Beleaguered

I don’t know what’s going on with me lately. I used to be so…I don’t know…capable. If life were a circus act, I would be the clown on the unicycle, spinning dishes on sticks with a hula-hoop around my neck, all while juggling flaming bowling pins with my left foot. Now, it seems as though I’m having trouble even riding a tricycle and honking my nose at the same time.

What happens to us when we approach…dare I say it…middle age? Why do we become so overwhelmed? Why do we waste time questioning our past choices, our past decisions, and our present selves? Or—as much as I hate to admit it—what if it’s just me? What if I’m in my own pre-perimenopausal world of cynicism, my very own planet filled with mountains of hurdles and oceans of doubt?

Back in September, when I entered the “MORE” magazine modeling contest—purely on a lark, and not expecting anything more than something interesting and fun to blog about—I felt fairly comfortable with myself, my career, and the choices that I’ve had to make throughout the years that led me to where I was at that time. But when I peered through the latest copy of the magazine—the issue that listed all ten finalists, and the three top winners—I felt like such a loser. Not because I wasn’t a finalist in a so-called “beauty” contest. I felt discouraged because the women who won were all successful, self-assured, and at peace with themselves. Out of the ten finalists, four of them were doctors. Count it—four. And one of those four was also an officer in the Air National Guard. Another woman was a world-champion equestrienne who owned her own stables and took breaks by riding her Harley Davidson Sportster (a “beautiful white” one, at that). One was a CEO of a corporate image group; another was a beautiful actress and successful artist. Yet another was the director of a rape care center that she founded in New Jersey, and the grand-prize winner was a former sales director. Oh…and how can I forget…one of the women was the Executive Vice President of Fox Searchlight Pictures—silly me.

I’m not envious of these women. I’m really not. I’m actually proud of them. I’m happy that I’m part of a generation that doesn’t put limits on a woman's ability to achieve her goals. I guess what I feel is a certain amount of frustration. How does one follow their dream when they have a mortgage to pay and they’re responsible for carrying the health insurance for their family through their job? How does a woman continue her education when she works full-time and still has to come home and be a caretaker? You know the routine; making dinners, washing clothes, and doing any of the other eight million blood-sucking, life-force draining errands that we feel responsible for in order to make the house run in a somewhat efficient manner.

Maybe someone in their twenties or even their thirties would be able to handle a balancing act like that. However, following one's dream is usually easier when one does it right out of high school. Admittedly, I spend a lot of wasteful time rehashing the past choices of my parents. I wanted to go to school for art—I was gifted with the ability to copy most anything that I laid my eyes on from a very young age, especially cartoons. My parents felt differently; having been a part of the World War 2 generation, they felt that the only way that I could be successful was to be a legal secretary, a career that I loathed to even think about. My mother actually told me that I would never make any money “doing art." This notion was based solely on her vision of artists as being poor souls who sat on the side of the road selling their paintings, not because she didn't think that I had any talent. How reassuring.

Now, I know that they meant well. They truly wanted me to be a success, even if success meant that the highest promotion I could get would still always keep me beneath someone else. I went to school for business, but of course, dropped out before the semester ended. I was given a choice; either stay in school for business, or go to dental assisting school.

Please, mom, let me take art courses. This is what I want to do.

But of course, the answer was no. I was going to have a steady career if it killed them. I went on to become a dental assistant, a “career” that lasted two short years. In the interim, my mother became very sick. Toward the end of her life, she agreed to let me go back to school—for art. She actually encouraged me to go. Sadly, it took the realization of her own mortality and her own missed dreams to finally understand how important it was for me to try to achieve my goals, not anyone else’s.

I started school in January of 1985. The first semester, I pulled a 3.5 average; sadly, my mother took a turn for the worse, and died August 1st. Heartbroken, my father wanted to sell the house. I quit school, took a full-time job working for a finance company, and moved out. A few years later, I married and became a full-time mother. Subsequently, I divorced and floundered around in various careers; none of them satisfying, but all of them allowing me to pay my mortgage and bills.

When I was married to my first husband, I had everything I could ever dream of; he was successful, we had a beautiful house, and I had two wonderful children whom I adored. However, I always felt that something was missing; so much so, that I used to cry about it quite often, wondering what was wrong with me. Suffice it to say, when I met and married my second husband, I found that I no longer felt this emptiness—not in my relationship, anyway. Now, there seems to be some kind of drive inside of me. I know I need to be doing something, creating something…working toward some kind of personal success that will get us out of our financial hole and satisfy my desire to be acknowledged for my achievements. The only trouble is that I'm overwhelmed on a daily basis just trying to live life. Not that I'm complaining--I love my life--but I'm not sure how any creative ideas are going to surface if they're constantly being buried by the pressures of work, home, and the fact that there are just not enough hours in one day.

For months, I had been looking at a wayward maple sapling that had grown in the most unlikely of spots. It abutted a cement wall that has stairs behind it going down to my stepson's room in our basement, and was growing sideways through other, more established bushes just to get some sunlight. I knew that this determined little tree was going to eventually break the cement, and I told myself over and over to take it out and replant it in a more desirable spot (like right in back of my deck so I wouln't have to look at my neighbor's crumbling roof anymore). One day, I finally found the time (and energy) to embark on this project. It was even more difficult than I had imagined. At one point, I was hanging over the cement wall with my feet dangling toward the bottom steps just to try to dig the roots out. When I tried to dig out the roots on the other side, I had to crawl under the buggy bushes and got scratched up and itchy. I eventually loosened the roots enough so that my husband, who had just gotten home from an estimate (and thought I was out of my mind) was able to give it the final tug that pulled it out, as he balanced with ease on the top of the wall. The point of telling this story is that when I finally replanted the tree--as I had dreamed for months that I would--I felt such a sense of accomplishment. Yes, it was very difficult, and at times I was almost tempted to chop it down instead of continuing to dig it out. But now I have a strong sapling that will someday grow into a beautiful tree that will provide shade for my deck in the summer and block the undesirable view from my back door in the winter. And it will no longer cause the foundation to crack.

God knows, I don't want my foundation to crack.

Quite possibly, this experience is a metaphor for my future; the future that lives in my dreams and seems impossible in the natural to acheive. But if I remain determined, if I remain hopeful...then maybe I can replant my desires, my abilities, and my spirit in more productive soil. I just have to pray for the clarity of mind to remain focused on higher ground.

(Footnote: My blogger is being very weird. I have re-edited it a hundred times, and it keeps doing what it wants...it won't let me put spaces where I want to put spaces. I give up!!)

A Mom's Lament

Today is Mother’s Day.

I awoke this morning to watch a pastor on television discuss how it’s unfair to judge people from what’s on the outside, and I immediately think of my husband’s sister, who has a terrible habit of doing just this. Although we used to be like true sisters, there was never a time when I left her presence that I wasn’t wondering what she would find about me on that day to knit-pick on. She, of course, is perfect. Perfect face, perfect teeth, perfect body. She lives in a perfectly decorated house in a perfectly expensive neighborhood. After my husband and I had a falling-out with her husband (who in my opinion is the farthest thing from perfect, except for maybe being a perfect sociopath), she outwardly decided to tell me whatever she was feeling at any given moment, no matter where we were. A comment was made by her husband and backed up by her that my house was disgusting, and we should clean it up. Now, I admit; I am not the world’s best housekeeper, but there is never a time when anyone is invited here that this house is not as perfect as it’s going to get. It may not be big, but it is charming and cute, and more importantly—it’s happy. When people come over, they never leave. I’d rather visit a comfortable small house and feel welcomed than walk into a museum and not be allowed to sit in the living room. But I digress.

After watching the pastor, I went to church with my kids. This is a new church that they attend with their dad and his wife, and after visiting it on Easter, I found that I enjoyed the general atmosphere and message, and decided to start going on a more regular basis. My ex and his wife were there, as expected. We all kissed hello, and my kids and I sat next to them three rows back from the pulpit. The pastor spoke of prayer and of faith, and toward the end of the service, we were directed to either sit in our seats or go to one of the four stations that they had set up for specific prayer, something they don’t usually do. I walked with my kids over to the “relationship” station, and listened to one of the women of the church as she led a prayer. “Dear Lord, help us to give this problem to You once and for all. Let us understand that we no longer have to carry the burden of it on our shoulders; that You are there to carry it for us and see us through. And dear Lord, if we need to forgive someone, please help us to do so.” I immediately thought of the relationship with my sister-in-law, and prayed to God once more to take this encumbrance from me and to give me the strength and grace to behave like a Christian when I saw her later today for Mother’s Day.

To make a long story short, we all had a pleasant brunch at a local restaurant. My sister-in-law and I sat across from each other, sipping casually on mimosas and making innocuous chatter throughout our meal. As we were all leaving, we stood in a small group by the bar and chatted about upcoming dates and events. My sister-in-law got a look of horror on her face, and said, “We never had a cake for Al today! That’s not right; we were told that we’d have a cake for his birthday on Mother’s Day!”

Okay, I admit it. My house was a mess on May 2nd, my husband Al’s birthday. There is no way on God's green earth that I would've had someone who once told me my house was "disgusting" over in the state that it was in, not to mention the fact that we all had work and school the next day. We decided to keep our celebration to just us and the kids that night, at my husband’s request. After not being able to come up with an alternative date to have a cake for the rest of his family (who were very insulted that they weren’t invited to our little ceremony), we had settled on just bringing one to the restaurant on Mother’s Day. But alas, that was almost two weeks ago, and I suffer from a terrible brain cloud.

Yes, it was my fault. I forgot the cake. I forgot we were even supposed to have a cake. In my mind, we had already had a cake, and his birthday was over and done with. But in my husband’s family, this is some sort of mortal sin. You just don’t forget the cake. Period.

My sister-in-law turned to her mother to continue her rant. “The person who said that they would have a cake for him on Mother’s Day should’ve made sure that they brought a cake for us to sing to him with!” She then turned and glared at me with pursed lips and chevron eyebrows. I stammered a reply, shrugging my shoulders and forcing a giggle as “…I can’t believe I forgot!” dribbled out of my mouth. She rolled her eyes, turned to her other brother and shook her head.

…I decided to leave before behaving like a good Christian was not an option.

Later in the evening, my stepdaughter came home from spending the day with her mom. I was in the kitchen when she came in; she made no effort to come in and say hello to me, so when I saw her sitting at her computer, I offered a greeting. Without turning around, she said, “Oh, hi! Happy Mother’s Day.”

That was it.

Our home is far from your average American household. From what I can tell, we are the only “Brady Bunch” family living in our town. I’m sure that my neighbors have gotten plenty of earfuls and eyefuls when our ex-spouses come to visit the children. Several times a week, my stepdaughter’s mom will come inside my home to spend some time with her. On occasion, she has actually plopped herself down in my stepdaughter’s bed and gone to sleep. More often than not, they just fight as most 14 year old girls will do with their mothers. The only difference is that I’m in the house listening to their argumentative banter, wishing that I was in Bermuda or Belize. Brooklyn will even do on most days.

Recently, when my stepdaughter and her mom came into the house after being in Florida together for five days, the girl stormed right into her room and the mom gave me instructions that she was to be punished until Friday. As I looked at this woman with her new tan, her long blonde hair and her slight body, I felt a twinge of envy. As she left the house to go do whatever in the world it was that she wanted to do with no obligations, I fell into a downright jealous rage. But for the sake of the child and in order to keep the peace, I swallowed my feelings and reminded myself that there were worse problems in the world than me not being able to go wherever I wanted to at the drop of a hat.

Suffice it to say that I am the one who takes care of the motherly duties every day with this child. I pick her up from school. I sign tests. I cook dinner. I fold her clothes. If she needs to be picked up from anywhere, I drop whatever it is that I’m doing and I go pick her up. Yet with all of this, she did not feel the need to get me a card.

I hate to admit it. But I’m hurt…and sad. Her 20 year-old brother called me and told me he loved me. I don't really do much of anything for him. But my stepdaughter didn't even give me a hug.

And so, once again--as I have done so many times--I will take a deep breath and try to reason away why people are the way they are. And with a little luck, I will come to a conclusion that is probably not true, but makes me feel better, anyway.

"Simply" Maria

As the saying goes, some people come into your life for a reason, a season, or for a lifetime. Like most people, I have had experiences with all three. I used to think that “lifetime” friends were those that I’ve had...well...most of my life. But I was fortunate to meet some great women in my 30’s that I know will be part of my life for many years to come. My dear friend Maria E., or “Simply Me” as she’s known in the blogging world, is one of them (she should not be confused with the “other” Maria from “S.E., Baby!” fame—I have two “best Maria’s” in my life)!

My "Marias"--Maria E., Maria P. and me...the infamous "chin" picture--yikes!

I can remember the first day of school back in 1997, walking my son into his kindergarten class and feeling a little melancholy that my youngest was now in grade school. Having been through this experience before with my daughter, however, my emotions were in check and I felt confident that he was going to have a great day as I left the class. On my way out, I noticed a very pretty woman leaning over to peek into the room—and she had eyes filled with tears.

“Are you alright?” I asked her quietly. “Yes, I’m fine,” she replied as she wiped away tears from one eye, and then the other. “I’m just emotional today…this is my only son, and I can’t believe he’s in kindergarten already! I just hope he’ll be okay.” I told her that I knew what she was feeling, and assured her that he would be fine. We introduced ourselves and spoke briefly through her sniffles. From that moment on she became one of my closest friends. In addition, our sons became best friends as well, and are still close to this day!

We’ve seen each other through good times and bad, and our relationship has grown to the point where we can finish each other’s sentences. I’ve learned so much from her, and I value her opinions because she’s so intelligent—not only on a “textbook” level, but on a spiritual level as well. When I’m struggling with an issue, she’s always there with good advice that reasonable, supportive and fair.

On a recent, beautiful Sunday morning, we played “phone tag” as I tried to respond to a message she had left about creating a blogroll. When she finally got in touch with me, she was in her car on her way to Homegoods, which is actually more like a “Super Marshalls” with more...well, home goods. She asked if I would like to join her and I jumped at the chance, still being on the lookout for my rooster clock and all. We were both “kid-free” that weekend, which made for a clean getaway on both of our parts with no hassles. I got into my sweats, threw on a baseball cap to hide my makeup-less face, and jumped into her car. We decided that we needed some tea from 7-11, got it, and then set out on our 15 minute drive to the North Shore.

Our conversation in the car went from the kids to our husbands to how we both knew spring was in the air. We delighted in the sounds of the different bird calls that we could hear from the open windows, and laughed at the fact that we could get so deeply into a conversation about something as trivial as birds. I started to speak about living in the country and she finished my sentence for me in unison with my exact thoughts. Amused and chuckling, we told each other how thankful we were that we decided to just spend some time together at the last minute, since we are both usually so busy.

Me and Maria at her country home in PA

As we walked into Homegoods, I veered over to the right and immediately found the perfect rooster clock. As a matter of fact, they had rooster everything, so I engrossed myself in picking out the perfect additions to my soon-to-be rooster kitchen. Maria was carefully choosing the perfect bargain, and after about a half-hour of shopping separately, we both ended up in the bath and beauty aisle. Showing me a scented lotion, she started to tell a story; almost as if she were not just telling me, but the two customers around us as well (she’s very friendly and entertaining like that).

As she finished her story, a man’s voice spoke out: “Hey, Lady! Do you come here often?” We looked up to see my ex-husband standing there with a smirk on his face. Ironically, he was passing by Homegoods on his way home from church, and decided to stop in with not only my children…but Maria’s son Jonathan as well! Jon had had a sleepover with my son at my ex’s house the night before, and went to church with them (Maria was unaware of this because it was her ex’s weekend, too). Our kids were laughing out loud that we all happened to be in the same store at the same time—and we thought it was pretty coincidental as well!

Jon, Kayla and Dylan at Jon and Dylan's 8th grade graduation

We all chatted for a little bit, and then my ex left with all of the kids. Maria and I went to the checkout with our treasures, and decided that we wanted to stop into Au Bon Pain next door for a snack. On the way in, we started talking about what we usually eat for breakfast and at the exact same time, we both blurted out that we bought Trader Joe’s Blueberry Oatmeal during the week! We stopped and stared at each other with our mouths open in disbelief…then we cracked up. On our way home, we took a back road and I mentioned to Maria that we were going to pass my very favorite house in our town. She said that she knew exactly what house I was talking about, and queried if it was the beautifully restored, old Victorian with the wraparound porch. Of course, it was…and once again, we laughed at how much we think alike!

I am so thankful for my dear friend Maria. She “gets” it, and has helped me to “get it” over the years as well. She understands how the simplest, smallest things can bring one joy—like our excursion to Homegoods—and her enthusiasm for understanding the deeper meaning of life is infectious. She has the ability to build people up, and treasures everyone in her life for their quirky qualities. She never speaks badly about anyone, which is the quality of a true friend; I know when I walk out of her door, she only has kind things to say about me, and would never gossip behind my back. I love her to pieces, and I thank God that He brought such a special person into my life.

Me and Maria at my daughter Kayla's Sweet 16, December 2005

...you can visit Maria at her blog...

Life...How Did I Get Here?

A Strange Day

For people who have been through the pains of divorce, this post might seem a little impossible. As a matter of fact, those who are still married might find this story a little hard to swallow! But it is, in fact, true. I have never hidden the fact that I live a very unconventional life in an extremely conventional town, but this one might be for the books.

My days are always interesting. I work at a job that brings me in contact with all walks of life, and I love working in such a diverse environment. I am always involved in some sort of fascinating event once I get home from work, being that there are so many people with varied interests and basic needs living in my home.

But then there are the “ex”-tended family members. I speak of the “ex”-husband and the “ex”-wife.

Shortly after I came home from work one day last week, my son informed me that his father was picking him up in a few minutes to take him to the car show in NYC. Almost as if on cue, his dad pulled up in his Mercedes. I walked my son outside and gave him a kiss good-bye. His father rolled down the window with a humorous look of confusion on his face.

“Why did you laugh last week when I told Kayla that I was taking opera lessons?” he queried.

“HA! I don’t know. It just struck me as funny,” I chuckled.

“Heh-heh…um…why?” he continued, his face now becoming very serious.

“Well, I just had visions of when you used to ‘fake’ singing opera, and I guess I never really thought you’d take it seriously.”

With that, he coerced me into coming over to the car so he could show me what he sounded like.

“Oh, you have a recording of it?” I asked.

“No, I’ll sing it for you right now! Kristine got me this music, and I’m gonna sing ‘Oh, Solo Mio’,” he exclaimed as he held up a CD case with nothing but penne pasta on the cover. Italian Karaoke…what will they think of next?

He placed the CD into the dashboard. Within seconds, he was belting out an impressive operatic vocal as my son sat in the passenger seat and gave me some “egad” looks every so often. My neighbor across the street stared at the car in bewilderment as he rolled his garbage down to the curb. "OHHH, SOLO MIO!!!" I stood on my lawn with a bemused look on my face, not able to determine if he was really good, or he was just acting that way.

When the song was over, I complemented him and told him that he probably should’ve taken opera lessons long ago, as his voice seemed to adapt to it quite nicely. He seemed pleased with my complement, and drove off to the car show with my son. I walked up my lawn toward my front door and started to laugh, just thinking how funny it was that my ex-husband was having a Luciano Pavoratti moment in front of my house…and that I just gave my neighbors one more thing to talk about.

About a half hour later, the other ex stopped by to see her daughter. Exhausted from working as a nanny to two small children all day, she plopped down in a chair in my stepdaughter’s room and tried to start a conversation with her. Eventually, an argument ensued about money and clothes and things that are of major importance to an almost fourteen-year-old that really aren’t all that life-altering to an adult. I admit; I hear them argue almost every day. And I do remember what it was like to have that almost-fourteen-year-old myself…I think whoever teaches the eighth grade is either a pure saint, or they’re completely out of their minds. I always mind my own business, and let them work their problems out on their own. But on this particular day, my stepdaughter hit below the belt regarding money and her father’s chosen profession. Now it became my business, and I marched myself into her room with a look of pure disappointment across my face. I stated my case to her, stuck up for her mom a little bit, told her I loved her and reminded her that she should appreciate all of the wonderful things that she has in her life instead of worrying about everything that she doesn’t have (which wouldn’t affect the quality of her life one way or the other, anyway). I left the room and went to pick up my daughter at work. By the time I came back to the house, the mother was sitting on my couch with her daughter lying in her lap as she stroked her hair. “We’re having a peaceful moment,” she tiredly confessed. I left them alone, and went to the kitchen to speak with my husband who had just come home from work.

“…I think we should ask Tina to come to dinner with us,” I weakly stated.

“Okay. That’s fine,” he replied. I was shocked that he answered so quickly…and so positively.

It was our “Thursday night” dinner night, our Pietro’s pizza-fest, our sacred night of family bonding to which strangers were not easily invited. We are very protective of our quality time together, being that it’s the one night that we are all in the same room at the same time. To let someone else share in our tradition was…well…it was the right thing to do that night. Tina was gracious and thankful that she would be able to spend some time with her children. She expressed her appreciation over and over again, and finally gave me a hug and said, “I’m so happy that we can all get along like this.” My thoughts exactly. But we’re not done yet.

We met up with my stepson at the pizza parlor. He was a little surprised to see his mom there, but sat next to her and gave her a kiss hello. My daughter’s boyfriend was in town from school, so he attended this gathering as well. We were all engrossed in various conversations, when the door opened and my son walked in…followed by none other than the other ex…his father. We invited him to sit down and have some pizza, and although he declined at first, he finally sat and ate along with the rest of us. My daughter commented to her boyfriend and I that people wouldn’t believe that we could all sit together like this and enjoy each other’s company. It was really weird, she said. I told her I thought it was great.

Although this day was interesting, to say the least, I will always remember it as a precursor to the various important family events that we will all be tied to in the future—marriages, first home purchases, grandchildren, just to name a few—and I am ever so grateful that our children’s milestones will be reached with a peaceful family to support them. It may be weird, but it works.



(From left to right: David the ex, Dylan, Kristin, Mike the boyfriend, Kayla, me, my husband Al, Al's son David and Tina the ex)

Happy Is as Happy Does

I recently wrote of the importance of dreaming, of believing for positive things in your life and being proactive as far as attaining your goals. Over the past few weeks, I’ve been reflecting on my life and where it stands right now as far as my happiness is concerned. How happy am I, really? Am I anywhere near where I wanted to be at this point in my life? And if I do have dreams, am I sure of what they really are…and do I really believe that I can attain them? What if I did reach my goals…would that be the point in my life where I say, “I’ve gotten what I’ve always dreamed of, and now I’m totally happy”? Then what…where do I go from there? My list of questions can go on and on…and on and on. I’m getting tired of asking them.

We recently had some small work done in our home—nothing major, just trying to make some storage space where there was none. We added a linen closet in the hall and a small pantry in the kitchen (imagine living without those for 10 years), and a storage bench in the portico with wainscoting around the walls. I must admit; the latter has made me very happy. Although we’re not completely cleaned up from this chaotic activity, my bench has turned a somewhat boring entrance into a cozy, country foyer. It has “welcome” subliminally written all over it! There are hooks to hang your coat and hat upon entry and some shelf molding to hold a few sentimental knick-knacks. I realized after my husband put the last stroke of polyurethane on the seat that my home was becoming my dream for the future…and I haven’t even moved yet.

This revelation brought on comforting, if not confusing, feelings. I thought that I was only supposed to enjoy my country home when I eventually moved and had a home that was actually in the country. A home that was a hop, skip and a jump from a small main street that looked like it was out of a Normal Rockwell painting. A home that had views and wildlife aplenty. But here it was…my dream, only a little smaller than I imagined and in an area that was just a little less rural.

When I thought about it, however, I realized that my town is pretty countrified for my location. Our main street has old Victorians and Arts and Crafts period homes scattered throughout its tree-lined path. Right down the block we have two lakes in a nature preserve that are home to a various array of wildlife, not to mention some amazing four-season views. I am actually walking distance from anything I could ever want: restaurants of every persuasion, pizza parlors, ice cream shops, a country gift store and a country furnishings store, just to name a few points of interest. We even have a “5&10” that sells everything from a Snickers bar to a towel bar! And let’s not forget the local McDonald’s and 7-11—two great destinations for teenage boys who love to eat, and both a few short pedals of a bike away.

Of course, I do need to mention that we are also walking distance from the Long Island Railroad, which of course means that there are smelly buses going up and down our charming main street as well. The street empties into a three-lane highway with such unattractive locations as car dealerships, car washes and oversized self-service gas stations with their own quick-marts. And there’s not a mountain in sight. But there is Jones Beach, which is a lovely place to visit when there’s not twenty million people there on a hot, summer day. You get the point.

I was on my way home from work the other day (also within walking distance, I might add), and I drove over the small bridge that divides the two lakes. I peered over to my left and saw our two town swans locked in a loving gaze floating on the half-frozen water. There were Canadian geese and mallard ducks diving for mysterious underwater snacks. The seagulls floated through the air across the lake, their stark whiteness in high contrast to the dark brown sticks of the winter trees. If I took a picture of this, I thought to myself, no one would ever believe that it was on Long Island. I began to wonder why I haven’t hiked in the preserve for over three years, when its beauty was at my disposal. I also wondered why I only walked to work once last summer, especially since I so enjoyed the early morning activities of nature—the countless varieties of birds singing their unique songs, the fresh breeze rustling the leaves in the trees. I soon began to realize that sometimes our own happiness is right in front of our faces, but we can’t see it because it’s too close. Imagine placing your hand directly in front of your eyes and opening them; would you be seeing a hand, or a big blob of darkness? However, as you pulled the hand slowly away from your eyes, it would eventually take on the image of what it actually is: a hand. I think that’s what happened to me that day. I no longer saw a blob of a life; I took a step back and saw someone who was pretty darn happy. That someone was me.

As we lay in bed that night, my husband turned to me, leaned over and set his head upon my chest as he pulled me closer with his arm. I stroked his hair, watching the scattered grays dance upon the thick, black mass of waves. I felt an immense calm come over me and, almost as if he knew what I was thinking, my husband whispered, “I love you so much.” I realized in that instant that I was one of the luckiest women I knew. I thought of the thousands of people who would probably give all of their worldly possessions away if it meant that they would be able to have a partner who truly loved them for who they were. I thought of how fortunate I was that I had a man who never made me feel guilty if the house was a mess, because he honestly understood that I only have so many hours in my day. I appreciated that he always made me feel desired, even on the days when I wasn’t, well, so desirable. I realized that this was as good as it gets and it was pretty darn wonderful, to say the least.

As I reflect on my life, I realize that many of the dreams that I had for my future never materialized. At 44 years of age, I’ve seen my share of failures; I’ve also seen successes I never thought possible. I know that I will continue to reach for goals until the end of my life, for “a man without vision shall perish.” However, if I never move to my home in the mountains; if I never become wealthy and have anything and everything I want at my disposal; if I never realize even one of my dreams…I can say with confidence and clarity that at this moment in time, I am truly a happy woman. I finally “get it.” We’re not guaranteed tomorrow; it’s so very important to appreciate what you have today. And I thank God I’m one of the lucky ones that do.

A Typical Conversation

Lisa: "You know, what the heck. I'm having a glass of wine." (pause while uncorking and pouring) "S.E!"

Maria: "OH...you know what? 'S.E'. right back. I've been 'S.E-ing' for a while now!"

Lisa: "'S.E'. Mmm, that's good."

Maria: "SOPHIA!! I know you can come up with a sentence for 'single'! This kid, I swear...she can write poetry and you should hear the songs she writes! But she can't come up with a sentence for 'single'! You know what, Sophia? I know you can come up with a sentence for single!!" (distant whining in background: "But I need help!! You have to help me!")
"SOPHIA!! That's it! You're going in your room to do your homework. Let's go."

Lisa: "I used to go through that with Dylan all the time. Drives you crazy."

Maria: "You have 31 minutes from right now to get this done!! You stay up here in your beautiful room at your beautiful desk, and you get this done. And for every minute over 31 that you don't get your homework done, you lose that much time watching TV. And I'm not kidding!!" (more whining in the background)

Lisa: "...So, what's going on with that house you were thinking of buying?"

Maria: "Oh, that's funny that you asked that! We had a long discussion about that one and the other one today." (An hour-long conversation ensues talking about the pros and cons of both houses in consideration, plus a trip to the internet to view said houses online by Lisa. Maria's son is on her computer, so she attempts to view said houses on her television, which produces a stream of semi-obscenities from her mouth) "What the hell!! What the hell is wrong with this damn thing!! OH!! THERE IT IS!! REMAX!! Wait a minute. WAIT!! Oh, for crying out loud! I just missed Remax!!"

Lisa: "You can't just go back and get it?"

Maria: "No, I can't explain it. Stupid thing. This thing is so stupid. And I can't even find the damn house. OH MY GOD, I'M FREEZING!! What is up with this thermostat? I gotta raise the heat. And my kids are walking around barefoot. Sigh."

(Dylan now bellows, "MOM!! I'm hungry!! What're we eating?" from upstairs)

Lisa: "Dyl, one minute, I'm coming. (stands up) "WOO!! HAHAHAH!! Wow, that was some glass of wine!! Oh my gosh, I'm so woozy...how am I gonna go to work in an hour?"

Maria: "Work?? Why do you have to go to work tonight?"

Lisa: "Monthlies are due. That's part of the promotion, I have to do a bunch of paperwork. But I can't go there until 8:00 because they have two yoga classes there tonight."

Maria: "Really?!?"

Lisa: "Yeah, for the guys. Dylan, one second. Hold the plate steady, because when I drop the cranberry sauce into it, it's gonna fall. You got it? Okay, hold on." (an attempt to loosen cranberry sauce from the can ensues) "DYL!! I told you to hold the plate!!"

Dylan: "HAHA....Mom, I got it!! Hurry up. I'll take that peice. Just give me that one."

Maria: "SOPHIA!! I'm not helping you!! You can write a sentence for 'single', this is ridiculous!! This kid is driving me crazy. Did you see the kitchen on the house in Pheasant Run? We really wanted a center island. I can't explain it, it looks smaller in person."

Lisa: "Well, the house is beautiful, and it has everything you want except a center island. I think it's a no-brainer."

Maria: "I know, but I can't explain it...SOPHIA!! You do NOT need my help!! You've been working on your homework for three hours!!"

Lisa: "Maybe you should tell the teacher that she takes three hours to do her homework. They might be giving her too much."

Maria: "OH, she just doesn't want to do it. She wants me to give her all the answers, and she just putts around and plays with the dog while she should be doing her homework. It's so frustrating!! Oh, my God, I'm freezing. I can't take this."

Lisa: "I'm cold now, too."

Maria: "Me too. Sigh. So what else?"

Lisa: "Nothing much. I'm just on EBay looking for rooster clocks."

Maria: "...Rooster clo....AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!!!!! OH my God. You're looking for Rooster clocks?!? HAAAAAAAAHAAAAAAAAA!!!!!! Oh, I can't help it. That sounds funnier every time I say it!!!!!!!! HAHAHAHAHAAAAAAA!!!!"

Lisa: "HAAAHAAAHAAAHAAAA!!! I know...HAAHHAHAHHAAAA!!! Rooster clocks!!!! "

Unison: "AAAHAAAAHHAAAAHHAAAAHHAAA!!!!!!"

Maria: "Sigh....that was so funny..."

Lisa: "Hehehe...rooster clocks...ha!"

Maria: "Oh, here's the other peice of pajama...I was looking for this..."

Lisa: "HAHAHAHAHA!!!! 'piece of pajama'??? Chuckle.

Maria: "SOPHIA!! YOU ABSOLUTELY CAN FIND A SENTENCE USING THE WORD 'SINGLE'!!!! HOW ABOUT, 'MY MOTHER LOSES HER MIND EVERY SINGLE TIME HER DAUGHTER DOES HER HOMEWORK!!!!"

Lisa: "HHAAAAHAAAAHAAAHAAHAHAHAAAAA!!!!!!! I CAN'T TAKE IT!!!!!"



Heh heh...that was some gooood wine. ;0
...and that definitely wasn't the rooster clock I ended up with!

The Eleven-Year "Glitch", Part Three

(I have decided to delete this post due to the sensitive and personal nature of the subject matter. Although it wasn't read or responded to by anyone involved, I felt that it was more important to keep the peace that we've all worked so hard for rather than to dredge up the past. Once you've healed from something, there really is no point in bringing it all up again. I feel that I've moved on and I'm happy with my life...a life I wouldn't have had if I hadn't gotten divorced.)

So there you have it. A cross-country move when I was 11; my mother’s death when I was 22; and a divorce from my first husband when I was 33. I turned 44 a month ago—another “eleventh year”—and I’ve decided that his will be my year of success. If my life is going to change, it’s going to change for the better. It has to—I promised myself. And I won’t break a promise.

The Eleven-Year "Glitch", Part Two

(Recently, I was nominated in the categories "Happiest Blog" and "Most Inspirational Blog" on the "Share the Love Blog Awards". Since I didn't win in either category, I felt that it was okay to post this somewhat melancholy story!)



I guess I should go back in time just a little to explain the circumstances regarding my birth (okay, so that’s going back more than “just a little”). My parents married when my mom was 19 and my dad was 23. A year later, my brother was born. My parents, who both came from families with four children, tried for years to have another child. Both of them went through testing to determine if there was some sort of physical problem as to why my mother couldn’t conceive. After years of being told that there was nothing wrong with either one of them, they gave up trying and accepted that their son would not have a sibling.

When my mom was 36, she had something called an “umbilical cyst” removed from her abdomen. A short time later, she found herself pregnant—with me. Needless to say, it was almost like the Second Coming when I was born! My parents were overjoyed, and I was spoiled something terrible, not necessarily with physical things, but with getting my own way (the phrase, “Can I have some cheese and crackers with that whine?” comes to mind).

That being said, I became a lazy kid—and I got even worse as I entered my teens. Why bother cleaning my room when my mom would eventually do it anyway, because she hated a mess? I didn’t have time to help her cook or do the dishes—I was too busy with my social life—and she never really pressed the issue, anyway. To ease my guilt (I guess I actually had some kind of conscience and wasn’t a total monster), I would tell myself that she liked everything done her way anyhow, so what was the use of even trying?

The years went on, and my mom continued to do everything for me…and I continued to go on my merry, selfish way. I remember her saying that she got me into “Driver’s Ed” a semester early so that I would be able to drive her around (she never drove due to “macular degeneration” and there was no such thing as “Lasik” surgery back then). What’s sad to me is that I can remember driving my friends everywhere—sometimes even in a compromised condition—but I really can’t remember my mom sitting next to me in the passenger seat. I know I must have driven her around sometimes…I must have. But I can’t remember.

The height of my self-centeredness came the night that my mom gathered our little family together to tell us that she had cancer. She was upset, and so was everyone else…but in pure Scarnato fashion, my brother went back to his apartment emotionless; my dad poured himself a drink; and I asked my mom if she would mind if I didn’t cancel my plans to go out “clubbing” that night…after all, it was Friday. She looked at me in a way that reflected sadness and expectancy. She wasn’t shocked at my request, nor did she ever want to disappoint me in any way. I left the house feeling a twinge of guilt, and proceeded to drown my sorrows on the dance floor and in a glass. I was well aware of how much I sucked as a human being that night.

That was when I was 20. For the next 2 years, my mother dealt with chemo, radiation, hair loss, weight loss, even friend-loss (you truly find out who your friends are when you’re sick). My brother’s wife, who lived upstairs in our two family home with my brother and their two kids, took on most of my mom’s responsibilities, including cooking and washing the clothes. Sadly, I have no recollection of why I wasn’t doing those things back then. Perhaps I was too busy running away and holding on to any semblance of my spoiled existence. It may have even been possible that I knew that she would die, and I’d be left with all of the responsibility for my dad and myself—and that was too harsh a reality to face. I can recall yelling at her to get off the couch and fight for her life…asking her why she was just laying there, day after day, waiting to die. Begging her to go to Sloan Kettering, by far the best cancer research hospital in our area, perhaps even the entire country. She refused, saying it was too much for her, and I shouldn’t worry because her doctor knew what he was doing. I questioned myself as to why I was pleading with her to get off the couch. I knew I really wanted her to get well; no matter how I behaved, I loved my mother. But sometimes I get a sick feeling in my soul that maybe I needed her to get better so that MY life could go back to normal.

I finally began driving my mother around…not to the stores or to a friend’s house as I could have before…but to the hospital for testing, or the doctor’s office, or to an occasional treatment. Why didn’t I ever drive her to a restaurant for lunch when she was well? Why did I always give her a hard time? Why was I so damned difficult and selfish? While the “why’s” fell down upon me like cold, hard sleet, my mom’s condition started to deteriorate. The end was drawing near and not one person in my house was prepared for it.

There was a round-the-clock nurse at our home, a lovely woman who supported the family and eased our burden. My mom’s condition was to the point that when she took a breath in, she exhaled a moan of pain. Constantly. It was the most horrifying thing to listen to, knowing full well that we were all helpless to comfort her. I used to pray at night to God that if He wasn’t going to let a bolt of lightening strike her and cure her, could He just take her home with Him so that she could finally be in peace? Again, the guilt engulfed me, as I wondered whose pain was going to be eased more if she died—hers or mine.

The last day of her life is both lucid and a blur. I know that, after a fight with the oncologist and a prescription for an increased dosage of Morphine from our own family physician, my mom’s pain started to subside. Her moaning decreased, but her visions increased—she was muttering “Hi, Mom” about an hour before she passed, apparently to her mother who had died seven years earlier. I know that there were family members around, people sitting all over our living room while the clock ticked, making small talk about anything and nothing at all. I know it was a beautiful, dry, hot first day of August, and that I took a walk to the hairdresser down the block where my cousin was getting her hair cut. I remember thinking how clear and blue the sky looked, and how fresh the air smelled. My cousin drove me home, and I remember when we walked in the door that I didn’t hear my mom anymore…and I thought she had passed while I was gone.

The nurse called me into the room and told me that my mom had a few minutes left. I looked at her frail little body, so weak and yet so beautiful. I kissed her forehead that had the aroma of peaches or some kind of fruit…I’m not sure what it was, but she smelled like that often during her last few weeks. I spoke to her gently and told her I loved her. I told her some other things that I just can’t remember. But when I touched her arm, it felt cold. I noticed that her chest was barely moving. A wave of something came over me—I’m not sure if it was fear, sorrow or regret—and I started wailing, “Mommy!! Mommy!! Don’t leave me!!” To this day I don’t remember who dragged me out of the room. But two minutes later, the nurse came out, walked directly over to me, placed her hand on my shoulder and said, “Lisa, I think she’s gone now.” That was it. It was over.

My mom died on a Thursday. Since the cemeteries on Long Island don’t bury the deceased on Sunday, and we needed time for our relatives from California to come out, we decided to bury her on Monday. I say “we”, because at some point in the last few weeks of my mother’s life, I became somewhat responsible. This became apparent the day after her death, when we went to the funeral home to make arrangements. I went with my dad, my brother and one of my uncles, who supposedly came with us for “moral support”, but did little more than sit in the office in a drunken stupor. As the funeral director spewed out various necessities to us in succession, I noticed my father becoming more and more confused. At one point, he looked at me and said, “What do you think?” With those four words, I entered into adulthood.

I took control of everything from that moment on, from picking out the casket to lending the director a picture of my mother and telling him, “Make her look like that.” I held my head up high at her SRO wake, welcoming long-lost friends and relatives, dealing with a godmother I never knew that I had and chuckling over an ex-boyfriend who cried harder than I did. I was strong that day, and in the days that followed. I felt different. Life, as I knew it, was over. I was now a full-fledged grown-up, and there was no turning back.

(The third installment of "The Eleven-Year Glitch" will be posted next week.)

The Eleven-Year "Glitch"

Someone recently commented to me that they would like to know several things that I consider strange about myself. Although the list could go on and on, I wanted to specify one particular aspect of my life that I myself consider “strange”. And that’s what I call my “Eleven-Year Glitch”.

Several years ago, while reviewing the altering events that happened in my life, I came to realize that they all happened in an “11th” year. The first event, when I was eleven, involved a huge family migration from New York to California. I admit; at first, I was excited to go to this far away land that my father spoke of so enthusiastically. But as time went on (and I listened in on more of my mom’s phone conversations with her friends), I realized that the only reason he wanted to move was because his sisters and father wanted to move…and they only reason they wanted to move was because their famous brother had just moved there (he was Frank Sinatra's comedian, Pat Henry). Everyone was enamored with a vision of endless celebrity encounters and the promise of a more glamorous lifestyle (at least, that’s what it seemed like to me). I will admit that the thought of leaving for California with my cousins (even down to taking the plane flight together) made the event all the more bearable. But once we actually got there, we ended up moving to different towns--my cousins to Calabasas, my family to Thousand Oaks. Although I got to see them often, I wished we were going to be in school together.

The harsh reality of moving to California for me was that, although it was indeed beautiful, I was at the worst possible age to move to a place where I felt as if I didn’t even speak the language (and was reminded of it every single day of my life by my peers). From the very first day of school, the other students taunted me. At recess, a dirty-blonde, long-haired, tan-legged typical California girl walked up to me with her accessory Barbie friend and told me that if I wanted to fit in with anyone, I would have to actually look like I lived in California, and not on Mars. She informed me that “We don’t wear nylons here.”

First of all, what the heck is a “nylon”?? You mean my stockings? Well, fine then, I’ll toss them as soon as I get home. But don’t blame me if you need sunglasses to look at my legs.

And the next tidbit of advice: “You can’t wear those kind of shoes here, they’re not in style.”

What are you saying?? That these white, high-heeled clogs with a strap in the back aren’t considered a fashion “do”?? Fine, I’ll break my mom’s heart and toss them too. Even though I wore them when I was a bridesmaid in my brother’s wedding last year.

And the third and final enlightenment: “We don’t bring purses to school. And when we wear them, we don’t put them over our necks, we just let them hang on our shoulders.”

Purses... Purses?? I’m confused. Back where I come from, a purse is something you put your spare change in. Could she be saying that my whole, entire pocketbook was indeed a “purse”?? Fine…fine. I’ll ditch the “purse” also, although I have no idea how I’m going to carry all of my lip gloss around. Or do we just wear Chap-stick here?

Last year in my school in New York, we all fought over who was going to sit with the new girl at lunch. I guess in California they don't operate that way.

What would’ve been great was if I actually gave her some New York attitude and said the things that I was thinking. Instead, tears just fell down my cheeks as I sat there and nodded my head in mock agreement. And in true movie fashion, she gave me a fake, sweet smile and said, “Okay?” and got up with her non-speaking, expert face-making friend and strutted away—laughing the whole time. I went home and told my mom I was never going back.

Of course, I was forced to go to school every day anyway. I would stand on the lunch line listening to the strains of “NEW YAWKA-PAWKA!!”, or my all-time favorite, “GIMME A KWAUGHTA FOR A CUP-A-WAUGHTA!!” I cried every single day for several months. Then a funny thing happened…I hit puberty in the middle of sixth grade, along with a few other awkward girls. We became friendly, and by seventh grade, I was feeling as if I could finally fit in with most of my peers. I created a couple of close friendships (I still talk to one of those friends every couple of years), and life went on. By eighth grade, I was totally adjusted to my California lifestyle. And of course, as fate would have it, as soon as I felt comfortable I was told that we were moving back to New York.

I don’t remember much from the final few weeks in Thousand Oaks. I can’t even remember packing up my room, or what I did with my beloved Elton John poster in his jeans and short fur jacket. But one memory that’s always been crystal clear to me is the car ride up my street, leaving my house for the very last time to go to the airport. It dawned on me that I didn’t feel as if I were leaving home; I felt as if I were going home. And I was happy.

Next week I’ll post about my second decade “Eleven-Year Glitch”—stay tuned!

Positive Dreaming

“…In my mind I’m goin’ to Carolina

Can't you see the sunshine

Can't you just feel the moonshine

Ain’t it just like a friend of mine

To hit me from behind

Yes I’m goin’ to Carolina in my mind…”

Aahh…the poetic lyrics of James Taylor, someone whose music I’ve come to know and appreciate more and more in recent years. His relaxing tones, easy voice and entertaining storytelling are something that I find I am able to appreciate as the years go on, especially in a time where most songs on the radio contain lyrics that consist of about five words, and are only intelligent enough to be able to describe some variation of sex using phrases I’ve never even heard of. Although I really don’t know what Mr. Taylor was imagining when he wrote this song, I can tell you that for me, this song represents my present…and my future.

My life in the last ten years has been anything but what I imagined it to be when I was young. I suffered through a divorce, I was a single parent for several years and then married a good man that came in a package deal with two children…plus an ex-wife who had trouble finding stability in her life, and a family that was mostly wonderful, but with problems of their own that unfortunately sometimes stemmed out to us. He was a painting contractor…the “finishing guy”…and although he had a business that was a well-oiled machine, he was never going to be in the six-figure income bracket, no matter what he did.

I had baggage of my own with two kids with Tourette syndrome…and the ADHD that goes hand in hand with that (we suffered through many screams and tears just to get homework done in two hours that should’ve taken 20 minutes). I also had an ex-husband who could be very unstable himself. Although I had returned to school in my early 20’s to major in art, I did not have the opportunity to finish because my mom had passed away, and my dad needed to sell our house. Shortly thereafter, I married and had children. After my divorce, I found myself floating from job to job just to find something enjoyable, lucrative, and that allowed me to leave at 3:00 so I could be home for my kids in the afternoons. I eventually ended up with two out of three (lucrative, part-time jobs that require no former schooling are a rarity on Long Island, and I imagine just about everywhere else as well). Still, I am not where I feel that I'm supposed to be forever.

Enter the power of positive thinking, and the ability to “dream”.

I admit that in my past, I had a tendency to be a “defeatist”—you know, the person whose personal dictionary features the words “I can’t”, “I’ll never” and “If only”, amongst other negative catch-phrases. The culmination of negativity inside of me surfaced after my mother had died. Hadn’t I spent years praying to God every night to “please never let anyone in my family get cancer, have a heart attack, acquire any fatal diseases”, and basically never, ever die? Why didn’t God hear me? I was so twisted in my thinking, that I felt as if everything was useless, and that maybe there just wasn’t a God after all, and we really were a cosmic accident. How could He let her die?

I realized after her funeral that one of my very dear friends, Ann, did not show up to the wake, nor did she even bother to call me at this heartbreaking time. When I brought this fact up to my best friend, she told me that Ann couldn’t come because she was in the hospital having surgery for…cancer. I remember thinking, “Cancer?!? But she’s only 22!” Ann eventually had to have three surgeries (the first initial one to remove an ovary, the second one where she was opened and closed immediately because the hospital was not equipped to handle the severity of her case, and the third time to remove all of her female organs—a complete hysterectomy before she even turned 23). I found it amazing, however, that during her chemotherapy, losing all of her hair, feeling sick as a dog—she was able to keep an upbeat attitude, and only believed for the best. She kept her sense of humor, even if it was self-deprecating, and tried to keep everyone around her thinking positive. I believe one of her biggest tools was a book called, “Love, Medicine and Miracles”, by Dr. Bernie Siegel. She gave me the book and insisted that I read it...telling me it would help me, even though my mom was not around anymore to benefit from it herself.

Reading this book opened my eyes to the power of positive thinking. I started to see how a negative attitude could prevent even the strongest of people from attaining health and vitality. Dr. Siegel describes how people can “will” away something as simple as a cold—how a child who was very sick one day could miraculously feel better the next day if they knew that they were going to do something enjoyable, such as go on a field trip. I started to understand what happened to my mother—she heard the word “cancer” and immediately gave herself a death sentence. There was no positive thinking on her part, except that she was “positively” going to die! Even though we, her family, begged her to go to Sloane Kettering (one of the most prominent cancer hospitals around, and located a mere 40 minutes away from us), she refused to go, saying it was “too much” for her. I don’t know about you, but I would go to the ends of the earth if it meant that I might have a chance to live a quality life and have a brighter future. I’m only sad that my mother wasn’t able to benefit from Dr. Siegel’s positive beliefs while she was still alive, especially since she had one of the most “curable” forms of female cancers.

Through the years, I tried to read more “self-help” books and tried to get rid of the negative framework in my brain. I found that for me, the secret to thinking positive was to have hope for the future, or a “dream”. When I went through my divorce, I got through it by thinking that God felt that I deserved to be treated better, and that there was someone else out there for me who would appreciate me. And I was right…I met a man who seemed to have positive thinking ingrained in his genes, which only helped me more. But imagine where I would be today if I stayed bitter and negative…if I didn’t allow myself to “dream” for a better future. It frightens me to even think about it.

With our situation being what it is, my husband and I have had our share of ups and downs—not with each other, but with those around us. Because we refuse to feel defeated—and there have been times when we were unsteady and almost fell into that pit—we are usually able to handle everything that comes our way, and trust me, there have been some “doozies”. Throughout it all, however, we have been able to overcome the negative with positive thoughts about our future. A future which seems to encompass the peace and tranquility that we desire in our lives right now, but because of our obligations, are unable to attain at this time. Occasionally, I'll do something as simple as placing an inspirational picture or decorative piece strategically in our home...something I'll pass often that will remind me of things that are yet to come, such as the "Dream" sign that rests upon my fireplace mantel. Sometimes the simple things really do count.

One of our dreams is to own a home in the country. A nice, big place with plenty of property so our kids can visit with their families and have room to “run around”. A place where we look out our window and can’t help but feel positive because the view will allow nothing less than a sense of wonder an awe at the miraculous beauty of nature. A place where our friends and family can go to escape the negativity of their own lives, even if it’s only for a day or two. In my dream, I’m cooking breakfast for the multitudes and making them my famous pancakes, bacon, eggs, and coffee. The snow could be falling outside on the evergreens, with my Christmas tree twinkling in the corner of the family room…or the summer sun could allow us to sit on the deck and soak up the view of mountains rising majestically over a lake, blooming flowers and wild birds gathering around the birdfeeder located just outside of my vegetable garden. There’s soft music playing in the background, and everyone is relaxed, de-stressed and un-pressured. However, since this is but a dream right now, I decided that I can not allow myself to wait until we own said country home to feel the pleasures of what I long for.

This morning I decided to make my pancake breakfast for the gaggle of teens that slept over last night. I put on James Taylor, and listened intently as “Carolina in My Mind” played in the background:

“In my mind, I’m goin’ to Carolina…can’t you see the sunshine…can’t you just feel the moonshine…”

In reality, I know that I’m in my crowded house full of teens that come with all of their teen stressors. I know that today is Sunday, and another stressful week of work awaits me tomorrow. I realize that there are family issues that are a long way off from being ironed out at this time. But I’ve “...up and gone to Carolina in my mind”. In my thoughts, I imagined myself in the country, cooking over my old stove in a kitchen at least twice the size of the tangible one I was standing in. I did “see the sunshine”, and I felt happy, as though I did have a taste of “moonshine”. Yes, right now that country home—which will most likely not be anywhere near a Carolina—is all “in my mind”. However, I believe with all of my heart that someday, somewhere—if we continue to think positively—our dream will come to fruition. My proverbial “Carolina” will finally be my reality.




Footnote: Ann is currently 44, has been married for almost 20 years, and has two beautiful adopted daughters.

For further insight on positive thinking, I invite you to visit Carine at http://www.carine-whatscooking.blogspot.com/ and read her most recent post. And for proof positive that a peaceful life in the country can be attained, pop on over to Matty’s post "Never Say Never" at http://runningonempty-matty.blogspot.com/.

The Hero That Brought Our Family Together

Stepfamilies are a unique bunch. Depending on the circumstances, the union of a man and a woman who each have children of their own can be wonderful, mediocre or downright disheartening. My husband and I were very fortunate to have kids who not only get along, but have a genuine love for each other, even though they don’t share the same genes. This is a true blessing, and we consider ourselves very, very lucky.

With times being what they are, however, my husband and I were finding that we weren’t seeing all that much of the kids. Which is actually kind of funny, because most days, the three younger ones are here at the house—my stepdaughter downstairs in her room on her computer, my daughter upstairs on her computer, and my son outside riding bikes with his friends and popping in to raid the refrigerator every half-hour or so. I would love to say that I have the time to take my daughters somewhere every afternoon so that they’re not holed up staring at their monitors, but the sad truth is that I’m really busy. I leave my very active job and pick up my kids from school…and that’s when the second half of my day begins. By the time I finish picking up my kids (one at 2:30, one at 3:10, the other at 4:00 because he has track), running errands (supermarket, post office, bank, etc.), taking them to work, doctor and dentist appointments, supply shopping—you name it—I don’t usually get to start dinner until after 5:00. That’s when the third half (okay, the third third) of my day starts…eating, cleaning up from dinner, perhaps squeezing in a walk, a yoga class or the gym, showering…I don’t have time left over to do much of anything other than collapse into bed.

About two months ago, my husband and I decided that we really needed one night a week where all six of us sat down at a table together and ate dinner, instead of the two, three, or—if we were lucky—four people that usually showed up. We picked a pizzeria in a town close by, and now on Thursdays we all gather and catch up with one another. Since we realized how much we enjoy each other’s company, this has turned into quite the event, especially for the pizzeria owners. They told us that they look forward to our visits (and our antics) every single week! Around Christmas time, we decided to take a family portrait which consisted of the red checker table cloth for a background, and each member’s head atop a different condiment—garlic powder, salt, pepper, cheese, etc.—the owners admired the fun we were having so much that they requested a copy for themselves!

Yes, Thursdays are fun, but there’s still the empty hole that’s left between Friday and Wednesday. Enter “Guitar Hero”. If you’re not familiar with this video game for Playstation 2, let me introduce you. “Guitar Hero” is a game that consists of a mini-guitar (we have two), a disc, and a TV screen. Along the lines of “Dance Dance Revolution”, one has to press the chords (five different colored frets at the neck of the handheld guitar) to famous rock songs as the corresponding color comes down a little “runway” (or guitar neck) on the screen. Here is the history of the game in our family:

Last Christmas, my daughter requested this game from “Santa”. She received it, only to realize afterward that we no longer had “Playstation 2” because it had broken (it helps to note here that my children’s dad gives them his “hand-me-down” game systems…hence the reason that I wasn’t even aware that we didn’t have “Playstation 2” anymore, because they basically had every other game system, so no one ever informed me). A year went by, and “Guitar Hero” sat in my daughter’s very messy closet, totally untouched…perhaps waiting for the day that we relented and spent the $110.00 to buy a used “Playstation 2” so it could finally be used.

On Christmas Eve of 2006, we went to my cousin’s house for the festivities. During the course of the night, my son went into the basement to play video games, and came across “Guitar Hero”. That was it. One game, and he was hooked! After Christmas, he took all of his gift cards and gift money, and went to the game store to buy a used “Playstation 2” so that he could use his sister’s “Guitar Hero” that’s been gathering dust in her closet for the last 12 months. That was December 26th, and he hasn’t put the game down yet (except for his daily visits to school…and he’s actually playing “Freebird” as I write this)!


Before we knew it, “Guitar Hero” had become somewhat of a phenomenon amongst the four kids. Where there used to be the silent clicking of computer keys, there was now the blaring electric strains of Guns N Roses, Boston, and various other artists followed by the screams, moans and belly laughter belonging to none other than—you guessed it—our kids! Most of them skipped over the “easy” and “medium” level, and made it to the “hard” level within a week. My son and daughter took it one step further and didn’t quit until they made “expert”—quite a feat for only having the game for a week! Oh, and did I mention that my husband and I have gotten in on the action as well? Not only do we play with our kids, but just the other night we battled guitars to Cheap Trick’s “Surrender”. Nothing like a little healthy competition between a couple to spice things up…especially when I win!


Okay, I know. I’m exuberant over a video game. Yes, I realize that it may seem like I've finally fallen off the deep end...after all, I am in my 40's. I'm supposed to hate video games and blame the demise of our country on them and MTV. And although there may be some valid reasoning to that, all I can defend myself with is that there is no sound sweeter in this world to me than the hysterical laughter of my four kids, especially when it’s in perfect harmony in my living room. A heroic feat by any means!

Remembering Lou

(It's hard to condense a long life into a short post...which is why this one's longer than usual! But there's a reason that I needed to tell this story today. I would like to introduce you to my father, Lou.)

This is a condensed story of my dad, Louis Francis Scarnato (or, "Luigi Frangisci Scarrrrnato", as he used to love to pronounce it). Lou spent most of his childhood in Brooklyn, NY. He was the oldest of four children, born to Joseph and Rose Scarnato. During his teenage years, he acquired the nickname of “Screwy Louie”, a name affectionately bestowed on him by his own family. Apparently, my dad went against the grain…he had his own agenda, whatever that was, and he did his own thing apart from the family most of the time. However, he held a very special place in his heart for his beloved grandmother, who lived close by. He would visit her almost every day, plop himself down in her kitchen, and eat her homemade bread that she baked each morning. According to him, he would occasionally miss school in order to spend time with her.

One of the first major life events that sculpted my dad’s future was the death of his grandmother. As the story goes, she died in the kitchen where she spent most of her time, and my father apparently witnessed this horrible scene. I say apparently, because each member of our family has heard a different version of this particular story, but irregardless, his life would never be the same. He had often said that his grandmother was more of a mother to him than his own, and he missed her terribly. He spoke of her even after he was a grandfather himself.

When Lou was 18, he went to a party with several cousins and friends. He noticed a very beautiful, young girl conversing with her friends on the other side of the room, and just knew he had to meet her…but didn’t quite know how to go about it. During the course of the party, a game was played where the girls picked papers out of one hat, and the boys picked papers out of another hat. Each paper in the girl’s hat had an item written on it—for example, “coat”—and the boy’s hat contained papers with things that would go with the items that the girls had, such as “jacket”. The boy and girl who had the similar match would then be coupled off to dance together. Very cunningly, my father found out that the pretty girl’s paper said “brush”…not good, because his paper said “fork”! So he found his friend who had “comb”, and bribed him into switching papers with him! And history was made with a switch of two small scraps of paper. He met the woman who would eventually become his wife—his “Helene”.

At nineteen, my father joined the Air Force and went off to do his duty in World War 2. He flew thirteen combat missions, crashing once and finishing his tour of duty with many, many stories that he would tell for years to come. When he came home, he married Helene (who eventually took the "e" off the end of her name), and they began a life together that would produce two children (myself being one of them), and that would last until she died of cancer and was buried on their 40th wedding anniversary in 1985.

My dad loved to perform. He taught himself to read music and play the piano, and wrote several songs throughout his life, including “My Helene”, which he had copyrighted and published. He was a master at “boogie woogie”: his jazzy style could make anyone tap their toes and jump out of their seat. The piano literally bounced up and down when he played! Ironically, his younger brother actually became a famous comedian, working with the likes of Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin and Sammy Davis, Jr. My father often tagged along with his brother and loved to be a part of this stellar crowd. No matter what, however, my dad never once showed any envy or jealousy toward his beloved brother. He was always happy for him, even though deep down we knew he must’ve wanted even a little taste of fame for himself.

Lou plugged away at being an engineer. The man could fix anything, and often did…there was always someone calling our house with a request for him to come over and fix a washing machine, a dryer, a dishwasher…and he would be more than happy to stop whatever he was doing and help them out. His sense of direction was unmatched…he loved maps, and could get himself anywhere without making a mistake. However, he did tend to suffer from extreme road rage, and would drive 40 minutes out of his way to chase someone who cut him off, being sure to use his extended vocabulary of curse words the whole time. We’re not quite sure why he did this; but it seemed to satisfy some primal urge inside of him, and he eventually would calm down and get back on track!

Yes, his temper was very intimidating sometimes. Although he never laid a hand on me as a child, there wasn’t one time that he yelled at me that I didn’t wet my pants! He didn’t yell often, but when he did, watch out! True to his “screwiness”, within five minutes of him causing me to empty my bladder, he would be sheepishly laughing and wondering how I could be so scared of him. The man truly had no idea that he could be scary; he honestly didn’t view himself that way! Unfortunately, this might be the reason some people call me “Looney Lisa”.

Although I could go on and on with endless stories of my dad (there are always future posts to write), let’s fast forward into the future a little, after my mom had died. My father loved my mother. He really, truly did. He was not always the best-behaved husband; he did like to drink a little too much sometimes. But when that woman was sick, there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for her. After her death, he went into a depression that seemed to last for years.

Eventually, he acquired a rental apartment in a senior complex. This literally saved his life—he began to perform at holiday functions, and helped organize a comedy/musical troupe that traveled to different senior centers throughout our area. He was THE MAN. There wasn’t one woman who didn’t want to be with my dad…his white hair, his impeccable dress…and he always smelled really good, to boot! But one woman caught his eye, and since her name was “Helen”, he decided that this relationship was meant to be.

Lou and Helen carried on a little love affair for several years at the senior center before deciding to move to Florida together. My brother and I were not thrilled with this arrangement; Helen didn’t want to get married because she was still collecting social security from, um, one of her former husbands. She wasn’t the warmest of human beings, and we weren’t really sure what her intentions were concerning my father. But being the stubborn Italian that he was, he went anyway, and they purchased a small home on the East coast.

My dad didn’t visit too often once he moved, but he seemed happy and was continuing to delight people with his piano playing at the clubhouse, and keeping busy by playing golf, riding his bike and working as a “greeter” at Wal-Mart—the perfect job for him, being that he was so outgoing. Over the course of the next couple of years, we noticed that he was drinking a little more, and calling to complain about his companion after imbibing in one too many. It seemed he was having an issue over her refusal to marry him, to really commit. Little did we know what was to come.

In his 75th year, at a holiday party at the clubhouse down the road, he began to argue with Helen. He drank more martinis than I care to mention and became agitated and obnoxious, as he often did if he drank anything other than beer. Helen became annoyed at him, and walked home from the party. My father drove home a short time later, pulling the car so far up the driveway that he almost went through the house. He stumbled out of his car; wobbling, he lost his balance and fell head first into the windshield. That blow most likely knocked him out, and he fell down onto the cement. Watching all this from her window, Helen decided that she was going to leave him there rather than see if he was okay. A short time later, some neighbors knocked on her door to inform her that he was lying in the driveway, and only then did she make an effort to bring him inside. Nothing was done for my father. No ambulance was called. He was put to bed, and that was that. He wasn’t himself the next day, or the day after that; by day three, he was wetting himself and he didn’t know his name. Helen finally got him to the hospital, where it was discovered that he had a huge hematoma on his brain due to the fall. Surgery was imminent. Only then did she call me to tell me the whole saga, and I was quite surprised by her honesty.

He seemed to make it through the surgery with flying colors; his speech was a little slow, and he was unable to move as quickly as he once had. He seemed on the road to recovery until he developed more blood on his brain, and had to have another surgery. During this period, I would fly down and visit him several times, each time my heart breaking more at his deterioration. Eventually, he recovered enough that Helen thought it would be a good idea if he flew up to New York for my son’s First Communion.

The last time my father had visited , about six months before his accident, he sat at my piano and played for what seemed like hours. He had on his Izod sweater and his neatly pressed jeans, and his thick, white “combover” made him look ten years younger than what he actually was (he learned how to “fake” having hair the professional way from Frank Sinatra’s stylist years before…this wasn’t your everyday, greasy, three-haired “combover”). But the man who came off the plane in a wheelchair was feeble and old-looking; there was no hair on the top of his head, only scars from the surgeries. His legs were skinny, his trunk was puffy. But then, there it was: That crooked, warm smile and the slurred joke about not being able to go to the bathroom for three hours. He was still Lou.

He was still able to walk short distances, and he enjoyed himself at the communion and several other outings during his week-long stay. He went back to Florida with a good attitude, and I really felt that there was hope that he would improve. I was wrong.

More blood developed on his brain, and he had to have another surgery. He then had several “mini-strokes”, and really started to deteriorate to the point that he could no longer walk or use the bathroom. Helen did her best to take care of him; I believe that she felt guilty for what she had (or hadn’t) done several years before on that fateful night. But eventually, he became too much for her to handle, and he had to go into a nursing home. The last time we visited him as a family, he was unable to remember my name…he knew that he knew me, he just couldn’t place where he knew me from. When I told him I was his daughter, I was never really sure if he was telling the truth that he remembered me. He didn’t remember his grandkids, and he especially didn’t remember my husband or his children, either. But he was so pleasant and kind during our visit…he didn’t speak much, but when he did, he always tried to have a humorous demeanor about him. Once when he dozed off, we spoke with his roommate, who was listening to Frank Sinatra CD’s. He told us how he loved to listen to Frank, and other artists from that era. I said to him, “Well, then, you must LOVE my father’s stories about Frank Sinatra!” He looked at me curiously, as if he had no clue what I was talking about. I added, “I’m sure my father told you about his brother, the comedian, and all of his Sinatra stories?” His roommate looked at me sadly and said, “Your father doesn’t talk.” I knew then and there that Lou was no longer himself…only a mere shell of the vibrant life force that had graced this earth for 83 years.

Last December 31st, Helen called me to tell me that my dad wasn’t doing well. They thought he had pneumonia, and it didn’t look good, but he had pulled out of pneumonia before and she wasn’t sure what was going to happen. The next morning, on New Year’s Day, I called the hospital and spoke with his nurse. She told me that he was probably not going to make it this time, and made it clear that he could last a day, several days, maybe a week. I hung up the phone sadly. This was how it was going to end…and the next time I saw my father, it would be in a casket. Something came over me, and I immediately called the airline to get on the next flight. I made arrangements for my kids, and decided to fly myself down to Florida for 24 hours. I just knew I had to be with my dad, to see him one last time.

I always flew into Orlando airport when I visited my dad. There was an airport closer to the nursing home, but it was small and inefficient, and I couldn’t fly on Delta or Jet Blue to get there. Orlando was an hour away from the nursing home, so I knew once I got off that plane that I had to bolt to the rental car booth and pick up my vehicle. Of course, there was a problem with the car they assigned me, and I had to wait several minutes for them to get me another one. I felt anxious, like time was wasting away, and I tried to calm myself down so that I could drive the dark, desolate Bee Line Expressway with a clear head.

I drove for a little over and hour, and finally found the hospital after accidentally going in the direction of the nursing home by habit. I parked the car and ran into the emergency entrance, the only entrance that was open, being that it was now 11pm. I inquired with some very kind security gentlemen as to how to get to the second floor, and they pointed me in the right direction. When I got to the second floor nursing station, a quiet, soft-spoken nurse asked me who I was there to see. When I told her “Lou Scarnato”, she held my hand and looked at me. “I want you to know that he’s nearing the end,” she softly said. “I didn’t want you to be surprised and I wanted you to be prepared for that when you saw him.” I thanked her, and assured her that I knew he wasn’t doing well and that’s why I made the trip down.

The hospital was quiet and peaceful. There was soft lighting and remnants of Christmas still decorating the counters and moldings. I had never seen a carpet throughout a hospital, but this place seemed more like an upscale hotel with its hunter green and gold, grand-designed wall-to-wall. The nurse walked me to my father’s room, which was dimly lit, the window curtain still opened to the black night outside. My father lay still and quiet, his mouth open as if he were about to snore. “Oh!!” she yelped, and stopped in her tracks. “…I think he just passed!”

“…Right NOW??” I said unbelievably. “You mean, just this minute?!?”

“Yes, yes…I was just in here a half-hour ago! He must’ve waited until you got here.”

Well, well, I thought. Isn’t that just like Screwy Louie? Always in a rush to go where he wanted, when he wanted. He didn’t want to wait anymore. He wanted to be with Helene. He wanted to be with his parents, with his beloved grandmother…even his pets, animal lover that he was. Couldn’t he wait just five minutes longer? But it dawned on me. He did wait. He waited for me to take that three-hour flight. He waited for me to drive an hour down that dastardly Bee Line Expressway; he waited for me as I got my streets mixed up once I got into town. He waited until I got to the hospital…and waited until I got to his room. Yes, he did wait for me. I walked over to his body, still warm with tiny beads of sweat on his forehead. I kissed him and gave him a hug. I spoke to him and thanked him for waiting for me to get there. Then I looked out the window into the still of the night and imagined my father and my mother, hand in hand, waving to me from outside. I knew with all of my heart that she had come to take him to his new home, and I felt great peace.


I admit, I did think to myself, “What a way to start the New Year.” But in essence, I knew that the year was starting off on a positive note, as strange as that sounds. My father could finally be Lou again. He was finally free of living in the prison of his own, non-functional body. He was at peace with God, whom he loved and respected his whole life. And that led our family to peace.

During the moment of worship usually reserved for prayer at his wake, the priest stated that instead of the usual spiritual music that he normally played, he decided to find another piece that he felt would better suit Lou. He asked us to bow our heads in prayer, and clicked the “play” button on his tape player. To our surprise, a piano started to play the most lively, fun-loving “boogie-woogie” music we had heard since the days that my father had played for us! And I knew that wherever Lou Scarnato was, he was playing once more.

Louis Francis Scarnato: April 2, 1922—January 1, 2006. Happy one-year anniversary in heaven, Daddy.