291 Days Until the Big Five-O

People Let Me tell you about My Best Friend

Remember the theme song from the old Television show “The Courtship of Eddie’s Father” with Bill Bixby and that adorable little boy with the black hair?? Whatever happened to him? Did he end up like so many childhood actors, drugged, depressed and looking for a second chance in Rehab or on some Cable Television show? I hope not.

The world really has changed from when I once sang along with that catchy tune…”People Let Me Tell you about my best friend” once a week. The song referred to a father and son, but my best friend is someone I met on the way to Kindergarten, which brings me to topic of this particular post.

Sharing a Soul…

I have decided we do not necessarily have “soul-mates” as much as we have “shared souls” wandering the world. The difference is critical, to me at least. A “soul-mate” infers finding that special ONE person you either marry or feel a connection to on a very deep level. Yet, I think our souls go way beyond being pieces of a big puzzle looking to fit in with 3 or 4 other pieces cut out so they interlock perfectly to form a bigger piece of the puzzle. I am beginning to think life is not a puzzle at all. We may never ever figure out the big picture. The goal is not to find the mate(s) for your soul, the goal is to find the souls sharing the same molecular structure so each soul can simply expand on its own. It remains a nebulous entity defying explanation, or visualization.

I share a soul with my mother, and my best friend. I am convinced we are all cut from the same nebulae in the heavenly invisible Quilt sewn by the force of nature most of us call G-D. As we have traveled through life together my best friend and I have not just “shared” experiences like living together in college or making phony phone calls all afternoon while in grammar school (and in college too). Yes, we laugh at all the same things (actually we are usually the only two people laughing). But somehow, even where our lives diverge:

Different Parents, and therefore different siblings.
We live in different suburbs now
She married young, and had children way before I ever even got married, let alone reproduced.
She is the oldest of 2 and I am the youngest of 3
She is good in math and I can barely add and subtract.

So how is it we both have had to deal with parents who were much older than everyone else’s parents while we were growing up. And our kids (hers are 21 and 19, mine are 11 and 13) seem so much alike and they run into so many of the same exact “issues” you would think they shared the same parents. We both have cousins with many challenges (mental, physical) even though mine our “first” cousins with no parents and hers are second or third cousins whose parents are still alive. We have sister-in-laws who are so identical to one another I am convinced they were separated at birth.

No matter how much our lives diverge over the last 4 and a half decades, they seem to converge even more. So what is that if it is not a shared soul? There are simply too many coincidences between us for it to be a coincidence that we met on the way to kindergarten, which it self was a strange coincidence. You see, my last name started with a K and hers with an S. We were not “supposed” to be going to kindergarten at the same time. Kids with last names starting with A to M were supposed to go in the morning for the first half of the year and then in the afternoon for the second half of the year while kids with last names starting with N to Z were on the opposite schedule. They started the year out going in the afternoon and then finished it by going in the morning. But my “best friend” had just moved into the neighborhood and when her parents registered her she was put with the A to M crowd even though she was an S because that group already had too many kids in it. So, there we were strolling down Rosemont at the same time every morning. We walked and talked, our mothers trailing behind us. We had no idea how profound that picture would become in both our lives, us, walking and talking, and our mothers always behind us, except now it seems more like we are pulling them along on the invisible Wagons we all carry loaded with life’s responsibilities, obligations and emotional treasures.

292 Days Until the Big Five-O

What to do?

The daily care and maintenance of elderly parents is a full time job. My best friend and I are on that part of life’s journey simultaneously. We rely on each other for advice, as sounding boards and as our very own resource system. Following is a sample of one of our exchanges via email. I have been very worry as of late because my usually sharp 90 year old mother has seemed confused a lot lately. I have changed all the names (not that you couldn’t figure out mine) to protect the innocent (if that is what you want to call them). I also took artistic license to edit, augment, and change whatever I felt like.

Robert Wrote:

How is your mother’s oxygenation level? I thought the first time she spent time in the Manor (sounds like a euphemism along the lines of 'Shalom, Baby') she needed oxygen. It may be a good sign that she recognizes she's confused. Did her dr. have a plan if the confusion didn't lessen with the anti-biotics?I got an email from Irwin forwarding a Facebook message from Lawrence M. Do you know who that is? He went to Boone, then went to Lane, where I knew him from some shared classes. He was a really weird guy - smart, attractive, but off social skills. I never saw him with a girl. He sat behind me in English junior year and I can only describe him as hostile and verbally abusive. He was prone to negative comments about girls - stupid, etc. - and proudly wore a hoodie most days that said 'male chauvanist pig' over an elaborate drawing of a violent looking pig. This was not popular clothing at the time, and at a school of 5000 teenagers, he was the only one I ever saw wearing something like this. Since it seemed like he really hated women, I was surprised to learn via Irwin that he married one. Of course, according to his story, he picked her up at the beach when he was 40 and she was 20, married her eight years later, and then had his first kid recently. He's a radiolotist, so he's not hurting financially, and she probably thought she hit the jackpot. Can you imagine having anything in common beyond physical attraction with someone that much younger than you? It's so funny how after all these years, this guy's life trajectory seems consistent with where he was going in high school. My mother needs anti-depressants but refuses to take them. She's having trouble with her eyesight.


I wrote back:


I was with Irwin when he sent that to you. I love the flow of your writing and how it ends so abruptly with “my mother needs antidepressants”. Thanks for the tip on the oxygen. I have to call the "Rabbi on Wheels" to see if they can take my mom to the dr. for a four thirty appt. Unfortunately the fucking place where she lives needs to find people who can drive their stupid van around for more than 6 hours three days a week. motherfuckers.

Get a load of my “to do” today:

Call my mentally challenged adult male cousin’s attorney so I can then say the right things when I call the SS Nurse about his disability qualifications.

Call the State of IL. SS Nurse (ominous acronym wouldn't you say?) to get my mentally challenged cousin who I have been helping way too much over the last 4 years so I can get him On Disability and OFF my fucking nerves.


Call Rabbi to see if his guy (hey, a new sit com idea for FOX: The Rabbi's Guy instead of the Family Guy – imagine the possibilities) can drive my mother who will be very hostile after being examined in her apartment for a hearing aid fit to the doctor to see what else we can do to bring her back to her Jolly Old Self.

Clean (a figure of speech in this instance) my house which is slowly turning into site soon to be given "disaster status" by the President of the United States no less - just ask him, go ahead I dare you. He doesn't seem to be too busy fixing the economy, putting people back to work, or living up to all those "words" he said were not just "words". Denise told me he is playing more Golf than W did! That must be when he is not out partying with Desiree, Valerie and all the girls in the East Wing.

Try to Remember the other 100 things I absolutely NEED to do like get my daughter ready for an Ice Show.
Go to the ice show.
File, File, File,: son’s stuff, daughter’s stuff, mother’s stuff, cousin’s stuff and my stuff (who the hell is “I” anyways?).

Write the Great American Novel OR simply put a Post on my poor neglected Blog (perhaps I should just copy and paste this email) Hey, can I have your permission to do that. I will change your name to protect your innocence (not that you have any left) and i will also change the name of the individual you gossiped about because I was petty enough to make my friend send you his info on face book. Face Book is just contributing to the overall Gigantic/Enormous aka my new word GI-Normous flow of useless information being used to submerge our culture and our people into mindless robots easily manipulated by some secret cabal of super rich people hiding their money in Castles somewhere off shore.

Robert Wrote Back:

Post away. Change names please, and it's not gossip - it's a memoir. I noticed that when I started checking your blog regularly it seemed to dry up. Re: the great Obama: I'm getting sick of all this complaining from people who thought we elected the Messiah and are getting impatient about the deliverance. Take a look at who is impeding progress, and make sure you don't see yourself. One thing about Republicans; they're loyal in the long term, willing to wait out even complete incompetence and malfeasance until they can elect it again. Considering the depth of poop Bush left behind, I believe it will take more than a year to clean it up. I'm hoping it takes at lease eight.I just got my daily frantic call from my mother near tears because she's frustrated about some phone call she needs to make or a form she needs to fill out. I repeat, daily

I wrote Back:

Okay, I will post away. It did not dry up. I am calling you right now and you are not answering so I guess you're talking to your mom. I hate when you make sense (e.g. with Obama) but then again, the guy had a MANDATE and he is so damn smart I can't help but feel disappointed in the Democrats yet again. I think you and I should either start a 3rd Party (the Independents are not really an organized group and if they are they are not very effective) or better yet, a 3rd World Country - Get ourselves a small chunk of land no one else wants and see how long it takes before a bunch of morons want to attack us for no good reason (e.g. like Israel).

love ben

Our Pseudonyms should be Robert and Ben.

293 Days Until the Big Five-0

This is based on Prompt number 9 from the book Branches by Nancy Beckett.

“Describe a person or a group you saw everyday on the street or in a neighborhood. Place yourself in the scene and describe the setting, clothes, weather and where you were going.”

The newspaper stand on the corner of Rockwell and Devon was a blue wooden structure that looked a lot like the little house I see in backyards all over the suburbs. These backyard sheds can be bought at Menard’s or Home Depot and are used to house lawn mowers in the winter and snow blowers in the summer so garages can be free of clutter. The newspaper stand looked like a small barn to me when I was a child and had no idea about suburbs, backyards, or snow blowers. My father and brothers equipped with shovels were my idea of snow removal. Lawn care followed the same principle but with a manual piece of metal. My mother with a rake and a broom managed to pick up all the loose grass after each lawn, front and back, got the weekly hair cut in the summer. In the city we had basements to store all these shovels, rakes, lawnmowers, sprinklers and anything else needed to make the outside as beautiful and clean as the inside of where we lived. In the suburbs Basements are usually furnished and use for R&R, not laundry and bicycle storage.

I often wondered where the old scrubby newspaper man lived. His little blue hut was barely big enough for him and his stool and his stacks of papers. He decorated the outside with a sample of all the products he had: The Chicago Tribune, The Chicago Sun-Times, The Daily News, The Jewish Sentinel, The Wall Street Journal, The North Town News (I cannot recall if North Town was one word or worked into a single word). There must have been others but I don’t really remember. I don’t remember much really about the old man and his newspaper stand. I just remember it was there. I cannot recall when it finally was removed. I think it was still there when I took the Devon Bus everyday to go to Circle (now known as the University of Illinois, Chicago Circle). Back then we just called it Circle. It was appropriate my first college experience would be at someplace representing the shape of my life, I always seemed to be going in circles, never getting anywhere. Is that what was happening to that old man sitting in the blue hut? He started handing out newspapers for a dime, or on Sundays for a quarter and they were filled with words about wars, Viet Nam, or the Six Day War in Israel, or one of the other many wars raging in the Middle East, or about hippies and the Civil Rights Movement. Eventually the price of the paper went up and the wars changed names and locations, the fervor of the Civil Rights movement faded, the 60’s became the 70’s and the news was a lot less exciting. No man landing on the moon, no more marching on Washington, no more being afraid of Russia, really afraid I mean.

I never knew the old man’s name and I can’t recall ever hearing him talk. But I saw him. I just wish I could remember when I stopped seeing him, stopped reading the newspapers, stopped thinking about the all the different wars that have come and gone over time. Some of the newspapers died, and I am sure the old man eventually died as well. His little wooden blue hut was taken down by some city of Chicago employee perhaps or maybe the local Chamber of Business for Devon Avenue. The entire street was changing, the dream street. It had been a shopping destination for over a decade with Jewish people from all over Chicago coming there to stroll along the stores offering fine clothing, bakeries, jewelry, records, perfumes, cameras, grocery stores, shoes store, and so much more. It was a rich man’s Maxwell Street, the famous place for shopping for immigrants and discounters, where so many of our ancestors landed to begin a business and perhaps for a lucky few to build an empire to pass along to their children selling socks, ladies’ underwear, or watches. Devon was a street where kids ran to get the paper for their parents at the corner or cars would pull up on Sundays and honk signaling the old man. He would come out of the hut wearing his blue apron with the big pockets take the quarters from the outstretched hands of drivers with his left hand while passing them the newspapers heavy with advertisements with his right hand.

Devon was simply re-modeled for the newest influx of immigrants from India and Pakistan. Soon there were Sari’s for Sale and stores filled with Electronics and Spices (I never did see the connection between those two), and jewelry stores where the jewelry had this incredibly unusual tone to it that I had never seen before. It looked fake but I was told it was not. Parking became unbearable as more and more people moved into tiny apartments and more and more families owned 2 cars. The street would become some other child’s youthful dream of days gone by when their parents first got to America and made a place for themselves that reminded them of home.

294 Days Until the Big Five-O

Tradition! Tradition! Tradition!

Oh how we love Traditions. They make us feel warm and happy. The recognized and predictable create continuity in our hectic ever changing world. And each family can create their very own traditions. A unique tradition enhances the emotional value it holds for everyone involved. It is “ours” and we grow to love it like a puppy or a kitten. Even better, traditions don’t grow old. They seem to stay young and thereby they keep us young.

I have decided to start my own tradition, one I cannot share with the rest of my family and friends, but a tradition I feel is just as important as our family visit to Pittsburgh for Thanksgiving or the celebration of a friend’s birthday at our favorite Tapas restaurant. I have started a tradition with my Van. Yes, my Van. I consider the Van to be The Academy Award of motherhood and all that is right with the world. I see it as the symbol of “I made it!” I am a real success. I was never into cars growing up. Mainly because I am a girl, and more importantly because my family did not own one, for very long that is. So, my first car, a Nissan Sentra, was fun and cheap (we had a lot in common). It served its purpose and lived a long life (I hope to do the same). I was sad to see it go, but I replaced it with the new and trendy car that you can’t dent. Obviously it did not leave a lasting impression on me because I cannot even recall its name, but I do remember the effective marketing associated with it. It was that car where you don’t have to negotiate a price. You know the one. But it was not until I got my first Van that I really fell in love with an automobile. I fell in love with the space it provided and the easy access to children in the second row, and being high up so I can see over the cars or peer into the windows of all those fancy SUV’s. Oh, I knew I was not one of them, but yet, I felt superior in some way. I had something those SUV’s only dreamt of having. I am not sure what it was, but it I knew it was there.

It never really mattered what Van I had, any Van would do. So I guess I am the Tiger Woods of Van Love. Any port in the storm, any Van in the Garage will do. Once my husband decided I needed a new Van. He stopped at Carmax on the way home from work and bought it. He replaced the old Van with the new One and did not tell me. I went into the garage the next day, got in the Van and went about me daily routine without even noticing it was a different vehicle. A Van is a Van in my eyes. I think I will always want to drive a Van even when I am 80 years old, if I am still allowed to drive by then.

My Tradition with my Van is in its 3rd or 4th year. I stopped counting. I think of it as a Holiday Tradition because it always occurs at the same time of year as Hanukkah and Christmas. I find a large chunk of ice in a strip mall parking lot where I have parked while running an errand (e.g. Going to the bakery, the orthodontist, the drug store) and as I am leaving (yes it is important this occurs on the departure from the lot and not the arrival). I need to somehow maneuver back and forth in order to pull out of any parking situation. . I don’t see it, but after plowing there are always mini mountains of ice in every parking lot. Since I still have the cognitive development of a 2 year old, if I don’t see it, then it does not exist. It is a simpler way of living, but one for which I have a deep appreciation. So I drive into the large chunk of ice and destroy my front fender. Crack it wide open! I then drive home hearing some strange noise and think, “oh shit, not again!” My average Van will last 10 years. Over the course of its life, it will need to have at least 8 new front fenders. I drive by Braille I guess. Sometimes the cracks can go un-mended but usually I am stuck with a large bill I consider to be the Christmas present my Van did not ask for but got anyways like the ugly sweater with the bells on it. Yes, it is a Christmas gift, not a Hanukkah gift, because my Van is not Jewish. I know that how? I am not sure.

So my Van is the Titanic always in search of the elusive iceberg. But my Van and I will not go down with the ship. We get on the life boat and say good-by to yet another Front Fender. You served us well. You will be missed. You will be replaced. And the tradition continues.

29Five Days Until the Big Five-0

Okay, I can’t help myself. I guess I have more in common with Tiger than I care to admit. But in the event he becomes hard up looking for new sponsorship deals, I have a few ideas for products that might benefit from his endorsements:

Trojan Condoms, because it’s never too late to start using protection.

Viagra, because it will turn you into a real TIGER!!!

Miracle Grow. Do I really need to explain this one?

Timex – just like Tiger, we can take a licking and keep on ticking…
Forget those high end Tag Heuer watches, we like our watches to be like our women, cheap, easy, and reliable.

296 Days Until the Big Five-O

Let me get this out first:

I hate myself for what I am about to write, but I can’t help myself either. It has to come out. As my children will tell you I am a “jump on the bandwagon” kind of fan. I only like sports when a home team is doing well and then I become the head cheerleader. It must be due to all the energy created in the atmosphere by the media here in Chicago when we get a team that is doing well. Otherwise, Sports, for me, is a fairly boring topic. But a team going to the Super Bowl, WOW, or the World SERIES, HOLY COW (ooops wrong team, sorry Harry), or a team skating to the Stanley Cup (who the hell was Stanley?). So, all the media now is creating energy around an athlete, not really the team or the sport, and I can’t help myself. Which now brings me back to the real topic of this post.

Maybe Tiger could not help himself? Maybe he is a sex addict and Dr. Drew could help him on one of those fabulous detox shows he is doing on some cable channel. Are sex addicts any different than alcoholics (even Oprah has done a show on sex addicts and it was RECENT, but BTTS (Before The Tiger Scandal). You see, I don’t care if Tiger gets to use his fame and money to attract bees to his honey comb. That is his business, but what puzzles me is if someone knows he has this addiction, then why did he get married? The two lifestyles simply don’t go together (like an alcoholic becoming a truck driver – some where, some day, someone is really going to get hurt). You see I get it. An addict (sex, drugs, rock and roll) gets a real, genuine feeling of being HIGH when satisfying their addiction. It is euphoric. I get it. But why drag some innocent woman into a marriage, impregnate her, and then humiliate her in front of the world. We know you did not did not do this because your wife was not pretty enough, sexy enough, fun enough, smart enough. Hell Men cheat on the most beautiful women in the world. There are no guarantees in life. Men do it because it gives THEM a high, and gosh darn it, they deserve it (in their own minds at least).

I am sure as time progresses more and more women will feel empowered to follow this example of the easy solution for massaging ones ego. However, wouldn’t the world be a better place if we were all just a little more honest with ourselves and each other? If you choose not to control your sexual appetite, then DON”T get married! It is really that simple. Ask George Clooney. He looks very happy to me. However, if you do decide you would prefer the lifestyle of a wife and children or a wife and no children, then realize that in order to be a genuine success at the role of husband and father, you will need to control that appetite or find ways to fulfill those needs WITHIN the context of the marriage. Your EGO cannot take precedence over your wife’s mental and physical well being. It is that simple. You are putting an innocent person at risk for a whole host of possible diseases (even if you do use a condom, take Sex Education 101, Herpes can be transmitted without intercourse, not to mention unsightly cold sores in the mouth area, or oral sex which is also an avenue commonly used for transporting diseases). More importantly you are destroying the most valuable resource of any marriage, TRUST.

So Tiger, I jumped on the bandwagon of the millions now following your every move in the media instead of on the golf course. Once again, our society has chosen to take an Athlete and turn him into some kind of HERO, Role Model, Salesman for everything from Watches to Sports Drinks, to Clothing to Lifestyle. And in reality all they really are is a distraction from the real world issues we should be thinking and talking about, health care, jobs, scientific research, the take over of our government by the corporate elitist putting profits over people. It is more fun to read about some rich athlete who is able to find sleazy women willing to sleep with him.

297 Days Until the Big Five-O

Based on Prompt number 8 from the book Branches by Nancy Beckett.

“Tell a story of going shopping with your mother when you were young. Describe a variety of stores or kinds of shopping tours that were available to you then.”

Growing up in Chicago’s West Rogers Park meant all our shopping could be done on one street whether we were looking for groceries, clothes, shoes, records, model kits, toys, cameras, eyeglasses, pharmacies, ice cream, pizza, fresh baked goods, or a kosher butcher. Devon stretched all the way from Sheridan Road to Lincoln Avenue, but the slice I was most familiar with went from Western to Kedzie. It was the epicenter of my world and in many ways became the center of my being. Devon Avenue was the gooey chocolate hiding inside the middle of West Rogers Park, a neighborhood that felt like an island of safety for a generation of Jewish kids, many born to people who came from other countries and were on their way up, heading north toward the Promised Land, Skokie, or even better, Highland Park. Many never left West Rogers Park, they stayed clinging to the familiar brick bungalows and apartment buildings, some so big they required multiple entrances, others called two flats with both apartments being filled by relatives. As I got older eventually I would get use to people younger than me saying, “Oh, my grandmother was from West Rogers Park” just like I once said, my grandmother was from Russia. Now my best friend and I jokingly call West Rogers Park (WRP) the Shtetle. I recently showed my son the movie Fiddler on the Roof and told him that West Rogers Park was my Anatevka (sp?).

The stores on Devon Avenue each had a distinct personality. This was before our lives would become dominated by large department stores. We had only one department store, Crawford’s, big enough to offer both men’s and women’s clothing as well as shoes and purses. But mostly there were a lot of specialty stores serving a particular need. One of the most famous and it is still around, but like many of the residents, it headed north, was Schwartz’s intimate apparel. When I was a little girl Schwartz’s meant only one thing to me, BRAS. I know they sold swim suits and “cover ups”, but their swimwear was far more expensive than the bathing suits my mother bought for me at Community/Shopper’s World, our version of K Mart. So, the only thing left for my family that would have had any hope of being purchased at Schwartz’s was a BRA.

I did not want to wear a Bra. I had no interest in developing breasts so when I turned 10, got my period and started gaining weight; I also became a rather rude insolent child. Looking back I am going to cut myself some slack. My dad died in March of 1970 and I turned 10 the following July. I think that trauma may have contributed to the dramatic metamorphosis my body went through. It was that or the fact my mother decided to heavily sedate our family by providing enormous portions of pasta, fried foods and junk food. I think the entire family gained about 400 pounds that year. But the only thing I noticed was I went from people teasing me and calling me Bony for Bonita even though my name is not spelled with an O, to being really fat, really fast. Needless to say along with the big stomach, rubbing thighs, and bulging back came the two breasts, 100 per cent fat at the time. So actually I did not consider them breasts. I just thought of them as more fat on my body. The last thing I wanted to do was draw attention to my growing body. I started buttoning my shirts up to my neck, wearing loose clothes and keeping my hair as long as it would grow. But alas, my efforts to hide were futile. Another sad result of losing my father became the most unusual aspect of my childhood. I had to share a bedroom with my mother! AHHHHH. We lived in a two bedroom apartment and I had been sleeping the corner of my parents’ bedroom. We were about to buy a bungalow. Welcome to the American Dream. But, fate intervened and the apartment building became the major bread winner in our family, and my mother became a Landlord. So, I became the landlord’s roommate which left little room for privacy in the two bedroom apartment where my brothers had to share the other bedroom with each other. I don’t know who got the worst deal, me or my middle brother, but that is an entirely different story.

The first time my mother told me I needed a bra I probably swore at her. I was becoming quite the aggressive child to match my new found girth. I noticed at school one or two other 5th Graders wearing bras. I knew I would not be able to prolong the necessity to strap some of the flab I called breasts down. I would look at my mothers’ bras and want to puke. They were big, white and ugly, just like her girdles. Was I going to spend the remainder of my life finding ways to prevent my body from jiggling? My mother convinced me I had to get a training bra. Ohhh, “I can train them” I said, “what can I make them do?” Along with my aggression I also became sarcastic and found I was rather funny. I would spend the next 4 decades sharpening that wit and using it as an effective tool to gain popularity, defend myself, and better yet attack those I did not like. I agreed to get the bra, but only on the condition that my mother swear to secrecy. No one was allowed to know about the training bra, NO ONE!

So one sunny Autumn Saturday, my mother and I left the apartment building and headed up Rockwell toward Devon. We lived only one and a half blocks from Devon. Many years later my best friend and I figured out we grew up on “the wrong side” of Devon Avenue. Not only was it a main shopping drag, but it was the proverbial “train tracks” separating the haves from the haves not of our little town known as West Rogers Park. Yes there were some nicer houses South of Devon but those were closer to Kedzie and my best friend and I were smack dab in between California and Western. The only good thing about that was our proximity to the Northtown Theatre. But the bigger houses were closer to Touhy or Howard. Back then I thought those bigger homes meant the families living in them had more money and better lives. I may have been only half right.

By time we got to Devon and made the right turn toward Western Avenue and Schwartz’s intimate apparel I could feel the surge of resentment moving its way up my pot belly and into my throat. Kids would talk about getting a bra and how the women who work at Schwartz’s would literally grab your breasts to put them in exactly the right place. I did not want anyone touching me back then, let a lone some older, heavily made up woman with long polished nails. We had gotten to Maplewood when I saw my Uncle Hymie and Aunt Frieda heading toward us. He was my favorite Uncle, my grandmother’s brother. That was the other wonderful thing about living in WRP, all our relatives lived in the neighborhood, aunts, uncles, cousins. My Uncle and Aunt had just finished breakfast at La Petite on the corner of Devon and Western and were heading back to their apartment on Richmond. My Uncle Hymie stopped, kissed my mother and casually asked where we were going. Unfortunately, my mother answered honestly and said “Schwartz’s”. I screamed “fuck you” (boy was I getting out of hand) right their on Devon Avenue in front of my favorite Uncle and took off running. In my 10 year old mind my mother had just violated a sacred promise by saying Schwartz’s was our destination, I felt she had told them I was getting a training bra! Why else would we go there? My mother bought her bras at Crawford’s where they were cheaper, but she did not need to get “fitted”. The only real reason we were going to the more expensive specialty store would be because we had a “special” need to fit me for my first bra. I guess I figured my uncle knew my mother bought HER bras at Crawford’s. It seemed so obvious we were going to Schwartz’s for me and me alone! I ran for a couple blocks and finally headed back to Devon.

I found my mother talking to my Uncle and when she saw me he quickly walked away from her and left with his wife on his arm. I walked up to my mother and she said “he doesn’t know why we are going there. He could have thought it was for me.” That thought never crossed my mind. I did not want to postpone the inevitable any longer. I could feel the pressure of my rapidly forming breasts on my chest as I ran. I knew in my heart I needed to lock them down. We went to Schwartz’s and the rest is a blur, the man handling, or should I say the breast handling, the choosing of the appropriate trainer, the payment, the exit, the plastic bag with the word Schwartz’s proudly scripted on it firmly in my mother’s grasp. We got home. I ran into the apartment and my mother brought the bag into our bedroom. I took out the three training bras and shoved them deep in a drawer underneath a lot of other clothes. My secret was safe.

Eventually, I got to high school, and guess what; you can train your breasts to do something, ATTRACT BOYS!!! I battled the weight from 10 years old on up. Some years I was thin (freshman) and the breasts were small but perky. Other years (sophomore, and ½ of Junior year) I was chubby and they seemed larger and more determined to head South on my body. But either way, they finally served a purpose other than as a source of embarrassment. By this time I had stopped shopping with my mother for good. My friends and I shopped Devon Avenue on our own from Kenmarc Records to Pint Size (only during thin periods). However, I did still make my mother buy the kotex without me present. But that will have to be HER shopping story.

298 Days Until the big Five-O

Is there anyone out there that did not have sex with Tiger Woods? Now, I am starting to get pissed. I feel like I was left off an important party list. Are all these women liars just looking to capitalize on the latest sales trend to tabloids? If not, and according to one of these chicks, Mr. Woods is quite endowed, I want in on the action. Tiger, call me! Don't tell my husband, and I won't tell your wife. I know you are use to tall, thin, long haired, goregeous women but you never know, perhaps a change of pace and stature might be interesting.

299 Days Until the Big Five-O

I wish I had a muse to help me write everyday. Instead I find I am amusing myself in a very futile way.

Oh well..

300 Days Until the Big Five-0

Peace

Didn't President Obama win the Nobel Peace Prize? I wonder what the committee is thinking now that he is planning on dropping 30,000 more troops into Afghanastan. It does not seem like a very peaceful thing to do. Perhaps they should give him a piece of their minds in addition to the Peace Prize because he could certainly use a little help in his decision making process. Maybe he should be using the prize money for some Psychiatric help since the man of change has changed into the man of "more of the same."

301 Days until the Big Five-O

BELIEVE.....

I cannot BELIEVE this? I am considering giving up on the word “HOPE” for good.

I had hoped Barack Obama was going to be the President who would change the status quo.

I had hoped a President Obama would use that wonderfully gifted mind to guide a moral compass that would finally re-direct our country back on the path of peace, justice and prosperity for all.

I had hoped that even though Barack Obama was merely a mortal, and not a man of steel, his integrity and convictions were made of steel.

I believed him when he spoke of reaching out to main street, investing in our educational system and pulling our troops out of Iraq.

I believed things could be different and our country was not on an irreversible course headed toward re-enacting the collapse of the Great Roman Empire.

I believed in the tooth fairy.

Where has HOPE gone? I BELIEVE it has disappeared.

Instead of acting like FDR and taking the horse by the reigns, designing job initiatives and using the overwhelming MANDATE for Change and the power of the people who elected him, President Obama has opted for a half baked LBJ impersonation. But I won’t be fooled again. I BELIEVE Barack Obama will be a one term President, and the greatest disappointment in our nation’s history. At least with Bush we knew what to expect when the neo-conservatives planted him in office. We got the back slapping, good old boy puppet we deserved. But we did not deserve this masquerade from the man who ran one hell of a campaign and now cannot run a country.

Be Brave Barack. Stop listening to the same old voices from Finance to Foreign Policy.
It is not too late. Keep our troops home. Learn more about Afghanistan and the dynamics of the Middle East. Make decisions based on valuing human life over oil. Challenge America to come up with GREEN Processes to eliminate our need for oil.. Start a nation wide JOB Initiative and get our Industries competitive again. Hell, we made a nuclear bomb, conquered Polio, and landed on the moon. Aren’t we better than nation destroying, war mongering greedy occupiers? I had HOPED we were.

302 Days Until the Big Five-O

How do you spell Afghanistan?

V I E T N A M