It is very difficult to write about Father’s Day if you do not have the greatest of relationships with your father or the fondest memories.
Growing up in a fairly dysfunctional household where fights were the norm and celebrations and specials occasions were always tainted with tears, I do not have a fairy tale notion of my father. I remember a strict and difficult man, who cheated on my mother and who was rarely present.
As I grew up, I frequently tried to squeeze my brain in search of moments or proof of an existing daughter-father bond. There were none.
And so the years passed, through a sad adolescence and an even sadder search for the woman inside me. I find myself today, an adult, in a harsh and unpredictable world, struggling to make ends meet.
It is ingrained in me that life is not fair but you just have to play the cards that are dealt to you.
Our parents are humans and, as such, are flawed beings who may have not been ready for children at the time they had them. Much like us perhaps. They did their best, even if their best was detrimental at times.
For all these, I thank them and particularly my father. I know he recognizes his faults but I don’t want him feeling guilty about them. I am a parent and I know that I am far from perfect. If I can prepare my son in the same way I was prepared for life, I will consider myself a successful mother.
Thank you and Happy Father’s Day!
I just finished watching a DVD of my son just prior to his graduation from Kindergarten. Of course, I think he is the cutest child of the class, as he sits there waiting for his big moment to speak into the camera. All the other children sit quietly, not my son, he is bouncing and fidgeting anxiously waiting his turn. He asks the teacher, “Is it my turn yet?” several times. The last child to speak, he announces his favorite part of class… “I like to play”
Surf your social media pages; at this time of year you can’t miss all the photos of proud parents standing next to their graduate-whether it be graduation from Junior Kindergarten, Middle School, High School or University. We are proud. We are tearful. We are happy. Our hearts melt.
Yes, these photo moments are moments where, as parents, we should be proud, but let’s reflect and remember that every moment is a joyful blessing. Even those moments when you prayed to God to give you the strength not to kill them.
When I think of my son, I do remember every graduation commencement, but what I will always think of when it comes to my son is his biggest feature—his heart. He was always the boy who was the first to give his friends a shoulder to cry on, to offer them support. The kind of kid who passed the basketball to anyone, including the opposite team, simply because “they asked for it”. The boy who shared the favorite candy that is in his lunchbox with everyone-even to the point of giving his last piece away.
The boy who wouldn’t step on bugs.
I remember long ago when my son was probably four years old; we were doing some major landscaping around our home. For days there were tractors doing some excavations in the backyard. These red and black piles of earth became my son’s favorite play area. One particular day I looked out the kitchen window to see him very focused on something. Playing in the dirt and then walking back and forth from this dirt pile to the furthest corner on the back part of our property. I had to walk out and see what this was. When I discovered him, covered in dirt with handfuls of worms, I was mortified. The tractor had dug up a pile of earthworms.
As I was just about to shriek and inquire what the heck is he doing with handfuls of worms, he lifted his head, smiled a grin with dirty teeth, and proclaimed, “Look Mom, they have a new house now. They will be safe. This one is the baby worm and I think this one is the Dad or Mom because they were hugging each other.”
Ahh, my melting heart. My little boy, sensitive enough to care about the safety and welfare of worms.
This better defines my son more than a graduation cap on his head.
My boy with the huge heart. He is a saver of worms, the rescuer of spiders, the super hero to insects.
I do not want to belittle these milestone moments such as graduations and weddings. Be proud. All us parents have a right to. They have succeeded and worked hard. Their achievements are to be celebrated.
But, I know when I send my son off to university, or watch him as he whispers, I do to a wife…. I will not see a man, but I will see that four-year-old boy with the dirty little grin smiling with worms in each hand.
These are our private moments, the moments that make our child unique to us. So, as you celebrate their deserved achievements publicly and send them on to their new adventures, remember your special moment, your private moments and smile. Blessed is parenthood.
Post written by Patty Dimitriadis.
Punk and Fun at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
The idea is to focus on the relationship between the concept of “do it yourself” credo of the punk movement, an ingenuity of the poor people and the couture concept of “made to measure” clothes for the wealthy.
Clothes made out of garbage bags and safety pins paper from postal envelopes, the so called anti-establiment style influenced and inspired haute couture, the epitomy of establishment. Punk is the first eco fashion movement by recycling plastic bags!
Punk was in essence a stab at bliss! Punk was collective and anonymous and it was not just in London and New York.
Punk was kind of prophetic for the upcoming violence and poverty of our times. Clothes were held by safety pins…ripped socks could not be replaced by a new pair…No, these things were not just a fashion trend or statement. In the hands of Galliano and Moschino they became one!
The chaos is there, in the anarchic T-shirts designed by punk creators (and early commercializers) Malcolm McLaren and Vivienne Westwood, their studded leather jackets and bondage trousers with bum flaps — not to mention a recreation of the filthy, graffiti-sprayed bathroom at New York’s legendary CBGB.
Coco Chanel, John Galliano, Alexander McQueen, Miuccia Prada, Karl Lagerfeld and Dolce & Gabanna, to name a few – exhibit collections which “extend the visual language of punk”, carrying on from looks established by punk heroes like Blondie, Sid Vicious, Richard Hell, Patti Smith and Vivienne Westwood.
The difference between genius and stupidity is that genius has its limits… so did uncle Albert Einstein tell my mom, and boy did she scream it out to me every time I made the same mistake over and over!
I hated this uncle a heck of a lot because when she had shown me uncle Einstein’s picture for the first time, such a scary and ugly old man, I screamed out and dropped my ice cream on the floor and ran out of her favorite bookstore.
I was not allowed to eat ice cream in public for a big while. I was scared for life…
I did not know why she was quoting uncle Albert at the time but now I do.
I am not a genius by any stretch of imagination, but I now can understand why my mother wanted me to be one. Duh?
My mother was semi-convinced that she gave birth to kids that equaled her intellect. Semi is because my father was involved in the making as well…
Sounds normal to you? Well, I think it is!
None of us are born to the perfect set of parents, but all of us believe we are, because we love them.
Whether we admit it or not is a different story. We love them because we love ourselves and they are part of ourselves, and I am not talking biology here.
We are our mothers and our fathers to a large degree.
You have your mother’s high-pitched voice and not her habit of singing arias in the shower!
You are like your dad: big-hearted and so funny, but thank God you did not take after his big feet and hammertoes!
Yes, you can argue all you want, like I do. I used to think that I am so much better than my mom in many respects. I could easily see all my mom’s faults and used to hate them. My Dad had none that bothered me that much. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that my mom was a “Bossy Debbie” in our family and not only to ours.
The difference is, now that I have kids I know some of “her faults” were considered as such because of lack of experience and my unlimited stupidity, like uncle Albert used to say…
So, being an arrogant ignoramus misinterpreting her efforts to prepare us for the time when she is not here, I need to say it out loud:
In a world that is constantly changing, thank God we have our roots to hold us from breaking. Our roots, our karma are : our mothers!
Hold her tight and keep her in your hearts!
Happy Mother’s Day!
“All that I am and or ever hope to be, I owe to my angel mother.” Abraham Lincoln.
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Athina did it. The last survivor of the Onassis clan and fortune got rid of the load of owning an island. The island of Scorpios where the world’s jet set used to gather, the island belonging to her grandfather Aristotelis Onassis, she has lost it on bet, rumor has it, to Ekaterina Rybolovleva, the daughter of Russian billionaire businessman Dmitry Rybolovlev. As much as she did not want to be in the spotlight once again this sale of allegedly $150 million has brought her to the center of it.
She just had it! The burden to be her: her legacy as a Greek and as the most famous tycoon’s granddaughter. She prefers to be called Athina de Miranda. She prefers to live with her husband Alvaro in Brazil. She has sold her mom’s jewelry and the family home in Glyfada (seaside home, near Athens) and she had visited the Scorpios Island twice as an adult. One can deduct that the girl wants nothing to do with her family and Greece. And the curse that accompanies it. Death is always around the corner in this family.
The Girl is Greek, but nor really… After her mothers’ death, Athina was three years old at the time, she was brought up by her French father who may have used her fortune and turned her away from her Greek roots. It is a sad case, her case, because had she learnt Greek or been able to converse or understand the culture she would have been able to follow with what is going on with the empire that her grandfather has left behind.
She leased the island because she cannot sell it to a foreigner under the Onassis stipulation of his will. The contracts are being written up by two major law firms one in Geneva and the other one in Athens.
Why did she do it? Why would one of the richest kids in the world do that? We think it is not the money. Christina Onassis, her mom, had inherited 55% of Aristotelis fortune which now belongs to Athina. But she is not a kid. She is a 28 year old young woman. The cost of maintaining Scorpios is peanuts to her fortune. Her reluctance to visit her family island where the graves of her family are makes us wonder, why? Why so much anger and disregard for her roots?
Anger is always a result of pain. Athina had for sure a big share while growing up. Having lost her mother and being the center of this tragic family is not easy. And it is also difficult as there was no privacy in her life, because the members of her family were big international players and some paid with their lives this cost.
Remember Scorpios was the place where her grandfather married Jackie Kennedy in1968 and where she was photographed performing yoga in the nude, and the infamous pictures depicting “the billion dollar bush” and Aristotle’s answer to the media, ”Let them see what I bought!” These are the less painful stories that are part of her.
I just want to think she did that in an effort to live with joy and with no more chains of her heritage and it curse. She has the right not to be reminded of her bitter tough life she has had while being an Onassis. Clearly she does not want this part, as of now, in her life. But again death knocked the door of her newly created family again. The mother of her step kids had committed suicide…
We hope and we pray that she will find her peace and joy.
We are also happy that this great Russian tycoon will bring Scorpios back to what it used to be: A paradise for jet setters and an advertisement of the beauty of Greece and the legendary Greek Hospitality.
Do we ever run out of things to say? I was thinking that maybe we are given an allotment of words that we can exchange with any given person after which we have no more. With a few close friends we may have an indefinite amount, a blank check if you will, where we could talk until forever and still have more.
I’m not trying to play intellectual or above certain topics, please don’t misunderstand. I can talk about anything, and perhaps like our character Aurora, I can read anything to the labels on shampoo bottles and find them interesting. I’m not a gourmet conversationist. But why is it that with some people “nothing” is a topic while with others even the most astounding revelation wouldn’t fill up a minute of lunch talk?
Sometimes looking at some people I think is it is normal for them to be boring as and bored, so “nothing“ is answer that covers their reality. But no, I think it is chemistry!
I don’t know what this means. I know for sure that it’s not similar interests or character traits. I’m friends with people who are entirely different from me. Maybe years from now scientists will discover that it has something to do with electromagnetic fields, protons and neutrons?
More spiritual explanations include past life encounters. This would tie in with my allotment of words theory – you haven’t expended it in your past life and there are things left to say in this one. Maybe in a past life, you and your friend lived close by, sharing many interests but somehow never met and never befriended one another. In this life, you have to catch up for lost time.
The fact remains that communication is not based solely on the exchange of facts. Otherwise, how is it possible to say so much with just one look? How is it possible to “get a vibe” –positive or negative? How is it possible to fall in love after a two minute encounter?
Unfortunately, our modern lifestyle drowns out these voices in our head and relationships are based on logistics and geographic radius, workplace, marital status and common interests, soccer games and convenience. That’s when you end up with stunted conversation, boring lunches staring at your romaine lettuce and drivel.
“Text it to me, I have no time” I hear all the time. We are social animals in a cyber world of texting and not communicating.
Think of how much more interesting life would be if any relationship was a possibility, like the Princess and the Frog? So, step back, take a big breath and defy convention. And please do not text it. You won’t regret it.
As the events of the past few days unravel, it is hard to believe the academic Mecca that I have grown to call home was the target of such hate.
If you are like me, a 21-year-old college student, you know that Marathon Monday is the Mardi Gras of Boston for college students. It is the pivotal moment when the weather finally permits leather jackets instead of parkas. School is cancelled, Boylston is closed down, and thousands of college students wake up at 7 am to dance, drink, and watch the marathon runners. And yet, this years Marathon Monday was tarnished with a cloud of smoke, as two bombs went off near the finish line on Boylston, killing three and injuring nearly 200 innocent people.
And yet, in the midst of such tragedy, Bostonians have come together to support each other, and it is truly a magical sight. After the bombs went off, fellow runners and policemen dove right into the chaos to help the injured, disregarding their own safety. Doctors opened up the hospitals and all staff came running to help the victims through the long night. Prayers written in colorful chalk decorate Boylston street, flowers and candles align churches holding services, President Obama paid a visit to us yesterday, and hundreds of volunteers are lining up to donate blood to help the victims that are still hospitalized.
Boston has taught me many things in my four years here, but never have I appreciate the city and its inhabitants as much as this week, when I saw everyone come together and support each other during this tragedy. It is truly a melting pot of culture, diversity, and love and I am so proud to be a part of this strong city.
Blogger: my favorite Boston University student!
Tattoos are like marriage…A lifelong commitment that hurts like hell, and the color fades over time!!
“Why did you get a tattoo, Kelly asks me?” I am unable to answer. I don’t know—didn’t really give it much thought. So Kelly tells me…figure it out and write it for her blog.
One would think that I would know. After all, I have been thinking on and off for years about getting one. The only thing I was ever sure about is that it wouldn’t be some flower or butterfly—but something more ‘edgy’.
“Tattoo. What a loaded word it is, rife with associations to goons, goofs, bikers, tribal warriors, carnival artists, drunken sailors and floozies.”–Jon Anderson, “Epidermal Dalis,” Chicago Tribune, 6 October 1994. Is that me?
I do consider myself an artist, but not a carnival artist. I have been a faithful wife for over 20 years, so I don’t think I am a floozie. I did drive motorcycle years ago, and now even buzz around on my Vespa scooter, but I don’t think that makes me a biker. A goof—OK, maybe I am that sometimes. And I certainly have never worked as a warrior or sailor…. So…I have do disagree with you Jon Anderson, tattoos may be associated with these folks, but certainly not limited to them.
If I let the tattoo define me, I would have to say that it would be more of a Prada meets Harley.
After all, I still will wear that gorgeous Chanel Suit I recently bought with the Mikimoto pearls that my husband gave to me for one of our anniversaries. I am not going to wear a cut off shirt to expose my mid-drift to show a ‘tramp-stamp’ tat. I did not get inked there.
Could it simply be some inner voice that called me to sport a tattoo? H.G. Wells said, “In all ages, far back into prehistory, we find human beings have painted and adorned themselves.”
Maybe I share some primal instinct with some cave dweller. Are today’s tattoos the same as wearing that Cartier bracelet, and is just another way to adorn yourself? Do I share this fashion with the prisoner that has his gang colors tattooed on his chest? I don’t think so.Mr. Wells, it is not about just painting and adorning ourselves.
What about this anonymous quote—“Tattoos are like marriage: it’s a lifelong commitment, it hurts like hell, and the color fades over time.”
I have to say this rings a bit closer to home. I can’t really say that I was concerned about the lifelong commitment. As I get way too close to turning 50, I just don’t think…I do. Commitments are just a fact of my life—nothing I really think about. I did think about doing this when I was younger, but I always had the reservation of ‘what if…my job, my life, my future husband…”
Now—I don’t expect any surprises… and I am not that 20-year-old girl any more, who cares what anyone else thinks anyways. And, to whoever said this—I really don’t foresee my marriage or my new tattoo losing color…if it begins to fade, I can always just touch it up and bring the colors back to a shiny beautiful tone. It did hurt like hell…. that I can’t argue with.
Not my marriage, but this tattoo.
I simply believe that I have always like the look of tattoos, and lately they have become quite fashionable. I think that the deciding factor for me was to be able to have a tattoo that helps me celebrate the greatest part of my life. My son.
Once I thought of that I could have a tattoo that had a special meaning me—I was sold.
I got a tattoo that warms my heart every time I look at it. When I look at it, not only do I see beautiful colors and fantastic artwork. I see my little baby boy, in his little baby bathtub; my husband and I bathing him and rubbing his little belly…his belly of jelly. That day was the birth of his nickname; ‘Jelly-belly’ which quickly grew into ‘Jellyfish’. In that moment which I look into the mirror and see this jellyfish tattoo, I see his childhood, my jellyfish’s childhood, before my eyes in a flash.
When I remember the pain of the tattoo, I actually recall that fondly. As my son was adopted at birth, I never had to experience the pain of childbirth—so in a strange way, the pain of this tattoo that is all about my son, is just another welcomed feeling. Not that I compare the pain of a five and half hours of tattooing to the pain of childbirth, I just have a weird appreciation of the pain that I endured while getting this tattoo.
So, I have to say that in the end, I have to think that I agree with Pamela Anderson, “Tattoos are like stories – they’re symbolic of the important moments in your life.” Since I have symbolized my son and his childhood—I guess that I will be making another appointment in the future to commemorate the other person in my life that makes my heart beat. I have a nickname for him too, but that will remain a secret for now—until I have it inked onto my body:)
Blog Post by Patti Dimitriadis