"Room to Breathe"

Monday morning was the last birth I will be attending as a labor doula for awhile. This birth started on a Saturday and I didn't get home until Monday morning. I have been a doula for 10 years now and while I love my work, I have been in need of a change for awhile. Doula work in challenging and rewarding, but it can take its toll. This June I will be going back to school to start my RN degree.

I won't be on call 24/7; waiting anxiously for dinner to be interrupted or fearing missing a call if I sleep too deeply. I will have a set class schedule and the freedom to play with my children and have a normal social life again. We have a trip to Dorney Park planned and birthday parties and library days.

There are so many things I want to do, I fear I may get over-zealous and fill my calendar like a kid in a candy store.

What a worry to have :)

I will still be teaching private childbirth education classes and give advice and refer families to doulas who are good and kind and competent. I will also be studying hard and passing my classes.

I will also be partying my ass off :)

"Another Unlovely Day in My Neighborhood"

After almost 7 years of living here, and 4 of them being tortured by my neighbors, we have finally come to the choice of moving. We have met with the broker and Realtor and we are on the hunt for new digs. Where? Who knows. As far away from this hell hole as possible.

It was one thing when the adults were acting like assholes to me, but now my kids are suffering. Being sent home and crying because the "grown ups" are telling them they can't play at so and so's house. I can't take that shit. Plus, the asshole up the street who refuses to see how horrible her children are is totally ignoring the fact one of her kids dug into the side panel of my car (my driveway is the bus stop) with a stick and has caused permanent damage.

It is hard to move when you have 4 kids, 2 of whom have IEPs. You have to carefully consider the school districts, break it to them and explain over and over the dogs are coming, all the toys are coming, etc. Yeah, I have held my ground for 4 stinking years, but now they are messing with my babies. And my fly minivan.

"Panning Sampan"

From the outside, Sampan looks like the coolest Asian-fusion type restaurant on South 13th Street, near El Vez. The interlocked, woven, wooden beams (almost looking like a flattened bird's nest) on the exterior and smoky windows beckons a certain elegance to the block.

Then, you order the food. They make it to be a sort of "tapas-Asian" menu. We ordered two "hot" plates and two "cold". The rabbit dumplings with the bacon and spring peas sounded like heaven but all we could taste was salt. It was not from the bacon, which we sampled separately, it was the scallion reduction sauce the poor bunny buns were swimming in. Our other "hot" selection, Korean BBQ beef rib did not disappoint; very tender short ribs with some mild Kim-Che-esq topping/garnish was a great improvement over the dumplings. Next off of the menu came something simply called "Tuna"; it ended up being quarter inch cubes of raw tuna and avocado and some Indian flat bread. It was all topped off with crispy bits of deep fried rice, which just reminded me of Rice Krispies.

I do not mind paying a certain amount of money for good food, even if it is done up pretentiously. But the salt with every entree; mixed in, on the side in 4 or 5 shades of pink and white and black and the utter indifference of the staff was laughable.

Sampan is on a main street in Philly's "Gayborhood" and all the waitress could do was "apologize" for the surroundings. (this, mind you, was without prompting from us) Granted, we were at a table right next to the Sansom Street Theater (if you don't know, don't ask) but who is she to know what kind of people we were?

Thank god a friend saw us sitting outside at our table (it was a beautiful day) and she joined us at our 3rd pitcher of water.

CapoGiro's avocado gelato (yes, a menu suggestion I trusted), made it all better.

"Going Brasilian"

Last night I went with a group of ladies to Brasil's at Front and Chestnut Sts. in Philadelphia for Wednesday night Salsa lessons. Sadly, no tomatoes or jalapenos were involved ;)

I have 2 left feet but I was game. Our group of girls included two Colombians, who knew what they were doing and were quite capable of improvisation, an African American who had been taking lessons for three years, and myself and another newbie who took 3 hours to get the basics. The instructor was a very fit Brasilian woman who shot me looks of pity and disgust everytime we were "out of order".

At 9'o clock the room, which was straight out of the "Dirty Dancing" movie, with the wood floors and mirrors, had 17 "boys" on one side and 17 "girls" on the other. (I got carded on the way in; I am a "girl" again!) We went through the basic left foot, right foot, stop in the middle, 7 count deal and once I finally got that down, things got crazy.

There were spins and turns and arm motions and hip checks and just advanced moves I just kept laughing at. I tried, I really did. At one point I took off my blouse, I had a tank top on underneath, because I was hot as hell! With the constant "men rotate", I would end up with either a guy who knew what he was doing or someone who was just as inept as me.

After the 90 minute lesson (yes, an hour and a half with the lights full up) it was time to just let loose and dance. (lights down, and music!)

I danced with my friends but guys asked us to dance as well. Some laughed, nicely, at my ineptitude, some gave up and walked away!

By 12:30 a.m. I had caught on but it was time to leave. I was hot, sweaty and tired! The instructor gave me a flyer for beginner lessons at her studio. I hope I wasn't the only one :)

Next week is "All White" Cuban Night (not white people who cannot dance, upscale, fancy party night) so I think I'll skip. Do I want to go again? Sure! Beats the "white man overbite" and it is sexy as all get out!

It was sensual, athletic; people who had never partnered before just fell into a rhythm right away. It was so awesome (in the proper sense of the word) to watch!

"Was 'When Harry Met Sally' Right?"

Can men and women not be friends? I went out last night after seeing a client to a really interesting open mic event. Thank god there was a girlfriend at the bar who is just as snarky and cynical as I am. We traded notes, a`la High School on her sketch pad, making notes and observations on the acts and the crowd. She is an excellent drinking buddy as she requires bartender intervention like I do :)

A male friend of mine was there working and I tried talk to him between sets and he just couldn't seem to engage in the usual banter we have. Maybe because I had on "bar clothes" and makeup versus "mom wear". Shrug. I flirted, I flirt with EVERYONE, it's just how I am, and he reacted by physical and emotionally leaving me be. He was kind and sweet enough to make sure "A" (drinking buddy) and I had a way to get home safely but he bolted for the door after the crowd left and made an odd phone call to me this morning to, sweetly, check that I got home okay. I tried to talk to him about maybe how I shouldn't hang at the same clubs/venues as him, but he has yet to address the issue.

I am glad at 36 I am still attractive to people but should that be a barrier to a long standing friendship? I feel like I lost a good friend because I wore eyeliner and tight jeans.

Is it a male thing? Can men not be friends with women they are remotely physically attracted to? Why????

"Mothers' Day Made Me Cry"

No, it wasn't burnt toast and cold coffee. My girls made me a stack of cards, and poems and handmade gifts. R's was more from the teacher but if you are a mom with kids in school I am sure you have gotten a variation on this before. There was a birthday candle, a pencil and pad, a crayon, candy and other items associated with a poem.

Here goes:

Mothers' Survival Kit

• Clock: to remind you that time will pass by too quickly, enjoy every moment


• Eraser: to remind you that every Mom makes mistakes


• Hershey's Kisses & Hugs: for when you've given all of yours away and you need some back


• Smarties: to thank you for all of your advice


• Crayon: to thank you for your sunny outlook, for brightening my days and ALWAYS warming my heart


• Candle: thank you for being my guiding light


• Puzzle Piece: because you are an important piece in my journey through life


• Paper & Pencil: to write down your thoughts and all the amazing, funny things I do

I lost it at "crayon".

"Spring Cleaning"

The husband and I ordered a dumpster to come to the house tomorrow and we have it for a whole week. Major purging of beyond repair projects; things the township trash collection won't take and just STUFF Goodwill wouldn't even take. I think we have moved some of this crap from 2 other houses to this one. It is time.

Spring cleaning is a good time for mental housekeeping as well. Those of you who know me well know my domestic skills (aside from cooking) are lacking. However, I have been working really hard on my brain space. My husband and I are going through a rough patch. We have made some choices, whether they remain permanent or not is to be seen, but they are our choices to investigate and work out. There are no rules that come with a marriage license. You can go to all the pre-marriage workshops you want or couples' therapy, but when you get down to it, marriage is a constantly morphing situation and you have to adjust.

People may be shocked or saddened for us for where we are currently; I don't want their pity. Really. We have come to terms for the here and now. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle ("Sherlock Holmes") said, "My mind rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram, or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. But I abhor the dull routine of existence. I crave for mental exaltation."

Perhaps our stagnation has created a problem to be solved. How it ends? Well, stay tuned.

"What Defines Us"

Anyone remember the good old Kinsey Scale? It is a self-assessment test developed by Alfred Kinsey, who did a lot (erm, even hands on) work in the 1940s and 1950s on human sexuality. The test asks the taker to perform some self examination (mentally) and to place themselves somewhere on a spectrum (The Kinsey Scale) of 0 to 6 to define whether they are exclusively heterosexual (a 0) or exclusively homosexual (6) or somewhere on the rainbow path in between.

I am sure plenty of people have either stoically placed humans in the "zeros" or "sixes" or have obsessed about where they fall; but my question is WHY? Do labels matter? It matters when you go to the ER/ED and they show you the stupid pain chart with the 10 faces on it and you have to describe your pain while your tibia is clearly not where it should be, but does it matter to define oneself internally?

I have taken the test for kicks and (shrug) I don't care what it says. YOU already know where you are before you take it.

Don't we have enough things that "define" us: race, religion, income, politics, clothing...? Do the internal labels mean anything to anyone but ourselves? Does sexuality mean anything in 2010? If it matters to you if your neighbor, your doctor, your postman is a zero or a three or a six is there something "wrong" with you? Do you need to perform some internal housekeeping? It doesn't define who is going to sleep with farm animals (notthatthereisanythingwrongwiththat), but who YOU think YOU are in a select part of your life.

Americans, who have shorts in Target for Girls (girl girls, not Juniors) that have less than a 2 inch inseam. We have Britney and the ilk. We drink, we smoke, we secretly smoke pot, we have sex before marriage, we cheat, we lie, we steal. We go to Church or Temple or Mosque and make it all better until we "sin" again. Mention same gender relationships, well shit, Christian, Jew or Muslim and you have a firestorm on your hands.

Why?

"Happy Birthday, Mom"

Today would have been my mom's 56th birthday. She passed away 13 years ago from lung cancer.

The first week in May was always festive: Kentucky Derby, Cinco de Mayo, and mom's birthday. Mothers' Day was/is soon to follow. The first few weeks of May are now very hard for me.

Anyone who knows me personally knows my mother and I fought like cats and dogs and never really understood one another. It wasn't until I was about 22 years old we started acting like adults (really, BOTH of us) and calling each other on the phone and making plans for her to come to the city to come see a ballet or go to the orchestra. We even survived a Christmas Shopping excursion.

When she became sick I was her caretaker as my brother, being the stereotypical Italian Momma's son, and my stepfather being an idiot. I took all my vacation and personal days and a leave of absence to see her through her illness. It was tough. It was a bonding experience. She and I were never closer when she was sick with chemo and I would climb into bed with her, holding hands, fingers laced together, napping. I realized how similar our hands looked. Same features.

I was angry with myself for a long time that we didn't truly get to know each other until she had 3 months to live. I suppose many mother-daughter relationships are tumultuous but I still beat myself up for it for years after her death.

I now have 4 daughters myself and I wonder every time I yell or hear my mother's words and tone emit from my mouth if their teen years are going to be like mine were. Will we stop being friends at 13 and start back up again at 20? Scary thoughts since H is 10; she is changing everyday with the eye rolls and the sighs becoming more and more frequent.

Happy Birthday, Mom.

"Why So Serious?"

Spent my Sunday in Philly. First stop was El Vez to treat my dearest and "oldest" friend Pat to an early birthday lunch since my month is so busy. A huge vat of the best guac EVER can in a lava rock bowl coupled with a pitcher of blood orange margaritas. I would have been sated with that alone :)

We stupidly ordered lunch on top of it and I feel into a boozy food and tequila coma. The waitress heard it was a birthday lunch and brought out churros with a candle. Very cool. We were so stuffed we each took one bite of the churros and were done.

Pat and I walked in 90 degree, 2000% humidity to Market Street so she could take the El home and I could grab a cab to the Art Museum to meet my friend John for the last day of the Picasso exhibit. It was oppressively hot. The second day of May should not be like August in Hell.

To add to the weather, it was: Broad Street Run Day (10K race), Susan Komen Walk, and Equality Forum Weekend. Philly was a buzzin' on Sunday.

So I meet up with John and we go through the exhibit, after declining the headphone/speaking tour thingies. For it being sold as a "Picasso Exhibit" there sure were more Miro, Chagall, Braque, and Gris. John estimated it was about 25% Picasso.

90% of the guests wore the guided tour headphones and liked to step and push to see "the art". Oh so so serious are we. It was weird. They were trying to look very interested and knowledgeable while standing close, then far, then close, cocking their heads one way and then another. "All the world's a stage" indeed.

Quite frankly, they looked so miserable to be there. I expressed to this to a woman who backed into me and (thank god) she was of the same (if not stronger) opinion. She had a degree in art (?) and we both agreed the whole point is to look and like or dislike. All this introspection and puffiness and silliness was more interesting than the art on the walls. (NB to people who hang pictures on the walls of the Philadelphia Museum of Art...short people see major glare on the pieces you hang so high and light so poorly.)

I digress.

I tried to get John to talk to her and meandered into another room of the exhibit but when we caught up he told me she was there with someone. Poor Johnnycakes. Then all of the lights in the museum went OUT. OUT OUT. Pitch. It felt like minutes but it was probably less than 30 seconds total, but really freaky.

After deciding we got our $20 worth of high culture, we cabbed it back to El Vez (my life is circular) and landed in the middle of EQ. It was nearing the end of the day and people were hot, drunk and punchy. John went into the "Homo Hut", as he so lovingly refers to a pizza joint and I watched a street brawl between lesbians outside of "Sisters". It was rather entertaining. A cop stopped, tried to break up the fight and John pulls out his cell to video the whole show. Then the cop is pissed we're taking pics. John tried his best to explain it was for entertainment value, not the 6'o clock news.

We made our way back to El Vez, which had no more tables so we ended up diagonally across the street at Zavino for beer and tiny pieces of cheese. The waitresses were super friendly and let us park our butts at a table and people watch. Good times. It is funny to sit with a friend you have not seen face to face in 15 years. How easily you can fall back into the banter and kidding and conversation. Good times.

"Joni Mitchell Kind of Mood"

Well, I came upon a child of God
He was walking along the road
And I asked him, Tell me, where are you going?
This he told me

Said, I'm going down to Yasgur's Farm,
Gonna join in a rock and roll band.
Got to get back to the land and set my soul free.

We are stardust, we are golden,
We are billion year old carbon,
And we got to get ourselves back to the garden.

Well, then can I roam beside you?
I have come to lose the smog,
And I feel myself a cog in somethin' turning.
And maybe it's the time of year,
Yes and maybe it's the time of man.
And I don't know who I am,
But life is for learning.

We are stardust, we are golden,
We are billion year old carbon,
And we got to get ourselves back to the garden.

We are stardust, we are golden,
We are billion year old carbon,
And we got to get ourselves back to the garden.

By the time we got to Woodstock,
We were half a million strong
And everywhere was a song and a celebration.
And I dreamed I saw the bomber death planes
Riding shotgun in the sky,
Turning into butterflies
Above our nation.

We are stardust, we are golden,
We are caught in the devils bargain,
And we got to get ourselves back to the garden.

Words and Music by Joni Mitchell © 1969 by Siquomb Publishing Co.

"ACK!"

I spent 9 hours with my grandmother at the "old-people-not-drug-addicts-rehab" yesterday.

It was a nice visit to sit and talk when she wasn't dozing. When she went to Physical Therapy, I ran out for "linner" (lunch/dinner) and got her some food she could eat; the food at the rehab is just BAD. The staff doesn't even try to apologize for it.

One my aunts came over and took some of my grandmother's laundry to wash at home. Her entire visit was maybe 20 minutes? My grandmom was concerned her clothes wouldn't be back in time for today and my aunt was rather cavalier about it. I really don't think you should agitate your 87 year old mother who is sad, angry and stuck in Hell's Waiting Room.

But that is just my opinion.

My father came by about 6pm with some of the laundered clothes and ate my grandmom's hospital food while she ate the tuna sandwich I got at the market. He ate, watched the local news and left.

What the fuck is wrong with these people????

I cleaned up her room a bit before I left and saw she had a stack of clean clothing; so I folded it and told her where it was and left a note for another aunt who was coming to visit (this one is not an idiot) as to where the clothes are located.

Today I get a phone call from the idiot asking ME, who lives more than an hour away, to go get some more laundry and black pants because my grandmom has too many white pants. Idiot Aunt lives 20 minutes away from the rehab center. I totally freaked out, yelled, cursed and hung up.

I wonder why I have anger management issues?