Monday, April 30, 2007


Can we talk about guys for a moment? Men. Boys. Whatever.

I got a call from a friend to join her and some other friends for
dinner recently. Before she hung-up, she told me some news that
shocked and angered me about another friend (who would also be with us
for dinner). Since I don't know how my friend would feel about being
in my blog, I'll call her Sarah.

It seems that Sarah's husband, we'll call him DICK, turned to her one
night a few months ago and said, "By the way, I'm moving out tomorrow.
He wouldn't discuss it or explain. He would have nothing to do with
her. She got no warning at all. He moved out the next day, like he
said he would, and it was a bit later, when Sarah got the cell phone
records that she discovered he was cheating. I have hung out with DICK
before and he seemed like a perfectly nice person.
Apparently, he's not. Not only has he left Sarah, who is a completely
wonderful person, he's been a real, well, DICK about it.

Then there's my friend Kate, who recently met an guy, we'll call him
LAME, at a bar. She was impressed with the fact that he called her
everyday. They were not short chats, either. They were long, engaged,
interesting conversations. After about a week or more of this, she was
excited when LAME said we was coming to the area to help a friend with
some work on their house and would love to meet up with her (LAME
lives in Miami, about an hour or more away).
She was looking forward to his call on Sunday, when he SAID he would call.
LAME never did. And she has not yet heard from him.

Then, there's a slightly different situation that Marie is dealing
with. Marie went on a few dates with a guy who she began to like very
much. He, we'll call him BUMMER, decided he didn't feel the same way,
and he felt bad about it because he really thought she was cool and
interesting and they had a lot in common. They would often text each
other prior to this change and after he told her he wasn't interested
romantically, she made a point not to contact him. She refused to be
one of those women who acted like they are fine with just being
friends with a guy when really they are waiting for him to get his
head out of his ass and come to his senses about her. That crap only
happens in 1980s brat pack flicks. It appears now that he really does
want to be friends because he is in contact fairly regularly. The
problem is, she feels when she makes friends with someone, part of
that is showing interest in the other person, asking questions about
their lives, showing support for things going on with them, etc. She
does this.
BUMMER does not.
And then she realized there was a distinct possibility that whether he
realized it or not, he was in contact be cause she made him feel good
about himself (by treating him as she does all her friends). It
doesn't seem to occur to him to do the same for her.

I am at a loss for these examples.

How can a person love someone and marry them and commit to a life with
them and suddenly throw them out like there was nothing to it, like
DICK did? It's simply not fathomable to me!
Why would a person show so much interest in another person, like
stupendous Kate, and then just stop showing interest with no warning
or explanation? How LAME is that?
If you are in communicating with someone because they make you feel
good because they pay attention and listen like friends generally do,
how much of a BUMMER can you be that it doesn't occur to you that the
behavior should be returned?

PS. I hope DICK falls into a hole and breaks both legs.

Thursday, April 19, 2007

I took a detour on the way home

His grave is covered; HeMan action figures faded from season after
season of New England weather, a baseball bat, stone angels, and an
Easter bunny. A Boston Red Sox helmet.
I was eleven when he died at age six. I barely knew him but his
passing had a profound effect on me without my realizing it. His death
effected my living.

I was eleven, he was six.
then I was twenty, he was six.
now I am thirty-one,
he will always be six.

Thursday, April 12, 2007

One of THOSE Days

I was having one of those days. Those whiny days when your life is
simply just not as it should be.  I'm insecure about my job security
with all the talk of buy-outs within the field. I return from photo
assignments wondering if I have any idea what I'm doing. Is that a
nice picture? Or does is suck?

I don't know how to do what I do.

I am bad at these days because whenever I'm in a slightly more
emotional state (and really, today was NO biggie), I lose perspective.

This reminds me of the time, years ago while in college, when I
mentioned in passing to my friend Suzanne that I hate my legs. She
responded with "How could you hate your legs? They get you places, you
can dance on them..."
It was the perfect Suzi-Q response. And it stopped me from bitching
about my legs.

I am feeling something relevant to me; unimportant. Various people in
particular who, of course, the reason I want to be important to them,
likely, is that I appear to not be important to them. The million
dollar question is, if you are not important to them, why is it
important to you? Why give a shit?  For some reason, it has always
been important to me to be important to those around me.

I feel unimportant.

While she wasn't a close friend lost, I was uplifted a bit today by
and interaction with a three year old.
I was sent to a sketchy area of the city to find people out on their
porches before heading into their homes for the night (because it's
too dangerous to stay out).

I found a man and his granddaughter. After spending some time with
them, taking some pictures, the little girl sat down next to me. She
tapped my bare forearm with her pretty, tiny, brown-skinned finger,
"How come you have all those polka dots?"
"They're freckles. I've always had them" I told her.
"Oh," she said, then reached up and started playing with my hair, "Who
did your hair? I like it." she pointed-out that it was all caught up
in my camera strap and gently began to release it with her little
hands from it's minor tangle, " Do you live near here?" she asked.
"I live about five minutes from here."
"You came ALL THAT WAY to take pictures?!" she was astonished.
"I did."
"Where's your husband?"
"I don't have a husband."
"Oh" at which point she disappears into the house, returning a moment
later with a brush.
"No, no" says her grandfather when he spots her, "You leave her hair alone"
"But, I like it." she says, and then, "Where's your child?"
"I don't have one"
Her eyes grow big, "You don't have a husband OR a child?"
Grandfather chimes in "She's independent!"
"I have a dog though" I tell her.
"Oh, " she thinks,  "Well, I like dogs!"

I have a dog.
I have legs.
I am uplifted by a three year old.
I am fine.

Tuesday, April 3, 2007

One Word Survey


1. Where is your cell phone?

2. Your boyfriend/girlfriend?

3. Your hair?

4. your mother?

5. Your father?

6. Your favorite thing?

7. Your dream last night?

8. Your favorite drink?

9. Your dream car?

11. Your ex?

12. Your fears?

13. What do you want to be in 10 years?

14. Who did you hang out with last night?

15. What you're not good at?

16. Muffins?

17. One of your wish list items?

18. Where you grew up?

19. The last thing you did?

20. What are you wearing?

21. What aren't you wearing?

22. Your pets?

23. Your computer?

24. Your life?

25. Your mood?

26. Missing?

27. What are you thinking about right now?

28. Your car?

29. Your work?

30. Your summer?

31. Your relationship status?

32. Your favorite color?

33. When is the last time you laughed?

34. Last time you cried?

35. School?

Monday, April 2, 2007

My Day. April 2

I was born on April 2, 1976.
Today, I am 31.

According to folklore (meaning, the story my Mom told me), not only
was there a distinct possibility I would not be born, but when I
actually was, I attempted it on April fool's Day.

Of the first story, I cannot take credit for making it into this world
after what was apparently a challenging gestational period. But, I
like the idea that my making it had something to do with me; that I
swim there, curled-up, using my oversized head to have long debates
with Mother Nature, "But, I WOULD like to give this life thing a

Of the second story, I again take no credit. My Mom, as she really was
the hero of the first tale, (along with Mother Nature "giving me a
shot"), she was also the hero of the second. In labor on April first,
she refused to have and April Fool's baby and managed to keep me in
till after midnight on the second.

Although a friend pointed out the other night that considering my
sense of humor, an April Fool's birthday wouldn't have been that
weird, I still thank my Mom for her valiant knee-locking, as it saved
me from years of ridicule during my insecure childhood years, and left
me with a cool story to tell.

I don't remember how the nurses forgot to return for me to take me
back to the nursery after one of my feedings, and I spent the
remainder of my first night around nestled in the crook of my Mom's
arm, giving her one of her very favorite memories. She reminds me of
this every year around this time when she nostalgically tells me the
story of my birth, which also includes how the doctor supposedly had
to catch me when I was delivered, as I came shooting out with one arm
above my head like a super hero in flight.

Mom's a good storyteller.

I remember the lovely wooden, colorful people put into a cake for one
of my early birthdays. I especially remember my Mickey cakes. I
remember them because I insisted Mom make one for me more than one
year in a row. As an adult I have high appreciation for my Mother's
efforts, which required the baking and assembling of one large layer
cake along with two smaller layer cakes for ears.

Labor intensive, it was a rockin' cake, and I have never since had one
that tasted too good.

I remember how in kindergarten, on your birthday at The Little Red
Schoolhouse, you wore a crown ALL DAY LONG and during story time, you
got to sit in the place of honor on the yellow thrown next to Mr.
Elephant. I remember very distinctly that my birthday fell on a
Monday, because that year Suzie Thrown Stealer (or whatever her name
was) had a birthday the day before. I had to SHARE the thrown!  My

I was robbed that year.

Mom always threw my brother and I wonderful parties. As a child, I
remember a scavenger hunt, which led me along with my friends all over
the house and outside, from one clue to the next until we reached the
end. I don't remember what was at the end, so I think the best part
must have been in the adventure itself.

I remember our outings to Wayside Bazaar to pick out party necessities
together. The dining room was always decorated beautifully with
twisting steamers and shiny balloons in my colors of choice. There was
always a bowl of M&Ms somewhere among the wonderful set table with
it's cups and plates, plastic ware, confetti and party favors. There
was always lots of games to play, prizes to win, gifts to open,
laughing, and, I suspect, me being bossy followed by me always getting
my way on MY DAY.

One year, I celebrated my birthday with cousins in New Jersey because,
as it sometimes did, my day fell on Easter, and we often went to Hew
Jersey for Easter.

Sometimes, I would lose an hour of my birthday do to daylight savings.

In middle school, I remember a slightly more grown-up scavenger hunt.
Put into teams, which this year (ooo lala! ) included boys, we were
sent all over town to meet the demands on the lists we were provided;
Get a pizza box from one of the pizza places downtown, find a penny
from 1976, etc.

That party created quite a buzz.

On my twelfth birthday, separate from my party at home, a few of my
friends threw a little surprise party. I remember they gave me nail
polish. I also remember going home early with what I thought was a
stomachache. It wasn't a stomachache – my first period started a few
days later. That blew. Talk about being a textbook case.

On my fifteenth birthday, I was headed to Orlando with my fellow
chorus, marching and jazz band friends, where we were going to compete
and perform and march and such at Disneyland. When I entered the high
school band room at reporting time – 4:45AM – I was greeted with a
rousing singing of Happy Birthday by a room of at least 200.

That's teenagers for you. You will never catch me singing a rousing
rendition of anything at 4:45AM today.

My 16th birthday was fun and games and running around at the local
armory – a logical place to put a crowd of high-energy teens.

Not that all my birthdays haven't been lovely, but the next memorable
one that comes to mind was years later during my sophomore year at
Ohio University.  I was a bit sulky because no one seemed to remember
it. In the evening, Brad, from down the hall showed-up, "Wanna play
Connect Four?" he said. We hung-out on the floor of my dorm room
playing a few highly competitive matches. "Let's go to my room and
play chess," he said. When we got to his room, it was packed with
about fifteen of my friends, there to surprise me between study
sessions. We hung-out, ate cake, horsed around, tossed about the usual
sexual innuendoes that came with college life, and watched Aaron's pet
gerbil run around in circles. It was fun.

My junior year at OU, when I was turning 21, I was snowed-in in MA at
the end of my spring break. This birthday was quite different. I was
disappointed to not be with my friends, but considering I had no
intentions of getting hammered anyway, hanging with my parents was
just fine. With few places open and little to do, we went to a local
gym to use their pool.

After swimming a few laps, I began to feel sick. I went to the locker
room, thinking I was going to puke. No puke. I sat in the locker room,
and, unable to pinpoint what I was feeling, called to Mom when I heard
her looking for me. She pulled back the curtain and took a look at me,
" Oh, my god, you're gray!" she said of my skin, "I'm getting your

By the time they returned, I was feeling better. I learned later that
this was thanks to my liver quickly producing emergency sugar for me.
We had no idea at the time, but I had experienced my first
hypoglycemic reaction.  I was diagnosed with diabetes a little over a
month later.

Into my twenties, nice gatherings aside, birthdays were a bit
disappointing. I wanted so much for them to be what they used to be.
But, being an adult did to birthdays much what it does to Christmas –
the magical shine is duller and somehow it's a bit anti-climactic.

In my mid- twenties, when I lived and worked in Upstate NY, my dear
friend Rachel came to visit me on my birthday one year. Uninspired by
another passed year and a bit overwhelmed by her ability (which she's
always had) to stay up all night and be perky while doing so, I
abandoned her to go to bed the night before my birthday. When I woke
the next morning, my place was covered in balloons and streamers – the
sweet, hard work of my underappreciated friend.

One year later, I had another lovely birthday when my boyfriend at the
time organized a big surprise party in my own apartment. I always love
an excuse for people to get together.

Since being in FL, I've had one birthday dinner at a restaurant with a
killer grilled cheese sandwich. My friends made sure mine arrived with
27-lit candles jammed into it.

A year later, I was far from excited about turning 29. The number
sketched me out. It's an odd number and somehow made me feel
uncomfortable. A close friend at the time threw me a wonderful party
and I attempted to look beyond the lameness of the number.

My 29th year, after all, ended up sucking for the most part.

Turning 30? Now, this I was actually really excited for. I liked the
count of the number, it felt good, it was even, etc. I had grown and
changed so much in my twenties, I felt more confident and optimistic.
And I was excited to turn 30 if for no other reason than to say
goodbye to my crappy ass 29th year.

My 30th year did turnout to be great. Not all the way through, but I
do feel it lived up to it's potential. Wonderful things happen that
year for me, and my family had lots of fun too - a big party for Mom
and Dad's 40th anniversary, my brother's marriage to Jodi. There was
no shortage of activity, for sure.

Now, we are back to an odd number. I don't like the number, and
frankly I don't think I am where I thought I would be at 31. But the
year still shows potential and I insist on keeping that in mind. I had
a wonderful dinner with my friends in celebration the other night, and
my good friend, Ellen will be going to lunch with me today, and that's
just perfect to me. My thirtieth year may have some very nice things
on its horizon.

If you are still reading this, I know what you may be thinking…my my,
this sure is a self-involved, all-about-her blog today!

And I'm thinking get over it! I can talk about me all I want on April
2nd.  'Cause whether I am eleven and on a scavenger hunt, or I'm 31
and having an apple martini, it's still my day and I can talk about me
all I want, even if I'm not still seven and blowing out a Mickey
birthday cake!