Well, HELLOOOO all you glorious people out there that have stuck with me while I nursed my hands back to health. That’s why I haven’t posted in a while, I had a rare hand disease that prohibited me from blogging. It’s called IALWE, otherwise known as, I Am Lazy Without an Excuse. It’s very rare. I almost died. I’m okay now. I was actually cured by Dr. Sonia Taitz. Okay, she’s not a doctor, but a remarkably talented and successful author. I was given the opportunity to collaborate with her which immediately brought me back from the blogging dead.

ENOUGH about me.  I am truly excited about today’s post. I want to thank, Sonia Taitz, for this beautifully written description of how most of us once felt about our parents. We have all been embarrassed by our parents at one time or another, but as we grow older, we realize the importance and true beauty of their being. Sonia has recently come out with a new book, IN THE KING’S ARMS, and if you haven’t bought a copy yet, click on the book title or come back tomorrow for a chance to win one! I won’t keep you with my ramble any longer, read on for Sonia’s story!

I think I know a thing or two about embarrassment. I was born into a small and peculiar class of people: children of immigrants from war-torn Europe. My parents were Holocaust survivors, and I guess by the time they came here, they had many more things to think about than fitting in – things like learning the language and making a living from scratch. Things like forgetting everything about where they came from and starting life anew.

Still, their style spoke of nothing more than where they came from. My father wore a suit every day, in an age where most Dads sported “leisure wear” – T-shirts, polo shirts, khakis, jeans and sneakers.  He wore a starched white shirt under his suit, and a tie which was tacked to the shirt with a bar or circular pin. On his head, whenever he left the house, was perched a hat – straw in for the summer, felt in the winter. A real hat, the kind that Frank Sinatra would wear. With a ribbon band, and often a little feather.

When I went off to camp, I thought other kids would have parents like mine. After all, it was a Jewish camp, and I’d thought that most Jews had parents who had survived the Holocaust. They did, in my poor immigrant’s neighborhood, but my parents had splurged so that I could have a season of fresh mountain air, and among the middle class parents on Visiting Day, they were the only ones who looked different. My father in his suit. The feather on his grey straw hat. My mother in sandals, with socks. Socks!! That look was stylish where she had grown up, in Kaunas, Lithuania. It was not as stylish that summer at camp, in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania.

Years later, due to my parents’ constant nurturance and support, I was able to go to Yale Law School.  Graduation day was bittersweet. It was, of course, a huge and unique accomplishment for my family (due to the war, neither of my parents had even been able to finish high school), but a source of ambivalence for me. On the outside, I fit in with the other graduates. We were all smart and savvy, newly-hatched professionals.  But on the inside, I was different.  When I looked at their parents, I saw tall men with full heads of silver hair (my father, though well-built and handsome, was 5’7”, and bald under his hat).  The mothers were elegant, soigne women, with blond, smooth hair and hairbands.  I saw grosgrain hairbands. Plaid hairbands. Velvet hairbands. My mother’s hair, unbanded, blew around in the wind. She was not wearing sandals and socks that day, but her dress was flowery in a way that only the late Queen Mother would understand. And she was talking to me:

“Sonia’le!” I saw her hand waving a little cotton handkerchief. She always had these in her purse; they were always white, with little embroidered flowers on the corners. “Yoo hoo! Sonia’le!” She was using an old endearment for me, the “le” on the end of my name a caress.

From amidst my peers, I answered, “what, Ma?” We were about to march forward and receive our degrees. I wanted to blend in with the others.

“Are you hungry, Sonia’le? I brought you a nice banana!”

Reaching into her bag, she brought out and flourished a soft, sad fruit. She had probably carried it from home and brought it on the train trip to New Haven. In her past, people had died of starvation. Here, at the Yale Law graduation, no one was starving. Everyone, graduates and their parents, seemed rich and complete and sophisticated. The banana did not fit in, nor did my doting, unself-conscious mother.

I spotted a Kennedy kid, one who would later become a reporter, filming us graduates. Her brother was in my class, and as her camera panned the crowd it must have captured me, looking at my parents, caught between shame and love.

Years later, it is the love that remains. The realization that these people – with their tie-pins, hats, and hankies – were the richest treasures I’d ever have. Better than an Ivy league degree. Better than a million dollars or being famous. Better than anyone, or anything I’ve ever known in our status-conscious, style-conscious world.  And I am nothing but proud.

Sonia Taitz

I know what common animals look like: cat, dog, horse, rabbit, cow…. but those other animals that live in trees and in the ground…. I have no freakin idea. I once thought a possum was an abnormally large rat. I’m from the South, too, so I should be better with identifying animals. My bladder is actually better than I am. If I’m ever in the woods and suddenly wet my pants, I know that there’s a carnivore in my path and my bladder is warning me…. or……. I’m drunk…..but I haven’t been drunk in the woods in 10 years, so I’m going to stand by my bladder being an attack-animal alarm system.  That could actually be a super power! When the heroine wets herself, it’s a sign of nearby danger…. she would be called The Excreter. There could be chaffing repercussions though……I digress… it’s a huge problem!

LUCKILY, I’m not alone when it comes to animal identification issues. Deb Amlen, fellow blogger and hilarious author of, “It’s Not PMS, It’s YOU!” had an episode with her vet. Read Deb’s words, my kittens:

It occurred to me the other day that perhaps I’m not as prepared for Nature as I thought.

I was born and raised in New York City, where contact with other carbon-based life forms was limited, animalistically-speaking, to leashed dogs and the occasional squirrel or pigeon.   I also went to high school in a particularly dangerous part of the Bronx (school song:  ”Look Out!  A Mugger!”), where squirrels and pigeons were smart enough to maintain a polite distance from the human residents, mainly so as not to disturb the drive-by shootings.

When we moved to New Jersey to raise our kids, I had this city-slicker fantasy that I would finally get to commune with Nature and befriend all of the charming woodland animals that scampered about my property.  My kids and I would frolic with the birds, and the deer, and the antelope, and the carp, and whatever else came our way, and they would sing a charming woodland animal song to me as I scattered woodland animal food for them, just like in a Disney cartoon, which clearly shows you how demented I had become.

Obviously, none of this ever happened.  The birds were more concerned with pooping on my outdoor furniture than singing, and the deer were much more interested in eating my flowers than frolicking.   This disappointed me, but it had no real impact on my life until the day my dog had a showdown with Cujo, the Hostile Yard Rodent.

Jade is a Border Terrier, a quirky, happy-go-lucky breed, and I like to think of her as the Roberto Benigni of dogs (“I luff evry-BAHDY!”)  She’s never met a human or an animal she didn’t like, so when she woke from her afternoon nap in our sunny yard and saw another four-legged being standing over her, she naturally came to the conclusion that it had come to play.  I did not become involved in the game until I heard Jade yelp and walked out to the side of the house to see her, nose to nose with a hissing football with a bushy tail and bared fangs that obviously did not have a game of Tug-of-War in mind.  Border Terriers are known for having their own minds, but when I called her, she turned tail on the football and ran, with only a glance back that said, “You’re lucky she called me, or you would be SO over!”

Because I was already operating at a disadvantage due to having grown up in an ecological wasteland, I called the veterinarian, who told me to bring her in so they could check for bites and give her a rabies booster.

“What kind of animal was it?”, she asked, still looking at her clipboard.

“Well, it might have been a beaver.  Or a very large squirrel.  Possibly a jackalope.”

The vet glanced up from her clipboard.  ”You’re not from around here, are you?”, she asked.

“Well, I don’t really know what kind of animal it was….”, I said, feeling like a total doofus.

“Stay here.  I’ll be right back.”

When the vet came back, she was holding what appeared to be a stack of flash cards, and she spread them neatly on the examination table.  Each card had a different rodent on it.

“Pick one”, she ordered, and I suddenly realized what she was asking me to do.  She wanted me to pick the culprit out of a line up.

“This one”, I muttered, obediently pointing to the third card.

“That’s a groundhog”,  she said matter-of-factly, doing an admirable job of staying professional and not laughing hysterically at me, although I could tell she sort of wanted to.

Fortunately, Jade was fine, and although she avoided the spot in our yard where she had met her match for a while, was none the worse for the wear.  I, however, am still humiliated.  But at least now I know what a groundhog looks like. 

http://debamlen.com/2009/06/30/all-hostile-yard-rodents-turn-to-the-right/

I live in a five story building in Chicago. It takes about a good six minutes to get from the shut of my car door to the shut of my apartment door. It’s often that I leave work and decide to wait for the restroom at home. By the time I actually get to my restroom, I’m crawling and praying to make it to the toilet. It’s quite dramatic actually. You would think I got shot down in the middle of gang battle, dragging my wounded limps to safety and crawling as fast as possible out of dangers way.  It’s like a clip from “Good Fellas,” except my escape vehicle is the toilet. Nope. I just forget I’m an adult sometimes and hold it so freakin long that the pee pee dance can’t sustain my bladder! It’s cute when you’re little, but when you’re over the age of 11, holding yourself and gyrating to the bathroom… it’s a little weird… inappropriate… disturbing really.

When I received the email below, I sympathized with Lisa (and suddenly had to use the restroom.) In a bladder crisis, getting to the actual toilet is the focus, shutting the bathroom door is frivolous.  Here’s Lisa’s story:

I’m not going to lie and say this hasn’t happened before. How many times do we do something inappropriate and don’t learn our lesson until we’re caught? I was at a client’s office enduring a very long meeting. After the first 30 minutes, I had to use the restroom. An hour and half later, once the meeting closed, I was scared out of my mind that if I stood up, my bladder would lose control and run down my leg. I was in pain. We said our good byes. I carefully, without breathing, exited the conference room and asked for the ladies room which felt like a mile away. Once I got to the restroom, I was throwing my things on the floor and unbuckling my belt before the door closed behind me. Oh, and I forgot to mention that this was a public bathroom shared by the east end of the office floor. I ran to the stall, peeled everything off and finally was able to breathe.

Seconds later, I heard the bathroom door shut and footsteps walk toward my stall. Not to be graphic, but no one likes to sit on public toilets these days, so in my suspended position over the seat, I was looking down the entire time. I heard someone yell, “OH, EXCUSE ME!” I looked up to meet eye to eye with my client while in mid-stream. In my frenzy to reach the stall, I forgot to close the door after me. I was embarrassed and extremely uncomfortable. One minute I’m going over court papers and the next minute I’m staring her in the eyes with my pants down. My pants were zipped, hands washed and I was bolting toward the elevators before she could get out of her stall. It gives a whole new meaning to being caught with your pants down.

Pictures these, but covered in mold.

We all eat on the run, especially in the morning. Even more, we often grab something and have no idea what we’re eating because of time crunches. I once had Pringles for breakfast because I thought I was grabbing cereal in a can. I have to say, a salty treat with coffee was a different combination, but not bad, sort-of like Cheetos with Peanut-butter/Jelly. I know it sounds nasty, but my pregnant friend told me about it and I’m tellin’ ya, Brad Pitt in a sandwich. Don’t knock it till you try it.

On Friday, I had a client tell me about her eat-on-the-run experience. She grabbed the Hostess 100 Calorie Pack Muffins that morning which she eats daily on the way to work. Being a good driver, she kept her eyes on the road while she unwrapped the muffins. She spelled something weird, “It must be hair product,” she thought, then popped a muffin. She said it tasted like there was hair product all over the mini-muffin so she spit it out, looked down to find mold all over the half-chewed muffin!!!! THEN she looked down at the two remaining muffins to find MOLD ALL OVER THEM! HAHA! I’ve never confused mold with the smell/taste of hair product, but perhaps I should take it to the Oxford University Labs. Those people survey/test anything.

My favorite part of her story is that the mold did not spoil her appetite. She immediately called her mom, who’s office was close by hers, and asked to meet her in the parking lot and bring her a granola bar and yogurt. Girl, you’re not alone if breakfast is the most important meal of the day.

I was very young and naive. My first serious boyfriend (i.e. first, wink wink) and I were a sheltered pair. We both spent all our time in the dance studio among the same group of friends equally focused throughout our teenaged years. At the time, I had short, cropped, very curly hair. Think Shirley Temple; only all corkscrew and tighter. People called me sheep-head, poodle-head and various versions.
My boyfriend heard a cute term and thought it described me well. “Muff-burger, so soft and furry, you could just eat it all up.” his words. He took to calling me “Muff-Burger,” as often as he could. It got to the point, that when we would meet on the street, he would yell down the block, “HERE COMES MY LITTLE MUFF-BURGER!!!!!” Picture Michigan Avenue, rush hour, two teenagers a block apart:

“TWEETY BIRD!!!!”
“MUFF-BURGER!!!!!”
Run, run, hug, kiss

After a few YEARS, a friend asked both of us if we knew what a muff diver was. NO, what is that? She told us what the general population defines as a “Muff,” and what my boyfriend’s little pet name really meant. OMG!!!!!! HOLY SH*T!!!!

Lynn
Chicago, IL