WriteRunRead Blog

I was delighted today to drive past a car with the license plate: READ4FUN.  It made me happy.  A small thing like that.  Just when I started to feel that people were giving up on reading for fun, and choosing instead to text and play Call of Duty or something else that squanders your brain rather than nourishing it. Speaking of brain nourishment, if you happen to be looking for a holiday gift for a child, I highly recommend "The Invention of Hugo Cabret " by Brian Selznick.  It is a wonderful tome, seemingly lengthy and intimidating for less-than-eager readers, but while it is an ample book, it is full of gorgeous illustrations. I came across Hugo Cabret at my local library, brought it home for my daughter (10 years-old) and she read it immediately.  The drawings drew her in.  She literally could not put it down.  It's a beauty: the words, illustrations, the feel of the book.  When she was half-way through, she said, "Mom, you have to read t...

As I was folding a set of twin sheets, fresh from the warm dryer, it occurred to me that I have no idea how to properly fold a "fitted" sheet.  I never did.  Every time I make an attempt, it turns out looking like one big bundled mess that hopefully will de-wrinkle once it's spread across the mattress. I realized that my mom never taught me how to fold a fitted sheet.  She also didn't teach me or my two sisters how to iron anything -- or to sew.  She did work four to five days a week, running her own "shop" (a beauty parlor or "salon" as it would be called today).  She was a hairdresser, on her feet all day, making women look pretty.  I remember wishing my mom spent more time at home.  She was always busy:  working, cooking, food shopping, etc. On this eve of Thanksgiving, I am grateful for my mom and for all that she didn't teach me.

So, my almost 12 year-old plays travel ice hockey.  He's been playing the game for five years.  It's a fairly rough sport, lots of aggressive plays and skating and all that.  When you reach age 11, you are considered a "Pee Wee Minor." What that means is, you are allowed and expected - to "check" opposing players, when you see fit. Usually, the checking is for purposes of regaining possession of the puck (although sometimes the checks are gratuitous).  It can be brutal, but if it's a clean "check" then you're okay with the refs.  Kids get hit, shoved, pushed down, crushed even, and it's all just part of the game.  You can sometimes even hear some of the parents yelling, "Hit him!!!" from the stands.  Or, "That's a great hit!!!" Barbaric sounding, I know.  And it is - to an extent.  Especially when you see kids who have not hit puberty take a nasty hit from another 12 year-old twice their size. So, my almost...

Yoga is special to me, it's essential for my mind and body.  After a few years of bopping around from class to class, trying out one studio or another, I came upon a local mom who teaches yoga to some other local moms. Last year, I tried to attend her class once a week.  Every Tuesday morning, upon leaving her studio, I would feel grounded and serene, ready to re-enter the real world.  It was very pleasant.  But something more has happened this year, as I get to know her and learn the practice better: she is a very skilled instructor. A few weeks back, I was reluctant to go to class, as I had an aching muscle in my upper back.  I thought it would be too painful and perhaps I would injure it more by practicing yoga.  My teacher insisted I come, saying she would be mindful of the injury and help me through it. Well, this local yoga-instructor-mom took care of me.  She modified the poses for my temporary condition and even massaged some miracle oint...

My last blog detailed an unanticipated, panic-infused detour through unknown and dizzying streets.  Funny thing is, sometimes I feel that way right here in the suburbs. I feel that way when I walk into an indoor tennis establishment and the woman behind me shoves right past me to follow her child into the building.  Literally, she nudges me aside and only excuses herself when I say something out loud (albeit quietly, not even meaning for her to hear), something such as "Oh my, excuse me."  She was caught off guard, not expecting to be called on her rude behavior.  No wonder her kid was shoving past mine. Or the time at the deli counter line in the grocery store and I was asking the man about the cold cuts he just sliced for me (making sure they were mine) and some woman said indignantly and rather loudly, "You know, I have a baby in the car."  And just when I was about to say, "Oh my God, take care of her order  she left a baby in the car!" She added, ...

So, I'm driving into the city from Long Island today, fairly routine, heading to the Triboro (a.k.a. the RFK Bridge) from the Grand Central.  I don't know what happened but I must have taken the wrong exit and I ended up on Astoria Boulevard.  Once I realized that I had taken a wrong turn, I called my sister in a frenzy, ready to cancel our plans. I couldn't find my way back to the Parkway, so I went in and out of a bunch of Queens streets without any clue as to where the main roads were located. I had my daughter in the car and no G.P.S.  Fortunately my sister happens to have a very good friend who lives in Forest Hills.  She heard even more panic in my voice after I approached my second detour in a community that was completely unfamiliar to me.  She had her friend Adam call me. He's kind of a jokester and when he called me while I was driving, he started kidding me about the "crack" neighborhood I was driving through.  I lost my sense of humor while ...