Dating Abuse Survivor Shares Warning Signs
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When Danielle DeZao entered one of her first dating relationships at college, she felt all the initial excitement of attraction. However, soon that thrill degenerated into verbal fights, control over her activities, and finally physical abuse. In a quick turn of events, which DeZao's own mother calls "chilling," Danielle had become a victim of dating abuse. Today, as a survivor and activist, she is committed to sharing her story of how she came to the realization that she was in an abusive relationship and how with the help of family and friends she reclaimed her life -- from the ABC News program "What Would You Do?" all the way to the White House.
DeZao and her mother Denise, who have become spokespersons for campaigns against teen dating abuse, will be featured speakers at a special program, "Love Shouldn't Hurt: Talking with your kids about healthy relationships" on May 22 at 7:30 p.m. at the Scarsdale Woman's Club. The program is designed to help parents help their children who might be victims of dating abuse. One in four teens will be victims, and the incidence of abuse increases in college. DeZao, a 2012 Marist College graduate who grew up in Westchester and Bergen counties, and her mother will share their experiences, warning signs, what to do, and how parents and friends can intervene.
A panel will join the DeZaos to discuss the many facets of abusive relationships, to identify available resources and to respond to questions. The panel discussion will be led by Lauren Pomerantz, LCSW, Scarsdale High School Youth Outreach worker, who will be joined by panelists Sharon Charles, LCSW, youth counselor with Westchester Jewish Community Services and the Joe Torre Safe at Home Foundation; Det. Sherri Albano, Scarsdale Police Department's youth officer; Amy Paulin, NYS Assemblywoman; and Chris D'Silva, the leader of the High School's Students Terminating Abusive Relationships (STAR) chapter.
Lauren Pomerantz, who is a principal contact for Scarsdale's teens who might be in unhealthy relationships, believes that date abuse cannot be addressed by parents or schools alone, but rather requires a community response. She is encouraged by the many community organizations and leaders who have agreed to be sponsors of the event. "This community support demonstrates the understanding in our community leaders that relationship abuse affects all parts of our society, regardless of economic status, national background, race or ethnicity."
The Rev. Dr. John Miller of Hitchcock Presbyterian Church noted, "We need to create a community of respect for our children so that they understand what healthy relationships look like and feel like. At the same time parents need to be educated about the danger signs of unhealthy and dangerous relationships and given tools on how to discuss these sensitive issues with their children." Rabbi Jonathan Blake of the Westchester Reform Temple reflected that sentiment, urging parents to attend. "We know that many of our teens are hurting, either as victims of unhealthy relationships, or as friends of victims who feel powerless to provide support. Parents are a critical resource for their children, offering protection, education, and caring. However, when children leave home for college or adult life they often encounter unfamiliar circumstances including dating abuse. Often, even the most caring parents and friends feel powerless to address these destructive relationships. I am pleased to join my colleagues in the faith community and other community organizations and leaders in bringing this important message to our community."
The Scarsdale Coalition on Family Violence, which has organized programs addressing domestic violence since 2001, is coordinating the event. Sponsors include The Center @ 862; Maroon & White; Scarsdale Community Support Council; Scarsdale-Edgemont Family Counseling Service; Scarsdale-Edgemont Girl Scouts; Scarsdale-Hartsdale Clergy Association; Scarsdale High School PTA; Scarsdale Middle and High Schools; Scarsdale Police Department; Scarsdale Woman's Club; Village of Scarsdale; Westchester Jewish Community Services; Youth Advisory Council; Kenneth Bonamo, Principal, Scarsdale High School; Michael T. McDermott, Principal, Scarsdale Middle School; Dr. Michael V. McGill, Superintendent of Schools; Amy Paulin, NY State Assemblywoman; and Robert J. Steves, Mayor, Village of Scarsdale.
For more information on the May 22 program, contact David Kroenlein at [email protected] or 914-645-5067. Visit. www.breakthecycle.com for more information on teen dating abuse.
A New Way to Wear Your Pink Ribbon
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"Did you get your new crown yet?" My father-in-law, Steve, asked me when he came to visit last weekend. "You know, at the dentist?"
I knew which crown he meant, since I don't (usually) wear one on my head. Unfortunately, I can't say the same for my mouth. I have so many crowns on my teeth that I'm like dental royalty. This one, my third, had taken a particularly long time to install, so to speak. The process started right before New Year's and just ended in March.
"Yeah," I said. I couldn't imagine why he'd really care, although I was sort of touched that he remembered my dental woes.
"Is there anything special about your crown?" He asked, smiling.
"No...." I said. "It's just regular."
"Just regular, huh?" He asked, smiling wider.
So now I knew he was up to something. But what?
This was literally the first conversation we were having since he arrived in New York from Rhode Island to visit for the weekend. He and I were standing in my driveway. He had said hello to my husband, Brett, but he hadn't taken his bag out of the car or even said hi to the kids. Steve clearly had a joke to tell me and he was really excited about it.
Let me back up. What you need to know is that he's a bit of a jokester, my father-in-law. He likes to dress up as a pirate, for example. He recently took this pirate fetish of his to a new level, when he started carrying pirate flags around in his car to place on friends' lawns, "claiming" their land as his own. He had one for us as well. Into the pachysandra it went.
Now back to the teeth.
"It's porcelain," I said. "Nothing special."
"Let me see."
I opened wide and showed off my very expensive but only mildly thrilling new crown. Bottom left. Back tooth.
"Awwww...." Steve said, seemingly disappointed. "It's not like mine."
"Oh, that's right." I said. "You got a new crown too."
"Yeah. And it's got something on it." Steve said, opening wide for me to see. His was on the top right, second from the back.
A pink breast cancer ribbon was etched into the tooth.
I'm not kidding.
His crown is a breast cancer awareness crown.
I didn't even know they made those.
"I didn't even know they made those!" I said.
"They don't," he laughed. "The dental technician did it just for me. She has breast cancer, and her daughter recently died from the disease, and she knew about Linda and her story. So she called the guy who was making the tooth and asked if he could do it."
Just to explain, my mother-in-law, Linda, died a year and a half ago from stage 4 breast cancer. My father-in-law has since embraced the pink ribbon and collects different items that make a distinct nod to the cause. He always wears a pink ribbon pin on his jacket lapel, and he has a dog tag hanging from his car's rear view mirror that reads "courage," in pink, white, and grey army fatigue.
You get the idea. But this? This tooth thing? That's kind of way beyond.
It's not like anyone can see it, first of all, which is antithetical to the whole "awareness" principal of the ribbon. And, secondly, it wasn't like a donation was made to the Susan G Koman Foundation when Steve purchased his fancy tooth. Basically, Steve's new crown doesn't raise awareness or funding for breast cancer research.
So, what's the point?
The point is that Steve knows it's there. When he smiles, he thinks of my mother-in-law, Linda. When he brushes his teeth before bed, he thinks of her. When he enjoys an ice cream cone and it makes his mouth feel deliciously cold, he thinks of Linda.
It's like hiding a tattoo for a loved one somewhere under your clothes. It's personal, and unique, and not for everyone. "It's never going to come off," Steve said. And that's what he likes about it.
In October, my father-in-law walks with pride in the breast cancer walk. The rest of the year? You can bet he'll be talking the talk.
Columnist and blogger Julie Gerstenblatt writes with humor and candor about her life in Scarsdale, her friends and family, and the particular demands of motherhood and wifedom in modern-day suburbia. Read about her new book Lauren Takes Leave and keep up with the latest from Julie Gerstenblatt at http://juliegerstenblatt.com.
Legoland Discovery Center Opens in Yonkers!
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You no longer have to take the kids to Florida or California to visit Legoland. The first Legoland Discover Center in the northeast has opened in Westchester and we hear it's fabulous. Though not as large as the amusement parks in Florida and California, the 32,000 square foot site is an "amazing and multi-faceted" attraction, according to a friend from Scarsdale who attended the opening. It's interactive and fun with two rides, a 4D movie theatre, an earthquake/building section, a car building section and also accommodates birthday parties. There's a special duplo building section for the younger set and parents will find intricate Lego models of local landmarks like Grand Central Station, Time Square, Lyndhurst and Sunnyside.
The new facility is designed for kids ages 3 to 10 – and in fact, anyone 13 years-old or over must be accompanied by a child to enter!
Plan to visit for 2-3 hours and book online in advance to be sure you are admitted. Prices are $22 for adults and $18 for kids ages 3-10. Kids 2 and under enter for free. They are open from 10 am daily and 11 am on Sundays and you can purchase tickets here:
Tefillen and Tattoos: the Rat Pack gives way to the Tat Pack at the Fontainebleau Hotel
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I rarely delight in slicing and serving up a sacred cow, but in the case of the vaunted Fontainebleau Hotel of Miami Beach, the onetime sine qua non of the south, I feel I have no choice: they did it to themselves. As their own literature claims, the place "where James Bond played gin rummy with Goldfinger, where Frank and the Rat Pack played, and where Elvis was really 'in the building'" is now a confused and confusing collision of high prices, poor service, and a deeply dissonant customer base.
My family and I have just returned home from spring break at the 1504 room behemoth, and both the journalist and the neighbor in me feels compelled to
share word of our experience with 10583 readers: the 2008 One Billion dollar renovation or "reinvention" as they term it, is beautiful. The grounds of the 20-acre-property are gorgeous. The lobby, with its trademark bowtie black marble inlay pattern abutting a new light-up-disco-floored bar called "Bleau", is hip and fabulous. The rooms are light-filled and stunningly decorated, and the views incredible. So what's the problem? The Fontainebleau's beauty is only skin-deep. The iconic inn that once played host to the likes of Lucille Ball, Milton Berle, Judy Garland, Marlene Dietrich, and Jerry Lewis now appears to be targeting the likes of the world body art convention, or the candidates for the "most likely to be packing heat in their high tops" competition, and setting their service standards to meet that low bar. I half-jokingly asked one of the hotel shop girls sotto voce "is EVERY drug dealer in Miami staying here or is it just my imagination?" and she leaned in and deadpanned without a hint of irony..."No, you're right. They're all here."
They may have "reinvented" the now-bloated Fontainebleau, but they should have done a "reorg" as well. The brains behind the new "'bleau" are clearly having some sort of identity crisis about who they are and to whom they cater. Plus, they seemed entirely unprepared for the very predictable annual spring break/Passover rush of holiday guests from both camps of patrons-- the borscht belt snowbirds, and the sun belt jailbirds. In short: the "Bleau" blew it, and everyone was exasperated.
Despite record cold temperatures in Miami, the pool boys were sweating nervously every time we ventured out for a place in the sun, as there was not a single day we were there that chairs were available to us poolside in any of the 5 pool boy fiefdoms. One hapless towel wrangler told us that showing up at 7am was the best way to ensure a seat for the day..."Fantastic", I declared! "What a PERFECT way to spend my vacation mornings: holding a seat so I can sit in it in 5 hours when I actually WANT to sit." One day, in the final indignity, my husband and sons couldn't even get a seat on the beach—there was literally, no room at the inn or its environs.
The poolside area swelled to overflowing with chairs in every direction holding guests of all descriptions. The pool and pool bar "Glow" looked much more like a booty-fied boozy Jones Beach with pricey, but gang-friendly bling, than a storied James Bond hangout. Row after row after row of chairs covered nearly every inch of the astro turf surface with a remarkable parade of jewels, full body tattoos, and overzealous breast augmentations on display. Given the four-figure price of admission to the hotel, I would have thought that a seat in the sun NOT facing cement steps would have been available to us in addition to our hotel room. But this was too much to hope for.
The consolation prize, though, was bearing witness to the sociology experiment of two mutually suspicious guest contingents uncomfortably seated side by side and squished (exposed posterior) cheek by (payos-covered) jowl right next to each other: the fully-clothed kosher crowd hanging out in the sun in between helpings of Passover matzo brei and prayer, and the cigarette-wielding, sun- worshipping, bling-worshipping tan-in-a-can sybarites performing their daily ritual outdoor foreplay.
While we were there, the jewelry shop in the lobby offered a million dollar diamond-encrusted push up bra for sale (34C if you're interested), and Shaun 
Rogers, the Giants giant defensive tackle reported $500,000 of jewelry stolen from his room safe apparently by his less-than-safe lady of that evening.
Don't get me wrong: for my children, ages 10-14, the Fontainebleau offered a fascinating educational experience: in addition to a lesson in sociology there was plenty of anatomy and, at times, human sexuality as well. In between the "free" (at 7 am) lounge chairs, there were round beds and four poster beds that could be rented for 500 dollars a day, as well as the $1000ish-a-day gazebos, all of which were fully stocked and in seeming perpetual use by no fewer than four writhing, posing, preening, tumescent exhibitionists. My youngest son had missed several weeks of school prior to break due to an upper GI track illness. And during that time, he missed the whole of 5th grade sex education—no problem, says the Fontainebleau! My boy learned all he could stomach the one day we finally got seats at around 4pm, when our chairs abutted the bottom of a wide staircase topped by several of these well-used open-air-bed/pre-coital-performance-perches. Without actually wearing blackout masks, it was impossible to avoid developing some expertise in the mating rituals of the recently rich and scantily clad "Yes darling, " I heard myself say to my young son, taking on the role of accidental interpreter, "Some people pierce their nipples." "No darling, I do not know why". "Yes, I am sure they DO have a bedroom somewhere they could go to for privacy, but I guess that is not a priority for them."
Perhaps it was the dozen or so options of frozen mojitos they had to choose from, the SNOBAR adult Cosmo ice pops or the advertisement for the pool's "sexy enclave" in the hotel literature that got them going. My family took a sporting interest in assessing what factors led the charge in transforming the "bleau" from Passover haven to Plato's poolside retreat. But I can tell you that I am not at all a prude and the area surrounding "Glow" at the "'Bleau" was way out of my comfort zone for a family hotel, despite its educational and entertainment value. A full lounge chair row's worth of these folk's bikinis did not add up to enough fabric to make a pair of women's gloves.
As for other aspects of the Fontainebleau tableau, service of actual food at each of the four hotel restaurants we patronized was painfully slow and often disinterested. One morning I went alone to Vida, the more casual family restaurant, for a quiet solo brunch. I asked the man at the reception to watch my bag while I went to the bargain 35 dollar buffet, and though he insisted that my bag would be untouched if left at the counter where he'd seated me, I prevailed upon him to take it anyway. Two minutes later, when I returned with my food, there was a man sitting at my seat, drinking my coffee and texting on his smartphone. Reception man hadn't noticed. By contrast, when we stayed at the Loews down the road in the heart of South Beach a few weeks earlier during the crush of February break, every person at the restaurant was delightful, kind, and solicitous without being obsequious. They knew our name and did their level best to accommodate our allergies. Here, despite eating at the same place for breakfast each morning, we remained anonymous throughout the stay and our allergies, though carefully stated, were largely ignored: caveat allergic eater: the cheese bread is filled with sesame!
One day, after getting turned away at each of the five pool chair "stations", we finally gave up and decided to go get "takeout" from the pool service snack bar "Fresh"and take the food back to the 7th floor pool on our "tower". We confirmed with one of the guards checking room keys at the pool that we could bring our food to the "Tresor" tower's pool. We waited 45 minutes for burgers in a box, then trudged up to the charmless Holiday-Inn-style "Tresor" pool, only to be greeted by a sign that said "No food or drink allowed at the pool.". Instant migraine. Children in revolt. Defeated, I went back to the room and slept it off for the remainder of the afternoon.
Another day, frustrated again by the shutout at the pool, I decided to order room service early for dinner. It took almost two and a half hours to deliver. No "make good" beyond an apology was offered. Another night, two of the dishes we ordered were sold out.
But the service problems were not confined to the dining: we didn't get the rollaway beds we had booked for the children or the linens that were needed to go with them. Many, many phone calls as well as friendly ambushes of unsuspecting housekeeping personnel did little to address the dearth of bedding for our kids. "We ran out," they told me without apology. We did get one of the two rollaway cots we requested, but we never got the duvets for it or the pullout sofa, despite the fact that the room was continually reset to 64 degrees each day when we left, and with record cold temps outside, it was kind of CHILLY inside. The little cotton blanket one son got for his rollaway had a hole in it about 4 inches in diameter. Fine for summer camp, I say, but not for a thousand dollar suite at an "iconic" hotel.
The central problem, we found, was that one hand did not know what the other was doing, and there was no "ownership" of problems when staff was presented with them. Fed up one night because we could not get a reservation at any of the hotel's family restaurants after being on hold for almost an hour and getting locked out online as well, I called the front desk. I shared my frustration, adding that that there were no wastepaper baskets in my room or bathroom, that my children still had not received their bed linens, that the metal soap dish in my shower was hanging on by a thread and the fridge in my kitchen made moaning sounds all night as if it were being beaten....and the next day, I got a call from the manager of one of restaurants to apologize for the slow service. No follow through on any of the other fronts. I had to follow up on each of the items individually a second time. It wasn't until I found a lone and lovely stand-alone at the concierge desk named Mari that things began to turn around at all. Turns out that during peak weeks, they don't take reservations at restaurants at all and will only take walk-ins. This would have been fine if it were stated on their websites, but the websites weren't updated with this information, or other changes for that matter. I booked the ocean view "La Cote" after the site said the loud DJ music was set to stop so we would not have to shout when catching up with my visiting aunt and uncle. La Cote extended the DJ to go right through our dinner (claiming the confusion was due to a "daylight savings time change glitch", locked us out of the lovely ocean-view main dining area for an unannounced "event", and served up teeth rattlingly tough steak in their surf 'n turf dish as if we were lucky to get a meal at all. At this point Mari made sure I spoke with the manager on duty for the whole hotel as opposed to one little section. And that manager, (Jeannine), attempted to save the stay by making sure we at least got a late checkout on our last day and didn't have to pay for our children's hopeless bed and bedding situation, or the 35 dollars per person/per shower they were planning to charge us if we dared shower off the sand in the pool spa after 11am.
I was really looking forward to the new and improved Fontainebleau, to the "SoBe'd" update on a sun belt-via-borscht- belt-classic. It looked so beautiful. I just kind of figured that the service would be upgraded along with the sweet suites, to make the place fully inhabit its legendary stature. But in this case, bigger is definitely NOT better. And while she still has managed to stuff herself into a bikini, even one with a million dollar diamond top to set off the billion dollar facelift, this grande dame has simply grown too big for her britches.
Contributor Sharon Dizenhuz is a former reporter and anchor on New York 1 News and a Scarsdale mom.
Blowing Bubbles
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I have this serious pet peeve about gum chewing. People who chomp, chew, blow bubbles, or – worst of all – crack gum in my presence: Beware.
I get this trait from my mom. My mother, an easy-going person for the most part, made it very clear when I was a child that there were three things she would not stand for in our house. Loud gum chewing was one; hair twirling, twisting, or curling around a finger was the second; and declaring that something is "so fun," which is, apparently, grammatically incorrect, marked the third offense.
In other words, living with my mom was so much fun.
At college, friends who chose to live with me in our sorority house were sorely disappointed to find out that, by winning the house lottery, they would have to forfeit the right to chew gum for an entire scholastic year.
Living with me was so much fun!
I'd like to say that I have mellowed over time, but I haven't. On public transportation, like a subway or plane, if I am faced with a gum-chewer, I manage to remain calm on the outside, but, inside, I am stewing and boiling and brimming over with white-hot hatred. In the time that it takes to get from 42nd street to Union Square on the Lexington Ave Express, I have imagine-wished all sorts of calamities to befall this classless cow, this masticating marauder, this guileless, clueless, tongue-brandishing stranger, all because of her affinity for Orbit Mist.
By the time I step from the train onto the platform, my brain is screaming obscenities and I'm shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, barely holding on.
So, imagine my surprise when my ten-year-old son, Andrew, came home from school the other day fuming.
"Mom, you know that girl I told you about, the one who chews gum in class? The one who drives me crazy with her...mdtah, mdtah, mdtah?" He imitated an incredibly annoying - and dead on accurate - portrayal of a class A offender.
"Yeah," I said.
"Well, today, our teacher moved our seats in class and now SHE'S SITTING RIGHT NEXT TO ME! ARGH!"
"Okay, calm down," I advised. He was clutching his skull, as if the memory was still sharp enough to hurt. Which I'm sure it was, actually.
I tried to blow it off, but I was secretly worried. How would this sensitive child now score on the upcoming state tests, his concentration completely blown by bubbles?
Could I call the teacher?
And say what? That The Gerstenblatts are completely unreasonable freaks?
"Mom, that's not all." Andrew admitted. "She also plays with her hair."
I did the only thing I could do in this cruel, gum-supporting, lock-twisting world we live in. I looked at Andrew, a glorious dark-haired, brown-eyed, and olive skinned person who looks nothing like me, and hugged him close.
He is, after all, my child.Columnist and blogger Julie Gerstenblatt writes with humor and candor about her life in Scarsdale, her friends and family, and the particular demands of motherhood and wifedom in modern-day suburbia. Read about her new book Lauren Takes Leave and keep up with the latest from Julie Gerstenblatt at http://juliegerstenblatt.com.
