Crazy man on the N train on the ride home tonight, preaching up a storm about 1000 years of damnation in hell and other good stuff. I couldn't hear him too clearly - he was at the other end of the subway car, and he had a reasonably thick accent -- but the buzzwords were adequately punctuated so that I could get the gist. I seem to be seeing/hearing a lot more of these folks lately; not sure if it's me, them or the times. I recall walking past a short, stout woman in the Atlantic Ave station a few weeks ago, she belting out a whole lot of religion. "I bet," I remember thinking at the time, "that she'd be a feisty dance partner."
In college, I sort of minored in Religion. Well, we didn't have "minors," but I took enough Religion courses such that if we did, I'd have minored in it. I took two or three courses at Bryn Mawr with this amazing professor named Sam Lachs. He was a professor and an ordained rabbi, and looked a little bit like what you might imagine God might look like (full gray beard, face wreaking of wisdom). And he had a wickedly sharp mind: he'd lecture for three straight hours without a single note or reference in front of him. He'd mix in Letterman references with scriptural analysis, with a booming yet melodic voice that you never really tired of. He retired after my senior year because he found himself having to pause to think of the next word he wanted to use, and that was his sign to himself that it was time to call it quits.
I will never forget Sam Lachs' lecture on the Book of Amos. Ever read it? Amos was a minor prophet whose "book" in the Old Testament is a rant against the sins of Judea. I read it before the assigned class, and found it to be an archaically-worded sermon, as boring as any my own rabbi had delivered at a drawn-out religious service. Then I got to class, and an animated Sam Lachs set the stage...Amos is working the crowd, railing on Damascus for its wicked ways, then Gaza, the Ammonites, and so on, describing the punishment that God has coming for those sinners. The Jews are buying in, nodding their heads, maybe shouting a few "Amens" in agreement...those nasty Ammonites, they've got it coming. After a few rounds of this, when he completely has their attention and support, Amos zings them with a shot to the gut: "For three transgessions of Judah..." and then "For three transgressions of Israel..." What? What did he say? Is Amos coming after us? And Amos takes it from there, and delivers the big warning: shape up, bad Jews, or it is going to get ugly.
It was some of the best theater I had in all of college. Sam Lachs was some good professoring.
The thing about Amos the prophet, like all prophets, is that he likely looked and sounded like every other crazy man ranting on a hillside. You were never unkind to a crazy man ranting, Sam Lachs explained, because he might be a crazy man, or he just might be a prophet.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Clothesline Project
Monday was the twice-postponed-for-rain Second Day of BAS' Traveling Clothesline Project. This is an "event" that we hold every year during Domestic Violence Awareness Month (October). We string rope up between trees, poles in a public setting and we ask passersby to stop and write or draw some anti-domestic violence thoughts on a tee-shirt (we provide the shirts and the markers), and then we hang the shirts on the lines. The more shirts that go up, the more folks become interested, and it feeds on itself. The idea is to enable folks to air their dirty laundry, and to make public what was once considered a private issue.
On the 18th we ran the project in the Monsignor Del Valle Plaza, outside our Southern Boulevard office (at the juncture of Southern Boulevard, Hunts Point Ave and 163rd Street) and yesterday we ran it at Fordham Plaza (Third Ave and East Fordham Road). We hung 161 shirts the first day, and another 269 yesterday. Some of the shirts bore simple messages ("Stop the violence"), others included elaborate messages to former abusers. Some were in Spanish, some advised a turn towards Jesus, some had pictures or poems. It is powerful stuff to see a collaborative project like this, collaborated on by complete strangers who happen to be walking through a public plaza but who are interested in taking five or ten minutes to make a statement against domestic violence.
After seven years of watching DV survivors come through our office, seeking legal assistance, the cases still make me cringe. You just cannot get into the head of a DV survivor to understand why she (most often she) is where she is. This week's "case that defies the imagination": our client "Sue." She first came to us two years ago, pregnant with her second child, and tired of being beat on by her boyfriend. She was in our office every day for weeks, but ultimately decided not to follow through with the Order of Protection we helped her obtain. And then we didn't see her again until about six weeks ago. Still with the same abuser, and he had now moved several of his family members into their apartment, and they had locked Sue out of the apartment, depriving her not only of shelter, but of access to her kids, her HIV meds, and her psych meds (she is bipolar). We helped get her back into the apartment (which involved getting the family out), and she and boyfriend "came to an understanding," until he continued to withhold her psych meds, and then had her hospitalized when she inevitably had a psychotic episode. He then moved out, took the kids with him, and has now filed for an Order of Protection against her (a bullying tactic to keep the kids away from her). We're probably going to help her defend against the Order of Protection and fight for custody, but ACS might also have filed a neglect petition against her? Unclear as of right now.
You just can't make enough tee-shirts to deal with this kind of shit.
On the 18th we ran the project in the Monsignor Del Valle Plaza, outside our Southern Boulevard office (at the juncture of Southern Boulevard, Hunts Point Ave and 163rd Street) and yesterday we ran it at Fordham Plaza (Third Ave and East Fordham Road). We hung 161 shirts the first day, and another 269 yesterday. Some of the shirts bore simple messages ("Stop the violence"), others included elaborate messages to former abusers. Some were in Spanish, some advised a turn towards Jesus, some had pictures or poems. It is powerful stuff to see a collaborative project like this, collaborated on by complete strangers who happen to be walking through a public plaza but who are interested in taking five or ten minutes to make a statement against domestic violence.
After seven years of watching DV survivors come through our office, seeking legal assistance, the cases still make me cringe. You just cannot get into the head of a DV survivor to understand why she (most often she) is where she is. This week's "case that defies the imagination": our client "Sue." She first came to us two years ago, pregnant with her second child, and tired of being beat on by her boyfriend. She was in our office every day for weeks, but ultimately decided not to follow through with the Order of Protection we helped her obtain. And then we didn't see her again until about six weeks ago. Still with the same abuser, and he had now moved several of his family members into their apartment, and they had locked Sue out of the apartment, depriving her not only of shelter, but of access to her kids, her HIV meds, and her psych meds (she is bipolar). We helped get her back into the apartment (which involved getting the family out), and she and boyfriend "came to an understanding," until he continued to withhold her psych meds, and then had her hospitalized when she inevitably had a psychotic episode. He then moved out, took the kids with him, and has now filed for an Order of Protection against her (a bullying tactic to keep the kids away from her). We're probably going to help her defend against the Order of Protection and fight for custody, but ACS might also have filed a neglect petition against her? Unclear as of right now.
You just can't make enough tee-shirts to deal with this kind of shit.
Friday, October 26, 2007
It's not about me, after all
For the second time in about a week, someone connected to Cathleen but not in daily contact with her, while searching for news of her or her book, came across my blog. Turns out that if you Google "Cathleen Bell," this simple but honest little blog comes up as the seventh result listed out of 365,000 results. If you Google "Cathleen Davitt Bell," my blog comes up as the third result (out of 568). The first result there, of course, is cathleendavittbell.com, the spectacularly template-ish and pachydermy website I "created" for Cathleen as a Mother's Day gift this past year.
What will happen, one wonders, if Cathleen's book does well, and young, impressionable kids start Googling her name, looking for information about their new favorite author? They'll find this blog. My visitors counter would skyrocket.
As I sit here in the nude, clubbing baby seals and listening to iTunes songs with explicit lyrics, I am humbled by that prospect.
What will happen, one wonders, if Cathleen's book does well, and young, impressionable kids start Googling her name, looking for information about their new favorite author? They'll find this blog. My visitors counter would skyrocket.
As I sit here in the nude, clubbing baby seals and listening to iTunes songs with explicit lyrics, I am humbled by that prospect.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Natties
Today was the first day of the UPA Championships in Sarasota, FL. I have several friends playing across all four divisions (Open, Womens, Mixed, Masters) and today they collectively went 1-11. Wow, I think I need new friends. Hopefully they'll have better second days.
I went to Club Nationals once, in 2001, with a Mixed (coed) team called Tattoo Hottie. It was just after 9/11, and we were riding some sort of a bizarre NYC survivors high. One of our players literally had sprinted from his worksite around the WTC as one of the towers fell; he happened to have his camera with him that day in an effort to document why he didn't deserve a parking ticket, and so he has these amazing shots of the tower collapse that he took as he ran away from it. He would give these pep talks in team huddles, urging us to play our hearts out because you literally did not know what life had in store for you tomorrow. It sort of motivated us. I mean, I could laugh ironically at the hubris of it all, and yet I also took it to heart. We wore FDNY shirts and made ourselves the loudest team on the field, and we swept through sectionals and regionals without a loss. At Nationals we won our first two games by relatively commanding leads, and then we proceeded to lose seven in a row. I was injured in the finals at Regionals (bruised rib) and saw limited playing time at Nationals (though I deserved to get more PT, right?), but I'll never forget the feeling of being there, on what for the tiny world of ultimate frisbee is "the big stage." When I got a sweet, but meaningless, diving block in our penultimate game, our captain said to me, "you can tell your grandkids some day that you got a big diving block at Nationals." Well, no, I won't, but I still remember that block pretty darn clearly. The game has evolved dramatically in six years, and the teams are much more athletic and well-balanced now, and I doubt -- hell, I know -- that the 2001 Tattoo Hottie would not stand a chance these days.
But damn, I wish I were playing disc right now.
I went to Club Nationals once, in 2001, with a Mixed (coed) team called Tattoo Hottie. It was just after 9/11, and we were riding some sort of a bizarre NYC survivors high. One of our players literally had sprinted from his worksite around the WTC as one of the towers fell; he happened to have his camera with him that day in an effort to document why he didn't deserve a parking ticket, and so he has these amazing shots of the tower collapse that he took as he ran away from it. He would give these pep talks in team huddles, urging us to play our hearts out because you literally did not know what life had in store for you tomorrow. It sort of motivated us. I mean, I could laugh ironically at the hubris of it all, and yet I also took it to heart. We wore FDNY shirts and made ourselves the loudest team on the field, and we swept through sectionals and regionals without a loss. At Nationals we won our first two games by relatively commanding leads, and then we proceeded to lose seven in a row. I was injured in the finals at Regionals (bruised rib) and saw limited playing time at Nationals (though I deserved to get more PT, right?), but I'll never forget the feeling of being there, on what for the tiny world of ultimate frisbee is "the big stage." When I got a sweet, but meaningless, diving block in our penultimate game, our captain said to me, "you can tell your grandkids some day that you got a big diving block at Nationals." Well, no, I won't, but I still remember that block pretty darn clearly. The game has evolved dramatically in six years, and the teams are much more athletic and well-balanced now, and I doubt -- hell, I know -- that the 2001 Tattoo Hottie would not stand a chance these days.
But damn, I wish I were playing disc right now.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Keep Chopping Wood
We spent the weekend in Bloomfield, CT, at Claudia and Walter's house. It is a 19th-century farmhouse (circa 1875, I believe), down the street from where Claudia lived as a little girl (and where Claudia's father also grew up). It is a very rural area, though in the past decade it has started to succumb to a lot of new development. Claudia and Walter have about six acres of mostly-wooded property that abuts a state park, so unless you venture out to the street, you still feel like you're in the country.
We drove up Friday night. Both kids fell asleep in the car, but Max woke up upon arrival at the house at 10:30, and he didn't fall asleep for another two hours. Claudia got Eliza when she woke up at just after 6, so the rest of us could sleep in. Eliza, apparently, spent the morning praising Claudia and Walter's German Shepherd, Tatum: "Booboy, Tatum." She, of course, spent the rest of the weekend terrified to be on the same floor as Tatum, and needed to be picked up if he was visibly within the house.
I went on a 4.5 mile run in the morning. I love the run up there in cooler weather because so many people have wood-burning stoves or fireplaces; you run along in the cool, crisp air with the distinct smell of firewood smoke mixing in. While I showered and ate breakfast, Cathleen, Claudia, the kids and the dogs went for a little hike through some surrounding meadows. We then hung out, had some lunch, played some more, and then Eliza went down for her nap.
I then set about splitting wood. My subject heading, of course, refers to Jacksonville Jaguars coach Jack Del Rio, and his backfired motivational ploy in 2003. I was not actually chopping wood, as I was splitting it, using Walter's wood splitting machine: you lay a log down on the machine, and it slowly pushes the log against a stationary blade which eventually splits the log along the grain. It is far less effort than weilding an axe, and you can split about five times as much wood in equal time. I worked for over an hour and, despite the machine's efficacy, I worked up a real sweat. Max hung out with me for the first 20 minutes, wearing an oversized pair of ear-protecetors (the machine is rather loud) and sucking his thumb while sitting on a big log next to the machine. Finally he told me he was going inside.
After Eliza's nap was over, we drove to Gramby to pick apples at a local orchard. We picked Cameos and Jonagolds, but for some reason none of the apples were particularly sweet. I think this is because there hasn't been a frost yet, which for some reason is needed for the sugars to come out. Nevertheless, we took home a full bushel, and we pounded some yummy cider donuts before hitting the road. Kick-ass grilled steak dinner, with roasted potatoes, creamed spinach and broccoli. That meal and the wood splitting made me feel rather testosteronic, which was nicely offset by the fruit-gathering interlude in the mid-afternoon.
During the night Max woke up with a croupy-cough. I took him into the bathroom and sat with him during a steam bath. As his throat cleared, he was suddenly all a chatter, and I was like, dude, its 3 am and I'm sweating like a fat man at the local sauna, please give me a break. There is something about bathrooms that brings out the contemplative side of Max. He'll sit on the can at bedtime and begin to engage you in these deep, thoughtful discussions about life, or death, his plans, his friendships, his ideas for the world. He stops making corny jokes, or interjecting the word poopy into every sentence (ironic, no?), and he even gets a little serious look on his face. I absolutely love those discussions (but for the inevitable odors that accompany), but at 3 am, in the moist heat no less, even I have little capacity to appreciate my child on that level.
On Sunday Mike and T and their kids drove down to spend the day with us. We brunched outside in the glorious sunshine (mid-70s on October 21st!), and then set off for a hike through the State Park up to the not-really-a-tower Fire Tower. We put Eliza in a kiddy-backpack that Mike and T had borrowed from neighbors. It sucked, and by the time we made it up the mountain my body was killing me. The one that we own (an expensive model that old neighbors gave to us, having never used it themselves) is so much better, I will never leave it at home again, even when my kids are full grown. The view at the top of the hike was gorgeous -- lots of trees beginning to turn color, the town of Simsbury (where we were married!). I am never going on a hike with my nephew Jacob again, unless it is at sea level. The kid has no fear whatsoever, and he was not only walking along the edge of cliffs, but jumping from one cragged rock to another. Had we spent another five minutes at the top of that mountain, it would have been a race to see who died first: he from a disastrous fall, or me from a heart attack.
Before and after the hike, all five kids played together around Claudia and Walter's barn, far away from where the adults were hanging out. When Claudia went over to check on them at one point, Eliza proudly proclaimed "I playing!" Playing with the big kids; how cool is that? When they packed into their minivan to go home, a very tired Max burst into tears, explaining that he wanted them to come back so that he could play with Jacob, Ryan and Kelsey some more. I felt sorry for him, but those kind of tears make you feel good, to know that your kid loves his cousins.
We drove up Friday night. Both kids fell asleep in the car, but Max woke up upon arrival at the house at 10:30, and he didn't fall asleep for another two hours. Claudia got Eliza when she woke up at just after 6, so the rest of us could sleep in. Eliza, apparently, spent the morning praising Claudia and Walter's German Shepherd, Tatum: "Booboy, Tatum." She, of course, spent the rest of the weekend terrified to be on the same floor as Tatum, and needed to be picked up if he was visibly within the house.
I went on a 4.5 mile run in the morning. I love the run up there in cooler weather because so many people have wood-burning stoves or fireplaces; you run along in the cool, crisp air with the distinct smell of firewood smoke mixing in. While I showered and ate breakfast, Cathleen, Claudia, the kids and the dogs went for a little hike through some surrounding meadows. We then hung out, had some lunch, played some more, and then Eliza went down for her nap.
I then set about splitting wood. My subject heading, of course, refers to Jacksonville Jaguars coach Jack Del Rio, and his backfired motivational ploy in 2003. I was not actually chopping wood, as I was splitting it, using Walter's wood splitting machine: you lay a log down on the machine, and it slowly pushes the log against a stationary blade which eventually splits the log along the grain. It is far less effort than weilding an axe, and you can split about five times as much wood in equal time. I worked for over an hour and, despite the machine's efficacy, I worked up a real sweat. Max hung out with me for the first 20 minutes, wearing an oversized pair of ear-protecetors (the machine is rather loud) and sucking his thumb while sitting on a big log next to the machine. Finally he told me he was going inside.
After Eliza's nap was over, we drove to Gramby to pick apples at a local orchard. We picked Cameos and Jonagolds, but for some reason none of the apples were particularly sweet. I think this is because there hasn't been a frost yet, which for some reason is needed for the sugars to come out. Nevertheless, we took home a full bushel, and we pounded some yummy cider donuts before hitting the road. Kick-ass grilled steak dinner, with roasted potatoes, creamed spinach and broccoli. That meal and the wood splitting made me feel rather testosteronic, which was nicely offset by the fruit-gathering interlude in the mid-afternoon.
During the night Max woke up with a croupy-cough. I took him into the bathroom and sat with him during a steam bath. As his throat cleared, he was suddenly all a chatter, and I was like, dude, its 3 am and I'm sweating like a fat man at the local sauna, please give me a break. There is something about bathrooms that brings out the contemplative side of Max. He'll sit on the can at bedtime and begin to engage you in these deep, thoughtful discussions about life, or death, his plans, his friendships, his ideas for the world. He stops making corny jokes, or interjecting the word poopy into every sentence (ironic, no?), and he even gets a little serious look on his face. I absolutely love those discussions (but for the inevitable odors that accompany), but at 3 am, in the moist heat no less, even I have little capacity to appreciate my child on that level.
On Sunday Mike and T and their kids drove down to spend the day with us. We brunched outside in the glorious sunshine (mid-70s on October 21st!), and then set off for a hike through the State Park up to the not-really-a-tower Fire Tower. We put Eliza in a kiddy-backpack that Mike and T had borrowed from neighbors. It sucked, and by the time we made it up the mountain my body was killing me. The one that we own (an expensive model that old neighbors gave to us, having never used it themselves) is so much better, I will never leave it at home again, even when my kids are full grown. The view at the top of the hike was gorgeous -- lots of trees beginning to turn color, the town of Simsbury (where we were married!). I am never going on a hike with my nephew Jacob again, unless it is at sea level. The kid has no fear whatsoever, and he was not only walking along the edge of cliffs, but jumping from one cragged rock to another. Had we spent another five minutes at the top of that mountain, it would have been a race to see who died first: he from a disastrous fall, or me from a heart attack.
Before and after the hike, all five kids played together around Claudia and Walter's barn, far away from where the adults were hanging out. When Claudia went over to check on them at one point, Eliza proudly proclaimed "I playing!" Playing with the big kids; how cool is that? When they packed into their minivan to go home, a very tired Max burst into tears, explaining that he wanted them to come back so that he could play with Jacob, Ryan and Kelsey some more. I felt sorry for him, but those kind of tears make you feel good, to know that your kid loves his cousins.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Eliza's new game
She walks around the apartment, declaring in a concerned and whistleblowing tone, "Oscar pooped!"
Oscar is one of our two not-quite-completely-housebroken miniature dachshunds.
When you point out to Eliza that, no, on this rare occasion Oscar has not actually soiled an area of the apartment, she walks over to a new area to announce that "Oscar pooped!" This goes on and on. This afternoon she was making false exclamations in her room, in the bathroom, in our bedroom, even under the bar in the livingroom. Each declaration as convincing as the last.
This game, I trust, is not played in many other households?
Oscar is one of our two not-quite-completely-housebroken miniature dachshunds.
When you point out to Eliza that, no, on this rare occasion Oscar has not actually soiled an area of the apartment, she walks over to a new area to announce that "Oscar pooped!" This goes on and on. This afternoon she was making false exclamations in her room, in the bathroom, in our bedroom, even under the bar in the livingroom. Each declaration as convincing as the last.
This game, I trust, is not played in many other households?
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Roll me in designer sheets
With covers on my mind, and with Deborah Harry releasing a new album, I harken back to the lyrics from Blondie's "Call Me" ("Cover me with kisses baby, cover me with love").
Tonight, Cathleen's editor emailed her the cover design for her book. It is quite beautiful -- a deep blue water background with a boy seemingly floating/drowning/slipping in it. The title letters are in bold white at the bottom, but appear to be fading (or slipping) away. My eyes, however, were completely drawn to the letters at the top of the cover -- cathleen davitt bell, in the same bold white. Hey, I know that name. Cathleen was so pleased with the design, she was simply beaming...it is so refreshing to see her enjoying this process after having seen her deal with the self-doubt and struggle of the unpublished life.
I had no idea what to expect of the cover because, as I have long known, I have very little in the way of aesthetic vision, if any aesthetic sense at all. At work right now I am spending considerable time on creating a new brochure for our program and I am completely dependent on our development director and my staff for the brochure's actual look. Cathleen pretty much wanted to pull her hair out two years ago when we were trying to design our apartment because I had so little ability to not only visualize possibilities, but to even understand ideas that she was describing to me. Luckily, I can make a pretty good omelet and throw a frisbee pretty far, or I'd have almost no measurable utility in this world. Thus, up until tonight, every time I'd try to imagine what her cover might look like, I'd see nothing more than a Harry Potter book with her name on top. It is so unbelievably cool to finally see what the book is (most likely) going to look like. It makes the whole thing that much more real.
Tonight, Cathleen's editor emailed her the cover design for her book. It is quite beautiful -- a deep blue water background with a boy seemingly floating/drowning/slipping in it. The title letters are in bold white at the bottom, but appear to be fading (or slipping) away. My eyes, however, were completely drawn to the letters at the top of the cover -- cathleen davitt bell, in the same bold white. Hey, I know that name. Cathleen was so pleased with the design, she was simply beaming...it is so refreshing to see her enjoying this process after having seen her deal with the self-doubt and struggle of the unpublished life.
I had no idea what to expect of the cover because, as I have long known, I have very little in the way of aesthetic vision, if any aesthetic sense at all. At work right now I am spending considerable time on creating a new brochure for our program and I am completely dependent on our development director and my staff for the brochure's actual look. Cathleen pretty much wanted to pull her hair out two years ago when we were trying to design our apartment because I had so little ability to not only visualize possibilities, but to even understand ideas that she was describing to me. Luckily, I can make a pretty good omelet and throw a frisbee pretty far, or I'd have almost no measurable utility in this world. Thus, up until tonight, every time I'd try to imagine what her cover might look like, I'd see nothing more than a Harry Potter book with her name on top. It is so unbelievably cool to finally see what the book is (most likely) going to look like. It makes the whole thing that much more real.
Slambin'!
I love it when a social event creeps up on me unexpectedly, in the middle of the week, no less.
Sam Bell is Cathleen's cousin. Next week is Sam Bell's 38th birthday. Tomorrow Sam starts his new job at Spot Runner, a new-media advertising company. Last night Sam wanted to celebrate his birthday. Last week he emailed friends and family about gathering for a dinner at a restaurant in Brooklyn Heights. I had planned to stay home with the kids while Cathleen went to the dinner, but when Claudia appeared at the house to stay over for the night (like she does pretty much every Tuesday and Wednesday), we handed her the babysitting reins and Cathleen and I took off for the Heights.
At 8 pm we met up with her other cousin, Madeline, outside the restaurant, on Atlantic Avenue, and we then headed across the street to the Waterfront Ale House for pre-dinner drinks with Sam, Crazy Uncle Frank and Linda, and some of Sam's friends. At around 8:45 the fifteen of us headed back across the street (well, down a block if we're to be honest) to the Yemen Cafe and Restaurant.
Sam had pre-arranged dinner: we were having the lamb. Not "a lamb dish" or "the lamb dish," but the lamb, as in the entire lamb. We were first served a soup -- a lamb consomme which was outrageously flavorful. This was accompanied by plates and plates of flatbread, a few platters of hummus/beans/babaghanoush, and then salad. Just when you were wondering if you were getting too full, they plopped down four humungous platters of roasted lamb parts on the table. A single lamb, it turns out, makes a lot of lamb. We gorged ourselves, and there was enough left over for pretty much everyone to take home a substantial lambie bag of food. Then came dessert -- pieces of the flatbread soaked in honey and sprinkled with nuts. The place needs to get a liquor license, because we could have used a few bottles of red to go along with the eats, but that was one hell of a meal. And had Frank not generously treated everyone, it still would not have been an expensive meal for anyone.
Cathleen and I walked back home, arriving at 10:45. On a school night. We crazy.
Sam Bell is Cathleen's cousin. Next week is Sam Bell's 38th birthday. Tomorrow Sam starts his new job at Spot Runner, a new-media advertising company. Last night Sam wanted to celebrate his birthday. Last week he emailed friends and family about gathering for a dinner at a restaurant in Brooklyn Heights. I had planned to stay home with the kids while Cathleen went to the dinner, but when Claudia appeared at the house to stay over for the night (like she does pretty much every Tuesday and Wednesday), we handed her the babysitting reins and Cathleen and I took off for the Heights.
At 8 pm we met up with her other cousin, Madeline, outside the restaurant, on Atlantic Avenue, and we then headed across the street to the Waterfront Ale House for pre-dinner drinks with Sam, Crazy Uncle Frank and Linda, and some of Sam's friends. At around 8:45 the fifteen of us headed back across the street (well, down a block if we're to be honest) to the Yemen Cafe and Restaurant.
Sam had pre-arranged dinner: we were having the lamb. Not "a lamb dish" or "the lamb dish," but the lamb, as in the entire lamb. We were first served a soup -- a lamb consomme which was outrageously flavorful. This was accompanied by plates and plates of flatbread, a few platters of hummus/beans/babaghanoush, and then salad. Just when you were wondering if you were getting too full, they plopped down four humungous platters of roasted lamb parts on the table. A single lamb, it turns out, makes a lot of lamb. We gorged ourselves, and there was enough left over for pretty much everyone to take home a substantial lambie bag of food. Then came dessert -- pieces of the flatbread soaked in honey and sprinkled with nuts. The place needs to get a liquor license, because we could have used a few bottles of red to go along with the eats, but that was one hell of a meal. And had Frank not generously treated everyone, it still would not have been an expensive meal for anyone.
Cathleen and I walked back home, arriving at 10:45. On a school night. We crazy.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
J-E-T-S, wretch, wretch, wretch
Twas a pretty good weekend. A lazy Saturday morning led into a bike ride up to Prospect Park with the kids, a stop at the Green Market in Grand Army Plaza (bought some cheese made by Haverford classmate Mark Gillman), received a visit from Sameer and Shruti (finally), and then Cathleen and I saw another movie (in a movie theater): The Kingdom. I think it had good intentions in providing a more nuanced take on terrorism, but the first half was pretty dull, and the ending just settled for heart-racing, but unimaginative shoot-em-up conventions. Oh, if you happened to be at that movie last night and you are reading this by some random occurrence, ummm, it is not OK for you to bring your 8-year-old child to a movie like that. Really.
Claudia and Walter (my beloved inlaws) stayed over last night, and took the kids for the day: first out to breakfast, and then out to Staten Island to visit with Walter's daughter, Polly. Cathleen and I each got in a run, and then I headed into Manhattan to meet my college friend, Schweitz (nee Jen Schweitzer) at Port Authority to head to the Meadowlands for the Jets game. Jen had received tix to five home games as a birthday gift (17th row in the corner of the endzone!) and had invited me along. My first football game in a good four or five years.
The Jets looked terrible all game, and somehow managed to lose only by 16-9 to the mediocre Eagles. I have finally gone over to the "dump Chad Pennington" camp, as he looked ineffectual all game. With a running game working, and getting good field position over and over again, he could not get the ball in the endzone, or even near it. But the weather was beautiful, seats were great, and it was good to catch up with Schweitz after several months of being incommunicado.
Some other game related thoughts:
First, the conversation I overheard in the crowded bathroom, right after the announcement is heard that the Jets have won the opening toin-coss:
-- Guy #1: "At least they won something."
-- Guy #2: "C'mon, they're going all the way to the Superbowl." (chuckling among the urinators)
-- Guy #3: "Try taking your hand off your dick and saying that."
Obesity an issue in America? I have never seen so many thick-necked, XXXL-wearing dudes as I did in that stadium today. I weighed probably a third of the average dude there today. Or maybe green just makes you look exceptionally fat.
I signed up for season tickets with the Jets about three or four years ago, at which point there were over 10,000 folks ahead of me on the wait-list. Now that number is down below 7,000, and with the new stadium due to open in 2010, I can reasonably expect to get tickets by then. Today I allowed myself a few moments to fantasize about coming out to the games on a regular basis, tailgating with the kids (and Mike, who will no doubt come down for games), and coping with the crushing disappointment of being a Jets fan from a more live perspective. That will be cool.
Claudia and Walter (my beloved inlaws) stayed over last night, and took the kids for the day: first out to breakfast, and then out to Staten Island to visit with Walter's daughter, Polly. Cathleen and I each got in a run, and then I headed into Manhattan to meet my college friend, Schweitz (nee Jen Schweitzer) at Port Authority to head to the Meadowlands for the Jets game. Jen had received tix to five home games as a birthday gift (17th row in the corner of the endzone!) and had invited me along. My first football game in a good four or five years.
The Jets looked terrible all game, and somehow managed to lose only by 16-9 to the mediocre Eagles. I have finally gone over to the "dump Chad Pennington" camp, as he looked ineffectual all game. With a running game working, and getting good field position over and over again, he could not get the ball in the endzone, or even near it. But the weather was beautiful, seats were great, and it was good to catch up with Schweitz after several months of being incommunicado.
Some other game related thoughts:
First, the conversation I overheard in the crowded bathroom, right after the announcement is heard that the Jets have won the opening toin-coss:
-- Guy #1: "At least they won something."
-- Guy #2: "C'mon, they're going all the way to the Superbowl." (chuckling among the urinators)
-- Guy #3: "Try taking your hand off your dick and saying that."
Obesity an issue in America? I have never seen so many thick-necked, XXXL-wearing dudes as I did in that stadium today. I weighed probably a third of the average dude there today. Or maybe green just makes you look exceptionally fat.
I signed up for season tickets with the Jets about three or four years ago, at which point there were over 10,000 folks ahead of me on the wait-list. Now that number is down below 7,000, and with the new stadium due to open in 2010, I can reasonably expect to get tickets by then. Today I allowed myself a few moments to fantasize about coming out to the games on a regular basis, tailgating with the kids (and Mike, who will no doubt come down for games), and coping with the crushing disappointment of being a Jets fan from a more live perspective. That will be cool.
Sugar Mommy
It's official. Cathleen Bell is a cash-generating fiction writer. Sure, she made some pocket change when she published Oatmeal a few years ago, but yesterday the first check, from the publisher via the literary agent, arrived for "Slipping," her first novel (for children/young adults) which is due out in summer '08.
I remember reading the first draft of "Slipping" two years ago, finishing the last 100 pages or so on an Amtrak to Hartford for Christmas. It was this amazing experience, reading what I knew to be a fantasticly written story...by Cathleen. I mean, I think everything she writes is great, but this manuscript seemed to be on a different level. And so there I was on the train, basking in the warmth you feel after you've just put down a good book, but also exploding inside with pride at the fact that Cathleen had written it. I knew then, and I told her so when she picked me up at the train station that night, that "Slipping" was going to be published, no doubt. I was so right, and I am so getting an HDTV by the end of this week.
I remember reading the first draft of "Slipping" two years ago, finishing the last 100 pages or so on an Amtrak to Hartford for Christmas. It was this amazing experience, reading what I knew to be a fantasticly written story...by Cathleen. I mean, I think everything she writes is great, but this manuscript seemed to be on a different level. And so there I was on the train, basking in the warmth you feel after you've just put down a good book, but also exploding inside with pride at the fact that Cathleen had written it. I knew then, and I told her so when she picked me up at the train station that night, that "Slipping" was going to be published, no doubt. I was so right, and I am so getting an HDTV by the end of this week.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Salutations, oh grandiose sphincter!
There's this building on Fourth Avenue that I walk past every night when I walk the dogs which bears two different billboard-sized advertisements. Actually, maybe they are billboards. For the past few weeks, there was this McDonalds ad that had a huge picture of a burger, and then the words: "Hello New York. Meet Big Angus."
Almost every single time I would glance up at that sign, my eyes would fail to see the "g" in the last word, and I would do the same double-take over and over again. The ad has finally been replaced.
Any thoughts, Dr. Freud?
Almost every single time I would glance up at that sign, my eyes would fail to see the "g" in the last word, and I would do the same double-take over and over again. The ad has finally been replaced.
Any thoughts, Dr. Freud?
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Must they?
Be such assholes?
I don't think that I had been in Bronx housing court for almost two weeks, and so returning there this morning felt a little numbing. It is easy to forget that the world inside that building operates on its own rules, where it is OK for dim-witted and sleazy landlord attorneys to exploit every angle in manipulating low-income, uninformed, and often under-educated pro se tenants into signing crappy and abusive settlement stipulations that are eagerly rubber-stamped by corrupt or disinterested judges.
Maybe I'll share stories some other time, as the stories often horrify, but it is the day-to-day injustices that are doled out in the hallways and courtrooms there, and the utter lack of professionalism regularly displayed by the majority of the landlord's bar, that continues to make my blood boil after more than seven years of legal practice there. Grrrrr. I do, however, love to fuck them up. Rarrh.
I don't think that I had been in Bronx housing court for almost two weeks, and so returning there this morning felt a little numbing. It is easy to forget that the world inside that building operates on its own rules, where it is OK for dim-witted and sleazy landlord attorneys to exploit every angle in manipulating low-income, uninformed, and often under-educated pro se tenants into signing crappy and abusive settlement stipulations that are eagerly rubber-stamped by corrupt or disinterested judges.
Maybe I'll share stories some other time, as the stories often horrify, but it is the day-to-day injustices that are doled out in the hallways and courtrooms there, and the utter lack of professionalism regularly displayed by the majority of the landlord's bar, that continues to make my blood boil after more than seven years of legal practice there. Grrrrr. I do, however, love to fuck them up. Rarrh.
Girlz got werdz
Eliza turned 20 months old today to little fanfare. She went to the playground with her babysitter, Aartie; helped Cathleen make a tamale pie for dinner; and splashed water on me as I bathed her before bedtime. All the while, no doubt, she was talking up a storm. The standard language development of a 20-month-old child is 15-20 words. While it is not uncommon for a child to possess a vocabulary larger than 20 words at this age, that's the baseline you should be expecting if your child is developing along a standard trajectory. At dinner the other night, Cathleen and I figured that Eliza probably has a working vocabulary exceeding 100 words. If we sat down and listed the words that she completely commands, I suspect she's closer to 150 or more. On top of that, she speaks in two and three-word sentences (again, not uncommon, though the regularity with which she does impresses me), and she asks questions appropriately -- not just "what Max doing?" or "where Mommy going?" but she's even asked "why" in its proper context, a pretty heady concept for her age, methinks. Always question authority, little girl, always.
On the one hand, it makes a certain sense that a lawyer and a writer -- and a couple of Chatty Kathys, at that -- would produce kids that were language-accelerated (Max, too, for the record, was an early and advanced talker), but I can't deny the role that chance plays in it all, and I am awed by the smallest of achievements, linguistically or not, that she displays on a daily basis.
On the one hand, it makes a certain sense that a lawyer and a writer -- and a couple of Chatty Kathys, at that -- would produce kids that were language-accelerated (Max, too, for the record, was an early and advanced talker), but I can't deny the role that chance plays in it all, and I am awed by the smallest of achievements, linguistically or not, that she displays on a daily basis.
Saturday, October 6, 2007
Soccer got no succor
I'm beginning to come to terms with the fact that I just may have started this blog thing solely for the cheap thrill I get out of creating painfully bad entry titles.
Wow was today not so autumnal. High in the mid-80s on October 6th? WTF?
We made our second attempt to inculcate Max into the world of organized sports by bringing him to his second Super Soccer Stars practice (class?) this morning in Prospect Park. Well, I guess it wasn't his second -- he had gone to 3 or 4 over the summer, but this was his second of the so-called autumn season where the group size is much larger. Super Soccer Stars, for the uninitiated, is soccer initiation for the pre-school set. Every Saturday morning, for 45 minutes, three or four fairly-talented soccer dudes run the kids through goofy drills as a means of teaching them basic soccer skills and concepts. The class begins and ends with a singing of the Super Soccer Stars song, sung to the tune of "If you're happy and you know it." ("we never touch the ball with our hands.."). Max had seemed not too into it when Cathleen had brought him over the summer, except for once when it was just he and his friend Henry there. We figured he'd be into it this fall, maybe, because Henry and another friend were going at the same time. Three weekends ago was the first class. There were over a dozen kids, and Max was visibly overwhelmed from the get go. He insisted on having either me or Cathleen stay with him (not at the field, which all parents have to do, but physically within the class), and he pretty much refused to participate in any of the drills/games. We stuck it out for the entire class, with Max basically watching the other kids kicking the ball around, and then after much debate decided to give it a second try. Today was that second try and produced the same result, and I threw in the towel ten minutes into the class. It is not on my agenda to make my son miserable if it can be avoided. Max takes a while to adjust to new groups of kids (a concern he clearly articulated to me this morning as we were getting ready to go), and I think that in the back of his head he was probably thinking, "what is up with a game that deprives me of use of my frisbee-catching hands?" He had much more fun sitting in my lap, observing an ant that was crawling all over his hand and arm. When the class was over, he still wanted to go and get some stickers that the coaches hand out at the end. No play, all reward. That's my boy.
We returned to Prospect Park in the afternoon for a get-together with our neighbors Jessica and kids Sophia and Jack and had a significantly-improved experience. Sophia is a few months younger than Max, and they simply love each other. They played nonstop for a couple of hours, allowing me to beg off on a tough run around the Park loop in the sweltering heat (after I had biked Max to and from the Park this morning, and then had run Eliza up to the Park in the jogging stroller for the afternoon get-together).
Wow was today not so autumnal. High in the mid-80s on October 6th? WTF?
We made our second attempt to inculcate Max into the world of organized sports by bringing him to his second Super Soccer Stars practice (class?) this morning in Prospect Park. Well, I guess it wasn't his second -- he had gone to 3 or 4 over the summer, but this was his second of the so-called autumn season where the group size is much larger. Super Soccer Stars, for the uninitiated, is soccer initiation for the pre-school set. Every Saturday morning, for 45 minutes, three or four fairly-talented soccer dudes run the kids through goofy drills as a means of teaching them basic soccer skills and concepts. The class begins and ends with a singing of the Super Soccer Stars song, sung to the tune of "If you're happy and you know it." ("we never touch the ball with our hands.."). Max had seemed not too into it when Cathleen had brought him over the summer, except for once when it was just he and his friend Henry there. We figured he'd be into it this fall, maybe, because Henry and another friend were going at the same time. Three weekends ago was the first class. There were over a dozen kids, and Max was visibly overwhelmed from the get go. He insisted on having either me or Cathleen stay with him (not at the field, which all parents have to do, but physically within the class), and he pretty much refused to participate in any of the drills/games. We stuck it out for the entire class, with Max basically watching the other kids kicking the ball around, and then after much debate decided to give it a second try. Today was that second try and produced the same result, and I threw in the towel ten minutes into the class. It is not on my agenda to make my son miserable if it can be avoided. Max takes a while to adjust to new groups of kids (a concern he clearly articulated to me this morning as we were getting ready to go), and I think that in the back of his head he was probably thinking, "what is up with a game that deprives me of use of my frisbee-catching hands?" He had much more fun sitting in my lap, observing an ant that was crawling all over his hand and arm. When the class was over, he still wanted to go and get some stickers that the coaches hand out at the end. No play, all reward. That's my boy.
We returned to Prospect Park in the afternoon for a get-together with our neighbors Jessica and kids Sophia and Jack and had a significantly-improved experience. Sophia is a few months younger than Max, and they simply love each other. They played nonstop for a couple of hours, allowing me to beg off on a tough run around the Park loop in the sweltering heat (after I had biked Max to and from the Park this morning, and then had run Eliza up to the Park in the jogging stroller for the afternoon get-together).
Tricked Out
I added a "visitor counter" to the blog page today. It counts each visit to the blog. I'm not sure why I added it, except that I envision grand parties when I hit some significant numbers, like "10" and "11."
Mom, you need to visit the blog repeatedly, every day, so that I feel good about myself.
Mom, you need to visit the blog repeatedly, every day, so that I feel good about myself.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Let's Go
I hate to write about this so close to the conclusion of the 2007 Mets debacle, but tonight as Cathleen and I sat in the livingroom, preparing to watch an episode of The Wire (Season One), Eliza was yapping away in her crib in joyful defiance of her absolute fatigue. Cathleen turned to me and asked if I understood what Eliza was saying. I listened carefully, and I heard my 20-month-old daughter chanting "Let's Go Mets" from her crib.
Max, bless his innocent soul, has taught Eliza how to cheer "Let's Go Mets." They also like to cheer "Let's Go Cyclones" together (which I've heard them do). I feel like a totally shallow cad, but I cannot quite explain the depth of the warmth that I feel when I think about Max teaching Eliza this cheer.
The circle is complete. The curse, bestowed upon me by my father, has now successfully enveloped both my children, and with much less effort than I thought would be required.
Max, bless his innocent soul, has taught Eliza how to cheer "Let's Go Mets." They also like to cheer "Let's Go Cyclones" together (which I've heard them do). I feel like a totally shallow cad, but I cannot quite explain the depth of the warmth that I feel when I think about Max teaching Eliza this cheer.
The circle is complete. The curse, bestowed upon me by my father, has now successfully enveloped both my children, and with much less effort than I thought would be required.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Sunday Bloody Sunday
OK, I know, two U2 references in a row. I'll stop that for a while.
Well, it has taken me a good 48 hours to be able to write about this past Sunday. The Mets completed their late-season collapse with a lifeless loss to the Marlins which, coupled with the Phillies' win over the Nationals, jettisoned the Mets out of the playoffs on the final day of the season. The game was almost unbearable to watch. Even when Tom Glavine vomited up seven runs in the first inning, I still thought they had a chance, and I spent the next few innings living and dieing with every pitch. My heart was pounding, I was eating compulsively. It sucked. Eliza awakened from her nap somewhere around the fifth inning and, for some reason, she was cranky, crying and inconsolable. I was standing there like, "little girl, I have no emotional resources left to make you feel better." But I did anyway. She's really cute. I watched all the way through the penultimate out, and then turned off the TV because I couldn't bear to watch the conclusion. I can stare at a gruesome car wreck for only so long.
Unlike some folks who were described in newspaper articles, I did not cry and I don't feel like this was the greatest disappointment of my life. But, for some reason, it stings. Why would I do this to myself? Why would I come back for more? Because although this sucks, I also know how good the good times feel, and like an addict seeking that amazing original high, I'll be there next spring hoping that 2008 is the magical season.
Of course, I thought that watching the Jets game would make me feel better. I had taped it and watched it that evening (that seems to be the way I watch football these days), and suffered through their loss to a formerly-winless Bills team that was starting a rookie QB. Uggh.
Thank goodness the news about the Thomas/MSG sexual harassment suit verdict didn't come out until two days later, or I might have packed the bags and moved to, uh, some other place. Man, if they don't fire Thomas it is going to be really hard to root for the Knicks this year. Not that they've made that a particularly easy thing to do within the past decade anyway.
The coup de grace for Sunday? At around dinner time I took the dogs out to the backyard to do their business (which, if you know anything about economics, isn't actually "business"), and I discovered a dead rat lying on the ground. The rat was around 10-12 inches long --- easily half the size of Oscar, if not bigger, and was somewhat reminiscent of a Warg from the Lord of the Rings series. I screamed. Well, it wasn't so much a scream as an, "Ahhhh!!! Ohhhh. Oh fuck. Ahhh, Eewwww. Ahhhh!!" That big-ass dead rat scared me more as dead than it might have if it were alive. I'm not 100% convinced of that, but I can't imagine being much more scared of it than I was. I took the dogs inside before they discovered the mammoth, fetid carcass, and went upstairs. I returned downstairs after the kids were in bed. I donned gloves and grabbed a shovel and two plastic bags. I doubled-up the bags and set them out in a bucket shape. I then approached the mighty beast and, summoning every ounce of courage I had, scooped it up and dumped it in the bags. It left behind a zillion little maggoty-creatures on the ground.
Are you puking yet? I was damn near close. I let out a few more loud and colorful protestations while pacing around in a circle, and then went back inside to get a bigger bag. I deposited the smaller bag of decaying monster rat into the larger bag and tied it up, hosed off the ground and the shovel, and brought the festering sack up and out to the garbage cans in front of our building. Not sure I breathed the entire time. Mercifully, the Department of Sanitation came and picked up our garbage this morning, because I was scared to go near my own trash cans.
Mets. Jets. Maggotty gigantic rat. It is so not easy being me.
Well, it has taken me a good 48 hours to be able to write about this past Sunday. The Mets completed their late-season collapse with a lifeless loss to the Marlins which, coupled with the Phillies' win over the Nationals, jettisoned the Mets out of the playoffs on the final day of the season. The game was almost unbearable to watch. Even when Tom Glavine vomited up seven runs in the first inning, I still thought they had a chance, and I spent the next few innings living and dieing with every pitch. My heart was pounding, I was eating compulsively. It sucked. Eliza awakened from her nap somewhere around the fifth inning and, for some reason, she was cranky, crying and inconsolable. I was standing there like, "little girl, I have no emotional resources left to make you feel better." But I did anyway. She's really cute. I watched all the way through the penultimate out, and then turned off the TV because I couldn't bear to watch the conclusion. I can stare at a gruesome car wreck for only so long.
Unlike some folks who were described in newspaper articles, I did not cry and I don't feel like this was the greatest disappointment of my life. But, for some reason, it stings. Why would I do this to myself? Why would I come back for more? Because although this sucks, I also know how good the good times feel, and like an addict seeking that amazing original high, I'll be there next spring hoping that 2008 is the magical season.
Of course, I thought that watching the Jets game would make me feel better. I had taped it and watched it that evening (that seems to be the way I watch football these days), and suffered through their loss to a formerly-winless Bills team that was starting a rookie QB. Uggh.
Thank goodness the news about the Thomas/MSG sexual harassment suit verdict didn't come out until two days later, or I might have packed the bags and moved to, uh, some other place. Man, if they don't fire Thomas it is going to be really hard to root for the Knicks this year. Not that they've made that a particularly easy thing to do within the past decade anyway.
The coup de grace for Sunday? At around dinner time I took the dogs out to the backyard to do their business (which, if you know anything about economics, isn't actually "business"), and I discovered a dead rat lying on the ground. The rat was around 10-12 inches long --- easily half the size of Oscar, if not bigger, and was somewhat reminiscent of a Warg from the Lord of the Rings series. I screamed. Well, it wasn't so much a scream as an, "Ahhhh!!! Ohhhh. Oh fuck. Ahhh, Eewwww. Ahhhh!!" That big-ass dead rat scared me more as dead than it might have if it were alive. I'm not 100% convinced of that, but I can't imagine being much more scared of it than I was. I took the dogs inside before they discovered the mammoth, fetid carcass, and went upstairs. I returned downstairs after the kids were in bed. I donned gloves and grabbed a shovel and two plastic bags. I doubled-up the bags and set them out in a bucket shape. I then approached the mighty beast and, summoning every ounce of courage I had, scooped it up and dumped it in the bags. It left behind a zillion little maggoty-creatures on the ground.
Are you puking yet? I was damn near close. I let out a few more loud and colorful protestations while pacing around in a circle, and then went back inside to get a bigger bag. I deposited the smaller bag of decaying monster rat into the larger bag and tied it up, hosed off the ground and the shovel, and brought the festering sack up and out to the garbage cans in front of our building. Not sure I breathed the entire time. Mercifully, the Department of Sanitation came and picked up our garbage this morning, because I was scared to go near my own trash cans.
Mets. Jets. Maggotty gigantic rat. It is so not easy being me.
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