tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87008724005208818982011-08-18T03:03:52.584-04:00Diana Geffner-Ventura. A Manhattan Mom's musings, quips, rants and raves about family, passions, and pet peeves. Not just for soccer moms and the "Go, Sister!" set alone, it aims for universal appeal - one for all, and all for one. Because we've all been there.Diana Geffner-Venturahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09489699700221514813noreply@blogger.comBlogger101100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700872400520881898.post-45156720098495446112010-07-19T15:05:00.014-04:002010-09-02T21:13:29.135-04:00

A DAY AT THE DELACORTEIt's that time of year again here in NYC. Sidewalks are baking and A/Cs are on full-blast. So far, this has been the hottest summer on record, and we're all whining about the weather. Especially those who've been queuing up in Central Park before dawn for free tickets to see Al Pacino as Shylock in the "Merchant of Venice." But that wasn't the case for us last Thursday.

Diana Geffner-Venturahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09489699700221514813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700872400520881898.post-73096770442229140552010-06-19T23:39:00.013-04:002010-09-10T01:21:58.540-04:00

There he was, that tall, strong, handsome guy in his uniform tee, tossing the ball to the player covering second base. It was an evening game, a hot, still summer evening's game. The field lights blazed with artificial daylight, while moths danced and fluttered in the shocking brightness of their glow. 'Brand X' was only just warming up.We sat in the stands, cheering the team on through the

Diana Geffner-Venturahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09489699700221514813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700872400520881898.post-19394009645516449912010-06-01T16:17:00.003-04:002010-06-24T15:45:23.798-04:00

Now that the winner has been declared, we can finally get off the couch.I decided to let the rest of the week that followed last Wednesday’s "American Idol" results pass before uttering a word, as tempting as it was to join the fray. I preferred not to get tangled up with other bloggers and commentators who’ve been either lamenting Chrystal ‘Mama Sox’s loss, or celebrating Lee DeWyze’s victory.

Diana Geffner-Venturahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09489699700221514813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700872400520881898.post-14369758900418349672010-02-06T11:16:00.001-05:002010-05-07T11:55:51.320-04:00

I am 48 years old. I have less gray hair then most of my friends, my age and younger. I don't yet need glasses, and still look pretty damn good without Botox. My youngest son only just reached the double digits in December, and I still have a mean right-arm. In fact, on a glorious Sunday afternoon in the fall, while playing baseball with the kids, I took a heroic tumble in Riverside Park when

Diana Geffner-Venturahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09489699700221514813noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700872400520881898.post-90951878464606971912009-11-24T23:49:00.000-05:002009-11-24T23:54:46.753-05:00

James, the beloved Thai-Body-Sculpt class instructor, never let’s us forget where we are, lest we ever forget where we are.“Some of you here are already shopping at Fairway,” he’ll jest as my mind runs through the pound cake ingredients I’ll need for Thanksgiving. “Now, come back to Planet Earth,” James commands. As I prop my right foot up against my inner left knee into the tree pose, it

Diana Geffner-Venturahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09489699700221514813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700872400520881898.post-66251859926478707432009-10-28T22:35:00.000-04:002009-10-28T22:46:52.106-04:00

They came here a couple of weeks ago, planted themselves in the family room, and have been controlling the boys’ schedule and that flipping television ever since. I have tried to be a kind and gracious hostess. I indulge them their habits and compulsions and I put up with their childlike behavior. I pay as much attention to them as possible, but it hasn’t been easy. I understand the boys love

Diana Geffner-Venturahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09489699700221514813noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700872400520881898.post-88345861473926107522009-09-30T11:47:00.000-04:002009-09-30T12:21:47.221-04:00

It’s a cruel joke that nature plays on us. We get impeccably glorious, sparkling fall weather right after Labor Day. The moment the Jewish holidays roll around, whether it’s in mid-September or early October, Indian summer inevitably horns in on our autumn territory, reclaiming sole rights to the sun’s intense rays, and the mercury is back up to 92. At this time of the year, I am most often in

Diana Geffner-Venturahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09489699700221514813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700872400520881898.post-5624114408869102862009-06-09T00:03:00.000-04:002009-08-13T13:36:31.101-04:00

Last night, about forty years after it first captured my heart from behind a basement door, “Hair” won the Tony award for Best Musical Revival. And as I sat in my living room, watching the awards on television with my husband and two sons about forty years later, I savored the moment that all these years of singing the score, word by word, had built up to. Years, decades of anticipating the

Diana Geffner-Venturahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09489699700221514813noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700872400520881898.post-67911334972513376112009-05-06T20:48:00.001-04:002010-06-24T15:46:07.364-04:00

What is it about home décor store catalogs that can ultimately make us feel so inadequate and short-fused?Scene: Casually well-dressed children, blissfully clicking away at their video game controls, surrounded by perfectly organized, gingham-lined baskets of kiddie paraphernalia. The dazzling, striped carpet might have just been vacuumed, and refreshments in matching cups and plates sit on a

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"It makes me uncomfortable that you are a friend of my husband’s on Facebook," she wrote, continuing to say that while she understood my son was a former music student of his, she did not understand the nature of our 'relationship.'This was the message Facebook sent to my email account, directly from the account of Max’s old piano teacher. But the message had been written and signed by his wife

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