Alicia's Bachelorette Party

Some of you might have heard me refer to my friend Alicia before. As Thomas' baby cousin I often refer to her as 'the kid'. Not to be demeaning, but because when she lived with us she was literally just a kid. My friends and colleagues took great glee in us, a childless couple suddenly becoming the stand-in parents for a fully grown girl.

Despite the age difference (and no, I'm not going to expound on it. Suffice it to say I am indeed old enough to be her mother) we became fast friends. So when she sprang the news of her impending nuptials I jumped at the chance to throw her a bachelorette party.

Now Alicia has a thing for men in uniforms. Case in point, her husband to be, Bryan is an Iraqi-war veteran. Knowing this I desperately sought a 'man in uniform' to provide entertainment for our festivities. Unfortunately, my kitchen is under renovation. which means my entire house is in temporary chaos until the kitchen is completed. For example, the butcher block knife set sits on a chair in the living room. More disturbing, the refrigerator taking up precious real estate next to my chaise and between my bookshelves.

Even more appalling is the fact that there's no real seating space. The only available spot is on Duke's couch. Yes Duke has a couch, get over it. He needs space to stretch his legs. And roll and wiggle on his back so his loose hairs can fall off, which they do in alarming frequency and quantity. Can you imagine the, ahem COP sitting his buff, oiled ass on Duke's couch?

I had to fall back on Plan B - a male revue. Now for some reason the only shows happened to fall on a Friday night. My party was being thrown on a Saturday night which meant, you guessed it, no meaty male parts for the bride.

However I'm nothing if not creative so I planned a series of fun, female-oriented activities. One of which was a visit to the Pleasure Palace Video on Rt 46. And let me tell you, those thoughtful folks sell a heck of a lot more than just videos. Lingerie, games like Sex Monopoly (I kid you not), party favors (penis-shaped Skittles, penis straws, larger than life blow-up schlongs), a fascinating array of lubricants, penis accoutrements and fetish props. Although I must admit the sex swing was a bit much...

The best part of that expedition was taking the bride's mother along. What a trooper, although I must admit she didn't listen one whit when we sternly told her, now don't look anywhere but straight ahead!

No stripper but we did cram in bar-hopping (Tequila shots to kickoff the night), gift opening which compromised of lingerie, perfumes and kick-ass body glitter, snacks and more cocktails, a limo to escort us to our nightclub driven by the glummest limo driver I've even met (too bad we spilled orange juice and champagne!), and finally dancing all night long.

From the looks of the pix we had a pretty dandy time. the bride was radiant and glowed. The girl actually glows! And we, the party of escorting women were tipsily enjoying the rite of female passage.

Disclaimer: no I'm not drunk, my eyes just happened to blink at the exact moment the flash went off. Seriously. Just ask the glum limo driver.

Nadal Wins Wimbledon

Raphael Nadal triumphed over Roger Feder in a 5 set thriller upsetting the Swiss's domination of the grass championship and ending his 5 consecutive win steak. Bjorn Borg's record has been tied, not broken. Nadal has proven himself as not only a clay wizard but also an astute student of grass, and of of tennis overall. And the kid's only 22!

Felicitaciones Rafa.

Nuff said.

Tree-age

Ever notice how trees are like army veterans? I know you're waiting breathlessly for that one. It occurred to me one day as I was lounging in the sanctuary of my garden. The pansies had died out, the portulacas were blooming as the temperature neared dessert-like heat, and my 50 plus year-old Cherry tree was bearing splendid cherries. Stop Woody Allen or anyone else from telling you otherwise, bugs are notorious tree killers. Other branches extended majestically into the neighbors yard. But what caught my disturbed eye was a stunted tree, limbs puckered into a rounded wound.

I know you've seen them before, vets, homeless people, beggars. India has them in profusion, and they wave their stumps to alarming effect. That was precisely the image the Cherry tree evoked. Some branch, useless or diseased had to be amputated by a handsaw, or worse, chainsaw. And like a human limb the injured appendage had to heal. Months, years of bark and sap and the alpine nervous system finally closed the wound until all the remained was a puckered stump.

In a Tolkienesque moment I imagined myself chatting with the weathered Oak in Mr. Garcia's yard. Or with the 100 foot+ pine across the street. But then I remembered that I don't speak tree and settled for fancifully imagining that their leaves whispered and murmured a language long forgotten by men. At least I can hug them, eh?

When a Woman Wants a Baby

This is not a gentle, warm hearted story of a miracle baby birth. It’s a tale about the power of desire. This is a story of femininity unleashed in all its aspects: ability to create, to destroy, to heal, to love.

My cousin Radha is the focal point of this entry, and a more befitting name could not exist. In Hindu divinity, the relationship of Radha and Krishna is the embodiment of love, passion and devotion. Radha's passion for Krishna symbolizes the soul's intense longing and willingness for the ultimate unification with God. Fitting I say for my cousin is a woman of unnerving beauty and a hunger that won't be denied. Sometimes that passion finds its focal point in the love for family, for a man. At other times it seeks all things dark and forbidden. And no, she’s not a Scorpio, that’s for another entry.

At the time of her 40th birthday last year she had embarked on a divorce. Wornout after 5 years with a man who gave up pretence of a normal life and descended into his own dark journey, she devolved into the phrase I most loathe: the woman she thought she should be. So she treated herself to a getaway weekend with big cousin Rake on the outskirts of NY. We smoked a lot and drank even more. We ate dim sum, fabulous Mexican finger foods and talked our tongues raw. Came 3:00 am Saturday night - the witching hour. Fatted and still not purged of our thoughts we sat in my garden sanctuary, burned an outdoor fire and sipped far too young Chardonnay.

"Read cards for me," she asked. When the birthday girl asks I comply. So I read, quite a lovely spread for it promised love, wealth and progeny. "You know" she said, "all I want right now is a child. I don’t want a husband, I don’t even want a boyfriend. All I want is to be a mother."

Now this is where the cautionary part comes to play. I don’t care if you’re not burning an outdoor fire in a charming garden. I don’t care if you’re not sipping wine or reading a deck of Tarot. What I will say is this: when you proclaim to the stars, to the universe, to your God a statement of such longing and unadulterated desire, the forces that be listen.

They listened to Radha which is why Monday, June 30 at 5:23 pm I was holding her hand while her baby girl Sophia was born. The child is so perfectly beautiful it’s almost a shame. I almost feel bad for spotty, pointy headed babies who squall and flail their bald heads uselessly. Sophia has a rosebud mouth - dark pink, pouty already accustomed to the perfect moue. Her bottom lip quivers when she cries, which she does often to showcase her robust lungs. In direct contrast to her tiny, barely 6 pound body. But a perfect 6 pounds. I remember a friend who upon birthing a premature baby told me how tiny her wee one was. “I feel like I had a cat,” she confessed. Sophia in no way resembles a cat, except for the fact that she adores sleeping. The warm crook of an arm, a snuggly bosom and she’s snoozing with her impossibly teeny fingers curled about her binkie. Territorial, that one.

One thing I will always remember about her birth. When the doctors slashed open her mother, jostled and dragged her out. And forced her to breathe her first breath of cold, human air. When she was only minutes old after being wiped clean of chalky, sticky, bloody amniotic fluid by a kind but rough nurse. Careful I wanted to scream, that's an INFANT as the nurse balanced her in one open palm while typing data into the computer with another. When she was placed in my terrified arms (Don’t trip Rekha, don’t trip was my mantra) and I held her close to her mother, she opened her gray-green eyes and looked directly at her mom. As the Bard would have said: "tis a consumation devoutly to be wished for."

You know the old dictum - be careful what you wish for? Rubbish I say. Rejoice, cajol, demand your desires. For this life is for no one else but yourself. Discover your deepest wish and tell the stars, the mailman, your husband from dawn til midnight. I don’t care if you’re 4 or 40, unearth that which is your ultimate love and seek it.

You might not birth a perfect child but I’m guessing it will be perfect - for you.