Archie the Airedale

When my family moved from Yonkers to Dobbs Ferry in 1972 I immediately noticed a distinct difference between the two locales. It had nothing to do with the fact that Yonkers was more urban or that Dobbs Ferry was more socioeconomically elevated. The difference was dog care.

In Yonkers people used leaches and walked their dogs. And all dogs on my block in Yonkers walked to a green space in an apartment community called Tudor Woods--a  green space which I remembered as a massive area  until I went back to the old neighborhood this past October and was shocked to observe that the Tudor Woods green space was a mere a 150 x 150 unbuildable lot. The other glaring detail I observed so many years later was that there was not one architectural detail analogous with it being named “Tudor.” It was 100%  post war brick.

But back to Dobbs Ferry. In Dobbs Ferry no one walked their dogs. If people did walk their dog(s), it was without a leash. It appeared that people all over the town just opened their doors, let their dogs out and expected them to return. (maybe I shouldn’t  be so surprised—that’s what mothers did with their children in those days too—before we learned about pedophiles and what really went on in rectories). Miraculously, people managed to retain their dogs despite no invisible fences, micro-chipping, or personal dog trainers (they weren’t invented yet. 

Across the street from my house on Briary Road lived a young family that I grew to know and love.  They owned an Airedale named Archie. Archie was a really not-so-bright dog despite the fact that he was a pure bred terrier.  My father would say Archie rode on the short bus to dog school. Archie was also temperamental and not particularly fond of many people.

The family who owned Archie would let him out each morning. Archie would then lie in his favorite spot: the middle of Briary Road. Archie would lie in the middle of the road and would not move. He basked  there all day long winter, spring, summer, and fall. And the neighbors became accoustomed to this behavior. So when they drove up or down the road they would just drive around him. But when strangers would drive up or down the road, they would obviously get concerned. Drivers would see Archie lying there and they would honk their horn. But Archie wouldn’t move. If the dog did anything at all, he would just bark. On many occasions I or my mother would yell to or signal the stopped honking vehicle to just go around the dog. But more often than not, our reward for this kindness was that people would mistake Archie as our dog, and yell at us for not bringing him inside.

Now, you should have no doubt-- it’s not that the family didn’t love their dog. They did. This wasn’t animal abuse. The family just respected Archie’s “space.”And it wasn't just the norm, but it was also within the town code (no fences) for people to allow their dogs to roam free. So Archie just “did his thing.” And in 1972 for people and I guess for dogs too, it was all about the right to “do your own thing.” Madison Avenue had even marketed the slogan. It was the age of “free to be just you and me.”

And one day my brother Mark parked his 1968 electric blue Plymouth Valiant on the side of the road near Archie’s favorite sleeping spot (ie the middle of Briary Road). And apparently Archie didn’t approve of my brother’s parking location. Because Archie, who barely moved from the center of the road but to attack the mailman, decided to pick a fight with my brother. Archie got up and followed alongside of Mark. As my brother walked, Archie barked. What I imagine the dialogue to be if I understood dog-speak and I could hear my brother’s conversation with Archie from where I stood, it would be this:

Archie: Yo dude. Move your car. It’s too close to my sleeping spot.

Mark: Out of my way Archie—I am not moving it.

Archie: Dude. Move your f-ing car or I am going to bite you.

Mark: No— you dumb dog.

And that’s when Archie jumped up and attempted biting my brother. And that’s when I watched my brother take his fist and punch Archie squarely in the head like he was a person. It was the only time I think my brother ever got into a fist fight—and it was with a dog. And thankfully, my brother won.(How embarrassing would it have been if he hadn’t?)  Archie, who was already a little bit mentally impaired, stumbled away with even fewer brain cells than he had before the scuffle—that’s how hard my brother punched him. There were birds chirping over Archie's head like in a Buggs Bunny cartoon. And Archie never picked a fight with Mark again --although he continued to forever lie in the middle of the road.

But my family never forgot Archie.  When my father was sick, we would talk about that crazy airedale and we would laugh. And until the day my father got too sick to do so, he would do impressions of what he thought Archie was saying when he barked.  And my father would lower his voice an octave or two while simultaneously letting it lilt melodically up and down-- and with a slow cadence would say: My name is Archie. I am a dog. I go Woof Woof Woof. And we would all laugh.

Dancing with Ellen DeGeneres

From time to time I watch the Ellen DeGeneres show. The part of the show I love most is when she dances. And I love it because it proves my theory: People my age are not obligated  to only  listen to  music circa 1982 nor are they obligated to retain their circa 1982 dance moves. And note well, when I say “dance moves,” I am being generous with the term.

I am peeved to see people my age only get up on the dance floor at an event when the DJ plays the Bee Gee’s” Stayin’ Alive or K.C. and the Sunshine Band’s That the Way I Like It. What I find glaringly inconsistent is that many of those same people--who are rarely in need of a fashion or beauty make-over, have chosen not to stay current with either music, and/or dance moves. While their personal styling makes them appear younger than they are, their stagnant taste in music and dance moves reveals their true age almost instantly.

People my age (50ish) must abandon their 1980’s Courtney Cox Bruce Springsteen’s Dancing in the Dark video pseudo pony-like east-west shift of the feet while swinging their arms dance move thing.  Those moves are like wearing a neon blinking banner that reads Caution: 50 year old on the dance floor. Just the way if you see someone on the dance floor dancing the Lindy or the Peabody, you know they are 80+ years old.

I happen to enjoy new music and I have modified my dance moves accordingly. But because of that, I have heard comments like:  I can’t believe you listen to that. I can’t believe you dance like that. What do you think—that you are a teenager? Are you just trying to get in with your daughters? Don’t you think that you are a little old to be listening/dancing like that?

And the answer to all those questions is a resounding: NO!! Music and dance transcend age. Humans evolve. I am free (like Ellen DeGeneres) to enjoy Lady Gaga, Usher, and Florence and the Machine. And since I watch Dancing with the Stars, I know that dancing the foxtrot to a waltz or dancing the samba to a jive is a no-no. No one ever Irish step dances to The Nutcracker do they? So why would I do the Courtney Cox thing to Lil' John’s Get Low?  It’s nonsensical.  If it is still age appropriate for me to wear purple nail polish, then I can grind my pelvis on the dance floor while singing:  Apple bottom jeans and the boots with the fur.  I refuse to get stuck in a musical/dance time warp. Music and dance is candy to the soul. And I can tell you one thing for ‘sho…this shorty is going to keep getting low low low low low low low low ah…Even if I need an epidural afterwards. Which I might. Just because I don’t look my age, or dance my age, doesn’t mean my age won’t keep its criticism to itself.

My Bikini

A couple of weeks ago my two neighbors and I converged in my driveway. My neighbor Kathy had just come back from her morning walk, and Patti, my other neighbor, was out walking her dog. The conversation meandered at some point to a discussion about the upcoming beach club season for the both of them. And we found ourselves discussing bathing suits: specifically that a recent survey stated that the cut-off year for women wearing bikinis was age 47.

I am not 47. But neither am I fat. And my muscle tone is not so terrible. Comparatively speaking, my body isn’t as bad as many women significantly younger than me. In fact, it isn’t that bad at all. But despite all that, the only place I am comfortable wearing a bikini is in my backyard where only the squirrels can see me. And even when I chose to go in my backyard, in my bikini, where only the squirrels can see me, I make sure I have received a spray tan first. And even though I only wear a bikini in my backyard where only the squirrels can see me with my spray tan, I am still insecure. I fear the squirrels in my yard will judge me and tell the other squirrels in my neighbor’s yard that I am wearing inappropriate swimwear.

So let me tell you about my bikini. It of course it black. Black is the most universally flattering swimsuit color (or at least that is what every fashion magazine I have ever read says). The top was designed by a civil engineer. And that civil engineer did design work formerly for NASA. The task after all is to elevate a large load with minimal structural support and maximum aesthetics. The top must defy gravity. The bottom, merely needs to fall below the navel and above the caesarian scar. Oh and of course the bottom needs full coverage on the rear.

I searched days and weeks in a multitude of stores to find an appropriate suit just to wear in my backyard where only the squirrels can see me with my spray tan. And when I found the perfect suit, price was an insignificant factor. Any suit that could do that much work and still look good just so the squirrels wouldn’t talk crap about me was worth any price. And let me tell you, I have spent less money on evening gowns with the matching shoes for the price of that bikini.

When I see pregnant women, and get a warm nostalgic feeling, it has nothing to do with the emotions linked with new motherhood. It is because the only time in my life I felt confident in a bathing suit was when I was pregnant. I looked like a baby beluga and it was perfectly fine. I was supposed to look that way. No one judged me. Not even the squirrels.

I have an Idiocyncracy

I have an idiosyncrasy. I prefer for people to walk ahead of me when I walk up the stairs. I don’t like to walk up the steps first. This behavior does not apply in places like a train station or an airport where I am surrounded by strangers.  I am okay walking up steps when I don’t personally know the people walking behind me. My bizzarro-ness on the stairwell is prompted only by being with someone or a group of people I know.

If put in a situation where I have no choice but to go ahead of people on the stairwell, I will turn and walk either sideways or backwards—it is necessary for me at all times to observe the behavior of the people accompanying me. And so as to not to make my behavior seem obvious, I engage in conversation as I walk. I compensate for my peculiarity by seeming so deeply engaged in discourse that I seek constant eye contact as I walk. Now imagine how particularly difficult it was for me when I was younger in Catholic school and I was forbidden to speak and had to face forward in a single line as I walked. I had to manage the best I could with my mania without either getting into trouble, or letting out my secret.

My PTSS—Post Traumatic Stair Syndrome stems from early childhood. When I was little, my brother Mark, who was 4 years older than I, was taught ladies go first. And he used that social rule to mess with me. When I would walk up the steps ahead of him as mandated by the ladies go first rule he would pull my ankles so I would fall. He thought this was hilarious. I of course did not. And because he was so much bigger physically than I was, no matter how fast I tried to run up those stairs, he would succeed in making me fall. It wasn’t as painful when the stairs were carpeted-- the pain was mostly from rug burn because of the underpadding.  But when the stairs were asbestos tile with metal capping, boy did that hurt. And my brother Mark was skilled. There hardly ever were any witnesses. And so my cries for help went almost entirely unanswered.

On the rare occasion when my brother got caught, he was made to apologize and promise never to do it again. But my brother had watched too many Charles Schultz Peanut Cartoons. Like Lucy with the football promising Charlie Brown she would not pull the ball away when he kicked, the thought of initiating the fall of a flailing, tumbling victim was just too irresistible to pass up. And Like Charlie Brown, I fell every time. And I mean, every time.

Trauma is pretty interesting. Despite the fact that I understand intellectually that when for example I am walking ahead of my friends they would never intentionally make me fall, the bizzaro-monster in my head has huge doubts and encourages me to be safe rather than sorry. And I wonder whether now that I have come clean about my emotional affliction, the catharsis of it all might abate my anxiety. Maybe now I will feel free. I doubt it—until VH-1 gives Dr. Drew a new show: Non-Celebrity Stairwell Rehab, I will be forever scarred.    

Are You There God? It's Me, Sunday

It is Sunday. I am thinking that maybe on Sundays, I should mix it up a little. Give posting a rest. Maybe take the day off. Not because I have nothing to write about. I always have something to write about.

The bible says God rested on Sunday. And I mean no disrespect to God but did God really need to rest? Is it that hard being God? And if it is that difficult, couldn’t he just make the job easier? He is God after all. And if he rested all day what was he doing? Lying on the couch in his Old Navy God pajamas watching reruns of the Millionaire Matchmaker on Bravo? And what about us humans? Does God rest every Sunday?  And if God is resting every Sunday, then are all Sunday prayers met with a God-like auto answering response:  Sorry. I am out of the office until Monday.

Okay. So I couldn’t help myself. I just had to get a few thoughts out. The pressure was too great. Maybe next Sunday I’ll do better. I would ask God for absolution but I am afraid he is busy resting with his God-like clicker in hand. Hmmm....do you think heaven subscribes to Cablevision or Fios?

.

Chinese Food Anyone?

When I was a little girl I never played with baby dolls. I hated them. That’s because I hated babies. I was a card carrying baby hater. Babies were nasty creatures. I just didn’t understand why people oogled over them. They were amorphous, wet and sticky. And they required changing because they couldn’t hold their urine or bowel movements. And worst of all, they couldn’t communicate other than crying. Babies were, to be blunt—way too needy for me.

My mother was quite appalled at my sentiment. She feared I would never have children. But while I was unimpressed with babies, I did like toddlers. Toddlers were different. Toddlers were communicative. They also could transport themselves from location to location without human intervention. Their minds were developing patterns of critical thinking. They were fun to be around.

And in May 1987, much to my mother’s relief, I gave birth to my first child. By the time I had become an adult I had rationalized the entire infant/baby thing as just a phase one had to endure to get to the good part—toddlerhood.

Samantha was my firstborn. I loved her. But I secretly counted the days and months until she would forego babyhood and become a true miniature person. And she was no disappointment once she hit toddlerhood. Aside from her fear of men, old people and swaying trees, she was fun to be around. She was calm, creative, well-mannered and insightful. Samantha was an awful eater in terms of variety, but the things she liked to eat, she really liked to eat.  Her favorite food was Chinese food: specifically wonton soup and chicken with broccoli in white sauce from Orchid restaurant. Samantha just loved loved loved Chinese food. So it was the thing I bribed her with when I needed special Mommy favors. If Samantha could have eaten Chinese food every day of the week at every meal she would have been the happiest child ever.

And so it was at age 3, in the prime of toddlerhood, at the dawn of self-awareness and critical thinking, that Samantha had her first epiphany.

We were walking in Roosevelt Field Mall. Briana, approximately a year old, was sitting in the stroller, and Samantha was walking beside me. As is typical in the mall we passed lots of people of diverse ethnic backgrounds. But some one, or some group of people must set off a cascade of thought for her. And of course I was unable to get into Samantha’s head  but from where I stood  I could see something totally miraculous had happened. Samantha stopped dead in her tracks. Her eyes opened wide. An aura surrounded her—and then she uttered the most profound statement from her lips. It was so profound that even the Dalai Lama would have nodded his bald little head in envy over its insightfulness. Samantha, nearly shaking with excitement simply said Mommy—do Chinese people get to eat Chinese food everyday? And my response of course was Yes—Chinese people do get to eat Chinese food everyday.

Well. That was just too unbelievable. Her little world had just gotten bigger--way bigger. The thought was so provocative it took her a few moments to collect herself. And she was never the same again. At that moment, Samantha  officially became a true miniature person.

Last Thursday my beloved first born took a day off from work to come home and spend the day. As dinnertime approached I asked her if she wanted me to cook or whether she wanted to go out to eat. We decided to go out. We ate at Orchid restaurant where we ordered wonton soup, chicken with broccoli in white sauce, and pork lo mein. Twenty four years later and the dietary repertoire has expanded only slightly. Some things will never change-- and that is a comfort. It means Samantha will always be my little girl.

My Book Club Genesis

In the summer of 1972, my then best friend Valerie Daly and I founded the Coocamonga Club. It was housed in Valerie’s garage.  We had a club crest (two “C”s that overlapped) and club rules and a secret knock. We couldn’t decide who should be president and who should be vice-president so we both became co-presidents. We were very exclusive. We only had 2 members: her and I.  We had solicited Nina Weissblum (who later changed her name to Naomi, but at that point was still Nina) to join. And while Nina wanted to be a member, since we were normal 12 year old girls, we decided to be mean and deny her application. We also debated long and hard about Jesse Weiner. Jesse lived next door to me. He would have been an asset to the Coocamonga Club, but since he was a boy, we ultimately decided that while we would allow him some privileges of being a member, he could never be an official member. Much the way our Country Club Cherry Valley will not allow me entrance to the Member’s grill or let me play golf on a Saturday morning.

In September of 2004 I founded our book club. It seemed that every woman I knew at that point in time belonged to one—even my mother. So I created ours. I chose each individual member precisely because each of them had some personally flaw congruous with my own. And hey, if I was going to put a group of people together why shouldn’t they all be a little bit like me? And I am comfortable admitting that part of the personal goal for me for creating the book club was exclusivity, ala the Coocamonga Club.  But I also enjoyed reading and needed the pressure of a deadline to get more reading accomplished.

My newly created book club did not have a crest or secret knock, but we did have rules. And as founder of the book club, I created the rules.  It was my group after all. So the rules were based on my personal needs as well as information I had gleaned from other friends who were already in book clubs.

The first rule was that the book couldn’t be too long (>400 pages) or too hard (no Shakespeare or Tolstoy). The second rule was that the members would be willing to buy the book if necessary (i.e. it didn’t have to be from the library.) Rule #3 was the meeting would rotate alphabetically, wine must be served (red and white), and the hostess would choose the book. But the best rule of all was rule #4: no one was obligated to actually read the book. Commitment was too stressful. Everyone would agree to try their best to get the reading accomplished (or started on some cases), but if it didn’t happen, no one would be judged, and members could still attend the meeting.

And it is precisely because of that last rule, that our book club is in reality, a wine drinking, talk about what’s going on in your life, club. Yes. We really do have the best of intentions every month of getting cerebral, but what’s that saying about the road and good intentions? Life just sometimes gets in the way. Best of all, we never judge each other for not meeting the reading deadline (other things maybe, but not the reading deadline) And, as the majority of us are the product of a guilt laden Catholic upbringing, the self-shamed individuals who did not read the book will make a good confession, followed by a group absolution(no Hail Marys required). We are a shame-free (and shameless) organization.

Last August I got a random phone call. It was from Jesse Weiner (I kid you not). I had not spoken to him since my family moved from Yonkers in September of 1972. He now lives in Mahopac or Yorktown or some such place in Putnam County with his wife and family. And Jesse’s wife is best friends with---are you ready? Valerie Daly. Go figure. And I thought to myself but was too embarassed to ask: Does your wife and Valerie belong to a book club?

An Absolute World (No. Not Vodka)

My father saw the world in terms of absolutes: liberal or conservative, gay or straight, east or west, right or wrong, black or white. There were no grays in my father’s world. A rule was a rule—all the time—without question--case closed (his favorite phrase).

When I got to college, and studied higher math I learned things like: everything to the zero power is 1 but zero to the zero power is undefined; and that parallel lines meet in infinity. I also remember graphing differential equations or derivatives or something long forgotten like that where on the graph,  for a particular set of coordinates, one would place a circle—it was called a hole—and it meant none of the math rules for those coordinates applied. If parallel lines could meet, and graphs could have holes, then the premise that the world is absolute couldn’t possibly be true. There must be an exception to every rule. There must be gray in every black.     

So I got to really thinking about it.  Is there really an exception to every rule? Could I find a gray in every black? The first thought popped in my head was this: Do not let babies play with plastic bags. Absolutely—that’s a good rule. It even says it prominently on the side of the dry cleaning bag. No one wants the baby to suffocate. But what if the plastic bag was really really really small? So very tiny that the bag could be ingested by the baby and then pooped out later—then it would be okay for the baby to play with a plastic bag—the bag would no longer be a danger. Or how about this one: Only cross the street when the sign says walk. My mother did that and that’s how she got hit by a car in the crosswalk on Franklin Avenue—and she even looked both ways before she crossed.  Or how about an even more serious one: Never take heroin. Surely that has to be an absolute rule—unless you are at the very very end stages of cancer and you are close to death and in terrible pain and the morphine isn’t working and you are not too afraid to go to Hempstead to get it—then heroin would be okay--illegal, but ethically okay. 

I don’t think rules were made to be broken necessarily but certainly very many, if not all rules have an exception. And sometimes the exception is easy to discern---like that it’s okay to wear white jeans past Labor day if you are vacationing in Australia where it is summertime. Sometimes the exception is more difficult to arrive at though; like for example: if it is Friday during Lent and you accidentally pop a mini hotdog in your mouth at a cocktail party should you spit it out to adhere to the no meat rule, or should you swallow it to conform to the don’t waste food rule. Which rule has the more ethical exception? No meat or no waste?

Technically black and white are not colors. Black is the absorption of all the colors of the spectrum and white is the reflection of all the colors of the spectrum. An absolute is in fact not absolute (unless we are talking about Vodka). A case maybe closed, but as long as it is not locked, the wind could blow it wide open. My Aunt Jackie taught me that sometimes 2 + 2 = 5. And while her intended meaning was not literal (she meant that it was okay to let people be wrong about things sometimes if it avoided meaningless conflict), she happens to be mathematically correct. 2 + 2 only equals 4 in a base 10 math system. In a different base system the equation could in theory equal 5. Exceptions are the rule.

Making my Daughter's Bed

In the Billy Joel song Captain Jack there is a line that reads: Well you are 21 and still your mother makes your bed, and that’s too long. Uhh….Wrong. The reason Billy Joel even thought to write that line is because he is a man. No woman would write that—especially when they have to walk past their 21+ year old child’s room everyday to see what a crap box mess it is. I make my 22 year old child’s bed in order to maintain my own tenuous state of sanity. I do it for me, not her. Sorry Billy to contradict you.

My mother (who supports as often as takes issue with my views on parenting) very recently accused me of encouraging my 22 year old daughter to move out because I had become OCD like my Aunt Sally and just wanted a neat house. What she implied in her statement, but was too passive-aggressive to say out loud was, that it was proper and desirable for girls to live at home with their mother until they marry and their husband supports them; AND, that by encouraging my daughter to be on her own, I was corrupting her moral character and not fulfilling my motherly role.

Okay first of all, she already has grandchildren with their own apartments so this shouldn’t have been a shock. And secondly, and more importantly, children are only leased to their parents. We do not own them. And good parents understand that their job is to nurture and support independent, well-adjusted children who reach adulthood financially and emotionally self-supporting. The fact that they go off the family payroll and ones’ house remains neat and clean as a result, is just a really big perk.

And quite honestly when I was 22 years old I was perfectly content living in a crapbox mess too. My mother forgets. I “made” my bed by pulling the comforter over my rumpled sheets. And as far as the messy room went: I just either hid my clothes on my closet floor, put them under my bed, or put the clean and/or dirty clothes down the laundry chute. The payback for my mother nagging me about my messy room and having me be in charge of straightening it out was that my mother had much more laundry and ironing to do AND she still had to remake my bed.

And when my mother had me vacuum my room I certainly never moved the furniture. Although I lied and told her I did. I remember one year on Thanksgiving my little cousins had played in my room, eaten olives and thrown the pits behind my dresser. The pits and the voluminous dust bunnies behind the dresser formed such a symbiosis that at Easter that same year there were olive trees growing in my room. It was like living in Greece.

Which is why I limit my nagging to more important issues like Did you follow-up on that job opportunity? or Did you let Jasper and Cosmo out after they were fed? I have chosen to concede the battle of her tornado-like living quarters . My 22 year old’s unmade bed and crapbox room is only temporary—a current chore with a finite end.  The contract on my parental lease is drawing to a close and there is no option to own. It’s just the way of it. All birds must fly. And once she makes her own nest, she can keep it as clean or messy as she likes. As long as she tidies up before her grandmother visits.

To the Victor Goes the Natty Light

According to the United States Office of Justice up to 81% of high school students engage in underage drinking on a regular basis. And by the word engage they mean everything from a few sips from a Solo cup during a game of beer pong to full out binging several times a month. Unfortunately, my girls did not fall in the 19% that abstained from alcohol consumption. I spend eight years of my life as Commissioner of the Ciccone Family Alcohol Police Department. And the only reason my tenure extended for merely 8 years was because once the little darlings went off to college, I waived the white flag. Victory went to the Natty Light. As one of my daughter’s friends once famously said in a drunken ramble during her first winter break home from school: We’re in college now.

If one can glean anything from that hefty 81% number, it would be this: If up to 81% of higher schoolers drink on a regular basis then without question it isn’t just the “bad kids” or the “cool kids” or the “athletes” (you know, the groups of kids notoriously blamed for every social evil in high school) knocking them back on Friday and Saturday nights. If 81% of high schoolers drink, then at least some of them, if not most of them are “good kids” who likely have “good parents”.

And if that is so, then the only difference between drinking on a random weekend night during the year and drinking on an event night like prom, or the Winter Wonderland or a graduation party is the outfits, makeup and hair that is worn when they drink. There seems to be this misconception among neophyte yet well intentioned parents that special events cause underage drinking. No no no. They will drink event or not. On the nights of special events they just purchase higher end alcohol products to meet their more upscale attire. In fact, one could argue that kids are safer during the evenings of special events because for the 3 or 4 hours they are at the event, they aren’t drinking. Hmm that’s a concept.

Be certain of this: I am not condoning teenage drinking. It is dangerous and illegal.  But when my daughters would say to me: Mom. Everyone drinks.  Guess what?—they weren’t lying. I was the one who was misinformed.  And there is data to support their snotty remark. Good kids from nice towns from good families engage in underage drinking. “Just say no” isn’t working. Not when middle schoolers can learn how to play beer pong and proper funneling technique off of Youtube. Maybe, just like we give the message of Abstinence is best when it comes to sex, but if you do have sex, use a condom and be safe needs to apply to underage drinking: Don’t drink, but if you do, limit the amount and be safe about it. Maybe teaching responsible drinking will save more lives than expecting alcohol abstinence.

The good news for me is that in 10 months my youngest child turns 21. It’s almost over. Thank God. And when the kid who lives behind me turns 21, I won’t have to clean out the bags of empty beer cans he leaves behind my garage.

Life in Dollywood

I worked at the Westchester County Department of Labs and Research many moons ago when I actually got paid for my employment. My title was Environmental Organic Chemist. It was a CSEA position.

Only two types of people worked at the lab: either young people right out of college who were looking to gain enough experience to allow them to leave for a large private company, or, the life-ers—people who were content to work as little as possible, sail under the radar of life, and collect a pretty decent salary for it. The lab was the kind of place where the people who got A’s in school ended up working for the people who got C’s.

The director of the lab was a woman named Dolly. Dolly was in her mid to late fifties and had only ever worked at the Lab. She was an ex-nun and had spent her time since leaving the convent living with her child hood girlfriend. Dolly had no sense of humor whatsoever. I mean zero—as in she never smiled—ever—not even a crack . Think of the character of Sue from Glee. And evidently she had attended nun training just long enough to exude that Catholic school I-want-to-mind-bang-you attitude thing. She thrived on mind banging people. And she particularly enjoyed mind-banging the young people who had no intention of becoming life-ers—they were her favorite victims.

At the lab, in order to walk from one designated coffee drinking area to the other coffee designated drinking area, you had to pass through the chemistry lab which was a non-designated area.  Every day, I and about 5 or 6 of my co-workers carried our coffee through the illegal coffee zone to the legal coffee drinking zone because was no other viable alternative.  But in doing so, we had to pass by Dolly’s office, which was made of glass.

On 2 or 3 occasions Dolly mentioned to me (and only me---I was being singled out) that she didn’t want coffee transported through the non-designated zone. It was a health hazard—as if the chemicals could jump off of the lab tables out of the test tubes entirely of their own accord into my coffee cup. But when I mentioned that it was physically impossible to get from one designated area to the other, she simply said then don’t drink coffee. And while I might have been young, I knew this had noting to do with health hazards. It was about authority. It was about control. It was about setting an example. But I had never feared bullies before and submitting to authority just for authority’s sake was permanently off my “things to do” list--it was the price of too many years of Catholic school education.

So I continued to transport illegal cups of coffee into the DMCZ (demilitarized coffee zone) until one day she called me into her office to have me sign a letter of insubordination for my permanent file. The letter read—and I swear this is true: Miss Manello refuses to stop transporting  coffee through the undesignated coffee drinking area to the designated coffee drinking area despite repeated requests for her not to do so. As she is in violation of the coffee transport rule, I am citing her for insubordination.

I was speechless.  My brain translated that letter into : Karen doesn’t listen to me—and so I'm telling on her. But instead of crying and begging her not to cite me, I told her in a reverent tone that if she felt that that was what she needed to do to make herself feel more important, that I would have no problem signing it—the citation was a poorer reflection on her for writing it, than for me for signing it. Needless to say she as not happy with my response.

But the story is not over. For days afterwards I walked down the hall past her office with my coffee cup in hand sipping from it as if there was coffee in it. I could see her sitting in her office behind her glass walls seething with anger until finally she took the bait. Dolly came screaming down the hall at me while I was in a crowd of co-workers yelling Miss Manello stop right there! Stop right there!! I told you before not to carry coffee around!! I will have you brought up to the union!!! I have witnesses!!

And so I did stop, lowered my head, and turned the cup upside down. Not only was the cup empty, but it was perfectly clean and dry.  I thought she was going to stroke out right there in front of us. She announced This is not funny!  and stormed back to her office. powerless and defeated 

The good news is, despite taking a risk  it paid off. Her humiliation was so great, she pretty much left me alone from there on in. I also became a bit of a hero with my co-workers.  My father was not proud of my behavior (he did not approve of smart-asses) but I was. No regrets--even now, 28 years later.

Sometimes the end justifies the means. Dolly was not a nice person. I am glad I was the one to get her to wake up and smell the coffee-- even if it was only until she preyed on the next victim.

Happy Father's Day

Today is Father’s Day. My father is not here. He died 15 years ago of a brain tumor. It was unpleasant.

My father was an interesting man with a wide range of interests. He was a talented musician, a well-respected school administrator, and a brigadier general in the NY Guard. He was funny, short-tempered, sharp-minded and loved. He was a father, grandfather, son and husband.

I have lots of stories about him but I will not share them today. On another day I will.

I do not just miss him, I miss what he has missed.

Happy Father’s Day Daddy. Case Closed.

My Mother's Hair

Saturday is a pivotal day of the week for me. Not because it is the weekend. Not because of the “honey-do” chores. Saturday is pivotal because it is the day my 80 year old mother gets her hair done. At 11 am every Saturday my mother has a standing appointment at Madison Taylor Salon. How well the appointment proceeds will determine the tone not only of my mother’s week, but unfortunately, my week as well.

My mother’s hair is a separate being with its own distinct personality.  If her hair cooperates, exalts in the pampering, and “stays” until her next appointment, life is good. Life is carefree. Beauty abounds. And beauty is very very very important to my mother. Her hair is her crown jewel— the Hope diamond of her looks. If her hair refuses to acquiesce, and rebels against the tease comb and hair product--- and therefore doesn’t “stay,” life is a living hell. For an entire week I hear about it.

There are 3 players who unite to transform the hair into a thing of beauty: the first of course is my mother( that is where the hair resides), the second is the hair itself (equipped with its own thoughts and opinions) and the third and most important player in the mood/hair determiner is Vinny. Vinny is my mother’s hairdresser. Vinny is a slim, polished, taut, talented, temperamental, gay man. Vinny is fabulous.  He is a true artist of his craft. The problem is the only person Vinny feels obligated to answer to is himself. He, and he alone, detemines how on any given Saturday, my mother’s hair is to be coiffed. Input from my mother on color, cut or style is not just unwelcome, it is forbidden. And if Vinny himself is not having what he calls a “creative day” the hair suffers. And if the hair suffers, Vinny is maligned, and my mother’s disposition becomes foul. It’s a trifecta of disaster.   

So. The hair, my mother, and Vinny must toil in seamless syncopation to create the perfect “do.” And the perfect “do” is big--really really big. It swoops. It fans. It cascades upward and it requires so much hairspray my hardwood floors are jealous. The secret service could use it as a protective shield to guard the president. OSHA laws are violated just  so the “do” can “stay”.

So every Saturday it is with trepidation that I ask my mother the following question: How’s your hair? And if she says he was in a mood, it’s not that big, and I am not sure if it is going to “stay”, I know I am in trouble.

Mommy. I Had a Bad Dream.

I have 3 daughters.  My friend Susan has 2 sons. One of our favorite topics of discussion is how uncommunicative sons are and how overly communicative daughters can be.

Sometimes I think I could stand my girls being a little less communicative—particularly when they ask me things way outside of my range of knowledge. When they were little I told them Mommies see and know everything— a creepy scare tactic to keep them in line. But as they are now 20, 22, and 24 years of age you would have thought by this point that they would have figured out that I am not omniscient nor can I solve every problem. And not only am I unable to solve all their problems, even if I had the capacity, I just don’t want to anymore. It’s too exhausting. Not to mention thankless.

Recently my eldest daughter Samantha emailed me from work. The email read something like this:

Mom. I am having a lot of dreams about being barefoot. I googled barefoot dreams and one site says barefoot dreams represent feeling carefree and independent. The other website says barefoot dreams represent feelings of inadequacy and unpreparedness. Which one am I?

I am not kidding. This was the pressing issue she took time out for in her busy day at work to discuss with me. And the thing is, not only did she genuinely expect me to know the answer, she expected me to tell her immediately. And while I have watched a lot of Dr. Phil, what do I know about what her barefoot dreams mean? Maybe she’s wearing socks to bed and her feet are warm and subconsciously she just wants to be barefoot.  Maybe being barefoot means she subconsciously just wants to buy a new pair of sandals. I don’t know.

But what I do know for sure is that no matter what meaning I do think her dreams represent, it will be met with strong opposition. If I say her dreams represent feeling carefree, she will argue No I am not. I am so stressed. Don’t you know how stressed I am. How can you say I am carefree? I am not carefree. Why do you think I am carefree? Do I act carefree? I am definitely not carefree.

Conversely, if I tell her her dreams represent feeling inadequate and unprepared she will say are you calling me unprepared? I am not unprepared. I am always prepared. That’s why I am stressed. I am always prepared.

I learned a long time ago to recognize a trap. And this was about as lose-lose as it gets. So I took the easy way out. I told her both dream interpretations were accurate depending on the day. When she was having a good day, her barefoot dreams meant she was feeling carefree and independent. When she was having a bad day, her barefoot dreams meant she was feeling unprepared and inadequate. And I am proud to say, she was satisfied. No arguments either.

Maybe omniscience isn't defined by infinite volumes of facts and data. Maybe omniscience is just always knowing how and when to step around a landmine. 

Whisker Wars

Yesterday the new issue of Rolling Stone Magazine arrived. Not for me of course.  I am not that cool. It arrived for my daughter Kara who is spending the summer in Atlanta. But since she isn’t here to remind me how uncool I am and why I shouldn’t be reading her magazine-- for spite, and because the cover had a teaser about the upcoming season of True Blood that really interested me, I read it.

Under the heading of Summer Cable Preview  I noticed a new documentary-series  on IFC called Whisker Wars. The first line of the article read: At last an in depth look at the world of competitive bearding. I was confused. What was competitive bearding? Hmm I might know—it’s when several of my female friends and I lock ourselves in a room for a week without tweezers. I could be a champion of the consequences of that. Unless it’s a waxing competition between several high priced NYC salons? But that would be would be competitive de-bearding…nevermind.

No it seems that competitive bearding is a follicular challenge (not my words). Some of the categories include (and this is a direct quote) Imperial Mustache and Full Beard Freestyle. So in essence it’s an international facial hair competition between a bunch of men who look a lot like ZZ Top—or Santa Claus. And while I am trying really hard not to judge these people I just don’t get it. Although, I don't get those Tatoo/Ink shows either. But, I guess if you compare the bearded guys to the tattoo guys, at least the bearded guys can always shave to instantly conform to the real world. Tattoo removal?—not so quick and easy.

I may just have to watch Whisker Wars to satisfy my curiosity.  I wonder if any other woman besides Mrs. Claus will be watching--she obviously finds the look attractive. Perhaps Santa might even get lucky that night.

Whisker Wars is on IFC Friday nights at 11 pm. I’ll bet Gillette isn’t the sponsor.

Menopause: Black Swan Style

My cousin Betty is 10 years older than I and since neither of us had a sister, we kind of adopted each other to fill the void.  As her “little sister”, she often coached me on things like motherhood and of course more recently: menopause. She would tell me that when her hormones surged, she could feel her evil twin (as she called it) emerge.

One of last year’s best motion pictures was The Black Swan. I loved it. It was dark, creepy, and suspenseful. The sounds effects alone made me squirm (like the sound of Natalie Portman’s toenail being ripped off).

Being the dramatic and weirdly imaginative person that I am, I believe this movie is actually an allegory for menopause. This is my version of menopause—black swan style:

I am Natalie Portman, dressed in all in white, hair neatly pulled up into a tight knot on top of my head. I am in point shoes, up on my toes with my wrists and hands flitting gracefully like little wings as I travel along on the stage of life. I am happy happy happy! My family and friends are in the audience admiring and encouraging my total loveliness. I am obedient and submissive.

But….up in the glass control room overlooking the stage lurks the stoner-y looking pituitary man.(I am not sure why I need him to be stoner-y looking but it is critical at least  that he be a man) In his control room he has  switches that look like huge glider-type dimmers. Each one regulates a different hormone: estrogen, progesterone, FSH, thyroxin and testosterone.  Wickedly, just to see what power he really has over me, in the middle of the act, he starts manipulating the switches. Some he cranks up, and others he cranks down….. Until it happens: the pretty little white swan (that would be me) turns ebony with giant glossy black wings. My pupils turn deep glowing crimson red and in a raspy defiant Darth Vader voice announce It’s my turn. The audience (my family and friends) gasps in disbelief. The evil stoner pituitary man takes another hit of weed and laughs ha ha ha in his control room. The good little white swan (my former self) falls to her death never to be resurrected again.

And that (for those of you yet still unfamiliar with the sensation of midlife hormonal surges) is what menopause is all about Charlie Brown-- black swan style.

If a Tree Falls in the Forest.....?

I was on the phone with my best friend Elaine last night and a thought popped into my head: if a tree falls in the forest and there is no one there to hear it, did it actually make a sound?

Then I asked her if I write something on my blog and no one reads it, did I actually write it?

Which is somewhat related, and brings me to the quantum physics analogy of Schrödinger's cat:
If you put a cat in a box and seal it off, how do you know if the cat is alive or dead one day after putting the cat in the box? Since you don’t know for sure, then the cat is simultaneously alive and dead because you can have both thoughts in your mind at the same time.  There is no reality but for the mind thinking it.

Unfortunately, I think that that is the philosophical model my kids abided by when they were in high school: If Mom doesn’t think I am drinking, then I am not. If Mom thinks I am at Jackie’s house, then that’s where I am. If my friends leave the house before Mom gets home, then they weren’t really there. If Mom doesn’t think it is so, then it isn’t really so. Except that in the cat analogy, all you have to do is open the damned box to see if the feline is still breathing. In fact, all you have to do is shake the box a little bit to determine its state of being. Figuring out if the cat is dead or alive isn’t that difficult with only the tiniest bit of effort.

My husband and I were at a Christmas party in town a few years ago and we left earlier than anticipated to pick my daughter Briana up at her twin friends' house. She had sworn to us that she and her friends were going to watch some television in their basement for the evening--a girl’s night-- 94 % fat free popcorn and diet coke. Estrogen only. No worries. So my husband and I didn’t call first before picking her up—we didn’t see a need to. In fact, I am pretty sure  we didn’t even check up on her over the course of the evening since we were so at ease with her plans. Confident, we went to her friends' house and rang the bell to retrieve her. My husband waited in the car.

The mother took a while, but eventually answered the door. She looked at me a bit confused and said Hi, what’s up? I said I am here to pick up Briana. The Mom said Oh..uh…Briana and the girls aren’t here. They are at some boy’s house over on Whitehall Blvd. They have been there all night I think (she thinks?). With that, I pull out my phone while still standing on the doorstep of the house and call Briana. She picks up. I sweetly ask her how her evening is going and gently inquire where she is (no need to shake the cat box too violently at first). She tells me she is at her friends' house watching TV. I say Really? She says Yes Mom. I say Really? Are you sure?. She says Mom you never trust me. Of course I am at their house. That’s when I lost it. I tore open that box and nearly choked that damned cat to death.

My kids always forgot that I was a really good student. I graduated magna cum laude.  I got A’s in both physics and logic. In anatomy class we dissected cats.

My Golf Rant

On the news tonight they showed a charity golf event. It was for the Blind Golf Association. Blind golfers are lined up to the ball by a seeing partner and wa-la they can play 18 holes of golf and do it well.

At my Country Club there is a gentleman who has a neuromuscular disease. This gentleman walks with a cane, has uncontrolled muscle movement, yet by concentrating and leaning in such a way, manages not only to hit the ball, but has won club championships in his flight.

Okay so I'll admit it. I hated golf and yes it was because I was not very good at it. And by all the aforementioned accounts, even blind people or people with with neuromuscular diseases can have a lower handicap than I did when I played. 

Golf is difficult and frustrating. It takes forever to play when you are playing it well, and when you play it badly, it seems even longer than that---like to infinity and beyond (to quote Buzz Lightyear).  Before every swing of the club you need a positive swing thought while remembering to keep your eye on the ball, not take too big of a back swing, not pull your arms in, hit squarely through the ball, and then finish in an awkward pose. Easy right? And the minute you think you have mastered the game poof it falls apart. You can par one hole, and triple bogey the next and not be able to figure out why. And to have any degree of success, you need to make it a part-time job--literally--you need to spend at least 20 hours a week sometimes just to maintain your handicap. I was out to dinner the other night with two ladies who needed to go home early because they had work in the morning: i.e. their Friday morning golf game.

And then there are the golf outfits: heinous at best. I do not care how lean and svelt your body is, no one looks good in a collared golf shirt and bermuda shorts with front pockets. Add the saddle shoes with spikes and you have instant birth control. No man (except for blind golfers will find you attractive. In my opinion, all lady golfers look like they play on the same team. Women's golf attire isn't exactly feminine.  It's the kind of stuff Chaz Bono would wear and wear well.

So there you have it. My golf rant. And yet, when I walk by the first tee, smell the grass, feel the soft summer wind at my back, and look toward the flag, I miss playing---it's kind of like childbirth I suppose. Maybe I should try a blindfold and a cane--my game couldn't be any worse.

Giving in to Facebook

When my childhood friend Elissa suggested a few months ago that I join Facebook, I felt a panic attack come on. No really. My hands got clammy and cold and my heart started to beat really fast.

She told me that it was a great way to connect with people from the past. And there lies the problem: I don't want to reconnect with people from the past. That's why they are in the past. In fact there are people in the present that I do not want to reconnect with. Some of them live less than a block away. Some of them make me do the avoidance duck and run in the food store. The reason people fall away and disconnect is because you no longer have anything in common with them. Seeing and communicating with them is painful.Why would I want to invite awkwardness back into my life. And why would I want to disturb my happy memory of them which is a lovely edited version of reality?

And so, I did not join Facebook, content to live by my conviction. That was until the other day when I got that insidious email from Rue La La. Because here is the other thing about me--one of the things I derive immense pleasure from is being an excellent shopper. Nothing thrills me more than getting a great bargain--it's the hunt and kill instinct in me. So I subscribe and stalk shopping websites. Rue La La is one of my favorites. And the other day Rue La La sent me an email that they were having a double secret sale but it was only on Facebook. I could not even find out which designers were to be featured at the sale.

Yep. This was not workingfor me. Screw my personal convictions about solitude and maintained memory. A good bargain trumps all. It was time to bite the bullet.

And so I am now an official member of Facebook. I've got a picture and a profile too. I stalk people. And....people I do not like have already made friend requests and I friended them anyway. And some people who I am not exactly fond of write on my wall. It is amzing what you will endure just for inside access to BCBG and Amarita Singh.

Following my Passion

I was a big Oprah fan. Not crazy as in I wouldn't miss a show or tried to stalk her. But for 25 years she kept me company in my kitchen during dinnertime. And as corny as it sounds, because of her, I became a better spouse, parent, daughter and friend.

I thoroughly enjoyed Oprah's last show. It was an intimate talk and I felt as if she was in my family room talking to me. She spoke about finding your passion and that living your passion was the key to self fulfillment. It was the necessary puzzle piece to complete one's life mission.

But what if you don't have a passion? Because I am pretty sure that I don't. And if I haven't discovered it by age 50 when is it going to happen? I mean it's not like I haven't tried out a few--I played tennis, platform tennis and golf. And while they could have become genuine pathways to fulfillment ultimately I could not allow a ball be the thing that defined me (not to mention the fact that I wasn't either young or talented enough to make a living playing any of these sports).

I also tried to be passionate about PTA. In fact I held many executive positions and was pretty well respected for my thoughts and analysis. But that too ran its course when I realized that no matter how intensely I lobbied for a cause, the powers in authority were going to do what they wanted despite being presented with the morally correct path.  And of course, once my kids were out of school, being a member of PTA was pointless.

So now what? What am I supposed to do with the rest of my life?  I thought I was fulfilled (kind of) but Oprah says I need more-- and if I don't find it I won't fulfill my destiny. Crap. I watched the series Lost--I know all about destiny and what happens if you don't fulfill it--the smoke monster sucks you up.

Which is why I started this blog. I do like writing and it definitely comes easily to me. My friends and family have even told me on occassion that I should be published. And while that is complimentary it likely won't happen (other than doing this) and not necessarily because I am not talented, but mostly because I am lazy and have perimenopausal induced ADD (which is also why golf was such a chore).

So for now, until I figure out a more respectable path, I'll write as often as I can on Thoughts from Karenland. And when people ask me, "What do you do?" Instead of saying "uh.... I stay at home?" I will now say I have a website. I am a writer.

By the way....in addition to not really having discovered a passion, I am pretty sure I haven't discovered my g-spot either. That's another thing I was perfectly content not knowing was necessary for fulfillment--but that's an essay for another day.