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January 2006
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March 2006

MARDI GRAS!

Here in Pomegranateland, we celebrated Mardi Gras, the last day to party before Lent, by doing the following:

  • went to work for an hour and a half
  • drove to the youngest's school for conference
  • found out that the guidance office didn't have a counselor for the conference
  • but then they sent  me from one classroom to the next until we finally got all the teachers together
  • ran home, walked the fluffernutter (dog) and wolfed down sandwich and hazelnut cappuccino
  • drove to the Bronx for a deposition
  • drove back to the office
  • returned calls
  • went through  mail
  • attended meeting about the 16 trials for Thursday and 10 for Friday
  • found out that the court part I generally cover is now expanding to afternoons and we will now have trials every day of the week
  • ate a pastry to steady my  nerves
  • decided that the tilapia I had defrosted for dinner would be better suited for Ash Wednesday dinner and
  • called husband to bring home fat-laden McDonald's
  • ate a burger and half a chocolate shake
  • produced dessert - St. Joseph's pastries
  • what - you don't know what St. Joseph's pastries are??
  • Do you know what a Dunkin Donuts french cruller is?
  • well, imagine it sliced horizontally and stuffed with custard or ricotta cheese like a cannoli and dusted with confectionery sugar
  • of course, no one in my family actually likes these except me
  • am I devious or what?
  • I'll have a lot to repent for during Lent.

List Friday - Theme Annoucement

After the success of our first List Friday, I immediately had writer's block and couldn't think of one, single interesting thing for the next list. And Mr. Pom and I are  completely exhausted from the first 24-hours as a dog owner (not to mention wondering how a "free" dog can cost so much money - could it be the bed, crate, grooming, vet visit, dog bones, etc., that any yuppie dog would need? But I digress).

Then someone at Blogher contacted me and wanted to know if I wanted List Friday listed as a link in their "arts & crafts blogs". Of course I said yes, but I wasn't sure about the inclusion in "arts & crafts". Is this an arts & crafts blog? I'm certainly not  a Posie Gets Cozy, a gorgeous blog centered around handmade crafts,or turkey feathers, another of my favorite crafts blog. What exactly is an arts & crafts blog?  Really, I always thought of this blog as anything but an arts & crafts blog...

I think what was bugging me was the term "arts & crafts". Isn't that what we did in summer camp? I think an art blog or a crafts blog is a little more sophisticated, or more evolved  than what I last did with pipe cleaners in third grade, which is what I think of when I hear the term "arts & crafts".
This got me to thinking about some of the crazy arts & crafts I've done in the past, and I wondered if anyone else had been futzing around with macaroni beads instead of learning to play softball or tennis. I know that most of my readers come here following links from some of the great art blogs and I am convinced that if you  scratch an artist deep enough, you will almost always find a kid who spent hours making stuff from cottonballs and googly eyes rather than go outside.

So the theme for this List Friday is: What Arts & Crafts Have You Done?

Now I know that many of you are into photo transfers, metal soldering, mixed media collages, and intricately pieced and embellished art quilts.

That's not what I'm talking about.

No, the arts & crafts I'm talking about are those that you did before you knew better. The tactile, paste-eating, primary colored things that you learned to make in Girl Scouts, at sleep away camp, in Sunday School, kindergarten, slumber parties, and rainy afternoons when your mother was about to pull her hair out and instead pulled the Play Dough out of the cupboard. Or, those crafts that swept through all your teen age friends, when you would spend hours and hours on summer afternoons making lanyards for everyone you knew. Or even those crafty things you did when you first got a space of your own - you know - the time you decoupaged the pages of a vintage cookbook to the walls of your first kitchen since you couldn't afford wallpaper only to discover that grease splatters....

So tell me your silliest, funniest, most extravagant, outrageous, and simple arts & crafts.

As usual, the Pomegranates are available for any question, but really this isn't rocket science and we assume you can all figure it out.

Remember, extra points are awarded for pictures. And candy. Oooh, double points for crafts with candy!!!


Welcome Bella Shadow Pomegranate!

Yesterday afternoon, we visited the last shelter on our list and found our new dog, Isabella Shadow Pomegranate! The youngest took one look at her, grabbed her around her fluffy neck, and fell in love. She's a ten year-old dog who was given up because of a new baby. She's been in the shelter for six months and we're very grateful it was a no-kill shelter. She's like walking a fluffy cloud. She's very sweet-tempered, badly needs a bath and grooming, and seems to be the dog of our dreams - so far as any dog can be the dog of my dreams.
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There's no doubt whose dog she is.

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She seems to have made herself at home.

More pictures later in the week after she is groomed.
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List Friday was so much fun!  All the lists were interesting and reminded me of something else I just had to bring on my imaginary voyage.

Sarah Louise got so into it that she created a meme to accompany List Friday where she listed where she wanted to go, things to find out about that place, people to talk to, and what to bring.

I especially loved hearing from "lurkers" and finding a whole bunch of great new blogs to read. If you haven't clicked on the comments, please do so and follow the links to read the creative lists and some blogs that were new to me.

Tomorrow I will announce the new theme that I crafted - hint, hint. Off to walk the dog, clean up the dining room from my new art project, and get ready for - sob, sob, WORK!

Have a great Sunday!


List Friday - Splendid Necessities for Travel

You all read my list at the beginning of the week and it was pretty cumbersome. I've winnowed it down somewhat. Here is my fantasy list of those things I would have to take with me on my voyage out - to where? Doesn't matter, the voyage is the thing. And these are the things that I must have on any trip:

  1. digital camera
  2. laptop
  3. skeins of crimson chenille yarn and bamboo needles to knit a wrap to wrap around me at night.
  4. Bella Il Fiore Whipped Body Creme in Honeysuckle Grapefruit (you could eat it or wear it,,,)
  5. five Pilot Ultra-Fine No Xylene black fine point permanent pens
  6. Aleve
  7. My silver bracelet that locks in place with two silver balls that I've worn for twenty years & my pendant from Nina of the vintage binoculars
  8. Italian journal my sister Maria made for me with Fabriano Artistico paper
  9. Almond soap from Italy from my sister Marietta
  10. Venetian Green glass orb flecked with gold from Rae to hang on the rear view mirror and bathe the car in watery light
  11. tackle box for collecting - bark, stones, vials of sand, feathers, or egg shells
  12. Ipod if I owned one or CDs that my kids burn for me of mixes I'd like
  13. votive candles in pretty glass jars and tiny boxes of wooden matches
  14. a silk camisole for hot nights
  15. the teal chenille throw  for cuddling
  16. my favorite pillow - "Longie"
  17. Junior Mints
  18. red clogs, denim jacket, swirly skirt, and a straw hat
  19. a satchel holding torn down pastel papers, journal cards, rubber stamps watercolor postcards,  travel watercolor kit, beeswax, and postage
  20. Mr. Pomegranate

Don't Forget List Friday!

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Tomorrow will be our first ever "List Friday". You are invited to post a list that you've made featuring what are the splendid essentials you would take on an imaginary or real adventure. Posts mentioning new and exotic chocolate bars are most welcome! See Tuesday's post if you are not sure what we are all talking about.

It looks like we are not going to be adopting a pet on this vacation as there's only four days left - quick, take the knife out of my hands! Our back up plan is to wait until early June when the college siblings come home and we can consider adopting a puppy. However, the youngest and I went to a local pet shop today and saw the MOST gorgeous cream and tan golden retriever puppy - male, 3 months old - and probably would have walked away with him, that is, until I asked The Price: one thousand dollars American!

Can you believe that?

I had absolutely no idea of the price of puppies. And if I were ever to spend that insane money on a freaking dog! I would get it from a breeder (this is where you all write to tell me that it would be twice as much from a breeder...)

Otherwise, mother and daughter are bored. I've been battling a bug since last week, and it went away, then Julia got it, then Stan, and then it boomeranged back to me. So Monday and Tuesday were spent feeling like shit and I am still kind of funkified.

However, we went to Borders and the Teacher Sister has been looking for a journal with Kraft paper pages. They had a beautiful spiral-bound "scrapbook", about 8 " X 8", with a gorgeous striped cover and black grossgrain ribbon tie. The pages are pleasingly mottled and hold up great to water media. And the price was right: $6.99! So naturally I had to buy one for her - and one for me.

When I came home from Border's I wanted to see how the gouache would look on the pages, so I looked into my "junk" box and grabbed a small, plastic statue of the Virgin Mary - attached to a black suction cup for, I presume, a better grip on the dashboard. And just like that, I had a whole new book in my head and spent the next hour whipping up the title page. I am so psyched about it because it is exactly what I should be doing - quirky, odd, colorful, and soon to be embellished with all sorts of charms, ribbons, and other oddities. In fact "odd" figures greatly in the theme.

Before this, I'd been struggling with a painting I'd been trying to do, futzing around with tight little drawings and worried about trying to do a wooden shadow box frame of my own device. I've been torturing myself because I've lost a beautiful snapshot of my grandmother from the 1920's that I've been wanting to paint. To make me feel worse, I'd photocopied it once as an enlargement, and I found that copy a few months ago, and now I can't find either!

Art is strange - Life is strange. Just ride it out, listen to your gut, and the universe will send you on a new trip.



February "Vacation"

Stevie

I consider the term "February vacation" a conundrum since it's a sucky time of year to find yourself home with nothing to do. I had to laugh when early last fall, I ran into an attorney I know and asked him where he was running to on a sunny Saturday afternoon, and he told me he was on the way to the travel agent because "as I know" if you don't lock in the Caribbean for February break now, you're out of luck. Yeah. Right. Of course. Not.

But I am whinging (love that Anglo word). This February vacation we had one and one goal only: Find a dog! Only, after five days, our goal has morphed into: Find. A. Freaking. Dog. Already.

Saturday we drove off bright-eyed and bushy-tailed with the youngest, Mr. Pom and my Teacher Sister. We rode out to North Shore Animal League on Long Island. NSAL is the Waldorf Astoria of animal shelters. On a Saturday afternoon, it was burgeoning with volunteers in red or blue t-shirts ready and willing to show you any dog you desired. Before the dog is brought to you, they produce a little synopsis of the dog's history and his medical report. The dogs are kept in large cages (but still cages...) that are cleaned constantly. There was no smell of animal anywhere in the place. The dogs are walked frequently and are brought to you in a glassed in atrium area where you can sit on a bench and pet your choice.

We had a plan before we went in to find a mature dog, medium-sized, with a calm manner, with short hair. We all agreed that though we'd love a puppy, a working household could not take care of a baby anything. The youngest was in charge of selecting the dog, as it is to be her companion, and she had already spent hours on line looking at profiles and photos of their strays. We almost fell in love with "Nutmeg", a short haired, one year old mutt, but he had a few medical problems, wasn't housebroken, and the youngest just wasn't sure. It was only our first trip, so off we went.

Our next stop was a local shelter near NSAL. Can you say prison penitentiary? It was a horrible, dark, dank place that either lacked money or foresight. It was so dark in the animal area that you could hardly see the dogs behind the iron bars, which were behind the gutter to catch the waste. It was full of pit bulls and we were sad to see any dog there.

We then headed back over the bridge towards home. By now, the youngest had narrowed down her desires to a Siberian Husky or a Golden Retriever.  We headed for a humane society near our home but when we went in at 3:00, a lady with a mouthful of powdered donut told us that the dogs were "in for the day" and refused to show us anything. We tried to scoot over to the one in our town, but they were closing in ten minutes.

The youngest spent the rest of Saturday poring over web sites for hours looking at rescue groups that had huskies and goldens. "Look, look!" she must have cried several times an hour and we'd all coo over the image of some great-looking dog only to read that it was very aggressive, or an escape artist, or located in Pennsylvania.

So right after church and lunch on Sunday, Mr. Pom and the youngest took off for our local shelter. A few minutes later they were pounding on the front door, yelling for me to get on my shoes and get in the car. They had THE dog, a small, beautiful, calm husky, tan and white. We raced down there, asked for her to be taken out of her cage - and find out she had JUST been adopted.

Sigh.

Monday we returned to the shelter with the doughnut eating lazy lady and were met by a highstrung, pushy woman who was desperate for us to take a dog. Yes, she had a husky, but she wouldn't show it to us unless the youngest and I turned into two 7 foot males who weighed 400 pounds each. Huh? Very dominant dog. Already failed with two families. Ruled the pound.

So her choice was to bring us up a rib-sticking skinny hound, with several sores, and covered in dog shit. She handed the leash to me and told me to walk Jordan and bond with him. It was pretty funny to see me being dragged all over the parking lot by a very strong, excited dog while I did the two-step trying to avoid the dog leaning up against my previously non-dog shit covered pants.

At this point we gave up, treated ourselves to Haagen Daz ice cream sundaes, and the youngest played electric guitar for the rest of the day. But last night she and her father had the laptops going, surfing through rescue sites again. We're waiting to get an email about "Stevie". I'm reconsidering the ban on puppies and talking to the youngest about whether we could do a puppy if we wait until late May when the older kids are home for the summer.

It's been a very interesting journey for all us. As used to we all are to our consumer driven society, where you can order anything from a book to a
car, it is a commitment to find a stray to adopt. It's legwork, patience, and the willingness to take a sweet dog that may not be your first choice.

We're waiting to hear about "Stevie", pictured above. I'm not thrilled that it's a "woolly" husky and I still think we should stick with a Golden. We raised a husky for 15 years and my arm still has some nerve damage from being pulled by a very rambunctious, powerful animal.  But just think of the blog posts I'll get out of all this!


Announcing a New Feature: List Fridays!

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Lists seem to strike a chord with readers.  Readers seem intrigued by the enumeration of items, especially those relating to imaginary voyages.  Is it the preparation for travel that we desire, or the travel itself? I often think it is the eve of the trip that is the most exciting. Maybe we all have too much time on our hands during the quiet, long days of February, holiday-less and grim days that will soon climax with Ash Wednesday and the long six week march to Spring.

Creative Voyage has  posted a lovely list of her own in response to my own belabored list of necessities for travel. Hers is so much more romantic than mine:      

green & blacks dark cherry choc

lomo camera & film

address book

moleskine

lush - angels on bare skin cleanser

lush - shampoo bar

hot water!

coffee (real)

books or access to library

flowers

So inspired by all your comments, and since the most famous resident of  Tuvalu  has switched "Show and Tell Fridays" to Thursday due to her nationally acclaimed "Survivor Recap", we are going to try to fill her dainty shoes by announcing a new feature here at Pomegranatesandpaper:

                           "List Fridays"

  • It's a very simple concept. We'll announce the theme on Mondays and you can post your lists on Fridays.
  • We'll suggest the list be at least ten  items long, or longer if you are obsessive compulsive like me, and the list can be posted in words or images - or both.
  • The Pomegranates will be available to answer any questions though we suspect the event to be self-explanatory.
  • The ability to do bulleted lists is not required but they do look purty.
  • Participation is heavily encouraged and eagerly anticipated.

For the first list, we ask that you jot down your own Creative Voyage   list of sundries that would be your beautiful necessities for your next minimalist adventure.

I'm looking forward to reading about those things that you cannot live without, be that animal, vegetable, or mineral. And especially candy. Chocolate candy.

:>)


Radical Simplicity

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Dan Price's cool new book is a primer on how to strip your life down to the bare necessities in order to allow yourself the freedom to create an authentic life. I love Dan's book because his art is at eye level - everything that he sees, hears, and thinks of, he draws. He traveled cross country on a bike of his devising and built himself a troll house under a hill. The book is filled with his delightful renderings of tents and stoves and life in the meadow.

Dan is like a kid brother; always planning hikes and trips into the woods and building his own survival gear.  He's happiest when engrossed in his renderings for hobbit hole and teepees and sketches taken on his pilgrimages. He's a wandering artist making a home in the meadow near his kids. I'm too much of a woman not to wonder, though, how I'd fare in such spare surroundings. I haven't seen the female equivalent of Dan's books, and I'd like to find them. I'm searching for new role models and ways out of suburbia and mortgages and utility bills.

I don't think I could take to an underground house. Too damp, too dark. I'd need something high up in the trees, with a firepit, and most of all, a door and windows to close on rainy days. I am too attached to domesticity to pretend that I'll ever pack all I own in a backpack and take off on foot for years. But a van, now a van has an allure to which I could succumb. I'd fit it out like a small boat, with hanging nets holding what I need.

Here's the list I've come up with:

  • Rag & Bone journal for extended entries more for writing and collage
  • thick, watercolor pad for water media journal entries and tear outs
  • blank flashcards for daily journal card collaging
  • waterbrushes
  • conte d'arche watercolor crayon in the flat tin
  • walnut ink & rotring pen
  • pack of glue stick
  • diamond glaze
  • double-sided tape
  • watercolor brushes
  • collapsing tin cup with lid from Aunt Anita
  • caran d'arch set of gouache
  • Winsor & Newton watercolor kit
  • digital camera
  • disposable still camera
  • Van Gogh orange small Moleskine to use as a log of dates, names, addresses, and phones
  • paper towels, tissues

What else would I need?

  • propane camp stove
  • propane lantern
  • lantern flashlight
  • ipod
  • cell phone and charger
  • two sleeping bags
  • two pillows
  • laundry bag
  • thermos
  • coffee
  • camp stove percolator
  • small ice chest
  • Swiss army knife
  • fork, knife, spoon
  • graniteware mug, bowl, and plate
  • sponge
  • soap
  • fluffy bath towel
  • handtowel
  • washcloth
  • flushable wipers
  • fry pan
  • sauce pan
  • wooden matches
  • long, propane lighter
  • salt and pepper in those little grinders you buy at the store
  • atlas
  • jumper cables
  • flares
  • inflate-a-tire
  • bottled water

Clothing/toiletries

  • blue slicker
  • denim jacket
  • scarf Alison knited for me
  • Wellfleet hat
  • rainboots
  • sneakers
  • red clogs
  • 1 pair jeans
  • 2 pair sweat pants
  • heavy, navy blue sweater
  • maroon velvet hoodie
  • t-shirts
  • denim shirt
  • deodorant
  • brush
  • toothbrush/paste
  • mirror
  • tweezers ( I can't be that simple)
  • nailfile
  • binoculars

Books - uh oh, now we are in trouble in terms of space - these need a separate entry of their own "Books to Take On The Road". Stay tuned.   

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[I woke up this morning and logged onto to read this post that I'd set to publish this morning and discovered that Typepad ate the last paragraph. So here it is.]
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As you can see by my list, I'm just not a Radically Simple kind of gal. I need my stuff. Oh, I could take off for a two week vacation and prune down to the simplest essentials, but beyond that, I'd be looking for a nice hot shower, comfortable bed, internet, and  refrigerator stocked with food. Or in my version of Radical Simplicity, a hotel room with a terrace and room service.

All kidding aside, I love the heart of the message of Dan's book and I admire his monklike devotion to his craft. He writes lovingly about his kids in all his books and you know he was involved and present as their father, but I can't help but wonder while he was living in a teepee, if his significant other was driving them to the pediatrician in the middle of the night.   I can tell you that you'd be hard pressed to find a female example of this itinerant hobbitlike existence.

We all have to find the way to our zenlike core. Whether it means building a treehouse and renouncing all wordly goods, or just giving up expensive toys and financial burdens that are unnecessary and just keeping up with the Jones's, Dan's message is that in order to realize your dreams, you have to be fiercely concentrated and zealously jealous of your time and energy. A good message, an authentic life.


MAM Bloggers Unite

Middle Aged Mothers (MAMS) are being heard from!

[Editorial note: In response to questions, MAMS are ageless and sexless - you just have to be a person who is raising kids - and you feel your age! And that doesn't exclude caregivers whose children have let the nest or have their own nest. We never stop being caregivers, regardless of the age of the kids]

I don't think any post I've written has ever generated such thoughtful and lengthy comments. I am heartened to discover lots of MAMS who are using the Internet to express themselves and to follow threads of interest with others in similar circumstances.

MAMS - not sure I am wedded to that acronym as it reminds me of stout grey haired women with tight perms. I'm open to anyone's suggestions, but rather  than dwell on a moniker,  we need to celebrate our commonality - and our diversity. I have heard from women who embrace a variety of lives from across the world, but in the variety are the common themes of raising children, earning a living, keeping a household, caring for aged parents, and mercifully, still pursuing a fertile creative life, whether it be repairing tractors or drawing or baking or poetry - or blogging.

Those of you who've been around here for awhile know I turned 50 last year and I approached it like a motorcycle speeding towards a brick wall. I had some health issues and a suddenly almost-empty nest and an overwhelming job. It seemed like the last half of my forties was spent being made aware of what I lacked: income, a career path, fitness, children who needed me, and healthy knees. Last year was a year that I wouldn't want to repeat for various reasons concerning more than my personal situation, but now that it's over, I find myself with renewed energy, increasing optimism, and a joie de vivre that has been missing for several years since we moved.

The backstory of all this is that I learned that in order to survive I have to evolve, and though I was weaned on the breast of feminism and never thought I would be defined as my role as a mother, I had invested enormous energy into being a good mother and  I didn't know how to reinvent myself in that capacity. You could have knocked me over with a diaper when all this hit me. How could this happen to me? I had never been a clingy mother - I wasn't raised that way.  I remember being in college in a class with an "older student". She was probably about 35 years old, but we thought she was pretty ancient. We were discussing personal accomplishments and she said that her greatest achievement was raising her children. We shifted uncomfortably in our Frye boots and tossed our frizzed out hair as we rolled our eyes. 25 years later, I am the woman making this declaration and understanding, truly, that bringing life into the world is incredibly easy for some women, and incredibly difficult for all women.

So what does all have to do with blogging? It is a question of visibility. I have always been more of a non-fiction writer than a fiction writer. Good blogs are addictive to me. I drink them up, surfing daily, sometimes more than once a day, when I know I can expect clean, vivid, candid writing. I collect stories about lives different from mine, but I also hunt for lives similar to mine. I like to read how my peers are handling their life situations, always learning from someone's post that I am not so different from everyone, after all.

Judging by the links that I follow, there are fewer middle aged bloggers than twenty and thirty somethings. Whenever I read a story in hard print about a real time blogger gathering, I always cringe a little at the photos because inevitably  every face is as fresh as a recent college grad. I try to picture myself showing up at such a gathering and know I never would, being easily a generation older than those in attendance.

This is not to say that I don't know of many middle aged bloggers. My own blogroll, though seriously in need of updating, is mainly filled with luscious, diverse, and amazing middle aged bloggers.  I'd just like to see more, and I'd like to read more stories about men and women who have children spanning the ages from middle school to college, who tend to aging parents, who carry the weight of a necessary, but tedious job, and yet still have the desire each day to sit before a computer and write something about what they found refreshing, annoying, amazing, or just silly that day.

What I find is that most middle aged bloggers who have families don't routinely write about their children as the mommy bloggers do. I was puzzled by this and often hoped to find someone else struggling with the same issues that I am going through - getting used to kids being away, and then having them come home and having to get used to them as part of the household again, while struggling to define new rules and curfews with kids used to tremendous independence. Or raising a young teen in a world as profanely different from the world I grew up that I have to learn to sit without flinching while watching prime time TV with her while jokes about blow jobs abound, or suddenly feel the blood drain out of my face when I finally realize what the words to that rap song really is....

Perhaps the quiet timbre of the middle aged parent's voice in blogging has  to do with a generation raised more on hard print than on cyberspace and the pace of our lives. And certainly, as several who commented point out, older kids read our blogs and would not be happy to find their latest travails posted for the world to see. I just know that it encourages me to find out that those of a certain age, who write of their literary accomplishments, of their work day triumphs, of their latest gallery shows, or their fascinating lives of travel, are also juggling the dentist appointments, the parents needing explanations of the new Medicare rules, college tuitions and  kids who think that coming home at 4:00 a.m. with their significant others is perfectly normal. And ultimately, that I am not alone when I rise bleary-eyed and stiff for another work day and discover there's no milk or bread in the house, that I still have time to log on.  Priorities are priorities, after all.


Come Out Come Out Wherever You Are

Not to sound like the Ancient Mariner Motherer, but damn I wish we had blogging when I was a young mother. You know, back when dinosaurs ruled the earth yelling "Not the Mama!", i.e. late-80's and 90's. I would have loved to have had an outlet for my frustration and angst other than burning up the wires to my few friends who were home with babies - not that there were any home with babies.

I had my kids in that weird in-between time called the post-hippie/Knot's Landing/power suit with shoulder pads/Thirty-Something era. Coming of maternal age at that time, I had two sets of friends:
1.) college friends
2.) law school friends

What happened is that all the college friends took off for places like India and the Upper West Side (equally foreign to me, a suburban child) and got grunt jobs typing all  night for the New York Post so that they could get a better job, i.e. typing all night for the New York Times.

They were writers and artists and poets and I was, uh, a scared writer and artist and poet. I looked at their apartments with the bathtub in the kitchen, the cracks in the walls providing the cockroach highway, the tales of brutal, dismembering editors, and I decided that I needed to postpone entering the work force for as long as possible. I thought about being an au pair in the countryside of England, but my parents dangled the school loan payments  in front of my face and reminded me that we were Italian and Italian children never move farther away than a strand of spaghetti can stretch. And I was a chickenshit at heart.

So  I went to law school and got a lot of new friends. The kind that organize study groups and assign you a chapter to outline and throw you out of the study group if you forget to do it because you're working your ass off behind the library counter working to pay for law school. . And that my friends, is a true story. Do you watch Gilmore Girls? You know Rory's friend, Paris? She's the softer side of most of the people I met in law school.  Thank God I finally made friends with a group of less neurotic people, and they are my friends to this day, but I still felt alienated from them, in that way you think in your head that someday you'll go back to your real self with your real friends but then find out that they all became secretaries with drinking problems instead of journalists with drinking problems. The final bell was tolled on most of those college  friendships when I got married and one of them heard me call my husband "honey" and asked to be taken to the train immediately back into the city and away from our weird nouveau Donna Reed existence.

So my good friends became my law school friends and we all sort of had our kids at the same time and we shared power suit maternity clothes. But after the babies were born, they went back to work. I, however, looked at this incredible little pink and white bundle with the clearest blue eyes and decided I was not going to have her in a car seat under my desk while I listened to wiretaps of drug gangs like my boss did. No, I would quit working for the man and start my own practice and instead listen to her cry with the teenage babysitter while I tried to hide behind my "office cum bedroom" and negotiate a real estate contract.

So it was pretty lonely in those days on the Mommy front. I either had the friends who had moved around the country and the world so many times I didn't even know what time zone they were in, or the friends who could pencil me for a phone call a week from Tuesday in between pumping their breasts in the office ladies room before rushing to daycare to pick up the twins.

Eventually I found a fabulous mix of stay at home moms right in my own neighborhood, but before then, boy would I have liked to read and write my own mommy blog.

My question now is: where are all the old older Mommy bloggers? Not everyone who owns a laptop and an email account is under 40 and surely not all Mommy bloggers are   having their first and second children. Where are the good old middle aged mothers who have half an empty nest, kids with incredible tuition costs, and one at home wanting to cyberdate? Where are the pictures of the middle school dances and the prom and the frat pictures you found on your son's MySpace site? And where are the Moms wondering whether they'll ever sleep through the night again once the oldest moves back home after college?

So I ask you Older Mommy (and Daddy) Bloggers to log on and start your own blogs, make a webring, and shoulder aside all these young'uns with their month of softies and pictures of stuffed animals. Post those cute pics of the beer bottles you found in your son's closet or the sea of clothes that cover the plush carpet that you put down when you found out you were expecting that last child, and instead of the photos of the beautiful deco books and swap cards you've gotten from your cyber friends, prettily stack the college tuition bills, car insurance dunning notices, and the 18th birthday card from the Selective Service.

Show us your gray hairs! Display your wrinkles. Take photos of the Tylenol PM! Unite!


Blank Pageitis

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I have a serious problem that someone who writes about creativity is very familiar with: blank pageitis. I am sitting at my desk - yes, the one you've seen here, with the little half-window that looks out on my neighbor's cherry and apple trees, with the green Venetian glass orb that my friend Rae brought me back from Venice, and the sand dollars and starfish covered with glitter, and the black and white and red rick rack fluttering in the breeze. At my right is my feng shui closet door,  painted with flowing colors of Lumiere and stamped and collaged with inspiring words; to my left are shelves and shelves of paints, ribbons, stamps, ephemera, old books, cigar boxes, buttons and bows, brushes and crayons, vintage prayer books, and glue guns.

And what am I producing from all this?

Blank pageitis.

I sit and stare at an old photograph of my grandmother and aunt. I make a sketch, then resketch it in a larger format. I hunt for paper, find nothing, pull out some books, leaf through some magazines, troll some websites...and come up with nothing. I want to do something more with it. I email my artist friends who suggest more books and sites. I even have some of the books. Nothing comes out of it. The day is gone, wasted, and my desk is still empty and my canvas is still blank.

Three days later I am at work, in court. I'm doing pretrial conferences and there are long waits for the other side to show up and then to be called into chambers. I have a book but it is too noisy to concentrate. My cell phone fades in and out so I can't make some personal calls that I need to tend to. I can't draw, too conspicuous since I know almost everyone around me. I pull out the Moleskine anyway. I can't draw without causing curious glances, I can at least jot down some ideas. It is my work notebook, the one I can take out in court or at the office and no one looks over and thinks, "hey, what the heck is that woman doing in that book with the red cover, giant black and white words, beads hung on ribbons, and irridescent green binding?? In a sea of dark suits and folded black and white newspapers, it would shine like an emerald and too many eyes would be on me. Sometimes you  have to be on the down low.

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In court and at work I need anonymity - at least on the outside. The dark black cover and the no-nonsense elastic binding give me street cred - i could as easily be taking notes for a brief or writing my opening statement as I could listing what art supplies I need to buy on the weekend.  At the office, the cover of the Moleskine is the exact shade as my desk blotter (which was problematic the day I couldn't find it as I packed up to leave and it was doing a purloined letter on me).  But today it's nondescript appearance is the perfect ruse as I I am suddenly filled with ideas of what to do next. Seems I needed the Kafkaesque boredom of a courtroom corridor, all peeling paint and heat blasting and scurrying cockroaches in the corner in order to let the seeds germinate. Work is kind of like perpetual winter in that way. There's plenty of drone-like waiting to occupy the left side of my mind so the right side can go into sleep mode and dream up the next big thing.

Soon I am writing three pages of ideas for new projects, articles, and classes. I race through the pages, filling in idea after idea, until I hear the court officer call  the name of my case. I shut the Moleskine and snap the elastic band in place. When we go into chambers, I  lay it on the table with confidence that no one thinks it is more than a datebook. It's tidy little cover belies the tangle of ideas germinating between the pages and threatening to bloom like forced bulbs in the dead of winter. 


S'now What?

Oh, it's been a long week here, in the land of melting snow. Poor Mr. Pomegranate could not stand the thought that we would have to pay someone to do the driveway and sidewalks, so despite a terribly painful back, he went out with The Teen and did his thing. Needless to say, he feels worse than ever and we are in Acute Back Stage 1, where we hope that resting the entire weekend and a day or two off will cure what always takes about 2 months lying down and losing his job to do.

Ah, yes, Mrs. Pom is in a very cranky mood this morning. It is a combination of trying to jump over the piles of snow all over the place. Witness the fact that The Teen watched in horror as Mrs. Pom tried to get into the car with her regular shoes on and the left foot slipped on the snow while the right firm was firmly inside the car, resulting in a split that Mrs. Pom hasn't attempted since 8th grade cheerleading try-outs. I'm really tired of carrying regular shoes in a totebag while I clomp around court in hot, ugly boots that I hope are hidden under my pants. And pants! Pants are all zebra-striped in the back from the dirty, salty running board that I am too short to avoid when I get out of the car, thus making all pants in need of cleaning after one wear.

You see, while all the regular streets and parking lots were completely clean by Tuesday, the Bronx is a Special Snow Land where the snow is piled at the curbs and no path is cut until pedestrians risking life and limb tromp over it creating a trough until it resembles a slushy, black, icy, treacherous mess to cross and there's no Sir Galahad waiting to throw his coat across it. (Maybe a Sir Gangsta waiting to mug you for your coat, but I've never actually witnessed that  - tho my colleague saw a man assaulting his wife and supposedly a baby being dropped to the pavement right in front of the courthouse yesterday, but  I was tucked into a deposition room, oblivious to the mayhem.)

Right now we are Stage 3 of Snow (lots of stages but no one performing) where you proceed at your own risk if you decide to forgo the clodhoppers and wear normal shoes. You can do it, but only if you plan your route to avoid the gutters where the dirty, black snow has melted into a dirty, opaque, semi-solid gutter of water with unidentified debris.  I am risking it today because I only have to go from the parking garage to the courthouse and I'm pretty sure there's only one viscous puddle I have to avoid.

It's not exactly better in the 'burbs. Tho the shopping centers have cleaned up well, the schools seem to have run out of common sense, thereby plowing the drop-off lane and sidewalk, but leaving a huge wall of snow that the children have to jump over to get out of the car and into the sidewalk. And these are middle school kids. They don't jump over no stinking snow! What do you think - they're in 5th grade or something?

I am signing off now, on the way to court,  then a quick trip to the doctor for the sinus infection I've been harboring for several weeks (or mono, chronic fatigue syndrome, or thyroid problems that I really think I have), then back to work so I can clean up the blizzard of paper before I try to take ALL of next week off because the Teen is off and we are thinking about getting a dog. Yes. I wrote it for the world to see. Someone please stop me before I actually get in the car to go to the animal shelter. Please. I beg you. I am weak. And I have a short memory. We are pet free in our house for the first time in about 12 years. It is so sweet. No smells, no mess, no dried pet food all over the kitchen floor...but a lonely, young teen who needs someone/thing to replace her siblings away at school...yes, that's right Princess and Mystery Man, you are being replaced by a furry, four-legged thing that poops in the yard.

I'd best sign off before I get into real trouble.


I Heart You

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Mr. Pom and I would much rather be sharing a Valentine lunch at this cozy spot in Provincetown than be apart at work all day, but since we will not see other all day until suppertime, I am sending him a little love note. Please do not read further. Right. I know you will - it's cool!

Love to you Mr. Pom! And to all the Pomettes - we love you, too!

Dinner will be pumpkin ravioli with sage butter sauce and braised artichokes (I have two left from the weekend). Dessert? Leftover birthday cake unless Mr. Pom shows up with something chocolately...hint, hint.

And to my readers - I'd just be a lonely voice in cyberspace without you all. I'll be your valentine all day!


Next Time You'll Listen to the Forecasters....Or Not

It's official:

Blizzard 2006.

Largest snowfall in recorded history in NYC: 26.94 inches.

In the 'burbs: about the same but we couldn't find a yardstick....

We ate the blueberry pancakes and bacon, the spareribs, baked beans, and sauerkraut, and the strawberry shortcake birthday cake and coffee.

Anybody have any birthday Xantac?

Here are the pics:

Arbor Vitae bowed to winter:

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View from the bedroom. See my little birdbath?

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Looks like a wedding cake now:

Snow2

Even makes our ramshackle garage look quaint:

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Snow6

Remember our screened porch? It'll be quite awhile
before after dinner coffee and candles return.

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Cars or snowmobiles?

Snow8

The snow didn't stop falling from 4:00 p.m.
Saturday until about 5:00 p.m. Sunday:

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Snow10

Mr. Pom and The Teen are the cutest snow shovelers
that ever rang my doorbell.

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Unfortunately, it has stopped snowing and it looks like despite 2 feet of snow, that there will be work and school tomorrow. It was a nice fairyland while it lasted. And Wedding Crashers - rent it, but prepare to use the fast forward button. Cinderella Man - slow at the beginning and then edge of your seat during the fight scenes. Yahtzee - don't try to play after too many glasses of wine.

All in all a great birthday, and thanks for all the well wishes.


Preparing For Snow Is So Much More Fun Than Snow Itself

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Snow is imminent. Blizzard warning for our county. That usually means we'll get 2 inches. But we are not going to chance it, no way. We ran to the store and bought:

  • chips
  • dip
  • hot dogs
  • sauerkraut
  • baked beans
  • hamburgers
  • pizza dough
  • large bar of Lindt bittersweet chocolate
  • M&Ms
  • Devil Dogs (for The Teen)
  • milk
  • Doritos

I have no idea why snow falling all day requires us to eat like we are on a summer picnic, but it does. Actually, tomorrow I am making spare ribs in the crockpot with Baby Ray's honey sauce, steamed artichokes, and maybe chicken soup if I remember to defrost the chicken.  And i can eat anything I want tomorrow because it is my birthday.

Today I went to Cafe Mozart with my sisters and my friend Rae. I had eggs Benedict with smoked salmon and a cappuccino. Sisters had raisin bread french toast, goat cheese omelette, and pancakes. We were too full for desert which is practically unheard of in our family. Then we walked down to the little quilt store where we bought Midori silk ribbons, ribbons printed like marking tape, black satin ribbon with silver hooks (very s&m, Maria bought that - what does that tell you??), and some cotton perl in Santa Fe colors.

I watched a movie called Off the Map with Joan Allen and Sam Elliot. It is a small, independent film about a family who moves off the grid in northern New Mexico. At the heart of the story is the awakening of a young man through art. It is a gorgeous movie and now I am longing to visit New Mexico. We have Cinderella Man and Wedding Crashers (quite a combo) to watch while it snows and I am just starting a new painting from old family photos.

I've decided I am going to take a painting class, but I see that I've missed the beginning of the Spring semester at most places. I am going to sign up for an evening class at Cooper Union for the summer. I think it'll be neat to drive into the city and come out in the soft summer night after an evening of painting.

This coming birthday blizzard is bringing all sorts of dreams and a feeling of weightlessness. It must be a portent to have a blizzard on your birthday. The last time was when I turned 13. We built snow forts and caves in our front yard and iced them with the hose and sledded on our own moguls. Tomorrow is a little crack in time back to my childhood. Portents and prophecies. In a snowglobe.


Silence

There are times to make joyful noise and there are times to sit with yourself and feel the energy around you. The past week has been the latter time, and I just sat with my problems and waited for a release. Tonight I came home full of frenzy from little sandstorms at work. A few weeks ago I read something that talked about our "work families" and our "home families". Since then, I've been able to deal with the idiosyncrasies of my office from a different perspective as I recognize the patterns of behavior that threaten to swamp any family.

The difference is that you can walk away from your work family, at least for the weekend, while even at work, phone calls come in and your mind wanders and remembers doctor appointments and dates to be met. There are calls from sick kids away at school, and report cards, and sick husbands at home. Suddenly, both worlds overlap and I wonder how to merge myself between either of them and how to transition from the one to the other.

I decide on silence and take to my bed for a few long moments when I first come home. They wait around me, expectant, but I cannot give anything to them  yet. I don't want to react. I find silence is the only way through. Eventually, I feel the knot loosening and I make a tentative foray downstairs and sit with them. I am still silent and I know they think I am being stubborn.

But I'm just struggling to keep my inward journey from exploding all over the room. And after a few hours, I find my words again as the knot loosens. I cut through the angst of the grades with a few decisions, make calls to follow up on the doctor's visits, realize that I am literally out of control, physically, with what is happening, and let it go.

But I am drained and forgo an evening around the fire and make myself a cup of tea in the tall, turquoise mug. I fish a small blue and white Chinese bowl out of the top cupboard and carve open a blood orange, which sprays magenta juice and crimson flesh. I go upstairs alone with a book and my sketchbook and two fat black ink pens.  I am grateful for the bed, for the clean sheets, the piles of pillows, my handcream on the night table. Nothing has changed and everything has changed.


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Note to self:

At risk of despair and thoughts of harming oneself do not, do not  watch anymore aged bands playing rock 'n roll.

Do. Not.

From Mrs. Pomegranate who is going to have her retinas reimaged and/or a lobotomy after watching the off-key, out of sync Rolling Stones at the Super Bowl, and worse of all, after "staying up late" to watch the tribute to a very strange looking person who claimed to be Sly at the Grammys. Or as Stan put it, Sly, who despite the mohawk, looked more like Jimmy Durante with cervical fusion than Sly for whom 30 years ago we sat on a football field in a stadium in New Jersey until 1:00 a.m. because he was too stoned to come out and play until then.

And, never losing an opportunity for a parenting moment, as he came onstage for about three minutes, sang three bars, and then disappeared backstage without even taking a bow or saying a word to the audience, I had to turn to The Teen and say:

"Sex, Drugs, and Rock and Roll, child, and that's how you'll look when you're 60."

Unless you are Madonna, and appear to look younger with thighs of steel than you did when you were on stage twenty years ago.

Uh oh, back to thoughts of suicidal despair.







Weekends

One of the unexpected benefits of having your children getting older is that you  have weekends again. Sure, we had Saturdays and Sundays like everyone else in the world, but we rarely had "week ends". It was more like "week continuations with different clothes on".  There were so many games, leagues, lessons, homework, and projects - oh lord, the projects! - that we rarely had downtime.  Projects, that's enough subject for an entirely separate post. We've made DNA, GI tracts, grown mold, created career presentations from artists to mathematicians, racing cars, hurricanes in a bottle,  seed planters, planted seeds, surveys, family trees, string art, marble art, clay scenes from historical events, Styrofoam solar systems, kites which failed to fly on the grounds on the Washington Monument on the day we began bombing Iraq,  and diorami from every major Newberry Award winner, including one diorama that had a small fan and crepe paper "flames".

Nowadays, The Teen is pretty capable of handling these parent-numbing projects on her own and our weekend projects tend to be the piles we left behind in the office:

Office

Shudder, shudder, yuck.

So Mr. Pomegranate and I made a commitment on our 25th wedding anniversary to start spending more time with each other, alone, on the weekends. The leaves, laundry, bills, dust, groceries, and trash will all be there when we get back, and we not will be held hostage to an errand list at the sake of our mental health and emotional intimacy. In short, we want to have some fun. When the weather, children, and healthy backs permit, we've been taking off for mid-day excursions.

Last Saturday we drove into the city and had lunch at Rafaella on Ninth  It's a charming, little cafe that has the best espresso macchiattas in New York, tiny marble tables, a gorgeous Fortuny chandelier, great Eggs Benedict, and huge windows to allow people watching on 9th Av. It's right down the street from Billy's Bakery, which is a trendy, little bakery best known for its cupcakes and it's baker, who left the other famous cupcake bakery, Magnolia. It's less crowded than Magnolia's and very kitschy vintage. The cupcakes, well, the ones we got this weekend were a little dry, but other times they've been outstanding.

After brunch, Mr. Pom did what he loves to do best in New York: drive like a maniac through the streets of the city. The tales are legend of New York City drive by tours given by Mr. Pom.  We have been known to leave our house at 1:00, return at 4:00, having visited four boroughs with our feet never touching the ground once. We're working on this behavior, however, and I find it helps to inquire plaintively before I get into the car "WHERE are we going??" This trip, I managed to shove him out of the car long enough for brunch and bakery, but after that, it was zipping down to the Bowery and up to the Park, and therefore, most of my photos are blurry, but here's a good one of the crowds at Union Square, sitting around like it was May and not January.

Unionsquare

This weekend, we had to pick up The Teen from an event at 2:30, so we decided to stay local. We went to a sushi restaurant that was reviewed in the paper and we had a fantastic lunch. The restaurant was very contemporary, with a long, plush banquette and teak tables and chairs. Modernistic paper light fixtures hung from the ceiling and the place was small enough that the sushi's chef cleaver could be heard banging away.

Lunch

We had fried calamari and Vietnamese spring rolls for an appetizer, and a huge dragon roll for the entree. Their dragon roll is eel and cucumber wrapped in avocado with a delicious warm sauce. Mr. Pomegranate had to be restrained from ordering the whole meal again and declared  it one of the best meals of his life. I think the two glasses of Chardonnay may have imbued his enthusiasm.  It was great, however, and I loved my "tuna salad", which was not the watery mayonnaise plop your mother made for your brown bag school lunch, but a delicate mix of greens dressed with olive oil and wasabi, surrounded by tuna delicately rolled and topped with a wafer of jalapeno and a dollop of roe.

Today, we are laying low and Mr. Pom is taking over the chili-making responsibilities for Super Bowl. I have two movies to watch upstairs while he does the game thing, and I'll join him to watch the half-time commercials. Otherwise, I am no fan and will not even stay up late enough to find out who wins. But on behalf of Mr. Pom: "GO STEELERS!!!"


I know some people won't ever take a day off unless they are going somewhere, preferably on a vacation. My preference is to take a personal day now and then for sheer mental health recuperation. And that means being home, being home alone, and being home alone with no appointments and nothing to do. I thought today was going to be one of those days when I took it off, but it turned out to be a real sick day and that just annoyed me. After all, what is worse than taking a sick day when you are actually sick? What a waste of a day!

I tried going to Borders for a magazine, but I had a strange attachment to the bathroom today.  So I drove to Blockbusters and ran in to see if they had the first season of Gilmore Girls. I was in the mood for something fluffy and girly. The man behind the counter dismissed with a wave of his hand. Gilmore Girls? Like they only carry art films - right next to about a thousand copies of Sex and the City and Halloween X. So I rented the first season of Six Feet Under, which proved to be entertaining but startling with all the full front screwing going on and when The Teen came home, it made for some extreme remote control muting and channel changing.

Speaking of The Teen, she is at an 8th grade dance. I asked her this morning what she was going to wear, and she told me that she'd probably wear what she wore to school. Hmm. If The Princess and The Teen didn't look identical except for hair color, I would wonder if they had different mothers...oh, wait, that would be me.  She just cracks me up. She spent a few minutes with the hair straightener, then threw her American Eagle and man-tailored shirt right from the dryer onto her back, put on the low rises and her sneakers, and off she went.  The Teen is a very easy child, except when she becomes obsessive compulsive about certain things, like a new phone or drum set. Right now we are inbetween cravings but that is about to end because she discovered a new "board store" (that would be skate or surf, not wooden).

The only problem we are having right now is over MySpace. Last weekend we had a major emotional argument over it. This weekend, we are watching the news about sexual predators using it for sexual assaults. We will revisit the issue this weekend and I expect that The Teen will not be too happy without decision. Being a parent is never easy and the past few months have reinforced that fact. It's really hard work and often easier just to give in and let them do what they want, but as tell The Teen, my job is to be a Mother, even with a capital M. Inside, though, my heart breaks when we have to butt heads over these issues and I know how much they resent me. I had no idea how hard it is on the parent. I never imagined that my own parents ever felt torn and heartsick when they were disciplining us. And with 5 girls, they had plenty of opportunity.


The I That Is Weenie

The UPS store guy:

I know you don't make any money when I come in with my packages to mail on an account.

I know because you tell me everytime I come in.

Which is exactly four times a year to mail on this particular account.

Because of this, I have you box it up so I can at least pay you for that.

And yesterday, when I reminded you that I needed a label and you said no,  it's all done on the computer now, and when I gave you the account number at the end, and you got annoyed and told me you don't do that on the computer, and you had to cancel it, go into the other room and get me the label I asked for in the first place, did you really have to huff and puff about it - since I told you that it was being billed to an account as soon as I handed the damn package to you and you ignored what I said.

And that's why I bought the box of tags and pushpins I don't need.

Because I'm too afraid to go into the UPS store four times a year and give the guy my artwork to throw into the UPS bin because he doesn't make any money doing that.


Icons

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Coretta Scott and Martin Luther King

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Wendy Wasserstein

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There doesn't seem much that these two vibrant women had in common other than their unfortunate sharing of a date of a death. But Mrs. King and Ms. Wasserstein were larger than life women who were markers of a generation for me.

As in the Dion song, "Abraham, Martin, and John",  the trinity of Martin, Bobby, and John were revered almost as much as The Trinity in the Catholic schools of my youth. Their wives became standard bearers for us as how wives should behave: strong, dignified,noble, even in their grief.  Mrs. King was the most humble of the three, yet the most strong, the most focused, the most committed to the ideals that her husband died for. The woman marched with the garbage strikers before her husband had even been buried, for god's sake. She was a role model for racial equality, political commitment, and tremendous grace.

Wendy Wasserstein was  upper middle class, white, Jewish, and hysterically funny. She was the big sister of all my friends, the one that taught you  had to make smoke rings, insert a tampon,  pierce your ears, and loan you her Ms. Magazines. She was loud and caustic and brilliant and never seemed to once need a man on her arm, not even when she had her daughter in her late forties. She took the dross of women's lives and turned it into Pulitzer plays. When my friends and I were graduating college, we were watching Meryl Streep acting in Wasserstein's play about college graduates and hoping like hell our lives were going to turn out to be half as interesting.

Both these women represented the spectrum of all I wanted to possess when I grew up, from my girlish, Catholic ideals of family and social justice, to the intellectual, writer life I thought I would live when I graduated college.  I'm all grown up now, but I'm not sure how much of their courage and commitment I've managed to acquire.  I've remained married and faithful and raised my children with the values of racial equality and tolerance and diversity, but I can't claim to have ever become politically active. I certainly write about women's lives, and I don't claim the  genius of a Wendy Wasserstein, but I am grateful that such a huge voice was heard before mine.

And who are the contemporary women who are taking the place of these larger than life women's voices? I can't think of any at the moment. It's no small matter that these iconic women cast their long shadows across the Baby Boomer generation and it sad and startling to see them go.