Kindness is the best New Year's resolution

It all began with something Ann Curry, a correspondent with NBC news, posted on Twitter. “Commit to kindness,” she wrote. A movement known as #26Acts, spurred by Ms. Curry, invites participants to commit daily acts of kindness. After the horrific shootings in Newtown, the hashtagged movement is being spread virally around the world via Facebook and Twitter.

It is a seemingly unkind world we live in, judging by current headlines. As I am writing this, the news of the day includes reports of a man killing two men and one woman before being killed himself in a gunfight with state troopers in Pennsylvania; a surge in bulletproof backpack sales; cluster bombs being used on civilians in Syria; and the Al Qaeda-related kidnapping in Northern Nigeria of a French citizen. It’s impossible to turn on any news at all without feeling a sense of fear or despair. And yet tiny fragments of positivity evidence themselves every day. About a week ago Kim of Kim’s Bagels in Mount Kisco posted on Facebook about helping an older woman who had fallen in the street. The SPCA of Westchester was thrilled to announce 45 adoptions of cats and dogs from the shelter last week. Personally I thought it very kind that Dan, the manager of Tazza Café in Katonah, gave me a card granting me a free drink, and that Gail from The Paintbox gifted me with a framed copy of recent story that ran about me in another newspaper. Almost every day someone does or says something nice or kind to me; I try to do my part to do the same.

Years ago there was a popular bumper sticker that said, “Commit random acts of kindness.” I’m not sure what constitutes a random act, or if random acts are more special or significant than methodical or systematic ones. I think it’s probably the act itself that counts, whether planned, or spontaneous. It’s a little sad people have to be reminded to be kind, and it should be noted that the one kind act you push yourself to do every day will not cancel out five unkind ones.

For the last few years on Christmas Day, I’ve taken a few hours to go over to the gymnasium at the old St. Mary’s school, now Montfort Academy. That is the site of an annual event known as The Christmas Dinner, which benefits Westchester’s homeless. A traditional Christmas dinner is served, followed by the distribution of gifts. The event is made possible by an enormous squadron of volunteers and the generosity of many caterers and restaurants who provide the food, as well as the dozens of local residents who plan and work and clean up after the event. A couple of years ago I was brought to near tears by a young girl who was over the moon excited to receive a toothbrush, a pair of socks, and a very inexpensive backpack (certainly not bullet proof). Every year I am reminded how little it takes to make some people happy. Sometimes it’s just a serving of candied sweet potatoes donated by William Nicholas.

This Christmas is a little extra poignant because it is a landmark event. We moved into our home in December 1987 and this is the 25^th Christmas in our house. Our son was 5 months old when we moved in; he is now a grown man with a job and a life and a girlfriend and an apartment. I wonder how many more years he will be able to join us. Past Christmas’s are a blur of toys, noise, pancakes for breakfast, and prime rib. And Yorkshire Pudding, which I duly make every year. While there has been a lot of joy around the day, some years it took extra effort.  There was the year that two good men, Kit Combes and George McTavey, died Christmas week and I had to write their obits. There was the year my poor mother in law dwindled away in hospice in her home in California and my husband completely missed Christmas. Twenty three ago I was still grieving at Christmas for a child I miscarried at Thanksgiving. And then there was the year I cajoled my reluctant husband into helping me set up a large, live, cumbersome Christmas tree that toppled over in its stand, only to have him throw up his hands and shout he would have nothing to do with it. For a few years afterward, the only greenery we had was wreaths.

Twenty five years is a long time to celebrate a holiday in one place. Every few years I threaten we should spend Christmas in the Caribbean, except I know it wouldn’t be the same without the pets. This year as an act of random kindness, Mr. Sax agreed to let me pick our tree; I chose a very shiny, very fake, silver one that looks very tinsel-y. It reminds me of a tree my mother bought the first year she and I were living alone on our own in a rented house in Woodbury, N.J. Under the tree that year was a pair of white go-go boots, knocks offs of the ones made famous by the fashion designer Andre Courreges who featured them in his fall ’64 collection. Under our silver tree this year is a near embarrassing array of riches; bags from Tom’s in Katonah and Ebba and kdstudio and Bedford House and Kellogg’s & Lawrence, and Charles Department Store. We’re very lucky. 

Happy New Year to all my fans and readers. And God bless.

Vigil held in Katonah for Newtown victims

It began with a series of emails, followed by Facebook postings. “Candlelight vigil in front of the library at 4:30 this afternoon in Katonah. Our thoughts are with the families of the victims,” the messages said. In the waning light of a December afternoon, one day after news broke of the mass shootings in nearby Newtown, dozens of residents from Katonah gathered to mourn, share their thoughts, and pay respect to those who lost their lives in the Sandy Hook Elementary School.

Bea Rhodes was the one who began the emails.

“I really didn’t have a plan,” Ms. Rhodes said on the Katonah Village Green, her expression somber and concerned as she handed out candles. “I just felt it was important and appropriate to give people a place to gather and to be with other people experiencing grief.”

As the sky darkened, the crowd grew and gained strength. Although the vigil had no clear organizers, some people automatically began helping Ms. Rhodes pass candles out. Melissa Boyer, the pastor at the Katonah United Methodist Church, was one of the several people who had shared news of the vigil on Facebook. Although she had not planned on taking on any kind of leadership position at the vigil, it quickly emerged that she should be the one to formally start the vigil by offering a prayer.

Pastor Boyer started out saying she was comfortable leading an interfaith prayer and dialogue. She said in the face of a senseless tragedy, pat answers and explanations can’t and won’t work. Reflecting on the illumination of so many candles held in more than 50+ hands, instead she said she would prefer to focuse on the idea of sacred light.

“However you define the sacred, we all have a light we carry with us at all times,” Pastor Boyer said. “We each have our own life, talents, different responses to what has just happened. And I thank God for that.”  She praised the diversity of the vigil gathering which included the young, the old; mothers, fathers, grandparents, even dogs, who all stood in the cold, listening to the spoken and unspoken words. “What we need is more love, love, love, and more love,” Pastor Boyer concluded after asking everyone to take a moment to pray for the dead. Then she spoke of the power of community, and how that power can heal.

In the sharing that occurred after the prayer, Robert Goodstein, a Katonah resident, recalled the old Elton John song, “A Candle in the Wind.”

“I’m not an Elton John fan,” he said, “But it makes sense here.” Mr. Goodstein spoke about the old adage that God only burdens each individual with as much pain as they can bear. “The people of Newtown must be very strong,” he said. “They must be to have been given and to get through this. I don’t know how they will hold up,” Mr. Goodstein said. “Only that they must.”

Another person mentioned Fred Rogers of the long running children’s television program, “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood.” Recalling some of the wise and steady advice Mr. Rogers doled out, he said that in times of trouble, Mr. Rogers’ advised children to “Always look at all the people who are helping others out.”

Eileen McGrath, an associate broker with Douglas Elliman Westchester, whose offices are in downtown Katonah and who is a lifelong Katonah resident, is familiar with the family of one of the slain Newtown teachers, Ann Marie Murphy, nee McGowan, who grew up in Katonah.

“I didn’t know Annie personally as she was a few years younger than me,” Ms. Mcgrath said. “But everyone knew the McGowans. They had 8 kids.” She said that the Helmes’, the McGowans, and the Lynches, were the backbone of the St. Mary’s parish. “They all lived within a few blocks of each other. Everyone was constantly in and out of each other’s houses,” she said. Ms. McGrath said the families had such a sense of community and selflessness that she wasn’t surprised at all to have learned Ms. Murphy died trying to shield her students.

Pastor Boyer continued the vigil by suggesting people express their hopes for moving forward. One woman said she wished this incident would be a catalyst for introducing stricter gun controls. A man spoke of his hope that children could be kept safe. Another man said he hoped the surviving children in the Newtown community would grow up people whose lives were not defined by that terrible day. A woman spoke of the need to make mental health help a priority. Another woman spoke sadly about the loss of innocence.

Pastor Boyer began several minutes of singing, beginning with “Amazing Grace,” followed by “We Shall Overcome,” and “This Little Light of Mine.” Remembering that the last time there was a large scale vigil on the Katonah Village Green was in the aftermath of September 11, one man said, “I hope we won’t have to keep gathering like this.”

An hour after the vigil, the 6:00 Saturday night mass at St. Mary’s spontaneously became a special mass for the slain Ms. Murphy, although that event was not publicized.

“I’m sorry I didn’t know about it,” Ms. Mcgrath said in a phone conversation Monday morning. She said she would be attending one of the several wakes held for Ms. Murphy that she had learned about from her friend Mary Pat McConnell of Ridgefield, one of Ms. Murphy’s sisters. “The phone has not stopped ringing,” Ms. Mcgrath said. “It’s good to be able to talk to people. It’s a sad occasion that brings so many old friends and acquaintances together, but it’s still joyful to see them, to talk to them. Joy and selflessness, those are the two words I’m taking with me into 2013. Joy and selflessness. At the end of her life, Annie Murphy was selfless. I think to be able to call somebody selfless is the highest compliment you can give.” Eve Marx

Back in the days of Vietnam, Watergate & the IRA

Over Thanksgiving weekend, I had more than turkey. In the interest of full disclosure, I did not have turkey. I dislike turkey, because hate seems too strong a word. Let’s just say I’m not a friend of that fowl unless they’re wild and I see a flock of them running through the woods. What we ate on Thanksgiving was Rock Cornish Game hens; one bird per person, which eliminates that awful carving bit. I washed and seasoned the birds early in the morning before attending the Native American All-Faith’s Thanksgiving service at the Katonah Methodist Church. After the service, Mr. Sax and I hopped in the car and headed over to the Saw Mill Cinemas to catch the matinee of “Skyfall,” the new James Bond film. The story is just short of ridiculous. Who would go to all that trouble over misplaced Oedipal rage? But none of that mattered because “Skyfall” was beautifully shot and chock a block with heart stopping action, and Bond’s suits were exquisitely tailored. There was a lot of chatter when the film first came out about the suits being too tight. And they were tight, enough to show off calf muscle and bicep. The Huffington Post bitched that Daniel Craig’s specially tailored Tom Ford’s suits made a mockery of Sean Connery’s iconic sartorial style, but I beg to differ. Roger Stone, the author of the Huff Post piece, dared to call Bond’s suit a “bum freezer,” a phrase popularized during World War II when there were fabric shortages. Ahem. After the film, we retired to our cozy house and got the wood burning stove going before sitting down to our delicious Cornish hens. I’m so done with turkey. Never again.

On Saturday night my spouse, and this was very brave of him, agreed to chauffeur and accompany me to my high school reunion, held in Woodbury, N.J. Although many people know I lived in Atlantic City for years, I attended junior and senior high school in this small south Jersey city. My mother, who attended Woodbury High School herself, had her own business there.

Nobody I know now wants to believe I am as old as I am, which I chalk up to a case of chronic immaturity that keeps me young thinking. But I graduated high school in 1972, the same year the British Army slaughtered 14 unarmed nationalist civil rights marchers in Derry, Ireland on Bloody Sunday; a coal sludge spill killed 125 people in West Virginia; an avalanche killed 19 people climbing Mount Fuji; and the Watergate break-in. 1972 had great fashion, but was a rough year. In those days I chose to ignore headlines, preferring to focus on mini skirts, hot pants, and maxi coats. I was grateful for my school’s policy to let you stop taking math courses after Algebra II, leaving me time to take the electives I really wanted, public speaking and creative writing.

The reunion itself was low-key. When my husband asked if there would be a walk down memory lane slide show, I could barely contain my laughter. No, I said. There will be an open bar and dinner and then a DJ and dancing. Those who will attend (and it was not a large number) will want to look at and talk to each other. And that’s exactly what happened.

As is to be expected, some people looked great. Others less so. One man had to tell me who he was because without the gorgeous mop of hair that once flopped over his forehead, I failed to recognize him. Some of the women really looked like their moms. My graduating class was small and sustained 6 deaths. Half my class was African American but none of them came to the reunion. I wonder if they had somewhere a reunion of their own.

The most surprising thing I learned was that many of the men have retired from their work. Not so the women, a large number of whom grew up to become nurses and who still love and want their jobs. A couple of the guys I hung out with as a teen told me they have second homes in Florida, enabling them to play golf year-round. I guess if your house in south Jersey was so reasonably priced that long ago you paid off the mortgage, you could go out after 30 years on a pension from your job at DuPont or Sunoco to play golf for the rest of your life. Interesting. I might be jealous.

The takeaway from my reunion (and don’t you hate that phrase, even though like “right, right,” we all use it?) is that I’m glad I went. I’m proud of my fellow, former classmates. I think we’ve turned out pretty nice. Of course there have been difficulties, trials, and hard times. Parents dying slowing from ALS. Divorce and other loss. The town of Woodbury itself, once solidly middle class and prosperous, has fallen on hard times. But talking to my classmates, I learned there have been a multitude of triumphs, both professional and personal.

“We were good kids,” one man said to me, rehashing for a moment our reckless youth. Again, in the interest of full disclosure, my house was the party house. Sure, there were a couple of high school pregnancies (birth control was hard to get), and a handful of people were starting their careers as alcoholics or otherwise going off the rails. And of course there was the draft and the looming specter of Vietnam. But we were good kids and we turned out to be good adults. Congrats again to the Class of ’72. It was great seeing you all.

Written about, reviewed in the Journal News

http://www.lohud.com/article/20121125/LIFESTYLE01/311250010/The-fall-season-s-other-steamy-novel?odyssey=tab|topnews|img|Life&Leisure

Beddington Place has a website!

http://beddingtonplace.com/

How to train a husband

By EVE MARX

My husband has a new expression. He says he’s over-trained. “I’m over-trained,” is his response now to everything I say. Examples of his over-trainedness mostly manifest themselves in the kitchen. “I loaded the dishwasher this way because that’s the way you taught me,” he lies, because I never told him to load it that way. Who would train someone to stack fragile glassware on the bottom, where it will surely break?  “You’ve over-trained me,” he protests when I stare curiously at him as he eats his snack of matzo sprayed with fake butter, hunched over the sink. “You told me not to make crumbs,” he says. “You trained me.”

While my husband’s characterization of me as a cross between a circus trainer and a dominatrix is annoying to say the least, at the same time I feel a certain pride that he thinks of me this way.

Over the years I have tried, with varying success, to train him. I’ve worked on getting him to remove muddy shoes before entering the house, to make a bed, to put down the toilet seat. (The last is an utter failure.) I have successfully trained him to let a dog in or out, and at least aim to throw his soiled clothing in the laundry basket. Writing this, I attempted to make an inventory of areas I’ve successfully trained him in, and realized the list is woefully short.

Still, my husband maintains he’s over-trained. Vis a vis the garbage. “You tell me to put a new bag in when you’ve told me to take the garbage out,” he whines. “ So I’m standing there with a leaking bag in one hand, and you want me to put in another bag. Which do you want me to do first?” He claims there are so many household rules it makes his head spin. Maybe that’s the explanation for why the first 5 years of our marriage, he walked around with a wool scarf wrapped around his head, like a bandage.

I asked him to describe how he feels about all of this.

“I feel tormented,” he said. “I’m always torn between two impossible options. I can either do one thing and be pilloried, or another and get whacked. In the end I always end up cowering in the corner, holding the Chihuahua as a shield,” he said, prone, as always, to hyper-exaggeration. That’s another thing I’ve failed to train him out of, his propensity for inflating every situation. Let’s not forget, when we met, he was a screenwriter.

I recently asked him to explain what he means by saying he’s over-trained. “If I hear your car pulling up, I’ll immediately race around fluffing pillows and folding blankets and grabbing the broom to start sweeping,” he says, meaning he’s just trying to clean up the mess he made in my absence. “And then the kicker is I manage to step in some tiny poop Rinaldo (the Chihuahua) made. How do I clean my foot, clean the floor, and get rid of the poop before you even walk in?” he said. “It’s impossible.”

He also wanted to discuss what he called his dress. “Am I supposed to tuck in my shirt or not tuck in my shirt?” he said. “If I don’t tuck it in you say I look a mess. If I tuck it in, you say it’s all bunched up. So I leave it half in and half out and then you say I look ridiculous.”

A couple of years ago when I announced I was sick of grocery shopping, my husband volunteered to take over the job. He’s become much better about buying produce, a weak area since he started out barely knowing the difference between a pear and an avocado. (“Why do they call them ‘avocado pears’?’ he protested.) Onions continue to elude him. “They’re poorly labeled,” he says. “You told me to never buy those small, hard yellow ones. But you also don’t like the tiny white ones, either. To me, they all look the same.”

It’s what he calls, “the multiplicity of rules,” that has left my husband paralyzed in some of his dealings with me. “I can’t buy onions, I don’t know how to tuck in my shirt,” he said. “I’m afraid to walk around the house. All I can do is hide in my man cave, or go to the office.” He says we live in a 2500 square foot house where he spends all his time in a room “smaller than a NYC apartment.”

A friend posted on Facebook that 8 days and nights with no internet or television might be grounds for divorce. I laughed. I know I’ve trained my husband to leave me alone when I watch my Real Housewives. But don’t think he doesn’t have his own arsenal of training tools to keep me on my toes. For example, he’s got me trained to run away whenever he starts playing the saxophone, which is for a minimum of 40 minutes a day, easily hours on the weekends. His man cave is home to multiple sax’s; tenor, alto, and soprano, the last whose sound makes my heart pound with anxiety, especially when he hits certain notes that set the dog to howling and that another friend described as “insane asylum music.”

Another friend got on my advice purchased a tiny riding whip. She lives in south jersey but not by the shore and nowhere near The Horse Connection which has an excellent selection of crops. So I sent her to a site called JustForPonies.com and she bought a girlish crop to enhance her demeanor around her own spouse. “You were right,” she said, when I told her every woman needs a crop, especially during football season when the domestic training of males usually could use reinforcement. “He jumps right to attention when I whack it against the coffee table and tell him to get his shoes off the couch.”

Ladies, are you paying attention?

The Examiner reviews BEDDINGTON PLACE

http://www.theexaminernews.com/local-writer-publishes-saucy-debut-novel-about-the-horsey-set/

Dispatches from the storm

Superstorm Sandy – and have they downgraded it from a hurricane to a

‘superstorm’ for insurance purposes, the cynic in me wants to ask? – has blown in and out of my little hamlet with disastrous effects. Although we were all very lucky there were no fatalities, thousands are left without power, perhaps indefinitely.

I’m typing this from the Scarsdale Inquirer newspaper office, an ad hoc arrangement cobbled together at the last minute, but that will allow the Bedford Record Review newspaper to get out. We are working to get the paper out, come hell or high water. And it has been hell. Driving around is frightening, especially in the dark. Roads are blocked. Trees are down. Unsecured live power lines lie twisted on the ground. Like many of my neighbors, I have no heat, light, or running water. Last night it was 30 degrees. Light rain is in the forecast. The lack of communication from the power company, NYSEG is grim. No one is willing to go on the record as to when relief can be expected. Town officials are saying restoration could take weeks. Flaks from the power company are saying nada.

As I go about the house dressed in my coat, my hat, and my boots, I think about my mother, Geraldine, who years ago was a proud member of the Women’s Army Corps. “You’re in the army now, you’re not behind a plow; you’ll never get rich, you son of a bitch, you’re in the army now,” she gleefully sang, following me around the house when I was a teen, supervising me through chores. Thanks to my mother’s immersion in the United States Army, I have some resourceful skills, including the ability to carry on for days lacking heat or hot water. I know how to hammer my daily sustenance down to the barest minimum. Although what I crave most is a cup of hot soup and hot tea, I can survive on apples, nuts, bottled water and almond butter. Chocolate and wine help. Thanks to Geraldine’s training, I also know how to make a bed so tightly you can bounce quarters off it, pluck a chicken, clean a weapon.

I’ve often quipped that there is almost no situation where a Barbour coat won’t serve, and during this Sandy Situation I’ve been proven correct at every turn. My favorite stepfather, the one I think of as ‘Dad,” Charles Camp Cotton, a Democrat and a free thinker and a former judge in Nuremberg, favored his Burberry raincoat, even wearing it as a bathrobe. Between my Barbour Utility jacket and quilted vest and field coat, I’ve been well prepped for every Sandy scenario. The waxed canvas coat kept me dry the many times I had to venture outdoors during the storm, monitoring the gutters and keeping the flood drains cleared. The vest has been a terrific bed jacket. The quilted coat I’ve been wearing four days on end. It’s warm, it’s reflective, and just the thing to throw on when crouching in the leaves, urinating in the moonlight.

As news trickles in of gas shortages, civilians arguing with police officers who are blocking them from checking on their storm affected homes, friends and family members in much worse off areas, like the Jersey shore, I wonder what might be next to come if things go from bad to worse. No one I know can even conceive of what it might be like if the norm is not soon the norm. You hear a lot these days about “The New Normal,” i.e. single parent families, gay marriage, anyone and everyone rating and ranking themselves and their friends’ peculiar quirks as being somewhere on the Asperger Spectrum. But the New Normal might really turn out to be decades of hoarding batteries, stockpiling fuel, conserving commodities, learning to live in the dark. We all might have to decide whether it’s better to own a generator or become a master survivalist. Recipes for cooking squirrel may abound. A girl who helped me clean our log cabin in upstate New York long ago told me the secret ingredient to making rodent palatable is lots of ketchup.

I’m always interested in how the human spirit deals with adversity. While the national news casts dire warnings against future looting and price gouging, this morning in downtown Katonah, things were almost sunny. At Kelloggs & Lawrence hardware store, despite the lack of electricity, business was lively. People were coming in from as far away as Lincolndale seeking butane-fueled outdoor cook stoves,  sleeping bags, kerosene lamps, batteries. Storm stories were exchanged. Little Joe’s Coffee up the street was open, even though Jen, the owner, said she had no hot drinks. Passersby on Valley Road stopped to pet a shivering Chihuahua wearing two coats. Everyone said “Good morning. ” Last night a kind neighbor invited me in to take a hot shower. At the end of the day it was good to know most people in my town realize in a catastrophe it’s all about neighbor helping neighbor, which is just as it should be. Let’s all stick together and hang tough.

Chick Lit Central: The Blog!: Book Review: Beddington Place

Chick Lit Central: The Blog!: Book Review: Beddington Place

Gigi, R.I.P.

Our family dog, Gigi, died the other day. Our wonderful vet put her down. She was 15 years old at the time, and we had her since puppyhood.

Gigi was supposed to be my son’s dog, but of course feeding her and training her fell to me. That’s the way it is with family dogs. The parents say they’re getting the dog for the kids, but unless mom wants the dog and raises it like a 4-legged child, family dog ownership can be a calamity.

It’s embarrassing to say, but I embraced Gigi’s presence reluctantly. I didn’t want another dog. I already had Maisie, a nervous, sickly rescue, and a couple of middle aged cats. Yet there we were that Saturday in late October, driving around Mahopac. We had kids in the car, my son and his friend. They begged us to stop in a pet shop (my least favorite place), and before I knew it, we were coming home with a new pet.

Store bought dogs are notoriously unhealthy and not a purchase I recommend, but we got lucky with Gigi even though I’m pretty sure she was born in a puppy mill. Right from the start, she was full of vim and vigor, with intelligence to spare. She housebroke quickly and learned her name and developed a vocabulary. She loved us all, but she was crazy about my son. For years, everything was grand.

Of course Gigi was like every young dog, and she had her moments. One day in the back seat of my car, she ate a Coach handbag. She enjoyed dragging our soiled clothing all over the house, and she was a nuisance at the table, barking and begging for chicken. She ate cat poop. She had a passion for licking shower water off our legs. She could open any unlocked door. She was nosy, and loved going to other peoples’ houses. Once she found a pair of turtles living in someone’s bathroom.

Her biggest joy in life besides food was car rides into town. She was a natural café dog. She loved cars, especially my old Miata, where she rode shotgun with the top down. When she was my only dog, a situation that lasted 6 years, she accompanied me on work interviews and she was always well behaved. At home she had a collection of chewed tennis balls. When he was cooking outdoors, Gigi was my husband’s best friend. Referencing her love of barbecue, my son called her “the grill fiend.” 

Gigi was about well into middle age when we acquired Basil, the crippled pup. Then last winter, we adopted an older Chihuahua from the Westchester SPCA. While not exactly pleased about these interlopers, Gigi gave herself a job, obedience training and helping to housebreak both of them.

My son’s feelings were hurt in the late spring when he came home for a few days and Gigi failed to greet him. That was the day I came to terms with her situation and began to prepare myself for her end.

Caring for an elderly dog is not much different than caring for an elderly person. There were times when I could have been more patient. Gigi suffered memory lapses and was often disoriented. She was pretty blind and deaf. And yet she still enjoyed her walks, her food, and her car rides. Ugly warty lumps and bumps sprang up all over her small body and she developed an itchy skin condition that necessitated near-daily baths. She was depressed but bore it in good grace when I had to lift her into the car or help her up on the bed. In her salad days, she was quite the athlete.

My whole life, I’ve had cats and dogs, and understand lifetime commitments. Fortunately, I’ve had enough experience to know animals tell you when they’re ready to go, and it’s our job to pay attention. The hardest thing is not to human needs get in the way. Many, if not most people try to hang on too long, and a dog will keep trying for you because they hate to to disappoint. Everyone has their own rules about quality of life; for Gigi, I knew it would be when she stopped eating and drinking.

My husband came with us to the vet to say goodbye. It’s a personal decision, but I always stay with my animals through their last breath. Gigi actually seemed to be smiling as Dr. Scott administered the pre-euthanizing sedative. After that it went very quickly, probably less than 2 minutes. Afterwards I helped wrap her in the towel and kissed her head. Then I immediately left.

It’s been a few days and I’ve not stopped thinking of Gigi and what a good girl she was for so many years. I think about is our good times together and all the fun we had. Roger Caras famously said, “Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole.” Gigi, wherever you are, we will always love you.

Gambling on Atlantic City

Last week Mr. Sax and I took a trip to Atlantic City. If your only idea of the town is through the HBO series, “Boardwalk Empire,” you’re getting some of the flavor, but hardly the whole enchilada. The city’s history, tied to booze and vice, is woven into the present. A.C. is still a gamey, even ridiculous, place, but that’s part of the charm, or at least that’s my opinion.

I grew up in Atlantic City. It was my childhood home. I lived on Raleigh Avenue and attended the Richmond Avenue School. For the most part, my part of town was staunchly middle class. My best friends fathers were a surgeon, a psychiatrist, and a funeral director. My own father, while still alive, was in the music business. Elementary school is one big blur, but memories of life outside school remain vivid. Four seasons of the year we played on the beach and walked the boards. We lived on sub sandwiches, frozen custard, fish freshly caught. We rode bikes or took the Jitney or walked by ourselves everywhere. We were savvy at dealing with tourists. By 10, I was an expert panhandler.

My mother wore a mink stole when she left the apartment. In those days, the grand hotels, the Marlborough Blenheim, the Traymore, the Claridge, the Shelburne, the Ritz Carlton, the Ambassador, and Chalfonte-Haddon Hall were still in operation, but the mid 1960’s, the town was seriously run down. It was a big deal when Atlantic City was chosen to be the site of the 1964 Democratic Convention. Lyndon Johnson actually stayed in a beautiful house very near our apartment. The convention and the press coverage, however, cast a harsh light on the corruption of the city, and afterwards things faded fast. By the early ‘70’s, the grand hotels were being demolished and the town was overcome with drugs and pimps and the homeless.

Legal casino gambling revived Atlantic City, bringing thousands of visitors back to the shore. In 1978 Resorts International opened its doors. I’m not here to argue whether legalized gambling really is a good thing, but I am happy about the new and glam Revel entertainment complex.  Erected in what was for 50 years the most blighted part of the city, The Inlet, Revel, which is gorgeous, got off to a rocky start. Morgan Stanley, the 90% majority owner, discontinued funding for continued construction, and put its stake in Revel up for sale. Love him or hate him, Governor Chris Christie offered Revel $261 million in state tax credits to assist the casino once it opened.

Will the state’s gamble pay off? It’s a big bet with lots at stake. Not being a gambler, I still proposed to my spouse a visit to Revel to celebrate a major anniversary. Major foodies, over two and a half days and nights we dined at world class restaurants featuring Iron Chefs, Michelin chefs, James Beard Award winners, and food concepts from New York, Philadelphia and Washington, D.C. We laid out in the sun. We swam in the outdoor pool. We walked the beach and the boards until our feet were falling off.

Speaking of food, what didn’t I eat? I had Sack O Subs, Steel’s Fudge, Fralinger’s almond macaroons, clams on the half shell, steamed clams, escargot. At American Cut, headed by Iron Chef Marc Forgione, Mr. Sax had a steak he raved about. I loved Robert Wiedmaier’s Mussel Bar. At Village Whiskey, we snacked on Iron Chef Jose Garces’s duck fat fries and deviled eggs. Other famous chefs featured at Revel include Alain Allegretti, Luke Palladino, and Michel Richard. On Saturday we lunched at Bally’s at Harry’s Oyster Bar. Located just off the Boardwalk, under an umbrella in the sun, I had a half dozen little neck clams on the half shell, followed by an order of steamers in garlic broth. Mr. Sax had a grilled seafood platter featuring lobster, clams, scallops, oysters, flounder, and crab cake. Buzzed on Bloody Mary’s, afterwards we entered an arcade at the base of Steel Pier to spend $20 in quarters playing Skee ball. That was great.

A friend back home had asked me to place a bet for her on the roulette wheel, but we didn’t do it because we can’t gamble. Neither Mr. Sax and I could make sense of the slot machines, and we were afraid to lose our shirts at the blackjack tables or in the poker room, or at mini baccarat, or craps. We did get a kick out of  Ivan Kane’s Royal Jelly Burlesque Club, where round the clock pretty women wearing very little prance and strut their stuff.

What was my favorite part of the trip, aside from a chance to walk past my favorite childhood haunts and the homes of my old friends? It was Mr. Sax’s unrestrained joy returning to our room at 4 a.m. after an hour and a half of dancing at the HQ night club when he was too wound up to sleep. They were hosting a Madonna party, as the singer was in town. “The doorman was stopping lots of people, but he let me right in,” my husband gloated, slipping between the sheets. He attributed this to a cool hat purchased that afternoon at Irene’s. His elation was  so exciting. I was so glad for him.

Bigger than the White House

In the last days of August while my neighbors were all gone and the streets were so silent you could hear a pin drop, Mr. Sax and I had a “staycation,” in our own neighborhood. One afternoon we traveled to Cold Spring; another day, we hit Fahnestock State Park. In Portchester we had drinks and appetizers outside at BarTaco, and on the final day of our holiday, we drove to Pleasantville to catch a film at the Jacob Burns. The film we saw was “The Queen of Versailles,” which I’d read about in The New Yorker and was a topic of conversation at a sophisticated cocktail party in Pound Ridge we’d been to the night before. At the party, several people were talking about the film. “She got what she deserved,” one woman carped.

The film, a documentary by Lauren Greenfield, details the rise (and the fall) of David and Jackie (mostly Jackie) Siegel. David Siegel is a time-share magnate, founder and CEO of Westgate Resorts. The couple live the American Dream, but SuperSized. In 2007, when filming started, the Siegels are building a 90,000 square foot home in Florida they call the American Versailles. Larger than a 747 airplane hangar, featuring 9 kitchens, 30 bathrooms, two movie theaters, and a bowling alley, the home, if it is ever completed, basically dwarfs the White House.

In interviews before and after the film was released, Lauren Greenfield explains how she first met Jackie, who is fairly down to earth. The filmmaker, who has had a long career photographing images of extreme wealth for “Elle” magazine, encountered Jackie Siegel when she was taking pictures of Donatella Versace for the opening of the designer’s new store. Jackie is/was a valued Versace client. Soon Greenfield was helping Jackie convince her husband they should make a film about themselves.

At the beginning of the film, both the Siegel’s are open and voluble, clearly loving their extravagant lifestyle. In addition to Versailles, David is opening Westgate Resorts in Las Vegas, meant to be the largest and tallest building on the strip. Mr. Siegel talks about his modest youth in Indiana, and his father, who was addicted to Vegas. Siegel hints on film it was his money and influence that got George W. Bush elected. Jackie, a former Mrs. America and pageant queen, is 30 years younger than her husband (she’s Wife #3). Her joy and enthusiasm for spending and consuming is almost childish. What Jackie has most going for her is she’s not a snob. Cameras rolling, she’s just as much at home with McDonald’s as she is with caviar.

While the film play for laughs some of Jackie’s worst foibles, like asking for the name of her driver when she’s renting a car from Hertz, the real story begins after the financial collapse in ’08 when Westgate’s business stumbled, and its timeshare customers couldn’t make their payments. Six thousand employees are let go, the creditors close in, and construction stops on what was supposed to be the largest private house in America.

Greenfield is calm but ruthless as she continues to document the Siegel’s downfall. Chauffeurs, housekeepers and nannies are let go, dog poo collects on the marble floors. The Siegels are living in the 26,000 square foot home in Orlando the family still inhabits, and Jackie does her Christmas shopping at Walmart instead of Neiman’s. To ease the distress of the Orlando-based, Westgate ex-employees, on her own she in a warehouse a kind of Salvation Army. Kept mostly in the dark about her husband’s troubles, she tells Greenfield that it’s only through the filmmaking process that she understands what is happening.

While Jackie comes off as likeable if a bit dim, by the end, David Siegel is anything but sympathetic. One wonders why he permitted Greenfield to keep filming. As of this writing, he is suing Greenfield and the Sundance Film Festival for defaming his company. His lawsuit against them was filed about a week ago in Orlando in U.S. District Court.

When the Siegels initially decided to be filmed, they thought they were creating a legacy. At the end of the day, that’s still what happened, even though the story arc changed. In the film, David Siegel said, “This started out as a rags to riches story, and now it’s riches to rags.” By the end of the film, he is angry. He’s mean. He dislikes his wife and children, who go on blindly loving him. When Jackie says on camera that if it ends up the family lives in a modest $300,000 house, “with lots of bunk beds,” and that’s OK with her, you know she means it. Unlike a real floozy or gold digger, she did marry for better or worse.

 “The Queen of Versailles,” is, of course, a parable about legalized vice and greed. Siegel’s father ruined himself gambling at the casinos; Siegel gambled with the banks. On the Today Show a few weeks ago, Jackie appeared with Greenfield. They both want the film to succeed. Jackie said her husband’s company Westgate is “doing great,” and that they still have dozens of time share resorts in operation. She believes they will finish building Versailles. “We came through the recession,” she said proudly. “And the house was never at risk.”

A vacation close to home

We took a random field trip the other day to Cold Spring. The trip was unplanned. Originally we were headed to Radovich & Dean Music Store, in nearby Carmel. If you’re still crying because Bramson’s closed and you don’t know where to go, Radovich & Dean is the place. They sell instruments, handle school instrument rentals; it’s a place to take lessons, and they do repairs. Mr. Sax’s alto had a sticky key, so when he said he was headed to Carmel, I said can I tag along, please. Our mission accomplished at the music store, a sign saying “Cold Spring, 15 miles,” beckoned.

Cold Spring is an old river town that grew on the Hudson. The old town, built straight up from the water, is quaint and charming. There are interesting residential side streets to explore if you’re into eyeballing houses, and it’s hilly, which is good for the quads. The views from every direction are awesome. Main Street, the main drag, is a long but pleasant sidewalk stroll past myriad antique shops, boutiques, a couple of B&B’s, a few restaurants and several coffee shops, many selling homemade ice cream. When I say homemade, I mean it, because Cold Spring’s downtown has no chain stores, and according to a local newspaper I thumbed through, is considering a law barring the opening of any new business that requires its employees to wear a  uniform or a logo-embossed anything.

Free spirit prevails as Cold Spring’s guiding light. Wandering in and out of shops for an hour, I began to appreciate what I perceived as the dual vibe of the modern Occupy Movement, mixed with old school hippie-dom. It was refreshing to hear (twice) people speaking French on the street, and nary a woman was sporting a Keratin treatment. There was one real estate office in town: Houlihan-Lawrence. By the river, a few people were fishing, while others sat on benches in the sun, facing the water.

At the Antiques Center I admired an old, rather beautifully framed print depicting a horse scene. There was an affordable old hoosier, my favorite antique kitchen piece,  as well as some really cool vintage clothing. Surprise, surprise, they had a very good selection, in good condition, of old Playboys and Penthouses. For $5, I scored a pair of sexy, dangling, silvery earrings. I was tempted by a shop called Country Clocks. But what really got me was the loads of outdoor seating where one could tarry, inside or out. The line too long for Moo Moo’s, at random we chose the Cupocchino Café. They specialize in many formulations of coffee drinks, tea drinks, chai drinks, and fountain specials. That day, on their sidewalk blackboard, they were recommending root beer floats.

Inside, Cupocchino was everything I think a café should be. I loved the back wall covered in huge blackboards, the worn wood floors, and the friendly atmosphere. The furniture was mix ‘n match. In a case were yummy bakery items including flaky scones and Danish and black and white cookies. The ice cream case offered a dozen flavors handchurned by a lady named Jane. You could get panini sandwiches made to order; a note on the blackboard said egg sandwiches are available until noon. I can’t even begin to list the choices of hot and cold beverages, including many true Italian classics like espresso macchiato and ristretto. Made with two big scoops of that handchurned vanilla, topped off with a full bottle of Stewart’s, my root beer float was crazy-good.

Waddling back to the car 20 minutes later, I couldn’t help noticing the outdoor tables everywhere. It made me mad to think about Katonah and this new nonsense about enforcing the county Board of Health regulations. Because of the recent brouhaha about outdoor seating, Katonah is suffering. The rules, whatever they are, are killing the downtown. Somebody needs to address this problem, and the sooner the better.

On another note, Ebba, the Katonah-centric home goods and jewelry store is selling this insanely addictive fragrance called Miss Marisa. Viktoria Fisch, Ebba’s owner, had a wildly successful business, also called Ebba, for years in Los Angeles. Ebba Katonah is now her only physical store, but in the world of virtual commerce, www.ebbalosangeles.com is thriving. Fisch, who creates her own fragrances, conceived of the line years ago to embody what she describes as the quintessential modern woman. Fisch said, “The line distills an elusive je ne sais quoi essence that makes all 6 of the Misses memorable and intoxicating.” I’ve been wearing the one she calls “Zest” for a week and I can’t stop sniffing my wrists. Besides “Zest,” Miss Marisa comes in 5 other scents, including “Original,” “Nuit,” “Fleur,” “Marine,” and “Tropical.” Miss Marisa has been featured in Lucky Magazine, In Style, Vogue, and Vanity Fair. Fisch’s cousin dubbed the scent, “The Man Catcher!" Some celebs who wear it include Amanda Seyfriend, Jenna Jamison, Carmen Electra, the model Nikki Taylor, her own grandmother in Sweden, and, yes, Dave Navarro! I know Kourtney Kardashian loves it. How do I know? She talked about it (and Ebba!) on her http://officialkourtneyk.celebuzz.com website. Now that’s what I call pretty wow.  

Let the sleeping games begin

Not me or Mr. Sax, but other people have been sleeping late in our house all summer. It’s only early August, but I’ve already changed the spare room sheets enough times to make me feel like a hotel laundry. While we’ve enjoyed the company of our company, and Mr. Sax, aka the Grillmaster, loves any opportunity to show off (so far he’s served overnight visitors his signature BBQ ribs, BBQ chicken, rotisserie chicken, rotisserie turkey, grilled pork tenderloins, all accompanied by grilled sweet corn), the main thing that stands out about our guests is how they sleep, some of them well past the noon hour. Years ago a young boy we didn’t know stayed with us for a week. We were his hosts while he was involved in the Summer Program at the Children’s Center at the Bedford Women’s Correctional Facility. The boy, who 10 at the time, spent the hours between 9 and 3 with his mother; joining us afterwards for trips to the Katonah town pool, followed by a home cooked meal, and dessert from King Kone. The boy lived with his grandmother in one of the rougher neighborhoods in Brooklyn, and he couldn’t get over our night time quiet. In response to my question,  “How’d you sleep?” he said, “Good. There’s no gunshots or cars backfiring or people screaming,” relayed over Capt ‘n Crunch.

This batch of summer guests are also Sleeping Beauties. One guest arrived so exhausted and jet lagged after a three week journey hiking in the desert that she basically collapsed into a coma. One day she slept 13 hours. Another guest who claims she never sleeps in, slept until 10:30. She undoubtedly would have slept longer except that Mr. Sax started playing his instrument, and rather loudly.

This past week on unbearably sultry mornings, instead of rushing off , I’ve been lingering inside in the air conditioning to watch the 2012 Summer Olympics. I’m following, as best I can, wrestling, fencing, shooting, swimming, and, of course, equestrian. While I’m rooting for the entire American team, I am especially intrigued by Reed Kessler from nearby Armonk, who at 18 is the youngest person ever to compete on an Olympic equestrian team. In London, she is competing on Cylana, her 10 year old German Warmblood, who is related to McClain Ward’s now retired champion, Sapphire, through the Darco line. Reed’s impeccable posture and perfect hands are inspiring. It’s been said ice water runs in her veins, which is probably a good trait to have in this arena. In the months and weeks leading up to the Olympics, I heard a fair amount of grumbling and hostility directed at this girl; that she isn’t a “great” rider, but because of her family fortune has only ridden great horses. Like Reed, I, too, was a horse crazy child. My stepsister says she can’t remember when I wasn’t trying to touch, talk to, or get on some horse. One of the biggest mistakes I ever made was when my mother’s 2^rd husband, Maurice (Geraldine married numerous times), a wealthy Philadelphia furrier, offered to send me to any boarding school I chose so he could be alone with my mother. Why didn’t I say yes and let him pull whatever strings he claimed to have and apply to Ethel Walker, Linden Hall, or Oldfields? Because I was clueless. At 12 I didn’t know anyone who went to boarding school. Bad decision. I want a do-over.

In a classic case of “coulda, shoulda, woulda,” decades later, watching Reed in the Olympics, I wonder what might have happened if I’d taken Maurice up on his scheme. (For the record, he tried to woo me by gifting me the first time we met with a fall of authentic human hair; incensed, I threw it away.) So instead of going to a fancy boarding school and getting out of Dodge, I stuck around, and within days Maurice sought an annulment from my mother, who he said had tricked him (after a whirlwind courtship, they married while I was in the Poconos, at Camp Timber Tops). My mother blamed me that because of the split, she didn’t even get a mink coat. It all happened in August, after all. Far too warm for fur. How differently things might have gone if I’d only embraced boarding school. I’ll never know. But at least I can sleep like a log in the quiet of our house, dreaming of horses.

How sexy media can liberate you

“I just read ‘Shades of Gray’ and loved it,” a friend recently gushed to me. This is a woman I admittedly don’t know very well, but she strikes me as fairly conservative. She’s been married to the same man a long time, her kids are mostly grown, and judging from the way she dresses, even when I’ve seen her dressed up, appears to be someone more at home in yoga clothes than, uh, leather and nipple clamps. She seemed almost defiant, telling me her reading tastes. Somehow, I wasn’t surprised. Every woman needs a bit of a sexy shake up from time to time, and what fills the bill better than a dirty novel?

Sexy media, whether it’s a work of fiction, or a movie (foreign films, for the record, usually have twice as much sex in them, especially if they’re French), a hot magazine cover, a racy advertisement, are really good for shaking things up, and putting you in the head of a person who thinks about sex. It’s been said (and oft reported) that the average man has hundreds of sexual thoughts every day, but that women only think about sex, or things that are sexy, occasionally. That’s because the average woman is consumed and inundated with both mundane and pressing things on her to-do list, things like laundry and picking up something for dinner and work deadlines. These things, while necessary, are pretty libido killing, at least for the majority of women.

Getting out of your head is an important step in reclaiming your sexual health and vitality. It’s also a good way to release stress. A few weeks ago in a movie theater crowded with middle aged women, two girlfriends and I laughed and squealed and howled at the bumps, grinds, and moves of the male strippers featured in the popular summer film, “Magic Mike.” The girlfriend sitting next to me, married to the same man for 28 years, practically wet her pants when Mike’s break-a-way pants broke off, revealing his deliciously bare bottom. “Look at that hairless butt,” she marveled. “My husband is so hairy. I wish he would wax his back and ass.”

Hopefully when my friend got home from the movie, she closed her eyes and made believe her husband was Magic Mike. Or Mr. Gray. Fantasy is wonderful. Embrace it. Embrace sexy media. It’s stimulating. It’s sexy. And best of all, it’s a safe and healthy way to behave sinfully.

Beauty deeper than skin deep

 The double punch for beauty

by EVE MARX

They say beauty’s only skin deep and what counts is what’s within, but if your complexion is marred with dark spots, fine lines, or rosacea or rough skin, you’re probably feeling less than beautiful, and that hurts your self esteem. Fortunately, you can remedy these unattractive but not life threatening medical health problems with the help of a skillful and licensed medical aesthetician. Two unique services offered by a local med spa and a beauty bar done in tandem have produced excellent results combating the signs of too much sun and simple aging. I call them the Double Punch.

Kristen Evans is the new skin specialist at kdstudio in Katonah, a beauty bar. While the store specializes in hypoallergenic, non-animal tested and fragrance free skin potions and condiments, they also offer a variety of facials and natural tanning options. Among the newest offerings of facials is a procedure called dermaplaning, a somewhat controversial but increasingly popular with celebrities specialty Ms. Evans is licensed to implement. Dermaplaning is essence is shaving your face. It’s done with a surgical blade (yes, you read that right: it’s a scalpel) by a trained professional. Dermaplaning helps eliminate wrinkles, scarring,  reduces hyperpigmentation,  and it does remove every speck of hair on your face. That blond peach fuzz that no laser hair removal will make a dent in? Dermaplaning will get rid of it, and for a long time.

I wasn’t sure what I was getting into when I tried the process. I had been getting facials for years, and not just soothing, smoothing ones that leave you relaxed and glowing. I was prepared for some ouchiness since I’m one of those people who don’t think a facial is complete until my blackheads are extracted. During the dermaplaning, the blades glided smoothly over my face. Dermaplaning or blading as it is sometimes called, removes the outermost layers of dead skin, leaving what’s underneath immediately more smooth and supple. Appearance and tenderness afterwards varies from individual to individual. Some people leave the treatment and immediately apply their favorite cosmetics. My own skin was rather red and tender, even though for years I’ve been told my skin is thick.

During the dermaplanning process, the aesthetician gently scrapes what is most commonly a No. 10 scalpel along the surface of the skin, using short, brisk strokes. The sensation is not unpleasant. Afterwards Ms. Evans showed me a pile of scraped off, wafer-thin papery bits. Because the procedure is considered non-ablative, there is no cutting of the flesh. I was advised afterwards to not engage in my usual exfoliating rituals (I am a fan of scrubs of all descriptions) because the new skin was so delicate.

It was Ms. Evans suggestion to follow up the dermaplaning fairly swiftly with a photofacial, another skin rejuvenating procedure I told her I’ve been doing on and off for two years. Photofacials are a proven, effective method of reducing the signs of aging and sun damage on the face, neck and hands. It is a pulsed light procedure to  rejuvenate the skin by stimulating the production of the body’s own collagen and elastin. The procedure eliminates broken capillaries, minimizes fine lines, shrinks enlarged pores, and is one of the few proven methods to treat facial spider veins. While the tool used is always a pulsed light laser, age of the equipment does make a difference. Bellava MedAesthetics & Spa in Bedford Hills uses the Artisan system from Palomar, the leading generation of cosmetic lasers.

Ms. Evans suggestion to have a photofacial within a few days of the dermaplaning was a good one, because the photofacial, she said, would be doubly effective. With less layers of dead epidermis to penetrate, the laser could go deeper and be more curative. Anne Gentner Hughes is the photofacial expert at Bellava. She concurred with Ms. Evans. I scheduled an appointment for the photofacial four days after the dermaplaning.

While I’ve been having photofacials for quite some time, they never hurt like they did following dermaplaning. My skin was much more sensitive and every pulsed light pinprick really pricked, especially where the most dark sunspots I was trying to get rid off occurred on the left side of my jaw and my upper lip. Afterwards, Ms. Hughes handed me an iced roller to run up and down my sore chin and cheeks. 

Ms. Hughes and Bellava were adamant about after care. I received directions both written and verbal. A mild sunburn like sensation was to be expected that could last anywhere from 2 hours to 3 days. I could expect some mild swelling. Black lesions (the lasered sun spots) might even appear worse than usual for a few days. I was advised not to scratch at them, or pick. Some scabbing was not to be unexpected. I was to avoid using any hair removal process for several days, to avoid direct sunlight, and use at least a #30 SPF.

Unaware and unprepared how ugly I’d look for a few days (more like a week), at first I was dismayed by the Double Punch treatment. The black spots got even blacker and refused to be covered by make up. Then on Day 6 the spots began flaking off, and with a slight abrading with a washcloth, were erased. The redness disappeared, as did the slight swelling and touch of soreness. The fun and gratifying part was when people began telling me how great I looked, and asked what I did to make my facial skin look at least 10 years younger than it is.

It’s been six weeks since I had the Double Punch treatment and I’m extremely pleased. If blades scare you, Bellava recommends substituting dermablading for one of the VI or chemical peels offered there. The VI peel is blend of powerful ingredients including vitamin C and salicylic acid. It tackles a wide range of skin issues from uneven tone, to acne, to age spots. The spa also offers two different chemical peels; the Obagi Blue Peel, which contains trichloroacetic acid; and the D’Vine Wine Jessner Peel which contains lactic acid resorcinol, salicylic acid, raspberry and wine extract. But if you’re not afraid of the blade, submit to the scalpel treatment offered by the highly trained Kristen Evans at kdstudio. Like I said, I fell asleep on the table. It was that relaxing.

In the House - TownVibe Bedford - March/April 2012

In the House - TownVibe Bedford - March/April 2012

The predator in the woods

The predator in the woods

Riding my horse o’er hill and dale over the Memorial Day weekend, I could not help  marveling at the natural beauty of where we live. In addition to the extraordinary homes and great estates, the horse farms, the beautifully maintained dirt roads, the picture perfect New England villages and greens, all around are natural wonders including wildflowers, a graceful canopy of trees; the calling of birds, the breathtaking sighting of owls and hawks, and deep in the deciduous forest, thrilling if annoying glimpses of Bambi and his numerous brethren devouring the undergrowth. Sometimes as I am riding along, I have to pinch myself. What luck it was in St. Barth’s so many years that I met a couple who rented a cottage on Pea Pond who told me about the area in such rapturous tones.

And yet, of late, a disturbing darkness is marring the loveliness. While some people have preoccupied themselves talking about the latest celebrities who might be calling Katonah/Bedford home (everyone knows about Blake and Ryan, but another Ryan might also be coming on board), in other circles people are worried and nervous, asking what the heck is going on. There has been an alarming uptick of violent and invasive crime. In recent months there have been two home invasions where people were tied up. There have been a rash of break ins and burglaries, including one where the homeowners were in the house. Last week in Lake Katonah a woman was shot by her neighbor who has an arsenal of guns. A barn housing chickens was burned to the ground. Cars have been broken into in broad daylight on a popular walking road. Mary Kennedy died by hanging. And last, but not least, a young woman walking her dog was savagely attacked in the woods behind St. Matthews.

The police aren’t saying much about these incidents because they are under investigation. Press releases from the station have confirmed only the most bare bones of info. And while many people are going about their business, enjoying their blissful days, every day someone tries to talk to me about these upsetting scenarios. Some people are shocked and in disbelief. They say how can this happen here. A Journal News reporter calling me for a quote implied that violent crime is out of character in Bedford. I scoffed when she said this. In addition to all the white collar crime and financial schemes, violent behavior is no stranger here. The public has a short memory. I recalled to her the Sperry murders that took place in the ‘70’s. Six or seven years ago in North Salem a  man murdered his sister and the family handy man. Two years ago a mentally unstable woman decided to stab her nieces. Less than a year ago a man bludgeoned his wife and shot his two young kids. If you choose to only notice the quaint notices in the Record Review police blotter about lost dogs, rabid raccoons, and shoplifters, you’re pulling the wool over your eyes.  Or that’s what I think.

I called the police to discuss the attack in the woods. Of all the terrible things that have happened, this one distresses me most. Like many others, I live for my time in the woods. I love the trail system and the symphony of nature and the chance to see untamed animals. And while I’ve always been aware of the predators, the foxes, the coyotes, and hawks, I didn’t give much thought to human predators. That innocence was shattered with the assault on that young girl. The police have been circumspect about what happened, but I have it on good authority she was badly hurt.

I admit to frustration there is still no police artist’s rendering of the alleged assailant, or signage on the trails warning joggers, walkers and riders to look out. The Bedford Riding Lanes Association took the brave initiative to send their membership a message about not riding alone. Lt. Jeffrey Dickan of the Bedford Police Department said people should not walk in the woods wearing headphones and to be aware of their surroundings.. He advised when parking in a lot at night to check the back seat and under the car. He mentioned the desolate and lonely stretches on the bike trails.

A dog walker told me about some signs the Mt. Kisco police have posted in their parks about coyotes grabbing and killing off leash dogs. A coyote hurts a dog and the police post a warning, she said. So why aren’t people better warned about a sexual assailant? It seemed a fair question. Meanwhile, take nothing for granted. Use your home security. Familiarize yourself with the panic button on the key to your car.  And keep your wits about you, especially in the woods.

What's with all the spitting?

What’s with all the spitting?
I was talking to a woman the other day about her use of porn movies as training films to awaken her to new things in the bedroom. So what have you learned, I said, ever curious. Well, spitting, my friend said. I do that a lot now. That’s hot.
Spitting, I said, somewhat incredulous. Spitting, to me, is nothing new. I first noticed it when I was reviewing adult films in the early ‘90’s, which is so Last Century. I suppose you could almost call spitting Old School. But this was a nice suburban lady I was talking to, and I realized she probably was new to watching porn, so spitting to her was unique and original. What she likes about it, she said, was that spitting on a cock, or having her vagina or rectum spat on seemed really dirty and nasty, nasty sex being her obsession. Her one question/problem to me was how did the porn performers manage to have so much spit. How do they have that much saliva? she asked.
I told my friend that a lot of the spit you see in a porn movie is like styled food. In other words, it’s not real, or it’s been enhanced by an artificial spit substance. That’s why spit on film it’s always so viscous and foamy, I added, knowing all the tricks of behind the scenes. I reminded her that spitting was not a romantic act; in fact, in some states, spitting is a crime. It’s considered a kind of assault, and not so long ago in Florida, a woman who spit on someone was even charged with a hate crime.
If it’s down and dirty sex you’re after, you can’t go wrong with spit. It’s aggressive. It’s assertive. And it’s the world’s cheapest lubricant. Don’t have enough natural saliva to make it work? So far no sex toy or aid manufacturer has marketed anything resembling artificial spit. And you do know silicone based lubes taste terrible and shouldn’t be put in your mouth! The solution is simple glycerin which can be purchased in any drugstore. Not only does glycerin have the added bonus of being a natural tooth cleaner, it also has an antibacterial potential. That makes using it a win-win. So spit away.
Eve Marx
Eve Marx is a professional ‘sexpert,’ and author of “101 Things You Didn’t Know About Sex,” “What’s Your Sexual IQ?” and “The Goddess Orgasm.” Log on to her website or check out her blog.

"50 Shades of Grey" sends a wrong message

Lately I’ve been barraged by women asking me what I think about “50 Shades of Grey,” the erotic novel the New York Times deemed fit to write about on their front page. As a professional sex writer, the assumption is I’ve read the book and love it. It’s undoubtedly unfair for me to be so opinionated about a book I’ve barely skimmed; what fascinates me the phenomena of so many women embracing an open fantasy about sexual subjugation.

“50 Shades of Grey,” is the story of Ana, a young, unsophisticated girl who, surprise, surprise, succumbs to the attentions of an attractive older man. It’s basically “The Story of O,” a novel about dominance and submission first published in 1954 by French author Anne Desclos, writing under the pen name Pauline Reage. In “50 Shades,” the man, called “Grey,” is consumed by a need to be controlling. As he and Ana’s relationship progresses, Ana discovers a taste for punishment and discipline.

Thirty five years ago in her ground-breaking, nonfiction book, “My Secret Garden,” feminist author Nancy Friday who writes about female sexuality and liberation, noted that a significant number of women entertain erotic fantasies of being raped and forced to perform sex acts against their will, which they enjoy despite their protests. Unfortunately, many women who have been raped for real are accused of having enjoyed the experience, if not having asked for it; for decades it wasn’t uncommon to call raped women whores, and allow accused rapists to roam free to assault and rape other women.

How you feel about “50 Shades of Grey,” could be construed as political. As a feminist who for years edited and wrote for sex magazines, I find myself upset and repelled by its message. In a restaurant the other night a young woman eagerly handed me her copy. She said she was only a third of the way through the book, but so far, found it thrilling. Skimming through the first few chapters, "Grey,” seemed a simple formula of chick lit crossed with romance genre. Then I got to an appendix which had a questionnaire inquiring what kinds of torture could be enjoyed/inflicted as a route to orgasm. The check off list included “biting,” “slapping,” “hitting,” and “nipple clamps,” the last a medieval tool of torture designed to wrest confessions from prisoners. Driving home from the restaurant, I wondered out loud if fans of Rick Santorum find the novel compelling because it reinforces those old traditions of feminine docility and men in power. From Santorum’s position, you could argue the story is almost biblical. And it’s not just Republicans. Explain to me how the same women who claim they stand for reproductive choice, and who don’t want men telling them what to do with their wombs, at the same time yearn to be controlled and dominated in the bedroom? Talk about a disconnect.

Another troubling thing about “50 Shades of Grey,” is that while the book is fiction, reality is not so far away. Right here in Pound Ridge, for years a man kept 3 women as sex slaves in his home before one escaped and he was brought to justice. The Northern Westchester Shelter and Hope’s Door and My Sister’s Place know all too well how many women in Westchester County are abused and subjugated by men who forcibly control them. The majority of domestic violence cases are never reported. With violence against women on the rise, I don’t think we need popular fiction to encourage it.

I’m not a prude. I’m all for sexy books. I’m a huge fan of John Updike, Phillip Roth, Erica Jong, Terry Southern, Henry Miller, Anais Nin, to name a few. I was practically weaned on Jackie Susanne and Jackie Collins. I still vividly recall the sexy passages from books like “Candy,” and “Boys and Girls Together,” and “The Sensuous Woman.” But none of those books had a theme of sexual violence.

Be careful for what you wish for, I say to women who fantasize about a sexy controlling master telling them what to do. You could find yourself like the heroine of another seductive, kinky novel, “9 ½ Weeks,” who after lovemaking stood in front of the bathroom mirror, applying ice to her split lip. “50 Shades of Grey,” is an important demonstration of the power and commerciality of ebooks, self-marketing and promotion. But as erotica, I find it scary.

http://www.record-review.com/record-review//Record-Review_022412_Auction_files/widget1_markup.html

http://www.record-review.com/record-review//Record-Review_022412_Auction_files/widget1_markup.html

Sans Gluten - TownVibe Bedford - March/April 2012

Sans Gluten - TownVibe Bedford - March/April 2012

In the House - TownVibe Bedford - March/April 2012

In the House - TownVibe Bedford - March/April 2012

Forget St. Bart's: the action's in Bedford

It was another whirlwind weekend in Bedford, which is an amazing thing to say in January, when you’d think the entire town has been shuttered. It’s long been said that if you own a retail business in Bedford (or Katonah, Bedford Hills, or Pound Ridge) you should schedule your late January vacation to San Cabos Lucas or Tulum, Mexico, a destination I had never heard of which the New York Times Style section revealed is way cooler now than St. Barts. The Times referred to it as “the anti-St. Barts,” which interests me since I call Bedford the anti-Hamptons. Anyway, for years in January all the chic people in town went away, but apparently that’s the not case anymore as the place to be this weekend it turned out was right here in Bedford. Hip hip hooray.
On Friday night, Mr. Sax and I attended the tres chic party that kicked off Art Show: Bedford, the 39th annual contemporary art show to benefit local charities. The party and the show took place at St. Matthew’s Fellowship Hall on Cantitoe Street and it was absolutely the place to see and be seen. First place artist Ashley Andrews was on the scene to talk about “Maya One,” her winning picture. The show featured the work of 37 artists and was both exhibition and sale, and the party, which was very well attended, was a lively mix of artists, show committee members, show patrons and benefactors and angels and donors and friends of St. Matthew’s and fans of art. I chatted for awhile with one of the show judges, Neal Watson, director of the Katonah Museum of Art, and his beautiful author wife Jude, and their daughter Chloe. There was a wine and beer bar and yummy snacks catered by Table Local Market. Bedford is not Soho, but the assembly were very stylish. I complimented one woman on her sexy, black, ornately patterned hose and she gaily replied that they belonged to her daughter. “This is the real Bohemian Grove,” I overheard one man say, a sly referral to the exclusive, secluded campground in California’s Sonoma County, site of an annual select two-week gathering of men including every Republican president since Calvin Coolidge. Few journalists have been admitted into the Grove and allowed to tell the tale, but here I was at Art Show: Bedford, throwing back glasses of Pinot. It was a great show, an even greater party. I loved it.
After we’d looked at our fill of art (and of course anything with a horse I found enchanting ), we adjourned for a late supper at the Farmhouse at Bedford Post where to our relief we could still get a table for two on a Friday night at short notice. Well, it was after 9. I love the main dining room of the Post. It’s so wonderfully country chic and elegant. It being rather late and having already eaten plenty of the Table appetizers, we went directly to ordering our entrees. I had the smaller portion of some delicate knots of pasta stuffed with what I believe was fontina cheese, pureed chestnuts and squash and served in a buttery bouillion broth. Mr. Sax had fish, turbot, I believe. The exquisite winter menu, conceived by my favorite local chef, Jeremy McMillan, is entirely seasonal and dependent on what’s fresh and in the market.
An added value to the tastebuds are the several amuse bouches the chef sends out. Not being a lover of goat cheese, Mr. Sax did not care for the one featuring goat cheese and honey (I ate both mine and his), but we both exclaimed over the soupcon of soup, which was pumpkin-y and rich and warm and hearty. For dessert we shared an amazing deep dish dark chocolate gelato served with whipped cream and a peanut brittle crunch. For class and sass, hands down, The Farmhouse is my favorite restaurant. The wine, even by the glass, is great, and I’ve always had excellent service.
Saturday night, after being pinned in the house all day due to snow, we ventured to Via Vanti where the Katonah Studio Jazz Band was doing a show. Mr. Sax, in case you haven’t guessed, is in the band. He plays sax. Also playing that night were Robert Kessler, a Grammy-award winning composer, audio producer and pianist; bassist Lester Harper; alto saxophonist Emily Tabin; and drummer Eric Katz. The room was packed; a much ordered dish on that chilly evening was a tummy warming concoction of escarole served over carrots, celery, cannellini beans, tender chicken and roasted tomato. As I’d had too much to drink the night before, I thought it wise to stick with decaf cappuccino. Via Vanti makes an outstanding one. It’s hot and strong and foamy enough on its own, but even better paired with one of the restaurant’s many handcrafted gelatos.
It is a trial on these dead of winter nights to rouse oneself to leave the house. When it’s below 30 degrees, I realize the siren call of watching back to back DVRed episodes of Andy Cohen’s “Watch What Happens,” or even a Lifetime movie is compelling. A friend I inveighed to join us Saturday evening laughed me off at 8 p.m., saying she was already tucked into bed in her jammies. Having spent most of the day snuggled in with my dogs, including Rinaldo, our recent Chihuahua rescue, I got her point. But considering the level of culture I enjoyed both from the art show and an evening of live music, I’d say it’s worth tugging on your daughter’s panty hose and getting out some winter nights.