Boston

We are in Boston now. The kids and Jake are asleep, and I am (unfortunately) watching the Charlie Sheen True Hollywood Story.
This is an amazing city. The cobblestone walks, the buildings...We passed by an old brick three story building with slightly rotten mouldings, and a bright red door. For about two seconds, I could envision myself at that house, a century ago. There are true mysteries in that house. It has seen births, deaths, wars, laughter. Perhaps it is haunted by old memories, as many old buildings are. The entire city of Boston has ghosts running through it. You know that Paul revere runs through the streets, lantern lit and swinging...stagecoaches carry the wealthy to their boisterous parties in the brownstones. And as an addition to the glory of the streets and the buildings, the ocean whispers beyond the shore. Pirate ships on display, aromatic wharfs and blinding sunsets. This is what eden is formulated around. Not puffy clouds and angels with harps, but Boston. There will never be a dull moment here, never boredom. The coffee shops are adorable, the museums spectacular, the aquarium glorious and nothing less than amazing.
Albany, to me, represents home. But I find nothing wrong with letting part of my heart reside here. I spent the day after prom here, surrounded by friends I no longer know, I spent many days here with my mother when I was small. And now I get to introduce it to my own children, who will, no doubt, relish their trips here as I do.

the 80s

the 80s

My friends over at the WWk boards were having a discussion yesterday about the 80s.

It's odd to me that when the 1980s ended, I was 13...and yet, I still translate a lot of my present day memories and ideas to that decade. The music from back then is my favorite music to listen to, the movies are the ones I would still choose to cuddle up with on a wet rainy day.

Is it because it was a time of innocence? A time before I had to realize responsibility? Or just merely a better age? Back then, we waited until saturday morning, when we would make a beeline to the Tv for our cartoons, which were only on once a week. When christmas came, the fervor at which I tore open my gifts is unparalleled to this day. If I saw even the slightest hint of Barbie pink under the wrap, I was ecstatic for so long. My own children watch cartoons every day, they have 8 channels to choose from that are solely cartoon networks. They have dozens of Barbies, none of whom are in any clothes, their mansion is in disarray and the girls barely look their way.

When I think to the 80s, I think of my parents still being together, and still liking each other. I think to my sister always being around, mostly annoying me, but always there. I think to visits with my grandparents, who have since both passed away, and to whiling summer days away on the beach.

I suppose that our childhoods will always be a bittersweet memory. We fight so hard to be "grownups". We want to be in middle school, we want to be 13 so we can go see movies by ourselves...we want high school... we want to learn to drive.... we want first dates...we want prom.... we want college.... and then somewhere after college, we are suddenly surrounded by adults thinking "wow, how did I get here?"

I am 28. I have three kids. I look at them, playing, their excitement and enthusiasm sometimes boiling over. And I think it amazing that it was not so long ago that I was in their shoes.

I will forever cherish those 80s. the pound puppies, the curly shoelaces, the Wham and Duran and Duran, the tree swings, the Jedi powers, the Dukes of Hazzard at 7am on Saturdays. This is my privelege. I got to grow up in a time when things were Big and Overdone. Things were easier and stranger. So I am now going to sit here in my acid washed jeans, with my blue mascara on, listening to Cyndi Lauper on my Walkman, and scratch and sniff my sticker album. Ciao, amigos.

Days of Summer

The first day of spring makes a long hard winter worthwhile to me. Yesterday, as Jake and I stood and watched the kids at playground, I felt a bit invincible for a moment. The snow was gone, the sun was out, and all the complaints I had over the course of the winter seemed so far away and trivial.

Today, it is once again cloudy, the rain is cold and I want a fire in the fireplace. The kids are lethargic, as am I, and I am yearning for days of summer.

Remember ten years ago, when every summer day was one of introspection, excitement, and endless possibilities? I remember the scent of my mother's house, the sounds of kids splashing in the lake, and the knowledge that there was parties everywhere. I drove an old Subaru, with a collection of clothes in back from all my late night skinny dipping sessions. My friends were the most valuable things I had...I felt so free and so young then, the "future" was such a strange concept. Packing up a car and driving to the ocean with Laurie was not just a possibility, or a compulsion, but a necessity. (do you remember the boys in the saab?)

So now, when I stand in the park watching my children on the swings, I can't help but feel a bit of envy. I want to tell them to eat every delicious bite of life, not to pass up new experiences, and to always remember what summer smells like. Because for the rest of my life, every time I see new buds on the trees, or smell a barbecue, or hear DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince singing Summetime, I will get a little thrill down my spine.

A Diary Entry

A little diary

I wrote this two years ago....was re-reading and realized I liked it...

In the middle of the night, I rise to the sounds of breathing beside me. A warm sound, reassuring me. My younger daughter is curled next to me, pink cheeks puffed as she mimics nursing a ghost breast in her sleep. Her name is Morgan. She is just a year- twelve months of needy and clingy and second child coddled and a love so intense I wither when only feet away from her.

My husband lies on the other side of her, so near to the edge of the bed, his full shadow is cast on the floor. When Morgan began sleeping with us, he was riddled with fear. What if I roll on her, what if the blankets suffocate her, what if I keep her up with my snoring. I am guiltily shocked when I hear an overconcerned parent speak. My own easygoing parental style seems like dwarfed love in the face of such fierce protectiveness. My husband has one arm above his head. This is how he sleeps every night. His stance is that of someone warding off blows. Very symbolic of my husband's own stance on life. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop, the next tragedy.

In the room next door is my oldest child, Rhiannon. A cherub while sleeping, a tornado while awake. At four years, she is capable of boiling my blood, making me weep, setting my heart afloat, and inspiring me to write. I admire her now, in the peace of 3:00 am. My only time all day alone with my thoughts. Her slightly upturned nose and blonde hair come from a genetic unknown to me, where the rest of her is my own mirror image. This is sometimes to my chagrin, others to my secret glee.

I make it to the bathroom, where the vent is spilling forth delicious warmth, and I rest my feet beside it as I pee. My husband complains about my feet constantly. It is one of the few times he teases me that I enjoy. We have recently bought this house, our first in a lovely neighborhood. Our families are ecstatic for us. It has been a long journey, over coals and broken glass and very infrequently, rose petals. Owning a house has propelled us through marital woes and terrible jobs and borderline poverty. Because of this, I have created a convincing façade…life has become perfect. But I have adopted my husband's cynicism. Yes there is another shoe, and when it drops, the quake will be mighty.

Getting Old

An old friend ( read: lover) is expecting a baby this week. I suppose there is nothing that solidifies the fact that we are getting old like this sort of event. I check periodically to see if the event has occured. I think, somewhere, in the back of my brain, I have concluded that until it happens, I am allowed to be 19 forever.
Surprisingly, the last 11 years have passed extremely quickly for me. Recalling things that happened immediately post-high school are quite the same as recalling last month.
At one time, I laid in bed well past socially accepted norm with this man, surmising the hilarity of those who woke up before the sun. We debated things like astrology, and "partied like rock stars" , and yet we are both facing a reality that encompasses all we believed to be surreal at one time. If we still spoke, I would wish him well, and envision nurseries and baby clothes. But in fact, I will never be able to see him as someone other than someone who sobbed to Metallica, thought of lions as idols, and who walked the ASU campus with me in the early hours before an exam, believing that grades were the epitome of a successful adult life.
Is this how is it as a grown up? Expecting that time has stopped as we grow old, and that each individual who left an indelible imprint on our lives had remained as we remember them? As senility descends, and we enter our "second" childhood, is it not totally expected and realistic that we would put ourselves in a time where our responsibilities are trivial, and our youth seems eternal? I remember listening to the Fugees, while driving in the car given so generously to my college roommate, by her parents, and thinking that life was eternal, and georgeous. The palm trees swayed with the music, and, my young hands waved out the window with the music, and there were so few scars to deal with....and yet, now, I have become this adult, who has a plate of reality to deal with, when sometimes, all I want to do is escape into the silly world in which I once inhabited.
Good luck, Ryan, on the adventure into which you are embarking. I wish you nothing but the best, and while you hold your baby girl, may you feel nothing but the moment. They will move quickly, my old friend. And soon, she will be wandering the campus, feeling foreign breezes on her face...knowing her own invincibility, and yet kniwing that each passing moment is one in which to delight...and despair. Such is life...such is adulthood. I can only wish for her, and for my own children, the time when eating at 2am in IHOP is delicious and unsacrificable.

Valentine's Day/ Snow Day

This morning, we awoke to six inches of powdery snow, and a snow day, and so began a glorious Valentine's Day. Chocolate Chip pancakes for breakfast, and chilly romp outside, a crackling fire, and homemade Valentines have all continued to make this the sweet day tradition says it should be.
Many believe that valentine's Day is merely a holiday perpetuated by mass corporations like Hallmark, capitalizing on peoples' needs for passion and romance. It trounces on the lonely and heartbroken, and empties the pockets of the desperate in love. But does it have to be that way? I spent four and a half hours making homemade valentines cards for the kids classes, complete with ribbon, and gold embossing, only to meet with a disdainful Jake, wondering why I wasn't buying the 99 cent cartoon character cards at Wal Mart. But don't those cards go against everything that Valentine's Day should stand for? If we so easily forget to pay attention to these little things, aren't we merely exacerbating the already dismal situation of current romance patterns in our society? Call me melodramatic, but I truly believe that the downfall of our culture relies mainly in the laziness we have all come to embrace. We take short roads, when the long ones may be much more scenic, we microwave when the oven adds more flavor, we drive when the walk would do us good, and we buy cheap ugly cards when we could show the recipients we care enough to spend a minute on them. And, of course, this is all metaphorical. Cards are just a small reminder of how quickly we disregard that which comes from the heart. I will always be the romantic who believes that flowers plucked valiantly from a field say more than a bouquet designed by professionals. I will always believe that a goopy peanut butter and jelly sandwich created by a husband for a wife with cravings is a thousand times more delicious than a veal dish in a five star restaurant. It is all about relishing moments, creating lasting delicious minutes. I will spend laborious hours hand-piping frosting on the heart cookies for Morgan's school. They will be eaten quickly by greedy four year olds' hands, but Morgan will remember the time I took forever. The way I will always remember my own parents sketching me homemade cupid cards when I was small, or my mom stitching my costumes at halloween. Small thoughtful things are lasting. After valentine's Day my senior year, an ex-sweetheart sent me a lavish bouquet of roses to patch my grieving heart (my grandparents had just died). Valentine's Day of my freshman year at ASU, a friend ran after me in a parking lot to deliver one rose and a card because they truly just felt I deserved it. One year when we were down and out, Jake brought me home a crossword puzzle book, which meant more than jewelry ever could. I suppose we could sum this up with the old cliche- It's the thought that counts. And it does. So to all of you who are looking forward to your evenings with your special someones, remember that offering them a drink when they haven't asked for it, or covering them with blankets when they have fallen asleep on the couch, or bringing home chicken soup when they were up all night coughing....they will remember these things long after the petals have dried and fallen from the flowers, and the chocolates have been eaten and the shiny heart boxes discarded. I wish you all a day of old fashioned romance, vibrant passion, and heartaching saccharin. But most especially, I wish them to still be there tomorrow.

Weddings, Marriages and Debacles

My best friend is getting married soon, and because of her upcoming nuptials, I have selfishly been thinking of my own quite often lately. As many young girls do, I fantasized of my dream wedding early in my formative years. Of course, my fantasies usually included wild horses, and white doves, and a mystical aura. And of course, being the 80s child I was, my dress was lace and tacky to the extreme, but that's prefectly all right, as was my dream to get married to a song by Foreigner. I think that when you imagine something your entire life, you have left it completely open to being a huge diappointment, but it also allows for you to know specifically what your priorities are, in terms of what you want, what you need, and what you most definitely abhor.
I envisioned a proposal amid romantic circumstances...ie- a picnic, a rendezvous in Paris, a fat diamond in a baked potato at our favorite restaurant (cum Golden Girls). Never once did I suspect that it would be me doing the proposing, or that it would be in the carnage of empty beer bottles, or with my daughter next to me. Were we doing it to placate our families, avoid the endless questions when we were with our child, to satisfy social standards, as well as reap the economic rewards? Perhaps. Perhaps it was also the misty notion of ever after, eternal bands of gold and *cringe* holy union. We were lacking in financial stability, en route to another state, and overwhelmed with our new role as parents, and yet, the idea of a wedding gave us something to hold on to, and strive for. I spent countless hours on ebay, hunting guestbooks, veils and favors. I visited David's Bridal three times, until I found the exact wrong dress at the exact right price, knowing I would simply have to grin and bear it, versus being the princess I longed to be. We went to one location, chose it on spot and had our menu picked out in five minutes. In the tux shop, we picked one immediately, and never looked back. What could have been an extremely arduous task turned out to be relatively simple, and relatively inexpensive. (From start to finish, all accessories included, we spent $4,000) Despite a few familial altercations, and minor setbacks, the wedding date came. But I suppose, in the grand scheme of things, karma knows its business. Because as a striking contrast to the ease of planning, the actual wedding had no grace, no fluidity. Our vows were read wrong by the Notary, there was not enough room for both bride and groom to walk up the aisle together, hence the bride walked behind. Once inside the reception, the groom's grandmother collapsed and stopped breathing, and while the room looked on in horror, the bride ran to call 911. The ambulances revived her and took her away, and the groom lost all interest in the festivities until word came back that she would be all right. And at the end of the night, after dancing, many drinks for some, and mediocre food, a member of the wedding party disappeared, and the police were summoned.
While this may seem fabricated, and quite unbelievable, I can assure you that it is all devastatingly and heartbreakingly true. One may think that such a disastrous day of nuptials would mean most certain doom to its couple, we have, in fact, lasted more than six years. I will not lie, and say the road has been easy, as it will never be, even for the most compatible couple. There are times when the road seems virtually impassable, and days when flowers look brighter, and faroff music can be heard. There are days, when finances have you stretched to your limit, or your partner's idiosyncracies have travelled into the realm of unforgivable, or heartbreaking. And there will be days when on a simple icy Sunday in January, your partner wrestles with your son until they are both breathless from giggles, and you know that things can work.
The best advice I could give to my engaged friend is embrace your whimsy and spontanaeity. Never forget that every situation can have a humorous perpective. Remember that in the great order of things, you come first. And most importantly, not to expect perfection, but to hope for occasional miracles

Washington DC

If Boston is the nautical, charming senior, Washington DC is its well groomed, elegant yuppie little brother. I am still in awe from our trip last week, as are my children. From towering marble monuments, to sprawling museums and intricate garden landscaping, Washington is the epitome of grace in this country. While I am certain there are ghettos there, as anywhere else, they are hidden well, and even their homeless are eloquent and unobtrusive- speaking of course, about the man wearing the placard proclaiming Condoleeza Rice and Marion Barry the key figures in the 9/11 attacks. When you step on the subway in DC (which I am loathe to ride in NYC), you are greeted by a dozen people offering their seats, clean seats, to you and your family. The subway workers are more than happy to offer you assistance, and will wonders never cease...the aroma of urine is noticably absent on the well scrubbed tiles of the subway floor. We paid an adequate amount of money to ride the tour bus, which was more than worth its weight, considering the ease and speed in which we made our way around the city. Washinton Monument, Lincoln Memorial, Vietnam, Korea, World War II (and while spectacular, these war memorials are just a cringingly horrific reminder of the bloodbath that has been our world), the Capitol. And the thing that always seems to surprise me when travelling in DC is the unremarkable view of the White House. It does not hold a candle to the other beauties, and perhaps appropriately so. My children were thrilled at the museums, with astronaut gear and rockets overhead, wooly mammoth fossils posing next to extinct bunnies....I took a great shot of the three kids and Jake creening to read the Gettysburg address in my all-time favorite Washington landmark, the Lincoln Memorial. As I was explaining to Jake, when I was a child and someone mentioned god, the image that always came to mind was Lincoln on his throne. Always. As we were leaving the city, somewhat sadly and a bit tiredly, I felt as if the well-dressed business people were choreographed for us as they walked to their jobs, in a Broadway-esque farewell. While I have been to Boston, and Washington DC many times, seeing it again through the eyes of my children, I truly have to say....the wonders never cease.

Decorating the Tree

The hot chocolate dishes are in the sink. Empty Hallmark Keepsake Ornament boxes litter the floor of my family room. The fire is down to its last embers, and the house still has faint remnants of pepperberry wreath candles and Perry Como wafting throughout. It is Christmas time again at the Rybak household, and all is as it should be.
Cherubic Morgan, dressed in pale pink jammies, with pink slippers and her blond hair wispy around her face, clutching the macaroni ornament she made in her "3 year old class", and boisterous Rhiannon, in bold red and white laughs as she narrates her little brothers movements, and searches for the ornaments that bear her engraved name. Adorable Lucas, pudgy and effervescent in his almost-too-small Gap jammies, hair slightly askew, sits on Daddy's lap, "helping" him video tape the festivities. And Mommy stands back and thinks that in little moments such as these, life is a snowglobe. Perfect, amazing, iridescent and magical but fragile. I hold my own special ornaments, the beautiful ball that my grandma gave to me when I was first born, looking slightly worn but still readable- "1977", a gold trumpet that my mother had attempted to engrave herself, when money didn't stretch far enough, a homemade felt stocking with my 4th grade picture stuck in the tiny rectangular hole. I remember making that ornament in class, funny to think Rhiannon is only 2 years younger than I was in that memory.
Lucas has discovered the train ornament, and discovered how quickly and easily all of the ornaments come off the tree. I notice that morgan has a pronounced chocolate handlebar mustache, and that Rhiannon is off in search of the cat. There are a few naked spots on the tree that I will fix when everyone is asleep. We read the first of many Christmas books the kids have piled up in their room, and Morgan asks, for the 14th night in a row, if tomorrow morning is christmas. I kiss her, and smell pine in her hair. Rhiannon begs me to pick out her clothes for tomorrow, and asks a few more logical questions about Santa and his mystical ways. I hug her, and notice she has hidden a couple of books under her covers for covert after-hours reading. I bring Lucas downstairs and nurse him. He falls asleep murmuring "mama". I look around at the hot chocolate dishes in the sink, and the empty Hallmark Keepsake Ornaments littering the floor of my family room. It is Christmas time at the Rybak household, and all is as it should be.

Morgan's Birthday

Morgan, my middle child, celebrated her fourth birthday last Wednesday, and we had a party for her yesterday. The past four years have been filled with so much activity, I feel as if Morgan has been with us forever. She is different from Lucas and Rhiannon in so many ways, and although she is quiet, she has become important to a lot of people for her uniqueness. She is demure, cuddly and often can jump from tears to giggles in nanoseconds. Her speech is not as eloquent as Rhiannon's at that age, so sometimes when she speaks, while her words may be somewhat rudimentary, they are surprising in their clarity. I think she had a good birthday. She had cute turkey shaped cupcakes to bring in to class, while the other students sang to her. One of her friends' mothers had thoughtfully brought in flowers for her, and she came home to a nice, albeit small, pile of presents. Her birthday party yesterday, however, was the opposite kind of celebration- overwhelming, busy and noisy. Those kinds of celebrations have always been Rhiannon's forte. She has always loved being surrounded by people, surrounded by bits of chaos. She relished in morgan's party, and delighted in helping her open gifts. Morgan, on the other hand, was overwhelmed and contented herself with quietly playing with Grandma, while the other kids raced around. If you saw a child like Morgan, your heart may break a little for her, because you would think she was without friends. But in fact, she is quite loved. She is like her father, in so many ways. She will always find her little niche in the world, and it will always be a quiet one, a soft one, a familiar one. I can picture her a poet, a chef, an artist....all jobs done magnificently when done alone. She will talk about the party for years to come, and she will treasure each of the gifts she got, because that who she is. She will never think of herself as being the girl alone on the playground, or alone in the crowd. Because to he

The Election

My very cynical husband informed me this year that he planned to avoid the polls, and despite my disappointment, I empathized with his position. Jake feels that we, the common voter, the simple American, have become lost amid a sea of corruption, absolute power and a loss of true democracy. And though some among us may beg to differ, the reality exists that over the course of the past 6 years, our unwanted and unwarranted dictatorship has dampened our spirits and brought upon such doubt. I, however, felt that to abandon hope would be premature, and went to the voting booth with eager hands. I was dismayed in the last two weeks of the campaigns to see the negativity and smear campaigns, but uplifted in the seeming brotherhood that so many of us suddenly possessed. I brought the kids to see Bill Clinton speak, and found myself enraptured by both his intelligence, eloquence and wit. I was again inspired to believe in a process I once considered archaic and arbitrary. I voted proud on election day, not pausing a moment to reconsider my choices, regardless of the negative ads, regardless of Jake's doubt. I stayed up as late as I could that night, fighting sleep in hopes of seeing a result. I remember 6 years ago, and again 2 years ago, the endless hours of political analyzation and debate, watching the numbers in disbelief, and then horror when Bush's opponents made their concessions. And while you can argue that midterms may not be as consequential as the presidential elections, this year felt equally as urgent and dire, to me. 400,000 people in Iraq have lost their lives. Men, women and children whose biggest wrongdoing is where their parents conceived, geographically. People who have lost all of their families, belongings and cities to devastation from outside countries, ours being the largest contributor. At home, our homeless are without much deserved and needed aid, and while people like my sister strive to fight an unwilling system, faces are getting lost in the crowd. Stem cell research lays on a back burner, when it should be brought to rapid boil immediately. Gay marriage is equated with beastiality on national TV. The constitutional rights to own your own body have come up for grabs once again, and the man who supposedly leads this free country cannot pronounce simple words, or admit his own mistakes.
I woke up on Wednesday morning, once again with pounding heart, and saw the blue spread across the US. The house, the Senate, Albany...we have won. A small battle, but a triumphant and incredibly motivating one at that.
Jake has even lost a bit of the edge on his cynicism. And that is a sign that the times are a changin

Halloween

I am not sure of the exact appeal to Halloween. Perhaps it is the pagan in me, longing to come out. The girl who used to burn black candles and listen to eerie music. Really, the only religions that make even the slightest bit of sense to me are taoism and wicca, but I digress. Perhaps halloween is as exciting as it is because of the anonymity of costumes, the idea we can each metamorphise into another being. We grew up in a small town, atop a mountain, so the trick or treating was sparse and difficult. As young teenagers, my friends and I would traipse around the center of the mountain, hunting out the best goodies (full sized candybars) and I would stand by and disapprovingly watch as they "tricked" the less than generous houses. Back then, parents were trusting enough to send their strangely clad children out into the dark to knock on strangers doors. We would all heed the rules about no wrapperless candy, knowing that evil disguised itself as razor blades in 3 Musketeer Bars. As a parent, my joy comes from the photo ops with my children....cute little cherubic faces peering out from nylon and stuffing, equal mix of glee and fear in their eyes as we walk up to the houses with hanging skeletons and luminescent jack o'lanterns. I love the horror movies they play for the last two weeks of the month, and have to wonder why we as a society love to be scared the way we do. Although I suppose that the fear we feel when watching halloween or Psycho or Pet Semetary is nowhere close to the fear we feel when at war, or when republicans are in office, but again I digress.
This year, my oldest daughter is unsure of what she wants to be. It started out as a cowgirl, then switched to a bat, and now it is wavering between a storybook character or a fairy. I have tried to tell her of the handmade costumes of my youth...my mother actually dressed me as Michael Jackson and Ben Franklin, but kids these days assume all costumes should come wrapped in plastic and match 20 other kids in their classes. There is palpable excitement in the air this week at my house. Our pumpkins are eager for their slaughter... the scarecrow grins through the dark, and the glow in the dark spider is happily awaiting the impending day on his web. And this year... I get to be the woman all the kids will long to see....for I, my friends, have Full Sized Candybars.

Titanic Love

If you have watched the movie Titanic, you know what I am talking about when I say Titanic Love. I saw this movie when it first came out, Christmas of 1997. I has just had my heart broken and a great friend brought me to see it, and let me cry in the theater while Jack froze to death in the water. Titanic Love is a love that is destined to fail, to sink if you will, but is so worth the pain, you would go through it a thousand times. Jack and Rose had two days together before she was selfish enough to steal the door out from under him and let him die, but in that time, they felt true passion and romance that rocked her world for the next 80 decades.
For many, Titanic Love is a dream. The idea of a soul mate is a dream. For those who have experienced it, you know that there are some things that surpass words and time.
Your life is made up of moments. Some are trivial and forgettable. Some are momentous, like childbirth, your wedding vows, graduation. And some are what I call "movie moments". The moments that are so vivid, you could remember smells, sounds, and visions even after many years have passed. The incredible romantic moments that feel surreal, the tragedies that make you sob hysterically, the crazy adventures that you can't believe you did. I have many of these moments. In my early twenties, my life was such a turmoil. From one moment to the next, I could never tell if I would be in crazy love, terrible angst and loneliness, or content in Arizona nights. I had many beautiful people in my life, many whom I miss terribly. I had Titanic Love, I had cheesy crushes, I had roommates who would cruise Mill Ave with me, listening to the Fugees and talking about dreams.
For my own daughters, I will tell them....make sure once in your life, you have Titanic Love. Make sure once in your life, you get your heart smashed to smithereens. Make sure once in your life, you make a beautiful mistake. Because above all, it will be fuel for the rest of your life to never stop searching for movie moments. We all deserve movie moments.

Jesus H. Christ

Jesus H. Christ

Rhiannon has come home on numerous occasions upset with her classmate, Clarisa. Clarisa is a cute girl, smart and funny with a good looking suburban family. But what is lurking below the surface, making for a less than ideal friend, is that her father is a missionary in Africa, and her family disapproves of people who have not been "born again." For anyone who knows us, you would know that my family is not a good fit for those who have chosen that particular path. However, I believe I am raising my children, as I was raised, to be accepting of other beliefs, and accepting of other cultures. So, why, after so much effort on my part, can other parents not have as much consideration and respect?
In the last month, Clarisa has informed Rhiannon that the world will soon come to an end, and god will save all who believe in him and love jesus. But since Rhiannon does not love jesus, she will die, and never get to heaven. For me, that is amusing, and I can certainly see the irony in such a statement. But for a seven year old, this is confusing and terrifying. Jake and I have left it in our childrens hands to decide for themselves where they stand on politics, religion, etc... We realize that when they are adults, they will be intelligent enough human beings to figure out what they believe. I am a very scrupulous person (in fact, more so than many of my "religious" friends), and I teach my children a strict code of ethics and morals. And along the way, they will hear our opinions on politics and religion, as well as the opinions of classmates, relatives and even strangers. But not at seven. At seven, they can still see the world as a blissful, peaceful place where people can be harmonious and nonjudgemental. I am still prickling as I write this, and am more than inclined to pick up the phone and call Clarisa's parents. But there will be many clarisas in Rhiannon's lifetime. Many who will make her feel like less of a person, many who will make her question herself, many who will try to instill fear in her. I have confidence that she will grow a thicker skin, as I have, and use her intelligence to turn their prejudice and ignorance to her advantage, and in the end teach her own children, therefore making the world a better place.

Bush/September11/Bullshit

Bush/September11/Bullshit

This day was a terrible, horrific day in our history. There is rarely a time when a picture or a story depicting September 11th does not bring tears to my eyes.As someone who lives in NY state, I know many people who were personally affected by all aspects of that day. My issues with the Bush speech have absolutely nothing to do with the delay of my regularly scheduled broadcasting, or of someone speaking to commemorate this day. That said, My heart is still pounding from the anger I felt watching his speech last night.
This was one of those speeches that reaffirmed for me the disgust I have for this administration right now. It is not a republican/ democrat thing. I vote not for a party, but for a candidate. Unfortunately, often that means a lesser of certain evils. but this is not about my politics, or anyone's politics. This is about grace, compassion,tact, eloquence and intelligence.
I hate that the president of the united states cannot pronounce words my second grader can. how can a man with such little education and literacy hold a position of such power?
The first five minutes of the speech started well, discussing the people who have suffered losses...that is what the whole speech should have been about. but as soon as he started talking about war, Iraq and Saddam Hussein, I began to see red. By the time he actually had the audactity to mention Weapons of Mass Destruction, I was livid. It was as I thought it would be. A speech about matters that should be on the back burner when we are supposed to be mourning and commemorating. Regardless of my feelings about the war, I believe that yesterday should have been about remembrance, sorrow and empathy. But the speech focused on how we should be fearful, how we are going to continue this war, and about Bush patting himself on the back. He was speaking to a country, who as a majority, has come to dislike and disapprove of him. He was speaking to a country who was mourning 3,000 dead on this day. He was speaking to a nation who has lived in fear from overblown political and media agendas for five years. A better man, a stronger man, a more compassionate man, would have saved his political podiums for debates, union addresses and campaign tours. I feel that we were disgraced last night.

Our Manhattan Trip

o we went to the city on Friday to see Jake's favorite comedian, Doug Stanhope. It was an overall good trip, except Jake got mugged, and that can put a damper on things.
A few observations about New York City:
I hate that New Yorkers don't look up, or around. In a city this gargantuan, so chaotic and hectic, you would think one would take the time to "smell the roses". Observe other New Yorkers, gaze at architecture, admire some artistry, don't ignore the world because you are jaded.
Obese people are either not welcome in this city, or it is impossible to stay obese because of the ghastly amount of walking you must do. My heels are bruised from our hike to the subway. And the subway...the most hideous ride of your life. Surrounded by drunk, high, crazy people who all smell like the urine they tread upon in the stations. It is difficult to maintain composure when grasping for dear life onto a germ-ridden pole.
The comedian made it a point to ask why the hell people would love in a shithole like NYC. I second that. To visit for a weekend, lovely. Gazing at the yachts behind the 3,000th Starbucks near the old WTC sites, actually seeing a kid who went to Averill Park running across the street with a small harem of scantily clad women, enjoying the most expensive bagel I have ever eaten, and feeling the freedom of being just another number in a crowd.These are all things I could appreciate and temporarily love. But practically speaking...how does one procreate without guilt or logic in this city? How does one grocery shop, lounge, and not become destitute in this world. New York is the anti- Boston. Boston reminds me of the preppy kids, the Nautical senior citizens, the history, the laughter of the east coast, the gentle din of a relaxing lobster dinner, the clean cobbled streets upon which you can safely navigate toward beautiful sights.
NY reminds me of the dirty kids, who dropped out of school, the homeless, the tacky souvenir, the dark and dreary northeast, the loud roar of trains and bars, and the dirty overcrowded streets upon which you risk your life to navigate toward overpriced, overhyped sights.
I am proud of the Yankees, I am proud of Cuomo, I am proud of Albany, I am proud of The beautiful Atlantic, I am proud of the resilience New Yorkers have had post- 9/11, post-Pataki. But I feel ashamed of the myth of the streets of gold that draw in tourists and immigrants. This is not the best we have to offer, world. Drive two hours out of the city, and see what America is about. Not 12.00 beer, not muggings south of houston, not a man peeing on a subway map under a marquis, not the beggar playing a kazoo with his money cup outheld. Please, see the vast cornfields under the sky in Iowa. Please see the rolling farms, and vibrant leaves of upstate NY. Please see the ocean waves, the ancient buildings in Massachusetts. Please see the towering palms, and leaping dolphins of Florida. Please see the flaming red rock and canyons of Arizona. And to hell with NYC

Ladies Who Lunch

Ladies who Lunch

I just finished a lunch with two girlfriends from high school. It has been a decade since I have hung out with one of them, and more than that since the last time the three of us have been together. I expected a certain degree of awkwardness. How does one fill in ten years worth of time in one August afternoon? How does one marry the ideas of high school and adulthood? I have difficulties, sometimes, coming to the realization of my own responsibility, and "grownup-ness", so how in the world do I accept this reality in two people who forever will be etched in my mind as high school friends?
My one friend is now an activist, who, like my sister, has decided to take on the woes of the modern world, and make their difference slowly but surely. She has married a man she truly admires, and is continuing her education. I am fascinated by hearing her speak, all the while thinking of her 15 years ago. She was once the whirlwind in my life. The one who could leave you breathless, both from laughter and from awe. She listened to Two Live Crew when I was still listening to Michael Jackson. She smoked early, swore early, and the older kids always thought she was cool. She used to intimidate me, and make me feel like I was uncool. So now, I am seeing her as an adult, and it is inspiring. My other friend was my party friend. She threw parties when we were in middle school, was at every party ever thrown. She knows embarrassing things about me that even I am too ashamed to admit. We used to make towering ice cream sundaes to pass Saturday Nights.
Both of these girls were once my best friends. We passed notes, we giggled and had horrible knockdown, dragout fights. We got in trouble together, we cried, and we even danced the running man at dances once upon a time. So I anticipated this tense exchange...and there was none. We spent a beautiful afternoon laughing, reminiscing, and gossiping ( perhaps a little too much, to my glee) I watched them speak as women, and saw them as girls. Maybe we could do this more often, and include other friends, or maybe this was a once in a lifetime opportunity. I am glad for it. Friends like these are another facet of the diamond that is my life.

Old Friends

Old friends

One can use myspace and its vast array of tools for many things: stalking, for one, is always enjoyable when you are not (and never could be) caught. Blogging, for some, is appealing, as is reading other blogs, if you are prone to voyeurism. Listening to music, and posting mass bulletins is yet another appeal. My favorite past time on this website, however, is finding old friends. When you think of the friends (or lovers) whom you have lost over the years, it is an odd feeling. How do you go from loving someone, and thinking they will always grace your life, to knowing nothing about them? And an even more puzzling question- how do you befriend someone, confide in them, laugh and occasionally cry with them, and then less than a decade later, forget their last names? Or did you ever know their last names to begin with?
I have so far found old college friends, old high school friends, several old family friends, and a few old flames. I have contacted some of them, some with terrible results, some who I could reinstate into my category of current friends. Others, I have kept watch on. I check back periodically to make sure they have accrued more friends, or posted new blogs, or added more pictures. And I find myself increasingly frustrated with people who have yet to add themselves to myspace. I run searches for people whom I have endless curiosity about. The guy who broke my heart before Jake came along, the kid who used to bench press full milk bottles in the hall of my dorm at ASU, my ex-roommate, whose boyfriend was jailed midway into our second semester, the kid in high school who vanished and was never heard from again. Surely, these people have heard of myspace and its many wonders. Surely they, too, must have curiousity about people long past...
Sometimes checking someone's page just once is plenty. You find they are still alive, or have gotten quite large, or had 13 kids, and you find your desire for information has been quenched. And yet others, you check on a weekly basis. If someone could have told me, or any of us for that matter, that friends we thought we had permanently deleted from our rolodex would forever be able to keep tabs on us without the private investigator fees, I would have thought them quite loony. But if you happen to be one of the 25 people who have read this blog since the start of the week, and we at one time knew each other well, welcome back to my life, old friend.

First Day of School

So apparently, according to my mother, I am an odd duck. I used to look forward to the first day of school with fervor. The smells of your new shoe leather, the classroom and supplies. The feel of your new first day dress, and perfect September air. Everything was new, and fresh, and full of promise. Which teachers would you end up with? The ones who drove you crazy with their stupidity, or the ones who picked your brain and tested your limits? Would your friends be in your class, or in your lunch? What about the guy you had a crush on?
My own daughter is dreading the first day, which tears me apart. She had a terrible experience last year, and is sure that from now on, that is what school will be. There are times when I want to just grab her and tell her everything will be all right. She will have great teachers, and terrible ones. She will make some amazing friends who will give her such nostalgia in later years, and she will have some friends who will make me cringe when she brings them home. She will have good days, and bad days, but the good days will outnumber the bad. There will be a lot of learning experiences that will be invaluable to her for her entire life. But these are things that she won't hear me on. I am an old woman, I know nothing about what it is like to be in second grade. She doesn't think I remember that my second grade teacher wore a red dress on the first day of school, that I learned to ride my bike without training wheels that year, that Mark Perry broke his arm and we got to sign his cast, that Laura Perez told me there was no Santa Claus. She doesn't think I remember the feeling of being the new girl in school, or the embarrassment of when my wraparound skirt fell off in the hallway after recess. She has no idea that I still remember buying the stuffed calico cat for my favorite aunt at the school christmas shop for 10 cents.
Her closet is ready to go- she has about 20 new outfits, and seven new pairs of shoes. She has her pretty new purple Gap backpack all filled with supplies, and her chore list is ready to be tacked to her wall. I will cross my fingers that she will get to a point, as this summer winds down, when she is filled with anticipation and eager for the sounds of her bus arriving at the corner. I will stand in the front door, and watch her run down the driveway with the backpack she picked out by herself bouncing. She will sit in her seat and wave emphatically at me while the bus drives away, and my heart gets tugged along with it. And all the while, she will have the butterflies playing tag in her belly. This is my hope for her. Let her be an odd duck, too.

Tom Petty

So we went to the Allman Bros/ Tom Petty concert on Sunday. I was pretty hyped up about it. I haven't been to SPAC in a few years, and the last time I did it was for the Pink Floyd Laser Light show...which is another story in and of itself, and to see a legend like Tom Petty was a thrilling concept.
The day was perfect, a nice balmy 80, everything green like summer should be. My sister (the saint) came to babysit the kids so jake and I could go out. We left an hour early in the anticipation of parking issues. Little did we know...
Traffic off exit 13n was a bear. A lot of very inebriated teenagers yelling expletives out the window, way too many police ( how nice of them to give the child molesters and rapists a free day) guarding entrances and taking up room on medians. It took us over 2 hours from our house (exit 11 of the northway) to SPAC. The concert was supposed to start at 6pm, so I was getting anxious. The place was a zoo. Instead of finding the aging pacifistic hippies I expected, we were surrounded by punk teenagers in G-unit sweatshirts and backwards hats. The air was literally thick with the pungent odors of pot, cheap booze and tobacco. Every ten seconds we were pushed aside by people who had left their manners at home. (at one point I was actually pushed very hard into the lap of the guy next to me) So our view was completely obstructed, and we were jostled so much, i could have come home and given lucas a milkshake.
The Allmany brothers droned on for much too long. Don't get me wrong, I like the Allman brothers as much as the next guy, but there is only so much I can listen to an opener when I am there for the meat and potatoes. They ended up not getting off the stage until 9:30, and Tom got up after 10. At this point, the park was getting pretty chilly, I had a headache from the fumes, both of our hands were sore from being stepped on, and having ashes flicked on them. Frustration overtook my excitement, especially when we realized as Tom began to play that we could hear nothing. We worked our way closer to the stage, but to no avail. Every time he spoke to the crowd, we strained to hear and heard nothing but mumbles. We recognized the song not by hearing Tom, but by hearing the rest of the crowd belt it out. (which I do have to admit, hearing 25,000 people singing Free Falling was pretty enrapturing) We left early. Stevie Nicks was supposed to make a surprise appearance, my idol, my woman, and we left before seeing her. Because even if she had come on, it was 11:15, jake had work the next day, Julia had to be relieved so she could go home, it was getting very cold, and we wouldn't have been able to hear her anyway. So it was with heavy heart that we trudged back to bewilderingly look for our car in the sea of SUVs, Minivans and lowered Dodge Neons with fancy wheels. I felt old. I felt like maybe we have passed by the time in our lives where risking a contact high and getting trampled were adventures. We came home, jake fell asleep and I nursed Lucas. And that felt good. So next time he comes to town, I will be equally excited, but I will fork over the extra 40 bucks a ticket to sit inside.

My Birthday

My birthday

My birthday was pretty amazing this year, though I must be truthful and admit I was not looking forward to it. Turning 29 was a daunting task... Do you celebrate like it is 1999, the cusp of your thirties, the last year in your twenties? Do you celebrate the fact that you are still younger than all of your "mommy" friends, that you accomplished so much in your twenties? After all, I have gotten married, had 3 kids, bought two houses, moved to 4 different states, managed a great restaurant, made a dozen or more great friends.. Or do you spend your 29th miserable because you are getting " old" and that next year there will be people thinking it is funny to send you "over the hill" t shirts, and coffins and funerals will be the theme of your party?

I chose the former. My kids have kept me young. My best friend in the world had taken me out for an early evening out at "our" favorite Mexican restaurant. We drank a pitcher of margaritas and gobbled chimichangas and chips till we came close to exploding. My friend made me lunch and a cake that day, and when I came home there was a huge bouquet of flowers from my mommy waiting on the stoop, and a gift from a friend hanging on my door. I had phone calls, myspace messages and emails all day. My dad took me and the family out for a nice dinner (during which Lucas threw a lemon at strangers, smashed a drinking class on the floor, and Morgan tripped a waiter into the bathroom door) Overall, it was a successful birthday. And instead of depressing me, my birthday uplifted me. It taught me that the benefit to getting older is that your support system grows, your friends get kinder and closer, and your kids get mature enough to spend all day making you dozens of cards in their playroom :-)

Reunions

Family reunions

So, I posted a drunk blog. We've all done it....it's been happening since the beginning of time :-) Anyway, to all of you who have said I sounded sad, it was the margaritas talking, I have bounced back and am my usualy perky self.

We had a family reunion this past weekend. The kids languished in the sun, the first sun we have seen in a while. There was a bouncy bounce, which seems to provide more joy than puppies, oceans and lollipops combined. lucas held his own, quite well, with the older kids bound and determined to demolish his small body into a pulp. He will be quite the tough boy someday, I suppose....despite my best efforts :-)

Rhiannon quickly befriended her distant Iowa cousins, and was the cop to their robber/murderers. Where did I go wrong...a tough guy and a cop? And Morgan was content to hold her friends hand and traipse through the yard, soaking up the compliments of the old folks.

Reunions are funny things. There are many family members that make you think" if i were to meet this person on the street, would i want to know them?" And others that you are so surprised you weren't closer with, considering how very alike your beliefs are, and how similar your noses look.

I enjoyed mine, stress aside. The food was good, the day was beautiful, and the less than savory family, I just disregarded. I will see them maybe once every couple of years, and forget them the rest of the time. That's my right. In the meantime, I will think fondly of this, and feel grateful for these people who all gave my mom the childhood she had.