The Dog Made Me Do It

     It wasn't until I became a pet owner that I realized how most of the time I speak, it's to myself.  Adopting a dog has only helped to mask the madness.
     My Lucy is a ratty, underweight, brown and white terrier mix with bald spots on her legs, and the boniness of an underweight  roasting chicken.  I originally saw photos of her online and passed on to the next dog- like me, she doesn't photograph well.  But when we walked into the Bideawee shelter in Manhattan, it was love.  She was sweet, shy, playful, and didn't bite.  Perfect.
     I find myself doing things I never thought I would do as a dog owner... or a sane person.  While I don't have her strapped to a baby carrier and tote her all over Brooklyn, here are just a few of the things I can't believe I do because I love Lucy.

1)  I am out of my house at 6:40 walking my dog.  (just a few short months ago, I complained daily on Facebook how I always missed the school bus.)
2)  I am picking up canine waste in public and carrying it around in a lavender scented bag until we reach home.
3)  I am telling my dog (in public) that barking in excess is not polite.
4)  I am on my knees on random blocks ripping bones that she finds on the street from her jaw as she clamps down tighter.  "Seriously Lucy, if chicken bones were diamonds, I'd be a millionaire!" 
5)  I do a happy dance over outdoor excrement and urine.  As Joe shakes his head in embarrassment I explain that I'd much rather Tango over pee outside than clean up the poop deck inside.

6)  With an extra name in the house I find myself calling my daughter Joycee, Lucy mistakenly.
7)  I am gushing to a pup.  I am talking in a very high pitched 'mommy talking to baby' language.  As she stares at me with her brown saucer eyes,  I know that she too feels the same.
8)  I admire other dogs on the street, I ask about the breed, the name, and the vet they chose.  I make small talk with strangers walking their pets.
9 )  I proudly show friends photos of our newest addition.
10)  I realize that the impatience I have with my kids is my problem alone.   If I can teach a dog in a calm voice not to pee in my house, not to scratch my furniture, and not to chew on my shoes, it would only be fair if while doing homework I extend my kids the same courtesy.
     Yes, rescuing a dog has changed the dynamics of our home, and so far...it's been for the better.

  

The Cheese Stands Alone

    

  It is not a happy morning, it's alternate side parking and I'm walking into a funeral.  Parking was a bitch because each of the row houses in this neighborhood has a homemade curb cut and yellow lines, leaving the whole side street looking like a peed on candy cane.  Because I won't spring for the knit hats with the mink pom-pom, I walk a little slumped over in my single rat pom.   I think I am a social person....until I have to interact with others.
     For instance, I'll make my way in, I am a few minutes late and the speeches have already begun, I try to find an open seat and sit.  Someone walks in behind me, makes her way strait to the front row, kisses and hugs each of the mourners, and is grasped tightly by each person in full appreciation for her words of comfort.  WHY COULDN'T I DO THAT?
    Later on, I go in for a consoling hug, I feel a pullback.  I think it's because she want to greet the next person in line, so I immediately back away-as she closes in to give me a kiss on the cheek.  Every intimate, emotional moment is like a first date with the botched good night kiss at the front door.  I walk away beet-faced, as if I just walked out of a sauna.
     Joe tries to facilitate at weddings, pushing me through the crowd, because he is a natural at working a room.  What he doesn't feel is my pounding heart.  The impact of his hand pushing up against my back, and parting through those who are more comfortably cordial than I.   I am the virgin being thrust toward the center of a smoldering volcanic crater.  Why am I being sacrificed?
     I am not a hi-howya-doing whirl wind.  I will never win a competition at a meet and greet for most outgoing.  But I'm no wallflower either.  I don't know when to do the cut in the break away the smile for the camera or the disappear into the background.  However, I can execute the funny anecdote, or on a more serious note flawlessly.  

"Congratulations to a beautiful couple."

        My absolute worst faux pas' include:
a)  Mouth full of food when the photographer makes his way around.
b)  Pulling up the strapless bra while dancing in the middle with the bride and groom.
c)  The videographer's light blinding me as I try to sound witty, grateful, and sincere while holding a microphone that makes me feel like Bob Barker.
  I'm horrible at double dutch.  I can not for the life of me do the jump-in when two people are engaged in a conversation.  What if it's a sensitive issue or top secret business information?  Every time I enter an affair, while Joe insists on fetching me a drink (and returns an hour later), I'm reliving recess in 5th grade waiting to jump into a spinning jump rope.  My hands are cupped and over my head, trying to get the timing strait so that I don't mess with the rhythm.  The craft I've so proudly mastered in grade school now puts me to shame.  I can not invade, so I evade, I swim around like a shark, do a few laps to see if the chat has died down...and then go in for the kill.
      Time has taught me that I can jump at my own pace.  I've always been more of a people watcher than an entertainer.  I don't have to be pushed up against the wall (or center stage) to speak.  I just need to be myself. Once  I welcome the fact that I am not the Ringmaster at a party, then maybe  I can relax and enjoy the circus.

Fall of the Queen

    Madonna dislikes being called 'Madge.'  In 2009, she admits that the nickname – often used by her British ex-husband, Guy Ritchie – made her feel "boring and middle-aged".
   Initially I hear the name Madge, and I think of a bored middle aged housewife who in between seeing her kids off to school in the morning and afternoon Karate carpool, has a part time job as a phone sex operator.  Her smoky whisper of a voice talking perversity the way a nursery teacher sings a lullaby. 
   Where her talent definitely is respective of the name 'Madge' for 'her Majesty,' (she IS the Queen of Pop) and anything that Gaga, Rhianna, Brittany, Katy Perry, or (dare I say) Miley Cyrus could concoct as a stunt-Madonna has already done in her sleep.  So why is her ass in plain sight? 
      Material Girl is wearing less and less each time I see her sing.   Instead of following the ab-rocking, horn-masked, shirtless men carrying her from stage left to right; I sadly watch her Majesty, and wonder how insecure she must be at the threat of losing the royal throne. Is she trying to keep up with the promising young talents of Nickelodeon/Disney?  To me Madonna isn't keeping up with anyone as much as she's showing her age-and a very passe' way of thinking. 

  Shock and controversy were always a large part of your appeal-but we're living in a time and place where almost nothing is new or impressive.  The audience is brutal and even the most naive have seen it all by the age of fourteen.  So now more than ever, it's your raw singing talent that needs to be exposed....

Behind the times?

not your derriere.  

My Flag-My Fear

     In mid summer while picking up bbq meats from the butcher, I noticed a stack of Israeli flags sitting in a box, proceeds to go to the IDF.  Without a second thought I bought one, very proud to show my allegiance to Israel and its people. A week later, still preserved in it's plastic wrapping it sat on the back seat of my car. 
     A month and a half later, as our Imam in Chief disrupts me from watching a perfectly good re-run on a Wednesday night, I realize my flag is still at rest as Palestinian flags wave violently from cars in the tri-state area.   
     I figured out that my insecurity to show my stand with good ole white and blue is not due to the state of Israel, but the current state of humanity.  I can not put my confidence in a nation that has not yet impeached the worst president since Jimmy Carter, or my safety in the hands of police who have recently done more harm than good.  
     There is so much prejudice, hate, violence, and disgust around us.  What if I put up that flag and get cursed at or spit on?  I don't want to lose what little faith I have in the kindness of strangers.  I've become numb to all that goes on, it's part of our survival mode (those of you who take the subway know what I'm talking about).  Unfortunately it is this outward show of indifference that makes it grow stronger. 
     I am afraid of watching everything crumble around me as I sit back and allow it to happen. Being numb will only cause the opposition to double it's shock value, that's something to be alarmed about.
     Before I give myself a chance to think of all the things that can/can't happen, I'm going out to find that flag and post it to my car. 
     The flag is up and I am proud.     

     The Aftermath:

     Later that evening, I have school orientation for the kids.  My husband Joe, who as always is running late, meets me at school mid teacher introduction.  After the meet and greet we went to our cars and made dinner plans.  As I drove away from the school my phone rang immediately.
     "You may want to rethink hanging that flag."  Joe says, "you don't want your car getting vandalized."
     "I just wanted to show...." I began.
     "Your solidarity, I know, I know.  You already have, you bought the flag didn't you?"  He spoke as if he's practiced this before calling me.
     I paused, but I admitted it.
     "and you went to that protest a few weeks ago in front of the U.N."
      I wanted him to shut up, but I got his point. 
     After parking my car I slowly dragged myself over to the rear passenger side to pluck the flag from the window and very delicately put it back into my trunk.
     What a wonderful world it is, when you have the right to live, pray, and express yourself with words or flags.

     What a frightening world it can be when the need to be heard overpowers the want for peace on earth.

.

The Fish Pimp

     It would have been simpler if I had a Spot, a Fido, a Snowy, or a Cocoa.  I would much prefer to dust and vacuum up dog hair, or even walk it at the most inconvenient hours of my day rain or shine; leash in my right hand and shit bag in my left.  Instead I have been cursed with two Betta fish, Barry and Berry, each housed in his own tank because they are a territorial fish. 
     It seemed the simpler of the options at the time.  Both my kids wanted a pet, what they really wanted was a dog, but because of the foolish inconveniences and responsibilities that come with answering to another life, I felt that fish would be a good way to teach my kids about obligation and caring without the hassle of a full time commitment.  Easy enough to clean a tank and feed, easy enough to dispose of if they forgot.  My one problem that I did not foresee-I care too damn much. 
   The care instructions from the pet store were as follows, feed fish every other day and change half it's water once a week.  For the first few days the kids scurried, "It's time to feed them, they haven't eaten."  The kids would drop 4-5 pellets into the bowls and watch as the Betas ate them two at a time and then spit it out and repeat.
     After a few weeks, and a thorough cleaning, I noticed a mass of bubbles at the corner of one of the tanks.  I wondered if someone had dropped something in the tank, like soap, but once I cleaned the tank again, the strange bubbles resurfaced.  The fish bowl adjacent to the tank had the same issue.  The next morning I Googled ' Betta fish and bubbles' to find out that what they were doing was preparing a nest to take care of the eggs from a female Betta.  The female fish lays the eggs, it's the male fish that catches the eggs in his mouth and collects them in the saliva bubbles that he created until they are ready to hatch.  In Guppy terms I told the kids that Berry and Barry needed girlfriends.     So cute, and yet so sad.
    Each week I'd clean out the tank/bowl only to find another bubble nest that would go on unoccupied.  Every time I cleaned the tanks, I felt like a geriatric delinquent, breaking into someone's home and vandalizing a room decorated with love for a baby to be.
     The next morning, on my never ending list of Things to Do, I add:
    purchase female Bettas.
     Every time I looked at the list I groan to myself.  This was supposed to be a beginner fish tank experience.
     I let it go for another day.  As I'd come into the kitchen to pour my coffee, Berry and Barry followed my every move, from pouring to sipping.  It became very uncomfortable.   They would sit just beneath their bubble nests, staring at me and fluttering their pectoral fins, like an impatient woman tapping her fingernails at an empty customer service desk.
     Later that day, I pulled up in front of Petco where happy, anonymous, LEASHED pet owners pranced their canines to and from the automatic sliding doors.  I walked strait to the fish department.  There I saw  the trap that started all of this fish nonsense.  Cute and colorful unsuspecting beta fish in all sizes suspended in small plastic containers.  I looked around, only able to find more males.
     I walked into the heart of the fish department, where filtered tanks hummed and thousands of fish paced in their glass prisons.  An employee asked if I needed any help at which time I began to explain my dilemma.  "My bettas are bubbling, I think they need girlfriends."
     "you can just clean out the tank."  Smiled the employee.
     "but I feel so bad for them.  They keep building that crib and they have no baby to rock." 
     "you know the female has to be ready too."  He said.  How true to life, I thought.
     "how do you tell?"

Taking my fish responsibilities way too seriously.

     "From her swollen belly."  He continued to explain that after the male squeezes the eggs from the female, she needs to be placed in a separate tank.  (we'll call it 'tank I didn't want #3')  After the eggs(anywhere from 150-500) hatch, the male takes care of them, after 6 weeks, they all need to be separated.  Too much for me to handle.
      "Unless you want to be a breeder, I'd advise you to hold off from purchasing any females."  That was the fish professionals advice to me.
     I walked in as a concerned fish owner and almost turned myself into the 'crazy fish lady' from an episode of Hoarder on that A&E show.  I imagine the ping of the glass as the camera crew tip toes its way around some 200 make shift fish bowls/jars/drinking glasses each with it's own single Betta fish inside.  Of course you'll never see my full head shot because I am constantly at the sink cleaning out fish tanks and feeding each little guy and calling him/her by name.  I cry about how my husband and children have abandoned me and how my siblings and parents have given up all hope.  I have bloodworms in my hair and an aquarium net stuck to my ass.  I eventually clean up my act and due to public sympathy am given a job as a mascot at the local aquarium.  No.  I don't think so.
     I know it's going to be a problem once I get home.  The kids will cry, and I may mope around when I drink my coffee for the next few mornings when Berry and Barry look to me for answers.   I walked out of Petco empty handed, feeling like more of a pervert than an animal lover, overcome by a strange satisfaction of knowing  I am the responsible party for my conception- and mine only.
    

    

The Fall of Summer

 

      There's an unexplainable sadness that comes at the end of the summer.  The last hurrah, last beach day, dragging the chairs down the hot sand and settling on a less than perfect, three rows back from the ocean spot, unobstructed.  The families around me seem to be having fun, taking out their picnic lunches, or passing around chilled bottles of beer from their coolers.  I watch as my husband tries to get comfortable in a place he is most cranky. We shoo the kids off like sand flies, one runs to the ocean the other to the snack bar.  Joe turns to his iPhone, and I am in danger of being pulled out by the undertow of my own thoughts. Taking inventory.
     What did I do to make this summer better than the last?  I bought the Wonder Wheel beach cart at the start of the summer.  I packed lunches and snacks for the kids, this year I came to the beach prepared.  I was home almost everyday to watch the kids roll off the bus.  We did see the fireworks on the beach on Fourth of July weekend, two sets-both Bradley and Asbury Park.  I've been pretty good with exercise. I was supportive of Chinese Auctions and other charity events.

A song, symbolic of every summer.

     I didn't take my kids to Point Pleasant. We didn't go out to dinner with the kids once a week to catch up.  I didn't go to Atlantic City with grandma, or even out for lunch once.  I didn't take paddle board lessons, I am no better a swimmer, nor did I build the super deluxe sandcastle that my kids have been chirping about for the last few years. I've done no 5K's.  I missed countless opportunities to catch up with friends. I didn't spend enough happy, relaxed mommy-time with my loves.  I was under the same roof as my mother, but didn't spend much quality time with her.
     The chain on the judgmental anchor pulling me down is broken when my silly,  ocean soaked mermaid with golden locks plops all of her weight onto me.  She babbles in tongues, I blame the Slush Puppy and a Bratz sorbet Popsicle that she got at the snack bar.  The day feels forced, and as the clouds roll in and the wind picks up, I feel it's G-d's way of easing the transition of Summer to Fall.
     An hour later, we march with the rest of the zombies, back to the cabanas to eliminate any evidence of a fun filled summer.  Sand molds, a purple hoe, my dad's unused swim shorts covered in dust, and four beach chairs that Joe curses as he loads onto the caddy.  I feel as if each step that we all take away from the beach club is draining the joy of what is left of the last Sunday.  The highlight of my day was watching Joe limp back to me on the beach, when I asked him what happened, he replied, "I hurt my foot on a muscle." Hours later I will continue to laugh as if it was the funniest joke or movie scene I'd ever witnessed.
     When we get back to my mother's house,  I walk into the kitchen and look out the sliding door at the side of my parents house; the driveway is empty, my best friend (who's lived next door from the time I was 8) has already moved back.  It's an odd tradition, but I usually stand in her driveway as they're backing out, waving and crying as if she's sailing off to another continent.  Just a few hours later we will review my tearful good bye and do an over all comparison to that of the last two decades. I don't know why it is that I can still cry at that scene, or that I feel so glum at summers end, especially when I don't have school the next day.
     Now I carry the weight of my own fear of change, and that of my kids. I need to smile, to breathe in relaxed in/exhales. I remember this day, as a kid, a teenager, and a young adult.  I believe it's about change, that can't be stopped or predicted-just accepted.   As we drive back to Brooklyn, there is no traffic, it is a smooth drive with minimal arguing in the back seat.  I've soothed myself into understanding that all will work out and that everything will be just fine.  I am on Ocean Parkway and have not gone through one red light or been cursed at once.
     The closer we come to the house, the more pronounced the sniffles from the backseat become.  As I turn up the block and approach our semi-detached home on the avenue.  There it is, two car spaces deep and street cleaner wide-a huge green dumpster, smack in front of my house.   A nice welcome back from our attached neighbor.  I sit speechless, at this second I am faced with two choices.  I can jump into the back with the kids and start crying......or I can jump right in.

First Time

     There is nothing sadder than watching the eyes of a child trying to process the concept of death for the very first time.
     First, they get out of the car, excited about being redirected from the usual bus stop down the block from home.
     Second, you look them dead in the face as others frantically run past you to comfort the mourners.
     Third, you spill out the news that Pops died.
     4)  Your nine year old son looks at you and asks if you're pranking him.
     5)  You walk the kids into the house where the furniture is being maneuvered out the front door and cushions are placed on the floor where the breakfront with all the family photos usually is.
     6)  You see his eyes change from half-moon smiles to raised eyebrows of concern.

   It is here that the music from the ice cream truck comes echoing off every corner of the house.  A sigh of relief escapes me as my AD-Daughter starts ping-ponging herself up and down pleading for an ice cream fix. I look to my father, the remaining grandpa,who takes the cue and walks them away from loss and eternity to King Cones and Screwballs.
     Joe doesn't think the kids get it.  Joycee comes barreling in to me with a Snow Cone.  Alan walked in with a vanilla cone.  Each lick becoming more of a struggle.  To me there was no question-he got it.
     "Where is he?"
     "Hatzalah took him away.  They're going to bury him tomorrow."  I answered.
     "Where's grandma?"  He says sticking a free hand in his pants pocket.  "I want to see her."
     I lead him into the back den, where my mother in law is perched on a brown leather ottoman.  Her sad eyes still sparkle when she sees him.
     "Hold my cone."  Alan says, his voice begins to crack.
      Slow and shy, he makes his way towards her.  Her embrace separates him from the rest of the visitors.  She whispers something to him and he makes his way back towards me.
      "I want to go now."  He says ripping the cone from my hand.
     He walked to the car with a mission. Slammed the door and began to cry.
     7)  He asks how old Pops was.
     8)  They both ask how old you and your spouse are.
     It has been almost two weeks and the crying seems to get worse each night. There is nothing I can say or do to console him.  "I know he's with Hashem, he doesn't have cancer anymore...but I miss him.  I only knew him for nine years!!!  Mommy, this is my first.  You know a lot more people that died, but Pops is my first!!!"  His mind working triple speed after dark.  There is nothing I can do to console my man-child.
     As he cries aloud my heart breaks in a whisper. 

     I don't know if it's because he's a child,
 
     or for the first time, I see I can not shield him from understanding like an adult.