Seek and Find

I had gone to the club seeking out the food and beverage manager.

He was not in his office.

I then started making brief inquiries with employees with whom I am well-acquainted.

They could not give me a current location or clear direction.

So I did my own investigation—a room by room search—focusing in on likely haunts.

I moved quickly and stealthfully—taking mental notes along the way.

And when I found him in conversation with the financial officer in a hidden alcove, the manager was noticeably startled by my presence. He said Mrs. Ciccone--how did you find me?

And I said Easy. I am the mother of 3 daughters—remember? That classifies me as a first class detective—I can find anybody or anything if I have to—it’s my job.

And then he laughed.

The power of a mother’s resolve should never be underestimated.

Happy To Be Free

Irene the manicurist told me that when she was a little girl in Russia it was common for people to disappear during the night never to be seen again.

Blanca, my El Salvadorian cleaning woman told me that as a young adult while she and her family were in the marketplace the insurrectionists drove in, took out machine guns and sprayed bullets into the crowd.

Irene told me that the minute communism collapsed she and her family fled.

Blanca told me that the minute she had the means to leave El Salvador she did.

And both of them told me that I had no idea how lucky I was to live in the United States. They both told me I had no idea what it was like not to be free.

And I told them both how happy I was not to know.

Gatsby (and me)

When I told the well liked, well- respected AP English teacher at the high school that the worst book I ever read was The Scarlett Letter, you would have thought I impaled him with a rusty iron rail through his heart.

He said How can you said that?

There were only two books in high school that seeped into my everyday consciousness. The first was the obvious choice: Catcher in the Rye—with Holden Caulfield’s neo- clarity.

But the book that haunted me even more was The Great Gatsby.

On many levels I know, and have known numerous Daisy and Tom Buchanans as well as lots of hanger-on-ers—people who make themselves visible only in the face of self-benefit. They are careless with their drinking and their money and their relationships.

     

Their description reads: unabandoned and dissolute.

I often feel like Nick Carraway— simultaneously watching from within and without. I am both a part and apart.

Yet fortunately I have, and continue to know protagonists—Gatsbys—who are eternally optimistic. Their hearts are incorruptible.

These are the few I call my friends.

And what I would have told the well liked AP English teacher at the high school if I had the opportunity to go back in time and clarify my statement was that the reason I hated The Scarlett Letter was because I cannot empathize with its characters. I find nothing romantic about Dimmsdale, the minister who lies about his affair to save his own soul and social standing. I see nothing appealing about a man who allows his mistress to take solitary blame or his mistress’ submissive acceptance. And the plot, while artfully written, renders antipathy—not sympathy. The message was and is, regressive.

But The Great Gatsby is different. There is everything romantic about a man who lies to save his lover’s soul and reputation. There is everything romantic about selfless love and idealism. Comparably, our world is little changed from the 1920’s—greed and dishonor still prevail. And Fitzgerald’s descriptive writing as well as the plot still rings stingingly true—it is current---timeless.

Because in his internal world, Gatsby, unlike Hawthorne’s Dimmesdale, is no phony. Gatsby remains authentic. And Holden Caulfield and I (and perhaps the AP english teacher too), to our core, will never find fault with that.

Notoriously Late

A friend told me that whenever she needs to invite one of her siblings to a family event, she always backs the clock up by half an hour.

Her sibling is notoriously late.

But for me, worse than the person who is notoriously late, is the person who is notoriously early. Because even if you are running on schedule, early arrivers make you appear late. They cause you to rush and scurry and apologize for not being “ready” when your readiness is in fact congruent with the clock.

Notoriously early arrivers are the most irritating people of all.

And whereas in my experience I can fool the late arriver with time subtraction, I cannot fool the early arriver with time addition. Because people who always arrive late are typically arrogant enough to believe that if all the other guests show up at the same time as them it is because everyone is late. But when the early people arrive and find themselves with the rest of the invited guests they  quickly realize that it cannot possibly be that everyone is early.

Everyone is never always early.

And I assert that late people are okay with their imposition because they fundamentally believe that they are not missing anything important in doing so; whereas early people feel inclined to arrive early because they want to miss nothing—even when nothing has happened yet. Early people are more on the needy-side;  late people are more on the self-absorbed side.

The best side to be on is the punctual side. Because no one ever hears anyone complaining about a friend or relative being notoriously on-time—unless they are the tax collector.

Memorial Day Popppies

When I came out of Kings supermarket with my week’s worth of groceries, I turned to my daughter and said Wait a minute-I need to stop and buy my (Memorial Day) poppy.

And so I did—from the elderly veteran seated at a card table. I then tied the paper flower to my handbag.

My daughter inquired Why did you put it there—so people see that you bought one?

And I said No—I wear it there to remind others to buy theirs.

It’s a key distinction.

Because we owe much to those who lost their lives keeping us safe.

And a handmade red paper poppy is our salute.

Perfect Swings

By the third or fourth time during a team lesson that Alex the platform tennis pro critiqued my play by saying You hit too many lobs when you should be hitting overheads; I found the need to defend myself.

I pointed out to him that since I stood 5’1 and he stood 6’0 the trajectory of our ball was different. In terms of pure mechanical physics my stature demanded that I hit my overhead from a point closer to the net than he. And I proved it by having him crouch down so he could visualize the court from my view.

Chris Evert was the first tennis professional who hit a two-handed backhand. Monica Seles only hit two-handed backhands— from both her right and left side. And in golf, Jim Furyk, Bubba Watson and Arnold Palmer were among the many champions dubbed as having unorthodox swings. Derek Jeter—the Yankees captain---has made his batting career hitting inside out . And while Michael Phelps, Olympic swimmer, has a classic style, it is his freakishly disproportionate body that had aided in his ability to be the most medaled Olympic athlete of all time.

And the point I am leading up to is this: there is no such thing as a perfect athletic swing or a perfect athletic shot because there is no such thing as a perfect body. Every person is uniquely different. And the best professional teachers and coaches understand that maximized performance is the result of corrective tailoring—not corrective imposition.

Perfect swings and shots are only as perfect as an imperfect body engaged in perfect imperfection.

Cookie cutters are for cookies; perfection is for God.

     

And Alex, the self-absorbed platform tennis pro, after my demonstration, had no recourse but to accept that I was indeed correct. My diminutive stature dictated that I hit more lobs than overheads. For me, a lob was the perfect shot—a shot I routinely executed with a perfectly abbreviated imperfect backswing.

From that time on at just about every team lesson, Alex would say Everyone but Karen should hit an overhead from this spot on the court—which I am certain was said with the intent to belittle me. But I never felt its sting—I had science and mathematics on my side--and you cannot be-little someone who has been-little since birth.

Men's Underwear

A young good looking manly man was standing behind me in line at T.J. Maxx when his cell phone rang.

 I overheard his conversation:

‘Sup?…..I can’t talk. I am in T. J. Maxx right now. I just found my favorite underwear and I am psyched…Dude—you do not understand---underwear is the most underestimated thing in a guy’s wardrobe….

I bought my husband cream colored linen pants with a navy linen blazer and a fine cotton dress shirt with a Liberty of London tie for Kara’s graduation. I knew it would be hot weather-wise in Atlanta as well as I knew that the men would all be finely donned.

The outfit was perfect.

I loved it.

But something occurred to me that had never occurred to me before its purchase: men do not have the same options for undergarments as women. Specifically: men have no access to nude colored seamless underwear.

Because when men wear light-weight light-colored dress pants and/or shirts, the look is ruined by visible undershirts, boxers or briefs. And in this metrosexual world, I cannot believe that some manufacturer hasn’t figured this out by now.

The best I could do to address the problem was purchase light gray microfiber Adidas-brand athletic boxer-briefs with a matching  crewneck t-shirt.

It was the closest thing I could get to nude-colored Spanx and a camisole (mani-sol?).

And when the young man ended his phone call he noticed I was smiling.

And he said to me a bit nervously Seriously-- these boxer briefs are really comfortable—you should buy them for your husband. They are great under a suit.

I responded I already have—and you are 100% correct—underwear is the most underrated garment in a man’s wardrobe.

And we parted ways—completely in agreement.

Transition

My father didn’t concern himself too much with why things were, he just focused on that they were. Emotion was not a mitigating circumstance. Things were dealt with by an absolute hand. It was common practice in his era of parenting.

Parents threw kids into life’s proverbial pool and said Swim! And if you didn’t swim, you drowned. There were no life jackets.

The word “transition” did not exist in their vocabulary. There were no PTA meetings or books dedicated to easing children from one stage of life into another.

But my generation was different.

We listened for hours and worried incessantly about our children’s transition: primary school to elementary school; elementary school to middle school; middle school to high school; and high school to college.

Our goal was to make the meeting of new worlds seamless.

And for the most part it worked—our children were allowed one foot in the former, and one foot in the now. It enabled them to not be shocked by new adventure. Life may not have exactly been seamless, but it was a whole lot less traumatic than in our day.

And so we churned out children with the expectation that bridges would always be there for them. They expected safety nets and speed bumps and yield signs.

But we forgot the most important transition of all—college to life.

At the end of our kids’ living in a protected academic and social bubble for four years we catapult them into real life with no helpers no guidance counselors and no guard rails. We expect them to fly without a lesson. And we are shocked when they are resistant or timid or ill-prepared.

We revert to being our parents-- except that is not who we have been for the last 22 years.

And so parents and children both cohabitate and flounder together in our own directionless transition post college.

Because no one—not even Dr. Phil--- told us what to do. There are no more PTA meetings to address the issue. Parents and children find themselves up the creek without a paddle. The boat is rocking and we cannot stop its swing.

 But there is a voice calling out from the shore. We hear our fathers say God dammit--- just get out and swim already!

So we do. And to our surprise, none of us drown. And we left wondering what would have been if we had been just a touch more like the generation that preceded us. We realize easing in makes things too easy.

We think Maybe my father knew much more than I ever gave him credit for.

God Fearing

A hero on the news was described as a God fearing man. Friends and neighbors attributed his bravery as a result of this attribute—the simple fact that the man feared God.

It was the fear of punishment that drove the man to do good works.

But I don’t think fear is ever a chaste motivator. I do not think intimidation, while at times yielding a favorable result, lives in the house of good intent. Selfless acts are best sparked by love. Selfless acts should be positively inspired---doing good for the sake of doing good—not because not doing good snaps a retaliatory trap.

Inspiration is nobly conceived in God’s love—not God’s wrath.

Because intent drives true selflessness. Good intent authenticates heroism.

And love, in every instance, is always the key.

My Last Graduation

The minute Samantha graduated from the high school I reservedly thought Wheew!

The minute Briana graduated from the high school I not-so-reservedly thought Thank God—two down one to go.

And the nanosecond Kara graduated and I knew my high school days were finally over, I thought Get me the F—outta here.

I was so done.

In a little less than a week I will be heading down to Atlanta for my last college graduation. I am a little bit sad over it. I thoroughly enjoyed the time my girls spent in college—particularly the visits. The intermittent time spent apart and then together made our hearts grow fonder. With each daughter I shared special memories—shopping spots, restaurants and coffee shops.

The established kinship of one-on-one spent time together was priceless—it exceeded the value (almost) of their tuition.

By college’s end everyone had figured things out.

And for as much as high school lasted an eternity, college was over in a blink. Because my parental time in high school was bi-polar—the highs were high and the lows were low. Life was variable, volatile, and vociferous.

But college was not like that at all.

My college days were almost exclusively pleasant.

And now I must plan one-on-one time in between my daughters’ obligations. No more scheduled sorority brunches or dinners at the Apollo Grill, Elisabeths or the Iberian Pig. No more shopping at the Lehigh Valley Mall or the Susquahanna Mall or Lenox Square.

Everything moves forward. All the truisms apply: taking the bitter with the sweet; one door closing as another door opens.

And when my daughter’s name is announced and that last diploma is received, I will shed a tear. My investment reaped infinite reward.

And I will be proud of everyone’s accomplishments and rejoice that we took the journey together—no matter what the future brings.

Color Transfer

When I called Sam (age 3 ½) and Briana (age 1 ½) over to get their coats and shoes on to bring Sam to nursery school,  I noticed that Briana had used her own face as a canvas. From forehead to chin she was completely colored in yellow Crayola marker. The toddler looked like a bad racist Asian cartoon.

Before putting on my new highlighter yellow Gap sweater on the other day, I pulled off and then completely ignored the tags hanging from it. My only concern was if the sweater would look well with my new skinny jeans—which it did.

But when I arrived back home and changed into comfy clothing I noticed something peculiar in my reflection: my armpits were yellow.

I knew it was not jaundice or yellow fever.

So I dug through the trash to find and read the tags I had thrown away. They said “This is a specially dyed garment. Color transfer may occur. Do not wear with light colored clothing until first washing.”

They should have added: Do not wear with light colored skin either.

And when I saw Briana’s yellow-colored complexion with only minutes to spare I grabbed some baby wipes and did multiple full face sweeps. She was still a bit yellow but worthy of being seen in public.

And I took some baby wipes (I still use them) and scrubbed my armpits. They were still a bit yellow but they were clean enough for a navy t-shirt.

And life went on—no worse for the wear-- albeit with some colorful stories to tell.

Job Interviews

I have mentioned this before.

The M.D. that interviewed me for medical school was so disinterested in his task that he barely looked up from the neatly placed pile of papers on his desk.

Our discourse was factual on the order of name, rank and serial number followed by the classic Why do you want to become a doctor?

The interview was ho-hum. Perfunctory. Completely rote. Until his final question: Who do you think the starting quarterback should be for the NY Giants next year?

My youngest daughter is in the throes of the emplyment process. And as opposed to what the media reports as an eased job market, I do not agree. I believe the market is tighter, more grueling, and more competitive than ever.

And so my daughter has not been guaranteed interview questions that necessarily align with the job description. And in all frankness as a mother (not to mention as the candidate) I find it irritating. The interview questions have sometimes been abstruse--the most obscure being Who would win a fight between a bear and an alligator?

I cannot stand the let’s see how the interviewee reacts on their feet question—I think it is unfair. As a mother I would have liked to have hit that interviewer upside the head and said Really? And what does your question have to do with computer software and this company? Do you hire bears and alligators such that mediating between them is an issue my daughter will have to deal with in an office setting? Or are you merely the Don King of reptile vs. mammal boxing matches? Where do you get off being such a pompous egocentric male-organ-head?

But those are questions I may never ask—nor can she. All my daughter can do is remain calm and reply. And all I can do is remain calm and support my daughter.

And to this day it irritates me that that M.D. asked me about the Giants. I still have no idea whether that question was designed to test my knowledge of current events, glean how my mind would construct an impromptu analysis, or whether the interviewer was just a sexist pig who wanted to embarrass a 22 year old female.

But what I know for sure is that Kara’s response that the bear would win the battle with an alligator is correct—I googled it. And choosing Phil Simms as quarterback resulted in the Giants winning the Superbowl—I had predicted correctly.

And in the end we all end up where we are supposed to be—even if the roadway is not of our choosing—with dead alligators and satiated bears littering the shoulder all along the way.