Every Child Deserves an IEP

The educational stance of Northport’s Superintendant of schools is this: Every child deserves an IEP (individual education plan). Every child deserves special education whether they are classified or not. All children are entitled to learn and succeed and have their individual learning needs met.

For 8 straight years I had a private math tutor on the payroll. Every year for at least one of my girls there was a need. It had to do with their teachers’ instructive skills---not my daughters’ innate lack of aptitude for math. Some of the math teachers at the high school are absolutely stellar—some not so much. It’s the not-so-much teachers that depleted my bank account. I am convinced that the tutor’s earnings from my weekly checks paid for his daughter’s wedding.

When Briana finished honors Math B at the end of her sophomore year (2005) she was recommended for honors calculus even though her grades were on the cusp. Her teacher that year was neither the best nor the worst. And I wasn’t certain whether Briana’s grades were on the cusp due to Briana’s own cusp level math aptitude or cusp level teaching. And since I strongly believe that at all times it is imperative to give your child the best possibility of success—and since the GPA of junior year is so pivotal, I sought guidance on where to properly place Briana for junior year math.

So I conferenced with Briana’s guidance councelor and Mr. Dods (the then head of the math department) to determine what was best for her. And we all agreed that GPA was the rate limiting step. Her math grade could make or break her college application. And even though honors math 12 (precalculus) was only open to seniors, Mr. Dods allowed Briana to take the course as a junior-- as it was deemed the best educational option for her. Mr. Dods bent the rules.

And Briana excelled beyond expectations in honors Math 12. And it became clear that Briana’s cusp grades in sophomore year were due to cusp level teaching and not cusp level aptitude. And so we faced a new dilemma. Clearly Briana was more than capable of AP calculus but she had not taken the proper prerequisite course (honors Calculus in junior year--pre-AP). So I conferenced with Briana’s councelor and Mr. Dods again. And even though it was against district policy, Mr. Dods offered this option: Briana had his permission to take Calculus I over the summer at Nassau Community College---and if she got a B or better, he would allow her to take AP Calculus. Mr. Dods bent the rules again.

And that is what Briana did. She took Calculus I over the summer session at Nassau and she got an A. While her friends were at the beach, Briana was in class. She sacrificed her summer fun to study and learn. But in the end she got real college experience and a transferable grade. And she used her experience to demonstrate in her college applications that she was a serious student fully capable of handling college level courses. It very well could have been the tipping point in her acceptance to the tier one college of her choice. And it was because the guidance councelor and Mr. Dods understood that unilateral educational policies did not address individual needs. They understood that every child deserved an IEP. Every child deserved special education.

This scenario would no longer happen in this school district. The current assistant superintendent for curriculum forbids students to take any college level courses outside of the high school building. The high school principal in conjunction with guidance and curriculum course coordinators may not make case-by-case educational decisions for individual students. Unlike in Northport and formerly in our district, educational opportunities for individuals are limited to the strict adherence of the district’s policy.

And the policy is all about retention rates in AP courses—it’s focus is to assure that the statistical data for enrollment remains constant. It has nothing to do with good education. It’s about counted heads in a classroom. I believe the policy is shortsighted. It fails to see that if students enroll in college courses over the summer (for high school and/or college credit) it will allow them to take other different AP courses in high school. Overall AP enrollment in the high school could actually go up.  It would also allow students to get transferable college credit that combined with achieved AP credits can save parents thousands of dollars in tuition. Everyone could have their cake and eat it too.

 Mr. Dods was both Briana’s and Samantha’s AP calculus teacher—he was one of their all time favorites. He was one of mine too--not just because he bent the rules and took a personal interest in Briana’s (and Samantha’s) education, but because he inspired my girls to be better people—and he made them believe that hard work had rewards—and they could aspire to higher things. Mr. Dods demonstrated that sometimes life was fair—and educators who cared had the power to make a real difference in the life of a child. My girls received special education during the days when every child could receive an IEP.

Italian Wakes

Let me open by saying this: death is not funny. I genuinely miss all those who have passed. In no way would I ever want to tarnish lives that are lost. Death is not funny—neither are funerals. But the customs surrounding the funerals and wakes are—the customs are the things that make me scratch my head and giggle.

My ethnic background is Italian. Italians—particularly old school ones-- enforce certain post-death rules. There is a secret code to follow. The first one is that at all times during the 1 ½ or 2 day wake (which is way too long), behavior must be as dramatically somber as possible-- not crying is disrespectful—jocularity of any kind  is forbidden. Fainting and sobbing is not just tolerated, it is venerated. And clothing matters. It must be black—even ebony is not black enough. And the big chairs dictate who is the most mournful. The high back upholstered chairs establish the hierarchy of sorrow--God forbid a lesser mourner dares to sit in one of the big chairs or sits in a row too close to the coffin when the priest comes in to do his thing—it’s a grand faux pas. It creates drama of a different kind.

And the quality of the coffin is studied as well as the size and type of flowers. And then there is the visitor’s book and the prayer cards (I call them the attendance list and party favor that no one wants but feels obligated to take.)

When I go to wakes with my mother I always get in trouble with her. It is inevitable. She does not share my point of view.  The rub usually begins with her asking the first simple question: What are you going to wear? To which I usually say I don’t know—wake clothes ? And then she gets mad. She wants me to restrain my snarky-ness. I believe that the fact that I am showing up should be good enough—it isn’t a runway show. And I do not care what flowers were chosen or the variety of wood for the coffin—all that extraneous stuff doesn’t interest me. Dead is dead. Nor I do not care if the coffin is open or closed. I trust that when the coffin is closed that there is a body in there—I do not need to view it as proof that someone is gone or to  say good bye. In fact I really hate how the living judge how good or not good the body looks or the outfit the corpse is wearing in the coffin. It’s so absurd.

And I like the idea of cremation. I have been afraid of worms all of my life—I like the idea that organisms of decay will be denied my body for dinner once they have found their way through the metal shield surrounding the interred coffin. I like the idea that someone who loved me will sprinkle my ashes in places that I enjoyed or would have enjoyed-- or even keep the urn on display on their mantel.

And unless someone is having a mass said specifically for me, I do not want anyone sending mass cards-- I suspect mass cards are a scam—they are present day indulgences of the Catholic Church. If I could, I would have little bistro tables at my wake where cappuccino and chocolate chip biscotti and chianti are served. And I would have basil hung all around the room—I love the smell of basil. And my friends and family would talk about how funny I was. And only the people who genuinely liked me would come to celebrate. My dogs as well as any other animal I had loved would be there too greeting everyone.  And there would be as many tears of laughter as tears of sorrow. No one would count the number of flower arrangements or how many names are in the book. It would be irreverently reverent—like me.

My cousin Betty—my godmother and surrogate big sister—is a lot like me. When she dies she wants a themed wake—Betty Boop with goodie bags filled with tootsie rolls. I am pretty sure my mother would not approve---neither would my mother-in-law.

Joan Rivers and Me

Some of my fondest television moments as a child centered around watching the Mike Douglas Show. It was on every weekday afternoon on ABC at 4:30. And I particularly remembered enjoyed the comediennes—Moms Mabley, Phyllis Diller, Totie Fields and Joan Rivers.

A week or two before my birthday this year, my daughter Samantha called and asked me what I wanted as a gift. And I told her that instead of another sweater or belt or piece of jewelry, I wanted to spend quality time. I wanted her and Briana to plan something we could all do together. And she said Like what? And I said that’s for you to figure out—it isn’t a present if I have to do the suggesting and the planning.

My children are on Twitter. They tweet and follow people on line all day long—even when they are working. So the minute Sam received a tweet from Joan Rivers that she scheduled one show in Manhattan, Sam immediately bought tickets. They sold out in minutes. Joan was playing at a 100 seat cabaret for just one night. A night with Sam, Briana and Joan was to be my gift.

So last Thursday we went. Sam and Briana took the subway from work and I parked the car near Sam’s apartment and I walked to the venue. And because we were so early we were the fourth people on line—seating was done on a first come basis—it reminded me of the days of old when I would get to the Garden City Pool before it opened so that I could get a choice table near the kiddie pool. And when we were seated, there was only one row of specially reserved tables in front of us (all seated with fabulously well dressed gay men). We were 10 feet from the microphone. We were also 3 people at a 5 person table—and soon 2 others sat down—both were singletons. The young man was himself a comedian and the other was a bookish woman from New Jersey. We all were fans—we all had watched Joan’s recent documentary and the Fashion Police every week. We also were fans of Joan and Melissa’s show too.

And then there Joan was. She looked great—not as botoxed as she appears on TV. And she was FUNNY—outrageously funny—wet Depends funny. Mascara running down your face kind of funny. My face hurt from laughter funny. She talked about how annoying little kids are on airplanes-- and where is Casey Anthony when you need her. And she talked about Chaz Bono---and why Cher would spend money on reconstructing Chaz’ private parts and not his face. And she talked about the absurdity of a deaf audience and how blind people never give compliments. And she implied Elisabeth Hasselback was a Nazi. And she talked about every politically incorrect thing you could imagine—and yet I was never offended—nothing was ever said with malintent.

And when the show was over, she was led off stage through the crowd right next to me. And I think because I was high from the endorphins of laughter, or blindingly star struck, that I reached out and hugged her. I hugged Joan Rivers. I reached out and put my arms around her. And she said I am sweaty—which was probably a nice way of saying get the hell off of me you freak. And she was gone.

And when I drove home that evening back to Long Island Briana criticized my crossing invisible personal boundary lines and touching Joan. So even though I had never tweeted at anyone before, the next day I tweeted at Joan. I felt compelled to tell her that I enjoyed her show and that I apologized for groping her—I wasn’t a creeper—just a Long Island housewife with a blog.

And although she hasn’t tweeted back, it is okay. Her publicist who does her tweeting must have read it and that is good enough. I have been absolved of my stalker sins—or at least in my mind.

My girls gave me exactly what I wanted as a birthday gift—time well spent and laughter from a legend. It was an unforgettable experience. The woman I watched on television as a child did not disappoint in real life 40+ years later.

At the end of Joan’s documentary someone says—you have to stand out in the rain if you want to be struck by lightning. I may have stood in the rain of Briana’s criticism but I also got stuck by celestial lightning too—how many people can say they hugged Joan Rivers? Not many. I can’t wait to tell Vinny--my mother’s hairdresser. He will be sooo jealous.

My Bucket List

 I am not a regretful person. I am content with most of my decisions. And when I have made judgment errors either I have forgiven myself, or tried to understand the lesson learned. And if the regrettable thing was something that was within my capacity to correct, for the most part, I made correction my mission—even if it was futile.

I do not have a bucket list—or at not least anymore. There was only one thing on my bucket list—only one regret I had—and that was that I never learned to type correctly—nowadays it is called keyboarding. I keyboarded by the hunt and peck method.

When I was in high school there were only 2 curricular paths to take after tenth grade: business or academic. And once you chose a path, there was no overlap—the schedule did not allow for it. So if you were on the academic path and you wanted to learn typing or steno you were out of luck. And even though the school offered a personal typing course, it conflicted with the higher level science courses. And so since I had chosen both an academic curricular path and took higher level science courses, I never learned to type.

And for many years I managed to get by with my hunting and pecking. Many people were unaware that I had no typing skills. I always got my work done. But it bugged me that I had never learned a skill it seemed the entire world knew how to do. So when Kara went off to college and my nest was finally empty I decided to scratch the one thing I had off of my that list—to correct my one regret.

Now I had wanted to take some adult education course for typing---but there was none to be had. I learned that there was no longer a need for the offering—apparently I was the only person in all of Nassau County who either did not know how to type or cared enough to learn. There was only one option to me—a Microsoft Word and keyboarding class offered by Nassau Community College. And  It was a true undergraduate course. It was a requirement for people seeking a degree in office technology--three credits worth. If I wanted to learn how to type I had to go back to college.

And despite total and absolute paralyzing fear, I registered for the course. Which in of itself wasn’t easy. I had to prove that I had a diploma/transcript from high school, college or graduate school. I no longer had any of that. My graduate school wanted too much money for a transcript and my college needed several weeks to prepare the paperwork—my transcript was too old. I imagined some poor work study student climbing down to the bowels of a basement somewhere to blow off the dirt and dust off of a moldy box that contained some yellowed paperwork. But as I am a bit of a pack rat I went into my attic and found my high school diploma and the little laminated card of proof that came with it. That would suffice. The registrar at the community college reluctantly let me in. I was officially back in college.

And I had to do all the things college students do. I had to get an ID and a parking sticker. And I needed to go to the book store to get my books. And I felt ancient. And I felt even more ancient on the first day of class. I was the only person besides the professor that was over 20 years old. I texted on my Blackberry before class  just to look like I fit in. I spoke on the cell phone with my mother in between class and the parking lot. I wore my Uggs and hoodies.

And it was HARD. Untraining  my fingers to do what they had done for 49 nine years was nearly impossible. And I had 10 hours of homework a week and I had 6-8 hours of lab work to do. And I had to sit in class and pay attention for 2 hours three times a week without a break. And I had tests to study for and practical typing quizzes. I had to focus and raise my hand. I bought typing tutors and Word books. This was a real class--and I wanted to succeed.

And just as I had been in my younger days; I loved learning. I loved school—even though my teacher could have been Marie Braccia’s (the retired principal of Stewart school) younger sister—she was that menopausal and rigid. But I learned to type about 35 words per minute and I really understood Word—I even taught my friends and husband a thing or two. And Barbara, the manager at Madison-Taylor Salon gave me the student discount on my haircuts.

In the end, it was all good. The teacher even took an interest in me. I accomplished my goal and I was happy with my success. I would never win any typing contests, and I still prefer to look at the keyboard when I type, but my fingers figured out where to go—I no longer had to hunt and peck—I was proficient. And that was all I needed or wanted to be. And when I do my writing, I can type as fast as I can think-- and that is good enough. Sometimes good enough is good enough. Sometimes a bucket list needs only one item. Maybe you just scratch things off as you go along so the list never develops length. Or maybe it means you are content with things as they are--you have no regrets.

Vanity Sizing

I grew up in an era that had a chubby clothing department for girls and a husky clothing department for boys. Fortunately I never wore clothing from the chubby girl section—I never experienced that humiliation. But trust me I was only a fried veal cutlet or two and an 8 oz glass of whole milk away from shopping there. I was always on the fuller side of normal as a child. I feared the chubby girl department. It was a source of ridicule. Children who had no choice but to shop there suffered miserably at the hands of the svelt children. Hell was a better place to be.

I bought a new dress the other day. It was a size zero. It is the first dress I have ever owned in that size. I bought it in Banana Republic—the monogram line. But do not be impressed by that number—I am not that thin or anorexic. My weight is unchanged—virtually since I am married. The number 0 on the dress does not equate with my actual size. And I can prove it. I have dresses in my closet upstairs on the 3^rd floor that are 25 years old—the tags say size 6—they fit more tightly than my new size 0 dress. And I have a classic dress of my mother’s—the tag says size 10. It fits me perfectly. So a size 0 in 2011 is actually a size 6 from 1985 which is a size 10 from 1960. Dress sizing is a scam.

This phenomenon is called vanity sizing. Clothing companies want people to feel good about the numbered size on the garment, so they change the numbering system to entice shoppers to make a purchase. If the size number is low enough, the ensuing elation will prompt a spending frenzy.

Formerly, clothing sizes ran from 2 through 18. Now clothing begins as low as 00 or XXS and stops dead at 14 or XXL. And clothing stores like Chico’s, where my mother shops, has its own crazy method. My mother has a pair of Chico’s jeans that are double reverse fit in a size 0.5 ---what does that even mean? A 0.5 sounds to me like she is wearing a half a pair of jeans: demi-pants.

And if you have ever tried on really high end European clothes, your pumped up vanity sized self esteem will immediately be deflated. For kicks I once tried on a Prada dress—I could not even get one thigh in it—it was that small. That size 0 dress from Banana Republic is probably a size 14 in Prada. It’s why one cannot ever believe a number on the tag. It is meaningless information. If it fits, buy it, if it doesn’t fit, don’t take it personally.

There are no longer chubby girl or husky boy departments for children anymore. Thank God. It’s one less thing children can be teased about. They say Marilyn Monroe wore a size 16 dress---but that was in the 1950’s. I am sure that would not be her size today. I am sure her size 16 would be downsized to a size 8. And if she wore spanx from head to toe she might even have been a size 6. Either way, size doesn’t matter—unless you are a porn star---or a spokesperson for Jenny Craig.

Paying It Foward

I am not good at keeping track of peoples’ birthdays. I do not even know many of the most important ones by heart. I usually ask my mother—she writes them down and then reminds me. Often I relate the date of a birthday to the closest holiday it falls on. My father’s birthday was on Thanksgiving—even though the date of the holiday changed from year to year.

On my birthday this year, I received a pleasant surprise—a gift from my neighbor (and friend) Kathy. It was a plaque that read The perfect shoe can change your life—a quote from Cinderella. I was elated. Kathy and I do not exchange gifts. This was a gift out of the blue.

And I called her to thank her. And Kathy told me that on her birthday, someone had given her a gift—just to be nice. Kathy felt it was the best gift she had received that day—precisely because it was so unexpected---she was not close friends with the gift giver.  And the person who gave the gift to her expected nothing in return. So Kathy decided to the same for someone else when the time seemed right—and she chose me to be the recipient. She told me that she enjoyed my writing and she wanted to acknowledge it—so she paid a kindness forward.

And I will do the same. I will give an unexpected gift to someone I would normally not exchange gifts with on their birthday. It feels like the right thing to do. It will make that person’s birthday as special as it made mine and Kathy’s when we received our pay it forward gift. Luckily I am on Facebook now so I can plan when and who to give the gift to—Facebook reminds you about friends’ birthdays.  And since many of my facebook friends are not real “friend” friends, giving one of them a gift will be perfect.

The plaque Kathy gave me is hung on my side door for all who enter to see. And Kathy got the gift right too—it makes me giggle. I love the humor it expresses. I have already used the quote from Cinderella in a blog post. Maybe the plaque should have read the perfect gift can change your life—or the perfect friend and neighbor.

Stepping In It

If you want to get a real belly laugh out of a child all you have to do is tap them on the shoulder and say the word poop. It gets them every time. Little kids find poop and anything related to poop to be hysterically funny. Many adults do too—the difference is that adults understand that things related to excrement are not socially acceptable and so they do not laugh.

This morning I had the unfortunate task of getting ready to attend a funeral mass. The church was a bit of a distance away so I had to take care to watch the clock and allow for glitches—except that I didn’t do a fabulous job of watching the clock and so I was running a late.

And I was fully dressed but for my bare feet when I let the dogs out as my last chore before leaving the house. And as I walked back through the dining room, on the corner of the area rug, my right foot encountered a cold soft slippery wet mass. And the sensory nerves in my foot sent the information to my brain. My brain in turn determined that this was not a good thing. And instinctively my brain ordered my foot to rapidly recoil. And upon rapid recoil some of the debris that had adhered to my foot flew off my foot and now adhered itself to the dining room wall. There was yuck on my foot, yuck on the rug, and yuck plastered and embedded in my stucco wall. And then I began to curse—profusely—with hard core choice words. And I knew which dog was responsible. It was not Cosmo. Cosmo looked at me and said Eww—don’t look at me--I would never do that and he walked away.

So I hopped on one foot (the clean one) into the kitchen and put my unclean foot under the sink’s faucet and washed my foot with antibacterial soft scrub and then went back to the dining room to clean and sanitize the remaining mess. All the while God heard a lot of damning. And now I was really late for the funeral mass. And when I got into the car I called Elaine and we laughed and I felt better.

The colloquialism He/she stepped in **it is meant to connote that one has been the beneficiary of good luck—random good fortune. It is meant to describe a fortuitous experience. I sure hope so because when I came home from the funeral and walked barefoot in the yard I stepped in it again. So I guess now I am twice as lucky. Maybe I should play the lottery.

The Trouble with Butt-Dialing

Last season on an episode of Parenthood, the 16 year old female character accidently called her parents from her cell phone—a butt dial. And the parents were in the car when they received the call. And the call came up on their Bluetooth. The sounds the parents heard from the daughter’s butt dial clearly were sounds of passion. And the parents flipped out. They nearly got into a car accident arguing over what they could not believe to be true. The writers did a good job of mimicking reality. Luckily I never had their exact experience. But I have been butt dialed on many occassions.

Kara is the youngest of my three children. She was sedately wild in high school. Her behavior was consistent with that of normal teenagers. And she was more skilled at flying under the radar than her sisters—she managed to walk inches behind the boundary line.

On a Friday afternoon  Kara butt dialed me. Had I answered the phone I would have said Hello? Hello? and when I got no response I would have hung up. But this butt dial was special. I was not home when she called. Her call went to the house voicemail. The ensuing conversation was on tape.

And when I came home from food shopping I pressed the messages on my answering machine and starting putting my groceries away. This was typical daily behavior for me. And then I heard Kara’s voice—clear as a bell—no handbag or jean pocket muffling—and she was telling the girl she was driving home from school all about her Friday night plans. Kara had made plans with some friends to take the train into Manhattan to go to a restaurant  for a friend’s birthday dinner. I had confirmed the restaurant plans earlier with the Mom of the birthday girl. I was okay with the plans—I was also okay with the posse of girls she was going with.

But the butt dial provided added information--and I learned from the taped message where the pre-gameing would take place and who was providing the alcohol. And I learned the type of alcohol that was to be transported in the flask--and where the flasks were to be hidden during the journey. And I learned who had the fake ID in case they needed to replenish the supply. And then I shut the answering machine off. I was past the Mommy saturation point. The accidental phone tap gave me way more information than I had wanted to know.

And now I had a choice. Ignore what I had heard or pursue the punishment. And I was conflicted. Because while on the one hand I knew I had a parental duty to pull the plug on the event , the fact was that she hadn’t drank a single drop of alcohol yet. Kara was getting in trouble for intent to drink—not actual drinking. There was still the possibility that she wouldn’t imbibe at all. I could have let her go and have fun and then punished her after the crime. And to a large extent  I actually found it humorous that the child’s first time for getting into trouble for drinking might occur when she was stone cold sober. 

And had the intended imbibing remained just here in town I would likely have given her the rope to hang herself with—but imbibing and traveling into Manhattan was the prohibitive stop.  So when Kara got back home, I confronted her. I said I know about your plans for drinking tonight and you are no longer allowed to go into the city. And she said what are you talking about? And I said you butt dialed me and all your plans were recorded in a voicemail—would you like to hear what you said? And she said no. Game over.

And Kara stayed home. And the others went. I was the meanest mother in the world. And when a parent or two inquired why Kara was no longer allowed to go into the city, I remained silent—I said it was private. I learned long ago to keep my information to myself. If the other parents wanted to know what their kids were doing they would have to get their own butt dialed call. It wasn’t coming from me. I learned in the most severe way from previous years’ experience that when you tell other parents about intended or purported bad behavior, they do not embrace it—even if they say otherwise in public. I learned long ago that the only child you have to worry about is your own. It doesn’t take a village to raise a child—that is a myth voiced by parents who do not know any better. The only person responsible for raising your child is you. Raising a child simply takes one or two mindful parents—not a village--or an accidental butt dial recorded on your voicemail.

Tea Tree and Educational Snake Oil

Former friends of mine got involved in a business venture. The product line was called Melaleuca. Melaleca products were made from tea tree oil—which is found naturally-- from tea trees in Australia. The sales pitch essentially revolved around the idea that naturally occurring products were safer than those chemically produced in a lab. And my former friends gathered their other friends to not only sell the products, but to entice them to also become salespeople.

There is an art to mixing business with friendship. It is often not successfully done. A fine line must be walked. Sometimes friends feel compelled to spend their money on things they ordinarily wouldn’t purchase just not to offend the friends selling their wares. It can make or break the relationship if not done with finesse.

So when these friends approached me to sit down with them to discuss a fabulous new product with monetary opportunity, I felt instant concern. I felt trapped. And when I am trapped or concerned I almost always revive the same game plan—I do research and use the skills I was taught in Dr. Trant’s Logic class. I do my homework.

 And I went over to my friends’ home where tea and hot cross buns were served as well as a table full of Mellaleuca products were set up. And the two friends began their pitch. But at some point I interrupted them. First I told them that just because a product was naturally occurring did not mean it was not harmful. Socrates died from drinking hemlock. The hemlock he drank wasn’t manufactured by Eli Lilly and Company. It came from a tree.  And I mentioned how my organic chemistry teacher liked to tell the class how even water was fatally toxic if you drank too much.

And I added that I knew all about tea tree oil. I had learned about it in graduate school in one of my biochemistry classes. I told them that tea tree oil was a long chain polyhydrocarbon---it was a terpenine—chemically related to turpentine—which is what gave tea tree oil its distinct smell.  And chemically it was not that indistinct from Lysol. It also was highly fat soluble.  And once tea tree oil, like all other long chain polyhydrocarbons got absorbed into the fatty tissues of the body, it remained there for life. And I told them that that concept made me uncomfortable. No one knew the long term effects. Its toxicity was untested. So, since I was concerned with the safety of the products that I use, there was no way I could use Melaleuca products.

And the two them had nothing to say after that—their sales pitch was blown. Apparently they didn’t know what a terpenine was---and one of them should have—or did and pitched Melaleuca anyway. In either case, they understood that I wasn’t buying what they were selling.

Not too long ago I got a quasi-pseudo-borderline-highly critical email from someone about the content of one of my blog posts. She thought that I sometimes made people look foolish when I described my experiences—even though they were true--particularly when I recalled things said and done by school administrators. She felt my words were sharp and maybe it was better to leave things unsaid. She felt my journey to reason in effect unnecessarily stirred the pot.

And I thought about it---and this is what I concluded: knowledge is scary business--particularly when you are not in the know. It’s what makes people uncomfortable. People (especially sales people and school administrators) do not enjoy being caught not having done their homework. But once enlightened, we all have a choice—to rejoice in the fact that we have progressed or to resent the truth because it is different than we had first thought. Sometimes a cure for an ill necessitates using a scalpel first—a wound can only be healed once excised or debrided. Words are only as sharp as the thickness of your skin. And if people do not want the pot to be stirred, then they should not keep handing out all the spoons. I cannot make someone look foolish—it is something they do all by themselves. I just provide the mirror for them to look into.

That’s what learning is all about—using facts, logic and new information to do and be better. It’s how I keep unwanted products from cluttering up the back of my cabinets. It is also what keeps me from buying the educational snake oil some school administrators are selling.

Too Old to Party like a Rock Star

Caroline Kennedy recently released some interview tapes of her mother Jacqueline Kennedy. The conversation was at times quite surprising. Some of Jackie Kennedy’s comments seemed so dated—particularly when she discussed a woman’s role in marriage. But the comment that most intrigued me was how on the day of JFK’s inauguration she was so physically exhausted she resorted to taking a little red pill—Dexedrine—an amphetamine. The new first lady took speed.

And she described how the pill energized her and enabled her to dance and socialize at all the balls---that is until she crashed at 1 am. But the pill had served her well--and no one was the wiser. In the 1960’s amphetamines were regularly prescribed. People swallowed them like candy. Even my mother took them—they were called “diet pills.”  And when people needed to come down from racing around like a rabbit from the little red pill, they took a little yellow pill—valium. The Rolling Stones even wrote a song  about that little yellow pill called Mother’s Little Helper.

But the crazy cycle of pill taking often led to addiction and even death—particularly when people mixed the drugs with alcohol. Things are different now. People do not take Dexedrine and valium anymore. They have been replaced with more socially acceptable and less addicting drugs like Zoloft and xanax.

For an entire year I have been anticipating and preparing for my nephew’s wedding. It is on a Friday. And the reception is out east in vineyard country on the Long Island Sound. Technically it is a destination wedding.

For me, preparing for a wedding requires a lot more primping than it used to. I like to say it takes the entire village of Garden City to get me photo ready—a special manicure/pedicure, spray tan, updo, and airbrushed make-up. And I will color and highlight my hair the week before. I may even get a Brazilian blow out and use some Crest whitening strips. Beautification is a team project.

And when my nephew’s wedding invitation arrived a few weeks ago, I cried. I felt that emotional. It was a combination of I am so excited and I can’t believe baby Andrew is getting married. And the next day I also cried—because a  second wedding invitation had arrived—it was to a platinum client/associate wedding on the Brooklyn piers—and the date of the wedding was the day after my nephew’s. And I knew my attendance was required. Ordinarily it wouldn’t bother me to go --but I am too old to do back to back weddings.  I haven’t the energy---nor will I be able to re-primp myself satisfactorily in such a short amount of time. And Dexedrine is not an option--nor a second hair and make-up session.

 By accident I once gave Jasper (my Wheaton terrier) a double dose of his thyroid pill (he suffers from a sluggish metabolism.) Upon receiving that double dose my 15 year old dog ran around like a puppy. His energy level was nothing short of miraculous.

So I have to wonder what would happen if I took one of Jasper’s little pink pills the day after my nephew’s wedding—would I be able to party like a rock star? Would I at least be able to party like Jackie Kennedy at the inaugural balls ? Probably not. More likely I will bark like a dog and piddle when I get excited—neither of which is very impressive around work people. Or maybe there is another option-- to have eyeballs painted on my eyelids by the make-up artist. Then when I fall asleep people will think I am awake—just as long as I don’t drool.

Catholic School Girls on Vacation

When my best friend Elissa and I were in our junior year of Our Lady of Victory Academy (the high school we attended) our very over protective parents (more precisely our overprotective mothers) gave us an early graduation gift. They allowed us to go with the sisters of Mercy for a 2 week European school trip. Our mothers assumed that because we were with the nuns, we would be safe. They assumed that the nuns would be in loco parentis—except even better—they were Catholic nuns after all. The assumption was that they would be strict with the rules. Even my Grandmother Manello was okay with me going—and my grandmother Manello feared the Boogie man.

And off we went. But something became crystal clear to both Elissa and I once we arrived at our first destination—no one was watching the store. The nuns were on vacation. There were no rules. There was absolutely no custodial care. They could care less where we went at night or who we socialized with just as long as we showed up on time for breakfast. There was no concern for our virtue. Two busloads of 16 year old charged up Catholic school girls were being let loose o n a foreign continent—and apart from scheduled bus rides and tours, we were on our own. We were free to do whatever we wanted. And not only were Sister Dillane and company not imposing any rules, neither were the European police—there were no drinking laws. And since the Irish nuns were exceptionally fond of hanging out in bars and drinking German beer, we embraced the custom as well. We rationalized that since the food was so awful our daily sustenance should be derived from the carbs provided in the beer. So we went on a two week high carb diet.

And for 2 full weeks we enjoyed european discos and bars, freely purchasing alcohol, and no curfew. And Sister Dillane and company didn’t just look the other way, they encouraged us to have as much fun as possible. Our mothers would not have approved. And on our last night when the busload of Irish soccer boys pulled into our hotel, Sister Dillane called all our collective rooms for us to come down to the lobby and socialize.

I saw an Irish ginger boy. And we began to talk--I told him I was from New York. And what I understood through his thick brogue to say was I hear there are a lot of dogs in Manhattan. And even though I thought it was a strange comment I went with it. Maybe he was some kind of animal activist. So I said yes—it’s very sad. When the population gets too high—the city exterminates them. And he was horrified. He said how do they do that? And I said usually they are gassed. And he was even more horrified. He said you gas them ? and I said well it’s humane really—they can’t take care of themselves if they are living on the street. And finally he said He said you gas drug addicts? And I said huh? And I realized there was a whole lot of miscommunication going on--he did not say lots of dogs—he said lots of drugs. To which he added do you want to go upstairs to my room and look at my sports equipment?  And I said no---there was no miscommunication in that statement. I was done. I had enough of world languages and local customs. It was time to go home.

Elissa and I were never so happy as when our plane hit the runway at Kennedy. The high carb diet and lack of rules had caught up with us. We were homesick. We wanted someone to care about us again. We wanted our mothers. So we didn’t even mind when those two crazy women tried to storm the doors of customs to see us and nearly got arrested. We were happy to see them. We knew they cared.

And although even at 81 years old, my mother is still way too overprotective (as is Elissa’s), I remember what it was like not to have a mother for those 2 long weeks. Freedom had its price. Because no matter how much you complain about how annoying your mother is, it beats not being loved or cared for by one. No one wants to be an orphan. No matter how old you are. I try to remember that when she still asks me what time are you coming home?  Or who are you going out with? Because I will miss when she is no longer there to ask me.

Are You Blind or Just Stupid?

My three daughters each came home from the hospital wearing a petite lace headband with a bow and tiny pearls. I was proud to signal the world that womankind had new members.

My girls always were dressed like girls. And if the bow/headband wasn’t a big enough clue, they always wore feminine clothing—lots of pink and eyelet and embroidery and lace. And even when they wore overalls the shirts underneath had rosebuds or hearts or flowers printed on them. At all times there were physical indicators representative of their gender. Which is why it made me insane when people would peer into their stroller and inquire it’s a boy—right? And it was all I could do to be polite and not say are you blind or just stupid? Which I didn’t say--I would simply smile and respond  no--she’s a little girl.

My girlfriend Elaine had 2 golden labs: Lucy and Gillian. And while yes they were both the same breed, they were 2 different varieties: one was English and one was American . Physically they looked very different. One was broad with a square face; and one was lean with a long narrow face. The only times I called the two dogs erroneously by name was when I got tongue-tied—but always knew which one was which. Yet some of Elaine’s friends and family members would repeatedly ask which one is Lucy and which one is Gillian? How do you tell them apart? And of course the answer to the question of how do you tell them apart would be I use my eyes and then my brain tells me---but of course Elaine never said that.  She would simply point out which dog was which.

I now have 2 dogs. But unlike Lucy and Gillian they are two completely different breeds. Jasper is a Wheaton terrier and Cosmo is a mini Goldendoodle. They only thing that they have physically in common is coloration and the fact that they are both dogs. Jasper looks like a Wheaton terrier equipped with the distinct Wheaton terrier haircut and Cosmo looks like a miniature golden retriever with poodle-y coat. Even at a distance or out of the corner of one’s eye they are distinct. The only question a reasonable person should ask me is what 2 breeds of dog are they? Yet people will come to my side door or look at them from my driveway and ask me are they twins ? They look so much alike.

And I have to wonder how do these people function in the real world? If the Bell and Evans chicken lies next to the Kobe porterhouse steak in Key Food do they confuse the two? Do they try to use the Volkswagon key to start their Mercedes? Do they buy daisies when they thought to buy roses? What makes people say such illogical and seemingly unobservant things? Because the only possible time these people may get it right is if they encounter a transgender child or the dogs are carried by surrogates. Otherwise I can only conclude that they are blind and/or stupid.

Coincidence--A Plan by Design

I read once that coincidence is the intersection of Earth’s and eternal time. I do not believe coincidence is random. I believe coincidences are designed reminders of God’s plan. And those reminders are often people who appear at a pivotal moment when we are opening to receiving the message.

My dog Cosmo has a habit that is a bit embarrassing. He likes to steal underwear and chew holes in them. And he is specific in his damage—he only chews female undergarments at the lower end nearer to the front. And I was in Lord and Taylor’s  in an effort to replenish the chewed supply with new, whole undergarments.

And while I was looking down at one of the display tables, out of the corner of my eye, in the other department adjacent to mine, I saw someone stop and stare at me. And only when I heard Mrs. Ciccone is that you? did I look up. It was John Okulski the former principal of the high school. And he came right over and hugged and kissed me and he remarked how nice it was to see me. And he asked about my girls and I told him how well everyone was.

You see I have not seen Mr Okulski since he retired in 2004. He does not live here in town. And the thing is, I had just written about him for my blog. I had not posted it yet. And while I was writing I remembered thinking I wonder if he is okay? I wonder if he is happy? I wonder if I will ever see him again and if I do, will he remember me and my girls?

And there he was. And he was as warm and kind as I had remembered. And it was so nice to see him. Had I zigged instead of zagged when I walked through the store our paths would not have intersected-- I don’t believe it was random. The timing was too perfect. I think it was God or the universe affirming that telling everyone through my writing that he was a good man was what I was intended to do—and it was  from an source outside of myself. And I was open to the message and so it found me.

And when we hugged and kissed goodbye I felt good---like an angel had spoken to me. Because God sends us angels sometimes. Angels are the messengers. They walk with and among us. And when the moment is right they speak to us through people. And they tell us what we need to hear. The time and place of the angel’s message is what we flippantly call coincidence—a reminder that God has a plan.

On Choosing College Towns

When Sam’s friend Jackie was deciding which college to attend, her father (our friend) Brian hinted that Jackie should choose Boston University. It had nothing to do with academics. It was because he would have preferred something fun to do when he visited her. I understood what he meant.

My two older daughters went to school in Pennsylvania. There was not much to do there(although we still always managed to spend lots of money when we went). And while both Bethlehem and Lewisburg did have some very good restaurants, there were very few of them. As a result, we dined in the same places over and over again.

Kara, my youngest child attends school in Atlanta. Technically the school is in Atlanta’s zip code but the school is actually in Druid Hills—a very high end suburb on the city line. The best part of her attending school in Atlanta is that it is in Atlanta. It is a great great city. It is not quite as urban as New York, but is not even remotely as suburban as Garden City. And it has southern charm without being too southern. The majority of the residents are displaced Northerners and Midwesterners. The first real Atlantan I met was a sorority sister of Briana’s—and I met her in Lewisburg PA.

And every time we visit Kara is there is a new restaurant to go to and a new tourist-y thing to do. It is never boring. In fact we often have trouble making plans with so many options. And I do not have to overpay for a hotel room or book my room a year in advance for Parent’s weekend. Every hotel chain imaginable is within 7 miles of campus—everything from a 3 to 5 diamond hotel. And there is a flight every hour from LaGuardia and Kennedy and the flight itself is only 1 hour and 40 minutes (it has taken me longer to commute from Garden City to Lewisburg on heavy traffic days.)

And the off campus housing makes me drop my jaw in awe. Both Sam and Briana lived in hovels—high priced borderline condemnable crapboxes. And I  feared every day that they lived in their high priced hovels that the walls would cave in, their floors would drop down to the basement, or the electrical wiring would catch on fire.

 Kara on the otherhand lives in a gated community in a two bedroom two bathroom open garden style stone facade apartment. It is fully landscaped. The complex is less than 10 years old. Her apartment is twice the size of Samantha’s Manhattan apartment in Murray Hill. She has a washer and dryer in a room next to the kitchen. Her walk-in closet could house a small child. And Kara’s balcony overlooks the Olympic size swimming pool which is adjacent to the health club. She has her own parking space. The rent on Kara’s apartment is equal to the 2 hovels her sisters lived in.

When I visit Kara I think of Brian--Brian would love Atlanta. It’s his kind of town. But there is something that Brian failed to think of when he thought about his own needs in wanting Jackie to attend a school in a fabulous city: post graduation residency.  With Sam and Briana I had no fear that they would ever set down roots in either Bethlehem or Lewisburg PA. Both towns were too small—it would  never happen. But I can’t say the same for Kara. Atlanta is too nice—too clean—too fabulous. There is a good chance that she may never come back to New York—and I would completely understand.

Jackie attended Fordham University as did Chris—Jackie’s youngest brother.  Brian got to have his cake and eat it too. I may not be that lucky—I may end up eating Georgia peaches for life.

You Are What You Wear

My husband was invited by the banker of his place of employment to attend a golf outing at the banker’s Country Club in Muttontown. My husband said yes--he loves golf. But this whole doing business on the golf course thing is new to him.

My husband is not into fashion. He views clothing as perfunctory. Sometimes that annoys me. But then I remember that that is also what makes him so malleable—he wears what I tell him to with little or no opposition.  It’s not a bad thing. And he is smart enough to know that his fashion sense is often deserving of a tutorial-- dressing well is my domain not his. So not only was I not surprised that he asked me what he should wear to the golf outing, I was pleased that he did so. I believe clothing, while superficial, says much about a person. And while I do not rigidly subscribe to the idea that clothing makes the man, I do believe that what you wear clues people into what you are all about.

So I asked my husband what message he wanted to convey to the banker and the rest of the foursome. And he said what do you mean? And I said well, if you want to look cerebral then you will wear the Emory University golf shirt. If you want to look like a regular guy you will wear the Nautica shirt. If you want to look like the Country Club guy you will wear the Cherry Valley shirt. If you want to look preppy you will wear the Lacoste or Polo shirt. If you want to look more  hip you will wear the Tommy Bahama shirt. And if you want to look like a serious golfer your will wear the Calloway or Greg Norman golf shirt.

And when I finished my litany he said I just wanted to match. Clearly He was unaware that choosing a golf shirt was so complicated. And I told him that sometimes clothing is more than matching—it’s an outward message about the inward person--and he had to pick his message. So he paused—and eventually said I guess I want to be the Country Club guy—I’ll wear my Cherry Valley shirt.

As Cinderella once said The perfect shoe can change your life. Cinderella understood: clothing  (and accessories) matter. They aid in closing the deal.

Why Women Seek Outside Employment

George Stepanopolis was interviewing Sara Jessica Parker on Good Morning America this morning. And he asked her if she missed playing Carrie—her character on Sex in the City. And she said no—she did not miss the character she played, what she missed was the company she kept.

The posting I wrote a while back on What I Do All Day got a big response—clearly it touched a nerve. I am often surprised to discover what is universally appealing.  And  I have given up predicting which posting I write will elicit a big response—I  let the numbers on my blog dictate that information. Luckily numbers do not lie. And that particular posting not only racked up big numbers here in the United States, but also in Europe and Asia as well—apparently foreigners must also do the same things all day too.

So I decided to think about the topic even more—take the thought to the next level. What was it that made stay at home women feel compelled to go back into the workforce aside from monetary needs--particularly when the work they choose is something outside their passion? What was the driving thing that made household managers seek outside employment? Because although women use the excuse that staying at home is boring—the truth of the matter is I do not think that is it at all. There is always something to do or manage or follow up on when you are home. Being home is never boring. Even if I have not one household chore to do, I can always walk the dog if I want to do something productive.

No I think seeking outside employment (if not for monetary reasons) has nothing to do with boredom, and everything to do with loneliness. There is a lack of company to keep---no co-worker to complain to or about. There is no water cooler to gather around. There is no one but you to share your lunch with. Stay at home work is solitary.

And when the nest is empty there are even fewer members of your company to keep. It is why women with empty nests will complain how much they miss their children until the day the children actually come home. There is the problem of extremes—too much solitude when the brood is away and then too much company when the flock flies back home. There is an imperfect balance.

But what I have learned is that while staying at home is lonesome, it doesn’t have to be lonely. There is a difference between the two things. I have often felt lonely in a crowd of people—even when the crowd of people is familiar to me. And I rarely feel lonely when I am alone. I like being quiet with my thoughts. When I used to visit Sam or Briana at school I loved driving in the car by myself and the empty hotel room even more. I didn’t even mind the few times I went to dinner by myself. I think it made the other people in the restaurant uncomfortable though.

The trick to warding off loneliness when you are home “at work” is to create a social network.  But it isn’t as easy as stepping into the employee’s lounge. You must create your own “lounge.” My “lounge” is my computer and Blackberry. I leave them on all day. And in between my chores, I receive and send emails. And my children either text or IM me nearly every day from work or from school. I “talk” to people all day long. And while there is no more solitary work than writing—the prize is that I now hear from people that I may not have heard from before on a pretty regular basis—they read my posts and respond. Maybe I keep them from feeling lonely— the visitation is mutual. Either way, I am connected more now than ever.

And I do understand when people say I hate my job but I love the people. The people often maintain people’s employment. The converse though is rarely true. People tend not to stay in jobs where they love the work but hate the people. Connections matter more than engagement. And I am lucky. I love both my job and “the people”---even if “the people” are not present to say God bless you when I sneeze. In the workforce, nothing is perfect.

Neighborliness

When I was a little girl I knew all my neighbors on Bolmer Avenue. I even knew many of the people who lived in the Greystone apartments and Tudor Woods. Everyone knew who belonged in the neighborhood and who did not. Everyone greeted each other by name.

When I moved to Dobbs Ferry I also knew all my neighbors. When we moved  in some of the neighbors sent over cakes to welcome us.  Everyone waved and said hello.

When I bought my first house in Garden City, only one neighbor--my neighbor Catherine rang my bell. And when I drove down the street and waved hello to the people who lived on my block, they did not wave back. I wondered if I was made of glass.

When I bought my second house in Garden City my neighbor Bea and her husband Blaine greeted me hello as did my next door neighbors to the east of me. And my neighbor Adele who lived directly behind me, who had moved from Bay Ridge the year before, came through the bushes to also say hello. But that was it. Adele told me not to take it personally. It was the culture of the town she said.

Around 6 or 7 years ago my husband and I noticed that at least once or twice  a month---no matter what restaurant we went into, whether it was here in town or not, the same couple was there. And I knew who the woman was—she walked everyday with a woman I knew from PTA. And everyday I would wave to the 2 woman when I drove a child of mine to school, and both women would wave back. But when the woman was by herself or with her husband she did not.

The woman and her husband are neighbors—they live on the opposite side of the street from me--about 8 houses down. They are about 10 years or so older than my husband and I. They have the same style Tudor house. They also have the same color blue door as me—but I had it first. And from what I was told their house was also on a house tour at one time as was mine—and I understand the décor is very very similar. At Christmas we decorate our house the same way. The husband drives the same car as my husband.  They were neighbors with seemingly lots of things in common yet we did not know one another. We (my husband and I) affectionately called them “our stalkers.”

And we never spoke or acknowledged each other in all the years we kept crossing paths—even though I knew we were neighbors and I knew several of her friends. And it got so creepy that my husband and I would look for their car in the parking lot when we would arrive at a restaurant. Many times we were not disappointed. And the funny thing was we were always seated near each other, but not so near to strike up a conversation. A few times I tried smiling at them, but the gaze was always averted. I took it to mean that they were also perplexed with the continual schedule alignment.

Because this much I knew for sure--they were likely to be nice people. I decided this because of the company they kept. The common acquaintances were all lovely people. And this is one of the criteria I use when assessing whether a person is friendship worthy or not—in chemistry it is called “like dissolves like”—if the posse of friends are okay, then the person in the posse that I do not know is more likely than not to be okay too. “Like people” attract “like people.”

And after 6 or 7 years of path crossing, common acquaintance and physical location is what finally brought the weirdness to an end. I went to lunch one day at a restaurant in town where the tables are physically very very close together. And my friend Diane and I were seated next to the stalker woman and her friend who just happened to be Briana’s nursery school teacher many years ago. And I thought Oh my God maybe bizzarro-world will finally be shattered. And Briana’s former teacher noticed me and we began to talk. And the stalker woman turned to me and said you look familiar. And I was so excited that she gave me that tiny bit of recognition that I flipped into overtalking. And I told her we were neighbors and we both had the same style Tudor and the same colored door and our husbands drove the same car. And I was a bit too over-animated and blabbed way too much information for a first time encounter--it was much more information than she knew about me.  As it turned out I was the stalker—not the other way around.

There are some not-so-new neighbors that live across from me. And I have attempted to engage them for as many years as they are now living here but I have been repeatedly rebuffed. I have given up even trying although my neighbor Andy tells me that they are very nice people. Apparently Andy is not made of glass like I am. I often wonder about what Adele once told me—to not take it personally—it was just cultural. But sometimes I still take it personally---I am a person. And while it may be a part of this town’s culture to keep your head down and mind your own business, I prefer the days when I was little and I knew everyone on the block and everyone knew me—the days when neighbors baked a cake for the newcomers and then gossiped all about them.

Avoiding Danger

At breakfast yesterday morning, at our very lovely resort in Puerto Rico, our waiter (who looked a lot like Ricky Martin) asked us if we had any side trips planned for our vacation. And I told him no—we are not very adventurous people that way. I did not wish to snorkel (I am afraid of marine creatures) nor did I wish to jetski or parasail (things people can go splat and die from).  I told him I like to lounge on terra firma and get a tan, swim and go for walks. I liked to stay well within the lines of safety. And the waiter responded that he too respected nature and preferred calmer beach activities.

He also went on to say that he didn’t understand why people intentionally put themselves in danger. He questioned their intelligence. And he mentioned that there is a beach on the other side of the island adjacent to the Marriott hotel where the waters are very rough. And there are signs posted in English and Spanish that warn people not to swim in the water because the current is too dangerous. And every year, in that area with big skull and crossbone signs, someone always drowns. For some reason, people ignore caution and pay a mortal price.

My daughter Kara is in her junior year at Emory University in Atlanta. And as an upperclassman she lives in a gated-in apartment complex on the periphery of campus. She also has a car—as did her sisters when they became juniors in college. Kara uses the car primarily to commute to and from school.

 I called her last night to check in---mothers do that.  I had seen on the news that there had been terrible storms in Atlanta and tornados that blew through the city. And when I asked her about any sustained damage she said that she was safe. And then she giggled. And I asked what was so funny. And she said that she hadn’t really been paying attention that day to the news. She had heard about storm warnings but wasn’t really taking it too seriously. And when she drove to the library earlier that evening she heard lots of sirens going off. She also wondered why there was no traffic—as in absolutely none—on the road. Her car was the only vehicle. Yet she continued to drive to her destination despite the glaring signs that one would have thought would have told her not to continue. At no point did it occur to her that she might be in danger. She merely was happy that there was no traffic. And she thought maybe that the sirens were going off for no reason—it was a malfunction perhaps in the alarm.

So maybe that’s why people drown in the waters near the Marriott in Puerto Rico. It has nothing to do with being overly adventurous or unintelligent. Maybe the condemned people simply misread the signs. Maybe they think oh wow look--a deserted beach—how private! And they look at the surf and think oh wow those waves look great to body surf in. And poof they are dead.

Common sense and intelligence are not mutually exclusive. It’s why mothers worry so much. A wise former boss of mine liked to say the smarter you are, the dumber you get. Forrest Gump would say stupid is as stupid does. There is much validity in that.

Operation Mousekill

My father was not a hysterical person. Emotion never clouded his thoughts. He was brigadier general in the New York Guard. He understood chain of command. He understood that certain duties did not fall under his job description. And he understood that delegation was the perk of being a commander. So when he was sitting in my family room with me reading his NY Times and out of the corner of his eye and mine we both saw a mouse run by, my father simply said Ka you are going to have to take care of that. And he went back to reading. And I understood--- I was on my own on this one.

I had no experience with mice. Until that point I thought that field mice were sweet little creatures—furry little pets that helped Cinderella get ready for the ball.  But I can assure you, when you discover that there is a mouse dwelling in your domicile—it is no longer cute. There is a filthy varmint stealing security away from your home. The enemy has landed and extermination is the only solution.

So I called my brother Mark for advice. He lived at that time in a house in a wooded area with a stream. He eradicated varmints all the time---uglier ones—like moles. And my brother told me to go buy snappy traps and set them up in a cluster. He specifically said do not buy glue traps. So of course I bought both kinds--snappy and the glue variety. I like to exhaust my options.

And I set the snappy traps up as he described and then I put a few glue traps surrounding the snappy cluster. And I used chocolate and peanut butter as the lure. And sure enough the morning after I set the traps up I captured the little creature—he was stuck in the glue trap---and he was very much alive. I felt terrible—for both the mouse and for me.

So I called Mark. I told him nearly hysterically that there was a living mouse stuck in a glue trap trying desperately to set himself free. And I wanted him to drive from Smithtown to Garden City to do something about it—it was tax season after all and my husband was of no use. And of course my brother was unsympathetic. In fact he yelled at me for using the glue traps when he specifically told me not to. And this was the reason why—glue traps are not humane. Mice suffer a long death in them. With a snappy trap death was quick—and so was the cleanup.

So he told me that no, he was not coming over and now it was my ethical duty to euthanize the mouse. And while yes, I had pithed living frogs—this was different. Amphibians were lower on the food chain than tiny mammals.I felt sick. I did not want to play Dr. Kevorkian.  And the mode of death did not sound appealing either—drowning or bopping him over the head ala little Rabbit Foo Foo.

But I knew I had to kill that mouse. My brother was right. I didn’t want the mouse to suffer. So I decided the little Rabbit Foo Foo method was the swiftest and most painless for both the mouse and for me.  And my brother had me find a wooden board and a 5 lb hammer to accomplish the task. And I set the small board over the trap but remained paralyzed. Now you have to understand that my brother stayed on the cordless phone with me during this entire time---I was too afraid to hang up. And as I held the hammer in my hand I started to cry and told my brother I just couldn’t do it. And he told me to channel Jim Morrison and the Doors and think about the song this is the end my friends. And I channeled Jim and I swung-- multiple times. I swung Maxwell’s silver hammer until he was dead—unquestionably dead.

And I was exhausted. And Mark told me I had to remove the board to confirm the kill—which I did. I expected to see blood and gore-- but I did not. That is not what the dead mouse looked like at all. The best way to describe the physical condition of the mouse was to say that it looked like Wile E Coyote after he got run over by the steam roller. The 1 x 2 inch mouse flattened out to a 3 x 5 postcard. Oh he was dead alright. He was a fur shingle. And I thanked my brother and I threw that formerly three dimensional beast away.

When I reported back to my father that I had accomplished my mission, he nodded and said good job. Operation Mousekill was a success. He practically saluted but I would not receive a star. I had not obeyed my brother’s initial orders. It resulted in a tactical error on my part. I had to battle death in a way unforeseen in the plans. But then again, my father could have helped me instead of delegating—but killing mice wasn’t in his specs---that’s what private first classman were for. Soldiers kill and commanders plan.

Remembering 9/11

What I remember about the Kennedy assassination was that people cried. I also remember that there was nothing on television but the news. I could not watch Romper Room. For 3 straight days I was unable to watch Miss Joan look into her magic mirror and announce my name.

When Martin Luther King was assassinated no one had school the next day. I knew school was cancelled before everyone else. My father was involved in the decision making for the school district.

When John Lennon was killed I was on the phone with a guy friend from college. Neither of us were big John Lennon fans but we were still incredulous. There would never be a Beatles reunion.

On the morning of September 11, 2001 I was at the computer creating an invitation for a PTA-Administration dinner. And the phone rang—it was Elaine. She said are you watching the news? Together we watched the towers fall. I never finished creating those invitations. We cancelled the dinner.

My family was safe. Although my brother-in- law Jack worked downtown and witnessed the raging fires, he walked across the Brooklyn bridge to safety. But many others from town were not spared that day.

I went to 2 funerals. One was Briana’s lacrosse coach. The other was for the brother of my friend Rich. Rich’s brother worked for Cantor-Fitzgerald. There were no coffins at either funeral.

The day I left Puerto Rico I spoke with the matron who cleaned the spa. She told me she witnessed the plane hit tower two. She had worked 2 blocks away. She saw people jumping. She smelled smells and heard sounds that still haunt her. After 25 years of living in New York she returned to Puerto Rico. The memories were too painful.

It is a Chinese tradition to give an envelope containing a piece of candy and a coin to each person at the end of a funeral. Candy is given so that everyone can remember the sweet—and not the bitter. One is to leave the funeral with a pleasing taste in one’s mouth. One is to remember that life is good.  And the coin is intended for purchasing more candy on the way home. The coin represents everlasting life and enduring happiness.

It is ten years since 9/11. I remember that the day after my father was buried I still had to bring my girls to CCD and host piano lessons. Time stops for no one. But it doesn’t mean we forget or pine for what could have been. We just walk alongside our sorrows---neither letting our heartache get too far behind or too far ahead of us.