September 11, 2011
There are ghosts haunting the streets of NYC this weekend and although I have tried to avoid reliving the sadness, loss, and anger Sept 11th moved in me there are some aspects of those emotions that are the origins of my current happiness.
In 2001 I graduated from NYU with a Masters in Journalism. I was renting a room in a three bedroom out in Prospect Park, Brooklyn with some friends. On Sept 10th I was leaving Kentucky for NYC but decided to go to Pittsburgh instead for a friend' mom's funeral. I was getting ready for a funeral the morning the planes hit our hearts.
At the time I was still with Daren, an English-Israeli, who had taken me to Israel and warned me that America was not immune to terrorists. He was always going on about how safe Americans perceived their country to be and that was dangerous. The state of Israel and the Palestinians were a subject of much debate between us, with him conceding that I really had no basis for believing him since I never knew terror.
Daren had the television on that morning and yelled upstairs of our house in the South Side of Pittsburgh that a plan hit the World Trade Center. It must have been a small plane I dismissed. I came down stairs in time to see the second plane and it hit me that this deliberate. I knew people working the buildings, but I told myself it was fine the damage wool deb under control.
When the first building fell I was already to attend a funeral and I screamed as did the TV reporter. Somehow I got in the car and drove to the funeral, listening as the second one fell. When I arrived my girlfriend saw me in tears and had no idea why. She was focused on her mother laying the coffin. I grabbed another friend and told her what happened. I got a call from a girlfriend in Kentucky that there was a plane over Pittsburgh. We left the funeral home for a restaurant, but no one stayed.
Sarah and I went back to my house which was on the same side of the three rivers. We watched the horror unfold on TV and something changed in me at the same time. I was living on the edge in NY, in an apartment where I had to keep the lights on at night to scare away the roaches. I was with a man that I suspected was committing fraud among other unmentionable discrepancies. It was my mid-twenties and I had made a hobby of collecting lovers for lack of love in my relationship, or for myself.
I drove back to New York a couple of days later. I had a convertible BMW from Daren and I drove with the top down smelling the soot in the air as I approached Manhattan. I was the only one on the road; it was eerie like out of a horror movie. It was night when I arrived and Downtown NY from Jersey looked like hell really was a place on earth. The search lights shown and smoldering smoke curled endlessly in the sky.
There was a bone-shaking stillness in the air as I drove through Manhattan. There were places that looked like it had snowed with fake snow. There was fear and morning in the air for sure, but there was also something else, something that reminded me of Jerusalem. I had been there with Daren when I was the only non-Israeli passport holder to come off the place from NYC. There seemed to be monthly if not weekly terrorist attacks.
In the holy city there was a wicked and haunting feeling everywhere. Ghosts definitely roamed the stones and sands. It was the same when I went to Ground Zero. I did not help besides giving out food to highway security workers who had stopped me to search my trunk. I wore my Stetson and boots as a show of American support. It made the cops smile.
I stood not a block away from the wreckage of the World Trade Center looking at the beams that resembled crosses. Coincidentally, many of my fellow reporters showed up at the same spot. We acknowledged each other but were speechless; everyone was silent, standing there as if attending a funeral. NY is normally a loud and bustling place, but not then. Then it was so quiet except for the sound of the workers and searches.
In DUMBO where I use to live before the roach room rental there was a bar called the Bar Between the Bridges. Here all the welders and workers from the bridges use to hang out after work, and then there was me. I spent the next few days interviewing them and recording their stories from Ground Zero. Welders from all over America had come to dismantle the wreckage so there were a lot of people to talk to. Normally, this bunch of people reveled in telling stories, but not this time. It was like they had come back from war. Many of them described bodies and debris that hit a chord inside them that had taken the eagerness out of their rants.
There were people that my friends knew had perished or were unreachable at the time. Fortunately, the people I knew in the towers had escaped or had not made it to work yet.
I came back to Pittsburgh after that and never listened to the tapes again. I still haven't. After so much pain I had to block it out, however, something broke down inside me that day and the world turned beneath my feet. I wanted my family; I wanted a family of my own in a safe place where we weren't targets for death. It was a humbling feeling and I wanted humble things, not the dreams NY breeds, but the ones that seem so far above my capabilities. The life my friends had in Kentucky, married with kids, a car, a boat, a yard.
Obtaining this dream did not come easy. It took me two more years to leave Daren and I am still fighting the fraud accounts because unbeknown to me he had involved my name. I drank a lot talking to the stars. I daydreamed about having a loving husband and being faithful to him, simple things.
Looking back I felt I wasn't fit to be a mom, I couldn't sacrifice enough of myself for them. I had no idea how to be a wife and a mom. I didn't feel strong enough to be the kind of woman I had seen so many of my friends become.
My first step was to make the decision to only date men I would marry. Getting knocked up was not a part of my plan, but I have always been lousy with life-planning.
I find it curious that I am back in NY, ten years later covering Fashion Week while I am pregnant with my THIRD baby. A lot really has changed. I don't have a yard yet, but I do have an amazing husband who loves me and calls me "mermaid" because he use to find me sleeping in the bathtub after I drank too much wine.
Tears have been coming very easy lately because I am reminded in odd moments of the people who perished and the terror that filled our lives, especially the people of New York who ran for their lives. It could be my hormones, but I know that there is a part of me that is shared with all Americans who cried that day.
Today my heart is with the families who have lost part of their heart in the fall of the World Trade Center and the battles that followed. It changed everyone's life and for me it gave birth to a need to love. Becoming mommy heals your soul when you feel it been broken.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
A Fashion Story in Honor of this Friday's Event
September 8, 2011
In honor of this Friday's fashion event that will benefit Partners for Quality I give you a fashion story by me :)
Last September, I had so much at the Pittsburgh Fashion Story charity function held at J Verno Studios in the South Side that I filled my nursing anatomy with vodka infused leche the night before my flight to NYC to cover Fashion Week.
The process of draining the contaminated mother's milk drained my brain along with it because I subsequently forgot my garment bag filled with carefully coordinated outfits for each day. Instead, I had a suitcase full of great shoes, my son’s best outfits, and mama-jamas. I had decided to be an adventurous mama and bring my three-month-old son Luca along with my sister Kathleen for nanny support. Word for the wise, never do this.
Never decide to have your first drink in over a year the night before a huge business trip that requires you to look your best and skinniest along with dynamic versatility. Never think that your rock-star metabolism will magically allow you stay up late and get up early after being reunited with your old friend vodka. I am probably sounding a little like Chelsea Handler now so I better stop here.
After losing Luca's favourite binky because I wedged it somewhere in my bra for lack of a pocket, my sister and I endured a gruelling, tearful plane ride and taxi ride to the chic Empire Hotel where most of the guests were wearing nothing less than six-inch heels. I think I was still wearing mama-jamas and slippers when I arrived. When they told us our room wasn't ready yet I told them the alternative was enduring the headache octaves my son could reach. We learned quickly that he didn't like city noises or fist pumping reception area music. We were given a room immediately.
Luca did however love the whistling tunes of "Brother Bones" a 1930's African American that whistled entire songs while knocking bones together. My sister spent most of the time playing with the baby and learning to whistle entire ballads. I made the mistake of taking the baby for long walks in Soho to go shopping. My subway radar was way off and ended up sort of lost looking for couture baby clothes.
My sister had decided that after an embarrassing walk to Central Park with my son, Luciano Pavarotti, she was quite content whistling in the confines of our hotel room. When my son was born his screech was so deafening everyone including the delivery doctor gave each other that "Holy Crap" look. Yeah, he is Mariah Carey, dog deafening loud. He can hit notes that are reserved for jet engines. Having him come screaming out of me like that can only be a testimony as to how bad it must have been trapped in my body. Lol, I should know what that feels like.
Last year the weather was pretty awesome and sometimes Kathleen would meet me outside the tents so I could breast feed for all the style mavens to see. I admit Luca was the best accessory.
This year I am pregnant again and covering the fashion circus in New York City so I cannot make the event in Pittsburgh. However, I encourage you all to attend. The best part of the event is not even the fashion it’s that the proceeds and donations go to children who need it. The money raised help families struggling with disabled children during rough patches in their budgets. It is not welfare, but a one-time emergency fund to keep kids in their homes with proper care.
For more information on Partners for Quality go to www.pfq.org, email Mary at mmmitchell@pfg.org.
Donations information is on their website. For tickets to the event go to http://bit.ly/riV1mL .
In honor of this Friday's fashion event that will benefit Partners for Quality I give you a fashion story by me :)
Last September, I had so much at the Pittsburgh Fashion Story charity function held at J Verno Studios in the South Side that I filled my nursing anatomy with vodka infused leche the night before my flight to NYC to cover Fashion Week.
The process of draining the contaminated mother's milk drained my brain along with it because I subsequently forgot my garment bag filled with carefully coordinated outfits for each day. Instead, I had a suitcase full of great shoes, my son’s best outfits, and mama-jamas. I had decided to be an adventurous mama and bring my three-month-old son Luca along with my sister Kathleen for nanny support. Word for the wise, never do this.
Never decide to have your first drink in over a year the night before a huge business trip that requires you to look your best and skinniest along with dynamic versatility. Never think that your rock-star metabolism will magically allow you stay up late and get up early after being reunited with your old friend vodka. I am probably sounding a little like Chelsea Handler now so I better stop here.
After losing Luca's favourite binky because I wedged it somewhere in my bra for lack of a pocket, my sister and I endured a gruelling, tearful plane ride and taxi ride to the chic Empire Hotel where most of the guests were wearing nothing less than six-inch heels. I think I was still wearing mama-jamas and slippers when I arrived. When they told us our room wasn't ready yet I told them the alternative was enduring the headache octaves my son could reach. We learned quickly that he didn't like city noises or fist pumping reception area music. We were given a room immediately.
Luca did however love the whistling tunes of "Brother Bones" a 1930's African American that whistled entire songs while knocking bones together. My sister spent most of the time playing with the baby and learning to whistle entire ballads. I made the mistake of taking the baby for long walks in Soho to go shopping. My subway radar was way off and ended up sort of lost looking for couture baby clothes.
My sister had decided that after an embarrassing walk to Central Park with my son, Luciano Pavarotti, she was quite content whistling in the confines of our hotel room. When my son was born his screech was so deafening everyone including the delivery doctor gave each other that "Holy Crap" look. Yeah, he is Mariah Carey, dog deafening loud. He can hit notes that are reserved for jet engines. Having him come screaming out of me like that can only be a testimony as to how bad it must have been trapped in my body. Lol, I should know what that feels like.
Last year the weather was pretty awesome and sometimes Kathleen would meet me outside the tents so I could breast feed for all the style mavens to see. I admit Luca was the best accessory.
This year I am pregnant again and covering the fashion circus in New York City so I cannot make the event in Pittsburgh. However, I encourage you all to attend. The best part of the event is not even the fashion it’s that the proceeds and donations go to children who need it. The money raised help families struggling with disabled children during rough patches in their budgets. It is not welfare, but a one-time emergency fund to keep kids in their homes with proper care.
For more information on Partners for Quality go to www.pfq.org, email Mary at mmmitchell@pfg.org.
Donations information is on their website. For tickets to the event go to http://bit.ly/riV1mL .
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Beach Day Care at the Jersey Shore
First published on www.StyleSegment.com
Call me a hill-billy, but I didn’t know if your kids weren’t listed on a wedding invitation then you couldn’t bring them. My husband Patrick and I had planned our summer vacation around a Philadelphia wedding, which we learned too late was for big kids only. Before abandoning the wedding for lack of a babysitter my retired dad saved the day and said he would take a train to Philly to babysit.
Our destination was the Jersey Shore. Cape May, New Jersey is 7 hours from Pittsburgh and 1.5 hours from Philly. Seven hours also happens to be the limit my young children, Lyra (3) and Luca (1) could watch DVDs in the car. It was perfect.
Cape May is the oldest beach resort town in America and although it is still technically the Jersey Shore it is far from beachcombers that look like the Situation and Snooki. Instead, the town is filled with quiet Colonial and Southern veranda style homes that are almost all upscale b&b hotels (www.capemay.com). We were looking for a rental late in the booking season, therefore a lot of the family friendly places were booked. Many of the mansions do not allow children because they are adorned with antiques.
Of course, when people tell me I can’t take my kids somewhere I want to yell in their faces that they have no heart, but it wasn’t so long ago when I would give the parents of a screaming kid a look of disdain if I was on my grown-up vacation. Still my kids are cuter than most and have yet to publically embarrass me. That is if you don’t count running around naked, incessant smiling at strangers, vomiting, and pooping. Otherwise, they are acceptable.
I went to www.vacationrentals.com to find a property that was open for a week in July. The hotel rates for a week were almost the same as renting a condo or house so we invited a couple to come with us who had kids the same age as ours. Whoopee! Beach Daycare!
You need a beach tag to be on the beach. A couple of young lifeguards pointed out on the first morning of our visit in a half-beach bum/ half-long island accent, “If you are on the beach before 10 a.m., enjoy the day. But if you go to the boardwalk and back then your dust.” I am guessing that meant we need a tag unless I wanted to pee in the ocean, which incidentally is what my husband taught my daughter to do.
Beach passes are $15 for all persons over 12. My husband pinned his to swimming trunks and claimed if it came off it was NJ’s fault for a faulty design. I think he was just upset he couldn’t wear his Euro Speedo bottoms. We had been told that men had to wear trunks that come to mid-thigh. However, we let our son wear his baby Speedo version.
The first thing I do when I get to a destination is book a massage, which I did at Cape May Day Spa (www.capemaydayspa.com). I have learned that if possible you should get your nails done before a trip not during. I have never received a better manicure than I do at home. However, if you need a redo go to Hale Nails on Gurney Street beside Louie’s Pizza. They have gel nail polish that last longer when digging in the sand.
The best things to do with kids besides let them eat sand and dig holes in the ground is riding bikes. Our friends had brought their Chariot stroller that can attach to a bike to pull the kids. We rented ours because I had filled our SUV with suitcases for each of my kids, mine was the biggest. Bike rentals are about $15-$10 for 24 hours.
Patrick and I had another one of our cherished married moments when I couldn’t find my bike lock. He aggressively told me he had no idea what I did with it. A woman from the bike shop was on her way to cut the lock off when he found it in his pocket. It was a ball twister, meaning I wanted to twist his balls.
There were many swanky restaurants that had fine reviews, but not one of them was suitable for children. Consequently, we did not have one extraordinary meal, although, we did cause a scene the first night in town.
While waiting for dinner at the Montreal Inn across from our rental at Capri-Motor Lodge (www.caprimotorlodge.com), Patrick decided he was going to let Luca try a swig of beer while sitting on his lap. I should explain my husband is Romanian and thinks many things are funny that I don’t. Having responded to my evil eye he moved the beer further from Luca’s reach. Then he decided to arrange more glasses on the table while taking his hands momentarily off Luca sitting in his lap. At that moment Luca took a lunge at the beer following the glass bottle to the concrete floor. The sound of my kid’s head hitting the ground together with the unbroken beer bottle caused women to cover the mouths in horror and the bar music to stop. My first impulse was to whap Patrick, but I reserved myself and focused on examining my son’s noggin.
A man rushed over and said he was calling an ambulance. Patrick replied, “I am a doctor. I think I can make that decision.” I could sense he was annoyed at this guy’s intervening and decided it was best to make an exit. At that moment the waiter came with our food, which I replied would have to be wrapped up. I hightailed it out of there ahead of my husband. Not a scratch or dent on my son could be found and before I left he was calm again.
There are many reasons why you shouldn’t feed your child beer and this may be one of them: they will think beer bottles are neat toys and fall off a table.
Thankfully, we had a great kitchen and although there is not a Whole Foods are on the island there is a great seafood market at the Lobster House (thelobsterhouse.com). Having a kitchen when traveling with kids is essential especially if they are my kids and will only eat the organic cereal and cottage cheese that you thought would be better for them when you started feeding them. Subsequently, they will not eat any other brand and we have to search out a Whole Foods at every place we travel - oh joy.
Our beach buddies are yoga fanatics. My girlfriend coaxed me into yoga every morning while she left the kids with her husband who almost had a meltdown himself trying to preserve our security deposit. They sort of colored the fridge with crayons, nothing crazy. Anyway, the yoga instruction was not as strenuous as BYS where we normally attend in Pittsburgh, but they were fine for me. The beach yoga class organized by the hotel Congress Hall was awkward in the sand, but the setting was calming with the morning mist surrounding us.
Dolphins come so close it looks like you can swim out to them, which my daring husband tried to do. The lifeguards made him keep our youngest out of the deeper water on the days when the ocean was too choppy. It is always funny to see him get in trouble for things I tell him not to do.
Of course, running a little beach daycare with four little people stumbling about doesn’t leave a whole lot of time for shopping but there is always a nap time to take an excursion. Luckily my husband needs a nap too so I could escape to Washington Street Mall (www.washingtonstreetmall.com). All around this three block area are little shops and restaurants. I found cute souvenir mermaid shirts for the little girls at www.lynnardens.com and a pirate onesie at Happy Baby Boutique (Twitter @capemaybaby).
The best souveniers in my book happens to be a book. An English bloke started a small press called Exit Zero (exitzero.us ) that produces a retro style newsprint weekly about beach life and coffee table books about the historic homes and sites. Their shop is on the way to the lighthouse, which is about a 20-30 minute bike ride from the main beach strip. Along the way there are numerous amazing homes to ogle.
Tip: Always bring a change of clothes for potty training tots. It will happen when you are far away from the car and supplies that they have a bout of diarrhea and your husband, making up for his ball twister, will have to clean up the mess in the men’s bathroom. Mom will put offending articles in a plastic bag in her purse and forget about them and only remember when she pulls them out at a wedding rehearsal dinner.
Note: Poop seems to always be a reoccurring element in stories that involve children so get used to it. Parenthood is messy and stinky, but so is my husband so I know where they get it from.
Speaking of poop, horse poop that is, one of the best ways to explore the homes is by horse and buggy. The only way to book a ride is to go there stand at the top of Washington Street Mall where there is also a stand to buy tickets for the trolley rides that are themed for kids or couples. There are regional theater shows to see and haunted boat rides to enjoy, none of which we actually got to enjoy. However, we would have if the kids were a little older, or had a sitter, or were left at home – with a sitter of course.
When we were leaving the heat was cranking up and the sand felt like walking on a hot grill. Philadelphia was what I imagine hell to feel like. My dad was already at the hotel which I will never go to again. Club Quarters may be fine for a single business traveler, but do not go there if you have a car to park or children. The hotel was chosen by the bride and groom because it was near attractions; however, it was too hot on this occasion to enjoy anything that didn’t have powerful ac generators.
We were an hour and half late to the rehearsal dinner which we were allowed to bring children. Luca fell asleep so we brought Lyra. We took a cab to South Street. Another good tip: taking a taxi is not a good idea of your child is prone to car sickness. As soon as she started to moan we stopped the taxi and walked the rest of the way. It was a good thing because I didn’t have anything clean in my purse to dress her or myself in.
In the end the messiness of parenting is a great excuse to over pack for excursions, it is also a great reason to have a large purse, and spend lots of time in the bathroom. Until the next time I torture myself with jetsetting with toddlers, take care and always carry wipes.
Call me a hill-billy, but I didn’t know if your kids weren’t listed on a wedding invitation then you couldn’t bring them. My husband Patrick and I had planned our summer vacation around a Philadelphia wedding, which we learned too late was for big kids only. Before abandoning the wedding for lack of a babysitter my retired dad saved the day and said he would take a train to Philly to babysit.
Our destination was the Jersey Shore. Cape May, New Jersey is 7 hours from Pittsburgh and 1.5 hours from Philly. Seven hours also happens to be the limit my young children, Lyra (3) and Luca (1) could watch DVDs in the car. It was perfect.
Cape May is the oldest beach resort town in America and although it is still technically the Jersey Shore it is far from beachcombers that look like the Situation and Snooki. Instead, the town is filled with quiet Colonial and Southern veranda style homes that are almost all upscale b&b hotels (www.capemay.com). We were looking for a rental late in the booking season, therefore a lot of the family friendly places were booked. Many of the mansions do not allow children because they are adorned with antiques.
Of course, when people tell me I can’t take my kids somewhere I want to yell in their faces that they have no heart, but it wasn’t so long ago when I would give the parents of a screaming kid a look of disdain if I was on my grown-up vacation. Still my kids are cuter than most and have yet to publically embarrass me. That is if you don’t count running around naked, incessant smiling at strangers, vomiting, and pooping. Otherwise, they are acceptable.
I went to www.vacationrentals.com to find a property that was open for a week in July. The hotel rates for a week were almost the same as renting a condo or house so we invited a couple to come with us who had kids the same age as ours. Whoopee! Beach Daycare!
You need a beach tag to be on the beach. A couple of young lifeguards pointed out on the first morning of our visit in a half-beach bum/ half-long island accent, “If you are on the beach before 10 a.m., enjoy the day. But if you go to the boardwalk and back then your dust.” I am guessing that meant we need a tag unless I wanted to pee in the ocean, which incidentally is what my husband taught my daughter to do.
Beach passes are $15 for all persons over 12. My husband pinned his to swimming trunks and claimed if it came off it was NJ’s fault for a faulty design. I think he was just upset he couldn’t wear his Euro Speedo bottoms. We had been told that men had to wear trunks that come to mid-thigh. However, we let our son wear his baby Speedo version.
The first thing I do when I get to a destination is book a massage, which I did at Cape May Day Spa (www.capemaydayspa.com). I have learned that if possible you should get your nails done before a trip not during. I have never received a better manicure than I do at home. However, if you need a redo go to Hale Nails on Gurney Street beside Louie’s Pizza. They have gel nail polish that last longer when digging in the sand.
The best things to do with kids besides let them eat sand and dig holes in the ground is riding bikes. Our friends had brought their Chariot stroller that can attach to a bike to pull the kids. We rented ours because I had filled our SUV with suitcases for each of my kids, mine was the biggest. Bike rentals are about $15-$10 for 24 hours.
Patrick and I had another one of our cherished married moments when I couldn’t find my bike lock. He aggressively told me he had no idea what I did with it. A woman from the bike shop was on her way to cut the lock off when he found it in his pocket. It was a ball twister, meaning I wanted to twist his balls.
There were many swanky restaurants that had fine reviews, but not one of them was suitable for children. Consequently, we did not have one extraordinary meal, although, we did cause a scene the first night in town.
While waiting for dinner at the Montreal Inn across from our rental at Capri-Motor Lodge (www.caprimotorlodge.com), Patrick decided he was going to let Luca try a swig of beer while sitting on his lap. I should explain my husband is Romanian and thinks many things are funny that I don’t. Having responded to my evil eye he moved the beer further from Luca’s reach. Then he decided to arrange more glasses on the table while taking his hands momentarily off Luca sitting in his lap. At that moment Luca took a lunge at the beer following the glass bottle to the concrete floor. The sound of my kid’s head hitting the ground together with the unbroken beer bottle caused women to cover the mouths in horror and the bar music to stop. My first impulse was to whap Patrick, but I reserved myself and focused on examining my son’s noggin.
A man rushed over and said he was calling an ambulance. Patrick replied, “I am a doctor. I think I can make that decision.” I could sense he was annoyed at this guy’s intervening and decided it was best to make an exit. At that moment the waiter came with our food, which I replied would have to be wrapped up. I hightailed it out of there ahead of my husband. Not a scratch or dent on my son could be found and before I left he was calm again.
There are many reasons why you shouldn’t feed your child beer and this may be one of them: they will think beer bottles are neat toys and fall off a table.
Thankfully, we had a great kitchen and although there is not a Whole Foods are on the island there is a great seafood market at the Lobster House (thelobsterhouse.com). Having a kitchen when traveling with kids is essential especially if they are my kids and will only eat the organic cereal and cottage cheese that you thought would be better for them when you started feeding them. Subsequently, they will not eat any other brand and we have to search out a Whole Foods at every place we travel - oh joy.
Our beach buddies are yoga fanatics. My girlfriend coaxed me into yoga every morning while she left the kids with her husband who almost had a meltdown himself trying to preserve our security deposit. They sort of colored the fridge with crayons, nothing crazy. Anyway, the yoga instruction was not as strenuous as BYS where we normally attend in Pittsburgh, but they were fine for me. The beach yoga class organized by the hotel Congress Hall was awkward in the sand, but the setting was calming with the morning mist surrounding us.
Dolphins come so close it looks like you can swim out to them, which my daring husband tried to do. The lifeguards made him keep our youngest out of the deeper water on the days when the ocean was too choppy. It is always funny to see him get in trouble for things I tell him not to do.
Of course, running a little beach daycare with four little people stumbling about doesn’t leave a whole lot of time for shopping but there is always a nap time to take an excursion. Luckily my husband needs a nap too so I could escape to Washington Street Mall (www.washingtonstreetmall.com). All around this three block area are little shops and restaurants. I found cute souvenir mermaid shirts for the little girls at www.lynnardens.com and a pirate onesie at Happy Baby Boutique (Twitter @capemaybaby).
The best souveniers in my book happens to be a book. An English bloke started a small press called Exit Zero (exitzero.us ) that produces a retro style newsprint weekly about beach life and coffee table books about the historic homes and sites. Their shop is on the way to the lighthouse, which is about a 20-30 minute bike ride from the main beach strip. Along the way there are numerous amazing homes to ogle.
Tip: Always bring a change of clothes for potty training tots. It will happen when you are far away from the car and supplies that they have a bout of diarrhea and your husband, making up for his ball twister, will have to clean up the mess in the men’s bathroom. Mom will put offending articles in a plastic bag in her purse and forget about them and only remember when she pulls them out at a wedding rehearsal dinner.
Note: Poop seems to always be a reoccurring element in stories that involve children so get used to it. Parenthood is messy and stinky, but so is my husband so I know where they get it from.
Speaking of poop, horse poop that is, one of the best ways to explore the homes is by horse and buggy. The only way to book a ride is to go there stand at the top of Washington Street Mall where there is also a stand to buy tickets for the trolley rides that are themed for kids or couples. There are regional theater shows to see and haunted boat rides to enjoy, none of which we actually got to enjoy. However, we would have if the kids were a little older, or had a sitter, or were left at home – with a sitter of course.
When we were leaving the heat was cranking up and the sand felt like walking on a hot grill. Philadelphia was what I imagine hell to feel like. My dad was already at the hotel which I will never go to again. Club Quarters may be fine for a single business traveler, but do not go there if you have a car to park or children. The hotel was chosen by the bride and groom because it was near attractions; however, it was too hot on this occasion to enjoy anything that didn’t have powerful ac generators.
We were an hour and half late to the rehearsal dinner which we were allowed to bring children. Luca fell asleep so we brought Lyra. We took a cab to South Street. Another good tip: taking a taxi is not a good idea of your child is prone to car sickness. As soon as she started to moan we stopped the taxi and walked the rest of the way. It was a good thing because I didn’t have anything clean in my purse to dress her or myself in.
In the end the messiness of parenting is a great excuse to over pack for excursions, it is also a great reason to have a large purse, and spend lots of time in the bathroom. Until the next time I torture myself with jetsetting with toddlers, take care and always carry wipes.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Grace, Glamour and Girl Talk with New Zealand Designer Rebecca Taylor
- first published in Maniac Magazine May 2011
With a romantic, but edgy sensibility Rebecca Taylor has charmed celebrities, boutiques and department stores with her classic, but youthful style. For this journalist she was also a much needed smile during the stress and party scene at New York Fashion Week.
I was five months pregnant when I first met Rebecca at an after party for her Fall 2010 collection. Because of the celebrity popularity of her runway show that year I was shut out of the presentation, however, the organizers let me attend the after-party across the street from the tents. I felt like Humpty Dumpty standing next to Carmen Electra who looked at me and asked for approval of her pony-tailed hair before greeting the press. I said, caught off guard, “It’s a great hawk. It’s you.”
Although I hadn’t prepared an interview I got in line to talk with Rebecca. Describing Rebecca as lovely doesn’t justify her calm and collected demeanor amongst the melee around her. When it was my turn she eagerly told me about her twin daughters and son, and how she would love to be able to design a children’s line. As a mother she is often inspired by how excited her children get about fashion and colors.
After studying fashion in New Zealand she came to New York with little money, but lots of moxie. Her talents eventually landed her at Cynthia Rowley where she worked for six years before her first runway show debut in 1999 with her namesake company. Her name is now synonymous with established celebrities like Sarah Jessica Parker, Uma Thurman, Cate Blanchett, Beyonce and Kate Winslet as well as new faces like Lauren Conrad, Taylor Swift, Kristen Bell and Whitney Port. However, glamour and glitz is far from the laid back chic identity that the Rebecca Taylor brand embodies. It is exactly what the famous and fashionable wear when they are appearing as normal people instead of characters in a drama or show.
The second time I met her was for the Spring 2011 collection. I had brought my baby to Fashion Week because I was breast feeding and I decided he was the best accessory a mom could have. Not! I remembered all his baby gear but in my haste forgot to put my garment bag, containing carefully choreographed outfits, in my suitcase. I looked like a baggy housewife when I showed up for Rebecca’s after-party at a swanky glass roofed nightclub. This time when I went to interview her, ready with my recorder, the batteries popped out as I again regarded how calm she was amongst the cacophony of conversations surrounding her.
“You must be tired,” I muttered looking for the batteries.
“No, not at all. Do I look tired?” She replied.
“That must be me. I should have left the babe at home.” As I was fumbling for my batteries I noticed her sparkly blue oxfords at the end of her casual jeans; comfort and shine. I regarded that meeting as another testimony to her good manners and gracious sentiment in everything she does.
That inspiration is easy to see in her vintage floral prints with prairie sleeves emboldened with rich colors and beaded bursts. Inspired by pretty things, she creates looks perfect for an urban garden party; they are playful designs with a sophisticated air.
“I like to design clothing that women can wear and feel good in. The Rebecca Taylor girl knows pretty, but she is not overly precious. I design with that girl in mind.” Rebecca said after her recent Fall 2011 runway presentation. This you she forwent the parties, but made time to answer questions from me.
For this season she looked for patterns that reflected her sentiment. She explained, “This season I was inspired by Ross Bleckner’s paintings, blurred images and sparkling lights.” The star bursts of color and striations of tones are reflected perfectly in the textiles she created for her separates and frocks.
Common to her collections is universal neutrality that she applies to her style compositions that gives her artistic interpretations a wider brush with consumers. The pieces easily fit into any wardrobe. “I feel there are no real cardinal rules when it comes to fashion. I think women should have fun with fashion. I love camels and grays. They are easy to wear and look great when paired with bold colors or patterns.”
Although, my disheveled chic style may be a far cry from the posture of Rebecca Taylor, her collections are always filled with wearable flirty, but refined designs that any woman, including me, can appreciate and wear with delight. America’s star Kiwi designer earned her sparkle by striking a chord that resonates in all women. Her designs, much like herself, are graceful, flirty, and simply pretty.
With a romantic, but edgy sensibility Rebecca Taylor has charmed celebrities, boutiques and department stores with her classic, but youthful style. For this journalist she was also a much needed smile during the stress and party scene at New York Fashion Week.
I was five months pregnant when I first met Rebecca at an after party for her Fall 2010 collection. Because of the celebrity popularity of her runway show that year I was shut out of the presentation, however, the organizers let me attend the after-party across the street from the tents. I felt like Humpty Dumpty standing next to Carmen Electra who looked at me and asked for approval of her pony-tailed hair before greeting the press. I said, caught off guard, “It’s a great hawk. It’s you.”
Although I hadn’t prepared an interview I got in line to talk with Rebecca. Describing Rebecca as lovely doesn’t justify her calm and collected demeanor amongst the melee around her. When it was my turn she eagerly told me about her twin daughters and son, and how she would love to be able to design a children’s line. As a mother she is often inspired by how excited her children get about fashion and colors.
After studying fashion in New Zealand she came to New York with little money, but lots of moxie. Her talents eventually landed her at Cynthia Rowley where she worked for six years before her first runway show debut in 1999 with her namesake company. Her name is now synonymous with established celebrities like Sarah Jessica Parker, Uma Thurman, Cate Blanchett, Beyonce and Kate Winslet as well as new faces like Lauren Conrad, Taylor Swift, Kristen Bell and Whitney Port. However, glamour and glitz is far from the laid back chic identity that the Rebecca Taylor brand embodies. It is exactly what the famous and fashionable wear when they are appearing as normal people instead of characters in a drama or show.
The second time I met her was for the Spring 2011 collection. I had brought my baby to Fashion Week because I was breast feeding and I decided he was the best accessory a mom could have. Not! I remembered all his baby gear but in my haste forgot to put my garment bag, containing carefully choreographed outfits, in my suitcase. I looked like a baggy housewife when I showed up for Rebecca’s after-party at a swanky glass roofed nightclub. This time when I went to interview her, ready with my recorder, the batteries popped out as I again regarded how calm she was amongst the cacophony of conversations surrounding her.
“You must be tired,” I muttered looking for the batteries.
“No, not at all. Do I look tired?” She replied.
“That must be me. I should have left the babe at home.” As I was fumbling for my batteries I noticed her sparkly blue oxfords at the end of her casual jeans; comfort and shine. I regarded that meeting as another testimony to her good manners and gracious sentiment in everything she does.
That inspiration is easy to see in her vintage floral prints with prairie sleeves emboldened with rich colors and beaded bursts. Inspired by pretty things, she creates looks perfect for an urban garden party; they are playful designs with a sophisticated air.
“I like to design clothing that women can wear and feel good in. The Rebecca Taylor girl knows pretty, but she is not overly precious. I design with that girl in mind.” Rebecca said after her recent Fall 2011 runway presentation. This you she forwent the parties, but made time to answer questions from me.
For this season she looked for patterns that reflected her sentiment. She explained, “This season I was inspired by Ross Bleckner’s paintings, blurred images and sparkling lights.” The star bursts of color and striations of tones are reflected perfectly in the textiles she created for her separates and frocks.
Common to her collections is universal neutrality that she applies to her style compositions that gives her artistic interpretations a wider brush with consumers. The pieces easily fit into any wardrobe. “I feel there are no real cardinal rules when it comes to fashion. I think women should have fun with fashion. I love camels and grays. They are easy to wear and look great when paired with bold colors or patterns.”
Although, my disheveled chic style may be a far cry from the posture of Rebecca Taylor, her collections are always filled with wearable flirty, but refined designs that any woman, including me, can appreciate and wear with delight. America’s star Kiwi designer earned her sparkle by striking a chord that resonates in all women. Her designs, much like herself, are graceful, flirty, and simply pretty.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Cirque du Soleil and the Evolution of Life in My Womb
Accidental Mama Goes to the Circus
by Sarah Lolley
My impending doom hit me on the opening night of Cirque du Soleil's Totem performance, which was also my husband Patrick's 36th birthday. It was a rainy night that made lakes of puddles and turned the rain into pelting water bombs. As we found our seats, passing up the bar serving champagne which I longingly desired, I had that feeling I often get at these times of my life. I felt plain stupid.
I was pregnant, again. I have embraced my new role as Accidental Mama with a sense of humor and maybe a little style, but a third! My son was not even one-year-old! He was still breastfeeding. It was the nanny's fault for sure. She had been feeding my son more solid food and telling me not to give him booby. Thanks to spontaneous ovulation and my husband's commando sperm I was going to spend another summer fat and hormonal anticipating the explosion of my loins giving birth to another living being that will probably blame me for scarring their innocence, which might be true. I don't do a good job at endorsing Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. It's the Jewish side of me.
All this was going through my head as the lights went down and a figure in a crystal bodysuit appeared hanging from the ceiling above an organic cell like structure with chanting reptilian characters responding to the descending crystal acrobat. The comparison to my defenseless egg screaming out at the invasion of Patrick's charging sperm was too obvious for my imagination. The crystal form began contorting and swinging from bars inside the membrane as the lizards led a tribal chant and danced around the main attraction. This was what happened inside my uterus for sure. Damn it why didn't the lizards people fight back and kick the glittery man out!
The cell frame was lifted and a mostly naked Native American boy danced around the stage performing clever scenes with rings. This still reminding me of my pregnancy, after all Patrick wanted another boy.
Then a loud European in a speedo comes out yelling about this mama at the audience. Now this reminded me of my Romanian husband that won my heart because he does a great Borat impersonation with his thongs on. Oh lord, is this really my life happening before me under the Big Top?
After the skit, a man resembling the camp style of Vanilla Ice and another man with Ken Doll hair dancing to Bollywood and hip-hop beats was left on the stage. They got in an acrobatic bravado battle over the attention of a woman who had the most beautiful abs I had ever seen. I whimpered at that point. That will never be me and I had hopes and dreams of becoming semi-muscular this summer. I was just feeling them tighten again when bam they were sentenced back to mush.
Just when I was wishing for something that didn't remind me of the organism in my womb to divert my self-absorbed attention, aliens came out of the ground accompanied by two beautiful Las Vegas showgirls dripping in crystals. They twirl and balance crystal towels with their extremities, passing them back and forth with precision. It was a pretty good distraction since it didn't resemble house work at all although I thought it would be fun to dress up in a shiny skin color body suit and prance around the house when I am eight-months prego.
The show's theme is abstractly choreographed around the idea of evolution. Neanderthal and monkey characters play integral parts of antagonizing seemingly civilized characters. There are also scaly figures that evolve out of metaphorical water to perform tricks on land. Wonderful, I knew at 6 weeks pregnant I had a little guppy inside me performing its own evolution.
Before intermission the civilized men at war with the apes tore off their suits to reveal rubber bodysuits! If only Patrick had worn one of those the night of my fateful conception. Yeah, if only Patrick were half the acrobat as these guys were balancing on poles and contorting into strange positions. As it happened for this pregnancy, we were in a weird position on the couch and he couldn't maneuver his way out in time. And that is how I became the Accidental Stupid Mama.
The second half of the show reminded me less of my stupidity, although at one point it did remind me of my marriage. One of the highlights of the show is watching a beautifully sculpted couple theatrically argue over the trapeze and in the end resolve to lean on each other. Yeah that's Patrick and me. Stuck at the end of suspended ropes trying to be the one in charge and resolving to life's defeat of us both.
FYI:
I wanted to wait to post this story until I told my parents the news of my third pregnancy.
My dad laughed at me and said, "It's going to be like a chicken farm around here."
I said with my two blond children at my feet, "I was hoping for a red head this time."
He said, "Great, a rooster."
Here's to the balancing act of life.
Totem runs in Pittsburgh until June 4th. Imagine yourself pregnant for the third time in three years while watching it for an added thrill. Not!
by Sarah Lolley
My impending doom hit me on the opening night of Cirque du Soleil's Totem performance, which was also my husband Patrick's 36th birthday. It was a rainy night that made lakes of puddles and turned the rain into pelting water bombs. As we found our seats, passing up the bar serving champagne which I longingly desired, I had that feeling I often get at these times of my life. I felt plain stupid.
I was pregnant, again. I have embraced my new role as Accidental Mama with a sense of humor and maybe a little style, but a third! My son was not even one-year-old! He was still breastfeeding. It was the nanny's fault for sure. She had been feeding my son more solid food and telling me not to give him booby. Thanks to spontaneous ovulation and my husband's commando sperm I was going to spend another summer fat and hormonal anticipating the explosion of my loins giving birth to another living being that will probably blame me for scarring their innocence, which might be true. I don't do a good job at endorsing Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. It's the Jewish side of me.
All this was going through my head as the lights went down and a figure in a crystal bodysuit appeared hanging from the ceiling above an organic cell like structure with chanting reptilian characters responding to the descending crystal acrobat. The comparison to my defenseless egg screaming out at the invasion of Patrick's charging sperm was too obvious for my imagination. The crystal form began contorting and swinging from bars inside the membrane as the lizards led a tribal chant and danced around the main attraction. This was what happened inside my uterus for sure. Damn it why didn't the lizards people fight back and kick the glittery man out!
The cell frame was lifted and a mostly naked Native American boy danced around the stage performing clever scenes with rings. This still reminding me of my pregnancy, after all Patrick wanted another boy.
Then a loud European in a speedo comes out yelling about this mama at the audience. Now this reminded me of my Romanian husband that won my heart because he does a great Borat impersonation with his thongs on. Oh lord, is this really my life happening before me under the Big Top?
After the skit, a man resembling the camp style of Vanilla Ice and another man with Ken Doll hair dancing to Bollywood and hip-hop beats was left on the stage. They got in an acrobatic bravado battle over the attention of a woman who had the most beautiful abs I had ever seen. I whimpered at that point. That will never be me and I had hopes and dreams of becoming semi-muscular this summer. I was just feeling them tighten again when bam they were sentenced back to mush.
Just when I was wishing for something that didn't remind me of the organism in my womb to divert my self-absorbed attention, aliens came out of the ground accompanied by two beautiful Las Vegas showgirls dripping in crystals. They twirl and balance crystal towels with their extremities, passing them back and forth with precision. It was a pretty good distraction since it didn't resemble house work at all although I thought it would be fun to dress up in a shiny skin color body suit and prance around the house when I am eight-months prego.
The show's theme is abstractly choreographed around the idea of evolution. Neanderthal and monkey characters play integral parts of antagonizing seemingly civilized characters. There are also scaly figures that evolve out of metaphorical water to perform tricks on land. Wonderful, I knew at 6 weeks pregnant I had a little guppy inside me performing its own evolution.
Before intermission the civilized men at war with the apes tore off their suits to reveal rubber bodysuits! If only Patrick had worn one of those the night of my fateful conception. Yeah, if only Patrick were half the acrobat as these guys were balancing on poles and contorting into strange positions. As it happened for this pregnancy, we were in a weird position on the couch and he couldn't maneuver his way out in time. And that is how I became the Accidental Stupid Mama.
The second half of the show reminded me less of my stupidity, although at one point it did remind me of my marriage. One of the highlights of the show is watching a beautifully sculpted couple theatrically argue over the trapeze and in the end resolve to lean on each other. Yeah that's Patrick and me. Stuck at the end of suspended ropes trying to be the one in charge and resolving to life's defeat of us both.
FYI:
I wanted to wait to post this story until I told my parents the news of my third pregnancy.
My dad laughed at me and said, "It's going to be like a chicken farm around here."
I said with my two blond children at my feet, "I was hoping for a red head this time."
He said, "Great, a rooster."
Here's to the balancing act of life.
Totem runs in Pittsburgh until June 4th. Imagine yourself pregnant for the third time in three years while watching it for an added thrill. Not!
Friday, December 24, 2010
UNCUT - In Defense of the Foreskin
The last we left my story I had gotten knocked up again, luckily by my husband. It was an accident so I like using the term “knocked up.” It kind of reminds me of backing into someone’s car and causing a dent, but way more life changing.
After humorous trips to New Orleans and Miami
According to medical journals on the subject of circumcision, Patrick still has his “penile integrity” while the men of my family, you could say don’t have integrity in that area. To many of my American friends the decision to circumcise is a no brainer. Their husbands, fathers, and brothers all survived the removal of their foreskin so will their sons. However, my husband was not born American and the idea of slicing off his foreskin is torturous and arcane to him. My father, on the other hand, started to wage a campaign for circumcision by reminding me daily of the dangers of “schmutz” build-up. I like to consider my self a progressive thinker and took the duration of my pregnancy to deliberate keeping my son’s ‘integrity.’
My first response was to consider my relationship with the uncircumcised sect. I had always preferred them since I met my first foreskin when I was 20-years-old while studying abroad in London Pittsburgh
Thinking of my little baby as a man was giving me disturbing pregnant mama dreams. I had no idea how to raise a boy! I mean I barely knew how to date them and now it was up to me to mold his idea of women for life. If I let my husband do it he might end up with all his father’s flaws! I didn’t have these anxieties with my little girl Lyra. I just told Patrick she wasn’t dating until college. He rolled his eyes at me and told me I was paranoid. “No, I know myself,” I replied, “and if she is my daughter than there is trouble ahead. ”
But it was a ‘he’ now inside me kicking my ass from the inside out and the decision to nip his willie was starting to feel barbaric. Was it even my decision to begin with? It seemed a big personal decision for a man. Shouldn’t it be his decision? Will he be made fun of in the locker room if I didn’t!?
According to the U.S. Circumcision Statistics about half of the babies born in the U.S.
My father likes to remind me that my grandfather had his done to marry my Jewish grandmother. Poor man was disowned from his family for it, or maybe it was the Jewish bit. OMG! Why was I listening to my family? I never had before, but having kids makes you realize you need help and, in my case, a reminder of what not to do. My little unborn baby’s peter was becoming a hot topic at the dinner table.
My mother is under the belief that men get circumcised so they don’t give women yeast infections. During my check-ups I took the subject up with my OBGYN, who happens to also be Romanian. We usually spent most of my visits gossiping about our Romanian husbands and trying to cure my sore butt. She told me that her patients get yeast infections from partners that were circumcised and it wasn’t a cure for contracting STDs.
The biggest fear I had of becoming the proud mother of an uncut boy was that I would be the mom that constantly had to remind their son to wash his penis. I could see myself yelling at my poor embarrassed son, “Did you wash your peter? I don’t care what your daddy says you go back in there and wash your peter.” Horror.
But what if he wanted to be Jewish? It turns out it is one of God’s commandments to be circumcised. That was like 5000 years ago, I argued. Can’t there be a new interpretation that would let my son remain intact and accepted? Not sure I am the person to start the revolution within the Jewish community, but I vowed if my son wanted to study Torah I would go to battle. Until then, Merry Christmas.
By the time I was eight months pregnant I was insane with having to make a decision. I had also gained 55-60 lbs by eating cupcakes everyday and was ready to start dieting, so I thought. I was ready to be unpregnant by the end of May, but wasn’t ready to make the decision about the future sex life and hygiene of my son. That was when my husband finally spoke up.
“I thought you were going to make the ‘right’ decision on you own, but you are thinking about this way too much,” he said. “We are not circumcising.” Whew! Someone made a decision. To further cement his case Patrick cited studies that stated the procedure could be psychologically traumatic and destroy nerve endings.
When we told our doctors they congratulated us for making the decision. When we told my family they were less pleased and acted astonished that Europeans like my husband are not. Actually, my son will join 80 percent of the world’s males in that area.
The only thing left to do was give birth. I had been having contractions every time I farted, or rather the baby farted. I had even gone into the hospital to be sent home when I only dilated 3.5cm. On the way home, Patrick and I stopped at an old favorite of mine – the bar. In the 70s they use to administer alcohol to women in labor to help them with contractions. Not to fear, I only had one glass of wine.
After a week of bouncing up and down, having sex, taking walks, and trudging my daughter around the zoo in the heat I decided to get induced on May 30th. My deliveries go pretty fast once they get started. This time around everything went smoothly, unlike the emergency entrance of my daughter. My husband, who is an anesthesiologist, even let my daughter gently pull out my epidural line.
“Ha! Even a two-year-old could do your job,” my dad chided from the back of the room.
We named him Lucian Orion Filip. His middle name was from me. Orion use to be the only man I could depend on, always in the sky above me. Now here he was in my arms. I am not sure how good a female role model I will be, but for now he is my little lover, always connected to my boobs.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Accidental Mom - Part 3
Mamas Gone Wild
- First Appeared in the Oct/Nov Issue of Maniac MagazineThere are two kinds of accidental moms. The first is the girl that gets pregnant and changes their reckless ways for good, like changing their stripper profession for teaching math. The second are those that secretly wanted to have kids but are not very good life planners. These are at least the kind of friends I have anyway. I probably fall into both categories, except I was a nightlife reporter, not a stripper.
After my daughter Lyra burst out of me like a little cone-headed alien escaping her captor I sat on the couch in shock for about a year. In the beginning, she was a tiny thing that was prone to bashing her head against my big boobies in tears. Patrick and I were determined to be all natural and only allow her breast milk; therefore I had to get a breast pump to quill Lyra’s impatient cries.
And because I have all the tact and grace of a circus clown I attracted a lot of attention trying to breast feed in public. In the previous year, I wouldn’t have flinched to expose my girls to admirers, but choking a baby in public with my raspberry-sized nipples was not the least bit sexy. So I stayed at home in my topless garb to keep from embarrassing my infant daughter.
When at six months-old she thought it was hilarious to try to bite my berries off I ended the abuse of my boobies. She responded by mercilessly vomiting on me at the most in opportune moments when we switched to formula. Motherhood is freaking messy.
My delighted audience was my crew of childhood friends who I had watched get pregnant in their early twenties. Missy, Suzanne, and I went to an all-girl Catholic high school in Kentucky so naturally we had a crazy edge. They signed me up for Facebook after I gave birth to Lyra. I had always been too busy for social websites, but sitting at home watching CSI reruns was making me paranoid to walk down the street.
I soon discovered that I didn’t need parenting guidebooks, I just needed Facebook! All of my 200 high school classmates were all there waiting to give me parenting advice since 80 percent of them were seasoned moms. They sent me messages like “Gee, that blows my mind that you are a mom!” Very encouraging.
Missy’s life story was straight out of a hundred different country songs. She was gorgeous, wild and stormy. If you pissed her off she would sod your yard with her daddy’s pick-up truck. She had become a mom right after high school to her boyfriend Billy. Three kids later she had earned a nursing career and still wears a size 3. However, after eighteen years of the same man she was going through married-life crisis.
Suzanne was the girl who introduced me to Edie Brickell and Cat Stevens in art class. She would get in trouble for wearing Birkenstocks to school and on the weekends we would take turns making out with boys in her parents’ Winnebago in the backyard. She got pregnant and married not long after high school as well. When her daughter was thirteen, she was on the verge of a much needed divorce. However, instead of going crazy all over again she went all Jesus and started dating a minister from her mother’s missionary work. Suzanne and her holy man decided to abstain from vaginal intercourse. Little drastic I thought! I started calling him President Clinton.
Back at my ranch, Patrick and I were teetering through parenthood barely able to contain the explosions from either end of our small daughter. When Lyra was eleven months old we took her on a road trip through Germany, Austria, Hungary, and Romania. Sounds luxurious when you consider we were picking up our BMW at the factory to take it for its first road trip. Let’s just say Lyra baptized it every time we started the engine. She has a severe case of motion sickness – good times let me tell you. While in Romania a doctor told me she might have an eating disorder. What already!
It was in September after the crazy European vacation that a Kentucky storm took over my life again in the form of a bourbon bottle that I smuggled into a Russian opera my dad had suckered my sister and me to attend. I came home to a sleeping Romanian and insisted he ravish me. He insisted that it wasn’t a good time of the month for me. “Nonsense, you know nothing about my body!” I slurred at him. A few hours later I sobered up and counted the days from my last period in my slumber. Oh drat, not again.
A couple of weeks later we were in Kentucky for my high school reunion. Missy was split from Billy and had convinced herself that she couldn’t be alone, or rather just needed a man in her life. The man she chose was Billy’s childhood friend Billy. Sound bizarre, well, it’s just Kentucky. Suzanne was sexting her minister while I was entertaining my mother-in-law from Romania that came along for the ride.
At the reunion we all received name tags with our senior pictures on it. Mine read Sarah Lolley Flip (my husband’s last name is actually Filip pronounced Phillip). Truthfully, I was relieved to be married at all. I felt like I was finally normal just to be married with a kid. Meanwhile, Missy was working on severe abandonment of the past eighteen years as her new ‘Billy’ waited in the car outside the event. She disappeared after an hour.
Suzanne and I made our rounds comparing everyone’s new names and faces when at midnight we got a call from Missy that she was holed up with the new Billy at a bar when the old Billy tracked her down. Drama! Suzanne forbade me to go get her and Patrick was convinced I didn’t need another drink because I was pregnant. “No I am not!”
At 3 a.m. I got knock on my hotel door. Missy was doing cartwheels in the hallway. She got a room at the hotel and proceeded to sing “Like a Virgin” at the top of her lungs. She had picked up where she left off literally. We spent the night amusing ourselves with scenarios of what she might have done if she hadn’t become a mom so soon. None of them were realistic because she could only be this crazy blonde bombshell who raised three well behaved kids. We went to bed with her swearing she had never slept with the new Billy. It seems sexting is taking the place of condoms, a better birth control.
Patrick and I haven’t caught onto the practice because upon my return to Pittsburgh I discovered I was indeed pregnant, again. Oh snap!
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