Christmas

"Lake is frozen over. Trees are white with snow. And all
around reminders of you, are everywhere I go."

'Christmas is going to be a disaster this year. Maybe we should call it off', your brother says. You reassure him over and over again that it's going to be just fine. It's late at night on December 22nd, 2000. Your brother, who has flown in from Florida for Christmas, your Dad and you are discussing your mother's recent behavior. Your mother is asleep in her bedroom while the 3 of you have a few drinks in the kitchen. It's 2 days before Christmas Eve, a holiday your mother spends weeks getting ready for, you host it at your home, and not one thing has been done for the big night. The menu hasn't been finalized, food hasn't been purchased. Shopping still needs to be finished, presents yet to be wrapped. You vow to help her as much as you can to make your favorite night of the year a success.

"It's late and morning's in no hurry, but sleep won't set me free. I lie awake
and try to recall how your body felt beside me."

The next day you finish the grocery shopping. You tell your mother to finish the present shopping while you stay at home and clean. Christmas Eve day is spent wrapping the remaining presents and preparing the food. Your mother seems aloof.

"When silence gets too hard to handle and the night too long."

The rest of your family arrives Christmas Eve night. Everyone is in great spirits and happy it's Christmas. Your mother is in the kitchen preparing the coconut shrimp. She has burned every single one and thinks it's funny. She's singing Feliz Navidad at the top of her lungs, almost like she's drunk, but she has yet to drink a glass of wine. Everyone thinks it's funny. The remainder of the night is a success, despite the shrimp, you and your mom have pulled off another fabulous Christmas Eve. The following morning, Christmas Day, your mother is overly tired. You have breakfast, you open the gifts with your family, and your mother retires to bed in the early afternoon complaining of a backache.

"And this is how I see you, in the snow on Christmas morning. Love and happiness
surround you as you throw your arms up to the sky. I keep this moment by and
by."

The following month your mother is diagnosed with cancer of the lungs, kidneys, liver, and brain. She dies 10 months later. It's now understandable why Christmas was almost a disaster, her brain had been taken over with tumors. You wish you would have known that was going to be your last Christmas with her. You would have sung Feliz Navidad at the top of your lungs too and you would have laughed at how burnt the shrimp were.

"Oh how I miss you now...my Mom. Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, Merry
Christmas, my Mom."

Christmas hasn't been the same since she died. As hard as you have tried, you just can't get the same Christmas spirit back as when she was alive. Yet something has changed slightly. This year is the 2nd year in a row your Dad has come to visit you for Christmas. It's becoming a tradition. Christmas Eve was spent at a family friend's home. It was not quite like the Christmas Eve's of old, but it was nice. For the 2nd year in a row you have made the same Christmas morning breakfast, 'Holiday French Toast', just like your mother used to make. And in the evening you host Christmas dinner. You can't expect the Christmas holidays to be the same as it was 20 years ago or even 10 years ago, especially after a loved one dies, but you are starting your own traditions and it's nice to have your father share in those traditions too.

"Sense of joy fills the air. I daydream and I stare up at the tree and I see
You're a star up there."

You think this might have been one of the best Christmases you have had in the past 8 years. You cry when you drop your Dad off at the airport. You feel sad for him for being alone. You call him a little later and he tells you he bought a few NY t-shirts at the airport to have souvenirs from the weekend. He said he wants something to remind him of how great this weekend was. You smile knowing he enjoyed himself. You pause remembering your mom's laughter while burning those shrimp. Your heart warms knowing she's smiling now at the relationship you have established with your father.

"And this is how I see you in the snow on Christmas morning. Love and happiness
surround you as you throw your arms up to the sky. I keep this moment by and
by."

(*Thank you to Sarah McLachlan for her song, "Wintersong". It gets me through each holiday season.)

Holiday Traditions

It seems when I was growing up, my family had certain holiday traditions that we followed, never breaking them. Thanksgiving day, every year, was the day we put up our Christmas decorations. As a child, I would wake up go downstairs where I would find my mother bringing up the decorations from the basement. She would tell me egg nog was in the refrigerator. I would have a glass of egg nog, while I watched the beginning of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. I would help my mother decorate our home while watching the parade and after the parade was over we would turn on Christmas carols. We would listen to Andy Williams' "red album" over and over again until we finally decided to move onto a Hallmark Christmas album. As I grew older I would normally pass on the egg nog being that I would be hungover, but would still help my mother decorate while watching the parade and listening to Andy Williams. It was a tradition, we did it every year.

My aunt and uncle (who lived next door) hosted Thanksgiving dinner and each year after dinner was over my father would ask everyone to come outside to see his outdoor Christmas light display. Inevitably his timer wouldn't work or a strand would be burned out, but each year the lights looked as beautiful as the year prior if not better. It was a tradition, we did it every year.

Christmas Eve was at our home. For as long as I can remember, my father would wear navy blue pants, a white shirt, a red and blue and green plaid tie, red suspenders and a Santa Claus hat. I can almost envision him coming down our stairs, his frosty beer mug in hand, saying 'ho ho ho' in that outfit. It was his Christmas outfit. It was a tradition, he did it every year.

The fireplace would be lit. You couldn't see the top of our dining room table as the amount of food my mother made was outrageous. We had the same thing every year: cheese balls, cheese and crackers, deviled eggs, veggie crudite, polish mistakes, scallops wrapped in bacon, teenie weenies, swedish meatballs, shrimp cocktail, ham, turkey and roast beef that you could make into mini sandwiches, turtle cheesecake, an array of Christmas cookies, and my red velvet peppermint 3 tiered cake. It was the same menu. It was tradition, we did it every year.

The family would arrive and our private family mass would begin. Father Paul would always have Jonathan and Libby read the readings. We would all have a chance to say a Christmas message. Someone would end up crying especially during the times when my mother was ill. My dad would get distracted by a burned out strand of lights outside on our deck. My mother would giggle at something odd Father Paul would say. My grandma always took communion when she wasn't "supposed to" and the dog would always lay in the center of our family circle. I would play the piano. The mass would start with "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing" followed by "Silent Night" for the offertory, "The First Noel" for communion and end with "Joy to the World" where my Dad would do a solo. It cracked everyone up. It was fun, it was tradition, we did it ever year.

The alcohol would start flowing as soon as mass was over. I would be instructed to play Christmas carols while my mother, my uncle, and my grandfather would stand around the piano singing along. After food it was time for presents. I played Santa distributing the presents to everyone. My spot was always on the floor. We would open gifts in the order of youngest to oldest. I loved it since I was the youngest. The night would eventually come to an end. The 4 of us would recap the night while we had one last drink. It was normally after midnight and we would wish each other a Merry Christmas. It was tradition, we did it every year.

Christmas morning would consist of us eating breakfast, sausage and egg casserole, baked french toast, and cinnamon rolls. We would open presents after breakfast. Grandma and Grandpa came over for dinner/leftovers at night. We were always a bit depressed once Christmas day was over. Such a nice time would come and go so quickly. We were sad, it was tradition, we did it ever year.

My mother is no longer here. I live in NY with my husband, my brother lives in LA, and my father is still at home in IN. I don't have a certain day to put up my tree. I put it up when I have the time. I changed my Christmas decorations this year. I didn't put up my North Pole Village that I have had since I was in high school. It didn't seem right this year and I didn't do it. I don't have a Christmas Day menu, I'll make whatever sounds good to me. My husband doesn't like egg nog, so I don't buy it.

My brother and father are coming out east for the 2nd year in a row to spend Christmas with my husband and I. Will this become a tradition? I'm hoping one day to have a family of my own and maybe start my own traditions with my children. Maybe one day when we have a family we'll put up our tree the day after Thanksgiving while drinking egg nog and listening to Andy Williams' album. Maybe each Christmas morning I'll make my own special breakfast, then we'll open gifts and at night I'll make a delicious dinner. It will be a tradition, we will do it ever year.

I Remember 8 Years Ago

I remember being so excited for my best friend's wedding weekend. I had just left the DMV. I was an official resident of Ohio (as if that's better than living in Indiana). The weather was a gorgeous Fall October day and I was cruising across I-74 heading West to Batesville. The windows were slightly down, John Mellencamp's Peaceful World was blasting on my radio. Even though I wasn't the maid of honor, since my best friend had 2 sisters, I was going to be the best bridesmaid ever. Her whole family was at the reception hall decorating and I couldn't wait to get there and help. First, I wanted to make a quick stop at mom and dad's house to say hi to my mom, give her a kiss and then go decorate the hall with tacky tulle and lace.


I remember pulling into the driveway and seeing the hospice nurse's car. A little odd because she was usually gone by 10:00 am. She was sitting in the dining room with my dad, both of their faces looked somber. I asked "What's up?" Determined not to let anything ruin the weekend I had planned. "Your mother took a turn for the worse" my father said. Followed by the nurse, "She won't make it through the weekend. You should take the day and say your goodbyes. She won't respond, but she'll hear you." WHAT?!? She won't make it through the weekend?!? But yesterday she was up, almost walking by herself, joking around with me. What do you mean she took a turn for the worse? The nurse responded "Sometimes, right before someone dies, they have their best days. They want you to remember them as being ok." She left my father and I sitting there blankly staring at each other. I looked over at her, lying in her hospital bed. It didn't even look like her. I had spent the past 10 months, with my mother, a cancer patient, and all of a sudden I didn't recognize her. I jumped up from the table and told my dad I had to go tell my friend I wouldn't be able to help her decorate.


I remember the 5 minute drive to the reception hall. I was thinking of how you tell someone your mother may not make it through the night and you can't be there to help her on her wedding weekend. My friend's mother first greeted me when I arrived. My friend's parents were good friends of my parents for 30+ years. She saw me and immediately knew something was wrong. She hugged me and that was the moment I started to cry. I stood there for what seemed like an eternity. It felt good having a parent take care of me, hold me, instead of me taking care of my parent. It was selfish I know, but it felt good. I stayed for an hour, told my friend I was sorry I couldn't help, but I would see her later that evening at the rehearsal dinner.


I remember walking in the house and I could tell that my dad just told her goodbye. His eyes were glassy, puffy. His face was flush. He told me he thought it was a good time for me to say goodbye as well. He left me alone in the living room with my mom. She wasn't even conscious. I sat there for a few minutes holding her hand. It was so cold. Say goodbye? How do you pack 22 years of love and affection into a goodbye? I started crying, uncontrollably sobbing, and laid my head on her shoulder. I told her how much I loved her. I told her I was so sorry this had happened to her. I told her life wasn't fair. I told her she was the best mother a daughter could ask for. I promised to take care of Dad. I told her I was going to miss her. I told herhow much I loved her over and over again. I wanted to make sure she left this world knowing at least that.


I remember sitting in silence with my Dad. There was nothing we could say. We knew exactly what each other was thinking. We were eating lunch later, when my brother walked through the door. He had flown in from Florida for my friend's wedding. In my brother's typical fashion he said, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

I remember my father and I standing in our kitchen waiting for my brother to finish his goodbye. He came into the kitchen when he was done, tears in his eyes and said, "She looked at me and said I'm dying."

I remember being upset that she spoke to my brother during his goodbye. Why didn't she acknowledge me? Why didn't she tell me she loved me back? Why didn't she tell me she was going to miss me too?

I remember that night. I left my Mom and Dad to go to my friend's rehearsal dinner. I told my Dad to call me if anything happened. I checked my cell phone every 5 minutes. After the dinner our group of friends were going out to some bars, but I opted to go home to be with my Mom and help my Dad. It was surreal when I arrived back home. It was dark in the living room with only one lamp on low. My Dad was sitting in his chair next to my Mom. The TV wasn't on. It was peaceful. For a second I thought she had passed, but then I heard her breathing. The death rattle they called it. That's how you know someone is going to die.

I remember that night. I remember it was the first time in a really long time my Dad didn't have a beer or a Manhattan. I remember the 2 of us sitting in the living room, me on the floor my Dad still in his chair. I remember us reminiscing about the past 10 months, about the funny things my Mom did and said, about how she said she saw Jesus smiling down at her.

I remember helping my Dad administer her final dose of medicine, pain killers. I remember falling asleep on the floor on the mattress my Dad had brought down from upstairs.

I remember the next day, the 27th. She was still alive, barely. I got ready for my friend's wedding, had my cousin do my hair and make-up. I went to the church where I kept peaking out of the vestibule to see if my Dad and brother had made it. I knew if they were there my Mom was fine. I spotted my brother who smiled and waved. It was such a simple gesture, but reassured me that he knew how I was feeling and I knew how he was feeling. The ceremony started and no sign of my Dad. I knew it then, that she was gone, she had died.

I remember going from the ceremony straight home and walking through the front door. Most of my family was already there. My Dad said she had been gone for a couple of hours but didn't want me to miss my friend's wedding. My Mom would have wanted it that way. He said he wanted some time alone with her too. They were married for 30 years and 5 months, he deserved at least a couple of hours alone with her.

I remember going straight to her, she looked so peaceful. I remember crying like a little baby. I remember kissing her on the cheek and telling her again how much I loved her. I remember all of us, my dad, my brother, my grandparents, my aunt, my uncle, my cousins, and my cousin's wife all sitting in our living room just looking at her. I remember my aunt (my mom's sister) arriving with her daughter. I remember my aunt commenting on how beautiful I looked in my bridesmaid dress. I remember thinking "holy shit you remind me of my mom" and I never saw it before that moment. I remember the funeral home coming to pick her up. I remember my Dad, my brother, my dog and I standing in the basement while they took her away. I remember the 4 of us emerging from the basement and the house being so quiet, eerily quiet. I remember my dog staring out the front window, as if she was waiting for my mom to return, we were all waiting for her to return.

I remember 8 years ago like it was yesterday, yet I can't remember any time before that. Sure I remember things here and there, but when I think of my mom, I mean really think of her, I remember 8 years ago and I remember cancer. I miss her like crazy. Each year the pain gets a little easier, but there is always a moment when I wish I could see her, talk to her, get her response. Like when I met my husband, when I got married, when I find out I'm pregnant.

I guess the more I think about it, I remember more than just cancer: I remember my mom being beautiful inside and out. I remember my mom liking white zinfandel. I remember my mom loving to read books, smut books. I remember my mom being smart. I remember my mom's singing voice. I remember her sneeze and how I jumped every time she did it. I remember her enjoying cross stitching. I remember her loving Christmas and those silly Christmas sweaters. I remember where she sat on our couch. I remember her hands and how I envied her manicure. I remember her smile. I remember feeling loved.

R.I.P Mom. 10-27-01

Anxiety

For the past 2 months you have been feeling dizzy. Standing on a subway platform makes you nervous so you step a few feet back. Passing someone on a sidewalk on the street side makes you nervous so you pass them on the inside or don't pass at all. Walking through a cross walk makes you nervous because you might trip or even worse, pass out. You deal with it. You know when you feel dizzy you need to pause and readjust your eyes. If that doesn't work you give your head a little shake and try to refocus.


Now to go along with the dizziness you have waves of nausea. You wake up and feel nauseous, you go to bed and feel nauseous, and a few times throughout the day you feel nauseous. There's really nothing you can do to help it. You take a few sips of water and if there are crackers nearby you eat some. Other than that, you wait for it to pass. Your first reaction is maybe you're pregnant. You panic thinking you're not ready to be a mom. You take a pregnancy test, it comes back negative. You sigh with slight relief, however being pregnant would be an easy answer to your problems.

You suddenly realize your vision seems to be blurry. You have an extremely hard time focusing on the computer. Sunlight coming through your office windows makes it worse. You squint a little to help your screen come back into focus. If the light is too strong you start to get a headache. Even without bright lights you realize you are getting headaches on a regular basis. You used to never get headaches.

You got to webMd and track your symptoms. They say you could have anything ranging from post partum depression, to ear infections, to cancer. You rule out the depression factor being you haven't had a baby. You finally decide to call the doctor.

The doctor tells you your vital signs look good. Your blood pressure is a little high, but that could be stess related. He runs an EKG and your heart looks good. He's stumped. He orders blood work and prescribes you a prescription to help the nausea subside. He tells you to not have caffeine, don't drink, and take it easy, don't do any rigorous activity.

Stupidly, you google all of the check marks on your blood work sheet. There are 22 checks. 3 checks are for B12 deficiency, 2 of them are lyme disease, 1 you have no idea what it's for, 16 of them are cancer related. You curse Google for being so damn smart.

Anxiety has overtaken you. You can't sleep at night thinking too much. The anti-biotics have yet to kick in. Your headaches get worse. You can't wait until the 20th for your follow-up appointment. You dread the 20th expecting the worst.

Our 1 Year Anniversary

And they said we wouldn't make it! Ha! My husband told me a lot of people bet against whether or not we would make it through our first year of marriage owed him money. We did it! September 13, 2009 we celebrated our one year anniversary. The whole anniversary weekend was quite delightful. We started the weekend off with pizza at our favorite pizza joint, Saturday we had dinner in the city with some co-workers and saw a Beatles cover band, and Sunday we spent the day on our boat with our 2 best friends checking the NFL scores on our phones. It was perfect, quite delightful.

Tomorrow we are heading to The Sagamore Resort in Bolton Landing, NY where we were married. Our wedding coordinator was gracious enough to upgrade our cheap asses up to a suite instead of a regular room. We are both so excited to go. The week after we were married, the hotel was taken over by new ownership. Unfortunately a few people we knew were laid off, however the new company had the money to make much needed upgrades. My husband and I can't wait to see what was done to the place! One of my favorite things to do at The Sagamore is sit on the Veranda (shown right), have a cocktail, and watch the world go by. By the world I mean people, weddings, boats on the water, etc. It's so peaceful and so relaxing.

Our wedding weekend was the best weekend of my life, but so much more, it was when I started my new life with my husband.

A year ago my life changed for the better. A year ago I married the man of my dreams. A year ago falling asleep became much easier lying next to my husband and waking up became much more pleasant seeing him next to me. A year ago I gained a 2nd family, I became an in-law. A year ago my best friend became my husband. A year ago I suddenly felt safe. A year ago I realized I was happy.

Thank you, hubby, for the last year. I can't wait for the next years to come. I love you.

Labor Day Weekend

"What is Labor Day?" I asked my friend yesterday. She said, "I'm not exactly sure. I was just researching this recently. It basically is a holiday honoring the achievements of social and economic American workers." Isn't it funny that I have celebrated Labor Day for 30 years now and never really knew the definition. As a kid, in Indiana, I always knew of it as a day we got off from school after only being in school a couple of weeks. Now, as an adult in NY, everyone says it's the last weekend of summer. But doesn't summer go until September 21st? So wouldn't the weekend prior to that be the last weekend of summer?

It's funny because here in NY, the first day of school starts the day after Labor Day. So I guess that's why everyone says it's the last day of summer. However, I haven't had the past 3 months off from work. I went to work this morning just as I did last week. So why do I consider this past weekend the last weekend of summer? I don't know the answer. Maybe it's because today is cloudy and 72 degrees or maybe because the weather for tomorrow and Thursday is supposed to be in the mid-60s. Maybe the weather Gods know yesterday was Labor Day and they transitioned the weather into Fall.

I found myself sad last evening. As much as I would like to say my summer goes until September 21st, I know it doesn't. I had that feeling in my stomach last night like I was going back to school today. Depressed the summer is over. I sat and reminisced on our summer and then realized why I was so sad. It was probably one of the best summers ever.

It all started in the Spring when my husband and I, along with his cousin and his cousin's wife (our 2 best friends) bought a boat. We bought it "off the hands" of my father-in-law in hopes of it providing us a few good weekends of fun. The weekends of fun started Memorial Day weekend where the 4 of us painted the boat, cleaned the boat, spruced the boat up before we took it to the water. It may not sound like much fun to you, but the day started with bagels and iced coffees and progressed to cold beers and chips. The best part of the day was at the end when my husband fired up the engine and it WORKED! We jumped and high-fived each other like it was the biggest success of our lives!

Our boat, which we named Foxy II (don't even ask how the name came about), turned into our safe haven for the summer. We went on the boat almost every weekend, sometimes both Saturday and Sunday. We went to the boat to relax, to get some sun, to get a break from the stress of the work week, to hang out with friends, to do water activities, to drink, to eat, to be alone with our thoughts, and to be alone with the ones that we love. One weekend we tied our boat up to the NYPD Scuba's boat and hung out. Another weekend we found an outdoor bar on the water called "Louie's" where we not only conquered the art of boat parallel parking, but also discovered a great place to eat and drink on the water. Another weekend my husband and his cousin stood knee deep in disgusting murky waters while changing the propeller for their very first time, while my friend and I "supervised". This change of the prop (as my husband likes to call it) prompted an impromptu boat trip to the Statue of Liberty this past weekend. We haven't taken this trip in a few years because we never really trusted the boat to go this far, but this year since it was our own, we had full trust in it!

The trip was truly amazing. The waters were a bit choppy, but it was worth it. The NYC skyline seen from the East River is absolutely beautiful, but to be able to pull your very own boat up to the base of the Statue of Liberty is amazing. Especially on Labor Day, whatever it may mean, it felt very patriotic. Never the less, the day had to end. That evening my husband and I, both exhausted from the day, depressed the summer is over, sat on the couch and recapped our summer:

-we bought a boat

-we renovated our kitchen

-we found out our closest friends were expecting a baby boy

-my sister in law graduated college

-my other sister in law celebrated her first anniversary

-we went to Indiana to visit my family

-we went to see Paul McCartney at the new CitiField

-we chartered unknown waters on our boat and found places we will visit every summer

-we caught up with old friends

-I celebrated my 30th birthday

-my husband celebrated his 31st birthday

-we made it through our first year of marriage

-we planned our future

We decided that this summer was a damn good summer...

EGBDF, FACE

I recently received a "forward" email which might have been the best "forward" I have ever received. I normally delete such forwards but since it was from one of my cousins, who never sends them, I thought I should take a look. It was called 'Hilarious Thoughts of the Day' and it was right, all thoughts were indeed hilarious. One thought said, "I totally take back all those times I didn't want to nap when I was younger." Could this be any more true? I would give my right arm if I had someone every single day tell me it was time to take a nap and MAKE me sleep for a minimum of an hour each day. I can only imagine how much more productive I would be instead of completely crashing on the couch from exhaustion when I get home at night. This "thought" provoked me to think of other things I didn't want to do when I was a child, and now as an adult, wish I still had the chance.

The other day I was driving home from work, and on the radio came 2 songs in a row where I started playing the "air drums". Come on, don't tell me you never play the air guitar or just completely rock out to music while in the car! I laughed at my head banging drum playing and thought that maybe I should take music lessons again, maybe the guitar because I'm pretty sure my husband couldn't stand me playing the drums. This in turn reminded me of the days when I took piano lessons. I realized this was one thing I wish I wouldn't have given up when I was a child...piano lessons.

You see, my mother signed my brother and I up for piano lessons. I don't remember exactly what ages we were, I would guess somewhere around 3rd and 5th grade. I also don't remember whose idea it was, I am thinking it was my mother's. Our piano teacher was the music teacher at the high school where my mother taught. His wife was not only a teacher at the high school as well, but my mother's closest friend. So I think teaching piano was an experiment for this man, and my brother and I were the guinea pigs.

Mr. Bourquein, that was his name. It even sounds horrible, doesn't it? I was completely petrified of him, he was probably the coldest and most awkward mentor I have ever had in my life. Our lessons were on Monday evenings at his house at 5:00 pm. My brother and I would each make a mad dash to the piano once we got home from school on Mondays, because of course neither of us had practiced a minute of our "lessons". We always had some sort of silly paper work to do as well. My mother would scold us for not doing it in advance and I would always argue that I thought piano lessons were supposed to be fun, not "work".

My brother would go first. My mother and I would drop him off and then run a few errands before she would bring me back a few minutes before it was my turn. I remember walking into their house and feeling uncomfortable while I waited for my brother to finish his lesson. Their yappy dog, Charlie, would be there barking and biting at my ankles. (The dog was so putrid that I even remember his name!) My brother and I laugh to this day at how bad he played the piano. I would cringe as I sat in the chair waiting for him to finish while he pounded slowly away at the keys. For a teacher, Mr. Bourquein wasn't very patient. I would snicker while watching him get upset with my brother's lack of improvement.

Then, much to my chagrin, it was my turn. He would review my paperwork and inevitably make corrections on all of my mistakes. Some times he would even have me take it home and redo it! The nerve! I have to admit, I wasn't bad at the piano, I wasn't good either. I was tolerable, certainly no piano recital winner! Hell, Mr. Bourquein didn't even suggest me entering in a recital! Once the 30 minutes (which always seemed like 3 hours) were over. I'd walk out of their house to find my mom and brother waiting for me in the car where we would then head to McDonald's for dinner. And all was better until next Monday......

A year or 2 passed and much to Mr. Bourquein's dismay (insert sarcasm here) my brother quit taking piano lessons. Of course I begged my mother to let me quit, but she said no. As time went on, I found that I rather enjoyed playing piano, but only enjoyed the songs I knew. So my mother convinced Mr. Bourquein to let me start practicing/playing fun songs and not Beethoven or Mozart. Reluctantly he agreed and my next lesson I brought my Beatles book to class. The first song I learned to play was "All my Loving" which to this day is one of my least favorite Beatles songs probably due to the fact that I had to play it over and over again until perfection. Over the next few years my repertoire included The Beatles, solo Paul McCartney, solo John Lennon, Simon and Garfunkel, CATS the musical, and Phantom of the Opera. I found myself liking playing the piano and I soon became the entertainment at family gatherings and of course Christmas where my mom, uncle, & grandpa would stand around the piano singing Christmas carols.


I don't know why I stopped taking piano lessons, probably because I outgrew it and thought it wasn't cool anymore. I would still sit at the piano and play a few songs here and there, but never continued practicing. A few years ago my father sold the house that I grew up in. Along with the house, he sold the piano. At the time I didn't have any place to put it, but it still made me sick knowing the new homeowners had MY piano. Were they ever going to stand around it singing Christmas Carols, use it for entertainment while someone belted out 'Bridge Over Troubled Waters', play it while trying to re-enact Paul McCartney's concert version of 'Hey Jude'? At least I have the memories if not the piano. Now my husband and I own our own home with a room just waiting for a piano. His parents have a beautiful baby grand sitting in their living room, covered with dust and family pictures. Not one person uses it and I'm just waiting for the day when they offer it to us. Because then I'll be able to play again. More importantly I'll be able to force my children to take piano lessons, have them quit, and regret it when they get older.

Bacardi & Me

After reading the title of this blog, you might think I am going to be writing about my addiction to alcohol, particularly rum. No, actually I'm writing about my dog, Bacardi. She is an 11 years and 9 months old yellow labrador who is the love of my life. She got her name by default the day my parents brought her home. My mom, dad, brother, cousin and his now wife, and I were sitting in our dining room one Friday evening staring at this little creature who was the most adorable thing ever, trying to come up with a name to suit her. Annie! No. Delaney! No. Maggie! No. The name calling continued until my father couldn't take it any longer and decided to get us all drinks. My mother requested a rum and coke and being the alcoholic family that we were, we of course had about 7 different types of rum to choose from. When asked what kind of rum my mother wanted she simply replied, "Bacardi". And at the very moment, as if on cue, our cute little munchkin dog lifted her head and looked up at my mom as if to say, "I like that name. It suits me." And so we named her Bacardi.


I could tell you one disaster story after another of Bacardi's "childhood", but I'm not going to do that. Anyone who has had an animal, in particular, a dog, knows what puppies do. I, however, want to discuss my recent fear of her dying. I moved out East 7 years ago, and Bacardi made her move out East a few short months after that. So while, the family still considers her our dog, I selfishly claim her as my own.


This October, marks the 8 year anniversary of my mother's death. Brain tumors took over her mind and she started to treat Bacardi like her own stuffed animal. Bacardi followed my mother everywhere. Bacardi particularly liked when my mother would have popcorn (which became her daily snack) as she couldn't grasp onto the handful she would try to put in her mouth and inevitably, the majority of the bowl would end up on the floor and then in my dog's mouth. Each night my Dad, Bacardi, and I would make the trek up the steps with my mom to put her into bed. Bacardi would jump up on the bed with my mom, stay there until she fell asleep and would return back downstairs with my Dad and I as if to tell us, "It's ok. She's asleep now." We had a large window in the front of our house, where my dog would rest her head and watch for us whenever anyone would leave the house. The day my mother died, and the funeral home took her away, Bacardi sat at the window all night long, resting her chin on the sill waiting for my mother to come home. She never did come home and to this day I wonder if Bacardi has memories of my mom. They say dogs have no memory, and in a small way, I'm kind of jealous. However, in turn, I hope she didn't forget about her all together.

Bacardi and I have a morning ritual, Monday-Friday I wake up with her and let her outside, she barks at the door to let me know she's ready to come inside and then she runs into the kitchen where her morning breakfast awaits her. On the weekends, it's my turn to sleep in where my husband lets her out and feeds her. When she's done with her breakfast she runs back up the steps, pushes open the door to our room and lays on the floor next to me on the bed. When I finally wake up, she'll sit by the bathroom door while I brush my teeth and then once she sees I'm ready to make my way downstairs, she runs down the steps, sits in our living room where she makes a barking/howling noise as if she is announcing my arrival. She then sits on her hind legs in what we call her sitting pretty position and I scratch her chest until her eyes start to close. I laugh every Saturday and Sunday morning when she does it. It's my favorite part of the weekend.

The other night I watched 'Marley and Me'. I had read the book awhile ago, loved it, and decided to watch it on screen. My husband refused to watch it with me because he knew I would be a crying mess. I secretly think it's because he knew he would cry too and didn't want to in front of me. As I knew I would, I balled my eyes out at the end, watching Marley get old, because it's some of the same aging stages Bacardi is going through. In my blur of tears, I looked down and noticed Bacardi had her chin resting on my leg and those big brown eyes looking up to me saying, "It's okay, mom. Don't cry!" After the movie was over, I sat on the floor petting my big mutt's belly while her head rested in my lap. I whispered to her that she wasn't allowed to die, and I'm pretty certain she agreed.

My heart breaks for her every night as she tries to climb the stairs with me on my way to bed. A few times she'll trip and fall and my heart breaks even more. We try to get her to stay downstairs instead of battling the steps, but I'm certain she would much rather struggle getting up the steps than sleep in the living room without us. There are times when she surprises me and has the energy of a 6 month old puppy. When we walk her, people stop to tell us how beautiful she is, and are shocked when we tell them her age. They say, "but she looks so great!" It's hard to believe she's almost 12. We have been through so much together, death, moves, divorces, marriages, all good times and bad. It doesn't matter what kind of mood I'm in, I know my dog loves me. When I'm outside for 30 seconds getting the mail, she greets me with the same excitement as when I come home from a 10 hour work day. They also say a dog gives unconditional love, and that Bacardi indeed does. To experience that on a daily or even hourly basis is extraordinary. I guess that's one of the reasons why I'm so scared of her dying, I know I'm not going to get that kind of love elsewhere.

I'm going to have to start training my husband the way I trained my dog.

That's Sir Paul McCartney to You.....

Recently Paul McCartney rolled into NYC and did a 3 show stint at CitiField the new home of the Mets. The concerts were the first concerts to ever be held at CitiField, and if you ask me, unless Paul comes back, there might as well not be any other shows, no one can compare.

The first time I saw Paul McCartney was in 1993 at the Cincinnati Reds ballpark. I went with my parents, my brother, my cousin and his girlfriend at the time and 2 of my brother's friends. My parents have always been huge Beatles fans, my father more so than my mother. (I think my mother just thought Paul was cute.) And they thought it would be a great musical experience to see an ex-Beatle in concert. I still remember the day we got the tickets. I was told to stay home on the phone and keep calling Ticketmaster while my mother and brother drove to the local Ticketmaster office (45 minutes east) to stand in line for tickets. This was all before the days of ordering tickets "online". My Dad wanted to make sure we got 4 tickets so if I couldn't get through on the phone, there was a chance my mother and bro would get tickets at the office. Much to our surprise we both got tickets! I remember at the time not wanting to announce I was going to a Paul McCartney concert. Being in the 8th grade hip-hop and pop-rock were cool, not classic rock. However, after the amazing experience of the concert, I proudly wore my Paul McCartney t-shirt my parents bought me at the concert the next day to school, and told everyone about my night. I still remember that concert, I remember my feelings, my emotions, even if I was only 13 years old. Although there were huge screens flanking the stage, I remember my mom saying she couldn't watch the screens, she only wanted to watch Paul, because it was such a treat to be able to see him on stage. Agreed.

Since then I have been to 3 more Paul concerts, one with my Dad and brother, one with an ex boyfriend of mine, and one with my brother and a friend of his, and this past weekend was my 5th. It was announced that Paul was going to be doing 3 shows at CitiField. I instantly wanted to go, but completely forgot to go online and get tix. A couple of weeks ago I thought it would be fun to look on StubHub and see if any tickets were available. And what do you know? They had 2 tickets, upper level, dead center. Score! I called my husband (who is not an avid Beatles OR Paul McCartney fan) and told him that I bought the tickets, we were going, and it was going to be the best concert of his life.

The day of the concert was perfect. It started at 8:00 pm. We pulled into the parking lot to find hundreds of people tailgating. The parking lot reminded me of a Jimmy Buffett concert, not Paul McCartney. I had packed us chips, guacamole, salsa, hummus, crackers and cheese, and of course a bottle of wine. We parked next to two guys, both in their early 30s, both wearing vintage Beatles t-shirts, both stoned, and both jamming to the White album. Perfect, now this is where I want to park. We got out of the car, opened the wine bottle and the song playing on the boombox was the first Beatles song I ever learned, 'Rocky Raccoon'. Growing up I had a stuffed raccoon that I slept with and every night when my father tucked me into bed he would sing me the song, 'Rocky Raccoon'. The emotions already started running high...

At 7:15 I told my husband we should make our way into the stadium. As we walked in, we passed a group of 50 some year olds who asked us why were we in such a hurry, Paul wasn't taking the stage until 8:50. We laughed and continued inside. I wanted to make sure I was in my seat when Paul took the stage, I didn't want to miss a beat. Sure enough the guy was right, at 8:30, "The Show will begin in 20 minutes" came across the big screens that flanked both sides of the stage. At 8:40, it read, "The Show will begin in 10 minutes" and at 8:50, the lights dimmed and Sir Paul McCartney took the stage, literally.

My heart fluttered, I was rendered speechless, I couldn't even scream or holler like the rest of the crowd. I stood there, clapping my hands so fast they hurt. He immediately broke into 'Drive My Car' which I have to admit is not my favorite Beatle song, but it didn't matter, I was dumbfounded. The next song, "Jet" absolutely rocked! The line, "I thought the major was a lady suffragette. Jet! Jet!" with Paul yelling it so gracefully into the microphone absolutely sent chills down my spine. I couldn't help but yell Jet! while I threw my right arm in the air.

A few songs later, Paul made his way to the piano, and if someone can tickle the ivory, it's Sir Paul. 'The Long and Winding Road' and 'My Love' (which he dedicated to his late wife Linda) were absolutely beautiful, but if that didn't tug at your heartstrings, then the solo acoustic version of 'Blackbird' and 'Here Today' would. Yes, that's right for 2 songs, Paul stood on stage by himself doing an acoustic version of the 2 songs...tears. 'Here Today' which he dedicated to his good friend John Lennon has always reminded me of my mom. So naturally I teared up, but to see Paul get choked up and had to pull himself together made it even more emotional. After the song he said he had to take a moment and then said, "Let's pick it up a bit, no?" where his band rejoined him on stage and broke into a fabulous version of 'Dance Tonight', and we all wanted to dance. After 'Dance Tonight' Paul sang 'Calico Skies' which might be one of my all time favorite love songs. It was interesting to see the so called fans leave their seats to get a beer or go to the bathroom. I wanted to say to them, "Seriously? Leaving on this song? You don't know what you're missing." After the song, my husband looked at me and said, "We should have had that as our wedding song." No joke, pure beauty.


A few songs later came quite possibly the best run of songs in concert history. My new favorite Paul song that I play on my iPod 82 times a day, 'Sing the Changes', then 'Band on the Run', and 'Back in the USSR'. Each one of these songs would have blown off the roof of the stadium if it had one! Watching Paul play the guitar and rock with his band can't but help make you grin ear to ear. He then dedicated the next song, 'Something' to the late George Harrison. Paul started the song with the ukelele, played the first verse with it and then cranked into the full version with the entire band. The song literally sent chills down my spine and was noted as my husband's favorite song of the night.


The real chills of the evening came when Paul sat back down at the piano and broke into 'Let it Be'. There may not be a better song in the history of music, especially live. This song was sang at my mother's funeral and carries so much emotion for me, so needless to say, I broke into tears. Being at Citifield, watching an ex-Beatle, Paul McCartney, a man who my parents grew up listening to, is a once in a lifetime event. The amazing thing though, is immediately after he gets done with 'Let it Be', he goes into 'Live and Let Die' where the pyrotechnics were in full force. Explosions happened on stage while fireworks shot off from the top of the stadium. The place erupted! And then if you thought it couldn't get any better, he breaks into 'Hey Jude' where at the end of the song Paul lets the fans sing "nananananananananana, Hey Jude". He asked the people in the top, the people down in front, the people on the left, the people on the right, the men, and the women to all do their "solos" while the band quietly kept the beat and Paul stood in front directing us. He darts back to his piano runs his hands over and over each other down the piano saying, "I can't stop this thing! I can't stop this thing!" while the crowd continued with their Nanananas. It was a perfect ending to the concert.

But an ending it wasn't. Sir Paul McCartney did 2 encores where he asked us if we were ready to rock? Everyone agreed we were indeed ready to rock and he finished the concert with 'Helter Skelter', 'Get Back' and 'Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band/The End'. Confetti exploded into the air and trickled down onto the crowd where people were falling over each other and their seats just to grab a piece of it, some kind of token to take with them from the concert. I slowly and sadly walked past the confetti on the ground. I didn't need an actual physical item to take with me, I knew that I would have the memories from this concert with me forever.

It took me quite some time to finish this blog. It's hard to put down in words the emotions and feelings from the concert, from the entire night. I didn't feel as if my description could possibly do the concert justice. However, I wanted to finish it so I could give the people who weren't able to be at the concert a glimpse of what I was able to experience one magical July NYC night. Thank you, Sir Paul McCartney, for gracing me and all of NYC with your presence. You truly are a genius....

Revolutionary Road

"Hey LA. May I ask you a question?" asks a friend who called me yesterday afternoon. "Shoot" I say. He says, "Remember that feeling you had years ago when you were in the midwest, the one like you just had to get out of there or you were going to go crazy? And then you moved out east and made a new life for yourself where you seem to be fairly successful in life and love. Does that original feeling, the one that made you move, ever go away?" I immediately answered, "No. Sure when you first move the excitement and the unknown and meeting new people and starting a new job makes that feeling disappear slightly, but it never really goes away. In fact, for me, it's back."

Now, I'm not saying that the feeling of needing to leave the midwest is the same one I have now, but it's similar. I recently watched the movie, 'Revolutionary Road' where the 2 main characters are at a type of crossroads in life. The wife comes up with a plan for them to take their family to Paris to "get away from it all" and start over again. It's ironic as I have been dreaming of Paris so much lately, thinking that if I were to move, Paris or London would be my first 2 choices. There really aren't too many other cities in the US that can compare to NYC, so I guess I'll have to try out Europe......

My husband and I got into an argument last night. I am less than 2 weeks away from being 30 years old and have recently been evaluating my life, sort of taking inventory on family, friends, career, etc. I laugh thinking of how growing up in a small town, you were only "cool" if you were popular, and popular meant having a ton of friends. I tried my best to be the most popular girl in my class if not the school, and sadly, I succeeded. But as I have grown older, I can honestly say I have absolutely no connection to my "friends" that I had 10-15 years ago. Sure I have the ever present Facebook that allows me to see when a girl I went to highschool with just wiped her baby's ass or when another girl I went to school with potty trained her kid, but seriously, I don't care. My best friend growing up in elementary school, high school, and my roommate in college for 4 years just turned 30 a week ago and is pregnant with her 3rd kid. Yes, I said 3rd kid. I called her to wish her a happy birthday and the conversation was filled with simple pleasantries. I asked about her kids, I asked about her pregnancy, I asked about our hometown, friends of ours who are still living there, but it all really meant nothing to me. I hung up the phone feeling very sad for us, me and my friend. We were best friends for 22 years and could talk about anything, but now 8 years of being 1,000 miles apart and the difference of a small town versus NYC has come between us.

So I move on. Out here I have made new friends and really great friends, but I have realized new friendships, that didn't start from the age of 1, have some type of superficiality to them. My husband says being superficial with friends is normal, but I disagree (hence the argument). When I ask someone how their day was and I really truly care about their day, am I crazy to think they should ask the same question in return? I get it, we are all busy, everyone has their own situations and their own issues to deal with, but why is it that I'm the only one who seems to really care about what's going on in other people's lives, but never get the same respect in return? My husband says it's my personality. He says it's easy for people to open up to me and tell me their problems or if they don't have problems they tell me how great they are doing. This is all wonderful, I like knowing people can talk to me, but I'm sick of always listening and never being able to speak.

If you asked friends of mine, "How's LA doing?" I am fairly sure everyone would answer "fine" or "great". Where in reality, I'm distraught. I don't sleep well at night worrying about my brother who is on his own quest to find happiness, worrying about my father who has been sober for 2 years and is now going through a nasty divorce and I am concerned for his sobriety. I worry about money and the economy. I worry about my own sanity and health. For the past 2 weeks I haven't been able to keep food in my system, but instead of pressuring the doctor for an answer or going back to the doctor, I actually don't mind it. I see my pants getting bigger, last year's clothes that were too tight, now fit. And even worse, I have become so obsessed with losing weight again that when I actually do digest something, I feel fat and stand in the bathroom contemplating putting my finger down my throat, twice I have done it. I'm guessing no one would know that bit of information.

I was once told in college by an acquaintance that I was the most approachable person she had ever met. I took it as a compliment at the time and sort of prided myself on it back then, but now, I'm sick of being so approachable. If someone wants to talk to me about their problems, that's great, but won't truly get my ear until I know I'm getting theirs in return.

Until then, I think I'll just pack a bag and head off to Paris, if not for real, then in my mind.....

Where Brooklyn At?

Yesterday I completed my first 1/2 marathon, 13.1 miles! I have to admit it's a bittersweet accomplishment, as the first 5 minutes after I did it, I was proud of myself. However, from the time it took me to walk to my car to drive home, I was thinking, "so, what next?" My training and exercising all done in a mere 2 hours? NYC Marathon here I come! I have to be completely honest, for the past 3 years, I have signed for the NYC Marathon lottery and each year when my name wasn't drawn, I would let out a sigh of relief. Phew! Why in the world would I want to run 26.2 miles? However, after yesterday, and completing 1/2 of a marathon, I realized that my next goal is to conquer 26 miles. It's really all about feeling some sort of sense of accomplishment.

I signed up for the Brooklyn 1/2 marathon a few months ago. I had become lazy in my workout routine and needed something to motivate me. Nothing like running 13.1 miles to get your ass motivated! I immediately logged on to NY Road Runner's.com to find a training schedule, one for beginners. And I have to admit, I followed it almost exactly. Sure there were a few days that I skipped running due to work or a prior engagement, but I always ran the amount I was supposed to run. UNTIL 2 weeks ago when I started having excruciating pain in my right knee. Such pain that it would shoot down to my toes and make my calf go numb. Everything online said to REST, REST, REST. Rest? I can't rest, I have 13.1 miles to run in 2 weeks and dammit I'm going to do it! Instead of resting I cut back on the mileage they were recommending, running only 6-7 miles instead of 9-10. Needless to say, running these distances, did not help my knee. A friend of mine told me it was an IT injury, he had the same injury before, knew all of the symptoms and gave me a few stretches to help it. One included a rolling pin. So the night before the race, I laid in bed taking a rolling pin up and down to my IT band thinking this was going to solve my problems. Time would only tell.

Saturday morning, 4:59 a.m. my alarm clock goes off. I hop in the shower, throw my running gear on, kiss my husband goodbye, and tell him if I die on the course I hope he knows how much I love him. I make my way to Brooklyn and the whole way there I think of copping out and not running the race. How would anyone know? I'm going by myself, I'm not running with anyone, and no one is coming to the race to watch me, so who would know if I didn't actually run? ME! That's who would know. I continue my drive and secretly hope I get lost and miss the race, that would be a legit excuse. No such luck. My GPS does a perfect job navigating my car to Key Span Park, the lot outside Coney Island where runners are to park and take the bus to Prospect Park for the start of the race. I grab my cell phone (in case I need to call 911), my car keys, and my iPod and hop on the school bus (yes I said school bus) to take me to the start of the race. The bus is almost full and I have my own seat, which is good because, one, my knees are crammed up to my chest, and two, I don't feel like hamming it up with the other runners. Until, a large man, large meaning tall, not fat, approaches me and says, "is this seat taken?" I wanted to say, "yes, loser, it is taken and nice pick-up line", but instead I tell him the seat is all his. Immediately the guy starts talking to me. "Great. Why is he talking to me? Doesn't my body language tell him I want to be left alone?" However I start to warm up to the guy as we pass the water where low tide is in effect, and he says, "did you just pass gas?" I was so taken aback and shocked, but he started laughing and said, "kidding". I found his humor odd and slightly disgusting and in turn found the guy sitting next to me my new friend. We chatted the whole way to Prospect Park. We made fun of the 2 people sitting next to us who were talking about how fast they were going to run the race. We joked about all the people who wear 'real runners gear' and how they probably make fun of us runners who wear cotton. We laughed at the fact the website said everyone has a 3 hour time limit and after the 3 hours there will be no more medical staff or drinking stations and how we prayed we would make it under 3 hours. Once at the park, he guided me in the right direction of the start line, we shook each other's hands, wished each other the best of luck, and made our separate ways to our numbered areas. I was so happy to have met Stan, that was his name, as he relaxed me and made me realize there are other people out there, just like me, who are beginner runners too.

My bib number was 11654. It was the last numbered section in line, actually I didn't even have a numbered section, mine was just called 9000+. It might as well have said, 'the slow people'. The race kicked off with a mediocre rendition of the Star Spangled Banner and at 8:20 a.m. (race started at 8, that's how long it took me just to get to the start line) I started my first 1/2 marathon. I was pumped, the adrenaline was pulsing through my veins like crazy, but I was determined to start off slow, I didn't want to waste all of my energy at the beginning of the race. Miles 1-3 were easy and smooth sailing and surprisingly, no pain in my knee! (It must have been the rolling pin.) But miles 4-6 were a repeat of miles 1-3 and I found myself getting bored of the park, I needed new terrain. At mile 7 I got what I wanted, Ocean Parkway! I also got a shooting pain in my knee, but I didn't let it get me down. I was so excited to cruise down Ocean Parkway for the next 6 miles that I tried not to focus on my knee. The next few miles cruised by and I was enjoying the Brooklyn scenery. I found it very amusing that certain cars stuck at traffic lights because the roads were blocked off, were yelling and cursing at the runners. I also found it very amusing at cross walks, again where the roads were blocked off, certain people would try to dodge in and out of the 11,800 runners to cross the street. The old Indian woman carrying a tray of some kind of food was the funniest, and I even slowed down to let her pass as I thought her courage to cross was admirable.

At mile 10.5 a runner passing me tells me my shoe is untied. I stop alongside the road to tie it and once I stand up, ccrraaaaassshhhh, my body felt like it hit a wall. I mean my legs turned to concrete and it felt as if a 10 ton elephant was standing on my shoulders. I thought, "this is it. this is where I fall to the ground because I can't run anymore and I get trampled by the rest of the pack behind me." I started running again as best as I could and gradually picked the pace back up at mile 11 when I realized I only had 2 more miles to go. Mile 12 came in no time and the last mile was the best. It was a gorgeous path along the shoreline, down the boardwalk of Coney Island (where I saw some girl take a face plant), and up to Key Span Park where I completed my first 1/2 marathon! What a feeling. It may sound over-dramatic, but I can't even describe the feeling once I crossed the finish line. I actually felt proud of myself, and I NEVER feel proud of myself. It was a feeling that I haven't ever experienced before and that in itself was worth the pain and suffering of the 13.1 miles.

Up next, 10K in Central Park this Sunday. Running is an addiction and I have an addictive personality.

Mother's Day.

My mother lost a battle to cancer 7 1/2 years ago and died. I firmly believe I haven't recovered from it and firmly believe I won't ever recover. Yesterday was Mother's Day. I woke up in the morning with an emptiness in my stomach. I missed her. What's funny, is growing up we never did anything extravagant to celebrate Mother's Day. It was still a guy's day. I remember my Dad playing golf with my uncle and my grandpa while my mom was stuck entertaining my brother and me. I particularly remember one year my mother had the entire family over, my 2 grandparents, and my dad's brother's family, for a full turkey dinner (Thanksgiving in May). She cooked the entire day while my dad played golf and none of us thought anything of it. So it's not like Mother's Day brings back great memories of me spending time with my mom. It's now just a day that reminds me I don't have a mother.


To take my mind off of things, I went into the city and did a nice long run in Central Park. Training for a half marathon, running 7 miles, is not my idea of a good time, but my run was quite enjoyable. It was a gorgeous Spring day and while running through the park, seeing the trees and flowers in full bloom I thought of my mom. Thought of how much I missed her and wondered what she thinks of me now.

In the afternoon, my husband and I took his parents to the Mets game. It was what his mother wanted to do for Mother's Day. It was quite enjoyable, like I said the weather was great, the game was fun, and the Mets won! My cousin Libby had left me a voicemail during the game letting me know she and her son Carter went to my mom's grave and told her how much they missed her and loved her. She said there were quite a few fresh bouquets of flowers on my mom's grave, people must have visited her. Later I spoke to my Aunt who also said she went to see my mom's grave and lastly I spoke to my father who went to see my mom. Everyone misses her. I swear the family hasn't been the same since she died.

I still can't help but wonder what my mother thinks of me now, what I have made of myself. I remember shortly after she died I used to pray to GOD to give me some kind of sign from my mother. Some kind of something showing me that she approved, that she loved me and that she missed me too. I never got the sign I was looking for; my mother never came to me at night and spoke to me nor did I ever see visions of her. However, now I look for the small stuff, like the day my husband and I got married, it was raining the day prior and very gray and cloudy the morning of the wedding. I sat outside on our hotel room balcony and started talking to her, told her how much I missed her and at that very moment, the clouds parted and the sun came out, I knew she was there with me. I wish I had more of those perfect moments, but I take them as they come.

Recently I have been struggling with the definition of happiness. What is it and is happiness really a thing? I've come to the conclusion, no. Happiness is an emotion, it's not a state of life. It's like the shrink game you play. "I feel happy when"... I'm on the beach, or when I'm playing with my dog, or when I'm with my husband, or when I'm eating Mexican food and drinking a margarita. However, am I happy? No. I'll never truly be happy. People that tell you they are honestly happy, are lying or faking it. I compare it to when someone asks me how my day is. I say, "fine" even if I had the worst day of my life, because you know what? I don't think the person that asked me the question really wants to know the answer. Everyone is in a state of disillusionment where they don't want to know about the bad, they only want to see and hear the good. People need to see and hear the good to make themselves feel better. I know that, and that's why I'll always nod my head and tell people I'm fine, I'm happy, and maybe one day I'll get there. Now, I don't see it happening. How can it when the most important person in my life for 22 years is no longer here? People say, "Well, maybe you're not happy because something is missing in your life." Well, they're right, there is something missing, and it's my mom, she's dead, and never coming back. So tell me what you think I should do to solve that one? Move on? I'm trying. It's been 7 1/2 years and I still miss her like she died yesterday. I still don't have a memory of her without her being sick and I still think there was something I could have done better to show her how much I loved her.

Time eases all pain...I'm waiting....

A Bottle of Flowers

The other day my new favorite client came in again, for the 2nd time this week. I say favorite client because he reeks of money, but is genuinely nice. He is not only the best looking man I have ever personally met, he is also the most impeccably dressed man I have ever met. The first day he came swaggering into the showroom, his appearance actually startled me. I think I might have mumbled "wow" under my breath. Funny enough, my first thought was he must be gay. I have a few gay friends and even THEY can't top the way this guy was dressed. As we became more acquainted, he mentioned something about his wife and 2 kids, I told him I had assumed he was gay. He told me that was "fucked up" and we instantly became friends. Moreover, I took a liking to him once I gave him my business card, he read it, and called me by my full name, Lynn Anne, and not just Lynn. Nice........


Wait a second. What just happened? Sorry I was in la la land for a second. Don't judge me! Yes, I am married, but a girl is still allowed to think a guy is goodlooking. AND I told my husband about my tiny client crush, so there. Keep your judgement to yourself.


Ok, onto his most recent visit. We were discussing refrigeration, and I showed him our wine cooler, 24" wide, 24" deep, 84" high, stores 106 bottles. Perfect dimensions in the wine refrigeration world. It also has 3 completely separate temperature zones! No one else in the industry has that feature!


Client: Why do I need 3 completely separate temperature zones? I only drink red wine.


Me: Think about the different kinds of reds you drink. You can store all of them at different temperatures.


Client: Have you ever had a Pinot Noir called "Flowers"? It's amazing. Possibly the best Pinot Noir ever.


Me: No. Not familiar with it.


Client: Really? You should go to the 4 Seasons up the street and try it. They have it on their wine by the glass list. It's only like $30.


Me: Wow! That's not bad, $30 a bottle at The 4 Seasons?


Client: No, $30 a glass.


Me: (blank stare)


Client: You can get it at a wine store for like $150 a bottle. The 4 Seasons has it there for $300 or so. Definitely go and try it.


Now, here I am, thinking that I'm friends with this guy and he's telling me that I need to go and try a $30 glass of wine at The 4 Seasons? Or go and buy it at a wine store for $150? Doesn't he realize I am selling him his appliances? My friend, ok, I get it, you have money, but I do not. Hell my husband and I have a hard time spending $30 on a bottle of wine in a restaurant, let alone $30 a glass?


This conversation brought me back to a very harsh reality. I work on a daily basis with some of the wealthiest people in NYC, even in the world, and most of them treat me very nicely, some even with respect. However, as much as I try to be a part of their world, the wealthy world that is, I know I'll never really fit in. I don't smell the cork from a bottle of wine once it has been opened. I don't swirl the wine in my glass before I taste it. I don't nod at the sommelier in approval of the wine. I don't hold the glass by the goblet and continue to swirl it as I drink. And I certainly don't pay $30 for a glass of wine. I pour my glass 3/4 of the way full, take a drink, and enjoy. And I'm not ashamed to admit, that I have enjoyed wine from a box too.

Easter

A few weeks ago, being the good practicing Catholics we are (ha ha) my husband and I were on the computer looking up the meaning of Lent, Good Friday, Holy Saturday and pretty much everything that goes along with Easter. Seriously. Why you ask? I was telling him an experience I had in my showroom where during a Friday cooking demonstration 2 guests passed on eating meat. Another guest asked the ladies if they were vegetarians, and they replied, "No, it's Friday during Lent and we can't eat meat." The lady who asked was quite perplexed and asked them to explain to her, as she was a practicing Jew, the meaning of Lent since she wasn't familiar with it. I told my husband, if someone asked me that very question, I am not sure if I would be able to answer them correctly. I would be able to explain Easter, but not the meaning of Lent nor the reason why we can't eat meat on Fridays during Lent. This prompted the online research.

What is Easter and why every year does it seem like a drag planning our Easter holiday? Hell we no what our Thanksgiving and Christmas plans are in September, but this year we found out the Monday prior to Easter what those plans were going to be. I remember as a kid going to my Grandma Olson's house every year for Christmas. Grandma Olson was my mom's mom and she lived 3 hours north of where I grew up. Every year on Good Friday the 4 of us and our dog would pile into whatever mini-van we were donning at the time and made the 3 hour trek up north. Once into town we would stop at the local KFC, pick up a bucket of chicken and go see Grandma. The 4 of us, the dog, and Grandma would sit in her living room watching her old TV. You know, the one with the dial, no remote. My Dad would be drinking his beer hanging out with my brother while they discussed sports. My mom and my grandma would sit in the armchairs arguing over nonsense while drinking their wine. And I would sit on the floor next to the dog, coloring. I'm pretty sure I colored at my Grandma's until I was like 16, it's very therapeutic. Easter Saturday was spent running errands with Grandma while my Dad did odds and ends around the house then Saturday night we would go somewhere fun to eat. Easter Sunday morning rolled around, the 4 of us would go to church while Grandma stayed at home preparing food for the family. My mom's sister's family would usually be at Grandma's by the time we came back from church. It was great! I was the youngest and enjoyed being with my older girl cousins. I enjoyed hearing their college stories and couldn't wait until I grew up. However, once I did "grow up" or more over, get older, we stopped going to Grandma Olson's for Easter. Grandma Olson eventually moved out of her huge home and into a retirement community where an Olson family Easter just wasn't possible.


As the years passed Easter became something that we HAD to celebrate and not something that I looked forward to celebrating. It was just that ol' holiday that came once a year. We even stopped doing Easter dinner, and started doing an Easter brunch. Once I moved out to NY and met my now husband I saw that his family took the same approach. One year we did dinner, the next year a random brunch at a ghetto Queens hotel, the next year a lunch, and so on. However this year was a pleasant surprise of a delightful Easter dinner. As I was downing a beer on our trip to the in-laws house my husband and I were discussing the scenarios we could create to get ourselves in and out as fast as possible. And it turned out no scenarios were needed. Easter was a true delight. Everyone was in a good mood. No yelling, no stress, no tension. Yes, there was the occasional bicker in the kitchen over food, but these bickers were almost funny, humorous in a way. Conversation was light-hearted and not from the twilight zone and even the annual card game of Cuckoo was fun!

The sudden change of events makes me wonder is Easter going to turn back into a holiday I enjoy? Are we going to start planning Easter in January like we plan Christmas in September? Or was this Easter just a freak accident of bliss. Regardless, it was one for the record books.

Girls Day

This past weekend my husband went on a golf get-away. 3 days of guy friends, beer, poker and 18 holes of golf a day. As Tim the Tool Man Taylor used to say, argh argh argh. I am never a big fan of my husband travelling for a few reasons. Well, the first reason being the most obvious, he is my husband and no wife should be happy their husband is leaving, but the 2nd reason is I have this terrible fear of something happening to me while he's gone. I guess you could say I have OCD as my nightly ritual when he is away is to check the front door to make sure it's locked and then check the back door to make sure it too is locked. Then back to the front door, then to the back door and so on...you get my point. After I repeatedly check the doors I then start to walk through the house to check each window (yes on the 2nd floor too) to make sure they are locked. Not only does this routine involve checking each lock on the window, but I also try to open the windows to make sure they don't budge. Once the windows are all done, I put a chair in front of the front door. If by chance the burgular breaks through the screen door lock, the door lock and the deadbolt lock, the chair will then fall over and wake me from my sleep. This is assuming I have fallen asleep because once I finally climb into bed I lie wide awake imagining my escape route with my 75 pound labrador retriever if there is an intruder. I know, FREAK!

After a night of pretty much no sleep on Friday, I am happy to speak to my best friend (whose husband is also on the guys weekend trip) on Saturday morning where we plan a day of shopping! I have always been an avid shopper and can enjoy a day at the mall, but my friend Sarah, can shop me under the table! I never thought I would meet someone who could make me shop 'til I drop and this girl can. It's great! It's one of the reasons we became such good friends. We meet in the afternoon and make our way up to the White Plains mall. For a mall, it's the mecca of shopping. We briefly cruise the first floor that we term as the expensive floor. We pass by the Stuart Weitzman, Juicy Couture, Coach, Dooney & Bourke stores and take the escalator up to the 2nd floor, the more affordable floor where the shopping really begins. However after 3 hours and 7 minutes of shopping we leave the mall feeling slightly defeated. We both went there with great expectations of coming home with a new Spring wardrobe and all Sarah ended up with was a frame and some bottles of soap and I bought a pair of Converse and 2 skirts. Now to the average shopper you might think this sounds like a success, but not to my best friend and I. I mean, we had a 25% off coupon to JCrew where we bought NOTHING! We didn't even try anything on?!? Has my guilty conscience gotten the best of me? Should I feel badly that people I know are getting laid off from their jobs right and left around me and I am upset that I only spent $150?

With our feet aching and feeling kind of bummed about our shopping experience, we head back to my house. The conversation on the way home is light, we debate on where to go to dinner and what time. We're both starving and decide to go for a snack when we get back to my house. I offer Sarah a soda and she says, "Actually, I think I'll take a beer." Now we're talking! 4 beers later the conversation has covered all spectrums and we decide to head to a local Mexican joint for dinner. The hostess tells us it's going to be just a moment and instead of waiting at the hostess stand, we take a seat at the bar. "2 Cadillac Margaritas please! On the rocks, one with salt the other without." We toast to a great day and take our first swig. Whew! Pure tequila and pure heaven! 4 margaritas, some guacamole and some burritos later we head back to my home where we crack open 4 more beers and proceed to have the best night ever. I told my husband this morning last night was the best time I probably have ever had with Sarah. There was not one lull in the conversation and we pretty much covered any topic you could possibly imagine, from work to friends to family to our husbands to sex to music to love to babies and to death. We cried when we talked about death and in the next moment we giggled like two 12 year old girls at a slumber party. It was the best night I have ever had hanging out with a friend.

At one point in the evening I told Sarah I have this awful fear of death. She asked me if I knew why and I told her I think it's because I am scared I am going to die and not have said everything I wanted to say to people. I am scared my brother won't know how proud I am of him. I'm scared my husband won't know how much I love him, and I'm scared my best friend won't know how much I appreciate our friendship. Sarah, in her infinite wisdom said, "Well, you have to make sure you tell all of these people how you feel. So they will know when you're gone." So, Sarah, thank you for being the best friend possible. I hope you know how much I appreciate our friendship! Last night I went to bed only checking the doors once, no chair next to the front door and no multiple laps around the house making sure the windows were locked. I slept like a baby.

Who Wears the Pants in this Relationship?

I realize that I have recently neglected the word 'dishwashers' in my blog title. Work has proven to be fairly mundane over the past few weeks, but this week has definitely been something to write about. Without boring you with the details of my job, the showroom in which I manage, is just that, a showroom. There is no pressure to buy, no deal making, strictly a resource center for people to come and learn about the appliances prior to purchasing or if they have already purchased, many people come to learn how to better USE their appliances. (AKA, "I haven't nor will I ever read my manual, so please tell me how the F to operate these things!")

It seems the economy is either taking a turn for the better OR the clients in which I deal with haven't been effected by the "recession" because I had quite a few couples come into the showroom and tell me they recently purchased all of our appliances and need help using them. I am happy to oblige. However, the clients this past week have been animals! Granted, I am in the customer service field and I see all types of personalities on a daily basis, but what is it with people thinking I am a marriage counselor? For example, a client made an appointment the other day for her and her husband to come in and get an overview of all of the appliances they just installed in their kitchen. They walk in looking almost like Ken & Barbie (well Barbie being 8 months pregnant), and even more, he's Australian. They appear to almost be angelic. We begin with reviewing the washer and dryer. They immediately start firing questions at me, right and left, but talking over each other. I know the answers to each question, but find it hard to answer them because I'm not sure which question to answer first. Then when I do answer one of their questions, the other one gets pissed off because I didn't answer their question first. What is this, kindergarten? I find the tension between the two of them rapidly increasing and then, BOOM, it finally comes to a blow. The wife, turns to ask me a question about something else, and her husband tells her to "focus and stop getting off track" (in a bit of a raised voice). She literally, stops, slowly turns back to face him and screams, I mean screams like the chandeliers in our showroom rattled, screams, "I AM FOCUSING! THIS IS IMPORTANT TOO!" At this point, I wonder what I should do. Do I walk away? Do I act like this is normal? Do I call 911? What do I do? I am so dumbfounded by her reaction that I stand there, I believe with my mouth dropped open. We continue with the demo, but I couldn't help but wonder if this is normal behavior for this couple? Maybe it's just her horomones being that she's 8 months pregnant, but something tells me it's not. I initially think that I can't even imagine what they are like at home if they are like this in public, but on the other hand, they are probably no different. I imagine they act the exact same way in public as they do in the comforts of their own home, since screaming at him seemed so second nature to her.

In another situation, I had a husband and wife come into the showroom with their designer where the wife decided she wanted to add an additional appliance to their kitchen layout. The designer and the husband both tell her they don't have the space and it's too late because the cabinets have already been ordered. And unlike anything I have ever seen before, this 30 something year old woman, starts flapping her arms and stomping her feet. Seriously, stomping around whimpering that they can't tell her no and she has to get what she wants. Again, I stand frozen in amazement wondering if I should walk away or laugh. The husband and designer seem humiliated so I decided laughing was probably not the best idea. I told them I was going to leave them to discuss their options. I mean, come on! Who behaves like that except for a 5 year old child who has just been told no to their favorite piece of candy?

I have been married for a mere 7 months, but like to think that my husband and I make joint decisions. Sure there are times when we don't agree with each other, but we make compromises, we discuss things, and come up with the best solution. We never argue in public, in fact, we very seldom argue, but when we do, it is behind closed doors. However, seeing these couples and I only named 2 of them, there were more, I wonder what is the best way to behave? The first couple I encountered appeared to be like Barbie & Ken, but after spending 10 minutes with them, they were more like Heidi & Spencer. I immediately knew who wore the pants in that relationship. The 2nd couple, I knew the husband was more like the father in that relationship, but assumed that the wife was going to get what she wanted in the long run. Is it wrong to put on a front for people when out in public? Is it fake? Or is it about making your company feel comfortable and having them wonder who wears the pants? And moreover, what's so wrong if my husband and I both wear the pants?

Do I have Something in my Teeth?

Yesterday while at work 4 colleagues of mine came into the showroom. They came in pairs. The first 2 and I decided to order lunch for everyone, knowing the other 2 were on their way. 2 of the 4 colleagues I'm friends with, one friend, the other very good friend. (I promise I'm getting at something here, just bear with me.) The one very good friend and I walk to the Thai restaurant to pick up our lunch order. It's a 2 block walk and we chat the whole way there, chat while we stand in the foyer waiting for our food, and chat on the way back. My other 2 colleagues have arrived in the showroom when we return, I say hello, give my other friend give him a kiss on the cheek and he immediately points to my teeth and says, "You have something stuck in between your teeth." I gasp! I'm humiliated! I take my finger and start scraping at whatever particle is sitting there rotting away in my mouth. He's watching me the entire time. I flash my not so pearly whites again and he says, "Nope, it's still there." I'm back to the scraping, this time really digging, not caring at all what I'm doing to my fingernails or to my teeth. I give him one more huge cheesy grin and he tells me I got it! Phew! Victorious! I later say to my colleague, the very good friend who I had talked to all morning, "Why didn't you tell me I had something stuck in my teeth?" He says, "I didn't want to embarrass you." I politely thank him, thinking that I was embarrassed when my other friend pointed the grotesque piece out to me. However, after thinking about all the clients I had talked to that morning with this object stuck in my teeth since, most likely breakfast, I get even more angry! Isn't that what friends are for? Shouldn't we all tell each other when we have something stuck in our teeth?


This morning on the train into the city, it's cold outside, so I'm all bundled up, hat, scarf, gloves, the works. I sit down in my train seat, a 2 seater facing a 3 seater. It's now warm on the train so I take off my hat and gloves. I see the guy sitting across from me, decent looking guy, sort of, you know, staring at me. I'm slightly flattered, but listen buddy, back off! I'm married! He obviously hasn't noticed my ring. I politely give him a half-smile and crank up the tunes on my iPod. He looks as if he is going to say something to me so in order to avoid an awkward conversation, and actually, conversation in general on the 8 AM train, I adjust my earphones and close my eyes for the next 30 minutes into Grand Central. Upon arrival into the station, I open up my eyes and the guy is still looking like he has something to say! The train comes to a stop, we both stand up at the same time and he finally says, "You have something stuck in your hair!" Again, humiliation. Is this the reason the guy has been staring at me? Immediately I grasp for my hair, but find nothing. He says, "No, it's still there." I try again, but this time, he moves my hand, reaches for my hair and gets it himself! Uh....what is going on? He was right, it was a large white fuzz from my winter hat, but is it me or does anyone else agree that it was pretty weird for him to remove the item from hair? I think I turned at least 37 different shades of red before I thanked him and ran off the train. (Careful, to watch the crack between the train and the platform.)


This brings me to my question. Is the proper thing to tell a perfect stranger if they have something in their teeth, their hair, etc? Or is that something that should be left to a friend? Like the other day in the showroom, a man walked in with his zipper completely down. Yep, wide open. I was tempted to tell him, but refrained, thinking that telling a man his zipper was down might be construed as inappropriate. Another day on the train, I was sitting across from a woman who had an obvious black mascara smudge on her face. She was a cute, huge pregnant woman, who I probably should have told that she had mascara on her face, but didn't because again, I was a stranger. But the more I think about it, as weird as the moment was, I truly did appreciate the stranger on the train removing the white fuzz from my hair.

My solution is, for now, I am going to say it would be okay if I had told the man about his zipper as long as I didn't zip it up for him. Or if I told the woman about her mascara, as long as I didn't lick my thumb like my mother used to do and wipe it off her face. People say, carrying mirrors in pockets is a sign of vanity. I think it's a sign of intelligence. One never knows when they might have something stuck in their teeth.

Beauty is Pain

This past Friday I did something I haven't done in a very long time. I called in sick AND I wasn't even sick. Gasp! I know you all must be so disappointed. The funny thing is, growing up I used to always play "hookey" from school. So much to the point that I had to have a parent teacher conference with the principal of the school saying that I had to come to school or they were going to have to hold me back. Hellz no! There was only one thing worse than going to school and that was repeating a grade. Once my parents actually switched me into a school that I liked I stopped playing hookey until I got to college. Here is where I realized I didn't even have to play sick, I could just NOT go to class. However, this time, there were no parent teacher conferences, just the tell tale grades I received after my first semester. "Oh, so this is what happens when you don't go to class?" I realized now being old and wise that when I enjoy something whether it's school or a job, I go to it and will excell at it, but when I don't enjoy it, I could really care less. Sorry, all of this leading up to why it was shocking that I actually called in sick this past Friday. I had a scheduled doctor's appointment, but didn't want to use my personal/sick days for a measley doctor's appointment. I also needed a well-deserved break from my job, yes selling dishwashers can be stressful.

So, first stop, Westport Connecticut, to see my dermatologist. I have been seeing this dermatologist for the past 4 years now and feel I have established a small bond with him. He's a great guy, young, not overly handsome, but his personality makes him adorable, very charming. My visit today was due to a small breakout of pimples on my cheek. Granted, all my life I have been blessed with good skin, of course an occasional zit will appear, but nothing drastic. So my doctor laughs when I tell him the reason for my visit is a bad breakout, according to him it's nothing. He takes a quick look at my face, writes up a few prescriptions, one a pill, the other a topical cream and tells me he can get rid of the biggest zit that is sitting in the middle of my cheek. I say, "Get rid of it?" He says, "Yes, darling. I'll inject it with a needle, pop what's inside of there and dry it up. It will be gone by tomorrow morning." Llaaaahhh (read this word while imagining my cute doctor enveloped by a bright light behind him)! This doctor truly is a miracle worker! Who knew you could get rid of a huge zit in less that 24 hours by injecting it with a needle. Wait! Did he say needle? I hate needles! So I ask, "Does it hurt?" He smirks and says, "Beauty is Pain, my dear, beauty is pain." My vanity takes over and I decide to go for the injection. While I'm waiting for the good doctor to come back into the room. I'm reading a sign on the wall advertising the services of my dermatologist's office: Restylane, Botox, Spider vein removal, some other items I don't remember, and laser hair removal. I have always had what I like to call "peach fuzz" so after I am shot in the cheek with a needle to get rid of my zit (During which my doctor tells me how 14-16 year old girls come into his office on almost a daily basis to have this procedure done because not only are they in their teens and breaking out with pimples, they also, well, live in Westport. Unreal.) I decide to broach the subject of laser hair removal. He in his very charming way (use of sarcasm here) tells me that laser hair removal works wonders on people with dark hair, but does not do anything for peach fuzz. He says "for peach fuzz, you need to wax." He grabs my chin, turns my head to the left then to the right and says, "wax, wax, wax!" Here's the real kicker, he then tells me however he has another injection he can use on me to get rid of my frown lines around my mouth! What??

"How old are you" he asks.
"I'll be 30 in July" I reply.
He kindly says, "Yep. It's about that time. I don't know what it is, but something is going on with your body, excess peach fuzz, zits, and lines around your mouth. Come back in a few months if you want to take care of those lines."

Beauty is pain I remind myself as I check out with the receptionist and make an appointment to come back in a few months...Beauty is Pain.....