Blue Cigars For Everyone

It's a BOY!

Injustice Anywhere is a Threat to Justice Everywhere

That's what Martin Luther King Jr. once said.

So when I heard of the injustice surrounding a harmless high school prom proposal, I could not sit by quietly. No, I had a bone to pick with the administrators of Shelton High School in Connecticut.

I had never heard of Shelton High School, nor the young man, James Tate, who had single-handedly revived chivalry. But I didn't care.

"I'm gettin' on the horn, and I'm calling the school," I announced at 8:30 the other morning to my husband. I had just caught a glimpse of a segment on the Today Show about a high school senior who was banned from his prom because he trespassed on school property, climbed a ladder, and wrote in tape on the school building:



("HMU" means "hit me up" or "call me")

"Really? Is this REALLY how you're starting your day?" my husband asked, rolling his eyes. He took a deep breath as I punched the numbers into the phone, while I fed our son Cheerios.

"Yes, with whom may I speak about the decision to ban James Tate from the prom?" I inquired. I spoke as if James Tate was my son or perhaps my nephew.

A lady on the other end of the line snorted, "You can talk to me, I guess."

"Okay, great," I replied. "I have to say, I have never heard of a more romantic, creative, and innocent gesture," I began, "and banning him from the prom is just completely excessive and wrong."

"Well, I DISAGREE," the school secretary/hench woman interjected.

"You may disagree, but seriously, there are teenagers doing TERRIBLE things every day, and all this boy did was ask a girl to the prom. He didn't hurt anyone, didn't damage any property. I mean, come on, one day of suspension is enough! I have to imagine you guys are going to reconsider this decision to ban James Tate from the prom?"

"I don't think sooooooo," the secretary sang with glee.

"Well, you're making a huge mistake," I said and hung up abruptly.

"Why did you hang up so quickly?" my husband asked, now fully invested in my battle for justice for James.

"She had no authority. Maybe I'll call the superintendent later."

Within 24 hours, James Tate had hundreds of thousands of supporters, and people from as far away as Scotland and Ireland were emailing his school, petitioning for his cause.

And, guess what?

The school administrators reversed their decision. The school's headmaster suggested that the international circus surrounding her unpopular decision to ban the teen from the prom interrupted the educational mission of the school, and therefore, she would reevaluate Mr. Tate's punishment. She did not acknowledge that she made a mistake.

But here's the bottom line: every email, phone call, television segment and supportive voice helped right a wrong. Maybe one teen boy's plight to get to prom is the most inconsequential injustice in the world that you can imagine, but it's the principle that matters.

If you have a voice, use it.

Power to the People!

And, James Tate for Prom King!

Mommy? Mom-my, Mommy!

"Is that your favorite word?" I ask my two year old son.
He giggles in the backseat, sucking his thumb and fuzzing his monkey's ears nearly off, so that Mr. Monkey now resembles a bat.
"You're singing that 'Mommy song' AGAIN?"
"Yeah," he sighs.
"You just want to tell me how much you love me, right?"

We sit side by side on the sofa and he leans into me, snuggling up close. I feel his hand tap on mine, his monkey bouncing gently on my cheek. "Monkey's daaancing," he says, with an English accent on the word "dancing." "Monkey's happy."

I kiss his still chubby cheeks hundreds of times a day. "You're just the best little boy, you know that?" He sighs. "How much does Mommy love you?"

"To da moon and back!" he yells.

I want to tell him how charming he is, how much he makes me laugh, how proud I am of him, how much he has made me a better person, what joy he has brought to the world, what magic he posses and passes out like candy.

I can't wait to celebrate Mother's Day with him, but then again, we celebrate that day every single day of the year. I want to thank him for that.

I want him to know that he brings the color, charisma, and yes, the choas to life. He is the exclamation point, the hope, the innocence, the adventure, the most beautiful vista, the heart and the soul.

Of all the things that I have helped create or will create in life, he is, by far, the best.




HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!

Brown Bear, This is Your Wake-up Call . . .

In the midst of my hibernation during the first trimester of my pregnancy with my son, my husband declared that he had renamed me "Brown Bear." It was so fitting that I considered changing my name legally, again, but I thought I might face unwarranted discrimination should I apply for a job.

Like a true brown bear, I ate and slept. Mainly slept. I nodded off an hour after I arrived at work and five minutes after I got home at 6 pm. For the night. I slept for 14 hours regularly and was only upright to wander to the bathroom 5 times.

When Brown Bear came out of hibernation, it was with renewed energy, enough stamina to pack up an apartment and move out of the city, even drive a Home Depot truck during the move. It was bye bye, Brown Bear.

But, Brown Bear came roaring back this past February. And, a brown bear who has to chase her wild cub all day long really knows how to hibernate. She can drive a car while snoring, bath a baby half-asleep, doze off on the treadmill. She can sleep for 3 months straight.

"Excuse me, Brown Bear, I need your insurance card . . . " the receptionist said yesterday.

Fine, maybe she said, "Stacy," but when she jolted me awake in my ob/gyn's waiting room, I heard "Brown Bear."

"I think you already have it . . . "

"That's right, I need a urine sample. I knew it was one or the other," she said, handing me a plastic cup.

"Random question," I started, "I heard a rumor that Dr. M. may be leaving this hospital."

"Oh honey, people have been screaming at me on the phone for days. It's true."

"Well, where is she going?" I asked, a bit stunned. This lady had just confused my insurance card for a cup of urine. I thought maybe she was just confused again.

"Nobody knows," she whispered.

"Well, I'll just ask her when I see her," I said.

"No, honey, she's gone already."

"Wait, WHAT? I'm here to see her today."

"No, she's already left the hospital - and she's leaving the practice completely. You'll see Dr. C. today" the receptionist continued.

Just then a nurse called my name. I'm no medical professional, but maybe she should have taken my blood pressure BEFORE they told me my doc was AWOL!

If Brown Bear needed something to seriously wake her up, this was it.

By way of background, I had switched to this doc less than a year ago, needing a fresh start with someone new. I had envisioned this doc, Dr. M, being my best cheerleader in the delivery room, receiving holiday cards with my baby's face on them, perhaps coming to Rosh Hashanah dinner sometime.

Now she was gone. Without a trace.

I started thinking about how I could track her down. I remembered how Bill Murray played a psychiatric patient who stalked his therapist, played by Richard Dreyfuss, in the movie, ""What About Bob?" "Dr. LEOOOOOO MARVIN!!!!" He followed him on vacation, to his home, everywhere.

Maybe if I can find Dr. M., I can put a GPS bracelet around her ankle or Lo Jack on her car and keep it in place for the next 6 months. Maybe I can move in her spare bedroom or go on vacation with her family.

If you can't tell by reading this, truthfully, I am over the flood of emotion that nearly drowned me when I heard the news of my doc's departure yesterday. Today, I am on a mission simply to find her, tell her how much she means to me, bribe her if need be. I understand that things happen in life and even when you're with an ob/gyn for years that doesn't necessarily mean she'll be in the delivery room when the time comes, but I at least need Dr. M. on speed dial.

Know what I mean?

A Picture Worth a Thousand Words

"What's in mommy's belly?" I ask my 2 year old son.
"A BAY-BEE!" he shouts, arms in the air, smile across his face.

"But, Auntie, how do you KNOW?" my 6 year old nephew grilled me the other day, as only the son of a good lawyer could.

I tried to explain to him in general terms, "Cause the doctor said so," without mention of the white stick with two pink lines, the waves of nausea, minor aneurysm-like headaches, exhaustion, and all the rest.

He wasn't quite satisfied with my response. But, today, I have proof.

It's a picture worth a thousand words.
Of a healthy baby.
A younger sibling.
A boy or a girl.
The next child in line to a family full of love.
A playmate to cousins.
A grandchild to the proudest grandparents.
A great-grandchild.
A spark
of hope
in the midst of a season
that has at times seemed hopeless
for our extended family.

When we saw our baby
in the picture
on the monitor
in the hushed
dim room
we saw
felt
one thing:

LIGHT.

The Return of Wonder Woman

I'm having a Halloween party and you're all invited.

I have loved Halloween ever since I was a little girl.

I love the costumes, the glitter, makeup, masks, and of course, the candy.
I love the spooky decorations, the parties.
I love it all.

The best Halloween costume I ever had was a Wonder Woman costume that I bought when I was a senior at Michigan. My friend, Tracey, and I drove 30 minutes outside of Ann Arbor to a Halloween Superstore for the perfect costume.

Mission accomplished.

I found a Wonder Woman costume, complete with a bodysuit, cape, bracelets, boot covers, and a tiara. It was actually a child's costume, fit for a 7 year old, and no, I'm not exaggerating. You can ask Tracey.

I chose it because I thought it was a more accurate representation of Wonder Woman than the adult version, despite the fact that I could not zip up the back. I hoped (incorrectly) that my red cape would cover the open zipper and shield my half exposed backside since the leotard (as you can imagine) became the equivalent of a g-string.

The first time I put that costume on, against my better judgment, I ran into the frigid Michigan night without so much as a coat or gloves. I ran 5 blocks to a raging house party. It was a magical night.

I loved my child-sized Wonder Woman costume so much, I tried it on for my sister that following spring when I came home from college.

"Go outside in it, I dare you," she said.

The next thing I knew, I was locked out, with my sister hysterical inside the front window. Instead of banging on the door and giving her what she wanted, I began galloping around our circular driveway, with my cape swirling behind me, waving to confused neighbors as they drove by.

This October, I think it's time for me to bust out my Wonder Woman costume once again.
I don't expect to be able to zip it up. I don't care.
I'm going to rock it anyway.
Then I'm going to race (or fly) to the hospital.
Possibly secure local news coverage -
and become the first woman in America to deliver her baby dressed as Wonder Woman.

Now that would be some Halloween party, right?

March Mishigas

There is some speculation brewing that I cheated while filling out my NCAA college basketball brackets for the ____ Law Firm pool. Of course, there wouldn't be any such speculation if I was not completely crushing the hoop dreams of the partners, associates, their family and friends. Although I am not currently in the lead, I am dunking past the competition with the most potential points.

I am gearing up with my black socks, black sneakers, baggy shorts, and Fab Five swagger. And I am ready to cut down the net.

But, before I do, I would like to put the rumors to rest. Carol, please stop losing sleep. I did not cheat. It would not have even been possible for me to cheat. I spent a total of 10 seconds choosing my picks online. (How can I be so sure that I used only 10 seconds to make my choices? Because 10 seconds is the allotted interval in which I get anything done in my life that does not directly concern my 2 year old son. I go to the bathroom in 10 seconds, wash my hair in 10 seconds, and when that 11th second ticks, I have a toy car driving up my leg - or the shower door - whichever it may be. Time is up.)

And, if I were so inclined to cheat, trust me, I would have entered a pool with a much higher prize than the mere $140 offered by the ______ Law Firm (I'm not giving them free press here).

Although $140 is obviously chump change, I have a totally different perspective on the possibility of a payout should I win. I am going to collect that $140 as partial severance which the firm failed to pay me when they set me loose on "eternity leave" some time ago.

And, it is going to be quite a shanda.

Mark my words. Next year, there will be new rules requiring that ____ Law Firm pool applicants be actual law firm employees or direct blood relatives. The partners will completely ban ex-employees, such as me, in a manner as ruthless as the deletion of our names from the Firm Phone List without any mention of our departures.

But for now, I'm going to enjoy my road to the Final Four and beyond. Carol and all of you others, watch out, I'm coming for you!

I may not be a college basketball savant. But I am the brain behind the brackets. (I use the term "brain" loosely, as my total final game score prediction exceeded 200 points, which caused my husband to scold me that I was thinking NBA, not NCAA!)

However, now that I find myself closing in on victory, it's clearly my time. Pay me my severance and then sever me from all future pools.

I can accept those terms, Your Honor.