My Life Is An Open (face)Book

Everyone can join.

Yup, that's what it says...right there on the facebook splash page.

I guess they didn't get the memo about how everyone but parents can join. Unless, of course, they'd like to live with mortified children simply apoplectic that their domain is no longer propriety unto themselves, alone.

Ah, the anguished looks I suffered. The sheer ickiness I was led to believe I was perpetrating.

Never mind the fact that I promised not to friend their friends (and yet was friend requested by a few). Forget that I said I would never write unbidden on their walls, comment on their photos or even, heaven forbid, remark in the privacy of our own home on their latest status update.

So why suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous facebooking? Well, it's...fun! That's really it. Our kids are not stupid. They wouldn't have spent all these years building this incredible social networking site if there wasn't something enjoyable to be gotten out of it!

The networking is fun. The applications are fun. Poking people is fun. Changing profile pictures is fun. Coming up with clever status updates is fun.

Come on! Move over and share facebook with me!






Peri is...having fun!

800 Pound Gorillas

Today's lesson in business etiquette is this: don't blindside people. It shows a distinct lack of class, courtesy and common sense. It creates bad feelings and a sense of noncooperation.

Might does not always make right, and just because you CAN, doesn't mean you SHOULD.

I will have to leave it at that for now, but I did have to say it out loud. Or in print. Somewhere.

Kitty Love

One reason I probably love Emmy so much is because when she curls up on my chest and nuzzles into my neck, I am reminded of when my children were babies and did the same.

And they are so not babies anymore.

What A Difference A Day Makes

Remember that time I was so optimistic about our HUGE renovation project? Oh sure, I acknowledged, there'd be bumps along the way. Not all the lines would likely be plumb. Pipes would probably leak. Something of value might inadvertently be broken. Misunderstandings might ensue. Tempers could flare.

But still...we'd have a whole new house with a beautiful new porch when we were done, and golly gee, it's all worth it!

Whaddya mean that was just yesterday??

We started out this morning with news of the probability that the ceilings in our master bedroom and living room would have to be ripped out to make room for additional floor joists. Oh, you know, one of those minor details the architect forgot to mention while the plans were being resubmitted for approval.

Not a problem.

Except for the additional cost on top of what is already a project with a budget we are stretch ever so far to accomplish.

Except for the fact we'd need to vacate the room for a week or two and clear it of furniture...with our other bedrooms already out of commission.

Except I wasn't expecting to be hit with something so big so fast.

But life goes on, of course. And I had a work meeting I needed to attend. Which, George (our family contractor after all these many years), bless his heart, was thoughtful enough to interrupt to call to tell me we got lucky with the existing construction, the floor joist gods were with us, the support ran the correct way upstairs, and our bedroom ceiling would be spared. The living room, not so much, but then, we don't have to sleep in there, now do we?

I didn't cry then, but I did -- just a little -- when I got home.

When Mike, George's trusty right hand man, informed me it was far too early in the project for tears...there'd be plenty of time for that down the road.

I'm sure he's right. I'm also sure I felt much better after I was done. I think the enormity of this renovation just hit me. It's one thing to deal with in the abstract, and quite another when there's a demolition crew ripping apart your walls and you're facing the prospect of having to find alternate lodging for a spell.

How lucky am I to have a husband who consoles long distance by telephone, and to have such a longstanding relationship with the men working on my house that they neither panicked nor thought I was crazy, just offered me hugs and the reminder that tomorrow is another day.

And as we've seen, things can -- and probably will -- turn totally around again by then.

Our House Is A Very, Very, Very Fine House

Or it will be, anyway. Just over three years since we moved in, and just shy of a year after our first meeting with the architect, we finally began the renovation that will transform the upstairs and outside of our house into what I only imagined when we first saw and decided to buy it.

We will spend massive amounts of money, inhale countless particles of sawdust, endure days and weeks of banging, sawing, drilling, sanding, siding, painting, and more. We will hate our contractor, love our contractor, hate our contractor and love him again. We will shop for tile, cabinetry, doors, lights, carpet, paint, faucets, toilets, showers and sinks. And we will be awed and amazed at, first, the destruction, and then, the construction.

Already, the pile of debris is accumulating in the front yard. The windows from the first floor bedrooms have all been ripped out and replaced. Tonight, they are hiding behind their temporary plastic table cloth treatments. Tomorrow, they'll get new moldings and the six over six grilles I like so much.

Tomorrow, the dumpster will come and start to be filled with the bricks and shingles that make up the current exterior. Work will begin on the new structural supports for the house that will take the place of the one we have now.

We have already made much progress toward making this house our home. Most importantly, of course, we have filled it with a loving family. When you have that, the physical trappings are just that. But we are fortunate enough to be able to tweak the setting, as well, and this next phase of work will bring us that much farther along.

As you can see, I am under no illusions of what that process will entail. And still, I can't wait.

I'll light the fire. You place the flowers in the vase that you bought today.

How I Spent My Summer Blogcation Part One

Right, so there'll be no more snide remarks about my husband's relative lack of posts.

And without further adieu, we now return to our regularly scheduled program.

It's been two days since we were lucky enough to be among the 65,000 in attendance at The Last Play at Shea, where Billy Joel was joined on stage by Tony Bennet (New York State of Mind), Garth Brooks (Shameless), Steven Tyler (Walk This Way), Roger Daltrey (My Generation) and Paul McCartney (Saw Her Standing There and Let It Be). Oh. My. Goodness.

I think my voice has finally returned to normal. Who WAS that simply squealing with excitement when Paul McCartney's name was announced? Surely it couldn't have been me! I am not a screamer, a shrieker, and I am most definitely NOT a squealer.

And yet.

How many times do you get to be there while history is being made?

I'd seen Billy in concert before. Several times. I'd seen Garth Brooks and The Who and even Paul McCartney before. But to be fortunate enough to be at this, the final concert at Shea Stadium, watching a performer I have long known and loved, and have him be joined in a surprise performance by, arguably, the greatest living music legend of all time, well, there really are no words to describe the feeling.

And when words fail, apparently squeals speak volumes.

More Than Seven Words about George Carlin

And much more about Didi Conn, his erstwhile colleague.

It all started when our friend Pat Lyons, eulogizer of record, posted the announcement of George Carlin's untimely death to our college radio Yahoo group. (Is there ever such a thing as a "timely" death? I wonder.)

In Pat's words, "George Carlin has died at age 71" are the seven words he wished you couldn't say on the radio. Pat correctly identified Carlin as the greatest stand-up of the last 50 years, bar none, and the wry wellspring to whom everybody from Jon Stewart to Jerry Seinfeld to Robin Williams to Whoopi Goldberg to Penn Jillette owes a deep debt.

That caused Donna Rubenstone to recall George Carlin's role as the narrator of and "Mr. Conductor" character on Thomas the Tank Engine and Friends in the early nineties, as the show was her daughter's favorite during that time of toddlerhood.

Which sparked the following reminiscence on my part.

My son Justin goes to camp and is friendly with Charlotte Maltby, one of Richard Maltby's daughters. (For the rest of the universe that is just slightly less theater-geeky than my family, Richard is a Tony Award-winning writer/director/lyricist and occasional collaborator with David Shire, ex-husband of actress Talia Shire, and current spouse, since 1982, of actress Didi Conn.)

A couple of summers ago, Justin was invited to Charlotte's bat mitzvah, the service portion of which was taking place at the Maltbys' synagogue on Saturday morning, with the party to follow much later that evening at a posh restaurant/club downtown. Being of the belief that the service IS the bat mitzvah, there was no way we'd consider having Justin eschew the synagogue in favor of simply attending the party that night, so it fell to me to drive him in.

The plan was for us to attend the service (with me sitting FAR AWAY from him and his friends, of course), enjoy the kiddush luncheon that would follow, and return home until he needed to be delivered to Meatpacking District that evening.

All went swimmingly. The service was lovely, Charlotte did a wonderful job leading prayers and reading her Torah and Haftorah portions, and it was very enjoyable seeing the friends and family get called up for honors. Among them were David Shire and Didi Conn, longtime bffs of the Maltby family.

So it wasn't surprising when I looked a couple of tables over at the kiddush to see Ms. Conn sitting with their young son. I looked over at MY son, and all I could think of was -- Stacy Jones, Manager of Shining Time Station. Because Thomas the Tank Engine was also Justin's favorite toddler TV fare, and I don't think he would have made it out of those years without it. (I know I wouldn't have!) I can't tell you how many 5 AM videos I popped in to keep him quiet and happy while I took my pillow and blanket to the den floor trying to catch just a few more minutes of sleep.

I KNEW I had to say something. Before I could think, before I could let my easily-mortified teenager talk me out of it, I walked over and said something along the lines of "My son and I wouldn't be here today without you." (Hyperbole much?) I quickly explained my lasting gratitude toward Thomas the Tank Engine and thanked her for being such a wonderful and cheerful presence as Stacy. I told her that as a mom, I just wanted her to know what an important role she played in the happiness and well being in my family.

And, well, I don't think I could have said anything better or more meaningful to her. A HUGE smile broke out on her face and she asked me to point out the charming creature who thought waking up while it was still dark out was perfectly acceptable behavior (and now, ironically, rarely sees anti-meridian hours at all).

We chatted amicably for a couple of minutes and I left her to her son and her lunch.

And I swear it was only on the car ride home that I remembered she was Frenchy in both Grease movies, starred in You Light Up My Life, and spent several seasons on Benson. Sheesh.

For me, she was and always will be Stacy Jones. And I was -- and always will be -- eternally grateful.

RIP George Carlin, Mr. Conductor and so brilliant and groundbreaking a comic mind.

Life's A Beach

Before I get to Emmy, the new kitten, who we adopted yesterday and I'll write about tomorrow, a word about the beach, which I've been thinking about for months and finally got to today.

Or, as I confessed to my husband in an only somewhat guilty text message, "I caved...I HAD to get there."

Yes, as you may have guessed, the beach is definitely one of my favorite places. Which is actually kind of odd, since I don't even ever go in the water. Well, unless it's a beach in Grand Cayman, say, or Aruba, or possibly Cozumel, although that can even be kind of iffy.

Today, and most days when I am at home, the beach is Crab Meadow, a relatively small strip of fairly rocky sand in the Town of Huntington on the North Shore of Long Island.

Hmmm...rocky sand, not a water lover, $4.25/gallon gas...I see you asking yourself, "Why go in the first place?"

Sigh. I wish I knew.

Sometimes I just know I HAVE to get there. The weather is perfect. The sky is blue. I've written too many emails, updated too many web pages and schlepped too many kids.

I need to sit down on my tropical chair in the warm sand, grab a sip of my iced coffee, turn on the tunes, open my book and do NOTHING.

I need to smell the sunscreen, the pizza they sell at the counter outside the yummy La Casa restaurant, and the seaweed when the tide is low.

I need to see the mommies with their toddlers just about the same age as Justin and Jordan were when we first started going way back in preschool.

I have to watch the summer campers play volleyball and unpack their lunches, their towels and their frisbees.

And I have to let the answering machine in the office pick up the phone calls. Allow the emails some time to age until I can log in again back at my desk. Put thoughts of dinner on the back burner.

It's hard to totally relax at home. There are chores that need doing and constant reminders of projects and obligations. Not so at the beach.

As a bonus, I am reminded how lucky I am that I can usually steal away for a couple of hours a couple of days a week. It is indeed a great place to be thankful and peaceful and all the things we strive to be but sometimes cannot quite manage. It is why, sometimes, I just have to go.

And then.

I am reminded that supper does have to be taken care of. That Jordan needs to be picked up from her Bio Regents review class. That sweet little Emmy hasn't eaten since this morning. And that I applied SPF 8 two and a half hours ago, and will begin to burn soon unless I put more on or take my leave.

I choose the latter. For as wonderful as this respite always is, what makes it so meaningful is the also incredible life from which I occasionally use it to escape.

Free Donuts, No Matter How You Spell Them

As I start writing, there are twenty-one minutes left to this Friday, June 6, otherwise known as National Donut Day. Or, if you prefer, National DOUGHNUT Day.

Apparently, according to Wikipedia, National Doughnut Day started seventy years ago, in 1938, as a fund raiser for the Chicago Salvation Army. Their goal was to help the needy during the Great Depression, and to honor the Salvation Army "Lassies" of World War I, who served doughnuts to soldiers on the front lines.

Today, it is seemingly commemorated by the distribution of free donuts (my preferred spelling), as I learned from an invitation email from the Krispy Kreme Corporation, which invited me in for my celebratory sample today.

Excellent!

Except for one small problem: due to a long run of financial mismanagement, SEC inquiries, and overexpansion, every single franchise or company owned store in proximity to my home closed up shop almost as quickly as they opened. And they opened here about as quickly as a beautiful glazed donut turns golden brown when it hits hot oil.

Now, let me say that I am not particularly a sweets girl. Really. If you told me I could never have dessert again, I'd be pretty much okay with that. Especially cookies, cakes, and yes, even donuts.

But there was something about those Original Glazed when they came HOT off the line. Oh. My. Goodness.

And here, Krispy Kreme was harkening back to the good old days of the red HOT NOW light, and practically BEGGING me to come in and get one for free. Who could resist?

So...I figured I'd find out where to get one.

No luck trying to use the zip code search on the website. Nothing came up.

No luck clicking on the colored states on the map. Nothing came up.

Finally, I had to resort to opening the PDF that lists all the stores by state, only to find that our nearest store is in the Amtrak Rotunda at Two Penn Plaza. Or, according to Google maps, 36.5 miles or about 50 minutes (but possibly up to an hour and a half in traffic!) from here. Then, there'd be the exorbitant parking fee, of course. Or the cost of a round trip train ticket. Not quite the best exchange for a free donut.

Even a fresh, hot, Krispy Kreme Original Glazed.

After that, we'd need to go all the way to Cheektowaga to grab one of those yummy babies right off the conveyor belt. Heck, at that point, it would probably be quicker to fly down to Florida, which seems to still have a fair representation of stores. But again, it kinda puts the whole "free donut" thing into perspective, doesn't it?! So, I let National Donut Day pass without a gustatory nod, and settled, instead, to commemorate it here.

It's a little sad.

And I'll bet the donuts at the Madison Bank Branch that replaced our Krispy Kreme aren't nearly as good.

Weighty Matters

You can add scales to the list of things I'm not very partial to. Bathroom ones, I mean, not the fish kind, although I guess they don't thrill me either -- especially when they wind up in my food. (Didja catch that episode of Top Chef where Ming Tsai wound up with a mouthful? Yuck!)

Anyway, for years, my "Ultimate Scale" by Tanita (nothing like a little humility for a simple, utilitarian household object, is there?) and I have more or less peacefully coexisted, in spite of the fact that I was more often than not on the receiving end of some less-than-complimentary communication.

We visited almost daily, and developed somewhat of a love-hate relationship. What can I tell you? It was complicated.

It became apparent over time that I had invested far more than it had, but still, I persisted, trying to court it and do everything I could to win it over. Well, almost. The fiber in the seeds on an everything bagel must mitigate the carb count somehow, I figured.

Gradually, it started to fail me. The buttons became a bit balky, preventing me from reminding it that I am a 5'1" tall woman, so it could accurately inform me of my body fat content (which, as a 5'1" tall woman would be higher than pretty much any other combination I could punch in). After a time, I had to get by without knowing how much of my too many pounds were comprised of too much fat, and settle on the one, raw, unadulterated number that simply signified my weight.

And then yesterday, I couldn't even get that much out of it. I pushed the little toe-kick and prepared my silent supplications. I waited for the display to zero out.

I waited some more.

Finally, after the 888 look like it was in no mood to go anywhere, I tried pushing the buttons on top.

"Error"

Hah! My weight is now officially an error message.

"Error"

How rude!

As if the relationship between us hasn't been rocky enough, now this.

Of course, there is some deeper meaning to be found here, but for now, I will have to move on and get a new scale. My weight will still be more of an error than anything else, but at least I'll know just how wrong it is...

These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things

While I do admit a certain fondness for raindrops on roses, whiskers on kittens, and -- most definitely -- for brown paper packages tied up with strings, these are not necessarily among my favorite things.

I expect, however, that over time, you will learn what they are, as I continue to find out, myself. For now, I know I love a good bacon cheeseburger. That first cup of coffee in the morning (and sometimes, the fifth, come afternoon) can really make me smile. Lilac bushes, good books, great conversation and blazing fireplaces make me very happy. And I think a splash of vanilla vodka or smooth, dark Jamaican rum makes just about anything that much better.

Yup, these are already among my most favorite things.

Some things, not so much. And I suspect we will discuss those, as well. For what good is a blog without a rant every now and again?

But not now.

Now, a thing about which I have discovered I have very mixed feelings: the SAT exam. Or, rather, my son Justin's SAT scores.

He did well, mind you. Very well, as a matter of fact. And that's certainly a good thing. I am proud of him. I am happy for him. And I am relieved to have cleared yet another hurdle on the loooong road to college.

But I hated having so much invested in the numbers. I hated the wait until we could log on this morning to find out Justin's scores. And I hate the inevitable comparisons a system like this engenders. What does it say about us that so much of our uniquely talented, multi-faceted, distinctly individual kids is often just reduced to numbers that will dictate a great deal about their futures?

Hmmm...it's beginning to look as if naive idealism could be counted as among my favorite things.

Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings, indeed.