, and proceeded to tell a few (disbelieving) friends. When I got home, I changed into my robe, as if having my first period sapped me of all energy, and required hot soup and bedrest. I called my mom, non-chalantly adding to the end of the conversation that she needed to bring me home a box of pads. Then I called my sister's best friend, my mother's best friend, and told anyone else that happened to call or come over that day.

Each month I waited anxiously for my new "friend" to come visit. Sometimes she came, sometimes she didn't. But it was still exciting knowing I was one of the first to get my period. From then on, my mother stocked the bathroom wicker cabinet with enough maxis, minis, pantyliners, and tampons for all four females in the family. It was a time for celebration; a new beginning of sorts.

Or was it?

A celebration? Hardly. A new beginning? Yes - to monthly agony. Long gone are the days when I anxiously counted the days on the calendar, waiting for the proof of my womanhood to show up. I think the novelty of that shit wore off when my periods started becoming more regular, rather than skipping a month or two, and when the cramps and mood swings started.

Male reader(s), take note: it is not a myth that hormones are a bitch, nor are they empty excuses women use for anything we need to excuse. They are the cause for everything from bad attitudes, ("MUST you breathe like that?") to extreme and insatiable hunger ("Yeah, so WHAT if I downed the fucking tortilla chips and the tub of Cool Whip?"), to rainy days on Mondays. The strength of a woman's will when her hormones are kickin' is powerful, well except when it comes salty and sweet, that is.

Forty-Three insists that I have one good week a month. Really, I'm in a perpetual state of periodness. There's the week before, when the appetite starts stirring, the week of, when people who cross my path are really in for it if they say hello to me without the proper tone, and the week after, when I feel like shit for the previous two weeks from eating too much and for yelling at people, my kids especially, because my hormones told me to.

Where the hell did I get the idea when I was twelve that my period was something to celebrate? I've had that bitch with me for twenty-seven years, or twenty-five and a half, if you minus my pregnancy years. It's nothing but a nuisance. I'm not having any more kids, (although not by my choice, but by Forty-Three's insistence that he was too old even when he was thirty-six to have kids), so it's not like I need to have my period anymore. But that, my five or six friends out in blogdom, is another blog all by itself.

Who wants to search for period-designated underwear every month, remember to lose the thong pre-period, just in case of early arrival, and schedule activites and outfits around it? I've had enough. Really. But then again, now that I'm Thirty-Nine, and menopause (or even perimenopause) isn't too, too far away in my future, I'm wondering if having my period might be the lesser of these two evils. Aging sucks for the very reasons I already mentioned in Damaged Goods, but even though it annoys the shit out of me, the thought of not having my period is a little frightening at the same time. It would mean I couldn't even entertain the idea of having any more biological children (if my partner was actually willing), and that all the changes I thought were bad in my thirties were really not bad at all, by comparison.

With the decrease of estrogen levels, there's an increase in other things that no woman in her right mind would want. It's bad enough having to tuck my tits into my jeans while still in my thirties, so I don't need start growing facial hair on top of that. You all know what I'm talkin' 'bout. Who hasn't seen a woman well past menopause with a mustache any pubescent boy (and some mature, semi-hairless men) wouldn't kill for? I have plucked an errant hair here and there, and I refuse to have any more than that. Refuse. If the day comes when I suddenly find myself in the bathroom, fighting for mirror time while Forty-Three and I shave our beards together, it's all over for me; the end. The couple that shaves together, stays together, my ass! I'm gonna need to find someone who deals estrogen - the good shit. Not those pansy hormone replacement pills the gyno gives; I want the strongest stuff in the estrogen-drug market because if I ever find a hair sprouting from any weird place on my body - a nipple, out of my ear - God help anyone within the vicinity.

I'm not hearing or reading favorable things about menopause, although there is one good thing: no more panty paraphernalia! But that's it. Periods are bad enough with the mood swings and constant hunger. (My mother-in-law constantly tells me that I "need to see someone about that.") but menopause has additional horrors: night sweats, hot flashes, loss of libido, vaginal dryness? Vaginal dryness? Come on, now. Hasn't my vagina suffered enough between the two childbirths and the unkind remarks by my gyno? If she could speak, she'd be begging for therapy. Loss of estrogen is so brutal. I mean, my voice is already getting deeper as I age without being in menopause. What else can I look forward to? Growing a penis?

I sit here, cramps upon me, craving a blob of melted mozzarella cheese, browned and bubbly. My stomach is distended, I'm yelling at my daughter, and I'm fighting a sudden bout of crabbiness, so I know it's the week before my frenemy's arrival. After thinking about the pros and cons of period-dom and menopause, I think if given the choice, I'd have to stick to the period. Let's face it: it's the beginning of womanhood and it does have some privileges, like getting out of gym class when you're a kid, (and sex as an adult), and allows for at least a couple of days when calorie consumption is allowed to go unlogged. By not having it, I'd feel like something, besides my estrogen production, was slowing down, if not coming to an end, like my thong-wearing days and the assumption that people would know I was a woman simply by the sound of my voice. I mean, really, am I gonna have to unbutton my pants to flash people my tits to prove it?

Fear Factor....

2009-03-21T20:45:00.000-04:00

(Note: This isn't really my blog... This is just an assignment I had to write for my class in school. When writing for magazines, word-count is of the utmost importance, so it's important to be aware of it as you write. But how do you get across a feeling, an idea, or an experience when you have to do it in 1,500 words or less? It's hard...really, really hard, and word choice is crucial. So, because I am unable to blog the silliness I sporadically blog about, I figured I would post this. Hopefully, if anyone reads this, everything, or at least some of the things, I was trying to convey in this piece will come across the way they were meant to. (And if the message you get by the ending is that I'm a freak... wrong message!) Anyway, this is my Fear Factor...

Every Sunday night when I was around nine years old, I would start crying as soon as I went to bed. To this day, my mother still tells me how frustrated she was whenever she heard the whimpering coming from my room.
“What is it?” she’d ask when I’d peek through her bedroom door minutes later, rubbing the tears from my eyes.
“I don’t wanna go to school.”
“You have to.”
“It just comes into my mind that I do not want to go to school.”
And that’s what I said, verbatim, every week. I didn’t know why the thought of going to school on Monday mornings caused me so much grief and anxiety. But halfway through my favorite Sunday evening television show, The Jeffersons, I’d start feeling sad, and by the time Alice came on afterwards, I’d start monitoring the clock, counting the minutes until it would be over. When I finally turned off the T.V. to go to sleep, my eyes would get scratchy and begin to water.
It was only when I became an adult that my mother finally figured out the reason for my weekly crying jags. I had lost two relatively young grandparents when I was around five, the only uncle I ever knew when I was around eight, and the family dog (who’d been with my parents longer than I had), when I was nine. My mom’s theory that I was scared she might die while I was in school made sense and manifested in my Sunday night crying jags. Even if I couldn’t articulate it, the seed of fear had been sown in my mind. I somehow knew that a person didn’t have to be old and wrinkled in order to die, and that once you were dead, that was it. My uncle could never make me one of his toasted-bread-tuna-fish-and-lettuce sandwiches again; I’d never hear my dog, Kelly, howl from the sound of a passing police car’s blaring siren; and because I rarely saw them to begin with, I’d never remember what my grandparents’ voices sounded like.
That cluster of loss unfortunately was not the only one like that in my life. When enough years had finally passed to at least mellow my fears about death and loss, a friend of mine was killed while crossing the street on her bicycle, and a few years later, a boy from my high school died in a car crash. As all bad things happen in threes, or so it’s been said, my mother’s fifty-two year old best friend died right after I turned sixteen. What he figured was minor heartburn had actually been the beginning of a heart attack and he died that night. Death was neither choosy about age, nor its method, as I was learning, and its unpredictability was unnerving. How would these families ever survive?
In November 1989, my friend’s father, who was a cop, was killed on the job. I couldn’t imagine how he’d be able to go through life knowing his dad died by someone else’s hands until a month later when my own father never came home for dinner. He’d been late many times before, but my mother had never gone looking for him, until that night. My one sister had gone with her while my oldest sister and I remained home. The tension in the air between us while we waited wasn’t because of her usual disdain for my presence; it was caused by an unfamiliar worry. They seemed to be gone for a long time, as the store my father owned was only about seven minutes away, but for all I know now, it might have only been a few minutes since the anticipation of anything invariably makes time go by slower. When they finally did return, my mother must have been shocked into an eerie sense of calm when she rather neutrally announced, “Your father’s been murdered.”
We had no solid reason to think anything was wrong that night; we never received a phone call, nor had a grim-looking officer shown up at our doorstep informing us of bad news. The friendships the Freeport police had cultivated with my parents over the twenty-plus years they’d known them had indeed been in conflict with their duties as officers. It was only our mom’s sixth sense that something had happened to our dad that spurred her out the door that night. Her fears were confirmed when she saw police swarming the parking lot where my dad’s car was parked. My mother’s last vision of my father was his body slumped over the steering wheel in his car. We were later informed that after he had closed his store for the night and sat in his car waiting for it to warm up, someone shot him at close range. From what we were told, he must have seen the person, lifted his arm instinctively, yet uselessly, to protect himself, and the bullet hit the main artery to his heart, killing him instantly.
There was scarcely time to absorb what had happened as funeral arrangements had to be made within twenty-four hours, according to Jewish law. The funeral, however, was two days later, and I can only guess it had to do with the nature of his death. His extended family made all of the arrangements as best as they could to conform to the religious procedures of a faith we barely practiced because, “that’s what he would have wanted.” We were driven to an Orthodox Jewish synagogue in Brooklyn where the women huddled together on one side, while the men prayed on the opposite side. We watched as an unadorned pine box was carried in by some of his cousins and his deceased brother’s sons, his body naked inside and wrapped in a religious shroud. The entire service was done in Hebrew, none of which we understood, and without emotion or consolation. When it concluded, we left the temple and stood in the middle of some street in an unfamiliar city. Because of a ridiculous rule that didn’t allow women at the cemetery, we were only allowed to watch as his body was driven away in a hearse. We never saw him; we never threw dirt on the grave after it had been lowered into the ground; we never said goodbye.
We grieved by instruction, not by individual need. Jews sit Shiva for a week and that’s what we did. We were told when to eat, how to accept visitors, where to sit, and not to answer phones or doors. The dictates of a religion I cared nothing about superseded how I needed to mourn. It was my loss; our loss; I wanted to be angry and hateful, eat when, or even if, I wanted to; I wanted to smoke a carton of cigarettes and crawl into bed. But even at nineteen, I knew life outside of my house on Ann Road still continued, and that I had no choice but to continue living, as well. I went back to my same job and my same college classes, although a slightly different person. I knew his death not only signified physical loss, but abstract loss: no cheesy father-daughter wedding dances; no more fishing trips; he’d never know his future grandchildren. I knew I’d be forced to grow up quicker by being forced into the working world, and out of the security of my former family life.
But there are more than just those losses. Although I’m no longer that child with normal fears about death, I’m now an adult with irrational ones. The first, most vivid memory of my life is when my mother told us my father was murdered. The second is the coverage from Channel 12 News. “Freeport Business Man Murdered,” some newsperson said, as cameras panned the image of my father’s dead body hanging out of his car, the Reebox on his feet my Chanukah gift to him a few days before. For a while after he was killed, I was scared and looked over my shoulder wherever I went; I became fearful of everything.
I attach extraordinary amounts of danger to the most ordinary things, and it not only applies to me, but to my children. I worry if they stand by a railing on the second floor at the mall because they could topple over and fall into the Koi pond below; a low-flying airplane means a crash is imminent and makes me wonder if I’m close enough that I’ll get hit with part of the wing; a jog over the Southern State parkway incites a panic that I might somehow stumble and fall over the surrounding fence and die a splattering death on the hood of a speeding Honda. I had never considered the possibility of a murder happening in my family, but because it did, it makes me believe something just as horrific is equally likely, and I unfortunately live my life waiting for it.

Damaged Goods...

2009-02-06T16:18:00.000-05:00

"It's not easy being you."

That was my hairdresser this week when I went in to have him fix my mysteriously singed bangs. I asked him if I should be insulted and he laughed, "Not at all. Being you is a good thing."

Of course that response was just as curious as his original statement but since I love my hairdresser, I let it slide.

Today, however, that statement was truly justified. As I was talking to my sister, Forty-One, on the phone, I slipped down some icy steps. Now last year before my 38th birthday, I sprained my back; today, on my 39th, I almost broke it. There seems to be a potentially painful pattern here. (oooh, nice alliteration there!)

I guess as I get older I get very contemplative on my birthday. It makes me feel weird to think that when I was sixteen, I thought being 25 was like near death. Here I am at thirty-nine, thinking what a dumb ass I was at sixteen for thinking that. But what, if anything, have I gained in my thirties except poundage? What is it I want to say that might be worthy enough for my loyal three blog-followers to read? Has my thirties taught me anything? Hmmm...

1) Maturity ain't all it's cracked up to be. So what if I still enjoy obscene and offensive sounds? The longer and louder the burp, the funnier it is. I'd challenge anyone -anyone - to just try to outburp me. It's not something easily done. Which leads me to...

2) I still don't know or care about the finer points of ettiquette. You eat dinner with your lovely and proper dinner fork, and I'll eat my ice cream with my demitasse spoon in my Crazy Critters paper bowl. It all tastes the same no matter which utensil you use.

3) Children can NOT be reasoned with. For instance, a partial conversation in my house:

Thirty-Eight: I love you, Eleven.

Seven, (before Eleven can even speak): What? You don't love me?? Wahhhhhhh!!!

Thirty-Eight: I love you, too, Seven. You're my best girl.

Seven: But you let Eleven use my princess pencil yesterday.

Thirty-Eight: What?

Seven: Wahhhhh!

Thirty-Eight: Relax! We have 482 pencils in the drawer.

Seven, (flinging her tiny body on me, and seemingly trying to climb back in me): I just want to beeeee with youuuuuuuu!!!

To this day, I can not follow a child's train of totally unreasonable thoughts. I have no comprehension. Whew. Anyway...

4) I've discovered things this year. Apparently, I'm old enough to be getting gray hairs in my eyebrows. Two, to be exact. I need to find a good tweezer to carry around with me at all times. I think I might swipe Forty-One's prized green Tweezerman from her kitchen table one day. In my family, tweezing has become a favorite past-time as we sit around doodling pictures of feet on scraps of paper (see #5) and her tweezer is the bomb. I do hope and pray that the gray-hair discoveries are limited to above my shoulders.

5) Never make fun of your parents when you're young; it comes back to bite you in the ass. Now I learned this recently enough when I was standing in the shower and found that my dead father's feet had sprouted out of my ankles. Remembrances of standing around my family's kitchen table while me and my sisters watched my mother, Sixty-Six, draw pictures of Forever-Fifty-Two's feet. (alliteration is rockin' m'blog today!) Now the big toe kinda hooks to the left, you see, and crosses slightly over the next toe, she'd say as she sketched out a rendering of some pretty stupid-looking feet. We all laughed and laughed and still laugh even today when one of us draws his feet on a scrap of paper. (I told you three readers... maturity is so over-rated). But now I've been cursed. My big toes are pointing less due North and more East and West. Thanks Forever Fifty-Two.

Okay, since I've started to travel down the body road, I may as well continue.

6) I've learned that because I have had stomach problems for most of my life, I can't eat pretty much anything without suffering consequences. Cheese, rice cakes, an apple, meatloaf.. you name it, I'm not supposed to eat it. But I do. And I suffer. In an extremely bizarre twist, though, I can eat Indian food with no effects. Go figure. Some things can't be explained. Which somehow leads to...

7)I have exhausted every possible exercise and diet combination. I can't accept it but I will concede to the fact that flat stomachs are for the young. Apparently, I was quite old even when I was sixteen. Sigh. I need to get over that.

8) Unanswered questions in my thirties: At what age does it become inappropriate to shop in Macy's Juniors and more appropriate to shop in Sears' Petites? I still can't find an acceptable answer to this one.

8) Several years ago, and two kiddies later, I had an appointment with my gynecologist. (Male Blog-Follower, feel free to jump ahead...). So, as I laid back in the chair, the subject of vaginas inexplicably came up.

Gyno: Yep, there's some damage here.

WHAT????!!!!????!!!

Anxiously, I waited for his next sentence, hoping it was an estimate as to how much repairs would cost. Sadly, it was something more along the lines of, That's what kids do to you. See you next year!

He yanked off his rubber gloves and left the room to note the chart that although my vagina was mangled, it was healthy. I had contemplated the idea of my broken vagina all the way home and still think about it even now. I learned that there is a good reason to stay married - who wants to join the dating pool with a damaged vagina anyway?

Basically, even though I'm a year older, I don't know if I'm all that wiser. Maybe I've learned a few things here and there but mostly things we all learn along our journeys through life: some things change, some things never do, and some things, we'll never understand or get answers to.

My hairdresser didn't tell me something I already didn't know: it wasn't totally easy being Thirty-Eight and even though I started off on the wrong foot today, I'm hoping things get easier being Thirty-Nine.

Do-Overs...

2009-01-26T20:38:00.000-05:00

According to dog experts, dogs don't remember what happened last week, nor do they hold grudges because you yelled, 'no, bad dog!' - they simply live in the moment. As I walked my girl, One, in the cold and dark of this evening, my mind started to wander, as it is want to do when we go for our nightly walks through the neighborhood. It wandered and wondered all at once, actually: wandered back into my past, then wondered why I couldn't stay in the present. I watched as One scampered along beside me, enjoying herself as she stopped to eat some snow or sniff a particularly odiferous spot on the sidewalk. Even when she suddenly pulled me across a sheet of ice and I had to yell and pull her leash back hard before she managed to herniate another one of my disks, she still looked up at me with love. She didn't care that when I pulled her leash, metal prongs put pressure on her fat little neckie; she just stopped and looked at me, like, "Come on, Mom, let's go!" All she wanted to do was continue on, leaving the past at the corner of Camp and Merrick Avenues.

But as I walked on, hoping that One didn't decide to do her backyard business in someone's front yard, my mind was somewhere back on Ann Road and Beach Drive in the years 1975 through 1990. God, there are so many things that I would do different. If I had a do-over, I would or should:

1) ...have taken the sharpest pencil from my pencil box in third grade and stabbed out the eyeballs of the boy who told me I was too fat and who started my path into deep, dark, calorie-restricted places. Or at least called him a jerk and kicked him in his nuts.
2) ...have accepted my parents' compliments and believed that they knew they were talking about... instead of believing a conceited third-grader.
3)...have studied harder.
4) ....have tried out for kickline a second time. If I managed a perfect split once, I could have managed one again... and make the judges pay attention to me this time.
5)...have continued writing through junior high school and high school. Who knows? I could have had tons of writing credits by the age of 18 instead of... ::thinking, thinking:: uh, none.
6)...have tried to forget about the idiot in do-over number one and all the subsequent idiots, male and female, who only made me worse. My calorie consumption from the years 1985-1990 totalled about... 1,000.
7)...have realized by age 15 - at least! - that I shouldn't have allowed my childhood chubbiness to define me.
8)...have learned the meaning of 'get over it!' waaaay earlier.
9)...have learned that the most important opinion of myself was my own.
10)... have told a former boss that he was an arrogant asshole and deserved, or even provided him with, a good ass-kicking. When someone works for you and offers to give more to the job, you don't yell and belittle said person.
11)... have gone to sleep-away camp (Camp Wayne!) or even college. College at 38 is awesome but somehow I bet at 18 it would have been really, really.... groovy.
12)... have gone fishing with m'daddy more. Why did I think I was too cool or too busy at 13 to do something with him that I loved so much?
13)...have been an athlete in junior high/high school. Trying to be fit now, at 38, has come with a painful price: bad knees, back, elbows, feet. All pain and weight gain...
14)...have learned that people's intentions are sometimes good, oftentimes misleading, too many times selfish. And instead of being continually surprised and/or hurt, I could just accept it and move forward.
15)...have not eaten enough pineapple during the '80's and '90's to feed a small country. This is linked to do-over #1 in some way.
16)...have bought Z. Cavariccis in more colors other than black and brown. They were flattering.
17)...have not let someone I adored move far away before we were able to wrap things up.
18)...have figured out a way to steal the Ralph Lauren perfume from the plastic container in 41's room, who had stolen it from 46's room, without her figuring it out.
19)...have cared more about what *I*thought of me rather than what everyone else did. Doing the right thing doesn't make people like you more and being liked doesn't always earn you respect. I'm still trying to figure that one out, and, finally...
20)...not have done a cartwheel on wooden floors without wearing protective gear.

Really, this list can continue on indefinitely. I would bet a lot of people might have a do-over list; some really short, some really long. And I don't think because I have one means I am bitter or completely unhappy; I think it means that I know I wasn't, nor am I now, perfect, and that I can hopefully learn from my past. That's partly what it's there for. This isn't to say I'm going to go out and buy, (or search the vintage racks) for white Z Cavs, but I might, let's say, ponder #s 14 and 19 a bit. I've already learned from #3 and have a nearly perfect GPA at Hofstra these days.

I can't help wandering into my past so often; there are things there that I need to draw from; to learn from. I don't stand in there wallowing and suffocating, though. (Okay, that's a lie. There are some times when people need to wallow.) One thing I intrinsically know, however, is that when I am with my children, I am like my dog, One: I must live in and for each of those seconds, not allowing anything in the past concerning my children to upset me. Pain of childbirth? Can't recall. The day my 2 year old saw too much Cinderella and called me a mean step-mother, even though I am her birth mother? Eh... barely registers. Okay, all kidding aside, I actually do relish every moment, even those hurtful ones, because I know these are the moments that will count the most, and that will outlive every other memory I've ever revisited. I'd never want to do these over; I'd simply want to do them again and again.

But, even though it was thirty years ago, and I am supposed to be evolving and mature, the one thing I still want to do is kick that boy from the third grade in the nuts.

The Memory-Repeater's Daughter

2008-12-30T10:42:00.001-05:00

My mother always has a memory or a story to tell... and retell and retell and retell. It's come to the point that each time she tells me, my sisters, Forty-One and Forty-Six, a story, she prefaces it with, Now stop me if I'm repeating myself. Did I tell you about the time when daddy got drunk...

DAUGHTERS: "STOP!"

Whenever she's in New York, there's never, ever a story she doesn't retell. She can tell me one in the kitchen, yet when we move into the living room five minutes later, she inevitably begins to tell me the same thing, even if she re-words it somehow in order to make it seem like something fresh and new.

Thirty-Eight Plus One: "MOM!"

Sixty-Six: "Oh, I don't know who I tell what."

Me and Forty-One laugh. Hysterically at times.

Sixty-Six: "Just keep laughing at your old mother. You'll miss me when I drop dead."

More laughter.

A few months ago, I went to Forty-One's, and sat at the kitchen table, our usual spot to wax totally unpoetic about life. Sixty-Six happened to be present, as she likes to fly north for the winter to spend Hannukahmas with her grandkids. So I plopped my ass down and started doodling on a scrap of paper from the ever-present pile o'papers whose purpose, I decided, seems to be for doodle-friendly people. I begin my normal doodle, Slash from Guns N Roses.

Me: (sighing) "I hate everyone."

Forty-One: (bigger sigh) "Me too."

Nota Bene: This is how we usually start our daily conversations.

Sixty-Six, plopping into her spot, coffee mug in one hand, a brand new, undoodled newspaper under her arm, throws her Snappy, which is the name of her cigarette case, onto the doodle pile: "Stop me if I'm repeating myself, now. Did I tell you about your cousin's dog? He has cancer and it started in his toe.

Now thankfully, we can allow her to continue, as this story is not part of her usual repertoire. She tells us about the dog's toe and how it was infected and that the vet discovered cancer. Sad stuff.

A few more doodles, a half-hearted glance at Forty-One's almost-completed Cryptoquote and Word Jumble, a fruitless search in her fridge for something I can pluck out and pop in my mouth, and I'm done with them... for a while. I always find myself back there later, though, sitting in the same seat, doodling on the same paper.

Round Two, two hours later:

Me: "Everyone annoys me.

Forty-One: "Me too."

Sixty-Six: "Oh, you two are annoying. Did I tell you your cousin's dog..."

Us, Eighty: "Stop!"

Sixty-Six: "Oh, I don't know who I tell what.

This goes on all day, the next day, and then the following three days after that. (I had actually warned Sixty-Six before she got to NY that she should save up some new material for when she gets here, that way, there'd be no repetition). So after day six of doodles, word jumbles and me and Forty-One driving Sixty-six to the brink of madness with our banter about how people suck, the conversations tend to get stale really quickly. When I sense that they're both about to kick me out of Forty-One's kitchen, though, I start talking about anything random because even though there's nothing left to rant about, there are times when I'm just not ready to leave.

Me: "Eleven scored three baskets the other night."

Sixty-Six: "Oh, good, good."

Forty-One: "He's so handsome."

Pause...

Sixty-Six lights up her Doral cigarette, which is like the no-name version of a Camel and a constant source for jokes. They taste and smell worse than any other cigarette but because they're so cheap, she maintains it's worth it. They're like ten bucks a carton but they contain questionable ingredients. That Sixty-Six; she's a thrifty ol' lady with lungs of steel.

Pausing continues. When there's too much silence, the sudden death of the conversation unnerves me because it means we've exhausted all facets of the "why people suck" and "remember when we were little..." stories and I know I'm going to have to leave. But when nobody makes a move to dress or if there's still furious doodling happening, I know we're good. We somehow find our way back to the default conversation that never gets tiresome:

Forty-One: "I'm hungry."

And there it is.

The subject of food invariably leads to what could be hours of sometimes exciting, often times frustrating, conversation. While the excitement of talking about gobs of melted, browning cheese and chili covered with Fritos is still hot, I always manage to quash the entire, exhilirating exchange:

Thirty-Eight Plus One: "Well... all this talk is making me hungry too but I still have to lose seven pounds."

A new cloud of Doral smoke pollutes the air.

Sixty-Six: "Shut up already!"

Forty-One: "Yeah, really! We're sick of hearing it already!"

Sixty-Six: "I'm going back to Florida. Can't you find something new to say?"

I sit there, simultaneously astounded by her nerve and my sudden impulse to eat the refrigerator, and because I'm dietarily challenged, vomit it back up. She gets up and lets the dog, Five, inside, who's been outside barking incessantly.

Sixty-Six: "Oh, did I tell you about your cousin's dog...?"

Eighty: "Yes!!"

By the time I leave there, it's time to get the kids from school. I remind Eleven that he has a game and needs to do homework right away. No hanging out with friends, either.

Eleven: "I know. You told me last night."

We eat dinner at five because his game is at 6:45. At five-thirty I tell him to do his homework.

Eleven: "I KNOW! You told me already."

At six o'clock, he's laying upside down on the couch watching Family Guy.

T.E.P.O.: "Your homework is all done?"

Eleven: "No."

Just like that. He answers without fear of getting in trouble. He answers the question evenly, like I just asked him if he likes peas.

T.E.P.O.: "Do your homework! You have a game tonight!"

Eleven: "I know! How many times do you have to repeat yourself?!"

Who the ef is this kid anyway, talking to me like that? I only repeat myself because apparently, telling him three times isn't sufficiently getting the idea through his skull.

I need a talkative adult around me so I force my mom to come to my house the next day, thinking a change of scenery might spark something interesting to talk about. She sits on the couch and we talk about how annoying children are when it comes to homework. She starts telling me how annoying I was when I was a kid because if I got a ninety on something, I would come home and re-do it because I wasn't happy with the original mark.

T.E.P.O: "I know, Mom! You tell me that every time we talk about my kids or my horribly low self esteem."

Seven hurls herself onto my lap room several times throughout the night and each time, I tell her to shower. Each time she comes back, she's still dry.

T.E.P.O: "You'll smell really bad if you don't. When I was your age, there was a girl that smelled like pee pee and once at a sleepover...

"Seven: "STOP! You always repeat yourself, Mommy."

I know there's an evil giggle burbling inside my mother somewhere deep down; she gets this sick satisfaction when one of the kids does something to me that either me, Forty-One or Forty-Six do, or had done, to her. I think I hear a quiet little "ha-ha" as she passes me to go outside to smoke. So I go outside to sit with her as she puffs her Dorals.

Sixty-Six: "See what happens? No matter how much you kids say you're not like me, you are."

And it's true. I've become the Memory Repeater's Daughter.

Nap Envy

2008-12-25T14:25:00.001-05:00

I have nap envy. There have been times that I attempted at least seven naps in one day, back in the day when I was a non-working girl. (Okay, that was only about two months ago, but whatever). Old people nap easily. They can be mid-blink, and it's all over. Kids in college openly nap on their desks. Babies need to nap as soon as they wake up in the morning. It's just the way it is and it's somehow accepted as the norm. No matter who it is, there's always a time of day carved out for their napping. But not for me. Ever.

Here's an example of a typical, stay-at-home day for Thirty-Eight:

1:00 PM - Thirty-Eight: "I'm tired. I think I'll pay these bills and then take a nap."

Forty-Three: "Yeah." (He's an enthusiastic conversationalist.)

I sit down with a stack of bills and turn on my computer. Ooh, I need to check my Facebook and my mail.

Forty-Three: "I thought you were paying bills and then taking a nap?"

Thirty-Eight: "After I pay my bills and check my mail."

Seven: "Mommmmmm! I need a glue stick!"

I go into the closet, open the disaster I call the craft cart, find the glue and as a stack of haphazardly stacked board games begins to fall, I slam the door. Too late. Forty-Three already saw.

Forty-Three: "Uh, don't you think you should do something about that?"

Completely busted, I open the closet, and all kinds of shit topples onto my head. So, like I always do, I curse. ALOT. Seven first yells that she heard me say the "s" word, then decides to yell that she's "still waiting for my glue stick , Mooooommmmmmy!"
Thirty-Eight: "I'm taking a nap after I straighten this shit out."
Seven: "Mommmmmmy!"
Glue stick in hand, I run to find Seven in the basement, making some kind of crafty thing I had not given her the ok to do in the basement.

Thirty-Eight: "Do not let the dog eat that stuff!" I look around. "Seven, it's a disaster down here!"

Seven: "I didn't do it, Mommy."
I start picking up toys and throwing them into bins.

Thirty-Eight: "I'm taking a nap after this, so don't start yelling for me because you need a glass of water. Ask Daddy."

Seven: "I want you."

I clean for twenty minutes, which is about when my eyes start unfocusing. If I have to find the match for one more Polly Pocket shoe or one more Polly Pocket accessory, I decide that poking my eyeballs out with a fork might be less traumatizing. I plod back upstairs, totally intent on going all the way up, to the bedroom.

Thirty-Eight: "What the hell is that noise?"

My son's room is open, and the squealing coming from within are the guinea pigs. Figuring my son, Eleven, had fallen asleep the night before without feeding them, I approach. I feel faint suddenly and realize that Lollypop and Nia are not asking to be fed but are screaming for mercy; they have been frolicking in their ammonia-scented cage for weeks. So, I get out the cleaning supplies and release them for twenty minutes of fresh air. Footsteps approach.

Eleven: "Daddy said you were napping."

Thirty-Eight: "I am. Right after I clean your pets' cage. Remember the pets you said you'd look after?"

Eleven: "One is Seven's. Can we go to Game Stop?"
Thirty-Eight: "No! And how do you even sit in here? It's gross."

Eleven: "I don't smell anything. Please?"

Contemplating whether the ammonia has burned out my son's olfactory senses, I finish up the cage and then vacuum the mess I made with the animal bedding. Then I head to my room feeling guilty about the whole Game Stop thing. Sighing, I tell him to meet me in the car.

Forty-Three: "What're you doing?"

Thirty-Eight: "Going to Game Stop then coming home to nap."

Forty-Three: "Yeah."

Forty-Three lifts the remote and aims it at the TV. His thirst for conversation has been quenched; he's almost reached his fifty-word-a-day limit.

An hour later, I get home, and Eleven sequesters himself in his room. As I search in my closet for comfy pj pants, I remember they're in the basement. I hurry down, hoping nobody sees/hears/cares I am home again and make it safely to the basement. The dryer is full so I start folding. Forty-Three appears at the top of the stairs.

Forty-Three: "Did you pay those bills?"
(Stringing three to five words at a time, often in question form, might be stimulating conversation for him, but to me it's getting annoying).

Thirty-Eight: "I was cleaning the cage. I'll finish after my nap."

A half hour later, I'm carrying an overly-filled laundry basket to my room. I throw it down, half the folded clothes falling out, but I don't care. Before I lie down, I need to run to the bathroom for a quick pee so I can nap in uninterrupted comfort. As I'm washing my hands, I look in the mirror, which is all speckled with toothpaste splatters. If I recall, that happened about two weeks ago when Seven flung her toothbrush out of her mouth in protest of brushing and going to bed. Crazy girl - bed is good.

It's gross so I get the Windex and a rag and start cleaning the mirror. Well, since the mirror is all clean, might as well do the counters. This becomes an annoying chain reaction and an hour later, the toilet sparkles and the scent of Clorox Clean-up has finally eradicated the guinea pig ammonia.
But now I feel gross, as the act of cleaning with all those chemicals makes me feel, ironically, unclean. I traipse back down to find a clean towel in the laundry area, and the puppy, One, (awww) follows me. She hasn't been walked. In days. She cocks her head because she already knows how to play on human guilt. The kids somehow taught her this trick and she's good at it.

Thirty-Eight: "Black Daaaawg wanna go wauwkie?" (you know you all talk that ridiculous way to your pets, too, so shut up.)

She cocks her head again, smiles and starts wiggling furiously. We run up the basement steps and in her excitement, she trips me and I fall on my bad knee.
Seven: (from somewhere in the house, I have no clue) "You said the "F" word!!!!"
I deny this fifteen times in a row as I hobble up the last few stairs to get One's leash. I leave, still in denial of my dirty mouth. We end up going on a forty-minute "drag."

By the time I get home, it's around 8:30. Everyone is laying around, watching TV and I feel like someone beat the piss out of me. Finally - finally - I sit on the couch. My eyes ease down and as I start falling into that sweet, blissful sleepy place, the phone rings. It's my mom, Sixty-Six.

Thirty-Eight: "Mommmmmmy!"

Sixty-Six: "What's wrong with you."

Thirty-Eight: "I'm so freakin' tired, I can't stand it."

Sixty-Six: "Go take a nap then."

If only it were that easy.

Thirty-Eight: Behold...the Gold

2008-12-19T17:53:00.001-05:00

Wikipedia says this about the definition of a Jew: "according to the simplest definition used by Jews for self-identification, a person is a Jew by birth, or becomes one through religious conversion." To me, that sounds about right. I'm a Jew; I was born a Jew, I will always be a Jew, but.... that's as far as my Judaism committment goes. (Sorry fellow Jews, especially my relatives who might be reading this...it's just the way it is). I did my time in Hebrew School: three days a week, two hours a day for about, oh, six years. I did not, however, enter into womanhood at age thirteen through the ritual of a Bat Mitzvah. Since I was given the choice of reading/singing from the Torah in front of friends, family, and those who just popped into the synagogue for lack of anything else better to do, I opted to become a woman at sixteen instead by having a splashy Sweet Sixteen party at Mirage in Baldwin, New York. Thinking back, though, I wonder if the Bat Mitzvah would have been less embarrassing. My ridiculous older boyfriend at the time got drunk, jumped on a low-hanging lighting fixture, and swung himself from one end of the disco to the other in front of my father, who, by the way, was also drunk. Totally not good.

So, by Hebrew school graduation, I felt that even though I didn't get Bat Mitzvahed, I was just as good a Jew as any. I mean, come on now... my catholic friends had to go to religion a mere one day a week for an hour. That was nothing compared with building a sukkah on Sukkot or participating in the annual Purim Charoset Bowl and remembering to boo everytime Haman was mentioned. I think booing at the Charoset Bowl was probably the most vocal and particapatory I had ever been in my Hebrew school career.

Okay, I am so not patting myself on the back or anything; I know I am not super-duper-uber-Jew, but I did have a lot of Jewish education. After all, my parents forced me. Unfortunately, not much of their forced schooling stuck with me. When you're a kid, you can't wait to get home from regular school, but then having to go to Hebrew school right after, you know... blows. You get home, relieved to finally toss off your backpack that weighs forty-seven pounds only to remember that you have Hebrew school in a few minutes that requires a completely different yet just as heavy backpack. I remember one time I was so fed up with the idea of coming home from a tough day at school only to have to go to Hebrew that I simply refused. I yelled at my mom and fought with her until she screamed at me to just get back in the house. My huge, maroon backpack (why I had a maroon backpack, I still can't figure out) hanging off of one shoulder, I stormed away from the car to go back in the house, turned around and flipped my own mother the finger. What crazy kid does that? I still can't believe that I not only did that, but that my mom doesn't remember it. That's how much I really didn't like going. I hated it, actually, but I did what was required of someone younger than the age of eighteen and still living under her parents' roof. I had no choice but to just get through all those years. My parents only wanted me to understand my religion and to know what it meant to be Jewish. Thinking back, and as a parent myself who offers her kids, Seven and Eleven, absolutely no religious instruction whatsoever, it was commendable on their part. My kids just want to light a candle on the Menorah because fire is cool. Listen, I might not have gotten any gold stars next to my name on the Synogogue Attendance Chart, but I can still sing the shit out of Israel's National anthem, the Hatikvah, and I know the Four Questions. That alone makes me a Jew in decent standing.

Whatever Judaism I did have got lost in the misery that was my father's death. But nevertheless, whether I'm a practicing Jew or just a "light-the-Menorah-once-a-year-so-my-kids-can-play-with-fire" Jew, I am still one. Not a great one, or even a mediocre one, but still. I often wonder why I sometimes feel the need to be defensive when I think "my people" are being disparaged, or why I have to make it known during December that not everyone is Catholic, (a "Happy Hannnukah"would be much appreciated sometimes, thank you very much. We're not all, "Merry Christmas," folks. Okay, well, um, actually... I do celebrate Christmas since Forty-Three is catholic. But that's not the point!) Besides all that, I really do wonder, what good is calling myself a Jew for anyway? I don't actually do anything Jewish except maybe make a kick-ass briskett, but so what?

I got my answer the other day. Having almost no spare cash these days, I went to the flea market to sell my old gold. Not even thinking, I went up to one booth and asked the man what he could give me for all my gold. He took my baggie full of old bracelets, most of them gifts from my Sweet Sixteen, by the way, and weighed them.

Jewelry Guy: "How much were you looking to get?"

Thirty-Eight: "As much as possible. Those guys," I motioned around the flea market, "offered me in the fours and fives."

Jewelry Guy: "I'll give you $600. You want to buy something from me?"

How did he not know that was a stupid question? I had to let him know, so:

Thirty-Eight: "Now if I could buy something, I wouldn't need to sell anything, right? (I noted in his face a visable trace of concession to my reasoning) "Hannukah is coming and my spoiled child wants a Playstation 3."

"Jewelry Guy: "Hannukah? You're Jewish?"

Thirty-Eight: "Yes, yes I am."

I already knew he was a fellow Jew since, you know, we all look alike. A new, brilliant spark lit up his eyes.

Jewelry Guy: "What is your name?"

I told him my maiden name is Mizrahi and he turned right around and re-weighed my gold.

Jewelry Guy: "$645."

Thirty-Eight: "Hmmm..."

Jewelry Guy, re-weighing: "$650. Best price." He repeated my name over and over again, like a mantra: Mizrahi, Mizrahi, Mizrahi...

By the time I left, I had no more gold, but $660 burning a Playstation 3 sized hole in my pocketbook and my thoughts about the scene that had just occured. Why did I still call myself a Jew, twenty-five years after completing Hebrew School and only coming out memorizing the Four Questions? What good reason did I have? Well, I had six hundred and sixty of them rolled into a wad in my bag, that's why.

Hey, maybe it's not really a good reason on an everyday basis, but for that day it was golden.

Thirty-Eight: Age is NOT just a number... it's painful

2008-12-12T18:46:00.001-05:00

Exercise: What the hell is it all for anyway?

I'm thirty-eight years old and tonight I learned that I can no longer safely do anything resembling a cartwheel. I am still sitting here, sort of in shock by my very sudden, age-induced limitation. I mean, for God's sake, just last year I was teaching step aerobics, weight training and cardio-kickboxing classes. Now I can hardly sit down or stand up without almost breaking some bone.

My seven year old daughter recently took up Level One of gymnastics. Yes, it's adorable and, yes, I encouraged her. I only became active in my twenties, after having my first child and gaining an amount of weight equivalent to the size of a couple of kindergarteners. So, knowing how great it feels to challenge your body, and how strong I feel after doing any kind of activity, when Seven asked to join, I of course said that it would be a great idea. She had already missed the Beginners class, though, but they allowed her and a friend to "try out" for the Level One class. They were required to do one somersault, one cartwheel, and a hand-stand. Seven did a nice little roll and a decent enough cartwheel. Her hand-stand, though, was quite impressive. So as it turned out, both girls had suitable enough skills to join Level One and I was happy she had something to do that interested her and would keep her active.

It seems, though, the decent cartwheel she had done that day was a stroke of luck. She really can't do one properly, as it turns out. On top of that, all of the kids actually need to know not only the standard one, but the round-off, as well. Anyway, I discovered this small fact the one day I had gotten to gymnastics a few minutes early for pick-up and I peeked into the gymnasium at the end of the class when Seven didn't know I was watching. Even though she's the cutest thing in a leotard to ever live and breathe, she wasn't doing the proper round-off: cartwheel with legs gracefully fanning through the air, turning the body ever-so-slightly and then snapping the legs together and down. Nothing like that. Poor thing really can't get her tiny legs too far into the air at all. They're sort of all bendy... and stuff. Heartbreaking, I tell you. Anyone who has a child that tries and tries at something and still can't do it, you know what I'm talkin' 'bout. And the worst is that she truly believes she's doing it correctly. Of course, now, that puts me in the ever-so-awkward position of having to make the decision: break the "never-lie-to-your-child"rule or tell her the truth that she really, truly should be in Beginner.

Anyway, tonight as I was eating a few discarded pizza crusts (the idea of any part of a pizza being discarded still boggles my mind) after my delicious, yet miniscule Lean Cuisine meal, Seven comes into the kitchen and starts practicing her round-offs. As I coach her from my kitchen chair, my back hurting as usual, (f.y.i. - my aerobics career ended after I sprained my back and my hip, which of course lead to major sciatica... that's another blog altogether. All done, fitness career!), she wants a demonstration. Suddenly, so does my husband, Forty-Three, who has a sudden interest in my gymnastic ability. Food swallowed only seconds ago, I get up and assume the stance: arms held high in the air, front leg hovering inches off the floor in preparation for the initial step before hurling myself across the floor, (people, you know the position I'm talking about. Remember being on your front lawn when you were about five years old, practicing for the high-school cheerleading squad? We all did it, with those stupid chants, too. S-U-C-C-E-S-S... that's the way we spell success!) Okay, anyway... I do this, no wait, I stupidly do this and as scared, yes, as scared as I am, I do a sort-of cartwheel -legs not any higher/straighter/better than Seven's - and hear something crack in my pitiful wrist as something unattaches, or so it feels, in my back. Then I hobble off to seek the safety of a chair.

"You didn't get your legs up!" Forty-Three thinks it must be fun to remind me of this, especially as he's eating more pizza and throwing more crusts into the box. (I can't even.... who does this?)

"I knoooooow!"

Feeling completely old and broken, I sit at the table, debating if a third crust is okay since I only ate rice cakes, a Special K bar, and a banana. As I mentally scroll through my daily food intake, I ultimately decide, no, I won't eat it. But now I feel doubly defeated somehow. How does someone who's spent twelve years working out at the gym, almost every single damn day, and mind you, someone who's spent a year teaching all kinds of fitness classes, suddenly find herself unable to do a stupid cartwheel or have a third pizza crust? (who doesn't like crust?) Even my mom, Sixty-Six, can't believe it. Our conversations come to mind as I rub my wrist contemplating getting a full body scan to make sure I haven't, in fact, shaken something loose. These conversations with her have repeated themselves too many times to count:

Sixty-Six: "What the hell's wrong with you? You can't even move anymore. Even with my emphysema, I'm fit as can be. Nothing hurts me!"

Swell. My emphysema-stricken mother is suddenly more fit than her aerobically-trained thirty-eight year old daughter.

So, I ask: What the hell is it all for then? I build myself up, stronger than ever, but two, possibly even three herniated disks later, and I can't even do a stupid cartwheel. You would think that after all those years of conditioning my body that I wouldn't be so... fragile. I mean, thirty-eight isn't so old... is it?

Ew. I just used the adjectives old and fragile in the same sentence and I was describing myself.

But... on the flip side. Even though my body aches and I am unable to share the joys of cartwheeling on the lawn with Seven, I still have the uh... knees, (no, not those. They crack all the time), ummm, elbows, (well, not really those, either. I think I have some signs of arthritis in them. They hurt when I bend them.), the uh... uhhhh.... shins of a twenty-year old.

Thirty-eight ain't that bad, now is it?