Happy Halloween!

I went to my girlfriend's house last night for our new tradition: a pumpkin martini. Vanilla vodka, brandy, pumpkin pie spice mix (from a can), cream (whipped or otherwise) and a dusting of nutmeg. Yum!

I had one last year at a cute little cafe on Park Ave., Cibon, that was soooooooo good I couldn't get it out of my head but they haven't had it on the menu since. Believe me, I know. We've gone back twice (once last fall and again last week) and I've now resorted to calling beforehand. No such luck.

And, although it is the last day in October, it is gorgeous Indian Summer day today -- perfect for Trick or Treating. With only one exception, it has been warm on Halloween every year since we moved to Rochester. That's four warm Halloweens in a row. So I get to go door-to-door with Darth Vadar and Jack Sparrow while the hubby entertains all of the kids who come to our house. I'll cash my chips in and man the door next year when it has to be cold, right?!

Which, on an somewhat related note, brings me to the following. I don't remember a single costume I ever wore on Halloween (as a kid) nor do I think there are pictures of any. I may have gone as a member of Kiss once; I vaguely remember my face feeling super itchy one horrible night. But I do remember, as clear as if it were yesterday, my same pumpkin-martini-pouring-girlfriend going one year, when we were really little, as a ghost. Yep, the white sheet with two eyes cut out. Why is this image so clear? Because as we ran between houses in the dark, she continued to trip on her sheet and fall down -- all night long.

Not sure it was ever funny to her but almost 40 years later (yikes), it's still funny to me!

Yard Defender

Our front walkway courtesy of my husband.

Note: Idea co-opted from Extreme Pumpkins author Tom Nardone as seen in USA Today.

Holy Roller

Yep, more God stuff that my brother detests . . . D'oh!

My girlfriend and I had a brief conversation when we were leaving church yesterday about becoming "holier than thou." Whereas she knew that reading the Bible and applying it to her life has been making her a better person, she also recognized that others might still see her flaws and not want to subscribe to any religion that would accommodate someone who behaves as poorly as she. (Her perception not mine.)

I felt the same way for years. For a long time, I didn't want to share my faith for a number of reasons including:
1) I always thought that Christians were stupid -- ergo, others probably now think that I am a total idiot (and who could blame them?).
2) My behavior didn't change overnight; therefore, I could predict overhearing the following in Thirsty's as I did a bar crawl, "I thought she was a believer. Some Christian she is."

But the simple fact is, I haven't actually done a bar crawl in years. And that's not because I'm a holy roller but rather because I'm in my 40s, don't get out much and, when I do, my nights are not typically wild. (Note the use of "typically" -- I still have my moments.) However, the truth is: I never really did many bar crawls. That was (and is) more the province of my rowdier girlfriends. And it's still hysterical to witness.

However, instead of covering up my faith because I am a sinner and might give Christianity a bad name, I now recognize that I would rather change my life to be a better reflection of God. Not easy (I still keep falling) but better than the alternative.

One friend, when talking faith, always quotes John Lennon, "Whatever gets you through the night; it's alright." This view is much more tolerant than any I ever espoused historically but also doesn't quite describe my current leaning. To me, faith hasn't served as a crutch that makes me feel better about myself. Instead, the opposite has happened. It has opened giant areas of my life that desperately needed attention. Things I had previously chosen to ignore or I simply never considered to be issues, are now brought to life with a loud (but understanding) "So, what are you going to do about it?" question.

I grew up with this vision of God as a distant entity who had much bigger fish to fry than to deal with my little problems. People were starving in Africa and this little girl in Junior High wants a boyfriend? How selfish and petty is she? I thought I was bothering him when I would ask for anything through my prayer life and, since I never saw any of my prayers answered anyway, I thought he didn't really give a shit. More importantly, I always thought that I never measured up to his expectations. I was supposed to be perfect and I wasn't. Really, who wants that kind of constant condemnation in life? Not me.

I'm still unbelievably far from perfect (farther than I can fathom) but I now understand that I'm deeply loved in spite of all of this. He knows exactly how I act and think but still somehow loves me. How cool is that? Now that makes me want to be a better person . . . not to avoid disapproval but rather to please him. Who knew?

Never Sleep Alone

The New York Times published an article this week entitled, “Shhh . . . My Child Is Sleeping (in My Bed, Um, With Me)” which categorizes those who sleep with their kids in three ways: 1) intentional co-sleepers (e.g., those who believe it’s good for a child’s well-being and emotional development), 2) reactive (e.g., those who can’t get their kids to sleep any other way) or 3) circumstantial (e.g., when on vacation). I fall into all three categories.

From the moment Son #1 was born, he wanted to be held. Even in the hospital, when he fell asleep and I put him in the bassinet next to me, he immediately awoke. After repeated wake-ups, I finally propped the pillows on the side of my hospital bed so he wouldn’t tumble out, placed him next to me and we both fell asleep. We’ve been together ever since: 7.5 years.

Although we had one of those cribs that attaches to the side of the bed, it ended up housing my laptop – which at the time was a much-needed convenience given the preponderance of 3:00 a.m. emails at my previous job and my ancillary night-time feedings which corresponded nicely (no pun intended!).

People who heard about these sleeping arrangements either fully understood (i.e., did the same thing) or, conversely, were aghast. I heard from so many people, “Just put him in the crib and let him cry through it.” The one time I agreed to try it, I hated every moment. His sobbing seemed to go on forever and penetrated every corner of our house. Finally, after hours of sadness, I couldn’t stand it any longer and went in to his room to check on him. Like a beaver, he was trying to bite his way through the crib. His mouth was literally filled with wood chips. Never again.

I definitely feel that a childhood filled with warmth, love and snuggles trumps any negative side effects. Like the fact that I now begin my nights reading books with my kids, saying our prayers and falling asleep; however, mid-night, when I cannot roll over and my body is in a cramp, I finally make my way back to my bed where I belong and attempt to fall back asleep. And, I don’t think the hubby appreciates the fact that this has been going on for so many years.

Now that the kids are older, having me (and each other) in one bed falls squarely in the “reactive,” least positive, most stressful category. Son #2 now has a hard time falling asleep alone and oftentimes, if I’m working late or out with friends, attempts to stay up and wait for me. Not healthy for him -- or for our backs as we repeatedly carry a 65 lb. kid up the stairs who has fallen asleep on the family room floor.

The last line of the article sums it up nicely, however, with a quote from the pediatrician of the author’s daughter. “I can tell you with certainty,” he says, “that one day you will wake up, and she won’t be there.”

We're a long way from being empty nesters but I'm glad. For now, I love the tenderness and, until they're ready, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Girl Scout Cookies

It's that time of year when everyone comes out of the woodwork shilling for the Girl Scouts, Boy Scouts, Jazz Ensemble, etc. We currently have Thin Mints coming from the little girl across the street, Fat Free Chocolate Chips from her sister, Cinna-Spins (whatever they may be) from our niece, more Thin Mints from the daughter of a friend from High School, Caramel deLights from the daughter of another friend from High School, popcorn from the boy next door, popcorn from some other boys up the street and two Thanksgiving pies from another neighbor's son.

Why do I care? Well, not only did I just get back from the fat-farm only to eat handfuls upon handfuls of chips, I also dyed my hair brown. And then I realized that one of my son's friends from school -- whom I've met on multiple occasions and blogged about yesterday -- asked me recently, "Who are you?" as if I was no longer recognizable.

Dark brown hair? Fat? OMG! Maybe he thought I was Britney Spears . . . I hear that drugs can age you twenty years.

Normative or Deviant?

What do you do if your son's best friend at school keeps inviting him over to his house and subsequently showing him his penis? Nothing? Anything?

I first heard about it after it happened a few weeks ago at our house. I was informed of it by son #2. Son #1 proceeded to confirm the story and state nonchalantly that it happened at the kid's house, too.

Then, son #1 rode the bus home with this kid and they did "something bad on the bus" which he refuses to talk about.

Monday, he went to this kid's house again. I asked, "Did you have fun over there?" to which I got an excited response about various video games they played and Naruto cards they swapped. I then asked, "Did he show his penis again?" "Oh yeah." As if it was nothing. So, of course, I don't want to make it something. I just think it's really weird behavior for a seven-year old. But I don't know. Maybe that's what boys do?

I told him that he could have this kid over if he promises that he won't let him take "it" out of his pants. "I already know that." Well, okay then.

Beyond that, what? Speak with the kid's parents? Is this something innocuous that boys do? Or the sign of worse things to come? Can any guy answer this for me?

No More Tears

While I was gone last weekend, Son #2 began sobbing before bedtime on Saturday night because he missed me.

In order to get him to fall asleep, the hubby told him that if he stopped crying, blew his nose and put the tissue under his pillow, he might get a visit from the snot fairy.

I wonder what she brought . . .

Sleep-away Camp

I just returned from a weekend at a "spa" -- better described as a fat-farm/adult sleep-away camp with my girlfriend. What a blast!

I already posted my review of the Deerfield Spa on TripAdvisor.

There is a quote from Miguel De Cervantes that sums up my two days with Jacque, "Tell me what company you keep and I'll tell you who you are." I am unbelievably blessed to have a friend who a) is one of the nicest people on the planet, b) will roll with the punches, c) engages in everything that life offers, d) laughs a lot and e) maintains her beauty even after kick boxing.

Which reminds me of a Sicilian proverb, "Only your real friends will tell you when your face is dirty." I'd like to modify that to, "Only your real friends won't mind when you haven't washed your hair in days and it's covered in massage oil."

Thank you Sean (husband and generous ringleader)! Thank you Jacque! Thank you God!

Channeling Jack

In church last Sunday, a girlfriend who has been going to our particular church with me for almost two years got a little teary-eyed and said, “Never in a million years would I have ever seen myself here.”

I was thinking the same thing this morning when I turned off my radio and was praying in solitude on my way to work. Who woudda thunk that lil’ ole me would ever be on such a spiritual path? But, then again, if God truly made us, then what could be more natural? Yet, if it’s so natural, why do I repeatedly reject it? For the past 10+ years, it’s a constant process of faltering and course-correcting.

In my mind, I was likening it to taking a bulimic to Peter Luger. Although a big hunk of protein-rich steak might be good for the body, a bulimic, after years of self-destructive behavior, may naturally reject it. I know that’s a kind of disgusting analogy but, for me, it works. I was off course for so long that my brain cannot handle the quantum leap. So I shift my internal baseline closer and closer to God in tiny increments.

One morning last week, as I was journaling my little heart out, I kept asking God all sorts of questions – and I was pissed at Him at times. Are you really there? If so, why couldn’t my dad give up drinking when I was a kid? If you’re so powerful and all knowing, why can’t you help others who I love to quit drinking? And on and on. I finally asked, “Are you really the Truth?” and my brain responded with a line from A Few Good Men: “You can’t handle the Truth!”

Thank you, Jack Nicholson, for that moment of Zen.

Clueless

During a conversation about beer bongs in which I was telling a co-worker about how my dad helped me buy my funnel and tubing -- and how somewhat clueless he was at times -- I remembered the following personal embarrassment.

One summer, when I was still in college, my sister and I went out to happy hour at TGI Friday's (we really knew how to party!). During the car ride there, I noticed that my bra straps kept peeking out from under my dress so, when we arrived, I slipped my bra off and left it in the car.

The next day, my dad came home from work with it in his hands, "What was this doing in my glove compartment?" No matter how much we tried to explain how innocent it was, he wasn't buying it. He was livid.

In retaliation, my mom decided that we should take a pair of his underwear, plant it in her glove compartment and make a big scene sometime when the whole family was out together. Funny, right? So I went into his dresser, took a pair of his underwear, hid it in a box in my room awaiting the occasion and then promptly forgot about it.

A few weeks later, as I was packing to go back to college, men's underwear fell out of the box. My dad was furious! "Who does this underwear belong to?" OMG! How is this possible?

My mom and I were laughing so hard but he, once again, thought there was more to the story. Nothing like getting in trouble for transgressions you didn't commit!

Polyester Bride

My girlfriend Katherine used the following expression when talking about her love of George Clooney, “He would look so good on me.” True. He would look good on all of us – not at the same time, mind you. During that same conversation another girlfriend, Christine, claimed Matthew McConaughey as her own. Yep, he’s hot alright.

In this fictitious world we were living in (i.e., the one where we could date famous men), I couldn’t figure out who I wanted. Most stars are too good looking whereas I like intelligent and quirky. Tom Cruise is a one-man freak parade. Brad Pitt is way too cool and cannot be trusted. I was mulling over the benefits of Jon Stewart v. Paul Rudd – both cute and funny – when I realized that, the love of my life has been in front of me all along: John Cusack. My husband knows this but, somehow, I had overlooked him. Over the weekend, after watching “Must Love Dogs” for the umpteen time, which my husband taped for me for obvious reasons, it finally dawned on me that I should claim him after I repeatedly said to my children, “I’m in love with that man.”

Hot and talented -- presumably with good taste in music (can a man be judged by the soundtracks of the films he’s in or the Ramones t-shirts he wears when in character?), he’s sooooooo mine. And he has the world’s best bonus: a fabulous sister who may be even cooler than he is. Holidays would never be the same! I wonder if he likes unfamous, married, suburban, 40-something housewives with children . . .

Heartbeat, Increasing Heartbeat

What's the absolutely, positively best way to start a Monday? To turn on the car radio to the opening stanzas of one of your favorite songs from childhood.

"Zoo time; it's she and you time. The mammals are your favorite type and you want her tonight."

OMG! Thank you WITR. I took out my cell phone and dialed my sister -- the only person on the planet who may have gotten an even bigger rush out of it. No answer. Argh!

As the youngest member of the Sparks fan club in the mid-70s, even meriting a mention in their cheesy photocopied newsletter, I was beside myself. I was screaming lyrics at the top of my lungs that I didn't even know still remained in the recesses of my brain.

This town ain't big enough for the both of us. And it ain't me who's gonna leave!

Gore's Nobel Peace Prize

I was wondering, as I read the news, what peace and global warming have in common when I ran across the following quote from Damian Thompson, a UK correspondent from the Telegraph:

"Al Gore . . . has overtaken Michael Moore as the most sanctimonious lardbutt Yank on the planet."

As much as I'm in favor of "going green," as they say, this made me laugh. I love that you can get a Nobel Peace Prize for filming a movie. Mother Teresa could have relaxed after all!

I Love British Airways . . . Still

I spend a great portion of my days lately writing business plans for companies from fledgling start-ups to new divisions of major companies. And, in so doing, I think a lot about brand positioning and differentiation. Why chose this company and not its competitors? I take on the role of the decision makers, influencers and end users across the various markets and ask myself, “What’s in it for me?” Sometimes the answer is fairly simple; other times, it takes sustained concentration and I still have difficulty.

I also think a lot about brand loyalty. After someone becomes a customer, what would encourage them to buy repeatedly? Or, more importantly, never buy again from their competitors? Or, best case, tell their friends about the brand? In my life, there are few brands I’m loyal to. I pretty consistently eat Lean Cuisine for lunch but not always. I get bored. I love my Jetta so much that we bought a Passat wagon a few years ago. But, until Chrysler hired my militant friend, Bob Nardelli, I was considering looking at the Jeep Liberty next. No deal now. And, let’s face it, although I buy them a lot, I’m rarely talking about Tampax at dinner parties. Well, at least not until the plates have been cleared.

We have one client who targets their customers’ children with fun, educational events to get them involved in their company at a young age so that when later in life these kids are successful, they will hopefully equate a portion of their achievement to this brand, utilize its services and tell their other accomplished friends to do the same. The jury is out for another 10–20 years regarding the ultimate success of this program; however, it does promote goodwill with the parents today.

This got me thinking about one of the most fun, brand experiences I had as a child. I was given a hardcover flight-log from BOAC (now British Airways) on my first trip to London. From that flight on, for years until it became embarrassing, I had all of the pilots on my flights sign their autographs and log how many miles I had flown on the given day/route. I loved it. I was often asked if I wanted to go up into the cockpit and meet the pilots but was usually too shy to do so. However, with this book came two other things: 1) a bronze pin of a plane that I cherished and 2) the promise of an interview with the company when I was old enough to become a flight attendant (a.k.a. hostess, stewardess). And, yes, the thought of becoming a flight attendant was pretty darned exciting to me back then.

Although I never took them up on it, I did think about my childhood experience when I flew British Airways last summer. The individual responsible for that campaign circa 1974 was, I’m guessing, long gone from the company. I wondered: if I asked, would BA honor my request for an interview? Probably (although I’m sure they would have gotten a bigger laugh out of it). But, in reality, did it entice me to fly BA 30+ years later? No, my frequent flyer miles did. It did, however, predispose me to think positive thoughts about the airline which, in this day and age, is a difficult feat.

So my hats off to British Airways for creating a sustainable brand experience for one little girl to share with her clients 30+ years later.

Rescue 911

The last few weekends, I’ve taken either one or both boys on hikes. Two weeks ago, Son #1 and I walked along a path near our house that I had seen but had never taken. It began alongside a cornfield, wound its way through a little woods and ended in a huge clearing that was flanked by marshlands filled with cattails. In the middle of the clearing was a great, blue heron that allowed us to approach and then swooped away. We were amazed; it was huge. Then both of us lay down in the grass for a while looking at the clouds and then made our way home.

Last Sunday evening, the three of us walked through the woods in Tinker Park just before dusk. There were deer all around who just looked up at us as we passed. We played on the playground and walked the labyrinth.

Years ago, my girlfriends and I decided that we would go on a big hike the first warm day of spring every year. One year we climbed the face of Bristol Mountain and, when we got to the top, stripped down to our shorts and bras to bask in the hot sun only to have a group of guys descend on us mere moments later. So much for thinking we had the mountain to ourselves.

Another year we began climbing a steep, rocky path alongside a stream in Naples, NY. At first we were jumping from stone to stone to cross the stream but after a number of misses, we just started trudging straight through the ice cold water. We were soaking wet but it felt exhilarating. When my girlfriend Poo got to the top of the cliff and saw a little rope hanging from a tree presumably to swing us across a fairly large precipice to the next overhang, she stopped and said, “Turn back, we can’t go any farther.” Unfortunately for me, my fingers were at the top of the overhang and my toes were dug into the rock. I was literally hanging off the face of the incline. Me. The girl who cannot open a soda bottle with her bare hands was facing a sheer drop into the abyss.

Much akin to driving to the hospital on my way to give birth to Son #1 trying to figure out if it was too late to outsource, my brain was scrambling. I honestly thought we were going to have to call “Rescue 911.” I needed a helicopter and a basket. Somehow, I mustered up my courage and made my way back down to the ledge below where my friend Patti helped me to safety. I was pretty shaken but, at least for a short while, I felt really confident and empowered.

But not enough to want to repeat it--ever!

Another Chinese Toy Recall

Note: From my brother. Original source unknown.

Same as it ever was . . .

I just took the online "Sleep Profile Quiz" from Ambien CR. I scored a 3 out of 10 which means that, according to them, I don't have a sleeping problem. I guess I need to have had a major life crisis recently and be supplementing my sleep already with melatonin in order to qualify. Just the sheer fact that I can no longer fall asleep or stay asleep, night after night, isn't enough.

It's a vicious cycle. I can't sleep and I lie in bed worrying about work. But when I get to work, I can barely think because I'm working on no sleep. So I can't get enough done. Then I go to bed, even more freaked out than the night before . . .

All of this is turning me into an evil bitch. Last week, as I was driving to work I passed some women in my neighborhood who were out jogging together. I said aloud (in my car, of course), "Fuck you." And then I said it about a hundred times more over the next couple of days. When the street light would turn red right in front of me. When someone would cut me off. Whatever the minor infraction, it didn't matter. I was feeling really let down by the universe. Why do I have to work my ass off for years and years with nothing to show for it? What's the f*ing point? What would happen if I just drove off a cliff today?

"And you may tell yourself, this is not my beautiful house. And you may tell yourself, this is not my beautiful wife."

In the midst of this maniacal behavior, my oldest brother sent me another research study pointing to how liberals are less satisfied than conservatives -- not because of rising inequality (which is often erroneously blamed) -- but rather because they do not see the opportunity at hand as clearly as their happy-go-lucky, conservative friends. I realized that my definition of the "haves vs. have nots" in my community is what's making me miserable specifically in light of my personal lack of upward mobility.

I leave for work before my neighbors and come home later. Yet, my house is in disarray and I have little to no money put aside for my retirement and my kids' education. I am jealous that one good friend's major stress in life involves a new puppy. As much as I know she's really frantic, I think, "How hard can it f*ing be?" and then I feel guilty for minimizing her angst. I am jealous that another friend's husband is uber-successful and whisking her off to London at a moment's notice. As a stay-at-home mom with beautifully manicured fingernails and no time at all to call me and check in to see how I'm doing, my jealously is compounded. Then I think, what kind of so-called friend am I that I cannot be happy for her? The truth is, I am happy for her. I'm just feeling sorry for myself. Self-pity is a horrible place to live.

Then I hear about a couple who lost their eight-year-old son in a bicycle accident years ago and I count my blessings. I hear about a woman roughly my age who was born with hydrocephalus, who cannot see, sit up, speak, use her arms/legs, etc. yet has been lovingly taken care of for years to ensure her life is not further compromised. And I know, I know, I know that I have a fabulous life. I don't live in Darfur, I have never been a victim of genocide, I have perfect health (when I'm sleeping well), I have two gorgeous, loving sons. What the f* is wrong with me?

So, instead of praying for greater mobility, a new job, more money, a rich husband (sorry hon) and a cleaning lady, I need to begin praying in earnest for non-attachment. I need to be okay with who I am, right here and right now: a latent Buddhist apparently. Or an expletive-laden Christian. I'm just glad that God provides compassion and forgiveness. If this f* you phase continues much longer, I'm going to need 'em.

Like a Moth to the Flame

Last night, the kids and I went to Marshall's where we were looking at the Halloween gear.

Son #2 wanted to buy daddy a big skeleton that, when you pushed its button, said, "Hey, can somebody get me a drink?"

I, on the other hand, found giant, cloth wings that had the following warning affixed to them: Keep away from open flames.

I had to laugh. It was as if, upon wearing this contraption, you would immediately gravitate to the fire pit. Help! Somebody stop her! She doesn't know what she's doing!

Is it . . .

better to blow kisses to someone or receive kisses that someone else has blown to you?

There are a lot of kisses flying through the air when I leave the house almost every morning.

When I get home at night, there is often a rush to hug me, as well. But lately, Son #1 is on the computer and cannot be bothered to come up to greet me.

And this morning, he kissed his hands and threw the kisses at me over his shoulder without even looking away from his bowl of cereal. It was still really sweet, a bit of a surprise ambush that I didn't see coming until it hit, but the writing is on the wall.

I need to savor these moments because someday soon they'll be over.

I already got the "Please don't call me Scootchie in public" request recently (although it's still allowed at home) and the "You embarrass me sometimes" statement after I asked a "Who wants ice cream?" question to a group of kids at our house and then snapped my fingers, pointed my thumbs at myself and responded, "This girl."

So, for now, when Son #2 wants me to leave work in the middle of the day to have lunch with him in the cafeteria and play during recess, if I can, I will. In a few years, it will no longer be an option.

Locomotive Lungs

While describing the woes of my husband’s snoring, someone near and dear to my heart (a.k.a. my mom) told me that her husband (a.k.a. my dad) also had suffered from sleep apnea. When they were first married, she claimed that she worried incessantly that he would stop breathing during the night. After thirty years of sleep deprivation, however, she began a somewhat different prayer, “Please, God, let this be his last breath.”

I’ve simply begun putting headphones on or, because my kids often sleep together in each other’s rooms, I switch to an unoccupied bed or the couch. Until a few days ago, it seemed to be working. I’ll keep you posted on my thoughts in another 15 years. Or again next week if my inability to sleep continues . . .