Brendan can someday tell the story of how he helped elect the first Black President of the United States.
Strangely, an unfailingly sound sleeper, Brendy woke up screaming just as the race was called. Republicans: Nature? Nurture? Not that there's anything wrong with that...
I saw Jenny McCarthy interviewed on Oprah the other day (got hooked during my brain surgery recovery and I still DVR the show). Mrs. Jim Carey was promoting her new book, "Mother Warriors." Her observation is that women have the ability to become superhuman warriors when their children require it.
Jenny highlighted the story of a woman who had suffered the loss of both arms and legs following a horrific encounter with a form of flesh eating disease. The illness was contracted during her pregnancy and required this gravely ill momma to remain hospitalized following the birth of her child. When initially faced with the news that her limbs might require amputation, she replied, "Cut them off. Let's go. I need to get home to my baby." This woman astonished her doctors with her grit and determination to recover beyond what any of them could have imagined. Today she is raising her daughter in an extraordinarily normal fashion, despite her situation. Mother warrior.
Don't get me wrong, I was impressed with this woman's story. But I felt like calling into the Oprah Show to tell my own warrior story. Flesh eating disease sounds like a walk in the park compared to what I faced last Sunday.
Terry is on a shoot in Vancouver for two and half weeks. So I am flying solo until he returns. Last weekend, I packed up the munchkin and we headed to Grandma's. We stayed on Long Island pretty late Sunday night hoping to avoid traffic (Sunday was the last game ever played at Yankee Stadium. Good times on the Cross Bronx Expressway).
We finally pulled up to the front lobby of my building at about 9:30. I had a lot of bags - including Brendan's laundry basket - and the doorman watched them for me while Brendan and I returned the car to the garage. It was about 10:00 by the time I finished all the shuttling of stuff, and a sleeping Brendan and I were finally in the apartment and almost ready for bed. I let him stay snoozing in his carseat while I brought his laundry basket upstairs, got out his pj's, etc.
Just before getting Brendy out of his little resting spot, I went in his room to open his window. I was stopped dead in my tracks by what I saw. My blood froze right on the spot. Somewhere in all the shuttling, a cockroach the size of my foot had crept into Brendy's laundry basket and it was now strolling across the carpet like he owned the place. This was not a normal cockroach. This was the rogue kind that rambles through the streets of New York at night, kicking over garbage cans. This was the kind that scuttles from deep within concrete bowels when construction unsettles their lair (our building has construction going on right near our lobby). This was the kind that some New Yorkers insist is not a cockroach, but is a "waterbug". I think this is crap. I think this is what people say to convince themselves that cockroaches can't get that big.
A quick calculation of the flight time from Vancouver left me with the realization that I was going to have to deal with this on my own. There was no way I could let this thing get away or we would have to pack up the car and go right back to Grandma's. From there I would call our realtor and send Terry our new address so he'd know where to go from the airport.
Mother warrior kicked into gear.
It took me at least half an hour, and several failed attempts, but I finally caught that damn thing under a wastepaper basket. After the first miss, this kitten-sized creature ran behind the couch. I could hear it back there. After the second miss, it flew under Brendan's crib, and that's when I got angry. There was no way I was going to let this thing roam around my sweet baby's room. No sir. By then, I was standing on a chair in the middle of the carpet, shedding tears of rage. I lay in wait until the monster whizzed under my chair. With a tribal yell I threw the basket down and trapped that f*%$er. For good measure, I grabbed a heavy book and put in on top of the basket. It remained there until the next day when my burly super took care of it with a broom.
After the capture, I immediately called Terry. He was out having an expense account dinner in some fancy restaurant and didn't pick up his phone. I left him a message. The kind of message that indicated payback would be required.
The next morning I sent Terry an update: "When I awoke, the basket and book had been tossed aside. Our kitchen cupboards were bare as was the liquor cabinet. The roach was sitting on the couch watching Good Morning America wearing my bathrobe. Get your ass home."
Brendan and Uncle PaulI'm leaving my family. But just for the weekend.
The girls and I will be in Bethesda drinking too much wine, gossiping about high school classmates and giggling like we're back in junior high. Terence will be home having a boys weekend with Brendan.
I'm not sure if it's solely the impending daddy time that made this PSA tickle my funny bone, but I have a feeling anyone, parent or no would find this funny. The casting is absolutely perfect.
We're busy, busy, busy preparing for this year's Bud Traynor Classic. Brendan had his first (of many, no doubt) trips to the starter's window at Bethpage as we settled up our tab to reserve the Red Course for the 21st. Come and play! It'll be fun, it's for a good cause, and best of all: you'll get to meet my little genius. We're teeing off a week from Monday, and it's not too late to sign up. Here's a copy of an email blast I sent with more info: Dear friends and colleagues: Our past tournaments have been a resounding success, drawing an enthusiastic crowd of golfers and luncheon attendees to Bethpage Park for a fun day of golf and a great party. We're hoping this year's Tournament - our Sixth - will be our best event yet. We've reserved the beautiful, challenging Bethpage Red Course. There will be various on-course contests to make the game more interesting ( Longest Drive , Closest To The Pin). We've picked out a delicious menu for lunch at Bethpage Park 's Carlyle on the Green, overlooking the first tee of the famous Black Course (home of the 2002 and 2009 U.S. Opens). Trophies will be awarded to the winners. Finally, we'll have plenty of valuable raffle prizes and silent auction items up for bid, such as premium golf equipment and a week long stay at a luxury condo at the Tidewater Plantation in North Myrtle Beach , SC - including a free foursome at Tidewater's championship course! The cost of the Tournament is $225.00, which includes breakfast (with omelet station, always a big hit), greens fee, golf cart, on-course refreshments and luncheon reception with open bar; for non-golfers, the luncheon/open bar is available for $75.00. The Bud Traynor Memorial Fund, Inc. is a 501(c)(3) charitable organization, so your Tournament/luncheon fees are tax deductible. To learn more about our organization and its namesake, to register/pay for the tournament, or to make a donation, visit our website at 
It is my great pleasure to invite you to take part in the Sixth Annual Bud Traynor Classic Golf Tournament and Luncheon, to be held at Long Island's Bethpage State Park.
This year's Tournament takes place on Monday, July 21, 2008.
Sincere thanks to those who have already registered - we're looking forward to seeing you! And to those who've made donations - thank you for helping to further our cause.
The Tournament is named in honor of my late father, and is dedicated to his lifelong passion for the game. The mission of our modest not-for-profit organization, The Bud Traynor Memorial Fund, Inc., is to raise funds for cancer research, education and treatment. All proceeds of the Tournament will go to Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center in New York City.
www.budtraynorclassic.org
Help us spread the word - kindly pass this along to anyone you feel might be interested in taking part or making a donation!
Thank you for your consideration - I hope to see everyone on July 21!
Best regards,
PS: Check out this link for a peek at last year's event:
Fifth Annual Bud Traynor Classic
Random woman in Starbucks upon peering into Brendan's stroller: "When was he born?"
Feeling like a proud momma: "Six weeks ago."
With an air of certainty: "Oh. He was premature."
Not appreciating the woman's know-it-all tone: "No, he wasn't."
Condescendingly: "Well, he's very tiny..." [no, actually, he's completely within normal parameters according to my pediatrician's ridiculously detailed growth charts.] I see a raised eyebrow cast my way and I know this conversation is about to take an even more unwelcome turn. "...Are you breastfeeding?"How did this conversation devolve so quickly? Is this even remotely her business? Grande iced latte now in hand, I quickly start to wheel toward the door. As I retreat, I smile and cheerily reply, "Yes I am. Have a good day!"Not willing to let me off the hook, the random woman actually attempted to summon me back: "Come here. I want to tell you something."Is she kidding? I cut this off at the pass and bolted: "No, thanks. I'm good. Enjoy the afternoon."
Sorry I haven't been blogging. I'm still here. I've been having trouble thinking of anything to write that doesn't have to do with Brendan. I don't wish to be one of those women that has a baby and suddenly can't think of any other topic of conversation. But he's only 3 weeks old, so my life has been pretty consumed with keeping him 1. contently fed and 2. not sitting in poop (note: these goals are diametrically opposed). I don't have a lot of other input these days.
We did have a big outing on Wednesday. Second visit to the pediatrician. I was thrilled to learn I am the mother of an extremely advanced child. Terry called, and I relayed the news:
"Our son is a genius. He has already reached several one month milestones."
"You mean in terms of amount of sh*%t?"
"No, like he will meet a gaze and hold it."
"Meeting gays is a milestone?"
This kid is a riot and he keeps us laughing all day long. But parenting a newborn hasn't been without sacrifice. Last week we ventured to the Upper West Side to run a few errands. Skirting up against a feeding time, Terry stayed with Brendan in our double parked car as I ran into the Sephora on Broadway and 76th Street. Knowing I was playing a dangerous game of chicken, I wasted no time in asking the first sales person I saw, "Where is your Chanel counter?" "We don't have one here, but there is one in the Sephora two blocks down." Sensing that Brendan was probably famished and screaming bloody murder by then, I knew there was no time to travel even that insignificant distance. As I grabbed a Dior liner and mascara, I longed for a slightly more predictable schedule. I know moms are required to give up a lot. But a life without Chanel? I mean, I love my kid, but come on...
Speaking of sacrifices, I've had no time to write about The Bachelor. I promise to catch up soon and get my priorities back in the right place.
Ok, ok! Since you twisted my arm, I'll include a couple of pictures in the meantime:
Trivia: 18 sets of brothers have played in the Super Bowl, but this is the first time for a pair of quarterbacks. Obviously, I'm hoping Eli will repeat Peyton's outcome from last year.
Needless to say, I can't wait for tomorrow's game. The family is coming over. My brother and I have watched all the playoff games together, so we can't break the karma. I'll continue to wear 11 and Brendan will wear 10. We're a little superstitious.
I didn't write about it before because I've been busy at work - not a lot of free time for hobby writing - but the NFC Championship Game was a total blast. My family was in Montauk for the holiday weekend, and we watched the game from The Montauket. I don't know if any of you know that place - it's a local bar on the South Fork. It's very hard to find and it's patrons are locals. Not exactly the usual Hamptons scene - no investment bankers, or trophy wives - just fishermen, firemen and off the wall local characters. The place has been there forever and I just love the completely unpretentious atmosphere. Perfect place to watch a Giants game.
Living up to its reputation, the place was filled with some colorful characters. My two favorites were 1. a guy who had tied a bar of soap on a string around his neck. His friends made him lick it everytime he cursed and 2. a guy whom we had seen the night before at another local bar - he was drunk then and was still drunk now. He was spewing language like you could not believe. At one point my mother told him to watch his mouth. Mistake. He apologized and then glommed onto her and decided the two of them were going to Phoenix together. He also asked her if the Giants won, would she streak across the bar naked with him. Unphased, she replied that she had given that up years ago.
Live entertainment aside, the game was not to be believed. I have never come so close to having multiple heart attacks. This was more than luck - the Giants were amazing, and Eli has finally shown all the doubters he really is a Manning. It was so exciting and I just can't even believe we're here. Here are some pictures from The Montauket.
Here Brendan and I are - praying during the last regular time field goal attempt by Tynes. This one ended in tears.
I admit now that I didn't have enough faith. I never thought we'd be here. I did not expect to see the Giants become one half of the NFC Championship match up. But here we are - on our way to Green Bay.
Not only did we beat Dallas tonight in an amazing nail biter of a game that literally could have gone either way until the final nine seconds, but we actually made Terrell Owens cry. I kid you not - in case you missed it, he actually cried at the press conference following the game. There, there. It's ok, TO. You're on vacation. Go enjoy your millions in the off season.
My brother, Brendan, and I watched the game at his place, and neither one of us could believe what happened. After the game was over, we rewound the DVR and re-watched the final four minutes just to be sure. Here's a picture of us after the win.
If anyone wants to watch the Championship game with us, we'll be at The Montauket next week. Join us there. Unless you're a cheese head. In which case - better bring some tissues.
(Side note: This is a switch. Peyton's done before Eli?)
Sometimes I love him so much I can hardly stand it. Sometimes he disappoints me to the degree that I wish he'd just get out of my life forever. I'm speaking of Eli Manning, of course. And today I love him.
Let's see how I feel next Sunday at about 7:00 pm. But for now, I'm thrilled that there even is a next Sunday.
In case you haven't heard by now, the Giants beat the Bucs yesterday and won their first playoff game since 2000. It was Eli's very first playoff win since being drafted, in fact, hopefully laying some demons to rest. Next week we play the Cowboys - and here's something that may surprise you: it will be the very first time the Giants play Dallas in the post season. Ever. Weird - huh?
This past week I was discussing the upcoming game with a colleague who asked about my weekend plans. I explained that I had all but written my team off due to an abysmal showing in the second part of the season, but now I had some hope after seeing how they performed against the Pats. I started to continue, but my colleague stopped me mid-sentence and said, "Joan, let me just interrupt you right there. Gay men just don't care about football. Many before you have tried to engage me in this conversation. I can't go there." I countered that I was a little puzzled by that stance since there were so many exceptionally good looking men in the NFL. "It's a bunch of 300 pound men. Not my thing." Still not accepting this, I said, "Well, they're not all that way. The quarterbacks and receivers, for example are very svelte. Look at Tom Brady." I was stopped dead in my tracks with a wave of the hand and a simple statement that I could find no fault with, and indeed, have myself invoked in many situations: "Yes. Well, I just don't have time to sift through all that riff-raff." Say no more...
This past week was a banner one for me as a lifelong lover of Big Blue.
Some of you already know that I am a huge Giants fan. The oftentimes frustrating, sometimes exhilarating preoccupation was instilled in me from an early age by my father. My dad grew up going to the games in the Polo Grounds in Northern Manhattan with his buddies. I grew up going to the Meadowlands with him.
When the Meadowlands was built my Dad and a group of his friends became season ticket holders. They secured a block in section 112 – row 22. Pretty good seats, I must say. Sometimes we’d pick up a pair of seats from one of the group that couldn’t make a particular game and our whole family would go. We’d drive through the city on the way home and eat dinner at Gallagher’s Steak House. A truly perfect Sunday. But most of the time we had just two tickets. Absolutely no gender discrimination in our household, my brother and I alternated home games.
A stellar example of my father’s even-handedness on this particular matter was the methodology used to determine Traynor attendance of the 1986 Playoffs. It had been an amazing year for the Giants. We only had to win one game against San Fransisco to get to the National League Championship game. My brother and I were sat down for a conference in the living room and my father explained, “We only have two tickets to the 49ers game. I can bring one of you. Whoever goes is guaranteed to see a playoff game. If we win that game I will take the other of you to the next game. But there is no guarantee that will happen. You two think about it for a minute and tell me what you want to do.”
I didn’t have to think. There was no question in my mind the Giants were going all the way. I wanted to be at that Championship Game. Inconveniently, Brendan felt exactly the same way.
“Ok, who wants to go to the San Fran game?”
Silence.
“No one?”
Silence.
“You both understand that passing this game up means you may not get to go to one at all?” We did. “Ok. We flip a coin.”
My brother was ok with this plan until I emerged victorious two minutes later. Cries of foul play flew through the air. My brother pointed out that as a member of our high school's football team, he should be given weighted advantage. I, afterall, had never even played a game in my life and never would. I was just a girl. This was not right.
I'm sure my father agreed with Brendan on many levels, but God love him, fair was fair and I went to that eventual Championship game. The Giants shut out the Redskins 17 - 0, and to this day, that game was the most thrilling event I have ever attended in my life (ok, maybe a close second to my wedding). It should be noted for context, I went to the Super Bowl in 1998 down in Miami. No where near as exciting. There were no fans in the stands. Just corporate sponsors. Not so back at that Redskins game where the entire stadium was packed with season ticket holders. The wave went around the stadium continuously for the entire three hours. Strangers high-fived. Face painters cried. No one cared that their feet were frostbitten and they would have to sit in traffic for three hours to get out of the parking lot. (By the way, this amazing team went on to beat the Broncos 39-20 a couple of weeks later in Super Bowl XXI).
My brother and I are very close. But to this day, when that game gets brought up, Brendan repeats his true belief, "That wasn't right."
Fast forward to the 2007 season. I admit, I started out with a faint heart. We had lost Tikki, and there was no reason to believe our shortcomings from last year would not continue to haunt us: an inconsistent quarterback not living up to his last name, a Coach known for harsh discipline overseeing one of the most penalized teams in the league and a cast of larger than life personalities who seem to air their disagreements in the media instead of the locker room.
I am now filled with remorse for my lack of faith. I know it's dangerous to get optimistic - this is just about the point in the season when we imploded last year. But I'm feeling good. We've won six in a row and we're just back from London where we were treated like rock stars. We're headed into a bye week after which we play Dallas, the only team in front of us in the NFC. A sign of changing times, Jeremy Shockey, freshly shorn, is even starting to look like a grown up.
For me personally, this past week in particular was indeed a Giant week in every sense of the word. I went to last week's game against San Fran and got on the jumbotron. First time ever and so exciting! I was on the big screen coming back from the commercial break with about 7:23 left in the third quarter. If you watched the game on TV, I was the one in the white hooded sweater screaming, "Go Giants!"
Then last Tuesday I had one of the coolest experiences I've had in a long time (and remember, I was hooked up to a morphine drip for two days this past March). I participated in a corporate boondoggle in which I got to go hang out with a small group of fellow corporate geeks at the Meadowlands and play a game of touch football (I observed) and eat dinner with a bunch of former Giants players. Old school guys - some of whom were playing during that famous 86 season. How cool is that!? These guys were so much fun. They were hilariously funny and easy going and having free reign at Giants Stadium was a thrill. Here are some pictures.
If you read my blog you have probably surmised by now that I am a slightly more than casual golf fan. I definitely enjoy watching the tour, and I know a lot about the sport from growing up around two fanatics (my father and brother). I run an annual tournament, for pete's sake. So it would be reasonable to make the leap and assume I play. I do not.
Lord knows, I have tried. I have my own clubs (purchased after a combination of private lessons and a dose of beginner's luck falsely led me to believe I had a natural gift). I have more than a passable understanding of course etiquette. Occasionally I still go out there (on an "Executive Course" - a fancy title for an easy Par 3 course meant to make bad golfers feel less emasculated) and try to act breezy. Like I'm having fun in my cute outfit. But I'm not. I'm just not good at this game, and it's hard not to look silly when you're shanking a swing. Being a (recovering) perfectionist, I find that too frustrating to be an acceptable way to spend 6 hours of a perfectly good Saturday.
So when I heard this story, it made me question: what is my excuse, exactly?
The AP is reporting that yesterday in Leighton, PA a TOTALLY BLIND woman hit a hole in one on a 144-yard, par-3 fourth hole at the Mahoning Valley Country Club. She plays regularly with her husband, who acts as a guide. She had to clear a water hazard and avoid sand traps to reach the green. Sheila Drummond reports her husband and the other players in her foursome told her it was a great shot, and then she heard it hit the pin.
Can you imagine how that sounded?
My brother once hit a hole in one during a tournament while playing for our high school's varsity team. Hearing the story gave me such a vicarious thrill - and he's not even blind! Brendan didn't realize it had gone in, although he knew it was a good shot off the tee. As he approached the pin and he didn't see his ball, he thought his aim must have not been that good after all. He began searching the rough beyond the green with growing frustration as he contemplated the fact that not only was it not a good shot, he may even have to take a penalty if the wayward object didn't reveal itself soon. With spontaneous insight, one of his teammates said, "Brendan, why don't you look in the hole?" He later told us that had never occurred to him because he just isn't that lucky (his wife begs to differ).
The PGA won't recognize a hole in one unless it's part of a full round of 18 holes. With a start time delayed until after classes are done for the day, high school varsity matches typically only consist of 9. So my brother, his coach and one of his friends from the team played the back nine in the dark. Worth every one of the 63 strokes!
I'm finally over the post tournament coma I succumb to every year the minute my family's annual charity event is over, and I can now begin to shed some light on how The Fifth Annual Bud Traynor Classic went. It was a huge success, and my whole family is feeling great about it.
Mamma Joan mans one of the auction tables
My brother and I get ready to hand out some prizes
And what can we say? Prizes make people happy...
Ryan Mullaly and Krysta Sollecito check out the trophy at closer range
As Sunday afternoon dragged on, the giddy exuberance slowly eroded as the evolving weather reports cast a pall over the entire family. Text messages began coming in from around the tri-State area as participants queried, "What do we do if it rains?" "Get out your golf umbrella and don't expect a refund," seemed flip. Yet true. "Ok, but just because it's going to rain in Seaford, doesn't mean it's going to rain in Bethpage."
Upon the fifth zip-code specific hour by hour satellite check, "I think we should just face the fact that it's going to rain on the golfers for the entire five hours that they're out there. Let's just get over that and move on.""Does the lightening have to actually hit the ground for them to close the course?"
"My scar itches." "Mine too."
Our caravan made it's way out to Bethpage under angry skies. Many cars packed with many auction prizes, and a special tradition: we always drive my dad's two seater out to the tournament. It was the car he used to go golfing. Although it doesn't fit much cargo, we make sure it's always in the Bethpage parking lot while The Bud Traynor Classic is being played.
