INFLUENZA 

Influencer. In. Flu. En. Cer. He turned the word over in his head, occasionally saying it aloud. It sounded like influenza to his ears and made him want to spit out the tiny tobacco crumbs in his mouth. The word that sounded like an illness made more sense to him and so it became his preferred descriptor. It wasn’t enough that the Influenza felt compelled to put the mundane trappings of her life in a showcase for the world to see—but this activity (if that’s what you might call it) had an appalling title. 

 “I have a stalker,” she chirped in one of her Instagram stories. She was so impressed with herself that some idiot with even more sheep-followers than she, had commented on her posts. “Yes, you do...” he exhaled his cigar smoke with a small growl and cleaned the binocular lens with a microfiber cloth. Jeff settled into the tall reeds that surrounded the path that @CircaChelsea would soon come trotting down. She would prance predictably in her loden-green leggings (with a super-handy side pocket for your phone!), her hair in a high, well-formed ponytail (messy buns are so 2015!) Jeff would feel a bolus of revulsion rise in his throat watching her ponytail bounce from side to side like a perverse metronome. “Ponytails are for horses and children,” he nearly wrote as a comment but controlled his impulse. Certainly, the most offensive accessory she owned was her designer dog—a hunting variety who simply didn’t belong in an urban setting. But Chelsea had to have him. She made a big show of the training school he went to so that she could confidently walk him without a leash (I’ve always thought that was so cool!) Nevermind that it upset the other residents and was in fact, against the law. The dog’s under-used designer leash remained loosely curled into her hand, while the other kept a tighter grip on her always-present phone. 

It occurred to Jeff that Chelsea had bartered training sessions in exchange for posting about the “doggie sleep-away camp, ohmigosh SO cute!” Yet another reason why he wanted her deleted. “I have all the time in the world,” he said, settling into his covert ambush position. It was the Time of Cholera, as he liked to say to himself in reference to the pandemic. All he had now was time. Every week, a fat government check was deposited straight into his account for much more money than he made as a security guard—and this suited him very well. Jeff had time to thoughtfully choose his Instagram name which he knew was too clever for any Influenza to figure out. He made a parallel from The Myrmidons to the meaning of “ant” in Greek, myrmex, knowing both could be construed as “mindless, insignificant ones who are influenced.” He was being sly and clever, knowing the sarcasm would be lost on @CircaChelsea. What did she know about the Trojan War? Nothing, that’s what. She would hear Trojan and think condoms in her amphibian pea-brain. 

The days grew shorter as winter neared. Yet this didn’t stop Chelsea from walking in the park. The creeping dark worked in Jeff’s favor as fall brought with it daylight savings time. He could arrive in the late afternoon, park in the commuter lot which was largely empty these days, and settle into his spot. Chelsea posted nearly every day from this tucked-away green oasis at the edge of the urban sprawl; it wasn’t hard to locate. She managed to make her city-life look like she had the country in her backyard as well. Golden fall light, autumn leaves, her hunting dog’s brindled coat blending into the landscape like a painting by Utrecht, color-corrected afterward for the deepest saturation. They walked briskly together—sometimes the dog ahead by twenty feet or so (gotta keep active with my favorite gym closed! Shout-out to @Work-itGirl!) “You’re making it so easy, Chelsea,” he thought, scowling into the field-binoculars. “You’re carrying your own murder weapon, saving me the trouble.” 

Later, Jeff lay in bed scrolling through older, predictably insipid @CircaChelsea posts. “Long nails are so 2019! Ring in the New Year with the EuroMani--short is the new long!” He imagined she didn’t understand that phrase “is the new _____” thinking it must have something to do with “Orange is the New Black” and that was its origin. “Short is the new long” made no sense, but that was to be expected. “Can’t wait to wear layers! I love the fall - check out my draper duster coat!” He felt nauseated and reminded himself not to scroll when he was trying to fall asleep. He dreamt that there were flyers everywhere, stapled to telephone poles and street signs, bearing @CircaChelsea’s face. He couldn’t read the print, so he wasn’t sure if she was missing or advertising something; but if you touched the paper a red heart appeared, counting your “like'' and displaying a number in the thousands. She grinned back at him, Invisaligned and veneered. 

It was late November when Jeff noticed the train. From his reedy hide-out, he would occasionally hear the unbearable screech of metal upon metal. He pulled his Yukon timber hat (with real rabbit fur lining) over his ears. Every third evening an impossibly slow-moving freight train would grind its way over the trestle, cutting through the west end of the park. The noise was horrific to Jeff’s sensitive eardrums, but he noted the way it might muffle any sounds of struggle. “And I thought daylight savings time was working in my favor,” he nearly laughed aloud. “This Influenza needs to be prevented from infecting one more person’s psyche. The CDC wants her stopped.” “I know it’s so hard for many people during this difficult time! Who says you can’t be fashion-savvy in a pandemic!? Follow my reels for the greatest deals!” Jeff gagged and spit into the marshy grass. It was just a little bile, but the taste lingered in his cigar-tainted mouth. 

Monday was overcast. The sky felt low—almost oppressive. The light fell quickly and by 4:45 it was dark as midnight. The freight train’s grinding metal wheels shrieked in the near-distance, making Jeff wince with discomfort. His heart quickened inside his Cabela’s (10% off with code!) hunting parka from his spot in the brittle reeds, as he watched the brindled dog precede Chelsea around the bend. She followed, as usual, with the leash in hand, ponytail swinging, pink camouflage rain jacket over her designer leggings. Miraculously, the phone was not in her hand (The lighting stinks at this time of day, LOL!) Her dog had picked up the scent of something off near the shrubby bushes and remained fixated on tracking the creature. Jeff slipped out of the reeds, the train screeching a horrific soundtrack, and moved silently behind Chelsea. His movements were speedy and concise, as though rehearsed for years. In one swift movement, the leash was in his hands and around her neck. She had no time to even turn around—just a quick intake of breath, diminished by her mask and she was immediately silenced. Euromani, he thought. Those useless manicured nails couldn’t protect her. Her pathetic pedigree dog was busy taking a dump in the wet grass—oblivious to what just transpired. Dragging her into the reeds seemed like an afterthought, but he felt he should, just as her fancy dog might have done with an extinguished squirrel. “I did it. I've deleted her,” Jeff contorted his face into what might be considered a smile. 

TUESDAY

It was raining. Jeff lounged in bed for most of the day, playing video games, watching cable TV (which he now could afford), and ordering-in pizza (which he felt he deserved.) He deliberately avoided checking @CircaChelsea as a sort of will-power withholding—as you might for a slice of pie you were saving for later. Late in the day, he checked her account—heart pounding—and saw her most recent post: 10:26 am. It was a photo in her immaculately decorated apartment. “Things are a little crazy right now, but I’m relieving stress by cleaning!” and then a plug for some all-natural cleaning product company that sponsored her vapid posts. Jeff sat in his bed, surrounded by potato chip crumbs and leftover Entenmann’s cake. He huffed out a sour exhale. “Huh. I guess she does that thing where you schedule posts ahead of time,” he thought. “Only the most self-absorbed cretins plan a day in advance what they want to say tomorrow on social media.” He rolled over, unaware of the debris grinding into his sheets from the weight of his body and fell into a snore-filled slumber. 

Jeff woke with a start at 9 pm, unaccustomed to not visiting the park and his comfortable “hidey-hole” as he had begun to call it. He blinked his eyes into focus and stared at his phone. He had left the app open to her account and suddenly it had 2 new photos since this morning’s enthusiastic clean-up post. Around noon Chelsea posted what seemed to be a summer image of her in a flowery sundress with a wistful hashtag #missingthewarmth. But the following post made Jeff sit up sharply in bed causing the pizza boxes to slide this way and that. It was Chelsea sitting at the window with some kind of peach-colored smoothie in her hand. “Rainy days make me feel SO depleted! But this uber-healthy @BumbleJuice mix does the trix!”   “I get it!” he said aloud, surprising himself. “She has someone posting for her—that little minx. Probably some equally moronic assistant who either can’t find her or doesn’t want her public to know yet, lest they lose all that sponsorship money.” The assistant used old photos to make it seem like Chelsea had posted today, Jeff reasoned. How convenient.

He sat back and laughed at the grandiosity of the Influenza. “Of course...what an idiot I am,” he chided himself—but not too harshly. It suddenly occurred to Jeff to check the local news. His city didn’t have a proper newspaper, so he turned to NJ.COM to search. Pausing over the search field he chose his words carefully....missing, influencer, local, CircaChelsea. Nothing came up except for links to her and other similarly misguided social media accounts. “Guess I did a good job hiding the corpse exquisitely,” he complimented himself, referencing his favorite-named surrealism parlor game. He shoved some of yesterday’s garlic knots into his mouth and stared at the ceiling, chewing noisily. 

WEDNESDAY

A curious sensation crept over Jeff, like a nagging dread. He tried to pinpoint the feeling but it kept eluding him, like the gold coins on FrenzyAttack. “I’m not worried about getting caught,” he mused to himself. “It’s something else...” Climbing out of his filth-strewn bed, oblivious to the greasy smear from yesterday’s pizza, he lumbered over to his urine-stained toilet, phone in hand. Instagram loading, reminding him that it was owned by the equally idiotic Facebook....@CircaChelsea...loading, loading...and then...Jeff felt his eyes widen, taking in the image completely. There was Chelsea...in the empty field where he had choked the life-force out of her, arm extended, smiling into her phone with her mask below her chin. In the background he could see her trendy hunting dog, then the reeds and his special hidey-hole. He peered more deeply into the straw-colored stalks, using his stumpy fingers to pry the photo larger. There was no mistaking; there was his foolish Yukon timber hat--beneath that his grim and bloated face. 

The phone slipped from his fingers onto the discolored bathroom tiles. Protected by its hard-rubber case it bounced neatly upside down, as though it too wanted to bury the image from memory. How did this happen? Jeff’s mind spiraled into possible ways this photo could have materialized. He had never seen Chelsea take a photo from that angle - he would have remembered. He was also so careful to be deep enough into the stalks that he was completely hidden. It was impossible to tell how long ago the image was taken, but there was a distinct lack of greenery, indicating it was recent. He picked the phone up and peered more deeply into the blurry image of himself camouflaged, yet certainly present, in the photo. It was like finding a photo on Google maps and seeing yourself in the background. You might feel captured—like a momentary invasion of privacy. Jeff felt exposed and that feeling was peppered with terror and rage. He closed the app and ordered food, determined to stay off of his phone for the rest of the day. He guzzled orange soda, devoured more pizza and Chinese food, played FrenzyAttack and took his mind off those luminous square images of Chelsea’s toothy smile. 

Darkness crept in so early now. Jeff’s stomach lurched from nerves and fat-laden food. He swept more debris off of his soiled covers and opened up the app again. That nagging sensation rose from his bowels as Chelsea’s page came into view. The photo had been deleted. That was unusual for her, but it gave Jeff a temporary wave of relief. Had he imagined it? Nothing was making sense anymore. He fought the urge to venture out to the park and visit the scene of—"Nah," he said to himself. “I’m not doing that.” Besides, it was dark and starting to drizzle, making Jeff want to dig down into his bed. His unemployment check direct-deposited on Wednesdays giving him the ability to order more indulgent food. And that’s all Jeff really wanted to think about - if you considered gorging a form of thinking. 

THURSDAY

The sun came shining in the window, momentarily bringing a bleak form of cheer to Jeff’s otherwise dark mood. He remained motionless in bed, glaring at his phone as though it were taunting him. The floor around him seemed to be soaking up some unsavory moisture and emitted a smell like the piss of drunks. There was a layer of grime that had dusted the room, or was it just that Jeff noticed it in the bright sunshine. Hoisting his body over the bed’s edge he felt heavier today for some reason. Chelsea had seeped into his brain like a lingering hangover. He wanted to vomit her away like one might clear the guts of sour vodka and old bourbon. Making his way back to the bed, he stubbed his toe on a chair leg, as though he had lost touch with the contours of his body. He stared at the injured toe, displeased with its aesthetic—like a piece of corn pressed into a marshmallow of flesh. The phone called silently to him like the Influenza siren, beckoning, despite his resistance. “Okay,” he thought, grimacing slightly. “Let’s see if today is the day your little assistant announces your demise.” Touch screen, scroll, @CircaChelsea—there you are. Jeff cocked his head in confusion. “Is this the same post as yesterday?” he wondered aloud. Smiling up at him from her little illuminated square was Chelsea, in the same photo from the day before, but this time she appeared to be closer to the swatch of long weeds flanking the grassy field. Jeff could plainly see his own face. He appeared ugly and somewhat prehistoric-looking, grimacing and red. He felt his body burn with rage and embarrassment. Chelsea’s comment read: “Looks like I have a disgusting stalker! Isn’t he pathetic, folks? I can SMELL him from here and it’s not pretty #decomposingmeat” 

Jeff threw the phone into the corner of his room and stumbled into the bathroom where he couldn’t decide which end to purge first. For a minute he considered fleeing the stale odorous confines of his home, but he felt too sick to be far from a toilet. He collapsed back into his bed falling into a thrashing slumber. Hours went by and Jeff awoke famished and sweaty. He heated up yesterday’s pizza and peered out the grimy window. The pull to check his phone overtook his nausea and he found himself opening the app once more. There she was, toothy and maskless, in a different outfit from the previous post—and there Jeff was, plainly seen through the reeds. The comment read: “Friends, I need your help to snuff out this level-5 CLINGON”

ONE WEEK LATER

Jeff’s downstairs neighbor managed to convince the building’s Super to investigate the mysterious acrid leakage that was seeping through his ceiling. “Listen, maybe the guy just left the bathtub running,” he offered as a hopeful suggestion. The Super, looking bored as he jiggled the door open, tried to tune out the downstairs tenant; he didn’t really care for all these New Yorker transplants and their busy-body behavior. However, the smell that hit them at that moment killed those thoughts instantly. Wordlessly, they walked together, hands over their already masked faces toward the open doorway. What they saw in the bedroom didn’t register at first as whatever it was. A somewhat human form was suggested by the puddle of blackish fluid;  it appeared as though a person had melted into a soggy, pizza-strewn mattress. The Super tried to open a nearby window but it was stuck shut with soot and moist grime. The neighbor gaped beneath his mask, hand over mouth which was screwed into an unseen expression. The stench was overwhelming, like a raw chicken left in a summer’s garbage can while the family went on vacation. The room was filled with what could perhaps be described as a dreadful, burned-bone odor. At that moment, the neighbor, exceeding his “good deed” status that he had already posted about in advance, took a photo of the liquified mess in front of him and hashtagged it #decomposingmeat.

The Walking Dead - Unrealistic Birth Scenario

For those of you interested in the topic of "birth" and The Walking Dead - this blog is for you. I must vent about episode #4 (Season 3) and the annoying blunders that make television birth so unrealistic. 

First, I know it's a TV show, based on a comic book, and yes, the creators are permitted their dramatic license to a certain extent. But here was the first unrealistic problem with Lori's labor: The gang is being chased around the prison by zombies who were let into their fortress by a vindictive former prisoner. They're in the dark, the alarm is blaring (via back-up generator) and at each turn they could be met with a grisly death by a ravenous "walker."  This is exactly when Lori starts to experience labor pains.

Woahhh, hold up a sec!!!  Anyone ever hear of "fight or flight?"  When adrenaline kicks in, labor often stops or stalls.  If a zebra in the wild were to be chased by a predator while she was in labor, adrenaline would stop her labor and allow her to flee until she made it to a safer spot. We are MAMMALS and our bodies work the same way. For some women, just the trip to the hospital and enduring triage is enough to stop or slow labor until she can readjust. So, being chased around a dark prison by a herd of frothing dead folks does not exactly provide a relaxing labor scenario.

That was the first thing that had me scoffing. Then, once Lori finds a relatively safe closet with her son and Maggie (who has watched her dad deliver a calf or two) she goes from one contraction straight to pushing.  Okay, I know it's her second birth and all - but this is a little speedy even for TV un-reality. At that point she concedes that something is wrong. To her credit (and actress Sarah Wayne Callies has in fact given birth) she assumes a standing pushing position (far better than the traditional 'flat on back') and begins with some very authentic vocalizations; the kind you hear when women are bearing down...pushing.

 She quickly removes her pants and lays on the floor (back to the lithotomy position!) so that Maggie can deliver the baby who appears ready to be born - almost Alien-style.  However, there is blood present and it's bright red and copious - not what you typically see in normal labor. Lori is screaming in pain, then Maggie says, "I don't even think you're dilated all the way."  What a good call! Yet, how did she know? Did she do a cervical exam? I've got to assume she was making a veterinarian's daughter's guess.

I'd like to venture a diagnosis here: Placental Abruption.  In this rare complication the placenta separates from the uterine wall BEFORE the baby is actually born. You would know this is happening because there would be a constant sharp pain (unlike a typical contraction) and you would see a fair amount of bright red blood. Placental abruption occurs sometimes in women who've already had a c-section (like Lori) and have suffered a maternal trauma of some sort (her entire existence post-apocalypse) as well as some other condition like hypertension, for which she'd never know, having had no prenatal care.

Within moments, Lori is demanding that Maggie cut the baby out using her previous c-section scar as a guide (which by the way looked unnaturally long on her prosthetic abdomen.)  When Maggie protests (knowing that this incision will certainly kill Lori) the laboring mom claims that SHE should die so that the baby can LIVE!  At that point, I shout, "What is this baby going to live on!!? You think a prison is stocked with FORMULA? You can't feed a baby sugar water! You can't even give it evaporated cow's milk!"  (My boyfriend had had enough at that point and asked me to stop being so annoying.)  

Yet Maggie feels compelled to follow orders and using Carl's blunt-looking knife, she slices through Lori's abdomen and manages to pull the very chubby baby out of her body. Lori quickly expires and her son (as an afterthought) goes back to shoot her in the head so that she doesn't pester the rest of them when she returns as another walking dead folk. Yes, not exactly a cheery ending or a typical task performed by older brothers in general - all summing up to a rather maudlin episode, even for a show so rife with death.

Celebrity Rehab and Mike Starr's Death

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

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!"

"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?

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

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)

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

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

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

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