The World According to EDW

You know the kind of person who calls to ask how you are and instead starts talking about themselves? Yeah. Don't you hate those people?

Honestly, I can't help it. I'm like a new puppy - I'm just so happy to talk to you! I have friends I see and hang out with, but many of my friends are not my every day people. So when I get to talk to them, it's a treat. I try very hard to ask questions first, because the minute you get me started I just start telling my stories - which is why it's a good thing I blog.

And the worst part is, I really want to hear what my friends have to say. I'd much rather hear your story than tell you mine. But if you ask me what's going on, I'm not going to say nothing, and I'm not going to say it quickly. I can't even blog concisely! This leads me to why I like talkers - they make me seem more normal. I like big rambling stories with a ton of details. I like digressions. I like the little moments. I like when everything said sparks another thing, and you have stories stocked up to tell. I like conversations that last the whole day, or into the night. I love leaving with more to say.

It's the telling of the story that reveals so much about the teller. M. is less forthcoming than I am, more reticent to dive in. But when she does, it's a fantastic journey into her world. S. needs only a little prodding and she can talk the entire conversation, going from one topic to the next, invariably getting upset at the end that I've said nothing, but the truth is, I love when she does that. I used to say to R., tell me a story, and he would dig up some anecdote about his brothers or the people at his grandmother's nursing home, filled with details and humor. A commonplace topic would become fascinating and funny. He's superb writer, so it's no surprise he tells stories like he does.

I guess I don't need to tell you that during my train commuting years, I was frequently the recipient of random strangers sitting down next to me and telling me their life stories. Once during a cab ride, the driver got so involved discussing salsa dancing with me, he forgot to put the meter on. Unheard of in NYC. I think it made both of our days. How often do you really get to connect with people? Yet I seem to have dozens of stories like that - the older woman going her specialist, who was young enough to be her grandson. The man who wanted to borrow paper to write a letter to his son in college. The hardcore commuter who survived both the bombing in '93 and 9/11. In telling their stories to me, they gave me something.

In the same way old friends can give us back a part of ourselves, the stories of strangers can give us both a part of them and us. That aha! moment when you realize you're not the only one, or get a window into someone else's world, is priceless. So if something I write sparks a story of your own, comment away. It really doesn't have to be all about me. I end this with thanks to every random stranger who ever interrupted my book reading, and apologies to my friends. I'll try to keep my mouth shut. At least until you say "hi" back.

This is the post I wanted to write the other night, but didn't.

I had a pretty good day yesterday. A morning meeting that went well, a conversation with an old friend in the afternoon, and the rest of the day was looking pretty good. I was tired, though, really really tired. I just wanted to rest. But here's the thing about me - I'm not so good at saying no to plans. I'm always up for going out. It's something I developed in college, when I decided that I would never remember a particular test, but I would remember the time I spent with my friends. Don't get me wrong - I was a good student. I have a completely respectable GPA that could have gotten me into graduate school, like my professors were hoping. But college wasn't really difficult for me. I could manage to read lots of books and write papers and answer essay questions because I'm good at that.

So back to the point - I'm not great at saying no, but I'm awful at it when it comes to my inlaws. I'm not going to bore you with the details, except to say I was the victim of a classic bait and switch. So last night I found myself at a fine dining restaurant with an almost two year old, waiting over an hour for our entrees and wishing like hell my husband would get there and rescue me. At 8pm at night.

As I'm sitting there, several things run through my mind: I'm having my tubes tied. Why did I think I could be a mom? I'm getting a full time job. Nick better get his ass here.

Now, none of this had anything to do with my daughter, who was charming and sweet and incredibly well behaved for a small child who is an hour past her bedtime. And none of it had to do with my work, or even Nick's work, or my possible future plans for children, or anything else those thoughts might lead to. It had to do with me, being out alone with my inlaws, and being very unhappy about it.

I was so tense (and I'm not a tense person) that my mother-in-law asked me what was wrong, and I opened up my mouth and told her. I told her. I said that this was not a place to take a child, it was too late, too fancy, and taking too long. That my kid had a bedtime and I couldn't be the only person that respects it. That she has a schedule to be on, because she is two and no two year old should have her routine messed with. I did not say, you told me we were going shopping and then eating dinner at your home, that's why I came out with you and left my car at home. I did not say, you wouldn't be pulling this if Nick was here.

When Nick's car pulled into the lot, I ran out to meet him. Ran. Driving home, I started to relax. I realized that none of this was about being a mom, or my career, or anything else. I started to feel like my happy self again. Music was on, my daughter was giggling, my husband was smiling. My world was right again. I turned to Nick and said, "No one else I know goes out alone with their inlaws."

He looked at me with a perfectly straight face and said "Do you think maybe there's a reason for that?"

Yeah. I'm thinking so.

I was raised around booze. My parents are professional drinkers, and I mean that in a good way. They are not alcoholics, they are not over the top, but they do consume alcohol as part of their lifestyle. (Which is pretty sweet right about now, due to semi-retirement. But I digress.) Because of this, I never rebelled as a teenager and drank. Not once did I sneak a little liquor out of the cabinet. Not once did I hide beer in the bushes. I never even went to those kinds of parties.

I was not a big drinker in college, either, mostly because my friends weren't. We were textbook good kids. As an adult, I enjoy alcohol and sometimes even get drunk, but not much in the last few years, since pregnancy and early parenthood took over my body. I'm completely a social drinker, enjoying incredibly good wines with our friends the wine collectors, beers at baseball games, and mixed drinks when out with girlfriends.

However, I am on a bender. Seriously. I realized today that I have been drinking every night for a week. A week! And I'm not even on vacation, when all rules about alcohol consumption are waved.

Last Thursday was the Marah show. I was out until the wee hours.
Friday was Nick's company picnic. Daytime drinking, light drinking, but still, booze was involved.
Saturday was the Bruce concert. Magic beer!
Sunday I had dinner with my parents, and you don't leave their presence without consuming alcohol.
Monday I had a few friends over for frozen mango mojitos. Yummy.
Tuesday was Journey/Def Leppard - more magic beer!
Wednesday, last night, was dinner with the inlaws, and I was downing wine like I was never getting out of there.

So I'm slightly unsure about what to do tonight. Do I start detoxing? Do I say, what the hell, and go out for drinks? Maybe this explains why I'm so tired this week.

Normally, I'm not crazy about pictures of myself. Who is, really? I frequently wish for a reshoot. I don't insist on it, because I like others to buy into the illusion that I'm normal, but I fervently hope the picture taker will delete it if it's unflattering. I think I look pretty good until I see the pictures of myself- it's a form of reverse self image. Most people look better than they think they do. Not me. I look better in my head than in reality. So I always end up being slightly shocked- I'm so cute, why doesn't this picture show it?

I have one photo of myself that I've always loved. I'm on top of the Empire State Building and the expression on my face - well, it's me, in a time, perfectly captured.

There's another photo that I love equally, much more recent. I'm sitting on the ground in another place familiar* to me, and I don't look glamorous, or beautiful, I just look like me.

The interesting thing is that both photos** were taken by two different Canadians named Rob, ten years apart.

Do Canadians named Rob have special picture taking abilities?


*Yes, the Empire State Building is familiar to me. My family hails from another part of the country, and because of this, we have taken countless visiting relatives and friends on tours of NYC. So for a period of time, going to the Empire State Building was a semi-regular occurrence.

** I debated on whether or not to include the photos here. You might not want to see what I look like - the whole sort-of-anonymous thing. If you want to see them, go over to my flickr account. And tell me you did, so I don't have to wonder!

In today's play, the part of the Oracle will be played by Paperback Writer. The part of the Chorus (Voice of Reason) will be played by my husband. The part of the heroine will be played by me. Fate will be playing the part of Irony, or maybe it's the other way around. If you know Greek theater, you know how it all ends. Not pretty, but at least it's mostly off stage.

If you feel the casting or descriptions are off, please blame my college theater professor, who cast me in Antigone in 1993. I was part of the chorus, and in addition to having to speak at once with a bunch of other people, I got to wear a very cool robe and gold mask and stand on a raised platform for the entire time the play was on - and there's no intermission in these babies. Also, I hate to stand even on a step-stool - it freaks me out- so standing on the platform built by our otherwise brilliant but at the time very depressed and drinking heavily professional set designer was a treat, let me tell you. We took bets on whether it would last for the run of the play, and formulated plans in case it broke mid-performance. (The chorus would say, in unison, "The Gods are angry with us.")

I have a new-found appreciation for the anonymity some cultivate on the internet, and for the complete opposite others advocate. Since I'm somewhere in between, it makes it, in my opinion, a tricky thing. A sticky wicket, if you will. (I just love that expression. Can't understand the game, but love its terms.) If you are anonymous, you don't expect anyone to know you, and you don't forward your site to family and friends, and if someone you know finds it, it might be a little harder to id you as the author. If you have your name all over the place, and send it to people you know, and it's the first thing that comes up when someone googles you, you must deal with people you know knowing what you might not have told them yourself.

But here in the Land of In-Between, things are not as clear. A few friends have been to this site. Most people who read, I suspect, are from my internet travels. You can go see my pictures. You could probably find out my address and phone number if you really wanted to. But it's not blatantly out there. If you read closely, you can figure out a lot of details about my life. Bottom line - if you know me, and then find this site, you can figure out that it's me. Which is okay, but weird.

Deep breath. Deeeep breath. All I'm saying is, listen to the voices.

I never learn. You would think, after my last experience, that I would have a clue. But, no, there I was, on the muddy, soon-to-be rain soaked lawn with a bunch of Journey and Def Leppard fans.

When the idea of this concert first came up, it seemed like fun. Go see a 1980's band with girlfriends. As we sat down, my friend Kim looked at me and said, "Who would go see Journey without Steve Perry? What kind of people would do that?" Alarmed, I looked back her. "Us" I managed. "Right, right" she said. "But we're here to drink beer and have a good time. What are the rest of these people here for?"

I always thought Journey was a guy's band girls liked. Fair assessment, no? Def Leppard, to me, was always a teenage boy's band. I think about their music, and I picture my old boyfriend's bedroom, with records laying around and a poster of Elle Macpherson on the wall. So I expected to see lots of guys my age, maybe some younger ones, and the older-brother crowd, the guys that had the albums we borrowed.

Guys at concerts are good. They give you space to dance. They pay attention to the music. They don't use your bathroom. The big difference between this crowd and the one at the Journey cover band show was that most of these people had their own teeth. I think. I didn't realize it before, but I must be going to some pretty high-class rock concerts, because I am accustomed to the fully clothed, the recently bathed, and those aware of basic social norms.

You know that annoying habit lead singers have of calling out "Hello Cleveland!" (insert here name of wherever they are playing)? I can't stand it. It's so fake. You know they don't think NJ is the best, because they have to look down to remind themselves what state they're in today. I may be getting high off secondhand pot, I may be buzzed on magic beer, but don't pander to me. That's so not rock and roll.

Def Leppard did this the entire time they were on stage. "Hello NEW JERSEEEEY you guys are the best!". Oh, save it. Also, he must have changed his outfit six times. One skull tshirt looks just like the next, why all the wardrobe machinations? I actually preferred the Steve-Perry-less Journey to the mostly complete Def Leppard.

Did I have a horrible time? No. I danced to the hits - swaying to "Faithfully" and pumping my fist to "Rock of Ages". I screamed the lyrics I somehow still remember to "Pour Some Sugar On Me". (Note to self - find way to remove those and reutilize brain space.) I drank magic beer. I hung with my girls. And best of all, I got home at a decent hour. But it in no way comes close the last few shows I've seen, where I've had an incredible time and been blown away by the musicians and the music.

However, this night leaves me a little worried for upcoming summer shows. Do bands have demographics I can get my hands on? How can I assure a more pleasant experience next time? Do you think Steely Dan is safe - that should be mostly the older-brother crowd, right? How about Counting Crows and Goo-Goo Dolls - do they skew too young? I can't trust my judgment anymore. I can definitely say, though, that I am skipping Poison and Cinderella. Sounds like a good night to stay in and read a book.

Postscript: I did buy a tshirt. What can I say? I'm a sucker for concert t's.

I feel like I've been missing something. Am I the last person to know about cougars?

I recently met a nice young man, mid-twenties, and had a nice chat with him. Friendly, intelligent, a little young, but a nice kid. Would have introduced him to my 24 year old coworker. Much better versed in music than me. Somebody I'd say hey to and chat with again. And I kind of thought that maybe, just possibly, he was sort of hitting on me in a not hitting on me sort of way. I'm not a kid. I know when a guy is hitting on me, but there's that compulsive flirt thing some guys have - it's like they can't help themselves. They don't expect anything to come of it, it's just how they relate to women. I am well versed in this, because one of my husband's best friends invented it. Anyhoo, after our face to face meeting, I checked out his profile online only to discover that he lists this website.

First off, wow. Um. Hmm. Not what I was expecting. This makes me feel old. First, that I'm rapidly approaching the age range for this type of woman, and secondly, that this exists and I didn't even know about it. And weird, because I'm rapidly approaching this age range, and now I'm going to be aware of this every time I meet a 25 year old guy. Especially when he asks me how old I am in conversation.

So of course I go to the girls at work with this, and to my friend Richelle. The work girls assured me that I was only CIT age, not to worry. They think the whole thing is hysterical. Somehow, I don't find this comforting. Richelle agrees with the hmm factor. It's weird. I'm going to see this guy again. Do I pretend not to know? Do I give him tips on the best den locations? Do I lie by aging Richelle a few years and making her a swinger and see what happens next time he sees her?

On the plus side, now I can play "spot the cougars" when we go out. Could be a good summer game.

Last night we went to see The Seeger Sessions tour. Here we call him simply Bruce, but if you're not from Jersey, I'll add the Springsteen.

Let me be very upfront here, since it's my blog and I am tending towards honesty on it. I want to be a believer, but I'm a doubter. I'm not quite sure until I see it. I feel for Thomas - how was he expected to really get it until he saw it? Once you've got me, though, I'm all in. I'll preach the word, I'll pass out the flyers, I'll drink the Kool-Aid.

I love seeing people do what they love, which is why I love live music. Passionate people are my favorite kind, whether they are musicians, writers, artists, or a woman telling the story of how she met her husband.

We met our Canadian friends at the train station - where Chasing Amy was filmed - and after they had the pleasure of meeting my mom and daughter, we did a mini-tour of Middletown, Red Bank, and Rumson - highlights included Bon Jovi's house and Springsteen's Rumson estate, and the high school yours truly attended. Richelle uttered the words every New Jerseyian longs to hear: "Why do people make fun of New Jersey? It's beautiful here" and thus sealed herself into my heart forever.


Rob, Bruce, and Richelle

We got to the Arts Center in plenty of time to tailgate, even if part of it was inside the truck because of the gargantuan pouring rain. I've never cared less about weather in my life. We hung out, ate subs, drank, and talked and talked and talked. I love when I meet someone who loves to tell stories as much as I do. We met up with Andrew, their friend who also traveled from Vancouver, and is a fellow Marah fan.

Andrew

Richelle said the album was like being in an Irish pub, which of course I didn't quite buy, and of course she was bang on. We had a rollicking good time on the lawn, in the rain, watching a passionate man make great music, drinking magic beer (it never ends and you get drunk immediately) eating pretzels with mustard, and dancing, dancing, dancing. We ended the night at the Walt Street pub, listening to cover songs, watching cougars in action, and drinking some fruity drinks.



After a yummy diner breakfast where we learned that pancakes are $12 in Vancouver, it was time to say goodbye. But not for long, because they'll be back sooner or later. We'll be waiting for you.

First, I want to thank The Whining Stranger who is my new best friend, for pointing out that I had the same exact problem as he did - which was that the comments were all stored up, waiting for moderation. As if I would moderate comments! Well, I have decided that Blogger is out to get us all. We're part of some social experiment to see if bloggers will freak out if comments stop showing up. They measure how long it takes us to post a hi, anyone there?, and they record it.

So maybe I'm a little off because I've been sick all week, a stupid head cold, and I'm running on no sleep and cold medicine and a slight hangover. Because today is Friday, and last night was Marah at Irving Plaza. I want you to know that I was a normal person a few months ago. I did not obsessively go see one band. I was not the woman dancing in front of the stage every time. I did not make friends with other concert goers. I made fun of people's outfits, and sat back and people watched. I didn't blog, and I didn't post comments on the internet. I was a sidelines kinda girl, and I was happy with that.

But this is fun, isn't it? It's fun to read what other people write about their lives, it's fun to write about mine, and comments are fun all around. My little entry into bloggerdom is tied to my love affair with Marah. This is how it went down.

Nick has liked Marah for the last few years. He would play them incessantly, like on the ride home from the hospital with Emily, or every trip to the store. I was sick of hearing them. I didn't want to hear new music. Yet, this October I agreed to go to a show. He is my husband, and he doesn't ask for much. I went, I saw, I was surprised by how good they were. Then I agreed to go to another show in January, because it was at the Stone Pony, which is close to our house. At that show I noticed people I had seen in October. During a trip to the bathroom, I eavesdropped in on a conversation and realized everyone knew each other. It dawned on me that they must be from the message boards. ( I knew enough to know there were message boards.)

When we got home from my second show, we were buzzing with talk and excitement; I was really starting to like the band, and get them. Nick went online and found The Girl Who. I said, I don't read blogs. But I was fascinated by this little world of Marah. As it turned out, I did read blogs. I liked her and her writing and before I knew it, I "knew" all these other people, and they were all going to a show in March. So we went. Show # 3, I met all these really nice, cool people and had a blast. By then, I was convinced this band is amazing, because they are amazing live. And that particular show was the stuff of legends, the air conditioner broke, it was a 1,000 degrees, and the band kept playing.

Of course, when they came back around in May, we went. We went to two shows, in fact - down to Philly one night, and up to Hoboken the next. Carried by a wave of booze and girl power, I found myself dancing right in front of the stage and drinking far too much. After that show, I knew we had to see them whenever they played, because we both felt lucky to be seeing them do what they do. We would talk for hours the day after a show about the band, the fans, why everyone who loves rock and roll isn't listening to them.

Believe me, I was happy in my little cloud of pop music. I didn't want new stuff, I thought so much of it was derivative, not inspired. But Marah is different. They are a band of intelligent, friendly, talented, articulate musicians who pour themselves into every show, every night. They spend time with their fans, drinking with and talking to them. In turn, their fans are passionate and welcoming. It's literally like nothing you've ever seen.

After that fateful March show, I realized I had stories I wanted to tell, and I didn't feel Monica's blog was the place to do it - that's for her stories. So I started this blog, and begged some people to read it, and started reading other people's, too,

After the show in May, I knew enough people and enough words to the songs that I no longer felt funny about standing so close or dancing when I felt like it. So I learned to do that without a big drunk group, and let me tell you, it is fun.

That's how I became a Marah fan and a blogger and the woman dancing near the front of the stage. New passion, old passion, and less insecurity all around. Plus, Marah has become this thing Nick and I do together. We go to concerts together, to see this band he loves and I love with all these people who love them. It's all good.

I'm not promising Marah will change your life, but what the hell? Give them a try. Next tour, go when they come to your city. You won't regret it.

And that, friends, is the end of the Marah commercial. You know where to find me if you want a cd. My burner's ready.

My husband sent me this cartoon. He thinks it's funny. I think it's hysterical. It really speaks to the question every blogger has - is anyone out there? Or as The Whining Stranger asks, is anyone still reading this thing?


This followed a conversation in which Nick assured me I had "good web traffic" since he reinstalled my site meter, and gave me a little tutorial. I almost wish I hadn't learned how to check it - I'm tempted, in my more bored moments, to check it all the time. But I'm going to resist. Ignorance is bliss. And the new colors - they mirror my bedroom colors, so if you hate them, be glad you're not renting my house. How boring, blogging about blogging. Let's move onto more interesting things...I feel a rant coming on.

Why is it that people no longer know how to use words? I'm no expert. I have horrible pronunciation and spelling, and sometimes in a rush I use a less impressive word because I can't be bothered looking up the good one I want to use. Deplorable, I know. But seriously, can we have a national agenda focused on the proper use of ironic? I'm not kidding. Some people want world peace, I want proper word usage.

Alanis Morissette may have many, many fine qualities, but I think she should be fined for the misuse of ironic in her popular song. Remember the summer when it was ubiquitous on the radio? Every station you tuned to had her belting it out. I used to play the "Ironic" game, detailing for my driving companions which things were, in fact, ironic, and which were not. Sounds like fun, doesn't it? And yet I still have friends. Amazing!

Well, it was fun. I marvel that anyone, anyone at all let that song get through. How can you blatantly call things ironic, when they are, in fact, not ironic? Was there not one person who read the lyrics and thought, what the hell?

For an impassioned essay defending most of Morissette's song against critics like yours truly, as well as a multi-layered definition of irony, check this out: Irony and Ignorance. The author has excellent points, but does concede that there is much in the song that is not ironic - depending on which definition you choose. I don't quite buy the "irony of fate" theory the author proposes as a blanket for all instances. And that's the great thing about words, and language; it's open for interpretation. They say people don't change, but words do. It's why I loved my first linguistics class, it's why I love the Oxford English Dictionary, it's why I love debates about words. Disagree with my assessment? Tell me! Secretly love the song? Let it be secret no more.

Ah, sweet irony!

I used to think that natural beauty was best. From the time I was a child, people told me what beautiful hair I had. Women in beauty salons would reach to touch it. Older men would smile down at me.

Of course, I dyed it the minute my mom's back was turned. I remember walking through the aisles of the Rite Aid, driven by the only boy I knew with a car. I was 15, and I was going black. My best friend got some gloves and we locked the bathroom door. When we came downstairs for dinner, my mother exploded. "How could you do this?" she bellowed. "Jaaackie!" she screamed, turning on my best friend. "How could you LET her do this? You're both in trouble" she proclaimed, as she made me go upstairs and wash my hair. Several times.

In revisiting this story with my mom, it seems that she had recently given in and paid for blond highlights to be carefully added to my auburn hair. It cost a bundle, financially and mentally, for her to do this, I suspect. And now I had gone and ruined it. I went to the Ramones concert with black hair, then I went to the beauty salon to get it stripped.

After this incident, I reclaimed my commitment to natural beauty - my real hair color, the cosmetics applied to look like I was wearing no makeup. I fit right in at my preppy high school. I had bangs. I blew my naturally wavy hair straight. I wore plaid.

I continued in much the same fashion in college, and after graduation - except for one incident, when I added a little red, a glaze or something, and my hair flamed beautifully. I loved it. But I had an image, an idea of myself to continue. I was understated. I was not a woman who dyed her hair. I didn't have to, you see.

I had such pride in my color being mine, my real color. But like all redheads, time takes its toll. Your color fades, or darkens. It gets too blond from the sun, or too dark in the winter. You get *gasp* gray! Maybe just strands, but in contrast to your color, they seem to jump out.

So we, my hairdresser and I, have a little agreement. She won't change the color, she'll just even it out with a simple glaze that lies on top. It covers up the approaching gray, and it makes me look like myself again. My hair, with this additive, looks more like I remember my hair looking, more like my pictures as a kid, more like what my cousin and mom and lifelong friends know as me. This will be the first summer I won't be all Jersey girl blonded out, but stay coppery. I will look like myself all year long. So I took the plunge.

It is still a beautiful color. People tell me all the time - women in salons, older men, and last week, a bartender who wanted to know if it was real. Yes, it is, I said with a smile. Ah, a real redhead, he smiled back. I walked away absolutely tickled. I could do this, I thought. This could be me, and it could be okay. It could even be fun.

The advent of summer has me thinking about last spring and summer, when I first ventured out with my daughter and my niece and nephew.

Emily was only a year, and Andrew and Caroline were 12 and 7. It's slightly daunting to take kids of any age to a park or playground. You're not sure how much to watch them or how much to hang back. You don't want to hover, but you need to keep them safe. Does Mom make them reapply sunscreen? What happens if they get stung by a bee? So many questions.

With a new baby, you are even more confused. You're doing it for the first time, and there are a million variables. I tried to take them to the places where a 12 year old boy, a 7 year old girl, and a 1 year old would all have fun. You can stop laughing now. Here I was, dragging this big kid to the park where the younger kids play. We quickly established the rules: Don't Make Other Moms Yell At You. Don't Get Your Aunt in Trouble With the Playground Moms. Don't Show the Little Kids How to Play with Large Sticks.

Once the rules were established, we all lived in harmony. I learned to bring the good snacks, big stroller, and various balls - soccer, kickballs, baseballs - to keep everyone happy. The kids listened to me, helped me out with Emily, and got to make friends and play and be outside.

Until the Day of the Mean Moms.

We were all in bathing suits and enjoying the water playground. A local, free park with various water devices, it looks more like something you'd find in an amusement or waterpark. It's pretty damn cool. I had parked the stroller and baby in the shade, set our stuff on a table, and let the older kids loose. The other moms smiled or nodded at me, nothing unusual or out of place.

Then THEY walked in. They were dresses in outfits unsuited, I thought, for a water playground. White pants and high heels, pretty pink silk shirt. Green pants with whales on them and strappy shoes. Linen. More silk. Dry clean only, all the way. Pushing my wet hair out of my eyes, my navy tankini and flip flops on, I sort of wondered if they'd just come from work, or maybe job interviews, or very possibly, Mars.

THEY stalked in like they owned the FREE, PUBLIC place, and proceeded to take over the very tiny space I was using to hold our stuff. I mean, pushed my stuff out of the way. Ignored me when I said, politely, "Do you need some room, I can move this over?" Barely glanced at me after they flung my things to the ground, and let their children drip juice onto them. I edged over, saying loudly and clearly, "Let me just get my things out of your way."

My blood was boiling. I wanted to kill these women. Never in my short career as a Playground Mom had I seen such displays of rudeness. My baby girl started to fuss, so I changed her, put her in the stroller, and let her cry a little as I pushed it back and forth, keeping an eye on the other two kids. They ran up to me, needing towels, or juice, and we settled onto a nearby bench.

The very weirdest thing about THEIR behavior was that they were watching me. Brazenly watching me care for my daughter, splash with my niece, call out to my nephew. Giving me funny looks as I let my daughter cry it out in the stroller, when other moms might have said something supportive. I was fuming, and puzzled. Andrew could tell something was going on. As Caroline played, I told him what happened. "And what's with their clothes, anyway?" I said. "Who would wear that to a water playground?"

"Oh, they're moms, " he replied casually.

"So am I, and I'm wearing a bathing suit!"

"No, they're professional moms. Moms don't play with their kids, they just watch them. You're playing with us because you're not our mom. Babysitters and nannies play with kids. Moms just sit and watch and talk to each other."

I was stunned to silence. Moms don't play with their kids? Since when? "Your mom plays with you!" I cried.

"Yeah, but you and our Mom are different. You're not like those professional moms. You want me to go scare them and make them sorry they were mean to you?"

I truly considered it, but instead we retreated to the grassy picnic area for a snack.

Moments later the Fancy Moms huffed out of the water playground, throwing a darting look in our direction. Why make such a fuss, and be so rude, only to leave so soon? At least stay and use the space you forced me out of.

Andrew's words came back to me. Here I was, with three kids of different ages. You could tell by the way I spoke to Caroline and Andrew that they weren't mine. My daughter looks like she could be their sibling. And I was wearing grungy clothes, playing alongside the kids, putting a lot of effort into being with them...it struck me. They thought I was the nanny.

Holy shit, they thought I was the nanny. Who the hell are these women that they would treat a nanny this way? It made me dislike them all the more. Last week it was just me and Emily, and I was welcomed. Now I look like the nanny, and you're going to treat me like dirt and push my things to the ground?

The water playground is attached to another, larger, dry playground. We spent the rest of the day there, and so did the Professional Moms, in their Mitzy and Buffy outfits. They continued to watch me, and discuss me, and I ignored them, except to laugh a little in their direction.

As we piled into the car, the only non-minivan or SUV in the lot, they paused from loading their strollers and coolers, ignored their kids' whines, and openly watched me and the three kids get into my VW Jetta. No one with three kids would ever own a Jetta in this day and age and in my county. Not enough room! I think this sealed it for them. I had the nanny clothes, the nanny behavior, the nanny car.

Andrew could hardly contain himself as he watched the spectacle of grown women watching us. As we pulled out of the lot, I gave a jaunty wave. "Have a nice day!' I called to them through the open car window. Andrew began to cackle. I cracked up. We laughed long and hard, all the way home.

I am out of everything. I have no Qtips. I have no eye makeup remover. My husband has no razors. We have no grapes. We have no bread. We are down to only the pricey baby dry diapers we save for overnight use. In short, we are sad, sad people barely getting by in our house full of laptops (3), wireless internet, TIVO, and many, many other electronic devices.

Still, I am torn. I have a gift certificate for a manicure that expires tomorrow. I have coworkers who want to go to lunch. And I have an excellent discount beauty store nearby who has many of the things I am out of - except for grapes and bread, of course, but we can just gnaw on the frozen chicken to tide us over.

Also, I brought my daughter to work with my today - the absolute height of professionalism. It was not Bring Your Two Year Old to Work Day. It was, my mom is not at my house and oh-my-god-where-is-she-call-the-highway-patrol. So I threw some clothes on Em and threw her into the car, and gave her a stack of paper and some pencils and old labels to play with and apologized profusely to my boss, who was very cool about the whole thing. My mom, as it turned out, had overslept, and raced up to my office. But still. I'm heading towards mess here.

I think the only true solution is to order out (again) tonight, take an extra long lunch to accomplish my social and personal grooming needs, and punt on the other stuff. And have I mentioned that the Dark Days have returned to NJ?

Sun, oh, Sun, where art thou, Sun?

Where to start? I should begin at the beginning and end at the end, so says the Mad Hatter. So.

Well, I was wrong and you were right. I didn't want to go, really. I thought there was no one I was going to want to see. Instead, I have a list of people I missed, but I'm getting ahead of myself. I thought, oh I think I thought it didn't matter. I think I forgot.

In the past year or so I've noticed a falling away of things. I try to look my best, but I'm not constantly caring and worrying if I look okay. I know I look stupid when I dance, but so does everyone else. I don't replay every single conversation in my head ad infinitum. If this is getting older, bring it on. Since I'm not carrying around all this other crap, I can actually pay attention to what's right in front of my face.

What was in front of my face was the happiest accident/fate/choice I could ever have made, since it lead me in so many ways to other choices. As I mentioned in a previous post, I looked at colleges starting at age 15. I was a smart kid, not brilliant, but solidly smart, and I was serious minded, and I was a reader. I bought the Fiske Guide to Colleges on a trip to the mall one day during sophomore year of high school. My mother didn't know what to do with me. My father was secretly delighted, I think.

I gathered material from the various colleges that solicited me, and the ones I solicited. I made my first trip ever to look at a college in the spring of my junior year, to Tarrytown, NY. I liked the girls I met. They seemed nice, and smart, and interesting. I felt immediately at home. I stuck this impression in the back of my mind and looked at other schools, bigger schools, more impressive schools. I remember my guidance counselor at my college prep high school being very concerned with my choices. "You're not stretching yourself" she said. "You can get into all these schools, you need a reach school or two." But I didn't want a reach school. I wanted a school where I fit in.

I wasn't seriously considering Marymount, but I went up for the weekend in the fall of my senior year anyway. I stayed overnight in the dorms, and attended classes. I can still remember walking into the room and meeting, for the first time, my kindred spirit. We clicked immediately, and we realized last night that we have known each other half of our lives. Incredible.

After that weekend, Molly and I kept in touch. When I got accepted, I called her up and told her I was going. I don't remember thinking this out, so I'm going to say it was a spur of the moment decision. I knew I wanted to go there, and I wanted her to be my roommate. I did and we were, and the rest of our lives together is history of the happiest kind, marrying college friends and having daughters six months apart, and supporting each other in good times and bad.

What I didn't know then and what I only knew for sure much later, was that I didn't pick a normal college, and that I didn't go with facts, but with pure gut. This is my ultimate lesson on trusting myself, because on paper Marymount was not necessarily the best or first choice, but in practice, it was nearly perfect. My dad is an organized guy, something we share, and when we went on these numerous college visits he had a sheet we filled out. It contained things like student teacher ratio, class size, number of students, percentage who stayed on campus during the weekends, and spaces to make comments on the physical plant, food, dorm rooms. My mom and I insisted on another category, one he completely objected to. It was simply, "warm fuzzy" or "cold prickly". What vibe did we get from the place and the people we met?

There's no way to quantify that, but everyone knows it when they feel it. It's what makes you like one person more than another, choose one suitor over another. That guy may look good on paper, but you have no chemistry, while the slightly less "perfect" person gets your jokes. My mom and I rated every school on this scale, and no matter how impressive they looked on paper, they went into the "no" pile if we felt there was even a slight "cold prickly".

The week before graduation, the religious sisters who founded and ran our college held an event for us. It was their chance to say goodbye. Right before it concluded, we gathered in a circle and they prayed for us. Sounds slightly hokey, but it was deeply moving for me. It was then, and only then, that I realized these women lived in community, and that we had been accepted, for our stay, in their community. Sr. Ellie, an amazing professor and completely unsentimental person, told us that they had prayed for us every day we were there, and that they would continue to do so. We had a home with them, always.

The concept of home is so strong that people cross oceans and continents to find it, have children, marry, divorce, and remarry, all in search of it. Home is where you belong. Home is where you are loved. Home is where you are welcomed. Not all of us have it with our families, so we create it with friends or partners. We seek it out in strange cities and new houses. We sing and write about it, and we miss it.

My college was unique in many ways. It was small; I attended honors classes with four people in them. It was beautiful, situated on prime real estate overlooking the Hudson River. It was independent from the Church, but retained Catholic values of community, social justice, and education. It was for women, almost unheard of now. It was tight knit but not stifling. It was run by accomplished women who were educated far beyond the norm for their time, and in turn produced women who blazed trails and broke barriers. It was not limited to one thing, or idea, or controlled by a male-dominated-centuries-old hierarchy, and neither were we. For almost 100 years, it produced leaders.

Next year is the hundredth anniversary, and the last graduating class. Marymount will close her doors forever after the Class of 2007 is added to the 10,000 living alumnae. We will celebrate with a gala, cry at graduation, make the trip up for Founder's Day. And I will do this with my classmates, the women I wasn't sure about seeing. Like I said, I've started to allow the other stuff to fall away. That's my only excuse for doubting. The women I had the privilege of reconnecting with are friends of the future, not the past. They were indeed worth remembering, but more importantly, they are worth getting to know again.

It may sound strange, but I am not the first nor the last women to say these things about my school. Across generations,we find each other saying the same thing. We find ourselves heading into the cocktail hour unsure, but meeting glances and starting to smile, ending the night fast friends, laughing, dancing, promising to see each other next year, to keep in touch. We fall over ourselves just to say that we are sorry we don't email, but we still think about you all the time - and yes! I remember. I feel the same way! Really? Where was I when that happened? Oh, tell me more.

We find ourselves home, and home is where you can be yourself. It's not a permanent love fest - maybe we never liked her and still don't. But maybe we never really knew her, and now we have the chance.

It's a long story. But it's not over. And, tonight, that's what I know for sure.

Today is my ten year college reunion. I am going. I'm a little hungover from my night of unadulterated rock and roll. I danced like no one was watching, but sadly, they were. Anyway, it was a good time. They play such an amazing show, every time around. They just throw themselves into it, and you throw yourself right back at them. Marah did their latest blend of "Tyrone" and "Babba O'Reilly", my favorite Who song, and I really really love The Who. I'm glad no emotions except happiness hit me last night, but they are all crowding in this morning.

The Who reminds me of my college boyfriend (happily married, happy we didn't get married, happy all around) and because I'm going back over the Tappan Zee, I am remembering some friends who I don't know anymore.

I got out of college two wonderful friends. Really wonderful friends. Ten years later, we still have a great time together. I can ask them for anything. I feel very lucky to have them in my life. I know I shouldn't go back, and one of them always tells me not to, and if you're reading this, Mol, I'm sorry. I can't help it. I miss her.

We were friends with Sarah from the very first creative writing class freshman year. We were friends with her through thick and thin, right up to the day her husband died from a drug overdose at 31. My age now. 8 years ago. We were friends when her father-in-law died that March, six months later, from a broken heart over losing his only son. We were friends when her mom died after a 3 year fight with bone cancer that May. (Yes, three major deaths in less than a year.) Then we stopped being friends.

Oh, she still kept in touch. She bowed out of being a bridesmaid in my wedding, but she came to the ceremony. We wrote, we talked. We saw each other a few times. She just got more and more distant. She stopped contact with Michelle, then Molly, and finally me. I got a letter from her a few years ago - before we moved into this house, I think. I wrote her recently, I wanted her to know I had a daughter. Me, I had a girl! And I named her Emily, like I always said I would. I haven't heard from her, and I don't expect to. I just wish we still knew each other. I wish it had turned out differently. I wish I could move on and forget it all, but I can't. I won't let go. I think you have a few remarkable friends in your life, and you hold onto them through anything.

When I think about my two remarkable friends, I know I won't let them go. No matter what, I would stay and wait it out for them. And they, in turn, have forgiven me things, and stood by me. So how can I let Sarah go, even though she has hurt me with her silence? Should you give up hope, close off that piece of your heart, stop caring?

Eventually I will stop caring, I'm sure, since hearts harden all the time. But still mine is open. I'm not the cynic I want to be. I'm the girl on the other end of the phone line, laughing with her friend. I'm the woman at her laptop, remembering when. I'm the friend who said I'd always be there.

And you, dear readers, who do you remember that you'd rather not?

As you can see, I'm redecorating the place. Ignore the tarps, they'll go away soon. And the colors will look great on the walls! Trust me.

In the meantime, go here and read this article

My local paper may be fish wrap, but it does have one thing right.

"Prepare for a long, sweaty, unadulterated night of soulful rock 'n' roll at the Pony."

And that, friends, is my Friday night. Not to rub it in, but I'm also getting sushi beforehand. Aren't you jealous?

And please, if haven't heard Marah yet, I'll send you a CD. No, really. Email me. I'll mail it Monday. You don't want to go through life NOT listening to them (says the crazed fan).

A few years ago I worked for a woman who had Seasonal Affective/Depression Disorder. It was not some minor case, like getting the winter blues. She had a major problem. In the 1980's she went to live at the NIH for months while they studied her. She was one of the first people in the country to be diagnosed with this, and it was because of her involvement that they even came to diagnose people with SAD or SDD.

She started with us in the summer, and as fall approached our suspicions and fears increased. We were worried, but in a very sneaky, snarky way. Our offices overlooked Times Square, and we would often sit in her office for morning meetings, even if she wasn't there. One morning we were having bagels and coffee when a package arrived. Being the good employees that we were, we opened it. It was a huge sun lamp. I mean a HUGE sun lamp. Something for tanning, maybe. Or perhaps recreating the Caribbean at noon. My coworker looked at at the lamp, and back at the two of us sitting there, mouths agape. "It's going to be a fun winter" he said, grimly. We cracked up.

Today I broke down and pulled out the black pants for work and the three-quarter length top I'd bought on sale for the fall. I wore them with high heeled sandals, but still. These are fall clothes. Maybe early spring. I had high hopes for lunchtime, even optimistically taking out my sunglasses. As I stepped outside, theatric hair flip and sunglasses poised, I noticed my car was completely blocked in by a bus. A big bus. And then it started to pour.

I eventually managed to crawl my way out of the parking lot - oh, by the way, I love driving to work. I feel so spunkily suburban driving to work. It's still a novelty to me after 7 years of train commuting. I feel like someone in a movie. It's the little things. Anyway, I went and got a nice pedicure because I thought that might work. A nice pedicure can fix almost anything.

After I uselessly slogged throughout the remainder of my work day - and I do mean uselessly, I should not be paid for the time I spent talking about my possible Disney vacation or good beach books to take on a cruise - I ventured out again to the parking lot. And it was sunny. Blindingly sunny. I felt like a mole, blinking against it, picking my way across the lot. My car was hot and gross and dampish, the after-rain-but-new-sun feel. The sky looked fresh. And there was sun.

...it makes no difference who you are, because you will go nuts.

Hi, my name is EDW and I am a crazy. As in, "Mommy, why is that lady acting like that?" "She's a crazy, honey. Stay away."

I am a self-professed researchaholic. I actually enjoy looking things up. I like stacks of books on one subject littering my bedside table, couch, or kitchen counter. When I get a little down, I start doing research to amuse myself. I can plan a weekend away for you in a flash on a bad day at work. I will find you the best place to stay after looking at so many websites my eyes hurt. Need info on moving cross country? No problem. Grad program? I'm there.

Recently I got it in my head that we should go to Disney World. At first I thought we should go next year, when Emily is closer to three, or even after her birthday. I was going to be very magnanimous and invite the grandparents and even extend it to my brother-in-law and sister-in-law. (Not that extending it to any of them is a burden, far from it.) I had this plan of a lovely, well thought out family vacation. A Big Trip.

I ran into some snafus almost immediately, and I got a little pissed and a little annoyed. Did I confront the problem? Not so much. Instead, I did research. I spent hours on the Disney website and any other website that I could find with Disney park info. I searched preschooler itineraries. I discussed it with coworkers. I phoned friends. I posted questions. I bought books.

I also officially qualify as a stalker on the Disney World website. I shudder to think what their site counter tells about me.

If you're not into the movies, or the parks, or the corporation, you might not get it. Rest assured, it's not about Disney, per se, it's about the power of research unleashed on the vast wealth of information out there on this particular type of vacation. You have no idea how many books, websites, user groups, or personal conversations you can sample on the subject of a trip to Walt Disney World. People spend less time looking at colleges. (Not me, I started looking when I was 15, but that shouldn't surprise you by now.)

However, I am less crazy than the people who write The Unofficial Guide to Walt Disney World. Don't believe me? Go ahead, read it. When you are lying on the couch with a cold washcloth on your head muttering, don't say I didn't warn you. I have never ever seen research like this. I don't know whether to applaud or be scared.

Of course, no man (woman) is an island, so I have to share this wealth of information with someone. After a full on assault of five days, my husband has given up, and is reading the aforementioned Unofficial Guide, chuckling to himself.

It's not that I want to go to Disney RIGHT NOW. It's more that it's June, and it's raining out, and I'm annoyed about something. This refocuses me. This gives me something to do when it's June and it's raining out, because hello! Did you not get the memo? It's summer, it's the Jersey shore, and I am not liking the dark days. They make me want to eat big bowls of pasta, when I should be grilling and buying new sandals. For summer. Which it is. Except it's raining. And I'm singing "Rain in the Summertime" by the Clash, and I do not love to feel the rain on my face.

So, yeah. Here we are. You need a trip planned? I'm your girl. I've got the specials on Disney all lined up. Call me.