Scientific Writing

It is not uncommon for people to comment when they learn that I write a blog to say you must have been an English major in college. People assume that studying English language arts is the sole road to writing. And when I say no—I was a science major—people are baffled. They do not understand how science and writing mesh.

But it makes perfect sense.  Good scientific papers always use the same formula—a thesis –an if…then… statement called a hypothesis. It is followed with data to back up the supposition. Then clear discussion is given explaining the documentation; and a succinct conclusion which reflects back on the thesis finishes it off. There are lots of givens and only one variable.

And the quest for topic matter is comparable. Scientists are all about looking at seemingly unrelated things and seeing a connection. Alexander Fleming discovered penicillin by noticing mold growing on one side of a petri dish, bacteria happily growing on the other and the absence of bacterial growth in between. He wondered if there was some antagonistic relationship between the mold and the bacteria.

Previously unobserved connections in journalism and science lead to discovery.

In graduate school I took a course dedicated to ripping apart other’s scientific papers--because there is nothing scientists like to do better (other than making their own discoveries) than disproving the work of colleagues. Scientists enjoy using another scientist’s published data and conclusions to crucify the said publisher. This is otherwise known in formal writing as editorial review. Understanding how to dissect another’s writing gives one guile on how to fool-proof your own writing.

And here I am using my scientific skills again. I have challenged the idea that if you are a writer, then you must have studied English language arts in college. I used Alexander Fleming as an example of the creative process.  I demonstrated the connection between scientific critique and editorial review. And I will therefore conclude that science and writing do mesh. Science produces writers with a clear concise style—350 words (in this case) to be precise.

Breastfeeding

Mike Bloomberg—the mayor of New York-- has in his administration taken on several health initiatives. Among them is the reporting of calories in food, eliminating smoking from public spaces--–just to name a few.

But he has a new initiative—and this one resurrected some pent up emotion in me—it’s called the “Baby-friendly Hospital Initiative.” Mayor Bloomberg wants all mothers to breastfeed. It stems from research that postulates that bottle fed babies are at greater risk for obesity. Hospitals will receive increased funding based on an increased number of mothers who breast feed at city hospitals.

I knew from the moment the blue line came up on the EPT stick that I was not going to breastfeed my children. It had nothing to do with a lack of education. I completely understood that breastfeeding was the better (not necessarily best) nutritional and immunological alternative for my baby. And if I could have purchased breast milk in a can from CVS—even if it was more expensive than formula, I would have gone that route. But back then and still today, canned breast milk is not an option. And breast milk from those breast milk banks is not regulated. So feeding my children natural nutrition meant an infant stuck to my boob.

I was simply not interested. I supplied a feeding tube to my child for nine months in utero. That was enough. I wanted my body back.

And although I clearly expressed my desire to bottle feed to my obstetrician and pediatrician—both of whom were totally okay with my decision--it didn’t prevent the out and out bullying from the hospital maternity staff. I was being accused of endangering the welfare of my newborn—practically infanticide. The manner in which the breast milk police treated me was nothing short of abusive. New York City detectives interrogate criminals with more respect and less intimidation. Alleged criminals have more rights—called Miranda laws. They have lawyers. I had no one to advocate for me but myself.

Standing my ground was a tearful experience.

Because I believe that every woman has the right to choose. Every woman has the right to determine what is best for their body and their family’s quality of life. For me, breastfeeding was not bonding, it was incarceration. I knew unequivocally that for me to nourish and bond with my child, a bottle was necessary. My mental health depended on it. I needed to enjoy motherhood—not resent it.

The best choice for my child and me was Enfamil.

And just like I respect a woman’s right to breastfeed or to work outside the home or to remain childless or to live a life the best way they see fit, I deserve the same respect for my decisions. Mayor Bloomberg has no right to “legislate” breast feeding by dangling funding in the face of ailing hospitals. Breast feeding is much more complicated than posting the calorie count at Panera or reducing the sodium content in school lunches. Not all women are capable physically or mentally for the task. No woman deserves judgment. No one is entitled to inflict shame.

Bottle feeding is not child abuse. And breast feeding is a vocation that not everyone is called to.

And I question the research that postulates that bottle feeding leads to an increased risk of obesity in adults. I doubt obesity is a function of bottle feeding alone. If that were the case statistically at least one of my 3 children and a few of my nieces and nephews would be obese---none of them are. I suspect obesity has more to do with socioeconomics, cultural influences and lifestyle---not to mention psychological and genetic factors. I suspect that the research the mayor references has too many variables to justify an absolute universal mandate.

I love Mayor Mike---but this initiative is udder-ly flawed. Sometimes you need to analyze both the baby and the bathwater.

Food Addiction

The best part of spring is that people come out of their houses more and that leads to neighborly conversation—which is what happened last Friday. A neighbor rang my bell and then my neighbor across the street who was about to do her morning walk met us at the edge of my driveway. We were  discussing this and that. Part of the “this” revolved around obesity—we collectively wondered--why is the general population so overweight? Was it socioeconomic? Was it just a lack of education?

And later that day I found myself food shopping in Kings for the weekend. My daughter’s boyfriend was visiting and I was stocking up on some items that ordinarily I do not keep in the house---snacks and sweets. And as I stood in the baked goods aisle deliberating over muffins, turnovers and crumbcakes I felt the presence of a woman next to me. She was desperately large--morbidly obese-- and she appeared transfixed. I assumed I was obstructing her view. So I apologetically said Oh. I am sorry. Am I in your way? But she replied with a forlorn tone No. A higher power is in my way.

I understood her response to mean “higher power” in a 12-step program type of way.

And I thought back on my conversation earlier that morning. Some people may be obese for socioeconomic reasons or because of a lack of nutritional knowledge or for a multitude of other reasons—like genetics.  But for others, food is a genuine addiction—like alcoholism. But unlike alcoholism or drug addiction where rule number one is abstinence—no alcohol or drugs ever---not  under any circumstances lest a relapse---food addicts still must eat. Total abstinence is not an option. One must eat to live.

Maybe food addiction is the most difficult of all addictions to arrest---each meal is a tempered relapse.  

No one would ever expect an alcoholic to consume 3 beers a day and remain “sober” yet that is what we expect from a food addict—sobriety despite consumption.

And I love my neighbors—and our neighborly conversations. They always inspire “thoughts.” I walk away thinking how perfect the world would be-- if only we had the opportunity to rule it.

Depression Babies vs. Boomers

Children born right around the stock market crash of 1929 are called depression babies. There is commonality to the stories of children born of this generation: they had to walk 27 miles up a hill in a snowstorm to get to school. They played kick the can because they had no real toys. They slept in a bedroom (if that) with all their siblings. They owned one pair of shoes at a time. Their clothing was often hand-me-downs. They had no telephone—only a radio if they were lucky.

And the war years—when the economy improved significantly—produced another set of problems. Things were rationed. People had victory gardens. There was a different kind of uncertainty. Despite people having more money in their pockets supplies fell short of demand.

And the repercussions of this depression/war time period wreaked havoc on the psyche of this generation. They became overly cautious—conservative. They experienced a collective post-traumatic stress. The fallout was that no matter how much money this generation accumulated in their lifetime, they were concerned about finance.

My mother is a depression baby. She is not poor. But it does not matter. She is scarred---as are many of her era. She is afflicted with saving-it-for-good syndrome. My mother buys new things and then feels obligated not to wear or use those things immediately. She must save new purchases for an occasion even if the future poses no opportunity. There is an unspoken dating system. It is as if there is a mathematical formula involving the dollars spent times in relation to the elapsed time of purchase. The more expensive the item—the longer it must sit in the closet or dresser with the tags on before use. And then, once worn, the cycle begins all over again until the item is no longer considered “good” anymore.

I have been admonished on many occasions for buying something new and wearing it the very next day. My mother will say Are you wearing that already? You just bought it!

To me, that is the point of buying something new—wearing it. If I do not wear it now I might not have a reason to do so in the future. Clothing fades, wears out, and goes out of fashion whether you put in on your body or not so might as well enjoy it while you can.

My generation—the baby boomers-- believes in living in the moment. Use or lose. It is also why we must work until we are 90. We have enjoyed our purchasing and high standard of living with little regard for our old age. We assumed we will be dead first—which (fortunately) did not exactly happen.

My generation did not get it right any more than the depression babies did.

Maybe that is the point. No generation ever gets it right. Every generation has its quirks and collective unreasonability. It’s why karma is such a bitch—evolution is never perfect—the pendulum always swings too far in one direction. It always needs tweaking.

Maybe evolution is saving getting-it-right “for good.”

Urns of Ashes

When Jasper—my Wheaton terrier’s time had come, we chose a private cremation. I also wanted the ashes returned to me. Jasper was more than a pet—he was a beloved member of our family. It seemed only right that his remains not be tossed away like spoiled leftovers.

And when I mentioned to my friend Steve that Jasper’s ashes had arrived—and that they were housed in a lovely maplewood box--- he told me that in his hall closet there were 3 lovely  maplewood boxes. One of those boxes had been moved safely from two houses already.

Which is why I was so dumbfounded the other day to read on Facebook that a friend—who owns rental properties---in cleaning out one of her apartments--found an urn. In it was the remains of the husband of a former tenant.

My macabre sense of humor embraced the real life sit-com playing out in my friends’ house—what were they supposed to do with the ashes of “Mr. Smith”? Because it wasn’t as though the tenant had left a cigarette filled ash tray behind----it was a vessel of burnt-beyond-recognition body parts. In good conscience they couldn’t just put the container out on the curb Wednesday morning with the weekly rubbish. And certainly the urn could not be donated to the Salvation Army as a vintage chachka.

And when my friend thought to bring the urn to the police department the on-duty officer appeared not at all helpful. In fact he started asking my friend probing questions—as if she was involved in some nefarious activity. It would seem that even the policeman thought the forgotten urn was suspicious behavior—worth an inquiry or two.

Because who does that? Who leaves an incinerated family member behind with the unwanted extra wire hangers and dust bunnies? Was remembering to take the urn that much of a burden? What kind of cold commentary was this? I thought Wow that wife must not have really not liked her husband very much—She took the barely used exercise bike and left the urn behind.

And I turned to Steve and said that now that I was in possession of Jasper’s ashes, I wasn’t sure what to do with them. I didn’t want to bury them—what if I sold my house? I would have to disinter them. The new owner might dig them up and throw them away. I couldn’t bear the thought. And Steve shook his head and said I understand. It’s a real moral dilemma.

But we both agreed that even though we weren’t sure what the right thing was to do with our dogs’ ashes, clearly discarding them was the wrong thing. And so the lovely maplewood box filled with Jasper’s remains sits on the sideboard in my dining room next to the decorative antique oriental china plates. I “Endust” the box every few days and try to imagine a better spot to put “him”.

So far I am idea-less.

And who knows what the fate of poor “Mr. Smith” will be? My friend hopes the police will use their resources to track the owner down. In a humorous quip another friend commented that maybe the urn did not contain the dead husband at all—maybe it was just his arm and leg—the equivalent of the high rent the woman had to pay her landlord.

Ultimately the woman’s rent wasn’t behind—her husband was.

On Turning 21

I bumped into a friend in Key Food a while back. After we hugged and kissed she told me it was the best day ever---her youngest of three children had turned 21. She ecstatically said it’s time to burn the court clothes and cancel the retainer with the lawyer.

I completely understood. Underage drinking is expensive business—especially if your child gets caught in a state where the offense is a low level misdemeanor and not a beer ticket like in New York. I am aware of kids being handcuffed when they themselves were stone-cold sober but attended an event where some alleged imbibing took place. In some states an opened container is a voucher for a sleepover in jail—a Club Dred vacation.

 Erasing the rap sheet costs thousands.

And today I will be able to burn the court clothes and throw the lawyer’s cell phone number away. It is finally over. My youngest turn 21.

I think I am happier than she is —and so is my bank account.

Personal Statistics

I was going through some of my old college notebooks a while back and found a bunch of numbers written on the inside cover. It was a mean grade, the standard deviation of the curve, followed by the equivalent letter grade. Underneath that was the conversion of the other letter grades in my other classes converted to a 4 point scale multiplied by the number of credits. I was determining my overall GPA.

My mathematical obsession did not stop in college. When I became an adult and played sports I tracked my match scores and wins and losses. As captain I did it for everyone else on my team. And golf appealed to me because of its handicap system--I knew all my scores I made computations from hole to hole—which is probably why golf was such a mental nightmare for me.

One of my greatest guilty pleasures in life is obsessively compulsively determining my personal statistics.

And now I have my blog to obsess over. I may see how many page reads on individual posts I receive daily, weekly, monthly and all time. I can view the origins of the reads—and what people googled before visiting Karenland. I review referred sites. I can even see an overview of my audience—worldwide. I have been read in every single continent except Antarctica.

Viewing my statistics is almost as much fun as the writing itself.

I can also surmise things—like when someone was viewing all the posts about my oldest daughter. At first I was concerned and so I emailed her—but I then discovered that she was the one reading about herself. And sometimes I can determine that friends are on vacation before I receive word by “normal” means. That is what happened a month or so ago when I noticed a bunch of hits from Turks and Caicos. I wondered who was there reading my blog. And shortly afterwards I found out--a photo popped up on Facebook with a friend with her daughter.

And while numbers are wonderfully exact, they do not tell the whole picture. Information must be extrapolated—especially the qualitative kind. Pageviews do not reflect  sentiment or thought—it is something only the comments can do. The people connection is more of an attractant than faceless readers in Spain. Which is why while my blog post on My Lord and Taylor Black Card has the highest number of all time reads (with numbers climbing daily), it is less meaningful to me than my blog post on Christmas Eve at Nonny’s.

Numbers serve only to inflate the ego. And ego does not direct my writing.  Yet—I would be lying if I did not say—sometimes I really like the numbers.

The Difference between Playmates and Friends

I am reading a sweet little book right now—Have a  Little Faith. The author—Mitch Albom is asked by his rabbi to write the rabbi’s eulogy upon his death. The rabbi makes the point that most people are not afraid of death as much as they are afraid of being forgotten. No one wants to think that their life was so valueless that it becomes unmemorable. Everyone wants to be missed when they are gone.

My first debilitating bout of back injury came in the spring prior to my fortieth birthday. It also coincided with my peak tennis playing and the beginnings of real golf play. But more difficult than the physical pain or my impending big birthday, was the realization that without me, tennis matches were still being won and friends’ handicaps were still dropping. Trophies were awarded and lunches were eaten. It was devastating to think I was so invisible, inconsequential. People inquired about how I was feeling and then simply and easily replaced me on the court or in their foursome.

Towards the end of the summer, when I had resumed playing golf, I found myself paired up with a much older woman who I did not know. She had been an A-level tennis player. And her golf game, as well as her cronies', had improved to the point of becoming an 18-holer. And then she suffered a rotator cup injury. She needed surgery. The subsequent recovery and rehabilitation was difficult and lengthy--two years in total.

Yet the thing that was the most painful for her was that her phone had stopped ringing. Invitations ceased. The halt in her playing was a halt in her socializing—out of sight, out of mind. Her sage advice to me---something she had learned the hard way--was Dear--don’t ever confuse your playmates with your friends.

It stuck with me.

In this life we are given lots of playmates, schoolmates, and workmates. Very few are genuine friends. Our mates are fun to hang out with and allow for the pleasant passage of time. We may even experience joint adventures. But the relationship is built more on circumstance—convenience—proximity---and not real commitment. True friends remember you in your absence. They long for your return. They find you irreplaceable—indelible. Friends catch the shoe when it drops—and replace it with a slipper.

When my husband sold his practice a longtime client came to me with tears and said We love your husband so much. What will we do without him?

And I thought to myself You do not love my husband—you love that he works for you like your slave. If you loved him you would wish him well and not try to coerce him into still working for you. If he was sick—you would not feed him—you would merely send flowers or a gift basket. And I am certain that you will find another accountant to take his place—and you will say you love him too.

Clients are not our friends either. Neither are employers or coaches or business partners.

And the rabbi in the book had no fear of death—he had his faith and he had Mitch Albom—the author—who by writing the rabbi’s story ensured that would never be forgotten—even by people who never knew him at all. And I will not forget Molly—the sage golfer—who was merely a one-time playmate but spoke to me like a true friend.

Words with Friends

I have a fair amount of artistic talent. When I was little and didn’t know what to do with myself my mother would say why don’t you draw something?

I rarely did crossword puzzles. But what I did like doing on a daily basis was the word jumble. The net effect was the same—increased vocabulary. But the journey was shorter—you already had the correct letters to the solution.

I played Words With Friends for about 5 days before I totally lost interest. I should have surmised that the fact that I did not like crossword puzzles nor playing Scrabble that this remote phone/tablet game would not appeal to me. It was too competitive and it required too much strategy. I just wasn’t having fun. And so I allowed all my games to expire—I raised a cyber-graphic white flag.

But what I am totally enjoying right now is DrawSomething. It’s like Pictionary and a word jumble all in one. It appeals to my creative side—one draws with your finger on your iphone or ipad screen. The person playing with you must guess the word by your artistry. And since you are playing with and not against someone the competitive pressure is off—there is no strategy other than making the best drawing you can and making your best guess as to what the other person draws for you.

It’s great.

It’s one more thing that keeps me connected. And it’s one more thing that I am still listening to my mother’s advice about---when I have some time on my hands and do not know what to do with myself-- I simply DrawSomething.

Cleaning All Things White

My first construction project was a kitchen renovation in my Brook Street house. I chose white cabinets with oak trim (it was 1986) with a white backsplash and countertop. The floor was white tile. The designer said that I had chosen too much white and that I would be unhappy with all the maintenance. He also thought that all that all that white might seem sterile.

The man did not know me.

Blanca, my cleaning woman said to me in her Spanish accent a few weeks ago When you do the new bathroom-- you are not putting in all white like you do with the girls’ bathroom?

Blanca hates my girls’ all white bathroom. She also hates my white corian kitchen countertops. Blanca hates that I like white.

And I told Blanca Not exactly. I am putting in all white subway tile from floor to ceiling with a black granite sink, white vanity and white and grey marble floor. The lighting and plumbing fixtures are polished chrome.

Blanca detests cleaning marble and she dislikes anything black just as much as anything white. She is not a big fan of shiny chrome either.

Blanca despises all surfaces that showcase dirt or spots---which is exactly why I love such surfaces. Crud can’t hide. The fact that I can see all dirt makes the cleaning more satisfying. I can see immediately if things are sanitized or not.

I like to know.

And back in 1986  I espoused my “white surface” theory to the designer: White isn’t any more maintenance than any other color. The fact that one cannot see dirt does not render it clean. To me, white is easier to maintain—spots and crumbs are plain to see. And not seeing dirt on a white surface, means it is clean—it ultimately saves me time. I do not have to clean something that is already spotless.

And Blanca’s name might translate as “white” but it doesn’t mean she’s particularly fond of it. Because I can assure you, Blanca doesn’t buy into my white surface theory. She will be cursing me and my new bathroom under her breath (in Spanish) every time she cleans. And I will know unequivocally if she has done her job.

Internships and Ricotta Pies

One of my favorite episodes of The Sopranos is when Carmela bakes a ricotta pie and brings it to the Georgetown college recruiter. The pie is a bribe. Carmela uses her expert baking skills to secure a seat at the university for her daughter.

My youngest daughter is in the throes of applying for summer internships. She is a rising senior. Despite a solid resume from a top 10 business school in management, with a concentration in information systems, and a second major in art history, internships are not that easy to come by. They often require that you know someone.

I don’t know anyone.

And I am in no way above baking ricotta pies. In fact there isn’t much that I am above when it comes to the success of my child. I’ll do whatever it takes.

I am not above using my blog either. Kara’s resume placed in good hands would definitely be worth a Thought from Karenland.

Carmela resorted to cannoli cream; I resort to my pen. Both require ample sugar.

At least we left our guns at home.

Picking Up the Check

I heard a story recently about a few couples who went out to dinner and one of them picked up the check.

It seems that the person who chose to pick up the check likely did so just so they could tell everyone else about their deed.

I have a little problem with this.

Rule #1 Do not offer to pick up the check unless you are sincere in your offer. If you have the slightest desire to complain or advertise the fact that you took out your American Express card, keep your card in your wallet. Split the bill.

Rule #2 If you are not sincere in your desire to pay for your seated company, do not add insult to injury by insisting it’s my treat when the other party says no no no.

Rule #3 if you feel morally bound to pick up the check—do so and shut up about it. Think of it like wearing a thong—while mandatory at times—it is indecent to reveal its wear.

Rule #4 If you are seated with an insincere person who insists on picking up the check just so that they can advertise their pseudo-generosity, even if you must spend time in the kitchen peeling potatoes to pay your monetary debt, do not allow them to buy your food and beverages. Suck the wind out of their sails by keeping the dust intact in their wallets.

Because while it is more blessed to give than to receive; humility makes men twice honorable. It is the tree of silence that bears the fruit of peace.

Hotdogs

Every Wednesday when I was in Catholic grammar school, we were let out early—noon-ish—so the faculty could prepare for the public school kids coming in for religious education. On those Wednesdays my mother and I would go out to lunch. Our favorite place to go to was W.T. Grant—the five and dime store on Central Avenue in the Scarsdale shopping plaza next to E.J. Korvettes.

We always ate the same thing—a hotdog which had rotated for hours on automated metal rollers with sauerkraut and mustard on a toasted butter-laden top cut bun. It came in a white cardboard sleeve engineered specifically for a hotdog’s conformation. We sat on spinner-type vinyl and chrome stools at  a gold speckled Formica counter and were served by a cranky moon-faced Polish woman who wore a pale pink polyester uniform with a fine black hairnet on her head. She sponged the countertop before we finished eating as a hint that we should not linger.

The total lack of ambiance made the ambiance perfect. And the simplicity of the food and nil presentation made it a true culinary experience. And of course the lacking attention from the server has set the low-bar for a lifetime. Even with the tip, and two soft drinks, the feast could not have cost more than a couple of dollars.

Which is why I doubt I will ever go to Serendipity—a restaurant  in Manhattan for their $69 haute cuisine  hotdog---despite how delicious the concoction sounds: a prime beef hot dog sautéed in truffle oil with liver pate, white truffles, and caramelized onions on a pretzel bun. It’s a foodies’ delight.

I am certain it tastes wonderful.

But some things are incomparable. Sometimes you just can’t mess with the original. Some things can never be new and improved.

The Coca-Cola Company learned that the hard way. In 1985 they decided to improve the formula of Coke—it failed. They will never make that mistake again.

And while Serendipity may attract patrons curious enough to try their haute cuisine hotdog, I doubt they will retain the clientele. Not when people can go to the corner and get a hotdog steamed in dirty water handed to them from an accented man who handles money and food without washing his hands in between. In Karenland, that is haute hotdog cuisine.

My Airport Pat-down

When I travel I usually wear a stick-on heating pad on my back so I don’t stiffen up with all the required sitting. This has never posed a problem with airline security—until now. I must remember to remove the warming patch if I am pushed into the line with the body scanner.

When I went through security in Fort Lauderdale on my way home to New York I forgot about the pad on my back.  So the large-and-in-charge security man very nicely and apologetically informed me that I had to submit to a pat-down. He also assured me that the pat-down would be done by one of two female TSA officers.

I am not that modest. I just don’t feel that my parts are any more special than anybody else’s. And after experiencing  labor and childbirth when it seemed that the entire hospital’s medical staff stopped by about every 10 minutes in a 12 hour period to assess my progress in the most intimate way—I became numb to appropriate (or inappropriate) touching. Furthermore—post 9/11-- I believed that no one had any personal rights when it came to my and my family’s safety.

So I was okay with the pat down. But I was not immune to my own racial profiling. One of the female TSA officers was a large overweight teased-blond haired woman who looked like a sadistic, yet  heterosexual prison guard. She reeked of cigarette smoke. The other TSA woman officer was petite, athletic looking, youngish and very very butch. Hmm I thought to myself--which one of these fine ladies do I want to go to second base with?

Ultimately I hoped for the butch woman. I reasoned that she “knew what she was doing.” I also decided that the experience was the closest thing that I would ever get to switching teams---so I wanted it to be as authentic as possible. And fortunately she, as luck would have it, chose me.

And I think that because I was so eager to submit and was so enthusiastic about it being my first encounter that I totally creeped out the TSA officer. I think she was afraid to touch me. She was so weirded out by me saying I do not care where you touch me. I am so excited-- this is my first time! that I do not recall any real patting down at all. My pat down was as light as if someone asked me to pet a tarantula—barely a finger grazed me.

I have to say—I was a little disappointed. My experience could not possibly be what the public was complaining about. I was not violated in any way. I have been groped by my mother’s female relatives in fits of emphasis more intimately than that.

And now I am more mindful of tissues or lint balls in my pockets. I now remember to remove my heating pad before I get to the body scanner. Because it is not the pat down I fear, it’s the loss of the heating pad---those self-stick eight hour patches really keep your muscles loosened up.

Aprons

If you have ever watched an episode of The Donna Reed Show, or Leave it to Beaver or even I Love Lucy you would have noticed (among many things) that women wore aprons.

Both my grandmothers wore aprons—sometimes they wore “cobblers” which were printed  cotton vests that snapped over their dresses. Sometimes they wore “dusters” which were snapped front dresses which served as a full body apron. And my mother and her sisters wore aprons of some sort too. My Aunt Fran had a special one that she wore every year at my house on Thanksgiving when I was growing up. She wore it when she carved the turkey. The same apron is in every photograph—along with a knife in hand in front of a perfectly basted Butterball.

And I can remember that when my mother hosted any party or holiday and all the women would help cook or clean up that my mother handed out aprons to everyone like they were martinis. My mother must have owned no less than 10 aprons at any point in time.

Apparently, women used to worry about getting dirty when they cooked or cleaned.

I do not own an apron—not even one for my mother if she visits. I do not know anyone who wears an apron anymore. I don’t even know where to buy one if I found the need. I think aprons have become a relic.

So either women don’t cook or clean, don’t get dirty if they do so, or factor the dirt in as a casualty of doing business. In my case I don’t see the difference between washing an apron or washing my clothing—laundry is laundry. And even if I am wearing a “good” outfit it is going to the drycleaners whether I wear the apron or not—aprons do not keep the sweat away—in fact the increased sweat from the extra layer of clothing makes the outfit dirtier than if I did not wear the apron at all.

In a few days the carpenter will be showing up to work on a third floor renovation. I will have to pay attention as to whether he wears a work apron or not. Because I doubt carpenters wear aprons anymore—they have nail guns--just as women have stainfighter Tide

Good Fridays

About 10 years ago I was in Tower Records waiting to make a purchase. The man in line in front of me—clad in flat front khakis, a pink Lacoste golf shirt, and a pair of Sperrys, was buying several CDs. And when the clean cut man got to the register he was met with a young man with long hair, multiple piercings and tattoos as his cashier--the young man clearly walked outside the line of social conformity.

And as the transaction was taking place—the man clad in khakis reminded the young man for reasons that I cannot explain—that that day was Good Friday. And the young man--with an edge of condescension remarked Aren’t all Fridays good?

I smiled and I thought to myself Good point.

An Easter Message

A week or two ago I forwarded to my three daughters an article on relationships I had read on AOL. My oldest daughter emailed me back. She wrote Seriously Mom? You want me to take advice from the Huffington Post?

You know that you are in the state of Georgia when you come down to breakfast on a Sunday morning and instead of The Today Show blaring from the big flatscreen TV in the breakfast lounge you see one of the religious stations on instead. You share your grits and eggs with a TV evangelist.

And ordinarily this might make me uncomfortable—I have concerns about anything too extreme—whether it is politics or religion. And I am skeptical about the sincerity of sharply tailored men speaking of Jeee-sus. But as it was Palm Sunday and was feeling a twinge of guilt over my absence at mass I was more open to listening—I figured a little Jeee-sus wouldn’t hurt me—plus I was by myself with no one to talk to.

And to my surprise I was instantly engaged. The minister was speaking of how Jesus’ last words on the cross were It is finished. And upon hearing those words—the high priests, and the Romans, and the people who either demanded his crucifixion or wept---believed it to be so. It was finished—over. And even the disciples, who were told over and over again by their master that he would die and resurrect, also thought it was finished. Jesus was dead. They all witnessed it. It was over. Only nothingness remained.

But it was not over. Jesus rose.

And the preacher wanted the take home message to be that whenever we are in despair, and we think it is finished, it is not. All things resurrect. All despair can be turned around if you believe and take charge. Nothing is ever over or finished—even death.

And I thought wow that is a good spin on life. We are all empowered to transform no matter how grave the circumstances. From despair comes reinvention. And then I noticed that the well-dressed man did not have a Southern accent. His skin was olive-toned. And at the bottom of the screen I read the preacher’s name. It was Dr. Michael Youssef. He wasn’t a Christian at all. He was Muslim. This was a Muslim service.

Hmmm.

And I emailed my daughter after her skeptical response that sometimes quality information comes from unexpected sources. Sometimes dead on correct messages come from dubious messengers. So while the Huffington Post certainly isn’t the most trusted resource, it didn’t mean the truth couldn’t be nailed on occasion. And spiritual enlightenment doesn’t always have to come from a man of your faith. Enlightenment comes whenever you are open to the possibility. One not be a  member of  the choir to understand the message of the preacher.

Easter Baskets

When I was a little girl Mrs. Rothman—my friend Jay’s grandmother—gave me Barton’s chocolate lollipops every year when she visited Jay and his family for Passover. I also received a basket filled with chocolate and jelly beans from the Easter Bunny.

I did not carry forth the springtime chocolate tradition. I believed that baskets full of marshmallow peeps and jelly beans and solid milk chocolate bunnies was a nutritional black hole not to mention the fact that my children were not big on sweets. The only one who would be eating the contents of a confectionary filled basket was me.

So Easter baskets in our house were more pragmatic. They contained sweet smelling body wash and loofahs and creamy moisturizers and (yes) new toothbrushes. I often bought scented lipsmackers and nail polish and special hair clips. They also contained the accessories for their Easter outfits and sometimes a new VHS tape or music CD. Sometimes I put a bathing suit in there with sunscreen and sunglasses—especially if we were planning a trip. And I always slipped in a book or two.

And my kids were pretty happy about it. They never missed Cadbury eggs because they had never gotten any to begin with. Their known tradition was chocolate-less.

And now that they are in their twenties they most definitely do not want the confectionary stuff. A gift card to Starbucks and a mani/pedi from June Nail with a pair of fun Betsy Johnson earrings renders me a hero.

The only one missing the crunch, and then smoothness of newly bitten Russell Stover bunny ears--- is me.

Good Etiquette

I was seated on my return flight home from Atlanta to New York next to a coupled aged a few years younger than I. And because the husband resembled in appearance and voice the former “let-go” ill-performing principal of the high school I decided I didn’t like him very much. So when the flight attendant came over to ask what drinks and snacks everyone wanted and the husband spoke for his wife sitting right next to him more closely than anchovies in a can I thought Really? Can’t she speak for herself?

When I was young and my father took the family out for dinner he did all of the ordering. It was customary as specified by etiquette for the gentleman to do so. My brother, my mother and I reported our desires to him and my father  in turn reeled it off to the waiter—referring to my mother as my wife and to my brother as the young man and to me as the young lady.

That wouldn’t fly in my family. Our ordering is too complicated. There is no possible way that unless my husband had an excel work sheet and a keen ability to read minds that he would ever succeed.

Kara and I went to a Jewish Bagel/Deli place for lunch when I was in Atlanta. I ordered the Nova Platter and Kara ordered the Hummus platter. It wasn’t as simple as that. It needed some revision.

I wanted a slightly warmed but not toasted everything bagel completely scooped out—as in devoid of all dough --and instead of the plain cream cheese could I have the light cream cheese with scallions--but on the side? And I did not want the tomato or onion but could I have 2 pickles please? Kara did not want the pita bread, she wanted a lightly toasted onion bagel and she did not want the French fries—could she please have the cucumber salad in its place? Oh and does tomato come with that because if not I would like a few tomato slices. 

It took two sheets of paper on the waitress’ order slip to write it all down.

There is no way I would ever subject my husband to that. And there is no way he could ever have gotten it correct—particularly since I am well known for changing my entrée at the last minute.

And I realized that the husband who looked and spoke a lot like the former principal was not a chauvinist or a buffoon. I had misjudged him. He was simply a Southern gentleman. He spoke for his wife because that is what well-bred men do.

And if my husband would have tried to order for me on the airplane like that gentleman did, aside from getting a verbal admonishment or at the very least a death stare, he would not have gotten such a simple order to my liking. He would simply have said my wife would like a ginger ale and some pretzels.He would not have said that the lady would like a ginger ale with not too much ice and two bags of pretzels instead of one. And I would have been annoyed that my cup would have had too much ice and half the volume of snack that I in fact wanted.

Sometimes good etiquette means bending the rules. Especially in this day and age. Especially with women of discerning tastes. Deference is indeed mannerly. And luckily for me (and him) my husband is gentlemanly (and smart enough) to know when to let a lady speak for herself.

Answered Prayers

When I woke up Monday morning I was excited to write. While I was visiting my daughter I had not brought a laptop and so my thoughts remained locked up inside my brain. I needed to expel them.

But as I had been away from home for a few days and my husband had kindly followed-up on honey-do projects in my absence, I had some tidying up and cleaning to do. So I quickly wrote one blog post and then tended to my chores. All the while I wished not to be doing laundry and assorted other tasks—I wished to be emptying my cerebrum instead.

And then the power went out.

At first I thought Damn--how will I vacuum? How will I get the laundry done? How will I finish my housework?

And then I remembered that my laptop had a fully charged battery. Instead of doing chores I could write—and I could do it guilt free. The lack of power was the perfect excuse to do what I wanted to do in the first place.

Don’t ever think that prayers are not answered. Prayers are answered all of the time. You just have to be paying attention.

Computers and Writing Papers

This past weekend Kara groaned to me that she had papers to write—and assignments to hand in. Some of them were group projects—each student prepared a portion and then merged it together.

The day my senior college thesis was due, a friend showed me her final paper. It was considerably thicker than mine such that that no ordinary staple could pierce through the pages despite the equivalent content. And the type itself was not as defined nor was the font (a word not invented yet) like that of my manual typewriter. And the vertical edges of the paper were not razor sharp—they had the barest of perforation.

It was the first computer generated word processed document I had ever seen. Her 30 page paper only took 25 minutes to print. It was in dot matrix. I was in awe. The year was 1982.

Writing papers in college and graduate school was always a difficult task for me. It had nothing to do with writer’s block—it was the opposite. I could not physically get the thoughts from my brain to the paper at an equal rate. My thinking was vastly quicker than my pencil. By the time I scratched out the words of one thought seven more had passed me by and were forgotten.

And once I had written a semi-coherant draft, new thoughts interrupted the cohesive writing process. Sentences and words meandered up the sides of the pages. There were arrows and cross-outs and editing symbols. It was a visual mess—nearly undecipherable. Nostradamus had less enigmatic prose.

And the final step—typing—had its own inherent obstacles. Sometimes whole paragraphs needed to be erased and moved. Word deletions and substitutions prompted entirely new pages to be written. It was exhausting and frustrating. To achieve a final product commensurate with my level of expectation took days of production.

And had Microsoft Word not been invented—all my thoughts would still be churning in my head. Word is the key reason I may write my blog—it is the vehicle of thought transport. I may write in a total stream of consciousness forgoing spelling, grammar and syntax—with corrections coming later.  I can drag sentences and paragraphs and then move them back. And the rate at which I keyboard is equal to the firing of synapses in my brain. I may write prolifically and without restraint.

My thoughts may also be split into separate documents—I may write two or three different blog posts simultaneously-- moving back and forth from one to another. Editing can take minutes or days. Sentences and words can be inserted or modified with ease. Wikipedia is a mere click away.

So when Kara complained to me about all the writing she needed to do for her courses I reminded her about what it was like in the dark ages—before computers—when everything took an eternity. We could not write group papers because no one wanted the task of typing the entire thing. I explained that often I did not go out on weekend nights—just to complete my work.

But she didn’t really care. It was like my mother telling me how she is a “depression baby.”

Sometimes moving forward requires not dwelling on the past---all that matters is the task at hand. And nostalgia is not a good enough reason for throwing out that brand new filled box of corasable paper and typing ribbon you found in the attic. They are relics—like dot-matrix printers and floppy disks.