Sad, mad and glad

image: http://bettertomorrow.sodexousa.com

Last week was a weird week in the news. I mean like the kind of week when I almost feel ready to abandon reading anything beyond cooking and fashion magazines so I have a prayer of staying in my happy place. Are they going to print those upbeat type of glossy publications on Hearst’s new press?

Ever since I saw this story on the TU website I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind.  I understand that these accidents occur with far too much frequency, but for reasons I haven’t quite grasped yet, this one has really had an impact on me.  My God, did you see the car?  It doesn’t seem possible that someone could have survived that crash and I’m left wondering what the future holds for the driver of that vehicle. How many times will he wish for a do-over, for the chance to take it back and do it all again differently?  As a parent, I’m tempted to begin printing out accident scene pictures and the related obituaries and start wallpapering my boys’  bedrooms with the consequences of bad decision-making. I’m scared and my heart aches for the families involved who both lost their children that morning, because I’m certain the young man who was driving that car will never be the same.

And how do you feel about the smoke story?  No, not the Pope Francis thing, this one.  Apparently, Assemblyman Steve Katz, an opponent of legalizing medical marijuana, has no personal problem with getting blazed and speeding up the NYS Thruway – at 10:00 a.m, by the way.  Perhaps he is anti-medical marijuana because he understands it won’t cure the severe case of hypocrisy he appears to be suffering  from.  What a jerk.  Throw him out of office and let him wake and bake on his own time.

If marijuana could in fact cure hypocrisy, maybe Rob Portman has been indulging in the wacky weed, too.  Seems that now that his own son is at risk of being denied basic civil rights because he is gay, Portman has had a change of heart in his consistently anti-gay marriage stance.  I don’t really understand why his son’s life and access to the benefits of marriage are somehow more important than the millions of other gay Americans who have been denied access to wedded bliss.  I’m sincerely glad he’s changed his position, but I’m even more glad that I could never imagine believing that my own child’s opportunities are somehow more valid than those of anyone else’s child.

I’ll go back to my Bon Appetit now.

I’ve got a badge – and a glass of wine.

Another perfect little find from Elissa Halloran’s little shop on Lark Street.

Well, guess who gets to be the bad cop?  Yes, yes, I know, if the shoe fits, blah blah blah.  Whatever.  Give me a second, please, while I take another swig swallow sip of wine, ok?  Exhale.  Sigh.

You know how kids like to play their parents, especially in divorce situations?  Yes, you do, you must have seen it before. Child, typically a teen, decides that the demise of their parents’ marriage provides them with the perfect opportunity to slack off?  Well, it is a crap situation that requires parental attention and communication…something which isn’t always easily managed as a former couple transitions to a new normal of shared parenting done in an isolated, yet equally invested fashion.   Maybe it’s a natural impulse for a child who wants to ensure that his recently apart parents maintain an open dialogue.  Perhaps it is a symptom of adolescence.  I don’t know for certain, but I do know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it is exhausting and demoralizing.  Ugh.

Most of us are familiar with that cliched police interrogation technique – the whole good cop/bad cop thing, right?  Well, guess which officer I get to be?  I’ve always been the calendar keeper, the planner, the appointment maker, the initiator, shall we say.  I have a knack for making, and keeping, a schedule and taking care of things.  Naturally, it has fallen to me to be the one who checks in on the boys’ grades and initiates contact, when necessary, with their teachers.  And the reward for my attentions from my child who is treading seriously close to the line between living up to his potential and being a rebel without a cause?  Well, let’s just say it  is sort of the opposite of gratitude.

It would be so much easier to be hands off.  I would prefer to devote my attention to celebrating the wonderful talents and capabilities of my children, but it seems that a different type of focus is being demanded at this time.  Well, if I have to be the one who enforces the law in these parts, I’ll do it, with or without the assistance of a deputy.  Don’t you doubt it.

Not shaken or stirred, but blended

Q’s favorite Bond

My 7 y/o is currently obsessed with James Bond.  He gave up Star Wars at about the same time that George Lucas sold the galaxy to Disney.   Coincidental?  Perhaps.  If you offer him something to drink, it is completely plausible that he will request a martini, shaken not stirred.  It’s adorable.  Well, to me it is because I’m his mom.  Someone else might find it obnoxious or cheeky, but I’ve always had a soft spot for 007.  And my children, of course.

Over the recent holidays, I did some reflecting on my own memories of the Christmas season and I thought about a family from my childhood who taught me what a blended family might look like.  There was a mom and a dad and a daughter.  And an ex-husband and the children shared by he and the mom.  And the ex-husband’s son from his second marriage.  And also the son from the Dad’s first marriage.  The kids all referred to each as brother and sister and the relationships seemed pretty relaxed and fluid, kind of like a well mixed martini.  They were Italian-American and Westchester Jewish, a combination which resulted in great food and wonderful traditions. I loved them and everything they taught me about family and love and backgammon, truly.

As a divorced parent*, I might one day find myself in a similar position.  You know, blending children and families and friends with a partner.  I’d like to think  I can do it with as much tasteful grace.  I know that none of those relationships was perfect, I mean what is?, but the central thread of children which wove them all together created an inspiring family fabric, a patchwork quilt that gave at least as much comfort as a familiar cocktail, I imagine.  How about you?  Do you have any experiences like this to share?  Grab yourself a cocktail and share, why don’t you?

*I’m not a “single mom.”  The boys very much have two parents.

Closing and opening a door

image: hardware source.com

I said something to a friend the other night about how I don’t know how to fix things, I just learn to adapt to them.  At the time, I was speaking explicitly about my wonky door which doesn’t close firmly unless you futz with it.  Wonky and futz are technical terms, obviously.  When the words left my mouth, my friend and I both mentally noted what I had said and, while I don’t know about him, I know I’ve been thinking about that personal epiphany a lot in the last couple of days.  My inability to fix things is kind of embarrassing, but at the same time, I think that learning how to accommodate for flaws can be a practical solution to a problem.  But are we just talking about doorknobs?

I think that one of the after effects of divorce, is a feeling of personal failure.  Public vows had been made with the best of intentions, as well as an abundance of emotion, yet the marriage has ended.  Two people living as one are guaranteed to expose flaws and demonstrate failures which require attention.  Are the repairs necessary to maintain a healthy, satisfying relationship something which can be taught as simply as how to replace a door’s faulty switch plate?  Does one develop a technique to close the door in a slightly alternative, but still ultimately effective way?

When I consider my lack of hands-on handyman skills, I console myself with the knowledge that I can’t possibly do everything.  But, you know me, I do always manage to see something positive in a situation, and a reality check about one’s limitations isn’t necessarily a bad thing, right? It isn’t as if I’m totally lame – I can sew buttons, fix hems and simple tears in clothing, and I am adept with a glue gun.  It’s just household repairs that I can’t manage and, if you’ve ever sat at my wicked wobbly dining room table or seen the spot in the upstairs hallway where Quinn pushed Liam through into the wall, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

I’ve wondered through the years why I have no maintenance skills and think one of the reasons is that, prior to my current address, I’ve never lived in one place longer than 5 or 6 years.  Much less owned a house, of course.  I also didn’t grow up with an adult modeling these handy skills, so I didn’t get to observe how simple, (or complex), routine home repairs happen.  But, I’d like to learn.

Thanks to a friend’s thoughtfulness, and her husband’s forgetfulness when it comes to buying replacement tools for items he already owns but can’t immediately find, I have an adorable tool box.  I’ve developed patience over the years and generally can follow very explicit directions with accuracy.  I believe that doing something the right way is well worth the time invested and will result in something that lasts.  I can do that.  I want to do that.

Ghost anniversaries

Are wedding anniversaries like phantom limbs? You know, you can kind of still feel them even though they no longer actually exist. The remains of what was once there can create an almost physical twinge despite the fact that it is no longer present as anything but a memory.

Two couples I know recently marked their 20th anniversaries – one with a lovely dinner al fresco, the other with the decision to acknowledge the end of their marital partnership. I guess these examples support the often quoted figure that 50% of marriages end in divorce. Do you think it is possible to predict at a wedding ceremony which marriages are going to remain intact and which are going to end before death doth them part? I don’t. Personally, I don’t believe anyone plans to not live happily ever after.

I know that love and intentions and hopes and dreams were very much a part of my wedding day. I married on an early afternoon so cloudless that our photographer complained about the lack of shadows. The best man saw a majestic blue heron take off as he drove to the ceremony, an obvious sign of nature’s blessings even to the most jaded. We had a totally cool wedding date – month, date and year expressed with a concise number of digits. Perfect.

However, 18 years from that day, as I ran under a cloudy, darkening sky, I wore the marital status “divorced” rather than that beautiful emerald-cut diamond ring I received when I accepted his proposal. Ugh.

As I ran though, I smiled to myself as I recalled that my groom and I found ourselves alone following our wedding reception’s conclusion, red Ford Escort wagon parked in the lot and strung with cans, without the keys to drive ourselves to the next destination. Really. A phone call or two resolved that roadblock, and we joined our friends at their hotel to shuttle to another location for dancing and drinks. We were not ready for our day to end – we were having far too much fun. We all piled into the hotel’s courtesy bus, but as we began to pull away I realized my groom was being left behind. He missed the bus. Literally.

There were, as I said, no clouds. There are no regrets for having spent nearly twenty years sharing my life with a man who I once was very happy to call my husband. Sometimes, though, anniversaries are to be celebrated as the date when two became one, while other times they are simply reminders of a former life, once whole but, now forever severed.

Don’t be afraid to care

My favorite NYC landmark

         Care: (verb) Feel concern or interest;
attach importance to something.

I spent a day recently doing my best Holden Caulfield impersonation.  You know, basically getting lost and visiting some of my favorite NYC haunts, like Macy’s and the West Village.  I also went to a couple of restaurants with bars that offer conversation, as well as a bite to eat.

I know that NYC has a reputation for being kind of cold and impersonal, a reputation perhaps earned by its sheer magnitude.  I’ve never had that impression of the city, though.  To me, it is a place filled with people going about their lives, yet still willing to be engaged if approached with sincere interest.

View from the High Line

So many people walking the Line!

One of my more recent favorite things to do while in Manhattan, is walk the High Line. Since I was consciously moving at a leisurely pace,  I walked the current entire length, 30th Street to Gansvoort, and I enjoyed every step.  It is a beautiful public space and it never would have been developed if residents didn’t care. Isn’t that awesome?

My feet magically found their way to a place that I absolutely adore – Lupa.  Now, I’ve been to a number of Batali joints, maybe all of them in NYC other than Del Posto, but this is the spot I return to again and again.  The food is certainly a magnet for me, but ultimately it comes down to the quality of care and attention I have received without exception at every visit.  I’ve been here with my former husband, one of my children, with the girls, and solo and I  have never felt anything but comfortable.  This particular day, though, was even more special.

So refreshing!

I sat at the bar a few seats removed from an attractive couple I took to be in their mid-60′s, or 20 years older than myself.  As I sipped my lovely glass of rose, I couldn’t help but be interested in them.  They were sweet with one another and possessed both a steadfast comfort and a romantic buzz.  What a fabulous combination, huh?

We started to talk after I heard them discussing their attempt at baking marijuana brownies – a big disappointment, they said.  We shared some laughs about their illicit baking and the conversation started to flow…parenting, inane drug laws, music, travel.  I asked if they were married and they smiled and confirmed they had been married for 30 years, his 2nd marriage, her first at the age of 40.  He kissed her behind her right ear fondly.  They still had a sizzle between them that was glorious to see.  They were retired, spending their time traveling, painting, living.  My heart was lifted.  They told me about their experiences at Burning Man.  Yes, Burning Man!  How amazing are they?  I was inspired.

When they departed the restaurant, we exchanged names.  And hugs.  I believe all three of us felt we had learned something from each other, as if we were infinitesimally changed from who we had been prior to our interactions.  By showing a little interest, by caring, the world was now a different place.