Don’t Start Your Engines…

I’d like to thank psycho dad for giving me the material for today’s post.

Yes you read that correctly.

This week I had a very unsettling encounter with a deranged parent when I drove carpool with three little girls sitting patiently waiting to arrive at their destination.

The same can’t be said for the lunatic I am about to discuss.

The  school has two lanes designated for carpool.

As I pulled into the driveway I noticed the right lane was backed up so I attempted to take the left lane.

Only some loser in his BMW (not that I have anything against BMW some of my best friends drive them)-  decided to sit idle while taking up both lanes and so that one could not even attempt to go to the left lane.

Fine, I thought.  Be like that.  This happens this time of year.  The parent who usually does not do the driving does it this week and not again for the rest of the year oblivious to safety procedures and protocols established by the school.

Finally the lane began to move – no thanks to said Jerk – and BMW moves over a bit – though not enough.  Apparently he felt everyone needed to make room for him and his German engineering.  I suspect however that his car is probably the only mature, sophisticated and elegant thing about him.

Having maneuvered myself cozily in the left lane I started to try and drive, but Moron decided to open up his car door and block traffic some more.

I lift up my arms in a “Dude, what up?” motion when much to my horror, loser of the week starts walking up to my car yelling and flailing his arms at me, all while little the girls are sitting in the back of my car.

This crazy beast was really going ballistic all because I had I put my hands up in an exasperated way.

He motioned for me to roll down my window so he could verbally assault me some more.  I rolled it down just enough for me to tell him to calm himself down and then promptly rolled it back down while he proceeded to verbally attack me.

The carpool director urged me to drive forward but I was frozen.  In shock.  I told the director I was unable to because the  Butthead was being problematic.

Carpool director shrugged his shoulders and gave me a hand signal that it was safe/fine to move on and to ignore psycho parent.

The event rattled me terribly.  I was shaking the whole time driving home.

This pathetic excuse for a human being saw fit to snap and verbally attack -FOR NO REASON – a woman with children in her car.

Can we say “rage issues”?

Oddly enough, the night before my friend Audra sent me a link to a story of a woman who was physically attacked in a mall parking lot.

So don’t be surprised if you read about a BMW rage-monger who got into a similar situation.

Do you think these people share some sort of genetic marker?

Also, to the stupid kids in the Target parking lot:  Just because your parents were stupid enough to foot the bill for your new SUV, doesn’t mean you don’t have to use your rear view mirror – or whatever else technology is installed in your vehicle to keep you from acting like the moron that you are.

You can honk all you want but that won’t change the fact that you are a remarkably horrible  driver.

Either drive carefully or drive into the Hudson.  And take the BMW D——bag with you.


Tata Tatas

Sunday night marks the fifth night of Channukah.  Together with my family we’ll light the assortment of menorahs we’ve amassed and created over the years and hope that the house doesn’t catch fire.  Maybe we’ll eat a latke or two.  But most likely none since we’re just not that into latkes.

Then I’ll go and get my self ready to go to a party.

This party is not a Channukah party.  I am the only one in my family invited.

How could I up and do this to my family on a holiday such as this?

I know it sounds like I am such a sucky person, so allow me to explain

I met Rachelle a couple of years ago when a fellow blogger, Larry, of the very entertaining and poignant took the reins to form a writer’s group in our community.

In addition to Rachelle, Larry and myself, Frank rounds out the group and together we entertain, critique, laugh and schmooze.  Rachelle is our only poet.

Not to my credit, but I tend to not get poetry.  I often can’t relate to it or interpret the meaning of a given poem. But her poetry I get.  Her poetry is great.  It’s powerful.

See for yourself.  One of her poems is in the October issue of

About a year after we first met Rachelle told us she would be going in for radiation to treat breast cancer.

During that time she wrote a poem the aforementioned poem.

A few weeks ago our writing group received an email from Rachelle.  She would be getting a double mastectomy come Monday December 2.

The night before she is throwing an “It’s Not A Pity Party, It’s A Titty Party” where she has big plans “to get sloshed and have a bra burning ceremony in the backyard.”

It should be duly noted that both Rachelle’s mother  and grandmother all had breast cancer.  In fact they participated in a study to check for any known gene.  But alas, Rachelle does not carry one, at least that modern medicine has yet to detect.

But Rachelle has graciously informed me that her new boobies will be able to hold themselves up on their own.  Go boobies!

I wish her the best of luck, the speediest of recoveries, and a successful and prolific career as a writer/poet.

And for her party Rachelle composed and plans to recite another outstanding poem which she allowed me to share with you all here.

Written by Rachelle D.

Written by Rachelle D.

What’s A Green-Eyed Monster?

In my continuing quest to document my family’s history, I had an unusual conversation with my mother today.  I am trying to get a gauge on what life was like  for her growing up in a post-war Communist Eastern Europe.  So I have been asking her numerous questions that might seem silly or inconsequential yet have been churning out the most interesting observations.

“Did you ever see something that somebody else had that you wanted while you were growing up?” I was curious to learn the kinds of things that my mother wished she had received – the kinds of things other little girls had –  hoping to gain some more perspective on her upbringing and life.

My mother just sat there across from me nibbling her corn muffin and pondering the question.  I could think of hundred things I wanted when I was little that other kids had: bicycles, Hello Kitty pencil cases, various articles of clothing.

And then it dawned on me.

“Had you ever even experienced envy growing up?”

I knew the answer.

How could she have when there was nothing.


Nothing to envy.

Mom was probably the first  – or among the first- of the children born into her village following the war.  Her birthday is July 27, 1946 (sorry for letting the world know your age, Mom).  She was born a little over a year after the liberation of the Death Camps.

At the time, to be sure, nobody in her village in Negresti, Romania had anything,  save the clothes on their back.  Rich. Poor. Those labels ceased to exist and were replaced with survivor.  Everything in the village had been taken long before its residents were herded and shipped off to the concentration camps and slave labor.

So  the ones – the survivors – who actually returned, returned with and to nothing.  Even the non-Jewish population was left with nothing as the communists confiscated their possessions as well.

A child growing up into a society that had nothing and suffered as it had was content with the simple function of breathing. Materialism  and the gambit of emotions that entailed envy, was non-existent for a little girl or boy, even though the adults surrounding her did – in a previous lifetime – experience those feelings.

How could she have ever experienced such base and basic feelings of envy and jealousy, the way children typically do when she was the among the first to be born into a society that was stripped – literally – of every earthly possession and continued to struggle to regain its former self.

Nobody had anything.

Think about  how many things you wished for as a kid.  Now think about what it might feel like to not even have the capacity to experience those feelings, if you even can.

To Clean Or Not to Clean…

Usually when I’m staring down the great big stainless steel of an abyss that houses my dirty dishes I will look for a hundred and one other things to do instead.  Today is no exception.

So I’ve decided to procrastinate my dish-washing by thinking about my kitchen floor.

Wait…Bear with me.

A few years ago it was time to replace the kitchen floor.  The glue on the tiles was losing it’s capacity to stick so that every time I passed through the kitchen I would ultimately pick up another tile and inadvertently kick it into my family room.  I would then put the displaced tile in the  cabinet underneath the kitchen sink with the rest of the tiles that I had steadily amassed.

After some poor decisions involving an alleged interior designer who after two years has failed to live up to her end of the invoice and an alleged handyman who is and was anything but, we got a new and highly imperfect kitchen floor.

Back then I frequented various home improvement stores and looked at countless samples of stone, marble, wood, engineered…you name it.  Besides that certain look that I wanted, there was another quality to this floor that I had to have: It had to be easy to clean.

At the urging of the would-be designer, I went to a place  that specialized in tile and  settled on a grey 12″x24″ tile that apparently went with everything else in the kitchen –  including the dirty dishes in the sink.

“It is sooooo easy to clean,” the saleslady assured me as the order was being processed.  A peculiar statement coming from a  highly-maintained and surgically altered woman who probably couldn’t locate the mop in her own house.

“And it’s much thicker than the tiles you can get at the bigger chain stores,” Ding-dong designer added.

But so what?, I wondered.  If it’s a centimeter less in thickness does that mean I can’t walk on it?  I think Home Depot needs to weigh in on this seemingly raging debate.

And now as I sit on the floor with spray bleach and a toothbrush and a giant roll of paper towels , I’ve resolved never to do the following:

1. Work with anybody who calls themselves an interior designer (actually, I already resolved that two years ago).

2. Take cleaning advice from a woman who likely doesn’t know the difference between Tide and Swiffer.