mamarama

Celebrity Rehab and Mike Starr's Death

2011-03-09T17:23:00.000-08:00

I haven't had a television in over two years - but before you think I'm a total bookworm, the truth is that watching TV on the computer is a perfect replacement. There are tons of websites that host full series of television programming, so I really can watch anything I want to. For some reason the series that caught and held my attention the MOST over the past few months was "Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew."

Though this show may seem like an exploitative way to showcase celebrities at their very worst, I have to say that most of the time it's completely irrelevant that the people involved are celebs of greater or lesser fame. You might have an American Idol runner-up next to someone huge like Dennis Rodman; or a country western singer you never heard of in the same group as Rodney King. Yes, Rodney King -- who, by the way, is a charming and handsome man with lifelong alcohol issues. Rodney took his sobriety very seriously and Dr. Drew was so moved by his hard work that the show rewarded him by completely renovating his home so he could enter sober living in a much better setting.

Dr. Drew Pinski - for however you may remember him on that call-in sex show with Adam Carolla-- is in fact an excellent doctor and addiction specialist. His calm presence and empathetic demeanor ground everyone to reality and gives the show an authentic, clinical edge. The patients adore him and open-up candidly about their past: trauma, abuse, rampant sex and excessive drug use. Sometimes he brings the celebrity's mother or adult child in to help the healing process--as so many addicts have destroyed relationships with family.

In any case, all this makes for extremely compelling television; and on my computer I can watch show after show within a given series (there are 4 total.) After patients finish their 28 days in the Pasadena Recovery Center they often sign up for "Sober House" which is run the same exact way, but the patients, no longer de-toxing, are eased back into the real world with all its imminent temptations.

Mike Starr was the former bass player for Alice in Chains. Not a band I ever followed nor a “celebrity” I would have ever recognized in a million years. In fact, he was kicked out of the band while it was still at its height of fame and harbored intense guilt and remorse over lead singer Layne Staley's overdose and death.

Mike was originally filmed doing drugs with his father, which had become a regular ritual for him. He entered rehab trying to kick methadone, which I understand is a long and arduous process--far harder than kicking heroin itself. He suffered intensely--often behaving badly like an ornery teenager---getting on people's nerves frequently, yet always redeeming himself by being so sweet and likeable. In one episode he went toe-to-toe with Tom Sizemore who nearly punched his lights out. The whole time he was getting spewed in the face by Sizemore's ranting, Mike just looked at him and quietly said, "I love you, man...don't fight with me." VH-1 staff tried to help him in recovery by setting him up with an all-sober band and a teen mentoring program and for a little while it looked like he was going to be okay.

When he returned for a follow-up show he looked like a new person with brighter eyes, healthier demeanor, and a lilt in his step. As a viewer you really get swept up in the drama and recovery of some of these patients; not all as some are bratty or uninteresting, yet the few that get under your skin stay there and illicit an unexpected empathy from you. You watch them at their very worst: detoxing, vomiting, convulsing and often crying despondently. And then you get to see them repair...to recognize the demons that drove them to self-punishment and drug abuse and when the healing begins you are right there with them - sharing their victory and rejoicing in their recovery.

So when I returned home last night and opened my computer to a VH-1 update email - I saw the image of Mike Starr with a 1966-2011 after his name. He was not someone I would have ever expected to have compassion for or be affected by, but I felt so stunned and saddened. This poor guy - shot to fame in his early 20s and spending the rest of his life immersed in a drug haze so that he could dampen the pain of NOT being a rockstar anymore, the pain of watching his best friend die of drugs, the pain of not knowing what the hell to do with his life---and then ultimately losing his battle with drugs in some random apartment in Salt Lake City. It’s a tragic story that unfortunately unfolds every single day for millions of people and I can only hope that Mike Starr has finally found his peace.

No, he's NOT a pimp

2010-10-24T17:16:00.000-07:00

Many years ago a friend told me he saw this guy in New York dressed in a top hat and tails, head-to-toe in the color red; even his walking stick was red. My friend assumed the man was a pimp and invited him to have a burger with him at French Roast. And the man did just that.

Not long ago, when I first started living in downtown Jersey City I began to see a man who just had to be this same character. He was an older African-American gentleman, always dressed in one color, head-to-toe. Once I was walking up the stairs from the PATH train behind him and saw that even his socks were the same azure shade as everything else on his body.

"What a dandy!" I thought. I wanted to know more about him and remembered that my friend had assumed he was a pimp. But there was something very sweet and friendly about this man that didn't fit at all with a "pimpish" attitude.

His color sense was extraordinary. He was resplendent in yellow, vibrant in tangerine, breathtaking in sky blue - and never did he omit the hat nor the walking stick.

One afternoon I was walking down Grove Street with my kids, when I spied the Dandy again. I said hello to him, as I had begun to do, but this time I thought, "I've got to talk to this guy once and for all."

I mustered up the courage, because he is a teeny bit daunting in his splendor, and said, "Excuse me, sir....but I've seen you around and always admired your excellent sense of style. I was wondering...what is it that you do? Are you rock star? A jazz musician? Or just a fanciful fellow?"

He looked at me, eyes twinkling, and replied: "Ahhhh, I am the last one, I think..."

I took this opportunity to praise his color sense and pointed out that I too, am not shy with colors (I happened to be wearing my own technicolor dreamcoat). Then he continued the conversation - but completely in metaphor. Nothing he said had any relevance to the subject I had broached and I was suddenly held rapt trying to decipher his meaning. The metaphorical speech was all about babies, but more specifically about birthing babies. Given my interest in childbirth education I stood listening attentively.

"It's like the baby being born....it's gotta get OUT...its head is pointing down and the water BREAKS and then that baby gotta come out...but FAST!"

"Well," I said, trying to absorb his vision, "that happens to be very appropriate for me at this point in my life." I reacted to him as though he had just accurately read my tarot cards. Then, almost as an afterthought, I asked, "But what does this story have to do with you?"

"I," he said, with a flourish of his cane, "AM the baby!"

I beamed back at him as though I had just been given an audience with a revered guru and went on my way. Not before learning that he was in fact named Elijah the prophet.

"Hey kids! It's time to read the Bible!"

2010-03-23T06:32:00.000-07:00

"Mommy how old were you the first time you DID sex?" my precocious seven-year-old asked. I burst out laughing and before I could answer, my eldest stepped in and said, "Oh! I know - just do the math! I'm nine so...counting pregnancy - it was about ten years ago."

This made me laugh even harder. I managed to side-step the question but I did explain that not everyone has sex in order to make a baby. That answer prompted this question: "So, how long do you have to DO sex for? Like just a few minutes? How do you know when its done?"

Oh brother. I really backed myself into a corner here. Sex-ed and The Bible. I'll get to that in a moment. I tried to describe to them - without getting too graphic - that it's not a painful chore to "do sex" and that it needn't be over-with in a matter of minutes either. This mystified them. The questions came up because we were reading our "Isn't It Amazing" book which explains how babies are made and covers the mechanics of sex in the process. I want my girls to know what happens on a clinical level but discussing the emotional components to sex is definitely trickier. My friend said to me later, "Why didn't you say - it hurts a LOT - like getting stabbed with a knife - until you're 21." He thought I ought to be lying to them in order not to foster a premature curiosity.

But my whole agenda is 'knowledge is power' and sex-ed, along with menstruation, goes in that category. But where does The Bible come in?? you may wonder.

Recently, I took an idea from a respected home-schooler. Her feeling was that it was important to read The Bible in a secular and educational way. After all, there are countless stories and references in The Bible that have spilled forth into world culture for centuries. When you don't KNOW where these references originate it creates a gap in your education and certainly your literary knowledge. I prefaced our reading (an age-appropriate illustrated Old Testament hard cover) by saying - these stories are very, very old; but you'll see as we read them there are all sorts of references in today's stories, our language and even movies. No sooner had we zipped through Creation when we were upon the case of Cain and Abel. I didn't remember this part (as though I even cracked a bible open other than in a motel room night table) but after Cain slays Abel, God marked Cain with a scar or stain on his forehead. I looked at the girls who were wide-eyed at the violence of that tale. "Who ELSE has a permanent mark on his forehead that we know of?"

"Harry Potter," they gasped.

"That's right; so you see, J.K. Rowling did her homework and knew what stories she could allude to from The Bible itself."

The following day Bebe was reading about the Tower of Babel by herself - before we even got to our nightly ritual. "Oh, I get it," she said, "When people say, 'Stop babbling and speak English' it goes back to this story about Babel and everyone speaking in different languages!"

Hurray!

Doing nightly bible reading makes me feel a bit evangelical or Mormon-y. So to balance out the religious side of things I spice it up with the sex-ed for 7 - 10-year-olds book. That somehow makes the whole thing line up with MY particular belief system - as oddly subversive as it sounds.

How Do You Talk To YOUR Kids About SEX?

2009-08-10T09:07:00.000-07:00

For months I’ve been attending workshops at Babeland, the women-friendly, sex-positive shop in New York City. In addition to the very popular workshop “Art of the Blow-Job” the store has an on-going “Sexy Moms Series” which I recommend to all parents.

Wednesday night’s free workshop was about “Raising Sex-Positive Kids”. Personally, I could hardly wait for this one and with good reason. Though I’ve put a great deal of effort into teaching my children about the mechanics of menstruation and birth, I still falter on the topic of sex in general. Part of me wants to keep my girls innocent and unaware of such realities and perhaps another part does not want them to experience that hideous moment when you realize your very own parents had to perform this task in order to create YOU.

But I have to brush those reservations aside, as that is my repressed upbringing instilling such prudishness. The cold fact is that if you do not speak to your children about sex they WILL learn about it in other ways outside of your control or approval.

Last week’s workshop was led by Amy Levine, a certified sexuality educator and sexologist (I love that title) who counsels adults on all matters of sexuality. For this workshop Amy, an articulate and adorably petite powerhouse, commanded the room, asking us to define what it is that we hoped to impart to OUR children about sex and to consider what we would have liked someone to have told US about sexuality.

This got the wheels turning and many adults confessed to having issues on both sides of the spectrum. Some came from households where sex was perhaps too openly encouraged and many came from families where the topic was verboten.

One of the points Amy made clear was that discussing sexual issues should be an on-going positive dialogue with our kids; not “the talk” kind of monologue. She pointed out that there are plenty of “teachable moments” in our lives that give opportunity for meaningful discussions. For example, what children see on TV, in movies or at school in addition to their questions about commitment, relationships, and body-image are all moments for exploration. All of those topics tie into the concept of “sexuality” in a broad and encompassing way. If you hear your child using the word “gay” as a derogatory adjective you can take that moment to discuss what the word means in our vernacular and how you feel about using demeaning terms. I remember the day my daughter asked, “Why does Hannah have TWO moms??” which caused me to launch into an explanation about gender roles and the notion of same-sex relationships being a part of our society.

This leads to another important point Amy made which is identifying your own values and beliefs then practicing the messages you want to share. This takes some time and thought to consider what you feel needs to be explained and what tone you will take. How will you actually address the definition of a “blow-job” when it’s posed to you by a curious sixth-grader who heard it at recess? What message do you want to deliver about homosexuality? Are you prepared to explain not only the mechanics of sex or masturbation but the notion that those activities evoke pleasurable feelings?

You can’t expect to have all the answers and it is perfectly acceptable to say to your child: “You know, I’m not sure how to answer that,” or “That topic is kind of uncomfortable for me; let me think about and we’ll talk later.” There are plenty of great age-appropriate books available to help guide you and your child through many of these topics. Certainly what a six-year-old should know is far different from a twelve-year-old. However, that a six-year-old should even know anything about sexuality was a bit of a revelation for me. I realized that keeping open communication, on ALL topics, is absolutely necessary for fostering a healthy relationship with my girls; and that communication has to include sex.

When I tested the waters the following day, my older daughter took the invitation to discuss questions about sex with a solemn nod. My seven-year-old child, however, looked at me with a curled lip and simply said, “Ewww.” She found it somewhat distasteful to discuss the topic with her own mother; however cool and fun she may find me (by her own admission). “Though”, she reasoned, “My friends' parents don’t know anything about sex and relationships because they’re all MARRIED.” Eureka! A teaching opportunity right there in front of me. And in the cozy comfort of their loft bed I stepped into the realm of imparting sexuality wisdom and acceptance one small moment at a time.

http://www.sexedsolutions.com/index.html

Recommended reading:

http://www.sexedsolutions.com/youngpeople.shtml

The Sexy Mom Series is jointly sponsored by New Space for Women’s Health and Park Slope Parents.

Death and Dying On Time

2009-07-16T14:59:00.000-07:00

One summer day, when I was about twelve, I woke up and realized that nothing felt right. The day went on and the feeling of unnamed dread persisted, but I had no worry to pin it on. That night, my beloved cat was hit by a car and killed.

I thought about that day yesterday as I lay in bed staring at my gauzy mosquito netting. What does the day look like when you know your dad is going to die? It looked sunny and clear with no indication of anything out of the ordinary. Why was I so certain it was today?

Just like that summer day when I was an almost-teen, the predetermined knowledge seemed to be set in stone. I called my brother to confirm my hunch and he reported that dad had had a very bad night. I suggested visiting and he agreed, adding, “Check in every hour or so first.”

I had one major errand to do first and once that was completed I could head over to my family’s house and visit with my dad. I imagined that while there he’d die peacefully, perhaps while holding my hand; just like you see in the movies. But I quickly put the discomforting thought out of my head and drove into Manhattan to meet “Allan the ticket guy”. I was about to purchase two tickets to All Points West via a stranger from Craig’s list. Any doubts about his credibility were dashed as I deemed him honest and authentic through our emails and phone calls.

We were to meet in Union Square at noon; then I would drive over to the next task of the day. To Do List: 1. Pick up All Points tickets 2. Visit dying father 3. Get girls to swim practice. It all seemed rather perfunctory and unemotional – but that was how I could best process the impending event.

However, a major kink in the plan came in the form of Allan-the-ticket-guy carelessly leaving his cell phone at home. Arriving in Union Square and scanning the mob of folks reveling in the perfect summer day, he knew there was no chance of finding me. Meanwhile, waiting patiently for Allan’s call, I had parked my car then wandered around the neighborhood awash with memories of my dad.

When Bebe was small I worked just off of Union Square at a perfect little slacker software company. They let me bring my baby to work, and when she got older I recruited my dad in the form of free childcare. For my retired father this was a great way to hang out in New York and to spend time with his daughter and granddaughter. My dad was never much of a New Yorker – affecting more of a “tourists” viewpoint and agenda. But now he was a fixture in the local playgrounds, chatting with the Barbadian nannies; he was a regular in the children’s department of Barnes & Noble and he knew all the local bathrooms equipped with changing tables. Sometimes while Bebe dozed in her stroller my dad would just people-watch in the park; which amounted to girl-watching mostly.

I’d join him for lunch and he’d say things like, “Look-it all these broads! Don’t they ever wear bras??” He’d actually mimic the noise of what bouncing breasts might sound like, “Buh-loomp-a-loomp”. I’d roll my eyes in annoyance, just like I did in the Vatican.

Once he noticed the Virgin MegaStore on the south end of Union Square and cried out, “The VAGINA MEGA STORE? What kind of a name is THAT?”

“Dad, it’s VIRGIN, not vagina,” I explained peevishly. He’d also marvel at the giant billboards and their ambiguous photographs. “Is that a naked boy up there? Or a flat-chested lady?”

Despite these sexist and occasionally questionable remarks it was great to give my dad something productive to do and to give my daughter additional time with her grandpa. Each day, worn out from a day out on the town, the two would stroll into my office. My colleagues tolerated them both despite complaining once, “Do you think you can keep your dad from wandering into our meetings?” My dad could not imagine that guys in shorts and flip-flops could possibly be doing any legitimate work.

Back in the present, Allan took the train back home, grabbed his phone and explained his tardiness, apologizing for the blunder. “Just stay there,” he said, “I’ll be right back in fifteen minutes.”

How could I explain that my dad’s life hung in the balance and I sort of had more pressing demands ahead of me? But I said nothing and agreed to wait for him.

I paused at the door of my dad’s favorite diner and recalled all the breakfasts he enjoyed there as part of his babysitting routine. All in all, that was a really great time for my father and for us in adapting to my role as a mother. I was no longer that smart-allecky teenager traipsing through Italy on her dad’s dime. I was an adult with a small child and my own responsibilities and achievements.

Eventually Allan showed up and we exchanged cash for tickets. We chatted for just a few minutes but the nagging feeling that I needed to get somewhere quickly pulled me to my car and up Third Ave.

At this point I phoned my brother. “I’m running behind schedule,” I explained. “My noon appointment was an hour late.”

“Well…he might not make it till you get here,” my brother said.

The shock of those words hit me like a brick. “Please don’t say that,” I cried. “I’m driving there as fast as I can!” I hung up and panicked at each stoplight, at every slow truck and lazily strolling pedestrian. I called my friends saying, “Oh my God! I ran an errand before going to see my dad die and now I’m going to MISS IT!??? Can this be happening!?? Why did I do it in that order!???”

Everyone calmed me down and said, “Come on; your brother can’t predict the time of his death…just hang in there and for god sakes slow down.”

At some point on the highway I felt a sense of calm. I had a thought that seemed to come out of nowhere which basically said, “It’s okay that you’re not there…best to remember him the way you did; vibrant and ridiculous in New York City. Maybe it’s harder for him to depart if you’re hovering close and tethering him to this material world.”

Okay.

I heard the message loud and clear, then watched the red speedometer needle drop slowly down to safer territory.

Fifteen minutes later I burst through the door of my family’s house. A hospital aide sat in the living room with her hands folded. My brother emerged from his anti-chamber (the den). “Well??” I said, a little too loudly, “Anything new??”

“He died, Jayne,” my brother half-laughed. “He died about five minutes after you called.”

The shock of that statement was a punch to the gut. I ran up the stairs half-expecting my brother to have been joking. I wish I hadn’t seen my dad, withered and white; mouth open wide like a broken hinge.

I stomped outside and sat in my hot car. I called my boyfriend and left an anguished message: ”How the fuck?? Why did I go to New York first?? Why was Allan so late?? If he wasn’t late; if he had BEEN there at NOON I would have been here on time!”

On time for what, I wondered. I walked back in the house and my brother, seeing my distress, said, “He was asleep from the morphine; besides, you said good-bye the other day when he was way more coherent.”

And that was true. Just two days before this, I brought my girls over and we all took turns saying good-bye and holding his papery-skinned hands. For some reason I asked Bebe to sing “Moonriver” with me; and thankfully she put up no resistance. We sang together, quietly but clearly, the song I have sung to my girls for years; the song that always puts them right to sleep.

I should feel grateful that this particular good-bye was a genuine and poignant one. That I wasn’t there for the “moment of passing” is really immaterial. It was pointed out to me that many, many people have experienced the bedside vigil only to step out for a much-needed shower or cup of coffee and have missed the actual death by moments.

As I spoke in turn to my friends that day, I was made aware of how many of us have lost our fathers - and lost them FIRST, as women nearly always outlast the men folk.

So my farewell was not played out in the script of my mind as I might have written it. But, death like birth, is beyond our control and we have a difficult time comprehending its will. In the end I came to peace with the frazzled day and had to believe that somehow the end came just as it was meant to be.

* * *

John Falconieri, trumpeter for Louis Prima, dies at 87

John Falconieri, a second-generation Sicilian musician and World War II veteran from Paterson, New Jersey who managed and played for the legendary bandleader Louis Prima, died Wednesday in Fair Lawn, New Jersey. He was 87 years old and died at home after complications from numerous strokes and related heart problems.

When Mr. Falconieri was forty years old he obtained a masters degree from Manhattan School of Music. He taught music to students in both the Ho-Ho-Kus and Old Tappan school districts. “Mr. F”, as he was known to his students, was also praised for giving students individual music lessons resulting in award-winning “big-band” ensembles. In addition to public school education, he was a manager at Victor’s House of Music in Ridgewood, NJ, where he ran the lesson department for over thirty years. Mr. Falconieri continued to give private lessons on many different instruments from piano to trumpet and guitar. His students and their parents enjoyed his lively stories of the big-band era and his heyday with Louis Prima.

Though Louis Prima passed away many decades ago, “Johnny Falcon” (his stage name from that time) remained close friends with Keely Smith, Mr. Prima’s wife and singing partner. When Ms. Smith would come to New York City and play the Rainbow Room, Mr. Falconieri would often attend her performances. If she caught sight of “Johnny” in the audience Ms. Smith would introduce him as, “The nicest guy in show-biz”. In the late 90s Mr. and Mrs. Falconieri attended Keely Smith’s daughter’s wedding in Palm Springs, CA.

John Falconieri will also be remembered for his bravery during the Battle of the Bulge, toward the end of World War II. He did not visit Europe again until the early 1990s when he reconnected with family on the island of Sicily.
Mr. Falconieri is survived by wife Jennie, son Frank, daughter Jayne Freeman, and two granddaughters, Bebe and Evelyn.

Men-ar-kee in the U.S.A. (yes, that's a Sex Pistols reference)

2009-04-21T10:05:00.000-07:00

Menarche, pronounced "men-ar-kee" is the technical word for a girl's first period.

Though my daughters are only six and eight I have never kept the issue of "menstruation" out of their sight or minds. Maybe it's because we're an all-girl house - or perhaps it's just me and my "no holds barred" attitude. In fact, I'm often surprised when my friends' girls don't know anything about periods. "How come your daughter doesn't know what this is," I asked, holding up a tampon that clearly confused the heck out of my friend's eight-year-old daughter. “YOU know why," she said, looking at me expectantly. "Remember…I don't get my period."

Ahhh, the amenorrhea (absence of menstruation) that sometimes occurs with low body fat and prolonged breast-feeding. Yes, this friend in fact did not have her period for the two years she nursed her baby, and then again for another two years with the second one. However, the other day I said something to a mom like, "Well, doesn't your daughter see you take out a tampon once in a while? Or see bloody underwear? I mean, what do you say about that?" She looked a little confused, “Um...no. She's never seen any of that." I detected a note of concern in her answer that seemed to say, "I'm not sure your girls should know that either."

All of which made me wonder: Do I have no boundaries with my girls? Or is this one boundary for which I find the line indistinct? I like that my girls will say to me, "Mommy, did you get your moon yet?" They have heard me talk about the fluctuating moods and effects of my cycle. They understand that you "bleed" because there is no baby there and that if egg met with seed a baby would grow in the womb. So, it's all rather poetic and sometimes clinical; and that seems to suit our style.

Hormonal effects and subsequent moods have a huge impact on me. Recently, I had a rather difficult task ahead of me as I was called to be a character witness in a lengthy trial. As a witness I knew that MY character was bound to be attacked, as that is a defense tactic. So each time I was called for this task (there were two false alarms) I was truly concerned about where this obligation would fall within my lunar cycle. It didn't occur to me that this was even remotely "kooky" or strange and I spoke of it openly with friends. For a moment, it reminded me of a friend who would not sign a contract while "mercury was in retrograde". And while I had patience for her astrological observance I felt my concern was far more concrete and plausible.

I know my psyche and my cycle very well; and I knew that if I had to testify just before my period began I would be in a more vulnerable state than if it occurred at the turn of the cycle. Sure enough, the fateful day approached and it was to be exactly three days before my period started. Then somehow, rather miraculously, my clockwork cycle interrupted itself so that I bled three days early. I took the stand the morning after my moon commenced and I went up there with a raging self-confidence; I was eloquent and brave and shot down every single opposing mud-slinger the other attorney threw at me. And I did so with the power of being at the start of my cycle; when the inner voice of doubt had taken a backseat for a few weeks.

So, the other day I received a package from my new friend, Madeleine Shaw, founder of LunaPads. Her company is dedicated to creating environmentally-safe alternatives to disposable period accessories. Let’s face it, we get quite up-in-arms about millions of diapers clogging our landfills, but did you ever think about the used pads and tampons doing the same? And if you consider that one woman gets her period about 400 times in her life…well, that’s a lot of buried “biohazard” (anything with blood is considered biohazard). In this care-package was a whole bunch of reusable cloth menstrual pads, an insertible cup to catch menses, and a pair of cute black undies to hold the reusable pads. But most interesting was a beautiful booklet geared toward girls who were about to have their first periods, "menarche".

Sure having your period can sometimes be inconvenient, but we encourage you to keep a positive attitude about it. Better yet, learn to honor and understand your monthly cycle now, as it can have a big effect on how you feel about yourself now as well as later in life. Use language that reflects respect for your body. When you talk about your period consider phrases like "moon time" and avoid negative phrases like "I'm on the rag". In many cultures menarche is cause for a big celebration - a way to mark and celebrate our "official" transition from being a girl to being a woman. It's something that a lot of us wish that we had done!

I love this approach. And though the words in this booklet are directed at the girls themselves it's really the mother's job to initiate such a celebration. I thought about how I might do that for my girls when the time is right. We frequently worry about what's called "precocious puberty" as girls are experiencing menarche earlier and earlier. What used to be average has moved down a year and what used to be the normal range has gone down to 7 & 8-year-olds depending on culture (African-American and Latina girls leading the curve). My daughter, at eight-and-a-half, is probably just a few years, at minimum, away from moving into this realm. And I want her experience to be full of wonder, respect and knowledge...unlike the one most women from our generation had.

http://www.lunapads.com/default.aspx?

On Pornography: The Author Hinges Her Essay on a Line by Susan Sontag

2009-03-21T10:10:00.000-07:00

We all know that “The Onion” has its finger on the pulse with subversively accurate articles that make us spit out our muffins on the subway. This week “The Onion” printed a cover story that had everyone talking when days later an almost identical report was released in the authentic press. The topic was “depraved porn” and its prevalence in Japanese culture.

“The Onion” headline asserts: Japan Pledges To Halt Production Of Weirdo Porn That Makes People Puke. Acknowledging its embarrassment over worldwide outbreaks of violent, uncontrolled regurgitation, the Japanese government apologized Wednesday to the millions of viewers who have been sickened over the past three decades by the revolting depravity of the nation's pornographic exports.

"We honestly had no idea people did not enjoy this stuff," said Cultural Affairs Minister Kazuhiro Nakai, expressing regret for the thousands of hours of bondage porn, rape porn, utensil-rape porn, food-rape porn, frozen-food-rape porn, vomit-enema porn, elder-care-coma-patient-rape porn, and the kind of a porn in which a nubile youth is kidnapped, stripped, tied down in a wading pool and raped. "We are deeply ashamed for whatever it is about these films that has made people around the world vomit so vigorously. Please know that the content was only intended to entertain and arouse."

"I feel just awful that our work was received in this fashion," said Takuya Ishiyama, creative director of Shonen Young Forcible Jump. "But I know we can generate content more suitable for an international audience, perhaps by removing some of the characters who get off by choking on vomit they've drunk from a rubber tube inserted into their partner's stomach."
---------------
So, you get the idea that what appears to be wildly exaggerated porn themes causes cultural disbelief regarding everyone's repulsion. Though I am not personally well-acquainted with Japanese porn, I know that this style of extreme and repulsive fantasy described in loving detail by “The Onion” is not so far from the truth.

On the heels of that satirical story the following report came to us about a Japanese video game titled “Rapeplay” which encourages the player to sexually assault a mother and her two young daughters in a subway station. The players are also encouraged to force the virtual woman they rape to have an abortion. If she is allowed to give birth the woman throws the player's character under a train. Remember, this is not “The Onion” – this is an actual game that, by press admissions, was not intended for release outside of Japan.

A spokesman for the company said: "We believe there is no problem with the software, which has cleared the domestic ratings of an ethics watchdog body."

Naturally, I had a response probably consistent with yours, one of disgust and moral offense; we are left wondering if such a violent game indeed leads to an encouragement of rape. I became curious about what the rape statistics were in Japan compared with other industrialized nations. Surprise; they rank the lowest of all countries who keep stats on such crimes; twenty times lower than the US, for example.

This made me think about how in Susan Sontag’s essay “On Photography” she notes that the Japanese are essentially brutalized by a ruthless work ethic and it is due to this ethic that they take pictures incessantly. In a sense, shooting photos is a way of “working” while you’re supposed to be relaxing and or enjoying leisure time; it alleviates the guilt of "doing nothing".

Does it stand to reason that a similar release might be necessary in the recreational activities connected to sexual fantasy? If you think of the most cliché of all Japanese qualities, the one that may stand out clearest is that of being polite and respectful. Could the repression by such a controlled social ethic actually be alleviated by a perverse and hostile rape fantasy: i.e. Rapeplay?

Consider that in Japanese religion the gods are sexual beings and actually procreate carnally, as compared to “birth via miracle” in Christian cultures. Though prostitution is technically not legal in Japan it is tolerated in myriad forms, since the crime only applies to actual intercourse. There are porn magazines readily available in vending machines, and places called “love hotels” where young couples can be intimate outside of their family homes. Rituals and festivals abound weekly, for which phalluses are everywhere from costumes to savory treats and lollipops. As a whole, the Japanese culture is far more liberated about sex than Americans could ever hope to be, with our puritanically ingrained notions. There is a strong distinction between moral realities and tolerance for what is clearly pure fantasy.

Yet, why the prurient interest in the abjectly depraved and amoral? I do not have the answer to that and I certainly do not wish to vilify an entire culture for its dubious choice in entertainment. It is, after all, "make-believe", not a national pastime. I can only cling to the idea that this video game, and porn like it, was not meant to be examined or judged outside of its own culture. It makes me feel like I peeked into the bedside table at my best friend’s house and was shocked by what I found there. Am I justified in judging her sexual proclivities that were not meant for my review?

Surely, the Japanese would say the same thing, “Get out of our fantasy-world and mind your own business.”

On Buying Your Parents Diapers

2009-02-21T10:22:00.000-08:00

Today I was in our local consignment shop, Duck Duck Goose, shopping for a shower gift when I remembered I had to also pick up a baby monitor....for my dad.

When my brother asked me if I could find one so he could keep an ear on our father I didn't really consider how it would feel to hold the package in my hands. Staring at the image of a doting mother and a cheery baby in its crib, I stood frozen by the unlikely dichotomy.

"This is for my dad," I said to the woman who runs the shop. "Talk about the sandwich generation," I added, catching the eye of a customer who nodded as though she understood.

"The Sandwich Generation" isn't a very glamorous or well-known term. Even last year's film, "The Savages" starring Philip Seymour Hoffman, didn't exactly bring the issue of "coping with elderly parents" into the mainstream any more than the notion of aging in reverse has.

Yet, millions of us are dealing with it every day and the reason we are "sandwiched" has to do with our children pulling our attention in the other direction at the same time.

I watched "The Savages" with great interest, leaning forward on the couch so as not to miss a single word. The brother and sister characters were not so different from me and my brother; they had a certain familiar annoyance with one another in the face of this unpleasant turn of events. Their father is no longer able to care for himself and needs to be moved into a nursing home. The siblings battle it out - each one bringing their own demons into the arena: how they feel about dad, their guilt, their frustration with their own lives and direction. There is a moment where the sister is on an airplane bringing their dad back home and he insists on making his way to the bathroom. Somehow, in the narrow airplane aisle, his baggy trousers fall to ground - leaving his daughter to gape at his over-sized white diapers. This illuminating moment is witnessed by a captive audience of strangers, as though the incident was not hugely uncomfortable on its own.

My parents wear diapers. I'm not exaggerating when I say that as soon as my children were out of diapers my parents were in them. Kid diapers come with images of princesses and superheroes on them. My friend joked, "Couldn't your dad's diapers come with say, a photo of Ed McMahon on them?" Though this made me laugh, I could not get the image of those giant-sized white adult diapers out of my head; nor how awful it is to see your parents wearing them as they toddle – always too late—to the toilet.

Both my parents became dysfunctional old people before our eyes. My father used to drive into Manhattan and watch my daughter when she was small. They'd eat at Joe Junior's diner together then hang around in the playground with all the nannies. From that level of independence my father quickly became a menace behind the wheel, lost most of his common sense, and suddenly developed a mean, argumentative streak.

On the heels of these changes my brother and I discovered that he was spending thousands of dollars a month on worthless coins from the infamously fraudulent Franklin Mint. I cried to him, "Dad…I could use that money to pay for preschool! For a college fund! For gymnastics – anything! What are you thinking?" But he truly believed that the coins were an excellent investment – perfect for hoarding until the kiddies were older.

However, this was not the case, we learned. Some coins worth only $75 were never going to be valued at the $1,500 my disillusioned father had paid for them. Eventually, we managed to wrestle control away from him with his coin craze. As he grew more confused and forgetful we were able to take his credit cards away. I took Power of Attorney and my brother and I created living wills complete with a "Do Not Resuscitate" order. Talk about cheery dinner conversation.

And so, for years now, my sick and elderly folks have been just a ventilator's breath away from being holed-up in a nursing home – yet they persist in this nearly vegetative state, still at home, under my brother's somewhat negligent care.

This label "Sandwich Generation" describes me, and not so much my brother, because I have my own kids to contend with while my parents regress into" babydom" at an alarming rate. I'm not surprised that in reference to this term Wikipedia states: "There are very few or no other articles that link to this one." So, not only do people not really know about this phenomenon, but they don't seem to care that much about it either. Can you really blame anyone? I'm surprised you even got this far in my blog.

On the other end of the "sandwich" are my young daughters. They make no bones about hating to go their grandparents' house; and I cannot fault them for that. Sometimes we pull into the driveway of my folks' house and I pause to prepare them: "Girls…I know this isn't easy. I know you don't like coming here and frankly, neither do I. But they're my parents and that's what children do. But - promise me - if I get ever this bad please smother me with a pillow, okay?"

They nod and look at me blankly. "What's 'smother' mean again?" the younger one asks. Ah, I say, it's just propping me up with a pillow to make me comfy....

Sex and Birth: Fundraising with Astroglide

2008-11-21T10:42:00.000-08:00

The idea that a fundraiser for a birthing center would be held in New York's infamous Toys in Babeland sex boutique actually makes perfect sense.

Consider the simple fact that you can't have one without the other* and that Toys in Babeland owners are ardent supporters of women's right to choose - in EVERY respect; the union makes even more sense.

Tuesday night's fundraiser, held in the store's Soho location on Mercer Street, was about announcing the launch of the New Space for Women's Health. Since Elizabeth Seton Childbearing Center closed its doors in 2003 there has been no free-standing birth center in Manhattan. This has been the mission behind the New Space, providing women with an alternative to a standard hospital birth. New Space is eagerly supported by women all over the tri-state area who are fans of birth alternatives.

This includes last night's guest stars and New Space committee members, Abby Epstein and Ricki Lake. The two collaborated on last year's controversial documentary, "The Business of Being Born" which focuses on home births in contrast to hospital-style medical births. As you might imagine, the film kicked up quite a storm, not just for the very poignant scene starring Ms. Lake birthing her second son in her own bathtub, but also for its argument that birthing at home is safe and preferable, in many cases.

Rebecca Benghiat, New Space's Exec Director, spoke eloquently about the need for providing women with empowering choices. Toys in Babeland co-owner, Claire Cavanah, spoke about her own disappointment with her C-section (due to a breech presentation) and her recognition that birth, for many women, is a rite of passage and profound event. She joked that you could substitute "sex" for "birth" in both their speeches and you'd get the same exact message: women taking authority over their bodies.

Most amusing to me were the faces of the few men in the room. This was an event packed with beautiful, vibrant women AND the hugest array of dildos, vibrators, strap-ons, and lubricants you could ever imagine. Even the wait-staff, passing delicious hors d'oeuvres, had to keep their eyes averted from the plethora of silicon phalluses.

Walking around meeting other women was thoroughly enjoyable and completely effortless; we all shared a similar bond and interest. I never realized before how women who are passionate about birth are equally passionate about sex in a similar way. The freedom to birth under your own terms, unencumbered by restrictions imposed upon you by faceless hospital bureaucracy is not that far from embracing your sexual prowess and nature. The women in that room were the same ones who take responsibility for their own orgasm as readily as they take on breastfeeding in public. The same strength that leads you into this sex shop to pick up a "Vix-skin" life-like dildo also allows you to nurse on the MTA (more or less).

Incidentally, I did receive a pocket vibrator in my gift bag along with an ergonomically designed sippy cup! Thereby proving my point: Sex and Birth - not so unseemly on the same page, after all.

* OKAY, excluding IVF

Hot property: A former firehouse in Jersey City

2008-03-15T18:04:00.000-07:00

by Jennifer Weiss/The Star-Ledger
Wednesday February 20, 2008, 3:16 PM

Freeman furnished this room on the home's first floor with a sofa and chair she picked up at a local Salvation Army. At her Sweet 16 bash in December, a mammoth room on Jayne Freeman's first floor was transformed into a dance hall. Two local DJs provided the beats. A disco ball, rigged up to a ceiling fan, tossed lights onto stone floors, white tin walls and the revelers in between.

The party spilled into an adjoining room, the garage where Freeman normally keeps her orange Honda. More than a century ago, when the building was a firehouse, this is where they kept the horse-drawn steam engine.

It was unusual for Freeman to host a big party in the firehouse (that's what she calls her place: the firehouse). Normally, she has people over in smaller numbers. One night, she'll have friends and their children over for dinner; the next, she'll host a play date for her daughters, who are 5 and 7.

http://videos.nj.com/star-ledger/2008/02/hg_hot_property_2.html

Freeman wasn't turning 16, by the way. The theme was just for fun. The party was a chance for her to celebrate her birthday and share the firehouse, her home of almost two years, with friends and people from her neighborhood in Jersey City. If it's possible to fall for a building, Freeman has.

"It's the energy of this place that I love," Freeman says. "I love its history, its aesthetic, its location. It's just truly beautiful. Sometimes, I feel like I'm living in Versailles."
Freeman, a single mom, is the host of "Mamarama," a public-access TV show on parenting. She has been living in the firehouse as a caretaker; Andrea and Russell Read of Brooks, Maine, are its owners.

Freeman in the doorway of the firehouse.The Reads lived in the firehouse for nearly a decade, moving in with their two children in 1997. A third child, Jack, was born later.

The firehouse already had been converted to a home by the time the Reads looked at it. After their first tour, "We just knew that at least we had to try to get it," Andrea says. She and her husband had made an offer on a brownstone in town, but changed their minds and bought the firehouse, paying about $320,000.

The alcove she and her daughters use as a reading nook."When we actually got it, I remember thinking for several weeks that I was just dreaming, that I didn't actually get to live in a place like that, because I'd never lived in a place that was so unusual," says Andrea, who grew up on a farm in Iberia, a tiny village in Ohio. "It was great for us."

The building comes with lovely historic details, including antique sconces, bedroom doors that say "Office of the Battalion Chief" and "Captain" and an original cast-iron spiral staircase that links the first and second floors (no fire pole, though -- that was taken out before the Reads moved in). Ira Rubin, archivist for the Jersey City Fire Department, says local historic firehouses have spiral staircases because they take up less space than vertical staircases and couldn't be accessed by horses. In the years in which the department relied on them, horses were boarded in a space at the back of the house.

The Freeman's eat-in kitchen.Rubin estimates that the Reads' firehouse was built within two years of 1855. Back then, it was the home of Jackson Engine Company 5; it became the quarters of Engine Company 3 in 1871, after the fire department reorganized. Engine Company 3 closed in 1961. The building became a residence in 1981, according to the Jersey City Tax Assessor's Office.

When they moved in, the Reads put in a new kitchen and redid the children's bedrooms. There were no closets in the master bedroom, so they added a row of new closets from Ikea.
Andrea says it took a while to figure out how to arrange furniture in a way that made sense -- the house has only three rooms with doors, not counting the bathrooms. The rest of it is wide open. She and her husband added a Steinway grand piano and a kitchen island to the large, open space on the second floor, which helped to define a living room and kitchen. They used storage pieces to make up for a lack of closets.

Freeman stands outside on the terrace that connects to the master bedroom. The glass structure is a skylight.The firehouse's open layout encouraged the Reads to entertain. "It always felt like a really big community sort of place, so it ended up functioning that way," Andrea says. "There were a lot of big, impromptu social gatherings with our friends and family. It kind of lends itself to that."

When the Reads moved out, they put the house on the market for $2 million, according to Andrea, and eventually lowered the asking price to $1.8 million. The offers that came in seemed low, Andrea says. So, they decided to hold onto the firehouse.

One of the home's bathrooms.Enter Freeman, who met Russell at the Garden Preschool Cooperative, their children's school. Both served on the board. Freeman was looking for a new place to live, and the Reads agreed she could stay in the firehouse and look after it for them.
When they moved their furniture out, Freeman made some changes that suited her decorating style. She added a thrift store couch and chair on the first floor and bought a new bed. She brought in a secondhand kitchen table and chairs, a set she now feels looks too "modern" for the space.

On the whole, Freeman resisted filling the firehouse with stuff. "I was kind of devastated when (Andrea) moved her stuff out," she admits. "Then I embraced the zen emptiness of the space."
JERRY MCCREA/THE STAR-LEDGERAmong Freeman's favorite parts of the firehouse are the second-floor alcove (a good place to play, read and take naps), the large, TV-free living room on the second floor (a good place to hula hoop, do gymnastics and dance) and the terrace (in the summer, a good place to barbecue and enjoy the "explosion of petunias" she plants.)

She says the framework of the place is so tied to its history "that it sort of permeates everything, in a way. I never forget that this place was a firehouse originally."

The Reads, whose new home is a 250-acre farm in Maine, are the founders of Newforest Institute, a nonprofit that works to foster relationships between people and the land on which they live. Andrea, the organization's executive director, hopes to open a branch of Newforest in Jersey City and have the firehouse serve as both its office and a community gathering space.

The master bedroom.Freeman knows she'll have to move out of the firehouse at some point, and that makes life there bittersweet. She's not sure how her next home will compare.

"Where will I go from here?" Freeman says. "How will I ever top this?"

The Accidental Roommate

2008-01-01T19:33:00.000-08:00

You know folks, living in this fabulous firehouse has its benefits and certainly has had its odd inconveniences as well. Not that I'm complaining. I love it here and wouldn't trade it for any other place in the greater New York area - however, every once in a while I get thrown a curve ball.

In May of this year, I received a convoluted message that a Harvard student was coming to stay in the firehouse for the summer. Just like that. Plus, I heard this info second-hand so I couldn't ask any questions. All else I could learn was that she was "doing an internship at a TV station in Jersey City."

That sounded rather odd to me, as I didn't think there was an actual TV station in JC, but I put the idea out of my head and hoped it wouldn't come to fruition.

A few weeks later I got a phone call from a very upbeat and earnest-sounding young woman. She said that she was coming to intern at none other than WMFU which is widely regarded as the best freeform radio station in the US, and that her boss would be, coincidentally, an old friend of mine. I had been a supporter of this non-commercial radio station for years and knew it very well - so that was our first common denominator. Though when she announced that she was arriving the next day, I was taken aback. I needed to give up my bedroom to her but I still hadn't moved-in my new deluxe bed from my former house. I didn't feel at all prepared for her arrival, yet there was no stopping it; she started work the following Monday, ready or not.

When Nayeli arrived at my door the next day, I impulsively hugged her - somehow knowing we'd be fast friends. She looked almost like a younger version of me and she was already wearing a cute outfit that I might just need to borrow.

We gabbed the whole day together; about the radio station, the many bands we both liked, about how she would be happy to babysit for my girls (YAY!) and then discovered that the one student I happened to know at Harvard was one of her very best friends. The coincidences were piling up.

In just a few days I went from being irked at the arrival of an "intruder" in my palace to loving the notion of having a roommate or housemate, more appropriately. The firehouse is so big that we never got in each other's way. She had the Battalion Chief's room and her own bathroom with the killer showerhead. I had the master bedroom (which I swiftly moved my bed into) and access to the terrace. I was sort of the Queen Bee, and she...the Battalion Chieftess.

The weeks went by and summer was fully upon us. We entertained almost nightly blasting music in our spacious empty living room and re-discovered New Order; we danced to new Avril Lavigne with my girls, and we got into a brilliant Jersey City Ramones-style trio called The Impulse. Totally on impulse I decided to invite the band to play in our garage one night in July. Afterall, the firehouse garage is enormous, and the band was enthralled by the idea; they said YES immediately.

We made the gig time early hoping that the neighbors wouldn't complain--at 7:00 pm, it was practically an early-bird special. I purchased a few cases of beer and transported them home in a baby carriage, which was somehow fitting. Nayeli invited some of her friends and I invited lots of parents and their kids. With the garage door open all the neighborhood passers-by could get an earful as well.

By 7:15 The Impulse was warming up and already creating quite a racket. What I hadn't considered was that the pressed tin that decorates the walls and ceiling of the garage would create an acoustical terror-dome. One reveler told me that she first heard the music upon exiting the PATH train; that was three blocks away. I was getting kind of nervous about the noise, plus there were a few too many kids running free-range in the house.

Suddenly, a neighbor-- an uninvited neighbor -- came into the house looking rather grim. He informed me that someone had called the firehouse owner in California and said that there was a huge party going on in his home with a live raucous band! The owner called this guy and he relayed the message to me.

I almost passed-out with dread. How could I jeopardize the sanctity of this wonderful home with a boozy neo-punk rock band? What on earth was I thinking? I quickly phoned the owner and explained that reports were wildly exaggerated; I reminded him that it was only 7:30 here on the East Coast. He was a great sport about it, however, he did suggest that I close the garage door as not to create any further complaint.

Doing that was a huge buzz-kill. It was now about 900 degrees in the garage and if you thought the sound was ear-splitting before, now it was positively tooth-loosening. In the end, I pressed the red "open" button and raised the garage door; the band played on in fresh air and evening light. Forget the neighbors; this was a pure punk moment.

And so it became the defining moment of the summer. Nayeli and I had created our own little scene which, for better or worse, became a much-talked about event in downtown JC. If we didn't set our status as rockstars per se, we solidified our rep as Rock-the-Firehouse concert promoters.

Throughout the summer, we fell into our groove and got along perfectly, with nary a cross word expressed. Nayeli also had to endure my vicious diabetic cat, Kaos. Whenever I would go away for a weekend it became her task to give Kaos his shots as he is profoundly diabetic. He is also kind of old and ornery so he enjoyed taking swipes at Nayeli's ankles, and more than once sunk his teeth into her calves. She was always good-natured about it, but had no problem conveying her lack of love toward this kitty.

Occasionally, I had to step out of my "I'm a teenager too" role and sometimes be a "mom". I'll admit that I would get annoyed at Nayeli for drinking the last of my milk, or for forgetting to take out the trash; or sometimes, more protectively, I'd find myself saying things like, "You cannot wear that on the subway."

Usually, I just pushed the age distance out of the way, and kind of felt my own inner-teenager come through. There was a day, when Nayeli's friends and I just hung around on the terrace, playing music and basking in the sun. We intended to go out and do stuff, but truthfully we were enjoying being slothful. We pretended that we were staying at a fancy hotel in the South of France. We drank fresh lemonades with garden mint, read trashy magazines, then deconstructed the decline of Britney Spears, and why it's prudent not to put Coke in baby bottles.

Around that time, she and her friend, Mischa, also from Harvard, decided that they would try their luck at being go-go dancers. Nayeli had been invited by a bar-owner in Brooklyn to test out her routine the next time a band played the back room (nevermind her being underage, of course).

The night of the event, she and Mischa donned ridiculous spandex get-ups, matching in fuchsia with wide stretchy belts, and worked their groovy magic. It didn't hurt that Nayeli borrowed the coolest boots I own: platform, skin-tight, and sort of plasticy. I, now in full parental mode, drove the girls to the venue and hung-out while they tested out their synchronized moves. Somehow (despite the micro-skirts) they avoided being overtly slutty-looking, and were actually quite entertaining and fun.

That night, a huge success monetarily (because who can resist tipping gals in spandex), made them both decide to take up careers, whilst at Harvard, being professional go-go dancers for parties and bars. I applauded this entrepreneurial endeavor as it certainly beats slinging burgers.

And so, just like summer's last pink rays, the internship ended and it was time for Nayeli to leave the beloved firehouse and head back to school. By then I had grown so accustomed to her that I tried to convince her to transfer to Columbia instead and stay in New York. That was not going to happen, but we both knew that we had created a magical summer experience; much better than either of us had imagined.

Again, I thought of how I resisted the idea of an "intruder" to my domain and in the end was all teary-eyed upon saying good-bye. I shall include my favorite photo of Nayeli from this summer, where she is wearing all my clothes including a JonBenet t-shirt I had created in the 90s. She calls this her "Clueless" look and, by the way, there are my plasticy boots in full badass glory.

Status: SINGLE (deconstructing Match.com)

2007-12-06T09:30:00.000-08:00

There is something about "the single mom" that either strikes fear or longing in the hearts of men. To some she may be "the hot, fun MILF" and to others she is merely "laden with baggage and unsightly stretch marks." But what does the term "single mom" strike in me? The notion of being older, having marriage and childbearing out of the way; the freedom and strength that come with being a consummate provider and nose-wiper. Those qualities can dangerously bleed over into the lives of men who may not wish to be spoon-fed or have their noses expertly wiped….and how do we balance those imperatives? It's our nature to nurture and to love sometimes with too much selflessness because that is, after all, what we do best.

I am waxing poetic on what it means to truly be a single mom, in all her unbridled glory. I choose to take the road that is about steel-willed determination; the path that allows us to fight the cyborgs while we do chin-ups on the pipes of our prison cells [that's a "Terminator 2" reference for those who asked me]. It's a force that propels us into the reserves of power and confidence that got us over all those obstacle course walls to begin with. Being on your own, with kids, is an exhilarating and exhausting place. Being "single by choice" is a step that women from prior generations would only have considered under the most extreme circumstances. Ultimately, we are all about our kids and should we choose to have a man in our life he might be the cherry pie on the side or may be a loving partner; but never should he broach the territory of becoming our ultimate source of joy.

Shifting focus from what single means, to what the alternative means says much about the woman in question's needs and desires. It's my wish that all single women would unite against looking for their validation and answers in that xy chromosome-holder. Currently, I am approaching my well-earned title not with trepidation but with a fierceness that refuses to back down or wallow in self-recriminations. "Why not embrace my singleness?" I thought. "Let's put it to the test and see where it takes me…"

And so, one part social experiment, one part required ego-stroking, I put myself up on the infamous Match.com. Dr. Phil endorsed, (and that ought to give one pause from the get-go) Match.com is the largest online dating site in the world. Apparently, more than 42 million singles globally have registered with Match.com since its launch in 1995. Not long ago, Match.com entered into a strategic partnership with Dr. Phil, who provides tips and advice to subscribers willing to pay a premium.

My first task was to write a profile description so subversive and snarky that I'd immediately weed out any prospect too stupid or humorless to be of even passing interest. I began by presenting myself as a falconer and asserted that for fun "I enjoy digging in my children's ears with a q-tip". I put up a rather fetching photo of myself (perhaps too fetching) and left the prey to enter my lair at their own risk.

Though my profile received over 1,800 perusals to date, only a few dozen guys were willing to venture a tentative email query:

I don't know if I'm really scared or terribly excited but the fact that you make snarky remarks - I am in.

Uh, that's right, send your prey's head into a spin and then devour at your leisure.

You write like the poster-child for natural amphetamines.

WOW! Funny and cute too!!!!!!

Great ad - most creative I've read - will you marry me?

DO you have any imaginary friends? Do things taste salty to you?

You may be crazier than me, I thought that was impossible!

-----------
Just who are these guys, I wondered, glancing over my burgeoning inbox. Many were divorced; some had children; some were successful or just struggling. Most liked to travel and do things that we ALL like to do, yet itemizing those activities can't help but sound completely banal. Entering this world was a bit like frequenting the largest, most generic bar you'd never want to visit. I'm all about the sparks between two people and the online format does not allow for such nuances. Another single mom said it so well: "I could never find a guy online! I have to be able to smell him first."

I heartily agree; though I dutifully answered every email with a kind, but clever turn of phrase, the chemistry was never there. Shopping for a mate on the internet goes against our primal need to read a person's physical cues. We are blind to the physical in this arena, yet fixated on mini digital replications of a prospect's visage. How many men in my life have I been smitten with not based upon their physicality, but on their chemical cocktail of personality, humor, and yes, their smell. You can mask it with cologne or Axe or Irish Spring soap, but I will smell beneath the layers to your essence, to the musky pheromone that speaks to an ancient part of my female viscera and will tell me whether or not I might want to pro-create with you.

Try doing that in an email.

In any case, I am not totally giving up this experiment and still do enjoy the occasional witty repartee that is part and parcel of the dating ritual. After all, if you follow the Cyrano model you could certainly fall in love with the poetry and literary prowess of a potential match. But even with a love for his words and turn of phrase you could get face to face and find he's just another guy in Gap chinos and a weak chin. All the brilliant emails in the world might not overcome the simple fact that attraction is an intricate alignment of qualities.

I prefer to get out and meet people in person; where I can smell them at close range.

And so, I leave you, dear reader, with the sound knowledge that online dating might be for the birds, but not the falconers. I'm happy doing my thing the old-fashioned way and am surprisingly in-demand all of a sudden.

Incidentally, I may have some inevitable baggage, but you won't find a single stretch mark on this bod.

Signing off for now, RaptorBabe....

Call 911 or "every parent's nightmare"

2007-11-05T20:56:00.000-08:00

My girls, as I've said before, are exceptionally "rough and tumble" tough chickies who take their knocks on the playground in stride. When they fall off their bikes they jump back up with a startled, "I'm fine! I'm fine, it didn't hurt!" as though they were convincing themselves and me in one swoop.

One evening we were playing at our favorite playground right in the middle of Soho, New York. This newly renovated park has a swimming pool, just for kids, and brand new play equipment. The girls and their friend had been swimming, sunning and playing for a few hours and were busy on the swings, twisting themselves up into whirling dervishy twirls.

Then, in one ill-timed moment, I watched as Bebe lunged toward an empty swing, just as a little boy began the backward arc of his speeding swing. In a split second the swing and her face collided and she was thrown backward several feet.

I froze for a second knowing that the impact was hard, but I watched her response before I made a single move. This is a child who never cries when she gets hurt and suddenly she was screaming a cry that I knew spelled trouble.

"Oh Jesus," I heard myself say, as I dropped my bags and ran to her. Blood was spilling from her mouth and I felt myself fighting back the wave of panic. The words of comfort I said to her were as much on my behalf as hers. She could barely catch her breath as I shouted for someone to fetch my water bottle from the bench. She continued to spit blood, and when she said she couldn't close her mouth I thought, "Okay....she has dislocated or broken her jaw."

I felt time grinding to a different, drawn-out pace as I worked through the possible scenarios. "Just breathe," I said quietly to her as I followed my own advice. I heard someone say, "Call 911!" and another mom who happened to witness the collision asked if I'd like to bring her to the hospital. There was no way I was taking that road until I was certain that Bebe's jaw was truly injured.

Finally, she caught her breath and stopped sobbing. Taking inventory, I could see that she had a few nasty bruises on her body from being thrown onto the ground; I was able to look in her mouth and see that the blood was, in fact, coming from a bite to her tongue.

There I saw the most startling hematoma I've ever had the opportunity to view: It was a giant purple welt, the size of a grape, on the side of her tongue that had apparently absorbed the colission's impact between her teeth. Tentatively, she allowed me to examine her jaw and we determined that the inability to close her mouth was simply because that blood blister was so huge it was literally in her way.

Once the crowd cleared and more water had been spat out, then drunk, Bebe went back to playing on the swings - nearly good as new. She had no further complaints and was happy to receive ice cream as a remedy and relief. Another mom who I had been chatting with said, "Wow, that was impressive. I would have been freaking out and screaming for help."

"Nah," I said. "You wouldn't do that because you realize that your child is taking her cue from you. The calmer you stay, the swifter the crisis will pass."

Panic is one of the worst things to teach a child and I should know as that was my mother's default reaction to everything from a bee sting to gaping head wound. My resultant reaction was to lose consciousness in an attempt to remove myself from the situation. From childhood onward my default coping mechanism to pain or medical stress was to faint.

As parents, we often try to undo the wrongs that were inflicted upon us. We never will achieve this goal completely - and we'll unwittingly pass along other psychic traumas, no doubt. But my personal mission was to react exactly in the opposite fashion as my high-anxiety mother.

Thankfully, purple hematomas withstanding, I think I might actually achieve this goal.

The Sandwich Generation

2007-10-01T06:27:00.000-07:00

Last "Questionable Judgment" column I really beat myself up for being what I called a "crackmom". This was because I occasionally forgot homework, or sneakers, or made the kids late for school and so forth. Many readers said to me, "Hey, don't be so hard on yourself….we all have days like that."

Then I was having a moment recently where I thought: You know, most of the time I'm a damn good, rockin' out, pigtail-wearing, supremely adoring mom. No crack involved.

My girlies, now 6 and 5, like to know in advance what their weekend plans will be. On Friday eve we lay in their little futon bed together and discuss the activities ahead so they know what to look forward to (playdate with Isabel) or what to possibly dread (visit to grandparents – more on that later). Generally speaking, there should never be anything not to look forward to, only two days jam-packed with fun.

One Saturday, I sat at the indoor city pool, breathing in the chlorinated balmy air, feeling weary but content. The girls swam around in the shallow end under my watchful eye (because those lifeguards were too busy playing footsie with each other to be totally trusted). I thought about the day, last winter, when the girls had their first swim lesson on a Sunday morning. We had to drive from my friend's house in Connecticut all the way to this pool on a snowy winter day. I woke that morning with a stomach flu powerful enough to force a puking pit stop at least twice on I-95.

We made it to the swim lesson right on time - then I dozed fitfully in a chair, still wrapped in my down jacket, fighting off chills. Okay, so that is an example of what a "crackmom" does NOT do. The "crackmom" would have blown-off the whole thing and stayed in bed in Connecticut, allowing her friend to tend to the kiddies all day. Come to think of it….maybe that would have been smarter.

The girls hate to go their grandparents' house; and I cannot blame them. It is a truly awful experience, and that they are my parents, makes it okay for me to admit that. My sick and elderly folks are just a ventilator's breath away from being holed-up in a nursing home – yet they persist in this nearly vegetative state. Welcome to what is now called "The Sandwich Generation". This is when your kids are young and your parents are old, becoming a burden and responsibility themselves. You are literally "sandwiched" between the obligations from both sides – and you become a parent, effectively, to both generations simultaneously.

I am intrigued by this label "Sandwich Generation" for several reasons. One, it's sort of non-descript and self-defining, as I suppose "Generation X" also is, so you can interpret it in a few different ways. One parent I know asked, "Oh, is that because we're all so busy we only can make sandwiches for our kids' lunches?" I also find it amusing that Wikipedia states: "There are very few or no other articles that link to this one." So, not only do people not really know about this phenomenon, but people don't seem to care that much about it either. I'm living and breathing it, so when I heard my situation described with this bland moniker I thought, "Ah, finally! I have a definable syndrome."

My parents wear diapers. I'm not exaggerating when I say that as soon as my children were out of diapers my parents were in them. Kids' diapers come with images of princesses and superheroes on them. A friend joked, "Couldn't your dad's diapers come with say, a photo of Ed McMahon on them?" Though this made me laugh, I could not get the image of those giant-sized white diapers out of my head; nor how awful it looks to see your parents wearing them as they toddle – always too late—to the toilet.

Both my parents became dysfunctional old people before my eyes. My father used to drive into Manhattan and watch my daughter when she was small. They'd eat at Joe Junior's diner together then hang around in the playground with all the nannies. From that level of independence my father quickly became a menace behind the wheel, lost most of his common sense, and suddenly developed a mean, argumentative streak.

Soon after, my brother and I discovered that he was spending thousands of dollars a month on worthless coins from the infamously fraudulent Franklin Mint. I cried to him, "Dad…I could have used that money to pay for preschool! For a college fund! For gymnastics – anything! What are you thinking?" But he truly believed that the coins were an excellent investment – perfect for hoarding until the kiddies were older.

However, that was not the case, we learned. Some coins worth only $75 were never going to be valued at the $1,500 my disillusioned father had paid for them. Eventually, we managed to wrestle control away from him with his coin craze. As he grew more confused and forgetful we were able to take his credit cards away. I took Power of Attorney and my brother and I created living wills complete with a "Do Not Resuscitate" order. Talk about cheery dinner conversation.

Back in the present, this explains why the girls do not like visiting their grandparents. It's downright depressing and it smells bad at their house.

Sometimes we pull into the driveway and I pause to prepare them: "Girls…I know this isn't easy. I know you don't like coming here and frankly, neither do I. But they're my parents and that's what children do. However, if I get ever this bad please smother me with a pillow, okay?" All right…I left out that last line which clearly indicates "questionable judgment".

I could write about the downfall of my parents, but I shall stick to the topic in this particular little essay: Not such a "crackmom", after all….

And so, after I scored a superlatively loud mini-sound system, the girls and I danced around to Avril Lavigne in our empty living room to cap off an action-packed weekend of fun. There will always be visits to the grandparents, but hopefully this anti-crackmom will balance the chore with all the great things that make us rock out....with hula-hoops and pigtails no less.

The Blog of Love (don't bother if you're a cynic)

2007-09-01T06:33:00.000-07:00

Without sounding excessively sappy -- having two daughters is a wonderful gift. They could not be more different from each other both physically and in temperament which gives me a full range of appreciation. Bebe, who is my firstborn, is most like me both in her appearance and personality. You might think this would make us more compatible, but the truth is it's painful to meet yourself as a child. I watch in dismay how she laughs at the same things as me, and sometimes gets this familiar self-conscious expression on her face, how she distrusts adults who condescend to her, and the way she mimics rock stars....it's all me in junior size.

Sometimes we are truly oil and water, yet I cherish her mirror to my psyche - difficult as it is. Without that I might not come to understand better who I am and how I got this way. I have to separate my discomfort in watching my clone and love her for who she is – both like and unlike me. I can nurture her in gestures that were never expressed to me as a child and hopefully bypass some of the neurosis my own mother passed down to me. But who am I kidding? We all hand down our issues - consciously or not - to our children. So while I might rescue her from fearing the dentist I might not be able to prevent her resistance to change, and so on.

My baby girl, Evie, is most unlike me in all manners. Though her willfulness and passion can often try my patience I also celebrate her differences as though she was not born from my genetic code. When she was an infant I didn't believe I could love her completely. After all, my eldest was still a baby when Evie came into this world. I didn't understand the capacity one's heart has for expanding itself. When she was still tiny, under six months, I watched her half moon eyes crinkle up at me with joy. I realized that not only could I love her with all my heart, but I gave her love untainted by my own self-scrutiny. Now, at nearly five years old, her eyes are exactly the same as that baby that kept me up all night just crying to be in bed beside me. I gave in then and I shall give in as long as she'll have me near.

Now both girls are safely tucked in the same bed. I put them at opposite ends like the grandparents in "Willie Wonka" and sometimes their feet collide. I would never think of having them in separate rooms as they are exceptionally close as siblings and friends. That is my gift to them too…fostering a bond that will be with them always. My girls are resilient and slipped so easily into their new home and my new status as a single mom that I often wait for the other shoe to drop. I'm a much better mother to them on my own terms than I ever was in my glass cage. And that is my strength, in case you were wondering.

Held Hostage By a Birthday Party...

2007-08-16T15:22:00.000-07:00

Okay, I confess: I do not like throwing birthday parties for my kids.

I find it stressful for several reasons: I don't like having a bunch of people in my home, the mess, the cleaning, the coming-up with party games, the preparation of food to be served, the cake to be baked…and oh, the goodie bags I hate above all else. I can never come up with the right combo of items that parents won't disapprove of (i.e. candy, candy and more candy) or cheap toys or useless doo-dads that will promptly be lost, discarded, or choked upon by younger siblings.

I like to TALK about the party with my daughters, I like to THINK about the party, but when it comes down to preparation, I am definitely the hostess with the leastess, not mostess.

So, for Evie's fifth birthday it was all decided: We'd pay a small fortune to throw a fete at "The Little Gym" – everyone's answer to generic party fun. They give you the invites, they provide the pizza, and they entertain the kids with an hour of gymnastics and tumbling (before pizza, that is, so there is minimal puking to be had).

Big "however" here: I booked the party too late – and the only open slot remotely close to Evie's actual birth date was on Mother's Day! Yes, my most favorite of all Hallmark holidays. Taking a quick poll of friends I decided that Mother's Day would not be great timing for all, what with conflicting plans, brunches and corsages….so I was back to having the party at home.

I thought, Hey, I have loads of space at the Firehouse, we'll dance, have fun, and maybe we'll take all the kids over to the old preschool location just for old time's sake. I still have the keys to the yard and they can run around if it's a beautiful day.

Well, Saturday was indeed a beautiful day and I was ill-prepared for hosting a party, as usual. I stayed up late hanging with The Polyphonic Spree (it's true), woke up too early and still managed to procrastinate for a while. I had a cake to bake, frosting to make (yes, I'm fussy and make my own) decorations and balloons to string about ….plus I had to hide all my paperwork, magazines and other detritus that manage to gather in this or that corner.

Cutting to the chase, I got most of that stuff done when the kids started arriving two by two. "Ohmigod," I said to my friend, "I invited too many boys." They were all simultaneously going mental, running around like unruly simians and screaming at the top of their lungs the whole time. They climbed in the loft beds and threw down every last doll, book and harmonica they could find. The girls squealed in that irritating girlish way and the noise level was instantly raised to hair-tearing proportions.

Meanwhile, this age-specific party phenomenon was occurring that I had not anticipated. At a certain undetermined age, parents begin to DROP-OFF their children at birthday parties. And leave. Indeed, they can go food shopping, get their toenails painted, or lay in a hammock all afternoon while their child is busy pouring milk in his ears under someone else's watch.

Now I was stuck watching my home get wrecked and I had very few parents around to help reel in the escalating chaos. Finally, after pizza and cake I marched them all over to the old preschool which was just a block or two away. This was kind of a weird and desperate maneuver. The school had a wonderful garden, but we all got the heave-ho about six months ago. The old "pave paradise put up a parking lot" was the order here as two ambitious Jersey City developers purchased our preschool from the landowner (a corrupt church, actually) and told us, kindly and gently, that we had to move. It took almost two years for all the technicalities to be worked out, but finally in late 2006 the move happened.

So the beautiful preschool yard, with its many flowers, fruits and veggie stalks had all gone to seed. The grass was iridescent green and nearly a foot tall. The play equipment was starting to rot and we noticed nails protruding from the playhouse. Spiders, allergies, no bathrooms, nails, old rakes, fetid trash and a few moldy mats were just some of what we had to contend with that afternoon. Yet, in my mind, I preferred this over watching my house be torn apart by its seams.

By 4 pm parents began to pick up their kids. But only SOME parents. I had mentioned that the party had an "indefinite" end time – but I wasn't picturing dealing with kids all alone in that scenario. So, as the last parent left the party he looked around the yard and counted children.

"Um, Jayne," he said, frowning into the setting sun. "You are the only adult here. There are still seven kids left."

"Yeah…I'm aware of that."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm not sure, but I'm tired, it's getting chilly, and the kids are completely filthy."

"Okay…I'll help you get them back to the Firehouse."

And so we walked them back, mindful of on-coming buses and the like, and set them loose once again in the house. This time they were covered in silt-like dirt from head to toe. I ushered several girls into the bath but not before they all grabbed the white shower curtain, leaving muddy paw prints all over it. Once in the bath something on their skin – dirt, the particles of grass, some errant allergen – made them scream with pain; pain of intense itching, that is. I don't know what it was, but it irritated the kids into a screaming fit and I quickly pulled each child out. Then I had about five naked girls running around taunting the boys by wagging their tushies in the breeze.

I think at that moment I simply gave up and started calling parents.

"Where are you? I'm losing it, you have to come here!"

"Um, you need to pick up Pauline, she's having an allergic reaction."

"Hi, can you get JJ? He just threw my cat off the roof."

Finally, every last child was picked up and no joke, reader, it was 7:40 pm. The marathon birthday party, sans borders, was over at last. Corralling my girls into brushing their teeth and crawling into bed was a piece of cake after all that. And speaking of which, I never even got to try my special black & white cake…but I heard it was delicious.

Man o man....never again. And I mean it!