Volunteerism IS Work

One of my pet peeves is that women (often mothers) who work outside the home discount the work of women who work within the home. Many men are of the same opinion—especially the men who have wives in the work force. And within that realm of thinking, volunteer or philanthropic work is routinely snubbed—as if it has no real worth or requires no investment of time. There is an assumption that work outside the home that has a zero pay scale is synonymous with fun. Such work is a mere dalliance.

Nothing can be farther from the truth.

When my children were in school, between board positions and philanthropic time donation I worked at least 10-20 hours a week 10 months out of the year---equivalent to a part time job in addition to the carpools and other obligations I had. And my volunteer work was real work—managerial. It required research, correspondence, budgets and public speaking. It was all consuming.

Until my husband’s job change there was no room in his schedule to donate his time for volunteerism. He was completely unable to make the commitment. But changed circumstance presented an opportunity, and that opportunity involved a fundraising event held once every two years.

And while I told him working the biannual event would be exhausting, I am certain he doubted me. He did not voice this but I understood that he believed that working a philanthropic event could be no more exhaustive that working a Saturday in March during tax season. I am certain that he thought that the fact that it was merely volunteer work held it on equal footing with recreation—it would be fun—a piece of cake. No worse than playing 36 holes of golf.

But when he came home from his 8 hour volunteer day, which had required quadruple that time requirement in preparation, he needed rest. His reserves were completely depleted. My husband had worked his butt off. And he said until now I had no idea what you endured all these years. I do not remember the last time I worked this hard. How did you do this for so long?

And he was merely an Indian—not even a chief.

The phrase goes You can’t truly understand a man until you have walked a mile in his shoes. In Karenland it would read You can’t really understand a “stay at home” woman until you have walked a marathon in her Cole Haan loafers. Because even if you win the race--measured in dollars raised or causes won-- no one hands you a medal-- let alone a paycheck. You will never receive the respect you deserve.

Forgotten Keys

 I have touched on these topic areas before in a few different blogs. In summary they are as follows:

1.        College students/teenagers do not answer the house phone because they assume the call is not for them—all their calls arrive via their cell phones.

2.        College students/teenagers do not answer the door bell for the same reason—they would have received a text message first if someone they knew was at the door.

3.        College students/teenagers do not arise from their slumber until noon unless they have been texted or called on their cell phones or need to get somewhere of their own accord.

And the other morning, by accident, Kara took both sets of my car keys with her to work. My car sat in the driveway with no way to start it. And that may have not been overly problematic but for the fact that I needed to get Briana to the train station—her flexible schedule had her starting work at 10:30 am.

So I looked out of my window and saw a few cars in the driveway across the street from me and ran over to ring the bell. I knew I could secure Briana a ride or at least borrow a car. But there was no answer. And neither was there an answer at the houses of two other neighbors whose bell I was comfortable enough ringing, and who I surmised by the parked cars were people were dwelling in the house. So in desperation I called all the house phones after my bell ringing solicited no answer, but no one picked up. All the college students/teenagers were sleeping in their respective houses, and the doorbell or house phone was not important enough to rouse them.

Finally I called my most proximately located friend, and she graciously dropped everything and gave Briana a ride.

Disaster was averted.     

And as my friend’s car pulled away  a few things popped into my head: What if the gas company had been ringing the bell to tell the residents to vacate before an impending explosion? All those sleeping college kids/teenagers would have been lost in the disaster. Ignoring the bell and the phone is just not the safest thing to do.

But something else occurred to me. Throughout my “no-key” crisis I had remained calm. I did not get angry at either the circumstance or the people involved. I slipped completely into the problem-solving mode. I was grateful for a good friend who had saved the day.

Which reminded me about a totally different blog I had written a while back---not crying over spilt milk and viewing the glass as half full—it really is the way I deal with the world.

When you do not allow emotion to distract you, solutions reveal themselves. And there is always room for the positive—even if you must search diligently to find it. Which is why when Kara came home that night I thanked her for taking both sets of keys that morning—she is the reason I got all the chores I was avoiding done and was able to cook a well prepared dinner. She also enabled me to write at my leisure---and gave me some good topic matter. And none of that is ever a bad thing.

The Skinny Pose

Whether you were a fan or not of her daytime show, Oprah changed our landscape. And by landscape I mean often in the physical sense. She is the one who showed us that we were wearing the wrong bras. She showed us how carrying the right sized handbag could make you look taller. And she took us jean shopping where we learned about all the do’s and don’ts of the the cuts and rinses of denim.

We got a lesson in how to look great at any age.

And among the vast number of things Oprah improved, was how to take a great picture---how to look more svelte in photographs. We learned that the most universally flattering pose was to stand slightly sideways, angled with one  shoulder up with one leg a bit bent. And our head was to be tilted slightly upward to offset double chins. And we were to stand with at least one hand on our hips to hide the wiggle-waggle  of our arms.

Thus, the skinny pose was born. 


It was and is, completely awkward.

Yet it is in every photograph from Facebook to the red carpet.  The pose looks like someone hit the copy and paste icon on their computer over and over again. We all look  like some Andy Warhol pop art series hanging on a wall at MoMA.

I am so over it.

But I suppose the upside is that since everyone maintains the same posture it makes it a lot easier to photoshop a head on a different body. Maybe people might not notice if I place my head on Sara Jessica Parker’s body in a photograph---except for the designer clothing---and the Manolo shoes—none of which comes close to anything hanging in my closet.

Maybe there is no upside after all. Maybe we are stuck looking like a bunch of photographic clones.

At least we look won’t look fat.

And God knows that is something Oprah sure knows a whole lot about.

I Miss Fortunoff's

Because I had grown up in Westchester, and my only experience with Long Islanders was with people who referred to it as Lawwng Eyelind, I was skeptical when I realized that moving there was non-negotiable with my husband.

But when he drove me around Garden City I thought okay—yes—this place is much more than acceptable. I am definitely not surrendering an accustomed lifestyle.

And one of the things that put Garden City over the top for me (aside from A & S,  Lord and Taylor, Saks and Bloomingdales lining Franklin Avenue) was the proximity to Fortunoff’s—a store not accessible to me in Westchester.

I loved Fortunoff’s. I could spend days in there. It was the source. And it wasn’t just the variety or the quality of the jewelry or tablecloths or lighting fixtures or crystal and linens, it was the experience and the presentation of the merchandise. Even a five dollar glass dish could be wrapped (for free) to look like a million dollars.

It was my go-to store for baby and wedding gifts.

There was no store like it.

And a few weeks ago my daughter called and was in need of a hostess gift—she was spending the weekend at friend’s summer house in South Carolina. My daughter inquired where she should go and what she should buy.

I had no idea. And while I sent her to Bloomingdales—she had trouble getting the service she deserved.  And the wrapping and presentation was not equal to the gift’s worth.

 It just wasn’t like Fortunoff’s.

And even though the backyard store has returned and there is the Fortunoff’s online jewelry store—it is not the same. There is no store anymore. There is no other single place one can shop and find such a vast variety of both high end and low end home goods and jewelry. 

And to this day when I bump into friends and relatives from Westchester who suspiciously inquire what Garden City is like I often say it is much like Rye, New York—only way more Caucasian with way fewer non-Christians and no children whatsoever who receive free lunch or speak a foreign language. It’s a lovely town with lovely people and I am proud to say that I live here.

DNA Never Lies

When I was in high school we did a chapter on Mendelian genetics. Part of the lab project was to go home and chart certain familial traits to see which genes were recessive and which were dominant. And I remember feeling particularly special that the only people in my family who could not roll their tongues were my Grandmother Vespo and me —all my other grandparents, aunts and cousins could. It meant my grandmother and I shared a special connection.

My mother’s ophthalmologist is a top notch guy—brilliant—Harvard trained. And one day he inquired Mrs. Manello--what is your ethnic background? And she said Italian—specifically Sicilian. And he responded But not completely Italian. And with some indignation my mother said Oh yes—I am full Italian on both sides of my family. And the doctor said No you are not. You have a very special type of glaucoma—it is rare--called exfoliative glaucoma. It is seen only in people from Scandinavia—not the Mediterranean.

And now with a lot more indignation my mother voiced What are you implying? And the doctor quipped that someone, perhaps many many many generations back, came from Scandinavia—she was not 100% Italian—because DNA doesn’t lie.

And what I did not say out loud at the time since my mother was so perturbed by this fun family fact was that Sicily, historically had multiple conquerors—among them were the Vikings, by way of the Normans. And the idea that I had Scandinavian blood in me was fascinating—I was not insulted at all. I wondered if that was where the fair skin and blue eyes came from.

And last week my roses were in full bloom. And I was admiring their Lilly Pulitzer hot pink color when I noticed that growing from the base of one of the 16 plants, was a solitary red rose. And I thought Ah-ha some bee either carried some pollen from a red  plant or upon self-pollination, the recessive gene popped through.

In either case, the molecular makeup could not be ignored. A Mendelian punnett square had come to life in my yard.

And my husband and my daughters Kara and Briana can all roll their tongues. Samantha, my oldest, cannot. Sam and I and my Grandmother Vespo all share a special connection ---and DNA never lies.

Dogs: Man's Best Friend

There is a woman with whom I was introduced many times—we had common friends. But for as many times as we were introduced she never seemed to recognize me—ever. I am not certain if she was a “born and bred’ Garden City-ite--but if she wasn’t, she had the blue-blooded demeanor to made me think that she could have been.

When we first adopted Jasper I made a point to socialize him as much as possible. I took him with me to pick up the girls at school or the bus stop. I took him into town for walks. He came with me to softball games. And on occasion I would take Jasper with me to the pet store—as he, as well as all other well-behaved leashed pets were allowed to do so.

And while I was in the pet store, the woman who I was introduced to many times yet still never recognized me, spotted Jasper (not me) and came over to chat. She had the gall to extend her hand and introduce herself with no visible recollection of having previously met me. And then she proceeded to tell me about her Wheaton Terrier and what a beautiful breed of dog it was. All the while I pretended to listen and held my annoyance at bay.

And just as I was thinking this woman is so full of it---It happened.

Jasper rotated his butt and pooped right there inches in front of her feet. And not a small poop—but a Great Dane sized poop. And when Jasper was finished, he wagged his tail with pride and sniffed it just to confirm that he in fact had performed the miraculous deed.

To say the moment was awkward was a gross (literal) understatement.

But it is also when I understood for sure that dogs are man’s best friend.

And this woman who I was introduced to me many times yet still never recognized me continues to do so to this very day. And when I first met her it infuriated me that she found me so unmemorable, but now I just find it funny---and a bit sad.

Because there is no way that she could ever forget me, or my beloved Jasper after the pooping incident. The moment was too rare---too karmic-ally perfect—too unbefitting of a woman of such lineage. And so whether the woman was truly blue blooded or not, Jasper the Wheaten Terrier said it all: Big Sh**.

Premium Tickets

When I was 16 years old my girlfriend Elissa’s Uncle Gene bought Yankee tickets for his parents, sisters, brother in laws, nieces and nephews. I was fortunate enough to have been included. It was my first Yankees game. We sat in a box--7 or 8 rows behind home plate. I had a bird’s eye view of Thurman Munson’s butt. It was the inaugural season--Yankee Stadium was new.

The year was 1999. A young Serena Williams annihilated her opponent as my husband and I sat watching from a courtside seat in Louis Armstrong Stadium. The match was over in an hour.

And in 2002 my husband, my daughter Kara, and I stood 5 feet behind Tiger Woods when he made his drive on #16 at Bethpage Black. The ball traveled so far I lost it in the distance.

There is nothing more special than being close to a sporting event and the key players in it.

And since Kara is finishing up her final year at Emory University in Atlanta we have decided to visit her around a Braves game. I want to experience the tomahawk chop before someone finally realizes how inappropriate and racist it is. The game is against the Mets—which may make it a decisive game.

And the three of us  will be sitting in a box several rows behind home plate---just like I did in Yankee Stadium in 1976. And the seats, the airfare, the hotel room and dinner will be less expensive than if we had gotten equivalent seats in either Citifield or Yankee Stadium. That’s how crazy ticket prices are in New York.

I hope to see Chipper Jones play—not because I am a fan—but because I am not.

And a week or two ago I went to my second Yankees’ game. Again it was with my girlfriend Elissa. And once again Yankee Stadium was new. Her Uncle Gene did not get us the seats this time. We sat where the real people do. But it didn’t matter. We ate our hotdogs and drank our beer and enjoyed our time together. And when Andy Petite, who was pitching that day got hurt, it reminded me that much in life is fleeting. Anything can happen at any time. The clock is always ticking. And it’s not just the moments or scores or seats that count, but who you share them with.

Aunt Fran

My mother is the youngest of 4 sisters. My Aunt Jackie was the nurse, my Aunt Angie was the gardener, my mother was the fashionista, and my Aunt Fran was the decorator—the artistic one.

My Aunt Fran could transform lead into gold with a little paint and some wallpaper. She used conventional materials unconventionally. She painted bathroom ceramic tile and wallpapered over ugly paneling. She routinely canvased the Salvation army for treasures—and then refinished them. Her house was warm and eclectic and always in flux—every time I would visit her she would lead me by the hand and say Come see what I have done now!

When I bought the house I currently live in, it was in good shape structurally. It was also immaculately clean—but worn. Some rooms—like the bathrooms and kitchen needed “band-aids”—quick aesthetic fixes until I had the money to replace them.

The kitchen was stuck in 1972. The cabinets were dark walnut, the countertops and full backsplash were pale yellow-ish faux marble Formica.  The flooring was gold and tan linoleum. The wall paper was new—a country mini-print off of the rack from Pergament in shades of blue and white.

I couldn’t stand it---it was too dreary to work in day after day. I needed to do something.

So I bought some more wallpaper from Pergament and primed the Formica backsplash and had the wallpaper pasted on it to hide the faux marble. And my father painted all the cabinets a soft shade of country blue. We updated the knobs. We replaced the stainless steel sink with one made of porcelain and changed the plumbing fixtures. A new sheet of white tiled-patterned linoleum was laid right on top of the worn gold flooring. And the piece de resistance was the material I chose to camouflage the countertops—peel and stick 12 x12 straight edge floor tiles that looked like granite laid on top and on the edge of the counter.

In toto it looked fresh and updated. It would do nicely until the kitchen was gutted and remodeled. Much time, but little equity was invested.

And when Aunt Frances came to visit the new house for the first time I took her by the hand and said Come see what I have done.

And all four sisters (God bless them) are still alive and well. Aunt Jackie, the oldest at age 88, still nurses friends and family. Aunt Angie still putters around the yard. My mother remains a fashionista. And Aunt Frances is still painting and refreshing her house.

My cousin Betty refers to the Aunts as the fab four. It is an accurate term—and fabulous they truly are.  

"Drunken" Barbie

When I was a senior in college I was assigned a 10 page paper in histology class. The introduction of the paper was completely mine as was the conclusion. But the body of the paper relied heavily on cited references. I did not have the time to reword other people’s ideas nor did I want to plagiarize. So the support of my thesis was more like a compilation of quotes.

This past Sunday my family and extended family finally got around to celebrating my youngest daughter’s 21^st birthday. I wasn’t in the mood to be self-inspired nor did I wish for the party to be devoid of a theme so I went to Google and Pinterest. And I literally laughed out loud when I saw that someone had made a sheet cake and arranged a Barbie doll to appear as if she had fallen down drunk into it.

And although I am not a baker I thought that even mentally challenged people could probably mimic this idea. And so I searched for a party-girl Barbie with brown hair to match my daughter’s. And then I went to the craft store to find some dollhouse wine bottles and glasses. I arranged Barbie’s dress up in the air so that her hand-painted thong hung out. And I placed a bottle in one hand and a glass in the other. Her head was face down into the cake. Empty bottles were deliberately placed around her.

It was easy peasy.

The guests howled when they saw the cake. It was proof of something most of us had always suspected—Barbie was a drunken ‘ho.

And while I had copied the idea I viewed on the internet, I crafted it one step further---and made it uniquely my own.

And my histology professor chose not to penalize me for “over-citing” in my paper. She determined that since my thesis and conclusion were completely my own thoughts, and I had not stolen any words, that my paper was deserving of consideration. Ultimately the paper was my own creation.

And if you think about it, some of the greatest artists have re-worked old masterpieces. Andy Warhol did it with Botticelli’s Venus. Salvatore Dali, Jasper Johns and Keith Haring all recreated Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa.

   

Most new ideas are never truly new. They are just compilations and reworks--- evolved old ideas—contemporary twists on classics.  They are nothing more than a creative way to achieve an “A”—or sometimes, a creative way  to achieve a laugh. 

Political Correctness

In an episode of Seinfeld, Tim Whatley, Jerry’s dentist, announces that he has converted to Judaism. Whatley then tells a defamatory joke about Jews and Jerry is offended. Whatley justifies his actions by saying that since he himself is now Jewish-- it’s okay—Whatley, by adopting Judaism, has immunity from anti-Semitism.

Jerry suspects however that Whatley has become a Jew just so he can tell the jokes.

My friend Elissa has a standard poodle named Sabrina. She is a smart and gentle dog---well socialized with both humans and other canines. She is not aggressive but for when she sees black dogs in the dog park. Then she becomes fierce. Her ears pin back and she growls. Sabina is totally submissive with all dogs other than the black ones.

One might call Sabrina a racist--but for the fact that Sabrina is herself blacker than black.

The color of her coat it would seem, bestows canine racial immunity.

And when Jerry goes to the Catholic confessional to complain to the priest that Whatley—as a former Catholic-- now tells both anti-Catholic and anti-Jewish jokes—the priest asks Jerry Are you offended by his jokes as a fellow Jew? And Jerry says No-- I am offended by his jokes as a comedian.

Who knew comedians were offended when non-comedians use humor?

It’s something I do all of the time.

In our politically correct world, anything can be politically incorrect.

Orthodonture

Dr. Murray Ackerman was my (and my brother’s) orthodontist. His office, which was located in his basement, was down the road and behind my house on Bolmer Avenue. It’s where all the children at Emerson School went to  get their braces.

Dr. Ackerman’s office was managed by his wife Rhoda. I disliked them both—but I probably hated Dr. Ackerman a little bit more because he inflicted psychological abuse along with the physical torture. Mrs. Ackerman—Rhoda—on the other hand--- was just an unpleasant person who viewed all the children with dollar signs in her eyes.

And because I did not like Dr. Ackerman very much my compliance was not at the level it should have been. I made it my mission to stealthfully aggravate him. I faked wearing my night brace by attaching a rubber band to the hooking device to fool everyone into thinking I was wearing it correctly when I was not. And I also had a habit of playing with the bracket inside my mouth with my tongue for amusement purposes. The habitual stress my tongue put on the hardware almost always loosened it and then Dr. Ackerman would yell at me---and by yell I do not mean scold---I mean he raised his voice loudly so the entire waiting room could hear. Often he would call my mother in if she happened to be in the waiting room and he would get nasty with her for not doing her job properly.

But I remained respectful until I was around fourteen years old and Dr. Ackerman accused me of not wearing my retainer. He accused me of ruining all his skilled efforts. But the truth of the matter was that I actually did wear my retainer faithfully but despite doing so, the retainer stopped fitting properly. So when he screamed at me (likely as a rhetorical question) What am I supposed to do now? I could no longer sit back and take the abuse any longer—so I screamed back how am I supposed to know? You’re the orthodontist!!

I thought he was going to have a stroke.

So my mother was called in and she made me apologize. And the entire ride home from Yonkers to Dobbs Ferry (we had moved by that point) was a living hell. But the aftermath was that my mother was so mortified, we never went back.

But for years I lived with the guilt that the shifting of my teeth was all my fault. I had wasted my parents money. I should have continued wearing my retainer even though it never fit properly.

But when I turned 29 or 30 I became a patient of a high end dentist in Rockville Center. He asked me if I had ever had braces. And I guiltily said yes but that my non-compliance had caused the shifting of my teeth. And he burst out laughing. And I was puzzled---I did not think my tale was that funny. So I asked what him what was so humorous.

And Dr. Kaylor said You have a double cross bite. The only treatment that might have helped was a palate expander—which was only invented in the 1980’s. And even with that, there may not have not been any correction anyway. The only cure for your condition is surgery. The reason your retainer stopped fitting was because your jaw was still growing. No retainer would ever have prevented your teeth from shifting.

I felt as though the world had been lifted off of my shoulders. I was completely vindicated---although my parents were positively robbed.

  

And years later, when my middle daughter Briana, after 6 years of orthodontic care—including 2 years of a palate expander, 2 years of full metal braces and 2 years with a retainer—not to mention several endodontic and extraction procedures in between--was told she needed to put full metal braces back on in 9^th grade, it gave me pause. And I asked the orthodontist Why? And I was told her jaw was still growing and that her bottom incisor might rotate. The new braces might maintain her perfect smile.
 

And to the orthodontist’s total surprise I said No more braces. We have done enough.

And the dentist I have now by far is my favorite. I gave up the high priced guy in Rockville center---he was too high priced. And my current dentist, by simply using a file, rounded the edges of my teeth such that they appear straighter--no devices of torture were necessary. My smile is in no way aesthetically or socially displeasing.

And unless you pull my daughter’s bottom lip down you cannot notice the rotation of her one lower incisor. Her one crooked tooth is something she reveres. For her (and me) her one non-conformist bottom right bony calciferous structure is a symbol of independence—a guilt-free battle scar from a  child warrior who would no longer submit to continued torture. And I am proud that she understands that she (and her smile) is perfect---with or without a rotated incisor.

Linen

The world can be separated into two kinds of people—the ones who love linen, and those who don’t.

 I am a lover, not a hater. Nothing says summer more to me than a loose fitting garment made of the natural fiber.

And those who shun the fabric do so almost always because they say “it wrinkles.” What they do not understand is linen only wrinkles if you iron it—it is counterintuitive.

The fibers of linen—unlike spun cotton or most definitely polyester vary in width. They are thicker and thinner all along the length of the fiber such that when woven together they are not flawlessly flat—the texture is irregular. That is what gives linen its character---its distinct body. It is what makes linen--linen It was not intended to mimic cardboard—which is exactly what it looks like when you starch and iron it—which is why it wrinkles irreversibly like a piece of construction paper.

And I care for my linen very methodically. I wash it on the hand wash cycle of my machine, shake it out and put it in the low cycle of the dryer for about 10 minutes. I then hang it on a hanger, and use my hand to shape it.

It dries perfectly. It is neither wrinkled nor cardboard-like. It is soft and texturally undulated.

And when I wear the fabric people will say to me—how come when I wear linen I always look rumpled—and when you wear  it always looks fresh?  And I tell them—because I don’t iron it. And the haters start to twitch and respond that’s ridiculous--you have to iron linen otherwise you will look wrinkled.

They just don’t get it.

Linen is like a partner in marriage. You must accept it as is---you cannot press it into something it is not or you will ruin the beauty of its natural state. And when linen, like a significant other, is allowed to be what they were intended to be, the reward is ease and comfort. And when the day gets hot, there is no better companion than either of the two.

On Suffering to be Beautiful

You have to suffer to be beautiful.

My mother has told me this all of my life.

It’s the reason my cervical discs are degenerated. My mother gave me whiplash every morning when she brushed my hair.

My eyes have their almond shape from hair pulled too tightly in Goodie band elastics.

Face washing was exfoliation--particularly when she used the kitchen washcloth with Comet residue.

And when she parted my hair, the strands goose-stepped to the correct side of the line like a bunch of Nazis saluting the Fuhrer. A carpenter’s level was less accurate than the line separating my pigtails.

My mother was so consumed with neatly trimmed finger and toe nails that I sought refuge with my next door neighbor Elaine Weissblum. Elaine cut my toe nails for me. I would ring her bell and she would get the baby clippers out to give me my pedicure.

My mother was not particularly gentle.

And she took her beautification job very seriously.

But my mother was preparing me for things to come-- like tweezing and waxing---and blisters and bunions from high heels. She was preparing me for 2 lb “statement necklaces,” clip earrings  and underwires and lycra. She was preparing me for tooth sensitivity to whiteners.

The pain of my childhood was just a primer for self-inflicted pain as an adult.

My mother was doing her job.

She was preparing me for all things female.

And now I can laugh about the torture. Because my mother was correct: women endure much in the name of beauty---it is unavoidable. Glamour is costly: physically and emotionally. 

And I learned it all from an expert.

Nuns

The top two on my list of the most terrible teachers I ever had were Sister Regina Reagan and (coincidentally—no relation) Sister Grace Reagan. Sister Regina was a poor transducer of information and was   psychologically unhealthy; Sister Grace was less than perfunctory in commuting knowledge and was most definitely wrought with personal issues.

But some of the best teachers (and persons) I have ever known have also been Catholic nuns. They educated. And some also were outstanding administrators and research scientists. They were inspirational-- bright, self-assured women. They had careers. They were professionals equal in caliber to any man. They were also of generations older than mine. I encountered very few young nuns.

Many, in and out of the church, found the dwindling population of female youths in religious orders quite disconcerting.

But I have a theory. I believe for generations before mine, the convent was an escape for women seeking an alternative lifestyle. By taking vows of chastity and poverty it freed them to have careers. They lived in a time when it was unheard of for women to aspire to anything other than being a devoted wife and mother. Women with careers were ostracized---deemed peculiar and selfish. So becoming a nun was a way around this—entering the convent allowed social acceptance. It was an excusable separation from societal expectations. And if a woman was not sexually attracted to men or wanted to remain childless---something completely taboo-- the convent offered a sisterhood—communal (albeit celibate) female living.

And while I intend in no way to suggest that the nuns of generations older than mine had no faith in God, I am suggesting that the possibility of becoming a career woman---the possibility of living an alternative lifestyle—often enough trumped true vocation. So when a woman’s role in society expanded, the convent lost its attraction---there were other options.

It explains why some of the best teachers I ever had were ex-nuns. And some of them were married to ex-priests.

 

And Sister Regina was forced into retirement---Sister Dillane saw to that. And Sister Grace was asked to leave the sisters of Mercy. There was much speculation and rumor about her departure. The whispers centered around inappropriateness. But unlike those in power in the priesthood, the mother superior at the convent was having none of it—and whether the cause of her expulsion was due to unbecoming behavior or not, Sister Grace found herself no longer a teacher or a sister of Mercy nun-the-less.

Dorm Room Smell

I got stuck in the hallway as the football team stampeded back into the high school after a practice on a hot September day---I nearly asphyxiated. The noxious fumes rising off their sweaty bodies could have killed a cow. 

  

It took at least 20 minutes after they had passed for the smell to dissipate from the hallway. And it took another 20 minutes or so for the odor to unlatch itself from my olfactory memory---it was that rancid.

In my experience there are some smells that have the ability to chemically affix themselves---they are the Sharpies of odors. Sweat and dirt that gets into athletic gear like shin guards is one of them. Tide, borax and fabric sheets in equal parts cannot completely clean or kill the funk—it can only arrest it until a bit of moisture activates it again.

But the most aggressive odor I have ever had to deal with is dorm room smell. It is distinct yet ubiquitous. I have never been any college dorm in any part of the country in any season of the year where that odor didn’t smack you in the face the second you stepped foot into the building. And I have never been able to dissect its components although I suspect it is a mish-mash of male/female communal bad hygiene mixed with alcoholic adventures gone wrong topped with a fear of failure. It is foul and untamable. It latches itself on to any fabric or plastic. Not even a smoke bomb can dislodge it. No amount of Clorox Febreeze or Lysol can disguise it.

And a week or so ago I stumbled on to a container from the attic which housed some text books from my eldest daughter from her freshman year in college--7 years  ago. When I opened the container a green cloud rose up invading my nasal cavities like General Sherman marching through Georgia. Even the dog, who sniffs other dogs private parts, put his paw over his nose and backed away. It was that nasty. Time and a lack of oxygen did not suck the life from the odor---it had only preserved it.

 I threw all the contents out—container and all.

And people who have not had experience with this dorm room monster are often puzzled as to why at the end of 4 years of college virtually every item unless deemed absolutely necessary is thrown out or donated. They might say—you threw out perfectly good wheel-y carts and fold up chairs? And the answer is yes---there was no choice. They stunk. They were contaminated beyond remedy.

All my daughters’ discarded items now sit in the CDC in Atlanta—the specimens are   being studied for biological warfare—along with the anthrax and the flesh eating bacteria.


 Because dorm room smell is that deadly---and that contagious.

 It is something we should all fear.

When Roses Bloom

When I think of roses, two people instantaneously come to mind. The first is Eddie Weissblum---my next door neighbor when I was a little girl and lived on Bolmer Avenue. Eddie grew magnificent long stem yellow roses. He tended them daily—lovingly. The plants were fed and pruned and washed to prevent fungus and insects. They were trimmed back in the fall to allow voluminous blooms in the spring.

And like Eddie, we too had  beautiful rose bushes along the front walk of our house. Ours were red--my mother tended to them—although not as fastidiously as Eddie. But when I think of red roses I do not think of my mother; instead, I always think of my Grandmother Vespo---Nonny. Nonny’s birthday was in early June—when roses bloom.

And every year on Nonny’s birthday my mother would always cut as many stems of roses as were in bloom or were about to bloom and she would wrap the cut ends in wet paper towel and them wrap the wet paper towel in aluminum foil. I was in charge of carrying the bouquet when we drove to the Bronx to deliver them.

And upon arrival, Nonny’s heavy metal apartment door would open and I would say Happy Birthday! And she would giggle and hug and kiss me and say thank you! And I always felt so proud even though all I ever did was hand the bouquet over.

 Nonny had a way of making your feel that everything you did was special.

And nearly two years ago when my mother and I went back to Bolmer Avenue to pay a condolence call to Elaine Weissblum—Eddie’s newly widowed wife-- I was elated to see that all the rose bushes were still thriving. And I mentioned to Larry, Eddie’s son, how seeing the roses warmed my heart. I told him that my fondest memories of his father were of him caring for his beloved plants.

Larry was seemingly touched—he told me that Eddie’s greatest passion until the day he died was pruning and feeding and watering those yellow beauties. And he told me that he was certain that his father was surrounded by perfect roses in heaven.

And along the rear side of my house in front of the arborvitae that borders my house and my neighbor Andy, I have planted a hedge of pink Knock-Out roses. But unlike the heirloom varieties tended to by Eddie and my mother, my roses require little maintenance. The blooms are also much less dramatic.

When I sit down to write my blog this time of year and look out my window to my left, I can see my pink rose hedge. It gives me joy. The bright pink blooms against the dark green wall of evergreen showcase nature at its best. But even better, they remind me of Nonny and her giggle, and they remind me of a kind neighbor, who gave me an appreciation for the garden--- and how love and devotion produce magnificent blooms---and indelible memories.

The Long Island Medium

When I was sick early last May I found myself lying on the couch on a Sunday afternoon with little concentration to read. So I turned on the television and flipped through the channels.

I found a marathon of The Long Island Medium on TLC. And I began to watch.

I have always been fascinated with the idea that the dead can speak and certain people have the capacity to hear what they have to say. Most of the time I believe psychic readings are a hoax---the person attempting the “read” draws information out of the interested party making it seem as if the dead are speaking when in fact they are not. I have observed this on occasion when I have seen John Edwards on various shows---believers unwittingly give key information away.

But even so it does not cause me to doubt every psychic. There have been times in my own experience where I have felt guided to do and say things that felt outside of myself---particularly when I write. And I have been told intriguing things in vivid dreams by family members who have passed on. These encounters have served to maintain my faith: sometimes dead people speak.

And I believe in that Long Island Medium. It is mostly because she can be sitting in the dentist’s chair being a regular person getting a tooth filled when a dead person disturbs her. And then she must search the waiting room to tell a total stranger that their dead mother enjoyed the chicken soup they prepared for them hours before they died. The Long Island Medium gives readings to people who do not engage her employ apparently just to stop the dead person from nagging her. Which is why I find her credible—even more so when people come to her for a paid reading and she flat out says—I’ve got nothing.  Apparently not all dead people have something to say.

And very recently I was at a luncheon where a friend was telling me that on the anniversary of their Uncle's death they had spent the entire day thinking about and missing him. And when she randomly pulled her Droid from her handbag the phone had somehow put itself in its own electronic phone book. And the randomly displayed contact was that of her deceased Uncle.

It was a bit spooky.

And I thought Oh my God that is awesome---her Uncle "called" to say hello---he knew his niece was missing him and so he picked up the phone.

Because even if the dead do not speak to the living, choosing to believe that they do is comforting. Belief heals. And who knows, the next time I find myself in Hicksville in the Broadway diner maybe I will be sitting on the other side of the booth from the Long Island Medium. And she will be compelled to stand up and ask Who’s father played the saxophone and ate his spare ribs with a knife and fork? And I will say that’s me!! And she will announce your father wants you to know he is grateful and proud of you for taking care of things in his absence. And I will smile at her and say thank you—tell my father it was my pleasure----and that  he can you can leave you alone now---everyone is hungry and  we all need to eat our hamburgers.