Krazy Glue For You

Throughout this two-week weep-a-palooza at Casa De Cohen I have eaten lots of powdered doughnuts, consumed a WASPy yet acceptable amount of Hendrick’s gin, swallowed a reasonable collection of pain go away pills, made two vats of Bolognese sauce and chugged lots of snotty root beer while marveling with tears in my eyes at how oddly clean our house is now that a large, beautiful pooch is not leaving large fur balls in and around every corner.

What I have not done is written about Otto and his reaction to Brody’s illness and subsequent disappearance. I wrote only what I had to and then posted beautiful photos that made people sob and made me want to throw up and run screaming down Sunset Boulevard dressed like Carol Channing on her night off, a night filled with Beefeater martinis, no discernable make-up, her real, old lady hair and constantly being mistaken for Carl, the younger Channing sibling who never made it big.

The moment Brody got sick Otto began a campaign of making sure I was at least three inches within reach of him at all times. He has begged me to stay glued to his tiny, perfect hip as I escort him to the bathroom, the ottoman and the toy basket. He insists with shrieks and growls that mommy and only mommy put him to bed and he cries when I get up from the table to get him more water or to clear away the dishes or to wash away the dirt I have collecting on the bottom of my feet. It has not been easy or pleasant much like wearing high hells when hiking or watching Bristol Palin dance off her baby weight.

The moment we got the bad news both Dave and I were pretty open with Otto about Brody’s health. Otto was very gentle in the last days petting him and kissing him and telling him that he loved him. It was a far cry from a month earlier when Otto would chase Brody around the living room with a huge, plastic Ford GT as we yelped at him to be nice to Brody and give him his space. Brody was never thrilled that we brought home a little gremlin from the hospital, not so much because of Otto but because of all the loud, plastic junk that comes with a small, squeaky child.

For the last three and half years Brody often hid upstairs on his porch or sunned himself alone in the front yard just waiting and wanting a little piece and quiet until the moment that Otto noticed his main audience was missing. He would then find him and try his best to incorporate Brody in his train building or racecar races. Brody, ever the stuck up snooty dog, would always give him the stink eye and the furry finger and run away as fast as he could.

These odd and funny exchanges were very consistent in Otto’s life. Brody has been there from the beginning much like Daddy’s gourmet cooking and Mommy’s inane list-making and pathetic power-napping. When Otto started to walk he began his mornings by feeding Brody and then accompanying us on a neighborhood dog walk.

But now, his main job has suddenly disappeared like a Bear Stearns internship on a Monday morning. Otto is missing a huge piece of his daily routine and a large slice of his immediate family and the annoying task of making sure a large beast has an ample bowl full of over-priced, all-organic, kibble kernels that cost as much as heirloom tomatoes by the pound but taste like sweet potato-sprinkled gravel.

This must be a huge, confusing void for a boy so young and a kid so bright. No one can pull the wool over this guy’s eyes and we are not about to try. I am lopsided with grief and confusion and often find myself reaching for Brody’s leash or wanting to pour him fresh water in a bowl that is no longer there. Every morning I expect to hear his nails on the hardwood floor or a loud, dog yawn that started out our day, every day for the last thirteen, glorious years.

But I know what happened to Brody and I can process the terrible truth while Otto is left standing alone in the living room wondering where his fuzzy friend has gone. We are trying our best to navigate these murky, melodramatic waters. Even though Otto never asks about Brody directly, we talk about Brody in the past tense while celebrating his life and being upbeat and optimistic. We have told him that he is with a bunch of dog friends and is happy and this seems to make Otto happy, in return.

Each day gets a tiny crumb easier as Otto seems to be slowly prying himself away from his mommy addiction one inch at a time at the pace of an elderly snail that is devoid of his slime. But I’ll take an inch and never demand a mile and already, we see a huge difference. His grief comes in one form as ours comes in another and that is just fine by me.

In the end, I am so proud of Otto for loving Brody as we did and for sharing his toys and his stories with a dog that will never be replaced and will never miss the Matchbox car crashes and the tiny, train derailment. But shit, we miss him and that will never change.

Jail House Walk

Oh, Lindsay...

Pistols and Popcorn Needs Butter and Bullets - A Poem

The following poem is for one of my blog heroes and a real pal. Jodi at Pistols and Popcorn, a sassy, brilliant writer gal I have mentioned before, is pregnant with twin boys due around Halloween. She is as helpful and as generous and as deserving as anyone I know.

So, interwebsters out there, this is how we all can help. She needs supplies for the kiddos and being the cool, green girl she wants the lowest impact and the smallest footprint. She actually wanted nothing but I strong-armed her and insisted that twin boys are no joke and caring for them using an old Scotch-Brite sponge and a coffee cup would not cut it. I thought instead of a traditional shower or registry, everyone can band together and do something positive for Pistols and the planet. Read below and send along anything small or large that you have loved and are done with. You can also click on her website here and read the same list and get an idea of what a super swell sister she truly is. Come on readers, make me proud!

Thanks,

Dotty

Oh readers, dear readers of Pistols delight.

I have a proposal that’s way out of sight!

This lady we love to read all the day long

Is with double baby in belly so strong.

But with the twins coming she needs her some loot.

Like bumpers and blankets and bottles and boots

So this is the deal, a great one at that

Just send her your baby stuff (but please, not your cat.)

The items I mean are things gently used,

The cute stuff you cooed over and never abused.

This recycled shower will do so much good

From hooking up Pistols to saving some wood.

The planet will love you for passing it on

And landfills will kiss you with their breath stinky strong.

But let’s not forget Roan and Anson,

Her other two boys who are terribly handsome.

They want Mommy last pregnant days all for themselves,

Not at Babies R Us under racks and on shelves.

“Paying It Forward” was a super bad flick,

But the act itself is totally slick.

So read the directions and get packing today,

To help our friend Jodi in this lovely way.

Below is a list of things that are needed.

And know they will all be joyfully greeted!

Thanks for your kindness and love and the like.

Oh, and Baby Number Two just asked for a bike.

So Pistols fans and moms alike, here is Jodi’s wish/desperately needs list for her recycled, super cool, environmentally charged blog shower. Anything you can dig up from your boxes of baby paraphernalia would be much appreciated. Please send any and all items you deem perfect for the kiddos to:

Jodi Call (Bloggy Baby Shower)

c/o Area Play

331 Smith Street

Brooklyn NY 11231

718-522-6455

High chair or booster chairs

Car seat(s)

Baby monitor

Diapers

Formula

Crib sheets

Bottles

Breast pump

Little bath things

Stroller(s)

Sleeping bag things that keep babies warm

Baby feeding supplies – utensils, sippy cups, bibs, etc.

Baby wipes

Bouncy seats

Diaper genie

Halo Sleep Sack

Toys

Clothes

Anything else you can think of

P.S. Roan wants socks that look like sneakers and Anson wants sleep

P.P.S. You are all very awesome and crazy cool!

Rome Away From Rome

When my childhood dogs died I had been away at college almost three years and felt somewhat detached from the puppies that I had fallen in love with all those years earlier. Missy and Bear, the hairiest, dumbest and sweetest dogs anyone’s seen since Disney’s unreleased masterpiece, “Homeless Hairy Half Wits” were not a daily presence in my life in their golden years. While I was off drinking cheap beer foam from warm pony kegs and sleeping through morning classes and various fraternity collectives my dogs were lying around shedding skeins of wool and smelling like over turned river rocks after a flashflood.

When their end finally came I was thousands of miles away enjoying the site, sounds and smells of the Rome train station during a train strike and weekly bomb scare. My travel mates and I had just been kicked out of our cheap motel and had no money due to the bank closers that spread across a city that ran on additive gelato sales and impulse leather purchases. I sat on my dirty backpack for five hours waiting to use a confusing European telephone to call my mother and have her wire me enough cash to get us the hell out of Italy and on to Portugal, the capitol of female upper lip hair and codfish.

After kicking ourselves awake every few minutes in order to avoid being robbed by a pack of gypsy pickpockets who looked like The Olsen Twins after diving into a vat of Nutella, it was finally my turn to use the phone. I dialed my parent’s home number, let the phone ring four times and quickly hung up. You see, my parents, since the dawn of time, have never answered the phone without a signal ring. Four rings, hang up, four more rings and voila! They never wanted to talk to anyone at anytime but soon realized that having children meant they actually needed to be reachable in case of an emergency. Their solution was the secret family signal ring, an annoying ritual that still hurts my fingers to this day.

After the third time of inserting foreign coins and dialing close to twenty numbers while creepy, crusty Italian men stared at my large American breasts and suggested marriage and date rape in the least sexy Italian possible, my mother answered the phone.

ME: Oh my God, Mom. We are stuck in Rome with no money and no place to stay!

MOM: Are you okay?

ME: There’s a train strike and the banks are closed and a guy punched me in the face last night because I wouldn’t let my friends go back to his apartment with his roommate and some weird German chick. I think it was a white slavery ring! It was horrible!

MOM: Oh, sweetie, take a breath.

ME: (Cue tears) This is the worst fucking city and I hate it and I want to go home. Right now!

MOM: Well, I am so sorry to hear that, dear. I loved Rome in 1960. Oh, and by the way, we’re putting the dogs to sleep.

A Little Help From Our Friends

Okay, so this was the worst weekend in years and I cried until my face resembled a Don Knotts mug shot after a boozy bender and a droopy D.U.I. I moaned in my sleep like an under- paid street walker and I kept hearing phantom dog steps and waking up thinking it was all a bad dream and that Brody was still sleeping at the foot of our bed and farting like a professional hot dog eater and shedding little argyle sweaters all over the house. And don’t think that just because I made a fart reference that I still don’t want to weep into a dirty dishrag and yell at the coffee maker and kick the couch and punch a Prius and turn back time and pet my pooch and walk him down the street and pick up his poop and look at his poop to make sure he is healthy and strong and ticking like a Timex.

But today, right now, I feel just a tiny bit better, just enough to have only cried once this morning and okay enough to start to write about a really shitty week and really great people. No, I still cannot scribble down Brody stories without collapsing Maria Callas-style all over my keyboard with operatic arm gestures and hellacious high-notes. I am, after all, half Brazilian and that half demands epic emotional outbursts and monthly bikini waxing.

I will say this, though. We could not have gotten through Thursday or the rest of the weekend if it were not for the love and support and help of our neighbors who are truly our friends and our other friends and family near and far. The moment we knew the end was near I walked to the apartment of our dearest peeps Bobby and Ashley, where I proceeded to collapse in the nape of Bobby’s neck and weep like a willow. They came down a few minutes later to say so long to Brody as not only close friends but as Brody’s second family and as his number one dog sitters. The three of us spent an hour sitting with Brody in Otto’s room, a room with a porch and a view of Brody’s favorite tree where he lay on the rug and stared into Bobby’s eyes. That dog loved Bobby and Ashley so much and always slept in their bed when were out of town, something he never did with us, much to Dave’s frustration and confusion and awe.

After they left with hugs and tears a welling, I called up my friend Lizzie and asked her if she would take care of Otto and get him out of the house so we could do what we had to do. Without a moment of pause she left work and raced home, grabbed our friend Katie and the two of them came over to say goodbye to Brody before the vet came to the house. They whispered in his velvet ears and said what they needed to say as tow aunties who knew him as our first child and the stud that he was. They then took Otto out to dinner and then to Magnolia Bakery for a cupcake and then on a walk around the hood and finally back to the house after we had cleared out. They loved Otto and distracted him and put him to bed and tucked him in and kissed his face in the same room where Brody said goodbye to us and gave us the time we needed to howl at the moon.

Add to that our dear pal Pickle who came over and bathed Otto and put him in his pajamas and made sure he didn’t give Lizzie and Katie any guff about reading two stories instead of seventeen or having chocolate milk before bed or watching six more Curious George episodes as opposed to sleeping at all. Lizzie and Katie are too good to Otto and Pickle knew better than to let them put him to bed. They would have bought him a TV for his room and stayed up all night with him eating Halloween candy and tickling his feet.

It really baffles the mind when I step back and realized that all these people who came to our aid in a moment’s notice all live within a one block radius of our apartment and we are lucky enough to call them family. Amazing geographical luck, I’d say. And who says renting sucks?

So, all of this crazy auntie business was going on while Dave and I did a neighborhood pub-crawl, just the two of us, wearing all black and a few precious dog hairs clinging to our shirts. We went from bar to restaurant to bar and toasted Brody with high-end infusion drinks and snotty bar food and sushi and lots of tears and tons of hugging. We got drunk, we cried, we laughed and we mocked and it still hurt as badly as a punch in the throat with rhinestone break dancing gloves.

The rest of the weekend was filled with pits of despair I have never felt and a flurry of amazing emails and phone calls and flowers and a tree to plant in Brody’s honor and drop-by’s and drive-by’s and hugs and gift bags filled with tequila and donuts and old photos sent by his admirers and beautiful blog comments and Facebook messages from those who loved Brody and some who never knew him and everything and anything one might need to get through a loss of colossal, canine dimensions.

The story of the final moments is too beautiful and brutal not to share but right now I cannot write it. I will only say that our vet, a man who has known Brody his whole life and does not do house calls, made an exception and came to our house to help Brody fall asleep on his very own bed, on his very own porch, on his very own terms with the sun shining and the breeze blowing on his gorgeous, furry face.

And the only thing left to say is thank you, all of you, for helping us out and propping us up.

Farewell My Friend

Chief Marty Brody Cohen

March 2, 1997 - September 16, 2010

Whaz up, bitches?

Single, black and white male looking for hot, four-legged lady who likes to nap and not cuddle. I am the coolest, smartest, most badass dog you will ever meet and I look great in a Speedo.

Likes: Chasing squirrels, running after rocks, sleeping in the shade of a stop sign, growling at German dogs, having my perfect ass scratched, eating raw meat and being left alone 40% of the time.

Dislikes: Swimming, bathing, hot weather, small children's toys, small children yelling, small children running and small children.

Skills and random factoids:

I can read minds, shake hands, bark upon request and type 120 words per year.
My favorite color is meat.
I hate new car smell.
I am as loyal as a Bolshevik on a battlefield.
I am into leather.

Only serious dogs with mixed pedigree, inherent elitism and anger issues need apply.

For Brody

I love my dog more than I can say. And right now saying anything at all about this perfect creature cracks my chest wide open and leaves me looking like a felled tree after a typhoon. He is fighting the good fight and I will write about it when it stops breaking me in half.

In the time being, I will use someone else's words and keep feeding him the little bits of roasted chicken, raw ground beef or his favorite IN-N-OUT Burger animal style if and when he asks.

The Dog

The truth I do not stretch or shove
When I state that the dog is full of love.
I've also found, by actual test,
A wet dog is the lovingest.


- Ogden Nash

And the feather weight champion of the world is...

Since our weekend at the beach my stomach has been kicking my ass and my ass is losing. I wake up every night around 4 a.m. with a severe stomach cramps and roll around for an hour praying that I do not have salmonella from one of the icky egg farms in Iowa where the emphasis on filth and fecal matter clearly takes precedence over the desire to give the egg gobbling public tasty, toxic-free quiches and fluffy, fresh omelets that don’t hen peck back.

But then I remember that I am one of those yuppie assholes who loves to spend $4.99 a carton on organic, brown, cage-free eggs from local farms with names like Splendid Springs and Rustic Rainfall, the kind of fertile Shangri-La that loves to advertise their gold-sprinkled chicken eggs with cute little handmade drawings of poultry in farmland heaven on the outside of a recycled, cement-colored cartons that I lovingly put in the blue bin when empty.

So I know that I am most likely suffering from the tail end of a stomach bug that I curse every day, instead of a run-in with a tainted Eggs Florentine. That still does not cure my sudden fear of being fondled by a plate of Huevos Rancheros or felt up by a One-Eyed Jack on sour dough. Those fears, I hate to admit, may stay with me for years to come.

So, with my tummy troubles in tow and very little alone time, my mood has been somber at best this last week. The summer was wonderful with all its weird adventuring and toddler traveling. But now, two weeks from school starting, it is slowing to a rusty stop at a tired station.

Otto and I are maneuvering through a rough patch right now, a real power struggle in the getting dressed, listening, and being nice to mom department. After spreading my boo-hoos all over a few friends with boys the exact same age I have come to the conclusion that these battles royal are normal and natural and par for the bunker-scattered course of life with a three and a half year-old man of steel will.

Still, it sucks scissors when I get yelled at for insisting on hand washing after a stroll through a garden full of cat crap or screamed at for a not allowing him to juggle kitchen knives and broken glass shards while I cook his third lunch. My feelings get hurt and I well up after these hairy exchanges that have included Otto hating his egg frittata (second favorite dish) or demanding a different pair of pajamas at 8 o’clock at night (end of day exhaustion) or refusing to come in the house with me when I have to pee like a racehorse on race day (lots of iced tea and water and small bladder makes mom a buzz kill with bathroom issues).

These demands do not sound like much but when they are delivered in a voice close to the menacing, dental school-by-way-of-the-Gestapo, hiss of Sir Laurence Olivier’s Szell in Marathon Man, than man, it hurts so good. So far this week I am emotionally missing two molars, one bicuspid and an old, silver filling from the Reagan Era.

Part of me doesn’t want to write about this because it makes me feel like a weakling and a whiner and a wimp and it is my business and Otto’s life. Do I have a right to write about the persnickety moments of mother/son banter that leave me in a puddle of melted margarine on an already dirty kitchen floor? Maybe not. But If I do not express my feelings and be honest about my life than my brain will explode into a Pollack painting and leave a CSI mess for Dave to deal with after he tells Otto that the dinosaur pajamas are the only clean ones in the drawer and it’s daddy way of the highway.

My inner monologue keeps chirping that I have only one kid and how hard can that be and what’s my problem and get over it and buck up and grow a pair and shake it off and all aboard! Then I tell myself to shut up with hand gestures worthy of a soap opera femme fatale after walking in on her well-oiled mate lap dancing with the town slut and that feeling that I am feeling is part of the pie I have baked.

Life is hard and mothering is hard and parenting is hard and creating a good human being is hard and allowing myself to make mistakes and cry and get up again is hard. But as my very lovely friend Natalya told me as she comforted me with a hand on my shoulder, no tissue in sight and the wisest words I’ve heard on this subject, life is hard for the little ones too, if not harder. And that, Jack Sprat, is precisely the point here.

Their brains are developing faster than Polaroid photos and their days are long hours sewn together with frayed moments of uncontrollable glee and huge slabs of frustration. They are running in circles at a million miles an hour and then crashing like the Hindenburg into a field of angry, down the street from hungry and bursting into flames of ferocious, all the while having to absorb life’s little man lessons and the world according to mom and dad.

I feel lucky to have friends who can guide me through the rough patches with sage advice and crystal clear conclusions. And I feel even luckier to have a son who is spirited and opinionated and strong and willing to go eleven rounds for what he believes in. I love him like cheese loves wine and Mickey loves Minnie and next time he argues about his sock color or the texture of his toastI will tell him just that. But for now, I just have to practice my foot work, keeping my hands up and my laughter ready. Oh, and I think I may need a tooth guard and cuter shoes.

Steak Bruscetta - My Favorite Dish For Jodi and Y'all

I ate the tits out of this during my pregnancy because the doc said I was in desperate need of iron and little Man Otto needed himself some meat. So, my wonderful, hunky, man in the kitchen came up with this recipe and it has been served at many a dinner party and has been eaten by many a hungry, hungry hippo.

Now, I cannot take credit for putting the recipe together. I had Dave write ito down for my friend and blog hero Jodi at Pistols and Popcorn who is with two babies in belly and needs some yummy steak.

So, Jodi this is in your honor and in honor of the beautiful bookends in waiting and I am so sorry it only took me three months to get this recipe from my writer husband, a dude who puts tons of words down on screen every day, to you.

Enjoy!



1 lb of good steak. Rib Eye. Fillet Tail. Top Sirloin if you're a cheap motherfucker.
1 Red Onion cut in half and then across. Thin.
Hot pepper three good shakes or to taste
2 cloves of garlic sliced thin
1/4 chopped parsley
1/2 can tomato paste
1/2 bunch of scallions
1/2 cup white wine or dry vermouth
1 cup of shredded Parmagiano Reggiano
Salt and pepper to taste
chopped chives for garnish
Good crusty bread toasted dark

(optional - sliced mushrooms/peppers)

Cook steak 4 min on each side so it's nice and carmelized. Cool and slice nice and thin
saute onions until carmelized
add garlic to light brown
add sliced steak
add tomato paste and fry it up cook for a few minutes
add wine. Flame it. Cook down
add scallions
Saute for a couple minutes so it looks like a carmelized love fest
Add half the cheese.
Add salt and pepper to taste

put on top of bread
Sprinkle rest of the cheese on each bruschetta
sprinkle with chives
drizzle with EVOO.

Suck that Rachel Ray.