Falling off the wagon

Sitting in the emergency room at Cedars Sinai Hospital yesterday I was reminded why I don’t watch the local news on TV anymore (my good friend’s husband is sick, and having Emphysema, a bad chest cold can turn ugly fast so we were waiting to hear the prognosis in the waiting area. He is better today thankfully).

The room had a few TV’s hanging from the ceiling and I consciously resisted looking at them for quite a while. But eventually boredom and a serious need for distraction took over, and yep, I gave in. I let the morbid reality of the local nightly news slowly creep into my brain.

A few years ago I liked watching TV news all the time (CNN that is). I never really liked the local news because it did a serious job on my head, like, really depressed me. Scared me more actually. CNN seemed to have less of that effect probably because it felt more abstract. It was harder to ignore news like, “there was a killing around the corner from your house” kind of thing, so CNN became my obsession.

Then about a year ago I went cold turkey. I turned off the TV and turned on my Ipod because when I looked in the mirror all I saw was a walking news zombie and hated it. I decided I would rather have a song stuck in my head than the latest news about how bad everything was in the world. Don’t get me wrong, I am not saying I don’t care about the state of the world. I do. I just needed to filter the flow of news into my brain. I was in serious news overload.

But now sitting in the hospital while voluntarily watching the news, I found myself breaking my year long sabbatical. There was a shooting and someone, some bad guy, was shot. No one knew if he was dead or alive. Seemed it was a gang shooting. Ugly. I could see the news reporter standing on the street with yellow tape behind her. Staring at the TV gave me some serious chills.

While I sat like a zombie watching this latest train wreck on TV, a burst of people ran through the emergency room. Cops were flying by me with guns at their sides, doctors yelled and everyone was pushed out of the way. They were pulling through someone bleeding. He looked bad, scary bad. Oh my God, this is the guy! This is the one they are talking about on TV! He is right here, right now! Geez this is too real. I’m done. Done watching the news. Local news that is. Where is my Ipod?

What's in a name?

Usually, my daughter goes by 'Jemma' - but her first name is actually Jemima. Although many people are familiar with Beatrix Potter's 'Jemima puddle duck' and 'Jemima' from Disney's "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang," apparently the only thing they think of when they hear that name is pancake syrup...

The reactions I've gotten when I have revealed my daughter's name have ranged from raised eyebrows to outright guffaws. More than one person has asked me if I'm joking.

Today a man I was talking with expressed such disbelief that I felt compelled to go into a lengthy explanation of why I had chosen the name...

How it doesn't have the association with 'Aunt Jemima Syrup' for me because when I was growing up we never used that product. (Not that I've never heard of it - but it's hardly the first thing that comes to mind when I think of the name... Well, now it might be...)

I went on to explain that after I got married and took the last name "Smith" I had a run-in with MCI that made me vow never to give my child a common name... (It took me months to prove to them that, although I did have the same name as one of their clients who was delinquent in her payments to them, I was not, in fact, that Emily Smith.)

And further, that while the name isn't widely used in our country, it's very common in England...

The playgrounds in my neighborhood echo with the most pretentious and preposterous names imaginable. And who cares? We all want to give our children names that we think are special...
I gave my daughter a name that isn't used a lot... And it's a pretty name. I didn't call her 'lamp shade' or 'beetroot'... So I'm always a little surprised when people have a negative reaction to it. (Actually, what really surprises me is how comfortable people are being downright rude about it.)

After I'd finished my explanation the man shrugged, as if to solidify his criticism, "Well, it does have racial overtones."

I wonder whether this man - the whitest guy on the Upper West Side - has a problem with the name Ben, too. (Who knows, maybe his mom served him 'Uncle Ben's Converted Rice' when he was a kid.)

I wonder if he'll be concerned about 'racial overtones' when he sees me with the baby I'll be bringing home from Ethiopia in a few months... But then, I'm sure he'll feel free to let me know...

Paint the house pink

If you ever renovate your home (or know a friend that is) here’s my suggestion…take your kids to paint the walls, doors, and basically everything. It’s the perfect silver lining to complete and utter renovation hell.

We descended upon to my friend’s home fully armed with extra big worn out t-shirts, a ton of paint and even more paintbrushes. We forgot paper towels (big forget as I had some serious concerns about the future color of the seats in my car from the drive home). Oh well, it was washable paint, at least I hoped.

Everyone felt like we were doing something wrong which of course made it all the better. The moment we walked through the front door we were forced to cover our ears. The hammering was loud, really loud. Looking up we could see straight through what used to be a living room. Everything was torn apart. Navigating ourselves upstairs wasn’t easy and I began to wonder if this was such a great idea after all.

All the walls upstairs (with the exception of a few marks) were white. We plopped down on the floor to get our necessary gear and tools ready: t-shirt on, paint poured into plates, paintbrushes ready. As fast as we had arrived into our living canvas, the painting began.

With only a few exceptions most of the paint managed to find its way to the walls. I watched as everyone carefully took their brushes in their hands and meticulously thought through each and every stroke. One little girl drew boxes filled with different colors. It reminded me of the way Chuck Close liked to paint. He would have approved of what he saw in this particular living canvas. I was certain of that.

As I blissfully watched them dive into this new little world they were creating their smiles turned to snickers. Before my eyes Chuck disappeared and Jackson Pollock entered. From all directions paint flew through the air. Snickers turned to squeals of bliss as everyone laughed hysterically. I was dodging green, red and pink paint. It was insane, but the look of shear joy in those little eyes made all my fears of never completely removing the paint from my face dissolve. The underlying feeling that we were doing something wrong was bordering electric.

Now if only we could find a way to feel that every day. Wouldn’t that be amazing?

Dress-up

Usually Jemma loves to put on make-up and have her nails done... For some reason yesterday she wanted to dress up as Papa.

No Chloe O'Brien

I went over to the new studio yesterday and started throwing out the crap that residents who are moving out invariably leave behind... hangers, juice, soap, random papers...

As I was taking a mental inventory of things I needed to buy for the place, I noticed that one of the outlets wasn't lined up properly... And I figured it shouldn't bee too hard to fix. After all, I'm the 'handy one' in our family - whenever something needs to be put together or installed, I can usually manage it on my own. (Although, things usually don't end up exactly the way they're supposed to be... I haven't figured out how to get an anchor into a plaster wall properly, for example... Come to think of it, whenever I try to hang something I usually end up creating a series of unsuccessful holes, like like a trail of spider bites across the wall...)

I suppose in this area my confidence and my ability are not well matched... At any rate, I unscrewed the plate and tried to twist the outlet into a better position. As I was doing this, a line from this week's 24 episode popped into my head: "It'll be fine... if I don't electrocute myself."

When sparks started flying I was scared enough to recognize that I was, perhaps, out of my depth... Turns out I'm not Chloe O'Brien... Or an electrician.

Introduction

An introduction that I should have made earlier...

Ellen Sassa is a dear friend whom I've asked to be a guest on my blog. (You may have noticed she's already published two posts.)

For those of you who aren't familiar with her, she's an amazing artist and jewelry designer, as well as a remarkable mom. She also happens to be wicked-good on the piano, and stunningly gorgeous - but I won't go into her myriad qualities and talents. I'll let you get to know her on your own... I hope you enjoy her insights.

http://www.unlockedsecret.com/

Home Alone

Being the daughter of a cardiac surgeon, I grew up understanding that work was important. My dad had his share of emergency cases and crazy hours, but we got to see him more than you might think... My mom made sure we all had breakfast together, and most nights dinner too. But when Dad wasn't home I knew he was saving someone's life...

Which makes it a little difficult for me to be supportive when my husband has to stay late. He's involved in a big project right now, and everyone's putting in an enormous amount of effort... Including me. I'm doing my best to be understanding - and I know that you don't have to be doing surgery to be making a difference - but sometimes I feel like saying, "It's only publishing, for Pete's sake. Just come home."

It's easy to let resentment build up... My better self knows this crucial period means a lot to my husband - and that his commitment to his job isn't in competition with his commitment to his family. (Although sometimes it feels like that... And if it comes down to it, I'll kick Time Inc.'s ass if I have to.)

I think the key is for a couple (or family) to act as a unit. If you make decisions together - and make sacrifices for the team rather than for the other person - you can avoid feeling bitter and powerless... Most of the time.

'The crunch' will be over in the next couple of weeks... In the meantime, Jemma and I are heading down to Florida, and Scott will meet us there when he can. We should be able to enjoy some time together then... (I just need to find a good place to hide his Blackberry.)

A room of one's own

I finally closed on the studio that I wrote about back in the beginning of February - (the one with the evil co-op board.) The purchasing process was so complicated (and nosey) that one point I didn't even want it anymore. (Unless you've lived in a Manhattan co-op you probably have no idea of what I'm talking about - but trust me, co-ops are a pain in the you-know-what.)

Although the board refused to make reasonable exceptions to their (ridiculously rigid) guest policy, we eventually settled - mostly because I couldn't back out of the deal without losing my down-payment. (Apologies to my friends that I would have wanted to let stay there when they're visiting New York.) So I can only use it as a workspace... but 'only' seems to be a silly thing to say when I think of what it offers me.

I just spent some time there, and all (well, almost all) of the negativity I felt during the negotiation has evaporated. I'm excited to have a place where I can find out if I still have any creative juice left. And I'm grateful to be able to do my work without having to shush my daughter. I hate the (almost unavoidable) interaction between us when she's trying to talk to me and my focus is elsewhere. I need to be able to have time to myself without making her feel that she's not important.

The place needs a lot of work - so my first creative endeavor there will be fixing it up...
Time to roll up my sleeves.

Music is a time-machine

Music sometimes has a way of grabbing you by the heart and hurtling you into the past. Perhaps I'm more susceptible to it than most - but I don't think I'm alone in this.

I'm sure part of it has to do with nostalgia - which, for most of my life, I've worn around like a favorite threadbare shirt. (I remember when I was twelve thinking that I was going to hate being an 'older kid', and wishing I could stay little...) And I'm sure it has something to do with middle-child neurosis as well...

The effect isn't as powerful as it once was - I'm not quite the emotional litmus paper I used to be - but every so often I find myself enveloped in a fog of past emotions that leave me feeling unsettled and vaguely guilty. (As though to acknowledge my happiness now I have to erase the evidence of any former feeling... Like I'm afraid that old kisses have left stains on my lips...)

But in the gym today (yes - I went!) I heard a song that unexpectedly threw me into a space of emotional limbo - in spite of the fact that it had no previous associations for me... Maybe it was the chord progression, or maybe I just really liked the sound of it - but it gave me that familiar tug that I've grown wary of...

And because I didn't have any attachment to it, I just let it carry me - without any judgment. And in that moment I felt myself to be a thousand different particles - like ingredients in a recipe - coming together at different times to make a unique individual... And the feeling I had - when I let myself just 'be' - was one of overwhelming gratitude. For everything. For all of the blessings in my life now (especially my brilliant and generous husband, and our remarkable daughter, who has inherited her father's kind heart) and for everything -Everything - that has brought me here.

Spring

This weekend has been magnificent. The weather finally seems to have changed...
Although, the weather's always changing - it's not like it's suddenly Spring and I won't be cold ever again...

Weather is like emotions in that whatever's going on at the moment can feel permanent. I'm especially bad in this respect... I actually have trouble packing for a climate that will be different from the one I'm in. I've been known to bring nothing but t-shirts and tank tops when traveling to Maine - which is ridiculous. It's not like I've never been there before - I know it gets cold, and that I'll probably need sweaters (and lots of them.) Trouble is, if I'm hot when I'm packing, my brain just forgets.

So, even though part of me secretly believes that these sun-dappled days are going to go on and on - I know they won't... I suspect we're in for more rain sometime soon - but it'll probably take me awhile to get out my raincoat...

In the meantime, I'm taking advantage of the warmth, and trying to notice the small changes that have been happening outside. My daughter is especially excited about the new season. While admiring the patterns of shadows this morning she said, "Winter took so long, but it's spring now - and spring is all freckley!"

The smart save

I have, at times, been accused of being a pack rat... While I don't have 200 pairs of shoes in my closet, and don't 'collect' anything that I can think of, I do have a hard time throwing things away. The random cable no one can remember the use for... stuffed in a box under my bed. That, along with empty cd cases, clothing that will never come back in style, and any random scrap of paper that my daughter happened to doodle on.

These things pile up and accumulate, not through conscious choice, but because somewhere in the back of my mind I have the vague suspicion that I might need them someday - and that if I throw any of it away I'll regret it... I'm aware of how ridiculous this is.

I think it's wise to say, when in doubt, give it away (or toss it) because you'll never use it- and someone else could. If you don't, it will only clutter your living - and mental - space. I do have one notable exception to this rule... I purchased a guitar over twenty years ago and it lay under my bed for ten years. And it seemed it would never be used...

But one day I picked it up. I taught myself a couple of chords, and wrote a bunch of songs. I'm not a singer - and I can't play guitar, (these are simple facts - not me being modest) but for a couple of years you just couldn't shut me up. I remember bringing my guitar into the hospital when my godmother was sick...

I'd love to say I became really good. Or joined a band. Or just kept playing for my own enjoyment. But none of those things happened... One day I didn't have so much time on my hands anymore and I just stopped. (It may also have had something to do with the fact that my romantic life was no longer miserable... ) Then one of the strings broke, and I never bothered replacing it. So my guitar went back under my bed for awhile... and that could have been the end of the story.

But it came out again about a week ago, when a friend wanted to play it.

It feels good to pick it up... Now, I'm not about to start hauling it around again, subjecting everyone to my music... But I did take it out the other night out while Jemma was taking a bath. I played for her a bit... and she liked it enough to sing along.

Tay's 15

Wow. So it is really true. I now officially have a 15 year old daughter. I always heard nightmare stories about what it is like to have a teenage daughter, and I will confess it scares me. I’m not saying we won’t have some patchy times ahead, but for the moment there is an incredible sense of excitement that comes with this particular day.

As a mother on any one of the (hopefully) many birthdays I get to celebrate with my daughters, I always find myself flashing back to the moment she was born, with all the intense emotions that were part of that particular space in time.

With Taylor being my first born I have to say the strongest feeling I had was complete and utter fear. I was the poster child for that deer in the headlights phenomenon. I had no idea what lay ahead and I was putting a lot of faith in the notion that God doesn’t give us more than we can handle.

Just after midnight I woke up from a new kind of pain. I remember repeating in my head, “This is it. I can do it. I can do it. I can do it.” As if saying it would somehow convince me it was true.

Having an emergency c-section proved to be a blessing because I realized early on, those, oh so tiny little things called contractions were my idea of total and complete hell on earth. Truly, there is nothing, to this day, that I can imagine hurting more than those (my apologies to anyone that is reading this with plans to give birth in the future).

It’s funny. I remember wondering when the moment would be that I felt as if I knew my child, really knew her. When she would sound familiar, feel familiar. It happened faster than I ever thought it would. It was in her very first cry as my doctor ever so gently slapped Tay on her fanny.

Her voice, although it should have been unfamiliar, was incredibly familiar. I knew her instantly. And from that moment on I was able to hear Tay’s voice anywhere she was, and know she was mine. My sweet little soul that somehow stumbled into my life 15 years ago.

Way down in the hole

I spent another morning downtown in the archives... And still can't find my grandparents' marriage certificate - which is perplexing.

Not that I thought finding all of the documents required for dual citizenship would be easy. I was warned ahead of time... But I thought I'd have trouble with my great-grandparents' birth certificates from Italy in 1884. Or naturalization records from 1916. Or a marriage certificate from 1904... I thought the recent stuff would be easy.

Maybe the record was lost or destroyed. Then there's the possibility that they were never really married, and just pretending to be... (which is interesting, but very unlikely, knowing my grandparents...)

Calling in for backup from Staten Island... We'll see what my cousin, 'The Lemon,' can come up with...

P.s.

It seems I need to do a follow up on the post I did a couple of days ago about performing a wedding ceremony... Somebody said they weren't sure whether I was serious when I said I was worried that I might go to Hell if I messed up the service... Just to clarify: I was joking.

I am religious (if by 'religious' you mean whether I think this whole experience is first and foremost about spiritual development, loving each other, and God.) But I don't think God gives a hoot whether I mess up my friends' wedding. Or whether I curse or whether I go to church on Sunday... And I'm not saying that God doesn't 'care' what we do... I just think he has a much broader view, and deeper understanding (of each of us and of the universe) than we can ever begin to comprehend.

Our choices matter - to us. And I think we'll have an easier time of it and probably be happier if we make better choices. (We'll probably have more friends, too.) But God's not looking at our lives from our limited perspectives - or with our critical eyes and individual agendas. He sees everything we do as part of a process. And He observes it through the lens of unconditional love.

So I'm not worried about going to Hell... Actually, I don't believe in it - not in the traditional sense, anyway. But that's a blog for another day....

Here goes

Emily asked if I wanted to write on her blog. I’ve never written in this kind of a format but think it could be fun, or, completely scary. Probably the latter, at least for the reader. I’m not really sure how to even start (although its looking like I already have). I’m thinking it might make sense to say something about who I am. Seems like a logical place to start.

Mom and dad decided to call me Ellen. I’m half Greek and half Alabaman, my nickname is The Blur, and I like to think the glass of wine is half full.

Emily has been my friend more years than this girl’s memory allows, so I won’t waste precious brain time to remember. Ignorance is bliss, right?

I’m a mother of three girls, ages 15, 11, and 9. They are pretty amazing little creatures. Believe me I know I am blessed. There was a time I didn’t know if I would be able to have one child, let alone three. Being pregnant ten times has taught me a lot and I am grateful for that.

If there’s one thing I know for certain it’s this: I wouldn’t change one piece of my past for really, anything. Not one tear drop, one smile, one shot of tequila, one really bad joke, or even one now ended marriage of 18 years. Mind you I’m not saying I would want to go back in time either. Oh dear God no. Just no regrets.

Being a student is one of my favorite things, next to being a mom. Although my school is not board certified, it’s (hopefully) got a different stamp of approval that comes from the Big Guy up there, or more likely the Big Girl up there. Oh who knows, it’s probably both. I like to call my school Ellen’s School of Life.

Anyway, I’m pretty sure I get to choose which classes I take. And yeah I admit when they offer a class in bowling I am the first in line to sign up, so you can imagine my bowling game is pretty good after 45 years of school.

By design I don’t have a lot of say over who my teachers are going to be. Those come at me from all directions. Probably best that way because I would more than likely choose the easy “A” teachers, not the hard-ass ones that kick me in the butt.

Sometimes I forget I’m even in class. Or what about studying for that final exam? I’m thinking that big exam comes later in life, like, much later. Again, ignorance is bliss, right?

Rainy day activitiy

It rained yesterday. Again. Don't get me wrong - I'm not complaining. I'm more than ready to have Spring weather (whatever form it takes). But we needed to get out of the house...

However, we didn't want to do what every other family in Manhattan would be doing. (Not because we wanted to be cool or unusual, but because if you've ever been to the Children's Museum when it's filled like an overstuffed suitcase with kids and their parents you're sure never to do it again.)

Instead, we decided to go to the Central Park Zoo. I know it sounds like a strange choice, considering the elements, but we figured it would be an adventure... When we got there the rain had all but stopped, so we barely even got wet... And the place was empty. Walking around by ourselves was enjoyable in a calm way that you don't get to experience at the zoo (unless you go in a blizzard - which we've also done...) The animals seemed more at ease with no-one there. They didn't have the sad, resigned demeanor that zoo animals sometimes have - in the 'Rainforest' area the birds were swooping down over our heads, and running around at our feet...

The zoo in the rain turned out to be a great idea. Sometimes something that seems almost absurd ends up being perfect...

the decisioner

Tonight is "date night." And I have no idea what I want to do... Which is ridiculous. I live in the most vibrant city in the world - certainly I should be able to figure out some way to entertain myself.

I know I sound like the kid who walks in the door, plops herself down in a room full of toys and announces she's bored. But I'm not bored. (I don't even use that word - my mom doesn't allow it.) And, as any parent of young children will tell you, time alone with a spouse is a rare - and especially valuable - commodity. So it's not that I take it for granted, or am blase about a night out...

Perhaps it has more to do with the fact that I've been fending off a nasty cold... or maybe it's simply that: (as my nephew used to say) "I'm not a good decisioner."

Holy cow!

Friends of mine recently asked me to serve as the officiant for their wedding. The one small obstacle to my saying 'yes' was that I'm wasn't a minister.

But apparently it's not that hard to become one... So I went online, and - voila - I'm "Reverend Smith." I can't say that it doesn't feel a little - okay, a lot - 'hokey.' (My mom had to take two years of classes before she became ordained. I think it took me a minute and a half to fill out my name and address, and that was it... I'm not sure how that makes sense, but there it is.)

Now I'm feeling a little nervous about the service... Not that I don't have plenty to say about marriage and commitment... I do. It's just that this is a serious occasion as well as a joyous one, and I want to treat it as such. And impersonating a minister feels like a silly (and vaguely disrespectful) start...

I suppose I don't need to have experience to do this. They haven't asked me to do heart surgery. (Thank goodness - I don't think I could have gotten my credentials for that online...) I have access to lots of great writing - and some great minds - and I'm sure that by the time I've organized my thoughts into some sort of coherence, I'll be ready...

At least I hope I will - because I don't know what the rules are about ruining a wedding. I'd hate to end up in Hell because I didn't read the fine print...

The prettiest girl in the room

This past weekend I saw a snapshot of my mom that was taken a year or two ago. In many ways it's an unremarkable photograph - a group of women standing together posing for a picture. The composition is standard, the lighting, average. The one thing that jumps out at you is... my mother.

She's absolutely radiant... And that's not a surprise. My mom has always been the prettiest girl in the room... The thing that struck me is that she's not wearing a lick of make-up - and it doesn't make any difference. My mom isn't the type of woman to get 'dolled up'. Or perhaps her version of getting 'dolled up' just doesn't involve all of the intricacies that it does for the rest of us...

Maybe the saying that "pretty is as pretty does" is literally true. My mom is going to turn 70 this year, and she's still effortlessly beautiful. She's also a good person. And by 'good' I don't simply mean "nice" or "well liked" or "churchgoing". I mean good - with a capital "G". It has to do with how she sees the world and how she treats other people (and not just the ones who can do something for her.)

Maybe that's her secret... On the other hand, maybe she has a portrait hidden in an attic somewhere...

Buttocks

Not too long ago I went to a dermatologist to check out a spot on my leg - just to make sure I didn't need to worry about it.

I gave the nurse my information and waited for the doctor to arrive. A few minutes later a boy - well, I guess technically I should say 'man', but he looked too young to be finished his residency - came into the examining room. He extended his hand with a smirk. "Hi, Emily, I'm Dr. Blah-Blah". (Okay, I thought, so I'm supposed to call this kid who's younger than my baby brother "Dr. Blah-Blah" Fine.)

I showed him my leg and asked him a couple of questions. He answered with a bunch of medical terms that he seemed fairly certain I wouldn't understand, but ultimately deemed it to be 'nothing'. "Great!" I said, getting ready to leave. "Is there anything else you want to talk with me about?" he asked. "Like what?" I said. "Well, the lines on your forehead, for example... We could work on those." Seriously? If I wanted to have 'work' done, I wouldn't go to a three year old for the procedures. And I wouldn't go an arrogant ass... I told him I'd let him know, and left.

Maybe I'll change my mind six months from now - but at the moment I have no intention of injecting Botox into my face. For starters, I hate needles - I was more scared of getting an i.v. when I was about to give birth than I was of the delivery itself. And at this point I'm pretty used to those lines. I've had them since I've been 12 (I use my eyebrows way too much when I talk.)

Today, people do all sorts of things to look good. And I'm not judging anyone. But I don't want anyone trying to manipulate me either. My facialist, an older Czech woman with amazing skin, bosses me around about my cleansing routine, but assures me vehemently, "You don't need Buttocks!"

Reading Labels

I never used to read labels. When I was growing up I didn't have to - Mom didn't have anything in the house that might be unhealthful. Come to think of it, I wasn't big on reading directions, either. I've been known to start a test, only to realize half way through that I was supposed to be looking for antonyms rather than synonyms... And I've had some rather unsuccessful attempts in the kitchen for the same reason... (which is why I'll always prefer cooking to baking. Baking leaves no room for improvisation - or shoddy recipe reading.)

Labels, directions, operating instructions for the simplest of devices - they just seemed unnecessary - like they've been put there simply because they were 'required'. If you really needed them, why would they be marginalized into insignificance by miniscule print?

I'm still not going to pore over the enclosed manual before I use my new toaster. But these days it's especially important to be aware of what you're consuming - when much of what's packaged as "food" is so far removed from its natural state that it can hardly be considered the same substance. (How can they even call genetically modified foods 'food' - when they comprise viruses, and genes not found in their own species?)

The other day I was reminded of the value of label reading when my husband said, as he was wiping his face with a cotton pad, "I've been using this minty face stuff on my skin. It's pretty good... It feels a little weird, though..." "What face stuff?" I asked, pretty sure we didn't have any mint toner in the house. "This," he said, holding up the bottle that was standing by the sink. I started laughing.

"What? It's cleanser." he protested, showing me the label that read, in large letters, "Tom's: Natural, Cleansing". (And I have to mention that my husband has been more than tolerant of my 'all natural' products. He's never complained that I don't have brands like Crest and Scope in the house, or that I won't let him use aluminum-containing anti-perspirants... ) I pointed to the next word, father down, and in smaller typeset: "Mouthwash".

The power of distraction

This morning as I was waiting in a mood-killingly long line at the Office of Vital Records, a toddler started howling. The mom didn't do anything to help the situation. In fact, she appeared to be actively antagonizing the kid by wiping the baby's face aggressively again and again. With each wipe there was a renewed wail. Surely any offending dirt had been removed by this time? But the mother wouldn't stop. It was as if she were trying to prove that she was the boss, and that she could do what she damn well pleased, whether her child liked it or not. I don't think the child had any doubts about this... Maybe that's why she was crying (if that woman were the boss of me I'd be crying, too.)

I was pretty sure I could get the kid to stop crying if the mom would quit tormenting her... The question was how to do this without offending or embarrassing the mother? (Because if the mom feels criticized, chances are she'll just be meaner to her child.) In a way, this would be like dismantling a bomb... I would have to be nimble and quick - and very careful. I would have to use some of the most subtle and powerful tools in my bag of tricks...

People talk about the benefits of positive thinking or the importance of directness - but you rarely hear anyone singing the praises of distraction. We usually think of a distraction as something that numbs our minds, or that is non-productive, like watching television, or playing video games. And it's not for every situation - but in certain circumstances there's nothing that works better.

Think about it. When you're feeling surly and behaving badly, does it help you feel (or act) better when someone points out that you're being an ass? Probably not. Confrontation just makes you feel more entrenched in your negative emotion. Sometimes, when you're in a really bad state you just need a little help getting out. And often the best help is simply distraction. (Because nothing is going to be solved while you're feeling miserable anyway.)

It's not easy (at least not for me) to butt into someone else's business... but both of these people were suffering -(and so was everyone else in that waiting room.) So I just went up and started talking. I talked mostly to the baby (who stopped fussing right away) - about what she was wearing, how her mom was so lucky to have company while she waited, and how hard it was to be patient. But I made sure to also talk about how lucky the little girl was to have a mom who had brought stuff for her to play with - and how hard waiting was for her mom too...

After a little while distraction prevailed. I won't say everyone felt great after that - they were still in the line at the Office of Vital Records, for goodness sake - but they felt a lot better.

Ancestry

It turns out that getting my dual citizenship is going to take a pile of paperwork.

Today I made a lot of calls to locate certificates (birth, death, marriage, and naturalization) for my Italian ancestors. At times I felt like I was dealing with someone from the offices in the movie "Brazil". No one seemed to know anything - except that they weren't the person I needed to be talking with...

That's not entirely true. One person gave me other phone number to call. And the person I spoke with at the second number referred me back to the first number... I made more calls and got more numbers, and finally left a message on someone's machine. (Haven't gotten a call back yet...)

Eventually I decided it would be easier to just go downtown (I do live in New York City, after all) and check out the records there. So far I know of three places that might have what I'm looking for. So that's where I'll start tomorrow...

This photo is of my great grandfather and my great grandmother. The kids are: my dad (the cutie in the middle with the bad attitude), his brothers and cousins.