Finger Lick'n Good

Being huge fans of Chelsea Handler and her montley crew of E! Entertainments “Chelsea Lately” nightly comedy talk-show, Chris and I were ecstatic when we found out that her panelist were touring in our area. So three months ago, we bought our tickets, scheduled a sitter and counted down the days until last night when we would venture off into the middle of nowhere - the former quarters of Caesars’ Pocono Resorts, Cove Haven; home to the famous 7-foot tall Champagne Glass Whirlpool Bath for two. No, we didn’t partake. This time.

As her “Comedians of Chelsea Lately” roundtable guest rotate on tour, our hearts skipped a beat when we saw that our top three (and Chuy, of course) were the ones slated to perform: Funnyman/Hottie Josh Wolf; judge of NBC’s Last Comic Standing, Natasha Leggero; and my personal all-time favorite, the one and only, Loni Love (who, both Variety and Comedy Central have named among their Top 10 Comics to watch).

Wanting to do something special for Loni for mustering up the courage to tour in our Red State - in an area of the Keystone where the banjo could be considered the state instrument and people here do believe they can see Russia from their house, my first thought was roses. It’s nice, it’s warm, it’s… well, it’s the white thing to do. So scratch that. So what do you get a B3 (Big, Bold, Black) Diva? Anything she wants. And knowing Loni from the show, there was only one thing that would comfort here while looking out at the sea of Caucasians in the crowd – a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Yep, I said it.


So, making a 25 minute detour in the snow, we headed to KFC, picked up a bucket of mixed thighs and breasts, and rushed to get to Cove Haven by 7pm. Penning a note on a ItsDaddies.Plural note card, I told her what I big fan I was, and that yes, the chicken was safe to eat.
We arrive at the sold out 1000 entertainment hall with 10 minutes to spare. We grab our chicken and camera and rush into the building. It was completely empty, except for the three stage hands that were setting up for the band, and one sitting at one of the 125 tables. “um… we’re here for the show. Is this the right place?” He said we were in the right place, but we should head into the side door, which was the conference area. Conference area it wasn’t, it was more like a conference room. And this conference room was being turned into the Green Room for Loni and the others. Chris and I just look at each other. An older gentleman, John, was in the room and asked us what we were doing there. “We need to drop something off for Loni Love who’s performing here tonight. Are we in the right place?”


“Yes, the band starts at 8:30pm and the Comedians go on at 10pm.”


I shoot Chris an evil eye. He made the reservations and put it in his phone as 7pm, which happened to be the time we needed to leave the house, and not the time we needed to be in the boonies.


“What do you have for Loni?”


“Chicken.” A look of confusion pans his face.
“Are you delivery guys?”


“No, no, no… we are here for the show. For some reason we thought it started at 7pm. We just need to drop this off for her.” Still, a look of confusion. This poor guys was probably just walking through the room at the same time we are and now we’re trying to explain why we’re delivering a bucket of KFC to one of the headliners performing.


“Loni knew we were coming to the show to see her tonight and, knowing that we’re out in the middle of no-where, she asked if we could pick her up some KFC.” (Okay, so I lied. Again, who is this guy and what does it really matter). 

“Oh, do you guys have comped tickets?”

“No, we’re just big fans and catch Loni's show anytime she’s performing on the East Coast. Every time we see her, we bring her a bucket of chicken… it’s kinda our thing. We knew we were going to be here tonight, so last night she sent me a text message asking if I could pick this up for her.”

“Oh, okay. Is this her dinner?” (oh God. What if they have something planned for her already and they stop making it because of this).

“Not sure. But knowing Loni like we do (where is all of this coming from???), I would have something set up for all of the performers and have this on the side for her. She’ll pick a little bit of everything.”


And with that being said, we turned around and headed to exit the building to try to find something to do for the next 3 hours before the show really starts. I detoured to the bathroom and Chris followed. “What was that? Do you know how many lies you just told?” , “Chris… I wasn’t lying, I just fabricated the true a little. It isn’t going to hurt anyone. That guy will leave the bucket on her table and if she eats it, she eats it. If not, no big deal. I’m sure he’s not going to have any interaction with the entertainment.” Chris starts to freak out. This isn’t the first time I’ve done something like this in the past 13 years we’ve been together, so I’m not sure why this is coming as a shock to him. Though, he's still recovering from the incident where I had a gallery owner thinking we were going to be buying two art pieces that were only $35,000 a piece. I got her down to $60,000 for the set and told her we needed to talk to our accountant first before we made that large of a purchase while we were on vacation. That woman is still probably waiting for us to come back since she gave us the account information on where to wire the funds to.  They would have looked really great in our house. Too bad we don’t have the $60k to blow on something like that :)


Laughing as I exit the bathroom, the guy, John, was there. “Excuse me, since we have some time to kill before Loni goes on, can you tell us where in the resort we can get some food?”


“Well, guest of the Resort are eating in the main dining room now, which is that way (as he points in one direction), and we have a café in that building there (pointing in the opposite direction). I was going to eat in the main dining room tonight, but now I’m having second thoughts. Why don’t I walk you guys down to the café.” Chris pinches my arm behind Johns back. “Actually, since you guys were so nice by bringing something for Loni to eat tonight, dinner is on me.”


“Oh no, seriously. We couldn’t.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll put it on my account.”

Chris and I just look at each other. As we walk into the building, the service staff snap to attention as John heads in. (What did we get ourselves into?) “I’ll have my regular, and get these two guys anything they need.” Chris is now pinching me harder as we whispers into my ear, “Why do you continue to get ourselves into these situations? This guy is ‘somebody’ and you just told him you were friends with Loni Love and she’s expecting that. Tonight when she gets in, she’s going to ask ‘what the hell is this’, and this guy is going to come and throw us out of the resort.”

We sit at our table and John asks if we mind if he joins us. He too is waiting until the show starts. Chris kicks me under the table. Come to find out, John has been in charge of Entertainment for all three of the Resorts. He’s been one of the head honcho’s for the past 16 years. About 20 minutes into the conversation, about ten guys in suits walk in and head over to our table to talk to John. They then sit at the two tables next to us. It’s his security detail. He starts going over the agenda for the evening with them. Chris continues to bruise my leg under the table. I join in the conversation with them and start talking about Chuey, Josh, Natasha and Loni. Hell, for the fun of it, I start throwing out Chelsea’s name. Chris is now pinching himself to stop from laughing. We find out from the security team that the performers are not going to be there until 9:30.

John turns to us, “Tonight we’re doing a meet and greet after the show. Come back and join me. It’s going to be crazy… we have a sold out house, so about a thousand guests will be at the show. The meet and greet will be for about 300. Just some to the side where you saw me and these guys will let you through.” Cha-Ching.

About an hour and a half later, we end our conversation (which morphed from conversations with his staff, to his role in the resorts, his wife and children, and both of our jobs), it was time for John to head back to make sure the band was ready to perform. We headed to main stage and parted ways. I looked at Chris, and with a smirk, told him that he owed me one. Then reality kicked in and we stared feeling bad for ‘fabricating the truth’ to this guy. Oh well, too late to do anything about it now.

Fast forward. It’s now 9:30. The band has been playing. Drinks have been served. People are walking around. I catch an occasional whiff of cigarette smoke from those going outside before the show as well as the sporadic hint of White Diamonds by Elizabeth Taylor (there was a handful of 60 year old guests that were there at the show because they booked their weekend at the resort and got the tickets for free and they had no clue who these people were). All of a sudden I turn to Chris, “Take a deep breath. What do you smell?” That’s right, it was KFC. Seems like Ms. Love found her bucket and someone was heating it up for her. We died laughing.

It’s now 10pm, Chuy comes on and says a couple words to a huge round of applause… then Natasha opens and kills the crowd, as does Josh who followed her. Chris has the biggest crush on Josh, who happens to be Scott Wolf’s (the star of Party of Five, Everwood and V) cousin, my own Matinee Idol.

Then, here comes the Diva herself. Starting off like Chuey, Natasha and Josh with a, “Where in the hell are we” opening. Don’t worry sister. I’ve been here 7 years and I’m still asking myself that same question. She then ventured into her 'Big Girl' jokes where I got my first shout out from her, thanking me for her bucket of chicken. “Where’s you at, Paul?” I stand up screaming, “I love you, Loni”, then she throws out her first, ‘I love the gays’ reference. Throughout her 40 minute set, I ended up getting 4 shout-outs and a special, “Thank you, Sugar-Stix”, her version of a term of endearment to the gays and then I got an additional term of endearment as she ended the show. This one I got on video (shhh… don’t tell anyone), but it’s a little too racey for our “It’s Daddies. Plural.” site.

Third in line for the meet and greet (Thanks, John), I have my little sign, as seen here, professing my love to Ms. Love. Her face lighting up as she saw it when she came out of the green room. We were able to get a group shot with the gang (Me next to Loni and Chris next to Josh – sorry Chuey and Natasha, we love you guys but you two, tonight, were icing on the cake for us). After a kiss on Loni’s cheek, I went to head out and she said, “Give me my sign!” Telling her the sign was for me to get her attention – like a bucket of KFC didn’t do the trick – I ended up giving it to her. The gang thank us for the chicken, which Natasha told us they devoured the entire thing, and we headed out of Cove Haven into the snow and on cloud nine. “Oh what a night!” Wait a minute. That’s a song from the 1960’s group, The Four Seasons… which, if you act now, you can get your tickets to see next month at The Cove.

By the way, yes, Chris is holding slippers in the photo, and no, this isn’t a usual accessory for him. Dearfoams happened to be the sponsor of the Meet and Greet and they were handing out slippers to those in attendance. Just felt like I should clear that up :)

A sad ending to 2010

As most of you know, 2010 was not the best year for our family. In February we lost Mazha, and in less than a month, my sister lost her brother-in-law, Jack, and her nephew, Shawn; only to be followed by Jack’s wife two weeks ago. We lost our auntie Carol seven months to the day from when Mazha past. I’ve attended five other funerals and over a dozen memorial services (four for Mazha) for friends, family members of friends, volunteers and committee members.

Today, we had to put our 13year old Duncan, an Akita/Labrador mix, to sleep. The past month or so, he’s has some incontinence issues and we feared he was having kidney/bladder issues. The vet ran some blood work and did a urine exam and diagnosed him with Lyme disease. One more reason why I hate the deer in the Poconos.

Several medications later, it still wasn’t helping. Some dogs develop severe progressive kidney disease as sequelae to Lyme disease. This severe kidney failure is difficult to treat and may result in death of the dog. Some dogs may also develop heart problems or nervous system disease after being infected, in addition to lameness, swelling in the joints, swollen lymph nodes, lethargy, and loss of appetite.

This morning Duncan kept falling as he was having issues using his back legs, and then he was having breathing problems. He laid on the floor, covered in his quilt, and just looked at us. Kensi, who is his biggest fan, knew something wasn’t right. She leaned down to give him one final kiss, and he finally accepted her love’ns without blinking or turning his head. While he loved her dearly, he’d struggle accepting her affection by running from it – which only made her chase him more. In the end, she finally won out. She'll no longer be able to hide the fact that when she doesn't want to eat something, she sneeks it to him, and he covers for her.
Chris and I fought back the tears as we knew this was the end, and so did he.

Chris went and started the car, letting the seats down to make room for him. Duncan tried standing up, but kept hitting the wall as he attempt to walk. I scooped him up and walked up the snow filled driveway and placed him in the back seat for his final ride, the ride that brought him to all of the other puppies in the sky.

We'll miss you Lil' Man!

September 21, 1997 – December 27, 2010

Our Christmas wish was granted.

Last year I shared with you all Kensington’s first encounter with Santa Claus. Not every child enjoys their time with Santa. Some kids are plain scared of the fat man with a red suit. I was envisioning her sitting on old St. Nicks lap, with tears streaming down her face and mouth open wide with blood-curdling screams escaping her tiny, and yet very powerful, vocal box. You know the pictures I’m talking about. There are hundreds of websites and books dedicated to these disastrous family photos. I was hoping we’d experience this family tradition first-hand. To me, that cemented fatherhood. Unfortunately for me, our little angel was just that – a little angel. I asked Santa’s little elf to pinch her to make her cry and he looked at me like I was crazy. “No, seriously. Pinch her. It’s for my Christmas Card. There’s an extra $20 in it for if she goes from happy baby to wailing baby. But noooooooooooo. Santa’s little midget with pointy ears that looked like a Spock wannabe wouldn’t buy in to my scheme. Because of his unwillingness to grant MY holiday wish, we got a gorgeous princess, smiling away, on Santa’s lap.

And then this year happened. We arrived at Santa’s village just as he was about to take his cookie & Milk break. I tried to rush her in, but it was a no-go. The velvet rope went up and we were halted in the line. We had to wait for 30 minutes. Keeping a little munchkin occupied in line wasn’t the easiest thing to do. She wanted her hair bows out and I threaten her with never seeing another episode of The Backyardigans again if she even thought about touching her hair. Then after I made that statement, I started to wish she would test her luck. No such luck.

Santa arrived and Kensington was, once again, excited to see him… until she sat on his lap. Tears started streaming down her face. The photographer was trying to get her to stop crying by shaking some lame stuffed animal in front of her face (like that would make me smile). “Take the picture, Take the picture.” She just looked at us. “Take the PICTURE,” I grunted. She did so, and I quickly snatched up my tearful chickpea.

It had taken a year to wait for this moment, but my wish finally came true. Not every child enjoys their time with Santa, and that’s okay. She’s just following the tips she learned from the “Stranger Danger” videos we’ve been showing her.

"Silent Night... not in our house!"

Sew Magical, Sew Cute (what parents will do for their kids)

Let the games begin… about a month ago we were informed by one of my colleagues that Lalaloopsy Dolls were the “in” toy this year. Her boyfriend and her were looking for them everywhere for his daughter, and we were all told to be on the lookout. This line of dolls are cute little creatures with button eyes that closely resemble the classic rag dolls from years ago (Think Tim Burton meets Strawberry Shortcake). The general story of the Lalaloopsy dolls is that they magically came to life as soon as the final stitch was sewn, and the magic that brought them to life also imbued them with personalities that matched the materials used to make their clothes. One Lalaloopsy doll's clothes were made from a baker's apron, and she loves to cook. Another's clothes were made from a painter's overalls, and she loves to paint. You get the gist. To me, it’s a marketing ploy to get girls to beg their parents to buy these rag dolls. They don’t really do anything.

While in Philly doing some Christmas shopping, I came across the last two in Toys R Us and called her to ask her if she wanted me to get one. Not sure if it was one of the ones she already has (There are 10 in the set), I bought one knowing I could return it if needed. Then it hit. The bug. Knowing that I had a coveted doll (I should have bought both), stirred up a monster in me, and it was contagious. The bug bit Chris as well.

The next day we were in our local Toy R Us and the crowd got brutal. A new truckload of dolls had arrived. Out of nowhere, Chris and I knew this meant ‘game on’. We were now going to hunt for all 10 of these sadistic creatures. The makers of Lalaloopsy did it right; they don’t have a single store sell the complete set. You have to hunt. And hunt we did. Long story short (because I have to get ready to Drive to Massachusetts in a couple hours), we were in 3 states, 12 stores, tons of pushing, biting, and pulling hair (between me and Chris for wondering why we’re doing this for a doll that our daughter doesn’t want or care about), and we finally collected the complete set. Many have told us to sell them on eBay to double our investment, but we couldn’t do that to our KGrace. So instead, we adorned our Christmas tree with them. Behold, our life size Lalaloopsy doll.

Beyond Her Years

It seems like it was just yesterday that we brought our little girl home from the hospital. Now, she’s all grown up. She’s putting on make-up, driving around in her Hummer, going to dances with boys (yes, plural). We’ve once again started the process of, “The Courtship of Kensington Grace”. It seems like many parents want to arrange the marriage between their little one and ours. We’re totally up for it. When it comes to arranging a marriage for your child, what side of the fence you’re on affects your point of view regarding the advantages and disadvantages of the scenario. And seeing that in her school, there is one girl for every 9 boys, we’re the ones calling the shots.

If we leave the west for a few days and transplant ourselves into any culture that promotes arranged marriages, we will, in time, realize the logic behind this practice and appreciate the reasons why they work. Some of those reasons can be attributed to the wisdom of elders. Because they raised and cared for their children, they instinctively know what’s best for their children, which includes the decision to select a life partner. I’ve been in the dating world… it isn’t pretty. If there is anything we can do to thwart her from making the same mistakes we did, why wouldn’t we do so? :)

According to professorshouse.com, the benefits of arranged marriages are:

1. Risk of incompatability is diminished (we know what’s good for her, and she’ll like it)

2. Idea of divorcing is unthinkable (Our new stance on life: If Gays can’t get married, Straights can’t get divorced. That should be the sanctity of marriage – 2 years ago, 48% of our elected House and Senate representatives were divorced. And yet they claim that gay marriage would be the fall of our country’s morals.)

3. Extended family support has its benefits (the more money the parents have, the better your chances. Support me, baby, support me all you want!)

They claim, there are some “minor” disadvantages as well.

1. Inability to make up one’s own mind (quite frankly, I think this is over-rated. I would much rather wake up and follow someone else’s schedule & plan, than to try to come up with my own. Call me lazy.)

2. Love takes second priority (Love? As my good friend Tina Turner once said, “What’s love got to do with it?)

3. Interference from extended family (See number 3 above. I can be bought out… and so can our daughter. She takes after her pappa!)

Let the bidding begin (please, bid increments must be in at least six-figures).

Circumventing Clause (Mrs. Clause, that is)

It has been a complete whirlwind in our house for the past month. With numerous social events on the calendar, five – yes, five birthday parties for our munchkin, mixed in with volunteer committee meetings, both of our sisters visiting (one from Texas, one from Atlanta), and two out of state conferences that I attended, I never knew where I was coming from or going to. Chris started sending me calendar invites so things would start popping up on my blackberry so I would know where I needed to drive to next, for the next event he committed me to. Funny, as mentioned in the previous post, he never sent the calendar invite for a 6pm Friday night holiday party. He too probably thought the timing was off and he didn’t want to confuse me anymore than I actually was.

Due to my coming and goings, Chris has been a trooper and wrapped up all of Kensington’s Christmas gifts from us… and all of the gifts from Santa are in the basement and have been unboxed, assembled, batteries inserted, and ready to be placed under the tree (well, we say that, but the way our tree is situated, it’s not really feasible). Albeit, one gift has remained upstairs because of the sheer size of it, and because it came from Mrs. Clause, not Santa himself. Mrs. Claus has been generally depicted in media as a fairly heavy-set, kindly, white-haired elderly female baking cookies somewhere in the background of the Santa Claus mythos. That’s not the case here, though she does assists in toy production, and oversees many elves on a daily basis. Her personality tends to be fairly consistent; she is usually seen as a calm, kind, and patient woman, often in contrast to Santa himself, who can be prone to acting too exuberant (come on, he’s on a deadline and his helpers have little nugget-fingers. Do you know how hard it is to use power tools with little snausages attached to you palm?) While, in the media, she is sometimes called Mother Christmas, and Mary Christmas has been suggested as her maiden name; we call her friend, advocate, co-architect.

Mrs. Clause’s gift was behind closed doors, and Chris and I have made every effort to ensure that KGrace didn’t see it if we had to go into the room. We’d crack the door open just a smidgen and creep in, only to hear a soft “knock, knock” followed by Kensington’s tiny fist pounding on the door. She knew something was up, and she was going to do her damnedest to get to the bottom of it. So, imaging our surprise when after dinner last week, we head into the living room for an exciting episode of “The Fresh Beat Band” (seriously, we need some adult entertainment in our lives. Nick Junior is starting to make me have nightmares), when from around the corner we hear, “Beep, Beep!” Chris and I, along with his sister, Rhonda, looked at each other. We’re pretty familiar with all of the toots, horns, chimes, etc on her toys. This was one we hadn’t heard before. We get up and follow the “beeps”. We come around the corner and in the storage room... the door is open (how in the world did she turn the knob? Note to self, get more child-proof door locks). And there she is… sitting in her gift. She flipped the power switch, fastened her seatbelt, and was ready to burn rubber.

Moral of this story: What our daughter wants, our daughter gets. Lord, help us all!

“Got Jesus on my necklace”

These are words you don’t necessarily want your daughter to spew out in public. It’s not that we’re not of the Christian faith, or that we want to conceal our beliefs from public viewing; but repeating the mantra of Ke$ha (who isn’t the ideal role-model we would have selected for HRH), is a little embarrassing. For starters, she has a character in her name. Not just any character, but one that made me correct people when she first hit the scene because I thought she went by “Casha”. It was an understandable mispronunciation. And just look at her… glitter on her eyes, stockings ripped all up the side, looking sick and sexy-fied. Oh no-o-o (We should go-o-o). [editorial comment: two hours after this was posted, Chris gasped and stated that he was appauled by the previous two sentences, as well as the title of this post. He didn't realize this was pulled straight from Ke$ha's lyrics. So, if you too are not in tune with today's music, please don't be offended. This blog just may not be for you. Yes, Chris, I'm talking to you. Hahahaha.]

Kensington, in a display of expressing herself, has turned into a karaoke diva. Give that girl a microphone and a smoky bar-like setting, and she will own the stage. Unfortunately, she has been banned from most of the clubs in Eastern PA and Northern New Jersey (they stated that since she once signed a contract with a recording company, she’s ineligible to participate in “amateur” competitions – stupid rules. If there is wiggle room on American Idol, there should be the same considerations here at our local cabarets). Given that she can’t utilize the nightclubs as an outlet to illustrate her talents, she has deemed her car seat in the backseat of my truck the next best suitable place. Her audience… me and daddy (and whoever is lucky enough to gain admission into the two open spaces next to her). It’s a very, let’s say, up-close and personal performance. We look at it as if we were given backstage passes to every performance. It’s nice to know those connected to the box office.

This talent first showcased itself about eighteen months ago when Kensington was first introduced to the Black Eye Peas and “Boom Boom Pow” while traveling to and from school. She’d become overly excited each time it played on my SiriusXM radio. But anytime a country song would play, she’d scream with repulsion (Chris loves playing with my channels, so often when I start the car I get the pleasure of listening to his selections – Country and Christian - both I change as soon as I can). I’m don’t blame her… we have similar musical taste.

It moved from one song, to the themed songs of “The Backyardans,” “Blues Clues,” and “The Fresh Beat Band;” each she would hum along and bounce her head back and forth… now she’s included her signature move - stomp, stomp, stomp, quarter-spin, fall and repeat. Now she has expanded her participation beyond humming, and lengthened her repertoire to Top 40. Ill-fated as it is, Ke$ha and “We R Who We R” have been on the list for some time now. A few months ago, she would sing back-up… only spouting the last word in each sentence (which, because of Ke$ha’s own limited vocabulary were “dumb,” “numb,” and “young.” I swear that woman is a modern day Sylvia Plath). Now, she’s taking center stage and demands, at times, audience participation (which to me is just intolerable. When I pay good money to see someone in concert [Beyonce], don’t tell me “This is my favorite part of the concert, this is where you sing to ME” and point the microphone to the audience and expect us to belt out “to the left, to the left, everything you own in the box to the left”. Sorry. That was a tangent. I know. But it really does bother me. It’s bad enough I have Drunken Dianna next to me and I have to hear her sing along while I want to be “in the moment” with my bodacious Bee, and now I have 17,998 other inebriated people trying to camouflage a tune [Baby you dropped them keys, Hurry up before your taxi leaves].

Okay. I’m Back. Sorry Dianna, whoever you are. I didn’t mean to call you a bad singer. I was just using you as an example. We’ve all been next to a “Dianna”, and you just happened to be at the right concert at the wrong time.

Kensington now sings along to Bruno Mars, Rihanna, Neon Trees and her pappa’s personal favorite, Pink. Granted, her use of our language isn’t as extensive as, oh, lets say a 3 year old, but she tries. So, Chris and I look past the times when we too are bopping along to Mumford & Sons’ “Little Lion Man”, and it sounds like… I hate to say it… Dianna is riding along with us in the back seat.

Regretfully, Kensington signed the above mentioned contract with her record agency under protest by her management team (a little Bieber-esk if you ask me), and thus is unable to produce or perform in any videos that can be posted on this blog. We’ve tried to capture her on using several means… camcorder, video camera and even my blackberry. While she may love the camera to get her picture taken, she knows when we’re shooting video and refuses to belt out another tune. That’s what I call a Diva, with a capitol “D”. Sorry Dianna, I'm not talking about you again.

Our own little "DADT"

On the eve of this country’s repeal of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell”, we had our own little DADT incident here in our household. You see, Chris and I had another one of our communication mishaps. Friday night we had a holiday party to attend, and I assumed it started between 7 – 7:30. So, image my surprise when I received a call just prior to 6pm asking me where I was at. The party was to start at 6pm and I was nowhere close to the house. I told Chris to go without me, and I would pick Kensi up at school, get us both ready, and would be there by 7:30 (the proper time a holiday party on a Friday night should start, especially one so close to Christmas, which was cutting into my precious shopping time).

I enter the house with kiddo in tow, and rushed to change & juice her. Chris had her outfit picked out and her diaper bag was packed and ready at the door. I quickly hid the presents I was able to buy, and rushed upstairs to iron a dress shirt and sweater.

Chris and I are at a stage that we can actually turn our backs on Kensington and know that she’s going to be okay. Every outlet is plugged up, every cabinet drawer and door is latched or locked, and all sharp objects are hidden underneath my pillow waiting for January 1 when Chris’s life-insurance through both of our policies double. She’s content with playing in her playroom… putting her baby dolls to sleep, making Elmo drink from the teacup, rolling around in her ball house or her ball pool, pushing her stroller from one side of the living room to another or climbing the ladder to get the candy canes placed on the tree above her reach level.

I’ve finished ironing and, with a little pep in my step, called down from the balcony, “I love you, Kensi.” I hear her call back, muffled, “I love you, papa.” Things are good. I stroll to the bathroom, brush my teeth (note to self, no red wine for at least an hour now… Pinotage grapes taste way too sour when mixed with fluoride) and add a dab more product into my hair. Once downstairs, I head to her playroom (oh, the days of having an actual dining room). No Kensington. Okay, I see. We’re playing hide-and-seek. She’s in the pantry (i.e., taste-testing the bag of cookies to make sure Pappa and Daddy won’t be food poisoned – I believe in a past life, she was a royal food assayer). I open the door. Nothing. Really? That’s the first place I would have hidden when playing this game. I hear a whimper from behind the office door. Duncan is locked in the office. I’m sure our chickpea is in there as well. I open the door to two blue-bugged eyes staring at me. A black Sharpie hits the floor, with the cap off. She comes running, pushes me out of her way, and into the living room she goes. I look around the room. Yep. There it is. One of Chris’s filing cabinets that she loves placing stickers and magnets on, has now been tagged. I think she’s covering for Duncan. She found him midstroke and took the permanent marker from his paws to beg him to stop. She had to have shut the door behind her so I wouldn’t hear her scolding him.

She’ll never be labeled as a nark. We taught her right. So for now, we won’t ask… because surely, she’s not telling.

Mary had a little lamb...

Okay, I know it's after Thansgiving and we should be gearing up for Christmas, but I had to share these pics of our little lamb when we went pumpkin picking before Halloween. She has such a blast running around the hay-maze and playing with all of the pumpkins.

Murky Turkey

Last night could have been dubbed, the Murky Turkey gone arye!

After Chris came home from 12 hours of battling the Black Friday crowds, we packed the Nitro with our overnight bags, Mazha’s meat stuffing, two pies, a couple bottles of wine, and our homemade gag gifts and headed to the birthplace of Martha Stewart – Nutley, NJ.

Kensi’s four midget-legged friend, Oscar, was waiting at the door for his playmate to arrive… and from the moment we entered to the moment we left, they were almost inseparable. Running from one room to another, hiding each other’s toys, jumping on beds, throwing/rolling balls down the hallway, they each exhausted each other.

When Kensi wasn’t wearing Oscar out, she was batting her eyes to everyone in attendance to get them to read to her. It worked. And why wouldn’t it? She’s gorgeous!

The new twist this year, created by our host Uncle Kevin and Auntie Carmen, was the “Murkey Turkey”, a white elephant type of gift exchange. With Jem’s version of ‘Yellow’ and Adele’s remake of Bob Dylan’s 'Make You Feel My Love' playing in the background, each gift swapped was more creative than the next (except the lame Jersey Shore calendar that Chris was stuck with). Our guidelines were only that we didn’t spend more than $20, and that it couldn’t include wine or gift cards. Each guest was encouraged to be creative…and we were told inside-jokes were highly encouraged. With this crowd, that meant to be a little on the mean-spirited side. :) Chris came up with the second-best gift; a custom made Monopoly game not only poked fun of Jeff, but incorporated everyone in the “Chance” and “Community Chest” portion of the game. Kensi was the recipient of the best gift of the group, a coveted LaLaLoopsy doll from her Uncle Jason.

Food, Fun and Family… this is what Thanksgiving is all about.

Thanksgivagay: Revenge of the broken Sid Dicken’s Tile

Today we will celebrate our 9th annual, Thanksgivagay: Revenge of the broken Sid Dicken’s Tile!This sequel picks up where the last one left off. The gang is still haunted by memories of Thanksgivings past. Who can forget the intestinal trauma they endured in "Thanksgivagay Part 2: The Milk Tart Always Rings Twice", and "Thanksgivagay Part 4: Hide your serving fish soup in ANY planter you can find", the horror of emaciation they witnessed in "Part 5: I'm Not Hungry (a.k.a. Meet the Olsens – MaryNate & Ashley)"... the terror of "Part 6: Guess Who's Coming to Dinner? Jeff's Fighter Pilot, That's Who!"... the gay gasp heard 'round the world in "Part 7: Who Drank Paul & Chris’s Forbidden Wedding Wine!?" and the highly anticipated "Part 8: Guess Who's Coming to Dinner This Time?"

So what could possibly be in store for our gaggle of gays and the straights who love them this year? The gang is leaving the past behind and moving their annual celebration to Nutley, NJ. The guest list is limited (yes, one more sad excuse offered up by MaryBeth), but there are bound to be some surprises in store. Only one thing is for sure: the activities will surely be great and memorable for years to come.

Will the gang ever be invited back to the Poconos? Will Jeff bring a plus one? Will Diane bring another foreigner looking for a way to get his green card? Will Kevin scold Carmen in public for his behavior? What will our Princess Kensington be wearing? There are so many unanswered questions. We’ll just have to wait to find out!!

New Traditions

The holidays are upon us, y’all. The leaves are falling, squash is in season, and there’s no doubt about it: It’s Thanksgiving time. Or, if you prefer, ye old time to hang out with the FAMILY.

For us, this holiday is a time to get together with our family… not the ones we were born into, but the one we created when we moved to the East Coast 13 years ago (oh my, has it been that long?). About 9 years ago, there were a group of us that were all traveling home for Christmas and didn’t have any plans on Thanksgiving. The small group of us got together and created the first Thanksgivagay, and we haven’t returned home since. Now granted, some of us have to miss a year for true family commitments, but we always return to enjoy our favorite festivities of the year with our friends. Through the years, our group has grown, people come and go, but the memories – and pictures – will last a lifetime.

We’ve found that the single most important thing anyone can do to enjoy Thanksgiving is to try not to think about its true history (especially not the events that transpired between the European settlers and the Native Americans following the original Thanksgiving in 1621). While some contemporary family tables can feel like an emotional war-zone (especially when you’re the only gay one at the table), the original Thanksgiving ended up leading to an actual war-zone, and thinking about it tends to put a damper on the holiday. In fact, I have found it is best not to think about the true history of that time period at all. Don’t bring up in conversation the Puritan punishment for homosexuality, because it’s a drag!

If you catch yourself thinking about the origin of Thanksgiving, I suggest you do what I do. Immediately ask yourself: What if the Pilgrims were gay? Native American fashion would surely be more popular today. If the Pilgrims were gay, they probably would not have befriended the Indians and then deceived them in order to have control of the land. They would more likely have been the Indians’ best friends for a long time, especially on the weekends. Chances are they would have danced a lot with the Indians, listened to all their problems, and offered advice and suggestions that are both witty and fun. Sperm donating to lesbians would be a time-honored tradition. And much of our shared land would still be home to a thriving, spiritual and mostly peaceful native people.

Since our gathering this year is taking place on Friday after everyone drudges through the super-sales, we decided not to cook for ourselves but to go out for dinner. So, with Kensington dressed in her Allison Rose original, “Family Traditions” dress, it was off to the Pirone Family’s Country Estate we went.

The holiday feast was to die for! Our harvest table had festive salads and homemade relishes, country-style chowders, seafood salad, smoked fish, oysters and fried clams… and that was is just the beginning of the holiday feast!

We were soon served classic favorites like: Smoked Loin of Pork, Flounder Neptune - white filet filled with seafood stuffing, Fresh Herb Stuffed Breast of Chicken, Long-Island Roasted Duck and of course Roast Vermont Turkey. All of this was served with all the trimmings . . . candied sweet potatoes, sausage stuffing, mashed potatoes, fresh vegetables and home-style gravies. With a spread like this, I don’t think we’re ever going to cook our own dinner again! It was nice be catered to. We had Joe and Tonya, our servers that were refreshing our apple-cider sangria and clearing our plates at the wave of hand. Definitely something I can get used to. To top it all off, the desserts are as American as apple pie with ice cream - Kensington choose the butter-pecan ice cream. Chris opted for the Pumpkin Pie with lots of whipped cream and I had the White Chocolate Harvest Spice Cake with raspberry drizzle. Walking out, we entered a cool bliss of snow that had started to fall. Now, this truly feels like the holiday season.

Remembering Mazha

Today there was no cake. No candles. Just a simple flower arrangement that we laid at the entrance of her hospice room. She would have been 64 today.

To honor her memory, we’ve started “Team Dudek” for the Walk to Defeat ALS that is taking place this fall (October 30, the week before we scatter her ashes). This is an exciting opportunity for us to work together to support those like Kensington's Mazha who are affected by Lou Gehrig's Disease and to spread awareness of the urgency to find treatments and a cure.

No one else like Kensington should have to lose their Mazha to a horrible disease such as ALS. The life expectancy of an ALS patient averages 2 to 5 years from the time of diagnosis... Mazha fought her battle from September 12 (the day she was admitted into the hospital) until Feb 22 (the morning she lost her battle). The frightening thing is every 90 minutes a person in this country is diagnosed with ALS and every 90 minutes another person will lose their battle against this disease. All we can say is "enough is enough!"

For a recap of Mazha's fight, visit here and scroll to the last post (bottom of the page) and read that one first.

To make a donation (yes, your $5 really can help!), you can visit "Remembering Mazha"

In my life... I loved you more.

As our family approached the seven month anniversary of Mazhas passing, we were hit with another emotional blow. Her sister, my “Auntie” Carol was admitted to the hospital because of issues with her heart, which due to complications, affected other organs.

Kensington and I had a prearranged flight to Texas, to remember Mazha on her birthday (tomorrow). But earlier last week Auntie Carol was moved from the hospital to hospice. The same facility Mazha was cared for in. I received the call at work from my Simone, my sister, who with emotion stuck in the hollows of her throat, told me that she was in hospice… and in room 103 - across from where Mazha passed.

I wrapped up things at work, changed my flight, and headed ‘home’ on this past Thursday. The past three trips home haven’t been pleasant… all arranged with an delicate mission to accomplish - a diseased to diagnose, a last Christmas to celebrate and a funeral to plan. This trip wasn’t going to be much different.

There are places I remember. All my life… though some have changed.
Some forever, not for better… Some have gone and some remain.

Initially, walking into hospice on Thursday I was fine, until we hit the Chapel. I tried to swallow and couldn’t. We got to the nurses station and were greeted with recognized smiles. We turned the corner and passed the kitchen - tears flowed uncontrollably. Moms room was just inches away. Billy Strait was occupying her former bed. (Unfortunately, the next day the bed was once again open).

All these places have their moments. With lovers and friends I still can recall. Some are dead and some are living, in my life I've loved them all.

With a quick smear of the tears with the back of my hand, we entered Auntie Carol’s room. That afternoon, she was somewhat lucid - knowing that we were in the room, shaking her head to let us know that she understood what we were saying, all while her eyes remained closed.

Friday, Kensington accompanied us. She knew the building like she was in it yesterday. “Phhhish” she called out as we approached the ‘quite room’ that houses the aquarium. The pitter-patter of her feet running down the hall to the playroom aroused the nurses to come and find her. They had been waiting for her arrival for days - recognizing the family from the moment Carol was admitted - and asking when “lil diva” would be arriving.

Saturday… Sunday… Monday… Tuesday - each day her responsiveness was getting slower until there was no more. On Monday we were told her vitals lead them to believe it would be anywhere between “ two hours to two days”. Today, seven months to the day that Mazha left us (just before 2pm), she passed away. Wrapped in love with her own version on Lois… she was comforted in her final days by “Flint”.

Though I know I'll never lose affection…for people and things that went before. I know I'll often stop and think about them. In my life I love them all.

Child Prodigy

If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times (and trust me, I know I’ve said it at least a THOUSAND times). Our precious princess is very advanced for her age. She has reached 96.8% of childhood milestones months earlier than the average child. From holding her own bottle, rolling on her side and rolling over, crawling, standing, cutting teeth, speaking, changing her own diaper… you name it, she did it earlier than your child. So, the first 19 months of her life has been – I dare to say – a breeze. Everything that her therapist tell us reiterates that the potency of her environment determines the pursuits toward which her energy will be directed, which has shown that an incredible amount of skill can be developed through suitable training. Golf claps to Chris and me.

While planning her second birthday, which is only 4 months away, we decided that we should invite her contemporaries to the festivities. Dr. Doogie Howser, Lisa Simpson and The Royal Tenenbaums make the list.

So, with her advancing at the speed of light, it shouldn’t have surprised us one bit that our Munch (we have a hundred and one different nicknames for her - it’s downright adorable how much we love her) hit another traditional milestone earlier than expected; the terrible twos.

Up until two weeks ago, we were blessed with our own little version of Saint Ambrose. Then we went on a weekend trip to Niagara (New York side and Canadian side) to visit with our bio-family, and something about the 12 hours roundtrip trip in the truck turned our angel into the princess of darkness.

When it came to bed time, we’d normally read her a book or two (she picks them out, which the first one is usually one of a variety of pop-up/flip-up peek-a-boo books), a slow dance to Steven Curtis Chapman’s Cinderella, and then she’d point to her hutch and select from the array of stuffed animals and dolls that she’d want to join her and Princess Something-Something (seen here) into the land of Honalee.

Early in the morning, she’d wake up and play with her dolls - peepless - in bed until one of us would come and, in which she’d pop up like a weasel, throw her arms in the air and give the biggest hug ever – each day getting bigger and bigger. She’d point to the outfit she’d want to wear that day and then point to her shoe collection in which I’d let her know which ones she could choose from. We’d hop in the car, listen to Hits 1 on SiriusXm, and we’d be off to daycare. Once there, she’d run into her classroom without a care in the world. Wave bye-bye to me, blow me a kiss, and off to her into her world she’d go.

www.blablakids.com

When I’d pick her up in the afternoon, she’d bop back-and-forth in the truck to the song that was playing, singing along, and run into the house once we arrived. Straight to her high-chair, she would welcome whatever food was presented to her. After completing the entrée, would be granted dessert - all while uttering the words, “please” and “thank you”.

Afterwards, she’d climb the stairs and eagerly head to the bathroom in which she’d squeal with delight at the thought of taking a long, playful, bubble bath.

Then the routine would continue. And happily so.

Now, our little Beelzebub has bucked the system. When it comes to bed time, we still read and slow dance, but now it is followed by two hours of endless crying and bloodcurdling screams. The more we rock her and rub her, the longer she stays up. The moment we think she’s asleep, we turn to head out the door and the screaming begins – again… followed by throwing of the dolls, the blankets and the pacifier across the room. This game continues until the wee hours of the morning. Needless to say, the lack of sleep that both Chris and I have experienced over the past fourteen days has brought us to a new level of exhaustion.

She no longer wakes and plays with her dolls, because she no longer sleeps and the dolls have been ostracized from the crib. Princess Something-Something has now been converted to a voodoo doll of one of her teachers. She could care less what she’s wearing and the transition from the car to daycare has been one that even the toughest heavyweight fighter couldn’t bring down. Her teachers try to distract her so I can make my way out of the room, and as soon as she see’s that I’m no longer with her, they have to bring in the priest to exercise the demons out of her.

When I now pick her up in the afternoon, she wants every toy that I DON’T have in the truck to play with. No matter what I give her, she chucks it across the vehicle. Once in the house, she still goes straight to her high-chair, but refuses every type of food existing - - unless it is pudding or pretzels. Needless to say, we’re starving her. After force-feeding her (gently… we don’t need the Division of Youth and Family Services knocking at our door), she wants to stay up and play, and forgo her once beloved bubble bath. We watch the latest episode of The Backyardigans, in our bed with the lights off. She’s propped up on a pillow and covered with a blanket. All while uttering the words, “NO!” and “MINE!”. We ‘rock-paper-scissors’ to see who looses and has to bring her into her room.

We understand that she’s teething, so hopefully this explains her recent transformation. If not, Chris and I may be going on a much deserved vacation – just the two of us. For a long, long time. Meaning, never to return.

Talking to heaven...

Dear Paul,

I am glad that I am able to bring you comfort. I wanted to pass on the comfort which I received from God throughout my lifetime. Life is filled with pain, life, death, joy, suffering, surprise, and a whole host of other things. One thing I learned was that God does not change through circumstances and emotions. Each stitch in the quilt represents each tear that I have shed over my lifetime. Tears of sorrow and tears of joy. As you wrap yourself in me, you are wrapping yourself in the comfort that God had given me. Count the stitches... The Bible says that God collects and saves our tears in jars...how precious! May you continue to fine comfort in my quilt and pass it, along with your tears, to someone who needs that same comfort.

With love,
Lois

[Lois... words can not express my sincere gratitude for your post]
 
 

Whom ever said "time heals", lied.

It’s been 55 days, a total of 1,650mg of Paxil digested, the purchase of 6 (yes six) books on the afterlife, a visit with a vivacious medium, over a dozen public breakdowns, numerous avoided telephone calls, 138 sympathy cards, at least a case of tissues, numerous days of continuous sleep countered by numerous days of no sleep at all before I could even think about writing the words…

“Dear Lois,”

And when I finally see them on the screen, I find myself reaching for anything in the vicinity of the couch to wipe my eyes with because the emotion that is now flowing from behind my sockets have caused the words to blur before me.

I haven’t wanted to update this blog because then it would become real… and not just a horrible nightmare that I can’t seem to wake from. I can’t tell you the amount of times I’ve reached for the phone to call Mazha and then realized she’s no longer here. And yet, I can’t bear to delete her phone number from my wireless phone. I’ve tried to put on this façade of strength, but inside I’m nothing but weak. I have mounds of “Thank Yous” that need to be sent out, but again… if I start writing them, it makes this real. So the cards lay upstairs on a table, with everything else I brought back from Texas. Even today, 55 days later, I was on the phone and was asked how I was doing and I couldn’t catch my breath because it’s such a blow. I had to quickly end the conversation and then sat in my car in front of the mailbox unable to hold my tears back.

And while I have so many thoughts running through my head right now of what to type, I’m realizing I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m finding it hard to breath, and equally hard to swallow. Since I’ve started writing this tonight, it has taken me over an hour just to type this much. 330 words.

I will though answer the question I have received from many… “What happened with Lois?”

Well, I smuggled her across state lines and she’s spent nearly every night wrapped around me. She needs to be ‘fixed’. In the south you can find quilt shops everywhere that sell new creative works, as well a able to stitch-up quilts that have gotten a little torn and tattered… I can’t seem to find anything similar in NJ. You see, the morning of funeral, I cut a small panel of Lois… the quilt that gave me so much comfort in my own time of need, and placed it in the coffin with Mazha. For the weeks leading to Mazha’s death, Lois kept me comfort, fought my fears, and gave me warmth. I thought it was fitting that a piece of her be placed with Mazha to give her her own sense of comfort and to ease her fears. I know that she'll be up to the challenge.

Rest In Peace, Mazha

Dear Lois,

Joyce "Mazha" Dudek, 63, entered into eternal rest at 11:44 am on Monday, February 22, 2010.

Memorial services will be held on Friday, February 26 at 1pm at Jackson’s Burks-Walker-Tippit Funeral Home chapel in Tyler, Texas, with Father Tim Kelly officiating.

Born and raised in Ludlow, MA, Joyce moved to Tyler, TX with her family in 1977. She was an avid gardener, motorcycle enthusiast, and loving grandmother.

She was preceded in death by her father, Paul St.Onge of Ludlow, MA.

Joyce leaves behind her loving family including her husband Eugene; daughter, Simone and husband Randy of Tyler, Tx; son, Paul and husband Christopher of Bushkill, PA; mother, Lillian St.Onge of Wilbraham, MA; sisters, Carol Pollitt and husband William of Tyler, TX, Paulette Bergeron of Whitehouse, TX, and Lisa Tenczar and husband John of Chicopee, MA; granddaughters, Jordan Nicole, Roni Elizabeth and Kensington Grace; as well as many extended family members and friends.

Visitation will be on Thursday, February 25, from 5-7pm at the funeral home.

Potted flowers are welcomed or contributions may be sent to the ALS Association of North Texas at http://web.alsa.org/goto/dudek


  

So help me God...

Dear Lois,

Nothing much changed for Mazha today. She slept for a majority of it. Since she’s been here, each day someone has gotten her sweet-tea to drink. In the beginning, we’d hand it to her and she’d drink it from a straw. Over the past two days, it’s been hard for her to build up enough energy to take a sip. The nurses have been giving Mazha her pain meds either through her feeding tube peg, or by syringe… so I asked a nurse for a couple syringes so I could shoot the tea down her throat. She seemed to like it. Actually, by the look on her face, you can tell she loved it.

I ended up changing my flight. Originally when I booked the flight – before I saw her, this was just a visit (hoping she’d get better and go home). I though I could spend two weeks down here, go home for a couple weeks, and head back down. My, how thing have changed. I was supposed to fly out this evening. Now, who knows when we will return back to PA / NJ.

On the way back from the bathroom this afternoon, I ran into one of the snack volunteers. Each day someone pushed a cart around with juices, candies, chips and muffins, all free for those visiting (or like us, setting up camp). I went top grab a juice for Kensi when I looked closely at her. I knew this woman… she was my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Harrell. I haven’t seen her in over twenty years. To be honest, I thought she had passed some time ago. She lives down the street from my parents and I would see her a couple times a week taking an evening stroll. After twenty years of not seeing her, even though my trips back have been brief, I just assumed. She asked my if I had married ‘a local’, and not to get into how things have changed over the past twenty years (though she’d have to have known that back then I had the hugest crush on my friend Cody), I told her I married someone from the Dallas area.

Hey… it’s the truth, just not the whole truth.