Birthday Thoughts

Birthdays are a time of introspection. It’s a day to ponder Am I leading a meaningful existence? What have I accomplished (on all levels) since last year?

And formerly I expected gifts and platitudes to answer my existential questions—they were the measures of my worth.

I expected affirmation from outside myself.

I expected others to make me feel special.

And so disappointment always stood suited-up at the sidelines—waiting to be called into the game. Because even the best gifts and accolades were not always big enough to fill the birthday void. Often times others did not validate me to expectation.

But I have had an epiphany.

My expectations are off.

I need an attitude adjustment. My worth is not a value others place upon me. My worth is how I perceive myself. I determine the pricetag.

   

Which isn’t to say I do not enjoy birthday gifts or  well wishes-- I do. I delight in receiving  new “things.” I have just come to realize that what I really want for my birthday is not a gift anyone can give me—it is something I can only give to myself.

And I am accomplished. And I am loved. And I am still here. And that is good.

And I am going to celebrate—and be grateful. 

Lyric-Challenged

A song came on the radio the other day that I had not heard in a very long while: For a Dancer by Jackson Browne.

 I sang every word.

I am often surprised at how I can still remember the words to every song off of every album I have ever owned. It makes me believe that my brain is still adequately functional despite my middle age. But I am equally surprised that for as much as I listen to pop music, unless it’s a Taylor Swift or John Mayer or Maroon 5 song—all songs that do not interject rap—I cannot completely memorize and sing the words.

And this was brought to light this morning as I drove home from the train station. The song Wild Ones was playing on the radio. I knew all the lyrics sung by Sia: Hey I heard you were a wild one… Oooh… If I took you home it'd be a home run ….But as soon as Flo Rida chimed in, I started mumbling—I could only pick out phrases here and there. And only when the refrain went back to Sia, could I resume my little private sing-a-long.

I have to wonder if my lyric-retention issue is investment-related. Maybe I just do not care to take the time learning the words and repeating them---like memorizing and reciting Shakespeare—which was another thing I had difficulty with. Or maybe the stumbling block is the speed of the rapping—I cannot physically get my brain and mouth to move that quickly—like a skilled auctioneer.

But maybe it’s not so bad after all. Twenty years from now I will at least still be able to sing She Will be Loved by Adam Levine—and better yet I will remember how hot he looked in the video. And I’d trade remembering Adam’s sexy leer over remembering Flo Rida’s lyrics any day.

Attending the US Open

I have been very fortunate to have attended both the US Open for tennis and for golf several times.

I have enjoyed them equally.

The US Open for golf requires a great deal of walking for its attendees. Most people do not remain fixed in one location—they instead follow key players around the course. And so, because the day is long and so much walking is required up and down hills and through the rough, spectators wear their golf shoes. It just makes sense to do so. Golf shoes were designed to be worn on the golf course.

But what does not make sense to me in any way is why when you attend the US Open for tennis the spectators find the need not just to wear their sneakers, but to wear their tennis apparel.I just don’t get it—do they think they are going to put together a pick-up game while they are there?

Because wearing tennis attire to the Open is not like wearing an NFL jersey to a football game. Tennis players do not wear a team uniform—each player is their own team and varies their clothing from match to match.

And this past Friday my husband attended the Barclays Golf tournament in Bethpage with some colleagues from work. Before he left the house I inquired did your remember your golf shoes?

He did.

But he left his golf glove behind.

He had no illusions that Rory Mc Elroy would ask him to play.

The College Drop-off

I watched my neighbor Tom load the last few things into their Suburban. Their daughter was going back to school that day.

There is no time of year that ignites more anticipation, melancholy, and yes, relief than back-to-school time—especially when it involves packing your child to go off to college and not simply packing a bologna sandwich with a juice box for Stewart School.

First time adventures are always the most heart-wrenching. So when my husband and I prepared to drop Samantha, our eldest child,  at Lehigh her freshman year we were inwardly anxious, and outwardly nonchalant.

Based on stories from more seasoned parents I was prepared to say our final good byes with some tears. I had rehearsed the scene over and over  in my mind. Sam and I would hug and I would assure her that she would be great. My eyes would well-up  and my husband would remain stoic and consoling. And as we drove away I would reminisce about her very first day at Locust school and my husband would tell me it would all be okay. It was time to let her go.

But as the final seconds ticked and I was about to enact my own Lifetime movie drama, my husband burst into the ugly cry—the widow’s sob. And because I knew  it was unhealthy for my daughter to witness two slobbering fool parents I was forced to become the stoic consoling one. My tear ducts seized-up instantly. I completely flipped into the rational mode and dealt out tissues.

I was the one behind the wheel in the Suburban—comforting my husband by reminding him that we had prepared her well—she was ready.

My long anticipated magical moments turned into stolen thunder—the finale had gone all wrong.

And Friday I kissed Kara good-bye as she headed off for her senior year at Emory. It was the last college good-bye kiss of my lifetime.

I am a little bit sad over it. The school-time phase of my life that began in September of 1992 is officially complete.

But at least I may still look across the street. Their Suburban will continue to be packed for another 5 years. Each August, the view will twist my heart. But I will remember that all beginnings have endings and all endings are new beginnings. And as long as the story ends happily ever after, it doesn’t matter which actor played the parts—it matters only that you had the production.

Sweet Babies

Anyone who knows my mother is aware that she likes to oogle over babies. They also know that she has a catch phrase when she believes an infant is of less than average looks—she calls them sweet. She uses this adjective because it is her belief that all babies are sweet by design. The words pretty and beautiful are adjectives of bestowment--not birthright.

And people who really know me know that I am not magnetically drawn to tiny humans. I was never the woman in a room full of women who begged to hold the baby. I enjoyed I cooing and oogling from afar. I preferred that the center stage infant kept its goo to itself. I also did not think it was wise for the baby’s well-being to be passed around like a tray of mini-meatballs. I believe babies have the right to be left alone--particularly when they are content.

And now that I am of an age where I have several friends who either are, or are about to become grandmothers I must reconcile my quirkiness with good manners. I do not want to offend anyone when I remain at arm’s distance.

I just want to look into the baby’s face and tell their grandmother how they are sweeter than sweet— beautiful and angelic.

A magnificent clean slate—innocent and completely full of potential.

And the other day my mother bumped into one of my good friends who recently became a grandmother. My mother asked my friend if she had any pictures of the baby—which of course my friend did. And then I held my breath and asked What did you think of baby-X? And I nearly collapsed in relief when she said He is absolutely adorable!

My mother was genuine in her remark. Because if the baby had been merely sweet, she would have said so. My mother never minces words---and sometimes that’s a good thing---and other times—not so much.

Prince Harry

Apparently Prince Harry got caught with his pants down--- as in he actually was photographed while naked.

TMZ reported the Prince’s mishap.

And I was left with two questions. The first being How vast is the British empire? And the second: Does the northern terrain match that of its southern counterpart?

But when I went to the website I discovered that the crown jewels were not on display—not so much as a single bauble.

And so my questions remain unanswered.

Too much that happened in Vegas, stayed in Vegas.

Ineffective Nagging

For the most part I think I have done a good job as a parent. I have raised bright, responsible, self-assured women.

My girls are good-hearted.

But I admit to areas where my parenting skills were substandard.

I recently found in my kitchen cabinet a pile of envelopes which were stamped and addressed by my hand. There were also 7 or 8 photographic prints. And in the flap of each envelope was a monogrammed note which was blank inside.

They were the thank you notes from Kara’s high school graduation party-- which was 3 years ago last June. They were never written out let alone mailed.

I am pretty sure they are a bit overdue at this point.

No grace will be received for this etiquette infraction. Amnesty has long run out.

Clearly my motherly nagging wasn’t effective.

But hope springs eternal. Kara graduates from college this May. The thank you notes for that graduation party have not been purchased or written out yet. So in theory she is ahead of the game—the notes are all ready to go.

Maybe I should commence with immediate nagging.

 I can’t do any worse than the last go around.

"Ask and you will receive..."

I am more than familiar with scripture. So when I attend mass, I read the selected passages with an eye for its greater context. And while I am no expert, I am confident to the extent that I can intelligently debate whether the priest giving the homily is spot on, or worlds off- base.

Because there have been many occasions that I have sat in mass where I thought that the priest must have read a different passage than I did in my missal. The priest’s message either had nothing to do with what scripture was illustrating, or was too parochial in scope.

And the bit in Matthew, from the Sermon on the Mount that I have always found inspirational, yet often misinterpreted is this: Ask and you will receive, seek and you will find, knock and the door will be opened to you.

For me that piece of wisdom extends beyond the principal that God answers all prayers. I do not think that prayer requests are answered as simply as an I Dream Of Jeannie blink-blink sit-com moment. God cannot be reduced to a genie in a bottle.

I believe the greater intention of the ask and you will receive phrase is to prod people into taking charge of their own situation—to be proactive—not to complacently wait for God or others to do things for them. I do not believe the message of that statement is wishfulness reaps progress. I think the message is: If you want or need something, go after it—seek it. Do not remain idle—ask for guidance. Prepare yourself with knowledge and/or skills—and if you research, you will find direction. And if you put yourself in the path of opportunity, opportunity will show itself—the door will open. There is no reward without work first.

In short, this piece of scripture boils down to: God helps those who help themselves.

The famous Chinese proverb reads: Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime. So if you are hungry, do not ask God for a fish; rather, ask for good instruction.

Pray for guidance and invest yourself.

Because no one wins the lottery without buying a ticket first. You have to be in it, to win it.

Blog Management

I was quite flattered to learn that my daughter’s friend Caroline reads my blog nearly every day. I learned that she was fascinated to think I got up early in the morning, wrote, and then posted my writing by 8 am.

But Kara explained that that wasn’t the case. She told her friend that’s not how my Mom does it. She writes and posts every day, but at all times there are at least 5 or 6 open word documents in the computer.

It is true. I have several blog posts waiting to be published at all times. Part of it is because I like to be more than well prepared. Having a week’s worth of posts is a kind of insurance---in case life gets in the way of my writing. But the other piece to my backlog is a type of marketing strategy. By having a bunch of saved documents, I can pick and choose when I feel the time is right to post them. Sometimes the decision is topic-based, sometimes it has to do with editing, and sometimes it is a time sensitivity issue.

For example in late June I wrote a rather scathing expose-like post about the Superintendent of schools. It is unpublished. I suspect it will rock his world when I chose to do so. And even though the piece was written to my personal satisfaction nearly two months ago, I will not post it until early September—when school is back in session. This is a post that deserves the opportunity for the broadest audience.

And it is rare for me to write something on one day and then post it the next. There is always a fair amount of tweaking involved in the writing process. Editing your own work is not always easy. So I only publish after a 24 hour period when the timing is key—as in my posts about the Superbowl or Serena Williams winning gold.

And sometimes a post will lay dormant for a while because it makes no sense to post several similar topics in a row. Because my thoughts sometimes come in binges—I will write one post about dogs (for example) and it will generate two others. It’s nonsensical to post successive topics.

But ultimately, in every post I write, I must weigh if my words are of significant value. I must decide if what I have written is thought inspiring -- and revise it if I deem it is not. I am my own quality control.     So even if all of this is not very interesting or provocative for many, it is most definitely for Caroline.

And that makes me smile.

Witch-y Wear

During the heat wave last week I was wearing a maxi sundress-- sleeveless cotton knit on top and white multilayered lightweight cotton gauze below the empire waist. It was very flow-y. It was perfect for the extreme heat.

And I found myself in conversation with someone who admired the ease and apparent comfort of my dress and then inquired Where did you buy that?—because I saw one just like it in a Wicken catalogue I received at home.

And before I could answer her question I became immediately distracted. My mind raced---why does this woman receive a Wicken catalogue?—is she a wicken? And just as importantly—was I dressed like a witch?—albeit a white witch—like Glenda?

But I did not share any of these thoughts. I simply said I bought it at T.J Maxx. It was $24.99.

And that pretty much was the end of the conversation.

And now I am left wondering about the whole Wicken thing.

But at least now I know who to contact if in preparing my caldron I see that I have run out of eye of newt.

Because you never know when you may be in need of casting a good  spell. And you can never have too much eye of newt.

Mitt's Mate

I was watching the Olympics the other day when it was interrupted by a special report. Mitt Romney was announcing his vice-presidential candidate. And when Paul Ryan’s name was broadcasted, I had two thoughts—the first was Isn’t Paul Ryan the guy that proposed some talked-about bill in Congress that never got passed? And the second thought was Wow Romney and Ryan both have aggressive heads of hair. They can both do Grecian formula commercials in the event their campaign fails.

I once read that the Monica Lewinsky scandal shifted the way Americans viewed politics. Within the realm of political issues, post Bill Clinton, minutiae became substantive. We view candidates through the lens of Entertainment Tonight.

In the fall of Samantha’s senior year at Lehigh University, Barack Obama came to speak. It was a presidential year--2008. Pennsylvania was a swing state. And candidates fought for every vote—especially on college campuses.

And during this same time period farther northwest in Pennsylvania, the Republicans held a political rally just outside of Lewisburg. So my daughter Briana went with her two Bucknell University friends to hear Sarah Palin speak---not because they were linked in politically, but because one of the girls needed to attend the rally for a political science course she was taking.

And when I asked Briana, who had been hand plucked from the throng of people to sit behind Sara Palin such that Briana came to be televised on CNN, every primetime news program, and even The View, how the speech was? She answered that Sarah Palin’s high heel boots were awesome—as was her suit. Palin was impeccably dressed. And as for the speech—Briana found herself too distracted by the assemblage of tea party Central Pennsylvanians to comment.

We base our voting decisions partially on the real issues like the direction of the economy and Roe vs. Wade, but also on who we would like to hang out with if given the opportunity. We project which candidate would have been our friend in middle or high school, and then we take it from there. We try to determine which candidate is more like us.

Which is why I am not shocked at all about the prime-time revelations about Mitt Romney’s running mate. The Republicans are pandering to the E! News mentality. We have learned that Paul Ryan is a proponent of the P90X workout. He has a six pack of abdominal muscles lying underneath his fitted (albeit stuffed) shirt. And his wife Janna wears dresses from Kohl’s.

Based on this newsworthy data I must cast my vote—which may backfire on the Republicans. I must decide if given the opportunity would  I want to hang out with an exercise fiend and his dowdily dressed Stepford wife?

I would have preferred knowing if Ryan has nerves, rather than abs of steel.

Because this is what politics has become: The Fashion Police instead of Face the Nation. And it is all because of a trail of blue-light stains on a little black Gap dress. Politically speaking, it’s the minutia-turned-substantive that inquiring minds want to know.

Provoked Dog Bites

When I was 12 years old I was attacked and bitten by a German Sheppard. It was completely unprovoked. The dog, who was leached at the time, decided that I looked like a snack.

I believe in zero tolerance for unprovoked dog bites. But I also believe in humans deserving bites when they provoke a dog, or show absolutely no common sense.

Wheaten Terriers have the ability to jump 6 feet high from a standing position. And up until Jasper was too old to do so, he jumped in front of my full-glass door with regularity if anyone approached it. It was fierce behavior. And unless one had a deficient IQ, they would be completely intimidated—the jumping and barking evoked at the minimum---suspenseful concern.

One day when I wasn’t home, and Jasper was still a very young dog, a Fed Ex man came to deliver a package. And Blanca, who was the only one in residence, did not lock the storm door. And despite seeing my crazy terrier jumping like a pogo stick, the fed-ex man still thought it was a good idea to open the door to place the package inside my house.

Jasper, who weighed 55 lbs at the time, flew out the door, jumped up, and with his paw deeply scratched the man’s abdomen.

The Garden City police came and accused the delivery man of perpetuating a scam—aimed at me (lawsuit) or at his employer (worker’s compensation)---or being just plain old stupid. In either case no citation was issued.

When Jasper was in his middle years an errant lacrosse ball flew into my back yard. A boy, who happened to be friends with my daughter, decided against the advice of his friends to retrieve it. And so he came into my yard even though Jasper was barking at him. And when the boy chose to extend his hand to pet Jasper, Jasper nipped him.

And I called the Mom—completely upset and fearful that I may have to put Jasper down. But the mother told me not to worry about it. Jasper had done her son a favor. She hoped her son would finally get the hint that not all dogs are friendly and that you should never pet a dog without the owner’s permission—let alone trespass into someone’s yard.

There was a girl on one of my daughters’ teams. The girl was in an athletic funk. And when she came to my door one day when I was not home, somehow Jasper, who was in his later years at this point, got out and grazed the girl’s hand with his teeth. The wound, while it drew blood, was superficial. And after the placement of a Band-Aid, the two girls continued on to practice.

I feared the phone confrontation with the mother. I knew the Mom to be externally fragile, but suspected beneath the porcelain veneer lied a Tiger Mom. I prepared myself for some passive aggression. Yet I was conflicted—Jasper on one hand had not bitten the girl full on and had backed off once they made contact, but on the other hand, the girl it appeared hadn’t invited the wound.

So I opened the conversation with the mother by offering to pay for any medical expenses—of which there were none—the girl had not been brought to the pediatrician—there was no need. But I still feared that this woman believed Jasper was a menace to society and needed to be put down—and human safety is something I could wrap my brain around. But what became clear in the most roundabout way was that the Mom thought Jasper was the genesis of her daughter’s faltering play and that is why she implied Jasper might need to be put down.

And now I was the dog provoked--because her daughter had been stumbling athletically prior to the incident—my dog had nothing to do with it. And I was going to be God-damned if I was going to permit my daughters’ childhood pet be put down over athletic statistics.

So I passively aggressively said something like You can’t possibly be asking me to put Jasper down because of competitive play? You are so sweet and kind I can’t imagine you would want to inflict such cruelty on my daughter—especially at such a critical juncture in her life. I am sure nothing like this will ever happen like this again.

And the woman backed off. And Jasper lived more years after this incident than was ever predicted—without further incident.

And now I have Cosmo, my gentle Goldendoodle, who even if provoked, would never bite a human.    It’s just not in his nature. It means that if someone hurts him, I will have to be the one who bites back--he is too submissive to protect himself. And there is a reason the teeth next to a human’s incisors are called canines—they are for tearing flesh--and I would have no qualm about using them if provoked.

Sometimes biting must come from the hand doing all the feeding.

  

Sisters

When my mother was a little girl she shared a bedroom with her 3 sisters. And she, and her next oldest sister Angie, would pretend they were sleeping when their older sisters Fran and Jackie would come home from their dates. Fran and Jackie would poke and prod the little ones to make sure they were asleep. And upon being convinced of their slumber, the two older sisters would gossip about boys.

And my mother and my Aunt Angie, who had only been feigning sleep, would then blackmail their two older sisters with the information they had overheard.

As the mother of three daughters aged two years apart I noticed that sisters were a built in play group. They did not need to constantly have other little girls over. If their own friends were not home, they always had each other. They were each other’s fall-back.

And for as mean and evil as my girls could be among themselves, the meaness did not last long. Eventually all would be forgiven. Their love was unconditional—even if it took a little while for the unconditional part to kick in.

For the entirety of my life I have counted on girlfriends to adopt me as their sister. And I have been fortunate to have found women who have overfilled the void. They were the ones who picked me up when I stumbled. They brushed my children’s hair in preparation for my father’s funeral mass. They brought me soup when I was sick. They listened. They read my writing.

They were the peanut butter to my jelly.

And because I have no biological sisters I think I treasure my girlfriends just a tiny bit more than if I had had genetically related sisters of my own. All sister-less friends do. We recognize that while friendships can mimic a sororal connection there is no blood to seal the contract. Friendships will always be more fragile than true sisterhood. Infractions—intended or not----may cause permanent fracture.

Sister-less women maintain their friendships hyper-wary of potential loss.

And sometimes my mother will call me with annoyance over something one of her sisters has said or done. It is my job to remind her that she is the fortunate one---not only does she have sisters, but they are all still alive and well. They share her history. And at nearly 82 years of age my mother is still the baby sister whose older siblings have long forgiven her for threatening to tell Mama. Because that is what sisters do. They love unconditionally---and they forgive each other everything.

Frozen Treat-Colored Golf Shirts

I like men in golf shirts that are the color of Italian ices: lemon, raspberry, lime, tangerine and blueberry. I think the colors look fresh and cool in the summertime. And I am not alone in my belief. My husband reports that on causal Fridays the women in his office often compliment him on his attire. His frozen treat colored shirts are a hit. And when the ladies tell him how handsome he looks, it is a reward in itself.

Not too long ago one of my husband’s golf buddies told me how it is all the rage at the club  for men to wear Under Armour golf shirts. But the very thought of the men I know wearing such clingy sportwear that shows every body imperfection not to mention every drop of sweat, robbed me of my appetite.

There are very few men who can wear Under Armour attire well. It is designed for tall lean athletic bodies---like Tiger Woods—not Phil Michelson or John Daly.

And Sunday morning when I woke up I saw a new golf shirt wrapped in plastic left on the couch in my bedroom. It was from the pro shop at the club.

I approached it cautiously.

It was the color of digested bile—greenish brown. And the fabric was Under Armour-esque with a tone on tone horizontal knit striped pattern.

 It was heinous.

I contemplated the shirt’s demise while my husband was still on the golf course. This was a topic I had to approach strategically—I did not want to insult my husband’s taste in clothing nor did I want to infer that his physique would not be showcased by the garment.

So when he came home I simply said You know how you enjoy when the ladies in the office compliment you when you wear all those golf shirts I got you? And he said yes—waiting for the shoe to drop. And I continued well I am pretty sure that if you wear the new golf shirt I saw you bought upstairs it will not illicit the same response.

And he laughed and said Are you telling me that I should bring it back? And I said well only if you want to keep the ladies happy—me being one of them.

Sometimes humor is the best avenue to success---especially when it is coupled with vanity. And knowing where to tickle a spouse’s funny bone is just as important as knowing his favorite flavor of Italian ice.

Do as I Say, Not as I Do

When a parent receives their child’s high school schedule in August the first thing they look at is whether their child has received the courses they requested. When the child looks at that same schedule the first thing they look for is when they have been assigned lunch.

When my youngest daughter received her schedule in her senior year she had indeed received the classes she had requested. But unlike her sisters, a letter was enclosed with her schedule and it stated that a new top down policy prohibited students from tweaking their schedule for any reason--especially lunch. Guidance counselors were no longer able to access the computer to make changes.

This was problematic. Kara’s schedule placed her lunch period around 9:30 in the morning—she needed to change her lunch period, not for social reasons, but because scheduling lunch at 9:30 in the morning is simply ridiculous.

And so I appealed to her guidance counselor who appealed to the head of guidance. The head of guidance dug her heels in and said no—even though the change would have helped out the system. A simple flip would have put Kara into a class with a lower enrollment with the same teacher and given her a more reasonable lunch period. So my guidance counselor, hero that he was, at peril to his own working relationship, pursued  someone a rung up. And because it was deemed that “the computer had made an error”, Kara was granted the change.

Fortunately for them, my two older daughters lived under a reign of school administration where there was freedom in changing a child’s schedule. Anything from academic courses to gym and lunch could be modified. The guiding philosophy was that if a child’s needs could be accommodated by flipping a few things around, not only was no harm done, but tailoring a schedule fostered success. Happy students were more engaged students. And more engaged students meant better grades. And students with better grades was a win-win for all parties involved.

This former philosophy to me is a no-brainer. Which presupposes the concept that the top-down decision prohibiting guidance counselors from instituting guidance was made by those with no brains—The top-down decision makers haven’t quite grasped the fundamentals of education—or management.

And when I see the posse of central administration top-down decision makers sitting all together every day at noon at various restaurants in town scarfing down their food, I wonder how happy they would be if in their work environment they had no lunch buddies or were forced to eat their lunch at breakfast time. I wonder if they would appreciate a work environment where what is good for the goose is good for the gander and not an environment where it is do as I say and not as I do.

On Downsizing

I was having lunch with a friend that I do not often see and I mentioned to her that I do not miss my children being in school—what I miss is seeing the parents with regularity.

And after lunch I found my way to Kings—for some food shopping. And I bumped into a woman that I knew for many years when my girls were in school. I had not seen her in a long while. She had been my children’s CCD teacher. I absolutely loved her.

And we conversed about this and that. She told me that her older son was just about out of the house as was her daughter. And then she asked me Are you thinking about downsizing your house at all? There seems to be a lot of that going on. And I said from time to time—yes-- I feel like much of my house is wasted space that is rarely used. And she responded with  I know what your mean---I have shared those same thoughts with my husband. And then I think—but if I downsize where would I go? Right now my husband and I can still lose each other in our house—do I  really want to give that up and sit next to him on the couch every day? Not to mention that my house is perfectly nice—do I want to start all over again in a house with someone else’s dirt and problems? I know what I have—I do not know what I am going to get.

I completely understood.

Which is why my next decorating adventure is to convert the parlor off of the living room into a leather-rich pub room. Sometimes a house that is too big is still not big enough. Sometimes a really nice house can be reinvented into something even nicer. Sometimes it is just as smart to start over in your own home than to start over in someone else’s.

Sometimes Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.

And sometimes casual acquaintances serve to keep you on track. They are the angels to your devils.

Serena Wins Gold

I watched Serena Williams play tennis only once in person. It was in the days when she, like her sister Venus, wore her hair in long braids and beads. She had not yet won a major tournament.

But you knew she was going to be great. She was that physically imposing. She was that determined.

And this past Sunday my eyes were glued to the television as I watched Serena win her first gold medal.

She crushed Maria Sharapova like a thumb on a gnat. Serena’s play was flawless- nearly lethal.

Yet aside from tallying up another goal medal for the United States, the following statistic made her win even more laudable. Serena’s serve was clocked to be equal to, and at times surpassed, that of Rodger Federer—the number one ranked man in tennis.

Which means from now on, with satisfaction, everyone can snidely say to Rodger Federer: You hit like a girl.

And on that basis alone, Serena will always be, my favorite all time female tennis player—displacing Billy Jean King in her defeat of Bobby Riggs.

Overheard Conversation

On  a Friday night my husband and I went out to dinner in town at our new favorite Italian restaurant—Nonna Bella. I overheard the man sitting at a table next to me with his wife and another couple order a Ketel One martini. But shortly after placing the order the waiter came back and said I am sorry Sir, we have run out of Ketel One. May I substitute Grey Goose instead? And with total indignation the man said Absolutely not! I do not support the French.

I am pretty sure all the waiter needed to hear was the word “No.” The bit about the French was irrelevant to the inquiry.

But that is also when I knew I would spend the rest of my intended romantic dinner distracted by this guy and his guests sitting next to me.

I learned that the 4 people, who were in their mid to late sixties, were all alumni of Penn State. That was the genesis of their friendship. And the man who did not support the French clearly did not support the jury in the Sandusky case either. He quipped that people do not understand about towel snapping and locker room behavior. He claimed that the charges of child abuse were manufactured or at the very minimum misunderstood--misinterpreted. And he said that Joe Pa’s only obligation was to what happened on the field. A coach’s job is to coach-- and nothing more.

And the four friends all nodded their heads in complete agreement.

I shook my head in disgust.

And on that very next Sunday, Penn State dismantled the statue of Joe Paterno and transported it to the basement. And on that Monday the NCAA slapped the school with the most stringent punishment ever imposed by the organization. NCAA President Mark Emmert said that Penn State had put "hero worship and winning at all costs" ahead of integrity, honesty and responsibility.

I concur.

And when my husband and I go to dinner again at our favorite Italian restaurant I may have a Grey Goose and soda. I have no problem whatsoever with the French—especially the fries. I only have a problem with egocentric fools who deserve to have their necks as well as their towels snapped.

Voice to the Voiceless

In the book The Help, the protagonist is a writer who gives voice to the voiceless—the black maids in Mississippi during the time of segregation. And a pivotal piece to the plot is how the maids protect themselves and their identity—there is a tale about one of their employers that is so embarrassing it becomes insurance for all.

Sometimes my dinner conversation revolves around what I have written for my blog that day. And one night a week or two ago,  I was recounting my tale of Jasper pooping in front of a self-important person.  We all laughed. My daughter inquired Do you ever worry sometimes that the person you are writing about will read your blog and get angry? And I said No—I go to great lengths to blur the identity of the person I am speaking of when I am making a shadowed portrayal (unless they are an employee on the tax roll). And my stories are all true. So if the person I write about recognizes themselves in all their nakedness and finds the reflection disconcerting, I am certain they will not admit it is they who I am writing about. It is too shameful. They will say nothing to no one.

And in the conclusion of The Help, Abilene, the key black maid, realizes that her story, while similar to many others, is indeed distinct. People will learn from her personal experiences and will in turn molt. People will think and act differently.

And that is what my goal is everyday when I sit down to write. In shining a spotlight on a thought, something new will be heard. The net effect will be change.

Sometimes it’s not that you have no voice, it is that you have simply not been prodded to speak. And only in uttering a sound, do you realize that you can sing. And when your song is heard, and your melody is hummed, for a minute or two, you feel like a rock star.

A Higher Authority

Last year, right next to the Congressional golf course in Maryland where the US Open for golf was being  held, 2 little girls opened a lemonade stand. They planned on donating all their profits to charity—pediatric cancer research. But the police came and shut them down.  The girls were fined $500 for operating without a permit.

The Winter Wonderland is a semi-formal dance held every year in December at the high school. There are always concerns about the safety of the attendees and so PTA and the school district work cooperatively to diseminate guidelines in order to derail issues and prevent problems. Information is sent home as well as posted on the districts and PTA’s website.

And one year one of my daughters was invited to the dance and so as an attentive parent I chose to follow the published guidelines. I planned to call the mother of the boy to express my expectations and to exchange appropriate cell phone numbers. I planned on sharing my concerns and establishing a curfew. And the good news was I was acquainted with both the mother and the boy and knew them to be well regarded. But when I pulled out my phone book and all the class lists and sports rosters I had collected over the years, I realized that the boy’s phone number that I had found on a nursery school class list, was no longer in service— the current number was unlisted.

So with little concern I emailed a PTA contact who I knew had access to the information I needed. I explained to the contact person that I needed the boy’s home number for safety reasons. And I specifically contacted this PTA woman because not only did I know that she had access to the listing, but because I also wanted her to know that I was following established PTA guidelines. I had a bit of an agenda to demonstrate what a good parent I was.

But shockingly the PTA contact person emailed me back refusing me the information I needed. While she understood my desire to keep my daughter safe, she explained that giving out the number was a breech of  PTA’s rules--and she did not wish to break the rules.

So I said thank you and immediately appealed to a higher PTA authority that could see the greater good of the situation. She promptly gave me the unlisted phone number. This woman did not even think twice about breeching confidentiality. She understood the concept safety first.

And when the two little girls and their parents appealed to a higher authority—the town’s Permit officer-- she waved the citation. And the girls were allowed to operate their charitible enterprise once again-- albeit recessed a few feet back from the corner. Because while the little girls were in violation of a rarely enforced law, the higher authority saw the greater good of the situation: charity first.

And the PTA contact who ridgidly held to the organization’s rules continued to do. And the PTA higher authority who could see the greater good continued to chose children over organizational regulations. And in the end it was all good. Everyone got what they wanted.

Manly Man Scented Products

There was a guy in college I was attracted to not for his good looks or for his mind, but because he always smelled liked Irish Spring soap. I sat next to him in class just so I could inhale him. And in a day where boys doused themselves in Pierre Cardin and Polo, this boy smelled simply fresh and clean. This boy’s solitary scent of soap was a magnet.

I was in CVS the other day buying toiletries for my husband. And where formerly there were few options for men like Right Guard, Safeguard and Prell, men now have their own manly man grooming products--lots of them—four shelves and half an aisle’s worth. And they have names like extreme sport deodorant, arctic blast body wash, cool breeze ultra conditioning shampoo, not to mention sensitive skin Aloe Vera shave cream and full body sprays like Axe. All these products  are all heavily scented--too heavily scented. They are so heavily scented that if the products are worn all at once the amalgamated infusion  is noxious—it is not pleasing at all. It’s a fragrance battlefield where the man is the loser. Women repel.

And the other day Blanca said to me I love the smell when I get inside your shower—it is so good it makes me want to make my clothes off and jump right in.

 It was the Irish Spring soap.

There just is something about Irish spring soap that makes you want to take all your clothes off.

Men must learn: one scent at a time. One solitary scent is the magnet.

Special Menus

In her day my mother did lots of entertaining. She enjoyed having company. It was nothing for her to feed 10-20 people at a clip. And when she did, she prepared easy go to food—like trays of lasagna or sausage and peppers or chicken piccata.

At no point did she ever wonder Is anyone vegetarian? Or vegan? Do I need to prepare something gluten or fat free? My mother never thought about lactose intolerance or soluble or insoluble fiber. She used her box of salt liberally.

My mother cooked what she wanted to prepare.

Back in the day people did not worry about the special dietary needs of their guests because way back when people ate what you fed them whether it was on their personal menu or not. They just picked out or picked around the things displeasing them.

And I was overjoyed this past weekend that my daughter’s 5 friends visiting from out of town had no menu issues whatsoever. It was the first time in a long time that I entertained guests that were happy to eat anything I cooked.

No one cared about the wheat or carbs in the pasta or the lactose in the cheese. Everyone ate my non-grain fed antibiotic laden beef charbroiled with residual benzopyrenes. They enjoyed the processed sugar in the Funfetti birthday cake. They did not mind aspartame laced Diet Coke.

It made my job so easy.

Because lasagna made with  gluten free pasta, tofu formulated cheese and low salt organic meatless tomato sauce not only doesn’t taste very good, it isn’t pleasurable to serve. Part of the enjoyment of cooking is creating palatable dishes and then receiving acclaim for your talents.

Which is why I can’t wait for my daughter’s friends to return—they make all my efforts worthwhile when they say I love visiting here---the food is always so good—it makes me not want to leave.

Those are the words that keep me (and my mother) entertaining. All good cooks cook for the applause.