Time to Again Gather the Clan

Every year, Labor Day weekend, is the Shields Family Reunion. It is held near the original farmstead where my father and his 9 surviving siblings were born and raised. Though the original dwelling is in ruins, I have visited the old graveyard, the family church and the high school in town that bears my maiden name. It is the bosom of my family to which I have returned faithfully since the death of my father in 2003.

The first year I went, Labor Day 2004, no one knew me, but everyone knew who I was: Charlie's daughter. I am his spitting image, and was welcomed warmly, as the pain of Dad's death was still very raw. I went with my husband and son, and was reintroduced to everyone. I had only met most of these people at my Dad's funeral the prior December. Brian and I stayed in a hotel in town, so we had an out if we needed one. While nerve wracking, it was a wonderful experience.

In the years since, I have earned my place as Rebecca. Still Charlie's daughter, to be sure, but an individual, known in my own right. We no longer stay in town when we visit, we stay with Dad's younger brother Lyndel, right down the road from his older brother, Marvin. I have learned what life was like from their perspectives growing up dirt-floor poor. Through them, I am getting to know and better understand the man that was my father.

I also spend time with 3 of Dad's older sisters: Dorris (whom I most resemble), Joyce and Mary. I met his oldest sister, Reba, on my first visit, but she has not been back since. While I love them dearly, I find them less approachable and more critical than my uncles. They also forget that I am a 40+ year old woman, not a teenager in search or need of a maternal figure.

My son is getting to know his cousins, aunts and uncles, too. When we are at home, we are a small family of 3, with only my husband's youngest sister near enough to visit. It is easy to forget that we are part of something larger. I didn't have extended family growing up, as my mother was an only child, and we were completely cut off from my father's family. It is very important that Christopher knows that he has many, many relatives near and far.

This weekend, the Shields clan will again commandeer the property now owned by my grandfather's brother's grandson, Jerry. There will be nightly cookouts, a live band, karaoke, and way too much to drink. Aunt Dorris will give the evening meal blessing and cry. We will cook and catch up on family news and gossip. We will celebrate my cousin Lisa, who has come though breast cancer treatment bald and bruised, but unbowed. Christopher will learn how to shoot a .22 shotgun, and search for deer and coyote tracks and turkey feathers with his cousins. For the first time since 2004, my husband will join us.

Our gathering together is salve to our souls. Leaving is always hard. Anticipation for the next years' event begins when I step on to the plane bound for New York.

r.

June 16th

I have visited several blogs recently that have posts regarding events that occurred on their birthday throughout history. So, I went to Wikipedia, typed in June 16, and holy moly, a whole lot has gone down on that day!

Events:

• 1487 - Battle of Stoke Field, the last dying breath of the Wars of the Roses.


• 1755 - French and Indian War: French surrender Fort Beauséjour to the British, leading to the expulsion of the Acadians.


• 1911 - A 772 gram stony meteorite struck earth near Kilbourn, Columbia County, Wisconsin damaging a barn. (Hence the Superman myth?)
  


• 1967 - Monterey Pop Festival begins; Monterey, California.

Births:

• 1723 - Adam Smith, Scottish philosopher and economist


• 1829 - Geronimo, Apache leader (d. 1909)


• 1917 - Katherine Graham, American publisher (d. 2001). She was at the helm of the Washington Post during the Watergate coverage that lead to Nixon's resignation. You go girl!!


• 1971 - Tupac Shakur, aka 2Pac, American rapper (d. 1996)


• 1996 - My beloved son, Christopher

Holiday/Observance:

• Bloomsday, in honor of Leopold Bloom, the hero of James Joyce's Ulysses set on 16 June, 1904.

r.

Exhale!

Until last Friday, I didn't think it was possible to hold my breath for an entire week, much less six months. Funny thing is that until I received a letter from a radiology facility, I didn't fully realize that I was holding it.

As part of my 2007 New Years Resolution to take better care of myself, I scheduled an appointment with both my OB/GYN and GP on January 31st. I hadn't been to see either in about 3 years, so I figured I'd knock both appointments out in one day. Since it was 6 months past my 40th birthday, my GYN ordered me to submit to a mammogram. I scheduled the appointment as soon as I left his office. It was set for the sixth of February. I finished my day feeling quite virtuous.

Less than a week after my mammography appointment, I received a phone call from my GYN telling me to schedule a follow up sonogram ASAP. I was terrified! My cousin who is only 2 years younger than I was just diagnosed with breast cancer, involving her lymph nodes, stage 3 or so. I scheduled and kept the appointment within the week. My doctor called a week or so later giving me a provisional all-clear. I was to schedule a 6 month follow up exam in August. While I was somewhat relieved, I still had a heightened sense of anxiety. There were some pretty big words hurled at me, of which I understood only 2: No Cancer. When I hung up the phone, I immediately picked it back up and scheduled my next appointment for 13 August, 9am. Best to just get it over with!

Monday, thirteen August dawned bright and beautiful. I headed to the Grammarcy Park area for my visit with the Breast Crushing machine and the sonographer, and when finished, went about my day. The rest of the week I waited for a phone call that never came. I tried to reassure myself that if there were anything really wrong, the phone would ring. I checked my message light on my home, work and cell phones constantly. Finally, Friday evening, when I came home from work and the gym, there was a envelope from the radiology facility. All clear. Schedule your next appointment for a bilateral exam in February 2008. It is now three days later. I have the letter with me to schedule the appointment.

I didn't spend a whole lot of time talking about my increasing level of anxiety. Neither did my husband, and I know he was just as nervous as I was. When he realized what was in the mail, he nearly tore it out of my hands once I had read it! The relief was palpable. Looking back, it was almost a state of suspended animation that we were living with. I am fine, but the prospect of not being fine was daunting to say the least. Maybe that explains the slightly reckless streak I have been on lately. Now that I can breathe more freely, I think I will take some time out and just be.

r.

A Quintessential New York Moment

Yesterday's evening commute started out quite ordinary. I narrowly missed the Astoria-bound N train at 34th Street. A few minutes later, the W arrived in the station which I boarded and got a seat. At Times Square a tall, slender man in paint splotched clothes boarded and sat perpendicular to me. Two stops later at 57th Street, a tall thin woman in a striped shirt got on and sat next to me. Nothing at all unusual. I took notice of the man only because he had a small Band-Aid box that he kept clicking open and shut. The woman caught my attention because the volume on her iPod was turned up high. But no matter, I was absorbed in a book.

Somewhere around Lexington Avenue, the woman asks the man whether he was a painter. He responded no, he just left the operating room--brain surgeon. She seemed to enjoy his smart ass answer, and the conversation continued. He is a house painter. She is a packaging designer for cosmetic companies. He owns his own business with his dad, has a wide and varied clientèle and "is very good at" what he does. She is bored with her job. He is Queens born and raised, she moved to Astoria a year or so ago, and loves it.

"Do you want to go and have a drink?" he asks the woman.

"You buyin'?"

"Sure," he shrugs.

They formally introduce themselves: His name is John, her's is Maria. A short conversation about where to go leads to this exchange:

"Do you know Sparrow?"

"No."

"It's on 29th Ave. and Astoria Blvd.," she says.

At this point I reveal that I have been eaves dropping on the conversation the entire time by saying, "Sparrow is on 29th Street and 24th Avenue, across from the Beer Garden."

"Oh, oh, right, right. I always get the Avenues and Streets confused! Thanks."

They agreed they'd meet at 6:30 that evening. Both got off at the 30th Avenue stop. We all bid each other a good night, and I smiled the rest of the way home.

r.

The Most Annoying People Ever

I have long held that some of the most annoying people are the recently converted. It really doesn't matter what form the conversion takes. Former smokers, born again Christians, formerly overweight people all fit this category. What is most annoying is their seemingly constant need to proselytize. If you ask anyone I know, I think they will report I have joined the ranks of those whom I so disdain.

I quit smoking in the middle of October 2005 cold turkey. I quit because it was becoming increasingly more difficult to breathe doing ordinary things. A four or five block walk left me gassed before I got to my front door. For many years I lived on the top floor of any number of walk-up apartment buildings. In all those years before that time, I had never been winded climbing as many as 6 or as few as 4 flights of stairs, even when carrying a sleeping 5-year-old. I didn't find it particularly difficult to quit, as mine was a sub-pack a day habit (unless I was drinking). Besides, fear of emphysema or any of the other chronic pulmonary diseases that run in my family is a powerful incentive.

I never went out of my way to talk about the fact that I quit. I didn't make any announcements or pronouncements at all. On occasion, someone would notice that I hadn't lit up on a while and would ask me about it and I'd tell them. The discussion begins with every new person who notices: "When did you quit?" followed closely by "How did you DO it?" They ask I answer, and those who had a harder time kicking the habit become really sick of hearing it.

Beginning in around March of 2006, I noticed I was beginning to lose weight. I had just started a new job that took me from a 4-hour daily commute to a sub-2-hour daily commute. I had much less sitting around time. Also around then, I took over cooking duties from my husband who also started a new job. In the beginning, I shrugged it off, as incidental. That, and I was scared that it wouldn't last. I was also worried that I might have developed a medical condition that was making the weight come off (that idea has been soundly rejected).

That said, I was pleased that I finally didn't have to buy bigger clothes! I went to the track an average of 3 times a week and made a much more conscious effort to monitor what I ate. More weight came off. In November of 2006, a good friend of mine was given access to a fitness room that she shared with me and another of our friends. So, now I went to the gym a couple of times a week, the track once a week, and took mile-long walks at lunchtime. More weight came off.

Fast forward eighteen months. I shed a total of 90 to 95 pounds. I worked hard to do it. Nothing magic about it. I did the research and the math to figure out how much I can eat, and how much I burn. I never allow myself to feel denied or hungry, nor do I turn away a cookie, pasta, ice cream or bottle of wine. I do, however, think about what and how much I eat in conjunction with the amount exercise I get, constantly. I am justifiably afraid of becoming that overweight person again. My family tends to the arthritic and the round.

This isn't something I want to spend a whole lot of time talking about anymore. But here again, if someone hasn't seen me in 6 months or a year, the change they see is pretty dramatic, and they definitely comment on it. "Wow! You look great! How much did you lose?" "How did you do it?" "Wow, you must feel so much better!" Comments along that line, that are made, and to which I respond. In so doing, I try to be honest (assuming that if you ask you really want to know), gracious, modest, or deflect kudos, or say well, I'm still having a problem with...I can tell you everyone I know is sick and tired of hearing it.

I guess people think that since I am now a thinner person, that all other problems are nonexistent. I shouldn't still worry about that one area of my body that I cannot reshape no matter how hard I try. I had one woman tell me that talking about my weight was hurtful to every single person on a daily basis. That my weight loss was unhealthy. That I am looking gaunt and unattractive. I would never have expected such an attack from her. While everyone watched me gain weight and vocalize my despair, I was heard with much more patience and encouragement. No one told me to put the damned cookie down, move my ass and quit feeling sorry for myself. While that would have been hurtful too, it might have also been a little motivational.

I have changed my opinion of those who have made life-altering conversions. I no longer think they are pompous, insensitive or evangelistic. I was a smoker. I can tell you a smoker doesn't want to hear from a former smoker. Sometimes it is a matter of being defensive about a habit that meets with perceived disapproval. Maybe they are trying to quit, or have tried unsuccessfully and feel judged. But I can tell you that a smoker has never been made to feel uncomfortable in my home or in my presence. Maybe the person who doesn't want to hear about weight loss or related topics is someone who is also struggling with the issue. They'd like to be happy for your success, but can't as it is perceived as an indictment of them. In the meantime, perhaps all that is needed is some time and space away. Maybe I have offended my friends irreparably, and that truly grieves me. But I have to believe the problem is shared at least fifty/fifty.

r.

The List

I found this list on several blogs lately, and thought it an interesting idea. Almost as much fun as Eight Random Facts, but a lot more thought provoking. So, without further ado:

I know ~ that life is good.

I believe ~ that I will continue to evolve.

I fought ~ bitterly with my mother.

I am angered ~ by dishonesty or deception.

I love ~ my family and friends.

I need ~ to run like hell sometimes.

I take ~ most things in stride.

I hear ~ music and it carries me to a different place.

I drink ~ a lot of red wine and whiskey.

I hate ~ monotony.

I use ~ nothing harmful.

I want ~ to see where my spirit can take me.

I decided ~ I would not be a fat immobile old lady.

I’m entirely ~ too defensive.

I like ~ walking in the rain with no umbrella.

I am ~ responsible.

I feel ~ very alone sometimes.

I left ~ a corrosive relationship with my mother behind.

I do ~ have really good intentions.

I hope ~ to sit and have a drink with my son when he is 25 and hear his take on life the universe and everything.

I dream ~ of that which haunts me.

I drive ~ some people up the wall!

I listen ~ to what is NOT said.

I type ~ sloppily.

I think ~ way to damned much.

I wish ~ I could see how it all turns out.

I compensate ~ my occasional lack of substance with style.

I regret ~ not seeing my father before he died.

I care ~ about the world I am leaving behind for my children and grandchildren.

I should ~ know better.

I said ~ I would do it, and so I did or will. Almost always.

I wonder ~ if I am good enough.

I changed ~ my outer appearance.

I am not always ~ strong.

I cry ~ when faced with any strong emotion or loss.

I am ~ unabashedly myself.

I am not ~ mean spirited.

I lose ~ my nerve too easily.

I leave ~ an impression, one way or the other!

r.

Mid-Life Crisis?

Mid-life Crisis. Usually said with a measure of derision, the words alone conjure images of the absurd. How often have we snickered about someone acting impetuously in an attempt to prove they are not yet old, or to keep them from getting old. Now that I have reached that time of life, I think that might be a little harsh. Once I hit 38 or 39, I began reevaluating many things. I just wasn't really conscious of it at the time. And while I will not color my graying hair, or undergo plastic surgery to staunch the march of time, I will spend a buck or three on good moisturizer.

I was thinking about this on Saturday while sipping my morning coffee, wishing it was a Bloody Mary. Friday night I was out with a bunch of my girlfriends. We enjoyed a wonderful dinner at a somewhat fashionable restaurant in the City, then picked up a couple of bottles of good wine, and hung out at a friend's house. It's not that I want to be 25 again: hell, at 25 I wouldn't have been able to afford or appreciate such 'grown up' tastes.

After the original crowd of 9 women dwindled down to 4, we decided to go over to a local Irish Pub. It was 2am. I walked into the place with greater confidence than I ever would have 15 years ago. I ordered a Jamison's on the rocks, went over to the juke box and put on what I wanted to dance to. Didn't leave until well after last call for alcohol. What struck me while reliving a fun night was that in another few years it might....will...seem ridiculous to do that. To some people reading this now, it might seem ridiculous to do it, or still WANT to do it at the age of 41.

Is it about propriety? A sense that one should, by a certain age, give up such rowdy behaviors, just as a child gives up his toys. That would seem to me a case of sour grapes on the part of those casting such judgment. Is it about looks? You don't look all that different when you are in your mid thirties than you do in your early forties. But a 45 to 50 year old does begin to show some wear and tear. Then it seems more creepy to hang out at a bar, or drive a powerful sports car, or wear certain kinds of clothes.

Even older athletes are looked at differently, especially if they can perform the same feats as their younger teammates or competitors. It's as if once a person reaches a certain age, a shift should occur, not unlike a gear change in an automatic transmission.

I don't think people my age want to hang out with twenty-somethings. Lord knows I don't wish to relive my own misspent youth. Many of us in our early to mid 40s and beyond think we can still raise some hell. We don't want to go gently into that good night. I, for one, still rage against the dying of the light, and will for some time to come, God willing.

r.

A Six Year Reprieve

As long as I don't move out of Queens County, I am free from Jury Duty for the next 6 years. Until fairly recently, the exemption was 4 years if you served, but since the Empire State widened the jury pool by eliminating most vocational exclusions, the exemption was extended.

I was prepared for the worst, but all in all, it was not a bad experience. As intimated in the post below, my first experience with Jury Duty soured me a little. In 1989 or so, the jury room in the Manhattan Supreme Courthouse down on Church Street was very dirty, uncomfortable with wooden pew-like seating and ancient phone booths. The coup de grace was a rather elderly gentleman dressed in a ill fitting navy sports jacket covered with dandruff who had a 'pet' cockroach crawling around on him. I swear to God!

Fast forward to 2007. I arrived around 8:10am, sailed through a metal detector (damned underwire bras!!). The jury room was well lit and spacious with comfortable seats and a nice array of amenities. There were a dozen or so internet ready computers, vending machines, clean bathrooms, reading material and a few tables on which one could work or eat. The Jury Clerk (a NYPD officer) played movies on the large flat screen TVs at a moderate volume. He even cracked a few jokes.

The only bump in the road was when the Clerk told me I couldn't use the computer at 8:20ish...they were not to be used until after 8:30 or 9am. WHATEVER! I asked why not. He refused to elaborate. I copped an attitude. So did he. Yep, I reverted to my 16 year-old problem with authority self in a New York heartbeat. To complete my humiliation, I had to go back to him and ask if I could use the machines, as the posted signs said I wasn't allowed to power them up. The signed lied. He told me to turn them on. Ah, bureaucracy!

I was never called. Left the courthouse by 4pm, with several hundred pages of The Half Blood Prince under my belt (which I stayed up until 1am to finish so I could begin Deathly Hallows today). My husband and son picked me up at our subway stop, and we headed down to the Astoria Park pool. Collected a full day's pay, too. What's better than that!

r.

Jury Duty!!

In Queens, one is served their Jury Summons in the mail with instructions to call in to see if your designated code number has been selected. Every night beginning on an assigned date, you call a toll free number to see if you have been summoned to report to a dank, depressing court house in the middle of nowhere. I was instructed to begin calling Friday, 27 July. I did, and was not so summoned, but I had to call again tonight. My luck just ran out. I am to report tomorrow by 8:30. I have managed to dodge this bullet for many years, this time I must bite it.

The first time I was summoned to Jury Duty, I was in my mid 20s. I made past the exhaustive voir dire and all the way into the jury box before being dismissed by one of the attorneys. I went into it feeling proud to be part of the system. I envisioned the process as being somewhat regal. Maybe too many episodes of LA Law, but I expected intelligent attorneys, a somber learned judge, crisp bailiffs, and an interested jury pool. I came out of it very disillusioned. Even in the late 80s early 90s people went into the jury room dressed like they were going to to pick their kids up from school. The attorneys were disheveled, and that is being kind. The judge consistently dropped twenty five cent words that he used incorrectly. He was so in love with the sound of his voice that he blessed us with his fractured oratory for 40 minutes!

Oh well, that was nearly 20 years ago in Manhattan. Maybe Queens County Courthouse will be different. I will let you know in a future post...

r.

My Mini Vacation

There are few things better than taking a couple of days off from work, and all associated computer endeavors! It isn't quite as relaxing as a full blown vacation, but definitely required every so often.

Thursday, my girlfriend and I went out to Shea Stadium to watch the Mets play a very sloppy game against the Pirates, and loose 8-4. Seats on the first base line in the Loge section. Great for foul balls and the tee shirt grab.

Friday, I took Christopher all over the city. We had to drop his buddy, Connor, off at day camp on Houston and the Bowery. We grabbed a cup of coffee and walked up to the Trader Joe's in Union Square (needed some 2 Buck Chuck for later in the evening). From there we took the subway up to Times Square. Chris just HAD to go to the Toys R Us flagship store to peruse their Star Wars action figure section. From there we walked up to 58th and Park to the Borders store to purchase the Harry Potter book. The nice man at the checkout counter saw me with a child in tow, and gave us a poster of the cover art. Then walked over to Columbus Circle to grab some lunch from Whole Foods, and had ourselves a picnic in Central Park. Chris started reading HP and The Deathly Hallows, and was as absorbed as if he just picked up a new Spidey comic! Returned home around 4 or so. Friday night was wine and girlfriends.

Saturday, Chris and I went to see the Mets play a much better game against the Nationals. They won 3-1. A friend of ours gets tickets all the time from various business associates. This time we were just behind home plate, very front row of the Mezzanine section. Definitely NOT the seats you want if you are trying to shag a foul ball. Chris brought his mitt, but came away disappointed. We watched the second game of the double header at home....they lost.

Alas, Sunday was dedicated to getting the chores done. But I can't complain. We had a great extended weekend. The only downer was that my husband was working all 4 days. But It was really a nice treat to spend some time with my son, one on one.

And here we are Monday morning. Back to the grind, but much more prepared to handle whatever comes my way.

r.

I'm Outta Sorts!

It's only Wednesday, and I feel like I've been run over by a freight train! I'm just exhausted in every way imaginable, so my patience level is down around zero. So, today, I think I'm gonna indulge myself and rant about the idiocy of the general public, myself included.

Idiotic Incident The First

I absolutely HATE littering. Completely unnecessary, gross, ignorant, inconsiderate and beyond all excuse. I don't think it has ever occurred to me to leave my detritus in the world. My son certainly knows better. This morning I ran into a bunch of twenty something year old idiots who decided that they should unwrap their breakfast sandwich on 35th Street, and toss the wrapper and the bag it came in on the sidewalk! Seeing as how I am in such a FINE mood this morning, I said out loud, "Why the FUCK would you DO that?!?!?!" All 4 or 5 of them turned around to gawk at the crazy beotch who addressed them in this manner. Did I leave it alone? NOOOOOOOO. Went on to call them fucking pigs. They probably had themselves a good chuckle, or hurled an insult or two in my direction. I couldn't hear them, as I was jamming to Montgomery Gentry on my iPod.

I am sooooo not going to tell my husband about this little drama, as he is convinced that I'm going to get myself killed one of these days mouthing off to the wrong crowd. But really, I'd be willing to bet their mammas taught them better than that!

Idiotic Incident The Second

When I was a child, and became frustrated trying to do something, my grandmother would tell me, "Rebecca, there is always more than one way to skin a cat." While a gross visual, the concept is an important one. If you are trying to accomplish something and your first method doesn't work, try another method!! The guy who does the billing for my company about blew a freaking gasket when his first choice report didn't yield the results he expected. Rather than choosing to look at a different report that actually gave the same information, albeit in a slightly different format, he chose to butt heads with absent data. Even AFTER being presented with a workaround! I gave him the figures from an alternate source, then queried the tech staff as to why the preferred report wasn't functioning properly. They corrected the mistake, problem solved. But only after frustration level was ramped up to a ridiculous level.

To compound matters, he he couldn't seem to stop trying to look down my shirt the entire time he was having his hissy fit!!!

Idiotic Incident The Third

This should be filed under Reading is Fundamental. A new client of mine just received her first invoice. She, very reasonably, got out her contract Schedule A and compared it to said invoice. She then picked up the phone and called me with her questions. Which she then proceeded to answer on her own while reading her contract to me. This is by far the most benign idiotic incident, as it really didn't arouse my ire in any way, it just made her feel silly. Eh, her dime!

Thank God I am taking the next two days off from work! Maybe I'm just hormonal, but I need some extra sleep and some stress relief. I am envisioning a bottle of vin rouge, a mani/pedi and a hot tub. Two out of three's gonna have to do, as there is no hot tub in sight!

r.

I Am Charlie's Sister

Funny where one can take inspiration. I have been reading several blogs lately with a family theme. It got me thinking of my own family of origin. A couple of months ago, I wrote about my father, I write frequently of my son, occasionally of my husband. Now, it is my brother's turn.

My brother, Charlie, is 18 months younger than I, almost to the day. As is often the case in wartime, the child was conceived just before Dad was shipped overseas, and born before the end of his first tour of duty in the Vietnam war. His father's namesake, Charles was an absolutely adorable baby with an elfin face. Growing up, I was completely convinced that he was my mother's favorite, since he was both the baby of the family and a boy. In hindsight, I really don't think she had a favorite.

As far back in our childhood as I can remember, Charles was irritated with me for being the older sibling. His resentment was fueled by the fact I always had slightly more privileges than he did: I could stay up a little later, had a bigger allowance, etc. What he didn't realize was that I was also held more accountable both for my own behavior and his (since I was older, I set the example), and I always had a few more chores than he did. Charles always thought he'd catch up to me both in age and size. Since he is approaching 40, he is no longer as eager to surpass me in age. He had only to wait until his mid-teens to surpass me in height. We fought bitterly, probably for dominance, and probably because each was convinced the other was favored.

Even in his very early years, that boy was always in trouble. He was a smart kid but performed poorly in school. He was mischievous when he was very young, borderline criminal when he was older. Before he even hit his teens my mother had him sent to a boys correctional/group home facility. At the time, I was too young to fully understand the ramifications for him, me, or the rest of the family. All I knew was that my brother seemed to be the cause of a great deal of tension, and now he was going to not be there anymore. I have a much different understanding now, both as an adult and as a parent. It has haunted me for years.

Charles was always more courageous than I. Growing up in a strict household, my acts of defiance were quiet and small (a form of passive aggressive behavior I learned to perfect, and have been working to disavow). His acts were much more overt. I admired him for that, and I still do. He can confront things immediately and head on, that it takes me weeks to build up the stomach for. Until his early 30s, he thought nothing of pulling up stakes and moving on. When he was done with a place, either because there was no work for him, or he just became restless, he packed his car and went. I have 3 pages in my phone book with addresses for him in Texas, California, Colorado, Georgia, and Arkansas!

Charles has since settled down. He has been married for about 10 years and has 3 kids of his own. His eldest daughter looks just like him! Charles named her for me, an honor that I will never fully deserve.

While we stay in touch, it can be a little strained. Our frames of reference are out of kilter altogether. Our family history isn't really a shared one since he was out of the house basically since he was about 12, with only brief intervals of being home. We both grew up as de facto only children in parallel universes, it seemed, his universe being a type of bizarro world. He never blamed me for it, and it wasn't my fault. Neither of us had much control over the situation. But I think we both learned a great deal from it.

r.

Going to Extremes

There is a family here in the City that has turned back the clock about a hundred and twenty five years in their household. It is a one-year experiment to create as little waste as humanly possible. He dubs himself the No Impact Man. Anyone who stayed up late enough to watch Nightline last night will know what I am talking about. Another family I heard about in the news recently decided to try to remove all products made in China from their lives. While that is next to impossible, I am not sure that No Impact Man has it any easier.

The Beaven family decided to eat only locally grown unpackaged food, reuse everything they possibly can, compost in their kitchen (odorless, for the most part), not use any form of transportation, and, for the coup de grace, shut off their electricity. They have, therefore, eschewed all prepared foods, travel over scooterable distances and, heaven forbid, television.

I have to admit, I am intrigued. I am not sure I want to go without electricity or any extended travel, but the rest of it I have given more than just passing thought. Who doesn't remember all the food scares coming out of China. The head of that country's Food and Drug Administration was executed for taking bribes in exchange for looking the other way. Also in the news recently was the fact that of all the tons of food imported by the US, none is tested, and only a few containers inspected to see if they contain what the documentation says they should contain. WHAT? That's absurd! Here we are worried about who might bomb us to kingdom come, and all a terrorist really has to do is poison the unguarded, imported food supply!

All of this has made me take a much closer look at what my family consumes. My husband likes to shop the sales. If apple juice is $1.29 a bottle, he will buy 4 of them. If I buy the juice, I buy the organic Motts. We were talking about this the other night while preparing dinner. Brian was sipping 'generic' apple juice out of the bottle (yeah, we do that in our house...). It had stamped on the bottle "made from concentrate in China." What? Why? There are several states including my own that are big apple growers. Why on earth are we importing THAT? Does it have to do with immigration legislation? If so, pass the laws, make the illegals legal, and let's eat the apples they pick! I am admittedly somewhat oversimplifying here, but my dander is up.

I have decided that I will now be much more conscientious about purchasing locally produced food. It will require some research, but I think my family will be better for it. The Union Square farmer's market is a great place to shop. If I save my pennies now, I can buy into an organic produce cooperative that has a drop off right across the street from my son's school. All that produce comes from New York State. I can also purchase meat, dairy and poultry from upstate farms.

If I want to go to a grocery, I go to Whole Foods. With four locations in my neck of the woods, it is the most sane place to buy organic foods, packaged or unpackaged. That store also lets me know what products are grown or manufactured locally. We have one local Trader Joe's. While that store is cheaper, it is so unbelievably crowded, I cannot abide shopping there.

My husband shakes his head and says to me that "regular old food" was good enough for me for the last 40 years. But I remind him that much has changed over the past 30, especially. Farmland used to begin a mere 45 miles away from city limits, in the eastern parts of Nassau County, and western Suffolk. Cabbage, potatoes, broccoli, etc. as far as the eye could see. No more. A few smaller family farms here and there in Suffolk County, sod farms, and vineyards. I'd rather do without takeout food, and reduce restaurant dining than put food on my table the quality of which I cannot know.

r.

Not Your Usual Rush Hour!

It was a horrendous commute for a huge number of New Yorkers tonight. There was a huge steam pipe explosion on 41st Street between Lexington and Third Avenues. Apparently it was installed in 1924, and was 24 inches in diameter.

You can view the story here: http://abcnews.go.com/US/wireStory?id=3391889. No one was killed in the accident, but one poor guy died of cardiac arrest.

My girlfriend's law office is right at the intersection of 41st and Lex. She saw a huge plume of steam, then mud rising up, and she's on the 19th floor! She, and everyone else, was evacuated from every building for several surrounding blocks. Many were covered with the debris that was shot heavenward, then fell back to earth.

Only one entrance to Grand Central Terminal was open, and the Metro North rail road was running close to schedule. Subway service was a mess: much of the Lexington Avenue line was suspended from 86th Street to the Brooklyn Bridge. Engineers are now assessing the soundness of all surrounding structures, and the Department of Environmental Protection is testing for asbestos contamination. Residents were told they could not return home until later tonight. We'll see about that. If asbestos is present, a haz-mat team will have to be brought in.

This whole event scared the bejezus out of all of us! New Yorkers are always hypersensitive to this kind of disturbance. I am very grateful that everyone I know that was near the disaster site is safe. One good thing came of it. We decided that The Subway Inn at the corner of 60th and Lex would serve as a meeting place in the event of a disaster. We can have a pint, then walk across the 59th Street Bridge if we need to.

r.

The Day My Husband Became the Right Reverend Brian

In April of 2005 my good friend attended her father's wedding in Las Vegas. After a night of partying at the reception and beyond, her long time boyfriend popped the proverbial question. She, of course, accepted. The drunken phonecalls began at oh, about 3am Vegas time, so let's call it 5 or 6am on the East Coast. I can't for the life of me remember what I was doing that night two and a half years ago, but I would imagine it involved a bottle of wine. I missed the call. Voice mail captured the happy unintelligible rejoicing.

One of the first stops they made upon their return to New York was to our house, where we celebrated the occasion in style. The wedding was to be in September of the same year. Niether of them are religious, though the groom was brought up Catholic. They decided they wanted a simple outdoor ceremony. Problem was neither of them knew anyone who could officiate, and unless you travel to City Hall, you cannot be married by a Justice of the Peace in the City of New York. They decided my husband should officiate. He, of course, humbly accepted, assuming it could be done.

Now, how to get my gnostic Greek husband ordained. Ah, of course. The Internet. Genious! They Googled "How to become ordained online." This search yielded a surprising number of results. They, over a tumbler or two of whiskey, selected a 'church' with which they felt they could be affiliated. With their payment of $14.95, they hit the "Ordain Me Now" button. Brian is now a card carrying minister, legally able to perform marriages, funerals, naming ceremonies, and other rites. He may not, however, perfom exorcisms, circumcisions, or animal sacrifices.

On September 10, 2005 The Honorable Reverend Brian P. officated the wedding of our two dear friends. It was a gorgeous day in Astoria Park. The bride was beautiful. The groom handsome. There were 75 or so people in attendance. The reception was held at the Bohemia Beer Garden, to which they all paraded with noisemakers, and general rowdiness. Beer Garden personnel roped off an area and erected a canopy. We had beer, wine, schnitzel, and red velvet cake. The general public did their usual thing along our perimeter. It was grand!

Who says you have to spend 20 grand on a wedding. I think they got it all done for decently under 5.

r.

Oh, My Aching Body

This weekend we, or more accurately, I, decided to move furniture around. An entire hotel full of Crate and Barrel furniture that was being liquidated, so a few friends and I decided to rent a U-Haul and have a look-see. I told my husband about it, including the fact that for 100 bucks I could score a 27" TV with a DVD, VCR built in. He handed me his wallet, and said have at it! Off we went. Where was my husband? He was at work, missing out on ALL the fun.

My one buddy picked up a bed frame, 2 nightstands, and a few other things. My other buddy picked up a really pretty mirror, mini stereo, and assorted other appliances. I got the aforementioned TV. Paid the lady, loaded the truck and headed back to Queens. Once back home, Joan decided she was getting rid of her couch. Great! Chez RP needed a new couch. Since we had the truck, we decided to do the move. We maneuvered the beast out of the house, down the stairs, onto the truck, off the truck, up FOUR flights of stairs to my apartment. Pant, heave, curse, sweat. Then we had to get the TV up the stairs. Oh, my God was that thing heavy, and very awkward to carry. It required several pauses, and changing of the carrying guard to accomplish. Fine, put it all down, eat, shower, bring Christopher to his buddy's birthday party.

Then my little angel begged to spend the night at his friend Connor's house. Who am I to thwart him. With an unexpected night off, Brian and I went down to 6th street in the City with another couple with whom we spend the day moving. For those who don't know, 6th Street between 1st and 2nd Avenues is THE place for Indian food in Manhattan. The entire block is one kitchy Indian restaurant after another, each with a guy out front trying to convince passers-by that HIS is THE place to eat. We had a great dinner, and a mediocre bottle of wine. Poor Shelby fell asleep in the car on the way home!

Now, if I was smart, I would have taken some Advil BEFORE the muscles started screaming. But, I hate medicine of any kind, so I didn't. Sunday rolled around and we picked up both kids and took them to the Harry Potter movie (awesome, btw). Brian then took the kids at the park, while I caught up on chores and rearranged what was newly acquired--still unmedicated. So here I sit two full days later with sore bicepts, forearms shoulders and back.

r.

Summer School Update

Last month I was concerned that my son was having trouble with math. He wound up failing the subject in 5th grade, and was sentenced to summer school. Though he was promoted to 6th grade, it was with the caveat that he pass summer school math. We decided to get him a one-one-tutor, rather than place him in a more school-like situation. He goes 3 days a week for an hour at a time. He brings home a ton of home work. At the risk of jinxing things, he is doing GREAT!

Friday evening, I had an opportunity to talk to his tutor. She said that based on the material she received from his teacher, she had very low expectations for him. Then she started working with him. He is not only getting the material, but acing it. Scores between 95 and 100 on his tests. I grade his homework each night with similar results. It is to the point where she is no longer just giving him 5th grade material, she is giving him 6th grade material. The test he took Friday morning was from the 6th grade book and he got a 100!!!!!! HA! I knew he could do it! More importantly, now HE knows he can do it.

While I am estatic with his progress, for me it still begs the question why. Why did he not master this material from September to June, but does in such a condensed program? Was it that his plate was so full that math was the thing he chose to let go? On several occasions, I studied with him, he seemed to get the material, then took the test and either failed or eeked out a high D, low C. It was frustrating for everyone. He became so frustrated that he just shut down, and could no longer let knowledge in. What a difference a month makes!

How will we get through 6th grade? I will be sure to avail him of a tutor at the first sign of distress. I will work harder at keeping my cool, and helping him keep his. I will do all I can to bolster his confidence and motivation. He is a very bright, funny, sensitive kid. Reminds me of the lyrics of P!ink tune: "Don't let me get me." Guess that's what we have to figure out how to do. Oh, and that therapist who suggested that perhaps he has a learning disability that caused him to do poorly in math? Pshaw. I don't freaking THINK so! Damn, vindication feels good.

r.

Sweet Summertime, Summertime

Once, and only once in my entire career, I had summer hours. It was the last year I worked for a company that knew it would not last the year, so what the hay. Every Friday we were allowed to leave the office at 1pm, provided we arrived by 8am Monday through Friday so that the actual work week was the same 40hours. Having half a day Friday meant that you could get all your chores and errands done Friday. You had all of Saturday and Sunday to play. What's not to love??

Alas, I no longer have that privilege. I must toil until 5 pm on Fridays, go home make supper, maybe get to the track, and that's about it. To make matters more constraining, my husband works at least one day of the weekend, but we never know which in advance, and my son has summer school homework to complete. This past weekend, Brian's work day was Saturday. I was on a mission to get all our chores, errands done Saturday, and I did. I even got Christopher to get all his homework done. That left Sunday to go to the beach.

We decided to go to Long Beach, as it is closest, and reachable by Long Island Rail Road. It was our first trip this year, and it was fantastic. Daytime highs were in the upper 80s, bright sunshine, no humidity, with a nice breeze on the south shore of Long Island. The water was like the cool side of the pillow.

My son who vowed never to enter the ocean ever again in this lifetime due to jellyfish sightings two years ago was an absolute selkie. I still have to have my husband take him to the waterside. I am a strong swimmer, and have lived along the ocean my entire life, but I cannot transfer my courage and respect of the ocean to my son. I am a complete worry wart where he is concerned, and would have him no deeper than his knees for the ridiculous fear the ocean would sweep him away from me. Daddy has much more confidence, and no such fear...off they go. I put on a little more sunscreen, and successfully coax a little more melanin to show through this Irish skin.

I love these days, when the sun takes forever to set. The day dawns early. And on the hottest afternoon, a thunderstorm pops up, breaking the heat. We don't have to rush, we can just be. At least until the alarm goes off on Monday morning.

r.

4th of July Party

I hate when the 4th of July falls on a Wednesday! Any other day is fine...If a Tuesday, or Thursday, many of us working in corporate America can eek out a 4 day weekend. If it is on a Friday or Monday, or even over the weekend, a 3 day weekend is du rigeur. But WEDNESDAY?!?!?! If you didn't have the foresight to schedule Thursday off (and I didn't), you're stuck!!

My girlfriend, Joan, and her husband hosted a kick-ass 4th of July party yesterday. They held it out on their patio, which thankfully has a roof. It was a cool, gray, rainy day in Queens. She lives right near Astoria Park, so the police were out in force.

To celebrate American Independence, they decided to have the party catered--from a Mexican Restaurant. A funny twist. There was gazpacho, tamales, rice, black beans, guacamole, chips, the WORKS. It was fantastic fare, but I still have a hankering for a burger from the grill.

There was also some yummy sangria, tequila and a keg of beer. As discussed in this space before, I am a wine and whiskey kind of girl, so the keg, not so much. But man, I am still tasting the tequila this morning! Thank the Maker that the party started early in the day, so that by bedtime, we were all ready to go home and sleep it off.

My husband wanted to drive, but was prevailed upon to call a car service (another thing you gotta love about living in an urban center--absolutely NO excuse for drunk driving). Brian feels like he had his tail stepped on, as our friends told him in no uncertain terms that he was NOT going to drive, thank you very much. I hate tension, especially when I am less than sober. My answer to that sort of thing is to remove myself entirely. Perhaps not the smartest thing to do, but I really didn't want to be dragged into the middle of their argument, so I decided to gather my son, and walk home. Brian's penance? He had to walk over to Joan's house to retrieve said car at 6am.

r.

Ladies Who Lunch

Friday afternoon, I had lunch with a few of my girlfriends. Now this would not ordinarily be remarkable, but it is for me. For 6 years, Nov. of 1999 through Oct. of 2005, I worked in Nassau and Suffolk Counties, commuting 2 hours each way to work. My friends and my husband thought I was nuts to keep the job. But it offered some very interesting challenges, and a director level title...Then the company decided it was going in a different direction and my position was eliminated. Fired with 30 minutes to vacate the building. I spend quite some time very, very bitter about it. I didn't realize it, but I am DONE with that, and it is a huge weight off my shoulders.

For the past 16 months, I have been working in the City. It takes 35 minutes to get to work, including my Starbucks stop. I can walk EVERYWHERE, even walk home should the need arise. I can have lunch with my buddies, go out after work, work out, shop....wow. It is terrific. I now talk to my old boss on occasion. He is very connected in our industry, and recently praised me to the stars to someone looking to recruit me.

I know it is cliche, but sometimes getting fired is the best thing that can happen. It was! It didn't feel like it at the time, but is was truly a life changing event. And after 16 months here, it is time to move on again....This time, on my terms.

r.