Confessions of a Secret Sprinkle Eater

My sister Wendy and I have food allergies. We are both allergic to wheat, dairy and sugar. It's difficult to avoid these foods, so of course, we cheat sometimes.

Last night on the telephone, Wendy and I admitted we fell off the wagon. "I ate sprinkles for dinner the other night," I said. Wendy had never eaten sprinkles for dinner, but she encouraged me to continue my confession. "I drank a whole bottle of maple syrup once, and I felt stoned. I had to immediately go to bed."

Wendy admitted to drinking the same fluid, straight from a maple leave-shaped metal tin. A few days later when her husband was looking for it, Wendy pretended not to know what happened to the decorative container.

"I ate a whole bag of marshmallows the other night, and I toasted them over the stove and got melted marshmallows in my hair," I boasted. Now we were proud of our sins, like two bragging drug addicts.

"I squirted a whole tube of icing in my mouth," Wendy said gleefully. "Me, too," I said.

But the ultimate, most delicious and sinful item we'd both eaten within the last seven days was cookie dough. Our bodies react so violently to this perfect food, that we can only eat the very smallest amounts of the heavenly nectar.

I wish all food didn't exist and I could just live on cookie dough. In my dreams.

Pot Mitzvah

I'm at my niece's bat mitzvah in Portland, Oregon. She is a poised, popular, giggly girl. My sister and brother-in-law said she was born laughing, and that's true. Her mission in life is to have fun.

I remember my bat mitzvah in 1977. I wasn't as confident as my niece Samantha. I was shy, a little bit awkward, and just becoming interested in boys. I had braces, just like Samantha, or Sam, as her friends call her. I loved studying Hebrew with the cantor, a chubby man with swollen fingers resembling sausages.

My mother had a nervous breakdown right before my bat mitzvah. She was briefly hospitalized at Morristown Memorial Hospital's psychiatric unit. This wouldn't be the first time a family member stayed there. She was spouting jibberish, and couldn't take care of herself or her kids. My sister Wanda and Lolli ended up doing a lot of the bat mitzvah planning.

Wanda had a little business going at the time as a pot dealer. She gave me a half ounce for a bat mitzvah gift. It was the best gift I received, and I proclaimed this to some friends one day in a marijuana-induced stupor. "Hey, my sister got me a half ounce for my pot mitzvah." I thought this was hysterically funny, but my friends just stared at me. They didn't get it.

Well, times have changed. There was no pot smoking going on at Sam's bat mitzvah, although there was definitely some dry humping happening on the dance floor. Wanda and Mark are involved parents and fully aware of the trouble teenage girls can get into. They open Sam's e-mail, and follow her around when she hangs out with her friends. I used to think they were over protective, but now I know they have their eyes open to what's really going on - girls creating fake My Space pages for parents to read, and another one with body part photos; Halloween parties where girls show up as Victoria Secret models.

Maybe times haven't changed that much after all.

The Nose Knows

My nose has caused trouble for me my entire life. As a young Jewish girl growing up in the suburbs of New Jersey, I was teased for having a big nose. John Cepparulo used to ask me, "Is that your nose or are you eating a banana?" I never did answer his question, but it occurs to me now, that as a young Italian boy, he also had a big nose. Perhaps that's why he noticed my prominent shnozz.

As I got older, my nose developed a large bump and wide nostrils. Not too attractive. I decided to forgo a high school trip to Israel in favor of a nose job. A great gift for a nice Jewish girl. I flaunted my bandages and black eyes and even have a picture of my bruised face, flipping the finger to the camera.

After getting a nose job, you never quite regain feeling inside your nose. I have to do booger checks quite often with a tiny hand mirror I keep in my purse.

As I get older the pores on my nose are getting large and dark. Gross. I didn't really notice this until I was on T.V. Kevin was working for The Geraldo Rivera Show and I was in a reenactment about a woman who allegedly killed her boyfriend, and then called a radio station to brag about it. There were a few close ups of my face talking on my cell phone and I was horrified to see my disgusting pores magnified on television!

I had also developed a small red spot right on the end of my nose after years of sun exposure. It looked like a zit, but it wasn't. I used to cover it with makeup, but decided after years of carrying around this tiny dot, to have a dermatologist look at it. On the day Kevin planned to have a release party for his new book, the doctor sliced off the end of my nose and put a circular band-aid on the end of it. I was horrified! I had to go to a party with all of Kevin's friends with a band-aid on the end of my nose? I tried about five different shapes and sizes of band-aids, and finally settled on a flesh colored rectangular bandage. Luckily, my sister-in-law Lola photo shopped it out of the pictures from that night.

Now I have an infection in my nose. My entire nose is swollen, red and painful. It's bleeding and oozing and even my doctor doesn't really know what's wrong with me. My nose is a pain in the ass! Some days I wish my most prominent feature would just disappear.

Cruise to Nowhere

I went to a 50th birthday party on a boat yesterday. Kevin's cousin Andrea turned 50, and her husband Gerry threw her a surprise party on a small cruising boat. It was a chilly, gray day and the boat was covered in red and white striped plastic sheeting. It didn't protect the passengers much from the wind, but despite the fact that everyone was freezing, we all had a good time.

We don't see Andrea and Gerry much, probably once every few years. They haven't even met my daughter Esther. Kevin and Andrea were very close growing up, so we show up to their parties when we're invited.

Andrea and Gerry's old friends were there - girls from the neighborhood, old work friends, cousins and sisters. They were all outer boroughs people, mostly from Whitestone, Queens, where Kevin and Andrea grew up.

I opened a bottle of white wine, and sipped from a pink plastic cup. I was getting a nice buzz and joking around with one guy who worked in the garment center in Manhattan. He is selling Yo Gabba Gabba clothing for children, from a kid's TV show featuring a green striped creature that looks like a hairy pickle, according to my three-year-old daughter Esther. His wife, Dana, laughed about one creature that looked like a "nubby dildo."

One passenger on the boat had on a CBGB's shirt, and we reminisced about downtown Manhattan in the early 80's, and about all of the long gone bands and clubs from that time.

Everyone was balancing paper plates of baked clams and ziti on their laps, trying not to spill their drinks on the rocky boat. The food was heating in metal tins over cans of sterno. Carol Moscowitz and her husband, a pair of dentists from Kevin's neighborhood, were warming their hands over two cans of the purple sterno, like they were having a campfire.

By now, I was on my second cup of white wine, and Kevin and Andrea were talking about Andrea's mentally ill father, Mel. He sent some pornographic images to Andrea, with captions about her mother and aunt. He expected some return comments from his daughter, but Andrea was horrified and vows never to talk to him again.

Andrea and Gerry and their friends love to smoke pot. With Jimmy Buffet playing on the stereo, joints were passed around, and then cigars. The red and white plastic sheeting covering the boat started to fill with smoke.

Suddenly, I looked around at everyone's faces on the boat, and they all seemed old and wrinkled. I felt the passage of time , surrounded by a bunch of ex-hippies, reminiscing about the good old days. I started to feel depressed, and then suffocated.

The cigar and pot smoke was mixing into a rancid smell and I had to get some air. Bruce Springsteen was singing on the sound system now, about being young and racing cars on the highways of New Jersey. I was one of those young Jersey girls once, riding in cars and feeling free.

Now, I'm just a middle aged mom, trapped on a boat. I stared at the water and wanted to go home.

Instant Chazerai

I was shopping at Key Food one afternoon with my three-year-old daughter Esther, and I saw Archway cashew cookies. My mother used to buy these when she had parties at our house. She never bought sweets unless she was entertaining, so every time I tasted a cashew cookie, it was usually bridge night. My father would take out the card tables and set them up in our living room. The scrumptious spread of goodies was laid out on our dining room table. My mother Ruth always cooked the same menu - Swedish meatballs, stuffed mushrooms, and crab dip with tiny pieces of rye bread.

For dessert, Ruth made her specialty, apple cobbler. It was my grandmother's recipe, and it was delicious. She used only Granny Smith apples, so it was tart, not sweet. Ruth brushed the crust with milk and sprinkled sugar on top, and the sugar would caramelize when the crust was baked. She used Betty Crocker crust mix from a box. It wasn't homemade crust, but it tasted great - a perfect combination of moist, sweet and salty.

It was such a treat to have delicious food in our house because my father Phil was always on a diet. He was thin as a young man, but was a heavy smoker. When he was in his thirties, he contracted walking pneumonia and almost died. Phil had to quit smoking after he was sick. His new addiction was to eclairs, mallowmars and ice cream. Year after year, he put on weight, until he became obese.

So instead of the usual junk food that all kids ate in the 1970's, we had diet food in our house. Our snacks consisted of Jello, Rice Krispies and American cheese slices on melba toast. I craved the delicacies my friends had in their lunch boxes: Twinkies, Yodels and Snack Pack pudding. I begged my mother to buy me a box of Twinkies once, and my father ate the whole box in one day. I later hid food in my closet, so my father wouldn't eat it.

My mother Ruth was the queen of convenience food. She went back to work full time when I was in second grade, so she had no time to cook savory meals for us. Our typical meal was Jennie-O turkey roast, which was so salty, it was barely edible. My lunches included instant Giggle Noodle soup, which was basically yellow powder until you added hot water. Other lunches were frozen pot pies and macaroni and cheese. I actually liked the macaroni and cheese, it had a nice brown crust on the top and was creamy and cheesy.

One particular dinner was so disgusting, I can't believe I actually ate it. She made porcupines, which were meatballs mixed with tomato paste, and rolled in uncooked rice. The rice was supposed to be cooked first, but my mother didn't have time for such preparations. The porcupines where crunchy on the outside with pieces of burnt rice stuck to them.

Ruth hated cooking and periodically she announced, "If you had to cook meals for twenty years, you would hate it, too." I never learned how to cook, and I still don't cook much. My husband Kevin doesn't like my cooking, and neither do my kids.

That suits me fine. I think I'll just open a box of chicken nuggets or fish sticks for dinner tonight.

Lady in Waiting

My mother lives in a place called Renaissance Gardens. When I think of Renaissance Gardens, I think of proper ladies in powdered wigs and fancy dresses fanning themselves, surrounded by exotic flowers and spouting fountains.

The Renaissance Gardens where my mother lives does not have such upper crust inhabitants. Instead, there is a woman in a wheelchair shouting, "Help! Help me!!" to no one in particular, and a man who repeats "Awesome!" and seeks a high five from everyone he sees. Some people are slumped over and staring at the floor.

This is a nursing home for people with Alzheimer's and other disorders, who require 24 hour care. There are gardens at Renaissance Gardens, but the residents rarely go outside to see them.

The patients here participate in activities like a virtual visit of Paris or Touring the Louvre. They play Jeopardy and have sing-a-longs of Broadway show tunes.

Most times when I visit Renaissance Gardens, my mother and the other residents are in their wheelchairs in front of the television. Their eyes are not looking at the screen, but at some random spot on the rug or the arm of their wheelchairs.

Today when I walked into the activity room next to the dining room, I scanned the back of the heads of the patients to find my mother. One woman looked like her and I had to stare at her a few times to make sure that my mother's appearance hadn't changed drastically. No, that wasn't my mother, just someone who resembled her.

I walked to her room, and she was laying in her bed. I thought she was asleep, but she wasn't.

"Hi Mom! Happy Birthday!" I said. "Happy Birthday!" my mother repeated. She often mimics what is said to her and doesn't initiate much conversation.

I showed her the flowers I brought for the occasion. "Beautiful!" she exclaimed.

For the next two hours I held her hand, rubbed her back and told her she was the best mother. I tried to choke back tears. It's difficult to see your mother making raspberry sounds and repeating, "Da, da, da, da, da, da," periodically grimacing and growling.

When I held her hand, she scratched me with her fingernail. I pulled my hand away for the moment, but then held her hand again.

I sang to my mother. Usually we sing in the activity room with the piano, but today there was no musical accompaniment. I sang, "Lullaby of Broadway" and my mother's favorite, "New York, New York." She hummed some of the tunes and sometimes she sang along. I can always get her to sing a few words of "42nd Street". I sang one last song, "Happiness" from the show "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown". I started to cry, and I had to stop singing. This song always makes me sad because I remember my mother taking me to see that show when I was a little girl.

My son Trevor has a hard time visiting his grandmother. He is a sensitive boy, and he often tears up when he sees her. Today he was strong and kissed her and wished her a happy birthday. I felt proud of Trevor because he helped some of the other residents and visitors in the nursing home.

My daughter Esther doesn't really know that my mother is sick, and she likes to make silly noises with her. They like to make each other laugh and they both give each other air kisses. Esther doesn't feel sad when she sees her grandmother.

When it was time to go Esther said, "I want to stay!" She was having a good time joking with the nurses and waving to the patients.

I felt suffocated by the stale smell of feces and I had to leave. I was relieved when I got outside and breathed the fresh air.

The Safety Dance

I was just reading an article in the New York Times about a woman who was visiting her family in Karachi, Pakistan during the time that Benazir Bhutto was assassinated. She writes about a friend she had known all her life who was arrested at a protest. The only reason that the author was not arrested as well, was that she had been at the beach that day.

The article really made me think about what we take for granted in the United States. I can't stand our materialistic, celebrity-driven, intellectually-deprived culture, but there are times when I appreciate living here.

As an undergraduate at Penn State University in the mid-80's, I lived with Nooshin, an Iranian girl who was getting a degree in Architectural Engineering. Nooshin and her friends seemed so exotic to me, a suburban girl from New Jersey. I loved hanging out with them. I always felt different, like a third wheel, but I liked her friends, and they didn't mind my company.

Not everyone at Penn State enjoyed the presence of the foreign students. Many students made racist remarks about the Iranians, and called the local Iranian run convenience store Irani-Mart instead of Uni-Mart. Those remarks made me angry and I would try to think of something smart or clever to refute these comments. I never had a quick comeback, but I did tell some people that they were being small-minded and racist.

Nooshin's parents were wealthy Iranians, and they had sent her to boarding school when she was about 13 years old. She hadn't seen her parents or her brother since she left Iran.

At the time, I thought about how difficult it must have been to be away from her family for so long. She didn't have anyone helping her through life; she had to figure things out for herself. She seemed older and more mature then I did. I still depended on my parents and older sister to help me find my way in the world.

Nooshin was afraid for her family's safety, as they were wealthy and educated, and now that the Ayatollah had taken over after the fall of the Shah, they were in danger.

Nooshin showed me her passport picture, in which she was wearing a chodor. She was embarrassed by the picture, and she told me that she dressed differently when she was growing up. She said that now, you could be arrested for wearing lipstick. I couldn't imagine that. Nooshin was always so stylish, and always wearing lipstick.

She also said that there were spies at Penn State who listened to what the Iranian students were saying about the government. I couldn't believe what she was saying. There were spies here? In the middle of white bread Pennsylvania?

Nooshin met another Iranian student, Shariar, and they started dating. He seemed very sexist and demanding compared to American boys. Nooshin fell in love with him, and I later heard that they got married. Nooshin and Shariar were both on student visas, so they continued to get advanced degrees so they wouldn't be sent back to Iran.

When I saw the movie "Persepolis," about a young girl growing up during the Iranian revolution, I thought about Nooshin and her family.

I hope that they are safe and, hopefully, still wearing lipstick.