The World According to EDW

First off, a couple of things. My friend Jodi is vastly prettier than she looks in the drunk-in-a-parking-lot-in-Jersey-on-a-100-degree-day picture currently on my blog. Also, she is witty and intelligent and she gives me beer and I love her. And soon I will write a post just for her using a lyric from Steely Dan, which leads me nicely into this post...

When I'm in a bad mood, I listen to music. When I'm in a good mood, I listen to music. When I'm bored...well, I listen to music all the time, actually.

There are a few emotions I can't keep up. Angry. Bitter. I can work on annoyed for a while. However, I tend to default to sad, disappointed, hurt, sympathetic, or empathetic if faced with a negative emotion. Girly emotions for a girly girl. You have to really piss me off to make me angry at you for longer than an hour. It can be done, but it takes work. I'm just not bitter and unhappy. I can't do cynical for a second. I have way too much hope piled up inside for cynical.

This morning when I got in the car, I needed to hear something that always puts me in the right mood. This is one of my favorite songs of all time, because it works when I'm happy and when I'm angry. It works all year long. It works especially well today, because not only did I play it this morning, but I was standing in the line at the deli getting a very exciting lunch special and it was playing. And let me tell you, that was the best sandwich I've had in ages.

I could quote you line after line in this song. I could sing the whole thing to you right now. Each lyric reminds me of someone or something else, but the entire song is just mine, all mine. It's got this lovely little taste of bitter, it's got the guitar, it's got everything, floating out the window on a hot summer day.

My sensitivity renders me a forgiver, and that can be good stuff. I try to see the other side. I try to understand. It's not so extreme that I get stepped on, and I have my limits - my you're-dead-to-me list. My mom has joked about that list for years. However, I'm at the point in my life where a big angry song isn't me. Anger doesn't do anything good for me. But I can still tell you what you're missing. I can still point out the very obvious - you're a fool. And this brings me back to Jodi. She's had some family shit slung around lately. And so this post, that line, is for her as well as for me. The new policy is in effect, babe. Them and the horse they rode in on.

There was a time in my life when I listened to quite a bit of Sophie B Hawkins. It was the same era of Tori Amos in the CD changer, and Jann Arden, Indigo Girls, Sarah McLachlan, Tracy Chapman - is there someone from the Lilith Fair tour I've missed? Well, I listened to them, too.

When I heard the title song years later, I used to feel sad for the friend it reminded me of. I'm a terribly sensitive person - I wish I could shut it off sometimes. I get ridiculously hurt by things. I'm not proud of this. If I could take away anything, it would be my sensitivity. Why do I care? Why can't I just say, fuck it? Oh, I can say it, I say it all the time. But I still feel it.

I hate crying. Does anyone like crying? I prefer to sob, alone, in the car with music going. I hate the struggle between holding it in and shoving it down, and airing it out. Let them see me cry? Never.

I feel stupid explaining it, I feel stupid admitting it in the abstract. I want to take it all and put it away somewhere, very far, and distant, and soldier on and not let it matter and use my rational brain which is saying over and over again, "it's nothing, it's nothing, it's nothing." While my heart is saying "but it hurts, it hurts, it hurts."

It could be something big, it could be something little. Chances are, you'll never know you hurt me. I'll go light and breezy, I'll walk away. I've got a good show - you should see it sometimes. Wait. You probably already have.

It never fails. Whether it's a fight with my husband, or a misunderstanding with a friend, or something my mom said that cut me, I feel like a fool. A fool for caring, a fool for letting it touch me anywhere.

I try to seek my ports, I do. I have hunkered down in the embrace of so many friends, stretching across miles and telephone lines. I have poured my heart out and tried not to cry. I have called sobbing. I have begged a friend to go into a darkened theater with me. I have sent the emails that sound vague and pathetic to my ears.

I try to remember the universal experience. Everyone feels shitty about things sometimes, right? Like deleting an email, I try not to go over it. And I try to remember what a friend said to make me feel better. Because it helped, it really did.

Still, I haven't found that thing that takes it away. I feel crappy, and I feel disappointed, and I feel hurt, and I feel like a fool for feeling that way, and I'm going to walk into your life with a smile on, because that's what I do. I'll walk in, believing two things - one, something could make this go away, and two, you don't need to know about it. It gets me nowhere, I know, nowhere good.

Eventually time will work its magic, but until then I'll carry this sorrow around with me, a package under my arm, hoping someone will come take it from me. Hoping that I'll hear the words that change everything, whatever those words are this time. Hoping that someone besides me can make it all better. I told you I was a fool.

The good news is I get to stay in NJ. And I got drunk, which is always good news, in my book. We came very early to tailgate, and we sat in the sun, drinking, making friends with the girls next to us...go see the pics if you like. We talked about some good stuff. I'm such an expert faker, it's nice not to have to fake it with a friend.

We had tickets near the right hand of God. I hate stadium seating. I freak out walking up and down to my seats. At baseball games, I stay put. I don't need a hotdog or a drink. I don't want to take a walk. I'm so happy to have made it up the stairs, I never want to go back down.

At concerts, everyone is always moving. There's no inning to depend on. We were on the aisle, so my other stadium phobia was solved - no climbing over people while teetering slightly and trying not to fall over the edge of the universe. I hear some people pay lots of money and sit where the ground is relatively flat. Must be nice.

The only other time I've seen a crush of people so happy to be there was for Bruce. I mean, this crowd was happy. They were smiley, they were polite, they were friendly as all get-out. They had the tshirts, they had the pins (pins? I didn't know about pins) they had necklaces, and visors, and baseball caps...and holy shit, this is how his kids go to their fancy private school - merchandise!

I'm all about the cheese. Mostly in older performers, like Barry, and Neil, and Tom, who have had decades to perfect their showmanship. Jon Bon Jovi is a showman, but for the love of God, he is a cheeseball. He is cheesier than Barry Manilow, and in case you doubt me, take my friend Jodi's word for it. Barry Manilow knows he's being cheesy, he jokes about it. Jon is serious about his hand-reaching-out-to-the-crowd thing, earnest in his facial expressions. Jon is so cheesy he is a jalapeno cheeseball (because it's hot, get it?) - maybe the kind rolled in nuts your mom buys for Christmas. I almost felt sorry for him, then I remembered his piles of money and smoking hot body.

We came, we saw, we sang...and we got the hell out of there before the encore. And yes, I'm wearing a Journey shirt in those pictures. We had some great tailgate food - chicken wings and Blue Moons. Have you had a Blue Moon? Oh, they are yummy. Go have one right now.

I think the legions of fans, including the family in front of us whose two boys had tails (this is not common in NJ, people, it's only them in a time-warp) enjoyed the show. I think they thought it was rockin'. I know better musicians and better live music, and for that I am thankful.

But in case you doubt my good time, here's a picture of me drunk:


Doesn't that look like fun?

I was in 7th grade when I discovered music.

Before that, I listened to what my parents listened to: The Beatles, Aerosmith, Steely Dan, AC/DC, Bachman Turner Overdrive, Billy Joel, Barry Manilow, Neil Diamond, Bob Seger, Kenny Rodgers, Eddie Money, Springsteen, John Cougar (as he was known then), Huey Lewis, Journey, Sergio Mendez, Brazil 66, Herb Albert, Chuck Berry, Chicago, Cream, Eric Clapton, Weather Report, Herbie Mann, Steve Miller Band, Barry White, Lou Rawls, Kiss, The Monkees, and always classical music - Beethoven, Bach, Wagner.

In 7th grade, I walked around Leonardo, NJ, with my friend Carolyn, from her house to the "Junction", where the pizza plaza was. We strolled around on summer nights, and we sang songs. It was her older brother Brian who first introduced me to The Cure, and I remember the happy daze I lived in, sure that my music was infinitely cooler than that of my classmates. I also remember the sheer disappointment I felt when, in 10th grade, I went to my first Cure concert and saw the popular girls there. Somehow what had kept me apart from the crowd had become the crowd favorite.

1986-1987 was the year I heard not only The Cure, but The Smiths, Depeche Mode, the B-52's and anyone and everyone else they played on "college" radio stations. Alternative music was not mainstream yet, and I loved it. It felt like a secret club that I lucked into. I borrowed his records and tapes and made copies. I signed up for 'zines. I put a little black into my wardrobe. I felt so cool, at 14, with cropped leggings and black ballet flats and my jean jacket.

This was also the dawn of hair bands, and my other friend, Julianna, made sure I listened to them with her. We played Poison, Whitesnake, Metallica, Anthrax, Van Halen, and so many others.

The one band that both the college radio fans and the hair band girls listened to was Bon Jovi. Here was the boy who made it good. Here was the guy from Sayreville, only a few towns north of us, that was playing to sold-out crowds. We watched the videos non-stop. He was gorgeous. He was sexy. He had the coolest acid washed jeans we'd ever seen.

Sure, there were kids who were too cool for Bon Jovi. But not in 1987. Here in NJ, in 1987, no one nowhere was too cool for Bon Jovi. We call it arena rock now, and you can buy cd's from infomercials. Back then, we had Friday Night videos, and I taped MTV for my girlfriends. None of us went to see him, all the way to the Meadowlands. But we watched the "Wanted Dead or Alive" video and felt like we were there.

I never thought Jon Bon Jovi would survive the 80's. I never thought I'd listen to him again, once I graduated 8th grade and went into my preppy high school, and stuck to my alternative music. I thought he was a joke, like those acid washed jeans. Every now and then, he would show up in a movie, and I watched just for him. Then he was on Ally McBeal, and oh my, I don't know a girl who didn't watch that for him.

Somehow, he made it back. He kept working, he reinvented himself, and he's a local hero again in my town. He never stopped being hot, of course - the man is smokin'. A few years ago, I was at a John Mellencamp concert, and Jon Bon Jovi walked out to sing "Pink Houses" in a pair of jeans, a white tshirt, and a cowboy hat. He looked like a fantasy come to life.

Tonight I get to keep my membership in the Jersey Girl club. Tonight I get to cold drink beers in a hot parking lot. Tonight I'm going to sing along to "Never Say Goodbye" with my girlfriend, not the same one from 7th grade, but the one who's always up for a good time with me. We're going to feel like kids - if not 13 year olds, than at least 18 year olds. We'll be a little buzzed, a little silly, huge smiles on our face as we belt out the cheesiest lyrics our hometown boy has to offer. We'll drool over his body, sigh over his smile, and chatter the whole way home. It's not that different from walking back along Leonardville Road, arms linked, knowing that somehow nothing can take this moment away from us.

Perhaps it was due to my daughter's birthday. It's strange to think that two years ago I gave birth to a child, who is walking and talking and thinking and being. I still can't get my mind around the whole concept.

Whatever the reason, I've found myself examining different aspects of my life. I've aired many lingering fears and doubts and insecurities on this blog lately. I feel like it's been therapy for me, so sorry to the five of you who read it - your payment is forthcoming. As I write about each thing, I let a part of it go. Maybe I'll end up with only the parts I want to keep. Can anyone be so lucky as to do that?

My guiding and secret shame is that someone once told me I was too intense. Of course, this was a guy I had a crush on, and his opinion deflated me. Ever since then, I've been afraid of coming off that way. I express myself very directly, and I'm passionate about certain things - the things I'm passionate about. It is intense? Hell, yes, it is. But without that passion, what are you left with?

I'm an empty shell of a person without my loves and hates, my likes and dislikes. I'm no different than any other woman out there. I'm a lot of "justs" then. Just a mom, just an employee, just a wife, just a daughter, just a friend.

For a short while in my life, I was happy to be a "just". I sort of buried the things that made me stand out in a crowd. I stopped walking to the middle of the metaphorical room, and I hung in the corners. Who did I save with this action? No one. Who did I hurt? Myself.

And in the end, it doesn't matter what a guy said so many years ago. This is what I have now - a life filled with passion. As many interesting people as I have time to meet and know. New friends around every corner. A world of possibilities in front of me. A summer night, driving with all the car windows down, music that speaks to my soul blaring from the windows. Maybe it's true what they sing, maybe we just don't need no more. In this moment, I'm not a success or failure, a label, boxed in by descriptions and titles, or concerned with what anyone else thinks of me. In this moment, I am myself, and it feels good.

Nothing in my life could have prepared me for this love.

I thought it was over, you see. I thought I was done falling, and falling again. I thought my heart was neatly parceled out, settled. I was very happy. I was content. I was not looking for sleepless nights and songs that made my heart sing. I never imagined the devotion I would feel.

It was hard-won, our love, and I'll forever respect you for that. You did not gaze into my eyes and pledge your life to me. You waited to get to know me, and I, you. We circled each other, needing each other, not needing each other. You let others in so much more easily. You had your reasons. But once we fell, it was complete, and nothing could get in our way.

For you I will kill bugs so they don't eat you. For you I will make up silly songs. For you I will do laundry. You make me want to be a better me, and isn't that what true love is supposed to do? It does make your heart grow wider, it does expand your vision and scope, as it is meant to. True love brings you out in the world, not into a room. With you I realized that my home was not enough, that doing for my own was nice, but that there was more in the world. When you first came into my life, I thought time had passed me by for certain things, that some dreams were over. But you have made me realize that my job is not to sit in a corner, but to stand in the middle of a room.

I don't need to be your only. That's not good for you or me. I can share you, more each day, more each year. But you will always be my one, my true, and I will be yours forever.

Happy birthday, baby girl.

I wish I liked people more readily. I think it would make me a nicer person. I'm not super selective or anything, it's not big honor to be my friend - oh, how tiresome would that be to keep up? But generally if I like you, I like you. There are some things you can do to turn the tide from "buddy" to "you're off my list". Here's my deal breakers and dealmakers.

What I can't stand:

The obvious
Bigots - you know the basics; racism, sexism, homo-phobs, etc. I really have no time for this shit. Keep it to yourself. And don't ever, ever say anything around my kid. If you so much as mimic a "fairy" to refer to a gay man, you do not see my child anymore. My favorite is a toss up between people who know me really well and do this anyway, or people who have no idea of my background and decide I must be white enough to accept racial comments as funny.

History deniers - Let's say that I am single, independently wealthy, and desperate to get married and have kids. I finally meet a man who isn't a gold digger, is good and kind, and I think he's the one. One night we are out to dinner and I mention that I liked Schindler's List, and he says it was good but mostly made up. I ask what he means, thinking the story of Schindler himself may have been altered, and instead he tells me the Holocaust was Jewish propaganda. His ass is to the door so fast he doesn't know what hit him. I'd rather die old and friendless than associate with those people.

The less obvious
Self-centered people - I'm interested in other people, and I accept that not everyone is. Your loss. But there's a line between more interested in self than others, and completely self-centered. This is one of my major pet peeves. You know the type. It's all about them. It all goes back to them. They'll help you out, but only if it doesn't inconvenience them. They'll be your friend only when the attention or focus is on them. You're sort of arm or brain candy. They don't see it this way, of course, but the thought of them seeing anyone else's side is laughable. They have friends and family, and they usually compensate in some other way for this character flaw, so people continue to like them. This stretches over all races and religions, I've noticed, but I have also noted that people who fancy themselves world-huggers are often incredibly self-centered.

Those living out if integrity - This covers a variety of things. People who cheat on their taxes, of course. People who borrow money with no intent of returning it. People who aren't honest in their life dealings. People who lie as a matter of course. It's often a lot of little things, and we're all out of intergrity in some way, but some of us try not to be, and others just rationalize it away.

Anyone who callously hurts someone I love. You're off the list.


What I love:

People who can admit when they are wrong. Is there anything more endearing, respectable, or even sexy?

People who can laugh at themselves. Ditto.

People who give me spontaneous hugs and don't let me go like I'm a hot potato. Generally, I'm not going to ask for a hug if I need one, but I love it when someone sees what's going on and reaches out to me.

People who are honest about their lives. There's so much bs out there, I appreciate anyone who tells the truth about their experience on this planet.

Men who can ask for directions.

Women who can read maps.

Anyone who stands up for what's right, speaks out when it's wrong, and works, in their own way, to make things better.

People who aren't afraid to give compliments. Real compliments.

People who give second chances. Everybody needs a second chance at least once.

People who forgive. Especially people who forgive me.

People who make me laugh.

People who can cook. It's such a pleasure to sit down to a meal someone made for you.

Friends who will drink with me, go out at the last minute, and stay out late.

Good conversationalists, who will talk about anything, anywhere, anytime. It's never boring being around them. You never run out of things to say.

Music lovers. No, the music-obsessed. Music isn't nice, it's major in their lives.

Story-tellers, who add lots of details, and can make a nothing into a something.

People who always have something nice or positive to say. This is so not me, and I admire it in others.

Those who dance if there's music on. Even if it's in their seat. I can't sit still if music is playing, and it's nice to have someone along for the ride.

Anyone who puts themself out there. I can be shy, I can hesitate, but if someone's meeting me halfway, I'm all there.


As I was writing this, I realized how many of the things I love are embodied by the people in my life. And those people are going to be laughing at the last bit, claiming I'm not shy at all. But that's okay. It wouldn't hurt me to laugh at myself, too.

It must be the booze. I haven't been drinking lately, through no fault of my own, and I find myself with all these deep, dark thoughts. Isn't it drink that makes you dark? How can sobriety make you less light?

Yesterday my friend K. found out the guy she's been with in some capacity for 5 years is seeing someone else.

Tonight I got a call from F., whose soon-to-be-ex-husband is having a child with another woman. Their divorce is not final yet. They didn't break-up years ago, they broke up a few months ago. While she tries to put her life back together, he's off finding a girlfriend and calling her his wife.

The saddest part about both of these situations is that I could have predicted this behavior. I'm surprised, but I'm not surprised. Both of the offenders in this case happen to be men, but it's not about men versus women. It's about this thing we call love, this elusive thing we seek, pin down, fight over, break up over when it proves too weak, commit ourselves to when it seems strong.

I know the title song evokes roller-rinks and funny hair and outfits but it seemed pretty apt tonight. The struggle of do you want me-don't you want me, are we good for each other-are we tearing each other apart. The I love you - you love me -but we can't be together.

On the phone with K. today, I was reliving every horrible icky situation I've ever been part of. I was sometimes on the receiving end and sometimes on the giving end of the ickiness, and I know what this guy is doing, and I know why he's doing it to her. And I know why she can't walk away so easily, because I've been there. Only I was the cruel, thoughtless one, hoping what I did would just sail through, what I had before would fade away. It's not that easy.

I was also the one who never closed a door, never said never. I kept my heart, little pieces of it, open for far too long for men who didn't deserve it, or had already moved on themselves. I put stock in intentions not worth my heart. I hung on for things that were never going to appear. I hoped, I wished, I believed. Who among us didn't?

It both breaks my heart and makes me angry that these women who thought they had found what they were looking for are finding themselves starting over. Not even marriage lasts forever for some. We try so hard for this love, this one person to complete us, make us happy, put up with our idiosyncrasies. We find the one, or the one we think is the one, or we hope is the one. Maybe we marry, maybe we commit, maybe we pine. But there are no guarantees.

My friend J thinks the idea of a soul mate is ridiculous. She thinks that it's who you meet at a particular time and place in your life that you end up with, and there could be another person out there for you. Several other people, in fact.

I believed for a long time in soul mates, but my spin was that they weren't necessarily the person you married. Then I believed in J.'s theory. Then I read a National Geographic article about love being chemical. There's attraction, chemistry, and all those chemicals that get you in lust, through a fight, to the stage of having a baby and weaning it. This lasts about 4 years, or at least through the first child. After that it, if the relationship survives, the love deepens and is based on friendship, not lust. According to the article, of course.

This theory sort of sucks in my opinion. It's depressing. It's not the bill of goods I was sold. But none of the others work for me either. I think love is a choice in many respects. I think attraction is chemical. I think we can decide to make things work or leave, depending on what our situation is like. I think you never go wrong following your heart. It might be hard, it might be painful, but you'll be true to yourself.

I wish I had an answer, or advice. I should, I've been through the stuff K's going through. I should be able to help her out even if I so clearly can't help F. But I got nothing. When I first got married, I thought I had it figured out. I thought it was going to be easy. I thought wrong. Just when it seems my friends are happy and settled, something else overturns. I wish it was easy. I wish it was like the fairytales. I wish I could do more than just listen.

Anyone out there have any ruling theories on love?

Recently a friend told me I was better looking now than I was ten years ago. I'm not sure I believe him. Oh, I trust he means it, but I'm not sure I agree.

When I was in high school, my friend's dad told me I was no beauty queen. Those were his words, exactly. "You're no beauty queen" he bellowed, and I remember answering him back smartly, snottily. I don't remember what preceded it, but I remember what followed. My friends were pretty shocked. They all just sort of looked at him. My mom, who wasn't there, was irate. "What kind man says that to a kid?" she asked. "To a young girl? Asshole."

He was an asshole, and I never put much stock into what he thought. I never put much stock into what girls were supposed to look like, for that matter. I cared about styles and clothes and hair and makeup, but not about body image or size. I'm not a skinny girl - I never was. I was, in fact, the perfect weight for me, all through high school, but compared to the tiny little things...well, I was huge. I was inches taller, my feet were bigger (people are still stunned by my size 10's), my whole bone structure was bigger.

I wish I could say I accepted myself and embraced my body in high school, but I sadly wasn't that evolved. I did realize that I was never going to compete with those girls, so I made up my mind that I would be different. If you liked me, I decided, it was because you had different tastes. You didn't go for conventional. You might be a bit quirky yourself. Oh, and it was my personality you liked, my body was an after-thought.

I do think I'm attractive. Sometimes I think I'm downright hot. But then I see a picture, and decide I must be wrong, I'm not as good looking as I thought. Better in my head. But I love my body. I think it's sexy and I can be sexy and confident in it, as long as I'm not compared to anyone else. Anyone skinny, or tiny, or on the cover of a magazine. My theory has helped me be more confident in my skin, say fuck it, if you like me, you like me, if you don't, you don't. Your loss.

My husband thinks I'm beautiful. But you know, he kind of has to. Every boyfriend I've ever had has been complimentary about my looks; my body, my face, my hair, always my hair. The compliments make me feel good, but they don't convince me. I think they're deluded by love or passion or fooled by my charm.

"You're not that charming, that you can fool people into thinking you're better looking than you are", my friend has suggested in the past. I think he's deluded, too. I think he thinks well of me, and is used to thinking that way, so he doesn't notice the changes wrought in my body. "Maybe you should look at some full length body shots, maybe you need to see my ass", I say. "Maybe you're just focusing on my face and missing the rest of me".

He sighs, and says, yeah sure, whatever. It's tiresome, this conversation. There's no convincing me. I want to hang onto the theory I developed at the age of 16. It's comfortable, and I'm good at explaining it. It sits well with me. It does its job, too, of protecting me, never getting my hopes up, reminding me where I stand. If I let it go, change my opinion of myself, what would happen? Would I get hurt? Would I feel like a fool? There's no telling. I have to be a lioness, protect that girl, that 16 year old. But what about the 31 year old woman? At what cost to her?

I have a decision to make in the next day. I don't want to make it. I want to fly by the seat of my pants, see how I feel. I like going with that. I like waking up and making the decision. I like last minute choices. I'm always encouraging friends to do this - here's my cell, I'll say. Call me if you feel like coming out tonight. No pressure, just do what you feel like doing.

This was one of the hardest things about my old job, the forced drudgery. There was so much paper! Papers to read (good), papers to fill out (bad), papers to file (very bad). What I like about this job is the forced drudgery is over quickly. The papers are miniscule. Well, at least they're easily filed. The coworkers are chatty. But not too chatty, or at least able to be silenced, because what I do directly affects their work. It's not Mensa-level, what I do. It's more Miss Congeniality, because my biggest skill at my job right now is being nice to people.

As I go through my work day, I end it with a decision to be made. Do I go to Pittsburgh at the end of the month? Do I travel to see an event I'm sort of ambivalent about? Will I be okay alone with Nick's aunt, his dad's cousin, and his cousin's wife for the seven hour drive? Is it really seven hours?, I asked Nick. Yep, he said. No way around it. I can't imagine being in the car seven hours with three people not related to me. I love the cousin and wife. They're totally cool. I love the aunt, but this is not my family. This is Nick's family. Do I miss a day of work, beg my mom to take Emily?

When we first received this invitation, my mind was made up. We can't do this, I said, and put it in my To-Do drawer, to remember to email Aunt Eileen and tell her no. When I was at the party a few weeks ago, it was the topic of conversation. Somehow I found myself wishing aloud I could go, and being offered a ride and a hotel room. Jeez. I don't even think I was drinking.

As it turns out, days later, I can't go. Work, for one, but more importantly, I have a dad I can't let down. I can't bear to cancel on him. I don't want to hurt his feelings, make him feel like he's less important. So I'm not going.

Now I find myself disappointed. I wanted an adventure. I tried to find a way around it, solve the problem by throwing a little money I don't have its way. But there was nothing to be done. It was an impossibilty from the start.

Instead I have another adventure planned, a different fork in the road.

Reflecting on my mood yesterday, I think I probably needed a shot of dark chocolate and a bottle of wine. Instead I had non-stop Billie Holiday, poetry, and some lovely friends who amused me in the most charming ways. And a surprise.

As I pulled into the driveway of my friend's house, I noticed a man on the back of a truck. He was tall, hair pulled back into a ponytail, and something rang a bell. I know she has people working on her house, so I dismissed it. I finally maneuvered my car into a spot on the driveway, so as not to block him but not to be out on the street either. As I got Emily out of the car, I noticed the man was talking to my friend's husband. Weird, I thought. Still, something about him looked familiar.

I started towards the garage, to greet my friend and her husband, and stopped dead in my tracks. The man was my friend Marc, my friend from when I was 11 or 12 up through high school. We fell into that thing you do with people who were important to you but who you haven't seen in a while. We hugged, we exclaimed. Two years ago, when I was pregnant with Emily, we ran into each other at a local jewelry store. He was buying the ring for his fiancee, and I was with my mom doing something or other. Then, we were both at the beginning of big life changes - marriage and children. It was a strange chance meeting that we never followed up on.

We walked into the house, talking and talking about what was going on, who we knew, reaching back to remember, Bill and Sandra with us, my other friends sitting in the kitchen with questions on their faces. This time, we said, we'll keep in touch. This time is a sign - how random is this? How weird is this? As it turns out, Marc was there because he and Bill, my friend's husband, are good friends from high school. Since Marc and I knew each other from summer camp, we didn't know all of each other's school friends, only when paths crossed into theater.

What I remember about Marc is the smile in his eyes, how he was always there with a shoulder or ear, me opening the door to my surprise 16th birthday party and seeing his face first, followed by all my friends. Marc with a video camera, taping the whole thing. How good he was at lighting design and everything else theater related, how generous he was with hugs. I remember it made me feel good to be around him, and it was good to see him on a day like yesterday. In the old days, he would have been the one to pull me aside at camp, ask me what was wrong, let me feel it but try to make it right at the same time.

In the midst of a day like yesterday, this felt like a gift. A little gift, a little reminder of friendships past and friendships future.

I have an almost two year old. She's her mother's daughter, pretty much goes and does her own thing. Like all kids, every now and then she wants my attention, usually when I'm doing something like cooking or if I'm finally on the computer for the first time all day. Never wants me when I'm lying on the couch watching Gilmore Girls. Only when I'm talking to a friend, or there's fire involved or something.

I try to be understanding. She's only little for such a short period of time, and soon she won't want me anywhere near her. So I try, really hard, to be available, to be open, to make her feel like I always have time for her. I'm sure it doesn't always work, but I try.

I can deal with neediness in others, to an extent, but I hate it in myself. I hate the feeling. I hate the way it makes me act. I hate the disappointment I feel when I'm not responded to instantly. I apologize for it up and down the block, because it makes me feel vulnerable, it makes me feel like I owe something to the person that responds. I walk around with this belief that I am self-contained, that I enjoy friendships, but am not needy. The truth, the other side, is a very icky thing for me to experience.

As adults, we have fewer options when that feeling hits. For me it's a longing pull. It feels like desire with sadness ringed around it. It feels like the desperation of every year of awkwardness I went through. And what do I do with it? Nothing. What are my options? I could pick a fight, that would get me attention. I wish I could say I've never done this, but I would be lying. I know myself well enough that I avoid it at all costs. I could call a friend, and be honest. Say I'm having a weird day, and I need some company. This seems like a reasonable option, and it is. But what if they say no? Can I handle it in my vulnerable state? Can I even admit that maybe, once in a blue moon, even I get like this? That the uber-confident woman they know is not a fortress?

I want to cry out for help, I want to admit I'm lonely or needy. I want to say, I really need a friend today. But I'll break down in sobs, and worse, I cry when people are nice to me. If you're mean, I can tell you off, if you are nice I start sobbing. In my state, I just can't do that. Oh, and what if you're not available? You'll feel awful, I'll feel worse. So instead I'll excise it here.

I wasn't alone this morning, I was with friends. Tonight I'll be with more friends. But still I feel all off by myself, liable to read things that aren't there into situations, too sensitive for human contact, too sensitive to be left alone.

I dig out an old case of poems I've written and poems I love. I put on Billie Holiday. I wait for the rain.

It's Guys Weekend. The planning starts in January, when Rutgers football is over and A. gets ansty. We are peas in a pod, always have to have something to plan, a vacation, a party. Tailgating takes up his late summer and fall, but in the winter he's a planner without an event. So the emails start going around, with me cc'd, because I'm only one in the family on speaking terms with the calendar. I block out the days, and start turning down any other invites. Jackie (SBF*) and I plan out our weekend of girls and kids.

As my husband and his brother (in from London) prepare to leave, despite a minor car problem, I'm thinking about the men in my life.

I've had legions of guy friends. Some were ex's I hung onto. (I mostly did the heartbreaking, so it was simple for me to remain friends. Not so simple for them.) Some were just guys I became friends with. Once you're married, there aren't many opportunities to make new guy friends. You might pick one up at work. You might be buddies with your husband's friends, but that's not the same. Nope, you're pretty much stuck with the same guys who helped you through high school and college, and maybe, if you're lucky, your first job or two. Strangely enough, my husband still seems to pick up female friends at work. He's got this great group of former coworkers he used to hang with, and still keeps in touch with. He was their token guy. It's harder for women,I think. Men are reticent to make friends with women past a certain age. It doesn't look right. Gay men are the exception to this rule, thank God.

I made one real guy friend after I was married. It took way too much time convincing him that my husband was okay with our friendship. What a drag. But once he met Nick and saw for himself that I wasn't a lying vixen, that my husband was truly a very cool guy who could beat him up, but had no need to, he relaxed.

Thankfully, I've still got my loyal and true men who knew me when. Some I keep in regular touch with, others only occasionally. It doesn't matter, though, how much we talk. I know I can call on them if need be. Without in any way disparaging my dear male friends, here are my three best guy friends, not in alphabetical order.

B
The title song always reminds me of my friend B. A few weeks ago, he called, and I said "I'm so glad you called, I have a question for you about a guy". "You want to know if he wants you" he replied instantly. My first thought was oh, no, that's not it, but the first words that came out of my mouth were "No, I can tell that by now". The poor boy spent so many years analyzing with me whether guys were interested, that's his first reflex. They always want you, he advised, and if they don't, you don't care.

Every girl needs a B, and not just for the guy perspective. He's the one who drove around Freehold, NJ, with me as I cried my eyes out and blared "My Hometown" by Springsteen. He nursed me through that break-up, and many others. He stuck by my side when I needed a friend. He came with me to my college formal senior year, and brought all my friends flowers. He's the one who helped me through my mom's cancer. He's the one who walked my mom down the aisle at my wedding. He's the one I hang out with now at the pool club, with his lovely and beautiful wife and my darling child and charming husband.

D
My friend D. is my kindred spirit, my big issues, deep talks guys. He's the one who saved me from that awful semester when I decided to leave my college and try another one out. It was so dreadful, when I wasn't sobbing at my on-campus job, I was hightailing into the Bronx to hang out at his school. He also came to my senior formal, a date for a friend, because at that point he felt like it was his formal, too. Our colleges were so close to each other, we are more college buddies than high school, but it all starts at home. Now we still meet for lunch or dinner, thanks to his wife who supports our friendship. He was the one who dragged me to see the Dalai Lama in September. He's the one I spend hours with on the phone, on those rare occasions we can talk. He's my soul friend.

A
When D wasn't hosting my sorry ass, it was A who was driving 45 minutes to pick me up. This guy is my big brother. He is my family. We are so alike, sometimes I want to wring his neck, and other times I just want to hug him. It started when we were in high school, when I was dating his best friend, and he was dating mine. We used to shop for Christmas presents together, spend Sundays driving around in his cool Z3. When we rode the train to work together, he was my beer in a bag and theoretical situations guy. Who would be most likely to cheat, out of all our friends? Who is the best rationalizer? What would we do with lots of money? He's married to that best friend, that SBF Jackie, and currently saving my ass by caring for my kid every time I turn around. Or me, with a migraine. He's also one of my husband's best friends now, something I take credit for.

I wonder sometimes if I'll ever have a new guy friend to rival those above. Has my time passed for that kind of friendship? Those relationships were grown in my teen years, cemented by adulthood. I know it's possible to make close female friends as an adult, but adulthood seems to put an end to the female-male bond. It's a shame, really. Everyone can use more friends.

*Sainted Best Friend

My brother in law is in from London, to spend some time with the fam before he leaves for a conference out west. When he comes home, we end up having a lot of family dinners and watching movies he's copied onto his laptop. If you happened to peak into a room with the three of us - Nick, Matt, and me, you'd see three laptops going. I'm sad to say we even vacation this way.

The other night, after his visit, I had the strangest dream. I dreamt I was going out for a job at a news station, where I already worked. At first my bosses didn't want to consider me for this position, because I have Emily, and this would take away time from her. It seemed to be a big promotion. In my conscious mind, I was eager to find out what it was. At the end, I got the job, and it was covering human interest stories on air. Pretty cool, my conscious mind thought. And then I woke up.

The funny part? The movie we watched the night before was Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgandy

Thanks to Paperback Writer and Sean for their posts, which made me remember my dream!

Hey, guys and dolls, I need a little help here. As you know, I like the band Marah. Well, they have a super cool show coming up in September and there's a contest attached to it. I am going to submit an entry, but I can't decide which one. The one I like isn't the one Nick likes, so I'm appealing to you to help me decide which one to submit. It's got to be short, and you know brevity is not my thing. I want to win! Oh, and I need you to log onto the site and vote for mine so I win! I already have two tickets, so I'll take whoever gets their butt down, over, or up to NJ/NYC with me if I win. So you win, too! It's so worth the train, plane, or bus fare. Here's the rules:

"The Contest:

Explain (in 100 words or less) your favorite Marah show moment. It can
be something that happens at every show or only happened once. Dig
deep. Be creative. We're not holding you back!

Submissions must be sent in the form of a text e-mail. No video. No
DVD. No snail mail. No attachments. Just paste the sucker right in
the body of the e-mail.

Send your entry to INFO@theshalitas.com

One entry per person. Submissions will be accepted beginning today,
Sunday, June 25th, and ending at Midnight on Sunday, July 23rd.

On Monday, July 24th, all entries will be posted on the Shalita message
board. Register on the message board and cast your vote for your
favorite entry.

ONLY ONE VOTE PER PERSON

The deadline for voting is Midnight on Sunday, August 13th. The top
five rated entries will be given (anonymously) to the five members of Marah. They will pick the winner.

The winner will be announced Sunday, August 20th.

The Winner will have until Wednesday, August 23rd to submit their Marah
set list. The list must be made up of only Marah songs with the
exception of one cover song.

The winner will also get some cool crap and get to bring a friend to the
show for FREE!!!

Sweet. That's the skinny. E-mail all questions regarding this show to
info@theshalitas.com.

See you September 9th!"


Here are my two possibilities. I like the first one, Nick likes the second one. I won't get mad if you side with Nick. He's got good taste, naturally.

1) March 2006, Maxwell's in Hoboken. No air conditioning. Extra long set. Marah plays like it's their last show on earth. Waters are tossed to and sprayed on the crowd. After encores, the band leaves, people scatter, we are still stunned and pumped and don'’t know if we should stay or go. Suddenly Marah is back, playing The Streets Have No Name. One song, a handful of people, the stuff of rock and roll legends.

2) January 2006, Stone Pony
I am so green it'’s not until tonight I realize there are message boards. I notice three girls I think might be the Shalitas. They get up on stage, and Marah plays the song I've been listening to since my daughter was born in 2004. Every day she wakes up, goes downstairs, says "“More Marah"”, and dances to Freedom Park. Here they are playing this song forever etched into my daughter's childhood and my heart. That was my second show, and that was the night I became a fan.


So please tell me which one is going to win me, and you, a night of drinking with friends old and new. And starting on Monday, log onto www.theshalitas.com, go the message board, and vote for me, I mean us.

Have you ever noticed how many families have cluster birthdays? For instance, in my husband's extended family, there are four or five in October. My mother in law and my daughter are only one day off. My husband and his uncle share the same day. My best friend had her son on her birthday. In my family, my grandmother and my uncle are only one day apart, and we have a small, unfinished series of 19's.

Last night I went out to do some errands sans child. As I was driving home, a tremendous lightning storm lit up the sky. A transformer blew out, and stoplights hung uselessly. Motorists drove slowly, unsure of what to do. I didn't want to get stuck sitting at some traffic light. I wanted to get home before the rain poured down.

It was eerily similar to another night of being alone in a tremendous storm. Then, I was driving home from a weekend conference when my driver's side window broke. Just like that, as I rolled it down to talk to a colleague before we got on the road. I was so angry. My colleague was a true looney-toon, and I had spent the entire weekend with her craziness, and now I was finally going home. This threw me for a complete loop. What the hell I was I supposed to do now? Leave my car and accept a lift home? Good God, no. Rig something to keep the cold out? Where was the duct tape when I needed it?

I started home with a black trash bag duct taped to the door. Loud, and you can't see out of it. Did I mention loud? Ungodly loud. Terrifyingly loud. So I pulled over and took the carefully constructed mess down. About two seconds into driving with an open window, it began to rain, drops slanting in towards me. I have no patience on my best days, and this was not my best day. I was looking up at the sky, thinking why me? Seriously, can't you cut me a tiny break here?

At that exact moment, the opening bars of a Train song (referenced in this post title) came over the car radio. It's cheesy, I know, but it's exactly the way I feel about my grandma. I started balling. My grandmother had died a few months before, and my aunt was dying, and I had a lot of sadness coursing through me. I felt like my grandmother was there with me. I felt her presence. I looked up, and I said, "I get it, Grandma. It's not that bad. I'm okay, I'm going to get home okay, and there are bigger things to be upset about." And then I thanked her, over and over, and I let my emotions go, and rain stopped and the wind stopped, and I got home okay. Better than okay. Grateful. Blessed. No anger, no frustration.

Today is my grandmother's birthday. Another time, I'll write about what she meant to me, still means to me. But today I want to say, I remember you. I think about you. I know you're still here if I need you, like you have been my entire life. I love you. I miss you. Happy Birthday.

If you haven't seen anything or read anything on Johnny Mercer, you should. He wrote the above lyric, and many other songs you know but you don't know you know. Can I recommend a book? Well, no, because I got all my info on Johnny Mercer from a non-fiction book I read a few years back, and from the most trustworthy source of all, the internet. But I did Tivo an American Masters (PBS) episode on Woody Guthrie, so that should count for something, right? In addition, I also Tivo'd the one following it on the song "The Internationale" which was pretty cool. Extra credit?

I was thinking about ranting today, but that seems to give both me and PW a migraine, and I think we're full up on anger, thanks very much. So I'm going to list all the good things instead of all the annoying things that have happened today.

1) I have pink nail polish on my toes, and it is quite fetching. It's bright pink, and it looks lovely with my pool cover-up, a long sleeveless dress with a tropical print and bright pink flowers.

2) I went to the pool club, instead of to the mines or some other dirty and hot, but honest, employment.

3) I have a tan. This is a cause for true celebration. My arms are slamming, a pretty golden color. Even my legs have some color to them. Although I still do not own a pair of shorts, I'm happy! Happy! Positive! My lovely tan makes me want to workout, which leads me to my next happy thought of the day...

4) For the first time in my life, I actually want to exercise. Crazy, huh? But I am a few weights away from strong, tan, pretty arms.

5) This desire to better myself did not stop me from ordering and eating a delicious golden fried chicken sandwich for lunch. Lovely.

6) I have been participating in laugh out loud emailing today. Well, I'm laughing out loud. My recipient is probably lying down in a dark room with a cold washcloth over their eyes.

7) My house has central air conditioning. Thanks be to God.

8) My daughter was as incredibly charming as one can be while completely subverting my will.

9) My mom stopped by today and did not make any comments about my future vacation plans. My daughter did, however, want to leave with her and I stopped it. Silly me.

10) I have decided to reread one of the better non-fiction summer books ever, Midnight In the Garden of Good and Evil. If you want a little background on Mercer while reading about a colorful cast of characters in the guise of non-fiction, pick it up. Forget the movie, though, ok?

See you tomorrow, when I give up all my good intentions and bitch about my deal breakers.

I'm not a big blusher. I'm so damn pale I don't think I have blood vessels to blush. I am, however, a squeally girl. I get shrieky about food, I freak out for Barry Manilow (or frankly, anyone of that 70's cheezeball ilk), I am filled with delight when I have an email from someone witty or funny or even vaguely interested in anything I have to say. You would think my delight in the small things would make me easy to live with, but you would be so wrong. I make a lovely friend, though.

On my third trip to Vegas, my cousin and I went to see David Cassidy. I sort of missed the Partridge Family thing. But that didn't matter. It was a 70's icon! Sign me up. We had amazing seats, to the right of the stage. He was starring in Copacabana, a musical based on a Barry Manilow song, and wait. It gets better. Sheena Easton was his costar. You're so jealous, aren't you? I still can't believe how lucky we were.

As the show is going on, we're commenting on him, Sheena, the silly but fun plot, when things shift. David starts singing his hit. You know the one. And then he walks over to us. No shit. He grabs my cousin's hand and kisses her. We loose it. He grabs my hand. We go wild. We're screaming, "I think I love you!" like we are suddenly 12 years old. We are on cloud 9 because a B list 70's star has touched us.

I love when the dots connect. I love when I'm wrong. I love when I'm blown out of the water and giggling like a girl.

I think I'm all secret and cool, checking out your site on the sly...you'll never know (except that I post comments, duh!). My witty enigma. But you found me out. Hello, lurker buddy. Thanks for stopping by. I've got to go wipe the silly smile off my face.

And the moral of the story? You never know when David Cassidy is going to grab your hand.

I'm a sucker for peer pressure. When we went to college, my roommate M. and I were proud of our resistance to peer pressure. We were the good girls. We were not wild, we didn't get drunk. Our crazy night was sugary drinks and pizza from Dominos...yum, pizza! Of course, we did not remain this way our entire college careers, but who does?

Some time between when I showed up as a fresh faced 18 year old, and right now, I realized that I like to be sold to. Convince me to go out. Insist I stay for another hour. Twist my arm. Or maybe not so much, because I'm an easy sell.

So it's no surprise that I'll bend so easily to the peer pressure of another blogger. Here are my five songs that "address the multitudes" I contain. Except for one. The first four came easy to me, but I agonized over the last one. So I'm not picking it. I'm not convinced five songs can contain the multitudes of my being. I think I'm much more complex and multi-layered than any five songs could represent. It's an insult to my alluring depths and dimensions! I am game, though. So I offer four songs, and a challenge.

1. "Closer to Fine" by Indigo Girls
The easiest one on the list. So second nature to me, so typical, I am shocked that everyone doesn't use this song to define part of themselves.

2. "These are Days" by 10,000 Maniacs
I have listened to this song in happy times, sun beaming down on my head as I sped down the road in my car and felt good, and I have listened to it with tears streaming down my face. It rings true in both instances, and serves as a reminder to me. Life is about the moment that I'm in right now.

3. "Virginia Woolf" by Indigo Girls
I could have written this song, and I say that will all respect to the women who wrote it. Meaning, I couldn't have written it like they did, but the narrator could be me. Towards the end of my time in London, I decided to find some of the houses she lived in, and followed my map only to discover my favorite place to sit and read for the past six months was in the square right in front of one of her London homes.

4. "Where You Lead" by Carole King
A song about a woman who is surprised to find the depths of devotion that lie in her soul. "And I would go to the ends of the earth, cause darling, to me that's what you're worth." I sing that line with complete truth, and a lump in my throat.

Here's the challenge. Pick a fifth song for me. Do you want my list of contenders? Would you like a guide to my musical stylings? Or have I revealed everything you need to know to pick a song? I extend this especially to my darling lurkers who read and never comment. I want to hear what ALL of you think. Enjoy and happy Monday!

Do you know the song "Don't Stay Home" by 311? If you do, there's an unladylike phrase they sing that basically says you naysayers can go away, thanks very much. That's how I feel tonight. I think the picture says it all, to everyone who said my daughter was too young to go to an amusement park, too small to enjoy herself, too little compared to the big characters.

Emily greeted them all by name and gave them hugs and kisses. They hammed it up with her. She and MV hung out in the water, gave hugs, amused each other in lines, and rode rides. I was the only one who got a little cranky after being in a wet swimsuit, but my good humor was restored when I changed back into my shorts and super retro Sesame Street tshirt M found for me - so retro it's old school, no Elmo, just the original 70's gang.

It was a perfect sunny, hot, fun, wet, ice cream, breezy, kid-like day.

I'm exhausted in the best way possible. Let the drinking start. Cheers!

I'm caught up in a yucky situation. I'm unsure whether or not to blog about this, since it could get sketchy. Conceivably, the person involved could find this blog, go through the archives, read what I've written, and then they would be terribly hurt. On one hand, yuck. On another, you get what you give. The person in question is someone I used to like a lot, but is not behaving in a nice way lately, and is hurting people I care about. While I can cut people slack, since I'm no angel myself, I'm not sure if this is an exception or their true colors. So I'll leave that mess for another post. Instead, I'm going to talk about Friday.

I don't like every kid I meet. Maybe this is a sacrilege, being a mom and all, but I'm not an automatic kid-lover. My husband is. He thinks every baby is cute, every child is sweet. I suspect he is much nicer person than he lets on, and I am less nice then I think I am. I don't dislike kids, I'm not mean to them, I just don't cotton to every child that toddles across my path.

My friend M. has a child. Let's call her MV, and her I like. First off, she's got a really good personality, which may be hard to believe of an 18 month old, but it's true. The first time I spent any real time with her, I told M. that I liked her kid, and I think she was like, yeah? No, I insisted, I really like her. Sadly, it's not assumed that you'll like your best friends' kids, but I think she's going to be the kind of kid I like when she's 13, that most difficult of ages. Like I said, good personality.

So this little tyke and her mom and dad are coming to stay with us tonight and we're going to Sesame Place on Friday. Want me to up the cute on the outing for you? M and I were college roommates. She married C, Nick's college buddy. We both have girls 6 months apart. And we got married two years apart on the same weekend (they met at our wedding). How happy and rosy is that? It's the sort of thing I always secretly hoped would happen, the kind of thing you read about in books.

This is exactly what I need, before I walk into the minefield that is the rest of my weekend. For that, I need a vest and a helmet. I need booze strapped to me. I need to be drunk the whole time. To prepare, I need a happy shiny day off at a kid's park, breakfast with Elmo, my girl, their girl, and our best friends. A mini vacation. Like the song says, everything's a-ok.

If I post ranting, incoherent ramblings the rest of the weekend, just remember that I'm drunk in the foxhole. But if you need me until then, I'll be hanging with Big Bird.

There's something very voyeuristic about reading another person's blog, isn't there? I have a friend who doesn't understand why anyone who doesn't know me would read mine. Well, I said, maybe they like my writing. Maybe they like my stories. Maybe they are bored at work and there aren't any knitting needles handy to stick in their eyes. Still, she thinks it's strange that a stranger would read what I write about my life and comment on it. They're not strangers, I wanted to say.

When you regularly read someone's blog, you start to feel like you know them. Oh, we're quick to say that we don't know them, really. Not like their friends or family do. And sure, that's true. We don't know what the crabby look is, or the timbre of the voice when they get excited about something (like when I am faced with unexpected food). But we do know something about them. We know what they choose to reveal, and what they don't mean to reveal but do. You can call it inferring, or you can call it revelation, or you can call it speculation.

My latest little obsession is a blog writer with not quite enough detail to satisfy my curiosity. Oh, it's none of you, I'd just email you and ask you directly, dear reader. Trust me. It's someone I read every now and again, someone I can't make sense of no matter how far back I go into the archives. It's pure speculation, since we have never corresponded and probably never will. And soon I'll let it go, but for some reason this writer intrigues me. There's a cageyness. There's a story not being told, and what I want to say is, Tell it already! Don't write about the feeling and hide the meat!

I think the beauty of blogging is a peak into another person's life. I think it's amazing you can make a connection over the internet, and maybe feel like you're on the same page with someone else. I think it does what technology is designed to do, make your world wider, not smaller. But I'm a glass is half full kinda girl. I blog for lots of reasons - because it makes me write every day, because I have stories to tell, because I like the sense of community it creates. I like to read comments, and not because they're about me, but because they're about you, the reader.

I think it's the lack of knowing that keeps me interested in my mystery writer. In a universe where you can read about the details of someone's sex life, know their favorite music, or chocolate, or books, read the stories of their family or their heart's desire, not knowing is inconceivable. If I have your name, location, occupation, but I still don't know what you're about...it's baffling and almost as revealing as if you told me. So, maybe, it's all there and I'm just looking in the wrong places.

You know what I'm not real fond of? Well, you probably could make the list by now, but I'm going to tell you anyway. Unsolicited advice. Yep, the there's-no-need-to-tell-me-that variety.

It goes on your whole life, but you're a sucker for it when you're pregnant. Everyone you meet tells you the most horrible things. The birth stories I could handle. If you've given birth, this is probably the most significant thing you physically experience and there is no forum to talk about it after those first few weeks. You can't bring it up at the office. You can't discuss it at dinner parties. Your girlfriends are sick of hearing you talk about your baby, and your guy friends are terrified you're going to start crying, what with those hormones and all. Your husband or partner was probably there, and besides, they need a good night's sleep and a day off, as do you. So you shove this incredible moment down somewhere in your soul and when you see a pregnant woman coming, you want to resurrect it, to let it out and to acknowledge that the two of you will be in the same club soon.

I was assaulted by these stories at work, over and over again. But I really got it. I understood why they were telling me, the moms whose kids could drive. The ones with grandchildren. I got it, and I appreciated being welcomed into this club. I felt cared for by a large community. The guys at work didn't tell me any stories, but they did insist I park in the handicapped spaces, and told on me to my husband if I parked too far away in rainy weather. "If Shoprite can have Expectant Mother's Parking, then so can we!" Carl would boom. (After Emily was born, Carl suffered a stroke while driving in the snow. The van flipped over, and Carl survived only to discover he had a brain tumor. I sent him notes and pictures of the baby he always asked after. Nine months later he was dead, and I wrote to his wife, telling her how kind and considerate her husband had been to me. I miss him, still, for his humor and his decency to everyone, and I know my workplace is less for his loss.)

I wish I could say everyone who approached me those long ten months was full of good intentions and care. Most of them just wanted to weird me out, I'm afraid. And as a new mom, older women would inform me of my inadequacies as a mother, admonishing me to do something to the baby I wasn't doing. One told me she sounded hungry when she let out the tiniest of cries, and it angered me beyond belief. Like I wouldn't feed my child if she was hungry? Like I wouldn't know? It's called a breast, lady, and believe me, it knows if that kid is hungry. See what I mean about hormones?

Now it is the season of summer vacations, and I frequently get asked if we are going anywhere. When I reply, happily, that we are going to Disney, I get the rudest of reactions. "Oh, she's too young!" they exclaim. "She won't remember it! You shouldn't do that! What a waste!" Um, hi, but how is it any of your business? Oh, it's not? Then shut the hell up, kay? Do I tell you where to go or not to go on vacation? No! When you tell me, I nod my head because we are having polite chitchat. Social manners, people, social manners. Not the time to voice opinions, save that for your dinner table. There is only one response to that particular social question and it is, "Oh, how lovely!"

I have my answers perfectly formulated to the rudest of responses - We're looking forward to it! We don't expect her to remember it - most kids don't, even if they are older! We enjoy Disney, and she will, too! We're going to relax and be together as a family!

I know the difference between opening yourself up to opinions and just going about your life. I write and post it on the internet, and allow comments - I'm asking for a response. When I tell you my tale of woe and say "what do you think I should do?" I better be able to handle your reply. When I call my mom, it's understood that I'm not asking for comments, but going to get them anyway. When I exchange pleasantries with a coworker, I'm not asking for a critique of my life. When I sit down in a mall, I'm not inviting conversation. When I simply exist in a space, it's not for you to evaluate it with me. What I've got here, it's called my life. Yes, mine, not yours, so move along. Nothing for you to see here. (Except you, dear reader, for whom it is all laid bare.)

I feel very out of sorts lately. When my daughter gets like this, I make the crabby sign - thumbs meet other fingers, move as if snapping. She says, "No crabby!" and does the sign. Crabby is something we call you in my family. I don't know if it's a Midwest thing, or a Croatian-Polish thing, or more common than that. Here in NJ, I notice we say "cranky" more, and I used to say that, reverting to "crabby" when I was around my cousin. (Aside - if I write "my cousin" I mean my cousin Lisa. It's a big joke among my friends that I refer to her as "my cousin" and not "Lisa" since they all know her. But it makes it simpler than having to say "Lisa, my cousin." )

Once I had a kid (another big joke among my friends, that I refer to Em as my "kid") I noticed I started using crabby and not cranky. There's more to this. For instance, I say "kid" because that's what my dad calls me. I do this silly thing where I pretend my fingers are a mouse coming to tickle, and I use the Polish words for this game. I would tell you, but I can't spell them. I thought this was something my grandma made up, but as it turns out, it's a game you play with children in Poland, so it actually has some cultural significance - one of the few things my family held onto through assimilation. Of course, as a child, I thought everyone ate pierogies, and I don't mean that horrible Mrs. T's junk. A ravioli filled with potato - hardly! These days, I find myself wishing I had some homemade ones for the freezer when I want a quick dinner - like my grandma and mom always had. Although we did make dozens of pierogies for Christmas, they are a plane ride away in my cousin's freezer.

In light of all these simple, but obvious reversions to my childhood, I wonder what else I do that's reminiscent of my upbringing, and more to the point, how do I parent like my mom did, and like her mom did? There must be ways I don't even know about. I'll never forget when my mother did the mousy game with Em and she responded in Polish - my mother was so proud I'd taught her that. There must be dozens of other things I do or could do. I catch my cousin, every now and then, doing something in a way our grandma, or my aunt did. Something small, that I might not be able to put my finger on, but something.

I wish I knew what I did as they did, good and bad. I'd like to store up all that good stuff and save it, bring it out to keep my grandma alive, and insure my mom gets ingrained in my daughter. I'd like to throw out the bad stuff, too, and make my parenting the best of the women in my family. I'd like to be able to preserve us at some of our most important times - not the holiday dinners and traditions, those are easier to remember and maintain, but the little stuff that makes up our life - our childhood and motherhood. The day to day that is our real work.

"What do you do?" you ask, and I can rattle off details of my occupation, but what do I do? Besides housework, which everyone pretty much does? Besides bills and other life things? Besides my job? Well, I live my life, and what is that? It's a day like today, getting up just in time for Nick to leave for work, getting ready in a rush, but still finding time to read a chapter of a book, throwing a bunch of stuff into a cooler, applying sunscreen to a happy toddler, remembering that you can't rush a two year old, saying sternly, "Get in your seat, not in Mommy's seat or we won't go to the park!" Hitting a huge detour and calling my friends to say we're late. Setting up a mom-watch to manage four kids on a big park playground. Eating lunch outside. Taking them for ice cream. Getting home just in time to meet S. and her son. Going to the pool, waiting for J to show up and then bagging it when she finally comes and rushing home, to unpack the car, shower, head out to the movies, a quick kiss for the husband. Coming home. Reading my email. Discussing his career options. Staying up too late, as usual. And in this exhaustive list, I've left out everything that matters.

This doesn't tell you if my day was good or bad. It doesn't tell you if I'm happy or overwhelmed or bored. Nothing of importance is in there at all. You don't see how I looked at my daughter today, you can't hear my conversation with my friend, you don't feel the sun on your skin and the breeze off the river. You can't taste the sandwiches, or smell the grass. I've given you nothing with that list but a lot of details to read. Of which I'm sorry for, if you slogged through them all.

My mom could give me a rundown of her days as a young mom, and I could have taped my grandma doing the same thing before she died, but I didn't and it doesn't matter, for a list is not what I long for. I long for that glimpse, that sense memory that will time travel me back so I can see and remember for myself what it was like for them, and for me under their care. If I find it, I'm going to grab my cousin's hand, and we're going to go back together. We'll be little girls playing airline stewardess again, and we'll sneak up those hard linoleum stairs, the metal edging cold against our legs, and hand in hand we'll tip-toe through a day in our lives. My aunt will be alive and young and my grandma will be making turkey dinner and there will be talk of food, as always, and laughter, and we will see how they loved us so well, and when it is time to go back, we'll keep it with us this time. We'll bring it home, and hold onto it. Because we are older, and we need it now more than ever.

This is what happened on the way home from the fireworks.

First, a little exposition. My friend Moira and I went to high school together, and when we moved three years ago, we bought the house across from her sister. Moira lived in California, near her other sister, but soon that sister came home to NJ, and bought a house around the block. So although Moira is still across the country, I'm stock up on her family, nieces and nephews included. This is a good thing, because I like them and they like me, and one niece is going to be our babysitter in a year or two.

So we are walking home from the fireworks and who do we run into but one of Moira's sisters. No surprise there, we see the other one almost daily. We chat, we go on our way, and suddenly she doubles back.

"Scott's dad died" she told us.

I raced home to call Moira. Scott is her soon to be ex-husband, and to give you an idea of his place in my life, a few months ago, when they decided to amicably spilt, my dad and I were on the list of people he called for support. I first met Scott when he came out east for my wedding, 7 years ago. He and my dad bonded at my rehearsal dinner, disappearing to smoke cigars. He was extremely close to his father, and he saw my dad as another father figure in his life. We used to joke about my dad and Scott and their friendship.

I love Scott, and I loved him as a spouse for my girlfriend, and I was very sad for him when all this happened. My dad and I both told him he'd always have a place in our lives. So my heart grieves for him especially now, when he needed his father's guidance the most. His marriage has failed, a marriage he was in for life. He's at a crossroads in so many ways, and he's just lost the person who was his compass.

I didn't know his father well, but the times I've spent with his family were good ones. His father set the tone for the family, which was inclusive and loving and close. His death was sudden, completely unexpected, and it must be rocking his family to their core. They have a huge community of friends and family to turn to for support, and I hope they are able to help them through this time.

As I wrote this, my dad was on the phone with Scott, a shoulder to lean on. Me, I'm at a loss as what to say and what to do. How many times can you say, I'm so sorry? I feel like an ear is all I've been able to offer him for so many months. Perhaps this is why parents sometimes baby their kids - in a world of adult troubles, the tiny ones are the things we can fix.

(My posts are slightly off because I had one I wanted to hold onto, which I hope to post later. This is what I wrote earlier this week.)

Let me be honest. I don't like boats. If you have a really nice boat with an engine and other essentials, and you are on a relatively calm body of water (river, lake, bay) I will go out with you. If you do not drink while operating said boat, and do not like to fly over wakes, and generally act like a no-fun wuss, I will go out with you. I do not sail, unless it's a really nice, very big luxury sort of thing. I'm not a snob, I just get seasick. And I hate that tippy thing sailboats need to do to move through water. Of course, if I am drinking, I may say to hell with it, and go out on scary bodies of water on small boats. But I'd have to be drinking a lot.

One day, a few years ago, my dad came home and announced he had bought a boat. My mother was slightly shocked, but she rolled with it. I was dubious. My husband was happy. He's not a wuss.

The last time I went in my dad's boat was exactly two years ago to this day. How, you wonder, do I know this so exactly? Well, it's the 3rd of July, and where I live, that's the real holiday.

Our town is host to fireworks by the same company who does them for the Macy's Fireworks on the 4th. We are sort of their trial run. They do them over the river, and attract a huge following. Two years ago, I was pregnant, and the boat was new, and we went out on the river, cruising past all the rich people's homes, checking out Bon Jovi's backyard, and settling in to watch them from the boat. Beautiful. Also, we were close enough to dock at the hospital in case of early labor.

Last year I felt Emily was too young to go out at all, and this year she was still too young to stay out as long as you must to beat all the boat traffic heading in after the fireworks finish. So instead we went out on a bay, cruised for an hour, and came back. It was nice, and even better, I didn't die or get sick.

On the drive home, we were seized with the desire to see the fireworks. It was almost time. We live only a few blocks from our first home, which was only a few blocks to the bridge over the river, a perfect vantage point to watch the spectacle. For five years, we had rocking parties at that first home, open to everyone we knew. We provided beer, wine, liquor, burgers and dogs, and our guest brought the rest. It was potluck with 60 people in a backyard built for a party. The rest of the house had less room than our deck and yard, and we used that to our advantage. The night would end with the diehards drinking booze out of bottles, passing them around in a circle, and floating the empties like dead soldiers in a kiddie pool. Of course, the stragglers always stayed over. Sometimes we even went to the beach as a group on the 4th. But really, the 4th was an afterthought. The 3rd was what our friends saved vacation days for. The last party was right before we bought our current home, and we went out in style.

These fireworks are not just what I did as a teen, or college student, it's also a family tradition for me and Nick. So we went for it. Our timing was perfect. We made it just in time, and Emily loved them. As we walked home, we reminisced about our parties, and lamented that the new owners weren't even home to enjoy the boon their house afforded. We should have stipulated a yearly party in the contract of sale. This was the holiday to me. This felt like the best day of summer.

The entire day, I felt it wasn't very 4th of July like. We weren't at the beach or pool. The house wasn't festooned with red, white, and blue and American flags. Not everyone was attired in such colors. I was wearing red (flipflops) white (skirt) and blue (shirt), and I had Emily in a special outfit bought just for this day, but still. It didn't feel like it to me.

We were down in Philadelphia, at the home of Nick's aunt and uncle, for a baby shower. One of his many cousins is having a baby, and family and friends had gathered to celebrate. There was food, plenty of it. There was conversation. There was the promise of firecrackers, but since we left while it was still light, I don't know if they carried that out. There was a general good time, and a really nice day, but it wasn't the 4th of July to me.

I love this family. For all my issues with my inlaws, I am perfectly at home in the extended family. When I first got to know them, I nicknamed them the Borg. I didn't want to be sucked in; I am my own person. It's one of the reasons I was so adamant about keeping my own name. When I annouced this decision, every woman in that family was supportive of me. They accepted it, and they accepted my daughter being hyphenated. They made me copies of family pictures and recipes, guilt me if we don't come to gatherings, but they remember I have a family, too. They accept me, and they love me, and when I'm with them I have a good time. That's why I now have that thing on my head. Oh, and they think that's hysterical - they make me tell all the new brides and grooms about that one.

Nick's aunt has been in the news lately, if you follow the goings on in the Catholic church. If you don't, let me say that she is on the left. Their home is a big, old house in a formerly stately section of the city, and when I first saw it, I was taken aback. It looks, frankly, like a place where people with money live. A large enclosed porch, another room really, curves around the front. The entrance open up into stairs on the left and a living room on the right. It flows into the dining room, where people sit for hours talking. Sometimes we go out back to the kitchen and yard, or upstairs to the second or third floor. Far from stuffy, it is comfortable, lived in, a family home. A place where three boys and one girl grew up. It is a not a home of the moneyed, contrary to my first impression. The furniture may be old, and thus may be antique, but it's because it was handed down. I never worry about what my kid will be touching, or where I put down my drink. Coasters are not required.

In this family, the topics of conversation are religion and politics. Perhaps your new educational pursuit, or passion, which can include your home. We don't talk about your job unless you really want to. Money? Boring. Cars, acquisitions? But why? Because of this, I'm often fuzzy on the exact details of what everyone is doing job wise, or where they are living. I never know what they are driving. But I know how they feel about things, what they think about things, what they have been reading. NPR plays softly in the backgrpund, the BBC news coming over the silence of a game of Baby Bingo. It was a baby shower, after all.

Around the room is a former priest, a soon-to-be one (see controversy), several former military, some nurses, several educators, some engineers, a mechanic, a plumber, a former book editor, a professional organizer, and among the missing is the forest firefighter, the pilot, and the student. We are about even with higher degrees and blue collar. The Ph.D and M.A. raised the plumber and the firefighter, respectively. Roots can easily be traced back to Ireland and Italy, and stories of South Philly are always present. Family is the most important thing.

Still, it didn't feel like the 4th of July. But after I got home and started to think about what I would write, my disappointment vanished. What we did today is what our country is about. Not grilling dogs and drinking beer, but accepting differences and working together. We don't all vote the same way, but we all vote. We don't all work for justice in the same way, but we all work for it. We don't all agree, but every opinion can be heard. We all have a place at the table, a voice in the conversation. We respect each other's decisions and opinions. We love each other no matter what. We have both the freedom and the support to be whoever our heart is telling us to be. That, to me, is more American than flag-waving and country songs - but if that's your cup of tea, sure, we'll sing along. This is a very American family, and this was a true celebration of our country. Neither one is close to perfect, but I like to think both still have room at the table. Happy Independence Day.

My best friend J., previously referred to as my Sainted Best Friend, wanted to know why I call her that in this blog. I told her because she is both sainted and my best friend, but I think it's the sainted part that gets her.

I had the world's worst migraine yesterday. I woke up with it. I rolled over in bed, and it felt like a MAC truck hit my head. I begged for death. I begged for relief. My child tried to jump on me. I rolled over again. I went back to sleep.

I woke up again and thought that maybe I was exaggerating. I wasn't.

I wanted to stay in bed all day. Or die. However, I have this thing called a life, which forces me to get up and go out and see people and do things. So I got up and went out and saw people and did things. I went to Brooklyn for two hours, which is a sign of the depth of my devotion to my friend S., or possibly another sign that I will go anywhere for a party. Plus, she's always got really great food and yesterday was no exception.

By the time I left her apartment, and the happy food coma wore off, it was ten times worse. The air was hot and humid, and a storm was coming, but not fast enough. I barely made it to J's. I walked in like a zombie, collapsed on the couch, and closed my eyes. Her husband, who I've known since I was 15, hurried over with drugs and water. Nick had to work, so while he worked on his laptop, and I laid on their couch, they made us dinner, amused our child, and generally tended to our needs. And they didn't seem to mind, which is why she gets elevated to sainted in my book. To be fair, I guess they both should be sainted. However, this would put J on the same level as A, her husband, and while I consider him family, I can't do that to her. So sainted she remains.

I wish I could tell you how delicious dinner was, but I can barely remember it. I skipped dessert, which looked lovely. And is so out of character for me.

I think I must be in love with cars, because it seems like things are always better once I get in one heading home. Of course the heavens finally opened up, and we watched a fantastic lightning storm on the drive home. I felt much, much better.

And then I woke up this morning to much of the same. I keep looking out the window, hoping the sun and humidity will disappear, and rain will start coming down. Yes, I am wishing for rain, a fantastic storm, something to wash the world clean again. And make my headache go away. I knew I shouldn't have stopped drinking.

Sometimes I just don't get it. Take this blog. Maybe it's an inside thing. Maybe it's not a thing. I just don't get it, whatever it is. (If you do, take pity on me and explain it, please.)

Do you ever feel like you're missing the boat? Like there's a joke everyone else gets? Oh, I hate that feeling. I don't need to be a cool kid, but I hate not knowing things. I like being able to look it up, do a little investigating, some research. But you can't really do that with people - sure you can google them, but you won't always get something. No, with people you ask them, or you live without knowing.

I was sitting at work the other day, everyone else long gone, when an old friend called. He's someone I can absolutely trust, so out came the story I wasn't going to share. My little obsessions don't seem so extreme to him, somehow. Even though the office was empty, I walked outside with my cell and we talked. We talked about not knowing and how it kills us not to know. We talked about the image we portray to others.

We all have faces we put on for others. We have different selves we trot out depending on who we're with. My friend B has (at least) two sides - his completely over the top self and the altruistic man who runs a social services agency. The story I tell about our friendship is not the man who shows up to meet you at a party.

On the other hand, I think I'm pretty much what you see (read) is what you get. I think if one of you readers was to meet me tomorrow, you wouldn't be in for a lot of surprises. I would be the person you think you know. That's not to say that I don't have dimensions, because I do, of course. It's interesting, though, because B. said I'm not what he expected I'd be, 14 years ago when we first became friends. He thought I'd be much more into my first career, not married, and certainly not a mother. Living in the Village, "getting inspiration from it" as he put it, writing if not editing, a little more city, a little less homey. He was seeing another side of me.

The more I think about this, the more clear my "sides" are to me. I think I'm writing in truth here, but I could very well be deluding myself. In this blog, I'm not completely who I am with my Tuesday night friends, or my mom's group, or my family. But I think I'm something else, just as valid. What side is the real me? We all have so many faces, do we even know all of them? Is it better to have those sides, to have different places to let them come out? I've had friendships I've cherished because those friends bring out certain things in me. Is there a place or person that makes you feel most authentically yourself? At what point does it cross the line between showing a different side and being inauthentic?

Just some things to ponder. I'd love your reactions.

I made a deal with my friend Greg: I'll go see this new band you're obsessed with, and you go see my current favorite. Ready, kids? Let's all say it together - Marah! (A slight digression - I'm at playgroup yesterday and I'm talking about my upcoming weekend, explaining why I'm going to see this new band, and one of the other moms says "Oh, so you'll go see this band, and they'll go see Marah?" Holy shit. The playgroup moms know the name, they've heard it so much. I was so taken aback, I nodded my head and shut up.)

So we agreed to go see them this past Friday night in a town that used to be called South Belmar, but has now refashioned itself as Lake Como. Like the beautiful lake in Italy George Clooney has a house on. Jersey cracks me up sometimes.

Greg and Jodi found this band at a festival. Greg gravitates towards bluesy rock, or straight up blues bands, so I thought this could be good. Nick checks them out on the web, and it turns out they're a jam band. Jam band is on the same level as the post-Doobie Brothers Michael MacDonald, Celine Dion, and Barbra Streisand in Nick's book. Now me, I like everything. I have a much wider range of musical taste than my persnickety husband. I'll go see anybody, I'll give anything a listen. People, books, writing, music - they get a shot, but they have to wow me to win me over. I wish I automatically liked people, but I don't. I'm hard on books, especially. But I want to fall in love with something new. That new love can be so elusive. The stars have to align for you to fall.

My dad writes restaurant and bar reviews for his community paper, and sitting in the bar last night, I noticed myself taking note of some of the things he might have. It was the ideal college bar - three tables of beer pong set up, foosball, air hockey, and pool. $4 pitchers. A rockin' mix including the Pixies, done on a laptop, much like the one I'm writing on right now. Mac, baby.

The band is called Days Awake. Jodi and I decided that it's because you spend days awake listening to them jam. One song went on for 25 minutes. Now, I'm all about riffing. But 25 minutes? It's like being drugged. We used to go a see a lot of jazz at this place called Jason's, and we saw some pretty cool stuff, but none of it was 25 minutes long. Just when you think it's over, it starts up again. The crowd was pure jamband - think Dead show. Lots of flipflops, flowy skirts, and long hair (for the men and women). All elbows moving to the music. The last set had only four songs in it, and it wasn't shorter than the first. My friend Greg goes into a total zone - he may be the most tightly held person I've ever met, but at a show his body actually moves to the music, eyes closed.

If I analyzed them, like I've done with other bands, I could really comment on their style, influences, how derivative versus inspired they were, and on and on. I enjoyed it, but I wasn't sold. I pretty much enjoy all live music, and that's the point - you just don't know until you try it. You can't get it from reading, or listening to web clips. You have to take the plunge. You have to give it a chance. There was one song that got me. It had the poignancy that sucks me in, the longing to feel what's being expressed. A possibilty of falling. Maybe not today, maybe not with them, but still. Falling.

Today is July 1st, and it Canada Day. So today let me say thank you to our friendly neighbors to the north. Thank you, in no particular order, for your charming accents (see "sorry" or "about"), hockey, the books of Lucy Maud Montgomery, Barenaked Ladies, The Tragically Hip, and Degrassi.

Shall I expand on this? Oh, if you insist!

Accents: I seriously love the way Canadians talk. I love their accents. I could listen to them all day.

Hockey: What's not to love about a sport where the blood bounces off the ice? Hockey may be the only sport I can actually understand and have opinions on. I can BS with dumber Americans about it, but I don't go head to head with any Canadian or true sports fan. I just like it, ok? And I never get to go to games, so it's a really big deal when I do.

The Books of LM Montgomery: My childhood would have been a poorer place without the tales of Anne of Green Gables and Emily of New Moon. Also, a thank you to PEI for being a real place, and the highlight of a family vacation when I was 12.

Music: I'm not going to try to quantify my affinity for these bands. They're good, and they're Canadian.

Degrassi: My teen years would not have been the same without Degrassi, and I would like to thank the entire country of Canada and all her people for that. I first bonded with the woman who would introduce me to my husband over Degrassi. If it had not existed, I might not have met Nick. There's no telling how many other future couplings Degrassi has influenced.

So I wish a very happy Canada Day to all my Canadian friends. Have fun doing whatever it is you Canucks do today - burn effigies of our president, perhaps? Drink beer? Apologize? Whatever it is, do it in good health and enjoy!