And now for some good stuff: granting wishes

Just in time for the holidays, I got to give away some holiday cheer. With the help of Camp Mighty, I and ten other lucky people were hooked up with AT&T, who, along with the Make a Wish foundation, awarded us each $3500 worth of gift cards to spend on a charity organization in our communities.

My donations went to the All Stars Project, a nonprofit dedicated to promoting human development through education and performing arts activities.

They wanted to reward some of their kids for their efforts, and asked for portable speakers and headphones--fun stuff to give kids who don't often get stuff just because it's fun. It was an easy (and, well, fun) wish to grant. Do you know how many speakers and headphones you can buy with $3500? I brought Scott and Henry along for the trip, for their muscle as well as cab-wrangling abilities.

I told Henry he had to carry all of these. He didn't buy it.

AT&T gave me 35 $100 gift cards, which took a while to process in the store. In the time it took I became friends with Julio at the AT&T store in Union Square. We're quite close now. If you head over there, tell him Alice sent you. Alice BRADLEY. Then mime using many, many gift cards.

I am not chewing tobacco in this picture. I have no idea what I'm doing. I was out of my mind from all that swiping!

When we arrived at All Stars, Antoine Joyce (Development Officer, aka "Diddy of Development") was kind enough to give us a tour and introduce us around to the hardworking staff and volunteers.

He was quite busy with fundraising work, not to mention attempting to eat lunch while we hurled questions at him.

Here he is, after he finished his sandwich, explaining to us that the kids were not, in reality, posing with German avant garde dramatist Heiner Müller. I'm all, "What's a 'Photoshop'?"

All Stars is an amazing organization. In addition to helping kids and adults through performance, they run the Development School for Youth, a leadership training program for older kids, and work with the NYPD on Operation Conversation: Cops and Kids, bringing together the police and inner-city kids in positive interactions. In 2011, the NYPD incorporated Operation Conversation into their training. 

They also let my kid stand on the stage and perform some German avant garde for us. Or, okay, just stand on the stage. (This was one of many stages. They have quite a set-up at the All Stars Project.)

We were supposed to return to see the kids getting their gifts, but we were all under the weather. Bummer. Antoine sent over some pictures, and maybe they made me cry a little, whatever, I don't know, shut up.

Maybe more than a little. It's been that kind of week.

According to Antoine, the gifts were awarded to the youth and young adult teams. In his words: "these are the people who volunteer every week to guarantee our programs are a success. Some of them are on the load out team that heads to storage at 7 am to load equipment and then work the entire event and return at 9 pm at night."

I think they're hamming it up just a touch. Oh, theater folk!

YOU GUYS ARE SO CUTE AND YOU KNOW IT.

I am so grateful to the All Stars Project and Antoine for showing us all of the excellent work they do, and to AT&T, for making this whole thing possible. This was a gift for us, truly. Thanks, guys!

Thanks for nothing, Nature

All is fine here in the Finslippy household. Unlike so many other people, we have power. We didn't have any flooding or serious damage. We are so very lucky. But holy cow, was that ever not a thing that we enjoyed. Never in my life did I imagine I'd worry about the roof over our heads tearing right off. Turns out I didn't like it. I do not recommend it even a little.

You know, natural disasters are not a thing you expect when you live in the city of New York. We live here specifically because we do not prefer to consort with Nature. We don't live in the Midwest because of the whole tornado thing. We don't live on the West Coast because of when the Big One hits and that whole section of the country slides into the sea. (Sorry, guys.) We don't live in the South because, I don't know, scorpions and shit. I mean, yes, there are other reasons for us to live here, like our jobs and our families and whatever, but mostly we're avoiding the rattlesnakes and the mudslides and the awesome powers of dangerous, terrible Nature. Nature and her many spiders, most of which want to kill us. (I think.) (I may not be right about that.)

So instead of living in God's country, where we could stand in awe of Gaia and her bounty/wrath, we live in God-has-forsaken-us country, where we don't have natural vistas but we *do* have the assurance that we'll never look upon our vista and see an avalanche bearing down on us. In the summer it smells like garbage, sure, but as recompense we don't get forest fires.That was the deal. We had a deal, Nature! (I think I was wrong about the deal. Granted, it was sort of an unspoken thing.)

I hope that from now on we only have to deal with rats and religious pamphleteers, but all signs point to "nope." I think we might need to find someplace less disaster-prone, like the Earth's core. Is that an option? Anyone looking into that?

At any rate, we're okay. I'm so thankful we ended up okay. I hope with all my heart that you're okay, as well. If you can help out, please join me in donating to the Red Cross.

The Mysterious Case of the Dog with the Chicken

A few days ago I was walking Charlie in the early morning--which, for the record, is my least favorite time of day to be outside. I don't mind being awake, as long as I can be in my jammies (that word was just auto-corrected to "jambes"--how dare you, auto-correct) and holding a steaming mug of coffee. Those are my terms. Sadly my dog does not care about my terms. He cares about peeing as soon as daylight breaks through the bedroom blinds. He used to sleep until I chose to walk him because he is the best ever, but now he is elderly and everything's changed.

On the weekends Scott walks him, but weekdays, it's Scott's job to get Henry to school, which leaves me with the dog and his elderly bathroom needs. I definitely have the better deal, but I still whine about it. It is my way.

On this particular day I was stumbling around the block when I spotted a neighbor's dog, rooting through another neighbor's trash. This was unusual--for this dog, at least. We have a couple of neighbors who, if I saw their dogs rooting around unaccompanied, I would not be surprised. Frustrated, annoyed, sure. Those are my favorite emotions. But not surprised. This dog, however, is owned by a family who seems to have their shit together. They appear to know enough not to loose their dog on a city sidewalk with instructions to return when he's done.

This dog is also elderly, and I think either a beagle or basset or some combination thereof, and he was really enthusiastic about the garbage he had gotten into. He was standing in the street, between a couple of cars, where he had gnawed through a garbage bag to get to some garbagey treats. I tried to get closer, but Charlie, being blind and deaf, wanted to continue past him to pee on some things. We had some words, Charlie and I. He didn't hear them. I looked crazy to the people walking by, all of whom probably thought this second dog snarfling through the trash was also mine.

When I got closer to the dog I saw that he had in his possession a meaty chicken carcass. I felt a) sad that someone would throw away so much chicken (I mean, think of the soup that could have been made! THINK OF IT) and also b) sad that the dog could be flattened by a passing car if he moved .5 inches away from the curb.

"I will save this dog!" I said to myself. Not out loud, because I am not that crazy. I called to the dog, which for the record is stupid if you don't know the dog's name. I actually called out, "Here, pooch!" As if this dog would think in its little nut-sized brains, "Why, 'pooch' means 'dog,' and 'dog' is me! She means ME!" Even if I knew the dog's name, dog had a chicken. Everyone knows, when it comes to dogs, if it's you against a chicken carcass, you're going to lose. That's science.

Naturally, the dog ignored me. Charlie peed on a tree while I stood a foot or so away, wondering what to do. I called to him again. I tried different words, like "doggie" and "hey you" because I am extra smart in the early morning, with no coffee in me. Then I looked around some more.

Finally I managed to get over to the dog (Charlie resisted but was then intrigued by chicken smell) and tried to shoo him away from the chicken. The dog regarded me with his wounded bassety eyes and went back to his snack. I feigned anger and shooed him with increased vigor. He then scooped up the entire carcass in his chops, walked past me, and trotted toward his home. This was good because I was not 100% sure which house was his. I followed, and watched him walk right through an open gate and into the open door of a garden apartment in a house a few doors down.

The apartment door was wide open, which was weird. This is not a thing you see in Brooklyn, especially when no one seems to be around. I waited for the people inside to exhibit some sort of confusion--where did this chicken come from?--but there was silence.

I immediately assumed, as one does, that they were all dead. I was going to knock on the front door and call out, "Hello?" and peer in and then I would scream and WHAM cut to me being interviewed by two detectives, one of whom eyes the dog and says to the other, "That's one way to get take-out."

No thank you. I stood around for a few minutes, trying to figure out what to do, wondering why the dog would venture outside for food when surely he could feast on their corpses--we all know that's what our dogs are itching to do, afer all--when Scott walked up. He was walking Henry to school and he gently inquired as to what I was doing, as it appeared I was standing on the sidewalk with a confused look on my face. I explained the situation and he volunteered to be the one to spot their dead bodies (or I think he said he was going to "knock"), which he did--so brave!--but there was no answer. He agreed with me that they were all dead. Or maybe he said it was weird and we should call the police.

Which I did! And did you know? They were more interested in what the dog had in his mouth than anything else. "He had a what in his mouth?" the operator asked me more than once. "That is not the important part!" I said to her, but I don't think she was convinced.

I waited around and fully expected some wise-cracking detectives to come to my door that day, but none did. I heard no sirens. Not even a police radio. I walked by and the door was closed, which was good, I guess? It was all terribly disappointing. Of course I didn't want them to be dead but someone could at least have filled me in. Me, the dog saver!

Yesterday I ran into the man who always walks the dog, and we exchanged hellos and our dogs were like "durrrh" and that was that. His arm was in a cast (mysterious!) but otherwise seemed fine. I considered asking what happened, but really, why would I be asking? Out of concern? Of course not. At this point I'm only DYING TO KNOW what happened. Also how would I start that conversation? "Say, did you notice your dog eating some Mystery Chicken? Heh heh, I suppose I'm to blame! Or maybe take the credit!" Too weird, even for me.

We all have a face that we hide away forever

"And that's when Billy Joel touched me... in my heart." Photo by Spencer Ritenour.

I did this show a couple of weeks ago called the Soundtrack Series. It was fun, and terrifying. I love doing readings, but this was my first time storytelling, without all the words written on paper so I could remember what to say. I was about 80% sure that I would forget my story and cry until someone came up and led me off the stage. Fortunately, I was wrong, and all went according to plan.

For the show, each storyteller picks a song and discusses the memories they associate with it. When I was asked I knew right away the story I would tell. Here, for your enjoyment, is the story of THE STRANGER, my ill-fated Billy Joel musical. It's only eight minutes. LISTEN.

And now let's discuss my hair, which is out of control. I'm trying to grow it out, and it's...it's getting so big. No matter how I tamp it down, it sproings up again. I can't remember how to have more than two inches of hair. It's been a while. I also don't remember if I always had curly/wavy hair or if this is a new thing. (That's how long it's been.) This hair certainly seems different than the hair I remember from my youth, and not just because it's gray. Did pregnancy change my hair? Stress? Drugs? Magic?