My Christmas Card

Charlie Brown asks in frustration  Does anyone know what Christmas is all about?

Linus takes the spotlight and says I can tell you: 

 “And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.
And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.
And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.
And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.
And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,
Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

And that is what Christmas is all about Charlie Brown.”

Peace to you---and may the love you find keep you safe throughout the year.

Making a List

I had navigated through each department---purchasing things for the various people who still needed gifts.

I had my map and my black card in hand.

My journey proceeded without interruption.

And as I was making my last purchase in the men’s department I found myself next to a woman a few years older than I apparently speaking to her daughter on her cellular phone. I could not help but hear her conversation: Hi.  I am in Lord and Taylor right now. I got Robbie that jacket he wanted and so he is done. And you, Chris, the baby, and Grandma and Grandpa are done too. I also picked up that make-up thing for your stupid sister-in-law even though I did not want to..... I have one more thing to do here, and then I am heading over to "Banana"  and then I should be done with shopping for the day.

And although I did not know this woman, I felt compelled to invite myself into her world. And so I smiled as she updated her gift list and made the universal hand signal for check check check.

The woman chuckled.

Because at Christmastime it is all about the list. We think not about the pleasure of the task, but rather only about getting it done.

We just want to check things off and move on.

It’s about accomplishment.

We never factor in who is naughty or nice.

We purchase and give things anyway.

Which makes us all a leg up on Santa Claus and his elves.

Preempted TV

For her it was just an ordinary day like all others as she came home from Homestead Primary School.

 But it was not.

As she sat on the couch and turned the television on, each channel featured the same special news report.

And so, in frustration over her preempted viewing options, the six year old little girl asked her mother why this was so.

To which her mother gently said There was a very bad explosion today on the space shuttle. Everyone, including the astronauts and an elementary school teacher, died in the crash. It’s a terrible sad thing.

And so the little girl thought about it for a few sorrowful seconds and then earnestly replied I know it’s sad Mommy but what are little kids like me supposed to do?

Which leads to this: My discovering as I shuffled down the steps and turned on my television set this past Friday morning that Nelson Mandela was still dead.

A full 24 hours later and it was still the only reported news.

And while I accept that Mandela was a great leader and represented an exemplary life path, I must admit in all honesty that  I was over his death in less than 10 minutes.

In fact it was probably less than 2.

I really wanted to watch and hear about something else.

I really wanted to watch and hear about something that impacted me—like the weather.

And all I could think was Yes, Mandela’s death is sad, but what are 53 year old white suburban housewives like me supposed to do in the meantime?

'Tis the Season

As any accountant or spouse of an accountant would attest, the months of January through April 15^th are labor intensive. In addition to the normal day to day work, preparing tax returns is a full-on job onto itself. As a result, time sensitive tasks take priority. Everyday tasks are abbreviated or put off until the crunch is over.

It is a necessary evil as there are only so many hours in a day.

It is a grueling time.

And it occurred to me, for all woman—no matter what daytime profession she chooses, the holiday season is our tax season.

Christmas is a job onto itself.

Which is why yesterday I spent two hours on Amazon, Overstock, and Common Goods. I then drove and made purchases at two different Home Goods, Pier 1, T.J Maxx and A.J. Moore. I then went home, did some more decorating, methodically organized what I had bought, and revised my list. Later in the evening I consulted with my “client” Samantha about lamps and paint chips and blinds.

I was quite productive--but I also blew dry but did not flatten my hair.  I only made one of the two beds. I did 3 loads of laundry which remain unfolded on the folding table. I prepared dinner but the only vegetable was a salad—the entrée was “homemade” pizza utilizing a Pillsbury crust.

I also never wrote my blog until ten minutes ago—which is why there are likely to be overlooked grammatical, syntax and spelling errors.

Because something has to give—time sensitive matters take priority.

And it ‘tis the season—and God knows it is so very taxing.

A Thanksgiving Tale

My Uncle John was the funniest man I ever knew.

He was funnier than any of his three children or any professional comedian on stage.

Webster might have placed his picture next to the word funny in their dictionary.

Uncle John was that humorous.

And what I loved most about his  gray-zone wit was the way he could make my father convulsively roll-over in laughter. Through labored breath and tears my father would say John—you gotta stop. I can’t take it anymore.

Uncle John could make my father die laughing.

And these two men are brought to mind particularly this time of year. My Uncle John died a day or two within Thanksgiving which was also a day or two within my father’s birthday.

Several weeks after my Uncle’s death my father would also pass away.

But something interesting happened just after Thanksgiving the year Uncle John died. My father, who was robbed of his short term memory due to a brain tumor and never knew of his brother-in-laws’s death, told my mother one morning: John came to see me last night. He was standing at the edge of the bed talking to me. My father was with him too.

Be certain of this: no person in the flesh was ever in my father’s room.

My father however, swore to the verity of his tale.

And on this Thanksgiving I think of these two men—the best of friends—who sat next to each other at the table every year as the antipasto, lasagna and turkey was served.

I am blessed to have had them in my life. I am blessed to recall their silliness and mutual love. I am blessed to think that my Uncle held my father’s right hand as my grandfather held his left while walking together into the light.

I am blessed to think that in my father’s heaven my Uncle John continues to make him laugh.

And on Thanksgiving—the day we account how we are blessed---I give thanks.

 

Bullying

I could not have been more excited when I opened the envelope on the last day of fourth grade. Not only had I received my official promotion slip, but I had also received my teacher assignment for the coming fall—Mrs. Feinberg---the most beloved teacher in the entire school.

But it was not meant to be.

My parents had decided for a variety of reasons to pluck me from my happy academic and social world of Emerson Public School and ram me into Christ the King Catholic school where the only student I knew was Michelle—the unpredictable unkempt overweight ambiguously sexually oriented neighbor with whom I had nothing in common.

I was completely miserable.

There was nothing Christian at all about Christ the King School. I had stepped into an escapeless labyrinth of mean girl and mean teacher hell.

Inside and outside of the classroom shoulders were cold and invitations remained either unwritten or ignored. I was the bullseye of whispers and giggles.

And I listened the other day on the news of a woman who challenged whether bullying required adult intervention. The woman suggested that dealing with classmates who issue wounds fortified a child’s soul—that enduring meanness aided problem solving skills for them in the future. She claimed that coddling was more destructive than allowing callouses to form.

I am 53 years old and I can confidently say that the woman is a total ass.

Because the reason a scar is a scar is its refusal to correctly heal. While scars can be camouflaged with make-up or covered up with fashion, they never go away. They have little elasticity to bear future strain with normalcy. Residual pain results in the questioning of all ties.

Scars scar.

And In seventh grade my family moved to Dobbs Ferry. Sacred Heart School was safe—it was welcoming—I found respite. There were hands to hold. My voice found harmony. I began a friendship with Elissa—a soon-to be lifelong friend and eventual godmother to my daughter.

In rapid time, my soul was rehabilitated.  

But the scar still remains—it resides deep in the flesh. And even now, anytime I am excluded—whether it is intended or not, it plays like the Zapruder film: pop pop pop. And while I learned the necessary “problem solving skills” to combat the isolation a long time ago, I only wish that I never had to learn those skills in the first place.      

 

 

 

Vegas Baby

I realize that I am an anomaly.

Very few share my spin.

Because I walk among the statistically improbable who do not care a whole lot for Disneyworld.

The rides are okay-- it is the philosophy that I cannot not embrace. I cannot accept the fantasy as real.

Which is why I hesitated for so long about visiting Las Vegas. I expected Vegas to be an adult Disneyworld where people believed the Strip’s Eiffel tower was akin to a trip to Paris or that Caesar resided in his palace.

But nothing could be farther from the truth. The wonderment of Vegas is how everyone savors its lie—that while everything is fake and over the top, no one expects anyone to believe that it is anything to the contrary.

Deceit is the guilty pleasure.

And I was full-on in this Vegas mindset as I sat through the sales pitch at the timeshare. So when the presenter asked me What do you do for a living? I could not help myself. I had to summon the grandiose. So I nonchalantly said I am a freelance writer. Which prompted him to say Wow—and what is your yearly income? To which I said probably not enough to impact the purchase of a timeshare.

My husband smiled despite bewilderment and said nothing.

But later on over a glass of wine he asked By the way--what ever made you tell that sales guy this afternoon that you were a freelance writer?

 I responded I write-- and it’s free—and we are in Vegas.

My duplicity had him howling.

Because it is more fun to knowingly claim that you are something you are not. It’s more seductive to accept the unreal as unreal. There is “magic” in deception. And it is what makes Las Vegas Sin City—the anti-Disney---and in my mind, the happiest place on Earth.

Do You Work?

She said in what I perceived (either rightly or wrongly) as having a condescending edge: Oh—so you are still not working--right?

It wasn’t anything I had not heard before from a dozen or so different people over the past 27 years.

I reacted neither with defensiveness nor with apology to the pseudo-inquiry.

My even-toned light-hearted response was Actually I work every single day of my life. I hit the ground running first thing in the morning and I do not stop until I collapse on the couch around 8 o’clock at night. I work hard all of the time—I just don’t get paid for it.

And then I touched her on the forearm, leaned in and said You understand exactly what I mean—right?

But I am not all that sure that she did.

And while I walked away feeling rather self-satisfied, I quickly realized that had I thought of it, there were a few more things I might have liked to have added. I realized that I might have also said In my world, an off-premises job would be a luxury. In my world, it would be a luxury to run to a space where I have no emotional ties to the people I work for and with. It would be a luxury to be surrounded by tasks of no personal consequence where I might be validated monetarily for my efforts and in writing at yearly reviews.

Just once, I would like to own the I can’t because I have to work excuse for well-assessed expenditure.

Because the stinging truth is: My time is no less valuable or important than any other working person—office structure has no relevance in the equation.

And while I have come a long way in accepting the perks and pitfalls of my stay-at-home personal assistant profession—a career of no regrets--sometimes I wish I had a paystub as an indicator of my worth. Because it would make life so much easier if I could justify my title by a salary easily referenced on Glassdoor, and a resume posted on Linked-In.

On Coaching Girls

The little girl walked to the plate with bat in hand. The Dad, who was also her coach, yelled out Don’t forget to take the bat all the way back, keep your eye on the ball and step into that swing.

The result was a wiff—like the um-teen other times she had been at the plate.

And so the Dad repeated his directions even more loudly in the exact same manner he would have done had it been his son.

 Except that his daughter was not one of his sons. And the little girl, unlike her brothers, did not appreciate directions yelled out to her loudly from the sidelines. So in the middle of the count, she threw down her bat and walked off the field.

A different Dad, a few years later, in an effort to ignite some adrenaline in his daughter’s veins during a key soccer game called out Roxanne!!! Run faster!!What’s going on out there?!!

At which point the daughter stopped dead in her tracks and answered back so that the entire crowd could hear: Dad—how about you try running down the field with a pad stuck up your a**!!!

And at the end of one her more sucessfully played golf seasons, the golf coach, as part of his post season pep-talk, told my daughter You have amazing potential. I really want to see you dedicate yourself this summer to golf and only golf. And to be honest—if I do not see that you have put the maximum effort into your game this summer, I may have to think about your team placement next season.

Which resulted in my daughter storing her clubs, picking up her stick, and training at an intensive field hockey camp in Europe.

His speech was indeed motivational---just not in the direction the coach had intended.

Because when it comes to sports--- girls cannot be coached like boys. Girls require a more subtle hand. There is no nose immune to female spite. Inspiration is not born of intimidation or denunciation. No Viagra is ever needed to erect a middle finger.

And we have all learned that boys are made of snips [eels] and snails and puppy dog tails.

And as they are bottom feeders, they are not all that particular. Their teeny tiny simply evolved brains react to stimuli with no cognition.

But girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice.

It takes a whole lot of sweat labor, processing, and complex step by step refinement to create granulated sugar and desiccated spice for anyone’s enjoyment.

Sugar and spice just ain’t easy.

And neither is coaching—especially when you are a reactionary eel and know nuthin’ about gettin’ some sugar.

 

Not As It Seems

A little boy who was maybe 4 or 5 years old asked the man at the counter of Dunkin Donuts Do you make pumpkin donuts? The man said Yes we do! The little boy then asked But how do you make it pumpkin? At which point the man at the counter replied We put pumpkin in it—would you like one?

The boy nodded.

But when the man handed the boy a fresh nutmeg colored glazed donut the boy became indignant and  proclaimed That’s not a pumpkin donut! Where are the eyes nose and teeth?

A few days back my youngest daughter said Do you want to go with me to the Magrette exhibition at the MOMA?

I could not say yes fast enough. Viewing fine art is among our favorite activities.

But I was also forced to ask Wait—who’s Magritte again—and do I know him?

Because unlike my daughter I did not study art history in college.

I lack her sophistication.

And she said He is a surrealist but not quite like Dali. His works almost always have men wearing bowler-style hats.

Relieved, I shook my head in recognition.

And there we were---standing in a crowded gallery room admiring one of Magritte’s most famous oils on canvas: a green pipe with the words ceci n’est pas une pipe painted below the image. The English translation from French is This is not a pipe.

Magritte’s point was that if what people saw really was a pipe, then in theory one could fill it with tobacco and smoke it. Thus the answer to the question Is this a pipe? would resoundingly be no—it is not. 

Boiled down to its bones, the surrealistic philosophy is simply: nothing is ever as it seems—it is always more, less or not-at-all. Reality always is distorted.

So the phrase it is what it is in the world of the surrealist is less true than it isn’t what it isn’t.

And when the Dad finally intervened in the dispute between his son and the Dunkin Donuts man, the result was an admonishment. The Dad tapped his son on the shoulder and said Buddy--stop harassing the poor guy. Do you want the donut or not?

In surrender, the boy said yes.

Because even if a pumpkin donut is not a pumpkin donut, it still tastes just as sweet---that is the constant, not the variable. And it is a delectable thought that Magritte and all the other surrealists might put in their pipe and smoke until satiated.

An Aborted Message

He was walking alongside a populated road just outside the city limits of Atlanta. As the cars passed he smiled and waved. This young African American man was well dressed---in a shirt, tie, slacks and leather shoes. And prominently displayed on his chest was a large placard which read Jesus loves you.

Last week as I approached the corner of 22^nd Street and 2^nd Avenue in Manhattan I could not help but notice a woman standing in plain view. Her antiquated nun’s habit eerily reminded me of a burqa. The only visible flesh was her sullen face and her clenched hands. Her voice was silent. She held a large placard just like the young black man’s; but her message was very different. It read Stop Abortion Now.

I admit to having a little g-crush on the new pope. And by g-crush I do not mean a girl-crush but rather a God-crush. I think Pope Francis is pretty remarkable—and unlike his predecessor(s) I suspect he may truly be infallible. I suspect God may be whispering in his ear—his view is that enlightened—it is nearly Zen.

And if his past remarks on homosexuality were not brazen enough, he now has ruffled some other die-hard Catholic feathers. He has taken the stance that the church needs to stand away from small minded rules and not take such a narrow approach to social issues. He speaks of a new balance—not allowing the issues of homosexuality, contraception and abortion to dominate the church and overshadow its purpose. He speaks of mercy and love rather than judgment and punishment.

And I can honestly say that when I saw that smiling young man on the roadside wave at me with his words Jesus loves you, I was elated—elevated--touched. I was reminded of the joy in faith. I was reminded of the core of Christianity. I felt embraced. I wanted to create my own sign and walk with him.

But all I felt when I saw that nun on the corner was anger—rejection—incarceration. I thought Who are you to judge me? Who are you to demand of me things you have no right to ask? I thought Why do you believe that guilt is inspirational and why would I ever follow you?

She clearly did not get the pope’s memo.

Because Pope Francis has the right message. His invitation has no finite reply. He has the pulse and heart of his people: open arms trump folded arms across the chest.

An Independent Excuse

Just to get to get from the parking lot to the door of the sorority house required walking up 3 flights of stairs. Then another 2 flights of steps needed climbing to arrive on the floor designated for the sophomore girls.

Moving my daughter in was positively exhausting.

But we were met during this process with all the other sorority girls and their parents huffing and puffing and sweating their way up the incline with their campus supplies for the upcoming year. We shared grunts and groans with all of the parent helpers--- all of the parent helpers that is but for Amelia’s.

Because both of Amelia’s parents were conspicuously absent.

They, who at minimum had the means to hire a mover, chose to skip out on the move-in process altogether. These parents stood behind the concepts of self-reliance and independence to justify their lack of engagement.

I have seen in my time 5 year olds in charge of their 3 year old siblings at the park. I have seen 5^th graders left on the field with no recourse but to ask the coach with eyes cast downward to drive them home. I have picked up and driven countless adolescents home late at night because their parents were tired and went to sleep.

All those parents used words like self-sufficiency and not-coddling and problem solving as a cover for their negligence. They exploited these ordinarily venerated terms as an excuse for not wanting to be bothered doing their job.

And recently a child of mine inquired Are we (my sisters and I) spoiled? I resoundingly said No. You are only spoiled if you do not appreciate what your parents do for you. You are only spoiled if you do not know how to say thank you--and mean it. You are only spoiled if you expect things offered in charity.

Because I cannot reconcile not doing for your children things that you would eagerly volunteer doing for a stranger. I cannot reconcile egocentricity. My heart has and continues to break for children—of all ages—who feel abandoned and must dress their sorrow as autonomy. I weep that the phrase Mommy help me goes unanswered or cannot even be asked.

Because what we teach our children becomes their parental syllabus. What we experience as children   guides our moral compass. And it is better to cross the line to over-caring than live in the valley of not caring at all.

An Answer for Everything

With an angry tone she said If you can’t do a job right, then don’t do it at all!

That line pretty much summed up my mother’s philosophy in life: nothing is worth doing unless it is done well.

For the last month my blog has remained silent. My tasking exceeded multi and stepped into the realm of exponential. When I awoke in the morning I was faced with a difficult choice: to spend an hour keyboarding my thoughts into Word or to take a shower, brush my teeth and get dressed.

I chose the latter.

Because when you are being pulled in infinite directions the latter is the most pragmatic road—not to mention the most hygienic. An added factor to the conundrum is the difficulty in stringing two coherent sentences together when you are two plates full.

But the time away from the page has given me pause to think. It has given me time to reflect on my goals and the importance of sharing what is stirred up in my brain. I contemplated ceasing my avocation. Because while life has calmed down, my solitary plate is still rather full. And I am resolute in producing a high quality product which involves concentrated effort. I weighed standards versus volume.

The conclusion was that I still enjoyed expelling and sharing my thoughts too much to completely abdicate my self-made throne.  And so the new plan is this: to scale back and produce a weekly instead of a daily blog post with the proviso that as CEO of this non money making operation I may always add bonus blog posts as I see fit. Because as the rapper Bobby Brown sings it’s my prerogative.

And so beginning next Tuesday I will begin a weekly blog. I have chosen Tuesdays because it is the most random day of the week. Entropy is key: random thoughts deserve a random day.

And I will admit that sometimes I did a really poor job with my designated chores as a child just to hear my mother say if you cannot do a job right then don’t do it at all. I hoped she would focus on the don’t do it at all part—I hoped she would permanently release me from my required tasks.

But my mother was smarter than that. Because she added a corollary to her thesis—an inescapable irrevocable clause. Her part B was if at first you don’t succeed try try again.

Proving once again: mothers have an answer for everything.

Birthday Thoughts

I have always hated my birthday—and I mean always—even and especially when I was little.

Because not only did it fall in summertime when school was out and there was no opportunity to share cupcakes with classmates at snacktime, my birthday almost always fell on Labor Day weekend.

Labor Day weekend marks the end of playtime. It is the unwanted ticket to homework and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. It is when pools and beaches shut down--lobster shacks hide behind whitewashed boards.  It is the time when flip-flops and sneakers are switched out for shoes.

My birthday was always a harbinger of doom—a send-off to academic prison.

And now that I am older, it is a bit better—but still not so much. Department stores are still in transition—there is nothing good to buy to satisfy the void. Everyone is distracted by their own spiral of plans. Things get left behind.

But the pit is an opportunity to rise up and take charge—to use calculated information wisely. The pit is the final resting place of fallen ash—the point of dusting off. Because all birthdays—even and especially those on Labor Day weekend are like New Year’s Day. They are the time for a new start—like the crack of an untouched marble composition notebook opening for the first time. The lines are blank—in wait of words.

And so promise begins and hope takes hold. Because the past cannot be changed—only the future. Plans move forward to ensure that this time things will be different—that this revised formula will be the perfect balance. And when the candles extinguish and the grey smoke rises up, maybe this time  I will be compelled to say out loud: now that was a great birthday!

ADD and Scorekeeping

I was a good student. I listened and raised my hand. I got good grades and handed in my assignments on time.

I was always engaged.

But I was also the person in class who diverted the discussion. I was the tangent-maker. I would pay such attention to the lesson that I would curiously inquire  But is that always the case? Which would inevitably lead to some other teacher-ly thoughts outside of the lesson plan.

This need to go off course is a mutant form of ADD: Attention Divergence Disorder.

It means: habitual meandering from the topic.

It means: my interests lie outside of the box.

In Robert Frost terms it means inquisitively investigating the road less traveled by.

And this is what I was thinking about at the US Open Qualifiers the other day—how I could never be the person sitting in the chair keeping the score. I would find too many other things beckoning me from the job at hand. I could not simply count point after point and enter them into the computer. I would think Why is that player continuing to make drop shots when it is clear from the 20 failed attempts that that isn’t a good play? I would look around at the crowd and wonder Is that guy the coach or just a really dedicated fan? I would wonder why a stance was so peculiar or what the player was saying in their native tongue.

All that divergent thinking would impede my record keeping. Too many of my thoughts would lie outside of my demands.

Because tangent-makers do not make good scorekeepers. A scorekeeper’s role is to count without investment---to remain in a vacuum—to have Attention Revert-gence Disorder. They must remain on the road well traveled by. Because the only points that count in tennis are the ones that fall inside and not outside of the "box".

The Ant and his Uncles

I need a few questions answered that I cannot ask. They are a bit delicate—and they all revolve around gay marriage.

 I am curious to know what the protocol is—do gay couples keep their own names when they marry and if they don’t which partner surrenders it? How do they choose? And what about the offspring of gay families—especially if surrogates or donor eggs and sperm are involved--what does the birth certificate look like? What last name is chosen for the child?  

Because things are complicated—particularly for children—and particularly when they get to school. Formerly, class lists had a column each for the  mothers’ and fathers’ name—who’s name goes where if there are 2 Mommies or 2 Daddies? Who is the designated class Mom in the 2 Mommy scenario and in the case of the  2 Dad scenario?

Inquiring minds like me want to know.

Because if the ant was confused to find out that all his uncles were “ants,” imagine how confused the human will be when asked to fill in  his/her mother’s maiden name on the profile form for their SAT.

Gatekeepers

A higher up in PTA expressed her disapproval at my candor with the new principal. She pulled me aside and very brusquely said : You have to stop telling her [the principal] about all these things—because once she knows, she will be obligated to do something about it.

During the second heat wave this summer it became obvious to everyone in my household that the second zone air conditioning unit was failing to keep the upper floors cool. And when I called the repair company to report my dissatisfaction I was met with a woman who explained that during record heat, it was normal to experience fluctuations in temperature within the house-- and since the unit was checked the week before and found to be in working order there was nothing more that could be done about it.

 I reminded her that the point of central air conditioning was climate control, and if this was normal, then I needed a new normal. I thus requested to speak with the engineer.

And I read today that a man discovered a way to circumvent all the security controls on Facebook. The man then attempted to report his hacking ability to the underlings at the company so that the problem could be resolved. But the man was ignored. And so this hacker used his knowledge to illegally post about his newly acquired skill on Mark Zuckerburg’s personal Facebook page.

And I, completely understand the role of the gatekeeper. They are the person responsible for keeping the kingdom (as well as the King) running in a high performance mode. They sift through the debris to find that which is of value. They pan tirelessly with little reward.

 But it can make them a bit too heady. And as a result they make decisions not for them to decide.

They impede, rather than promote progress.

Because a gatekeepers job is to keep the gate—not rule the kingdom. They should be a conduit of information—not the editor. Principals, engineers and CEOs cannot fix that which they have no knowledge of being broken.  Which is why I ignored the PTA higher up, I enjoy a climate controlled second and third floor courtesy of the engineer, and the glitch in Facebook has been corrected.

 

A Teachable Moment

When my brother, my cousin and I were little, Nonny, our grandmother, would always sneak away from the adults and find us with her change purse in hand. She would hand each of us a quarter (which was probably the equivalent of a $5 bill in today’s world) and ask Are you going to spend it or are you going to save it for college?

The three of us knew the correct answer.

I was a visitor at a physical rehabilitation center a few times a week over the course of 4 weeks this past summer.

It was not the most uplifting experience or destination. The hallways of the facility were littered with patients unable to self-navigate without steel-reinforced equipment. It was a sad reminder of the perils of age. The air was thick with surrender.

But not so much on Sundays. On Sundays, the rehab center had a different atmosphere. It had some to do with the bounty of human visitors, but it mostly had to do with the bounty of canine visitors.

Sunday was the day the therapy dogs came calling. It was the day I leapt over people in wheel chairs and walkers to get some loving attention from furry friends on lend.

It is also the day that my guilt bubbled up—and not just because I thoughtlessly hogged therapy time from the people for which it was intended. It was because I realized that my dog Cosmo, who descended from a long line of therapy dogs, had the temperament and intelligence that would have made him a star pupil had I sent him to Canine Service School.

I remained steeped in guilt over the fact that I had denied my goldendoodle his education.

He is the only one of my children without a diploma from an institution of higher learning.

And so that old commercial from the United Negro College Fund replayed in my head: A mind is terrible thing to waste.

And my brother, my cousin, and I knew that my grandmother asked us that question with her change purse in hand as a means to lead us in the right direction. Issuing a quarter was not so much a financial transaction as much as a teachable moment: Nonny wanted us to understand the value of education. She wanted us to appreciate that college was in all ways an investment—an aspiration that required sacrifice. But it was also something with limitless reward—the least of which was pride.

And pride she had—as did we. Especially when we answered I am going to save it for college-- and we could see the joy in her face over wisdom well-understood.

The Necessity of Bottled Water

One of my very real  fears about having  Kara study abroad in Nicaragua concerned her potential exposure to parasitic disease—either via mosquites (yellow fever, malaria, Dengue fever) or through tainted water (dysentery, giardia, ameobiosis).

When you visit third world countries, sanitation is not equal to that of the United States. Which is why the CDC states on its travel website the importance of vaccines and drinking bottled water.

Because something as simple as consuming bottled water can prevent death.

I live in New York. It is civilized. It is not a third world country. The Health Department, in conjunction with the Department of Labs and Research tests the potability of drinking water 365 days of the year. The standards for tap water are stringent—more stringent than what the EPA sets for bottled water like Poland Springs or imported water like Pellegrino.

Yet I have noticed a trend in the last year or so. And it is not just in the high end restaurants of Manhattan, but at local eateries here in the suburbs as well. Waiters are trained to come to the table just after customers are seated to ask Would you prefer bottled or tap water?

And what is to be inferred is that tap water is an inferior option—that tap water is dirty and of questionable origin—and that both my health and palate may be in jeopardy if I make the wrong choice.

It’s a total scam--- and I resent it.

Because I do not wish to pay for my glasses of water when I venture out to eat. My water should be free just like the bread on the table.

And so in an affirmative do you really think you can pull the wool over my eyes? tone I say Tap water will be fine.

Because I do not live in Nicaragua. The water here in America is completely safe. I do not need a pseudo-sommelier recommending  bottled waters as if it were fine wine. And if the day comes, and I am faced with a water steward, then I will say I’ll take the regional water—i.e. from the tap.

Smell vs. Taste

Not everything tastes as good as it smells.

My friend Elissa and I proved this point when we were teenagers by having her silver-gray miniature poodle named Starfi sniff an orange peel and then watched the dog try and rub the bitter taste off of her tongue with her paw after biting into the peel.

The skin of an orange smells great—the taste-- not so much.

Which is why I was dumbfounded the other day that Fozzie, my visiting goldendoodle dog-nephew, ate a small handmade violet scented bar of soap which was hidden in my daughter’s overnight bag.

Because all soap—even if it is all natural and violet infused from Nicaragua, does not taste very good.

It is something I am certain of.

And so should dogs—whose sense of taste and smell is magnified 30-fold compared to humans.

Unless of course Fozzie is part bumble bee—and can convert the aromatic violet into a sweeter than sweet comb of honey.

A Little Bit Poisoned

My mother, like most women of her generation, washed and hung fiberglass draperies. The airborne  glass fibers flew everywhere. And I always knew when the window treatments were clean not by the fresh scent, but because my mother scratched her body raw for days afterwards.

In the cabinet underneath the kitchen sink in both my houses in Yonkers and Dobbs Ferry was a can of insecticide. The active ingredient in the spray was Chlordane. For fun and also because I did not care to touch any insect (especially spiders) I would spray insects with the aerosol until a puddle formed.

In that same cabinet was a bottle  of Carbona. It was used liberally to spot clean fabric. The active ingredient in Carbona was carbon tetrachloride.

To demonstrate the fact that a metal in its natural state could be liquid, science teachers everywhere allowed their students to play with mercury. And mercury, in addition to being in every thermometer, was also in mercurochrome and merthiolate – each a tincture which found its way on every cut, scrape and opened wound on every child in America.

Next to the fireplace at my Uncle Victor’s farmhouse, was a pair of asbestos gloves. They allowed you in a more facile way than tongs, to position the logs while the fire burned. We, as children, put the gloves on for fun and then put our hands in and out of the fire just to prove how well they worked.

And sometimes when I was little I was still awake when my mother entered bedroom to see if I was sleeping. I knew to close my eyes and pretend before I heard her footsteps. I knew to do so by the smell of her lit cigarette.

And I wonder sometimes how it is that any of us are still alive. No one used sunscreen or had organically grown produce. Hair dye contained formaldehyde. Nail polish had toluene. Car exhaust spewed lead and carbon monoxide. Coffee was decaffeinated with benzene. Naphthalene kept the moths in our closets away.

And I do not care to ponder how much radiation I was exposed to at the dentist’s office or from multiple fluoroscopes.

I wonder how it could possibly be that with all that exposure to environmental carcinogens we have managed to thrive at all. How could it be that we have all made it this far? Because we should all be dead from lung, liver, blood and kidney disease----not to mention dementia from mercury and lead poisoning.

Which is why every day is a gift. And why we should all be grateful for every moment we have together. Because we all have been, at least little bit, poisoned.

               

 

Over-Posting on Facebook

A certain member of an elected Board emailed me to say that she did not appreciate my point of view as written in my blog and therefore no longer cared to receive it online. Which is when I  wrote back to her to say that that was the purpose for which the delete button on her keyboard was designed. She had free will.  And I had no ability to reach through her computer and make her read anything that she did not care to read.

This past Saturday two experts of differing viewpoints sat in the plush interview chairs of the Weekend Today Show: a 40ish blond woman, and a 30-something male. The subject matter was social media. The woman was an Emily Post of sorts—offering what she deemed was the appropriate weekly number and type of posting for ones’ newsfeed.

She claimed that one post per week was the golden number—anything more than that was simply tasteless. She quipped Is there really anything so interesting in a person’s everyday life that warrants them typing it in the “what’s on your mind” box more often than that?

And that is when the man went a little bit ballistic. He thought that he had at least one interesting newsworthy event to post every day and that if people were disinterested in his newsfeed then they should simply not read it. He suggested that people who are annoyed by the frequency of others’ postings were merely haters who resented their own tedious lives.

His point was that it isn’t that people over-post, as much as it is that other people over-read.

And no surprise here but I am completely okay with people who might be considered overpost-ers. I accept it as an unforeseen consequence of agreeing to a friend request. I actually prefer the overpost-er to the underpost-er. 

    

 I am more apt to think What keeps a person from sharing photos and links with any kind of regularity? Are they afraid—and if so, what of? What makes them unable to at least hit the “like” button from time to time?

I wonder if there is a direct mathematical relationship between the level of a person’s security or insecurity and the quantity of their postings.

And that elected official would have been better served had she embraced differing opinions. In fact her constituents would have been better served as well. Closed circuits allow for no bursts of brilliance. Still water yields a stagnant pool; stagnant pools breed decay. Yet too much information increases only the odds that some of it may be of very significant interest and value.  At worst, even broken clocks are correct once a day.

Which is why I never honored that elected officials request and continued to send her my blog online until the day she left office. Because everyone has free will---including me. And I would not be bullied into under-sending or under-telling.

In-School Intoxication

Huff: to inhale the noxious fumes of a substance for their euphoric effect. (Merriam Dictionary)

My evidence is purely anecdotal. There are no statistics on the internet for this activity. It is rarely even discussed anymore as doing so is no longer an option. It was done without shame. It was done always with an adult present. It is something that I am comfortably stating that 100% of my generation engaged in. We may or may not have known better but we did it anyway.

 Yet the substance of which I speak was not airplane glue or paint thinner. It was something even more ubiquitous than that. It was something we came in contact with on a daily basis from Kindergarten to Graduate school-- both the cool and uncool kids were eager participants.

The thing we all did was huff. And the substrate of our euphoria was: mimeographed test papers.

There was something about the fumes of the indigo-purple ink embedded into a sheet of white paper that was particularly intoxicating. And the darker the print, and the wetter the paper, the greater the high.

It was our Ritalin.

It was what inspired us upon inhaling,to race through our exams.

It was the snort of champions.

And if you were truly lucky the teacher would allow you to help with the mimeographing itself. So not only did you get the opportunity to inhale the ink but you also got to crank the handle at the same time. We churned copies at the speed of light. We were human laser printers.

But the insidious infatuation came to an end. Technology caught up. Copiers became cost and time efficient. Production killed the mimeograph.

This generation has had to miss out on one of the best parts of being in school.

And the only overlap in the huffing arena between my generation and that which came after mine is a box of 64 Crayola crayons—there is something pretty addictive and intoxicating about them too. Intoxicating enough to make the color unmellow yellow—the stuff of an (almost) 1960’s Donovan song.