Celebrating Palm Sunday

This Sunday is Palm Sunday. When I was little it was my favorite church holiday. I liked the palm. I considered it to be like a party favor. I liked the way it slid through my fingertips. I also liked the Passion—it was like a play set at mass. It was very dramatic. And afterwards we always went to the Bronx to visit my grandparents. My grandfather Vespo would make all the grandchildren small crosses from the palm. It was an artform lost in his generation.

I also remember that Palm Sunday marked the debut of my spring coat and new patent leather shoes. I also carried a matching bag and wore white cotton gloves. I thought I was all that.

This Sunday I will be on a plane returning from Atlanta. I will likely be wearing cropped jeans, a cotton sweater and a short trench coat on top. My bag is metallic and on my feet I will be wearing flats. No spring coat. No patent leather. And no white gloves either. The only palm I will have will be whatever extra pieces my mother takes from mass that day. No loving touch will not convert it into a cross.

The day will be quiet and uneventful---no different than any other Sunday. Nothing like that of my childhood.

Things change.

But the real meaning of Palm Sunday is eternal. Jesus made a triumphant entry into Jerusalem. People cried Hosanna! Jesus was embraced. But things changed—and even Jesus was not immune to it.

Change is part of God’s plan.

Preparing for Vacation

 It was typical prior to my husband taking a vacation to work late in the days preceding his days off. He needed to get things in order—delegate to his staff what work expectations he had, give notice to his clients of his absence, and clean up any lingering items such that when he returned he could ease himself back comfortably.  This was in addition to his day-to-day duties. He needed to prepare for vacation. Getting ready for a respite required work—lots of forethought.

Which is why I find it so irritating that he and the entire rest of my family do not seem to notice that in order for me to go away for a few days I must also work overtime. And stuffing clothing into a bag is the least of it. I do not have a magic wand that I can wave to get all the little travel size toiletries purchased or the instructions typed up for the care of the dog, or the food shopping done for Blanca when she house sits, or preparing the drycleaning so the clothes are ready for pick-up and delivery, or getting the laundry up to date. I must remember to bring any drug anyone might need—including Advil, allergy pills, eye drops and stomach meds. And part of my duties is to bring the suitcases down from the attic and organize the confirmations, go to the bank and get small bills for tipping and give out all the important phone numbers for all that need them. By the time I get everything ready for vacation I almost always do not even want to go anymore. I am too exhausted and too annoyed with the entire process.

For my next vacation I want to hire—me. I want a body double or a clone to do all that I do so that I may actually relax and look forward to some time off. I want to hire someone to do all the crap that I do. Because I genuinely think that there is a market for this service and that women would pay big bucks for it. The problem is—no one would do it—not even a slum dog from Sri Lanka.

So. As I get ready to visit Kara in Atlanta I will drink several cups of coffee, stick a Therapad on my back and pop 3 Advil at a clip. And I will not snap when someone from my family comments I don’t understand what you have to do-- I don’t understand why you are so tired—you are only going away for a few days. Why are you so busy?

I will remain silent and I will wish for some staff—just like my husband has.

Passing Notes in Middle School

There is a shoe box on the top shelf in my daughter’s closet. There are no shoes in it. It contains tiny folded up pieces of paper. Passed notes from Middle school. Those folded up scraps of loose leaf chronicle the life and thoughts of a young teenage girl. It is a diary of sorts.

The only time I ever got into real hot water as a sixth grader was when I passed a note to Lizzy Frei and it was intercepted by the teacher. What I had written was a not-so-stellar review of the teacher’s shortcomings. I had in fact used colorful words to describe him—words routinely bleeped out by the FCC until very recently. I used language that was not deemed acceptable in Catholic school-- particularly in 1972.

And while I was obligated to tell my mother and have her speak directly with the teacher—my typically uncool mother was surprisingly cool about it. She placated the teacher. She apologized for my bad behavior. And she reassured the teacher that I would receive appropriate consequences at home.  But on the way to the car after the little conference she was seemingly not annoyed—she told me not to worry about it—but not to do it again.

Nowadays, texting is the new note passing. Kids no longer need worry about a paper trail. No one will find a dropped note and read it. And a note need not travel from desk to desk as it journeys from one side of the classroom to the other. Communication is swift and accurate. And notifications can be sent out in multiples.

But nothing is perfect. There is still risk involved. Texts can be forwarded to the wrong people either by design or accident. And of course cell phones can be confiscated.

And the fact that there is no longer a paper trail means that there no longer is a  paper trail—there is no written record of thoughts or daily events. So the texting generation will have nothing to look back on—like my daughter can. They will not recall who liked who or why the social studies teacher was so annoying. They will forget friends on the fringe and recalled sleepovers and birthday parties with Doug the DJ. Shopping memories of newly purchased shell-toed Adidas sneakers for the middle school dance will not be reported—neither will the pl-eather pants. Personal histories will disappear with nonchalance. A quick delete and it is gone forever.

And I am not certain but calling a teacher the male progeny of a female canine is likely a not-so-awful offence anymore—even in Catholic school. When I think of it now—it seems pretty laughable---part of it goes to my nature then and now—someone who does not mince words—I like who I like and I do not like people who cross me. And part of it is because of my choice of words—they were all wrong. I could have used better adjectives. That teacher was not so much a female dog’s male offspring as much as he was a 4 letter nickname for Richard—or the verb used when one pierces the skin with a needle.

ATMs and the Jetsons

In the closing credits of the Jetsons, Jane sticks out her hand, and George pulls some cash out of his wallet. Like George for Jane, my husband is my personal ATM.

I rarely have cash. And if I do carry bills it is usually just enough for an iced coffee and 6 munchkins at Dunkin’Donuts. For everything else---and I mean everything else-- I use my Delta Skymiles American Express card. I like the idea of being rewarded everytime I make a purchase. Or at least that is what I tell my husband as to why I overspend.

But today I needed some real currency. And while I have an ATM card somewhere in the house I am clueless to its location. And even if I found it I have long since forgotten the password---assuming of course the card is still active.  And the communion coffers---the pot I dipped into when the kids were young, has long been depleted. I had no option but to take it old school. I went to the bank and cashed a check. And the teller looked at me with such oddity I felt compelled to explain to her why I had to use such an archaic method to obtain cash. Because cashing a check at the window is rarely done anymore. I felt fortunate that the teller had denominations to give me---she nearly needed to get the mana   ger over to help her with the transaction.      

And when I got home and told my daughter that I needed to cash a check at the bank that day she asked me how did you to that? How do you get cash without an ATM card? And when she told me she does not use her checkbook  to pay her rent--she goes online and has a check electronically created and mailed to the landlord’s address I said how do you do that? How do you get the bank to write a check and mail it?

Neither one of us understood the other’s methodology.

And when George Jetson hands Jane the cash and Jane takes the wallet instead, I have to wonder—did she use George’s American Express card to do her shopping or did she use his ATM card to get more cash? It’s amazing to think how a futuristic show written in 1960 imagined talking computers and microwaved food, yet did not predict a world with electronic banking.

IKEA--simple design

The shortest distance between two points is a straight line.

In studying biology I learned to appreciate that all creatures great and small are perfectly designed for their niche. Form and function live in a seamless union. It’s very Disney Lion-King Circle of life-like.

I am in the process of renovating and redecorating my third floor. Every step of the way I am mindful to factor the size of the space, its function now that it has become guest quarters, and cost. I want good design, practicality, visual appeal and a fair price. And so I spent two hours last Saturday studying the rooms at IKEA.

IKEA fascinates me. Everything is so well organized and thought-out. Things are jam-packed but not cluttered. And the smaller the space, the better the design.  Nothing is larger or more complicated than it needs to be. The lines are clean. Many things serve more than one purpose. I look around and am forever saying Oh my God-- that is so smart!

It makes my imagination soar.

And what I have learned is that furniture, like a one celled amoeba, just needs a simple design. It needs to work for the purpose for which it was intended. An amoeba does not need to be a paramecium. A table only needs four legs and a smooth surface to clean. Beauty is skin deep--veneer. And lifespan need not be excessive—things need to only last as long as its niche dictates.

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven. The founder of IKEA, in addition to being inspired by a family who could not fit a 4 legged coffee table into their vehicle, must have also read Ecclesiastes.

Thank you Student Athletes

In Samantha’s junior year in college, she and a friend who had played collegiate level lacrosse decided to toss the ball around. The girl remarked to Sam Wow you play great--Were you on your varsity lacrosse team in high school? Sam shook her head no and said I haven’t picked up a stick since middle school. I wasn’t good enough to play at my high school. And the girl said What high school did you go to? And Sam said Garden City. The girl simply said Ohhhhh.

When Briana met with the student interviewer at Bucknell the conversation opened up in the following way:  So you come from Garden City—you must play lacrosse. And Briana said No. I dance. And the student interviewer said Wow I never met a kid from Garden City before who did not play lacrosse.

When Kara and I went down to Atlanta to meet with the admissions counselor at Emory University I asked him Why don’t you ever come to Garden City high school to speak with prospective students? He said there are just not enough students at Garden City high school who meet our academic criteria. My time is better served recruiting in Great Neck and Jericho and at the NYC private schools.     

Every year Garden City graduates students who go on to higher education. A good hunk of them attend Ivy League universities. And of those who attend Ivy league universities a very disproportionately high number of them used athletics as their “hook.” Few students attend Ivy and “new” Ivy league colleges from this town based on their standardized test scores and GPA. It is a sore spot not only for some students who see that athletic prowess opens doors closed to them, but also for central administration who is often discordant with the well-oiled athletic machine. There is resentment over the fact that Garden City athletes are not only stars on the field, but are also the stars of Ivy league admittance.

I think the anger is misdirected. If not for our student’s playing skills our school district’s overall academic rating would be greatly reduced. Garden City’s excellent school system is built on the back of its stellar athletic program and not so much on the back of its academic program. We should be angry and embarrassed that our academics do not equate with Great Neck or Jericho or the NYC private schools. We should be angry that the district produces few Ivy-league scholars while our athletic program manages to place students year after year in the best colleges and universities in the country. We should be angry that the coaches in this district prepare our students for the Ivy league better than the curriculum coordinators. Because it is not as though we that we do not possess both the pedagogic and economic resources to compete with lighthouse school systems—it’s that our central       administrative heads provide no beacon of light. No Ivy or “new” Ivy League admissions counselor rings Guidances’ doorbell and asks our brightest students to come out and play.

And so I am thankful for all the student athletes who attend Princeton and Harvard and Yale as well as a myriad of other “new-Ivy” and tier one schools. You are the constant that keeps my property value inflated. It is your sweat and repaired ACLs that keep the new home buyers buying. You keep the Garden City Ivy and “new” Ivy League admittance statistic higher than it deserves to be.

And as I read in the newspaper last week how the athletic budget was being cut again I thought—hmm our academic rating is the one really taking the hit. Cutting athletics undercuts academics—or at least in this town it does.

An Irritating Boy

When I was in 7^th grade and still living in Westchester there was a boy in 8^th grade that irritated me. He thought himself intellectually elite. He did not socialize with anyone but the teachers. He stood a little over five foot tall and had some girth. His hair was worn short, and slicked with Brylcream in a time when every other boy wore a moptop. He enunciated all of his words. His everyday vocabulary sounded like his workbook. He read literature—not the Hardy Boys. But the thing that really really stuck in my craw was that he wore his nightbrace—a torturous device that was the precursor to a palate expander---during the daytime. A shortwave radio worn around his head would have been less distracting and more comfortable. And while I am making this up I swear he also wore a burgundy silk damask smoking jacket with a cream colored ascot and smoked a carved wood tobacco pipe too.

In the mid 1990’s the school district changed the format of the elementary school report card. People’s pantaloons were all in a bunch. So PTA sponsored an informational presentation with a Q and A period afterwards to calm fears. It was held at Stratford school. And as was typical, for all the concern and complaint on the soccer fields and in the supermarket, and despite holding the meeting at night to accommodate the working parents, the turnout was poor. Very poor. Dismal. Sparse.

Since I had arrived late to the presentation I sat in the back of the room. The Q and A had already begun. A man raised his hand. I could not see him but I could hear the exacting cadence of his voice. I cannot remember his specific question yet I recall that it was at a depth beyond what could be answered in a sentence or two. Had I been sitting next to someone instead of sitting by myself I would likely have turned to them and cynically inquired Who is that guy?

And when the presentation was over I made a point of seeking out the questioner. Something about him had raised my dander. So I stalked him. He was short in stature and a bit rotund. His barely greying hair was short and slick with gel. He wore a camel haired sport jacket, white oxford shirt, and a neatly tied burgundy silk bowtie. He was solitary—aloof. And I am certain I have conjured this up in my imagination since smoking is not permitted in Stratford school but a wood carved tobacco pipe was gripped firmly in his teeth—smoke encircled his head like an orthodontic night brace.

It was him. Thirty miles and thirty years later. Completely unchanged. Untouched by time. I rubbed my eyes in disbelief.

And then something clicked in my brain. I knew of a woman who shared his last name. The children were very bright—“Quest” kids---intellectually gifted. Uggg I thought. Two generations now irritated me.

And up until 2 weeks ago I spoke of this to no one. But when a childhood friend came for a visit I finally remembered to ask her if she remembered the boy turned man. She had a bare recollection but was quick to blame the faded memory on her medication. And I thought that while her medication is nothing I care to have prescribed---aside from its curative effects, the amnesia part had its benefits. She did not have to remain irritated for all these years. Because memory is a tricky thing---some things are miraculous to recall and others are best forgotten—like the irritating boy turned man and his little clones who are likely all grown up and destined to procreate another generation of annoyance.

Vitacookies--For Dogs

When Dr. Brittis, my pediatrician, stressed the importance of daily vitamins, my mother took heed. And when I was little there was a new product on the market---a vitamin tablet especially formulated for children. It was a fruit flavored chewable—the first of its kind. It was called Chocks.

I was disappointed to receive only one per day--I loved Chocks that much. But it was medicine after all—even though it tasted just like Swee Tarts.

A friend of mine gave a sample bag the other day of a new product—Vita-Cookies for Dogs. He said try these and me know whether your dog likes them or not---but remember each cookie has a daily allowance of canine vitamins---so only give him one a day.

And when I got home I opened the bag. I knew right away that although Cosmo (my Goldendoodle) is quite finicky, this cookie would be amazing and appeal to his discerning palate. Vita-Cookies had an aroma of oatmeal and molasses with a hint of coconut. I almost wanted to taste one. So I allowed Cosmo to sniff it first. And the olfactory experience was so tantalizing that he gently took it and immediately slinked off and hid under my dining room table to enjoy his treat with no possibility of sharing. It was that delicious.

And when he was finished he ran back to the kitchen and sat in front of the opened Vita-Cookie bag on the countertop. Cosmo looked at me and then looked at the bag, and then he looked at me, and then he looked at the bag. And finally in frustration he said Arrr Arrr Arrr which loosely translated from Dogspeak to English means Good God woman give me another cookie!!

But I did not. I told Cosmo Vita-Cookies are medicine—even though they taste like fresh baked cookies. You may only have one a day. And he crossed his paws and said Fine. But I expect one tomorrow. Which I did—and every day since.

But I only have a one month supply of these nutritious canine temptations. And Vita-Cookies for Dogs are not quite on the market yet.  My friend needs to give me another bag or two. I have a dog who loves his vitamins as much as his mother enjoyed her Chocks. In some ways I suppose like dog-mother like dog-child. Or as Mary Poppins would say just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down--in the most delightful way.

Don't Touch Me, Touch Me

Sometimes my daughters would bring boys of interest as guests to the beach club.  They would head to the surf and frolic in the water. My daughters would say to the boy with a giggle Don’t throw me! And the boy of interest would then hoist them in the air and toss them into the crashing waves. My girls called this aqua-flirting.

My grandmother called it something else—Non toccarmi, toccami. The English translation from Italian is—Don’t touch me, touch me.

And from talk shows and pop culture magazines I have become aware that the biggest tipsters to TMZ and the paparazzi are the celebrities themselves. High profile people create an arena of publicity just so they can complain about the ensuing circus. Stars solicit photographers to take photos while saying don’t take them.

I recently had the occasion to be in a room of acquaintances, friends, and good friends. Many complimented me on my writing. And to that end some said please do not write about me—which is a request I am more than happy to honor. Not everyone enjoys the spotlight. But curiously five minutes from some people expressing the don’t write about me request, they then turned to me after an engaging story or two to say you should definitely blog about this—this is too funny not to write about.

And so I guess I have given some of the people who requested that I not write about them exactly what they wanted—I wrote about them. I did not speak of them while speaking of them. I protected their story as I exposed them. I gave them their cake, with a taste or two missing.

I call it secr-recounting.

Imitable Teachers

At a back-to-school night a parent raised their hand when the Jerry Garcia-esque tenth grade honors social studies teacher asked if anyone in the room had any comments. In an aggressive tone the parent declared Sir, the map assignments you give the kids are very very difficult. And the teacher, clad in his Hawaiian shirt and full beard, gently shook his head  and said Yes. Any other comments?

Sometimes the very parents who complain that their child is not sufficiently challenged in the classroom complain even louder when their child is unable to rise to that challenge. Parents rant about the height of the bar being set too low until they realize that that same bar is still too high for their child.

When there was a change in principals and superintendents there was also a change in how inimitable teachers were embraced. Non-conformists did not adjust well in the more restrictive environment. e was unwillingly to be boughtHe HeHeheThe Jerry Garcia-esque teacher’s reluctance to yield coupled with a nagging health issue prompted his retirement. Kara’s class was his last.

But this is what I know for sure--my daughters were better students for having had such a teacher. Because of him, they realized that there was a lot more room outside of the box than inside of it. Their minds were stretched. Their conservative Garden City world met a liberal contrast.  And it is never a bad thing for teenagers to see that sometimes in life it is better to walk away than to give up your core values. The one person you must always answer to is yourself. Sacrificing your principles is sometimes a price tag too big to pay—your self-worth is priceless.

And teachers who look a lot like Jerry Garcia are the reason former students can blow through the world history and geographic categories on Jeopardy. It is an accomplishment only very few can achieve with ease—an accomplishment that is the result of successfully completing  some very very difficult map assignments in honors 10 Social Studies class. And something achieved without any parental intervention, interference or complaint.

H.R. Puffinstuff and Britney Spears

I was not born of the Saturday morning soccer generation. When I was little, Saturday mornings were all about cartoons---the non-educational kind like Buggs Bunny and the Road Runner. The closest thing we had to thought-provoking animation was Scooby-Doo. But in 1969 NBC aired a surrealistic puppet show called H.R. Puffinstuff. I loved it. But it was not until I was well into my thirties that I became aware that H. R. Puffinstuff was an homage to marijuana. Purportedly H. R. refered to hand rolled and Puffinstuff literally meant puffing stuff. The fantasyland in which that story was cast was called Lidsville. A “lid” was vernacular for ¾ of an ounce of pot. Subliminal and allegorical messages were everywhere in the program about the glory of drugs.

I had no idea. All those references eluded me. I thought the show was about puppets.

 When my daughters were in Stewart and the Middle school it was the age of Britney Spears, Christina Aquilera and the Spice Girls. Hip hop and rap were becoming increasingly raw and had seeped into mainstream culture. President Clinton was in office and we soon learned a new anachronism—called a “Monica Lewinsky.” Parents were concerned over how all the covert and overt sexual references of the day would negatively affect the youth. It seemed that Oprah talked about sexual corruption every other week on her show. It was discussed at PTA meetings. There was genuine fear that the children of the 1990’s would make hedonisim seem virtuous.

And my daughters as well as all their friends were exposed to all of it.

Last year for her senior college class trip my daughter drove with her friends from Lewisburg PA to Hilton Head South Carolina. It was a ridiculously long journey. And to alleviate the boredom of the trip my daughter and her friends brought music CD’s of their youth. One of them was the Spice Girls. The passengers knew every word to every song. No lyric was forgotten. But it wasn’t until age 22 that any of them really paid attention to the message of the words. They were shocked to discover that the songs were about sex—lots of it. Up until then the true content had eluded them. The subject matter had never been ingested—merely masticated and then spit out.

I think sometimes adults (and I am not excluding myself) overthink children’s thinking. We forget that children are more literal creatures. The depths of their thought are more shallow than we fear. A puppet is just a puppet—not a stoner. Britney Spears is a good dancer in a school uniform, not an objectified underage Lolita. Monica Lewinsky was an intern, not an illegal act in the state of Connecticut. And Bill—he’s Hillary’s husband and Chelsea’s father who happened to be president a long time ago. And Buggs Bunny is not a sadist or a con man---he is just a bunny who does funny things.

Tightly Wound

I do not consider myself a perfectionist. Philosophically I believe that perfectionism is what makes God God. Since humans are not God, by definition they are incapable of perfection.

What I do believe I am---is an overachiever—in too many things. And I expect others to also achieve beyond their measure in too many things. So my husband, who believes that 92% is still an “A”, is often annoyed that my expectation is a 98 %---an “A+.” He does not express this out loud (or at least very often) but I am certain that he thinks I am a crazy person—obsessed and uptight. The coils of his springs are just not as numerous and compact as mine.

This past weekend my husband and I needed to disassemble, dismantle and move all of the stuff out of my daughter’s bedroom to allow the contractor space to demolish her bathroom. And part of our task was to roll up and remove her 9 x 12 area rug. My husband got on one end of the rug and I got on the other and we began the rolling procedure. But all 3 attempts failed. By the time we got halfway through the rolling procedure it was grossly uneven. We rolled at different intensities. He thought I rolled too tightly and I thought he did not roll tightly enough. I wanted the smallest possible end product and he just wanted to get the rug out of the room in a compact enough form.

Both of us were right and neither of us was wrong. So we both had to take a deep breath and give in a little.

So on the fourth attempt we proceeded more slowly. I was less fanatical and he was more deliberate. We finally succeeded.

And I suppose if you average the two of us out—our mean is a 95. Not as good as I would like, but still an A+. And an A+ is an excellent grade for sure---especially for people (and rugs) wound a little bit too tightly.

Men in Swimwear

As I sat in my lounge at the beach and took inventory of the disproportionally high number of females wearing swimwear skimpier than I cared to view, I realized something—I was sexist. My eye was trained to seek out females in inappropriate states of dress or undress ---which was unfair. Because there also was an inordinately high number of men wearing swimwear which revealed more than I cared to view. And what the men viewed in public was equally or more displeasing than the women.

And I thought about it.

Men by nature of their size have an even greater surface area of skin that needs hiding. And in addition to increased volume, style dictates that they traipse across the beach shirtless forcing the undesirable panorama. I do not want to see male jelly bellies, rolls of hairy back-fat or saggy man boobs-- not to mention butt cleavage.

So I concluded that men should also have the option of a one piece bathing suit. Men are also in need of skirted miracle suits, minimizing bra-tops and sarongs. And while they are at it, a spray tan and some waxing wouldn’t hurt either.

What is good for the goose is good for the gander.

Not too long ago Sara Blakely—the creator of Spanx created Manx—compression undergarments for men. Clearly she too realized that there was a need. Perhaps just as she is now making swimwear for women she should expand her swimwear line to men---because I for one would be eternally grateful. The only panoramic view I care to see on the beach is that of the horizon.

When You ASSUME......

I recall an episode of The Odd Couple where Felix drew the word ASSUME on a chalkboard. Then he drew a circle around the letters ASS and then the letter U and finally the letters ME. And he turned to Oscar, pointed to the circled letters in succession, and said When you assume, you make an ass out of you and me.

When Samantha was in nursery school there was a little girl in her class that had two guardians in charge of picking and dropping her off. One was the mother---who was my age---barely 30. And the other was a much older gentleman with a German accent, wire framed glasses, and snow white hair.

And I remarked to the man how sweet it was that he picked up his granddaughter at school—just like my father did sometimes.

He did not appear to be complimented. He appeared to be—irritated.

The man then informed me that the little girl was not his granddaughter. She was the daughter of his live-in girlfriend.

Oh.

I never made that mistake again.

Diet Coke and a Bag of Pretzels

In high school I went to the cafeteria every day and bought the same thing for lunch: a can of Tab and a bag of pretzel nuggets. It had nothing to do with a lack of lunch money. My mother provided me with ample funding. I ate such an unvaried lunch because that was what I craved—especially during a stressful school day: salty carbs washed down with carbonated artificially sweetened carbs. It was better than Xanax.

I do not have a fear of flying. That is the easy part of the journey. I fear missed connections, cancellations and delays. I want to leave when I want to leave and I hate giving up that control to Delta. And on Sunday, when my husband and I arrived at the terminal for our departure home we learned that our flight time was at minimum 45 minutes later than scheduled.

So my husband turned to me and said do you want to eat something in the meantime? But I was not hungry. I was still full from my buffet breakfast at the resort. But between the time delay and the overcrowding in the airport I felt a wave of anxiousness approaching. It could only be abated by one thing.

And the second that that salty fiber-free carbohydrate hit my tongue I was instantly soothed. The endorphins catapulted to an immeasurable level. And when that aspartame laced bubbly washed it down I forgot the close quarters and pulled out my book. The delay would give me more time to finish my reading. I was calm. Delta would get me home on their clock and that was fine by me. As long as I had my pretzels, my diet soda, and my book, it was no different than sitting in the Our Lady of Victory cafeteria during period 6—except for the lack of plaid uniform skirts and Pink Floyd playing on the jukebox. But even so--no Xanax was necessary.

I Am Woman

When I was the women’s platform chairperson I wrote a letter to the club’s Board of Governors exposing the fact that the manager at that time had made billing decisions outside his scope of authority.

The letter was not well received. Not because I had made fallacious accusations —my message was absolutely spot on correct. It was because as a woman it was not my place to be the messenger.

I am smitten with the show Shameless Sunday nights on Showtime. It chronicles the dysfunction of a large Irish Catholic lower middle class family in Chicago’s Southside.  There is raw truth in the storyline.  Yet despite the portrayed dysfunction, there remains a loving cohesion among the characters.

On a recent episode of the show, one of the teenage female characters pulls down her panties and pisses on her father’s grave and gravestone. She had been the victim of her father’s verbal abuse for many years. And while the scene was seemingly vulgar, it was appropriate. And I embraced the rawness of the scene not just because the act of urination was symbolic, but because on a different level it demonstrated that a woman is as capable of the physical act as a man. Females are equally adept at pissing with intent and precision as males.  In fact an argument can be made that because women can control the quantity, and start and stop time of their flow, they are in fact superior.

And because I am of the Helen Reddy I Am Woman generation and understand like the aforementioned fictional character that there is nothing my gender cannot do as well (if not better) than men I forget that in male dominated domains my voice is expected to remain silent. I am expected to mind my place. Glass ceilings and fraternal oligarchies still exist. Discrimination lurks often times in plain sight—and sometimes from the unexpected. And while I, and the writers of Shameless have been to the mountaintop, the reality is that we are still not all treated as equals—but maybe one day. I have a dream.

Good Storytelling

I was in my Suburban driving my daughter Sam and her friend Jackie home from someplace that I can no longer remember. The two of them were in middle school at that time. I was recounting an experience that I had had in the Chinese restaurant. In the telling of the story I used colorful language and imitated the maître ‘d’s Asian accent. And Jackie howled with laughter and said Mrs. Ciccone you are sooooo funny!!!

Sam did not agree. Instead, clearly annoyed, she turned to her friend and said Stop encouraging her!

And over the course of years-- on many occasions-- too numerous to count--- when I was in conversation and using animated hyperbole to captivate my audience one of my children would announce You are such a liar--that didn’t happen like that—you just like to make sh** up.

Yesterday I remarked to my daughter Briana that I found her friend Kathleen to be very engaging and probably quite capable of performing stand-up comedy.  Briana agreed. And she told me that Kathleen was indeed a great storyteller, as was her other friend (nicknamed) Skred. And Briana giggled as she remembered a time when Briana asked her friend Skred what she had done all day—and Skred calmly  told Briana that she had spent the entire day in her room widdling on a piece of wood preparing it as a stake to drive through one of their roommates hearts.

I too then giggled.

And I turned to Briana and said You know what Skred’s good storytelling will do for her right? She said No. I said When Skred has children they are not going to think she is funny and they will tell her that she just likes to make Sh** up. And upon Briana’s realization that I was really talking about myself she was quick to interject well not if she doesn’t have any kids.

Because good storytelling always incorporates exaggeration, physicality and made–up comparisons. It uses surprise and humor in inventive ways. And often it involves making fun of yourself as a means of holding a mirror for others to see their own foibles.

Good storytelling also means your children will hate you and find you an embarrassment---which I suppose they will do anyway---even if hyberbole is not your friend--so better to do it on your own terms---and let other’s laughter gauge the disapproval. The greater the laughter, the greater the child’s annoyance. It’s a 1:1 direct proportion

My "Other" Family

Last month was my turn to select a book for my book club. My lifelong girlfriend Elissa had recommended the book Saving CeeCee Honeycutt to me a while back. So I went on Amazon.com to scope out the storyline. At the bottom of the synopsis was the customers who bought this also bought that section. There was a book listed called The Kitchen House that caught my eye. And so I clicked on it to see what it was about.

The Kitchen House was the story of Lavinia, a white indentured 8 year old Irish girl. She is sent to live in the slave quarters of a Virginia plantation in the late 1700’s. And it is there that she found her new family. The slaves took her in as their own.

When my parents informed me that they had purchased our family a house in Dobbs Ferry I was not thrilled. I was to start seventh grade in a new school. The problem was that I had just barely assimilated into the school I was in—Christ the King--in which I had enrolled 2 years before. I rolled my eyes up at the prospect of beginning the fitting in process all over again.

And when my father came home to tell me that he had met a nice guy—named Renny-- and that he had a daughter named Elissa, who was my age, lived up the road from our new house,  and was enrolled in Sacred Heart School—the same one as I—skepticism remained. My father had no concept of what it was like to be a 12 year old girl. Making friends was not as easy as putting together two pubescent girls of the same age.

But to my surprise my friendship with Elissa was instantaneous. She was a fellow soulmate. We had everything in common. And if that wasn’t special enough —her entire family adopted me as their own. I was invited to family gatherings. I went to “Aunt” Anita’s pool club and for walks to the beach by “Aunt” Anna May’s house in Greenwich. My friendship with Elissa effectively doubled my family.

And as time progressed I attended my “cousin” Danielle’s first wedding. I went to “cousin” Debbie’s baby shower for the twins. And at that baby shower a photo was taken with four big bellies—“cousins” Suzie, MaryAnn, Debbie and me. I celebrated “Grandpa” Conese’s birthday by Uncle Gene’s pool and my “parents’” Renny and Mary’s 50^th anniversary. I went to my “sister” Nina’s surprise birthday party and Kelsey’s baptism. I celebrated the triumphs and was sorrowful at the losses. 

And this past weekend when I was in Fort Lauderdale I had dinner with my “cousins’” Suzie and Peter. I was thrilled to learn they were to become grandparents. It was so wonderful to share time and exciting news with “family.”

And after we kissed goodbye (twice---we are of course Italians) and I got into my car I felt melancholy. I was homesick. As happy as I was to have seen them I was sad that day to day life made “family” visits so infrequent. I forgot how much I missed everyone and how very much they meant to me.

And just like Lavinia in The Kitchen House I learned that family is all about the connections you make—it isn’t necessarily about bloodlines. Family is about who loves you, and who you love. And even when time and physical location separate you, family is always with you—in your heart—keeping you company. And when you are sad all you have to do is recall the memories—or in my case—write about them. Because fortunately the heart has no need for time or distance—it allows love to be summoned up in an instant.

Meatless Fridays

I may not observe all the religious obligations mandated by the Catholic Church but there is one, that no matter what, I respect. I keep Fridays meatless during Lent. I believe it is a small sacrifice. Abstaining from meat every Friday reminds me that Jesus sacrificed much more than that.

There is a burger/beer/hot wing restaurant that I enjoy very much up on Williston Avenue. My husband and I go there with some regularity. It is also a restaurant some friends of ours also enjoy. So last weekend we made plans to all go together. The other couple is not Catholic—their gastronomic wants are therefore unbound.

And our friends wanted to know whether we wanted to go out Friday or Saturday night. I preferred Friday. And then the Catholic guilt kicked in. Going to a burger and hot wing place on a Friday during lent meant that either I would cheat or I would have no burger and hot wings.  Not eating a burger and hot wings at a restaurant that specializes in burgers and hot wings seemed like a sin—perhaps justifiable cheating? Likely not. I would have to abstain. I would have to be like an alcoholic at happy hour drinking ginger ale.

And then I thought about it some more. Maybe if I went to the burger/hot wing restaurant on a Friday night and chose not to eat their specialty it might elevate my sacrifice—maybe I would get heavenly brownie points. Eating fried calamari rings and a nicoise salad at the burger/hot wing place might move me in the afterlife to the head of the line ---St Peter would flag me in like being on the A list at a hot trendy club.

But then I decided martyrdom should be left to the martyrs.

We went out on Saturday night. And my hot wings and burger were perfect—as was the company.