Atonement. Ithaca Style.

Cornell United Religious Work*

We are trying Jewish lite this year. Almost 20 years of observing Yom Kippur with my husband has ranged from getting all dressed up for services like we were running for the presidency to me sending him to synagogue alone because I had to go in to my office for fear of losing my job working for Nazis.

Yom Kippur is the holiest day of the Jewish year and so you are supposed to refrain from work and fast from sundown to sundown. "Yom Kippur" means "Day of Atonement" and the idea is to free yourself up so you can spend the day atoning for your sins of the past year.

The good news is that I don’t have to share my sins with anyone but me, myself and I. God was right there with me when I was committing the sins so it’s no big news as I go through my list today.

Here in Ithaca, we are taking it easy--just a bunch of us carving out time for ourselves and our families. The best part of the day, for me, is almost here--when the sun sets and you clink your champagne glass and kiss your loved ones and know that you have a perfectly clean slate with the big guy.

*Cornell United Religious Work (CURW) is comprised of twenty-nine affiliated communities, offers programs of worship, study, and social life, as well as opportunities for students to engage in interfaith dialogue.

Each weekend Catholic Masses, Protestant worship services, Jewish Services, and Muslim prayers are held.

Are you ready boots? Start walkin'!

University of California at Santa Barbara

Cornell University

It’s a long walk from the sandy beaches of UCSB to the ivy-covered bricks at Cornell. 19 years, 4 cities, 3,000 miles, 2 kids, 1 husband, 3 cats, 8 jobs, and, looking at my two Student ID cards, a hair color and change of wardrobe.

I have traded in more than just my blond hair and flip flops. I am learning to give up over-scheduling, hangovers, worrying about the shape of my ass, and saying “yes” when I mean “Hell, no!”

So, as I pull on my boots and brush my brown hair, I will welcome time for contemplation, healthier habits, self-acceptance, and the ability to set boundaries in a firm, yet polite manner.

I would say that I am giving up sinister thoughts and paper waste, but I am also working on being truthful and real in my writing. I need to kill off Pollyanna and resurrect Chatty Cathy. It’s hard work for anyone trying to make big changes, but you’re not going to get anywhere without taking that first step.

Animal Instinct

Hey! Those three large deer are the same doe and fawns that have been hanging around our house since the beginning of summer! The babies are now as tall as their mother, but I know they are her young offspring because they do things like charge into the middle of the street when grumpy neighbor man starts honking his horn to “scare them away” so he doesn’t accidentally hit one of them. Only a psychopath or youngster would run into an oncoming dented Subaru.

The doe knows my voice. I sing out things like, “Hello sweetie…pretty girl…please get your fat haunches off of my delphiniums.” She usually looks at me, flicks her golden brown ears back, takes another bite of the velvety deep-purple flowers, sniffs the air, and then ever so slowly scans the yard until she locks in on her two charges. I know better than to get between a mother and her babies, no matter how big they are.

So, the spring babies are grown...summer is officially over...fall is peaceful here in Ithaca. Except for the squirrels. They seem to be getting downright nasty. Chasing each other, grabbing at everything the other one may or may not have. When I first saw them shaking tree branches and acting like they were pantomiming that the end of the world was coming, I thought they were trying to mate, but, no, even male squirrels know that the way on top of a female is not by whacking her on the head with an acorn…

Beast of Burden

When a young school age child wakes up his mom at six in the morning saying, “I think I’m sick”, two thoughts rip through her head: “Dear God, please don’t let it be anything serious” and “Shit, there goes my day.”

Yesterday it was my youngest. We had already missed Monday (out of town in NYC for a special family celebration), so I was really counting on Tuesday to play catch up. I had homework and housework, and, damn, a hair appointment! But, I mustered up all of my June Cleaver, got out the thermometer, and started making a fuss. I wanted him to have fond memories of being sick as a child. How does one become hell-bent on being the perfect mother?

I had a “working mom” so when we were sick, she left us with my father, who had more flexibility in his schedule. All a kid with a tummy ache wants is their mommy bringing them 7-Up, but instead I had my ex-Marine father who always acted like we were faking it. I think he liked when we had to stay home, though. By noon, he had me making tuna salad sandwiches and getting up to change the channel for him. Once he even tried to get me to ride my bike to the corner market for cigarettes!

I decided to split the difference with my little guy. I read books, played Lego, and built a race track for his remote control car, but then when 1:00pm rolled around, I dressed him, packed up his portable DVD player and dragged him to the hair salon. The ladies there were sweet and I don’t think he’ll need therapy. At least I didn’t have him fetching chardonnay for me!

D.I.Y.

Housework is a funny thing. I definitely have a love/hate relationship going on. I enjoy a day’s physical labor, music blasting, whipping everything into shape…just so three guys can tear it all apart again in 10 minutes when they get home. It is rough spending precious time away from other pursuits, just to be left at home, matching up socks—four different sizes that all sort of look the same.

When we moved to upstate NY, several people had warned me about the lack of household help. The owners of the house we are renting said they had an aging hippie couple they could refer us to--they sometimes showed up, sometimes didn’t. So then, what did a cardiac surgeon do? She cleaned her own house, folded her own clothes and changed her own damn cat litter. I couldn’t figure it out. Where did she and her husband find the time? Here were two fit, well-traveled, busy career people that did their own housework? What?

I have been here three months now, and while I did find someone to come in and help with the basics, I still am left with many, many domestic tasks. So how do I keep the house orderly without methamphetamines? I started dropping the extras. No time for manicures and pedicures. Who needs them anyway? No time for a trainer at the gym. I just throw on my running shoes and hit the trail right outside my front door. No more volunteering to raise $250,000 for a public school. NY has figured out how to fund their school system. No more weekly massage therapist. My husband can bust a move once in a while!

So, as I knock my life back down to the ground, I am discovering much of it oddly satisfying. I like making out a to-do list, running errands and blowing off therapy. I can just fight with my husband the old fashioned way—withhold sex until I get my way. I can pull my own weeds and polish my own silver and still find time to write, meet friends for a drink or go on a date with my husband. I might be plucking my own eyebrows, cracking my own back and designing my own yoga workout, but I feel strong, happy and a lot richer!

Temple & Tailgate

Jewish New Year starts at sundown. If one of my Episcopalian friends had scheduled her kid’s birthday party tomorrow, my husband would have been shocked at the insensitivity. It is the equivalent of a Catholic being invited to Chuck E. Cheese on Christmas. But since tomorrow is the first home game of the Cornell football season, well that’s another story!

We have a rigorous High Holy Day—9:00 Rosh Hashana services, followed by 11:00 tailgate party, let’s not forget the 12:30 game, and then top it off with a four-hour drive to NYC! Most Jewish mothers would frown on all of this but my mother-in-law is what my husband affectionately calls a Park Avenue Jew. Social and travel calendars reign supreme and no one needs to make a fuss about anything getting in the way.

As for me, my only dilemma: Do I wear red & white to the synagogue or Saturday’s finest to the football stadium? Doesn’t really matter, either way, I’ll have time for reflection and if we’re really, really good, lots of Big Red touchdowns…

Machete Master

Enrolling in university this fall felt like a military exercise. Filling out forms, getting approvals, and stalking the registrar’s office required deft maneuvering and truculent precision.

As an undergraduate I had convinced myself it was really all just a big test to see if we could deal with red tape. I actually thought the purpose of my education was to learn how to function properly in a bureaucracy. The pizza delivery boy that came to my dorm wearing a pin that read “Tip me with a ‘B’—Buck, Beer or Bong Hit” cemented my suspicions.

I now have a different perspective on the privilege of attending school, and am channeling my inner 7th grader who dutifully attended every class and completed every assignment. The only difference is that instead of going to lectures in a government-created school system made famous by Brenda Spencer and Jeff Spicoli, I am studying in a majestic three-story building built in 1893 by Ezra Cornell where Vladimir Nabokov had his office and Toni Morrison attended English classes.

Ithaca Sundays

Taughannock Falls

Soaking in a hot bath never felt so good. After a long morning hiking through streams and trails under a canopy of trees, we picnicked by a waterfall, checked out campsites for future trips and then headed home. I cleaned out the backpacks, prepped dinner, reviewed homework, and was just getting ready to read the Sunday paper and maybe sneak in a nap when two giant puppies bounded into our room.

Boys: Please, can we go to Sapsucker Woods?

Husband: We just went on a hike.

Boys: Mom said she would take us frog hunting.

Me: You didn’t see any frogs at Taughannock Falls? I thought I saw a few.

Boys: Awww, mom!

Husband: Let Mom have a little rest, then she'll take you.

Me: Thanks, honey.

Bonus points for me for getting off my…bed and motivating for a second round. Guess what, I felt totally energized out there, walking in the woods, enjoying the boys’ excitement, noticing the hints of fall colors everywhere. poking around lily pads, moss and swamp weed, totally jacked up from an extra-large thermos full of coffee.

Sapsucker Woods

The boys found their frogs, lots of them, and we even got a picture of the big daddy they caught. Sam exclaimed on the way to the car, “Mom, Ithaca is a frog jackpot!” They thanked me profusely all the way home and I felt pretty good about being such a sport.


After dinner and putting two very happy and tired boys to bed, I poured myself a glass of red wine and headed upstairs. As I was floating there in the tub, watching the lights come on outside like little fireflies in the distance, I poked my toes up through the bubbles, gave myself another blast of hot water and thought to myself, “I hit the Sunday jackpot!”

Wake Up Sleepy Head...

We overslept. I had the pancake mix and fresh blueberries all lined up and ready to roll, but when I woke up the clock read 7:15. The bell rings at 8:00. So much for a special first-day-of-school morning, capped off with a meandering walk through the neighborhood, reflecting on the magic of teachers, freshly sharpened pencils and clean blackboards. Maybe it was my subconscious protecting me from a meltdown, but I didn’t have time to think about my youngest soldier going off to 20 some-odd years (from my lips to God’s ears) of pushing paper under florescent light bulbs at a desk too small for him.

In La Jolla, when you drop your Kindergartener off, there are at least 20 parents crowding around the classroom, taking pictures, getting misty eyed. Here in Ithaca, I was the lone hovering weirdo, cooing at poor Sam. A bright-eyed little blonde girl in a perfect braid skipped over to me and announced, “I came to school all by myself!” “You did?” I replied. “Yes, I took the bus and I found the stairs and went on them and here I am!” She did a little jump from her excitement and pride. She stood there looking so earnest and sweet, I could have kissed her…Wendy Gal has a nice ring to it.

Walking out of the school, through empty corridors, I realized there was no “Boo Hoo Breakfast” for the parents. Back in La Jolla (or I should start saying “Oz”), a team of very organized PTA moms has baked fresh muffins, brought table cloths, hot coffee and flavored creamer to provide a welcoming respite so that we shouldn’t feel too sad or lonely on this monumental occasion. I wondered what all the Ithaca moms were doing…something totally productive and practical, I am sure. I couldn’t wait to get home, kick off my shoes, open up the Times, and revel in a totally calm, quiet, empty house…at least until 2:00pm, that is.

Over the Falls in a Barrel

Upstate New York worked its magic yet again. A few weeks ago, my in-laws called, wanting a grandson fix, while at the same time, my friend from California let me know her hubby’s band was playing in Buffalo and we were invited to the show. We figured we could steal away for the night while Grammy & Grampy wrangled the boys. The band is one of my all-time favorites, so I was really excited to see them in a new, funky venue…


Our kind (and very talented) friend put us on the guest list which included VIP seating. Even though I cannot sit down during a Cake show (and please shoot me if I ever do), I found a spot to rest while we waited for the band to come on (yes, that is my cocktail)…



We partied like rock stars’ friends for the night. I befriended a girl with about 12 nose rings who was illegally taping the show with her phone. (Don’t worry, I made her erase it!) We were invited backstage after the show…husband was thrilled because he had never been “with the band” before…and was honored...thank you, G&V!!

I thought we were going to head home straight away the next morning but darling husband asked if I wanted to make a run for the border and see Niagra Falls. The last time I visited the Falls, I was 8-years-old and can only remember a loaner rain coat, floating around on “Maid of the Mist” and being awed by tales of the Daredevils going over the Falls in a barrel…

"Annie"--the first person ever to go over, 1901.

Rock on!