Easter Baskets

I thought I was sly.

I thought I was clever.

Because when my three girls were little, instead of filling their Easter baskets with giant chocolate bunnies and jelly beans  and marshmallow peeps, I filled it with Spring things—t-shirts and little dresses and sandals and all the accessories like jewelry and pocketbooks for their Easter outfits. Sometimes the basket also had bathing suits and cover-ups if we had planned a May vacation. I also popped a VHS tape of whatever Disney Movie suspiciously came out from the vault at that exact time every year.

These were all purchases I would have made anyway but did so under the guise of Easter. The added bonus was I could feel good about not issuing cavity inducing and nutritionally devoid treats.

And for a long while this guileful plan was perfect.

As I perused some jewelry yesterday at the Kate Spade counter at Lord and Taylor, a woman who was right around my age struck up a conversation. She said I don’t know how this happened. When my daughter was little I used to go to Claire’s in the mall and buy her earrings and a matching necklace for her Easter basket. Now she’s 23 years old and here I am at Kate Spade dropping several hundred dollars on a necklace and earrings from a photo she emailed me.

I almost fell over. I had had nearly the same conversation with my best friend just minutes earlier.

Because all my guile when my girls were little has come back to bite me in the behind. I am still buying Spring things for Easter-- except my girls’ tastes have become much more refined and expensive. Old Navy, Claire’s and Disney movies no longer cut the mustard.

I should have bought them chocolate bunnies and marshmallow peeps when they were little—just like my mother did for my brother and me. Because even the dental bill from sugar encrusted decayed teeth would have been less costly than what I spend now.

Easter and the Afterlife

There are lots of books and documentaries about people having made trips to the afterlife and returning to tell the tale.

But if I want to engage personally with someone who has had this experience I needn’t look far. There is person living about a mile away who has made this journey. In fact I have known her all of my life. She is my mother. In September of 1960 after being coded blue and having received last rites, she came out of her body and saw the light. She told the all-powerful presence telpathically that she wasn’t ready—her family needed her. And miraculously she was sent back into her body.

And so for me, all the accounts of Jesus’ resurrection are a natural belief.

Because mothers do not lie.

Christ rose. There is a heaven. And it is wonderful on the other side.

Easter is real.

Erroneous Assuptions

Not too long ago the comedienne Sara Silverman was being interviewed on the Andy Cohen Show. Silverman was saying that she was born and raised in New Hampshire. But for some reason when she got to college and later began her professional career, people would always say to her after being introduced Are you from New York?

She quickly realized that New York was the code word for Jewish.

Last week while I was visiting Kara in Atlanta I drove myself to get a manicure and pedicure while she was in class. As I was soaking my feet I found myself sitting next to a man slightly older than I and his 87 year old mother.

The man engaged me in conversation.

I told him that I was from Long Island, New York and that my daughter was a student at Emory. I also mentioned that my husband worked as a CPA and one of my daughters lives in Murray Hill.

To which he inquired Have you been to Israel yet?

And because I wasn’t clear of his thought process and did not want to presume his intent in asking,  I said The biggest trip I have ever taken was to Italy on my honeymoon.

I believed this was a clever yet neutral way of indicating that I was Italian-Catholic.

But I was mistaken.

The man then excitedly turned to his mother and said This lady is Sephardic!

And what Sara Silverman and I learned is : If you are Jewish, people assume you are from New York; and if you are from New York, people assume you are Jewish.

And what this white man with his erroneous assumptions from Atlanta would never guess is that when I would tell my New York friends (Christian or Jewish) that Kara’s roommate, in her freshman year at Emory grew up in Atlanta, they would always ask Is she black?

 

Because New Yorkers have their own set of erroneous assumptions about people who live outside of their region.

Women Worry?

I heard on the news that the CDC found that women as a whole worry more than men.

I suspect that every woman who heard that report said out loud to themselves: No sh#% Sherlock.

Worry is what makes a woman a woman—the ability to think ahead---to anticipate--to be proactive.

Because worry is only a negative trait if it is needless.Worry is only fruitless if it does not prompt a plan B or C or D.

Worry need not be debilitating.

Worry, if used wisely, allows you to be worry-free.

And so I am not going to worry that I worry. Because it is integrated into my DNA---there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. And that which we cannot change we must learn to live with—and that which we cannot change and must learn to live with is collectively called: men.

A New Pope

I am not sure why the Sisters of Charity were so named—charity was an oxymoron. These nuns were the hit your hand with the ruler and stand in the corner for hours with gum on your nose types.

My experience with them was not all that positive.

But I cannot say the same when I was in high school at our Lady of Victory Academy. The sisters of Mercy were indeed merciful. Sister Dillane, the principal, taught the girls that there were professions other than secretarial science, teaching or nursing—that marriage was not an aspiration but a relationship. She encouraged the girls to be more.

Sister Dillane was a role model.

And the assistant principal, Sister Margaret wore mini-skirts and occasionally forgot to wear a bra under her t-shirt as was common in 1974—although not for nuns. She was sharply dressed and sharp minded.

She knew all the words to Helen Reddy’s I am Woman.

She was a role model.

And Sister Galliano was the most interesting of all. She was also young, like Sister Margaret. She let it be known that her greatest aspiration was to become a Catholic priest. She saw little reason why her vagina precluded her from standing with a chalice at the altar. She took issue with the church’s anti-woman policies.

Sister Galliano was our Dean of Students—and she was a role model.

And in college I met with liberal minded priests and nuns. They were schooled in Martin Buber and Hans Kung. They did not just question but they mocked the man-made rules of Catholicism. They gave evidence as to why the Vatican was an old boys club and politically corrupt. They nullified the reasons for celibacy, a man-only priesthood, and a closed door confessional. They doubted the pope was infallible. They found a gay zone for birth control and absolution for abortion.

Back then all these spiritual leaders were considered progressive—in this day in age they would be considered heretics. Yet all these forward thinkers served as my role models. They are the reason that I accept the sometimes angry barefoot itinerant preacher in the Gospel and not so much the gold ringed richly robed men in the Vatican.

And so when the non-Catholic receptionist at the dentist’s office said to me You have a new pope—what do you think? I was a little hesitant to answer. I said I am pleased that he is from South America and that he can lend a different cultural perspective. I am also pleased that he is a Jesuit and he appears to be a humble man.  But I would have liked for him to have been younger and I doubt that we will see any real change or modifications in church law.

Because unlike other religions, Catholicism does not trisect itself as orthodox, conservative or reformed. There is not a high Catholic and a low Catholic church. Catholicism is one size fits all—a big round hole which leaves no room for squares or ovals or any other polygram. And I am a square-- like Sister Dillane, Sister Margaret and Sister Galliano. We want more. We want our church to be tolerant and open—something that will not happen in our lifetime even with faith.

High Heels--The Cure

The other day Sara Jessica Parker was on the news claiming that wearing those famous Manolos had ruined her feet.

Before playing field hockey or sometimes golf, my daughter Kara would tape up or have the trainer tape up her feet. It prevented injury and blisters. The tape gave support and extended comfort as she played.

My daughter Briana also taped up her feet before dance performances.

No doubt, a good tape job can be key to an athletes’ or a dancers’ success.

And that is when it hit me—maybe I should tape up my feet before attending events where I was mandated to wear high heels for an extended period of time. Perhaps the added support of the tape would prevent chafing and tired feet. Maybe I might be able to wear my heels without discomfort.

And so a few years back at my friends’ sons’ wedding I tried it. I bought clear surgical tape and wrapped it around the anterior of my foot making sure to cover the areas most likely to blister or pain me. And I did such a good job that no one even noticed despite the fact I was wearing strappy sandals.

It was a miracle. The tape provided the support I needed. I made it through the entire evening without a throbbing pain while dancing the night away.

And ever since my discovery  I make sure to keep tape in my medicine cabinet—because I am not ready to toss out the high heels nor am I willing to continue suffering in fabulous shoes. I just need to figure out how to remedy my aging knees and back—because they are the ill that tape cannot cure—and I have no plans to give up on my dancing yet.

Maybe I should send some tape to Sara Jessica Parker—her knees and back are okay--- and she is way too young to wear black Velcro Reeboks on the red carpet.

Bye Bye Bovines

With satisfaction, I sighed. My kitchen is officially cow-less. All the bovines as well as the ducks and pigs have been packed away—for good.

It was past due. It finally occurred to me that I do not live in the country or on a farm.

And so the rustic accessories that remain are vegetable prints, a still life with lemons, my Aunt Jackie’s washboard and a reproduction coffee print.

All those things are justifiably suburban. Although I still eeked in some animals in the hallway—a large pen and ink of Picasso’s penguin, dog, chick, horse and flamingo. Because classical artwork  is timeless-- irrespective of geography or animals du jour.

And I still need some animals lurking about—even if I only live on Poplar Street. 

PBS and Horror Shows

My mother was (and is) a big fan of PBS. When I was growing up I was subjected to Masterpiece theatre and all things British.

My mother is a bit of an anglophile.

And in 1970 the entire family was mandated to watch The Six Wives of Henry the Eighth.

For me, as a 10 year old girl, it was like watching a horror movie: Arranged marriages and big fat ugly guy chopping off the heads of his wives just because they could not give him a male heir—not to mention the thought of what the wives had to do with the big fat ugly guy to even get an heir.

It was frightening.

And on the news today not only did I hear that Princess Kate might have slipped up and mentioned that she was having a girl, I learned that if she did have a girl, as firstborn she would be heir to the throne—even if she had a baby brother.

The rules have changed.

It only took 900 years----give or take.

And this July, PBS is bringing back The Six Wives of Henry the Eighth— redone as a new mini-series. This one will be bolder and more intimate. But the fat guy will still remain--as will the decapitations, exiles and incest.

I won’t be watching. But my mother will be. I will view Game of Thrones instead--the fictional HBO series where medieval women may rule, raise dragons, and apply swords to men’s necks. And this season, killer zombies come down from the North. It’s the kind of horror show that even a ten year old girl might find less scary than the truth that is portrayed on channel 13.

A Leopard's Spots

A friend said : And so I told her--He is what he is. And if I have learned anything in all the years that I have been married, it is that no one can change anyone—because God knows I have tried.

During the snow storm I continued with a project that I had already started—cleaning out my pantry/broom closet. And in reorganizing the gift and shopping bags I found an illustrated book written by my daughter. She was 9 at the time.

It was called “The Puppy.” It was about a little girl who wanted a puppy for her birthday—pretty standard stuff. But what was more telling than the plot was the underlying angst and the fear the main character had over making a decision—and then the angst over the angst.

The little girl in the story was my not only my daughter then, but now.

Because my friend is correct. We are who we are. And while we all have the capacity to change, it must be self-induced. Turning oneself around requires  a conscious effort to fight what comes naturally—to go against what we are programmed to be.

We are all hard wired with autoplay.

And the key to a leopard changing their spots might be less about using a giant spray bottle of Resolve in tandem with a spray can of Rustoleum, and more about finding a leopardess who appreciates the spots’ location exactly as they are.

So Over It

I am so over it: gray black brown. Boots fleece wool. Hats scarves gloves. De-icer shovels salt.

And as I look out the window on this Friday morning, the falling snow does not appear: picturesque pristine tranquil. 

It is dark dreary dismal.

I long for color: cornflower coral lemon. Flats cotton twill linen. Blazers t-shirts cropped pants. Pansies tulips crocuses.

Winter has overstayed its welcome.

Spring cannot arrive too soon.

And so I sit-- with my apple green t-shirt beneath my sepia sweater—like a seedling beneath the soil—waiting for the snow to melt so life can immerge unencumbered, colored and with a new beginning.

Lent and Cocoa Puffs

I was in Kings just prior to lunchtime on the first Friday in Lent. And so I bought a box of Cocoa Puffs and a half gallon of milk so that I might satisfy the meatless Friday rule.

Until that day I never questioned exactly why the Catholic Church created the rule in the first place although I suspected the abstinence had to do with sacrifice.

So as with all things I do not understand, I googled it. And I learned that Fridays were not to be meatless—the literal translation was fleshless. The idea was to stay away from (sins of) the flesh. It also had to do with the fact that Jesus sacrificed his flesh for eternal life.

The bottom line was that not eating flesh (or meat) was supposed to be an ascetic work.

But for me, eating pizza, lox and bagels, pasta, fish and seafood is cause for celebration. I consider those foods an indulgence-- and not a sacrifice.

Fridays in Lent are an opportunity for me to feel good about being bad.

And so today I will forgo the Cocoa Puffs in lieu of Cheerios. I like them just the same and the box says they are heart healthy. Therefore I may justify my indulgence not as a reminder of sins of the flesh but as a reminder of the (healthy) Sacred Heart of Jesus. 

Fashion and Decor

While enjoying some drinks while out-to-eat, a woman my age came into the room. She was wearing an above-knee skirt with textural details, tights, an on-trend top and bootie-style shoes.

She looked great.

Very fashionable.

I loved it.

But it was a look I could never quite pull off--I am too petite. I prefer dresses to skirts. And when I wear color, I wear either it monochromatically or in an all-over pattern. I like polka dots and narrow subtle stripes. I never wear scarves.

    

I wear styles that express who I am and are proportionate with my stature.

The look right now in home décor is neutrals. It is all about layering textures and geometric prints. It is about modernism and shine. Bold prints are limited to accessories—if at all.

The look is very very striking—but it isn’t quite me. I prefer being surrounded by color. I also become dizzied by geometric prints. I prefer softer all-over patterns-- like paisleys. I like un-fussy window treatments.

And so when I recently redecorated my first floor rooms, I had to make a decision: to dress the house in haute couture or to dress the house in my own aesthetic.

I chose my own aesthetic.

Because houses and people need to be dressed in ways that express a personal uniqueness. My closet is an amalgam of styles best worn by petite women: icons like Audrey Hepburn, Eva Longoria and even Kelly Osborn. And my house reflects that—it is traditional but not—Asian inspired with a bit of modern and contemporary styles. Nothing but the artwork (just like my jewelry) is oversized.

And while I enjoy and appreciate both the décor and wardrobe of other people—particularly those with good taste--- the living space and closet that I love the most, is my own.

It fits.

And it says who I am.

What Lurks Behind

If I have learned anything from years of watching home improvement/renovation television shows, it that is you never know what is lurking behind the walls. Just because there appears to be functioning plumbing, wiring and structural integrity to the naked eye, there is no guarantee that things are not amiss when demolition begins.

And the human body is no different.

So when I went to the dentist to have a new permanent bridge made because my former dentist evidently did not understand what the word “permanent” meant, boy oh boy did we find a contractor’s nightmare: my back molar had hairline cracks from years of a structurally unsound device laid upon it-- the tooth crumbled once drilling began. And the molar supporting the device in the front had undetected decay—decay only evident once the enamel was chiseled away.

The simple restructuring project was not so simple after all.

It required overtime pay and a job delay.

And when the walls of my daughters’ bathroom met with the sledge hammer we too were met with surprise. The plumbing was in good condition as was the wiring. There was just one unexpected carpentry situation. The toilet had been leaking slowly over 70 years and so the beam supporting it had rotted away to less than a quarter of an inch. Had a human being of significant girth chosen to sit on the toilet they would have journeyed through the bathroom floor and found themselves in the dining room dazed and embarrassed.

And while contractors charge their clients more money for delays and unforeseen building issues, dentists do not. Dentists must eat the loss—which is a good thing since they are the experts  after all on corrective mastication and its building materials.

Creating Our Soundtrack

Immediately when I got into my electric blue 1974 Plymouth Duster after my last final exam of my first semester in college, I put a Jackson Browne cassette into the tape player. I was exhausted--depleted both physically and mentally. The journey home necessitated me hearing Running on Empty.

The night before Briana took her SAT, I meticulously put a Doors CD into the audio player of my car. I designed it such that when I started up the engine on the morning of her exam, Briana would be inspired to hear Jim Morrison croon Keep your eyes on the road and your hand upon the wheel.

And the other day as I watched the pope on television in his helicopter flying away from the Vatican to Castel Gondolfo, I could not help but wonder What was on his ipod—what songs did he chose to listen to on his flight?

I have no doubt that his playlist began with The Eagles’ song Desperado-- then Take it Easy; and finally Already Gone.

Because either consciously or subconsciously, we all use lyrics and melodies as the soundtrack of our lives.

Songs alter our disposition; they uplift or affirm our repose; they often inspire or spark courage.

Every time we chose or reject a song we are writing our own personal musical.

And what I remember most about my 45 minute drive home from college on that December day in 1978 was that I do not remember it at all. It was one of those rare times spent behind the wheel where you remember getting in the car, and you remember pulling into the driveway, but you remember nothing in between.

I was completely on autopilot.

Somehow Jackson Browne looked out on the road rushing under my wheels and guided me home--just as Jim Morrison let Briana roll during her SATs, and The Eagles encouraged the pope to sing his victory song. Because so often times it happens that we live our lives in chains and we never even know we have the key.

The Power of Food

Whenever I make a frittata, I think of my grandmother. No one could make potatoes and eggs better than she. The onions were perfectly caramelized. The potatoes were neither too thin nor too thick. And the seasoning was in the exact proportion.

When my Aunt Jackie must attend a meeting at the Grange or the election or assessment board, she is required to make roasted peppers—her co-workers and friends demand it. No one makes roasted peppers better than my Aunt Jackie. Part of the deliciousness is how she uses her wood burning stove to char the skins. The peppers are neither too firm or too soft. And the oil, vinegar and seasoning she adds are in perfect proportion.

And my mother prepares lots of things well. But she has a knack of taking a cinnamon coffee cake mix, adding a little bit of this and that, and creating a treat that is super moist and not too sweet. It never tastes as if it came out of a box.

No one makes a better coffee cake than my mother.

So when a friend was less than 100% on the health meter the other day and I knew I wanted to prepare her some food as a get well wish, I chose a frittata, some roasted peppers, and a coffee cake. Because not only are they anytime of day foods-- they are comfort foods—things that have always been well prepared by women who give or have given me comfort.

And as I walked in solitude up my friend’s driveway with tray in hand, in reality I had three people along side of me—my grandmother, my mother and my aunt. The love they put into their food was channeled to me and I in turn could channel that love to my friend.

Somehow everything could be made all better—because that is the power of good food and strong women.

Matthew 6:1

When I arrived at the cash register at Lord and Taylor’s at noontime on Ash Wednesday, the manager was doing inventory—except it was on her staff. She was inspecting foreheads to see who had gone to mass.

And with my feathers a tad ruffled over the manager’s judgmental tone, I inquired I am not going to mass until 4:00—does that count?

Her response was I guess—but you are really supposed to go in the morning.

I said nothing more but thought I am pretty sure there is no time restriction on when person is supposed to get their ashes. And I am pretty sure that God only cares that you get the ashes, not what time you get them.

And when I arrived in the vestibule at Saint Joseph’s Church with my mother at 4:00 pm that day I was relieved to find that as I suspected, God was indeed all forgiving. He chose not to strike me down for having written a blog post about the pope earlier that week.  And the added perk of being at the service was that the gospel reading just happened to be one of my favorites: Matthew 6:1

In it Jesus says that if you perform good works for the sole purpose of soliciting praise from others, God grants no recompense. And if you give alms, it should be done anonymously—so that that left hand does not know what the right hand is doing. And if you pray, it should be done in private—because God knows what is in your heart and there is no need for an audience.

To sum it all up: devotion is best worn behind closed doors—it is not a red carpet photo-opportunity.

And the minute I got into the car with my mother I pulled down the rear view mirror and proceeded to wipe my ashes off.

My mother scolded What are you doing?!!

And I said I am doing what the gospel said—were you not paying attention in there?

And although she understood my thought process she still didn’t approve of my removal process.

And so I let my ashes stay put until I got home.

Because commandment #5 is: honor thy mother. And that sometimes trumps What would Jesus do?