Labels for Free

The other day The Alzheimer’s Association sent me some decorative return labels with my name printed on them.

But either I forgot to save the envelope and donation card or I cannot remember where I put it.

I am sure it’s something the organization must experience all of the time. And given the nature of the disease they are trying to cure, it is also something they are obligated routinely forgive.

It Takes a Partnership

Steve Jobs provided the creative element to Apple. He was forward-thinking—he imagined what could be—not what was. But he knew nothing of computer programing or the naked  bones of technology. And so he smartly teamed up with Steve Wozniack during Apple’s inception, who was literate in computer language and boards and hard wires. Because Wozniack, while skilled in nuts and bolts, could not think beyond the tangible unless prompted. And so Jobs and Wozniack became a powerful team who worked synergistically.

I completely enjoy home design. And in particular I think my skill lies in small space renovation. It is there that my creativity is best unleashed. I excite in the tension of form and function—especially with the added pressure of limited funding. And so whipping up a vision and a plan for my daughters’ apartments has pushed my limits.

Yet I am pitiful at the work end of paintbrushes, drills, and screwdrivers. I require a partner to allow my ideas to actualize. I need a Steve Wozniack of the decorative arts.   And that is where my husband comes in. He enjoys hammers and nails and all things Home Depot. He enjoys the task of making my ideas real. And even when he thinks I am crazy—he trusts the potential.

And we have become so adept as a team that my older daughter has joked that we could go into business as rent-a-parents. For a fee the Facebook generation could pay my husband and I to whip their first apartments into much more than several clicks above shabby chic. And we work so seamlessly it would not interfere with their active social life.

And while Jobs and Wozniack built a financial empire, my husband and I not so much. We have built only a good marriage and a good reputation among my daughters’ friends and roommates. But it’s a kingdom I am happy to co-preside over—it’s one built on love and teamwork---and most of all: trust.

Racial Profiling

Many years ago I heard the comedian Jimmy Walker say: In Northern Ireland everyone hates the Catholics. It just goes to show in a country where there are no blacks, Puerto Ricans or Jews, people will make do with the minority they have.

I was the only Caucasian in a sea of non-Caucasians at Big Lots!

I am contented to find bargains no matter where they bring me.

And when I got to the register the African-American cashier said to me with a hint of judgment You don’t have a Big Lots! discount card right?

And I said No—should I?

At which point I received a double dose of  disdain: Well only if you shop here often which I am sure you don’t.

And I was a little bit insulted. The fact is that I do shop at Big Lots! often enough. I have bought lots of awesome things at a fraction of the price that I would have paid elsewhere. Was she suggesting that I was not entitled to such discounts? Did my skin color and attire deem me inappropriate for the status of the store? Was I not good enough to shop there?

So I said Actually I shop here quite often so yes I would like a discount card application.

Anyone can be a victim of racial profiling. All that is required is a race and someone with an aversion to it.

A Secret War

For virtually the entirety of the time the United States fought the war in Vietnam, our armed forces were engaged in a secret war in Laos. Our nation did not publically admit this until May of 1997.

And I am certain that this is what the beloved well-respected AP American History teacher was cleverly eluding to when he asked his class Where was the Vietnam War fought?

Yet when a young female student eagerly raised her hand to respond I expect that her answer was not what he would have predicted. The girl proudly stated that the Vietnam War was fought in Canada. 

It would seem she was not even close.

But the teacher, without emotion, simply said No and then asked Anybody else?

Teachers face a battle every day. They fight a teenager’s resistance to knowledge. Teachers routinely maintain peace between their own mind and their mouth—they remain silent when foolish things are spoken. It’s a secret war they fight at all times.

It’s why teachers are deserving of a medal of honor—they often suffer battle fatigue--especially the most veteran of ones.

Friendships

When I was a Girl Scout we sang the following song:

              Make new friends

              But keep the old,

             One is silver and the other is gold.

The message is key for young girls who must learn the importance of female relationships.

And if you are lucky, as the years pass and you become an adult, a rare few of the golden friendships reach an even higher status—a level  even more precious than gold.

Some friends become platinum.

And I am blessed to have a few of these.

Having Superpowers

I took a survey recently that was designed to predict which superpower would best fit with your personality. I thought it might be flying—since that is my favorite dream.

I attempted to IM my daughter at work the other day. And upon doing so a message came up that said You are invisible right now. And I got a little bit excited. So I looked at my arms and legs. But they were still in view. And then I ran to look in the mirror. But I still had a reflection.

I wasn’t invisible after all.

I did not have that superpower. The instant messenger lied.

And the conclusion of the survey I took was that the superpower that most aligned with my personality was “creator.” Based on a series of multiple choice questions I would like to build and move things at will. It predicted that I likely was an architect or a writer who dreamed of a magic wand.

And I suppose “creator” truly is the ultimate superpower. It would enable me to craft all the other superpowers at whim. It’s like wishing for more wishes when you have only been granted one.

I suppose it’s why it’s so great to be God.  

The Debates

When I was a little girl I listened to passionate political discussions between family members. One of the most memorable debates was at my Aunt’s house when my cousin returned home from his first semester in college. My cousin expressed views that were common to young people at the time---disillusionment with the war in Vietnam and a vision of racial equality.

The most disappointing outcome of the first presidential debate was the lack of debate. There was no interaction between Obama and Romney. No shared fire. No polite antagonism. Social issues like abortion were never mentioned. Both candidates spoke as if in isolation.

And no matter which side of the political fence you reside, I suspect we all can agree that the vice presidential debate was very different from the presidential debate of the week prior. The moderator provoked more opposing thoughts. There was more verbal exchange. It allowed the vice-presidential candidates’ true colors to reveal themselves.

So what I want to see from Obama and Romney tonight is this: mannered finger pointing and clever retort. I want passion. I want clearly stated plans and a fact-based contrast between two opposing points of view.

I want the presidential debates to look and sound like the post dinner political discussions I grew up with: content laced with zeal. I want the candidates to look each other in the eye and say with authority That’s not true.

Maybe they need a cup of espresso with a splash of anisette first to inspire them--- the Italian version of Four Loco. Both candidates would then be simultaneously energized and uninhibited—like my uncles and cousins were. Because I could stand an elevated high-performance exchange between the two candidates—our collective national heart rate needs the work out.

Shrouds have No Pockets

My mother is of an age where from time to time she will point at something in her apartment and say What are you going to do with this when I die? And because I am honest I say I will probably throw it out. And she typically does not just get angry—she feels hurt. My mother feels so emotionally attached to the “thing” she has pointed to that I assume she is of the belief that if I throw the thing away, it is akin to throwing my memories of her away.

She fears being forgotten.

When I was in Atlanta this last trip my husband and I visited Jimmy Carter’s Presidential Library and Museum. The edifice houses all things Jimmy Carter—everything from his report cards as a little boy to his Nobel Peace prize. There are letters of correspondence as well as the gifts he accumulated from all over the world. It is a monument to his good works and his dedication to human rights.

And that is when I had my moment of clarity.

Instead of upsetting my mother with the prospect that my brother and I will not keep every single item  in her apartment including the beanie baby collection and the Lladro Christmas bells, we will create a Library and Museum dedicated to her memory—just like Jimmy Carter.  We can display all the greeting cards she has ever saved as well as  her overfilled social calendar of bridge games, trips and dinners. And the ugly figurine from Portugal that refuses to break no matter how many times it is knocked over will find a permanent home where all of mankind may now try and figure out why she thinks that chachka is so beautiful.

Because recently I have been telling my mother that all the things she points to will be placed in her coffin—so she can take her things with her--like King Tut. But that is not a very practical idea. The coffin might not close—there are too many items. The pall bearers will have to sit on top to clamp it shut.

But the whole topic is silly anyway. The underlying issue—remembrance—is moot. My mother can never be forgotten—my blog posts have animated her in cyberspace for eternity. She already is immortal.

And things are just things—shrouds have no pockets. The only vestiges of worth are measured in the love you shared. As long as you have been loved, you will not be forgotten. And my mother has been loved—so she has nothing to worry about.

Keeping a Code

I attended Yonkers Public schools until the fourth grade. And during my time there I knew a boy with very many vowels in his first and last name. The boy would often tell his classmates how his father, and his father’s business associates, carried guns. Yet, their profession was not in law enforcement.

And had my parents not moved to Dobbs Ferry and had I remained in public schools I would have attended Gorton High school, where my father would have been my principal.

And so, the boy with very many vowels in his name, who was my former classmate, came to be an enrolled student in Gorton High school. But the boy was not academically inclined and so when it came time for graduation he did not meet the requirements. This did not please the father who carried guns and so he conferenced with my father to see if his son’s record might be reevaluated such that his son might receive a diploma.

My father did not believe that such a revaluation was possible. My father was a man of integrity and believed in rules.

Soon after this meeting some Board of Education members phoned my father to urge the reevaluation requested by the father who carried guns.

But my father stood his ground.

It was like the Cuban missile crisis.

And the father who carried guns made a second appointment to see my father. And my father, understanding the business that the man was in, also understood how to appeal and appease him. And so he told the father that as a school principal he had a code. And that code was something he was obligated to live by. And so as not to bring dishonor to any of the parties involved, my father suggested that the boy with many vowels in his first and last name be allowed to process for the graduation ceremony. Upon arrival at the podium, the boy would receive an empty diploma case. And no one would be any the wiser—especially the boy’s mother and family members.

And the father who carried guns, agreed to my father’s offer. It was an offer he could not refuse. Codes and honor was something the father who carried guns understood. 

And the boy still had the option of attending summer school to meet the requirements if he so chose. But as the boy intended to follow his father into the family business, the profession required no diploma.

And after the crisis was resolved I asked my father if he had been frightened. I asked him if it wouldn’t have been easier just to have caved in to the Board of Education members’ and father who carried guns’ request. And he told me that doing the right thing isn’t always the easy thing. The trick is to find a solution that will allow you to look at yourself in the mirror.

And sometimes I deliberate over words that invite blisters.  And so I must remind myself that  while it would be easier to say nothing, that may not make it the right thing to do.  And at the end of the day, what matters most is to look at yourself in the eye-- and be comfortable with the reflection.

Celebrating Columbus Day?

My friend Tito posted an interesting historical blurb regarding Columbus Day on Facebook the other day.

And it got me thinking about something I never really thought about before—why and when did we start celebrating the holiday? Because as a New Yorker and a person of Italian descent I always just thought Columbus Day was created to compete with Saint Patrick’s Day and to give kids another day off from school in the month of October.

And so I decided to do some light research. As it turns out Columbus Day has been celebrated for centuries throughout Europe. It only became a federal holiday here in 1934.

Who knew?

But it also turns out that Columbus—for lack of a better word---was not all that altruistic. He kind of was a word that rhymes with the word “stick”. And the slavery and genocide of the indigenous people—particularly in Central and South America---which was the direct result of exploration---maybe isn’t all that laudable. Furthermore the fact that the Catholic Church indirectly had a hand in all of this has made me wonder why I ever chose to go down this road of inquiry at all.

I was a lot happier relating Columbus Day to annual winter coat and boot sales at the department stores.

  

And while they say the truth can set you free---sometimes, not so much. I am not sure that if the Knights of Columbus really understood the truth about their role model they would be all that okay with it.

Because Christopher Columbus ain’t  no Saint Patrick. And Leif Ericson discovered the Americas. So maybe the better day for little kids to be off from school in the month of October is Halloween.

Jesus and Baseball

At the last supper Jesus turns to Peter and says (to paraphrase) I know that you think that you won’t, but before the sun rises, you won’t just deny knowing me once, but you are going to deny knowing me three times.

Peter disagrees.

For many many years my husband had a share in season tickets at Shea Stadium. We were Met fans. And for as many years, we hated the Atlanta Braves. They were our nemesis. And more specifically, we hated Chipper Jones because he had made racist comments about New Yorkers when he was a young player. So, when we had the opportunity several weeks ago to see Chipper Jones play his last game in Turner field against the Mets, I was prepared to boo when the crowd cheered.

But Turner field, the Braves fans, and our stellar seats were electrifying. And while intellectually I understood that the tomahawk chop was politically incorrect. I did not just embrace it, I embraced it enthusiastically. So when the fans cheered, I did as well. And when Chipper came to the plate, I wished for a hit. I forgot who I was supposed to be rooting for.

I abandoned my team well before the sun went down.

And just as Jesus predicted, before morning, Peter abandoned Jesus three times. It made Peter feel pretty badly about himself.

And while I should feel ashamed about my switch of allegiance, I do not. The entire Turner field adventure was among the most fun things I have ever done. It was more enjoyable than any Mets game I have ever been to—including the World Series and playoff games.

And while Peter’s lesson was one of repentance, mine was of forgiveness. People make mistakes—even young baseball players--it’s why absolution was invented. Which is the angle I will use when I tell my nephew Andrew—a diehard Mets fan—why I have a light up tomahawk in my arsenal of sports memorabilia: Rooting for the home team is the Christian thing to do.

For My Husband

I met my husband when I was dating someone else.

But when our gazes met and we conversed for the first time, I remember thinking This guy is really nice.

And 27 years later, not only can I say “Once upon a time….” but, even better, I can say “……and they lived happily ever after.”

Sometimes fairy tales do come true.

Broken iPhones

For the last couple of months Cablevision has been having problems in my geographic area. Any and all combinations of phone, cable and internet service have been disrupted for extended periods of time. It has been an annoyance--particularly when it prevented me from posting my blog.

But because I had my iphone the inconvenience was bearable. I was completely able to make do. I could receive my emails, texts, and retrieve voicemails as well as make calls. But yesterday for seemingly no reason, my iphone developed an excessively enlarged viewing screen---so large that I could not swipe to check my settings. No amount of pressing and poking could restore its natural state. 

I  panicked. 

And when I googled my issue on the computer nothing came up. And while I am not easily prompted in most matters to  fix broken things immediately, this was an  emergency. I realized that I could not survive without my iphone. I quickly showered and headed to the Apple store.

 All the while I prayed it was fixable.

And when I arrived at the store there was a line of no less than 80 people. I thought okay –I will do whatever it takes for as long as it takes to get this thing up and running. I cannot function without it.

And I was standing  no more than 10 or 15 feet inside the store, frozen in indecision as to how I should proceed when the greeter came over and asked Can I help you? And in a hurried and concerned tone I said My iphone isn’t working. So he said What ‘s going on? May I see it? And he looked at the screen, tapped the glass three times, and poof all was right with the world again.

Apparently the zoom had clicked in---a feature a friend activated last week when she played with my phone but forgot to tell me about.

I felt like an idiot.

And on Sunday on my flight back home I overheard a conversation between two women. They were well into their seventies. The one woman said her new iphone was literally saving her life.. She had an app that did not just alarm her when to take her medication but it had an added feature to remind her which other medications she had already taken, as well as any potential interactions.

Her  iphone was keeping her from an appointment with death.

And while I hate to admit that my phone is as important an appendage as my arms and legs-- it truly is. It is my pacemaker. My phone is something I have learned that I simply cannot live without.

Age Ambiguity

I recently caught an episode of  Katie Couric’s new show. The topic was anorexia and bulimia. It seems that this body dismorphic disease is rising in logarithmic proportions in women in their forties and fifties. The spike is attributed to an unprecedented generational fear of aging.

When we got to the airport on Sunday there was a slim, extremely attractive, expensively dressed, model-like woman. And I found myself staring at her—not just because of her beauty--but because something seemed a little bit off.

Her face was flawless—too flawless. There were absolutely no wrinkles ---her skin was perfectly smooth. Yet unlike Hollywood housewives, it was not frozen-- it still moved fairly naturally.

Her plastic surgeon  was highly skilled. This woman was was age-ambiguous.

But no amount of exercise, anorexia, or liposuction could hide her barest menopausal pooch. And even more telling was the skin on her forearms and hands. They showed her middle age like a badge of carbon-14. Her appendages revealed what her face kept secret.

And I will not lie. I maintain my weight. And sometimes I look in the mirror and think a bit of filler might be nice as well as a more relaxed forehead. Yet even without tweaking, the female elders in my family have never lost their beauty. They are like luminescent copper with a fine patina. They are well preserved. And what I have learned from them is that the healthy goal is to look good for your age—to appear younger than your chronology—but not to the point of absurdity.

Because no one wants to be an afflicted outcast on the Katie Couric show nor do they want to attract unwanted critiques from strangers on the security line in the airport. We just  want to age really really gracefully.

I Love Caller ID

When phones developed call waiting—I completely embraced it—no more annoying busy signals. And sometimes if I was engaged in an important call and heard the beep, I ignored it. And I would press *69 immediately after hanging up and the beeped in number would be automatically dialed. But since I did not know identity of the party who called me, I would have to say Hi this is Karen—with whom am I speaking?

Sometimes it was socially awkward.

And then came caller ID.

Now we can see who is trying to reach us as the phone is ringing---even if we are engaged in conversation with someone else on the line. It has changed the way we answer the phone. We may now chose based on the identity of the person calling whether we want to pick it up or not.

It’s a beautiful thing.

Because when people who instill ansgst in my inner core phone me I am now empowered. I can either take a breath and answer it, or let it go straight to voicemail so I can collect my thoughts before returning the call.

I need not be blindsided anymore by crazy people.

The saying goes: When you see crazy coming, cross the street.

Just as true is: When you see crazy calling, let it go straight to voicemail.

Choosing a Rental Car

Upon arriving at the Hertz rental garage my husband and I walked toward the two types of vehicles available in the compact class: a red Ford and a white Hyundai.

And my husband—being the accommodating type that he is—deferred the decision-making to me. So he inquired Which car do you prefer—the red one or the white one?

And because the question was too good to be true and that the likelihood that such an opportunity would ever present itself again was less than negligible—I looked him squarely in the eye, and in all seriousness asked Well… Have you driven a Ford lately?

He laughed and said no.

So our decision was made.

Madison Avenue reaped their reward.

Like Father, Like Daughter

The ill-fated former principal at the high school was well known for being verbose---to the point of filibuster. He simply would not shut up—ever.

I was on the site-based team with him.  And at a meeting when this principal was in a circuitous oration, I, in total frustration, while sitting next to him, touched him on the arm, looked him straight in the eye, and respectfully said I think you have made your point—can we move on to the next item on the agenda because I’ve got be back home by dinnertime.

And last week I was in Yonkers at a wake for a family friend. My mother noticed in the crowd a man who had been a colleague with my father back when he was an administrator. So the two of us went over to speak with him.

The man told us that whenever he thought my father, he thought of a particular story. It was a tale my mother and I had never heard before. It seemed my father, at a superintendent’s meeting, was frustrated at the way a committee member had been carrying on way too long about a particular topic. And so, at his breaking point, my father interrupted him, looked at his watch and said Excuse me. Is there any chance we might be out of here sometime before Thanksgiving?

Apples do not fall far from trees.

Like father, like daughter.

Keyless Ignitions

When my last tuition check was paid, my father bought a chocolate brown  Chrysler New Yorker. He loved it—but for its trendy feature: the car spoke. It was a novel advance in technology that quickly grew old.

Two of my cars have keyless ignitions. A sensor in the steering column or the dashboard detects the presence of a key. And with the simple touch of a button, the car starts.

It was fun at first. I did not have to dig into my handbag to find my keys nor did I have to lock or unlock my doors—the sensor did it for me. But the fact that the driver need not be responsible for the key’s possession at all times has created more issues than not.

I have left my car running in parking garages in Manhattan and walked away with the key. I once had my daughter drop me off at home, drive to town, and upon reaching her destination realized the key was hanging in the mudroom. And if that wasn’t annoying enough, one winter morning I peered out into the driveway to see exhaust escaping the tail pipe—I had not shut the engine off. I wasted an hour’s worth of gas.

I am too irresponsible or absentminded to have a keyless ignition.

And the reason I imagine that talking cars fell to the wayside is the rise in anger management. When a vehicle reminds you every 10 minutes that the windshield wiper fluid is low it triggers a cascade of not-so-nice words. And the ensuing fury intensifies the likelihood of an accident.

Sometimes technology does not propel mankind forward—especially when you are stuck with a gasless car in the driveway.