Eating the Last Hot Dog

Families are funny. Whether they mean to be or not. In fact, they are generally funnier when they don't mean to be. I'm reminded of a story about a situation I did not have the pleasure of witnessing - nor can I reveal who exactly was involved but needless to say it left me blogging...

Many years ago there was a party, an afternoon cookout in the heat of the southern sun. Attendees turned up in their gingham dresses and madras shorts, boat shoes, and pearls. Children were warned to be on their best behavior and everyone played outside in the sweltering heat. Everyone brought a dish to share and the man of the house grilled hamburgers and hotdogs, as men do. The party was perfect. Titters of polite laughter and small talk wafted through the air as the ice clinked in the lemonade glasses.  Everyone ate and they were as merry as possible. And then it happened...

Someone ate the last hotdog. You think I'm kidding? No, someone ate the last hotdog. It was as if the guests had discovered that the food was Soylent Green and they were next. The level of stress intensified. Tight smiles stretched across otherwise normal faces. Pupils dilated, breathing quickened, people began looking at their watches. Small talk became increasingly difficult. There was a platter filled with hamburgers and plenty of other food but the hotdogs were gone and this was simply unacceptable. It is utterly unheard of to invite people for a cookout and to run out of a single item! I mean really!

A reasonable interval passed and the guests determined that the time to retreat from this pauper's excuse for a party had arrived. Pleasantries were exchanged, air kisses, pats on the back, hand shakes. "See you soon" and "Thank you so much for coming" and "This was so lovely" and "Do come again." 

Followed by 10 years of silence. Because someone ate the last hot dog. 

Or so I've heard...

Flashion forward...

So it's clear that I bit it on the December committment to write everyday. While I did get a lot of writing done in December little of it was in the form of blogging and I certainly didn't do it everyday...no excuses life is just complicated and I can't always keep it all together. Anyway, Happy New Year friends! Onward and upward in 2011.

So I was reading the paper today - an unbelievable luxury if you can believe it. Anyway, so I am reading the Flair section and there is an article entitled "Spring fashion finds inspiration in the 1970's". The article goes on to discuss the Spring trends and how the current decade reflects the 1970's in various sociological ways. Maybe so...

It got me thinking about the first 1970's revival back in the 90's when I was a young teenager and young adult. In the late 90's, I was obsessed with fashion at every level with a particular penchant for vintage clothing circa 1940's - coiffed hair and very red lipstick to boot. These days I'm not as aware of what the designers are doing or what the collections are saying (or trying to say) I'm just trying to keep food off of my clothes and make sure my fly is zipped whenever I leave the bathroom.

However, my 7 year old seems to have picked up where I left off. Somedays I truly feel as if I've given birth to myself. Aside from the fact that she looks exactly like me she has also inherited my - well eclectic - sense of style - she's just better at it. Pictures of me from elementary and middle school are a mess of side ponytails, Bill Cosby style sweaters for females, my grandfathers pajamas worn as regular clothes, sweaters worn as dresses, ENORMOUS glasses, and lots of puffy paint. Do you remember puffy paint? Of course you do. Take a plain t-shirt, apply said puffy paint in various colors and patterns and you have a creative keepsake of a time in your life. I had them for Christmas, Earth Day, music, boys, etc. My personal favorites were the acid washed jeans that just didn't seem ugly enough so I covered them with glow-in-the-dark puffy paint AND glitter. Imagine for a moment what I looked like in middle school - it was even worse than your imagination. I promise.

Well my daughter seems to have developed a strong sense of style, amazingly enough. Even at seven she is obsessed with my clothes. She comes home from school, sunday school, playing, whatever and immediately retreats to my closet where she pairs my clothes in such a way that I would never have considered and it looks awesome! She wears my shirts as dresses. The ones that are too low cut in the front she just turns around backward or adds a lovely scarf! She wears my sunglasses, my  jewelry, my earrings eventhough her ears aren't pierced...She poses, and prances, this is a true girly girl.  She's even now saying she'd like to be a fashion designer when she grows up. Everyone just says to me "Well, she is your daughter" like they're not surprised. I think it's a miracle that she's not covered in puffy paint!

So if designers are headed toward the 70's now as they move away from the frightful return of the 80's (thank G-d we didn't see a return of acid washed jeans), I suppose I'm ok with it. Since I didn't participate in the actual 70's, or the 1990's revival, and while I will continue making sure my fly is zipped and my face is washed I probably won't get too involved in the current revival either. And if my girl wants to jump into the ring she'll probably end up looking like a million bucks - and that was a lot of money in the 70's!

Mommy, You're Hurting My Ears

It's day 3 and as I sit here I'm distracted by the yelling of my 20 month old who has decided that he no longer likes to sleep. It was exactly a year ago that he, at 9-10 months old, decided he would begin sleeping more than two hours at any given time. I hope we aren't looking at year long cycles...

As a mother, at least for me, it's often difficult to find perspective. Being so completely immersed in the daily functions of life - so much of which does not directly relate to me or my own needs - when I sit down to write I often have nothing to say. My brain is on autopilot. Inspiration outside of my children (who are monumentally inspiring) is sometimes hard to come by.

Becoming a mommy was really my primary goal in life. Having a family was extremely important to me. Old fashioned, maybe, but still the truth. When I made the decision to give up being a singer and actor it was for many reasons but in the end I always said that I would sing to my children and that would fulfill me. That is true and it does.

However, as is the case with plans when we attempt to make them, sometimes when I sing to my kids they say "Stop singing Mommy. You're hurting my ears." The first time my daughter said this to me I laughed because it was funny but it also got me thinking about my mother and grandmother. They made motherhood the primary function and defining factors of their lives and personalities. A fact that was born out of equal parts love and devotion mixed with fear and comfort.

Additionally, we felt the pressure of that commitment. My grandmother loved that I could sing - so much so that she forced me to do so at every holiday, party, and gathering - whether others wanted me to or not. Rarely did she ask me to sing when she and I were alone. It's interesting to think that my talent was somehow a validation of her to others. I'm honored that she thought so highly of me but it was a little much sometimes.  

By no means is this a poor me scenario. I love my mother and adored my grandmother when she was alive, but in navigating this maze I have always struggled to find the balance between self and motherhood. When I was singing to my kids was it for them or me and when the answer is "both" where should the balance lie? So many questions.

I guess in the end there is comfort in the fact that they all request that I sing to them before they go to bed every night. They love to listen to my recordings but they still are not concerned in the least by asking me to be quiet when they've had enough and I don't get offended. Maybe there isn't such a thing as balance and I shouldn't be so analytical - but this seems close enough to me.

Besides, one day they'll be in therapy for something for which I will receive the blame. If it's that I sang too much, well things could be worse...

Good night. Until tomorrow.

Holding It All Together With Duct Tape

Here I am on day 2 and it's 10 pm - barely made it. I've meant to get this done all day but things never seem to stop moving long enough for me to think. I made it and that's all that counts...

I have a whole host of anecdotes from my life that will undoubtedly make me sound like a lunatic - so why not blog them for the whole world to read? Right?!?

About three years ago when I was working for a wonderful organization doing great work with fantastic people I was busy trying to prove myself and create a foothold. I always said yes to new projects, stayed late, tried to have new and innovative ideas, and I never knew if any of it was working. Everyone was very experienced, intelligent, and just generally intimidating. Even though it doesn't sound like it, I really loved it there and wanted to prove my worth as we so often do in a new environment.

Just as we were entering into the big advocacy season right before the General Assembly was to convene I was coordinating meetings and trying to get people involved in the process of self-advocacy. This was very important to everyone in the department and for everyone we served. And I was the new kid.

Well the morning of this particularly big meeting I felt it was important for me to look very professional. Most of the time we were a pretty casual office - although not without some real fashionistas for sure - but on that day I dressed-up. I had recently bought some new clothes that I was very excited about as is generally the case with new clothes (you hope). So I decided on a particularly fabulous pair of black slacks that made my legs look super long and my butt look small(er). I paired with it a blouse that had a really cool fleur de lis type print. The choice was made and this was what I was wearing. The only problem was (men hold your ears) my bra choices for this particular shirt were limited because they were all lace which created lines on the shirt. Not good.

The only bra I had that didn't do this was one that was a few years old and from before I was a mother of two (at the time) who breastfed and had some understandable weight fluctuations. The mothers know what I'm talking about and everyone else can guess. So in a fit of desperation I put the thing on, went down to the tool box, pulled out the duct tape, and taped those suckers up. Yes, I did it and you would have too. All day long the girls stood at attention. I felt like a million bucks with my new clothes, my important meeting that evening, and my very perky boobs.

The day wore on and it came time to set up for the "event". So I pulled out all the supplies, handouts, refreshments, and loaded them onto a cart. But first there was a stack of stuff that I had to carry upstairs to the room we were to use for the night. I got onto the elevator carrying all my stuff in front of me and met up with two of the women in my department. They rode up with me and we were talking about the day when all of a sudden one of them got a strange look on her face and said in a voice that I felt was extremely loud - "Do you have duct tape on your boobs?!?"

I look down to see that my shirt had come undone from the pile that I was carrying and there they were for all to see. I only vaguely recollect what happened next as it is shrouded in a veil of humiliation. I blushed vigorously, explained that I obviously needed to go bra shopping, all while frantically buttoning my shirt and carrying a 6" stack of papers.

My co-worker, whom I have since become very good friends with stated "Now that brings new meaning to holding it all together with duct tape" 

I was the butt of many a joke and snicker that night from those two women with whom I had shared the elevator. But the meeting went very well. I proved my worth and my vulnerability all at once.

The next day a select few dropped by my office to share a light jab that in the end made me feel more like a part of the team. A few weeks later, on my 30th birthday, I arrived to find my entire office covered in duct tape. I laughed all day.

I find that so much of my life has been spent trying to look like I've got it all together and often I do appear that way - but whether literally or figuratively - so often I really am just holding it all together with duct tape. But I haven't done that again and I did pay Victoria's Secret a visit very soon after this incident. Just in case you were wondering.

Good night friends. Until tomorrow.

Musings from a Latke and Tofurkey Induced Haze

Wow! I've have seriously neglected this blog since the beginning of the school year. Amazing that the first semester of the school year is nearly over and I don't think we've come up for air.  With the kids schedules, my singing and acting schedules, and my husband's odd work hours I guess we've taken quite some time to transition from Summer.

I'm committed to writing everyday for the month of December, please help me maintain this pledge by reading, commenting, and passing on this blog. It is after all part of a larger project of stories about my life, motherhood, and the relentless pursuit of sanity.

I wanted to write a Thanksgiving post last week following my first large scale Thanksgiving with many, many guests including two from California and my newest beautiful baby niece and my nephew (he is a dog but a very welcome addition to the family). Yet with Hannukah occurring so early this year its seems that we moved right from Turkey to Latkes - hence the title of the post if you hadn't picked up on that one...

The last yearish has been interesting, exciting, and at times a terrifying. We met some great trials, along with so many Americans, due to the economic downturn, downsizing, and the birth of our magnificent third child. Life is filled with choices and we have been faced with some doozies. While our financial future is not as secure as it once was, with the examination of our priorities and an eye on the long term we are pulling ourselves up by the proverbial boot straps by leveraging every ability to make money and create the flexibility required to be the kind of parents we want to be - phew! Boy have we needed, and received, the help of our family and friends over the course of this year - and they delivered in spades. There are no greater gifts than those of hope and gratitude and I am reminded, even on the worst days, just how hopeful I am for the future and how grateful I am for all that I have and all those people in our lives who believe enough in us to lend their support - emotional and otherwise.

As many of my friends know, last year without planning to I resumed singing and acting after an eight year hiatus - that I never intended to end. The universe intervened and showed me that I needed to be doing this and gave me all of the tools, resources, and work to make it a reality. I have embarked on a re-re-invention of myself in this new/old role. It's different now, more business, less emotion - as is the case in so much of my life. These days failure is not an option because so many people are counting on me. So even if my voice cracks - which happened, I forget the timing and come in all wrong - that also happens, forget lines, or we lose a job due to poor business, or any other disappointments that might come along I have to continue beating the streets. Some months are better than others, but for the most part it has been consistent and I am not embarrassed to say - surprising. I'm always surprised by my own success. What does that say about me?

We have also made a huge change in the children's lives - per their request - by returning to my Jewish roots and joining a synagogue. It has been very interesting to begin this journey and see my children learning things that I vaguely remember from childhood (and a lot more), to see them thriving and excited to be a part of this community. They are saving money for the Tzedakeh box, donating food weekly, meeting friends, and being welcomed into a family oriented  community. My daughter has become more compassionate and committed to giving back which I'm sure has to do with the fact that she is getting older but it's nice to see regardless. This process has awakened in me a strong desire to connect with my Jewish identity - which I've realized is so much a part of who I am on a cellular level. I haven't abandoned my Unitarian Universalist community just broadened my spiritual understanding and listened to my children when they asked to be better educated on their own heritage. As with most things, it's a delicate balance and we're making the choices that work for us.

Thanksgiving this year was momentous for me because it was the first time that I have hosted both Keith's and my family together. We usually have his people but mine are generally at my Aunt's house, requiring that we travel or split up the day. Thanksgiving for me growing-up was always a big family event with preparation beginning earlier in the week at my Bubbe's house - where the young people inevitably got what one of my aunts refers to as the "sh#*" jobs of cleaning, broiling and tearing bread for stuffing, and peeling potatoes. Bubbe did all the "cooking". In the years following her death in 2003 that job went to her eldest daughter; but she was better about letting us all pitch in.

This year with Keith's brother and his family living in Japan and my aunt, uncle, and cousins from Atlanta not coming home -Thanksgiving was threatening to be small; and that was not acceptable to me. My local Aunt graciously allowed me to take over the hosting duties this year when I asked her. What a change when she came over to my house the day before to clean, peel potatoes, broil and tear bread for stuffing - I'm afraid I wasn't as generous with the good jobs as she has been. Talk about coming full circle. Everyone contributed a dish or two and in the end we had a traditional and a vegan Thanksgiving feast - I will be posting the vegan recipes in an additional post. What a day. That's all I have to say. It was beautiful, calm, delicious, and fun. I wasn't stressed.

Something has happened over the course of the last several months - I'm mellowing - not always but a lot more and if you know me that's huge. I can't determine if it's age or the insanity of life over the last yearish but I'm enjoying life more - real life, the mundane stuff that always used to feel more like work than it should. Maybe I'm just finding my stride or maybe I've emerged from the sleep deprivation caused by my third baby - finally a year after he started sleeping through the night. The point is, life is fun, funny, and I'm so excited to begin everyday.

Last night, 6 days after Thanksgiving we celebrated the first night of Hannukah with yet another event of grandparents, aunt and uncle. And again, the cooking, cleaning, decoration making, and general craziness of preparing for a kidcentric holiday event went off without a hitch. We ate, drank, played, opened presents lit candles, and enjoyed each other's company. Then my 4 year old woke up puking in the middle of the night. It's never dull and I'm never surprised by life.

Oh well, I've taken enough of your time and my life is calling but I look forward to sharing stories of the past and present, and of my life, motherhood, and the relentless pursuit of sanity with you over the next 30 days and beyond. Happy Hannukah, Merry Christmas, Happy Festivus, etc. Talk to you tomorrow.

On My Last Leg - Part Deux

“Just because you're miserable doesn't mean you can't enjoy your life.” ~Annette Goodheart



It was my father-in-law's wish to be cremated and his ashes spread over the Chesapeake Bay. His wife decided on a compromise – after all in marriage that is required. Half of him was kept for the Bay and the other half was entombed in a cemetery so that there would be a place to visit, and for her to go upon her death.



Nearly a week following his death, after the memorial service and prior to the Irish Wake at their home in Virginia Beach, Keith and I went to the funeral home to acquire the ashes. We pulled up, still in a haze, and went inside. Keith met the receptionist with a smile and stated "Hi my name is Keith Mahone and I'm here to pick up my father." The woman appeared a little puzzled and looked around to see if there was indeed some waiting to be picked up. She didn't say anything and then Keith, understanding the misunderstanding, spoke up stating "He's been cremated" the response to which was a lot of uncomfortable bowing and apologizing and then they returned with a small cardboard box and a red velvet bag with a gold drawstring - which Keith has always affectionately referred to as the Crown Royal bag - all the drinkers will get that. All in all a fairly strange interaction that was nothing less than hilarious to discuss the entire drive from Richmond to the beach – and of course to recount to any and all who would listen.



That weekend we paid our final respects in the way that you do following the passing of a close loved one. We have continued to pay respect to his memory everyday since then by talking about him, remembering him to our children, and honoring the legacy that he left behind. But on that weekend it was a raw party of emotions. There really wasn't much crying though. It was as if his sons and his wife were beyond crying. So we walked on the beach, told stories, drank his best wine, and may, or may not, have placed his ashes in the bay (I plead the 5th).



When the party at the beach was done we made our way up I64 to Richmond and the cemetery. It was meant only for the immediate family. So Keith and I, his brother and sister-in-law, step-mother, and Keith's aunt made our way to the place where the rest of the ashes would be laid to rest. The ashes were placed in a lovely marble box which Keith and his brother lovingly compared to a car battery as it matched one in size and weight. No one knew what to do that day. They placed the box on a bench and put the bag of ashes inside. We all stood there looking at it for a moment. As much as everyone tried to be somber and as much as we were all filled with the finality of the events taking place - the boys couldn't stop cracking wise. They decided that they should carry the tiny box together the three and a half feet from the bench to the space where it would be sealed - as if they were pallbearers.



We could not control our giggles at the ridiculousness of this sight. Two 6' tall grown men in their 30's dressed the part in their dark suits and ties, sweating in the Indian summer of mid-September delicately carrying their father's marble box of ashes to its final resting place in a wall. The boys' aunt was clearly annoyed at our complete disregard for the seriousness of the occasion. She simply didn't understand and we could never have explained. We clearly were bucking all of her traditional funeral expectations, a point that was clearly illustrated when she very sincerely asked “Where is Lanny?” to which we replied “He’s in the box.” She huffed a few more times but voiced no more complaints. But really how surprised could she be when less than a week prior - the fiancé of the dearly departed’s younger son had presided over the memorial service because she used to be an actress. It was at that moment she should have realized all bets were off.



When “it” was done and there were no more plans to be made, no more “on the 11th day of September in the year 2002 our father and husband was carried away on a golden chariot into the heavens to meet his…”, no more wine or parties to dull the quiet left in his wake we all went out for ice cream. I’m pretty sure he would have approved.



I realize that everyone has their own way of mourning, approaching anguish, and honoring their moments of despair. My grandparent’s battle with ill health and my father-in-law’s passing – in addition to so many other points in my life and my life with my husband – were, I feel, opportunities to make something good out of the senseless and confusing lot sometimes doled out by the universe.



Some may feel that this approach is disrespectful and in some cases they may be right but in these cases everyone was laughing together - we weren’t poking fun at any person or circumstance that they wouldn’t have made light of themselves.



My father-in-law’s passing was as tragic and unexpected as nearly anything that has occurred in our lives. We would gladly hand over all the world’s riches to have him here. Yet, the experience of his death brought everyone closer because of their willingness to cry, and yes laugh together; to share in the real emotions of things that make us know we are alive. I thank my grandparents for instilling in me the gift of humor and my father-in-law for doing the same – whether he meant to or not – for his son. And I thank the universe for making sure that we found each other.



"If you don't like something change it; if you can't change it, change the way you think about it." ~Mary Engelbreit

On My Last Leg - Part 1

Funny is one of my jobs these days and so I am spending a lot more time than I ever have really thinking about humor. What does it mean to have a sense of humor and when is it appropriate, or more importantly, when is it inappropriate to use humor as a tool, coping mechanism, or diversionary tactic? Or is it ever? The world is a complicated place filled with lots of reasons to worry, feel sad, or get angry - so why not just laugh instead.

When we first started dating my now husband and I spent a lot of time laughing and picking on eachother. He didn't always know where the line was and had made a reputation for himself as the guy who could say anything and everyone would love him for it. That's a skill - not getting punched in the face. Sometimes he would cross over into inappropriate territory...sometimes...try most of the time.

One day we got a call stating that my grandmother, who had lost her leg to diabetes, was in the hospital, again. So we went over to visit. Now Keith hadn't spent a lot of time in hospitals in his life - for me St. Mary's hospital in Richmond was kind of like a second home - so my wisecracking man went from being irreverent to respectful and even demure in a split second upon entering the hospital. I guess that was the line.

Never knowing what to expect we walked into her room quietly and found Bubbe in her bed napping with the T.V. on. I walked to her bedside and put my hand on her arm. Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled at us. I kissed her wonderfully soft cheek and said "Hi, Bubbs" as I usually did. She said "Hi darling," Keith piped in with a quiet "How 'ya doin'?" to which she replied "Well, the doctor says I'm on my last leg,"

Badump bump ching.

She made these jokes all the time. Were they to mask the pain? Probably, no one wants to lose their leg at 66 years old. No one wants to suffer with ill health. But what she did was put everyone at ease with humor - including herself. There is often nothing we can do about where we are - the time for preventative action has passed, so to accept our station we find the funny.

In my family, we pay hommage to the dearly departed, or to the impossible situations in life, with jokes. Some people find this inappropriate or disrespectful. I respectfully disagree. In life we are charged with making our closest confidants people with whom we share fundamental similarities. In other words surround yourself with people that get you, and inspire the greatness you possess and forget about the rest. (I will now step down off of my soapbox)

When my husband's father died suddenly on the evening of September 11, 2002 while jogging in the park with his wife - we were all left unsure of how to make sense of it. Even now as I write this nearly 8 years later - it's difficult to find the words to describe the shock of that phone call informing my husband that his father was gone. It was seven months before our wedding. It's unfathomable to me that he's missed all of these amazing milestones, weddings, home purchases, businesses, the birth of 5 grandchildren, and so very much more.

Yet, when I think back to the time immediately following his passing there is a warmth that I cannot explain. It is when we are faced with such unbelievable and unfortunate circumstances that we find out what our relationships are really made of and what the people we love are really made of. My husband is my hero.

They honored his memory with parties - and not just one. There was one in Richmond and one in Virginia Beach. There was a memorial and an "Irish Wake". There was drinking, and laughing, and telling stories. Everyone remembered this remarkable man, flaws and all, with joy, love, and lots of good wine. Just the way he would have wanted it! And those were just the big parties - not including the times that we, the family, just sat around laughing, drinking, and telling stories about ice cream and hammers and the time that the children nearly fell off a mountain so that he could take the perfect picture of them climbing it. These stories remain at the cruxt of the man's legacy - they are told and retold with surprise and awe that some stories never grow tiresome.

My father-in-law was not a religious man so it was a quandry just how the memorial service would be done. Who would preside and what would they say? Somewhere in the whirlwind of planning, consoling, contacting, writing obituaries, and making burial arrangements - with several days of sleep deprivation - it was suggested that I lead the memorial service because I "used to be an actor" - which made perfect sense to everyone. Ok....

So with great trepidation I took on the task of leading the memorial service for this man whose funeral was standing room only. He was truly loved. I blubbered my way through and introduced person after person who felt compelled to speak in honor of his memory. It was a magnificent experience although not the way I thought - seven months before my wedding - that I would have been meeting my husband's extended family and his parents' friends. A old Yiddish proverb, or Woody Allen, once said "we plan, and God laughs" that is so very true.


“We are all faced with a series of great opportunities brilliantly disguised as impossible situations.” Charles Swindoll.