Something's Fishy

Last night I got to experience Lynah Rink, filled with several thousand passionate hockey fans who help create an atmosphere that is unparalleled in the sport of college hockey. The Cornell fans--the "Lynah Faithful"--are clever and fun and make themselves as much a part of the game as the players do.



Hockey is delicious to watch—speed, coordination and lots of tough guy figure skating. And the Ivy-League fans show their support with creative chants, yelling out everything in perfect unison, from a Harvard goalie’s girlfriend’s phone number, to the tease, “Ironic, we invented the Heimlich: YOU choked!” when Harvard surrendered to a three-goal lead. (Physician Henry Heimlich was a Cornell grad.)

The most notorious taunting is the fish hurling. For Big Red fans, The Cornell-Harvard rivalry dates to the 1909-10 season. The baiting tradition began in 1973, when a Harvard fan threw a dead chicken (some say it was alive!) at the visiting goalie, alluding to the Cornell College of Agriculture and Life Sciences. Big Red fans have been tossing fish on the ice ever since. It’s our farm boys’ way of poking fun at the fishing industry in the New England area and telling the Harvard players to go back to Boston Harbor. As an added treat, while the fish are being thrown, the Cornell band plays the theme from the movie “Love Story,” in which Cornell beats Harvard in hockey.

My husband claims the fish throwing is a lot tamer than it used to be. He remembers the good old days when they managed to toss an entire shark out there. This year there were numerous official warnings that fish and alcohol were strictly forbidden! I really hope, like so much of life, that we don’t lose the fun and silliness. I think I should have let my boys sneak fish into the game last night. I deferred to my husband who had a lot more to lose than the dinner I was planning to donate--he is an employee of the university and season ticket holder.

So, as we continue to try to raise our sons without pushing down their spirit, I’ll have to either wear a disguise (I think I have a Harvard sweatshirt around here somewhere) or pretend I don’t know the Professor sitting next to me when my boys and I are thrown out next year.

Go Big Red!

Enchanted Times

My friend from home just left. We dined, wined, hiked, walked, and talked for three days straight. She and I both had a great visit. Something else happened, too. My friend was infected by the Ithaca bug.

She was bitten right before my very eyes. I noticed it when she heard the Cornell Chimes* in the Clock Tower in the center of campus. She stopped walking, cocked her head sideways and stood completely still, enjoying the marking of the hours.

And then I knew for sure she was a goner, when later, on our trip to Taughannock Falls State Park, she was giggling like a kid and swore she felt the mist from the waterfall on her face.

I am pretty sure of my diagnosis. Either that, or it was the 30-degree drop in temperature from California to Ithaca that turned her cheeks rosy red and caused her eyes to glisten, making her look so inspired.

* Cornell Chimes: Visitors are welcome and encouraged to attend the chimes concerts to fully appreciate these icons. Something essential would be missing from the campus without that cheery tintinnabulation that serenades Cornellians and visitors daily. In the words of Albert W. Smith 1878:

I wake at night and think I hear
Remembered chimes,
And mem'ry brings in visions clear
Enchanted times
Beneath green elms with branches bowed
In springtime suns,
Or touching elbows in a crowd
Of eager ones;
Again I'm hurrying past the towers
Or with the teams,
Or spending precious idling hours
In golden dreams

Down for the Count

Ladies and Gentlemen, in the first corner, we have the reigning Heartbreak Champion of the World:

Firstborn Prince

The contender for the title, this evening:

Charming Baby

Halloween was sweet as ever this year. There were the elementary school parade and parties. Then, we traveled to the Berkshires for my father-in-law's birthday. We all had fun Trick-or-Treating in the historic town of West Stockbridge, Mass. before dinner.



Except my older son is on the brink of feeling too old to Trick-or-Treat and my younger one isn’t exactly toddling around anymore, so I was feeling very nostalgic and maybe a little PMS.


It’s a good thing we had a special celebration for my father-in-law Halloween night or I might have gone home and cried a river, reminiscing over costumes past: Pea in the Pod...Fonzie ...Lion...Knight...Space Man...Batman and Robin...S.W.A.T. Team with one member A.W.O.L. ...Astronaut with uncooperative Martian ...Motocross Riders...Ninjas...Boxers with one reluctant challenger.



I suspect the only reason Sam agreed to be a boxer with his brother this year is so they could have the boxing gloves which they have been using daily since we bought them in early October. He protested the costume on the eve of the school parade and again as we were dressing to go out Trick-or-Treating. We went several rounds.

They don't call me Mama Ali for nothing.

A bottle of red, a bottle of white. I'll meet you anytime you want....

There is a sweet little wine shop in town--they feature boutique wines, imported from all over, and have a very well informed, friendly staff. I usually don't shop for rare wines --I don't want to fall in love with something I can't have over and over again.

But, this store is so great, I gave in. I started trying unique wines that may or may not ever be available again. I figured I would be better served to just drink and enjoy without worrying about replicating anything I might discover.


It has been a lot like letting Ithaca in to my heart. I have been savoring the gorgeous scenery and charming architecture and have met some really wonderful people (and furry friends), and am getting choked up thinking about leaving already.

But I am trying to learn from my wine lesson…so I will continue to have these adorable kids over, attend the tailgates of the funny guys from the business school, and hang out with the other moms of boys, bonding over bruises and basketball.

And I won’t be afraid to grab a special bottle of wine, go picnic by a waterfall in the middle of the week, and enjoy the amazing orange, red and gold trees...pouring an extra large glass for one of my new friends (furry or not).

http://www.redfeetwine.com

Bible for Bitches

This month’s issue of Cosmo has a black plastic cover over it in the magazine rack. The kind that the airport uses to hide Playboy covers. What could Wegmans possibly be trying to protect us from?

“Bad Girl Issue—For Sexy Bitches Only”

This ought to be good.

“What He Thinks During Sex—The Crazy, Dirty, Worried, and Yes, Sweet Stuff That Goes Through His Head When You Two Get Naked”

I’ll bet there are no Crock-Pot recipes in there.

“Foreplay Men Crave—Touch His Secret Erotic Spot (Surprise: It doesn’t Rhyme With Shmenis)”

This is news?

I snap a photo for the blog and my best friend buys the issue so she can give me the cover to reference.

Me: You don’t need to spend five bucks, I can just jot down the article titles.

BF: It’s okay, I got it.

Either she is still the master of efficiency or she secretly wants to know more about “8 Things Guys Notice Instantly.”

I didn’t argue with her, it wasn't that long ago we were taking quizzes out of it to see if we knew the difference between a G-Spot and G-String. There are some things your mother doesn't teach you, they don't print in text books and you can't figure out on your own. Even though I suspect those articles were light on insight, who am I to second guess the self-proclaimed “bible for fun and fearless females?”

Brother, Can you Spare a Drink?

It was Homecoming this past weekend at Cornell…tailgates, football, and parties. We had spent most of Saturday evening at our sons’ school auction fundraiser, but as we were driving home by campus, Husband asked me if I wanted to stop by the “house” to say hi. They were having an open house and lots of alumni were there. Walking through his old fraternity stirred up all kinds of thoughts (pretty and perverse).


Mostly, I was amazed by how time changes everything and doesn’t change a thing. As we entered the party, everyone was seated to dinner (it was a formal night) and one of the brothers was leading the room in song:

Here's to brother (name), brother (name), brother (name)...
Here's to brother (name), who's with us tonight...
He's happy, he's jolly, he's horny, by golly!
Here's to brother (name), who's with us tonight...
So... drink, motherf*cker -- drink, motherf*cker -- drink, motherf*cker... (repeat until the bottle is empty!)

Those boys had the same gleam in their eye that every fraternity guy I have ever met has had—sort of like the familiar look you see in a sweet little puppy’s face—excitement, joy, and a desire to rub up against just about anything.

All I could think as they were passing the bottle of Jack around was, “I wonder if they worry about swine flu?”

Semper Fi

Me: What type of birthday party would you like this year?

Charlie: Nerf gun.

Me: Excuse me?

Charlie: All of my friends come over and we have a big battle with Nerf guns.

Me: I am not sure that is such a great idea.

Charlie: We’ll wear protective eye gear, Mom.

Me: Can I make a theme cake?



So I Googled “Nerf Gun Party” and found some cool ideas and in no time was able to masquerade a war as a birthday party for a 10-year-old.

Hasbro is brilliant as a marketer. They have these game kits they call “Dart Tag." We all know it’s mortal combat! We outfitted each boy with a Nerf gun, Velcro ammunition, protective eye wear, and vest that the bullets stick to…



While my husband hid upstairs as the sniper and helped Sam (5) and one of the other younger brothers make their bunker, I made Charlie’s favorite dinner for 8 boys. (This required grilling outside in a full coat.)


I was thinking to myself, as I shuffled my iPod and sipped some wine, it was the first time I stood in my kitchen while a pack of boys raced around my house, squealing, laughing and banging into things, that I didn’t feel the need to holler at them to knock it off one bit.

Now all we have left are the thank you notes.