Winter Wonderland

Spent the weekend at my parents' place in New Jersey. And it snowed! How picturesque.



Primo and my father made a snowman, or, to be more exact, a snow-demon who had fallen down and sustained a serious blow to the head. Esoteric son and father I've got.

Then we listened to Dean Martin and Elvis Presley sing Christmas carols and trimmed my parents' tree. Or, I should say, Primo did it. He decked the halls like it was closing time.

And when we were done, it looked pretty lovely:


And Primo said, "I have a feeling it is going to be the best Christmas ever."

It's Time To Talk

Last Thursday I was thrilled to attend an amazing event on dating abuse and domestic violence, as part of Liz Claiborne's “Its Time To Talk Day.” I interviewed an incredibly diverse bunch of experts about teen dating abuse, domestic violence and cyber-bullying; a sort of crash course in subjects I knew very little about. After all, like most of you, I’m not a parent of a teenager (though Seconda has some distinct adolescent qualities).

In fact, now is the ideal time for parents like me to get educated about these issues.

Because to help protect kids from various kinds of abuse, you’ve got to talk to them early. As Dr.Jill Murray, psychotherapist in Southern California and author of three books on the subject, put it, “It is much easier to prevent this than to solve it”

So, what can you do to help prevent dating, digital and domestic abuse from happening to your kids? Here are the big-picture points, the things you’ll be working on for years, and can never start too early:

• Talk about and model healthy relationships

Everyone I spoke to highlighted the importance of this, no one more persuasively than Ann Burke, whose 23 year-old daughter Lindsay Burke was murdered in 2005 by her jealous ex-boyfriend. Burke is an educator and a founding member of MADE, (Moms and Dads for Education) to Stop Teen Dating Abuse, and she says that you shouldn’t assume your kids know what a healthy relationship is, just because you have a happy family. Our kids get so many negative, confusing, misleading messages about what love is from the media that it's crucial for you to talk to them about what behavior is acceptable between two people that care about each other. Teens are especially susceptible to dating abuse because when they experience love for the first time, says Ann Shoket, editor-in-chief of Seventeen, it is so overwhelming, so new, so unchartered, it can be hard to know what behavior is OK and what's not. So you need to tell them just that – and you can start early by talking about this in terms of friendship, giving them guidance about what it means to be a good friend.

Talking is important but it won't be effective if you don't practice what you preach. If you're in a relationship that allows for physical intimidation, violence, or emotional abuse, children will grow to understand that that's acceptable, and all the preaching and urging to "do as I say and not as I do" will prove ineffective. Leslie Morgan Steiner, author of NY Times bestseller Crazy Love, a memoir of her abusive marriage, gave me a startling statistic: over 50% of people who admit to abusing their spouses admit to abusing their children, too. If you're in a relationship where you are suffering from physical or verbal abuse, chances are, your children are, too.

• Help kids build self esteem

Kids who have a strong sense of self will be better protected against abusive relationships. But children aren’t born with esteem, says Murray, they get self esteem by doing something difficult and suceeding at it or by failing and figuring out how to succeed the next time. Helping kids build confidence is not the same as constantly affirming everything they do, she cautions – they’re not going to be self-assured because you tell them how much you love the way they blink. But you can celebrate their individuality, help them come to know who they are as a person, what they deserve, and that they can succeed at things even if they fail at first .

• Keep lines of communication open so kids know they can come to you

Abuse thrives in secrecy, said Steiner: whatever it is -- domestic violence, sexual abuse, cyber-bullying – if the victim doesn’t talk about it, they become more isolated, more alone, more desperate. If they tell people about what’s going on, its really opening the door to stop it. Steiner said that part of why she was able to get out of the marriage which almost killed her was that on the night that she decided to leave, she told everyone. She needed every last person in her network to know about what was going on to help pull her out of what had become a living nightmare. Keeping lines of communication open with your kids is not as easy as it sounds, and it means that you have to suspend your emotionality when they tell you about things that make you livid and disappointed and sad, but its crucial.

Abuse doesn't have to be physical, either. Emotional abuse-- insults, humiliation, having every part of your life controlled -- can be just as devastating. We should remember too that our children are susceptible to a form of abuse we never had to grapple with, and that's digital abuse. Because so many forms of social media are so new, we don't yet have systems in place to protect users from abuse, and we are only now starting to understand the important of teaching kids online ethics.

Shoket says that 38% of girls polled in Seventeen say they wish they could escape social media. That's more than a third. And it makes sense, because abuse is so easy and seemingly without consequence on the computer screen. I spoke to Jason Rzepka, VP of Public Affairs at MTV, who just launched a big campaign against digital abuse called A Thin Line, and he explained that many teens who are participating in what we'd consider abusive language and behavior online, view what they're doing as no more than a joke. Part of what makes digital abuse so pervasive, he says, is that people are also emboldened to say and do things on a computer screen that they'd never do in person, because it just doesn't seem real. Of course, the effect on the people targeted is real, not only real but relentless, because today we have our phones and computers and iTouches with us 24/7, day and night, so that there is really no escape.

So what can you do about digital abuse? The first step is to teach children online ethics: that social media is not a game, but has real consequence for real people. Respect and kindness are as important online as they are in person. Hitting delete when you get a humiliating message or compromising photo of someone is as easy as hitting forward. We have to go over the basics, because if we don't, no one will.

The second thing you will want to consider is setting limits on technology use for kids. Murray says it is a really good idea to set up a system where phones and computers are handed over to parents or taken out of the bedroom when its time for sleep. Most digital abuse, she asys, happens between the hours of 12 and 5am, when you won't be aware of what's going on.

What it boils down to is its a big, bad world out there. But you're not defenseless against it. And if you have children that are still young, and still open to hearing what you have to say, you're in a tremendously exciting position to prepare them for the challenges they might face. Talk to them. Teach them about respect and kindness and ethics; show them what a healthy, loving relationship looks like. And if you run out of wise words you can tell them that I spoke to Tim Gunn --yes, the "Make it work" superstar of Project Runway fame -- and he said:

"Respect yourself, respect those around you and be a good citizen of the world."

For more information, you can visit Love Is Not Abuse, MADE, A Thin Line, Dr. Murray's website.


*I received a $50 Juicy Couture gift card in conjunction with participating in Liz Claiborne’s “It’s Time To Talk” day.

Who knew this was an S & M hair salon?

In honor of my birthday last week I decided to dedicate a little time to beauty. Nothing crazy, just what I’d call light grooming -- a mani/pedi and half a head of highlights.

When you’ve had two kids and have forfeited the joys of heavy drinking, smoking, drug use and casual sex, well, there’s not to many ways to get your kicks anymore. The occasional piece of chocolate cake or double espresso, maybe a Claritin D once in a while – and every so often, getting your hair washed at the salon. There’s nothing like getting your hair washed in a special sink devised to insure your comfort. Luxury! Relaxation! I, for one, think its absolutely sublime to have someone wash my hair, and that’s what I remind my kids of this whenever I’m shampooing them and they’re whining and crying and batting my hand away.

But on this particular occasion at the salon, I was in for a little surprise because I was assigned to a Rose, the Rough Hair-Handler. Rose greeted me at the front desk and introduced herself as colorist’s assistant (now is the part in the story where you find out that I get my hair done at a fancy salon that I can not afford, where everyone employed has an assistant. Even the coat check girl has an assistant and if that isn’t a one-person job, I don’t know what it.) As colorist’s assistant, Rose is expected to do things like fetch the clients green tea and magazines, hand the colorist foils, and set the timer which keeps track of how long the peroxide has been in my hair. But the most important responsibility, by far, is the washing of the processed hair.

By the looks of her, Rose would be a gentle and careful hair-washer, the kind that gave you an extra-long cranial massage and made absolutely sure the water temperature was just right. She had long, wavy brown hair, a round face and freckles – in other words, the kind of sweet, homespun girl who belonged on a prairie somewhere, not in the rat race.

Oh, but how misled I was. Because the hair-washing Rose gave me was as close to S and M as I’ve yet to get. First the scalding, steaming water on the scalp. And I don’t like to make trouble, see, so I tried to withstand the heat but finally I had to ask, meekly, if she couldn’t make it a little colder. Then I was treated to an ice-bath, and after that I didn’t dare complain.

But the water temperature was the least of it. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear it was the Yeti washing my hair. The girl had hands like a lumberjack. She yanking my hair and flung strands of it to and fro, rubbing and scrubbing like she was a crazy evangelical and I was a sinner she had to purify. Then she doused my entire upper face with the nozzle of water. Thankfully, she kept the water above my nose or I could have made a case it was

borderline water torture.

And that was BEFORE the mandated fancy-salon cranial massage.

When I sat up, my mascara was running, and my neck, shoulders and ears were absolutely coated in conditioner.

“Oooooh the color looks great!” she exclaimed with a smile as sweet as anything,” Do you want a blow out?”

“NO!” I cried.

God knows what the girl could do with a blow drier.

Monsoon Rainshower

For the past year or two, when we spend Christmas in Tennessee, my very sweet mother-in-law treats my husband’s sisters and I to an afternoon of beauty at the local spa/ salon. This year, since we’re all so cyber-saavy, she sent us a link to the spa website and asked us to tell her which treatments we’d prefer.

Now, I’m no expert in spa-life but I’m no novice either. I’m familiar with hot rocks and paraffin and know the difference between shiatsu and Swedish. But there was one item on the spa menu which totally threw me for a loop.

“What the hell is a “Monsoon Rainshower?” I asked David.

“A what?” he replied.

“It’s a body treatment,” I explained, “Says right here, “Monsoon Rainshower,” but no description.”

“I don’t know but it sounds really dirty.”

“I know, right? Don’t you think it HAS to be in some way related to a golden shower?”

“DO NOT get a Tennessee golden shower,” David cautioned. He said it like he had experience in that arena.

I was talking it over with my friend Lucy and she agreed that it was probably some version of Golden Showers except performed by a very large animal with quite a bit of urine, like an elephant or a buffalo. Hence the “Monsoon.” The website does specify that takes 15 minutes, after all, so it would take a fairly sizeable bladder to offer such a lengthy shower.

WHAT THE HELL IS A MONSOON RAINSHOWER?

Spa-buffs, can you enlighten us? I’d really like to get the image of a buffalo pissing on me out of my head, if possible.

The War against Swine Flu Begins in Coney Island

Remember a few weeks ago, when I was all gung-ho about the H1N1 vaccine, a veritable cheerleader?? Go Vax! Ra Ra Ra! and all that? That was before I actually tried to do it. I mean, I stand by my position, I just understand now that it is easier said than done, at least if you live in New York, and if you have a kid who’s too little for public school.

In my ongoing effort to avoid complaining and to accentuate the positive (thanks, David for giving me a complex) I would like to offer an alternative title for this post, and that is

How spending all day at the flu clinic allowed me to watch the sunset over Coney

Here’s how it went down:

After a few weeks of calling our pediatrician asking whether they’d procured the swine flu shot, I finally resigned myself to the fact that they were not getting it, at least not before swine flu season was over. I started calling clinics and wellness centers and every other phone number that the nyc.gov website gave me. A lot of the places didn’t have the injection version, which Seconda needs, a lot of the places didn’t have any appointments for a few weeks, and a lot of the places didn’t know what they had or when they could give it to us. Then someone on ParkSlopeParents posted about how they’d had a good experience at a clinic in Coney Island, no appointment necessary, no long waits. Sounded perfect.

I told my Dad friend, Ethan, about the place and he said he’d like to join with his two year-old Lily and offered to give us a ride in his capacious mini-van. Sold!

We walked into the place a few minutes after 1, when the flu clinic was supposed to open, and there was already a crowd. There was no sign-in sheet or any numbers to take and when I inquired how we were keeping track of the order, a little old lady who was the first in line explained, “We’re doing it the honor code way/”

Hmmmmmnn. Honor code way always makes me nervous. I certainly don’t feel deterred from dishonesty simply because of the honor code; I need an incentive, like public disgrace or a fine or threat of an angry mob to keep my honest, and I know there are many less honest than I. But hey, who am I to barge in and question everyone’s honor? I sat down and waited.

Thirty minutes later, the door to the flu clinic room was still closed. Apparently, the nurse who was supposed to man the clinic was running later. Not long after that, it was clear that she wasn’t showing up at all.

We waited. I had brought plenty of provisions for the kids, who were playing more or less happily, if not quietly, in a corner of the room. When they tired of drawing pictures and playing with trains, they found unending delight in rolling around on the filthy, germ-infested clinic floors, literally lying on their bellies and dragging their bodies from one side of the room to the other. It occurred to me that if Sec didn’t get the shot soon, she’d probably pick up something significantly worse form the swine flu from this waiting room.

People started to get restless, but eventually the clinic shuffled things around to get people to cover for the absent nurse and soon someone was registering people in the computer. Then a woman announced that they only had a few shots left for children and they didn’t have enough pediatric nurses so only the three kids who were already here were getting shots, and anybody who came later would be out of luck.

Not long after that, it was our turn for the shot. On our way to the exam room, I saw my Mommy friend Grace, who I’d invited to come along, and who had just arrived from the Slope. I told her about the shot shortage but said I’d put in a good word with the nurse. You know, pull some strings.

Sec, for her part, was in marvelous spirits, simply thrilled to get a shot. That kid just loves attention, no matter how she can get it. I am worried for the adolescent years.

“Can she give ME the shot now?” she begged.

The nurse was impressed. I exploited this by poking around a bit, asking if they had enough shots, if she’d be there awhile and she said she could give a shot to the kids who were here now, waiting. So I called my friend Grace on my cell and told her as much.

“Yeah, they totally have enough shots. The nurse just told me so.”

In retrospect, I should have leaked this info in a more clandestine manner, say a text message. But since I am secretly an octogenarian, it takes me an hour to type two words on my phone.

The nurse got piiiiissed at me: She actually made the tsk tsk sound, like my grandmother. She was covering and wanted to get back to her regular duties. I get it. But she gave Sec the shot and Lily too, and she even relented and gave Grace’s kids the shot, though none too happily. What can I say? One for all and all for one!

The whole shebang took about four hours. When we walked out of the clinic, the sky was already darkening. And we all figured since it was dinnertime, we might as well get a Nathan’s hot dog. Can’t come all the way to Surf Avenue and not eat a dog. And really, for that matter, you can’t come all the way to Nathan’s and not make it onto the boardwalk. And once you’re on the boardwalk, well, it’s be a damn travesty not to let the kids run on the sand and watch the sun descend into a sky striated with fuchsia and lavender. Just a travesty.

And that’s how we merry band ended up watching this spectacular sunset over the Parachute Drop on a perfectly lovely November evening.

Is THIS the price I pay for living in the greatest city in the world?

One of the great things about having Thanksgiving at my parents’ place in Manhattan is that we can walk over to the Thanksgiving Day Parade. This year’s was great, largely because we scored places on the high wall in Central Park and 65^th Street, so I didn’t have to bear the crushing weight of my children on my shoulders for an hour. Did you catch these floats on TV?

What was even more remarkable than the floats were the lengths people went to in order to have the best vantage point for seeing them. There were several people with stepladders and one guy who was carrying a full-sized ladder walking with some friends who were carrying large planks, to make a platform. God, I love New Yorkers. We are so crazily undeterred in our pursuit of the very best way to do everything.

Here’s what’s NOT so great about New York. Now, readers, I should warn you that what I am about to tell you is the single most revolting, most nauseating, most atrocious thing I have yet to say on this blog.

As we were rushing through Central Park to get to the parade, hustling down 65^th Street which had been closed to traffic, I stepped on something.

Something so squishy that I lost my balance and nearly fell to the floor.

Do you know what it was readers?

CAN YOU POSSIBLE IMAGINE?

It wasn’t a condom.

It wasn’t a rotten banana.

It was a dead rat.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

Just remembering it makes me want to hurl.

The good news is that I didn’t actually SEE the thing because as I was turning around to find out, hey, what was that sloshy thing I slipped on? A melted ice cream, maybe? David barked, “Don’t look!!”

The kids were totally nonplussed, of course, I, on the other hand, had to take off my outerwear and put my head between my knees.

Well, you know what they say: you take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and there you have -- the facts of New York life.

O Pretentious Day! Callou! Callay!

Seconda and I were looking at the cute animal rescue kittens in front of Key Food last weekend and this middle-aged couple came over to look, too. Seconda told them, “No you can’t! This is MY CAT!!” and batted away their hands from the cages. Oh, that possessiveness will serve her well in future relationships, no doubt.

The man replied magnanimously: “We have our own kitty at home. His name is Mimsy.”

Since we’ve been listening to Poetry Speaks to Children in the car, I was inspired to recite: “All mimsy were the borogoves. . . ”

“Yes,” he said, “Everyone knows that poem.”

Just on the off chance that he’s wrong and not everyone knows that poem, it’s the second line of Lewis Carroll’s The Jabberwocky.

I'd like to highlight several points here:

A. How pretentious is this guy to name his cat after the Jabberwocky?
B. How pretentious and I to quote the Jabberwocky on the street to impress some stranger?
C. How even more pretentious is he to under-play my correction placing of his cat’s name and to assume that EVERYONE knows where the word “mimsy” comes from. Everyone? Really? I think someone’s been in Park Slope too long.

But maybe he’s right. Once, on a lark, I looked up the blog address O frabjous day! And guess what? Taken.

So this is just an FYI for when you get a new kitty, and you’re wondering what to call it. Forget Mimsy. Its so overdone. It’s like naming your kid Emma or Violet nowadays. Call her Mimsy and half the feline population of Park Slope will come running. I’m naming mine Frumious Bandersnatch. Let’s see if everybody knows THAT.