I just have to post this because I want you all to know there are people who, by looking at them, seem very needy, dependent and maybe even poor. But that isn't always the real person.

I have a great uncle, who is my grandfather's brother. He is blind (he was blinded at about 16 years old in an accident). He lives in the city in a tiny house on a tiny street. He lived with his sister until she died a few years ago. Now, he basically lives alone (a nephew comes and goes but is more trouble than help).

My Amazing Great uncle always has something good to say, always tells a joke, always gives the punch line. He is ill also. He is 83 and treating for cancer and other problems. But today, while the humidity loomed in the air and teased us with full clouds, my great uncle Joe went down his narrow basement steps, picked up his window air conditioner, carried it up to the first floor step by step and then installed it in the window. I would have sat next to it on full blast with a bottle of whiskey until I fell into a deep sleep for the next 3 days. Uncle Joe probably made dinner after his work was done.

Sometimes the truly amazing individuals are the ones unseen, unnoticed, and happy. They say the squeaky wheel gets the oil. Well, some people don't want or need the oil.

In Margate City, N.J. this past holiday weekend the dollar store remained cool and empty as I searched for some flip flops for my son as no one else had them.

The high priced clothing stores were packed with anxious vacationers. Clanging registers sounded their bells as cash shuffled and credit cards snapped out of the wallets of the year round tan men that stood in the corners with their store bought coffee containers. The "NO FOOD or DRINK" sign obviously does not apply to all according to your spending habits. This one particular store even has a large screened T.V. in the back so the boyfriends and boisterous husbands can relax while their women shop and ponder as their 100,000.00 car engines cool on the street. $400.00 jeans, 300.00 bathing suits. I only shop the sale rack. My lifestyle does not accommodate expensive clothes, even ugly ones. Some of the things are very nice but way overpriced for what they offer. They look directly down their fabricated noses at everyone that walks in there until you start buying then they push their glasses up and call you darling. Well, those approving gestures are too expensive to me. I will not be intimidated.

The glitz and the glitter share their attention grabbing duties with the neon colors and 30.00 rubber flip flops obviously chic in the laid back look department (the same ones I bought for 1.00)(I felt like going crazy so I actually bought 3 pair for $3.42). None of the women in the store were well dressed. None were classy or properly coiffed. They all looked like Barbie Dolls dressing for "who wants to look like a new millionaire"?

What are things coming to? There is no sense of culture within these individuals. American? Not one had a symbol of this Memorial Day weekend between them. These Americans, if seen abroad, would be embarrassing to me.

There are no visible signs of handed down indigenous inclinations. Just this...consumerism, materialism, fake nails, fake boobs, too much make up, and men with nicer nails and hands than me! They buy their coffee in the morning and their sandwich in the afternoon and their dinner is always in a restaurant. It is hard for me to comprehend the money it must take to accomplish this lifestyle but also, what is the motivation for wanting to live like this? Plastic. Fake.

I thought of the shows "the Nanny" and "the Gotti's" and "Dynasty". Remember that one? I shiver.

I'd rather rub elbows with the tatooed bikers, the long haired, dirty feet guitar players, the muralists and kids and teenagers that eat fried chicken cutlets from the pan while running out the door with a basketball.

Sometimes, it's fun to watch the plastic people, to see how far they can take this lifestyle. It is so filled with things, it's empty. It is so calculated and planned that it is tiring. Sometimes I think this is what Vegas must feel like...I've never been there and have no desire to go. Staging. Airbrushed.

I remember a friend (whom I really love) put down someone else for carrying a "fake" designer bag. She called her a "want-a-be". I've been thinking about that for a long time. I decided I do not agree. I think label seeking people are the want-a-be's...they are the ones that feel worthless unless something cost a fortune..and of course, if it costs a fortune, it must be visible as such. So who wants to be what here?

Don't get me wrong, I buy stuff too. I like designers. I love D&G. And Prada, oh, I love Prada...but I don't have to have it all the time. I can wear my thrift store dress and hand me down shoes and Target sweater just as happily as a pair of expensive jeans but I do have a limit. I do have self esteem. I do have self love. I have a limit because it is absurd not to, no matter how much money you may print. And there are so many things that are so much more important...we need to pay more attention to things that really matter... To us, to our kids, to the world. Why don't we? Are we stressed? Tired? Competitive? I just don't get it.

The Margate I love is the small town where the cops all know my kids by their names (just because they see them often, not because they get into trouble), where we can put together an awesome 4th of July party with about 30 families contributing to food and music and set ups that would impress Martha. WE even have fireworks right above our heads. It is magical. WE are happily exhausted after all the long hours of hard work where lip implants and manolo blankit's (I know that is misspelled) and caterers have no place. The Margate I love is the town where my kids cram and work hard to make really good spending money and then when they are off get to swim and surf and eat ice cream until their brains freeze as their reward. I love when family and friends decide to take a day or two to sit and talk to me and my family about stuff, about nothing, and sometimes about very deep and important issues. We read and discuss. WE watch movies. We mingle with the same 50 people on the beach every year. We cook and bake and clean our own house. We plant and water our own flowers that keep our house looking comfortable and homey. We tolerate the heat and a bit of sweat so we can have the windows wide open and the fans twirling.

The Margate I love never leaves me disappointed and always leaves me wondering.

Now I wonder if that store has that Isabella Fiore handpainted braided leather Bag I love so much (795.00 on ebay).

Oh well...I guess we are not all that different after all. Some are more real and some are more fake. I wonder who is what?

I get a little thrill when I think back 18 (and 16 and 10) years ago, this very month, I was pregnant. A big round belly leading me to work on the subway. Following the aromas of bread baking and perking coffee, hunger propelled me to get to work so I could stop for a croissant and coffee. Many days I had a pile of pancakes with extra butter and syrup and perfect strips of bacon semi dipped in the syrup. The inevitable work day would start with a sedate smile and total contentment. My baby was with me. All the time. And, in my mind, he was always smiling. When I'd feel his foot or hand press against the sides of my abdomen and zipper across, gliding smoothly, I'd think he was having a morning stretch.

After the births we bonded by breast and mouth. As a portion of me funneled into my son the astonishing realization that I could sustain a life by keeping myself hydrated was powerful. I'd do anything for this baby, even this, especially this. The flow of our every 2 hour meetings worked like a fine tuned machine. I had the feeling like when discovering or creating something by accident. And it all worked out. There was some pain and kinks to get through but that just made me feel like a stronger and superior provider.

When the attachments dwindled and as my little creation clung to bits of independence, I felt envious of anyone or thing that provided a necessity that I could not provide. A feeling of being "left flat" would occur. He IS MY very own possession. It was as if a part of me was stolen, grabbed and taken, bits of my flesh and blood for their own give and take. A mother gets used to this as she does many things by "a little at a time" methodology. It all eventually becomes O. k. and we grow to welcome the help and intercessions.

When the days arrived when I would actually leave my babies for an extended period of time to work or shop or exercise or even date my husband again, I'd leave with a pit in my stomach, with a yearn to run back, promising to never ever leave again. And then I would. I'd leave and yearn and feel pain and guilt and homesick. But I'd keep leaving. And then, eventually, they would too.

Now, almost 18 years later my kids are growing up. I am losing my ability to convince them they need me. Isn't that the goal of parenthood? A successful parent has happy, independent, productive offspring. We aren't there yet. We are in the back and forth stage. For me providing the soothing flow of milk to nourish rapidly growing cells and systems was much easier than handing over car keys or leaving my kids to fend for themselves for a day or two even while enduring a flaming, scared chest or incisional pain, even while my abdomen jiggled like a deflated old balloon. "I'll take it", I think. If I could just go back to the days when we curled up together for a nap after some apple juice and peanut butter. I'll persevere with my out of shape body and stretch marks just give me back my babies!

Then, once again, I head out the door for the gym or to work or to the market. My kids barely notice me as I cook their meals and wash their clothes. What was once overwhelming chores now, at times, feels like loving gestures. As I push them out, I pull them in. I stir the soup and make their beds. I convince myself they are still my babies. As they grow and form their lives I know they will always feel it a bit too.

In South Philly it is true we all have nick names. It is an Italian thing but it is also a South Philly thing. The Irish do it, the blacks too.

I was Debbie Brasciole, little debbie, and even a little fox way back when?

Don't laugh Angela, you were called foxy too.. you still are by some?!

And I remember with affection Debster.

Anyway...when you all watch that show the Soprano's and get a kick out of all the nick names you can be sure we all really have that about us. Nick names are how we know some people...never knowing their real names...AH HA!

My dog's name is Olive but we call her Smollie.
How about Cousin Geupe, or Domo, or Joey bag o donuts.
Then there is Whitie, and Cous and lil' Frank. Some of us know Joe the Barber, Nicky whip, Big ERnie. My dad is Bobby Pajamas and my uncle Johnny's new name is "your father". Louie A'ricott is someone I know too, I just don't remember him, but I remember his name.
How about "the big guy" and Mickey Muffins. And then there is
JJ and PJ and chicken. I called my father in law Pee Wee right to his face! Magoo is cousin Michelle. Wackie Jackie is, well, wackie Jackie. How about Limits? Joe Bush. Crazy Mary. And Sonny. And Sissy is my husband's sister. My sister had many names but we won't even mention them. Kidding. And then there is Baby doll..my brother...(my sister and I made up a little jingle song about him and sang it until he wanted to kill us). My mom is I spy Vi!

My kids all had nicknames but have since grown out of them...all but the little one...Scooty.

Nicknames may be a way of a keeping an identity at bay or keeping one known. It is mostly a way of adding a bit of affection.

Start by doing what's necessary; then do what's possible, and suddenly you are doing the impossible."
– St. Francis of Assisi