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.