It's time to push the couch around...

I basically grew up in a house that was built in the 1920's...a sturdy stone Beaux Arts of a home, with georgous woodwork, built-ins and wrought iron that would sustain a massive attack on the castle.

It also had radiators.

My favorite choice of heating.

Radiators provide non dry heat and are usually placed under the windows to take advantage of the cold draft, heat it and send it through the house. It's excellent for your skin, and furntiure. It also provided shelf space because of the large box like covers that would fit over the radiators...sometimes they were a piece of craftsmanship to be admired, sometimes just a great place to put books, photos of the family and the paperweight collection that nobody knew what to do with...and I miss that.

If you lived in a house with radiators , you also knew the fun of moving the furniture with the seasons...furniture was moved away during the late fall so the radiators could, well, radiate...then in the late spring, the furniture was moved back so you could cover the unsightly coils with couch. I liked that "musical chairs/ furniture" concept...rotate, sit, seasons change, rotate, sit....I do it now in my 1930's house. THe living room is re-arranged every late fall and every late spring. In the fall it signifies the Christmas tree coming soon and the furniture circles the fireplace.

It's kinda funny.

It also means there is a serious house cleaning and the rug under the couch is finally vacuumed. So that's what happened to all those Lego pieces....

But that's not the funny part.

The funny part is, I don't have radiator heat.

Start the music , I'm pushing the couch around...

...

The Real reason for the Nobel Prize handover.

We all shook our heads when the Nobel Prize was awarded to US President Barack Obama...merely because he hasn't been in office long enough (especially at the time he was nominated) to have affected any kind of change in terms of world peace.

His promises regarding such issues go unresolved and even he admitted, he wasn't worthy.

But the press, in it's continuing search for validation in it's slobbering love affair with BO, continues to write article after article as to WHY this award was bestowed upon him. They dig deep into the metaphoric well and I was willing to accept that he got the award for NOT being George Bush.

That actually made the most sense.

Until I read this...this seems to me to be the real reason for the Nobel hand over...and why this isn't front and center being majorly debated in our "democratic" society is beyond me.

It's called the Copenhagen agreement...a thinly veiled world order pact ..."green" and "healthcare" being the new black hole of your taxes and government control targets. Really it's the only way the feds can make any money these days...especially after bailing out AIG and Goldman Sachs who are awarding big bonuses this year...amazing how we were so easily fed such a big line of crap. SO read on, see if you are willing to be fed more crap from the new ruler of the world government wannabe and Nobel Peace Prize winner:

http://wattsupwiththat.com/2009/10/16/obama-poised-to-cede-us-sovereignty-in-copenhagen-claims-british-lord-monckton/

...

Balloon Boy, and why we care...

We watched on the news, in horror last week, as a large saucer shaped helium balloon sailed through the air with the unthinkable caption: "Boy thought to be trapped inside." 6 year old Falcon Heene was thought to be in that balloon floating thousands of feet in the air.

We stayed glued to the screen, tv or computer, hoping that :

1. there wasn't a boy inside, he jumped out early and safely

2. it would land softly and he would be okay

3. this better not be a joke.

We watch because we can. We watch because we care. We watch and learn.

We watched OJ's slow LA freeway run from the police after the brutal murder of his wife pointed all fingers (gloved or not) at him... we actually watched the Gulf War ala CNN in Baghdad...when baby Jessica fell down the well , we watched the urgent engineering feat that drilled into the ground to her safe retrieval ... the Quecreek miners...we witnessed 911 from our breakfast nooks all over America, tears streaming down our faces, in shared anguish.

The backlash of Balloon Boy, has been that "cable news"...and by the way, all news is cable in this digital age...so what is up with that tag line?...the backlash, is that it was covered at all.

Excuse me?

We have several news channels that cover news 24-7, this is what they do.

I remember when Ted Turner talked of starting CNN , the world's first 24 hours news network...he was laughed at..."no one will watch it " was the naysayers mantra...hmmmm.

We now have 4 major 24 hour news networks and various other options.Balloon Boy was not only news, it was an incredible visual story.

The chase of the balloon through the blue Colorado sky was incredible, the heroes who throw down for these gigs, the question of what will be in that balloon and the over riding aspect of a child involved...in a word: compelling.

Then the story became even more interesting...this might be a hoax... a hoax?!? You can hear every one across this country stomping their feet , angry over the time and emotions invested in the well being of this child... we all felt a collective disgust.

It was the first time we have all felt a feeling that was the same in a long long time.

It didn't matter if you were Republican or Democrat or pro Healthcare reform or attending a Tea Party or protesting the war...we all felt collective disgust over this news story.

It actually felt good, galvanized, intertwined.

So now we will watch the ensuing investigation into a very strange story, shake our heads at the fact that children are wrapped up in this mess, point fingers at the parents, give Jon and Kate plus 8 a break, and move on.

I'm glad I watched it on the news, I'm glad I cared, I'm glad I was mad and felt outrage at the possibility of a hoax.

It happened here in our world on our collective watch.

It was news. Plain and simple.

It's okay if you want to be "too cool for the room" and say this story doesn't matter, that's your decision..and that is why it's on the screen for us to decide. And we do.

Maybe because of this story , someone will take a good hard look at the Heene household..and in turn take a good look at their own.

The fallout from this, is the lesson.

So, yes, I care about the endangerment of a child, the possible twisted hoax, and opinions and decisions of those involved...and I also care about all the other stuff, healthcare, taxes, war, etc...my scope of concern doesn't stop at the doorstep of wonks.

Everything matters...even Balloon Boy.

..

Uncle Johnny's Bail Money

When I was about 15 years old, I was futzing around (is futzing a word?) in the dining room , actually I think I was nosing around , no, probably fidgeting while my mother was lecturing me on the virtues of not hanging out in front of the Pizza Shop at the shopping center ( a treasured teenage congregating point)…I think her words were…”Boys don’t ask girls out who hang out at the Pizza Shop..they know you are always available, you’ll never get a Saturday night date doing that”.

I pondered that one, for a teenage second, wondering if that meant I could actually start dating.

As she was telling me this, my young mind started wandering along with my feet, I started circling, pacing about the dining room ,doing the teenage avoid-eye-contact-at-all-costs, trying to keep my mind off the lecture and wondering how soon I could go to the Pizza Shop.

I pass by the soup tureen. The soup tureen, that big honkin’ piece of silver status that never held an ounce of soup in all my days on this earth, ever.

I casually lifted the lid up off the big silver baby and holy Sonny and Cher, inside it was a roll of cash ( I later counted it, 500 clams)….

I looked up at my mom, who was cautiously looking at me, and said “Wow look at all this money, what’s this money for?”

Of course my mind is racing, is she leaving frumpy step father? Is she saving for an operation? Is this for me? Are we getting a pool? Can I come back later and peel off a few twenties that she would never ,never notice?

Racing I tell you, racing.

She answered succinctly and with a finality that meant, no more questions, “That’s Uncle Johnny’s bail money, don’t touch it.”

I put the lid back as if it was radioactive and left the room. I had completely forgotten about the Pizza Shop and started walking to the door and outside to sit under the trees in the yard.

Uncle Johnny, a name that evoked danger, darkness and omigod do I really have his errant DNA?

He drove a ’63 corvette and wrecked almost every Saturday night, he was wild and scary, he made stealth trips to …FLORIDA...he told us he sold acid at Woodstock and I always wondered if it was the BAD acid that Wavy Gravy warned about ….and what the heck is bail money?

Curious beyond belief, I rode my Schwinn up to the shopping center, past the coveted Pizza Shop and to the library where I look up (um by the way, this is the 70’s) the words “ bail money”…. Or “bail”…seems that wad of cash was there to secure a quick release from jail for scary Uncle Johnny.
Since we are talking the 70’s, automatic teller machines hadn’t been invented yet, keeping cash hidden in the house was the way to go.
And bail money is usually needed at 2:30 am never during banking hours…and by the way, the other definition for bail was “a container used to remove water from a boat” something to save a sinking ship perhaps?…hmmm.

So I was RIGHT…Uncle Johnny was not only scary but illegal! There was something not-quite-right about his trips to FLORIDA. I knew it! He had seen jail…touched criminals, walked the perp walk, omigod again…..or not, because of the bail money.

Now here’s were we get to the point of the whole story…don’t you just pray for this moment?

The point is, here I am , over 36 years later… sitting in my sunporch writing this ,while 2 plumbers dig a massive trench from our house to the gas line, which decided to die and leak gas into the air which I smelled last night and made the phone call that started a VERY EXPENSIVE CHAIN OF EVENTS.

But I don’t get too spastic, because I learned early on, from my mother, to be prepared, to save a little cash in the soup tureen in case Uncle Johnny gets thrown in jail…or a gas line needs to be repaired.

And THAT is the point of this story.

....

Nit picking and downtown money.

I guess you know that you are all grown up when you can admit things about yourself. Like, I'm willing to admit that I am a ...nit picker... a term that grosses me out because I'm sure it has something to do with picking lice out of peoples' hair.

I have always been a nit picker, a sure sign of "Princess and the Pea " syndrome. I mostly cut the tags out of all my clothes except my "LIfe is Good " T-shirts, because they prewash and soften them and the tags are cotton and soft...but I once again digress.

As a nit picker, I reserve the supreme right to rant about meaningless sh*t that perhaps you never even considered and may now find that this meaningless sh*t now bothers YOU and therefore my burden of annoyance has been properly transferred to you hence my neurotic mission accomplished. Isn't sharing fun?

SO let's get to the infectious point: I live and work in the 'burbs, mostly. I do TV and media work, the media work takes me just about everywhere for shoots...my voice over work takes me downtown or into my basement where we have a studio and editing suite....we have the ability to record digitally and send it, put it on the internet and never have to leave the house.

This makes me ecstatic because it means I deal less and less with "downtown money" and "parking lot dollars"...you know what I mean ? The dollars that the parking lot attendant keeps on the top of his filthy pile of broken,washed in the Mon,wadded up, taped up cash, some of which still has some unsnorted crystal meth lines on it, and then hands it to you as change...I always give it right back and say, give me some money that's not going to fall apart three blocks from now.

THe worst downtown money exists on the South Side...this is where all the college students hang and drink on the weekends and mingle with the Bohemian (ie: almost homeless if not for girlfriends) population of the burgh. There are more bars per block than in all of Mt Lebanon, a throw back from the mill days. Public urination on a Saturday night is an elevated art form.

I used to love to take my mother there during the day (the only safe time for nit pickers) and wheel her around in her chair as she marvelled at the mowhawk haircuts and crowded tattoo laden arms of would-be graphic artists. She got a kick out of it and loved the candy store next to the Bead Mine. My diabetic mom would sip a milk shake and her 70 year old commentary of the street scene would evoke musings like "Who's going to marry THAT ?"

Once I saw a rat as big as Jupiter walk right towards me in broad daylight on Carson Street, I jumped and screamed, it jumped and screamed and ran down an alley, the homeless guy on the stoop laughed at me...I said to him "Hey, what's so funny?".... he kept laughing.

But I DIGRESS....... last week, I was on the South Side for business, and stopped to have lunch when my husband at a new pizza place (I hate pizza, but was being cooperative that day) , when the (I think it was a she) malcontent girl at the counter, whose hair was falling in my food and had JUST wiped her nose, handed me the pizza and my change..... I stop in a nit pick stupor and gaze at my change, the ultimate "downtown money"...it was a dollar bill completely ripped in half and scotch-taped back together, kind of.

Can you feel my challenge here?

Do I point out the fact that she just wiped her nose and then touched my food, or mention the fact that she gave me a piece of useless currency?

What do I do?I'll wait while you think about this ....mind you now, my husband is sitting at the table looking at me and wondering what fresh hell I was about to rain down ... I think he might even be shaking a little....but like I said,earlier, I'm feeling cooperative...no sense spoiling our "lunch".

So, I put the ripped dollar in her I-can't-believe-she-has-the-gall-to-have tip jar, wrap up the pizza and and leave it on the stoop of the homeless guy down the block.

.

The Castling of Miss Daisy....

Miss Daisy is my dog.

A female boxer.

If you know anything about dog breeds then you know I am the owner of a neurotic, alpha female, major fart smelling, I-can-jump-higher-than-your-best-frisbee, drooling dirt dog.

And they resent, with every frantic bone in their body, when you leave them.

Like her boxer brethren, she only likes other boxers and thinks she's a person and other dogs can just go to hell with a cat in their pants.

But that isn't what I want to write about here. What I want to tell you about is the driving Miss Daisy to the kennel.

Last time she was in a kennel in Nashville she growled at everybody and if she could have, would have flung poop at them also. This place was like the Dog Nikko hotel, with TVs and cushy beds and chairs, and she still wasn't happy. It was below her like a mixed breed with a bad collar from Cleveland.

Before we left for our trip, I took her to Camp Arf Arf...go ahead laugh , I did. She had to have a "pre-board" exam before they would accept her.

Accept her? Geez, what sorority will she have to pledge?

I wasn't even a mile down the road after dropping her off before I got the call.

"Is this Ms.Doe, Daisy's owner?"

"Yes"

"You need to come get her right away. She has failed our pre-board exam."

"Failed? What did she do?"

"She growled and lunged at one of our attendants, and that's just unacceptable".

By the way, an attendant at Camp Arf Arf is a teenager who won't stop eating their Wendy's double stack attack long enough to wait on you, and shakes your hand with an unimaginable amount of grease on their hands, which they then transfer to the computer while they load your name, completely misspelled into the database.

"I'll be right back, so sorry about this..."

I walk back into the building and I swear Daisy is smiling at me , triumphant in her rejection....as we walked past the attendant she reportedly lunged at, she jumps up and licks her on the face as if to say "Sorry honey, had to do it to spring from this joint, nothing personal, you're just a pawn in the chessboard of my master manipulation game."

If I didn't know better, it looked like she winked at her when I put her collar on and dragged her short tailed butt out of there.

The drive home was silent, but deadly if you know about boxer gas.

I spent the next few days researching kennels who deal with female aggressors ( yep, I found a name to tag on this bitch)...and there it was, the Valhalla of weary dominated dog owners, the Utopia of out of control dog lovers, the Chuckie Cheese of childless couples, if not for their pets....Misty Pines Dog Park and Kennels...I kid you not, Misty Pines is the real name.

They train service and hunting dogs there, they have a dog park, dog pond, nature trails, kennels, doggie day care, and most of all they are dog trainers on staff who know how to handle alpha- you're-not-the-boss-of-me-female dogs...Animal Friends, the local no kill shelter sends them their abused dogs for re-hab...

Daisy my dear, you have met your match.

I took her out there 4 times to acclimate her, we walked the trails, she did day care...by the way she stood at the gate of the dog pen for 2 hours waiting for me to come back...refusing to mingle with the low life dogs who insist on smelling her butt.

Although I think she did have a short conversation with a couple of pugs about their shared breathing problems.

She seemed to be okay, so I officially boarded her for a week so we could go away....

By day 3 , I get the call, Daisy is on a hunger strike.

Good move on the chessboard, you brown eyed nut case.

By day 4 , they are feeding her canned dog food and rice cakes...bitch.

As you can suspect, we leave a day early so we can retrieve her.As I pick her up, I get the progress report..."Daisy now has diarrhea from the canned food, better not leave her alone much for the next couple of days".

So now, we have to stay by her side rather than deal with cleaning up liquid waste on the new rugs, and we need to feed her rice and burger....ever so gently.

As I was feeding Daisy her first of many specially prepared meals of rice and burger, resigned to the fact that I need to stay home on this beautiful summer day, rather than hit the links, I could swear I heard her whisper "Checkmate"...

...

It's Starts So Young...

All morning I've been listening to the sound of bagpipes as I clean the house getting ready for Easter.

My family will be together, we will miss our mother and father who have recently passed, but we will celebrate life everlasting as Christians.

It will be in stark contrast to other families in Pittsburgh, the families of Officers Eric Kelly , Paul Sciullo II, and Stephen Mayhle.

They are for whom the pipes play.

Thier lives tragically snuffed out by their polar opposite, Richard Poplawski.

These 3 brave officers responded to a domestic call from Poplawski's mother. "Take his ass out", I think were her elegant words when she met them at them at the door( oh, she failed to mention there was a STOCK PILE of weapons, including an illegal AK47 modified ), the officers were gunned down in a surprising hail of bullets. The mother ran to the basement to hide.

It all started so young for all of them, the victims and the killer, the molding of their personalities.The parents who did or didn't raise them, the teachers , the pastors, priests, doctors, neighbors who all watched them grow.

We see promise in all our children and we can spot trouble very early.

As a parent I have witnessed too many children growing up without coping skills, without a parent present in their lives either through divorce or work out of the home.The lack of the use of the word "No" and swift actions that show consequences for bad behavior, or the over reaction in an abusive manner ,all form an adult who can be dangerous and hurtful to other people,as abusers, and possible killers.

If we aren't in trouble with our children as a nation, tell me why there are shows like "Nanny 911"? Have you seen the kids on those shows, and have you seen how the Nannies plus the parents are able to turn them around? What is it that always does it? It's the nanny insisiting on the LOVING involvement of the PARENT with discipline and hugs. Novel idea...

I was in the pediatricians office with my son yesterday and witnessed a future trouble child...he blew into the office slapping and hitting his older brother on the head and screaming, his mother ignoring the whole thing. I'm talking beyond the regular kid stuff here.

This was ballistic behavior.He screamed at the top of his ample lungs when he didn't get his way and wailed on his poor brother constantly, hitting with a fist in the face.

His mom ignored this, the waiting room sat in silent horror.He insisted on getting a lollipop BEFORE his visit and screamed , his mother walked away into the doctor's office...he grabbed the basket , took a lollipop and triumphantly ate it as he smiled, knowing he was doing something wrong...we could hear him screaming through his whole visit, can you imagine the poor nurse and doctor dealing with that?

He ruled the room and told his mother what to do and she obliged and he was all of 3 years old.

He did what he wanted when he wanted and responding violently when he met resistance....

She was afraid of her 3 year old son.

How soon before she calls 911 to have him removed from her home?

What happens when he's old enough to drive and someone cuts him off in traffic?

What happens when he's big enough to slap and hit his mother and really do damage?

What hapens when his girlfriends say no to his sexual advances?

What happens when a teacher gives him a bad grade or tells him to sit still?

Or when he is set loose on the internet and can figure out how to make explosives and wants to get back at anyone who didn't give him his way?

Don't have a child if you can't raise them, really raise them. Don't do it because all your friends are starting familes, don't do it because you want to save your marriage, or please your parents... think long and hard about it ...it's a ton of work and there's this unwritten promise between you and your Creator that you shepherd this child into the world as a caring and loving adult...

I'm not writing this as a smug perfect parent, I didn't have perfect parents either, but I am no trouble to society...and that is the earned right of this authorship.

If you see trouble in your child, DON"T IGNORE IT, dig in and get dirty with the work it takes to save his/her soul, the families of Eric Kelly, Stephen Mayhle and Paul Sciullo II, would agree with me on this one.

The trouble starts early, but so can the good...

...

Beyond the Picture and Tupperware.

Let me first start by apologizing to all my photographer friends, because I'm about to reveal why my memory is not tied to photographs, like so many others. I know, I know, I am in the minority,and Facebook is a perfect example of how important photos are to everyone.

The only camera I own is my phone, and I take terrible photos.

I've never been big on photographs to preserve a memory, although many of my friends are photogs and my husband is a great photog. I like photographs for a whole different reason, I like them for what they put me into at that very moment, I like the instant feeling, not the past revisited. Photographs are powerful to me for that reason.

Maybe it's from all the years of being in front of the camera, and knowing that the tilt of the head and a certain smile can manipulate perception, is what makes me a lesser fan of photos as as a memory device.I don't trust the posed, I like the candid..

I've never been a fan of reliving life through a series of posed smiling people at whatever event, it never quite takes me back to the moment.

All I think is, wow, they look so much younger, or wow ,look how thin I was, or wow, where the hell was this taken?

Now, play me the songs from that special moment or the perfume I had on or the smell of the honeysuckle in the woods, yes, I can be transported.

Or show me a piece of Tupperware...that's right Tupperware. I was cleaning the out-of-control Tupperware drawer during a recent kitchen re-do and I came across a piece of Tupperware.

It was the one my mother used to send me home with, filled to the brim with her special meat sauce,and btw, doesn't every Italian do this? It was the very one I later used to fill to the brim with my sauce and take to her when she was at the nursing home...we were big on contraband.

This piece of Tupperware must have been 25 or more years old, can you believe it? It was discolored and pretty ripped up....it still had the words "sauce" on it written in dependable Sharpie black ink.

It was orangish and had the old time Tupperware top on it, burp away....and the moment I held it in my hands, it sent me into a torrent of memories and tears.

It's been two years since my last visit with my mom.

I brought her the usual two containers of sauce and chili with some rice and pasta on the side. We were that family that poured our chili con carne over rice. I was horrified when I found out that not EVERYONE did that!Usually she would rip through it as I sat there, but this time she put it in the fridge and we just sat and watched TV ( I think it was Deal or No Deal) during the lull in action, she told me about her Aunt Jean and how stylish she was and her mother, how she died of a gall bladder gone bad...and not struck by lighting as my evil Aunt Frances had told me as a child.

A few days later, my mother passed away, and when we cleaned out her fridge, there were the containers, still filled with food. The dying seem to stop eating as if they know something instinctively. I brought them home and continued to use them, and as usual , I only put sauce in the one with "sauce" written on top.

Yes, we women write on our Tupperware ...and we have the quirky habit of keeping the birthday cakes in the oven with two slices of bread toothpicked to each side of the cuts to stop it from getting stale, which now my son reminds me to do with every birthday cake. We are training him right!

Chances are my son will write on his Tupperware and he'll have to explain to his bride, exactly why he does that, or I can explain when I come to visit with my container with the words "sauce" on it. Maybe I'll put a smiley face on it just to throw her off. I just know that the tradition must continue.

Sure, I have pictures of my mom sitting here and there, posing by the fireplace mantle, doing that Jackie O' pose, gazing off into thin air etc...but the Tupperware...that was the best photograph.

...

You know how we all have theme songs?

Every presidential election I sing the Who's "We Won't Get Fooled Again"...just for laughs.

Sometimes when I'm in a serious diet mood, I get a song in my head to keep me going , like "Dreamworld" by Rilo Kiley...hmmm something hidden in that one maybe?

Our theme songs sleep deep inside us and come out when we need them most.I've been thinking about my dad's theme song, mostly because I've been thinking about my dad and how sick he is and how he may not be with us much longer.When I sing this song, I feel closer to him and the song itself just makes me feel good when I sing it..

One time when my dad , my sister and I were driving through Philly on the way to the shore, we got into a great music conversation...I think it was after he sang all the wrong lyrics to Evil Ways by Santana (yeah this was the 70's) , he loved Santana, it was modern big band to him and it felt upbeat with all the Latin rhythms.I told him I liked the band Chicago and he agreed they were great too, lots of horns....boys raised up in the 30's and 40's LOVED horn bands, in particular my dad, who wanted to be a sax player in a big band. But that's a whole other story.

He changed the channel to a station in Philly that plays Sinatra all day or anyone that sounds like Sinatra...amazing...my sister and I were captive until Jersey.

When the channel came in , "On A Clear Day" was playing.

My dad sat up straight at attention and declared, "That's my theme song, I picked it the day I quit smoking"... now I'm in the back seat wondering if a smoking lecture was on the agenda and trying to detect if he found my cigarettes in my flower power suitcase..."I threw the cigarettes in the garbage and never had another one, cold turkey, that's what I did, cold turkey..." he said chest thrustingly and he proceeded to sing along.

That song really sums up my dad and when I look at the lyrics (beautifuly written by Jay Lerner), I can see them in how my dad lived his life; with an optimistic spark and lots of VOLUME!

I can't help but think how strange it is that Anthony-Robbins-by-God never picked up on this one..what a song of self empowerment...it's almost a New Age anthem in it's speak...

I guess the bottom line is that a good lyric is timeless and this song says exactly what it needs to say...and I can't stop singing it.

So thanks to my dad for putting this incredible sentiment in my head for all time.

Now I'd like to share it with you, may you have many a clear day:

On A Clear Day by Burton Lane and Alan Jay Lerner

On a clear dayRise and look around you

And you'll see who you are.

On a clear dayHow it will astound you

That the glow of your being outshines ev'ry star.

You'll feel part of ev'ry mountain sea and shore.

You can hear, from far and near,

A world you've never heard before.

And on a clear day...On that clear day...

You can see forever and ever more!

[interlude]

You'll feel part of ev'ry mountain sea and shore.

You can hear, from far and near,

A world you've never heard before.

And on a clear day...On that clear day...

You can see forever...And ever... And ever...And ever more!

...

Spelling Bees and the Honey of life

Last night my son was in a Spelling Bee.

He joined it because his class needed a 7th player to qualify and he raised his hand, certainly not because he has a burning desire to spell. Very few 11 year old boys do. They would rather use words as targets out in the woods with their BB guns.

No ,I think he did it to impress a certain brown eyed girl standing next to him.

He declared to us at dinner, that he was in the Spelling Bee and it was no big deal if he did well or not.To which I replied (in Mom tone) "Don't you want to at least do your best? "

He thought about it and looked out the window.

On the way to the Spelling Bee, in the car, he mentioned he was feeling butterflies.

His dad said "Hey if it was me, I'd be out on the first word."

We exchanged scaredy-cat glances.I said "Just do your best and enjoy the moment of being at the table, so to speak."

The kids were all so keyed up and nervous , and the picture taking was done prior to the Bee...apparently some kids get pretty upset and it makes for bad photos afterward.

Spelling Bees are done in 'rounds" if a word is misspelled, the child is out and the next child tries and so on and so on. Once they go through #1 through #however many are in the bee, it starts the next round.

My son made the first round, thank God he didn't miss his first word...which was "broadleaf" by the way.

Then came round two.

The word was "chinchilla"....what? chinchilla? are you serious? Why can't it be ninja, like the word before, or football or jedi?

Four kids missed it, then our son.

He missed it, only after he asked them to repeat it, place of origin,and use it in a sentence...excellent stall tactics.

When a kid misses a word, he/she has the option to quietly sit with the parents or go to a special room where it's okay to cry or whine or whatever.

He sat with us. I was proud of that decision.

And we watched the smartest kid in his class get eliminated next and the not so smart kid hang in 'til the final three.

The smartest kid in the class, took it hard...the not so smart kid was living a dream and had a smile a mile wide.

As the round went on, they were dropping like flies...

The final two where brother and sister and it went on for awhile. It was incredible to watch and my nerves were frayed like a pair of seventies bell bottom jeans.

The sister won, and the word was "portfolio"....I don't think I even KNEW that word at 11 years old.

Most of the parents remarked how they themselves couldn't spell many of the words...I kept my mouth shut on that one.

We hugged our son, told him we were proud of him and how brave he was to stand up and go for it...he was a bit upset about leaving on the second word, but we joked about the word chinchilla and he was laughing by the time we got home.

I made sure not to say how life is one big Spelling Bee or make some stupid parent remark about how every now and then the status quo gets it's tree shaken...I think he already gets enough of that in golf.

I just sat back in the car seat and smiled when I realized that this is what I love about life, the wonderful seemingly randomness of it all, just like a big ol' Spelling Bee.

You can't control any of it but you can control whether you run and cry or whether you assess it , deal and try to find the good.

It is the sweetest and most golden thing and I call it the honey of life...because...can't have honey without the Bees ,now can we?

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All Hail Ceasar....

The last three weeks I have been in and out of Atlantic City. My father , who resides in Ocean City NJ, is in the Atlantic City ICU/Trauma wing.

It's right next to the Frank Sinatra wing, my father's favorite entertainer.

Each time I go to the hospital, I park in their parking lot , which they share with Ceasars parking lot.

No not the emperor, the casino.

Starting on Thursday, the lot is so jammed, you can barely find a space.There is a steady stream of cars heading up the ramps to park as close to the casino elevators as possible.

They look like salmon intent on that swim up stream to insure their very survival.

The folks behind the wheels are every age, every ethnic background,every economic level. Sometimes they get lost and wander into the hospital reception area looking for slot machines.

At one point my sister and I, slightly punch drunk from lack of sleep and stress, could barely cross the parking garage to get to our car due to the stream of cars heading up, up, up.And I yelled, "Hey!...don't you people know that we're in a recession?"

I was completely ignored,

no response....unless you count the constant rush of traffic which almost sounded like the ocean, except for the occassional squeal of tires.

Maybe the word hasn't reached Atlantic City....what are the odds on that?

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As the daughter of an 84 year old WWII Veteran, who is very upset about this, I put this on my blog. I usually keep politics out of my blog, but you know what , I don't care if it gets under your skin.

If you read any active Armed Services blogs, you will see how incredibly mad they are about this.

Maybe you should go argue with them.

After all, they are defending your right to speak freely:

"Since its inception in 1953, every new president has attended The Salute to Heroes Inaugural Ball – until now.

The ball was created for President Dwight Eisenhower's inauguration to honor recipients of the Medal of Honor, the nation's highest military award. The event is sponsored by the American Legion and co-sponsored by 13 other veteran's service organizations, including the Paralyzed Veterans of America and the Military Order of the Purple Heart.

And while 48 of the nation's 99 living recipients of the Medal of Honor attended the event, newly sworn-in President Barack Obama became the first president in 56 years to skip out on the ceremony. "

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I'm a Bonehead

Okay I'm a bonehead and I'm not afraid to tell.

Well actually I have no choice...there's no hiding it.

I had my oil changed today and normally I go to the dealer but I'm in a hurry , so, I go to Jiffy Lube...now Jiffy Lube is the place you take your teenager when he starts to get bad grades and threatens to drop out of school.

Why? Because you can tell him this is where he will end up working for the rest of his life if he doesn't get a high school/college education.

It's like that movie "Scared Straight" for white Suburban soccer moms.

But I digress...I always watch them like a hawk and make sure they aren't stealing my Diana Krall cd or my big honkin' pig sticker knife I keep in the door pocket in case I need to cut myself out of my seat belt....go ahead, I'll wait while you stop laughing.

Then I have to sit through the sales pitch of things they could do to my car if I was only willing to open up my wallet and shake it. That's when I say pertly "No thank you , just an oil change today."

When they are done, ewww, touching my car all over and banging things and getting in and out of it , they drive it outside with the windows down and let it sit inches away from major traffic... while I pay and try to watch the car and my wallet at the same time.

Are you getting the drift that I am a hyper-vigilant?

Are you getting that this exercise may tweak me a bit?

Can you picture my quick glances from car to wallet, car to wallet, car to wallet?

Okay.

SO I am finally , mercifully, released from the bonds of the guy at the register who marvels in my all cash transaction...like I'm using my debit card THERE?

I head out to my car, which is sitting there windows down, did I say it was inches away from major traffic, and I get in and can't raise my window...

click click, the other windows don't raise either...

I check the lock-window button, nothing...

I head back in to Jiffy Lube and ask for help..."Maybe you guys bumped something while you were near the battery, maybe you bumped the, the fuse box and the windows won't work"...

the one oil change tech follows me outside....

tries the window buttons, looks into the car then at me and says, as nice as he can ,now mind you..

"Turn your car on."

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7am.

OmiGod, it's my cell phone ringing....I don't want to answer it, but I'm scared not to, I just got back from visiting my father in the hospital (my sister is there now) and I'm making plans to head back, and I'm frightened they are calling to say he has passed away....

Me: "Hello?"

Caller: breathy male "What are you doing?"

Me: groggy "What?"

Caller: "What are you doing?"

By now I am searching my brain data base to recognize the voice of the caller, and I'm still groggy...but I'm getting the drift that it AIN'T THE HOSPITAL...

Me: "Who is this?" (dumb, dumb question)

Caller: "Who do you think it is?"

Me : noting his heaving breathing..."What?"

Caller: "What are you doing?"

Me: "You have the wrong number"

Caller: "I'm sorry..." CLICK.... I hang up.....

Okay, so as you have guessed, it was a would-be obscene phone call. It's been so long since I've had one, I forgot to tell the guy what an impotent voyeur he is and then whistle that loud whistle I learned at Pirate games in his sick pale ear.

Maybe the fact that he said "I'm sorry", threw me off because it could've been some guy calling his girlfriend to "wake her up" and got the wrong number...and had I been on my game and not so anxious that it was the hospital, I might have given him a great story to tell his girlfriend.

But that didn't happen, and I'm glad it wasn't the hospital, and next time I'll be sure to rock it with the whistle...and that, was my morning...how was yours?

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Sandwich generation and the truth....

It's been nearly a year and a half since my mother passed on.

Now my father is heading there.

Many of you are sandwich generation people like I am, meaning that you are taking care of your children and your parents..."sandwiched" in between the responsibilities...and it's all one big learning curve.

With raising children you learn terms like Dip/Tet vaccine and Star Wars Clone Wars, late tuition fee penalty. With your parents, it's terms like Living Will, Medicare Part D and what's a chest tube?

It jumbles around in your brain along with that Starbucks Gingersnap Latte and the latest email you received from the Giant Eagle Fuel Perks Mall and omigod is tax time that close?

How do we keep it straight and make the right decisions?

Are we doing this right? Is anyone going to figure out that we are just winging it? Is anyone going to see how scared we are?

No...we save that reveal for the quiet moment on the steps of the porch when we sit with the dog and make sure the Big Dipper is still out there in the night sky.

Tell the dog all about it...he/she won't judge you, or question your decisions...no way, that dog of yours will just sit there, staring at the stars too , wondering if the Milky Way is where Milk Bones come from.

By the way, if you have a cat, no such luck. They will not only judge you, they will view you as the inferior food-walla you are.

Stick with the dog.

Then after you bring the dog inside and eye up that Dove bar in the freezer, take comfort in the fact that your parents were once in this place, and one day your kids will be too, and nobody,

NOBODY, will ever feel they did it right.

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What's Cooking...

Here's the good news...I'm doing a small re-no on my kitchen

Now the bad news...you will have to suffer through it with me.

Oh yeah, complaining , whining, indecision...and that's just picking out the cabinets.

I have a kitchen the size of a canoe. I can't knock down any walls, so I need to be ultra smart about placement and use of space.

The dog is not happy about this.

My husband has put a chain on his wallet and connected it to his ankle.

Cabinet choices, over the range microhoods, hardware, fabrics...all decisions made in my sleep...we shall see how it all "pans" out.

Like you care....but you will Jedi, you will.

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