Brother Can You Spare A Dime?

The holidays are almost over. But here's what our neighborhood is sprinkled with...

Let it snow, let it snow

Baked beer bread from Tastefully Simple -- just a bottle of Killian's Red, mix, stir--bake. Yum. The smell is sweet, bakery fresh; warming on a cold day. The kids are playing in the snow. Daisy, our golden retriever/spaniel/Irish setter mutt is having a ball frolicking in and out of snow drifts.

I'd say we got about 14 inches on Long Island. I watch from the living room bay window as they dig a white tunnel and are writhing in and out of the mounds of snow. I don't remember the last time we had a blizzard. Well we had a lot of snow last March, but this seems like more.

Today was tough. I spent a debilitating hour in bed. Where am I going and what am I doing? Tom's still freelancing thank God but nothing permanent, yet. Do I go back to work? I am not ready for full time workload. I hated when my mother went back to work and I became a latchkey kid coming home from Jr. High, the most hormone whirlwind, identity-forming emotional time of life and I opened the door myself to an empty house and dealt with life and my issues alone. Is it unfair that my mom should have had a life outside of motherhood, too? Sure. Is it unfair that I also want to dress nicely and converse with adults and make some REAL money and have a life outside, too? Sure. But, I'm not ready. I don't want to abandon my kids yet. Isn't that the point and why I wanted to be a mom? To be here for them and guide them through life? I'm in a major transformation lately, re-evaluating just about everything in my life from unhealthy relationships to my priorities. I'm going through some kind of major shift in thinking about who I really am and what do I really want out of life.

I eat beer bread and sip jasmine green tea. The beer bread ran out quickly while our daughters' friend is over. Daisy came in with snow balls crusted all over her fur. I lay my warm hands on her legs to melt the ice.

What Do You Do????

Went to a lovely dinner / cocktail party last night. As the mulled wine flowed and we ate delicious treats like sauerkraut meatballs -- yum -- we talked about the economy. How do we keep our heads above water? Living in a middle class section of a town nestled on Long Island's Gold Coast, we talked about driving around drooling over McMansions within the surrounding neighborhoods up North. I often wonder what do these people do for a living to afford that gorgeous home. Our friend Dennis came up with an interesting concept. Drum Roll....ta da....

Dennis Day.
Just once a year everyone should be required to hang a shingle on their front lawn:
I'm a screenplay writer! Model! Director of Hedge Funds! Playboy--Inherited it ALL! Slept my way to the top! Doctor! I have a Sugar Daddy!

Stress

So, I'm back on here for a while. (See daughters and moms for other posts www.daughtersandmoms.com ) This is always the worst time of the year, leading up to the holidays. Every year it comes. Every year it hits. I try different ways to holiday shop -- online's easier, gift cards, etc. Maybe you're there. Maybe you're crying daily like I am. Tonight both Tom and I will miss Kelly's Winter Concert. We have NO choice. Tom has to schmooze at his freelance gig's Xmas party and I had a freelance article due and this is the only night they're meeting. Kelly is PISSED to say the least.

"You made me practice the Cello a half hour EVERYDAy. And now you can't come," sulking boo hoo face.

True.

"Why can't you?"

Can't. Beacause, mommy needs to use that muscle in her head that's been withering, slowly decaying amidst laundry, walk the dog, feed the dog, bath the dog. "Mom, need new crayons. Mom, what's for dinner. Mom, it's my turn on the computer." My novel that I started now four years ago is rotting on the computer. I shut down like a stone when I try to re-write it to the point of shaking and crying in front of the laptop screen. Mommy needs to work. My brain is jello. We need money.

Unemployment

So, we're unemployed!

My husband lost his job. Read about our family's experiences on www.daughtersandmoms.com

Letterman vs. Conan

Have you heard? I'm sure you have. Letterman made an off-color joke about Sarah Palin's daughter whether it was the 14-year-old or 18-year-old and Alex Rodriquez and who else can we throw in the pot, Matt Lauer asking Palin questions on the Today show and all the myriad media people who've fanned the flames on this one?

So, I'll add a name to the pot. An innocent bystander who probably caused the whole dang thang like Mrs. O'Leary's cow burning down Chicago.

Conan O'Brien!

Seems to this old-time PR maven that Letterman deftly and cunningly swept all attention away from Conan a mere week after O'Brien's Tonight Show host debut.

Imagine the writers at a conference table. "What'll we do? It's gotta be BIG. Shoot! Conan had Pearl Jam with an album debut exclusively through Target."

Some guy in the back like Robert Shaw scratching the blackboard in Jaws said, "Palin's in town." Talk about a target.

Hey, it worked for Tina Fey. A Star is Born. Bingo.

But everyone and their mother got on the conservative vs. liberal, feminist soap box about the rights of women (which I whole-heartedly agree, behave boys.) And we got down to where were you when you heard? As representatives of the right or left wing or women's rights why didn't you step up, protect our daughters? (again yes we should) But to me, folks, it seems that everyone's talking about Letterman and not the other late-night guy. As Trump has proven time and time again, ANY publicity is good publicity.

Let's move on, shall we. They both got a whole hell of a lot of publicity off all of us, including me.

Happy To Even Be Nominated

Last Thursday, June 4th, I put on a brightly colored skirt and matching muddy red silky jacket and yikes, stockings--heels and went alone to the Woodbury Country Club, leaving my family behind. I wasn't mommy that night or Tom's wife or that outgoing yet awkward me who wears her heart on her sleeve. I was a writer, a journalist like I always am but that night I didn't have to hide it and could talk shop with my peers. The Press Club of Long Island was granting awards for excellence in journalism in the various categories and mediums.

I was nervous and clipped my name on my jacket collar clutching my free drink ticket in my hand. This was my first awards dinner I attended as a nominee in the daily feature category for a piece I'd written for Newsday about roadside memorials. Newsday, who I read for decades. Newsday, who, as a kid, I helped Barbara Ann Crawford collect her weekly dues from all our neighbors splitting tips and mailing in the rest. Newsday, who I worked for as office gopher in the production department all through college at Hofstra in the 80s.

I milled around the crowd of Long Island's finest journalists, reading and recognizing names on tags and they, not necessarily recognizing mine. Some did. I sat with Liza Burby a long-time freelancer, editor-in-chief and now daring publisher of a parenting magazine. I chatted with Shoshanna Rubin a writer/producer of News12 who at 30 already had an Emmy award and trained me during a crazy month when I tried TV writing. Not for me.

I found a table with radio station folks that still had a few empty chairs. As I sat quietly nibbling on salad and a hard roll, alone freelancer like a giant L branded on my forehead, I looked around the room in awe. Long Island should see this. These are the people who do it every day. Who find Long Island as its best and worst and haggle over a sentence of copy whether to be read or printed. They decide what to leave in, what to leave out. They ask the tough questions, craft a story that's attention-getting, entertaining and most of all connects to the audience. These are the people who make those pain staking decisions--do I tell this? Do I exploit them? Do I need to go that far? Did I go far enough? Am I just looking for attention as an egotistical writer or am I getting out of the way to enlighten, teach, bring awareness of an otherwise obscure situation. They ask--am I upholding the truth?

I saw Pat Dolan of the Cablevision monopoly and Bob Lipper of PCLI and Andrew Strickler and the guys at the Long Island Press who haven't seceded from the union yet but somehow bound Long Island tighter together in many ways. And when Michael Martino's hulking figure stooped and blurted into the microphone we don't do it for the money, we love to do it. I saw...me.

When they called my name as 2nd place winner for a daily feature and I found my legs to stand and rise for a few seconds and heard polite clapping, in that instance--we were all one in that room. They were with me when I said to myself months ago, not good enough, it needs more, people will want to know how many deaths there have been year to date, or this sentence isn't flowing. They are with me every minute I make those decisions when all the bells and whistles go off in my head and my pulse starts to race and that little voice inside screams HOLY SHOOT--that's a story as someone complains to me about some indiscretion and I'm buzzing with names who to pitch it to. When I feel like a megaphone. Who can I tell? How can I share this? Yes, that's when they are with me. Being a writer is not lonely, it's an honor. I sunk comfortably in my seat--this is where I belong amongst my people on this side of the truth. When the coffee was finished and all awards given out and another banner year was recorded through the news media on Long Island, I clacked my heels up the stairs and into the parking lot, melding back into mommy and wife to share my award with my family. Another day of writing ahead of me, awaiting the day I'd paint my masterpiece...

Mother knows best

Shhh! Okay, I did it. I don't want to jinx myself, but...I never got the stomach virus. Not full blown at least. I was lucky. But despite a really bad diet lately that includes Lays sour cream potato chips (my fav) and Diet Pepsi, this week I pulled the plug and did lots of praying, I never threw up and made it out of the woods only slightly shakey.

My secret: I didn't eat anything for a few days, not Mia Farrow trying to save Dafur (bless her), but eating bland things like baked potatoes and bits of bagels and pretzels, vanilla yogurt and I popped Acidophilus health pills to sick the good bacteria on the bad bacteria in my stomach.

It worked.

Motherhood -- at a million miles a minute

Melanie couldn't sleep so good last night. That meant, I couldn't. She woke me up three times. I can't sleep. I'm still the only one who didn't get the stomach virus and have been gingerly dancing around that not eating full spicy meals and trying to take extra care.

But apparently my old dictum of "unless your hair is on fire, do not wake me up," has fizzled these days. Sick is one thing, I'm there in a heartbeat, but just I can't sleep -- what do I do with that? I'm a former insomniac who's spent many a sleepless night both as a kid and an adult. Been there, try to avoid it.

"Put your light on and read a little," I loud whispered out the door because I'm trapped. If I get up, the dog is up. It was only 3:00 am. Ain't no sane number to get up now. Daisy has been Cujo, again lately biting and tear-assing through the house. The only peace we get is that crate overnight which she whimpers and all out barks to get out of during the day now and in a bold weaning move, the crate's been evicted from our bedroom into the hallway. You see the problem. The minute someone's up, she's up.

I feel like I have no life. Between kids on three different sports, preparing for the spring concert, freelance hoofing for every job, trying to put together a website where money is going out at this juncture and not coming in, Tom working at home questioning my every move: I'm going crazy. I haven't played the guitar in weeks or written fiction or had a moment's break. And it rolls around in my head, I should just go out and get a real job. I'm piecing together patches of a life and not striving in any one given place. Can I ever get time to do one thing and focus? My parents did. My father worked, never cooked, never dealt with my school stuff other than an occasional teacher conference. Mom was much younger having kids so by my age, she focused on work and I dealt with my own stuff. By my early teenage years, I was independent but living with them. Motherhood today is insane. I'm expected to do it all!!! What about my dreams? What happened to all those things I wanted to do? and what do I teach my daughters by being frazzled and incompetent. Life sucks!

I rolled over tossing and turning, trying successfully not to wake up Tom. Finally 5:30 after much clock ticking and problem solving and bitching in my head, I got up let the dog out, "Go pee where ever you want, Daisy cakes," sat here and vented.

Gonna be a good day!


Later....

Melanie stayed home, again. Maybe it's this flu thing. We'll be schlepping her to buy a new Honda Odyssey mini-van that we've put off every day this week due to one illness or another. Life goes on... a million miles a minute. Tonight's the spring concert!!! Need black pants for Robert.

Later still...

Kid, here's a bucket. Melanie, holding onto the blue garbage pail, went on the adventure with us to finally, finally get the new 2009 Honda Odyssey.

even later...

We all survived a gruelingly long day. The spring concert was a smash hit. Robert wore a cool black tie I'd bought from ALL Music. It was black with sheet music and a giant upright bass silk screened on it. Finally not a Sears clip-on or Daddy's too big substitute.

Mind over Matter

I will NOT get this virus. I will not get this stomach thing. I'm Doomed. It's been lurking in the house for over a week. Melanie had it twice, once last Sunday, then I had to get the Kenyan Safari Guide James from Jersey City and sent poor Melanie to school the next day -- Sweetie you gotta get on that bus -- mommy's on an adventure. She relapsed on Thursday. Stayed home Friday.

Went to a Communion on Saturday, all was fine. Then Kelly had it into Mother's Day morning... now Robert and Tom have it.

I refuse. It's a mindset. I'm just working and writing and trying to keep my head above water. But, secretly I'll tell you, I'm not eating anything I'd like to see again -- meaning no peanut butter, soy nuts, nothing hard to digest. I'm picking on pretzels and pieces of bagel. Coke syrup does really help, too. But that's after you puke a few times. You gotta let nature run its course. And DO NOT Drink. This is the stupidest thing people do. I'm gonna dehydrate and they drink water. I've had this sucker most of all of my life just about every spring or if not that next fall -- sometimes even on Christmas morning. Don't drink. It just sets off the dry heaves. Sweat it out a few hours, lick a lollipop if you have to. It'll finally calm down.

I gotta say though, as the kids get older, it gets easier. Melanie literally carried the bucket around with her, paused, did her business and carried on. Robert cleaned up after himself. The endless hours of monitoring toddlers and re-changing them over and over is gone. One consolation.

I refuse...

Happy Mother's Day--Same As It Ever Was

You may ask yourself...this is not my beautiful LIFE. How did I get here? My God What have I done? Letting the days go by....

Woke up at 2 a.m. Kelly threw up in bed. Melanie had already had the stomach virus last Sunday. We thought we'd made it out of the woods when no one else in the family got it, yet. Till this morning.

Poor kid threw up 19 times. Kelly's always the healthiest, has the most diverse diet--fish and veggies--and has the longest endurance for swimming and sports. But that tiny bug takes down even the strongest.

All plans were cancelled: to buy a brand new Honda Odyssey that'll last us into the last leg of middle range parenthood from elementary school kids thru middle school and HS. Then, I'll get my red Corvette in time for my 50s. WHERE IS MY LARGE AUTOMOBILE??? Hon -- ask yourself??

So for now, Mother's Day is another lap in motherhood: Dunkin Donuts coffee, my favorite coffee cake muffin, watching old tapes of the kids when they were babies and... no brunch, no new mini-van.

What Mother's Day? Same as it ever was... and yet I'm right where I love to be.

The Sky's the Limit

James from Kenya--First of two

It all started last Wednesday when Robert offered me up in his 5th grade class as a guide to James, an African man visiting from Kenya.

Robert came home in his usual exasperated, somewhat tired, low blood sugared spray of: this happened and that happened and you forgot my permission slip and can we go to the All Music store again, today…

Then he stopped. Paused.

“Mom, Mom, Miss Shampanier said she needs someone to get James from Kenya and bring him to the classroom next week.”

Wait a second. Kenya? I called the school to corroborate. Miss Shampanier talked me through her plan and I agreed to do it. Kind, was the word she’d used—Nuts was what my husband muttered. But Tom knows better after 12 years of marriage than to say he’d “let me do something.” He’s learned to embrace my many adventures which sometimes take me to places like climbing over the guardrails on the Southern State parkway picking through roadside memorials for an article I’d been working on or sharing my sexual fantasies on Dr. Ruth’s television show. Tom just charges my cell phone and holds the door open for me like a stray cat, “be home for dinner, hon.”

James Onsare, a tribal man from the Kisii village East of Victoria Lake in Kenya was indeed here in the States for the first time ever staying with his brother. John is a computer whiz still holding onto his job and sworn to secrecy at Merrill Lynch living on the edge of industry in Jersey City. I would be James the Safari guide’s guide for the day and drive in, get him, bring him out here to speak with the 5th grade, turn around and drive back to Jersey and come home. I was tired just thinking about it but jumped at the chance.

You see, I’ve had a secret love affair with Africa for a long time since I’d seen Out of Africa decades ago and spent many a night poring through a coffee table book filled with photos of regal, wild animals standing at attention on the plains of Africa. Isak Denesen’s poetic prose painted a picture of a life completely different than mine. AND I’ve been developing a charity Mothers Emerge Worldwide to help women get pre- and post- natal healthcare they need across the globe. So timing is everything.

Monday morning, I left 7 am thinking for sure I’d be through the LIE, Williamsburg Bridge, Holland Tunnel to Jersey City by 9:30 pick up time. I was wrong. I spent 3 hours in touch and go traffic inching along, crawling over the bridge and snaking through the streets of lower Manhattan. I called and pushed all the arrangements back to an afternoon speech.

James’s brother John owns a townhouse in Jersey City’s gated community Society Hill. It was this pocket of lovely Washingtonian looking quaint, well kept streets behind a mall in the middle of the dirty oiled machine of Jersey City.

James was smaller and slighter than I thought, with a thin, compact muscular body, his vehicle. he would later tell the 100 children who gathered ‘round him like celebrity signing autographs—because in Kenya you run the 8 miles to school, without shoes on your feet in rain or sunshine. Your body is all things, tool, plow, vehicle and brain. It’s the only way to get stuff done. In fact in the seven hours I accompanied him, a most fascinating experience hearing kind of Queen’s English Swahili mixture gentle voice of a man from a quieter world who need not raise his voice over the machinery of man made noise. It was James’s lilting voice I was at first struck by. Miss Shampanier explained that his accent was heavy and yet I understood his every word, even while we made business plans: he wanting me to help gain Safari travelers and me explaining “James I’ll do what I can, but I’m not a travel agent. I’m a writer.” But I did offer him space on my new website and we would work together to help build water towers for clean sanitized water for surrounding villagers and children.

As soon as I arrived, John waved me down while standing on the steps of the townhouse. With immaculately clean hardwood floors and solid muddied colored brick red bathroom, there wasn’t a decorative anything on any walls and paper towels to dry your hands. It indicated one thing and one thing only—there were no women here. No towels, doodads, nothing.

John graciously offered me a large glass brimming with orange juice. James less tall and more serious minded, was clearly one sharp cookie. He had a box of stuff for me, business cards, DVDs, brochures. He was more prepared than any Apprentice in Trump’s world. He would continue on to question me as to any limitation with or level set on my authority in opening my own website. He seemed grateful to meet people but always questioned their influence: how many people live in this town, and area of this state how many will he be speaking to?

He wasn’t sure Miss Shampanier had the authority to invite an outsider into the community’s school and was more ridged and all business when speaking to the principal shocked the authority figure is a woman. It was not disrespectful, it was his world where each step up hits a roadblock, level of authority--every move calculated and trust is key.

He was immaculate in his appearance with a beige Safari tee-shirt with his company’s emblem sown on the left lapel and Khaki pants. In fact, I was embarrassed my minivan was messy, typical mom-van stuff. While decorating the room with Wild animal posters, he made sure no edges curled.

“I am all my time, putting the thing back into the thing,” he told me in growing his business. "Here, the sky is the limit." It started as an off shoot from college where he made phone calls from his home, then shared a desk with his lawyer friend in an office. Now he lives and works in Nairobi with a staff of three.

And eloquently, better than any media-trained professional spokesperson that I’d ever accompanied on photo shoots or network interviews, this 30 something year old son of a primary school teacher father and farmer mother, who’d gone to a school with dirt floors and no running water, told a room full of 10 and 11 year olds all about Africa equating Kenya to the size of Texas. That’s something I’d like to do, drive James down to go two-stepping.

Parent Teacher Conference

Yesterday, was the dreaded second parent/teacher conference of the year. The one where most of the time the kids show an improvement because, of course, no matter how smart or good they could possibly be in September--they need an incentive to grow. So, this is the time the teachers usually, hopefully note the improvements or chastise remember we were going to help him work on...

Although I left the house with my "hello-world-ready-for-anything" poker face, I was still nervous. Because, lets face it, as a mom, an enlightened, hands on, overly doting, new aged: I'm not too intrusive, not totally living through you but I've got your back, type of mom--it reflects on me (us--Tom) as parents. So as nervous as my kids were, magnify that three-fold. It'll be my fault if they aren't doing well, right?

The surprises in life are wondrous. Good report cards and showing great test scores is one thing but I was thrilled to hear, "I'm not really supposed to say this or judge but Melanie is such a happy child."

Is it teacher spin to put the parent at ease? I'd like to think not because it was an after thought, a whisper kind of going out into the hallway as I was deposited back into the crowd moving down the hall towards another classroom.

We must be doing something right, I thought with neon light beaming pride on the drive home. "Happy!!" She's happy. This is a child whom I butt heads with on more than one occasion daily. A child who has fits when her socks "throw up" she calls it as they loosen and bunch at the toes. A child whose emotions skyrocket and plummet in zero.3 seconds when asked to brush her hair or teeth. Happy!

That glow continued even through my return home to:

"Mom, you said we could buy books at the book fair, you forgot."
"There's nothing to eat."
"Daisy, pooed in the house, again."

Happiness.

Trump's personal attacks

I'm done with the Apprentice. Thanks to DVRS we watched last week's episode this week. The firing of TLC's Tionne for backing up Joan Rivers daughter Melissa was ridiculous--Trump power play.

Exposing Dennis Rodman for who he is, and firing Khloe Kardashian for her DUI conviction...

These have nothing to do with getting a job and/or being an apprentice which was supposed to be the point. It's Trump on a power play--nanny nanny poo pooing, exploiting people's weaknesses for charities. Shame on Trump. Meanwhile he oogles women discussing the body of the model in Clint Black's ALL detergent masturbation-skit and is constantly hitting on ex-Playboy Bunny Brandi, who I have to admit I kind of like.

Jesse James is the man. I'm waiting for him to just walk off and tell Trump to take this job and sh_ _ _ it.

It reminds me not to turn on the TV. Yet soon he'll be taking over my favorite beach, Jones -- on Long Island.

First Love--Ibanez

By yesterday morning I was cranky. After spending the week home with all three kids on vacation, still working to drum up story ideas for editors and crafting a mother-daughter website and catering to a 7, 9 and 10-year-old--to really be with them, really enjoy our vacation, I was exhausted. Robert spent the week mooning over a bass guitar we'd found in All Music, a store not far from our home on Long Island.

"Let's go back," he would beg repeatedly each day by 10 am. He had it bad and pined for a metallic blue Ibanez electric bass, pre-owned so it was cheaper (smart kid) but fit perfectly in his smaller 10-year-old-hand. His blond scruffy surfer dude hair in the musician persona was a fitting accessory against the bright blue.

I know this obsessive, burning passion he has for music. Did I do it to him? Can you project all your stuff onto your child and then live vicariously through them? Been done already by fathers on various fields. Ya think?

"Okay kid, let's go." We spent three separate afternoons at the store, Robert plugged in playing the same four riffs he somehow plucked out by ear on his upright bass; "Smoke on the Water," "Iron Man," and two he wrote.

I wandered around the store circling him, a satellite in our bond and love for sound. The guys who worked there, musicians in their own right, smiled at my indulgence of his need to play and fielded questions about price, case, amps, etc.

Finally yesterday, after much cajoling and reasoning, Tom and I decided instead of making Robert wait for his July birthday, we would see how much of his saved allowance he could gather and we'd add some and buy the bass to put him out of his misery.

Robert had squirrelled away $100 and by trading in Xmas gift cards, Easter money, advances on his allowance and a bag of change totalling $11.50--he hit the magic number--$140 to buy it outright himself!

So Sunday morning off we went in a religious ceremony--the whole family his witness. He walked into the store proudly with a fist full of cash in his hand, marched to the back where the basses hung from racks in front of sheet music boxes with Paul McCartney smiling down from a photo to anoint the moment. Robert selected his first guitar, pulled it off the rack and began the ride of his life.

He talked through the issues of not getting a amp yet (use mine, I said) and a strap and a case but stood taller and was more mighty than the overpowering storm of musical obsession that overtook his life.

Since we got home yesterday, we haven't seen him. But the house is alive with sounds of real music in low, thumping rhythms drowning out the drone of video games and lifting my mood.

Twitter

Okay. Someone very helpful on Twitter explained the drill to me. Once you hit 2,000 people you can't follow any more until you are followed by 2,000 people.

Got it. I was confused.

A Tweet and a Twit

I'm on Twitter, up to 2,000 I'm following and 1,200 following me...and last night two things were evident.

One: my neck, wrist and hand hurt. This cyber communicating is tough on the body yet there is no body needed. It's fascinating to me how in the moment Twitter is without the physical presence of human beings. ME, ME, ME -- it screams. I craved comfort, so I listen to the waltzing 3/4 time of Ray LaMontagne crooning "Let It Be Me" and thought something's false about all this tweeting--yet I'm hooked and fascinated. This was what my parents must have felt like staring at the black and white TV that invaded their quiet lives when plugging something in for the first time all those eons ago.

Two: I had the weirdest dreams last night, like a Martha Graham or Merce Cunningham dance sequence of humanity with tables and tables of people. It was a family gathering of sorts, but not MY family that I've known and loved for 43 years (or my husbands) it was strangers who embraced me and my three kids, fluffing out white table cloths, opening folding chairs in preparation; showering us with fattening, buttery foods and laughing at shared family stories. I didn't recognize anybody in the foggy, billowy dream.

Weird.

She loves me, she loves me not

I know our puppy Daisy loves me. I can tell. Really! After just a few weeks, she knows her name now. When I pull her out of the crate in the morning, she's bigger than ever, growing like Clifford the Big Red Dog. We got her four weeks ago at 9 lbs. now she's 13.

She loves me: Oh Yeah! She leaves me presents--a little poo by the back door, paws at me to pet her head, protectively growls at strangers, follows me through the house (and I pace a lot--helps the writing but must drive her crazy), she does the major hoola hoop wiggle, tail wagging and all when I come home.

She loves me not: chews my shoes, my legs as I walk, growls when I try to leash her, sets a firm stance and refuses to walk down the block only to come home and poo in our backyard.


Daisy. Daisy. I pluck petals...she loves me, she loves me not!

My Hero

It happened yesterday.

Robert and I were practicing for an open mic night performance. I would play chords on the guitar and sing Ray LaMontagne's "Shelter." Robert would play the upright bass that he plays in the elementary school band. We were fussing with the notes and he got red faced, flustered and the tears began...

"I can't do it," he blurted out. So we stopped rehearsing.

"You don't have to do it," I said gently thinking I pushed him too far too fast, eager to share music with him.

"But, I WANT to..."

And here's what Tom and I have been saying for months, and months of the Guitar Hero video things. The reality is: it's a game. But kids feel they are rock stars entitled to the keys to the city. Hours of Rock Band fun yes, but not to the exclusivity of wasting time NOT learning something real with the potential for a lifetime of joy sharing music with others.

Sadly, Robert slunk away defeated and I tried to lift his spirits but it's hard when he knows the truth now. Practice and do it, don't pose your way through life. Better to learn at 10 than 22 or 43. Work your craft no matter what it is because no one can take that away from you.

Ever.

This morning Robert said he wants to take lessons. I smiled. "I'll sign you up today."

and my hero, sans the red cape, bent down to pet Daisy. "Who's a good girl?" and began training her to sit and shake a paw. He's excellent with her; a natural born teacher.

Our performance has been postponed but a fresh dream with the path to get there is newly illuminated.

Let the Games Begin

Ugh!!! Here we go. Not the Oprah adage, but my life, scuse me Tom, OUR lives. Every April it starts. We are traipsing across many different soccer and softball fields.

And, ahem, could we have a little sun and nicer weather? Please? Yesterday we froze our cans off. I remember as a kid that April with spring break and flowers blooming was more balmy than this and October--Halloween--was down right, bone chilling frigid cold. I was more upset about having to wear a coat over my costume than about how much candy I didn't get.

Now, Halloween has been gorgeous coats off and it doesn't get warm until late May. Maybe Al Gore is right. Global warming?

April Fools--NOT

I never liked April Fool's Day. When I was a kid, my cousins lived with us for a few months before they were able to find a house they liked. My cousin John pulled a bunch of pranks--switching sugar with cream of wheat and other "fun" things. I don't think mom was amused when her sugar floated in lumps in her coffee.

Kelly zinged us a few times this morning. "The dog pooed on the floor." To which I reacted in my usual tone -- DAY ZEEEEEE! "April Fools!" Kelly hooted.

Just wait till I tell them we're NOT going to Disney in July after all.

April Fools.

Sunshine

Spring has sprung. It's about time. This winter really just needs to go away. I felt that SADD syndrome thing where the bleak gray sky mimicked my bleak outlook. Today the sun is shining and things are more doable.


As a writer, I'm filled with idiosyncrasies--self destructive tendencies and I allow myself to get side-tracked.

Somehow the sun wipes all that away. I didn't write today in winter, compounds that "I'll never do it." but a sunny day, not writing means -- well I went for a walk and feel good.


Go out and get a little Vitamin D, too.

Blush is off the Rose

Okay Can we bring the dog back? This is the prevailing question this week after Daisy -- no longer dainty and should be more like DayZEE -- has been biting. Not just puppy isn't-that-cute nibbling. But out and out growling and provoking us, challenging all in the house to a yell off.

I got news for you dog, this here's my house and my bite is worse than my bark.

We had dinner with Bob and Arlene Levinson last night from Nassau Community's Dylan Radio show. They had us hooting and laughing about pet catastrophe stories. It takes time I guess, but the honeymoon's over. Now the training begins.

Old dog learns new tricks

Erin Go Bragh!!!

It's amazing how fast a habit can form--whether good or bad. In just over a week I'm up earlier, monitoring the input and output levels of yet another creature in our family and I'm more aware of my tone of voice.

This morning I actually had my shoes by the back door ready and waiting. I deftly unlocked the crate door scooping a slightly bigger Daisy up in my arms. We scurried out the door before I put her down--before the accident can happpen. See Daisy, I can learn new tricks.
Daisy is getting the rhythm of our human life. Being the only animal in the house, she seems fascinated by the coffee making in the morning, the sound of my guitar. She wanders around looking for the children when they're at school and goes CUJO-nuts when they arrive home.

As I'm reading all the doggie books, I realized you can apply these techniques to children, too.

--Never let them sleep on your bed. They get confused as to who the boss is.
--The owner eats first. The biggest and lead dog always fortifies him/herself FIRST
--Walk out the door, first. Make them follow your lead.
--Crate them at night (well, this one might be hard. Robert is tall these days)

Sometimes during dinner, the lack of manners makes me feel like I am raising wolves.

All in all, Daisy's like putty gluing our family together in a common fascination. We're learning to see things through puppy eyes.

Early mornings

I'm still missing that hour. Daylight sayings might save some farmer some time (or so the reason goes), but it's not helping my sleeping cycle. That, combined with the arrival and invasion of a little 10-week old puppy into my daily routine. So practically every morning, I've been up at 5:55 which is really 4:55 day hour "time" to my body clock and a whole hour and a half earlier than my natural awaking rhythm which is -- you do the math. A LOT earlier than it should be.

Plus, I'm in menopause having night sweats and hot flashes and racing heart palpitations...

They say dogs are wonderful for your health, lowering blood pressure and adding years, yes--years to people's lives.

Hopefully we'll get there because right now I feel I've aged a year in one week. In dog years, of course.

Puppy love

We're in love. Everyone in our family has that new love glow. The children are eagerly picking up after themselves so as not to "hurt" our new pup Daisy as she sinks her baby teeth into anything and everything she can. I enjoy her company on my walks, having someone underfoot and following me through the house all day long who isn't yelling, asking for juice or insisting they won't eat that, mom.

Tom even walked her this morning with a little skip in his step humming happily. In just three short days, we're in puppy love. Hard to believe. Robert hasn't even looked at guitar hero in days, Melanie is growing less and less afraid even as Daisy gets really frisky and growls biting her chew toys. Kelly is as nurturing and loving as ever. It's brought all of our cuddly wuddly sides out as time seemed to lengthened with new habits forming these past few days.

Here's to Daisy for bringing us closer together.

Meet Daisy

It happened fast. I don't have any deadlines this week and I'm not actively writing on the novel. The economy is nose-diving. The print industry is reshuffling hourly. I have the time and now's as good a time as any. I work at home. My husband, Tom, works at home.

Friday Tom and I thought we'd found a dog we liked for our family. It was a Welch Springer Spaniel mixed with who knows what else available for adoption through ARF--Animal Rescue Foundation out in the Hamptons.

Saving something or someone is always a good thing to me.

So, after advice from our friend Mark who fund raises for ARF, we heard the Springer Spaniel was bigger than we'd have liked and she was spoken for already. BUT, two Clumber Spaniel mixes--a brother and sister, 10 week old--would be available Saturday morning. Come fast. Spaniels go quickly. We didn't tell them and packed the kids up, blankets and all. "Just lets go for a ride." We drove deep into the country of Long Island, past the Pine Barrens and wine vineyards to a well-kept ARF to "visit" Mark and maybe pet some puppies and leave, as we've been known to do.

Jude was all white and jumpier of the two. He barked loud and bared his little baby teeth scaring Melanie too much. Her name was Tracey. She was white sprinkled with carmel coloring on her ears, head and spotted nose. She was sweet, trying to run away from Jude and trembled as I held her.

"Pick one," we said to the delight of the children. It was an easy, unanimous choice as well as picking her name--Daisy Buchanan--from Fitzgerald's Great Gatsby. (Well, to me.) She's Daisy Delilah to the children. (They love Plain White Ts song Hey There Delilah.)

We all fell in love and signed the papers making her our official first family dog.

Lists and birthdays

I got my list. Melanie, our little one, will be 7 in a few weeks. Experts say it's the age of reason. Oh boy, that couldn't be more true. She's one sharp cookie.

"Mommy, do you have the right list?" she asked point blank first thing this morning. She knew I planned to go shopping today to buy her birthday presents.

"Yes, I have the 8th version."

"The one with the yellow highlights?"

"Yes," I nodded pulling my bathrobe on while padding to the bathroom. I hadn't even had a sip of coffee yet and was being asked to think on my feet already.

"Don't forget the yin and yang necklace at Clarie's."

"I won't." Oh Jeez, I already did. Note to self, yin and yang necklace. where was that again, I visualized the store in my mind

"...and the Pet Shops in Target."

Think fast, my brain fired as I washed and dried my hands and left the bedroom with Melanie following me like a CEO's assistant that only has a few minutes a day to catch the boss's attention and rambles off a to do list.

"Pink shirt at Limited, Too?"

"Check," I said opening the refrigerator searching for the can of coffee.

"The one with the guitar NOT the peace sign,"

"Yup, the guitar," I said.

"It's Justice now, Mommy." She pouted and set down the list on the kitchen table, scratched off Limited, Too and came next to me clutching the list while I poured two scoops of coffee grains into the coffeemaker's top. "How do you spell justice?"

As I answered her stream of questions, it was evident that I won't ever have to worry about her not getting her needs met.

--

Later she kissed me goodbye. "Have fun today mommy," like we had a little secret. She knew what I'd be doing today and I knew as I would shop, she'd be at her desk below the hand-made red hearts strung from the celing, visually checking items off the birthday list.

"You too, Mel," I whispered into her ear as we hugged.

We broke apart and shared a smile. Then turned and went our separate ways.

Sister-Brother Can You Spare A Job?

Yesterday Robert wasn't feeling well. "Mommy, I have a headache, sore throat and feel like I'm gonna puke," he said looking pale and greenish. I did the mommy assessment and determined, "Okay kid, stay home."

Puke gets me every time. Does he know this at 10? Maybe. But he really seemed out of it. This is a double-edged sword. On the one hand I'm glad to be here to be able to let him stay home without calling a million people to cover for me, but by the same token that means I'm not working. Well, I work at home. But in this economy I'm truly--not working. I pitch and write and create ideas and send them everywhere. Folks like the concepts and genuinely say, "But Mary Ellen, I can pay $75.00 for a 2,500-word article" and I contemplate it. Well it's exposure. Something to show in print for 2009. Work is drying up.

There is a huge shift like tectonic plates underground realigning in a major earthquake. Print media is dying. Hearst laid off heaps of writers/editors. A start-up magazine I was going to write for never got off the ground. What's happening? Is it just a readjustment in an industry that needed it? Lets face it, the publishing industry has been a dinosaur whose time for change and a move on the social media Internet has come. Musicians have already made the transition to indie labels first, then to do-it-yourself mode producing quality work in their own studios and then marketing their music themselves to gain a following. Writers need to as well. I read somewhere yesterday that Amazon's e-book on Kindle (and Kindle 2) reading books online will become the only way to read in the next decade. Saves trees. So help? Brother / Sister can you spare a writer some work online?

Overwhelmed

Yikes!! I'm on facebook. I'm on Twitter. I'm trying to keep up with the onslaught of stuff out there. LIVE. Everything is instantaneous in this world. I had my head in the sand for a few years as I was doing the mom thing from '98 to 2004 and I stopped working in Public Relations and freelance writing. As I slowly came up for air, the world completely changed.

In five years, it has exploded. Where will we be in five years?

Blah winter

There's a white blanket coating the world outside. The kids drank hot chocolate yesterday after bundling up twice to play in the snow. Boots, hats, coats zippered, ski gloves carefully layered over sleeves; I watched them from the window. Robert, 10, led the charge through the snow as they rolled a snowman (well the girls Kelly 9 and Melanie almost 7 insisted snowwoman) and tied a scarf around its head.

I love snow. It's an excuse not to do anything; to hang back, play and just be. Spring is around the corner, and although I can't wait for those first daffodils (and later my blue hydrangeas) to bloom, spring in our house is a crazy time with three different kids and various sports.

So for now, enjoy the snow.

Let it snow, let it snow

I'm glad to be home with the kids today. On Long Island, we got at least a foot.