Somewhere In My Memory

Christmas time is here!  Happiness and cheer!

Sigh.  I just love Christmas.  I always have.  The decorations, the tree, the anticipation, giving gifts, getting gifts.....it's all just so super. 

I spent some time last night reminiscing over my favorite Christmas memories from years past.  I am so blessed to have so many. 

When I was a small child, Christmas eve was spent at my grandparents house.  My fun-loving and mischievous grandfather would dress up as Santa, complete with jingle bells and a huge sack filled with presents for me, my brother and cousins.  He would even make noises upstairs that would mimic the sound of reindeer hooves on the roof.  When I got wise to him (having noticed that Santa had the same WWII injured hand that my Pop did), my uncle took over.  When a different Santa came down the stairs that year, my mind was completely blown!  It wasn't my Pop Pop after all!  Santa was real!

On Christmas night my Dad and I would bundle up after dinner and take our annual walk.  We would critique and evaluate every decorated house we could find. And if you know NE Philly, and specifically Mayfair, this means nearly every single house. In addition, we would take note of those scary moving figures.  You know the ones.  The angels with the candles, or the Santa and Mrs. Claus.  There was one, in particular, on Sackett street that was especially macabre.  We would make up elaborate stories about how the Christmas angel would come to life and murder everyone with her plastic lighted candle.  Every year we would say the same thing.  No house was a beautiful as ours.  My mom was always the reigning queen of Christmas in our neighborhood.

While I have plenty of wonderful Christmas memories of my Dad, it was really my mom who made Christmas so much more special then I could even have dreamed.  First, every square inch of our house was decorated.  Tastefully so.  No inflatables for the Macklin's.  The big picture window was always done in snowflakes and white lights with a big Moravian star in the center.  The first year she put that star up caused quite a stir.  The following year we definitely noticed at least 5 houses in the neighborhood with the same star.  Lights, candles, poinsettias!  It was all there.  I do my windows the same way.  I even use the same kinds of candles.  I like decorating and my boys say I'm good at it.  Everything I know I learned from my mom.  

The tree.  We always had a real tree.  Usually it was a douglas fir, which is the same kind I get for my own house.  Every year, for nearly two decades, my parents and I would travel to Bucks county to the same tree farm where you could cut your own tree.  My mother, again, was in charge.  She would take strips of ribbon with her to mark potential trees.  Slowly narrowing it down to the best one.  My dad would cut it down, which was amusing because he almost never did it right.  We took it home and my mother took to the very serious task of putting the colored lights on.  Always start from the bottom and zig zag your way in and out of the tree.  That way the tree looks like it's glowing from the inside.  Only when the lights and garland were on were my father and I allowed near it.  The ornaments were my favorite.  We were one of those families that collected ornaments for every trip or event in our lives.  My dad's massive heart attack?  On there.  Our trip to Hawaii?  A santa in board shorts carrying a pineapple.  My mother even saved a teeny little snowman I made in preschool.  I had colored it completely black.  It's my favorite.  When people would come to our house my father would show them every ornament on the tree.  Teenage-me would roll my eyes, but I loved it.  Every second. 

Now, I have a family of my own.  Having a child at Christmas is where it's at.  Seriously.  It's like getting to live those wonderful childhood christmases of your own all over again.  The joy of carefully arranging the toys under the tree and the anticipation of Charlie seeing them for the first time is unlike any other kind of joy I've experienced.  And my husband?  Well I call him Mr. Christmas.  He lives for the season.  Actually starts counting down sometime in June.  I love that about him.  My little guy loves it too, it's hard not to with Nick as your father. 

I hope that you have your own special memories of Christmas.  I am joyful and thankful this year for everything and everyone in my life.  I am very very lucky.  I hope you and yours have a very merry and bright holiday!

Worst Day

On Tuesday it will be one year since my dad died.  One year since I felt his strong, old heart beat one last time through my hand on his chest.

It was Monday, September 10th 2012.  My third full day of the new school year.  As I was packing up to leave for the day, my cell phone rang.  3:12 p.m.  It was my mother and she was crying.  "It's Dad." she said  "It's bad." she said "You need to come......bleeding on the brain......life support.....hurry."

I rushed home, got Nick, got Charlie and set out for a drive from South Jersey to Scranton.  During rush hour.  Never knowing if my father was ok, if he would die before I got there, if I would arrive at the hospital and see him sitting up in bed with his ankles crossed.  Chiding my mother for dragging me up to the mountains in a panic......again.

I got to the hospital and ran to the ICU.  I arrived at the waiting room to see my mother through the narrow window.  She was sitting alone, in a chair against the wall.  Staring at the floor with her shoulders slumped.  Tears fell into her lap and stained her jeans.  Even though we wouldn't know for sure for some time, in that moment I just felt that he was gone.  I could see it in her.  Like her heart, her body knew that he was dead.  It was 7 p.m.  Big Bang Theory was playing on the waiting room TV.

Now, I'm no stranger to seeing my father in hospitals.  When I was in first grade he had a massive heart attack and a triple bypass.  Strokes, surgeries, another bypass.  It was old hat for us.  But I have never seen him with tubes down his throat.  The mechanical click of his chest rising and falling as a machine breathed for him.  I went to him and kissed his head.  I bent down to whisper in his ear, telling him "Dad, it's Kathleen.  I love you, Daddy.  If you have to go, just go.  We understand."

The doctor came in and told us what we had always, sort of, known.  He was gone.  No brain function.  Stroke?  Aneurysm?  We're still not quite sure.  We decided to donate his organs.  While we didn't know for sure if that's what he would have wanted, we thought it sounded like him.  There were a few hours waiting for those people, and even in the end, it didn't work out.  (Please get your act together, Gift of Life)  Then the tubes came out.  The doctors have to prepare the family when the actual dying process begins.  It's rather horrifying, really.  They say that the person can writhe in pain, gasp for breath, shake and shudder.  Luckily (ha!) for us, none of that happened to my darling dad.  It was peaceful.  Very much so.  My mother sat by his head, stroking his hair, which still smelled like Head and Shoulders.  She told him over and over again how much she loved him and that she thanked him for her wonderful life.  My nephew, Luc was at his head on the other side.  I sat with one of my hands in his and one hand on his chest.  This is how we sat until he died.  Sometime after that, a nurse came in and opened a window.  She told us it was to help his transition.  It was 10:42 p.m.

Here I am now.  A year later.  We're all doing ok.  My mom I am most proud of.  She's come a long way since those early days of crippling grief.  Soon, she will be moving to New Jersey to be closer to all of us.  Charlie is very excited to have his Mom-Mom close.  They are buddies.  My nephew Luc, after having spent over 10 years living with my parents, is back with his father.  They are thriving.  I cannot believe what a wonderful young man Luc is becoming.  I am proud of him.  My brother too.  And me?  Well I just keep on keeping on.

I still think about him every day.  I still cry.  I still think to call him a thousand times a day to ask him questions that only he knows the answer to.  Like  "Dad, what is that John Wayne movie you were in?"  or   "Dad, tell me about the time you and your dad stole a picnic table from Sears with the unwitting help of store security."   "Dad, tell me about the time you ran across the country while being chased by military police, just so you could be at your mother's side as she died."

And boy oh boy, do I wish he would see his grandson.  Charlie has that big ol' square head that only Macklins have.  And just like me, and my dad, he likes to relax with his bare feet up and his ankles crossed.

I've never posted it before, and few people got to hear it because I was forbidden from reading it at the service, but here's the eulogy I wrote for my father.


I saw a blue jay this morning.  I knew it was a blue jay because my dad taught me about birds.  Birds, fishing, wildlife and Nature.  He taught me About music, film, history, literature, travel, love, how to pick a good husband and how to be a parent to my son.  Most importantly though, he taught me to squeeze the most joy I could from this one life i've been given.  Many times, when people lose a loved one they often say "he or she lived a full life." without really being sure if they did.  Well, I think  we all know that in my dad's case, a "full life" is an understatement.  

He truly was the best man I have ever known.  He laughed long and loud.  He was fiercely protective of the people he loved.  And when he loved you, he loved you completely, without judgement and condition.  He was remarkable.  Always up for a party, a hug, or reminiscing over budweiser and pretzels.  In my case, he was up for driving me around to violin lessons or happily sitting through long rehearsals with nothing but a book to read.  

I could stand up here for days regaling of you of all the adventures we took, from little things like walking outside during thunderstorms to our hundreds of thrilling vacations, but I won't.  I will tell you about the bittersweet look on his face when he saw me in my wedding dress.  The look of pure unadulterated wonder and adoration when he held my newborn son.  The pride in his smile when I played the violin.  And the comfortable look of a lifetime of love when he smiled at my mom.  I see my dad so very  much in my son.  Especially in the way his eyes crinkle and sparkle when he smiles and laughs.  I am grateful for that.  I am humble and grateful to have such a perfect dad.  Our dad, your husband, your friend, cousin, brother and pop-pop.  Our lives will never ever be the same.  We are lucky to have known and loved you.  Will will carry your light with us wherever we go.  We will promise to live our lives with joy.  Just like you did.

School Yard Bullies; All Grown Up

Boy, have I been away from this blog for quite some time.  I have mucho updating to do.  There's been some light (I lost 115 pounds!  My kid is spectacular!).  There's also been some dark (My father died suddenly!).  I will cover all those awesome and horrible things but today, I need to talk about bullies.  Like, I really really need to get this off my chest.

Bullying is a huge issue right now.  With KIDS.  I think that the world, at large, has been doing a great job about raising awareness and fighting bullying.  However, everyone seems to forget that "bullies" don't just disappear once you don that graduation cap.  They grow up to become ADULT bullies which, in my opinion, are far worse. 

They are in your social circles.  You may call them "frienemies".  What a cutsie little nickname for a person that can pretty much ruin your entire social life.

Are you a parent?  Yes?  Well, I've got news for you.  Other mommies are the nastiest of the bunch.  Instead of supporting each other and appreciating (or at least tolerating) the fact that there are a million ways to raise a child, they would just as soon stab you right in the front (no backstabbing here!  not for these cut-throat ladies!  right in the gut!).

And then.....my personal favorite......

Workplace bullies. 

The internet told me the following facts:

• The Phenomena of “work place bullying and mobbing” is little known, which is surprising, since it affects 70% of working Americans at some time in their career.
• According to the Workplace Bullying and Trauma Institute, an abusive boss is more likely to be a woman than a man. Woman to woman bullying represents 50 percent of all workplace bullying; man to woman is 30 percent, man to man 12 percent and woman to man bullying is extremely rare — only 8 percent.
• In 2008, Dr. Judy Fisher-Blando wrote a doctoral research dissertation on Aggressive Behavior: Workplace Bullying and Its Effect on Job Satisfaction and Productivity. The scientific study determined that almost 75% of employees surveyed had been affected by workplace bullying, whether as a target or a witness. Source
• A European study from 2009 showed that the risk for bullying increased with a woman as boss. For women the risk of getting abused increased with 100 percent with a female boss. For men the risk increased with 80 percent. The study was made by the organisation Eurofond and included 21 000 participants. Source

I didn't do any fact checking.  It's just my blog after all.  However, I'm lead to believe this is true.  I've never ever had a problem with a male boss.  (Except my boss at the Hershey Red Robin that once said my ass was too fat to be a waitress).  Female bosses, on the other hand, I've really struggled with.  I don't know what it is.  I've always had female friends.  I've had some really awesome female bosses and have worked with many women in positions of authority.  I've even held some positions of authority myself.   I just can't deal with being bullied, disrespected and basically....abused.  It's like a perfect storm of a hostile working environment. 

All that being said, if you were in this position, how would you handle an abusive boss or co-worker?  Would you handle it passively.....just take the abuse?  Would you begin to bully the bully?  Or is there another way?  Share your stories with me.

Sugarplum

My grandmother passed away this evening. We've been preparing for this for quite some time. We even knew it would happen soon. But nothing prepares. Nothing makes the loss feel any easier.

I'm home alone tonight. I just got the news and I haven't anyone to talk to at the moment. I don't know what else to do with my time now but sit here and write about her.

She was a remarkable woman who lived. I mean, we all live...but she LIVED. She made music, and artwork, cookies, and babies and houses. She laughed, joked, danced and had quite a knack for using slang. She had three husbands. Yes, that's right, three.

Most importantly though, she taught me about the steadfast love of family.

Growing up around the corner from my grandparents was nothing short of heaven. My grandmother would walk me to Jean's for some "nourishment" (ice cream). We would play records, go to the mall to sample perfume or go to Vitalli's for dinner only because they had a child-sized sink in the ladies room. Later, during my tumultuous teen years, hers was the door I ran to when I had an argument with my Dad. She taught me about leadership. She ran the auxiliary of the Disabled American Veterans like a well-oiled ship.

Before I was born and two husbands in, she was diagnosed with a brain tumor. They operated on her and removed it, but it left her in a vegetative state. They weren't sure she would ever fully recover. But through stubbornness, my grandfather's perseverance and a little bit of crocheting, she not only recovered but stood in line to catch the bouquet at my wedding.

Oh, how I loved my grandmom. She was always happiness, light and sweet smells. Sitting there, watching her fingers deftly create some new piece of artwork could occupy me for hours. Sadly, I did not inherit her gift for knitting and crocheting. But I did inherit her baking skills. I thought of her yesterday as I added my own touch to some pumpkin pie. I still have her famous cookie recipe. It's written on note paper in her typical scrawl. I think that if my house were on fire, that would be one of the things I would save.

Every time I left her house, she would stand at the door with her arms crossed across her chest. I would get to the bottom of the steps, turn to her and do the same. It was the sign for "I Love You'.

My grandfather passed away 10 years ago. They had a perfect marriage. I guess "third time's a charm" really was the case. He made her laugh. They traveled and cooked and played. She would make him put on a Santa suit every christmas.

Right now I'm clinging to the comforting notion of heaven. I imagine her this way: tall, thin, young. Her blonde hair impeccably curled. Walking into that local dance right after WWII. Seeing that handsome, cigar clutching Purple Heart winner. He leads her onto the dance floor and holds her for the first time/again. She is happy. She is at peace. She is home.

I miss you already, Grandmom. I'll forever be your sugarplum.

Such A Pretty Fat

I really, really mean it this time.

I'm finally having weight loss surgery. The insurance said YES and the date is set. September 1st.

On, September 1st, I will willingly say goodbye to 85% of my stomach.

Awesome.

I'm fat. Really fat. I've only been reeeeeally fat for about 3 years now. But, believe me, I've always been fat. Hell, I was fat back in 1988 with a poodle perm mullet thing. (Thanks for that, Mom)

Being fat is a very public affair. There's no hiding my size. Everyone knows I'm fat. You can see my fat from a mile away. Literally. No amount of Spanx will ever shrink what I'm sporting. There's this plus-sized store called Torrid and I'M EVEN TOO FAT FOR THAT STORE. It's only been since I had the baby where my weight has really started to restrict me. Sure, I can get down on the floor. But...I can't get back up without some serious acrobatics.

Gosh, writing about this is humiliating. Being fat is a humiliating, public affair. People always think they know what life is like for the morbidly obese. They think it's laziness or a lack of will-power. It's almost never because of that. I know some lazy-ass skinny people who eat nothing but junk. It's strenuous stuff carrying the equivalent of two garbage bags filled with rocks!

I may seem immune to it now. I make jokes about my weight and have learned to speak about it frankly. But it is no less humiliating. Here are some of the ways my weight has embarrassed me over the years.

1. I broke a beach chair. Last week....alone with the baby at one of Nick's concerts. There were, like, 30 people sitting around me.

2. Going to a restaurant is always a challenge. Can I fit in the booth?

3. I once went into The Limited to get a giftcard for a friend. A salesperson blocked my path and asked "Can I help you?" I responded; "No, thanks, I'm ok." She said "Are you sure? We don't carry clothes in YOUR size here." She replied with a shudder.

4. A friend once said "Why don't I have a boyfriend? I mean, obviously it isn't about looks. After all...YOU got a boyfriend."

5. I once broke a PICNIC TABLE. (Now, I'm not entirely sure I can add this one. The table was broken already and I was just coming off the Atkins diet and only weighed 150.) But still, years of embarrassment told me it broke because I was fat.

6. I had a really serious car accident a few years ago. After the firefighters cut the door off I saw the paramedics with the stretcher. I thought for sure they wouldn't be able to hold me so I screamed and ranted until they let me try to walk. They didn't relent.....thank god. Again, Post-Atkins so I was relatively slim.

7. My obscenely hot OB whispering in my ear pre-c-section "Now, I don't want you to be embarrassed by this...but we may need to tape your belly up after we're done stitching." My self-deprecating response? "Oh, it's ok. I stopped being embarrassed by being fat ages ago."

8. Writing this post is humiliating.

9. A costumer told me I needed to get a corset so that everything could be "put in its rightful place" Whatever the hell that meant. This was done in a public email sent to the entire cast of the show.

10. I'm constantly underestimating the size of my ass. I'm always bumping into things.

11. Theaters of any kind are nerve-wracking. Will I fit in the seat? Will a stranger sit next to me? Will they feel the overflow of my sizable thighs?

12. My BFF's best man at her wedding; "I'm surprised to see you as a bridesmaid." Me; "What? Why?" "Well, I honestly didn't think they made bridesmaid dresses in such large sizes." (I had just met him.)

13. There are almost no pictures of me and my son. That's sad.

14. I know that I am described as "the fat girl" or "she's heavy" or "the big girl".

I think I'll stop there. Before I jump out a window or take too many advil.

I'm having weight-loss surgery in less than a week! I haven't eaten a morsel of solid food in three weeks. For anyone who thinks I am "taking the easy way out", I encourage you to contact me so that you may be schooled.

This post is dedicated to JKD who, in fact, did not break the dolphin. It was rusted already...

A Dear John letter.

My Dearest MM,

We first met on November 26th 1997. I was home for my first holiday during my first semester away at college. I was 17 years old. I, timidly, reached out for you that first night. From that first touch, I knew you were trouble. I knew I was a goner. At first, it was sweet and easy. You introduced me to your other friends. What a spectacular "devil-may-care" group of people! Oh, I was in love! Addicted to that head rush! That tingle!

However, not long after those heady first days of new love, I began to have this nagging suspicion that you just weren't all beach days and camel rides. There was something bewilderingly sinister behind your smokey smile. My friends tried to warn me! "This is bad for you." "It's going to KILL you." "Stay away!"; they cried. So I did. I stayed away. Or at least that's what they thought. But, in reality, I was still seeing you. Stolen moments behind the pizza place when I worked at the neighborhood Hallmark store. An embrace during a "walk" around Pennypack park. It was scandalous! I fell deeper and deeper into your grasp.

I knew better, then. I've always known that being with you was not a positive life choice. But I was so tangled up with you that nothing could stop me. I even invited you too my wedding! There are pictures of me cavorting around with you on the dance floor! I've lied to my husband to be with you. My family, my friends, my students! I've behaved shamefully.

I did stop seeing you...for awhile. Do you remember? I had to leave. You see, I had found myself expecting a child. A son. And suddenly my love for him obliterated the love I had for you. Being with you wasn't good for him either. When I was with you I couldn't even breathe. You were literally breaking my heart. A heart that was now beating for two. So, I packed up and left. Did you miss me during that time? Did you feel sadness? Longing? I did.

That, the latest of my many breakup attempts, failed after 14 months. Over a year I managed to thrive without you. But, I ran into some of our mutual friends. They helped bring us together again and, just like in the beginning, I was hooked.

My darling. My companion. My relief. The time has come for me to leave for good. I'm sorry. I'd like to think that you'd miss me. It was 14 years together. I've grown from an unsure teenager to a determined woman. I've changed. You haven't. I have to start thinking of me. Take care of me. Oh, I'll never forget you. How could I? All those happy times. Seems like you were there for almost all of my happy moments. I know you think that I'll never get over you. I admit that it will be hard. Painful and full of anxiety. But believe me, I can do it. I know it's in me.

You are here with me. Right now. Right next to me, in fact. A storm is brewing and I know we must go inside soon. I am here with you now. In the morning...I'll be gone. Please don't try to find me.

My dearest. My love. My Marlboro menthol lights Man. Goodbye.

Fondly,

Your girl, Kathleen

Father

It's Nick's first Father's Day.

I wish I could do something really spectacular for him. Give him anything and everything his little heart desires. He deserves so much.

I've been wanting to write about Nick's journey into fatherhood for a while now. I always knew he'd be a great dad. He's kind, sensitive and has an endless amount of energy and an unquenchable lust for life.

Last Valentine's Day, when I came out the bathroom to tell Nick I was pregnant he was standing unloading the dish washer. I said; "I'm pregnant." He said "Cool." and then proceeded to continue with his unloading. It was a strange reaction. But, Nick is a strange guy after all.

Not soon after that, he began to transform. He read books such as "My Boys Can Swim" and spent hours looking up all things pregnancy on the internet. He went to every appointment. He went to every class. He tested strollers in the Babies R' Us. Testing their handling and cornering in case he was ever in a high speed chase on foot....with a baby. He used to sing to me; "We're having a baby. A tropical baby" Before we knew Charlie was a boy I used to ask him if he wanted a boy or a girl. He always said "I don't care." Then, on the way to find out the sex, he said "You know, I think I want a boy." The joy and awe on his face when the ultrasound technician said "I think it's a very proud little boy" were incredible.

Then came the preparations. Nick sprang into action. Getting only the safest (read: most expensive) paint and spending the days putting together swings and bouncy seats.

When all the clothes were folded, and the paint was dry, we waited. Then Charlie came and they placed him into Nick's arms and he has never let him go.

I'm not afraid to admit that he took to fatherhood much faster and much more smoothly than I took to motherhood. For him, the bond was instantaneous. I knew our son was safe in his arms. That he would move heaven and earth to protect us both.

I didn't change a single diaper until Charlie was two weeks old.

They quickly became best friends. Nick researched all the ways to calm a newborn and could stop Charlie's frantic little cries in mere seconds. If swaddling newborns were an Olympic sport, he would have taken the gold.

He has patience that knows no bounds. He remains calm always. In those hazy, exhausting, confusing early days he got up with us every night. Brought me cold water and animal crackers during our countless 3 a.m. nursing sessions.

Now we've settled into a nice little routine. He's taken over a lot of the feeding since I no longer nurse. He plays many games of airplane with sweet potatoes and butternut squash puree. Bath time is "No Girls Allowed." He's still changing most of the diapers.

Charlie is 8 months old now. He thinks that his father is the funniest, most fascinating person that ever lived. Sometimes just the mere sight of him sends him into fits of tinkling baby giggles. He doesn't laugh like that for me. That's ok though. I'm happy they have something that special. It's like their own little boy's club.

Nick, each day you astonish me. Your love for me is unending and you make such efforts so that I know it. I am so grateful and lucky that Charlie and I have you. He's such a lucky boy. It makes me happy and calm to know that you will always support him and care for him and look out for him. Everything you've done...every decision you've made for him has been the right thing. I love watching you with him. It fills me with such joy and fulfillment. I look forward to watching you teach him how to walk, ride a bike, drive, tie a tie. I cannot wait to hear the advice you give him on his wedding day. He is a lucky boy. I am a lucky woman. The world is a lucky place...because you're in it.

Happy Father's Day, my love.

Cutting with QWERTY

I have a confession. I spent a gross amount of time on the internet. Namely Facebook and a parenting message board called TheBump (stupid, STUPID, name). It's shameful and I am in dire need of a few days "unplugged".

Anyway, I've been thinking a lot about the people (personas) I encounter on these sites.

First, let's take a look at TheBump. This board if chock full of SAHM's (stay-at-home-mom's) with seemingly nothing better to do than judge, criticize and wish harm upon their fellow mothers. I often wonder what their children are doing while they are doling out their sentences of colic, diaper rash and acid reflux. I rarely post. When I do, it's about actual baby stuff. What diapers are best, the best way to steam chicken....and whatnot. Because of that I am often greeted by "who the hell are you?" replies and labeled a LURKER. I hate that term. Lurker. Sounds an awful lot like PERVERT or PEDOPHILE to me. These women say things to each other online that I'm sure they would never even dream of saying in person. I once observed a fight between two moms where one said that she should have either put her child up for adoption or have had an abortion. The other mother responded that she deserved the painful infertility she was burdened with and that she should go DIAF. DIAF is a popular term on TheBump. It means......wait for it.....DIE IN A FIRE. Seriously! Women are telling other women, whom they've never met, to go die in a fire! Each week they have UO Fridays. UO stands for Unpopular Opinion. It's a thread where they post controversial things (that have nothing to do with babies) in order to start an internet riot. These ladies need a hobby!

A hobby. Like...Facebook.

Ah. Good ol' Facebook. Now FB isn't all bad. It has helped me to reconnect with some very important people. Like, my high school mentors. Or college friends from far away. It even lets me keep in touch with my friends Donna and Pete in Sydney. However, FB has it's own set of cliques, idiosyncrasies, mean girls, narcissism, bullies and snobs.

I've always been interested in anthropology. I've always been very observant. A trait that I think my son has inherited. He's often content to just sit in his stroller or on my lap and just...watch. I've used my keen observation skills on facebook.

I digress. Over the years that I've been a member of facebook. A few different kinds of people jump out at me. (Disclaimer: this is about no one in particular - or is it?)

The constant complainer: Their life sucks. It sucks worse than yours. Feel bad for them.

The Queens/Kings of Passive Agressiva: they post ambiguous status updates in response to another update they disagree with. Or they are angry with a specific person and post a thinly veiled update about the person without ever identifying them.

The Braggart: "I'm on a fabulous vacation! Look at my pictures! Be jealous" Honestly, I doubt your vacation is that fabulous or else you wouldn't have your nose buried in your smartphone. These people often post pictures of their boobs/pecs/clothes etc. I once saw a girl who had an entire photo album entitled "White Bikini". The entire album was dedicated to shots of her in said white bikini.

The Fabricator: This person just loves Photoshop. Their photos are all pouty-lipped closeups that don't actually show what they really look like. I almost always think their status updates are lies. They want you to believe that their life is so perfect and they are so popular/cool/trendy/beautiful. These people often have 300+ friends. Many of them are from their high school days.

The Over-Share-er: I'm going to the grocery store. Then to the gym. Then to get these warts removed from my crotchal area. Then I'm going to sit and pick my nose for 6 minutes and then I'm going to meet Susie at the bar for happy hour.

The Academic/Armchair Politician: These people post controversial content in order to incite FB fights. I can't stand these people. They are

The Private Jokesters: I am a member of this clique and we did/said this fabulous thing that you aren't a part of. You should envy me. This happens a lot with the theater people that makeup most of my friends list.

I admit it. I've been guilty of a few of these. Nothing is sacred these days. We are always plugged in, switched on, connected. It's good and bad. I really think I would go into cardiac arrest if I didn't have facebook. Yes, I've searched for every single one of my ex-boyfriends and check my ex-best friend's page daily to see if she put any new pictures up.

Rise Up or The Birth Day

Disclaimer: This is not, nor will it ever be, a parenting blog. I can't deal with parenting blogs.

However, parenting is just about all I'm doing right now, so it's all I've got to work with.

Ok. I'm about to get all revolutionary and cool and edgy with you.

Ready?

Motherhood ain't like you see on the TV. The early parts of it are a gruesome melee of emotion that are not always pretty.

My son, Charlie, was born on Wednesday, October 20th 2010. Charlie's mother, was also born that day. All that happy bullshit you hear people say about how "You are instantly changed" and stuff is real, man. When Charlie cried his first weak little cry ("Babies of mothers on anti-depressants are usually very quiet" - said the asshole nurse) I burst out with "Nothing else matters anymore!" So dramatic. There should have been more appropriate lighting design. But it was true! I suddenly got tunnel vision! I was like those poor Central Park horses with the blinders on! I compare it now to a tether, of sorts. Me to him. Right in the middle of our chests. Like that snaky iridescent thing in Donnie Darko. The farther I go from him the tighter and more uncomfortable it gets. I feel just as raw and new and red as he does. Sometimes all I can do to get my feelings out is cry and shake my fists, too. Now, just about the only time I feel whole and content is when I've got him in my arms, his hand wrapped around my finger, eyelids heavy, as I rock him to sleep. "Awwww, how nice!" , you say. Well, it's NOT nice. Nope. It's kinda....not so great. I love him so intensely and just.....feel....so intensely that I think I will eventually collapse under the weight of all that emotion. You want to feel connected to our primal, animal roots? Become a mother. These feelings are so base, so fundamental. It's taking me, a person very sensitive to change, a while to adjust.

Motherhood, at it's best, is remarkable, astounding, amazing, enlightening, exciting, important, exclusive, and fun.

At it's worst it's confusing, isolating, competitive, painful, gut-wrenching, expensive and lonely.

So we're learning. Me and Charlie. We're learning to navigate this strange new place. We're growing. up...together.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

It's February! Again! My last post was well over a year ago. Yikes. To say a lot has changed would be a huge understatement.

Well, here goes. I'll try to be brief.

I was all set to have my weight-loss surgery. I had jumped through more medical hoops then I'm proud to admit. On Saturday, February 13th, 2010 I took my last medical test.

Then, on February 14th 2010........this happened.

Usually, when one of those things happens.....in a little while......this happens....

Apparently, those pesky things actually need to come out. This was the one that came out of me:

This is Charlie. He joined the world on 10.20.10. He is totally rad. I am unequivocally in love with him.

This is him now.

Fantasy

I'm having weight-loss surgery. No, really....this time I am. Soon. I think....

Tonight I'm going for my pre-surgery teaching class at Temple Hospital. Two more flaming hoops to jump through and I'm on the table. Hopefully....

I'm forever saying "When I lose weight.." or "When I get skinny.." So here are some of the things I will do when that happens.

1. I will wear a sundress (or any dress) without my thighs rubbing together
2. I will ride a rollercoaster
3. I will wear yellow
4. I will learn to walk in stillettos
5. I will run
6. I will throw out every last pair of control top pantyhose
7. I will go blonde
8. I will let a big strong man pick me up
9. I will buy a skirt
10. I will dance
11. I will sing
12. I will get that part
13. I will no longer stand to hear "You have such a pretty face."
14. I will be the woman my husband thinks I am
15. I will purchase a Burberry trench
16. I will buy a pair of ridicously expensive jeans
17. I will become a mother
18. I will re-learn to ride a bike
19. I will walk from my beach chair to the water without paralyzing fear
20. I will be the prettiest girl in the room

Maestro

Maestro

Maestro. Or is the feminine, maestra? Well whatever it is. I am one. Or, rather, I'd like to be one. I currently spend my days conducting a rag-tag orchestra of high school musicians. I adore my small, but hard-working group. Right now, though, I'm sitting in the empty auditorium of my husband's high school listening to a large orchestra made up of the finest young musicians in the Philadelphia metro area. I'm alone here. I had my book, but the music inspired me. I am a musician.

No.

That isn't right.

I AM A VIOLINIST!

Not a singer, not an ametuer actress, not a teacher, not a stage manager.

I AM VIOLINST! HEAR ME BOW!

I remember the first time I played in an orchestra that was good (or so I thought). God, what a feeling! The music flowed through my blood like a powerful drug. I was 14. I was hooked. I miss playing. I am so good at filling the orchestral void by doing things like theater and conducting my kids. It isn't until I sit at concerts or rehearsals like this when I really yearn to play. Yearn so much that the pain in my chest is sometimes unbarable. I feel like I'm starving and the only way to feed myself is to get my violin and play some Berlioz with these kids. I am jealous. It's as simple as that.

When I was in the 7th grade I decided I wanted to play the violin. After spending my youth dancing, playing softball, going to girlscouts, doing gymnastics, my parents were tired and broke and my mother firmly said no. My dad on the other hand, would have lassoed down the moon for me had I asked, so he went out behind my mother's back and rented me a violin. At my first lesson with Frank at Howard Herbert's Music Store I watched in horror as he wacked my bow on the ground repeatedly under the guise of “waking it up”. What had I gotten myself into? But alas, poor Frank went and died on me so I moved over to the prestigous Settlement Music School. After that, I never put the violin down. I was determined to be good. And I was. I got good very very quickly. At my high school I was a star. Hands down the best musician they had seen in decades. I won accolades and participated in the best orchestras in the area. I made it to college and was only one of two violinists there. It was kinda sad. Gone were my large booming orchestral experiences. I haven't played in a large orchestra since.

I talk like I've given it up. I still play. I am still very good. Better now than I was then. There's a maturity and life-experience vibe to my playing that was never there when I was too scared to let my emotions show through my music. Now, however, my public playing is limited to playing Pachebel's Canon for spoiled brides. This can't be! This can't be the rest of my life!! Being a musician, being a violinist, defined me. It made me who I am today. One of the saddest realizations I've had today is that, if I asked my friends what instrument I play, some of them wouldn't even know. None of them have ever heard me play.

Oh dear lord! Now they are playing Elgar's Nimrod. I can barely see the screen through the tears in my eyes. Download that one. It's one of my favs. Have I mentioned how much I love the viola? But I think that's another blog for another time.

I think it might be time for me to take a temporary retirement from theater and pick up my ax again. Find a local orchestra to play in. Re-ignite that fire. Show the world what I'm made of again.

"All my friends have flowers in their eyes...but I got none this season."

In April N and I went to NYC. After a delightful afternoon of being introduced to Magnolia cupcakes by our good friends the Shares, we headed to the Nederlander theater to see Guys and Dolls.

I like to get there early but I hate the waiting once I get there. So, to gauge just how close we are to starting, I take a look around the house to see how many people are there. I'm scanning the Nederlander that night when I see a guy bounding down the center asile, dreadlocks bouncing. I felt myself get cold and my heart start to beat faster. Oh. My. God. That's. Adam. Duritz. I mean, I totally geeked out there for a hot second. N was hardly amused. I was annoyed that he didn't share my awe. Then I'm shocked. I'm shocked that no one else is going crazy like I am. And then I remember. No one really knows who he is. Especially the kind of people who would go to a shoddy revival of a Broadway classic. I make it my mission to make contact.

At intermission, after a smoke with Matthew Perry (who was kind of a douche), I see Adam Duritz standing in the lobby talking to an unassuming older couple. I pass up my chance to talk to him.

Show ends. I go outside. Walk PAST Adam Duritz. MAKE EYE CONTACT WITH HIM. And KEEP WALKING.

I knew instantly that I would regret that. I should have just said what I wanted to say. Which was something like, "Hi. I don't normally do this. Actually I've never done this. But I just have to say this or I'll regret it. Your music defined my youth. Thank you, thank you, thank you."

Adam Duritz is the lead singer of Counting Crows. In case you didn't already Google that shit.

I'm sitting here watching something I DVR'd on Palladio. A concert performance of their latest concept album, Saturday Nights and Sunday Mornings. He's just intro-ed his next song and it's "about when you just become so numb that there's no way to touch the world at all except through acts of extreme violence. And this is about driving the highways in the middle of the night, and this is about everybody at once and this is about me and this is called Cowboys"

fsdf

Yes! Yes! Yes! This is why! This is why this music carried me through my confusing, emotional, transcendent, horrible, sweet, exciting, horny high school and college years.

"This is a list of the things I should be, but I'm not"

"Well all the blue light reflections that color my mind when I sleep.

And the lovesick rejections that accompany the company I keep.

All the razor perceptions that cut just a little too deep.

Hey, I can bleed as well as anyone, but I need someone to help me sleep."

and my favorite, and the inspiration for the title of this blog

"Amy hit the atmosphere, caught herself a rocket ride out of this gutter."

Dying for a cheeseburger and a pack of Marlboro's

So, in an attempt to get this surgery thing up and running again, I've switched doctors from the fat jersey guy in polyester pants to the Jon Gosselin lookalike at Temple University Hospital. The first time I met him he promptly wrote me a stack of prescriptions for various tests. So far I've been for an Upper G.I., an ultrasound of my abdomen and, most recently, a EGK and an echo cardiogram with a cardiologist. The upper g.i. results came back unremarkable. I am pleased to report that my stomach and small intestine is "perfect". My heart, however, is not quite so perfect. I spent two hours with the cardiologist this past Thursday. First, my blood pressure is so high it could power the space shuttle. This is news to me. Mere seconds before he took it, I had bragged to him that my bp was "always a perfect 120/80". This was not a lie. I have only had a high reading once. A few months ago when my doc took it. When the nurses take it, it's always been good. Then, during the echo he finds that the walls of my heart are "thickened". This is called Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy. In layman's terms: your heart is like tires on a car. If you take care of the tires, they can last you 40k milles or so. If you don't, they go much faster. My heart is like those worn-out tires. Basically, I'm heading for a heart attack at age 41. Just like my dad. This will never go away. But it is my fault. He says it's from years of unchecked hypertension. Who knew? I certainly didn't.

The good news is that with some weight-loss and me ditching the cigarettes, I can prolong "the tires" and drive safely for a good long time.

When I left the doc I simultaneously felt like I wanted to cry hysterically out of fear and dance around singing "I've got the golden ticket!" Because, while this is a death sentence in my current state (a chain smoking girl of zaftig proportions), it is the "golden ticket" to getting my surgery done. Horray! I have a co-morbid condition!

The funny thing is, I really didn't feel as scared as I felt like I should be feeling. The doc said "In your younger years, you really can kind of abuse your body with little consequence. Now, at your ADVANCING AGE you have to buckle down and take care of it." I nodded sagely. Using my best acting skills to act like I was prepared to "buckle down". Am I prepared to do the things I need to do to live a healthy lifestyle? I'm not sure. There's a big part of me that wants to eat yummy things and smoke endless cigarettes and drink late night cocktails. I have always been a "live for the moment" kind of girl. I don't think too much about the future.

Perhaps it's time to start.

Transitions

N and I are remodeling our kitchen. Pink counter tops and flowerpot wallpaper be gone!

So, on Thursday the guy came to give us an estimate on some nifty new laminate flooring. After he left, we went over to Lowes and bought a new set of shiny stainless appliances. I haven't been that excited in a long time. When the floor was installed on Friday afternoon, I was literally shaking with anticipation. When it was finished I actually got down to lay upon it.

All this excitement got me thinking.

When is the point when you no longer become excited about toys, dolls, video games and become just as excited about, say, new bed linens or a sofa? Is there an exact moment you can pinpoint? It kinda makes me sad that I can't remember that moment, or those series of moments. How does childhood, the defining era in our lives, slip away so quietly? Sometimes I miss being a child so much. Especially in the summer. Especially at twilight. The sounds of the crickets, the fireflies, the robins transport me back to my youth. Running around my neighborhood with my friends....cherishing those last few moments of another fevered summer day. I think tomorrow I will go and buy a coloring book and some crayons. Try to get those feelings back. Or, maybe I'll just go back to Lowes and order some counter tops.

Up Up Up and Out

Oh great. I just put on "Colorblind" by the Counting Crows. Like I need anything else to depress me right now.

It's August. The Big Sunday on the long weekend that is Summer. I have FUCKING BRONCHITIS. There is no show to go perform tomorrow night. Ugh.

I've been inspired by C.Share's blog to get this thing up and running again. I had all these great ideas.....but now, nothing but me, Adam Duritz and my good ol' nebulizer.

All I know for sure is that I'm desperate to get out of this skin. I need a break from me. From my thoughts.....and malfunctions and issues and shortcomings.

70-30-86

No, I'm not colorblind
I know the world is black and white
Try to keep an open mind
But I just can't sleep on this tonight

Stop this train
I wanna get off
And go home again
I can't take the speed it's moving in
I know I can't
But honestly, won't someone stop this train?

Don't know how else to say it
Don't want to see my parents go
One generation's length away
From fighting life out on my own

Stop this train
I wanna get off
And go home again
I can't take the speed it's moving in
I know I can't
But honestly, won't someone stop this train?

So scared of getting older
I'm only good at being young
So I play the numbers game
To find a way to say that life has just begun

Had a talk with my old man
Said "help me understand"
He said "turn sixty-eight
You renegotiate"

"Don't stop this train
Don't for a minute change the place you're in
And don't think I couldn't ever understand
I tried my hand
John, honestly we'll never stop this train"

Once in awhile, when it's good
It'll feel like it should
And they're all still around
And you're still safe and sound
And you don't miss a thing
Till you cry when you're driving away in the dark

Singing

Stop this train
I wanna get off
And go home again
I can't take the speed it's moving in
I know I can
Cause now I see I'll never stop this train

Where was I when my father became a Republican?

My father just turned 70. He grew up in a poor neighborhood in Philadelphia with his blue-collar father, homemaker mother, older brother and younger sister. He dropped out of high school at 14 to join the work force. He was drafted into the army in that convienient time between WWII and Vietnam. Upon his release from the army, he became a blue-collar worker alongside his father, grandfather and his brother. He drove a fork-lift truck and was a upstanding labor union leader. He worshiped at the Irish-Catholic altar of J.F.K. His best friend was a gay man who dabbled in cross-dressing.
Today, he is a staunch Republican. WHAT THE FUCK?!?!? I don't get how you can spend your whole life one way and then switch in a moment. It's only been since W was in office. Is my father really that stupid that he believes that HE is the epotime of fine ruling? He's always trying to pick fights with N and I over politics. The way he looks at me with utter disgust when I talk about being a Democrat makes my stomach turn. I want to scream at him that it's HIS fault I am a Democrat! HE raised me that way. Has he simply blocked out the first 60+ years of his life?
As for my mother, well she's just a lemming. She will believe anything my father shoves down her throat. That is really disappointing. This was the woman who faught for women's rights. The woman who almost got fired for wearing PANTS to work!
I just can't stand it. No wonder I want to go home the instant I set foot in their house. There is no reasoning with them either. They are getting more conservative by the hour. Pretty soon my mom will be wearing high-neck blouses and lecturing me on the unholiness of birth control and The Family Channel while my father polishes his portrait of Pat Robertson. sheesh.

When you look to the night skies, don't think of goodbyes

It's been awhile....

It's a historic day. Inauguration day. I can honestly say that I'm proud to be an American today. It's been quite a long time since I was proud of that. In fact, I think this may be the first time. Before, I was indifferent. Then I was angry and ashamed. Now, I'm simply bursting with pride. I just hope he can hold himself on this pedestal that we've put him on. Don't let us down, mate.


On another and completely random note....I've become obsessed with the music of Joe Iconis.
He's like all my favorite aspects of musical theater and folk rock rolled into one neat package. I really wish he had some studio stuff I could buy instead of constantly using up my work's bandwith streaming his music from youtube. Check out "The Goodbye Song". It's adorable.