Happy Birthday Cosmo

Because Jasper, my Wheaten Terrier was rescued from a shelter, I did not know his birthday. I did not even know how old he precisely was when we adopted him.

But Cosmo, my goldendoodle, is different. He is well-bred. I awaited his birth like an expectant mother. I have photos not just of his parents, but his dog-parent’s parents. I have saved pictures of all his canine siblings. And if I chose to, I could probably contact the owners of Cosmo’s  brothers and sisters through the breeder’s Facebook page.

And today, on Cosmo’s third birthday, we will celebrate.

He will enjoy some pancake bits mixed in with his morning kibble. For dinner he will have some rack of lamb. He will receive a new collar and leach to match his ginger-y  coat and play with a brand new red ball since his favorite red ball has mysteriously disappeared.

I will sing Happy Birthday and give him a cinnamon pumpkin cookie—his favorite.

And his tail will wag and he will lick my face—because Cosmo only knows all that is good in the world.

He is innocent.

And I like it that way.

Because Jasper understood that some humans could be cruel. Jasper knew about hunger and disappointment. Jasper feared separation.

It broke my heart that he was damaged—my love could never completely save him.

But he is at peace now.

And I have Cosmo-- who never breaks, but only melts my heart.  Cosmo is a furball of love and trust—a companion to all. He is my personal therapy dog. And when I blow out the candles for him today, his only birthday wish will be that his Dog-Mommy keeps making him pancakes and rack of lamb and plays red ball with him around the dining room table. He will think life is good and never worry, unlike his fur-brother Jasper always did, that tomorrow could be different than today.

Popularity

From time to time over the years, people who did not know me in my younger days would ask Were you popular when you were in school?

And the answer I would always give was I was popular enough.

Because the word popular means different things to different people. And based on one’s personal definition, there is judgement of the person in which the adjective applies.

I am not sure if it is due to hubris or humility but I have always enjoyed volunteering. I always thought I had the skills to help people—to contribute—to make things better. And I have found myself either by design or circumstance to be in a position to nominate others in a variety of organizations.

And particularly when I was involved in the PTA nominating committee, I found myself smack in the crosshairs of popularity. The issue on multiple occasions was this: more often than not, more than one person had the prerequisites for a board position. But one of the candidates had better social skills—one was more adept at unifying the crowd simply because they were more likable—they were not abrasive—they did not offend. And because the PTA position involved interfacing with the public as well as central administration, the more popular candidate was almost always nominated. They simply made the better choice.

But the fallout was that some of the organization’s members rolled their eyes and said Her again? Why not someone else? Why is it always the same person?

The better candidate met with criticism based on their popularity—they were hated for being well-liked. They were also hated for their willingness to take on the responsibility of the work—again.

And I have found that when amalgamated with integrity, popularity is the perfect blend for success. Popularity need not be synonymous with meanness or exclusivity or physical attractiveness or being “cool”. It simply refers to the fact that you are amiable. It means lots of people enjoy your company. It means lots of people find that what you have to say is agreeable or smart or funny.

Popularity is an admirable trait in its strictest sense. There is nothing intrinsically wrong with preferring a golden retriever to a pit bull.

And when I say I was popular enough, I mean that not only was I comfortable with the percentage of people who did find me likable, it also means that I was comfortable with the percentage of people  who did not—and that is an important distinction. The street ran both ways.

Popularity is based afterall on population—and the size of the population can be as large or as small as one’s discretion allows. It's always contextual.

And in the very parochial sense of the word, I suppose I truly was popular enough in high school: I was nominated  a “Snowball Princess” at the winter dance--although I was not popular enough to be voted “Snowball Queen.” I did not wear the rhinestone tiara—Susan Gleeson did---it better suited her--and she wore it well.

Small Town Politics

In the late 1970’s my Aunt and Uncle retired to their summer home on Vly Mountain in the Catskills. And there they both became involved in community service--my Uncle was elected  Town Justice and my Aunt worked on the assessment as well as the election board. Their friend and neighbor Ted, became the town Supervisor-- the equivalent of mayor.

And what I came to learn was how contentious small town politics is. Discordant matters of importance could whip people up into a frenzy. It was all consuming.

No national or state election was more important than any election in the tiny town of Halcott Center.

Elections in a small town are not business, they are personal.

Part of my Friday afternoon routine is to make myself a cup of coffee around 2:00 pm and read my Garden City News—our weekly village newspaper. After scanning the headlines on the first page, I  immediately go to the Letters to the Editor to inform myself on the hot bed issues around town. It’s the best part of the newspaper—aside from the real estate listings. There is always an assortment of writings—everything from a thank you note to a fireman to fiery attacks on public officials.

But this past week the letters to the editor revolved completely around 3 upcoming Garden City trustee elections—one in the estates, one in the east, and one in the west.

The letters were accusatory—each claiming the opposing candidates of nefarious intent---of having hidden agendas—of which they, the writers were happy to expose. There were also full page ads—which had to have cost a significant amount of money.

There was less political hoopla when the 2012 presidential debates were held at Hofstra—which is a mere mile away.

And I can remember my Uncle and his friend Ward telling tall stories about elections being so close in their tiny town that people would carry the drunks in from the bar in to get their vote. Because it was not unusual for candidates to win (or lose) by a single vote. Which is why there was hell to pay if it was discovered that a “counted-on” voter never found their way to the voting booth.

And from the sentiment I am getting from my village newspaper I wouldn’t doubt that on the day of the election here, town drunks might be dragged from the various imbibing establishments to the polls. There might even be lobbyists pouring alcohol so that certain other voters don’t make it to the booth.

It (perhaps) is that ugly.

And on Election Day I will remain holed up in my laundry room. I plan to stay clear of the political drama and resultant fall out. Not because I do not know enough to make an intelligent voting decision, but because I suspect, that no one is telling the whole truth and everyone has their own secret agenda. 

And drunk or sober, no one is carrying me to the polls.

The Guy That Fits

The brain works at all times to compartmentalize—to sort new information on its likeness to things already known. It is why we may look at an orange, a baseball, and a globe and conclude they are all spheres. And this concept extends to human relationships as well. We chose relationships based on similitudes—we measure how much individuals fit a mold. We discard or disassociate from people who too closely resemble those who we are not particularly fond of.

Mitchell was a classmate of mine in college. We shared the same major: biology. And as the academic program was quite tight, Mitchell was scheduled in nearly all of my science classes.

I did not care for Mitchell all that much.

Mitchell, in General Chemistry 101, learned a universal fact: some molecules had handedness—they were called isomers. And just like a left glove does not fit the right hand, isomers react with other molecules based on their distinct orientation.

And from freshman year until senior year, in every single science class: biology, chemistry and physics—Mitchell, at some point in the semester, would ask the professor What role do isomers play in all of this?

Mitchell of course knew the answer. He had asked it over twenty different times. He was attempting to impress the professors with the one fact he had under his belt. And it got to the point where the boys would heckle from the back of the classroom Hey Mitchell--when are you going to ask your isomer question?

And yesterday, Senator Paul Ryan was on Meet the Press. His purpose was to present his views on the economy. But unfortunately the man uncannily reminds me of Mitchell. My brain compartmentalizes him—rightly or wrongly-- as a one fact pony. All of Ryan’s words on the economy morphed into we should be asking ourselves, the American people, what role isomers play in all of this.

And only D-glucose, not its isomer L-glucose, can be metabolized by the human body. The enzymes in our cells are stereospecific and stereoselective—they only react with one conformation of sugar. Our cells reject molecules that do not fit.

And because I reject Mitchell, I reject Senator Ryan. Because people, like molecules, are also stereoselective and stereospecific. We pick the guy that fits. Our brain is one giant isomer.

Redecorating

Because of Superstorm Sandy, my sister-in-law’s summer house had to be gutted. And while I am not envious in any way of her trauma, I am envious of the fact that she has the opportunity to begin from scratch. Everything will be new and tailored to her needs and likes.

For what seems like too long I have walked into my living room and thought I hate it in here.

Technically, there was nothing heinous about it. It was just that I collectively found everything to be tired. It was one of the few rooms in my house that remained untouched but for a picture frame or two for the last twenty years.

But I did not have the budget to throw everything out. In addition—most of my “things” were still “good.” And I did not hate my palate.Which is what held me in park for months—I did not have a concrete plan. Because updating a space is way more difficult than starting with a clean canvas. It requires much more imagination—and decision making. And so I began the process of assessing item by item what was still worthy—and what was not—what just needed relocating, and what was headed to the attic or the dumpster.

And finally—too many trips to Home Goods and Pier 1 later--I think—the project is complete: new art work, pillows and accessories mixed in with an edited collection of the old. I now walk into my living room and think Ahh I love being in here.

It feels new—it reflects everything about who I am at this point in my life. It shows evolution.

But it also means the two rooms connected to the living room are now on my nerves. They are the new rooms I hate.  They are the pretty girls who look ugly standing next to the supermodel. They too need a little botox and a wardrobe change.

Because that’s the problem with redecorating—it’s like doing laundry—it’s never truly finished. There is always a dirty sock hiding somewhere. There is always a wrinkle to be ironed. And there are always new things on the shelves at Home Goods beckoning for a look-see.          

      

Who Do You Look Like?

Until I was much older and understood that the comment was not meant to be literal, I was always terribly insulted when anyone would say to me You look just like our father!

My father was bald, slightly overweight, had an arguably large nose, and wore a mustache.

I was hardly complimented.

In fact, I often cried.

It made me wish I was adopted.

And when my three daughters were born not only did none of them look either like myself or my husband, they did not all look like each other.

It was a gift of genetic randomness.

But people would still study their faces and then inquire—I do not understand--Who do your girls look like? Because I do not see a resemblance to anyone.

And I would say They look like themselves.

And my children would smile, as would I.

Because it made each daughter feel special—unique, and unburdened.

And that is the way children should always feel--- like they are their own person--even if they do resemble another family member—and especially if the family member they resemble is of the opposite sex and does not conform to your personal sense of beauty.

Internet Medicine

Peter Bergman, the actor who played the character of Cliff Warner on All My Children announced:  I am not a real doctor, but I play one on TV.

It was a disclaimer in an advertisement for Vicks Formula 44.

There was a time when patients sought a diagnosis from a physician and had no choice but to take them at their word. There was no internet or Google. There was no WebMD or e-medicine. Other than a Merck manual, there was no access for laymen to medical information.

But that has changed—and for the better.

One can self-diagnose based on a list of symptoms off of websites.  One may learn about treatment and the prognosis. And in doing so, a patient may discover how informed (or not) their own doctor is in the ever-changing world of medicine.

The same holds true with prescribed medications. One can research the efficacy, proper dosage, and interactions of any drug.

And I am one of those people who believes that there can never be too much medical information—even if it incites an overabundance of concern. It’s how I knew my first gastroenterologist was an idiot despite the fact she came highly recommended. Not only did I discover her diagnosis was wrong, I discovered the medication she prescribed was counter-indicated and served only to exacerbate my symptoms.

It’s also how I knew the gastroenterologist I used after her was top-notch. Every protocol was spot-on. All the information was confirmed. She knew much more than I did—and that’s the point—I prefer a physician way smarter than me.

And it is not uncommon nowadays to see people sitting in the ER or a waiting room with an ipad assessing their current care—or a loved one’s--- in real time. They are making certain the physician is getting it right before it goes wrong. And if a question needs to be asked, a patient or caretaker is secure in the knowledge that they know what they are speaking about.

And I have discovered something else. Any doctor who will not embrace your well-researched questions but rather prefers the solitude of the pedestal they have put themself on, deserves a pink slip.

Patients must feel free to advocate for themselves.

And  in this Google-driven high speed internet  world,  even if I am only a blogger by profession, unlike the actor in the commercial, I am a physician on a regular basis. And the information I hold, needs no disclaimer or excuses. 

Balance

Sometimes life gets in the way of work.

And that is what happened today.

My family came first--technically I have not written a blog post.

And that is more than okay.

Because life is best measured not by the balance in our checkbooks, but by the balance of love in our lives.

A Day Off

My boss came into my office last Friday and said I am giving you off this Monday.

And I do not know whether my vacation day is in celebration of the Presidential Inaugural, or if it is in honor of Martin Luther King Day, but if you think about it, pretty much, it is the same thing.

The Correct Tool

When I mentioned in a previous blog post that an adjective that could never be used to describe my father was handyman, a good friend told me that her father’s idea of using a tool was picking up the telephone.

Her father, like mine, was a big fan of contracting out household projects.

But sometimes things needed to be fixed that could not be fixed for hire.

Sometimes using tools was necessary.

Ever since I saw someone on HGTV hang small framed mirrors so tightly over a mantle that they gave the illusion of one large architectural mirror, I have been obsessed with the idea.

Completely obsessed.

For months.

The trouble was I was unable to find mirrors just like the ones in the television show—until last week---by accident---in Home Depot. They were the Martha Stewart brand—14x14 three inch champagne metallic framed mirrors.

They were perfect.

Three Home Depots later and I had enough mirrors to complete the project.

And then my husband cringed. He said What do you want to do with all those mirrors? I knew the thought of tacking 8 mirrors perfectly to the wall like building blocks while I watched was cause for an anxiety attack. I saw him mentally using the electronic level and too many measuring devices to complete my plan. I telepathically heard him conclude that my vision was impossible.

But when he asked How do you expect me to get all those mirrors seamlessly placed on the wall?, I had a response ready: Industrial Strength Velcro--- one of my father’s favorite tools.

It worked like a charm.

The mirrors look awesome.

And among my father’s other fixing aides were WD-40, duct tape, super glue, wooden toothpicks (flat and round) and of course matchbooks—to level an uneven table.

Hammers, screw drivers, pliers and wrenches were left to the experts—or my mother.

And if my father watched this little mirror hanging scenario down from heaven he most definitely would have been  proud—not just because I used his beloved Velcro in an ingenious way—but because no one got their hands dirty or made holes in the plaster wall---two other things—besides playing handyman, that he also was not particularly fond of.

It's a Wonderful Life

When I went to my twenty-fifth high school reunion I was accosted by a former classmate who threw her arms around me and hugged and kissed me and said I am so happy you are here! I still think about you all of the time! Do you remember what fun we had working on the literary magazine?

I was mortified. The truthful answer was: Nope.

I do not think that I even had a momentary thought about her in twenty five years—although thankfully I did remember her. But I definitely did not remember any fun we had working on the literary magazine; I totally forgot that I had even worked on the literary magazine.

My grandfather died while my father was unsuccessfully battling brain cancer. The wake was held in Yonkers. And because the obituary was posted in the Herald Statesman, many of my father’s colleagues as well as former students came to pay their respects-- especially knowing my father was ill and this may be their last opportunity to speak with him.

The influx of people was a lovely tribute--people gathered around my father and reminisced about all things back in the day.

But one person stood apart from the crowd. He was a black man in his mid  forties. He greeted my father and spoke with him for a bit, then came over to speak with my brother and me. The man said I understand your father is sick and I am sorry.  I came here today to thank him personally  for all he did for me . Your father saved my life. I was a bad bad kid and headed down an even badder path when your father grabbed me and pushed me into his office. He told me it wasn’t too late to turn myself around--I could be someone other than a punk. No one had ever said that or taken an interest in me before.  And so I started going to class and I graduated. I then went to Westchester Community College and graduated from there too. Eventually I got my BS. I was the only person in my family to ever get a college degree.

And the former classmate whose memories I did not share pulled me over to a table where issues of my high school literary magazine were laid out. I recognized the cover of one in particular—because I had done the artwork—not that I remembered doing so until then. Inside were several poems and short stories I had written for Sister Alice’s class and the magazine.

As I looked through the yellowed copy I felt as though I had become reacquainted with an old friend—except the old friend was myself.

And the woman told me that she always admired the way I was quick to volunteer for things at school. And it made her quick to volunteer for things her whole life. She had in fact been a key player in organizing  the class reunion.

We are all George Baileys starring in our own version of It’s a Wonderful Life. No life is too small. No action is too insignificant. We just do what we do and somehow, incredibly, it affects others in ways we cannot imagine.

And sometimes when I am in an existential mood I wonder why I write my thoughts down every day—I wonder if I am just wasting everyone’s time—I wonder if I stop, will anyone even notice (besides my mother)?

But then I think Ya never know who’s paying attention.

And who wants to deny some poor hardworking angel from getting their wings? 

.

Too Much Self-Esteem

When my children were little, the prevailing trend in parenting was Bolstering Self-Esteem.

Failure, disappointment and rejection was to be averted at all costs. The unilateral theory was success bred success; and failure bred failure.

And so no one opened a gift at a birthday party because no one wanted the guests to feel badly about not receiving one. T-ball games were scoreless--both teams were winners. Kids received awards and trophies that were participation, and not skill or merit-based.

And this philosophy carried into the educational process. Teaming in Middle School became the norm. There were no more honor classes. Instruction was differentiated—not homogenous. Ten minutes was set aside every morning for touchy-feely discussions.

And in high school the athletic program was so strong that our teams routinely won state championships in multiple sports. Parents invested in private tutors to eek out their child’s maximum GPA.

Children grew up believing that they were entitled to the brass ring —it was a right irrespective of talent. Everyone was a winner—they had trophies and certificates to prove it. Everyone would go to college—even if it was the community college--- and everyone would pursue their passion as Oprah urged and get the job of their dreams.

At no point was disappointment a thought on the radar because all our children were wonderful and gifted and talented and extraordinary.

It was a lie.

And we created it.

And six weeks into my eldest daughter’s first semester in college she called me sobbing on the phone. I could barely hear her speak. The professor had given her a C on her paper. She cried how dare he do that to me--I have never received anything less than an A on a paper in my life!

And my middle daughter who graduated college from a tier one university with a meaty diploma in finance during the peak of the financial collapse found herself lucky enough to find her first job at a big banking institution—but it was not congruent with her passion—it was not the job of her dreams—it was beneath her cognitive ability. It merely paid the bills.

And my youngest daughter learned that when her university posted that a near perfect GPA was required to get into an elite abroad program—they meant it—they did not care how much service she gave on campus or how many professors recommended her.

My children had to learn much later than they should have how to dust themselves off.

My cheerleading, while well-intended, hindered resilience.

Life is full of disappointment. Even gifted, talented, and extraordinary people are not immune to it.

And I think the excess of the bolstering self-esteem philosophy has also exacerbated the bullying phenomena. Bullies understand that substandard actions still yield trophies and their misfortunate victims have no experiential skill set to combat personal adversity.

The reality is: scar tissue, by its nature, is stronger than unscarred tissue. All roads have bumps. Sometimes a little failure, as opposed to too much success, breeds success.

Which is why I am elated that the Garden City PTA is sponsoring a speaker on Fostering Resilience: Teaching Children to Thrive in Good and Bad Times.

Because teaching balanced self-esteem and resilience is better recipe for success. It is more concordant with reality.

Ridiculous Parentisms

When I was a little girl children were forbidden to talk back to their parents. It was a time when children were to be seen and not heard. And because of that, mothers (and fathers) were free to say things as they wished—no matter how ridiculous what they said sounded--because their words were guaranteed to go unanswered.

Parents answered to no one—especially not their children.

But the lack of response  from the children in those days did not mean that they did not notice the verbal inconsistencies and unsound reasoning  inherent in their parent’s arguments—because they did. Even intellectually ungifted children knew their parents were not logicians. Children talked back to their parents out loud all the time—just under their breath.

So when a parent would say Get over here so I can smack you. The child would think Are you serious? I am not buying that invitation. I’ll stay right here thank you very much.

Or if a parent said Stop your crying or I’ll give you something to cry about, the child would think How do you expect me to refrain from crying by threatening to extend my crying?

It made no sense.

But my favorite ridiculous parent-ism was I hope you have a child just like you someday.

This one got me every time. I would think Of course I want a child just like me. At least then my child, as opposed to me, would finally be understood by someone. If I had a child just like me then I would know how to better handle the situation—I would understand what made that child tick and be able to avoid conflict. I would have a comrade not a combatant.

Having a child like me would be a blessing, not a curse.

So bring it on Mom.

And I think the fact that my children were able to speak their mind was a good thing. It kept me on my toes. The expectation of a response made me twice as cautious to think before I spoke.

And thinking before speaking is never ever a bad thing--no matter to whom you are speaking. And saying what you mean and meaning what your say is better preparation for a child for when they reach adulthood. Not to mention, sometimes a child’s perspective is pretty damn logical and ought to be paid attention to.

Besides, in this day and age, any parent who threatens their child with bodily harm, flirts with assault charges. And even if modern day parents feel no need to answer to their children, they are mandated to answer to the law.

Leftover Poinsettias

On Christmas Eve morning the doorbell rang. I had received a gift—a huge speckled poinsettia plant.

The trouble is I am not particularly fond of poinsettias. I do not find them to be a particularly attractive species. I also have always been weary of their poisonous nature to both children and pets.

But I was touched by the generosity of the giver and so I placed the plant near the fireplace. And there is stood regally with all the other Christmas decor.

It looked festive during the holiday season.

But then Christmas was over--yet the plant remained behind. And there is no time of the year that I find poinsettias to be more disenchanting than the day after I place all my other Christmas stuff away.

Poinsettias are the guest at the party that refuse to leave.

And so the plant now sits in my living room in the corner receiving no light and water.

I want it to die—slowly.

I want to punish it for having roots.

And when all the leaves have dropped I will place it on the curb. And I will hope that the generous person who gave it to me isn’t offended by my flor-icide and better still, buys me a bottle of wine instead next year.

Because wine never stays too late for the party. And wine looks particularly good the day after all my Christmas stuff is put away.

Where Does That Go Again?

When I pull out the boxes of stored Christmas items from the third floor closet in December and look to place the various wreaths,  garlands and chackas in their proper spot, more often than not I have a brain freeze. I have difficulty remembering the precise locations of the objects from the year before.

But I forgive myself.

Recall is time sensitive. For eleven out of twelve months my Christmas stuff is packed away out of sight; therefore, it is entitled to be of of mind.

Yet every January I am faced with the exact same dilemma I experienced four weeks prior. When I attempt to put back out all the pictures, floral arrangements and the eleven-month-out-of-the-year chachkas hidden away for a mere month, more often than not, I still have a brain freeze. I forget where things belong. And I find myself obsessively-compulsively rearranging  and replacing items over the course of several days until they reach what I believe is their proper location.

Sometimes I forget to put items out altogether. And it is only when I rediscover them in July that I realize that they were even missing in the first place.

But, next year instead of worrying that my mind has completely evaporated, I have a plan: I have taken photos on my iphone.

It’s the only way to end the madness.

Unless of course I have forgotten that I took them.

On Flat Screen TVs

In the 1960’s and 1970’s people were particularly proud of their television sets—they were prominently displayed.  A large Zenith or RCA color television set housed in a wood furniture cabinet was the focal point of any living or family room.

But in the 1980’s and 1990’s exposed media became a decorating faux pas. Televisions and VHS machines hid behind cabinet doors in wall units or armoires.

I liked that. I liked downgrading the importance of my visual entertainment. It was like underwear. Everyone knew you had it but no one was obligated to view it unless they were in receipt of an invitation.

And then came flat screen TVs.

And now televisions are not just prominently displayed, but they physically take up the entire wall of the room. Everyone must turn their heads to follow the action on the screen—not simply move their eyes.  Unless one feels as if they are sitting in the first row at the movie theatre, the television screen is no longer deemed large enough—even though everyone knows that the worst viewing seat in the movie theatre is in the front row.

It makes no sense.

But I am not giving in—or at least not in my family room.

I like my armoir with the 32” flat screen inside as well as wearing  my underwear undetected beneath my clothing. And no one can take a peek at either one without my permission first--the way it should be.

Edible Landscaping

Pat Sajak turned to a male contestant and said I understand you do edible landscaping as your profession.

In other words: The man plants vegetable gardens and fruit trees for a living.

And the man responded Yes—I am an edible landscaper.

I suppose by definition that would mean that after the man plants renewable food sources he permits his clients to munch on his body parts.

I sure hope his body parts, like the vegetables and fruit trees he plants, are renewable too.

Meggings--Leggings for Men

When I was a little girl fashion dictated that I wear solid colored polyester knit pants and shorts with coordinating striped, floral or solid tops.

I hated it.

My first issue was that I did not like the feel of the fabric—it did not breathe. But the more pressing issue, which my mother will attest is true, is that I was embarrassed by what is now called camel toe. I was keenly aware even at age 4 or 5 that the cut and nature of the fabric accentuated a part of my body that I wished to remain private.

There is a new fashion trend for men—the megging—leggings for men. Meggings are selling out in clothing stores all over the country.

It gave me pause.

I do not want to see that—not even at the ballet. And so I will go on record saying that the baggy-pant butt-crack reveal is way less unslightly than a form-fitting-frontage display.

The habitat for some wild animals is best lived in captivity—behind a cage.

And pretty much I cried every time my mother put me into my camel toe pants. And I still remind her about the trauma—nearly fifty years later—along with making me wear those Easter hats whose elastic band cut off my oxygen supply.

Thank God fashion moves forward---all things must pass---including meggings.

Arriving at Adulthood

I heard on Good Morning America the other day that adulthood is not fully reached until age 28.

I disagree.

There is a very lovely African American woman who works at the Home Goods store in Rockville Center. She is rather aloof. I estimate her age to be in her late seventies. And whenever I find myself in the store, uncannily, I seem to always end up at her register—and when I do, I always ask How is your Mama?

Every time, upon me asking this question, the woman’s demeanor changes. She warms up like toast.

The woman's Mama is 99 years old and lives in her own home by herself outside of Atlanta. The near centagenarian still drives a car, gardens, and cooks and cleans for herself. Despite her advanced age, she clearly is still the matriarch. And her daughter, despite her advanced age, still listens to her Mama’s sage counsel. As her daughter, she is still mandated to tell her Mama where she is going, who she is going with, and how long she is going to be there. She too must report when she has arrived back home. The daughter must also give daily reports and updates concerning her own children and grandchildren—all of whom are accomplished. 

And if the daughter does not fulfill her Mama’s wishes, the daughter is still not above being chided.The daughter remains not only respectful, but grateful to still have an elder to mind and take care of her.

No one becomes an adult until they are parentless. As long as you have an elder to answer to, no one can never truly be a grown-up. It is why even when elderly parents die, the children, no matter what their age, feel orphaned and alone--filled with a sense of Who is going to take care of me now?

And after the woman updates me on the status of her Mama, she always says Thank you so for asking and then she inquires How is your mother doing? And I tell her she is fine--and still trying to tell me what to do too.

And we complete our transaction. And we both carry on with our tasks. And we both think to ourselves I can’t wait to call my mother when I get home and tell her how that nice lady at the store asked about her again.

And both Mamas will be pleased.

On Celebrity

I think deep down most people would like, if only for a short while, to live the life of a celebrity. There is something magical about being plucked from a pool of ordinary people to find yourself the object of a google search and with a secured a seat on Barbara Walter’s 10 Most Fascinating People.

It is what drives people to appear on reality television. Through this media, even talentless people get their five minutes of stardom.

And to some extent I am no different. I would be lying if I did not say that my secret fantasy is to have someone discover my blog and create a sit-com about it—like a Modern Family or Suburgatory. I imagine that a random person of great wealth and power recognizes my writing as quality work and deems it worthy of universal distribution. In my fantasy discovered talent reaps fame.

And the other day my friend Kathleen messaged me with the link to a website popular with the twenty-something crowd called Buzz Feed. She said check this out—my daughter sent this to me. The title of the article was 27 Painfully Honest Cake Messages. Cake #7 was mine—it was the drunken Barbie cake I had made for my daughter’s 21^st birthday.

My cake was famous. It had gone viral.

And while flattering, I was a little bit annoyed. I do not bake cakes ordinarily.That is not where my talent lies. Yet my cake was the subject of celebrity—some random person somehow found it on the web and brought it to the masses. It wasn’t the blog post I wrote on the Drunken Barbie Cake that had won me fame, it was the photo of the cake itself.

I feel like those dopey supermodels whose desires fall on deaf ears: But I want to be an actress!

Ugh. I am just an amateur baker with a sense of humor not an amateur writer with a sense of humor.

Maybe it’s time to rewrite the fantasy.

http://www.buzzfeed.com/skarlan/27-painfully-honest-cake-messages-82j3