Organized house vs. organized crime

Still no job. So I says to Gabriella, I says, “Hey my little Sicilian connoli! Don’t you have any mafia connections? Wouldn’t this be a good time to call an uncle or something? Doesn’t the mafia need technology support? I could be married to the mob, and maybe there’s a 2 year program sos yous don’t have to commit too many crimes or off anybody?” My sweet sposa thinks I’m kidding. I guess I am...sort of.

Her father’s father was not a gangster, but he did hide a Mafioso from the police and refused to give him up. They locked Nonno (grandpa) up in the pokey for not co-operating, and the family told everyone that he went away to college. Gabriella also recently googled another friend of the family she remembers visiting in New Jersey as a child. Turns out, he was the capo of the New Jersey Family. Total Sopranos. He passed away some time ago. There goes that lead. What next?

I’m ready for some out of the box solutions...and you know how much I like boxes! A little Feng Shui anyone? Now, I know nothing about it other than it exists, like Morris Dancing.

As luck would have it, we were hosting our good friend Elaine for a few days. Having a Masters Degree in Organizational Development, years of coaching experience and being uber smart, she was invited to run a Meyers Briggs workshop for MOMentum; my mother’s group. If you don’t know about the Meyers Briggs assessment, you can, in fact, still lead a normal and satisfying life. If you are familiar with it, you want everyone you know to complete this personality questionnaire so that you can figure out why you are surrounded by peculiar and confounding people. For those of you in the know, I’m an ENTJ. Pardon the over-share. Typical E.

Elaine has had the pleasure of coaching a Feng Shui...expert? Guru? Master? She’s someone who enhances the energy in your home through interior design. Elaine picked up quite a few tips and offered to impart her knowledge upon us. We were more than willing. Well, it will be no surprise to you all to learn that virtually every corner of our house is cluttered with the wrong stuff highlighted by the wrong textures and colours. Piles of toys in our wealth corner and hanging laundry in our career corner. It’s a travesty, really. No wonder we’re unemployed!

All Elaine had to say was, “Have you ever considered putting that bench over there?” And for the next 3 hours, we moved just about every piece of furniture in on our first floor, re-hung every piece of art and mapped out a plan for new paint and additional accessories. It looks amazing, if I do say so myself, and happy energy is definitely starting to flow. Any day now, we should be getting multiple job offers. At the very least I actually want to spend time in a part of the house that used to completely depress me.

Doubt if you will, but it just so happens that this afternoon, 2 days after our transformation and many days after a blogging lull, I got an email from Tina at The New York Times, The Local (where I contribute blog entries) asking me at the last minute if I wanted to be on TV. Our local cable channel airs a program called Diversity Doctor with Patrick Swift, and Tina was invited to bring a blogger with her to talk about the bloggers at The Local. She had originally asked another blogger who writes about aging, ageism and end-of-life issues...but he has since been hospitalized. Oh dear. I’m sending out well wishes to him from my wellness corner.

Yes, it’s local cable, but I’m all giddy anyway. It may be as close to fame as I get outside of the minute in the spotlight at 4 years old when I made it on to the evening news. We lived in California (which is relevant), and my mom took me to see a production of Hansel and Gretel just before Christmas. During intermission, for some bizarre reason, my mother escorted me to see Santa Claus in the lobby. Santa was then Mayoral candidate Diane Feinstein, so the local news was there to catch the half Jewish lady-politician dressed as Santa ask the Jewish kid, “And what wouId you like for Christmas, little girl?” To which I answered, “Nothing. I’m Jewish.” My mother beamed with pride. The indoctrination was a success. Kicking myself now. Should have asked for a pony.

I don’t know if the Feng Shui is going to do the trick, but at this point, we’re open to everything and anything bar animal or human sacrifice. Too messy. I’m sure that blood and guts are neither feng nor shui. Off to clear out the playroom. The Gassy Gus Game is bloating our career corner.

I love chicks

Every year, Asher’s pre-school brings eggs into the 4 year old classroom. I’m not talking about eggs for baking or omelette making. These eggs sit under warm lights while the children count down the days until baby chicks hatch their way out. The children are told that not every egg will hatch and that in all of their years, there has never been a batch of eggs where every egg has hatched. But every year, when the teachers ask the children how many eggs they think will hatch, every child thinks all of them will.

13 out of 24 this year. Apparently a good number. The kids seemed very pleased. The excitement of having live peeping chicks in their classroom pooping on newspaper overshadowed the fact that not all eggs produced chicks. They also didn’t seem too concerned about the 2 chicks that were sequestered in their own box after a long and difficult birth. They’re not doing so well. The teacher told me that one of them took three days to peck its way out of its egg! Will these baby chicks be strong enough to survive? Time will tell. For now they’re receiving excellent care in their private ward: the Chick-U. That would be a play on NICU as opposed to a reference to the Seven Sisters Colleges.


Asher couldn’t wait to pull me into his classroom so I could see all the little chicken nuggets to be. It occurred to me that we could take a few chicks home. Fresh eggs! And, when they hit henopause, we’ve got dinner. If only we had the space for them to roam free. Alas, our lot is just not chicken friendly.

Very sad to report that there was one casualty outside of the Chick-U. A drowning-in the drinking water bowl. The pre-school director has not been able to determine whether it was an accident, suicide ... or foul play. Hey, Henny Youngman! Would you mind possessing someone else’s body? I’m trying to write here.


When I was in elementary school, not only did we experience the miracle of baby chicks hatching, but we all had the pleasure of taking a chick home for a week. It came with some twine attached to its leg so we could take it for a walk. No, I’m not kidding. We had to wait our turn for chick-sitting as there were more students than chicks. By the time baby chick came home with me, it had reached its awkward, teenage form and looked more like one of those rubber chickens in some clown act than a cute, fluffy baby bird.

It was u-g-l-y, and it freaked me out, and we kept it in the garage until I could bring it back to class. I do recall trying to take it on a walk once. Why my parents never took a picture of me walking my pet chicken down the road is beyond me.

The pre-school chicks met their public at the dedication ceremony of the new playground this past weekend. We didn’t spend a lot of time with them because Asher was far too interested in the juggler. She taught the kids a few tricks, and Asher was hooked. Circus school v. college tuition. Keep spinning those plates, kid!

An apple a day...and denial

It’s always great fun to run into other parents at pre-school drop-off. We all escort our children to class together. We exchange niceties, make play dates and keep tabs on what’s going on in each other’s worlds. Next year, Asher is in kindergarten. I will take him to the bus stop in the morning and pick him up at the bus stop after school. I’ll miss my morning chit-chats with the parents of Asher’s class. I won’t be able to leisurely head back to my car whilst catching up with another mom in the parking lot who says, “Your health insurance coverage runs out IN A MONTH?!? Oh my God! I would be FA-REAKING OUT every single day!! What ARE you going to DO?!?” Alrighty then.

I extricated myself from that particular conversation quickly not only because I was starting to sweat, but also because I needed to get to my doctor’s appointment--the check-up before we’re cut off. I had a few glasses of water that morning so that I’d be able to fill the cup, and I was afraid I might not make it in a timely fashion. Luckily, I made to the doctor’s office without a sneeze, cough or road work.

As my sister Rachel likes to tell friends and strangers alike, I’m not really a fan of doctors. As a result, I avoid going to the doctor as often as possible. Besides an inherent mistrust of the lot of them, you must understand that I am a doctor’s daughter. My father’s approach to the health and well-being of his children was, “If your head is still attached by a thread, you’re fine.” I tend to assume everything is ok or that it will be eventually. Not the best philosophy to health, I realize. So, my doctor's practice is large, and I’m never there. My doctor and I needed to get reacquainted. Dr. S. asked some general questions while reviewing the vitals that the nurse had collected earlier. She adds a few birth questions before the pap. Kids? How many? Vaginal birth? Where did you deliver? Etc. Nice to get to know someone before they turn you into a horizontal hand puppet. It’s only polite.

Next, the breast exam. She informed me that I have fibrocystic breasts which is news to me. I suspect she just wanted an excuse to feel around a little longer. Who can blame her?

I’m escorted to another room where another nurse is ready with needle and vials to take a few gallons of blood. “Is that your urine over there?” Asks the nurse as she points to the cup sitting on the counter across the room. Really? “Why yes. I’d recognize it anywhere.”

I had gotten on the scale, but I never let doctors tell me how much I weigh. It’s all about how I feel in my jeans. Considering I only have one pair of jeans that I can easily pull over all that junk inside my trunk, I’m feeling pretty slovenly right now. So after my doctor’s appointment, I went for a run, well jog. Had to take it slowly because the left-over ooze from the pap smear reminded me that gravity is strong and my pelvic floor muscles are not. More kegels!

This is the point of the blog where my sister says she experienced water brash. Apparently many of the more graphic descriptions in my blog cause her to throw up a little in her mouth. I learned the term water brash from her. She’s a wealth of information, and I am grateful for her tutelage. I might have to respond with another gem from Rachel, “Are you sure it’s not a bezoar.” It’s a hairball oft found in humans. Whatever you do, don’t Google images of bezoars. Ew!

I do realize that talking about pap ooze might be crossing a line-like when Wanda Sykes suggested Rush Limbaugh could use a little water boarding during the White House Correspondents' Dinner.




I’m always flirting with that line. The problem is that the line isn’t in one place. We never actually know where it is proverbially drawn until someone crosses it. Some draw their line in the sand with a stick, and some draw their line with pap ooze. Too much? A little water brash?

“How was your check up?” Gabriella asked. “The doctor was particularly impressed with my vagina and spent an inordinate amount of time up there. Good thing she did because she found that iPod Shuffle you were looking for last week. Who knew it was up there?”

“Huh. Who knew?”

Solicited roast

I dedicate this entry to MARK L. who leaned over to me at a dinner party inebriated but earnest and asked, nay begged me to write about him in a blog. “I try not to refer to anyone by name, Mark, because I don’t want my friends to think that every conversation that we have is blog fodder. I don’t want anyone to feel self-conscious.” But Mark insisted that I immortalize him online.

“You know if I write about you, Mark, I’m going to have to take the piss.” He just stared back at me blankly. Was he not paying attention? I could tell that he had not registered a word I said, and he had this goofy grin on his face. At first I attributed the silly stare to his being Canadian. (Oh, take off, you hoser!)


But his Canadian wife is incredibly sharp and has never looked as though her brain had been sucked out of her ears. She explained that her husband often looks that way and that he was one of those rare few individuals who could, in fact, think about nothing. “It’s that small peanut brain twirling around like one of those plastic ballerinas inside a little girl’s music box,” she explained. “I always imagine that circus tune playing (Entrance of the Gladiators-I Googled it) as the peanut just spins around in his head whenever he’s processing. He’s a simple man. Go ahead. Write something. I give you my blessing.”

My friends are a funny bunch. “Funny – ha ha or funny – peculiar?” Well, both frankly. I don’t think they’d be able to appreciate my sense of humour if they were not funny themselves or if they didn’t have a bit of the quirk about them. I’m not a good match for people who take themselves or the world too seriously. So, I appreciate my friends for putting up with me and understanding that behind my rude, inappropriate and juvenile comments, there’s a kind person who really does love all people, but loves a good laugh even more.

All of this to say that I know Mark’s eyes were wide open when he asked to be featured here in such a manner. Appreciate please the following snapshots of Mark which were taken on that very evening and which I choose to publish because he asked for it.

See Mark draw. Mark is an international lawyer who has lived all over the world and speaks about 32 languages (give or take). He is a veritable Odysseus of travel and adventure, and is more than willing to share his fantastic tales with friends. Well, I think they’re fantastic tales though I have yet to listen to a story from start to finish. In spite of legal training and talents, Mark has always been an illustrator at heart-one who illustrates with his heart. He allows himself to be vulnerable; exposing his soul on paper. See Mark’s soul:



Like many artists, Mark is also a spiritual man. When an artist captures an emotion that is profoundly beautiful, when an image reaches out of the canvas and touches our hearts, even those who have turned their backs on God must consider divine intervention. Mark’s artistry can only be explained by the presence of something greater than humankind. It would not surprise you, therefore, that Mark has been studying with the Hasids for the past 18 months. He’s has dedicated his life – or about 15 minutes a day – to explore the teachings of Jewish mysticism. Until he has completed a requisite number of hours of study and prayer, he’s only allowed hair extensions as payot. See Mark celebrate Jewish mysticism:



Some say that birds of a feather flock together. Mark and I don’t have much in common, it has to be said. I’m not very artistic, nor am I spiritual. Also, I am not Canadian. We do enjoy getting our drink on, however, and we both think his wife is a hottie. Is that foundation enough to secure our friendship forever? I don’t see why not. Sometimes, when the world seems a dreadful place filled with tragedy and sorrow, we could all benefit from letting off a little steam, getting silly with friends and discovering our inner peanuts. Cue Entrance of the Gladiators.

Let this be a warning to anyone else who wants their names in lights...or pixels...just for the sake of it. I write for my own entertainment – not yours.

She threw me under a bus

If you’ve read any of the previous entries featuring my sister, Rachel, you’ll know that conversations range from comedic to cruel. For the most part, she doesn’t even pretend to filter thoughts, and she is particularly feisty. I have to make sure that I have coated on another layer of skin in order to protect myself from thoughtless barbs. It's best to have a fresh coat on prior to any phone call.

Rachel: Hullo?

Deborah: You sound terrible.

R: It’s just a runny nose.

D: I posted another blog for the NY Times, The Local. Did you get my email with the link?

R: Yes, I read it.

D: Did you feel like posting a comment? It makes me look good when I people comment.

R: Nope.

D: How does it feel to be absolutely the least supportive friend or family member I have?

R: Yeah, I don’t have a problem with that. What do you want me write? ‘Deborah, you’re not British!’

D: Part of my angle in writing for The Times is that I write about making the transition from 7 years in the UK to the suburbs of the U.S. Surely you can relate after having grown up in the homogenous suburbs of Chicago only to relocate to the cultural, cosmopolitan epicentre of the world; LaSalle/Peru, Illinois. Who could ever dream of living within walking distance of Starved Rock? Isn’t that the 8th Wonder of the World?

R: Bite me.

D: The question is, why does it bother you so much that we made the most of our lives in London and picked up a thing or two while we were there?

R: ACHOO!!

D: Bless you. Isn’t your friend coming over with her kids tomorrow? Why don’t you take some cold medicine?

R: Oh, I could NEVER do that!

D: Ok, I’ll bite. Why not?

R: Because MY sister told me all about the evils of the pharmaceutical companies, and I wouldn’t EVER want to contribute to such an evil industry. Not to mention the fact that I’d probably be compromising my immune system by taking too much medicine.

D: Rachel, I never said that I don’t take medicine.

R: And when we were at the doctor the other day with Evan for his EKG*, the nurse asked me about your mitral valve prolapse. She asked me how bad it is, and I said, ‘I don’t know! She doesn’t believe in doctors or medicine and never even told her midwife that she had mitral valve prolapse until she was labouring in a tub of water.
*Evan is fine. He complained about heart palpitations one day, but multiple tests showed that he is very healthy.

D: You said all of that to the doctor?

R: I most certainly did.

D: You're an asshole.

R: I love you, too.

Moses is a penis

For those of you just tuning in:
Rachel: my sister; Joshua: Her 9 year old; Evan: Her 7 year old; Moses: that 10 commandments guy.

Rachel: Joshua told me that he knew what gay meant.

Deborah: Really?

R: ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it means happy.’

Joshua: Yeah, and I know what else it means, and it’s bad.

R: No, it’s not bad.

J: Ok, no it’s not bad. It’s when a boy kisses another boy, or a girl kisses another girl.

R: Ok...

J: There are a lot of gay girls in my class.

R: Um, you’re not gay if you just kiss your friends. You’re gay if a boy loves another boy or a girl loves another girl like Dad and I love each other.

J: Deborah and Gabriella are gay.

R: Right.

Deborah: That was easy enough.

R: Oh, and I just realized that your cell phone died over the weekend, so you must not have received the text message I sent you.

D: No. What did you say?

R: That Moses is a penis.

D: What?!?

R: Yeah, Evan went to Hebrew School and they had to do an art project. They made Moses out of a cardboard paper towel roll and half a plastic Easter egg.

D: An Easter egg?

R: Ok, I don’t know exactly what it was, but it was an egg like thing. I’ll send you a picture.



Agreed. Moses is a dickhead.

OMG

Sunday morning, I accepted an invitation to join a friend for a class in a 3 part series with our rabbi about parenting- Jewish style. How Yids Raise Kids. I’m pretty sure that’s not actually the name of the series. This morning’s theme was “Talking to your children about God”. A bit heavy at 9:15AM on a Sunday morning after the previous night’s dinner with friends which lasted until way-late o’clock. It was a rainy morning outside my house and a very foggy morning inside my head. At the end of the session, I can confidently report that I had no idea how to talk about God, God help me.

It’s not the rabbi’s fault that I did not leave with answers. I walked away realizing that I need to sort it out in my mind first before I can come up with God-Lite for my kids. Problem is, the older I get, the less I believe in God. That might not make me very popular, but if there’s a God, he, she or it forgives my doubt and respects my struggle. If it helps you sleep at night, you may pray for my eternal soul though I do believe there are many other souls in need of more urgent prayer.

So where does that leave this Jewish mom who is doing her best to provide a Jewish foundation and community for her kids? And what am I doing leading the family service on Shabbat for chrissake?

The rabbi guided us as best she could. We all agreed that God doesn’t have to be an old, bearded man controlling the world from his throne. Perhaps God is a force- intangible and greater than we are. My little brain hurts. Where are the bagels? What kind of God-loving synagogue offers a class at the crack of ass on a Sunday and doesn’t serve bagels? Clearly, there’s no God here. Every now and then when conversation turned to static haze, my mind wandered as I imagined the conversations yet to come.

“Mom, is there a God?” “What? Is your room clean!?”

“Mom, do you talk to God?” “Absolutely! I say, ‘God, keep my kids away from drugs, whores and reality television producers!’”

“Mom, can I be Jewish if I don’t believe in God?” “No! If they find out you don’t believe in God, they glue your foreskin back on with cement and you can never order Chinese food again!”

Um, NOT! I’m working on it. You’ll have to take my word for it that I do have a few slightly more thoughtful answers up my sleeve. The good news is that the Judaism to which I subscribe allows for a little artistic license when it comes to God. Love, nature, goodness in humankind, to name a few more abstract concepts of the The Lord our God, Ruler of the Universe. Still, God is a tough pill for me to swallow-whether it’s a dissolvable tablet or gel-coated capsule. No matter how it’s packaged, I can’t quite find the concept that works for me.

I came home from the session and played with the boys. They were both particularly cute, and I marvelled for a bit. Levi stomped around the house with a hat-sized cardboard box on his head for hours and pretended to be a Pirasaur. Apparently, that would be a dinosaur that says “Aaaaargh!” while winking his eye, matey! Asher insisted I capture a medley of song on the camera which reminded me that kids can commit many songs to memory without ever really understanding the words. I couldn’t bring myself to review the actual words for Baa Baa Black Sheep. I agree that sheep have a tendency to go on and on.

Video attached in case you are reading in an email. Go to blog to view.


During moments like these, emotion and awe swell inside until I’m shooting love beams out of every pore. Is that God? Some say love IS God. Some say love, it is a flower...

I don’t have to completely turn my back on my tribe because there’s so much more to being Jewish than the God part. But just in case anyone does threaten to confiscate all my Chinese food menus, I’ve done a little research. I’ve discovered the Belief-O-Matic Quiz that you can take HERE. Answer a few questions, and the major religions will be ranked for you based on your thoughts about religion and God. Turns out, I’d feel quite at home as a Secular Humanitarian, a Universal Unitarian or a Liberal Quaker but not so much as a Jehovah’s Witness. Reform Judaism made it into the top 10, and I can live with that. Care to share your results?

The theme of our next session is all about talking to kids about death. That should be a laugh-riot. I’d better pick up a bagel before I get there. Don’t want to spend my morning depressed AND hungry.

One fine day

Reading some of the comments on the entry where I announce that we are just about to redirect our mail to a lovely bridge I found in Newark, I realized that I may have sounded a wee bit sad. I admit that there is a little bit of that Lilliputian, Glum, in me-you know, the one from Gulliver’s Travels, and I have often quoted his wise words of warning. “We’ll never make it! We’re dooooomed!”


I know that this reference dates me, but I’m a pretty good date—for myself. I know exactly what movies I like and what kind of flowers I prefer and romantically, well I don’t mean to toot my own horn, but I’m a pretty incredible lover to me if I do say so myself. The problem with dating myself is that when I call me to make a date, the line is always busy.

To those of you who have responded to my Glum blog with words of wisdom, inspiration and empathy, thank you. To those of you who could give a rat’s ass whether we wind up on the streets or not, I never liked you anyway...and your mother wears combat boots ...so you should give her my number.

It’s not all so bleak. We’re ok for now. I’ll let you all know when we’re completely destitute. That’ll be fun reading. Until then, I’m going to try to stay positive and focus on happy things.

One happy event occurred when we returned from Boston a few weeks ago. I’m skipping around chronologically, but I’ll sort it all out when I write what’s sure to be my nationally acclaimed memoir.

We know that I had a tonnage of laundry to do since the washing machine fell into a coma after choking on baby socks. And there was plenty of other crap to be done-the usual stuff after a few days away. I was happy to be home but kind of down. It wasn’t that I wished we were back in Boston though we had a great time. It was more the bad-mother kind of blues. We were out of town on a vacation, but the kids were with us. Got home, and ... still with us. Everywhere I turn-still there. The next week, Asher was home for spring break. All day. Every day.

I couldn’t remember the last time we were able to spend a day together. Alone. No kids. I really just want to ditch them for a few hours. I didn’t dare speak my selfish thoughts. Every now and then, my lady-friend surprises me. She was experiencing some selfish thoughts of her own.

The morning that our plumber was due to come take a look at our washing machine, Gabriella told me that we wouldn’t be here when he arrived. Huh? “We’re going out today. I got a sitter for the day, and we’re not due back until late tonight.” She planned a surprise day out, and it wasn’t even my birthday. I almost wept. Of course, since birthing babies, I cry at the drop of a hat-especially when large crowds cheer. Yeah, I don’t get it either. Anyway, I was too excited to cry. I had a few minutes for a wardrobe change, and we were out the door as soon as our lovely babysitter showed up. The boys were very happy to see her, but we were even happier. “Thanks so much for coming! Here are the keys to the car. We’ll be back by 11 or so. Bye!” And out!

“MoMA or Guggenheim?” Gabriella asked on our walk to the train. Museums are seldom my first choice for an outing on a seasonable day. Museums are like gyms. I may not get excited about going, but I always feel great for having gone. “I love the Guggenheim,” she said, “but I haven’t been to MoMA since it was redone. What do you think?” I didn’t even know MoMA had been redone. Gabriella is that girl whose default channel is PBS and watches the NewsHour with Jim Lehrer for fun. She’s Business Section, and I’m Style.

So I said, “Well let’s go to MoMA, then.” Gabriella was most pleased. What an experience! So much to see and all the time in the world (well, the day) to see it. I took lots of photographs (flash-free of course) of my favourites works of art, but I chose one to share with you and to dedicate to my sister for all the grief I give her on the blog. I'm sure she'll be very touched.

John D. Graham: Two Sisters


The day began with a mile-long walk from our house to the train station. We then walked from Penn Station to the museum and all over MoMA. By the time we left, my dogs were barking! It wasn’t just my feet complaining. Keep in mind that it has been a long, cold winter in the suburbs of New Jersey, and I had not done much moving of any kind. I had developed a bad case of Minivanasswidenous, and I couldn’t wait to sit my aching tushy down.

Sushi for dinner and another surprise. Gabriella got tickets for the final dress-rehearsal of Eugene O’Neill’s Desire Under the Elms from our friend Lois. I won’t go on about the play because this post is long enough. You can read a detailed review of the play here. I will tell you that you should run not walk if you’re into pig innards, naked man-butt and lots and lots of rocks.

We don’t know what’s around the corner for us, but that doesn’t mean that we can’t appreciate the time we’ve got together now. Deep breath in. Let it out. Be grateful for what we’ve got. Have fun. Have faith.