Christmas Eve, 1962

Jimie helped his friend Gloria, get her apartment ready for company.  Gloria’s mother was going to come over, along with Juliet Prowse, who was bringing her agent.  Gloria wanted Marilyn Monroe, in the next apartment, to come over and join them.   Gloria told Jimie that if he called, she was probably agree to it.  Jimie called Marilyn, and said, “Marilyn, Gloria wants to know if you want to come over and have Christmas dinner with us.”  Marilyn said that she was going out, and Jimie asked if she would stop by for a drink.  “Well, you know, I’m not supposed to be drinking, but you fill your glass up and say that you’re coming over to comb my hair and I’ll take the drink and then I’ll come over.”  He didn’t know if she didn’t want to drink in front of Juliet Prowse or because Juliet’s agent was going to be there, or if she was going out with Joe DeMaggio that night and didn’t want to drink beforehand.

Jimie arrived, drink in hand, and Marilyn asked what coat she should wear.  She had a  white ermine fur coat lined with red satin, along with a black diamond fur coat.  Jimie suggested the black fur, and she said kiddingly, “should I wear sunglasses?”  “Well, you’re a movie star and you should wear sunglasses.”  She told Jimie, “put on the other coat.”  So he put on the white fur and they walked over to Gloria’s apartment.  Marilyn said hello to everybody and only stayed for a few minutes before she left.

After the Christmas Eve celebration, Gloria asked Jimie to sleep on the couch that night.  Gloria thought that Marilyn would probably come to her apartment before she went home because she had left some of her things in the living room, and she wanted Jimie to be there in case she did.

At some point in the middle of the night, Marilyn knocked on the door and walked in.  She was very loaded.  Jimie had never seen her in this condition, and the look on his face upset her.  Marilyn started to cry and said softly, “I never wanted you to see me this way, Jimie.”  Jimie had Marilyn lay down on Gloria’s couch.  He covered her up with her mink coat, left Gloria’s apartment, and drove home.

Playground Confidential 2

Monday

Monday starts off with a bang.  Most of the first graders run down the hallways to the playground from the cafeteria when I ask them to walk.  The pizza swings are overtaken by four fourth graders who claim both pizza swings with countbacks forever (a playground technical term meaning they’re not going to share).

Five children are sent to the nurses’ office from a mean game of soccer, one with a broken finger.  A third grader informs me while I’m filling out the nurses’ forms for the injured players, “This is a tough sport.”

Tuesday

The principal informs all of us noon duty supervisors that no one is allowed to play soccer anymore.

Tuesday is also Asparagus Appreciation Day.  It is even less successful than Carrot Appreciation Day.

Wednesday

A first grader announces to me as he’s munching on his sandwich, “I can’t wait to go to the nurses’ office!”  Most kids aren’t too thrilled to have to visit the nurse, so I ask him why he’s so full of anticipation.  “Because I get to get eye drops put in my eyes!” and he holds his hands up for me to slap him a high five.  Impressed with his enthusiasm, I high five him back and ask, “what are the eye drops for?”  “Pink eye!” he says.  As I walk towards the nurses’ office to find some hand sanitizer, a second grader runs up to me exclaiming, “My brother was blind for a day!”  “Oh my gosh, that’s horrible!” I reply.  “He’s ok, a doctor made slits in his eyes and then my mom bought us ice cream.  I like your sweater!” and off she ran to the cafeteria line.

Thursday

There must have been a full moon or something in the air, because the regular playground noise was continually interrupted with one crying jag after another.  It started with a second grader, who was upset because someone had taken his favorite hockey stick that looked exactly like any other hockey stick in the P.E. shed.  When I tried to appease him that another hockey stick would work just as well, he sobbed, “You just don’t understand!”  A gut wrenching scream over by the jungle gym interrupted our conversation.  Whistle in hand, I ran, ready for any emergency.  There stood a first grader, holding his elbow.  “Someone ran by me and hit my elbow!” he cried.  “Did he do it on purpose?,” I inquired.  “No!  He didn’t!  But it happens to me every day!!  Every day since school has started somebody hits my elbow!  It happened on the first day of school, the second day of school, the third day of school, the fourth day of school, the fifth day of school, the sixth day of school, the seventh day of school….”  “I get it,” I interrupted.  “Do you want to go to the nurse,” I ask.  “No!  I just want people to respect my personal space!”

Another scream emanates from the soccer field.  An injured first grader limps towards me, using his hockey stick as a cane.  As I’m filling out a yellow nurses’ card, I see a fifth grader jump off the top of the slide, which is a definite no no.  A see another fifth grader lying underneath a swing while a fourth grader is swinging above him.  Another no no.  Someone throws a football at a second graders’ head.  Chaos is ensuing; the inmates are running the asylum. So I grab my whistle.  And I blow.  I blow my whistle like there is no tomorrow.  And I then I bench anybody and everybody that was pushing the boundaries of playground decorum.  Why do I bench them?  Because I can.

Friday

Two little girls approach me on the playground.  “My friend just had her feelings hurt.”  It seems their mutual friend and classmate was demanding a payback for some Tic Tacs that she had given them a month before at the beach.  I asked why this issue was rearing its ugly head a month after the play date.  “Ask her!” they replied, and pointed me in her direction.  “You’ve hurt some feelings today,” I said to the little girl who was demanding a pay back.  Feigning innocence, I whispered to her…..Tic Tacs?”  She hung her head slightly as I talked about how a gift is an expression of friendship and should not be used as a bargaining tool.  I asked if all three girls could get past the Tic Tac incident.  They nodded yes in unison.

The bell rang for class to start.  A first grade girl ran up to me.  She smiled, squeezed my hand, and ran off to her classroom.  What a nice little emotional vitamin, I thought.  I locked the P.E. shed, tucked my whistle my pocket, and walked to my car, glad that the school week was ending on a happy note.

Playground Confidential

Monday through Friday for a stay at home mom can be a bit mundane:  cleaning, running errands, serving Costco food for dinner.  But this mom has two hours out of each weekday that are filled with drama, deception, and deceit.  An episode of Desperate Housewives, perhaps?  I think not.  This mom is a noon duty supervisor at an elementary school in Anytown, USA.  Think you’ve got problems?  Get in line.   The mayhem going on at this playground is anything but elementary.

Welcome to Playground Confidential.

I am one of five noon duty supervisors supervising 400 children each lunch hour. We all have clipboards with various cards to give out for various types of behavior: blue cards for team players, yellow cards for the nurse, green cards for helping the planet (such as walking to school or bringing a recyclable lunch box) and red cards for recalcitrant behavior that sends you straight to the principal’s office.  And we have most important tool needed for any supervisor:  a whistle.

Our shift begins when the first graders line up for lunch in the cafeteria.   Fifth graders eat last and are assigned as ambassadors to help mentor younger children in regards to appropriate behavior.After eating, all grades proceed to the playground, where there is plenty of space to cause drama.  Monday is no exception.

MONDAY

A fourth grade girl with sunglasses stood  silent over by the playground equipment shed.  “Are you ok?” I said.  “No” she whispered.  “Do you want to talk about it?” I asked.  “I don’t think I can,” she said.  My mind was racing to figure out what could have happened: an inappropriate comment from another school mate; a stolen item from her backpack.  What?  Finally, she blurted out the issue that was weighing heavily on her mind.  “Shawn used to be our friend.  But now all he wants to do is play football and not be a part of our friendship team!”  Four other concerned 4th graders were now standing behind her, nodding furiously.  “Have you talked to Shawn about it?’ I asked.  “Yes!” said another girl.  “He said to not even LOOK at him and to never SPEAK in his direction!”  A boy on the friendship team jumped in. “We want the old Shawn back!” and threw his arms up in the air in exasperation.   Having had a son who played football in high school, I felt that I had some words of wisdom to offer.  I told them, in low melodious tones, about how my son had dedicated his spare time to the same sport because he enjoyed it so much, just like Shawn. I then weaved my tale of my own personal situation back to Shawn and said maybe Shawn didn’t mean to hurt their feelings:  maybe he just wanted to play football.   There was silence.  Four faces stared back at me for an interminable amount of time.  Finally, one girl broke the silence by announcing to the friendship team, “We don’t need Shawn!”  And off they went, marching over to the swing set with a new attitude.

Feeling that I had connected with these sensitive children, I waved to them the next day, knowing that we had bonded on an emotional level that they would carry with them for a long time.  Expecting a wave back, all four of them looked at me and then at each other like, “Who’s that?”

TUESDAY

Tuesday was Carrot Appreciation Day.  A few of the volunteer moms were passing out carrot slices to all of the students during lunch hour, telling them that carrots were full of beta carotene and vitamins, hoping that the students would appreciate this.  Unfortunately, they didn’t.

WEDNESDAY

I was over by the swing set (social central) when a group of concerned second grade girls marched up to me with an issue of urgency.  “There’s a boy by the slide that’s calling our friend a name and it hurts her feelings!”   In the midst of this group is the victim of this incident; a little blond haired girl with horned rimmed glasses.  

Immediately my mind flashed to the most despicable words of profanity, so I asked what he could have called her.  They all said in unison, “GRANDMA GROUCHY PANTS”, and they pointed me in his direction.  As I approached this catalyst he stopped swinging on the swing.  “Did you call someone a Grandma Grouchy Pants because she wears glasses?”  In a barely audible whisper, he admitted his crime.  “Yes.”  I then decided to drive my point home like the total mom that I am.  “I’m wearing glasses.  Are you going to call me Grandma Grouchy Pants?”   “No,” he whispered, realizing that his behavior was feckless.  “Ok,” I said.  “Let’s just respect each other.”  As I walked away, the group of girls that reported this incident hand slapped each other in victory.   One girl gave me a thumbs up.  Mission Accomplished.

THURSDAY

A majority of drama on the playground surrounds “The Store.”  The Store is an invisible place of establishment where anything from imaginary food or jewelry made out of plants is sold.  On this day, two third grade girls approached me with unequaled exasperation.  “We have a problem!” they exclaimed.   “Someone took our store away from us!”   “Why?” I asked.  “Our friend told us that if we played soccer with the boys and we lost, we would lose our store!  And then we played the boys in soccer, AND WE LOST!  But we didn’t think our friend meant it, but SHE DID!!  And now SHE owns the store, and she won’t give it back, and she won’t even let us buy anything from it!!”  “What is she selling?” I asked.  “Salmon and lettuce!!”  I suggested to the girls that since some time had passed since they lost the soccer game, perhaps their friend would have forgotten that importance of her ownership.   “NO! That would never happen!! She wrote it on a piece of paper!!   We feel BETRAYED!!”

As I walked over to the imaginary store, the two third graders walked behind me, using me as a human shield against the she-devil who caused the takeover of their restaurant establishment.  “Is there any room for your friends to share the store with you?” I asked.  “NO!  I caught the salmon and picked the lettuce,” the new store owned exclaimed.  I looked down on the ground and saw brownish leaves and tuffs of grass neatly lined up in a row, which represented the food she was selling.   After some negotiation, she allowed the two girls back into the partnership, although she expressed that since she did most of the work she would receive most of the profits from the receivables.  When I was in the third grade my main topic of conversation was Davy Jones of The Monkees, so I was impressed by her savvy grasp of entrepreneurship.

FRIDAY

Friday lunch hour started off so swimmingly.  No one cut in line or dropped their hamburger on their way to the condiments cart.  Numerous green and blue cards had been passed out for good behavior towards each other and the planet.

I thought that it would be smooth sailing until the bell rang to go back to class.  I was so wrong.

As I lined up the first graders to escort them to the playground, Sherman asked to speak to them.  Sherman is our main noon duty supervisor, and his nickname is “The Shermanator.”  One word from Sherman and kids snap into place like nobody’s business.

Sherman began speaking while we all waited in anticipation.  Apparently the day before some first graders grabbed so many strawberries from the condiment cart that there were none left for the fifth graders.  But that was only the beginning.  Sherman observed firsthand many of the first graders were not only hogging the strawberries, but throwing them in the compost bucket uneaten.  “Is this a good example of sharing?” he asked.  Twenty two heads shook “no” in unison.  Are we thinking about other people or just ourselves?”  he asked.  One or two tiny voices had the guts to whisper in shame, “Ourselves.”  Getting caught up in the fervor of it all, and being the corn fed Nebraska girl that I am, I added to the first graders, “How do you think the farmers would feel if they saw you throwing these strawberries away that they worked so hard to grow?”  Silence.  Sherman then announced the new cafeteria rule… only TWO strawberries per child.   “If you cannot eat those strawberries, you should not take them.  Now… let’s walk quietly to the playground. And always remember to make the right choices.”

Sherman looked at me and nodded knowingly.  I blew my whistle, and off we went, having absorbed a lesson that was well learned.

Right before lunch hour was over, I was guarding the swing set area to make sure that no one would be jumping off the swings in mid-air.  (You could get a red ticket for that).  I heard a random elementary student voice behind me yell, “There’s too much drama at this school!”   Well put, I thought.  Well put.

Living With Reptiles

Countdown: Top 10 reasons we love Dick Clark

I was interviewed for the CNN article on Dick Clark Below:

(CNN) — From his early days as one of the first faces familiar to television audiences in the 1950s, as host of “American Bandstand,” Dick Clark was a constant.

He wasn’t just a major force in television, but in the music industry as well, up until his death on Wednesday at the age of 82.

So it’s no wonder that iReports flooded in from those who worked closely with Dick Clark, as well as those who only knew him as a friend who came into their living rooms, whether it be each week or only each New Year’s “Rockin'” Eve.

Dick Clark was involved with so much, from various award shows, to the popular “Pyramid” Game show, to “TV’s Bloopers and Practical Jokes,” that only focusing on one reason he was so loved by so many just isn’t enough. Even three reasons doesn’t cover it.

So here are ten reasons — counting down, like he did to the new year — why iReporters loved Dick Clark:

10. He was humble

Sioux Falcone worked with Dick Clark in the 1980s. She well recalls him wearing a name tag to his own holiday party.

“I was watching CNN and my son asked who the man on television was and I told him ‘actually he was my boss.’ And my son didn’t believe me. So I pulled out this photo yesterday and here he was wearing a name tag. I thought it was really endearing.”

She also said that her fondest memory of Dick Clark was when he gave her his first desk after he moved to the west coast for ‘American Bandstand.’ She inquired about the piece of furniture with the office manager and a few days later Clark was at here desk.

“He said, ‘I heard you want my desk,’ and I said I would pay, but he said I didn’t have to pay for it,” she said. “He helped me load his antique desk into my car,” she said. “He would show random acts of kindness like that.'”

9. “He broke color barriers”

Maxine Porter, the legal steward for the late Bill Pinkney of the R&B/soul group, the Drifters, put it this way: “What artist of color didn’t have some association with Dick Clark over the years?”

Clark is widely credited with integrating his audience on “American Bandstand” and, according to Porter, Pinkney was one of those musical artists of color who credited Clark with their start.

“The first comment I heard him make about Dick Clark was, ‘You know, we were one of the first black acts, if not the first, on his show in Philadelphia before he went national,” she said.

“As a little girl, watching television in Mississippi, I was not exposed to blacks in any positions of power or affluence,” said iReporter Elnora Fondren Palmtag of Clarksdale, Mississippi.

“Dick Clark was an inspiration when he fought for the integration of his show, first for the performers on his show and later adding dancers of different races. I know he helped to launch the careers of some great black performers, but you may not see the impact he had on the poor underprivileged children of the ghettos around the country who did not know that they could be more than what they could see around them.”

8. He introduced generations to music

Mark Jensen from Branson, Missouri, was one of many loyal viewers of “American Bandstand.”

“I watched the show every weekend, and because of the show, I heard music that I normally wouldn’t have because I couldn’t afford to buy records or a radio.”

Jensen was inspired by “Bandstand:” the now singer/songwriter also goes by the stage name of Mark Catron.

7. He was a teenage staple

Every afternoon, Janie Lambert from Hughesville, Maryland would switch on American Bandstand at home, and dance to Chubby Checker, learning to do “the Twist” and “the Limbo.”

“I will never forget March 1967 when the Beatle’s Strawberry Fields and Penny Lane were debuted on ‘American Bandstand.’ The Beatles new look and sound was eerie, strange, a little frightening but oh so very exciting. This was a big change for the music industry.”

Lambert described “Bandstand” as “the part of my day that I looked most forward to,’ she said. “No one can take his place.”

6. He was a mentor

Paul Revere is a member of Paul Revere and the Raiders, who hit it big in the 1960s. He worked with Dick Clark for several years and describes Clark as being a wonderful and close friend. Revere describes one of his fondest memories with Clark when he and his band were at a shoot for the ’60s NBC show, “Where the Action Is.”

“He’s my guy. We saw each other six weeks ago, and I can’t even believe he is gone.” He said his heart sunk when he heard the news of Clark’s passing. “When you get older you want to spend time with the people you are close to, and you keep putting things off because you always think you are going to have another day.”

He said he is really glad he had the chance to see Clark six weeks ago.

“You need to always tell your friends how much they mean to you,” he said. “That is what I learned from this situation… I gave him a hug and told him everything I have and everything I am I owe to him.”

5. He was forever young

Kathi Cordsen remembered thinking about how ageless Dick Clark seemed on television when she tuned in to watch his show. Her fondest memory of Clark was when she would throw dance parties at her house with her neighbor friends while they watched “American Bandstand” in the afternoon.

“I remember always thinking how Dick Clark never seemed to age from year to year and I wondered how he did that. Good living and being a good person, that must have been what it was.”

4. He was a dancer’s best friend

When Karen Folkes was a teenager, she was living in Minnesota, but she was travelling to Hollywood to dance on Dick Clark’s show. Her brother, who lived in California at the time, managed to get her and her friend passes to “American Bandstand.”

She found herself in Clark’s office with his now wife, Kary Wigton, who was also from Minnesota. Clark and Wigton told Folkes she could come by the show whenever she wanted. During the 1970’s Folkes danced on the show 32 times.

Dancers still have Dick Clark to thank, as he produced the Fox television series “So You Think You Can Dance.”

3. He was the perfect host

Paul Martin was a British DJ living in America during the 1960s “British invasion,” and looked up to Clark.

“Some entertainers are trained in broadcast schools, some get lucky and just land a broadcast job on the spur of the moment, others get there because of who rather than what they know and the right connections, etc.,” said Martin, now living in Beverly Hills, California. “But Clark made it to the top of his profession because he was the right guy at the right time on the right show and America and the world’s most popular television music program!”

2. He was great to work for

Steven Leuck, a contractor in Eugene, Oregon, worked for Clark in his New York City home in the mid-1980s. Having grown up on “Bandstand,” he was “thrilled” to work for him.

“Mr. Clark called me at home and told me personally how much he appreciated the extra time and work it took to get [his] specialty lighting purchased, delivered and installed on time,” he said. “He gave me his home phone number and told me that if I should ever need anything that he could do for me that I should never hesitate to call on him. I have worked with many celebrities over the years but he was far and away the kindest, most thoughtful gentleman of all the celebrities I have ever met or had the pleasure to work with.”

1. He gave people opportunities

Maggie Kortchmar, back when she was known as Maggie Lee, had a song played on “American Bandstand” in the 1980s.

“He said my name so sweetly: he was thoughtful, and concerned with the kids saying it was okay.”

Unfortunately, the record got a lukewarm response, but “Dick Clark looked right into the camera, and told me he liked it and for me to keep plugging. A very generous, kind man.”

From Russia to Love

FROM RUSSIA TO LOVE: Mira Costa High quarterback Dennis Falcone, who spent two years in an orphanage in Russia, finds a loving home and a sport to love in Southern California.

• By Nick Dietzen
• Email the author
• July 10, 2010

For a young athlete, summer is a special time. Passion for a sport grows easily—most often when school is out, at camps and on playgrounds, or simply through a carefree game of catch in the backyard on a warm afternoon.

But for Mustang quarterback Dennis Falcone, it’s the winter that he points to as the defining time in his childhood.

It was on a February day nine years ago that Dennis and his younger brother Oleg boarded an airplane in Russia, not knowing why or where they were headed. “It was a little scary,” Dennis said. “We didn’t know what was going on and the past two years we had been moving around so much. We had to just go with it.”

Up until that point, that was life for Dennis and Oleg. The brothers had been placed in an orphanage when Dennis was seven years old and Oleg was five. Their mother was unable to provide proper care for them and the two boys battled the cold and persistent hunger on a daily basis.

Once placed in the care of orphanages, they bounced around Tver County, the largest region in central Russia, for two years without a place to call home.

As is the case for many non-infant children, adoption can be very difficult, and it was doubly tough for Falcone and his younger brother.

The organization Kidsave International brings children between the ages of eight and 13 to the United States, where they stay with host families for five weeks with the potential that they will find a new family. Dennis and Oleg arrived at Los Angeles International Airport, but their host, finally realizing perhaps the responsibilities of caring for two young children who spoke no English, backed out of the commitment.

The children needed a new place to stay, and quickly.

It was then that a call to Sioux Falcone would begin a journey for not only the boys, but for Sioux and her husband Angelo, all of them on the road to forming a family.

Family ties

“I was doing my student teaching in Culver City and received a call from a teaching mentor of mine who was participating in the program and described their desperate situation,” Sioux said.

When Angelo returned home from work later that day, Sioux sat him down and poured him a glass of wine. She told him that they needed to talk.

“I thought I was in trouble. We had been married for just over a year and I didn’t know what was coming,” Angelo recalls with a laugh.

The couple, who had no children and had been contemplating adoption, decided to host the two boys who were coming in literally with the clothes on their backs and nothing else.

“Once they came home they pretty much ate non-stop,” Sioux said. “I’ve never seen children eat like that—all the fruit they could muster, eating onions like apples. I was going to the store every day.”

The children, who didn’t speak English and were not fully aware of the situation, would stash fruit under their beds not knowing what the next day would bring.

“It was freaky moving place to place like we were and not really knowing who these people were, but we just started to think of it like having new friends and then just grew closer,” Dennis said.

“I came home one day and Sioux was on the bed watching television with the boys, one on each side of her kissing her cheeks, I knew right there that they weren’t going to be leaving,” Angelo said with a wide smile.

After spending more than a month with the Falcones, Dennis and Oleg were brought back to Russia and the adoption process was set in motion. Angelo and Sioux traveled to Russia to pick the boys up and bring them back to their home in Torrance.

The Falcones are an upbeat, positive couple and create a light atmosphere with their infectious laughter when recalling their family’s story. The immense undertaking of bringing two boys into unfamiliar surroundings, unequipped with anything but the most basic of communication skills, cannot be overstated. The warmth that was generated in the process has rubbed off on their older son.

Dennis tells many stories with a smile that belies their context.

“Back in Russia, I actually learned to ride a bike with no handlebars, it just didn’t have any so that’s what I did,” Dennis said.

More challenges

School was not easy early on, as the boys’ timidity and their lack of English made for a steep learning curve.

“I just sat in class pretty much and didn’t say anything—wanted to just be kind of invisible,” Dennis said. “It was so different, I had no idea what was going on.”

By the time Dennis reached the fifth grade, he was proficient in English, but still had a strong accent and was teased by classmates. While he had friends, school was still not a comfortable environment.

“I thought it would be important for the boys to start playing some sports, just to get exposed to some new things and get acclimated and make new friends,” Angelo said.

Dennis started with basketball. “He was absolutely clueless out there to begin with, but then he started picking it up and got into tennis and other sports,” Sioux said.

In the seventh grade Dennis wanted to try football, which would become his favorite sport.

“I just loved throwing the ball around and I was really interested in the sport, so I tried out and it was so much fun competing with other kids and knowing I had some ability,” Dennis said.

After continuing to learn the sport and realizing that quarterback was the position that he wanted to play, he began his prep career at Bishop Montgomery in Torrance.

During his freshman season, Dennis spent most of the game on his back as a lackluster offensive line forced him to make a quick drop and, as he described it, “throw a Hail Mary on every play, then get hit.”

The Falcones moved and Dennis began attending Mira Costa during his sophomore year, where he joined the Mustangs and their tradition-rich program.

“From the first couple days at Mira Costa, I was just so encouraged by all the coaches who were doing such a great job and I just thought to myself, ‘This is my time to shine.’ And I just kept at it,” Dennis said.

His thirst for learning and passion for the quarterback position led him and Angelo to create awebsite geared toward offering young quarterbacks resources for improving their play and learning the position from every angle.

“It was launched a couple months ago and it would be really cool if it can grow and we can help out as many people as possible with it,” Dennis said.

As the summer heats up, so will the competition for the starting spot at quarterback—he is competing with Dalton Crawford and Christian Rogers.

But one thing is for certain as Dennis embarks on his quest to replace two-year starter Kyle Demarco. He won’t get rattled.

“Dennis is so even-keeled,” Sioux said. “He had so much adversity early in his life I just think he matured so quickly and as a result of everything he has the proper perspective and temperament to deal with the ups and downs of football.”

Asked about the challenges ahead, Dennis just smiled. “I’m not too worried about anything, I love to play and I think I can handle whatever comes at me,” he said.

That makes sense—playing quarterback is easy when compared to riding a bike without handle bars.

Sioux in a Turtle Shell

I’m a mom.

I’m a wife.

I’m a playground supervisor.

I’m a caretaker for 35 reptiles, a 200 pound tortoise,  and a pitbull.

I’m exhausted.

This is my blog: My Life is a Zoo.

Bark!!

“Who’s walking who?,” my neighbor asked as I held onto the leash of my pit bull, Cinnamon, who trounced down the sidewalk like a military tank on its way into battle.

My adventure with Cinnamon started two and half years ago.  I was driving to my parents’ house in South Santa Ana to help my 78 year old mother with her Christmas shopping.

Suddenly I saw a ragged dog running across the road.   Skinny and scarred, she looked terrified.   Next thing I knew, I was stopping my car to call her over.  She ran up and leaned against me, panting frantically.   As I sat there petting her, I wondered what I should do next.  I called to a man standing in front of his house staring at me.  “Is this your dog?” I asked.  “No way,” he said, dismissively.   “Does she belong to anyone in your neighborhood?”  He walked into his house and slammed the door.   Since my mother is not an animal lover and I was going to be occupied helping her prepare for the holidays for the next few days, there was no way I could show up with a stray dog, much less a pit bull, on her doorstep.  I weighed my options and realized I had none.  I could not leave this dog on the street.   I hoped there was some small chance that if I took her to the local pound, someone would claim her, even though I knew deep down no decent owner of this dog would allow her to be in this condition.

I have never taken an animal to the pound.  I know that for many animals, it is an ultimate death sentence.  I went to the check-in desk and stated why I was there.  I was told the procedure of dropping an animal off: a four day wait period before they were up for adoption.  As I walked this raggedy dog from my car to a waiting pound employee, she offered no resistance.  My only consolation that deterred my overwhelming guilt was that deep down I knew I would come back for her.

I called on the date that she was available for adoption, which kept changing because she had had surgery.  I was then told by the adoption coordinator that she was not up for adoption because she was a pit bull and would soon be euthanized.   I spent the next few days on the phone with different pound employees trying to save her.  Finally, the adoption coordinator agreed to allow a private adoption because of my circumstance; I own a non-profit reptile rescue organization.  She told me I’d have to sign a waiver claiming that any aggressive behavior the dog exhibited would not make the pound legally liable.  She then told me that there was good chance that within three weeks the dog that I was about to adopt would attack me.

I own over 35 rescued reptiles, including a 220 pound African tortoise, a chicken, and another pit bull.  Did I need another animal in my life?  No. Did I need any more stress than I was already carrying?  Of course not.  But with all of these doubts running through my head, I got in my car to go pick up her.  It was raining.  It was New Year’s Eve day.   When she was walked out to me after I signed the adoption papers, she was a bundle of nerves.  So was I.

I named her Cinnamon; a sweet name that I picked because her ragged coat was the same color as the spice.   I brought her home and she followed me from room to room.  If I walked out of her eyesight, she let out an agonizing howl.  She slept on a doggy pillow next to my side of the bed.  Night after night, she kept nudging me, as if to make sure that I was still there, until she finally fell asleep.

Over the next few weeks I kept waiting for the aggressive behavior to surface that I was warned about.  It never happened.  She was a gentle dog who knew she’d been given a second chance.  I signed her up for dog training.   Slowly her anxiety dissipated when she realized she had a permanent home.  She now takes naps in the backyard next to my chicken.   She still sleeps next to my bed, on the same pillow as my other pit bull.  She snores, but so does my husband.  I’m used to it.

As time has gone on, her scars have faded.  She looks nothing that the ragged stray that I found before Christmas.   She is 75 pounds of solid muscle with a shiny red coat.  She sits on our feet when she wants our attention.  She’ll play with an ice cube until it melts.  She runs in a circle trying to catch her own tail.

When I look back, I realize that Cinnamon appeared in my life at just the right time.  Although I was going through the motions of preparing for the holiday season, I felt an emptiness that I could not shake.  As life marches on, it introduces a variety of challenges that continually test your will.   What initially seemed like another challenge turned into my holiday blessing; a scrappy stray dog that wanted nothing more than a little affection and a family to call her own.   I saved Cinnamon last Christmas.  And in more ways than one, she saved me.

Cinnamon waiting patiently in front of the refrigerator.

Copyright © Sioux Falcone 2012

The Suppository Story – Commies Get Mommie Part 2

We had survived our first week of the Russian invasion.  The boys spent every day in the swimming pool and took periodic breaks to eat.  I fed them yummy American delicacies such as hot dogs and peanut butter sandwiches.  But the main staple of their diet continued to be apples, bananas, cucumbers, raw onions, and cabbage.  Bodies crave what they need, and these boys were making up for lost nutrition.  I wondered how their tiny little digestive tracts could handle all that roughage.  Turns it, they couldn’t.

At 5 pm Friday night, one week later almost to the minute that they arrived, Oleg was bent over in pain.  I tried getting a Russian translator on the phone, but none of them were available.  I then called the Russian doctor who had given them their booster shots earlier in the week.  Thank God she was still in her office.  “Poot Olig on phone,” she said.  Oleg took the receiver, and I watched him answer a series of questions with “da” (yes) or “nyet (no).”  He then started jumping up and down, still holding the receiver to his ear.  He then handed the phone back to me, and the Russian doctor said, “not appendicitis.  This boy is constipated.”  Thank goodness, I thought!  “So I have him rest until it passes?” I asked.  “No!”, she snapped back.  “You must give him suppository.”  I froze in horror.  “Can’t I just give him a big glass of water and a hand full of almonds and let nature take its course?”  Her voice barked back at me like Nikita Khrushchev’s did when he pounded his shoe on the table at a 1960s UN meeting.  “Do you want this child to be in pain?”  Of course I didn’t, and so I hung up the phone and mimed to the boys to put their shoes on.

While driving to the local Sav-on Pharmacy, I called my sister, who had four children of her own.  “You’re going to stick a suppository up a poor little orphan?!!  He’ll hate you for it!  Give him a glass of water and a hand full of nuts and wait it out!,” she said.  I told her the Russian doctor ordered me to do it, and my Catholic guilt wouldn’t allow me otherwise.

As I walked into Sav-On with my new little communists holding my hands, their jaws dropped in amazement as if they were walking into Disneyland for the first time.  They yelled out, “VAAAAA!” (Wow!)  and took off running to the toy aisle while I entered a new world of children’s suppository products.  There was an entire section of liquid, glycerin stick, and pellet shaped suppositories.  My head was spinning from so many choices, along with the inevitable task of having to insert one these products into a little boy’s unmentionables.

As I scanned the options of products on the shelves, I heard a tiny voice whisper, “Soodsan?’  (Susan?)  I looked down to find Dennis holding a can of Campbell’s tomato soup.  “Pliez?” (please?) he asked sweetly, with his big brown orphan eyes looking at me while tenderly cradling the can.  Was he hungry, I thought?  No, he wanted me to buy him the soup can.  “Nyet” I said as I turned my eyes back to the suppository shelves.  I had narrowed my upcoming purchase down to two choices when Dennis came running back to me again with a brand new extension cord.  He apparently made his way from the food aisle to the home supplies aisle.  “Soodsan!”  His voice more desperate than before.  “Pliez!!!”  Did he think it was a jump rope?  “Nyet!” I said back, and changed thoughts back to suppositories.  I got in line to ask the pharmacist which suppository would be the fastest acting. By now, it was 6 pm, and everyone in town was picking up their prescription.  As I waited my turn, with seven people ahead of me, I heard a tromping of little feet running up from behind.  “SOODSAN!!  PLIEZZ!!”  I turned around to see Dennis.  Determined and undaunted, he was holding onto a small red box with a kung fu grip and thrust it up to my face.  Was it toothpaste?  Frosting?  Dennis now stamped his foot, as if to say, “I let the can of soup go, I let the extension cord go, but I’m not leaving without THIS!!”   I looked at the printing on the box and in large yellow flaming letters it said “Anal Itching Cream.”   “NYET”,  I said sternly.  Dennis began stomping his feet, and closed his big brown orphan eyes tightly as he howled, “PPPLLIEEEEZZ!!!”  To the left of me, the line of customers glared at me as if to say, “if your kid needs the anal itching cream, just buy him he anal itching cream.”

I gave up.   I caved.  The past hour had beaten me down.  “Da,” I said in defeat to Dennis, and he jumped up and down in victory, then turned and ran down the aisle to show his little brother his new prize possession.  I got to the head of the line, the pharmacist suggested the best suppository, we went to the check out counter and made our purchases, which included a Hot Wheels car for Oleg and the anal itching cream for Dennis.  Surprisingly, Oleg was not complaining of stomach cramps anymore.

As the boys sat in the backseat of the car on the way home and chattered to each other in Russian, I heard a loud, flatulent honk that could only have come out of a large carnivore.  I looked in my rear view mirror and saw both boys laughing hysterically.   “Pook!” giggled Oleg, which I found out later was a Russian slang term for fart.

As we entered the house, Oleg ran to the bathroom and slammed the door.  Twenty minutes later, when Oleg’s bowels were emptied and the toilet was plugged up again, he walked out into the hallway, pointed to the bathroom, and plugged his nose.

He then ran down the hall to play with his new Hot Wheels toy.

What a crappy day.

Copyright © Sioux Falcone 2012

Commies Get Mommie Part 1

When we got the call that two orphaned Russian boys, ages 6 and 9, were here in Los Angeles for a month without a home to stay in, we immediately opened our home to them with no reservations.  First, we had to get fingerprinted to make sure we were upstanding citizens, and secondly, we had to meet these two children.

Oleg and Dennis had been told on a Monday morning in late July that they were going with some other children from their orphanage for a drive.  Once they got in the car, they were immediately driven six hours to the Moscow Airport with nothing but the clothes on their backs and no idea where they were headed.  They landed 24 hours later at Los Angeles International Airport, exhausted and terrified.

Eight months earlier Oleg and Dennis had been placed on an international adoption website.  Russians had the first option to adopt.  If no prospective adoptive parents came forward, the boys were available for adoption in other countries.  A single mother in Texas was interested in them, with the agreement that she would host them for month.  She flew to LAX right before the boys arrived.  She met them as they got off the plane.   Both boys had been awake for 24 hours, and they were frightened and exhausted.   Oleg had a meltdown that scared her.  She changed her mind, and took the next flight home to Texas.

When I got the call about the boys that Tuesday evening, I was finishing up a final project for a class that I was taking for my teaching credential.  One of my teaching mentors, Marilyn, was hosting two teenage girls from another orphanage in Russia.  Marilyn was at the airport when the flight of orphans arrived, and called me when she heard that these two orphan boys had no place to stay.

Marilyn gave me the phone number for the organization that arranged the boys’ trip.  The president of the organization told me what was involved in having these children stay in your home:  FBI clearance, then a six week hosting responsibility which included doctors and dentist visits for the kids, along with plenty of sunshine and healthy food.  There was also a weekly get together for all of these newly arrived children in the surrounding Los Angeles area that was to be supervised by social workers.  I said that I would talk to my husband about this new turn of events, and call them back that evening.

When my husband arrived home from work, I told him to get a glass of wine.  He thought he was in trouble.  After reiterating my earlier conversation, we agreed to meet the boys the next afternoon.

At 4 o’clock on Wednesday afternoon, we met Oleg and Dennis.  I had no idea what to expect, but I wasn’t expecting what was before me.  Two tiny, extremely pale children with thinning hair and huge brown eyes sat before us.  Their orphanage director, Lurissa, was sitting next to them on the couch.  I handed them some toys I had brought, including a large plastic alligator.  They looked at it and looked over to Lurissa.  She whispered something to them in Russian, they took the toys, and said, “Spaseba,” which means thank you.

These could not be the children that were described to us.  Oleg was no larger than a two year old, and Dennis wasn’t much larger.  Their ragged t-shirts and faded shorts were the same clothes they had worn on the plane two days earlier.  On Dennis’ feet were green patent leather shoes that obviously at one point belonged to a little girl.

After a few uncomfortable minutes of translated conversation, we were escorted to the door.  The boys’ eyes followed us as were walked out by the hosting organization’s president.  She said to us, “You two have a long conversation about this.  If you decide it’s too much to take on, we’ll completely understand.”  As we got in the car, I looked at Angelo and said, “What do you think?”  He said, “Let’s do it.”

Two days later the boys arrived at our home at dinnertime.  Lurissa was to stay with us until our FBI fingerprints cleared.  As Oleg and Dennis walked in the house, our two dogs greeted them with wagging tails.  As we escorted the boys out to the family room they saw the swimming pool through the sliding glass door.  Both boys looked at each other and yelled “VAAAA!” (Wow! in Russian)  In a split second Dennis ran towards the pool and immediately slammed into the glass door.  Dazed but not undaunted, he and Oleg ran into the backyard with our two dogs bounding after them, thrilled that they had  new playmates.   Within five minutes, both boys had stripped down to their underwear and jumped in the pool.  Neither knew how to swim, so Lurissa ordered them to stay in the shallow end.

And that was the beginning of one of the most exhausting months of my life.

Russian orphans, like all young children, are always hungry.  We were asked to have a big bowl of fruit and vegetables out on the counter for the kids to have access to whenever they had a craving.  And boy, did they.  I have never seen children devour fruit like these two boys did.  And when the bowl was empty, they would open the refrigerator

to eat the raw onions, cucumbers, and cabbage that I was saving for dinner.  They were instructed by a translator not to hoard the food they would hide in their rooms; there was plenty of food and no need to store it for later.  And yet for the first three weeks I would walk in to the spare bedroom where they were staying and followed the trail of bugs that were hovering over whatever leftover meal they had stashed away under their bed or in the closet because they didn’t know when they would be fed again.

Milk was a problem for both boys because it was chilled.  Any refrigerated drink gave them stomach cramps.  Chewing gum was a brand new experience, and whenever one boy received a piece, he would tear the gum in half and give the other half to his brother.  Straws became toys that they would save; they had never used a straw before.  Pizza was their favorite food.  Putting ketchup and mustard on a hamburger was baffling.  Twelve years later they still don’t put any condiments on them.

I quickly learned basic disciplinary Russian phrases such as “don’t run around the pool”, “flush the toilet” and “stop taking batteries.”  Dennis in particular would take all of the batteries out of our remote controls and hide them in his room.  When I took them back and put them back in the remotes, he retook them and taped the batteries to his dresser drawer.  Lurissa was eager to learn English, and had brought a Russian-English pocket dictionary with her.  Dental hygiene was not a top priority at the orphanage, but we bought each boy a toothbrush and made them brush their teeth after every meal.  Lurissa looked up the phrase in her dictionary, and after every meal she would announce loudly to the boys, “Brraashhhh tior teets!”

Early the next week I scheduled a check-up with a recommended Russian pediatrician in West Hollywood.  The boys needed booster shots, said the nurse in Russian, and the boys nodded their heads in trepidation.  As soon as the needle came out, both boys started crying uncontrollably.  Oleg cried so hard he knocked out one of his baby teeth.  I decided to wait until dental appointments until after we adopted them (which we decided five minutes after they arrived in our house).

Each day was spent swimming in the backyard.  Both boys grabbed the side of the pool and inched their way around the shallow end to the deep end to conquer their fear of water.  They used paper towels as toilet paper and I think I called a plumber twice that week.

I had telephoned my parents, who lived in Orange County, to tell them about our new arrivals.  “We have visitors in the house,” I said.  “Did you buy a new reptile?” my mother asked in a judgmental tone.  My parents came up to visit that weekend, and my dad started to teach the boys how to swim.

In one week I’d gone from a middle aged newlywed to a foster mom.  My husband got a hernia from lifting the boys so much in the swimming pool.  We would drop into bed at night after tucking them in and wonder how we would get the energy to keep up with them the next day.  But these two little orphans had stolen our hearts, and we were ready for the challenge.  And what a challenge it would be.

Copyright © Sioux Falcone 2012