The weather’s supposed to get better tomorrow. Sure. Actually can’t take it anymore. Constant gray skies; mugginess that comes in through the AC, my lungs and my head need to be sent somewhere on vacation.

Really don’t want this to be a political blog, or give power to people who feel the need to comment on my team political blog, and then get me so angry that I break my own rule (for a change) and write about 9/11 affecting people differently in New York than it did in California. Said person then commented on my post, and said I “misinterpeted” him. Copied his comment and provided a link back to the comments. However I then became angry and, well…

I have been having an ongoing conversation with Trine on blogging; Mrs. M. (who needs a plug like a fish needs…oh wrong blog, well anyway) made this comment.

Okay now that I had that rant…Blogging is a weird thing…. However, how do you know the mommy bloggers are not really pedophiles? How do you know that? For your friends that say they hate blogs, perhaps they are jealous and afraid to show their narcissistic side?

For the two of you who don’t know Mrs. M–okay–make that five people as people who read me are rather eclectic; that first part was a joke. Trine’s a mommy and a blogger and thus belongs to a mommy blogger ring. Wow that does sound rather paedophile. It’s not. Think I have begun to know Trine well enough to know that not only would she expose it, she would write about it! Trine’s blog keeps on becoming increasingly important to my reading life. It’s as if Bridget Jones became Norwegian, added some IQ points, married, had a child, moved to Brighton, England, and frankly I find myself so immersed in it, I would feel cheated if she stopped. Unless she made it into a book or books…No, Bridget Jones isn’t an apt description, but I’m still in mold farm mental state, so…

Mrs. M is from Queens and Manhattan and lives in London. I’m not only expecting to buy the book but see the movie–and not in the very distant future. Read more…

Here’s a link to activities that will take place on July 23, as The Bastard of Bring it on! says, maybe one day it will be a national holiday.

Took this link from Moxie’s site. . Do we have to learn from the BBC that Bush himself denies any direct involvement between 9/11 and the war in Iraq?

I’m not going to into my anti war rap; that’s not what this post is about. Here’s a great link; warning certain people might find the person in this video obscene.

I was working on another post for today, but this makes me sick. For the three of you who don’t know why I feel so sick every time 9/11 is invoked, and it’s been mentioned often recently here it is: MAJOR HEART TUGGING SLIGHTLY DEPRESSING POST FOLLOWS ALERT

I live in Manhattan. I will never forget every second of that horrible week. While the rest of America was allowed to have “healing rallies,” and other mass demonstrations we weren’t. That sounds insipid and totally superficial. Did your healing rally help you get through that time? Thought so.

There was one mass something. However it took place in Yankee Stadium, and you needed a ticket that were not easy to come by; the rally (event or whatever it was called) was really for the families. We understood.

WE WANTED WAR. WE WANTED REVENGE. WE WOULD HAVE DONE ANYTHING THEN. BUSH MISSED HIS GREATEST OPPORTUNITY.

Or did he? Did he, for whatever sick reasons, want to alienate the people of New York? Shouldn’t have watched Bush’s speech last night. When he invoked 9/11 six times, he made it six times more personal. Now I’m hearing that he only directly said “9/11 five times,” and invoked it several more times. Whatever. Read more…

My eyelids are drooping; the only thing that would wake me up today would be caffeine ingested through a needle, and the thought of that is enough to send me back to bed.

Days like today makes me hate New York, and charming pre-war buildings and everything and anything that I can think of. It’s a bad hair/bad mind day. Three Advil accomplished zilch.

Can’t write what I had planned to as my mind refuses to wake up and I keep on typing words like “walk” when I mean “wake.” That’s probably because I’m in dire need of a walk.

This weekend when almost everybody I know will be in Montauk, Springs and Shelter Island–all ways of not saying “Hamptons,” I will be in the city because I can write without too many distractions and walk on streets that tourists aren’t aware of, or don’t find exciting, but I do simply because they’re empty with occupants almost all away.

All the old houses in the Hamptons are mold breeders. This isn’t the way to keep a friendship going:
“Would you look to come to our house for the Fourth.”
me thinking rapidly, sheet didn’t they rent one in Springs?
“Springs is so lovely. Are you near the bay or the beach?”
me still thinking: what does it matter, have to find out what the house looks like.
The conversation goes on for five minutes, and I still don’t have a clue as to whether the house is old and moldy, or newer and air conditioned. I’m too polite to ask that pivotal question so I finally blurt out:
“I have an incredibly bad allergy to mold, don’t too great with pollen either, and I make a horrible house guest because I can only function after much expresso preferably ingested through my nostrils. Unless of course the weather’s perfect than I’m the guest you remember from the ’80′s when you rented that house in Sag Harbor….”
Which I believe caused helped this allergy become the thing that defines me so I continue;
“That’s why I only stay in ocean front motels with rooms directly on the ocean, but they’ve become so pricey, I find it easier to go to California.”

Then we get into the conversation: Briefly, I have given up on the entire Eastern Sea Coast because there’s way too much mold, threat of rain, hurricanes and more. I would much rather take my chances on earthquakes, and no I haven’t been to Washington State, or Oregon though I would love to go there because my coffee intake would be even greater than it is on days like today.

And after six cups of double expresso roast, my eyelids are still droopy, my head (actually wrote and published “hate”) hurts, and I’m allergic to most allergy medications. Weird but when I look in a mirror I don’t see droopy eyelids or any visible reminders of my allergies. People don’t believe me until they have the rare privilege of spending the weekend with me in a mold farm, and then they begin coming down with symptoms.

Really don’t mind my growing rep as a mold farm breeder. Though it does sound gross.

NOWHERE IN THIS POST, ANY OTHER POST OR COMMENT I HAVE WRITTEN IN CD OR ANY OTHER BLOG DO I SAY, IMPLY OR INFER THAT I AM BETTER THAN ANYBODY ELSE. That is an absurd allegation that has no basis in fact or anything I have written. But if you want to distort my truth and perceptions and that’s all anybodies truth is, feel free. It’s kind of cool because I do have self-esteem issues; not massive ones–here I go again–disclaiming my damned life away!

I have been trying to write this post all afternoon with no success. Yesterday at my team political blog, Cranky, Sally and I wrote posts about Karl Rove’s truly sick statement. Somebody commented to me on Sally’s thread.

The commenter actually believes that people in Manhattan Beach CA (for example) were as affected by 9/11 as the people of Manhattan. I’m speechless for one of the few times in my life.

This person didn’t wake up late at 8:50 AM, recently began working at home, turn on the radio where the disc jockey said turn on the TV. I did without even thinking how odd that was. Called Lucia; we had a big argument because I knew from the first second that this was a terrorist attack. A plane in trouble would have diverted itself or been diverted to the water, which was right there. Lucia and I were cut off. Read more…

Hang Karl Rove by the cojones Just thought I would begin with an inflammatory statement.

At the end of this post is an article copied from today’s New York Times on the first class to graduate from Stuyvesant High School that began their high school career by watching buildings explode. Heroes, patriots, and inspirational all of them.

It’s a steaming hot Saturday in the city. Yesterday, when I was at the beach a boy drowned. Normally, at this point I would give a water safety lesson. But, all of you, the most over protective of all parents since my father, don’t assume that you’re always going to be in the ocean or large lake with your kids. Teach them how to survive a sudden under tow!

Fortunately, my father was the only man in known history to always ask questions. When I was a kid that drove me crazy, because no other dad asked for directions. He was totally unashamedly curious , and asked questions until he was an expert in the subject de jour, or sometimes thought that he was. Read more…

Don’t usually plug my own posts! Read my post under this “on my father…” It’s a tear jerker, or tears of enjoyment.

It was a pleasure to be my father’s daughter–even when we were driving each other crazy, which was often. But not many daughters are given a legacy such as this letter. It is the must treasured part of my parents legacy to me for my parents were almost as one. Very in love; even as a baby I knew and enjoyed their passion for each other (or my mother said that I enjoyed it!)

Then read the post below it “The sisterhood of the traveling picture.” Sometimes I’m clever; sometimes profound; sometimes witty, sometimes horrible. Here I think I’m…well draw your own conclusions. Yes more about that picture

Will probably have a new post up this weekend; though I might really try to hold out until Monday. Trying to become a less obsessive blogger. Not easy.

I’m Jewish. No! Shocking! Danny Bloom has a site devoted to blogging Jews. Scroll all the way down and there we are! And an update! Link to Danny’s Bubbe and Zaidie books included.

For every one Jew who blogs there are at least 20 stories about why said person blogs. Read more…

My dad wrote the following story sometime right after I was adopted at not quite four months. My sister (yes a girl was born to our parents almost two years and two weeks later). She found this some months ago. Selfishly I held onto the print copy as I wasn’t ready to even scan it in. Now I have the print copy, and many copies thoughout my computer. Couldn’t format properly; left everything in my dad’s words. I left in most small errors. Hope you enjoy it!
****************

I don’t know exactly what to call this story, or really where

to begin. Suppose that I start near the end which is a

new beginning,— for Marion and me.

The phone rang at 8 p.m. on Wednesday, November l5th. It was

our caseworker. We were waiting 4 years for this call at

last it came. She told Marion that there is a little baby girl, who is ready for adoption. Marion gripped the phone tighter,

her heart beat faster,– she let out a soft “oh”, I gathered

what the call was about, we had to sit down to control ourselves.  Marion whispered “It’s a girl”  we smiled at each other, and words were non-existent. But we both knew that we were glad that it was a girl. As a matter of fact, we realized right then and there that we really preferred a girl. The agency had asked us several times, at different interviews, whether we preferred a boy or a girl  but we never gave a definite preference. Read more…

The Sisterhood of the traveling pants made me love movies again. It’s a chick flick for all ages and wonderful. Was going to tell a cute anecdote about how I discovered Amber Tamblyn when she first began on General Hospital back in the days of VCR’s, and stupid cable company rules about not being able to record more than one channel. Guess I’m telling it. I was so obsessed with GH that I could only watch shows on ABC which left out most programs. Fortunately I was a one person two TV household, and could watch Melrose Place on Monday nights as my reward for leading a woman’s group that consisted of very old, slightly demented, ladies.

Never liked Luke and Laura, and that was the year of their return. Actually I have no idea why I was obsessed with GH, but Amber Tamblyn was a miracle. When she seemed to grow up over night GH didn’t try to keep her a little girl, or act too old for her age. Began liking Tony Geary when he cut his hair. Anybody who knows me will find that very strange. Stopped watching GH years ago when it became so bad faux-Sopranos

Also love The Gilmore Girls Alexis Bledel is the daughter. As Lucia says: “no real life mother and daughter ever have that fast witty repartee.” But it’s nice to watch on TV.

Forgot about America Ferrara who stole the film. She’s as good if not better than she was in Real Women Have Curves. Found myself crying at the end. Blake Lively who I’m not familiar with plays the fourth girl. Couldn’t get America Ferrara out of my mind for days. She’s an amazing actress and a role model for every girl who has hips.

They’re best friends of all different sizes but one pair of jeans fit them all. They think that the jeans are magical and will do great things for them when they’re apart for the first time one summer.

The picture I found of myself last week in a magazine is my own private traveling pants. Seeing myself reflected through a stranger’s eyes made me see myself differently. Perception is everything and I never thought of myself as particularly pretty though I knew that other people did.

When I was very young–20 or so, I walked into he-who-has-played-a-million-roles-in-my-life’s bedroom at his parents house. He was intently putting together a photo album.
“Who’s that girl?” I asked about a girl who could only be called gorgeous. You know what’s coming next but I didn’t.
“that’s you.” He answered, stunned and more than a little worried about my sanity. That last part was nothing new. Actually sometimes he still does. Tell you a secret; I really don’t care. Yes I do; some people come in and out and back into our lives for reasons that we don’t and won’t understand, maybe ever. But I made damn sure that he saw the sisterhood of the traveling picture because we both want reassurance that our youthful belief in the beauty and brilliance of the other will continue to to be confirmed.

I still don’t believe it; I have been haunted by memories of that picture most of my life. If I looked like that than I was…uh dare I say it..really pretty. So send me a copy!

I was the girl who never noticed guys looking at me. I would be told that they did. I was the girl who would cower in the corner looking for faults. All and any; larger than the Saint Andreas fault; larger than the hole in the earth that went all the way to China. Usually I wanted to fall into that hole. It wasn’t that my parents constantly criticized my looks; well my father criticized everything but that was just him. And I knew that he thought I was beautiful.

I had hips, and breasts, and a tush. In the era of Twiggy none of this was good. I spent my life dieting and trying to make my body into something that it couldn’t be. Yeah guys told me that I was beautiful but it didn’t matter. Just assumed that they were trying to pick me up because they were. I had severe problems with trusting guys; many seemed to want me, and I’m not being coy; I didn’t think that I was very special. I had too many interests; I liked learning strange things like facts about the weather.

I was caught between generations; now I would make a perfect nerd. I fit in but I never felt comfortable. When I began college, girls had curfews; many college educated girls still aspired to be secretaries or teachers just so they could have summers off, and quit before the first baby. Wendy Wasserstein is my age, and she had an entirely different experience. She went to a Seven Sister College; I started at the local loser school–where I had an incredible time and wouldn’t trade my memories for anything. I wasn’t really expected to achieve much, just get a college degree before getting married.

Again it wasn’t that my parents didn’t believe in me. I hadn’t done well in high school and there went my mom and guidance counsellor’s dream for me to go to Sarah Lawrence. My dad believed that real education took place outside of school. He wasn’t the usual suburban father though he could fake it well.

Didn’t have many girl friends then. It was the second generation of the modern women’s liberation movement; I should have been paying attention to it. But all I knew was that I was that I wasn’t as pretty as my only real girl friend, Shelby, because she had small breasts, small hips, and most importantly, small thighs.

Nobody ever said “you have big legs, but they’re toned.” Nobody ever said “stop dieting.” Well they did later but I was really underweight then. And to be truthful my mother did, but I thought that she was paid to compliment me.

A lifetime or so has passed since I was 20. My life’s been half-wonderful. I have had adventures, had incredible things happen to me that usually only happen in fiction. In the past year or so I have reached that place called content. A few things are missing but I think of them as yet to come.
I even finally believed that I was pretty; better than pretty, really. But I gained weight and it’s taken a long time to come off. Weight has always been everything to me. I measure success not in terms of what I’ve done but what size I was at the time.

When I first saw that picture last week, I thought that the woman couldn’t be me. She was too sure of herself; too young looking; too prototype Manhattan. I wanted to be her.

Yes I’m incredibly immature to think this way. But really how many people ever achieve true maturity?

I am her. I have always been her. But the sisterhood of the traveling picture affirmed me. Call it the sisterhood because it’s the bond between the people that are, really and brutally honestly, the most important people to me–my inner self and my outer self. We’re one, we’ve bonded, we understand how the world sees us.

Oh why was Twiggy the role model when I was a young teenager? America Ferrara, I’m so glad you’re here now. Wish you had been here then.

Don’t remember when my mom first told me about Tiffany’s second floor. I had already moved into my apartment in the 60′s off Fifth, handpicked by my doting dad who when he wasn’t driving me crazy was my favorite person. I must have needed a wedding gift. In the 1970′s people still gave gifts instead of money if they were young, not relatives or parental best friends.

My mom told me that this was a secret passed on from mother to daughter. I believed her because I believed everything that my mother said, though her mother was an immigrant. She was sophisticated and had good taste, so this might have been true. Several years before my mom died I asked for dispensation to tell other people. My mom couldn’t stop laughing at my amazingly gullible nature–only where my parents were concerned.

Tiffany’s second floor was a place where you could pick up cheap(er) wedding and hostess gifts, and they were always in good taste, and welcomed because of the blue Tiffany box. The gifts weren’t original, but I have a huge multi-faceted crystal paperweight that had been given to my parents, and they gave to me as I collect glass and crystal. Know it’s from Tiffany’s because I then bought a much smaller version–for my fave gift recipient–me.

I stopped going to Tiffany’s in the early ’80′s when many unique gift stores opened on Lexington Avenue that were much more funky and to my taste. Once my last fiancee and I brought champagne, crystal glasses, and strawberries to Tiffany’s so that we could have breakfast at Tiffany’s as the sun rose. That’s my idea of a great date.

Alexanders, oh how do I get from Tiffany’s to Alexanders?

Well the Manhattan Alexanders was just a three block walk but it was a world apart. When fave sis and I were young, every year the night before school began our family would drive to the Alexanders in Rego Park. There would be a five mile back-up on both sides of the Long Island Expressway. I never understood this ritual, nor liked it, but the parents seemed to love it.

This family trip might have something (or everything) to do with my hatred of shopping in department stores. Alexanders had everything: from school supplies to winter coats. I thought that everybody bought their clothes there.

When we moved to real Long Island, as opposed to the edge of Northeast Queens, I quickly found out that fave sis and I dressed all wrong. The girls in our new school had worn clothes from Best & Company in elementary school, and now, in Seventh Grade, wore Villager clothes and Papagallo shoes from The Miracle Mile in Manhasset. We begged and begged for our mom to buy us clothes from some store other than Alexanders but she refused. But I was allowed to buy my own clothes the next year so it wasn’t as much of an issue as I made it into. My decades of black and purple began, and yes I’m personally responsible for beginning the black clothes trend in New York. Sure!

Later, in the 1970′s when I moved just off Fifth, and my parents had seen much of the world, my mom finally realized that the depression was over and had been over for sometime. As in, long before I had been born! Read more…

I wrote two posts about Terri this past week because she is news and her case is something that I’m too familiar with.

In the post below this I wrote about search engines, James Spader, William Shatner and managed to get in the Bush family. Side note, as I write this, Jeff Daniels is singing a song about William Shatner and a tribute of sorts. “If William Shatner can, I can to.” Yes!

There’s a comment about how I have a disturbed single mindedness about Bush(es). Had the person gone further than the three posts on the first page she would have seen I have gone months without writing about them on Courting. However…

Sorry if it offends you, but…I just don’t like the Bushes. Don’t like that; don’t read my blog!

Trying to decide whether or not to have Impeach Bush somewhere in every post, probably at the end. Should I or shouldn’t I? If I do, should it be impeach Bush(es) or not. Don’t live in Florida, but everybody in the world feels that they can tell New Yorkers what to do and how to do it, so…

Courting isn’t turning into all politics all the time at all. No not at all. Am adding and changing categories today; am incredibly stupidly excited about that. It was that or a father’s day BBQ; so, here I be…