The People of Walmart

I saw the parody of Jim Carey dancing to the song Chandeliers on SNL.

It was hilarious.

And when the song played on the radio on Monday morning I burst out laughing—I could not help but visualize the flailing and indelicacy of Carey’s motions.

Yesterday on The View each co-host expressed that they have difficulty conversing with actors and actresses (and sometime politicians) after having seen them (the actors and politicians) naked on the screen.

The cohosts find it difficult to delete the image of the revealed private body parts from their brain.

 Pictures often polute the mind.

Which is why my brain veered into an unintended direction when I heard that there was a backlash to Walmart selling fat girl costumes. Because several times a year for as many years as I have had an email account someone sends me a pictorial of The People of Walmart.

No one in the photos is thin.

Not even close.

I thought I do not think there is a single shopper at Walmart who needs a padded costume to look fat—the padding is already built in. Why would people spend money on a costume to look like themselves?

And then I was made aware of what the contoversy was really about—costumes for fat girls—in other words: plus size.

Oh.

Well that makes sense.

But I still cannot get the visual out of my mind.

Cash Crop

I pretend that I just happen to be in the kitchen when the program comes on.

I putter around to justify my presence.

But the reality is that I am not just listening; I am engaged.

   

I find his message affirming.

I find his message to often be enlightening.

His words are more in line with my philosophy than those with whom I am affiliated.

Because truth be told, I am a secret fan of Joel Osteen.

Fairly recently Osteen spoke of the parable of a farmer who had planted wheat only to discover that an enemy had sown weeds among his crop. But instead of destroying the weeds, the farmer allowed them to grow undisturbed. It was at harvest time, that the weeds were most easily identified and discarded. The crop then went to market as planned where it yielded profit.

The point of the parable was to demonstrate that weeds are ubiquitous—that there are those who will always try to ease in on your growth. There are those whose purpose is to lessen you. But the best recourse is to ignore and keep your focus. Because in the end, all is revealed—and only the worthy show their worth.

And that is what popped into my mind recently when someone looked straight at me and then turned a cold shoulder to ease me out. I thought Oh no you di-n’t with a finger waving in a Hispanic accent.

I thought Oh no--You cannot make me small. You cannot distract me from my purpose. I thought I You are nothing more than a weed.

 So I marched into the circle of conversation--- and stood my ground undaunted--with zero sign of affect.

Because I believe the parable to be true: At some point all weeds reveal their unworth and objective. One cannot allow others to dictate your path. And when the sickle inevitably falls, true crops yield reward and weeds decay as mulch.

Who says one cannot learn much from Sunday morning TV?

Women Are Crazy

I am not opposed to purple—if it is the paint color of a Victorian or a house somewhere tropical .

But I am opposed to purple—even as an accent color—if it is on an English Tudor.

Which is why I became crazed just a little tiny bit when I opened the tester for my soon to be restored/painted front door and noticed that it was not slate blue as the chip depicted, but mimeograph purple.

And so I drove up to the Sherwin William store to suggest to the salesman that an error had been made and request  that the correct color tester might be remade.

What I was met with was The computer does not make mistakes and then The paint always looks different in the container than when it is dry.

And so he dipped some paper into the sample and used the dryer to prove me wrong only to find that the paint when dry was an even  deeper shade of purple—not slate blue.

Yet the salesman still would not accept that there was an error and  quipped “well the color is off because it is such a small sample—if we make it up  in a quart it will be fine.”

I responded I have a hard time believing what you are saying is true since the color of all my other paint samples were true to the chip. But, if you can guarantee me that if you make up a quart of paint with that same formula and that it will no longer be purple, I would be willing to buy it.

So he made up the quart---and it was still purple.

The man said What color are you painting your stucco and trim?

Graphite gray for the trim and windows and very pale gray for the stucco I said.

The saleman snapped then your door should be red—that’s what people do.

I said I am not people.—and I  am not a red person.

He said isn’t there brick on your house? Then the door should be red.

I said there is also blue stone on my house which is why I want a slate blue door. I know you can color match—just color match me a quart of paint the color of the slate blue chip.

Annoyed, he got the mixologist who took out the purple and added more black resulting in the perfect (while still a bit off from the chip) slate blue hue of exterior paint.

And as I walked out of the door satisfied yet miffed  I was reminded of something George Carlin once said Women are crazy. Men are stupid. And the reason women are crazy is that men are stupid.

George Carlin was one smart man.

Hazards to Your Health

As we sat in the cart waiting for our turn to tee off, she said to me: I have decided to focus all my (athletic) attention on golf. My profession relies much too heavily on my specialized (manual )skills and physical mobility—I simply cannot afford to get hurt---And golf, as opposed to tennis or platform tennis, is a very safe sport.

I was in total agreement with her until 4 holes hence when I witnessed this same woman so completely  wiff a golf ball imbedded in a sad trap that she rose about a  foot up into the air like a cartoon character and then landed squarely on her buttocks.

Part of the reason the doctor prescribed walking instead of hardcore physical therapy for me was that it was his belief that walking was/ is the best exercise a person can do. The joints, heart, and musculature all receive a balanced workout. And the added benefit is that walking is easy to do, low cost and safe.

And I believed him on all counts---that is until I actually began walking.

Because I routinely trip on raised (or not raised) sidewalks. I have nearly been hit by people racing out of their driveways in their cars. I have nearly been hit by people in their cars who wave me on to walk and then change their minds midway. And my own distraction has lead me to whack my head on tree branches as well as nearly fall flat by accidentally stepping in unmarked wet cement.

Walking can be hazardous to your health.

Walking is not safe.

And after overcoming my momentary paralysis at witnessing a 5’ 7 woman soar upward gripping a hard swung 9 iron and landing with splayed sand which eventually compacted itself into every crevice of her body,  I ran over to see if she was okay.

She was—just her ego was bruised.

And the first words out of her mouth after assessing the peculiarity of the aforementioned event  were Who knew golf could be so dangerous?

A Bold Move

My brother in law loves to tell this story: When his father was in his early 90’s he went out and bought an expensive piece of exercise equipment. Given his father’s age, it most definitely was a bold move. But the bold move got even bolder when the 90-something year old opted to buy the non-transferable lifetime warranty.

And that is what flashed into my mind as I stood in Home Depot deliberating over the purchase of light bulbs I was charged with buying for my 84 year old mother. The package of new-fangled bulbs priced at $19.99 each claimed that they (the bulbs)  had a life expectancy of 22 years with normal usage.

Justification of the expenditure of the bulb(s) would not only require my mother to live until she was 106 years old; it would require that she live to be 106 and still be dwelling in her 3^rd floor walk-up co-operative apartment.

I had to wonder how this scenario was likely going to play out.

  

Ultimately, I opted for the purchase.

Because light bulbs are transferable, and life expectancy is never guaranteed---either for a human or a $20 light bulb.

Exercise? Ugh.

The doctor handed me 2 prescriptions—the first was for an anti-inflammatory drug. But the second one, while medicinal, was not an oral medication at all. It was a physical mandate. It read: Walk 30 min 5-7 days/week.

Ugh.

The only saving grace was that the purpose of the doctor’s demand was about my staying in motion for 30 minutes not about me breaking  into a sweat. His demand was about the physics of inertia. It was about:  a body in motion stays in motion.

But it still was exercise—something I hate. I would rather scrub bathroom grout lines with a toothbrush for  half an hour than stand on a treadmill or an elliptical machine.

Exercise is not “playing sports”-- which is something I did joyfully for many years.

Exercise is ruefully boring.

I was going to have to make this lemon into some kind of lemonade or better yet Tom Collins.

Which is what I did—by officially becoming a nosy neighbor. I walk the neighborhood not to get exercise but to get ideas—to scope out renovations and lack thereof. I study plantings and light fixtures and color palates. I note architectural details and imagine how the amassed information applies or does not apply to my own house.

Exercise is the by-product of my research.

I perceive walking as data gathering in motion.

And yesterday morning my neighbor Andy yelled to me from the other side of the street Karen-- you are not walking fast enough!

  

Clearly he believed that I was engaged in an unenterprising workout.

But he was wrong.

I was working out my brain and not-so-much my heart.

I was working out my fall plantings in my imagination.

And so I yelled back That’s not why I walk—I only care how long I am out here and laughingly muttered to myself And by the way your masons did an amazing job laying that blue stone on your front walkway---it looks so much better and nicer than the slate you had before.

Aloha Ciao Shalom

What ciao, aloha, and shalom all have in common is that each word means both hello and good bye.

I never quite understood how that could be…

I can tell you for sure that Samantha and Briana were positively aghast, mortified, and incredulous.

I had not intended to do it.

It was not premeditated.

I did not wake up that morning and think Hmm today I am going to cross that line.

Words cannot adequately describe what had actually come over me. All I can say is an overwhelming wave of joy, love and respect befell me—and then opportunity knocked.

Because as Joan Rivers left the stage and walked towards me, I stepped out of the aisle, opened my arms, and full-on embraced her.

I needed to say hello.

I needed physical contact.

Joan graciously and tentatively hugged me in return.

Afterwards and until recently I regretted being a little bit creepy.

I regretted being that person.

But my perspective has changed.

Joan is gone—taken with no warning.

I am so very happy to have had the privilege of watching her perform and then (inappropriately) shedding proper decorum with an embrace.

What I did not know then and what I know now is my hello was a good bye.

Both words can be one in the same.

All beginnings are endings; all endings are beginnings.

And so aloha, ciao, and shalom Joan Rivers.

When I think of you I will always laugh—and remain thankful that no restraining order ever was issued.   

Another Year

Slaves of the Roman Empire constructed the coliseum in Rome.

   

It was not exactly a union job.

The owned workforce had no 15 minute coffee breaks or a scheduled lunch.

The slaves most certainly worked on weekends and did not have a 40 work week.

They and their lives were considered worthless.

And yet what struck me as I stood in the great Roman edifice was the utter grandeur and size of the building—and how it still remained. I pondered how many generations of people stood in my very place and saw what I was seeing.

I doubted that an enslaved worker who chiseled and carried stone ever could have imagined that their labor and sacrifice might be appreciated a thousand years later by a tourist like me.

It was and is fascinating to think that those who did not matter created something that did.

A thing of worth was built by the worthless.

It proves every life has significance.

And that is what I try to remember as my birthday comes and goes and I am left with universal existential questions like: Why am I here? And does my life have meaning?

I realize that they are questions that might never be answered in my lifetime.

Clarity from afar cannot be reached when you dwell within a capsule.

And so I can only trust that somehow in some way or ways known or unbeknownst to me, the world is better because of or in spite of me.

 Everything we do---including the mundane, has worth and meaning—even if it takes a thousand years for that worth and meaning to be determined.

     

And so I’ll keep doing what I am doing and think about it all again next August 30^th—when I am another year older and another year wiser.

The Ice Bucket Challenge

One of my dearest friends said not too long ago:

If I drop dead tomorrow I do not want the coroner to find carrot sticks and yogurt in my stomach—I want him to find chocolate cake.

It seemed last week that every other posting on my Facebook newsfeed had a video of a friend or famous person pouring a bucket of ice and water over their head.

It was a challenge—to raise both awareness and funding to cure the disease ALS.

The campaign was ingenious—a brilliant use of social media. The challenge itself required no special skills and the materials to complete the challenge were ubiquitous.

And I suppose the underlying message was that while the challenge-ee experienced momentary discomfort, victims of ALS faced extreme physical discomfort on a daily basis.

 One should be grateful not to have a debilitating disease.

But I would be lying if in watching all those people pour ice and water over their heads there was not a teeny tiny voice whispering  from the back of my head which said Please God I hope no one nominates me.

I really don’t want to douse myself---even for a good cause.

Which is when I came to the conclusion that if I were in charge I would initiate a different kind of challenge: The Chocolate Cake Challenge. I would like to see people eating a nice piece of frosted devil’s food cake on camera because who wouldn’t like to eat a piece of chocolate cake “for charity”? Who wouldn’t want a noble excuse for a decadent task? Betty Crocker and Duncan Hines might even subsidize it—or donate a portion of the profit from the increased sales. Even Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig and Nutrisystem would have no option but to endorse it.

And the underlying message would be that the experienced pleasure in eating chocolate cake is cause for gratefulness—gratefulness that one is healthy enough to taste and swallow—that life is sweet yet fleeting---and there is glory in the things we take for granted.

I think I just might be on to something.

Marie Antoinette might finally be vindicated for proclaiming Let them eat cake.

And it is from my dearest friend who laughingly wishes a coroner to find chocolate cake in her stomach after her demise that I have learned that moments are momentary—and the only certainty is uncertainty. She wears a bracelet that reads it is what it is. For she lives with challenges of her own—and inspires me to tabulate even the most inconsequential blessing and to shoo away any discomfort that rings my bell for a sojourn visitation.

On Healthcare

“So…have you been particularly stressed or depressed lately?”

It’s the one question that has the potential to set me into a mouth-frothing blood spurting homicidal rage.

Because the intended meaning of the physician’s inquiry is absolutely positively doctorspeak for: Are you sure you are not just making these symptoms up just to get attention?  Are you sure you do not suffer from auto-Munchausen disorder or from bored housewife hypochondria?

The healthcare provider is deflecting blame.

What really is going on here is that the physician either can’t be bothered or is not sharp-minded enough to explore inches beyond a self-serving compartmentalized parochial scope of knowledge.

For all their ego bound intellect, many physicians are mere medical automatons—no more special than an assembly line worker at General Motors.

Thinking is not a requirement in their job description.

The added insult is that by asking the aforementioned question physicians trivialize those who actually do suffer from anxiety and depression—as if anxiety and depression is an illness patients wish for---as if those who are anxiety –filled and/or depressed waved their arms in the air and said Pick me!! Pick me!! when the disease Gods  issued out maladies.

The bottom line is: Unengaged dismissive physicians are nothing that either the democrats or republicans can cure with some legislation.

It’s the lack of health care by health care providers that peeves me—not so much the system itself—even with its own  distinctive flaws.

And despite having all these cogent thoughts surge through my neurons whenever the Are you stressed or depressed question is asked—I never reveal them.

To do so would be self-defeating.

The unengaged dismissive physician will simply check the box that says stressed and depressed if I permit my diatribe to escape—which would be an incorrect diagnosis.

And so I have no resource but to smile, put a muzzle on the sarcasm and say “no—not at all ”--and seek out the rare skilled health care provider who welcomes the opportunity to exercise their brain.

Gaps are Good

My friend Donna came to work one morning and said Ugh it was so embarrassing!

I said Why? What happened now?

She said I was with my mother in the produce aisle at Waldbaums when a 16 year old stockboy who was in the middle of arranging peaches into a pyramid smiled at her and said: Hi--how ya doing?

But instead of answering the young man with the expected answer of Fine thank you; Donna’s mother instead replied with: Just terrible. Last month my husband had a bad cough from a cold and the doctor put him in the hospital. They did some tests but he died 3 days later from complications from lung cancer of all things. And now I am left alone in a big house with all this financial responsibility and…..

It was at this point that Donna pulled her mother away from the poor shell shocked boy and said Mom—Stop!--he doesn’t care.

Flash forward.

I am standing at a wake next to one of my dearest friends when a second removed acquaintance taps her  on the shoulder and inquires How’s your Mom doing?

Without skipping a beat my friend said Fine--thank you for asking.

The second-removed acquaintance added I haven’t seen your Mom in a long time—please send her my regards.

My friend smiled and responded I will.

My friend was not lying. Her mother was fine within the context of recent events. Events—that were of no concern or business of the second-removed acquaintance.

Because there is a firm line between polite conversation and genuine interest. One must always consider the length of the connector before plugging in. Too little information is always  better than too much. Erring  on the side of edited response is always the more benign option.

Gaps are good.

Because as songwriter Jackson Browne correctly observes in a 1974 lyric: Maybe people only ask you how you are doing because it is easier than letting on how little they could care.

Good Fortune

Those who know me well know that episodically my skeletal-muscular system asserts itself.

I am then left to coax it into submission first with drugs and then with movement.

And it was there—in the movement phase that I found myself out and about-ish—taking a walk to limber the formerly squawking body parts.

I reveled in the brilliance of the sun---and the wind temperature and humidity of yesterday’s September-like weather.

I was free—mobile-- drug free yet intoxicated.

I smiled—thinking of my good fortune.

That was until I intersected with Mr. Buzzkill on the corner of Poplar and Tremont: a very very old man with a walker moving at a speed that absolutely positively exceeded my own.

He was smug with accomplishment.

I was resting on the edge of humiliation.

The old bastard was beating me.

My mind (and ego) was frantic.

And then I remembered: the hare never wins the race, the tortoise always does. The very very old man and his walker would only overpower me for a little while—the differential in our ages would eventually determine this race.

I might be losing the sprint, but the marathon was mine.

And so I kept walking—once again intoxicated---into the sun.

Sweet Medicine

I was under the weather—not up to par---feeling not too terrific.

And so shortly after lunch, to promote some self-healing, I went upstairs pulled back the comforter and crawled into bed.

Cosmo, my faithful companion, was befuddled, and sat on the floor staring at me in  a clear attempt  to correctly assess the situation.

Suddenly, I could see that he had gotten an idea.

Cosmo abruptly left my bedroom and came back with his favorite toy in his mouth.

He proceeded to jump on the bed, stared into my eyes, and dropped red ball squarely on my chest. He seemed to say Mommy this will make you feel better.

And then he laid down beside me—his warm body pushed up against mine.

 I indeed  felt better.

Because all dogs intuitively know Love is the best medicine.

Baking Biscotti

It is one of my all-time favorite jokes: 

An elderly Italian man lay dying in his bed. He had only a day or two of life left. But as he contemplated his inevitable demise he was overcome by a magnificent aroma wafting up into his bedroom from the kitchen below. It was the smell of biscotti being baked by his wife of 55 years. Tears streamed down the dying man’s face as he thought If only I could eat one more cookie—I will die a happy man. And so he musters up all his strength and crawls out of bed—then crawls down the stairs---then across the kitchen floor. But just as his hand reaches up to grab a warm biscotti cooling on a baking rack on the kitchen table, his wife of 55 years slaps him on the hand  and says—They are not for you!—they are for the people at your funeral!

And that joke is what came to mind shortly after discovering my great Aunt Zia Giangrasso’s biscotti recipe. I thought about the toil of preparing six pounds of biscotti dough and the time and precision required to evenly bake hundreds upon hundreds of  1 x 3 inch perfectly twisted cookies in an oven with only one rack and without the luxury of a Kitchen Aid food processor equipped with a dough hook or a prepatory kitchen with infinite counter space.

I thought I can barely stand the effort and mess of opening a solitary package of Nestle’s Toll House Chocolate Chip break and bake cookies and arranging 1 x 1 inch squares of prepared dough  on Teflon pans placed in my convection oven which houses 3 cookie sheets at once.

It occurred to me that baking in my great Aunt’s times was a dedicated all-day event—which also was completely labor intensive.

I thought if I was the woman in the joke I would not have merely slapped the dying man’s hand—I would have beaten him unconscious with the weighty wooden rolling pin while saying I have to do all this work just for you!!.

Because for as much as we complain about how hard it is to juggle a career and a household and how we never have enough down time because we are too busy and our lives are too complicated, it pales to the laborious lives of our grandmothers’ generation.

Those women really worked hard.

And their achievements (for the most part) went totally unrewarded and   unrecognized—unless you were fortunate enough to be Betty Crocker.

Wine Glasses 101

It was because of his somewhat generously sized proboscis that my father complained that his nose did not fit comfortably in the very fashionable ruby-red cylindrical wine glasses housed in our upper right kitchen cabinets.

My father implored in earnest to my mother Can’t we just buy new ones that make sense?

My mother considered his inquiry to be rhetorical.

Because in the 1970’s, wine glasses only stood about 4 or 5 inches high, spanned just over 2 inches in diameter, and only held about 4 ounces of Burgundy or Chablis.

By today’s standards—wine glasses were small.

That was, until times changed---and everything became oversized.

By the mid 2000’s a typical serving of wine measured about 8 to 10 ounces. Wine glasses now stood 10 inches in height with a softball sized receptacle to house its fermented content.

And it was right around this time in glassware history— also a time when we switched from drinking Chardonnay to Merlot-- that it happened.

I was seated at a dinner party at the club when my storytelling became so hyper-animated that the back of my left hand accidentally lofted my oversized overfilled softball dimensioned wine glass such that the red liquid content tsunami-ed full frontal on my best friend’s apple green Ann Taylor silk sweater as well as my other friend’s brand new white Lacoste golf shirt.

Utter silence ensued.

No amount of club soda or blotting could mitigate the damage.

Super storm Sandy caused less wreckage than this natural disaster.

The Merlot stained sweater and golf shirt could have hung to the left and to the right of a Jackson Pollack canvas at MOMA.

And I am pleased to say that the new trend in glassware is stem-less. Wine glasses are ergonomically designed to topple like a Weeble, not loft like a softball. Spillage is relegated to the tablecloth and/or the keeper of the glass.

No more friendly fire.

These new elliptically constructed stem-less wine glasses have the added attraction of being    engineered to fit comfortably in the dishwasher—as well as around generously sized human proboscises---like those of my father.

A Cautionary Tale

I was prompted 100% by vanity.

The inconspicuous anomaly marred my reflection.

Because while  there was a little something-something a bit irregular in shape which itched and was located in an area on my chest that had been subject to repeated sunburn for the last 54 years, that growth had gone ignored.

No. I picked up the phone and made an appointment with the plastic surgeon because there was a teeny tiny perfectly round barely  visible but in the 20x makeup mirror itty bitty growth which  was preventing the smooth application of my under eye concealer. This teeny tiny perfectly round barely visible but in the 20x make up mirror mole had also become a mascara collector—and so, it had to go.

Thusly, the plastic  surgeon removed and did a biopsy on the something-something  thingy on my chest that I believed was at minimum a squamous cell carcinoma (or worse) and cut out the teeny tiny perfectly round barely visible but in the 20x makeup mirror growth located just under my bottom eyelashes.

The biopsy report concluded that the chest  thingy  I thought was positively something turned out to be positively nothing; and the vanity-prompted teeny tiny perfectly round barely visible in the 20x make up mirror nothing turned out to be positively something.

It's a cautionary tale.

Vanity is considered one of the 7 deadly sins---a form of self-idolatry—the root of the other 6. But what is also said is this: "Vanity well fed is benevolent."

Which in my case was absolutely true-- vanity was a good thing, even if the teeny tiny perfectly round barely visable but in the 20x makeup mirror mole was not.

Label Making

She made it seem as if it was the new cool thing parents were doing  to make either her job more difficult, or to give children an undeserved academic edge. She seemed not to recognize that by nature of identification children would have a less encumbered path to education—that a label would open the door to possibility not impossibility.

She forgot that education was designed to empower children not educators.

Because what I recall her saying (with a sigh) was this: Every year more and more parents are opting for testing and so the district finds itself with increasing numbers of identified children: kids with autism—including Asperberger’s--- or attention deficit  with or without hyperactivity-- or children with some kind of learning disability that the State mandates must be addressed.

   

I mentioned in an earlier blog how in all my years in school I never knew any gay people-- which I realize now was statistically impossible as  Gays constitute 20% of the population. But what I also now realize is that it was statistically impossible for me not to have known at least one classmate who in this day and age would have been correctly identified as having  special needs requiring accommodation.

In my time, kids with learning disabilities were the unfortunate ones labeled as slow or worse lazy. They were the “write-offs”—the barely literate “push them through the system” bottom percentile who were destined for menial labor or work that required little cognitive activity---if they were lucky.

We also had what were called the “problem children”—kids  with behavioral issues—the few who could not physically sit still in their seat no matter how much punishment and “talking to” they had. They never could complete their homework assignments or finish their exams. They were labeled “disruptive” and “unfocused” and “impulsive.” They too were considered “write-offs with an uncertain future—like a life of crime.

And my favorite group of labeled misfits was what was known  back then as the weirdos. They were the classmates (and sometimes professors)  I encountered mostly in college and in graduate school who were highly intelligent (often genius-level intelligent)yet had tunnel vision regarding their course of study or area of research. Social cues were routinely missed or misconstrued. They remained absent in group discussions and were verbally abrupt. The masses tolerated their abrasive behavior simply because their minds were so sharp and their contributions were so great.

Everyone of those children (or adults) would have benefited academically and emotionally had they been correctly diagnosed as being dyslexic or having attention deficit or Asperberger’s and given a proper educational plan.

But who knew?

And I would like to say that I stepped up to the plate and defended special education to the “couldn’t be bothered” school staffer.

But I did not. Because the school staffer had her own label to deal with---an insidious one for which she was totally unaware—yet one that said it all.

Hint: it begins with and “i” and ends with a “t” and has the Italian word for “God” wedged in between.

German Ingenuity

She is exacting. Precise. Efficient.

Waste not want not is her rule.

My mother, in the most complimentary of ways, describes her as being very German.

Because when Margot cooks, everyone is well fed with no leftovers.

Margot discards a pair of shoes before purchasing new ones.

And when she travels, her suitcase is not full of  new clothing; instead, she packs attire earmarked for donation—then leaves it in hotel rooms along her journey post-wear.

Margot arrives home with a lighter suitcase than when she began, no laundry to do, and the    satisfaction from having made clothing donations to the less fortunate.

And it is Margot who inspired me recently on an overnight stay in Manhattan.

I packed my toiletry bag with a current end-stage-of-life toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste with two squeezes left, and a nearly-ready-for-the-garbage stick of deodorant. My makeup bag consisted of items that were either unwanted, old or nearly empty. I slept in an old tee shirt, tattletale gray socks and pajama bottoms with dried out elastic.

And in the morning I left it all behind.

I walked from my hotel to Penn Station—23 streets and 2 avenues.

I also walked part of the way home from the train station.

Neither my back, knees nor neck hurt.

In all ways my load was light.

I was free—arriving home with  little dirty laundry and a less-cluttered bathroom cabinet.

I felt pretty good about myself.

And it was all because of Margot—and her German ingenuity.

On Good Body Image

A provocative article on self-image was posted on Facebook by a woman I admire. The article included a before and after photo with a twist: the before shot was of a young very muscular borderline-anorexically thin woman, and the after shot was of the same woman noticeably filled out with little muscle definition.

On more than one occasion in my nearly 54 years I have come to the conclusion that it is an absolute  miracle that I do not have an eating disorder or a bad case of BDD. I grew up with not one but two parents who had a dysfunctional relationship with food—they were forever gaining and losing weight—they were habitual dieters.

How good they were feeling about themselves on any given day was directly proportional to a number on the scale.

The word “fat” floated everywhere in my atmosphere.

It kept me company when I was alone.

My mother’s 2 closets held four seasons of clothing subdivided into sizes 8, 10, 12 and 14.

She, in her lifetime, has cumulatively gained and lost the equivalent of several people.

And my household was not my only frame of reference for body image. I was a little girl when Twiggy—the boyishly figured British beauty became the world’s first supermodel. Later, as a teenager, posters of Farrah Fawcett and Cheryl Tiegs hung everywhere on every bedroom wall.

They were the images that everyone aspired to; yet my body in no way reflected back any of the images surrounding me.

And had I not paid attention when I accompanied my mother to Weight Watchers meetings back in 1985 I might not have learned how to create and maintain a proper body/food balance. For me, sitting in that room with women sharing their struggles and strategies struck a positive chord: all diets fail—only lifestyle changes succeed—and most importantly: the number on a scale defines no one.

And so when I had my three daughters I became hyperconscious of how to properly model eating habits. I was determined to convince them that their bodies were flawless—that their curves and/or lack thereof as the case might be represented personal perfection.

The words “fat” and “diet” never rolled off of my lips—ever.

Which is why (unlike perhaps  a different mother) I was totally elated and proud when my daughter Briana did not think twice about raising her hand to volunteer to dance in a bikini on the Live with Kelly and Michael Show.

My daughter is completely comfortable with her body—which is both fit and curvy.

She is not self-loathing of her J. Lo, Beyonce, Sophia Vergara type figure.

Ebullience and self-confidence spilled from the television screen for a national audience to see.

A friend told me she was "brave."

I told her Briana was more than that--because "brave" is when you do something despite fear. Briana performed with no fear: she was fearless.

And when I picked my mother up from the general practitioner a week or two ago, nearly the first words uttered from her lips were According to the doctor’s scale I lost 5 pounds!

I rolled my eyes up into my head and said Oh my God--you are 83 years old—when are you going to give up on the weight thing?

Her silent reply said it all:

When the shovel of dirt hits the mahogany box--and nature takes care of itself.

The Day Off

Both the golf course and the kitchen are closed at our country club on Mondays. For the staff, it is considered a day off.

That is but for on Memorial and Labor Day. On both those days the club is opened. The staff is run ragged.

And so, to be fair, on those holidays, the next day—a Tuesday—the doors remain closed and the workers recharge.

Which is what I am doing today—taking the day off and recharging.

Because I worked my butt off this entire weekend helping my daughter with her move.

I need a little down time.

I am exhausted.

Mentally and physically.

But my words will return next week—when I am back to business again.

And I suspect I will tell you all about it--unless another mother or daughter or wife-ly task diverts my attention.

Mother's Day vs. Father's day

The president remarked to his wife: Why is there so much more fuss over Mother’s Day than Father’s Day?

Mrs. Obama snidely replied Because every day is Father’s Day but for on Mother’s Day.

Politics aside, that insight is inarguable.        

For the Debbie Downers

Some (in particular the woman who birthed me) find my positive outlook positively annoying.

It’s not that I am a red haired orphan girl singing Tomorrow every second of the day, but more that my approach to disruptions and life’s potholes is situated on the pragmatic side of the room. For me, negativity is an energy better spent on solutions—I find it less exhausting to magnify a sliver of light than to dwell on the enveloping darkness.

Yet, I have trouble convincing the unconvinced.

That was until yesterday—when I read (with a giggle) a phrase printed on some artwork at Homegoods.

It read: Why be a pessimist—it won’t work anyway.

I thought you can’t say it any plainer than that. It is something that even the most diehard Debbie Downers cannot argue with.