Eating Rabbit Food

For as many years (22 +) as I have been a member of Weight Watchers their program has allowed the unlimited eating of vegetables—they are considered a “free food.”

And very recently a good friend of mine said to her significant other in utter disappointment I have been eating carrots and celery all week and I still haven’t lost any weight!

To which the significant other replied Have you ever seen a rabbit that did not have a fat ass?

Excellent point.

I wonder if Weight Watchers has ever considered this?

Favorite Toys and Childhood Dreams

“Tiger” was my favorite stuffed animal. His eyes glowed in the dark. He also was my smartest student. When I would play school and line up all my animals in front of my chalkboard he would always answer all my questions correctly. He was the only stuffed animal that received a 100% on every math or spelling test I devised.

He was the teacher’s pet.

If you asked me as a child what I wanted to be when I grew up I would have said a teacher or an actress. I could never decide which profession was better. All I knew was I loved standing on stage at Emerson elementary school playing Miss Henny Penny while the crowd cheered. And I also rejoiced in chalk, erasers and teacher’s edition reading books that my father brought home for me from the Yonkers Public Schools.

But it wasn’t until 12^th grade when I volunteered to work with Father Hickey teaching CCD to 7^th graders that I received some real hands-on pedagogic experience. I discovered that  standing in front of a bunch of well-behaved stuffed animals who hung on every word you said was way more fun than standing in front of living breathing pubescents. Thirteen year old boys and girls were positively obnoxious. And even the most attentive students were not so engaged in the activity to make the experience fruitful—either for them or for me.

I always felt sorry for Father Hickey who despite trying very hard to be patient and get God’s message across failed every time. It would have driven any man to drink—which is precisely what happened—Father Hickey ended up in rehab.

So I never became a classroom teacher. I knew that I could never feign concern over students I did not like very much---I did not have the fortitude. And to be a good teacher one must attend to every student—even the annoying ones.

But over the course of the years I did get to enjoy my love of the stage. In 8^th grade I played Mrs. MacAfee in an abbreviated version of Bye Bye Birdie--I sang a solo with Jackie Degnan. In high school I had a lead part in a play called “For Women Only.” And when I became involved in PTA acting took on another form-- running PTA meetings or speaking in front of the Board of Education. On any stage I enjoyed the rush of “all eyes on me.” I found delight in captivating my audience. I felt omnipotent—especially when I could feel the crowd in agreement with my words—they nodded their heads gently.

And I chose Kara to be the keeper of my most treasured childhood toy. “Tiger” sits regally  in her room on top of her desk. Over fifty years later most of Tiger’s fur still remains-- although his right ear is a bit thread bare. And his eyes still glow in the dark---an indication his vision is still sharp. His physical presence reminds me that for every teacher, a favorite star student remains in the heart forever—it’s what keeps teachers teaching---- the quintessential Academy award for every classroom warrior.

Lennie (The Drycleaner Delivery Man)

When I first left my children home alone, I would always tell them do not answer the door. And then I would add do not even go to the door—keep quiet so no one knows you are home.

One of the best things about living in Garden City, particularly when my children were babies, was that every business in town delivered. One could be a complete agoraphobe—there was never a need to leave the house. My diapers and formula were delivered by Chateau Pharmacy. My food was delivered by The Food Basket. My wine came from Madigans. And my dry cleaning was picked up and delivered by Bestever’s which later sold to Adelphi Cleaners.

Life was good—convenient. The bell rang and the delivery men were at my service. All of them were nice but one in particular was just a little too nice—to the point of abject irritation.

    

Lennie was a man of short stature and build. He did not know the line between casual interest and nosiness. If he were female he would have been called a yenta---or maybe better yet: a menta.

So when the bell rang with the dry cleaning I was faced with two dilemmas—shutting Lennie up and keeping Jasper (my not-so-friendly Wheaten terrier) from tearing him apart from limb to limb. At no point did Lennie ever get the hint that I did not want to chat it up with him or that my dog had channeled Cujo.

It got to the point that I would lock the door, shut the lights and duck below my kitchen countertops so I could pretend that I wasn’t home when he arrived.

This went on for several years. I was a prisoner in my own home.

But certainly not soon enough, it occurred to me that maybe I should use a different drycleaner. This was silly. Grown women should not be hiding from little Jewish delivery men who talked too much. There were other drycleaners who were more than capable of both cleaning my clothing, delivering it,  and keeping quiet. 

   

So finally Lenny was gone---along with the badgering dentist. I fired both of them on the same day.
  

And now if I leave my children home alone, despite the fact that they are old enough to answer the door they chose not to do so—they know whomever is at the door isn’t there for them. They would have gotten a phone call or text message first.

And the new drycleaner delivery man is sometimes Korean and sometimes Hispanic—it depends on the delivery cycle. But neither man speaks English very well—and it’s good.  They just nod and say thank you. And that is exactly the way I like it.

Evolving Traditions

My mother is a lover of books. She read to me every day from a blue hard cover anthology of nursery rhymes and fairy tales. It is where I learned about Jack Sprat and Little Miss Muffet. I imagined what a gingerbread house might look like or a wolf dressed in a granny’s nightgown. I wondered why Snow White was so desperately needy.

When I was little there was no real children’s literature. The Brothers Grimm were the gold standard.

But by the time my own children were born there were high quality contemporary children’s books everywhere—even at Cosco. My children learned quiet lessons from the hungry caterpillar and Alexander’s very bad day. We bore anxiety over the wild things. We learned the perils of taking too much from the giving tree. We said Good night Moon!

And on Father’s day this year while we (my husband, my three daughters, one of their boyfriends and myself) were enjoying a glass of chianti on the patio, someone brought up the fate of Tikki Tikki Tembo-no Sa Rembo-chari Bari Ruchi-pip Peri Pembo—a character from a prized children’s book. And my three girls and the boyfriend went into a full on analysis of the story—way more rigorous than my book group would ever delve into.

They concluded that message of the book was that family traditions need to adapt to a changing world. It’s why poor Tikki Tikki Tembo nearly drowned and barely recovered from his fall into the well—his elders had mindlessly perpetuated rules imposed by previous generations. The old ways may not be best.

And at that moment two things occurred to me—the first and lesser of which was that these four twenty-something year olds understood a profound message from a book none of them had read since they were about five or six years old. But the second and more meaningful thought was that  I had understood their concluded message way before I had ever read the story—I had adapted family traditions in the face of a changing world. I read to my children as my mother had done for me, but I had  abandoned the nursery rhymes and fairy tales and replaced them with contemporary works—ones that were not just more easily understood by children, but had a better, more lasting message.

Because children’s books are no longer just for children anymore.

And in the new movie The Huntsmen the screenwriters finally give Snow White a much needed makeover. They recognized that society has evolved and hence the storyline must adapt and progress too. No one finds a helpless dependent woman attractive anymore.  In today’s world a man’s kiss isn’t the sole solution to a lost woman’s problems—it’s merely encouragement for a woman to actualize her own potential.  And Snow White can defeat the queen herself and lead her own army to get her kingdom back. She has evolved.

Unencumbered vs. Unfiltered Thoughts

A very good friend of mine did not grow up in New York or any of its suburbs. As a consequence she approaches life pragmatically—and more simply.

I like that.

And not too long ago when I was with her at lunch she suggested a solution to my life’s complaints. Her solution was invaluable.

And when I got home I emailed her to thank her for lunch and I added something to the effect that I well appreciated her always unencumbered view on things.

But when I saw her again she asked with concern what I had meant—she wondered: did mean to say unfiltered? Because speaking without  a filter is something she feared she may do on occasion.

And I said no---there is a difference between unfiltered and unencumbered thoughts. An unfiltered thought is a knee jerk response that escapes the brain’s sensory system—there is no self-governing FCC at work. Unfiltered thoughts are uncaring to the consequences (usually negative) of the spoken words. Unfiltered thoughts are abrasive and often hurtful.

But unencumbered thoughts involve deductive reasoning—they are thoughts which are not distracted by inconsequential data. Unencumbered thoughts get to the heart of the matter with no ill feelings—they are reason-dependent yet never offensive.

And I gave an example. I reminded her that when she had returned from Lehigh with her son after a college visit I asked her what the area was like surrounding the university. Her answer was Southside Bethlehem reflects the economic downturn of the steel industry. It was a completely unencumbered response. But if she would have said Southside Bethlehem is a sh**hole, it would have been an example of an unfiltered thought.

And even though both descriptions of Bethlehem would have projected the town as poverty stricken—the unencumbered view was much more informational and was in no way offensive. The unfiltered view of the town—not so much.

Which is why speaking unencumbered thoughts is something I aspire to. So when a daughter of mine asks me in the dressing room how do I look in this? I will often say the nature of the fabric and cut of that dress gives unflattering lines. And my daughter will then say with annoyance Are you saying my ass looks big?

Sometimes even when you speak unencumbered thoughts they are heard with unfiltered ears.

Even Smart Kids Cheat

I knew someone in high school that would take a $.19 Bic pen, remove the blue or black plastic plug at the end, and insert a small piece of paper as a cheat sheet. To my knowledge they never got caught. They also received really good grades.

And period seven was the beneficiary of being the last class of five tested by Mr. Santemeyer. Mr. Santemeyer, the American history teacher at my high school, issued all his classes the same multiple choice exam. By the last section of the day all the answers had been smuggled out. He must have thought period seven was intellectually gifted. 

    

Sister Julia, as well as Ms. Sterzenback had students switch papers with each other to correct quizzes. No one ever received a poor grade.

When the proctor of my Algebra regents put everyone on their honor so she could make a quick trip down to the office, all hell broke loose in the classroom in her absence. There was no honor. The only code respected was the code of silence---say nothing and reap your reward.

No one thought well-behaved privately schooled Catholic girls from good families would ever cheat. But they did—and without remorse. If teachers were foolish enough to leave chinks in the armor, resourceful students were going to find them.

In college, cheating took on a whole new level—particularly with the super bright slacker engineering students. They knew how to program calculators that were not quite yet designed to be programmable. It was the cusp of the computer age. Technology was an added method to the tried and true answers and formulas written on sleeve-covered arms.

When my one of my daughters was in high school there was a cheating scandal. AP students had texted    answers to other AP students---a fee was involved.  And the whole allowance of cell phones in classrooms debate got resurrected again. People thought that cell phones bore the onus of the cheating. People thought that if cell phones were forbidden, cheating would cease.

I shook my head. I knew better. It’s not the arrow—it’s the Indian.

It is my genuine belief that there is no more cheating in this generation than there was with mine---the tools are just different. If you do not want students to cheat then you must fingerprint them before each exam and have them sit naked in a one-person furniture-less wireless lead-lined classroom painted white with a single issued pencil. And even in that scenario I am certain some students will find the chink.

Because even smart kids cheat—and in my experience they are the ones most skilled at it---and they rarely get caught.

Word Pronunciation

My husband and I went to out to dinner last Saturday night. Our server was new—we were her first customers. And she was quite enthusiastic—eager to please—very congenial. After fetching our drinks she reeled off the chef’s specials. And she was doing a diligent job—specifying the type: fish or pasta etc and how it was prepared.

One special caught my ear—not just because it was veal (one of my favorites) but because of her word choice: pan seared veal scappolini with…... But I was completely distracted by the word scappolini—I had never heard  that word before. I thought hmm maybe the “scap” part of the word referred to the scapula—the shoulder region of the veal. And maybe the “lini” part of the word meant little or tender. I guessed that veal scappolini was a tender cut of veal from the shoulder. It seemed plausible---my etymology seemed logical.

So I ordered the veal special—which prompted the waitress to say good choice—the scappolini is very good tonight.

But I still remained a bit skeptical about the whole scappolini business. Something did not seem right.

And when my entree was served the mystery was solved. The veal special was scallopine. The waitress had no idea how to pronounce the word correctly. She may have been sweet—but she was not too bright.

But the story isn’t over.

The next day when I took my tin of leftovers out of the brown bag I noticed that the waitress had written the name of the entrée on the paper lid—it said veal scapolini. So not only did she get the pronunciation wrong, but if scappolini was an actual word, it would have had   2 “p”s in it—she got the spelling of an incorrect word, incorrect also.

And I was reminded of a thank you note I once read—it was written by someone I did not know. The recipient had saved it for me to read—she was testing my deciphering ability. The note said (in reference to her and her then boyfriend) Use too are some of my favorite people.

I had no idea what the person was trying to say. And the recipient said listen to it phonetically with a heavy Bronx accent and you will understand.

I totally got it. You (plural with an “s” at the end) two are some of my favorite people.

Dina Cortese (from the Jersey shore) was quoted as saying Hestatic is when you're super happy and like really happy.

I think she meant ecstatic.

 Some people really are that dumb---and seemingly that happy—hestatically so. 

A Wine Bar?

One of the reasons I purchased the house that I am in is because it had a genuine third floor---not a room or two carved out of some attic space. It has a real staircase and real bedrooms with windows. It also has a full bathroom.

And for much of the time since we have owned this property my eldest daughter occupied the uppermost level--she started with the smaller of the two bedrooms and then slowly expanded her crap outward until both bedrooms were hers.

But she no longer lives here. So when we ripped out the bathroom it snowballed into a complete third floor renovation. No space was left untouched.

And since the goal was to create guest rooms/sitting areas with all the comforts of a suite hotel I allowed my imagination carry me away.

So in the hallway that leads to the two bedrooms I created a wine bar—stools and all. Now that my children are all over 21 it seemed like a more useful use of area when their guests paid a visit. But when I mentioned my idea to a few people I got a whole lot of Huh? A wine bar? Why? Who is going to sit up on the third floor to have a glass of wine? That’s weird. And because I didn’t feel like being confrontational I just said I don’t know it just sounds like a fun decorating idea.

But what I wanted to say is this—the wine bar is replacing the space formerly occupied by my great grandmother’s Singer sewing machine---the non-electric kind powered with your foot. When was the last time anyone used that? 1919? And what is the difference between a wine bar or any other piece of artwork or furniture I might put there—isn’t the bar is just as aesthetically pleasing as hanging a canvas painting or placing a console table? No one uses a painting or a console table—it is purely decorative. So likewise even if no one ever enjoys a glass of wine at the wine bar its function (or lack thereof) isn’t any different than a large piece of sculpture.

In fact aren’t all pieces of decorative art essentially purposeless?

And now that the third floor project is complete I can’t help but think that if I put my house on the market tomorrow, the buyer would find the third floor to be so appealing they would pull out their checkbook on the spot—I believe it is that awesome. I believe it is that irresistible—not that I plan on moving anytime soon. I want to enjoy the fruits of my labor for a while---and I also need to hang out at the wine bar first.

Chardonnay anyone?

Insult or Compliment?

A woman who might have been described as the b-word who played in my indoor tennis group once told me You play tennis quite well from no-man’s-land.

I didn’t know how to respond. I knew enough tennis strategy to know that no-man’s-land—the area mid-way between the service line and the back line of the court—was forbidden territory. No good tennis player stood there. But the woman also stated that I had skill—I had skill when I stood in the wrong spot. I couldn’t figure out whether it was a compliment or an insult.

When my youngest daughter was about 9 or 10 years old she won the club championship in her age bracket. It was an honor. She had talent. Her trophy was awarded at a ceremony which included all the adults—male and female—who had also won their division.

It was a big deal.

And when Kara’s name was announced, a woman who sat a few tables in front of me, who was a multiple time winner of the women’s championship, and the champion again that year, turned around and incredulously said to me I had no idea and then promptly turned back around again.

And it threw me. Instead of basking in the glory of my daughter’s win I instead felt dumbfounded—what was that comment supposed to mean? What didn’t she have an “idea” about? Was it Oh my goodness I had no idea-- what a delightful surprise? Or was it that because of her stature and reputation she felt slighted that no one had informed her of this news ahead of time?—in other words it was something she should have been told. Or was it more insidious—was she in disbelief that I, of so little athletic prowess could produce a child worthy of a trophy? How dare my gene pool rearrange itself to create a winning golfer?

It was a mystery. Because congratulations or good job would have been the best response to the announcement of my daughter’s name--more socially appropriate for the occasion. But that is not what she said—and all these years later, I am still wondering—was it a compliment or an insult?

I will never know.

But I have learned a new word for it from Z-100—it’s called a complisult—a dialectical word. It is any comment in which a compliment and an insult co-exist. Its intent is to create ambiguity—confusion. It is double barreled. Receivers of the complisult are rendered speechless because responding Thank you does not adequately address the comment. In fact some might say in a different cultural setting the correct response would be F-you. But responding F-you is not good country club etiquette. F-you is just a bit too ghetto.

And the woman who complimented my play in no-man’s-land shortly found herself in the middle of a contentious divorce. Apparently for about 20 years or so she threw lots of complisults at her husband. And his response was a big F-you in the pocketbook.

 No more tennis for her.

Monetizing (or not)

A best friend of mine was thinking about getting a dog and she went online to scope out available puppies. She came across a designer breed—half sheepdog and half standard poodle. She fell in love with a particular puppy but did not leave a deposit with the breeder right away---she just made an inquiry instead. She was being complacent about the process—non committal—she wasn’t sure she was making the right move. But when she went to dinner at the Chinese restaurant later that evening she received a fortune cookie which said Pursue your heart’s desires aggressively.

For a year now I having been writing my blog and wondering what to do with it---monetize it or not. Many of my friends believe my words are worth money---and I should not be giving my thoughts away for free. They have encouraged me to be entrepreneurial. But by not monetizing my blog I feel completely in control—I completely own not just my words but the space on my website. I like that—it means that if I decide to do something else with it down the road the only legal attachment I have is to myself--even though there is not any foreseeable “something else” I have specifically in mind to be legally concerned about.

Yet because I have accomplished an entire year of writing without making any kind of decision, I thought maybe I should stop overthinking the monetization thing—I should just allow Google to place their advertisements on my page and let whatever happens happen. The likelihood that I will be “discovered” and become a real writer is pretty slim. I may be lucky just to attract a solitary advertiser. And I was in the process of setting the monetization up when I heard a familiar sound—it was the click of a new email in my AOL mailbox.

It distracted me.

So I redirected myself to AOL and saw that my daily horoscope had arrived. And even though my horoscope is not something I read with regularity, I chose to read it anyway.

It said:

Tuesday, Jun 12th, 2012 -- Although you're receiving sufficient support to go ahead with your project now, moving too fast only creates problems. Your friends and associates may be enthusiastic about your plans, encouraging you along your way. However, if you bolt ahead too quickly, you could actually end up at the wrong destination. Even if you're eager to move forward today, taking your time pays off in ways you cannot yet imagine.

I took it as a sign that today wasn’t the day to monetize my blog. The universe was giving me more than a whisper on the topic—its opinion was as loud as a drunken quarrel between two Jersey Shore girls over a Guido.

So I signed out of the link.

And my girlfriend understood the message of her fortune cookie to mean that that puppy was meant to be hers. And when she got home, she made an electronic deposit for her heart’s desire.

And Petey, the one blued-eyed one brown-eyed sheep-doodle is her best canine companion—a total delight.

Sometimes the universe communicates with you in the oddest ways. Which is why I will wait and see what the universe has in store for my blog. Maybe my writing is to take a path  in “ways I cannot imagine yet.” 

If Mama Ain't Happy.....

When my oldest daughter was born I received a gift—it was a framed country style needle-stitched work that said If mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy. And I think that that philosophy was true in the generation preceding mine. Mothers set the emotional tone of the household. When mothers were stressed or discontent, a chill ensued. The children backed off—they kept quiet and tolerated the storm. In the generation before mine, mothers ruled their motherly world.

My generation chose a different path. We understood the gravitas of parental engagement. We chose to deal with emotions and things therapeutically. We invested ourselves in our children’s lives and emotions to a much greater extent that our own parents ever did. No topic was taboo. We allowed our children to be their own person and to be critical thinkers. We urged our progeny to share their thoughts. We encouraged them to voice their opinions.

And as parents to these “filled with self-esteem” free-thinking children, we put our own emotions and needs secondary to theirs. Their needs were always first. We were the don’t ask what your children can do for you, ask what you can do for your children generation. We concerned ourselves at all times with their state of well-being. We cheered them on during every crisis. We anticipated negative responses and worked tirelessly to maintain contentment.

We created a world where if the chil’ren ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.

And that would be fine except it means my generation has never been allowed to be unhappy--ever. Our mothers never let us be unhappy and neither do our children. We have screwed ourselves. All our lives we have had to back off,  keep quiet and tolerate the storm. In our world, If mama ain’t happy, nobody  cares. We have lost our entitlement.

Which is why when my mother tells me What you do for me your children will do you I laugh out loud every time. My Mama don’t know nothin’. I will rot in the nursing home without a single visitor—and the only comfort I will have is all my friends will be lying in the beds next to me—and they won’t have a single visitor either.

And when that time comes I will say: if Grandma ain’t happy, she can call the nurse’s aide.

Dorm Room Decorating

Moving my eldest daughter into her dorm room freshman year was wrought with emotion. We all were new to the process. We had spent the entire summer preparing---we checked everything off of the campus to-do-list at Bed Bath and Beyond. And I had considered myself adept at that point in time at decorating. I had decorated and redecorated numerous rooms at my house. I had confidence—that is until I stepped foot into her dorm room. Not only was the space small but as it was a prized corner room it had two oversized double windows—very little wall space--and all the oversized furniture was  piled in the center. I was clueless how to set the room up—there was no natural place to put everything.

And her roommate’s family was also clueless. So we sent the girls out on a fact-finding mission. They were to spy on the other inhabitants of the corner rooms above and below them to see how they arranged their rooms. They came back with a plan--to center the armoire partially obscuring a window. Then one bed lay alongside one window while the other bed was placed on the solitary long wall. In doing so we managed to efficiently place the desks, mini-fridge and microwave. We elevated things that could be elevated. And when were done I was surprised how everything not only fit, but looked great—all the while defying everyday standards of decorating.

And since that day I learned to abandon the rules of furniture placement. I no longer view a room and think oh the bed belongs here and the dresser belongs there. I have discarded the word “belong”. Things only “belong” where my imagination puts them. Nothing I do now is cookie cutter. There are no more rules. All the beds in my house are now on the “wrong” wall as well as often in the “wrong” direction. It has created more space and allowed for things like couches and coffee bars and snack stations. I realized that every bedroom should be a suite—no matter what the size. All bedrooms should have the basic comforts of a college dorm room.

Bedrooms are the kick-start to your day and a place of solace. Bedrooms are more than a bed.

So while my daughters learned facts and critical thinking in their college classrooms, I learned practical decorating arts from their dorm rooms. They got an education and so did I. And it’s only right--their tuition was expensive enough---I should have gotten a little something out of it besides debt.

My One-Year Anniversary

The Wizard of Oz always terrified me. I feared the flying monkeys and of course, the wicked witch. I was also disturbed that Dorothy was “stuck”—and despite asking her friends for help—they were unable to direct her home.

Inspired by Oprah, and in the midst of an existential wondering, I began my blog exactly one year ago today. I was searching for my passion. I was uncertain that I had one. And so I chose to write. I have always had lots of thoughts floating around in my brain and not enough shelf space to store all of them.

My writing came naturally.

And in the course of streaming my thoughts on to the page, I realized that I “knew” things. My perspective rubbed people—either intellectually, spiritually or humorously. Releasing my thoughts has opened the window for a few and broken glass for still fewer.  Disgorging personal convictions has freed me and allowed others to release what they thought were solitary emotions

.

In the tiniest of ways, in the microcosm of Karenland, I have humbly become much of what I secretly aspired to be--an “Oprah,” a “Socrates,” a “Jerry Seinfeld.”

And I have learned a few things about “passions.” Money is not the catalyst. I have earned no money from by blog yet I feel well-paid. And more importantly I understand that “passions” are not necessarily lifelong commitments. A day will come when I will no longer feel the need to write. And when that day comes—it will be okay. All things have a beginning and an ending.

And while I feared a year ago that I had no passion nor had I ever had one, that is not true at all. I have had passions all my life---religion, education, interpersonal relationships, athletics---even my pets. All are topics I write about with frequency. They are what fuel me.

And like Dorothy discovering that the path home has been inside her all along, I too have discovered that my passion has been inside of me all along. I just didn’t know it. All passions live inside of you—not outside of you. It is why no one but you can direct your path. You are your own garden. Only you can reap what you sow.

For Dorothy home was as simple as clicking her ruby red heels. And for me my passion was and is as easy as clicking a black keyboard. And maybe for you it might possibly be, as simple as clicking on a blog post every day.

Word Elevation

I used to call jeans dungarees. I even had a pair in 1972 that had the word printed up the sides of the bell bottoms. My mother bought them for me at John Wanamakers---a high end department store in the Cross County shopping center in Yonkers.

Until I was about 30 years old I called pasta macaroni. The only time I use the word macaroni now is when I refer to it with cheese.

Janitors are now called custodians. And one does not study secretarial science anymore-- one studies office technology---the object is to become an office assistant—not a secretary.

Language evolves. Very often it has to do with elevating the meaning of a word. Or, as in the case of custodians, it is done to make a job sound less demeaning—and to dignify the person performing the task.

When “I’ll Have Another” was scratched the other day from the Belmont stakes there was a lot of press—it was all over the television news. And I was half listening when a phrase that I had never heard of before made its way through all the chatter to my ears. The phrase was equine athlete. I heard something about the prognosis of equine athletes with tendonitis. I wondered What’s an equine athlete? So my brain deconstructed the words and thought Seriously? Are they referring to a race horse? Does a horse need their job to sound less demeaning? Does a horse need to dignify its profession? Have we taken word elevation a bit too far?

Will seeing eye dogs demand to be called visual assistants? or will circus elephants refer to themselves as itinerant proboscidean performers?

C’mon people.

This morning on the news there was much ado about a graduation speech given by a high school English teacher in Massachusetts. His message was You are not that special. He wanted to convey to the graduates that success in life is not about job titles or catered events paid for by their Mommies. Success is earned by performance, not adjectives. No one is special or unique or talented until they make it active.

Which is why I am comfortable calling myself a housewife—even though the more elevated term might be household manager (and for an hour a day--amateur writer).

Innocence vs. Ugliness

My locker-mate in high school  was a sweet sweet girl. She was tall and slightly full figured-- not fat. The girl had untamed flaming red curly hair and freckles. She also had a full uni-brow and an auburn downy mustachio.

She was forbidden to shave her legs, or to wear make-up or fashionable clothing. Her mother’s intent was to keep her daughter innocent.

What her mother did in fact was, to keep her ugly.

And because this sweet girl was so physically unsightly, she became an object of ridicule. Her classmates teased her incessantly. They called her not-so-nice names.

It was very sad.

Her mother may have been successful in keeping the boys away but she kept everyone else away as well. The damage to her daughter’s ego was irreparable---too big a price to pay. Her mother made her daughter a target—it was akin in my world to child abuse. Because had the girl been allowed to groom herself by straightening her hair, tweezing her eyebrows, waxing her upper lip and wearing just a touch of blush and mascara she would have been of more than average looks--- and just as importantly, blended in with her peers—and not in any way over-sexualized as feared by her mother.

There is such a thing as age-appropriate grooming. And I believe it is a mother’s duty to institute and oversee it. It is a mother’s duty to teach her daughter the importance of maintaining a certain level of physical appearance if for no other reason it will give the child’s classmates less to talk about.

In a perfect world young girls would not be made fun of for uni-brows, mustaches and hairy legs—but we do not live in a perfect world.

And in wasn’t too long ago that I sat in June Nail getting a manicure when  a mother came into the salon and began screaming at the owner for giving an eyebrow waxing to her 15 year old daughter without the mother’s permission. I knew the mother—she was ultra-conservative—Mormon-esque. And I knew the daughter too. The daughter was a nice kid—she was not looking to become a harlot—she was looking to appear more feminine.

And when the mother left the salon I reassured the owner that she had done nothing wrong---but rather had done a good thing---she had allowed a 15 year old girl feel better about herself.

Innocence does not necessitate ugliness. And neither does age-appropriate grooming render you “loose.” And understanding the difference is key to good parenting.

Bad Things/Good People

One of the most difficult things about being on the PTA executive board was prioritizing. The directors from the primary and elementary schools felt that the educational stakes in the lower grades were equal to or greater than those of the middle and high school. Board members who had children in the upper grades understood that recovering from a bad teacher in the third grade, while frustrating, was a quicker fix than recovering from a bad teacher in the 11^th grade. The consequences in the upper grades were more dire and much more complicated. There was a big difference between understanding fractions and understanding quadratic equations.

And the gap in dogma between board members extended to social issues as well. Board members who had no experience with the social pressures (particularly) in in the high school were quick to judge. They were certain that their experience with their children would be different than everybody else---they read all the right books---they engaged their children---they were invested in their extracurricular activities—they made inroads with all the right people. They held a winning hand. Not only would they never allow their child to do this or that, they were certain that their stellar parenting was an impermeable shield to every evil of adolescence—until they arrived and saw that their imagined idyllic destination was not so perfect. Sometimes despite doing everything right, lots of things went wrong. Goodness was no guarantee against badness. The formula was not as neat as if I do this, my kids will do that.

Sometimes discussions among board members grew contentious. There were two teams: those who knew everything and those who knew better.

And I think that is why people who believe themselves to be religious often meet disappointment. They think that because they attend church and put money in the basket and say their prayers and lead a righteous lifestyle that they are immune from bad things happening to them. So when bad things happen, they say why me? They believe religious devotion should yield immunity---as if life was a weekly challenge on a reality show.

They question why bad things happen to good people.

But the raw truth is that bad things may happen to all people—goodness is never a factor.

Humans may think but do not have all the information. That’s why they are not God.

And neither are parents--no matter how informed and well-read and how invested they are, things go awry. And the trick is to understand that while it is a good idea to stack the odds in your favor, it doesn’t guarantee victory---because that is what people who really know everything, really know for sure. 

Student Athletes Part II

Public parking lots have a set number of spaces. Yet despite the overall number, the prime spaces—the ones directly in front of the building’s entrance--are off limits to the general population. They are reserved with blue lines—handicapped only.  And if the white-lined spaces are full—even if the blue-lined spaces are unoccupied, I may not park there. They are held for drivers with special status. I do not have special status. I may compete only for white-lined spaces designated for the general population.

When my oldest daughter was a senior in high school, three girls that she sat side by side with in classes for nearly the entirety of her scholastic career were headed to the Ivy league—specifically Brown, Princeton, and Harvard. And when Newsday published the SAT scores of these three female athletes, my daughter and I were miffed. Their scores were equal to or less than hers, yet my daughter had no chance of acceptance at any these aforementioned schools. Somehow, I felt that those lacrosse girls had robbed my daughter of a seat at Brown or Princeton or Harvard.

But I was ignorant. I did not understand the process.

What I did not know then and what I know now is that at no point was my daughter ever in competition with those girls. When it comes to college admissions, there are a finite number of seats dedicated to collegiate athletic programs. Athletes compete for those seats only with athletes. My daughter was not in that pool of competition. She was in the pool with the scholars---her own separate division. She wasn’t competing with a kid destined for the lacrosse field, she was competing against scholars (non-athletes) from Syosset or Scarsdale or Horace Mann.

Athletes do not take seats away from scholars. Athletes take away seats from other athletes; scholars take away seats from other scholars.

And if the five designated blue lined spaces in a parking lot are occupied and a sixth vehicle with  special handicapped status shows up, they are not entitled to kick out the car parked in the blue and white lined space next to the handicapped spaces. That is not how the rules work. The sixth handicapped vehicle must wait until another handicapped vehicle relinquishes their space—then they can park.

And while it ires me to see able bodied drivers park in blue lined spaces because a doctor wrote them a note six months ago post-surgery, it’s the handicapped parking law that is flawed, not the person who has since recovered from knee replacement. Likewise, the college admissions system is flawed, not the athletes seated in the lecture hall next to the scholars.

The Queen's Jublilee

This week marked Queen Elizabeth’s diamond jublilee. Her highness has reigned for 60 years. The world press was in London covering the celebration. Good Morning America was there too--- which is the morning television broadcast I watch every morning.

GMA reported that the queen had enjoyed a musical performance featuring contemporary British artists Tuesday evening---it was the opening segment of their program on Wednesday morning. But either by accident or design Good Morning America showed a videotape of Elton John singing while the caption below read The Queen Rocks! I paused to think—which queen were they talking about? Elizabeth or Elton John?

Clearly both had rocked.

And most certainly both were queens for 60 years.

Internet Glitches

My father did not enjoy getting his hands dirty. He did not enjoy tinkering. He repelled household puttering. He hired an electrician to do the electrical work, a plumber to do the plumbing, and a landscaper to tend the yard. He did not waste Saturday afternoons washing his cars or giving them an oil change. He did not know which end of a spark plug was which. He believed that that was the point of being a well-educated man with a more than decent salary—hiring people to do that sort of labor.

My father believed professional things were best left to professionals—not amateurs. It’s how I was raised. Which is why there are lots of things either I do not know or care to know about---like troubleshooting computers. My computer is like my car---I start it up everyday and expect it to work. And if it doesn’t, I must find someone who can fix it. And in the case of the computer, other than restarting it, pulling the plug, or clicking elementary things, if error messages come up, I am in deep trouble.

For nearly a year I have been writing this blog. I set it up myself, mostly because it was not difficult to do. And every day I go to my website, sign in with a password, and I then have access to all the things I need to maintain it—like posting and editing and viewing statistics. It’s been easy. The only annoyance is that I cannot sign on to my blog from my aol account—I use internet explorer instead. I guessed that there was some control nonsense in aol that rendered the sign in process void.

But last Thursday I could not get into my blog even through internet explorer. And the worst part was because I couldn’t get to my account, I couldn’t get to the site that would allow me to troubleshoot it. So I kept changing my password thinking (with paranoia) that some person in Ghana was hacking into my blog account (because all hackers come from Ghana and want to steal my words). 

And for some inexplicable reason, the 3^rd password change allowed me in—but I still needed to refresh way too often and I still was getting this bX-74br-4 error intermittently—which even when I googled it gave me no information as to what bX-74br-4 error meant.

And this morning I was closed out again. And all the unplugging and elementary clicking did nothing. So I went on my laptop to see if maybe it was just my desktop computer. Indeed that seemingly was the case. The laptop let me in. Something about my desktop was causing the internet miscommunication.

I tried to think about what the difference could be from my desktop versus the laptop. Then I thought hmm the laptop uses Mozilla as its browser---maybe it’s the browser. And then I went back to my computer and I remembered how Blogger is run by Google---and Google owns Google Chrome and I thought that maybe Google was conspiring against me. I remembered how Google chrome kept inviting me to their party despite my refusal. Maybe my Google blogger wanted me to use Google Chrome just like my Mazda wants me to use genuine Mazda parts. Maybe Google was bullying me into abandoning my devotion to internet explorer. So I downloaded Google Chrome and poof not only could I get into my blog without a thought, the speed was greatly enhanced.

Problem solved. So just when I was about to ask my friend Kathleen if her son could help me, I figured it out on my own—but an eternity had elapsed---and I was still annoyed.

And just like I employ AAA in case I get a flat tire I want a tech guy at my beck and call too. And I want him there in minutes like the AAA guy. I want to point and click on the computer fixer man and instantly have the problem solved.That way the next time my mother’s printer isn’t working and my “fixing” screws it up even worse than before it was broken, I won’t feel like a loser or have to wait until my husband finds time in his work schedule to remedy my mistake. I want to leave professional things to the professionals—just like my father did.

Bad Pedestrian Crossings

When I drive Briana to the Mineola train station in the morning, I cut down County Seat Drive. And as the name suggests it is a roadway connecting many of the Nassau County municipal buildings. It is a 4 lane road with a substantial amount of traffic.

One morning as I was driving to the station, a man, not at the designated crosswalk, but rather between crosswalks, opted to cross the street anyway. And even though he saw me barreling down at 40 mph in a direct path to hit him he kept right on walking. And not only did he not cease his walking or alter his speed, he did not give me the universal hand signal of Oh I am sorry--- may I cross? I promise adjust my motion to accommodate my error in judgment.

No. Not at all. He just gave me a nasty look and kept his ill-fated pace. I was forced to stop short so as not to hit him. And I turned to Briana and said Is that guy crazy? He must be suicidal to just cross the street like that!

And then I noticed where he was going. It was to Matrimonial Court.

I surmised he indeed had attempted suicide.

Hairdressers and Surgeons

People look at other people all day long. We observe fellow humans with eyes, noses and mouths—arms and legs. And while we all understand that each person has the same body parts, we also note that there are variations in size and proximate location. Some people have wide set eyes. Some people have upturned noses. Some people are full or thin lipped. Some people are very tall or very short.

Yet I think most humans do not realize that the same variations observed in external organs, vary internally as well. Livers and hearts and lungs and spines are common to all but are as individual as our faces. It’s what makes medicine so tricky---particularly surgery. Medicine is not absolute. Engaging the service of a physician is not as easy as hiring a plumber or an electrician when a pipe leaks or a switch blows out. Good medicine is an artform as much as it is a science.

Finding the right surgeon is like finding the right hairdresser. Good hairdressers understand the texture and curl (or lack thereof) and volume of an individuals’ hair. Good hairdressers recognize variations. A good hairdresser would know that coifing a “bob” on me will not produce the same results as coifing a “bob” on an Asian woman. Our hair is the same—made of keratin—but how the protein chains of the individual molecules fold back on themselves is different. Adjustments must be made reflective of molecular nuances.

And all this thought is inspired by every person (myself included) who underwent a medical procedure that did not produce the result (either good or bad) predicted by the medical handbook---and inspired by the slip of paper inside my fortune cookie I received the other day which read: Health cannot be bought with doctors.