The Importance of the College Essay

By the time your child is ready to fill out their college applications, two thirds of the key components are already set in stone—standardized test scores and GPA. They are a done deal. The third key component—the one that will often make or break the acceptance or rejection-- are the essays—on both the common application as well as the supplemental for individual schools. Essays serve to humanize your child. They are the only qualitative opportunity a candidate has to showcase why the school should choose them.

And fortunately for my girls they received first-rate advice from their guidance counselor as well as had a parent who studied up on how to write a winning college essay. And the simple fact is that every article or book you read on the subject essentially says the same thing—do not write about the mundane. Do not write an essay that even one other candidate may have already written. Stay away from “the big game” or “why I admire my teacher” or “how I overcame adversity.” Write about something specific to you and allow your words to reveal who you are. Good essays allow the applicant to stand out from the pack.

When Kara made her official visit to Bucknell it was primetime application reading season for their admissions councilors---February break. And after the information session both she and I hung around to speak with the admissions counselor who had just made the presentation. And in between the chit chat the Long Island admissions counselor, who had befriended my older daughter saw us standing there and came over. And I asked the two counselors how the application/essay reading was going. And the one counselor said  Oh my God if I read another essay about building houses post Katrina I am going to kill myself. And the other councilor smacked his knee, howled with laughter and said That was my day yesterday—I must have read 10 of them--so far today I only got one. I have gotten to the point that if I even see the word Katrina it’s all over.

And the most awful part of hearing that conversation was that I knew a kid that year who had applied to Bucknell and had gone with their church the summer before to build houses in New Orleans. The topic of that kid’s common essay was “My Trip to Rebuild Houses after Katrina.” I felt a little queasy. I suspected that admissions councilors all over the country felt the same way as those two Bucknell councilors did. They were bored to death reading the same essay over and over again.

And while that conversation confirmed what I had already suspected about the importance of the college essay I was still stunned with their candor. I was stunned at how easily an application got tossed from the” maybe” pile into the “it’s all over” pile. It happened that quickly—with no regret. A trite essay was the quick road to rejection.

And that student that I am referring to ended up being one of those kids who based on SAT scores and GPA should have gotten into more schools but didn’t. And no one could understand why. But I suspected why and said nothing. There was no need to rub salt into the wound. It was water under the bridge.

And my research on how to write a winning college essay was not wasted. Knowledge never is. All learned ideas can be applied to other subject areas. It’s why my blog posts have a distinct and personal style. And when I choose to write about the big game or someone I admire or how I overcame adversity I write it so my readers are interested enough to get to the last sentences—like you just did—and just like the college admissions councilors who read my daughters’ essays did too.

Telling Time

Most children do not get a good grasp on the concept of time until they around 7 or 8 years of age—right around second grade. Now is the only measurable moment little kids understand. And later is the equivalent of eternity. I remember this well when I was little. I learned very quickly that if I wanted to see the ire of my father I would repeatedly ask Are we there yet? --which would be answered with: No. In 20 minutes.

But to a little kid 20 minutes is meaningless information. A little kid will often inquire But how long is 20 minutes? So I chose a different strategy with my own children. I marked time as measured in television shows. My children understood that 15 minutes was one episode of the Nickelodeon show “Doug” and 30 minutes was an episode of “Full House.” I would say for example that it takes one episode of “Full House” and one episode of “Doug” to arrive at Uncle Mark’s house—45 minutes in adult time. And that satisfied them. It was a relatable reference.

The television set in my kitchen is on all day long. And by all day long I mean all day long even when I am not physically present in my kitchen or even physically present in my house. I leave the television on as background noise—for me and the dog. I rarely stop and watch it but for cleaning up the kitchen or cooking—and even then I am never focused on it. In fact for many years I simply had a radio with TV band for my listening pleasure.

And I turn on Eyewitness News in the morning and keep the channel fixed until I shut it off at night when Jeopardy is over. But recently, the programming on ABC-NY has changed. It first began with Oprah going off the air last June and then All My Children this past September. Regis then left me in November. And as of last week One Life to Live is gone too.

And while I only listened to those shows as I did my work, I discovered that daytime television shows were my markers of time. They informed me where I was in my day—lunchtime, coffee-time or cooking time. I feel unable to cook without Oprah and I can’t enjoy coffee time without some dialogue from Vicki Lord and Todd Manning. And I am so distracted by the different co-hosts with Kelly Ripa in the morning that I forget to put the laundry in the machine at 9 am. My body clock is confused. I no longer have my “people” referencing where I am in the time space continuum. Despite wearing a watch I cannot determine the correct time of day.

For Einstein the present, past, and future co-exist simultaneously. An individual’s sense of time is alterable. Time is relative—perception only. And perception is dependent on speed and distance—not a clock.  Time is a changing reference. It’s why the one Doug and one Full house episode ride to Uncle Mark’s house  always took longer in real time than the one Dog one Full House return ride home—even when there was no traffic. Time is not always measured in seconds, minutes and hours—it is relative to things like emotion and monologues and dialogues. Little kids and Einstein have it right.

Pajama Rules

The uppermost floor of one of the academic buildings at Manhattan College served as a male dormitory. A friend of mine who resided there woke up at 8:04 am for his 8:05 am class. He simply ran down the steps and attempted to attend class in his sleepwear. And while the professor acknowledged my friend’s brave attempt to arrive to class on time, he sent him back upstairs to his room to change into more appropriate school clothing.

One morning when I drove Briana to Locust school a woman got out of her car to help her son out. She was wearing fleece pajamas and bunny slippers. Her son, noticing how the other children looked oddly at his mother, yelled out Mom get back in the car!!   

When I went to Atlanta this past weekend an elderly gentleman was in the elevator with my husband and I. We were all headed down to breakfast. The gentleman was wearing a cotton pullover sweater over what appeared to be a plaid flannel shirt. But when I looked down at his feet I saw the same plaid flannel fabric peeking out from under his gray gabardine trousers. Clearly he had put yesterday’s clothing on to mask his sleepwear.

I wear old athletic clothing—comfy clothing—former platform tennis clothing--to bed at night so that when I wake up in the morning I am already dressed to drive to the train station. But for my foot wear—flip flops or Uggs---I look as if I headed for some type of morning exercise program. I am clean and not in predictable sleepwear (although technically in my pajamas.) And I feel quite stealthy in the knowledge that I am wearing double-duty clothing.

But this morning I had to drive straight from the train station to my mother’s ophthalmologist’s office so I did not have time to change into more doctor’s office-like clothing. I assumed that since I was going to the opthamalogist where the patients are elderly and by nature of the location are seeing impaired that no one would question my attire. But when the doctor entered the examining room he looked and me and said You look like you are off to go hunting. And I am pretty sure it was not a compliment. I am pretty sure it was a passive aggressive way of saying my ensemble should only be worn in the wee early morning hours in the woods where only the deer could see me.          

So I have to wonder---is it ever okay to wear your pajamas out in public?---even if it is under your trousers or carefully disguised as athletic clothing?   And if it is acceptable, at what time is it deemed a faux pas to not be in “afternoon” clothing? Because if I were making the “no pajama” rule it would be up until 9:00 am on a weekday and noon on a weekend. And if you are cleaning the house or paying the bills you get a little extra grace. No one wants to clean the bathroom after showering and getting dressed for the day--- and paying the bills often makes you sweat.

The other day as I drove down Brook Street I saw the woman who was wearing the bunny slippers to Locust School years earlier. She was dragging rubbish to the curb. She did so in pink microfleece pajamas. And when she met my gaze she smiled and waved hello. She was shameless. And there was nothing to be embarrassed about. Her son no longer lived at home to criticize her and it was only 8:00 in the morning. According to my dress code she was well within the rules.

An All-Embracing City

In order to get from the Hartfield Atlanta airport to the campus of Emory University it is necessary to pass through Freedom Park. I had no idea why Freedom Park was called Freedom Park but I surmised as I was in the State of Georgia (the South) that it had something to do with the civil rights movement. So I turned to my daughter who I would have guessed had a greater knowledge of black history and the civil rights movement than I did (except that she did attend Garden City High School) and said Why is Atlanta significant in black history? She had no idea. I said Wasn’t Martin Luther Kings’s church here? To which she responded Wasn’t it in Alabama? And then I said Was Freedom Park the Freedom bus ride thing? And she said Maybe. What was clear was we didn’t know nothin’ about black history---to the point of embarrassment.

When I first headed to Atlanta almost 3 years ago I expected to see a disproportionately large non-Caucasian population. That was not the case. I saw no difference at all from the composition of New York—specifically Roosevelt Field Mall. But what I wasn’t prepared for was how the lines of ethnic, religious and sexual orientation blur and overlap. Atlanta is an all-embracing city.  It is filled with a myriad of people---many transplanted from other regions of the country as well as different nations in the world. Southerners are not that easy to find.  It is as if all the visitors who attended the 1996 Olympics decided to stay and plant roots. And just as Manhattan is not the seedy crime ridden dwelling today that it once was, so too is Atlanta. Atlanta is a nice place to be.

When I got off the plane at La Guardia after my Atlanta trip I checked my new emails. One had been sent from Kara. It was a concise reading from the New Georgia Encyclopedia (God knows what the old one said) about the significance of Atlanta to the civil rights movement. I learned the following: Martin Luther King was born in Atlanta. His grandfather was a minister there, and then his father, and then he. King’s first ministry was in Birmingham Alabama (Kara was right) and then later he moved his ministry to Atlanta (I was right too). The freedom rides originated in Washington DC but its hub was Atlanta.  And Freedom Park is called Freedom Park because the Martin Luther King Center is located there as well as the Carter Center as well as other artsy type park things.

But most interestingly-- Atlanta, back in the days of segregation and the civil rights movement, called itself “the city too busy to hate.” Maybe that is why today Atlanta is so seemingly tolerant and diverse. It’s a cultural thing—just like Philadelphia is “the city of brotherly love.” Atlantans appear to be of the opinion that they have better things to do than be racist, homophobic, or religiously intolerant. I do not know for sure. But if I were to leave my Garden City bubble for the duration I think I could be happy in Atlanta. If people are too busy to hate it means they wouldn’t hate me either—a Catholic Yankee with an Italian background. Some Garden Citians are less embracing.

Cosmetic Surgery

I am of an age where it is not unusual for me to bump into a contemporary and notice that they somehow look “refreshed.” Clearly they have had “some work.” Their face has been surgically “retouched.” But it is with equal opportunity that I bump into a contemporary and think Oh my God what the hell have you done to your face? Their new look just doesn’t look so good.

When I had periodontal surgery I was allergic to the inert packing that no one is supposed to be allergic to and my tongue swelled like a knockwurst. When I came out of gastrointestinal surgery the plastic identification bracelet scratched my cornea when I raised my arms up. When I had a GI series and the consequence of consuming the barium was constipation I nearly dehydrated from diarrhea. I was also born with only 3 wisdom teeth instead of 4 and I have 2 renal arteries on my left kidney  instead of one. I am that person.  I am proof that every “body” is different.

Which is why I fear messing around with my aging looks. I am afraid that if I even inject even a bit of Botox or Restylane I may not recognize the image in the mirror looking back at me—and not in a good way either. I fear the “after” will be more displeasing than the “before.” My eyelids will droop and the filler will lump up like cottage cheese---not to mention the ever popular over-botoxed frozen face syndrome. And worse, I fear if more invasive procedures are done—like an eyelift—I will end up with that “permanently surprised” aghast expression.

I mentioned in one of my blog posts not too long ago that I lacked the skills to post photos on Facebook. My friend Betsy kindly emailed me directions. She also added that I should never post any photos on the internet without retouching them first. She boasted that Photoshop can do wonders in improving natural flaws.

And so I got to thinking—wouldn’t it be amazing if one could apply Photoshop to oneself before leaving the house in the morning? Imagine what the world would look like if every person appeared like their retouched profile picture on Facebook? There would no longer be a need for cosmetic surgery. And even things like cleft palates could be redrawn and digitalized. The world would truly be a beautiful place.

But unfortunately bottles of liquid Photoshop have not been invented yet.  So I am forced to choose between the needle (or knife) and some L’Oreal Age perfecting makeup with retinol A. And I will choose the makeup--- because it is not that I fear cosmetic surgery, it is that I fear bad cosmetic surgery. And I can always require that people remove their reading glasses so close-up  my flaws are blurred. That is how God compensates for fleeting beauty—he makes us farsighted with age.

The Giants vs. New England

If you are a Yankees fan-- even the tiniest bit of one-- you are obligated to hate the Red Sox. If you are a Yankees fan, the Red Sox are the Osama Bin Ladin to your twin towers. The Red Sox are evil predators leaching the Yankees success. The sweetest Yankees’ wins are always accompanied by miserable Red Sox’ losses.

If you are a Jets fan in even the most minimal form you are morally bound to spit on the New England Patriots. They are the evil empire. They are the recipient of all your venom. And even the most gentile of Jets fans wishes mortal doom on Tom Brady and Bill Belichek. Brady and Belichek are the Hitler and Mussolini to your allied powers.

I was raised to (predominantly) be a Yankee and Giants fan. But both my parents also believed in being loyal to all New York teams (with the exclusion of Buffalo—they were too far upstate). So I am also a Mets and Jets fan too.

And thus it was with total angst that I watched the NFC and AFC championship games this past weekend. I am exhausted from the mental strain. In the first game I spent every second cursing the Patriots. I despise Tom Brady. I hate that he left his first baby-mama to knock up Giselle-- his second baby-mama. And Bill Belichek is a conniving cheater who is such a poor sport he often does not shake the hand of the opposing team’s coach. I would spit on him if I could. And I nearly vomited when the Raven’s field goal missed the uprights thus ending the game. The Patriots escaped punishment—again.

And the Giants game was so stressful I had to alternate between watching  it and watching happy stupid David Tutera and Oprah’s station. Because I just love Eli Manning. I love him because I imagine that he is the lanky more talented younger brother who was always overshadowed by his older d-bag brother Peyton. Eli looks like the smart nice quasi- nerdy guy who was too timid to talk to girls. He is the brother that I would have dated. And Eli and the Giants did not disappoint on Sunday. The Giants’ game was a war of wills—not so much a who was going to win type game but more of a who refused to lose or choke type game.

So the Superbowl is set between the most evil of empires—the New England Patriots--against Eli Manning—the Luke Skywalker/grandmaster of the New Order of Jedi. It is a rematch of good versus evil. The last Superbowl they played against each other I piddled in my pants---and by that I mean I actually piddled in my pants when Plaxico Buress caught Eli’s pass to take the lead and win the game. It was a symbolic gesture—I pissed on my opponent. So this time I will be prepared. I will fed-ex Eli a new Jedi sword and I will wear a pair of Depends. This is war. And nothing would please me more than to see Brady and Belichek vaporize from Eli’s supernatural touch—because after all—the force is with him.

Faith--and the Catholic Church Getting it Wrong

In the year 325 AD all the Christian theologians of the day met in Nicaea to put doctrine down on paper. And after a great deal of gives and takes it was at this first ecumenical council that the group agreed upon the Nicaean Creed--a profession of faith—the Apostles Creed. It is the core of what all Christians believe. Catholics recite it weekly in mass as the “I believe in one God the father almighty  creator of heaven and earth…” prayer.

I am totally on board with the Nicaean creed in its original form. But dogma after the year 325 AD is where I begin to get into trouble with being a “good Catholic.” Because after that first council, the churchmen began interpreting scripture and making up the rules which became catechism.  Once you get past Jesus’ love your God with all your heart and love your neighbor as yourself—the highest commandment—the synthesis of the original 10---I start doubting. Especially when the churchmen (never churchwomen) make their ruling on things like souls—who has them, what type, and how and when they leave and enter the body. I have a problem with churchmen being so conceited as to believe that they can impose human rules on God and his perfect creation. Because if God really is all-knowing and all-love, he is capable of much more than that which is written in a catechism. God is much more infinite than the finite thoughts of a bunch of men with pointy hats.

And my issue (one of many) with Catholic doctrine was brought to light this past weekend when I had the task of putting my beloved Jasper down. The Catholic church does not support the belief that dogs have souls like humans. According to the church dogs have what is called a “vegetative soul”---which in essence means that as a creature of God a dog has a soul (perhaps) here on earth, but once they die, that is it—no doggie heaven.

I have a hard time with that concept. In my world dogs have the purest of souls. Dogs teach humans how to be better humans—being more doglike allows humans to be more Godlike. And my God—the God of all enlightenment-- knows that. With my God all things are possible. And in my God’s heaven, all the souls that have aided the learned lessons of my own soul will be there waiting for me—human or not.  In my God’s heaven, there are animals—lots of them.

As my body lay across Jaspers during his euthanasia—I sobbed pathetically as the injected serum traveled to his heart. And on the crest of a sob, inexplicably, all of the air refilled my lungs. I felt overwhelming calmness. I believe I was feeling Jasper’s peace as his soul left his body. And as dramatic and incredulous as it sounds, I know it was at that moment that his soul rose up to heaven. I felt it. And no one will ever be able to convince me otherwise. And I do not care what the Catholic churchmen say---all of God’s creatures—especially the animals--- roam free in heaven. To think otherwise contradicts the infinite wisdom and love of their creator. And I have the Nicean creed to back me up: I believe in one God, the father almighty, creator of heaven and earth and of all that is seen and unseen. Maybe the churchmen need to profess a little more faith. Maybe they need to remember to believe in that which they have not seen. Maybe they need to leave the creating to God and not to themselves.

A Dog's Life

Renny—my girlfriend Elissa’s father-- was a dog person. Mary--Elissa’s mother-- was not. But to her credit, Mary cared for several dogs to please her family. The daily day to day animal care fell on Mary’s shoulders.  But much of the hardcore dog duties—like the birthing of puppies and the cleaning of  impacted doggie behinds was Renny’s job. And when Starfi—the gray miniature poodle with the really big attitude passed on, Mary said No more dogs.

When Elissa’s younger brother Paul was still living at home, post Mary’s “no more dog” rule, he brought home a stray puppy he found on the golf course. The stray’s living arrangements at the house were to be a temporary situation--except they chose to give the dog a name. And when Renny came home with dog toys everyone knew Max—the stray pup--- wasn’t going anywhere. Max had found his new home—no matter what Mary said.

And Max—the dog Mary never wanted-- lived a ridiculously long life---probably because Mary never wanted him. And Renny loved the dog and would get down on the floor to play with him until Max lost all interest. And when it was Max’s time—Renny---as chief dog care provider of hardcore duties, had the task of bringing Max to the vet to be put down.

And shortly after Max’s death I asked Renny if he planned on getting another dog. And he said No—not until they can create a dog that can live longer than 14 or so years. I just don’t have it in me to put down another dog. It is too heartbreaking.

Jasper has outlived all his dog contemporaries and has led a rich life. He is at least 16 years old. Jasper is the winner of the “I can live the longest” club. But for the last 2 or 3 weeks he has rapidly declined. Jasper has become so frail—likely from esophageal or stomach cancer that his time has come. And as chief dog care provider of hardcore duties in concert with the advice from my vet, I have made arrangements for Jasper to finally meet his Poppy in heaven.

And despite knowing that Jasper has lived longer than was ever reasonably expected of him, like Renny, I wish all dogs could be created with much longer life cycles. Sixteen years is just not long enough for a creature that has become woven into the fabric of your family.

But unlike Renny I will always have a dog—no matter what.  Dogs bring joy to a human that no human can. And while it severs my heart in two to put Jasper down, my heart is more than twice the size it would have been had Jasper not been in my life at all—and that means even with a heart split in two-- I am still ahead of the game.      

Thank you Jasper for expanding my heart and shaping my life. You have taught me much. Your middle name was intrepid. And I will always love you. 

Being a Fan

My very first job was as a cashier/salesperson at Dobbs Ferry Pharmacy. It was there that I learned much too much information about everyone in my town. One can derive and infer a whole lot of intimate facts and details about people by what they purchase in a drug store.

And I was at the register one day when a man—Dr. Larry Woleck-- came into the store to purchase some tissues. At first I thought hmm why isn’t he acknowledging me?—I certainly know him. And then I realized that in truth I did not know him at all. Dr. Larry Woleck was a character on the soap opera One Life to Life. The guy standing in front of me was an actor. And while I saw him every day he could not see me from the other side of the television screen. We were strangers even though five days a week he spoke dialogue inside my family room.

Not too long ago I saw a woman in Kings Supermarket that I was rather friendly with years ago. Our children were in school together. When I met her glance I said Hi—but went about my food shopping. But out of the corner of my eye I could see she was staring at me and ultimately she came over. She said I weirdly feel like I talk to you every day. I read your blog and I enjoy it. Now that I see you standing here I am wondering if I am a creeper—has anyone ever said that to you before or am I just weird?

And because I didn’t want her to feel strangely about herself I lied and said yes—I hear that all the time-- even though I had not. And then to put her more at ease I followed up by saying in all candor the point of my blog is to share my thoughts—the fact that you feel like I am having a daily conversation with you is a compliment—it means my writing is doing its job. So no—you are not a creeper.

And after I rang up that box of tissues I told “Dr. Larry Woleck” that I was a fan of the show. And he thanked me and said keep watching—the storyline is going to get good next week. And then he walked away. And I felt so special—which is also the way I felt to know I had a “fan” reading my blog. Knowing you have fans makes being creative the best job ever—even better than discovering pharmaceutical secrets about your neighbors.

In the "Flow"

There have been times where I have been playing a sport and for no particular reason my playing ability exceeded my talent. My friend Harriet called it playing out of your socks. For no particular reason I was propelled forward—as if a deity possessed my body. I was not in control of my own destiny—some other being was. Taoists (and sport enthusiasts) call this being in the flow.

When you are in the flow all the puzzle pieces fit, all the circumstances line up, and all the stars and planets triangulate seamlessly. Destiny overrules free will—or free will relents to destiny’s agenda.

Kara completed taking her SATs by the end of junior year. And when the smoke cleared the working number put her into a rung of schools a click above her sisters. And that was a good thing because each daughter essentially wanted the same type of school and was unwilling to share their own school with their sisters. So when Kara and I watched the computer screen and saw that her SAT scores well exceeded the predicted number we made an appointment with her guidance counselor.

And while it is true that there are a zillion colleges out there, it doesn’t take much to scratch them off of the list.  In the sea of colleges barely a handful of them will ever meet your child’s criteria. By the time you rule out size, academic program, location, social life and the likeliness of entry it boils down to one or two at most. And oftentimes a school that sounds good on paper is just all wrong when you arrive on campus—it just doesn’t “feel” right (but that is a blog post for another day).

And Kara ended up at Emory because for seemingly no particular reason every detail fell into place. The visit, the tour, the community, the admissions person she accidentally met with, and even the fact that the school offered Boar’s Head cold cuts on campus propelled Kara forward effortlessly. It was as if the school was choosing her. A wave pulled her in and crested into the flow. Kara used the word “syzegy” in her Emory essay to describe the attraction.

Being in the flow is a unique circumstance. It does not often happen but when it does it is exhilarating. One feels untouchable—because you are. You succeed despite yourself—success is directed from outside of yourself. It’s why the Giants beat Green Bay last Sunday. Despite bad on field calls, key plays were made with seemingly little or no effort by the team. The low percentage Hail Mary pass was caught. The Giants collectively were in the flow.

Which is why people like to encourage others to go with the flow—it’s the cousin of being in the flow. And it’s because the flow in both cases is leading you someplace unanticipated or unexpected yet navigationally correct.  I see it as surrendering to a higher power—taking a leap of faith that there is something out there that can direct you better than you can do so yourself. And you don’t need a touch screen to get there. You just hit the cruise control and take your foot off of the gas.   

Ambush Makeovers

I remember watching a television talk show where a friend could recommend a makeover for someone that they thought was deserving. On this particular show ( I think it was Oprah) the chosen person was a police officer from a small town. The woman was plain—she wore no makeup and wore her hair simply tied in a low pony tail. I assume her plain appearance allowed the law and order-type work uniform to speak for itself. But the friend thought she saw a glamorous person hiding underneath. So the show ambushed the woman on a secret camera and then dragged her into the studio for a transformation.

And once the makeover was complete the show viewed a split screen of the before and after. The newly made-over woman looked like an entirely different person. But when the   woman walked over to greet the television host the woman’s gait was awkward. From the other side of the television screen the audience could feel the woman’s unease. Because although the woman looked ever so glamorous in her cut and highlighted hair, false eyelashes, pencil skirt and high heels, it didn’t represent who the woman was. And when the host asked the woman if she liked the transformation the woman said Oh yes!—but it was clear she was lying to be polite and not seem ungrateful. There was no doubt that when the woman got back home she planned on washing her face and hair, abandoning the heels, and redressing in more comfortable clothing. She did not wish to look like Heather Locklear in a police uniform.

In my platform playing days I often got to the courts early in the morning—straight from dropping my girls off at school. I never wore make up or did my hair since I was only going to get sweaty anyway and would have to go home immediately afterwards to take a shower. But I was always clean, brushed and deodorized—acceptable enough I thought for a game of platform tennis.

A player from an upper level team, seeing me come off the courts after I had finished playing sped over to me and said with horror  Is that yesterday’s mascara under your eyes? And it most certainly was—there is always a residual even after you wash your face. So she quickly handed me a tissue to wipe away the sweat diluted 24 hr old blackness. And then she said I can’t believe you went out of the house looking like that-- Let me fix you. And then she pulled a lip plumping lipstick with bee venom in it from her Louis Vuitton handbag and attacked my lips before I could thwart her advances. My lips then expanded like two Bridgestone tires and were so numb that I could have received stitches and felt nothing. And then she stepped back and said Now you look better. But I doubted it. I felt ridiculous. Yet because I knew she meant no harm and genuinely thought my appearance was improved I simply said thank you.

Despite my enjoyment of fashionable clothing and makeup I believe it has its place. Sometimes your appearance is a when in Rome do as the Romans do situation. It is not necessary or even appropriate to be glamorous at all times. In fact sometimes being glamorous is a Glamour magazine “don’t”---like when you are playing sports or chasing down “perps.” Sometimes it is okay for your sports attire or uniform to do all the talking for you. Enhancing your looks detracts from your purpose. A lack of glamour provides a clean canvas for the job at hand. And Drones need not wear bee venom—bee venom is for queens only.

Half Full Spilt Coffee

This morning as I was headed out to drive Briana to the train station her elbow caught underneath my hand holding a full cup of coffee and the coffee rose up and spattered all over me, the walls and the floor as if it was a gruesome crime scene. Another mother might have said God damn it Briana why can’t you be more careful!! Look what you have done!! And then with annoyance changed clothing and cleaned up the mess. But I am not that person.  I laughed and said Nice shot—let’s give it a quick wipe and I’ll change when I get back.

If I were to use two trite phrases to describe myself the first one would be that I tend to see the glass as half full as opposed to half empty. In the aforementioned case I would say at least the coffee wasn’t so hot as to scald me or at least I wasn’t dressed yet. The second phrase to come into play would be its corollary—Don’t cry over spilt milk.  Accidents by definition happen accidentally. It is not purposeful. It isn’t done with malicious intent. And it solves nothing to have a temper tantrum. Temper tantrums do not clean up the mess any faster. In fact intense emotions usually halt progress no matter what the emotion is. It’s why Tom Hanks says There is no crying in baseball in the movie A League of their Own.

In other words: Sh** happens, clean it up, don’t waste your tears, and figure out a new plan.

Which isn’t to say I do not get annoyed by mishaps—it just means that I try to express my annoyance that the mishap happened, not at the director of the mishap. So if I got angry in the coffee scenario at all it would be at the mess—not Briana. I am certain she did not think hmm why don’t I hit Mom’s arm and make the coffee splash all over.

I used to play platform tennis with a woman who had the most wonderful attitude. She was a pleasure to be partnered with. And it was because when you would hit a bad shot she would always say That’s okay. And if her match and/or others were lost she never got angry. She would tell the disappointed players to stop feeling sorry for themselves—she would tell them to get over it. No one got up that morning and said gee maybe I should lose today. Losing was never done with intention. That’s what next time’s were created for. Losing was as much a part of the game as winning—it’s just that winning was way more fun.

And it was a good thing that that coffee spilled this morning--the floor and wall needed cleaning anyway. The acids dissolved some of the embedded dirt in my Pergo floor. And when I got home from driving to the train station I finished drinking that cup of  lukewarm coffee— after all the cup was still half full----no use crying into it. And then I poured another cup.

Editing

I recently redecorated my bedroom. My room now reflects my current stage of life—a blend of traditional and contemporary infused with a touch of Zen. The backdrop is neutral with pops of color. The lines are clean and simple. I love it. And in keeping with the aesthetic I removed all functionless pieces of furniture and created a sitting area with a couch and a coffee table. I repurposed a round end table that was formerly in my living room and swapped it for my husband’s nightstand. But my side of the bed had no table or night stand at all and I wasn’t sure if the room looked off balance. So I dragged my nightstand down from the third floor at the risk of throwing out my back only to find that I hated it. When I stepped back and surveyed the entire room I saw that it was one detail too many.

The ceremony at the client wedding I attended last fall was performed by an ethical society priestess clad in a Navajo frock and Birkenstocks. The ceremony was flawless---that is until the closing prayer when in a roomful of devout Jews and Catholics the priestess summoned the God of the earth, wind, and fire to bless the newly married couple. The roomful of monotheist guests disapproved. The multiple Gods needed to be edited down to one. That final blessing needed to come from Yahweh—the one God everyone in the room could all agree on.

I am in the process of re-reading all my blog posts not just for typographical and syntax/grammatical errors but also for improved content. If I am really going to allow the book my husband created to be accessible to anyone other than me it is a chore I must complete. Because despite thinking that all of my blog posts were perfect the second I clicked “publish” on my website, some are not--particularly the early ones. Only now, when I look back can I see the revisions that are needed.

Editing is tricky business. There is a fine line between overdone, underdone and just right. Sometimes you can see errors right away, and other times you need calendar time to modify the content. They say the best way to accessorize an outfit is to put on what you think looks well and then before venturing out, remove one piece. The theory being less is more.

The same is true with words. Less is more. And the more you create less, the faster the meaning falls in place. It’s the touch of Zen I was referring to. Good editing leads to perfection.

A Little Bit of Lipstick

From time to time when I was working at the lab the press would cover a news story about tainted water. And when I was 20 and working as a summer intern the Westchester beaches were closed due to sewage contamination. The local NBC station sent a crew to the lab to film lab procedures. They also came to interview important lab personnel.

And when I heard News-4 NY was on its way I immediately ran to the ladies room to fix my hair and touch up my make-up. And when I returned to my work station looking more glamorous than I had 5 minutes earlier my co-workers laughed at me--particularly Jerry--my supervisor  who was slated for the interview. He reminded me that I was just an intern—not even an official lab technician. I was merely the summer help. He quipped that a little bit of lipstick could not change that fact. He mocked me and the possibility that I could be on the news that night. I was too inconsequential.

But when the news team arrived I edged my way forward and flirted with the twenty-something year old cameraman. The cameraman then called over the news reporter who was engaged in conversation with Jerry. The cameraman suggested that I should be the one filmed performing the lab procedures. And although Jerry told the news reporter that I was only an intern the news reporter agreed with the cameraman that I should be the one recorded on camera.

And so it happened. I pipetted a water sample into a petri dish and then did a pour plate. I discussed the hows and whys as I performed the procedure. And because I had been so thorough in my description the newscaster chose to not interview Jerry at all—they had enough material.  I had completely robbed Jerry of his 5 minutes of fame. He shook his head and walked away defeated.

Today I decided it was time to upgrade the layout of my website. I kept the originally used font in the heading of my blogsite but added and modified other things to be more aesthetically pleasing to the reader. And while I will remain true to the content I understand that sometimes good-looks are a decisive factor. Sometimes good-looks are more important than the core. Who knows who might happen to view my website and make me famous just because the format was visually appealing. It could happen. Sometimes a little lipstick is all it takes—God knows Jerry learned that the hard way.

For the Love of Dogs

Animal behaviorists like to throw a big word around: anthropomorphism. It refers to attributing human characteristics to animals. The supposition is that animals are incapable of human emotion and decision making. So when humans say for example my dog is angry with me, an animal behaviorist would say that the human is projecting the emotion of anger on the dog--because a dog is incapable of feeling the emotion of anger.

If you have ever owned a dog you understand that that is a bunch of crap. Unequivocally dogs (at least) are positively capable of human emotion and unquestionably capable of decision making.

A bunny lives in my yard. She is quite pretty. Her lashes are so long I suspect she wears mascara. And she has a coy way of wriggling her nose and batting her sepia colored eyes. Her coat is tawny with blond highlights. Her plush tail is a rich shade of winter white. My goldendoodle Cosmo has a crush on her. For the entirety of the summer he would gaze at her through the window and say Ohh Ohh Ohh. And then he would run to the back door and ring the bell that hangs from the door handle to signal me that he wanted to go out to meet her. But I never let him out when I saw the bunny. I would tell Cosmo that the bunny did not want to be his friend. Bunnies do not like to court adolescent puppies. She wanted to be left alone—like Greta Garbo. And Cosmo would sulk off and fold his paws around his chest.

The other day when I let Cosmo out I watched him sniff around the shrubbery near my back window. And as Cosmo poked his nose through the branches he found himself nose to nose with the bunny. It startled him to such a degree that he jumped back a foot or two and sat upright to recover and develop a plan. But the bunny, upon becoming nose to nose with Cosmo, speedily hopped away into the neighbor’s yard. And by the time Cosmo noticed her quick speed he was left on the other side of the fence. He was dejected. But he decided to try and win her affection. So since then, several times a day Cosmo takes one of his favorite toys and runs to the spot where he met the bunny and leaves the toy there. Then he waits by the window hoping to entice her to see his gifts. His red ball and smokey bone is the canine equivalent of roses and chocolate. Yet sadly, days later, his love remains unrequited.

As a dog mother it is difficult to witness your dog child engaged in a love that will never be returned. Because while that bunny is so very beautiful, she is not good enough for my dog son. My dog son deserves some one better—Cosmo deserves a partner who will love him for the sensitive pup he is—not a canine to be toyed with or teased. So every day now I pick up those toys—they are wasted on that full-of-herself bunny. And then I give Cosmo some Frosty Paws ice cream—because dogs may not eat Hagen Daas out of the container with a spoon like humans can—just to soothe his broken heart.

And if an animal behaviorist lived in my house and watched all this he would be forced to conclude only two things: either I need therapy or there is no such thing as anthropomorphism. I choose to believe that he would conclude the latter. Dogs are people too.

AP Scholars: Cherry-picked Statistics

I studied logic in college as part of obtaining a minor degree in Philosophy. And among the most valuable lessons learned was the recognition of fallacies. Detecting fallacious arguments is key to winning your own argument. One of the most common fallacies is “cherry-picking.” According to Wikipedia cherry picking may be defined as:

The act of pointing to individual cases or data that seem to confirm a particular position, while ignoring a significant portion of related cases or data that may contradict that position.

And for the past three years right around this time of year I have read in my Garden City News how the number of AP scholars at Garden City high school has risen. And while prima facie that is a good thing it is also meaningless information. The number of yearly AP scholars is not relevant information—the percentage of AP scholars from year to year is. Because while the number of AP scholars may have risen it does not necessarily follow that the percentage of AP scholars has risen also—in fact the number of AP scholars could have increased and the percentage could have remained equal or worse decreased. This is because every year the district not only adds more AP courses but also expands enrollment. So since students are eligible to become scholars based on the number of AP courses they take  it is little surprise that the number of AP scholars has increased with the increased opportunity to enroll---but it does not follow that student performance is any better. Quality and quantity are not equal partners. The percentage of AP scholars per year is the determiner of how well students are performing—not the raw number.

And the fact that this statistic (percentages) is conspicuously ignored during the Board of Education presentations is troublesome on two accounts—the first being that perhaps the Superintendent of Curriculum (a former math teacher) was not sharp-minded enough to broadcast such meaningful information to the public or equally or more disturbing is that she knew the meaningful information but chose to ignore it so it would not negatively reflect back on her administration. Either way it does not bode well. It shows a grand lack of transparency--cherry picking at its finest.

An old Trident gum commercial boasted that 4/5 dentists surveyed recommended Trident. What they didn’t advertise is how many dentists chose not to be surveyed or the number of dentists that had no preference at all. So the 4/5 statistic is as meaningful as saying Adelphi has the highest number of students on the Dean’s list of any university in Garden City. Because while that statistical fact (i.e. Dean’s list students)  is true, the information is meaningless as there is only one university in Garden City. And while cherry picking is not the speaking of untruth, it is deception nonetheless. It is selective lying which leads to erroneous conclusions.

Seinfeld and Cell Phones

I loved the show Seinfeld. It was the I Love Lucy of my generation. In fact one might observe that my blog writing is often Jerry-esque. Much of what I post concerns the minutia of life and the absurd way it becomes relevant.

But what I have noticed of late when I stumble upon a Seinfeld rerun is Jerry’s huge cordless phone with its long antennae. I remember that if you answered one of those cordless phones and you didn’t pull the antennae fully you had no reception. You also couldn’t walk more than 15 feet without it cutting out. It is amazing how phones have evolved. We have gone from corded, to cordless to cellular and beyond.

Early on I was not necessarily interested in the type of cell phone that I owned. All I cared about was that it had service and that it was light weight. And when my girls begged for pink Motorola razors and the early Blackberry models I remained content with my cheap Samsung model. But what I did care about in those days was my ring tone. My ringtone was very important. That was the thing that defined me. The song my phone played told the world who I was in just a few notes. It was the thing that I spent way too much time researching on the internet and downloading.

For many years I was on the executive committee of PTA. In my day PTA was a powerful organization. Our relationship with central administration would best be described as healthy (and sometimes unhealthy) tension. And as a group every six weeks or so, depending on the dates of Board of Education meetings we would meet behind closed doors with central administration to discuss educational issues and resolution strategies. Often the discussion became heated—very adversarial as both parties understood the gravity of the stakes. And it was during a very very intense discussion between a headstrong member of the executive PTA committee and the superintendent of schools where teeth were bared, claws escaped retraction, and tempers were barely at bay when my cell phone went off.

And as I fumbled through my handbag to locate it all eyes in the room shot hateful looks at me—except for two people: Dr. McDermott the assistant superintendent for Curriculum and my friend Lynn. They were the only ones who—understanding the heat of the moment—understanding the parties engaged in discussion--understanding me and my approach to things—and most importantly understanding the lyrics of the song—snickered as Mick Jagger bellowed  out I’ll never be your Beast of Burden. They were the only ones who could rise above the tension and annoyance of a forbidden cell phone interruption and appreciate the irony and humor of the moment. It could not have been scripted any better—even by Larry David.

I no longer concern myself with ring tones. But what I and the rest of my family now concern ourselves with are our iphone cases. Our cases now define us—they let others know who we are by the patterning or texture of our protective coverings. And we are not alone. On Facebook today my friend Beth uploaded a photo of her family’s iphone cases—all five were different and representative of each’s personality.  Iphone cases are the new ringtones. They clue the world in about the person behind the handheld device.

It’s amazing how minutia becomes absurdly relevant--- even when it is not portrayed on a sitcom.

On Sleeping Late

When my brother and I were teenagers and my mother wanted to rouse us from our beds on a Saturday morning she would empty the dishwasher—loudly. She would raise the basket of utensils at least 18 inches off of the countertop, flip it upside down, and all the silverwear would clank down in a shower of cacophony. My brother and I never slept past 9 or 10 o’clock in the morning. It was physically impossible. Because if the dishwasher didn’t rattle your brain enough the vacuum cleaner certainly would.

A few days before Christmas I dropped off a gift for my neighbors across the street. The husband answered the bell.  He asked me which of my children had arrived home for the holidays. And then he told me that that 3 of his children were still sleeping upstairs at his house. It was already 10:30 am. He expected them to remain in their sleep coma until at least 1 pm.

Aside from the trail of coats, the toothpaste congealed in the bathroom sink, the blow dryer and flattener hanging from their cords in the bathroom, the crumbs on the countertop, the dirty cereal bowls on the computer desk, and the shoes and empty water glasses in every room (on all three floors and in the basement), the single most annoying thing about having college (and post college)  kids home is dealing with their unconventional sleep cycle. Because even if they do not go out at night, their day still begins in the pm of the day. Breakfast always begins at lunchtime. My day is half over before theirs even begins.

And I permit all those little annoyances including the extended sleep cycle to proceed without my intervention. Because I still haven’t recovered from the trauma of the silverware clanking on the countertop from my youth. So in good conscience I cannot inflict a similar torment on my own progeny-- I allow them to sleep. Because as messy and as off-schedule as my house is, it will return to its normal state once they depart. And my house and time-clock will be no worse for the wear. It’s just a house and an appointment book—not an animate being. And just like a forgotten toothache I will fail to recall the agony of the disruption once they are gone. I will remember only the joy of time well spent, and I will look forward to their next visit when the cycle begins all over again---assuming I am lucky enough-- and they still want to come visit.

Getting Kicked to the Curb

At our first encounter I was enthralled. Physical beauty reeled me in—as well as the addictive scent it wore. And even though the physique was a bit portly I chose to overlook it. Nothing in nature is perfect. And I couldn’t wait for the dressed up attire—the sparkle—the compliments that would reflect back on me. I had chosen well.

But by the time the party was over I was no longer so enamored. In fact my interest had waned--significantly. I began to contemplate demise. Its usefulness had been outlived. I was totally bored. I now viewed maintenance too high to keep rather than a pleasure thing to extoll. I saw only superficial beauty---nothing that could plant root. My enjoyment had dried up. So as judge and jury I put it on death row and set its date of extinction.

Today is the day I will execute my plan. After I pack up the ornaments and pull the bag over its apex that seasonal conifer will be gone and kicked to the curb. There is no more room in my life for a Christmas tree. Christmas is so last year. There are other holidays waiting in the wings to be celebrated.

Adios Christmas tree. It was nice knowing you. Maybe your replacement next year will enjoy an extended stay—but I doubt it. Beauty that is only skin deep never lasts. Unless of course you arrive with roots—beauty and roots are the only way I will allow you to plant yourself perennially in my life—just like with people.

My Kindle Fire

When I was in elementary school and the teacher handed out textbooks on the first day of class I immediately looked to see who the previous user was. And if the previous user was someone I perceived as “yucky” I would remain convinced for the entirety of the school year that I might catch “cooties” from the pages of the book. And even when Valerie Daly gave me a cootie shot, I reserved concern.

In college, unless it was absolutely necessary, I never bought used textbooks. I always bought new ones. By then my “cootie” neurosis transformed into germophobia. I never trusted where that textbook had been. Especially amongst college students. Especially amongst male college students. Especially amongst right-handed male college students who do things with that hand that I do not wish to contemplate.  Which is why I also have an aversion to library books—they smell weird and may have been touched by tainted fingers (not to mention my little issue with library delinquency).

When I organized my book group I made sure that all parties agreed to purchase the selected reading. This worked well for my phobia but not with space issues on my bookshelves. Because of book group I now own books up the ying-yang.  The shelves are starting to resemble the library in the film Beauty and the Beast. And although books are not animate beings I feel badly throwing them out. The characters have become my “friends” and I do not wish to reject them. So even though I love to touch sterile pages and hold a real book in my hand when I read I made the decision to purchase an electronic reader.

And for Christmas I received a Kindle Fire. I decided that if I was going to use an e-reader it may as well have other capabilities. So now I have a tablet that I can use for email, play Words with Friends, check Facebook, listen to music and videos, flip through People magazine with, as well as use the Office app for blog writing. I am so busy during the day using my Kindle for all sorts of things that I have barely used it for the purpose for which it was intended—reading. It has taken me 5 days to read 7% of my new book because I am too distracted by all the apps. So while I now have a germfree spacefree vessel of literature-- no reading is taking place.

So much for technology. Instead of improving my book count it is enabling my attention deficit.  

I wonder if they make a “cootie shot” app? There is an app for everything else.

Why Buy the Cow....?

In an attempt to illustrate my mother’s high moral view, she would say Why buy the cow if you can get the milk for free?   I used to think why do people judge the cow? The farmer is the one pimping her out. He is the idiot not making the profit—not the cow. She has no vested interest whatsoever in who drinks her milk. But for many years out of respect for my mother I simply listened and said nothing.

But not too long ago when my mother gave me the milk for free speech I responded with Who buys a pair of shoes without trying them on first? And she got a little angry despite my witticism and said that’s not the same thing.

But the truth of the matter is that it is. We no longer live in an age where purity is expected. In fact, the idea of premarital purity is a vestigial appendage of the past—like the wisdom teeth of the moral code. And while some people retain their wisdom teeth with no ills; most people, because it is more prudent to do so, have them yanked before they cause problems. Keeping those wisdom teeth is a gamble.

We live in an age where couples marry later in life and understand that wearing a “shoe” that fits, is comfortable, and will wear well over time is an integral part of a lasting relationship. And there is nothing like a great pair of shoes—go ask Cinderella and her prince for verification.

On a Hallmark card I once read: Why buy the pig when all you want is a piece of sausage? I agree. Especially when it comes to chorizo.

The Greatest Gifts

The last time I recall being totally overcome with emotion upon receiving a Christmas gift was a few years ago when my girlfriend Elissa gave me a framed photograph of the two of us. The photo was taken in 1977 the day we returned from our European trip. We both donned Dorothy Hamel haircuts. The frame said forever faithful… friends.  I was overcome---the sentiment—the thoughtfulness---the purity of the intent---all touched my heart.

Christmas morning my children and husband chose me to kick off the opening of the gifts. I thought it was out of pity. On December 22^rd I had cut my hand on some broken crystal and received 5 stitches on the palm of my left hand. The injured hand was useless for all practical purposes (hence no blog posts).  But I was not chosen to open my gifts first out of pity. It was because I was about to receive a special gift from my husband.

The box appeared not to have been wrapped by a professional wrapper—that added to the charm. I knew my husband had done the wrapping all by himself. And when I opened the box—which was quite heavy—I saw that there was a hardcover book inside. The title was Thoughts from Karenland Volume 1.

My husband had taken all my blog posts and created my first publication. And that is when I lost it.

It finally clicked that I had created something real. I was an author. I had written a book. It was something I could touch. My mind had value and I owned it completely. The tears flowed. My husband accomplished what I would never have taken the time or had the patience to do myself. He gifted me: myself.

And as I flipped through the pages I was incredulous that all those words had fallen out of my head. There were so many of them! It was surreal. It had taken my husband hours and hours to put the book together--probably longer than it had taken me to write it. And despite the fact that the editing wasn’t perfect nor did I have a contract from Simon and Schuster it was perfect to me. It was a hardcover bound book and my name was on the cover. I had a copyright. A dream was realized. I had worth.

The greatest gifts always take your breath away—they connect your heart to someone else’s. You find yourself exalted and taken to a place higher than your legs could ever carry you. It hardly ever is the thing itself generating the joy. It is almost always the intention behind it--just like a prayer.