Eau De Twenty20

This piece was first published in Little Old Lady Comedy. For more fun, visit their site at littleoldladycomedy.com.

Eau de Twenty20 is an earthy, outdoorsy fragrance with bursts of hygienic notes enveloped by undertones of conflict, natural disaster and comfort food. It is best enjoyed at a distance of six feet and through a face mask.

This unexpected fragrance grabs your attention at first spray with topnotes that tickle your nostrils like a PCR test. The sparkling scent of traditional Purell mixes with a splash of upstate distillery 80% alcohol sanitizer, giving the fragrance a clean, purifying start with a touch of whiskey. A warm note of morning breath reminiscent of your child, dog or partner brings complexity and evokes that stay-at-home feeling.

As Eau de Twenty20 settles in, more comforting notes shine through, connecting your kitchen to the outdoors, two of the only places one may safely venture. A grassy topsoil note, inspired by a crowded Home Depot Garden Center in May, characterizes the heart of the fragrance. It lends an aura of nostalgia for those who spent spring and summer days tending to raised vegetable beds and others who adorned their front yards with celebratory yard signs saying, “Look at us! We live here, and we care about stuff!” With a nod to mankind’s deepening connection to nature, we added a hint of toasted pumpkin seed, honoring the raw passion between hungry squirrels and carved domestic pumpkins. Outdoors meets indoors with a sophisticated blend of coffee, wine and sugar designed to help this fragrance endure from morning to night, all day every day.

An ultramodern finish, equal parts surprise, devastation and Devil-may-care, completes Eau de Twenty20. Smoky wood tones bring strength and depth to the fragrance base. Is that a new backyard fire pit or the entire West Coast ablaze? The many interpretations create a refined elegance. A textured scent of infrequent showers and well-worn sweatpants adds a sensuality to the drydown. Capturing the tension of the year, a signature note called Election combines a metallic urban bouquet of subway platforms and downtown bars with a wholesome blend of Midwestern corn and wheat. In a final twist, a yeasty, salty whiff of sourdough starter, delivered back in March from a well-intentioned friend who knows that sometimes the best gifts are also a responsibility, wraps up the fragrance. Who knew this weird new reality could be so delicious?

Eau de Twenty20 is encased in a spherical bottle with spiky red things sticking out. It includes a printer-ready sticker intended to hold a photo of your forever home.

Review of Scenes from Childhood, a Play by Ari Brand

Ari-Brand-Scenes-from-Childhood-Off-Broadway-Nathan-Brand-PianoLast month, some friends and I had the chance to see a debut play, Scenes from Childhood, at the 14th Street Y theater in Manhattan. The play is the first full-length production by actor/playwright Ari Brand. It tells the story of Ari’s father, Natan Brand, an Israeli concert pianist who began as a child prodigy and went on to an accomplished international career before dying young from AIDS, when Ari was six.

The title derives from a sequence of Robert Schumann compositions of which the most famous, Träumerei (Scenes from Childhood), becomes the motif of the men’s connection. The play is the story of a father and son whose life together has been cut short by AIDS; through their shared journey, a much larger narrative emerges. AIDS left many family stories untold, each combining love, pain, truth and shame in its own unique way. Maybe now, thirty years later, we are ready to explore them.

Scenes from Childhood brings that tragedy to the surface as Ari plays Natan, the father, and Eli, the son based on himself, in alternating scenes. This device enables us to walk in both men’s shoes, not only in their short time together but also over the subsequent decades of loss and grief. Eli’s search for answers about his father begins when he auditions for the lead role in a play. The role challenges Eli to consider the conflict Natan faced as an artist in an Orthodox Jewish household, which ultimately drove him to leave Israel and follow his passion to New York. From that initial desire to know more, Eli digs deeper, at times struggling with how to reconcile Natan’s legacy with his own search for identity. Eli’s brother, mother, stepfather and director, along with videotapes and other memorabilia, help Eli fill gaps in his childhood memory in bits and pieces. He comes to know Natan as a complicated man who struggled with his decisions and their unforeseen consequences.

Eli and Natan, along with Eli’s stepfather and Eli’s director, both played by Mark Nelson, form a composite portrait of masculinity in which vulnerability and uncertainty live alongside strength and joy. Rarely do we see the love between father and son portrayed on stage or in film with such depth. Eli’s mother, played by Nan Bleemer, is the glue that binds them, the foundation from which they draw humor and strength.

Videotapes and music may be the most powerful tools of Scenes from Childhood. They permit the action to shuttle back and forth in time, creating multiple perspectives and reminding us of the hazy line between life and death. Natan’s videos, shot on a giant, iconic VHS camera we see set up in the living room, are now a window to the past. They keep his music alive, give him voice long after his last breath, and offer answers to questions Eli is now finding the courage to ask. The video presence of the father is unforgettably powerful because of uncanny physical resemblance between Natan and Ari Brand — musician father, on video, and playwright son, onstage, could pass as twins.

For the older generation to reflect, for today’s children to learn this piece of history and for everyone in between, Scenes from Childhood is a story that deserves to be witnessed and told over and over. Thank you, Ari Brand, for sharing this with us.

Phone a Friend

iphone-5s-gold-in-a-bed-picjumbo-com.jpgWritten in honor of the women in this story, and as a tribute to the importance of Mental Health Awareness Month. Share your stories. Form connections. It makes a difference.

June 5th, 2018 was a Tuesday, remarkable for me because it was exactly one week after the worst anxiety attack I’ve had. Ever. On June 5th, I was riding the train from my suburban town into Manhattan, leaving my children at home to enjoy a few hours in the city with people I love. It was a feat of great planning. A friend and I were meeting in SoHo to catch up and then visit my friend Christopher’s art exhibit. After that, I was heading to Pier 60 to join a group of women for a Sanctuary for Families event, emceed by Seth Meyers. I had a dress and a change of shoes in my bag to address the wardrobe demands. But for the purposes of this story, I’m on the train, happily rotating between reading my book and staring out the window at the trees and towns blanketed in a bright blue sky. Seven days earlier, I was in a very different place.

Memorial Day started out low-key following a big dinner party Sunday night. Our good friends were packing up to leave our beach house after breakfast, and we hoped to leave soon, too. It always takes more cleaning and corralling than we expect to get the house in order and the kids in the car, so we started the process early. Until I lost my keys. This was the initial trigger for my panic. I oscillated between knowing it was not an emergency — everyone was safe, after all — and becoming obsessed because the longer I looked, the fewer places they could be. We almost always leave them in a bowl on the kitchen counter, but almost leaves room for error. After hours of looking everywhere, calling AAA, and eventually digging through trash, I was about to give up. I went into the kids’ bathroom for the third time, calmer now with possible solutions to transport everyone home, and I noticed the cuff of my grey sweatshirt peeking out from under a grey towel of nearly the same shade.

“Yes!” I screamed, remembering that this was the sweatshirt I threw on before a last-minute run to the fish market the previous day. I grabbed it, felt the pocket, and sure enough, there was the key that the AAA mechanics and all locksmiths would not be able to duplicate any day, much less on a holiday. I breathed easy and joined my family for lunch, a little embarrassed but mostly relieved.

That evening, I asked my husband Rich to drive home. In the key search, I had lost valuable time to work on an editing project, and had to catch up and meet a Wednesday deadline. We got home at a reasonable hour, with two kids already asleep, and quickly got ready for bed, but I never fell asleep. Tired from the night before, it made no sense, but I tossed and turned like a commercial for Nyquil or snoring treatments. But no one was snoring. Not a creature was stirring, except me. Underneath the anxiety over the lost keys and the deadline was a looming MRI, scheduled for Tuesday morning at 8:45am. We had a wonderful weekend, laughing and playing with close friends, but a little sliver of me believed I might be dying. Alone in the dark, that piece grew. No matter what I did, I couldn’t fight the fear. Eyes closed, I could feel my breath shortening, even as I tried to breathe deep. We had no melatonin in the house. I come from a long line of sleepers and have napped at both a Yankees/Red Sox game and during the Bruce Springstein’s encore. My brother famously took a powernap at a Judas Priest concert. Insomnia was not my norm.

The MRI was a repeat scan of my brain to take a closer look at something, probably a cyst. The original scan was done to investigate recent headaches, which disappeared once I got a vision test and glasses. My doctor assured me the mass of tissue was probably nothing, but mass and tissue are the kind of words we humans don’t like hearing in one sentence. I had kept my apprehension at bay but in the dark, magical thinking took over and replaced logic and reasoning. How could I sleep? I might be in real danger. What if something is wrong? Did I cause this? Fears and regrets swirled in my head, creating a tornado that spit out any positive thoughts I sent its way. My skin crawling and breath so short I was nearly panting, I moved to our guest room, went back to the editing project, and just when I was on the brink of successfully dozing off, I startled awake to begin the process again. Before I knew it, birds were chirping, closing the window on my sleepless night. Rich, who had tried a few times to help me in the night, woke up as I shuffled around, muscles tired, body limping into morning.

“Did you get any sleep?” he asked. I shook my head, still short of breath.

“I don’t want this to ever happen again,” I answered. “What’s wrong with me? Why does this happen?” I laid down on the bed, half sobbing, furious with myself for not being able to manage the fears, manage the dark, manage everything that needs managing with three kids and a busy week ahead. This was the worst night I’d had and the first time I couldn’t fall asleep, but it was not the only time I’ve struggled with overwhelming thoughts that wake me up in the night. Usually I can work my way out of it and use the solitude to organize, plan, and catch up on whatever it is that woke me. I think of this as anxiety that I can morph into healthy stress, but the line is razor’s edge thin, and sometimes it moves and I end up on the wrong side. Lying in bed, I doubted my ability to navigate life’s blindsiding twists and turns. If this is what happens under the stress of lost keys and a minor medical procedure, I may be ill-equipped to face big problems. How could I take care of my kids if I can’t put on my own oxygen mask?

“I have to talk to someone, Rich. I need help. I’ll reach out to Genevieve,” I muttered as the sky grew pink with morning.

“Sure, if you think it will help,” he responded. “Who’s Genevieve again?” Years ago, he might have said, “You might not want to tell other people, these are new friends, you don’t want people to judge you.” We live in one of those towns where many people seem very close to perfect. But this friend, Genevieve, would understand. She works in the mental health field, and she and I have discussed at length the importance of removing stigmas and encouraging people to get support. I typed her name into the search bar for texts and sent her a message, explaining my panic and asking her to get in touch. I needed to hear a voice other than my own. Breathing my first deep breath in a long time, I looked back at the phone. Strange, her name’s not there,I thought. Wait, oh my god…this was not Genevieve’s number. It was a text thread in which I mentioned Genevieve because we were making plans with another friend. A new friend. A friend who doesn’t know me very well.

“Oh my god, I sent that to Sarah, not Genevieve!”

Rich has no idea who Sarah is. She could be extremely judgmental, but either because I’ve convinced him to not worry about that stuff or he just wanted a little more sleep, he responded, “I’m sure it’s fine.”

Strangely, I felt fine about it, too. I texted back a quick “Sorry! Wrong person.” Unable to find Genevieve’s actual number in my phone, I copied my text into an e-mail and sent it, too tired for formatting or proofreading. It must have read like one of those e-mails from your friend who lost her wallet and passport in Kenya and needs you to wire $500, even though she is sitting in her cubicle next you. Genevieve responded right away.

This is from you, right? Are you okay? I will call you in a few minutes.

A text popped up from Sarah.

I understand. I hope you are okay. When I get too stressed, I sometimes talk to Ann Smith on School Street. Here’s her number — xxx-xxx-xxxx.

I showed Rich. See? People do understand.

In taking a risk and screwing up, I was now armed with two friends and a referral. As a wave of relief settled in, Genevieve called. We talked. I explained the night, and she taught me a new term I’d never heard: Scanxiety. I promised to check in after the MRI. My friend Jeanne offered to drive me to the appointment to avoid operating a motor vehicle, and then I called my mom and cried a little more. An hour later, inside the MRI tube with an IV in my arm, I finally fell asleep to the soothing soundtrack of banging and hammering.

The week between that night and the train ride was a blur. I made the deadline, got the MRI results — a benign cyst — and caught up on sleep. But a couple other things happened, too. I found strength in knowing I could and should get help when I need it, and I felt an intense connection to life. The joyful moments and painful ones were intertwined and beautiful, and sitting on that train, I was full of gratitude. As I put my book away, I checked my phone one last time before the train headed underground to Grand Central.

A Facebook alert from a woman I know popped up: Heartbroken to hear about Kate Spade. I was so proud to own her stylish and classy bags and felt taller, proud and more confident carrying them. Wish she had felt the same. Mental health issues are real.

I clicked through and read the news, tears welling up as I considered this icon of fashion, a trailblazer who splashed our wardrobes with color, humor and style, suddenly gone. Then I thought about the friend I was about to see who also works in fashion. Did they know each other? Would she be okay? A text from her popped up. “See you soon.”

A half hour later, when my friend and I met on Spring Street, we shared a hug and looked at each other with sadness and disbelief. In a quiet Italian restaurant, we sat by an open window, warmed by the evening sun of a lingering June day. We talked about the earlier days in the fashion industry, how they knew each other, and what made Kate Spade part of the fabric of our world. Innovation. Passion. Connection. Gazing across Spring Street to the Ear Inn, its door flanked by lounging twenty-somethings who painted a picture of our younger selves, we exchanged vivid memories from carefree days. Conversation flowed into children, husbands, hopes and dreams, the forces that tug and lift us in adulthood. When our fizzy drinks arrived, we raised them to one another as they joined in that unmistakable celebratory sound of glass on glass. But it was sorrow and compassion that brought forth our words, “To Kate.”

With a President Who Makes Fun of Rape, Victims Don’t Stand a Chance

Brett Kavanaugh. This is a man people like because he trains for marathons with a female friend and goes for a beer and a burger at a local pub after work. He is a proven liar, having lied under oath in his confirmation hearings in 2004 and 2006 about e-mails (Oh, the e-mails!!!), but we are supposed to believe him over a woman who has no record of lying under oath and no motivation for telling her story other than a desire to protect the American people from putting yet another narcissistic, lying sexual predator in power.

Kellyanne Conway accuses liberals of unfairly hanging the whole women’s movement on one man. In a statement, she said, “…we cannot put decades of pent-up demand for women to feel whole on one man’s shoulders. What exactly is the standard for ruining one man’s life?”

First of all, Kellyanne must have a different definition of ruining lives than many of us. If not confirmed, Kavanaugh will go back to being a judge and not miss a paycheck, life still intact. But let’s focus on the other part of her statement. Brett Kavanaugh is not one man. He is a nominee to the Supreme Court, and he will be making decisions for generations of Americans regarding their civil rights. 51% of those Americans are women, and as he will have some control over women’s bodies, his historic treatment of this population, and their bodies, is relevant. It is only fair that prior to confirmation, the Senate has the complete picture rather than another example of one woman being bullied by a group of powerful white men. Been there, done that. Ask Anita Hill. One would think we would learn from our mistakes and Brett Kavanaugh would be held to the highest standard of the law before he becomes its supreme representative.

What standard is that, though? Are powerful, wealthy, white men accountable for anything? It seems the answer is no. Back in early July, many of us were honoring the birth of our nation, either lamenting its unraveling at the seams as we watched fireworks through teary eyes, or cheering an America that is once again being made great by this racist, sexist, cold-blooded regime. Most of us, regardless of which camp we fall into, missed what happened on July 5th. In a move that reached a new low, even for someone with a seemingly bottomless moral pit, Donald Trump made fun of rape victims. He was poking “fun” at Elizabeth Warren at a rally in Montana and the kit he mentions is a DNA kit, but he blurs imagery in a way that mocks and ridicules rape victims who come forward.

Here is President Trump’s anti-Warren, anti-woman rally cry:

“I’m gonna get one of those little kits, and in the middle of the debate…we will take that little kit and say — but we have to do it gently, because we’re in the #MeToo generation, so we have to be very gentle. And we will very gently take that kit, and we will slowly toss it, hoping it doesn’t hit her…”

Now is not the time to discuss if it is okay for a President to publicly mock a senator. That would have been reprehensible in previous eras, but he is an evil, corrupt bully who has proven that he can get away with anything. What happened went well beyond his horrific comment. Trump, our Pussy-Grabber-in-Chief who has his own history of assault and rape charges, pointedly shamed women who come forward as victims of sexual violence and the audience laughed. That is reality now — the President of the United States of America can make rape jokes and Americans will laugh.

The nomination of Brett Kavanaugh to the Supreme Court is not a joke. This is a big deal. Dr. Ford, along with many others, were requesting a more complete investigation. That’s it, an investigation. We owe that to the future of a nation that claims to stand for equal justice for all. If instead we applaud a President’s rape jokes, shame assault victims, and refuse to investigate allegations of abuse during a Supreme Court nomination then we have lost our status as a nation that stands for decency, democracy and civil rights. We have become America the Ugly. We should shed more public light on the lying under oath thing, too. Pathological liars tend not to become more honest as they gain power.

Here’s the thing, Brett Kavanaugh and other men and women who see their adolescence mirrored in his. What happens at Georgetown Prep, and places like it across the country, does NOT stay there. It carries well beyond high school walls and college fraternity houses. It shapes the emotional and mental well-being of men and women for years to come, impacting their future relationships, their self-esteem and more. For victims, it becomes a lens through which they see the world, parent their children, process conflict and manage relationships. Sexual harassment, assault and rape are forever a part of victims’ past and future. Believe it or not, Kellyanne, it can ruin lives.

With clarity and increased awareness, many people are apologizing for their behavior in high school and college, and trying to make amends for their mistakes. Apologies do not fix incidents of assault and certainly not rape, but they can go a long way in speaking to character. For a more articulate and personal story on the importance of actions, here’s a recent episode of The Daily podcast from September 20th. Caitlin Flanagan, a self-proclaimed anti-feminist, tells her story, a story that could be that of your friend, your neighbor, your sister. Victims are people with names and families and futures, too. And the ending is moving. Listen all the way through.



View at Medium.com


View at Medium.com

View at Medium.com

View at Medium.com

Life and Legacy: John McCain and Our Friend, Laurel

Strange thoughts went through my head in May 2018 when tasked with the challenge of lying completely still, listening to loud hammering noises, for a half hour. Unable to move anything other than my breath and my eyelids, the ideas came swirling into my head, forming connections, sparking memories and shaping stories that left me longing for a pen and notebook. The MRI was an overly-cautious test to investigate recent headaches, and while the headaches had subsided and I wasn’t worried, I couldn’t help but reflect.

First, I started thinking about meditation and wondering how people let the interesting ideas go when they are meditating. The few times I’ve tried meditating, I can let go of the boring thoughts — the school pickup times, an e-mail that needs to be sent or a mental note that we are out of butter — but the interesting ideas take me off on tangents and down rabbit holes that leave me feeling energized rather than calm. Add the extra pressure of knowing that as my brain is working it is also being photographed, imaged, and explored, and it is the ultimate metacognitive experience. In that MRI tube, I was acutely aware of my thoughts, and all I could think about was my relationship with John McCain. John McCain doesn’t know about my relationship with him; this isn’t that kind of story. This is a story about how someone I don’t know personally has become a lens through which to view the last decade, and for seven of those years, I barely thought about him.

When I was inside that MRI tube for thirty to forty minutes, John McCain was still alive, but the world knew he was dying. If someone had asked my 31-year-old self in May 2008 to predict how she would feel about John McCain ten years later, admiration for his service in Vietnam but hope for an Obama victory would probably have summed it up. In the decade that followed, I have become a mother three times over and democracy as we know it strengthened and then unraveled before our eyes. A world that was beyond prediction is now our reality, and the rules for governance that we took for granted are abandoned practices, leaving in their wake room for corruption and extremism. And then there’s John McCain. As attitudes and realities shift around him, his is a needle that has remained in the same position. His unwavering moral compass sets him apart from many of his colleagues, and while we may not always agree with him, his strength and conviction are admirable.

John McCain is an impressive man for his service to our country, and yet there I was, ten years ago, laughing at McCain and Palin in the debates (okay, mostly at the Tina Fey SNL Palin skits) while dreaming of an Obama victory. Now here I was in May 2018, imagining McCain growing weaker, feeling sorrow for a man who had become an emblem of the world as I knew it.

As I continued exploring my evolving view of John McCain, I remembered my students in 2008, third graders at the time of the McCain/Obama election. In my third-grade class at the very liberal Little Red/Elisabeth Irwin School in the West Village, 18 out of my 20 students were democrats. 18 out of 20 were the children of Democrats, that is, and the other two came to me one day in June because they were being teased at lunchtime for liking John McCain. That was my first year as a head teacher, and I wasn’t sure exactly how to handle it, but we had a class meeting to discuss the teasing and the election. We talked about how people become senators and presidential candidates, and what a campaign platform is. I asked the students what issues they cared about most: environment, education and taxes (these are children of New Yorkers after all).

As we discussed their positions, everyone saw that the two candidates were more the same than different, particularly in their commitment to our country. More importantly, the students found common ground with their classmates and learned how to disagree respectfully. They stopped teasing one another, at least about this. McCain did not deserve playground ridicule any more than he deserved the immature, self-serving jabs from our current resident in the White House. John McCain taught us how to stand up to bullies with pride and dignity.

With many minutes remaining in my MRI, I wondered about these students and how they responded to the Trump election. We had watched Obama’s inauguration together, the whole lower school gathered in the common room, teachers and students bonding in this historic moment with tears in our eyes and pride in our country. Now, as Obama prepares to speak at McCain’s funeral, these former third graders can see firsthand how true leaders bridge differences, just in time to exercise their voting rights in the 2018 midterms.

In the final moments of my MRI, as my tangential thoughts took over, I thought about brain tumors, and death, and my good friend, Laurel Hagy Scagliola. Laurel, my sister Chrissy, and another friend Alexa were best friends since kindergarten, and she was like a sister to me my whole life. She died in August of 2016 from a Glioblastoma Multiforme and through her nearly three years of treatment, my friends and our families learned more about GBMs than we ever imagined. I remembered hearing McCain’s diagnosis, a terminal Glioblastoma, and aching for Laurel. She died one month before her forty-second birthday, leaving her legacy in two sons and a daughter. Laurel could have been an excellent Senator, an Olympic athlete or a comedian. She was smart, quick-witted, a college lacrosse star, and on top of it all, she was humble. Laurel chose not to live in the spotlight, but gave generously to those who knew her through her centered energy and optimistic spirit. She was a dedicated daughter, sister, mother, wife, friend, and physical therapist. Laurel was loved, and even in her death she taught the rest of us to be strong, steady, and even laugh a little.

Whether in the public domain or through personal relationships, a person’s life and legacy continues long after they die. If a few things had been different, I never would have been weaving together these thoughts inside a dark MRI tube. McCain could have won against Obama, I could have taught at a different school, Clinton could have won in 2016, my parents could have moved into a different neighborhood when I was a toddler and we might never have met Laurel. But life works how it does, and we never know what the future will hold or how our relationships will change. As the pounding ended and I got dressed, slipping out of the medical offices and back into my ordinary life, I took lessons from these two remarkable and seemingly unrelated people: live life with purpose, and try to leave a positive mark on those you touch, however few or many they may be.

Chrissy wedding

In the middle, with Laurel on one side and my sister (the bride) on the other.

Next Stop, Kindergarten


One day in June, after picking my youngest child Ian up from his end-of-year, extra-money, shorter-day preschool program called June Bugs, I had a moment that stopped me in my tracks as I realized he would soon be in Kindergarten. These lunches and afternoons of one-on-one time were rapidly disappearing. It was a drizzly day, and we had no activities or playdates planned. He is my third child, so I rarely plan things in advance for him, much to his disappointment. We usually look for a friend to go to the library or park at the last minute, or go by ourselves, but on that day, Ian didn’t complain, yell, or fall limp on the sidewalk in a tantrum as he watched friends go off in pairs together. He slipped his just-turned five-years-old hand in mine, happy, or at least content, to be with his mom.


All year we had been working with Ian on self-control and social skills, using his words, listening and managing his frustration. His teacher blamed him and his peer group of boys who he plays with, who she has referred to since September as a “tough group,” or maybe she blamed me. I’m not sure. In September, I mentioned we were thinking of having Ian evaluated. She gave me the thumbs up and said absolutely.


While I recognized Ian’s behavioral patterns and challenges, they seemed to be the developmental inconsistencies of a four-year-old who is only beginning to figure everything out. Knowing he could benefit from support, I accepted the free evaluation and services. I was happy to work with the school district’s Early Childhood/Preschool department and put a plan in place for services to monitor his growth. I, too, was a teacher for many years, and I believe the words I’ve told the parents of my students. Having more information about a child is a gift to a parent; we learn new things and understand our children better. I went into the evaluation process believing it could only help, and plus, who doesn’t like free stuff?


Since winter break, Ian had OT twice a week in a sensory gym, language support at school and a social skills group. He loved every minute of it. Where conversations with his teacher focused on his shortcomings, these therapists recognized his gifts and helped us understand how his mind works. He played fun games, people listened to him and waited for him to find his words. They taught him how to set goals and reach them. And here he is now, five and ready for kindergarten.


When we got home on that June day, he jumped out of the car and I asked, “Do you want lunch?”

“No, I want to practice jumping off the swing,” he answered. Then staring at the drizzle in the air he added with a shrug, “but it is raining out, so I’ll just play inside.”

I’ll just play.These are Ian’s favorite words. He plays on his own quietly and creatively for long stretches of time, even though he also likes playing with others. I didn’t get him lunch right away. Making a cup of tea, I went to sit in the living room while Ian played in the den. I enjoyed the rare few minutes to myself to catch up on mail and other things.


“Mom, can you find the markers?” he asked after a few minutes.


“Sure, do you know where they are?” I asked, walking in the room to check on him. Ian stared at me blankly, as if to say, If I knew where they were, I’d get them myself. Turning to scan the room, I didn’t want to go far hunting for markers, and I saw the kid’s art kit in the kitchen, just next to the den. I grabbed it and opened it. No markers. Only colored pencils, pastels, water colors and graphite pencils. Oh, well. I gave it to him and he didn’t complain. I left the room again and he was quiet for a long, long time, probably 30 minutes, which is an eternity in our house.


When I went back to check on Ian and start lunch, I noticed the DVD cover sitting next to him on the hardwood floor where he worked, hovering over a piece of white paper. He held a pencil in his hand with that perfect tripod grip that left the evaluators marveling. He was sketching the buildings and the people on the cover of a DVD, Iggy Peck Architect. He had picked out the DVD with conviction when we were at the library the day before, and while my older children had received the book for Christmas, we had never read it to Ian. Not only had he tried to copy the buildings and the people, but he had copied each letter in the title, despite not yet knowing how to read or write. He colored in a few bursts of color where there was color in the illustration, and was studying it carefully, comparing the two versions and working with precision to see what he had missed.


I heard myself gasp as I felt my breath stop and my body lighten. I was frozen, marveling at this child, his work, his ability. As I stood still, not wanting to say anything to interrupt him, my mind wandered. I thought of my dad’s realistic drawings of birds and nature from his youth in Delaware, of my older brother’s colored-pencil drawings of skateboarders that covered his walls in the 1980s, and of my friend who is an artist in New York and a long forgotten promise to take the kids for a studio visit. I pictured Ian skipping up the ramp to art class at Rye Arts Center and exploring different materials during open studio time on a snowy Saturday at Grace Farms in Connecticut.

As I observed Ian in the context of his evaluation, I recalled a book by Fredrick Backman, My Grandmother Told Me to Tell You She’s Sorry, in which the young girl narrator identifies everyone she knows by their strengths, characteristics she calls superpowers. In this snapshot of Ian’s life, art is his superpower. It brings him joy and pride, and is one window through which others see his abilities rather than deficits. Will I someday visit my artist-in-residence son at Skowhegan in Maine? Will he be able to make a career as an artist? Slow down. Brakes on. Enjoy this moment. Next stop, Kindergarten.


Note: While I know we are supposed to help children be creative individuals through art rather than copy other’s work, the Iggy Peck drawing, Ian’s process and his pride spoke to who he is and inspired me to write. He does plenty of work that comes from his own ideas, too. Here’s one!



Version 2

Love is a banquet on which we feed. That’s how it felt when Rich and I were younger, first dating, butterflies in our stomachs, long before having kids. Ten years and three kids later, love is more like a dining table with no candlelight dinner ever but three piles of mail that grow and shrink in a semi-sorted state; it’s a partnership with a never-ending to do list. It is comfortable, ordinary, nothing wrong, but something easily taken for granted or overlooked. Surely we are not the only ones in our circles of friends who feel this way at moments, but I might be the only person whose love was renewed because of a well-timed costume party.

Sometimes a little thing takes me by surprise and I fall in love with Rich all over again. It could be the way he walks in the doorway excited to be home and see the kids at a moment when I want to run out that very same door, or hearing him explain a concept to them in very grown-up terms with intricate details. On my friend, Maneli’s, fortieth birthday, it was seeing Rich dressed up as the famous photographer from the ‘70s and ‘80s, Robert Mapplethorpe, in a costume far more precise and compelling than I could have ever imagined.

Rich was not very familiar with Robert Mapplethorpe until about a week before Maneli’s fortieth birthday. I didn’t know Patti Smith all that well, either. I liked her music, but I didn’t appreciate that she was – or would soon become – one of my heroes. One important thing I’ve learned in the past few years is that love and heroes reveal themselves in unusual ways.

Fortieth birthday parties have become the new weddings for us. Many of our friends are married about a decade now, with kids well into elementary school. Unlike at our weddings, where we focused on linen colors, fonts on the invitations and other unimportant details, we now know what is important: time to step out of our daily routines, enjoy living, connect with friends and reflect on the relationships that define us.

If we get to wear a costume and travel to another time or place, that’s a bonus. While I normally do the bare minimum when presented with a costume theme, this one spoke to me more than the typical ‘80s or Great Gatsby party. Maneli, my highly fashionable friend who embodied all the beauty of her authentic Persian and faux Italian background, had always dreamed of living at the time of Studio 54. She decided this had to be her fortieth birthday theme. In describing her vision to us, Maneli was sure to mention that Studio 54 was not about generic disco, afros and psychedelic prints. She encouraged us not to think of Saturday Night Fever, but to research Studio 54 and to dress as actual characters from the nightclub’s heyday. She planned to dress as Bianca Jagger, probably without the white horse given limitations in the elevator of her cousin’s Meatpacking loft.

Challenge accepted. I considered Andy Warhol, Blondie and others, but needed to look no further than my second grade classroom. After dismissing my students, when I was alone, what did I play to create a bridge between a long day of teaching other people’s children and my evening with my own demanding offspring? 70s and 80s Rock. Velvet Underground. Patti Smith. Tom Waits. I played a lot of other stuff, too, all of which was startling to other teachers who stopped by to chat about lesson plans. Each piece was carefully selected to give me that moment of escape and that connection to art that I missed in the everyday moments of my life. The more emotional the better. A year before Maneli’s party, I left my teaching job because I had a third child. During that year, I immersed myself in reading and writing, and I had recently read Just Kids, Patti Smith’s memoir. A lightbulb went off, and that is who we would be: Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe.

Rich doesn’t share my love of ’70s Punk or Warhol’s Factory. I’m not sure he could have correctly answered a Jeopardy question, “Who is Robert Mapplethorpe?” if shown the artist’s picture a week prior. But as I have joked in the past, Rich has an attitude of “Go big or go home” when it comes to executing an idea, particularly for entertainment purposes, and he loves a good costume party.

We were approaching the evening from two very different perspectives, but with the common goal that for four short hours, we would be this couple.  We decided this on Friday. The party was Saturday. I spent about five minutes cutting bangs, then made a special trip to Michael’s to find skulls, feathers and leather string for Rich’s necklace. I bought a pair of perfectly washed grey jeans off a clearance rack at Marshalls. Up high in my closet, a plastic Rubbermaid container held secrets of a more fashionable wardrobe from my 20s. This container had survived three apartments and a move to the suburbs, and at the bottom of it were my black leather Gap jeans from 1999. They fit Rich perfectly. I thought we were just about ready, but Rich checked maps for retailers in New York where we could stop before the party to look for a few more details. Within a half hour in Century 21 on the Upper West Side, he had the perfect collarless linen shirt and motorcycle boots. Who was this guy, and where did he hide my husband’s khakis and polo shirt? I marveled at his transformation as we hopped in a cab and headed downtown.

When I met Rich, we were just kids ourselves. We were twenty-five years old, living in New York, surrounded by friends and enjoying the pace and spontaneity of city life. I used to spend afternoons wandering the aisles of The Strand bookstore in winter, lounging with friends in Sheep’s Meadow in summer, and nights watching bands play on the Lower East Side. Now we cherished four hours away from our children and a glimpse into a more carefree time. I’ve changed careers since we met. I’ve leaned in and leaned out as the parenting demands have shifted, and sometimes I wonder how I got here, even though I’m happier writing than doing anything else. Rich and I have agreed and disagreed along the way, and we’ve left our home in New York City to start fresh in the suburbs. We are not the same people we married ten years ago, but nothing is constant, and that’s part of the fun.

Even heroes don’t stay frozen in time. When I was younger, Patti Smith was an icon from an earlier era. When I became an adult, she offered an unconventional love story, and now as a parent, her writing provides a window into life’s journey that resonates deeply. Balancing love and loss with parental joy and a dedication to art, I see a hero who can honor the past while paving a path forward. Reading M Train last summer, after my Patti Smith-for-a-Night experience was long past, I found new common ground in our mutual love for coffee, Law and Order, and the stories of objects. When our country fell apart politically and I had no choice but to become an activist and an outspoken feminist, catching up on years of being too complacent, I went to see Patti sing at the PEN America conference opening night. Her voice is more powerful than ever; her strength and humility awe-inspiring. Patti Smith’s is one of the biographies in the Rad American Women A-Z book I recently bought my daughter, but she is also an ordinary person, living simply, hair turning grey, watching television and talking to her daughter, not so different from my own mother. Our heroes are just humans on their own paths who happen to have talents that draw the rest of us along.

Change brings surprises, opportunities, conversations and coincidences. It was a coincidence that Just Kids was fresh in my mind at the same moment as Maneli’s party and a surprise that Rich and I could strike such a convincing resemblance to Patti and Robert. That night was an opportunity to look at my husband through a new lens. The same blue eyes through which I gazed at him on our wedding day were now surrounded by a few wrinkles and shadowed by stylish, freshly-cut bangs as I watched him greeting Andy, Janis, Bianca and a whole bunch of people in generic afros and polyester. Under the disco ball, in the mist of the smoke machine, he stood out from the crowd. My love and my hero.





The American Dream is a Nightmare, and We Are Finally Waking Up

I originally wrote this essay in September, soon after Charlottesville, and I’m now revisiting it following the most recent examples of what I refer to as “The Daily Disbelief.” If I had written this today, maybe I would have jumped off with the examples of Trump calling Elizabeth Warren “Pocahontas” in front of a portrait of Andrew Jackson while addressing two Navajo war heroes. Does it matter which completely offensive statement, atrocious act of oppression or hate crime spawned my thinking? Not really. It is all just more evidence that we are living in a nightmare, with a racist, misogynist narcissist at the helm, and if we don’t wake up soon, it might be too late. I apologize upfront for the length, but it was like a snowball.

When I first heard about the rally in Charlottesville, I admit I was torn on the topic of removing historic statues. Growing up in Pennsylvania with strong public school history teachers and traveling the mid-Atlantic states with a mother who has a passion for Civil War history, I have visited the battlefields and heard the tragic human stories. Many young men were fulfilling their duty, not sure exactly what they were fighting for, and there were abolitionists in the South as well as racists in the North. Many Northern politicians had Southern sympathies, including the Governor of New York in the 1830s, William L. Marcy, who actively aided in the capture of free black men in Northern states and their return to Southern plantations or jails. He later became Secretary of State and Secretary of War during the Mexican-American War, a war in which both Robert E. Lee and Ulysses S. Grant served with distinction on the same side of the battlefield. Revisionist history that paints Northerners as good and Southerners as evil is oversimplifying our nation’s history, and erasing elements made me uncomfortable at first. Then again, this was the first time I was grappling with this question of statues and legacies, and that is part of the problem. We should always be questioning.

This internal statue conflict was quickly resolved. What I initially lamented as a disregard for the complexity of history and a call for better education of all Americans around civil rights quickly became a wakeup call as I watched the actual marchers and saw what our country has become, or what it has always been beneath the surface and has now bubbled over. These were not high school history teachers and university professors marching around the statue, wielding VHS copies of the 1990 Ken Burns Civil War documentary and urging all Americans to watch it and develop a deeper understanding of the greatest conflict and bloodiest war ever fought on our soil.

This was hate and racism. I read one article as I was trying to process the events and my own feelings, and it mentioned that if Robert E. Lee had been seated, signing his surrender at Appomattox Courthouse, it would be different. The statue in question was created to honor slavery and oppress a group of people, and the rallying crowd is evidence that white supremacists and Neo-Nazis, not the professors and historians, are the ones hell-bent on defending it. And so, I was convinced. This is not a defense of history at all. This is our country at its worst, revealing all that is wrong with our history and our values, a cultural history that many of us have ignored for decades, even centuries. We now are being called upon to wake up from this nightmare and create change. It is time to question our values, call the American Dream what it is, and amend our past toward a better future.

We are a young country. This hits me often as a bicentennial baby. In discussing history with my students and my children, I realize how quickly things can change to make the recent past seem like long ago. Children should grapple with the concept of long ago; adults, on the other hand, should have a knowledge of history to see that much of what we study as American History is a not-so-distant past. My grandmother is 97 years old. She was born in the US, of German descent. She has been alive for about 40% of our 241 years as a country. If I live to my hundredth birthday, my life will span one-third of our nation’s life under the Constitution. Things have changed dramatically since the winter Washington spent at Valley Forge, where I grew up throwing Frisbees, having picnics and exploring cabins.

Time moves quickly and we make progress, but only if we accept our mistakes and amend for them. Right now, we are toddlers stuck in the American Nightmare, built on the promise of an impossible American Dream. We’ve been acting like toddlers for a while, and it is only now, with a narcissistic, infantile leader, that some of our greatest immaturities have been revealed. As a country, we have enabled a culture of self-centered, unapologetic, irresponsible behavior, and we lost sight of our civic duty, moral conviction and promised freedom.

When Trump was elected and I had a panic attack, the first I’ve ever experienced where the source of the anxiety was out of my control and could not be fixed by my own actions, my husband tried to reassure me. We got out of bed the next morning (I didn’t have to wake up, because I’d never been asleep), and he checked the markets. “It’s going to be okay,” he said. “The markets haven’t reacted, and maybe he won’t be as bad as we think.” As bad as we thought was nowhere near as bad as it has become. I was so embarrassed — humiliated — to be an American, a Pennsylvanian and a woman on that day. Rich and I discussed how we, as a country, do some things very well. Despite the problems with our education system, we are still a key leader in innovation, technology, science, the arts and other fields. We had this discussion months before Spring 2017 when I had a better understanding of how our “innovative leaders” in Silicon Valley are running their companies, with a culture of sexual harassment and gender inequity that deeply angers and frightens me. I won’t even start on what Hollywood has been up to this fall. These are our best and our brightest? These selfish, arrogant, insecure men who are so fearful of strong, capable women that they refuse to accept a woman’s value without degradation? Sure, we do some things well; it is just in the arena of morality that we keep screwing up.

One issue is that morality isn’t central to this American Dream. It is all about materialism and accumulating more and more. We love stuff, and we have built a culture on large homes, consumerism and having more than our parents, our neighbors and some imaginary family called the Joneses. The problem with this ideal is that it is self-centered and unfulfilling, and it is one of the most child-like flaws on which our society is based. Little kids collect things and fight with their friends because they haven’t learned to share. Turns out neither have we. The concept of “the good of the group” went out the window a long time ago, along with empathy, a word that our President has probably never spoken and surely could not define. One of my favorite of all the cleverly-designed political t-shirts that pop up on my Facebook feed is one that says, “Equal rights for others does not mean fewer rights for you. It’s not pie.” In many aspects of life, Americans are looking for a bigger piece of the pie, not realizing if we created more opportunities for everyone, there would be more pie to go around.

How are we supposed to learn to share and put our community first if we aren’t taught? That’s a good question. A small but meaningful portion of our high school education, the subject formerly known as Civics, was removed from our curriculum a few decades ago. In high school, students used to learn about civic responsibility, from the importance of casting a vote to standing up for what is right. Now that is probably an elective, or part of an AP history class that only students who go to top schools in affluent communities have the choice to take. Civics needs to become part of the fabric of our lives, from the choices we make each day to the people we elect and the ways we help those in need. With Mother Nature seeking revenge on our current administration and lawmakers using every opportunity to strip people of their rights and freedoms, we will have a lot of opportunities to put civic responsibility back into the hands of all Americans. It is time to share our toys, do good for our communities and develop some conviction.

Conviction, like compassion, is also something people develop as they mature. Young children are developing a sense of right and wrong, and with adolescence comes further exploration of morals and a strengthening of values. By adulthood, people still learn and grow, but they should have a solid foundation and be able to stand up for what they believe in, unless they have never had to take a stand. Enter the wavering, wishy-washy, fence-walking “Fiscal Conservative and Social Liberal” who makes up much of my peer group. These are educated people who have good intentions, and that blurred line worked well during the Clinton era, Bush, and especially Obama. It was easy for these open-minded people to accept and even adore our first black president and want lower taxes for themselves at the same time. I would argue it was never a convincing position. At its core, it goes back to selfishness. As someone who lived in Canada for a while and has experienced a more egalitarian form of social services, I find the logic to be very transparent: “I hope my fellow Americans have a good life. I believe in equal opportunity, education and healthcare for everyone. I certainly don’t want anyone’s civil rights or human rights to be jeopardized. But I don’t want to pay for it, through my taxes or otherwise.” Surely, somewhere in the argument is a feeling that these millions of people who need social services must have bootstraps, and that pulling themselves up by them and overcoming obstacles is part of the realization of the American Dream. But it doesn’t work that way. When you are a rape victim and the law protects your rapist and not you, when you have a life-threatening illness and no healthcare, or you are a soldier returning from war and suffering from PTSD, bootstraps simply are not enough. For children living in poverty with inadequate education, there are no bootstraps to be found. That’s where the FCSL’s must make a decision — are you voting based on fiscal or social issues, and what motivates you in your core? Your personal gain or a sense of moral responsibility? Adults should have conviction, and sometimes this means compromising and prioritizing.

The other thing we should recognize about bootstraps is that when you oppress groups of people for centuries, it is harder for them to overcome obstacles. Like children, we are good at playing pretend but have a very hard time apologizing. We pretend we believe in equality, but when we do something wrong — like establish our entire country on the destruction of one race and the enslavement of another — we find it very hard to apologize. If we truly wanted to repent for our nation’s sins, we would start over with a blank slate of equality, but we don’t. We change some laws and create others. We give people rights to vote and equality on paper but create a judicial system that continues to oppress black people, we continue to steal natural resources from Native Americans, and we have reproductive laws and labor laws that ensure that most women will never have the opportunities that their male counterparts do. That’s not apologizing and changing our behavior going forward; that is systemic oppression. It is time to use our words and call it by name.

In early November, we saw some progress in local and regional elections. The results indicate that we are waking up, and that we can create change. It was an overwhelming sense of relief for many of us. In my own neck of the woods in Westchester County, NY, we voted out a County Executive, Rob Astorino. Astorino has no problem providing space for and profiting from a gun show where vendors sell Nazi paraphernalia. I won’t even begin to discuss our country’s childlike obsession with weapons and how our lies about the impact of that are part of this nightmare, too. Let’s just talk about the hate literature. At an Astorino town hall I attended last winter, an audience member asked him about the Nazi book sale. He answered that it is not a problem to have the books and pamphlets there because they are protected as free speech and it is no different than housing them at any public library.

Following this town hall and the statue debate, I am happy to explain the difference to Mr. Astorino and to other people who think there is no difference between the statues in parks and the statues being moved to museums. Museums and libraries are places to house artifacts from world cultures and from the past to be used as learning tools. They are places where critical thinking happens, and they have a responsibility to keep artifacts from history, even from the darkest historical events. They help us educate future generations in all aspects of humanity, including the horrific moments, with the intention of building a more informed world. Nazi propaganda at a gun show, much like statues in a park to honor the Confederacy, are fuel for hate and symbols of oppression. It took me about two days, from Saturday to Monday of the Charlottesville weekend, to bid farewell to the statues. I had always found the Nazi materials being sold in a room with high-power weapons to be deeply troubling. It is concerning that a lifelong politician like Astorino or a powerful man like our President can’t understand the distinction. Most likely they do understand it, but stating it and standing up for what is right might alienate their base supporters. Because their base is a bunch of racist white supremacists. While they are careful not to state it outright, they are, too.

And so here we are, a country full of two groups: well-intentioned but misguided children trying to build a better world based on watered-down values, and immature children who are perfectly content perpetuating the American nightmare out of bigotry or selfish goals. Now we are being led by an administration who divides us and brings out the worst in our country. If there is a silver lining, it is that everything is now on the table and we see the difference between our American Dream and a more well-rounded society where humanity and progress co-mingle. Soon, our country will be 250 years old, and it is time to grow up and reconcile our past to build a better future. If you want to see a country with a growth mindset where you cannot march with tiki torches beneath the statue of a racist and oppressive leader, visit Germany. Here in the U.S. we sell Mein Kampf to Neo-Nazis at gun shows, even in “blue states.” We have spent centuries developing double standards, voting systems, legal systems, cover-ups and “alternative facts” that have turned our darkest histories into our current reality. Goodbye, American Dream. We are awake now.

Stars! They Are Unfortunately Just Like Us


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Here’s a piece I wrote the other day, after not being able to shake the reality of all the #metoo and other stories coming forth. Enjoy, share, like, clap, and most of all, keep talking and listening.

Stars! They Are Unfortunately Just Like Us

Harvey Weinstein: What’s in a Name?

I just love word scrambles, so this piece was particularly fun to write. Random, spontaneous and in the end, spot on. Please clap & share if you like it!

Harvey Weinstein: What’s in a Name? on Medium

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