Being Crazy Smart

While I was handpicking tufts of grass growing in between the bricks on my patio, my neighbor Andy (who I like a lot), hearing me putzing in my yard began to speak to me through the 15 foot wall of arborvitae which separates our yards. He inquired what are you up to? And I told him. And he said what tool are you using? I said my hand. Andy remarked Try a can opener—that’s what I use. I replied Hmm that’s smart. And  he told me a story:

A man was driving his car and the rear wheel fell off. When the man pulled over to the side of the road he noticed all 4 lugs which would have held the wheel on were gone. The man did not have his cell phone so he went into the first building he saw to seek aid—which happened to be a home for the mentally ill. And a man greeted him at the door and asked if he could help. So the man with the car issue stated his problem. And the man who greeted him said Oh—that’s easy to solve--just take one lug from the remaining 3 tires—that way each wheel will have 3 luggs. That will be good enough to get you to the nearest gas station where they may fix the car. And the man with the car issue was thankful for such clever advice. And he asked By the way do you work here? And the man said No—I am a resident—just because I am crazy doesn’t mean I am stupid.

I had become friendly with the mother of one of my daughter’s friends—that is until I realized that she was a bit of a sociopath. She told me things that I wanted to hear as a tool of manipulation. And during a discussion, when her mania stood in full transparency, she made a raw comment about a good friend of mine. And I defended my friend but at the same time understood that her assessment was cogent—too cogent--so cogent it seared. I spoke of it to no one.  I locked it away—occasionally turning the key, taking a peek inside, and relocking  it again.

Unfortunately just because the woman was crazy didn’t mean she was stupid. In fact some of the most creative and intelligent people have been clinically insane—like Van Gogh or Tennessee Williams or Kurt Vonnegut. And some of the most innovative people fit this bill too: Howard Hughes and some might say even Steve Jobs. There can be a fine line sometimes between genius and madness. Which is why the converse to the adage is also true: Just because you are sane doesn’t mean you are smart.

Smarter people judge information solely on its content--the sanity of the source is always secondary information.

Water Glasses

When my grandmother Manello got up in the morning part of her routine was to take two paper or Styrofoam cups and write her and my grandfather’s name on each cup. My grandmother issued one cup per day for each of them to use for water—as they both were prescribed numerous medications several times a day. My grandmother was a neat-nick and a germophobe and she also survived the depression-- which is the rationale I used to justify her somewhat eccentric behavior.

This summer I will have two daughters living at home and the third will be staying over with greater frequency as her client for the next three months is located in Suffolk county. Let me be clear—I enjoy their company. I am happy to have them as I am aware that in the not so distant future they will be completely gone with not even one foot in the doorway.

But my daughters are all of the water generation. Without exaggeration they each must consume a quart or two of water/day. They understand the value in keeping their bodies hydrated.

It’s a good thing.

But it has consequences. Every morning in every room—and I mean in every room on every flat surface---there is a collection of water glasses—some empty and some half-filled. The ample supply of glasses in the kitchen cabinet is depleted daily. The dishwasher can barely house them all once I have rounded them all up. I have had parties where I have cleaned up less glassware.

It irritates me.

Part of the adult maturation process is realizing that the ideas and behaviors of your parents or grandparents is not as far off balance as you thought in your youth. As you age and your experiences increase you understand that your elders were wise—that they indeed knew what they were talking about. Because if I had it my way I would implement my grandmother’s plan—I would issue one glass/per day for each person living in my household. And if they misplaced their glass they would have to locate it--they would not be allowed multiples. And at the end of the day they would be mandated to place the dirty glass in the dishwasher.

Somehow I feel I have better things to do than play bus boy.

But I will not institute my grandmother’s plan—even though I would like to. My children think I am crazy enough—no need for them to ponder putting me away in the crazy person’s home. Their time will come. One day they too will be mumbling under their breath and cleaning their children’s mess—unless they are wealthy enough to afford a maid—or if eccentricity skips a generation or two.

Memorial Day

When my father received his draft notice, my grandmother cried. My father was an only child—my grandmother’s only son. She prayed for his safe return and sent him care packages—even though at no point in his tour of duty did he step foot off of the contiguous United States. In fact he rarely left the state of Georgia.

My father was a very smart man.

My father, unimpressed with the prospect having bullets targeted at him, successfully tried out for and became a member of the Army Band. And within the realm of musicianship, he took his smartness one step further---of all the instruments he played (saxophone, clarinet, flute and piccolo) he chose to play the piccolo—because it was small enough to fit in his pocket.

The only hand-to-hand combat my father saw was when someone dropped their instrument and my  father picked it up. The only war wounds he received were blisters. He saw no death; he only saw a cheering crowd waving American flags.

For years we teased him about being in the Korean War. To us it was two years of obligatory adult sleep-away band camp.

And yet my father loved the discipline of the Army. So later on in his life he joined the New York Guard and rose to Brigadier General.

My father was a good administrator.

When he died, he had a full military burial. He wears his uniform in his grave.

And I suppose despite the assigned task, all men (and women) who serve are war heroes. Each plays an integral part. Each serves their nation and contributes to a greater cause. My father served to raise morale, and entertain those who did see combat—he lessened their burden with song. He healed wounds with notes. He is no less a hero than the man who cooks the food,  issues the supplies or stands behind the gun. All players are necessary for the win—not just the players on the field.

And on Memorial Day we should do just that—remember the fallen and all who have served. We live in a free country. And it is free because every soldier did their part—and did it well.

Grandpa

While my grandmother Vespo, my mother’s mother, was my favorite grandmother; my father’s father, Grandpa Manello, was my favorite grandfather. He was a good and kind man. And he would have had to have been  to have lived peacefully with my grandmother for 60 + years--- a woman, who was not so easy to find all that likeable at times.

And to give you a clue as to how good and kind my grandfather was, every Sunday he would drive from Yonkers to the Bronx without my grandmother (his wife) to check up on his mother-in-law and father-in-law.

But each Sunday before he left the Bronx to journey home, he would stop first at the A &M Bakery on White Plains Road to buy a loaf or two of some freshly baked Italian bread—round, sliced, and crusty. Then, he would stop by our house for a cup of coffee or to give my father and brother a haircut as my grandfather was a barber by trade.

And when he arrived I was always excited to see him. He would  tell me a terrible joke like What did the dog say when he sat on some sandpaper? (rough rough) and then he would open the bag and present me with the end of the bread—my favorite.

 It was better than candy.

My grandfather’s first name of record was Mauro. But to his friends and family he was known as Morris. To his barber shop workmates he was known as Jimmy. But to me he was just Grandpa. And I loved him as did everyone who knew him. And I think of him often—especially when someone asks why did the chicken cross the road? and every time I eat the end of some fresh crusty Italian bread.

Black Cats

Before Vatican II, Catholicism wasn’t filled with a whole lot of God loves you. During the time preceding the revision of the church’s canon, God was a pretty mean guy—capricious. He would strike you down for the tiniest infraction. The old-school Catholic God was into smite. It instilled fear—especially into little kids. It seeped into our little kids’ thinking. That fear drove us to superstition on a wider scale. It’s why I feared stepping on a crack would break my mother’s back. Any small act could result in calamity---even death.

And the one superstition that really did me in was the black cat walking in front of you bad luck rule. I feared it to the point that if I saw a cat out and about I would try to determine its path and then avoid it.

And on the radio today I was reminded of something—what if you owned a black cat? Would you tip toe around it all day long? It sounds like a  lot of work to me --bound to result in an occasional slip-up. Or does owning a black cat exempt you from the black cat rule? Like buying a parking sticker for the lot near the train station exempts you from getting a parking ticket. And why isn’t a white cat walking in front of you a sign of good luck—like the smoke when you are waiting for a pope to be announced? Black smoke: bad: no pope . White smoke: good: new pope.

There is a commercial for Chase Bank right now that I enjoy. A Mom takes a picture of a check with her cell phone and she tells her child that that check is being transported to the bank. Then the Mom tries to take a photo of a lion and the child cries no no no! The child fears the lion will be transported to the bank too.

And I am happy to say that my mother’s back, while nagging with pain some days (she is 81), has never broken—even when I accidentally stepped on a crack—numerous times.

But that damn black cat—the one that lives next door—the one that tormented my beloved Jasper for 16 years---he is still around. And I still avoid him. Even though I should know better.

Mani/Pedis

I think because the health laws in the state of New York are different than those in Georgia, a mani/pedi in Atlanta —is a real mani/pedi—rivaling my experience in even the most expensive spa/salons. The salon I frequent with Kara uses razors like the utensil I use for slicing cheese. They also put your hands in plastic bags and squeeze some magic goo on them to be followed by a heat wrap. My cuticles fall off like slowly cooked Osso Bucco.

If I got weighed before and after my mani/pedi there were be a half pound differential—all of it would dead skin. A special red bag is need for its disposal---it is deemed medical waste.

The only problem is that I do not patronize the salon enough to know the routine as it differs from June Nail. I am awkward. I gush at each stage of the process. The Philippine women who run it are a bit short tempered with me. I frustrate them. I do not get the sense that they enjoy their profession very much. And they do not appreciate my humor nor the shabby condition of my hands and feet.  I feel obligated to tell them that I am visiting from New York where spa treatments are not as fastidious.

But they do not seem to care.

And so visiting Atlanta is the only destination I travel to where I do not get a mani/pedi before my departure. I always make certain to incorporate a salon visit into my stay. Because not only do my hands and feet look lovelier and  more youthful than they would have here in New York, I get to enjoy the experience with my baby girl---and nothing bonds a mother daughter more than oogling over prettily painted and manicured hands and feet---and debating which nail color wears better--- OPI or Essie.    

New York Style

On an episode of Sex in the City, Carrie’s boyfriend Berger, asks Carrie to read his novel. The characters in his book were native New Yorkers. Carries’ criticism was that Burger described one of the Manhattan-ite women characters as wearing a scrunci in her hair. She told her boyfriend that no self-respecting New York woman would ever wear a scrunci. Scruncis were over.

He disagreed.

On Saturday I visited my daughter in Manhattan. We had lunch in a restaurant housed in ABC Carpet and Home in the flatiron district. And as we walked back to her apartment after our meal I noticed two women walking in front of us. And although I could not see their faces I could tell from behind that they were about my age. I also noticed something else. One of the women had a bit too much gel-like hair product in her naturally wavy bob---a hairstyle not necessary on trend. But there was another oddity—something glaring. It was the way her cardigan was tied around her neck like a shawl or scarf---with intention. I remembered doing that---it was a “thing”. It was high style. Everyone owned matching sleeveless sweater sets and wore the cardigan without putting their arms in the sleeves. It was so 1999. And I remarked to Samantha how that very fashionable way of covering your shoulders just wasn’t done anymore—particularly in Manhattan where being on-trend is as natural as breathing.

And just like that---the women stopped short in front of us. They were lost.  Their mid-western twang and overly friendly demeanor was a dead give away--they were tourists.

And in the episode of Sex in the City both Carrrie and Berger find themselves in line at the theatre. A woman in front of them was wearing a scrunci in her hair and the boyfriend smirked in self-satisfaction. That was until the woman spoke and her southern accent gave her away.

She was not a native New Yorker.

Not even close.

Who says life does not imitate art?

When Keys aren't Keys

In studying neurology, a common test is to show a person a particular black and white drawing.  The drawing is an optical illusion. The person is asked to quickly name what they see. Some people immediately see a young woman and an equal number immediately see an old woman.

In Home Goods the other day I saw a 30 inch long chrome skeleton key. I loved it. Keys are very symbolic for me—particularly with my eldest daughter. When she was accepted to Lehigh University I bought her a gold key on a chain. It was meant to symbolize her key to success, her key to the future, and her key to my heart.

So the giant chrome key—which would be hung in my daughter’s newly decorated/renovated bedroom---was an apt item of décor. It would add some texture and hidden meaning to the room. I planned on hanging the key horizontally over her white wicker headboard on her graphite grey wall. I thought it would have been perfect--in every way.

But when I leaned the key up to the wall and stood back a bit, the key no longer looked like a key—it looked like a giant replica of an external male sexual organ. And despite trying to erase the image from my mind, no matter how hard I tried, all I could see was something I did not want to see.

A giant external male sexual organ hanging over my daughter’s bed just wasn’t the look I was going for. So I returned the key back to Home Goods.

And there are a few people when they look at that illusionary black and white drawing who see both an old woman and a young woman simultaneously. I was one of them. Seeing both images means that I am a creative thinker—capable of instantly processing divergent information---an equal user of my right and left brain. It also means keys are not always keys—they are replicas of external male sexual organs—which are best left in discount home decorating stores and not hanging over your daughter’s bed.

What Women Worry About

I watched a documentary on HBO the other night. It was about online dating. Statistically, the number one thing that women fear most when they engage in this activity is meeting a serial killer. The thing men fear most is meeting someone fat.

For the last 9 days my daughter has been in Nicaragua---a third world country. She is there as part of a study program through the Nicaraguan government co-sponsored with her university. She and her fellow classmates are developing a business plan for the Nicaraguan coffee growers—poor farmers. It is a noble adventure. It is a wonderful opportunity for her to experience hands-on knowledge of international economics and to see the world through the eyes of the indigent.

Yet despite all this wonderful-ness all I can think about is what could go wrong. I think about some group of revolutionaries initiating a political coup while she is there. I think about even more realistic things like her rickety bus overturning off a cliff with no way to medevac her to some subclass third world hospital. I think about malaria, typhus, yellow fever, dengue fever and leprosy—just to name a few diseases she may contract. I ignore the thought that her host family on the coffee commune will make inappropriate advances towards her or sell her into white slavery.

I think about her meeting a Nicaraguan serial killer.

And I can say with near certainty that absolutely none of these thoughts has popped into my husband’s brain every 7 minutes or so for the past 9 days like it has with me.

He sleeps well at night. Male brains are not wired to ponder the catastrophic. Their brains are more practical—which is why my husband’s only inquiry was whether I thought Kara might be hungry when she got off of the plane.

Because the truth of the matter is meeting a serial killer through online dating is statistically negligible while meeting a fat woman through online dating is a million times more likely. Numbers do not lie.

And when Kara’s plane touches the Atlanta runway I will realize that her trip was the adventure of a lifetime---fret with unnecessary worry---just as her father (and every other man) would have predicted.

The odds after all are in her favor.

Tiny Babies

As I was driving up Clinton Road on my way home from Home Goods I noticed a new store. It was called the Tiny Baby Store.

If the jewelry store is where one goes to buy jewelry then I can only surmise that the Tiny Baby Store is where one goes to purchase tiny babies.  

I had thought that buying babies—including the tiny ones was illegal.

Maybe I was mistaken.

Perhaps someone ought to tell the stork.

Thoughts on Gay Marriage

My father was raised in an era where women were expected to be housewives. When he became a teacher in the 1950’s a woman could be fired if it was discovered that she was pregnant. And men received more pay than women because men were the breadwinners. Professionally, women, if they wanted to pursue any type of career at all, were limited to teaching or nursing or secretarial science.

I, as a young girl, remember watching Billy Jean King easily defeat Bobby Riggs on the tennis court. I watched braless women walk arm in arm down the streets screaming for the equal rights amendment. Title IX was passed. In school we read Betty Friedan and Gloria Steinem. At no point did it ever occur to me that I was not as deserving of all the rights and privileges of a man. And while my father still expected my mother to be obedient, his expectations for his own daughter were different. My father embraced and supported the fact that opportunity was there for me for the taking. My generation represented a new age.

President Obama has publically voiced his support of gay marriage. And his decision making on the matter was distinct---and ultimately spot-on. He said that his daughter Sasha and Melia had friends with same sex parents. His daughters saw no difference in the parenting or the relationship between the adult guardians of their friends. The president said that observing that it was his daughters expectation that same sex parents had the same rights and privileges as their own made him think more deeply about gay marriage. His daughters represented a new age of thought--different than from the time in which he was raised. He realized that marriage between two people—homosexual or hetereosexual—deserved equal rights under the law.

And whether you like the president or not, are a republican or not, religiously conservative or not, the next generation will live in an age where all persons will have marital equality. Agree or disagree the time is now. We live in a world with few walls.  Transparency drives thought. All men—and women—of every race, color, creed and sexual persuasion—are created equal---and soon to be---under the law. We cannot escape Thomas Jefferson’s words much longer. These truths are self-evident. And even my father, who would have not have agreed, would have understood why.    

On Being Upstaged

When I was in graduate school the professor came to the classroom one day and announced that he wasn’t in a productive enough mental state to teach. He had just learned minutes earlier that he been scientifically upstaged. The research that he had been working on tirelessly for three years was for naught. Someone on the other side of the world had just published his exact findings.

My brother-in-law Jack is a really good guy. He works for a large financial company and is a senior staff member there. Since January he has been working/networking to get my daughter’s resume to the top of the pile for a summer internship. He has copied me on all the emails. He has updated me on the phone. He has been diligent. Meticulous. In our last conversation he felt confident that all his efforts would be fruitful. He expected something to come through in about a week or two.

But within that two week time frame Kara received a phone call from an acquaintance/collegue of my husband’s. The gentleman had perused Kara’s resume and sent it around to some people. One of those people still had not found the right summer intern and jumped at the opportunity.  

Poof. Kara was employed. She did not even have to fly home from Atlanta for the interview.

All my brother-in-law’s hard work was for naught. Someone who nobody knew would get a star next to his name.

In this life timing is everything.

Maybe I will bake Jack a ricotta pie to thank him for his due diligence. Kara might need a full-time job next year.

Memory Issues

On a Saturday morning I realized that I had not received a confirmation phone call for a dinner reservation that I had made weeks ago. so I called the venue and inquired about it. I learned that there was no record---my name was not listed in the book. Concerned,  I spoke with the manager who knowing me as a loyal client found a way to work my reservation in despite the fact that the restaurant was booked. Catastrophe was averted. And the manager apologized for the staff member who clearly did not perform her job properly saying I am so sorry Mrs. Ciccone. But I am comfortable telling you that that particular employee suffers from CRS.

I had never heard of CRS.

The manager explained CRS stands for Can’t Remember SH**

My brother Mark and I do not exchange Christmas gifts but every year we ignore our promise and do it anyway. We do it because it gives us pleasure to see the elation in each other’s face when the gift is received.

This year my brother and sister-in-law gave my husband and I a gift certificate to a restaurant we frequent. It was both thoughtful and generous. But in the confusion of Christmas, when I arrived home, I could not find the certificate anywhere. I sorted through all the tissue paper and gift bags and boxes. I even searched though the garbage. But it was gone.

 I felt awful. But my husband and I agreed not to say anything because we did not want my brother to be sad.

Last week in doing an inventory of my wine rack I noticed it needed replenishment. But I remembered that my sister in law’s mother had given us one of those gift boxes of Italian wine at Christmas. I tracked the wooden box down. Inside of it, neatly placed, was the gift card my brother had given me at Christmas. Evidently I had placed it in the wine box for safe keeping. Some part of my brain thought it was a strategic place. And it was—had I hit the “save” button on the memory file.

It would seem that I too suffer from CRS. Good thing I do not work as a receptionist recording dinner reservations.

On Mother's Day

When my oldest daughter was in second grade, I, and several of my friends took a parenting course. It was one of the best things I ever did—better than T. Berry Brazelton. Because not only was Bonnie—the psychologist who ran the course--- well trained, she was also a mother herself. So her experience was vast and very personal.

And the well-made point that stuck with me was that children are the most egocentric creatures on the planet. They only care about their own needs. And the most important element for them was to feel safe. Children need to know at all times that there is someone there to take care of them. Yearning for safety drives behavior--- good or bad. And advancing age does not change that fact—age only makes the safety issue more tangled.

I have a very dear friend who by nature is gentle. She never has harsh words about anyone and her use of language is well mannered—she does not ever use curse words---even when she is angry. And she, like many of my closest friends, came to be in my social circle as a result of our children socializing. She is the parent of one of my daughter’s friends.

And when we (parents/friends) would get together we would often recount the difficulty of being the guiding hand of teenagers---particularly since our teenagers stood near the apex of the social strata in high school. It was positively exhausting—the required 24/7 vigilance sucked the life out of you.

One evening as we were discussing and comparing notes about our parental experiences, my very gentle natured friend—someone who rarely shared issues within her household---and certainly abstained from ever using colorful language inquired Has anyone ever been called the c-word by their child?

And the room fell silent.

Not just because being called the c-word is not a nice thing. Not just because for as many not-so-nice things as many of us had been called by our children that particular one didn’t come immediately to mind. It was because hearing this gentle woman say that word out loud was shocking. I didn’t even know she knew what the word was let alone hearing her let it loose in company.

And once we all got over our shock we reassured her that all kids were positively awful and that her child’s words weren’t personal. Her child was simply looking to get a reaction. She did not intend for it to be as hurtful as it sounded---even though it was most definitely hurtful. And as compassionate as we were, many of us secretly thought thank God I have never been called the c-word.

And one night when I was “in discussion” with one of my own children it happened to me---I too was called the c-word. And thankfully I recalled that I was not the only mother in the universe who had that word flung at her or my hands would have put my child in a choke hold. And as I stepped on my own anger I remembered what Bonnie had said: safety was driving her behavior. She was daring me to keep her safe—even in the face of her adolescent temper tantrum. She needed to know that I would still love her despite hurling evil verbage.

We hurt the ones we love because we feel safe enough to do so. It’s a back-handed compliment.

And that is what good mothering is all about—sifting through the words to find the real meaning—putting your own emotion outside the door to make room for your child’s emotion inside the room. It’s about saying everything and saying nothing---listening and not reacting. It’s about being a steel magnolia—knowing when to be soft and when to be unbending.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the great women who keep their children safe and loved. You are all the c-word: courageous, commendable, complete---and most of all: cherished by those who love you.

Not Looking Your Age

When my children were growing up, in every class, there was a child or two whose physical appearance exceeded their chronological age--they looked much older than their peers. And because there was a gap between expecatation and reality people expected that their behavior match the more advanced number. There was a tendency to think these children behaved immaturely when that was not the case. These children indeed acted their age—they just seemed immature because they physically looked older.

And when these children became teenagers they profited from the fact that they looked older. They escaped the blue light at the entrance to the bar. They enjoyed adult behavior before their time.

My mother is always well dressed—on trend. Her hair is perfectly colored and coiffed youthfully. She is blessed with good skintone—she has few lines on her face. Her make-up is flawless. And despite a nagging knee and back, she walks with a healthy gait. Her arthritis in her feet does not warrant the wearing of unfashionable shoes. Her mind is sharp. People tell her on a routine basis You look wonderful for your age. Her number in years does not match her appearance. At age 81 she looks at least 10 to 15 years younger.  

But she is not.

And sometimes when she speaks and acts like an 81 year old woman I am annoyed. I must remind myself that just because she does not have gray hair, wrinkles and black orthopedic shoes—she is indeed old. She is entitled to behave like an old person—because she is. I must force myself to look beyond her physical appearance. I must force myself to take a breath and think that one day I too will be her age.

But if genetics in on my side, and I get brave enough for the botox and fillers I will not look my age either---I too will look younger than my years. And that will be a comfort. Better to look 65 and be 81 than to look 81 and be 65. Better to look 21 and be 18 than to look 18 and be 21. No matter which end you are at the age spectrum, not looking your age has its benefits.

Body Dysmorphic Disease (BDD)

Body Dysmorphic disease (BDD) is a somatoform disorder. Person plagued with the condition have a distorted view of some aspect of their physical appearance. It is what makes an anorexic believe that they are fat—the body image relected back at them in the mirror is incongruent with reality. They do not see what the world sees. And it is a complex disease---potentially fatal depending on the physical obsession. A distorted body image has emotional and physiological consequences on persons outside of the diseased as well ---it can tear families apart. Onlookers can feel the pain of the disorder.

And it occurred to me recently that BDD is pervasive. Many more people suffer from it than are diagnosed. It occurred to me that BDD can take a sub-form. That is why I see so many people walking around the mall and think---did they look in the mirror before they left the house this morning? And if they did what did they think they saw---a good-looking well-dressed svelte person? Because I am pretty sure that if those people saw in the mirror what I routinely see—too tight clothing with fat gobs hanging over their jeans, big 1980’s hair and makeup that would horrify a drag queen---they would never have left the house. Somehow the reflection they see in the mirror is a complete distortion of reality. They think they look awesome. Clearly they too must have BDD.

And some celebrities also suffer from this form of BDD. I suspect Christina Aquilera has it. On The Voice Monday night her dress was so tight even the triple spanx could not contain her girth. And the rolls hanging over her sequin straps on her back looked like Italian sausage tied up with string. The bleach blond hair and caterpillar eyelashes were gruesome. And the boobs?---butts have better cleavage. Her perceived mirror reflection before taking the stage most definitely was distorted. Christina Aquilera looked in the mirror and viewed the perky young 17 year old girl singing Genie In the Bottle that she once was—not a frightful hag.

So just as there is such a thing as healthy tension and healthy competition, I believe that there is such a thing as healthy BDD. Healthy BDD is what keeps people with slightly wide hips from wearing sheaths. It’s what keeps not-so-thunder-thighed women from wearing jeggings.  It keeps me from wearing halter tops without steel reinforced built in support and my mother from wearing sleeveless tank tops.  Healthy BDD enables people to see their flaws in a slightly exaggerated state---and that slightly skewed vision makes the world a prettier place. And pretty isn’t such a bad thing to be. It keeps onlookers from feeling the pain of the disorder.

The School Budget Vote

It is precisely because of a rudimentary understanding of spreadsheets and finance that I accepted the PTA’s First Vice-president for (School) Budget board position. While I well understood the instructional and curricular aspects of education, I wanted to learn how dollars and cents factored into its realization. I also believed that my desire to overcome my deficit in budgetary knowledge combined with my writing skills would inspire me to present information to the public that was simplistic and user friendly. And because the job was so tedious and time intensive---one studies the school budget line by line-I immersed myself.

Next Tuesday--May 15-- is the school budget vote. I am not casting my ballot this year. It has nothing to do with apathy. While I no longer have children in the schools I still believe in every child’s right to the best educational practices. And my beliefs are not confined by a budgetary cap--in fact I would be willing to spend more tax dollars if it included (first and foremost) trimming the excessive administrative personnel, adding more teaching staff, restoring lost programs, and beefing up existing ones.

I am not voting because I have surrendered---neither a “yes” or “no” vote validates my educational stance. A “yes” vote affirms that this budget offers the best educational opportunity for students---I do not believe this is so. Neither will I vote “yes” because the school district is hanging a contingency budget over my head—like an albatross--a perennial bullying tactic. In fact I believe that under a different (i.e. educationally conscious) administration a contingency budget would be a strategic way for the district to reinvent itself and come out the other side leaner and more focused—but based on precedence this will not happen. And so voting “no” will send no message to the BOE about my discontent either.

My vote is best left at home.

And despite the unheralded intensive work involved in dissecting the school budget line by line, my dividend exceeded expectation. I learned a great deal. I spun my fear into challenge and challenge into success. And in particular, my copious notes and detailed review was noticed by someone who now sits on the BOE who took the PTA budget position after I---a person I regard as having extreme integrity---a person with whom I happy to agree to disagree with as we do not necessarily see eye to eye. And she called me and said you know, you did a really good job as vice president---your notes have made my work easier---and I was wondering may I reuse your words? And I said yes. And I felt good.

Sometimes one tiny accolade can make all your efforts completely worthwhile—especially when it comes from someone who does not necessarily share your agenda. And sometimes abstaining makes your vote more vocal-- even more so than if you had pulled the lever---and especially when you write a blog.

Cinco de Mayo?

I am not Irish. Neither is my husband. On Saint Patrick ’s Day this year my husband and I went to Ivarrone’s Trattoria where I enjoyed a traditional dinner for the feast of San Giuseppe: pasta con sarde, pesce di San Pietro, and zeppole and sfinge.

I believe March 17^th is  a celebration for the Irish.

My children on the other hand felt no need to be Irish on Saint Patrick’s Day. Their ItaIian descent does not preclude them from enjoying green beer and Jameson. They feel very much at home partying with their Irish and not-so-Irish friends---of which they have many.

My children have no Mexican friends. In fact they have very few Hispanic friends if any at all. Their closest encounter with Mexican ethnicity is salsa from Kings and (in Kara’s case) the Taqueria del Sol in Decatur, Georgia. Yet Cinco de Mayo is a well-planned event—a monumental holiday—a cause for unabandoned frivolity. Jose Cuevo is the star Mexican celebrity.

I am not sure when this happened (I do not recall getting a memo) but just like everyone is Irish on Saint Patrick ’s Day, somehow everyone is now Mexican on Cinco de Mayo. May 5^th is the new March 17^th.

I have a hunch that pretty soon everyone will be celebrating May 9^th—Victory Day in Russia—Smirnoff, Stolinaya and potato pancakes for all.

As long as there is an ethnicity, a named holiday, and some alcohol, it’s a party.

Dear Family.....

Dear Family,

I accept the fact that I have a tendency to downplay the severity of my illness when I am sick. It is something that women do—we feel the need to protect our loved ones--we do not want them to worry. And we also would like to think that we are invincible—even when we are not.

But you are all well-educated humans. You have five senses that enable you to process information. And you have knowledge of even the most basic medical terminology or access to WebMD.com. So despite the fact that I may deny the extent of my immediate condition, I find it odd that you have not noticed that my pallor is more ashen than a vampire before a feed. I wonder how you could not have observed that my excessive coughing warrants the use of an inhaler or that I tire just from walking from the kitchen to the family room. The scent of Vicks vapo-rub and the 5 prescription drugs (some with orange labels) on the countertop is an obvious sign that my health is not commensurate with the living.

Even Cosmo (the dog) has noticed the change   in my activity level. He curls up next to me on the couch and does not expect me to play red ball with him.

And while I appreciate the fact that one of you brought the overflowing basket of laundry down to the laundry room and placed it in front of the washing machine, I am puzzled how it never occurred to you that the dirty clothes cannot jump into the machine all by themselves, measure and pour its own Tide, and turn the button from stop to start. It bothers me just a little tiny bit that just this one time you could not have remembered to make your beds or put your dirty dishes in the dishwasher. And the coffee stains (in front of the 5 prescription medications) on the countertop might have enjoyed just a quick wipedown.

And so, since it is clear that you too must be in denial about how crappy I must feel since your sensory perception is seemingly failing you, I am going to state the obvious: I need a little help around here. And you being proactive about it would not only do wonders  to improve my emotionally agitated state, but it would create a living environment acceptable to people other than hoarders.

It is my sincere wish that I will recover soon in which time you can resume your slovenly ways. I thank you for your attention in this matter.

Love Always,

Mom

Crops and Weeds

In General Biology I learned that the term pest and weed were generic terms—not scientific ones. Humans use those terms to connote any living thing that interferes with expectation. No one living in the United States would consider an elephant a pest, but if you were a poor farmer in Africa and the elephants decimated your farmland, you would. Likewise the mold one eats in blue cheese is a tasty delight but not when the blue mold is growing on your Wonder bread--then it is cause for disposal. Dandelions are only a weed to lawn care specialists but not to the farmer who grows them specifically to put in salads. To farmers, they are a cash crop.

I find gardening to be a chore. I do not enjoy it although I most definitely appreciate a well-manicured landscape. My vegetable garden—loosely described-- is a tiny patch of land hidden from view behind my arborvitae screen next to my driveway, near my gas grill.

I plant a few grape tomatoes, basil, oregano, rosemary and parsley in this sunny sliver of earth. All its inhabitants die over the winter and so I replant a new crop every spring.

Except this year. The abnormally warm winter has caused a shift. Not everything got killed off.

My little garden patch is completely overpopulated with parsley. There is parsley everywhere. And it even reseeded itself in the cracks of my brickwork and on the other side of the aborvite where the herb invader  lethally choked my flowering perrenials.

I now must yank the unwanted fronds. I must replant perennials. There is way too much parsley to be considered a crop.  An innocuous botanical species has crossed over to the dark side--my parsley  has officially become a weed.