Keeping Our Nasty In Check

I long ago gave up engaging in negative discourse over social media.  While it was never something that I did with any particular regularity, a few month ago I managed to find myself inordinately caught-up, worked-up and fed-up by an hours-long Facebook thread in which I repeatedly attempted (and, I might add, failed) to dissuade a high school acquaintance (and, not for nothin’, her own private posse of like-minded people) that not only is a person who identifies as transgender not a lower form of life but, as it turns out, neither are her parents who “allow” her to be herself.  Not surprisingly, I have a lot of feelings around this subject and I will even cop to the fact that, at the beginning, when I mistakenly thought we were engaging in respectful banter, I enjoyed the energy of the exchange.  It was when the vicious personal attacks began that I was outta there.

I recall feeling disgusted not only that there were people that I personally know who were, in addition to being violently misinformed, entirely unwilling to accept the fact that there existed an ideology other than their own.  The complete absence of empathy, compassion and kindness was appalling not because they did not see my point of view; rather, they did not respect the fact that the point of view I have is different from their own.

Of late, there is an abundance of fractured friendships, name calling, accusation hurling, highly aggressive support for your person but even more highly aggressive sentiment against theirs.  The hostility, and its intensity, comes from both sides resulting not in change necessarily rather an interpersonal breakdown: complete and total disrespect for one another.


This week, there are those who have taken to social media to rally against the millions of women who participated in the marches held all over the world over this weekend.  Yeah, I straight up do not understand that.  In my mind, the marches were not against their guy…they were for every mother, daughter, sister, aunt and friend who fears losing the long held right to decide for themselves what they can and cannot do to their bodies, who they can or cannot marry, how they are able to protect themselves, in every sense of the word, from this increasingly cruel and scary world.  How can anyone, with or without a vagina, protest that?!  Yet they have.

Today a friend posted a video on Facebook of a woman named Peggy Hubbard who, I have learned, frequently posts videos sharing her feelings and opinions on happenings in the world[1]. With abject disgust and anger in her voice, countenance and presentation, she spent nearly ten minutes dispensing a lecture on how disgraceful the marches were, how women should be ashamed of themselves and, rather inexplicably, had a running diatribe about the abundance of nudity at the marches.  (Huh?  There was nudity?  I normally don’t miss something like that…) She lashed out at Bill Clinton’s ogling of FLOTUS, was deeply offended by the sea of Pussyhats, aggressively refusing to use the “p” word opting, instead, to utter “vagina” as often as possible. She claimed, no, certified is more like it, that the women who marched had set us back 100 years.  And it pissed me off.

I briefly considered just scrolling on by, but her outright lack of respect for other women was more than I could take.  So I posted this:

XXXXX, nothing personal, but this woman is a disgrace to women everywhere. The women on the march did not set things back 100 years….your boy XXXXX is doing his level best to take care of that on his own. What’s all this talk about nudity? And for a woman to think that XXXXX propensity for grabbing pussies is ok…well, yuk. Bill Clinton “undressed FLOTUS with his eyes”…gimme a break.

I briefly deliberated not posting my knee jerk response, yet I allowed my impulsivity and underlying anger at the way the world seems to be functioning now and hit enter.  And then I waited for a flurry of nastiness, retribution and criticism to be hurled my way.  A part of me might even have been gunning for some spirited discourse. But the anticipated flood of vitriol never came.  In fact, the original poster and his supporters were far more respectful of me than I was of them.  I, in fact, had gone after them for having an ideology different from my own…and did so in a not particularly gracious or articulate way.

I have since deleted the comment, acutely aware that my incendiary remarks recast me into exactly the kind of person I have such disdain for.  Ouch. I fear, however, that we are all falling prey to a new normal which includes disrespect, unkindness and lack of acceptance.  I do not want that in my life…and suspect you don’t want it in yours, either.


Our feelings are never wrong.  We are fully entitled to our opinions, fears and concerns.  We are not, however, entitled to shame, curse or diminish someone else if their feelings (which are still never wrong) differ from our own.  As I see it, either we are all going to work a little harder at respecting one another or all hell is going to break loose.

[1]  I tried to share the Facebook Live link here, but was unable to…however, a Google search brought up tons of videos of her, just not the one I was hoping to share.

80 Words

Today would have been my father’s 80th birthday.  He was never one for fanfare or special attention under any circumstance, let alone his birthday.  Were he here, we would have celebrated as a nuclear family and not bothered with gifts since he truly considered his family to be the only gift he wanted or needed.


To commemorate this day, however, I asked the family to share, in 80 words[1], some thoughts.  Everyone is busy, the world is crazy[2] and not everyone in my family wears their heart on their sleeve as much as I do (most people don’t).  I completely respect them for that.  In fact, I could learn a thing or two from them.  Regardless of who did or did not write something, everyone in his family cherishes, adore and miss him.


The thing I miss most about my dad is his toothy smile and big laugh. 

 In fact, since childhood, my greatest joy was those times I could really make him crack up.

 There were a few subjects that would do the trick so I naturally returned to them time and time again.

 With him, it seems I never went too far.  I appreciated that in him.

I still like making people laugh.  But he was my best and favorite audience.



I think about my dad every single day. I wish he were here.  To enjoy my children, little kids when he died, now young adults.  To meet my wonderful husband and his family whom he’d have loved.  To remind me that things always work out, to keep my sense of humor and to not take things too seriously.   Or to share a donut, a York Peppermint Patty , a Klondike Bar or Celtics’Game. But mostly for his magical hug.


Aunt Barbara (sister):

About my brother…..a tease with a twinkle…did you know of the mysterious hole in the closet between our bedrooms, the toneless phone at of the 1940s, galoshes, hats and gloves stowed under the steps on the way to school and retrieved on the way home, the blare of the Long Ranger and Tom Mix every evening, stickball in the street and “meat du jour”?

Camp Lenox, the proud but short life of his first car, the not short jacket sleeves, fifty cents a football lesson…these are a few of the precious memories of the brother I loved and continue to love.

Jack (grandson):

I smile to think of my grandfather on this week especially, because his values were so completely and refreshingly the opposite of those that have overtaken our country’s most prominent leaders. He was a person whose decency ordered his life, and that was a principle he and my grandmother instilled in the rest of us. Kindness, generosity, and patience were not aspirations for him; they were simply his nature. How lucky I am to have had such a role model.


Harrison (grandson):

It’s wrong to be selfish; Poppy never told me this, his actions did. If you ask anyone who knew him, they would tell of his selflessness. Through the years I have found myself being selfish in wanting him back. He was such a wonderful man, friend, husband, grandfather – the list goes on. I want him back, we all do. Yet, I have no doubt he is helping someone, somewhere with something they need him more for. We all love you.



Thinking of you, MJL, and all those candles that we’d have lit in your honor…


June, David, Ellie, Robbie, Julie, Barry, Becca, Jack, Izzie, Rachel, Sara, Harrison and Jessie.

[1] My Aunt exceeded 80 words…but since she knew him the longest, I gave her a pass. 😉

[2] Anyone who knew him knew that my father was the consummate gentleman.  He would have been so utterly disgusted by the behavior of the man in office that I am almost glad he wasn’t here to witness it.

Mama Bear

I have never, ever, ever been the “not my kid” mom.  You know the type: their little ones are perfectly behaved, never at fault and always a victim.  No, actually I usually assumed, and was exquisitely accurate, that it was my kid.  Once, when Jess was two, we were at the playroom at our local JCC, a place we logged thousands of hours in the winter months.  I saw a parent angrily perusing the room, clearly looking for the parent of the little hooligan at their feet.  I was pretty certain that it was my little hooligan (which it was) so I slowly, calmly headed in their direction, hoping that, if I walked slowly enough, the situation would diffuse before I arrived and angry other parent would never make the connection between me and Jess.  Alas, that is not how it played out.

Other parent: (pissily) ” Is this your kid?”

Me: (with a calm, sweet, hopefully disarming smile) “Maybe.  Depends what she did.”

OP: (still pissily) “She just bit my kid for no reason!”

Me: (still with a kind a smile) “Oh, she had a reason…she’s two.”

OP: Proceeds to rip me a new one.  At which point, her little darling shoved Jess to the ground. Crying ensued.  Other parent forced to eat their words.  I did not gloat.

Game. Set. Match.

From the beginning, my kids were taught and knew:

  • Tussle on the playground? You can never throw the first punch, but if someone hits you, hit ‘em back.  You cannot, however, ever hit a girl.
  • Someone giving you a hard time about being a swimmer and not a baseball player? Work it out. And, see bullet above.
  • A teacher being mean to you?  Talk to the teacher…you’re probably doing something to piss them off.
  • Not feeling 100% this morning? To “ill” to go to school? Get up, take a shower and see how you feel.  (That, in fairness, was a page directly from my father’s playbook.  And, guess what?  Nine times out of ten, the shower did the trick.)
  • You’re a teenager? Time to learn and then do, for the rest of your life, your own laundry.
  • You can be a boy, a girl, a dog or a Martian. You cannot, however, be an asshole.


That kid who elevated the playground tussle to pushing you down to the ground and then punching you?  The classmate giving you a hard time to the point of making you not want to go to school?  The teacher who legit seems to have it out for you?  Spike a fever and throw up on my feet?  Well, that’s a different story…and this Mama Bear is going to come out, claws ready, teeth bared and ears back, ready to rumble.  Mess with me.  Do no, I repeat do not, mess with my kids.

Badass Bear

I am fiercely loyal, protective and supportive of my children.  Have they always made it easy?  Hell to the no.  Has It always been fun? Nope.  Have there been times that sitting in the corner, rocking, sucking my thumb and pouring wine down my throat feels like the only best solution? Yep.  Has even the fantasy of clocking a kid or, even more so, their parent, seemed pretty much the most awesome and perfect way to solve an issue? Oh, yeah.


I am a mature, in-control, compassionate and kind (all of these, of course, most of the time) woman and, to date, have behaved appropriately, even whilst biting my tongue, sitting on my hands and gritting and grinding my teeth down to powder.


The depth of my anger and disappointment, both for my children and, frankly me, at someone’s behavior this week is epic.  I am not a violent person.  I try to let bugs out as opposed to kill them.  I eschew gratuitous slashing and killing in books, movies and television[1] opting, instead, for the feel good shit.  Yet, right now, I truly want to rip into, call out, scream at, swing at and drive a car into and then over (and back again) a particular person (an adult, I might add) who has outrageously wronged my kids.  And, not for nothing, this is not the first nor, I assume and dread, the last time.


I know, from repeated experience, that nothing that I say, do, plead, beg or pray for will change this person.  I can neither embarrass nor shame.  Talking calmly, yelling maniacally, remaining silent or enlisting others to intervene: all for naught.  And, for this mama bear, that is perhaps the hardest part.  I have always tried hard to let my kids, with my support and encouragement, figure things out.  If I fix everything, what will they do when I am not around?   I do, however, share their hurt, disappointment and fury.  I also, want like hell to fix this one…but I know I cannot.

Do I want to swoop in and save them?   Of course I do.

Do I want to erase what has happened? Duh, more than anything, ever.

Do I know that they are strong, independent and smart kids who will, like everything else, figure it out? Yep.

But, if I am being honest, it is taking every shred of self control for this Mama Bear to not go on the attack.  And it sucks.

[1] Notable exception: “Shameless”.  Oh. My. God


Even on the most frigid days, he seldom wore a coat.  Every night, all year round, he would come home from work, change out of his suit and into a pair of shorts (the same shorts for the entirety of my life) and an old shirt, his feet bare.  His favorite temperature was fifty degrees or below and his love of air conditioning was unparalleled.  On warm days, his already measured (read: very leisurely) gait would moderate in the (often vain) attempt at avoiding (his habit of easily) breaking into a sweat.  He described the crisp, blustery days of fall as “delightful” and took the heat and humidity of the summer as a personal affront.  As much as my father loved a cold day, he loathed a hot one.  In fact, my mother kept a blanket in the car which she would wrap around herself to keep warm, no matter the time of year; the heat was always too low and the air conditioning set to arctic.

Every  morning in the winter he would gracefully lay his winter coat in the trunk of his car, suggesting he might actually wear it.    I am not even sure why he owned one, let alone bothered to take it in and out of the house each day, since I am one hundred percent certain he never put it on.  Also in his trunk: a pair of galoshes which, by the way, he insisted on calling rubbers.  Calling them by their less formal name was his way of gently teasing me, an easily provoked teenager, and it worked.  I was utterly horrified that he even knew the word, let alone that he chose to use it in my presence whenever humanly possible.  It was pretty classic MJL.


When the weatherman used words like “blustery”, “crisp” and even “frigid” my father’s interpretation was that it was going to be delightful.  On the flip side, the descriptors “hazy”, “hot” and the most offensive, “humid”, would actually piss him off a little.

When everyone was cold, he was hot.  When everyone was comfortable, he was hot.  When everyone was hot, he was miserable.  It was so much a part of him.

All that changed once he started the chemo that would briefly extend his life.   Suddenly he was always cold, dressed in layers and raising the heat.  His queries as to whether anyone else thought it was hot in the room, abruptly morphed into his request for consonance that it was, indeed cold…even when it wasn’t.  I happen to share his affinity for cooler weather and distinctly remember thinking that the drugs that were supposed to be attacking the cancer were actually killing a central part of who my father was.  Our long tradition of commiserating about the stickiness on the back of our necks or the absurdity of everyone else bundling up in sweaters on what we considered to be a delightfully crisp day was no more.

This morning with the temperature in the teens, the wind strong enough to sway the large trees in my backyard and warnings that the current 27 degree reading represented the high for the day, I opted out of my regular morning beach walk.  Instead, I drove to the gym and spent 45 minutes climbing to nowhere on the elliptical, bored out of my skull and trying desperately to avoid checking how long remained on the countdown clock.  By the end of my workout I was, not surprisingly, dripping with sweat, red in the face, my hair fuzzing up.  I left, met my girlfriends for a cup of coffee and planned to head home, shower and get on with my day.  As I walked to my car, I thought how refreshing, crisp and, yes, delightful, the air felt against my face.  I drove out of the lot and took a left, even though home is to the right.  A few moments later, I parked at the ocean, pulled on my hat and gloves and walked down to the sand.  The wind was whipping, the waves were crashing, the sun was full and, most people would agree, it was freezing.



The tide was coming in, so my time was limited.  I spent about twenty minutes pacing the shrinking parcel of sand that the tide had not yet reached, collecting piece after piece after piece of sea glass.  As the water began to get closer to my feet and I contemplated just how long I had before I was soaked by the sea, I found what I didn’t even know I was looking for.


I find things like this often and know that it is my father, checking in (he loved the ocean, too).  (Remind me to tell you about the time he was fooling around with us in the waves and it was all fun and games until he got knocked on his ass and his prescription glasses went out to sea…)

Yes, it was a delightful day.

Keepin’ It Real, Sort Of

If you are an adult, you’ve done it.  If you are a parent, not only have you done it, but you’ve done it at least twice today.  With age comes wisdom…or so they say.  I would argue that even, or perhaps in spite of, advancing years, it may seem that you are doing it less, but, yeah, you probably aren’t.  There is no shame in admitting it: much of the time… You.Are.Faking.It. We are all guilty, admittedly in varying degrees, but, (and this is only if we are being honest) none of us really knows what we are doing most of the time.


Of course, there are some exceptions – like, if you are a doctor, I would like to assume you know what you are doing.  So too, lawyers, dentists, builders, engineers, accountants, nurses, teachers (oh, please lord), farmers, electricians, plumbers, cops.  You’ve got that.  I’m talking about the tough stuff, the emotional stuff, the how-did-I-get-here stuff that keeps you up at night or, if it doesn’t; your self-medicating practices are better than mine.

Take me, for example.  For nearly five years I have been complimented, consulted and celebrated for the way I have parented Jess during her transition from male to female.  I’ve spoken with countless other parents who are a few days, weeks, months or years behind me all of whom have hung on every word and gratefully thanked me for my thoughts/opinions/guidance…all of which are nothing more than my version of faking it.  I only know what I have experienced, observed and been subjected to which, for better or worse, is my reality.  The fact that it works out okay a reasonable enough amount of the time is sheer luck.

Growing up, I was 100% confident that my parents knew exactly what they were doing.  It never occurred to me that they might be making shit up as they went along.  Further, I never even considered that they might not have a clue how to solve, guide or direct me with any given challenge. My generation is as insanely different from my parents’ as mine is from my kids’.  Even I, a self-described “cool mom” who prides herself on positively relating to and understanding her kids, will cop to not really knowing how to handle/manage/negotiate/regulate/govern (pick your verb…) a full third of the “stuff” my kids have gone up against.  The world which they must navigate bears only a slight resemblance to the one I grew up in.  So, in the interest of maintaining a safety net for my kids (and now step kids) I continue to fake it as best I can.

That’s not to say that I haven’t learned a few things over the past twenty-two years of parenting.  Actually, it wasn’t until I became a stepmother that I realized just how much I had learned…mostly by trial, error and some common sense.  One of my greatest accomplishments might just be not letting onto my children that I was, indeed, flying by the seat of my pants much of the time, full of self-doubt some of the time and simply hoping for the best all of the time.

Back to Jess.  When her transition happened (at warp speed, I might add) and our entire family was thrust into a new reality, I naturally looked to my mother for guidance. Even at the tender age of 46, I was still fairly certain that she knew way more than I did and would lay out instructions, lend suggestions and know exactly what to do.  At that point, my father had already been gone for several years, so my poor mom not only had to fake it as best she could, but she had to fly solo with whatever advise, direction or support she was going to offer.  So, too, did I expect that my brothers (who, between them had five children all of whom were older than Jess and, not for nothing, all comfortably living in their assigned genders) would be able to tell, show or explain to me what to do.  And despite the fact that they were forced to be complete fakers,  I took every single word they said as gospel.  This was a tough one to fake, yet somehow we all  managed to successfully fool even the wisest among us these past five years.

Not long after I became a parent, my father shared with me that he and my mother’s parenting plan was simple: wing it and hope for the best.  They parented on instinct (me, too), punished only when the offense was so egregious that they were left speechless (me, too) and praised when it was due, not when we did something that we already knew was expected of us (me, too again).  For whatever it is worth: we all turned out pretty well.  So, naturally, I assume (and by assume I mean pray) that my faking it will sufficiently support my own children (and now step-children) as they launch into adulthood where they, too, will learn the art of faking it.

Feel better now that I have confirmed that you are not the only one who holds a Masters in faking it?   Relish the relief you are feeling right this second since it won’t be long before you find yourself artfully faking something or other to someone or other.  And ya want to know something?  He who seeks you out for your sage wisdom has confidence in you, even if you don’t have it in yourself and, more often than not, your faking translates to someone else feeling safer, stronger and less alone. Really.

There is no shame in the fake…I mean we can’t all be good at everything, can we?

The Beach, A Bird and Thanksgiving Dinner

It has been well documented that I spend a lot of time walking the beach.  I do it nearly every day, all year round.  While the warm summer days are great, I actually prefer it when it’s in the 50s or 60s and I can wear boots, a down vest, a hat and gloves.  The sunny days are awesome, but so, too, are the cloudy, dark ones.  My ideal time is early morning when the tide has gone out and sea glass discovery is at its prime.  No matter my mood when I start, it is always, without exception (more on that in a bit) better when I am done.  Even when the surf is rough or the winds are whipping or the sky is covered in clouds, the rhythm of the ocean delivers a serenity that I can always (yeah, more on that to come) count on, no matter the time of year.  I love my ocean walks.

As a result of all this time logged at the beach, my already vast collection of sea glass continues to grow.  Getting lost in the beauty of the sea, my 10,000 steps are easily reached and often exceeded.  The various items that have been washed ashore or left behind or dropped from the sky are invariably (more on that to come) awesome.  Beyond the sea glass, I’ve happened upon bottles of booze – some full, most empty.  Lego pieces, toddler sandals, small toys, the occasional t-shirt, and of course rocks, shells and seaweed.  Here’s a little scene I happened upon late last week.  Sad little (plastic) birdie.



I am hardly alone one my beach walks.  Both the sand and paved walkway overlooking the beach are always teeming with people, many of whom I have come to recognize just from their gait.  The exchange of “hellos”, “good mornings” and “what a great day” are not only perpetual but a truly lovely way to start the day.   And, perhaps most wonderful, the beach always (more on that to come) feels physically, emotionally and spiritually safe.

This morning, however, was a little bit different.



I nearly tripped over it.  It freaked me out.  Still does, actually.  And the symbolism, the metaphor, the gruesome imagery…yeah, colossal yuck.  At first, I thought perhaps he  was digging for something in the sand and actually marveled a little bit at the beauty of this animal in its natural habitat at which I was a mere interloper.  But then, when the feathers started blowing wildly from the ocean breeze and the body wasn’t attempting to resist the gusts, I realized I was looking at a dead bird.  A very dead bird, in fact.  As in: couldn’t be deader.

With its head buried in the sand.  The week of Thanksgiving.  Still intact, free, for now, of the scavenging animals which are sure to enjoy tearing him apart for breakfast.

I walked away; feeling agitated, slightly nauseated and entirely grossed out.  Yet, I kept finding myself going back to check on him. I considered jostling him with a gentle kick with my booted foot, but, on the off-chance that he hadn’t actually gone to meet his maker, I thought better of it.   How’d he croak?  Did he get his beak stuck in the sand while innocently reaching for a snack?  Would just a little tug free him from, um, death?  How long had he been there?  And what would he look like tomorrow or the next day?

And, if we are being honest…seriously?  Is nothing sacred?  Can I not have the damn beach stay serene and calm and relaxing?  Does there really have to be a dead fucking bird at my feet?  And, if he had to be dead, did he have to do it right in my path?  I mean, really.  So much for physical, emotional and spiritual safety.  Geez.

Discombobulated, I took a shorter than usual walk, but not before going back to visit him, maybe more than once, checking, I suppose, to see if he was still and truly lifeless.  Oh, and to take his picture.  For posterity?  For confirmation? Yeah, pretty much no good reason to memorialize his passing other than to be able to include in my blog.  (That being said: the visual is a “good” one, right?)

Feeling on edge, nearly (and inexplicably) lachrymose, I returned to my car and called the local police.  I admit that I felt a little silly reporting a dead bird on the beach, but the officer who took my call, which included a very specific explanation of his precise location, told me he would call the state and have them collect him.  I did not inquire as to what they would do once they found him.  I imagine it will not include a proper burial or reflection on his life, but, more likely, a shovel and a hole which seemed somehow unfitting for his splendor.  Even in death, his strength and stature were almost grand.

I obsessed over considered, but decided against, going back to check on him this afternoon, primarily to ensure that he’d been brought to his final resting place and not torn apart by his fellow bird-folk.  Tomorrow morning, as I descend upon the sand for my ritual walk, I hope to hell he is gone.  And, with his absence, perhaps my peace can be restored, my calm reinstated and my joy in the discovery of each piece of sea glass revived.

It is indeed curious to me why I was so unraveled by a dead bird on the beach.  Methinks there is a gigantic metaphor (his head being buried in the sand was not lost on me) which, in turn, holds some sort of message.  I am not really sure what that message is, exactly…so I am choosing , instead,  to focus on the beautiful piece of blue (for the unindoctrinated: blue is the hardest, and thus the most satisfying and, dare I say, exciting to find) and the several heart-shaped pieces of sea glass I managed to find whilst encircling, avoiding and obsessing over a big dead bird.


His is an image I will not soon forget which is fairly ridiculous given the fact I will be feasting on one of his brethren on Thanksgiving in a few short days.  Something tells me I am going to pass on the drumstick this year…

It Only Takes One Prick To Burst A Bubble

This is a bubble. It’s pretty and ethereal and inviting.  It is also fragile.


With even a cursory glance you will spot me, my family, maybe even yourself right smack dad in the middle of that bubble.  That’s us in our beautiful house in a beautiful town surrounded by beautiful family, friends and neighbors.  We are not rich, but want for nothing.  We turn on the faucet and out comes water.  We flip a switch and, voila, there is light.  If we’re cold or warm we need only adjust the heat or air conditioner.  There is never a shortage of food.  In fact, our two fridges and two freezers could keep us fed for months on end.  We have two reliable cars, a solid roof and all the computers, televisions, tablets and cell phones one would ever need to stay informed and in touch with the world, for better or worse.

Our children, each with their own individual idiosyncrasies, walk out the door each day without fear of danger or criminality against them at all, let alone because of who they are, their life process or choice of self-expression.  There exists an undeniable safety in this bubble to the extent that it never even enters any of their minds that they might not be able to live an honest and free life.  To only slightly varying degrees, they are all unabashedly willing to leave the house as they see fit with, in our house, anyway, highly limited but carefully injected parental suggestions.  We are fortunate; it’s always been this way and we’ve never known or even contemplated anything different.

Until, that is, this whole utopian Nirvana started to evaporate.

Our children, cis- and transgender alike, face an entirely different world… even within our once seemingly invulnerable bubble.  An inescapable national discussion about the ugly underbelly of societal thinking has not only surfaced and taken up residency, but has, ironically, bubbled over.  The result: abject fear among our children who are not supposed to, whether comfortably in a bubble or not, even ever consider.

It would be utterly fictitious to say that when Jess transitioned five years ago we were not concerned about the reaction of our community, our school and our friends.  (Aside: we never worried about our families.  That’s being blessed right there.)  True, the inhabitants of our bubble were liberal-leaning, highly educated and largely open-minded folks.   However, despite the favorable demographics, we knew it was going to be complicated at best, alienating at worst.  Indeed, it was complicated then and, if we are being honest, remains complicated, yet wholly manageable, even today.  But neither then, nor now, despite having moved to a new bubble, has it ever been alienating.  My great consternation:  that is about to change.

As of today, beyond the heightened awareness, chatter and vitriol regarding LGBTQ rights (among other things) being spewed by the incoming Presidential regime administration, nothing in our lives has changed.  Our bubble hasn’t burst, nor has anyone taken a shot at puncturing a potentially ruinous hole…but we are certainly aware that the acceptance (oh, the irony) of hate (which is actually, duh, fear) is now being supported, sanctioned and encouraged…even in our own once paradaisic bubble.

The morning after the election, myself unnerved, I did as I do every morning and gently opened Jess’s bedroom door to confirm that she was awake and at least contemplating getting ready for school.  Instead of finding the usual slumbering blob of adolescence , she sat on the edge of her bed, wide awake, phone in hand, news having been received, crying.  For the first time in her life, she was aware, perhaps without even knowing she was aware, of the fragility of our bubble.  My kid, who, almost to a fault, doesn’t care what anyone thinks of her, suddenly knew that she might now have to.

I’ve never been one to infantilize, shield or be particularly protective of my kids.  Based upon how they have conducted their lives thus far, I have confidence in their maturity, decision-making and lack of impulsivity to trust that they will successfully navigate and positively present themselves to the world, even in tough situations.  That being said, the new dominion in which we all find ourselves has left me feeling untethered and, at an epic level, profoundly concerned for not only my child’s future, but for the necessity of her (and all my kids’) rethinking their basic view of the world.

Inherent in living in a bubble is the constant underlying and often unconscious fear that it will burst. I now find myself unsure, sometimes from moment to moment, if our bubble has a slow leak or if all the air has already escaped.  Either way: it is frightening for all of us, body and soul.

The Little Things…at Market Basket

It’s the little things.  They can knock the crap out of you or sweep you up into the heavens.  Some will stop you dead in your tracks while others actually encourage you want to run, like a bat outta hell, to anywhere else on the planet.

Finding a $10 bill with no one anywhere nearby who might have dropped it: good.  Stumbling upon a 75% off plus a $5 discount with a $20 off coupon to use next week at your favorite store…or any store: really good.  Mistakenly grabbing the one-size-down jeans and actually being able to button them without lying across the bed, breaking a sweat while breaking your body to get them on: totally awesome.

Catching sight of the same car that your late father used to drive turning into what had been his favorite place to grab coffee and a donut: ugh.  Heading out the front door to get the mail, tripping over your own feet and landing on your knees: ugh.  Pulling your car out of the garage after not having driven it for a few days only to discover that the entire front quarter panel is smashed in: yeah, that one sucked.

Nothing major.  No big deals.  Just enough to tip you ever so slightly (or, if you are me, not so slightly) off your axis.  Yeah, it’s the little things.  Today, it was little things that made me laugh, sometimes to the point of crying.  Not, thankfully,  going over the edge to full on sobbing which, I must admit, has been known to happen. And all it took was a trip to the local supermarket.

It was early afternoon, but it might just as easily been hours later given the fact that Barry and I had been up, out of the house and running around since 7 a.m.  The car was full of stuff we had accumulated throughout the day and the decision to stop at the market to pick up a few things was one which neither one of us was really in the mood for.  However, the lack of milk, eggs and bananas – the true sign of no food in the house – urged us from laziness to adultness.  We were tired, hungry and wet from the run in from the parking lot as we searched for the least soaked of the carts.  By the time we hit the cheese aisle (also known as Aisle 1), we were already over it, yet persevered and loaded up on all the basics.

Our cart full, we took our place in line and, for once, did not choose the one hosting  the last American on earth writing a check.  As Barry began to unload our selections, shaking his head upon discovery of the few things I might have tossed in without him noticing (I really cannot live in a home without an emergency Pop Tart supply.  I’ve tried, but life is too short.  Remember: it’s the little things) I pulled out my phone and opened the camera. Because Barry knows me all too well, he knew that it was him against me and he wasn’t going down without a fight.

Let me share.

Here’s Barry, knowing full well what is going on behind him (that being me with my iPhone).  He is aggressively ignoring me in the hopes that I will give up.  I won’t.


Here he is attempting to be Mr. Serious.  About loading groceries onto a conveyor belt.


 Okay, this is when things start to get fun.  See the lady standing at the cart behind Barry?  Well, her name is Rosemary.  You will note that she is laughing. Barry asked her, more than once, if I was still standing behind him trying to take a picture.  She lied.  Then she told me that she has four grown sons and, “they are all pains in the ass, too!” Ah, the sisterhood.


 Next up, we have my husband, in a show of incredible maturity, attempting to shield his face with a package of pita.  Yes, pita. Seriously, dude: try a salami, or a loaf of Italian bread or even the pomegranates…but pita?


That’s Pauline at the register.  She tried to keep a straight face, but couldn’t.  I am quite certain our shenanigans were the highlight of her shift.  So, too, Edgar, the gentleman with the white hair…but he was trying to respect the Bro-Code and kept his hysteria under wraps.


By now, customers and employees on either side of our register are watching, waiting with bated breath to see how things wind up…who will prevail: woman or man? (Duh)


Eventually, we had to end all the fun and games…we had perishables in the cart, after all.  We headed out to the car, bags in tow.  I am fairly confident that we got a round of applause for having entertained everyone on this rainy, dreary day.  As we loaded up the car, I turned to see Rosemary coming out with her groceries.  She all but high-fived me and laughed her way back to her Chrysler.


Barry has been down this road with me before.  He pretends to be embarrassed.  He isn’t.  He feigns being merely tolerant.  Trust me: he loves it.  And I love him for his willingness to allow me to indulge in the little things…


 This is what he looks like when I am not torturing him.  Cute, right?






Elections, Hamsas & Friends

I’m confident that no one will argue against the case that this elongated, protracted, unceasing, wearisome (not to mention execrable) presidential race has left us all, no matter which candidate you like (or hate less, as the case may be) feeling unsafe, unprotected, unhappy, tense, angry, overwhelmed and a little bit afraid.  I have a Hamsa around my neck and one holding my keys…but despite the protective properties they carry, no Hamsa in the world can cover this.


Friendships have broken down.  Feelings have been hurt. Beliefs have been challenged.  Kindness has been abandoned in favor of nastiness by otherwise decent people.  I am not proud to admit that I got into it, bordering on, okay, landing on (slight) bullying with a woman I had gone to high school with. She threw the first verbal punch, but I took the bait and allowed the exchange to continue.  At the beginning, I was in it for shits and giggles. She is virulently supportive of one candidate, but even more interested in besmirching the other candidate loudly, cruelly and with great regularity.  My own inverse opinions got the better of me, and I reveled in the rallying support of my clan.  It wasn’t my proudest moment.

 Add the stress of this election to all the other things we are all trying to manage in our daily lives and it’s no wonder everyone is a hot mess.


 Remember the coffee ladies I told you about? We do not all support the same candidate. There is disagreement between us regarding the behaviors, pasts, positions and capabilities of the two folks, one of which will be elected president; provided, that is, that the other one actually concedes.  As strongly as some of the gals feel about one, others feel about the other.  But, and this is a big but, it does NOT interfere with our friendships.  It does not lead us to name calling or bullying or eye rolling.  That’s because we are respectful of one another and value our friendships…I highly recommend it.

Before tomorrow erupts, do yourself a favor: find people like I have.  Agree to disagree.  Remember that we are all in this together.  That is takes a village.  That just because you believe something doesn’t make it right or factual or better.

I, for one, have scheduled a therapy appointment AND a massage for tomorrow night.  There is wine in the fridge (oh, who am I kidding…there is always wine in the fridge) and the knowledge that it’s going to be a bumpy ride.  Moving forward: surround yourself with good and kind people who support you, even if they don’t necessarily agree with you.  Who do not personalize things that are not personal.   Who, even if their person doesn’t come out victorious, accepts where we are, where we’ve been and where we are going.


Be kind.  Be respectful. Be accepting.  Be supportive.  We are all in this together.

Wah Wah Wah

In the last several years, I hadn’t done it much at all.  In fact, it occured with such infrequency that I sometimes wondered if something was wrong with me.  It’s not that it never happened, but now, geez, for some reason it has been happening nearly every day.   Sometimes it is just a quickie. Other times it lasts for hours, and, at the risk of over-sharing, lately it has been known to happen more than once a day.  There are equal number of times that I feel invigorated at the end as there are times I heavily roll over, fully sated, and immediately fall into a deep and peaceful slumber.

Since getting remarried a couple of months ago, it’s frequency has increased rather dramatically – seldom does a day go by without it and, between you and me, I am actually growing a little tired of it.  It is not something that I ever ask for.  I never know when, where or how it will start or where I will be.  And I am never able to stop it.  Ever.  Yeah, yeah, I know:  I’m a newlywed…

Oh, wait!  You of the saucy thinking have got it all wrong.  I am not talking about what you think I am (or at least what I think you think), although; if I am being honest…oh, never mind.  Yeah, what I am referring to is my serial crying, weeping, many times even sobbing which is entirely appropriate and/or completely unjustified, often at the same time.

Perhaps what I am experiencing is stimulation overload as a result of adjusting to a new life including (but not limited to) my new town/new school/new husband/new kids/new doctors/new hairdresser/new manicurist/new Target/new gym/new in-laws/new area code/new Chipotle/new synagogue/new mall/new teachers/new house rules/new neighbors/new job search/new friends/new fucking everything.

And it sucks.


I’m not taking to bed (except that one Saturday morning when Barry pretty much dragged me out of bed where I was very comfortably curled up in the fetal position under the covers fully prepared to cry all day.  He did the right thing, perhaps a bit less gently than I might have liked, but I got up, showered and went on with my day impassive, yet not catatonic.

I am not over- or under- eating[1], drinking, shopping, sleeping or spending.  Okay, I might have bought a not entirely necessary pair of boots, but, really, what girl doesn’t appreciate the curative powers of new boots?  In fact, I considered it a good sign…not to mention that fact that allowing that DSW coupon to expire before I managed to use it might well have set off a crying jag. Crisis averted!

I am not without joy.  Why, just the other night, a school night, no less, a pair of Elvis Costello tickets fell in our laps and Barry and I had a blast running around town eating, drinking and carrying on while en route to the concert.  So fun, in fact, that I memorialized it on Facebook…because we all know that Facebook tells the whole story.

I have also not done the unthinkable (and, according to my father, worst thing possible) and lost my sense of humor.  That being said, I cop to being decidedly slower to get started, but take comfort in the fact that once I have loosened up, I still manage to crack myself up.  In fact, this picture proves that I have not totally lost my mojo.  Prior to it being taken, I had never seen these women were complete strangers. They were chatting with one another on the street when I approached them and asked if they were married because, if they were not, I was willing to offer up my husband to them.  (They declined.) Our exchange reminded me that I am still me, waterworks notwithstanding.


Yet, I’ve become a big old crybaby.


In the weeks following my father’s dire lung cancer diagnosis, he, a man I had never seen falter or succumb to emotion overload, became a crybaby.  His tears were not actually because he had just been told that he would likely die within the year (of note: he lived nearly three very full years), but because it was a lot to take in.  He would often remind us (and himself) that “he had to die from something”, and this just happened to be it.  His tears were, in my opinion, his way of literally and figuratively purging himself of the overflow of emotion and fear and change and stress and worry so vast that it leaked, sometimes poured, right out of him.  I recall my brother having a similar spell during a chaotic time in his life.  In both instances, once we realized (sort of) what was going on, we were able to make sport of it.  In fact, it was not uncommon to sigh, roll our eyes and ask, “are you gonna cry again?!?”

I am not quite there yet…my crying is not funny to me.  It is (usually) cathartic, (sometimes) helpful and (often) irritating.[2]  I am still processing the changes, the stresses, the fears, the adjustments.  I continue to work hard to create a whole new life with my old body, old fears, old view of the world and old walls that need to be broken down.

I put on a good show.  People are surprised when I tell them that I have become a blubbering fool, or that I have this whole lonely-even-when-I-am-surrounded-by-people thing, or cop to not being as confident as I have been told I seem to or should be, but I am here to tell you otherwise.

Despite, or perhaps because of the weep-fests, I am (slowly) processing, adapting and journeying.  Like my dad, the original crybaby, I do not always do change very well[3] and, man oh man, there’s been a lot of change.  Ultimately, it’s all good.  In the final analysis, I am growing and changing and learning…all while sniveling, quaking and nose-blowing.

So there you have it.  Soul bared.  Honesty on a plate.  Apologies to you, dear reader, to have lured you in with what you thought I was talking about only to drag you into this snot-laden, middle-aged, out of control and sometimes dehydrating phase of my life.  It is just that, however: a phase.  Part of growing up.  Adulting and all that.

If you happen to be in my company, consider yourself warned that you may find yourself watching me cry which, I think we can all agree, is better than finding yourself observing what you thought I was talking about…right?

[1] Seriously, just once could I lose my appetite?  Is a sadness-induced weight loss to much to ask for?

[2] Fun fact: those of us with blue eyes tend to be the same people who, as a parting gift following a crying jag, are left with what I (not so) affectionately call iguana eyes.  Google it.

[3] I can think of about a dozen people off the top of my head who will attest to this.