H: Can Jeff live with me?
L: What do you mean?
H: He'll have one room and I'll have another. Can he live with me?
L: When you are grownups? When you are adults and live on your own, you can make your own arrangements.
H: See, Jeff. I told you. It's not against the law.
September 20, 2006
YOU LOOK JUST FINE! Mailbag
Dear YLJF:
I'm a guy whose hair is thinning, so I've decided to wear it real long. I don't comb it over the top; that's a comb-over--not for me. I gather it on top, stir it into a pile, and hairspray it (Consort for Men) in place. Lately, my wife has been saying it's time for an actual haircut. I think my system works and saves the price of a barber. But I'll go with whatever you say.
_____________________________ When Hair Is Right It's Right
WHIRIR: I admire your ingenuity! Fashionably-speaking, if you are deficient in one area, compensate in another. However, all that gathering, stirring, piling and spraying sounds very time-consuming. And your wife's opinion merits consideration. How about a wearing a ponytail tied with a colorful scrunchy, or an attractive baseball cap?
I'm a guy whose hair is thinning, so I've decided to wear it real long. I don't comb it over the top; that's a comb-over--not for me. I gather it on top, stir it into a pile, and hairspray it (Consort for Men) in place. Lately, my wife has been saying it's time for an actual haircut. I think my system works and saves the price of a barber. But I'll go with whatever you say.
_____________________________ When Hair Is Right It's Right
WHIRIR: I admire your ingenuity! Fashionably-speaking, if you are deficient in one area, compensate in another. However, all that gathering, stirring, piling and spraying sounds very time-consuming. And your wife's opinion merits consideration. How about a wearing a ponytail tied with a colorful scrunchy, or an attractive baseball cap?
September 18, 2006
Cryptic VII
L: Wow. Look, a street fair. That looks fun.
H: There's a hula hoop.
L: A hula hoop? Are there kids' activities that you can see?
H: No, there's just a hula hoop lying on the sidewalk.
L: Really? The thing you put around your waist and have go around you?
H: No . . . from Hawaii, you put it around your neck.
H: There's a hula hoop.
L: A hula hoop? Are there kids' activities that you can see?
H: No, there's just a hula hoop lying on the sidewalk.
L: Really? The thing you put around your waist and have go around you?
H: No . . . from Hawaii, you put it around your neck.
September 16, 2006
Are We Not Men?
Listening to DEVO, 1978
My dad: Devo? Ja, we like Devo.
Listening to DEVO, 2006
H: What kind of music is this? I like it.
Hart S., Criminal Mastermind
Offense: unlawful breaking and entering of parental bedroom for nefarious purposes.
Vandalism
Evidence: Original first-issue Beanie Baby found with tags removed. Toy unharmed. Tags found in perp's bedroom.
Defense: Perp claims brother is responsible.
No charges. First warning. Toy eventually sold.
Theft
Evidence: Expensive diamond engagement ring missing. Recovered in basement clothes dryer.
No charges. Ring removed to bank safety deposit box.
Fraud
Evidence: New toy car bearing original price tag of $26.99. $30 simultaneously missing from dresser.
Witness (babysitter): Perp claims permission to spend the money.
Defense: "It's my money."
Toy returned to store for refund.
Vandalism
Evidence: Perp discovered at scene of crime.
Arresting officer inquires what perp is doing. Perp claims to be repairing broken shoe rack in closet. Officer asks how rack was broken.
Defense: Perp takes 5th Amendment rights, requests legal counsel.
Vandalism
Evidence: Original first-issue Beanie Baby found with tags removed. Toy unharmed. Tags found in perp's bedroom.
Defense: Perp claims brother is responsible.
No charges. First warning. Toy eventually sold.
Theft
Evidence: Expensive diamond engagement ring missing. Recovered in basement clothes dryer.
No charges. Ring removed to bank safety deposit box.
Fraud
Evidence: New toy car bearing original price tag of $26.99. $30 simultaneously missing from dresser.
Witness (babysitter): Perp claims permission to spend the money.
Defense: "It's my money."
Toy returned to store for refund.
Vandalism
Evidence: Perp discovered at scene of crime.
Arresting officer inquires what perp is doing. Perp claims to be repairing broken shoe rack in closet. Officer asks how rack was broken.
Defense: Perp takes 5th Amendment rights, requests legal counsel.
September 15, 2006
YOU LOOK JUST FINE! Mailbag
Dear YLJF,
My pajamas might have a few holes in them, but they've got years of wear left. Can I hang on to them for a while longer?
_________________________________ Too Tired To Shop
Dear TTTS,
Absolutely! You can get more use out of your "comfort" wardrobe by wearing it to garden, do household repairs, run local errands or lounge on weekends. Picking up a loaf of bread at 11pm? YOU'LL LOOK JUST FINE.
My pajamas might have a few holes in them, but they've got years of wear left. Can I hang on to them for a while longer?
_________________________________ Too Tired To Shop
Dear TTTS,
Absolutely! You can get more use out of your "comfort" wardrobe by wearing it to garden, do household repairs, run local errands or lounge on weekends. Picking up a loaf of bread at 11pm? YOU'LL LOOK JUST FINE.
September 14, 2006
Bar Mitzvah bios (photos)
Hart's favorite school subject is Art. Hart is interested in nature and animals and is a member of The Elephant Sanctuary in Tennessee. He loves Purim and Hanukah. Jeffrey is a 7th grader. His favorite Jewish holiday is Passover. His interests include cars, dinosaurs and origami. Jeff is a member of the Evanston Speed Skating Club. He enjoys speed skating, soccer and basketball.
Bait and Switch
Many years ago when I was acting, I traveled some distance to an audition, which turned out to be an aggressive sales pitch for professional headshots. As such deceptions go, it took a very long time to spin the web. I was standing, half-listening, clutching my backpack for fear of the director/saleswoman extricating my checkbook by means of telekinesis, when she said to me, "You are very photogenic. Have you ever considered modeling?" (No, I have never considered modeling for many reasons. Among those is the fact that I am five feet tall. Not "five-foot-something." FIVE FEET. Period.) She was so cloyingly earnest, so serious: at that moment, I realized that passive resistance was futile. I had to escape.
It is the small price to pay for living in the world, to be subjected to schemes. There is the long, rigorous job interview in which it is slowly revealed that there actually is no employment opening. Sincere young men have engaged me in conversation and then tried to sell me magazines I do not want. Respectable-looking, well-dressed people have asked me for directions, then demanded money or told me how Jesus came into their lives.
I remembered that phony audition this week, after I had a preliminary phone conversation with a potential internet date. I answered an ad for a man who described himself as intelligent, articulate, funny and warm. And he was. We chatted for over an hour about our interests, what we are looking for in a partner, our former spouses, our reading habits.
The plot unfolds, then thickens. Finally, there is the denouement, where the ruse is revealed. And then, there is the moment of truth where you have to either buy the magazines, so to speak, or slowly back away and run like hell.
That is exactly what happened. I was enjoying the conversation, the easy banter, when a creeping realization took hold. What I thought was friendly give-and-take was intended to finalize a transaction of a very different sort.
It is the small price to pay for living in the world, to be subjected to schemes. There is the long, rigorous job interview in which it is slowly revealed that there actually is no employment opening. Sincere young men have engaged me in conversation and then tried to sell me magazines I do not want. Respectable-looking, well-dressed people have asked me for directions, then demanded money or told me how Jesus came into their lives.
I remembered that phony audition this week, after I had a preliminary phone conversation with a potential internet date. I answered an ad for a man who described himself as intelligent, articulate, funny and warm. And he was. We chatted for over an hour about our interests, what we are looking for in a partner, our former spouses, our reading habits.
The plot unfolds, then thickens. Finally, there is the denouement, where the ruse is revealed. And then, there is the moment of truth where you have to either buy the magazines, so to speak, or slowly back away and run like hell.
That is exactly what happened. I was enjoying the conversation, the easy banter, when a creeping realization took hold. What I thought was friendly give-and-take was intended to finalize a transaction of a very different sort.
September 13, 2006
Love, Valour, Compassion
Parents go to extraordinary lengths for their children. It is an evolutionary prerogative, of course, but what of people who have tubes retied to produce a second child as a marrow donor for the first child, those who donate organs, those who find themselves in dire poverty to pay for a child's medical or legal needs, people who DIE for their children? These news-worthy heroes always astonish me . . . people who undertake an act of amazing love, valor and compassion.
Luckily, I am not in such a situation. My life with Hart and Jeff calls for heroics, no doubt, but of the smaller, more modest sort. It works this way: I force myself to be patient most of the time until the 32nd occurrence of some behavior, then I explode. No matter, the boys are always up for number 33, 34, 35, 36. They never tire of aberrant behavior, even if they know that it is abnormal.
Ever so often, I cash in my chips all at once. "Do you know why we will never have another pet? Do you, do you!?" Yes, they do. "We bothered the cat," someone will mutter. But not once or twice, or even daily. "How many times a day did I say, 'Leave her alone?'" "Hundreds," they confess. Every single day.
"You are so crabby, Mommy," they tell me. Oh yes, I know I am. You would be crabby too if you were awakened every single weekday for over ten years in the wee hours of the morning. Every single day.
"Did you brush your teeth today?"
"Keep your hands to yourself and do not touch each other."
"Dirty clothes go in the chute." Pray, tell me, do 25-year-old men still fling their dirty underwear at each other? The boys think it is hilarious even after doing it for years!
"If I am speaking to your brother, you must wait to speak."
"Stay in your seat while you are eating." (Sadly, a complete lost cause. It's not a realistic goal: I reward Hart if he gets up fewer than three times.)
"Stop screaming." Variations: "Stop screaming, I am in the same room." "Stop screaming, we are in the same zip code." "Stop screaming AND stop touching each other." "Stop screaming. I am on the phone." "Stop screaming. It's 4 am on Saturday."
Every single day.
I am not really living in a hard-hitting documentary, as I occasionally imagine. I am living GROUNDHOG DAY, like Bill Murray, reliving the same exact day over and over again.
Luckily, I am not in such a situation. My life with Hart and Jeff calls for heroics, no doubt, but of the smaller, more modest sort. It works this way: I force myself to be patient most of the time until the 32nd occurrence of some behavior, then I explode. No matter, the boys are always up for number 33, 34, 35, 36. They never tire of aberrant behavior, even if they know that it is abnormal.
Ever so often, I cash in my chips all at once. "Do you know why we will never have another pet? Do you, do you!?" Yes, they do. "We bothered the cat," someone will mutter. But not once or twice, or even daily. "How many times a day did I say, 'Leave her alone?'" "Hundreds," they confess. Every single day.
"You are so crabby, Mommy," they tell me. Oh yes, I know I am. You would be crabby too if you were awakened every single weekday for over ten years in the wee hours of the morning. Every single day.
"Did you brush your teeth today?"
"Keep your hands to yourself and do not touch each other."
"Dirty clothes go in the chute." Pray, tell me, do 25-year-old men still fling their dirty underwear at each other? The boys think it is hilarious even after doing it for years!
"If I am speaking to your brother, you must wait to speak."
"Stay in your seat while you are eating." (Sadly, a complete lost cause. It's not a realistic goal: I reward Hart if he gets up fewer than three times.)
"Stop screaming." Variations: "Stop screaming, I am in the same room." "Stop screaming, we are in the same zip code." "Stop screaming AND stop touching each other." "Stop screaming. I am on the phone." "Stop screaming. It's 4 am on Saturday."
Every single day.
I am not really living in a hard-hitting documentary, as I occasionally imagine. I am living GROUNDHOG DAY, like Bill Murray, reliving the same exact day over and over again.
September 10, 2006
Cryptic VI
H: Where are my grhmtifjdk? Ninth and tenth.
L: I can't understand you. Ninth and tenth what?
H: I am putting on my shoes. I'm looking for grhmtifjdk in fmdmmmsnt.
L: Slower and clearer, please.
H: Where are the ninth and tenth? I am looking in the fmdmmmsnt.
L: I have no idea what you are saying. Do you need my help? Speak slower and use other words and stay standing in the same place while you talk.
H: Fmdmmmsnt. Sldddqeooirlksjfd.
L: Why are you in the furnace room? What's there?
J: He's looking for two Yu-Gi-Oh cards.
L: For sure, they aren't with the dirty laundry.
L: I can't understand you. Ninth and tenth what?
H: I am putting on my shoes. I'm looking for grhmtifjdk in fmdmmmsnt.
L: Slower and clearer, please.
H: Where are the ninth and tenth? I am looking in the fmdmmmsnt.
L: I have no idea what you are saying. Do you need my help? Speak slower and use other words and stay standing in the same place while you talk.
H: Fmdmmmsnt. Sldddqeooirlksjfd.
L: Why are you in the furnace room? What's there?
J: He's looking for two Yu-Gi-Oh cards.
L: For sure, they aren't with the dirty laundry.
September 7, 2006
YOU LOOK JUST FINE! Mailbag
Dear YLJF:
I loved the pilot. Maybe you can help me. My sister-in-law embarrassed me at a family gathering by telling me that my top and pants clashed. I thought I looked fine. I wore a navy, red, pink and white striped shirt with a blue and pink floral skirt. The colors matched perfectly.
___________________________________ Sick of Sis-in-law
SOSIL: You were on the right track. If the idea of one solid piece and one patterned piece is too complex, wear ONLY solids. Every single solid color in the universe goes with every single other solid color. Easy.
P.S. Your SIL wears Crocs, don't listen to her.
Dear YLJF: I am a busy mother of three children, ages 2,4,6. We are fortunate to live in southern California, so I take the kids to the beach almost every day. I hate the way I look in a bathing suit. Any recommendations for beach wear?
___________________________________ Sunny CA
Dear SC: SPF 45! If you are over 5'4", wear a hat. If you are shorter than that, don't. You will look like a mushroom. Camouflage figure flaws around hips, waist and thighs with small children.
I loved the pilot. Maybe you can help me. My sister-in-law embarrassed me at a family gathering by telling me that my top and pants clashed. I thought I looked fine. I wore a navy, red, pink and white striped shirt with a blue and pink floral skirt. The colors matched perfectly.
___________________________________ Sick of Sis-in-law
SOSIL: You were on the right track. If the idea of one solid piece and one patterned piece is too complex, wear ONLY solids. Every single solid color in the universe goes with every single other solid color. Easy.
P.S. Your SIL wears Crocs, don't listen to her.
Dear YLJF: I am a busy mother of three children, ages 2,4,6. We are fortunate to live in southern California, so I take the kids to the beach almost every day. I hate the way I look in a bathing suit. Any recommendations for beach wear?
___________________________________ Sunny CA
Dear SC: SPF 45! If you are over 5'4", wear a hat. If you are shorter than that, don't. You will look like a mushroom. Camouflage figure flaws around hips, waist and thighs with small children.
September 6, 2006
September 3, 2006
YOU LOOK JUST FINE! A television proposal
Description: Half-hour reality series. Market research done on female viewers of all ages demonstrates that the majority of respondents have heard of at least one of the following cable programs, WHAT NOT TO WEAR, COVER SHOT, A MAKEOVER STORY. However, the study also shows that 17% of female viewers aged 31-45 and 38% of female viewers aged 46-65 are not interested in a conventional makeover for themselves or others, but rather are looking for validation of their own "personal style." This demographic is an underutilized market. In addition to the above-mentioned population, the pilot of YOU LOOK JUST FINE! tested well with gay men, aged 35-50.
Transcript of pilot/12.5 minutes
Sheila B., 28, 192 lbs, 5'2" and her sister Karen, 30.
Sheila: As you can see I am overweight. It's such a drag trying to find clothes that fit me and look good.
Karen: She's always wearing these horrible spandex pants. She has a closet full of black stretchy pants.
Sheila: Black makes you look slimmer!
Host: That's right.
Sheila: Told you!
Host: You look just fine. However, I see that you are short. Shorter women need taller hair. A few curlers and a bit of Dippity-Do and there you are! (Demonstrates putting three rollers at the top of Sheila's head.) Thanks for coming. (Yells off-camera as Sheila and Karen leave.) You have to sleep on a rolled up towel . . .
Crystal M. 59, 148 lbs, 5'8"
Host: Welcome, Crystal.
Crystal: I am turning 60 this year and it's really depressing.
Host: Hmmmm. You look fine to me.
Crystal: Every time I look in the mirror I see more wrinkles.
Host: You are wearing your hair swept back. That could be the problem. You need puffy bangs to hide your forehead. See? There you go.
Crystal: Also, I have to have these stupid reading glasses. I have turned into my own grandmother.
Host: Those glasses are much too small. No one will notice the wrinkles if your glasses are large enough to cover them. Remember TOOTSIE? No one could tell she was really Dustin Hoffman.
Melissa N. 37, 134 lbs, 5'3"
Melissa: I have spent the past year dieting and I have lost 27 pounds.
Host: Great.
Melissa: I guess I am not used to the new me. I am still wearing the same clothes. I haven't bought anything new. I just wear the usual uniform of baggy, oversized tops and sweatpants.
Host: Are you comfortable? That's the most important thing.
Melissa: Well, yes, I guess I am. I thought I was in some rut.
Host: You look just fine. Congratulations on the weight loss. Keep up the good work.
Gina G. 58, 126 lbs, 5'11"
Gina: My children complain I look like an aging hippie. I guess I am one.
Host: Those jeans look clean enough to me.
Gina: I have had this pair since my sophomore year of college. My hair used to be black, of course, but can you believe I have not had a haircut in seventeen years? (Whips braid around.)
Host: Ouch. That thing is lethal. I have to tell you that a woman of your age cannot wear such long hair.
Gina: My kids tell me I should get it cut. I am nervous about going to a hairdresser after all these years.
Host: Ridiculous.
Gina: I suppose you are right. Why should I be afraid of going to a hair salon?
Host: No, I meant ridiculous to pay someone to cut it. (Pulls out a pair of sewing scissors and cuts off the braid.) You look just fine now.
Gina: (holds braid) Can I keep this, as a souvenir?
Host: Of course. Don’t take those scissors though. I need them. That’s all for today. Thanks, and remember, YOU LOOK JUST FINE!
Tag: Send your fashion queries and comments to YOU LOOK JUST FINE! Our presenter promises to personally reply to all submissions. Photos welcome.
Transcript of pilot/12.5 minutes
Sheila B., 28, 192 lbs, 5'2" and her sister Karen, 30.
Sheila: As you can see I am overweight. It's such a drag trying to find clothes that fit me and look good.
Karen: She's always wearing these horrible spandex pants. She has a closet full of black stretchy pants.
Sheila: Black makes you look slimmer!
Host: That's right.
Sheila: Told you!
Host: You look just fine. However, I see that you are short. Shorter women need taller hair. A few curlers and a bit of Dippity-Do and there you are! (Demonstrates putting three rollers at the top of Sheila's head.) Thanks for coming. (Yells off-camera as Sheila and Karen leave.) You have to sleep on a rolled up towel . . .
Crystal M. 59, 148 lbs, 5'8"
Host: Welcome, Crystal.
Crystal: I am turning 60 this year and it's really depressing.
Host: Hmmmm. You look fine to me.
Crystal: Every time I look in the mirror I see more wrinkles.
Host: You are wearing your hair swept back. That could be the problem. You need puffy bangs to hide your forehead. See? There you go.
Crystal: Also, I have to have these stupid reading glasses. I have turned into my own grandmother.
Host: Those glasses are much too small. No one will notice the wrinkles if your glasses are large enough to cover them. Remember TOOTSIE? No one could tell she was really Dustin Hoffman.
Melissa N. 37, 134 lbs, 5'3"
Melissa: I have spent the past year dieting and I have lost 27 pounds.
Host: Great.
Melissa: I guess I am not used to the new me. I am still wearing the same clothes. I haven't bought anything new. I just wear the usual uniform of baggy, oversized tops and sweatpants.
Host: Are you comfortable? That's the most important thing.
Melissa: Well, yes, I guess I am. I thought I was in some rut.
Host: You look just fine. Congratulations on the weight loss. Keep up the good work.
Gina G. 58, 126 lbs, 5'11"
Gina: My children complain I look like an aging hippie. I guess I am one.
Host: Those jeans look clean enough to me.
Gina: I have had this pair since my sophomore year of college. My hair used to be black, of course, but can you believe I have not had a haircut in seventeen years? (Whips braid around.)
Host: Ouch. That thing is lethal. I have to tell you that a woman of your age cannot wear such long hair.
Gina: My kids tell me I should get it cut. I am nervous about going to a hairdresser after all these years.
Host: Ridiculous.
Gina: I suppose you are right. Why should I be afraid of going to a hair salon?
Host: No, I meant ridiculous to pay someone to cut it. (Pulls out a pair of sewing scissors and cuts off the braid.) You look just fine now.
Gina: (holds braid) Can I keep this, as a souvenir?
Host: Of course. Don’t take those scissors though. I need them. That’s all for today. Thanks, and remember, YOU LOOK JUST FINE!
Tag: Send your fashion queries and comments to YOU LOOK JUST FINE! Our presenter promises to personally reply to all submissions. Photos welcome.
September 2, 2006
September 1, 2006
Duh!
Me: Why are you two guys dressed exactly alike today?
H: We are twins.
J: Our shoes are different.
H: We are twins.
J: Our shoes are different.
August 31, 2006
Memorial
I am very sad because I do not have Hobbes and I miss my cat so much. I hope Hobbes is happy in Kitty Heaven. Hart, May 2006.Boston (photos)
Hart, my brother Arnie, Chloe with Ted, cousins Julian and Hart, Jeff and Leah, Boston, August 2006
August 25, 2006
Demon Rum
Of all the horrors afflicting Eastern European orphans, surely fetal alcohol syndrome (FAS) is the most brutal and tragic. FAS is not unique to Romania, Russia and Ukraine: wherever there is poverty and despair, substance abuse is sure to follow.
The effects of alcohol on a developing fetus are well-documented. Behavioral effects following prenatal alcohol exposure include hyperactivity, attention deficits, lack of inhibition, learning disabilities or mental retardation, language and social delays, among others. Sound familiar?
In cases of severe exposure, where the mother is a binge drinker or drank throughout the pregnancy, the children are born with facial anomalies. The features of these children are commonly discussed at post-adoption seminars. It has been many years since I have attended these meetings: I confess I naively was paying more attention to the information about attachment disorder, ADHD and speech/language development.
It was therefore a strange and jarring surprise to notice a little girl at our community swimming pool who looked like a casebook photograph of the severe effects of prenatal alcohol exposure. Dark-haired and petite, she had the distinctive broad face, wide-set eyes, upturned nose and the unique long, smooth upper lip without noticeable philtrum ridges. Although I have seen plenty of photos, thankfully, I have never actually seen anyone, in vivo, with the facial presentation of this syndrome.
Who is she? Adopted? From where? Where does she live now? I looked around to see if there was any adult who seemed to be with her, not that I could trot up to a parent and strike up a conversation about FAS . . . but her presence piqued my curiosity. I was not at all curious about her appearance. I recognized that face.
The effects of alcohol on a developing fetus are well-documented. Behavioral effects following prenatal alcohol exposure include hyperactivity, attention deficits, lack of inhibition, learning disabilities or mental retardation, language and social delays, among others. Sound familiar?
In cases of severe exposure, where the mother is a binge drinker or drank throughout the pregnancy, the children are born with facial anomalies. The features of these children are commonly discussed at post-adoption seminars. It has been many years since I have attended these meetings: I confess I naively was paying more attention to the information about attachment disorder, ADHD and speech/language development.
It was therefore a strange and jarring surprise to notice a little girl at our community swimming pool who looked like a casebook photograph of the severe effects of prenatal alcohol exposure. Dark-haired and petite, she had the distinctive broad face, wide-set eyes, upturned nose and the unique long, smooth upper lip without noticeable philtrum ridges. Although I have seen plenty of photos, thankfully, I have never actually seen anyone, in vivo, with the facial presentation of this syndrome.
Who is she? Adopted? From where? Where does she live now? I looked around to see if there was any adult who seemed to be with her, not that I could trot up to a parent and strike up a conversation about FAS . . . but her presence piqued my curiosity. I was not at all curious about her appearance. I recognized that face.
August 24, 2006
*&^%$#!
Two friends were reminiscing over their teenagers' naughty words of yore. There is a charm and innocence in children when "diaper" can induce paroxysms of giggles.
It takes some social awareness to appreciate scatological humor, so Hart and Jeff missed that stage entirely. At age 10, they went straight to the hardcore vocabulary.
I was appalled, of course, since I am so careful to monitor my own language with the boys. But, I remained sanguine. "I am a grown-up," I told them, "I have heard all those ugly words before." That took a bit of the edge off of the fun of saying them.
It is not without irony, though. Hart's articulation is poor and his syntax convoluted. However, the entire zip code can hear these expressions on occasion, pronounced loud and clear!
It takes some social awareness to appreciate scatological humor, so Hart and Jeff missed that stage entirely. At age 10, they went straight to the hardcore vocabulary.
I was appalled, of course, since I am so careful to monitor my own language with the boys. But, I remained sanguine. "I am a grown-up," I told them, "I have heard all those ugly words before." That took a bit of the edge off of the fun of saying them.
It is not without irony, though. Hart's articulation is poor and his syntax convoluted. However, the entire zip code can hear these expressions on occasion, pronounced loud and clear!
August 22, 2006
Talk II
Jeff is still talking incessantly. What does he say? Bits of song lyrics, movie dialogue, nonsense syllables, sound effects, provocative chants to rile up Hart, funny words and phrases.* Nothing of particular note, except that he does it all the time.
When both boys are in the house, he is VERY LOUD. Even when he is alone, Jeff is humming, buzzing, muttering. It is, for him, the unfortunate convergence of hyperactivity, dysinhibition and the constant need for some form of internal stimulation. Understanding that does not make this habit any more tolerable to me.
Occasionally, as parents are wont to do, I have something to say to Jeff that requires him to turn off the white noise. “Jeff!” “Jeff?” “Jeff, stop talking now.” “Jeff, it’s my turn to talk.” “Jeff?” On the fifth or sixth call, he takes a breath. I have about two seconds to speak until the next tsunami of utterances.
Sometimes, what I have to say takes longer than my allotted time. “Jeff, you are interrupting me. Stop talking for a minute.” "Jeff?" Maybe I have it backwards, maybe he believes I am interrupting him. After all, he was speaking first.
*llama
piña colada
boobs (pronounced "boops")
shoulder/soldier
"turtle trouble"
byooooooo-byooooo-byoo
"at LAST"
"intruder alert!"
When both boys are in the house, he is VERY LOUD. Even when he is alone, Jeff is humming, buzzing, muttering. It is, for him, the unfortunate convergence of hyperactivity, dysinhibition and the constant need for some form of internal stimulation. Understanding that does not make this habit any more tolerable to me.
Occasionally, as parents are wont to do, I have something to say to Jeff that requires him to turn off the white noise. “Jeff!” “Jeff?” “Jeff, stop talking now.” “Jeff, it’s my turn to talk.” “Jeff?” On the fifth or sixth call, he takes a breath. I have about two seconds to speak until the next tsunami of utterances.
Sometimes, what I have to say takes longer than my allotted time. “Jeff, you are interrupting me. Stop talking for a minute.” "Jeff?" Maybe I have it backwards, maybe he believes I am interrupting him. After all, he was speaking first.
*llama
piña colada
boobs (pronounced "boops")
shoulder/soldier
"turtle trouble"
byooooooo-byooooo-byoo
"at LAST"
"intruder alert!"
August 21, 2006
August 20, 2006
Cryptic III
H: Look, tadpoles.
Me: Tadpoles in a restaurant? Where?
H: Over there, tadpoles.
Me: Do you think those plant leaves are shaped like tadpoles?
H: No, there, tadpoles.
Me: I see where you are pointing. Those are called cattails.
Me: Tadpoles in a restaurant? Where?
H: Over there, tadpoles.
Me: Do you think those plant leaves are shaped like tadpoles?
H: No, there, tadpoles.
Me: I see where you are pointing. Those are called cattails.
Cryptic II
Me: I am watching the news.
H: What do they say?
Me: No liquids on the plane. You may pack them in the luggage but you can't carry liquids with you to your seat. No drinks, no sunblock, no shampoo.
H: No milk?
Me: You can drink milk on the plane, but you can't bring it on with you.
H: How about elephants?
H: What do they say?
Me: No liquids on the plane. You may pack them in the luggage but you can't carry liquids with you to your seat. No drinks, no sunblock, no shampoo.
H: No milk?
Me: You can drink milk on the plane, but you can't bring it on with you.
H: How about elephants?
August 17, 2006
Caveat Emptor
“I'm a size 2!” Every time I hear that commercial, I invariably prick up my ears. That could be me, I think. I could make Kirstie Alley and Jenny Craig proud. I could eat at Subway every day and be featured in commercials. I could have buns of steel. By purchasing the meal plan, the fat-busting herbal supplements, the excercise machine, that could be me prancing around in a bikini, showing off my flat stomach and toned arms. Each of these 30-second reveries is dissolved by the fine print at the end of the ad, “Results not typical.”
I once had a brief moment of results-not-typical fame. A dozen years ago, I took a preparation course to improve my math scores on my second GMAT attempt. My scores were impressive enough to get me into the business school of my choice, 99th percentile on the verbal test and 93rd percentile overall. I qualified for B-school or, alternatively, a job teaching the prep course.
The adoption business is not obligated to the same truth-in-advertising legal minutia as the diet business. There is no such caveat on the brochures and websites which show photographs of adorable “waiting” children.
A common feature of adoption agency promotion is the informational meeting. There are maps and videos and payment schedules, of course. But the highlight of these gatherings is show-and-tell portion featuring newly-returned parents and their darling children. Chinese girls snuggle in their father's arms, while he describes the ease and alacrity of the process, the help and support of the agency staff. Mothers holding blonde Russian boys tell how quickly little Sergei, Boris or Igor learned English, his smooth transition into second grade, his Cub Scout merit badges and gymnastics awards.
With a decade of hindsight, I have realized that these people are the size 2s, the Subway Jareds of the adoption world. These families are the great success stories. Theirs are the children featured in the agency’s glossy brochures. Although the foreign adoption industry does not care to advertise it, there are many more families like ours. The truth: the chance of getting a healthy, bright, well-adjusted child through foreign adoption like those at the meeting, is slim indeed.
Back to the video montage in the hotel conference room. There is Dmitri playing with the family dog, then Natasha and Marina at their first communion. Here are three girls from the same Chinese orphanage playing together in the California surf. The crawl along the bottom of the screen does not say, “Results not typical” but it probably should.
I once had a brief moment of results-not-typical fame. A dozen years ago, I took a preparation course to improve my math scores on my second GMAT attempt. My scores were impressive enough to get me into the business school of my choice, 99th percentile on the verbal test and 93rd percentile overall. I qualified for B-school or, alternatively, a job teaching the prep course.
The adoption business is not obligated to the same truth-in-advertising legal minutia as the diet business. There is no such caveat on the brochures and websites which show photographs of adorable “waiting” children.
A common feature of adoption agency promotion is the informational meeting. There are maps and videos and payment schedules, of course. But the highlight of these gatherings is show-and-tell portion featuring newly-returned parents and their darling children. Chinese girls snuggle in their father's arms, while he describes the ease and alacrity of the process, the help and support of the agency staff. Mothers holding blonde Russian boys tell how quickly little Sergei, Boris or Igor learned English, his smooth transition into second grade, his Cub Scout merit badges and gymnastics awards.
With a decade of hindsight, I have realized that these people are the size 2s, the Subway Jareds of the adoption world. These families are the great success stories. Theirs are the children featured in the agency’s glossy brochures. Although the foreign adoption industry does not care to advertise it, there are many more families like ours. The truth: the chance of getting a healthy, bright, well-adjusted child through foreign adoption like those at the meeting, is slim indeed.
Back to the video montage in the hotel conference room. There is Dmitri playing with the family dog, then Natasha and Marina at their first communion. Here are three girls from the same Chinese orphanage playing together in the California surf. The crawl along the bottom of the screen does not say, “Results not typical” but it probably should.
August 16, 2006
August 12, 2006
Auto-Motive
When Jeff and I walked into the restaurant, he immediately spotted the model Corvette and rushed over. Of course, there was a little boy attached to the vehicle, so the two of them immediately began talking about their shared passion--CARS. Hard to believe that there is another boy as passionate about automobiles, but there is, and as inevitably happens, they found each other. I introduced myself to his parents and sat down at the adjacent table while the two boys admired each others' models.
We mothers sheepishly discussed activities for car-obsessed boys. Have they been to the Petersen Automotive Museum in Los Angeles? Yes, and what about that Hot Wheels Hall of Fame exhibit? Have they been to the annual Chicago Auto Show? Not yet, maybe this year. California Legoland's driving range? Yep. Seen the Pixar movie, CARS? Six times already. Does your son like the TV shows, OVERHAULING and RIDES? Never seen 'em. What channel? How about getting the boys together to play? You bet.
The boys were already planning on a toy car swap. Avery is less than half Jeff's age, but it does not matter to either of them. He is conversant about all makes and models of cars. "Awesome." His dad once let him sit on his lap and steer the car in a parking lot. "Sweet."
We have had one dinner together at the same restaurant where we met. Both boys brought their flashiest and newest toy cars to show. Avery had a portable DVD player with a Hot Wheels movie. Avery's mom and I had our own dinner conversation on the other side of the table.
It was extraordinary. Jeff is not much interested in talking and he does not generally respond to conversational overtures. His restaurant M.O. involves shoveling down the food and asking when we will leave. I kept glancing over to see him holding forth on his favorite topic. Avery seemed equally enthralled.
I once heard a parent of an autistic child say how demanding and stressful it is for her child to be in "our world." "We know we have to allow him time in relax in his world." I never understood that so well until I saw Jeffrey find a normal, regular kid who loves his world, too.
We mothers sheepishly discussed activities for car-obsessed boys. Have they been to the Petersen Automotive Museum in Los Angeles? Yes, and what about that Hot Wheels Hall of Fame exhibit? Have they been to the annual Chicago Auto Show? Not yet, maybe this year. California Legoland's driving range? Yep. Seen the Pixar movie, CARS? Six times already. Does your son like the TV shows, OVERHAULING and RIDES? Never seen 'em. What channel? How about getting the boys together to play? You bet.
The boys were already planning on a toy car swap. Avery is less than half Jeff's age, but it does not matter to either of them. He is conversant about all makes and models of cars. "Awesome." His dad once let him sit on his lap and steer the car in a parking lot. "Sweet."
We have had one dinner together at the same restaurant where we met. Both boys brought their flashiest and newest toy cars to show. Avery had a portable DVD player with a Hot Wheels movie. Avery's mom and I had our own dinner conversation on the other side of the table.
It was extraordinary. Jeff is not much interested in talking and he does not generally respond to conversational overtures. His restaurant M.O. involves shoveling down the food and asking when we will leave. I kept glancing over to see him holding forth on his favorite topic. Avery seemed equally enthralled.
I once heard a parent of an autistic child say how demanding and stressful it is for her child to be in "our world." "We know we have to allow him time in relax in his world." I never understood that so well until I saw Jeffrey find a normal, regular kid who loves his world, too.
August 9, 2006
Jeff's 13th birthday interview
Favorite song: Werewolves of London, Warren Zevon
Favorite movie: Eight-Legged Freaks
2nd favorite movie: Finding Nemo
Favorite play: Ragtime the Musical
Favorite book: Silverwing by Kenneth Oppel
August 3, 2006
To sleep, perchance, to dream
In all the time the boys have lived with me, they have never permitted me an uninterupted nights' sleep. The method of torture has changed over the years, but the effect is the same. When they were younger, we endured nights of crib-escaping, then midnight refridgerator raids and late-night-wee-hour rampages. In recent years, the modus operandi is a loud frat party in Hart's room at around 5 am, followed by simultaneous bellowing and running around the house.
An exhaustive (no pun!) number of techniques have failed. When the din gets unbearable, I simply drag myself out of bed, round up the partyers and escort them back to their respective bedrooms. I can close my eyes for about ten more minutes, which is about the time it takes until the next break-out. Once we are within 15 minutes of my clock radio alarm, not that I need one, I just rouse myself and start the day.
This past week introduced an interesting twist. The morning rumpus schedule is unchanged, but since Jeff does not have school, he can return to bed for an hour or two once Hart leaves for summer school, and then be up for some more fun when Hart gets home at lunchtime.
This morning as I was blearily fixing breakfast, I said to Hart, "You know, if you ever want to give me a present, you could let me sleep until it is actually time to get up."
His reply: I never thought of that.
An exhaustive (no pun!) number of techniques have failed. When the din gets unbearable, I simply drag myself out of bed, round up the partyers and escort them back to their respective bedrooms. I can close my eyes for about ten more minutes, which is about the time it takes until the next break-out. Once we are within 15 minutes of my clock radio alarm, not that I need one, I just rouse myself and start the day.
This past week introduced an interesting twist. The morning rumpus schedule is unchanged, but since Jeff does not have school, he can return to bed for an hour or two once Hart leaves for summer school, and then be up for some more fun when Hart gets home at lunchtime.
This morning as I was blearily fixing breakfast, I said to Hart, "You know, if you ever want to give me a present, you could let me sleep until it is actually time to get up."
His reply: I never thought of that.
August 2, 2006
Fashion sense
It's scorching hot out, so we have been headed to our local community pool. One might think that being an "inner ring" suburb adjacent to a major city, some of that fashion-forwardness would creep north, but that is not the case.
Recently seen:
Eeny weeny teeny bikini on very pregnant woman. Diana Spencer could carry it off, being both very tall, not so pregnant and a princess.
Camouflage bikini, trimmed with pale pink piping. For jungle warfare in beribboned bushes?
Cliche´ black socks. Worn with white linen shorts, white printed wife-beater and brown loafers. To his credit, I think they were athletic socks.
Unfortunate tattoo. A belly-button starburst. What was she thinking . . . my flabby, middle-aged tummy looks goooooood?
Very high-cut two-piece suit. Unfortunate look on post-menopausal woman. The effect is the dreaded dinosaur leg, and a bustline three inches above the leg opening. The wearer looked like she was sitting down, even while standing up.
Women swimming with shorts on. We all hate our hips and thighs. Who are they kidding?
I embrace the diversity of our species in all their near-naked glory. By comparison, in my conservative Lands' End one-piece, I look great!
Recently seen:
Eeny weeny teeny bikini on very pregnant woman. Diana Spencer could carry it off, being both very tall, not so pregnant and a princess.
Camouflage bikini, trimmed with pale pink piping. For jungle warfare in beribboned bushes?
Cliche´ black socks. Worn with white linen shorts, white printed wife-beater and brown loafers. To his credit, I think they were athletic socks.
Unfortunate tattoo. A belly-button starburst. What was she thinking . . . my flabby, middle-aged tummy looks goooooood?
Very high-cut two-piece suit. Unfortunate look on post-menopausal woman. The effect is the dreaded dinosaur leg, and a bustline three inches above the leg opening. The wearer looked like she was sitting down, even while standing up.
Women swimming with shorts on. We all hate our hips and thighs. Who are they kidding?
I embrace the diversity of our species in all their near-naked glory. By comparison, in my conservative Lands' End one-piece, I look great!
July 28, 2006
Mr. K
When Mr. K got out of the taxi and came to the door to speak to me, I knew there was trouble. His complaints were many: Hart was disrespectful; Hart had used bad words; Hart had threatened him. I listened carefully. I promised to speak to Hart and I pointed out that there was a reason that Hart attended a special school. More importantly, he was NOT TO RESPOND to provocative remarks, or in fact, respond to any remarks at all.
A few days later, the doorbell rang again. Hart had refused to sit in his seat and wear his seat belt. I could feel my blood rushing. "Mr. K, you cannot drive the cab unless Hart is safely in his seat. Please pull over immediately if this happens." Mr. K was not appeased. "But, I will be sitting there for hours!" I handed him a Post-It note, "If Hart is not sitting properly in the cab, you must immediately stop the car, phone me on my cell phone, and I will come and pick him up from you."
The assurance of my cell phone number worked, sort of. Mr. K would phone me, rattling off a litany of misbehaviors, I would cut him off, ask to speak to Hart, issue dire threats and then wait in the driveway to save Mr. K. the effort of getting out of the car to complain.
Then, one Friday, it was all over. My cell phone rang . . . Hart's social worker asked to me to come pick up Hart at school. Mr. K had arrived, taken a few choice expletives as Hart approached the cab, and simply turned around and driven off without a word, or a passenger. I could only feel some sense of relief as I headed towards school. Clearly, this was not working out.
En route, my phone rang. It was Mr. K! "Yes, I am sure it was very offensive." "No, I do not know why he does that." "Yes, I am sure you felt justified." I felt very tired and defeated. "Mr. K, Hart attends a special school. You understand that Hart is ill, don't you?" "THEN HE WILL TAKE A GUN AND KILL ME."
This is the kind of remark that parents of typical children will never ever hear. Sure, strangers feel free to weigh in with their fail-safe discipline techniques. Other children feel affronted by my kids' behavior. But this, from a cab driver hired and specially trained to transport special needs children to school? From a coach who refused to make any accommodation for Hart whatsoever? From Jeff's special education teacher who called me "a bored housewife who needs a hobby" at an official IEP meeting. From a principal who slammed the door on me when no one could locate my child when I arrived at the pick-up time?
Mr. K's exit sent me into a funk. Do the cab drivers, skating coaches, teachers, principals think they are letting me in on some secret? Believe me, I know how difficult Hart and Jeff are. In fact, I know better than anyone else in the entire world.
I would have wallowed in this pity party for myself, had I not come up with a little mental exercise that proved to be quite therapeutic. I made a list in two columns: zeroes and heroes. On one side, I listed the names of the Mr. Ks of the world. Not the thoughtless strangers, but the real culprits: people who should know better and still don't get it. Then I listed the heroes, not just the good teachers, doctors and therapists but professionals who have gone way beyond the call of duty. And the accidental heroes, ordinary children who have taken Hart or Jeff under their wing, caregivers who have shown extraordinary compassion and affection for our family and unstinting dedication.
Truthfully, the "zero" list is very long. Depressingly long. The hero list is much longer. To wit, a few examples:
Stephanie O'Connell: After a year of legal wrangling, Jeff transferred from public school to a specialized school for children with learning disabilities. Within a few months, the principal and dean informed me that Jeff's behavior was just too disruptive and he was on probation. Stephanie, Jeff's teacher, took matters into her own hands. She was determined to make her classroom work for Jeff. She lobbied successfully for additional services for him, an aide, occupational therapy, frequent breaks. It was she who opened the door to reading for Jeff by her creative approach. Years later, I asked her why she had gone to such great lengths for one of her pupils. "I loved him, I just loved him," she told me.
Kerry Murphy: Hart is a capable and dedicated figure skater, but a difficult and uncooperative student. Kerry always makes sure that there is an extra teacher or assistant in Hart's class and some special stickers or prizes to encourage him. When I ran into scheduling difficulties and considered moving Hart to another rink, Kerry said, "We want Hart in our program and I'll do what it takes to make it work for him."
Leah Okumura: Leah started babysitting for us occasionally when she was still in high school. She took care of the boys for seven years, until graduate school and marriage took her to Boston. Leah endured all manner of high-jinks, but she always came back. Her composure, her good sense, evident even at age seventeen, amazed and inspired me. One down side: she set the bar impossibly high for all other caregivers.
Chris Grene and Ellen Sontag: Chris is Jeff's social worker at school, and Ellen is Hart's social worker and case manager. Chris has gone to extraordinary lengths to learn about Jeff's complex and varied difficulties. She is in frequent communication with Jeff's private therapist, Sandra; the two have put their heads together over the course of five years to develop creative solutions for Jeff. Chris is a tireless advocate.
Ellen has a caseload of 15 or 16 emotionally-troubled students, so I am amazed that she can meet with me every single week for an entire hour and make me feel like Hart and I are the most important and beloved people in the world to her.
Man walking dog somewhere in Arizona: Jeff rushed to hug a small dog, after (as he is trained to do) he asked if he could pet the dog. The dog owner asked me if Jeff had any "special challenges?" Good catch. I do not recall the rest of our conversation or anything about the dog, but that man's kindness and tact are remembered and appreciated.
So long, Mr. K. There are plenty of other heroes in the lives of disabled children and their parents. Thankfully.
A few days later, the doorbell rang again. Hart had refused to sit in his seat and wear his seat belt. I could feel my blood rushing. "Mr. K, you cannot drive the cab unless Hart is safely in his seat. Please pull over immediately if this happens." Mr. K was not appeased. "But, I will be sitting there for hours!" I handed him a Post-It note, "If Hart is not sitting properly in the cab, you must immediately stop the car, phone me on my cell phone, and I will come and pick him up from you."
The assurance of my cell phone number worked, sort of. Mr. K would phone me, rattling off a litany of misbehaviors, I would cut him off, ask to speak to Hart, issue dire threats and then wait in the driveway to save Mr. K. the effort of getting out of the car to complain.
Then, one Friday, it was all over. My cell phone rang . . . Hart's social worker asked to me to come pick up Hart at school. Mr. K had arrived, taken a few choice expletives as Hart approached the cab, and simply turned around and driven off without a word, or a passenger. I could only feel some sense of relief as I headed towards school. Clearly, this was not working out.
En route, my phone rang. It was Mr. K! "Yes, I am sure it was very offensive." "No, I do not know why he does that." "Yes, I am sure you felt justified." I felt very tired and defeated. "Mr. K, Hart attends a special school. You understand that Hart is ill, don't you?" "THEN HE WILL TAKE A GUN AND KILL ME."
This is the kind of remark that parents of typical children will never ever hear. Sure, strangers feel free to weigh in with their fail-safe discipline techniques. Other children feel affronted by my kids' behavior. But this, from a cab driver hired and specially trained to transport special needs children to school? From a coach who refused to make any accommodation for Hart whatsoever? From Jeff's special education teacher who called me "a bored housewife who needs a hobby" at an official IEP meeting. From a principal who slammed the door on me when no one could locate my child when I arrived at the pick-up time?
Mr. K's exit sent me into a funk. Do the cab drivers, skating coaches, teachers, principals think they are letting me in on some secret? Believe me, I know how difficult Hart and Jeff are. In fact, I know better than anyone else in the entire world.
I would have wallowed in this pity party for myself, had I not come up with a little mental exercise that proved to be quite therapeutic. I made a list in two columns: zeroes and heroes. On one side, I listed the names of the Mr. Ks of the world. Not the thoughtless strangers, but the real culprits: people who should know better and still don't get it. Then I listed the heroes, not just the good teachers, doctors and therapists but professionals who have gone way beyond the call of duty. And the accidental heroes, ordinary children who have taken Hart or Jeff under their wing, caregivers who have shown extraordinary compassion and affection for our family and unstinting dedication.
Truthfully, the "zero" list is very long. Depressingly long. The hero list is much longer. To wit, a few examples:
Stephanie O'Connell: After a year of legal wrangling, Jeff transferred from public school to a specialized school for children with learning disabilities. Within a few months, the principal and dean informed me that Jeff's behavior was just too disruptive and he was on probation. Stephanie, Jeff's teacher, took matters into her own hands. She was determined to make her classroom work for Jeff. She lobbied successfully for additional services for him, an aide, occupational therapy, frequent breaks. It was she who opened the door to reading for Jeff by her creative approach. Years later, I asked her why she had gone to such great lengths for one of her pupils. "I loved him, I just loved him," she told me.
Kerry Murphy: Hart is a capable and dedicated figure skater, but a difficult and uncooperative student. Kerry always makes sure that there is an extra teacher or assistant in Hart's class and some special stickers or prizes to encourage him. When I ran into scheduling difficulties and considered moving Hart to another rink, Kerry said, "We want Hart in our program and I'll do what it takes to make it work for him."
Leah Okumura: Leah started babysitting for us occasionally when she was still in high school. She took care of the boys for seven years, until graduate school and marriage took her to Boston. Leah endured all manner of high-jinks, but she always came back. Her composure, her good sense, evident even at age seventeen, amazed and inspired me. One down side: she set the bar impossibly high for all other caregivers.
Leah and Jeff in Boston, August 2006
Charles Fox: Charlie does this for a living. He is an attorney specializing in educational issues for special needs children. Charlie has taken hysterical phone calls from me at all times of the day or night. He shepherded me through a long and protracted legal battle, and a few short, unprotrated ones. He has provided moral support and good counsel on issues large and small and he does so with good cheer and great wit.Chris Grene and Ellen Sontag: Chris is Jeff's social worker at school, and Ellen is Hart's social worker and case manager. Chris has gone to extraordinary lengths to learn about Jeff's complex and varied difficulties. She is in frequent communication with Jeff's private therapist, Sandra; the two have put their heads together over the course of five years to develop creative solutions for Jeff. Chris is a tireless advocate.
Ellen has a caseload of 15 or 16 emotionally-troubled students, so I am amazed that she can meet with me every single week for an entire hour and make me feel like Hart and I are the most important and beloved people in the world to her.
Man walking dog somewhere in Arizona: Jeff rushed to hug a small dog, after (as he is trained to do) he asked if he could pet the dog. The dog owner asked me if Jeff had any "special challenges?" Good catch. I do not recall the rest of our conversation or anything about the dog, but that man's kindness and tact are remembered and appreciated.
So long, Mr. K. There are plenty of other heroes in the lives of disabled children and their parents. Thankfully.
July 27, 2006
Summer Journal 2006
June 26, 2006
I went to camp. I went in a tent and had marshmallows. Next morning I went to bingo and got some prizes.
June 27, 2006
yesterday I was bored. Because my brother was not here. He is at camp. He will be there for two weeks.
June 28, 2006
Yesterday I did one model of a roadster. next I panted my other model silver. Then I saw a thunderstorm I was not afraid.
June 29, 2006
Yesterday I went to the movies. I saw Jack Black the movie. liked it because it was funny.
June 30, 2006
Yesterday I had a nap because I was bored. Then I had dinner. Next I went to see Shani Davis. He is a olympic skater.
July 5, 2006
I went to the fireworks and I had fun. next I went to a parade in Chicago. Last I had a party at my dad's house.
July 6, 2006
Yesterday I was bored at home. So I went to play with Hart. We traded cars. Then we had dinner. We had Mexican.
July 7, 2006
I did "fast forward" at school. I made chocolate pancake. My favorite thing is to go home from school in a taxi.
July 10, 2006
I went to a fair. I listened to music. I was walking with mom. I had a hot dog.
July 11, 2006
I like to sleep instead of going to school I like to play with Hart when I don't have school.
July 12, 2006
I went outside. I set my trucks out and Mom totally smashed my metal dump truck and I had to throw it away. Then I went to the movies.
July 13, 2006
Me and mom and Hart went to the schools. They were closed. So we went home. At home we played with cars.
July 14, 2006
today I saw a movie. It was about soldiers. the soldiers fight a space creature.
July 18, 2006
I had some ice cream at home. I went to the pool and I went to the slide and got wet. Then I went home and played with Hart.
July 20, 2006
I finished my model car. Next I looked the other way to not see Hart's helicopter when it was done. Next I had ice cream at home.
July 21, 2006
I had a blast at home when Hart gave me the truck. Next I went to speed skating. We got oreo chocolate ice cream.
July 24, 2006
the best thing this weekend was going to the pool. next I went in Hart's bed to play. I was playing with cars.
July 26, 2006
today is my last day in computers. I am glad to not got to computer tomorrow. I am going to watch a movie tomorrow.
I went to camp. I went in a tent and had marshmallows. Next morning I went to bingo and got some prizes.
June 27, 2006
yesterday I was bored. Because my brother was not here. He is at camp. He will be there for two weeks.
June 28, 2006
Yesterday I did one model of a roadster. next I panted my other model silver. Then I saw a thunderstorm I was not afraid.
June 29, 2006
Yesterday I went to the movies. I saw Jack Black the movie. liked it because it was funny.
June 30, 2006
Yesterday I had a nap because I was bored. Then I had dinner. Next I went to see Shani Davis. He is a olympic skater.
July 5, 2006
I went to the fireworks and I had fun. next I went to a parade in Chicago. Last I had a party at my dad's house.
July 6, 2006
Yesterday I was bored at home. So I went to play with Hart. We traded cars. Then we had dinner. We had Mexican.
July 7, 2006
I did "fast forward" at school. I made chocolate pancake. My favorite thing is to go home from school in a taxi.
July 10, 2006
I went to a fair. I listened to music. I was walking with mom. I had a hot dog.
July 11, 2006
I like to sleep instead of going to school I like to play with Hart when I don't have school.
July 12, 2006
I went outside. I set my trucks out and Mom totally smashed my metal dump truck and I had to throw it away. Then I went to the movies.
July 13, 2006
Me and mom and Hart went to the schools. They were closed. So we went home. At home we played with cars.
July 14, 2006
today I saw a movie. It was about soldiers. the soldiers fight a space creature.
July 18, 2006
I had some ice cream at home. I went to the pool and I went to the slide and got wet. Then I went home and played with Hart.
July 20, 2006
I finished my model car. Next I looked the other way to not see Hart's helicopter when it was done. Next I had ice cream at home.
July 21, 2006
I had a blast at home when Hart gave me the truck. Next I went to speed skating. We got oreo chocolate ice cream.
July 24, 2006
the best thing this weekend was going to the pool. next I went in Hart's bed to play. I was playing with cars.
July 26, 2006
today is my last day in computers. I am glad to not got to computer tomorrow. I am going to watch a movie tomorrow.
July 25, 2006
July 24, 2006
Mean people s**k!
Scene: Aldi grocery store, Monday, 11:38 am
Two 60ish women inadvertently go in the "out" door and pause to read the weekly circular posted on the window, effectively blocking the exit with their shopping cart. I pause and lean on my cart, waiting for them to notice me and move. An older man remarks to me, "You are one patient lady," and rolls his cart around me and tells the women to "Get the hell out of the way." The first woman snaps to attention and quickly clears off. The second one hollers after the retreating man, "You don't need to be so rude." Without even turning around, he gives her the finger. She screams back, "You dirty old man!"
Frankly, when it comes to flipping the bird, I prefer not be the flippee, the flipper or, especially, a witness to three senior citizens flipping each other off.
I haven't seen this much unwarranted meanness since the Reagan administration. Anyone remember LBJ's War on Poverty? Ronald Reagan's war on Welfare Mothers? No matter what one's political affiliation, it is a simple matter of fact that a Republican administration engenders meanness. Something about the GOP platform encourages every-good-man-for-himself mentality. If you have the misfortune of being poorer or slower than the rest of the pack, it must be your own damn fault.
Two 60ish women inadvertently go in the "out" door and pause to read the weekly circular posted on the window, effectively blocking the exit with their shopping cart. I pause and lean on my cart, waiting for them to notice me and move. An older man remarks to me, "You are one patient lady," and rolls his cart around me and tells the women to "Get the hell out of the way." The first woman snaps to attention and quickly clears off. The second one hollers after the retreating man, "You don't need to be so rude." Without even turning around, he gives her the finger. She screams back, "You dirty old man!"
Frankly, when it comes to flipping the bird, I prefer not be the flippee, the flipper or, especially, a witness to three senior citizens flipping each other off.
I haven't seen this much unwarranted meanness since the Reagan administration. Anyone remember LBJ's War on Poverty? Ronald Reagan's war on Welfare Mothers? No matter what one's political affiliation, it is a simple matter of fact that a Republican administration engenders meanness. Something about the GOP platform encourages every-good-man-for-himself mentality. If you have the misfortune of being poorer or slower than the rest of the pack, it must be your own damn fault.
I play online backgammon for relaxation, only it was not very relaxing until I turned off the "chat" feature. The overall tenor of the whole game is competitive, of course, but nasty competitive. I found out very quickly that with the ability to chat, opponents swear, curse and accuse cheating if I win, but swear, curse and mock me if I lose. The world IS going to hell if anonymous players talk trash over BACKGAMMON!
It does not seem tantamount to social chaos to go in the wrong door at the grocery store, although possibly a bit foolish. Could that guy not have said, "Excuse me?" Could the ladies have apologized for creating the bottleneck? Apparently not.
If the Clinton era was a time of random kindness and senseless acts of beauty, now is a time of random rudeness and senseless acts of cruelty.
July 23, 2006
Losing my mind
Maybe I really am losing my sanity. It could be happening so subtly and gradually that I am not aware of it. It's a sad side effect of being single: there is no other adult around to provide a reality check. No one shouts at me to "get a grip" anymore, whether I need it or not. I am so preoccupied with being a good, sensible "therapeutic" parent, that my sense of self is possibly gently ebbing away.
Occasionally, I have episodes where I hear myself speaking and I realize how unhinged and hysterical I must appear, but I cannot stop. No amount of internal screaming to "get a grip" seems to help.
A few months ago at Jeff's school play, I watched almost the entire show with my eyes fixed on one of the other kids who was slowing and methodically shredding a silk scarf . . . . my silk scarf, in fact, intended as part of Jeff's costume. No amount to sensible self-talk could dampen the rising anxiety I felt. I had to leave the auditorium.
Then today, our local block party. Every summer on a nice Sunday, traffic barricades appear on either the block to the south or the block to the north. I never pay much attention. I am invited, I suppose, the same way all the third graders in one class are invited to Bobby's birthday party. Invited, but not welcomed.
My impression of the block party's purpose is that adults move their lawn chairs from the lawn into the middle of the street and kids ride their bikes maniacally down the middle of the road, instead of near the curb. The other entertainment is a visit from a local fire engine.
This morning, I noticed that our entire street was blocked off with saw horses, three blocks, including all the alleys and side streets. My house happens to be dead center and unlike previous years, there was no obvious egress either one block up or down. I simply moved one of the side street barricades to drive out. My misfortune was taking what I thought would be a less intrusive route back home three hours later.
Without realizing it, I had driven up to a circle of occupied lawn chairs placed dead center in the street. I offered to turn around and go another way. I asked if there was a route the angry mob preferred. I explained that I was a neighbor, too, and in fact a resident of this very block, but the damage was done. Short of turning back time and parking on a side street, there was nothing for it, but to bear the neighborly swearing and threats. Pretty harrowing.
Was it really distressing enough to cause me to cry? I have lived here seventeen years, and never had reason to exchange words with anyone. Without Jeff in the back seat, maybe it would not have been so humiliating. With another adult living here, maybe I wouldn't feel so vulnerable.
The neighbors know where I live, they know my car. I am a single woman living with two young children and I clearly need to get a grip. In the meantime, I'll have to leave my house only under cover of darkness.
Occasionally, I have episodes where I hear myself speaking and I realize how unhinged and hysterical I must appear, but I cannot stop. No amount of internal screaming to "get a grip" seems to help.
A few months ago at Jeff's school play, I watched almost the entire show with my eyes fixed on one of the other kids who was slowing and methodically shredding a silk scarf . . . . my silk scarf, in fact, intended as part of Jeff's costume. No amount to sensible self-talk could dampen the rising anxiety I felt. I had to leave the auditorium.
Then today, our local block party. Every summer on a nice Sunday, traffic barricades appear on either the block to the south or the block to the north. I never pay much attention. I am invited, I suppose, the same way all the third graders in one class are invited to Bobby's birthday party. Invited, but not welcomed.
My impression of the block party's purpose is that adults move their lawn chairs from the lawn into the middle of the street and kids ride their bikes maniacally down the middle of the road, instead of near the curb. The other entertainment is a visit from a local fire engine.
This morning, I noticed that our entire street was blocked off with saw horses, three blocks, including all the alleys and side streets. My house happens to be dead center and unlike previous years, there was no obvious egress either one block up or down. I simply moved one of the side street barricades to drive out. My misfortune was taking what I thought would be a less intrusive route back home three hours later.
Without realizing it, I had driven up to a circle of occupied lawn chairs placed dead center in the street. I offered to turn around and go another way. I asked if there was a route the angry mob preferred. I explained that I was a neighbor, too, and in fact a resident of this very block, but the damage was done. Short of turning back time and parking on a side street, there was nothing for it, but to bear the neighborly swearing and threats. Pretty harrowing.
Was it really distressing enough to cause me to cry? I have lived here seventeen years, and never had reason to exchange words with anyone. Without Jeff in the back seat, maybe it would not have been so humiliating. With another adult living here, maybe I wouldn't feel so vulnerable.
The neighbors know where I live, they know my car. I am a single woman living with two young children and I clearly need to get a grip. In the meantime, I'll have to leave my house only under cover of darkness.
July 19, 2006
Who knew?
H: (going through a stack of coupons in the mail) Lose weight now! Nope, garbage. You're perfect, Mom.
July 18, 2006
July 13, 2006
July 12, 2006
Rabbitting on
My suburban home is a wildlife refuge. Of course, there are the boys, feral animals that they are, but additionally every summer our yard teams with creatures. In addition to the raccoon in my bathtub, there have been a number of opossum who have fallen into the window wells to be rescued and set free by Animal Control. I see skunks gamboling on the lawn at dusk. Chipmunks scamper across the patio. Three baby raccoons were born in a nest in one of our chimneys, the chimney which did not have a cap at that time. Once, I saw a pair of coyotes . . . coyotes, in suburban Chicago . . . right on the front curb.And always, lots and lots of rabbits. I do not garden so I don't think of them as pests. Now that our cat is gone, they are the closest things to pets that we have.
At the moment, we have a burrow at the back of our yard, under the hedge. From the kitchen window, I have a clear view of the family's daily lives. It appears that there is one large one and two smaller ones. It amuses me to imagine a parallel bunny family out there. Our largest annual rabbit visitor is always called One-Ton-Bun. So we think there is One-Ton-Bun and her two bunny boys. The two little ones often play together while their mom placidly eats.
To One-Ton-Bun, maybe we are a source of endless interest: the inhabitants of the human burrow at the back of her yard--a solitary big one and the two smaller ones. "See, children," she tells them. "They are looking at us. The humans are strange, but fascinating."
July 9, 2006
Heart of Glass
Although born twenty-five years too late, Hart is a punk rocker at heart. He especially adores the rock group Blondie. He worships Debbie Harry. We keep the "Best of Blondie" CD in the car, because it is Hart's favorite. He knows all the songs, and sings along.
Hart has asked me many times if I ever saw Blondie perform. (I did not.) He has also asked many times if he could see the band perform. I have explained that these songs were recorded twenty years ago. Debbie Harry probably doesn't look like her photo on the CDs anymore and she might be a grandmother even, and too old to tour. We have to content ourselves with her recordings.
This summer, when Ravinia Festival announced its season, what do you know? Blondie was the opening act. I immediately ordered tickets. I did not even tell Hart until I had the tickets in hand. It seemed too good to be true. So off we went.
Midway through the concert, I suggested we go close to the stage, so we could see Debbie Harry. We crowded close to the pavilion with the other members of the lawn seat proletariat. We danced. We took turns watching Debbie through our opera glasses. During the encore, Hart blew her kisses. He swears she saw him and blew kisses back. It was an extraordinary evening.
Under the groupie exterior that is Hart lurks a fragile soul. Hart's story is one of great loss: loss of his birth family, his country, his language, then his father (due to divorce) and recently, our geriatric cat. These cumulative losses have created a hole in him that cannot be sealed or filled. Hart constantly feels slighted. He worries that he will not have enough food or toys or money. No amount of love or friends or attention ever seems to be enough for him.
Our evening at Ravinia revealed a different boy. Hart was entirely in the moment. I anticipated complaints about the crowd, our seats, the noise, the bugs. Nothing. Hart even declined ice cream, for fear of missing any of the music. Is it possible that one evening replaced even a tiny bit of what is missing from his heart? I imagine the adult Hart saying, long after I am gone, "As a kid, I loved Blondie. It was my fondest wish to see Blondie in concert. One summer, they performed at Ravinia Festival. And, you know what? My mom took me!"
READ A REVIEW: Atomic Energy of Blondie Rages at Ravinia
Hart has asked me many times if I ever saw Blondie perform. (I did not.) He has also asked many times if he could see the band perform. I have explained that these songs were recorded twenty years ago. Debbie Harry probably doesn't look like her photo on the CDs anymore and she might be a grandmother even, and too old to tour. We have to content ourselves with her recordings.
This summer, when Ravinia Festival announced its season, what do you know? Blondie was the opening act. I immediately ordered tickets. I did not even tell Hart until I had the tickets in hand. It seemed too good to be true. So off we went.
Midway through the concert, I suggested we go close to the stage, so we could see Debbie Harry. We crowded close to the pavilion with the other members of the lawn seat proletariat. We danced. We took turns watching Debbie through our opera glasses. During the encore, Hart blew her kisses. He swears she saw him and blew kisses back. It was an extraordinary evening.
Under the groupie exterior that is Hart lurks a fragile soul. Hart's story is one of great loss: loss of his birth family, his country, his language, then his father (due to divorce) and recently, our geriatric cat. These cumulative losses have created a hole in him that cannot be sealed or filled. Hart constantly feels slighted. He worries that he will not have enough food or toys or money. No amount of love or friends or attention ever seems to be enough for him.
Our evening at Ravinia revealed a different boy. Hart was entirely in the moment. I anticipated complaints about the crowd, our seats, the noise, the bugs. Nothing. Hart even declined ice cream, for fear of missing any of the music. Is it possible that one evening replaced even a tiny bit of what is missing from his heart? I imagine the adult Hart saying, long after I am gone, "As a kid, I loved Blondie. It was my fondest wish to see Blondie in concert. One summer, they performed at Ravinia Festival. And, you know what? My mom took me!"
READ A REVIEW: Atomic Energy of Blondie Rages at Ravinia
July 8, 2006
Yahrzeit
About three years ago, I had an unusual dream. I dreamed that I came to visit my parents' house in Ohio and when my dad opened the door, I flung my arms around him and started crying. He immediately asked me sternly what I was crying about. "I haven't seen you in four years!" I sobbed. Three years ago, my dad had been dead for eighteen years.
Now my dad has been gone twenty-two years, most of my adult life. He wasn't at my wedding, or my brother's wedding or my youngest brother's Ph.d. graduation. He never met my husband, or Hart, Jeff or his newest grandchildren.
Hart and Jeff have two living grandfathers, Grandpa Al and my stepfather, Grandpa Bill. There is a shadowy additional presence, Grandpa Paul, on whom the boys appended the honorary last name, "He's dead." Whenever I mentioned him, I'd say, "My dad, your Grandpa Paul" and they would nod, "He's dead." But recently, there have been additional questions. "Were you sad when he died?" "Do you miss your dad?"
I always say, "Yes, I do," but the truth is so much more complicated than that. His real last name would have more appropriately been, "he-is-a-very-difficult-person." People who loved him and were his great friends said it. People who hated him must have said that and much worse. The rabbi who eulogized him said, "We frequently disagreed," which is remarkably generous considering fifteen years of head-to-head battle on all issues large and small; religious, managerial, philosophical, educational, financial.
My dad was a person of extremes: too loud, too opinionated, too impatient, too blunt, too combative. His screaming tirades were extreme in number and volume. In the same way, he was extreme in his principles and values and he would brook no less in anyone else. A morality bully.
I do miss him. He is one person that I would like to talk to about the boys. I believe that were he alive he would whip Hart and Jeff into line with one bark. While other friends and professionals generously inquire about my needs; my leisure, my hobbies, my indulgences, I suspect he would give some straightforward advice, whether I asked for it or not. My dad never put anything gently. Much as I hated hearing his intrusive opinions, time has born him out, he often turned out to be right.
Now my dad has been gone twenty-two years, most of my adult life. He wasn't at my wedding, or my brother's wedding or my youngest brother's Ph.d. graduation. He never met my husband, or Hart, Jeff or his newest grandchildren.
Hart and Jeff have two living grandfathers, Grandpa Al and my stepfather, Grandpa Bill. There is a shadowy additional presence, Grandpa Paul, on whom the boys appended the honorary last name, "He's dead." Whenever I mentioned him, I'd say, "My dad, your Grandpa Paul" and they would nod, "He's dead." But recently, there have been additional questions. "Were you sad when he died?" "Do you miss your dad?"
I always say, "Yes, I do," but the truth is so much more complicated than that. His real last name would have more appropriately been, "he-is-a-very-difficult-person." People who loved him and were his great friends said it. People who hated him must have said that and much worse. The rabbi who eulogized him said, "We frequently disagreed," which is remarkably generous considering fifteen years of head-to-head battle on all issues large and small; religious, managerial, philosophical, educational, financial.
My dad was a person of extremes: too loud, too opinionated, too impatient, too blunt, too combative. His screaming tirades were extreme in number and volume. In the same way, he was extreme in his principles and values and he would brook no less in anyone else. A morality bully.
I do miss him. He is one person that I would like to talk to about the boys. I believe that were he alive he would whip Hart and Jeff into line with one bark. While other friends and professionals generously inquire about my needs; my leisure, my hobbies, my indulgences, I suspect he would give some straightforward advice, whether I asked for it or not. My dad never put anything gently. Much as I hated hearing his intrusive opinions, time has born him out, he often turned out to be right.
July 4, 2006
July 3, 2006
Cryptic References for $400, Alex
H: There are only two beetles left.
Me: Huh. Cars? Are you telling me about toy cars?
H: No. Beetles. There are only two.
Me: You mean bugs, insects?
H: NO! Two. Beetles. Left.
Me: Please use more words so I can understand you.
H: Beetles! The singers!
Me: Of course. That's right. Two Beatles still alive. Ringo and Paul. What made you think of that?
Me: Huh. Cars? Are you telling me about toy cars?
H: No. Beetles. There are only two.
Me: You mean bugs, insects?
H: NO! Two. Beetles. Left.
Me: Please use more words so I can understand you.
H: Beetles! The singers!
Me: Of course. That's right. Two Beatles still alive. Ringo and Paul. What made you think of that?
July 2, 2006
Hair Apparent
Gimme head with hair
Long, beautiful hair
Shining, gleaming,
Streaming, flaxen, waxen
Long, beautiful hair
Shining, gleaming,
Streaming, flaxen, waxen
__________ HAiR: The American Tribal Love-Rock Musical
Hair. A life-long preoccupation of mine. As a child, I craved long chestnut locks, later, long straight blond hair. No wait. Curly--curly and auburn, that's what I want. However, I have nondescript light brown hair which I have worn short most of my life. First, I had the 60s Pixie, and then the adult versions; with flippy bangs in the late 70s, mullet-y in the early 80s, then short and spiky, moving on to the 90s horizontal shelf in back and finally casually disheveled in the new millennium.
I also have what a friend termed "terrier hair"--hair so straight, thick and coarse that, if it were longer, could string violin bows. This texture provides my hair with its own force field. It repels foreign objects. No bobby pins, barrettes or doodads for me. I could feel the force of gravity on my Farrah Fawcett bangs, before the pssssssst sound of the curling iron died away. In my brief high school years with long hair, I once tried a ponytail. It was about the circumference of my wrist for a nano-second, and then, sproing, the rubber band broke under the strain and shot across the room.
Additionally, I got the whole genetic package: the Hobbit feet; the upper lip which cries for regular waxing, sugaring, bleaching; the eyebrows like two parted lovers, reaching to embrace across the bridge of my nose.
Now, in my 40s, I have the hair obsession under control with the help of my hairdresser and an array of commercial products. What I hadn't reckoned on was life with two adolescent boys.
"Look at my arms!" Jeff exclaims after swimming. "Wow," I agree. "Fur." I look closely at his face with what I hope appears to be a fond maternal gaze. I am scrutinizing him for signs of nascent uni-brow.
Hart gingerly fingers his upper lip. He is dismayed by the faint shadow there. "See, I have it, too. Everyone does." I console. "It looks much better on you."
Alas, it gets worse. A friend who shares my birth date confided, "I am really going gray." "Yeah, me, too," I said, thinking of my dozen silver strands that I occasionally notice when looking in the rear view mirror (IF I have the sun roof open). "No," she said, cocking an eyebrow meaningfully. "I am going gray EVERYWHERE."
I also have what a friend termed "terrier hair"--hair so straight, thick and coarse that, if it were longer, could string violin bows. This texture provides my hair with its own force field. It repels foreign objects. No bobby pins, barrettes or doodads for me. I could feel the force of gravity on my Farrah Fawcett bangs, before the pssssssst sound of the curling iron died away. In my brief high school years with long hair, I once tried a ponytail. It was about the circumference of my wrist for a nano-second, and then, sproing, the rubber band broke under the strain and shot across the room.
Additionally, I got the whole genetic package: the Hobbit feet; the upper lip which cries for regular waxing, sugaring, bleaching; the eyebrows like two parted lovers, reaching to embrace across the bridge of my nose.
Now, in my 40s, I have the hair obsession under control with the help of my hairdresser and an array of commercial products. What I hadn't reckoned on was life with two adolescent boys.
"Look at my arms!" Jeff exclaims after swimming. "Wow," I agree. "Fur." I look closely at his face with what I hope appears to be a fond maternal gaze. I am scrutinizing him for signs of nascent uni-brow.
Hart gingerly fingers his upper lip. He is dismayed by the faint shadow there. "See, I have it, too. Everyone does." I console. "It looks much better on you."
Alas, it gets worse. A friend who shares my birth date confided, "I am really going gray." "Yeah, me, too," I said, thinking of my dozen silver strands that I occasionally notice when looking in the rear view mirror (IF I have the sun roof open). "No," she said, cocking an eyebrow meaningfully. "I am going gray EVERYWHERE."
July 1, 2006
June 30, 2006
June 29, 2006
June 27, 2006
Orphanage Care and Language
Look at this sad photograph. When I came across it, I thought that might be Hart on the right (and maybe Jeff with his back to the camera). That one boy looks so much like Hart. However, Sharron Glennon, who took the photo told me that it was taken at a different Russian "baby house." Our boys were 30 months old at the time we adopted them, so this is the closest I'll ever get to a baby picture.
June 26, 2006
Socks
The longer you wear them, the blacker the get
Sometimes, they long for the washer,
But, something inside me says,
DON'T SEND THEM YET!
______________ camp song
I troll the aisles of Big Lots, Gap, Old Navy, Target, Marshalls, The Children's Place. I am on the eternal quest for socks. Socks develop holes, get eaten by the dryer and 12-year-old boys outgrow them after a wearing or two. I am looking for stretchy athletic socks, but THEY MUST NOT BE WHITE. For some reason, both boys hate white socks and will not wear them.
Unbeknownst to them, I do not like white socks either. Nothing says "dork" to me quite like a pair of bright white socks, and nothing says "uber-dork" than white socks worn with blindingly pristine white sneakers. Unless the wearer is playing tennis, baseball or soccer, white socks are, well, dorky.
Clearly we are in the minority, since stores are filled with every size, shape and style of white athletic socks. There are the "no-show" variety, low-cut, crew, calf-high. Grippy soles, ribbed soles, smooth soles. They come plain or with a designer logo of choice. The ones I really hate are those with gray, black or navy soles which excite me until I discover that they are really . . . white.
This is my method. Occasionally, some manufacturer introduces the socks in a different color. They do not sell, so they are marked down. At this point if I find them, I buy lots of them. By the time they get to the discounters like Amazing Savings or Big Lots, I know this is the last chance so I buy all of them, then ask the stock guys to check if there are more in back. In this way, I cornered the market and hoarded all the Hanes black low-cuts, which had been discontinued after a single season. At the moment Nike is producing black athletic socks, but I suspect it will not be for long.
June 25, 2006
Shani Davis and Chad Hedrick (photos)
Our friend and fellow speed skater, Calvin, with skater Chad Hedrick.
Olympic gold medalist Shani Davis coaches Jeff and the other Evanston skaters.June 24, 2006
Reunion
My 30th high school reunion is in two months. How the hell did I get so old? The invitation got me leafing through six yearbooks, three from junior high and three from high school. I resumed ownership of the annuals several years ago when my mother sold her house. But I hadn't really looked at them in decades.
I did consider going to the reunion but the logistics of childcare, airfare, car rental, were so daunting. I attended the 20th reunion, when my mom still lived nearby, so it was an excuse to visit her, too. Factoring in a hotel reservation this time . . . I had to ditch the idea.
I guess there are classmates who would not miss it for the world and others who would prefer to poke themselves with sharp sticks than go, but I am ambivalent. The 20th reunion resolved all that: the women looked better, the men looked fatter and balder. The most popular white girl, whose terrorizing only made me worship her more, was a drunken mess. The mean black girls all looked fabulous and had no recollection of me, much less of threatening me and demanding my lunch money. In fairness, the nice black girls also looked fabulous.
This whole wave of nostalgia for a miserable time in my life made me question my grip on reality. I still keep up two friends via email: we three went to elementary school, then junior high and high school together. (They are not going to the 30th reunion, either.) I asked one of them if the whole nightmare had been my own adolescent imagination.
No matter. I'll get the next invitation in ten short years.
I did consider going to the reunion but the logistics of childcare, airfare, car rental, were so daunting. I attended the 20th reunion, when my mom still lived nearby, so it was an excuse to visit her, too. Factoring in a hotel reservation this time . . . I had to ditch the idea.
I guess there are classmates who would not miss it for the world and others who would prefer to poke themselves with sharp sticks than go, but I am ambivalent. The 20th reunion resolved all that: the women looked better, the men looked fatter and balder. The most popular white girl, whose terrorizing only made me worship her more, was a drunken mess. The mean black girls all looked fabulous and had no recollection of me, much less of threatening me and demanding my lunch money. In fairness, the nice black girls also looked fabulous.
This whole wave of nostalgia for a miserable time in my life made me question my grip on reality. I still keep up two friends via email: we three went to elementary school, then junior high and high school together. (They are not going to the 30th reunion, either.) I asked one of them if the whole nightmare had been my own adolescent imagination.
So I am not going to the reunion. My friends both say there isn't anyone in particular they want to see. Maybe that is the interesting thing: it's not the friends with whom I have fallen out of touch, it's the people I have long forgotten or whom I never knew. What are they doing? What are they like?Me: My recollection of that time, particularly in junior high, was that we were menaced all the time. I never used a school bathroom in six years, or carried a purse! Was it paranoia?
Yes, we were chronically menaced. No, it wasn't paranoia. It was a very real and necessary fear. We never used the bathrooms, which if you recall, reeked of reefer. We heard terrible stories of girls getting "jumped" in the bathrooms, usually for money or something. Purses were stolen regularly, so we didn't much use them. Remember Susan having hers ripped from her arm from under the bleachers? She still has the scar from where the handle of her purse dug into her skin. It was heinous. I think we were at a wrestling match or something. Remember earrings ripped from girls' ears? Blood pouring. I get weak just recalling it.
Could we not write a book about those years? I think it would be novel perspective--white girls' experiences at a predominantly black school in the 70s. It was unique, you have to admit. Think of the incredible character we now possess. Weren't our parents mortified by the stories we told? I suspect we left a lot out.
Me: Sometimes I wonder if we were nuts. Y'know, I think the 70s were a horrible time for crime in general and now it's not such an issue. I think I did tell my parents about junior high, but they didn't really care or were too preoccupied. My dad would always say he knew very nice "colored" men at the University of Chicago, and I would be reminded that he did not have a clue. However, my mom insisted they move to a different district after my brother's 7th grade year. Hmmmmm.I think crime is still pretty bad in spots. It seems to be drug-driven now. Back then it was hate-driven. We were white, so we were hated (by some). To help matters, if you recall, "Roots" was aired night after night while we were at school. I swear things escalated during that week and weeks to follow. Pins in the ass as we walked down the hall. Shoving. Head slamming. General taunting and name calling.
Me: At the 20th reunion, Susan nudged me and pointed at Brenda. "Oooooh she was mean." We both remembered B walking over to Susan and putting her a half-nelson and throwing her onto the ground. No provocation. I thought of that yesterday when a really thuggish-looking black guy with a do-rag held the door for me, saying, "Excuse me." It was a conditioned response to want to leap out of his way.
On the other hand, I feel like I got a superior education. I don't think I was shortchanged at all. People ask where I learned to read music, how I know world history, how I can run a sewing machine and when I had a chance to read Shakespeare . . . I learned that all before college.
I have to agree with this. When I break into Chaucer's "Canterbury Tales" using Middle English, people stare in amazement. I'm pretty sure nothing else I've ever uttered has given cause for people to consider me "educated." It tickles me more than anything.
No matter. I'll get the next invitation in ten short years.
June 21, 2006
June 17, 2006
Diagnosis
We walk among you. We look like everyone else. We attempt to act like everyone else, a convention of ours, but we are not like everyone else. We are families of children with invisible disabilities.
We do not always recognize each other, but we have a password: diagnosis. "What's your diagnosis?" we might ask another parent. "Do you have a diagnosis?"
For the first few years of our children's lives, a diagnosis is akin to the Holy Grail. "We are still trying to get a diagnosis." "No one has made a diagnosis." Parents, especially those with older children, are the first to notice that something is not right. "She just wasn't hitting the developmental milestones like her big sister," someone says. "I could tell, too," replies another mother, "but the pediatrician has not made a diagnosis." Diagnosis is magic; it vindicates the parents. There is a name for the weird stuff, this absence of normality. It has been identified and studied and written about. It is not the parents' imagination or their fault.
Thais Tepper, the founder of Parent's Network for Post-Institutionalized Children, has said that when she brought her son home in the early 90s, she joked that he had "Romanian Adopted Kid Syndrome." It was later that she found out that his behavior had a name and a Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders code--Reactive Attachment Disorder, which is typical of children in long-term foster or institutionalized care. These children have not had the opportunity in infancy to bond with an adult caregiver. Thais herself, identified RAD in her son after reading about it.
Diagnosis is a fair weather friend. Around school age, it becomes fickle. In order for your child to qualify for special education, you need a diagnosis. Too severe and your kid might serve an 10-year sentence in a very restricted class with minimal expectations. Too gentle and she's destined to struggle in a regular classroom, maybe with a bit of extra help like speech/language therapy or "pull-out time" for reading. If your child has ADD or an anxiety disorder, for instance, but it does not represent a learning impairment, or if your child is just not too bright, get ready, your kid does not qualify for any services! Unlike Lake Wobegon, where all the children are above average, school district administrators know that some kids have to be on the left side of the bell curve. Which is fine, unless it happens to be your child.
The line between MMI or MR (mild mental impairment) and LD (learning disability) may be extremely fine, but having one or the other sends the child down completely different paths. "We want a new diagnosis," a father says "We agreed that he was MMI when he was in second grade, but now he could function in a regular classroom. His therapist thinks his diagnosis should be LD."
If only a diagnosis was straightforward, but few of these kids actually look like the textbook case. No one exactly matches the DSM description. Many of these children appear ADDish or have wild mood swings. It could be ADHD or bi-polar disorder or depression or just moodiness.
Professionals talk about "autism spectrum," but is the spectrum a straight line or a Venn diagram? Does a child on the spectrum appear high-functioning or low-functioning somewhere on a right-to-left line, or in a pattern of maladaptive dots?
My own non-scientific method is to ask if a diagnosis is a "hardware" or "software" problem. A hardware problem, such as retardation or autism, refers to the limitations of the machine. A software problem, LD or attachment disorder, could be fixed, right? Upgrade the disk. Find a new program.
You might notice us out in public. It is permissible to introduce yourself by asking politely what my child's diagnosis is, or if I'd care to disclose it. "What is wrong with that kid?" marks you as an outsider.
We do not always recognize each other, but we have a password: diagnosis. "What's your diagnosis?" we might ask another parent. "Do you have a diagnosis?"
For the first few years of our children's lives, a diagnosis is akin to the Holy Grail. "We are still trying to get a diagnosis." "No one has made a diagnosis." Parents, especially those with older children, are the first to notice that something is not right. "She just wasn't hitting the developmental milestones like her big sister," someone says. "I could tell, too," replies another mother, "but the pediatrician has not made a diagnosis." Diagnosis is magic; it vindicates the parents. There is a name for the weird stuff, this absence of normality. It has been identified and studied and written about. It is not the parents' imagination or their fault.
Thais Tepper, the founder of Parent's Network for Post-Institutionalized Children, has said that when she brought her son home in the early 90s, she joked that he had "Romanian Adopted Kid Syndrome." It was later that she found out that his behavior had a name and a Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders code--Reactive Attachment Disorder, which is typical of children in long-term foster or institutionalized care. These children have not had the opportunity in infancy to bond with an adult caregiver. Thais herself, identified RAD in her son after reading about it.
Diagnosis is a fair weather friend. Around school age, it becomes fickle. In order for your child to qualify for special education, you need a diagnosis. Too severe and your kid might serve an 10-year sentence in a very restricted class with minimal expectations. Too gentle and she's destined to struggle in a regular classroom, maybe with a bit of extra help like speech/language therapy or "pull-out time" for reading. If your child has ADD or an anxiety disorder, for instance, but it does not represent a learning impairment, or if your child is just not too bright, get ready, your kid does not qualify for any services! Unlike Lake Wobegon, where all the children are above average, school district administrators know that some kids have to be on the left side of the bell curve. Which is fine, unless it happens to be your child.
The line between MMI or MR (mild mental impairment) and LD (learning disability) may be extremely fine, but having one or the other sends the child down completely different paths. "We want a new diagnosis," a father says "We agreed that he was MMI when he was in second grade, but now he could function in a regular classroom. His therapist thinks his diagnosis should be LD."
If only a diagnosis was straightforward, but few of these kids actually look like the textbook case. No one exactly matches the DSM description. Many of these children appear ADDish or have wild mood swings. It could be ADHD or bi-polar disorder or depression or just moodiness.
Professionals talk about "autism spectrum," but is the spectrum a straight line or a Venn diagram? Does a child on the spectrum appear high-functioning or low-functioning somewhere on a right-to-left line, or in a pattern of maladaptive dots?
My own non-scientific method is to ask if a diagnosis is a "hardware" or "software" problem. A hardware problem, such as retardation or autism, refers to the limitations of the machine. A software problem, LD or attachment disorder, could be fixed, right? Upgrade the disk. Find a new program.
You might notice us out in public. It is permissible to introduce yourself by asking politely what my child's diagnosis is, or if I'd care to disclose it. "What is wrong with that kid?" marks you as an outsider.
June 16, 2006
Camp
. . . offers a range of recreational activities for your child to enjoy including: tennis, archery, softball, volleyball, gymnastics, biking, arts and crafts, outdoor living, skills, ropes courses, instructional and free swim, fishing, canoeing, pontoon boat rides, scavenger hunts, and cookouts, special outings including bowling and miniature golf.
Hart is going to overnight camp the first time. Some kids go to sports camp, some to music camp or science camp: Hart is going to social skills camp. I was thrilled to hear about this new program:
Hart is going to overnight camp the first time. Some kids go to sports camp, some to music camp or science camp: Hart is going to social skills camp. I was thrilled to hear about this new program:
"a week-long, overnight summer camp experience for boys and girls who have been diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome, Non-Verbal Learning Disorder, Learning Disabilities, ADD, ADHD, High Functioning Autism, or related disorders that have a significant impact on social skills development."Overnight camp is the ultimate social experiment for children. They fly away, lose all their belongings, try a bit of independence, then come home. Unlike the progressive Jewish-Zionist camp that I attended and loved as a kid, this week for Hart looks to be more of a controlled social experiment.
"The Camp provides a unique camp experience designed to foster friendships and positive social interactions among campers in a supportive, safe, and structured atmosphere."
Hart is apprehensively looking forward to his week away, but me, I am ecstatic.
June 15, 2006
June 14, 2006
June 13, 2006
June 10, 2006
Talk
Jeff needs a medication tune-up badly. He is driving me nuts. This is his break between school and summer session. I have been home with him for one week and his appointment with the doctor is still a few days away. Jeff chatters non-stop. He can't stop talking. He says the same nonsense phrases over and over, and even if he is actually having a conversation, he'll repeat himself five, ten times. If he's alone, he'll hum or smack his lips loudly. Sometimes he'll just "chant" some bit of dialogue, like Dustin Hoffman did in Rain Man. He can't help it. I want to strangle him.
The conventional wisdom is that if you ignore undesirable behavior it will go away, but I know for a fact this is not the case. Jeff's mouth needs to be moving every waking minute.
His therapist told him yesterday, "Your brain needs to be busy." I know a few tricks . . . word games, "brain-mapping," distractions. But after a week of this, I just want to scream "GIVE YOUR MOUTH A REST," or throw myself out a window.
It is a strange irony, given how long it took for the boys to start talking. I have video of them at age three and a half. They aren't speaking at all. At age four, Jeff was beginning to make one and two word utterances, like most 24-month-olds. Now, at age twelve, I long for him to just shut up . . . just for ten minutes or so.
Reach out . . .
Can it be twenty-five years since the first case of AIDS? It is hard to believe. Any discussion of human catastrophe in my lifetime makes me feel like I have a boulder sitting in my stomach. The thought of AIDS or HIV gives me a persistent dull ache in my chest. From 1983 to 1995, twelve friends of mine, young gay men in their 20s and 30s, succumbed to the disease. It's not much compared to the entire communities of friends decimated and it is nothing compared to the grief of the partners and the families they left behind. But it is grief, my own personal pain, and every time I think of one of those guys, I feel a lump in my throat.That era was before email and the internet, so I phoned or wrote these friends. Some had moved to the west coast or east coast or stayed in Ohio. Some died early and alone in what seemed then like some freakish medical anomaly. In 1982, Brian Loree visited me in my grubby first Chicago apartment right before he started graduate school. He lost 40 lbs in the next few months and then died of pneumonia. Pneumonia? Others died surrounded by friends, family and community, in hospice or at home. I didn't know it at the time, but Rusty Gorham was making his last rounds visiting friends around the country. So disfigured was he by Kaposi's Sarcoma that our waiter--in a Halsted Street restaurant--dropped the tray of water on us in surprise.
At the end of 1992 Queen Elizabeth made a speech about her "annus horribilus." Her son was a tabloid joke and her castle sustained a fire. Young men were dying by the thousands, including three classmates of mine, all close friends, who died in as many months. What did her Maj know about a bad year?
I had late night urges to go through my address book (remember those?) and call up to say, "Please assure me that you are still alive. Are you OK?" But I didn't. I continued to phone occasionally, visit when I was in town or write letters (remember those?) Was I a good enough friend? Was I brave and cheerful in the face of such tragedy? Who knows.
This 25th anniversary came simultaneously with some other news of past friends. Two straight men from my past are suddenly newsworthy. One was recently featured in a New York Times Magazine article about his community activism and the other is an award-winning documentary filmmaker. I would love to email or call and say hello and congratulations. But I can't.
If I heard from some long-lost friend in that way, how would I feel? Delighted, charmed, skeptical, suspicious? It hasn't happened to me and I have a very unusual last name. Anyone with computer access could have my address, phone number and email address in two seconds. But no one has contacted me. Do any of my classmates, bunkmates, old neighbors, boyfriends ever wonder what I am doing?
The premature deaths of my friends put them out of contact with me forever. We might have eventually grown apart anyway, as people do, but that does not diminish the relationship we had. What about those long-ago friends who are still alive? Is there a statute of limitations on hearing from old friends?
At the very end of his life, my friend Russ Harold had dementia and no functioning liver. He received a blood transfusion every evening, so he was lucid for a while thereafter. If he was up to it, he took my phone calls. One night I said, "I will miss you so much. I'll miss your letters and I won't be able to talk to you anymore." "Yes, you will," he said."You can always talk to me."
Imagine That: Letters from Russell
OUTLINES excerpt, 1997
The Names Project: AIDS Memorial Quilt
Immune Enhancement Project
June 3, 2006
Cryptic References for $200, Alex
H: What's the place with the bras?
Me: Huh? Place with bras? A store?
H: No, a place, a city . . .
Me: Hmmmmm.
H: . . . where they dance!
Me: A city. Las Vegas?
H: YES!
May 31, 2006
Me: Huh? Place with bras? A store?
H: No, a place, a city . . .
Me: Hmmmmm.
H: . . . where they dance!
Me: A city. Las Vegas?
H: YES!
May 31, 2006
June 2, 2006
Little Deuce Coupe
I feel the same way about cars as I do about dogs: very nice . . . for other people. I have just never had an interest in either. I like my pets and my cars to be practical and low-maintenance; e.g. cats and Hondas. Then I fell in love. Every year I dutifully take the boys to the Chicago Auto Show. Auto Show 2001! A coming attraction: next season BMW is to reintroduce that icon of London's Carnaby Street swinging 60s, the Austin Mini. There were a number of prototypes around the booth. I was smitten.
The Mini Cooper is not what one might call a practical family car. Namely, it is small, albeit beautifully designed. There are four seatbelts: no carpooling! The backseat is spacious enough for a car only 12' long, but the hatch could hold a bag or two of groceries or one backpack. Out of the question.
Two years later, I did something completely out of character. Hardly an impulse purchase, but still ridiculous and contrary to my nature, I threw away a perfectly good two-year-old Honda Accord and bought a Mini Cooper. Silver, with a black top and black “bonnet” stripes.
Frivolous yes, but that car has given me pleasure every single day that I have had it. It even has a name--Trooper. On the Mini owners’ website, most of the cars have twee British first names, Nigel, Clive, Trevor or clever plays-on-words, Mini Me, Mini Mouse, Mini Mum. A vanity license plate would be too much, but I do have an idea for one: Minnie Driver. Hee hee hee.
In case you wondered, a Mini is way too small to accommodate a dog, even a very small one.
Trooper and our unamed Honda
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