I was raised by ELLE magazine

How does a young girl learn to take care of herself and survive in a house with no mother, two older, stubborn brothers and an old school father? By reading magazines. That's how. When I was about 10, my father thoughtfully subscribed to ELLE magazine for me. I can tell you this, ELLE is not for ten year old girls; I never complained though, I was excited it wasn't some teeny-bopper rag mag full of pictures that I'd get bored with in a day. I didn't understand half the shit I was reading in ELLE, but I managed to figure it out. Just when I'd finish an issue, the next one would come. I never did HW because of ELLE, ever.  I scoured every issue from cover to cover well into my teenage years. The fashion, I skipped mostly. I wanted to know more about the make-up, the hair, the skin care, the articles. I learned about Sanskrit ruins and how to take care of your self from head to toe, all from ELLE magazine.  


Even if ELLE didn't come into my life, I never liked HW, but I loved to read. I read magazines and a lot of the books that my father had read except for scary ones like 'Helter Skelter.' My father is an avid reader and hoards an extensive collection of books. We always had a home-made, cedar library to hold them in. It wasn't rare for us to be left alone in the tween years and one day I climbed the sturdy cedar shelf to see what that big RED book was all about and why was it was turned backward so the spine didn't show and that was my first introduction to sex... THE JOY OF SEX, in full color, bigger than an altas book. The center of the book was a shocker to say the least. I blushed and gasped all the way through that sucker and quickly put it away and turned back to ELLE for the rest of the day. I remember feeling, I am a woman now that I know that. I felt different when my dad came home. No one noticed and believe it or not, I only revisited it maybe two more times my whole life since (he still has it). I feel like I was raised by ELLE with a sprinkling of Oprah, and a heaping of Leo Buscaglia, of course.

It wasn't until I had children of my own, and I had to take care of a very depressed spouse that I learned ELLE had taught me much of what I needed to know to take care of myself which led me to be a good mom, friend and wife. G-d knows I never had an adult family member to lead by example. I craved a female companion and found it in ELLE. Now I have three companions who adore me and think I can do no wrong. I'll keep my super hero status as long as possible. 

Life is too short to live in the gray for any length of time. I've had enough gray. I've been there long enough. I want all the colors. I want all the pieces that I desire and deserve. 


Thanks ELLE for showing me what was possible...

bakin' up some love

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Imagine a cupcake filled with a chocolate chip cookie...yum!

I've been eating too many cupcakes. Birthdays and holidays and baking days and I'm all sugared out. But my girls and I, we love us some sweets. We love to bake our food and I have a 'secret' ingredient I put in all our recipes. I'm pretty sure I got this idea from an Oprah show. I keep it in the spice cabinet in a tiny treasure chest leftover from some toy set. Only my oldest knows what's in it because I offered to tell her once she could make something from scratch. So, she got busy. Now my six year old daughter wants to know the secret, but she's not quite ready for the oven or the stove, so I tell her she's too little to use that ingredient yet. Don't tell, but there's nothing in that treasure chest except what I wrote on the bottom in sharpie marker. L O V E.  I pretend to sprinkle 'something' when I open it and then I stash it up high. . When my oldest mastered blueberry muffins, I let her look. She got it. She smiled and said 'aw, mom, I won't tell. Can I use it?" She also knows about Santa Claus. My next daughter is likely to be mad and make some flippant remark like "that's it, that's all" like the time I gave her clothes for Christmas when she was five. She put her hands up in shock and said "Clothes! I want toys, but thanks mommy..."

So my focus in life right now is to get busy baking up some love. Mother Daughter Love. Friend to Friend Love. Pet Love. Home Love. Garden Love. Get the Pool Ready for Spring Love. I am not a wife, or a sister, or a niece, or an aunt anymore. So I will collect love when and where I can find it. I collect people too. Those people know when I've scooped them up into Dawnland. I love them. I tell them. I show them. I especially love to collect other kindred spirits who much like myself, seek out their own kind. I love lovers. You can't fake being a lover. If you aren't a lover, chances are I can figure you out in one sniff. Lovers love. Lovers would never intentionally hurt another soul. And if they do, they feel badly for it. Lovers also know other lovers when they see them. There's always a hug. Eye contact. Smiles. A hello and of course a good-bye. They are soul mates. They already know each other.

I'm a lover, but more importantly, I'm a lover who wants to teach love. Does that make sense? I'd teach self love on my syllabus first. It's not too original of an idea. It's been done before. In fact, one of my favorite educators is the late Leo Buscaglia, or as they called him at USC, Dr. Love. He taught a class called 'LOVE1A' once a year at USC. Love1A was free, not a required class, and no grade would be received after having finished it; so naturally, it was the most popular class on campus. I'm one of those fortunate educators that was introduced to his ideas and books early on and devoured them all as I began my professional career. I  knew I needed a leader that was at least speaking a language I already understood. Dr. Love became my surrogate parent and mentor.

To me, the art of teaching is that often that you teach best when you teach what you confidently know after you learned by experience exactly what not to do. It's when you are unconsciously competent, that is, you don't even have to think about the subject you teach, it comes to you effortlessly, you are good at it, and if you're really talented, it comes to you naturally.  It's the act of self reflecting and creating a plan better than the last one. To me, to love, is to honor love above all else which is why I get so mad at haters. Haters only want to hate. I'm very fond of telling haters off. I really should love haters. Only a fully enlightened human being loves the haters. I'm not there yet. Haters are like moths, seekers of light, but if you are a hater and you get too close to me, I will burn you.  Being a flame, I attract my share of moths. Because I have a keen sense other people's emotions, I try to give the moths what they crave. Light and Love! As such, I always try to reflect openness and kindness as opposed to distance and cruelty because I feel that's how we find happiness, by reflecting it and when we reflect happiness and love the more people will be happy and if more people are happy more people are happy and the more we love the more we grow and well you get the fucking point, right? Soul mates aren't just for lovers either. Any relationship that makes you evolve into a better version of yourself is a soul mate, IMO. 

Dr. Love taught me you have to love you in order to love you. You cannot honor your body, your mind, or your spirit without first honoring your self. What I've learned over the past few years is that if you put everyone first, in spite of yourself, you will inevitably fail.  Just like we are instructed to put the oxygen mask on in case of an emergency on a plane, you have to put yourself first, if you want your plane to stay airborne. Otherwise, eventually it's crash and burn. We are all born with gifts and are worthy of happiness and love. Not everyone believes they deserve either, nor do they go searching for it so directly. I know what works for me. Point. Aim. Shoot. 

Lucky

We rescued this dog a while back named "Lucky." IMO, any rescue named Lucky should be given a new name because they aren't lucky if they ended up in a rescue. You may as well call a dog Lucifer, or unLucky. This dog was a nightmare. He changed our home for the worse. My motto has always been once a member of the family, always a member of the family, but this guy peed on the beds and barked when ice cubes fell in the ice maker. I tried everything to help him. There was no training this dog and that's coming from a behaviorist. If I can train a cat to pee in the toilet, then I figured I could train a dog to calm his nerves. I couldn't. (I later learned it's in his breed). Lucky drove me insane. He just had to go. I knew the girls were going to freak out when I brought him back, but they got over it and rarely bring up his name unless to admit he was a pain in the ass. They do miss his submissively sweet self.

And that's when the idea came to me. I've been searching for ways to get out my pain using my creativity. I dance. I write. I read. There's more in there, I need to help someone suffering. My problem is I haven't decide if I should write a book for children, adolescents, or adults. I can see a coloring book series for kids coping with crises or maybe a coming of age story about kids coping with divorce called "The D Club." My girls seem to feel Different now. They are in Disbelief. They Don't understand. Having been there myself, I know how they feel. I'll let my creativity lead the way and I know that either way, it's story about a lucky girl who was once unlucky, and the end of the story is a happy one.

I need to know what happened to the dog Lucky. I hope he found an old lady with nothing to do but sit and pet him. He'd bark at an intruder, or an ice cube and she/he'd be happy to have someone to holler at. I'm crossing my fingers he has a happy ending.

disappearing

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Part of me, is disappearing

Part of me, is glad

I'm out to sea again

Little do they know

I thrive in my watery exile

I've built a sandbar all my own

I'm safe here

Alone

No one can hurt me here

I float in the shallows 

a reef teeming with friends 

that keep away 

the surging waves

Coldplay Fix You 

airless bags

      My little before dawn traveler came in bed last night with her usual sweet, chatty comments. You a good gurl, she purrs in my ear ever so quietly. I lie motionless. Yeah, but mommy, you always been good. Still, I don't move. Actually, we both awre. Silent me smiles. So she adds, I saw dat. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to know I'm a light sleeper, or that I'd much prefer to stay up and chat with this little sweetpea, but I know better. A full day lies ahead. If I chat a little, we'll both wake up tired tomorrow. Tired moms are not efficient or effective. 

          Soon, maybe real soon, everyone in this house will know how to properly sleep in on the weekends. Until then, middle of the night travelers get the silent treatment because our weekends are just as important as the weekdays. We cram in two full days of family time and then spend the rest of the week waiting for the next weekend. There are many prayers, long stories told and pictures drawn that consist entirely of dreaming up the perfect week. Stories that involve the "weekend becoming the weekdays" and vice verse. But then, who'd pay the bills if we play five days a week and work two. It does sound like a great plan I always remind. But, we live in a world were only 1% of our great nation  likely lives that way. Being the grown up in the house, I squash all fanciful talk and remind them to keep dreaming, but in the meantime, go be productive or play. As for me, I'm just thankful I don't have to work on the weekends. I did that for a long time. It's not all that much fun. I remind myself of my weekends at their age and I use those memories as a barometer for the inevitable complaints that bounce around the walls here. I have a suitcase full of childhood baggage that is tucked way up high in some compartment in my brain. I've made peace with it all. I forgive everyone involved. But, it's all there. Up high. Packed away. All the oxygen sucked away. Like one of those bags...what are those bags called? The ones that suck out the air? I did that to my childhood baggage. What the hell is that bag called? Uh? Um? Well, anyway, that rocky bag is hard as hell, lumpy, and I don't have any plans of opening it. But, it is there. It is a part of me. Like ashes to a flame.

            Weekends in the 70's, during my childhood, were much different than today. Weekends were unpredictable. Like the weather. Since my dad sometimes worked on the weekends, I knew that meant two things. My mom would either keep us home or take us to the beach where we were free to roam the ocean, dig for hours in the sand, or skate the long stretch of concrete that some like to call the broadwalk. I wish it was called a boardwalk because that would make the song make sense, but it wasn’t made of boards and you definitely couldn’t be under it. It was our home away from home. We'd either be there or we’d be stuck at home, with mom. All day. 

            Even the rain could not stop us from at least driving to the beach. If you lived as close to the ocean as we did, well, you knew perfectly well that it could be glorious and sunny in one spot on the sand and a there could be a thunderous downpour only yards away. We always took our chances. The only time we didn't stay is if there was lightning. Otherwise, we'd just wait out the storm. Mostly because we’d all rather watch the mood swings of the Florida water cycle than bear witness to the weather changes that plagued my moms mind as she mulled around the house. My early photos in my mind are filled with snapshots of my mom walking around the house singing and crying. The singing sounded nice. The crying sounded like it hurt. 

           As a little girl, I was sweet and simple, the type of kid who could always find something interesting to immerse myself in. And that’s why it was always such a shock. Barbie, who actually resembled my mom a lot, (but my mom had black hair and blue eyes), and I would be immersed in some activity; we’d be listening to music, trying on clothes and mom would just flip a switch. It was never me who flipped her switch. But it was me, or my dad (which depended on whether he was the offender or not), who came to the rescue. I don’t remember the conversations, but I clearly remember my feeling of shock at seeing her sob, and that my instant reaction was to make it okay. I’d yell at the boy or man that made her cry. I'm about four the first time I remember her in this state. The problem with coming to her rescue, I later learned, was that sometimes, it was the radio who was the offender. We always had music on, and I always sang along, I’d see a certain song trigger a reaction and I tried so hard figure out what the words meant. “Bears, only love you when they’re playing.” It wasn’t until years later when I heard the song as an adult that I realized it was PLAYERS, only love you when they’re playing. And it wasn’t until I had children of my own singing the words to songs that I knew they had no idea the meaning of, that I asked my mom about those days. 

            “Who was playing you, mom?” was the question and the story told was the first one that allowed me to have some empathy for her that had never existed before. I found out that day that her first sexual experience was a rape. Her next was with my father and next thing she knew she was married with three small children to, who could easily be described as, Arthur Fonzarelli. My father was a bit of an Fonzi growing up. He looked older than he was, rode a motorcycle, and if Greaser comes to mind, just add athletic, Jewish carpenter who also loves football and that’s my father. My mom was a 'knockout' as a teenager and was often mistaken for a celebrity when she was out. So much finally made sense that never did after this conversation.

          I felt my deeply Jewish roots branching out in every direction growing leaves that will cycle through seasons of change, the leaves withstanding all the sacrifices and injustices the tree has ever known. All parts nourished by the light from above. Light lovers. Lovers of light. Seekers of light. If I were a better science student, I'd tell you the name of that process where the plant seeks the light. I read about it even recently. Photobiotic? (I think I just made that up). It's a photosynthesis and a biology thing-  um? um? uhhh?

Got it!  Space Bags! Phototropic, Space Bags.

Fleetwood Mac, Players Only Love You When They're Playing

eye for an eye

--> Every time we hear about a child abuse sex scandal it puts us both in a funk. I know how it feels to carry the secret, the shame, for myself, and for my soon to be x-husband. We also know how it feels to tell those you think will help and they don't. When it hits the sports world, it hits home even more.

I already have an aversion to macho jocks and obsessed football fans like the ones who were more concerned with the coaching staff at U of Miami and Penn State than the boys who were raped and changed for life. Who the fuck cares who replaces Paterno? Is that really your first thought jocko?

How can justice be served for those boys? It won't change those affected to hate, castrate, or incarcerate the molesters. I know that. It's much bigger than that. We have to change our minds as a society. Why was it acceptable for these allegations to be dismissed? Why can school systems hide behind a bureaucratic infrastructure? They have established rules of testing, monitoring and reporting students financially and academically. How could their systems be so advanced for students and so lacking for coaching staff? Well, I know it's because the athletic program brings the university a gluttony of money, fame, and pride.  I hope enrollment at Penn State is heavily affected. I hope Jerry Sandusky goes to jail. I've heard what happens to people like him. It's a small sliver of punishment, but I'm a firm believer in an 'eye for an eye' style of justice.

The little angel on my shoulder says, NO, that's not the way. Only love will heal. Only kindness will reveal a solution. But, right now, I'd like to shoot that man in the asshole so that it comes out the other side leaving him dick-less and full of anal fissures for life.

Rage Against the Machine, Killing in the Name of  Read more…