Wednesday, November 25, 2009


When my baby is pounding his plastic aquarium in his crib with his feet and I walk into his pale blue nursery and tell him "Nooooooo," in a sweet tone, he looks up at me with a huge gummy smile, forcing me to smile too. It's a moment I wonder if he'll remember when he's older.

My mom always reminds me of the time when I was three years old, coloring angelically in my bedroom and I got so engrossed in my creation that I colored off the page of the coloring book and right up my bedroom wall. My mom walked in, saw the proud look on my face, and simply had to laugh and tell me how beautiful my drawing was.

As my son grows up, I hope he appreciates how encouraging I am of his unorthodox antics too. Last week at music class, I clapped and hooted while he did the Riverdance on top of a large African drum, while all of the other babies, sitting next to the drum, patted it softly with their fingertips. "That's right, you do your thing, buddy boy," I told him, smiling.

I'm sure a few years from now, I'll egg him on to run down the aisle to the front of a crowded movie theater and put on an "opening act," complete with song, dance and jokes, the way my parents used to encourage me and my sister.

I hope that my baby remembers the first time I put him on a swing at the playground, which made him squeal in joy. I will never forget watching his fly-away hairs on top of his head blow in the breeze and the smile on his face stretch wider and wider.

When I speed him around in a shopping cart or challenge him to a screaming contest at the dinner table, I hope he remembers his Mom-mom and Pop-pop started these wild traditions and he is expected to pass them on. And, speaking of tradition, I can't wait until he can run, so that I can teach him the family tradition of racing one another down the halls of fine hotels to our assigned room.

I hope that my son always know how much joy he has brought to my life. When he's older, I will tell him how I danced in the glistening sun down Chestnut Street to my office on the morning that I found out I was pregnant.

I will tell him how his daddy blabbed to restaurateur, Stephen Starr, a perfect stranger, "Hey Stephen, I'm going to be a dad and you're the only person who knows!" simply because he was so thrilled that he had to tell someone right away. I'm sure he will laugh when I tell him that his daddy bragged to toll collectors on the expressway and long lost college professors via email, weeks before we told our family and friends the great news.

I wonder if my son will recall how I drove to work each morning, rubbing my belly, saying aloud what a psychic I met at a wedding suggested, "We don't care if you're a boy or a girl, we already love you so much, and we can't wait to meet you!" I will never forget how his busy tiny feet would poke me in the sides as I played music for him from every era, calling out the song titles and artists' names like Casey Kasem.

I hope that he remembers dancing with me to Jason Mraz, Bob Marley, Michael Jackson and yes, the Wiggles, the way I remember waltzing with my Gram up and down her linoleum kitchen floor.

I hope that my son remembers how his daddy carefully poured warm water over him, as if he was basting a turkey, while he reclined in his baby tub. I hope he knows that his daddy perfected the "Biscardi Burrito," otherwise known as the swaddle, to make sure our baby was always warm. If I buy my boy fuzzy red feet-in pajamas until he is 15, like my dad used to do, I hope he forgives me.

When my baby's tiny fingers trace down my face, reminding me of the way my dad used to trace an imaginary line between three beauty marks on my cheek, I hope he sees the sparkle in my eye.

I hope that he overhears me on my cell phone, while he's snuggled up in his car seat, telling his daddy, numerous times a day, "He's just the sweetest boy in the whole world."

I hope that he remembers me wiping his tears and rocking him in his soft blue glider, the way my mom rocked me on her lap, when I was 29 years old, on the day my grandfather died.

I hope that he never forgets the thousands of times I have kissed his hands, the way my grandfather kissed mine the last night of his life.

I hope that my boy always remembers that he willed his way into the world and truly earned his name. I wonder if he'll remember the very first time I held him and whispered to him, "I'm going to love you every day for the rest of your life."

Will he forget these tiny moments or will they somehow shape the mosaic of his soul?

When he lays his head down, sucks his thumb and snuggles with his blanket, listening to lullabies playing softly in his crib, and me and his daddy laughing in the next room, I hope that he feels the love all around him and thinks to himself one word:


Tuesday, November 24, 2009

My Solution to World Hunger

My husband has one more chance.
One more chance to pass the 4th and final part of the CPA exam.

He has already taken it more than a couple of times. It is not inexpensive.

He is very intelligent and capable of passing this test. When he studies for the exams, he knocks them out.
He simply has not studied. Okay, maybe that's not fair or accurate.
He has studied in between watching Phillies playoff games, dancing the Horah for the hell of it with me in the kitchen, and making our boy smile by making monkey noises.

He has one more chance.
If he fails the test again, I plan to purchase an alpaca for a family in need somewhere in Latin America.
I plan to name him after my husband.
I figure I should take the amount of money equivalent to the failed test and help improve someone's quality of life.

I have my alpaca all picked out and it looks like this:

Imagine if we all bought animals for families around the world every time our loved ones procrastinated. We could end poverty around the world! (Hang on a minute, I've got Bono on the phone....)

My husband is up for the challenge, I think. But he is now using my logic against me.

With his sass and charm, he has informed me that he will be purchasing a water buffalo, named Stacy Biscardi, for a poor Fillipino village, in honor of my failure to clean up my desk. He will also be providing a goat to a family in Africa due to my failure to remove the clothes from the dryer. In addition, some farmer in China will be pretty amped up to have a new cow thanks to my failure to fold the clothes that I abandoned in the dryer, hoping the socks would pair themselves magically.

So, if any of you are looking to light up a life with a llama, look no further than the exposed dry wall in your kitchen or the trash your husband promised he would take out yesterday. We can all do our part. If you are so inspired, check out

Can you imagine if all of our pitiful procrastination started a global movement? It will all be thanks to my wonderful husband, the CPA (Clobbering Poverty's Ass).

Saturday, November 14, 2009

Oh Deer

A bulletin arrived in our mailbox the other day, informing us of a "controlled deer hunt" taking place in our neighborhood this week.

"What kind of monsters are going to kill poor little deer?" I asked my husband, conjuring up images of Bambi in my backyard.

Apparently, hunters will be out from 2 to 5 a.m. in the woods. The notice advised us, "If you hear gunshots, do NOT go into the woods." Oh, thank you for the warning. I'm usually out walking in the woods from 2 to 5 a.m., stargazing and gathering berries. Right.

Come on. Who the hell in their right mind would follow the sound of gunshots into the woods in the middle of the night?

When I hear gunshots at night, I usually turn over and whisper, "Babe, turn that off!" My husband responds, "Gee whiz, Old Lady Jenkins, it's Law and Order!" Then I get heated. "I don't care what it is, I can't fall asleep to the sound of gunshots and women screaming, okay?"

Needless to say, I don't think I'll sleep well hearing shots fired at innocent deer. But, here's the kicker. "The hunters will be using silencers," the bulletin explains, in a futile attempt to calm my fears. Oh my god. The hunters are world-class assassins. Great.

I wonder if Sarah Palin will be out with the hunters, clad in Armani camouflage (straight from Neiman Marcus), or does she just prefer to shoot animals from the safety of the sky?

I think I might provide arms to the deer to try to even the playing field. Perhaps the deer would agree to pose with my baby for a holiday card if I outfit them with night-vision goggles and help them mount a counter-insurgency.

I could post signs or start a protest to save the deer. I could hide them in my home. Or I could go out in the woods and warn them tonight. "Hey you, Prancer, hurry, go to Gladwyne! You over there....yeah you.... there's safe haven in Haverford, go!"

I'm not sure why I'm this concerned about the deer at all. When I was in high school, jogging on a tree-lined street in Villanova, I came face to face with a deer. We both looked at each other unsure of who would make the first move. The deer proceeded to trot like a horse down the paved road in my direction and I ran like hell, looking frantically over my shoulder, yelling, "What kind of deer chase people?!"

I have come to the conclusion that if I get involved with this deer hunt, it will be my husband tossing and turning, trying to fall asleep to the sound of gunshots and one crazy woman screaming, "Don't shoot! Stop chasing me!"

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Deep Thoughts Over Dinner

"She's a natural, isn't she?" my mom beamed proudly in my direction, as I held my baby on my lap at the dinner table, slipping a saliva soaked strand of my hair out of his mouth, while he sucked his thumb and mumbled something that sounded like, "Oy, oy, oy."

"I knew she would be," my dad responded, "the way she always took care of Snoopy," he finished, dead seriously, with pride in his glistening blue eyes.


If only I could just throw a leather jacket and some aviator shades on my 8 month old son and put the TV remote control under his "paw" and tell him, "Watch whatever you want and have a great day," motherhood would be soooooooo easy.

Oy, oy, oy.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Don't Mess With a Single Lawyer

I recently came across an interesting document which speaks to my dating desperation three years ago and also to my dedication to the pursuit of justice.

After a disappointing string of dates with another lawyer, I sought counsel from a friend/lawyer who helped me draft this motion, which I considered filing in the Court of Common Pleas, or at least serving on the Defendant.

(To protect the not-so-innocent, I have changed the Defendant's name, but all other facts remain accurate).

Plaintiff, Civil Action No.: 06-12345





Plaintiff Stacy B. Heenan (“Plaintiff”) hereby moves this Court to enter an Order pursuant to Rule 4019 of the Pennsylvania Rules of Civil Procedure, compelling Defendant Jason R. Lapinsky (“Lapinsker”) to produce the Bruce Hornsby Box Set given to him by Plaintiff on or about November 14, 2006. In support of this Motion, Plaintiff avers as follows:

1. At the end of September, 2006, Plaintiff met Lapinsker while watching the Michigan vs. Notre Dame football game at the sports bar, Fox and the Hound, in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Defendant had receding blond hair and blue eyes and in no way matched Plaintiff's "type," but Plaintiff was trying to be open-minded.

2. Soon thereafter, in early October, 2006, Plaintiff and Lapinsker met for a drink at The Continental in Philadelphia. Lapinsker convinced Plaintiff to try hummus for the first time and Plaintiff agreed reluctantly.

3. At the end of October, 2006, Plaintiff and Lapinsker dined at Twenty Manning in Philadelphia. Plaintiff tried the pumpkin ravioli, the first and last “dinner special” Plaintiff ever ordered. Lapinsker sampled the sea bass.

4. On or about November 2006, Plaintiff and Lapinsker dined at Pesto in South Philadelphia. Plaintiff ate gnocchi, Defendant gorged himself on pasta bolognese.

5. In Lapinsker’s car on the way home from Pesto, Plaintiff and Lapinsker discussed Lapinsker’s love of Bruce Hornsby in light of the fact that Plaintiff was to attend an upcoming Bruce Hornsby concert at the Keswick Theater in Glenside, Pennsylvania.

6. On or about November 14, 2006, Plaintiff and Lapinsker hung out at Lapinsker’s apartment to watch the finale of “Dancing with the Starts,” featuring Emmitt Smith.

7. At this time, knowing that Lapinsker was a big Bruce Hornsby fan, Plaintiff gave Lapinsker her only copy of the Bruce Hornsby Box Set (the “Box Set”) she had received from Bruce Hornsby himself at the Bruce Hornsby concert.

8. This Box Set cannot be purchased anywhere. It is a special, limited edition Box Set, which included special live recordings and a dvd, and was given to all ticket-holders at the concert.

9. Plaintiff waited patiently that night for Lapinsker to make a move, yet he only patted her head and then drove her home. Plaintiff vomited approximately 45 seconds after returning home, probably due to the double dose of birth control she had ingested that morning. The extra dosage was in no way related to any events that Plaintiff anticipated occurring at Lapinsker’s residence but was merely to make up for a forgotten dose the day before.

10. In a later phone conversation, Lapinsker told Plaintiff that he had uploaded the Bruce Hornsby cds from the Box Set onto his i-pod and promised to return the Box Set to Plaintiff as soon as possible.

11. On November 18, 2006, Lapinsker met Plaintiff and her friends at the Fox and the Hound to watch the Michigan vs. Ohio State football game. Lapinsker hugged and flirted with Plaintiff.

12. Lapinsker told Plaintiff he had a holiday party to attend in New Jersey that night. Plaintiff told Lapinsker that he should come back after the holiday party at a normal hour to “hang out.”FN1

13. Lapinsker said he would call Plaintiff later and left for the party.

14. That night, Lapinsker called Plaintiff around midnight, but Plaintiff was sleeping.

15. On Sunday, November 19, Lapinsker and Plaintiff talked briefly. Plaintiff was tired and got off the phone around 10pm.

16. Plaintiff emailed Lapinsker Wednesday, November 22, 2006, to wish him a Happy Thanksgiving. Plaintiff loves Thanksgiving and still gets excited to watch the Macy's Day Parade each year.

17. Lapinsker responded to the email, indicating he would call Plaintiff at some point during the long weekend. FN2

18. To date, Plaintiff has not heard from Lapinsker and he has not returned the Bruce Hornsby Box Set as promised.

FN1 Unbeknownst to Lapinsker, Plaintiff had purchased a toothbrush for Lapinsker and several pairs of new, sexy underwear to add to her lingerie collection.

FN2 Again, unbeknownst to Lapinsker, Plaintiff was planning to ask Lapinsker to accompany her on vacation, either to London or Jamaica.

WHEREFORE, Plaintiff Stacy Heenan. respectfully requests this Honorable Court to enter an order directing Lapinsker to produce the Bruce Hornsby Box Set as soon as possible.

Respectfully submitted,

Stacy B. Heenan

Dated: January 4, 2007

On January 20, 2007, just a couple of weeks after this motion was drafted, my friend bought me a brand new Bruce Hornsby Box Set and I met the love of my life, hereby making this motion moot. However, I think it remains a good warning to all of those single guys out there: don't mess with a single lawyer!

Monday, November 2, 2009

I've Met My Match

For those of you wondering if I have encountered "my new trainer" again at the gym, the answer, thankfully, is "no." However, there is a new competitor in town.

Yesterday, I was minding my own business, walking briskly on the treadmill, listening to 50 Cent and The Game on my ipod, when a man who looked like Uncle Fester from the Addams Family chose to step on the treadmill next to me. I looked to my right and counted four empty treadmills. I glared at him and almost pointed out with my finger as you would to a child learning to count, "ONE......TWO.......THREE.....FOUR!"

Was this man just another decoy to make me feel better about how out of shape I am? I sighed in disgust, pumped up my speed to 4.1, turned up my music and started rapping audibly along to the beat:

Hate it or love it the underdog's on top
And I'm gon shine, homie, until my heart stop

Go'head'n envy me
I'm rap's MVP
And I ain't going nowhere
So you can get to know me

The man smelled like a combination of moth balls and sweat. Being that my nose is as sensitive as that of a search and rescue canine, I held my breath, which was difficult to do while jogging and rapping at the same time. I glanced down at Fester's 1974 model Nikes and thought, "Okay, you have met your match! You can beat him in the foot race and win the million!" (For those readers who have no idea what I'm talking about, please see my prior post, My New Trainer).

I accelerated to 4.3, barely broke a sweat, and STILL beat out Uncle Fester in a matter of minutes. Now that's what I'm talkin' about!

Go'head'n envy me
I'm rap's MVP
And I ain't going nowhere
So you can get to know me