Little Miss Dollhouse Muffet
Sat on her mattress tuffet,
Reading and whiling her pandemic time away;
Along came a spider,
Who sat down beside her,
And frightened Miss Muffet and Teri away.
The End.
Yes, this blog post headline is sadly real.
I was fired on July 21, 2020, for seeking the truth about whether or not holding this year’s Cedarhurst, New York, sidewalk sale would be legal.
At least, I think I was fired. I never received a termination letter or anything in writing.
Nevertheless, I’m definitely out of a job, thanks to Cedarhurst’s Deputy Mayor, Ari Brown.
For over ten years, I was the Executive Director of The Cedarhurst Business Improvement District, and the centerpiece of my position was the annual Cedarhurst summer sidewalk sale.
Last year, close to 85 merchants participated in the four-day event, every parking lot in the village was packed, and thousands of shoppers participated.
Year after year, it was an event I had always been proud of organizing, promoting, and running.
But to bring thousands of people to Cedarhurst smack in the middle of a pandemic and an array of emergency laws and executive orders established as a result?
Not so much.
And unless the event was legal and permitted, I wanted no part of it.
Do I need to explain why?
To be fired for doing my job legally and responsibly? Well, that’s just flat-out WRONG.
To be fired for seeking the truth? WRONG.
To be fired for wanting to ensure that the Cedarhurst Business Improvement District and the Village of Cedarhurst didn’t sponsor an illegal public gathering? WRONG.
And get this one:
I get fired, and a few days later, the Cedarhurst Business Improvement District and the Village of Cedarhurst then decided NOT to move ahead with the August Sidewalk Sale.
So WRONG on so many levels. But based on the questionable character of some of the players, not surprising.
We are fighting against a deadly virus.
I mean, seriously, do I need to remind anybody of that?
Health officials have warned against large gatherings. The larger the crowd, the greater the chance that someone in it will have the virus. As the size of the crowd increases, so do the chances of COVID-19 exposure.
Duh.
When I was instructed to start work on the annual sidewalk sale in early July 2020, I didn’t know whether the event was legal or not.
Under the present circumstances, it sure didn’t seem like inviting thousands of people to descend upon a quarter-mile shopping area was the safest idea.
So, I got permission from my boss to make some calls to New York State and Nassau County to get a written statement as to the legality of the sidewalk sale.
Seemed like a no-brainer, right?
Call your state and local government during a PANDEMIC and get the go-ahead. Or not.
Well, so much for a no-brainer.
Over a two-week period, I made at least twenty attempts to get someone in the State or County government to put something in writing.
No one wanted to put anything in written form.
Heck, no one wanted to give me their last names.
I had plenty of people willing to tell me verbally that the event was not allowed, would be reported, and a fine would be issued.
But not one of those government officials had the guts to put it in writing.
Why not? I didn’t get it. Were they afraid of certain Cedarhurst Village officials? And if so, what were they afraid the officials would accuse them of?
It seemed that the only one who had the guts to put anything in writing was me.
And once I sent a written report to Deputy Mayor Ari Brown about my findings, things got u-g-l-y.
Heartbreakingly ugly.
I heard a lot of nasty lies and rumors spread about me by Deputy Mayor Ari Brown. He spread false rumors about my mental health, lied when he claimed I was unwilling to do my job, and falsely accused me of redacting and tampering with my workplace databases.
As if that weren’t enough, Deputy Mayor Ari Brown also made false claims about my being fired from my Executive Director position years earlier, as well as accusations that I lied about what state and county representatives told me regarding the 2020 Cedarhurst Sidewalk Sale.
Seriously?
BTW: ALL UNTRUE. And all of which I can prove to be untrue.
And as incredible as it may sound, Deputy Mayor Ari Brown also made accusations against my daughter (yes, my daughter) concerning what I will refer to as Zoomgate.
There’s even supposed to be a taped conversation between a certain Cedarhurst store owner and Ari Brown proving that despicable and untrue things were indeed said about me by the Deputy Mayor of Cedarhurst.
According to the store owner who taped him, he allegedly promised to give her my job, which she ultimately got.
Unseemly, right?
I didn’t see anywhere in my Executive Director job description that said it was okay to kill people.
Okay, maybe that’s a stretch. Or maybe it’s not.
Because it’s no stretch that increases in new confirmed COVID-19 cases were reported in 43 states this past week. And hospitalizations from the disease also increased. And COVID-19 deaths rose for the second straight week.
So why wouldn’t I question whether throwing a sidewalk sale party was legal or not?
Apparently, questioning the legality of the event was not allowed.
And refusing to work on the sale event unless I knew it was legal was also impermissible.
And that’s why I lost my job.
Honestly, I really didn’t want to write this blog post.
But the character assassination by the Village of Cedarhurst Deputy Mayor Ari Brown against me was devastatingly vicious and wholly untrue.
To be clear, I would have been willing to let the false accusations go if Ari Brown would have apologized.
But Ari Brown had no intention of apologizing. He wanted me out. Plain and simple.
Anyway, it’s too late to apologize.
Because Ari Brown went out of his way to engineer my removal as Executive Director with untruths and false accusations.
For certain men, their actions aren’t a matter of principle. Their actions are a matter of power and of winning—at any cost.
Even if it means trying to ruin someone’s reputation, in this case—mine.
My grandmother would always say that the only thing you have is your reputation and your good name and to never let anyone take that away from you.
That, my dear deceased grandmother, is easier said than done.
But I’m working on it.
All I can do at this point is be proud of having done my due diligence.
And I can tell my grandkids that during the pandemic, I sought the truth in order to protect a village, the merchants, the shoppers, and the community at large.
And for that, I was fired.
I’ll take it.
I’ll proudly wear that badge of honor.
I am continually asking myself:
Why do I allow bullies to trigger me?
Long ago, I should have learned that bullies have no power over me. And most importantly, that bullies have no power at all.
But trigger me, they do.
I was bullied for way too many of my younger years.
Bullied because I didn’t have a father.
Bullied because my mother was a child.
Bullied because I came from a broken home.
Bullied because my mother was excommunicated.
Bullied because my grandmother was excommunicated.
Bullied because I wore boy’s shoes.
Bullied because I was too tall, too skinny, awkward, scrawny, and homely.
Bullied because there was nothing special about me.
There I said it. So what?
There are millions of bullied kids out there with far worse problems.
And okay; so what if I wore boy’s shoes?
I had big feet.
And anyway, that was what was left in a bag on our Huron Street doorstep, fresh from Salvation Army.
Be thankful, was what my grandmother said.
So yeah, when I’m bullied, I lash out.
And I often go from zero to 100—just like that.
I have no tolerance for bully behavior.
And between us? I often feel regret for my aggressive response.
But then, I don’t.
I feel vindicated.
I feel like I’m making up for all those years that I was torturously bullied.
I decided a long time ago that I could be the heroine in my story.
Sometimes the story works out, and sometimes it doesn’t.
Back in 1975, my baby sister got a dollhouse for Christmas.
It was a classic white clapboard house with a black shingled roof and black shutters. It had eight good size rooms and was a replica of the house she lived in, so I dubbed it “The Blind Brook House.”
I was a Delta flight attendant, living in Miami at the time, but thirteen hundred miles didn’t stop me from being obsessed with all things dollhouse. That Christmas, I spent a fortune on furniture for Blind Brook and spent countless hours helping my sister set it all up.
I loved that dollhouse more than she did, and for whatever reason, it never caught her attention. By the following Christmas, it was relegated to the attic, where it languished for sixteen years.
In 1991, when the attic got cleaned out, the house was rediscovered, and I became the proud owner of the Blind Brook homestead.
The dollhouse was dirty and cobwebby and needed a paint job. My daughter was three years old at the time, and I figured she would love it. But like my sister, she didn’t have much of an interest in it at all.
Ironically, it was my seven-year-old son who loved Blind Brook. He helped me paint, carpet, and install stairs. We cleaned off all the furniture and set up the rooms according to his layout.
Soon after, my son lost interest in the dollhouse. So once again, it ended up in an attic—this time mine.
When we moved in 1996, the dollhouse was yet again rediscovered.
I wasn’t sure where we would put it, or if we even had room for it, but there was never a doubt in my mind that the Blind Brook house was coming with me.
At the time I dusted it off, and even though it needed a paint job, no one was interested in working on it with me, so I stuck it on a table in my daughter’s room with the front of the house facing forward, and we all forgot about it.
In 2017, my two granddaughters discovered the house and asked me what was behind the front door.
They were obsessed with it and wanted me to turn it around so they could see it from the back. I had all but forgotten that the house was full of furniture, and they loved it.
My oldest granddaughter wanted to know where the family was. Had they gone out? What did they look like? How many were there? Was there a cat?
Family? Cat?
I’m not sure why, but Blind Brook never had a family in it. Or any pets.
The strangest part is that I never even noticed the house was without a family, nor did anyone ever ask for one.
But my precious granddaughter wanted a family in that house, so I ordered one online—a mom, a dad, a little boy, a little girl, and a newborn baby.
The next time my granddaughter played with the house, she asked for a cat. So, I ordered a kitten. And a dog.
Fast forward to January 2020, when my husband and I bought her a dollhouse of her own. And she insisted that I buy her the exact family I had in my dollhouse. And of course, a cat of her own. And a kitty.
I was so looking forward to playing dollhouse with her. But then life changed, and all we could do was Zoom.
I began to look at Blind Brook from a whole other perspective. I was in quarantine, and so was my Blind Brook family.
As news of the virus got worse, I pulled out walls, and the staircase, to make larger rooms so that more people could fit into them.
While ordering corona supplies on Amazon, I threw in a miniature television and water cooler for my dollhouse. I wasn’t able to find real-people toilet paper, so I ordered lots and lots of miniature toilet paper instead.
Then the coronavirus spiraled out of control and took my Aunt Mary.
She was buried on my birthday.
I went online and ordered more people—an aunt, an uncle, three babies, and a girl cousin.
My Blind Brook family didn’t have to worry about ventilators, masks, or the lack of federal government leadership.
As I listened to the grimmest of reports day in and day out, I would take a daily reprieve from reality. With scissors, glue, and tape in hand, I went into fantasy mode.
I couldn’t do anything about the horrors outside my house, but I was in complete control of Blind Brook.
I added lighting and wallpaper, flooring, books, a dining room table, dishes, sandwiches, a menorah, bowls of tomato soup, and some beer on ice.
I tried to stay away from the news and binged on Dead To Me. By the time I finished Season Two, we were at 100,000 dead.
What could I do? What could I do to take control?
I put my dollhouse-sized Teri doppelganger in the Blind Brook television room and invited my friend, Robin, and my sister G for some wine, cheese, and potato chips. I sat back with Robin and we watched Dead To Me together, side by side, while my animal-loving sis played with the kitten.
But the lonely would not go away.
so I went for a bike ride and wore a mask, but I couldn’t breathe.
Build a fire. Think happy thoughts.
And then came the murder of George Floyd. He couldn’t breathe either.
But not because of some stupid mask.
I shut down and drank too much wine.
I installed windows in every Blind Brook room to let in the light, and I bought a kitchen clock and a grandma and grandpa.
As the protests raged, I sat on the floor, staring at my therapeutical masterpiece.
I noticed that the clock on the wall was set for 8:18. Or was it 8:17?
At 1:12 scale, it was near impossible to decipher the exact time. I wanted it to be 8:18. For anyone who knows me, 18 is my go-to number.
When I messengered a friend about the systemic pandemic within a pandemic and my thoughts on 8:18 vs. 8:17, she quoted Luke 8:17:
“For there is nothing hidden that will not be disclosed and nothing concealed that will not be known or brought out into the open.”
That’s when I decided to pull myself together. I reminded myself that I had come out the other end of a lot of bad stuff.
I was a warrior.
Covid-19 wasn’t going to be the straw that broke my back.
So, I added another six women, two men, a dog, a birdhouse, and a teenage girl who’s still on backorder along with my real-people toilet paper.
It finally felt like enough.
Blind Brook was full of family and friends. Lots of togetherness despite my fourteen weeks in isolated quarantine.
My sister Georgette thinks my dollhouse needs its own Instagram account.
I love Blind Brook, but I’m ready for a real life again.
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