Why My Dad is My Hero

My father is a man of few words. He doesn't speak just to hear the sound of his voice; he doesn't talk for attention. For this reason, when he does put in his two cents, what he says has more weight.

My mother and father grew up together on Park Avenue. My mother was in love with him since she was a little girl, so growing up, my father was depicted as a hero who could do no wrong. To strengthen her own feelings, he really didn't do anything wrong. He wasn't abusive, he didn't drink, he played with us kids after dinner, he truly loved and cared about us. Don't get me wrong. My parents would fight here and there, and he had a temper. Since I inherited said temper, when the two of us would fight, holes would be known to have been kicked or punched into walls here or there. But in general, my dad was a pretty cool dude.

Our family joked about the colloquialisms that my dad would sprout. "Oh what a tangled web we weave when we practice to deceive" was one of them. I'm sure it came about when one of us foolish girls either lied to my parents or one of our friends and got caught. It never made me stop lying, but you can bet I was careful not to get caught out again! Another of his golden nuggets was "Nothing is free!" his point being that no matter what, everything comes with a price. "Don't hate the plumber; be the plumber" was a new one, one he told me within the past few years, when I was having issues at work (or maybe when my brother was deciding whether to continue with college or go to work). He told me a story about being spiteful of a friend who was working (as a plumber I assume)and making good money. These words of wisdom always stuck with me.

One of his stories, told to me when I was probably 4, had such a profound effect on me (and I finally told him at Fakesgiving this year, 32 years later). When he was young, in grade school, his class made some delightful treat, and when they were done, his teacher asked "Who would like to lick the spoon?" The kids went nuts! Raising their hands, jumping up and down in their seats, screaming "Me, me, me!" and "Oh, oh, oh!" My dad just sat there. And guess what? He. Got. Picked.

He. Got. Picked.

That story hit me somewhere so deep inside. I was four. I used to cry in Kindergarten. I used to ask my teacher, Mrs. Loper, "Do you think that will ever happen to me?" (This is 100% true. I have serious issues.)

I love my dad. As I said before, he's an awesome fellow. When Andy lost his job (and consequently we lost our home) he was the first person I called. He gave us the top floor of their house. He has done so much for us it is unspeakable (along with my mother, of course, but that is an entire other post). When I read Game of Thrones, I immediately identified Eddard Stark with my dad, because he was so honorable and good.

Then yesterday, something happened that solidified, reinforced, brought to the surface everything that my father is.

We were out on the boat, headed to The Island. He saw "Enid" and said "Oh, no! There's Enid!" (All names have been changed, yet hopefully reflect the characters they are meant to portray). I said "Why do you say such things?" as we like Enid. He responds, "Gunnar (a grisly old captain of a ship who runs the Yacht Club) is mad at Enid, so I was told not to talk to her if I want Gunnar not to hate me." So I say, "What did Enid do?" And he tells me (it was pretty fucking stupid). 

So we continue through the breakwater. We see Gunnar's wife, Esmarelda, talking to her friend, Rosie. My dad stops and talks to them. Oh, what a beautiful day. Yea, we're going to the island. Yadda yadda yadda. Gunnar's boat is right across from this encounter. 

Then we continue. 

About ten feet ahead is Enid, lying out on her boat. Because I am a terrible person, I put my head down. Me. I have NOTHING to do with the politics and going ons of the Yacht club. And I PUT MY HEAD DOWN. All of a sudden, my father's voice rings out, clear and loud. "Hello, Enid! Beautiful day!" Enid's voice responds, relief clear, because obviously all the other lemmings are NOT speaking to her. They talk for awhile, because MY FATHER IS A DEFIANT M-F'ER! As we leave, tears are in my eyes, and I say, "I am so proud of you!" My mom says, "I bet Gunnar is watching." And my dad says "Fuck 'em. Enid was the only one who was nice to me when I joined. I'll be damned if I'm going to shun her now."

My father is a great person. He does what's right. He does NOT go along with the crowd. He doesn't follow along with what the loudest person tells him to do. He is all heart. He is strong.

This summer, after the grueling hell that was my school year, I had a really big struggle with good vs. evil (that's being dramatic, but it sounds good). As a leader within my school, I prided myself on doing the right thing, taking responsibility. And it got me nowhere. So I was like, what's the  point? What is the point in being a good person? Fuck it.

Then, witnessing this display yesterday, it dawned on me. People don't do the right thing because they get rewarded for it. My dad didn't get a raise or a promotion for being nice to Enid yesterday. He did it because THAT'S WHO HE IS.  And I want to be like him.  

Grateful. Positive. Chin Up. We Can Do This. Fake It Til Ya Make It.

And in t-minus 8 hours I will be driving into the Bronx to start the 2014-15 school year. Instead of panicking (like I am inside for real), I am going to take a moment to reflect on how awesome my summer was.

I got to spend time with friends I love, even if it was just for a moment here and there- Jen and Amy at Stella's birthday, Amanda at Emily's birthday, Christina at Jonathan and Colin's birthday (all things now revolve around our children's birthday parties). I reunited with super old friends for a day, and learned a lot about essential oils. I spent a lot of spectacular days out on the boat, chilling out and talking to my family. I spent time with my parents. I spent time with my sisters. Amie spent 3 whole days with us. We went to the fair. I binge watched OITNB with Andy. I binge watched (rewatched) AHS seasons 1 & 2 alone. I read Hunger Games and Catching Fire and got really into them and can't wait to continue Mocking Jay. I sat on my back porch, ate barbeque there, drank some cocktails, sat on my swing, looked at the lake. I learned how to grill. I spent days at my pool. I made friends at my pool. I went to the beach on vacation with my in laws and swam in the waves. I went to Hershey Park with my in laws. I became closer than ever with my mother and father in law. I feel closer than ever to my sister and brother in law, as well as my nephew and niece since we live so close. I've cleaned my house a million trillion times, and have become slightly buddist in accepting the fact that it just gets messed up again in about 3 seconds. I've met work friends at Splashdown. I've made and stuck by difficult decisions. I've met my co-teacher at a bookstore and began planning for the school year. I've hosted many get togethers at my house for both my family and Andy's family, and loved every minute of it. My mother in law said she loves having parties at my house. I stopped doing my hair after Brigatine and haven't done it until yesterday. I dyed my hair an unimaginably gorg shade of red and blew it out just yesterday to get ready for school.

I'm ready.
Am I ready?
I'm ready.
Right?

L*Y*L*A*S part 1: The Beginning

Once upon a time, a very long time ago indeed, a young girl with golden hair moved away from her family's hometown. Embarking on a new life with her parents and sisters, the young girl had no friends other than her siblings. On the day she had to start school, she fret about finding new friends. All the students were silent as stone as they stood in identical lines, wearing identical plaid uniforms. Her teacher for 3rd grade was a nun, a nun with a mean reputation and a paralyzed middle finger allegedly used to poke children in the forehead. She stood in that line, more self conscious than she ever thought possible. Green socks pulled up to her knees, book bag clenched tightly in her hand. No one looked her way.

They traveled in 2 (silent) lines into the lower hall wing of the school. Once in the classroom, the sinister nun of a teacher put the class in alphabetical order. 

Behind her sat an angel of a girl. Huge brown eyes framed with long black eyelashes. Pigtails curled into perfect ringlets. Her nails were long- unheard of for a 9 year old. Her skin was smooth like porcelain, and she had red, red lips. All the golden hair girl wanted was to befriend the angel who sat behind her. "I love your hair!" she bust out. The dark haired girl rolled her eyes and said "My mother does it every night. It hurts to sleep on rollers. I hate it."

The girls were not friends that year. As a matter of fact, little remains in the girl's memory other than having the nun throw an eraser at her head for passing notes. It was a terrifying year.

As a matter of fact, it wasn't until a Brownie party in 4th grade, in the spring, that the girls finally clicked. It went along the lines of "Who's your best friend?" with a giggling response of "You are!" despite the two not really having been close before. 

Once fifth grade began, the girls were inseparable.  They wrote note after note to each other. They talked on the phone each night. They would constantly ask each other "Are you mad at me?" They would fight like maniacs. One day, the golden haired girl's mother got so fed up with their fighting that she (quite literally) drove up the driveway of the girl's most adored crush at the time, and said, "If you don't cut this crap out, I'm beeping!" They made up.

The rest of the years at the tiny catholic school where the girls went were more of the same. A lot of jealousy. A lot of pettiness. A lot of sleepovers. A lot of "stories." At one point over the summer, the girls spent every single day together at the beach, followed by sleepovers where sleep did not occur. 

The girls had a friend. She had a birthday party. At this birthday party, the dark haired girl and the golden haired girl met boys, and just like that, they each had their own boyfriend. Funny how that worked out, isn't it?

The girls told each other everything. They gave each other strength, confidence, happiness. Through the silly bad times, and the profound good times, they were the best of friends. 

Stay tuned for part 2 of L*Y*L*A*S: High School

More about children's programming...Part Deux

After a morning of Pocoyo and Creative Galaxy, my brain has melted just enough to continue the bitching  discussion of the shows that our chickens watch that we love or we despise. 

HeatherO'G: Ok. I don't hate max and ruby... But where the heck are their parents? I love how they can just come and go and not tell anyone. And ruby's whiney voice? Maybe I do hate it just a little...

(LJ says: Max and Ruby are spawns of satan. I never even knew Max could talk. Evil. Pure evil.)

Look at his evil little eyes!

JillyV: Nothing makes me crazy but have any of your kids gotten into Miyazaki movies like My Neighbor Totoro or Spirited away? Kiki's Delivery Service is prob my fav.

(LJ says: As JillyV is an aunt, perhaps we should look into these movies. We just may like what we see. I'm not personally into the Anime thing, which is what this looks like, but my older girl might be into it)

EricaA: My 3 yr old loves pepa pig.. I hate it.. Because I want to tweeze daddy pigs chin hairs! 

(LMAO)(never really watched peppa pig, but I've heard my nephew sing the song)

I see your point...

TrishaDisha: My almost 3 yr old is into pixar movies, peppa pig, Mickey, octonauts, and superwhy. The commercials on Nick Jr bug me, as does most of their shows.

(LJ says: Mickey, Octonauts and Superwhy are great to me because there is always a lesson. My favorite part of Octonauts is when they show the actual footage of whatever creature they were learning about. I've had my say about the flaws of Mickey, and while I do love Superwhy for promoting early reading skills, it really bothers me (and Juliet) that they CHANGE THE END OF CLASSIC STORIES TO FIT WITH THEIR MORAL OF THE STORY. It doesn't work that way!)

JessLB: This Pocoyo shit has got to go. It stars a little stupid boy who moves oddly and jerkily and talks like a baby. I don't like shows geared for preschoolers where they aren't modeling the correct way of speaking. He is friends with a duck, and elephant, a dog, and a sleepy bird. There is no setting. Just a big, white empty space, and a nosy narrator who talks to the characters. I got really dumb today while watching it, and I kept saying "Scarlet, why do you like this?" She replied "I'm a good girl." So no answer there. 

Creative Galaxy is okay; Scarlet has actually become a more focused artist since watching the 6 episodes each and every day. Why they are in space just doesn't make sense, but we need more art in this world so I say yay!

And finally, thanks to the streaming of Amazon Prime, we've been introduced to Umi Zoomy. Which is a total math show. It's annoying as hell (that robot with the belly sucks), but the actual content of the show is great!

I did my best at what I do best. And at that, I didn't fail.

With September looming ahead, I feel like this quote needs to be printed out and put in my classroom as a reminder. Last year, while drowning in the negativity that was clouding my vision like unwrapping cotton balls, I honestly tried to focus on reality for a minute and breathe, thinking, hey remember that Maya quote...I'm doing something right, right? That fleeting thought in my frazzled mind was too slippery to catch hold to. Maybe I need to have it tattooed on me somewhere...

Tonight, it came up again. My bff and I were having one of our late night convos (hey, 2 kids each be damned! we still stay up to talk. we may regret it in the morning, but whatever)and she said "I don't want to go all Maya Angelou on you" which made me chuckle "but remember, when you're in a situation like that, they are not really listening or remembering your words, what you said. They will remember how they felt. Did you make him feel safe? Did you connect with him? Then you didn't break him." (I know you are all bursting with anticipation of what this secret event was, but I'm not tellin ya!). That really resonated with me, as most of what she says does, but it pulled me from my awkward social situation that I was bitching about and into my school life and philosophy. Synchronicity!

My very first year as a classroom teacher was just absurd. To have let me go in and teach 5 and 6 year olds how to read and do math just because I was dual certified and technically a teacher- ha! I'll let you in on a secret: teachers don't learn SHIT while getting certified. Everything they do learn- policy, lesson planning, creating units- changes by the time they do their time in University, or is done in a completely different way in their particular school. (Or it could be that during my first Master's, I was tutoring a girl for the GED so it could be possible that it was just me not learning anything.)You learn at the job, you learn by doing.

I got into that classroom of 25 babies having no idea what to do with them. I asked a kid to read page 3; he said "I can't read." Well, I didn't know that! But you know what I did know? I loved those little guys. I still remember that class. I didn't cry on my first day, or my first week, not even my first year! Those kids got a first year teacher who was figuring out how to teach them via outdated text books and old teacher manuals, but who cared deeply about each and everyone of them. I made a lot of mistakes (like not knowing how to do bundles of 5 tally marks correctly IN FRONT OF AN ADMINISTRATOR), and while I had no hold overs, I definitely didn't prepare the low readers to go forth with a set of skills and strategies to fall back on, and they were eventually left back in the future. Looking back, at 1:20am on a summer night, I'm laughing because what the fuck could I possibly have taught them?? We had no curriculum really, no one checked up on you (very different from now where it is all planned out to the amount of time a child can pee). I would say those poor damn kids.

I won't though. Because I know I made a difference in their lives. I knew their worries, and their anxieties, and I respected them. I spoke to the parents about their own concerns. One little boy was undiagnosed Aspergers, and with my help, he got the attention he needed to be successful in the classroom. His mother cried, and told me I changed his life. I saw her in June, as her son was walking home from middle school. She said it to me again. I am a teacher, and I was meant to be a teacher, because I have the needed empathy to truly care about them as people. The students feel that, even the older, surly ones. I treat them with respect, I talk to them, I listen to how they feel. 

I am lucky to have this gift of connecting with people, because I'm not perfect. I make mistakes, can be socially awkward, get hyperactive and pushy and controlling. But I have total confidence in how I let people know how much they mean to me. And that makes all the difference.

I mentioned this in a different post- I believe it was my "breakthrough" one- that while I might not have done a bang up job last year, at least I was respectful and empathetic to my colleagues. And that's how they will remember me. Not as the idiot who suggested a wacky schedule for ELA, but the advocate for more time updating data, the one who gave positive praise while in the room, the one who took teacher ideas to administration to show that we were all a team. And for that, I'm grateful. 

I did my best at what I do best. And at that, I didn't fail. 

"In general, watching children's television is a dark and surreal descent into madness..."

Summer has come, summer has nearly gone. One thing that I have gotten done (in abundance) is watch some shitastic television with my chickadees. While Anthony T. is following the rules and not allowing his beautiful baby girl to watch tv as of yet (The rules being set by the American Academy of Pediatrics states: "Pediatricians should urge parents to avoid television viewing for children under the age of 2 years. Although certain television programs may be promoted to this age group, research on early brain development shows that babies and toddlers have a critical need for direct interactions with parents and other significant caregivers (eg, child care providers) for healthy brain growth and the development of appropriate social, emotional, and cognitive skills. Therefore, exposing such young children to television programs should be discouraged." ) The rest of us slackers are allowing our children to ruin their lives and our minds by watching tv. My personal stance on tv watching isn't very strong since my girls don't watch tv that often. My 10 year old is 100% gamer girl, and won't watch anything unless it is about Mine Craft (or by Miranda Sings). My 3 year old goes to a babysitter that keeps them occupied throughout the day, so she doesn't watch tv there. However, while I'm home, we tend to use the tv as a little chillax break. How it works. "Mommy, it's wake up time." Ok, let's pee. "Then we can cuddle on the couch and watch tv?" Of course, my gentle little chickadee. I love to spend some lazy time being next to each other, relaxing, taking the time to wake our sleepy brains up (her, Disney; me, Facebook, email, ichat or Facetime with mom or sisters). 

When J was born, I was in grad school for early childhood/special education, and I felt great about the tv shows available to her. It was in the early 00s, where the formats were being changed to focusing on language or math, asking questions to the audience, and giving a wait time for a response.   We watched every single Baby Einstein dvd available. The AMAZING They Might Be Giant's Here Come the ABCs was also a staple (all about letters!)(her first concert was TMBG! It was fucking amazing! For me and Andy at least) as was Little Einstein's (you know, for the culture). I despised Dora, but she loved it so what could I do? I wanted her to have every opportunity open to her, so bilingual learning was a plus!She also attempted to watch WaWa Wubbzy, to which I laid a firm foot down. Oh, hells to the no. Not in my house.

(*note* two of the children I was seeing as an ABA therapist were obsessed with Dora and Wubbzy, and I hated disliked the kids to the point that the shows made my skin crawl. I wouldn't let her watch Nickelodeon, because I was sure it would give her ADHD (spoiler alert: she had it anyway), and the shows were dumb as hell. She also adored the Wiggles, and I will admit that Andy and I fell under that spell as well. 

Flash forward 10 years. Here I am with a brand, spankin new fresh brained little angel. And the shows she watches. 

Her first obsession was Yo Gabba Gabba, which at first gave me seizures, but once I saw Elijah Wood and Weezer (and Jimmy Eat World!)(and Tony Hawk!) on the show, I was like, "Hmmm, this is pretty cool, in a trippy way. In a 'I'm now tripping on acid with my 2 year old but it seems to be okay' way."). Looking back at the time, I reminisce about the good old days of "cappy cappy." The Halloween episode was just fantastic. The first song Scarl sang was "What what what is fun fun fun?" so YGG will always hold a place in my heart. Plus, whenever she had night terrors, the song "The Leaves are Falling" would make her stop screaming. We took her to see them at the Cap, and ran into a ton of friends, each one of us bragging about how much fun we were having, how many times they've "seen them", what great seats they had, etc. (This is what we used to do about bands. Not children show characters lip-synching and dancing like tools.)

Next came her obsession with the bald, 4 year old, whiney little fuck, Calliou. Don't get me wrong, Calliou isn't too dreadful. It can be cute. Unless you watch it over and over and over and over and then you want to kill everyone that lives in that Canadian neighborhood. The parents just dress like such douche bags. The colors and design are so primary and cutesy.It's hard to relate to. And once in awhile, they feature a "special needs" kid, but they go about it in a very subtle, passive way so I have to rewind and then check wikipedia to see if that kid, indeed, had some sort of developmental issues. I mean,kudos to them for trying to open up a conversation with children, but if I'm not fully grasping that Kevin has learning needs at 5 that put him behind 4 year old Cal, I doubt my 3 year old gets that.

Suddenly, and I assume this has to do with the peer influence of her cousin Dude and the team over at Miss Katie's, S will ONLY watch Disney. "Is this Disney?" she'll ask, with a haughty lilt to her voice. "No, it's Sprout." "Turn it OFF. I ONLY watch Disney now." Um, okay. I'm fine with that seeing as though Disney doesn't have commercials like every other channel making your child into a "Gimme gimme gimme." So Disney. Disney, Disney, Disney. I love Disney, but so much to say about so many issues. We are going to start simple.

Disney Junior. Where the Magic Begins.

You've got Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. Sofia the First. Doc McStuffins. Sheriff Callie. Jake and the Neverland Pirates. 

Sigh.

So here I am going to reach out about the (Parent Approved) Disney Staples of 2014:

From JennyI: My 4 yr. old loves Sheriff Callie and Doc McStuffins which inspires her play as she is always giving check ups. I like both of these shows because of the female leads and the theme songs (love when she sings Sheriff Callie)! She's also been into Rabbids Invasions bc she loves slapstick. Sometimes it's funny, but the rabbis noises get annoying after a while.

From Therese ZM: We watch lots of Classic Disney movies and the Sound of Music. I can tolerate Sophia the First, because the songs are good, and Tim Gunn is hilarious in it.

*editor's note:(Tim Gunn fucking ROCKS Sophia! He kills me!!! He "makes it work.")

From JessLB: Doc rocks; she's a strong little black girl who aspires to be a doctor, she has an amazing imagination, and amazing perseverance and determination. Sofia is cool because she is a good, brave, strong little princess, and it is great to see her "saving the day" as opposed to the prince swooping in like in J's day of Disney. Sheriff Callie I'm going to need to watch a bit closer, because all I ever see is the cactus acting like a poor sport and loosing all his friends. 

Non-Disney Praise:

Roby5n L: My 6yr old loves peg + cat (PBS). He loves that they solve problems using math (Alex loves math). He sings the songs from the show and retains the information. Alex doesn't care, but I appreciate that the math whiz problem solver is a girl. The 2 yr old likes space operas. lol - don't know why calliou gets a bad rep, never bothered me. (editor's note: god bless you! your brain must use more than the 5% us mere mortals use. I'm happy for you!)

JennyI: My 7 yr. old is into Full House lately and I find it cute and nostalgic.

Erwann M: Peppa, Dora, Daniel Tiger & Sesame Street are the current favorites.

(*editor's note: sesame street is the classic children's show, and I haven't seen it go wrong once, not even with Katy Perry's boob cleavage, which was nothing to write home about, less cancel her appearance). 

Now, just a bit about what we cannot stand.

LadyJaded: I fucking hate hate hate Clarabelle from MMCH. She is so annoying. I also don't understand the deal with PETE. He's evil, he's nice, what? Finally, Toodles SHOULD NEVER HAVE GOTTEN A VOICE. IT IS HORRIFYING. It gives me the creeps.Also, they aren't helping children with problem solving, because many times, the Mouskatools make NO sense. "What can help us climb the fence? Meeska mooska mickeeeey mouse! We have a giraffe and the mystery mouskatool. You're RIGHT, the giraffe can help us climb the fence." Unrealistic. Ridiculous. You are confusing the children.

My final complaint: Jake and the Neverland Pirates. Jake has a sword. Cubby has a map. Izzy has...fairy dust. Fairy dust. FUCK ALL THAT SEXIST SHIT. 

That is the end of my rant for now. 

Roby5n L: I do want to punch Dora in the face, that show is not allowed in my house, not until she learns to keep her voice down
(*J refuses to allow any Dora into our house. She was apparently scarred by Dora)

JennyI: (My 4 yo)she's also been into Rabbids Invasions bc she loves slapstick. Sometimes it's funny, but the rabbis noises get annoying after a while. The shows for (my 7 yo son's) age group that I can't stand are Adventure Time, Regular Show.  Because I feel like you actually get dumber from watching them. (*editor's note: you do)

Therese ZM:  My three-year-old watches the new Care Bears, which I hate. But she also likes the Care Bears Movie from the 80s, which I loved also! 

Our children's television (Anthony, rule obeyer excluded) has a profound effect on us as adults, which, at a later date, I will get more into. But for now...

Real time: Before I sign off here, S just discovered via Amazon Prime, a random, British or Japanese show called Pocoyo. So far I want to blow up the tv. It's horrid amongst the likes of "Teletubbies". Ugh. 

**UPDATE** Pocoyo is a Spanish show that has British voices. It still sucks.
**SUPERUPDATE** PART 2 OF THIS ARTICLE IS AVAILABLE HERE

"Creativity is a drug I cannot live without." Cecil B. DeMille

I'm ready for my close up. Ha!

One of my summer goals (along with redoing the playroom and cleaning out the garage to create a workspace for myself- out of which 1/3 has been done with a paltry, pathetic 3 weeks left) was to get back into my creative self. I used to be an artist, a writer, a photographer, an actress and a poet. Being creative "lit me up" as Arty from Creative Galaxy says (Arty may have been a lame but true inspiration for me, not gonna lie)(Amazon Prime exclusive show to promote art, kind of like an OITNB for kids. On Amazon. But about a weird green alien named Arty who fixes all of life's problems by going to other planets and learning different types of art. Such as pointillism). 

I love my job, and to be honest, there is quite a lot of opportunity to be creative. Everyday, I felt like I was on stage, making mundane subjects seem exciting, thrilling even. This past couple of years, being in a more administrative position, my creativity dwindled into...well nothing. A shrunken, wizened piece of my soul, aching to be fed. Alas, I've had a block. Like writer's block, but far bigger. I don't know if this makes sense, but I was scared of failure, I was unsure where to start. Maybe that part of me hadn't just shriveled due to neglect, but totally died altogether? Because we all know that old people let their dreams die and become miserable shells of the person they once were. Was that me? I mean, let's face it, I am pretty old. 

When the school year ended, I went into veg mode. I had sworn I would work on center games, lesson plans, writing, reading, drawing, painting! I didn't. Well, I read. But not even as much as I'd like to have. But that is a whole other post. (Trust me) I cleaned. I organized pantries and broke lazy susans while trying to organize them (true story). But no creative juices. None!

Keeping true to myself (which I am so grateful that I did), I revisited Lady Jaded. I had been writing my ramblings here since 2006. I had almost deleted it so many times, but luckily I did not. I read through some past posts. I laughed. I cried. I cringed. I decided it was worth it to try again. So I did. And here we are. 

Writing: getting myself back onto this here blog and actually writing! Check!

Art. It is so strange, out of body even, to say I used to be an artist. Like a painting, drawing artist. I was. I had some paintings on display at The Common Sense Cafe (remember TCSC??? Awwwwww!), and when Andy and I got together, 5/8 of my entire curriculum consisted of art classes (math may be off, but I had AP English, and Law or Economics, and the rest of the day was spent with Ms. Des). I wasn't fantastic, but fuck that. I loved it. I found a couple of my paintings downstairs, and have them up in what will someday soon I hope become my workspace. I have a sculpture I made when J was born in her room. Then yesterday, in my cleaning expedition, I discovered a watercolor I had painted. Very simple, but really powerful (It had to do with motherhood; J is more of an inspiration than Arty, I assure you). So after washing the few Jean Butt pocketbooks that I had saved (another artistic endeavor) and feeling kind of like that little dead piece of me was opening its eyes, I went upstairs and set S up with some arty crafty little stuff. And it just came over me. Using pieces of teal blue ribbon, I attempted to create a perspectivey view of the ocean. Using pieces of the fabric of my couch, ripped paper left over from my scrapbooking days, and a strange mixture of parsley, salt and black pepper, I made "sand". It has texture, it has (some sort of) perspective. It is a work in progress, but I really like how it came out.

Releasing my creativity through some sort of art: Check!

Poetry: I have a beautiful red leather journal. I wrote a couple of quickies about my girls, but not really what I used to do. Goal: incomplete. Next Steps: Keep that beauty of a journal out with a fabulous pen to remind and inspire me.

Photography: since we all have cellular telephones now, equipped with 8-megapixel, five-element lens with 2.4 aperture, dynamic ‘low-light’ mode, which  “evaluates nearby pixels to give photographers up to two f-stops great performance in low light”, as well as 40% faster photo capture, with great low-light performance (Nerd Talk thanks to iphonehacks.com)

as well as Instagram and all these Instagram-like apps, everyone is a photog. In addition, my good friend has become a relatively famous family photographer. (I know you've all heard of Dani Cavazzi. She's ridiculous. Check out her page by clicking on her name, and you'll see lotsa pix of my beautiful little chickens). I haven't used our good camera in over a year.
Goal: amateur photographer using precog frames and filters with my iPhone. Next Steps: maybe charge my camera for one? Start using my phone to take inspirational photos as opposed to selfies.  Interview DC and get the inside scoop to her art and inspiration.

Acting...well, I think I would have totally gotten back onto the stage if Andy had told me that spouses could be part of Godspell. Or if we still lived in PC. I don't know what outlets there are up here, and I don't know what sort of time I have. Goal: dead. Next steps: not sure now...focus on the above instead?

So in all, I'm trying. And trying is Half the Battle, right GI Joe? No? Well, whatever. It works for me.

The Absence of Hope

"Dementors are among the foulest creatures that walk this earth. They infest the darkest, filthiest places, they glory in decay and despair, they drain peace, hope, and happiness out of the air around them... Get too near a Dementor and every good feeling, every happy memory will be sucked out of you. If it can, the Dementor will feed on you long enough to reduce you to something like itself... soulless and evil. You will be left with nothing but the worst experiences of your life."

—Remus Lupin^[src]

Very sad to hear about the passing of Robin Williams. People (myself included) are recalling his inspirational roles, quoting his best character quotes, watching clips on youtube, etc. I'm finding it most interesting to find out that he, as a real person, was suffering from depression. I've read a few quotes about how hard it was to believe that someone so famous, so popular, so funny, so loved, could have possibly suffered from what people must view as super-sadness. I was hoping that his apparent suicide might wake up the world, and help people see that depressing isn't being mopey and sad, or weak, but it is truly the absence of hope and happiness.

This past year, I started to have what I am now referring to as "one of my dementor episodes," and for the first time, I knew I needed to ask for help before it got out of control. I was so frustrated at myself, because I had been taking the right steps to PREVENT this from happening. I was seeing a therapist, working out my anxiety. I had a major breakthrough about a possibly triggering life event thanks to my best friend. I was facing things, I was dealing. Yet I found myself in that familiar pit of despair once again. 

There were ways that this episode was much better than the past.  I didn't drop work for months; I missed only a couple of days. I called my therapist and went to see her right away. I told my dear friend, who not only came to my house, armed with books and literature that helped her feel better when she was going through rough times, but the number and recommendation AND appointment of her friend/colleague doctor who has been instrumental in helping me.

Summer time is another weird time for me and the Dementors. The lack of structure leaves me lazy, unprepared for their sneak attacks. My anxiety has gone through the roof, and it has my inner critic going wild ("What the hell do you have to be anxious about? Sitting home with your kids? Going to the pool? You are weak, hopeless, and just stupid as shit!") which makes my anxiety even worse. My insomnia has come crashing back (racing thoughts about everything from your sister's wedding, to elementary school, to my first job, to what I'm going to make for dinner tomorrow, highlight reel of everything ever done or said to me in a negative light; not fun). I promise you that I am "happy" with my life. I love my little family, my husband, who is my best friend in the world, my awesome girls. I love my house. I love my neighborhood. I love the freedom of the summer. I am looking so forward to going back into 1st grade and really like my school and colleagues.  I pray for the gratefulness and mindfulness to keep the dementors at bay, but sometimes they just DON'T. 

It is a hard thing to explain. It is a hard thing to admit to. If you want to help someone battling depression, I ask that you listen to someone who says they aren't feeling right, who seems off, listless, not themselves. Don't judge, don't ask them what they could possibly feel sad about, don't tell them they should or shouldn't be on medication, don't tell them they are weak. Listen. Sometimes that helps. Sometimes it doesn't. But sometimes, knowing that someone is willing to bend their mind and try to understand something that they truly don't, helps quiet the critic, which is at least something.

Depression is real. It isn't always stereotypical. It isn't always all-consuming. It doesn't come in the form of one wearing all black or writing The Cure lyrics on their Facebook wall. It isn't someone screaming for attention; usually, the opposite. Be sensitive, because it is real.

Slacktivism, Sweet Charity and Being the Change

"Slacktivism is a relatively new term with only negative connotations being associated with it as of recently. The whole thinking is that instead of actually donating money, you're attributing your time and a social post in place of that donation. Basically, instead of donating $10 to Charity XYZ, slacktivism would have you create a Facebook Post about how much you care about Charity XYZ- generating immediate and heightened awareness but lacking any actual donations and long term impact."-Ben Kosinski for HuffPost (see full article here).

We have all seen it, all across social media, friends and family dumping icy cold buckets of water on their heads in the name of spreading awareness for ALS, or Lou Gehrig's Disease, which is a progressive neurodegenerative disease that atrophies nerve cells in the brain and spinal cord. This leads to muscle weakness, loss of usage of arms and legs, and a tremendous difficulty speaking, breathing and swallowing. If you don't dump water on your head within 24 hours, you must donate $100 to the cause. So of course, people are filling up their buckets, and nominating more friends and family. 

Is this working out for the cause? My husband, while watching someone dump water on their heads, said, "I don't get it. How is this helping?" Well, let's be honest. No one has been talking about ALS this much probably since June 19, 1939, the day Gehrig was diagnosed. Talking is good, in my opinion, because while there are a lot of passionate slacktivists out there who just flat out can't afford to spend a ton of money due to other life situations, there are also the wealthy activists who can and will throw a buck or two at a cause...if they've heard of it! 

The ice bucket challenge was started by Beverly, Mass. resident, Pete Frates. Frates, 29 years old, has lived with ALS since 2012. He can no longer speak, but cleverly nominated himself to his own challenge while playing the classic Vanilla Ice jam "Ice, Ice Baby." Barbara Newhouse, President and CEO of The ALS Association, states "This is a creative way to spread ALS awareness via social media and in communities nationwide." Furthermore, according to Alexa Keyes' article on NBC.com, ALS Association spokeswoman, Carrie Munk says that the organization has collected $1.35 million between July 29-August 11th of this summer, not counting other sources of donations, such as chapter offices around the country. According to Munk, during the summer of 2013, donations totaled $22, 000. While this proves that the challenge is helping bringing in monetary donations, Munk goes on to mention the importance of raising awareness. "The monetary contributions are amazing, but there is so much value to the visibility that this is generating. It's unquantifiable."

Indeed, especially considering who some of the videos star...Martha Stewart, Matt Lauer, Boston Mayor Marty Walsh, Ethel Kennedy (who nominated Barack Obama!), as well as a ton of UMASS doctors, and the city of Boston. Slacktivism on steroids, maybe?

Bostonians Know How to Party!

When I was nominated for the ice bucket challenge, I was ready. I may be a slacktivist (give me a break, I have too many charities I raise money for- ADHD, Autism, and The Sky's the Limit- and have a family I have to care for; trust me I'd love to be a philanthropist and raise money all day long, but alas) but I had an idea...Sure I'll dump some icy water on my head. But only if my friends and family "sponsored" me by donating a total of $100. And it worked! $100 donated to ALS (you can do so here), as well as me looking silly and foolish as my 10 year old dumped 2 buckets of ice water on my head, while my Frozen shirt wearing 3 year old ran around making funny faces. It also forced me to learn a little about the disease out of curiosity (and to not look too foolish by accepting the challenge). So all in all I'd say that #theicebucketchallenge has done more good than negative for ALS.

The Hunger Games

My goal of this summer was to get JD to read The Hunger Games with me. She loves the movies and her bffl had read them all, and I figured that if she read them, JD would read them. J hates to read, despite all my efforts to change this. I finally convinced her to read by starting a "Book Club" via iChat with P, and my sisters. We read one chapter together, and then stopped. (Well, we stopped. My sister read them all obsessively in 3 days and adored them). I was lazy and didn't really feel like enforcing the reading thing w J, thinking it may turn her off to reading even more.

So for the past few days, she has been talking about her Sims characters. Like, obsessively. About their attributes, characteristics, what made them better at some things than others. Then, I had an idea! A terrible, wonderful idea...

I told her that we would read the books together, and she would create a Sims world using the book and textual evidence to make the characters. She loved this idea. We sat down, and read up to chapter 6 in one shot.

Then last night, I totally broke the rules and finished the book. She is so pissed at me, and is having a panic attack about "catching up." But I couldn't help it.

Today, we watched the movie.

I'm about to start "Catching Fire."

The book.

Because I am obsessed.

Here a few of my observations about the book vs. the movie:

-in the book, I loved Peeta! You never care about Gael because you don't see him or his reactions. In the movie, Gael kinda broke my heart. But I still love Peeta. Although Andy told me he turns bad. Which is upsetting me. A lot.

-in the book, I wanted to punch Katniss for telling Peeta that it was all for the tv and broke his heart

-in the movie, I wanted to punch Katniss for being"like bella swan, all dumb mad face all the time" (awesome quote from my sister). Despite the fact that I adore Jennifer Lawrence. And Katniss. I'm so distraught with my conundrum.

That is all.

Grave Dancers Union: Part 2

I'm an over thinker. I tend to analyze every little thing that happens. So it wasn't such a stretch that I spent the last 2 days, while at Aunt Lou's wake and funeral, to think about my own funeral. Not in a morbid way, I swear. In a hopeful way. I guess.

I shared this with Beck as we drove, hazards on, through the make shift funeral procession that lost half the cars as we tried to squeeze through intersections. She agrees with some and disagrees with some. 

So without further ado, how I would like my final days in that box to go:

1) My Wake: 

I used to be dead set against Wake's, but after being honored to attend my cousin Tommy's wake, to see how loved and honored he was, I feel like a wake is a good way for closure. Hopefully I won't be mangled (yikes!) so we can have an open casket. Speaking of my casket. I want it engraved with (or adorned with if engraving is expensive which I can only assume that it will be) Mary Mother of God. It would be comforting to go with the Patron Saint of Women and Mothers (Mary is my girl).

 I would like my Miraculous Medals all over me. Mary brings me comfort.

I would also have to insist that there be wine and beer served. A champagne toast done at the end of the viewing, perhaps a "Viva la vie Jess!"would be a nice way to end that awkward night. But it wouldn't be awkward, because you will all be milling around, looking at my photos, smiling at our memories. And making fun of how the undertaker totally effed up my hair and somehow made me look like the Queen of England ("Oh, my goodness, isn't it ironic that she looks JUST as she did on her wedding day?") And we need frat boys and girls keeping the wine and beer flowing...loosen up and celebrate my life. Don't get too wild; that's for tomorrow.

2. The Final Viewing
This part fills me with such anxiety, because yea, its the "final viewing", but then you will be forced to stare at my closed coffin for hours and hours on end. So whoever feels like they love me enough to come to the funeral home before church will be getting laminated pictures of me, like the prayer cards you get just for showing up, only super special personalized with a cute picture of me on the front and a reminder for you to "Remember me like this!" not like The Queen.

3. Going to Church
There will be limos. So in that case, fuck Kraft with their too small limos and hi falutin ways. I want my entire immediate family in a limo- so perhaps we must go with a party van. Do some hip hop spirit dancing while you drive, checking in on the cute picture of me every so often. "She had something to this plan..." you start to realize.

4. Church
Here is where things get hairy. (Oh, no its not...just keep reading) I want to go to church and have a Catholic funeral. Again, comfort, closure, God, my girl Mary. However, there will be a priest who KNOWS me saying Mass, not some fool that will tell everyone that I was a successful baker at PS 68 (throw back to Grandpa's hot mess of a funeral). Readings done by people I adore. The people who roll in the casket (I want to say ring bearers, but I'm quite aware that this is very incorrect) will be boys AND girls because fuck all that noise. Like, my adorable granddaughter can certainly walk next to my handsome nephew while wheeling me in. *If they drop me, please, please, please tell me you have that on film!*
While I'm aware that this will be a matter of great debate, I don't want a full Mass. IE no communion. Or, if it is with communion, that priest best be super quick with the rest of the mass. No one cares about your interpretation of death or the gospel. Make some beautiful quotes to comfort my fam, and move on to the eulogies.

5. Eulogies:
Make them cry motherfuckers. This is the only time you are to be sad. Make it worth it.

6. The Funeral Procession:

"I tried to dance at a funeral, New Orleans style...I joined the Grave Dancers Union, I had to file..."
                                                                                                                                       Soul Asylum

I want y'all to dance and march and clap and sing your way to the graveyard. My casket will be in the back of a black horse drawn carriage. Get me some real Haitian jazz musicians and make it authentic (Cajun also wanted, fiddlin' would be cool too)(If you need more to go on, watch American Horror Story: Coven, I believe it is season 10.) Dance baby!

7. At the Grave
I don't know much about this part. It gets emotional here as well, so please look around the cemetery for the grave diggers lurking in the background, just waiting for you guys to get over it and move along so they can DIG MY GRAVE!!! Yell at these people. Perhaps throw eggs and/or water balloons.

8. And now, the family would like to invite you back to (Close family member with a nice big party house) to celebrate the life of Jess. You need to bring 2 things...a shitload of funny, heartwarming, charming stories to tell, and a bottle or 2 of liquor. Be prepared to let loooooose, get drunk, talk openly, freely, cry, laugh, hug, FEEL. (More images: True Blood Final Season when they party for Alcid at Sookie's house.)(Vampires very very welcome) So many after funeral parties feel so forced, it's "what we are supposed to do" and you go, feeling guilty that you're getting a free meal off of a family who is so deep in mourning that they don't quite realize that they are paying more for this than a wedding. And no one really talks about the deceased anymore. There is no closure. Putting a body in a ground is NOT closure. Letting out your emotions in a safe, fun environment just might be.


GOAL OF JESSICA'S DEATH:
What I've concluded after a year of way too many deaths is that we, the people left behind, are the ones who need help, we're the ones who need the support, the strength, the prayers. Instead of mourning, why don't we celebrate what we had. You will miss me (your loved ones) and you will never get over that. Don't. Keep my "Final Viewing" picture in your mirror, and smile at me everyday. Nothing will change the memories we had.

Grave Dancers Union: Part I

My grandmother's sister died a few days ago. We got the news that she was leaving us while at my cousin's bridal party; my three sisters and I were sitting together, and I immediately felt a rush of sorrow. Sure, Aunt Lou had lived past her 90th birthday, created an amazing family legacy, and grew old with her 3 sisters. Yet all I could think about was my grandmother, and worse still, my sisters.

Bathing Beauties out on Calves Island- always together

My sisters and I don't see each other daily. A lives in Peabody, B & E in Port Chester, but we all talk on a daily basis (obsessively, thank you BBM and now iChat). We are woven together in a tight tapestry that will never be torn (Sorry, parody of Merida was just on Robot Chicken). Seriously though, my sisters are my heart and soul. They are my "people" (Grey's reference). They are my best, my everything.

The Furano Family
Mary, Lou, Rocky, Katherine, Anne
Grandpa and Grandma Furano

My grandmother's family was parallel to ours. There were four daughters and a son. We are also four daughters and a son. Paulie may be a boy, but he is really our 5th sister (meaning that he's just as close to us girls)(not that he is transgender)(although if he was he'd be a whole lot cooler)(nah, he's pretty cool). Our whole live, my sisters and I saw these 4 women, the matriarchs of the family, totally echoing our own lives. It was trippy, and looking back, I'm realizing just how much of an influence they had on us. Which one am I? we would ask each other, trying to fit our personalities to theirs. (this little game was actually played on Fourth of July of this year, while drinking watermelon mojitos, with my grandmother herself).

The LaBellas
Amie, Paulie, Lyzz, Jess, Becky
Donna & Paul

At my grandmother's 85th birthday, only 3 of us and 3 of them were present, so we jumped at what would prove to be the last opportunity to live out this fantasy of how we were so alike!

Every family party, THE AUNTS had to be invited. You could see them sitting together in a shady place, chatting, drinking wine, a unit of sisterhood and familiarity. At every gathering, there was a photo taken of the four of them together: Easter, Christmas Eve, Labor Day, out on Captain's Island, New Year's Eve Parties. Their children were close, they grew up together, went to school together, partied together, loved each other.Then their grandchildren continued the traditions. Our family has done a pretty damn good job keeping up the sister's traditions: Christmas Eve dinner, Easter Breakfast, Labor Day.

Easter

Christmas Eve, I presume

Flash forward to life with  my sisters. The life we lived together was so special. Our parents loved us all, and instilled in us extreme family values. We are all pretty close in age. I was 20 months old when Amie came, and almost 4 when Becky arrived. I was a grown up of 7 when Lyzz came, and an old lady of 14 when Paulie was born. We went through the typical adolescent fights, became close to each other, became estranged a year later. College came and went, people moved out, got married, moved far away, babies were born, graduate school, more marriages, houses bought, jobs taken and quit and promotions and raises and so on and so forth. And at the end of the rapid fire passing of lifetimes, we have come out better, closer, more honest with each other. It is apparent that we are vital parts of each other's lives. And what's really cool? We really like each other. We have a lot in common. The 4 of us couldn't be more different from each other, but pieces of me match pieces of them, and that makes it even better. We never run out of things to talk about, and when we are together, the whole world ceases to exist.

Heart and Soul

What I'm getting at here, struggling to say, really, after an emotionally draining couple of days of wakes and funerals and tears and "I'm sorry"s and "We need to stop meeting like this", is that I adore my sisters. I love them. I live for them. And it hurts my stomach to ever imagine losing one of them.

Best Sisters 

Grandma and Aunt Lou were so close. Grandma would drive to her house every single morning before work for tea. She would stop there at night. They would go out to dinner. They went to Italy together. She told her sister everything. She was always there for her, after grandpa, after Tommy. And now she's gone.
I can see how heartbroken my grandmother is, and it is killing me. Because I can imagine the pain, the panic, the anxiety, of not picking up the phone and calling Becky to tell her something I was worried about with Juliet, or calling Amie for advice on healthy diets and to pick her brain about career decisions, or texting Lyzz while we are both taking baths and talking about the amazing new books we are reading, or the silly article that we read and had to vent about.

As I was sitting with my grandmother today at the funeral home, a close member of her family (I will not divulge names or relationships but I will say that it is NOT a surprise) was being super dramatic, wailing and crying, attention seeking from all the well wishers. "We were so close! We laughed all the time! What will I do without her." I clenched my grandmother's hand and whispered "Is this making it all that much harder?" and she grimly said "Everything she says is a lie."

And all I can think of tonight is my poor grandmother, who's first thought was almost definitely "Wait til I tell Lou about this...she'll get a kick out of hearing this" and the sick realization that will follow when she remembers....she can't.