A Small Victory

Being all that you can be

I have a confession to make.

I hate crowds. I especially hate crowds when I have to meet new people. Even if these are people I know already, through the miracle of the internet.

So it wasn't just the heat and the humidity and allergies that gave me the migraine yesterday, it was the stress of having to go to a party where there would be a lot of people I didn't know, or knew but never met. The stress of thinking about it all week long resulted in the worst headache ever.

I know you will find this hard to believe, but I am incredibly shy. I have a hard time looking people in the eye when I talk. I tend to play with my hair or twist the ring on my finger while I talk to people that I don't know. If it's a group of two or three people, I'm ok. But once you go over that number, I freak out.

I shouldn't except invitations to parties that I know I will not end up attending. But each time I do, I think it will be different. I will overcome my fear and shyness and get out and meet new people. I will be strong and confident and bold.

Not bloody likely. The confidence surges through me for a week or so and then as the days approaching the gathering advance, it starts to crumble. By the day of the party or meeting or whatever it is I'm going to, I'm downing Excedrins and curling up on my couch with my blankie.

I don't know what I fear. Perhaps my sense of inadequacy overrules anything I try to do. I'm sure that's the reason why I never followed the advice of my college professors and tried writing for a living. The fear of not living up to what others expect you to be is overwhelming. It's just easier to not try at all than to do it and be looked at as something less than you really are.

I'm not saying that I am not who I present myself to be here. This is me. As long as I am with my friends or family or not in a huge crowd, this is me. I have met other webloggers before, in very small groups, and I think it went well. But the whole crowd thing makes me nervous, and I know I don't act like myself when surrounded by bubbly, gregarious people. I am easily intimidated by those who have more confidence than me.

Maybe I willed myself into having a headache so I would have a reason not to go. Maybe I should have just said no to begin with, so I wouldn't have the added stress of spending that whole week knowing full well that something would happen at the last minute to make me back out.

I'd like to overcome this. I really would. I feel this fear of failure and fear of new things and fear of looking strangers in the eye and letting them see who I really am, how I really look, how I really sound, is going to keep me from ever doing anything more than what I am doing now.

Fear has kept me stagnant. But a greater fear has taken its place. That is the thought that this is the crest of my life, that my phobias and idiosyncracies will keep me from every doing anything greater, from ever trying to be anything more.

It's time to move past it all and see what I can do.

Posted by at 06:53 PM | Permalink | Comments (16)

Here's to liberty?

In years past, all patriotic meaning had been stripped from the Fourth of July. As with almost all American holidays, it had become a day for feasting, for picnics and barbecues, for BIG SALES! at malls. You could get an air conditioner real cheap around this time of year.

For a kid, the day was more about bottle rockets and sparklers and the pretty show in the night sky. For dogs, it was about hiding under the bed every time another mat of firecrackers went off down the block.

For me, it was about my grandfather's birthday and huge parties and illegal fireworks set to explode as soon as it got dark. I don't think anyone ever really thought about the independence of our country while they were flipping burgers or doing cannonballs into the pool or singing Jimmy Rosselli songs with their grandfather, drunk on his wine. Maybe that year of the bicentennial, when everyone waved their flags and remembered the Revolutionary War and watched 1776 on tv.

Blind patriotism has been around since last fall. Flags have been waving from homes and cars for ten months now and ironically, I am thinking about lack of independence this year. I'm thinking about watchful eyes and stripped rights and one nation under surveillance. Bring on the fireworks, bring on the sales and burgers and beer. It's better than thinking about the state of the world.

July 4, 1983. Dave Righetti pitches a no-hitter against the Red Sox.

July 4, 1985. We stay up til all hours of the morning watching the Mets and Braves play 19 innings of baseball. It was about 3am by the time the Mets won the game 16-13.

July 4, 1995. Natalie has chicken pox.

Independence Day is also another holiday (much like Halloween) when I want to kill my neighbors. How's that for a patriotic attitude? Can someone please explain to me the thrill in lighting off a mat of fireworks? They don't look pretty, they make a lot of noise and I can't see what you get out of it, except annoying the piss out of me and making me want to come over there and bash your fucking head in.

Pretty fireworks, I love. Nice colors, intricate designs, the sky lit up like a Lite Brite. Everyone sits on the front lawn as the patriotic, lawful townfolk begin to light up their unlawful Roman Candles and fountain explosives. But plain old firecrackers? They drive me bezerk. And it's already started. Morning, noon and night, the boomboomboom of another mat of gunpowder, and it stops being boomboomboom after a while and I hear killkillkill instead and I have to be held back from going over to my neighbor's house and shoving those firecrackers down his throat while I sing America the Beautiful.

So yea, July 4th is about freedom. Your freedom to make a whole lot of unecessary noise and my freedom to kill you over it. Hey, if everyone else can interpret the constitution the way they see fit, so can I.

So here's to kicking off a week of sales, surveillance and sizzling burgers. Here's to dire warnings, unsubstantiated threats and looking over our shoulders. Here's to being careful what you say and how you look and black army helicopters flying overhead. Here's to being in the minority and peeing in a cup and broad use of the word patriot.

Most of all, here's to living in a country where I can say these things freely.

I still can, can't I?

Posted by at 06:52 AM | Permalink | Comments (8)

Pity party

A terrible migraine has left me incapacitated for most of the day. After taking 67 Excedrin Migraines and Claritin and a dose of Zyrtec, I awoke from a nightmare filled slumber at 7:00. That's p.m.

I woke with the realization that I would not make it the shindig that Choire and Baz are throwing tonight. Not only am I missing some gay pride action, but I have blown my chance to meet Nancy and The Blonde and to slip Jonno some tongue. I hate myself right now. Well, I hate that I'm prone to migraines in the summer.

I've been on the couch for the last two hours watching UHF and Princess Diaries. Yes, Princess Diaries. You know what? It wasn't half bad as far as teen movies go. It's not like I watched an Olsen twins movie. And UHF still rocks my socks after all these years.

Now it's 10pm, I'm wide awake and once again some little monsters have crawled inside my head and started banging their pots and pans on my skull. I'm hot, I'm sweaty and there are no clean towels so I can't take a shower for another hour. I'm out of cigarettes. I haven't eaten all day. I'm missing one hell of a party.

Welcome to my own pity party. Anyone else need some virtual pity? Get in line.

Posted by at 10:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (16)

Saturday photo essay: the powers of neon*

Yesterday was bathed in a million different lights, neon and candlelight and sunlight. We started a revolution, a dance, dance revolution, and soon everyone was shaking their groove thang.

It was a day to eat, drink and play and play we did under a blue haze, shocking everyone around us with our amazing superpower abilities to glow in the dark. Our weapon of choice? We could pulverize our nemesis with neon.

You didn't know we are a family of superheroes, did you? And good thing we are, because when the green lantern showed up, we were able to use the force to summon spidey to the rescue.

Once our enemy was defeated, we faced another as the naked women from the red light district tried to take over our blue bowling league.

Finally, we headed outdoors again, in search of sunlight and colors that were not tinged by flourescent lighting. So that's what purple looks like in the light? We had almost ruined our eyesight after 5 hours in a neon-drenched setting.

Exhausted, we decided to take naps when we got home. Even bowling superheroes need their rest. As a wise old owl once told me, burning the candle at both ends will only make it melt faster.

*pictures 3,5,6,8 and 9 were (obviously) photshopped

Posted by at 06:51 AM | Permalink | Comments (9)

i wanna be sedated

Bush to give power to Cheney while he undergoes colonoscopy.

I'm not even going there. I'm sure you can come up with enough jokes on your own.

Best one liner regarding this story receives some kind of prize from me. Use the comments.

Kids are gone. Vacation from hell is winding down. I'm going to get piss drunk and write all my senators tonight.

Posted by at 06:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (23)

new at qod: blogathon ideas: name your poison

Which god?

While thinking about atheism and one nation under God and all the ways in which religious zealots wish to make everything about God, specifically their God, whichever that may be, I was reminded of one of my heroes, Ethan Allen. The revolutionary war guy, not the furniture guy.

. He stopped his wedding ceremony when asked if he would pledge "to live with Fanny Buchanan agreeable to the laws of God." He wanted to know which god and whose god the marriage was supposed to please, stalling the proceedings until it was specified to be Nature's god and no other.

Allen's The Oracle of Reason

Posted by at 12:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (9)

new at qod: blogathon ideas: name your poison

A bird named Keith: my Who story

The passing of John Entwistle has saddened me. I was a big Who fan back in the day. I wrote something about Boris the Spider and Happy Jack in my high school yearbook. Who's Next was a constant soundtrack to the nights spent hanging out in sumps and graveyards, drinking Heinekens as if we were rich and immortal.

Not one to let an opportunity to tell a story pass me by, here's my Who related tale:

In August of 1978, I got a bird for my birthday. He was a finch, a little bird who made a lot of noise. I named him Keith, after Keith moon. This was in the midst of my Who craze.

Less than a month later, Keith Moon died. Less than a week after that, my dog, Spanky, and my cat, Damien, conpsired to kill Keith. Damien knocked the cage down and when we ran into my room to see what the commotion was about, Spanky was tearing ass out the doorway with a squealing Keith in his mouth.

By the time we captured Spanky in the backyard, Keith was dead. Just days after his namesake.

I stuffed Keith in a Ziploc bag and put the bag in a shoebox. I went into the backyard, held a short ceremony with some friends present, and buried the box in the garden surrounding a huge oak tree. We cried, we told Keith stories, we reminisced about the two weeks he was with us. We cursed Spanky and Damien.

A week later I was in the backyard when I noticed the dirt near Keith's burial place had been upheaved. Upon further inspection I saw that the box was sticking out of the ground. Keith was still in there, still dead. I blamed those monster pets, Spanky and Damien.

Later on my sister, who was nine at the time, confessed that she dug Keith up. She wanted to see if he was still there. Well where the hell else was a dead bird going to go? Do you think he got up and walked to the store for some bird seed? Personally, I think she just wanted to make sure that he was really dead. You know how nine year olds are.

More than 20 years later, Keith is still dead. And I'm glad I don't have a bird named John.

Posted by at 10:53 AM | Permalink | Comments (9)

Suburban legends

Summer is the time of urban legends. It seems it was always hot and muggy when we sat around and told these stories. Maybe we were hoping that a few shivers up and down our spines would cool us off.

I was a skeptic even then, and believed none of what I heard. The other kids would spread the stories like a virus and soon the whole town was talking about incidents that never happened as if they happened to them. What would start out as my best friend's sister telling us something she heard on the radio would come back to me later from a cousin who swore that it really happened to her neighbor's uncle. And it's amazing how many of these stories have survived all these years, almost unchanged. And how many of them were later made into major motion pictures starring screaming, underdressed girls.

The urban legends of my youth:

the hook man: One of the first babysitter stories I ever heard. You know the drill; a teenage girl is babysitting. Isn't that how they all start? In this one she is upstairs getting a baby ready for bed while the other two kids are downstairs watching tv. She hears one of the kids yelling something, and she thinks he is saying the phone is off the hook. She checks the upstairs phone but they are all fine. Too late, she realizes that the kid was screaming about a man with a hook and she turns to see some hideous guy standing in the doorway of the bedroom, a little girl's head lodged on the end of his hook hand.

out of gas: Two young lovers out for a joyride run out of gas on a deserted road. The girl stays in the car while the boy goes out in search of help. Soon the girl hears a noise outside that she assumes is branches of a tree moving against the top of the car. swish, swish, swish. The sound begins to annoy her so she gets out of the car to move the branch only to discover that the swishing sound was being made by her boyfriend's sneakers dragging across the roof of the car. He was hanging from the tree, a dead young man swaying in the breeze. variation

kidnapped: I still hear this one today, with variations on the theme. Everyone who tells this story insists it is really, really true and it happened just yesterday and they know a person who was there. A mother and her young daughter are shopping in a department store. The mother turns her back for a second and the kid disappears. She frantically runs through the store calling the girl's name and when she can't find her she alerts security. Security shuts all the doors and searches the store. They eventually find the poor, frightened girl with a strange man in the men's room. The girl's hair has been cut short and she has been dressed in boy's clothing. variation

the man in the car: Another one still making the rounds. A woman pulls into a gas station and asks the attendent to fill her car up. She pays with a credit card and the attendent tells her to please step out of the car, that there is a problem with her card. She argues with him until he persuades her to come into the office. There, he tells her that a man with a crowbar is crouched in the backseat of her car. variation

the hippie ate my baby! This was a favorite of mine. A couple goes out for a night on the town, leaving a teenage girl and her boyfriend in charge of their small children. They instruct the girl to cook a turkey for dinner. As soon as the couple leaves, the two teenagers begin smoking marijuana cigarettes! After they are good and stoned, they cook dinner, but forget about it and leave it in the oven. Eventually the couple comes home from their night out and smell something burning. They see the two hippie teenagers, obviously stoned, sleeping on the couch. And the turkey is still on the table, uncooked. What could possible be in the oven?? Oh no! It's the baby! variation

I could go on. There's the kid playing in a box that is picked up by garbagemen and put in a crusher. The pop rocks and soda thing. Bubble Yum is made from spider eggs. Oh, and that story that made the rounds when I was in junior high that had to do with Rod Stewart, Elton John, oral sex and stomach pumping.

I'm sure my kids will be telling me stories just like these as if they are the truth. And it will be my job, as it has always been, to dispel the myths and take the fun out of scary summer stories.

What's your favorite urban legend?

Posted by at 06:27 AM | Permalink | Comments (23)

Mother Nature thwarted us again. Depending on which newscast you watched, we could expect rain/hail/downpours/flooding/scattered light showers. Or a tornado. Or hail the size of taxi cabs.

We ditched the beach idea and ended up with a house full of kids and Krispy Kremes.

Now we are nature's special effects as lightning blazes across the sky. As I write it has started pouring and I swear to whoever is in charge of these things that this rain better be taking the humidity with it when it goes.

Between the heat and two 12 girls giggling furiously in the next room, I'm ready to bite the head off of a live chicken or kick a dog. Come get me, PETA.

And I knew something was off about my ExtremeTracking stats when I compared them to my Dreamhost stats. For some reason, ET doesn't track all my referrers. Turns out I had over 300 hits from MeFi yesterday. Weee! So I added a new stats thing because, besides being a stats whore, I like to see where my hits are coming from. This way I know what people are saying about me. And I can plan accordingly. Like, buy extra chainsaws. (note to self, up Paxil dosage)

I had some interesting conversations about the pledge today. Bottom line is, stop making such a damn circus over it. Like I commented on a trillion blogs today, just give the people the right to say it or not say it or at least not say the god part without fear of being chastized by teachers, and it's all good. The one man army that pushed this into the courts was on CNN today and I wanted to bitchslap him. Just something about him. I don't say the pledge because I don't believe in god and I don't believe that there is liberty and justice for all in this country.

And if you want to know how the pledge started out as a marketing tool for some Socialist businessmen, read William's finely tuned rant.

Speaking of finely tuned, I'm still off in summers past, going through the years and listening to music to match the memories. Right now I'm on the summer of 87 and I've got The Cure's Why Can't I Be You running in my head on repeat.

I'm thinking of the day in 87 when I was working for the Yankees and I walked into the locker room thinking it was empty, but it wasn't. Rickey Henderson and his extra large dick were facing me. Let me tell you, that thing needed its own zip code. It was almost as thick as his thighs. That year the Jehova's Witnesses had their annual shindig at the Stadium. It was about 100 degrees and all these little future door-knockers were running around in suits and dresses. I was able to escape the madness by hiding in the archives room, where I spent hours looking through pictures and boxscores and mementos of Yankees past. I gazed at the picture of Thurman Munson for a long time.

That was the summer of 87. The Cure and Rickey Henderson's schlong.

Posted by at 09:38 PM | Permalink | Comments (9)

Sun sick

The humidity is choking the life out of me. The heat has settled in like it's never leaving. I look at a plane in the sky and wish a giant would use it as a spear to poke holes in the clouds and let cool, sweet rain pour down on us. I would dance in the puddles and shout back at the thunder, if only it would rain during the day instead of evening.

I am hibernating in my house, air conditioners blasting. Damn the elecricity bill, coolness ahead. Everyone is sunburned, sun-weary, sun-sick and lethargic. We do jigsaw puzzles and eat six pounds of grapes and play Spiderman on the PS2. We watch NickToons (gotta love digital cable) and lament that I have taken my vacation during the most miserable weather of the month.

I have done the following while avoiding the oppression outdoors:

*Added a message board down on the far right side of the site. Don't know why, just looked like fun.
*Put my unweidy blog list on a separate page.
*made two more cds of tunes that will make me reminisce and write blog entries about the days of my misspent youth.
*fended off emails calling me a heathen, satan worshiper, godless pussy and accusing me of being fascist and/or communist.
*Listened to Slayer and read The Communist Manifesto

It's only 9am. 9 more hours to kill until we head for dinner at the beach. Of course, it will probably rain down shards of lightning and stones of hail as we are set to leave. Maybe there is a god, and he just doesn't want me to have any fun.

Posted by at 08:48 AM | Permalink | Comments (10)

From the vault:

Allergies, humidity and a night plagued by bad dreams have all conspired to lead me to post a repeat here this morning. It's from my personal "best of" collection, which isn't to say it's a great post, or the best of anything, but something heartfelt and personal. Enjoy.

The Art of Being Divorced

There's this strange thing about being divorced. It's that you live in constant knowledge that on some level, you failed. It's a daily thing, something that never goes away, that hovers in your mind and occasionally smacks you in the face to remind you. I am an ex. Not just any kind of ex, because I've been exes before. Ex-girlfriend, ex-catholic, ex-English major, ex-Jets fan. But this ex is different because there is a legality to it that makes it binding and forever and public knowledge. I can always deny having been Jean Bergeron's girlfriend in 11th grade. It's not something I have to think about every day. But each day, when I look at my kids or put the child support payment in the bank, or see my ex at one of DJ's games or Natalie's plays, I am faced with it. I failed. Yes, he failed too. And in a much bigger way than I. And I bet he thinks about that every day, too.

I've moved on, I've rectified, I've rearranged and refurnished and adjusted nicely to my role as ex-wife. Granted, it's easier to be an ex when you are a current. I don't have to (any longer) think about being alone or lonely or making dinners for one or finding someone to have a conversation with. Hell, I did that all when I was married anyhow. My point is, some people wear the role of ex like an ill fitting suit. And some people wear it like a slinky cocktail dress. Me, I've grown from wearing that one size too small pair of pants to some real baggy comfortable overalls. And sneakers. My ex, on the other hand, still walks around like David Byrne in an oversized suit, drowning in its hugeness. It's been 4 years. 4 years officially. The marraige was all but null and void years before it became stamped on a piece of paper that it was over. And still, he can't seem to get used to the title of The Ex. Even now, with a girlfriend and potential step kids, he still looks at me like I robbed his piggy bank. He still stands at the opposite end of the field at DJ's games and sits on the other side of the auditorium at Natalie's plays.

I am a constant reminder to him of his failures. I know this. Just as he is of mine. But I try to look at it differently. While I will always and forever walk around knowing I failed in that aspect of my life, and it's a big one, I also look at him as a turning point in my life. I look at him and see what I've become since. While I will always be the an ex-wife, that is not necessarily an evil, horrible thing to carry around. Because it also means that at some point I thought more of myself than the need to be with a person who thought nothing of me. It means I rose up above the fray and gave myself a voice.

You live, you learn and you take all those lessons with you. You also take labels and tags and whatever the them in us v. them lays on you, and you make of it what you will. Once divorced, once severed from the hand that held you down, you assume the title of ex. But you get to un-assume all the titles that you hated. Fair enough trade off.

(originally posted 9/25/01)

Posted by at 05:50 AM | Permalink | Comments (10)

new from me at raising hell: letting go and holding on

Holy fucking shit and amen

Responding to a few comments and several emails regarding the God Bless America day post:

First, this isn't about whether or not I believe in God. Regardless of my beliefs or faith, the real issue here is about asking the entire country to take part in something that is based on a religion.

Yes, Easter and Christmas are Catholic holidays. But they are based on religious occurrences. There is no legislation in progress to make those observances one with "America" in their name. It is not "Celebrate Jesus's Birthday, America!" To take something that affected every American, and millions of people in other countries and turn it into a religious observance is wrong.

What happened in New York and Pennsylvania and Washington, D.C. had nothing to do with God. The acts did not affect only people who pray or observe a religion. Therefore, it is ludicrious to want to memorialize the people who died and the horror we faced with a day set aside for prayer to a certain god.

Memorializing the day with a legal holiday is not necessary, anyhow. Like many people in the comments stated, it's not like we will forget. As each September 11th rolls around, we will all stop and remember the day and the people in our own way. I don't need a document or a nickname to remind me to do so.

Yes, the website could be a hoax, as pointed out on this Metafilter thread. Or it could be the work of just two or three people. Either way, the whole "God Bless America" thing that has been hanging over us since last September makes me break out in hives.

Lastly, I do not need to be saved. I am not a bad person because I do not accept Jesus Christ as my savior. I am not faithless or without any kind of beliefs. I do not want my soul healed, there is nothing wrong with it. I do not want you to send me pamphlets. I am not an empty vessel. I am not evil. And mostly, I do not want to limit, deny or take away your right to pray. Conversely, I want to keep my right to not pray and not be taken to task for it.

Meanwhile, people who have a hard time separating church and state should get their panties in a bunch over this. I always wanted to change the pledge to something more realistic:

One nation, under no deity, with liberty and justice for those white-middle-to-upper-class men who can afford it.

Now, let's kick off Holy Fucking Shit Day. Choire has already bought the domain name. I think we should all recognize the day by locking ourselves in the house with shotguns, canned goods and bottled water. Then we can play a fun game where we watch CNN all night and take a shot for every time Rumsfeld, Ashcroft or Cheney says the word "imminent." We'll all be so drunk we'll forget what date it is anyhow.

Posted by at 04:06 PM | Permalink | Comments (25)

SummerMix2: new world order

There were a couple of summers that my life was all about cheesy new wave and a club called Spit and spiking my hair up. This is the playlist for those summers:

The Smiths - This Charming Man
Tin Tin - Kiss Me
Trans X - Living on Video
Intaferon - Get Out of London*
The Alarm - 68 Guns
Aztec Camera - Oblivious
B-52's - Planet Claire
Blancmange - Living on the Ceiling
Fiction Factory - Feels Like Heaven
Gang of Four - To Hell With Poverty
Heaven 17 - Fascist Groove Thing
New Order - Blue Monday
Yello - I Love You
Split Enz - I Got You
Thomas Dolby - Radio Silence
Malcolm McClaren - Buffalo Gals

*pretty sad that one of my favorite obsucre 80's songs is now on an Olsen Twins soundtrack, eh?

I have the feeling this summer will be the summer that Eminem song plays repeatedly in my head.

Posted by at 08:48 AM | Permalink | Comments (14)

More summer stories: 1976:

I'm still in this summer mode. I've only just begun.

Summer memory: On my 14th birthday I received Frampton Comes Alive. I sat with my friends behind 7-11, drinking beer hidden in Slurpee cups and smoking cigarettes. I had the album with me, in all it's vinyl glory, and my eyes glazed over in that 14 year-old girl way whenever I looked at the picture of Frampton on the cover. That hair! Those eyes! Swoon!

I never confessed that I didn't really like Frampton's music. I liked his hair. Ok, I went crazy over three songs on the album but the rest was crap. But I was cool for having it, and we went back to my house and listened to the stupid wah-wah pedal thing and when you are 14 and you just smoked some pot and the record player is emitting sounds of "do you feel like we do" played through some voice synthesizer, all you think about is some Charlie Brown special where the teachers are doing that wah-wah-wah voice and maybe playing some air guitar to Show Me The Way.

Holy shit! I was smoking pot at 14? You mean I only have about two years before my daughter comes home reeking of resin and bong water?

Anyhow. As much as Frampton's hair and synthersizer amused me, I had other musical avenues to explore. 1976 was the year the Ramones debuted. Kiss's Destroyer came out that year. Blue Oyster Cult's Agents of Fortune. Thin Lizzy's Jailbreak. And even though I had all that metal running through my brain, there was no way to avoid the musical vomit that came out of the tinny AM receiver that summer.

How many times could you hear Rick Dees singing Disco Duck before you wanted to go deaf? The song that defined my summer of 1976 in the worst way possible was Starland Vocal Band's Afternoon Delight. Sure, I was too naive to know the song was about catching a little noontime nookie but it annoyed the piss out of me anyhow. On one end of the radio dial you had Gordon Lightfoot mourning his Edmund Fitzgerald and on the other end was a constant barrage of More, More, More and Fly, Robin, Fly. I would always hope that somewhere in between I would catch Play That Funky Music, White Boy and I would close my bedroom door and do some spastic dance while pretending to be ultra cool.

I wore my Disco Sucks button with pride. And I spent hours in my air-conditioned bedroom dreaming up ways to change the music industry. I wrote my own lyrics, 4-chord save-the-world type lyrics that would show those white suit wearing disco freaks that there was more to life than dancing.

Save the whales, Save the whales
Send your money through the mail.

Later on, I would form a band called Pond Scum with my little sister and we would have revolutionized the music industry if we only knew how to play an instrument. Even though Lisa could bang out the Theme from M*A*S*H* on the recorder, we didn't think that was quite enough.

I would lay in bed that summer listening to the radio and Nazareth's Love Hurts would come on and I would cry. At 14, I knew nothing of love or hurt, but I knew that the voice coming out of my speakers did and his hoarse cry of sadness always made me feel as if love were nothing to look forward to.

1976 was the bicentennial of our nation, and while I remember the fireworks and the ships in the harbor what I remember most is the local theater only charging 76 cents to see a movie for the rest of the summer. Maybe we saw the Bad News Bears or maybe it was Blood Sucking Freaks, all I know is that at some point in 1976 I saw Burnt Offerings in a movie theater and complained that there wasn't enough gore or scares and that Oliver Reed gave me the creeps. And that year there was Carrie, which made me vow to never go to a prom or date John Travolta, and Taxi Driver, which made me leery of cab drivers and Robert DeNiro and Logan's Run, which made me think of plot holes and bad acting.

1976 was the year that there was all that hoopla about Red Dye #2 and I had to stop eating maraschino cherries by the dozen.

1976 was the last summer I remember feeling so innoncent, so oblivious to the world around me. 1977 brought the Son of Sam and loot-filled blackouts and the feeling that the world wasn't about some pop song and summer would never mean quite the same to me. At least not until 1978. But that's another story.

(And just for the record, Summer of Sam was one of the worst movies I have ever seen in my life)

Posted by at 05:20 AM | Permalink | Comments (17)

Bad idea:

A group of people wants to turn September 11th into God Bless America Day. (link via Amy).

Let me detail for them all the ways in which this idea is just wrong. (This is an actual email I sent to them).

To the founders of God Bless America Day,

I'm sure you think your idea is the greatest thing since Thanksgiving was invented, but I do have some questions for you, and some ideas for you to ponder. Let's take it from the top, shall we? (all quotes in italics are taken directly from their website)

A new holiday remembering all victims of terrorism

All victims? Then why call it god bless AMERICA day? Many victims of the World Trade Center disaster were not Americans. They came from Australia, Canada, Germany, Ireland, just to name a few. Are you memorializing the victims of a tragedy, or the fact that this tragedy happened in your country?

But September 11th was not the first act of terrorism. Don't forget Oklahoma City.

Oklahoma City, an act of terrorism perpetrated by an American on Americans. So when we ask god to bless America, does that include the American people who commit acts of terrorism?

And we will ask God to protect us from future acts of terrorism, too.

Personally, I don't think this will work. I'm sure that after the first World Trade Center bombing, and after Oklahoma City, there were thousands of people asking god to protect the country from future acts of terrorism. We see how that turned out. And are you asking god to just protect America from future acts of terrorism, or the world at large?

This is a day that is looking for a name. We should establish God Bless America Day before a bad nickname sticks. Whenever you hear someone clumsily refer to that day as "nine-one-one" or even "nine-eleven" you should jump right in with "Why don't we call it "God Bless America Day?"

Why does this day need a name? 9-11 is not really a nickname. It's the date it happened. If it happened on October 18, it would be referred to as 10-18. And honestly, if anyone ever jumps into my conversation with the phrase "why don't we call it god bless America day," I will tie them down to the nearest chair and make them listen to all the reasons why this is NOT a good idea.

Some people think there is no place for God in America. They will say that we can't have a holiday with the word "God" in its name, much less one that is observed as a national day of prayer.

See, the real question here is, which god are you talking about? The Christian god? The Roman Catholic god? The god prayed to by Hindus or Muslims or Wiccans or Jews? They are not all one and the same. There are thousands of different gods prayed to daily by the myriad of religious observers who are Americans.

I'm not saying there is no place for god in America. But there is no place for god in a nationally recognized holiday. What about the atheists and the agnostics and the ethical humanists and all the other people who do not believe in a god? Why create a memorial holiday that only applies to some Americans and not all?

God Bless America Day will remind everyone that we are not an all-powerful nation. We are vulnerable. We DO need God's help. We must ask God to bless America.

How exactly is god going to help us? Do you think that the people trapped inside the World Trade Center didn't pray fervently that they would get out alive? Did god bless them or help them? What makes you so righteous that you think if you slap god's name on a national holiday that he will suddenly cover America in his blessings? Do you realize how many people a day pray to god for help and don't get it? The starving children, the people dying of diseases, the homeless man huddled against the rain in a cardboard box, the child being beaten by his own parents? These people pray every day, too. They ask god to bless them. They ask for his help. They die.

And why just America? Why not ask god to bless Canada and Italy and Africa, too? Why do you think he would bless just one country? We are not the only nation to fall victim to terrorism. Does Israel ring a bell to you? Do you see them lobbying for a national day of prayer to bless their country?

Yes, we have been attacked. But with a new resolve, and with God's help, we will rise up together and defeat terrorism. We will bring all terrorists to justice and we will make America a safe place to live peaceful lives.

Ok then. Let's just get rid of our Armed Forces. Who needs weapons and the Army when god is fighting your war for you. Oh, just a thought. Do you think that maybe the people in Afghanistan are praying also? Perhaps they think god is going to help them, too. What a conundrum for god, then!

God Bless America Day will be different from Thanksgiving Day. And what's wrong with having TWO days of prayer?

I had no idea that Thanksgiving was a religious holiday. I thought it was a day of giving thanks, celebrated by all Americans, not just Americans who pray.

This is a bad idea all around. There are many Americans who do not pray, who do not believe in a god. There are many people who are American citizens but who have ties to other countries. Are they allowed to ask god to bless those countries, too?

I am not trying to deny your right to prayer. I am not denying that your god exists. I don't know the answer to that, I only know what I don't believe. If you honestly believe that prayer will help, by all means go and pray. But do not force your beliefs upon me in a national day of prayer to god. Do not ask the millions of people who practice different religions and beliefs than you to succumb to your ideas of how we should memorialize September 11th and the victims of that day. Do not throw a label on the day, or create a holiday around it. Do not use this act of violence as an impetus to get people to rally around your religion. God does not exist for all of us. And if he does exist, he is not a magician. Creating a holiday in his name will not cure what ails this world. Man made this mess, and only man can get us out of it.

Posted by at 06:34 AM | Permalink | Comments (112)

Summer songs: a playlist

Codeseven - Boys of Summer (original: Don Henley)
Type O Negative - Summer Breeze (original: Seals and Croft)
Bananarama - Cruel Summer
Sublime - Doin Time
Deftones - My Own Summer
Husker Du - Celebrated Summer
Danzig - Dirty Black Summer
Mungo Jerry - In the Summertime
Style Council - Long Hot Summer
DJ Jazzy Jeff & Fresh Prince - Summertime
Frank Sinatra - Summer Wind

Add your own, title need not contain summer.

Posted by at 07:01 PM | Permalink | Comments (18)

Notes:

I am keeping a blog of my photo essays. I would like to do more of them, so I made a special place to keep them.

I would like to thank everyone who has sponsored me so far for the Blogathon, but I can't because there seems to be a glitch in Blogathon's notification system. I know they are working on it, but in the meantime if you sponsored me, please let me know so I can make a list on my sidebar.

Posted by at 07:52 AM | Permalink | Comments (9)

Summer of fear

It's not the heat or the elecricity that summer storms bring. There is a crackling in the air, a underlying current that every once in a while sends a suprised shudder up your spine.

It's called Fear. This is the Summer of Fear.

I had a summer like this once, when the Son of Sam was on the loose and you could see the panic in the eyes of every brown-haired girl. But that was an isolated, specific fear. Brown-haired lovers in New York, parked in their cars sealing summer romances.

Now, it's all of us. It's not just one crazed man who hears the bark of a dog telling him to kill. It's hundreds of crazed fanatics, and the fear they are instilling in us is only bolstered by the Axis of Panic known as media, government, conspiracy theorists.

They're coming for us and they are coming by land, by sea, by air. They have packed guns and bombs and airborne diseases and it's only a matter of time before they release the dogs of hell upon us. If you believe everything you hear or see, that is. Do you? Even if you believe only half of it, or a quarter of it, it doesn't matter. The unease has already settled into the air like a virus. It's contagious.

Every low flying plane or helicopter is regarded with suspicion. A clap of thunder can make you jump. A siren. A special news bulletin.

Fourth of July is coming. Independence Day. Perhaps they will shroud their dirty bombs in the explosions of hundreds of fireworks exploding over New York. The scrolling news underneath the talking heads on CNN assures us that the Fourth of July would be a perfect time for them to strike. Symbolism.

Or maybe, as the scrollbar on MSNBC says, it will be where we least expect it, when we least expect it. Maybe July 3, not July 4. Maybe not New York or Las Vegas. Maybe Casper, Wyoming. Just to throw us off.

As we approach September all over again, the sense of panic and dread that surrounds us grows. Has it been almost a year already? Do we have to relive that date all over again? How many of us will stay home from work on that day, afraid to leave the house? How many of us are already living like that, our brains fried into a permanent saute of panic, fear and unrest by too many newspaper headlines?

We almost forgot about bin Laden, didn't we? There was talk of Saddam to fill in the gap, always another evil enemy to take the place of the ones we couldn't capture. Like in any comic book, the evil guys eventually come back, with bigger plans and bigger devil horns and when you though they were dead, it sort of adds to the impact, to the element of surprise. Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water, the water turns out to be shark infested.

Summer of Fear. That's what this is. No matter how much you say you do not fear them, you don't believe the hype, you don't watch the news, I am willing to bet that the drone of a crop duster flying over your house will send you running for a gas mask. I'm willing to bet that you feel it. You feel the the blanket of unease that our own security agencies have covered us with.

I'm waiting for the comic book ending. For the superheroes to band together and form an alliance and kick the shit out their enemies. Or at least foil their evil plans and put us all back into our safe, comfortable place, where panic doesn't spark the air, where our lives don't exist in a constant state of elecricity, like we just collectively stepped on a third rail.

This is our Summer of Fear. I think I'll just spend it poolside, in a constant state of denial. Anyone want to join me?

Posted by at 06:51 AM | Permalink | Comments (16)

Photo essay: summer is

Summer has arrived, and with it the heat and humidity have made me cranky and begging for autumn. Summer is for children, I think. That is, until I take camera into hand and view the beauty and joy of this season through a lens.

Summer comes with the start of something new, seeds planted in the spring and waiting for the heat and rain of this season to bring them to life. Summer starts with the end of another season, defeat sealed in a hazy heat of handshakes.

Summer is ominous storms that bring soaking rains, feeding the flowers and giving fresh color and life to the earth, leaving bright sunshine ten minutes after the storm has begun.

Summer is the smiles on the faces of children, looking forward to seemingly endless days of playing, catching , kicking, jumping. Summer is submerging yourself in the freedom of the days and not wanting to come up for air.

Summer is hiding from the bugs, and maybe even tasting a few of them.

It's decadent evening barbecues, the night ending by taking out the telescope and scanning the amazing summer night sky.

Summer is long drives to upstate New York, where the lake cools us off as we swing through the days.

Summer is here and despite the heat, there are so many things about it to savor.

Posted by at 07:10 AM | Permalink | Comments (14)

Death dream

Three nights ago I had a dream that Justin went for a walk in the middle of the night. When he stopped in front of the deli to light a cigarette, a car hit him, throwing him off to the side of the road and killing him. The car took off and the deli owner came out later to find Justin's lifeless body laying by the curb.

I woke up with feeling that the dream was frighteningly real.

Very early Thursday morning, in my town (but not at the location in my dream), a 54 year old man went for a walk. He was hit by a car and killed. The driver took off, leaving the man's body lying at the curb. In front of a deli. The owner of the deli (the article says neighbor but it was actually the deli owner) found the man's body when he went to open his store in the morning.

Did I make this happen or did I know it was going to happen?

Either answer is NO, I know that. But still, it's left me feeling a bit weird.

Posted by at 06:05 AM | Permalink | Comments (16)

Michele is....

Fredo pointed out a fun new google game. Type in your name with the word is after it (you have to use quotation marks around the search or google will ignore the word is). So I put in "michele is" and came up with these gems:

Michele is a men's 1770 dress coat
Michele is available to come
Michele, is a professional stage hypnotist
Michele is ready to recharge your batteries
Michele is overpowered and tied to a fence by a group of men
Michele is back on the streets
Michele is everything I have ever wanted in a heterosexual woman
Michele is better than all the cups of coffee in the world and far more lasting
Michele is 28 going on Yoda
Michele is a Swedish cultural institution
Michele is quite clearly in the age of mastery
Michele is climate controlled
Michele is in fact a woman - and a damn fine looking one at that
Michele is touched daily

A silly way to kill a few minutes. So what are you?

Posted by at 04:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (35)

Ode to my sister on her 33rd birthday

Sister Lisa
(sung to the tune of Night Ranger' "Sister Christian")

sister Lisa oh the time's arrived
this time next year you will be a bride, oh yea
Sell your WASP albums and your concert tee's
Get your head out of the 80's, conform...to the norm

head bangin'
with your hair sprayed up so high
blue make-up on your eyes
blasting bon jovi's cries

babe you know you grew up so fast
it was just yesterday when i kicked your ass - ok - its the other way
Sister Lisa you brought me so many joys
locked me in a closet and broke my toys
Its' true, I knew

Sister Lisa now the time has come
to admit you were the favorite one of mom...and dad
Times have changed and you're a grown up now
But you kept your teenage ways somehow, somehow

head bangin'
with your hair sprayed up so high
blue make-up on your eyes
blasting dio's cries

but you're still rockin
yea you're still rockin

Happy birthday, Lisa!

Posted by at 11:15 AM | Permalink | Comments (14)

Field day images

Posted by at 08:58 AM | Permalink | Comments (8)

Final answer

On July 27, during the 24 hour blogathon, I will be blogging for the Daniel Pearl Foundation.

The Daniel Pearl Foundation was formed in memory of journalist Daniel Pearl to further the ideals that inspired Daniel's life and work. The foundation's mission is to promote cross-cultural understanding through journalism, music, and innovative communications.

The Foundation is considering the following projects:

Awards, competitions, and internships that encourage creative, thought-provoking international journalism committed to truth and dialogue.

Children's books, radio programs, print journalism, and Internet forums that expose youth around the world to different cultures and religions.

I'm all signed up! Sponsor me here

Thanks in advance to everyone who will sponsor me or just keep me awake that night.

Posted by at 10:09 AM | Permalink | Comments (35)

Missing

I'm going to jump in with some other people and say that the Smart case is not what it appears to be. Just a vibe I got from the beginning, and my inner psychic vibe machine (yep, I really have one) was beeping from the start of this one. I have my theories. Most of them point to Elizabeth herself. Just a thought. Anyhow, where I was going with this:

Tell me, what is the difference between this and this? Why does Elizabeth smart get 24 hour press coverage and Alexis Patterson is only getting a small story every two weeks or so? Why does one hold national interest and the other is only a blip on the radar screen?

2,000 kids are reported missing every day. Why does the story of Elizabeth Smart grab all the headlines? Is it because she is a rich, white, religious honor student? Does Alexis Patterson not get sweeping coverage because she is a black girl from a poor neighborhood? Does Elizabeth's story make for better sound bites?

I'm just curious as to why the nation is hanging on every word of the Smart family and the investigators, why millions of people are holding their breath for the safe return of this girl, and the other 1,999 people who went missing that day, and Alexis Patterson remain buried in newspaper filler stories.

Posted by at 06:16 AM | Permalink | Comments (27)

You knew I would all along

I'm going to do it. I'm taking the plunge. The deciding factor was that the kids will be in Cleveland that whole week with their dad and his girl and her kids (yes, people do go to Cleveland for vacation. Go figure). So this means that I can recuparate in peace, maybe even take the day off on Monday and rest some more. It's been ages since I stayed up 24 hours. I'm such a wuss, I know.

The only question that remains is what charity should I blog for? I have narrowed it down to four, and each one means something to me in some way. Take a look at them, make your pick and comment. Winner takes all.

The Crohn's/Colitis Foundation
AMT Children of Hope
Variety Child Learning Center
Nassau County Firefighter's Burn Center
Squad Co. 252 Fallen Firefighters Fund

Worthy causes, all.

Posted by at 07:53 PM | Permalink | Comments (18)

Flirting lessons: a grade 3 Primer

DJ embarasses me yet again, at Raising Hell:

“Do you have any idea what your son is doing?” she says, predictably.
“Do I want to know?”
“He is standing at the front door trying to pick up a 17 year old girl.”

Posted by at 03:51 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)

Instapoll part 2: you decide my fate

I'm rethinking my stance on the blogathon.

Not only will I most likely go ahead and do it, but I am going to pull a double. Raising Hell and here. At least at RH, I'll have help. And Mike has promised to help keep me awake with entertaining Instant Message conversations.

I have charities I want to blog for. The Crohn's/Colitis Foundation. AMT Children of Hope. A slew of others to choose from.

I could conceivably stay up for 24 hours. I could. Really.

Ok, this is where you decide for me. Voting stays open all day today. Yes or No. Do I blog myself into a coma on July 27th or not? The decision is up to YOU.

Posted by at 07:41 AM | Permalink | Comments (23)

5:45am:scratch ass and yawn

I'm in a rut. Not in my life, but in the day to day, minute to minute ways in which I go about my life.

Get up the same time every morning. Follow the exact same routine: Put on glasses to keep from crashing into kitchen counter. Turn on computer. Make coffee. Take shower. Put in laundry.

Then I sit at the computer. I realize today that I have an exact, never to be deviated from routine that I go through every morning. Check blog for comments. Check stats. Obsess over hits, then chastise self for obessesing over hits. Check mail in both places. Reply if necessary. Delete spam from Indonesian man who wants me to take part in a bank heist. Read local news, laugh at idiots who seem to gather in large groups around these parts. Read CNN. Get disgusted over the state of the world.

Wait, time out. Take out laundry, put in dryer. Put more laundry in. More coffee. Take Paxil.

Ok back to the computer. Read some blogs. Talk to Mig on AIM. Try to get inspired. Write insipid post detailing every move you make in the morning, leaving out that part where you go into the bathroom and close the door.

And so it goes the rest of the day, following exact instructions that are written down in my brain, packing first Natalie's lunch, then DJ's, stop at store for gum and water, take the same exact route to work, varying only when the driver in front of me annoys me to the point of murderous rage and I have to turn off somewhere before I act upon the urge.

I need change. I need to break the routine. I mean, many things happen during the course of the day that don't happen every single day. Each night brings something different - another place to be, another trip to the store, another family outing. It's how I get to these things and the moments around them that are driving me crazy. No matter what I do I cannot stop myself from opening my office door, making coffee, turning on computer, sorting mail. In that order. Every day.

I want to make a left at that light some day. I want to make the second pot of coffee at 2:00 instead of 1:45. I want to take a different way home, and when I get home reverse the order of my routine. Check messages, kick off shoes, look longingly at the bed. No, no. Kick off shoes, check messages, stare blankly into the fridge. Just the thought of rearranging my nicely planned out routine is enough to make me break out in hives.

I like the knowing. I like having a plan in my mind and everything all structured and detailed, and I can get from point A (morning) to point B (bedtime) by following a graph that is drawn only in my brain and maybe relying on my mental pie chart once in a while.

What happens when my neat little plan gets messed with? When there is a traffic detour or a kid gets sick or I wake up late? The rest of the day is garbage. It soils everything. On those days even my hair won't cooperate and I go to work looking like I just fucked someone in the back seat of my car, with my hair poofing out all over the place and my wrinkled shirt and inside out sweater. And by the time I am driving home from work, I am screaming out the window at little old ladies who are just trying to get across the street and I may kick my uncle's dog as I get out of the car and everyone knows. Stay out of my way.

Ok, gotta go. 5:31. Time for the second cup of coffee.

Posted by at 05:33 AM | Permalink | Comments (8)

Instapoll: Blogathon edition

Should I do the blogathon 2002? If you think I should, what charity should I blog for? Do you think I could actually stay awake for the 24 hours straight necessary? Am I out of my mind? Would you sponsor me if I entered? Would you supply alcohol, drugs or blogging material?

Answer all or some. Persuade or disuade me.

Disuade me. Please.

Posted by at 11:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (16)

Filler

I wake up from a dream about Shel, where he was despondent over something and I could not console him because I had to spend an hour digging through dirt looking for the catch to a brand new necklace.

I sit up, eyes wide open, totally awake. My keys. I have no clue where my keys are. I have my car key, because I gave it to the window guy the other day, but the rest of my keys....clueless. I need them to get into my office. Was my dream telling me to dig through dirt? If so, too bad. I ain't digging anywhere this early in the morning. Shel? Do you have my keys?

I am awake and exhausted and it's on 5am and I am thinking about how many hours it is until I can get back into bed. Why is it I want to sleep only when I can't? When I do finally crawl into bed at night, I want to be anywhere but there. But during the day, all I want to do is crawl under my desk and take a nap.

I started three different posts this morning. One about how I hate waking up to another day with W. as our president. But it was too depressing to write. Another about death and destruction and our planet slowly eradicating itself, but I'm not in that frame of mind. One about...well, I don't remember what that one was.

I am not obligated to write here every morning. No one is going to come knocking on my door to arrest me if I haven't posted some drivel in this spot before 7am. But it has become so ingrained into my routine, so much a part of my day, that it would seriously fuck up my psyche for the day if I did not do it. I am a slave to routine. If I left this spot alone one day, I would be walking around like I had an inner ear infection, off balance and crying in pain.

Sometimes my strict adherence to a schedule of events annoys me. What if I want to make the coffee last, instead of first? What if I want to open boss 1's office door, then boss 2, instead of boss 3, 2, 1? I think I would need to lay down, that's what if.

So I write here, even if it's only a meandering series of words designed to look like coherence but is really just filler. I write here because, even though I have nothing to say at the moment and I'm sure I will have a plethora of things to say later on, it is 5:30 am and I must get on with the rest of my morning list of things to and the order in which to do them.

Tap.Tap.Tap. My fingers drum on the desk as I pour over CNN and Newsday looking for stories to sink my teeth into. There are a ton of them. But they all make me alternately angry or sad and I don't feel like doing that right now, not with my eyes half closed and my brain 3/4 closed and my fingers working so furiously to type this nonesense in, and who am I to not listen to my fingers as they tell me I do not want death and destruction and the demise of clean air and skies today. They want frivolity. They want gibberish. Well, they got it.

Did you know that I hate carbonation? I don't drink soda. The only time I will take just a few sips of soda is when I have pizza. Because soda and pizza, they just go together. Like open toe sandals and summer. Like Radiohead and a rainy day. Like ramamlamaramalamaramalamadingdong.

A small victory: more filler than a fat-free hot dog.

Gotta find my keys.

Posted by at 05:37 AM | Permalink | Comments (10)

Ode to a hotdog

(or: the delirious thoughts that come into your head while an incredibly self-absorbed person is talking to you.)

ode to a hotdog

i think that i shall never eat
a substance more devoid of meat
than the hot dog i ate last night
but damn, i did eat every bite.
and when i was done i ate another
so did my sister and my mother
i would have gone for three or four
if there had been any more.

hot dogs are the food of gods
despite the arteries they clog
in the oven, on the grill
floating in a watery swill
mustard (yellow), saurkraut
that's what summer's all about
pile them high upon the plates
don't talk to me about nitrates

no turkey, tofu, chicken filler
real meat hot dogs are what's killer
so please don't call me a big ol' meanie
when i won't share my all-beef weenie.

Posted by at 04:12 PM | Permalink | Comments (19)

Declaration

Jhames wants us to declare our love. Now that I'm trying to write not-so-hokey wedding vows, or at least compose something light and airy yet full of hokiness that I can read at our wedding, this would be a perfect opportunity to declare my love for Justin, and why I love him so.

It's not just about the compatibility and our shared obessions with comic books and action figures and spending all of our money on DVDs. It's not just about the sex and our willingness to indulge each other's fantasies. It's not just about that lustful attraction that is still as strong as ever. I love him because of all those things, but not limited to those things.

I love him because, after more than three years, I still get butterflies in my stomach when he looks at me.

Because he knows how to say he's sorry.

Because he very rarely has anything to be sorry for.

Because he doesn't care that sometimes I am a complete slob when it comes to housekeeping.

Because he does most of the cleaning.

Because he loves to cook.

Because we giggle when we watch cartoons together.

Because he never makes fun of me when I watch Lifetime movies.

Because he makes fun of me when I listen to cheesy 80's new wave, but in a good-spirited kind of way.

Because he listens to Sade and doesn't care who knows.

Because he cried when Natalie said Happy Father's Day to him.

Because he spends hours playing baseball and soccer with DJ, even though he hates playing both those things.

Because he never secretly lets DJ win at video games.

Because he shares his beloved colored pencils with Natalie.

Because he taught me how to enjoy a foot massage.

Because when I have to run out the door five minutes after I get home from work and I don't get back in until 9pm, there is a hot dinner and fresh pot of coffee waiting for me.

Because when he crawls into bed an hour after me, he will wake me up just to tell me he loves me and ask me if I have enough pillows, enough blankets, enough love.

Because he knows that loving me is loving my flaws, too.

Because he never tries to hide his own flaws or make excuses for them.

Because he never makes me feel lazy when I want to spend Saturday afternoon on the couch, taking turns sleeping and eating nachos.

Because he stuck it out through some very harsh emotional times with me.

Because his smile lights up a room and his laugh is contagious.

Because he loves me with a love that is so fierce and so strong it makes me cry when I think about it.

Because he is really good in bed. And on the floor. And in the car.

Because he recognizes my moods instantly and knows how to ply me with oatmeal raisin cookies or a kiss on the back of my neck.

Because he always recognizes my need for space and no longer pouts when I ask for it.

Most of all because he has made me love who I am.

Because. A million becauses. A million reasons why I want to spend the rest of my life with a man who is 18 years younger than me but so much more mature than me in many respects. A million reasons why he is my soulmate and my perfect partner. Because I will never in a hundred million years ever find anyone who lets me just be me like Justin does. Because we both realize that perfection is not flawless, that perfect is a skinned knee, that flaws and bad habits and ugly birthmarks make us human and make us that much more loveable.

That is love.

Posted by at 05:08 AM | Permalink | Comments (17)

Wedding planner

We have really, finally set an official date for the wedding.

We are getting married on my 40th birthday, August 25th, in my parent's backyard. I can't think of a better way to welcome my 40's in.

And to prove that Paxil is really working, I have given up all of my control freak sensibilities and handed my sister a blank check to plan the entire wedding, from invitations to food to whatever else it is you do at backyard weddings. I will know nothing until I get there that morning.

We have opted for the "party atmosphere" wedding, with none of the traditional trappings. I did that once already. Didn't quite work out that time. So we are just having a big old barbeque for 70 of our closest friends and relatives (including some of you New Yorkers and future New Yorkers - and you and you will fly in, right?).

*This just added: Entertainment will be performed by Melly, who will do a ventriloquist act with Mattie.

Two months. I'm getting married in two months.

Posted by at 03:15 PM | Permalink | Comments (35)

Fatherhood

A poem for my dad on father's day, 2002

when i was little
i knew one kind of father
the kind that tells stories
and makes pizza
and pull splinters out of your feet

and the older i get
the more the more i know
of how hard it is to love your kids
to the moon and back
without ever once
wanting to jump ship

Thank you dad, for sticking by me, for always being there, for accepting me for who I am, and most of all, for being there to fill in the spaces in Natalie and DJ's lives.

Posted by at 01:56 AM | Permalink | Comments (7)

Kiddie consumerism

A quick run through the grocery store reveals several things:

1) We are in the era of convenience. Possibly to the point of calling it the era of laziness instead.
2) Packaging has gone out of control. I thought that by now most companies would be of the tree-hugging variety and offer minimal packaging instead of boxes that take 5 hours and three different types of pliers to open.
3) The health and nutrition of children is of paramount importance to no one in particular.

I see a woman in the vitamin/drug aisle. She is filling her cart with all kinds of natural remedies. Green tea and ginseng pills and some vitamin made out of onions and garlic and split pea soup that allows you to have twice the energy of your ordinary superhero. Also in her cart are 4 boxes of high-sugar cereal, 2 oversized packages of Oreos and a case of Code Red Mountain Dew. Mixed messages in that wagon.

I stand in the cereal aisle, scanning the shelves and feeling thankful and a bit smug that my children like "healthy" cereal like Special K with strawberries and Rice Krispies. Cookie Crisp makes me gag. A bowl of cookies for breakfast? Doesn't that seem a bit absurd? Breakfast cereals made with Reeses and Nesquik and maple syrup. Mmmm delicious and nutritious! When I was young, at least they called them what they were. Sugar Pops, not Corn Pops. That's right, the word SUGAR was right there on the front of the box. Now they just pretend to be healthy. At least my parents were honest about it. Here, have some sugar, dear. Now it's, Who wants corn for breakfast?!

These kids today. Everything has to be bright and flavorful and represent their favorite television/movie icon. As an adult, I find it quite disturbing to submurge Buttercup in a bowl of milk and then munch on her. I bought the SpongeBob crackers and the SpongeBob mac and cheese, but I can't bring myself to chew Patrick's head. Don't even get me started on the Nsync gummies. They have a moist liquid center that squirts a refereshing blob of Timberlake into your mouth when you suck on them! Eww.

Nothing is ever left alone. Ketchup is purple and green and pink. Margarine comes in colors. French fries come slathered in chocolate and cinnamon. Margarine tubs talk to you. Applesauce is blue.

Sometimes I wonder, do these things appeal more to the kids or the adults. I have seen more grownups squealing over Star Wars cereal and Kellogg's Mickey Magix than kids.

I know that convenience appeals to adults. Looking in people's shopping carts I can see that it is all about pre-packaged, pre-cooked foods. Meals in a box for people on the go. Doesn't anyone cook anymore? Doesn't anyone like to linger over a simmering meal, stirring and basting and boiling? No? Is everyone in that much of a rush?

Not me. Nope, not me. You will not find