My First Annual Best and Worst Songs of the Year List -- 2011 Edition

First off, let me just say that I'm fully aware this isn't the most inclusive list. For example, there's no country, hip-hop, or dance/R&B music on it. I generally don't listen to anything besides rock and pop, so unless a song is awesome enough to catch my attention--like last year's "Single Ladies" by Beyonce or "D.J. Got Us Fallin' in Love" by Usher--it's not gonna make my list.

This year nothing outside my preferred genres piqued my interest. But all the pop & rock songs listed below are pretty great, I think.

TOP TEN BEST SONGS OF 2011:

10. "Lonely Boy" -- The Black Keys Completely rocking yet groovy at the same time, this song has a guitar riff that would make the Church Lady stand up and play air guitar.
9. "Brand New Day" -- Trevor Hall I don't know anything about this guy, but he's got a cool, throaty voice. And the song is super-feel-good.
8. "Cough Syrup" -- Young the Giant Chris Martin so wishes he wrote this catchy tune.
7. "Mr. Know It All" -- Kelly Clarkson I love a song that calls out a dude for being a jerk. Adding a great beat and Ms. Clarkson's powerful voice makes it pop perfection.
6. "The Last Living Rose" -- P.J. Harvey Ms. Harvey is one of my all-time favorite artists. This song is beautiful and haunting.

5. Tie: "The Calamity Song" and "This Is Why We Fight" -- The Decemberists Two interesting, expertly-constructed, and catchy tunes from the same album. I can't decide which one I like best.

4. "Holdin' on to Black Metal" -- My Morning Jacket Hiring an all-female choir to sing back-up on this song was brilliant. A bunch of hairy dudes + ladies in robes = pure magic.

3. "Lost in My Mind" -- The Head and the Heart The soaring harmonies in this song's chorus are spectacular. I smile every time I hear it.
2. "Pumped Out Kicks" -- Foster the People Even if I'm driving in my car when this awesome song comes on the radio, I can't help but dance and sing along. Watch out, highway patrol!

1. "Rolling in the Deep" -- Adele Yes, it was over-played and yes, Adele was over-exposed in 2011, but this song is pretty much perfect. I was completely blown away the first time I heard it...it deserves to be #1.

And since you can't have a "Best" list without a "Worst" one....

TOP FIVE WORST SONGS OF 2011:

5. "I Wanna Go" -- Britney Spears The worst Auto-Tune nightmare EVER.

4. "Moves Like Jagger" -- Maroon 5 I happen to like this band, which usually puts out delicious pop songs. Expecting more from them makes me extra-hate this one.

3. "Party Rock Anthem" -- LMFAO This joke-of-a-song was everywhere all year long. It just plain sucks. 

2. "Comeback Kid (That's My Dog)" -- Brett Dennen If I'm home when this stupid tune comes on the radio, I have to sprint across the room to turn it off. Dumb, dumb, dumb song. 

1. "Friday" -- Rebecca Black Putting this at #1 almost feels like a cop-out because it's so obvious. But the song is absolutely awful. You know the gory details, I don't need to explain myself.

That's my list...hope you enjoyed it. Maybe it even introduced you to a great song or two that you hadn't yet heard. If so, yay!

Happy 2012!

Deck the Halls (and Front Lawns, Steps, Porches, Shrubbery...)

The holiday season brings out the kid in all of us. That or the Grinch secretly residing in our soul. Luckily for me, it's the former.

I get really excited about Christmas--maybe even more so than my kids. After all, I'm the one who suggests we go get our Christmas tree pretty much before we've even digested the Thanksgiving turkey. It's me who blasts the Christmas tunes in the car and sings along at the top of my voice (while my three year old screams "STOP SINGING!" from the back seat). I'm the one who, on or around December 18th, can no longer stand the suspense and sheepishly asks my husband if the kids and I can open just one present.

And oh, how I love the houses all decorated with lights! I even get a kick out of the cheesy blow-ups. Though I refuse to put one of those monstrosities on our own lawn, that doesn't stop me from admiring them on our neighbors' properties.

One of the over-the-top houses in our neighborhood.

We--as in the members of our generation--seem so much more willing to embrace our inner-children than our parents were. I wonder why that is?

When we were little, my brothers and I would beg our parents to drive us around the town next to ours because the people who lived there really went crazy with the decorations. (Here's the formula: Middle-class town=excessive, tacky, wonderful decorations; upper-middle-class town: wreaths and candles in the windows.)

Nothing has really changed--it's still me begging to check out Christmas decorations...except now I end up begging my kids instead of my parents.

The other day, I was driving the kids home after a pediatrician's appointment. It was around 5 p.m. and pitch black already.

"Hey, kids! How about we drive around the neighborhood and look at some decorations?"

"Nah," my son chimes in from the back. "I just want to go home."

"Oh, c'mon, pleeeeeeeease?" I beg.

But guess what? I'm the one in the driver's seat now (literally and figuratively). So there. These days, when I say we're going to drive around and look at the pretty Christmas decorations then WE ARE DRIVING AROUND AND LOOKING AT PRETTY CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS, DAMN IT! Whether my kids like it or not. Ha!

Happy holidays, everyone!

Face Invaders

I've been looking forward to tomorrow night for a while now. The rugby team my husband played for for years is having their annual Awards/Get-Drunk-and-Crazy Dinner in the city. It was a fun event even when we lived in NYC pre-kids and went out all the time, but now that we can count on one hand the number of times we get out each year without the kids, it's downright exciting.

I will be wearing a pretty dress, heels, and mascara for the first time since summer.

So the cold sore that appeared on my upper lip a few days ago was less welcome than usual.

AAAHHHHHH, SUSAN!!! Why, why, why? This is SO YOU, just classic, gross Susan. Oh, there's an important event coming up? BAM! Cold sore!

You should hear me the week leading up to something fun (high-school reunion, Christmas party, tropical vacation, whatever); I begin reciting my pleasedon'tletmegetacoldsore, pleasedon'tletmegetacoldsore mantra. I'm not sure who I'm telling exactly because generally I'm not a prayer, but I figure begging and pleading can't hurt. (Hey, you never know who might be listening, though why they'd listen to me, I don't know.)

This week's cold sore got me thinking about my childhood and the dreaded SCHOOL PICTURE DAY. Because, inevitably, I'd get a cold sore beforehand and ruin the photo.

Oh, you think I'm exaggerating? Yeah, so did I at first. I thought maybe once I had a cold sore in a school picture and that time had distorted the memory. But then while at my parents' house over Thanksgiving, I decided to peruse some old photo albums.

And that's when I confronted The Horror (not in chronological order):

Super-cute pigtails...super-gross cold sore.

My mom calls this one my "Queen
Victoria" pose. I call it "Ugly Amish
girl with cold sore."

The smile is a hopeful one that says "Gee, I
hope my almost-but-not-quite-gone cold sore
doesn't show up in the picture!" No such
luck, Little Susan.

I loved that APPLE shirt. What I didn't love
was the cold sore that appeared on my face
 every year before Picture Day. (The glare
hides it but trust me it's there, bottom-right).

Mustard-colored 70's turtleneck=ugly
Mustard-colored turtleneck + cold sore=heinous

All five photos are from elementary school. And since I was in elementary school for a total of six years...well, you do the math. Okay, I'll do the math: over 80% of the time I had a cold sore in my school photo. That is craaaazy. And disgusting, painful, and embarrassing.

And humbling...definitely oh-so humbling.

"Everyone Is the Age of Their Heart." - Guatemalan Proverb

Ha-ha-ha, what a lie....

I think I might be having a mid-life crisis. All I know for sure is that I've been struggling lately, and I decided putting my thoughts and feelings down in words might help me sort it out. So please bear with me.

I've been feeling really nostalgic lately--not the good kind when you fondly remember past fun times, but the yucky kind when you feel not quite present in the present (if that makes any sense). I'm not nostalgic for any particular time or place or person, but rather I miss the way I used to be and feel and relate to the world.

Ahhh, those were the good ol' days. Too bad I didn't
appreciate it. "Youth is wasted on the young" as they say.

When I was younger, the way I looked played a big part in how I related to people--especially men, of course. A young woman's allure can be a useful and powerful thing. I wasn't one of those who used her looks to unfairly take advantage of a situation (unless the guy was a jerk and deserved it) but I certainly enjoyed the attention my appearance got me over the years. So shoot me. And there is no doubt a woman's allure can open doors.

Because the way I was treated was partially due to my appearance, of course how I looked became a significant part of my identity (as it does for most people, whether they admit it or not).

Now that I'm getting older, I feel myself teetering on the precipice of undesirable and this leaves me feeling a bit rudderless. While an older woman can "look good for her age," (and there's always that crushing "for her age" added on at the end) she will never again be a hot, young girl. An older woman is more experienced and (hopefully) wiser than her younger counterpart--and this is certainly something to celebrate--but it doesn't change the fact that she is no longer viewed as desirable by the world in general. And that sucks.

Nowadays when I walk past a construction site, I bristle in anticipation of the cat-call, but when it doesn't come, instead of feeling relieved I'm deflated. Life is more boring this way.

The questions I ask myself are these: What is my identity now? How do others see me (and do I really want to know)? What's my role in this world supposed to be? Yes, I'm a wife, mother, daughter, sister, etc., but who am I deep down inside?

All I know is, the girl I once was is no more and I miss her, hot mess that she was.

Does everyone have such problems as they age, or am I just vainer than most? My guess is it's about 50/50. Maybe it's especially difficult right now because it's only recently that I've started feeling, well, not old exactly...just not young anymore. Maybe, instead of getting worse as I age, I'll get used to feeling this way and it won't bother me as much?

I certainly hope so.

Good Friends Are Like Stars...

...you don't always see them, but you know they are always there. -- Confucius

We went up to Massachusetts to spend Thanksgiving with my family this year. While there, I decided to help my parents by clearing out some of my old junk--stuff that's been cluttering up their space for the twenty years that they've lived in the house. The two nightstand drawers in my old room were crammed with letters from the late eighties and early nineties--these were my college years when I would go back home over school breaks and summer vacations.

I've been going through the letters slowly, trying to decipher my friends' almost-illegible scrawl. My goal was to throw out most of the letters, but yet keep a representative sample that would sum up the place and time, as well as each friend's individual personality.

A large proportion of the letters were from my freshman year at college. I guess this is because my old high school friends and I had yet to form any close friendships with kids at college, so we were, understandably, clinging to our former lives. 

Summer of '88: Me and a few friends, back together
 after our freshman year of college.

As I read through the letters, I wasn't surprised by all the mentions of cute boys, classes, partying, and roommates (whom ranged from awesome to awful). But what did surprise me, what I wasn't expecting to read, was so much written about our friendships with one another--what we missed, what we meant to each other, how close our bonds were, etc. We were surprisingly introspective young women considering we were just out of high school. 

For example, here's what one friend wrote to me in September, 1987, just after we'd gone our separate ways to different colleges thousands of miles apart:

"My problem is I meet a lot of people but have no close friends. I wish in a way you and our other friends were with me. Though we'd all be trying to break away from each other, we'd still have each other there.... I miss you, Sue! I talk about you a lot. It's so weird to be starting new again! I like it, but there are certain security things I miss, like our group."

That is pretty self-aware for an eighteen year old, if you ask me. 

In another letter, a different friend wrote:

"Sue, I really miss you and I know it sounds dumb but I really wish that you were here because you truly have been so strong for me on so many occasions. You are truly my best friend (a term I no longer use so lightly!) and I don't know how come I deserve you sometimes."

I love you, crazy girls.

Twenty years later, I'm blown away by the level of intimacy in these letters. I'm sure at the time I didn't think much of it; it would've just been how things were, how we felt about one another, and the way we communicated and responded to each other. But because I'm so far away from that time, and my focus is on family rather than friendships, it just seems so, so remarkable that we felt that strongly and deeply about each other.

I still love these ladies, though we remain geographically isolated from one another. I miss having them in my life on a regular basis, but even more, I miss having a gang of cool, smart, interesting, and fun women around to whom I can talk, vent, and bitch, and who also completely have my back. My husband and family are wonderful and supportive of course, but it's not the same.  

So if any of you lovely ladies--my dearest friends from childhood and beyond--are reading this, I just want to thank you for all the love, laughs, hugs, support, and advice you've given me over the years.

I couldn't have made it through without you. And I miss you so much it hurts.

What Is There Not to Like About Preschool? I Don't Know, Ask My Daughter.

My three-year-old daughter goes to preschool three mornings a week for a total of eight hours and fifteen minutes of school weekly. Just about the right amount of time away from Mommy, if you ask me.

After picking her up from preschool, as I'm forcing buckling her into her car seat, I almost always ask, "How was school today? Did you have fun?" And just about every time she answers, "A little bit...not too much."

Whoa. Though I struggle to understand how it's possible, the reality is that my little lady does not like school.

My baby, about to begin her first
day of school

The very idea flabbergasts me. Painting! Dress up! Play-doh! Story Time! Playground! What's not to like? Okay, so Mommy isn't there, I get it...but how can having six other little girls around to play with (not to mention seven adorable boys) not be way better than one distracted mom who's always interrupting the game to answer the phone or check Facebook? 

We never had this problem with my son, who was always like, "YAY! SCHOOL TODAY! I LOVE SCHOOL!" from the moment I first dropped him off at Ms. Joan's class when he was two-and-a-half years old. He is a sweet, friendly kid, and the teachers would marvel at how easily he got along with everyone--he just as happily played kitchen with the girls as he did cars with the boys. 

I know I shouldn't compare my kids, but earlier this year, upon picking my daughter up at school, the teacher greeted me with, "Wow, your daughter and Millicent can really get into it with each other!" Apparently, the two girls had been fighting over who got to use the single pair of classroom binoculars. 

Don't be mistaken, my baby girl is a complete love--she's warm and affectionate (just ask her Grandpa, into whom's lap she climbs unbidden, or her Poppa, at whom she bats her eyelashes sweetly); quick as a whip; and, according to my father, the funniest of his five grandkids. Girlfriend knows how to work an audience, that's for sure. 

But school is not, apparently, her thing. So far she has chosen not to make a big deal about going in the mornings--there haven't been any fights about it. I suppose that could change, but hopefully it won't; since I can't relate to not liking school, I doubt I'd be able to deal with the issue properly. What's the best way to handle this? Being stern and forcing her to go? Letting her stay home? 

If it comes to that, I'll have to call in the expert on not liking school: her daddy.  

Just Call Me Kindergarten Cop

There is a girl in my son's Kindergarten class with whom he's become fast friends.

My husband and son ran into This Girl (I'll refer to her as "T.G." from now on) a few weeks ago, and she went on and on about how she wanted my son to come over her house for a playdate.

I had met T.G.'s mother only once before--at back-to-school-night--and, let's put it this way, she's not exactly the long-lost best friend I've been hoping to find. My first impression was that she was a little brash. I'm sure she's a perfectly decent person, but her scratchy smoker's voice and aloof manner turned me off.

However, my lovely boy wanted a playdate with his new friend, so I wasn't about to say no just because the mom was not my cup o' tea. Of course I had to give her the benefit of the doubt.

I knew T.G.'s last name so I tracked them down through whitepages.com (and felt pretty stalker-ish doing so), called, and her mom and I set something up for three days hence.

Kindergarten Halloween party

The day of the playdate, just as we were about to leave for their house, I noticed our machine was blinking; it was a message from elementary school. T.G.'s mom didn't have our number so she had the school call to cancel the playdate. No explanation, no apology, no nothin'.

Oh, how my sweet boy cried and cried! All I could do was hug him and tell him I was so, so sorry over and over again as his little body shook with giant sobs. The anger flooded my body--how I hated T.G.'s mother at that moment!

If I could've given my son a decent explanation--"Honey, T.G.'s little sister swallowed poison and was rushed to the emergency room"--I think it would've been easier for both of us to accept. But instead, we were left in the lurch.

The next time I saw her, at a class event, I avoided her because I didn't trust myself to make nice-nice after what had happened. And a Kindergarten classroom isn't exactly the ideal place for a confrontation.

It's been a month now, and she hasn't called to apologize or reschedule the playdate.

So everyday I grit my teeth while listening to my son go on and on about all the fun he and T.G. had during recess, or about how funny she is, or blahblahblah. Oh, sure, he may have forgotten all about his first heartbreak, but his mother sure hasn't. Grrrrrrr! I can't help it, but hearing that girl's dumb name instantly turns me into one of Sarah Palin's Mama Grizzlies.

So, guess what, T.G. and T.G.'s mom? Mama Grizzly is watching. Do NOT hurt my cub again if you know what's good for you. I will attack...and that's a promise.

Cat Scratch Fever

Ted Nugent power chords played in my head as I read the brochure the vet had given me on Bartonella, "The Cat Scratch Disease Bacteria." (They give me cat scratch fever! Cat scratch fever!) Apparently, the Bartonella bacteria, which is transmitted from cats, can cause 22 human diseases, of which cat scratch disease is the most famous. Who knew?

When we adopted Paulina six months ago, she was a tiny, skinny thing. "She'll fatten up soon enough when you bring her home," the director of the shelter had assured us. But Paulina is just as skinny today as when we got her. She doesn't eat much--sometimes I even have to throw out food that has sat in her bowl for too long.

That was bad sign #1. Then there was the drooling and bad breath, both of which aren't normal for cats according to the various web sites I consulted. But the potential seriousness of the situation didn't sink in until a friend of mine who owns five cats came over and gave little Paulina a cuddle: "She is WAY too thin!" she announced.

So I called a recommended local animal hospital/veterinarian and, luckily, they were able to fit me in that very afternoon. The minute the vet picked up Paulina he became very concerned: "She's nothing but skin and bones!" (Oops, our bad.)

It turns out our 3-1/2-year-old cat only weighs 4.3 pounds.

The vet ordered a bunch of tests--to the tune of $600--and we sucked it up because, let's face it, guilt is a powerful motivator.

Should we have known something was wrong with Paulina? Neither my husband nor I had ever had a cat before, and little Paulina was always so sweet and uncomplaining. Besides, money has been tight lately, and I was afraid a visit to the vet would open up an extremely expensive can of worms (which is exactly what happened).

But then the vet said something about preparing myself for the test results and went on to mention the possibility of needing to have a conversation about "how to deal with the psyches of your kids" down the line. That's when it finally hit me: Crap, could Paulina be terminal?!

Thankfully, the feline leukemia and AIDS tests came back normal. The vet isn't 100% sure what's going on with Paulina, but her gums are red and painful, her white blood cell count is really high, and according to the X-rays (add another $200 to the running total) her intestines are enlarged, while her liver and kidneys are way too small.

The vet gave Paulina a long-lasting antibiotic shot to hopefully treat her inflamed gums and whatever else might be driving up her white cell count, and prescribed some special, hypo-allergenic (and wicked expensive, cha-ching!) food for the irritable bowel disease he suspects she might have. So far, Paulina has gobbled up two bowls of the food since yesterday--more than she's ever eaten in the same time period before--so that's a good sign, at least.

Meanwhile, the Bartonella test results won't be back for a few more days so we don't have any Cat Scratch Fever Disease diagnosis as of yet.

All we can do right now is wait...wait and give Paulina extra cuddles, make room for her on our bed at night, and make sure she feels loved and wanted. Poor little baby.

How the Apples Fall from the Trees

One of the best things about having kids is the process of figuring out which parent each kid takes after and how. Outsiders like to comment on appearances: "Oh, your son looks just like your husband!" and "How fun to have a Mini-Me!"

But for me the most interesting thing about the genetic soup that makes our kids who they are is that it determines their personalities as well. I'm a big believer that "nature" trumps "nurture." Of course you can't torture and torment your kids and still expect them to be lovely and gentle, but it seems to me that kids are pretty much born with their personalities already hard-wired into their brains.

My kids are so dissimilar that the fact that both of them were spawned from the same genetic pool is pretty cool.

My kids look nothing alike. 

First, they look nothing alike: eye color, skin color, body type--all different. My son gets his looks mainly from my Irish husband's side of the family, while my daughter has a tiny bit more Armenian shining through (as evidenced by her incredibly long eyelashes).

But considering both kids were raised by the same two parents, it's crazy how different their personalities are and how they are such interesting combinations of me and my husband. My five-year-old son is sweet, sensitive, and enthusiastic about everything (in other words, he's nothing like me); yet he also loves learning and discovering, has a real thirst for knowledge, digs science, and is super-inquisitive (in other words, he's a nerd just like me).

Take Harry Potter, for example. I love that little wizard, and was ecstatic when my slightly premature attempts at indoctrinating my son in the ways and wonders of the wizarding world paid off. I've just finished reading him Sorcerer's Stone and he's begging for Chamber of Secrets already. Every second he's home, he's pleading with me to read him more, while the only way my husband can get my son to show any interest in the World Series is by pointing out that the guy up at bat's last name is pronounced "poo holes."

I love that my son and I have this thing we share just between us two. It makes me smile to hear him prattle on to my husband about how Ron got bitten by Hagrid's dragon and the cut got infected, because my husband has no clue what he's talking about. My son and I share a secret language--a language of muggles, Slytherin, Voldemort, bludger, quaffle, alohomora, Filch.... 

I am a huge fan of the fantasy, sci-fi, and horror genres, while my husband...eh. Let's put it this way: He doesn't LOVE Star Wars.

My son looks nothing like me, yet he shares most of my interests. And, thanks to my husband, he's much sweeter than I am. That's pretty awesome.

My three-year-old daughter, on the other hand...whew! Now I know how my mother felt when I was growing up and she would exasperatedly tell me to stop being so bossy. I never saw it as being bossy--I was just damned sure that my way was the best way so therefore everyone needed to listen and do what I said.

I see that trait in my daughter as well. Like me, she's headstrong and stubborn. She knows what she wants and can't be coerced into changing direction (unlike my son who is more reasonable and can usually eventually be persuaded to consider other options).

Unlike me, however, she loves everything girly: pink, sparkles, princesses, fairies, dressing-up, shoes, purses, Hello Kitty, Minnie Mouse, mermaids, kittens, and puppies. It's not uncommon for her to change outfits three times a day, and she will even allow me to tug and pull at her hair ("You hurtin' me, Mommy!") if the end result is "boo-si-vle" (beautiful) poofy pigtails just like Abby Cadabby's.

Maybe it's because I grew up with two brothers, but I don't remember ever being so obsessed with all that girly stuff. I'm pretty certain I still allowed my mother pick out my clothes when I was three, and I doubt I begged and pleaded with her to buy me sparkly pink shoes every time we went to Target Bradlees.

Though come to think of it, did they even make sparkly pink shoes for kids back in the 70's, or were red Mary Janes as exciting as it got?

Drowning in the Past

I've been spending too much time in the past lately. Facebook can do that to a person. Daily cyber-stalking-spying on your high school crush (Is he gross now, or pretty cute for an old guy?) or the mean girl who made your middle-school years a living hell (Please, PLEASE let her be fat now.) can take one's focus away from the here and now (Crap, my kid's bus will be here any second!). Facebook makes it really easy to lose yourself in the minutia of someone-you-haven't-seen-in-25-years-and-never-really-liked-to-begin-with's life.

But even before Facebook (the horrors!), my brain spent too much time dwelling on the past. I'm one of those people who like to pore through old photo albums--other people's as well as my own. Over and over again. I'm strange like that. I've always dwelled on the past, even when I was too young to have a past of my own. Then I would just obsess over previous eras and the people who glamorized them (Elvis, Marilyn Monroe, Charles Manson, etc.).

Would 15-year-old me
say I made the best
choices in life so far?

But Facebook makes it much easier to regress.

I'm not sure why I do this. My life these days is pretty ideal, if I do say so myself. It's just as I'd hoped and imagined it would be...well, pretty much. No one gets everything they've ever wanted in life. I'm a little less rich than I'd hoped. But I have a lovely husband who makes me laugh, two super-adorable, smart, healthy kids, and a pretty house in a nice neighborhood. The American dream, baby.

I'm happier now than when I was a teenager or young adult, so why do I find myself reliving the past so often? Am I trying to reassure myself that I chose the correct path? Am I testing the waters? Dipping my toes in Lake What-Could-Have-Been in the hopes of finding the water horribly cold and brackish? That sounds about right.

I just hope I don't fall in and drown.

A Topsy-Turvy Day

Today, Oakland Beach in Rye, NY

Today was a good one...but yet throughout the whole day things seemed off.

Because the forecast was for unseasonably warm weather, we decided to go to the beach--an unexpected, fantastic, bonus beach day.

The strangeness began on our drive to Rye, which is a town on the Long Island Sound with a few decent beaches. There we were, speeding down the highway--swim suits on, towels, floaties, and snacks all packed up--and lo and behold, the trees were starting to change color. It felt so odd to be admiring the yellow, orange, and red leaves while on our way to the beach with the car's air-conditioning humming.

Then once we arrived at the beach, there was the weirdness with the sun--the light just seemed wrong. At around 3 p.m., we were standing at the water's edge while Little Miss frolicked in the surf and Little Man tried to catch minnows. The sun was low--it seemed almost to be starting to go down--which made it feel much later than it actually was. Because normally when you are at the beach and the sunlight begins slanting that way, it's dinnertime.

Then it was time to go home. As we approached our neighborhood--sand between our toes and dried salt making our legs itch--the halloween decorations adorning the houses were downright jarring. Pumpkins, ghosts, and witches just don't go with flip-flops and shorts.

But, hey, I'm not complaining--I'll take it. Because before long, it'll be colder than a witch's tit, and our bonus beach day will just be a pleasant memory that we return to while freezing our butts off.

My Daughter, the Diva

Fancy shoes, tights over the
swimsuit, Halloween hair tie

My three-year-old daughter thinks it's perfectly okay to go outside wearing a swimsuit with tights pulled up over it, plus fancy, white, flower girl shoes. I insist on a jacket because, well, it's October and 55 degrees out there.

Getting my daughter dressed every morning is a tiring negotiation. Her go-to look is psychotic fairy princess, so it's my job to tone it down as much as possible. No parent should ever fight with their child over the clothes they want to wear (unless said child is a 15-year-old female decked out in a micro-mini and belly shirt), but there's no way I'm standing back without at least attempting to coordinate her outfit. But often my pleadings suggestions fall on deaf ears, and my sweet pea leaves the house looking like a hot mess.

Minnie Mouse

Some days I can convince her that a sundress isn't the best choice for a chilly winter morning, but other times, I just have to insist on tights underneath, and hope her winter coat is thick enough to counteract the spaghetti straps and bare arms.

This morning she decided on a Halloween theme: black pumpkin shirt, jack-o-lantern hair tie, turquoise leggings with gold polka dots, and black socks to match. The fact that the socks had snowmen all over them did not deter her. After all, they were black and therefore matched.

I do realize this is normal behavior, but after being spoiled by my first-born--my son happily wears whatever I lay out for him--my diva-esque daughter is a bit of a shock.

Bathing beauty/princess

At least it's never boring. On a daily basis, I never know if I'm going to be hanging out with Snow White, Minnie Mouse, a prima ballerina, beach beauty, fairy, some wacky combination thereof, or some brand new character I've never met before. Every once in a while, I even get to hang out with a regular, three-year-old kid.

Those are the most surprising days of all.

Thanks for the Quality Family Time, Amtrak!

Here I am, on the train to Newport News, Virginia, with my family, going to visit my sister-in-law and her family. We could've (should've?) flown, but decided to save some money and give our kids a train experience by taking Amtrak.

 Unfortunately, I happen to despise Amtrak. I used to take the train from Boston to Philadelphia all the time back in college (20 years ago), and the damned train was almost always late. Then there was the time a woman committed suicide by jumping on the tracks; that was somewhere in Connecticut, and by the time I got into South Station it was almost 2 a.m.

My Amtrak track record (ha, pun intended!) got so bad that I finally switched to the Peter Pan/Greyhound bus. But I figured it's been 20 years, give 'em another chance, right? Yeah, not so much.

A two-hour delay later (on top of the eight-plus hour trip ahead of us) did nothing to change my opinion of Amtrak as something so broken it might never get fixed. But when we finally got on the train, it wasn't crowded. the seats were roomy and comfortable, the bathrooms didn't stink too badly, and the cafe car had plenty of wine. Greyhound doesn't sell wine.

 And then somewhere just south of D.C., I looked out the window--the afternoon sun was sparkling so prettily off of some Northern Virginia river that a lovely feeling of peace and contentment came over me. I had my family with me, we were on an adventure, the scenery outside my window was beautiful.

What more did I want? Did it really matter that we were two hours delayed? Of course not.

It Was 20 Years Ago....

Eddie Vedder, grunge's poster boy, in 1992.
Girls loved him, guys wanted to be him. 

When I heard that Pearl Jam was celebrating their 20th anniversary this month, one of the first things that popped into my head was, "It was 20 years ago today, when Sgt. Pepper taught the band to play." Which really shows you how old I am.

I remember back in 1987, all the music critics were frothing at the mouth over the 20th anniversary of The Beatles' classic album, Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. The DJs, VJs, and various talking heads played that snippet of the song--"It was 20 years ago today, when Sgt. Pepper taught the band to play."--over and over (and over again).

In 1987, I remember thinking that 1967 seemed like a million, billion years ago--a time of flower people, free love, and chicks with hairy legs (versus my 80's world of Wall Street, neon, and big hair).

Not surprisingly, 1991 doesn't seem like THAT long ago. After all, I was already an adult twenty years ago. Going from being a young adult to an older one isn't nearly so monumental as going from being not born yet to a teenager. Youth warps one's sense of time--while you are growing up, it seems to be taking so damned long that even five years feels like an eternity, let alone twenty.

Yet my adulthood is speeding by--imagine that.

So I was blown away when I realized an entire two decades has passed since Pearl Jam and Nirvana (not to mention Soundgarden, Nine Inch Nails, Jane's Addiction, and Alice in Chains) broke out and changed the landscape of rock 'n' roll forever. These awesome bands also convinced us to replace our boxy, Stop Making Sense-ian, shoulder-padded blazers and high-waisted designer jeans with plaid flannel shirts and ripped Levi's.

And for that, I am eternally grateful.

Awful Song Lyrics: Duran Duran Edition

The same way awesome lyrics can turn a good song into a great one, awful lyrics can ruin a perfectly decent tune. If I truly adore a song's melody then horrible lyrics won't make me hate it, but I do get mad that the artist has gone ahead and ruined a great song by giving it stupid words.

This poster was on my bedroom wall in 1983.

The exception is Duran Duran. DD songs have some of the most asinine lyrics out there, yet I've never gotten angry about it. The ridiculous words fit somehow when it comes to the pop band whose pictures once covered my bedroom wall.

While in the car earlier today, I flipped the radio station to 95.5 PLJ (which I rarely listen to, but ever since 101.9 RXP went soft-rock, my choices are limited). "New Moon on Monday" by DD was on, and before I knew what was happening, I heard myself bellowing: "I light my torch and wave it for the new moon on Monday/and the fire dance through the night./I stayed the cold day with a lonely satellite."

What the hell? I thought. I mean, really, how meaningless and dumb and awful are those lyrics? And why has my brain continued to devote a whole bunch of cells to remembering them 28 years later?

Here is the video for "New Moon on Monday," from their 1983 album, Seven and the Ragged Tiger (the title of which doesn't make any sense either):

And here are some of the dumbest lyrics ever written for a hit song:

New Moon on Monday

Shake up the picture, the lizard mixture

With your dance on the eventide.

You got me coming up with answers

All of which I deny.

I said it again, but could I please rephrase it?

Maybe I can catch a ride.

I couldn't really put it much plainer

But I'll wait till you decide.

Send me your warning siren

As if I could ever hide.

Last time La Luna

CHORUS:

I light my torch and wave it for the

New moon on Monday

And a fire dance through the night.

I stayed the cold day with a lonely satellite.

Breaking away with the beast of both worlds

A smile that you can't disguise.

Every minute I keep finding

Clues that you leave behind.

Save me from these reminders

As if I'd forget tonight.

This time La Luna

CHORUS

FYI, "Union of the Snake," the first hit song off Seven and the Ragged Tiger also has idiotic lyrics. Pretty much all of Duran Duran's songs are dumb. But they are still awesome.

Bus Stop Mamas

I was preoccupied all day--my mind wandering while driving, barely hearing my daughter prattle on, etc.--and it was because of something so totally insignificant and stupid. There are days when I'm amazed at how pathetic I am, and today was one of them.

First, a little background: I am way too insecure for someone my age. Seriously, aren't we supposed to "come into ourselves" in our 30's, and then by our 40's be effortlessly self-confident and radiating inner beauty? That's what Eileen Fisher would have us believe, but for me, unfortunately, it hasn't quite happened that way. Oh, sure, I'm less insecure about my appearance nowadays, but that's mainly because I'm old enough to realize that's a battle I'm not going to win.

Nor am I still insecure about what the hell I'm doing with my life, because I ended up getting married, having kids, and quitting my job to raise them--and I'm good with that. Sure, there are days I wonder what it would be like to go to an office everyday and contribute creatively and intellectually to society while a full-time nanny takes care of my kids, but it's not something I actually want. I don't regret the path I've chosen.

I am, however, insecure about my friends--or rather, lack thereof. And it's confusing to me because for most of my life, having and making friends came naturally and easily. Growing up, I didn't even think about it--friends just popped up wherever I went. I used to consider myself something of an Alpha Female--I was usually a leader amongst my various groups of friends.

But as I got older, things changed. Throughout my 20's and 30's, my number of female friends dwindled--people married, moved away, got jobs that left little time for socializing, etc. And because I was no longer making new friends left and right, pretty soon I was down to a precious few. Then I had my own kids and moved to the suburbs where I knew almost no one.

I've been trying to make new friends since we moved here five years ago, but because I've never had to actively pursue friendships before, I am pathetic at it. I've become good friends with about four mothers (in five years--sad), but then two of them moved away. The other two don't even live in our town.

Which is why my current best friend is my 3-year-old daughter.

So, yes, I'm a little fragile when it comes to friends.

For the past two weeks, I've been waiting at the bus stop with a few neighborhood moms. Two of them seem like they could be potential friends but I'm just so clueless when it comes to taking it to the next level. After the bus has come and gone, instead of staying to chat I just say goodbye and head home.

Well, shortly after the bus had picked up my son this morning, I was back at home reading my daughter a book. I looked out the window and saw the two moms I like pushing strollers down the street (they both have young kids) and taking a walk together. They were chatting like old friends, though I know they pretty much met at the bus stop, too.

I instantly felt like the biggest loser. Why not me? Don't they like me? Is it because they both have two boys and both their second sons are still young enough to be taken for a walk in a stroller? If my daughter were still stroller age would I have been included as well? 

I spent all morning wallowing in self-pity and feeling like the greasy-haired, zit-faced girl at the junior prom that no one will ask to dance.

9-11-01: What I Remember

With the tenth anniversary of 9/11 just a few days away, it's impossible to watch the local news, listen to the radio, or read the paper without encountering something about that fateful day.

I don't much like hearing, reading, talking, or even thinking about that horrific event. I lived on 12th Street at the time, just a couple of miles from Ground Zero, so any reminder of the attack brings back awful memories. Thankfully none of my friends or family died that day, but living in the midst of such tragedy was still a terrible thing.

In those days if the weather was good, my habit was to walk to work, and on that fateful Tuesday morning, it was gorgeous: one of those late summer days with dry, crisp, clean-smelling air, a cloudless cobalt-blue sky, and a bright, cheery sun. The kind of weather that can't help but put you in a good mood.

I arrived at our nearly-empty office at around 9 a.m. As I walked to my cubicle, a young temp informed me that an airplane had just crashed into one of the Twin Towers. I looked over her shoulder at the frightening images on her computer screen, then ran to my desk and logged onto CNN.com. What a horrible, tragic accident! I thought. It was obvious that all of the people on the airplane must be dead, as well as dozens (if not more) who were working on those tower floors that suffered a direct hit.

I was listening to reports of fires in the tower and trying to process the horror of it all, when the news flashed across my screen: Another airplane had just hit the second tower. What?! A shiver ran down my spine as I realized what this meant. One hit could've been an accident but not two. By this point the office was full, and everyone was freaking out.

We ran to the conference room, where the office's only TV was located, and watched the disturbing images being shown: two airplanes sticking out of the World Trade Center; black smoke billowing from the towers; soot-covered emergency personnel running in and out of the buildings; people high up in the towers, standing at broken windows and waving white towels (spare dress shirts?), desperate to be rescued from the fires licking at their backs.

Then the TV showed something tiny falling from a tower...down, down, down. Oh, no, no, NO, it's a person! I couldn't look anymore--I covered my eyes and cried.

Then the towers fell, one after another, and the enormity of the event truly hit me. What at first appeared to be a horrible and tragic accident was officially now an evil, hate-filled, world-changing, never-to-be-forgotten, add-it-to-the-textbooks, hellish, historical attack.

I took this photo from the roof of my building on 9-11.

I walked home later that day, showing my I.D. to get past the police barricade at 14th Street, went up to the roof of my building, and looked South. Smoke. After watching the images on TV for hours, seeing the actual thing was surreal.

I didn't think things could get any worse, but they did. I lived two blocks from St. Vincent's, which was designated the primary admitting hospital for those injured in the attacks. Extra doctors and nurses were summoned, extra supplies gathered, but hardly any wounded arrived. Empty stretchers awaited bodies that never materialized--bodies that, as it turned out, were vaporized.

But people with missing loved ones flocked to the hospital anyway, just in case. A huge chain-link fence outside the hospital was soon covered with MISSING!! notices: sheet after sheet of Xeroxed, 8-1/2 x 11 pages showing the smiling faces of people who, we were beginning to realize, were gone. Every single one of the hundreds of faces staring back at me as I walked by were blown to bits. Their bodies would never be found...their loved ones would never be able to close a casket, bury a body, or visit a gravestone.

The Xeroxed notices lingered for weeks. They got mangled a little, wrinkled and ripped by the rain, they faded. But still the smiling faces stared out at me. I couldn't stop thinking about them--they haunted me.

But the worst was the smell. The acrid, burning stench was there 24/7. I closed my windows but could still smell it. For weeks I went to bed with the smell in my nostrils and woke with it still there. It got to the point where I couldn't remember what regular air even smelled like. I rode the subway all the way uptown but the smell followed me. I think if I ever encounter that particular stench again, I'll throw up on the spot.

I don't remember how long the smell lasted, because my attention soon was diverted by the Anthrax scares that were popping up all over Manhattan. People were also talking about the "very real possibility" of a subway bombing. Things were weird and SCARY for a long time.

What the reflecting pools will look like

Now ten years have passed and it seems like a lifetime ago. I don't like to remember because then I begin to think, hey, if it happened once, it probably will again. But last weekend after spending time at a cool, new downtown playground, we drove past the WTC site at the request of my son, who is obsessed with skyscrapers. It pretty much looks like any other construction site--except way bigger--and I was surprised to not feel much about it.

I do want to go back once the reflecting pools are completed, however. I think they will be beautiful and meaningful, and hopefully they'll bring some peace to those who lost a loved one that day. We can only hope.

I'm Not Ready to Say Goodbye to the Trucks, Dinosaurs, Skyscrapers & Dragons

I didn't think I was stressing too much about my son starting Kindergarten next week--okay, maybe a little about the bus picking him up at 7:49 a.m. (so early!), and also about having to pack him a lunch and snack everyday...but not about the idea of him going to Kindergarten. I've been handling that just fine, thank you. 

One of the Empire State Buildings I
found in the Ariel notebook

Or so I thought. But then I noticed something strange. Earlier this evening, I picked up a little Ariel notebook my daughter received as a favor from a birthday party--I wanted to jot something down--and when I opened it, there were pages and pages of sketches my son had made: multiple Chrysler Buildings, Empire State Buildings, and Eiffel Towers. Seeing them there so unexpectedly made me gasp, and I found it hard to breathe. I quickly flipped past the drawings to a blank page and cleared my head so I could jot down my note. 

My son loves to draw, so I'm used to finding his little masterpieces all over the place: on the back of the notepad meant for phone messages, on the pieces of cardboard that come inside new tights and socks, on the backs of receipts. In my nightstand drawer, crumpled up at the bottom of the Lego box, under the car's driver seat.

I've always adored coming across them. It's fun to figure out when they were drawn. A truck? Age two. Volcano? Three. Velociraptors and skyscrapers are from when he was four, and dragons are his current passion. 

But that seems to have changed. The drawings I found in the Ariel notebook tonight aren't the first ones that have left me short of breath. It's been happening for the past few weeks. I think it's because my son is growing up so fast, and whenever I find one of his drawings, it makes me wonder how much longer I'll have this pleasure. It's inevitable: The day will come when I no longer find his random sweet sketches all over the house. I can hardly bear to think about it...it makes me cry every time.

He's going to Kindergarten, he's getting older. My little boy is growing and changing, which means our relationship is going to change, too. And while I know that's a healthy thing, it also just happens to break my heart.

Goodbye, Summer, It's Been Nice

The past couple of weeks have felt like Autumn. The weather's been cooler, rainier, windier, and less humid--and that was even before the hurricane. This weekend, however (although it wasn't particularly cold), chilled me to the bone. That's because, while the main story this weekend was undoubtedly Hurricane Irene, the unspoken story was Summer's End. It's eight o'clock and pitch black out there. And that bums me out.

I've always been ambivalent about the end of summer. Summer is absolutely, without a doubt, my favorite season. Except for the bugs, I love everything about summer--even the humidity. You will never hear me complaining about the weather on a 105-degree day. Yet all good things must come to an end. Back when I was a kid, Autumn meant finally seeing my friends again, new school clothes, and getting back into a routine. I've always liked a certain amount of structure in my life--and I'm also about 50% nerd and loved school--so rather than be sad about saying good-bye to summer, I would happily welcome Autumn's imminent arrival.

That changed when I graduated from college and got a job, because the end of summer no longer represented an exciting transition. Fall's arrival just meant doing the same job day in and day out but with less exposure to sunlight, crappier weather, and no one willing to pay for a new fall wardrobe. That was the only period of my life when I'd get majorly depressed at summer's end. Every August 15th, I'd start stressing out: I hadn't been to the beach enough, or taken enough trips, or visited all the outdoor bars and restaurants I'd wanted to try, or perfected my tan, or, or, or....

But now that I have kids who go back to school each Autumn, my feelings about summer's end have changed once again. Once again I'm not completely unhappy to be saying hello to fall. Sure, I will miss the hot-n-hazy-n-lazy days, wearing flip-flops, relaxing by the pool, trips to the beach, sweet-n-juicy peaches, and having nowhere special to be. But yet the idea of having a few precious hours to myself during the week is utterly intoxicating. My son will be in Kindergarten and my daughter will be in preschool three mornings a week. That only comes to about eight hours of Me Time, but that will surely feel like a lot after the ZERO hours I've had this summer. I'm not complaining--I chose not to sign both my kids up for camp and I don't regret it--but it's been exhausting.

And it's not just me who needs Autumn to arrive. The kids are starting to get at each other's throats. They  are normally about as lovey-dovey as a brother and sister can be, but I've noticed more pushing and "Get away from me!"'s lately. They need space.

Sure, this week is going to be gorgeous--warm and sunny, no rain in sight--but that doesn't change anything. Fall is right around the corner...all the more reason to relish and savor this last week of freedom and unstructured days. I plan on enjoying it.

Nightmare House

The day began at 4:40 a.m. I was awoken by murmuring sounds coming from the other side of the bed. Our five-year-old son was whispering something to my husband...and I tried my hardest to ignore it. After spending all day with the kids (not to mention the years of night feedings my husband got to sleep through when they were babies), nowadays I pretty much make let my husband deal with the nighttime interruptions.

Is this what my son's nightmare looked
like, I wonder?

My son has been having nightmares lately, and that's what was going on early this morning. I heard my husband walking around, setting up a "bed" for my son on the floor of our room. Soon all was quiet again. Ten minutes later, however, just as sleep was beginning to envelope me, I heard more whispers. The same nightmare--of our house about to be engulfed by flames--had interrupted my little man's sleep once more.

Clearly, he needed a little extra TLC, so I idiotically offered up the bed. My husband could sleep in the spare room and my son could cuddle up with Mommy. I kept my hand on his warm, smooth, little back as he fell fast asleep.

Soon I began to wonder if my boy was now dreaming perhaps of riding his bike or of having ants in his pants, because he was twitching and wriggling up a storm. Grrrrr. Over and over again, just as I'd begin falling down that blissful rabbit's hole of slumber, the bed would jiggle and shake. How is it possible for a 44-pound boy to make it feel as though I were experiencing a 7.2-magnitude earthquake?

I weighed my options: stay in my bed and not sleep, or go elsewhere but risk my little man waking up again and being extra-scared by my absence. I chose the later, and snuck down the hall to my son's room, falling with happy abandon into his red race-car bed with the dinosaur sheets. By now it was 5:30, and beginning to get light out.

Minutes later, I heard wailing. Yup, my son had woken up and found the bed empty. I trudged back into my bedroom, laid down next to the Wiggle Monster yet again, closed my eyes, and watched the inside of my eyelids slowly go from black to reddish as the day dawned.

I must've fallen asleep sometime around 6:30, because next thing I knew, I was waking up and my little man was staring at me. "Is it my time?" he asked. I rolled over and glanced at the clock: 7:05, his normal wake-up time.

"It would be your time if you hadn't been up half the night." I groaned, immediately falling back to sleep.

Rustle, wiggle, twitch.

"Fine. You can get up. But go wake daddy. I need to sleep."

My son climbed off the bed and scampered out of the room.

Ahhhh, alone at last.

Meeeoooow.

I know I'll Miss This Someday, but Right Now....

Our neighborhood's annual block party was last night. It's always a fun day (and night) filled with live music, food, drinks, and good conversation. Well, at least for most people there's good conversation. Me? Not so much.

I was too busy dragging around an extra appendage (that looked an awful lot like my three-year-old daughter) to talk to anyone at length. I began a few conversations, but before long, my demanding, wants-me-all-to-herself little girl would start tugging on my hand, trying to pull me away. It was very distracting. And annoying.

I spent a good part of the day frustrated with her. I did understand that she was freaked out by all the people around and wanted me close by for security, but that didn't make her any less of a buzz-kill.

My girl during what was pretty much her only social
moment of the whole day (with her brother & a friend)

I was envious of my husband, who kept himself busy drinking beers and chatting with neighbors. Our five-year-old son spent the day happily playing with friends and riding his bike up and down the closed-off street, so my husband was free to drink and be merry. He attempted Daughter Duty a couple of times, but after just a a few minutes, darling girl would want her mama again.

And now that she's getting older, little princess has begun playing me. I'd ask if she needed to use the potty and she'd say yes. Then once back at the house, she'd sit on the pot for ages and ages pretending to try, when really she was just stalling. This happened a couple of times.

"C'mon hon, let's go back to the block party," I'd suggest.

"I no like block parties," she'd announce, as if she's been to so many and they are just so tiresome.

I struggled with her all day, and it put me in a bad mood. I was pissed off with her for ruining my block party. Bedtime was not pretty.

A couple of hours later, I looked in on her. She was facing the door, fast asleep, and as I opened the door wider, the light from the hallway fell upon her, illuminating her sweet and innocent little face. Tears sprung into my eyes as it hit me how stupid I'd been.

My daughter adores me and wants to be with me every second. I'm her best friend. This precious time I have with her will be so, so short-lived. God, I know that, yet last night I was dying to be unencumbered and free from her grabby little hands and whiny little voice. For what? So I could easily and breezily chat with my neighbors and have a few drinks? What the hell was I thinking?

Because I know...in what will feel like a mere instant, poof, it'll be gone. I'll blink and she'll be starting kindergarten, then I'll blink again and she'll be rolling her eyes over something stupid I said.

One morning I'll wake up, and this time will be over. And then I'll be pining to have it back, to have my baby back. My extra appendage. My shadow. My echo.

My best friend.

One of Those Days....

Vacation is over. Camp is over. Swimming lessons--over. But that's okay, because in three short weeks my son will be starting kindergarten and I will miss him terribly. So I'm happy to be spending all day, every day of these next three weeks with my two favorite people. BUT (big but)...that doesn't mean my kids don't drive me insane daily now and then. 

Take today, for example. The day started out so well. My youngest had her last toddler music class, and my son tagged along. Nice. Then a short walk through the woods and a fun splash through a stream to the Chappaqua library (luckily we wore our rain boots!) to watch a series of short films based on kids' books. The mini-movies were cute and we laughed. Then we investigated whether there could possibly be anymore Angelina Ballerina books that we hadn't yet read, and--SCORE!--checked out two new ones.

Things went smoothly when we got back home--the three-year-old was successful with the potty (a sticker for her Potty Chart and three M&Ms, yay!)--and no one complained about lunch. But before long, things slowly began going downhill. 

It's never one big thing that changes the tone of the day, but rather a bunch of tiny, annoying occurrences that, added up, are enough to push a mother over the edge. A toddler who won't nap (but desperately needs to), a kid (or two) begging for just one more cookie, removing the husk from the corn-on-the-cob that's supposed to be for dinner to discover it rotting inside, trying to weed the overgrown mess that passes for the backyard and getting pricked by the weird, thorny vine that is slowly asphyxiating all the nice plants. The small snowflakes build up into a massive, dangerous avalanche.

Then the whining starts. Mostly from the three-year-old, but the five-year-old isn't too old to chime in with the occasional well-timed moan just when I'm about ready to crack. The half-hour before my husband gets home from work consists of me trying to give my son positive reinforcement on the marble run he's just built and read my daughter Dora and the Snow Princess (for the five-millionth time), all while eye-balling the oven to make I'm not burning dinner. 

Then they whine throughout dinner, and I end up not even tasting the food I made, or else I'm up and down so many times that it's cold by the time I get to eat. By this time, not even the bottle glass of wine I'm drinking is helping me chill out. 

I love, love, love my kids more than anything else on this earth, but bedtime cannot come soon enough. The three-year-old whines until the last possible minute but I bite my tongue because I know if I get testy with her right before lights-out, it will only delay things. So I take a deep breath and just get through it.

Then, on the way from my daughter's room to my son's so I can kiss him goodnight, the cat slinks up and makes her "PET ME" noise. It's somewhere between a meow and a purr (it sounds a little like hoochie-coochie Charo rolling her R's), and I can't help but laugh because I thought I was done, I really did, but now here's THE CAT demanding my attention. 

But with the cat, at least I don't have to look or listen or talk or read Dora. I can just sit and enjoy the peace and quiet. Phew.

Awesome Song Lyrics: Suzanne Vega Edition

I just got back from a relaxing, lovely, sun-, sea-, and beach-filled vacation on Cape Cod. It's been hard getting back into the routine of everyday life in our land-locked, middle-class, suburban town, and my mind has been wandering back to Cape Cod. But I've also been thinking about other wonderful summer vacations--some from the recent past, some from many, many years ago.

I took this photo in 1988 of the
beautiful white cliffs of Dover.

One of my fondest summer vacation memories was a trip my family took to England in the summer of 1988. Because my mother was born and raised in England and most of her family still lived there, we visited England every few years throughout my childhood. They were always great trips, but this particular vacation in 1988 was different. It came after I'd been away at college for a year. My universe was expanding and, as a result, I was finally mature enough to fully appreciate the rich history and pristine beauty England had to offer. (And after being away from my family for a year, I could actually stand them for once.)

We spent about a month driving all around the country: London, Bristol, Dover, Hampshire, Stratford-Upon-Avon, Wells, and Devon, just to name a few. And while the cathedrals, castle ruins, and historic monuments were certainly magnificent, it was the countryside I loved the most. I sat in the backseat of our rental car, listening to my Walkman and watching the thatched cottages, tapestried farmlands, fluffy white sheep, and blooming wildflowers from the window.

We drove down narrow country roads where the hedgerows scraped our car on both sides and bounced along lanes that suddenly went from light to dark as we entered tunnels formed by the curved branches of tall, ancient trees. It was magical. It was hundreds of years after Henry VIII had beheaded his wives, yet the countryside still felt medieval and primal. I half expected to see a hobbit or perhaps a rabbit wearing a waistcoat emerge from the hedgerows at any moment.

My soundtrack to this vacation was Suzanne Vega's self-titled first album, which had come out in 1985, but I'd only discovered after "Luka" (from 1987's Solitude Standing) became a massive hit. I thought Solitude Standing was okay, but the first album absolutely killed me. And it was perfect for England. We'd visit castle ruins and learn about the royals who ruled there and the battles that were fought, then I'd cue up Ms. Vega's "The Queen and the Soldier" and the castle and its inhabitants would come alive in my mind:

The soldier came knocking upon the queen's door.

He said, "I am not fighting for you any more." 

The queen knew she'd seen his face someplace before

And slowly she let him inside.

He said, "I've watched your palace up here on the hill

And I've wondered who's the woman for whom we all kill.

But I am leaving tomorrow and you can do what you will

Only first I am asking you why."

Down the long narrow hall he was led

Into her rooms with her tapestries red

And she never once took the crown from her head

She asked him there to sit down.

He said, "I see you now, and you are so very young,

But I've seen more battles lost than I have battles won

And I've got this intuition, says it's all for your fun,

And now will you tell me why?"

The young queen, she fixed him with an arrogant eye.

She said, "You won't understand, and you may as well not try."

But her face was a child's, and he thought she would cry

But she closed herself up like a fan.

And she said, "I've swallowed a secret burning thread,

It cuts me inside, and often I've bled."

He laid his hand then on top of her head

And he bowed her down to the ground.

"Tell me how hungry are you? How weak you must feel

As you are living here alone, and you are never revealed.

But I won't march again on your battlefield."

And he took her to the window to see.

And the sun, it was gold, though the sky, it was gray

And she wanted more than she ever could say.

But she knew how it frightened her, and she turned away

And would not look at his face again.

And he said, "I want to live as an honest man

To get all I deserve and to give all I can

And to love a young woman who I don't understand.

Your highness, your ways are very strange."

But the crown, it had fallen, and she thought she would break

And she stood there, ashamed of the way her heart ached.

She took him to the doorstep and she asked him to wait,

She would only be a moment inside.

Out in the distance her order was heard

And the soldier was killed, still waiting for her word

And while the queen went on strangling in the solitude she preferred

The battle continued on. 

Here is Suzanne Vega performing the song: