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....