I'm just going to itch it over your way.

Coxackie. COXACKIE. C oooo (said with a wide open mouth for a good ol' tonsil check or a gaggle of angels opening the gates to the mothership 'ahhhhhh') X (cks) Aaaaa (as in AAAAApple season) Ckie—As in gazuntite, need a tissue?

I didn't know about coxackie. Did you? But you really don't want your kids running around hiccuping coxackie coxackie coxackie (say it 10 times fast). So... let's just call it intrusive, obtuse, and at times—inappropriately chaotic. And yes. My quarterly blog post is here.

So much has happened in the last few months. We moved (again). Settled, again. And, yet again, found ourselves amazed at how hard and easy it all was at the same time. We de-cluttered. We managed to open boxes, laugh and then throw away a few decades while realizing that we paid actual money to have our ancient trash held in storage for 9 months. We started schools. We took on big projects and rediscovered yoga (again). We relished in our new surroundings... all the while... whispers in our ears... (((coxackie))).

It isn't unlike our new unprivate private lives. You know it.... perusing to possible purchases on One Kings Lane. Wondering if that 'from a theater in India' bleacher seat is legit, or manically reproduced on a line out there elsewhere... Imagining yourself telling guests that it's a vintage piece from a reclusive part of the world that NO ONE HAS EVER heard of... duplicated in catalogs with names like 'Wisteria' or better yet, 'Ballard'. "I bought it from Ballard, but I swear it's vintage from INDIA." What? As you put your eyeballs back in.. Changing your mind you closeout the window and rush over to Facebook for the latest, only to come face to face with a targeted ad for the same chair that you never want to think about ever again—Now on! Discomfort sets in. Itch. Scratch. Itch. How did they know? COXACKIE.

Everything is viral. It's too crazy to even type. I should be whispering before the internet goes on a binge and eats it's own tail-tale... Only to blow it all back out again once we all start kicking it's innards. In the 'real' physical world we have to worry about hugging... shaking hands or (good god!) looking at each other. It's getting worse (coxackie). It's all very ugly and unhealthy, while rude and politically incorrect. If my friend Phil were here (and he might be) he'd liken this outbreak to the hand-held camera-movie phenomenon. Motion-sickening anyone that tries to watch.

EBO.....LA. La la laa....Ob-La-Di... Excuse me while I go wash my hands... and my keyboard... And, good grief, a power washer for the tots. As if saying it was enough. Itch. At what point did the real world become as viral as the internet world? And vice verse. When the chicken crossed the road, did he know about coxackie? Or targeted ads telling him to go back across, get his hand sanitizer while clicking on the dedicated email link so that Pottery Barn is made aware of his next recross—signaling an instant message coupon for $25 off his next purchase? All he wanted to do was cross the road... If he doesn't want the coupon, can I have it?

I don't mean to sound negative....Or, right. But when did we become so disgusting? I never would have imagined a juxtaposition between the viruses—real or otherwise. Itch. Scratch. Itch. Newly sanitized Jazz-Hands across the internet! Coxackie optional...

The Dark Side

He stands on his imaginary cliff staring out onto the opening skies, filling his vast oceans and seas of dark purple velvet, until turning deep blue. Seagulls laugh at the drops as sea turtles swell to the shores. In the distance a dolphin breaks the surface. Brilliant and gloriously graceful as it turns back to the waters. Thunder in the distance is only mirrored by the deep calling of the mother whale... "Will. WILL. W I LL." He pulls his collar up against the drops, now reaching his neck. "EXCUSE ME, Mr. Will-I-AM." And as he breaks from the ledge to peer back at reality. He questions. Why does it always rain on Thursday? "Will, finish your breakfast -- the bus might be on time today."

It's over. Don't they get that? All schools should just stop at Memorial Day. Some do -- and I see you out there, bragging on Facebook etc.... I mean really. WHAT IS THE POINT? Aside from the weather today -- gloomy, rainy. He only gets depressed when it rains AND he has school. Rain when there isn't school -- totally acceptable. We need summer, and not just to the chagrin of winter... School = Germs = SICK... IN SPRING. Which is just what happened here to us. All of us. Clinging to each other until every possible disgustingly transferable germ had landed accordingly. Yuck. No one is happy. Everyone wants to run wild—AS THEY SHOULD... But we can't do it with coughs, fevers and crazy whims about being mother whales, So let's just end it.

As he walked out to meet the bus I caught a glimpse. That look in his eyes that silenced my urge to tell him to hurry up. Crazed yet determined. There was no way out. Only a few weeks to go until the last call of freedom. Hold on Will, come back. STEP AWAY FROM THE DARK SIDE. HOLD ON—I was reminded of a post that I thought I had meant to write and then forgot about but, as I just realized, I actually did write...

In Defiance of the English TYRANNY! May 29, 2012

I was pleasantly surprised as I'm sure you've seen this look before too...

Concious Filtering.

I could hear her over the monitor.
Playing. Not Sleeping.
I entered with caution.
Standing with a school bus in one hand and a penguin in the other, donning sunglasses in the dark—she giggled. I sat down to read another book while the energy built up from this never-ending winter slowly gave way to snooze. I kissed her sweet forehead, smelling like maple syrup despite the past eleven hours and a bath time full of suds. We did it, I thought. We moved into a strange home and settled in quickly. Very quickly. And despite the occasional "I HATE IT HERE" outburst by the six year old, we have maintained continuum. Even the fourteen year old hound is likening our new digs to a loungeful retirement community. Proof that everything can change while, at the same time, everything stays the same.

I didn't know what to expect. Packing. Putting things in storage. Was everyone going to freak out? I still wake panicking. Did I forget anything? Did I throw something away that they are going to remember 4 years from now and never speak to me again? Should I have been more organized? What if I end up needing that lingering sole flip flop I blatantly ignored as the walls came down on the old house. Laying there in the mudroom area -- alone. Did it scream?

I don't think I was in this new house for less than an hour before I wigged out about not having any post-it notes. A complete and total OCD moment as I drove myself in freakish twitches to CVS to replenish my bizarre addiction. It only took a few words from Mr. Sal -- "Do everyone who loves you a favor, go buy some post-its" to make me realize that the need to stick my thoughts and lists everywhere has become a problem. He rarely speaks, and that's what he said. And that's okay.

Because I've been in this state of filtering myself. Not really on purpose, but totally looking at the world with silence. Quietly judging all of you. Moving can be really traumatic, and I was totally expecting a revolt that never happened...  to which I have reacted with unreserved calm and patience. Part of me feels like everything I've ever said here on this blog is all about me running outside and shouting at the rain. Meanwhile, I think of things to say and, instead of coming back to this place, I've been writing them down (yes, on post-its) and then telling myself that I take myself way too seriously. Bringing it all full circle back to me. But filtered. Like super black coffee... yum.

Add to that the fact that Gwyneth Paltrow is TRYING to make people mad, and I have the perfect example of someone that should just turn it off. How egos this big are so unkempt and unrealistic that they don't even realize that they are telling people how to live their lives. I mean, who knew. AND, she's a tiny person. One tiny person with a forum that can only make one realize (again) the pomp and circumstance of celebrity. She also eats (sometimes, maybe) and probably poops on occasion... which you might think is gross, but is actually a HUGE subject in our house lately. Poop. Not Gwyneth's poop (but don't tell her that). Statements about working in an office vs. the film set -- convenient  uncoupling or whatever dirty laundry she is trying to wipe off on the rest of us. I mean WHY? How is splitting up the new married? What is wrong with the word Divorce? Is it a BOSSY word that Mrs. Obams and Beyonce are going to throw under the bus? IT IS WHAT IT IS. But most of us really didn't need it smeared all over our daywear. At least I didn't and I'm wearing black—Very bossy.

ME. I don't want to drive angry. I'd like to say more, and I'm thinking that I might just do that. We made it through the worst wintah evah. We moved. Tore our house down with our bare hands, AND managed to smile through most of it. Now if the rest of the world could manage to keep their hairy conscious "I'm telling you but I'm not" ways of life out of the road, I might be inclined to say more... more often.

Twenty Fourteen.

This past week, being the start to a new year, I published a post over on The Nice Niche about a friend of a friend that completely changed her life by moving to rural Vermont...

"During the spring of 2012, Claire and her husband made the decision take their lives in a different direction. Over a few month period, they got engaged, quit their cushy jobs in Boston, bought a house in Vermont without knowing a soul in the state, and moved to the country to see about a more peaceful, sustainable life."


The post was something that I've been looking forward to... Lately it seems that my interests have become more "organic" than ever before -- Not only did I spend the later part of 2013 recovering from an unexpected back injury, I learned how to knit (and I'm a total snob about it), became kind of obsessed with the trend of salvaged materials and furniture, and I also worked with an architect on the redesign of our Long Island home, which is going to be rebuilt over the next couple of months. On the HELM of major changes, and yes, I do realize that most if not all injuries come in unexpected packages --- I looked North to Claire and her Little Dog Blog and Vintage Etsy store -- how do we make major life decisions without upsetting the balance of power that is our everyday reality? I still have questionable eating habits, fyi, You don't have to ask. But how fabulous is the idea of leaving it all behind? Or at least simplifying things... We'd have to take the kids with us, I suppose.

2013 was a really good year. I'm not going to sugar coat that statement with any big "BUTS" although I could have done without Bill De Blasio.... I don't suppose there's anything you can do about that for me, is there?

Even my back injury had me singing 'Even STE--EE--V-EENNN' in my best Steven Tyler moment... Because it forced me to get into shape. Okay. Whatever. Try to get into shape... Or at least go to the gym and a class or two.. Or, Okay, Have my ass handed to me a few days per week while the 2 year old pretended to hate her playgroup. At least I found my abs. How about that? Other things notable that didn't suck were the beach, the beach and oh, that other beach... The adoption of a beach buggy which should be making it's debut later on in 2014 and the consideration that uniforms and Catholic school rock the proverbial Casbah (sorry -- just heard an amazing interview with remaining Clash members—a caller weighed in on how kids these days only associate The Clash with 'Rock the Casbah' and was then obliterated and beheaded as I nearly drove off the rode "oh go blow over and kiss that Justin Bieber's arse would ya!?!"). Yes. It was a good year.

2014 holds more for us than a new beach buggy, new HOUSE, potty training and other fun times like my 39th year... For example, you won't catch me saying Two Thousand Fourteen. Nope -- I'm going old school with "Twenty Fourteen". We didn't say One Thousand Nine Hundred and Ninety Nine, did we? Aren't we tired of wasting our time? I also recently read that 2014 is going to be the year that everyone notices that Blogs are dead....

Sometime in the past few years, the blog died. In 2014, people will finally notice. —Jason Kottke

DEAD. As in.. cease to exist. Well, maybe. Isn't associating a falling trend with DEATH a little harsh? And while I've always liked the veteran blogger, Kottke -- I think he might be taking things a little too seriously. They might be going away, slooooowly, but can't we give them some props?

This is the internet, peeps. A place where sharing is the MOST POPULAR THING TO DO. I mean WHATEVS, even my parents joined Facebook this year (don't deny it Dad). It's this amazing place where we can say and share (almost) anything you want. You can even take pictures while lying blindly on your side at 6am when you should still be asleep, not consider the fabulousness of your actions, and then post them for the world to see, INSTANTLY.... Only to be reminded of such post later in the day by KELLY, who shines the light of great in your direction to which you can only boldly exclaim "I WIN!". The POWER of REALIZATION.


And you know what, I wouldn't be so in tune with my sharing self had it not be for the mighty BLOG and the power of SHARING. Twenty Fourteen my friends. The time has come to talk of many things: Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax...deserted blogs and enviable barns in rural Vermont...  But before I get ahead of myself... Happy New Year.... Hopefully we'll have more time this year to prolong the life of blogs and the more interesting people of the world that drop it all to seek out their dreams... If you need me, I'll be finding time to blog... while filming the next great Hitchcock in my living room and knitting like a Mother F***er. ... Peace.