Thursday, January 22, 2015

The Dyeds vs. the Whites

First, it was the Bloods vs. the Crips.

Then, Coke vs. Pepsi.

Now, there's a new rivalry tearing at the knitted fabric of our nation.

The Dyeds vs. the Whites. Hair color, that is.

It's a battle so fierce that it's ravaging retirement homes, requiring defibrillators in super markets across the country. It is a rivalry revealed in a whisper over the card table, a sideways look from under the dryer at the hair dresser. There is a reason why so many older women take blood pressure medication.  This is it.

If you've ever been in a doctor's waiting room and noticed the look of a White's face when seated next to a Dyed, then you've seen the rivalry in its purest form. It's a momentary thought of transforming one's cane into a weapon, of waving one's manicured nail at a member of the opposite hair preference, of yelling, "Shut the front door!" when another asks if Dr. Goldstein is running late.

In an effort to bring this underground hair color rivalry to the forefront of our collective consciousness, let me break it down for you:

Elderly ladies who dye their hair look down upon those who let their hair turn white. And, the Whites have an equal and opposite prejudice to those who dye.

You need not look any further than a retirement home dining room. It is total segregation.

Whites on one side. Dyeds on the other.

There is no mingling, no inter-hair dating, no recognition of the other group's humanity whatsoever.

These ladies have learned nothing since Brown v. Board of Education.

Why the great hair divide?

The Dyeds believe that the Whites are frumpy, careless in their appearance, old before their time. The Whites believe that the Dyeds are vain, narcissists, trying to hold on desperately to their youth.

I once believed that this prejudice was one-sided and limited to a certain red-headed hot Gram whom I know and love. I often questioned her, "Why don't you ever make lunch plans with 'Eric's' grandmother? She lives in your building . . . she's smart, interesting, well-traveled?" Gram would just shrug and ignore my question.

"Gram won't call her because she has WHITE HAIR!" my mom interjected.

White hair is the plague to the Dyeds. It is one step away from death and a whole walk through the produce section away from LIVING.

This Dyeds vs. Whites rivalry cuts across regions, class, and possibly race too. An educated, successful White will even snub a distinguished judge if she dyes her hair.

This prejudice is so strong that Gram refuses to speak to her high-rise neighbor. Her next door neighbor! The neighbor's hair is not only white, but FRIZZY too. (God forbid). So, it took Auntie (Gram's sister, with "vanilla hair") to act as a go-between for the Dyeds and the Whites. She recently knocked on the white, frizzy haired neighbor's door, and asked, "If there's ever a fire, could you please bang hard on my sister's door?" White Frizzy just shrugged. Clearly, she's going to rescue her own.

I don't have solutions for this profound problem. But, I think the first step is to recognize that there is a problem. To do my part, I'm holding a building-wide meeting in Gram's high-rise tonight in an attempt to start a dialogue on how to stamp out this hair color prejudice once and for all.

I call Gram to tell her her my idea and she just laughs and quickly changes the topic. "My doctor prescribed a walker for me today," she says.  "He's not sure if I need it . . .  I'm not sure either . . . but if I do get one, I want one of those Burberry walkers."

This is NOT going to sit well with the Whites. I cancel the meeting. Perhaps desegregation is just a dream.

Friday, October 17, 2014

This is the Principal Calling . . .

When you're a mom, sometimes you're simply a secretary. And, for the past month, my phone has been ringing off the hook. Teachers, school counselors, even the vice principal, and, low and behold, the principal. The phone rings and rings. Almost daily.

It starts with a simple dilemma:

"Ah, Mrs. Biscardi, I'm standing here with your son and he doesn't want to . . . (fill in the blank: "come in from recess, join the class, do the art project . . . ")

"Ok, let me speak to him."

"Um . . . He won't pick up the phone."

"PUT ME ON SPEAKER." Then I get right into the role of hostage negotiator because truthfully, my five year old is holding these dedicated educators hostage with his civil disobedience.

When my words, suggestions, and threats over the phone are not convincing, I fly into crisis management mode. I transform into a race car driver next. I stomp on the gas pedal all the way to school, smoke pouring from my engine and my ears. All the while, I'm trying to keep my almost 3 year old from snoozing in the backseat.

"My brudder is not being a good listena," he tells me. He's assessing the situation while sucking his thumb and fluffing his favorite tuft of hair.

As I rush to the school playground to end the hostage crisis, I see my five year old in a silent standoff with the vice principal and the school counselor. Nobody is moving, speaking, smiling. They all turn towards me. I'm sweating bullets, shlepping my sleeping 3 year old angel on my shoulder. (Obviously, I'm at a disadvantage).

"Let's go NOW," I hiss at El Diablo from 20 feet away. He is the only kid left on the playground.

"Recess ended 30 minutes ago," the counselor says, defeated.

"LET'S GO!" I repeat.

"I'll turn my day around!" my son yells, desperately. He starts a slow zig zag jog.

"It's too late. I'm walking to the car and you're coming RIGHT NOW." Now, I'm the clinical psychologist, two months before defending her dissertation.

I nod to the teachers to walk with me, ignoring my son. We get about 100 yards away, watching him, watching us. I feel like a zoo keeper.

All of a sudden, he darts in the opposite direction. At this juncture, I become an attorney, making split second decisions about custody arrangements.

"Here, hold him!" I toss my sleeping toddler to the school counselor. Things are about to go down. I need all of my faculties and extremities free.

I am wearing my running sneakers, thank god, and I morph into an Ethiopian sprinter, chasing my kindergartner down. When I am inches away, he pivots and heads back for the playground. He scales the jungle gym.

I become a superhero, scaling the jungle gym. He slides down the fireman's pole. I slide down the pole. He climbs the steps, two at a time. I climb the steps, four at a time. Finally, I close in on him.

Now, just call me prison warden, because there's no escaping, no negotiating, no funny business. We are walking. Walking, not dragging. Walking. Straight to the car. Walking.

We are attempting to look like a typical mother and son, just walking past the school counselor, who is sitting having a lovely conversation with my three year old.

When we get to the car, my prisoner attempts one last desperate escape. I become a prison guard. I grab his wrist, causing his water bottle attached to his backpack to fling around, ricocheting off of his front teeth. Now, he's bleeding.

"I'm bleeding! I'm bleeding! I need a bandage!" he's freaking out.

I become Nurse Ratched.

"Get in the car! Buckle your seat belt!" Surely, I'm about to get arrested. DHS is on its way.

Should I become a compassionate nurse? A comforting mom?

No way. Not in this moment.

Blood is trickling down his mouth. I can see it in my rear view mirror.


"I'm bleeeeeeding!"

The school counselor approaches my car with my toddler. I explain to her that the water bottle hit him and not my fist and that is why he is bleeding and crying and altogether hysterical.

I'm not sure who I become on the car ride home. It's a louder, angrier version of myself.

Everyone is calm upon our arrival home. I'm the clear-headed judge. "You broke the rules, here are the consequences. You will service a sentence of 30 minutes in bedroom arrest, you will clean up your room, and forfeit all electronic devices for the week. You make your own choices, good or bad, and you live with the consequences."

He serves his sentence with no further incident. He asks to eat dinner. It's only 3:30 p.m., but he will suffer the fate of an Early Bed Special tonight.

Next, I become a mediator, helping him to reflect on his poor behavior and right his wrongs with school staff. He writes three apology notes. I help him spell words.

He takes a shower and is back in his room for the night by 5:30. Tonight, he has no other options, privileges, or hope for earning things back.

I can't believe my eyes when I see him sound asleep at 5:45 p.m.  I'm wondering if it's really him or if it's a dummy that he fabricated before he slipped out the window (like escape from Alcatraz). I kiss his cheek and yes, it's him. And, I'm back to being the mom that I was on the morning that he was born five and a half years ago. I'm in awe of his beauty, his peace, and even his innocence in this moment.

The calls are done, emails are quiet. I check the mirror and make sure the person looking back at me isn't some sort of dummy that he's created. Nope, not quite. Just me, with a few more gray hairs. I decide to eat an Early Bird Special too. I'm in bed by 9 p.m. because tomorrow is a new day, which will require new energy, new perspective, and most likely, some new superhero powers.

Saturday, July 12, 2014

Don't Even Think About Leaving Yoga Early . . . Unless You're On a Gurney

There's only one easy way out of this hell and that, my friends, is on a gurney.

Otherwise, you're here for the duration. 90 minutes. And, yes, it will feel more like 5 hours.

The studio is set to a comfortable 90 degrees. Stop rolling your eyes. (It's good for your muscles in the same way that wandering around Nogales, Mexico in 110 degree heat, fending off marriage proposals from shifty men was good for your character).


Did you ever think of balancing your entire body on the palms of your hands and the backs of your arms? Well, do it! NOW.

It doesn't matter that you're losing more electrolytes than you did during childbirth or that you're wishing you had an epidural right about now. This class is for only the most magnificent versions of yourselves. Not for the wimpiest, whiniest versions. (Have them train for a marathon instead).

I can see it in your eyes that you're thinking about leaving class early. That is fear taking over. Are you really going to let fear guide you today? Let it go!

You are NOT leaving early. Don't blame it on the kids, work, low iron, what have you. Your bladder is fine. You can throw up if you want. Rub some Tiger Balm on your muscles and get back on your mat.
You're not leaving this class early. Unless you're on a gurney.


It doesn't matter that today's your first time on your yoga mat.
I don't care if you haven't done yoga in 7 years. Or if you're a man whose wife dragged you here because she thought it would be cute to see you struggle in "tree pose."
Call this an exorcism, fine.
You will be here for the duration of the class.
Until the very last downward f-ing dog.


Don't try to hid in "child's pose" for 20 minutes either. I can still see you over there. I'll sprinkle smelling salts on your yoga mat if need be.

And - just a suggestion - maybe you shouldn't stand next to the wall of candles since your balance is that of a toddler learning to walk. Stop laughing when you fall over or hover perilously close to the butt of the student in front of you. We are adults here. No laughing.


Turn off that noise in your head. You're doing fine. Yes, you're sweating like a nomad in the Sahara, but that's the point. Oh, look at you, you're finally out of "child's pose" and you're attempting a "half-bind." This is your day. Well, that bind was good for a second. Stop letting fear control you and don't even think about leaving this class early. Or I'll kill you.


I see you're not even contemplating an "inversion" or "bridge." Just lay there, fine, whatever. INHALE. EXHALE. I don't care if I have to scrape you off that mat. If we need a gurney, OK. It won't be the first - or last - time.

Breathe in the incense, soak in the dim lights, music, the sound of your heartbeat. Is your heart still beating? Oh, good! You've earned it. Sort of. You may not be the most magnificent version of yourself. But, you're getting there.

Namaste. (I honor the place within you, which is of Love, of Truth, of Light and of Peace).


Thursday, March 20, 2014

Wax on, wax off. Breathe in, breathe out.

It was either the best or worst idea.
To sign him up for karate.
Force him to watch The Karate Kid.
Tell him he looked a little like Ralph Macchio.
To channel Mr. Miyagi and demonstrate how to "wax on, wax off."

He just looked so damn cute in that white uniform, belt tight around his waist.
Within seconds, he went from wild child to the picture of self-discipline.
A poster child for body/mind/spirit/inner energy fitness.

He got to run, kick, punch, yell - all for a good cause and all sanctioned by adults.

It was an entire life transformation for him, so I thought.
They were indoctrinating him. Molding him.

Take off your shoes. 

Salute the flags when you enter or exit the mat. 

Count in Korean.

HANA (1)
DHUL (2)

Take home this job list. Complete it and return it each week. "Make my own bed." "Put my things away." Bonus stripes on your belt for completing these tasks.

The masters were hard core, if not paunchy, middle aged men, who wore black belts, and cared little for small children. It all seemed so perfect.

Day 1, the group applauded my 5 year old son for a great first day of karate. He even followed along with the meditation. He was a natural, the master said. At MEDITATING! (I've often thought he was a natural at negotiating, instigating, escalating, and exasperating, but meditating! I believed for that split second that I had birthed a veritable Buddha).

Yes, this karate class was surely changing our lives one "Hiya!" at a time.

But, then my karate kid started punching things at home. First, pillows. Second, Pop pop. He debuted his ninja moves at a shiva, nearly knocking down 80 year old bereaved women and their walkers.

And, this bad Buddha behavior didn't just take place outside of the karate studio.

Two or three classes in, my karate kid started barking, "Yes, Sir!" (instead of "Ma'am) to the teenage (black belt) girl, assisting the class. His eyes sparkled at me through the floor to ceiling mirror as I watched, holding my breath. "YES, SIR!" he continued. All the other little white and yellow belts snickered, responding, "Yes, ma'am!"

When class was over, he decided to spar with one of the masters. He ran over and flicked the black belt. The 50 year old master brushed off my karate kid's taunts and roundhouse kicks off as if he was brushing off a green fly. His glared over at me, as if to say, "Is your kid REALLY trying to kick my ass?"

I just shrugged. He truly was.

I grabbed my karate kid's belt and dragged him towards the exit.

"You CANNOT fight the black belts!" I warned him on the drive home. "That's like rule #1 in karate!"

"I was just practicing my roundhouse kick!"he responded.

"It's not funny. They are going to throw you out of class!"

"THROW me out?! Oh yeah! I'll just punch . . . "

"I don't mean physically throw you out. They are going to say, 'that kid, he can't come back to class.'"

"Well, they said that I was good at meditating the first day. Remember that?"

I counted to three in Korean and tried meditating myself as we drove home.




Breathe in, breathe out.

Okay, so here were are. Maybe 8 classes in.

He runs and plays tag with the other kids for the first two minutes of class. Then he pulls up a seat and decides he's going to "watch the other kids do karate."

"Ummmmm. No. You either go back over there with the group and do it - or we are going home - and never coming back."

"I'm hot. I'm taking this jacket off." He starts ripping the sparkly white karate uniform jacket off as if it's all of a sudden a straight jacket. All bets that he's the next Buddha are now off.

He's wearing a bright yellow t-shirt and that wild child is right back where he started. He's planted, arms crossed, on a chair.

"You get out there or we are going home."

At this point, his 2 year old brother, Sweet Pea, decides to go sit next to him and talk some reason into him. I hope. But what happens next is that they whisper to one another, giggle, and then race onto the karate floor mat, running circles in opposite directions, nearly over, around, and through the class being led by the most sour master of them all.


"Don't worry, he's leaving!" I yell back.

I throw off my sneakers and salute the Korean flag. (It's the only way onto the mat).

"I'm going to count to three!" I yell. ONE - TWO - THREE!"

The circus continues as sweat drips down my back. I chase after my kids (and, truthfully, I'm not really supposed to be running because I had surgery a few weeks ago).

I'm debating counting to three in Korean just to give the karate kid one more chance, but I can't remember the numbers. I grab Sweet Pea first and rip his shoes off. I salute the flags again on his behalf. I toss him to a spectator/friend because he only weighs 26 pounds and he can still be tossed.

"You are DONE!" I yell at the karate kid.

The other moms stop texting and glance up from their phones to see what Master Mommy is going to do next. I go all ninja and grab him by the arm. I hoist him onto my shoulder - (and, truthfully, I should not be hoisting anyone or anything heavier than 30 pounds, but hopefully my doctor is not reading this). I give the flags a final salute or perhaps an F-U and I fireman carry the karate kid straight out the door, barefoot, kicking and screaming. I lock the car doors.

I breathe in, breathe out. I go back into the karate studio and sweep up Sweet Pea.

"I. do. kayate, mommy!" he says proudly. I kiss his pompadour.

We drive home.
He's in his room for the night.
His karate uniform is in the Halloween costume bin.

Wax on, wax off.
Breathe in, breathe out.

Thursday, February 13, 2014

Letter From an Angel

You either believe in this stuff or you don't.

I definitely believe.

I could tell you half a dozen stories of bizarre/more than coincidental things that have convinced me there is another dimension to life, consciousness, whatever you want to call it.

Here's the latest one:

A classmate from high school, Doug R., recently passed away. I was never close friends with him but I remember him as a nice guy and I was sad to hear via Facebook of his prolonged illness and untimely death. I knew he lived in the same town as me, but that was all I knew.

So, Doug was on my mind.

A few days after his death, I received an envelope in my mailbox addressed to a woman with the same last name as Doug. Immediately, I just knew it was intended for his mother. I felt the weight of a card inside the envelope and I assumed it was a condolence card.

I had no idea where Doug had lived, nor where his mother lived. I went to and looked him up. The hair on my arms stood on end when I saw his most recent address. I could literally see his home from my front door. I knew what I had to do.

I truly felt that the envelope in my hand was Doug's way of saying to me, "Look, see that house RIGHT THERE?! That's where my mom lives! She could use some company. Go and meet her. Introduce yourself."

So that's exactly what I did.

With my two little boys in school, I knocked on Mrs. R's door, her angel son guiding my way.

I said everything a person says to a stranger after the death of their child.

"I'm so terribly sorry to meet you under these circumstances. Doug was a really good guy. He will be remembered."

A huge smile wiped across Mrs. R's face.

"I remember your face," she said. "I was at your high school a lot, and I remember you. I know exactly who you are. Doug was sick for a long, long time. He's at peace now."

His bereaved mother was grinning as tears were filling up in my eyes.

"I have a card for you . . . and I don't know if you believe in this stuff . . . " I started.

"I do!" she said, taking it from my hand.

"This envelope came to my mailbox, addressed to you. I had no idea you lived here. I really believe it was Doug's way of saying, 'Go meet my mom. She's right there!' This envelope could have ended up at any house in this development, but it came to mine."

Mrs. R. smiled and hugged me close.

"Thank you."

A few days later, I told one of my longtime best friends about Doug's passing. Before I could mention anything about the envelope in my mailbox or meeting Doug's mom, she said to me:

"Remember Doug used to steal my mail in 7th grade? He had a crush on me or something . . . "

I nearly spit out my wine. I only then remembered that Doug used to tamper with her mail.

"He used to steal my mail and then put it back into my mailbox a few days later. He was too shy to talk to me or something, so that's what he would do. So weird."

Do you believe it?

Tuesday, December 31, 2013

Two Weeks Notice

Dear Stacy,

It's tough to say, sugar, but it's my time. I am heading south for the winter, and probably, for good.

I've been working overtime for you for the past 5 years and, honey, I'm just plain tired. I have carried those sweet little boys around like they were my own.  I have supported them, sheltered them, and enjoyed (mostly) every minute of watching them grow. But, they're bigger and older now, and they don't need me anymore. You see what I'm saying?

And, you, Stacy, you don't need more anymore either. Sorry to be so blunt, but it's true. Girl, I have been with you through good times and bad. I have danced my ass off at Bat Mitzvahs and weddings with you, mourned at funerals with you, followed you to school, and more school, and even law school. (That was the worst!) I have skied (unwillingly) with you in the Alps, jumped out of a plane with your crazy ass, ran the 10 mile Broad Street Run with you way too many times. I was there at your wedding. Under the chuppah, under your dress. It was magical.

But, you have tired me out. Yes, you inspired me, thrilled me, but sugar, you wore me to pieces. I know that I'm still young, but I have lived more than my fair share of excitement over these past 38 years. You know I've always been a little tilted, pixilated, facocta, whatever you want to call it. Well, these past few years have pushed me into early retirement. After that forceps delivery, I almost quit right there on the spot. But, honey, I knew you needed me to hang on, and I did. Prayed on it every night. Drank some too. We were an incredible team for #2. And look at those handsome boys now!

Stacy, I thank you for you providing me with such stimulating work all of these years.  It has been an honor and a pleasure (most of the time). Please, honey, know that this is not the end for us.  It's just a new beginning. As soon as I get settled into my condo in Boca, I promise that I will write, or twerk, or sext, or whatever the kids are doing these days.


              your friend and uterus,




Dear Yolanda,

I have been in tears since I received your two weeks notice. Please, please, please don't go. You are way too young to retire. Look at Barbara Walters!

I need you.  I really do. I'm sorry that I've worn you out, but I thought our adventure together was just beginning. I thought you would be with our family forever.  Live-in help, preferably.

Look, if it makes you feel better, I won't go for a third. You will just be here to help me chase around the two ninjas. Okay? Nobody else will appear magically, expecting you to carry them everywhere.

Will that change your mind?

You are the heart and soul of this family.

Please, get a grip. You have it really good. Take a moment and reconsider. The new year will lift your spirits.

Begging you,




Dear Stacy,

I'm unpacking my bags. Staying put. But, sugar, I'm going to need a raise. More time at the gym. No more hauling those Poland Spring water tanks around. Forget piggy back rides for children over 3 or under 3 but over 30 pounds. No more Broad Street Run!

And, get this straight, YOU are the heart and soul of this family. (I am just a delightful sidekick).

(singing in the spirit of Jennifer Holliday)
We're part of the same place
We're part of the same time
We both share the same blood
We both have the same mind

And time and time, we've had so much to see and
No, no, no, no, no, no way
I'm not waking up tomorrow morning and finding that there's nobody there

Darling there's no way
No, no, no, no way I'm living without you
I'm not living without you
You see there's just no way, there's no way

Tear down the mountains
Yell, scream and shout like you can say what you want
I'm not walking out
Stop all the rivers, push, strike and kill
I'm not gonna leave you
There's no way I will

And I am telling you
I'm not going
You're the best girl I'll ever know
There's no way I could ever, ever go
No, no, no, no way
No, no, no, no way I'm living without you
Oh, I'm not living without you,
Not living without you
I don't wanna be free
I'm staying, I'm staying
And you, and you, and you,
You're gonna love me!!!


             your friend and uterus, Yolanda