Fruitcake

I remember when I was young, sometime in mid-November my mother started collecting ingredients: candied fruit that looked like chopped up gummy bears yet tasted like medicine, cans of glue-like Bordens sweetened condensed milk, and jars of minced meat that had a disturbing resemblance to the aftermath of a lower intestinal illness. All those ingredients plus a few others conspired to become my mother’s famous fruitcake.

I hate fruitcake. So does my mother. Baking it was a sacrifice—a labor of love for all those crazy enough to think it tasted good. And because so many relatives thought my mother’s fruitcake was the finest in the world, she multiplied the recipe it seemed  4 or 5 times. She made a vat-ful. She baked it in all sizes. Loafs and rings flew in and out of the oven all day. But no matter what pan she used, it still tasted like fruitcake to me.

Now one would think that when fruitcake was baking it would at least smell wonderful. Most baked goods do. But I assure you fruitcake does not. No one would ever walk into the kitchen and say mmm are you baking toll house cookies or pie? A baking fruitcake smells like burnt molasses flambéed with rum. It is most unappealing. Noxious is the best word.

And there are some unusual characteristics of the fruitcake too—the first one being that it is a misnomer. There is no cake-part. It is merely yucky stuff held together with a little flour and egg. There is no way you can pick out the stuff you did not like and eat the cake-part—like I do with Irish soda bread (I hate raisins). The other uncanny thing is that fruitcake never dries out, turns rancid or gets moldy. It seems even the spores and bacteria do not like it. Fruitcake baked at Thanksgiving is just as fresh on New Year’s Day. And no matter how much fruitcake gets eaten the supply seemed endless—as if during the night it undergoest mitotic division. Jesus had less success turning water into wine.

And year after year my mother and I would put on out gasmasks and perform our fruitcake chore until finally the audience dwindled down to one—my brother. Every other fan of my mother’s fruitcake  now either lives far away or has passed on.

One year-- soon after my father died-- my mother brought a little piece of fruitcake to my father’s grave. My mother, fully engulfed in sorrow, in between her tears said I hope the squirrels or birds do not eat it. I secretly thought---Are you kidding? Even the squirrels and birds would rather starve first before eating that. But as it was a somber moment I said nothing. I simply hugged my mother and handed her a tissue. Some things are better left unsaid. And some traditions—like fruitcake--- are better left unbaked.

Outdoor Christmas Decorating Peeves

One of the things I loved best about moving to Garden City 26 years ago was the traditional way the homes were decorated at Christmastime—tiny white lights, a spotlight shining at the front door, and candles in the windows. It looked like a Hollywood set.

As I drove through town today it was clear many people did not get the same Outdoor Christmas Decorating Memo as I did when they moved in. In observing many outdoor decorating faux pas, my disdain nearly prompted hyperventilation.

Here is a list of outdoor Christmas decorating offenses that make me angry:

·       Mixing metallics—pick one—silver or gold.

·       Mixing red and burgundy velvet ribbons or mixing plaids. Here’s an instance where you cannot get too matchy-matchy.

·       Premade Home Depot bows. Wired ribbon is so easy to manipulate—either make your own bows or have the florist make them for you.

·       Not matching the wire of your Christmas lights to your house. In my case since my house trim is dark bronze/brown it is inappropriate to staple white corded lights on it. It looks awful.

·       Any colored and/or blinking lights. Unless your landscaped trees stand next to the skating rink in Rockefeller Center, stick to tiny white non blinking lights.

·       Anything stuck to your window—unless it is dirt.

·       Silk poinsettias. Poinsettias are tropical flowers—if you must have them, put them indoors.

·       Giant lit plastic candy canes lining your walk. Enough said.

·       Blow-up anything. If you insist, and you want to make your children happy, put the blow-up thing in your backyard where only you (and they) will see them.

·       Animated figurines. Unless you live in the Saks Fifth Avenue store windows, do not showcase them. They are creepy.

·       Inappropriately proportioned window wreaths. Get the right size---not too diminutive or too gargantuan-- or do not hang them.

·       Uneven window candles. I love window candles—but they must be placed in all the windows—not just the ones with easy access. Symmetry is key.

·       And my favorite----Do not hang Christmas wreaths or pine boughs or any other holiday decoration without first ripping out the dead Mums or removing the pumpkins, cornstalks and hay bales. Never overlap seasonal decorations.

So. If you have committed any of these aforementioned offenses please correct them immediately. And if you have neighbors who haven’t received this Garden City Christmas Decorating Memo please feel free to forward them these simple guidelines. We all need to pull together on this one.

Empty Nesting--It's Pretty Good

One summer night around 11:30 pm one of my daughters called me on her cell phone. She was nineteen at the time. She whispered with her hand partially covering the speaker: Mom. I am going to be a little late. I am stuck in John’s (not his real name) attic with a few random people.

Remaining calm I asked—How and why are you stuck in John’s attic? I knew she had planned to be at John’s house---I dropped her off myself. She and a few college friends were in his backyard hanging out. When you are under 21 there is not a whole lot else you can do on a Saturday night. And while the parents were not home, this was not a rager by any means.

She said the neighbors called the cops and when we saw the cop cars pull up we ran into the house--but then the cops came into the house to investigate. So we ran upstairs and someone pulled the attic steps down so we could go up there and hide. The cops didn’t look up here, but now they are camped out in front of the house and we can’t leave until they do.

And I thought Gee this story sounds awfully familiar. Oh yeah it sounds like the diary of Ann Frank. Yes Ann Frank was stuck in the attic with some random people when she was hiding from the Nazi’s.

People worry about what life will be life when the nest is empty. They anticipate being lonely. They are concerned about all the free time that can now be shared with their spouse. They fear the alone-time. They fear that life will become dull.

I assure you all that worry is for nothing. Because while yes, you miss the company of your children—you only miss their company during the daylight hours. You do not miss parenting them once the sun sets.

There is something really wonderful about going out with your husband on a Saturday night and not checking your cell phone every ten minutes for text messages. And it is more wonderful still when you get home after dinner and you may lock the door with full knowledge that you do not have to go out again.

Because worrying that the Nazi’s will jail your college age child is not fun. And picking them up after the Nazi’s have left their stakeout is counterintuitive to what you have been taught as a parent. You realize that the policeman is not your friend or theirs—and it is best not to learn it the hard way.

And while all this parenting nonsense is somewhat suspenseful and exhilarating—I prefer the peace of my empty nest--even if my nest is a little bit dull yet very very neat. I prefer a quiet dinner with no worries. I prefer chasing my dogs to chasing after exiled children.

Holiday Blog Hours

The best part of being self employed as a blogger is that I can set my own hours. My income is redeemed as pageviews accounted by Google. I am both employer and employee. Which is why I have made an executive decision to set holiday blog hours. I am taking Thursday through Sunday of Thanksgiving weekend off and all Saturdays until New Year’s. I will probably take a few days more around Christmas.

I am in a panic that once the Christmas frenzy has set in I won’t either have the time to get the thoughts out of my head and into my computer or my thoughts will be too disjointed to publish. And I am pretty sure that my readers will be so wrapped up (no pun intended) in their own holiday storm that perhaps my writing might not even be missed.

Or at least that is what I think I am going to do. I may need to write and post to maintain my sanity. I may need to write and publish to remain connected.

So.  I will have the next few days off. My boss approved my abbreviated schedule. She is pretty good that way. She lets me take time if I am nice to her. But my commission may be impacted---I may have to work twice as hard in January to make up the deficit. But that is okay. If I exceed my weekly work hours I get paid time and a half.

Thanksgiving---Then and Now

Thanksgiving was my mother’s holiday. At maximum capacity we were 22 for sit-down dinner. That didn’t count the relatives that either stopped by before dinner or the ones that stopped by for dessert. It was an all-day event in our house. Company arrived around 1 pm and didn’t leave sometimes until midnight.

My mother was and still is a great cook. She enjoyed pleasing everyone’s palate. But it came at a cost. A week prior to Thanksgiving my mother turned into Gordon Ramsey and I was the sous chef in Hell’s kitchen. It wasn’t her fault. Back in the day females were responsible for all the holiday preparation, service, and clean-up. My father’s only job was to set up the bar and bring up the folding chairs. He also was in charge of music. That was it. And as far as I can remember my brother was not required to contribute anything at all except for occasionally throwing out the garbage.

And since our ethnic background was Italian the menu included items I am certain the Pilgrims never served: an antipasto with pickled pig’s feet, homemade Sicilian olives that my mother had brined herself weeks in advance, and prosciutto cut so thin you could see through it. Our secondi piatti was fresh lasagna--then the turkey and all the accompaniments. For dessert we always had birthday cake for my father, pies, Italian pastry and chestnuts roasted by my grandfather Vespo.

Everything was prepared and served to my mother’s specifications.  My cousin Gary who was a psychiatrist once remarked whoever rolled the salami this tightly must need therapy. I had rolled the salami. I had rolled it under my mother’s watchful eye.  I guess that would mean both of us had a touch of mental illness.   

And I feel free to admit that I do not miss all that work. I do not miss setting the table(s) or folding the napkins or making sure there was not one water spot on the silverware.I do not miss running downstairs and up between the two refrigerators and the 2 ovens.  I do not miss the culinary mess or clean-up. And I especially do not miss the torture of leftovers or my mother’s exhausted demeanor.

But I do miss the people. I miss the way my Uncle John could make my father laugh. I miss my cousin John complaining that he wanted manicotti and not lasagna. I miss my cousin Richard tying my mother in her apron strings to the refrigerator so she would be held hostage. I miss my grandmother not helping out and hearing my mother complain about it. And I miss seeing my Aunt Fran slice the turkey with the skill of an orthopedic surgeon. I miss everyone I no longer see because either life has changed or they are no longer here.

But I also love my own family’s Thanksgiving tradition. I enjoy making a big breakfast for my children and dressing up to go to the club for dinner. I enjoy the leisure of the day. And even though Thanksgiving is different than that of my youth it is equally wonderful. I am surrounded by people I love and people who love me. And ultimately that is all that really matters. It’s not about water spots or tightly rolled salami. It’s about giving thanks for all the people in your life and being in the moment. Because life is always uncertain. We may never pass this way again.

Sorting out Sorority World

When I entered Manhattan College in 1978 there were no sororities. The school had only recently become coed so the female population was not large enough to warrant one. So I had no real understanding of Greek life but for my male friends who were in fraternities and my watching the movie Animal House.

When Sam—my oldest daughter began looking at colleges, she seemed to gravitate towards schools that had a sorority and fraternity system. I was concerned. I questioned the social structure and  consequences of Greek life.

But Samantha ended up at Lehigh and accepted a bid from Alpha Chi Omega. And even though Sam was excited at the prospect of Greek life I remained skeptical. If nothing else I was confused with the new language she spoke—I needed to learn about “rushing” and “bumping” and “pref-ing” and “bigs.”

Early in the pledging process I asked Sam what she had planned for the upcoming weekend. And she excitedly said On Saturday night I have my first 4-way. I felt immediate panic—it sounded like a ménage a trois plus one. Was she being forced into some sick sexual hazing practice?

But I thought maybe I had misheard her so I gently said  I think your cell phone went out a little bit just now—what did you say you were doing on Saturday night?. And she repeated herself: I have my first 4-way . And I fell silent. And Sam noticed my silence and said What’s wrong? And I responded with You have a 4-way on Saturday? And she said Yes--Why? What are you getting so freaked out about? What do you think a 4-way is?  So to be sly I answered her question with a question and said What do you think a 4-way is? And she said it’s a party between 2 sororities and 2 fraternities. So I said with atonement  Oh. Okay. Never mind.

And when she told me later on that she was going to a hotel party before her “anything but clothes” party I did not jump to conclusions. I knew better. I asked her to clarify. It didn’t mean anyone was going to the Holiday Inn Express to play pin the tail on the donkey first—it meant that alcoholic beverages were being served  in several sequential  rooms prior to the “registered” party. And the required attire for the party’s entrance could not be made from fabric—which is why Samantha wore a dress she made herself from newspaper and duct tape.

And despite Briana and Kara also joining panhellic groups in college (Alpha Chi Omega and Kappa Kappa Gamma) the fact that I had no personal knowledge of Greek life was a detriment---it was a world I could only appreciate by proxy. Its structure and nomenclature was and still  is unfamiliar. Which is why my understanding remains incomplete—it is a world that will forever be Greek to me.

Saying "No"

For the last ten years or so my mother has been asking me to help her clean out her coat closet. Every time she asks me I refuse. I do not feel that that is my job—no matter how much she tells me that she is my poor old widowed mother. I don’t mind doing lots of other important things—but the coat closet is not one of them. I feel absolutely no guilt in my refusal. I feel no need to please her. I tell her I will do it when she dies—when I have to.

When Sam was a senior in high school there was a plan to spend the day at Belmont Park for the Belmont Stakes. About twenty or more of her friends were to meet late morning at the LIRR strain station and then take a subway to the racetrack. It sounded like fun to everyone but me. To me it sounded like an all day opportunity to imbibe. And I had hoped that the plans would have fallen apart on its own but it did not. And when Sam protested and said everyone is going she was correct. I was the only one who said no. And not only did Sam think I was a mean mother but I got that same impression from some of the other parents too. And part of the pressure came from the fact that one of the horses that was running in the Belmont Stakes had the opportunity to win the triple crown. Whomever attended may have seen history happen before their eyes. The pressure and guilt was compounded. Perhaps I should have pleased her instead of myself.

And the entire day of the race Sam sat home because there was no one to hang out with---and I questioned my decision—especially at race time when the horse nearly won the race.

But it turned out that the police at Belmont Park that day were particularly restrictive. Lots of citations for underage drinking were issued. Some of those citations went to her friends.

Many people have the disease to please. Some people like me only have a mild case. For the most part I have no trouble saying No to things I really do not think I am comfortable with. It’s why I walked away from the presidency of PTA and a host of other things. 

It is said that one of the fundamental reasons Steve Jobs became a success is that he understood the value of the word “no”. He executed the “no” swiftly and regretlessly. It is how he built his empire. It is also how I build mine. Although I will probably take my mother to the Dollar store this week even though I do not want to—there are a few hairline cracks in the empire.

Intuition is Powerful

 Gavin de Becker is a renowned safety expert. He wrote the book “The Gift of Fear.” He describes intuition as the feeling that something is wrong before it happens. He believes intuition is a weapon against victimization.

Mrs. Smith was Samantha’s, Briana’s, and Kara’s first grade teacher. She was excellent. She was seasoned. Until the day she retired she sat cross-legged on the floor with her students. Her enthusiasm for teaching never faltered.   

At the end of the school year, Mrs. Smith approached me and said that while Kara was one of the top readers in the class, she thought something was amiss. It was nothing she could quantitate. It was a feeling—her years of experience made her think that there was a piece of the reading puzzle that was missing. She suggested that I speak with the principal of Stewart school and request that Kara be formally tested.

And when I conferenced with the principal, the principal questioned my concern. The principal thought I was looking for trouble where trouble did not exist. The principal believed that since Kara was one of the top readers in her class there could not possibly be something amiss or else she would not have been reading at all. She dismissed Mrs. Smith’s intuition as fantasy and convinced me to leave it alone—I should wait and see what happened in second grade.

But by the time I walked from the principal’s office to the parking lot I was unconvinced that there was nothing going on with Kara. I decided that  the principal was no authority—she wasn’t the one sitting cross-legged on the floor in a reading group with my daughter everyday—Mrs. Smith was. Mrs. Smith’s intuition became mine—I was not going to allow my daughter to possibly fall through the cracks. So  I made a decision to have Kara tested privately-- and I was not going to allow it to wait.

Kara was in the top reading group in her class because she had an uncanny ability to memorize words. And Kara understood enough words by sight combined with her intellectual ability to guess the filler text to appear as if she was reading. She was not. She had absolutely no phonetic skills whatsoever. Kara had an auditory issue that could be resolved with tutoring and some learned tricks. And that is how Kara learned to truly read—it was from a private reading tutor. It only took three months to overcome her deficit and then she was fine. Mrs. Smith was absolutely correct---something was amiss. No one was looking for trouble where it did not exist.

Gavin de Becker asserts that we are the only creatures that sense danger and walk right into it. All other animals sense danger and back right out.

I chose not to walk into danger. Mothers know things—they sense them even when there is no evidence. And seasoned teachers know things too—even when there is no quantitation to prove it. Which is why the gut it so important. By trusting Mrs. Smith and going with my mother’s intuition I headed off a host of problems—Kara never lost ground—she became a success story instead.

When I later told the principal about Kara’s auditory issue she intimated that I intervened too early—the situation would have resolved itself--even though it was clear that not intervening would have been a lengthy and frustrating mistake.  And when I told Mrs. Smith that she was indeed correct that Kara had a reading issue, she simply said I was just doing my job. Lots of teachers do their job every day. Teachers guide students to success. Teachers make up for the fact that there are lots of administrators who do not.

Dog Groomers and Poodle Cuts

My dogs are at the groomer. It is their day of beauty: canine Elizabeth Arden.

Jasper sports a classic terrier puppy cut. The Wheaton coif is handsome but impractical. The “fall” over his eyes would further impede his already not-so-good vision and the beard thing gets too skanky. But since he is a pure bred dog, even bad haircuts do not render him unslightly.

Cosmo is my bi-racial child. He is part golden retriever and part poodle. We do not acknowledge his poodle side. Because while poodles are wonderful, smart, gentle dogs, they by definition look like poodles---they are just not that attractive. Poodles are poufy. I hate poufs.

And talented groomers are hard to find—it’s worse than finding a good human hairdresser. But thanks to my neighbor Patty I have finally found one that understands my canine aesthetic. I have found a groomer that sculpts Cosmo’s coat to look like a soft-haired Golden retriever and not some weird poodle mutt mash up. The new groomer furiously snips and clips  like Edward Scissorhands--the fur flies into the air like a Wizard of Oz type storm. The result is that Cosmo is poufless. There is negligible poodle-ness. He can deny his poodle race and “pass” for another breed.

And now when my girls come home for Thanksgiving I will hear no complaints—or at least no complaints about how the dogs look.

And as the countdown to the holiday season arrives I will give thanks—I will thank God for all the normal regular typical Thank God stuff like good family and friends—but I will also give thanks to creative groomers and the recommendation of good neighbors. They have made my dog children that much more huggable.

Dad Versus Mom's Decisions

My friend Susan would often discern between what she would call a Mom’s decision versus a Dad’s decision. Her point was a Dad often had a different perspective than the Mom. Dads were wired differently. Sometimes testosterone clouded rational thought. The rules in a Dad’s world were diametrically opposed to a Mom’s—no matter how dedicated the Dad was to good parenting.

When my kids were little we joined the Garden City pool every summer. It was a great place for both families and children to hang out. It also was a great place to observe behavior. One had the opportunity to view how other children played as well as observe how other adults executed parenting skills.

One day at the pool there was a family with two children camped out next to me. The son was about 3ish  and the daughter was about a year old. And at the end of the day, the Mom turned to the Dad and said I am going to bring Norman (not his name) to shower and get dressed. You stay here and get Suzy (not her name) out of her bathing suit and into her clothes to go home.

Suzy—the one year old, had been swimming all day. Swimmer diapers had not been invented yet. Before swimmer diapers were invented pool water would be absorbed in a diaper to the point of explosion—not to mention that the weight and expanded size of the diaper seriously impacted a childs’ ability to walk properly. So after a day of swimming, Suzie’s diaper was nearly the weight and size of Suzy.

And the Dad—following his wife’s exact directions--- did as he was told. He removed the bathing suit off of the little girl and then fought her nearly exploded diaper to dress Suzie into her romper.

I simply watched the show and waited for the fireworks to begin.

The Mom returned. The Mom then looked at the little girl and said You did change her diaper right? And the Dad said No—you never told me to. And the Mom said How could you get her dressed without changing her diaper first? Didn’t you notice that she needed to be changed? And he said the diaper looked fine to me—I thought you would change her when we got home. And the Mom called him a not so nice name and then changed the little girls’ diaper and got her redressed. All the while the Dad said I do not understand how you expected me to know that.

At the dentist the other day the dental assistant was complaining about her ex-husband. She was annoyed that she had to tell him that when their daughter went in for arthroscopic surgery on her knee the Dad needed to wait at the hospital during the surgery. The Dad didn’t understand why he couldn’t go to work and just return when his daughter woke up from the anesthesia. The dental assistant called him the very same no so nice word the woman with the baby called her husband.

But I explained to the dental assistant that while her ex-husband might truly be the not so nice word she called him, even good husbands and Dads might have thought the same thing. I explained that Dad decisions differed from Mom decisions. It was just the way it was. Somehow the testosterone interfered with rational thought.

Because no mother would ever dress their child without changing the child’s diaper first. No mother would ever go home while their child had surgery. No mother would ever think of herself before her child or not think of life’s ramifications five minutes from now. We are not wired that way. Which is why Moms and Dads often disagree when it comes to child rearing. Moms and Dads are not just on two different pages—they are in two different books. Moms are nesters, Dads are hunters. Unless women give men clear directions, they have no idea how or where to turn. Or as they say in the movie my Big Fat Greek Wedding: Men maybe the head, but the women are the neck—and the head cannot turn without the neck.  

On Being a Library Deliquent

One of the best advantages of my father being an educator was this: at the dinner table I would say Dad I have to do a report on (for example) prohibition--- can you get me some books? And the next day he would bring me home 7 or 8 books on the topic with markers in each book outlining all the important topic areas. It was awesome. I never had to be bothered doing my own research. My father had it done for me by the Yonkers High School librarian—and she took her job very seriously.

When my daughters began doing research papers, I returned the favor. I would often save them time by going to the library and  getting them their research books. The only difference between the Yonkers High School librarian and I was that I did not put markers in the books. That is where I drew the line.

And aside from the fact that my fetching the books was borderline cheating, there was another issue with the library lending. I was never good at returning books. I have been known to be so delinquent that I have had my library card revoked. And worse still, I have been responsible for one or more of my girls having their library cards revoked. Apparently the librarians did not appreciate that I considered the library to be like a Barnes and Noble book store. The overdue fines ran so high it was cheaper to purchase the books---and so I did.  Ultimately it was not at all disadvantageous.

When Samantha was in Mrs. Ayre’s challenge social studies class (code word for honors) in 7^th grade she received a research assignment: write a paper about an inspiring person. And Samantha thought of several but by the time she approached the teacher with her topics, all of them were taken. Mrs. Ayre suggested she write about Thomas Gallaudet—the man credited with creating the first school for the deaf.

So off to the library either she or we went—I can’t recall. But together we took out 5 books on Thomas Gallaudet-- all with varied reading levels. And Samantha wrote her paper as assigned. But I never remembered to return the books—even after the librarian made threatening phone calls and sent written notices more disconcerting than if they were made by organized crime members. And when I finally tried to return the books I was notified that the delinquent fee exceeded the purchase fee and so I bought them. And because the librarian had such an attitude I chose to keep them and not donate them back---just for spite.

But the Ciccone girls had the last laugh. Thomas Gallaudet became the “go to” topic for multiple papers and book reports in multiple school years for all 3 girls. Anytime someone needed to write a paper or report all they had to do was go downstairs to the bookshelf and pull the 5 books. No dewey decimal system was needed—and neither was the grouchy librarian. Everyone became an expert on all things Thomas Gallaudet.

Not too long ago I was in my attic searching for a diary from my high school European trip. And in the cardboard box that contained the diary, I found multiple research books from the Yonkers High School library. Some of the books still had the markers in them. I guess my father never returned them. I  guess the apple indeed does not fall far from the tree.

Gay. Fine by Me.

We are a gay friendly household. In fact there has been times in my marriage where I have looked at my husband and thought that except for the sex part, I could be a lesbian. Except for the sex part I could live with either Ellen Degeneres or Portia DeRossi. .

 Men can be that annoying.

Not too long ago I bumped into a former Garden City school employee. I had not seen her for a long while. She looked good—a bit grayer but all and all she was well. She asked me about my girls and then I asked her about her children. I had always liked her candor when it came to her own kids—which is why we got along so well. She was a Mom who just happened to also be an educator.

And she told me that her children were fine and in particular, she was happy to tell me that her daughter was in a serious relationship. And I said oh that’s wonderful! And she said yes but let me explain.

Her daughter was always interested in theater arts. She went to an all-girl high school. She went to the prom without a date. The daughter attended an all-female liberal arts college. I knew the school by reputation to be socially inclusive. None of the daughter’s girlfriends had boyfriends.

And the Mom and her husband resigned themselves to the fact that their daughter was gay. They accepted it. Despite the fact that they were devout Catholics they believed that it was their duty as parents to love their child unconditionally. And both parents went as far as to research all the right things to do and say when their child finally exited the closet. Neither parent wanted to make their daughter’s “coming out” uncomfortable—they wanted to support her.

And the Mom noticed that the daughter who still lived at home post college graduation was getting phone calls and then running to her bedroom. And the daughter was becoming increasingly vague about who she was hanging out with. And the mother surmised that the daughter had a girlfriend and that the daughter wasn’t prepared yet to tell her parents.

Until one day when the daughter said Mom and Dad there is something I need to tell you. And the parents braced themselves—they knew what was coming. And the daughter said I have been seeing someone and I did not want to tell you because I was afraid that you were not going to approve—especially since you are so involved in the church. I was afraid of disappointing you. And the parents looked to each other in support and the Mom said you know that your father and I love you and we will always support you. There is nothing you can say or do that will disappoint us. And the daughter said well the guy that I am seeing isn’t Catholic. And the Mom looked at the Dad and said the guy she is seeing is not Catholic. And the parents got giddy. The parents did not see this one coming at all.

I have a male relative that is impeccably neat. He loves decorating. He is not into sports. He is always well dressed. He told me that sometimes people suspected he was gay. He is not. He described himself to me once as a gay man who just happened to be heterosexual.

We live in a world where the lines are blurred. Sometimes the math does not add up. And sometimes when it does, the answer is still wrong. Sometimes the gay-dar gets jammed. And it can mess with a parent’s good intentions---it can mess with a parent’s dream. The educator dreamed of a wedding with 2 brides—a daughter and a daughter-in-law. And now she will have to settle for a generic family—a wedding with one bridal gown and one tuxedo---a relationship that she will not have to defend to the church. Sometimes just when you think you have it all figured out, life throws you a curveball--or in this case a straight-ball.  Life can be so unfair that way.

Getting Mail

Lenore is my Aunt Jackie’s mail person. She does not put my Aunt’s mail in the mailbox--she opens the screen door and places it in on my Aunt’s countertop. She sorts through the mail herself before giving it to my Aunt. And sometimes Lenore will wait (like today) for my Aunt to open a package—Lenore wants to see what my Aunt has received and who sent it to her. Then Lenore gives Daisy, my Aunt’s golden retriever, a cookie. Lenore carries around cookies just for my Aunt’s dog. Sometimes, when there is a snow storm Lenore shovels my Aunt’s walk. Lenore expects nothing in return.

My Aunt lives in rural upstate New York where the mail and the mail person is a connection to the outside world.

Part of my daily routine is to retrieve the mail. Mail is important to me—even the junk mail. When the mail slot opens and the dogs bark I am comforted to know envelopes have arrived—I feel anticipation. As I walk to the door I wonder what surprises will greet me. I enjoy sorting through the important, not so important, and totally unimportant catalogues, bills, magazines, and newspapers.

My daughter Sam lives in Manhattan with two roommates. They have one mailbox and 2 keys. Sam is not one of the keepers of the keys. And of her 2 roommates who are the keepers—only one of them ever picks up the mail. She picks it up around once a week. None the girls feels any need to view the mail more frequently than that. They see no point. Their world is electronic. No paper is necessary.  They have online bank accounts and direct deposit for their checks. They receive and pay their bills through their computer or ipad. Their newspapers and magazines are on their Kindle. They go to websites to view catalogues. And many of their invitations are e-vites.

Sometimes this annoys me. In particular it annoyed me when my nephew was getting married and it took Sam well a week to get around to retrieving her invitation. I couldn’t understand why she felt no need to view it immediately like I did.  She said she already knew when the wedding was and she had 6 weeks to return the response card so why should she rush? She didn’t get it---she did get what could be so thrilling about opening an envelope.

Both Samantha and Briana received their college acceptance letters in the mail. I waited home for several straight days harassing the mailman until it got here. The wait was torture.

Kara did not have that experience. On a Friday night one minute after midnight she refreshed her friend Chrissy’s iphone to read her acceptance letter. There was no paper or waiting for the mailman. The post office wasn’t even open. Notification was 100% electronic. It was instant gratification. There was no human intervention.

I do not know my mailman. And even if I did I doubt he would bring cookies to my dogs. The Lenores’ of the world will soon be all but a memory—even in rural upstate New York. All the anticipation of the mail’s arrival will be gone. And at the dinner table husbands and wives will cease asking each other did you get the mail today? It will be one less conversation to have. And one more ritual erased from daily life.

White Lies and White Stealing

When my mother would go to the diner, very often she would take Sweet and lo’ packets from the sugar bowl for at home consumption. I would accuse her of stealing and she would get annoyed with me. She felt that because there were so many packets in the sugar bowl and the diner never told her how many she could or could not take, and since she always needed some at home, she was not committing a crime. She would say that the owners of the diner expected her to take them or else they wouldn’t have offered them to her in the first place. If she was stealing at all it was "white stealing."

Kara is a double major in college: art history and business management. She keeps abreast of important art news. She sent me an article about a month ago about an art exhibition at the Gagosian Gallery in Manhattan—they were showing some of Bob Dylan’s work. It was titled “The Asia Series.” Dylan purportedly painted works from his travels throughout Asia—the artwork chronicled his personal journey. But an internet fan website in concert with the NY Times uncovered that Dylan’s paintings were copied from photographs he had not taken. Many of the photographs came from online—a single source. But since online photographs fall into the realm of public domain—Dylan technically did not commit a crime---he did not break any laws.

This whole thing raises many questions for me—the first of which is why would Dylan lie when the truth was so easy to uncover--how many brains cells did he still have left? But the more troubling question for me was what made Dylan think it was okay (as an artist himself) to copy someone else’s creative work and claim it as his own? How did he not think (at least morally) that he was committing forgery? Copying someone else’s work and claiming it as your own is something everyone learns NOT to do as early as kindergarten—it’s just wrong.

And taking more Sweet and lo’ packets other than the amount you need for the cup of coffee or tea sitting  in front of you at the diner is still stealing. No matter how my mother tries to justify it to me. And so is taking shampoo and conditioner bottles off of the housekeeper’s cart at the hotel. The only time it is not stealing is if you ask the waitress if you may take some packets home or if you ask the housekeeper at the hotel for some extra shampoo or conditioner. If there is full disclosure, there is no crime in my world.

And so too with Dylan. If Dylan would have said these paintings are inspired by the photographs of so-in-so everyone would have complimented his creative skills—people would have applauded his ability to translate a photograph into a creative expression on canvas. But he didn’t do that---which is why people like me are so annoyed.

In my ethics class in college I was taught that there is no such thing as a white lie. Lying, even with the most altruistic of justifications, is still lying. So when you tell your child that Santa is coming—you are lying. So too is lying by omission—intentionally forgetting to disclose a detail or two automatically disqualifies truth. Just like copying someone else’s homework is cheating—even if you were too sick or busy to do it yourself---it is cheating even if you knew the answer anyway.

They say that the average person only remembers about 20% of what they were ever taught in school. And much of that 20% constitutes meaningless information which has no bearing on your life. Steve Martin, the comedian, who was a philosophy major in college, once said  that if you have studied philosophy in any form, the 20% you remember is enough to f--- you up for the rest of your life.

 He has a point.

To view the copied work by Bob Dylan go to: http://www.artinfo.com/node/746745

Parent-Teacher Conferences

For most people Election Day signifies the obvious—it is the day one exercises their constitutional right to elect an official. For others, it is a big sale day- an excuse to spend more money. But for me, election day always signaled one thing—parent teacher conferences.

And even though my girls were excellent students they were not fond of full disclosure---especially in high school. There was always at least one child who neglected to tell me something.

And in particular it was not uncommon for one of Briana’s teachers to say to me:            

Wow Briana did so well on this very difficult exam---most of the other kids did so poorly. But on her next exam, which was much much easier, she just did not score very well—in fact she did quite poorly.  Perhaps it was so easy she over-thought her answers? I just don’t know what happened here?

And I would think I know exactly what happened there. And then I would ask the teacher Do you drop the lowest test grade? And the teacher would say Yes Mrs. Ciccone—don’t worry—that low score won’t hurt her. And I would smile and say thank you. Secretly I would think I am going to kill that kid when I get home.

Here’s the thing: teachers with the best of intentions allow their students to drop the lowest test grade. It is an opportunity for success. I believe that that is a good and fair policy for students—or more accurately-- I believe it is a good and fair policy for all students but Briana. When Briana heard the teacher say I drop the lowest test score Briana heard I am giving you a free pass on one exam not to study.  And while she didn’t try to do poorly, once per grading quarter, she took a vacation day from studying--understanding full well there was a safety net to catch her. It was a tactical decision. It peeved me. Teachers did not construct the safety net for that purpose. And I wasn’t sure if praise or criticism was appropriate for her discovering the loophole.

There is an educational myth that postulates that if your child is not experiencing difficulty or having an issue in the classroom then you should relinquish your parent teacher conference time slot for someone else more deserving. I never bought into that. How would I know my child was or was not having difficulty unless I spoke with the teacher? How would I know about forgotten homework or class participation? How would I know how skilled my child could be at manipulating the grading system if I did not have a face to face conference with the teacher? And why wouldn’t I want to hear over and over again Mrs. Ciccone you have such a lovely daughter(s)! Hearing those words validated why I put so much effort into my parenting—there were some years I really needed to hear that just for my own sanity.        It was the only proof I had of my success. And if nothing else--- hearing those words of teacher praise justified my payment of school taxes---I paid thousands of tax dollars to hear what a pleasure it was to have a Ciccone girl in their classroom.

The 4 P's: Priests, Pedophiles, Penn State and Paterno

Catholic schools encourage vocations. They also encourage missionary work. Very often parishes and Catholic schools bring in speakers to that end.

When I was at Our Lady of Victory Academy the sisters brought in a local missionary to speak to us at an assembly.  He was dynamic. He was engaging. He was inspirational. One of the reasons I gravitated towards attending Manhattan College was because of this speaker—the school was the root of his ministry. The speaker founded Covenant House—a charity for teenage runaways.  The founder’s name was Father Bruce Ritter. He was a Catholic priest. He was also a pedophile.

I am not a big fan of Nancy Grace. When she was voted off of Dancing with the Stars this week I was not unhappy. I find her in general to be too abrasive and too quick to judge. But when she was interviewed today on Good Morning America  I was in full agreement with her. The topic regarded the recent Penn State scandal. Her point was that very often people have misplaced loyalties. Instead of outrage over young children being irreversibly scarred at the hands of a pedophile, people sympathized with the enablers. People sympathized with the coach and staff who protected the pedophile.

The Penn State scandal is multilayered. But when the onion is peeled away we are left with this simple truth: children were sexually abused. That is not acceptable—ever. And if you look at the big picture, other children/young adults will suffer in the aftermath of the scandal. The kids who were recruited to Penn State will lose instruction. Many of them intended to become professional athletes—many of them needed football to pay for their education. Their opportunities may be altered.

And the revenue from the Penn State Football machine funds scholarships and programs for students other than athletes.The scandal will most certainly negatively impact the lives of many. The ripples will be far and deep. It is all so sad. It is all so shameful.

When I heard many years ago that Father Bruce Ritter engaged in homosexual relations with the very children he was charged with protecting,  I was in shock. I was so glamoured by the priest's good works that at first I felt anger towards the accusers. But I quickly realized that my sentiment was misguided. My loyalty was misplaced. In some way I too suffered abuse---I was a victim of fraud.

Robert Morganthau, the district attorney of NYC at the time, did not prosecute Father Bruce. And other than request his resignation from Covenant House, the Catholic Church did nothing either. Father Bruce died quietly of cancer shortly after the scandal. In my eyes, justice was never served.

And while it is sad that Joe Paterno was fired and his pristine reputation is now tainted, he is not the victim—the children are. And Nancy Grace is correct—if news vans are to be overturned in protest over the scandal, it ought to be over the lost innocence of children, not the career of a football coach. Voice should be given to the victimized children, not the men who enabled a pedophile.

Cracked Teeth and Getting Old

The first time I threw my back out it was while I was hitting an overhead shot in tennis—it was a sports injury. I felt a “pop” and down I went. Sports injuries are noble.

The second time I blew out my back I was playing platform tennis. I was running in towards the net to get a drop shot. Again, it was a sports injury—again, it was noble.

The third time I blew my back I was bending down to shave my legs. I heard a “pop” and down I went in the shower. This injury was not noble at all. My back went out because I am getting old—my discs are deteriorating.  Increasingly, my muscles keep my spine in place.

I cracked my tooth once eating an un-popped kernel of popcorn. Teeth are not intended to do such rigorous chomping. But a week or so ago the lower corner of my front incisor cracked off—I was eating a chicken cutlet. My first thought was thank goodness this didn’t happen on Wedding Weekend. My second thought was—what the hell? And although my smile didn’t quite look as if I resided in a trailer park, my tooth needed immediate attention. It was not a good look.

So I went to the dentist.  The good news was that we would try to bond it first before resorting to a cap. The bad news was why my tooth broke off in the first place—it was because teeth age. Teeth deteriorate over time even with the best dental care.

Sometimes I feel like a house with termites. Externally everything looks well attended to---but it is merely skin deep. I am rotting from the inside out. My back aches, my knees ache, my vision and hearing aren’t what they once were and now my teeth are crumbling.

I have modified my physical activity. As the last orthopedic doctor I consulted with told me—there is a fine line between rehab and re-injury. I know this to be absolutely true. An old Henny Youngman joke simply states Doctor Doctor it hurts when I do this and the punchline is So don’t do that. That is my new philosophy. Loosely translated it means don’t do crap that your body tells you not to do.

I do not play tennis and golf anymore-- I walk on occasion instead. And when I shave my legs I do not bend all the way forward—I genuflect like I am in mass. And now I guess I will have to modify biting into food too—I would prefer not to cap my front teeth if I do not have to.

 My father would say it beats the alternative—that is: dead. My Uncle John liked to say if in the morning there isn’t a crucifix over your head, a spray of roses at your feet, and you are not lying on a bed of satin, it is a good day. I suppose they are correct. Things could always be worse—but it doesn’t mean that getting old still doesn’t suck.

Sudden Acceleration

Several years ago there were reports all over the news about Toyota drivers who experienced sudden acceleration on their cars. I was concerned. We had just leased a RAV-4 for Briana and she drove it to and from school in Pennsylvania. Fortunately our car did not have one of the VIN numbers associated with the reported hazard. But I made sure to learn what to do in the event of sudden acceleration. And I had even practiced the maneuvers as the new reports suggested.

I was driving from Rockville Centre to Garden City on North Village Avenue on Monday when I decided to take Peninsula Blvd as a quicker route home. One can drive the speed limit of 55 on it. And as I pulled on to the ramp and put my foot on the accelerator I could feel the accelerator was “stuck”—as if the cruise control had kicked in—and when  I put my foot on the brake it had little to no effect—I was still accelerating. And I thought Holy crap this this is the thing they talked about on the news—except I was not driving the Toyota—I was driving my Mazda CX-9.


But I remembered what to do since I had practiced it in the event that I found myself experiencing the hazard. So I shifted  the car from drive into neutral—and I  heard all kinds of noises and thumping--but indeed the accelerator disengaged itself. But I was still moving forward with no place to pull over. And the news reports did not mention what to do after you put the car in neutral so I threw the car back into drive and hoped for the best. Thankfully everything resumed normalcy.  Everything was back to normal but for my nerves.

And I drove home albeit quite gingerly. Because I made a decision that pulling over in Hempstead where people are routinely robbed, shot and killed was more of a danger than the acceleration issue. If the car accelerated again I would know exactly what to do, but if the scary gang member came at me with a gun I would have been clueless how to proceed. Sometimes you must choose between a rock and a hard place. I chose the hard place. And when I arrived home I spoke with my husband and had him call Mazda—it is still a world where men who are assertive rank higher than women.

And because I am only human I thanked God that I wasn’t injured and that I had not injured anyone else. I thanked God that I had practiced shifting gears while driving as the safety reports on the news suggested.  I thanked God that I was in the car driving and not one of my children.  And after all that thanking God I said God damn it---I can’t believe what just happened.

Because while I am grateful, l feel anger too. I could have been killed. Sometimes it takes but a second to shift from Thank God to God damn—it takes but a second to shift from gratitude to anger—way less time than it would ever take to shift from drive into neutral.    

Being a Bad Winner

I remember as a little girl that on Sunday afternoons when the Giants’ games were blacked out, my father would still watch it through the snow-interference on channel 3. He loved the Giants that much. He also hated them that much. My father reveled in their glory and became a very unpleasant man when they lost. My father did not accept the Giants losses well. He would say they get paid all the money and I get all the aggravation.

I am just like my father only worse.  Not only am a bad loser but I am also a bad winner. I like routs. I like knowing unequivocally that my team will win. Last September after the Yankees had clinched their division and were playing an inconsequential game, I was a little miffed at Joe Girardi. The Yankees were winning 7-1 at home going into the bottom of the 9^th and Girardi did not put Mariano in. My husband told me that I was ridiculous---there was no reason to risk Mariano getting hurt before the playoffs particularly when the Yankees were ahead by 6 runs. I disagreed. It was only 6 runs. I did not want it to be less than that. I wanted the score to remain 7-1.

When Samantha was little she and her friend Amanda played softball. My husband and Steve (Amanda’s Dad) were the coaches. The team was not very good. In fact they had not won a single game the entire regular season. So when the playoffs came, Samantha’s team played the #1 team in the league for the first round---as is typical in a draw.

One of the little girls from the other team came up to Samantha before the game and in a sing-songy taunt said You’re gonna lose. You’re gonna lose. And then the     little girl may have stuck her tongue out---I am not sure if that is a memory or a wish. But the important thing is that Samantha said nothing. She walked on to the field and played ball.

And in the bottom of the last inning, Samantha’s team was losing  by more than 7 runs. So Steve and my husband asked the coach of the other team if he wanted them to concede the win. And the other coach said no—and not only did the other coach want to continue play, he wanted to forfeit the 7 run rule also.  And by some Mookie Wilson/Bill Buckner type miracle, Samantha’s team won. And when the game was over Sam went up to the girl who had taunted her and said Who’s the loser now. And the little girl began to cry.

And I probably should have scolded Samantha for stooping to the little girl’s level. I should have taught her that 2 wrongs do not make a right. I should have given Samantha a lecture on good sportsmanship. I should have at least consoled the little girl who was crying. But I did not. I smiled. I was elated. That little girl got what was coming to her. Samantha made a bully cry and I was proud. It was a win on many levels.

And no matter what team is annoying me when they play, I hear my father’s voice in my head saying they get paid all the money and I get all the aggravation. But I learned the converse can be true too, Samantha’s team didn’t get paid any money and I got all the glory. Some wins are just priceless. And you can never win by too many runs, touchdowns, goals, or sets either.    

Bad "Text-ing"

One of my daughters stopped dating someone because they were a “bad text-er.” I had to have her explain to me what she meant. She said that the guy wrote texts in the abbreviations once used in middle school: for example: B4 as the word “before.” Apparently using texting word slang is no longer a socially acceptable thing to do---it is no longer cool. With the advent of smart phones and autocorrect/autotext it is passé to misspell words for the purpose of brevity.

 I had no idea.

There was a fashion trend a few years back: ponchos. I never wore them. I have never worn crocs either. By the time I contemplated their wear they were already out of style.

So too with ipods. I have always listened to the radio. And when I traveled my kids made me CDs for the car—it was always music they liked and thought was worth me listening to. And when my friends would discuss music libraries, downloading songs, and the perils of playlists, the conversation escaped me. And my friends would say I can’t believe you don’t have an ipod. And my response always was I don’t need one. And this was especially true when I discovered Pandora. If I put an artist’s name into the app on my phone, Pandora would choose songs it thought I might like---and damn it--it did a great job.

When my new iphone arrived the other day something occurred to me: ipods are dinosaurs. If you own an iphone, it also is an ipod. Sometimes if you wait long enough you can skip whole generations of technology---technology changes that fast. I felt pretty smug about it.

When I first started texting my kids made fun of the fact that I spelled out all the words. I just could not bring myself to use text-abbreviations. It seemed wrong to intentionally misspell words when I knew full well how to spell them correctly. I felt it would have dumbed me down. I also could not see the point in texting the number “2” for the word “to”—it was only a one character difference—how much time was I really saving by texting “2” instead of “to”?

So I am feeling quite smug again. I never used text-abbreviations so now I will not have to unuse them either. I skipped right over the fad. No one will ever accuse me of being a bad “text-er”. And in the process I maintained my self-respect—I did not commit a crime against my intelligence. I held out so long that the fashion fizzled out all on its own---just like ponchos and ipods.

Arriving at Destinations

The GPS system in the Honda is my favorite. Unlike the navigational system in my other vehicles there are 3 settings: quick, short and easy. I prefer the easy setting—my husband always chooses the quick route. 

In elementary school, all three of my girls participated in Mathletes—it was a competitive after school activity.  Every week students went to an enrichment class and then were given higher level math problems for homework to solve on  their own--except that parents just couldn’t  help but get involved.

 One week the Mathletes question read : a box contains 6 legged grasshoppers and 8 legged spiders. If the total number of legs equals 90, how many grasshoppers and spiders are there?  I read that and immediately thought: algebraic equation with substitution. My friend Elaine, who was an accountant, made 2 columns of numbers: one column had multiples of 6 and the other had multiples of eight. She aligned the 2 columns until she came up with the correct sum. And my friend Maria, who was an elementary school teacher, drew grasshoppers and spiders and added legs to the bodies until she too arrived at the correct sum.

The CPA exam has 4 parts. One needs to achieve a grade of 75 on all 4 parts to become certified—and one may pass each part in any order. When Sam was going through the process some of her friends received grades in the 90’s on all 4 parts—others like herself, passed some parts with a mere 75. And some passed all four parts at once, whereas some failed a part or two before finally passing the entire exam.

At age 50 my brother Mark graduated from law school. His educational road had many diversions. He recently won a big case and it was publicized in Newsday. I could not have been more proud.

Sometimes in life it doesn’t matter what road you take or how long it takes to get there. It just matters that you arrive—it’s all about the final destination.  People carve individual paths to reflect their individuality. People get there when people get there. All roads lead to Rome.

And in case you do not feel like doing the math: there are 7 grasshoppers and 6 spiders in the box:

6 (8 spiders) = 48

7 (6 grasshoppers) = 42

Sum = 90