THE MOTHER OF ALL LIES

Another day, another lunch hour, however, instead of taking a walk outside in the sudden burst of sunshine, I am compelled to write about the endless lies being spewed by the despicable duo of Cindy and Casey Anthony, grandmother and mother of the unbearably adorable and unbearably missing Caylee Marie Anthony, nearly 3 years old.

Missing, yet unreported for an entire month.

And unless you've been vacationing on Mars or in some remote location without access to newspapers or Nancy Grace, you are likely to be familiar with at least some of the details of this heartbreaking and disturbing case:

• The arrest of the mother on charges of child neglect and obstruction of justice


• The string of batty lies she told police about a nonexistent job, nonexistent babysitter and non-existent apartment where the non-existent babysitter lived


• The grandmother's wacked-out appearances on national television and her knack for inventing new details that she simply neglected to report previously


• The discovery of Casey's abandoned car with the smell of decomposing human remains, strands of the child's hair and dirt in the trunk


• The involvement of cadaver dogs sniffing on the grandparents' property


• Reports of the mother borrowing a shovel in June


• News of a new concrete slab poured in the grandparents' backyard

...and so on

This story smells from top to bottom, like the trunk of Casey's abandoned car. There are lots of mysterious and unsettling details, such as a the allegedly -- and most conveniently -- dead birthfather. There is a creepy brother who painted a thoroughly unconvincing portrait of sibling intimacy when he took the witness stand. There is a relatively silent grandfather. There are friends who brand Casey a habitual liar and who are now reporting that they witnessed her carrying on during Caylee's absence as if she didn't have a care in the world.

And there are lies that are so outlandish that they would be laughable...were there anything remotely amusing about a child gone missing and feared dead. Such as the lie that Casey neglected to approach police with reports of her child's absence because she was launching her own investigation into her daughter's disappearance. Uh huh. Yeah. So that's why she hadn't contacted them, or her own parents, for that matter. Makes perfect sense. Yet this pathetic lie is further embellished by Cindy Anthony's claim that her daughter is protecting Caylee by not divulging her whereabouts. That she knows where the child is. That she knows who has her.

Or consider Cindy's belligerent retort to the media that the smell of death in the trunk of the stolen car was actually...rotting pizza. In light of the 911 calls that have now been made public, ya know, where she screams at a police dispatcher that her call smells like there was a dead body in it, this dead-body-smell-is-really-rotten-pizza lie is especially galling.

And resting atop this pyramid of lies is Cindy's assertion of what a good mother her daughter is/was. Widening her eyes, she positively insists on the love that existed between the two when it is abundantly clear that Casey Anthony doesn't love anything but herself.

The fact that her toddler has been missing for over a month didn't cost Casey a single sleepless night or a moment's anxiety. She was out partying with friends, y'all! And still, she is curiously, spookily unconcerned.

If anything, Casey seemed bored by the court proceedings, moved to tears only by the prospect of her own imprisonment.

While her mother, Cindy, has made a travesty of caring about her grandaughter by appearing on national television to promote a phony national search for Caylee Marie, acting as if she is the star of her own reality show, or a character on an episode of Law and Order.

Every word that comes out of her mouth is so utterly false that I can barely stand to listen to her.

But no one is fooled. Harsh words have come from the judge, the DA and the local police. The media has jumped on this case like a pack of bloodhounds, ferreting out every inconsistency in the tale of the missing tot. Nancy Grace has been at her outraged best as have other broadcast journalists. Bloggers are following this story by the minute.

I am not alone in predicting a sicker-than-sick outcome, a family saga involving other crimes, secrecy and cover-ups. Incest might play a role; perhaps of the sibling variety. At this moment, the Anthony family is holding onto the ruse of their innocence and of the search for a living Caylee by their fingertips. This effort appears more bogus every second, more wasteful of public resources, time and hope. Unfortunately for this lying family, intelligence is not one of their strong suits. Their stupidity and the mounting evidence against them will ultimately do them in.

Every caring parent in the world, nay, every decent human being, recognizes the admission of guilt inherent in the failure to report a missing child for 31 minutes, let alone 31 days. Dread grips the collective heart of the nation but the hoofbeats of justice rapidly approach. The pyramid of lies is about to crumble; the truth might rest beneath a slab of concrete in the grandparents' yard, easily removed. Justice for Caylee Marie Anthony will come, shedding light on the lies of the one responsible for giving her life and taking her life away.

Naming the Bully

Last Thursday, around 2:30 pm, I got a funny call from 13-year-old Little Babe in the middle of his camp day.

Funny, as in strange.

"I'm bored," he reported, totally unconvincingly.

"Bored," I repeated. "What is everyone doing and why aren't you doing it?"

He sighed. "No one's doing anything."

"That's not possible," I said. "It's camp. There's always an activity. Where is your group?"

"Hanging outside the pool."

It was about a million degrees outside. "Why aren't you swimming?" I asked.

"Because I have a mark on my right side."

My maternal radar instantly shot up. "A mark?"

"Yeah," he admitted and then proceeded to whisper the story which involved a run-in with the group gangsta, a rather oafish, and in my estimation, intellectually-challenged kid with a penchant for beating up on smaller kids, including Little Babe.

Whose own penchant for Japanese calligraphy, cello-playing and letting our Pomeranians nibble on his toes render him a less-than-alpha young male, the last person to retaliate with physical violence.

Little Babe's sweet, artistic temperment is more often rewarded with respect from his peers. In all the years of his childhood, I can count only two or three other times when aggressive boys tried to bully him and in one of the situations it was merely an inappropriate gesture of affection from a child with boundary issues (the child had a multitude of behavioral issues, was sent to a special school and Little Babe did not have to fear the bathroom anymore.)

Getting back to last week's incident...it turned out that Little Babe accidentally splashed water on his feet and the thug-in-training retailated with fists in Little Babe's ribcage.

Not cool.

Though Little Babe had been taken to the camp nurse by a counselor who found him writhing on the ground, he failed to report the bullying to her. A couple of clarifying phone calls to the camp administration later, where I was assured that the situation was being monitored and that the kid would be out on his ass if it happened again, I couldn't help but note the coincidence of timing.

You see, just the previous week, I, Bungalow Babe, Princess of PR, fearless she-warrior, had been bullied by a thuggish fellow with a long and horrible reputation for such tactics.

The bullying was not, thank God, physical. It was communicated through text messages and in the course of phone conversations. It aimed to halt my efforts on behalf of a client because it shed an unflattering light on the unethical and possibly illegal business practices of the bully in question. It wasn't coming from a 300-pound guy named Rocco or Bugsy, though it certainly sounded like it. The exchange constituted the single most shocking incident of my entire professional life.

The bullying happened at the tail end of the work day, when Little Babe had already returned from camp. And though I refrained from sharing the text messages with my young son, he (and half the bungalow colony) certainly heard my entire end of the cellphone screamfest as he patiently waited for me to finish "work"... so that I could take him out for Chinese food that evening, as planned.

As I held the phone to my incredulous ear, there were threats, accusations and screams coming at me. Incensed, I threatened to make the creepy text exchange public, reveal the content of the phone conversation, go to the cops, the FBI, the press.

Indeed, when I did drive to my local police precinct a short while later, Little Babe was by my side.

He saw me seeking recourse. He saw me outing my bully. He saw me reacting with anger, outrage and an effort to seek help and protection.

What he did not see were tears or helplessness. What he did not see was the mantle of the victim. I like to think of myself as an alpha female, a self-image formed in childhood. As a young Bungalow Babe, I fended off bullies with my street-fighting skills, ambushing the tormentors of my little brother and sister, using SAT words to convince mean kids that their quality of life would be improved by leaving my siblings the hell alone.

If anything, being a mother has only sharpened my protective instincts. And though I know that we are supposed to train our kids, especially our sons, to fight their own battles, sometimes the battles are unfair, or the tactics are extreme or the other kid is truly a bad seed whose parents are MIA or complete jerks.

So when Little Babe found himself at the wrong end of a fist flying into his ribcage, it was a zero-to-sixty reaction on my part. I sprang into action, knowing even as I did that he would need to develop his own inner warrior, figure out how to exude that aura that warns, "Do Not Mess with Me," or, in the absence of that ability, learn how to name the bully for what he is, thereby transforming himself from helpless victim to crime-fighter bent on putting another bad guy behind bars.

Naming the bully is key because bullies rarely strike once. Bullies are to bullying as vampires are to blood. And once a bully is so identified, others inevitably come forth, telling tales similar to your own. This builds a network of support and outs the bully for what he is. The fist-loose kid at camp, I assured Little Babe, is a behavior problem at home and at school. You are not the only one he bothers. That's right, Little Babe affirmed, proceeding to list a series of hair-raising offenses against other kids.

Indeed, what I was sharing with Little Babe were the fruits of what I had discovered in the course of my own bully-naming. Yes, I named my bully and suddenly others came forth telling similar tales. Some of the stories were far worse than my own; some verged on hilarity because they were so out of the range of professional conduct. Emails began pouring in. My cellphone started ringing. I started doing research and found reams of evidence that this particular bully operated, typically, in broad daylight, leaving messy footprints behind.

There was a pattern of thuggery, ruthlessness, foul language, intimidation, verbal abuse and threats. It existed well before my own encounter. And if left unchecked, would persist into the foreseeable future.

It is a Monday afternoon and I'm blogging instead of eating lunch. Little Babe is on a trip with his group and the fact that I'm writing provides an index of my anxiety. Yeah, I'm a bit worried about his safety and yeah, even when I was being an alpha female, yelling on my cellphone a couple of weeks ago, I was a bit worried about my own safety. But the word is out. Both of our tormentors have been called by their true names -- Bully -- and everyone knows that bad guys always lose in the end.

Black Coffins

Nala the puppy woke me up this morning at 5:50 am, whimpering at my bedroom door. Stepping into the kitchen of my bungalow, I was assaulted by a blur of tail, tongue, cocoa-colored fur and soft paws.

With my new Pomeranian attempting to burrow inside my nose, I opened the freezer to remove my stash of Zabar's French Italian roast.

Setting it on the counter, I glanced at the flyer posted on my fridge last summer. It announced a rally to be held on July 16th, 2007, at the United Nations.

FREE THEM NOW! the headline read, poised above the headshots of the three Israeli soldiers kidnapped during the summer of 2006 -- Gilad Shalit, Ehud Goldwasser and Eldad Regev.

Last night, I told Little Babe that the fate of the missing soldiers would likely be revealed today. I reminded him of how we said tehillim, psalms, for them when they were taken hostage two summers ago. He, in turn, reminded me how we said the b'shaym blessing for the soldiers last summer, invoking the protection of the angels Michael, Gabriel, Raphael and Oriel as we said the shema before going to sleep.

I felt somewhat dishonest using euphemisms such as "fate," because it seemed fairly certain that Goldwasser and Regev were dead while there had been signs that Shalit was alive. And with his Israeli cousin serving in a high-ranking IDF position, I hated to remind my 13-year-old of the dangers facing Israeli soldiers, had wished for an heroic, Entebbe-like rescue for our kidnapped sons and brothers.

Today, exactly one year to the day from the NYC rally, Goldwasser and Regev have returned to Israel in coffins.

Gilad Shalit is still in captivity.

Miles away from Israel and even the United Nations, I read the news on Haaretz.com, weeping into Nala, who licked away my tears. Little Babe slept soundly, the relaxed slumber of an American boy during summer, lucky and free. In a sort of derangement, I visited dozens of news sites, read the reportage over and over again, tormented myself with an endless replay of grief.

I stared at the terrifying black coffins until I tricked myself into seeing the image of God reflected back at me.

ZACHOR 2008

My sister called me from Israel yesterday when it was already the afternoon in Israel, erev Yom HaZikaron, the eve of the Day of Remembrance for Israel's fallen, in battle and in acts of terror against the Jewish State.

It's hard, she told me, from her sunny hilltop home. So much sadness. We pay a big price for this dream.

Much has been made of the difference between America's gaudy sales events in commemoration of Memorial Day and Israel's somber mood on Yom HaZikaron which comes days after Holocaust Remembrance Day -- Yom HaShoah.

Yet, to remind everyone of the dream driving the sorrow, tomorrow will be Yom Ha'atzmaut, Israel Independence Day.

A master psychologist or ace event planner could not have crafted this flow of days any better.

The celebration of Yom Ha'atzmaut is a reverse image of the sorrowful commemoration of the previous week. The deeper the sorrow, the greater the following celebration.

For us, perhaps. I've often wondered about those whose connection to Yom HaZikaron is deep. Parents who lost sons. Children whose siblings perished in suicide attacks. Wives whose husbands were killed in battle. Friends and loved ones slain in the war against the very existence of the Jewish State.

I wish that the Israel-haters around the world could simply admit the truth behind their pseudo-political positions. I wish they would simply come out and say that they have a problem with Israel. Period. It's not because of policy X or border dispute Y or reason Z.

The problem is simply Israel herself.

For them, Yom Ha'atzmaut is Al Naqba -- the Disaster. The Catastrophe.

And while the Arab ownership of this sentiment seems apt -- if questionable -- it seems curiouser and curiouser that people around the world with no tie to Israel or the Palestinians or Arabs or the region nurture such rage against Israel's existence.

Maybe that is the true disaster or catastrophe we should be paying attention to. How Israel's 60-year lifespan seems to have exceeded the world's ability to tolerate the concept of a homeland for the Jewish People.

Jerusalem/New York

Very little has been written about the benefits of jet-lag, for instance, the fact that one can get a jump start on the new work day by being forced into wakefulness during the wee hours of the morning. Cocooned from daylight and the commerce of the woken world, mental preparedness can take place as well.

Sitting to my left at the dining room table at three in the morning is Little Babe. He, HOBB and I returned from our eleven-day trip to Israel last night and the transition back home could hardly have been more depressing. We left on a day of sterling clarity, cool breezes, shimmering Jerusalem sunshine, the wafting scent of trees and history and arrived back to gloomy skies, relentless rain, chilling winds and grey vistas along the New Jersey Turnpike, over the George Washington Bridge, down the West Side Highway and right up to the curbside on West 116th Street.

As the polluted rain pelted our windsheild, the final blessing of the weekly havdalah prayer kept running through my head: Baruch ata adonai, eloheinu melech haolam, hamavdeel ben kodesh l'chol.

Blessed are you, Lord our God, who distinguishes between the holy and the secular.

Being in Israel during Passover is one of the peak experiences of life. The weather is almost supernaturally beautiful, the country is united in a spirit of celebration and the complete cessation of work, the one-day chag comes as a revelation to those observant diaspora Jews saddled with the inconvenience of second-day Yom Tov and the often-dreaded second Seder, and the country at large seems to have fulfilled its biblical promise of redemption.

The Bungalow clan gathered in Jerusalem two Thursdays ago, Big Babe flying in from his writing perch in Berlin, Middle Babe joining us from her freshman year in college in Maryland, Little Babe in tow from New York. Though we had each been to Israel several times since our year-long sabbatical in 97/98, this was the first time in a few years that we were all together in the Holy Land.

Over the course of the eleven days that we shared, we figured out ways to blend and merge and diverge and pair off and try not to get on each others' nerves, our family of five ranging in age from 58 to nearly thirteen. Inevitably, there were dopey arguments and flared tempers and insults hurled in hotel rooms and on city streets, the rolling of eyes, huffy sighing and the temporary wish to be alone, however, an invisible, unbreakable thread of love and loyalty bound us together, an American Jewish family come to Israel two months before the Bar Mitzvah of their youngest member.

We shared a memorable seder with SOBB (Sister of Bungalow Babe) and her family in the glorious mountain-top community of Har Adar, took power walks through the hilly streets while regretting our failure to invest in local real estate, hiked in Ein Gedi during a hamsin, prayed at the Orthodox yet egalitarian Shira Hadasha service, now located in the Hartman Institute, hung out in cafes, went jet-skiing in Herziliyah, wandered through downtown Tel Aviv and sported on her beach, visited family gravesites, ate schwarma and kebabs, did the requisite mall-hopping, watched Al-Jazeera and BBC Worldnews and Skynews and Moroccan soap operas and Arab music videos and bad American movies and Israeli reality shows, meandered down the Ben Yehudah midrechov of Jerusalem, ate Kosher-for-Passover McDonald's Happy Meals, bought tefillin for Little Babe and a much-needed challah cover for our Urban Bungalow (our previous one got lost in last year's Pesach cleaning) and happily adopted the liberal Sephardic custom known as kitniot, feasting on chumus and felafel and bamba and rice cakes, experiencing a completely different taste of Passover.

As always, I experienced the revelatory normalization of being Jewish, of being am chofshi b'artzeinu, a free person in my own land.

Of course, there were the cabbies who cursed us out when we insisted on a metered ride, and the drivers bent on running over pedestrians and the pushing and lack of courtesy and the jerk who put his huge suitcase on top of my knapsack in the overhead luggage bin on the plane but these features of Israel suddenly seemed no more egregious than the hordes of Jew and Israel haters around the world, a surcharge, a small price to pay for being am chofshi b'artzeinu.

And on the very first day of our arrival, the root cause of contemporary anti-Zionism occured to me as I strolled through the streets of Har Adar: it is nothing rational or really political or related to land or territory or history but simply the resentment of all of this splendor, all that is beautiful and functional and right about Israel, about hilltop communities and cafes and malls and hospitals and schools and universities and restaurants and the simple if messy fact of Jewish nationhood.

And now, with the New York workday creeping closer and closer, I am left with the wrenching emotional process of reentry into my American life while clinging to the memory of the Mediterranean and the Dead Sea, of walking through the streets of Jerusalem on the Shabbat of Pesach with my family at this moment in our shared and respective personal histories -- forty years after my first visit to this city in that glorious year after the Six Day War; seven weeks before the Bar Mitzvah of Little Babe -- of the hot dry wind of Ein Gedi and the sweet night air of Jerusalem mixing to form a balm for my recently exhilirated and now exiled soul.

Life of a Fembot

There has been an Orwellian, sci-fi feeling to my life over the past, oh, four years or so, but especially the past month.

With a schedule of projects that demand constant stewardship, my already long work-days have now morphed into one endless workday, punctuated by brief bouts of sleep, as in, three to four hour stretches of shut-eye a night, hasty check-ins with my family, a breathless race to the gym every couple of days or so, a social event tucked into the mix, sporadic check-in with blogs and newsites and then, the inevitable return to the computer.

It is 2:06 a.m. and this is my default mode, hunched over the laptop, lights out around me, focused entirely and solely on my computer screen.

Last year, in an effort to convey his admiration for me and my relentless work style, a client called me a Fembot.

This year, I think I have morphed beyond the robotic.

I am as tied to my laptop as a newborn is to her mother's breast.

Not out of a sense of addiction, but sheer necessity.

And I am fully aware of how insane this whole thing is.

David Paterson, Man Slut

Hmm, I thought I'd be able to get a jump on my work this morning, but nooooo....the front pages of the NY Daily News and NY Post are simply too damn distracting.

Spitzer's whore turns out to be a "Girl Gone Wild," with lesbo action captured on video (big metziah) and it turns out that new, first-ever black and blind governor of New York State had, ahem, numerous affairs, not the one he meticulously alluded to on Monday and which I blogged about yesterday.

(You know, the classy chick he screwed at the Day's Inn, which I was considering checking out for our out-of-town-guests for Little Babe's forthcoming bar mitzvah. No more. )

Furthermore, some of the sluts Paterson cavorted with evidently work in state government.

Another, he might have gotten a job for.

What next?

It’s 9 a.m and I am saturated with sex scandal gossip. I mean it. My brain feels dirty. I reached my limit. It is impairing my ability to focus on my work, which tends to be a lot more serious that who’s boinking whom.

It’s making me skip screens every 20 minutes or so, seeing if anyone has the latest on the old NY guv, the new NY guv, the old NJ guy, the driver, his wife and, evidently, also her lover.

Arrrgggghhhh!!!!

I'll bet that part of Paterson (99 percent, say) is ruing the day (two Mondays ago, to be exact, about 2 in the afternoon) that the buck got passed to him. And I know Michelle feels the same way. The glare of the media shone flatteringly for about half a day and then it became a klieg light, revealing something deeply disturbing.

I was sorta (not really) okay with the Monday state house confession but now feel like I have eels in my boots.

A tit-for-tat, his 'n hers pair of affairs is one thing...the difficult “honesty” he displayed as he faced the state, the candor of boldly talking about their subsequent reconciliation, reassurances that they love each other, have “worked” on their marriage, and are closer than ever… yadda, yadda, but honestly, what has come out since then is pretty intense.

To put it another way, that "rough patch in the marriage" narrative doesn't fly when it turns out that you've been screwing your way from Albany down to the Upper West Side.

And fairly recently, as well.

At this point, I know more about David Paterson’s sexual activity than his ability to run New York State.

I just hope we don’t get treated to the same treatment he gave his mistresses at the Day’s Inn.

And that this is my last post on the sordid sex lives of American governors.

Infidelity: It's the New Monogamy!

These are trying times for the Seventh Commandment.

First, the Spitzer soap-opera -- the most shocking yet entertaining sex scandal in recent memory.

Then, the McGreevey allegations of two days ago -- as if New Jersey refused to be outdone by New York State's pornodrama -- that Jim and Dina had three-ways with a former (male) aide.

And now, just when we were consoling ourselves with the appointment of a stable, straight-arrow, legally blind replacement governor for New York State, it turns out that he, too, was getting it on the side, having a 2 to 3 year fling (but who's keeping count?) with a mistress during a "rough patch" in the marriage.

Giving me a special feeling of proximity as Paterson and his f#@*buddy were doing it in my nabe, at the ultra-classy Days Inn, on Broadway and 94th Street.

Kinda of down-market from the Mayflower Hotel in DC, wouldn't ya say?

And evidently, saving our new guv about $80K, as he was getting it for free.

What a difference a day makes. Yesterday morning, we were blissfully ignorant and now, everybody knows. Nor did it take long for the news to get out. Following his inauguration, in a premptive strike against the inevitability of the press ferreting out this little bit of sleaze, Paterson decided to come clean.

Put it out there.

Stop the rumors dead on their feet.

And as if to even the playing field -- and remove Michelle Paterson from the victimhood of, say, Silda Wall Spitzer -- the Patersons fessed up to her having fooled around as well.

Hate to say it, but I'm a bit skeptical about this.

However, as quickly as I can say, "hand me my bra, that's my husband coming up the steps!" the press will find Paterson's galpal and, if it is true, Ms. Paterson's boytoy.

But, screw New York State and its unzipped legislators.

What I am really waiting for is the lowdown on the alleged three-ways that took place between McGreevey, his "deceived" wife Dina and the stud-muffin Ted Pedersen, their "Friday Night Specials."

I want proof, which shouldn't be hard to track down. And details. I actually would like to know who did what to whom.

Such as…was there any DP?

Now, this is a scandal worth following. For one thing, the players are actually attractive, people you might fantasize about having a three-way with.

For another, the McGreevey scenario truly qualifies as kinky while Spitzer's dalliance is cliched and Paterson's Days Inn affair is just about the most pathetic -- and least erotic -- thing I can imagine.

Anyhoo, the next few days promise to be extra-titillating as further details emerge on the Patersons and McGreeveys.

While the dutifully monogamous, married American public tuning into this schmutz is left to wallow in its extreme dullness

The Rabbi's Girls: On Call

At a bus stop in Miami during winter break of 1979, my sister and I – an aspiring singer and writer hailing from Queens, NY - decided to become high-ticket hookers.

We were on our way to Fort Lauderdale, where the college scene was legendary. Even in staid Miami, the cute English lifeguards at the Fontainbleu tried to pick us up poolside when we snuck onto the premises from the efficiency we were renting. Considering ourselves “fat” at the time, we marveled at the low standards men set for their sexual partners, realizing that most males will jump into bed with anything female.

With this observation newly minted, we talked about trading our bodies for cash, capitalizing on our unique marketing angle: our dad was a rabbi. There was great fetish appeal in that identity, we knew from personal experience. Being known in the sex trade as The Rabbi’s Girls would give us an edge other girls did not have. Our thighs might have been bigger than the average girl’s but so was our business potential.

A high school senior and college sophomore respectively, we fantasized about the rates we would charge, decided that the way to go was to be our own boss, thus eluding getting ripped off by pimps or madams. Naturally, we’d have to change our names. Though we were trading on being nice Jewish girls, our Hebrew monikers -- Shira and Adina -- had to go. Far more importantly, we had to go undercover lest our parents (or our friends’ parents or our yeshiva principal, God Forbid!) find out.

I dubbed myself Chantal, the French version of Shira, which means song. Adina decided to become Desiree. Somehow, sex trade pseudonyms invariably involve French. (Witness the transformation of Ashley Youmans to Ashley Alexandra Dupre. From runaway Jersey girl to continental call girl with the addition of a Gallic surname.)

The bus shortly came and we sat among senior citizens and domestic workers and day laborers further honing our plan. We set rates: $500 an hour. Special services at $150 a pop were also available. We decided that even if we had one john a week, by the time we graduated from college, we would be rich.

Furthermore, if we started our business upon returning to New York (sporting suntans, which were super-slimming), we’d have enough money together to think about renting a cool apartment in Manhattan, so we didn’t have to live with our parents in Forest Hills. Living in the city, Adina would be able to go to auditions all the time, get discovered and have a smashing career on Broadway. For me, an arts reporter for the Queens College newspaper, the N train would be history. I could be out in the city every night covering shows and films and writing fiction late into the night, inspired by the view outside my window, which overlooked the Hudson.

It was only a matter of time before a big newspaper discovered me, offering me a plum assignment, making all my dreams come true. A bestselling novel would naturally follow. And at that moment of mutual stardom, Adina and I would quietly slip out of the sex trade.

Alas, The Rabbi’s Girls Call Girl Service never saw the light of day, but it was a good idea. Probably a lucrative one as well. If Adina and I had followed our marketing instinct, there are many things we might have avoided in the intervening thirty years.

Among them, various jobs that we took in order to keep a roof over our heads, or our respective family’s head, keep our children clothed and properly fed, pay their tuition, finance our modest travel, support our husbands’ aspirations, give to charity. Had we become hookers, we might have avoided decades-long career detours – gigs that did not involve our unique skills or abilities, but paid the bills.

We might have had designer clothes, haircuts and vacations and shoes akin to the $2K Manolos that Ashley Youmans received as a gift from her pimp. We might have enjoyed the constant care of a manicurist as she has, judging from her My Space pictures.

The point is, realizing that sex sells is a momentary revelation, not a catalyst for a career. Many are those who recognize the cash value of their bodies but few are those who actually prostitute themselves out.

Now, in her mid-forties, Adina recently emerged as a singer, producing her debut CD last year. My own detour from freelance writing to the more lucrative field of public relations has accidentally led to a fulfilling consulting business. The articles, short stories, reviews and blog entries that I write are done by the light of the moon.

So the Rabbis Girls Call Girl Service evaporated into the conceptual stratosphere, but its story will be part of a cabaret show that my sister and I are writing about the weird, wacky and often wonderful experience of growing up as the daughters of a congregational rabbi in Queens, NY, in the 1960’s and 70’s. If there is one lesson we learned from our father it is that we are created in the image of God.

And God is not a ho.

Out of Albany

I was putting on sparkly pink blusher in Sephora on Lexington Avenue and 58th street with Little Babe when HOBB showed up to escort our youngest home from his nearby dental appointment so I could attend my client's gala dinner at the nearby Harmonie Club.

I was surveying the effect of the irridescent powder on my cheeks when HOBB asked me if I had heard about our governor, Eliot Spitzer. No, I shrugged, blending in the make-up, wondering if I also needed some undereye concealer to revitalize my late afternoon face before heading over to the cocktail party.

Regarding me as one would regard someone who just asked, "Barack who?" HOBB broke the news that the entire world has been trying to digest ever since yesterday afternoon: the tough on prostitution, former DA, married, Jewish, seemingly squeaky clean and moralizing father of three, not to mention GOVERNOR OF FREAKING NEW YORK STATE had solicited the services of a high-price call girl. For a chunk of change. In our nation's capital.

Within hours, Eliot Spitzer would be known by a variety of media-appointed monikers: The Luv Gov; Eliot Mess; "John" Spitzer; and most infamously, Client #9.

Late night television was just given a treasure trove of material for the foreseeable future, rich compensation for the previous months' writers strike.

Fresh from my revelation at Sephora, I ran over to the Harmonie Club where the temptation of loshon hara* was largely and admirably avoided, though each kiss-kiss greeting was accompanied by a "can you believe it?"

And in truth, no, I could not believe it.

Nor could anyone, judging from the utter monopoly this story had over the news. Returning home just before 11, I joined HOBB on our couch where we filled our brains with punditry and politicians and pronouncements and porn of a sort we are not used to seeing.

The pornography of the disintegration of high profile public life.

Headline news that out-tabloids the tabloids.

A scandal that hearkens back to the good old days of Boss Tweed.

Tragedy cloaked in titillation.

Stating the obvious: this particular scandal is built on the backs of private people, Spitzer's family, in particular his wife Silda, his three daughters and his parents.

Seeing Silda standing by his side at his press conference replayed scenes of wives past (Dina, Hillary, Mrs. Craig, et alia) standing stoically next to their disgraced spouses, knowing that the entire world is secretly wondering just what sexual defect they might harbor that drove their husbands into the arms of a hooker/intern/guy in the next bathroom stall, wondering why they are even publicly supporting the SOB, wondering where their self-esteem is.

And his poor parents. Just as we harbor high hopes for our children, so, too, we squelch our fears for their future. Of all the horrific scenarios to dread as a parent, surely, "my son the Governor of New York who solicited high-priced hookers at a DC hotel," is up there in the Hall of Parental Shame.

Right beneath, "my son the murderer."

It is the morning after the revelation of the scandal and this story has pushed out anything else in the news. It is front and center, occupying pages and pages of newsprint and valuable cyber real estate. The reasons for this story's power are obvious and this is hardly a case of a tempest in a tea pot.

This scandal is the Katrina of contemporary American politics.

But the thing about it is that it just doesn't make rational sense. The ultra-sordid particulars, the paper trail, the money, the illegality all point to a Catch Me If You Can impulse that is based not in defiance but pathology.

Or maybe both.

With a little bit of magical thinking or invincibility.

Plus a touch of desperation.

At the end of the day, the Eliot Spitzer Sex Scandal is not really about sex.

And aside from what further scandalous details might yet emerge, Part Two of the saga will be the revelation of why Eliot Spitzer chose to end his public career this terrible way.

____
*gossip, literally, evil speech

Murder in Jerusalem

The conference call came in at 3:30 pm, as planned. The day had been busy, with meetings in midtown, an impromptu stop at Whole Foods at the Time Warner Center, phone calls from press accompanying me as I walked westward along 59th Street.

I was in the process of eating a hasty Whole Foods salad when my client called.

Gulping down my peppermint water, I reached for the phone, affecting an unhurried voice, a voice that said that I was prepared and professional rather than scattered and sweating profusely in the aftermath of my race across town and marathon salad consumption.

As all the parties exchanged their greetings, I quietly directed my browser to CNN.com; after all, I hadn't seen the news since early in the day and wanted to peruse the headlines. Instantly, stark wording filled the screen, announcing a terrorist attack on a seminary in Jerusalem, at least seven dead.

"Omigod, there's been a terrorist attack in Jerusalem!" I gasped, realizing a millisecond later that I had just blown my facade of complete focus. My thoughts flew in a flurry as I scrolled down the page, sifting for information. Seminary? Which seminary? For teachers, scholars, rabbis, visiting American students on their year-abroad program? Who were the victims? Kids? Teens? Adults? Israelis? Foreigners?

My blood ran cold, thinking of the children of friends studying in Israel for the year. Only last year my own daughter was a student in Jerusalem. Her best friend was currently spending her year abroad studying at Hebrew University. Twentysomething years ago, I was a student at Hebrew U as well. That year, the worst thing that happened was the murder of John Lennon in front of his apartment building in New York City.

I switched to Jpost.com. Their report told me that the attack happened at a well-known school, Mercaz Harav, founded by Rabbi Kook, the former chief rabbi of Israel, father of the religious Zionist movement. It described a chaotic scene, blood everywhere, students hiding under desks and in bomb shelters, 50 ambulances arriving, police storming the premises, looking for the terrorist.

Somehow I assumed a bomb. In our time, terrorism has become inextricable from bombs, particularly of the suicidal/homicidal variety. But there was not a bomb. There was a killer with a gun.

Like on an American college campus, except programmed to kill only Jews.

500 to 600 shots fired, announced Jpost.

Though my ear was pressed against the phone receiver, I was no longer on the conference call. I was somewhere in the cybersphere, floating between New York and Jerusalem, mentally multi-tasking, out of time and place, out of my mind.

Weirdly, I heard voices talking animatedly, including my own. No one had responded to my exclamation about the attack in Jerusalem. Did they hear? Do they not care? Evidently not, for we were deep into discussion of strategy and marketing of the project at hand. I saw my right hand scribbling notes, felt my head nod in assent, heard myself murmur my approval. My eyes, however, remained glued on the computer screen, reading, seeking information, switching between Jpost and Haaretz, checking out nytimes.com and the AP report, seeing how Foxnews reported the story versus msnbc.com, going even to the right-wing Arutzsheva.com to see if I had missed any details. I learned that the killer had most definitely been killed by a part-time student.

Did I actually speak out loud or had I simply imagined my outburst?

The phone conference moved into specifics. We compared notes on our best media contacts, connections within the community. Quietly, I took stock of everyone I knew to be in Jerusalem -- my sister, brother-in-law, their kids, dozens of friends and their families, a couple of clients, a project partner, old boyfriends, old relatives, a cast of characters interchangeable with my New York circle of friends and loved ones.

As the New York afternoon grew old and the conference call drew to a close, the personal calls started coming and we all said the same thing to each other. How horrible. It's been so long since something this terrible happened. Is everyone accounted for? Have we heard anything from anyone in Israel?

I spoke to my husband and my sister in Israel. My daughter, Middle Babe, called to tell me that her best friend called to let her know that she was safe at Hebrew University. My youngest, Little Babe, came home from school and I casually asked him whether he had heard anything at school (he hadn't), wondered if I should give him a heads-up about that which he was likely to hear about tomorrow at school.

I counted forward five hours and decided against calling Big Babe, my oldest, studying in Berlin. It was the middle of the night in Europe. He would hear in the morning.

It is now night and the news reports are more complete. The gunman was not Palestinian but Israeli Arab, from East Jerusalem. I do not even know what this signifies. There was widespread celebration in Gaza. This needs no interpretation. Eight are confirmed dead. Several of the wounded are critically injured. One of the rabbis at the yeshiva, weeping, told the Israeli government it could go to hell. Many of the students died clutching sifrei kodesh, holy books. Photographs from the crime scene show bullet holes through glass, bloody tzitzit, body bags lined up on the floor, members of Zaka collecting human remains for burial, blood, blood everywhere.

Tomorrow is Topsy Turvy Day at SAR Academy, the marvelous school Little Babe attends. He has his crazy outfit all ready, cannot wait to get on the bus in mask and cape, a dress rehearsal for Purim, a joyous celebration of the start of the month of Adar.

The murdered students at Mercaz Harav Kook had gathered tonight for special classes on the meaning of the joyous month of Adar. Instead of celebration, there will be funerals, said one of the grieving rabbis.

Emails for phone vigils and solidarity calls with Israel now fill my inbox. Jewish message boards are filling up with reactions to the murders. I find myself wondering if SAR will even celebrate Topsy Turvy Day tomorrow, or seek to postpone it. I try to think like an administrator, like a rabbi, and figure out the right reaction, the proper message, the teachable moment for American Jewish kids in the face of this tragedy in Israel.

It would have been clever to end this post with the assertion that today, everything went topsy turvy in Jerusalem but the reality is that what happened today is nothing too unusual, has plenty of precedent.

And sadly, the lesson for our children -- even now, in the 21st century -- is that being Jewish is sometimes a crime that is punishable by death.

War and Betrayal

At Friday night dinner, our friend Nella told us about the performance of Macbeth she and her husband Jack saw this past week at BAM, describing it as the most transcendent and absorbing theatrical experience they had ever had.

Instantly, I took stock of the memorable Shakespearean productions I have seen -- Macbeth and Romeo and Juliet by the Royal Shakespeare Company at Stratford Upon Avon in England in the spring of 2004; King Lear performed by a community theatre in Middlebury, VT some 15 years ago; Taming of the Shrew at Shakespeare and Company in the Berkshires three summers ago; As You Like It this past summer at Shakespeare on the Hudson in Garrison, NY; Kenneth Branagh's masterful film adaptation of Hamlet, first glimpsed at Cinematheque in Jerusalem in 1998.

Though I love the inspired lunacy and quick wit of the Shakespearean comedies, I am utterly undone by his tragedies, adore finding myself face to face with such grand themes as Fate and Irony and The Vast Indifference of the Universe, not to mention Tragedy Itself.

Shakespeare's sense of the tragic lingers long after one has left the theatre. That is part of his genius and his enduring appeal. Shakespeare's tragedies are exquisite torment, a sore tooth to be tested every few moments by a probing tongue.

Hearing Nella gush about BAM's Macbeth induced me to move it to the exalted Must-Do position on my cultural To-Do list...until last night's SoHo production of George Packer's exquisite, urgent and of-the-minute drama, Betrayed rendered Shakespeare suddenly irrelevant.

This blog is not a repository for reviews, so I will demur detailing the superb performances of the Culture Project cast, or the well-wrought script by Packer, a journalist who had been sent to Iraq by the New Yorker and who wrote the award-winning book, The Assassin's Gate: America in Iraq.

Betrayed is based on Packer's experiences as a journalist in Iraq. The essence of the play's success lies in his ability to isolate one aspect of the fiasco that is the War in Iraq: the betrayal of Iraqi civilians who risk their lives for the Americans, going to work every day in the American compound as translators, as drivers, as secretaries and support staff and eventually find themselves marked for death by Iraqi death squads and civilians for being so-called "spies."

What Packer found out though his interviews with these brave, principled, desperate or foolish Iraqis is that the American government couldn't care less about their fate. And as US personnel and officials hid behind protocol and codes and bureaucratic procedure, many of the helpful, America-friendly Iraqis were hunted down like dogs and killed.

The War in Iraq is many things, none of them good. It is based on a lie that is built upon a house of lies that is difficult or maybe even impossible to untangle.

It is misguided, confused, poorly-planned, badly-executed, ill-led, immoral and, yes, very tragic. Packer is not so lefty as to pretend that Saddam wasn't a monster, that life under his regime was not a hell for Iraqi civilians. He doesn't glorify Iraqis either, making certain that the audience understands the manners in which they botched opportunities for their own redemption.

The play is not an anti-War in Iraq polemic, but it is pretty difficult to emerge from Betrayed feeling good about George W's war. Still, George P steers clear of too-easy, sloganeering politics to shine a klieg light on one terrible narrative in the midst of this tragic war.

The story that Packer illuminates allows the audience to shift from a general political stance to something far more tangible and specific: sadness, despair, outrage or just plain anger at the US government's moral and bureaucratic abandonment of the Iraqi civilians who risked their lives to help the US effort BECAUSE THEY BELIEVED IN AMERICA.

By the time the curtain falls on Adnan's soliloquy, the audience is stunned into heavy silence, brought to a place beyond consolation. Packer's Betrayed is drama beyond redemption. It presents a glimpse of hell, tragedy as a darkened funhouse whose roof is caving in and whose floor has rotted away.

And the culprit, the demented grand carnival master, is not the Germans or the Russians or the Japanese or Lady Macbeth this time, but the Americans.

The United States.

Us.

Chocolate or Vanilla?

There are moments in life when it seems that everything comes down to two choices: Elvis or the Beatles; the Sharks or the Jets; steam room or sauna; innie or outtie; tomato or tomahto; boxers or briefs; Israel or the Palestinians; Tylenol or Advil; Paris or London; dogs or cats; pro-life or pro-choice; creation or evolution; morning person or night person; Tom or Jerry; red wine or white wine; Hillel or Shammai; vanilla or chocolate; Hillary Clinton or Barack Obama.

Such a moment is now, of course, with the people in my life divided neatly or messily into the Hillary or the Obama camps, with leakage into the McCain camp...in case Obama gets the nomination.

Such a situation exists in my household as well, with HOBB (Husband of Bungalow Babe) swept up in the cult of Obama while I stand staunchly behind Hillary, trying to communicate to my two voting age children my political preference without being overly heavyhanded about it.

Restrained though I may be on the homefront, except in arguments with HOBB where I defend myself against his assertion that the Jewish resistance to Obama is covert racism, every time I leave the house, the question hangs heavy in the air and I happily volunteer my opinion.

"What do you think of Obama?" asked my friend, a Hungarian poet and filmmaker I bumped into yesterday in the hallway of the Jewish Theological Seminary, prompting a discussion where we discovered that we share the same perspective. "Who you vote for?" the Korean manicurist asked last week as she painted my nails. "My parents are voting for Hillary Clinton. Who are your parents voting for?" I overheard Little Babe's seventh grade friend ask yesterday as they played Go in the living room.

If the election could be held in the locker room of The JCC in Manhattan, my preferred hangout, Hillary would sweep. Within the JCC locker room reside Hillary's staunchest supporters - tough and smart Jewish women from New York who are incensed by Obama's easy wrestling of the party's support away from hard-working Hill. As they see it, Obama is a Ken Doll with poseable limbs, a young, charismatic white guy who happens to have black skin, an exercise in smoke and mirrors, a rock star, a media creation, the Britney Spears (pre-breakdown) of politics, an undeserving and possibly dangerous choice for president.

And I think it is safe to say that among members of my parents' generation, it would be impossible to find even one person who thinks Obama is a good idea. A journalist friend and I exchanged emails recently comparing notes on our liberal parents' adamant opposition to the junior senator from Illinois.

Though I am not a fan of Elizabeth Wurtzel, the famously-troubled author of Prozac Nation and other books, a disgraced Ramaz alum seven years my junior who ruined her life publicly through drug addiction, random sex and plagiarism and who is now, inexplicably, a student at Yale Law School at the age of 40, I must heartily recommend her op-ed of last week in the Wall Street Journal, entitled Hillary Agonistes. Therein, she nailed the Obama mania sweeping the nation, deconstructing it in a rather brilliant manner. Her main thesis: the Hillary-Obama drama is the story of women and success in America. Smart woman works her butt off to succeed, plays by society's rules, defies society's rules, has it all, pays her dues, proves herself worthy and young upstart guy just waltzes in and steals the corner office out from under her.

Yep. That's exactly what is going on.

To mix media metaphors and to riff on the pundits: in the reality show that is the 2008 Presidential Race, Obama is our American Idol and Hillary's just been kicked off the island.

Dumb Bunny

Bunny got on my Amtrak train in Philadelphia, alighting with her Coach bag, Searle jacket, True Religion jeans, bleached, Japanese-straightened tresses, Tiffany's necklace, Converse sneakers and a bouquet of flowers, balancing her Blackberry Pearl to her cashmere-clad shoulder.

"Is anyone sitting here?" she asked, pausing from her phone conversation to address me from her considerable height. I was on my way back from a kinetic convention in DC, had logged about 10 hours of sleep over the four nights of my stay, had been sustained by my morning Venti from Starbucks and a nightly glass (or two) of Pinot Noir...with a Caesar salad or two in between...had spent untold hours on the phone with reporters and had now finally ended my fact-checking with the Washington Post and was slumped low in my window seat, lovingly caressing the Collected Works of Oscar Wilde that I had just pulled out of my bag with the intent to read.

It was a Thursday afternoon and the train was packed. From Baltimore until Philadelphia, I shared my seat with a forty-something guy I guessed to be a professor of English at the University of Maryland. He had been an ideal seatmate; nodding courteously to me in welcome, then spending his travel time reading Evelyn Waugh and dozing. Pulling into the Philadelphia station, he hopped off the train. His replacement was a student. U of P, it seemed. Rich kid, based on the clothes, accessories and attitude. Mediocre scores and transcript, I guessed. Sorority girl. Boyfriend at Yale or Princeton. Twenty years old.

A few minutes into the train ride towards Manhattan, my first impressions were confirmed. My seatmate -- Bunny , believe it or not -- was a senior at U of P. There was a boy or a friend or a suitor of some sort who wanted to take her for drinks and dinner but she didn't see the point. There was a party that night at the Yale club that she was bound for. She complained about a dress whose pleating was ruined. She should have sent it in a steamer trunk. There was a test she took that she was unprepared for. It had something to do with geopolitics. Her mother thought she should have studied more. Actually, she thought she did okay and her mom shouldn't worry about it.

Bunny's private cell phone conversation rang clear and loud through the Amtrak car. The frumpy, chubby, Jewishy college girl across the way, who got on in Baltimore (Goucher student? University of Maryland? Towson State?) shot annoyed glances Bunny's way but Bunny was way too involved in her conversation to take note. Finally, Girl Across the Way plugged in her i-pod headphones. A guy in front of GATW turned around a few times to gape at Bunny who was oblivious to the fact that she was pissing off the entire Amtrak car, probably because she was so vexed about her dress. But evidently not so vexed that she didn't go into great detail about another dress she just bought. Then she talked about a friend and her sorority. Then she talked about Hong Kong, where she evidently grew up.

Long-limbed and slim, blond and utterly bland, Bunny kept rearranging her legs on the seat arm in front of her, trying to find new ways to tuck her five feet nine inch self into the cramped space. She compulsively referenced the Yale Club, as if it might disappear unless she kept saying its name, as if afraid that her fellow passengers might miss the news that she was going there. Tonight. For a party.

She talked about a Harvard-Yale event. She talked about last year's trip to Madrid. She talked about her upcoming trip to Acapulco and how insane she was for going! That adventurous, globe-trotting Bunny! And to think that I had the honor of sitting next to her!

While the tales of Bunny's life were certainly riveting, I was finding it rather difficult to concentrate on "Lord Arthur Savile's Crime," the short story I was currently reading. After ten minutes, difficult evolved into excruciating and after fifteen minutes, excruciating became impossible. I was stuck in a loop where I could only read and re-read the paragraph where Mr. Podgers, the chiromantist, foretells the murder he sees in Lord Arthur's palm.

We stopped at one of those forgettable stations between Philly and NYC. As the conductor came around to collect tickets, I half-stood, looking around the crowded car for available seats. Seeing none, I blurted to the conductor, "Do you see any free seats?" Scanning the car, he told me that he didn't see anything. Bunny turned towards me and our eyes locked. I fixed her with a look that I hoped was at once calm yet hinted of underlying violence.

"You are talking extremely loudly," I said. "Could you please try to keep your voice down? It's really annoying."

Bunny was taken aback; indeed her expression conveyed surprise mixed with mild affront.

"You are sitting next to me," she finally said. "This is a small space."

I sniffed the air for fear and picked up only the faintest hint. While it normally takes very little to provoke me into confrontations with strangers, I found myself loathe to have a showdown with Bunny, perhaps because she was the same age as Middle Babe and I could foresee my daughter in a similar situation on a train, annoying the hell out of a middle-aged woman whom I hope would give my girl the benefit of the doubt.

However, I was in touch with my inner vigilante and paid tribute to my desire to slug Bunny in her privileged, white bread face. Or chop up her creased dress with gardening sheers. Or pour Nair on her Paris Hiltonesque locks.

If there is anything I hate more than loud public cell phone yapping, it is entitlement. Of which Bunny had plenty. And narcissism. And lack of consideration. And self-absorption.

"That's right; it is a small space," I conceded, gazing down at her with folded arms. I hoped I sounded just like one of her English professors, telling her that the paper she handed in on Zadie Smith was substandard. "That's why when I speak on the phone -- which I did the entire way from DC to Philly -- I do so quietly, out of consideration for the people around me. Also, out of respect for my own privacy. I think I know every detail of your life right now. I hope everything turns out okay with your wrinkled dress."

Well, that shut Bunny's mouth but alas, the lowered decibel yapping lasted for, oh, about five minutes...and then resumed at full volume. By this point, I wanted to borrow some poison from Lord Arthur. When the train pulled into a new station, I stood up, grabbed my Swiss Army knapsack, Oscar Wilde collection, Old Navy pea coat from 1999 and H&M black leather bag, stepped over Bunny with a haughty, "excuse me" and went in search of a seat where I could enjoy Wilde's acid-penned depictions of people just like Bunny, written more than a century before the invention of the cell phone.

The Importance of Being in Dublin

At 2:20 in the morning, the gracious sitting rooms of the Hotel Merrion in Dublin are sparsely populated. At any other hour of the day, from breakfast to just about an hour ago, it takes a reservation to gain a seat on one of the floral upholstered armchairs or sofas but now I sit in near isolation, typing on my trusty laptop while HOBB sleeps in our room.

It has been a four-day whirlwind trip to Dublin and I have fallen madly, deeply and heedlessly in love with this city. HOBB has warned me to stop telling everyone who will listen that I never realized just how close Dublin is to New York because it sounds terribly naive but I cannot stop myself from marveling out loud over this late-in-life discovery.

For the same amount of time that it takes to fly from New York to, say, Seattle, I have landed in Europe's most charming, agreeable and marvelous city.

And they fed me the entire flight, shaming the US airlines who have adopted an unconscionable food-free policy for its cross-country flights.

It is two hours past midnight and I appear to be the only person in the lobby save for the group of polyglot people singing in the next sitting room over. About an hour ago, I was shocked to see refined older couples staggering drunkenly through the lobby. They were followed by groups of hipster rock-star types who probably were rock stars. A few young newlywed couples in expensive garb also made appearances but eventually all departed, leaving just me, the embers in the fireplace, the spirited singing one room over and my impressions of the past few days.

So...what can I report about my new love -- Dublin -- when I should be grabbing the few hours of sleep I have before my 9 am flight?

Nothing organized or rational, merely hints and fragrances -- snatches of "Dublin City" piping through HOBB's i-pod as we rode the bus in from the airport; the ubiquity of woolen scarves and overcoats on passing pedestrians; a genial good-heartedness in absolutely everyone I have met, from the hotel staff to shop owners to cab drivers to locals; the verve and bop of Grafton Street; the happy incidence of Insomnia Coffee shops outnumbering Starbucks; cathedrals and churches looming large upon the city's landscape but standing still and somber and lifeless as mausoleums; Trinity College forming the thriving, beating heart of the city; the dependable Liffey belting the city round the middle, asserting itself more modestly than the Thames but becoming more beautiful by night; a city staple: folk singers in bars who never leave without a rendition of "Molly Malone;" the well-preserved old storefronts and building facades which harken back to the world of my childhood and realms glimpsed only in novels and dreams; beyond; the palpable legacy of Joyce, Wilde, Yeats, Stoker, Swift, Shaw and their literary comrades in arms in every brick and cobblestone of the city; the transfusion brought by the new affluence and vitality pumping through the streets; the sorrowful undercurrent born of the memory of poverty and woe; and the gentle, lyrical accent scenting the air, keeping it fragrant even as Dublin diversifies, welcoming an international community.

I can hardly explain the sense of wellbeing I experience here. I can barely contain my joy at the ubiquitous beauty that results from the good marriage between the architecture and landscape of the city. I want to capture the inspiration that flows, like the Liffey, through the middle of Dublin, pulsing up through the soles of my feet.

I am awash in the sense that I have returned to a beloved place from long ago.

My first day here -- bleary-eyed, beleagured by jet-lag --I fancied that I had landed in a New England town, a section of Boston or Cambridge or Brooklyn Heights I had somehow never seen before.

The feeling was akin to those dreams where one discovers a room in one's house previously unrevealed.

The magic of my visit is further enhanced by my new friendship with Oscar Wilde, forged last night when I started reading The Picture of Dorian Gray aloud to HOBB on this very sofa.

Of course, I felt somewhat self-conscious about reading aloud in public, yet it was also lovely and romantic and reminiscent of our early courtship and marriage when I insisted on reading HOBB Harriet the Spy, the seminal book of my childhood. And so I read, keeping my voice barely audible, glancing at HOBB to make sure he was awake and listening. After two chapters of Dorian Gray, HOBB grew tired and asked to go to our room. We decamped there and went to bed. A short while later, he fell asleep, yet I lay awake, tired in body though agitated in spirit.

My thoughts were stirred by Lord Henry and Dorian and Basil.

Or more pointedly, by Oscar Wilde, of course, who utterly captivated me, making me put aside the volume of Moravia I packed for my trip, forcing me to stumble out of bed at an hour well past midnight to join him on the floor of our $400 a night hotel room.

And so I bunked down with Wilde, Dublin's native son, dead at the age of 46, banished and broken, survived by his brilliance, wit, insight and devil-may-care joie de vivre.

Last night, in the city where Oscar Wilde was born, over a century after his death, I dragged the quilt cover from the bed and sofa cushion of my hotel bed to fashion a makeshift bed for myself in the foyer of our room -- just outside the bathroom,with access to light -- and continued to read The Picture of Dorian Gray, passing out from exhaustion only when the sky turned gunmetal outside our hotel window.

Finding me sleeping on the floor, the Collected Works of Oscar Wilde resting on the carpeting beside me, HOBB stepped over me on his way to the bathroom, passed out like a drunk --drunk on literature, on Oscar Wilde, on Dublin, on love itself.

It is preposterously late now...3:15 am. Even if I fall asleep now, I will gain only two hours before needing to wake, pack, toss down some tea and head to the airport. The group next door has segued from Irish folk songs to Spanish melodies, Broadway tunes and early Jazz standards. The waiter came by and brought me a complimentary bowl of nuts and spring water. He must feel sorry for me, typing alone in a sitting room.

He needn't pity me in the least. I feel like the luckiest person in the world.

I have discovered Dublin.

And I have discovered new love.

Delusions of Grandeur

Yesterday afternoon, a dozen or so of HOBB's graduate students traipsed through the Urban Bungalow for a holiday brunch. What struck me instantly was their sincerity...and youth. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, they were not much older than our oldest son, 23-year-old Big Babe, now living the life of the expatriate American writer-at-large in Berlin.

The presence of so many young adults who technically could have been my children made me feel a bit like The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe. The presence of Little Babe, Middle Babe and Alfie the Pomeranian completed the domestic tableau.

Then again, in my high black boots, black tights and black and purple dress, I felt more like the Bungalow Babe Who Lived in a Platform Shoe and the tableau was more punk than pastoral.

After the students had all cleared out, I fell into conversation with one of HOBB's colleagues. A former editor of a community newspaper, her part-time position at the university was her only current means of employment. She had three small children whom she was devoted to raising, nevertheless, her minimalistic working status gave her "an inferiority complex" around her colleagues at the school, she confessed, many of whom were high-powered, high-profile, high-achieving journalists.

While I was inclined to protest the very notion that she should suffer from intimations of inferiority, as a forty-something who has been waiting for her "real" life to begin for, oh, the past twenty-something years, I knew exactly what she meant. For a variety of reasons -- some very different from hers (I've been horribly over-employed for much of my adult life, for instance), others similar (I am often in the company of well-known, successful writers) -- I, too, have had a complex about my personal achievements.

And I insist on the legitimacy of my feelings. After all, though I've worked hard most of my adult life and kept our family solvent and even been reasonably successful in my chosen field, what I've really wanted is something quite different: reams of articles, stories, a bestselling book or two, a writer's life, a writer's legacy.

And though I am prone to falling into the gloom of under-achievement, I still believe that my life can change course any second now.

We talked for a while, this mother/journalist and I, trading details of our lives. She described herself as coming late to journalism, to marriage, to motherhood. My trajectory was completely opposite, I said. I did everything early. Married at 22, I became a mother at 23 and freelanced my way as a journalist until it became clear that I needed to get a full-time job or my children would go naked and starve.

I changed professional course when I was 32, opting for full-time work outside of journalism.

Because of financial constraints, I didn't have the opportunity to pursue my writing, I said.

No, she corrected me. You did. But you chose something else at that stage of your life.

Her honesty took me by surprise. I resisted the idea, then considered it and finally embraced it. She was correct. I decided to pursue another means of income for a variety of well-considered reasons.

Anyway, there we were on a frigid and overcast Sunday afternoon in mid-December: two writers with six children between us, confessing our feelings of inadequacy. Physically, we could not have been more opposite; one of us is small with long blond hair, the other tall with short dark hair. One of us feels under-employed, the other over-employed. One of us is raising small tykes, the other has two children who are no longer minors and another on the verge of becoming a Bar Mitzvah. I don't know her age exactly but I doubt there is a decade between us.

I look at this woman and see an enviable, balanced life -- marriage, children, a part-time job at an Ivy League institution, an apartment in the greatest city in the world. And I cannot guess how I appear to her but know that similar elements are also present in my life.

And while I will happily accept praise for any of my achievements -- including my ability to pair high black boots with a purple and black summer dress -- I retain the right to hold onto my sense of sadness in the face of unfulfilled personal ambitions because it is this very sorrow that has the power to propel me forward.

All I Want For Chanuka...Is For New York To Be Just Like Zabar's

To see me on the street, you'd never guess that inside this Bungalow Babelicious bod resides a grumpy old lady. Lately, however, everything in this town has been getting on my nerves...leading me to upgrade one of my favorite part-time activities -- kvetching -- to full-time status.

As I've blogged recently, the inconsiderate locker room behavior of my fellow Upper West Siders has been a source of irritation, then again, it hardly compares to the menacing, loud and potentially lethal threat posed daily by NYC teens on our city's subways.

A recent video has been making the rounds, showing a group of loud and obnoxious black girls verbally and then physically harassing a white guy on the A train. The video's posted on one of my fave sites -- Gawker (http://www.gawker.com/) -- where the reader feedback is heated. An article about it occupies an entire page of today's New York Daily News.

While the veracity of the video is being questioned, it sure has touched a nerve among its viewers. To read Gawker's readers' comments is to discover a fellowship of urbanites who are all-too-familiar with the incidence of menacing teens in this town, especially on the subway. The racial component is either irrelevant or highly relevant, I cannot decide.

Still...my reaction to outta-control teens who hold entire subways cars hostage to their thuggery (during daylight hours, at least) is annoyance, not fear. Frankly, I want them to shut the $%&* up, get off my train, stop terrorizing little kids and old people and everyone in between and learn some basic respect for humanity. I want them to stop ruining the quality of life in this town. I want them to get the message that their behavior is unacceptable...and has repercussions.

This is such a ubiquitous problem that I am astonished that Mayor Bloomberg hasn't devoted himself to the task of cleaning up our subways -- coming down hard on the offenders, dispatching SWAT teams, if necessary to patrol the subways and start handing out summonses for offensive behavior. Correct me if I am wrong, but it seems that there is no disincentive for these vilde chayahs to continue their wilding. Correct me if I am wrong, but it seems that New York's Finest are busy putting tickets on improperly parked vehicles during the very hours they should be maintaining a watch on our subway system.

No one, it seems, is minding the store.

And that's just the tip of the iceberg.

Yesterday, while hurling myself against the windy gusts that were sweeping up Broadway, I was hit in the legs by flying debris. An entire stretch of Upper West Side sidewalk, from 82nd to 83rd Street was covered with fallen leaves, papers, crinkly cellophane and empty plastic bags.

It used to just be midtown, but Manhattan's mess is now spreading upward. I don't know who to blame for this...the a$$&*!es who throw their trash on the ground despite the fact that there is a garbage can on every single city block, the store owners who are too busy raking in the holiday bucks or the city's sanitation and maintenance workers.

All I know is that it's making me kvetchier and kvetchier, putting me deeper and deeper into an I Hate New York state of mind.

And speaking of stores...here is my final kvetch of the day, though it has nothing to do with New York City, per se. I am bloody SICK of hearing Christmas music in almost every single store I go into, a public plague that kicks in the day after Thanksgiving and infects the entire nation.

I am tired of the fascistic imposition of a regime of over-played melodies and songs conveying false cheer and relating to a holiday that not all of us celebrate, a holiday that itself has been hijacked by the spirit of consumerism. What is especially annoying is the juxtaposition between the upbeat holiday songs and the often-surly behavior of the store clerks. For an especially unpleasant shopping experience, I highly recommend The Gap on W86th Street and Broadway, a poorly-managed emporium where the clerks are either mentally-impaired or winners of the World's Most Hostile Store Employees contest... or both.

The faux holiday spirit is a problem with America, however, and the entire nation would do well to see the brilliant Reverend Billy documentary -- What Would Jesus Buy? -- which I blogged about last week. Watching WWJB?...and actually meeting Rev. Billy last week at a live performance with the choir of his Church of Stop Shopping at a club in Chelsea... I was reassured that my grumpy reaction to the pervasive Christmas spirit in stores was not, alas, anti-Christian.

I was also heartened to hear my Christmas-related kvetchiness affirmed by Big Babe, who has been visiting from Berlin this past month. Returning home two nights ago for Chanuka candlelighting, having been dispatched by me to do food shopping, Big Babe stated that the ubiquitous public Christmas soundtrack was really getting on his nerves.

The one Upper West Side store that was refreshingly Christmas Music-free, he reported, was Zabar's.

Which made me realize that the last bastion of hope on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, nay, the entire island of Manhattan, is Zabar's.

In addition to its unparalleled stock of foodstuffs and kitchen supplies and refreshingly Christmas music-free ambiance, there are no out-of-control teens patrolling the store, terrorizing the customers. The sidewalk in front of the store is always clean. Best of all, however, the same women who leave their wet towels in the steam room at the JCC (which Zabar's supports, incidentally), yap loudly on their cellphones and let their little kids run amok or sing their heads off in the locker room of that venerable establishment are on their very best behavior within the haven of the store that Saul built.

In a city where no one is minding the store, I nominate Saul Zabar, the city's best storeowner, for the position of Mayor of New York City. I also nominate myself to be his campaign manager, a position I am free to take now that it is clear that Stephen Colbert is not running for Prez and therefore does not need my services. I am confident of victory, as we will be running on a Quality of Life platform.

All I want for Chanuka is for New York to be just like Zabar's.

Mini Maria Callas Invades JCC Locker Room; Holds Innocent Women Hostage

It was cute for about three minutes.

While stepping out of the steam room at the locker room of The JCC in Manhattan, a tiny, tinny voice singing faux arias reached my ears. Walking to my locker, the sound grew stronger and soon I passed a dark-haired little girl singing to herself while her mother sat quietly beaming by her side, helping her get dressed.

At first I smiled. It was sweet, this screechy, off-key voice in baby falsetto. Opening my locker, I was therefore surprised to see women around me rolling their eyes, pursing their lips and even setting their teeth with displeasure. Wow...what a bunch of misanthropes, I thought, retrieving my knapsack from the locker. Ladeez, I wanted to say to them as I applied my body lotion, don't you feel recalled to your own childhood at the sound of this innocent child chortling to herself, oblivious of her surroundings? How could you begrudge a little girl her self-expression?

Within another five minutes or so, I found myself joining my sisters in sourness. The voice of the little girl swooped and soared with fake fealty with nary a peep from the mother to the effect that her little darling might want to keep her voice down as they were in a public place. As I hooked my bra, the screeching soprano bounced off the metal walls of the lockers in a manner reminiscent of fingernails on the blackboard. A woman next to me actually placed her hands over her ears, grimacing. I nodded in sympathy, furrowing my own brow in annoyance as I spritzed on perfume. Struggling into my pantyhose, I thought I discerned vibes of pride radiating from the silent, doting mother as she presented her little vocal prodigy to the public of the JCC's locker room.

If you want a laboratory of life on the Upper West Side, you might do well to spend a day inside the women's locker room at The JCC in Manhattan. I love this place and often plan my professional appointments around making it to my beloved 5th Floor gym (not to mention the numerous cultural programs at the facility) but after several years spent hanging out there, listening to conversations and observing behavior and interactions, I feel ready to deliver some jeremiads to my fellow Upper West Siders.

The theme of this series of sermons is Self-Absorbed Lack of Consideration.

Sermon number one would be directed to the preteen girls on the swim team who talk at ear-splitting decibel levels and generally leave their sopping towels on the floor, obviously awaiting the ministrations of the cleaning staff.

Sermon number two would be directed to moms of babies and young children who tend to occupy miles of locker room space with their paraphernalia, seemingly oblivious to the needs of anyone else.

Sermon number three would be directed to these moms and caretakers who do not seem to notice their kids running amok, popping in and out of lockers and flipping open the curtains of the supposedly private section of the space.

Sermon number four would be directed to the girls and women who hold forth on their cellphones as if they were in the comfort -- and privacy -- of their own homes, revealing details about their lives you never wanted to know.

Sermon number five would be directed to the girls and women who feel moved to leave disgusting personal items in the shower stalls and damp towels in the steam room.

And finally, my last sermon would be directed to the mother of the mini Maria Callas and all of her sisters in crime. The central message of this missive is as follows:

Your kid's singing is cute for about three minutes and we will smile in friendly acknowledgment of their innocence, charm and precocity.

After about three minutes, however, we start to entertain severe doubts about your intelligence and maternal fitness and self-esteem. It will become clear to us that you are actually getting off on the exposure your extraordinary offspring is getting by screeching to a captive audience that is trying to simply get dressed in peace. And because you remain so oblivious to the fact that the locker room is, indeed, a public space, we will fantasize about sending you and your singing darling "straight to the moon, Alice!" as Ralph Kramden so memorably and poetically put it.

God and the Exploding Zamboni

Little Babe is in seventh grade at a Jewish day school that has four classes per grade, which means that, as of last winter, his weekends have been consumed with the Bar and Bat Mitzvahs of his one-hundred or so classmates.

No matter where HOBB and I go on the weekend, we need to arrange driving and carpooling, as a great many of these events take place outside of Manhattan. So, last night, following the conclusion of the trippy and hard-to-follow Bob Dylan-inspired flick I'm Not There, we drove up to Dobbs Ferry to retrieve Little Babe and some Upper West Side kids from a partay at a club on the banks of the Hudson.

Because of the freezing temps and the morning snow, however, we found ourselves in one of those Holy Freaking Mother of God!! kinda skid-spins while pulling off 87 in Ardsley.

And once we stopped shaking and shouting and saying Shema and realized we had not been hit by oncoming traffic after all (though dozens of cars drove past us with drivers shouting and swearing and giving us the finger), we drove like geriatrics the rest of the journey, esp with Little Babe and his friends in the Bungalow-Van.

With each passing year, as I identify yet another fear I harbor, I become more firmly of the opinion that phobias have gotten a bad rap. While they are presented as some kind of pathological state of mind, what could be more rational than fear of a harmful object or substance?

Googling "fear of ice" earlier today, I found out that, indeed, there is a phobia named in its honor -- namely, pagophobia. However, I beg to differ with the classification of this fear as a phobia. Fear of ice is not a sign of mental illness but intelligence. People actually die from encounters with ice. In their vehicles or on their own two feet.

I am still traumatized by Dr. Atkins's death which resulted from a fall he suffered while slipping on the notorious "black ice," that in turn resulted from snow that fell, freakishly, in New York several Aprils ago. In fact, the word "black" coupled with "ice" sends shivers up my spine. No pun intended.

Many years ago, when we lived at the American Museum of Natural History, Little Babe developed a fear of Black Holes. Late at night, he used to call me into his darkened bedroom to express his fear of getting sucked into one and having his atoms crushed. Though I did the motherly thing of calming him down by reassuring him that he was in no danger of encountering a Black Hole anytime soon, I completely related. My fear of Black Ice is pretty similar. I am afraid of slipping on it and having all my bones crushed.

Which brings me to the ridiculous concept of Ice Skating.

Skidding on ice is a terrifying occurrence that I try to avoid during winter time. Indeed, since first observing it in my early childhood, I have failed to understand how this prelude to broken bones actually became a sport. And an Olympic sport, no less.

Yes, yes... I can understand that in the time of Hans Christian Andersen, in a place as freezing and backwards as Copenhagen, skating down frozen boulevards made sense. However, with the advent of the modern taxicab, bus, subway and car, there is no excuse for risking one's life in this manner. In fact, I think it's time to proclaim people who pursue figure skating professionally as judgment-impaired -- nay... stupid -- a view confirmed by the film Blades of Glory.

Skating parties were one of the banes of my bane-filled childhood. The skating rink was either populated by show-off skinny girls in Olympics-style skating dresses or maniacs bent on knocking you down on your butt. The music in the rink was always tinny and demonic; indoors, there was a damp, foot-scented ambiance that was only slightly mitigated by the promise of hot chocolate. The hot chocolate served by the emporia in question, however, was inevitably the rip-off version of Swiss Miss, manufactured by Pathmark supermarket.

Though I was an accomplished swimmer, cyclist and tree-climber, I was utterly unable to balance on the invariably too-tight skates that bound my ankles painfully and subjected my feet to frostbite while exposing the rest of my body to uncomfortably cold temperatures.

Fortunately, none of The Three Babes developed a fondness for skating and I can count on the toes of one, still-frostbitten foot the amounts of times I have taken my offspring to a skating rink over the two-plus decades of my mothering.

Anyway, two news stories today affirm the wisdom of my unpopular anti-skating point of view:

• A report of a girl who drowned trying to save a dog who had ventured out onto a pond covered with a film of thin ice and,
• A CNN report of an exploding Zamboni at a skating rink in Philadelphia
  

And while the death of the girl who ventured out onto ice is sheer tragedy, the Zamboni story signifies something quite different, I believe.

While there's an element in this story that hearkens to the science fiction theme of "our machines are turning against us," I discern the hand of God in the exploding Zamboni.

Obviously, the technological advancements of the 21st century have done nothing to dissuade human beings from voluntarily subjecting themselves to the dangers of ice. This failure has made God completely meshuggah with despair. Out of this sense of cosmic desperation He/She has now concocted a new and dramatic warning sign perfectly in sync with the early 21st zeitgeist, that is to say, something explosive.

I predict, however, that wily psychologists are already hard at work coming up with a snazzy-sounding phobia to signify the "irrational" fear of exploding Zamboni machines, thus training us away from our innate, natural -- and potentially lifesaving -- fear of ice.