StormyWrites

Hello Holiday season!

We not only survived but outright enjoyed Thanksgiving. Sydney went teen on me and hoveled away in her room for most of the festivities, but she wasn’t moping in public so it did not seem a battle worth fighting.

Syd is great. Teachers love her. Coaches love her. Neighbors and neighbor kids love her. She’s funny and engaging and hard working; diligent academically and all the things we want our kids to be. While other kids in middle school are tricking their way to vaping and drinking and trying weed: she wants pickle juice to help with post swim leg cramps and to wear overpriced sweatshirts. She’s got a backbone – which is great. And she’s sweet, amazing, top of the line human being.

To everyone but Pete.

Nothing but daggers for that guy. And he wants her to like him so much that it’s heartbreaking. As you know, he came into the picture a full year after my divorce; ie was not a homewrecker. I tell the kids he’s a unicorn in: he has no ex-wives, no children that threaten their space, a cool job so he’s not in this at all for the money, and he’s only here half the time. Julian gets it. Syd digs her heels in deeper. Because of him, we have taken more great trips than we could have. Sure, he goes couch commando but we put a stop to anything other than MSN. He would never consider laying a finger on either of them. He tries to think of fun things for all of us to do together. We bring him a packaged family, If everyone could get along, it’d be an all out cool thing.

I get it. He’s not her dad. But he never tries to impinge on that. He just wants to be their friend. Maybe a mentor.

And I almost want to applaud her diligence. I mean it takes a lot of effort to consistently caste barbs to someone. If it weren’t towards my boyfriend, I’d chalk it up to sardonic insecurity.

Chase can date whatever ding dongs he wants – some are into crystals, some only wear flannels, and I’m sure they’re all nice enough people because I hear “how cool and awesome and seem so much younger than you” comments about each, which is just mean but I’m not taking the bait. They come and they go and he gets a pass. And I am all for him dating, finding someone. The world is better when everyone in your sphere is happy. But why does he get a pass?! He takes these chics to Florida (always to Florida) for a weekend where it turns south and he returns single. I don’t know what happens there; but I stick with one good guy who is patient and kind; he’s not materialistic. Hard working. Accomplished. Cool hobbies. Tons of friends to keep him busy and engaged.

And we all agree that nobody wants Chase and me together. No one. There’s no pie in the sky parent trap ending. We got the best ending we were gonna get and are all good moving on.

At least she’s not into drugs – which is apparently a problem because we got an all parents email today from the middle school principal. It was career day – which makes this even better – and some kid brought in some chocolate bars, held what she called the “spicy chocolate challenge” divying up pieces of the candy to classmates and her teacher who all eat it. THEN, she shows them the packaging and turns out it’s cannabis laced chocolate. Parents of impacted children are called, they’re checked out by the nurse (I’m guessing low panic factor considering the substance at issue). Syd’s class wasn’t involved. I thought I was being spoofed at first. Last year a kid set the school bathroom on fire vaping in one of the stalls. Folks were out to find out the culprit, which never surfaced under the belief that it was illegal to share the name of a minor. In reality it’s because his mom is on the school board and was able to pull some serious silencer strings. The vaper is the same kid that tauts that he will only need to apply to ivy league schools; let’s hope there’s a Plan B. All of this is proof yet again that 1.) the truth is better than fiction and 2.) people really should have to get permits before they procreate. Speaking of ancillary causes, at work we have this project involving what it called legal drug importation (because lawyers love big words) where we are trying to see if employers can somehow offer lower cost prescriptive drugs to their employees who might be able to independently go get them way cheaper in other countries. The answer is no.

Which made me think about you said how many people you saw when you went for your treatments. And everyone’s getting loaded with drugs. And it’s this great leveling field because you don’t know if everyone has the same stuff or who is paying or has good insurance or no insurance. You just know you’re all in the same building fighting a fight trying to not be sick. But did you know that almost all of the drugs are manufactured in Ireland? As in someone can get on a plane and go there and buy them there cheaper. Ireland the country doesn’t care if they ship them to someone that pays them the same ireland price. Yet we have laws that say you cannot go to Ireland to get your drugs super cheap. You gotta pay the insane mark-up here and only get them domestically. And it’s illegal with potential criminal penalties if you, company that cares about your employees, breaks this rule:

But I am questioning the fundamentals of how the US got to this position. 

• Of the top 100 brand name drugs, 68 of the drugs were finished/manufactured outside the US. So, to presume a drug isn’t safe because it is manufactured out the US is a fallacy.
  • Largest Drug Manufacturing countries:
    • China, EU (mainly Ireland), US
• These drugs (per FDA regulation) are exclusively imported by the manufacturers/distributers into the US.
• The identical drugs are roughly 70% cheaper outside the US.
• The only thing that prevents the safe importation of these drugs at a fraction of the cost is the FDA regulation.
• The FDA now receives over 75% of drug research budget via Pharma user fees from the very drug manufacturers that it has granted this exclusive distribution into the US market. See NYT article below.
• It is hard to fathom, that the FDA’s regulation is not heavily influenced by the pharma funding it receives and is almost certainly the single biggest contributor to high drug prices in the US. A person might argue that the federal government is colluding with pharma to keep prices high.  
• The losers: The American public and American employers.
• Knowing the above, it could raise the interesting question of plan fiduciary exposure.   

The laws are strategically designed to protect drug company profits.

A month of cancer drugs in the US costs between $6K and $15K.

I am all for free enterprise and capitalism. But when the prisoners are running the jail, something’s wrong. No wonder hospitals can negotiate down costs; they’re still not getting a deal. If someone offers me a banana for $500 and then sells it to me for $15, that’s still an effing spendy banana.

Insurance companies hedge the costs through employer programs; basically offset it by the masses of not sick people still contributing to the system. But it’s gotta be our taxes paying the rest for folks without insurance or who are getting the government mandates.

Sometimes I hate it when I look into stuff and find out the treasure’s been hidden in plain site the whole time. The only Chekov’s gun element to this scheme is that it’s made legit by regulations.

Upside is I am very grateful for medical pharmaceutical advancements that give new light to situations like yours. Keep that horizon in focus. Hopefully you’re at least getting the Hermes of radiation, the Chanel of chemo behind you. Not sure if the name brand stuff is different from the “generic”. Is it like a t-shirt from the Gap versus a six pack of t’s from Walmart. I don’t have the heart to start searching quality control. It’ll just make me grumpy …

We look at this card and think “cute!” but you know somewhere on the other side of the world someone sees the same card and is thinking “dinner!”. Just sayin’ the same image can invoke very different definitions of happiness.

I’m at the Worldwide Aquatic Center – which is more like tri-country wide – this sultry weekend evening. It’s Friday the 13th and I’m hoping Syd will be game for a drive down the haunted ol road to see if the ghosts are hanging by the train tracks. Funny how EVERY small town in America has their version of the haunted road with the scary ghosts. Whereas Europe doesn’t waste time with that because it’s been inhabited for so long by so many that they all just admit: there’s no place remaining where something awful ghost worthy hasn’t happened.

How you feeling? No. More. Chemo. Woo hoo! Hope you opened the REALLY expensive bottle of wine for that one! That one everyone’s got for the special occasion – where here it is! Congrats! We gonna do something epic like rent out Koval when you’re in the total all remission clear!

Now onto the OR boob removal phase; the new boob phase and then the girls trip phase. Think Churchill: If you’re going through hell, keep going.

In the interim, let me know what you need. I’m here. To. Help. Ship your kids here if you guys wanna do some adulting. Or we can keep sending the deep dish. I just don’t trust pizza in a mitten shaped state. It’s like when people say “No offense” and then verbal march forward saying something offensive.

The latest from Upscale Mayberry:

My mom is PISSED at me because I said Jesus got boners and gave Mary Magdalene the pickle tickle. Dude was IN HIS 30s when he died; which was about the life expectancy 2000 years ago – NOT saying anyone did him any favors by fast tracking that time table. But he was well into and past prepubescence. And this was WAY before antibiotics or the pill existed even theoretically; everything from the Da Vinci code to the world’s most respected theologian scholars doctoral thesis contemplate the likelihood that Jesus left heirs. He may have even married Mary M. Yet I’m demonized for saying he mighta got a nut or two off in his early days?

Her argument is “Jesus. Was. Sinless.” She agrees with me that premarital sex is NOT a sin (something she dabbled in on the mission for hubby number two and she has no problem with unmarried folks cobeditating at her house). And she loves all the Dan Brown style movie making tales of the ultimate royal offspring. Yet saying Jesus MAY have participated (let alone enjoyed) this non-sin defies the moral compass?

As I tell folks at work all the time: you can’t negotiate with crazy.

I’m not saying he spent his youth circle jerking his way around Jerusalem, but it seems a safe presumption that anything male at any point and time in history, regardless of genus, species or millenium, did their share and version of roughing up the suspect. Unless JC was impotent which would make him arguably less than definition perfect by procreation standards.

The irony is that I know many people who have actually been cockblocked by JC. They let their rules and their thoughts on what holy meant. Not sure God would have given us these bodies if he didn’t want us to enjoy them. Treat them right, feed them in all ways physiological.

Even though she is now out to prove me wrong by referencing well-intentioned but poorly written Upper Room type texts, I’m letting it drop since she is home hanging with Julian so he can have a sleepover with his friend and not relegated to another swim meet with me.

Plus, Julian walked in the door from school this afternoon to his Nana spewing “JESUS DID NOT HAVE BONERS!” which just cannot be the right homecoming for a nine year old boy. At least not here.

Plus it is homestretch to Christmas and I don’t want to still be debating t his issue while opening gifts (thank you we three king trendsetter OG gift givers royale). Wouldn’t want to desecrate the lord’s wiener in the lights of our pagan colored Christmas tree.

Down to the last race for Syd this evening. If she won’t do the haunted road (which she will probably be game for; especially since it’s super foggy spooky out); I hope she will be up for some sonic style tater tots.

Last week there was a mandatory parent swim team meeting. Another girl in Syd’s age group – of twelve to thirteen year olds – is getting a lot of attention as a really good swimmer. She also got a lot of attention when she propositioned the good looking young guy team coach to do 69. How do you know about THAT then? Naivety on my probably. But it’s not like it’s instinctual like kissing. And it’s a lot to think about. I never know what to focus on: me or him?

I don’t care how fast that girl is in or out of the pool so long as Syd keeps her distance.

Gonna make one last concession stand run. I never buy stuff like Snickers for home, but here “I’m supporting the team”. My swim mom modus operandi is the sit, eat candy, get some online retail therapy going, cheer for Syd’s race, then repeat.

Hang in there – xoxox love ya’, Stormy

Woo Hoo Hola to the One Week Countdown!

Last week of icky bad super chemo to go, right? You got this. I’m so confident that I buckled and succumbed to the cheesy dog “Heal!” card ala sick people. Gotta hurry and get those in before you chemicalize the hell out of the big C. There are so many “Heal!” dog cards in the get well section that it took me a while to pick the best one. Which was, of course, the one that looks most like Hugo.

I overheard Syd and Julian talking about what kind of person Hugo would be if he were human. I thought they’d say “kind, charitable, slow learner now that he’s an old dog.” Nope. What did they come up with? Indigenous Gay Black Man. I’m not sure what that means, but all of their friends in kitchen concurred. Who knew we here on our little corner of Hampshire Woods were so covertly diverse? If we cannot recruit the actual gay community in throes, we can at least get their dogs. That or maybe we need to watch more PBS and less Queer Eye.

Hugo always had a head like a furry anvil. But the rest of him was – at a time long long ago – almost svelte. THEN he got attacked by a pit bull when I was walking him in the city one snowy day, and I gave him about 10,000 calories of dog pity bones daily. I didn’t realize they were each over 2,000 calories a bone.) THEN he won his vet’s biggest loser contest (from 120 to 76 pounds). So we’ve gone from Jailhouse Rock Hugo to Fat Elvis Hugo. Syd says he is Pretty Hot And Tempting (“PHAT”). I prefer “full-figured”.

The latest from Upscale Mayberry:

Nobody interesting showed up to the HOA meeting. Pete and I bailed before I could get guilted into being on the board. Plus, Foxfire’s $5 martini special was going on and we didn’t wanna miss it. Nobody even brought up the issue of yard signs. Bummer. But this is the heart of the midwest where we are home to the continental breakfast and passive aggressive problem solving.

More deets on the Bigsby’s move, which we know because Julian heard it in the school lunchroom and Anna paid her painter an extra $20 to verify that his crew had been at Bigsby’s painting all the rooms neutral to make it show better for their realtor. Rumor has it that they are moving to Arizona; but that’s as verified as Ferris Bueller needing a new kidney, so jury’s still out. Everybody is moving. Losing Piper is a little bitter sweet as she is tough to work with on anything because she’s so overpowering, but she is also wholly unafraid of embarrassing herself – especially if it benefits her kids.

I spoke with Celeste – they love being back in Paris but miss the big open space of our oversized American homes. Parks there, like urban life here, are their saving graces. She no longer worries about bringing rose’ to school functions; she worries about running out.

I get nastygram emails from Julian’s teachers all the time. One reported him for chewing on his headphone cord as if it were a felonious infraction of school policy. They’re his headphones and I’m sure the onslaught of standardized testing has the kids acting out in all sorts of frazzled ways. The latest report involved him losing his Chromebook privileges for a week because he was “engaging in unauthorized use in an improper manner”. I had no clue what the hell that meant, so I asked via response email if it was just Julian and for examples. I secretly prayed that inappropriate was not teacher slang for naked people search engine results. Turns out it was four boys who are all in advanced track math. They finished their assignment early, returned to class and sent each other sports smack talk messages on their school devices. Julian (a huge Sox fan) wrote and “Sox Rule. Cubs Suck” over and over for about 3 pages. The teacher is:

1. a HUGE Cubs fan who
2. Left four nine year old boys Chromebook access with free time and no direction.

If anyone was at fault here, I’m not sure it’s the minors involved.

I don’t condone writing, sending or Julian uttering the word “suck” on a school device (although I was relieved it wasn’t worse). At least he spelled “suck” right. And one cannot wonder if this had more to with baseball allegiances than user audience. I told Julian I wasn’t mad, but that words he did not want his teacher to see were off limits, which includes but is not limited to suck, fart, boobs, wiener, or any other body part covered by a swimsuit. He now has to handwrite his assignments, which was really the teacher punishing herself as Julian’s handwriting is ATROCIOUS. So, Ms. Andrews can have fun interpreting those test scores next week. The other three boys also have to handwrite their work. Even the Cubs fans. Maybe Kevin Bigsby will do something to top the chromebook deviants. I don’t want him to get in trouble, but if he’s already moving, then he’s a convenient sacrificial lamb and a little diversion can’t hurt. Friends in the city whose kids go to public school say they don’t have to worry about this since the school’s are too broke to issue Chromebooks to each kid. The trial they did resulted in half of the chromebooks being sold on ebay within 24 hours. Plus, every other year the city teacher’s strike which means they’ll likely never get that funding.

Off to bed – early start with the UK team. They call an action for “pain and suffering there” a “motion for injury to feelings.” Way better than ours.

Hang in there – xoxox love ya’, Stormy

What kind of car does Frankenstein Drive?

A monster truck!

Love love love Halloween! We’ve got Taylor Swift and Ted Williams in the house this year. And snow boots. Because what would fall be if not totally intruded on by winter? Alas, we will miss past years of fun trick or treating with your crew. Also love that it’s the home stretch to Turkey Day. Not sure if the best part of this card is that the turkey is 1.) wearing a kilt or 2.) holding a cocktail? Must be the latter because he would just look silly if wearing a kilt without a cocktail.

Went to Wrigley’s bookstore today for lunch with my friend Anna. She’s great and you would really like her BUT she only drinks iced tea and doesn’t order dessert. WTF? I thought lunch mom code required both with actual entrees being afterthoughts.

The latest from UM:

Embarrassingly written on stolen printer paper from the Southwest kiosk when the gate agent wasn’t looking. They don’t waste printer ink giving me a seat assignment, so I don’t feel bad. They do print up the occasional drink coupon which I fully appreciate. Again tough with the business class travel sell – if I get stuck between two dudes that smell like a combination of beef jerky and B.O. I’m not gonna be happy.

The Hampshire Woods HOA delivered letters to all neighborhood mailboxes citing – verbatim – the bylaw which prohibits you from posting signs in your yard with the lone exception of candidate signs the week prior to early voting in local elections. This is TOTALLY directed to the Fanucci’s who moved their “Slow Children!” (which realistically refers to the mental aptitude of their offspring than the speed of cars) sign in their yard with “Brakes Saves Brains! A future Hound lives here” (referring to none other than our Hampshire Hound high school mascot). The Slow Children sign was subtle; the latter is not only neon yellow but also awfully presumptuous that even our top caliber local school will be able to get any of their children to a graduation stage.

The letter says the HOA meeting will be held next week and any discussions will be added to the agenda by formal motion at the meeting. The meeting is at the local clubhouse which uses this as an annual recruitment opportunity. I haven’t gone to a meeting in person in years (always vote by proxy and I don’t complaint about anything specific I have not raised – don’t vote; don’t bitch). I am thinking this year may warrant paying a sitter to witness the impending lunacy. Kara Consuelos is HOA VP and self proclaimed mayor of The Woods. Kara LOVES bylaws, HATES yard signs and almost always gets her way. We know how the Fanucci’s feel. A seat, literally firing distance away from the discussion could be this season’s version of local fireworks.

Here in HW, people do not usually attend the HOA meetings because if you are present, they guilt you into serving on the HOA board. By laws say you must be present or provide written proxy (which no one is ever dumb enough to submit their names) to be voted into office.

Conversely, I grew up in a neighborhood called Stokes Croft of about 35 homes where EVERYONE attended the HOA meeting because you need NOT be present to be voted into office. I was Treasurer one year because I missed the meeting on account of attending a varsity swim meet in which I was participating.

My dad was a super junior captain with a beeper holstered to his belt buckle as a reservist on call with no say over his schedule when we first moved there. So he could not make those meetings and was HOA president for at least three or four years until another airline family – since the airlines were the major employer in the area – moved in with less seniority and dad could confidently bid off the meeting dates.

Aside from recruiting child labor under the guise of Treasurer (of which not once did I have access to a budget), Stokes Croft was known for two HOA related activities:

1. A Halloween party held in the community park in front of our house each autumn; and,
2. Peace Sign Luminaries.

Each home was asked to line their lot with luminaries on Christmas Eve. The roads, from an aerial view, formed a peace sign, which was kinda cool. My big win as HOA Treasurer was to get EVERY house to participate.

The two Jewish families acquiesced when I said I’d cut the milk jug luminary containers (which I bet they’re STILL using as those things last FOREVER) and light them with the HOA provided candles. And the other holdout, Mr. Blum, agreed IF I did the work and lit them without upsetting Bernie.

Bernie was the least friendly ginormous German Shepherd ever to walk this earth; he was Stokes Croft Stand By Me version of “Chopper, sick balls.” blum was a crotchety old bachelor with a mean dog, a weedy yard and zero social graces.

That feat cost me $10 in babysitting money to buy three huge butcher bones. I hefted them as far as I could, one by one, as Bernie devoured them and I lit candles with impressive fervor. Blum made sure to release Bernie out his front door the minute I started placing the luminaries to light them. Instead of helping me, Kelly and her friends watched this spectacle from my bedroom window which looked down onto Blum’s house about two yards away from ours.

All was HOA well until the spring of 1986 when two things occurred:

1. the McManus’ – first and most visible house by the Stokes Croft entrance – refused to take down their bay window Christmas Tree even though it was almost Easter; and,
2. the Robinsons bought a house.

The McManus’ eventually replaced the unlit more subtle Christmas tree with a giant bright pink inflatable Easter Bunny that wreaked of animal fetish porno gone all wrong. It was mounted in their bay window until Labor Day when folks started choosing their battles a little more wisely.

However, Ralph and Stella Konig – our across the street neighbors in their seventies – show up on our doorstep dressed in their Sunday Best even though it’s midweek. They ask to speak to “The Stokes Croft Officers” of the house. They stood their citing the need for us to call an emergency meeting to discuss enforcement of the HOA bylaws.

Once we realized that Dad and I WERE the “officers”, my dad said he didn’t need to see the circa 1890 bylaws to speak to looney Sistie McManus about taking down her Christmas Tree.

Mr. Konig said they could care less about an outdated oversized pipe cleaner, but that they VERY MUCH cared about the denigration of the neighborhood, that the bylaws clearly said blacks were not permitted to won property in Stokes Croft confines and that they expected us to inform them of the same.

My dad told me to leave the room, but from my perch out of site at the top of the steps, I am certain I heard the phrases “There is NO WAY I’m TELLING the Robinsons they can’t live here and if YOU tell them, then YOU”LL be the subject of our special meeting.”

The Konigs left the printed 22 page bylaws on my mom’s foyer table and slammed the door in huffed retreat when they left. I was called back downstairs and told that by the time my dad got back from his four day trip (for which he was about to walk out the door already dressed in his uniform when the Konigs came calling) , he expected:

1. The yard to be mowed; and,
2. Anything that seemed illegal to be redacted from the Stokes Croft bylaws.

In hindsight, I think this was my very first legal assignment.

We’d just learned about Jim Crow laws in social studies, so it wasn’t that hard, but did leave us with only about 8 lines of official bylaws by the time I was done. I tried to add a “mandatory luminary participation” clause but was vetoed on account of infringing on religious freedoms. When I suggested we also do blue luminaries for Hanukkah, I was told that I was being insensitive to Christians. Proof yet again that you can’t negotiate with crazy. I was also told that the illusive budget probably could not accommodate two holidays of candles.

I’m guessing that since Hammurabi came up with the concept of independent land ownership, that folks have been trying to enforce bylaws. I can picture it:

Hammurabi: Leon, he has too many sheep. They crap in my yard and take away my property happiness.

Leon: Ah, then I will build a fence to contain my sheep.

Hammurabi: Oh, but the bylaws do not allow fences! And we are 1200 years away from the services of the magic electric underground fence. What to do?!

Anyhow, I’ll be sure to tell ya’ if anything interesting comes of the HOA meeting this week. Hope you are feeling on the upswing. Sure thinking of you and upside is even though lifting a 50 pound turkey isn’t in the cards for you right now, teaching kids to cook and quality kitchen time with grandparents is in its own right kinda cool.

We are hosting 26 people. Pete’s dad is coming. He is super sweet despite strong against my core understanding of religious beliefs and staying at the local Inn. That gives him his space and reduces the number of casualties if God finally decides to strike deserved wrath on the house of hedonistic premarital sin. I’ve bought really good wine, festive table decor, outsourced all of the sides (the gourmet catering shop will make their sides in YOUR dishes – genius!), ordered a back-up ham and so all we have to do is not botch the turkey and pull off a salad.

Hang in there – xoxox love ya’, Stormy

POP QUIZ: Guess who’s got a two hour flight delay in the new LGA? ME ME ME!!!

Wouldn’t be a work trip without a little travel hiccup.

The new terminal is really nice, but it also cost $7B – as in BILLION – dollars. That’s 10,000 feet tall, or10 Eiffel Towers, of $100 bills stacked on top of each other. It’s got a really nice Shake Shack and cool vintage airport postcards (breaking arm patting oneself on back for that find), but let’s hope the employees got a caviar pizza party when the new terminal opened. At least they did not change the Welcome To New York apple taxi to the gates sign. Always sit on the left side of the plane going into LaGuardia.

Really wish I could ship my kids out here to join me for this perfect fall weekend. There’s this cool newish area called the HighLine that Sydney would love, we could spend a few days debating which is the “real” Ray’s pizza, and catch some epic theater and maybe a baseball game. My kids LOVE New York – granted, we stayed in a suite on Central Park and ate at Tavern and Sardi’s between other baller weekend tourist fun.

I’ve always liked coming here. At my first corporate job, I’d visit our offices overlooking Battery Park and the Statue of Liberty. In college I’d road trip or use my airline passes to raid Jones Beach with Long Island sorority sisters. In law school a crew of us (high school pals) did NYE in Brooklyn where my friend Nate lived in a semi-abominable craphole that seemed awesome at the time. We abandoned Times Square after about 1/2 a beer and five minutes mid afternoon of the countdown when everyone realized the bathroom situation was gonna get dire quickly.

In high school that same crew drove impromptu for five hours from Pittsburgh to the Big Apple one weekend when parents were out of town. We parked my friend Mark’s rusted floorboards Nissan hatchback that needed zipties to keep the back down at LaGuardia before catching a cab and going sightseeing in Manhattan, listening to music in Harlem (5 white kids gone from western Pa too ignorant and arrogant to appreciate just how out of our element we were) before driving home 15 hours later.

Growing up, we would fly to New York on the evening of New Year’s Day. The city was in exhale mode, flights were always wide open into the city and we still had a few days of winter break to burn before the next semester started. We would take one of the last flights in and cab to the Marriott Marquis in Times Square where airline folks got a phenomenal rate. Our room was dirt floor cheap with a top price view. My mom would relax in the room (with a bottle of house wine) , the airplane juice had worn off for Kelly and me, and my dad would take us for a walk. There was a street vendor with a trench coat full of “Rolexes” that my dad had a rapport and would joke with as he had a number of overnights there each month.

The city looked like a place full of stars with glistening lights in the cold night air hoving atop lampposts twenty feet off the ground. The tree at Rockefeller Center was still lit and one calm cold New Year’s Day night – it had to have been after midnight – we noticed that the ice rink was frozen and completely empty. We had to dress up then to ride the plane using our employee passes – dresses, no pants, and we took it seriously because we were not gonna risk a fun trip on account of a clothing mishap. Kelly and I were about 8 and 10 at the time. My dad gave us the green light as Kelly and I leaned over the plywood barrier separating us from the rink. I slung myself over the boards and onto the risk, he gave Kelly a boost and we were off – running full tilt across the ice in our black patent Mary Jane’s, sliding on our knees like shadowed little girl elves. Sheer glee. I can still feel the cold through the knees of my tights.

With all the security cameras, we would probably never get away with that now. Especially not as adults, regardless of how many cocktails of confidence we had fueling our efforts.

Years later, when I was just shy of thirteen, I got to go back with my dad when he had an overnight. This was a big deal because good grades in our household were rewarded with a trip where my dad would bid for a cool city with a long overnight layover. We would ride in the back of the plane as he flew as part of the crew to that night’s destination and we would sightsee. Kelly got to go all the time because she’s a freaking genius and studied really hard and so always got good grades. I – her undiagnosed ADD older sibling that was much less studious, fell more into the working B category student. Getting a good grade trip was a royal treat since it didn’t happen nearly as often for me as it did for Kelly. I was elated: we were going to stay in Manhattan, have dinner at Sardi’s and then see Bernadette Peters – who I LOVED – in Song&Dance.

The morning of our flight, I put on my most grown up dress: white linen with cap sleeves and a huge almost sheer fuchsia linen flower that adorned the entire front torso to shoulder section. And for about the 4th time in my life, I was having my period. I was super:

1. set on weating THAT very white dress; and,
2. embarrassed about my body. So instead of asking my mom for a refresher course on how tampons worked (I’d never used them) I doubled down layered up with a big ol’ maxi pad and one of the super size tampons I found in the hallway closet. It had a Pepto Bismol pink plastic applicator that looked like a shellacked bullet crossbred with a Mary Kay Cadillac colored Q-tip. I didn’t know that the pink part was just a mechanism to get the cotton to Point B: that you didn’t leave the whole thing “in there”. So I corralled every ounce of my twelve year old hutzpah I had and jammed it up there. I figured I’d take it out before bed – which was a good nine to ten hours later.

We have a fun flight, take the crew shuttle to the hotel and head to dinner. Guess who is sitting at a table about 20 feet from us? Bernadette Peters! She was sitting with Martin Short. I am trying not to gawk as I order my pasta and kiddie cocktail. And I start sweating like a whore in church.

I excuse myself, head to the bathroom upstairs and splash water on my face. I check to make sure everything is still where I put it “down there”, step outta the stall and feel another heat wave burst across my forehead; pearls of sweat are literally dripping from my hairline. I breathe slowly, gather my composure, and low and behold, in walks Bernadette.

She stands by me at the powder room mirrors. I look to my right where she is standing. She smiles (because she is amazing and one of the still greatest and most stunning and charitably hearted talents ever to grace Broadway), and I am about to tell her that I cannot wait to see her performance when my eyes roll in the back of my head and I pass out. Right there. In front of Bernadette. INSIDE Sardi’s women’s room.

Next thing I know, my dad and a kind waiter are helping me up and we bolt into a cab to the ER. It takes the MD about four seconds to figure out that I’d experienced toxic shock from Satan’s little (or in my case, my mom’s jumbo sized) hoo-ha cotton swabs with plastic encasing still on.

I was MORTIFIED.

My dad – the oldest of five boys that grew up on a farm – was totally ill prepared. And this is YEARS before cell phones.

We missed the show and went back to the hotel where I packed up my now super wrinkled dress. I put on khakis and a t-shirt and he took me to his trench coat watch guy and let me pick out any “Rolex” I wanted. Which proceeded to break a few months later, but at least that night ended on an oddly high note.

He told me he was pretty sure everything was gonna be okay and, as usual, he was right. He’s been gone for over thirty years now and I still sometimes feel like a slightly broken compass without him, but experiences like that trip seem to somehow eclipse the test of time.

Funny thing is about six years later I got to see Bernadette and Martin Short on Broadway together in Goodbye Girl with my Mom and Kelly. Proof yet again that Karma’s got a sense of humor.

I’ll be the crazy old hag in the nursing home rattling on about passing out in Sardi’s as a kid. You can be my roomie and tell the staff I’m not nearly as nutty as I seem. By that point, we will be bribing our kids to sneak us in packet flasks of booze. One of the six of them has gotta take empathy on us, right?

Gotta go join the human cattle herd aka Southwest airlines boarding line up. Pete is incommunicado while hiking the Grand Canyon for five days. Had ai know he would be gone on my travel date, I might have gone United so I could get a for sure window seat. I’m not an SWA traitor, but the roshambo of business travel can alter alliances. I still maintain that Southwest is a great thank you Herb Kelleher overall airline, love love love the people, but this boarding protocol is for the birds.

Hang in there – xoxox love ya, Stormy

Oh Man! Gotta start out with the latest from Upscale Mayberry:

Bigsby’s are moving. Which means that the unofficial slot for community black sheep candidate is gonna be open. All the divorcees have mostly left and now it’s gonna be me or maybe Brandi Sheridan. Remember her? Slutty hairdresser with kids a little older than ours whose claim to fame is having taken every Hampshire bartender for a mustache ride? Saul is adamant that he is not part of that pool. But he does have a mustache, so I remain suspect. God, I hope it’s Brandi and not me. I’m not nearly as interesting, right? My kids are smart, we try to stay under the radar, no one is getting caught giving bjs to the quarterback under the bleachers. We don’t vape (we rarely even light our gas start fireplace). So it can’t be us, right? The worst I get called (to my face) is the Private Benjamin of boy scouts or the Unibomber when shopping therefore. That cannot possibly be grounds for townie. I’m dying to get OUT Of this town, not make my dog pissing on the fire hydrant long haul mark on it.

Packing for a work trip to your old stomping grounds: Hello Big Apple! It’s a fly-in, fly-out. Makes for a long day, but so long as that awesome thing keeps happening to my checking account every other Friday, I’m game. I always pack at least two good pens, a new legal pad, phone, charger, laptop, glasses and swimsuit. The last two in case I get stuck. And yes, that swimsuit has saved me on more trips than I can recall: you can fly home commando but you cannot enjoy the hot tub if bad weather moves in and you’re at the hotel for the night with just your work suit and your birthday suit. Plus it’s backup underpants.

Colin’s mom hanging at your house again? Please tell me she made your crew more of the matching bedazzled cat sweatshirts. Those are awesome – you can start a new trend!

Hey, you asked me if I needed religion more when my dad died during the last time we spoke. I didn’t get to answer because we then got waylaid by whatever child catastrophe had hit that moment (kids do that: you try to get serious and then you gotta divert; you finally divert to fun and then something happens that you gotta get serious. As long as the diverts don’t involve casts and are squabbles over who gets to wear which jersey or why you’re a bad mom for not doing laundry 14x a day, it’s a win. This is why the wine industry is BOOMING). Anyhow. I have now taken some legit time to think about that, so here goes (fast forward to the end of the page if you do not want my two cents on doxology):

Yes and no.

Losing a parent as a teenager did not draw me closer to religion; but it did make me analyze big picture life in a way that made me more appreciate it. I didn’t take on a death wish. I didn’t feel the need to become something greater than myself. But it sure put reality in check.

The upside is I never had to see him grow old. He is always going to be a guy with a smile in his 40s to me. The downside is, I never got to see him grow old. And he never got to see me grow old. Or older. Trauma does that: it strips you of the goodbye. But the blessing is that I learned an important lesson earlier than most: a life well lived didn’t have to be long-lived.

I’ve given up on much of the religion in which I was raised, but I haven’t given up on Hope. Growing up I could be out as late as I wanted, but was expected to be in a pew, in a skirt, awake and listening to the 8:30am service. Here’s the Stormy Dale thoughts on God:

• I believe in an intelligent agent: something kick started it all. Call it God. Call it Science.
• I believe there was a Jesus, but that those stories would change if the world got a restart. Science would still play out and evolve all the same. Did Jesus turn water into wine? Let’s hope that superpower exists. Was he a prophet? Sure. As for the rest – who knows.
• I believe in Heaven. Absolutely. Jury’s still out on what Hell afterlife (which sounds like the name of a video game) means.
• I believe the energy of US goes somewhere; that it reconnects and reinvents and that we get to see those we love again. In what capacity, Lord only knows (pun intended).
• I don’t believe “God” is good or bad. A good God doesn’t give kids cancer. And since we are supposedly “all god’s children”, that means you and every other GPU (“Good Person Unfortunate”) that has been on the receiving end of that or any other awful diagnosis.
• A good God doesn’t give people more than they can handle. A good God doesn’t punish his own supporters. A good God would know those limits.
• A good God doesn’t let people be assholes who hurt other people and then call it free will. And then expect the victims to issue blanket forgiveness. Why we hold business managers to a higher standard while the omniscient Good God gets a “by week” on all things bad under the things we are too mortal to understand excuse is a conundrum. Marx ignorance of the masses was partially right: being manipulated into believing that it’s okay to be crapped on because things get better when you die is bullshit.
• Of course Heaven exists (repeat of above but bears further discussion). Not because we cannot imagine the universe without some super existential version of ourselves, but Science says so. How? Because we are more than the sum of our parts. Neurons don’t have personalities, but people do. Each individual one of us takes the mass of cells and electrons morphed in a uterus provided to us and brings forth an actual Soul into the world; a specific unique persona. That’s more than dust to dust worm food energy.
• I respect the Pope – even if most of his predecessors were mobsters: and we probably need religion to keep people in check, some need that structure to do good or to get through the day feeling somehow superior to others for believing in a faith based deity. But the same individual humanity that gives me more than mere hope, but an actual staunch belief in the after life, is the same flawed humanity that makes life here tough to go all in odds on any religion. Each religions version of papal abuses have been too many; maybe pure religion existed once, if so, we humans did our human thing and sent it the way of the selfishly irresponsible urban sprawl. Like the coyotes run out of the overdeveloped prairielands they once called home and flourished, elements of true religion exist but they’re struggling to not get taken out by the idiots driving too fast on the road behind my wooded lot.
• I believe in evolution: Genesis doesn’t say how long a god day was: a god day could be millenia from which the seas were created, in which the fish crawled out on land and became man, spare rib female genetic mutation for Eve and all.
• I believe that anything that makes me people nicer, inclusive, loving, supportive is generally good.
• I believe having a greater power to thank, to ask, to try to channel positive energy through prayer or meditation or just thoughts that calm you down is a necessary element to all humility.
• And believing in a higher power is crucial because believing there’s something far bigger out there, maybe not pulling the strings but giving some sort of definition to the process, means there is always always always Hope, which is the greatest aspiration we can be for others. God means hope. And so the Hope part of god is good – very very good.
• Lastly, I could be wrong. All wrong. On all of it. Call me a religious realist.

Anyhow, you know how emotive I get. And I’m not sure I’m well equipped to handle serious asks like this, but you did ask (careful what you ask for) and the peanut gallery has now responded.

Hope you’re feeling better. Don’t be afraid of the chemocurl. Although we are so gonna have to face time if we don’t get together soon as I do not believe your fear of having head pubes will find fruition. Maybe you will luck out and it will come in blonde! Which is why I’m sending you a blonde joke book – because having lived your life as a brunette, this could be your saving grace tutorial and will prepare you in case the awesomeness of fairhair strikes your noggin.

Hang in there – xoxox love ya’, Stormy

Stateside Buonaserra!

Why anyone ever leaves the Amalfi coast is stupefying. Author included. Let’s come back as Italians in our next Buddhist go around; they have mastered the art of maximizing good wine intake, minimizing hard work output and yet remain world master fashionistas. There are pullover limoncello stands on curveside outposts of cliffside serpentine roads from Naples to Positano and are totally riding the coattails of folks like Michelangelo who haven’t been around for centuries. Genius! I sent you a postcard but am cautiously optimistic it will reach you as my stamps from the store postmaster may have been legit or a sham sale of stickers from the back of an Italian Highlights search and find. Everybody’s got a racket.

We said a prayer for you in the Sistine Chapel to the Angel Raphael. He’s the ARchangel of Healing. And is one of the only ones that’s painted like a cute cherub; most others look like demon angels. At any rate, let’s hope he was listening.

Bought this card because it looked fancy Italian to me. However, it came with an insert (that you can’t read until you buy and open the packaging) that says it is fragile and to hand deliver only. Which totally defies the point of an envelope that says extra postage required.

The latest from UM:

My friend Sammy – long time law firm confidant who also made the urban to Mayberry jump, just with a different zipcode – has a son who is half sweet, half (okay maybe 2/3) hellion. He is super cute – channeling the cherubic Raphael look – with strawberry blonde hair and freckles; also very bright. He has also been kicked out of every school within a 20 mile radius of his home. Does well academically only when he wants to. Aces every standardized test put in front of him. Sammy says Orin will either end up in prison or CEO of a major corporation – or both? They’ve considered military school, but decided his next stop would be a very upscale private city school that caters to high maintenance gold coast super affluent neighborhood kids. the $60k a year price tag (for high school?!!!) allows admissions committees looking at candidates like Orin with parents willing to write that check in full to say things like “We believe your son is really just misunderstood.” And “He’s clearly been underchallenged by school staff elsewhere” (even though their other four kids are doing JUST FINE in the other school elsewhere just down the street from their suburban Mcmansion).

So Orin gets accepted and starts riding the train into the city with his dad every day. He is doing great for the first few months until a local celebrity’s kid decided to pick on Orin. Orin’s getting a lot of attention: doing well in classes and noticed by girls, asked to join the lacrosse and squash teams because he’s also athletic. Not a huge kid by any stretch, but can hold his own.

The celebrity kid (we’ll call him Caleb) decides to get physical with Orin. Shoving him into lockers and walls just outside of security camera view; knocking books out of hands between classes. Endless shoelace style trips and relentless taunting. No one comes to Orin’s physical aid (half the kids believe they’re gonna be the next Disney child star and can’t risk getting into fisticuffs or over creasing brows that may be worth a fortune some day). They don’t stand up for Orin, but they do report Caleb to the teachers and principal. The school has a no bullying policy – but like the policy here, it really just means that the school decides who gets to bully who. The mean girl style movement at the school is epic, which the pricetag tolerates. It’s an urban school championing what they call “forward thinking” if not in actuality enabling 19th century ogre behavior. In today’s world, forward thinking means out-embracing every other school’s benchmarks on gender neutrality. You can be LGBTQP or any other letter of the alphabet. You can dress as a boy, girl, cousin It from the Addams family so long as you are doing it in the name of gender neutrality.

Caleb is getting reported right and left: in one day nearly a dozen students report his bullying. It’s no longer unnoticeable.

Caleb knows he is on the brink of real trouble. So the very next day he starts sporting a skirt, knee highs and Mary Janes to school, but continues to belittle Orin and wreak hell on the rest of the underdog student population. Caleb now believes he has rendered his she-self politically untouchable.

Sammy and her husband are pissed. They are told Orin will have extra protection at school. And Orin still wants to go as he likes everything about his day at this school except Caleb.

Caleb goes too far one day and chunks the back of Orin’s head fast and hard into the water fountain where Orin was filling his Hydroflask. His head smacks the refill center at just the right angle and fast enough that it breaks the bridge of Orin’s and he chips a tooth.

Orin whirls around, nose bleeding profusely, mouth throbbing, and shoves she-him Caleb away from him. The shoves sends Caleb and his Mary Janes head over sequin peter pan collared shirt heels down a flight of steps.

A mandatory meeting is called where Caleb and his newscaster mom play the Helen of Troy victim card demanding that Orin be expelled “for pushing a girl down the steps”. Sammy – who had to leave the middle of a big M&A deal at her firm for this ridiculousness slated during work hours – explodes: “That’s NOT a GIRL! THAT’S A DICK in a DRESS”. Now can we be DONE with this FARCE!?” She threatens to call the competitor news channels with the story if this isn’t resolved right now. The other taunted kid parents applaud, Caleb and celebri-mom storm out and classes resumed in calmer fashion the next day. Caleb reportedly started wearing pants and overpriced sweatshirts like every other kid there.

I’m not sure what, if any, the moral to that story is, but:

1. If I had to give title to it, it would be one of:
   • First world problems redefined;
   • 1st world problems 2.0;
   • Boy Bullies don’t wear dresses; or,
   • Cock in the schoolhouse (personal fav)
2. And, at least I’m not hating on our own suburban school system for neutrality issues, yet, although Sydney catches heat from some of the socialmongers in her class for NOT being gay. How can you say you are for individual equity and then judge people for their individuality just because it’s not “as cool” as what you decided to be this five minutes? Baffling.

One of my highschool besties is gay. I was his date Junior Year. He’s always worn understated clothes; if he wore a dress, I don’t know that anyone would have cared even then. He probably would have looked a lot better in my dress than I did. Further proof to why all schools should require easy for all to get uniforms: let clothing drama ensue after class is dismissed.

Miss you tons – LOTS of fun snippets to share from the wedding; you asked about the others also in attendance. The bride was great. We already knew the groom is a stand up guy. Two quick notables:

The bride was clearly the outcast of her family having moved to Chicago, become an established professional, as her whole side consisted of the wicked stepsister cousins sporting verbal daggers on their road to being eternal spinsters. They were putting the bride herself down for freezing her eggs on the van ride to the rehearsal dinner. These girls were ready to Cinderella chop off their foot to nail a man; stepping in between significant others – as if anyone would bring a date to the Amalfi coast and then dump them there? How does that happen to an entire generation of cousins. Maybe sibling rivalry like the midwest version of a very low caliber Dynasty cast?

The other guilty by American association guest story involves one of Pete’s old military friends who is in his 50s was make-out tongue style crazy PDA with his trashy also his age POS date. When trying to bond, she told me she was going to “land a pilot” – gross! And that she didn’t care that her daughter, the same age as Sydney hated the idea and was hanging with a bad group of kids as payback. Mama’s got priorities, I suppose; and that priority is “landing a pilot.” They’re engaged now, too, so I guess birds of a feather on that one. They showed up to the town late, almost made us late, she sported the worst ever press on nails despite being a supposed nail tech, and then ordered and drank expensive wine on my tab before we finally left for the church- seriously? Could you not check a single one of the good guest humility boxes?

Guess it’s good to know who the black sheep are for fear it otherwise may be you. Everything else about the trip was picture perfect (although no ring – I wasn’t expecting it, but would have been nice). Beggars can’t be choosers; and I’m no beggar.

Get healthy so we can go back there – so made the girls trip potentials list!

Hang in there – xoxox love ya’, Stormy

Lessons from Italy:

1. All gelato flavors are awesome
2. Most popes were mobsters
3. Italian drivers take rules of the road as loose suggestions only

Wish you were here – Amore dall’italia!

Hang in there – xoxox love ya, Stormy

Saturday Salutations!

Not sure if this is:

a. just a cute duckling OR

b. proof that there’s a card for every fetish?

Let’s hope for the former. Sorta the duck rabbit for perverts in cute chick card form.

Between National Talk Like a Pirate Day on September 18 and the anniversary of the Alienstock Raid Area 51 5K on September 30, it has been a champion week for bad jokes around here. Personal fav:

Q: what do you call an alien spaceship that goes from planet to planet to planet?

A: A UF-Ho!

If I was a UFO, I would totally camouflage my spaceship to look like a cloud: they could come in totally undetected, t ake what they wanted (maybe work some alien-style photosynthesis where they take some of our carbon emissions to save versus desecrate the environment – like Ninja Eagle Scout aliens?) and leave without us even knowing. If that was ever discovered, the alienstock breed would have all time crown worthy “I told you so” rights. So long as the Bachelorette and Kardashians continue to get ratings, we all hope that maybe intelligent life exists elsewhere in the universe.

Hopefully your crew has found equally immature levity to keep your spirits high. Radiation turning you purple, you say? Like Grimace or Barney? Redefining purple hooters – not sure I’ll be able to (or should) order another one of those again with the visual. This time next year you’ll have new boobs and a full head of hair. Eye on the prize.

The latest from upscale Mayberry:

One week til Italy. Cannot wait! Will see la mia famiglia a Napoli! They are so wonderful. I have literally known them since the day I was born; I met nana before I met my birth grandmother. She old school italian cared for me when my mom ran errands. It had been years since they had a baby in their home, so I filled that generational maternal gap. My first memories are of crawling on the rust orange and royal blue patterned tiles of their Sicilian family room in the house near my parents rental when the Navy stationed us in Catania: an unbelievably beautiful haven in the upper boot of Sicily. I was the toe head blonde that scampered with and was protected by a sea of the most beautiful olive skinned children imaginable. I was raised on the heels of stunning Sophia Lauren caliber panache women that rival the best cooks on earth: arancini like that do not exist beyond the walls of certain kitchens. I have seen many of them stateside over the years and we connected with others when we were in London for vacation and then Germany when a slew of us from each of our families celebrated turning 40 by being derelicts at Oktoberfest. We went during what the Munichers call Italian week: raucous, loud, lots of men loaded with cash and machismo. Very very fun. My grandfather was a world class boxer in the WWII Merchant Marines; he worked with two of their children from the 1940s to become the italian version of golden glove accomplished Welterweight boxers; years later my father helped two of their next generation sons when they were struggling to navigate the ropes to becoming aviators in a space in history that was sadly unwelcoming to many foreigners; in exchange, they are my international network. Years ago, I was on a work trip to Providence, RI which has some of the best stateside Italian food. I was there on a work audit, met two Italian cousins that happened to be in town, and another friend that was going to Brown. My Brown friend (as if writing that doesn’t conjure all sorts of unintended negative connotation despite her looking about as white as an albino’s backside) is a bit of a trust fund kid and drove a Range Rover. The valet parked the car when we got there. It had gone “missing” by the time dessert was served. My cousin, we will call him Vinny, excused himself, walked into the back kitchen, and five minutes later our car was returned, driven by an extremely apologetic young man with an aesthetic that also appeared to have connections to the Old Country. Ironically, Vinny, his brother and I were probably the only ones in the sea of customers that were legitimately born in Italy. Maybe that bought us our street cred? 😉

That’s the great irony of living in this neighborhood with me. I’m not part of “the organization” but I’ve got legit connections to the legit Old Country. My old next door neighbors were supposedly part of that; and the wife was crazy bright. Maybe it’s paranoia, but I think she had her suspicions. I don’t ask questions I don’t want answers to. These are not people that make false promises. These are not people that threaten; these are people that act. They want to become boxers or pilots, they find resources to help them. They want to do other things beyond my line of sight, I’ve no doubt that grit is still present. When they say to call if I ever need anything, I know they mean it. Difference is I would never use that as a veiled, or in the case of Fanucci outright, threat. I’d just make the call and let life happen. It’s been one of the great blessings of my life: I look like everyone’s anybody and nobody’s someone. You look just like my niece’s friend, my neighbor’s babysitter, my coworkers yoga instructor. (Never like J.Lo or Jessica Chastain, but that would put me on the radar and my point is that I’m always just by bland default never on the radar). I can be in a room with people talking about me and it takes them eons to even realize I’m there. These are skillsets I learned from the amazing Italian women from my childhood: the understated confident observer almost always wins.

And knowing there’s a trump card to be laid, along with the additional cameras I had installed, brings me more peace of mind than the clowns down the street could ever imagine.

Back to Upscale Mayberry:

I’ve got my appointments for the circuit (nails, tanning, hair and wax). Pete was here last week which means he saw me at my least (furry, untamed) finest. Men say they don’t care, but THEY SO DO CARE. And WE KNOW THIS because in shape tan chics with good hair, nice bodies, painted toenails and hardwoods get far more dates than their counterparts.

Pete’s prep work involved getting a haircut and a tux. He is wonderfully unpretentious, so having to spend $750 on a decent monkey suit was insane to him. Part of him wanted to collab with another friend attendee to do the peach and sky blue dumb and dumber tuxes, but we have not yet met the bride and I’d like to spend time with them when we are all back in the US, which she may not be willing to do if we’ve foibled her wedding pics.

We have ANOTHER wedding next month – that one is in Cali and 1920s speakeasy themed (fun!). Guests are expected to dress in era attire. I’ve got the best flapper dress and headpiece). But back to my engagement angst … Yikes. It’s like the world is conspiring against me. A friend of mine who is not yet even officially divorced also just got engaged. How is that fair?! As did Pete’s cousin who said he would never marry again. But he has no intention of actually marrying her ever, so not sure that’s a comparable win.

Still pisses me off.

But we are a few months away from Turkey Day and invitations have not been provided nor airline tickets booked for non mi famiglia. Tick tick tick.

Threw my hat in the ring to be on the Hampshire District Parent Liaison Committee. They SAY they are choosing five parents to revisit school by laws and serve as a conduit for local school opinions to report to the school board. My fear is that they really WANT people who will just agree with their bogus approaches. However, interest has been lackluster, so they might have to take me if five others don’t step up. I was one of four candidate applicants with only hours left for others to submit when I last checked. I got mine in on day 1 that the portal opened.

I really hope I get picked because I would really like to be a part of the peripheral positive change. I want teachers to be able to teach history – just teach it. Columbus came here by right of a generous empire building queen, killed off the Indians with disease, and we are now evolved to know to respect people of all races, creeds, colors, origins and sexual proclivities. Period. I want teachers to be enabled to teach to the students and not to the test. I want the bar to be raised for everyone and not lowered to meet in a new standardized middle. I want project based hands on make learning active (Like Schade the teacher, not Schade the masochist) fun engaging. I want a safe kid for kids to go before and after school; to make sure every kid is fed and has clothes that fit. How the hell are you supposed to learn anything if your pants are too tight? I want kids to get service hours for tutoring so that even if your folks aren’t great about working on schoolwork with you, there’s somebody in the same room during tutorial study hall that can. The educational field of dreams: if you let the amazing community build it, the successes will come.

However, I’m guessing that a single mom attorney that can decipher a budget might be their version of an infected foot. But I applied, so we will see! Sometimes even Mayberry surprises to the positive. I even submitted letters of recommendation from my neighborhood moms. Upside is everyone supported me and wrote really great things: downside is they’ll all know if I don’t get it. The District has been phenomenally successful at thwartly dismissing any and all of my ideas: limit standardized tests, consider polo shirts and khaki pants for school uniforms since kids can’t hide AR-15s in the attire and it levels the spendy clothes playing field (although shoes are the great divider); allocate funding for classroom aids, encourage kids to learn both punctuation and cursive. You’d think I was asking them to show sex tapes during pep rallies and endorse child labor violations.

Hope the kickstart to school is going well for your crew. Hard to believe we are over a month into the academic year already. Five years from now Syd and Lana will be doing college tours. Maybe we can get them to go to the same place which would make parents week for us freaking epic!

Hang in there – xoxox love ya’, Stormy