Saturday, January 30, 2010

today's gratitude

I just noticed myself feeling a tad grumpy about the mountain of laundry that needs to be put away in Sam and Isaac's room. Immediately, I thought, "Hey I've got to turn this around! Maybe I can think about how grateful I am to have a washing machine, not to need to go to the river to wash the laundry." But then I realized that didn't have any real power in it, because I've no conscious memory of having to go to the river to do my laundry; it hasn't happened in this lifetime. Then it came to me: laundry has NOT always been this easy.

At first, though, laundry was so easy that I was unaware of it altogether: we had a maid who did my laundry and also put it away for me, as well as whatever I left on the ground, on my bed, on a chair. At sixteen, I went away to college, and I had NO CONCEPT WHATSOEVER of doing laundry. I tried to prevent the situation getting nasty by going to the dry cleaners, which I was familiar with, and either handwashing my underwear or buying more, all of which I had seen my mother do. I have a few vague, unpleasant memories of using a laundromat near campus; very few, very vague. It was just not part of my routine. When I graduated from college, I moved into a one bedroom apartment with a responsible roommate, Amy Dockser (hi, Amy!) who set a good example for me in so many ways. I learned to toss stuff in a basket when I took it off, and to carry it across the hall to the 4th floor laundry room on a regular basis. Still, I wore a suit, pantyhose and silk blouse 5 days a week, so dry cleaning was still a mainstay.

When I got married, at age 22, my mother gifted me with a housekeeper, who came once a week and took care of the laundry, riding up and down in the elevator, juggling the task while also cleaning our apartment. This perk extended through my move to Ohio until I divorced at age 29, although once Max came along, I was doing laundry daily. But the laundry machines were right in the kitchen, behind pretty, louvered doors, so it was very easy. Plus, Max's baby clothes were so cute and little, it was almost fun.

When I moved to an apartment with baby Max, laundry became considerably more difficult, but I was so excited to be on my own that I cheerfully rolled up my sleeves and got it done. Not only was the laundry located in the most remote corner of the basement, so that I had to go down two flights of stairs to the foyer, exit through the front door, walk around the house and down three steps to the back door, and then through the storage area, but once I got down there, I was almost certain to encounter Wayne, the drunk sign maker who lived down there in an illegal apartment.

Things became even worse after Wayne developed a crush on me, which seemed to intensify dramatically when I began dating other guys, so that I desperately wanted to avoid running into him. When I'd pull into the parking lot and see his van was not there, the first thing I'd think was: this seems like a good opportunity to get a load in! But unless he was far away installing a sign, Wayne was pretty certain to return at some point during any cycle of laundry. Once I realized he was stealing my panties, I was so horrified that I stopped doing the laundry there altogether. I was too busy working to do laundry while Max was at day care, so that it actually became easier to take the laundry with me whenever I went to visit my friend Heather's house in Cleveland (over two hundred miles away). Once, I drove from exit 224 to exit 169 with a sleeping toddler in the back seat before I realized I had left our two baskets full of laundry in Heather's basement and had to turn around and go back to get them.

Nowadays, I do laundry daily in front loading machines right on the ground level of my very own home. I'm going to go put away three or four days' worth of my boys' clean clothes now while the gratitude soaks into my every pore.

Friday, January 29, 2010

today's gratitude

Today is Tu B'Shvat, the New Year of the Trees. I am so grateful for the beauty of the natural world we live in. I used to go to Central Park to visit with trees. Now, the trees in my beautiful backyard greet me through my bedroom window every morning, and frame the moon with their branches at night. I love the feeling of being in close relationship with them. The front lawn sugar maple, whose trunk inspires my tree pose during morning yoga, also amazes me each fall, when it morphs into a tall blaze of yellow so overwhelming that for a few days you hardly notice our house sitting quietly behind it.

Sam brought home a tree he cut out of green and brown construction paper and decorated with words and gold glitter glue at Sunday school. It's right near me in the kitchen now as I type this. It says:

Others planted trees for us; we plant trees for others.
Branches that reach for the sky.
Giving
Seed
Protective
Plant
Happiness
Fun
Big
Loving
Tall
Life
Strength
Wood
Birds
Branches
Forest
Water

Thanks for the Trees!

Allegra weighs in on writing class...

Allegra wrote the following as a facebook Note:

The other day, my college friend Nancy (Hi Nancy! I still remember how you played your violin in the vault at Herrell's) wrote to say that she is taking a writing course, and dabbling a bit in my trade. I love that.

There seem to be two views about writing classes.

The pessimistic view: you can't teach writing, nor can you make a living as a writer, so why bother with creative writing classes?

The optimistic view: there are certain aspects of writing you CAN teach. Creative writing makes people happy and it's great for the mind and heart.

Consider the dichotomy: On the one hand--the publishing industry is in free fall, bookstores are struggling, newspapers are going out of business and reviewers losing jobs, books themselves are an endangered species, and the world is full of useless MFA programs graduating more would be novelists / writing teachers than the market can bear.

On the other hand--people are writing more than ever, in classes, in blogs, on Facebook. Children are reading voraciously, and the electronic and audio book markets are exploding. The desire to tell stories is stronger than ever, and the desire to read and listen to good stories persists.

When I was a girl I played the violin. I wasn't exceptionally talented, (not nearly as good as Nancy!), but I played in my school orchestra and my state youth orchestra. As an adult I listen to music in a different way because I know what it's like to make music.

By the same token, anyone who takes a writing class will not only practice telling stories, but read better and deeper afterward. A double reward.

Some people say--everyone wants to write, but fewer people want to read. I disagree. I believe that reading and writing are inextricably linked. It's not that the audience for writing is shrinking while the number of writers increases. Writers and readers make up one audience, one growing community. Who says readers can't contribute their own work? Or that writers can't be enthusiasts?

If you think about it--reading is creative, and writing is responsive. To read is not only to receive but to interpret and to think actively about a story. To write is not only to create, but to respond to the world, the moment, and the tradition of writers who came before.

Writers are readers and readers are writers. You can't have one without the other. Writing teachers know this, and writing students--especially grown up ones--understand this as well.

Thursday, January 28, 2010

what I learned in writing class

I decided this morning to drop my writing class, the one that just started this week. My goal in registering to take it was to get, both from my peers and its leader, the direction and help I need to ready my memoir for publication.

I bring to the first class a chapter of my manuscript to share, as requested on the syllabus. After a brief introduction around the circle of writers, I am assigned to spend an hour and a half with a small group of women; we are to listen to and critique each others' writing.

My group includes the woman who taught my son 9th grade English last year; she distributes copies of several poems. Another writer has two stanzas about her 14 year old brother washing her 4 year old mouth out with soap over 70 years ago. The last member of our quartet shares a short essay recalling her experiences with menstruation, contraception and hysterectomy. I read the chapter about seeing my New York relatives at a recent funeral. We each tell the other three precisely what we need in the way of feedback. I ask for constructive criticism: where do they get lost, what is confusing, what does not serve to forward the story? The response I get instead would be gratifying, had I not just had several hearty doses of it in my last writing class: rich narrative voice, nice imagery, realistic dialogue, wry humor, we want to read more!

It was just this sort of feedback last fall that inspired me to take a mastery class this term. Thanks to reactions like these, I now believe more strongly than before that I am writer, that I have a story readers are interested in, and that I must now knuckle down and do the work necessary to get it published. I am grateful for this, but I do not want to pay hundreds of dollars for more of it, not right now.

One of my trio of readers demands that I flesh out a minor Jewish reference in my story, explaining that she is from "the West Side" (a white, Catholic part of town) and therefore knows nothing about Jewish culture, faith or history. Another wants me to tell the reader in the first paragraph that I am entering the temple for a funeral, rather than allow them to wonder until the second page why I was there. I found myself strenuously resisting both these suggestions. I define all Jewish terms in my writing as a matter of course, but my purpose in writing is not to give readers a primer on Judaism. Judaism is a rich thread woven naturally into my writing simply because I am crafting stories from my life, and I am a Jew. Neither am I interested in crafting a introductory sentence for each chapter, as if I were preparing a series of fifth grade homework assignments. I sigh inwardly, and apply myself to giving each of the other writers valuable feedback until it is time to leave the kitchen, rejoin the wider circle and wrap up the class.

On my seat, awaiting my return, is a photocopied essay from the anthology on writing that has been assigned for class, but has not yet arrived in our mailboxes from Amazon. I giggle as I see it is by a friend of mine from college, Allegra Goodman, who has published several prize winning novels full of unabashedly Jewish characters. Or perhaps I just imagine her giggling as she wrote it; Allegra has a world class giggle. I wonder if this isn't a sign, a reminder that I have friends outside this town with whom I may have more in common than I do with the women in this room. And that just possibly, there are other, arguably better resources available to me a writer. Elsewhere.

Yesterday, after I finally got around to reading Allegra's essay, entitled "Calming the Inner Critic and Getting to work" I realized that it held in its title the very message I needed to receive. My fall semester writing class taught me that I can silence my inner critic, that I can believe in the value of my story, and that I do have the skills to tell it. Getting the job of writing done does not necessitate my sitting in a circle or around a table with other writers. What it does require is a commitment to sitting alone, in front of the blank page of paper, or blinking cursor on the computer screen, and moving it along. So, with breaks to blog, fire up the juicer, parent, paint murals, practice the violin and otherwise live, I will be sitting here, just getting it done. Getting to work.

today's gratitude

I'm grateful today that I have the flexibility to stay home and care for my child when he has a sore throat and fever. Sam and I are hibernating today, and even though it is sad to see him sick, knowing that he is comforted by my presence fills me up with a strangely good feeling. My child still needs me and I am able to fill that need without worrying, as so many mothers must, about the possible negative consequences of my being where I am supposed to be.

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

help with your gratitude

If you have already tried contemplating the fact that you do not live in Haiti and find you are still having trouble accessing your gratitude, maybe my friend Gina can help you. The link to her amazing photography website is always accessible here, right at the top of this blog's home page, but today Gina deserves special mention for her post about some people she just met who live down by the Ohio River, here in Cincinnati. Check it out, and see if her words and images do not touch you deeply:
www.kiwistreetstudios.com/blog/

marriage and divorce

I've been married before this, and divorced. Because of this fact, friends sometimes ask me for advice about possibly ending their own marriage. It's a tricky thing to advise others about. I'm not a marriage expert. The only "training" I've had is from being in two marriages and listening to and observing other people in theirs. From these experiences, I have reached the conclusion that marriage is hard. It is an important, long term, demanding commitment, and it takes work. Ideally, it should provide a help mate, another half, a partner, lover and friend, someone who completes you. Every marriage, like every person, every pair of people, is unique. Marriage is ultimately a private relationship.

A friend asked me today if my recent statement of gratitude was secret message to her about her own marriage, which seems to be in jeopardy. It was not; that is not how I work. I write from my heart, here and elsewhere, and when I want to tell a friend something, I write them a private message, or call them up, invite them to coffee and then speak from the heart.

The availibility of divorce means people today have options. In the past, if one partner stopped working on the marriage, causing the other person not to get their needs met, the disappointed person was stuck living out their days with the selfish person. The threat or possibility of divorce can be used as leverage to motivate a complacent or selfish partner to change their behavior. That may be one of the best things about divorce. The other good thing about it is that it gives you another chance to be happy, to learn from your mistakes, an escape hatch. Because being with the wrong person can be much lonelier than being alone. Similarly, raising a child with the wrong person can be much harder than raising that child alone.

Obviously, divorce is a very big decision, and not one to be taken lightly. It affects lives deeply and permanently. But sometimes it is the best answer. I am sure some people who initiate divorce later regret it, but I can only speak for myself, and that was not true for me, not for a moment. There is a joke that resonates with a lot of divorced people and it goes like this:

Why is divorce so expensive? Because it's worth it.

today's gratitude

I was sick with a cold, perhaps the flu, earlier this month, and now I am perfectly healthy. It's amazing how fast we can forget a past illness. We recover our good health and right away resume taking it for granted. But today I am taking a moment to be grateful for my good health. I took an exercise class yesterday that pushed me to the edge of my fitness - spinning, running around the track and then up and down flights of stairs. The last few minutes had me fighting for every breath. The fact that I can wake up the next day feeling perfectly fine, ready for new challenges, is something to appreciate indeed. Plus, my jeans feel a bit looser this morning.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

today's gratitude

is for the sunshine, which was sorely missed
for my husband, who always gives me another chance
and for each new day that I get to wake up in my home, with my family

Monday, January 25, 2010

today's gratitude

is for my friends...

Particular thanks this morning go to Laura, for saving us last night when Max's presumptive ride home left without him.

But she is just one of a circle of thoughtful, caring, generous friends who surround me and my family. I know I am just a phone call, short walk, or email away from a tremendous amount of support and connection.

My friends are priceless.

Sunday, January 24, 2010

I'm not too nice

My Sunday school teacher is absent a lot because he is a soldier, but he was there today.

Wow, he's a soldier? He must be very brave.

Yeah. And very nice.

Oh, is he also very nice? That's great to hear, Isaac.

Well, he's actually a bit too nice.

Really? Do people take advantage of him?

No, it's just...kind of annoying.

Wow. Well, I have to remember that.

What?

I mean I'll be careful not to be too nice to you, because I don't want to be annoying.

No, you're awesome!

Thanks, Isaac.

You're welcome.

New habit

I realized last night that I no longer need to share my daily juice. I was very excited about my new juicer, and I'm still grateful to have it. Knowing I was going to post the juice of the day helped me stay motivated to make juice daily until it became a full blown habit, which it now is. So, I'm switching to a new morning discipline:daily thanksgiving. Beginning today, I will start my writing day by acknowledging one of the things for which I am grateful. Credit for this new( future) habit of mine goes to my friends, Alison Weikel and Gina Weathersby, who engage in a similar practice every day. I already know the power of gratitude to obliterate sadness, anger and self pity, and by practicing it daily here, I hope to inspire others to adopt the practice as well, and thereby enrich their lives.

Saturday, January 23, 2010

thrill seeker

There is no doubt but that I am a thrill seeker, but not one of the classic variety. I am not interested in the race car driver's, or sky diver's, or suicide bomber's thrill. I am always on the lookout for the most intense experience, but only so long as it does not involve real danger. As I always point out about my trapeze stunts: there's this beautiful thing below me called a net. I may believe in reincarnation, but I love this life I'm living and dearly want to stick around for much, much more of it.

One thrill of which I am particularly fond is the that of being concertmaster of an orchestra. Fortunately, most (i.e. more than half) of the orchestras I have spent any significant time in eventually made me their concertmaster. I'm not bragging; at least after graduating high school, I could have sought out and found scores of orchestras where that would never have been the case. I could have affected the attitude of "well, if they want me as concertmaster, then it must not be any good." But the truth is, I really, really like sitting up there. And it's not because I get to stand up and show off my glamorous all-black outfit while pointing at the oboe before every concert. It's because of the intensity of the music making experience.

The conductor is the finely tuned race car driver of the orchestra. His (usually it's a he) baton is both gas pedal and steering wheel. Somehow, sitting in that seat, right under the baton, I feel more like the high performance car than I do in any other seat. The location of that seat totally blocks anything resembling ADD from kicking in. I am alert, I am engaged; body, mind, spirit. Sitting there, every concert becomes, rather than a chance to bliss out behind someone's back, nothing less than an uninterrupted thrill ride.

There is no dreamy relaxation, no kicking back and listening to the lovely music wafting overhead while the brass and woodwinds run with melody for 14 bars. The concertmaster has to do the counting and listening for the whole section and never drop her (although usually this is also a he) concentration. Hers is the posture that the rest of the section will observe obliquely while they rest. When she sits up a bit straighter, lifts her bow to place it on the string, that's their signal to wake up and clue in: hey, it's about time to resume playing!

And I know my harpist friend will argue that she (almost always a she) is much more exposed, because when it is (finally!) her turn to play, she plays alone. And while the bassists may stand for the duration of the concert, the cellists and violists are the workhorses of the string section. They practically never cease in their laborious provision rhythm texture and depth. But the first violins' job, of dishing up the melody in its brightest, most soaring register, is, to me, the most thrilling job in town, and no one feels this more than the leader of that section.

I think the difference, as in real estate, boils down to location. The immediacy of being so close to the baton that you can almost feel it move through the air, so close to the conductor that you can hear his breath, see the first beads of sweat form on his forehead, produces an intensity of connection that you feel nowhere else in the orchestra. I got to experience this thrill again this week for two hours, and let me tell you: it beat out my two hours of trapeze in December by a full bow.

today's juice

was pure carrot,
completely delicious

Unfortunately, I opted to forego the straw, so I am now sporting a not-so-faint ring of yellowy-orange around my mouth.

Also, the pulp is so voluminous that it makes me wish I had chickens out back, or the need to make a really huge carrot cake. But I don't; not right now, anyway.

Friday, January 22, 2010

brain training

I have been practicing one page, mostly three bars on one page, since lunch time.

Well over an hour.

I don't remember doing this when I was younger. Am I more patient now, or more determined? Or am I forgetting how hard I used to work back in the day? Is it because I still am forcing flakes of rust off some of my fiddlin' muscles, because they just haven't been this challenged in years and years and years? No matter.

I thought I had happened upon a good strategy there for a while, to help me increase the tempo on a 24 note run. The piece is being conducted in one, and I'm not sure how fast it was at the last rehearsal, only that it was a lot faster than I was able to play it, and the conductor says he plans to do it even faster at the March 7 concert. I had been practicing it way too slowly. It's a bunch of triplets, so I started playing just the first note of each triplet (one of three) in tempo, and adding more and more of the other notes, here and there, as embellishments when I felt comfortable. After a while, it started to sound pretty good. Then, somehow, it fell apart, and I am now back to playing it one note at at time, increasing one click at a time on the virtual (Iphone) metronome. But I stopped to blog about it because it didn't seem right that it should start getting harder.

Don't worry folks, I will not give up. I can drum my fingers really, really, really fast on the counter (I jsut checked), so I know they CAN move more quickly. I just have to train them. Come on, neurons!!!

today's juice

makes me realize that no, I am not jaded.
I've just found a simple concoction so delicious that it makes me want to stop searching for new ones, because happiness is RIGHT HERE:

pineapple
pink grapefruit

and a stainless steel straw

with a coffee chaser :)

Thursday, January 21, 2010

today's juice

a bit of leftover canteloupe
1/4 pineapple
1/4 lime
1/2 grapefruit

am I becoming jaded?

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

today's juice

is making me start to think that pineapple is the secret to happiness.

1/2 small pineapple
1/4 canteloupe

life is very, very good

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

thinking about chickens

So, I said to Paul as we were falling asleep last night: I'm not sure, but I think the universe has been sending me a message about keeping chickens. Instead of just composting all that pulp from our juicer, we could feed it to our chickens and they could give us delicious eggs. That's what we do at Hope Springs: scrape our plates into a bucket that gets delivered to the chickens, and the next morning, find another platter of fresh, delicious scrambled eggs on the table. Why not do it at home? We have almost an acre of underutilized space, and a whole lot of food waste that is well, just that, wasted.

Paul wisely feigned sleep.

And today, I began my research.

I received an email from my friend, Trina, in Vermont, who assured me that I would fall in love with my chickens and that hers even scooch down for petting. I imagined my boys taking turns feeding the chickens, taking care of them, collecting their eggs. I liked that.

While shopping at Trader Joe's, (coffee, cocoa, polenta, frozen croissants, more fruit for the juicer) I helped myself to a paper cup full of decaf french roast at the sample table. I greeted the woman giving out samples of oranges, and after confirming that she was indeed well, I asked if she knew anybody who kept chickens. Turns out her late grandma, who was originally from Tennessee, brought her lifestyle with her when she moved north, and she has happy memories of playing with and feeding grandma's chickens. Less fond are her memories of grandma's rooster, who woke everybody up. We had one of those next door to us in St. Croix, so I know better than to consider getting a rooster. Besides, turns out there is a local ordinance against chickens that create a nuisance.

I found that out when I called Britt, who was identified as a chicken owner in our community. She has had them about a year, and her neighbor has, too. She was full of friendly advice, websites (like backyardchickens.com) and an invitation to visit her home and assess her chicken situation. She told me that you buy your chickens when they are a day old (in the Springtime) so that they are used to being handled by people, keeping them in a box or crate under a heat lamp until they feather out. They will mature enough to lay eggs in about six months. Britt told me how much square footage of land I need to devote to chicken living space, and explained that the chickens need both a raised coop to roost in and a covered run, to protect them from the elements and from predators. Backyard creatures we know of include squirrels, raccoons, deer, rabbits, stray cats, and occasionally an exuberant dog off leash. (The check out guy at Trader Joe's knows a woman who did the chicken keeping thing quite differently, rescuing chickens from a nearby Tyson farm, and keeping them behind her rented townhome. They all disappeared in a short period of time.)

It's funny; I've been telling my boys to put their shoes in the chicken coop, or to look for them in (or more often, near) the chicken coop ever since we moved into this house and I furnished the practically non existent mudroom cute stackable chicken coops from the Sundance catalog. This could finally be my moment, my chance to step up from faux-distressed-painted, yuppie coop to serious, backyard chicken egg farmer coop. Wow. There are chicken coop plans for sale on line, as well as pre-drilled, pre-cut kits to assemble with just a screwdriver.

Who'd a thunk it? I mean, I have been out of NYC, living here in Ohio, a loooooong time, and if you needed proof of that, well, I guess this is it, folks. Come out and see us. By next fall, I may be able to whip you up some really fresh eggs.

heartier fare (a poem)

Will I ever believe the things other people see in me?
A published article compares me to a Hindu goddess,
because, according to the journalist, Wonder Woman
just doesn’t have enough dimensions to her.
My doctor says she bragged about me, over the holidays,
to her son’s girlfriend, (who goes to Harvard Med),
that she told her I’m like one of those people
from high school or college, who has so many accomplishments,
except that I’ve continued on, after school is long done…
My first thought, as I listened and blushed, was:
how can so many bright people be so deluded?
But I respect her so much, so instead, I said,
“That’s an interesting perspective; thank you.”

When will I stop feeling like the failure my father says I am?
He told his sister I should have been CEO of a Fortune 500,
and confided, over 12-year-old scotch on the rocks,
that he’d never get over the disappointment
of my living in Ohio, painting walls, mothering three kids.
I fake-laughed when my aunt repeated this, and said
“Whoever would expect that of me never knew me at all!”
At 23, when I found the courage to declare myself an artist,
my mother screamed “why did we send you to Harvard?”
“So that I could have the courage to become myself,
so the world could be opened to me in all its possibilities.”
I said this to myself, after she’d hung up the phone in a rage,
leaving me alone again, to nurse the hurt of her disapproval.

How is it they could come to my son’s bar mitzvah, but not speak
either to him or me, nor to my husband, choosing instead
to congratulate their former son-in-law, whom they once so despised?
Everything designed to hurt me, even my father’s words at the bar.
(He knew his sister would pass them along, do the wounding for him.)
Admired by friends, adored by three sons and a devoted husband,
I am asked to serve on boards, teach people’s kids, be a role model…
I perform, hold forth, teach, advise, share my opinion,
but deep down, I fear I’m not enough, less than I might have been...
I was set up to fulfill so many other people’s dreams,
but I only wanted to seek and discover my own destiny.
What was I meant to do, to become and who would I find
to love me for who I really am, who I was born to be?

Set adrift at sixteen, I feel lost, scared and undeserving…
I chase elegant, arrogant, pretty boys, suffer their nonchalance,
let their indifference pierce my heart as it confirms, over and again,
that I am lacking, or too much, or somehow, just not quite right,
unworthy of being loved for a reason I can neither define nor deny.
Too tall, too Jewish, too Long Island, too smart, too loud, too confident, ha!
If they only knew how empty, how needy, how starved for acceptance,
how hard I have worked to fashion the intimidating façade they see,
how terrified, yet how desperate I am, to let someone see how vulnerable,
how soft and still unformed I am inside my tough, pretty shell.
Don’t tell me I am not good enough to be loved just as I am.
Someday I will know you were wrong, and you will suffer for your cruelty.
I will snap my Mama shell tight to protect my children and you will be shut out.

Monday, January 18, 2010

schmearputz

I was on deck for an audition, with another actor standing right behind me in the narrow hallway. It was time to smooth down the hair, review the lines one last time, and take some deep breaths to prepare. I glanced down at my charcoal grey jacket and saw a schmear of brown by my waist, a bit of either nutella or chocolate milk gifted to me by one of my kids. I worked the dried food off the fabric with my fingers and, aware that the guy next to me was watching, said "I'm afraid this sort of thing happens a lot...I have three kids."

"I completely understand," he offered. "It's something my mother-in-law calls schmearputz. Messy face."

"Hmm. I'm pretty sure schmearputz would be messy penis."

Immediately after this escaped my mouth, I tried to improve things by adding "which also happens...but I believe face is punim."

We both tried to act like this was a normal conversation. Good thing we're both actors, right?

"German mother-in-law?" I asked.

"Mm-hmm."

"Cool."

And then it was my turn to audition. What a warm-up.

Apple Juice


Isaac handed me two small gala apples and asked for juice to go with his buttermilk pancakes. This is the taste test.

Sunday, January 17, 2010

today's juice

1/2 small pineapple
1 large pink lady apple

inspired by the fact that they both have "apple" in their name

very nice indeed

Saturday, January 16, 2010

today's juice

used some fruit leftovers found in the refrigerator:

part of a pineapple
honeydew rinds
red grapes
sprig of parsley
end of a mango

just lovely

friendly breakfast


I got this potholder at Sur La Table when I was shopping there with the Tooth fairy.
It's pretty magical, too, pulling all sorts of extraordinary treats out of the oven.
These are Mini Morning Buns from Trader Joe's, Isaac's favorite Saturday morning indulgence.

Friday, January 15, 2010

was Jesus PC?

There is a certain billboard that those of us driving toward downtown Cincinnati see on our way. I wish I could photograph it, but I do not know anyone with a helicopter and it seems unwise to stop for a moment on the interstate and stick my Iphone out the window. So, I'll ask you to trust me that the billboard reads:

I miss hearing you wish each other "Merry Christmas".
-Jesus

Now, I posted my observation as my Facebook status this morning and realized from the response that a few people do not understand the intent of this billboard. Possibly because it takes on another meaning altogether in January, and for that case alone, it should be removed promptly.

Jesus is not to be thought of as waxing nostalgic for last December. Rather, he (or He) is waxing nostalgic for those holiday seasons of yesteryear, before shopkeepers, teachers and passersby conspired to replace "Merry Christmas" with "Happy Holidays".

To be honest, plenty of people still wish me Merry Christmas each December, and I say it right back to them. It is something I call being polite. If they do not know it already, especially if they do not even know my name and are just trying to be friendly, why do they need to know that I don't celebrate Christmas? I realize that they are Christian, a bit narrow in their views, perhaps, but I do not interpret the greeting as hostile to my beliefs and I do not feel disrespected by being greeted this way.

But I digress. The issue at hand is this: would Jesus mind that so many of his followers have become politically correct (PC), adopting a less Christian greeting for their December social encounters?

Now I am not a Jesus expert, so I really need your help, blog readers. I studied Jesus' life and sermons in college so I could better understand what all the fuss is about, but still, it's not really my field. The research I have done on this particular matter suggests that no, Jesus was NOT politically correct. But I suspect that is because the people who are passionate enough about the issue to publish pieces on this topic are upset by the PC trend. It's not that they think Jesus would have hurt feelings. They seem to think that Jesus would be royally pissed by the perceived disrespect, no the heresy of "Happy Holidays" replacing "Mery Christmas". It's like ending a prayer with "in the name of God" instead of "in Jesus'" name. Not okay.

In many respects, it seems that Jesus was a mild mannered person. But if he had been interested in political correctness, he probably would have lived a lot longer.

Anybody out there care to comment?

Oh, and by the way, Shabbat shalom!

not my ride

I dropped Sam off at basketball practice sometime after dark yesterday evening (about 6:30). We paused in the parking lot to gaze at a very bright object in the sky, which I tried in vain to ID by a quick google search on my Iphone. Then I turned around to rush back home to Isaac, whom I'd left alone playing wii.

I hit the button for remote entry that hangs on on my keychain as I approached the vehicle in the dark. I didn't hear the soft "click" but I tried the door anyway. It opened, so I hopped into the driver seat. I was about to put the key in the ignition when I realized that this was NOT MY VAN.

Maybe it's silly, but I have a habit of locking my door every time I get out of it, unless I am in my own garage. I assumed others do the same. I guess I was wrong.

That was a weird little thrill, somehow, climbing into a stranger's empty van in the dark. Not like I could have hotwired it, or wanted to. But you're not supposed to do that, or be able to, right? Has this ever happened to you?

today's juice

1/2 grapefruit
1/2 orange
1/2 mango
1/4 pineapple
1/4 lime

mmmmm :)

Thursday, January 14, 2010

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

today's juice

1/4 pineapple
most, but not all, of a large mango
1/2 lime
2 "bundles" of baby spinach leaves
a hearty slice of honeydew melon

spectacular!

sun salutation

My morning yoga practice is pretty special this week.

Every day, at 7:05, just after Max has left to catch the bus to high school, I do about 12-15 minutes of yoga. It helps me wake up, warm up, feel more flexible, powerful and alert.

The living room, where I roll out my mat, is graced with both eastern and western exposures. Usually, I face out the picture window to the west, because it's comfortable and convenient, given the present arrangement of furniture. (Also, there is a great maple just in front of me that helps me with my tree and eagle poses) But this week, I'd be missing a great deal by not reorienting my practice to face eastward, gazing out windows that stretch from the floor to a height of about six feet.

As I strike my first mountain pose, the sky is a deep midnight blue, criss-crossed by the powerful sculpture of black tree branches.

But by the final sun salutation, my view is transformed to great bands of deep heathery purple, crimson, orange, yellow and pale blue.

I live fully in the 21st century and know I have nothing to do with the sun rising.
But with every sweeping arm movement this morning, it feels like I am coaxing him out from his resting place beneath Mother Earth, asking him to paint, then light, the Great Sky.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

today's juice

one mango
1/2 smallish pineapple

result:
tropical paradise

Monday, January 11, 2010

audition for Army Wives

I auditioned for the part of a bitchy hospital administator on Army Wives today, and I loved it.

Any nice girl who's gotten to play a mean girl knows it's really, really fun. I'm not even all that nice, at least, not all of the time. In fact, I'm awfully good at being bitchy, but I never fully enjoy it in real life, because I always feel guilty for behaving that way, even while I'm in the moment.

So, to be asked to be bitchy, and even ASKED TO INTERRUPT the director, who was reading the part of the doctor I was being bitchy to, to be TOLD TO STEP ON HIS LINE with mine, well....it was my inner bitch's dream come true. The director/camera man asked me, after the third take, whether I had been reacting to his lines while he was reading them. He didn't know because while I was working "off-book", he was yelling at me with his nose buried in the script.

"Oh, yes! I've been rolling my eyes and dissing you the entire time you were talking."

"Good!" he said "Keep doing that, even more!"

The final take was my bitchiest of all.

"Great! We got it. That was awesome! You're the best!" he said, and opened the door for me to go.

Can you imagine? It just about made my day.

today's juice

two stalks of celery
two large carrots
1/2 sweet navel orange

honestly, perfection

Sunday, January 10, 2010

off the hook

The first thing Isaac said to me today was "I have basketball today!"

I believe I replied "That's right, you do!" or something equally cheerful and affirming.

Isaac's our third and youngest child. For some reason, Sam's basketball season started in October, and Isaac has been waiting and waiting for his season to begin. Last Sunday afternoon, at 2 pm, he had his first practice and game. Max, Paul and I all went and cheered him on.

Thank goodness we did. Because we had to draw on that goodwill today.

At a few minutes after three, Paul bounded up the stairs from basement to kitchen, explaining to the kids that he had to talk to Mommy about something. He quietly told me that we had just missed Isaac's 2-3 basketball time, and I gasped in horror. (I'm dramatic like that sometimes. I don't mean to be; it just happens)

"Yeah, I wanted to tell you before he realizes it and says something so you don't scream or something in front of him."

O.K......

I mulled that over as Paul descended the stairs and resumed his ping pong game with Isaac.

My mind began racing; I imagined various unpleasant scenarios that might soon unfold. Then I phoned a friend.

"Hi, Al, I'm having an emergency," I began.

A moment later, Alison was wishing me luck and I was headed for the basement, with some trepidation.

"Isaac, Mommy and Daddy screwed up. We made a mistake, lost track of time, and missed basketball today." Which was the absolute truth. Paul had been having all sorts of fun with the boys downstairs and I was right above them practicing the violin. Time had just slipped away...

"So, Isaac, to make it up to you, you can choose a fun thing to do for the rest of this afternoon, or you can choose what we have for dinner or where we go to eat it."
"Waaaaaauuuuuggghhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" As dramatic as his mother any day, he threw himself on the couch to cry.

I followed Paul into the next room to evaluate how well or badly that had gone in comparison with his expectations.

But before we knew it, I guess, our offer sank in. Isaac appeared in the doorway with a big smile on his face, and announced "I want to go to the J and play ball with you. Both of you!"

Isn't this what every youngest child dreams of, having both parents all to himself?

So, we left Sam and Max at home together, and as we got into the car, I reminded Isaac and Paul that the last time the three of us had been together like this was when both his brothers had been away at summer camp and we drove to Chicago for the weekend. The memory elicited another big smile.

"I'm happy now. Sorry about the tears." he said, blowing my mind.

"Oh, Isaac, never apologize for tears!" I exclaimed. "They're just part of being a person, and YOU are a very wonderful one."

We went to the J and played first basketball and then football with Isaac in the indoor gym. We sang Beatles songs all the way there and munched peanut butter filled pretzels all the way home.

I think we all felt very lucky.

today's juice

one very sweet navel orange
1/4 pink grapefruit
1/4 Meyer lemon

pronounced "perfect" by a fifteen year old

Saturday, January 9, 2010

catty coincidence

We moved into our home and recarpeted our bedrooms well before we ever dreamed of adding a cat to our household. So, I consider it a complete coincidence that we chose a shade of shag carpeting that is the exact color of the IAMS cat food we feed to Oliver, our adopted (formerly stray) tabby. Perhaps the coincidence is that we chose a food of this hue; I can't be sure, because this is my first experience choosing either cat food or shag carpeting. I only know there was a wide range of colors of carpet to chose from, whereas bags of catfood are generally opaque and rather mysterious.

Generally speaking, this has worked out nicely, because the similarity in color of these two substances usually prevents me from noticing one on top of the other. Which is fortunate, since on most days, I really only tolerate my cat, who has the habit both of tracking his food around the house, and even vomiting it up, with some regularity. Especially since Oliver consistently makes my bedroom his main daytime hangout for three seasons of the year, I am grateful for the camouflaging effect of the food-carpet color match.

During the winter, though, when our poorly insulated bedroom becomes less chilly than the ideal, Olvier relocates the majority of his lounging activities to the master bathroom for the cozy comfort of its radiant-heated tile floor. The pure WHITE tile floor, with matching cotton spa rugs. I was just in there for a short visit, which inspired this very special post. As I recall, the cat food particles didn't match the rug earlier today when they were fresh off his little paws, and it matches even less well now that it has had time to dry out. Does anybody else want to clean this up? I didn't think so.

feelin' the love

I'm having a lovely moment, and thought I'd share it with you. The day started off kind of bumpy, but in the past hour, it has improved. First, my husband called to offer to do the shopping for me, and then apologized for every incident of his grumpiness during the course of the past week; then, my ex-husband called to thank me for something (for the second time ever, I think, since becoming my ex-husband in 1996) and final;ly, just now, a friend wrote to thank me for essentially hosting a party at her house last night, even though that is NOT an accurate description of what I did.

I merely brought over a Rubbermaid storage tub full of adult board games and adult party drinks, mixed a dozen or so chocolate martinis, poured Baileys, Frangelico and Kahlua into tiny little Belgian dark chocolate sipping cups, opened a bottle of something called "BITCH bubbly" and taught eveyone how to play "Imaginiff" which is great game for a group of up to 8 people to learn more about each other and also how they are seen by others.

Yes, I suppose I am available for hire. Until my mural business picks up, or I get a book contract. Actually, even then.

Cheers!

today's juice

Today's juice had some technical difficulties, lest you think I live in some kind of nutritional utopia. Our Jack LaLanne juicer makes wonderful juice, but it is quirky, temperamental, and requires significant work to clean and reassemble after each and every batch.

Upon waking, I stumbled into the kitchen, opened the dishwasher, collected the juicer's various removeable parts, assembled the juicer, quartered a Granny Smith apple and fed it into the juicer, which promptly jammed and shut itself down so as not to overheat. When this happens, you must wait two minutes before taking the juicer apart, unclogging and reassembling it, which I did.

At which time, Max walked into the kitchen and asked if there was any fresh citrus juice that he could use to unblock his sinuses before this morning's audition. (For those of you keeping track, yes, Max did have an audition yesterday, for a musical, and another today, for a scholarship.)

So I poured the 1/2 cup of apple juice into a glass, quickly disassembled the juicer a second time, brushed the blade and filter clean, rinsed the cover and pulper, and reassembled it to make pink grapefruit and lemon juice for Max.

one pink grapefruit
1/2 Meyer lemon

delightful

Friday, January 8, 2010

working on "no"

So, I've learned how to say "no" and now, I have to work on sticking with it. Once again, I have relented, and let Isaac talk me back into "yes". Consequently, I have no time to tell you about my latest episode of wishy-washiness. Suffice it to say that in spite of the delayed school opening this morning, I WILL be leading the polar bear face art project with the first graders this afternoon.

pant, pant, pant...

today's juice

...was a bit tart, even for me.

I needed to add quite a bit of sugar, a lot of ice, and then it was really nice.

One pink grapefruit
two Meyer lemons
one lime

I figure none of us can have too much Vitamin C right now.

Thursday, January 7, 2010

simultaneous happiness


Oh, how I love it when that happens.

Introducing, from above left, going clockwise:
Max, Isaac and Sam

(photo credit: Gina Weathersby of www.kiwistreetstudios.com)

confession #1

(as I suspect there may be more to come)

I'm not feeling like the best parent in the world right now.

So, we did get just enough snow today so that the kids could go sledding. And I used the time while they waited and watched the snow fall to empty, clean and reorganize both my pantry and refrigerator. Hooray! So far, so good.

In our town, most kids tend to converge on the centrally located, private golf course to do their sledding. Thanks to my self-refrigeration session last night (see earlier post), I was in no shape to supervise, much less partake in, a golf- course sledding session today, but my friend Sandy said she and our friend Jennifer would be there, not to worry. Plus, Max is now fifteen and rather responsible for his age; lately, he's watched his younger brothers at home without incident when Paul and I have gone out.

After ninety minutes on the course, Max called and asked me to come pick them up. It's really cold and he doesn't want to get sick before his audition tomorrow. (See how responsible?) So, when I get there, I park on the non-existent shoulder of the road with my hazards blinking. I honk, the boys run over, throw their stuff in the back of the mini, and then pile in.

As they are clicking their seat belts, Max announces that they didn't like their new sled and oh, also, they lost it. Max enjoyed using and is still in possession of his new "luge", but Sam and Isaac have no idea where their new sled is. They took turns using their old sled, while someone else, identity entirely unknown, made off with the new one. They aren't concerned because they didn't like it anyway. Evidently, it "went like four feet and then 'uh'."

I am NOT happy about this and lecture them all the way home about their shocking carelessness and lack of responsibility and how Daddy and I are not ever going to buy them a new sled again. How they'll just have to continue to share, since they could not keep track of their BRAND NEW, NEVER BEFORE USED, SLED. Whenever my kids are silent in the back seat during a Mommy rant, I generally take this as a sign of indifference and I typically respond to this by getting LOUDER. Meanwhile, all during my lecture I am wondering what a responsible parent, albeit one with a cold, would have done in this situation. My guess is that she would have parked on a side street somewhere, locked the kids in the car with just the right amount of heat blasting and great educational music playing, and gone trudging off through the snow in search of her children's last-night-of-Hannukah present. Which I did not even consider doing for a moment.

I take a brief break from lecturing them, breathe, then change gears and promise them popcorn and cocoa upon our return home, but no sooner do I step into the house, but I am yelling at the first minor infraction: SHUT THE DOOR TO THE GARAGE! No, NOT after you take off your boots, Sam, NOW!" At which point, my sweet darling son, Sam, screams and then bursts into tears. At which point I feel like a monster, and yet I defend my right to scream, reminding him of the two or three times recently that I have discussed the open-door-in-the-middle-of-winter issue in a nice, calm voice.

As I sit here, typing furiously away, they seem to be completely over the entire incident. They have had their cozy snacks and they are all watching Star Wars together under afghan blankets in the living room. My punishment is that I am now second guessing myself and beating myself up for my earlier behavior. And I seem to be the only one wondering what will happen to that sled at the end of the day.

Helpful advice from a Jewish Mother

If and when you are suffering from the common cold, and presumably, hoping to regain your health, it is not helpful, nor is it a good idea, to sit without a coat on, in a refrigerated area, for two hours in the evening.

You will not feel better in the morning. Trust me on this. There is no sense in your repeating my mistake.

love,

Mama

today's juice

perfection, thy name is...

frothy pink grapefruit, baby!

snow day?

I hear was Kroger was jam packed last night and that they sold out of bread.
This is what happens in Cincinnati when the forecast calls for at least an inch of snow, as they had for this morning.

At five AM, the school superintendent called every home in the district to announce a two hour delay to give them a chance to assess the situation. I got out of bed and texted my hairdresser to cancel my 9am appointment.

At seven, she called back to announce she was going to err on the side of caution and close school for the day.

Maybe those were not her exact words. I don't know. I think I had just fallen back asleep after being awakened by her previous phone call.

The kids are confused. They got up and got dressed for school, then found me still in bed. When I told them the news, they looked out the window. No snow. They'd rather be in school.

The boys have been waiting eagerly for snow since the first day of winter, seeing pictures come through Facebook of friends sledding happily in Boston and Chicago. They got new sleds for Hannukah and they can't wait to break them in.

I don't blame them. All week it's been below freezing without more than a couple of flakes. Now it's coming down, lightly, but the grass is still poking through. They are ready to jump on their sleds as soon as I give them the signal. I hope the snow picks up soon.

Wednesday, January 6, 2010

procrastination

Wow. I just drove past the two pumpkins which I had placed along the side of my driveway a few months ago. They are the two bright spot of color on the otherwise white landscape of my home. Still, I thought it might be time to dispose of them. I hopped out of the minivan, just now, thinking I'd hoist them into my arms and then dump them into the garbage bin; tonight is the night Paul hauls the garbage and recycling to the curb. Evidently, the pumpkins are not keen on these ideas of mine. They refused to budge. Either they are much heavier, frozen solid, than when they were put into these positions during a more temperate season, or they have become stuck to the ground. Perhaps I will let them stay where they are. Who knows? Next summer, we may be tending a pumpkin patch next to our driveway.

beginner's luck, please?

I'm going to Kentucky today to buy party supplies. My husband asked that while I am there I purchase a powerball. I didn't ask, but I'm pretty sure that is a reference to the Kentucky lottery. I have never bought a lottery ticket before. It's always seemed like a foolish waste of money. But I am also not a gambler. So, I'm wondering: do people ever have beginner's luck with lottery tickets? Don't the winners usually buy scads of tickets? Well, I promised I'd buy one, so we'll see. I don't think I like the idea of walking around with unrealistic expectations, or setting myself up for disappointment. So, I plan to stay detached from the process, without actually losing the ticket. Wish me luck?

waiting to reconnect

My nine year old son, Sam, is so much like me that sometimes it hurts to watch him, because I from inside myself know just how he feels when he is sad.

Our family loves Club Med for a lot of reasons. The amazing food, for one, around which I lose all self-control. And my Facebook friends already know that I love the flying trapeze school. (For the record, no, climbing up the trapeze ladder intermittently for two hours in the afternoon does NOT counteract the day's excesses at the buffet, not even when combined with 45 minutes of Zumba.) But the one thing that keeps us going back there again and again for our family vacation is that the Kids' Club staff consistently make the experience even more fun for our children than summer camp.

Sam makes friends very easily, at school, at camp, wherever he goes. But for some reason, he tends to make really good friends at Club Med, and, like his mother, he takes his true friends deeply into his heart and grieves deeply when they are separated. How he manages to make this sort of connection in just four days is pretty astounding, but there's no doubt in my mind that it's real. When we checked out of Club Med Sandpiper the day before Christmas, Sam had tears streaming down his sweet little face. Paul and I babbled on and on for a while, trying to comfort him, before Sam helped us understand that he knew vacations had to end and he knew we would return, but he was sad because he was really going to miss his friends, especially Brett, who in real life lives, rather inconveniently, in London. Yes, England.

We know that distance is not an obstacle, but merely a challenge, to sustaining a friendship nowadays. Sam is still in touch with his friend, Roarke, who he met at Sandpiper in 2006, and Roarke has since moved from Bermuda to Switzerland. However, in this case, the complete lack of contact information for Brett presents a real challenge. In Roarke's case, Paul and I had also befriended his parents, so our two familes were able to remain connected. We even hosted the five of them for a memorable weekend when they came to Cincinnati to see us en route to the dad's business trip Chicago. But tracking Brett down seemed a rather daunting task, especially without even a last name to get us started. As the tears continued to flow, I sat in the passenger seat, silently kicking myself for not having told Sam to get his friend's email address or phone number before saying goodbye.

Soon after the minivan pulled back into our garage, Sam asked me how it could be that just a few days after vacation, he missed his friend of four days more than he missed his friends from school, whom he had not seen in almost two weeks. I told him that I didn't know, but that it was just possible he had more in common, deep down inside, with Brett, than he did with the friends he has made here in town.

Two days after that, still hearing about the poignant loss of Brett, I phoned Club Med to see if we could be put in touch with his family, and was told to send my request in writing. Today, Sarah, the director of Kids' club staff wrote to tell me that she had forwarded my email to the (still nameless) family in London and hoped his mother would contact me soon. I know people lead very busy lives, but somehow I expect that she will. Here's hoping we get those kids reconnected soon.

today's juice

one granny smith apple
3/4 red pear
one lime

taste: woo-hoo!
NOW, I'm awake!

yoga clothes

I'm listening to Deva Premal, as I stand here, which means I did not do my full twenty minutes of yoga wake up. I did just eleven minutes and it was ridiculous.

My excuse? Well, I woke up from a really bad dream this morning when Max walked into the kitchen. Thanks, Max. Because if you hadn't woken me, I was going to have to find the police, admit that I was driving interstate without a license when I caused the tractor trailer behind me to jacknife by weaving erratically while gabbing on my iPhone, and also explain that I had lost track of my kids somewhere in this huge office building with the museum-sized elevators while needing to get a CAT scan or some other scary diagnostic test.

So, because of that dream I did not bother putting on yoga clothes when I got up. I saw Max out the door to school, took two ibuprofen gel caps with a sip of coffee & Ovaltine, and unrolled my yoga mat in the living room, telling myself it would be okay, just this once, to do yoga in my flannel pajamas. Rather than go back into my room and risk waking Paul just to change clothes, because I'm just so considerate, um, lazy, sometimes.

Anyway, the point of this is to help you. So, here is my PSA: do not attempt yoga in flannel pajamas! If you are somehow ABLE to do yoga while so attired, you will be way too warm within five minutes. But seriously, those yoga clothes are form- fitting, stretchy and supportive for a REASON, people! For example, the view during downward dog in yoga clothes should be of your hands; concentrate on spreading your fingers wide on the mat, feel the equal weight distribution between feet and hands. The view during downward dog in loose flannel pajamas - well, it's not pretty, folks. Not at my age, anyway. I think the cat may have been smirking at me.

And honestly, Paul can sleep through just about anything at this hour of the morning.

Namaste.

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

layers of loss

An IM just popped up on my Facebook screen informing me that my friend Rachel's father has passed away.

Oy, what an avalanche of sorrow falls on me as I receive this news. Layers of loss.

First, I mourn for yet another time that life has taken Rachel so many miles away from me. So far that I don't hear her voice anymore, only see her face, and those of her children, in photos on the internet. I've never met her new husband. It may seem strange to some, but it's a deep sorrow because I keep my close friends very, very close. The closest know practically my every thought and are chuckling as they read this sentence. Rachel, for a time, was one of these.

We adjust, of course, when a friend leaves our physical sphere, but Rachel's absence was like an open wound for quite a while. I avoided forming new friendships with people whom I considered "high risk" for moving out of Cincinnati. People like me, from someplace else, who imagined they'd perhaps be happier living somewhere else. In fact, in reaction to Rachel's moving back "home" to Texas, I actively and deliberately tried to befriend natives for the very first time.

At a time like this, when a dear friend's beloved parent has died, it is generally impossible for me to find the right thing to say. But in this case I don't even know where to find her phone number. I think it went through the wash with an old cell phone. She hasn't called me since I lost it. We have Facebook, of course. But that is pretty sad.

On the second layer of loss, there is the wound that opens every time a friend loses a beloved parent. Because when a friend grieves a parent's death, it reminds me that my parents are alive, but only technically. They don't call me, and I don't call them. And they are NOT my Facebook friends. In fact, it was Rachel I sat down with, face to face, right before deciding to stand up to my parents that fateful day, to establish and defend boundaries that were long overdue.

My parents had just visited for the weekend, and I had been dreading their visit, with good reason. After dropping my kids off at preschool, I called Rachel at work and as soon as she said "how did it go?", I immediately dissolved into tears. Just as immediately, Rachel said "meet me at Bruegger's" and I turned my car right around. She left her office, where I think she was already busy packing up her things to move. We sat and talked very frankly about this huge, painful, vastly important issue the way only the closest of friends would dare to do.

It was Rachel's love, support and encouragement that morning which gave me the courage to articulate, first to her and then to my parents, the clarity I finally had on the situation. And what I said that evening on the phone to my parents has effectively kept them out of my home for the last several years. I told them that unless and until they could behave lovingly to eveyone who lives here, they could not return. That was pronounced an unreasonable condition, and they have never been back.

So, Rachel, if you are reading this, you are the first friend I've told, as she is grieving the loss of a parent, that I envy you. I feel incapacitated to comfort you in your time of sorrow, unqualified. Because I don't know how you feel. I don't know what it's like. Even now, as you are overwhelmed by sorrow, I feel envy when I think of the relationship you had with your father, as imperfect as it may have been, and envious of the sweet memories you will carry with you the rest of your days. I know that this is not an appropriate sentiment to share at a time like this. So, even though people think of me as someone who has the right words for every situation, this particular situation is the one that reveals possibly my greatness rhetorical weakness. I'm sorry for your loss, Rachel. But I can't help it. I envy the love you hold in your heart.

Breathing

Breathing is so terribly underrated. It can calm us down when we are hysterical, and make us feel more energized when we are exerting ourselves. It helps identify drunk drivers, and, thanks to modern technology, even prevents them from re-starting their car engines. We know breathing's important, of course. It's woven throughout our common parlance. We say we "breathe more easily" when we are free of pressing concerns. We breathe a sigh of relief. A wonderfully unique person is breath of fresh air. When we want someone to get a new perspective on a crisis, we tell them first to take a deep breath.

And yet, every time I catch a cold, at some point during the suffering through of that cold (in this case, afternoon of day five) it occurs to me that once again, I had forgotten to appreciate my breathing while it was easier to do.

Extreme cold is interesting in that you get to see your breath, but that's hardly the most pleasant way to be aware of one's breathing.

Yoga is nice in that it makes you focus on your breathing, often in a temperature controlled environment; guided meditation typically does, too. But unless a yoga instructor or meditation guru is actually telling me to focus on my breathing, I generally forget to. Of course, that's not as bad as actually forgetting to breathe, which as I recall, seems to be a common problem in aerobics class - even Jane Fonda repeats the phrase "remember to breathe" throughout her workout videos - but still, how can we forget something as important as our breath?

So, do me a favor please, those of you who are breathing easily today. Sit up straight and oxygenate yourself right now and focus on the wonderful feeling of being able to do that. Feel the wellness in your body as your lungs fill with air and oxygen flows into your every cell. Doesn't that feel good? You are truly blessed.

If you have ever had a loved one taken off a ventilator, you know how precious our breath is.

I watched my grandmother die of tuberculosis while none of us or the doctors at Yale-New Haven hospital had any idea what was what was going on. She fought for every breath until they became too shallow to sustain her. So, that keeps my cold in perspective. Lest you thought this was a pity party. It's not. I know I will be just fine. I just need to drink more tea and try to go to bed at a decent hour, and maybe keep the temperature in my bedroom above 61 degrees.

And I'll bet a little yoga wouldn't be a bad idea, either.

Guilt Free Straws=Happiness

I just made myself a big glass of melon-spinach juice (sooo much better than it probably sounds) on my new Jack Lalanne juicer, and that's just great. But what really makes me happy is that I can drink it with a straw and not feel a single pang of the guilt related to the landfill contribution that most straws represent. And that is because I recently became the proud owner of four stainless steel straws. (There are five humans in this household, but the straws come in a four-pack and I was being cautious) They say stuff can't really make you happy, but that's not exactly true. My juicer lets me drink fruits and vegetables which is sometimes more fun than eating them. And my straws, which were $10 from Park + Vine in downtown Cincinnati, well, I think I can say that my stainless steel straws really do make me happy. Maybe because I was sucking on a straw at some of the best moments of my childhood, moments involving thick Carvel milkshakes consumed as lunch (with a side of fries) in the parking lot in front of The All American in Massapequa, where I grew up; more milkshakes (mint chip) consumed as lunch while sitting on the sidewalk in front of the Baskin' and Robbins near Massapequa High School; Fribbles from Friendly's, usually after junior high orchestra concerts, sucked down while sitting on a vinyl covered bench or barstool, and countless egg creams and ice cream sodas at a whole lot of places all over New York City and Long Island. So, now that I'm generally regarded as an adult, no longer growing at a rate of an inch and half a minute, and don't often indulge in milkshakes, ice cream sodas or egg creams, it seems that a mere straw may have the power to turn a drink into more of a TREAT. Anyway, it makes me happy.

Welcome, honored reader

Dear Reader,

Thanks so much for stopping by; I'm honored that you did. I know there are lot of choices of reading material clamoring for your attention out there. On your iPhone or Blackberry, your kindle or Nook, on twitter, on facebook...it's a bit overwhelming, isn't it? But you peeked over here for some reason, and I appreciate it. I hope you'll come back again soon.

So, why did I start this blog today? Beside the fact that it's the kids' second day back at school and the start of a whole new decade...

Well, very simply, I love to share my thoughts in writing, especially when you let me know that my words have touched you, helped you look at something from a different angle, or simply made you feel less alone. A few of you, who have typed reactions to my notes on Facebook, or better yet, come up to me and told me in person how my writing affected you, have inspired me to write to a broader audience. You cannot imagine how good it feels to me to know that I made a difference in your life just by sharing a little part of mine.

People comment all the time on my startling honesty, often calling it courage. It's funny, but it just really doesn't feel that way to me. Maybe I was born without a filter that many people have, but I naturally share from my heart and wouldn't know how to do otherwise. It takes too much effort to spin something or sugar coat it, and besides, I don't what the point of that would be. I know I'm a good person, and now that I'm past adolescence, I realize that if something happens to me, then chances are it has also happened to someone else. If something upsets or hurts me, makes me laugh or ticks me off, I know by now that some of you have been similarly affected.

So, I'm calling my blog Unburied Treasure just because it is the first thing that popped into my head, and not only do I like to believe in divine inspiration, but I'm also way too impatient to sit around brainstorming or holding focus groups about what it should be called. But now that I think about it, I like the name because it speaks to not hiding who I am or what I've been through or how I feel about it. Because who we are, and the life we live, really is the greatest treasure I can think of. All this stuff we go through every day seems somehow better when you share it. And whether it's by extending your giggle fit, or comforting you in your darkest hour, if my words have that power, I want to use it. So come back, and I promise to have something of value and substance soon. Because as long as life keeps happening to me, I'm sure to have something to say about it.

love,

Nancy