One Hot Mama

 

I used to be cool.

No, literally, I used to be cool. I liked blankets and sweaters and warm cozy fleece. Now, even looking at a pair of woolen socks gets me sweating. Yes, that's right, this bod, she is a' changing.

Southern Man, a native Floridan, has tried to be patient, but even he is stretched to the tip of his Southern hospitality as blankets get ripped on and off throughout the night causing permanent scaring on his neck. Always a snuggler, Southern Man is looking into wearing potholders to bed on his hands since cuddling up to me is a lot like hugging a thermonuclear reactor.

Only women truly understand this. Oh sure, men TRY to understand. They pat our hands, they open windows, they even turn on the AC in the car but look quickly and you see the slight roll of the eye, the sigh, like, "Really? I mean, really? You're hot, again?"

Yes, again and again and again. It's not like I'm having a fiesta in this furnace. If sweating throughout the night, waking up changing clothes, sheets and pillows isn't enough to frustrate me, I have been woken up several times to sprint to the bathroom. I could be a contender in the upcoming Olympics for a gold or at least a bronze metal. However, I would probably have to race toward that "sensitive bladder" aisle in the supermarket before completing my victory lap.

Why? Why? Why is this happening? I just turned 50. Okay, more accurately, I am about to turn 51, but in my head I am still in my mid 30s and no where near Menopause Mountain, or so I thought. Where the heck did that time go and why am I having such a meltdown in both body and spirit?

Hormones schmormones. Weren't those awkward teenage years enough? I mean I had a cowlick, freckles, a space in my teeth, matured too early and oh, let's not forget gianormus feet that stuck out like surfboards. Trust me that was torture. Or how about the baby weight that I am still trying to remove from various parts of my anatomy (and the baby is now 21 years old). When Mother Nature is enough, enough?

And don't get me started on mood swings! I can change my demeanor faster than a speeding shopping cart aimed at someone who ticked me off by taking a parking space at Tops Friendly Market.  The hardest part is I never know what's going to start me off. An insurance commercial had me crying, a newspaper ad for shoes had me sighing, Southern Man just walking across the floor smiling had me so fueled with fury I could have literally pelted him in the head (or Haayyyyduh as Southern Man says) with the TV remote for basically, no reason whatsoever. Okay, he said I was beautiful. Why get mad at that? Because the only thing I feel beautiful about is screaming at the size 0 model in the magazine trying to tell me the key to happiness is new lipstick.

It's like that movie, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, but there is no end in sight. My doctor said this could go on for a few more years! That's right, YEARS!

So I am buying Velcro clothing, opening up all the windows, shutting off my phone, throwing out the papers and TV, standing in front of the freezer and giving Southern Man body armor.

But first, I have to sprint off to the bathroom.

Where Did I Put That Blog...

I lost my blog.

Unlike a lamb or keys or even a wallet, losing a blog is somewhat more complicated because the place you need to look for it is there, but it isn't.

I could find the blog, just not the dashboard. I could find the dashboard but I couldnt remember the password. It's all very cybertechie which I am not. So, being the genius that I am, I created another blog only to have the same sad scenario occur. So I then lost two blogs but recently remembered the password to the first blog, only due to the fact that it generally is the same darn password I used to use for everything before I changed it to the password I use now for everything.

I think what confused me was when I turned into more than one profile on Facebook. Now as three of me I can't seem to sign on or find anything, a problem that never occurred when there was just one of me, cyberspeaking that is.

Well, at least when it came to Twitter I only created one me with one basic password so I never have to worry that I duplicated it or will lose it. At least I think there's only one.

Hmmmm. Awww heck.

Put A Little Lipstick On...

Things have been a little off kilter for me lately. My mother always says when things go wrong and you feel a little depressed, just put a little lipstick on and you'll feel better.


I wonder how this theory would have worked for let's say George Washington, on his way to cross the Delaware. "Just a moment boys, I have to grab a tube of Ye Old Glory Red. "


Or perhaps Neil Armstrong grabbed a slick tube of some Max Factor hot shade of 60s Pop Em Sock it To Me Orange before he stepped outside and delivered his famous moonwalk speech. I'm just supposing here.


Imagine, if you will, the fateful moment when Ed Sullivan announced the Beatles on television for the first time. Did all of them head back stage first and pass along a tube of Maybelline's Forever Stardom?


It's a fun theory and if nothing else, makes me smile when thoughts of less happier things try to crowd their way into my already stuffed cranium. 


Time to grab a tube of Just Relax and Go With It. Everything really does look better with a little lipstick on it.

What a Bozo...

Bozo the Clown.

Even his name was amusing. He was a hero of mine-- pushing great stuff on kids of the 60's like Bosco, Fluffernutter sandwiches and Bulwinkle and Rocky cartoons.

I yearned to be on his show and just once be Ringmaster Butch and win the Treasure Chest of Prizes. Bozo has been on my mind because a friend of mine recently sent me a clip (thank you YouTube) featuring snippets of popular local programs we grew up with on Long Island. It was like sipping from the fountain of youth. I posted it on my Facebook page and others took a swig and walked down memory lane, playing stick ball, screaming "RING-A-LEEVO," and getting tangled in Chinese jump ropes.

In some ways, Bozo's Circus and after school snacks was a moment ago. In other ways, it was so many dusty years ago in my brain that I can't recall anymore if that kid in front of me in the third grade was Stephan or Stewart. Does it even matter? Probably not. But this year I am entering my 50th year of existence and I have to say, there's still a part of me that longs to win that big treasure chest of prizes and a year's supply of Bosco. I'd like to wear that Ringmaster Butch outfit and conduct the circus for just one day.

It hasn't been the best of times. I have been out of work for over a year and half. At first I expected to get another job right away. Everyone was certain I would. I was certain. But as the weeks moved to months and the calendar changed from 2009 to 2010, and now 2011, friends dropped away, phone calls stopped and contacts dried up. There's no blame. It happens. Life moves on. The circus moves on. I am a casualty of the economy, but the real challenge is not in being one of the injured, but in not being a victim.

Believe me, there are days that I want to simply give up. I want to eat the entire box of ring dings and say forget this! When every single resume seems to be ignored and those that I have sent in come back with the same encouraging words of, "We have filled the position but we will keep your resume on file..."

I have reinvented myself over and over with suggestions from recruiters and headhunters. I go to interviews and stand there wondering are my clothes right. I calmly explain my background, offer examples of my work, explain I would be willing to start again even at entry level. I just want to be back in the game again. I want to play on the team again.  I just want to use my creative talents the way they are supposed to be used. Not to write resumes, but to write copy or articles or speeches. I want to help create award winning campaigns again. I want to feel that thrill when all the right words come together in an email and you think, "Yes, I nailed that!"

But the jobs keep alluding me. Is it age? Who knows? Is it my background? Is it my seniority? I have no idea. I feel I did well and then I hear nothing for weeks and then a polite "No thank you." That's when I need Bozo.

So I don't win the treasure chest of prizes and the year's supply of Bosco. There's always tomorrow. And in the words of my hero, I have to remember to ..."always keep laughing." Because that's the one thing that separates the victims from the victorious. The will to push forward.

Meanwhile, back at the Funny Farm...: Talking Turkey

Meanwhile, back at the Funny Farm...: Talking Turkey

Meanwhile, back at the Funny Farm...: Talking Turkey

Meanwhile, back at the Funny Farm...: Talking Turkey

Talking Turkey

I feel the need to talk a little turkey...

I was eavesdropping at the Applebees.

Okay. I know. It's not kind, and it really wasn't my fault exactly. I was there first and the waitress sat these two women directly behind me. To be fair-- I was reading quietly and eating a bowl of soup. And as we all know, soup is not a noisy food.

The two women came in and were, I'm sorry to say, rather loud. It was around 3:00pm and the place was quiet. I am a no frills customer. I tell that to the waitress. I have limited funds. I tell them what I want, I smile, say thank you and basically tell them, " I pretty much won't cause you any trouble. Just a refill once in a while." They love that.

My two noisy companions behind me, were slightly more demanding, making "Sue," the waitress run back and forth with several requests. Finally they began their lunch and their conversation. And hence I began my eavesdropping. Again, by pure accident.

The conversation went something like this...(names changed to protect noisy people in restaurants)

Noisy Woman #1: "Did you hear about "Marla"?

Noisy Woman #2 "Could you believe it? I think they're going to lose the house. I mean after losing her job after all those years! I couldn't believe it. When I saw her at the PTA, I mean what do you say? What do you say?"

Noisy Woman#1: "And her husband's hours were cut down to next to nothing. I have no idea what they're living on!"

Noisy Woman #2: " I mean what DO you say? Well, Barry and I were talking, and well, I'm glad we're not going to face that. His job is secure and well...the house is taken care of."

Noisy Woman#1: "She forgot the dressing! I can't believe it! Miss? Miss?? These waitresses are like deaf....Miss?"

Noisy Woman #2: "And can we get a little more ice. Thank you dear."

Noisy Woman #1: "Anyway....I saw her after Church and I thought, maybe you know, I should DO something, like I don't know, ask her to dinner, maybe drop off some groceries..."

Noisy Woman #2: "I'm not a fan of this new menu..."

Noisy Woman #1: "I know. The service has gone down too."

Noisy Woman #2: "So did you?"

Noisy Woman #1: "What? Oh, no. Well.. I mean I didn't want to upset her. I mean I wanted to DO something, but I didn't want to make her uncomfortable. When we saw each other I asked her how things were going and she looked at me and smiled and said,  ' We're doing the best we can.' My heart just about broke. I mean after she said that, I felt like I should do something, but I mean, what? What could I do? I couldn't just march over there and hand her money or give her a box of food could I?"

Noisy Woman #2 (Munching)"You and Marla have known each other a long time..."

Noisy Woman #1: (Sipping) "The boys were in pre-K together. They've gone through school together. I can't believe this is happening. I mean you hear this on the news. But here? Unbelievable. I mean we cut back, things are tight. But losing your home, your job... having to move.. Why didn't they plan better? That's what I want to ask her. Or why doesn't she just leave? I wish I could help."

Noisy Woman #2: " I know. Hey you want to split the dessert?"

Noisy Woman #1: " Sure. So how are things with Barry?"

I will let the conversation stand as it is and simply say, that there are hundreds and hundreds of people like Marla that you know.

And you wonder how to help them. And you think they'll be insulted so you don't DO anything. But instead of wondering HOW...just try something. Call them. Invite them for dinner. Slip $20 in their coat pocket or pocketbook and say nothing. Leave a gas card on their car seat. Leave fresh groceries on their doorstep. Be a silent giver this holiday season and all year round. You don't need to do with a great big audience. Just a silent gesture of true love and friendship.

I have been blessed by many through such actions and am living through the kindness of others and others will benefit from my experience in the future. So I urge you this season especially, give kindness. Pass on generosity.  That's the only thing we can control it seems. Not taxes, not jobs, not anything else, but we can control kindness to each other, and lending a helping hand to those in need. Because just as easily we could be those in need and need that hand.

 

No money? No worries. Bring a smile to someones face. Share laughter. These things are free. So if you don't have the ability to buy groceries or dinner, just sit with a friend and share laughter. You can't imagine for someone who is poor in spirit how rich that will make them feel.

Never feel that there is nothing that can't be done for a friend in need. There is always something. A smile, a kind word. A hug. A walk. A card, a letter, a note, a voice mail, a text. An encouraging word. A hand to hold. You have the power to turn someones entire life around today.

Or you could simply sit back and make noise.

Ahhh Fudge!

Come "buy" and see the fudge at Samantha's Lil bit of Heaven, 287 East Northport, NY

We've all heard about the loaves and fishes, but who would have thought a miracle is possible through the delicious taste of fudge? And we're not talking your average chocolate or vanilla, but exotic, phenomenal flavors that make you wake up at night reliving their sweetness. Flavors like Raspberry Truffle, Rocky Road, Pistachio, Mint Chocolate Chip, Creamsicle, New York Cheesecake and Butterfinger fudge, just to name a few.

 And despite their delectable charms, these little cups of heaven, complete with their own plastic spoon for instant fudge emergencies, can be classified as anything but "sinful". This fudge is on a mission, you might even say, a mission from God.


Across from the Wendy's in East Northport, New York, sandwiched between the animal hospital and the butcher is a little bit of Heaven on earth. Honest. I know, it's not where you pictured it to be, but heaven rarely is.

Welcome to Samantha's Lil Bit of Heaven, a unique ministry, completely run by volunteers, that is open to all denominations. Samantha's is known worldwide for their weekend coffeehouse ministry where they feature life inspirational music and clean comedy nights that families, yes families, can come together and enjoy. They also offer weekly faith-filled workshops, support groups, bible studies and more!

For the musically inclined, there's even an open mic night that anyone from age 6 and up (you could be younger but it's hard to reach the mic) can perform music, poetry or comedy in an attempt to gain a spot in one of Heaven's weekend slots. 

 At a time when the country is held captive by reality shows starring teenagers behaving badly and glitzy show-biz extravaganzas where audience votes are always questioned for integrity, it's refreshing that a little bit of Heaven on earth does exist.

Samantha Tetro welcomes guests at Heaven

Started by a Jewish gal, Samantha Tetro (yes, a Jewish gal) this innovative ministry was created to provide a safe haven away from all the misery and pain of the day-to-day world. Tetro's vision of the ministry was actually conceived  after watching a news report of a young Long Island girl who had been kidnapped.  


Step into Heaven and regardless of your faith, you feel welcomed.  People are smiling for goodness sake! They actually GIVE you chocolate kisses if you're a newbie! And the entertainment is always top notch.

Sure, it's faith filled and that does make some folks shift in their seats and squirm. There's actual mention of (dare we say), God, and faith, and praying, but not in over abundance and I assure you, no one makes anyone dunk themselves in a river and declare themselves sin-free (although there are a few folks that do kick their shoes off and tap to the music).

What happens at Heaven is a miracle in itself: you walk in alone most often, and you walk out with friends. There's a current that runs through the people there that basically says,  "I'm part of something really exciting. If you want to ask me, just let me know. If you don't, that's cool too." And it really is. 

There's no pressure at Heaven. If you come in with questions, you leave with answers. If you come in with a burden, you feel it lifted, even if it's just for the night. You won't get that happening at your local bowling alley, movie theater or video arcade. And if you just want to enjoy great music and have fun with your family or take your kids to a comedy night where you won't blush, Heaven's the place.

Delicious selections of fudge seem endless!

So what's fudge

got to do with it?

When this unique place began nearly 17 years ago, it was housed in a teenie tiny location that could barely seat 25 people but somehow managed to squeeze in more than 60 every night.

Today, gifted and known musicians, speakers and songwriters have come from around the world to play or perform at Heaven. To date, over 100,000 people have come through their doors from countries worldwide. Marriages have been formed here (38 love matches with more to come no doubt), although it's not a singles club. Bands have been created and gone on to record successful CDs.

Through the years, Samantha's grew from its first humble building to a larger location at 287 Larkfield Road in Northport.  And now, with faith, there's a dream that the ministry will be getting ready to move again with the help of a Fudge-raiser. Yes, a Fudge-raiser.

The ministry is looking to increase its ability to reach out to the local community and meet its growing needs. With growing unemployment in the area, Long Island is in need of places like Heaven to lift not only spirits, but to offer hope. In order to meet the growing needs of the community, Heaven needs a bigger building.

The ministry offers desserts during their weekend entertainment and what better way to create a building fund than through through the sale of something sweet and delicious like fudge?

Recently, Heaven has been offered a property that has truly been an answer to their prayers for the community: (a prayer that was sent over 16 years ago).  As we all know, real estate is anything but cheap, but Heaven answers to a "higher authority" and believes their goal is to purchase this  property and build their dream completely debt-free, (not an easy task in today's times). So in true faith, they are selling fudge to make it happen.

Now, this is not just any fudge: this is gourmet, knock your-socks-off-fight-your-family-hide-in-a-closet-just-to-be-alone-with-it kind of fudge. It is quite frankly, Heaven's Faith-Filled Fudge-To-Go, and the donation for one of these sweet treats is just $4.00.  The goal is to sell 1 million cups of fudge so the ministry can purchase the building completely debt-free. An insane goal? Perhaps. But apparently Samantha's has already sold 2500 cups just this summer alone. Which means there are 2500 happy fudge fanatics out there and you could be one of them!

Interested in lending a hand? With your help Samantha's can sell a lot more fudge and get that building a lot faster. If you don't like fudge, send this blog on to someone you know that does. Or better yet, jot an email to your friends and family and tell them about Samantha's building fund and the fudge-raiser. It's the best $4.00 they could ever spend. And yes, if they ask, Heaven is a charity, so this may be the only time they can buy fudge, eat it and have it go to a good cause. 

These days, miracles seem to be beyond our reach. But every so often, God puts the miracle making in our path. And this is a pretty sweet way to make a very special miracle come true for some pretty terrific people and a community in need.


Call Samantha's (631) 262-1212 or visit the website at www.samanthaslilbitofheaven.org and send an email asking Samantha how you can buy some fudge and help the ministry get to their goal.  All proceeds go to the building fund.

Most of us will never be able to do the really big stuff like walking across water or multiply loaves and fishes, but  paying $4 for a delicious cup of fudge to help build and grow a place to be inspired on Long Island and take family and friends on weekends?  Awww fudge, now that's something we can all do!

Sing along with Mitch

In his head, my father's voice rang out like Pavarotti: in truth, even the dog left the room when he sang. Despite Dad's less than golden tones, there were moments he could melt into a symphony of music, thanks to a little man with a small white stick and a huge chorus known as "the gang."


Mitch Miller played on our living room hi-fi throughout most of my childhood. Taking up most of the wall, the hi-fi was made of mahogany and the speakers were built as part of the unit. To play, you lifted the lid, that of course would snap closed at will, causing you to nearly lose a hand if you weren't deft at switching albums quickly.

The inside of the hi-fi was simple. An on/off button, a volume and a needle to play the records which, unfortunately, often needed a penny to balance on top of or you got this alien type of warble. Occasionally the penny would fall off the needle, sending it careening across the vinyl with an ear splitting SCREEEETCH that I have to say, riveled Dad's vocal charms.

The covers and inside covers of the Mitch Miller albums were all about having fun. You wanted to be wherever "the gang" was. The women were laughing, the kids were laughing, and Mitch was in the midst of it all, eyes twinkling and his arm slung around someone's shoulder. "Come on," Mitch seemed to say. "Leave those dishes and sing along with us."  And we were only too happy to.


My father was a New York City cop. Not ever easy job, and certainly not in the difficult times of the 1960s and 70s. My Dad seemed to me, to always be a man trapped in his own skin. During the day, he saw tremendous violence, hopelessness, and betrayl: in the evening he had to leave that somehow and come home, facing being a suburban father and husband. The transition was helped by the hi-fi. Put on those Mitch Miller albums and his face would visibly relax. Heading into the kitchen you could hear him singing songs that no one ever hears anymore. Tunes like, The Yellow Rose of Texas. By the Light of the Silvery Moon, Down By the Old Mill Stream, That Old Gang of Mine, She Wore a Yellow Ribbon that now seem like old friends whenever I hear them.
If it was summer,  the front and back doors would be wide open, and the music would spill out onto the front lawn. As evening fell, neighbors would wander by, sitting on our front step (known as the stoop). As kids we chased up and down the block, looking for fireflies and playing games like Freeze Tag and Murderer Come Out (okay, we were strange kids). But always, in the background, we would hear Mitch Miller and his gang singing, and from time to time, neighbors' voices would chime in. It was a good time. A safer time. You could ride your bike fearlessly in the dark and familiar voices would softly drift past your face as you rode by in the night air.


In the winter, the front door would still be open, the inside glass frosting from the heat of the house. We would wait for my father, his shifts lasting almost to the last moment of Christmas Eve. Still, we would wait.

And my father, after dealing with city's most desperate, most violent, and most depressed would ride home to Long Island, flip on the hi-fi, turn and fill the house with the sound of the gang, singing Jingle Bells, Silent Night, O Come All Ye Faithful. Now, the holidays could come.

Mitch Miller, died at 99, this past Saturday, July 31st. According to his family, he had a "full, happy and long life." I think it was more than that. The little man with his white baton, brought more than sing along songs to the world. He brought a peace to people. He gave families a language to speak when they couldn't understand the world around them. He built a bridge. It may not have been everything we needed, but it was enough.

And for Dad, maybe singing, even off key, helped him wade through the frustration, rage and anger of the what he witnessed day in and day out. Each song helping him transition from cop to father and back again giving him the ability to deal through the pain of another day, and to  eventually, even heal.

Bravo, Mr. Miller.

Bravo.

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.

Growing up Shea: A legacy of laughter

It's never good to start a blog off with an apology, but this photo (circa 1986) requires it.

My apologies to my sisters for dressing them in these bridesmaid dresses. At the time, I thought everyone could wear them again. Apparently I wasn't wrong--- they were used for Halloween costumes as the years went by.

My apologies to Dale Evans. Apparently I thought I could pull off the western wear bridal hat, but apparently, no one but Dale has that right,

My apologies to Fran, my brother's girlfriend. One look at my brother's perm is going to have her in gales of laughter for a week and probably pull a muscle.

My apoologies to the Family Feud. Apparently we stole this pose from the t.v show. Little wonder, my mother loved Richard Dawson. Good answer, good answer.

My apologies to my nieces and nephews and my son. This was taken pre almost all of them except Christopher, the oldest grandchild. I know the colors of the 80s are a bit blinding and I should have warned you all to wear sunglasses.

My apologies to my husband Jim who is still trying to figure out why in the world I have dark hair when I swear that I am a natural red head. All I can say is, Clairol 54, and 75 gave way to Revlon Auburn Sunset. Good answer, good answer.

So what is the point of this stroll down memory lane? Well, this was the only photo with us four kids and my parents I could find. I know there are others, but I just got off the phone with my sister and this blog is fresh in my head.

At the start of it all, there's your family. And in the middle, they are the ones you count on, And in the end, they are still the ones who love you, even when you screw things up.

A lot has changed since this photo was taken. All but one of us is divorced. Babies have been born and are now adults (or at least so they think). My father has passed, but is still as much as presence as ever. But we're all still family and we are all there for each other every day. As that saying goes, We may not be all there, but we're all there for each other.

I sometimes forget when writing this blog that words that I think are funny, may be mistaken by others as taunting or unkind. Nothing could be further from the truth when I write. I try and make others laugh, but nothing is ever meant to wound. I leave that to political campaigns and the SLAM books of the 1960s.

I love my family, all of it. The inlaws, the outlaws, the nieces, nephews and the ones to be. The cousins, the aunts, the uncles, all that goes into having grown up Shea.

And here's to my folks who didn't plan on raising two comedians but ended up doing so. And to my siblings for having not only gone along with me for the journey, but letting me share these family moments with others so I can pass on a legacy of laughter.