tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14360105813534386942024-03-12T21:32:14.185-07:00Wifty and ShiftyStacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086946818073882305noreply@blogger.comBlogger120125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436010581353438694.post-81432820326370576392015-01-22T07:43:00.000-08:002015-01-22T07:43:00.209-08:00The Dyeds vs. the WhitesFirst, it was the Bloods vs. the Crips.<br />
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Then, Coke vs. Pepsi.<br />
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Now, there's a new rivalry tearing at the knitted fabric of our nation.<br />
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The Dyeds vs. the Whites. Hair color, that is.</div>
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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In an effort to bring this underground hair color rivalry to the forefront of our collective consciousness, let me break it down for you:<br />
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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.<br />
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You need not look any further than a retirement home dining room. It is total segregation.<br />
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Whites on one side. Dyeds on the other.<br />
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There is no mingling, no inter-hair dating, no recognition of the other group's humanity whatsoever.<br />
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These ladies have learned nothing since <u>Brown v. Board of Education</u>.<br />
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Why the great hair divide?<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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"Gram won't call her because she has WHITE HAIR!" my mom interjected.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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I don't have solutions for this profound problem. But, I think the first step is to recognize that there <i>is</i> 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.<br />
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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."<br />
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This is NOT going to sit well with the Whites. I cancel the meeting. Perhaps desegregation is just a dream.<br />
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Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086946818073882305noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436010581353438694.post-50540576079160396012014-10-17T10:08:00.001-07:002014-10-17T10:10:05.360-07:00This is the Principal Calling . . . <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black; border-collapse: collapse;"></span><br />
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.<br />
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It starts with a simple dilemma:<br />
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"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 . . . ")<br />
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"Ok, let me speak to him."<br />
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"Um . . . He won't pick up the phone."<br />
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"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.<br />
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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.<br />
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"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.<br />
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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).<br />
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"Let's go NOW," I hiss at El Diablo from 20 feet away. He is the only kid left on the playground.<br />
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"Recess ended 30 minutes ago," the counselor says, defeated. <br />
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"LET'S GO!" I repeat.<br />
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"I'll turn my day around!" my son yells, desperately. He starts a slow zig zag jog.<br />
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"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.<br />
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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.<br />
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All of a sudden, he darts in the opposite direction. At this juncture, I become an attorney, making split second decisions about custody arrangements.<br />
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"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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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"I'm bleeding! I'm bleeding! I need a bandage!" he's freaking out.<br />
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I become Nurse Ratched.<br />
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"Get in the car! Buckle your seat belt!" Surely, I'm about to get arrested. DHS is on its way.<br />
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Should I become a compassionate nurse? A comforting mom?<br />
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No way. Not in this moment.<br />
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Blood is trickling down his mouth. I can see it in my rear view mirror.<br />
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"GET YOUR SEAT BELT ON!!!!"<br />
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"I'm bleeeeeeding!"<br />
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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.<br />
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I'm not sure who I become on the car ride home. It's a louder, angrier version of myself.<br />
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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."<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086946818073882305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436010581353438694.post-26458864348143293482014-07-12T04:38:00.000-07:002014-07-12T04:38:17.504-07:00Don't Even Think About Leaving Yoga Early . . . Unless You're On a GurneyThere's only one easy way out of this hell and that, my friends, is on a gurney.<br />
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Otherwise, you're here for the duration. 90 minutes. And, yes, it will feel more like 5 hours.<br />
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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).<br />
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Chaturanga.<br />
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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.<br />
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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).<br />
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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!<br />
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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.<br />
You're not leaving this class early. Unless you're on a gurney.<br />
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Chaturanga.<br />
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It doesn't matter that today's your first time on your yoga mat.<br />
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."<br />
Call this an exorcism, fine.<br />
You will be here for the duration of the class.<br />
Until the very last downward f-ing dog.<br />
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Chaturanga.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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Chaturanga.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1yAnXF_CiUA/U8EXfe-KbTI/AAAAAAAAArI/w9Guwg6CnhQ/s1600/images-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1yAnXF_CiUA/U8EXfe-KbTI/AAAAAAAAArI/w9Guwg6CnhQ/s1600/images-1.jpeg" /></a>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.<br />
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Chaturanga.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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Namaste. (I honor the place within you, which is of Love, of Truth, of Light and of Peace).<br />
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NAMASTE.<br />
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<br />Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086946818073882305noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436010581353438694.post-11922754579956834382014-03-20T11:14:00.001-07:002014-03-20T11:14:06.052-07:00Wax on, wax off. Breathe in, breathe out.It was either the best or worst idea.<br />
To sign him up for karate.<br />
Force him to watch The Karate Kid.<br />
Tell him he looked a little like Ralph Macchio.<br />
To channel Mr. Miyagi and demonstrate how to "wax on, wax off."<br />
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He just looked so damn cute in that white uniform, belt tight around his waist.<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FqyeK_bS0zE/UyssGl0MwEI/AAAAAAAAAnk/TQuvs1pbSE0/s1600/1528595_10202757333836477_1910088533_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FqyeK_bS0zE/UyssGl0MwEI/AAAAAAAAAnk/TQuvs1pbSE0/s1600/1528595_10202757333836477_1910088533_n.jpg" height="320" width="126" /></a>Within seconds, he went from wild child to the picture of self-discipline.<br />
A poster child for body/mind/spirit/inner energy fitness.<br />
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He got to run, kick, punch, yell - all for a good cause and all sanctioned by adults.<br />
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It was an entire life transformation for him, so I thought.<br />
They were indoctrinating him. Molding him.<br />
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<i>Take off your shoes. </i><br />
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<i>Salute the flags when you enter or exit the mat. </i><br />
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<i>Count in Korean.</i><br />
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<i>HANA (1)</i><br />
<i>DHUL (2)</i><br />
<i>SEHTT (3)</i><br />
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<i>Take home this job list. Complete it and return it each week. </i><i>"Make my own bed." </i><i>"Put my things away." </i><i>Bonus stripes on your belt for completing these tasks.</i><br />
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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.<br />
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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).<br />
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Yes, this karate class was surely changing our lives one "Hiya!" at a time.<br />
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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.<br />
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And, this bad Buddha behavior didn't just take place outside of the karate studio.<br />
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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!"<br />
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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?"<br />
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I just shrugged. He truly was.<br />
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I grabbed my karate kid's belt and dragged him towards the exit.<br />
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"You CANNOT fight the black belts!" I warned him on the drive home. "That's like rule #1 in karate!"<br />
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"I was just practicing my roundhouse kick!"he responded.<br />
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"It's not funny. They are going to throw you out of class!"<br />
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"THROW me out?! Oh yeah! I'll just punch . . . "<br />
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"I don't mean <i>physically</i> throw you out. They are going to say, 'that kid, he can't come back to class.'"<br />
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"Well, they said that I was good at meditating the first day. Remember that?"<br />
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I counted to three in Korean and tried meditating myself as we drove home.<br />
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HANA<br />
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DHUL<br />
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SEHTT<br />
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Breathe in, breathe out.<br />
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Okay, so here were are. Maybe 8 classes in.<br />
<br />
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."<br />
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"Ummmmm. No. You either go back over there with the group and do it - or we are going home - and never coming back."<br />
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"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.<br />
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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.<br />
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"You get out there or we are going home."<br />
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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.<br />
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The master starts yelling, "YOU <b>CANNOT</b> DO THIS! YOU ARE INTERRUPTING MY CLASS!"<br />
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"Don't worry, he's leaving!" I yell back.<br />
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I throw off my sneakers and salute the Korean flag. (It's the only way onto the mat).<br />
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"I'm going to count to three!" I yell. ONE - TWO - THREE!"<br />
<br />
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).<br />
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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.<br />
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"You are DONE!" I yell at the karate kid.<br />
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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.<br />
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I breathe in, breathe out. I go back into the karate studio and sweep up Sweet Pea.<br />
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"I. do. kayate, mommy!" he says proudly. I kiss his pompadour.<br />
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We drive home.<br />
He's in his room for the night.<br />
His karate uniform is in the Halloween costume bin.<br />
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Wax on, wax off.<br />
Breathe in, breathe out.<br />
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<br />Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086946818073882305noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436010581353438694.post-44538627142011244292014-02-13T11:52:00.001-08:002014-02-13T11:52:40.558-08:00Letter From an AngelYou either believe in this stuff or you don't.<br />
<br />
I definitely believe.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Here's the latest one:<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
So, Doug was on my mind.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I had no idea where Doug had lived, nor where his mother lived. I went to yellowpages.com 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.<br />
<br />
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."<br />
<br />
So that's exactly what I did.<br />
<br />
With my two little boys in school, I knocked on Mrs. R's door, her angel son guiding my way.<br />
<br />
I said everything a person says to a stranger after the death of their child.<br />
<br />
"I'm so terribly sorry to meet you under these circumstances. Doug was a really good guy. He will be remembered."<br />
<br />
A huge smile wiped across Mrs. R's face.<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
His bereaved mother was grinning as tears were filling up in my eyes.<br />
<br />
"I have a card for you . . . and I don't know if you believe in this stuff . . . " I started.<br />
<br />
"I do!" she said, taking it from my hand.<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
Mrs. R. smiled and hugged me close.<br />
<br />
"Thank you."<br />
<br />
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:<br />
<br />
"Remember Doug used to steal my mail in 7th grade? He had a crush on me or something . . . "<br />
<br />
I nearly spit out my wine. I only <i>then</i> remembered that Doug used to tamper with her mail.<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
Do you believe it?<br />
<br />
<br />Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086946818073882305noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436010581353438694.post-78531947234457822292014-01-20T05:32:00.000-08:002014-01-20T05:49:58.651-08:00James Taylor - Shed a little Light<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/p18qu4Te9j4" width="459"></iframe>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086946818073882305noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436010581353438694.post-85308274584959968292013-12-31T08:17:00.001-08:002014-01-01T07:39:24.355-08:00Two Weeks NoticeDear Stacy,<br />
<br />
It's tough to say, sugar, but it's my time. I am heading south for the winter, and probably, for good.<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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!<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
<br />
your friend and uterus,<br />
<br />
Yolanda<br />
<br />
_________________________________________________________________________________<br />
<br />
<b>RE: PLEASE DON'T GO</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Dear Yolanda,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
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!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
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.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
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.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Will that change your mind?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
You are the heart and soul of this family.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Please, get a grip. You have it really good. Take a moment and reconsider. The new year will lift your spirits.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Begging you,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Stacy</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
_________________________________________________________________________________</div>
<br />
<br />
<b>RE: I WANT A RAISE</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Dear Stacy,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
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!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
And, get this straight, YOU are the heart and soul of this family. (I am just a delightful sidekick).</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"><i>(singing in the spirit of Jennifer Holliday)</i><br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />We're part of the same place<br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />We're part of the same time<br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />We both share the same blood<br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />We both have the same mind<br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /><br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />And time and time, we've had so much to see and<br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />No, no, no, no, no, no way<br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />I'm not waking up tomorrow morning and finding that there's nobody there<br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /><br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />Darling there's no way<br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />No, no, no, no way I'm living without you<br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />I'm not living without you<br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />You see there's just no way, there's no way<br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /><br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />Tear down the mountains<br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />Yell, scream and shout like you can say what you want<br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />I'm not walking out<br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />Stop all the rivers, push, strike and kill<br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />I'm not gonna leave you<br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />There's no way I will<br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /><br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />And I am telling you<br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />I'm not going<br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />You're the best girl I'll ever know<br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />There's no way I could ever, ever go<br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />No, no, no, no way<br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />No, no, no, no way I'm living without you<br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />Oh, I'm not living without you,<br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />Not living without you<br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />I don't wanna be free<br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />I'm staying, I'm staying</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;">And you, and you, and you,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;">You're gonna love me!!!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"><b><br /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"><b>Sincerely,</b></span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"> your friend and uterus, Yolanda</span></b></div>
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<br />Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086946818073882305noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436010581353438694.post-29108804799724806192013-11-27T11:27:00.000-08:002013-11-27T11:27:00.893-08:00Hanukkah Behind BarsThere are many great ways to celebrate Hanukkah, but visiting a maximum security prison is not one of them.<br />
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Nevertheless, sometimes the pursuit of justice requires traveling outside of your comfort zone and into the abyss. Dressing up (or, rather, down) as the "warden" is highly suggested (per my mom) and if you can take along a companion to ensure that you get out of prison alive, well, you just might get out of prison alive.<br />
<br />
Bess and I met in 2005 when I started at the Firm. She was already an associate attorney. She stopped by my office to greet me on my first day along with another young associate, Tom. Tom did all the small talk and Bess just smiled at me with a twinkle in her innocent blue eyes. (I later learned that Bess fears small talk the way other people fear snakes).<br />
<br />
Via email, Bess and I learned that we had grown up in the same area, worked at the same TV station, lived in the same high-rise apartment building, and even attended the same law school, all at the same time.<br />
<br />
It was beshert that our paths finally crossed. <br />
<br />
And thank God. Because I has just graduated from law school three months prior and all of a sudden the partners at our firm wanted me to represent an inmate at Graterford Prison who was allegedly abused by prison guards. (I'm sure the partners thought the case was frivolous, but upon reading the inmate's handwritten complaint, his claims detailed so articulately, I was pretty sure he deserved his day in court, if not immediate acceptance to Georgetown Law). <br />
<br />
But, before I could get to court, I had to go to prison. To meet my client, Mr. W, a middle aged career burglar, and an eyewitness to his abuse at the hands of prison guards, Mr. J., a violent rapist.<br />
<br />
(During my first visit to the prison, some prison guards locked me in a cell with Mr. J., separated only by a plexiglass divider, as a "practical joke" because they knew I was there gathering evidence for my case against them. That experience was enough to give a veteran combat soldier PTSD).<br />
<br />
But, here I was going back into battle; this time I had Bess as backup.<br />
<br />
(Did I mention that Bess not only looks as pure as a Disney princess, but that she actually is that pure? That she once called opposing counsel back to apologize after hanging up on him seconds earlier? That she howls in fear when getting an eyebrow wax?)<br />
<br />
Maybe prison was not the best place for Bess after all. Taking Bess to prison was almost as absurd as taking an inmate to Sesame Street. The worst thing Bess has ever done in her life was drink excessively and then drive a local news anchor's car around a sanctioned course for a news special. (And they paid her to do it). But, after much pleading to the partners, Bess was now my co-counsel, and we believed that Mr. W. had his civil rights violated by prison guards.<br />
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Bess and I blasted music during the 30 minute drive to prison. We belted out inaccurate lyrics, off-key, pretending it was just another "Friday concert," which we liked to stage in our offices at the Firm. But, my stomach was churning at the thought of going back behind bars.<br />
<br />
Snow was falling as we navigated up the mile long prison drive. Bess and I munched on soft pretzel bites, debating whether I actually kissed our doorman, Rafiq, on his mouth or goatee when I told him I passed the Bar Exam. (Either way, it was a mistake. I was clearly aiming for his cheek, but you know how sometimes the other person makes a quick move and your kiss ends up somewhere you had not expected?)<br />
<br />
The barbed wires and stone watch towers surrounded us as we entered, instantly making us feel condemned. Prison guards searched our rental car as we shivered in the snow. (There was no use making small talk with Bess because she fears small talk more than a full body search).<br />
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Once inside Graterford Prison, our bodies were scanned for contraband, our hands for traces of drugs. The guards flipped through the prison cell photos in my folder and eyed us up sideways. It's never a good thing when a prison guard tells you that he remembers you. Or that he knows that you're visiting - again - because you have a lawsuit against the prison guards.<br />
<br />
Bess and I fidgeted in the waiting room on a long, scratched wooden bench amongst mothers and toddlers and a few stone-faced older children, presumably waiting to see their fathers. But, we could not get swept up in emotion. There was one reason we were spending Hanukkah behind bars. We were there on business; in particular, to interview our star eyewitness, Mr. J., a rapist, locked in solitary confinement.<br />
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When we entered the visitation cell, Mr. J. was behind a thick plexiglass divider. He had a grin across his face as deep as his rap sheet. I picked up the smudged telephone on my side of the glass and Mr. J. grabbed his.<br />
<br />
"Yo, Stacy, how ya' doin,' counselor?" He winked at me just like he did the first time I met him. I deflected his wink.<br />
<br />
"Fine, thanks. How are you, Mr. J.? This is my co-counsel, Bess," I told him. "She's going to ask you a few questions about what you saw and heard on the night in question."<br />
<br />
Now, I had imagined introducing Bess to a nice Jewish gastroenterologist,<br />
a fellow attorney who also blushes when in court, perhaps a funny graphic designer, who ran marathons, like her. But, never did I imagine introducing Bess to the creepiest convicted criminal imaginable. In solitary confinement. In a maximum security prisoner.<br />
<br />
We stood in the dank gray prison cell and stared at at each other for a couple of seconds.<br />
<br />
"Here you go," I said, handing her the telephone. "No small talk. Just business."<br />
<br />
(Did I mention that Bess fears small talk even more than she fears convicted criminals?)<br />
<br />
She smiled at me and said the only thing left to say.<br />
<br />
"Happy Hanukkah, Stace."<br />
<br />
"Happy Hanukkah."<br />
<br />
(And, in case you are wondering, we took those abusive prison guards all the way to federal court, like you knew we would. If that isn't a Hanukkah miracle, I don't know what is!)<br />
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<br />Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086946818073882305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436010581353438694.post-61686318157251712562013-10-18T07:25:00.004-07:002013-10-18T07:25:32.432-07:00Sweet PeaHe was a heartbreaker upon entrance into the world.<br />
<br />
"He has such long eyelashes!" the delivery nurse said, moments after his arrival. "Those baby girls in the nursery are gonna want to meet you, man," she whispered, lifting him off my chest for his first bath. My baby #2.<br />
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"Look at that cowlick," our beloved baby nurse, Bette, cried, the morning of his bris. "I just don't know how to brush this wild hair!"<br />
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"It's okay, Bette, he's only eight days old," I said. "I think I gave birth to a rock star."<br />
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Two years have passed, but when you see my baby #2, those are the first two things you see. His movie star eyelashes and pompadour.<br />
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His eyelashes are something out of a cartoon. Part doll baby and part Snuffaluffagus. When he falls asleep in his car seat, his lashes rest halfway down his cheeks.<br />
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He blinks them slowly and he looks like the Sesame Street character.<br />
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<br />
Sometimes when he eats Challah, small chunks get stuck in his eyelashes instead of around his mouth. Most women would kill for this problem.<br />
<br />
He has many aliases: Sweet Pea, Busy Bee, Spider Monkey, Mr. Pickle. (All fairly innocuous compared to his older brother, El Diablo).<br />
<br />
Sweet Pea is most fitting. He blows kisses to cashiers at the supermarket and sometimes to strange men standing in line behind us at the post office, which is a bit unnerving. His voice sounds like a talking doll with a Danish accent.<br />
<br />
I'm fairly certain that Sweet Pea wants to climb back inside of my belly - or create a pouch in which to ensconce himself - or claim a permanant spot on my back. (This is why he's also known as Spider Monkey). He clings on to me like a baby orangutan throughout the day and night as if his life depends on it.<br />
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He sucks his thumb and holds onto my hair, rips it down from a ponytail if necessary. He plasters his velvet cheek against mine so tight, digs his little nails into my skin and makes a squeal/sigh of complete happiness.<br />
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And, he likes to cling to his daddy too.<br />
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Sweet Pea gives new meaning to the word, "mammoni," mamma's boy. When I take a shower, he lies outside of the bathroom door, sucking his thumb, listening, hoping, waiting - for the water to turn off. When he screams in the middle of the night, I rescue him from his crib and put him in our bed with us.<br />
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But that's not quite good enough. He pops up and scrambles over pillows or people to rest for the night on my head. And I don't mean near my head, or head to head. I mean ON TOP OF MY HEAD. I often wake up to the snoring of a baby javelina and the smell of a pishy diaper on top of me, but I would not want it any other way. When he eventually rolls off of me, he smiles before he even blinks open those baby doll eyes and I can see the whole world shimmering back at me.<br />
<br />
Every morning, I ask him the same question: "What did you dream about last night?"<br />
"Ah....digger trucks!" he always replies, with a smile stretched across his face.<br />
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I'm sure you're wondering if Sweet Pea is always this sweet and the truth is, yes. (I know he's just turning two, so I may be jinxing myself). Once in a while he'll swipe a chicken nugget from his brother's plate and dash into the living room, while shoving it into his mouth. (It's kind of like watching Mother Theresa shoplift, so it's hard to get upset).<br />
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There is also a bit of bad boy that comes out when he rocks out to music. Sweet Pea has mad rhythm for a little white boy. He does a pelvic thrust the likes of which I have not seen since Bobby Brown was arrested on stage circa 1989. While a bit lewd on the dance floor, his manners are impeccable. "Down, please," he'll say. "More juice, please." "Ayudame, por favor."<br />
<br />
He lives to be startled - and squeals - and laughs so hard, he sounds like a cartoon character.<br />
<br />
Sweet Pea, my baby #2, the baby that I was not sure if I would be brave enough to bring into the world. He was born out of hope - and love - and the desire for our baby #1 to have a suitable sidekick. He is the the baby who completed our family. (I think).<br />
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In a room full of 20 kids, he is the one who is playing happily with digger trucks and trains and making the "woo woos" and the "choo choos" or whispering, "all aboard," in the sweetest, mellow way. Every now and then, he'll run to me and throw his arms around me. "Wha's tha sound making tha noise?" he'll ask if he hears something loud, like a lawn mower outside.<br />
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Today, I'll tell him, "That's everyone - all the trucks - and trains - and mowers - and helicopters - and planes - and everyone in the world - wishing you a Happy Birthday!"<br />
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<br />Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086946818073882305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436010581353438694.post-81304069512640192092013-09-25T09:29:00.000-07:002013-09-25T09:29:33.550-07:00Are You a Good Witch or a Bad Witch?The white pants seemed like a good idea.<br />
<br />
Not turning our car around to retrieve my son's forgotten water wings seemed like a bad idea. <br />
<br />
But, we were already late.<br />
<br />
We were on our way to my husband's firm's annual family gathering; a pool party, at a partner's shore house.<br />
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We arrived, exchanged polite greetings, made introductions, and within one minute of our entrance, our 4 year old son, already dressed in his swim shorts, slipped out of my grasp and climbed into the pool.<br />
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He thought he could stand inside the pool. And, at first, he could. He thought he could swim. For a second, he could. Two seconds ticked away and now he was in the center of the pool, staring at me, frozen with fear. He was sinking quietly.<br />
<br />
I watched him go under water once and bob back up. I watched him go under water again and I jumped into the pool, white pants and all, and pulled him to safety.<br />
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He was coughing, I was crying. We were a spectacle to behold. My husbands coworker offered me a towel, a kind word. Women offered me dry clothes, moral support.<br />
<br />
"Don't be embarrassed, don't feel like a bad mother... It happens to all of us."<br />
<br />
"A BAD mother?! I just saved my son's life!"<br />
<br />
It really made me wonder. Why are we as women so hard on ourselves and on other women?<br />
<br />
A man would NEVER say that to another man who had just pulled off a heroic water rescue. He would just high-five him and mutter, "Nice save." More than a few men high-fived me as I emerged from the pool like a wet mess.<br />
<br />
24 hours later, it was time to drive home from the shore. We had two cars. I took the little guy, not yet two years old.<br />
<br />
It's usually an hour and a half drive home. But, three quarters of the way, we hit torrential downpours, flooded highways, a parking lot formed on the expressway. We were stuck in the car for 6.5 hours. Just me and my 22 month old boy. We ate snacks, we drank, we played on the ipad, we laughed.<br />
<br />
Snacks ran low. Water ran out. Some drivers jumped out of their cars and panicked, or socialized, or walked to the shoulder to relieve themselves.<br />
<br />
Was I a bad mom for not bringing more water? Juice? Not changing my baby's diaper right then and there? Was I a bad mom for taking him to the nearest Wendy's as soon as I could exit the expressway?<br />
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Or was I a good mom because I stayed calm, played his favorite train song 20 times, talked to him, held his piggies in my hand, made him giggle in the 30 minute line inside Wendy's playing Nosey Nosey.<br />
<br />
You can look at everything both ways.<br />
<br />
A frightening near drowning or a lesson learned on the fragility of life and risk-taking nature of little boys.<br />
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A drive home from hell or making memories with my baby.<br />
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The panic of being stuck with strangers all around you or the calm in recognizing their shared humanity.<br />
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"Here, take my shorts. You're all wet."<br />
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"Here, take this napkin, there's no more toilet paper in the (Wendy's) bathroom."<br />
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"Is your son okay?"<br />
<br />
"Is your baby okay?"<br />
<br />
Are you a good witch or a bad witch?<br />
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<br />Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086946818073882305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436010581353438694.post-70145905364429802162013-07-12T11:24:00.002-07:002013-07-13T06:46:54.515-07:00Dear Aunt Emmy,I thought everyone living in a retirement home enjoyed unannounced visits by small children.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>Oops.<br />
<br />
Let me start by saying it was so great seeing you last month when we were out west. I've been wanting to come visit you north of San Diego ever since Gram told me how she cried on your toilet seat when she stayed the night at your deserted country home decades ago. <br />
<br />
As you know, you are the sole surviving sibling of my late grandpop, and I figured there is no time like the present to drop by and say hi.<br />
<br />
At 91 years old, that sassy spark is still all yours. Put the walker, wild white hair and lines in your face aside, you still got it, Aunt Emmy! And, I love how you still refer to yourself as "the baby" of the family. <br />
<br />
Your life story is legendary. You left your humble home in South Philly, married a New Yorker, and moved out to California to start an organic food business with your husband. In 1948! You were a renegade. An organic-eating Orthodox Jew who donned a cowboy hat, bought a ranch, and rode horses, while still keeping kosher (most of the time).<br />
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When banditos crept onto your homestead, tied up your rail-thin husband, Uncle Allen, and threatened him at knifepoint, you jumped right in to save his life. Aunt Emmy, you karate-chopped your way to freedom, despite getting stabbed, and you banished the banditos for good.<br />
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"Tia Emmy es loco!" I'll bet they told their amigos.<br />
<br />
You paid the price for that brave intervention. And, I know the bandito story is not mere family folklore because you have worn a compression stocking on your bum arm ever since. (The first time I met you, circa 1990, you had it on; last month, you did not have it on and your arm looked puffy, so while I'm no doctor, I do think you may need to bust out that stocking again).<br />
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Heroics aside, Aunt Emmy, you are a literary genius. You are the real writer in the family. Eloquent, straight shooter, never one to mince words.<br />
<br />
"I used to run this place!" you declared to me, my husband, and our two little boys as we entered the main "living room" of your lovely retirement home. That was before you moved by yourself to Israel three years ago, at age 88. ("You know, doll, America is my country, but Israel is my HOME").<br />
<br />
"Now I'm back here, same place, but it's not the same," you confessed to us. "Everyone's dead, dying. I don't try to make friends anymore."<br />
<br />
"But - - "<br />
<br />
"I'm 91 years old and I'm not looking to make any friends, doll. Plus, it's very goyish here," you half-yelled across the main living room.<br />
<br />
Oh boy. Here we go.<br />
<br />
"Tell me about my brother's funeral," you said, softening your tone, taking my hand.<br />
<br />
"Is it true there were soldiers there?"<br />
<br />
I explained how my grandpop, your brother, was buried with full military honors befitting a WWII hero, which he was.<br />
<br />
You seemed to take great comfort in that.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"What was my grandfather like growing up?" I asked.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"Eh," you coughed, as if spitting out bad prunes.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"Was he a good older brother?"</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"Not really."</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I laughed until I nearly spit out the hard candy you had insisted I try.</div><br />
<br />
But then---<br />
<br />
"What did you say your last name is now, doll?"<br />
<br />
"Biscardi."<br />
<br />
"Bis? What . . . ?"<br />
<br />
"Italian. He's from South Philly, just like you, Aunt Emmy," I smiled, nodding at my husband who was feet away trying to contain Fric and Baby Frac.<br />
<br />
You eyed him up with a bit of suspicion and a hint of a smile.<br />
<br />
"I can tell he's a good one."<br />
<br />
"Total mensch," I chimed in. "No worries."<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">You glanced over at my young sons as they made themselves right at home at your retirement home. They threw off their shoes, jumped momentarily up and down on the sofa next to me, squealed and sucked down apple juice that you put out for us. I thought you would find them endearing.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Oops.</div><div><br />
</div><br />
"Can I take your picture, Aunt Emmy? Everyone back east wants a picture of you."<br />
<br />
"My picture days are OVER! Sorry, doll!"<br />
<br />
"Ok, how about if we call my sister? She loves getting your letters and she asked me to call her if we stopped in to see you."<br />
<br />
Ring ring ring<br />
<br />
Aunt Emmy, you picked up the phone and explained in a soft tone to my sister how lonely you are. She replied, "Well, you must be so happy to have Stacy and the boys visiting."<br />
<br />
That unleashed the tiger.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"I HATE loud children! I wish they would just SIT DOWN AND SHUT UP!"</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Oops.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">My eyeballs exploded from their sockets as my head spun around to see if my husband heard your rant. (Truly, anyone within a mile, hearing aid or not, heard it).</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"Let's wrap this up, babe," he whispered to me.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I could hear my sister howling with laughter from the speaker of my cell phone.</div><br />
<br />
"Not a fan of kids, Aunt Emmy?" I asked as you abruptly ended the call with her.<br />
<br />
"CAN'T STAND THEM!" you hollered. "NEVER COULD."<br />
<br />
"Well, we're going to get back on the road now, okay?" I said.<br />
<br />
"I hope these boys are getting a proper Jewish education," you chimed in.<br />
<br />
"Ah . . . he went to Main Line Reform preschool last year," I replied, nodding at my four year old.<br />
<br />
"REFORMED?! I call that 'DEFORMED!'" you cackled.<br />
<br />
Oh, Aunt Emmy, it really was a treat to see you. You were like a dusty old relic from a previous generation where people said it exactly as they thought it.<br />
<br />
Although we hit Disneyland, Legoland, the San Diego Zoo, and great California beaches, you, Aunt Emmy, added that extra bit of color that we were missing. And, I would not change you or our visit for anything.<br />
<br />
Stay healthy, stay strong, live long, beware of those banditos, and Shabbat Shalom.<br />
<br />
Much love,<br />
<br />
Stacy<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086946818073882305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436010581353438694.post-67961976855200717662013-06-18T18:29:00.000-07:002013-06-18T18:29:20.465-07:00Sans SuitcasesI should have known that I was in for a lifetime of trouble when my husband of 14 days informed me at the Milan airport that he had forgotten half of his wardrobe in a dresser back at our B&B in Lucca. <br />
<br />
We were clearly in the "honeymoon stage" back then, as we were wrapping up our honeymoon in Italy. I think I giggled, gazed into his almond shaped dark eyes, and offered him my mom's Burberry shawl to warm his sweet soul as we headed back home.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I don't know when the honeymoon ended. But, it did.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A couple of weeks ago, after months of planning, researching, scheduling, and preparing, we left home for a vacation in California with the boys. I spent several days prior packing, organizing suitcases, debating whether Ninja Turtles or Transformers would be more exciting at 30,000 feet, and whether Play Doh would get through security.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
All he had to do was load up the car. Let me say that again. ALL that he had to do was load up the car. Brute strength was all that was required.<br />
<br />
Our packed bags were in various rooms throughout the house. The kids' suitcases had their names embroidered on them, so they were tough to miss, not to mention the fact that our 4 year old had practiced wheeling his bag to the "airport" for weeks around the house.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
5:15 a.m. He loaded the car.</div>
<div>
5:45 a.m. We arrived at the airport.</div>
<div>
6:00 a.m. We entered a surprisingly short security line.</div>
<div>
6:01 a.m. I could be overheard saying, "This is AMAZING! We are going to breeze right through this line!"</div>
<div>
6:01:30 a.m. "Wait - WHERE are the kids' suitcases?!"</div>
<div>
6:02 a.m. "You mean, these carry-ons?"<br />
6:02:02 a.m. "NOOOO....I mean their little rolling suitcases with their NAMES ON THEM!"<br />
6:02:30 "We don't have them."</div>
<div>
6:02:31 a.m. "What do you mean, 'we don't have them?'! You left them in the car?"</div>
<div>
6:03:03 a.m. "I didn't . . . put them in the car. I didn't see them."<br />
6:03:04 a.m. "YOU DIDN'T SEE THEM?! Well, we need to go home and get them!"<br />
6:03:05 a.m. "We can't, we'll miss our plane."<br />
6:03:06 a.m. "I CANNOT BELIEVE . . . "<br />
6:03:07 a.m. "What was in them ANYWAY?"<br />
6:03:08 a.m. Smoke seeps out of my ears.<br />
6:03:09 a.m. "ALL OF HIS CLOTHES!!!" I seethe, pointing at our 4 year old, who's making an ascot out of his blue blankie. (The other suitcase had all of our stuff for the first night).<br />
6:03:10 a.m. "Well, we couldn't have carried anything else anyway, " he mumbles. And he's right.<br />
6:03:11 a.m. "He has NOTHING but the clothes on his back and we're going to California for a WEEK!"<br />
<br />
I turn my back to him so that the daggers shooting from my eyes don't kill him. I am taking deep breaths. Trying to remain calm in front of my boys - the TSA agents - and the fellow passengers who are now offering up their cells phones because they overhear our "conversation."<br />
<br />
"Are you going to be alright?" my husband tries.<br />
<br />
I spin around, ready to claw his face and, lucky for him, just at that moment, I spot an old friend from high school.<br />
<br />
"David? What are you doing here?"<br />
<br />
"Heading to Seattle, " he says from the next security line over, with a surprised grin on his face. "What about you?"<br />
<br />
"I'm about to kill HIM!" I confess, nodding at my husband. "We are going to California for the week and he just informed me that he FORGOT THE KIDS' SUITCASES AT HOME!"<br />
<br />
"Wow, thanks, man, you're making me look really good!" David smiles at my husband.<br />
<br />
"Happy to help," he replies.<br />
<br />
We all start laughing.</div>
<br />
And this is how life works.<br />
<br />
You breathe.<br />
You laugh.<br />
And then you move on,<br />
smiling straight through security,<br />
sans suitcases.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4JDcQnQHkOE/UcEGcQ6kTZI/AAAAAAAAAW0/sDvXgc_hCgg/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4JDcQnQHkOE/UcEGcQ6kTZI/AAAAAAAAAW0/sDvXgc_hCgg/s200/Unknown.jpeg" width="200" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4JDcQnQHkOE/UcEGcQ6kTZI/AAAAAAAAAWw/ZUSbcAUJA7w/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4JDcQnQHkOE/UcEGcQ6kTZI/AAAAAAAAAWw/ZUSbcAUJA7w/s200/Unknown.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
(Then, you fly across the country, rent a car, drive straight to Old Navy, and buy your unsuspecting son an entire summer wardrobe).<br />
<br />
(And, you let your husband live because he's still the best man you've ever met and life would be nothing without the journey, clothes or not).<br />
<br />
<br />Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086946818073882305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436010581353438694.post-957730553765593882013-05-15T10:51:00.000-07:002013-05-16T07:18:57.727-07:00"Oh, stewardess, I speak jive..."You're on a plane, heading for the west coast. Your seatbelt is buckled, Xanax swallowed. Your electronic device is on despite ominous warnings to turn it off before take-off.<br />
<br />
You spot me, climbing over my children, walking up the aisle and taking the microphone out of the flight attendant's hand. You close your eyes, imagining this is a safety drill in the event a real life maniac mom approaches the flight attendant and tries to hijack the public address system.<br />
<br />
But this is no drill. This is the real deal.<br />
<br />
You close your eyes and wonder if fellow passengers can overhear your Bell Biv Devoe remix of "Poison" pumping through your headphones. You can't hear me, but I'm rockin the mic in aisle 2, USAir, flight # RWeThereYet?<br />
<br />
"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to USAirways," I begin, clearing my throat. "My name is Stacy and I will NOT be your flight attendant. I can barely attend to the needs of my own family, both on land, and at high altitude, so there is no way I could possibly help you with your oxygen mask or "air" vent. In addition, I cry when I throw up and I may cry and/or throw up if any of you throw up. So please be discreet and use your barf bag located in the seat pocket in front of you."<br />
<br />
"So, we are next in line to take-off and I'm looking for one, strike that, a few of you who would like to earn some extra cash during this flight. I need an in-flight fairy godmother, nanny, wet nurse, mother's helper, whatever you want to call it. <br />
<br />
Hear those kids making all that racquet in aisle 11? That's what I'm talking about! My boys need high altitude handlers. My suitcase full of goldfish, lollipops, cars, transformers, books, and stickers are not nearly enough. I need a couple of brawny guys to run relay races in the rear of the plane. I'm thinking Running Bases, Steal the Bacon (or Kosher meal), perhaps Capture the Flag. <br />
<br />
I need another few people who can jump out of the overhead compartments and spook my boys because they love to be startled.<br />
<br />
I need a few senior citizens to read books and sing songs. - Oh, you in the back? Perfect!!! Grab your cane and come on up here! Thank you!<br />
<br />
In addition, I need an ex Marine-type to discipline my crew, give time-outs in the 2x2 bathroom.<br />
<br />
I need the flight attendants to basically ignore all other passengers on this plane and serve only Thing 1 and Thing 2 back there in aisle 11. Bring snacks at 30 second intervals.<br />
<br />
I need someone to take shots of Jameson with my husband and play parlor games if/when he is awake.<br />
<br />
I need the pilot to give my boys a tour of the cockpit, but I suggest that happen before take-off.<br />
<br />
I need a teenager to change diapers and handle bathroom duty in general. <br />
<br />
I need other moms on the plane to coordinate play dates between our children. I would love an arts and crafts section in the rear of the plane, legoland in the front. If any of you want to play tag, perfect. You're it!<br />
<br />
I need a nurse or doc on board to dose out Benedryl and perhaps narcotics. <br />
<br />
Yes, yes! I will take my seat!!! <br />
<br />
Once again, thank you for flying USAirways. All of you may clock in right now and get to work. Paychecks and cocktails for all once we reach the west coast!"<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-R1V4JsHA4u0/UZTov662CpI/AAAAAAAAAWc/-ct-vBYMTzI/s640/blogger-image--214009162.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-R1V4JsHA4u0/UZTov662CpI/AAAAAAAAAWc/-ct-vBYMTzI/s640/blogger-image--214009162.jpg" /></a></div>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086946818073882305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436010581353438694.post-90004423262311266422013-04-30T17:56:00.001-07:002013-04-30T17:56:11.034-07:00Dear Valley Forge Military Academy,<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I have a two part question:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">How old does my son need to be in order to enroll him as a cadet? (He turned four last month.)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">and, do <span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">you have any spaces open for the fall of 2013?</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"><br /></span></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SOGGK_nAgHM/UYBjwxXr93I/AAAAAAAAAWE/OWAinx5kEJ4/s1600/boy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="146" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SOGGK_nAgHM/UYBjwxXr93I/AAAAAAAAAWE/OWAinx5kEJ4/s200/boy.jpg" width="200" /></span></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Here are the reasons why Valley Forge Military Academy seems to be an ideal fit for my son:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">1. He is already skilled in counterinsurgency tactics, ninja techniques, self-taught jujitsu, hand to hand, and head to head combat. He believes he is "Optimus Prime," leader of the (transformers) universe, but he is as cunning and versatile an adversary as the Viet Cong.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">2. My husband and I are looking for alternative options for him next fall, and Valley Forge Military Academy ("VFMA") seems more reasonable than a year-long "time out" or maximum security prison.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">3. He already knows how to march . . . to his room.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">4. He is in need of discipline and we think he will respond well when his superiors are armed.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">5. If YOU can't straighten him out, nobody can.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">6. "Scared Straight" rejected him because their program does not allow children under the age of 5 to be taunted by inmates behind prison walls.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">7. He is chopping years off my life, raising my blood pressure and, worst of all, turning my dark hair white. Not even gray! WHITE.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">8. I want my son to attend Valley Forge Military Academy because I want him to be close to home in case he has a nightmare. He can simply dash the 2 miles from VFMA to my bed with his blue blankie in hand, thumb in his mouth.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">9. Your school promises, "Structure, discipline, and learning for life." I can assure you that we are not upholding these core values in our home. Right now, he's watching how to make Angry Birds cupcakes on YouTube.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">10. Your website says, "<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">Application<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">s are welcomed from young men . . . who have demonstrated good citizenship." What exactly do you mean by "good citizenship?"</span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">11. You also say, " Applicants should be physically fit and free from any factors that could limit their full participation in cadet life." Oh, my boy is fit, no worries. He can hop on one foot and move about like a nimble Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, hero in a half-shell. I suppose unyielding defiance may be a factor that could limit his full participation in cadet life, but we shall see.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span>
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">12. I am a former employee of Valley Forget Military Academy. I had the good fortune of temping at VFMA for exactly seven days circa 1997 when all of the major television networks and cable channels tossed my resume into the garbage without so much as a pause. Perhaps Colonel P. will recall the way I filed his documents with military precision and the way I stood at attention in his office. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Valley Forge Military Academy, I salute you and thank you for your time and consideration regarding the possible enrollment of my son next fall.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Sincerely,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Stacy H. Biscardi</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">ps. I'll never forget the 13 year old cadet who tearfully approached me on day 7 of my temp job and told me he hated VFMA, that it was like a god damn prison. I contemplated stowing him away in the trunk of my car and carrying him to freedom.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Chances are, if my son enrolls in VFMA next fall, it will take me no longer than 7 days to come rescue him too. We may make a clean getaway in my car, or he may devise a blankie chain out of his dorm room window. Just giving you a heads up.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Either way, 7 days, Valley Forge Military Academy. That's all I want.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">7 days, make my boy a good citizen! A cadet. An officer and/or a gentleman. The youngest guy ever accepted to VFMA.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">He will no doubt wear it like a badge of honor.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">And therein lies the problem.</span><br />
<br />Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086946818073882305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436010581353438694.post-32886289857728609212013-04-08T11:47:00.002-07:002013-04-08T11:47:50.218-07:00We Didn't Start the Fire (Okay, Yes, We Did) and other Ann Arbor Adventures<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ahQT5udsdfc/UWMQv3qQ_xI/AAAAAAAAAVE/l91ceTDeabc/s1600/michigan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ahQT5udsdfc/UWMQv3qQ_xI/AAAAAAAAAVE/l91ceTDeabc/s320/michigan.jpg" width="281" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">The night that I accidentally spit chewing gum in my own hair while partying </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">at a Phish show at Hill Auditorium is where my memory of sophomore year at the University of Michigan </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">shampoo to disentangle my infested hair, was just the beginning of a year of </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">debacles. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">In retrospect, it started with my journey to Michigan. My dad was pumped </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">to make the drive from Philly to Ann Arbor with me in my black two-door BMW 325 with tinted windows and red lighting bolt pinstripes. However, five minutes before our departure, he got a glimpse of my car bulging from all sides. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">“What the hell is in here?” he grimaced, struggling with a duffle bag. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">“Clothes! Just put it down. Please!” I grabbed the straps from his hands and pushed the bag back into the car. I had not even attempted to zipper the bag shut. Puffy sweaters bulged out.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">“You can’t even close this bag!” he protested.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">Truthfully, I had never used a zipper on a suitcase in my entire life. (And I still, to this day, have not). At least, not when traveling by car. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">Next, “Hanibal Lecturer” launched into one of his all-time favorite speeches, “The Perils of Overpacking.” </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">He plucked a few cashmere sweaters out and threw them into a heap on the driveway.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">I started to cry. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">“Dad, stop it! Stop it!” </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">His face turned crimson and he realized he might as well have just set my entire wardrobe ablaze.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">“Ok, doll, I’m sorry,” my dad attempted, picking up the sweaters from the asphalt. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">“These are good sweaters, Dad! Apologize!”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">“Sweetheart, I’m sorry,” he said patiently.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">“Not to me! To THEM!” I shoved the sweaters at him defiantly.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">My dad apologized to my mistreated clothes. Apology accepted. He shoved the sweaters into the back seat with a grunt and we were on our merry way. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">10 hours, 600 miles, and 27 Bob Dylan discs later, when he </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">kissed me goodbye in Ann Arbor, the tears returned. But this time I wasn’t sad </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">about sweaters. As I watched my dad pull away, I thought to myself how he had </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">spent the better part of his life ensuring I was happy, safe, and warm. (And </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">that last duty of his, keeping me warm, was probably why he let my sweaters come along for the ride).</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">I walked into my new home on Elm Street that I would be sharing with six other girls. The </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">estrogen in the air was palpable. My roommates hailed from New York, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">Pennsylvania, and Illinois. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">The house itself was really a bungalow, and one which Greg Brady would </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">have surely found “groovy.” </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">There was plenty of wood paneling to go around and puke green furniture from the ‘60s, which, chances are, had been puked on plenty over the years, considering this was off-campus housing and located conveniently next to two frat houses. The centerpiece of the living room was a mustard yellow arm-chair that resembled Pee Wee Herman’s “Chairy,” only this one didn’t speak. (At least not when we were sober). We had black lights, overstuffed beanbags and a dining room table, which we would later learn had mystical powers.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Our landlords were Milly and Doug, who happened to have different last names. Every time we got wasted, we debated whether Milly and Doug were legally married, mere business associates, brother and sister, or perhaps common law husband and wife. We contemplated Milly and Doug’s romantic link incessantly because these are the kinds of topics that fascinate potheads.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">And that was definitely the year that we became party girls. I'm talking experts.</span></div>
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“I’m going to
‘Stairway to Heaven,” (the local head shop), I announced one cool October afternoon as
the Michigan wind whipped colorful leaves off the trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I need an upgrade.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My girly ‘Little Mermaid’ that my
freshman year roomate’s boyfriend had created for me was no longer
appropriate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted something
smooth, glass, at least one foot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something that signified that I had arrived.</div>
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Arriving in that way made everything entertaining. We would watch the local Detroit news and laugh until we were in tears: "What's with the long lines for the Ladies Bathroom?!" "Also, a live demonstration -Falling through ice, what you can do to protect yourself...at 11and The Truth About Pap!" We would throw our hair up in wet buns and think we looked normal walking to class in 20 degree temps. We would jump in a car and go to Chicago in search of Oprah at the gym, working out, just because we could.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">Sometimes we would randomly discover a new form of entertainment. Wheelbarrow rides up the stairs. Or fun with the dining room table. It all started o</span>ne night, when my roommate, “Pyro,” was torching paper towels over the table, as she frequently enjoyed doing. She dropped the flaming mass on the table and shrieked something unintelligible in her Chicago speak ("Maaaagiano's?"). Fearing for our lives, we raced outside, barefoot in the snow, expecting to see our groovy ski lodge go up in flames. To our glee, the house did not burn down. </div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">That night we learned a very important lesson: our dining room table was </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">indestructible. This meant we could roast marshmallows over an open flame directly on the tabletop, which we did every night the rest of the winter. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">That table became the center of our lives. We gossiped there, drank there, </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">and of course, feasted there, mainly on take-out food. Our most difficult daily </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">dilemma was: Amers? Maize-n-Blue? Pizza House? Or all of the above? We </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">were sophomores, and no longer concerned with gaining the notorious “freshman </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">fifteen.” We inhaled Pizza House chipatis and Stucchis' ice cream and sometimes hit Angelo’s for </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">breakfast. Sure, we cooked from time to time. My favorite was Boboli pizza or Puffed Kashi </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">cereal with a side of Cool Ranch Doritos. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">Did I mention that we loved to bake? Baking usually led to insane food fights that spilled over into every room on the first floor. We would crack eggs over each other’s heads and sometimes turn out a great cookie cake, which one roommate would zero in on like a stealth bomber and inhale after we all went to bed - (and then deny it the next day). </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">There were also sick games, like daring each other to drink an entire quart of milk or eat the nastiest hunk of cheese in town. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">Our house on Elm Street was also quite musical. Karaoke brightened up even </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">the grayest days in Ann Arbor. We rediscovered Donna Summer and Neil Diamond and </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">choreographed line dances to their greatest hits. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">The Love Boat Theme song was one of the most requested tunes in our house and I doubt I could catch of glimpse of Captain Stubing today without getting really nostalgic for 1995. We celebrated birthdays, breakups, and who could forget (or rather, remember) Hash Bash? </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">My roommates and I tried in vain to understand the Michigan lingo, like “parking structure,” “pop,” </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">and “tennis shoes.” The drive through Beer Depot was a house favorite. So </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">was the local hair salon, Jeffrey Michael Powers, where we would go to get waxed by a woman who was nine </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">months pregnant who would literally hoist her heaving belly on top of us and practically pin us down in order to get our </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">eyebrows just right. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">The wind tunnels chilled us to our bones and our winter jacket </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">collections grew exponentially in order to withstand the Michigan blizzards. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">We braved bone chilling temperatures and Midwest accents and came to embrace Ann Arbor as our home.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">There were some scary moments in our house on Elm Street, as well, and I'm not talking Freddie Kruger. One night, I got </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">locked in my own bedroom. I woke up at 3 a.m. to discover that I was trapped. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">Frantically, needing to use the loo, I called my downstairs roommate, who I’ll </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">call, “Sassy.” Sassy answered her phone sleepily, listened to my pleas for help </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">for thirty seconds, then hung up on me and fell back to sleep. Sassy was </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">the same person who told me to “suck it up and enjoy the show” after I </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">discovered the glob of gum in my hair at the Phish concert. Clearly, I needed to </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">call a more sensitive roommate, so I tried the girls across the hall. They </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">immediately came to my door and tried to bust through to no avail. “Pyro” </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">hollered through the door, “Don’t panic!” Of course the Fire Department </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">was on her speed dial. I was reassured until I heard her telling </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">them to come as quickly as possible. Then a miracle occurred. My roommate from </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">down the hall, “Sex Kitten,” came to my rescue with a hair </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">pin. All of the jokes I had made about her whips and chains, chaps and frequent </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">gentlemen callers were put to rest. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">There were high hopes that year for the Maize and Blue. Our football team had </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">us sitting in negative twenty wind chills, getting frozen marshmallows pegged </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">at our heads, and still we had enormous grins on our faces as we sang, “Hail </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">to the Victors” after every touchdown. Yet one day, despite our vast Michigan </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">memorabilia, face paint, and moral support, our team was crushed, and we </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">spiraled into a “sophomore slump.” My roommate, “Pyro,” who had a communications class with many Michigan football players, decided she would cheer them up with an original speech, entitled, “Why Jews should not be upset that Neil Diamond did a Christmas Album.” Her impassioned speech in support of diversity did little to </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">help our ailing team and left Amani Toomer, sitting in the front row, simply unimpressed. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">That year came to a close with the Naked Mile, a senior tradition of </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">streaking across campus. We went to check out the crowd and found ourselves quickly </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">freaked out. “Ew, I had history with him!” I shrieked as I saw a naked dude on </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">a unicycle ride by. What was really unfortunate was when the mass of nude </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">joggers got bottlenecked at the arch into the Diag. It happened every year and </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">before you knew it, thousands of naked people were bumping up against each other, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">while spectators laughed and took pictures. It was disturbing, to say the least. At this point, my naked friend on </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">rollerblades wiped out. Luckily, she only skinned her knees. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">Although Michigan didn’t make it to the Rose Bowl that year, the Fab Five had </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">disbanded, the snow didn’t stop falling until mid-April, and I was forced to </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">cut out a clump of my hair because of the gum fiasco (following Phish's opening jam at Hill Auditorium), it was still a year to </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">remember. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">Yes, we went to class. (In case you're wondering). Yes, we studied. Believe me, we learned. We worked hard and we played hard. Were there nights that we spit gum in our own hair or worse?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">I'd be lying if I said no.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">Would I have had it any other way?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">I'd be crazy if I said yes.</span></div>
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Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086946818073882305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436010581353438694.post-18827627917413457902013-03-15T10:04:00.000-07:002013-03-15T10:04:54.854-07:00All Hail to the Chief<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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When I was 11 years old, we moved
into a new house and got a dog who loved to run around the new house with a toothbrush in his mouth. That was also the year that the Chief came to live with us.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><br />
Our
brand new house was on a windy road in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, amidst grand country French homes, wrought iron fences, sparkling swimming pools, Koi
ponds, and perfectly manicured lawns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My parents built our new home from the ground up, pouring carefully over
floor plans, measuring out furniture on blueprints, collaborating with
contractors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was their
dream home.</div>
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We moved in on the
day that my sister and I returned home from overnight camp. Within two hours,
we went from bunking in a log cabin in the Poconos full of mice and mildew to a brand
new Main Line home full of possibilities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There would be touch football games, tennis matches, softball, roller
hockey in the driveway, barbecuing on the deck, playing in the snow, roasting marsh-mellows
in my parents’ bedroom fireplace, screaming contests at the dinner table,
blasting music on the vintage jukebox, singing karaoke, baking daddy cookies in the pale pink kitchen.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
The windows in my
bright bedroom overlooked the backyard, wooden deck, green
grass, and tennis court beyond.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“How ‘bout we build a zip line out your bedroom window straight down to
the tennis court?” my dad asked, with a twinkle in his eye.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My dad had the best ideas and I often
wondered if he was really a ten year old boy stuck in a dad’s body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was as excited about this new house that he had worked so hard to build, as a little boy would be about a new tree house.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
It looked like a
suburban dream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, for my
family, it was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Do you guys want
to paint the rock?” my dad asked the week after we moved in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> The "rock" was </span>a gigantic boulder, roughly the size of a Prius, that stood just beyond the wooden deck in the backyard. <br />
<br />
Between the two of us, my sister,
Alissa, was the “artist.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had
perfected her two signature drawings; one, the hind quarters of an elephant,
and two, the face of a dog with long droopy ears and freckles, by the time she was
eight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> (</span>I was never much of an
artist, save for the time I created an abstract masterpiece when I colored off
the pages of my coloring book and right up my bedroom wall).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Dad, paint it,
like how?” my sister asked, rolling her eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At 14, Alissa was way too cool for craft projects, let alone
outdoor craft projects in the late August humidity.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“However you
want,” my dad replied, “be creative.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
An hour later,
after a trip to the paint store, my sister and I went out back with brushes and
paints in hand and a master plan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We decided to doodle on the boulder precisely the same crap that we had doodled all over the lined pages
of our school notebooks for years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>First, our initials: “SH,” “AH,” “SBH,” “AMH” (my sister decided to give
herself the middle name “Miranda” at this stage in her life because my parents
had never given her one).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then we
added our flowery signatures that we were constantly revising for the eventual
stardom that awaited us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Next we
scrawled: “Benetton, Ton Sur Ton, Guess Jeans.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I painted my signature “snoopy on top of doghouse,” (which
slightly resembled “snoopy on top of embalming table at morgue.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My sister topped it off with her piece
de resistance: “Alissa Rules.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
We were creative
geniuses.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“WHAT are you
girls doing?” my dad asked, slightly horrified by the sight of the
boulder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We smiled as proudly as
Michelangelo must have.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Dad, do you like
it?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“I thought you
were going to paint . . . I don’t know, a mural or something . . .”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“This IS a mural!”
Alissa retorted, tossing her wooden paintbrush in the bucket with a clank.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
There was no use
arguing, so my dad didn’t bother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m sure he prayed for a monsoon to sweep through Bryn Mawr and wash
away intense coats of “Benetton” and “Alissa Rules” and all of our other
artistic nonsense.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The monsoon never
came and our masterpiece remained for years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, my dad believed that if anyone could turn around the
energy (or lack thereof) of our otherwise gorgeous backyard, surely a shaman
could.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see, not only was my
dad a big kid at heart, he believed he was a Native American reincarnated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Ten men are
coming tomorrow to deliver the Chief!” my dad announced one day upon his return
from a business trip to North Carolina.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Wha-?” my mom nearly coughed out some chicken salad.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I bought a Native
American chief, for the backyard, it’s spectacular.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>10 feet tall wooden sculpture,” he explained as nonchalantly as if he had
purchased a new perennial for the garden.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Where do you
think it’s going to go?” my mom asked, skeptically.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Right out there,
by the rock.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Of course. </span><br />
<br />
He was so confident
it was as if the spirits had spoken to him in a dream. “He’ll watch over the
house,” my dad continued, without a hint of jest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“And besides, I think the backyard could use a little
fang-ship.”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You mean, “FENG SHUI?” my mom responded, carefully enough for a five year old to get the
correction.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh, you know what
I mean!”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The Native gods
must have been crazy because sure enough a flat-bed truck rolled up several
days later and out came the Chief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Just like my dad promised (or threatened), it took ten beefy men to
carry him from the truck to his perch in the backyard and prop him
upright.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a feat of
mankind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My dad was so overjoyed I
thought he might put on a headdress, torch up a joint, and beat a drum.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tT19uoxfKPQ/UUNPZa1unZI/AAAAAAAAAUk/UpRPrXVurvY/s1600/photo-105.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tT19uoxfKPQ/UUNPZa1unZI/AAAAAAAAAUk/UpRPrXVurvY/s320/photo-105.JPG" width="239" /></a></span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
He was the only
resident of the Main Line with a 10 foot hand-carved Native
American chief in his backyard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That was for sure.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
And then, the
monsoon hit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> (</span>Well, it was a
terrible rainstorm with damaging 50 mph winds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Might as well have been a monsoon).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
“I was up all night, thinking about the Chief,” my dad
revealed as he strolled into the pale pink kitchen in his signature Cole Haan loafers and
button down shirt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I thought the
wind might knock him down, but look!” he said, pointing out the kitchen window,
“He’s as strong as an ox.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Alissa
and I giggled.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m going to
order a plaque for him,” my dad continued.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“His name came to me in my dream last night.”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I thought you
said you were up all night?” my sister chided.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Yeah, Dad, how
could you have been dream-?<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I had a vision,
okay?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A vision.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wow, you two are like little
lawyers!”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“So, Mr. Heenan,
you say you had a vision, last night, the night of - ?” Alissa continued, in
her best prosecutorial tone.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“His name is Chief
Strong Winds, Wisdom Within,” my dad declared.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Dad, you might
want to check yourself into the nearest psych ward.”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m serious,
doll!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s his name.”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“No more
questions,” my sister chuckled, rolling her blue eyes three quarters of the way
back into her head.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
So, he got the
plaque, hammered on to the Chief’s base and, next thing you know, “Chief Strong
Winds, Wisdom Within,” became a veritable tourist attraction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or at least a neighborhood attraction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Friends and family wanted their photo
taken with the Chief, much the way tourists enjoy posing with goofy guys
dressed like gladiators in front of The Colosseum.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">The Chief has survived some 27 years since then. He has made multiple moves, suffered a minor foot injury, overseen the birth of five little boys, and has even made it to "show and tell" for my son's unit on Native Americans at Thanksgiving time. (I had to explain to his teachers that yes, the Chief really does live in my parents' backyard and not in some protected national space in North Dakota).</span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
How one man could bring so many people and generations together is beyond me. Of course, it's not the Chief I'm referring to; it's the man with the vision, heart, and soul. The man who infuses spirit into everything he does. The Chief's chief. <br />
<br />
Love you, Dad.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086946818073882305noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436010581353438694.post-6206257695574132013-02-16T10:15:00.002-08:002013-02-16T10:15:58.698-08:00Play Date ParanoiaI am composing an email to the mom of one of my son's classmates. I have met her once before and I am trying to arrange a play date at my house. It sounds so simple, but things have gotten a little complicated, especially this time of year.<br />
<br />
I want to write:<br />
<br />
"Dear Mom of Little Johnny,<br />
<br />
My Little Guy can't wait to have Little Johnny over to play tomorrow. I was just wondering, does Little Johnny have any allergies? Does he have an aversion to babies who swipe toys like a ninja in the night?<br />
<br />
Is Little Johnny harboring any germs? Is he recovering from any recent illness? Has he thrown up in the past 48 hours? Complained of nausea? Displayed any lesser appetite than normal? Had any diarrhea? Is he coughing? Nose running? Pink eye? Puffiness? Flu-like symptoms? Is he on any medication? Is he carrying an Epi-pen?<br />
<br />
Does Little Johnny have lice? Scabies? Scurvy?<br />
<br />
When is the last time you took his temperature? Under the arm, orally, rectally? (Strike that. Too much information).<br />
<br />
Are any of your family members, including pets, currently sick or complaining of the aforementioned symptoms?<br />
<br />
Is Little Johnny allowed to watch TV? Does he fear mildly frightening parts of G-rated movies? Is he allowed to use an iPad and iPhone? Does he object to mild profanity that my son may inadvertently (or intentionally) discover on the iPad or iPhone?<br />
<br />
Does Little Johnny enjoy ninja fighting? Is he allowed to jump on beds? Sofas?<br />
<br />
Does Little Johnny need help wiping in the bathroom? Will he let me know if he needs to go - or do I need to remind him/beg him/threaten him?<br />
<br />
Is Little Johnny a vegan? Is he kosher? Is he allowed to eat snacks? Lollipops? Candy? Will his head spin around if he sees Fruity Pebbles in our pantry? Will yours?<br />
<br />
Does he eat Play Doh? Marbles? Are there any other small toys that might get lodged in his throat if I step away to use the bathroom for 10 seconds?"<br />
<br />
<br />
Truthfully, this email could go on forever. The logistics of having a 3 year old over could be as complex as a NASA mission.<br />
<br />
DELETE DELETE DELETE. The entire email. <br />
<br />
I start again, deciding I will make this exchange brief.<br />
<br />
"Dear Mom of Little Johnny,<br />
<br />
My Little Guy is excited for Little Johnny to come over to play tomorrow. Does Little Johnny have any allergies?<br />
<br />
Thanks,<br />
<br />
Stacy"<br />
<br />
ps. I think we might all be better off returning to the glory days when we said, "Bye, Mom," and then played outside all day long with neighborhood friends, ran through creeks, skipped through storm pipes, climbed monstrous trees and came home at dusk.<br />
<br />
No play dates. Just play. <br />
<br />
How simple and sweet.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086946818073882305noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436010581353438694.post-13540742720544621012013-02-05T08:58:00.000-08:002013-02-05T08:58:27.505-08:00What Would You Be Willing To Do?My husband woke up at 5 a.m. last Friday to gather with thousands to watch grown men fight like gladiators to shove the most chicken wings down their throats. Catching a glimpse of an unattractive woman flashing on the jumbotron was just a lucky bonus.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It had me thinking. Wow.<br />
<br />
The things that men do just to get out of the house these days. <br />
<br />
Ridiculous. Embarrassing. Stupid.<br />
<br />
Tonight, I am going out to speak to college seniors about Women in the Workforce. A few friends laughed when I told them. I did not initially find it funny, but upon reflection, it is. <br />
<br />
I have been out of the "Workforce" for 4 years. My former law firm does not even exist anymore. My business cards are obsolete. Maybe I am too.<br />
<br />
That's the sad part. <br />
<br />
Here's the funny part.<br />
<br />
I am EXCITED to go speak to college seniors because it gets me out of the house, alone in my car, rocking out to music so loud it will probably lead to early deafness. Most important, it gets me time away from my two wild and crazy and sweet and maddening little boys. And that time is priceless.<br />
<br />
So, I started thinking about all of the things that I would do or have recently done just to get the hell out of the house.<br />
<br />
I would:<br />
<br />
1. attend the funeral of a distant acquaintance<br />
2. talk to maximum security prison inmates about Women in the Workforce<br />
3. go to the dentist, even for x-rays and impressions<br />
<br />
Recently, in an effort to escape from home, I have:<br />
<br />
1. sat shiva for a relative stranger<br />
2. taught mock trial to elementary school students<br />
3. taken my husband to the ER for a minor illness (it was nice alone time)<br />
4. attended multiple bridal and baby showers<br />
5. driven 30 minutes to get my hair cut<br />
6. sought solace in the supermarket aisles sans kids<br />
<br />
Ridiculous. Embarrassing. Stupid.<br />
<br />
What have you done?<br />
<br />
Maybe the moms and dads of the world aren't so different after all. We all need to get the hell out. Where we go and what we do doesn't so much matter. <br />
<br />
Still, watching a wing-eating competition is where I draw the line. I don't even like thinking about it, let alone writing about it. If I want to watch real gladiators fight, I'll stay home with my boys. And, if that isn't work, I don't know what is!Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086946818073882305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436010581353438694.post-72252272764442169452013-01-15T09:19:00.002-08:002013-01-15T09:19:54.407-08:00Tony Bennett, meet GramMy grandmother has two firm requirements for a potential gentleman caller:<br />
<br />
1. He must stand tall. (If there is one thing Gram hates more than a mug of luke warm coffee, it's dainty old men who hunch over).<br />
<br />
2. He must drive at night. (Gram is a night owl and enjoys dining out, playing a little black jack, and swinging by Dairy Bar in Margate for late night ice cream cones). Exclusive daytime drivers need not apply.<br />
<br />
Added bonuses for Gram's potential suitor: hair, health, good teeth, gin drinker and player. Italian with a hint of mob ties is intriguing to Gram as well.<br />
<br />
Now that you know the kind of gentleman who would pass the first round of the Dating Game with Gram, I should tell you flat out that she is NOT looking. She is very content without a man. She is smart, independent, adventurous, and resilient. After 50 plus years of marriage to my late grandfather, she has carried on with great strength since his death in 2005.<br />
<br />
So, this idea, much like the suggestion that Gram sign up for JDate, is purely my concoction. I know if the right man came along, Gram might be game.<br />
<br />
Enter Tony Bennett.<br />
<br />
1. He stands tall. 5'7 is not bad for a man in his 80s. No hunch here.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
2. He drives at night. (If he doesn't drive himself, I'm sure he has a driver).<br />
<br />
Bonuses: Tony has hair (or a great toupee), health, good teeth. He drinks a glass of wine at night. He is Italian with a hint of mob ties.<br />
<br />
The truth is that Gram loves Italian men, and they love her, possibly because she resembles their national treasure, Sophia Loren. When Gram was asked to recall her Hebrew name in preparation for my cousin's Bar Mitvzah, she pondered, "Gina? I think it's Gina."<br />
<br />
"<i>GINA</i>, come up to the bimah? Really?!" I asked.<br />
"It's been years, doll, it's hard to remember, but I think it is Gina."<br />
"Gina is your <i>Italian</i> name, but not your Hebrew name," I broke it gently.<br />
<br />
Even so, Gram clearly has some Italian spirit in her. And Tony could let it out.<br />
<br />
He has sold more than 50 million albums, featuring pop music, standards, show tunes and jazz. With Gram as his muse, I believe he could sell 50 million more.<br />
<br />
Tony is an accomplished painter. Gram is artistic too. She has sculpted some beautiful pieces from marble and knitted dozens of sweaters, some of which suffer from short arms, for four generations.<br />
<br />
Tony travels a lot. Gram is a world traveler too.<br />
<br />
Tony fought in WWII. Gram loves a war hero, as my grandfather was.<br />
<br />
Tony leads a life of glamour, glitz, and galas. Gram. Gram. Gram.<br />
<br />
Tony loves family and great cooking. Can you imagine Gram making matzoh ball soup for Tony Bennett? I totally can. She would have him at his first bite of her sweet and sour meatballs.<br />
<br />
They could spend falls in Positano, winters in Miami, springs in Philly, and summers at the Jersey Shore. I can just picture Tony and Gram grabbing the early bird special at Downbeach Deli, racing to the Borgata to perform standards on stage, hitting the blackjack tables and Dairy Bar after, and watching the sun rise over the beach the next morning.<br />
<br />
What a duo they would be!<br />
<br />
Tony Benett, you've had an extraordinary life and career. Only one thing left to do, Sir. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Tony, meet Gram.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086946818073882305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436010581353438694.post-46731561851473119432013-01-02T09:21:00.001-08:002013-01-02T09:21:59.826-08:00A Bum PawI fell down a flight of basement steps at a kids' cookie decorating party. It was 11 a.m., a few days before Christmas.<br />
<br />
That's how I acquired this bum paw.<br />
<br />
Everyone wants to know if I was drunk. <br />
<br />
I was.<br />
<br />
Not.<br />
<br />
Everyone wants to know if I really punched my husband.<br />
<br />
I did.<br />
<br />
Not.<br />
<br />
"Did you land on it?"<br />
<br />
No, I grabbed onto the railing with all of my might to avoid face-planting on the basement floor with twenty three year olds on a sugar high swirling by.<br />
<br />
"So what the hell happened?"<br />
<br />
My pinky went far east, trying to secede from the rest of my hand. Sickening pain enveloped my body.<br />
<br />
I shed a few tears, grabbed some ice. A six year old ran and found a makeshift Frosty the Snowman splint.<br />
<br />
It's not broken, the other moms diagnosed. "You can move your pinky!"<br />
<br />
"Just tell your husband you can't cook dinner tonight," one offered up. Now that made me smile despite the pain.<br />
<br />
"What should I tell him about the past <i>five years</i>?"<br />
<br />
I decorated some more cookies with my left hand.<br />
<br />
"Are you right handed?"<br />
<br />
Complicated question. I write and eat with my left hand but I do everything else with my right hand. <br />
<br />
Cutting with scissors? Right.<br />
<br />
Throwing a ball? Right.<br />
<br />
Batting? Right.<br />
<br />
You get the idea? Right.<br />
<br />
So I think my bum paw is actually my dominant paw. <br />
<br />
"How will you get through Christmas?" the nurse wrapping my hand asked in sheer horror.<br />
<br />
"I'm Jewish."<br />
<br />
That response may have sufficed years ago when I was eating honey walnut shrimp on Christmas Eve in Miami Beach. But that was then...<br />
<br />
Christmas is now a legitimate forced to be reckoned with in my home, along with Hanukkah.<br />
<br />
There were gifts to wrap, decorations to hang, cookies to bake, diapers to change, eye drops to administer, baths to give, toys to build, small ninjas to toss off of me, and a million other things to do which require all hand ligaments to work in unison like an orchestra.<br />
<br />
"You're blowing my hair out," I told my husband.<br />
<br />
"Ok, I will," he laughed.<br />
<br />
So did he?<br />
<br />
He did.<br />
<br />
Not.<br />
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Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086946818073882305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436010581353438694.post-66551089564079217542012-12-19T16:59:00.000-08:002012-12-19T16:59:04.827-08:00In Memoriam<br />
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<i>Death is a challenge. It tells us not to waste time... It tells us to tell each other right now that we love each other. </i></blockquote>
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<b>Victims in Connecticut elementary school shooting remembered by family, friends</b><br />
<b>Published December 17, 2012</b><br />
<b> by the Associated Press</b><br />
<br />
At the very start of their lives, the schoolchildren are remembered for their love of horses, or for the games they couldn't get enough of, or for always saying grace at dinner. The adult victims found their life's work in sheltering little ones, teaching them, caring for them, treating them as their own. The gunfire Friday at Sandy Hook Elementary School left a toll both unbearable and incalculable: 20 students and six adults at the school, the gunman's mother at home, and the gunman himself.<br />
A glimpse of some of those who died:<br />
------<br />
CHARLOTTE BACON, 6<br />
They were supposed to be for the holidays, but finally on Friday, after hearing much begging, Charlotte Bacon's mother relented and let her wear the new pink dress and boots to school.<br />
It was the last outfit the outgoing redhead would ever pick out. Charlotte's older brother, Guy, was also in the school but was not shot.<br />
Her parents, JoAnn and Joel, had lived in Newtown for four or five years, JoAnn's brother John Hagen, of Nisswa, Minn., told Newsday.<br />
"She was going to go some places in this world," Hagen told the newspaper. "This little girl could light up the room for anyone."<br />
------<br />
DANIEL BARDEN, 7<br />
Daniel's family says he was "fearless in the pursuit of happiness in life."<br />
He was the youngest of three children and in a statement to the media, his family said Daniel earned his missing two front teeth and ripped jeans.<br />
"Words really cannot express what a special boy Daniel was. Such a light. Always smiling, unfailingly polite, incredibly affectionate, fair and so thoughtful towards others, imaginative in play, both intelligent and articulate in conversation: in all, a constant source of laughter and joy," the family said.<br />
His father, Mark is a local musician. The New Haven Register reported that Mark was scheduled to play a show at a restaurant in Danbury on Friday, a show that was later cancelled.<br />
On the biography on his professional website, Mark Barden lists spending time with his family as his favorite thing to do.<br />
------<br />
RACHEL D'AVINO, 29<br />
Days before the Connecticut shooting rampage, the boyfriend of Rachel D'Avino had asked her parents for permission to marry her.<br />
D'Avino was a behavioral therapist who had only recently started working at the school where she was killed, according to Lissa Lovetere Stone, a friend who is handling her funeral planned for Friday. D'Avino's boyfriend, Anthony Cerritelli, planned to ask her to marry him on Christmas Eve, Lovetere Stone said.<br />
Lovetere Stone said she met D'Avino in 2005 when D'Avino was assigned to her son, who has autism, in their town of Bethlehem. D'Avino, 29, was so dedicated she'd make home visits and constantly offered guidance on handling situations such as helping her son deal with loud music at a wedding.<br />
"Her job didn't end when the school bell rang at 3 o'clock," Lovetere Stone said.<br />
Police told her family that she shielded one of the students during the rampage, Lovetere Stone said.<br />
"I'm heartbroken. I'm numb," Lovetere Stone said. "I think she taught me more about how to be a good mother to a special needs child than anyone else ever had."<br />
------<br />
OLIVIA ENGEL, 6<br />
Images of Olivia Rose Engel show a happy child, one with a great sense of humor, as her family said in a statement. There she is, visiting with Santa Claus, or feasting on a slice of birthday cake. Or swinging a pink baseball bat, posing on a boat, or making a silly face.<br />
Olivia loved school, did very well in math and reading, and was "insightful for her age," said the statement released by her uncle, John Engel.<br />
She was a child who "lit up a room and the people around her." Creative with drawing and designing, she was also a tennis and soccer player and took art classes, swimming, and dance lessons in ballet and hip hop. A Daisy Girl Scout, she enjoyed musical theater.<br />
"She was a great big sister and was always very patient with her 3 year old brother, Brayden," her family said, recalling that her favorite colors were purple and pink.<br />
Olivia was learning the rosary and always led grace before the family dinner. "She was a grateful child who was always appreciative and never greedy," the family said.<br />
Her father said she was a 6-year-old who had a lot to look forward to.<br />
Dan Merton, a longtime friend of the girl's family, recalled that she loved attention, had perfect manners and was a teacher's pet.<br />
"Her only crime," he said, "is being a wiggly, smiley 6-year-old."<br />
------<br />
JOSEPHINE GAY, 6<br />
Josephine Gay had just turned 7, three days before the shooting.<br />
She liked to ride her bike on her family's quiet cul-de-sac, and over the summer she set up a lemonade stand, according to CNN.<br />
Josephine loved the color purple. On Monday, there were purple balloons attached to her family's mailbox, and on the mailboxes of all the neighbors. The yellow house she lived in had a jungle gym out back.<br />
A person who answered the phone at Mother of God Catholic Church in Covington, Ky., said Josephine was the great-niece of the pastor, Father Raymond Hartman.<br />
Polly Larsen in Sunnyvale, Calif., said she was close friends with the cousin of Josephine's mother.<br />
"`Joey' is a beautiful little girl, may she never be forgotten and live forever in our hearts," Larsen wrote on Facebook.<br />
------<br />
DAWN HOCHSPRUNG, 47, principal<br />
Dawn Hochsprung's pride in Sandy Hook Elementary was clear. She regularly tweeted photos from her time as principal there, giving indelible glimpses of life at a place now known for tragedy. Just this week, it was an image of fourth-graders rehearsing for their winter concert; days before that, the tiny hands of kindergartners exchanging play money at their makeshift grocery store.<br />
She viewed her school as a model, telling The Newtown Bee in 2010 that "I don't think you could find a more positive place to bring students to every day." She had worked to make Sandy Hook a place of safety, too, and in October, the 47-year-old Hochsprung shared a picture of the school's evacuation drill with the message "safety first." When the unthinkable came, she was ready to defend.<br />
Officials said she died while lunging at the gunman in an attempt to overtake him.<br />
"She had an extremely likable style about her," said Gerald Stomski, first selectman of Woodbury, where Hochsprung lived and had taught. "She was an extremely charismatic principal while she was here."<br />
------<br />
<br />
DYLAN HOCKLEY, 6<br />
Dylan Hockley smiles online in a series of family photos, as Shrek or "Super Dylan," his mother writes, according to a profile by the Washington Post reported. He can be seen posing with his brother, Jake, in other photos. According to the Post, Dylan, 6, lived across Yogananda Street from where the violence began. His neighbor, Nancy Lanza, was the mother of the suspected shooter.<br />
------<br />
MADELEINE HSU, 6<br />
Dr. Matthew Velsmid was at Madeleine's house on Saturday, tending to her stricken family. He said the family did not want to comment.<br />
Velsmid said that after hearing of the shooting, he went to the triage area to provide medical assistance but there were no injuries to treat.<br />
"We were waiting for casualties to come out, and there was nothing. There was no need, unfortunately," he said. "This is the darkest thing I've ever walked into, by far."<br />
Velsmid's daughter, who attends another school, lost three of her friends.<br />
------<br />
CATHERINE HUBBARD, 6<br />
Catherine's parents released a statement expressing gratitude to emergency responders and for the support of the community.<br />
"We are greatly saddened by the loss of our beautiful daughter, Catherine Violet and our thoughts and prayers are with the other families who have been affected by this tragedy," Jennifer and Matthew Hubbard said. "We ask that you continue to pray for us and the other families who have experienced loss in this tragedy."<br />
------<br />
CHASE KOWALSKI, 7<br />
Chase Kowalski was always outside, playing in the backyard, riding his bicycle. Just last week, he was visiting neighbor Kevin Grimes, telling him about completing -- and winning -- his first mini-triathlon.<br />
"You couldn't think of a better child," Grimes said.<br />
Grimes' own five children all attended Sandy Hook, too. Cars lined up outside the Kowalskis' ranch home Saturday, and a state trooper's car idled in the driveway. Grimes spoke of the boy only in the present tense.<br />
------<br />
NANCY LANZA, 52, gunman's mother<br />
She was known for the game nights she hosted, the holiday decorations she put up at her house, her love of the Red Sox and her growing enthusiasm for target shooting. Now Nancy Lanza is known as her son's first victim.<br />
Authorities say her 20-year-old son Adam gunned her down before killing 26 others at Sandy Hook. The two shared a home in a well-to-do Newtown neighborhood, but details were slow to emerge of who she was and what might have led her son to carry out such horror.<br />
Friends say she spoke proudly of her sons, but discussion of her home life, particularly its trials and setbacks, was off limits.<br />
Kingston, N.H., Police Chief Donald Briggs Jr. said Nancy Lanza once lived in the community and was a kind, considerate and loving person. The former stockbroker at John Hancock in Boston was well-respected, Briggs said.<br />
Court records show Lanza and her ex-husband, Peter Lanza, filed for divorce in 2008. He lives in Stamford and is a tax director at General Electric. The split-up was not acrimonious and Adam spent time with both his mother and father, said Marsha Lanza of Crystal Lake, Ill., Peter Lanza's aunt.<br />
A neighbor, Rhonda Cullens, said she knew Nancy Lanza from get-togethers she had hosted to play Bunco, a dice game. She said her neighbor had enjoyed gardening.<br />
"She was a very nice lady," Cullens said. "She was just like all the rest of us in the neighborhood, just a regular person."<br />
------<br />
JESSE LEWIS, 6<br />
Six-year-old Jesse Lewis had hot chocolate with his favorite breakfast sandwich -- sausage, egg and cheese -- at the neighborhood deli before going to school Friday morning.<br />
Jesse and his parents were regulars at the Misty Vale Deli in Sandy Hook, Conn., owner Angel Salazar told The Wall Street Journal.<br />
"He was always friendly; he always liked to talk," Salazar said.<br />
Jesse's family has a collection of animals he enjoyed playing with, and he was learning to ride horseback.<br />
Family friend Barbara McSperrin told the Journal that Jesse was "a typical 6-year-old little boy, full of life."<br />
------<br />
ANA MARQUEZ-GREENE, 6<br />
A year ago, 6-year-old Ana Marquez-Greene was reveling in holiday celebrations with her extended family on her first trip to Puerto Rico. This year will be heartbreakingly different.<br />
The girl's grandmother, Elba Marquez, said the family moved to Connecticut just two months ago, drawn from Canada, in part, by Sandy Hook's sterling reputation. The grandmother's brother, Jorge Marquez, is mayor of a Puerto Rican town and said the child's 9-year-old brother also was at the school but escaped safely.<br />
Elba Marquez had just visited the new home over Thanksgiving and is perplexed by what happened. "What happened does not match up with the place where they live," she said.<br />
A video spreading across the Internet shows a confident Ana hitting every note as she sings "Come, Thou Almighty King." She flashes a big grin and waves to the camera when she's done.<br />
Jorge Marquez confirmed the girl's father is saxophonist Jimmy Greene, who wrote on Facebook that he was trying to "work through this nightmare."<br />
"As much as she's needed here and missed by her mother, brother and me, Ana beat us all to paradise," he wrote. "I love you sweetie girl."<br />
------<br />
JAMES MATTIOLI, 6<br />
James Mattioli especially loved recess and math, and his family described him as a "numbers guy" who came up with insights beyond his years to explain the relationship between numbers. He particularly loved the concept of googolplex, which a friend taught him.<br />
He was born four weeks before his due date, and his family often joked that he came into the world early because he was hungry.<br />
They wrote in his obituary that 6-year-old James, fondly called `J,' loved hamburgers with ketchup, his Dad's egg omelets with bacon, and his Mom's french toast. He often asked to stop at Subway and wanted to know how old he needed to be to order a footlong sandwich.<br />
He loved sports and wore shorts and T-shirts no matter the weather. He was a loud and enthusiastic singer and once asked, "How old do I have to be to sing on a stage?"<br />
His family recalled that he was an early-riser who was always ready to get up and go. He and his older sister were the best of friends. He was a thoughtful and considerate child, recently choosing to forgo a gift for himself and use the money to buy his grandfather a mug for Christmas.<br />
A funeral for James will be Tuesday in Newtown.<br />
------<br />
GRACE AUDREY McDONNELL, 7<br />
With broken hearts, the parents of Grace Audrey McDonnell said Sunday they couldn't believe the outpouring of support they've received since the little girl who was the center of their lives died in the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting.<br />
Lynn and Chris McDonnell called their 7-year-old daughter "the love and light" of their family in a statement released by the little girl's uncle.<br />
The family also shared a photo featuring Grace smiling into the camera, her eyes shining and a pink bow adorning her long blonde hair.<br />
"Words cannot adequately express our sense of loss," the McDonnells said.<br />
------<br />
ANNE MARIE MURPHY, 52, teacher<br />
A happy soul. A good mother, wife and daughter. Artistic, fun-loving, witty and hardworking.<br />
Remembering their daughter, Anne Marie Murphy, her parents had no shortage of adjectives to offer Newsday. When news of the shooting broke, Hugh and Alice McGowan waited for word of their daughter as hours ticked by. And then it came.<br />
Authorities told the couple their daughter was a hero who helped shield some of her students from the rain of bullets. As the grim news arrived, the victim's mother reached for her rosary.<br />
"You don't expect your daughter to be murdered," her father told the newspaper. "It happens on TV. It happens elsewhere."<br />
------<br />
EMILIE PARKER, 6<br />
Quick to cheer up those in need of a smile, Emilie Parker never missed a chance to draw a picture or make a card.<br />
Her father, Robbie Parker, fought back tears as he described the beautiful, blond, always-smiling girl who loved to try new things, except foods.<br />
Parker, one of the first parents to publicly talk about his loss, expressed no animosity for the gunman, even as he struggled to explain the death to his other two children, ages 3 and 4. He's sustained by the fact that the world is better for having had Emilie in it.<br />
"I'm so blessed to be her dad," he said.<br />
------<br />
JACK PINTO, 6<br />
Jack Pinto was a huge New York Giants fan.<br />
New York Giants wide receiver Victor Cruz said he talked to Pinto's family, which is considering burying the 6-year-old boy in Cruz's No. 80 jersey.<br />
Cruz honored Jack Sunday on his cleats, writing on them the words "Jack Pinto, My Hero" and "R.I.P. Jack Pinto."<br />
"I also spoke to an older brother and he was distraught as well. I told him to stay strong and I was going to do whatever I can to honor him," Cruz said after the Giant's game with the Atlanta Falcons. "He was fighting tears and could barely speak to me."<br />
Cruz said he plans to give the gloves he wore during the game to the boy's family, and spend some time with them.<br />
"There's no words that can describe the type of feeling that you get when a kid idolizes you so much that unfortunately they want to put him in the casket with your jersey on," he said. "I can't even explain it."<br />
Jack's funeral is scheduled for 1 p.m. on Monday at the Honan Funeral Home in Newtown, followed by burial at the Newtown Village Cemetery.<br />
------<br />
NOAH POZNER, 6<br />
Noah was "smart as a whip," gentle but with a rambunctious streak, said his uncle, Alexis Haller of Woodinville, Wash. Noah's twin sister Arielle, assigned to a different classroom, survived the shooting. He called her his best friend, and with their 8-year-old sister, Sophia, they were inseparable.<br />
"They were always playing together, they loved to do things together," Haller said. When his mother, a nurse, would tell him she loved him, he would answer, "Not as much as I love you, Mom."<br />
Haller said Noah loved to read and liked to figure out how things worked mechanically. For his birthday two weeks ago, he got a new Wii.<br />
"He was just a really lively, smart kid," Haller said. "He would have become a great man, I think. He would have grown up to be a great dad."<br />
------<br />
CAROLINE PREVIDI, 6<br />
Caroline Previdi had an infectious grin and a giving heart.<br />
"Caroline Phoebe Previdi was a blessing from God and brought joy to everyone she touched," her parents, Jeff and Sandy Previdi, said in a statement. "We know that she is looking down on us from Heaven."<br />
On Facebook, friends remembered when her big brother, Walker, was in preschool, and how Caroline would come with her mom to pick him up. A Sandy Hook dad posted photos of Caroline with another shooting victim, Olivia Engel, as well as his own daughter, who survived the attack. All three are grinning and wearing blue tutus.<br />
Family friend David Sutch said Jeff and Sandy talk about their children all the time. On Thursday, the day before the shooting, the Previdis' annual Christmas card arrived. It had a picture of Caroline and Walker on either side of the family's Lab.<br />
On Monday, Sutch wore a white shirt and green tie -- Sandy Hook's colors -- in memory of Caroline.<br />
Sutch, who lives in Brookfield, Mo., described the Previdis as loving and compassionate, always having other children over to the house, willing to befriend anyone.<br />
"I can't imagine a family that deserved this less," he said.<br />
------<br />
JESSICA REKOS, 6<br />
"Jessica loved everything about horses," her parents, Rich and Krista Rekos said in a statement. "She devoted her free time to watching horse movies, reading horse books, drawing horses, and writing stories about horses."<br />
When she turned 10, they promised, she could have a horse of her own. For Christmas, she asked Santa for new cowgirl boots and hat.<br />
The Rekoses described their daughter as "a creative, beautiful little girl who loved playing with her little brothers, Travis and Shane.<br />
"She spent time writing in her journals, making up stories, and doing `research' on orca whales -- one of her passions after seeing the movie `Free Willy' last year." Her dream of seeing a real orca was realized in October when she went to SeaWorld.<br />
Jessica, first born in the family, "was our rock," the parents said. "She had an answer for everything, she didn't miss a trick, and she outsmarted us every time." A thoughtful planner, she was "our little CEO."<br />
"We cannot imagine our life without her. We are mourning her loss, sharing our beautiful memories we have of her, and trying to help her brother Travis understand why he can't play with his best friend," they said.<br />
"We are devastated, and our hearts are with the other families who are grieving as we are."<br />
------<br />
AVIELLE RICHMAN, 6<br />
No information is available at this time.<br />
------<br />
LAUREN GABRIELLE ROUSSEAU, 30, teacher<br />
Lauren Rousseau had spent years working as a substitute teacher and doing other jobs. So she was thrilled when she finally realized her goal this fall to become a full-time teacher at Sandy Hook.<br />
Her mother, Teresa Rousseau, a copy editor at the Danbury News-Times, released a statement Saturday that said state police told them just after midnight that she was among the victims.<br />
"Lauren wanted to be a teacher from before she even went to kindergarten," she said. "We will miss her terribly and will take comfort knowing that she had achieved that dream."<br />
Her mother said she was thrilled to get the job.<br />
"It was the best year of her life," she told the newspaper.<br />
Rousseau has been called gentle, spirited and active. She had planned to see "The Hobbit" with her boyfriend Friday and had baked cupcakes for a party they were to attend afterward. She was born in Danbury, and attended Danbury High, college at the University of Connecticut and graduate school at the University of Bridgeport.<br />
She was a lover of music, dance and theater.<br />
"I'm used to having people die who are older," her mother said, "not the person whose room is up over the kitchen."<br />
------<br />
MARY SHERLACH, 56, school psychologist<br />
When the shots rang out, Mary Sherlach threw herself into the danger.<br />
Janet Robinson, the superintendent of Newtown Public Schools, said Sherlach and the school's principal ran toward the shooter. They lost their own lives, rushing toward him.<br />
Even as Sherlach neared retirement, her job at Sandy Hook was one she loved. Those who knew her called her a wonderful neighbor, a beautiful person, a dedicated educator.<br />
Her son-in-law, Eric Schwartz, told the South Jersey Times that Sherlach rooted on the Miami Dolphins, enjoyed visiting the Finger Lakes, relished helping children overcome their problems. She had planned to leave work early on Friday, he said, but never had the chance. In a news conference Saturday, he told reporters the loss was devastating, but that Sherlach was doing what she loved.<br />
"Mary felt like she was doing God's work," he said, "working with the children."<br />
------<br />
VICTORIA SOTO, 27, teacher<br />
She beams in snapshots. Her enthusiasm and cheer was evident. She was doing, those who knew her say, what she loved.<br />
And now, Victoria Soto is being called a hero.<br />
The 27-year-old teacher's name has been invoked again and again as a portrait of selflessness amid unfathomable evil. Those who knew her said they weren't surprised by reports she shielded her first-graders from danger by hiding them in a closet.<br />
"We heard at one point that they found some people hiding in a closet, and all of us said Vicki would never be hiding in a closet. She would be out there protecting those babies," her mother, Donna Soto, told CBS' "This Morning."<br />
Soto said her eldest daughter, who had two younger sisters and a brother, used to joke that she was "the perfect one" of the siblings. They got back by calling her "The Queen V."<br />
"She was the best daughter any mother could ask for ... She loved her family more than anything. Teaching and her family was her life," Donna Soto said.<br />
Photos of Victoria Soto show her always with a wide smile, in pictures of her at her college graduation and in mundane daily life. She looks so young, barely an adult herself. Her goal was simply to be a teacher.<br />
"You have a teacher who cared more about her students than herself," said Mayor John Harkins of Stratford, the town Soto hailed from and where more than 300 people gathered for a memorial service Saturday night. "That speaks volumes to her character, and her commitment and dedication."<br />
------<br />
BENJAMIN WHEELER, 6<br />
Music surrounded Benjamin Wheeler as he grew up in a household where both his mother and father were performers.<br />
They left behind stage careers in New York City when they moved to Newtown with Benjamin and his older brother Nate.<br />
"We knew we wanted a piece of lawn, somewhere quiet, somewhere with good schools," Francine Wheeler told the Newtown Bee in a profile.<br />
She is a music educator and singer-songwriter. Sometimes the musical mother would try out tunes on her own children, with some tunes that she made up for Ben as a baby eventually finding their way onto a CD, she told the newspaper.<br />
In writing songs for children, melodies needn't be simplified, she said. "I try to make it my mission to always present good music to kids."<br />
Benjamin's father, David, a former film and television actor, writes and performs still, according to a profile on the website of the Flagpole Radio Cafe theater, with which he's performed in Newtown.<br />
The family are members of Trinity Episcopal Church, whose website noted that Nate, also a student at Sandy Hook Elementary School, was not harmed in Friday's shooting.<br />
------<br />
ALLISON N. WYATT, 6<br />
No information is available at this time.<br />
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Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086946818073882305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436010581353438694.post-45895740974598904092012-12-11T08:59:00.001-08:002013-03-11T13:13:20.839-07:00Colorful LanguageIt is both fascinating and frightening to watch your child's use of language develop.<br />
Fascinating in that every new word is a discovery, a revelation, and frightening in that some newly acquired words are a pure abomination.<br />
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When we lit the Hanukkah candles last night and said the prayer in Hebrew, my son yelled out to his friends in attendance, "What the HELL was that?!!"<br />
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At what point did my three year old's language head south?<br />
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It started so innocently a year ago when he would yell, "Oh, Cheeze-its!" (Jesus)<br />
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He quickly moved on to Larry David references, much to his father's delight: "Get outta here, Shmohawk!"<br />
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Now, he's calling his baby brother, "Mr. Poopyhead," and badgering the pizza delivery man, "Hey, ya l'il weirdo!"<br />
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The other day I overheard him yell at his one year old brother, "Come back here, you little BALLBUSTER!"<br />
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Oh. Boy.<br />
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When I call my husband to report our boy's offensive word of the day, he wants to know if our son used the term in a grammatically correct and logically appropriate time.<br />
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Oh. Man.<br />
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Growing up, my sister and I were never allowed to say so much as, "Shut Up," and the only time I ever heard my dad curse was when he stepped on a nail.<br />
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On the flip side, name-calling and teasing in general is part of my husband's being. He is one of five (4 boys and a girl) and he was forced to develop a sixth sense for picking out the idiosyncrasies of his siblings as a defense tactic. He and his brothers can sniff out a strange pronunciation of the word, "tilapia," or "out" a person who has yet to shower on a given day or draw attention to one eyebrow waxed a tad higher than the other.<br />
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He comes from a world where all the guys sport nicknames:<br />
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Tony "the Shakes"<br />
Nicky "One Ball"<br />
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You get the idea.<br />
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So, I guess this boy name-calling madness is what's in store for my near future. But, still I try.<br />
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"What the HECK?!" my son yells.<br />
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"Better!" I say. "I like that better!"<br />
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"Mommy, I didn't say, what the HELL! Right? Hell's a bad word? What the HELL? I didn't say that."<br />
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Oh. Here we go.<br />
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Now, I'm trying a new tactic. Teaching my son Spanish, while trying to brush up on my own.<br />
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He does not know any bad words in Spanish yet. It's a revelation. And, sometimes it's nice because I can tell our babysitter things about him in Spanish without him understanding what I'm saying.<br />
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"So, I got a call from his teacher this morning. There were corroborated reports from several children that he was . . . como se dice, "under the pirate ship on the playground with his pants down"?"<br />
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Like I said, fascinating and frightening no matter how you say it!<br />
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<br />Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086946818073882305noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436010581353438694.post-50808712483608399722012-11-16T09:17:00.000-08:002012-11-16T09:20:25.209-08:00The Modern ManI recently saw comedian Tom Papa's hilarious discussion about dads today vs. old-time dads. You can check it out here:<br />
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<a href="http://www.comedycentral.com/video-clips/118vlb/stand-up-tom-papa--new-kind-of-dad">http://www.comedycentral.com/video-clips/118vlb/stand-up-tom-papa--new-kind-of-dad</a><br />
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It got me thinking about the modern man.<br />
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The modern man knows more about Braxton Hicks contractions than most women who are older than 50. He has the breathing down pat, the bags packed, and the doctor's cell phone programmed into his iPhone months before the delivery date.<br />
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He knows how to swaddle a baby like a burrito, how to steam up the bathroom like a sauna for bath time. He palms a newborn as comfortably as he would a football.<br />
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The modern man carries a manly diaper bag (oxymoron, yes). He knows how to change diapers, give medicine, take care of boo-boos. He will bathe a toddler at 3 a.m. if a stomach virus hits, and he will bathe him again at 4 a.m. if necessary.</div>
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While taking care of his family, the modern man also takes care of himself. He grooms himself better than Olympic swimmers. He's not afraid to purchase $100 worth of dulce de leche soap. All for himself. He uses a pink or sometimes purple mesh solange in the shower. He is discriminating when it comes to his hair products, but a whore when it comes to eyebrow waxing. He will lay down for any woman in any nail salon. He will even bring a pajama-clad toddler along.<br />
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The modern man is creative. He can make up a game of "bogeyman lurking dangerously outside the window" and make a 9 month old laugh with fear when he creeps over to the blinds and peeks out, then freaks out. He can make a paper ghost zip-line down the staircase at his children's request.<br />
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The modern man works harder than ever, with longer hours, no time to turn off the phone, emails, texts. Yet he knows how to make conference calls regarding complex financial instruments sound sexy. Sometimes. <br />
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He is not afraid to express his emotions. He tells his children all day long how much he loves them. How he is absolutely crazy about them. He dances with them to Louie Prima while throwing together the best bruschetta this side of Sicily.<br />
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He takes them to the playground, pushes them way up in the sky on the swings. He takes care of them for TWO days and TWO nights while his wife gallivants around NYC with her girls.<br />
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The modern man lets his son fall asleep on his chest while he is typing on his computer. He is a renegade. A dynamo. A balabusta.<br />
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He is a new-age hero.<br />
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Sure, times have changed. But, I have to say, the modern man is marvelous.<br />
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(At least mine is).<br />
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<br />Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086946818073882305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436010581353438694.post-4301971916705770432012-10-18T05:13:00.001-07:002012-10-18T05:15:30.500-07:00The Little PrinceThe image of Prince Harry sitting beside his big brother, Prince William, in the backseat of a Rolls Royce on their way to William's royal wedding was captivating. I was 12 weeks pregnant and all of a sudden, as I watched the two princes share an intimate moment, albeit in front of the world, it hit me. I knew I was carrying another boy. <br />
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The TV commentator mentioned that Princess Diana's sons have always and will always have each other to celebrate life's triumphs and to help handle life's greatest tragedies.<br />
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It was an unforgettable sentiment and image. Harry, with his devilish grin, appeared to be whispering dirty jokes to his more composed big brother, perhaps helping William shake off pre-wedding jitters. William was calm and regal, waving gratuitously to the millions of people who lined the car's route to wish him well.<br />
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My eyes watered watching the brothers. My two year old son was going to have a little brother. Forever.<br />
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An ultrasound a few weeks later confirmed my suspicion. It was a boy!<br />
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"We need to hit the gym hard," my husband insisted, grinning, right there in the ultrasound room.<br />
(Because, in case you were unaware, two boys can run you into the ground, spike your blood pressure, and even kill you before they reach the age of 3). "Yes, we need to get in shape, seriously."<br />
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Despite the fear of our imminent switch from zone defense to man-to-man coverage, we were ecstatic over the thought of having another boy. You see, expecting a second boy is phenomenal when you have baby boy clothes overflowing from every nook of your house and car and purse. It is equally cool to have a second boy when you have toy vehicles overflowing from every nook of your home, car, purse, even rain boots.<br />
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The challenging part of having a second boy is having double the boy energy tearing through your home, car, purse, rain boots, even sanity. But, that boy energy is equally amazing. (If they could bottle it and sell it in nursing homes, the elderly would be slamming down their walkers, head-butting one another, and running to the kitchen to demand a "SNACK! And not fruit!")<br />
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My second little prince was born one year ago today. His brother asked when the baby was "goin' home" the first few weeks of his life. He thought, hoped, that the baby belonged to the baby nurse who was staying at our house, helping us care for him. But slowly, my son started to warm up to his baby brother. He began to talk to him in the sweetest baby voice, kiss him, tell him he smelled like french fries and the like.<br />
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On the other hand, there were many moments in the past year when my two princes were vying for court jester and not behaving in a manner of which the "Queen" approved. There were escapades rivaling Prince Harry's scandalous rendezvous in Vegas and there were raucous nights stretching way past bedtime at the palace. <br />
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Most of all, in this marathon year of diapers and time-outs and diapers and poop on the floor and diapers and bottles and diapers and teething and diapers and crawling and diapers and crying and diapers . . . . there has been an indescribable amount of love overflowing from our home, thanks to our two little princes.<br />
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Wherever their paths take them, knowing that my two boys have each other along for the journey brings peace to my soul. The best gift we could ever give to our big prince and to our little prince, today on his birthday, is something they each already have: a brother.<br />
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(Just pray for us that they don't both turn out to be "Prince Harrys.")<br />
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<br />Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086946818073882305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436010581353438694.post-88830267331398931932012-09-04T15:41:00.002-07:002012-09-04T15:41:15.831-07:00Politics Unusual The race is heating up and neither candidate has his eye on the White House. In my house, two guys are running ruthless campaigns to determine which one of them will be President of the Imps.<br />
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The incumbent, long-favored by anarchists everywhere, has two and half years of experience on the newcomer. Despite the fact that the newcomer, a staunch libertarian, has only 10.5 months of age (and thus, experience), he is already showing strong signs of creating a level of mischief not seen for generations. What he lacks in words, he makes up for with a devilish gleam in his eye.<br />
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Of course, the incumbent not only has a vocabulary as vast as the real candidates, he can negotiate as well as them too. <br />
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"How many cookies do you want, 1 or 2?" <br />
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"Three."<br />
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"You stay in your room in tell I tell you timeout is over!"<br />
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"But, mommy, I'm worried about you!"<br />
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(WTF?)<br />
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"What did you say?!"<br />
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"I'm worrrrrried about you!"<br />
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"Come down here right now. What do you mean you're worried about me?"<br />
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Like I said, the new guy has tough competition. But, since he acquired his first 6 teeth in the past two weeks, he's become something of a Parana. He'll rip apart a cheesesteak and likely his competition too. He has nearly bitten off the finger of someone he loves, so you can imagine what he might do in a real fight. <br />
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Too proud to crawl his way to the presidency, the newcomer would rather gallop (rocking) horseback or run with the help of his mommy. He does not sling mud (yet), but will fling himself backwards at the drop of a cookie or his premature removal from a warm bath.<br />
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The incumbent has mastered more advanced and sinister tactics, such as poo flinging, and he won't hesitate to pee on the newcomer's floor to mark his territory in the presidential race. It is guerrilla warfare with him. He knows how to roll his eyes, slam doors, talk back and scale dangerous heights to retrieve toys that were taken away from him. <br />
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He is also a tech master and can send someone calling his mommy or daddy to voicemail faster than he can look up from Angry Birds and smirk. He is the king of mischief. He is not afraid of time out, nor the principal's office, nor anything, except for scary music in G rated movies.<br />
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And that is why this presidential race is so frightening to the People. The People imagined after the incumbent's years as President of the Imps had run its course that they would be free to enjoy their lives as they had known them before.
Now, with the possible rise and domination by the newcomer, the People are doomed. <br />
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Both candidates are upping the ante, digging in for the long haul and awaiting anxiously that glorious day when the People will declare:<br />
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Yes, Sir, you are President of the Imps.
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<br />Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086946818073882305noreply@blogger.com1