I just plowed through a huge stack of magazines in the hope of eliminating some of the stultifying clutter that is about to suck my house into a giant black hole. I tossed countless women’s magazines, all with headlines insisting that I could lose 21 pounds in two weeks (without amputating one or more limbs), increase my metabolism by 500% by combining certain foods at certain times of day during certain months of a leap year but only on Thursdays at midnight. Or how,with simple mind control, I can remove all the calories from a bacon egg and cheese sandwich. Do you sense a pattern here?

Combine these with the stack of cooking magazines I’ve collected and there appears to be a vast conflict with my desire to both control my eating and cook things. Good luck to me.

I waded through countless copies of Gourmet magazine which recently stopped publishing--thank goodness, I say. If it hadn’t I might have had some sort of breakdown due to the pressure it's put on me over the years. Have anyone of you read the recipes in there or seen the pictorial spreads? It was enough to make me want to drown myself in the melted Velveeta I use in my macaroni and cheese. It took me years to realize that the incredibly gorgeous people seated at beautifully appointed tables at the water’s edge on isolated coastlines were models and not just really, really good-looking local villagers gathered for some chow. Not only that but the “gastriques, genoises and remoulades” were making me crazy. I don't know anyone who actually cooks like that.

All of this has caused me to work up an appetite so before I go forage for something in the kitchen, I want  to say a huge thank you to all my readers and wish you a great weekend---see you on Monday!!!

And a grateful shout-out to all of you who sign on to "follow" this blog.  I really appreciate it!

Today, someone selling e-readers on TV, uttered the words, "Books are no longer made of paper," causing me to run in small, tight circles in the kitchen. "Books," I spat back (truth be told, I whined back, but spat sounds plucky) are, most certainly--by definition--made of paper!" Unlike the soul-less gizmos with silly names flooding the market right now, books are, well, books

They smell like books--older ones, dusty and musty. New ones,crisp and fresh.You can rest them on your lap and drift into a reverie or hurl one in anger without causing it to whirr, shudder and go dark. I do realize that I am a dinosaur, a greying fart-ess with a grudge against technology. I'm also, obviously, a hypocrite as I blog daily, relying on technology to bring my words into your homes. It's a confusing time for my generation.

Here's a column that acknoledges that technophia is purely generational but also raises a question or two. I am very interested in what you think....


The End of Ideas


I am about to launch myself off into Candlewood Lake in a little boat where I intend to live, accepting only occasional visits from Seth who will bring news from home, 100-calorie snack packs, Diet Coke and crossword puzzles.The reason for this disconnection from daily life is due to something I learned today. There is, it seems, an I-Phone App (The “Cry Translator”) that will “listen” to and interpret the sound of your infant’s crying. It will then tell you whether the baby is hungry, tired, cranky or suffering from a full diaper. A phone. Your baby’s cries. Life of isolation, take me.

Who will get this app? If I am about to offend you, I will not be apologizing any time soon because if it's YOU, I think you’re nuts. It’s bad enough that you are never without your phone.That you keep it in your hand most of the day, checking it every few minutes for a new text or, worse, that you tippy-tap away while engaged in conversation with me. Sometimes you take a call while we’re together, pretending to care by asking me if I mind because “it’s important.”You don’t wait for my response and, actually, I do mind.    

I fully acknowledge that my discontent is totally generational. I recently read of a study that says people over 50 react far more negatively to this sort of thing. The younger set—my sons’ generation—appears to have been successfully indoctrinated into this new world. I rarely see a young person sitting idly anymore. While waiting for a friend or a train or the apocalypse, they are immersed in what’s happening on a tiny screen. Travelers in buses gaze upward at monitors over their seats instead of observing the world outside their windows. People walking on a city street or a country road talk animatedly while passing beneath blooming trees in spring and blazing trees in fall—glorious canopies of leaves or blossoms ignored while they chat, merrily gesturing to no one. Kids are pacified by videos in minivans as their parents drive. I suppose I can understand the rationale for this although we drove to Minnesota and Florida and Mississippi with two very small boys who entertained themselves with conversation, books and toys that required some imagination. When can we expect anyone to actually have an idea anymore—to muse, to dream, to have a creative flash or an inspirational revelation?  I’m scared that no one will ever have an idea again.

Not to mention, with video games that are marketed as good for your hand-eye coordination, my boys’ generation and those to follow may learn to expect immediate responses and gratification with the stroke of a key or the twirl of a joystick. I fear it may lead to a population which will expect that same immediacy from friendships, relationships and marriages.

Maybe I’m totally wrong. I hope I am because unless the electricity goes out permanently, God forbid, there’s no stopping this train. There will be I-Phone Apps that will pick your noses for you soon. Am I glad that my friend’s phone can instantly tabulate what each of us owes at the diner or that, at four in the morning, I can google how old Marlo Thomas is these days (she’s 72)? Yes. But I would forgo these cute little conveniences in order to return to a world that requires more thinking and fewer keyboards. 

When my generation is gone (our obituaries immediately circulated on screens that have been implanted in the optic pathways of our great-grandchildren's frontal lobes), the younger set can click away unhampered by cranky old witches like myself and hold up their magic little phones to their babies all they want. By then robots will be changing diapers and helping with homework anyway. I can be reached in the middle of Candlewood Lake for anyone who cares.  You’ll have to come out, in person, to talk—I’m leaving my phone at home.

Cooking with Cleavage..or, a Series of Important Questions Regarding the Food Network

Giada

Why does Giada DeLaurentiis smile so much while she’s cooking? Why are her teeth so white and her head so huge? Why does she cook with so much cleavage exposed?  If having lots of cleavage earns you a good kitchen, why is mine so crappy?  Why does Ina Garten laugh so much when anyone enters her home?  Why must she kiss visitors hello and goodbye when there’s only a few minutes between their arrival and departure?  Why must she make such a loud “smacking” sound when she kisses them and why does she pose so many compliments to her own cooking in the form of a question? Why are the Neelys so damn horny when they’re cooking? Why does Mr. Neely continually refer to himself as “Big Papa?” Do I really want the answer to that question? Why is Alton Brown so skinny? Does he not like his own cooking? Why are Sunny Anderson’s wig and ass getting so big? If big asses earn you a great kitchen, why is mine so crappy? Why does Sandra Lee insist on a different “table-scape” for each meal?  How many trips to the fabric store can someone make in one lifetime? Does she get a discount on remnants? Why do we accept “table-scape” as a legitimate term in the English language? Why doesn’t she wear a better support bra? Can’t she afford one?  Is she too tipsy from the cocktails she makes on TV to get into the car and drive to the mall to buy one? Where has Emeril’s neck gone?  If having no neck earns you a great kitchen, why is mine so crappy?  Why is Bobby Flay so smug all the time?  Who does he think he is to constantly challenge people with “throw-downs?” Why don’t they punch his lights out? If being a smart-ass earns you a great kitchen, why is mine so crappy? Why do we accept “throw-down” as a legitimate term in the English language? Why does Rachel Ray take so many things out of the fridge at one time? Why does she call sandwiches “sammys?” Why do we not storm the Food Network studios with torches and pitchforks because of this? If making up words earns you a great kitchen, why is mine so crappy? Why are Paula Deen’s sons always hanging around their mother’s house? Don’t they have jobs of their own? Why aren’t my sons here more often? Why does Paula wear so many diamond rings while cooking? Has one ever fallen into a pot? Has she ever baked one into a pie? If so, did anyone break a tooth? How come she never trips on that dog? Why have I never, ever heard anyone else with an accent like that? Is it possible she comes from another planet? How come on Chopped no one ever grabs Ted by the skinny neck-tie and swings him around a few times for being an annoying know-it-all? If being an annoying know-it-all earns you a great kitchen, why is mine so crappy? How come the losers always leave so docilely when they’re chopped? Does Anne Burrell stick her finger in a light socket to get her hair like that? Why did Tyler Florence’s marriage break up? Is he lonely? If being lonely earns you a great kitchen, why is mine so crappy?  Why is Robert Irvine so muscular? Who needs to have arms like to cook? Could Ina Garten take him in a fight? 

If anyone can answer any of these, please let me know immediately.

Keith Richards---Health Idol

There are certain symptoms of growing older that cannot be taken lightly.  So what if I need reading  glasses to discern whether that's  cous cous or quinoa on my plate?  Who cares if, upon first awakening, my joints creak and pop loudly enough to be heard down the hall?  Big deal. What I am most shocked by is my new-found love for Regis Philbin.  Suddenly I find that man engaging, charming and really very funny. My laughter at his comments resonates off the walls as I dress each morning and I turn to the cats, expecting to see them slapping their little haunches in shared hilarity.  I surely did not see this coming. But, more importantly, I wonder if Keith Richards loves Regis, too…

Keith, you see, is my touchstone for my very physical survival. A few years back during a cyclical phase (I am now trying to do better) in which I became concerned about my self-neglect (not scheduling age-appropriate diagnostic exams, consuming sugar and saturated fats as if I were training for the early death prelims of the Bad Eating Olympics), I read about Keith. He of the drug and alcohol-saturated decades. He of the ghastly pallor, the emaciated limbs, the unsteady gait.  He of the odd items, entangled and forgotten, suspended in his greasy hair. The piercings. The hollow stare. He who refused to stop drinking because he’s outlived the doctors who begged him to do so. He, who claims--during a bender--to have snorted a pinch of his cremated father along with some cocaine. Keith Richards, the very paragon of self-abuse is my health mentor... 

It dawned on me that if he’s still upright there is no earthly reason why I shouldn’t be, as well. And this has given me enormous hope for my own longevity. I have never taken drugs and do not drink.  My own periods of debauchery—involving  M&Ms  and full-fat mozzarella as opposed to unlimited Jack Daniels, heroin and cocaine—pale in comparison and Keith is still going strong. Now, of course, I worry terribly about him and keep a concerned ear turned to what (or, who) he’s snorting these days. I’ve learned  that he’s recently written an autobiography.  I intend to read it carefully for health tips and inspiration.  Viva Keith!!

Miss No-Name vs. Barbie

The Originals. Friends after all these years?

I saw an ad on TV recently for some new shower products with the preposterous names of “Happy Sensation” and “Touch of Happiness.” Grousing aloud to the cats, I told them that whoever came up with names like these must think the public is comprised of total idiots. Just because they include the word “happy” and show smooth-skinned seductresses joyously lathering up in high def, how can they imagine that we could fall prey to this nonsense?                                                                                                                                                          

By mid-afternoon, I was thinking about the products.  The flowers pictured on the bottles were certainly pretty, weren’t they?  And those names seemed kind of cute, after all. Maybe my life might, indeed, seem rosier if these bottles of happiness were lined up, like little soldiers, in my shower? Dinner came and went. The kitchen was tidied—suddenly, I was in the car hurtling toward CVS. On the trip home, my purchases safely on the seat beside me, I sheepishly acknowledged what a gullible idiot I am and started thinking about advertising and its’ huge role in our daily lives.

When I was little, we never bought name brand soda but, nonetheless, I harbored an overwhelming desire to lean against a convertible drinking from a can of Coke while laughing uproariously with my attractive, slender friends. Instead, my grandmother and I would wait for the soda truck and the green glass bottles of black cherry soda handed down by a man with a great big smile and a bushy beard who couldn’t have cared less about my need to feel like part of the mainstream. We were all either immigrants or children of immigrants—advertising, shmadvertising—we were lucky to be in America.

But for me, that was the point.Coke was America. So were sneakers. In the 1960’s, sneakers were an annual purchase made once school ended in June. For summer use only, if your mother was really cool, you’d be allowed to wear them with no socks. But the commercials on TV were for Keds. Keds were snappy. They were worn by members of the in-crowd. And they had that fabulous blue rubber rectangle on the back of the heel so the world knew you were part of that in-crowd. They were also more expensive than P.F. Flyers. I knew from an early age that I would never be part of that crowd thanks to my P. F. Flyers.

Money was tight but when I started noticing ads for Barbie dolls, I knew I needed to be part of all that. Barbie was perfect. Besides a tiny waist, she had a great car, a fabulous home and a boyfriend who had no…well, you know. I had to have her. Instead, I got a doll who had no name at all. She was cute and could wear the clothes that my mother stayed up all night sewing by dim light (not kidding) and she also had a boyfriend with no…well, you know but she wasn’t Barbie. I eventually received a real Barbie as a gift and was so in awe of her status that I was barely able to play with her. I still have them. Miss No-Name (who was later joined by more no-name pals) is haggard from use. Barbie is in great condition.  And, by the way, she was never very nice to Miss No-Name. I should have noticed back then that something was up with that plastic bitch.

It took some time for me to realize that having name brands didn’t matter. In some circles, it's a ticket to acceptance and even some masochistic form of popularity but as we gain a bit more perspective, we realize that this is not what’s important. I backslide occasionally--even in my hard-won supposed maturity, a certain handbag line may seem preferable to another and clearly, shower gel with a ridiculous name can cause me to blunder into the night wearing weird sweatpants but, for the most part, I manage to resist the illusion that is advertising. I think I’m going to dig out my old dolls and apologize to Miss No-Name. She had a lot more personality than Barbie now that I think of it. I hope she forgives me.

Sparky Anderson, Randy Quaid and a Pimple

I used to love it when the Cincinnati Reds came to town. Not only did their uniforms look bright and snappy against the impossibly green grass of Shea Stadium on a sunny afternoon but I had a little bit of a crush on Johnny Bench. I used to love to watch him behind the plate.  When, years later, my son Charlie gravitated to the position of catcher, it was the Bench tradition that, in my mind, he was perpetuating. Mike Piazza was great but, for me--formed into a baseball fan as a little girl, Johnny Bench was the man. 

But this isn't about Johnny. It's about Sparky who was, hands down, my favorite visiting manager. He was fun to watch, knew the game and seemed to embody a healthy and responsible competitive spirit. When he was on the field with Gil Hodges, you know that all was well in the baseball world. I'm certain that I wasn't the only one vaulted into a nostalgic state by news of his death yesterday.

And then, emerging on the horizon of today's news, came the antithesis of class, a morning show interview with the creepily weird Randy Quaid. Weird can be entertaining but his brand is the kind you'd like to slap but don't because you know you'd get slapped back (and possibly, bitten). Quaid's is the annoying kind--- just pay your hotel bill, you damn fool. Between his ramblings defending his recent actions (squatting in a house he'd already sold, missing court dates and insisting that he's on list to be killed by a "star whacker") and the immense pimple I had-- only seconds before--discovered, I could do little more than shake my head and tighten my grip on my "I Love the Nanny" coffee mug.

Women my age don't get pimples. We do get homicidal, morose, despondent, accused of aggravated assault, the large size Hershey Bars which we pretend are destined for our husband's favorite cookie recipe and giant bottles of Aleve from Costco that we pop like candy, but we don't get pimples. Until this one--defiantly blooming on my chin like an evil strawberry--is under control, I will be sending Seth out for supplies. 

In the meantime, I will contemplate the class of Sparky, try to make sense of Randy and hope that you all have a fabulous, pimple-free weekend.  Thanks for reading--see you all on Monday!!!

Television Time

If you ever find yourself alone in your kitchen, shouting “Sharif, go for the piñata!” it means that you have joined me in a low place…..daytime TV. More specifically, game shows. Most specifically, the new updated “Let’s Make a Deal.” And, FYI, Sharif did not go for the piñata but got zonked, instead. No one, not even Sharif, listens to me. 

I was a big game show watcher when I was a kid, especially if I wasn’t feeling well. Maybe, like me, when you stayed home from school, your day was broken into half hour increments: there was the original Jeopardy before the electronic screen and Alex Trebek’s penchant for exaggerated foreign accents. Then, Password where that creepy, disembodied voice would whisper the secret word. Later, the leering Gene Rayburn showed up with his panel of smartasses on The Match Game. I even have cloudy black and white memories of Queen for a Day where some poor wreck was whisked out of her snap coat and thrown into an ersatz-ermine trimmed robe and tiara. Bob Barker and I were pals long before his hair went white. Those were the days. Just thinking about it makes me wish for the cinnamon toast and tea my mother would bring in on a tray while I was watching.

I think that daytime TV back then had medicinal properties. After a few days of it, didn’t we feel better? It was soothing and fun. Now if you snap on the TV during the day, there’s Maury Povich waving envelopes with paternity test results or the soul-less Jerry Springer smugly watching braless women duke it out with other braless women over a toothless man. It’s, almost literally, a nightmare. What is the child, home from school for a day or two, expected to watch?

I still do enjoy television during the daylight hours. If I’m home alone, I’ll fold laundry to the Food Channel and pine for the well-appointed kitchens of photogenic chefs who flash their cleavage (even the men) as they snap asparagus and ricochet about between their matching Sub-Zeros. Does everyone cook in low cut, tight-fitting tops but me?  Who cares—because I’m flipping to QVC for a few minutes where I will resist buying Christmas wreaths in July before moving on to cable news. Here, I’ll be appalled by earthquakes overseas, political scandals and Nancy Grace’s terrifying eyeballs.      

I love to read, do crossword puzzles and have been crocheting the same afghan for the past five years but when Charlie went away to school I made a conscious decision to watch more TV. I do not regret this decision at all. I have learned many things from television and made many friends. All the home shopping hosts love me personally and care deeply about my health and appearance. I have also learned, for example, why veganism is good for me (but then I tasted the cheese--oh my!) and what a “flash mob” is. Plus, I am entertained endlessly. It doesn’t matter whether Lucy is cramming chocolates into her apron or Anderson Cooper is dazzling me with both his sarcasm and silver hair.

Come evening, I have plenty to pick from, as well—Meredith Grey might be a whiner but I’ve come to love the fake rain pounding against the fake windows of Seattle Grace. And, of course, I was captivated by American Idol and Simon Cowell’s strange fixation with what appeared to be Hanes white v-neck  tees—six to a pack. I'll miss him next season, won't you?

As adults, my sons lead productive lives and do not share their mama’s television habit. They watched what some might consider too much TV when they were little, including documentaries, wonderful old movies and travel shows as well as Power Rangers, Mutant Turtles and animals beating each other up with mallets. They became aware of world events as well as justifiably afraid of Geraldo Rivera’s gargantuan mustache. During National Turn-off-your-TV-week, we simply turned up the volume. I believe their interest in politics and current events stems, in part, from nightly world news during dinner.

Television is painted by some as anesthesia for your brain.  I don’t feel anesthesized, I feel interested--I know more about where I want to go and what I want to explore…or avoid.  And, Sharif, if you can hear me—next time, go for the piñata.

 

Last evening—television’s political cavalcade of election results!!—Seth and I thought it would be great fun to break out the snack tables and order take-out so we could sit side by side, eating from plastic containers, while George Stephanopoulos (and his hair, which I am told, draws its’ own salary from ABC news) did his grim little thing all night. Unfortunately, I didn’t last very long before falling deeply asleep. I awoke a few hours later to a silent room, bedecked with a few snoring cats and stumbled up to bed where I dreamt that Dan Quayle was installing new counters in my kitchen.  When I got up this morning  and faced the frost on the grass-- viewed from the cozy side of a chilled window pane--I simply could not get myself going. Despite the politically charged circumstances of the previous evening, I was very sleepy in the light of day.

Then, I remembered—there is coffee in this world! I always forget that fact if I am home alone. Sluggish and resentful, I start my mornings dragging about, wondering how I will ever find the energy to refill the cats water dish. If it’s during the week and Seth is already at work, I just push ahead, determined not to follow my instincts and fall back into bed. On the weekend, however, magic happens….

I wake, after my husband has been up for about an hour, to find that something wonderfully aromatic awaits me in a glass carafe in the kitchen. I mumble something furry and green to Seth and he hands me a cup of this lovely stuff upon which I warm my hands and then take a sip…mmm.  A few minutes later, I am again able to pronounce words correctly, perform simple tasks and recognize family members.

Coffee has a checkered and fluctuating health record. Every few years the experts change their minds about whether it’s going to kill us or if it’s actually beneficial for our health. Currently, it’s back in good standing  with the community of researchers who determine such things and who, no doubt, swill gallons of coffee while they perform calculations and pore over data. Thank goodness, because I plan on getting addicted to it.

I brewed some for myself this morning and--already on my second cup-- will now, with a clear head, go see whether Dan Quayle might really have been here in the night.  I certainly hope so because we really need new counters.

Today, of course, is Election Day.  I will go to the polls and, with the exception of one or two very local contests, grind my teeth as I choose from a menu of weirdos, deviants and liars.

With this in mind, I am posting the only "political" column I have in my portfolio.  Originally run last March, it remains topical because smarmy politicians are always--and unfortunately--relevant.

Politics, Shmolitics

My friend Bob recently mentioned that my columns are getting a bit “fluffy”. He suggests that I become more edgy and politically topical. After mulling this a bit, and calling Bob a communist several times in private, I decided to see where thinking about politics might take me.           

The subject matter from which Bob suggests I draw is as tawdry as any Jerry Springer hour on daytime TV.  At least the guests there are not elected or presidentially appointed, highly paid officials who enjoy the perks, benefits and respect of the American public— or at least used to.

Take Charlie Rangel.  He was one of my favorites when I lived in New York. A decorated serviceman, articulate and engaging—we all loved him. And why not—he’s special enough to decide that paying taxes doesn’t apply to him. No matter, the sweat and tears of his constituents will provide his share. Here in Connecticut, we’ve got the white-maned, elder statesman in the person of Christopher Dodd. His dedication has earned political longevity as well as the right to play patty-fingers with Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, accept preferential loan terms and undervalue his property in Ireland. Gotta love him.  Even the Governator, Arnold Schwarzenegger, was involved in nefarious personal tax issues a few years back. And he’s married to a Kennedy, for goodness sake!!!

There’s also the perpetually disheveled Tim Geithner. Appointed by Robin Hood himself and a proud member of the Merry Men, he also chose not to pay some taxes, citing confusion regarding the tax codes .If the Secretary of the Treasury is confused, what am I—an H&R Block representative? His colleague, Attorney General Eric Holder, has been cited for obstructing FBI investigations involving nuclear secrets….among other things. Even the Robot of the House, Nancy Pelosi, seems to have kicked some funny money towards her husband in a Water Resource Bill. What about Hillary who, besides committing the crime of owning just too darn many pants suits, has her issues with Whitewater, illegal fund-raising and even stealing some furniture from the White House?                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

And, Bob, what about the sex scandals?  Mark Sanford takes off for Argentina for more than tango and tapas while former Governor Elliot Spitzer, after touting himself as the avenging nemesis of vice in his home state, exhibits some extremely bad taste in local prostitutes. One of the most befuddling recent hooplas involves the odd behavior of New York’s Eric Massa and his proclivity towards tickling his aides. Tickling, Bob.

I haven’t yet touched on the most repulsive of all, the smiling serpent, John Edwards. I don’t think he was quite as close to the presidency as has been suggested and he’s probably no sketchier in the morality department than some who made it to the oval office, but he is the most fun to loathe.  After all, despite the recent reports that Elizabeth is a raving bitch, is she not suffering from a serious illness?  Did he not, in taped conversations, refer to her “imminent death” and mastermind a plot (including diaper theft) to pin paternity of his look-alike daughter on an aide?  And, is it not possible that his unctuous smile and conscienceless philandering turned Elizabeth into the shrew she is reported to be?  Pass the Pepto Bismol, Bob.

I am exhausted, Bob. You’ll have to stick to cable news to satisfy your need for political punditry. I haven’t the stomach to become “hard-hitting." Every week I watch the Sunday news shows and wonder what has happened in this great country. Where is the leadership? The sacrifice? Where are the statesmen who will put the needs of the many before the need for “tickle parties”? 

I will return, in weeks to come, with tales of Seth’s interminable snoring, my sons' consistent refusal to permit me to spoon feed them, my failing appliances and my cats’ litterbox habits, without regret. Either that or I will launch a campaign to run for president in 2012.  I own no pants suits which may pose a problem.  I also pay my taxes, have not been involved in any sex scandals (yet..) which, I suspect, disqualifies me from holding public office. So, Bob, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to start gathering my tax info for April. I have a really good accountant. Charlie, Tim, Chris and Arnie…call me, I’ll give you his number.

How I Met Rudy Giuliani

“So,” I said to Rudy Giuliani, “….shame about those Yankees, huh, Mr. Mayor?” He just kind of hung his head and said, “It sure is, Susan. It was very painful to watch…”

Yep. Me and Rudy talking about the Yankees….two pals, kicking around some baseball chat.

Okay, maybe that’s the fantasy version.  But I did get to meet Rudy Giuliani this past weekend, at Charlie’s school, down in our nation’s capital. And, since my son is acutely aware that I have a huge crush on “America’s Mayor,” he managed to get the whole family included on the VIP list.

I would now have the chance to meet my hero before he delivered a talk in the school’s large auditorium and I was pumped. Okay, very pumped. Alright, I was a bit hysterical.

Upon learning that I would get a little “face time” with the former mayor and presidential candidate, I went into an uncharacteristic state of nervous excitement.

After all, New Yorkers are accustomed to seeing celebrities and, in my youth, I’d encountered my share (Eric Clapton, Andy Warhol and Ingrid Bergman, among others) Hadn’t I seen Henny Youngman (“Take my wife…please!) often enough to, literally, worry that he was stalking me?

But I never imagined that I would be face to face with the man who’d fearlessly transformed my home town from the crime, filth and graffiti-infested city (accurately depicted in Martin Scorcese’s “Taxi Driver,” in case you don’t believe me)into a place that, for a time, the FBI declared the safest city in America.

And, we’re all aware of his heroic stewardship of a devastated city through the nightmare of 911.  By God, I was going to say thank you to Rudy!

Several days prior, I began preparing for the big moment. I dug out some clothes that were neither jeans nor sweats, began flossing frantically on the off chance there would be a dental inspection, and—most importantly—began formulating what I would say. 

I knew I’d only have a few minutes and wanted to pack much heartfelt eloquence into the small conversational window I would be allowed. And, hell-bent on pointing out that he and I were born but a few blocks apart, I silently and repeatedly rehearsed a coherent statement that I hoped would convey respect and appreciation for his public service. 

It did not go as planned. When Rudy entered, the room (lit brightly enough for us to decipher each other’s genetic codes) grew hushed.

Everyone hung back shyly except for me and one other lunatic who, literally, rushed towards him at the same exact moment. My competitor had much longer legs and reached the mayor first.

My turn followed but I was wearing brand new knee-hi stockings which were cutting off all but a small fraction of blood flow to my brain and I leaned forward too fast and almost fell on him. Righting myself and grinning like a genuine maniac, I launched into what I hoped would be my prepared statement but instead of the words, “I’m from Brooklyn” I heard myself say, “I am Brooklyn.”  

Even though this gaffe horrified me on one level, on another, it made me want to laugh but I have no memory of what happened next. For all I know I might have claimed to be Luke Skywalker’s father but this man has been through a lot worse than enduring  a middle-aged woman who can’t stop talking.

He gripped my hand warmly, smiled and was as gracious and charming as I'd dared imagine he’d be.

Later, a photographer appeared and when I realized that I had not had my picture snapped with the mayor, I galloped back to the line that had subsequently formed to the concern of one security guard who asked Seth and the boys if I was “stable.”

Charlie assured her that I was but that I just really, really love Rudy.  “As long as she doesn’t  tackle him," was the guard’s nervous suggestion.

So, that’s the story of how I met Rudy Giuliani at American University on Charlie’s final Parents Weekend. I will never forget it. Neither will my family. Or campus security.

Maybe Rudy will even remember the woman who, though a little overwrought, truly appreciates the many good things he did for a grateful city.