On Being Authentic

One day when I was working at the lab my manager called me into his office. In his hand was the pile of lab reports from the day before. My immediate boss was on vacation and I was charged with getting the reports out in her absence. And my manager, Jerry, told me that he had just come from Dolly’s office (the director of the lab who did not like me.) And he said that she (Dolly) was unhappy with my signature. Dolly did not like the way it trailed off at the end. And she was concerned that if the lab reports ever went to court that my signature would not be legal.

And I thought about it for a minute and told Jerry She wants me to change my signature? And he said Yes. And I said but Jerry if I change my signature it wouldn’t be my signature anymore would it?—it would be a forgery –and forgery is illegal—and then it really wouldn’t hold up in court? Right?

When I became PTA director of Locust School part of my duties was to write a monthly article for the PTA newsletter. The article was a recap of classroom events. Locust school was a primary school--kindergarten and first grade only. There was never much to report and so the article was never more than a few paragraphs long.

The PTA newsletter had an editor. The editor was a bright and lovely woman.  And editing had been her profession prior to having children. And every month I would submit my little article, and every month I would rush to see what I had written in print. And every month what appeared in print didn’t look anything like what I had submitted. Now I will be the first to confess that I am an amateur writer. I am absolutely certain that at times my grammar and punctuation is incorrect. I was not an English major in college. I am happy to admit to technical writing errors.

But grammar and punctuation was not what was corrected in my articles. Entire paragraphs were rewritten in words that were not my own. And the sentence structure and style wasn’t anything even remotely close to what I had intended.  I would write sentences like Several weeks of civics study for the first graders culminated in a trip to the Nassau County Courthouse appeared in the newsletter as something like The first graders  went on a class trip to the Nassau County Courthouse. They have been studying what it means to be a good citizen for the last several weeks. The trip marked the endpoint of their study (that is an illustration—I do not remember exact text).

And by the December newsletter I was a bit annoyed. It appeared that all the other PTA directors, after I had questioned them, did not share my editing experience—whatever they had written appeared nearly verbatim in the newsletter. And so I asked the editor why she kept rewriting my articles.  And she told me that my writing was too concise. My words were too big. And that my writing wasn’t readable for the average mom. And then she told me (very nicely) that I should think about my audience when I wrote, and write more simply.

I said nothing. What was I to say to that? I was not an editor—I had no expertise. But I was a bit insulted—not about the concise, big word part—I have heard that all my life—it’s usually what my teachers praised. No. I was perturbed about the idea that moms were simpletons. Every mom I knew had a college education and was some sort of professional. I resented the implication that these moms wouldn’t find my writing readable—you know—as if my writing was equal to that of Tolstoy.

So I kept writing in my own concise style, with my so-called big words, and so-called not-so-readable text. And until the editor’s tenure was up she continued every month to dissect and recreate my work until it was not recognizable as mine.

And I did not change my signature to appease Dolly either. Your signature is your signature—that’s the point—it is uniquely yours--by definition. One must always be authentic—true to oneself. Unless of course you are a chameleon. Only chameleons should morph their colors to match their environment--- because that is who they are by nature—and that is who I am not.

It's My Birthday Yayyy!!!

It is my birthday.  Today I turn 51 . When you have had that many birthdays you cannot remember all of them. Some birthdays are just more outstanding than others. And the “big” birthdays aren’t necessarily the most memorable.

August 30, 2007 was a crisp cool morning. Fall was making a preview. I asked my friends to join me at the Sandwich Shop in town for some breakfast. They had wanted to take me out for lunch for my birthday but sometimes I prefer comfort food—and the Sandwich Shop serves comfort food. It is a tiny Greek diner that is only open 6am to 6 pm.

And I was nervous. Not about breakfast but because it was the last day of field hockey tryouts for Kara. And even though I thought she was deserving of making the team my opinion didn’t count. Only Chappy’s (the coach’s ) did. And even though I had had a dream the night before where my cousin Gary had hugged me, it was just going to be a long day waiting for the actual decision. The reassurance Gary gave me in my dream may not have been credible. Gary had passed away long ago.

And when pick up time rolled around later that day, I arrived early. And at first I sat in the car with all the windows open listening to inspirional rap music---Ludacris’ uncensored singing  of Get back mutha-f—ers you don’t know me like that… And soon I was watching the parents of the “real athletes” picking up their kids. But Kara was nowhere to be seen. And I thought I was going to throw up. I had no idea how I was going to console her if she didn’t make the team. Scratch that. I didn’t know how I was going to console Kara or myself if she didn’t make the team. You see I didn’t know what would have been  worse—her disappointment or my disappointment over her disappointment. All I knew was that it would be the best birthday ever if she made the team—for her and for me.

So I got out of the car and waited at the fence. And I was standing next to the mom of the team captain. I did not know her really. And then her daughter came out. And I was busting and I had to ask the captain where Kara was. Erin (the captain) told me that Kara was talking with the coach---the coach was in the process of telling everyone who did and did not make the team. And now I really really wanted to throw up. And after two eternities and twenty seven years, I could see Kara approaching. But I could not read anything from her body language. She looked neither happy nor unhappy. And I decided to not ask her what Chappy’s decision was until she got really really close—as in 9 inches away from me before I asked—just in case the news was not good and I had to whisk her into the car before the tears flowed.

But I didn’t have to ask her. When she was a few feet away she smiled that famous Kara smile—and she said I made it! And I still wanted to throw up but now it was happy throw up instead of sad throw up.

I got the best birthday present ever. Because I knew that making the team was the gift that kept on giving. It was going to be 2 years of team and parent bonding—trips to Syracuse and potential state championships. It meant sports dinners and an ad in The Men’s Association’s Yearbook. It was sports sorority—and while many were called few were  ever chosen—especially kids like Kara who did not come from a family of athletes. But Kara had done it all on her own. She went from JV-B to varsity. She was the longshot that won the race.

I might have had a glass of wine or two at dinner that night. I don’t remember. Usually I remember details like that but after she made the team time stood still. I just know that Kara was beaming with pride—and her pride became mine—it was a gift--and nothing can compare with seeing your  child accomplish what they have set out to do--especially when it is your birthday. My cousin Gary knew what he was doing the night before when he hugged me in my dream. All was right with the world.

On Pithing Frogs

When I attended Manhattan College in the fall of 1978 it had only been co-ed for several years. Prior to that it had been all male. It was one of the reasons I chose to attend--the male to female ratio was 7:1. In the sciences and engineering it was even higher than that. It was not unusual, particularly in my upper level science classes to be the only female in the classroom. And it was common in those days as a female to withstand sexual harassment--women withstood behavior and comments that would not be tolerated today. So I did my best at all times not to act like a girl. I may have dressed like a girl, but I quickly learned how to be a man's man. And when I felt the girly-girl behavior kicking in, I knew to suppress it.

In physiology lab we studied cardiac responses to various stimuli. We measured changes on a cardiogram. To do so, it was necessary to pith not one but several frogs first. In case you are unfamiliar with pithing, it is when you take a live frog, hold it very still, use a metal probe to stab it though the back of the head and into the brain, and then roll the probe around for about 15 seconds to destroy the spinal nerves. The point is to have the frog completely paralyzed, but with maintained breathing and heart rate. And then the frog is surgically opened up so that the students can study whatever they are studying. It is quite gruesome and cruel. But is is done in the name of science. It is justifyable cruelty.

In a group of 4 lab partners--3 of which were male--I was the chosen pither. I was chosen because I was a girl. And even though the 3 guys were my friends, this was a test. They thought I would not be up for the challenge. They wanted to call me the p--- word---the one synonomous with a  cat. Now pithing did not appeal to me in any way. I liked frogs. I caught them as a child from my Aunt Jackie's pond. I considered them pets. So intentionally paralyzing them with a probe not only disgusted me, I thought it was ethically ill-advised.

But the guys were watching me (as was the professor). And I was never going to let them see me sweat. I was -no p--- word. I was a man---a fearless manly man. And I grabbed the frog, held him captive with my left hand, bent his head with my index finger while that frog tried every which way  to escape. And while carrying on a converstion about the weather, I took that probe and did the dastardly deed. And the frog fell limp. And the guys (and the professor) were impressed at my nonchalance and skill. And I was a bit nauseated although I didn't let on. Sometimes a man has to do what a man has to do. It was necessary to show that frog (and those guys) who was boss. And my guy friends slapped me on the back and said nice job Manello.

When Sam was little, she had lots of ear infections and consequently she took lots of antibiotics. Unlike many other children, Sam did not like fruit or bubble flavored things. This was problematic since most medicines were flavored with fruit or bubblegum. So extreme measures were required to get submission from Samantha during "medicine time."

My parents witnessed me sit on Samantha shen she was two, hold her head down with my left elbow, while my left hand held her left arm. Simultaneously my upper left arm held her right arm in place. Then I used my right hand, which was loaded with a safety spoonful of amoxicillin, to pour the medicine down the screaming child's throat. Which she promptly regurgitated and I re-caught in the safety spoon and threw down her throat again. My parents were appalled.

And I told them: sometimes a man has to do what a man has to do. The child needed her medicine, and there was no other way to make her take it. It was justifiable cruelty.

A relative once told me that I had wasted my education by staying home and being a Mom. I think not. All the pithing experience came in real handy when I needed Sam to take her meds. Education is never wasted---unless you do not how how to apply it--or unless you are a stupid relative in need of a pithing.

The Happiest Place on Earth

Every super bowl Sunday I shout at the television screen. It has nothing to do with football. It has to do with the super bowl winner’s MVP. Once selected, someone yells at the MVP so-in-so you have just won the Super bowl-- now what are you going to do? And so-in-so says I am going to Disney World. That’s when I shout at the television No!! Don’t do it!!

I think a trip to Disney is the booby prize-- a miserable trick played on the most valuable player.

I remember when Disney world opened. My friends Donna and Elissa went with their families. Families back then very often didn’t fly to Orlando. They took the auto train for 20 some odd hours. Even then I thought it sounded awful---and I was still young enough to think Disney was the happiest place on Earth.

When I had children I knew at some point I was going to have to make the mecca---it’s what good parents do—good parents take their children to Disneyworld. Good parents take their kids to meet Mickey and Minnie and ride in the teacups and down Space Mountain. And when Kara was just tall enough to meet the minimum height requirements for all the rides, we went.

We left for our one week Disney trip on the last day of school in June. And we started the trip off with Samantha being angry at me for making her miss the last day of fourth grade—even if it was for Disney. I had a child in a snit before we even walked on the plane. And that’s when I knew for sure that it was going to be the most miserable week of my life.

In case you have not already guessed, I am not a Disney person. It is way too crowded, hot, and expensive. And I just could not understand waiting in line for over one hour for a 5 minute ride—no ride was that good. I found myself thinking awful thoughts like why can’t I have a handicapped child like those people? And I also feared the people who walked the property—not the ones in the Goofy suits—the scary toothless white people that must have cooked meth for a living to have afforded the daily pass and water bottles. I was spending a large fortune to be in Disney—I expected the patrons to look like me—not Daryll, Daryll and Daryll.

And then there were the downpours of rain, getting locked out of our room, and Samantha’s heat stroke and low blood sugar. Oh did I mention the potent-Disney antibiotic resistant strain of pink eye Briana developed? It was disgusting—from a place everyone raved was so clean.

But besides my fear of someone going postal on the top of Cinderella’s castle and picking people off with a sniper gun, what really really puzzled me was the infatuation people had with Epcot. Before we left everyone (including my parents) said you are going to love it. I did not. I can buy a tiny bit into pretend magic castles and pretend main street-- but pretend Europe? I have been to Europe and I can tell you unequivocally that Epcot is not even remotely a facsimile of Europe. It’s like saying Stouffer’s frozen chow mein is authentic Chinese food. And I heard people say out loud when they were in Epcot Gee, now that we have been here, there is no need to tour France or Italy or Germany.

So no, I do not plan on going back to Disney. I have enough memories. Nor have I been convinced to visit Las Vegas---the decadent x-rated version of Disneyworld. I just don’t think I do well with pretend places. They are punchlines I do not get even when they are explained to me.

Just Because it Fits...

Just because something fits, it does not mean you should wear it. This is the predicament I find myself in these days. I have increasing difficulty deciding what fashion is age-appropriate and what is not. I am a midler. I am too young for old lady clothes and I am too old to wear styles designed for 20 year olds.

And I look to magazines like Allure and More to get a handle on how to wear trends in my age bracket. But often I think they get it wrong. I think they assume all women my age are portly-- and all of us are not. I do not want to be covered up in blazers and wraps yet. My figure is still pretty good. And I am petite so I get lost in too much layering. But neither do I want to be too naked—that is even worse—even thin people have lumps and unflattering rolls of skin.

And so most of the clothes in my closet have the same label—Michael Kors. Michael understands me. His petite line fits and the styles are right on trend but not too young or too matronly. And the fabrics are forgiving—they lay softly on the skin. And for the most part, all of the cuts are fitted but not clingy—fitted is good, clingy is not---and I prefer not to wear lycra unless it is a special occasion.

And even if my clothes are not Michael’s (we are on a first name basis), when I find something that works, I will buy that same thing in different colors. I will purchase the exact same t-shirt in black, grey, navy, brown and 2 in white. And I buy multiples with pants too.  I must own at least 30 cardigans—in solids and multiple patterns and prints. Almost all my dresses are sheaths---the only thing that varies is the sleeve, the fabric, and the length. Virtually every “going out” shirt has a cut in shoulder or a boat neck. And I pick things out of my wardrobe like I am matching garanimals (remember those?)

On Good Morning America the other day they did a segment on a growing trend--“copy-cat dressing”---it is when mothers and daughters share all their clothing. And they showed a mother daughter combo in Express buying a short leopard print ruched strapless knit dress with the intent of Mom wearing it on Friday night and the daughter wearing it on Saturday. The daughter was around 18 and the mother was around 45 years old.

And I thought seriously? Express? Banana Republic or Gap maybe—and even that seems a bit wrong.  My girls may wear all of my things but I may not wear all of theirs. I may wear many of my mother’s things but she may not wear all of mine. Just because it fits doesn’t mean you should wear it—your clothes should never be wearing you. Here’s a hint: if you look in the mirror and wonder even for a second  Can I pull this off?—it’s a sign—no you can’t—take it off and try on something else. Look for Michael. He will help you.

Overtalking

Elaine is one of my best friends. She knows me well. She understands me. She is the peanut butter to my jelly. And we have much in common---which is what binds us-- and it has kept our friendship strong throughout the good and bad times—almost as if we were married (without the lesbian sex part).

And amongst our commonalities is our almost irrational fear of awkward silence—not with each other—but with others at social gatherings. And I admit to being guilty sometimes of including her in social gatherings for the expressed purpose of avoiding awkward silence---she understands my fear—and together we can keep the conversation going no matter how untalkative the crowd is that surrounds us.

And we both suffer from over-curing the awkward silence by over-talking—as in, we just don’t shut up. And the pitch of our chatter increases and so does the wpm (word per minute) as the over-curing progresses. But as we are best friends, we can communicate telepathically—and when either one of us engages in unstoppable manic verbiage—we can just look at each other and disengage the behavior.

My husband changed careers. He sold his CPA practice and now works for one of his former clients. My husband’s new employers are 2 brothers. I have known them and their wives for years and they are lovely people. But despite knowing them for years----the dynamic has shifted—they are no longer clients—they are bosses—and that changes everything.

One of his employers and his wife invited my husband and I and the lawyer and his wife out to dinner this past spring. The location was a very tres-chic restaurant on the North Shore--the kind of restaurant that regular people like me cannot get a Saturday night reservation for unless it is a month in advance and even at that—the reservation would be at 5:30 or 10:00 pm. It’s the kind of restaurant where there is personal wait staff for every table. And the clientele is very upscale—the women have all had plastic surgery and wear red-soled shoes. Even the busboys drive Lexuses. We had an 8:00 reservation on a Saturday night---and the boss’s wife called the maître-d 2 days before to get it. And I had to call both my friends Elaine and Linda to get advice on what I should wear

I consider myself a secure person. I know enough things about enough subject areas that I can make small (or even medium) talk with just about anyone. But I was still nervous. I wanted to play the part of the dutiful wife. I wanted to be charming. I wanted to blend in. I wanted everyone to like me.

And at first I was doing fine even though the over-attentiveness of the wait staff was distracting—they filled my water glass after every sip—and the second one piece of silverware accidently moved from its perfect parallel position they would realign it. And I was doing fine. And we were well into our first course when it happened—just as the baked clams were being passed around-- the table fell into an awkward silence-- and I panicked. And my incessant chatter kicked in. And I could not stop myself even though the right part of my brain was trying to override the talk button. And just as the chatter was reaching maximum high pitched wpms the dish of clams was being passed to me--- and my animation—which often accompanies the chatter—caused me to drop the serving fork not once, not twice, but three times. And now I feared they thought I was drunk—which I was not—and Elaine was not there to telepathically get me out of the manic state.

 But something really wonderful happened, the boss’s wife caught my eye—and I understood that she understood what was going on with me. And she gently interrupted my chatter and successfully got me back on track. Telepathically she told me not to worry---she was in charge and she would handle any further awkward silences. I submitted.

And the remainder of the evening was lovely. The food was phenomenal. And our every need was attended to. My husband’s boss and his wife were wonderful hosts.  And even though there has been a power shift of client to boss I am now comfortable with the change-- and more importantly, I have regained my comfort with myself. Because that is always key—being comfortable with yourself. And when I was in the car last week with my friend Elaine there were a few moments of silence—but it wasn’t awkward. That’s how you know you have a good friend—you can enjoy silence together. It’s never awkward--and if you want to say something you can do so telepathically.

Corporate Revenge (Kind of)

Hillary and I had an unlikely liaison. We met when she was researching and developing by-laws and committees for the women’s sports program at the country club. And she recognized that even though I was a lesser player, I had insight. I assessed problems and sought creative solutions. I was a problem solver, not a problem-maker. We respected each other. And I think she also understood that I did not have aspirations to shimmy into her social world. I had my own friends.

Hillary was well bred. She had held a high position in the business world prior to becoming a mother. Her husband worked for a premier brokerage house. He wore bow ties. And they were members of several elite private clubs.

Hillary and I both had daughters the same age. When Sam went to middle school she met Hillary’s daughter Amy. Both girls were in the seventh grade honors social studies program together. The academic course at that time was quite rigorous. Students needed to produce several team projects. And even though Sam and Amy were not social friends, they recognized that they would make good work partners. Team projects were graded on research, writing, and presentation. And Sam and Amy worked extremely well together. Both Hillary and I were pleased at our daughters’ success. She and I worked well together, and so did our daughters.

For the last social studies project of the year, the teacher placed another girl into Sam and Amy’s twosome. And the 3 girls met and divided the work amongst them. Beth—the new girl—was in charge of going to the library and getting the necessary research books. And together the girls planned to meet and do the required writing and presentation work.

Three days before the project was due—on a long weekend—on a Saturday--the girls met at Amy’s house. And Beth, the new girl told both Sam and Amy that her mother had instructed her to take all the research books and go home and write the report on her own—she was to leave the other 2 girls out of the project. And Beth picked up the books and walked out the door. Sam and Amy were aghast. They didn’t know what to do.

So Sam called me and Amy called Hillary and then Hillary called me. And I told Hillary that since I kind of knew Beth’s Mom I would call her and get things smoothed out. I could not imagine that a mother would give her child such devious instructions and I thought if I approached the mother in a reasonable way, everything could be resolved.

Wrong. I called the Mom and politely inquired about what was going on. And the mother laced into me. She told me that her daughter had every right to take the reference books with her and write her own report.  And she further told me that she indeed had instructed her daughter to do so. So I simply said well if that is the message you intend on sending to your daughter then you are a poor excuse for a mother and I hung up. And the mother called me back because how dare I hang up on her-- and I hung up again. And again. And again. And then I called Hillary.

To say that Hillary was not pleased was a gross understatement. I have never heard such wrath. And despite Hillary’s well-bredness she simply said That B--- and her daughter have no idea who they are f-ing with. And I was terrified. And Hillary summoned me to her house for a team meeting. She had snapped into executive mode.  And Sam and I obeyed her every command like dutiful soldiers. I was sent to the next town over with Sam to pull every book on the subject area off of the shelf.—Hillary was in charge of marketing and damage control. The girls did the all the writing and Hillary helped create the boards and slogans and pamphlets based on the girls’ research. And Hillary called in favors (on a weekend) with her husband’s art department. And even though it was tax season my husband called in a favor with a client and had t-shirts made with the project’s theme and slogan and emblem on it. And everything got done beyond perfection in 48 hours. It was insane. And the finished project was unriveled.

But Hillary wasn’t content just to create the best possible project. She was also going to eat Beth (and her mother) for breakfast. So well before school started Tuesday morning, Hillary and Amy waited at the teacher’s door. And they told the teacher what Beth (and her Mom) had done. And the teacher was not pleased--the teacher took our side. And the teacher made Beth give her presentation first to be followed by Sam and Amy—the teacher did it intentionally—just  to embarrass her.  And Sam and Amy’s work so outshined Beth’s that Beth ran out of the room and cried. And the teacher reprimanded Beth and severely punished her in her grade. And the teacher wore her brand new t-shirt the very next day.

And I understood what big business was all about. I understood how the big boys and big girls played their games. And it was brutal. I understood hostile takeovers and corporate revenge. And although I was a bit soft myself for the game, I thoroughly enjoyed riding the coat tails of its success—it was exhilarating. And the girls got the highest possible grade. They too learned the consequences of screwing with the wrong people. And that is a lesson everyone needs to learn at some point. On that day, education extended well beyond the classroom-- and into the future boardroom.

Snacktime at Elissa's

Sometimes when Sam comes home from the city she brings me a special treat—Melissa’s Sweets—baby cupcakes. Cupcakes are wonderful in of themselves but these are so much more distinctive—they are about the size of a half dollar and they are baked in a variety of flavors. I don’t just have one favorite—I have a few: cinnamon, chocolate chip pancake with maple frosting, and red velvet.

On my first day of seventh grade in my new school (we had just moved), I walked home with Elissa-- my new friend. And just before I went into my house she asked me if I wanted to “come up for snack.” Elissa lived quite literally “up” from my house—a huge hill separated us. And although I didn’t quite know what she meant by “for snack”--she was a new friend and I was happy that she had extended an invitation-- and so I said yes.

And I walked up to Summit Terrace (Elissa’s street which was very aptly named) and across the wooden planked ramp that connected the terraced garden to the path that led to her door. And I knocked on the redwood screen door and was greeted by Mary, her mother. And she said go sit down at the table with the other kids:  Elissa, her younger sister Nina, and Elissa’s brother Paul. The table was set with real dishes and glasses. “Snack” in Elissa’s house was a sit down event. It was a post school sharing—and it was orchestrated by Elissa’s mother who struck me as a lot like Donna Reed with her warm demeanor and sleeveless shift dress. Mary had baked 36 Duncan Hines yellow cupcakes with vanilla frosting for this late afternoon gathering. I thought I had died and gone to 1950’s television heaven. And I turned to Elissa and asked Do you do this everyday or just because this is the first day of school? And she said Oh we do this everyday.

This was amazing. This was wonderful. Mary sat down with all of us kids and we all talked about our day. And despite the fact that it only took a short time to eat a cupcake and drink some milk or soda, we were in no rush to get off the table. Everyone genuinely enjoyed everyone else’s company and everyone listened as each kid, including me, recollected our day’s events. And once everyone had decompressed, Mary excused us, and we each went about our business.

I never baked cupcakes before my kids came home from school but I made sure we always had “snack.” I baked Aunt Jemima coffee cake or cornbread or Pillsbury cinnamon rolls. Sometimes I made hot pretzels. And on the days I didn’t have time for baking we had Eggo waffles or Pepperidge Farm cinnamon french toast with the crusts cut off. But there was always something freshly prepared. And I always made a point of having my three girls and I sit down all together after school to relax and discuss our day. It was a well needed recharging. It was the respite before the homework. And I learned it all from Mary—my “other” mother.

And every time I eat a Duncan Hines cupcake or one of Melissa’s Sweets I think of Mary and Elissa and her entire family—the Healys’ and Coneses’ too-- who always treated me like one of their own. And I am grateful for the things they taught me about family---because family isn’t just about DNA-- it’s about the love you share and the time you spend—it’s about cupcakes and conversation and long walks home.     

Appreciating the Family Crazy Person

The topic today is: the family crazy person. Every family has one. And by crazy I do not mean organically crazy—as in a legit diagnosed case of schizophrenia or some other disease. I mean the person in the family who speaks unfiltered thoughts based on an alternative reality and routinely crosses the boundary of social appropriateness. You know—the person everyone tries to avoid at family functions. The one you feel obligated to warn the newbie in the family about—that person.

But here’s the thing. The crazy person serves a positive role in the family. They are the one the non-crazies bond over. They are the entertainment. They are the one you wonder about days in advance as to what pearls will fly from their mouths—and when they meet that expectation, you whisper to all the other non-crazy persons what the crazy person has said. And the evening typically is spent reliving the crazy person’s thoughts/behavior over and over again. The crazy person’s role is to prevent boredom—because when they are around, some drama will unfold—it is inevitable----it’s better than the New Jersey housewives. And the non-crazies will try and predict when and with whom the bizarre remark/behavior will fall—it’s all so exciting and perilous.

On occasion, the crazy person acts normally—and the non-crazies are disappointed and fearful. The non-crazies will say I wonder what has gotten into so-in-so today? The crazy person is not living up to expectations. Because if the crazy person ever becomes” normal”, someone else in the non-crazy person pack will by default have to be nominated for the vacant position. Families cannot function without the crazy person---and the non-crazies fear it will be them one day—the shunned one.

That is why the crazy person should be celebrated and encouraged. They make the non-crazies appear sane. They are the baseline. They are the example not to follow. They are the one the non-crazies must secretly route on to be as outrageous as possible.

And sometimes the crazy person gets it right. They are also the broken clock of the family—they are correct twice a day. Their moments of clarity must be valued-- no matter how infrequent.

So the next time you know the crazy person will be spending some quality time with you and the other non-crazies, relax and enjoy. Embrace the fireworks. Remember to say oooh and ahhhh as they let loose. You are not alone. Every family has a crazy person (or two). They are the spice (and Rolaids) of life. And it is crucial to keep them around---for you may be next in line.

Addendum: This posting is intentionally ambiguous. The fact that it may describe many people is precisely the point of my writing. The person who was in my head when I was making my descriptions is deceased-- and I did not want to speak ill of the dead.

My Sunday Gift

In the Encarta Dictionary a gift is defined as something that is given to somebody, usually in order to provide pleasure or to show gratitude.

If a gift is given with an expectation of any kind of receiving something in return-- even if the expectation is a verbal thank you, it ceases becoming a gift--and is transformed into a bribe—a quid pro quo. True gifts have no strings attached—none of any kind. True gifts are for the receiver to receive, not the giver to receive. True gifts come from the heart, not the ego.

And the recipient must be open to the intention of the gift—and not see it as a paid bonus for services rendered. Intention is that which makes a gift a gift. And intention, if it is pure, is not boastful for either the gift giver or the gift receiver. A pure exchange of gifts is private business.

The next time your ego whispers I gave that, and l only got was this—rethink and reprogram. That is not what gift giving is all about.

So I leave you today with a gift of thought—from me to you--I am grateful that you listen. I hope my thoughts give you pleasure--because I give it to you freely, with an open heart and no expectations.

On Politics

I am not a political person.  It just doesn’t interest me all that much. I suppose if I had to choose some political affiliation it would be a very liberal republican or a very conservative democrat. Mostly I vote for people based on my perceived intelligence of them—not party lines. I am biased against stupid people. So this past presidential election presented a difficult decision for me—I thought that both McCain and Obama were both intelligent men—and on the basis of intellect alone I thought it was a dead heat. So I was forced to discern between the 2 candidates based on their running mates. And although Sara Palin was exceptionally well-dressed in her designer suits and high heeled boots, that was just about all I thought she had going for her. She didn’t then, and still doesn’t strike me as being particularly sharp-minded. And since John McCain was a tad old, I thought if he died while in office, Sara Palin was not the person I wanted to see at the helm.

But besides intelligence there is one other factor I use to make my political decisions—and that would be: perceived integrity. When Bill Clinton was asked if he smoked pot he said yes—but he didn’t inhale. I found that incredulous. I doubted the verity of his statement. When Barack Obama was asked if her had smoked pot he said yes. And when the reporter asked him if he had inhaled, Obama said well I think that was the point. I liked that response. It was honest. It was also pretty clever. Little things can be very telling.

Every morning an elected person who lives nearby walks their dog. And every morning the elected person takes the plastic bag off of their neighbor’s NY Times and uses the bag to contain their dog’s excrement. Now to be honest, I have walked my dog and found myself in the situation where my dog went off schedule and relieved himself when I was devoid of some poop removal device. And I have resorted to pilfering the nearest available containment vessel—like a plastic bag off of a newspaper--- so that the dog’s residue could be promptly removed. I believed that even although I was pilfering a plastic bag , it was a better alternative than leaving my dog’s waste behind –it was justifiable pilfering. But this person is not in that predicament. This person relies on the neighbor’s newspaper bag every morning for their own personal use.  And it has been witnessed that on occasion the person even peruses the headlines and body of the newspaper first before setting the naked newspaper back in its place.

And so anyone who takes plastic bags that do not belong to them (even though the bags are worth only about ¼ of a penny) prompts my concern—I no longer trust them. My confidence is shaken. No plastic bag is safe in their presence. And for that I will punish them at the polls. Sometimes the littlest things can sway someone’s vote. And I am certain that other politicians may have lost elections for ever lesser things than inflicting intentional nakedness to a neighbor’s newspaper.

GPA GPA GPA

Very soon (if not already) students will be getting their schedules in the mail or on the student portal. It is the last opportunity the parent of a high school student has to manipulate their child’s schedule. The school district would like parents think that manipulation is not possible. “Not possible” is not the correct term. “Difficult” is a better one. And savvy parents need to learn how to manipulate the system within the parameters of the rules to get their child’s needs met. Savvy parents figure out a way to give their child the best opportunity for success.

Because when it comes to your high schooler’s education with an eye towards getting them into the best college of their choice, here’s the scoop: GPA GPA GPA. And what makes me an authority you ask? Experience. I successfully navigated 3 daughters to the tier one college of their choice--and not through athletic prowess, but on their brainpower (and mine.) And the added piece is my youngest daughter worked in the admission office at Emory in Atlanta, where she attends school--which is considered a “new Ivy.”

If you take nothing away from this blog understand this: under no circumstances do you ever permit your child to take a course that will lessen their GPA. So if for example your child is a 93 student, and by taking a honors or AP course, not only will your child not get the current target grade of 93, but will also have to work so ridiculously hard in that course that all their other courses will now suffer and result in a lower overall GPA, DO NOT LET YOUR CHILD TAKE THE COURSE. The only time you allow your child to take an upper level course with a high degree of difficulty that potentially will reduce their GPA is if they plan on taking that course of study in college—and if they do need to take it, you must get a private tutor. Dip into their college fund if you have to---you are going to be spending that money anyway once they go off to school. Do not rely on the school district. They will do little for you—or rather nothing that will address the specific needs of your child.

And do not get sucked into allowing your child take a course for “personal enrichment.” Colleges don’t care about enrichment, they care about grades. And if your child’s GPA and SAT scores do not make the first cut –it is over. And yes, they (college admissions) will scrutinize your child’s transcript to see how many upper level courses your kid takes---but you need to get through the first cut first before they can scrutinize it. So keep the GPA in the correct range. Dropping down in a course level and keeping the grade high is looked at as a smart thing—it is foolish thing to have a kid stay in an AP or honors class and do poorly when they had other options. And curriculum directors who encourage “personal enrichment” (for the most part—there are exceptions) have a different agenda—their focus is course enrollment—your kid often times is just a number on an excel worksheet designed to make them look good. Your kid is a statistic at a Board of Education presentation.

And neither should you allow ego—the parents’ or the kid’s—drive having your kid stay in a course that time will prove to be a mistake. When your child gets into the college of their choice no one will be “embarrassed” that they dropped their course level down from AP to honors or honors to regents level. In fact you will be laughing at the others who put themselves in a tenuous state for having allowed ego be the decision maker.

And here’s another piece. I have experienced excellent advice from the guidance department. My kids’ guidance counselor was absolutely stellar—the best of the best---his integrity is unrivaled. But guidance counselors have families to feed. So there are things they cannot say if they want to keep their job. And among those things is telling you who the really crappy teachers are. So if a parent tells you a teacher is awful, believe them. Ask all the other kids about the teacher too—they will know if the teacher is awful or not—and they will not lie. Never keep your kid in a classroom with a teacher who confuses rigor with roadblocks. Trust me, it makes no sense to torture a kid so “they will be all the better for it”—they won’t be—that’s an urban legend. All they (and you) will be is miserable—miserable for 9 months—that’s a long time—convicts spend less time in jail

And if you have to change the course level of an entirely different course to free up the needed period to get your kid out of the class with the ill-performing teacher—do it. Be inventive. The end justifies the means—it is that important. $55,000/year is a hefty sum to shell out to a college your kid didn’t really want to attend but had to because they didn’t get into the college of their choice.

So. Pass this uncensored unauthorized bit of information to anyone and everyone you know. I can tell you this, those who took my advice were always thrilled that they did. And those who chose not to, regretted it. And let me know how things work out for you either way. Remember: GPA GPA GPA. Never let your child  be a canary in a coal mine. Do whatever it takes—even if it means moving one town over for a year.

How Men Survive an Estrogen-laced World

The air conditioner repairmen were here last Saturday. And the older gentleman, who was in his early seventies said from the photos on the wall I can see that you have 3 daughters. And he went on to tell my husband and I that his grandfather had 3 daughters too. And when the repairman asked his grandfather what it was like to live with all those women his grandfather said Huh? And the repairman said again Grandpa what was it like living with 3 daughters and a wife? And his grandfather said I can’t hear you. The only way his grandfather could survive living in a house full of women was to shut down his hearing. Survival depended on simply not letting the estrogen laced conversation penetrate the labyrinth of his inner ear. Survival required retreat.

For 25 years but for weekend nights when it was not tax season, my three daughters and I ate dinner together. My husband was always working. And dinner conversations were built around our common interests—school, pop culture and all things feminine. We could speak for 45 minutes at a time about animal prints and the Victoria’s Secret semi-annual sale. And because my husband was rarely at dinner with us, when he did make a guest appearance, he was overpowered. We were in an unbreakable rhythm of feminine litany. The testosterone was too dilute for the pool of discourse. And my husband had no choice but to nod off and retreat into his own thoughts. And we accepted his retreat and expected his silence.

A few weeks ago my daughter Samantha, who lives in Manhattan, came home for a visit. She brought her boyfriend Alex with her. And my husband, Sam, Alex, Briana and I all went to the club for dinner. And while there, my husband became a totally different guy.

My husband and Alex talked about golf and golf courses and fescue and unplayable lies. They jabbered over man-nirvana—the men’s member guest: steaks , single malt scotch, chip off contests and raffle prizes. The testosterone was overflowing. And in between dinner courses my husband left the table with Alex to show him where the chip off contest was held. The three of us sat there in a daze—and Sam and Briana inquired What’s up with Dad? I’ve never seen him like this before. Why is he talking so much? And I had to remind Briana and Sam that the reason they think their father doesn’t talk is because he is never included in the conversation. There is nothing he can add when women debate statement necklaces versus statement earrings.

The air conditioner repairman told us how at a family gathering, when his grandfather was well into his eighties and walked with a cane, the men decided to leave for a bit and walk down to the local bar while the women cleaned up and chatted amongst themselves. The men thought that Grandpa was too old to come with them. They thought it was best that he be left to stay with the women. But grandpa was having none of it. Opportunity knocked rarely and he was not going to miss out. He was going to have that beer and watch baseball with a bunch of guys. He wasn’t dead yet.

And someday when my husband has son-in-laws his voice will return. And together he and his son-in-laws will appreciate why it’s not a big deal in man-world to wear wool tweed sports jackets in May or linen dress pants in October. They will commiserate over being made to visit the Costume I nstitute at the Met. And they will bond over their lack of interest in china patterns and the color of Kitchen Aid food processors. Together they will discuss why a T-bone steak is better than a hummus platter. And they will spend 45 minutes reliving the sand shot out of the bunker at #17 to get the birdie.

And my daughters and I will not allow the testosterone laced conversation to penetrate the labyrinth of our inner ears. And we will retreat. But only temporarily.  We are women after all. We will retreat only long enough to refortify. And we will say How about those Yankees? And once everyone is deeply engaged we will flip into Isn’t Jeter is so hot? And the estrogen will once again regain its stronghold.

Living in Denial

Last August I turned 50. It also coincided with my license renewal and I needed a vision exam. So I went to DMV and waited on all the necessary lines to renew my license. The man at the DMV was in his forties and when he noticed my age he asked Do you were corrective lenses? And I said No. And then he said Contacts are considered corrective lenses. And I said I do not wear contacts. And he said Really? At your age? God I hated that. I was having enough problems dealing with the fact that my forties were over and now this guy just had to remind me that from now on people would keep saying “at your age”. And then he got as close as he could to me physically and stared at my eyeballs to see if I wore contact lenses. But eventually, somewhat disbelievingly, he signed and stamped everything and gave me my temporary license.

I have always been a little bit nearsighted. And even though I had prescription glasses when I was younger for all practical reasons I didn’t need to wear them. If I really needed to see something that far away I would squint. And I think my slight nearsightedness  is what has saved me from wearing reading glasses this long. My eyes are self-correcting. I can still thread a needle and put jewelry on other people. I can still read menus in restaurants. I have a pair of reading glasses for when I have super tedious close work to do—but for the most part I only need to wear my glasses an average of once or twice a week.

My neighbor Patty is slim with short blond hair and she has an adorable Westie that she walks several times a day. And it is not unusual for her to stop in front of my house while her dog sniffs around. Sometimes I wave to her from inside my house. Sometimes I go outside to engage in neighborly chit-chat.

The other day my dogs were barking and I looked out my mudroom door and across the street was a slim short haired blond woman walking a cute westie. Oh good—I thought I have been meaning to tell Patty how happy I was with the dog groomer she had recommended. So I put on my Havianas that I keep near the door and I quickly walked down my driveway and called out to her Hey Patty—I just wanted to tell you how much I liked the groomer you recommended to me. She really did a great job with my dogs and…

And then I noticed. The woman was not Patty. This woman was about 20 years older than Patty and about 20 pounds heavier. I did not recognize her at all. She was a total stranger. And this person thought I was aa bit  crazy. And I was mortified. And I felt compelled to apologize to her just like a crazy person.  And I told this stranger how she looked like my neighbor and my neighbor had the same dog as she and blah blah blah.

Effectively, I gave her way more information than was even remotely necessary. And the woman was polite—but honestly—she didn’t care at all—and realistically—why would she. The woman just wanted to peacefully walk her dog. And I went back into the house.  

Now a different person would have thought Gee I better have my eyes checked. A different person would have been concerned with dementia. But denial is a lovely world in which to dwell. And I chose not to think that there wasn’t anything anomalous with my eyesight. What I chose to believe is this: Scientists believe that the brain seeks to compartmentalize information at all times. And the rate at which the brain can put data into finite boxes determines problem solving. It’s the theory that surmises that if it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck, and smells like a duck, it must be a duck—even if it is not. The theory postulates perception is a function of expectation. And I chose to believe that since I expected the woman who resembled Patty to be Patty—it was. Expectation became perception. And that is why I confused the look-alike woman with my neighbor. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I was over 50 and my vision was faltering.

When my central air conditioner was not working, during the interim of waiting for it to be fixed, we installed a room air conditioner in my bedroom window. And when it got significantly hotter outside my husband told me that he had switched the air conditioner to high cool and high fan. But when I went upstairs a little while later my bedroom was ridiculously warm. Upon looking at the unit I noticed that both the thermostat and fan had been turned down to low. And I became concerned that my husband was flirting with dementia. But he wasn’t. It was his eyesight. He didn’t see the little arrow on the knob and so the adjustments were backwards.  And at no point did it occur to me to explain away that his brain had allowed expectation to be confused with perception. I immediately surmised that since he is over 50 his eyesight is faltering. He needed a stronger prescription. You see that’s the best part of denial. You get to apply it selectively. My husband needs new glasses. And I do not.

Playing "Scientific"

My Aunt Jackie and Uncle Victor had a summer home in the Catskill mountains. It was paradise when I was little (actually it still is a paradise). They owned 100 acres of land and had horses, a dog, a pond, and multiple streams. It was never boring. And it was a privilege to get an invitation—and we (my brother, my cousin Richard and I) were always mindful to behave when we would vacation there---we knew a good thing when we saw it and we never wanted to jeopardize a return visit.

When my family would visit Aunt Jackie and Uncle Vic’s house—the “farm” as we called it—we almost always took my cousin Richard with us—this served 2 functions: it provided my brother and I with a playmate for the 2-3 days we were there, as well as it got my cousin out of Mount Vernon—it gave Richard a constructive thing to do—especially since his mother (my Aunt Fran) and my Uncle John both worked. My cousin Richard was our family’s “fresh air fund” baby.

Typically we visited the “farm” in August—my Aunt Jackie was off for the entire month and it coincided with my father’s vacation as a school administrator. But the weather in August was precarious—warm to hot during the day, and cold at night.

One of the things we liked to do was play in and around the pond. We fished and we also liked to catch things like frogs and crayfish and newts (baby salamanders). And we would catch them, play with them for a bit, and throw them back into their natural environment. Except for this one time. This one time we were catching newts and we decided that we should keep them as pets. And so we captured them, put them in a plastic container that my Aunt had given us to play with, and walked down with them from the pond to the house. Now we knew that maybe the adults would not really like our plan about keeping the baby salamanders as pets so we decided to hide them—and we chose the 2 decorative milk cans on the front porch of my Aunt’s house as the hide-out spot. We put the newts in the milk can with lots of grass and some water. And when it was time to go home from the farm, we planned to retrieve the newts, smuggle them into the car, and forever they would then live in fish tanks in our bedrooms.

That night however it was freezing cold—I mean actually freezing cold—as in the temperature dipped below 32 degrees. In the morning it was so cold that my uncle put up a fire in the fireplace and turned the heat on.  And when my brother, my cousin Richard and I went to go check on the newts, they were frozen. And we felt terrible. But the three of us came up with a plan. We deducted from our knowledge of science that since newts were cold blooded creatures, that if we just warmed them up, they would start moving again---we just needed to fire up their metabolism. So we took the 3 frozen newts, placed them on the shovel used as part of the fireplace tool set, and put the shovel into the now raging fire in the fireplace. And we waited. And we noticed something—the arms and legs of the newts were moving ever so slightly and the abdomens were just barely puffing up as it they were breathing, and we thought that in a few short minutes we were going to successfully get those newts running around again. And so we waited. And my Uncle came into the room and said What’s that stink? What are you kids doing? And we told him. And he said that is ridiculous. And we said But Uncle Vic—look --they are moving—and he said they are moving because you are cooking them—they are expanding from the heat. Oh we said. We hadn’t thought of that.

So Uncle Vic came over, took one of the other fireplace tools and scraped the cooked newts into the fireplace. And he said nothing.

And the 3 of us were worried. Did we blow a good thing? Was Uncle Vic mad at us? Were we ever going to get a return invitation? And despite our concern we were too afraid to ask him directly. Uncle Vic was a quietly assertive man. He didn’t yell—ever--he just looked at you with disappointment-- and that was way worse than a temper tantrum. So we very contritely said We’re sorry Uncle Vic. And he nodded. We were okay. He had forgiven us for being stupid children. All was right with the world again.

When we brought my nephew Andrew to restaurants when was around 3 or 4 years old, he would shake  salt and pepper into his water glass--- and then he would add sugar and sweet and low packets to it---and maybe some lemon too. And then he would stir it all together until it dissolved.  Andrew called it “playing scientific.” 

“Playing scientific” almost cost my brother, my cousin Richard and I a lifetime of “farm” invitations. Science is dangerous business. Cryogenics in particular.   

Getting Ready for the Wedding

I know that there are women out there who ask their husband’s opinion on their dress. It is a loaded question. And the response from the man is designed for failure. No matter how the husband responds the woman stomps off angrily.

To the best of my knowledge I have never asked my husband if my jeans are flattering or if he likes my outfit. Why would I ask him? He doesn’t know. His opinion is meaningless. And conversely my husband doesn’t consult me about finance or accounting. Why would he? I have no expertise. My opinion is meaningless.

If I need an opinion on personal style—a real opinion—a blood and gore cut to the bone unedited unfiltered opinion of what I look like—I ask my daughters (or even my mother). They will tell me. And they will tell each other too. And the adjectives are mortal. No one (but me) says things like I think the fabric of the dress falls in an unflattering way on your behind. They will say thing like Whoa--Oh my God that dress makes your butt look HUGE.

In a few short weeks my nephew Andrew is getting married. And we all are very excited. He is the first of that generation to wed. And of course my entire family is invited to the wedding and so we (my girls and I) all need dresses and accessories. My husband simply needs to wear his tuxedo.

I am the Rachael Zoe of the family. I am the family stylist. I am also the personal shopper. I understand what to wear and how to wear it. And since my children were babies they have been my fashion models and clients. And as the mother of 3 girls it was important that I take a vested interest. I never wanted to put my girls into an undeserved competition—I never wanted people to designate a superlative winner: prettiest, thinnest, best dressed.

So outfitting my girls for the wedding is a lofty task. It is necessary that each girl dresses equally in caliber yet maintains individuality. And as a family we also need to compliment one another—we need to be of a similar color palate so that the family photos justly highlight everyone. It is not an easy road. It has taken me a full year to buy the dresses, shoes, jewelry and bags. And for anyone who is as detail oriented as I, and must work within a fixed budget/person and with focused styling concepts, a year is barely the correct amount of time for accomplishment.

And while I am so excited for the wedding, I am also dreading it. None of the girls has seen the other yet in their dresses. All they have seen is dresses on hangers and the accompanying accessories in their boxes and bags. And on the day of the wedding, at any given moment, while we are getting ready, someone may make an unsolicited comment and all hell will break loose. And it won’t have to be an actual comment. It may be a quick disapproving look. And then the claws will come out. And the hissing and spitting will commence. The ensuing cat fight will take a life of its own. And the only person who can deescalate it is me. And being in the middle is an even more dangerous place to be than the cat fight itself. They will turn on me.    I will be the one they blame if the dress is too tight or the earrings have too much bling or her shoes are more awesome than mine. I will be at fault if the mascara runs or the heels are too high. I will be the one accused of not doing my job. And it will be all that I can do to redirect the negative energy into peaceful co-existence. And during all this emotional strife, I too will have to get dressed and ready.

Which is why on the day of the wedding my husband will shower and get dressed at the club; and I have hired Blanca, my cleaning woman to go to my mother’s house and help my mother get dressed. It’s just safer for my husband and mother that way. They won’t have to endure the inevitable drama. And I won’t have to worry about my mother tripping over all the beauty items that will trail all over my house. Getting ready is not only dangerous, it is messy. If a robber comes in my door that day they will think some other robber has already been there. That’s how messy it will be.

And when my husband returns from pampering himself at the club he will know to say nothing about how anyone looks-- especially if asked. He is no fool. Firearms are dangerous. He stays away from loaded questions at all times. He understands that sometimes they can shoot you in the foot. And even an off-centered glance can pull the trigger even if the safety latch is engaged.

What's in a Name?

When I was a little girl my mother would tell me that I chose her to be my mother. She said that my soul looked down from heaven and decided that I wanted to live with her. It was a sweet thought for a little girl. But I actually think it is true. I think our souls choose to live in the bodies we live in. We choose our life’s path before we are born. We are called. And destiny and free will live hand in hand from that point on just like it did for Forrest Gump.

So on some level I thought when I was pregnant that I could almost summon the child I wished for. And on some level I thought that by choosing the correct name of the child, I could inspire my children’s souls to jump into their bodies. And since by nature I like to overthink, the names of all my children (including the dog children) were deliberating chosen and given based on the name’s meaning.   

Samantha is a Hebrew name which means “teachable one” or “one who listens.” And the added plus is that her name, Samantha Jo, is a nod to my father Samuel, and my father-in-law Joseph. (It has nothing to do with the Heather Locklear character in Dynasty.)

Briana is a Gaelic name. It means “strong-willed” or “exalted”. Briana’s middle name is Dawn which also means Aurora, my mother’s name.

And Kara is a latin name. It mean “beloved” and it is a derivative of Karina which was the nickname given to me by my cousin Betty. Kara’s middle name is Alene--a derivative of Helene (my middle name)—which was chosen to honor both my grandmothers: Helen and Lena.

And seemingly, all that name research and bestowment worked. I got what I asked for. My children chose me based on their given names. Samantha argues the least with me and listens to me the most---she is “teachable”. Briana was my “Irish” baby—fair skinned with blond hair (nowadays it gets help from Vinny) and blue eyes-- and God knows is exhaustingly strong willed. And Kara is beloved—and of the 3, is the most annoyingly like myself.

My husband’s name is Arthur Philip . And I could not figure out how to work his name into the mix. He is named for the obstetrician that birthed him and his Uncle Phil (his godfather). And Arthur means “bear” or “stone” and Philip means “lover of horses”. Neither which applies to my husband at all. He is definitely not a” bear” (as in ill-tempered), and but for the Kentucky Derby every year, he is not a lover of horses either—especially riding them. So either my husband wasn’t paying attention up in heaven when my mother-in-law chose his name and beckoned to him down to Earth or my husband, upon landing in his body, chose to use his free will and change his destiny. I haven’t asked him recently. Either way, my husband will have to wait until the next generation to see his name bestowed---perhaps then Arthur Philip will summon a child that will be a” bear” as in “somebody who anticipates bad business conditions” or an equestrian—a lover of horses.

And as far as destiny and free will goes—I agree with Forrest Gump:

I don’t know if we each have a destiny or if we’re all just floating around accidental-like on a breeze. But I, I think maybe it’s both.

You may summon a child, and they may choose you to nurture their destiny, but how the child chooses to learn from life’s chance elements ultimately determines what kind of chocolate they become. If you  are a mother, and you are lucky, you get a variety: nuts, truffels and caramels---and you love them all  equally-- and because of and not in spite of their differences. Or as Ana Lee Smith—the first grade teacher of all 3 of my girls once told me:  you get to love and hate something different in each of them

Keeping Up with the Cicc-dashians

When my 3 daughters were in their peak teenage years—13, 15, and 17—I would often wonder why Al Qaeda did their training in caves in Afghanistan---if Al Qaeda wanted terrorist training, all they had to do was live in my house---my girls would have given them all the terrorist training they needed. And if Al Quada stayed here, they would have had a clean bed, 3 meals a day, and laundry service for all those bed sheets they wore.

My girls were socially situated nearer to the apex of the high school social strata. I say that not as a braggart—not at all-- but rather to induce sympathy from my readers. Teenage girls are difficult enough to parent with all those hormonal highs and lows-- and when you add an accelerated social life into the mix, it becomes that much more difficult.

And when you have daughters who are high profile in high school-land, people enjoy judging you and your children. And at all times you feel like a publicist doing damage control. Everyone in town always knows exactly what your girls are doing—you are exposed---it’s like living in a fishbowl. It was like living with Kourtney, Kim and Kloe  Kardashian—and I was Kris Jenner. Because even though my girls were “good,” parents who had children outside of my children’s social circle sought any opportunity to call m them (and me) “bad.”

The Winter Wonderland dance is a December semi-formal held at the high school. When my oldest daughter Samantha was a freshman, the dance was open to all four grades. But over-permissiveness by the high school administration set the stage for an “incident”—one of the sophomore girls had gotten alcohol poisoning before the dance even began and thus forced some needed changes. One of them was that the Winter Wonderland from then on would only be open to juniors and seniors BUT freshman and sophomores could attend IF their date was an upperclassman. The net effect was that very few sophomores and even fewer freshman got invitations after that point.

My daughter Briana was socially select. She also was a middle child and determined at all times to make sure her older sister Samantha never got anything “more” than she did—and by “more” I mean everything from an ounce of Diet Coke at dinnertime to an invitation to the Winter Wonderland dance. Briana may not have been technically allowed to go to the dance as a freshman, but that was not going to stop her. She knew people. And she knew people who knew people. And her people could arrange things. So when one of the good-looking junior soccer boys was looking for a date, her dress was already picked out. She was going.

So that meant I had 2 girls going to the dance. And that meant 2 dresses, 2 pairs of shoes, 2 sets of accessories, 2 hair appointments and 2 sets of worry. It also required me and my husband to be at 2 pre-parties at the same time—one on Whitehall Blvd and one on FouthStreet. And Samantha’s pre-party had a pre-party before the pre-party so before going to Fourth Street I (we) needed to go to Second Street first to take pictures before the pictures. So my husband and I split up and the girls fought over who got me in attendance because my husband is a terrible photographer. Ultimately I was in charge of attending Samantha’s pre-parties since she had gotten the first invitation.

I also needed to buy 2 boutonnieres—one for each of their dates. And now I am finally getting to the story. When I went to pick up the boutonnieres at Feldis Florist, I bumped into a woman who liked to judge me and my girls. She had 2 daughters: one was a senior and one was a freshman like Briana. Both of her girls were elite athletes but they were also facia brute—very facia brute---downright fugly. And this woman who liked to judge me and my daughters said Oh are you picking up a boutonniere too? (I think she wanted to let me know that her ugly older daughter had a date) And I said Actually I am picking up 2—both Samantha and Briana are going to the dance. And she said Really? You are allowing Briana—a freshman-- to go to the dance? Don’t you realize what she will be exposed to? All that drinking and hooking up? Do you think that is appropriate? I would never let my freshman daughter ever go to that dance.

Yep. I was getting judged again. And my daughters too. And typically when this happens I get so angry that my brain freezes and I have no response—or least I have no good response. I think of a comeback line hours later. But this time was different. I really disliked this woman’s inference and I think that is what got my brain into focus. I felt like the mama bear protecting her cubs. How dare this woman with her heinous daughters judge us?

So after she told me how she would never let her not very good looking freshman daughter go to the dance I simply said Well that’s something you are never going to have to worry about now will you? Your daughter would have had to have gotten an invitation first-- right?

And boy did the wind pop out of her sails after that remark. And I was so proud of myself for being so snotty.

I love Keeping Up With the Kardashians. When I watch it I believe I am watching my own family. I am Kris, Art is Bruce, Sam is Kim, Briana is Kloe, and Kara is Kourtney. Really. That’s what my family dynamic is like. And everyone both loves and hates each at all times—just like the Kardashians. And my girls are terrorists just like Kim, Kloe and Kourtney. And my job as Kris is to spin things in the most positive light at all times—just like she does. And it is exhausting. But unlike Kris Jenner I do not have her money or her access to plastic surgery. And so I have wrinkles and gray hair and digestive disorders. But that’s okay. My girls maybe terrorists but at least they are not facia brute—and that’s one less thing people can judge me about.

What I Do All Day

Last week as I was emptying the dishwasher I was listening to the ladies of The View. And the hot topic of the day regarded evidence that showed that women who stayed at home suffered equal stress levels to those women who worked outside the home. And Joy Behar thought that was ridiculous—she thought women who stayed at home had it easier—and it was all Whoopi could do to keep Sherri Sheppard and Elisabeth Hasselback from beating up on Joy and biting her ear off like Mike Tyson.

 I met a teacher friend the other day and she said to me—Your kids are grown and out of the house (not really, one flew back) so what do you do all day?
   
I hate that question. I have been hearing it for 25 years now. I find it rude—yet I still feel the need to defend myself. So I told her I was busy all day long---there was always some “thing” I needed to do. And I told her that I had no desire at this point in my life to have to answer to another human being—I had enough bosses already—and if I wanted to fly to Atlanta to visit my daughter, I did not want to ask anyone’s permission.

But she wasn’t satisfied by this so she asked but how do you spend your day? And although I am kind of proud of my blog, and I believe my thoughts have worth on many different levels,  I am still insecure about telling people that I do it. I fear people will mock its value. I fear the smirk. But I told her about it anyway. To which she replied  You have a website? What do you write about? I said—oh just stuff. And she said but do you get paid? And I said well not yet but maybe—I could monetize it—but right now –no. 

And what I feared became reality—she secretly mocked me. In her mind, if I did not get a paycheck, there was no value in my work. I was just wasting time. I was merely a Garden City housewife pretending to be a writer.

A man came home from work one day. The morning breakfast coffee cups and cereal bowls were in the sink. There were crumbs on the floor. The pillows and cushions on the couch were askew. The beds were not made and the laundry overflowed the laundry basket. The dry cleaning remained hung in plastic bags on the bedroom closet door knob. Yesterday’s clothes were on the floor in same “just-walked-out-of” position from the day before. There was toothpaste smeared in the sink and hair on the floor. The checks and bank deposit slips were on the countertop. The answering machine had 6 unanswered calls. And the plumber did not show because he hadn’t been called. And the dinner reservations for Saturday night were not made. There was nose schmutz from the dogs on all of the glass doors. And there was no food in the refrigerator nor dinner on the table. And the husband turned to the wife and said What happened? And the wife said you know how you like to ask me what I do all day? Well today I didn’t do it.

On my Facebook page, under job description it reads:  family psychologist, guidance counselor, personal shopper. Elder care provider, dog care specialist and trainer, chef, taxi driver, interior designer. Stylist, book club president, free-lance writer, triage nurse, researcher, public relations analyst, cheerleader, part time comedian and maid.

At any given moment I am performing one or more of this job positions. I am always busy. I am always employed. I am a blackberry message away from all my employers at all times. My skills are always in demand. And but for my writing I have no personal time.  I have worth—it just hasn’t been monetized—but neither does it mean my work is valueless—my time is not squandered---my education is not unspent. The fact that I do not earn a daily wage measured in dollars simply means my work is priceless—it more than money can buy.