Oprah

So I don't usually watch Oprah; It's not like I have anything against her, I just don't watch TV during the day.  Although, if I think about it I could have something against her.  I mean, I guess if I had a gazillion dollars, I would publish a magazine, name it after my fabulous self and of course, be on the cover of every issue.  Oh, and  I have her to thank for a very depressing 6 months with her book club books.  Great reads, great literature but SO sad.  I  was forced to read some fairly silly chic lit for therapy afterwards.  It took about a month to recover but I feel better now, thanks for asking.  Of course, that was a few years ago... like 7 or so, but who's counting? 

Don't worry I do have a point.  I happen to watch her show this morning (I was at the gym running on the treadmill.  Snap.)  and it was on child predators.  I guess there is a bill in the Senate to fund law enforcement to go after these creeps.  I try not to get too political but I really feel like this bill is something we could all get behind.   Rally the troops and check out Oprah's website:  www.oprah.com and send an email to your Senators.  I did.  

Why I love my pool fence...(A photo essay)

9/11

It's been 7 years.   I remember sirens.  I remember the air tasting like panic, filling my lungs.  I remember breathing, in and out, in and out, in.  I remember being surprised by how quiet it was and longing for a truck to honk, a cabbie to yell some fowl word out his window with his fist raised to the sky.  I remember that fighter jets sound like airliners.  I remember seeing the Towers fall as I stood on solid ground-- 32nd street and 5th Ave.  I remember everything slowing down, blurring around the edges, the haze seeping into my brain.  What did I see?  What does it mean?

I remember Kate's warmth as she snuggled close to my chest and my arms around her--squeezing, filling any gap between us.  I  can still see her red strawberry hat with that comical little green stem, in stark contrast to the gray, smoke-filled sky.  I hear increasing concern in my voice as I leave messages on my husband's answering machine at work. I remember the minutes I spent contemplating widowhood and seeing Kate grow as an only child.  I remember how it felt to see my husband walk through the door of our apartment.  I remember how tangible he was, how real he felt when I hugged him.  I remember God on that day.  And on many days after.  

Kids these days!

After asking Ella to identify a triangle : "Stop, Mom.  I know this stuff."

Jackson after discovering a box of my tampons: "Mom, what kind of weird toothbrush is this?"

Okay. Fine! (Picture me stamping my foot here.)

I'll confess.  I did it.  I read those books by Stephanie Meyer.  I read them all.  EVERY LAST ONE. Why, you ask?  Why would an educated, well-read, hot (just seeing if you were paying attention) person like yourself start reading teen literature?  Well, seriously people, it's like a tidal wave engulfing every last girlfriend I have.  I decided to jump off the proverbial cliff and see what everyone was talking about.  Plus, I had this aching need to know whether or not I was really most like Bella, Alice or Edward.  

Before I go into my critique, I have to give the girl credit for writing a book at all.  That can't be easy.  I'm sure it's not easy with kids.  And I can't imagine how she thinks of  anything at all after a mind-numbing day with children.  It takes all the effort I have to pull myself off the couch and grab another cookie while watching, "America's Next Top Model."

That said, the characters were flat and the writing repetitive.  If I go into any more detail than that, I'm sure I'll alienate at least 50%  of my friends.   And since that will leave me with one friend, I'll stop there.  Let's just say, that if I ever read the word "marble" again to describe anything, in any book, that I will have to be checked into a clinic for a nervous breakdown and only the largest box of Vosges chocolates will cure me.  It might take two boxes, who knows?   Now that I think of it, I'm pretty sure Ms. Meyer is out to get me.  I can see her squinting her eyes, rubbing her hands together and pondering new ways to use the word "marble." (As if she hasn't already used them all in her Twilight books!)  Then I hear her evil, maniacal laugh all the way to the bank.

The Bun

Most of you know that I wear a bun in my hair all the time.  No occasion is the exception.  I wear a bun at church, at the gym, at home, on dates with my husband, at the movies, at night to bed.  You get the idea.  I've even overheard myself described as "the girl who always wears a bun in her hair."  That one made me cringe.  You see, it's not as if I love this particular hairstyle.  It's just so easy and practical.  My husband loves my hair long.  And when I say love, I probably mean an emotion even stronger than that--maybe obsessed would be the word.  

When we were first married, he left me for three days to go see his brother return from his mission to Japan.  I decided to cut my hair, as all newly married women do.  I tried to explain to him that it really wasn't my fault, I didn't disregard his wishes, it's a phenomenon with newly married women.  It was pretty much inevitable that I would do it, once I said, " I do."   That line of reasoning did little to convince him.  Let's just say that I have yet to repeat the experience in our eleven years of marriage.  He's much more easy going about my hair now, but still prefers it long and I prefer to keep him happy.  So in the bun it goes, because I am, if anything a lover of the easy and practical. 

Today I woke up feeling uneasy.  I wanted to do something different with my hair.  I wanted to blow it out, leave it long and frustrate everyone's opinion of "that girl with a bun."  I didn't want to be her today.   Sadly, Ella wanted to be in time-out for fighting with her sister and brother numerous times.  Jackson wanted answers to important questions like, "How does the garage opener work?" and "What does invisible mean? Why is the air invisible? How come we bleed? Where does our food go? Are peas good for you?"  Kate wanted to talk about complex emotions and figure out why everything isn't fair and find her missing underwear.  Max wanted to be rescued from the toilet bowl, the stairs, the balloon piece in his mouth and a whopper of a poopy diaper.  Yet, I still had hope--until ten minutes before we had to leave for church. 

 I was downstairs with drippy, wet hair feeding Max his lunch.  I finished up and on my way up the stairs to my blow dryer, I discovered J sitting in our coat closet with a pair of scissors.  He had already cut up his brand new gymboree, plaid church socks and was working on his pants.  After a mini meltdown(mine) and a time-out(his), I was back on track to my blow dryer and then I discovered Ella in the bathroom with an entire tube of gel in her hair,  mixed in with hair spray and leave-in conditioner.  She was repentant and the damage was done--so I said little and we washed her hair.  By this time, I  was at least 30 minutes late.

 We ran out the door: Jackson in his cut-up, hole-filled socks, Kate in her dress sans sash, Ella in her wet bun and ripped-up jelly shoes, Max and his poopy diaper and me, in a wrinkled dress with my hair in, of course, a bun. 

And that folks, is the reason why I ALWAYS wear my hair in a bun.

Of course, sometimes I'm just lazy.  

The Park