This is gossip with absolutely no malicious intent. So bear with me as I try to be discreet sharing this absolutely scrumptuous story.

For a couple of years, I have noticed a lovely man and his son on my block. He is divorced and seems to have custody of the young boy, who is about nine years old. They play soccer in front of their building and other ball games. I see them sometimes doing homework at the cafe. The mother is sometimes around – she comes by to pick up the boy once a week and on weekends. It is always so strange when a woman doesn’t have custody of her child. Sad to say, it raises suspicions in me – what is the matter with this mother that she isn’t with her son?

But I have a soft spot for this father – he seems to take such good care of his boy. And he seems so serious with his sensible green parka and the studious look on his face.

Last summer, a divorced woman with four, yes four, children moved into their building. There is something very sweet about this woman – she always says hello and has a fairy tale pretty face. Sometimes she looks overwhelmed, infused with a "do I have the energy get through this day" look. But mostly she looks like she enjoys "homeschooling" her two younger children while the other two attend our local elementary school. Recently I’ve noticed the dad: he takes care of the kids on the weekends.

For months, I’ve harbored fantasies that this divorced man and this divorced woman would fall in love. I’ve noticed that they do a lot of things together with their  kids. It’s sweet to see the man’s son play with the woman’s four children in the yard – an instant family for this only-child, soccer whiz. The combined families walk to school together often and I once saw the father and mother standing underneath the same umbrella, which was for me a sign of latent intimacy.

Well today it happened. I saw them hug. Really hug. Like two people in love. And I swooned. It’s the Brady Bunch come true – a relationship for the parents, siblings for the little boy, and one more brother for the already bulging sibling-group of four.

I may be making this up. Maybe it was platonic hug, a "it’s a hard day" kind of hug. Maybe there is no romance at all.

But for me, it was so gratifying to see my dream become a reality. It looked like the real thing and it made my heart leap a little every time I thought about it.

Yours from Brooklyn,

OTBKB

Second grade girls can be pretty mean. What they call Grade Recess over at my daughter’s elementary school might just as well be called "Lord of the Flies."

Is it diabolical or just developmental?

My daughter has been coming home with stories that would make your skin curl. And she’s no innocent victim. But I worry that she is being manipulated into mean girl behavior by alpha girls that don’t seem to know better.

My girl seems a bit confused by it all. "She makes me be mean to people I actually like," says my daughter about another girl who seems to be the center of the action. "I really hate her but I also want to play with her…" My daughter adds, obviously confused by the attraction and repulsion she feels toward this girl.  It’s a double bind.

I am struggling to figure out what to do. I’ve talked to her teacher and some other parents who have girls in the second grade. One mother, who has older girl, has been through it before and says that you have to do a lot of work at home to counteract what going on. You can’t necessarily change the world of the playground but you can instill moral and ethical thinking in your child.

One or two moms have tried to speak to the mother of the most alpha girl of all but the mother doesn’t want to get involved. "Leave me out of this," she told one mom. "Let them figure it out for themselves."

While that is often my attitude about more benign childhood squabbles, this seems to be a problem of a different magnitude. What goes on in that playground is settting the groundwork for  emotional baggage that could last a lifetime. 

This is my first exposure to the world of mean girls. Sure there were some meanies when I was a kid but I didn’t get pulled in. I better read the books, see the movie, do a little homework. Time for a little consciousness raising for mom and daughter. You can’t start too early, I say. Can’t start too soon.

Yours from Brooklyn,
OTBKB

There’s a nasty virus going around. My son has had a high fever on and off since Saturday. 102, 103 temperatures for four days running. What a siege.

The poor guy: he’s tired, listless, and glassy-eyed. His lips are chapped and his nose was bleeding this morning when he woke up.

Fortunately, he’s really pleasant when he’s sick. Lots of pleases, thank yous and I don’t want to bother you. He’s not used to being sick but he does it quite well. But this virus makes him so tired he can’t really do anything but lay in bed and sleep.

In our house, being sick means we take out the wooden tray and the bell. Ring, ring, ring, We serve the sickone in bed. Soup, sandwiches, whatever. Being sick is all about the tray and the bell. And room service. 

I have pleasant memories of being sick as a child: laying on the couch watching daytime television (Leave it to Beaver, Make Room for Daddy, I Love Lucy, etc.). My mother brought me chocolate eclairs, and Matzah Ball Soup from Williams Bar-B-Que on Broadway.

But being sick like this isn’t much fun. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s actually looking forward to going back to school. Well, maybe no. Not that.

In the meantime, recovery is the main thing. Tomorrow we take him to see his doctor. And before that: lots of liquids, Vitamin C, tender loving care and flufffed up pillows.

Yours from Brooklyn,
OTBKB.

As I put on my sneakers this morning, preparing to take another run, I took a long, hard look at those well-worn shoes. My blue and white nylon Sauconys with the small hole in the right toe and the frayed thread around the edges are like old friends. We’ve been through so much together.

I also put on my official Brooklyn Half-Marathon t-shirt that I got with the New York Road Runners Club registration bag. My race number is already in the special cabinet in the living room where we put small, special things.

The looming question now is what next. Do I train for the New York marathon or just keep on keeping on with light training three or four times a week. There are shorter races and other half-marathons to do. A friend mentioned a half-marathon in Central Park for women over 40 and there’s always the Faster Five course at Jack Rabbit.

I told a stranger with a Caribbean accent I befriended on the course as we turned into the final stretch: "Now that you’ve done this you can do anything in your life."  She smiled and ran ahead to the finish. I never saw her again.

Yours from Brooklyn,
OTBKB

Birthdays.

Been there. Done that. And what a weekend it was. In addition to my daughter’s eighth  birthday, we also celebrated my brother-in-law’s 50th.

For my daughter, Sunday was Birthday, Day 3. My mother and I treated her and two friends to tea at the American Girl Doll Cafe; reservations were made two months in advance. Party of five, plus three dolls: Marisol, Molly and Elizabeth.

The cafe is decorated with black and white striped wallpaper and pink walls. They provide special striped seats that attach to the table for the dolls, as well as tiny black and white striped teacups and saucers. For the dolls.

That’s what I said. For the dolls.

The girls enjoyed ladeling spoonfulls of pink lemonade into their doll’s cups. My daughter asked if she could keep her doll’s cup and saucer but the waitress said, "Sorry, no. Those stay here."

Tea for the humans is a three story platter of tea sandwiches, jello boats, pudding in chocolate bowls and chocolate chip cookie scones with fluffernutter. Then dessert. All the items are named for various American Girl dolls.

The girls had a heavenly time. As did I with my glass of decent Chardonney. The wait staff treated the girls and the dolls like princesses, and the live harpist played "Yellow Submarine" and "My Favorite Things," as well as other classics.

Later, it was on to Peter Lugars, that classic Brooklyn steakhouse known for its rude waiters and  tough-love service in the shadow of the Williamsburg Bridge. Eight of my brother-in-law’s  best friends gathered to wish him the very best on this momentous day. Toasts, laughs, many bottles of red wine fueled a carnivorous evening of red meat and high spirits.

The older I get the more I realize how important it is to celebrate these happy milestones. Hear, hear, parties are a good thing: a chance to honor and toast those we love.

Yours from Brooklyn,
OTBKB

I’d vowed never to have a party at Melody Lanes. The "You can’t hear yourself think" noise level gives me a headache just thinking about it. But my daughter wanted a bowling party and a bowling party it was. Besides, it’s better than having a party at home. Not to knock at-home birthday parties: they’re usually the most creative and memorable. Great for the kids but the parents need a keg of Margaritas afterwards.

Today’s group of eight-year-olds – six girls and one boy – were fun and fairly easy to manage. A volatile mix of personalites: yes. But a great bunch. They all knew how to bowl and for the most part they really seemed to enjoy themselves.

I have learned from 14 years of birthday parties that the birthday child can be expected to have a melt-down sometime during the party. This can be exasperating for parents – you’re going out of your way to give the kid a great day and they come undone.

Think about it: the prolonged anticpation and excitement is bound to exhaust a kid both mentally and physically. True to form, my daughter did have a few moments of sulkiness – the other kids weren’t paying attention to her, someone was being  mean, you know the drill. But it passed and she did manage to have a good time.

It was a great partry, even if it was at that noisy place, and a great way to celebrate eight years in the life of our girl.

Another birthday for my daughter brings with it the realization that the children of Park Slope are growing up fast. Last year’s babies are this year’s toddlers. Yesterday’s pre-schoolers are lining up at PS 321. Elementary begets middle school and perhaps most shocking of all, an inordinate number of Slope kids have become bona-fide teenagers.

As the kids change, the parents change too. New jobs, new babies, new interests, new outlooks. Some marriages survived. Some did not. Life is an ever-changing parade of situations and choices.

While birthdays may induce maudlin thoughts for me, it brings nothing but excitement for my girl. She woke up early this morning ready to do her hair and "dress special" for her in-class birthday.  Birthdays at this age are all about feeling special and being the center of attention.

As we age, birthdays lose some of that specialness. They usher in feelings of shock, fear, and denial: I’m not really THAT old, as well as a desire to stop the clock.

But maybe we "grown-ups" shouldn’t dispense with the specialness that birthdays bring. It’s a chance to do our hair, "dress special" and take our place at the center of attention.

Yours from Brooklyn,
OTBKB

Birthday madness is in full swing. My sister and I drove up to Costco today to order my daughter’s birthday cake. For $14.99, their white buttercream frosted sheet cake is quite a bargain. To my taste it’s helaciously sweet. But my daughter has her heart set on the rainbow with a smiling sun decoration.

Every morning, my daughter asks me to count the number of days until her class birthday (2) and the number of days until her real brithday (3).

BirthDAY is actually a misnomer. My daughter’s birthday will be monopolizing all or part of three days. The day before, I bring cup cakes to her school for a classroom celebration. Afterwards we’ll bring a cup cake to each of her previous teachers – a tradition at PS 321.

That night my father and stepmother arrive for a pre-birthday dinner and the presentation of her gifts. On the actual day, we’ve invited her eight favorite friends for a bowling party at the local alley. And the day after my mother and my sister are taking her, and two of her nearest and dearest, to the American Girl Cafe on Fifth Avenue for afternoon tea.

‘Nuff said.

Did I mention that I’m running the Brooklyn Half-Marathon, a 13.1 mile race from the Coney Island boardwalk all the way to Prospect Park on her birthday morning?

It should be a VERY interesting weekend.

Yours from Brooklyn,
OTBKB

My daughter’s birthday is on Saturday. And you can just imagine the anticipation pulsing through her little body. Yesterday she told me, after I promised not to get mad at her, that she sneaked a peek inside my closet and saw a big American Girl Doll shopping bag. I didn’t get mad at her. I know how hard it is to resist spying on one’s gifts.

And my daughter knows well my sad childhood story. Just days before Christmas when I was 8 or 9, I stood on a chair in a coat closet and found one of my Christmas presents: a pair of pink patent leather Mary Jane from Saks Fifth Avenue. They were EXACTLY what I wanted. A few minutes later, my mother found me in the closet, grabbed the shoes away from me and reprimanded me.

On Christmas Day, there were no pink shoes. None. My parents did, however, give me the shoes a few days later.

Lesson learned.

That story has become a cautionary tale around our house. If I try to get hints from my husband  about my birthday or Mother’s Day gifts he says: "Pink shoes, pink shoes. Remember the pink shoes." Same for my son and daughter. "Pink shoes," we say. "Pink shoes."

And yet as a cautionary tale, "Pink Shoes" just doesn’t hold water.
Instead, it makes me angry at my parents who felt they had to punish me for something so innocent, so human. "Pink Shoes" is not
a cautionary tale at all but a poignant reminder of my terrible
punishment for the delight of finding the gift I so desired.

Shiny,
pink, glowing with potential: it was impossible not to hold those shoes
in my admiring hands. Even if it was just days before Christmas.

I was  a little surprised that OSFO peeked at the big, red American Girl Doll shopping bag. But really not that surprised at all.

Yours from Brooklyn,
OTBKB

P.S. She saw the bag but not the gift inside. I think. Phew.

Everyone knows that the only way to get to the gym week after week is to schedule an appointment with a personal trainer. It’s pure motivation to know that someone is waiting for you ready to work you out. Who hasn’t paid a huge yearly fee to a gym and gone once or twice during the entire year. The guilt, the waste, the sense that there’s somewhere you should be but you just can’t get yourself over there.

Awful. 

The Park Slope Fitness Collective, located at 366 Seventh Avenue at 11th Street, is a perfect antidote to this problem. A space owned and operated by personal trainers, it has  two rooms with most of the equipment you’ll find at a club plus free weights, mats and balls. There’s no membership fee or yearly dues. You simply pay for your training session and that’s that. The sessions are reasonably priced and the trainers are top notch.

Apparently, trainers at gyms are low men and women on the totem pole; they only see a fraction of what the client is paying and they aren’t well treated by management, which is ridiculous because it’s the trainers who keep the clients coming back.

For me, it’s refreshing to see a group of trainers with a healthy
entrepreneruial spirit, working for themselves, and running the show
the way it should be run.

My trainer, Elizabeth Pongo is the cat’s meow. She’s a very smart person who knows a great deal about the body. She also happens to be a stand-up comedian. She keeps me moving non-stop for a full hour; I feel like I’m really learning the correct way to do weight training and exercises. Each session ends with something she calls an "assisted stretch," which is a massage merged with a body stretch the likes of which I’ve never experienced. What’s more, she takes my goals very seriously: to get definition in my upper arms so I’ll look good in tand tops and to lose weight. I wanna be buff. Plus, she cheers me on when I tell her about my jogging my kids, my newest running bra. She’s really great.

I think the Fitness Collective is really on to something. If you want information about the Collective or a free first session with Elizabeth you can e-mail her at pongofitness@yahoo.com

Yours from Brooklyn,
OTBKB

The sky looked smokey black and misty as we left my sister’s
Prospect Park West apartment building on Saturday night. As we turned
the corner
onto First Street we smelled smoke and my husband spotted sparks coming
out of a manhole. There was a distinct rumbling sound mixed with tiny
explosions.We called 911 and within
minutes all the Park Slope companies were in attendance.

It seems that the salt that the city spreads on the streets to melt
the snow not only rusts through automobiles and bridges but also seeps
into the manholes and causes electrical shorts. Sometimes the result is
stray voltage that  last year electrocuted to death the
woman in the East Village walking her dogs, who coincidently went to the same boarding school in California as my husband. Sometimes the saltwater in the
manhole leads to an electrical fire or an explosion like the one that
destroyed a car and blew out windows on the same Brooklyn block a decade ago.

The
smoke turned black and the rumbling got louder. First Street
residents poured out of their brownstones; some said their lights were flickering. A friend came out onto
the street in a vintage fur coat with a glass of wine wine and a
cigarette and asked us what was going on. "I thought the kid down the
street was drumming. That’s why I came out…"

We explained
what we knew. The crowd looked on nervously as the
firefighters figured out what to do: they seemed to be waiting for Con
Edison to turn the electricity off. I  wondered which of
the firefighters had been at the World Trade Center on 9/11. Squad 1
lost eleven men that day, including one of my friends. I imagined that
they looked much the same as they did early on 9/11, as they got
ready to save lives and property, not sure what they were getting
themselves into.

I went home to relieve our babysitter. My husband stayed behind,
interested to see what was going to happen next. After about an hour Con Edison
had not appeared so my husband came home, leaving the firemen watching
the smoke, listening to the rumbling,  and waiting.

Yours from Brooklyn,
OTBKB

I am reposting this for the benefit of those who don’t read OTBKB on the weekends:

A fellow-blogger and friend of a friend – and now a new friend – asked to be the first advertiser on Only the Blog Knows Brooklyn. Her ad for her blog, The Barista of Bloomfield Avenue, is on top of the grey panel to the right.

I met the Barista at a Bat Mitzvah in Glen Ridge, New Jersey. My friend introduced us because we were the only blogger/writers at the party and she thought we’d have a  lot in common. And we did. We had a quick and informative conversation about the ins and out of blogging and I was inspired right then and there to create a blog for Park Slope and beyond.

A great networker, the Barrista is my kind of gal. She’s full of interesting advice and lots of information. And she’s not afraid to share it. I am really grateful for all her help and inspiration. She suggested that I do my blog on Typepad, which I love. And she told me how to go about getting advertisers.

Well, I’ve been a little on the fence about advertising, though I would love OTBKB to be a source of revenue. I feel that one of the great things about bloggers is that they are not beholden to anybody. That’s what makes them so honest, so real, so off the cuff. Blogging is a much needed antidote to our advertising-infused world.

That said, advertising doesn’t need to be bad. It can be informative and draw people’s attention to things they might not otherwise see. It can be helpful too. Restaurants, real estate, small businesses n the slope that need to get the word out, stores, services, events. Trust me, the ads will be cool. Really cool.

So bring it on. The advertising, that is. My rates are cheap. Cheaper than the local newspapers. Much. And it could make OTBKB an even more vital resource to Park Slope and beyond. If you’re interested, e-mail me.

Yours from Brooklyn,
OTBKB

P.S. OTBKB is looking for a few good writers to cover the 3 R’s: restaurants, real estate and/or retail in the Slope and Beyond. If that’s your thing, lemme know.

.

Everyone knows that the only way to get to the gym week after week is to schedule an appointment with a personal trainer. It’s pure motivation to know that someone is waiting for you ready to work you out. Who hasn’t paid a huge yearly fee to a gym and gone once or twice during the entire year. The guilt, the waste, the sense that there’s somewhere you should be but you just can’t get yourself over there.

Awful. 

The Park Slope Fitness Collective, located at 366 Seventh Avenue at 11th Street, is a perfect antidote to this problem. It’s a gym owned and run by personal trainers. It has two rooms with most of the equipment you’ll find at a gym plus free weights, mats and balls. There’s no membership fee or yearly dues. You simply pay for your training session and that’s that. The sessions are reasonably priced and the trainers are top notch. Most of them used to work at The Slope Health Club on Union Street.

Apparently, trainers at gyms like the Slope are low men and women on the totem pole; they only see a fraction of what the client is paying and they aren’t well treated by management.

For me, it’s refreshing to see a group of trainers with a healthy
entrepreneruial spirit, working for themselves, and running the show
the way it should be run.

My trainer, Elizabeth Pongo is the cat’s meow. She’s a very smart person who knows a great deal about the body. She also happens to be a stand-up comedian. She keeps me moving non-stop for a full hour; I feel like I’m really learning the correct way to do weight training and exercises. Each session ends with something she calls an "assisted stretch," which is a massage merged with a body lengthening the likes of which I’ve never experienced. What’s more, she takes my goals: to get definition in my upper arms, to look good in tank tops, and to lose weight very, very seriously. Plus, she cheers me on when I tell her about my running, my kids, my newest running bra. She’s really great.

I think the Fitness Collective is really on to something. If you want information about the Collective or a free first session with Elizabeth you can e-mail her at pongofitness.yahoo.com

Yours from Brooklyn,
OTBKB

Yesterday, at PS 321’s Winter Carnival, an exercise in sonic overload, I remembered how wonderful it feels to sing.

At a mid-afternoon concert  in one of the kindergarten classrooms, a group of musicians  including Frank McGarry, PS 321’s beloved music teacher, and Bill Fullbrecht, a talented kindergarten teacher, performed for the parents and children, who sat on child-sized chairs.

A welcome respite from the noisy fun of the fair, two teachers sang and played guitar and banjo, joined by an upright bass player and an all-around musician who played guitar, percussion and a small clarinet – turns out he is a member of the duo, Polygraph Lounge AND he’s in Paul Simon’s band. It was a real hootananny.

I’d always heard about the great Mr. McGarry. Both of my children have come home from school singing civil rights songs, that they’d learned in Mr. McGarry’s music class. But this was actually the first time I’d ever experienced the magic first-hand.

In his gentle way, he and Mr. Bill led parents and children in songs like:  "I’ve Been Working on the Railroad," "Fishing Blues," Bob Marley’s "Everything’s Gonna Be Alright," and a glorious version of "Here Comes the Sun." With no annyoying prompting, the assembled crowd sang and clapped along joyfully.

It felt so good to sing with this large group; all kinds of voices joined in make-shift harmony.

I  thought of Dan Zanes, who is performing today at the Kane Street Synogogue, and his crusade to encourage families and friends to sing together. "I believe in music as a shared family experience," he told an interviewer. "Not that kids have
their music and adults theirs. I hope to inspire people to go out and
make their own music. It’s easy, it’s fun, and we can all do it
together."

I am so grateful for people like Mr. McGarry, Mr. Bill, and Dan Zanes, who teach our children the simple joy of singing.

Yours from Brooklyn,
OTBKB

The big news around here is that my son’s band is going to have their first gig. And that’s not all. Their first gig is going to be at CBGBs.

You heard me. CBGB’s: the Bowery birthplace of punk rock. Just days ago I penned a love letter to that endangered New York City landmark on this very blog. Who knew my son was going to get his big break there.

Seems that the drummer’s math teacher has an "in" at the club. A bunch of bands from the drummer’s Lower East Side high school will be performing there in April, including Cool and Unusual Punishment, my son’s band.

The band has a lot of work to do to get ready for their first gig. But they are pumped. There’s nothing like a gig to get you practicing. They’ve only been playing as a group for a couple of months

My son swore me to secrecy that I
would not reveal what three songs his group is going to play. "That would ruin the fun, Mom," he said. "That would give everything away."

Yours from Brooklyn,
OTBKB

One of the first things I do every morning is turn on WNYC radio. While making my daughter’s jelly sandwich lunch or pouring my son’s Lucky Charms into a bowl, I listen to yesterday’s body count in Iraq or news of another car bomb attack.

These tragic reports are background to the foreground of my life in Park Slope. While getting my kids out of bed, dressed, and ready for school, the world comes into the kitchen through the radio.

Intermixed with the nagging, the cajoling, the "get your socks on please," I hear about lives cut short by war and unfathomable destruction. These casualities represent real people  just like us: people who had hopes and dreams for their children and themselves.

Often, the radio feels like a downer – a dark juxtaposition to my daughter’s quest for the perfect outfit, my son’s search for his eyeglasses.

I know people who won’t listen to the news anymore because "it depresses them." But I believe it’s important to stay connected, despite, or perhaps because of, the sadness it evokes. I don’t want to cocoon myself and be oblivious to the horrors that exist even if I feel helpless in the face of them. It’s a split-screen life — the pleasure of our walk down Third Street to school, my daughter’s hand in mine — and the pain and destruction far away. Elsewhere.

It’s a split-screen life.

Today I am supposed to teach my daughter’s second grade class how to meditate. And I’m terrified. Will they pay attention to me? Or will they just get bored, jump around and ignore me?

Who, you’re probably wondering, came up with this hair-brained idea in the first place. Well, it was my idea, but it grew out of a conversation with my daughter’s teacher. Seems that the kids get a little out of control from time to time and she thought this might help to settle them down. "I could use it too," she said.

I told her that I’m no expert but that I’ve been meditating for two years and I find it extremely helpful – a wonderful way to slow down, breathe, and focus on the present moment.  She loved the idea and we quickly scheduled a date.

Last night, I did a quick run through with my daughter. I’m not sure exactly what I’m going to say but boy am I coming prepared: I’ve got Indian music, a visualization tape, and a story to read to them called "The Worry Tree" that should help them calm down. I’m also bringing my meditation pillow and a singing bowl. My daughter is a pretty tough critic but she thinks the kids will like what I have to say.

I have to admit that I’m a little bit nervous. Facing a class of 24 second graders — who wouldn’t be scared? Keep ya posted…

Yours from Brooklyn,
OTBKB

For some reason, I always seem to know what’s happening.  It’s just the way I am: I’m a good listener, I read a lot, and pay attention to what’s going on around me. That’s why I started "Only the Blog Knows Brooklyn."

I’ve always been a culture hog. I get it from my Dad. Like him, I compulsively check the listings in The New Yorker, Time Out, the Village Voice and the New York Times because I NEED to know: who’s playing music in town; what movies are around; what’s in the museums, in theater, performance art, spoken word… 

It’s not that I do all that much. I just like to know that I have the option, if I should choose to  exercise it, to see this, that, or the other thing. While most nights evaporate into the ether of dinner, homework, and read-aloud before bed, there’s always the fantasy of catching a show somewhere in town.

So keeping you readers abreast of stuff to do comes naturally to me. And it’s a way to vicariously enjoy all the kultcha this city has to offer. I am continually amazed at how much is going on. Whether it’s a community meeting, an early morning bird walk, a performance by the Wooster Group, a reading by a poet, or a documentary at Barbes – there’s so much to do – if you have the time to do it.

Yours from Brooklyn,
OTBKB

March is hitting me like a sack of potatoes. Now that the fun of
February is over and everyone has gone home, I’m feeling kinda…blah.

It’s
"the February blahs" transposed onto March: they
can’t be avoided, can’t be missed. February’s blahness is cathartic and essential.

But I thought I’d escaped "the February blahs" this year, what with The Gates, the
guests, and all that. There was just too much to do and such good weather.

Monday’s
snowstorm, despite its beauty, made me tire of winter –
the way I usually feel in February. And in a more general way, I am weary and worried; moving blahfully through these first days of March.

February’s eupohoria was real, I think. It seems so
long ago now. I’ve got one of Christo’s orange fabric swatches – a reminder of carefree days with friends and
family. I caress it in my hands to remember the frivolity of those
walks in the Park. Was that just last Saturday?

It had to happen. These blahs. They’re to be expected, even necessary. Yes.

So
maybe everything will be a month off now. The usual hopefulness of
March will be in April, the springiness of April will be in May…etc.

I am on seasonal delay. And that’s why I’m feeling so…blah.

Yours from Brooklyn,
OTBKB

In Park Slope, few would argue that a community needs playgrounds for its children – a space where they can run around, climb, swing, slide, and have fun. 

It should stand to reason, then, that a community like this would also understand the importance of a playspace for adolescents: somewhere to call their own where they can meet other teenagers and be their noisy, effusive and creative selves.

Sometimes I think we, as a culture, are in denial about the needs of our teenagers. We spend huge amounts of money and time thinking about every last item for the newborn and toddler set. But when it comes to teens there’s just a lot of fear and misunderstanding. Fear that comes from memories of our own behavior as teens. And fear of the kinds of dangers they are capable of getting themselves into.

But instead of dealing with it we ignore them by pushing them out of sight or on the street where they are probably most at risk of getting into trouble.

A friend and I discussed this at a party the other night. A mother of two soon-to-be-teen girls, she is concerned that this neighborhood’s message to their young adults is: Get Out! Very few places on Seventh Avenue allow large groups of kids. The owner of the Mojo is sick and tired of having them hang out in his patio; and there’s a big sign in the window of Pino’s that says: No Loitering.

It is, of course, completely understandable that these store owners don’t want the noise and fuss. It’s not really their responsibility to supervise these kids. And they’ve got businesses to run. But whose responsibility is it?

First, it is the responsibility of parents to set limits for their kids and keep a tight watch on their whereabouts. We must, of course, keep them out of harm’s way. But it is also our job to help them develop into confident, creative, socially responsible human beings. And to do that, they need space to spread their wings and play just like our toddlers did. As my friend wrote the other day, "a good community center with
movies, a cafe, a place for garage bands to perform, goings-on, and
space to just hang — away from parents and other pesky authority
figures — would go a long way toward preventing the kind of excess that was in the 321 playground on Friday night."

Yours from Brooklyn,
OTBKB

I am glad to hear that Walmart backed away from its plans to build a big box store in Queens. For now anyway.

Richard Lipsky, a lobbyist with the Neighborhood Retail Alliance, a coaliltion of small supermarkets, bodegas and Korean markets, knows how to fight the big guys. He told New York Magazine: "You have
to identify the little mayors, the caretakers of localized customs and
traditions who are agressively protective of their neighborhoods. Your
message can’t just be about jobs. That gets labor on your side, but the
key is combine a left-wing populist message with a conservative
populist one about neighborhood character. That’s the music that makes
the elected officials want to dance."

There are so many of these battles going on in Brooklyn right now — the Atlantic Yards, Ikea, Fairway, and others. And like Lipsky said, it takes a small group of peope

Sunday’s Postcard from the Slope about the teens who had to be hauled off in ambulances Friday night because they’d consumed too much alcohol seems to have struck a nerve with some OTBKB readers.

A friend wrote: "I think this kind of stuff happens more than it should because there
aren’t enough places for these kids to hang out, to call their own. I
know this sounds ridiculous in a place like NYC, but the truth is that
many establishments — coffee houses, etc, discourage big groups of kids
from entering and/or hanging out. I think a good community center with
movies, a cafe, a place for garage bands to perform, goings-on, and
space to just hang — away from parents and other pesky authority
figures — would go a long way toward preventing the kind of excess you
saw in the 321 playground the other night. How about the building on
the corner of 2nd Street and 7th Ave.? Or the abandoned house next to
Carvel?"

I agree with my friend that the slope’s teens would really benefit from a place to call their own. The center could also have chess tables, games, a stage for performance art, stand up comedy, plays, poetry readings and more. There could also be plenty of art supplies and lots of space for creative activities.

Setting up something like this is a tricky proposition. How do you create a space  that it is safe and well-supervised without it feeling intrusive, restrictive and, well, uncool. Maybe the people at the Brooklyn Superhero Supply Store have some suggestions: they seem to have figured out how to create the kind of place kids really want to be.

Yours from Brooklyn,
OTBKB

What was it about The Gates that kept bringing 9/11 to mind?

The color for one thing. Christo and Jeanne Claude’s choice of hue was both an acknowledgement and a joyful defiance of the city’s perpetual orange alert.

One friend said the plastic orange structures reminded her of the twin towers. And the way everyone kept looking up at the fabric recalled those nightmare September days when everyone was looking up at the sky.

Someone else said that when The Gates are dismantled, it will be like life after September 11th. The way we still see the twin towers in their absence; ghost images in the skyline of what once was and will always be.

The Gates united our city in much the same way that 9/11 did. But this time we weren’t joined in grief, fear and confusion. The Gates were about joy, about the meaning of art, about being alive.

It was a carefree walk in the park for our neighbors and friends. And for that The Gates was worth every penny Christo and Jeanne-Claude spent on them.

Yours from Brooklyn,
OTBKB

Earlier today I got an interesting e-mail from a friend, the mother of a 12-year old girl: "I had a crazy experience last night watching all the teenagers that hang in front of PS 321 throwing up, being picked up in ambulances,  and generally misbehaving. It really did me in. A friend and I  were chatting about what we could do. I’m even thinking about organizing some kind of neighborhood meeting. I don’t know – it just really got to me."

My husband and I were eating dinner at Miracle Grill around the same time so we caught the very tail end of the incident my friend is talking about. We asked someone what happened and he said, "Some kids had too much to drink." That really got to me too. It got me good and scared for all of our children.

I know that a lot of parents are concerned about their tweens and teens. There do seem to be a lot of kids smoking, drinking and doing god knows what right out there on Seventh Avenue. Many of us are especially nervous because we did similar stuff when we were in high school and we’re scared out of our wits to go through it with our own children.

My friend’s idea: to have a community meeting seems like a good plan. In my mind, it’s not a clean up the neighborhood kind of meeting but a way to figure out how to really address the issues these kids are facing. I think the teens and tweens should be part of the meeting along with their parents and it should feel like a brainstorming session and not a reprimand. Maybe there’s some way we can prevent our kids from going down a road that leads to throwing up, being picked up in ambulances, and generally misbehaving.

What do YOU  think?

Yours from Brooklyn,
OTBKB
 

Saturday and Sunday are the last two days to see orange drapes in Central Park. My husband has spent much of the last two weeks there. Day and night, in fair weather and snow, he’s been photographing The Gates, amassing an amazing collection of shots.

So what happens after The Gates leave the Park? Well, I’ll get my husband back for one thing. But first he’ll be out there phographing the dismantling of The Gates — and that should be a site to see.

It turns out that all the materials will be recycled: The steel bases are to be melted and recast as rods for reinforcing concrete, steel plates or steel coils.

The aluminum corners and base sleeves are to be recycled for gutters and aluminum sheeting.

The vinyl frames will be fed into large-capacity grinders and become products such as PVC pipe, fences, tool handles or the inner cores of paint rollers.

The ripstop nylon curtains will go back to being nylon thread.

I hope they leave at least one of The Gates up in the park, a reminder of a very unusual, art-crazed February in our city.

Yours from Brooklyn,
OTBKB

My mother-in-law is  coming to visit for a few days to see The Gates in
Central Park. She’ll be arriving at 5 a.m. in the morning (Jet Blue’s
red-eye from Oakland gets in bright and early.)

I spent much of the day thinking about ways to make the apartment appear less cluttered, less crowded than it really is. I rearranged the living room, and cleaned and cleared things away;  threw out as much as I could. My husband,  of course, picked through the garbage before it left the
apartment. But that’s to be expected.

Early evening, I asked him to clean his portion of the
living room: the part of the living room that has become his de-facto
photography studio and office. It is unbearably cluttered with computer
equipment, photography equipment, wires, boxes, magazines, manuals,
books, and other sundry detritus. The request made him very exasperated
and he told me that the real mess in the living room, the REAL MESS,
was mine. He then pointed to a small gaggle of things on the metal
table: a stapler, a pair of binoculars, some CD’s, this and that. It
was such an obvious diversionary tactic that I found myself
ENRAGED. So enraged, that I  could barely speak for the rest of the
evening.

This
is a battle we’ve been fighting for too many years. Our domestic
styles just don’t mesh – any professional could tell you that. He with his packrat tendencies and me with my desire for a home I can feel proud of. On the eve of a visit from my mother-in-law, I am at my most vulnerable.

My husband and I are not speaking. His mother arrives early. The apartment is,
for the most part, clean. His portion of the living room looks
like a tornado zone.

He just returned from a quick outing to the Met Food for coffee. He brought flowers (probably from the Apple on Garfield). I am studiously avoiding them; they sit wrapped on the dining room table. Oh, maybe I should just put them in some water…

Deep purple tulips. They’re really quite pretty.

Yours from Brooklyn,
OTBKB

Yesterday was Day Two of the kid’s mid-winter break and I was so desperate for alone-time that my ride on the subway into Manhattan felt like a luxurious spa vacation. I closed my eyes and tried to  meditate on the F-train. Breathing in, breathing out, I let my thoughts come and go and didn’t dwell on anything for long. No thinking, no thinking, just the rhythm of the rails; the doors opening, the doors closing; a panhandler asking for some change.

It was a heavenly break from the chaos of the apartment; from too much togetherness in too small a space. School vacations are fun but I was already in need of a vacation from this one.

When I got off the subway spa, I walked peacefully toward my endontist’s office on East 53rd Street past Rockefeller Center and the soothing hustle-bustle of Fifth Avenue. Even the root canal was better than the mayhem back home. The dentist barely spoke – so busy was he drilling and poking, and thrusting his fingers into my mouth. I lay on the chair, my mouth covered with rubber, dental dam in place.  Eyes closed, breathing in and out through my nose, I listened to oldies on WCBS radio feeling thankful for this pensive, if not peaceful, time.

When the dental work was done, I was ready to re-enter vacationland. My husband and daughter met me for ice skating at Wollman Rink. We walked into Central Park and admired orange colored curtains, which have begun to feel like a permanent part of Olmstead’s plan. Rejevenated, I skated with my daughter for three hours on an unseasonably warm and blue sky day.

Yours from Brooklyn,
OTBKB

Yesterday we bought ice skates. Oh, and we went ice skating too. But first came the big SPLURGE at Good Footin’,
the active shoe store on Seventh Avenue near Second Street.

My sister called first thing in the morning wondering if we wanted to go ice skating, which we all thought was a perfect idea for a snow covered day. Then my daughter said,  "Mom, let’s go buy those pink velcro skates they have in the window at Good Footin’."

Now this wasn’t completely out
of the blue. We’d been talking about buying skates because
having your own skates is just so much better than renting those awful
blue skates they rent out at the rink. Awful just awful those blue
rental skates are.

We all met at the shop, which was having a BIG SALE. As my daughter tried on the skates, I decided to buy myself a pair of skates.  Then my sister, decided to
get in on the act. Suffice it to say, the three of us left the
store with NEW SKATES ready for some icy fun in Prospect Park.

And
what a difference good skates make. They really make the whole
experience so much better. In fact, I  felt like I was twelve
again: really light on my feet, twirly, swirly and fast. Figure eights, going backward, I was spinning and skating smoooth. 

Yours from Brooklyn,
OTBKB

It’s so quiet this morning. Snow fell Sunday night and left a soft cover everywhere:  sidewalks, tree branches, rooftops, and cars. Rain and warmer temperatures are expected to wash it away so no one is shoveling, and there are no snow ploughs on the street (they’re not really needed).

It’s "snow day lite" and there are just a small number of foot prints on Third Street.

Snow or no snow, the Slope would be quiet anyway The public school kids have a week’s vacation and the private school kids have Monday and Tueday off. People who can are on vacation — off to Caribbean beaches, slopes in Vermont, long lines at Disney World in Orlando. Those with the extra moolah can use vacation time as an opportunity to escape this slushy season that just trudges on.

Even the kids upstairs who are usually up early playing extreme tag over our bedroom seem to be sleeping. Or maybe they’re at the beach.

But who needs the beach? It’s quiet in the slope and the children are sleeping.  I’m up early and alone in our dining room with my iBook, my coffee, and a bowl of Medley cereal. This is vacation enough for me.

The 10th Annual Cherry Tree 10-Mile Race for the Hardcore went off without at hitch in Prospect Park yesterday. Except for the fact  that the wind chill factor made for one cold morning, it was a gorgeous day for a race.

In our pre-race pep talk, our fearless coach,  Jon Cane, urged us to "run your own race. Don’t pay attention to people passing you." For the Jack
Rabbit Half-Marathon Group, yesterday’s run was a dress-rehearsal for the Brooklyn Half
on March 19th.

The group joined over 300 runners at 12th Street and we were off and running – three laps around the park — by 10 a.m. The cold was a non-issue almost immediately. Running down the hill toward the lake on the south-west side of the Park I was already feeling sweaty and overdressed in my two shirts, two jackets, face mask, hat and gloves.

My husband, son and daughter were there to cheer me on as I finished the second lap. Seeing them cheer was a HUGE motivational boost. As I ran past I screamed hello to them and Coach Cane screamed, "Don’t stop to say hello to your family. Keep running!"

I was high from seeing them for much of the third lap. I saw them again less than a mile from the finish. At that point the kids were cold from standing around in the freezing temperatures. As I ran past I could see whining on their faces. I even heard my daughter cry, "Mommy, we’re freezing, we want to go home."  I felt myself begin the transition from 10-mile runner to mom. But I caught myself and screamed, "I can’t be anyone’s mother right now!"

Nearing the finish line, a lovely French man that I’d been running with got ahead of me. An annoying guy on megaphone blurted out: "Take him, you can beat him to the finish line." I found some last minute energy and sprinted the French runner to the finish. As I passed him I said, "I’m sorry. It’s been really nice running with you." We shook hands.

There were no cups left but lots of huge jugs of water at the water station. I grabbed a jug and  drank to my hearts content. It was almost anti-climatic to reach the end and hard to believe that I’d just run ten miles. But boy did it feel GREAT.

Yours from Brooklyn,
OTBKB