The Inside Press

Magazines serving the communities of Northern Westchester

Et Cetera

Courage & Compassion in Times of Crisis: The Keys to Helping Yourself or Anyone You Know

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Full Disclosure: I was not an active follower of either Kate Spade or Anthony Bourdain. In this day and age of social media and celebrity, I certainly knew who both were and what each brought to the table, pun intended. I never purchased the eponymous bag that made Miss Spade a household name. I should have been quite a fan of Mr. Bourdain, but truth be told, watching his programs discouraged me in recent years. I was reminded of all I have lost since the first of three major surgeries left me even more mobility impaired than I had been for the first 42+ years of my life. Additional truth be told, I’m a fashionista wanna-be born in the wrong body and a frustrated hostess with the mostess not to mention a grounded adventurer.

The two recent high profile suicides early this summer raised the serious topic of depression once again. It takes the hard to believe self-inflicted deaths of the famous for this to be covered in the news with the exception of occasional reporting on teen suicide as well as the high suicide rate among veterans. The death of beloved Robin Williams highlighted the topic that still today seems taboo. The vast majority of his fans, knowing him only from the small or big screens making us laugh, found it unbelievable that he could be desperately unhappy, depressed. Do we really WANT to know that friends, family or celebrities can be feeling hopeless?

Many who have read my blogs or followed my Just Call Me Geri Facebook page probably know that my Mother (the one who chose me from a newspaper picture), from my earliest consciousness, taught me the importance of not feeling sorry for myself. The message included the tacit warning that no one would like me if I showed self-pity. It was only decades later that I would learn that there is a significant difference between whining and legitimately feeling down due to my circumstances.

By no means have I had the worst life, far from it, but I started life with strikes against me, first being born in a deformed shell with a condition called Diastrophic Dysplasia (some still call it dwarfism) that would embody my soul and personality. Being abandoned in the hospital by biological parents who left instructions behind that “no pictures to be taken of this baby” added 2nd and 3rd strikes, yet I was never out.

I won’t list the entire litany of hardships faced through 50 years but some include:

  • Being asked why I would want to have a baby and do to them what happened to me;
  • Being humiliated at a summer camp by someone supposedly to have been family;
  • Hearing sighs, groans and whispers when people had to help me in/out of cars or up stairs (who’s going to help Geri?”) and to stay away during emergencies;
  • Being “gently” told I could never provide a home for a man I had feelings for and not to expect to ever get married;
  • Being “harassed” by a married man who knew I would have little to no other intimate opportunities;
  • Being belittled and disrespected in hospital facilities when known I was alone;
  • Having inappropriate medical treatments or not having appropriate medical interventions due to Government restrictions;
  • Being at mercy of caregivers, who can be rude, rough and larcenous;
  • Being told I’m too depressing to talk to …

When at 40 I had finally obtained a Master’s Degree to begin a long in trying to figure out career, I was soon stymied, having that career cut short by three surgeries that left me in worse shape than before. The last two surgeries I never would have consented to if I had been warned my mobility would be all but lost completely. I would have opted for shorter life span over non quality of life. When over 10–30 years ago I’d fall into pits of despair, I struggled mightily, conjured up plans, fingering bottles of medication, really my only option. Remembering the haunting conclusion of Edith Wharton’s “Ethan Frome” always prevented me from trying anything self destructive with my car, the only other possible tool at my disposal. Yet, I always dug deep, as far inside as I could to keep the wavering flame from going out. Once such night in the wee hours, I remember sitting on the floor by my bed sobbing with heaving muted screams. What brought me back was thinking of “my kids” and their parents …how would they explain to them that I gave up?

This disclosure can possibly hurt my alternate career in the making …aiming to be a successful inspirational speaker but this is my truth. I cannot be phony. I’m not asking for people to feel sorry for me, but to understand that there are no easy answers.

More additional truth be told, I’d much rather laugh than cry. I actually enjoy having others laugh at my sometimes corny, other times bawdy, humor. I really should find an amateur Stand Up/Sit Down Comedy venue. Ridiculous irony from the universe, I’m rather an extrovert. God couldn’t have made me an agoraphobic?

I have my “highs” when I have several speaking engagements booked but then the “lows” (oxymoronic?) come rising up. (oxymoronic?) when I can’t seem to break through, catch that one break. My life is not one that made headlines because of a national crisis such as the Boston Marathon Bombing. I didn’t lose limbs while fighting for my Country. I didn’t grow up in

the age of social media where Promposals to kids with Special Needs go viral. I do not begrudge today’s kids who benefit from widespread inclusion.

I do not begrudge these later generations of kids who have benefited from widespread inclusion. In fact, I’d like to think I helped pave the way. Perhaps I have been “of use” to quote John Irving’s Dr. Larch.

Depression can take deep hold of anyone. For those suffering, suicide can seem like the only way out. Others may see it as selfish. Feeling like a burden is not easy but once a person has that initial thought, it becomes nearly impossible to erase it from one’s mindset. Please have compassion for those who have left via their own actions. And if you “can handle the truth,” reach out to those who may be struggling. When I encourage students to look after each other, I ask, “wouldn’t you want someone to look after you?” For those who are struggling, please try to let someone know you’re hurting, reach deep down inside and find the courage to reach out for assistance without shame. Keep your flame lit!

Learning to Love My Dad Bod

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So apparently having a Dad Bod is now a “thing.” You can certainly Google the term or drop it in a conversation. Most likely someone will chuckle and refer to a loved one who can be described as such. A Dad Bod, essentially, is a physique of middle-age that can been described as masculine, reasonably muscular and slightly overweight. What is intriguing and, counter-intuitive, are the positive connotations almost universally associated with this common and easy to achieve body type. Putting aside years of denial, I’m prepared to admit to having a Dad Bod but also to realizing that the concept is some kind of odd societal rationalization that is in reality just vaguely insulting to men and women.

Personally, I’ve had my weight fluctuate over the years for many reasons. I can say, first hand, that being too thin or too heavy can be really unpleasant. Of course, I’d like to be as fit-looking as possible but eventually one realizes that certain physical ideals may never be fully achieved. For me, probably the best personal state of my body is to be a few pounds heavier than I’d actually like to be. Aesthetically, believe me, this is not a thrilling state of existence but with maturity (Ha!) I’ve realized that the way I look is secondary to being as healthy a person as I can reasonably manage. What’s particularly galling about the Dad Bod movement is that while I’m strenuously trying to accept myself, it somehow makes this effort more difficult by making me feel slightly patronized by an entire culture.

I’d love to be writing this as an exotically rare middle-aged Dad with wash-board abs, 20:20 vision and a fast metabolism but I most definitely have to check none-of-the-above on those. From that super-fit perspective, I imagine it would be so easy to be enthusiastically supportive about the Dad Bod thing precisely because I wouldn’t be stuck in one. However, living in this body, as I must, I refuse to smile politely if someone wants to essentially say that the very same body I am regularly struggling to learn to accept is now, (drumroll please) objectively attractive. I just don’t buy it. There is some kind of passive-aggressive condescension connected with the embracing of Dad Bods.

As for the female members of our culture, I can only imagine how they must feel about the acceptance and celebration of Dad Bods. It’s something of a cliché but I’ve heard women confirm the difficulty in dealing with their own aging process in comparison to men. You know, men become more distinguished, the lines on their face only add character, etc. This is a societal reality. Look at movie stars. Clooney & Pitt will be leading men for decades to come because they’re perceived as only getting better looking as they age. Leading ladies of the movies hit the age of 40 and abruptly must decide between character parts, plastic surgery or professional oblivion.

Why is there no female version of the Dad Bod? The closest thing I can think of is Mom Jeans and that association is quite the opposite of the now sexy Dad Bod. Why are we, culturally, not prepared to embrace women with a female version of the Dad Bod as universally attractive? Obviously, in 2018, there’s still a lot of work to be done on gender roles in society. If Dad Bods are, presumably, built upon men who have worked hard professionally and, perhaps, parented as well, then why aren’t women afforded the same leeway in how their bodies evolve? Especially considering how child-birth can affect one’s physical being. It just doesn’t seem fair.

I suppose what really irks me with the whole Dad Bod phenomenon is the reality of analyzing someone’s physical appearance and imparting a judgement upon that particular bodily state. There is an impermanence of one’s physicality that is just a fact of human existence. I question why we assume that being kind about chubby Dads is any more appropriate than telling a woman she looks sexy or criticizing someone for being too fat or thin.

Don’t get me wrong. I know attaching the Dad Bod moniker to a middle-aged gentleman is essentially a way of saying we love you just the way you are. That’s a great lesson. We should all learn to love acceptingly as best we can. However, as a reluctant member of the Dad Bod club, I implore you to think about what you are actually saying when you label your slightly corpulent loved one as such. Might I suggest a karaoke dedication of Billy Joel’s “Just The Way You Are” instead? Just not Dad Bod. Please.

A Tribute to My Aunt Jane

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I’M EIGHT, and standing by my bed is an actual grownup in iguana-themed pajamas: Aunt Jane.

“Wakey-wakey, ‘Lil Wingman!’” my weekend guardian commands. “What’re we doing today?”

“Ummmm…pajamas, TV and Häagen-Dazs all day long…and NO TELLING Mom!»

“You’re on, kid.”

We spend the next 48 hours sugar-high and stoked on back-to-back “Star Wars” flicks.

Jane’s officially the Pied Piper of my childhood.

TEN. It’s my birthday, and Jane brings a record–old to her, new to me.

Bruuuuce.

She and my dad start singing, dancing, playing air guitar, pulling me in. The music swells like an ocean, its hypnotic waves–love, loss, freedom–all new to me.

And time feels…infinite.

“Wait’ll you see Springsteen!” exults Jane (a Jersey girl). But I already know: I’m Born to Run.

THIRTEEN. My Bar Mitzvah is eclipsed by shocking news: Jane has pancreatic cancer. I can’t even fathom what I’m Googling: a 7% survival rate??

Jane starts chemo; I start high school. Immersed in chemistry, biology, statistics, I find no antidote to fear. I do find PanCan (Pancreatic Cancer Action Network). Inspired by its motto—“Wage Hope!”—I launch a website that’ll tell Jane’s story while raising funds and awareness, team-jane.com. A bashful kid, I’m starting to…Run. Because maybe time’s not infinite after all.

FOURTEEN. Team Jane flourishes online and off as I coordinate supporters for a 5K. Jane walks nervously alongside me, wearing a brilliant smile. We raise $3K, far exceeding our goal. Afterwards I phone her, bursting with plans for our next event. She’s weirdly subdued. “Wingman,” she confides, “it was the worst day of my life.” First I’m stunned, wounded. Then I realize I’ve been given a trust. My Pied Piper’s yanked me past childhood and into the abyss where only she and her tumor live.

“Heyyy…c’mon,” I stammer, helpless for words of my own, “y-y-know what Bruce says, ‘No retreat/no-ohhh sur-ren-derrr…’”

“Of course!” she responds, playful again. “And we’re a team now, thanks to…my captain!”

Her new nickname for me–“The Captain”–fuels my shaky-but-growing belief in myself.

SIXTEEN. Brooklyn, Delaware, Chicago–at PanCan Walks nationwide, Dad and I represent Team Jane. Jane, despite cancer’s spread, keeps fighting. I keep coordinating, blogging, fundraising. I’ve raised nearly $150K, and with it, my confidence.

I summer-intern at PanCan. It’s intimidating–lobbying on Capitol Hill, being interviewed on TV, addressing hundreds at 5Ks. Most rewarding is creating “Voices of Hope,” a platform for teens to connect with survivors. Hope: it’s the only thing that quells the fear in kids like me, racing against time. Except…it’s not enough.

On 9/24/16, I cling to the last remaining beeps of Jane’s monitor. The only other sound in her crowded-but-hushed hospital room: Bruce, serenading from somebody’s phone. She can’t speak anymore but recognizes me, still tries flashing that smile that launched a thousand crazy adventures.

I can’t speak either, because there are no more words. Together we’d fought for life/love/family/all-day PJs/nonstop ice cream/Springsteen/a freaking CURE.

Anything but this statistic.

SEVENTEEN. Heavy-hearted and lead-footed, I summon Jane’s mantra: “You must do the thing you think you cannot do.” I intern at another pancreatic cancer organization, CodePurple, where massive amounts of data are the chief weapons against this monster. Travelling the Northeast, entrusted with a self-designed project, I interview leading clinicians and researchers.

It’s illuminating. Progress, I’m learning, is fueled by passion and data, like life encompassing both sugar-highs and heartbreak. I grapple with paradoxes: Jane’s eternal childlike persona and her adult hell. And I resume Running–not “away” from anything, but towards everything.

My momentum is now for the 65,000 Americans battling this cancer and the 50,000 who’ll be diagnosed next year. For Jane and all the others whose races have ended. And for my own self; for the ability to marry fear with hope, hardship with joy–to fill finite hours with infinite fun. Blessed with this rare gift, my aunt took on the world. Today, armed with a Häagen-Dazs pint and a playlist, I plan on doing the same.

From Sump Pumps to Sandwiches: My Adjustment to Suburban Living

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As we were planning our move to Chappaqua from the city back in 2003 all the big questions had been addressed. Roaring Brook would have 19 or 20 kids in Charlie’s first grade class as opposed to the 27 in his Manhattan kindergarten. We’d convert our oil-burning furnace to natural gas because a knowledgeable source told us to. Bella’s crib would fit in a wonderfully proportionally manner in her new bedroom as opposed to the glorified walk-in closet that was her room in the apartment. And, Laurie would be able to walk to the train which was only a half mile away. With these issues addressed I was able to focus on something that I’d been mildly dreading. How and where would I be able to equal the bacon and egg on a roll with ketchup sandwich I’d treat myself to on mornings of happiness and optimism?

You see, pre-move, when I’d walk into the Korean deli on our block I’d make eye contact with the grill-man and before I could grab a self-serve regular coffee the eggs would be cracked, sizzling and within minutes I’d be enjoying the perfect urban New York sandwich. So, over those initial weeks I got the lay of the land breakfast-wise and from there was able to go on with my life. As it turns out, there were a number of local fine bacon and egg on a roll with ketchup sandwiches sampled and each one a little different. One local deli offered a solid and tasty effort aesthetically notable for the fact that they don’t cut the roll in half. Another put forth a hearty two egg affair with lovely fresh bread and egg yolk just runny enough to make the sandwich delicious yet manageable. The bagel store offered an extremely hearty sandwich, which was elevated by the meticulously crisped bacon. Much to my delight, the local delis up here were most definitely on their game.


Other elements of adjusting to life in Chappaqua were a little more jolting. We quickly realized that the 10-minute walk to the train was not exactly safe, nor even doable with snow on the ground, due to a lack of sidewalks on Quaker Road. I investigated alternative routes but realized that the fading dream of living a pedestrian lifestyle like our previous one would not be easy to accomplish. Happily, a number of years into our residency here sidewalks were installed near our house and this game changer of an infrastructure project most definitely opened up the possibility of, once again, being an active daily pedestrian. Ironically, years of driving everywhere, a situation I preached against when I was an urbanite, had become quite comfortable and the conversion to shoes back on concrete would take another mental adjustment.

Getting used to living in this countrified suburb took some time and a steep learning curve. The first house thing encounter was like a slap in the face. I knew intellectually that house-living meant you can’t call the Super when there’s a dripping faucet. Cut to me wading in ankle-deep water in our basement barely being able to pronounce “sump-pump” let alone having any idea of what the hell it even was. A more pressing issue was how exactly to make the damn thing function properly and clear the water out of our suddenly disgusting water logged basement. Now, a veteran homeowner, I’m essentially “Mr. Sump Pump” with a high-end, self installed bad-boy keeping the basement fastidiously dry. And, don’t get me started on my back-up sump-pump because I’ll happily chew your ear off on why having a second one is simply a must.

We’ve been here now for 15 years and It’s gone fast. Of course there’s been physical changes in the community from the aforementioned sidewalks to changing businesses to new athletic fields and so on. For us the changes have been the simple and huge developments that are universal yet unique to any family and probably somewhat indefinable. It’s the concrete things like a good bacon and egg on a roll with ketchup sandwich that hopefully remain constant. If not, there’s always another deli.

Local Joe: Many Area Residents Prefer Independent Purveyors

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They’re ubiquitous – the chain stores that make a business of selling coffee.

Yet in our area, independent coffee shops are outright thriving – and Chappaqua and Armonk both boast several different places to get the beverage by patronizing hometown businesses.

On a recent weekday afternoon, Tazza Cafe in Millwood was a hub of activity. Tables were full of chatting pairs, groups of young women were ordering food, and several employees were busy behind the counter.

Tazza Cafe at this past summer’s Armonk Outdoor Art Show

James Monica, owner of Tazza Cafe in Armonk, Millwood, Katonah and Ridgefield, credits much of his shops’ success to employees like these. “Really a big part of it is the people who work here,” Monica said. He’s been able to retain many workers which he says makes a big difference. Longtime employees “provide a personal touch and connect with the customer more.”

Julie Dickens, owner of Beascakes Bakery and Breads in the Armonk Town Center, has similarly attentive employees. “We have regulars and we have their coffee ready at the cash register as they get out of their cars,” she said. At Beascakes, they sell Lavazza, an Italian coffee.

At Chappaqua Station, 1 Station Plaza, where coffee’s served starting at 4:30 am during the week, better, faster service help them maintain a devoted and large customer base, even though the business is quite close to two large chain purveyors of coffee, manager Erik Gonzaga said. “We do have two big competitors here in town but our business keeps picking up,” Gonzaga said. The coffee is La Colombe, a premium brand from Philadelphia and hundreds of customers are served each day.

During the morning rush, there are usually no less than four employees working hard to ensure quick service: one at the register, one making specialty coffees, one filling and restocking and one handling pastry and other food orders, Gonzaga said, “We have our regular customers and once they come through the door it’s ready waiting on the countertop,” Gonzaga said.

Employees build relationships with customers but that community feel is, of course, accompanied by a serious focus on the coffee itself. “From the beginning we took the coffee very very seriously – from the way we grind it – and the amount we use is probably a bit more than typical,” Monica said. Purveyors like Monica can’t have the economy of scale the nationally-known shops do, yet they inspire loyalty and according to owners and managers, business just keeps on growing.

At Armonk’s Market North, at 387 Main Street, “all of our coffee is from artisanal roasters,” Stephen Mancini, one of the owners, said recently. Mancini and others, such as a chef and manager, regularly taste new coffees in blind taste tests called ‘cuppings’ and currently use beans roasted from Port Chester (Path Coffee Roasters) to Maine. “We try to find small-batch and responsibly-sourced,” Mancini said. Perhaps that’s why at Market North, customers often express praise for the coffee and types of coffee available. “When we change coffees or try different roasters there’s excitement about that,” Mancini said.

The appreciation of Mancini’s customer base is no anomaly. According to the National Coffee Association, an industry trade group, 59% “of coffee cups consumed daily are classified as gourmet,” and “out-of-home coffee consumption reached a high of 46% in 2017.” That’s a lot of coffee purchased in shops, and more and more, it’s very good coffee.

Tazza’s customers can tell the difference, Monica said. “A lot of them would say they would never go to a chain store because the coffee is so much better here.”

Local coffee spots also focus on the quality of other ingredients. “In order to make a really great latte you have to start with the milk. Seventy percent is the milk,” Mancini said, “All of our milks are Hudson Valley milks.” Cashew and almond milks are made in house. Perhaps that’s why one Armonk-based customer wrote on Yelp that Market North has “the best latte in Westchester.”

At Beascakes, details are also attended to. “We’re known for our iced coffee because we make our own coffee iced cubes so we have a real following,” Dickens said. Customers avail themselves of fresh cake doughnuts, scones or pastries or on Sundays, Boston cream or jelly doughnuts. “You know, you got to have coffee with your doughnut, right?” Dickens said.

And these days, more people prefer to shop locally. “People appreciate having mom-and-pop places to go,” Dickens said. “We know when a baby’s due, we know when a first birthday is, we follow the families.”

“From the very beginning I definitely tried to focus on and put an emphasis on the quality of whatever we serve – sandwiches, baked goods and coffee,” Monica said. “The people have been very responsive, and I never take it for granted.”