Throwaway Summer

August was a throw away month. My house existed in a constant state of chaos: a kitchen renovation estimated to take 2 months dragged on for 4. My house was never devoid of visitors, ergo never bereft of slamming doors, smoked cigarettes tossed in planters or the withering and unmown lawn, the blare of video games, deliveries of kitchen appliances, chairs, sofas, or just plain yapping gums in the already mentioned unfinished kitchen. I confirmed a universally held belief with painful lucidity this summer: the kitchen is the heart of a home.

One day when all my guests had left I sat in my newly renovated kitchen. It looked exactly as I envisioned it. Spacious, rustic yet dramatic, gorgeously lit in sunlight and in candlelight. Equipped with stainless steel appliances that somehow maintain a homespun ambiance. And most importantly, pretty. And yet, yet it felt oddly cold. The melted butter-hued walls captured the exact mood I desired: the sun setting on a Tuscan kitchen. The paintings and mahogany framed mirrors hung to my specifications, rooster-themed trivets and jugs propped strategically for maximum color and textural impact.

Still my kitchen felt oddly alien. Matter of fact my entire house felt foreign and intrusive, like a man I was sleeping with and suddenly didn't know. I walked listlessly through the house, dreading for the first time much sought after silence. I took solace playing music that fit my mood: Sarah Maclachlan, Alison Krauss, anything by the Judds. I found particular comfort in A Home by the Dixie Chicks.

The state of self perceived alienation continued for a long week, lonely despite visitations from dependable and supportive friends. Unable to bear the distressed expression on my dog's face I took remedial measures. No I didn't burn candles or smudge my house with a burning sage stick while playing Basia. (Ok, ok, I might have some a bit of this...) I went for a more direct and pragmatic approach, which in itself is a remarkable accomplishment for a woman with Pisces rising AND Pisces moon. I spent one entire weekend assessing the state of the why-does-this-feel-like-a-house-not-a-home residence. As usual, logic could not be confounded. Matter of fact, it won out in aces.

Case in point, I own a gorgeous, comfy, energetically sympatico house. So the lawn might be shaggy from lack of mowing. And yes, the rose bushes need trimming, as do the Lilac and Rose of Sharon shrubs. The bedroom needs to be repainted and the tile laid around the jacuzzi.

But the house is still MY house as much, if not more than it's ever been. Difference being the absence of a human body. But given my extensive family and prelidiction for throwing dinner parties it will not be a party of two for any period of time. It will certainly be filled with new energy, new memories and yes, men.

Ah, the men.

Seasons of Upper Greenwood Lake

Wrote this piece a while ago but never posted. If you can think of pubs interested in this type of nature commentary, let me know.

Summer on Upper Greenwood Lake and my beloved takes me to his parents’ summer home in Northern New Jersey. Night cloaks the pink and warm blue air. BBQ for breakfast. We dock the power boat and take wild rides on the jet ski. The dog hunts chipmunks and dresses himself in the stench of anything dead and decaying. Finger sized bats dark through the lowest tier of tree branches guided by the murmur of late bees and mosquitoes fat from a days suckling. The lake warms to a temperature that ducks, dogs and women find enjoyable. All find reason to dawdle in the late day water, unmarred by the chop and whirl and whine of electric motors. At night fireworks ascend the sky in bursts of white, red and blue for no other reason than to give the stars a break from illuminating the sky.

It’s Fall - herons, gulls, geese gorge on the seaweed and algae in preparation for their long migrations. The sky is so blue it hurts your eyes. The water of the lake becomes so deep and still you can see fish surfacing, causing softly undulating waves. Solitary ducks float languidly by the dock, honking hello to kayakers and fisherman in silent hydrafoil cruisers. I help plant fruit trees - one cherry, one sugar pear. We scavenge local nurseries for late perennial bargains of clematis, creepers and spring bulbs. We pick wild purple salvia from the sides of the road.

Winter and the lake freezes in time for Christmas. Stumps of old trees breech the surface giving the appearance of an antler graveyard. Shorn of protective foliage the trees expose homes that huddle on small hills, trying to shield themselves from the wail of wind and bluster of cold. Fishermen trek on the ice, drilling 7 inch holes wide enough to pull out striped bass and trout. Smoke escapes chimneys. We gather by the fireplace to grill nuts and roast toes. The pine cones hiss and crackle as gas pockets escape from the tiny dried pyramids. We pore over seed catalogs - planning floral spectacles for the next year. The neighbor builds a magnificent snowman 3 balls high and 5 feel tall. To accompany the snowdude he fashions a snow dog after his Shi Tsu - Petey. The snow dogs looks so lifelike my dog trots over for a sniff and adds a shot of yellow to the snow dog's leg. The wood ducks wear black oily coats from lack of sun and water.

Spring - crusty ice begins to melt. Daffodils spring between alpine creepers like Mountain Laurel and Dew Drops. Early ducks scout prime real estate – a large boulder, a swath of raspy grasses, an alcove within easy reach of the lapping waves - staking claims that will last the year. The surface of the lake, devoid of human and animal life begins to show signs of rebirth. Fisherman edge carefully over the thinning ice, reluctant to succumb their sport to frozen water. Streams of melted ice trickle from the highland cliffs, carrying earth and spore that will nourish the petite lake ecosystem. Forsythias poke golden flames of petal, despite the wind and chill. Bears forage at night to feed their resuscitated bellies and offspring. Eagles soar high in the sky, keen to any movement. They mistake your little dog for a rabbit and you have to drag the little guy indoors before piercing talons attempt to hoist him skyward as an avian meal. You leave the lake reluctantly, deriving solace only in the knowledge that you will return soon.

© April 2005

This is the summer I've endured so far

The demolition of my kitchen.
Dining al fresco everyday, morning, noon and night.
Dog sitters unaccustomed to my tough Irish kid.
Hiring a landscaper since I haven't been able to garden for the first time in my life.
Delightful Polish visitors.
Not cooking for 60 consecutive days.
A flooded kitchen not once, but twice in the same weekend. On brand new hardwood floor.
The anguished face of your dog as you entertain a man that is not his father.
Adorable visiting lesbians from Australia.
Not one but two eclipses in Leo.
Plant sitting for friends as they depart for a month's stay in Italy.
A white old refrigerator sitting in my living room for 3 months.
Power tools strewn about my house; on the makeshift tables, in buckets piled high with assorted construction gadgets, on the dogs sofa (and yes he has one!)
Learning what meine Liebe means.

Death of a Tiny Blue Dragonfly

Emotional is not a word I'm afraid of. Matter of fact the emotional realm is my playground, in which I wallow from morbid melancholy to celestial joy. When time and energy are stolen from me due to personal and career commitments, my capacity for emotional yoyoing settles at zero. When I have not refueled my stocks of beauty, pleasure or solitude the sentimental scale wavers at despondent and nothing more.

That was me yesterday, enjoying the breezes from my garden, but not really. They were cool and unusual for August with a hint of moisture befitting the month. Out of the corner of my eye I caught the flicker of blue and metal. A tiny blue dragonfly flitted around my head. He was so stunning and fearless I watched his flight for long minutes (remember the need to restock my reservoirs?).

The next morning I emptied out the garbage can after a heavy nights storm. Floating in a puddle of water in the garbage lid was the dragonfly! I cupped him in my hand and could feel the hum of his weak wings. Knowing the forecast called for a heavy downpour I knew I couldn't leave him to die the most Hemmingwayesque of deaths: To die, alone, in the rain. So I placed him on a shelf, under the patio table that protects my shears and gardening gloves from raindrops.

I forgot about the little guy till the next day when I looked for his body. It was gone. Perhaps he resuscitated and flew off. Perhaps a neighborhood cat walked by and took him for a snack. Or, perhaps he flew off to the place that dragonflies go. Ah see? The optimism's back.

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.

Transitions

It happens so fast. One minute you're grieving the loss of an 8 year relationship, the security of knowing he can handle any disaster; a flooded basement, a dead possum, the wireless Internet connection. One minute you miss his warm body next to you in bed then before you know it you're contemplating who will occupy that empty space.

As if to mock the state of desolation your garden thrives as if it were located in the lush rain forests of the tropics rather than Northern New Jersey. The Joseph's Coat roses, named for their glorious show of petals that start out orange, merge into salmon then fade into a vicious pink, clamber over the fence as enthusiastically as if it were deep summer rather than just late spring. The peonies bloomed so early you had only 1 week to enjoy their fragrant wispy blooms the size of large grapefruits. And the mint! Good lord the mint has already grown to nipple height, increasing their sensual, beguiling allure. But I don't have to tell that to my friends or the dog. He tramples through the mint bed to cool his smelly, popcorn scented feet. My friends embrace the cool, herby stalks for Mojitos or chutney. Or like my friend Barbara, to writhe upon in ecstatic frenzy, like a person with human catnip.

Books you start reading: how to cook for 1. Emails you begin paying attention to: eHarmony and Chemistry.com. You begin to wonder if Facebook could be a good thing...

Top 10 songs to Karaoke before you die

Been spending a bit of time doing something I never contemplated. Singing in karaoke bars. Odd development considering my not too shabby musical lineage. My mother is a classical Indian singer. My cousin Tom Prasada-Rao is a multiple Kerrville songwriter of the year winner and possibly the best male vocalist I've ever heard. My other cousin Rekha (we ran out of names, ok?!) is a jazz singer/pianist. I did the occassional stint as backup and studio singer on top of the 10 years I sang in the choir. You heard me, choir. Chorale music performed before a live audience, mostly in church. 4 part harmony (sometimes 5 if a 2nd soprano was called for). I sang alto and sometimes tenor if Laurie Yost wasn't around to carry the tenor line with the 3 shy boys lassoed in from band.

I really loved it. Skye Sweetnam might think music is her boyfriend. It was my escape. My rendezvous with forbidden freedom, even if I was singing to sweater-wearing, blue hair rinsed old ladies cradling well worn Bibles. Even if I was harmonizing about the Old Testament prophet Moses and his bad ass serpent-transfiguring staff. But when one doesn't sing, the vocal chords normally accustomed to high Gs, breath control and generally emitting sounds acceptable to human ears atrophy. Badly.

So I discovered when my colleague Ping invited me to a karaoke evening with promises of happy hour Cosmopolitans. Why not give it a whirl, I've only sung for a quarter of my life. Apparently a quarter does not suffice. This new generation, and by that I mean the devilish kids who grew up with media channels like uTube, Myspace and reality television to showcase their nebulous but nonetheless unique talents. Did you forget James Hung already?

Luckily Ping's vocal talents are neither nebulous nor disturbingly unique. The boy can sing, really well. The Killers, 3 Doors Down, and best of all - Creep by Radiohead. Holy shit! what an epiphany to hear a hometown guy (via the Asian Karaoke belt) bellow Creep in a tiny 4 seater karaoke room with a disco ball glinting jewel colored lights against the dingy walls.

My singing fared less well. Years of rusty car singing to Classic Rock stations or JACK simply could not fabricate a confident, much less digestible voice. So I crackled and popped through some gruesome renditions of contemporary pop. No I'm not going to name them so you can giggle.

But I perservered at Ping's drawn eyebrowed request and guess what? I'm getting my chops back baby! So in honor of this newly acquired skill I'm paying homage to the mistakenly silly ritual of karaoke by listing 10 songs you MUST sing karaoke-style before you die.

10. New York State of Mind - dedicated to the formerly from San Francisco but now a bona fide New Yorker Ms. Sheila Shea.
9. Santeria - Sublime. Come ON.
8. Any song by the Carpenters
7. Killing me softly - Fugees version
6. Battle Flag - Lo Fidelity Allstars
5. Anything NOT by Bobby Vinton
4. Teen Spirit - Nirvana
3. Rappers Delight, with 3 participants otherwise forget it!
2. Lady Mamalade - either version
1. Total Eclipse of the Heart - Bonnie Tyler. The gravelly-voiced Tyler was reputedly a sword swallower and had the boys in my high school all misty eyed whenever it played. And yes, I've karaoked it.

For my amusement add your fave picks for songs to karaoke in any old order you please.