Mai Tai Monday

My Dear Husband (DH to those of you in the know - my dear followers) of a decade plus recently decided to take a one week vacation. A pure unadulterated stick to your roots stay-cation at the homestead. This was his dream. Simple and easy.

He has been in need of such a break from the daily grind for a while, and with DS in a half-day ocean camp, DH would pretty much able to do what he wanted to do on his time table. Of course should he require a partner in crime I would be willing and able. Caveat being I had to be back in time to pick up said son from camp.

Well, on Monday, the first official day of the DH sojourn to solitude and rejuvenation, I began my daily morning ritual of making beds, getting a load of laundry started and packing a lunch for DS to take with him to the beach. DH slept in and was left to dream and count little lambs.

I roused the younger version of my husband and he prepared for his day at the beach by wolfing down a granola bar and a cup of milk, and after a friendly reminder from yours truly,” “Don’t forget to brush your teeth dear,” DS and I left for camp.

We were running a few minutes late and usually when this happens there is a good deal of gruff from the small one grimacing about why brush when he would just be eating again in a few hours. But not this morning. This Monday morning was looking up.

Off we went, my pint sized blonde son with a smattering of freckles across his nose and his long tan legs poking out of his jammer. My goodness he was getting tall and lanky. He certainly didn’t look like a little boy anymore. But I wouldn’t tell him that.

On the twenty minute drive we chatted about the upcoming quiet month of August- no camps, no swim, and just pure sweet nothing. How exquisite. Especially for an eleven year-old whose only real responsibility thus far in life was to make his bed, brush his teeth, put his clothes in the hamper and help out when asked by Mama on occasion. Other than that, the world was his oyster as I often told him. “I don’t like oysters, mom,” was his pat response. “They are slimy. So can we make my world be something more like a Wiener schnitzel hot dog or pizza?”

After dropping DS off at the school where he would be transported with his class of twenty or so like minded beach bums in training I waved goodbye, blew him a kiss and headed off to the gym. I had an appointment with a nine o’clock SET class (strength, endurance and training class) and I didn’t want to be late.

While I sweated and groaned throughout the sixty minute class my DS was home unattended and getting into goodness knew what. So when I walked into the house looking very much like something the neighborhood cat had dragged in from a hard night , I was greeted by the sights of my my DS was standing there all smiles.

“Honey, how about you and I head down to Fashion Island for a nice lunch?”

I looked at him for a moment. My DS asking me to go to one of my all time favorite crime spots in the world – on a Monday morning.

I put down my sweaty towel and asked him if there was a reason he had chosen Fashion Island- an incredible outdoor mall set amongst palm trees, Koi pond and piped in music- not to mention my two favorite stores – Bloomies and Neiman Marcus.

I admit it- I am a shopaholic- I love clothes and as a former assistant buyer at B. Altman’s many many years back the love of fashion has stayed with me. Nothing better than a good dose of au courant to chase away the blues of a recession, yes indeed.

Of course I love any chance to have a date with my sophisticated man, but I knew there had to be more to the story since DS is anything but a shopper. DS explained that he needed to replace his Bose headset and there happened to be a Bose store in Fashion Island. Of course I knew exactly where it was located. After all, Fashion Island is my home away from home. I can often be found sitting under the umbrella of a large green tree with an iced coffee watching little children experience the magic of the Koi pond. It is a cost effective way to relax and enjoy at the same time.

After a 12 minute shower I was dressed and ready to go. We hopped in the car and made our way to the Island of Fashion where much to my husband’s chagrin the Bose store did not have the headset in stock. No worries, he would order it online.

Next stop- lunch. We decided on Cheesecake Factory and had a nice corner table where we could look out onto the skyline and the ocean. I ordered water and a salad and DS ordered a soup and salad combo and water – and a mai tai. It was 11:45 a.m.

“It is five o’clock somewhere,” DS said with an impish grin as he took his first sip.

I watched him savor this Monday morning treat and joked about it being a “Mai Tai Monday morning” and he laughed. We both did actually.

It is the simple unplanned pleasures of life that we must grab when they are afforded. And today, DS was grabbing for a mai tai and I would drive us home. All was good.

Well, we ate our delicious lunch and as DS slurped the last few liquid droplets of his drink I could tell that the alcohol had begun to work her magic and DS was smiling a big big grin.

“Everything okay Papa?” I asked.

He wiped his mouth on the napkin and glanced up at the ceiling, out at the ocean and then at me.

“I am wonderful,” he said.

And such was the first day of a vacation for an overworked husband much in need of a respite. Mai Tai Monday may become a yearly event.

Taxi cab at the ready!




copyright 2008-2009 all rights reserved.

Take a Hike

“Honey, I am going on a hike.”

These were the seven words uttered by my Dear Husband (DH) the other evening. We were in the living room being lounge lizards. I was playing catch up on back issues of The New Yorker magazine which had begun to pile up in a most annoying way. DH was reclining on the other end of the couch looking at his Kindle. Somehow I can’t imagine the Kindle as actually supporting the task of reading, but, to each their own.

“Okay,” said I. “Have fun. Be back before breakfast.”

I studied the cover of the magazine in my hands. A nun, a girl in a bikini and a woman in what appeared to be traditional Islamic dress with a hijab and long black dress sat staring out at the reader. I noticed that the woman in the Islamic attire was actually similar to the outfit of the nun except that she wore a big ol' cross on her chest.

I listened to the smooth butterscotch voice of DH as I studied the cover trying to understand what it was the artist was sharing with his art. I traced my hand along the outline of the woman dressed in the bikini. She had on sunglasses and her legs were crossed. I noticed she had on platform shoes that didn't look very practical for a day at the beach.

“Well, I am not sure yet where the hike will take me,” said DH. “I mean I haven’t exactly decided. It may be Appalachia or it may be Argentina.”

“Well, at least you know which letter of the alphabet you are talking about,” I replied.

I glanced over at my DH looking very comfortable in his perch on the couch. His blue eyes were the color of topaz at dusk and he stared back at me as a rogue lock of sandy blond hair plopped over his left eyebrow. He had on an orange tee-shirt with skeletons dancing across the front of it. ‘Rattle them bones,’ was printed in block letters underneath the skeletons.

“You might want to get a haircut before you go,” I said.

He laughed and began to scroll through the electronic device propped on his lap.

"A hike,” I thought to myself. “I can’t even get him to go on a constitutional around the block and now he wants to go on a hike?”

DH gave me a big smile and a yawn, the wide open mouthed hippo-style yawn that seem to go on forever. That kind of yawn.

“Have you read anything interesting on your Kindle? “I asked my husband who had become way too horizontal on the couch.

I decided to try and get to the bottom of this sudden interest in hiking, and decided that maybe asking questions like Miss Marple – on seemingly unrelated matters might bring me closer to the truth.

“Well, there is a senator from South Carolina who is in a bit of hot water for a vacation he recently took,” DH said in a sleepy voice.

“Indeed,” I replied. “What kind of vacation did he take exactly?”

“Well, it seems that he neglected to tell his wife where he was going - just that he was going on a hike someplace to get away and think for a few days.” I could hear the cracks in my husband's ankles as he changed his position on the couch.

“So far sounds reasonable,” I said. Being a firm believer in the importance of personal space I support a few days here and there to get re-acquainted with one’s inner self.

“I guess you could say it turned into a little bit more than a commune with nature,” my husband said with a chuckle.

“It turns out that the good senator from the good state of South Carolina decided the scenery was better in Argentina and decided that neither his wife nor his staff needed to know how to get in touch with him. He was spontaneous- like you honey. Except that when he got to Argentina the only hiking he did was with a pretty Latina with whom it turns out he had been having a riveting email relationship."

I dropped the magazine into my lap and looked over at DH who was grinning- an ear to ear grin that said: “I am a goof.”

“Well dear, if you would like to go on a hike anywhere in the alphabet I am happy to accompany you,” I said in my sweetest candy voice and I winked.

And DH winked back.

Hike indeed.

I wonder who paid the bill for that hike? Come to think about it, I’ll bet the almighty senator will be paying for that hike for a long long time to come.


copyright 2008-2009 all rights reserved.

Pine Needle in a Haystack

It’s good to be a nobody. It’s kind of like being a pine needle in a haystack.

I mean, a nobody will never make it to the front page of the tabloids for having mismatched shoes or a missing button. A nobody will never be paraded in a five page spread complete with broccoli in her teeth and grey tufts peeking out from under a baseball cap. A nobody will not be hunted or hounded by the paparazzi tribe parading around with cameras and direct connects to the Internet.

As a nobody I can burn the meatloaf and the only ones who will give a fig- flying or otherwise - will be my DS and DH. Both of whom are eternally understanding and forgiving. What brand of toothpaste I use, the fact that I have crow’s feet, wrinkles or any other flaw will not become tabloid headlines or a point of reference on the Ryan Seacrest radio program.

Nobody cares about what a nobody eats or reads. When you are a nobody it is indeed like looking for a needle in the almighty haystack; and I like being part of the collective haystack. There is safety in bits of hay. Albeit prickly now and then, but good. Safe. Quiet.

In recent days we have had the passing of some great entertainment luminaries – Farrah Fawcett, Michael Jackson, Karl Malden, and Ed McMahon – each of whom shared incredible gifts with the world. Yet, each was singularly human. Each now is a subject of the vicious and insatiable appetite of the masses for salaciousness. Somebody wants to know the sordid details of the laundry and now the closets and dresser drawers are all being scavenged for who has the most untidy, most messy piece of fabric that needs to be hung on the interminable clothes line of lies and deceit.

Being a somebody comes at a steep cost. I applaud the efforts and talents of these individuals who have moved beyond and whose work here on this planet is now done. May they be resting in peace, sipping pink lemonade and listening to a few great tunes on a fluffy white cloud of hope.
When you are a nobody, it means that there isn’t a somebody to garner special reservations at the latest and greatest eating establishment. It does mean that as a nobody sometimes luck steps in and gives you a full hand. It means appreciation for getting a front row seat, or a great table or a smile or a bit of courtesy just because- not because someone expects anything in return- but just because.

Being a nobody means if I decide to run out in yesterday’s sweaty clothes that no one will care and actually it may provide an intended twenty feet personal space barrier to insure that those standing behind me in the grocery or bank give me an extra wide birth. Yup, being a nobody definitely has its advantages and upside.

I like being a nobody to the rest of the world. Because to those whom I care about and those who care about me I am a somebody - snug in the confines of our own little haystack. To me, that is just about perfect. I have no fear of The National Enquirer, People Magazine, TMZ, Access Hollywood, or any of the motley collection of fool’s follies knocking on my door or peering in my window anytime soon.

And that suits me just fine.

I like being a pine needle in the haystack.


copyright 2008-2009 all rights reserved.

Tissue for Your Thoughts...

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Salt and Vinegar

After picking up my two charges from their morning summer camp we made our way home for the afternoon meal. Two hungry boys with growling bellies is not a pleasant thing to encounter. Lunch was needed ASAP.

Thus, I scrambled as quickly as a mom with two legs can: hauling out deli meat, mustard, mayo, cheese, wheat bread, veggies and created a lovely lunch complete with a watermelon appetizer, Sprite and organic cookies.

Emile, our visiting French boy, sat next to my son on the couch. They chuckled and laughed as they watched the antics of a television show about two mop headed boys names Zac and Cody. I gathered from the raucous laughter that the boys on the TV had similar dispositions to that of the two boys sitting in my living room.

“Hey Mom,” said my tow-headed son splayed on the couch.

“Can we have some of the Salt and Vinegar Pringles I bought for Emile and me?”

“Okay,” said I making my way over to the pantry.

Where two of the blue and gold cans had recently stood at attention there was now a big empty space.

I gulped, realizing that these salt and vinegar chips were something the boys looked forward to almost on a daily basis. And it was summer, so I didn’t sweat it too much. However, I began to sweat thinking how was I to break the news of MIA Pringles to the young lads?

I felt a tap on my shoulder. “Hi Mom, I thought I would come over and help you find them,” said Dear Son. Sheesh, he was getting tall, I realized. Now he came up past my shoulder. I shook my head and stepped back while he stuck half his body inside the pantry prowling for the cans.

“They were here yesterday,” he said pointing to the gaping maw of what used to be home to two cans of unopened Pringles.

“Hm,” said I standing there perplexed, as my son’s eyes filled with tears.

Part of me wanted to laugh - after all, we are talking about chips - not even spilled milk- over which the phrase, “crying over spilled milk,” was created. But looking at his pinched face I realized that this was no laughing matter.

“Well, honey,” said I putting on a stiff upper lip. “I am not sure where they went. Perhaps Daddy has been having a midnight snack when we are all snuggled safely in bed. You know how he enjoys a good munch while he is watching a movie or playing WOW.”

DS closed the pantry door with a sigh and a small sob and just stared at me. His eyes were glistening and I knew that I had about three seconds to resolve this situation.

“We bought those chips for Emile and me, Mom” DS moaned.

I rubbed my hand across his cheek, and wiped a lone teardrop slipping forlornly down the left side of his face.

Shaking my hips left to right, I did what I do best, the Mama dance. “I will r-u-n, o-u-t, n-o-wwww,” I crooned to the tune of the Jackson Five’s ABC-123.

“I will be back before you are even half way through your lunch,” said I trying to feel as brave as I sounded. Now I knew how George Washington must have felt before the battle of Brandywine Creek.

I hopped out, ran to the market and picked up two cans of Salt and Vinegar Pringles as well as two bags of Lay’s Salt and Vinegar chips. They were on sale - buy one, get one free.

I flew home, feeling like Glinda the good witch of Oz, except that she had an amazing ability to poof while I had to wait for three lights to change from red to green. Opening the door I found four eyes, four hands and two mouths eagerly awaiting S&V chips, and I delivered. Smiles and a myriad of ‘thank-yous’ greeted my ears.

“You’re the best Mom,” said DS with a mouth stuffed with the salty pleasure.

“Glad to help,” I smiled as I made my way to DH’s cave where I deposited the two-for-one bags of salt and vinegar chips. This way, he could have his own booty without dipping into that of the boys.

Everyone would be happy.

At least this was my hope.

Expedition of the spuds

Today being Thursday I had nothing planned for this morning at 6:30 a.m. Nothing other than volunteering time at my son’s swim team to help prepare for a four day swim meet. Lucky for me I am an early bird, proud to claim that I often am awake before the sweet song of the crow and parrot compete for best vocal.

I had signed up to help with hospitality, which in a nutshell means setting up a table (two actually) and providing coffee and fruit and donuts to coaches from the various teams. Or so I thought. It has been a few months since I last ’volunteered’ in the hospitality area and thus my surprise and near heart attack when I was informed that there was cooked food being served at the tent.

“Cooked food?” I muttered to myself. “What do they mean exactly by cooked food?”

Nick, one of the old timers, and my version of a living breathing teddy bear, informed me that several months ago a new team of volunteers decided to add cooked food to the menu - like omelettes and pancakes for the coaches.

“Uh-huh,” I replied. Tongue stuck to the roof my mouth, I wondered what in the world I would do now since my culinary talents begin with a smile and end with pouring coffee. Visions of me flipping a pancake in a pan were not pretty. I was recalling the episode of I Love Lucy when she tries to make a pizza. Not a pretty picture.

Needless to say I decided there and then that my volunteer skills would be better served behind the scenes, as in the back room.

I was then chartered with washing grapes and blueberries and slicing vegetables for use in the said omelettes.

Luckily, the Head Hospitality Mama loves to cook and that is her domain so that I and my other volunteer moms were more than happy to oblige and stay out of the way and simply follow commands.

One of the gals had been given an instruction which was brought back to me: “Expedite the potato prep.”

I stared at the deliverer of this message, a petite blond with incredibly sea blue eyes. Okay Patti, how does one expedite the dicing of potatoes? We giggled as she picked up her knife and helped me slice and dice the spuds. Hash browns were the next order of business on the food deck out front. I needed to get busy expediting.

“Expedite the spuds,” I said and began to laugh. We looked at each other. Were we in a board room meeting and had simply forgotten ourselves?

I looked around the room, realizing that with the motley collection of folks here, many in shorts and tee-shirts and smelling of sunscreen that I definitely was not in a board room of any traditional format.

I repeated my hollowed phrase: Expedite the spuds - and hold the suds.

I honestly don’t know why we found this to be funny, but suddenly it was. Perhaps being volunteers in the wee hours of the morning – sans coffee – we had gone off the edge of normality.

Out on the pool deck was a full blown swim café complete with piping fresh coffee and made-to-order omelettes and pancakes…and to think just a few months back the swim coaches were happy with a coffee and a bagel.

How times have changed. And this being a recession no less.

Expediting spuds . Two words I never would have sewn together but now they have become part of the fabric of my swimming lexicon.

Let’s salute the expedition of the spuds.

All hail hash browns on deck….

Parlais Vous…

I don’t know the word for garbage in French. I wish I did. It would have come in handy the other day as I tried to bleakly explain to our visiting French friend Emile, why it was we could not move the car.

We had finished a nice leisurely breakfast at the neighborhood International House of Pancakes (IHOP) and had strapped ourselves into the car which was parked near to an enclosed area that I soon found out was home to two very large garbage bins.

“I am sorry,” I say. “Je suis désolé, mais nous avons un petit problème.” I turn to my passengers in the back seat. I notice my son is wearing a milk moustache and that there is a splat of something yellow on Emile’s tee-shirt. “Two peas in a pod,” I think to myself.

“It is the garbage truck,” I try to explain, adding a French accent for affect- the closest thing I can get to fluency.

I suppose it is more correct to refer to the giant metal monster as a waste management vehicle, WMV for short, but somehow garbage truck just seems to roll off the tongue so much easier.

Le Murphy – as in Murphy’s Law - is my personal guide through life. I contemplate trying to explain the concept of Murphy’s Law, but decide against it.

Emile is looking at me through his glasses with a smile of sorts, not sure what to make or what to say to this strange American lady behind the wheel of the car.

My Dear Son (DS) pipes in, “It never fails, if there is a fire truck, bus, student driver, little old lady, or hearse somehow they find my mom- or she finds them. I am still not sure.” I grimace and catch a glimpse of his face in the rear view mirror. He smiles at me.

“Isn’t that right mom?” DS Says with a chortle from the back seat.

Emile, our 14-year old from Versailles, says, “oui, camion d'ordures.”

I am too busy keeping my eye on the big green bin, bin being the understatement. I watch in utter disbelief as the garbage truck uses its orange pincers to pick up the monstrosity, empty it into the gaping hole on its upper back as if it were no heavier than a tissue, and then gingerly place the big green box back down right behind my car.

“Well, look at that,” I say to no one in particular. The green giant is on wheels and the waste management expert, also known as a garbage man in my ignorance, pops out of his truck and proceeds to wheel the green bin into a fenced area. He then latches the gate, looks over at me waves, gives me a big grin and pops back into his truck.

I smile and wave and pulling my head back inside the window where it has been stretched like that of a tortoise looking to catch a bit of morning sun. How this happens to yours truly is a question best left for another day.

As I pull my head back into the car I notice something shiny on the ground. I open my door, get out of the car and realize I have found two quarters. Yippee!!

That Murphy - he sure does know how to keep one guessing.

“Only you Mom,” DS says as he and Emile snap their fingers in time to a song on the radio by some band of brothers whose name escapes me at the moment…

I start the car, listening to the refrain, “Now I'm speechless, over the edge I'm just breathless...”

Kind of like me...

Tortoises, Turnips and Hippos

I like to be spontaneous which is why when my DS had asked me several weeks back what I wanted to do for Mother’s Day my reply was noncommittal and fluffy, “Oh let’s just see what they day brings,” said I.

One of the true luxuries of life for me is not having plans. So much of our daily life is microscopically planned, where one needs to be when, etc. So, when I have what I refer to as a “down” weekend or a “down” day- I am ecstatic. It means not having to be any place special at any given time. It means someone else isn’t waiting for me or a loved one to be at some special place at some special time. It means I can do things as I please, when I please.

Ah…the sweet delicious drink of nothingness. It is like no other.

I digress…

Yesterday being the day of giving thanks for Mothers I was thanked with some wonderful thoughts and sentiments by my two boys. And after a morning constitutional with DH to a local French bakery we sauntered back to the homestead where I made the spontaneous decision that I would like to go to the zoo.

Well, after a quick change of clothes we three amigos headed off to the San Diego Zoo. I figured there were few mothers who would want to spend the day grazing and gazing at bipeds, mammals and furry friends- and I was right. It was a beautiful day not too cold, not too hot and we had such a fun time chock full of adventures and laughter. And no crowds!

As always, we began our day with a visit to my ‘ancestors’ as my dear son refers to the wrinkled, wise and crone like features of the tortoises. The males can grow up to six feet from head to tail and can weigh up to 573 pounds. They can live up to more than 100 years- which is why my DS has decided that I will be a long living reptile – despite the fact that I am not a reptile, but perhaps I have more in common than I yet know.

We witnessed a great scene yesterday with a giant tortoise eating a delectable known as a turnip. A Nerf ball size sphere of scrumptiliciousness for a tortoise. How does a tortoise eat such a thing one might well ask. Well, we actually were privy to the amazing feat of this four footed RV on feet. A tortoise doesn’t have teeth, but rather a hard, sharpened edge that he uses to bite with, kind of like a bird’s beak. We stood in awe as this long necked leathered friend held this turnip between his two front feet and with his knife-like beak ripped off bits of the turnip which he managed to swallow whole and seemed to be in Tortoise nirvana.

After our visit to the tortoises we moved on to a collection of lizards in various shapes, sizes and colors sunning themselves on rocks and sand dunes in the soft morning light. We also went to see a show at the world-famous Wedgeworth amphitheater which featured some beautiful birds and a regal wolf and of course a very large sea lion – it was lots of fun - and wetness for those who dared get close enough- we know better and sit far enough back to avoid the splashes from these sea creatures.

Watching the tortoise gobble his lunch had made DS and DH a bit peckish and thus we set off for Albert’s restaurant in the tree house–like setting high above the animal enclosures below with a view that is spectacular and you feel as if you are nestled in a tree. The food was great, the wait was short and we had a lot of laughs.

Speaking of laughs…we strolled the path from Tiger River into the Ituri Forest where we were off to find Hippo Grotto. One of the boys’ most memorable exhibits. Why you might ask? Well, imagine if you will, a rather gregarious river hippo doing water ballet. The luxurious pool in which the hippo named Otis was swimming allowed us to witness some true acts of nature as only she Mother Nature could enable them to be.

We witnessed Otis in all his glory though the spectacular underwater viewing window which showed off his imminent releases – if you get my drift. The guffaws and the ribald laughter that came from the crowd of onlookers was priceless. Especially as we learned that the scratches on Otis were from his “introduction” to the female hippo- seems he is need of some hippo etiquette.
Speaking of etiquette, DS and DH are still laughing about the amount, duration and expanse of poor Otis’ releases- liquid and otherwise. Since this is a G-rated site I won’t belabor the point too much. The humans that came to see them Otis in his luxurious pool were not disappointed.

Great eye-to-nostril encounters were possible through the special underwater viewing window.
Since he’s a male hippo, Otis likes to mark his territory and does it with much exuberance. What does he use? His feces and urine, of course, and the more the better! His paddle-shaped tail swished back and forth as he pooped, making a jet stream along a rock wall along the backside of his enclosure.

Needless to say the boys are still talking about this once in a lifetime moment. And when we asked about this amazing activity in a gift shop the young gal explained that there is a zookeeper wall of shame where those unfortunate enough to be in the line of fire have experienced the almighty power of Otis…

Back to the concept of unplanned moments- we planned none of these great memories-and yet we all had a great time and laughed, learned lots and came away with a renewed respect for what the San Diego Zoo does for conservation and protection and education of animals big and small.

A great day indeed. Spontaneity is truly the spice of life. What more could a mom ask for than the love and good will of her significant others? Not much.

It's Good to Dream

I like to dream. Especially when looking at one bedroom apartments for sale in the Marais district of Paris. Especially since I know almost exactly where the apartment is located – given the accompanying photos shared with long lusting viewers such as myself courtesy of the The New York Times.

The beastly publication - said with all due respect -since one of my greatest pleasures is sitting in my striped ottoman on Sundays devouring the paper from top to bottom and front to back.

And my homepage on my web browser is set to The New York Times.

But they must shoulder some of the blame for my latest daydreaming and wondering with just how I can come up with a quick mil. As in million – as in Euros….wish I had a rich uncle right about now….Suggestions welcome…

Anyway, today’s front web page had a little section in the right hand corner of the website that caught my eye. Practically anything with the word Paris or Europe will catch the corner of these ol’ eyes, bifocals not withstanding.

With interest piqued I clicked on the link that took me into a world I knew and loved. A world I had become one with just a few short years back. I had walked these same cobbled rues and avenues with my dear Julie, a French daughter of sorts to me- a youngster who had lovingly shared with me this engaging treasure of Paris.

It was very cold as we passed the wonderful jewels of shops, so many tiny gems each sparkling and welcoming in their own Parisian way - the art and the sense of Bohemian joie de vivre.

In Le Marais I bought a pair of leather gloves from a little shop the color of pink taffy where the leather goods were made in the City nearby. The young girl that helped me spoke perfect English and looked like a porcelain doll from a high end catalog. While I do not have much occasion to wear my gloves given that I live in southern California, any excuse – that being a temperature dip to fifty degrees or so I do wear them - and think of Julie and the sense of energy and life that pulsed through every cobblestone we walked on. Every smell of bread and coffee, every well-dressed woman to the college student on his or her bicycle, to every smart car neatly packed into its proper place and time. I touched Le Marais and it touched me.

And now sitting at my desk, safe in the comfort of my little office, viewing the photos of this remarkable one bedroom apartment well, I got to dreaming. At least for a few minutes. Laundry as many of you know, takes no breaks and demands attention – all hours of the day, all days of the week.

And then I thought to myself, tsk, tsk, you have a lovely home that you should be so lucky to own given the uptick in foreclosures in my very neck of the woods. Indeed, some of the neighbors less than a quarter mile away were now stretching their necks ways above the cornfields trying to save their elongated gullets.

So truly, I am content. But as I said, I like to dream.

I can imagine myself humming a little tune as did Leslie Caron in An American in Paris, and I can pretend that I am she. Again, key word being pretend. To wake up and throw open my shutters after a restful sleep and smell the fresh baked croissants wafting up to my nose from the boulangerie down below. And look, over there, Madame Leroux walks her little poodle Fifi .

“Bon jour Madame," says I with a smile and a wave as she looks up and nods. There goes Monsieur Gidot with his bald pate shiney and smooth setting out his daily menu next to his boulangerie.

But all dreams must end. I wake up and remember that my fluency in French is limited to deux mots: “Oui” and “Merci” okay maybe three: “Non.”

The word my DH will surely use more than once in the course of any quackery I may try and throw his way about the smart investment a pied de terre in le Marais would be. One word he is quite fluent in:

“Non.” Imagine Ricky Ricardo telling Lucy, "No" and you can imagine the scene. All the batting of eyelashes will never work. And I have nary a trick that Lucy had- oh if only I did!!!

Ah, C’est la vie…

Join me in my dream if you dare:

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/29/greathomesanddestinations/29gh-sale.html?_r=1&8dpc

Tolerance- Teach it- Preach It- Reach It...

Give us all a reason to love and care about everyone…not just some – this article hit home- I share it with all of my readers – pass it along- especially those of us with children of the same age as these two young little boys- their lives had barely been lived…

http://blow.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/04/24/two-little-boys/

April 24, 2009, 3:04 pm

Two Little Boys

By Charles M. Blow

On April 6, just before dinner, Carl Joseph Walker-Hoover, a Massachusetts boy who had endured relentless homophobic taunts at school, wrapped an extension cord around his tiny neck and hanged himself. He was only 11 years old. His mother had to cut him down.

On April 16, just after school, Jaheem Herrera, a Georgia boy who had also endured relentless homophobic taunts at school, wrapped a fabric belt around his tiny neck and hanged himself as well. He too was only 11 years old. His 10-year-old sister found him.

Two beaming little boys, lost. To intolerance? Too tragic.

The sad ends to their short lives shine a harsh light on the insidious scourge of the homophobic bullying of children.

Children can’t see their budding lives through the long lens of wisdom - the wisdom that benefits from years passed, hurdles overcome, strength summoned, resilience realized, selves discovered and accepted, hearts broken but mended and love experienced in the fullest, truest majesty that the word deserves. For them, the weight of ridicule and ostracism can feel crushing and without the possibility of reprieve. And, in that dark and lonely place, desperate and confused, they can make horrible decisions that can’t be undone.

For as much progress that’s been made on the front of acceptance and tolerance of all people, regardless of our differences, enough hatred remains–tucked in the crags and spread about the surface–to force Carl and Jaheem into the abyss.

We should commit ourselves to ensuring that their deaths are not in vain, that their lives are the last page in this sorry chapter of our development as a people. And, the first step in that direction is to fully understand the scope of the problem.

In short, homophobic bullying is pervasive. It disproportionately affects black and Hispanic kids. A new study suggests an apparent link between bullying and suicide. To wit, black and Hispanic adults who are gay reported higher “serious suicide attempts” than their white counterparts, most of those attempts taking place when they were young.

Let’s look at the data:

According to a 2005 report entitled “From Teasing to Torment: School Climate in America” that was commissioned by the Gay, Lesbian and Straight Education Network, students are more likely to be subjected to homophobic bullying than bullying for most other reasons …

We, as a society, should be ashamed. The bodies of these children lay at our feet. The toxic intolerance of homophobic adults has spilled over into the minds of pre-sexual children, placing undue pressure on the frailest of shoulders. This pressure is particularly acute among young boys who are forced to conform to a perilously narrow concept of masculinity. Or else. My colleague Judith Warner put it best in an online column that she posted after Carl’s death:
“The message to the most vulnerable, the victims of today’s poisonous boy culture, is being heard loud and clear: to be something other than the narrowest, stupidest sort of guy’s guy, is to be unworthy of even being alive.”

Well, no more. All people are worthy just the way they are, the way God and nature made them, the way they see themselves through the truest eye of the soul. We must teach every child, nay every person, that the greatest measure of our own humanity is the degree of human dignity we afford those from whom we are different. A smile, a kind word, a handshake, a hug, understanding and compassion – the simplest acts of goodness can bridge the widest chasms.
These little boys deserved our love. Instead, through the vessels of our children, they were shown our scorn. We failed.

Carl and Jaheem, I will never forget you. I am the father of 11 year-old twins. I will give them extra hugs and kisses tonight in memory of you. I will teach them to be even more tolerant, in memory of you. I will make sure that they know that I am always there if they need an ear or a shoulder, in memory of you. I will let them know, when the waters get choppy, that the storm will always pass, in memory of you. And, I will make sure that they know in no uncertain terms that whomever they grow up to be, I will love them always and forever. This too I will do in memory of you.

We will soldier on in your stead. You rest in ours.

(It should be noted that to my knowledge neither child had self-identified as gay or bisexual at the time of their death, but now it matters not. Whomever they would have been is forever lost to the grave.)

I also invite you to join me on Facebook, follow me on Twitter or e-mail me at chblow@nytimes.com.

New Home for Mama

I got to thinking last night. It being my birthday and all. And the fact that the world was mad at me for perceived infractions along the line of not being able to provide a hot dog at nine o’clock at night to a small person. It was time for bed. Not eating. Dinner had been several hours earlier and he had a bag of starburst during the movie we had just come home from watching at the theater.

Thus, a strong string of rants and groans and grunts ensued from said small person’s mouth. It got me to thinking….what would it be like to find a secure, safe place with three square meals a day where I didn’t have to do laundry, didn’t have to worry about bills, didn’t have to worry about unsolicited telemarketers calling me at inopportune moments..hm...

Wouldn’t have to think about keeping the car maintained- where all of my medical needs would be covered and I would be given a supply of clean clothes – uniforms even - where I wouldn’t need to be concerned about labels and keeping up with the latest fashion trend.

The more I thought about this scenario of another world I got to thinking that maybe just maybe, I could finagle a way into the system of permanent healthcare, food rations, good security and no bothersome phone calls. I might even have access to a library where I would have time time to actually read a book...Heaven....

I wouldn’t have to worry about laundry or feeding other folks and making sure that the refrigerator was stocked. I wouldn’t be expected to plan outings and day trips and provide hot dogs to wayward offspring at inopportune and somewhat late hours.

Nope, the more I thought about this idea the more sane and rationale it is beginning to sound. I think I will place a call to our local branch of the government penitentiary and see what qualifications they need for me to become a member.

“Hello, my name is _______________________, I just turned a ripe ol’ fifty and would like to know if there are any openings in your facility?

I promise I don’t snore. I can keep my room clean and will follow all the rules.

What was that you ask? Am I crazy?

Well, I haven’t been certified but maybe you can help assist with that….”

What would you do....

WHAT WOULD YOU DO....

...If your new favorite pair of Taryn Rose shoes got peed on by your really nice neighbor's really cute little poodle...

(A) Cry?
(B) Say "oh, no problem" like I have plenty more where these came from (HAH!)
(C) Discreetly place your foot in the grass to try and wipe off the fowl stench and stain

...If your wonderful vanilla latte from Starbuck's blew up in the microwave (in the teacher's lounge no less) as you tried to reheat it?

(A) gulp back tears
(B) lap up the liquid as it ran out of the microwave and all over the counter
(C) run to the cleaning closet and get as many towels as you could to mop up the mess and get rid of the evidence before you were accused of trying to blow the place up

...if you started a load of laundry and when you went to take out the supposed clean clothes noticed a peculiar lavender color to everything including the jeans....

(A) Yowl as you realized the culprit of the color change was a tres tres deep purple suede jacket by Ellen Tracy that had been purchased more than a decade ago and was now really vintage and earmarked for DRY cleaning only....
(B) laugh and say "Oh well!"
(C) tell your son that purple is the new white.....


All in a day's life of "This could only happen to me."

Blind, Batty and...

I wish I were a bat. Or at least had the ability to see with my ears as a bat does. It would have been very handy the other evening driving home from an Easter celebration with friends. The friends live about an hour away. But for some reason, this particular Sunday night meant that 80 miles away was a two and a half hour road trip.

I was the designated driver. I had bought my driving glasses. Without them, I am close to blind. But my glasses make the world clear and sparkly new again. Except, something was wrong with these particular glasses- they seemed to be rather, well, frosted, I don’t really know how to describe it other than to say that I couldn’t see anything other than fuzzy shapes and blurry cars.

I did not have any alcohol in my system – I had stuck to water- and one Buck’s Fizz – more than seven hours earlier. So I knew it couldn’t have anything to do with spirits of the liquid variety. I was perplexed and more than a bit baffled.

My DS had quietly decided to take a respite and was blissfully sleeping in the passenger’s seat and DS was right behind him- figuratively and literally. My driving partners would be of no use to me on this night I could tell.

If I were a bat for example, while my eyes would be small and poorly developed, with visual acuity, I would be able to use my vision as an aid in navigation especially at long distances, beyond the range of echolocation. And goodness knows echolocation would have been most mightily appreciated on what promised to be a long sojourn home.

I felt like Edith Wharton’s character Ethan Frome stuck in a heavy New England snow storm, unable to see more than a few inches in front of him. Luckily, my life has no parallels to his and I was in a car and not a horse drawn wagon.

However, the wagon might have moved more than the fifteen miles an hour I moved for close to thirty miles of the drive home. I guess that in hindsight (no pun intended) it was a good thing given that I lacked vision, night goggles that worked and echolocation.

Well, we made it home in one piece and none the worse for wear.

The next morning I trotted down to the optometrist where I had just purchased this pair of glasses a mere two weeks earlier. The optician was perplexed. Imagine what I was.

I had after all, purchased three pairs of glasses – two of which were for distance- one being a pair of sunglasses, the other a pair for night time driving. The third pair was, I must admit –a pair of – gulp- reading glasses.

Now given that these three pairs of glasses had cost more than a few pennies, I was less than satisfied with the state of affairs. Especially when the call came in a day later telling me that the so-called pair of distance glasses actually contained my reading glass prescription.

“Imagine that,” I said to the optician. “Lucky for me traffic was moving at a snail’s pace for much of the drive home.”

Of course billows of apologies were proffered across the telephone line. I hope that when they come back to me the glasses are the way they are supposed to be.

Bats have it pretty good in my opinion.

Spousal Semantics

I like to walk. In the morning, at night. Both are good.
My DH likes to walk – sometimes. He says he likes to walk in the morning and also in the evening.

The only problem is the semantics of the terms ‘morning’ and ‘evening.’

You see, to me morning means before 6:30 a.m.

To my husband, morning means after 8:00 a.m. I should caveat that walking for my husband is a weekend activity. He is after all, the breadwinner in the family. I am the maker of peanuts (but not the ones causing all of the salmonella poisoning). My earnings are more like peanut shells now that I think about it. But I digress.

By 7:30 a.m. the day is half over, the birds have been chirping, the bees have been buzzing and I have gotten two loads of laundry done – folded if I am on a real roll. I like to get up before the sun and get busy, stop and smell the flowers, listen to the gentle stretch of the leaves as they unfurl their strong green tendrils and wake to another day. I like to become one with the morning. I like to say hello to the bunnies nibbling sweet grass near our home. I like to listen to the soft coo of the morning dove gently wake her spouse.

And speaking of spouse, I do have a technique I have used for years to try and gently coax my DH from the ether world of deep sleep. I give him a gentle kiss on the cheek and a gentle massage along his back.

This is where once more, semantics differ. What I refer to as a gentle loving kiss upon the cheek of my slumbering beloved, my DH refers to as a ‘power suction peck.’
What I refer to as a gentle nudge, DH refers to as an SSR which stands for ‘shake, rattle and roll.’
Now, being that he is of the left hemisphere species and I am of the right hemisphere species, we sometimes are left in a quandary.

By the time my gentle attempts at rousing DH from his supine state take hold, the sun has placed herself high in the sky and is beaming way too bright for this fair skinned maiden to even fathom walking in her Vitamin D-enriched rays.

‘Not to worry’ I console my DH who by now is bright eyed and ready to start his day at an hour where most of the work of the early morning has been done and stowed.

“We can have an evening constitutional,” I say to him with a loving and caring smile.
Being the patient and obliging husband that he is, my dear sweet DH agrees. But the look on his face sometimes is more like someone in a state of well, kidney stone passage.
And thus, the day passes.

Until the appointed walk time. For me night is 6:30, 7:30 p.m.

For DH, it is anything up until the point of actual darkness. Semantics.

I try and explain to DH the wonders of an evening constitutional: the owls calling to each other, the moon silently making her entrance into the night sky. Not to mention the silence of moment, with crickets as a sweet serenade and backdrop to the growing peace of the evening.
But alas, semantics once more creep into the moment and I must bat my lashes such as they are and croon sweet nothings to ask my DH to accompany me on a walk through the trails that surround our home.

It is lovely and calming and very Zen - but alas, once more, the two shall be but ships passing in the night, one heading north, the other heading south.
Recently, my DH and I were on the walking trail that parallels our home and one of the garage doors was open letting us peer in where we were greeted by the sight of a very large television screen and a man on an exercise bike, or maybe he was sitting on the couch. My eyes being what they are, it was hard to tell.

“Now that is what I call a set up,” said DH.

“A place to escape from all the noise and chatter inside the house, a place of one’s own, where you can do what you want, when you want…”

Indeed, I thought to myself.

He didn’t need to say another word. I got his message. Virginia Woolf I am not, but I am happy to walk by myself in the peace of my own company.

Hrmph!

A Good Day

When my magic carpet left me stranded in the middle of motherhood I really had no idea what kind of ride I was in for. After all, corporate life – deadlines, meetings, business plans, stats and travel were the life that I knew. These things were all containable, all identifiable.

So when Magic Carpet took a wrong turn, and took me along for the ride, I had no idea just how wild a ride it was going to be. If I had only known…

And now here I am, eleven years after the start of the ride that has me here today, waxing philosophical and a bit regretfully at just how quickly time can, and does pass. I have been on an eleven year journey of growth and discovery thanks to the young man in my life known as my Dear Son (DS) for short. Of course his being here today would not have been possible without the “ahem,” generous contribution from my Dear Husband (DH.)

And as we sing Happy Birthday to our DS and give him hugs, telling him just how proud we are of all that he has done in his decade plus in this world, we, well, me anyway, stand in awe of what we have created – and what I have not yet broken.

I realize just how fragile little minds and bodies are. I give thanks to the angels and gods and goddesses who have deemed me worthy of a bit of luck and happenstance to thus far not have poisoned my son with my awful cooking, snipped off a wayward digit, or left him unattended in the shoe department at Bloomingdale’s.

Hard to believe. Even harder to do- I am better off not thinking about it too closely- which is what I have learned from my DS. To be in the moment. The dishes can wait- they just sit there anyway. Staring at you- mounds of goop and dried egg. Not very inviting if you think about it. So much more fun to play a game of hide and seek or cards or these days, Scrabble. And I don’t win. Sigh…

I have learned much from my son including the fact that patience isn’t so much a virtue as it is a necessity. That hugs are cheap, easy and ever so comforting. Sunshine is made in a smile from a child.

So as DS enters the next decade of his life- ‘offically a ‘tween’ as he has coined himself, I look forward to the ride. I have learned to strap on the seat belt. Take a deep breath, keep my eyes open and expect the unexpected. After all, that is when the truly best surprises can be found- when one least expects them.

Happy Birthday DS - may you have many more.