Policy Doesn't Suit Me To A Tea

I don't want to complain, but coffee drinkers have it made. Seriously. I live with a coffee drinker and whenever we go out, he gets either a giant silver pot steaming with hot coffee at the table or seventeen people asking him over and over again, "More coffee sir?"

As a tea drinker I get one cup of hot water and one bag. If I'm lucky, a diner may bring me a little tiny tea pot of water that I can eek out one and 1/3 cups of tea. If I want a refill, the waiter will say, "You know I have to charge you for another bag?" If I don't want to be charged I get to reuse the wilted teabag from my first cup over and over while my husband enjoys a fresh cup of Joe for as long as we dine.

What's up with that? Now, I don't want to tell diners or restaurants how to do their business, but I'm thinking the cost of teabags is not what it was during those wild days of the Boston Tea Party. I can't believe handing out a free bag or two is going to break the bottom line, in fact, it may actually improve customer service. I've seen a diner hand out big sprinkle cookies to kids, pass out free papers to little old men, hand out an extra pie slice to a pretty girl, but for goodness sake, what's with not giving an extra tea bag? Is there a shortage? A plot? A curse on the heads of all tea drinkers?

I finally asked the owner's son of the Lighthouse Diner in Wantagh, New York,  and the answer was so amazing I couldn't believe it. "We do it because the other diner across the street started it, and we wanted to stay competitive." When I pointed out they could be the "good guys" the defender of tea drinkers everywhere by giving that free extra bag, he just shrugged and said, "Hey this is the way it's always been. No point in changing it now."

Today, that's seems to be a safe answer for a lot of people. "It's the way it's always been, why bother arguing, changing, complaining, voicing an opinion." So when the landmarks get ripped down, good people get passed over, families keep secrets, governments don't change people shake their heads and say, "Well, what do you expect, that's the way it's always been. Nothing's going to change."

Not if someone doesn't become a trendsetter, the pioneer, the free thinker. There has to be someone that looks up and says, "This stuff doesn't make sense, let's change it, let's start somewhere." It doesn't matter where.  Maybe it's a tea bag one day. Maybe a policy change in Albany the next. When the ridiculous makes sense, we are all in trouble. That's all I'm saying.

Until then, can I get some more hot water?

Star Qualities That Really Shine

Nicole's Mom Jo and Good Citizen Nicole

The votes are in! The ballots cast and the winner is... Nicole. Nope...not Richie, or Miller or even Kidman but...Vutera.

Unlike the Grammys or the Tonys or even the Oscars, the JFK Citizenship award was voted on and given out in each of the graduating classes in Mandalay's 5th Grade. I am sorry I can't report the other winners, but I know for a fact that in one of the classes, this award, which is far more valuable than anything that Hollywood could possibly devise handing out, Nicole Vutera was the undisputed winner. And unlike the ugliness of the Oscars, she did not flood the ballot boxes with emails touting her qualities or try to get People Magazine or even the Wantagh Citizen to post incriminating pictures of the other contenders. Nicole didn't even vote for herself. Because in her own words to her mom, "that just wouldn't be fair."

I remember this award from my own graduating years. It was a highly coveted award, voted on by the classmates and given to the one student that you felt had the qualities of true citizenship: good sportsmanship, kindness, fairness, respect for others and a general overall spirit of enthusiasm. Wow. Try giving THAT one out in Hollywood--- no one would ever take it home. That award show would last for years.

Nicole's good friend, JFK

The really cool thing was Nicole really does embody all those qualities and more. I've known this kid since before she was born and you never met a nicer more perfect representative of a JFK Citizenship award in your life. JFK himself would have really liked Nicole.  But an important thing to remember is she didn't just "hatch" into a good citizen: she learned by example. Her parents are also really good citizens. So are her grandparents. I don't know why through the years that became a quality that embarrasses people, but I know as a cop's kid, I was always taught that was something to be proud of.  

Citizenship isn't a word you hear a lot about these days. People don't turn to each other and say, "You know that Mike, he's one heck of a good citizen." But you know, they should. We all live in our towns, we all work together, we all are part of the greater good. Being a good citizen is something that we should be doing on a regular basis. Opening doors. Helping the elderly. Being polite. Picking up trash, even when it's not ours. Being respectful. What in the world happened to that?

Being a good citizen is also about changing things that you can do something about, in your own little world. It doesn't have to mean going to Washington D.C. If there is something that makes you unhappy, be a good citizen and see about changing it. It could be something important like putting a street sign up or a stop sign where there isn't one. Or it could be like bringing spirit back to an event that fell asleep. That's what I did.

About 8 years ago I was surprised how our Wantagh 4th of July parade had suddenly lost it's spirit. I grew up going to that parade and loved seeing the Veterans march with pride, the firemen, the Wantagh Marching Band. You felt proud to be a citizen of Wantagh when that parade marched by. My mom always dressed us in red, white and blue. But through the years people sort of went out of habit, rather than respect. The crowds dwindled and few stayed to watch the Miss Wantagh crowning, the highlight of the parade's end. I was stunned. Where were the floats of my childhood? The kazoo band from the Community Church (always a favorite)! The bell ringers? The clowns? The daughters of the Revolutionary War?

I wanted this hometown parade tradition for my own son who was growing up in the town so I gathered a group of boisterous women over the age of 40 and together we woke that parade right up. We called ourselves the Long Island Sweet Potato Queens, created a float, borrowed a CD player and blew up some plastic palm trees, stuck some wigs and tiaras on and drove down main street.  People stood there surprised and then laughed. Every year we pick a new theme. We don't go in it to win a trophy. We go in it to bring smiles. Now  every year Wantagh townspeople look for us and wave and there are even signs that say "We love the Long Island Sweet Potato Queens."

The Sweet Potato Queen!

We didn't do it for the glory, we did it to bring the spirit back to the town.  We're being good citizens and ensuring that something that is important is staying in good shape for the next generation. Now every year there are more floats. More music. More people. The crowds are back. The excitement is back. You see the kids jumping up and down and saying, "here it comes, it's the parade, the parade!" Being a good citizen is something everyone can strive for every day in their own little world.

I'm so glad that in a time when so many preteen and teenage girls are trying to emulate poor examples of Hollywood's behavior, somewhere in Wantagh there is a 5th grader so happy to simply be good citizen. It's like a fresh breath of air breezing through this area. I'm proud that someone like Nicole is a citizen of my town.

How wonderful her classmates recognized these wonderful qualities and rewarded it. How even more terrific that Wantagh Middle School will now be getting several JFK good citizens from schools across the area. Congratulations to all JFK Good Citizen Award Winners. Maybe with more good citizens in the world, there is hope that people will emulate your good qualities.

And on a personal note, congratulations Nicole. I wish I had a giant Flashing Glittering Good Citizen Award and a big fancy Glitzy Hollywood Red Carpet for you to walk down. But being the good citizen you are, you'd probably let your big sister Julie walk the carpet for you, and let your younger sister Sabrina play with the statue.

Thanks Nicole for being a such a good citizen. I hope the other Nicoles (Richie, Miller & Kidman) learn a thing or two from you.

Writer's Blockhead

I've got nuthin.

Nada.

 Zippo.

Some days my head is whirling with a thousand words all spilling out and then there are those days... like today, that every word that is pulled from my brain is like major surgery.

My husband, son and the cats are in hiding, slipping Hershey bars and cokes to me. I can't seem to make the words flow. I love when people say, "Oh come on. You're a writer. Just....write."

Why don't they ever say that to like a brain surgeon. "Oh come on. He's got a headache. Just go in there, see what's happening. We don't mind. Here, use my plastic knife from my lunch. I didn't even open it."

Or come on! You're a policeman. Go over there and tell those kids right now to stop drinking and driving fast. Yes those kids. With the big motorcycles and those tattoos. Hey....hey....where are you going???

Oh...Come on. You're an accountant. Find me some extra money. Right now. Here's my receipt. I just went to Stop and Shop. Did I overbuy on the ring dings and Jimmy Dean sausage Patties or should I get the no name bagels and forgo the cream cheese?

Everyone thinks  writers are just faking it. That this is such a cake career. Puleese. It's hard stuff. Okay. The working in the pajamas, very cool. But that aside, it's hard.  When you got nothing I mean...it's like the emptiest of theme parks. No rides are moving. No music playing. You can't even get a decent carnival game to work. Nada.

I remember my gym teacher, Mrs. Fontana told me once, years after I graduated and I was pregnant with my son that she was glad that I became a writer. "That's the perfect career for you. I used to watch you in my health class and you used to float away and come back just before the bell rang. Thank goodness you weren't a scientist." HELLO?????

Okay, so I daydreamed. Okay so apparently I wasn't as stealth at it as I thought. But back then, the creative faucet was running all the time. I mean I had stacks and stacks of journals and diaries and stories. You couldn't stop me. I was like a combination of Brenda Starr, Mark Twain, Emily Dickinson and Carol Burnett rolled up in a pair of overalls and a flannel shirt with a very bad shag haircut.

But now....the words they just take their precious time. They come when they want to, not when I want them to. But when they do...they make a lot more sense then they used to. Re-reading those classic journals and diaries I mean....EWWWW. Drek, bleck. I mean P.U.

But still. What I wouldn't give for a little less writer's block and a little more running faucet. Or maybe I just need another Hershey Bar. Oh good. Here comes the cat.

Apples, pears and blenders

This gorgeous picture is not me. It's one of the coolest women I have ever known in my life... my friend...Cookie. She is actually the Mom of my friend Angela, but I claim Cookie as my friend too.

She is way too cool to be just some one's Mom. She is just about the most hilarious fantabulous woman anyone could be lucky to spend time around and her laugh makes you laugh too. And her stories....ahhh....pure gold. I mean it. From sheer hysterical to poignant to jaw dropping, there is nothing ordinary about Cookie.

Ang found this photo and Cookie told us she was 15 when this photo was taken! 15!!!!! Look how glamorous she is... now I don't know about you...but at 15....gorgeous was not a word you could use about how I looked. I was rather .... strangely shaped. Even now, I am not quite sure when the magazines say "What body shape are you? Am I an apple? A pear?" So I stood in front of the mirror.... and determined....I am refrigerator shaped. Not square... not exactly round... not exactly rectangle. I am built like the fridge with a round head.

How do you dress for that? Does Dress Barn have a section for the "Appliance Shaped" woman? I shared this theory with my girlfriend (who refuses to disclose her name) and she agrees completely and claims to be a Blender!  We went to Kohls looking for dresses and the saleslady tried to convince her to try more toward the Pears, but nothing really looked flattering. "I am not a Pear," she insisted. And later, while we were in the kitchen section, she stood next to the blenders, and you know, she was right! She was a BLENDER!

Obviously today's designers are missing the mark. Instead of creating fashion for fruit shaped women start creating fashion for industrial shaped girls. How about the telephone pole girl or the woman with piano legs (another pet peeve of mine). Try creating skirts that flatter the lampshade shape or the electric range look. Not everyone is a piece of fruit.  That's all I'm saying. That, and if I looked like Cookie did at 15....I probably wouldn't be looking for appliance shaped clothing now.

Hunting For Eggs and Mom's Sanity

My friend Bonny wanted to strangle me one Easter.

I was one of THOSE moms. Those obnoxious imaginative Moms that wanted childhood to last forever and I attached mythical charming elves and fairies to just about every holiday. I also had one of those obnoxiously charming children who believed every tale I wove and when I said there were leprechauns that lived in our air conditioning vent, there was no reason for him to doubt me. The only problem was, I never counted on meeting Bonny and her adorable daughter Michelle.

Michelle was a charmer when I met her, at the age of 4. Giant blue eyes, the sweetest smile and a mass of blond curly hair. You couldn't help but fall in love with her. Bonny was a fellow New Yorker and both of us were misplaced in Florida, both single Moms and both of us stretching a dollar so far that it looked like a beach towel. We were destined to be friends. We met at one of those free book store events. My son was thrilled with meeting Curious George and was peppering George with about a million questions while the rest of the 4 and 5 year olds stood frightened and stage-struck. Michelle stood in awe of TJ, amazed that anyone could be so self assured in front of a giant monkey, and the two of them were destined to be friends. From then on, we were a foursome: inseparable.

Bonny and I had many hilarious adventures with our children but the holidays were probably the most hysterical. Bonny adored Christmas and knew every holiday fair, Christmas sing-a-long and place to visit Santa and all the reindeer, even in Sunny Florida. she was the original GPS of holiday events.

 I was more responsible for the crafty end of things. It was my home where the kids could glitter up paper snowmen, create sticky glue ornaments and basically paint and color to their hearts content. It was also where the imaginary holiday characters were created and discussed at great length at the craft table. Unfortunately, I often forgot to clue Bonny in.

The first was Domenick the Donkey (yes, after the song). He brought all good girls and boys new pajamas for Christmas Eve and left a hoof print on the window. Bonny, though confused by a flying donkey bringing pajamas to little children, managed to distract Michelle from this tradition saying it was only given out to those of Italian descent. Fortunately, Michelle was willing to take that into consideration.

Next came Louie the Leprechaun. He left chocolate gold coins and played tricks like hiding socks or left a small present in the morning next to the cereal bowl. Since Michelle was part of our carpool in the morning, she benefited from Louie, so again, no problem.

The trouble came with the Gold Shoe Easter Bunny, brought about by the wonderful book of the same name. This was a childhood favorite story of mine that of course I shared with my child. Now, being a rather wild boy, prone to being strong-willed, the lure of the Gold Shoe Easter Bunny was the bringing of a very coveted gold egg, given only to children who had behaved the best through the year. Now, betting on my child's desire to achieve the egg, I casually mentioned the Gold Shoe Bunny had dropped by in the past but my son had yet to past the incredibly well behaved standard of the Gold Egg (I know....this is grounds for years on Dr. Phil, but he was my first, what did I know about trauma). So began the quest for the gold egg.

The night before Easter, after an egg-austing day of Easter egg hunting, of which Bonny of course knew the latitude and longitude of every hunt within 50 miles, Bonny heard the kids discussing Easter morning. In a sweet clear voice, she heard her daughter say,

"Do you think I might get the Gold Egg TJ?"

And my son responded by saying,

"I've had a pretty tough time so I'm pretty sure I won't be getting the egg, but you've been great Michelle. I'm sure you'll get the gold egg so good luck to you. Let me know when you get it." and with that, TJ left the car and ran up our drive. Bonny looked back in horror to a dreamy-eyed Michelle who clasped her hands and said,

"Did you hear that Mom? TJ doesn't think he will get the gold egg, but I know I will. I've been so good! The Easter Bunny just HAS to bring me one." Bonny smiled the loving smile of motherhood while gripping the steering wheel tightly as if it was my neck. If she could have run the car up on my lawn at the moment, I am sure she would have.

About an hour later I was just about to get TJ in the tub when the phone rang.

"I put up with flying donkeys. I put up with leprechauns who played tricks. But do you think you MIGHT HAVE TOLD ME ABOUT A FLIPPING EASTER BUNNY WHO LEAVES GOLD EGGS??"

"Bonny??"

"Who the heck else would be calling the night BEFORE EASTER IN DIRE NEED OF A GOLD EGG THANKS TO YOU!!! NOW TELL ME WHERE I CAN GET THESE FREAKING EGGS IN THE NEXT HALF HOUR OR I WILL COME OVER TO YOUR HOUSE AND TAKE YOURS!"

There is nothing more frightening than a mother on the edge of disappointing her child. I gave her instructions to the Walmart and prayed. Hours later, the phone rang. Apparently Bonny had found the snap-together gold eggs that I had purchased, and decided to bypass them to make her own bejeweled, bedazzled, be glittered gold egg. An Easter miracle had happened! The mother who had always been afraid of glitter on the rug had turned into a regular Martha Stewart overnight!

The next day Michelle couldn't wait to tell TJ how she had been given the most wonderful gold egg. It sparkled, it shined, it dazzled. TJ was suitably impressed and since he knew he was lucky to have even gotten a gold egg at all, he was not surprised that Michelle's was the grandest of them all.

And Bonny couldn't wait to tell me the next time I dreamed up a leprechaun, a monkey who gave out birthday balloons or a talking snowman, I should keep it to myself.

Happy Easter and may you find your own special gold egg this year.

Don't Mess With The Lawn Ornaments

My mom lives in a senior citizen complex that she calls "the compound." Just like everyone else on Long Island in the northeast, we just had a whopper of a storm. Trees were uprooted. I mean whole giant trees, and crime tape surrounded block after block, but go to my Mom's complex, they only lost a few pieces of siding, but that's it. Why is that strange? Because there is about a katrillion lawn ornaments throughout that complex.

We're talking everything from ceramic deers with bows around their necks to bunnies with knitted hats, kittens with sad eyes, a squirrel winking and holding an acorn, and a duck I personally gave to my mother that sits in front of her house with a series of holiday outfits (she says she hates him but personally I think she enjoys dressing him up).  Nothing was cracked, smashed or broken. Nothing even chipped.

And of course, there is the mascot of all the lawn ornaments, Old Salty, that greets people as they come into the complex. A first mate of sorts, a concrete Gorton Fishermen type of lawn ornament, that would be impressive if it's eyes didn't sort of follow you as you drove into the complex.

Now Old Salty was not the original greeter of the complex. Initially it was The Captain, a feisty old sea farin' concrete fellow that someone found at, I believe, a garage sale, and painted and set with great pride at the entrance of the compound. But as sailors will do, he went a wandering....or in this case, perhaps was spirited away or dare I say had his mainsails hoisted away.

A lawn ornament snatching causes major hysteria. Everyone was being questioned. People wringing their hands, crying, putting fliers up (all except my mother who rolled her eyes and said, Are YOU serious??" No one ever found out what happened to The Captain. It remained a mystery for most of the residents at the compound.

When it became apparent that The Captain had moved on to other ports of call, he was replaced with Old Salt. Not as attractive as The Captain to be sure, but with his rain gear, Old Salt did his best. But to ensure that he would never move from his place of dignity next to the STOP sign, he was chained, that's right chained to a wooden lighthouse and a security sign was placed threatening serious repercussions to anyone who tried to abduct another lawn ornament from this sanctioned ground.

So there, in the eye of the Nor'easter, Old Salt stood his ground (although being chained to a lighthouse, really, how much choice do you have?) But what of the bunnies, the deer, the duck and the squirrel? Do they not deserve chains? Do they not deserve protection from these elements?

Apparently not. These are tough critters---much like their owners. These lawn ornaments stood their ground despite the fierce winds and pelting rain. Fences blew past them, trees uprooted in front of them, but never, never did their little ceramic smiles waver. They continued to guard their patch of grass. Proudly, with their little knitted hats flapping in the wind, they stared Mother Nature in the face and dared her to do her worst.

After surveying such little damage to my mother's complex and theory began forming. The innocent looks of these ceramic faces. The odd circumstance that none of them had actually moved. Now my personal view is that The Captain was not spirited away by vandals as believed by the residents of the compound.

No one is speaking up but there has been speculation, rumors. You can tell the concrete geese are uneasy: the deer with the bow is trying to cover something up and the dancing resin frogs in gardening hats know something they're not telling.

All I'm saying, is that Old Salt being chained to a lighthouse might be more than just a security precaution---it may be self preservation. That's all I'm suggesting.

Alas Poor Chanel, We Barely Knew Ye....

Our fish just died. I'm not exactly sure how to break it to my son. He is currently away at school and it has fallen to us to take care of Chanel, the fish, (named after Coco Chanel the famous designer, although as far as I can tell the fish was not a fan of Coco's and was pretty much naked for most of it's life).

Chanel is one of a long line of fish in our lives. Being an apartment family, there was that NO PETS rule. Although when you have a 4 year old with big brown eyes begging you for a puppy, you will resort to just about anything to stop the waterworks, even if it's bargaining down to a fish.

Our first fish was named Harry Brucato. He was won at one of those Fireman Fairs in Northport, NY and I figured, fool that I was, he wouldn't last the ride home. He lasted 4 years. Harry was responsible for 3 tanks, several bags of gravel, all kinds of "keep your tank clear and clean" potions and lotions, a filter thing that we never got the hang of, an opening and closing treasure chest (that sadly was the cause of Harry's demise) and a rubber skeleton.

Harry, I believe got his tail caught in the open  and closing of the treasure chest and was never quite right after that.

After Harry came a succession of poor replacements until Shakespere. I had an attachment to Shakespere. The son was going through his theater phase and placed the fish on a faux stone pedestal in his room.

The fish would try and put on airs, pretending to be more than the meager feeder fish variety it was, but it had heart, I will give it that. I took Shakespere's passing rather hard. I believe the plague got him.

That brings us to Chanel. Having decided to be a fashion designer, of course the son decides to name the fish, one of those japanese fighter fish, after his favorite designer. For a while, the fish was his entire universe. Then, as these things go, Chanel and I became best buds. Then Southern Man decided he wanted a pet: a cat. Enter Gracie the cat. Now this began the end for Chanel.

Once the ruler of the kitchen, the Cinderella fish spent most of her time dialing 911. Gracie tried everything to turn Chanel into an appetizer but we managed to foil her plan and poor Chanel's place of honor went from the countertop to the top of the pantry. I think she went a little stir crazy after that. I would find the occasional hate mail. I looked past it.

Over the past few months, I sensed Chanel gave up her zest for life. There was the look in her eye, the occasional cough, the handing out of her possesions, the dressing in polyester. It's sad. I spent everyday with her but I knew so little about her. Her favorite color, her friends, her family.

And what do we tell the son when he gets home from school? We decided to come up with some planned scenarios:

#1 Chanel is on vacation--- which probably won't work because where would a 1.5 inch fish tethered to a tank go in the middle of winter without a driver's license?

#2 Chanel had a heart attack and couldn't be revived because you can't get those electric paddles in the water safely (okay, a stupid concept but Southern Man and I laughed)

#3 Chanel drowned (We figured this one would have the son confused for a while. I know Southern Man left the room a little perplexed)

Finally, I decided to use an idea from my brother who is also a comedian. He reminded me that when we lost our family dog, she mysteriously disappeared to a lush farm in upstate New York.

So when our son asks where the fish went, we are going with the farm upstate. That's where, after Chanel nearly drowned and had a minor heart attack, the doctor suggested she take a long (permanent) vacation.

Of course, he could just read this blog.