Good Luck JC Penny

JC Penny has developed a new business plan. No more sales. No more coupons or doorbusters. They are taking it old school. Instead of marking up items 80% to reduce it by 50%, they are going to just standardize the pricing.

I have my doubts.

On Sunday I pulled out all the clothing my husband needed for an upcoming trip to Florida. I noticed that he needed to replace the t-shirts he wears with his swimming trunks. My husband is not  t-shirt guy but for the beach. And since we no longer belong to a beach club where t-shirts need to be of a certain caliber, I chose to replace them with a “good enough look for less” brand. So I looked up online the price of a plain solid cotton men’s t-shirt from Lands End. Lands end t-shirts are $20---all of the time---they are never on sale. And $20 is a fair price for the quality of the wares. And it would suffice for my purpose. No need to spend more than that. But I needed to check out Lord and Taylor first—just in case.

So my husband and I went to Lord and Taylor where the t-shirts at the MSRP well exceeded the Land’s End everyday price. That was before the 30% discount and the automatic 15% I got off for having my black card. When the smoke cleared I was able to purchase Nautica t-shirts for $15. But as much as the savings thrilled me, the bigger thrill was the hunt and the kill. I was euphoric with the knowledge that I had gotten a bargain. I had worked for my savings.   

And that is where JC Penny’s new business plan might fail. Shopping is not just about the price. Shopping appeals to our primal nature—trapping and consuming prey--outsmarting the victim. Shoppers like to feel as though they have outwitted their opponent—that they are receiving a price on an item others may not. Coupons and doorbusters create exclusivity. And knowing that the prices on any given day is the same as any other day is just plain old boring. The adventure is lost. 

So. Good luck JC Penny. I hope you succeed but I am not so sure. People like knowing that the person standing in line behind them will pay more for the same item--just like airline seats. I think a better idea would have been to have created a JC Penny black card. Because permanent discounts are great, but not as great as a permanent discount with exclusivity.

Misconstrued and Misunderstood

I sent an email once and it simply said Hi. Are the two of you planning on playing with me and my partner for the upcoming tournament? If not, let me know ASAP so I can find two others for my foursome.

I hit “send” and I thought nothing more about it. Which is why I was so puzzled when I received a phone call from my friend a short while later and she said Are you mad at me? And I said no—why would I be? And she said well my partner got your email and she said that it had an angry tone to it. And I thought hmm really? And so I pulled it up on the computer and read it to my friend in an even tone. My friend said Oh—okay—that doesn’t sound angry to me at all---and by the way “yes”—we would love to play with you. And it was over.

One night around 11:00 pm I texted one of my daughters and wrote What time do you want me to pick you up? I clicked the green button on my cell phone and thought nothing more about it. But minutes later my daughter called and without even stopping for a breath said What do you mean what time should you pick me up? Don’t you know it is still so early? I am just hanging out with my friends. You always think I am doing something bad. I am not bad. You should know what bad kids do. I am not doing anything. And I am not coming home yet—it’s only 11:00. I will text you later and tell you what time you should come and get me.

And once the air was expelled from her lungs I calmly responded with All I wanted to know was what time I should pick you up--you are the one reading something more into my text and taking it to an unintended level.

I wrote a blog post last week about bringing some housewarming gifts to a friend and how the gifts I brought were designed to ward off envious thoughts of others. And I heard back from several people who enjoyed my references to Italian culture and found the post to be warm and lighthearted. But one person had a totally different spin on my writing—she emailed me a double-barreled question: Did anyone tell you your writing seems to have an undertone that suggests a strong dislike for Garden City?

And so I stopped and thought--I love Garden City—it’s why I have remained here for 26 years. I love Garden City even with its warts. It’s why I am so comfortable exploiting its flavor. And secondly, if anything, I think my writing has an overtone—not an undertone. I think when I get into trouble with my blog writing it is because I make my point crystal clear to the point of abject nakedness. My tone resonates like a bullhorn---there is nothing surreptitious about it.

But for the entire rest of day, that email bothered me. I reread that email 30 times making sure I did not read something into it that wasn’t there. And I could not figure out whether my writing itself was murky thus rendering an unintended connotation or whether the person reading it was simply projecting---maybe she herself had a negative view of Garden City and thrust it on me to avoid her own feelings of disdain.

It still remains a mystery to me.

But I can tell you what I didn’t do. I did not reply to the email. I was too afraid. I feared that no matter what I wrote it would be misconstrued. If I laughingly said No ha ha!! she might think I was snickering. If I just said Nope. she might think I was being haughty. And if I apologized for being seemingly negative it would validate her belief that being negative was my intention in the first place. No matter what response I came up with it was sure to be read with a self-generated deleterious undertone. And so ultimately I said nothing.

Sometimes saying nothing speaks volumes.

The Artist

When I was growing up my mother watched all those British drama series on PBS. All I got from the exposure what a lot of Ohh blah blah blah in a Monty Python accent.

My father---loved classical music. I didn’t quite inherit his appreciation. The only piece of classical music I ever understood was Vivaldi’s Four Seasons—and it was mostly because the inference was obvious: spring, summer, winter and fall.

I have also been to the Opera several times—but unless it is sung in English or there is a screen in front of me translating I do not follow the storyline. And I prefer modern dance to ballet because I can usually guess based on the choreography and the music what is being expressed. So. While I dabble in the arts my appreciation is not intuitive. And the challenge of figuring it all out tends to frustrate me.

A year and a half ago Kara took me to the High museum in Atlanta to see an exhibit of Salavador Dali—his latter works. I did not think I would like it. Surrealism tends to be too abstruse for my taste. But in Dali’s later works there were no rhinoceros plunked randomly in paintings. There were no melted timepieces. The paintings were not weird. Dali’s later works looked nothing like an acid trip on canvas. I understood what I was looking at.

And this past weekend I saw the movie The Artist. And while a black and white silent film would ordinarily not appeal to me based on my previous experiences I chose to go anyway. And the movie was wonderful. At no point did I think why would people like this? To my delight  I did not miss the Technicolor and dialogue at all.

Sometimes it is good to retry things you previously disliked. Sometimes you are pleasantly surprised. Sometimes after tasting  garbanzo beans 57 times and disliking them every one of those times on  the 58^th tasting you decide they are not so bad after all. In fact—they are pretty good—especially when they are disguised as hummus.

So maybe that’s what they need to do with all those British PBS mini-series—forget the Shakespearean actors and cast the Kardashians—maybe then I wouldn’t find those dramas so damn boring.

Pennywise Pound Foolish?

At the peak of the housing market a young couple bought a house across, and a little bit down the street from me. I am aware of the inflated price they paid from a neighbor nosier than me. The house, was in disrepair. The old woman and original owner, died in it. Nothing had been touched since 1929. The front lawn was pachysandra.

And despite the ridiculous amount of money the new owners spent to buy the house, they then pumped an obscene amount of money into it. It was completely renovated—state of the art kitchen, 4 bathrooms, windows, added family room, outdoor covered deck with ceiling fan. The roof, the electrical, alarm, sprinkler system, driveway, central air and landscaping--you name it—and it was replaced. And it was done so with top of the line products. The house is something to behold. Everything is in keeping with its Tudor tradition. I am in awe--- but for one thing--- the crappy original front door. For some reason they chose to keep the hollow worn-out wood veneer door whose only redeeming feature is that it opens. After spending millions of dollars (literally), that is where they drew the budgetary line.

A valve broke on my boiler and the consequence was some water on the utility room floor. So in addition to replacing the broken fitting my husband also cleaned out some accumulated junk near the heating unit. He came up the stairs to the kitchen with no less than 20 or 30 used aluminum pans in varying sizes in his hands. And he looked at me and inquired Are you saving these for a reason? And I said Yes. I might need them. And he responded with All of them? I said Yes. And because my husband is a kind and gentle man, he, without ridicule said Isn’t the point of disposable pans that they are disposable? Can’t you buy new ones?

But the thing is this: I like reusing disposable pans--- particularly for the grill. I do not like spending the money to replace them after only one usage. I spend lots of money on lots of other things but I do not like to spend $2 on aluminum pans. That is where I draw the line.

And while on some level I understood my husband’’s point I told him Leave the pans on the countertop and I will throw them away. But I didn’t do that. I hid them in a different cabinet in the basement. All those pans represented about $20 in value. To me those pans represented a manicure and a cup of cappuccino---and I wasn’t giving up a manicure and a cup of cappuccino for no good reason.

And I can only guess that the new neighbors saw no need to drop 7K on a custom front door even though that 7K only represented a cup of coffee’s worth of their total investment. Everybody draws the line somewhere. Everyone has one thing they cheapen out on. Everyone has a budgetary quirk. And I suppose that even with the crappy front door, the new people still have raised my property value-- and if nothing else, increased my viewing pleasure. And I thank them—especially for removing that pachysandra covering the front yard.

Il Maloccio

One of my dearest friends moved the other day and so I decided to keep an Italian family tradition alive. I brought her a housewarming gift. It wasn’t Tupperware or a sterling silver platter. I brought her a bottle of olive oil, a box of kosher salt, bread (in the form of bagels) and a broom. I had no idea why at that time, but I understood that unless I brought her those things, il maloccio could be cast on my friend and her new abode. Because il maloccio is a curse brought on by envious people.

And while I should have known better than to acquiesce to superstition, I just couldn’t take the risk of allowing my friend to be the victim of the Italian evil eye—even if she is Irish. Because from what I understand, il maloccio does not discriminate. All people of every race, ethnicity and creed are subject to risk. And if one is the recipient of il maloccio, a strega is needed to remove it. And I am pretty sure Garden City has no certified Italian stregas that I could call upon if in need. Stregas are just not listed in my Garden City phone book.

And so I instructed her to sprinkle the salt outside of her doorways and windows as specified by information I obtained on Google. This would keep the evil outside. And then I explained to her that the broom would sweep away all sorrow, the bread would keep her hunger-free, and the olive oil would keep her husband faithful.

And even if the salt only serves to keep the slugs away, the broom only keeps the floors clean, the bagels end up as breakfast for the workmen, and the oil only lubricates a squeaky hinge, it’s still a good housewarming gift. And if il maloccio is kept away it is even better---because her new house is beautiful---and people will be envious.

Meglio prevenire che curare. (Better safe than sorry.)

Dolan's Elevation

This past weekend in Rome Bishop Dolan of New York was elevated to Cardinal. The ordination ceremony was filled with a whole lot of pomp and circumstance. Part of the ritual was the Cardinals’ receipt of a new red robe, hat and gold ring.   

And I got to thinking about it all.

Jesus said to Simon (Peter) in Aramaic You are my rock and upon you I shall build my church. I have to wonder whether Jesus meant travertine, gold, and rare artwork. Jesus was a simple guy who shunned worldly goods. And he had an explosive temper as evidenced by the upturning of tables in the temple.

And when Jesus was asked how will we be recognized as disciples? Scripture (John 13:35) says Jesus’ response was Every person will know by this that you are my disciples, if you shall have love one to the other.  Loosely translated it means Christians will be recognized by their fraternal love. Most notably Jesus did not mention the wearing of gold rings or the wearing of scarlet birettas.

And I am pretty sure that as magnificent as the Vatican is, Jesus would be rolling his eyeballs up if he saw it. I think that he would prefer that mass be held a few doors down—at the Roman Coliseum—where believers were habitually martyred—a more sobering symbol of blood shed by Christians than a red dyed silk Cardinal’s cassock.

And while Cardinal Dolan (a genuinely devout man) will no doubt inspire Catholics (as he should), I surely hope that is isn’t because Saint Patrick’s Cathedral (his home turf) is an architectural New York landmark or because his gold ring is eerily reminiscent of a Superbowl souvenir. I hope the inspiration is generated by interpersonal human kindness, faith and respect—true Christian love—because that is what I think Jesus intended to build his church upon—not so much the pomp and circumstance.

Which is Better...?

At the dinner table one night after having studied Death of a Salesman in class that day I opened up a discussion. I asked my parents which was better—to be well-liked or well-respected? They both gave a simultaneous response: my mother said well-liked and my father said well-respected. And my mother turned to my father and said—isn’t it better to have lots of friends---to have people who like you? And my father retorted with why would I want to have friends who do not respect me?

I am my father’s daughter. I prefer to be well-respected with the hope that it will lead to people liking me—because the truth of the matter is that in the best of worlds I would be both well-respected and well-liked.

Many years later at my own dinner table I asked my three girls is it better to be pretty or to be smart? All three simultaneously responded. Sam and Kara said smart and Briana said pretty. And Briana said if you are pretty then people won’t care if you are smart. And Sam said if you are smart you will figure out a way to be pretty.

Luckily for them they are smart and pretty. And so the question is moot.

Toddlers and Tiaras

I have heard people say that they do not watch reality television because the programming does not resemble reality. They say it is staged. I am not sure about that. I believe that the reason reality TV is so disturbing is that it is too close to reality. When the mob wives curse each other out and start fist fighting each other they are not faking it. Their bad behavior is their reality.

There was a news report this morning on something called Go-go juice. But I missed what the report was about to attend to morning chores. So I googled it. The first thing that popped up on the computer screen was an organic pear juice company. I knew that wasn’t what the fuss about. Second on the listing was a Mom who gave her 6 year old a concoction which was part Mountain Dew and part Red Bull---called go-go juice-- to reeve the child up to perform in child beauty pageants. This is what all the controversy was about. And it was brought to light from the television show Toddlers and Tiaras.

Watching Snookie make out with Dina in a blacked-out drunken state on The Jersey Shore is one kind of disturbance—they are adults. But documenting a parent giving a child what amounts to dangerously high levels of sugar and caffeine to propel the child into a frenetic state is another--especially to perform in an already quasi-inappropriate competition. But apparently the Mom tried “energizing” the child with 2 bags of pixie stix—called pageant crack—but it just didn’t work as well as the Red Bull spiked Mountain Dew.

I am not an expert but doping your child with caffeine and sugar creeps dangerously into the red zone. The child’s welfare is at risk. And the justification the mother gave for its usage is at minimum—warped. She said something like it isn’t as though I am giving my child alcohol---as if giving her child a performance enhancing drink(?) was no different than giving a child a glass of milk---yeah like the “milk” Michael Jackson liked.     

A few years back a couple in Marrietta Georgia was arrested for feeding their children to the point of extreme obesity. The charge was felony medical neglect. Somehow I do not see that over-feeding a child is any different than over-serving high levels of sugar and caffeine. Both cases warrant intervention.

They say that truth is stranger than fiction. In this case truth is more disturbing than fiction. Toddlers and Tiaras (unfortunately) is not staged.  It is real. And the reality is that reality TV is reality way too much of the time.

Christmas Lights--Still?

If you drive down my block or any other block in Garden city this time of year you will see wreaths on every front door. Half of the wreaths are in the shape of a heart, and the other half are evergreen with a red velvet bow.  50% of the residents in Garden City are still stuck in Christmastime.

Weather has nothing to do with it—this winter has been warm. It would take little climate related annoyance to remove the decorations. Nope. It’s a cultural thing--a quirk of the town.  Half of the population leaves their Christmas wreaths up until Easter. And I have gotten used to it.  

But the thing that grates on my nerves this deep into February is not the yellowing pine boughs or rotting pine cones adorning the front door—it is the twinkling lights. I am annoyed by people who have not yet pulled the plug.

It’s time to tell those people that shutting off the timer on their Christmas lights is overdue. Because although little white lights conform to the Garden City’s dress code—the pass expired on January 6^th—Epiphany.

So. If you are an offender, yank the unwanted cord out of the socket right now. There isn’t an acute need to remove the lights from the shrubbery, but the electrical supply must be cut. And if you know of an offender, sneak onto their property and pull the plug out for them. Make the assumption that if the offender is too lazy to disconnect their own cord, they will be too lazy to reconnect it for spite. And if God is good—you may even receive a thank you from that neighbor---and not a summons from the Garden City police for trespassing.

Lin-sanity and Moneyball

This past weekend my husband and I saw the movie Moneyball on Demand.  Brad Pitt plays Billy Bean-- the general manager of the Oakland A’s who must rebuild his team with little capital. As a result he must rethink the criteria of recruitment. He must spin lead into gold.

And a sub plot of the movie is that oftentimes athletic scouts make predictions about players that do not pan out. That is precisely what happened to Billy Bean in his youth. And I have seen that happen in real life high school sports. I can name on two hands all the girls over the years who made varsity field hockey or girls varsity lacrosse in their freshman year at Garden City high school who found themselves sitting on the bench in their senior year. The coach got it wrong---she saw pyrite as gold. The young players peaked in their freshman year. They never improved from 9^th grade.

But the converse is true too. Some players dismissed as less than elite when they were younger blossomed with time. I can name on a hand and a half the girls who rose from JV-B to varsity—some of them became all-state and all-Americans.

And that idea—that a player has untapped potential—a slower learning curve—is what Lin-sanity is all about. Jeremy Lin—a Chinese American Harvard graduate--is the new star of the NY Knicks. He is the unlikely athlete turned hero. He is proof that opportunity spawns success. Underneath the lead overcoat is a body of gold.

And that is why sports arrests tedium. It makes predictors fail and non-believers believe. It proves stars arise from the dust. And winners lose and losers win. Anything can happen. Anything is possible. And alchemy exists if you are not too arrogant to observe the science.

Leapin' Lizards

Dr. Beisemeyer was my Comparative Anatomy teacher. He was a calm and gentle man. He was not given to excessive emotion. But there was something important that he imparted to his students—something that he was absolutely passionate about—and that was that all living things were perfect. He taught that every species was designed flawlessly for its niche. Form and function were equal partners.

And he was so given to this concept that it was not unusual for him to interrupt class to catch a wayward insect and bring it outside to its natural habitat. He would say that the wayward insect did not understand that they were not designed to share a human’s dwelling place—and that humans were obligated to relocate wayward creatures to their proper environment.

Sometime in October I came out of the shower and noticed what I thought was a small green rubber lizard on the carpeting outside of my husband’s closet. I wondered how that rubber lizard could have gotten there. And then I realized that the lizard was alive.

When I see a spider I kill it. When I see a bee, I spray insecticide. When I suspect a mouse, I set up traps. And when the squirrel guy snagged the family of squirrels in a deadly device where they were living over my master bathroom, I cheered. I like critters, but I do not like them living in my house—wayward or not.

But the lizard was little and kinda cute. He looked like he could star in the Geico commercial. He looked lost. I felt sorry for him. So extermination never entered my mind. And in my towel I quickly found a plastic container that I had just used to water some plants and took my book club book and captured the lizard. And I did all before Cosmo--who was not paying close attention, could give chase.

And after I secured that the little creature I got dressed and walked it to the curb and set him free.

I felt like such a tree-hugger. I almost put on a pair of Birkenstocks and sang “Born Free” while strumming a guitar.

Dr. Beisemeyer would have been so proud—even though the inspiration for the lizard’s relocation came from an advertisement from a car insurance company—and not a genuine concern for wayward creatures. That little Italian wall lizard was now be free to make a home at my neigbor Jimmy's house.

The Truth About Soulmates

Not too long after my cousin Gary died an untimely death, my Aunt (his mother) gave me a book to read. It was called How the Universe Works. The book was given to her by her daughter-in-law who was given to a more bohemian lifestyle. Unquestionably, the book was a little bit out there---very new age--yet exceptionally provocative. It was provocative to the point that merely reading the forward put me in jeopardy of excommunication from the Catholic Church—which is probably why I liked reading it so much.

One of the chapters revolved around the idea of soulmates. The theory was that souls traveled around in packs here on earth—each member of the pack was a mate. A soulmate, contrary to everyday definition, was not simply a solitary monogamous romantic liaison---soulmates came in the form of friends, teachers and relatives. They were anyone from the pack who allowed us to learn and reach a higher state of consciousness and wisdom. Some soulmates were permanent and some were transient. And recognition of a soulmate is instantaneous. A soulmate is anyone you feel an intuitive connection to—someone you feel you have known all your life—because you have—in previous lives.

And I can say without equivocation that I can recall in vivid detail the first meeting of every close friend I have ever had. I can recall the clothes people were wearing. I can recall the exact table they were sitting at. I can recall the smile they gave me the instant our gazes met. And that goes for male soulmates too. If I close my eyes I can step back in time and paint an entire movie set of the meeting. And just like the theory goes—some of those soulmates remain and some have moved on. But in all cases I have learned from the encounters.

I think one of the worst movie lines ever created was from the movie Jerry Macquire. It the “you complete me” line. It has ruined an entire generation of women. It presupposes that only one person can be the ying to your yang. It presupposes that every person has only one true eternal soulmate---as if humans are a lock and key. I don’t believe that is necessarily so. I think many people serve to be your soulmate. Many people shape a person’s completeness. And while in many romantic relationships a soulmate may become a permanent fixture—for others a romantic soulmate comes successively.  People can love, and then love again. Subsequent loves are simply new opportunities to grow. It doesn’t mean the fallen away person must be forgotten to move forward. To the contrary-- unless past lessons are integrated the former soulmate’s teachings were a failure. And failure begets failure.

A few years back I went on Amazon.com to purchase my own copy of How the Universe Works. It is no longer in print. But I was able to order a used copy from a private bookseller in a little town in Northern California. Every now and then I flip through the pages. Each time I do it prompts a new thought---always a bit enlightening. And while according to the book an inanimate thing may not be a soulmate, I have learned lessons from it nevertheless. And those learned lessons have made my soul a bit more complete—just like the rest of the souls in my pack have done for me---and to which I do for them too.

The Joy of Duct Tape

When my girls went to their sororities' anything but clothes parties, they constructed garments made from hefty bags and duct tape. The duct tape enabled the garments to be worn for hours without a wardrobe malfunction.

There is a scene in the movie Apollo 13 where the NASA scientists empty all the tools available to the astronauts traveling on the crippled spaceship on to a table. Among the tools was a roll of duct tape. Duct tape brought the astronauts home.

Shortly after I gutted and remodeled my girls’ bathroom a leak sprang up on the ceiling below it. When the plumber cut away the sheetrock he determined that it was the drainage pipe. The correct way to fix the leak was to rip up the new tile floor in the girl’s new bathroom. I inquired if there was another way. He said temporarily. And he reluctantly put a lot of pipe goo around the leaky fitting and then wrapped it with duct tape. He promised that it wouldn’t last. That was ten years ago.

I am not sure what exactly duct tape is made out of. All I know is that the adhesive is so sticky a scissor cannot cut through it without leaving behind substantial residue . No substance is stronger or can withstand more abuse. It is a miracle material rivaled only by WD-40 and gorilla glue.

When Jasper went to the vet in the last weeks of his life she turned to the dog and jokingly said how much more duct tape can I use to keep you alive. It’s probably the only instance I know of where duct tape could not save the day---for everything else, it is the universal fixer.

Suze Orman is a Fool

I have always been lukewarm on Suze Orman. Part of it is because I am disinterested in finances. But mostly she doesn’t appeal to me because I do not like her hair nor her speaking voice. And when I watch her on television I am so distracted by her twang and her coif that I forget to listen to her words.

But today was different. I chose to pay a bit of attention when she was on the Nate Berkus Show. A member of the studio audience stood up and asked her for financial advice. The woman owned a 25 year old lacquer bedroom set and wanted to replace it. But as the woman had 2 kids enrolled in college, to redecorate her bedroom would require sacrificing tuition money. And Suze Orman advised the woman to tell her children to find their own way to finance their education and that she should replace the furniture. My jaw dropped. It was nowhere near what I expected to hear-- nor was it congruous with my personal philosophy.

One of the many things my parents gave me was a good education. And they paid for every penny of it but for my graduate work which was paid for by Westchester County. My father in particular believed that not only was education the ticket to success, he believed that the school one attended influenced the degree of success one would achieve.

And I agree. I believe that anyone who proclaims that it does not matter what university one attends is compensating for the fact that they attended a university pretty low down on the totem pole. And every successful person I have ever known who themselves attended a tier 2 college made sure their children attended a tier one. They understood that the name of your school opens doors. Because while personal productivity is the primary factor in rising up life’s ladder, a piece of paper from a prestigious university provides friends along the way. And no matter how much people try to sugar coat it, people are judged (if not socially) on their diploma.

When I visit a doctor’s office the first thing I do is look at the framed accolades on the wall. I most definitely judge a physician by their medical school and the hospital where they did their training. And while the doctor potentially may have been the dumbest kid at Harvard, he is likely still more intelligent than the smartest kid who attended Ross University.

And I am not too proud to admit that when I am out on the road I read the college stickers on car rear windshields. I not only judge the schools, but I compare them to my own to determine who is the “winner.”  I paid a lot of tuition to “win” against passing cars.

And I also believe that the greatest gift (besides an education) that you can give your children is a debt-free start to life. Which isn’t to say I believe that a parent is required to support their child’s dreams forever; but I do believe that funding a 4 year degree is compulsory. No sacrifice is too great.

So. Suze Orman not only do you have bad hair and an annoying timbre, you are an idiot. No bedroom set is worth the success of your children. No bedroom set is worth putting your child in debt--especially in this economy. Education always propels you forward. And while there are many who achieve great success without a diploma,that is not the norm. Instead of asking Suze Orman for financial advice the woman in the audience should have asked Nate Berkus—how can I make a 25 year lacquer bedroom set look good on a dime? That would likely have gotten a more appropriate response.

The Early Bird

My English 101 course was taught Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays at 9 am. And on a Monday morning early in the semester the professor gave a reading assignment and then assigned several short essays which were due in two weeks. The next day, at 8:59 am, a mere 24 hours later, a highly ambitious student attempted to hand in the completed assignment. The professor refused to accept it. The professor said I have since changed my mind about the assignment. I now plan on having everyone read something else and then write a short paper instead. And the student was annoyed and responded But I already completed it. Yet the professor just shrugged his shoulders and in an emotionless  matter-of-factly tone remarked The early bird catches the worm; but it is the early worm that gets eaten.

Sometimes procrastination advances time management--efficiency is better served by patience. Eagerness is not always a virtue. So being a late worm is equally fortuitous as being an early bird. Discipline often requires unrestraint. And it’s not a bad plan to put off until tomorrow what you can do today. Good things can happen to those who wait.

The Prayer of Saint Francis

When I was a little girl I was frightened to death of God and Jesus. They were not very child-friendly. I was led to believe that I would be smacked down and sent to the eternal inferno for something as slight as sticking my tongue out at my brother.

But in the 1970’s the world reaped the benefit of the hippie movement. All things were brought into question. Jesus met the masses in the form of Jesus Christ Superstar and Godspell. Things became looser. And so did the Catholic Church. Not only did they have the good sense to turn the altar around, but they also gave a nod of approval for contemporary music to be played at mass. The folk mass was created. In my world it meant Jesus and God got a makeover---God and Jesus probably loved me even when I mean to my brother. Catholicism became slightly more embracing. And the new music reeled me in.

In Sacred Heart Church there was a banner that read He who sings prays twice. That banner struck a chord. Singing became my mode of prayer. And despite knowing that I had enough music talent to realize that I did not have nearly enough, I sang anyway.

And it was through the new music that I became acquainted with the Prayer of St Francis. I loved it. I sang it all the time. I even strummed it (badly) on my guitar. It summed up everything I needed to know to be a Christian. It was then and still remains my favorite prayer. It is the prayer I run to in difficult times. It gives me peace.

I also like St Francis the person. He didn’t just talk the talk but he walked the walk. And he loved animals—all of them. He was the original animal whisperer-- their patron saint. Which is why, while I find religious statues in people’s yards to be a little bit creepy, I overlooked the creepiness and placed a statue of St Francis under my dogwood tree. Not only does St Francis protect the animals in my yard, but he reminds me to be an instrument of God--a channel of peace.

When Jasper died I ordered a memorial plaque for the yard. The plaque is embarrassingly larger in life than I thought it would have been when I saw it in the catalogue. Deceased military officers have smaller monuments. But despite its large physical size I will place it in the yard next to my statue of Saint Francis. So now when I look below my dogwood tree I will have 2 reminders of how to live well and the importance of enjoying time spent here on earth. And the prayer I sing will have new meaning.

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.

Where there is hatred, let me sow love.

Where there is injury, pardon.

Where there is doubt, faith.

Where there is despair, hope.

Where there is darkness, light.

Where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master,

grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console;

to be understood, as to understand;

to be loved, as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive.

It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,

and it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life.

Amen.

The Giants Win!

When I played tennis I wore my lucky socks and lucky tennis dress to every match. I genuinely feared that if I did not wear those pieces of apparel I might lose.

When I played platform tennis I wore navy blue to all my matches. I had read that blue was a power color. By wearing blue I had super powers.

When Kara played field hockey all the parents sat in assigned seats. The seating chart was self-imposed-- deliberate by design. Everyone understood that if a parent sat in the wrong row or to the right or left of another set of parents somehow the girls down on the field might not succeed. For two straight years no matter what location, I sat with the Terracianos’ down in front of me and the Norells’ seated next to me, midway up the stands.

My husband has his man cave in the basement. It is actually quite spacious and nice. He has a large desk with cabinets and files and his computer and fax/printer. The walls and shelves are adorned with sports stuff—autographed footballs and baseballs and golf pictures. He also has a large flat screen TV, mini fridge and a genuine black leather Lazy-boy rocker recliner.

During the first quarter and a half of the Superbowl my husband watched the game from his man-chair in his man cave but then chose to come upstairs and watch the game in the family room. The minute he sat down next to me the momentum of the game changed. And at half time the Giants were losing by 1 point. So after Madonna left the stage I told him what he already knew. If we wanted the Giants to win, he had to go back downstairs. By sitting upstairs with me, he was messing up the Giants flow.

And it was because my husband returned to his seat that the Giants got their mojo back. And when Brady threw that Hail Mary pass I knew the outcome. The Giants were going to win. My husband was firmly planted in his Lazy Boy. And the Virgin Mother (who hates Tom Brady as much as I) was sitting in her assigned cloud-like seat in heaven rejecting Brady’s prayer—and approving Eli’s. Good triumphed over evil –again!

And while yes, maybe the primary reason the Giants won was due to Eli Manning’s athletic prowess, superstition cannot be denied or underestimated. Lucky apparel does exist. And color can lend power. The Giants are euphemistically called “Big Blue”---maybe the “blue” imposes super powers. And even if magical thinking is merely the power of positive thinking---whatever works—works. A cure is a cure—even if the remedy is a placebo—or a black leather Lazy Boy chair.

The Power of Being Underestimated

When I first started playing platform tennis I began on flight V---the lowest level—for beginners. And every week we received a lesson from an older woman who was nationally ranked and had won several national senior women’s and mixed tournaments. She was highly regarded.

Platform tennis is not just regular tennis played on a smaller court inside a wire cage. There is a very specific and distinct strategy to it. There is no classic “one up one back” formation as there is in regular tennis. Platform tennis is played with the serving team in a totally offensive position at the net, and the receiving team totally on the defensive position behind the back line. And  teammates move in a parallel horizontal pattern based on the placement of the ball. The point of this movement is to maximize the racquet’s reach on the court at all times. This movement pattern disallows most high percentage shots from passing untouched.

And it was during a lesson taught by this seasoned nationally ranked player that I in succession on receiving a deep angled serve hit a backhand drive 3 times down the alley past this senior woman. The woman, peeved by her inability to return my low percentage shots wagged her index finger at me and announced as the entire team listened You are never going to make it off of Flight V.

When I moved up to Fight IV the new women’s platform chairperson asked me to captain the team. I agreed. And then I asked if our team was obligated to use the senior woman as our instructor. We were not. So I, in concert with my co-captain, fired the senior woman and replaced her with her playing partner. It was a 1-2 punch. And some of the other flights, seeing that our team changed our instructor, changed to a different instructor as well.  The senior woman was not happy.

My technical platform tennis skills were never stellar. I held the racquet with a severe grip. I did not always strike the ball cleanly nor were my feet always firmly planted. I was, what is known as, a scrappy player. I was smart. I was patient. I always stood in the correct position to compensate for my technical ineptitude. And because I was petite, I could get down low and sprint quickly. And best of all I was always underestimated. And so, over time, my wins added up.

Eight years later via much hard work and serendipitous circumstances I eventually found myself on Flight I (now called the A team). And I, with my friend Heather, were the captains of the second of two Cherry Valley Club  A teams. And the senior woman, despite being a member of my country club, played on the A team at Garden City’s Recreation Center.

Early in the season, our team had a match against the GC Rec. And although I was not playing in the match, as the captain, I went to observe. And the senior woman, who was also not playing in the match, was there too—also observing. And when the woman’s curiosity got the best of her she finally asked why I was there. And I told her that I was the captain of Cherry Valley’s team. And she was puzzled and said You are on Cherry Valley’s  A team? And I said Yes—I guess I was good enough to make off of Flight V after all.

It was a wonderful moment. It was all I could do to not stick my tongue out. And despite the fact that in terms of actual skill I was only a B team court 3 player on an A team roster, it didn’t matter. On paper, I was an A player. I would forever be the walking proof that this woman got it all wrong. I rose from Flight V to A. It was the kind of cud a pompous old women had to swallow---and each time she regurgitated it the taste got increasingly bitter. And I just loved it.

Wheew. January is Done.

I have never been a big fan of the month of January. It is cold, dark and long (31 days). Christmas is over and all that is left is your empty pockets and the increased number on your scale. There is nothing to look forward to.

I feel differently about February. I like February. The month begins with Ground hog’s day. And even if the ground hog sees his shadow, spring is still only 6 weeks away. And then there is Valentine’s Day-- the official wearing of all things pink. It is a lace and pigment-filled harbinger that there is sunlight at the end of winter’s dismal tunnel. It is the first indicator that warmer days and warmer hearts are on the horizon.

And once President’s week arrives all the stores are stocked with pops of color—cerulean blue, tangerine, turquoise and butter-yellow. Black and brown see an early retirement. Boots are replaced with flats. Fur bows to quilted jackets.

And tree buds are not far behind—even if it snows.

And this year, like last, I am not stuck in the drudgery of tax season. My husband is pleasant to be around. We can have dinner together on Friday nights. Clients do not interrupt us.

February is good. February brings hope. And March will be even better.

Reassessing and Reinventing

I remember returning to the platform tennis court for the first time after the Christmas break and saying to my friend Heather I forgot how much I enjoyed running after a little yellow ball. Only after a respite did I notice how much pleasure I received  from being in the fresh winter air and getting my heart rate up. The time away from the sport allowed me to clearly reassess—I loved playing platform tennis. It gave me joy.

I remember not playing any golf for the entire month of August and then signing up to play in the club championship for 9-holers.When I walked into the ladies locker room after the first round I found myself in the middle of a controversy. The rules of the championship stated that participants must play with the same person at the same time for the two week tournament. But one of the women—who was a lawyer-- unexpectedly had to play at an earlier time the next week  so that she could get to an important meeting. The woman found herself on the brink of disqualification. One of the committee  leaders attempted to resolve the issue by saying we have rules for a reason. And if we do not adhere to the rules then we are nothing more than a bunch of women playing golf on a Wednesday morning. I remembered thinking hmm isn’t that what we are—just a bunch of women playing golf on a Wednesday morning? And the month away from playing golf coupled with the controversy allowed me to clearly reassess---I really didn’t like playing golf very much.

The running theme last week was crossroads. It seemed that everyone I found myself in conversation with was reassessing or reinventing. Through either design or circumstance people stepped back. They rechecked the mathematics of their career choices, relationships, dwelling places and even eyeglass prescriptions and saw that it did not add up. So they began an early spring cleaning--an opportunity to start fresh.

Sometimes the best thing that can happen to you is to find yourself on the outside looking in. Stepping back allows you to see value (or not) from your labor. Sometimes time away clarifies things. And whether it is a sport or a relationship or a career, stepping back lends an unencumbered view. And the new view avails a new direction. Your myopia can be remedied. You are not obligated to your choices. Things can change—and change is good.

Planning a Trip

When I listed my job description under my Facebook profile, I neglected to mention a very important one: designated travel agent and tour director. It is another one of my jobs that I reluctantly took on for years.

Before the internet I researched vacations by going to Barnes and Noble and buying travel guides—Fodor’s and Frommers and AAA. And then I called the airlines to reserve seats and the resort to reserve accommodations. The confirmations all came in the mail. And for more complex trips I went to the travel agent—I told her what I wanted and poof it was done.

And then came the internet. Travel agents became even less important. And buying travels guides was not necessary since within a few clicks everything you ever wanted to know about any travel destination could be pulled up instantaneously. It has gotten to the point that with an app on your phone you can book a trip in between talking to your mother. It is simultaneously wonderful and awful. Everything has a rating and a comment.

But rating and comments can cloud the decision making. There is such a thing as information overload. Sometimes you need to speak with a real person—and by that I mean not some outsourced person at Delta.com who has never seen anything outside of his cubby in Delhi India. Sometimes you need the opinion of someone you know. Sometimes you need to remember the breadth of your human resources. 

And this past Saturday my husband and I decided we needed a break—a quick trip somewhere with a beach and an umbrella drink. And we needed quick transit. So he and I played dueling computers and all we kept doing was calling out to each other what about here? And then no what about here? And then I will google the reviews. But all the acquired information turned into a sea of indecision. And then I remembered that I had “people” who knew things. And I texted and emailed them. And we abandoned Tripadvisor and Fodors.com and just listened to their advice. Because my “people” have no skin in the game but to make us happy.

And so we are all set—which isn’t to say the particulars were easy. Flights were at a premium—seats literally disappeared before we had the opportunity to “buy now.” But we managed. We leave from LaGuardia and come home into JFK. We are headed to Fort Lauderdale and while there we will have dinner with one of the key players in making our trip come to fruition. I am relieved and excited.

Now I just need to book my spray tan and hunt for reinforced swimwear. My black bikini which I wear in my backyard where only the squirrels can see me will remain at home. Perhaps I will take my black card to Lord and Taylor and check out the resortwear. I have “people” there who will help me.