10, 9, 8, 7, 6...

I cannot believe we have come to the end of another year. I can't complain too much about 2009....well, I could if I thought about it, but on the whole, it wasn't bad. My daughter turned 6, Malcolm and I celebrated 10 years of marriage, my brother got engaged, and I'm sure I had a lot of fun. There were a few Ava surgeries and emergencies thrown in, but that's par for the course. We still have jobs, a roof over our heads, warm clothes, and plenty to eat.

It's New Year's Eve and Malcolm is cooking up some filet mignon for dinner. Ava is watching a show, waiting for dinner and maybe a little"family party." New Year's Eve is a funny holiday. When we were kids we were allowed to stay up late, a very big deal. I recall a time when we'd go over to my Aunt Lou and Uncle Ralph's apartment in Brooklyn to ring in the New Year. I can't remember how old I was, but I remember gathering with family in their tiny livingroom. I think their neighbors used to come in too, although I wouldn't remember their names, or them, if I tried.

I also remember - and I don't recall if this was before or after the "Aunt Lou years"- that we would stay up late with my parents and play board games. One of our favorites was Sorry, a game immortalized in the Eunice and Mama sketch of the Carol Burnett Show. I know none of us kids liked losing, and I know would tease my brothers if they did. This was one advantage of being the oldest. I remember we'd count down to the New Year with Dick Clark on the TV and my parents would have champagne and we could have a taste. Staying up so late was a fine thing indeed and remember New Year's Eve as one of the few times we celebrated with just our family of five.

Then there was New Year's Day. We always had a big dinner at my maternal grandparent's house. (Italians will take any excuse to have a big family dinner, and this seemed a great way to end the holiday season.) My Grandma would always make a dish we called "Bracciolles in the Brown Gravy." I do not believe this is its formal name, but that's what we called it. I think it was a German recipe from "Mrs. Menkel" the mother of Betty Menkel, who was the wife of Mike Sasso, a good friend of my grandparents.

(Side note: We always referred to Betty Menkel as Betty Menkel, even after she became Betty Sasso. This may have been because there were other Betty's in our family, but she also looked more like a Menkel than a Sasso. She had light hair, light skin, and she wore red lipstick; she was very pretty and well dressed. In any event, she and Mike Sasso spent Christmas with our family for many years. We were just talking about her the other day and sure enough we called her Betty Menkel. Some traditions never die.)

Anyway, this dish was basically beef rolls stuffed with garlic and parsley and cooked in a brown sauce as opposed to the "red gravy" we ate with our pasta every week. It was very good, but I do not know if the recipe died with my grandmother and Mrs. Menkel. I must ask my mother.
By the end we were all stuffed, as always, and thoughts of going back to school loomed in my head, as I am sure thoughts of returning to work loomed in everyone else's heads.

Time changes things and the New Year's dinner went by the way side many years ago. As we grandkids got older and started going out on our own for New Year's, we were too hungover to even think about going anywhere the next day.

And now, as 2010 approaches, I am happy to stay at home this evening. We were invited to a party, but we don't have a nurse for Ava. Our friends were kind enough to invite her, but it snowed today and we are just not up for clearing out the driveway and going out. I like being home. It's warm and there's a good meal, and maybe we'll even play some board games. I wonder if I'll see midnight...most years I don't. But 2010 will be here just the same tomorrow, and I hope that it brings everyone much joy, love and happiness. Happy New Year!

Why?

I often find myself thinking "Why?" You might think I am referring to my daughter and why she was born with so many challenges. Well, I do think that, sometimes, but not nearly as often as you might think. Ava is just Ava, and as much as I hate the constant worrying, the trips to the ER, the battles, and the surgeries, this is not my greatest wonder.

More often I find myself thinking...Why:

1. ...has reality TV become successful? How can anyone sit and watch much of the trash that passes for entertainment these days? And just when I think it can't get any worse, it does. We now have shows called I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant? (HOW DUMB ARE YOU?), Toddlers and Tiaras (about little girls who are made up and paraded around like tramps at kiddie beauty pageants), and 19 Kids and Counting (self-explanatory). I know of these shows only because the ads for them are blasted during commercials at decibels loud enough to wake the dead. There is also a very funny show called The Soup, which complies all this trash into little blurbs, then mocks them for how ridiculous they are. I love The Soup.

2. ....do people like Jon and Kate Gosselin - obviously self-absorbed morons - gets tons of money for being idiots, while the rest of us have to work for a living?

3. ...does every child in America think they are entitled to a designer bedroom? Ava likes this terrible show called Trading Spaces; Boys vs Girls. It's about two kids who get to have their "dream bedroom" designed and paid for by this stupid show. If it was going to needy kids then maybe I could see the point. But most of the kids who are "chosen" are anything but needy and their parents could afford to re-do their bedrooms if such a thing was warranted. This show celebrates everything I hate: bratty kids, excess, greed, and getting something simply because you want it and whine loudly enough for it. All the kids on the show complain that their "bedroom is sooooo boring and uncool." Yeah well, so what? Neither of my parents had their own bedroom, and my brothers didn't either. Now, I did, but I was the only girl. And I am sure I whined about my room, but I never expected anyone to actually do anything about it....much less call in a design team from a TV show. Ugh.

4.....do people like Tiger Woods, David Letterman, etc. etc. cheat on their wives? Hello???? You are a millionaire, successful beyond anyone's wildest dreams, have any material good you could want, your wife is beautiful, your kids are healthy...and...IT'S STILL NOT ENOUGH????? Don't even get me started.

Well, I wonder about a lot more things, but I am keeping this short.

Happy Thanksgivin'

Well let's just say I've been away from my blog for a while! I hope all 3 of you didn't miss me.

I cannot believe we once again find ourselves at Thanksgiving. This happens to be one of my favorite holidays. I LOVE the food, the thoughts of gratitude, and the fun of being with family.

Thanksgiving has changed a lot over the years. As kids, we would all get up early, pile into Uncle Arthur's van, and drive to Manhattan for the Macy's parade. Despite my complaining, especially as I got older, this was great fun. I swear it was 20 degrees every year, not the balmy Novembers we have now. After the parade, we would go out for a HUGE breakfast and then have dinner later. Now that was some eatin'!

As I became an older teen and into my early 20's, the Wed. night before Thanksgiving was a big party night. As such, I missed the parade, likely because I arrived home about 2 hours before it started, and spent many a turkey dinner with a huge hangover.

When I lived out on the west coast I did not come home for Thanksgiving because I usually came home for Christmas. So I was one of those people who ended up as a random guest at someone else's home, since I was somewhat of an orphan (insert sobbing sounds and my parents' voice saying "Well no one told you to move across the country...").

Some Thanksgivings I barely remember. Here are a few strange ones. These all took place between 1992 and 2000, but I don't remember which year was which:

1. I cooked an entire Thanksgiving meal by myself and had two strangers in my house. They were friends of my then-boyfriend, but I cannot recall anything about these people, or why they came to our apartment for Thanksgiving dinner.

2. Had dinner with a bunch of older hippies, who were the family of another guy I was dating at the time. I think we all went to the movies that night and saw a Woody Allen movie, but I have no idea what it was.

3. Had a great meal with a bunch of work friends, one of whom went onto graduate first in his class at UC Berkeley Law School and started his law career as a clerk for Ruth Bader Ginsberg. Hmmm, wonder f he's making TONS of money now....maybe I better find him on Facebook.

4. Another meal with more hippies who were close friends. One of us (not me!) ended up playing the piano and we all sat around singing these crazy songs after dinner.

5. This one is a little more clear in my mind, likely because it's the most recent. Malcolm and I drove up to Oregon to see our friends Mike and Carolyn. We had the meal catered, and after stuffing ourselves sat around in big comfy chairs watching silly movies, one of which was called "Fandango." It stars a very young Kevin Costner, and after about 6 bottles of wine it's very funny.

Thanksgiving is a little more structured these days. We either celebrate at my Aunt Paula's or at my in-laws. Being grateful is more of a theme than it ever was when I was single and child-free. I love my Thanksgivings with family, but I am glad I had those crazy CA Thanksgivings as well. It's good to have a mix of experiences in life. So Happy Thanksgiving...may you not have a hangover or be dragged to a horrible Black Friday sale!

Pay it Forward

I am wired tonight. I haven't been wired in 10 years, but I am wide-awake tonight. I just had a conversation with a stranger on the phone. Now before you go getting all judgemental, it wasn't someone I met in an illicit chat room on-line. (I talked to that person last night.) A mother called me from Minnesota; she is the Mom of a 3-month old baby girl with Pfeiffer syndrome. And she has a cloverleaf skull.

Pfeiffer syndrome is a very rare condition. It affects about one in 250,000 babies. And a cloverleaf skull - in which the skull is formed in 3 bumps instead of round due to premature fusing of the skull sutures - is the rarest type: odds are close to one in a million that you will have a baby with a cloverleaf skull. To say there are not many of us out there is an understatement.

This Mom had been sent some pictures of Ava as a baby by a friend on our on-line support group. She then contacted me, wanting to know all the things I wanted to know about Ava when she was a baby. Would she be Ok? Would she be brain damaged? Would she survive the many surgeries she needed to endure? Would she be mentally disabled? Would we ever feel normal again?

It was funny to be on the other end of this conversation. It took me back to a time, almost 7 years ago, when my little girl fought for her life in the NICU at CT Children's Medical Center. In truth, I don't like to think about those days. They were scary and dark. Even 7 years ago, there wasn't alot of info.on cloverleaf skulls, and what was out there was just frightening. I recall one day in the NICU, Malcolm came in holding an e mail from a woman whose daughter had a cloverleaf skull, or at least had been born with one. She had had many surgeries, but was a happy little 7-year old, doing most of the things she should be doing. Her mother wrote me often during the early days...encouraging me and giving me true and honest information. I still have her emails printed and tucked away. They are very special to me and always will be. This woman, whether she knew it or not, was my lifeline. She was my hope. I still keep in touch with her and her daughter is almost 14 now.

This Mom asked me a lot of questions and we "talked shop": surgeries, craniofacial docs, brains, doc appts., home nursing, trachs, G-tubes, shunts, child development...you name it. We didn't know each other, but we knew each other very well. She was in a place where I was...she felt the things I felt and saw the things I saw. She was so happy when she saw Ava's pictures because she said she could see a future for her daughter.

Imagine that. A few pictures, a 90-minute conversation and we were friends. She said so many of the things I used to think. She said exactly what I used to think. I didn't feel the need to let her in on my neurotic way of worrying about everything and anything on earth that could be worried about when it came to Ava; she will learn soon enough.

However, I did assure her that it would get easier and better and that she would come to accept a new sense of normal. i don't think about what I do each day for Ava...I just do it. It wasn't always that way, but after nearly 7 years it is. The constant worry and the stress never go away, but I've learned to battle them (with the help of wine and Xanax). This woman said it was refreshing to talk with someone who understood her, and I couldn't have been happier to be that person.

HOW old am I????

A little piece of reality has crept up upon me: I am getting older. I can't stop it and I can't control it, it's just a fact. I remember when I was a teen thinking that a 40-something woman must be ancient. My God, she had one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel! (Props to my friend Donna who is the first person I ever heard add the banana peel part.) My parents were in their 40's for Pete's sake and they knew nothing.


Well (insert screeching brakes sound) here I am now. It's funny, when I look in the mirror I swear a cute little twenty-something with big hair and maybe too much eyeliner winks back. When I see a photo of myself, however, it's a different story. Looking at the photos, I have aged. Not badly, but I have aged. This is never more apparent than when hanging with a younger crowd.

We spent our afternoon with some friends today who are a lot younger than us. We are at the same point in life; however, they married and had a family a lot earlier than we did. The husband and wife are ages 30 and 29, respectively, and their kids are 8 and 5. An incredibly nice family. We hung out at their house, watched sports, talked, the kids played. The age difference is not apparent (well, unless you LOOK at us). They are excited because their kids will be in college when they are in their 40s and they will be OUR AGE and free to do as they please. However, they make the point that they did not have the freedom of their younger years to make mistakes and enjoy life; they had kids young and married young. We had a LOT of fun in our twenties, married in our 30s and had kids when we were almost 40.

I don't know if there is an ideal time to do things in life. Different things work for different people. I would have been a crappy mother at age 25...was way too self-absorbed and immature. I am glad I had my 20's to explore, make a LOT of mistakes, make a lot of good decisions, and learn about the kind of person I was and wanted to be. I guess I feel like I am a better mother because I had the benefit of getting a lot "out of my system"as they call it. i don't feel like I am missing out on anything life has to offer; to use a well-worn and tired expression, "been there, done that."

I do think the one funny thing is...I really haven't changed all that much. The one thing that has changed, however, is that the party needs to be much earlier. For example, I still love to go out, drink a bunch, eat a bunch, but....I cannot rally and go out after that. It's one round of partying, max. And if the party starts at 3pm and ends at 9pm, all the better. Then I must go to bed. if I don't get enough sleep, i can do nothing the next day. This is a sharp contrast to the girl who could come in from partying at 3, go to work by 9, then do the whole thing again the next night. if I tried that now, I would die.

I stay out late sometimes - and I hate it. The next day I am USELESS...if I don't have 1 or 2 naps, the whole day is shot; and mind you, the whole day is shot anyway, because I have to sleep so much I can't do anything anyway.

Time is a funny thing...as we age, we become more confident, more content, and more in control of what we do with our free time. Trouble is, we're too tired to enjoy it...

"I Wear the Chain I Forged in Life"

My father, a fellow blogger, just wrote an excellent blog about pet peeves of his. I could write pages - volumes - about things which irritate me. The apple does not fall far from the tree. I responded to his blog with a quote from A Christmas Carol, one of my favorite books of all time: "How can I be merry when I live in a world of fools such as this?" My father retorted with another line from the classic book.

I am not sure why this book fascinates me so much. It is definitely one of my favorites, if not the best book I ever read. I read it every year at Christmas time. And I watch the 1951 version of the movie every year. I think the idea of the 3 ghosts is so clever. And I just love to read the words as they appear. They are poetic and intelligent. One must have a solid knowledge of the English language to understand the text. I know I sound like a snob, but I am not. I have read other books by Charles Dickens, even if it was under duress for school. There's something about HAVING to read a book that makes it less enjoyable. I enjoy his work, but not nearly as much as I enjoy A Christmas Carol.

I love the words he uses. I love his descriptions, and I love the fact that Scrooge is a grumpy old sot who doesn't give a hoot or holler about what anyone thinks....until he gets those visits from the Three Ghosts. I enjoy the glimpse into the life of Victorian England. (I wouldn't have lasted 10 minutes.) It seems the poor of that time, e.g. Bob Cratchit, didn't have ovens so they had to bring their roasts to the butcher or another marketplace to be cooked. We know they had a fire upon which to cook, as Mrs. Cratchit was described as being nervous about her plum pudding (she was unsure about the quantity of flour) as it steamed in the kettle. By the way I've had plum pudding and it's awful. Desserts in Victorian England were crap. (Not a quote from Dickens, by the way).

I am also intrigued with the scenes where the "laundress" and the undertaker fight over Scrooge's belongings, the ones the laundress and the housekeeper have stolen from Scrooge in death. The took the "fine shirt" off his cold, dead body ("As if calico ain't good enough for buryin") and sold it. They took down the bedcurtains "rings and all, with him lyin' there" and sold those as well. I was scared to death (no pun intended) of this part as a child, but yet found it morbidly fascinating.

I know Christmas is a ways off. But if you're looking for something to read, try A Christmas Carol. Read all the lines over and over until you get the true meaning. Realize the beauty of language and how it can convey so much. And then go have a dessert other than plum pudding.

Watch Out CCD!

Another summer is behind us. Well, it's not really, since we'll likely get a 98-degree heat wave in Sept and Oct, and fall doesn't actually start until Sept. 21. ( think). However, the whole ritual of Labor Day signals that summer is about to come to a close and autumn will soon follow. Fall is my favorite season. I love the cool, crisp air; the ability to be outside without melting in the heat; and the days coming to a close a little earlier. I like the school schedule now. I hated it as a student and as a teacher, but as a stay-at-home Mom it rocks! Most people dread winter, but as I've said before I don't mind it at all. I definitely could do without the snow and ice, but the cold and dark don't bother me one bit.

This year, along with starting first grade, Ava will embark on a new chapter - her religious education. She is scheduled to begin CCD classes at the end of September. In preparation, I have been teaching her to pray each night, and I took her to church yesterday. I've been wanting to go more often myself, so this is a good excuse to put Mass back into our weekly schedule. I have tried as best as I can to explain God to her; I haven't even attempted any of the more complex ideas, such as the Trinity, the Resurrection, or Communion.

I don't recall how I learned any of these things. They were taught to us in Catholic school, but I remember not really understanding any of it. We were just told to believe it, and that was that. Because of all Ava's been through surgically, I have tried to break down complex ideas into terms she can understand. But I am not sure how to break down religion; I am going to wait and see what the CCD teacher does. I am apparently the Assistant Teacher, since I have to stay in the room because of Ava's trach. So I might as well make myself useful.

Of course, our church visit was a typical Laura Beeler event. Ava has been to church before, but she is getting more curious. Of course, I was running late, and here in CT the 10:30 mass starts at 10:30 and not a minute after. I waited in the back of the church until everyone sat down for the readings, and then Ava and I, along with another tardy mother and kids, scrambled to an empty pew. It's a full house at our church, which is nice. There are only 2 Sun. am masses, so it gets full. We no sooner sit down when Ava gives me the potty sign. I knew it was coming..she has her tube feed an hour earlier so I knew she had to go. She wiggled around until everyone stood for the Alleluia, and then we hurried out the back door into the hallway to use the bathroom. I timed our re-entry perfectly, while everyone was still standing for the Gospel, but I forgot where we were sitting so as everyone is sitting waiting for the homily, Ava and I are wandering about looking for our seats. "HI everyone, please stare at us!" I was cursing under my breath, and then had to say a prayer of confession for thinking swear words in Church. I finally found our seats and sat down, mortified.

Ava was quite well behaved. I brought a book for her, but she was quite content to look around and listen to the music. The likes the kneeler. She wanted to stand and jump on it, so I had to put the ki-bosh on that. She tried kneeling but then decided she's rather sit. During the Our Father Ava signed potty again. (At least she's polite enough to sign instead of loudly stating what she needs, which is her usual MO.) Again she grabbed at her crotch while I waited until Communion and made a second mad dash for the bathroom. We entered as the Communion line was dwindling and I was able to get Communion and slither back to our seats. She liked the rest of the Mass, particularly passing the basket of money.

I didn't even know my church had a bathroom until i was about 14. I was standing in the Church hallway waiting for something, and a door swung open. I peered in, thinking it was an entrance to a secret crypt, but was I surprised to discover a bathroom in there! A BATHROOM? In CHURCH? How had this escaped me all these years? I am sure my parents never told us about it as they did not want to spend the entire Mass running to the bathroom with us. We either went before we left the house or suffered through the Mass, our own private little Passion.

I told Ava we'd be going to Church more often and that we'd be going to a class to learn more about God. She looked interested, but asked few questions. All I know is it will be interesting to see what Ava does with a bunch of nuns...God help me.

Welcome to the World of the Dull

Well here we are again. Saturday night and I am ready for bed. (Did I mention it's 7:30 pm?) Sometimes I feel like such a slacker. It was a beautiful day, but instead of going to the beach we decided to stay at home and hang out in the backyard. Now, I do have to say, I worked at the office until 11:30, went grocery shopping, and did a few errands, so by the timeI got home it was 1:30. Malcolm had already taken Ava to the park and for a bike ride, so the idea of staying home was fine with her. We filled her wading pool, and took out her Bouncy House, so she had plenty of amusements. Malcolm and I sat (well, for minutes in between answering requests) and chatted and enjoyed the sun and outdoors.


We are meeting some friends for dinner tomorrow evening (with Ava) and so I just wanted to hang out today. The beach involves a one-hour drive (more, if traffic is bad), paying for parking, shlepping countless items onto the beach, setting up beach spot, and then trying to keep as much sand as possible away from Ava. (Did I mention that kids with trachs really should not be near sand? She can wear a trach cap, but we still have to be hyper vigilant.) We also have to watch her carefully in the ocean, as does any parent.


I watch my friends go to the beach. They have to shlepp a ton of stuff too, but they seem to have a higher tolernace for the sand and heat than I do. And, if I was at a rental house,or hotel on the beach, I'd likely have more patience too. it just seems like so much work for so little payoff. But I do love the beach. I love swimming in the ocean and bouncing in the waves. I always did, even as a kid. I have a healthy respect for the ocean, as its waves tossed me around and washed me upon shore like an old soda can many times. I will always love the smell of the sea, the riding on the waves, and the thrill of watching a wave build and seeing if it was going to kick my butt. I love the beach.


But, as I've said many times, things are different when you are the parents of small children. My friend Debbie recently wrote a blog about vacationing with small children, and it was so true. Vacations are rarely restfull or relaxing for adults; they are really for kids, BUT they are so worth it when you see your children smile with joy. And a beach vacation is something special. Last year, we went to Myrtle Beach in SC with a bunch of craniofacial families. It was Ava's first time in the ocean and she really enjoyed it.It was kind of funny...all these kids with trachs were under umbrellas, with not one grain of sand on them, while every other kid was covered in the stuff.


We always used to get sand everywhere, and my mother diligently scrubbed us all when we got home. We knew before we went anywhere, we had to have a bath. I also recall my mother's cousins Joan and John had a summer beach house in Long Island; we'd go there at least once a summer to spend a day or two at the beach. It was very rocky...there were pebbles everywhere. But we loved it, especially because there was a playground (the old-fashioned kind where the metal slide hit 108 degrees by noon) and a man who sold Italian ice from a push-wagon. I am thinking of getting a push wagon and selling hot dogs, beer, and Italian ice from my propery next to the golf course. My husband insists I'd need a liquor license and a few other assorted permits, but he is a spoiled sport, and I bet none of the golfers would rat me out. While I know this is crazy, I would love to do it.

But I digress, as usual...I am not sure what my point was when I started...oh yes! It was that one can be content in one's life, even if one is just sitting about in one's livingroom. Whether at the beach or at home, today was one nice day!

Weekend Notes

Well it's been a busy weekend here in Beeler-ville. Friday night started out with my monthly game of Bunco. Bunco a really easy, pointless dice game that you play with a group of 12. It's usually played by housewives who will take any excuse to get out of the house and have a cocktail. ("What are we doing? Cleaning out your garage? But you're providing wine and snacks? Count me in!") Anyway the game went on for a couple of hours and then a few of us hung around in my friend's hot tub. It was fun but by the time 11:00 came around I had to go home. I've learned something: I don't like being out late at night. The spirit is willing, but the body can't take it. I am tired. Always. By 10pm my favorite place is in my bed, under the covers, watching TV.

I didn't always used to be this way. I remember my parents moaning and groaning when I went out at 10pm. I thought they were so uncool. Now I get it. They were sleepy and didn't want to stay up to wait for me to drag my skinny little teenage butt into the house. I recall my poor father driving my boyfriend home on Saturday nights because my boyfriend was too young to have a car. I am sure the last thing my Dad wanted to do was schlep some loser across Staten Island at 11 pm, but he did it. And my Mom waited for us to return.

Anyway, back to the weekend. Saturday morning I worked, while Dad took Ava to a birthday party at a gymnastics place. Ava loved it. of course she did...the kids jumped on a huge trampoline and ran around like maniacs. After I got home we took Ava mini golfing at our local place. Ava said last weekend "I want to go mini-golfing as a family." Ava has a "thing" about her family, meaning me, my husband and her. She likes it when it's just the 3 of us. She also loves big family parties, but she gets very excited when the 3 of us go somewhere "as a family." She will say "Isn't it nice to do something as a family?" It's very sweet and cute, and I am glad she enjoys this time, as someday she will want me to hide behind a potted plant so no one knows we're related. The rest of Saturday was spent in our yard, with Ava on her swings and us making a barbecue.

Today Malcolm mowed the "lawn", which actually contains some grass now as opposed to just moss and weeds. Ava played in her wading pool, her bouncy house, and swings, while I chased after her and and helped her change activities every 15 minutes. She does something for a while, then moves onto the next thing. She did enjoy the wading pool and brought her doll along to "give her a swimming lesson." Tonight we had another barbecue and Malcolm is already asleep on the couch.

Life is funny sometimes. We plan and we plan, and things don't always work out how we imagined. If I planned these two days, they would have never worked...we just went with the flow and did just enough to keep us occupied, but not too much as to make us exhausted (although the snoring from the living room leads me to believe that Malcolm may disagree). It was a nice weekend and I enjoyed myself. And the best part is i can go to bed early tonight.

Random Thoughts

Well July 4th is here. For some strange reason, there aren't many fireworks on July 4 itself here in CT. Most of them are the weekend before, the day before, the week after. Who knows why. CT has some strange laws. For example, fireworks are legal, but you can't buy alcohol on Sunday. This must date back to some Puritan code that dictated that alcohol was the Devil's Drink. I guess God was OK with explosives.


I've heard only one firecracker today, a sharp contrast to yesteryear, when the idiot who lived across from me as a child would spend the whole day and night setting them off. I learned a good many swear words from my father as he cursed this kid, who was making just a heap of noise all day. I remember as a young adult going with a boyfriend to his friend's house for July 4. This friend had a last name that just so happened to be the same as several famous Mafia members, and the boatload of illegal fireworks he assembled on July 4 was confirmation of his obvious "connections." He would start by setting off the pretty ones and then end the night basically setting the whole street on fire. I remember one year, the noise was so loud, it somehow tripped some electronic device in my boyfriend's car, and the car would not start. I have no clue how we got home, but we obviously made it.


Today was an interesting July 4. The weather was OK, which means it didn't rain continuously, as it has for the past 40 days and 40 nights. My daughter won a Perfect Attendance award at her karate class this past week, so we decided to let her pick a place she'd like to go. She chose the park with 3 playscapes and a sprinkler park. She put on her little bathing suit and played happily in the sprinkler for about 15 minutes. Then she got cold and played on the playground. We ate the picnic lunch we brought. All of a sudden she decided she wanted to go home and was being quite a brat about it. (We had been there a total of 45 minutes.) We told her that it was too nice to go home and watch TV, and she proceeded to throw a huge screaming fit. After several minutes of this we told her firmly that if we left, we were not going home, but were going to do a "Mommy and Daddy" thing instead. "I DON"T WANT TO DO A MOMMY AND DADDY THING I WANT TO GO HOME!" After threatening to take away all TV privileges for the day, she quieted down and we stopped at a local winery, since any "Mommy and Daddy thing" required a drink by that time. She behaved perfectly there, of course. The person pouring the wine even commented on how well behaved she was, and I swear that my daughter gave me the finger. Only my child would be happier at a winery than at a playground.


Next we did go home and she watched one hour of TV and then we shut it off and played in the backyard. She swung on her swing, jumped in her bouncy house and ate shrimp cocktail (she's 6, but acts like she's 40). My husband and I had a few beers and barbecued, and all was OK.

Sometimes I feel sorry for myself. My little girl has a lot of medical needs, and this sometimes interferes with her ability to either do things other kids can do easily, or just makes it harder for her; thus, it makes things harder for her parents. I know all kids have meltdowns and are uncooperative; but other parents can sit back and not worry if their child's airway will get plugged. Other parents don't need to worry if their child is screaming because they're being a normal kid, or is the shunt that diverts excess cerebral spinal fluid from her brain clogged? Most parents just feed their kid; they don't need to count calories to make sure they're eating enough to make up for a tube feeding.

And then I come out of my little pity party and watch my daughter swinging and laughing on her little swing, something she couldn't - and wouldn't- do 2 years ago. She says "Thank you, Daddy, for making my playground nice." (Daddy put down nice, soft rubber mulch under her playground last weekend.) I think of our little family of 3 and how much we all love each other. And then things are OK again. Things will never be perfect, I know that. I am just grateful life has given me the chance to realize that perfection is not necessary; what we have is wonderful. Happy July 4th everyone.

"Ask Not for Whom the Bell Tolls...

....it tolls for thee, butthead." Once upon a time before Roseanne Barr - or whatever she calls herself now - went nuts, she had a very funny sitcom on TV. It was a realistic program about a middle class family where the parents were always working to make ends meet, the kids were a pain in the neck, and the people wore jeans and sweatshirts. This blog is not about Roseanne; however that quote is from the show, something Roseanne said to her TV husband, Dan.



I believe the original line is from a poem (minus the "butthead" part) and refers to a person's inevitable demise. In this case, the demise is of a reality show and a family, not just a single person.



Yes, I am back on my Jon and Kate Plus 8 rant. I know I have wasted 2 blogs on these idiots, not to mention time and energy. They have just really hit a nerve with me. Apparently, on the season premiere of their reality show this past week, they were interviewed separately (usually it's together) and Kate spoke of the fact that they may be heading for separation. She is crying, saying "it's not what she wanted or envisioned for her family." Hmmmm...am I supposed to feel bad for her?



This woman and her husband decided to bring 8 kids into this world. I have no judgement on this (well I do, but it's not my business). They then decided to allow TV cameras 24-hour access to their home, their marriage, and their kids. As if the stress of raising 8 kids isn't enough, these fools decided to add more stress to their lives by having it filmed and blasted all over TV. I have one question for Jon and Kate: How stupid are you? Did you think this was a good idea? Oh wait, let me guess; the promise of making lots of money, becoming famous, getting all kinds of free perks (including vacations and plastic surgery for Mom) overshadowed the thought of what was best for your family.

I am not a perfect parent, nor am I am perfect person. But, honestly now, you couldn't see this coming? Jon "quit" his job 2 years ago to stay home with the 8 kids, who, by the way, are always screaming. Maybe it's the constant TV lighting in their faces. Kate, meanwhile, decided to write books and has been "gone a lot", traveling to promote whatever she's fooled people into thinking is worthwhile reading. Hmmm, dumb Dad alone with 8 kids, self-absorbed Mom gone, TV cameras all over...why I believe that's we call a recipe for disaster! Add to this the fact that Jon is about as smart and personable as a fence post, and Kate is an over controlling squawker. Sounds like heaven to me!

I have no sympathy for Jon and Kate. They made poor choices - choices a 6th grader probably would have predicated were bad - and they are now paying the price. I do feel bad for their children, who will pay the ultimate price: the loss of their family as they now know it. Maybe in the long run it's for the best. Maybe whatever damage has been done can be repaired and these poor kids can live a normal life, a life out of the spotlight.

Hot Fun in the Summa-time

Well I have spent enough time and energy ranting about Jon and Kate, and as the kids say, "I am soooo done with them."


Both my legs are covered in mosquito bites, which means summer is officially here. Summer brings a multitude of things, including shorts, sleeveless shirts, and (insert shudder) the bathing suit. I enjoyed summer more as a young adult; after all, it meant no school, parties at the beach, suntans, and just plain old fun. Plus I was a size 6 and looked pretty good in a bikini.


Fast forward about 25 years: I am a stay-at-home Mom with no days off, we don't get to the beach very often, I have to wear sunscreen for fear of skin cancer, and I wouldn't wear a bikini if you paid me. Like most things in life, summer for me has changed drastically. First of all, we live in a rural area; we own 2.7 acres of land, most of which is woods. There is also a "wetlands" on our property, aka, a swamp. We live next door to a golf course with a lot of ponds, which means we have lots of mosquitoes. I am a mosquito magnet. Scientists have never been able to explain why mosquitoes are attracted to some people more than others, but they are. (Don't question my mosquito credentials...I have them.) So, if I want to be outside I need to covered in OFF insect repellent. Even this does not completely protect me and I get huge bites, which drive me crazy. As a result I spend the entire summer smelling of DEET and calamine lotion. Not like the old days when I smelled like Estee Lauder perfume and fruity hair conditioner. Being covered in bug bites is not comfortable. Neither is the rash i get from touching plants. That's right, plants. Any plant. I have no idea why, but I get a rash from plants. So if I do any gardening I need to wear gloves. Sometimes thick socks too to protect my legs. This is so attractive.


Another thing I find uncomfortable is being hot. I HATE being hot. Nothing can be gained from it. All it does is make me perspire, which makes my sunscreen, DEET and calamine lotion all run, thus requiring them all to be reapplied. The only way I like to be outside if I am next to a pool and can roll in like a lazy seal if I get too hot. I love being outside if the temperature is moderate, as in below 83 degrees. Any hotter than that and you will find me inside in the air conditioning.


All this leads to feelings of guilt. (I am Catholic so all things eventually lead to feelings of guilt.) I feel guilty because I should be outside in the beautiful sunshine. And often I am, I am just not enjoying it because I am hot and itchy. Plus nice weather always makes me feel like I should be doing something. Anything. Flying a kite, running through the ocean, playing at the park, or riding a bike. Laying down on the couch and napping in the sun like my cat is just not as satisfying in the summer. There's no blanket to snuggle under, and, again, I feel guilty for wasting a nice day just lying around.


I also don't like sleeping in the summer. Again this is a heat issue. I like my flannel pajamas and my cozy comforters. Since we installed central AC (by the way, a very worthwhile investment), this is not as much of a problem as it used to be.


Don't get me wrong; I enjoy cooking outdoors, summer parties, having my daughter home from school, and just the carefree attitude of summer. I just have come to realize that, strange as it sounds, I am a winter person. Actually, I love fall and spring, what little we have of them now. It's 98 degrees until the end of September these days, and then it seems fall is about 2 weeks long. Same with spring; it can be snowing here in New England as late as April, we have a few moderate days, and then the heat begins.

I realize it's a waste of time to complain about the weather. The one place on Earth that has perfect weather is San Francisco, where I spent 8 years. I will leave it at that, since if even discuss moving there again both my parents will instantly die of a stroke. (Don't worry, Mom and Dad, I'm not going anywhere.)

Ava, Laura and Malcolm - And Then Some

Well knock me over with a feather... A few weeks ago I posted a blog ranting about a TV show that follows the lives of a couple and their 8 children: a set of twins, and a set of sextuplets. (See blog dated and titled April 19, Stupid Is As Stupid Does.) Little did I know how an appropriate title that would be.



I will not go back into the details of this rant. Read it if you really want to know. Let's just say that the male involved in this reality mess has been caught "hanging out with a 23-year-old teacher". According to both the husband and the teacher, "they are just friends." Oh wait! There goes the turnip truck off of which we just all fell. (That sounds awkward, but my education will not allow me to end a sentence with a preposition.)



Let's examine this situation, shall we? A 32-year old man - the father of 8 children, star of a reality show thru which his whole life is exploited on TV - is photographed in a bar in the company of some college girls and this 23-year old woman. This man is dumb as a post, overtired, henpecked, and immature, and yet we are to believe had the discretion to tell these women, who are fawning all over him, "Sorry ladies, I'm taken." We are also to believe that this man who is continuously criticized (and not without reason) by his overly controlling, OCD, witch-of-a-wife on national TV is not going to be tempted at the thought of a young woman wanting him. Call me cynical, but I think he cheated.

I also happen to think it's a riot. I guess I shouldn't be happy at someone else's misery. However, as I stated in my first rant on this subject, these people have no one to blame but themselves for their situation. No one held a gun to their heads and forced them to have the in-vitro procedures that resulted in the 8 kids...and certainly no one forced them to then capitalize on this this by then blasting their private lives all over TV.

The wife is now on tour promoting her second book. That's right...she wrote one book, PEOPLE READ IT, and now she's written another. How a woman who has 8 kids finds time to write 2 books I'll never know. I have one child and I barely have time to write a grocery list (and this blog for my 3 fans). I also read today that this woman gets paid $50,000 to $75,000 per episode of her reality show. WHAT???? I assume her husband Romeo gets paid his own salary, which he's obviously squandering on booze and women (although not a bad way to squander money necessarily). So these 2 fools are making millions of dollars while the rest of us - who don't have TV cameras in our house 24/7 - are just working for a living. Unreal.

Perhaps I should write a pilot for my own reality show about a mother who has a child with rare craniofacial syndrome. Cameras could follow us everywhere: through dozens of surgeries, doctors appointments, countless hours of worry, oodles of sleepless nights, hours of research, etc.
I am sure it's not as glamorous as a couple with 8 kids, but who cares? As long as we make money, that's what counts. And all I have to do is what I - and millions of other women - do everyday. We just have to do it while all of America watches, judges, and then laughs when the perfect family turns out to be not so perfect after all.

A Tale of Too Much Traffic

I have lived in several places during my nearly 42 years on this Earth. I was born in Brooklyn, NY and lived there until I was about 4 years old. I was raised on Staten Island, and when I was 24, I moved to San Francisco. (Insert longing sigh, as I miss this place more than words can say!) After 3 years in the city of San Francisco itself, I moved to the "East Bay" to a beautiful part of Oakland (yes, there are nice parts). Since my entire family is selfish and refused to re-locate to the west coast I moved to CT in 2000 to be closer to them. I now live in Portland, CT, a small, rural town with about 10,000 people. This is a huge change from living in a city. Both New York City and the San Francisco Bay Area are famous for their traffic jams, mostly on highways that connect the major city with suburbs. Traffic in Portland, CT is a far cry from the traffic to which I became accustomed.

We spend a lot of time on the road visiting relatives. We also see a medical team at NYU Medical Center for my daughter's rare craniofacial disorder, which means more time on the road. There are probably close to a dozen ways to get from CT to NY, and we've probably tried them all. We've learned to check for things like baseball games, football games, bike tours, airplane shows, beach traffic, highway circus acts, and any event that could feasibly cause traffic on our route. We seem to have this down to a science; however, there are always places that have traffic jams for no cause whatsoever at any time of day or night. I have listed my top 5 Traffic Nightmare Zones for your travel planning convenience:


1. The George Washington Bridge, more commonly known by New Yorkers as the "Gee-Dub". I believe that the NY or NJ DOT's actually pay people to cross this bridge and cause traffic jams, as it is never empty. I have crossed it in day and night, in good weather and in bad, in sickness and in health (oh wait, wrong group of phrases)...and there is ALWAYS traffic. I don't know what causes it, nor do I care. I will never set foot (actually wheels) on this bridge again.


2. The BQE, aka the Gowwanis, or to out-of-towners, Highway 278. Yesterday I left Brooklyn at about 1:30 pm and was caught in a traffic jam on the BQE. Who the hell is on the road at 1:30 in the afternoon? Evidently, plenty of people, since it took me 30 minutes to go about 3 miles. Ugh.


3. The Cross Bronx Expressway. I have been stuck on this stupid road more times than I care to count. I have looked over and actually seen rigor mortis begin to set into the drivers around me, we sat there for so long. This is right up there with the Gee-Dub and another road I will never go near again.


4. The Garden State Parkway. DO NOT go near this highway any time during the summer. It leads right to the Jersey Shore, where every lunatic in NY or NJ is heading on a sunny day. If that isn't bad enough, it's a toll road. This means you must stop every few miles and throw a dime into a toll basket...maybe it's up to a quarter now, who knows. The point is, this system is outdated and inefficient. Even if you have an EZ-Pass, it's still a hassle to stop every three miles, or whatever it is. Avoid it like the swine flu. (And to those of you who live in the Tri-state area, GET AN EZ-PASS for God's sake.)


5. The approach to the Goethals Bridge, and the Staten Island Expressway, right after the Goethals Bridge. I don't know what's up with this. Perhaps it's the 45 lanes of toll booths as you exit the NJ Turnpike to get onto the Goethals, with no clear lane markers, a mix of EZ-Pass lanes and cash lanes, and rude drivers. There could be a nuclear holocaust and there would still be traffic at this toll plaza. Once you get thru that and over the Goethals, it's another parking lot on the Staten Island Expressway. Again, I have never seen area this without traffic.


Oh yes there are others: the Belt Parkway, the FDR Drive/Battery Tunnel on weekdays, ANY road to Long Island, and countless other traffic mazes that would test the patience of Job. I do not have the patience of Job; in fact, I have no patience where traffic is concerned. My tolerance has diminished even further since I rarely deal with traffic where I live. I laugh when people say there's traffic on Highway 91 in CT (Oh you mean that string of 10 cars? HAHAHAHAHA!). I can't wait until someone invents those little personal flying saucers like they had on the Jetsons. Until then, I will continue my quest for the perfect traffic-free route. I know, I know, when pigs fly.

Stupid Is as Stupid Does

My father just posted a rant to one of his blogs. My father is a very good ranter. (Is that a real noun?) He gets to the heart of the issue, with just enough complaining, a dash or two of sarcasm, and a final grumble to wrap it all up. Having been under his tutelage for nearly 42 years, I think I am a fair ranter myself. Dad's last blog was about the absurdity of things such as able-bodied people receiving welfare for no work, government bailouts, and the like. This is somewhat of a follow-up. My complaint: People who are rewarded for simply being victims of their own stupidity.


My daughter, who is 6, likes to watch this terrible show about a family who has 8 children. I am unsure why she likes this program; I think perhaps she finds some humor in the chaos. Every few days she asks me to watch it with her, and it is truly painful. The story behind this TV show is that the couple couldn't have children naturally, so they had in-vitro fertilization and had 2 healthy twin girls. Excellent. Most people would be happy with that. However, the mother is a perfectionist shrew and just "wanted to have one more." Well, they did in-vitro again and ended up with sextuplets (three boys and three girls). Mother Nature has a sense of humor and will f^#$@ you every time.


Somehow, in our society, these people have become celebrities. For doing what, I'm not sure. Oh wait...it's for doing what something risky and unnecessary! They weren't happy with the healthy children they had; they just had to have that third one to complete the "perfect" family and now they are screwed because they have 8 kids. I am not sure which is the dumber of the two, the husband or the wife. The husband is this laid-back dude, who seems to be in a constant state of shock that he has ended up where he is. He is also useless with anything. And the wife is always nagging a him to do this and that, and just can't rest if everything is not perfect. I have news for her: nothing will ever be perfect when you have 8 kids. In any event, this bubble head woman has written some book that is flying off the shelves. And they have a TV show that "follows their lives." They go on all these vacations (likely paid for by the network) and have a TV camera documenting every facet of their lives. In the clip I just caught, the wife and all the girls were having pedicures (why do 5- and 3-year-old girls need pedicures?) and the father was doing some masculine activity with the 3 boys.


So, basically, these people made a decision to have have more children and ended up with 8. They are always moaning and groaning about how hard their lives are; well, they made their own beds (all 10 of them), as far as I'm concerned. And what do they get? Fame, fortune, and constant adulation about how wonderful they are. They are some sort of heroes because they are raising 8 children. Well, my grandfather was one of 11, and I know for sure that no one ever gave my great-grandmother her own show or any perks because of choices she made. I also know that many families had large numbers of children because birth control was not nearly as readily available. That is just the way things were; no one hovered over them, praising their every move and marveling at how they can raise so many kids.


I commend them for their commitment to raise all the children and to not abort any of them. What I do not commend them for is exposing not only every second of their own lives, but every second of their children's lives, to public scrutiny. They are adults and can make choices; their children are simply the victims of their parents' desire for money and 15 seconds of fame.

There is also another show (which thankfully my daughter has not found) about a family who has 18 kids and just keeps having more. We are all entitled to our own choices, but really now, are 18 children really necessary? And once again, people go running to the TV to watch these fools juggle their everyday lives. More money for them, more crap on TV for us. I guess I just don't get it. Life is hard enough....why would you want a TV camera in your house day and night, and more importantly, why would anyone watch what goes on in these people's homes?

Well that's my whiny opinion. I know I am in the minority on this. So I guess I'll sit back, relax, and watch the latest episode of "The Real Midgets of Middlesex County."

Cynics Beware

Greetings again from my little computer desk in Portland, CT. Yesterday my husband sent me a link to YouTube on the Internet. I figured it was just something silly and I would watch it later. When he came home, he asked me immediately if I had seen it. He brought me into the computer room and we watched it together. It was a video of a woman from Scotland named Susan Boyle who was a contestant on Britain's Got Talent, the brainchild of Simon Cowell, of American Idol and America's Got Talent fame.



Before I continue, let me make it clear that I have never watched American Idol, America's Got Talent, Dancing with the Stars, or any other stupid "reality contest" on TV. I hate most of what is on American TV right now (yet another blog). However, this was different. A woman came on stage. She was frumpy; no other way to describe her. She was from a small village. She told the audience that she had lived with her mother until she died; she had never been married. She now lived with her cat. She said her dream was to be a professional singer. She was wearing what was likely her best dress and shoes. The judges snickered as did the audience. She announced she would sing "I Dreamed a Dream", a song from the operetta Les Miserables. The audience again snickered, as anyone familiar with this song knows it is an unbelievably difficult song to sing.



The music started and she began to sing. There was complete silence as this woman's voice filled the studio. And she was amazing. I mean, she was beyond talented. She hit every note perfectly and belted out this song as if she'd sung it on Broadway for years. The audience went nuts; with each passing lyric the applause grew, and the people jumped to their feet clapping and cheering. The judges were speechless. Even Simon's jaw dropped; soon after, he was grinning from ear to ear, (likely thinking of all the percentages he'd get from her recording contract).



The judges, of course, gave her high marks, and she will likely win the contest and become quite famous. She already has 12 million hits on her YouTube page.



Anyone who knows me well knows I am extremely cynical. I usually dislike stories of filled with shmaltz and sappy stuff. As Bette Davis said in All About Eve "I detest cheap sentiment." But this was different. Here was a woman, slightly brain-damaged at birth, who had lived mostly as a shut-in, singing a song that she seemed born to sing. It is not a cheerful song. In Les Miserables, it it sung by the character of Fantine. The song is about how when she was young, she was full of life and hope; then some guy came along, knocked her up, and left. She was then forced to give the child to an innkeeper and his wife, who used the child as a slave. Fantine was forced into prostitution to send money to what she thought was a sick child, and then she dies tragically (while singing a song, mind you), still hoping the bum would come back. Some of the lyrics are "...And still I dream he'll come to me, that we will live the years together...but there are dreams that cannot be, and there are storms we cannot weather. I always dreamed my life would be so different from this hell I'm living...so different now than what it seemed...now life has killed the dream I dreamed. " Not exactly uplifting.



But what was uplifting was that this woman who - , as one reporter said, "looked so different than anything we imagine a star to look like" - had this amazing voice that brought the house down. And that is a gift. It is something that cannot be taught; you either can do it or you can't. I dug out my CD of the Les Miserables music and listened to the woman who sang "I Dreamed A Dream" in the original production in London. The woman from Scotland was just as good; not as polished, since she was not a professional, but just as gifted.



Since I cannot sing at all, I find this talent to be incredible. And I don't mean the talent of crappy pop singers. I mean people who can truly sing. The only thing I find more incredible (in the world of music anyway) is that people took Victor Hugo's book and made it into a musical with incredibly powerful music. I read the book Les Miserables...it was at least a million pages and seemed it. But I saw the play twice and loved it, which is interesting since all the main characters except two are dead at the end. I am not sure what that says about me. All I know is I have have watched Susan Boyle sing 3 times already...and I have a feeling I may listen to her at least 3 more times before I go to sleep tonight.

You Can't Dress Them Up, But You Can still Take Them Out

Hello faithful readers, (Are there really three of you now? Yipee!)

I have been in a sentimental mood lately, writing about my childhood and grandparents. However, I must take a moment to write about something that has been irking me for some time now.

Here is a question to America: "When did it become acceptable to go out in your pajamas?" Before you think I am being sanctimonious and judgemental, hear me out. I am the first one to admit that I love flannel pajama pants; I would rank them as one of the greatest inventions of the 21st century. However, since they are sleepwear, or lounge-around-the-house wear, I always assumed they should be worn in the house only. Apparently, I am mistaken.

More and more, it is becoming commonplace for people to wear these pajama pants in public. I am sorry, but this is just gross. First of all, the fact that they are usually printed with pink flamingos, pictures of SpongeBob Square Pants, or beer bottles should clue you into the fact that they are not high fashion items. I am not sure how people decide which top to pair with these pants, but it is usually something hideous. People wear them everywhere: the grocery store, hotel lobbies, and last night, someone was wearing them in Friendly's. I do realize that Friendly's is not exactly an establishment of fine dining, but at least put a pair of jeans on, for God's sake. Last night at Friendly's, people came in to eat in pajama pants, dirty sweat pants, and slippers. Yes, one girl was wearing her slippers. I know they were slippers and not shoes because I've seen them in the LL Bean catalog a million times. I don't care if they are $50 slippers, they are still slippers. I was also treated to the sight of someone in workout shorts and flip flops, and a girl in pants so tight I could hear the pants screaming in pain every time she moved.

When I watch reruns of I Love Lucy, or an old movie, I am always fascinated by the clothes. While I know Lucy wasn't real life, she was always dressed in the most beautiful clothes. Even her casual clothes were gorgeous. She wore a hat and gloves when she went out, and always high heels. Ricky always wore a suit, or a coat and tie just to the movies. My own grandmothers almost always wore dresses and nice shoes, and my Great Aunt Lou, at ninety-something, always wears a dress and heels to this day. When my Grandma Salamo would take me "downtown" to Brooklyn, or to Manhattan, we always got "dressed up." I would wear a little skirt or dress and Grandma always looked nice in whatever she wore. In his later years, my mother's father took to wearing some old clothes until they fell apart, including a memorable black sweater my mother actually threw on the floor and stomped on, she hated it so much. (Stay tuned for more details on that event.)

Now I realize I am the last person who should be judging style or fashion. (My sister-in-law is much more qualified to do this.) I am a stay-at-home Mom who chases a 6-year old around much of the day and so I am usually wearing jeans, a sweater, and some clogs. Not very fashionable, but practical. I don't own a lot of fancy clothes because I don't go a lot of fancy places. I have some nice outfits, and I do try to dress up a little for a holiday or when I go out. However, I always look presentable and would never wear my pajamas outside unless the house was on fire.

Thank you for letting me vent on this important issue. And now I shall put on my flannel pajama pants and stay inside the house, thank you very much.

But Never on a Sunday

My father, one of my only readers (thanks Dad!), has been writing about his parents. I thought I might like to share some of my memories of my grandparents. Since Dad wrote about his parents first, I will start with them.


Before I continue, I must make it clear that we spent a lot of time with our grandparents as children. Every Sunday, we visited either my mother's parents or my father's parents. We took turns; they each got us every other weekend. We did see a lot more of my mother's parents, since we visited them during the week also; but that is another post.

No matter which set of grandparents we visited, Sundays always started with church. We rarely went as a family; one parent would go to an earlier mass and the other a later mass. They each took one of us older kids and the baby, Matthew, stayed home with the other parent. I have to admit I liked going with my father because we'd sneak out after communion. Then there was a flurry of activity at home before we all got into the car around 1 :00 or 2:00. When Matt was a baby, the car was stuffed with his play pen, plus a bunch of other stuff. My mother always carried this large green bag, which we called...."the green bag." I believe its predecessor was "the blue bag." (Not the most creative bunch.) The green bag held diapers, wipes, pajamas for all of us, 6 changes of clothes and God knows what else. (Side note: I think my mother only stopped carrying a change of clothes for Matthew when he got married.)

Fran and Tony, or Grandma and Grandpa Pantaleno, lived in East New York. When we visited Fran and Tony, a crucial decision had to be made once we crossed the Verrazano Bridge from Staten Island into Brooklyn: Do we take the Belt parkway or "the streets"? The Belt, as my parents called it, was often jammed with traffic, causing my father to swear like mad. The "streets" were often better, but not nearly as fast. If we took The Belt, we always passed this little tree right around the Rockaway Beach area. This tree was smaller than average and stood by itself. For some reason we waved to the tree. Yes, waved to a tree. My guess it was some desperate attempt by my mother to keep us all from squawking in the car.


My Uncle Anthony and Aunt Cathy, my father's younger siblings, lived with Fran and Tony. I think they may have lived in 2 different places while I was growing up, but I can't be sure. For some reason I think they moved next door to the house I remember them living in originally, but I could be wrong. I do recall that one of their kitchens had knotty pine cabinets, the same ones that are in my little country house in CT now.


Tony was a quiet, kind, and sweet Grandpa. He loved to drink his beer (out of a can or a little bottle) and smoke his cigarettes. Fran would make him sit on the steps that led to the roof outside the apartment for his smoke. Sometimes I'd sit with him. He always spoke very kindly to me. He worked in a shoe store and thus we always got shoes at either a discount or maybe for free. He'd bring boxes of new leather shoes for my mother to inspect and have us try on; the extras he'd bring back to the store. I think these were mostly our school shoes - "flat, black oxfords" - something I will never put on my feet again. He liked to laugh and tell silly jokes. I wish I had a chance to know him better; he died when I was 14. He had lung cancer, and must have suffered a lot. I remember one time we visited and he was in the bedroom. It was close to the time he died. My mother went into the room and closed the door. It was an accordion door, made of some sort of stiff cloth. I wanted in the worst way to see him, but my parents wouldn't let me. He must have looked pretty bad, and maybe my parents did not want me to remember him that way. I remember him smiling, sitting in his undershirt, watching the ball game.


Fran was also a kind, loving grandmother. She always had little treats for us. She did have some quirks, though. First, whenever we visited, we would round up any brown paper grocery sacks we had in the house and bring them to her; she used them as garbage bags. This was fine except she kept her garbage in the refrigerator. She did this so "it wouldn't smell." Odd.

She also would pull snacks out of some strange spots. High cabinets, behind the TV console. I think this is an old habit from when my father lived with her and he ate her stash of goodies.

Her cooking was different from my other Grandma's, but just as delicious. For starters, she'd pull out Wise potato chips (YUM!), cheese, crackers, pepperoni. Then we'd have our macaroni. This was served with meatballs, sausage, bracciole, and sometimes shredded pork in the tomato sauce, which we called gravy. Fran's meatballs had fennel in them, which was a big difference between her meatballs and my other Grandma's. They were very moist and delicious. After that she'd serve a salad, dressed with red vinegar, olive oil and salt. Oh and then we had another meal....maybe a roast with vegetables or a chicken. Why stop at just the pasta? Then came fruit, maybe nuts, and dessert.

We usually brought the cake. As we left our house my mother always asked "Are we bringing cake?" Then she'd run into Mrs. Maxwell's bakery, a big place near Fran and Tony's. She often got a German chocolate or some other delicious goodie. Sometimes my Uncle Anthony would bring his girlfriend, who is now my Aunt Michelle, over around dessert time. Aunt Cathy was there, and I loved her dearly (still do).

One strange memory I have is that my Uncle Anthony was studying to be a child psychologist (no that's not the strange part). I guess he must have needed a subject for his research and "Viola!"...I must have been the perfect age, maybe 8 or 9. We'd go into the basement and he'd show me all those inkblots and then have me read passages and answer questions. I didn't care, it was something to do. I wonder of the results are still around; they probably showed that I'd grow up to be a neurotic, sarcastic, lunatic.

In any event, I wish I had known my father's parents a little better. They were wonderful people who always made me feel special. I am glad we spent all those Sundays with them; they were some of the best times I can remember.

Like Father, Like Mother, Like Daughter

My father writes a couple of blogs: One is about his childhood in Brooklyn, and the other is about various subjects. Many of his posts are about things that annoy him, much as most of my posts are about things that annoy me. You may see a pattern here.

I often look at my parents and try to figure out how I am like each one. With my father it's pretty easy: We both hate the same types of annoying things. For example, when the person in front of you at the grocery store insists that cat food is $10 for a dollar, when she is really reading the wrong sign; a person driving in the left lane at 40 mph; people who think rules don't apply to them; traffic jams; seat belts; line-cutters; loud-talkers; braggers; and A-holes. We also have similar talents: both of us like reading and writing, but hate math. We are also pretty good at art. My temperament and basic personality are very much like my father's.

My mother is more complicated. I look like her, which is a compliment. I remember when I was a kid, all the girls would say that I had a pretty Mom. I was always proud of that (still am). I have many of her mannerisms...we drink our coffee the same way, as well as our wine. We like similar clothing. We like many of the same TV shows.

However, my mother has the cleanest house in the United States. I wish I had inherited some of this cleanliness gene (and so does my husband), since I do NOT have the cleanest house in the United States. Mind you, I am tidy...I hate clutter, chachkis, dust collectors, and anything that makes things look crowded. But basically, I also hate cleaning, laundry, and any form of housework except cooking. This is a problem.

My mother also has more energy than anyone I know. She always says she can't sit still. I have the opposite problem...I love sitting still. In fact, I can sit still for a very long time and watch the TV (wine and snacks help this tremendously). A little nap while sitting still is wonderful. Mom gets up at the crack of dawn and goes to bed early. I get up as late as is possible with a 6-year old and also go to bed early if I can (except if there's a good party). Add this to the hatred of housework, and that makes for one lousy housewife. My mother is a great homemaker (not to mention good at math). Oh well.

I think I'm a pretty good parent, and this I got from both of my parents. I always felt loved growing up and always loved family time, even when I complained about it endlessly as a teenager. I also loved being with my siblings, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins, all people who have had a tremendous impact on my life.

It's always been debated whether nature or nurture makes us who we are; it seems to me, it's a little of both. I guess we are who we are...and despite a few tweaks I'd make here and there, I guess I am happy with who I am.

Noooooooooooo

STAMFORD, Conn. — The family of a woman mauled by a chimpanzee filed a lawsuit seeking $50 million in damages against the primate's owner, saying she was negligent and reckless for lacking the ability to control "a wild animal with violent propensities."
Attorneys for Charla Nash, who remains in critical condition, filed the lawsuit against Sandra Herold late Monday in Superior Court in Stamford.
The suit also alleges that Herold had given the chimp medication that further upset the animal. Herold has made conflicting public statements about whether she gave Xanax, an anti-anxiety drug, to Travis on the day of the attack. The drug had not been prescribed for the animal, police said.
Herold knew the 200-pound chimp, Travis, was agitated when she asked Nash to come to her house on Feb. 16, the lawsuit said. The suit accuses Herold of negligence and recklessness for owning "a wild animal with violent propensities, even though she lacked sufficient skill, strength and/or experience to subdue the chimpanzee when necessary."

Now here's a surprise...a woman mauled by some lunatic's pet chimp is suing for 50 million bucks. We all knew it was coming, it was just a matter of time. However, in this case, I actually agree with this lawsuit. Many lawsuits filed these days are just plain stupid. People suing fast food chains because they're fat, prisoners suing for better shoes, people claiming they didn't know smoking was bad for them. All nonsense.

However, this woman who was attacked has lost various portions of her face, and her hands, because some fool decided to keep a chimp as a pet. Let's take a look at this situation, shall we?

1. Before we go any further, anyone who lives with a chimp is (all together now)...CRA-zy!

2. The chimp's owner lost her husband and her daughter within a few years and was obviously distraught. Perhaps a friend or relative could have suggested counseling or medication as an alternative to starting a zoo.

3. Perhaps a cat or dog...or another domesticated animal...would have made a better pet.

4. This woman ate and slept (EuWWWWW) with the chimp. Nuff said.

5. Wild animals do not belong in people's homes. This goes for anyone who owns a chimp, snake any bigger than a yardstick, ferrets, marmosets, kangaroos, or any other stupid thing people think of adopting.

6. Giving Xanax to a chimp is almost always a bad idea...unless he is seeing a psychiatrist.

7. A chimp is a wild animal, not a human being. This poor animal was killed because it did what an animal would do, not what a human would do. I am sure the chimp was really grateful for being taken out of its natural habitat, only to be killed for following its animal instincts.

The point is that people should not take a wild animal into their homes and expect it to act human. Looking around, I wonder more and more what separates us from the animals. Sometimes I think most animals are smarter than the idiots I encounter on a daily basis. The other sad fact is that no one thought to tell the chimp's owner that her behavior was abnormal; perhaps the victim could have spared the pain and suffering she now endures. Maybe for Christmas I'll get my daughter a polar bear; we have plenty of ice here and if it gets out of control, I'll just give it some of my Xanax.

Vacation Traditions

In my last post, I wrote about some of the vacation destinations we visited when I was a child. Some of the places we visited yearly while on our vacation are worth a mention as well. I have no idea how big the Poconos is, but we always seemed to be close to a few of the same places.

No matter where we went, the first thing we did was hit the grocery store. Only an Italian family would be sure to buy food, since you never know when someone might need a little something to nosh. This was no ordinary trip to the grocery store. First of all, we all went together. All 5 of us. Most trips to the grocery store were done by my mother, alone, in the evening, so she didn't have to take us kids. When I was a little older she would take me, and we had the best mother-daughter time. But I digress...that must be a separate post. We would hit the supermarket for things such as breakfast cereal, snacks, soda, and other things we might die without. One especially wonderful thing was that my mother would let us get those multi-packs of the mini-cereal boxes. Oh yeah, I am talking Frosted Flakes, Fruit Loops, Lucky Charms, Sugar Pops...pure sugar heaven. We were allowed this luxury only on vacation. Sure there were those mini-boxes of Total and Product 19 they shoved into the pack, but if you were wily, you could get a sugar cereal and leave your younger brothers in the dust.

The next thing we did was go to a small store called Jamesway. I'm guessing at the name. It was like a tiny Wal-Mart, before that huge retailer put all the small guys out of business. We'd get some sand toys, beach chairs, and maybe a badminton set. Depended on what we could find from the prior year's trip.


We spent most of our days at either lakes or pools, whichever was closest. We also went to touristy places such as the Stroudsberg Railroad and Dutch Wonderland, a small amusement park. I think we went to a petting zoo once, and my father had a fit because they put bumper stickers on all the cars in the parking lot. He was NOT pleased. My brain has not retained many other tourist sights, but I do remember going out to eat. You must understand that we did not eat out a lot when I was a kid. The Ponderosa was a big trip for us. However, on vacation, we ate out EVERY night.

Here are a few restaurants we never missed:

The Pioneer Diner. This place was shaped like something...perhaps a railroad car, or now that I think about it, maybe a covered wagon? In any event, this eatery was a highlight. The food was horrible; my mother nearly died when one of us was served chicken parmigiana with KETCHUP and mozzarella on top. But, they had lots of kid-friendly, fried, cheap fare, and so we went.

The Little Brown Jug. We happened upon this place by accident, if memory serves me. We originally entered a fancier place, and my father harrumphed about the prices and marched us all out of there. We went across the street to the Little Brown Jug, a casual Italian eatery. They had red-and-white checkerboard tablecloths, and the price must have been right because we went back every year. I think the food was pretty good. I also think that it was near the souvenir shop we visited each year. It was a pretty big shop, with all the requisite tacky items, such as decorative spoons, little leather purses and bracelets, small toys, and tee-shirts that said "Someone went to the Poconos and all they got me was this lousy tee-shirt." Har har har. I seem to remember that the store had a Native American theme; perhaps "Poconos" is Native American for "crappy souvenirs". However, no matter how crappy they were, we moaned and groaned if we couldn't get anything. We always did get something, though, even if it was small.


Bradleys. This was a family-style place and I recall that it was delicious. They had turkey and roast chicken, and maybe even prime rib. They brought vegetables and other sides, such as stuffing, out on platters and you passed it around the table. And they brought plenty of it. This was a big night, since I think it was a little pricier than the other places.


Now I mention Bradley's last since it is associated with a famous incident that to this day is part of Salamo-Pantaleno folklore. One summer, when I was about 15, Con Edison's union workers went on strike. Management, of which my Dad was a part, worked non-stop, reading meters, fixing lines, and doing any job usually done by the union workers. This left him unable to take our family vacation to Timber Trails. I am still not sure how or why my mother agreed to this, but she took us kids there for the week, along with her parents (Belle and Ray Salamo), and my Aunt Paula, Uncle Arthur and cousin Christian, who was about 18 months at the time. My grandfather's personality merits a post of its own, but suffice it to say he could be grumpy and disagreeable, and once he liked something, he stuck with it. And he loved Bradley's, likely because he could eat all he wanted and felt he got his money's worth. On the Thursday morning of our week together (our 6th day of vacation), we were sitting around the breakfast table, deciding where to eat dinner. (This is another Italian trait; always plan your next meal, as you're eating your current meal.) We had already been to Bradley's twice, at Grandpa's urging, and he kept saying he wanted to go again. My Aunt Paula was thumbing thru the local guide, looking for a new place to eat. She suggested a few places, all of which my grandfather pooh-poohed. He kept insisting he wanted Bradley's. Finally, my poor Aunt made one last suggestion, which Grandpa growled at, and my Aunt, in desperation, hurled the guide book across the table at my Grandfather and shouted "WELL YOU FIND A PLACE TO EAT THEN!". Things got very quiet. I don't remember where we ate that night, but I don't think it was Bradleys.

Epilogue. Just for fun, I googled Timber Trails and looked at some of the real estate. It looks as though it has become quite the vacation destination, complete with golf, tennis, club house, pools, and a whole array of annoying organized activities (e.g., Valentines Dance, Breakfast with Santa, Casino Night, etc. I hate organized activities.) One house was on Leatherstocking Lane and another was on Conestoga Trail. A huge bell went off in my head, as I recall riding my bike on those very roads (see prior post). WOW! I think Bradleys burned down, and I found no listing for Little Brown Jug; however, the Pioneer Diner seems to still be there! Perhaps we'll visit this summer and order the Chicken parm, just for fun.

Hey Kids, Only 6 Hours to the World's Largest Ball of Twine

Every year the Children's Craniofacial Association (CCA) sponsors an annual family weekend. First of all, for those of you who don't know, CCA is a non-profit organization dedicated to helping children who have been born with facial disfigurement and their families. It is an awesome organization and their events are very enjoyable. It is held in different parts of the U.S. each year. We have been to two of these family weekends: one in Hershey, PA and one in Myrtle Beach, SC. In the ads for these trips, many people are quoted as saying that they"make this weekend part of their annual family vacation." I wish we could go every year, but I am not sure we have reached the status in life where we have an "annual family vacation." First of all, flying in a plane costs plenty of money, not to mention the price of hotels, food, activities, etc. Secondly, family vacations are exhausting and anything but relaxing for the adults involved.

I think my family reached "annual family vacation" status when I was about 7 or 8. We went to a place, I believe called Pennswood, in the Poconos in PA. (FYI, there is an item in the by-laws of New York City that states that all city residents may vacation in one of 2 places: the Poconos or Florida. You must start with the Poconos and after - and only after - at least 3 years' experience, you may attempt Florida.) Anyway, I remember little about Pennswood except that it was like a little cabin on some sort of man made lake. I do believe that this is the most rustic place my mother ever stayed of her own free will. I do remember that it had a pool, and one day I got it in my head that I was Esther Williams and just jumped off the diving board into water 5 feet deep. My father had to jump in and save me.

The next year we went to the Host Town. Compared to Pennswood, this was like a country club. Again, my memory is fuzzy, but it was like a hotel resort type of place. They had a pool (and maybe a game room with pinball and stuff; no video games in those days).They had a dining room and each evening we would go over for dinner. I recall thinking that this was very fancy indeed; you got a fruit cup, I think, and then some sort of soup or salad before you even had your meal! Wow! Plus they came around with dinner rolls and the butter was in little pats shaped like flowers. They served things like prime rib and roasted chicken. To a little girl from Staten Island it was the dining room at the Waldorf Astoria. I also recall that my baby brother Matt was an infant, and so my parents would take turns going to eat with us older kids: My Mom and I would go together, then my Dad and brother Mike; or my Dad and I would go, then Mom and Mike. This was also very exotic. I think we had breakfast there as well, with the waitresses taking turns holding Matt while my parents ate.

After a few years at the Host Town I believe we went to Naomi Cottages, on Lake Naomi, wherever the hell that is. This cabin was more like a little house, and we spent most of our days at the lake. I don't recall this vacation well. Then our neighbors, the DelPretes, bought a second home in a Pocono development called Timber Trails. I think the house had 4 bedrooms. It had an open floor plan and was like a county home, with all the comforts of a city home. We each got to choose a bedroom. It also had a tree house and a tire swing. Heaven! Best of all, there was a road that went through the development that was for residents (and renters only). There was very little traffic so I was allowed to take one of the bikes in the house and ride around by myself. The freedom! I would explore all the little side roads that had rustic names such as Evergreen Drive, Country Crescent, and Barnowl Road. I loved Timber Trails, although I do remember a skunk spraying us all one night. I am not sure what my father had to do to get my mother to return to this house, but we went back to Timber Trails several times. Remember this place, as it features prominently in the second half of this post.

When I was 13 and had finished 8th grade, my parents submitted their application to the NYC Vacation Board and were granted permission for the big Florida trip. In June of 1981 we headed to Disney World. We stayed "off site"in a tiny hotel room, where my parents and brothers shared 2 double beds and I slept on a cot. I was just happy I didn't have to share. Disney World was incredible. I loved the rides and everything about it. I can only imagine how hard it was for my parents to afford this trip, but we all had a great time, at least from my perspective. Four years' later, when I graduated from high school, we went back to Disney World. Of course, by the this point I was too cool for anything, but I secretly had fun, even though I likely moaned and groaned about missing my stupid boyfriend and any other highlights of the Staten Island summer season. We stayed in one of the Disney hotels this time, and each night someone would come and turn down your blanket and leave a piece of chocolate there! I was sure this was a classy joint.

Despite all the mayhem and money these trips cost my parents, whenever I think about them I have a laugh and enjoy the memories. Stay tuned for Part Two: Annual Family Vacation Traditions.