Rejected Team Names

1. Does This Pink Ribbon Make My Ass Look Fat? (shortened to DTPRMMALF to fit on bumper sticker, travel mug, mouse pad, and baby bib.)

2. What Curse? (Ha! Take THAT, Hope Diamond!)

3. Who's On Second? (this is about what I was feeling by Day 2 of the Pick a Name Game)

4. Dick's Picks: Washington DC -May, 2012 (two from the vault, you know)

5. Quadroboobia (although two are saline)

6. Which One's Pink? (oh, and by the way...)

7. Yetta Lester's Sugarless Cookies (still the best band name ever)...

Of course, the one we did pick (Winston Cups: Hope & Diamonds) may lead to a lawsuit, but publicity is publicity!  Bring it on...

Winston Cups: Hope & Diamonds

What the heck (read as Vott Dah Hake) did I just get myself into?

My sister asked me if I would be her other half for a team for Avon's major breast cancer awareness walk in DC this May.  Of course I would! What a great way to bond with my sister while raising awareness for breast cancer!

Maybe get a little PR for the whole Hope Diamond / Harry Winston thing... this could be fun!

What curse?  Our father, Richard Winston,
putting the Hope Diamond on a model.  1958?

Well, I am exhausted already.  Just deciding on a team name consumed my every waking  moment for three days.

Of course we have to wink/nod at the Hope Diamond (did I mention we have connections to the Hope Diamond, our great uncle being Harry Winston and all?) and me being the breast cancer survivor, I wanted to get kinda cheeky (refer to my victory flag pink ribbon tattoo post) and suggested The Winston Cups. My sister, the team captain and total-under-appreciator of NASCAR, proposed Hope & Diamonds... but I can't contact a past NASCAR Winston Cup champion (you see where I'm going with this?) for support when I sound like some Park Avenue princess... oh wait....

It's like trying to pick a band name.  We veered into odd territories for a few days... Quadroboobia... pitched possibilities via facebook posts... did I mention my sister is a G cup?  We took a step back, reviewed our goals, and finally decided on.... *drum roll*

Winston Cups: 

Hope & Diamonds

On location: yet another diamond reference...
Support Winston Cups!!!

I can walk 39 miles... I walk that in one race weekend at Watkins Glen.  I will start training tomorrow. When those snow squalls stop.  And if it turns into 36 miles of unstoppable hope and 3 miles of incessant whining, at least we can say we did it!  Did what, I still have yet to learn.  I hope there's a bubble bath at the end of it. And Swedish Fish.

I'm already exhausted and I haven't even opened my first legal document. Or raised a dime.

39 miles. Me and my sister. Hahahahahaaa!!!!

Dear Mr. Labonte...

thank you evelyn...

I've had a disproportionately sad week watching women I know fight breast cancer.  Too many of the contributors to this video are now on the YSC Remembrance Board.  That makes my heart so sad...

When NASCAR calls...

This is an article I started a while ago... the "assignment" was to finish the sentence "I never thought I'd...". So here it is... so far...

I never thought I’d… be a NASCAR fan.

'86 Harry Winston function in PB

For starters, I was born and raised a Manhattan Jew. Even more discerning, an Upper East Side Manhattan Jew. NASCAR was a foreign term, like IHOP or GED.

I gotta admit…Confederate flags kinda scared me, conjuring up images of anti-Semitic mobs looking to throw a Jew down a well Borat-style. A Southern twang was far lower on my Moh’s Scale of Accents than British - but still less abrasive than German - and I was angry at the South for the way they treated my housekeeper‘s ancestors. I had some twisted notion that the South was a steamy, swampy region filled with monster truck driving, Jew hating, whiskey stilling, shotgun hoisting good ol’ boys… and any so-called “sport” born from such an oppressive place would be about as exciting as a spinal tap… and not Rob Reiner’s version.

My own after-private-school activities focused on flirt chasing, not dirt racing. I knew how to select lipsticks, not dipsticks. And the only reason to punch the accelerator in my ‘84 “Bitchin’ Camaro” was to catch up to the hottie at the next light.

Yet…while pickup trucks and muscle cars were veritable anti-status symbols of rural residency, I could still be held spellbound by the pin-striped sports cars strutted in rockin’ TV commercials and tailgating on the Hamptons beaches. I wanted a ‘79 white Camaro with T-tops more than I wanted an “Elsa Peretti” Tiffany bracelet for my Sweet 16. I did like to drive. I mean really drive. Like fast.

Maybe that was because everything I needed to know about driving, I learned from spending 75% of my life in the backseat of taxi cabs. I could strategize that if a city bus was pulling out three blocks ahead, and two people spaced 30 yards apart were waving for cabs on the next block, the trick was to dodge to the left. All the better to get to the country club quicker. And I was rewarded - okay, spoiled - with a sports car in high school (and the insurance and a spot at the garage on East 84th Street and a Mobil Credit Card that caused my dad more grief than my skyrocketing insurance) and spent every weekend using it to rocket myself off of the island of Manhattan. Setting the controls for the heart of the sun, I piled friends into my I-ROC for jaunts to the shore, zoomed country roads like I was in a Mad Max video, and often waited about 20 minutes to call my dad from my final destination as I was afraid he‘d do the math and figure out I had beaten my own best time. Daddy’s little girl wouldn't want to jeopardize her freedom.

At 30 years-old, I just hit HYPERSPACE and landed in Ithaca, New York. (Raise your hand if you don't know what Hyperspace is for.) Centrally isolated yet culturally enriching, Ithaca - I had heard - was a good place to go to “find oneself”. I had left Manhattan many years before, and had comfortably embraced locales with lots of trees and scenic lakes and roadkill, and in 1996 I was ready to find myself again … I just never thought I would “find myself” at a NASCAR race.

An ex-boyfriend once noted that I “had a little redneck in me” when I admired a stately double-wide out loud, but it wasn’t until I literally moved from Park Avenue to Podunk Road (in Trumansburg, NY) that I slowly began to embrace my inner yokel. My new husband was a seventh generation local, and our new house - on Podunk Road - was the “third one past the Jeff Gordon flag”. I recognized Jeff Gordon’s name - or number - as his image graced the front of numerous outdoor soda machines in our region.

I also began a career in marketing. I sold advertising for a radio broadcasting company and was profoundly impressed by the stats on Country Music. Who’d have thought that the number one music format across the boards was Country… it more than doubled its runner up, Classic Rock, in ratings. I quickly learned that the road to selling a Country Music station was paved with NASCAR logos - and I was blown away by the stats on branding and customer loyalty. I eventually moved into print advertising and I am currently the marketing director for a small jewelry store in Ithaca.  I get to be a wordsmith and a graphic designer, and according to my coworkers, the “Queen of Displays”.  

Fast Forward to February 16, 2008. Lunching at our local tavern with my husband , I glanced up at the television mounted over the bar and my jaw dropped. On the screen was hands-down the most handsome man I had ever seen, aside from my husband, of course. Two men were being interviewed as rain poured down behind them. One was tall with dark glasses and wore a freakishly big cowboy hat that looked like a bird had flown into the brim at 90 MPH. The other gentleman was much shorter and wore a brightly colored Cheerios costume, emblazed with the number 43. I asked a fellow bar patron who that 43rd Adonis was and he murmured what sounded like Bobby Lobotomy. I immediately craved a bowl of cereal and asked for the remote control so I could fill all the TV screens with his face.

The last time I was held in such awe by male features was in 1976 when Roger Daltrey’s face filled the screen one quarter of the way into the movie “Tommy“. I was 10 years-old and it was defining heterosexual moment in my life. I became one with The Who, and even today my license plate today reads QDRPHNIA. But on February 16, 2008, I could not stop looking at the TV. And wild horses couldn’t drag that remote out of my hands.

His name is Bobby LABONTE and he was the Winston Cup (now Sprint Cup) champion in 2000. He was chubbier then, and had a really bad haircut. I equated him to a fine wine that has aged more than gracefully. At 44 years-old (in 2008), he was George Clooney meets (a pre-Oksana) Mel Gibson.

Some of the images I found showed Bobby Labonte driving a special pink car with a huge, pink ribbon on the side. I was two years removed from a double mastectomy and chemo, and I felt an immediate attachment to this driver...  and there were few images where he wasn’t sporting a LIVESTRONG bracelet on his perfectly sculpted wrist.

The more I read about Bobby Labonte, the more I learned about NASCAR. And the more I learned about NASCAR, the more I learned that I needed to learn more about NASCAR. I invested in Liz Allison’s Girl’s Guide to NASCAR and it was the best love story I had read in ages! With rules explained and terms defined, this book became my bible... or, um, Torah. I was determined to talk the talk… and it would only be a few months before I would get a chance to walk the walk.

We live 20 miles away from Watkins Glen International, the home of American Road Racing, but a more personal/spiritual affinity for Watkins Glen stems from my past Deadhead Days - FYI the soundcheck tape from The Glen '73 is/was a “must have”. (I still have my copy).  My husband and I decided to go check out a NASCAR race and see what all the fuss was about. I was already hip to the fact that The Glen is a “road race” - as opposed to a short track race (like Dover) or a restrictor plate race (like Talledega) - and I even had a custom t-shirt made that read Bobby Labonte is GORGES, a nod to Ithaca’s ubiquitous slogan "Ithaca is GORGES". And that t-shirt earned us free cold pit passes as the gatekeeper to this semi-restricted area recognized us as locals and granted us entry onto the skid marked, tread-littered pavement leading to the pits. Score! When we found the giant retail hauler with a gigantic image of Bobby Labonte on its side, I knew my pilgrimage hadn’t been in vain, and I begged my husband to take good photos for once.

I immediately posted my beloved photos from our awesome weekend on Facebook, where an old high school friend, Michael, I hadn’t thought about in 25 years sees the photo posts pop up on a mutual friend’s page (now timeline), saw my profile picture of my license plate QDRPHNIA (The Who), and wondered how I was.  He must have noticed my NASCAR photos because he then mentioned he had a good friend who works for a major racing team and that he was thinking about taking a trip to The Glen the following summer. Michael then surprised me with Hot Pit Passes, the golden tickets for any NASCAR fan. The scheduled royal treatment continued with a pre-planned surprise “meet and greet” with Bobby and I made a mental note to refill some valium. It's important here to note that Michael gave up the planned surprise a few days before… he said it was to keep me from driving over an hour to Tioga Downs near Binghamton for an autograph signing - with my 6 foot cardboard cutout of Bobby at my hip... but I think to keep me from fainting in the garage area.

Ahhhhh.... Describing meeting Bobby Labonte is an exercise in futility. Words just ruin it. And what I do remember is a blur. I fumbled my words, I pretended I could actually hear him over the massive engine revving, and I completely forgot to ask for an autograph. But he was as gracious as gracious could be, and when my friend Michael handed me a pen and snapped some photos with his own camera, I just wished time could stand still.

And it wasn’t just Bobby who was gracious. Almost every driver I nervously approached with pit pass and Sharpie in hand happily granted me a moment of acknowledgment. Carl Edwards, Joey Logano, Reed Sorenson, Marcos Ambrose (who won the Nationwide race that weekend)… I came away with a trophy pit pass and a whole new appreciation of the sport. And I rued the day I ever dissed NASCAR.

My lord, I met The King! Spending the weekend with the people behind the NASCAR curtain was an eye-opening, ear-popping, jaw-dropping experience…and I decided then and there that this was a circus I would gladly run away with.  So who was the clown now?  Just call me a redneck and I will happily show you my sunburned neck and red nose... and my credentials!

xxx

Fast forward to 2010.  He remembered me!

Oh God, he probably thinks I'm a stalker...

Try our new angus wraps...

Great, now any 16 year old with a ladder can ASSess the situation and quickly wreak havoc with removable letters. I would that is a marketing FAIL.

Wimpy Wimpy Wimpy

There's been a lot of talk lately about the new middle class. I myself am broke. Really broke. Like brokey-broke broke. I can't quite come to grips with "poor", but it was a sad day when generic facial cleanser (Kinney brand, I believe) replaced my Aveda Cleansing Gel.

Of course there are some necessities I will still forgo food to acquire... Christian Dior waterproof mascara, DKNY black opaque control top tights, and Isle of Eden's Sugar Scrub (and body creme, and hair conditioner, and shaving mousse...), but I have canceled extended cable, sworn off glossy magazines, and stopped coloring my hair (yes, I know it was a shock to find out I'm not a real blond... anymore). And those Vans with winged hearts just screamed my name.

In pondering my predicament, I have chosen Personal Bankruptcy for $20,000, Alex. I'm not ashamed... actually I'm more ashamed of the circumstances that brought me to this brink. Credit cards are evil... they are not an "investment in my future career wardrobe" or loans to decorate the house, or even a panacea for materialismitis... they are blood sucking Icon wallet stuffers and I am now anemic and in debt to my grey. Bankruptcy is like grad school for the financially illiterate. Although right now it feels like a scavenger hunt for paperwork... and where are those damn car titles???

I am the new middle class, and I will gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today.

Carousels of Youth

I could build a wall with the boxes of slides I finally received from the stepmother. They were in my dad's closet for the last 30 years... at least. And now I have been facing the painful (literally when you have Reynauds) task of sorting, scanning, and sharing them. Yes, I could build a wall... but instead I am tearing it down. Tear down the wall!

The metaphorical bricks in my emotional masonry were introduced sometime in-vitro. You can tell by the startlingly stone-faced, drooling, anxious-looking infant rarely seen not trying to shove something in her mouth. My first word may have been "ggaarrrrrrhhhgggrrrr".

Then I got cute. Then I got fat. Then my mother died. Then I got fatter. Then the carousels stopped spinning and life was recorded on Kodak Instamatics, in 24 hour photo huts (note: don't take incriminating pictures in Jamaica and have them developed at a PhotoHut), and through digital media programs.

In the old days, photographs could gratify (or gross out) instantly... but slides are jewels you can't appreciate until you have all the right tools - and lots of patience! Slides are like sunflower seeds - you have to do a lot of work and the reward may be a dud, but the next one calls out to be scanned... and the next... and the next...

Most of these slides I haven't seen since I was very young, so I don't remember any of them. It's like I'm meeting my mother... again. Only I'm 43 and she's 23. And she's in love... and on her honeymoon... and smoking while she's pregnant... and posing like she's actually cooking... and living a good life... and then she doesn't look so good. She looks tired... and in pain... and forcing a smile... and then the pictures of her just stop all together. Now I can see her beautiful again.

My dad was always a handsome man. Even bald at 15, he was a cutie-pie! And he leaves no doubt - from both in front of the camera and behind it - that his family was his world. Through hundreds and hundreds of slides, he epitomizes LOVE in every image - from my mom reading a magazine to his kids just horsing around... I mean, how many shots of potty training does one parent really need??? Regardless, I can't imagine a father ever loving his family more than our dad loved us. Ans this, folks, is where one of those wall just comes tumbling down...

So if your curiosity has been aroused, you might like to know that lots of the photos have made it to Facebook (three albums at least) so that my sister could "enjoy" them too from afar... so much power in my hands, but she trusted me and I haven't abused my power... yet. Although she will hate this photo of us with our dad... but I cried when I saw his face... his love.

Love ya, sistah! And yes, our parents were f*cking awesome!!!

Miami Vices

I am awash in a flood of memories brought about by recent reconnections with old buddies (sorry, still young at heart buddies) on facebook. I only lasted three semesters at U. of Miami, but they were a memorable. At least the parts I CAN remember - fat, drunk and stupid is no way to go through life, daughter - it was Miami after all. If I could only bottle the sun, sand, and rum runners, I would retire in the warmth and reverie. I was a Sigma Chi Little Sister, which means I was not really into the Greek scene... more the Greek guys. We were an infamous class, making national news for our class prank involving a polaroid camera and some notable landmarks... and people... "Have you had your Huebner today?"

If you squint, I look topless.

Wow - we have webcam! A little late in the techno-timeline, but, hey, I got through college on a typewriter, so I'm not complaining. The awards in the background are not props - they are my hubby's.
It was just too hot in my regular office, so I packed up the new laptop and hightailed it down to his office. It was nice. Kinda like a date. We even played footsie under the conference table. Noooooo.... just kidding. We just threw down on the rug. HA HA HA!

You're wondering, though, aren't you?

On Cloud 96 at WGI!

What do you get when you wear a "Bobby Labonte is GORGES" shirt to the Glen in '08? You get to meet Bobby Labonte in '09!

And yes, he is even dreamier in person.

Swivel Head or Double Blade...

When shaving legs on a budget, it is important to not forgo the swivel head option. Revert to double blade if you must, but swivel is the key to not ripping the flesh of of your ankles. If you are going to splurge, splurge at Isle of Eden. My sister turned me onto this independent mail order company - and while I can probably give up my pilgrimages to Sephora in Rochester now, I will scrimp and save for Isle of Eden's "Can't Sleep, Clowns Will Eat Me" Sugar Scrub. And I loooove when my sister sends me vanilla and coconut scrubs and potions - just because she loves me... hint hint... maybe for the fourth anniversary of my mastectomy (snap, that's cold... playing the cancer card!) - I'm down to my last tub of Carousel of Lost Souls Shaving Mousse.

Anyone want to hear my idea about designer band aids?

It's Been a While

Has it really been six months since I last posted?

Well, if you've been on Facebook, you may already know the trials and tribulations of life on Porcupine Farm (or in my four YoVille homes... that's so sad...). I've had my employment hours cut in half (yes, I know, the international sign for little violins) and have learned to live without necessities like People Magazine and brand name body cleanser... I just recently had the epiphany that "paying with a credit card" is an oxymoron... even sadder, I know. I do miss Sephora and Aveda and Kipling.... but my life is richer now with so many more - ummmm... oh yeah, my FRIENDS!!! Thank you, Facebook. And thank you for finally unlocking the tall lattes. So, when can we access the barrel costumes?

BACK TO PODUNK:
We recently received a phone message from our vet, Dr. Richard Orzeck at Trumansburg Veterinary Clinic. (There's an inherent shout out to his wife, Teresa, who is the other 75% of the practice.) There is not a nicer couple on this earth, and listening to his message brought me to tears. Someday I wish I could link to it. Or even transcribe it... but suffice to say he called because he wanted us to just bring the boys in for their shots and he would take care of us because he understands everything we've been through and that we are good people and that things will turn around and everything will be okay... and that he means that from the bottom of his heart.

This is Yin and Yang of life in Podunk... the "Nothing is Everything" farm field that I harvest now. I went through it with breast cancer (in the extreme physical sense) - and now my wallet is no longer a wallet if doesn't have anything in it except my health insurance card which I show more than my driver's license these days. I should just fill my (yes, Icon) wallet with photos of the people who make life richer. And make Dr. Orzeck and Teresa the cover shot.

Well, gotta go hoe!

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?

Psyyyych!

This was my gift to myself. A life-size cutout Bobby Labonte.

Dang, he's one good looking cardboard man!

So is my husband of course, but there's something about a man in uniform (even if it is kinda heinous) who's always smiling, never complaining, happy to just not be in a box somewhere. Although I should probably be mindful of the wood stove when he's around...

Chris, don't even think it!

Two in the Bush...?

Why settle for one when you can have two?

Meet Aja Remastered with Bonus Tracks... named after Chris first bird, Aja. So we call him Aja for short. We got Aja to keep Tommy company, and it seems to be working, except for a little aggressive preening on Tommy's part - kind of like Budgie Cell Block H - except they're both males.

I think they quite like each other. Once Tommy learns that he can't stick his beak down every bird's throat - he is a bit like Pepe Le Pieu... but Aja seems to be holding his own. For now.

Home for the Holidaze...

This was our first Christmas tree - circa 1981 or 82 (Lisa?). We had to hide it my sister's bedroom so that my grandmother wouldn't see it, and so the cats wouldn't eat (and then poop) tinsel. Even the little Star of David wouldn't have made her any happier about our decision to try out this "tree" thing.

It's funny to see Rappaport's wrapping paper - and even some Paper Moon (whatever happened to that company? They made the BEST paper products!)

Oh, and that vase to the left? Let's just say we were a liberal (or maybe "parentally clueless"?) household... and for any future employers who may see this photo, just remember that it was taken about 30 years ago! See the 8-track tapes to the right? They were probably "TV Theme Songs of the 70's" and "A Jackson 5 Christmas".

Yeah, we knew how to celebrate the holidays- with or without that vase.

"Whatever colors you have in your mind...
I'll show them to you and you'll see them shine." - Bob Dylan (duh)

These are some of the newer earrings for Podunk Princess Designs' highly anticipated 2008 holiday season shopping frenzy! I know we're in a recession - I just like making pretty things - and they happen to be locally made AND affordable too!

These earrings, a whole lot of gorgeous necklaces, and other similar designs (meaning made by ME) are now available at Sundrees in Trumansburg (OMG - if you have never been there, go! It is so worth the visit!) and at the Julie Stone Salon in Downtown Ithaca and soon to be Ithaca's favorite contemporary clothing and gift emporium, Fibers and Fantasy (on the Commons).

Thank you. Come again!

Porcupine Farm Revisited

This is my husband Chris on a perfect Sunday morning at the farm. We're finally moved into the new house and he's closing on the Podunk Road house next week. I'm all "yea", but I know it's been tough for him to leave so many memories behind. Even our old dog, Spud (below), is buried in the grape vine. We were planning SpuddyBuddy White and SpuddyBuddy Red, but by the time we moved we just had some lame cruddy-duddy grapes.

Chris the first one to admit that he's ready to let a lot of the past become the past, but it would sure be nice to have been able to take some of the more special trees with us.

I never thought I'd marry who man who loved planting trees, and farming, and chopping wood. Growing up in NYC, we always "had someone do" whatever it was that needs to be done, from painting bedrooms to installing wall units and swing sets. I married a man who actually "does it" - it's like marrying the superintendent, but not having to live in a basement apartment! His garage is full of tools and projects and skill saws and a whole lot of crap that he just can't stand to throw away. That's fine - it's his space, but I could do without the life-size Molson bikini girl winking at me through the window.

I am so getting a life-size Bobby Labonte cut-out for my studio space!

Podunk Princess Designs

Podunk Princess Designs is an "umbrella term" that refers to my numerous creative projects (read: jobs) , the most important (and lucrative) being "Jewelry for My Generation".

Right now, a large selection of earrings and necklaces is available at SUNDREES, a great little gift shop right in Trumansburg! If you haven't been there, GO! It's totally worth the trip.

I also have a selection of jewelry at Julie Stone Salon in downtown Ithaca. It's an AVEDA salon, so you know it's good!

A separate website is in the works! I know you can't wait. In the meantime, I will try to post photos of new pieces as they roll off my assembly line.

The necklaces below are all sterling silver and semi-precious stones. With necklaces priced between $45 and $75, my jewelry is completely affordable and really fun. My friend Abby wore the middle one to a party and got two dates! It was the necklace, not her awesome personality.

The Adventures of Skipper and Slouch

Oliver (white) and Dodger (black) are our "rescue dogs", although we didn't really rescue them... we won them. When over 70 people apply to the SPCA to adopt two poodles (well, one poodle, one spoodle) that have been together since they were born (to a breeder), it's more like a lottery jackpot than a rescue. They were willingly given up by a family that didn't want them anymore. They came to us as Tony and JJ and we immediately renamed them. We don't know the details of their first two years of life, but we've had them for about four years now and they never cease to crack us up! The first photo photo was taken the day we brought them home... I call it "who are you and will you love us?"

They are two peas in a pod... one dog in two bodies.
Yin and Yang. They have two totally different personalities, but they are inseparable. They have to be together at all times, or at least kept in each other's sight. Even at the vet, they have to be on the table together or they panic.

I call them Skipper (Oliver) and Slouch (Dodger). Or Comet and Cupid, Piglet and Eyeore - whatever happens to come to mind watching them interact with each other. Whether they're curled up together in a black and white, furry ball or chasing each other around the picnic table, they are completely in tune to each other's movements, no matter how subtle. They are typical twins, but obviously not identical in looks or in personality.

Oliver is extremely happy-go-lucky and not a good listener. Nothing fazes him. Not even skunks... and THAT was a horrible night! Actually a horrible week as the scent lingered in my clothes, glasses, and car keys for a long time! I used to kinda like the smell of skunk... now it makes me nauseous as it brings back the memory of vomiting all over the house.
He's definitely the alpha dog. And he knows it! He's like the kid in class whose name has to be repeated over and over by the teacher.

Dodger, on the other hand, is a bit neurotic. We think he had a pretty damaging experience in his puppy years. He shakes a lot and is extremely timid. He's the lover... he needs constant reassurance that he is indeed a "good dog".

I call him "Slouch" because his hind legs are too long for his body, so he walks like an old man with hemorrhoids, all hunched over... compared to Oliver's "Skipper" walk, where his back legs actually trip up his front legs. Together, they look like Piglet and Eyeore walking into a Milne sunset. (I know it's Pooh an Piglet, but Dodger is much more like Eyeore.)

Best medicine: when I had cancer, Dodger never left my side.
The only picture of me going through chemo is this one, with Dodger splayed out on top of me... protecting me, loving me, and keeping me safe and secure. Although he looks like he's doing a "Hey y'all", he was my best medicine. For as little love he may have (or not) received as a puppy, he sure gives a lot of affection. I treasure this photo because it reminds me of how much I (we) have all been through in the last three years, and how much I love my boys. All of them!

Chris and the boys - Summer 2008

Oliver and Dodger in their usual state of togetherness.

Apartment 10-A

This is where I grew up.

944 Park Avenue.

Apartment 10-A.

That would basically be the whole tenth floor as shown, as 10-B was the whole back half of the building - which I actually would have preferred as I would have been able to survey the P.S. 6 schoolyard to see if anyone was "hanging out". (Before puberty, "hanging out" meant playing stick ball... after puberty, "hanging out" meant "pining for John Denoia"). As it was, I could lean out one of the alley windows (see that sliver?) and listen for the sound of dribbling basketballs or well hit softballs. I got really good at recognizing particularly sexy voices and the spurting fizz of beer can pop tops... ummm, as a teenager I mean.

I experienced many "firsts" in that schoolyard. It defines me in inexplicable ways. Like a sorority sister's collection of yearbooks or a chef's recipe box of sauce stained index cards.

My world inside that schoolyard was the dynamic opposite as the one that moved below my bedroom windows, which are the two windows all the way to the left. I think that's my old air conditioner, which would now be my step-mother's, but I wouldn't really know because I haven't been welcomed into that apartment since my dad passed away a few years ago (wow, this could be a long one...).

The doormen, the shopping bags, the private school cliques fresh off their buses, the yellow blur of taxi cabs. I would much rather be blowing up Scooby Doo thermoses with M-80's on Halloween or waiting for John Denoia to pull up on his ten-speed and flash a grin to make me stutter.

Once upon a time...
My parents moved into apartment 10-A in the late 50's (maybe early 60's) with a newborn baby (my sister) and ready for "happily ever after". My father was securely and passionately attached to the family business - his uncle, my great uncle, was Harry Winston (can I say that without getting sued?) - and my mother, for the 15 short years I knew her at least, was a perfect lady.

"Happily ever after" never really came for them and this blog is very much a result of that derailment, but it is also and exploration into how I went from Park Avenue to Podunk Road.

And I have had a lot of fun... oh yeah, and breast cancer... along the way.

Where Do You Draw the Pink Line?

October scenery... fall foliage, denim jackets and fleece vests, back-to-school item overload... and the pink ribbon. I get it. Shit, I got it! But "shave for a cure" razors ??? Come on! And quite frankly, can't "Shower for Cure" foaming gel cover the whole routine?

I rant because I can... I mean, I've "honked for a cure" I've kept a pink daily calendar with a matching "HOPE-FAITH-COURAGE" ballpoint pen, and I may have even succumbed to "cookies for a cure" when Pepperidge Farm added pink shading (and to be fair, a Susan G. Komen promise) to their packaging.

All of these "marketing causes for a cure" actually evoke a terribly sad response... memories of earning the ribbon and the hidden memories that can only be remembered three years later.

I DO believe in Pink Ribbons being used when necessary... the background for Leigh Hurst's "Feel Your Boobies Campaign", tattoos for those who have earned the medal that is the ribbon, and clothes and crafts created from the emotional need to incorporate the ribbon (although all of you charm bracelet people need to take a break!)...

So please consider this a PSA for the Society to Prevent the Abuse of the Pink Ribbon. I know there are great websites out there to educate the consumer (who just likes pink!), so please use them!

Now... as it IS October... and there is no denying the ubiquitous pink ribbons infiltrating the spooky black and orange landscapes.... please take a few moments and "Watch This Video for a Cure"! This is a semi autobiographical tribute to the most inspirational people I know - those individuals fighting... and mostly winning.... their battles with cancer.

And please pass it on. Especially this month... let all of these pink ribbons mean something!

Welcome to my life tattoo...

"I expect I'll regret ya, but the skin graft man won't get ya... you'll be there when I die... tattoooooo" (who else? Pete Townshend)

20 years between my shoulder blades... three years since I knew I wanted a pink ribbon, and 20 minutes for my best friend, Liza, to agree to her first ink!

Thank you to Jayson at Holy Mother Tattoo in Atlanta.

Liza has been my BFF for almost 35 years. 'Nuff said.

They'll be lots of posts - Liza was a NYC chick too... we were baaaaaaad... like good baaaaaaaad.

Those posts might need parental discretion, though...

I don't think her husband will be all that psyched for my next trip down... we're getting the Fiorucci angels! It's so us.

Stay tuned!

The Great Gig in the Sky

"Out of my way, it's a busy day...I've got things on my mind..."

In memory of Rick Wright (Pink Floyd) who recently died of cancer... put on Dark Side of the Moon's "Great Gig in the Sky" and crank it!

And "Time" and "Echoes"...

Who is Kyle Busch and why does he keep following me?

This is an ongoing story, so keep checking back until it's a full article. Note that this was written at the height of Kyle Busch's amazing season...

I find it ironic that when people (who "know" me) ask how I could possibly be into NASCAR, and I use the analogy of Dead Tour, or just say "Jerry died", my response is often met with a blank look of "whuh?".

Follow me here... or as our friend Scott would say after a show, "follow me, I'm not tripping"... maybe ya had to be there... anyway...

One of my favorite Grateful Dead tapes is the infamous Watkins Glen soundcheck from '73. My copy, with a lovingly handwritten set list on a cream colored, Calvin and Hobbes cardstock cassette cover, was played until it was almost inaudible. It made the words "Watkins Glen" cool before I had ever even seen a NASCAR race.

Now that I live about 15 miles from Watkins Glen, I've had a bit more education and a lot more of an appreciation for stock car racing, or more specifically NASCAR.
And the similarity to Dead Tour is amazing.

Sure I have a huge crush on Bobby Labonte... like preteen hippie chicks didn't pine for Bob Weir.

Okay, here are some of my observations:

#1: The NASCAR season is like Spring, Summer, and Fall tours combined.... and the finale of the Race for the Chase at Miami-Homestead is a harder ticket to score than a pass to the New Year's show in California!

The first races of the season reveal the drivers to watch much like Spring tour unveiled new (and old, dusted off songs) as well as Jerry's health. Sponsors fine tune their cars' color schemes just like guest keyboardists are scheduled in advance. Basically, there's a specific time line that evokes the same excitement...and disappointments.

#2: You remember the feeling when Phil dropped the "bomb", or when Jerry soloed to the stars, and the music impaled you with joy? Sit trackside as 43 cars swarm past you going 160 mph. This isn't like the neighbor without a muffler, or the pizza delivery boy with the new Bose speakers... this is a guttural, rhythmic pounding and it evokes goosebumps. If it were music, it would be the Who (with Keith Moon).

#3: Roadies, Sound Techs and Pit Crews. Not much would get done on the track or on the stage without them. They are the blood, sweat, and (maybe not so many) tears. They get the music playing and the drivers on course, the instruments tuned and the tires inflated. Listen to some driver/crew communication and you'll here more "good job, buddy's" than at a dog training school.

#4: What will they open up with? What will they close the first set with? What about second set? Will we get a St. Stephen? What about the encore??? These questions buzz around the Grateful Dead stadium parking lot much like the drivers' qualifying runs and resulting pole positions invite statistically hopeful conversations about driving strategy throughout tailgating groups at the track.

Are you seeing any similarities here?

There are more... I'm just tired... and I gotta go catch highlights of an amazing race at Dover!