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.

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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.
    

The Rhythm in My Step

     It's a day after Passover and I don't feel like a pig.
 
      A pig wouldn't point its snout in the direction of Mediterranean flavored or whole wheat matzo, and certainly wouldn't partake of any cakes made with potato starch.  No, that was all me.  After ten holiday meals, I surrendered to it all.
      I don't know what I was thinking when I woke up this morning and stuffed myself into my exercise clothes, though it felt more like a wet suit after nearly ten days of being sedentary. 
  I walked into the studio reluctant to see how out of shape I was after a week of my cardio indifference.  I made it to the front row by default-I was actually in the second row and no one stood ahead of me.
      I looked at myself in my Supplex tights (made by Dupont, the company that also makes body armor for our military.  I am fighting a way different battle from our troops, doesn't make it any easier.) The only thing missing from this complete surrender to exercise was florescent lighting and magnifying mirrors.  That would have sent me-and probably every other Zumbie-screaming out into the streets.  But I stayed in place.  I wouldn't move.  And then the music began.

Me during Zumba.

     The downside to Zumba, is since it's my first time back in a few months, there's going to be new music.  New songs means new routines.  To psyche myself up, I pretend I'm a dancer going in to an audition.  First there's the stretching, then the encouraging and easy to follow warm up;   Everything is fine until the first girl yells"Wooh!"  -then they all break out into a dance I feel they've secretly created while I was throwing my sweatshirt into the corner of the room...and I am completely lost. 
     To save face and keep my heart rate up I jog in place and roll my eyes or smile.  As everyone else turns in complete synchronicity with the poise of professional water ballerinas, I flail my arms and side step as if to avoid drowning.
      If I were 20'something, this dance would have been over.  I would have faked an injury and walked out whimpering.  My cries only dulled by the screaming elastic of my underpants. I would have felt like crap, not even completed a workout, only proving the bad voice inside my head to be the victor. 

Feeling awesome by the end.

     In time, I've learned to dull that bitch. 
     I stayed, I sweat, I laughed at myself-I felt great afterwards.  Not bikini body, but not matza miserable.  I can't give any tips to avoid the over indulgence of the unleavened, but what I can say, and I do  believe is that EVERYONE feels the same way coming out of this holiday.
    Not only do I plan to stick to a schedule that includes regular exercise, I plan to drop a note in the suggestion box at Manischewitz.   If they plan to keep me as a patron, matzo boxes should include coupons for a month's worth of Zumba classes.....not gefilte fish. If they want my loyalty as a customer, they're gonna have to make me dance for it!

                                       My absolute favorite commercial-I'm the one in the sweats.

Facing Myself

     I feel gorgeous.


     That was the text I sent to my sister after my hairdresser Mali gave me the coolest updo I had ever seen.   I had my best friend's wedding that night, and I wanted to look and feel great.  I always shied away from having my hair pulled back. Until today, whenever I attempted it, I always felt my face looked potato-like.  But between the long, curly lashes and even tone complexion that Jennifer gave me, and Red Carpet hair, I was a knockout.
     There was no difference in how I acted (other than looking in the mirror admiringly at the woman who by this time would normally be disheveled and cursing the homework fairy) once I felt stunning beyond words.

     I found the dress just a day before.  My sister went through my closet with me and although I had something to wear, she wanted to see me in something I was happy and excited to put on.
    I was enthusiastic and giddy as I dressed for the wedding.  I smiled through a pair of Ultra Sheer black pantyhose that ran before I even left my room.   I had no insecurities.  Any blemish was hidden with foundation and cover up, any lack of muscle tone sucked in courtesy of Berkshire tummy, hip, and thigh control pantyhose. 

ME vs. Mom-mee

     I walked in to the party, like I was walking onto a yacht-except I had two kids under ten that immediately requested Cokes with ice.  Joe was going to meet us there, he was on his way home from a conference and would be much later than I wanted to be.
   At the reception, it was as if I'd zipped myself into someone else and walked around.  No one, including my own dad recognized me at first.  Did hair and cosmetics make that much of a difference?  The only hint of 'me' was my daughter tugging at my dress and asking me for one of the iced sugar cookies in the shape of a wedding cake.  Was it possible, was I so hideous, did I walk out of our home in such disarray that everyone needed my dental records to be convinced it was me?!
     Some memorable words of tribute to me:
     "I'm not trying to sound rude, but you've never looked better." 
     "I didn't even recognize you!  You look breathtaking!"

Is this me running errands or looking for the nearest bell tower?

     "Oh my G-d, I didn't even recognize you!!"
     "You should always look this good."
     With each 'compliment' my ass sagged a little lower, the foundation dug deeper into the crows feet around my eyes, and now any confidence I had at the beginning of the night had unhinged itself from me and wanted to make a mad dash for the buffet.
     Did I look so different?   I pictured my daytime self running around in my black scuffed up biker boots looking enviously at Uber-Zee.  I don't know if it was that I looked better, or that the happiness I had for my friend was what illuminated me.
     At 1a.m. my toes were throbbing, and little bubbles of fat played peek-a-boo through the run in my pantyhose, yet I didn't want the night to end. Was it because I was having the best time in years, or was I afraid of being knocked back into reality and off of the 'pretty' pedestal I had created for myself?
     I thought back to the person who told me, "It doesn't get better than this."
     Maybe it doesn't.  How often do I go to weddings and have the opportunity to feel such bliss throughout the night?  It wasn't the decor,  the food,  the music, or the colorful display of bottles behind the bar.  It wasn't even my appearance.....it was a positive energy that resonated throughout the room.  Every being in that room was beaming.
     Perhaps the truest state of euphoria is holding on to that feeling even after the hair comes down and the war paint off.  I don't know if I have the courage to test this theory tonight.
     Rather than pick the 32 bobby pins from my hair when I get home or peel off the lifting particles of lash from my lids, I will sleep uncomfortably, but happy; anxiously awaiting the next slew of invitations. 



    

My Monday Morning Quarterback

      Today, this Monday morning at 7:47, I definitely need an alibi.  Both kids are downstairs eating a nutritious breakfast of Waffle Crisp cereal.  We have just confirmed a dentist appointment after school, and now Joey thumps down the stairs in a weighty stumble, sits at the table, and in his sleepy presence is not with us.  I go upstairs to wash up, I've already accepted the fact that I need the extra twenty minutes that the bus does not allow me.
     "Just stay down here with them."  I ask Joe. Which requires almost nothing of him.  I won't even ask him to pull off the seasoned bathrobe sprint to the bus stop a block away.  He grunts at me as he lifts his coffee mug.  Charming as ever.
     I come downstairs ten minutes later.
     "C'mon kids."  I say grabbing my bag.

My quarterback.

    "You know you could have made the bus."  I hear him say as I toss my bag over my shoulder and cover my leopard bathrobe with my jacket and scarf.  Whaaaa?  I think to myself but express strongly in my stance.
      He is sitting at the kitchen table, completely unaware that lunch needed to be packed, snacks picked, and teeth brushed.  He assumed it was all done.  "Alan, did you brush?"  I call over my shoulder.
     "I'm going now." He responds.
     "awww.....that's not fair."  Joe complains.  He needs to learn, just because a nine year old knows to brush his teeth it doesn't actually mean that he'll do it.
     There Joe sat, like a fat Russian wannabe Olympic trainer eating fried chicken, watching me run the hundred meter to the bus stop and complaining that my time was off.  I've been in training for the past six months for this, yet in his stagnant state, he thinks he can take home the gold.
     Today I need an alibi because I can kill over the criticism 'sans' construct.  I am up from four a.m., rushed and weighted down by my son and his "I know, I know...." and "Okay, okay"  in between insignificant squabbling and critical snack selection.  I knowingly miss the bus (and up to the second he opens his mouth) am okay with it.  Then comes the Monday morning quarterback.
    Touchdown- "Can I do anything to help out hon?   Should I walk them to the bus stop?  Are the school books packed?  I'll rinse my coffee mug and put it in the dishwasher."  Would be nice to hear. But what it get goes more like:
     Flag on the play-"the coffee's not strong enough, I slept like a rock last night or (my personal favorite) did someone fart?"  Mick Jagger, I know what you mean, I can't get no satisfaction either.
     I wonder how much any husband would appreciate a pop-in from the wife during a power meeting at work.   She sits and observes a conference call.  Once her husband has put the receiver back on the phone-Shoulda, woulda, coulda made a better deal, gotten a better price, better terms, bigger contract, blah, blah, blah.  Unless you're willing to take action, don't step onto my field.  Actions do more than take up oxygen, they could help out that frazzled mom who for once would love to not drive her kids to school.                                                     
    If I were not so focused on getting the kids to school and avoiding jail over a domestic dispute, I'd hit him over the head and smash him into the shape of a fun-shaped chicken nugget, package him in a foil wrapper and send him to school with the kids.

Read between the Yellow Lines

     Tonight I attended parent teacher conferences.  Once I walked out I was met by two police cars.  One of the neighbors called in a complaint, it's usually because a parent unknowingly blocked a driveway.


Key word-unknowingly.

     In my opinion, there is a special art in unknowing a street you frequent with your kids daily... yet everyday, people play stupid.  Ignoring the 'No Standing' sign on each corner so that the buses can't turn onto the street backing up traffic a block on Dahill.  Buses and cars squealing their horns, like barnyard animals trying to break free from the fence.  Cars double parked for pick up, locals passing by with furrowed brows and the unforgiving sound of metal scraping metal.  We may have the tendency to forget, the neighbors unfortunately do not sympathize with this.

     The guard is outside with a look of concern.  "They're blocking driveways.  They're gonna get ticketed,"  he said as he put out his cigarette.
     I shrug as I walk back to my car parked in a legal spot, but under my breath say "Good."  Why should I be the only one shivering in the snow, or walking in the rain?  There are rules, and don't block my freakin driveway is the mother of them all.
          I'd also like to pick on the 'yellow line creators/extenders.'   I don't have a law degree, but just because ones paint yellow lines two feet past their curb cut, doesn't mean that they own the extra 4 feet of sidewalk or curb.  Or does it?  And why is yellow always the color of choice?  Why not fuchsia?  If you're gonna paint something for the public, let it have some artistic value.

     My driveway is constantly blocked.  I myself am not a driveway hog, if there's a street spot and the driveway is open, I take to the streets.  But on that off chance that I need to go for that space that is meant for me, there it is-a van unloading, a workman for someone else on the block, the neighbor with the giant stucco truck that can never find a spot (and never offered a discount to re-stucco our house)or even a motorist using his iPhone. There are five other driveways on the block, ours always seems to be the default to regular street parking, and yet I still have not to invested in the paintbrush or the tow away sign.
     Parking is a privilege reserved to those who have cars, it is not an entitlement to park everywhere.   My remorse for those who still think that it's okay 'just for a second' to block or park where they are not permitted only to be perplexed when ticketed or towed.  My compassion lies with those with a place to park, who ironically cannot.

Maybe I can commission someone to paint this at my driveway.