'Twas Two Nights Before Christmas Eve

'Twas two nights before Christmas Eve, and all through my veins
anxiety was coursing like a train on cocaine
I, in high-heeled boots, had gone shopping for gifts,
slipping through the icy parking lot 10,000 plows missed

Bundled in my black coat, the one with the hood,
I'd just exited Bloomingdales, feeling cold, but pretty good
For I had accomplished a task most could not:
I had finished my Christmas shopping, all in one shot

When, what to my narrowing eyes should appear?
Why, an SUV tailing cautious steps at my rear
His headlights were blazing, as he loomed close and large
Surely he'd follow me till he'd find where I'd parked

Thinking his spying me rendered other drivers thwarted,
this guy didn't realize the journey he'd started
See, I'd driven my mother's car (mine died last week, damnit!),
and yet I traipsed searching for my car out of habit

Around and around I walked, packaged arms breaking, achingly
The SUV stalker wondering, "Where the hell is she taking me?"
I slipped and I sniffed until I spotted, as horns blew,
my mother's car and wondered, "She came shopping here, too?"

When finally my senses returned to my thoughts
I scurried, best I could, to recover time lost
With the key in the keyhole to open the trunk,
I wobbled on the ice like a Christmas punch drunk

Surprise, surprise, FROZEN! The lock I'd dared turn
So I went 'round the backseat with a look of concern
Worrying that not all the parcels would fit,
squishing and pushing until all of them did

Now, trying to compose myself and shake off the worst
I started the car and put it in reverse
But, no, no, not so fast, all the windows were frosted
Now, cursing and frazzled, I totally lost it

Defrost time, I had none, the mood nearly manic
For the SUV waiting had caused major traffic
There, inside my mother's car, I cowered, just listening
to the cacophony of beeping, headlights on me, blistering

I dashed out the vehicle and into the backseat
that immediately spit every package back at me
Desperate, I grabbed the inspirational pillow,
that sat on display, cozy in the back window

"Behind every great woman is herself," it reads
Thus, I used its embroidered face to wipe the windows clean
Then, finally, having packed up the car once again,
I got in the driver's seat, and out the space I went

Saying to myself, jingley, as I slid out of sight,
"Merry Christmas to all, and to all...WATCH THE ICE!"

In Want of a Need for Christmas

Forgive me if I fail to allow the holiday spirit to tip-toe in here with its red-stockinged feet and the promise of merrymaking, but I'm just not in the mood. I could lie and say that, in fact, it's just this year that I feel kind of bothered by the whole holiday thing but, gingerbread man-oh-man, it's every year for me. I hate Christmas. I'm sorry, but I do. And I think I always have.

Right after Halloween, I just tuck my chin into my chest, avoid eye contact at all costs, and barrel through the turkey targeted season until it's officially over. Once the red paper cups come out at Starbucks, I know that I need to keep my sunglasses on even after the sun goes down. Why? Well, isn't it obvious? To further protect my eyes from the impending glare of all those little lights that will soon be strung up on houses that, who are we kidding, are already the most unsightly ones on the block. Why would you want to draw more attention to your home's shortcomings? When neighbors go caroling door to door, voicing neither an energy concern, nor a safety concern about many of these electrically molested houses that appear to be one short away from a fireball existence, I wonder about the human camaraderie of it all. I don't care if your house explodes. May your days be merry and BRIGHT!

As if going blind weren't enough, I also, miraculously, go blank once Christmas approaches. I never need anything once people start asking me about potential presents that could be bought for me. All year long I say to myself, I could really use a..., I wish someone would get me a ..., You know what I need? A ... Then, "Hey, Sandra, what can I get you for Christmas?" Um, nothing. Let's not exchange this year. Of course, no matter how many times I instruct people not to get me anything, there are always boxes under the tree with my name on them. And damnit if I don't have to then make a mad dash to the mall. For the record, you always spend more money when you do all your Christmas shopping in two hours.

Because it has become somewhat of a Christmas tradition of mine to forget that I need anything worth asking for, not many of the gifts bought for me over the years have been especially thoughtful. Some of them have been nice gestures that do not go to waste, but some of them couldn't have been more off-base or generic. And yet, they are always fun to receive and then survey on the whole. In fact, on Christmas mornings of late, I have adopted a new tradition for myself that I highly recommend. You see, after I tear through my presents, one after another, I like to lay all my newly acquired booty on my bed and look at it, like I'm trying to piece the puzzle of perception together. There are scarves, gloves, Barnes & Noble, Borders, Staples, & Starbucks gift cards. There are big black purses, and big black pairs of sunglasses. So, this is who people think I am, I say to myself, the chilly woman behind her dark sunglasses, with her designer bag slung over her shoulder as she carries a latte in one hand and a book and a pen in the other. My God, I say to myself, people think I'm a pretentious asshole, don't they?

And they do. But not my mother. No. I can tell by my mother's ghastly gifts to me every year that she has no idea who I am. Last year I got something so spectacularly awful, I am having trouble typing this right now because, as I am recalling it, I am teetering off my chair in a fit a giggles. Yes, last year my mother gave me a reversible electric blanket/poncho. You could either wear it so that the beige plastic slicker side was showing, or, if you sought further humiliation, you could turn it inside out and reveal its forest green Scotch Tape-print wool to the world. Why the woman on the package was smiling as she modeled this botched abortion, I have no idea. It just doesn't make any sense. Am I supposed to wear it out in the cold rain? An ELECTRIC blanket/poncho with a WOOL underside is water-friendly? Since when? Needless to say, right after I opened this present, I slid it right back over to my mother who is so used to my giving back her gifts, I can't believe she still has the nerve to be offended by my lack of gratitude. And yet, every Christmas morning, that's precisely what she is, offended by my lack of gratitude.

It seems that, despite my greatest efforts, I just can't pretend to appreciate something when I don't appreciate it. I want to, but I can't. If you must know, the notion itself makes me bristle. Therefore, Christmas doesn't suit me or my needs. It's either beyond me, or beneath me...the pretentious asshole that I am.

The President-Eject & The President-Elect

There are two kinds of ignorance. Neither of them bliss. There is the forgivable kind, the kind of ignorance that is smart enough to recognize itself, and ambitious enough to seek the remedy of counsel and education. And then there is that other kind of ignorance. This is the kind of ignorance that is so convinced of its inherent wisdom, it borders on religion because, in spite of any tangible proof, it remains devoted to itself. Sometimes this ignorance looks a lot like stubbornness and arrogance. This is the ignorance that fails to notice the fact that even the stupid people in the room think it's hopelessly stupid.

Granted, we are all ignorant to a certain degree. As it has been said, none of us will ever know all of the things we will never know. And yet, after eight years of cringing while I watched presidential press conferences and interviews through my fingers, I know that the person in charge come January 2009 will be (sigh of relief) intelligent. I don't know what Barack Obama's term as president will bring, but I am hopeful, and I am listening, and what I am hearing sounds like English...and a plan.

Now, just to be clear, I have never thought President George W. Bush to be an evil man. I still don't. When people compare him to Hitler I am as equally put off by their ignorance as I have been by his. However, what I do think is that our current president, #43, has never been the right person for the office he was sworn into because, frankly, he does not have the God-given mental capacity to best fulfill his duties. He does not even have the capacity to want to learn how.

For some reason, President Bush just doesn't get it. Nothing seems like that much of a big deal to him. He is the Whatever president. In fact, I suspect that's what the W. really stands for. After all, according to most accounts, G.W.B. wanted to be the commissioner of baseball. That was his dream. He didn't want to be president. Those who have really been running his administration wanted the poor sucker to be "president". And we know who those oily folks are, don't we? And we know why, don't we? Even his parents were stunned by the turn of events. They thought it'd be their prized Jeb who'd follow in George H.W.'s footsteps, not slaphappy, good time W. who, with his propensity of mooning people and flipping them the bird, nursed a keg of beer until he was forty.

The thing is, despite his tragic presidency, I predict that, someday, George W. Bush will be the commissioner of baseball. And I think he'll be very good at it. It suits him. For that job, yes, he has what it takes. For the job of president of the United States of America? Well, this time we finally (and thankfully) chose the best candidate. No, not the black man with a dream...the smart American with a brain.

Where Credit Is and Isn't Due

I remember when there was a time when you could only drive a Mercedes if you had money. Luxury cars were precisely that, a luxury. These days, it seems, any self-delusional image climber with 15 cents and a dual airbag inflated ego can drive a Mercedes. We are a "look-at-me" society, more concerned with the facade than the foundation. We are adept at "frontin'', if you will. We are brokety broke and yet, we charge and lease away the days like there will be no tomorrow, or, at least, not one we will ever accept any fiscal responsibility for.

Bailout? Takeover? Buyout? Merger?

I've seen people on TV talking about how they should teach money management classes in high school to better prepare students for their financial futures. Good idea. Still, the basics are what seemed to trip us up. We learned how to add and subtract in the first grade, didn't we? They called the class Math, if I recall. I believe the standard questions were along the lines of: If the apple costs 80 cents and you have 50 cents, can you afford the apple? No, right? Right. So, you can't have the apple, right? Right. Because you don't have enough money, right? Right.

And yet, the basic rules and lessons have grown loopholes. Question: What if you put the 80 cent apple on your credit card? Well, then, you still can't afford it, right? Right. And yet, you can have it, right? Right. You can eat it, right? Right. And right now, right? You can eat it right now, right? Right. Enjoy it in the moment and worry about it later...when later, that 80 cent apple winds up costing you $17.00 because of the interest rates, and the fact that you can barely cover your minimum payment due each month. Rotten to the core. Yummy. Why stop with one apple? Get two. Three. A bushel! Get a bushel of apples.

The profound greed that percolated on Wall Street, allowing mortgage and investment firms and credit companies to take advantage of the clueless many who managed to fool themselves into believing they weren't being fooled is sickening. And yet, as they sold and resold mortgages and charged astronomical fees wherever they could, licking their chops all the while, Main Street marched along to a beat it could not keep up with. Wall Street is guilty, yes, but so is Main Street. Imagists who, knowing they didn't really have the money to buy a house, still went after those too-good-to-be-true NINJA (no income, no job, or assets) mortgage loans just so they could own a house and, dare I suggest, show off to their equally fiscally doomed neighbors. What happened to having money and living well below your means? My mother always taught us this: If you can't afford something, you don't need it. She also said, like twenty years ago, that credit cards would destroy this country. To this day, my mother, a very successful businesswoman, doesn't have one credit card. She needed me to get her a cell phone because she couldn't get one with, you know, money.

This financial meltdown, I'm sorry to say, is a bright orange semaphore desperately directing us toward the real evil-doers...ourselves. We are to blame for our own mess. Look what we done did.

Car leases are what really amuse me. What the fark do you need to trade your car in for every three years? Oh, I know, because you're too high class and important to drive the same car for more than three years. Or, at least, that's what you'd have others believe about you. Allow me to tell you about my car. My car has been my car since 1995, when my parents finally bought it for me after I had spent three years driving a ten year old Pontiac with one windshield wiper, a dragging muffler, and a hole in the radiator. I managed to hold the windshield wiper's rubber inlay in place with a yellow scrunchie, and, frankly, I just got used to the noise, smoke, and smell my vehicle produced on a daily basis until it exploded on Route 4 one afternoon. Anyway, this December, I will have had my car for thirteen years. And, I will continue to drive it until it falls apart all around and under me and I have to Flintstone footwork it to get it to move. When that day comes (I figure I have another year or two, at least) I will buy myself a car with the cash I have saved. Leasing means losing, so no leasing for me, thank you. Then, I will drive that new energy-efficient car for, God willing, another 12 to 15 years. In case you are wondering, both my degrees are in Literature.

Personally, I know what I have and don't have. And I know what I can and cannot afford. I make many a sacrifice in my everyday life (most notably with regard to my living situation) just to make sure I'm not putting myself at a terrible disadvantage. In a hole. While I may not independently be rolling in the dough, I am not in debt like many of my peers. And I have been told that I am in possession of enviable credit. Am I fly? Do I sparkle when I walk? Am I money? No. Not at all. Most people would not look at me and think, wow. I mean, why would they? Haven't we already established just how lousy most people in this country are with the whole credit thing?

Word Up

Everlast, not to be confused with the boxing gear, nor with the alternative rock group Everclear, is one guy, the former lead guy from the all-white 90's hip hop group House of Pain ("Jump Around") who has since resurfaced a few times and gone on to enjoy a respectable level of solo success. He is, perhaps, best known as a solo artist for his socially conscious "hick hop" track, "What It's Like", that married old school beats with an acoustic guitar. At the time (1998, I think it was) this was hardly chartered territory. Still, Everlast, with a surprisingly melodic, yet husky singing voice, triumphantly jumped back onto the music scene having found his creative niche. With an altered perspective on life and death, which came courtesy of his having survived a heart attack at the age 28, Everlast was a new man who had something to say, but nothing to prove.

A flawed, but earnest and interesting salt-of-the-earth kind of artist, Everlast seems most at home when he is documenting the grimy underside of the celebrated facade of sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll. His penchant for telling the stories of the often dismissed folk who suffer through their lives with soiled souls, broken hearts, and dirty veins, earns him points in the "keepin' it real" books of many a music critic and fan alike. I almost don't even mind the fact that he sings about being "uncurable" in a straight-faced, non-ironic way on one track off his latest CD release, Love, War and the Ghost of Whitey Ford.

Clearly, when it comes to expressing what they mean to say, writers, well, songwriters, specifically, have their favorite, tried-and-true words and topics from which they choose. They effortlessly reach into their rusty toolboxes and don't, generally, make any apologies for what they pull out. They gravitate toward certain themes and communicate their thoughts and feelings in ways that tend to be comparable to the ways they conduct their lives, the ways they notice others conducting their lives, the ways they wish they could conduct their lives or, on a far less integrity-driven note, the ways in which they merely want to be perceived by their audiences. On occasion, they create something we'd call art. Sonically speaking, I think Everlast's latest solo effort, Love, War & the Ghost of Whitey Ford is a brand new & interesting stretch of lonely road, and yet, the lyrical content suggests the same old scenery. Empathetic as ever, Everlast does not have a heart problem. Not at all, actually. No, what Everlast has is an art problem.

When crisp, dramatic horns introduce the opening track, "Kill the Emperor", it is difficult not to let your goose bumps dictate your opinion of the song overall. First, you envision the royal court. Then Washington, D.C. presents itself. The pomp and circumstance that could only highlight the disconnect between the rich and the poor, the enfranchised and the disenfranchised in our modern American times is evoked instantly. And then the emperor's assassin enters, trying to flex his political muscle via a stale decree that is intended to kill, but doesn't. Save for the "fifty states of denial" line, nothing that follows the horns is especially groundbreaking or even remotely poetic. Plus, the figurative notion of "killing the emperor" is as old and dusty as monarchies themselves. Tired. Snooze. Wake me when it's over.

And yet, stripped of its narration, the music of L,W&tGoWF is remarkably alive and impressive. It really is. Needless to say, the SOUND here is king, as it stimulates in an unpredictable, mixed bag fashion that, at its best, inspires smiles and bursts of movement. It successfully rocks and hops and picks and strums and, kudos to production all around, seamlessly. However, where the music seems studied and precise, the off-the-top-of-the-head lyric writing seems to have finally run its course. This is where Everlast (i.e. Whitey Ford) may need to invest in a notebook and start physically writing words and concepts down on the page. Writers write differently when they put pen to paper. If a songwriter is going to be bold enough to experiment with instrumentation and "beats", s/he needs to do the same on the lyrical/subject matter front and open up to the possibility of telling different stories. Or, at the very least, the same stories, just framed with more of a creative edge and enthusiasm.

Now, I know there have been reviews out there praising the lyrical content of L,W&tGoWF, but, alas, upon further inspection you'll notice that those reviews, themselves, are poorly written. Just an observation, of course. Anyway, I don't think anyone will revoke Everlast's Biggie Smalls/Jay-Z writing-without-writing-anything-down lyricist's pass for daring to challenge himself for the sake of his craft. Pen and paper are not just for autograph signing, after all. Perhaps they might afford Whitey the opportunity to withdraw from a WORD BANK that does not only include the following words:

junkie/hell/whore/girl/broken/tired/pain/devil/city/jones/heaven/

heart/angel/drinking/pills/knees/God/dirty/scars/die/love/live/

poor/bones/rich/high/low/lies/gun/kill.

I mean, it can't hurt to try. After all, a singular, personal truth can be communicated through an assortment of different channels and still be true in the end.

Don't get me wrong; I think this is a very good CD, but there are moments on L,W&tGoWF that suggest that it could have been a great one. A really great one. A classic, even. The track "Die in Yer Arms", for example, sparkles from every direction and in every light. With a wink and a nod to an 80's dance floor, this track proves to be a perfect, little, "vicious sway" of a song because it is fun, light, infectious, and witty. A grape metaphor done justice: juicy, but tightly wrapped. The verses are not long, self-indulgent attempts at trying to communicate something meaningful without quite getting there. The message arrives immediately and, dare I say, artistically.

Another highlight is the track "Friend". I don't care how many scars, or broken hearts, or I-fuck-up-a-lot-but-love-me-anyway-girl references are made on this song; I love it in spite of itself. In spite of myself. The words (including the non-word "uncurable") and the overall confession of sorts are not what make this song fresh; it's the angle and the sincerity here that make this song worth my looking like a complete junkie for when I sing my scarred and broken heart out when I play the hell out of it while driving my tired bones into the dirty city.

Loosen Up On Buttons

I bought a great fitted sweater the other day. Correction: I bought what I thought was a great fitted sweater the other day, until I wore it out in the world and made the mistake of shrugging my shoulders in it. You see, the stretch knit of which I speak, happens to be adorned with two large buttons that, when I'm at rest, sit flat and parallel to one another on my mid-section, just below my chest. However, when I lift my shoulders ever so slightly, voilà, the buttons shift upward in a flash and, suddenly, my breasts look like they have been bedazzled with shiny, black, industrial strength nipples.

I have never understood designers' fascination with buttons as fashion. I had a pair of cherry red corduroy pants as a kid that had three buttons (flower petals) on each back pocket. The designer might have thought these buttons served a great aesthetic purpose, but, honestly, the only purpose served was that of making my butt cheeks into musical instruments, as they tap tap tapped out a tune every time I sat down in my chair. Then, whenever I moved, it was like the remix. I cannot forget feeling those buttons pressing into my flesh during a mandatory assembly where I had to suffer through sitting "Indian-style" on the gymnasium floor until my rear end became a button punching bag, and my feet (for their having been sat upon for two hours) lost all sensation. At the end of that assembly, as I pulled myself along the waxed wood floors of the gymnasium with arm strength alone, I looked like a seal...in cherry red corduroy pants.

Buttons have a really undeserved sweet reputation in our culture. They seem quaint. With their perfect little holes, they look like little round faces. Of course, no one ever says that about bowling balls, and they, too, have those holey faces. Cute as a button? Yes. Cute as a bowling ball? Not so much. Buttons seem delicate. Button noses, not baton noses, are heralded as the beauty ideal. Just ask the plastic surgeons. Button your lip sounds so much daintier and so much more polite than shut your hole, or quit flapping your gums, or put a sock in it.

I can understand buttons as fasteners; that I get and mostly appreciate. It's the decorative buttons that cause me to pause and shake my head while shopping. Using buttons in place of eyes on children's clothing is just weird to me. I saw a yellow sweatshirt in the kids' department at Macy's not too long ago that proudly boasted an alligator with blue button eyes on its front. It was the ugliest thing. I felt so sorry for any child whose mother might buy it, thinking it was adorable because it happened to be in the children's department at Macy's. Why can't manufacturers just stitch on the damn eyes the same way they stitch on the rest of the damn alligator? That way when children's alligator sweatshirts lose buttons, their mothers won't have to send their children to school wearing crippled alligators across their chests. Quick, sew a toothpick onto that sucker! Your blind bastard of an alligator needs a walking stick. Using buttons as wheels on knitted trucks is equally strange to me. How is this clever? Don't kids have it tough enough nowadays? Must we also force them to wear lousy arts and crafts projects?

Listen to me closely, okay? Buttons are not as benign as they seem to be. Chip one or break one in half. Go on. I dare you. Why so reluctant? Aha! You, it seems, know what I know. Yes, you know that if you do chip a button or break one in half, you will suddenly have a rather ninja-like weapon in your possession. I don't care what you say. No broken plastic anything is as sharp and as deadly as the itsy bitsy cutesy wootsy broken button from hell. Just ask that other cute button you know and love...your belly button. Clearly the victim of button on button crime, mine still winces when I put on a pair of tight-ish pants. "No, Sandra, please," my belly button's muffled cries seem to say. "Elastic waistband! Elastic waistband!"

Anyway, this is where I press the POWER button OFF and leave you with my musings. My scissors, after all, have a date with the threads that bind my shiny, black button nipples to my otherwise great fitted sweater.

If He Had a Hammer

Would you like to be reminded of your elementary school days? Then, please, by all means, make it a point to visit any neighborhood drugstore (CVS, Walgreens, Rite Aid), or Staples between the dates of September 5th and September 12th of any given year. However, if you are an adult child of immigrants, you want to take this trip down memory lane around the Fort Lee, NJ area. You see, this is the best area around back to school time because this is the new immigration hub, where many new immigrants and their families seem to put down roots for a few years. This is where they choose to sorta kinda assimilate because of the area's close proximity to the city, and the school systems that are nowhere near those of the city in terms of shear administrative incompetence.

Anyway, the truth is, there is nothing that brings an adult child of immigrants back to his/her childhood like listening to a brand new crop of parents with accents. As they argue with their children in the crowded aisles over all the frivolous and flighty requests the teachers have put on their school supplies lists, you'll feel like a kid again. WHAT YOU'LL NEED FOR CLASS is emblazoned on many a ditto being clasped in the hands of none too thrilled mothers. "I tink," growls one heavily accented Russian mother in Staples, as she runs down the list with her bubblegum nail, "vat yous need for cless is a meeeellionaire moder to pay for all this tings."

I can remember getting into an argument with my own mother over the Glue Stick that was on my brother's school supplies list when he was in the second or third grade. "All glue sticks, Jesus Christ. What the hell is the difference?" she'd asked, annoyed, as I dug the old school Elmer's glue out of the red CVS basket she was carrying, and replaced it with the required Glue Stick. "Troppa comodità with you kids; that's the problem in this country." In case you're wondering, that basically translates as, too much comfort. According to my mother, America was and is going down the proverbial tubes because, God forbid kids should do a little extra work and spend a little less money in the process.

Surely, there are more problems than that one in this country, yes. But, my mother is what I call an absolutist. For her, there is one solution to all your problems, and if you really stopped to think for a minute, Jesus Christ, you'd see that there is only one real problem in your imagined collection of problems. What is your problem? Laziness. And what is the solution? Go to work.

When I tell my own students (who, incidentally, pretty much all have parents from foreign lands) stories about how I grew up with immigrants for parents, they immediately relate and, subsequently, relax. They need not worry if they get a different kind of notebook for class, or if their parents fill the forms out incorrectly. I get it. I was there. In many respects, I'm still there. Growing up American is a different experience when your parents no speak the English no so good. It is especially different when the old world culture and traditions are not immediately checked at the gate. For example, most of my students still get hit by their parents when they do something wrong. There are no "time outs" for them...yet. We swap stories about the injustices we've suffered in homes where a smack is not viewed as a criminal offense, and, honestly, we mostly laugh at the ignorance our parents have displayed from time to time in the discipline arena. We all know the hitting thing doesn't dissuade bad behavior. We all know that getting hit sometimes hurts and often humiliates, and that, when we have our own kids, we won't continue the cycle. In some cases, nearly twenty-five years apart, our stories are strikingly similar. Thus, we understand each other, the adult child of immigrants and the children children of immigrants. We can appreciate and laugh at each other's stories because they are the same stories...just with different accents attached.

That said, when I tell my properly American friends a story of being chased around the house by my father with a hammer when I was a kid, they are aghast. They are too horrified to even think of laughing. They shake their heads and give me that look. That look that says, Oh my God! Poor you, Sandra. You sad sad clown. Then, within seconds, I find myself recanting, because they didn't get it. They don't get it. How could they, really? And I don't want them to pity me, or, for that matter, think ill of how I was raised and the people who raised me. They don't see the humor. So, I start again. Only this time I sound like a rattling train of excuses.

Um, well, you know, he didn't actually USE the hammer. And, um, you know, it wasn't a GIANT hammer or anything like that. It wasn't like a SLEDGEHAMMER. You know what? Now that I think about it, it wasn't a hammer at all, actually. It was, you know, one of those hammer thingy things that you, um, use to play a plastic rainbow xylophone. A toy. You know, a mallet. And it wasn't even hard plastic or anything like that. No, it was like, you know, a stuffed animal mallet, so it was soft, you know. It was really really soft. Oh my God. What the hell am I talking about? It wasn't a mallet at all. You know what it was? It was a teddy bear. Yeah. I don't know how I mixed that up. It was a soft, fluffy teddy bear with a red, satin ribbon tied around its neck. And, oh yeah, I remember now. He wasn't chasing me with it because he wanted to hit me with it. He was chasing me with it because it was a gift he had surprised me with. Because he loved me that much. He was always doing stuff like that. Chasing me around with teddy bear presents after I tried to push my brother down the stairs. But, honestly, even if he had been chasing me around with a hammer, which, of course, he wasn't, I would have deserved to have been chased with a hammer because, you know what my problem is? Laziness. And you know what I need to do? I need to go to work.

Don't Count Your Chicks Before They Hatch

Females are not interchangeable. Any man who has encountered more than one woman in his lifetime should probably be able to figure this out. I didn’t think I’d have to say this in the year 2008 but, newsflash, female candidates are not interchangeable either. What, because Hillary Clinton had a very good shot at being elected the first female president of the United States, and female voters supported her campaign, those same female voters will lemmingly follow the next female candidate that is nudged into the spotlight, despite the fact that she is not qualified for the job she is up for? How presumptuous. What a blatant display of shameless pandering. Tsk tsk tsk.

I don't know about you but, I was more than a little offended when Senator John McCain unleashed a female running mate upon us, all the while thinking this would be all it would take to sway the onetime Hillary Clinton supporters in his direction. The political strategists, consultants, pundits, vice presidential search committee members all seem to think that we, women, are all the damn same and, therefore, will all vote the way we are guided (shepherded, really) to vote. They think that, just because a woman is on the ballot, other women will mindlessly vote for her even if she is, clearly, out of her bird. No, I say. This woman here is not that easily swayed. Don’t bother trying to “target” me with your research, polls, and statistics because, guess what? I move.

It seems that, over these past couple of days, this whole Republican vice presidential nomination of Governor Sarah Palin of Alaska has gotten me thinking about the woman I am. This, of course, sent my mind wandering back to my girlhood. You see, as a kid, I used to be forced to go to my parents' restaurant to help out by answering the phones, working the register, making cappuccinos, and filling soda glasses with that soda gun that is, like most things, fun to toy with until you realize it isn't a toy, but actually, a tool for working. That said, there I was, essentially hidden behind the bar (no liquor license in those days) to do my various jobs that earned me, I swear to God, $9 total a night, for what worked out to be seven hours of labor. Still, I didn't mind being stationed back there, despite the insulting pay. I didn’t feel comfortable working the floor because that always required a surplus of BS-ing with customers, so, being behind that fort of a bar suited me just fine. I really couldn’t stand the BS. I mean, who were these people? And why did I have to tell them how I was doing in school?

Anyway, during my time served in the restaurant, my mother had this awful tendency of pawning young customers off on me, not caring if I actually wanted to chat with them, which, of course, I didn’t. I'd hear her as she talked to some random family, addressing the daughter with something like, "Oh, you're 12? My daughter is 12." Then I'd see her point in my direction with the smile she only wore when she looked at me in the presence of paying customers. "That's Sandra. You're both 12. Why don't you go talk to her?" My mother did this a lot. I’d cringe, yes, but ultimately, I would talk to them and make them laugh. I was absolutely polite. Some might even say dutiful; this was a business, after all.

So, often I'd be left to entertain a bunch of young, stranger girls who, because they were of, or about my age, were supposed to be just like me, at least, according to the adults in the vicinity. My mother thought that's all it took, our being 12-year-old girls, to make us instant friends. What she didn't seem to understand was that, unlike me, most 12-year-old girls were already little hoochie mamas with older boyfriends they let touch them "down there". Needless to say, I did not relate to, nor respect these sweet-looking girls who snuck cigarettes and convinced their parents they had a stomach flu when they were really hung over. At 12 years of age I didn't even drink root beer, never mind, beer beer (still don’t), and frankly, undressing my anatomically incorrect Ken doll embarrassed me so much, I just kept him in the same outfit for years. To me, it didn't matter if he and Barbie were at the beach, he was going to stay dressed as an astronaut.

That said, if you must know, while I am perfectly capable of exchanging pleasantries and being hospitable and charming for the sake of making those around me feel more comfortable, I've never fully understood the charade of it all. The phoniness, the Hi, how are you? It's so good to see you! lines of fiction always made me want vomit in my mouth a little when I didn’t care about the people I was forced to talk to. At the very least, I should have tacked my own list of Martin Lutheresque grievances on the door. The truth is, I do not genuinely want to speak to most people. The good thing is this: somewhere between the ages of 22 and 28, I completely stopped caring about whether or not it showed that I didn't like certain people. In other words, as an adult woman, if I don't like you, it will show. And if I do not want to engage in conversation with you, I won't, regardless of whether or not you expect me to. Regardless of whether or not it is good for business.

You see, while my family may still very much be in the restaurant business, I am not. I am my own person, after all. Therefore, you won't get my friendship just by ordering a pizza. Nor will you be entitled to my time and conversation just by being around my age. You have to earn all aspects of the woman I’ve grown up to be. Hence, if you think you’ll get my vote just by virtue of having been born a woman, think again. My vote has to be earned. Governor Palin and I are not the same, after all. She happily deals in BS, while I, happily, escaped it because I, unlike Governor Palin, am not a politician.

Oh, and, unlike Governor Palin, I won’t potentially be a heartbeat away from the presidency of the United States of America any time soon. Thus, because of this, taking the time to learn about what this candidate stands for and what her policies are, as opposed to what kind of a woman she is and how she wears a ponytail, is crucial. It seems to me that when you dismiss individual female voters and clump them together as “the woman vote”, you’ll find, instead, an army, not a sorority, of informed voters who will likely be waving the Obama/Biden winning ticket. In other words, don't count your chicks before they hatch. Not that they were ever yours to begin with.

Attention Wal-Mart Snobbers

Drive for a mere hour and a half in New Jersey and you might encounter corn fields, or sheep and cows grazing, or a red pick-up truck with a not-so-fierce-looking hound hanging out the back. You might see a car show being held at some local, old-fashioned, drive-in burger joint. You might even stumble upon a Wal-Mart and be excited because, well, you've never been to a Wal-Mart. You've never even seen a Wal-Mart. As you suddenly spy a sly fox weaving its way in and out of parking spaces with its clever pointed steps, you might ask yourself if every Wal-Mart has a fox roaming around its parking lot in the middle of the day. Then, as you sneak past the fox, you might actually find yourself inside Wal-Mart, only to find that it is, in fact, like a giant, cluttered garage...before one might wisely decide to either throw everything away or, naturally, have a garage sale. Thus, you might be overwhelmingly disappointed with Wal-Mart.

Still, with a dizziness inspired by the very determined fluorescent lighting, you might stagger along the wide linoleum aisles in your three inch heels and oversized sunglasses wondering why every last sign in the store needs to be that awful shade of blue, and why you're the only person wearing all black. You might go on to survey the other shoppers and notice how nearly all the men are wearing shirts with their sleeves cut off. You might also notice how nearly all of their wives are wearing white or hot pink shorts that are way too tight. Finally, given the distinctive sound echoing from their feet, you might notice that, as they shop, the lot of them are slapping behind their gray carts in flip flops.

At this point you might be wondering how you look within the context of Wal-Mart, but you will not find one mirror on the walls of Wal-Mart. This might annoy you. You might even pout a little in front of the long stretch of shelves stocked with American flags. Then, as you wander into the children's section that is in all kinds of disarray, a Wal-Mart employee donning a rather unfortunate blue vest might come up to you and ask, in a gasping-for-breath kind of way, if you're finding everything you need. You might wonder about her rural spin on a New Jersey accent and think this woman needs to quit smoking, but you might say, thank you, yes, and then make a snide remark about the prosti-tot children's clothing for sale, as you hold up a size 6x push-up bra bikini top for her to witness. She might shake her head at the garment and agree with you about its scandalous nature. You might like her.

This Wal-Mart employee might be named Sheila, and, soon enough, she might start talking to you about how much her 8-year-old daughter's not-so-innocent taste in clothing has been costing her lately, both in terms of money, and in terms of her relationship with her daughter...because they fight all the time. Hearing this, you might lift your sunglasses off of your face and onto your head as Sheila might mindlessly start folding shirts, telling you about how hard the divorce has been on her daughter. "He just left," she might rurally wheeze of her former husband.

Then, as Sheila might be talking, you might (with your big black bag slung over your shoulder, and your big black sunglasses atop your head) start folding shirts, too. At first, you might not even notice you are folding shirts. And then, after some time, you and Sheila might both notice that all the shirts you are folding are either Hannah Montana, High School Musical, or Jonas Brothers shirts. So, Sheila might take this opportunity to tell you how absolutely sick of the Jonas Brothers she is. Then, as you smooth out the sleeves on one of the shirts, you might make a joke about how, even though you don't hate the Jonas Brothers music per se, you still can't seem to resist the urge to make a Jonas-Brothers-Kabob of them by searing each mini-man through his middle with an oversized knitting needle: Kevin-Joe-Nick.

At this, Sheila might laugh so hard that another Wal-Mart employee might come over to ask what was so funny. Sheila might repeat what you said and then both Wal-Mart employees dressed in their Smurfy vests might laugh. Then, as you fold your last High School Musical shirt and get ready to say goodbye, Sheila might reach out to you, put her hand on your shoulder and thank you for making her day. Likewise, you might say, as you exit and head back into the Wal-Mart parking lot, wholly expecting to find that clever fox, but only finding that not-so-fierce-looking hound hanging out the back of a red pick-up truck.

Making a Splash Below the Surface

Everyone is talking about how Michael Phelps' God-given body, coupled with his need to harness his hyperactive energy as a kid, basically determined his fate of becoming the best and fastest swimmer in the whole dang world. How can he keep winning? How is this so easy for him? Well, first of all, Phelps is effectively tireless. Second of all, he has a super-long torso that sits atop his short-ish, sturdy legs. In addition, he has flipper-like, size 14 feet, boasts an arm-span of 6' 2", and happens to be in possession of a heart that pumps twice as much blood, twice as fast as the average man. According to Bob Costas and Company, that's basically how Phelps does it.

Still, along with genetics, Phelps, the freak of nature that he is, goes the extra length and sticks to an intense training regimen. The guy trains so hard and so thoroughly, he only gets out of the pool to eat and sleep. What does he eat, you ask? Well, God bless America, there is nothing healthful about his diet. The guy eats whatever the hell he wants and as much of it as he wants because he burns every last morsel of it in the pool. I love the idea that he is fueled by pancakes and hot dogs. This reaffirms my belief that a sedentary life, not food, is the mortal enemy. People who only eat whole grains, greens, and steamed fish seem desperately sad to me. They are the same people who, upon receiving their own gold medals, always look as though they would have preferred to have been given chocolate medallions wrapped in gold foil, or burgers wrapped in crinkly yellow paper. Thank you for the gold medal. Now, point me toward the golden arches.

Anyway, all this talk about the body that Phelps inhabits has gotten me thinking about my own seemingly pathetic vessel. What was I built for? Do I have the body of an Olympian, or a simian? A bold build, or a blogger's bod? Baby-maker, or babysitter? I wonder, for what purpose did God make my particular frame? What can we tell by looking at ourselves and at one another, on the surface? Are we ever correct to assume anything about anyone based on what we see?

My nose might tell you that I am a singer, which I am. My hands might tell you that I am not a guitarist, which I am not. My hair might tell you that I am Italian, which I am. However, my skin tone might tell you that I am Scandinavian, which I am not. And my size ten body? Well, that might tell you that I have high cholesterol and high blood pressure, and cannot run fast. The thing is, I don't, I don't, and, somehow, I can.

That last point, specifically, has been perplexing those around me since I was a big little girl trying to fake her own death to get out of gym class. I was egregiously bad at anything that required endurance and hand-eye coordination, yes, but speed was a different matter. My running of the 50-Yard-Dash, for example, never failed to stun every insensitive gym teacher I have ever had. This, of course, was always followed by a comment along the lines of, "You know, Bazzarelli, you've got potential. If you ever got with the program and dropped that extra weight you insist on carrying around with you, you might be able to really do this." One of my gym teachers even made it a point to tell my guidance counselor that I could be a sprinter if I, "laid off Pop's pizza." Which reminds me, what an asshole.

Anyway, these backhanded compliments never really did anything to persuade me to take up running and put down my fork because, honestly, I never liked to run and always felt self-conscious when I was forced to. That being said, what this attention being paid to my running did do was this: it made me aware of something else God had given me, but for a non-Olympic reason, I assure you. To this day, I'll only race against someone when that someone needs to be taught a lesson on the foolishness of making assumptions. In other words, my running might tell you that I am a teacher, which I am.

Now, over these past couple of days I've heard many a sports commentator talk about how Michael "Superman" Phelps was made for what he's doing. This, I believe, given all those gold medals and world records of his, is hard to deny. Still, that's not to say he wasn't made to do other things as well. Not everything shows at a glance, after all. Not even if you live your life in a Speedo.

Zzzzzz...

When I was a teenager, I could sleep like a champion. I should have been given a trophy, I was so adept. Even in my early twenties, sleeping was not a chore by any means. I had no trouble falling asleep and even less trouble staying asleep. Nowadays, however, I'm lucky if I can get three hours a night. It takes me forever to fall asleep, and when I do drift off, finally, I tend to wake up every 40 minutes or so. Anything will wake me. The slightest sound is like a tornado ripping the roof off my house, wind-whipping me out of bed and into a stone-cold-red-alert state that is nearly impossible to wind down from.

When it comes to sleeping, my intentions are as good as they come. I earmark plenty of hours of sleep time for myself and look forward to getting some rest. I get myself mentally prepared, picturing myself being in bed snoozing long before I'm even in my bedroom. While I'm getting ready for bed, I'm lulling myself to sleep with the mere idea of being asleep. Yawn. I love my bed. Yawn. I am going to feel so cozy and snug once I am in my bed. Yawn. I am going to go to sleep now...cozy and snug in my bed that I love. Sweet dreams for me. Goodnight, Moon.

I have turned off the ringers on my phones. I have set my alarm for the next morning. I have gotten all settled and set, turned the light off and...nothing. Sleep does not come. I wait it out for a spell. Nothing. I turn the light back on. I read a book or a magazine. I get fantastically sleepy. I turn the light off again and...nothing. I grab my headphones and listen to some tunes. I yawn. My body aches. I am desperately tired but...nothing. I turn the light back on and I write some notes, maybe an idea for a song, or a poem, or a short story. Maybe a to-do list for the next day, or an idea for a class project or essay topic that I just had as I stirred, here in my well-intended, but not-quite-realized slumber that is so not a party, it isn't even funny.

I'm just here. Tossing and turning. Pillows and sheets and comforter are strewn about. They are the debris of a sleepless night of the not-so-interesting kind. I am waiting. Thinking. What did I wear last Thursday? How many cups are in a gallon? I wonder if the new Batman movie really is cursed. I like Morgan Freeman. Is my nose losing weight? My nose feels so bony. I wonder if I could break my own nose with just my thumb and my index finger. I look at the clock again and again. The hours are ticking by and I am still awake. I am not sleeping. In my head I am writing what will become my latest blog entry.

I remember watching a CNN special report a while back about how America's lack of sleep was becoming America's number one health problem. At the time I had little to no sympathy for the sleepless. What's the big deal? Just go to sleep, people. Well, it's at least ten years later, and now I know what all the quacking was about. Suddenly, I can't sleep either. Overall, I suspect it's gotten much worse, statistic-wise. How many of us can't fall asleep and stay asleep once we fall?

Given all the sleep aid commercials I see on any given night, I'd imagine that at least half of us can't accomplish what seems like the simplest, most natural task, despite our best efforts. Hence, why else would the pharmaceutical companies be so diligently trying to cash in? The demand is great and the problem is real. Studies show that people who sleep fewer than 6 hours a night don't live as long as those who get seven or more hours.

Plus, sleeplessness leads to carelessness and accidents. Drowsy driving is equivalent to drunk driving. According to the National Highway Transportation Board, drowsiness and fatigue behind the wheel account for more than 1,500 deaths each year. Sleepiness is also to blame for mistakes and disasters on the job. The Exxon Valdez oil spill, the Challenger explosion, and the Chernobyl and Three Mile Island nuclear meltdowns were all caused by folks suffering from sleep deprivation. So, yes, it is both a health problem and a safety issue. I just don't think pills are the answer.

For the past few years different doctors have tried to prescribe sleep medication to me, but I have always refused. I've heard enough horror stories about people who drive to work in their pajamas at three in the morning because their sleep aids don't shut down the act-out-my-dreams part of their brains. I've also heard about the sleep "hangover" where the sleep lingers all day long. Who wants to experience that? Before you know it, you've become a bloated, sequined Elvis, popping a pill to fall asleep, and then a pill to wake up until you've died on the toilet. Can you believe that they even go so far as to prescribe this stuff to children?

By the way, the Lunesta commercials confuse me. Butterflies at night? Do butterflies fly at night? I know they like to hang out and rest when it's overcast, but does that suddenly make them the owls of the insect world? Whoo whoo came up with this? And that sixth-grade-roller-rink-green-glow-stick effect...what's up with that? If you're an insomniac butterfly and you are interested in taking Lunesta, side effects may include glowing in the dark and fluttering around at night over the heads of actors who are pretending to be sleeping soundly with smiles on their faces for the sake of selling this drug to the masses who will take it because they are too tired to pay attention to the side-effects.

There's also Ambien. Isn't that the name of that trippy, out-there-in the-atmosphere music? No wait. That's Ambient. Yeah, not that different when you think about it, given the side-effects.

Some Ambien side-effects:

(AssociatedContent.com)

- Daytime Drowsiness, Dizziness, Weakness, feeling "Drugged" or Light-Headed- Lack of Coordination- Amnesia, Ability to Forget Certain Things- Vivid or Abnormal Dreams- Diarrhea, Nausea, Vomiting- Headache, Muscle Pain- Blurred Vision- Hives; Difficulty breathing; Swelling of the face, lips, tongue, or throat

Irony alert! Irony alert!

- Experiencing Less Sleep

Wait! It gets better!

- Depression, Suicidal Thoughts- Unusual Risk-Taking Behavior, No Fear of Danger, Decreased Inhibitions- Feeling Aggressive or Agitated- Hallucinations, Confusion, Loss of Personality

Still, this has to be the best one:

(Drugs.com)

Some patients taking Ambien have performed certain activities while they were not fully awake. These have included sleep-driving, making and eating food, making phone calls, and having sex. Oh. My. God. Patients often do not remember these events after they happen. Oh. My. God. Such an event may be more likely to occur if you use a high dose of Ambien . It may also be more likely if you drink alcohol or take other medicines that may cause drowsiness while you use Ambien . Tell your doctor right away if such an event happens to you. Um, like, I thought you didn't remember.

I now present to you, the side-effects of Lunesta:

(Drugs.com)

Lunesta may cause a severe allergic reaction. Stop taking Lunesta and get emergency medical help if you have any of these signs of an allergic reaction: hives; difficulty breathing; swelling of your face, lips, tongue, or throat. Sound familiar? Stop using Lunesta and call your doctor at once (in the event that your swollen tongue doesn't get in the way of your speaking, of course) if you have any of these serious side effects: aggression, agitation, changes in behavior; thoughts of hurting yourself; or hallucinations, hearing or seeing things (like green, glow-in-the-dark butterflies)

And these are the "less serious" side-effects of Lunesta:

Day-time drowsiness, dizziness, "hangover" feeling problems with memory or concentration (Huh? What'd you say?) anxiety, depression, nervous feeling headache nausea, stomach pain, loss of appetite, constipation dry mouth mild skin rash unusual or unpleasant taste in your mouth (It's apparently a metal taste that lasts all day. Yummy! No wonder you're not hungry. Hey, maybe you should take Ambien at the same time so that, in your "sleep", you can cook yourself a meal and eat it.)

Anyway, that's it. The end. Now, I don't know about you but, don't these "aids" seem worse than the problem itself? That said, I suppose a positive could come from this long and winding list of negatives. Instead of counting sheep...we can just count side-effects. Now, that might actually help.

Are you getting sleepy?

Dollar Dollar Bill

Do you remember when love songs of the R&B variety weren't about strippers? You know, before R&B slow and mid-tempo jams were infused with hip hop vernacular and swagger? Don't get me wrong, I enjoy well-crafted hip hop songs and the pop culture-laden, wink wink lyrics of many modern day R&B artists. Chris Brown's, "You're like Jordans on Saturday," line comes to mind.

That said, doesn't a squarely romantic R&B song seem like a faint memory when you're listening to the radio nowadays? I don't get it. A woman would have to be able to relate to a woman who would "make love in this club" in order to swoon and daydream along to one of these songs. Is this who you have to be to get a song written about you? Are these the songs men are dedicating to their girlfriends? Who are these girlfriends? It's whore-able.

Let me tell you something. Not too long ago, Mr. Wyclef Jean passed me on the street outside The Hit Factory in NYC. I didn't say anything to him. However, had I somehow managed to summon the nerve, I might have sarcastically said, "Hey, Mr. Jean. I have an idea. Why don't you write a song about a stripper?" Granted, his stripper songs are more cautionary tales, "real talk" about the trials and tribulations associated with stripper life, but, in case you haven't noticed, this awesomely talented man (Gone Till November is still one of my favorite tracks ever) has about five songs in his repertoire that are about those who shake their money-makers.

It seems a little unbalanced, if you ask me, especially when you consider the myriad of topics one in his position could potentially write about. I guess it would be fine if he were the only one recording these ditties, but there are a slew of other writers and producers out there who are just banging these things out and cashing their checks one after another. It never ends. It's like a stripper song franchise. Ho's for Ho's, I suppose.

And these songs creep up on you, don't they? You can be driving along in your car, listening to a beautiful melody with beautiful sentiments being beautifully expressed ever-so-sincerely via the most seductive male singing voice on the planet, thinking, Hey, this could be about me. Someone could love me this way someday. What a lovely song with such...BOOM! The ass lyric. The reference to the pole. The shaking it. The dollar dollar bill. The letdown. This isn't about me.

So, in my spare time I like to make up parody songs with awful stripper-centric lyrics that I perform for friends and family. The thing is, even the most ridiculous lyrics I can conjure up seem like they could actually be the lyrics to some of these songs that are so pervasive.


Example:

Girl, I been lovin' you so much for so long
Ain't no way I gon' stop it
Cuz, girl, the love I feel for you is so strong
When you pop ya ass and drop it


Insanely stupid, right? And yet, utterly plausible. Maybe this already is in a song. Who knows. (Sigh) Maybe I'm just getting old or something. Maybe, since they are wildly popular, I'm the only one who takes issue with these songs. Still, while this may very well be the case, don't you sometimes wonder what songs couples will be choosing as their wedding songs in the very near future? After all, the guy who sings about being "in love with a stripper" will probably need a tune to slow dance to on his big day...when he marries the preacher's daughter.

Profoundly Disturbed

There are a few things that disturb me so profoundly that, when I'm forced to think about them, I can almost hear myself calling upon God in some silent way to ask, WTF? I tell God to do a better job, for Chrissakes, knowing full well that God probably isn't listening because God is likely too caught up in Facebook at the moment. Thus, I force myself to think of something else, as I try to navigate my way through the horror on my own, by my-damn-self.

See, any true story about the rape of a child, any true story about genital mutilation, and any true story about a beheading, causes me to feel so emotionally, spiritually, and physically assaulted, that all the cells in my body seem to pinch themselves shut simultaneously, causing me to fall into something I can't fully describe. Maybe it's my own humanity that gets kicked in the gut at these moments, the core of goodness most of us have but don't generally tap into too deeply. I don't know. All I know is that, even with so many disturbing truths in our world, these are the three that, every time they come up in the news, kill something in me.

So, why am I bringing this up? Well, at lunch yesterday, my brother recounted the story of Tim McClean, a twenty-two-year-old kid who was traveling in Toronto, Canada, taking a Greyhound bus from Edmonton to Winnipeg. Apparently, as Tim McClean napped, an unprovoked, unidentified insane man pulled out a knife and methodically began to stab him as he screamed in agony. Then, with the same knife that he had been doing the stabbing with, he cut off Tim McClean's head. I can barely type this, I swear to God. If you aren't familiar with the whole story, here: http://www.canada.com/montrealgazette/news/story.html?id=7886faf4-e8e9-4217-ac1d-66563d16ec9f.

I can't imagine. I really can't.

My God, that poor kid.

Sort of Right, But Sort of Wrong

My five-year-old niece and I got into a war of words the other day over, of all things, a Miley Cyrus song. I was trying to perform 7 Things I Hate About You to the audience of my own reflection, courtesy of my niece's in-wall aquarium, but she kept interrupting me to tell me that I was messing up the words. I was getting it all WRONG WRONG WRONG!

"She says 7 things I like about you, not hate," my niece insisted.

"Yes," I said, in my very patient teacher voice. "But she only says that when she sings the chorus for the last time. She changes it from hate to like at the end."

I then took my explanation one step further.

"You see, she's only saying she hates him because her feelings are a little bit hurt, but she really likes him. Get it? The song is called 7 Things I Hate About You, I promise I'm not lying."

"WRONG WRONG WRONG! It's like. It's like. She says 7 things I LIKE about you, and that's it. She never says HATE. SHE NEVER SAYS HATE."

And with this, she started to come unhinged. Her eyes began to water and her nostrils flared. She looked like someone whose entire belief system was on the verge of being shattered by someone she once trusted. Her face seemed to read, Why are you pushing me? I'm right. You're wrong. I'm SURE. Stop messing with me, you crazy poopy head!

Now, at the sight of this, any other adult, I'm SURE, would have just said, Okay, okay...it's LIKE; you're right, just to put the kid's mind at ease.

Nope, sorry. I don't play that. I tell kids the truth, even if they think they don't want to hear it. How else are they supposed to learn how to trust you? I don't rub it in their faces or anything, but I don't believe in BS at any age level. Sometimes, because it has to be, it's a softer version of the truth, but the truth nonetheless. And sometimes I just tell it like it is. For example, when one of my students asked me if getting your ears pierced hurts, I said yes...because it does. She said, "But my mommy said it doesn't hurt."

"Your mommy is lying," I said. "But if you want to be able to wear earrings, you have to get your ears pierced. You have to decide if it's worth the pain."

The next day, after her having gotten her ears pierced at the mall, she came to class and reported on her experience.

"You were right, Miss Sandra. It did hurt. But at least now I can wear earrings."

See? The truth is a good thing. Anyway, back to the song.

"Listen," I said. "I'm sorry you're upset, but I'm correct. You'll hear for yourself when the song comes on."

An hour later, while my niece and I were in her kitchen sharing a slice of cheesecake, we heard the song. It was coming from the TV in the living room, the TV that is perpetually tuned to the Disney Channel. We dashed toward it, practically pushing each other into the wall in the process.

And there she was, Miley Cyrus, in her slick new video, singing 7 Things...I LIKE About You.

"Ha!" my niece blurted out before she effortlessly slid into a very sing song-y, "Told you so. Told you so. You got schooled. It's LIKE. It's LIKE. You were wrong."

How was I to know that the Disney Channel only plays the last part of the video, neglecting the hate altogether? This is the only bit of the song my niece has ever heard because A) she has yet to hear it in its entirety on the radio, and B) she does not watch MTV.

So, to her and to millions of other young Miley Cyrus fans watching the Disney Channel, Miley just straight-up likes 7 things about you. I mean, Disney should just go ahead and call itself the Disinfectant Company once and for all. Really.

Unwilling to let her revel in her perceived victory, even if she is just five years old, I tried to clarify things, for her sake, of course.

"You were sort of right, but sort of wrong," I said. "When you come over my house I'll let you hear the real version of the song, not the baby one."

My niece's eyes narrowed suddenly. And then, sailing through the air and toward my head came her enormous satin-faced Miley Cyrus pillow.

"Oh yeah?" I said. "Is that what a Miley Cyrus fan does? She throws stuff with Miley's face on it all around? Huh? Do you think Miley Cyrus would like that you threw her pillow? I don't think so."

Stomping toward me, scowling the whole way, my niece approached me and dramatically snatched the pillow up from the ground where it lay.

"This," she said, pointedly pointing to the smiling face on the pillow she was now holding, "is NOT Miley Cyrus. Don't you see she's wearing a blonde wig? Don't you see she's in character? This," she repeated, "is Hannah Montana."

Again, sort of right, but sort of wrong. Like I said, the truth is a good thing, it just fails to be an uncomplicated thing at the same time.

Big Bad Talent

Have any of you listened to that "Rockferry" CD by Duffy yet? Yeah, hmm...I bought it when I was at Border's Books and Music the other day, at my sister's urging. Unfortunately, it wasn't until after I listened to it that I remembered that my sister and I have very different urges, musically speaking.

While Duffy's tunes and singing are absolutely catchy, solid, and charming, I have to borrow a line from the author, Gertrude Stein, who, when referring to the town of Oakland where she grew up, famously declared, "There's no THERE there." I guess what I mean to say is, if you're going to claim you're writing and singing from a personal perspective by using the pronoun "I", well then, you better be "you". Having something to say in your uniquely own voice helps.

Frankly, I suspect I dismiss Duffy's "Rockferry" for the exact opposite reason I embrace Amy Winehouse's "Back to Black". Both being talented and British, these two young women have been compared ad nauseum in the press. But, really, there is no comparison. The drugs and the subsequent spectacle surrounding Winehouse and her fragile tattooed frame are the least of which that make her so interestingly listenable. While both Duffy and Winehouse take to the retro runway in terms of production, borrowing heavily from the dark mascara-ed, beehived ghosts of the 60's sound and style, lyrically speaking, Winehouse's perception of the world (and her love troubles in it) is spun as a yarn that has a distinctly new millennium tone and timbre. In other words, she is relevant and believable as an artist because of how she says what she says and means it. She is a throwback, yes, but one who will throwdown if you bleep with her or her man. Basically, on her person, both the mascara in the eyes and the beehive on the head sting like a sonuvabitch.

As it turns out, Winehouse's sound, steeped in the past, still manages to define itself as unapologetically free to play in the present. Her words, unlike those of Duffy and so many others, do not feel borrowed, or stilted, or like they are trying too hard to sort of sound like something that should be true. No, hers feel owned and lived in, pliable, and sincere. And it isn't the drugs. And it isn't the tattoos. And it isn't the chaos. It's her. That poor wreck of a girl with the big bad talent that begat the big bad fame that begat the big bad addiction. While she may not be the most reliable employee for what she does, she seems to be the one who is best suited to do it. I suppose what it comes down to is this: There's something THERE there.

I just don't know, at this point, how long the THERE there will be here.

Mrs. Coffee

My mother does not order coffee when we go out to eat somewhere, even though she desperately wants coffee. She likes to make it herself, or go without it. But she'll complain the whole time about not having coffee to drink. "Damnit! I wish I had my coffee," she'll say on a loop. We'll ignore it the first seven hundred times, but then we'll finally say, "Ma, just order a cup of coffee here. What's the big deal?"

"Nah, nah, nah," she'll say. "I am not going to order coffee here. They use water from the bathroom to make coffee here. You want me to drink water from the bathroom?"

We haven't the slightest idea as to where she got this idea, or which water (Toilet water? Sink water? Mop in that yellow-strainer-on-wheels-thing-up-against-the-bathroom-wall water?) she means when she is referring to "water from the bathroom", but this is always her response to any suggestion of having coffee "out". That is, until she adds an even more specific description to the how they make it.

"Ma, you want something from Starbucks? I'm going to Starbucks. You want a coffee or something?"

"Why would I want coffee from Starbucks? So I can pay five dollars for a cup of coffee that they make with their dirty feet...with water from the bathroom? Nah, nah, nah...I'll make it myself."

So, in summation, my mother will not drink coffee she hasn't made herself because, frankly, she wants neither your bathroom water nor your dirty feet in it.

And you thought you were pulling one over on her.

Nah, nah, nah, you haven't fooled her.

Are We the World?

Whenever I see Barack Obama giving one of his speeches, I can't help but be brought back to the third grade, when We Are the World dominated the airwaves, making compassion and openheartedness seem like the better alternative to scratching out the eyes of your neighbor to secure a Cabbage Patch doll for your screaming child.

We Are the World (song and video) plays in my head when I see Barack Obama standing there behind his podium, all proud to be a human being living in the world's community. Yes, Berlin, I am a proud American...and I love the world, too. I love everyone in the world. The world is my cabana on the beach. The world is my oak desk with the glowing green desk lamp. The world is my SpongeBob ice-cream pop with the gumball eyes. The world is...you get what I'm saying, right?

You remember the We Are the World days, don't you? My cousin Tony and I, who were about 9 and 10 years old at the time, were obsessed with it. Every chance we got, we broke it down piece by piece and analyzed the individual voices when we heard it. My favorite part was Cindy Lauper's part, even though my cousin Tony deemed it too "showy" and threw his support behind Dionne Warwick, whose part I always forgot when we sang the song. Which leads me to the question, whatever happened to Paul Young? And why was Dan Aykroyd up there, singing and swaying along in the video?

Anyway, our stark nerdiness for the song nearly infected the rest of our family on Easter Sunday of 1985. We had all gathered at our house that year to celebrate the holiday, which was marked as even more special because my little sister had recently been born, and my father had bought himself a video camera.

Now, in case you are thinking that this was a video camera of a reasonable size, think again. Remember, it was 1985, so there was no real convenience associated with this monstrosity. The camera was like a rocket launcher perched on the shoulder, and you couldn't go far with it because the VHS tape slot was not built into the camera itself. No, if you followed the thick, black cord that spat out of the ass of the camera it would lead you to a forty pound VHS player. That's what you had to drag along with you if you foolishly opted to move. Say cheese!

Anyway, we all thought it was the coolest, most high-tech thing in the world, and were eager to get ourselves in front of it. Hey, film me, Dad. Dad, film me. Franco, watch this. Watch this, Franco. Did you get that? I want to see it. Move over, he's filming me now. Move over. Owwww, stop pushing me. Dad, Dad, over here. Look, Dad, look! Are you looking? Franco, over here! Over here, Franco!

Of course, my father, after watching years of American television, really thought he had the television broadcasting system down. Instead of counting us off with, Three, two, one...you're on the air, he'd authoritatively say, "Wan, two, tree....en you een da area."

So, that Easter Sunday, with my cousin Tony and I sharing "area" time as we sang our favorite parts from We Are the World in front of the camera, my Uncle John had an idea. "Let's take this seriously," he said. "Let's do this for real." In other words, no more spontaneous fun would be had, but we didn't know that yet. My cousin Tony and I nearly jumped out of our skintight clothes, we were so excited. What a great idea! Could this really be happening?

Quickly, we set up rows of chairs in front of the video camera and put people in position. You stand here. You're Bette Midler. You, you, and you...you three stand here. You're the Pointer Sisters. Bruce Springsteen, here. Michael Jackson? Anyone? Anyone want to be Michael Jackson? Of course, no one stayed put and everyone complained, save for my cousin Tony and I who sat in our positions and got increasingly frustrated when no one else seemed to be as enthusiastic to partake in the wonders of our We Are the World basement revival as we were.

Speaking of wonders, my Uncle Clement was tossed from the video shoot by my Uncle John because of his "over-the-top" performance as Stevie Wonder. Thus, in an inspired act of rebellion, my Uncle Clement and my cousin Ricky, who were about 13 and 14, respectively, decided to turn our We Are the World video shoot into a terrorist video shoot. So, oblivious to the evil lurking behind you, you'd be singing, in earnest, about saving the world, when suddenly, a cap gun would fire next to your head and a red balloon (meant to symbolize your exploding brain) would be tossed into the air behind you. You're dead. Stop singing.

My Uncle John called them both jackasses and they eventually skulked off into the living room to join the rest of the people who were cast off the increasingly miserable island of hope and world peace. My cousin Tony and I ended up singing the whole thing ourselves. Family members would walk in and out of the frame to get milk out of the fridge, or a glass out of the cabinet, and we would want to kill them. When it came time to hit the choruses, off-key Italian-accented voices could be heard coming from various points in the house, as two sad kids helplessly sat in front of the camera, trying desperately to hold onto the melody line...with their dreams crushed.

That said, corny as it sounds, Barack Obama really does give me hope for a united world. My more specific hope though is this: that he have better luck with uniting the world in peace than we had with uniting our family in song.

There comes a time, when we heed a certain call...


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jcrwu6WGoMs

Welcome, Y'all

For a girl from New Jersey, that's the best I can do to express my version of Southern hospitality, Southern Italian hospitality, I suppose.

Anyway, in the event that you have somehow found yourself here, I welcome you. I'd offer you something to eat but, sadly, I am the only one in my expansive family of chefs and restauranteurs who does not cook. Nor do I care to try to learn, if you must know. The truth is, if I had my druthers, I'd eat everything right out of a paper bag, save for the stuff I put ketchup on which is, you know, just about everything else. If I cannot dress my meal in a paper bag, alas, it is likely due to the fact that it is wearing a generous coating of ketchup. God, I love ketchup.

Unfortunately for me, I have had to cut back on my ketchup consumption as of late. As it turns out, agita, or heartburn, as it is so referred to in our American culture, is not something to be taken lightly. My esophagus is officially irritated from something called Gastroesophageal Reflux Disease, or GERD, which calls to mind the stench one might encounter in an old folks home, yes, but that's what it's called. So, yeah, I've got the GERD...and it officially drove me to the emergency room last summer at around 4 o'clock in the morning with my hand clutched to my chest because I was convinced I was having a heart attack.

In my mind I was imagining all the people I loathe approaching my coffin with their empty tears and inner cheers as I lay there looking super fat because someone would have had the bright idea to dress me in something other than my usual black because that someone would have thought he or she was doing my spirit a favor by outfitting my body in some flowery pastel atrocity so that I could meet the Lord without looking so dark and depressed. Needless to say, I didn't die of a heart attack.

One year and one prescription to Protonix later and I am feeling pretty darn good. If only I could gulp that lemonade the way I used to. My goodness, how I love me some lemonade, sitting and sipping on the porch on a hot summer day, singing along to Patsy Cline records.

Hmm, perhaps I'm not as far from the South as I had initially imagined.