Barbies and Ken

I have never known any little girl who did not enjoy playing with Barbie dolls—myself included. And it is not uncommon for those same little girls to own multiple Barbies---there are so many to choose from. But what is uncommon is for little girls to own multiple Kens. Little girls only need one Ken—or in my case one G.I. Joe (that belonged to my brother) to live in Barbie world.

Elaine is a best friend. We met because life kept putting us in the same places at the same time: Cathedral Nursery School, Locust school, and on walks with strollers. It was actually my mother who noticed Elaine—she said I keep seeing this nice girl who looks like she could be your friend. And she was right. Elaine and I became fast friends.Aand Samantha and Amanda (Elaine’s daughter) became fast friends too. And Stephen, Elaine’s son was Briana’s age, and so they became friends. And my 3 girls and Amanda and Stephen played famously together.

The 5 kids often wrote plays. And Stephen had to play all the male characters. It was a lot of pressure for a little boy. He had to play the father and son and brother and policeman and serial killer and victim all in the same performance sometimes. . And when he forgot a line he had four girls to answer to. And trust me, these little girls had high expectations--their wrath was swift upon misspoken errors. They attacked like cobras—only more deadly.

But they also loved Stephen and appreciated his artistic contributions. And one year on Halloween he reaped the reward of all the henpecking. Stephen dressed up like a Quarterback, and Amanda, Samantha, Briana and Kara were his private cheerleaders. The girls each wore the same outfit: navy blue skirt, white Keds, pigtails with blue ribbons, 2 blue and white pom-poms, and a white sweat shirt with giant felt letters: SP (Stephen’s initials). And at every door during the treat or treat process, people would ask What does the SP stand for? And the 4 girls would point to Steve and say we are his cheerleaders—the SP stands for his name. And the people would say to Steve—Wow aren’t you lucky to have so many girls cheering for you! And Steve would shake his head and smile. It was good to be the quarterback. This was a role worth playing.

And the funny thing is that even although Stephen did not grow up to be the quarterback, he did become one of the most valuable players on the Garden City high school football team. He won numerous awards. He played in college. And he also grew up to be very comfortable around women—girls flocked to him like bees to honey.

Ultimately being the Ken doll as a little boy proved to be quite beneficial. Stephen has grown into a kind and empathetic man. And my girls—since they had no brother of their own, got a taste of what it was like to grow up with a boy around. None of my girls were shy in male company.

And even though each of the 5 kids aren’t as close anymore— their lives have meandered in different directions-- the memories of those days remain close to their hearts. And not a Halloween passes that one of my girls does not remind me Hey Mom—remember that year when we all were cheerleaders for Stephen? And I giggle-- say Yes-- and thank God for all the good times---I thank God for the blessing of good friends--- and little boys and girls who grow up too fast.

Feathers and Words

In the movie Doubt, the priest tells the story of how he told a parishioner to open a pillow up to let the all the feathers blow into the wind. And when the pillowcase was empty, he then told the parishioner to collect all the feathers. And the parishioner told the priest that she could never retrieve all the feathers---they had scattered too far. And the priest said that is what happens when you release your words---they scatter and change the landscape.

I am very cognizant of this when I write. I understand fully that my thoughts, once read, touch people---and whether they laugh or shake their head in agreement or not, they are forever changed. Words count. A bell cannot be un-rung.

Yet the inability to un-ring a bell does not presuppose malevolence.  Because there are all kinds of bells—church bells, wedding bells, fire bells, school bells and liberty bells. Bells are important. Bells are designed to provide information. They allow people to pause—and plan a direction.

I use allegory to transduce my experiences---good or bad – funny or not--into meaning. And while I would like to think I write purely for myself---that isn’t 100% true. Sometimes I write for my audience—I write in the hopes that my words may affect change. I write so that an unretrieved feather might arrive at a destination better than the status quo. I write in the hope that my words prompt improvement---even if the improvement is a mere giggle for the day.

So. Until I run out of thoughts to convey I will continue opening pillowcases. Because the  answer to the question Does a feather caress or irritate?  is that that is the choice of the feather’s recipient---- not the person who set the feather free. The benevolence or malevolence of words depends on how we choose to internalize them.

Bye Bye to Blackberry

When I was in college we did an experiment with lenses. And I noticed that when I put a lens up to my eye I could see better. Up until that time I did not know I was a little bit nearsighted. I thought everyone had the same degree of fuzzy vision as I had. I never knew the world could be so sharp and clear.

I have had a Blackberry Storm 2 for the past 2 years. I loved it.  I loved being so connected. I loved the touch pad. I loved making my index finger slide upwards or downwards to see my emails. And the best part about it was its conflict resolution qualities—when we were out to dinner and my husband and I would disagree about some very important thing like who’s playing the 1:00 Sunday football game—I  could just go to NFL.com on my Blackberry and settle it promptly instead of letting the conflict ruin our dinner.

But my Blackberry has been slowly dying. The sensors on the touch pad sometimes refuse to work. And I have been contemplating replacing it with an iphone. But I have been procrastinating. I am comfortable with the phone I have. I didn’t think I needed a smarter phone—my blackberry was smart enough.

And when Sam called me from the Verizon store 2 Friday nights ago to see if I wanted an iphone-4S like the one she was standing in line to purchase, I said no. But my husband told her yes--he asked her to order me one. And I still wasn’t so sure the iphone-S was necessary. That was until Sam came home the next day with it. And even though Sam was a novice (she was a Blackberry person too) I was amazed at the phones’ performance. The new iphone understood verbal commands.

And now I wonder what made me forget how life changing a phone could be. I will be able to tell her (my iphone is female) to remind me to buy milk and paper towels.  I may ask her if I need to wear a jacket outside or what time are the Giants playing tomorrow?-- and she will answer me. And it takes her seconds not minutes to do so. My new phone hasn’t even shipped yet and I am completely spoiled.

But it doesn’t mean I am not paralyzed with fear. I will have nervous wet armpits for a long while I get used to my new iphone—just like I did when I got my Blackberry. I will have to go to the Apple store and get a tutorial. If I do not know what it can do I will not know how to tell it how to do it for me.

They say in the future none of us will need to carry money or keys or credit cards anymore. Our ID will will be an app on our phones too.  I do not doubt that that will happen. But women will still need to carry a handbag. I am pretty sure that a smart phone will never replace lipstick, Listerine breath strips or some Advil. A phone that can direct me to the nearest store to buy all that stuff will not help me when I sneeze and need a tissue—although it will be cool if my phone will know enough to say God Bless You and suggests I use some Purell.

Taking Responsibility

At a PTA meeting at the high school, an enraged parent stood up and forcefully complained to the then principal Mr Okulski that at the Winter Wonderland dance that previous Saturday night, her child was on a party bus and their date overdrank and ended up in the hospital. She was outraged that the principal permitted party buses to enter the parking lot. She was angry that her poor child was surrounded by a bunch of underage drinkers and had to attend the dance without a date.

And even though at that point in time I had had no experience with teenage drinking (Samantha was a freshman) and I might have been tempted to be swept in the mass crucifixion of “bad kids” and “bad parents” and “what was the school going to do about it” sentiment, I simply thought Why did this woman allow her kid to take a party bus? At any point she could have said “no” to her kid. And why would the principal be accountable for any students’ behavior outside of school? Isn’t that what the parent(s) are for?

My Aunt Jackie and I both share a family trait. We have sharp olfactory ability---a keen sense of smell. My Uncle Victor would say you can smell a fly pass wind. And I used that ability to torture my teenage children. When they would come in from a night out they would have to pass a breathalyzer test---they were required to breathe in my face so I could smell their breath. And if they had a mint or gum in their mouth it was considered an automatic failure of the exam.  I giggle to myself now at how they tried to exhale from their mouth and not their lungs. It never worked. And when they got caught with a high BAC on my nose-a-lyser, they called me a psycho (and worse) and they met with swift consequences.

On more than one occasion they each attempted to justify their actions by saying this: But Mom you don’t understand, I had to drink. My friends made me do it. Everyone was drinking. What did you want me to do—just stand there? And my response was always the same: Unless your friends held you down and opened your mouth while you protested No! No! No! and poured the alcohol down your throat against your will-- you made an active decision to drink. No one made you do it. It was your choice….and “Yes” to the part B of your question—I do expect you to stand there and not drink.

It is a lot easier to parent when you take no responsibility. It is much easier to blame your child’s bad behavior on other “bad kids” and their “bad parents” and a lack of support from a” bad principal”. It is easier to blame “this town” and “those athletes” and “the bodega” in Hempstead. The truth of the matter is kids are responsible for their own behavior—good, bad or stupid, they make decisions which must have consequences. And parents must be the enforcers of the consequences—not their friends or neighbors, not the school district, and not Officer RIch. That is a key lesson that must be learned. Because if that lesson is not learned, they (parents and kids)  will be forever blaming their co-workers and boss and government for every ill in their life. Responsibility begins and ends in the home.

Since that Winter Wonderland dance in 2001 the rules have changed twice—the dance now is only open to upperclassman (so they won’t badly influence the underclassman?), the dance is held on a Friday night (because kids only know how to drink on a Saturday?) and party buses are not permitted on the school property (they park across, or down the street instead).  Hand bags are checked and boys jacket pockets are padded down (google: collapsible flask).

And the woman who threw those stones at that PTA meeting ended up living in a glass house herself. Which is why it is never a good idea to cast any stones unless you are Mary, Jesus' mother (let he who is without sin cast the first stone). Only Mary can say with absolute certainty "not my child."

Hairy Legs

When you study classification of animals in biology you learn that that which makes a mammal a mammal is body hair and giving birth to live young. Those 2 features make us more evolved than other species.

The cooler weather has finally kicked in. No more shorts or capri pants or skirts without tights. It is also the time of year I feel less inclined to shave my legs. No one sees them. I have to convince myself on a daily basis to shave--I hate it. I do not do it well. I routinely cut myself and miss entire patches. And now that I am getting older I have been known to forget to shave one of my legs entirely. It is really a burden. And while I have had my legs waxed on occasion,  I am always tortured by the fact that you cannot get waxed unless the leg hair has grown to a certain length---not to mention it hurts like childbirth and a toothache rolled into one.

I recently read that but for her eyebrows, eyelashes and mane on top of her head, Kim Kardashian is completely hairless. She has had her entire body lasered. It was probably life changing. I can only imagine how much time is saved by either not going through the hair removal process or worrying about the fallout (literally) from poor technique. I’ll bet if you added up all the creams, bump preventers, gels and razor systems I have used over the past 40 years I could have had my body lasered 3 times over.

The only thing that gives me solace is the fact that it is no longer socially acceptable for men to have excessive body hair—they too now wax and concern themselves with their manscape. This is a good thing. Because not only does misery love company, but I suspect that the pain involved in man-preening will necessitate better, less painful, and cheaper modes of hair removal in the future.

I can only hope.

Because evolution has not caught up with vanity. Body hair needs to become vestigial like tails or wisdom teeth.  And while evolution is at it, maybe they might reconsider the giving birth to live young part too---women do not have time for that anymore either. We have better things to do than carry a baby in utero for 9 months and then writhe in pain for 20 hours. We need to go back to becoming more reptilian than mammalian—egg layers with hairless skin.

Minding your Mouth

I was on the phone with a friend the other day. And she was telling me that her daughter had called her earlier from school. Her daughter wasn’t feeling well and she asked her mother if she thought it was a good idea to skip going to an off-site course requirement. The Mom said I think even if you do not feel well you should go anyway. But the mother wasn’t so sure her daughter planned on taking her advice. And the mother said nothing more.

Kara has been talking about studying abroad. She had it all planned out. After doing her research she decided to apply to the business program in Rome. It had the perfect combination of management courses and art history. But for whatever reason the school assigned her a study abroad program in Milan. The program in Milan paled to what she had an opportunity to study in Rome---and it also paled to what she would have studied had she remained at Emory.

If I have learned anything from being a mother it is this: It is important to non diece nien---Italian for say nothing. And this is especially true with Kara. I cannot tell that child anything. Kara has always had her own mind. She is not receptive to unsolicited advice. She snaps like a terrier. She likes to think things through for herself. Which is why tippy-toeing  around what to say and what not say necessitates subtlety—the words must be innocuous. I need to be Switzerland-esque.

Because my feeling on the topic is this: Academics should trump immersing oneself in another’s culture. It's the point of paying tuition. If she wants to immerse herself in another’s culture she can take a Perillo tour. And as my friend Steve once said how long am I supposed to finance my child’s dreams? But I couldn’t say that. I had to present facts within the confines of neutrality and hope that Kara would arrive at a sound conclusion all by herself. And for the last two weeks I have been sitting on my hands and keeping my mouth shut. It has been torturous. But one thing I knew for sure, Kara would not make a flippant decision. Whatever conclusion she came to, I would support--even if I did not agree.

And yesterday I got her final word. She is not going abroad. Going to Milan will not serve her well—the courses are not interesting enough and key summer internships might be missed. And I breathed a sigh of relief. She had indeed made a good decision based on all the right reasons. I was proud.

And then she said Oh but Emory is offering a 10 day 4 credit Entrepreneur course that I want to take at the end of the spring semester...It’s in Nicaragua. My stomach did flips. I thought Nicaragua?  Isn’t Nicaragua the place where they grow cocaine and Americans are kidnapped? Again I non diece nien. Instead I responded with Great! Apply for the program and we will take it from there.

Because that is the corollary to the non diece nien:  wait and see how things pan out. Sometimes situations are self-correcting.  A mother’s input is not necessary. I’ll worry about Nicaragua if and only if Nicaragua becomes a tangible option. There is no sense discussing it right now—it might never come to pass.

And I have not checked back but I’ll bet my friend’s daughter fulfilled her off-site course requirement despite the fact that she did not feel well. And if she did, my friend heard all about her daughter’s misery. Because that is the corollary to the wait and see how things pan out corollary: children whine in the aftermath. But that is to be expected. Mothers then deal with whining in their own way—they “wine” right back--with Chardonnay or Pinot Grigio.

Cupcakes and Happy Meals

When my kids were in elementary school parents were allowed to bring cupcakes ito class to celebrate their children’s birthdays. And during the year holidays were also celebrated with food—usually something sweet. Children are not allowed to eat cupcakes in school anymore. Part of the reason has to do with food allergies. But mostly sweet treats are banned because they lack nutritional value. People fear that eating one cupcake per month creates obese children. If birthdays or holidays are celebrated at all, they are now replaced with healthy alternatives.

I can buy into the safety issue—food allergies may be deadly. But banning all sweets because they are devoid of nutritional value defeats the concept of the treat---a treat is something you do not consume on a day to day basis. It is available only on special occasions.

Since my college days I have eaten Mc Donald’s happy meals. It is a guilty pleasure that I enjoy on occasion. I like the portion size and as old as I am I enjoy the toy too. I purchased one for lunch the other day. It was to be my special treat. But my happy meal  did not make me happy. Well intended people pressured Mc Donald to modify the contents of Happy Meals. I received a hamburger, barely 9 French fries and 7 apple slices. The 9 french fries and the 7 apples slices didn't even add up to  one Weight Watcher's point. I was miserable. The best thing in the world is sodium laden, hot from the fryer McDonald’s french fries. I was robbed. And so now are all little kids. It’s one more thing someone has decided to suck all the fun out of.

Call me politically incorrect but I want my happy meal back. Children do not become obese from an occasional visit to McDonalds nor an occasional cupcake or Rice Krispie treat. The key word is occasional. Treats are a part of growing up. A better lesson for a child than prohibition is limitations. It’s the it’s better to teach a man how to fish theory. Don’t take treats away—teach kids control.

So now after about 30 years I have to rethink my ordering at Mc Donald’s. I will have to purchase just a hamburger and convince my husband to share some of his french fries. I must give up the toy. And I wonder if little kids will be annoyed like me. They will order the small French fries instead of settling for the miserly amount in the happy meal. If they do, the calorie content will go up leading to unintended consequences of well intended people who pressured Mc Donald's in the first place.

Perhaps I am just a grump. But life was good when parents brought cupcakes in to school and parents surprised their children with an occasional trip to Mc Donalds. It was something you looked forward to. It was special. It was a part of childhood. It made you wish you didn’t have an August birthday.

The Wedding Recap

This past Friday was my nephew’s wedding. The day technically began at 12:30 am when Kara arrived home from Atlanta but I delegated airport duty to my husband. All he needed to do to get ready for the wedding was to get a shave from the barber, take a shower, and put on his tuxedo. We remaining girls needed our beauty sleep.

Our day—mine, Sam, Briana’s and Kara’s in all practicality started around 7:30 am when everyone was ordered out of bed and into the shower. We were instructed by the salon to arrive with clean dry hair and so we did. We arrived at Madison Taylor Salon at 9:30 am. My mother drove herself.

And I have fabulous news to report—Vinny had a creative hair day. Not only did the coiffure swoop and cascade, it was destined to “stay.” Titanium rods could not pry it loose. Michele the makeup artist worked magic too. My mother was in high glamour mode. She managed to channel Elizabeth Taylor circa 1988—which was the intended goal.  My mother donned white diamonds--she sparkled. 

And the 3 girls loved their hair too—each stylist who understood the girls' personal likes and dislikes, came through. The 5 of us (including my mother) drove away feeling red carpet ready. Joan Rivers and the fashion police would only have flattering things to say. Joan would not begrudge the fact that I had hugged her weeks before.

And each girl’s dress was well fitted and appropriate. No one envied what another had on their body. Everyone felt special. Criticism was null. There was no conflict to resolve. And nobody forgot anything--everything was accounted for. And while my husband had purchased me a clipboard, I did not use it. Everyone minded homeland security.  We arrived on time—although barely-- the bride was a few minutes early so we appeared later than we actually were.

And Samantha did not trip, slip, or stumble up to the altar when she gave her reading at mass. She didn’t stammer either. Our eyes welled up but we didn’t cry. We mostly just grinned and enjoyed the moment.

And we drank and drank and ate and ate and laughed and laughed. And I of course danced like Ellen Degeneres to old school rap. Briana performed Gaga’s Bad Romance. My cousin Betty showed Aretha some Respect. And we left only when the lights came fully on. Our Italian goodbyes took a long while—as they always do. We departed on the last party bus from the reception venue to the hotel. And all was wonderful and everyone was happy. The day was perfect. Reality exceeded expectation.

And when I arrived home on Saturday the house was completely in order. Blanca had cleaned up after us and slept over the night of the wedding to take care of the dogs. Cosmo had played with “red ball” with her and Jasper managed to live in this world for another day.

And I am sure it will take every bit of a week to get everything back to normal. The church and reception dresses (all 8 of them) must be dry cleaned and put back into the closet. The cufflinks and tuxedo accessories will have to go back in the container under the bed.  The crown jewels will have to go back into the vault. The beaded bags will be placed into their drawstringed sleepers. And all the boxed silk shoes will be moved to the upper shelves.

It is over. And I am completely spent—mentally and physically. But I feel like I just won the US Open or the Tour de France. We worked hard and played hard. We were awesome. We were victorious.  All the Aunt Sally inspired preparation yielded a prime outcome.

But now I have a new problem. I haven’t any idea how to post pictures on Facebook--and I know that that is what I am supposed to do. My peeps will request photos—and unless I post pictures there will be no proof that what I have just written is in fact true—evidence is needed. Hopefully, people will tag me and the girls in photos and post them on my wall—I think that will allow my friends to view the fabulous-ness although I am not quite sure.  I still don't understand Facebook-ing very well. Because even if I want to sit down and figure it all out on my own, I am too tired—especially now after wedding #2 in which I should have painted eyeballs on my eyelids like I had intended. Unfortunately I have other more pressing work to do—like hand washing the Spanx and locating Kara’s misplaced American Express card. You know—the kind of very important yet unpaid stuff that I do all day.

Morning Radio

In the 80’s and up until he moved his show to Sirius radio, I listened to Howard Stern in the morning. And after Howard left KRock, I would listen to Z100 and the Z morning zoo when I drove my children to school. I listened to the phone tap religiously every morning.

I now have a new morning radio station. I did not chose it of my own volition. It was chosen for me by my daughter Briana. I drive her to the train station in the morning and she rules my car’s presets. I listen to the Cipha Sounds and Rosenberg show with K Fox on Hot 97 FM. They advertise themselves as the Black, the Jew and the Puerto Rican. Hot 97 is the rap station.

The show is, as you might guess, very politically incorrect. They do 2 segments every morning: stuff white people don’t care about as well as stuff black people don’t care about. Evidently Puerto Ricans do not fit into the formula. I learned black people do not care about Justin Beiber. White people do not care that Soulja Boy got arrested for guns and 70K worth of drugs.

When I picked Sam up from the city today she said did you hear that T.I. is out of jail?  I said Yeah pshh I knew that. He got out a couple of weeks ago. He is on parole. And T.I. got into a little thing with Diddy. Apparently Diddy was having a party at a club in Atlanta before the BET awards and T. I. and his crew were drinking some vodka other than Siroc and Diddy felt disrespected. And a fight almost broke out. But T.I. said Yo Diddy I get paid to drink that (other vodka)—my apologies—I mean no disrespect. And Diddy and his crew sat back down. The tension was averted.

And Sam laughed and said  Really Mom? And how do you know that? And I told her I knew lots of rapper stuff. I heard rapper news every morning—Lil’ Wayne and Drake and Jay-Z and Kanye. They are my new peeps. She just shook her head. She is used to me by now. She is accustomed to the fact that I do not always conform to what other Moms do and say. There was a time that would have embarrassed her---now it doesn’t seem to phase her.

That’s the best part about having kids on the other side of 20 They accept you. They want to be engaged. You still may not know anything in their eyes but they realize that you know a lot more than they originally suspected. They forgive you for being yourself---even if you are not like other Moms.

And not being like the other Moms is something I am proud to be.  I may not be able to discern between the republican candidates-- but know all the important rappers. Maybe Hot 97 should do a segment on stuff white Garden City women shouldn’t care about, but yet somehow do.

 t

SAT Cheating

For no particular reason I decided to read the classified section of my Garden City News. And I noticed an ad—it read: Published writer can help you craft a winning college admissions essay. Check out my website to see samples. And because I was curious, I did. I innocently thought that this woman was a writing coach. I thought to myself—hmm I could coach kids with college essays.  But the woman’s website advertised her as a professional ghostwriter—and that her ghost-written  articles have appeared in several magazines and the New York times.

 I might be really off on this but ghostwriting sounds a lot to me like professional plagiarism. I wondered if people pay professional writers to write their child’s college essays. I wondered if Garden City people are a source of income given the placement of the ad.

There has been a great deal of press recently about an Emory student who took SAT exams for other students. I found this particularly interesting for two reasons. The first one is that the student who took the exams attends school with my daughter—my daughter Kara  is a junior and the boy who took the exams is a sophomore.  Kara, does not know this boy personally, but she is friends with his friends and so while it is all hearsay, she did have some interesting campus chatter.

The second reason this SAT case interested me is because the DA who is prosecuting the case lives in my mother’s building. I hesitate to commit as to whether I am fan of the DA or not. But I do question why the DA chose to bring criminal charges. There seems to be some conjecture as to whether this is in fact a criminal case. I wonder if the DA’s motivation was based more on enhancing personal notoriety than law. I am not a lawyer so I would not know for sure.

What I do know as a mother is, kids are stupid. And even smart, “good” kids make really bad judgment errors sometimes. I can count on 2 hands and 2 feet all the good kids I know who have done really dumb things—some of them even ended up in police custody---like a kid who stupidly showed their fake ID to a police officer when they were drunk---post 9/11 that is a serious crime. Or the kid who thought it was funny to put glue in the locks at the high school—he got nailed for destroying public property. The police didn’t think it was funny at all.

And I think, to that end, blaming the parents for a child’s judgment error isn’t fair either. Many times the good kid who does a dumb-ass thing has caring attentive parents. Every parent has had a young child who in the split second the parent was distracted experienced their child fall and hurt themselves. They weren’t bad parents—they just were the victim of bad timing. Sometimes it is no different when the child gets older—and especially when the child becomes a teenager—only the stakes are higher.

But I did ask Kara how did the kids got the money to pay the student.  How did the parents not miss $1500-2000? And Kara said oh that was easy. The students likely told their parents that they needed the money to pay for a private SAT tutor. The students would have told their parents that the tutor they found had an excellent track record. The parents didn’t check. And the kids would fake going to weekly tutorials. And the parents were none the wiser. And I would guess that when their child got a phenomenal score they likely praised their kid for finding such a quality SAT teacher. They were proud—they thought their kids had it in them all along. To me it’s like all the smart people who invested with Bernie Medoff---there was just enough truth to cover the lie.

When my older daughter took her CPA exam she needed to bring 2 picture IDs. She was fingerprinted as well. And every time she entered or exited the exam room she was rigorously ID’d. This was necessary to prevent cheating.

There is a show on HBO called Shameless. The 17 year old character on the show is a professional test taker. The character gets paid to sit for other people’s SATs and final exams. The writers of the show must have gotten their idea from somewhere: reality.

And while I am not condoning cheating, I think the punishment should fit the crime. I do not see how jail time for stupid kids solves anything. In Newsday last week in the editorial column a woman made the point that if every teenager and young adult was prosecuted for stupidity there wouldn’t be enough jails to house them. I totally agree.

I am more concerned about the woman who advertises as a ghostwriter. She is an adult. She lives here in town. If she is complicit in writing college essays for applicants she is the one I believe should be in legal hot water. In my world that behavior would be more egregious. Maybe the DA should read her Garden City News. Maybe the DA should go looking in her own backyard.

Crazy About Cosmo

Sometimes I am concerned that my neighbors will look through my windows and see me. It has nothing to do with being caught naked. I am pretty sure that if that ever happened my neighbors  would immediately recoil in horror. Abhorrence of my nakedness is probably enough to make all my neighbors close their shades---they do not want to see me—not the other way around. No sometimes I worry that my neighbors will look through my windows and see me interacting with my dogs and think I am a crazy person.

I really really love my dogs. I hug and kiss them all day long—I kiss Jasper on the nose and Cosmo on the lips. Cosmo is a tongue kisser—he also like to take little love bites as his tongue molests you. The poodle side of him is definitely French.

Throughout my day, Cosmo and I play tag—he bumps his nose into my leg and then I chase him.  I chase Cosmo around the dining room table--technically I walk while he does runs laps. Sometimes Jasper barks at us and tells us to stop. And I would play tag with Jasper too, but he is too old. And honestly when Jasper was young he still wouldn’t have played tag with me anyway—he was never that much fun---he was always too serious. Jasper was always on patrol. Jasper was a dog work-a-holic. And when he was off duty Jasper’s idea of fun was chewing on a bone. That isn’t an activity humans can really participate in all that well.

But Cosmo is different. He could care less about policing the house. His spirit is much more free.  Cosmo only wants to be my playmate, not my security guard. Cosmo is a goldendoodle—not a terrier like Jasper. Cosmo loves to retrieve. Cosmo loves to jump and catch balls. He also plays soccer on my Pergo kitchen floor. He also runs to the top of my stairs and drops a ball so it bounces all the way down to the bottom landing. Then he runs down the steps, picks up the ball, and runs back up the steps to do it all again. I laugh out loud every time I see him do it.

And Cosmo has a favorite ball:  “red ball”.  “Red ball” is a super bouncy red rubber Kong ball—it is especially smooth. Cosmo sometimes rolls it around in his mouth while simultaneously rolling on the floor. When Cosmo goes to sleep at night, he takes “red ball” with him. And since Cosmo sleeps at the foot of my bed, I am often awakened to the sound of bounce bounce bounce when “red ball”   rolls off the mattress on to the floor. Cosmo loves   “red ball” so much I think I should get him Traveler’s insurance—just like on that commercial.

I did not have electricity for almost 3 days this summer after hurricane Irene. And I was typing a blog post on my battery operated laptop when the power came back on. And when it did, I jumped up and down and danced with Cosmo around the kitchen singing We have lights! We have lights! Yayyy everybody we have lights!—and Jasper wagged his tail while Cosmo and I did the Samba. I probably sang and danced for a full 3 or 4 minutes before I exhausted myself. It was so much fun.

And then I remembered that my windows were open and my neighbors were home. There was a good chance that they heard me singing and may have watched me dancing like a fool with my dogs. There was a good chance that they would have thought I was a crazy dog lady. And had they seen me they would have been right. Because I kinda am. I am crazy for my dogs. I am out of my head in love with them. They give me unrivaled pleasure—unconditional love—no judgement.

But then again maybe if the neighbors do look through the windows from time to time and see me kissing and playing with my dogs they might smile and think—how lucky it must be to be her? how lucky is she to share in the free spiritedness of dogs? Maybe they think I wish I could be her—not caring  about dancing and singing in her kitchen  with the windows opened and the blinds up.

 Maybe they envy me and close their shades not to be reminded of the joy of unabandoned play. They close their shades because silliness doesn’t have to belong exclusively to children and puppies---51 year old housewives can own it too.

 Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole (Rodger Caras). Dogs keep     the heart young and the soul filled. I am not crazy—I just know better.

Enforcing Wedding Checkpoints

For all intent and purposes, my nephew is having a destination wedding. The mass will be held at a church about 45 minutes away, and the hotel is about an hour and a half further out than that. We will have hotel rooms for the night. And my nephew and his bride have arranged for party buses to drive everyone to and from the hotel to the venue, which is located on the LI sound.

Because the mass is fairly early, and more importantly  because the dresses my girls plan on wearing for the reception leave them a bit over- exposed for church, we have all decided to wear more modest dresses to the ceremony, and then we will all change into our reception dresses once we arrive at the hotel. We now have double outfits each with double accessories. There are many things to remember---there is packing to do.

And when I was on the phone the other night with Sam, I was expressing my concern that everyone would remember to bring all their “stuff “. I did not want to get to the hotel and hear Mom, I forgot…. Because even though technically I would not be responsible, everyone will still hold me accountable.

But Samantha had a solution. And if you do not know my daughter personally-- let me give you a brief description of her nature. She is the eldest. She likes order. She likes direction. She is an accountant by profession. She loves the precision of numbers and columns and automatic pencils. She likes color coding and label makers. When she was in college she carried a Filofax and had tiny tiny stickers to label events. She enjoyed knowing, because she was in a sorority, every party and social get together from August through May. When she and her sisters were little, she was always the teacher when they played school. She is always concerned about something—even when she is relaxed. She is a reliable child.

So when she suggested a plan to insure that each of us remembered all our stuff I was prepared for something that Homeland Security might have devised. I was prepared for detailed protocol. And she did not disappoint.

Samantha suggested that I prepare a list, specific to each person, of all the “stuff” they were required to bring. And at the doorway, before we left, I was to stand guard at the door. In my hand would be a clipboard with everyone’s list. And each person would have to physically show me item by item, each “thing” they needed to bring. And I, and only I could check it off from the list. Once each item was fully accounted for, the person would receive a pass—and only a pass could gain them entry into the car.

And I laughed—mostly because she was serious. And I said okay but who is going to do that for me?—and she said I will. And I thanked her---in between my laughter--because it was a good plan—it’s just that I am not going to do that—or maybe I will just modify her plan.  

After all how much Mommy-ing am I still required to do? At what age do I get to macro-manage instead of micro-manage? Everyone will have to meet me in the middle--I will make each person’s checklist, but then they will be responsible from there. And in the spirit of Homeland Security, I ask will ask each of them to enforce: if you see something—say something. If you see a pair of Badgley Mischka black silk shoes in the bathroom, say something. If you see 3 dresses hanging in the car instead of 4, say something. It is important to report all suspicious activity to the authorities. It is the world we live in. This policy prevented a bomb from going off in Times Square, there is no reason this same policy might also prevent an explosion over a forgotten handbag.  I wonder if Janet Napolitano knows about clip boards and entry passes?

How I Write

I saw an interview with Gary Player, a retired professional golfer the other day on ESPN.  He made the point that because golf came so effortlessly for him, he never believed he owned it—he believed it was a gift from God.

When I worked at the lab many years ago, my coworkers frequently came to me with a request: they asked me to write letters for them. I wrote all kinds—everything from complaints to Con Edison to serious reports to CSEA and the EEOC. I would ask them what do you want the letter to say? And within a very short time I would write it. I would often hear how did you write that so fast? How did you know what to say? And I was always puzzled—I would think because you just told me and I wrote it down. It wasn’t hard.

Since I have been writing my blog I have been repeatedly hearing the following questions: How do you come up with one of these every day? How long does it take you to write?  Where do you get your ideas from?

The average blog post takes me about 15-20  minutes to write. I spend more time on the phone with my mother every day. I often just sit down at the computer and whatever thought pops into my head first, I just go with.  And I rarely know the resolution of the posting until I get there. It just comes out of me—like I am vomiting thoughts from my brain.

I see day to day events and conversations as stories just as I imagine a songwriter sees the world as songs. Every observation somehow has a lesson build within it—and even small thoughts become part of a mosaic. I connect the dots between life’s snippets.

For example: I noticed that my young dog Cosmo has started sitting on the fourth step of the staircase where he can see out on three sides of my house. It is a perch that Jasper, before his arthritis and blindness set in, would oversee his kingdom from. And I thought about The Lion King—Mufasa and Simba—and Mufasa surrendering his throne to his successor. And Elton John started singing in my head. Giraffes were bowing and birds flew overhead. Here in front of me was the circle of life—pride rock with Cosmo sitting on top.

I do not know if other people think that way. I am not sure if the scene that played out in my mind of my dogs and Disney’s Lion King is an oddity or a gift from God. All I know is that thoughts that consume my brain fall effortlessly on to the paper and it doesn’t take much time at all to organize them into sentences and paragraphs. And the story’s lesson seems to arrive when it is ready. I do no work for it to happen—it just does—as if it has an energy all of its own.

Via hearsay someone who does not appreciate my humor said she must have nothing better to do all day than write. I giggled when I heard that. I thought I only wish writing was something I could do all day—it beats housework—it’s way easier. Unfortunately writing is a mere coffee break of time for me. A short respite. Something I entertain myself with in between emptying the dishwasher and folding the clothes. It is either a peculiarity or a gift from God—that is for you to decide.

Sister Regina

I can honestly say that in all my years of school—and that includes college and graduate school-- I never had a problem with any of my teachers---even the ones with a prickly nature. That is, all but one: Sister Regina Reagan, my high school chemistry teacher.

I wasn’t Sister Regina’s favorite—not by any means. And the only saving grace was that Sister Regina hated my friend Jill too. And Jill and I were disliked for the same reason. We each had a private tutor for chemistry. It enabled us to ace Sister Regina’s chemistry exams. We were the only ones that did. The other 58 girls in her 2 classes floundered miserably—and I think she liked that. Sister Regina enjoyed making girls miserable. It was a source of sadistic pleasure. She smiled every time she handled back a test with a disappointing grade. She frowned when she gave back mine and Jill’s.

And had it not been for Bob Fowkes, my father’s friend, and  an amazing chemistry teacher from Yonkers’s high school I might have thought that I was incapable of understanding chemistry at all. But Mr. Fowkes made chemistry easy-- not abstruse—he made it fun. And he explained things in simple ways—like his electron bus rule--and LEO says GER (loss of electrons is oxidation, gain of electrons is reduction).

And up until late May of my junior year I managed to stay out of Sister Regina’s way. I kept my head low and did my work. I raised my hand even though she never chose to call on me—she preferred to call on the girls who did not raise their hand because they did not know the answer. I maintained a low profile. But right around the last week in May, Sister Regina cornered me in the hallway in between classes. And she told me that I was a disgrace to myself and the school. And that  I was the most self-destructive child she had ever met. And she pitied me. And she told me that I would never be a success in life. And she finished by saying that I better pray every night for redemption or I was going to go straight to hell. And then she walked away. I said nothing. I knew better than to argue with a crazy person.

Sister Dillane was the principal of the school—she liked me. Not just because my father was her personal human resource guy—he gave her lists of talented teachers who were excessed from Yonkers public schools--and not because my father and his friends Renny and Frank formed the band that played at the yearly fundraiser either. No Sister Dillane actually liked me for me—I was her “go to” kid—the one she called on to do recruiting at the elementary schools. I was the kid who ran the student exchange program with Fordham Prep. I was on the student council and every other leadership oriented committee. I was that kid—the one all the teachers and administrators but for Sister Regina liked.

So after my little encounter with Sister Regina I went straight to Sister Dillane’s office even though I had another class. And I told her what had happened minutes before in the hallway. And I started to cry. And Sister Dillane was not pleased—it got her Irish up. And then Sister Dillane told me that I didn’t have to go to Chemistry class anymore. She permanently excused me. She put me on my honor to go to the library during the time I would have gone to class. She gave me independent study. And I didn’t have to worry about making up labs—or classwork either—she would personally see to it. And she guaranteed that Sister Regina would not punish me in my grades or Sister Regina would have to answer to her.  Sister Dillane meant business. And she sent me back to class.

The story ends in a predicable way. I excelled in chemistry and finished the course out in the library. Sister Regina taught for only one more year and then she retired—I am sure it was forced--and her replacement was an excessed teacher from Yonkers Public Schools. Everything ended up happily ever after.

Today my mother gave me the news that Bob Fowkes died. He had been sick with cancer. I will never forget what a wonderful teacher he was—neither will my brother who also had Mr. Fowkes as a tutor. The thing about good teachers is how they inspire—and how they remain with you for a lifetime---good teachers are that important. And so are good principals—particularly when they do the right thing and do not defend sadistic staff members.

Bridal Reflections

Aunt Sally is neither my Aunt by blood or by marriage. Aunt Sally is my mother’s comare—an Italian term of endearment. Aunt Sally is such a beloved friend to my mother she is my appointed Aunt.

Aunt Sally was an interior designer. She did not have official certification. She had, and still has an eye for style. And her flair extends to fashion and party planning. So when I got engaged, I did not need David Tutera. I had Aunt Sally. Because even though the term had not been invented yet, in 1985 I had a wedding planner.

Aunt Sally traveled with my mother and I everywhere and made virtually every decision about my wedding day. My mother and I lived in fear of making a decision on our own. We deferred everything to her. We trusted her completely. Every detail was important. Every detail was accounted for. It is a concept that is quite normal today, but in my time weddings were less complicated.

My wedding dress was a Frank Massandrea design—all silk—with little embellishment—the current fashion had gowns dripping in lace and beading. It was a precursor to Vera Wang. We purchased it at a boutique in New Canaan Connecticut. My mother’s dress was Nolan Miller, it was bought at a specialty store in Teaneck, New Jersey. And the wedding favors came from Queens. Distance was no barrier to Aunt Sally’s perfection.

At the church we rented tall candelabras with fresh flowers to line the alter. And thanks to Yonkers Public School I had a printed book for mass—the graphic designer created the cover. And the corner of the booklets were tied with off-white ribbon that belonged to my grandmother. I knew of no one at that time who had a printed book.

And the reception was held at Tappan Hill in Tarrytown. It was then and still is now a beautiful venue—an old estate formerly owned by Samuel Clemens. Aunt Sally picked out the menu. She also had us bring in our own linens—the underlay needed to be peach and the lacy overlay needed to be off-white lace. The theme was fall but no mums were allowed. Aunt Sally hated fall flowers. She also hated baby’s breath, ferns, and carnations. The hurricane lamps had to be brass, not pewter. My cake was off white butter cream  decorated with fresh baby peach colored roses. The cake was chocolate with cannoli cream. A cake topper with a bride and a groom was forbidden. Everything was classic—elegant--with a twist. And everything down to the invitations was brown, off white, deep peach and gold metallic.

And our personal beauty became an obsession. We went to a tanning salon—tanning beds were a new invention. And Bruce, my fabulously gay hair dresser came to my house the day of the wedding to do our hair and make-up. He gave my mother eyelashes which he applied lash by lash. And when he was finished beautifying us, he went to my husband’s hotel and did his hair and man bronzer. This was unheard of behavior in 1985.

Everything was orchestrated by Aunt Sally—and it was magnificent. So when Aunt Sally asked me recently why my mother and I were getting so over-the-top for my nephew’s wedding. I had to laugh. I told her it was all her fault. She taught me how to be a crazy person. She taught me how to be obsessed with the details. She elevated the bar before the bar was even invented.  Aunt Sally ruined me. Because once you taste perfection it is all you ever desire--- nothing else will do. And when my daughters get married---watch out---Kim Kardashian will bow her head in honor. Maybe my girls will have 4 wedding gowns instead of three.

Packing Suitcases

One of my many jobs as chief household officer is travel administrator—I am in charge of packing suitcases. My job is to prepare and arrange coordinated outfits for suitcase entry. Formerly this was a task I orchestrated for the entire family—but now it is reduced to packing for just me and my husband. And up until the last 2 times I went away, it was a sore spot for me. I hated being in charge. I also hated not being in charge and dealing with the repercussions from my lack of supervision.

I resented that if I told my husband to pull some things out of his closet for me to peruse—he would do just that—pull the top 4 folded shirts and paired them with the nearest 4 shorts or pants hanging in his closet. There was no thought involved. It was a mathematical equation: 4 + 4. He didn’t worry that anything matched or whether it was seasonally appropriate--it was an issue he would figure out once he got to his destination. That is not how I operate. I like to pre-coordinate. Packing is not simple arithmetic for me. It is quadratic equation with lots of variables.

So to avoid conflict at our destination I would pull his outfits and pack them in his suitcase. And I painstakingly matched ensembles. There generally was little crossover opportunities. Certain shirts only coordinated with certain pants. And that held true for t-shirts and bathing suits as well. And when my husband dared to randomly pull the first pair of shorts/pants/bathing suit and shirt out of the suitcase and wear it, I would blow a gasket. And he would call me uptight. Sometimes he would ask me am I allowed to pair these two things?—but since there was a hint of sarcasm in the inquiry, again, I would have to restrain my annoyance. This little dance went on for 25 years.

But on our last trip and the one before, I came up with a new and improved plan. It only took me nearly 26 years to figure it out. I still pack for him, but what I pack has changed. I pack fully interchangeable clothing. Every top matches every bottom. And that includes shoes, belts and sweaters too. It is error proof. My destination consultant work is obsolete.

And now we have a different dance. He says may I wear this with that? And I say Yep. Or this with this, or that with that. You can wear anything you want with anything you want. And at first he thought I was being sarcastic. He suspected a trap of some sort. This was too good to be true. So he further inquired-- oh really-- I can wear this with either that or that? And I said yes. It is totally up to you. You have complete freedom.

And I am not sure but I don’t think he liked his new freedom very much. It is way easier when someone tells you what to do. It is way easier to relinquish control. It allows your brain to remain rested—and that is the point of vacation: rest.  It’s more fun to be annoyed at your spouse for being too uptight. It’s a marital sport—a sparring match. Pre-resolving the conflict stole the rush of anticipation. There was no fuse to ignite. This new routine was boring.

It’s important in life to choose your battles. It is important to realize that sometimes when things annoy you, you have the power to catalyze change. Sometimes you yourself are part of the problem instead of the solution. I wanted him to be me—I finally figured out after all these years that that is not going to happen.  So I had to create a way to make both of us happy—that’s what chief household officers do—they are skilled in conflict resolution. They allow all parties to reach consensus. But it took me a long time to arrive at this place—26 years in fact. Sometimes the learning curve has the barest of slopes.

Are You Ready for Some Football?

     On a med school interview, the interviewer asked me who do you think should be the starting quarterback next year for the Giants? There had been some controversy that year. Phil Sims had gotten hurt and Scott Brunner had replaced him. Brunner was the second string quarterback that had stepped in during the playoffs and had been quite successful. I knew all this. I was a fan. My father (and mother) bled big blue. I chose Phil Simms. It wasn’t because he was more handsome. It was because I valued loyalty and I believed he had more skill.

I have only been to two NFL games. The first one was a Jets game about 20 years ago. I remember suffocating in a sea of testosterone. Despite the fact that I was genuinely interested, the men that surrounded me eyed me suspiciously. They doubted my devotion.

Last night I went to my second NFL game. It was in Atlanta at the Georgia dome. The Falcons played the Packers. The first thing that struck me was how sophisticated tailgating had become. Large flat screen TVs abounded. And the grilled meats included much more than hamburgers and hot dogs.  There were amazing lounge chairs and tables and pop up tents. People drank Jack and coke premixed in a can. This was not your father’s tailgate. This was a pop-up outdoor catering facility. This was someone’s job.

But aside from the tailgating differences of 20 years ago, there was a more significant one: women. There were women everywhere. And they were not just hanging on to husbands or boyfriends. They were independent fans. These women were ready for some football.  

My daughter Sam and 11 other girlfriends play fantasy football. They are very very very serious about it.  She and her 11 friends are consumed by statistics and trades and scores. Samantha even enters ESPN fantasy football chats. You would think the NFL paid her and her friends to do research. And when Sam and her friends go on Sunday afternoons to the local bar to watch the games, they dismiss all male advances. Hanging out at the bar is not a recreational activity-- it is business. It is business conducted with beer in the company of her opponents—i.e. her girlfriends. The competition is fierce. Friendships can be broken over a missed pass or an injured player.

So when I told Sam that her father, sister and I had tickets to the Falcon-Packer game, she was envious. And she asked what side I was sitting on. We were sitting on Green Bay’s. And then she gave me my instructions: I was to route for the Green Bay kicker—it was no consequence who actually won or lost the game. Sam needed Mason Crosby to kick as many points as possible—I needed to route for field goals not touchdowns. The surrounding crowd thought I was crazy--I cheered for Green Bay until they got into field goal range--then I cheered on Atlanta's defense to stop the drive. And God bless Mason--he came through—3 field goals and an extra point. Samantha had a winning week. She beat out her friend Amanda. Her statistical predictions came true.

And evidently choosing Phil Simms during my interview was the wrong answer for the interviewer. There is no MD after my name as you can plainly see. But Scott Brunner would have led the Giants down the wrong path.  History proved Phil Simms to be the better quarterback just as Med school proved to be the wrong road for me too. Simms led the Giants to 2 Superbowl victories-- I raised 3 independent successful women—I call that a 3 monumental victories—victories I may not have attained if I had the distraction of MD after my name. Choosing Phil Simms was the right answer after all. Getting it wrong meant getting it right. And I have no regrets. And neither does Sam—or at least not for this week.

Giving Due Credit

When I was in college I and a few other students had a scheduling conflict. On a particular Tuesday we all had 3 midterm exams. And we approached the professor—Dr. Trant—to see if he would be willing to move the date of his exam to lessen our load. And he agreed---and he announced that the date of his exam would be moved to the following Thursday. And the class cheered and proclaimed Thank God! 

But when the class settled down, Dr. Trant was annoyed. He said this: Why are you thanking God? God had nothing to do with it—I did. You should not be saying Thank God--you should be saying Thank Trant.

When I was the chairwoman for platform tennis at the country club I thought it would be a great idea to hold a women’s member-member tournament on a weekend. My thought was that the women members who worked outside their home might have a greater opportunity to play if the tournament was not held during the week as all the other club tournaments were. And I pitched the idea to the men on the board—they held all the power. I suggested Superbowl Sunday. I liked the idea that a women’s tournament would be held on the manliest of sport days. And the men reluctantly agreed. Now every year on Superbowl Sunday the club holds this women’s platform tennis event—and it is very successful. So when a successive chairwoman credited the Superbowl Sunday Women’s member-member to a person other than me, I made sure to correct the misinformation. I had worked too hard to have my thunder stolen.

In a recent issue of the Garden City News a person who had attended a recent Board of Education meeting praised the changes she has seen at the high school. But because the quote was a bit ambiguously phrased coupled with the previous paragraphs which discussed an entirely different topic area, the average reader likely walked away with the impression that the reason the high school environment has improved is because of central administration. That is not where the credit lies--the deserved credit goes to the new principal. She is the stellar educational manager and scheduling master that has made protocol changes and AP course additions possible. She is the one who listens to concerns and lobbies for change. Any and all success at the high school is credited to her watch.

And especially since that day in Dr. Trant’s class I have become acutely aware of giving credit where credit is due—I am ever cognizant of recognizing the person deserving of the recognition. Which is why I am compelled to acknowledge the educational contributions of our current superintendent of schools. I have an obligation to proclaim his legacy to the district as I see it---and it is laudable—each day students and parents reap the benefits of his educational talent.  

Because the superintendent’s legacy to the district is simply this:  parking lots, bus circles and bleachers. Under present superintendent’s reign the bus circles and parking areas of both the middle and high school are unquestionably improved. The bleachers are beyond compare. Other school districts are in envy. Neighboring administrators from Jericho and Great Neck travel just to see how lovely and functional they are. They are the model other educators aspire to. Newsweek is rumored to be adding it to its “Best of” list. Our district is now nationally renowned for both its athletic program and its bleachers.

So. I will give credit where credit is due and render on to Caesar what is Caesar’s. I will not thank God, but thank Feirsen for raising the standards of our infrastructure.  Improved infrastructure is what good education is all about. He has paved the road to quality education with asphalt. Because every child deserves good asphalt. Every child deserves a foundation that is a mere 2 inches deep.

Entitlement

Every morning a school bus pulls up in front of my neighbor’s house in the middle of my block, on the wrong side of the street, instead of the designated bus stop on the corner. So not only is it an annoyance to anyone who wants to pull out of their driveway or travel down the block, it is also unsafe for the children who must run across the street, and around the front of the bus to get on. These children get door to door service---as if it was private transportation—while the public school children (and their parents) walk to the corner to the bus stop.

There was a wealthy woman who golfed with her daughter every Wednesday night at our country club. On Wednesday nights a buffet barbecue is held on the patio. This woman, who could well afford to pay for the buffet food, would park her golf cart to the side of the clubhouse, and have her daughter sneak a plate full of hamburgers and hotdogs for them to eat on the golf course. She felt no need to pay for her food like everyone else did.

There is a owner in my mother’s building who despite understanding the “no pet rule” got a pet anyway. I suppose the owner felt the no pet rule applied to everyone but them. It has created an awkward situation.

At Thanksgiving time last year I stalked a woman in the parking garage at Nordstrom for her parking spot. As she had an doubly occupied double stroller and some packages, it took her a little while to take care of business. So I waited with my directional on. A well dressed gentleman in his Mercedes, as a result of my waiting for the young mother to accomplish her loading tasks, was blocked in by my car. He beeped. So I gave him the universal hand symbol of wait one minute I am waiting for the car over there to pull out first. I could not back up, because there was a car behind me. But the man didn’t care and so he got out of his car and demanded I move. The veins were popping out of his neck as he screamed at me. I explained that I couldn’t move backwards  and if I moved forward I would lose the spot that took me 15 minutes to find—the mall was that busy. Again he demanded that I move. Clearly he felt his time was worth more than mine. He did not understand parking lot etiquette.

And even though I could have moved forward and found another spot in a short while. I did not. I needed for him to wait. Because no matter how large of a temper tantrum he had he really couldn’t do much. I took the chance that he did not want to drive his 100K car into my SUV. And I assessed from the nature of his dress that he was not a thug—he was merely a business man with a bad attitude. So I smiled and threw my hands up in the air. And then he called me the B-word. And I told him thank you—it had been a long time since I was called that—I thanked him for the compliment. And so I intentionally took an even longer time than was necessary to pull into the vacated spot. And all the while the man cursed me. I wished him a Happy Thanks giving.

Entitlement is an ugly sin. And even if individuals escape punishment from time to time ultimately their sins catch up with them. Bus drivers are ratted out to the  Board of Education. Food and beverage managers notice people who stand on line yet have no seat. And owners who defy the rules get letters.

And sometimes entitled persons meet up with immediate punishments. They bump into housewives who do not tolerate bad behavior. Because had the man with the bad attitude approached me nicely and said gee would you mind moving your car—I am already late for an important meeting, I would have gladly moved. Had he acknowledged that my time was as important as his and asked me to do him a favor anyway, I would have. But that is not what happened. And even though I would like to think that our encounter changed him for the better, I am certain it did not. Entitled people hold a death grip on their entitlement.

But at least I enjoyed being called the B-word. In this case it wasn’t a curse—it was well deserved praise. It meant I was a strong woman who did not cower to a bully. It meant I had power. My penis was bigger than his. It meant I could impose justice—even if it was only 5 minutes long. And when you have a temper as bad as his—a 5 minute time out is an eternity.