Hurricane Irene is Just Another Memory--Which Conjures A Lot More

The latest storm has come and gone, just like the other ones in my life, but the memories will be with me until the end. Having grown up on the Bronx waterfront, high water and high winds were something we dealt with all the time--as a family.


The storms that did the most damage were the ones we never expected--two of them were winter Noreasters with tidal surges augmented as the water flowed down the streets over the snow. But two hurricanes in particular, come to mind every time one takes aim at New York and I immediately go into prep mode.


In 1976,  I was the only one home while the rest of the family vacationed in Cape May, New Jersey. I got up for work at 6:00 a.m. and heard the first warning that Hurricane Belle was on the way later that afternoon (weather forecasting was not as advanced as it is today). I called in 'sick' and got to work securing my Dad's Larsen Lapline, anchored behind the house in Long Island Sound, and 'evacuating' his pigeons from their waterside abode a block away to my cousin Dennis' coop. 


Dennis helped me with that, as well as moving all the patio furniture and my Dad's ten thousand houseplants summering outside to safer haven. Then there was the matter of the shed-moving the lawnmower and other electrical equipment, all the bicycles and loose flower pots. And the cars, which needed to be moved about a half mile away, to higher ground. I had to walk back, twice. God, I wish I still had that picture my high school sweetheart (soon to be first husband)  took of me, sitting in the dining room facing the sound, surrounded by the contents of the backyard and shed, holding an umbrella.


The family arrived home after a harrowing drive home from Cape May in evacuation traffic to find it all done, and honestly, I don't remember anything about the storm except that we came through it with minimal damage from the storm surge, even though the boat had dragged its anchors quite a distance and was beached about 50 feet from the bulkhead in our backyard.


In 1985, I was living a block away when Hurricane Gloria threatened, separated from but trying to reconcile with my first husband. Due to the strength of the storm, the shoreline, including my childhood home was under mandatory evacuation. My parents and younger sister went to stay with my grandmother--the first time they'd ever left for a storm--but I was not under the same advisory and stayed behind. The storm blew by in what seemed like a few minutes, and I waded around the corner through thigh high water to find water lapping at the back door of the house, but no major damage.


My ex stayed with me to help that time, and we celebrated with friends by going out for Mexican food with our good friends Jerry and Liz, at Don Emilio's in Larchmont. I'll never forget the plate glass window in the shop next door, still boarded up and spray painted in red "Gloria, Be Gentle."


I'd called in 'sick' that day too, and unfortunately the reconciliation with my ex was as short lived as Hurricane Gloria.


I was not scheduled on duty in either of my jobs for Hurricane Irene, but after my house was secured and I'd assured that my Mom, spending her first hurricane without my Dad, was tucked away and riding it out with a friend, contemplated calling to see if they needed me.


Nothing illustrates the schism between my professional and family life better.  I learned, by being part of a family that stayed together and played together, that nothing else matters. But then again, the pull to help with disaster services both in the streets and in the hospitals is very strong.  I feel guilty, for just a little while, that I'm not doing my part.


Maybe when the next hurricane threatens New York, things will be different and I'll ride it out with co-workers instead of cooking dinner, playing Zhu-Zhu pets with my daughter, and helping my (second) husband mop the basement and clean up the downed tree limbs.  And I don't even feel guilty about it.

Moving Along and Getting Back in Business

It's been just over a week since my father's funeral and I'm numb and in a fog after being up, up, up for so long. I lapse into these moments where I see or remember some moment I spent with Daddy and either burst into tears (very unlike me) or stare into space for an hour lost in thought.

Going to work for short shifts helps since I get to focus on something and my co-workers give me tea, cookies, and strategically distributed hugs. OMG, Madeleines are just what you need for sinful, buttery comfort.

I don't think those random things are psychosis--rather synchrony. Things happened (and still do) after my grandparents died. On the morning of the funeral, I suddenly remembered my Dad had given me a bracelet when I was little. I'd already found and put on a pair of earrings he'd bought me when I had this really short haircut in my tomboy days and he told me "please wear these so they know you're a girl."

My hands went right to the bracelet buried in my jewelry box. The engraving on the back was June 18, 1971. Forty years to the day before he died. He wanted me to wear it, and it still fits. Synchrony. Some comfort.

Enough, back to work. Thanks for all your kind words of support. I'm looking forward to covering labor and delivery at LIJ this weekend. It's been a long time since I caught a baby.

For more about what I've been up to, writing wise, including another successful pitch for Someday I'm Going to Write a Book, check out my creative writing blog. There is lots of other good news there as well.

The Most Difficult Deadline I've Ever Met

Two seasons have passed since I last posted here, and June 21 was truly the longest day of the year for me as I spent it with my family at a wake for my father who died after a long illness on June 18. And that, my friends, is one of the things that has kept me from posting and updating this blog on a regular basis. I have a host of half written, and some entirely written posts on subjects like the Japanese earthquake, local and national politics, bad boy behavior from the likes of Dominque Strauss-Khan and Anthony Weiner and the attack on reproductive rights.

But alas, there are only so many hours in a day I needed to allocate to being with my Dad in his last days, taking care of my kids, supporting my mom and my sisters, and working with "my kids" in the high school health center in the Bronx. Which is the direction I want to take this post because we all experience the death of loved ones and the best way to commemorate them is to honor what they accomplished and the legacy they left behind.

Many excerpts of Someday I'm Going to Write a Book pay tribute to my great-grandmother Jennie Bruno, a lay midwife in the same neighborhoods in which I now practice. And to my grandfather, her son, Alexander "Al" Bruno, who knew the Bronx like the lifelines on his palm. Coincidentally, or synchronously, whichever you choose to believe, he worked for Montefiore Hospital in the engineering department and somehow, ahem, I wound up there as well.

I inherited a lot from my Dad, and absorbed his love for the Bronx, for nature, for animals (his first name was Francis after all), the outdoors, particularly the beach and ocean, and for activism and community service. While he always told me to stay out of the bad neighborhoods, and harm's way, I know he was proud of the fact I paid no attention to him and waded waist deep through the South Bronx, Harlem and Washington Heights during the worst of times: the 1970s and 1980s when a bankrupt NYC had just about given up on those areas, and on the entire boro of the Bronx it seemed. Okay, that's all in Someday but this is about Frank Moleti.

Here is an short piece I wrote for a local newspaper about my father. It was one of the hardest things I ever had to do: distill all his accomplishments, his personality, his passions into a few paragraphs. A feeble attempt but if the lines of mourners who came to pay their respects on Tuesday is any indication, I am not alone in my awe and admiration.

Councilman James Vacca kindly paid a visit and spoke about working with my father on Community Board #10 during those dark days in the Bronx. His tribute was a great comfort to my mother, an inspiration to everyone in the room, and I envisioned my Dad was looking down on the scene, nodding his head, with his typical closed lipped smile of self effacing satisfaction at a life well lived, a battle well fought, and legacy engraved on the hearts of almost everyone he met.

Francis A. Moleti, a longtime Bronx resident and community leader, died on June 18, 2011 from complications of lymphoma. He was 78.

Frank’s proudest accomplishments included his 1952-56 tour of duty with the United States Navy, serving as a machinist on the Battleship New Jersey during the Korean War. After returning stateside, he joined the Sheet Metal Workers International Association and was a foreman for Brook Sheet Metal, which handled many major New York City construction projects including the building of the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center .

He grew up in Castle Hill, lived for a while in Parkchester, then moved to Throggs Neck. He served several terms as president of the Locust Point Civic Association until retiring to Southampton in 1995. An entire generation of local kids will remember Frank for his tireless efforts to bring PAL activities to Throggs Neck, as well as the weekend marathon of Labor Day events sponsored by the LPCA including the costume parade, foot and swimming races, as well as popular adult activities such as dancing under stars, the married vs. single men’s softball game, and the pie eating/throwing contest.

An avid fisherman and sailor, Frank worked tirelessly to improve the water quality of Long Island Sound, as well as the quality of life for Northeast Bronx residents, by serving on Community Planning Board #10 under then District Manager James Vacca. His efforts were instrumental in the closing and remediation of toxic waste leaching from the Pelham Bay Landfill as well as dealing with traffic congestion, noise, and environmental pollution near the Throggs Neck Bridge .

          He is survived by his wife of 55 years, Carole, three daughters, Carole Ann, Christine and Allison, and seven grandchildren. Donations in his memory can be made to The Connecticut Fund for the Environment-Save the Sound Project.

The Moleti, Virzi, Gentile, and Maiello families visit the Battleship New Jersey, Camden, 2002.

Why I Should Be The Next New York City Sanitation Commissioner

I know. You're thinking "how could she be qualified for the job just because she throws out the garbage?" And I say to you "like Mayor Bloomberg and Cathy Black think she's the best candidate for the job of Schools Chancellor because she once attended school."

Actually, I could do that job, too. My three kids went through or are currently in a New York City public school, and I run a health center in a New York City public high school. I have put in real life classroom time. But I digress--she hasn't screwed up yet so her job isn't at risk.

So, how would a nurse practitioner and midwife run the NYC Sanitation Department? Why do I not aspire to replace the embattled chief of Emergency Medical Services since I am a health care provider and administrator, trained in provision of disaster services, and have ridden ambulances and done my share of night shifts in NYC public hospitals? Nope, don't want that job. I already have one that holds me responsible for acts of nature and other things totally out of my control.

The sanitation commish didn't see that his people got the streets cleared, and the OEM didn't issue snow emergency orders. How is it his fault the ambulances got stuck and the poor firefighters and EMTs couldn't schlep all their equipment through the drifts and carry the patients on stretchers to the nearest hospital?

You might not know I have a longstanding connection to garbage. My ex-husband's father worked for the Sanitation Department and kept us up to date on all the doings. Three of my neighbors were garbage men. The father of one of my college buddies was in charge of snow removal in the days when Mayor Koch ruled the roost and I heard, first hand, how he figured it all out when the legendary storms of yesteryear threatened.

I live within sniffing distance of the Pelham Bay Landfill, and my father was on the New York City Planning Board trying like hell to get it capped and closed before it leached any more toxins into Long Island Sound. I studied environmental sciences, including solid waste management, while doing my MPH. My then father-in-law was so thrilled that I was studying the Betz Avenue incinerator where he worked. To quote: "Ya see, that here Columbia University is sending their students to learn from me. Who says there's no future in garbage?"

I learned well, which is why I am such a rabid recycler and a member of organizations such as Save the Sound and The Nature Conservancy. I also learned a lot from the sanitation men in my life. They are a hard working bunch of people, albeit a trifle sexist and rough around the edges. But they handle garbage, which most of us really don't want to.

My current garbage men are a lot more dedicated than my current mail carrier, who tosses mail into the bushes when the steps are too icy. By the way, how come I only got two deliveries of mail between December 24 and December 31? What happened to "Neither rain nor sleet, nor snow nor dark of night...?" There I go again, off topic.

Poor John Doherty seems like one of the goodhearted sanitation man giants of my past, boasting on December 26 that his snow removal teams were the envy of those near and far. He steadfastly defended them even though the only plows I saw during the blizzard and weeklong aftermath were either double parked in front of restaurants or running up and down the streets with the plows up. Come to think of it, that could be one of those "men" things, like forgetting to put the seat down and swearing they wiped off the rim of the bowl.

I guess Mayor Bloomberg wasn't out in the storm while he continued with his snotty nosed bluster (ever heard of tissues and decongestant?), blaming us for shoveling snow into the streets (now really), abandoning cars in snowdrifts (because we had nothing better to do after we dutifully shoveled walks so the City didn't issue us summonses), and that we shouldn't call EMS unless it was a real emergency, not because we were sick, trapped, or freezing on a stranded NYC subway train without food, water or a bathroom.

Mother Nature cleared the snow by allowing temperatures to go above freezing. Most of it has melted--at least enough so that cars can park catty corner on top of the mounds, which are now mostly ripe, rotting holiday leftovers, gift wrap, boxes, and Christmas trees.

So, if I were Sanitation Commish here's what I would do:

Immediately reinstate alternate side of the street parking. Send a plow, with the blade LOWERED, to scrape away the icy remnants. Behind it should be a sweeper to collect the schnibles of garbage and recycling blown about in the wind. And behind that, a truck collecting garbage.

I would have to consult about the feasibility of the plow being down while the workers tossed garbage into the back of the same truck to maximize manpower and clean up a two week backlog. There might be technical issues that I, as a non garbage man, am not aware of. That's what my second in command, who should be a veteran sanitation worker who has made his way up the ranks, is for.

But the cynical administrator in me believes that the real rules against doing double duty aren't in place for worker safety or because of the limitations of the trucks themselves, but rather union rules which would insist on double time if the men were doing BOTH garbage collection and snow removal at the same time. Remember, my father-in law and neighbors were garbage men and shared a lot of insights.

Anyway, slapping myself back on track again, on the second round of alternate side of the street cleaning, all the snow will be gone and the recycling, including the Christmas trees, should be collected. In one week it will all be done and there will be no football games at Yankee Stadium and New Year's Eve Times Square Cleanup to distract attention from any other areas in The Bronx or Manhattan and the entire boros of Brooklyn, Queens and Staten Island.

But in the event we get another big snowstorm, any remaining garbage will be encased in ice and snow, thus minimizing the stench, rat and raccoon raids, and loose schnibles of paper, plastic and metal being bandied about by gale force winds. The Christmas trees can be propped upright in the drifts, indicating there is indeed garbage under there to be addressed, not some irreverent New Yorker's carelessly abandoned vehicle. A nice touch would be to hang birdfeeders from the branches for the poor pigeons and sparrows.

Plan B would be, after discussion with my second in command, to plow the garbage and snow at the same time and deploy manpower with shovels and brooms to deal with the remainder, before resuming Plan A. Having a background in environmental safety and infection control, I will insist my men be fitted with masks, gloves and the proper personal protective equipment, and get hazardous duty pay.

All hyperbole aside, I think that Mayor Bloomberg should, in the future, get out there with a shovel and ask "How am I doing?" like former Mayor Ed Koch did whenever the City was faced with a crisis. Instead of insisting that we're all just cry babies, using something besides his mouth would enlist all of New Yorkers in a united effort to take care of each other as well as clean up the City.

That would be a lot more effective than blaming the victims and demonizing his commissioners who had lapses in judgment or, like him, over exaggerated their omnipotence, were out of the City or out of touch with the National Weather Service, or caught off guard from all the holiday cheer.

Arrogance and apathy trickles down from above, which is why I really don't want the job. But thanks, anyway.

'Tis the Season for Compromise, And to Stand Up for Moral Choices

'Tis the season for compromise. Or political oneupmanship. Or staging. No matter what you think, and what your beliefs, it's hard to deny the past year distinguishes itself as one of the most egregious examples of party politics and special interest pandering in recent memory.


I'm really happy Don't Ask Don't Tell has been repealed, but did we need a big ceremony to flaunt it? You'd think the Democrats learned some lessons after the circus performance when the Affordable Care Act (one of the biggest betrayals the President Obama has executed and thus imposed on his former loyal supporters and the American people) was signed. You remember, the Vice President's Big F-ing Deal.

Does the sludge trickle down from the President, who, along with the cabinet and advisers all share the same lack of focus and leadership and accountability? Or does the stench waft up from below, from a pit of legislators who have just spent too much time filling seats with lead bottoms and campaigning for their own re-elections?

All our elected officials allowed a deeply flawed health care reform bill to pass. No one without insurance due to job loss or other financial difficulties will see any relief until 2014 while health care insurers rig up new exchanges that meet their needs, not those of patients.

Second, instead of calling out Republican special interests in repealing tax cuts for the rich, those concessions were made to allow extension of unemployment benefits. How are those two issues linked, except in the world of politics?

At the eleventh hour, my two New York State Senators, Schumer and Gillebrand, who caved on the Affordable Care Act, stood up for the rights of first responders in desperate need of assistance due to life threatening illnesses they are suffering after doing their public and civic duty in the aftermath of 9/11. How can anyone who lived through that day, and the succeeding events deny the unprecedented sacrifice those men and women made, and deny them the needed medical care they deserve? Republicans, it seems, are not human. Or reneged on the vow to "Never Forget."

How does this game playing affect real people?

A 35 year old single mother and police officer confided with me December of 2001 how the horror of 9/11 had seriously affected her, physically and emotionally. "It's far from over," she whispered, sadness and fear in her eyes as well as her voice. In February of 2002, she was dead of a lung ailment no one yet understood, her ten year old son an orphan, in the care of an aunt, devastated.

Another police officer friend is battling lung disease, trying valiantly to stay on the job to support his wife and three kids. He's losing.

Women have already had their constitutional rights trampled by the express prohibition of abortion services in any exchange plan, a precedent likely to be adopted by all insurers.

Now, women are at risk of having their access to birth control severely limited clearly a measure that prevents the expense and possible adverse health effects of undesired pregnancy, taken away. A bunch of celibate old men on the Conference of Catholic Bishops has expressed their opinion, yet have not weighed in on treatment for erectile dysfunction. This is blatant sexism, blatant disregard for our Constitutional Rights, and Separation of Church and State.

To see how absolutely devoid of reason the Bishops are, consider that one believes a hospital's decision to allow an abortion of an 11 week pregnancy in a dying woman was grounds for removal of the Blessed Sacrament from the hospital's chapel. It seems that if the mother had been allowed to die along with her 11 week fetus, they would still be able to celebrate Mass and receive Communion on hospital grounds. Hmmm. What would Jesus do? What would He say about that?

Congratulations o the doctors, nurses and administrators who did the right thing in that horrible situation--one which I have found myself involved in many times. In my opinion, there is no moral grounds for allowing someone to die for the sake of a religious belief, turning a tragedy into a travesty.

Kudos to all of us who went to the polls on Election Day and jettisoned the worst of offenders in Washington, as well as those in City and State government. But there are still more that need to be called out, and thrown out. Here in New York City we saw how close Mike Bloomberg came to being booted, after he flaunted term limits and declared himself too important to be allowed to step down as required by law. Bill Thompson might have won, if more disgusted voters had cast their vote.

We need to stay vigilant and in control. Credo has organized a campaign against more indignities being perpetrated against women, and it can't be any easier than one click to send a message, and one click to post the message to Twitter and Facebook about keeping birth control available to all women under the Affordable Care Act.

I suggest subscription to their newsletters with timely legislative action updates.

All the greetings of the season , no matter what you celebrate!

What I'm Thankful For Today: Endless Possibilities

A long thread running through Someday I'm Going to Write a Book: Diary of an Urban Missionary is the story of my great grandmother, Jacinta, a/k/a Jenny Bruno. She was as a midwife, and I have the license and instruments to prove it, in the early 1900s (her certificate is dated 1911 which makes next year her centennial), tending to the women (and their families) of the Southeast Bronx, not coincidently, the same ones I am tending to right now.

There are many similarities between us so I feel comfortable concluding Jennie probably didn't love running out of the house at all hours of the night, leaving her eight kids (our of the thirteen she had) to fend for themselves, though I'm sure leaving her purportedly abusive husband and providing for them was driving her along.

My husband isn't abusive, in fact, I'm more likely to hit him someday than he is to ever hit me. Money is what keeps me in this insane business--three kids to put through college, my daily coffee, their daily bread, and some sense that there is a mission in all this. Some overlying need to persist despite the anguish and frustration.

The brick walls I run into day after day, erected by a broken health care system, big government and big institutional barriers, insurance companies, the economy, poverty, racial and ethnic discrimination, and yes, the patients and their families as well, show no signs of coming down. I chip away at the mortar; look for ways to sneak through, over, and around. Am nabbed from time to time for what Mark Legnini, DrPH described as "doing the right thing" instead of "the right thing to do." Get a leg up now and then, so I can climb over, pulling my charges along with me, though some can't hold on or aren't willing to take the risk of falling.

This is deliberately vague, for privacy as well as a myriad of privacy and compliance regulations. But this is a time of year to focus on what we have and give thanks. This article is very long, but its description of the overall mission of the hospital I work for made me proud to be a long time member of its staff. One of the very small dots on the southernmost point of the map is the health center in which I toil, day in and day out. And I've worked in several of the other hot spots over the years with some of the most talented and dedicated doctors, nurses, patient care techs, and other support staff on the Earth.

As an overview, the worker bees aren't acknowledged in the Commonwealth Fund Report. As usual, only the doctors are championed though much of what being done is accomplished by those of us without MD degrees. But coming at a time when I often wonder what it's all about, this affirmed I'm in the right place.

So I'm thankful for my health and family, without which nothing else would matter. But also my job, my co-workers, the patients who continue to place their trust in me and for the knowledge that I've made real difference. And to Jennie, who I have to believe is the little voice that guided me to where I am supposed to be and straightens me out with a kick the ass when I'm ready to give up.

This tribute to her, an excerpt of Someday I'm Going to Write a Book, was published last year in This Path.

Happy Thanksgiving.

The night seemed full of endless possibilities, like life thirty-five years ago. I stood in the lobby of the posh Marina Del Rey at the 75th anniversary of the Saint Frances de Chantal grammar school, Bronx, New York. The '50s vintage dress that called to me at an antique show fit like it had been custom made. I thought I looked pretty good with the gray dyed out and six pounds lighter than last year. Those anti-wrinkle creams seemed to work. They sure cost enough. 

The dawn of the AIDS epidemic and the horror of working in the hospital on September 11, 2001 book ended a career during which time speaking up made me part of the enemy camp, not the liberating forces. 

Video clips of domestic violence deaths, child abuse, infanticide, rape, incest, and the degradation of women played over and over in my mind. My theoretical model for dealing with families in crisis was of little use at 2 a.m., standing in between the guy who just beat up his pregnant wife, the woman bleeding to death, and the clerk getting insurance information before we could get blood for transfusion.

I had bargained with the gods to keep the demons away but no good deed goes unpunished. They stole my soul and reneged. Divorce from my high school sweetheart, the inevitable loss of beloved family members, and my own personal health challenges gave me pause to ponder the endless impossibilities of life.

I focused on my family, thankful for the second chance at marriage and motherhood. I once battled sexism, racism, conservatism, and elitism. Well into my third life and tired of fighting, I moved past activism into escapism.

I'd never attended a high school reunion but instead was drawn way back to my grammar school days. I remember only a few names and faces, most notably, Marianne. We don't see each other often, but just like tuning into a soap opera you haven't watched in years, we easily pick up the story line and move on.

I waited for her, watching the lights of the Bronx-Whitestone Bridge glimmer like tiny beacons over cold, dark Long Island Sound. I moved across the bridge to Queens seventeen years ago. I still work the streets of the Bronx but death, distance, or the ravages of time have broken all ties to friends and family. Alone, mesmerized by the tinkling fountain, I held back tears remembering when this neighborhood was an innocent idealist's only view of the world.

 The cell phone bleated. "Sorry, I'll be there in a minute, got stuck in traffic." Marianne rushed in from the parking lot and gave me a hug. "You look fantastic."

 We studied the collage of old class pictures. Marianne picked me out: the girl with a headband and hair in a pony tail, tights, uniform dress with a bow tie, and a big smile. We sipped drinks, nibbled hors'd'oeuvres, and found the "Class of 1971" table.

John, one of the two "boys" who had been my close friends, smiled when he saw me. "Hi, Carole Ann. You haven't changed a bit."

Sister Mary Lucille, at least eighty, peered at me and waved a gnarled, bony finger. "You're one of the Moleti girls, and none of you took French." Nuns never give up.

"That's right, Sister," I said, "but Spanish serves me well."

George suggested we take the few surviving sisters for a boat ride in the dark and dump them overboard to get even for all those bruises. We laughed, reminisced, and tears flowed on my way home in the pouring rain as I crooned Streisand's tune "The Way We Were."

I drove over the bridge, from my first life, past the second, and into the third. I let the dog snooze on the couch and walked through the dining room where Jennie was still smiling at me. The kids were tucked in; the cat warmed my side of the bed. I snuggled next to my sleeping husband and lay there in the dark and quiet thinking about all the stories still to be told.

"Get back to work," Jennie said.

And I did.

Copyright 2009 by Carole Ann Moleti

Bad Spells and Broken Dreams

It's been a long time since I posted, but I just crawled out from under my rock. To think of the time and energy I expended last fall working to get the health care reform bill passed—all wasted. I still haven't recovered from the betrayal of the Democratic party when it stooped to the worst political pandering I have personally witnessed, producing a watered down version of a bill that is likely to cause more problems than it solves.

Between the health care mess, the continuous assaults and lack of meaningful action on endangered species, environmental concerns, climate change, the economic situation, which is not getting better for anyone I know, and the circus that is New York State and City politics, I would love to vote every single Democratic Senator and Representative out (take note Mr. Schumer, Ms. Gillebrand and Mr. Ackerman) if the Republican contenders didn't scare me as much as the kook, Carl Paladino, who just won the Republican nomination for Governor. He attacked a New York Post editor who asked him a perfectly reasonable question about the alleged out of wedlock daughter he fathered, at the same time as Mr. Paladino was slamming his opponent, Democrat Andrew Cuomo, for having extramarital affairs.

David Patterson, our current governor, has had his own affairs, interfered with the handling of a domestic violence incident perpetrated by one of his staffers, and even joked about his fall from the throne on Saturday Night Live. Two of the state senators responsible for the grid locked session last year (both from the Bronx) have been found guilty: one for misappropriation of funds and the other for domestic violence. And both were drop kicked by voters when they tried to get back into office by running in the primary for another post.

So both sides have a lot to be proud of, including Sarah Palin, “mama kill those grizzlies,” whose daughter is now on Dancing with the Stars while Bristol Palin's erstwhile "baby daddy" struts his stuff in a different venue.

They're all a bunch of clowns, and even my conservative Republican cousin and I agree they all need to go. I have now added every mailing list from the Democratic National Committee and Organizing for Change to my block list as spam. The only thing political I read are updates from Creedo, an organization whose sense and sensibility reflect not only honesty, and integrity, but sanity when it comes to the major issues we're facing: I strongly suggest if you care, subscribe. They do not abuse subscribers by sending fluffy thank you notes from the President which end with a button to donate more money.

I'm going back under my rock for now, spending time at my day job taking care of children and families in the Bronx who desperately need health and educational services being slashed and hacked by budget cuts, while the City prepares to spend millions replacing all the street signs to "better reflect light and be easier to read." How about not worrying about the motorists (I can see the signs just fine) and give the kids some decent conditions in which to learn and help them learn to read?

http://cosmos.bcst.yahoo.com/up/player/popup/?cl=22227813

Since I'm in a decidedly apocalyptic mood, I'm taking notes for the next chapter of Someday I'm Going to Write a Book, and immersed myself in writing fiction. My novel, The Widow's Walk, a paranormal romance set in a haunted house in Cape Cod is nearly finished. It's a sequel to Unfinished Business, continuing the story of Liz and Mike, a young widow and widower who fall in love, then discover they've been down this road before, and must battle the ghosts who fear they'll make the same mistakes the second time around.

Next up, will be an urban fantasy series being kicked off by Boulevard of Bad Spells and Broken Dreams, set in the near-future Bronx engaged in an epic battle between dark and light magic, which has been waged since the late 1970s.

So now you see what I mean by the slogan that my first love is science fiction and fantasy because walking through walls is less painful than running into them.

Check out all my writing related news at http://caroleannmoleti.blogspot.com/ or follow me on or Twitter or my new Facebook Fan Page.