Should we support Israel going after terrorists? Just ask a mouse.

Mouse Story ...

A mouse looked through the

crack in the wall to see the farmer and his wife open a package.

"What food might this contain?" The mouse wondered -

he was devastated to discover it was a mousetrap.

Retreating to the farmyard,

the mouse proclaimed the

warning.

"There is a mousetrap in the house! There is a mousetrap

in the house!"

The chicken clucked and scratched, raised her head and

said, "Mr. Mouse, I can tell this is a grave concern to you

but it is of no consequence to me.

I cannot be bothered by it."

The mouse turned to the pig and told him, "There is a

mousetrap in the house! There is a mousetrap in the house!"

The pig sympathized, but said,

"I am so very sorry, Mr. Mouse,

but there is nothing I can do about it but pray.

Be assured you are in my prayers."

The mouse turned to the cow and said, "There is a

mousetrap in the house!

There is a mousetrap in the house!"

The cow said, "Wow, Mr. Mouse.

I'm sorry for you,

but it's no skin off my nose."

So, the mouse returned to the house, head down and dejected,

to face the farmer's mousetrap-- alone.

That very night a sound was heard throughout the house --

like the sound of a mousetrap catching its prey.

The farmer's wife rushed to see what was caught. In the

darkness, she did not see it was a venomous snake

whose tail the trap had caught.

The snake bit the farmer's wife.

The farmer rushed her

to the hospital and she returned home with a fever.

Everyone knows you treat a fever with fresh chicken soup,

so the farmer took his hatchet to the farmyard for the soup's

main ingredient.

But his wife's sickness continued,

so friends and neighbors came

to sit with her around the clock.

To feed them, the farmer butchered the pig.

The farmer's wife did not get well; she died.

So many people came

for her funeral, the farmer

had the cow slaughtered to provide enough meat for all of them.

The mouse looked upon it all from his crack in the wall with great sadness.

So, the next time you hear someone is facing a problem and think it doesn't concern you,

remember --

when one of us is threatened,

we are all at risk.

We are all involved in this journey called life.

Pink Elephants

It's back...the dreaded writer's block.

Not that I'm some great writer...au contraire.

But writing has become, for me, what yoga is to others. It is relaxing, releasing, and puts me in another state of being.

I have gone 12 days without writing, and I feel like a junkie coming down from a high.

Crazy...who would have ever thought that I would become addicted to writing. But, I am.

What does a junkie do, though, when they can't find their drug? When they can't steal it, purchase it, or borrow it?

This has been my experience for the past 12 days. I haven't figured out what to write about. Nothing has hit me.

Perhaps the following plays a part in my blockage:

It's been hotter than hell here.
There is a raging war in Israel.
Things continue to worsen in Iraq.
Gas prices are not what they were when I first started driving.
Mel Gibson is an anti-semite (ha! big surprise).
Lindsey Lohan should be spanked (although, come to think of it, she'd probably enjoy that).
American Idol won't return for way too long.
I still haven't had a vacation this summer (and won't)
Mr. Cruisin' is still working on rebuilding our patio overhang.
There isn't a good movie to go see.

Okay, rant over.

Can these be the causes of writer's block? Hard to know.

I only know, I miss my drug of choice. I wish I could find it again. I am willing to beg, borrow, and steal just to find my ability to write again.

I guess I'll just have to sit by and wait patiently.

In the meantime, I hope I don't get the shakes, or start seeing little pink elephants.

Two for the road

Being that it's my mother's birthday this month, (since a girl never wants her age exposed, we'll just say she's somewhere between 75 and 77) I wanted to do something special with her.

Spending time, creating a memory together, is really the best gift I know of. Since my mother and I both love the music of her generation, the standards, I knew that Michael Feinstein and Linda Eder at the Greek Theater, would be just the right memory to create.

And, boy, was I right!

The Greek Theater, in a word, is magic. It is an open air theater, like the Hollywood Bowl, but on a much smaller scale.

I have seen my share of concerts at the Greek, starting with my very first concert, back in 1973...CHICAGO.

Talk about a girl in heaven. Not only did I see them once that summer, but twice. The second time, my boyfriend and I took a chance, drove down there, and purchased front row tickets that someone hadn't picked up in willcall. We sat in the front row...watching them sweat...it was glorious.

Also, in the 70's, I saw the amazing Carol King...it was the release of her Tapestry album...a flawless album, that still remains one of the best selling of all time.

Neil Diamond performed his famous "Hot August Night" concert there as well.

Last year, Mr. Cruisin surprised me with tickets to Chicago and Earth, Wind, and Fire...holy crap, it was like being in high school all over again. (But in a good way).

Last night, we arrived early and watched as people poured into their seats. It was a warm, still night...you couldn't have ordered more perfect weather.

The guy selling water...was having a field day...four bucks for a bottle of water...OUTRAGEOUS!!! Why, I spend that on an entire box of water! We refused. Better we should faint in our seats, then pay that ridiculous price for water.

Now, of course when the candy guy came along pushing his wares...we didn't blink at paying the same price for peanut m&m's. Know your priorities.

The evening was filled with the beautiful voices of Michael Feinstein and Linda Eder...singing Judy Garland, Frank Sinatra, Gershwin tunes, with a smattering of Rogers and Hart.

They both have an ease about them, music and words flowing effortlessly, with a down to earth way of humor and expression, that made those of us in the audience feel as though we were sitting in our best friend's livingroom.

My mom and I soaked up the music, the words, the voices, and humor.

Linda Eder sang a song called "If I Could", that just blew me away. These two verses sum up everything a parent must come to terms with as their child grows:

If I could
I would try to shield your innocence from time
But the part of life I gave you isn't mine
I've watched you grow
So I could let you go

If I could
I would help you make it through the hungry years
But I know that I can never cry your tears
But I would
If I could

The part of life I gave you isn't mine...I've watched you grow so I could let you go...

Those words just about knocked the breath out of me.

My mother and I thoroughly enjoyed the evening...hopefully a memory we will take with us for many years to come.

I thought about the concert all day today. I'm not sure why. In the midst of the world turing upside down, perhaps a little escape, a little humor, and a little magic...is necessary for the human spirit.

All I know is, it's just what these two old ladies needed last night.

Did someone say: "Nobel Peace Prize"?

( inspired by a comment left by Sweettooth in my purple post)

Let's face it...as awards go, the Nobel Peace Prize is certainly prestigious.

I mean, really, if you're going to win something, why not go for the big cheese, the head honcho, the top banana. Do I have any idea how to win the damn thing? Of course not (ooops, I hope I didn't say that out loud).

The other day, I began to think about awards I've won in my lifetime. I didn't play sports while growing up, so certainly no plaques or trophies for me. I have earned degrees. I've received letters congratulating me. But quite sadly, I couldn't think of one award I had received in all 50 years of my life.

Now before you pull out the violin and kleenex, let me tell you about my epiphany.

I was strolling through my family room, head hanging low I might add, realizing that I had not achieved what most people do at some point in their lifetime...an award...for something, anything.

When suddenly, I was struck by a vision. Hiding behind a stack of video tapes and dvd's was It!

My one and only award. Having put in on display 13 years ago, the years had gobbled it up with video tape and other various chachke's, leaving me to forget about it.

But there it stood, proud and erect; shiny, like the day I received it.

When my children were very young, I had been coerced into joining a "mom's" bowling league.

Of course, we never rolled on Shabbos (if you know the origin of that statement, I'll send you a bag of jelly belly's).

Every Friday morning, I 'd rush to Starbuck's for my caffeine fix, shine my ball, dust off my shoes...and bowl the hell against other mom's like myself.

We would bowl and bitch for two hours straight.

No kids (they were stuck in school), no husbands (just us girls), no obligations.

Admitting you bowl, is kind of like admitting you like Barry Manilow (which by the way, I do). It's one of those things when I was single, I never would have admitted on a first date...if I intended to have a second one, that is.

By that point, my husband had seen me give birth to two kids...I don't think joining a bowling league was going to faze him much. (Barry Manilow, maybe).

Each team was comprised of three women. We paid a fee, pooled money, and winnings were distributed at the end of the term.

Well, wouldn't you know, my team was amazing!!! We bowled our butts off. We went around kicking bowling ass. We were hot, bitchen...the "Belle's of the Bowl". Our team was appropriately named "the Ballbusters".

The season ended a few weeks before school let out...bringing to a halt a sense of weekly independence, power, and prowess. Each year, it felt a little sad to know, that our little corner of the world had to come to an end.

For eight months, we felt athletic (bowling actually uses muscles and burns calories...don't kid yourself), had a place to commiserate about child rearing, relationships, the latest neighborhood scuttlebutt, and where the next In and Out was opening.

I guess you could say, bowling was bonding. Who knew?

The season ended with a luncheon banquet and the passing out of awards for best bowling team, and of course, the monetary earnings.

We "Ballbusters" sat patiently as the awards were given out. First place, not us...but that was okay...second and third were within our grasp.

Second and third place were called...no Ballbusters.

We were devasted. How could it be? We had bowled our butts off (no easy feat for two Jews and an Irish woman).

We sat... our hearts pounding, our palms sweating...while there seemed to be one more award to be given.

"...and now for the worst team of the season...the award goes to...

"THE BALLBUSTERS!!!"

Cheers and applause consumed the room. I had done a spit-take with my diet coke.

What a moment. I had won an award. I could return home to my family that day, knowing that their mom was finally someone to be proud of.

The above picture is my award, my trophy, my Nobel Peace Prize...

...a woman bowler sitting atop a roll of toilet paper.

What I learned that day is this:

Bowling is all about getting the s#*t beat out of you by the other teams...

Apparently... we did just that.

Jelly Bellys

I suppose it's no secret by now, that I love candy, icecream, and, well, just about anything sweet.

But, (in my humble opinion) there is no candy quite as perfect as JELLY BELLYS.

For a bit of history about Jelly Belly's you can read here.

Jelly Belly's even made it all the way into space on the shuttle carrying the first female astronaut, Sally Ride. (who, by the way, grew up in the San Fernando Valley...who said a valley girl couldn't amount to much?).

What is it that makes the jelly belly so perfect?

Let's discuss:

First of all, they are FAT FREE. Yep, you heard me right...let's say it together: FAT FREE.

Secondly, they are only 4 calories each. YAHOO!

Thirdly, what other candy comes in 50 different flavors? NONE

And, there are recipes for mixing flavors to acquire a delectable taste sensation.

Fourthly, for all of my kosher readers, get this: THEY ARE KOSHER! oy vey.

They are perfect for parties, adding just the right amount of color to any hostess's table.

Why, it was even good enough for one of our greatest actors of the 20th century (oops, I mean President of the United States).

I can't remember exactly when I tried my first Jelly Belly...I'm guessing it was in the early 80's.

I quickly became hooked. In fact, if all that was left to eat in the world were Jelly Belly's (and In and Out Burger of course) I would be quite satisfied.

If the world ended tomorrow, I believe this quote I once heard, sums it all up:

"After a nuclear holocaust, all that will be left are cockroaches and Cher".

I would like to add, and Jelly Belly's.

The Color Purple

Purple combines the stability of blue and the energy of red. Purple is associated with royalty. It symbolizes power, nobility, luxury, and ambition. It conveys wealth and extravagance. Purple is associated with wisdom, dignity, independence, creativity, mystery, and magic.

And, it's my favorite color.

When I was 5 1/2 years old, we moved to a new home. My room was softly painted in lavendar and white. I'm not sure if I picked the color, or if my mom picked it for me.

I only know...I loved it.

If a room can make you feel a particular way, then my room knew just how to gently remind me that I was pretty, and delicate, and special.

The moment I entered, I felt transformed. Safe. Secure.

I cared for and nurtured my room like a best friend. I kept it clean and neat, and respected every inch of my special space.

Children can sense what is going on in a home, like radar. They can see movement, the blink of an eye, the tone of a voice...and know that something has changed.

My brother and I were not told of my father's illness, but as all children do, I imagine we could sense the turn our destiny would soon take.

I look back now and wonder if my drive to maintain an orderly room, was really my attempt to calm the chaos I could sense going on in our home.

Nonetheless, I would fondly remember that lavendar room for the rest of my life.

We moved when I was 12, leaving behind the room that had wrapped itself around me, caring for and soothing me through my life turning upside down.

I no longer had a lavendar room.

The years went by, living in various apartments, until I married Mr. Cruisin. We lived in the house he already owned.

It was the '80's...mauve (just a fancy way of saying muted pink) was the color of choice. My husband, being the good sport that he is, agreed to redo the master bedroom in mauve. Can you imagine? Prior to me showing up on the scene, it was he and his cat...living the "manly life".

A few years later, we would move to our home we live in now.

When it came time to decorate the master bedroom, color decisions had to be made. The '90's were quickly approaching and mauve was on it's way out. A new color for the bedroom was definitely in order.

In my quest to pick an appropriate color, I could feel a wave wash over me.

PURPLE

I could, once again, have a purple bedroom!

I brought this idea to my husband, who had just finished living with a mauve bedroom.

He agreed to the purple bedroom. It was as if this man could sense my need to have a room that would once again, wrap it's arms around me. Not many men would go along with a purple bedroom. But my husband did.

For the last 18 years, we have lived in a bedroom that is predominantly purple.

When I walk into my bedroom, I'm reminded of what it feels like to be pretty and delicate and special, even if it's momentarily.

I'm not quite so neat and clean anymore. I suppose I no longer have to hold so tightly to calm and order. Having children certainly changes all of that.

Creating order in my pretty lavendar room did not change the sorrow that was to follow.

But now, my purple room beckons the memories of a time when my world was safe...

in a room softly painted in lavendar and white.

Summertime, and the living is...BLAH!

I begged this magazine to not use my picture on the cover...

It's summer.

Time for vacation.

Time for...beaches...sun...swimming...sunburns.

It's all I've heard anyone talk about this past week. Everyone, and I mean everyone I know, has some fabulous getaway planned.

We, on the other hand, do not. We didn't plan anything...and truthfully, I'm not complaining. Sometimes getting ready for a trip, and even the actual trip, aren't worth all the hassles you run into when travelling.

Who needs rest and relaxation...the tropics...balmy beaches...palm trees swaying...some silly blue drink with an umbrella in it.

Not me.

I'm all for smog, humidity, the smell of dead skunk.

Why, who wants to stop: answering phones, opening bills, scooping dog poop, and cleaning toilets?

Not me.

Who needs snorkeling, sailboating, shrimp cocktails, and a Swedish massage with Sven?

Not me.

Don't get me wrong, we've had plenty of great vacations. Although many years ago, we did venture out on a cruise from hell.

The very first day, poor Mr. Cruisin took ill. He couldn't get off the damn ship, joining us for dinners only.

The second day, both of my children took ill, acquiring a new symptom each day thereafter.

What started as a simple cold, quickly turned into sinus infections. From there, a brutal cough developed for both my offspring. On to double ear infections, and ending with a rousing case of conjunctivitis, better known as a lovely shade of "pink" eye, for my youngest.

The bulk of the vacation was spent in the cabin watching a John Travolta movie called Phenomenon...not once, not twice, but close to 20 times. You see, when you're rocking back and forth on a ship in the big, big ocean...you have but two choices:

To watch the movie they run over and over and over again, or watch a video tape of the festivities taking place on your ship from the prior evening. Tough choice.

So much for cruising (you'd think with my name, it would have been a perfect fit). That was the first and last time we tried that.

But, we've had some wonderful vacations through the years, that hopefully left a lasting positive impression on my children.

Alas, this won't be the year for a vacation.

I'll have to settle for a brown drink (diet coke, of course) in my backyard, watching the rose bush sway in the sticky summer eve...

...while Mr. Cruisin takes the place of Sven.

Those summer nights

Growing up in the San Fernando Valley of Los Angeles in the 1960's was magical.

There was nothing like the valley nights. The air stayed warm and still until it was time to be safely tucked into bed.

I remember the first year we lived in the valley, we had no air conditioning. We all slept downstairs just to stay cool.

We didn't have a pool, so finding ways to stay cool was the the ultimate goal each and every day of those childhood summers.

We ran through the sprinklers any chance we could.

The sprinklers were our ocean...the slip n slide, our lazy river.

I can still remember the song of the ice cream truck and the dripping rainbow popsicles.

A nice long walk to Van Nuys Blvd. ended with a double feature of Elvis for 65 cents.

Cupid's Hot dogs were the way to go. If you had some extra money, Bob's Big Boy was the way to spend it.

Outside for hours (no computers, or cell phones, or dvd's to buy) playing anything we could think of.

Statue, tag, hide and seek, cowboy and Indians, Barbie's, Mystery Date, Twister, roller skates with keys...

If you're a baby boomer, some of this might sound familiar.

Each generation holds memories that burn an unending pathway to the heart, soul and mind.

It was 101 here today. Maybe the heat is getting to me.

Or maybe it's just the memories of summers gone by.

You never forget your first

http://cruisin-mom.blogspot.com/2005/06/first-blog.html

This is the link to my very first post one year ago.

Hard to imagine I had so little to say, isn't it?

In fact, I had so little to say, that I would not make another post until six months later.

But isn't that the way with most firsts? You begin slowly, awkwardly, unsure of yourself.

You practice, get more experience, become more proficient, and suddenly you're not so bad.

Some may say you're actually pretty good.

First job, first kiss, first interview, first...uhem, well, you know, first time behind the wheel of a car, first taste of icecream.

Nothing imprints itself into your heart and mind quite like a first.

Thank goodness for firsts.

DAD'S DAY

This is one of the last pictures my dad would take of me.

It is symbolic of the kind of photographer he was. My dad loved taking pictures. He would make us pose, then snap...pose, then snap...repeat.

He'd drive us CRAZY!!! The picture above, is the result of taking several pictures in a row of me with my parakeet. The sun was shining...I could no longer gaze up.

SNAP!

My dad would have loved digital photography. He could have snapped, scanned, created, shaped, cut, and posted to his heart's content.

Tomorrow being Father's Day, I can't help but think about my dad and all that he had missed. He would never know the technology that comes so easily to my children. To him, it would have sounded like something from a sci-fi movie or an episode of the Twilight Zone.

Imagine describing computers, and digital cameras, and cell phones, and answering machines, and ipods, and blackberries, and dvds, and tivo, and cd's to someone whose life ended in 1966.

And yet, these are all things we can't seem to live without 40 years later. Our lives revolve around this technology. How is it that life could be so different just 40 years later?

How could life NOT be so different 40 years later?

Several weeks ago, I took my husband by the house I lived in until my dad died. I pointed out how the brick walk he set 45 years ago, was still there. My husband, being the do-it-yourself person that he is, seemed quite impressed.

For just one moment, I had a glimpse of what the relationship between my father and my husband might have been. Perhaps they would have helped eachother with home projects. Maybe they would have shared a diet coke and a laugh, while building a project or two together.

I like that image...I think I'll tuck it neatly into my heart.

Being a dad is not a position for the weak. How do you balance being "the man" of the house, with being "sensitive"? How do you teach your children what you know is right and yet, let go just enough to let them grow and conclude what is the proper fit for their own mind and heart?

I would like to pay tribute today, to two men who have helped shape my life...my dad, who you can read about here, and my husband, who you can read about here.

If my children become dads one day, I hope they will find their own way to father within the context of their unique personalities, discovering what works for each of them.

And, I hope they will remember, and come to know and embrace the the roots of loyalty, humor, and hard work from which they came.

Happy Father's Day.

Did you know I'm a Princess?

Recognize this picture? Unless you were born yesterday, it's hard to imagine you don't know who that is. But just in case you were born yesterday...I'll elaborate.

That is Princess Leia, aka, Carrie Fisher.

Twice in my life, I have been told that I resemble her. And you know what? I can see it.

Look at the babkes on either side of her head. Notice the gun. It's easy to see how someone could mistake her for me.

The first time I was told this, many years ago, I was dining in a restaurant called Ed Debevic's...a 50's diner that I believe no longer exists, where the servers dressed up and took on the character of someone in the 50's.

Toward the end of the meal, the waiter excitedly announced, "hey, I know who you look like... that girl in Star Wars".

I immediately blushed. Of course my kids and husband thought the guy had lost his mind...but I could tell, this guy could really get his "Hollywood" on. I'm sure it had nothing to do with the fact that it was "tip" time, and the guy just wanted me to feel like a, uh-hem, princess.

A couple of days ago, I was told that I resemble Carrie Fisher, for the second time in my life. Now, I figured it had to be true...I mean, to a be told twice constitutes...a pattern...a validation, if you will.

And these people know what they're talking about. They are fellow bloggers that I had the pleasure to meet, who shall remain nameless, unless they choose to name themselves.

There was a bit of a twist to it this time. They said I look like Carrie Fisher from "When Harry Met Sally" days.

Why of course, why hadn't I seen it myself? This is my absolute favorite movie in the world. I've watched it at least 25 times. I realize now, the similarities between Carrie and I are endless.

Let's compare, shall we?

Carrie Fisher is hysterical. I'm hysterical.

She has brown hair. I have brown (gray) hair.

She is half Jewish. I'm Jewish.

The father of her daughter left her because he was gay. Mr. Cruisin is a happy guy.

She's a brilliant writer. Well, we all know, I'm a brilliant writer.

She's had a successful movie career. I have home movies dating back to the 50's that are quite entertaining.

Her mother danced with Gene Kelly. My mother, well, didn't.

And so there you have it...Carrie Fisher, my virtual twin.

And so, next time you see a gal walking down the streets of L.A. that you think is Princess Leia, just remember, you are probably looking at moi.

But, please don't approach me...you can have your people call my people, and perhaps we'll do lunch sometime.

Hooterville

The lovely garment above is called a mammography cape.

Little did I know that while undergoing a mammogram, you could actually make a fashion statement.

And...a fashion statement representative of not only one, but two different decades. I first wore ponchos way back in the '70's when I was a hippie wanna-be.

A few years ago, I thought, why don't they start making ponchos again...they're cute, easy to put on, functional, and will make every baby-boomer feel young again.

Well, guess what? That's exactly what happened. Two years ago, I found a poncho. It was fantastic, freeing, youth-inducing.

So when I found this picture, I thought...perfect...just the thing for women in their 40's, 50's, and 60's to make getting a mammogram a nostalgic experience.

Little over a week ago, I had my yearly mammogram. I am diligent about this, and have been doing it every year for the last 10 years.

Today, while driving home, my cell phone rang. (well, I should say, played the happy little tune from Sex in the City).

I answered only to hear:

caller: "Is this Cruisin-mom?"
me:" Yes, it is...who's this?"
"Well, this is your doctor's office calling, you'll need to come back in to retake your mammogram".

My heart sank. I knew this couldn't be good news. I quickly asked why, and here's what she answered:

"We need to take another "view" that we were unable to get the first time".

me: "Is anything wrong?"
caller: "Oh, we just need to get another view...can you be in today at 5:00?"
me: "YES, I'll be there".

How many different things go through your mind when you are asked to repeat a mammogram? Too many to mention.

My kids, what about my kids? Who will yell at them, and nag them, and tell them to clean up, and love them more than the ocean is deep?

And Mr. Cruisin...he comes across indestructable, but I know he'd be lost without me. (shhh, don't tell him I said that).

How can I possibly do this to my mother with all that she has lived through? And my brother...who has always protected me?

Ice cream, what about ice cream? Who will win the next American Idol?

What about my dog, who follows me wherever I go?

I could go on, but as I said, there was to much to mention.

A wave rushed over me...I couldn't breath.

As I was driving home...I just so happened to see Mr. Cruisin driving down the street...I honked and had him pull over. I told him about the call. He said, "I'll come with you".

I can only imagine what he was feeling. My husband is not a "mushy" person. But I know how deeply he feels. He is a man of action, much more than words. He will do anything for a friend, no questions asked. And being his best friend, I knew he'd be there for me.

We drove to the doctor's and as we drove, I burst into tears. I admit, I was scared.

I entered the mammogram area, and asked the tech, what was really wrong. I knew it couldn't just be "the view". She told me that something had "changed", since a prior mammogram and they needed to get a better view of the area. She said a doctor would look at it immediately for determination.

Now, as any woman who has had one knows, mammogram and the flattening, stretching, cranking, and picture taking of one's breasts, is not the most pleasant experience...but you do it, because it's just what we have to do. It's well worth the early detection, and prevention, that is hopefully the result of a yearly mammogram.

I sat and waited, all the while still thinking, what will I tell my husband, my children, my mother, my friends.

Mr. Cruisin sat patiently in the waiting room.

The tech came back out, and told me everything was okay.

I quickly got dressed, came out to the waiting room and told Mr. Cruisin the good news.

He hugged and squeezed me. We both...breathed. I'm not sure who was more relieved.

I had been given a gift. All I could think about was how quickly life can change in the blink of an eye. I thought about all the women who did not get this reprieve, and bravely set out to do battle with breast cancer. I thought that perhaps, I needed to think about what was really important, and worth getting upset about.

So I came home, saw my son, and yelled at him for leaving dishes in the sink...

and I knew, that everything would be okay. At least for today.

(for another viewpoint on mammogram, read Sweettooth's post here)

They don't build 'em like they used to

Yes, that's my husband. Not bad for a man in his 50's. I think he needs to work out a bit more, but, I really can't complain.

Mr. Cruisin is a remarkable man in many ways. This is not the first time I've written about my groom, and of course, won't be the last.

That's because he continues to provide me with excellent fodder for my blogging journey.

Now, unlike most Jewish men, my hunk can swing a hammer, climb a ladder, manuever a drill, tote that barge, lift that bail...yeah, yeah, you get my drift.

He must have somehow been blessed with a mutant gene, that allows him to set a plan in motion...fix, build, and just about do anything.

Thing is, he really CAN do just about anything he puts his mind to. He spends time reading and educating himself, until he knows the ins and outs of whatever it is he sets out to accomplish.

He has taken on woodworking...building two beautiful wall units, a kitchen table, and various other projects involving wood.
He can fix leaks, solve electrical problems, build gates, install broken windows...you name it...he can do it.

The main thing is, he's not afraid to try...

anything.

So, when he discovered that our wood patio cover of almost 20 years was rotting away due to termites (hey, I actually understand those little guys...they go after wood like I go after icecream) and rot in general, he pronounced that he was going to rebuild the entire patio cover.

Now, mind you...this man is well into his 50's. This is no easy undertaking for a guy in his 20's. It means tearing down all of the existing wood, moving beams, climbing up and down a ladder, bringing in new wood, painting the wood, and climbing up the ladder and carefully placing the wood to form a new patio cover.

Whew!

My theory, of course, is to F*#KING HIRE someone.

Which he did actually think about doing. He even had someone come out to give an estimate. Of course the guy never called back, which set my man in motion.

Every day for about two weeks, Mr. Cruisin would walk outside...

and look up. Yes, that's right...look up.

Gaze, contemplate, think, gaze some more and think some more. If I didn't know better, I'd swear there was a Hooter's waitress sitting on top of the patio overhang that he was looking at everyday.

Truth be told, I could deal with that. Makes alot more sense to me than watching my husband look longingly at a patio cover.

But that's how I knew...I saw it coming. Each day his head would tilt just a little more. The drool became more and more prominant.

Until finally, about one week ago...he came to me and said "Cruisin-mom...I'm fixing the patio...by myself".

"Oh crap" I thought. (or said out loud, I can't remember which).

Before I could take a breath, he was hammering, pounding, and in general, ripping it up. The cover was "goin down". And that was that.

Now, I don't mean to sound ungrateful...because I'm incredibly grateful. He has saved us more money over the years, than even I can figure out what to do with.

But, it's worrisome. I worry about him climbing up and down, and straining himself. This is no easy undertaking...but can I stop him?

Pu-leeze. Of course I can't.

I tell him what I think, (you shouldn't do this, pay someone, what if you fall off the ladder, it's too much for you, blah, blah, blah) while I watch the words breeze in one ear and out the other.

And then, I surrender. I stock the fridge with plenty of diet coke, and the cupboard with plenty of chips (to keep him nourished of course) sit back, and watch my man go to town.

I married a man who is not afraid to work hard and create.

He inspires me everyday.

As I walk through my home, if you look closely, you can see my heart beaming, (remember E.T.'s heartlight?) while I spy the numerous projects that are the exquisite creation of my husband's two hands.

Like, Oh ma gawd

You are looking at a picture of Westwood Theater. Westwood is home to U.C.L.A.

And home to my teenage years.

Growing up in the San Fernando Valley in the 60's and 70's, there were only a smattering of things you could do on a Friday or Saturday night.

And, yes, cruising down Van Nuys Blvd. was one of them. It's true, no cliche. It was like a rite of passage. We'd start at one end, and work our way down to the other...to an Italian restaurant with the best garlic rolls imaginable. We'd go inside, buy the rolls, and gather in the parking lot.

We were actually pretty good kids...just wanted to eat and flirt. That's it. Innocent really.

But, what if you wanted to see a movie? Back then it was actually referred to as a "first run" movie. A brand new movie.

No such thing in the Valley. If you wanted to see a first-run movie, you had to go into Westwood.

Going from the city to the valley (or vice versa), is referred to as a trip over the hill. No, there's no passport required, no toll booth collecting money, no border patrol. You just get in your car, and make the trip. But the difference between valley folk and city folk continues to be a sort of war of the classes. The city folk maintain a sense of culture and sophistication. While valley folk, remain tasteless, know-nothings.

So, the trip to Westwood was essential, if you wanted to see a brand new movie. I can remember waiting in line for hours to see "The Way We Were"...in the rain, no less, because that's just what you did.

When the Exorcist came out, I had a part time job doing "marketing research". This meant, that at the age of 18...I actually got paid to go into Westwood, interview people coming out of the Exorcist, to garner the opinion of the masses.

Now, that was a tough job! I even recruited a couple of friends to do this with me. So there I was, doing what I would normally do on a Friday or Saturday night, and getting PAID for it. Not a bad gig.

After seeing a first-run movie, the rest of the evening always went the same way...you'd promenade around Westwood, going in and out of shops.

There was Wherehouse Records. There was Stan's Donut shop. And a little swapmeet that was paraded out every Friday and Saturday night. We'd stroll the streets, laughing, eating, but mainly, and most importantly...looking for boys to flirt with.

When we had eaten enough donuts and flirted with enough boys, it was time to make the trip back over the hill.

But when you're in your teens, hunger is the operative word. Donuts was just an appetizer to what would come to be our staple for the late night hours.

DUPAR'S...the evening would end with a trip to the home of the best pancakes, this side of the Mississippi. And coffee...had to have lot's and lot's of coffee.

Dupar's still exists, although not the one that I frequented. That has become a deli. Not the same.

Now, you can see any movie you wish in the valley. In fact, the truth is, you never have to leave the valley. There are plenty of restaurants, and movies, and malls.

I suppose that's good for people dwelling in the valley. Less driving. Less time wasted on the freeway.

I have lived in several cities since those days of growing up in the valley.

But I'm grateful for where and how I grew up...for those drive's over the hill,

and the memories of my youth.

(this post inspired by a seemingly innocent comment on Wanderer's last post...go read it and see if you can discover the inspiring comment)

SOUL PATROL

Who will you be voting for tonight?

Oh, so you think I'm shallow, because I LOVE American Idol?

Me and 50 million others...I guess I'm in good company.

I will be voting for Taylor, my favorite from day one.
(well, I really don't vote, I do have a life, you know).

He just exudes joy.

He has a great Michael McDonald type of voice.

You gotta love a guy with gray hair.

So, what do you think?

Will you still need me, when I'm 64?

Update to my last post.

This is what happens when you don't grow old with someone.

You suddenly notice their wrinkles, age spots, and not so smooth and silky skin.

How did this happen to my Paul?

Thank goodness this hasn't happened to me ;)

CHOICES

1966

What I would have given to be That Girl!

I loved Marlo Thomas. She had everything an 11 year old girl could possibly dream of.

I thought she was beautiful. She was funny and smart and wanted to be an actress (well, her character did. She had already made it).

Her boyfriend in the show (Donald) was so nice and sweet; caring and attentive; and willing to put up with all her bubble-headedness. She was making it on her own and on her own terms.

She was the original Mary Richards (MaryTylerMoore show).

She was perfect!

As far as I can remember, she was the first female television character to strike out on her own.
She had not been married, widowed or divorced. Just a single woman trying to make it in the big bad world.

This was a time when women were ready to burst at the seams and become all they could be.
My role model had been my stay-at-home mom...until becoming a widow, when she had to go back to work. A few years later, circumstances would allow her to stay home again.

It gave me a chance to experience both worlds...stay-at-home vs. working mom.

I liked it better when my mom was home. It felt warmer, safer... especially at a time when things in my life had been turned upside down.

But I understood that she needed to work. It was necessary for our well-being. Children have a great capacity to understand more than we think. But because of that, sometimes we expect more out of them than they are really ready to handle.

In a sense, my mother had become "That Girl" at the same time as Marlo Thomas. But certainly not because she wanted to. She was widowed at such a young age...all her dreams shattered. Believe me, she had no desire to become "That Girl".

The feminist movement was gaining momentum, offering to bring choice, opportunity, and independence for women.

That was 40 years ago. Where are we today?

Women are often demeaned if they choose to stay home...just the opposite of the 1950's. Women who stay home, often criticize those who work outside the home. And yet, we are supposed to be able to choose.

It seems there is always a price to pay with choice.

Maybe we have too much choice today. Maybe it was better when roles were carefully defined and layed out for us. Maybe too much choice causes too much confusion.

Subsequently, male roles have changed as well. Men are not always sure how to behave. Should they be strong and independent? Should they be emotional and needy?

Of course, if they're too strong, we accuse them of being uncaring, unemotional, non-communicative. If they're too emotional, we accuse them of being weak, wussy, whimpy.

Oh brother, how can a guy win?!

I suppose the answer regarding choice is this (in my humble a opinion)...

No matter what the outcome...no matter the discomfort or hostility it may bring...I believe choice is better.

Without choice, you can't grow. You can't reach your potential. You can't spread your wings and fly.

My fascination with "That Girl" was probably just that...I saw in her the chance to become something different. I saw that it was possible to spread my wings and fly.

I know most women today, do not have the luxury of choosing to stay home. Supporting a family can rarely be done with a single salary.

But my parent's generation was much more willing to go without the luxuries that we baby-boomers will not do without. (so much for anti-establishment, anti-materialism, and a general distrust of people over 30)

My mother has often told me how dinner in a restaurant was a rare treat. Going out on a Saturday night?...have you heard of a blue moon? One t.v. was all you needed. Vacations, which were few, were a ride in the car somewhere, certainly not on a plane.

My parents stretched a teacher's salary farther than you can pull silly putty. All because my mother's dream was to stay home with her children.

So is it by choice that women work outside the home? Or is it out of necessity? Do women work to fulfill a need for independence and identity? Or is it because they cannot make ends meet otherwise?

Whichever way, I commend all of us. Because there is no harder job than being a mom. No job can tug at your heart, or fill it up more.

And whether there is a right or wrong way to do it(stay-at-home or work outside the home)...who knows. I'm sure there are studies and statistics that will prove the validity of either side.

So, where are we 40 years later?

Well, when it was my turn, I decided (being a woman of the 60's and 70's), I would avail myself of all the opportunities.

I went away to college. Acquired two degrees. Began a career. And then married and had children. My wings had significantly spread. I knew that I could be the *architect* of my own life.

The funny thing is, even after all the *blue prints* had been drawn, and I had spread my wings...

I stayed home to raise our children...

By choice.
__________________________________________________
If you are a mom, I wish you a happy mother's day...
Whether you stay home or work outside the home...you are special.

Here is what I believe: When your child comes to you, whether by giving birth or through adoption, a little piece of your heart gently breaks off and goes to that child. For the remainder of your life, you will never again feel or think just of yourself. You are forever changed.

To my mom...thank you for the piece of your heart that you gave to me.

I'm a perfect A*#hole

Warning: if you're under 40, you may not want to continue reading.

Yes, that's me, getting a colonoscopy.
(Maybe I should be focusing on getting a little laser hair removal).

As the wonderful joys of turning 50 continue, yesterday I experienced yet another activity in the great adventure...the colonoscopy.

Since Katie Couric has managed to drum into all of us the importance of colonoscopy, I knew that my time had arrived. It was time to partake of this dreaded procedure.

So, let's start at the beginning.

Several things would need to be done in preparation for the big event.

First: A leg and bikini wax. When you know a doctor and several nurses are going to be seeing you in all your glory, it's important to make sure you are, at the very least, smooth and silky.
(Judging by the picture above, my esthetician may be in need of a few continuing education courses).

Secondly: A trip to Victoria's secret is a must. You don't want to be caught by your doctor and nurses in an old pair of high-rise grandma underwear. A new sexy lace thong will wow the medical staff everytime.

Thirdly: 36 hours prior to the procedure, no solid foods are allowed. Liquids only.

So in preparation, a trip to In and Out Burger was made. I had to have a favorite last meal, of course, and what better than to chow down on a burger and fries. Only to return home for a huge bowl of icecream.

"Liquids only" means: coffee (thank God), soda, popsicles, broth, and water.

I made a trip to the market to stock up on all the items necessary for my 36 hour delectable feast. Lime jello, lime pops, chicken broth, and 7-Up..."diet 7-UP" of course; wouldn't want to put on any extra pounds.

9:00 p.m. Sunday evening is when the liquid diet began. By the next morning I was starving, but I persevered. I never knew broth could taste so good. My tongue was a lovely shade of green all day from my excessive lime intake.

Step four: Beginning at 5:00p.m. the evening before the procedure, I had to drink gallons of colace. This is, shall we say, the way you "clean out" in preparation for the procedure.
At 5:00 I began drinking. This stuff tastes worse than liverwurst.

Every fifteen minutes you must drink a glass-full...and wait.

Wait for a veritable explosion.

But, just my luck, 2 hours pass and...NOTHING, NADA. At this point I'm sure I'm the only person in the history of colonoscopies to not be "moved" by this disgusting medicine.
Of course my husband decides this is the time to break into his best Three Stooges impersonation, and starts paging "Dr. Howard, Dr. Fine, Dr. Howard...looks like we have to blast".

And this is supposed to help...how?

So I continue on...with courage, patience, diligence, and tenacity until...YES! I feel the earth move (well, not really the earth). And for the next four hours...I'm in, shall we say, a cleansing marathon.

At this point, I would not have been surprised to get a call from the Bellagio Hotel in Las Vegas, beckoning me to be the next "water feature" of fountains, shooting dancing water 240 feet into the air.

At the finish of my marathon, I thought, wow, I'm sure to have dropped at least 3 pounds, and quickly ran to the scale. But nope, not me...I actually put on 1/2 a pound. Geeesh, I mean, what's the point of all of this, if you're not going to drop a few pounds.

Finally, feeling clean and not so fresh...I went to sleep in anticipation of the big day.

I arrived at the hospital early, checked in, and was asked to quickly undress down to just my socks.

So much for the trip to Victoria's secret.

The female nurse came over to ask a few questions, explain the procedure, and proceeded to notify me that the doctor, anesthesiologist, and the assistant were all male. She would be in the room if I so wished.

I had to think for a moment...how often do I get to be in a room, surrounded by three men, who all are there just to stare at my tush? So, of course, I opted for the three men.

I had them all laughing and talking like school boys within minutes. Afterall, what turns on three men in their 30-40's more, than a 50 year old broad in a hospital gown, with a tube up her nose, coyly awaiting one of them to push a tube into places where the sun definitely does not shine? I mean really...what?

Next thing I knew...I was being wheeled back into recovery. I was shaking like a leaf, a reaction to anesthetic I suppose.

But here's the great part. The nurse told me that my job, while in recovery, was to pass gas! Can you imagine?...someone requesting me to, well, let it rip? Who knew a colonoscopy could have such perks. She was begging me. In fact, she wasn't going to let me leave until I had. Oh joy, rapture!

Being the lady that I am, I couldn't just begin breaking wind in front of a perfect stranger. The nurse said "oh, you want to play tough, do you?" The next thing I knew, I was hearing strains of the 1812 Overture, cannon fire and all, over the loud speaker.

Wow, what inspiration. I was right on cue with the cannons! The nurse smiled.

Having commenced with a "ripping" performance worthy of the campfire scene in Blazing Saddles, I was soon released to go home.

Accept for one tiny polyp that was removed, but hopefully nothing to worry about, it looks like I'm...oops, I mean...I have, a perfect a*#hole.

And so, another great adventure to add to my "memory book" of the year I turned 50.

Do I make you randy baby, do I?

By now, most of you realize that while Cruisin' Mom is quite a spiffy name, it's not my "real" name. My real name is Randi (although, this may not be my real name either, but for the sake of this post, let's just say it is).

Which brings me to the next question. What the hell were my parents thinking when they gave me this name?

It was 1955, and I guarantee you my parents hadn't a clue what the English version of randy (horny) meant. In fact, the story behind the acquisition of my name is really quite sweet and innocent.

My mother was dealt a first name that, while I can't reveal specifics, brought her years of teasing by her classmates. In junior high, she took it upon herself to reinvent her name, and may I say, that she did this in a most clever way. She crossed out a few letters, and the ones that remained, backwards, gave her a new name. Ingenious!

So when the time came to bestow a name on her long-awaited precious daughter, a lot of thought was poured into this decision. She did not want to see me suffer the slings and arrows of her childhood.

When my mother was a child, there was little girl living down the street whose name was, you guessed it...Randi. She never forgot the name. To her it was the antithesis of her name...it was cute and full of spunk.

She thought this would be the perfect name for her daughter...one that would never provoke teasing...one that would signify a spark and a sort of casualness. She would give me a more feminine middle name, which I could choose to use, had I not liked the first name.

How sweet...so much thought...so much care taken to make sure I would have a name that would not bring the hell she had encountered with hers.

As a little girl, I thought it would be cool to spell it RANDEE. I tried it for a week until I got it out of my system.

I had only met two other "Randi's" and one "Randy" as a young girl. I shared a classroom with "Randy". My only memory of "Randy", is when he ran up to me in the reading circle of 2nd grade and burped in my face. Ahhhh...the sex-play of early childhood.

I have since met only a handful of other female Randi's throughout my 50 years, so my name, to this day, remains quite unique.

Upon graduating from high school, I was forunate to do what many were doing in the '70's...the obligatory "trapsing" around Europe.

Imagine my surprise when I arrived in London. Everytime I introduced myself to a man, I received quite the look of admiration. They seemed to take a liking to me immediately. Being only 17, I just assumed that the men of England were finding me irresistable, cute, and spunky, just as my mother had hoped I would be.

Little did I know, that everytime I introduced myself, I was relaying my sexual urges. Everytime I shook someone's hand and revealed my name...I was letting them know I was ready and raring to go.

This nice, sweet, spunky girl had become a roaring tigress, with one plane ride.

To top things off, people were coming up to me in the street, asking if I had fags (cigarettes)...
Why on earth would I bring gay people to England with me?

By the time I was clued in, the damage was done. Thoughts of grandeur filled my head. At the tender age of 17, I thought I was a woman of the world. Afterall, I seemed to know how to bring a smile to the faces of men and women alike...all over the United Kingdom!

What power, what panache, what influence I seemed to have. Or so I thought. When I was finally brought to my senses upon learning the "English" meaning of my name, I was quite embarrassed. I couldn't flee the country fast enough.

What's in a name, you may ask?

Sometimes more than your "well-intentioned" parents bargained for.

Afterall, how could they predict that someday, that spunky little name would have all of London...

excited to meet me ;)

5000 and counting

I love this picture. It describes exactly what I imagine a group of bloggers, meeting for the first time, would look like. How could bloggers possibly speak to one another without computers?

In June 2005, I officially set up "Cruisin-mom". I had been reading blogs for awhile by then, and thought it was about time I start lavishing a few lucky recipients with my 2 cents worth of comments.

Lucky them, right?

I knew I would never write anything of my own, because afterall, what on earth would I possibly have to say.

Well, after 6 months of Pearl and Robert pushing and prodding, I finally decided it was time to open my big mouth and put my money where my blog was.

Little did I know that up in that brain of mine, a whole lot of thoughts and feelings were just waiting to jump out and tell a story. I didn't even know I knew how to tell a story. (of course, some of you may think I don't)

But that's what I have been doing since December. Good, bad or indifferent...the stories have been coming.

I'm a shameless self-promoter. When I first began writing, I didn't hesitate to leave a comment on anyone's blog, telling them to come and read mine.

It's not because I think I have something better than anyone else to say. It's not because I write better than anyone, because God knows that's not true. It's not even because I need some ego-filling acknowledgement.

The fact is, I love the interaction. I find it fascinating, stimulating, educating, and most of all, heart-warming.

Without comments, this whole pursuit would be rather boring.

Because of this blog:

I have learned more about my religion than I knew existed.
I have learned more about conservative politics than I ever really wanted to know ;)
I have learned about what is in the hearts and minds of people spanning the timeline from childhood to adulthood.
I have learned what many women felt and remembered about becoming a young lady.
I learned to shoot a gun (OY).
I learned to bake babke (well, no not really, but I can purchase a mean one).
I have learned that many share my taste in movies and music and many don't.
I have learned that I had more to say about my dad who died when I was 10, than I could have imagined.
I have learned about the unthinkable, unimaginable grief that others are journeying through.
I have learned that my husband is a great sport and loves me to depths that even I was unaware of.

After I set up this blog last June, I never looked at it again...until last December.

What I noticed was astonishing. 87 people had come to visit my blog. And I hadn't even written anything yet! I couldn't understand why, so that became the subject of my first post.

I write this post today, because 5000 visits have been made to my blog. Thank you!

Woah...that means that in someway, somehow, things that I had to say, touched someone.
(Or not...maybe they just wanted to come see why someone had to the nerve to post such crappy writing).

Maybe someone laughed or cried, thought about things in a different way, or just realized they are not alone...upon reading something I had written.

I'm just a wife, mom, daughter, sister, aunt, and friend...that some people like, and some, well, maybe not so much. I'm a pretty good person...no one special or famous.

But writing has made me feel special in a way I never expected. It has allowed me the opportunity to formulate thoughts and feelings into stories...to feel them, see them, and share them.

To me, the comments are everything.

They are what make the writing worthwhile.

They are the connection to other's thoughts, feelings, and hearts, that make this world just a little smaller, a little warmer, and a little less overwhelming.

And that just might even be better than t.v. and icecream.

How much is that doggy in the window?

This is *Beatrice* (not her real name...I am obliged to protect her anonymity).

She is a rescue dog. That means, 10 years ago, we were fortunate enough to meet and adopt her.

I was wanting a dog. We already had a cat, and a bird from hell, so it was definitely time to add man's best friend into the mix.

I knew we needed a dog that would get along with a cat, 2 kids, a bird and a husband (not necessarily in that order). So the hunt was on.

I read the newspaper daily, searching for the perfect dog to fit our requirements. One day, there it was... an ad describing a dog that had been abandoned, along with a cat, at a groomer's. She had subsequently been taken to a kennel, where she apparently resided for the next 6 months.

She was taken in by a local rescue group, that was actually in someone's home, to be put up for adoption. Upon reading the ad, I quickly called and set up an appointment to meet her the next day. My children, who were only 9 and 6 at the time, and I, piled into our big red van ( we no longer have) and off we went on our adventure to add a new family member.

We arrived and immediately met *Beatrice*. She was so shy and forlorn. Her head hung low, but her sweetness shined through. The kids took to her immediately...it was love at first sight.

She was free, neutered, came with a collar and leash and 10 pounds of dogfood. And...she was returnable if we found that she didn't fit with our family.

Interesting concept, don't you think? If only this arrangement could be made with children. (I'm only kidding, or am I, no need to call the authorities on me).

We completely surprised Mr. Cruisin, who had been expecting a black full-bred lab. OOPS!

Upon entering our home, her first task was to befriend the cat. Knowing our cat, this would not be easy. This cat was a bully from the get go. He was declawed and still managed to bring squirrels and birds to their knees. Other cats ran when they saw him coming. Let's just say, that to learn this cat's last name was Corleone, wouldn't have come as a great shock.

The dog and cat were brought face to face. They looked, they sniffed, and the cat made his decision. He picked up his paw and proceeded to smack poor *Beatrice* across the snout!
He showed her. I'm grateful he didn't leave a mouse's head in her bed the next morning.

Well, the cat made his point, but the funny thing is...for the next three years (until the cat died) they slept together in the same room. They had made their peace.

I am the pooper scooper. Yep, that's my job. I wanted the dog, so I felt it was my responsibility. You know, it can be quite relaxing to scoop poop. You're out in the fresh air (well, if you can stand the smell), all alone with your thoughts...it's rather zen-like, actually.

So, here we are, 10 years later. No one loves me like *Beatrice*. No, really, it's true. Even Mr. Cruisin can't hold a candle to the amount of kisses and attention she lavishes upon me every time I walk through the door. I suppose that is something only another dog lover would understand.

When a pet dies, very often people go through a grieving process, equal to that of losing a human. And why not? For some, a pet is the closest friend they will ever or have ever had. I don't say that's the case for me, but I do know the day *Beatrice* dies, a little piece of my heart will be broken.

She has been loyal. She has been loving. She listens to me no matter what I have to say. She never contradicts me. She always wants to play. Even if I accidentally step on her, she forgives me. She follows me wherever I go. She wags her tail and lights up when I walk into the house.

How many people in your life give so selflessly?

I do not think dogs replace human relationships or contact. But I do think, that the love and companionship that a dog gives to the well-being of one's soul, should not be underestimated.

Thanks *Beatrice*...you will always have a special place in my heart.

inspiration for this post from Pearl