My Baby...Love Your Way...

August approaches...wow...summer seems to be flying by, no? It makes me a little anxious, I must admit...like I need to capture every moment, every feeling, every sight and sound and taste and smell and bottle them up...You know, like the way the sun reflects off the pool in little bobbing, wavy streaks...and that splash you hear when one of the kids jumps in the water...and there's the endless floating and the hot sand under your feet...and your neighbor's charcoal grill, all smoky and festive, you just know there is a juicy T-bone sizzling up over there and it is calling your name...which reminds me that there is the al fresco dining, breakfast, lunch and dinner...and the farm fresh tomatoes and basil and sweet corn and nectarines and watermelon...and the lights on the ferris wheel lighting the night...soft serve ice cream and fudge and zeppoles on the boardwalk (I am in NJ, after all...)...and then at night those crickets and tree frogs setting the scene with their background buzz. I know...summer isn't all rainbows and unicorns...there are those massive thunderstorms, so furious they are almost biblical, and in an instant they can put an end to a perfectly good backyard bash....and waiting on those steamy (Congo hot, even) subway platforms...how you are all sweaty and flushed and frizzy by the time you hit the office...and of course there are rip-tides and shark attacks and capsized boats...but those are few and far between, no? And don't those minor threats pale in comparison to the way the salt sticks to your skin and hair after a day spent in the ocean air...how it covers your whole being and you feel endlessly warm and summery...and then, you take that post beach shower...and you're all pink and glowing and tingly, damp-haired, dressed in your little terrycloth cover-up, kicking back on the deck in the breeze, a sunset cocktail in hand. Delicious, right?

But there is another reason that I love summer...in fact, the month of August marks the anniversary of one of the greatest moments in my life...

My jealous and possessive youngest child was born to me six years ago this week...and he was and has been different in almost every way from my first two...from the beginning. Ellie and Tim were these planned out beings, from the moment I considered having them...I timed it and figured on their due dates and the amount of spread between them and what their names would be. And news of their impending births brought such joy and excitment...the first new babies in my family in years. And then, they were both born, as you may remember, under incredibly unique circumstances (Y2K) and in the immediate wake of astounding, earth-shattering events (September, 2001). So I suppose that should have proven to me that you never know...you cannot plan anything or know what is coming around the bend. But when I learned that I was pregnant with my third, I was bowled over, in disbelief...as if I didn't know how it happened. And so, I retreated. Now you know me, I am an extrovert...always ready for fun and family and celebration...but instead, this time, I was, for some reason, reluctant to share the news with my parents and siblings and friends...so I kept a teary distance. And forget about work...what would they think of me...this baby machine, three babies in less than four years. The joy that I had encountered the first two times was buried somewhere within me...I couldn't rouse it...and I carried on as such for the first 16 weeks of my pregnancy. I know, looking back, I can't believe it either. Eventually the feeling lifted, and soon I looked forward to meeting this baby...and I was excited and happy and bonding...

So flash forward a few months.... the kid was 10 days late...a monster from the get-go. When I finally did go into labor, it was so unlike the last two times in which I was writhing and yelping and whining...this time it was all going incredibly smoothly and perfectly and all seemed right. And then the doctor came in, we were ready to birth...and suddenly, in a succession of increasingly frantic and coded interplay between she and the nurse, she jumped on top of me...straddling me on the gurney, her hand pressed up

against me, holding the baby in, yelling to everyone "go! go! go!"...and they wheeled me across the hall into an OR and told me that I was having an emergency C-section... The nurses were all nervous energy, prepping me and I could hear the doctor saying "hurry up! hurry up!"... Then I saw the anesthesiologist run in, grab my hand and plug a needle into my wrist...I watched as this grey-black liquid flowed through the tube...and that is the last thing I remember....

I woke to the doctor calling my name: "Suzanne, Suzanne...you have a son..." They told me that the baby had been cut off from my blood supply, his chord having slipped out too soon, ahead of him...and that it was a very serious, life-threatening situation, that we were blessed and lucky that he had survived. They wheeled me in to see him, held by his father, all swaddled and pink and teeny tiny, like a baby doll with his little blue cap...and he was looking right at me, eyes wide open, face to face...and from that moment on, he held my heart completely. How could I have ever doubted that he was meant to be?

So here is the part where I become all profuse and besotted...don't say I didn't warn you...

William Frederick Rittereiser Anderson...named for my beloved Gramps, the only other person on earth who could be such a g**damn ballbuster and still have me falling at his feet...my favorite quality in a guy. My only summer baby, a Leo, the Lion, the King...and boy, does he personify that distinction. Will is sarcastic and aggressive and relentlessly mischievous....he had become a pro at the fine art of the "time-out" before his brother, Tim, 23 months older, had ever even had one...in fact, as it stands today, Tim has yet to misbehave quite enough to warrant a "time-out." Will is extra protective and possessive...the only one of my children to climb into my lap if I held another child, elbowing the interloper out of the way, ensuring he, and he alone, stands between me and the rest of the world... And, of course, my other two have learned to reluctantly defer to him...to know that he will always fight the hardest.

But Will is excessively loyal...not to mention fearless, gregarious and totally hilarious...enough personality for 10 men. He is also loving and sensitive -- always certain to be the very last to kiss and hug me as I walk out the door, unabashedly yelling "I love you" to all of us...and ending each night by saying: "Mommy, I love you eight thousand, nine hundred, infinity and a google..." Be still my heart. He is an architecture and carpentry junkie, insisting that one day he will build me a mansion with his own two hands...he loves the City and its buildings...always wondering how long before he can take part in the planning and construction of one...his very own skyscraper. And we bond quite readily through our shared love for food and his willingness to try...to be adventurous and eat escargots at every meal if he could.

But most of all, Will loves to interact and ask questions...constant questions about truly intelligent pursuits and theories and concepts and philosphies -- life and death...humanity...love....afterlife. One time, I heard him tell Tim, matter-of-factly, that when you die, you are born again as someone else. And Tim goes: "Really? is that true?" and Will was like: "well, yeah, duh..." I have no idea how he knew.

When Will was about three it became clear that he was a leftie...something that caused him embarrassment as he grew, sensitive to being different than Ellie and Tim. Over and over I told him that lefties are special...that they grow to be successful and dynamic and charming and respected leaders...our last three presidents are all lefties, I told him. He would tell me that he was a righty...that I had it all wrong.

Then one evening we saw a promo for a National Geographic Special called: In The Womb: Multiples. I know now that this show was an installment of a series about the gestation and birth process of many species...dogs, whales, human...this one would cover the phenomena of multiple births. And Will was entranced...he said: "Mommy, we have to watch that show..." And, you know, I am not a science geek or anything...but I went with it. We snuggled up on my bed that next night and learned all about the biology and process and mechanics and all that....and then, about halfway through the show the narrator begins to touch on the concept of the "vanishing twin." And they go on to explain that with the development of ultrasound technology, scientists have learned that many pregnancies, as many as one in eight, begin, naturally, as a set of twins...and that at some point early on, one of the twins disappears, absorbing back into the mother, or becoming a part of the remaining twin. And most times the mother never knows that this happened...that she was carrying two...but in fact, her baby is a mirror image of another. And then....

...the narrator shared the widely-held theory that left-handed people are the surviving siblings of a vanishing twin. I was speechless...and for the first time ever, so was Will...

I tuned out right then...I didn't need any further proof -- I was buying this theory without question. It all seemed right to me...you know, it just made sense. And the more I thought about it, the more I felt that it explained everything about my life with Will.... The pregnancy was undoubtedly a strange one...could there actually have been two babies? Could he have been sharing that space for a while, even just for a few weeks? But what was really making me pause and wonder and believe, was simply who Will is...this little thing with this oversized personality. Could it be that he had absorbed his twin, thus bringing with him a double dose of the qualities that make him such a force -- an extra share of emotion and inquisitiveness and loyalty and conviction and possessiveness. And then there was the introspection...and his undeniable connection with and curiosity about his spiritual side...maybe he felt the presence of his vanishing twin...maybe just a bit.

Frankly...I have no doubt...

So, as I said, this weekend marks the six birthday of my true love and greatest fan...together we

will splash in the waves....hit the boardwalk for some zeppoles...and we'll ride the ferris wheel, even though I am petrified of them...and we'll listen to the crickets and tree frogs as the salt air bathes our summery skin...I will give him a Lego building set, preparing him for the future...and we'll eat escargots...And, of course, he will blow out the candles on the chocolate cake with vanilla icing and colored sprinkles that I make for him every year...And he will grow another year older and he will grow wiser and ask more questions and try new things and ponder the mysteries of life...and as he always has been, he will continue to be double the fun...

Much love to all my Babies...

xoxo...Suz

Photos 1 & 2: Summer fun...in many forms...

Photos 3 through 12: Various moments with my sweet little darling...

PS Ok, Ok, Ok...next time...I promise, lots of naughtiness and debauchery...have to counteract all this family friendly stuff...

PPS Happy Birthday, to you too, Cath....our Lioness...finally 29!

It's Sleeping In My Memory....

Many happenings since last week...summer cocktails and backyard parties and girls' book clubs and gourmet dinners. So much to tell...fun and festivity and drama. I mean, come on, it's always a blast when summer cocktails commence with the Nigerian parking attendant on 29th Street giving me a lollipop in an attempt to cheer me up as I drive away...the lollipop did little, but the gesture was certainly lovely....ahhh, good times. Friday and Asian night with the gourmet ladies lifted my spirits exponentially...ADP sporting a silk kimono and chopsticks in her hair...I made spare ribs but it was Suse's lettuce wraps, and that noodley-peanutty thing Tracy cracked out, that I was all over. Oh, and don't let me forget the fortune cookies...we each read ours out loud and then added the line "in bed" at the end...remember that game from back in the 'tween years? Back when you knew "in bed" was naughty and had some connotation relating to sex and making out and all that, yet you still had no clue. Well, we were a little tipsy-ish on sake so we found this retro pastime hysterical....some choice selections:

"You are sociable and entertaining....(in bed)"

"You will be fortunate in everything you put your hands to...(in bed)"

"You will always get what you want through your charm and personality...(in bed)"

Of course, we can all agree that each of those apply to me...but my actual fortune said:

"The man who fools himself is the greatest fool of all."

Ha! Can't say that little gem didn't seem to apply quite readily to my life...in or out of bed. In fact, I am pretty sure the Nigerian parking attendant mumbled that very same sentiment as he offered me that consolation lollipop....well, I couldn't understand him, but it was something like that. Ok, ok, ok...I know some factory out in Flushing is pumping out those little "fortunes" en masse...but you know me, the dreamy Pisces, all about psychic communication, reading into everything, trying to decipher meaning...maybe that little message was meant just for me...a gentle reminder from my angels...you know, via Confucius.

So after that, on Saturday we had Gwen and Joe's backyard BBQ bash....we arrived at 3, ate, drank, were merry around the vintage beer-filled tub and Scott's famous corn-hole game and beer pong and the 80's hair band tunes and the fire pit. We returned home at 11:30...surprisingly I ingested only half of one margarita, one of Tim and Mike's classic and perfect mojitos, some sickenly sweet Mike's Hard Berry crap and one Corona Light in 8 hours...pacing myself...how novel. Best of all -- no hangover on Sunday. Nice! So since I was headache-less that Sunday afternoon, we were back to Gwen and Joe's for some next day leftover feasting and party download in the yard. Brian and Sam with us too, all of the kids running around, catching fireflies, putting flowers in their hair, piling onto the hammock, playing

Wiffle Ball and some make-believe game they called "Teenager"...hmmm...yeah, don't think I want to know the rules of that game. So I said to Brian as we loaded up our plates with the pulled pork and brisket and all that: "These are the times I remember when

I look back to being a kid...these summer nights running around a neighbor's yard, the parents enjoying a cocktail...these are the memories I love the most from back then. So glad I can give that to my kids too..." And he totally agreed.

Not even 24 hours later, Ellie and I packed a bag full of red wine, cheese and crackers, lobster salad and peanut butter chocolate chunk cookies and headed into the City for a showing of Harold & Maude at the outdoor film series at Bryant Park. There we would meet my gay boyfriends/big brothers/elegant hosts/style icons, Tom and David, and a selection of their ultra-fab posse (including their friend, Matthew, who is my favorite because of the story he told us once about the night Princess Diana died when he was at a boring dinner party on Fire Island and, unknown to the other guests, had climbed out the bathroom window to visit Tom and David a few houses down just for a laugh...and they broke the sad news to him...so he ran back to the dinner party house, climbed back in the window, came back out of the bathroom and informed the dinner guests of the earth-shattering drama unfolding in Paris, thus ruining the party completely and never fully explaining how he had learned of the news while locked in the john....Love that!). So anyway, I know, bringing a nine year old to a decidely adult cultural event seems a little askew...when I told her she would be the only child in our group, she rolled her eyes and said: "well of course, Mom...gay guys don't have kids..." Hilarious! But anyway, we are talking about making memories here, and ever since the Jo Bros concert last week, Ellie has been my undisputed BFF and first-choice date...my little confidante too. So you know...I adore my Mom and Dad, but when I was nine, I was virtually taking care of myself, so Ellie seems old to me....certainly old enough to be introduced to the "outdoor series" concept, no?

So at any rate, back to memories...Ellie had always wanted to attend the Bryant Park film series because she knows that her father and I were engaged there during a showing of the great Audrey Hepburn/Humphrey Bogart film, Sabrina (delicate sparrow Sabrina, a servant girl in a Gold Coast estate who visits Paris and returns a Franco-phile fashionista and foodie...in a set of twists and turns, she falls deeply in love with the serious and tense but secretly soft-hearted older businessman who grew up on and whose family still inhabits the estate...and her vivacious spirit transforms his life...a little heartbreak, I feel a pinch now just recalling, but it is worth every tear...run out and rent it immediately....). And that memory lingers as we enter Bryant Park, my firstborn and I navigate the blankets and people and cheese trays and wine bottles crammed onto the lawn...we find our party and settle in and pour some wine and chit chat and greet the motley crew (Ellie's new best pals, Tom's darling niece, Annie, and her adorable, floppy-haired boyfriend...at 18, they are the next closest in age to Ellie...), the scent of premium herb filling the air. And suddenly, I am flashing back...and it's not a contact high...this is a total deja vu. I can't shake the memory of me and my sisters and little brother and my parents and their friends from Beverly Hills -- a surgeon and a novelist -- and their daughters...and we are crammed in on a field, sitting on blankets for hours on end, all day and night.......but this place is much bigger than Bryant Park...and it is much more crowded...and the event is a legendary moment in pop culture history....it is 1981, the event is Simon & Garfunkel, the concert in Central Park. And I was there.

I know!! How cool is that? My parents weren't hippies or anything, prone to caravaning around the tri-state, selling tie-dye shirts or some crap like that. It was just that Dad was always a big fan of S&G...the boys from Queens...and maybe he identified with their brand of urban poetry. When we were kids, after dinner and just before bedtime, Dad would settle in the family room, work spread all over the big game table and listen to the Bridge Over Troubled Water and Sounds of Silence albums on heavy rotation (the other top choice was The Beatles' Abbey Road...). So these are the songs that pepper my early childhood memories...I remember sitting there in those hideous 1970's orange velour chairs in our family room in the New York house, before we moved to Franklin Lakes, with my nightgown on, chatting with Dad while he tried to work, asking him what "I am a rock/I am an i-i-i-sland" meant...how could that guy be a rock? And that bridge and troubled water? I always pictured a man stretching himself across the river, like the GWB or something, which seemed so stupid...And how could silence have a sound? But that voice (what I now know is Art Garfunkel and his glorious gift) made it all the more intriguing and confusing and so beautiful.... So I suppose the symbolic prose of Paul Simon piqued my interest very early on in that orange chair...I wanted to understand the metaphor and, again, decipher the meaning (just like the fortune cookies...the philosophical genius that comes out of Queens is endless...) and

identify why the lyrics touched me even then. So maybe that is how I ended up a reader and writer and analyst of all things nebulous and eventual English major...and perhaps what landed me here.

So I remember, we all hopped the train together, met the extended posse and then snaked our way through the City early that morning (in my googling of the event I learned it took place on September 19, 1981 -- exactly 20 years later, to the day, I gave birth to my second child and first son, Tim...) and then entered the massive Great Lawn, staked out a spot, spreading our blankets all about. And it was tight, I remember, and we were on top of one another. And I am pretty certain that there was no cheese and wine, just #5 sandwiches from Grosso's if anything (though, I cannot confirm that...my mom probably forgot she had children with her and put us all on her survival diet for the day...). My sister, Trish, and I sat there together for hours and she regaled me with her teenage stories and we played games....and I remember the group in front of us passing a roach around and RJ loudly asking my parents: "Why is that cigarette so small?" over and over again. And I remember the show too...I remember that I couldn't see a thing, not at all....just a far away stage with two little human-shaped dots on it...but I could hear everything. Simon kind of reserved and monotone...Garfunkel all psyched to be there (well, did he have much else to do then???), keeping the crowd happy and riled up. And I remember that they did not sing Cecilia and my sisters were bumming, calling out the song's name just prior to encore...as if S&G would hear us from 20 blocks south...Mostly I remember being there and feeling so grown up...and that after the concert, years later, whenever I told someone that I had been there, camping out all day at age 11 to see living legends, they were so totally impressed.

Ok, so a screening of Harold & Maude doesn't exactly compare...but the vibe was the same...you know, we were with fun friends, all jammed in and the group of twenty-somethings in front of us were passing joints back and forth (Ellie was oblivious to that, but she was impressed with their hippie couture fashions...one of them sporting a $250 head scarf...) and the crowd was festive and excited. But truly, the very best part of being there with Ellie was laying on that blanket, looking up at the buildings surrounding us, their windows lit up and making patterns across the sky. That sky...Ellie kept saying: "Mom, look at the purple sky..." And she was asking me all kinds of questions while we ignored the film...talking about how lucky we are to live here, to be able to be in this City whenever we want and see and do all kinds of fun things here...even if it was just to lay on the grass and look up.

And we were making memories...

So on the way home, she in the backseat of the little blue Jag, finishing up the Mr. Softee chocolate dipped soft serve cone that we bought on the way out of Bryant Park, she says: "Mom, where did this fortune cookie come from?" And after she explains finding it on the floor in front of her, I tell her about Asian night and the gourmet ladies...I had forgotten that I had grabbed extras to bring home for Tim, who loves to eat fortune cookies and whose taste in cookies, obviously, is lacking. So anyway, Ellie asks if she can open it...and she reads it to me and even though I was silently adding the words "in bed" to the end and giggling, the fortune could not have been more perfect...simple and easy to decipher, not shrouded in mystery...no rock or island here...just another nudge from the angels who never, ever misguide me...again, via Confucius:

"Treasure what you have."

Photo 1: Marisa and Suzy Fong kicking off the MSG-fueled festivities...

Photo 2: Suzy Fong trying to seduce me with some extra sake and peanutty noodles...

Photo 3: Confucius say: You gourmet b*tches certainly love to eat...in bed...

Photo 4: Tub 'o suds...heat that up and I'll jump right in....

Photo 5: Our cherubs, playing "Teenager" and making memories...

Photo 6: Ellie and me enjoying togetherness among the Bryant Park throngs...actually, that's when we were fighting over the lobster salad...

Photo 7: Me and David...planning an attack on an adjacent strip of grass...

Photo 8: Hepburn, Bogart in Sabrina...difficult, torturous, beautiful love, as it always is...ouch, my heart is pinching again...

Photo 9: Tom and the 18 year olds...gorgeous and fabulous against the City backdrop...

Photo 10: Boys from Queens, that night in '81....

Photo 11: At the Concert in Central Park...I think those guys were sitting right by us...well that bald guy was definitely there...

Photo 12: Me and Ellie, cozy and blanketed...looking up at that purple sky...

Photo 13: One of my most prized treasures...I mean Ellie, not the ice cream...

Hold On To That Feelin'...

So I hit my first summer concert of '09 last night...that's

right, you know me, always up for a good time, a little tailgating, a couple-a bong hits (kidding! I promise, Dad!...), buying a few counterfeit $17 t-shirts from stoners out of the back of a VW van and happily crushing among the throngs...

But none of that brand of fun was afoot, well, aside from the $17 t-shirt purchase (though it was legit and a steal at $40) and the throngs. No, no...this was no outdoor 80's hair band fest or seaside Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame act or Dead tribute group or even some big retro tour with REO Speedwagon and pseudo-Styx (No Dennis DeYoung, no Styx...) or bastardized-Journey (no Steve Perry, no "Open Arms," no "Separate Ways" and damn straight there is no genuine "Don't Stop Believin'" without him....told you, I am a traditionalist....). And it certainly wasn't a Super Star stadium act a la Bruce or Elton or Billy or that ultra-d*uche, Jon and the rest of his Bon Jovi's (if you knew the stories I had about him...)... No way, this was even more groundbreaking and revolutionary -- the Anderson girls' inaugural Mommy and Daughter Night at the Brendan Byrne (ok, IZOD) Arena....Ellie's first concert, a surprise to her until almost the very last minute. So, yeah, I'll admit it...Ellie and I rocked out all night long to everyone's favorite new act...rock gods and legendary talents (I kid...I hope you know that...), The Jonas Brothers. And though I do dig a boy band sap-fest every now and then (hello, Backstreet Boys...), the JoBrosare virtually unknown to me artistically....but we did go see them, and it was just a complete and total flashback.

My very first concert was in 1981, and I saw Styx on their Paradise Theatre tour (with Dennis DeYoung, of course...). We were seated in the Merrill Lynch sky box at Brendan Byrne Arena (pre-IZOD)...no bong hits or fist fights in there, just platters of fried chicken and the private bathroom. I was so excited, watching those little long-haired midgets (talking to you, Tommy Shaw) in their gold-lame jumpsuits and badly dyed scraggly hair (and you, James "JY" Young). And the entire night I sang along to their "rock" opera/theme album tunes and cut the rug by imitating the Danny and Sandy solo dance from the "National Bandstand" scene in Grease (no lie...). I had just turned 11. And Styx is cheesy and all, but we can all agree that they rule...and that when you hear the strains of "Lady" or "Babe" or (T-T-T-) "Too Much Time On My Hands," you get all tingly...we all do.

Eventually I grew and my taste in music improved, though I was ahead of the game with my big brother, Dan, who refused to let me age without an appreciation of the classics...so I had been schooled early in the virtues of The Stones and The Beatles and Queen and Lynrd Skynrd. And I think my musical palate has expanded to appreciate all music as art...well, most of the time. I will admit it, there were those times I met the Menudo guys (ok...I will pause now so that you can

pick yourself up off the floor and catch your breath...I know...it is hilarious and embarrassing....) at Radio City with Allison and Darts and the Donut...g*d only knows what promises and back door deals my Dad had to agree to to make that happen. And it wasn't just him, Darts' dad was pulling strings left and right too so we little suburban pixies could go a little ghetto....

Ok, so I wouldn't know a JoBros song if they personally wrote one for me specifically and then sung it at my wedding as I married one of them...but I do know that they are these big Disney stars and teen idols and on the cover of every Tiger Beat and Bop magazine across the land. I know that they each wear some ring that all the Christian kids are sporting these days, and it symbolizes abstinence until marriage...but, I am thinking, as little teen idols, lots of lovestruck teenaged girls at the ready, their definition of abstinence may fall within President Clinton's own special definition of what actually connotates sex...no? I mean, let's not be naive. So anyway, I also know that these Jonas

Brothers grew up in this very town, Wyckoff, NJ (as did infamous Franken-n*pple balloon-breasted train wreck Tara Reid and flirty American Idol/Tony nominee/cousin of Steve M., Constantine Maroulis, and also some reality star from I Love New York and Rock of Love Bus or whatever dreck VH-1 produces...I think his stage name is "Tailor Made"...so there must be some cheesy crooner/child star/scary alcoholic sl*t amoeba living in those damn Ridgewood Water tanks...gotta get me some of that...). At any rate...when I heard the pride of Wyckoff was appearing, I flashed back to my own childhood idols (The Monkees, Shaun Cassidy, Andy Gibb, The Bee Gees...and by default or osmosis,

David Cassidy, the once and current love of my two big sisters...) who so quickly dropped off the radar screen, became angry suffering "artists" and drug addicts, dead at 30 from cocaine-weakened hearts

and are Hollywood cautionary tales...or maybe that was just Andy Gibb (oh but no worries about the Bee Gees, they are still making beaucoup dollars, being revered, celebrated and inducted into the Hall of Fame...ok, so Maurice died unnecessarily, but evil geniuses Barry and Robin are holding up ok still...). And I thought, well, maybe I will let Ellie see the JoBros before their downward spiral happens to them...g*d forbid...before they are yesterday's news. I mean, there is something so

special about your first time, right...first concert, I mean...and in 11 years when Ellie is sitting at Brother Mike's (a mother can dream, no?) enjoying some frosty Bud Lite in a dixie cup, we all know the inevitable "What Was Your First Concert?" game will be played...and I am thus providing her with the most embarrassing answer of the night (although her father's answer of Night Ranger/.38 Special double bill at Caldwell College is right up there in the mortification department...but Rob happily owns it...). Either way, my position as a Mother of the Year is a lock...

Ok, so we started the night at Baumgarts for fancy Chinese food topped off by an enormous banana split (upon ordering I said to Ellie: "I will have a bite or two but I need to be able to fit into my clothes tomorrow...." And she goes: "Mom, you're not fat...you're getting old, but you're not fat..." Brat!! I scarfed at least half the thing, by the way...). And the ride down Route 17 was a little bit tight and sluggish with all kinds of traffic...but we kept passing cars on which there was all this scribble scrabble: "We love the Jonas Brothers" and "Nick rules!" (my father would have disowned me if I covered his Jag with that sh*t...)....and as I passed these vehicles, I'd play along and wave and honk at the teenyboppers and Ellie would lay down in the backseat and hide, dying of embarrassment. So of course the parking situation was an epic cluster$#@! and we were routed and re-routed through all this Giants Stadium construction through IZOD and back over to the Stadium...and then we crossed the 10 mile (well, maybe it was a little shorter) walkway back over to the Arena. And as we made our way through the doors, I happened to notice the trim blond woman in front of me holding the door open for her flock...and it was my sister-in-law, Rob's sister, Megan, and her girls, my nieces, Lily and Charlotte!! Fifteen-thousand teenyboppers and bored parents and I randomly end up walking in the joint behind a close family member...bizarre. That was basically the highlight of my night (aside from the banana split) because only moments later I was buying Ellie a $20 show program, which eventually got soaked and ruined under her seat...and then, after I seated her in our (quite excellent, I must say...) seats, I headed back out and stood on line so I could buy her that $40 t-shirt and a $10 glow stick. So we sat through the opening acts (surprise guest, Jordin Sparks among them...) and then the Jonas Brothers...Ellie jumped to her feet, yelping like she was watching the Beatles on Ed Sullivan. She stood on her seat and bounced away non-stop, singing along, though I could not decipher one lyric over the thunderous adolescent screaming. And it was a pretty decent show considering...I mean, they don't hold a candle to Steve Perry or anything. But it was fun...and I had fun. But....I did notice throughout the evening, Ellie growing more and more mortified that I was up and dancing and acting a fool, thinking that she would be proud of her "cool" mom (like that boozy and inappropriate "Mom" character by Amy Poehler in Mean Girls..."I'm not a regular mom, I'm a cool mom...")...When I asked the 14 year old next to me to shoot a picture of Ellie and I, Ellie almost f$#@ing died. So...it was a night of firsts for both of us...first concert for Ellie, and first time I realized that, as fun as I like to think I am, I am still an embarrassing, outdated, old-fashioned mom to her...well when among her teenybopper peers at least. It's a little surprising, though I knew this day would come...I mean, hell...this is the same kid I cannot peel off of me at night...the one who argues that Will always gets to sit next to me and it's not fair. But I should have known I was in for it back at Baumgart's when she told me I was getting old...ugh... So it was a realization...she's growing and the separation from Mommy is beginning...kind of sad. *sigh*....One major plus though...showing a little Rittereiser spirit within her, Ellie bored of the Jo Bros scene by 10:30 and insisted we ditch that joint mid-performance. I was overjoyed...we cruised out of that parking lot unhindered by another cluster$#@! traffic jam and were in bed in no time. I think this proves that I have trained her well... So...

Dinner: $70

Tickets: $300

Parking: $15

Official event program: $20

Official Jo Bros t-shirt: $40

Glow stick: $10

Getting home before midnight: Priceless....

No, no...wait...here it is:

Eating a banana split, embarrassing your 9 1/2 year old and giving her a memorable moment and a leg-up in future "What Was Your First Concert" games...now that is priceless...

And I know, have no doubt in fact, that she will look back and remember me as kind of a cool mom...and she will be proud that I let her do fun, grown-up things before she was old enough to truly appreciate...and since I do not know and cannot decipher these Jonas Brothers lyrics, I am thinking this line from my very first concert will be going through her head as she looks back on this night...

"Laaa-dy, when you're with me, I'm smiling...."

xoxo, Suz

PS Happy Birthday, Dad...the new "51"....we love you!

Photo 1: Rock God...ok, well, Pop God, MIA 80's icon, Steve Perry...am not buying tickets until the reunion tour...

Photo 2: Tommy Shaw is so standing on a box...

Photo 3: I had those moves down pat, baby!

Photo 4: Not Menudo...but what studs in their cool shades...the Pride of Wyckoff...

Photo 5: Franken-n*pple...I think she's secretly from Long Island...

Photo 6: I-I-I-I...I just want to be your everything...RIP AG

Photo 7: Embarrassed Ellie and "cool" Mom...as shot by nerdy 14 year old seatmate...

Photo 8: mmmm...luscious...who cares if my jeans are a little tighter today???

Photo 9: Vandalized Jo Bros tribute vehicles...screaming teenyboppers included....

Photo 10: On the concourse, Ellie in our random run-in with her cousins, Lily and Char-Char, of the Westchester Hurleys...

Photo 11: Gleeful little concert goer...forgetting her "coolness" for just a moment...

Photo 12: As we leave for the show....when she's with me I'm smiling...

You Gotta Get It Right While You Got The Time...

I know....it's been so long...too long for me, I think. I wasn't kidnapped or mad at you or distracted by a witty officemate or anything....I was just in bed for a week after I thought I could fight off that swine flu-ish fever-y thing I had by ignoring it...and then as soon as I was able to lift my head, we were off to the annual family vacay in Bermuda (more on that in a few...). And how unlike me to be silent ever, but especially in light of the major pop culture announcements and happenings and losses that occurred in these weeks...so very much to process.

So, let's get to it....when I heard that Michael Jackson had died, confirmed by a man I did not know in the parking garage on 47th and 6th...he looked up from his Blackberry and said to me: "He's dead." And I said: "It's official?" And my dad said: "Who's dead?"...and when me and the guy I didn't know explained that day's chain of events, Dad said: "Farrah Fawcett died?" So....at any rate, my very first thought upon hearing of MJ's passing was: Ryan O'Neal must be f@#$ing pissed!

I am sorry...but it's true...that was my first thought. You know, it's like this -- as a longtime PR professional, I can say that you will sell your soul to ensure your celebrity client gets his or her due, to make certain he or she is honored and respected for the achievements and impact of his or her life. But there are few PR nightmares in Hollywood as frightening and depressing for a celebrity as dying on the same day as someone more famous than you are. Poor Farrah...she deserved tributes and tears and public sympathies and the front cover of People magazine. And Ryan O'Neal, well, I don't know...I still think that he was at her bedside licking his chops, planning his Larry King appearance, finally having a reason to be on the front pages again and milking it as much as possible. And then Jacko had to go and die and f@#! up the whole evil plan. Now if that is not karma slapping Ryan in the face for his widely reported misappropriated professional jealousies and epically bad parenting and unpunished violent behavior the past forty years...well, I don't know what is. Too bad it was on Farrah's time....

So I didn't really have time to process the whole situation, no time to sit in front of Matt Lauer live from Neverland and hear all about what would become of Prince Michael and Paris and Blanket...and oh man, what about Bubbles the Chimp (now that that gorilla is back in the news Ellie wants to name her new fish "Bubbles"...a pet named Bubbles? If we are talking girly-man pet names, I much prefer "Fairydust"...). Anyway...we had no time for the speculation and statements and Monday morning quarterbacking because the next day we were off to Bermuda. We boarded the JetBlue jet out at JFK with the entire Michael Jackson catalog downloaded onto our iPods (for me it was not the widely beloved "Thriller" in which I discovered the genius of MJ, but the earlier "Off the Wall" that I loved...I wanna rock with you (all night....)....or wait, what about ....I kept my love for her locked de-e-e-e-p inside/And it cuts like a knife/She's out of my life...). Undeniable brilliance. So that is how I honored the passing of a tragic icon...singing loudly and off-key on the hour and forty-five minute flight....(anything to drown out the incessantly screaming, crying devil's spawn seated in front of me). And that was it....because there was way too much fun to have on the island to sit in front of Anderson Cooper for another second.

So, that flu-ish whatever was still kind of clinging to me and the only cure I could fathom was a week on a lounge, pink sand, cobalt skies, turquoise waters and a couple of Rum Swizzles (and a couple more...). My three little angels fluttered around me and splashed and floated and played with their cousins and fought over who would be the lucky one to get to sleep next to me that night...And I read a book cover to cover for the first time in months ("American Wife" by Curtis Sittenfeld...fictionalization of the life of Laura Bush...delicious and juicy....). And while my skin turned from a rosy golden to deep caffe latte, we sailed and snorkeled and beached and lollygagged and motorbiked across the island. We Swizzled Inn and Swaggered Out and Dark 'n' Stormied and the guys golfed Mid-Ocean and Riddell's Bay and we had a ladies' dinner at Blu and each one of us scarfed a souffle at The Fourways Inn and I bought another pair of Venetian glass earrings at The Island Shop for myself and a set for Ellie too. Just like we do every year....it is our tradition.

I guess that is why I love my Bermudian vacation...and the island in general. You know, Bermuda itself is filled with little nuances and matters of etiquette and rights of way that only apply when you are there...and that you are aware of only as a frequent visitor or resident. Of course there is the ubiquitous politeness...and there is exact measurement and tailoring required to officially make Bermuda shorts, Bermuda shorts...but you may not know this one: Don't ever, when seated at a bar, turn your back on the bartender to survey a view behind you...or you will likely find yourself buying drinks for everyone in the bar as punishment for your lack of decorum. It's true...look it up. So I guess I appreciate tradition all the more when we make our annual trip because, at this point it simply is due to tradition that we continue to visit the island each July (this year marks my 18th stay....).

You all know that I am all about setting and adhering to standards. I love making and keeping plans and following rules and regulations and schedules and being on time and honoring customs. I suppose in some ways this could be viewed as rigidity...but I see it as such -- it is my pure and simple respect for the classics. For instance, I loved that my family's Club required men to wear long pants on the golf course until only a few years ago...and when they switched over, I was secretly offended (apparently I'd much rather have my Dad and brothers and husband and sons roast in the sun than wear shorts on the course...such a breach of protocol should be outlawed...especially when it doesn't directly affect me, right?). And when we attended a black tie wedding a few years back, Rob and I agreed that he should wear a white dinner jacket (like that long-gone man of style, Humphrey Bogart...) as the wedding started during the day, well before the acceptable hour to be wearing a tuxedo. He was one of only two at the wedding who adhered to the rule and I was beyond proud...so what if you could spot him from two rooms away. And when we were in London and attended dinner at the ultra-formal Le Gavroche...because I had made the reservation, I was considered the hostess of our party, I was seated at the head of the table and the restaurant staff addressed me as "Mrs. Anderson" and no one else at the table was provided a menu on which the prices were listed....just me...and the bill was handed to me as well...so what if I slid it across the table and let Megan and Mike pay. And this goes without saying, but handwritten thank you cards should never, ever go out of style...well, assuming you didn't put it off so long that you can't remember what the gift was in the first place...

So, imagine my delight upon return from our holiday when Rob emailed me the link to this past Sunday's New York Times "Style" section, in which an article was featured on Bermuda's beloved national cocktail-- the famous Dark 'n' Stormy, which we have been enjoying for years but is now making a Stateside resurgence in bars and cocktail lounges across New York City. So of course there is a classic preparation for this refreshing cocktail, Gosling's Black Seal Rum and ginger beer, (an acquired taste, by the way...I personally stick to those sweetly pleasing Swizzles) but the Gosling family of Bermuda have trademarked the cocktail's name, which they "vigorously" defend, and they are patenting the ingredients and the amounts of each that are required in its preparation. This then makes it illegal for bartenders to make their own tweaks to the recipe or to use the name "Dark 'n' Stormy" on their menus unless the official recipe is followed. So I immediately forwarded the link to TL, who served Rob quite a few too many Dark 'n' Stormies when we visited he and JL this spring, but who also puts my traditionalism to shame, his snooty adherence is unmatched and endlessly impressive. Back a few weeks ago he read right here that we had a bottle of Crown Royal on our Memorial Day bar and though he sung the virtues of a Crown Royal Manhattan, he stated that said libation is, however, a winter drink and I was chastised for not putting the bottle away "until first snowfall." Now you see why he is one of my besties, don't you?

Anyway, I love this so much...this ballbusting rigidity...there, I said it...and I was loving reading all about the travails of the the Dark 'n' Stormy in the Style section and the Gosling family's unwavering protectiveness and pride in the brand's legacy...it impressed me so much, this deliously stuffy respect and reverence for custom. For a minute I was thinking I would like to get to know this Gosling brother who is quoted in the article...I considered hopping back on that JetBlue jet with MJ's "Off the Wall" blasting in my ears so that I could find and persuade Mr. Gosling to be my mentor or new best friend (sugar daddy?) or something...take me under his polite and perfect Gosling wings, make me his devoted student of decorum. I know, not a very "traditional" tactic but I think I could talk Rob into supporting this venture -- free Goslings Black Seal Rum for him would certainly entice his enthusiasm...

But.....I am far too irreverent and distracted to ever pull off even the minimal level of perfection required by strict traditionalists on a fulltime basis...there is that bratty freespiritedness and festivity living inside me that has to break out. You know, every once in a while I need to go out and frivolously buy a pair of strappy four-inch heels, throw on a too-short skirt, spend lots of money on beauty treatments....And then there are the raucous girls-only dinner parties...or pre-concert tailgating sessions outside Giants Stadium...or hitting a dive bar for frosty beers and extra early Happy Hours...or some midnight trampolining at the McCauleys...or a three-person conga line headed up by TJ...or a little harmless flirting with the pizza delivery guy...or watching some Real World/Road Rules Challenge marathon on MTV.

And what about all of you....how much fun would our weekly (one-sided) chats be if I only showed you my politely composed side? I mean, who would I talk to about my daily outings and weekly dramas and random musings? And what about all that newsy intrigue (don't even get me started on that Governor Sanford thing...reading those private emails and secret love notes just about made my eyes bleed...I felt like a dirty interloper...was I the only one?) and pop culture developments and Hollywood gossip that I spread as though God Himself shared the tidbit with me directly (who do you think told me about Tom Cruise and Will Smith????)...And speaking of which, who would happily listen as I conjecture about the thoughts, feelings and motivations of the celebrities involved in the most recent chain of events (sorry for judging you, Ryan O'Neal...well, maybe not...) or tragedy or scandal, if not you? I mean, well....especially since we haven't even had the chance to cover the Chastity...oh excuse me...the Chaz Bono thing....not that I was surprised or anything, I mean I have pretty much thought of him as a guy since he was perched on Cher's hip during that closing number each week on The Sonny & Cher Comedy Hour...for real...there was something about Chastity that had me wondering.... So maybe I was a shallow b*tch at five. Or perhaps, as it seems at present, I was simply perceptive...but too mindful of proper etiquette to point out the obvious...well, until now at least...

And you know what....in the grand scheme of things, as much as I love her, I wouldn't be shocked if I learned that Cher prefers her little Chastity transitioning into Chaz, to the nightmare of dying on the same day as Michael Jackson....

Missed you, by the way....xoxo, S

Photo 1: The King of Pop, in better times....

Photo 2: Not sure if that hottie is Farrah as Jill Munroe or a freshman cross-dresser....

Photo 3: Ryan O'Neal demos his stellar parenting skills...arrested alongside his meth-head spawn...tragic...

Photo 4: The first appearance of the glow-in-the-dark socks...and one of the best albums in a generation...

Photo 5: Ellie and me boating in Hamilton Harbour last week...looking like opposite sides of a Black & white cookie...no wonder no one believes she's mine...

Photo 6: My firstborn, the jealous and possessive almost 6 year old and my perfect middle child...battling to snuggle closest to me outside our Bermudian cottage...love that...

Photo 7: Enjoying that first Rum Swizzle...of that night at least...

Photo 8: Rob's style icon and every girl's dream man, Humphrey Bogart...

Photo 9: A perfectly legal and supremely delicious Dark 'n' Story...just before it was imbibed last week at The Fourways Inn, Paget, Bermuda...

Photo 10: See that festive little girl in there under the green sweater...no way she can be well-behaved all the time...

Photo 11: Look how pissed Baby Chastity is that Cher made her wear that frilly girlie frock...I swear I thought she was a boy all the way back then...