Half Full Spilt Coffee

This morning as I was headed out to drive Briana to the train station her elbow caught underneath my hand holding a full cup of coffee and the coffee rose up and spattered all over me, the walls and the floor as if it was a gruesome crime scene. Another mother might have said God damn it Briana why can’t you be more careful!! Look what you have done!! And then with annoyance changed clothing and cleaned up the mess. But I am not that person.  I laughed and said Nice shot—let’s give it a quick wipe and I’ll change when I get back.

If I were to use two trite phrases to describe myself the first one would be that I tend to see the glass as half full as opposed to half empty. In the aforementioned case I would say at least the coffee wasn’t so hot as to scald me or at least I wasn’t dressed yet. The second phrase to come into play would be its corollary—Don’t cry over spilt milk.  Accidents by definition happen accidentally. It is not purposeful. It isn’t done with malicious intent. And it solves nothing to have a temper tantrum. Temper tantrums do not clean up the mess any faster. In fact intense emotions usually halt progress no matter what the emotion is. It’s why Tom Hanks says There is no crying in baseball in the movie A League of their Own.

In other words: Sh** happens, clean it up, don’t waste your tears, and figure out a new plan.

Which isn’t to say I do not get annoyed by mishaps—it just means that I try to express my annoyance that the mishap happened, not at the director of the mishap. So if I got angry in the coffee scenario at all it would be at the mess—not Briana. I am certain she did not think hmm why don’t I hit Mom’s arm and make the coffee splash all over.

I used to play platform tennis with a woman who had the most wonderful attitude. She was a pleasure to be partnered with. And it was because when you would hit a bad shot she would always say That’s okay. And if her match and/or others were lost she never got angry. She would tell the disappointed players to stop feeling sorry for themselves—she would tell them to get over it. No one got up that morning and said gee maybe I should lose today. Losing was never done with intention. That’s what next time’s were created for. Losing was as much a part of the game as winning—it’s just that winning was way more fun.

And it was a good thing that that coffee spilled this morning--the floor and wall needed cleaning anyway. The acids dissolved some of the embedded dirt in my Pergo floor. And when I got home from driving to the train station I finished drinking that cup of  lukewarm coffee— after all the cup was still half full----no use crying into it. And then I poured another cup.

Editing

I recently redecorated my bedroom. My room now reflects my current stage of life—a blend of traditional and contemporary infused with a touch of Zen. The backdrop is neutral with pops of color. The lines are clean and simple. I love it. And in keeping with the aesthetic I removed all functionless pieces of furniture and created a sitting area with a couch and a coffee table. I repurposed a round end table that was formerly in my living room and swapped it for my husband’s nightstand. But my side of the bed had no table or night stand at all and I wasn’t sure if the room looked off balance. So I dragged my nightstand down from the third floor at the risk of throwing out my back only to find that I hated it. When I stepped back and surveyed the entire room I saw that it was one detail too many.

The ceremony at the client wedding I attended last fall was performed by an ethical society priestess clad in a Navajo frock and Birkenstocks. The ceremony was flawless---that is until the closing prayer when in a roomful of devout Jews and Catholics the priestess summoned the God of the earth, wind, and fire to bless the newly married couple. The roomful of monotheist guests disapproved. The multiple Gods needed to be edited down to one. That final blessing needed to come from Yahweh—the one God everyone in the room could all agree on.

I am in the process of re-reading all my blog posts not just for typographical and syntax/grammatical errors but also for improved content. If I am really going to allow the book my husband created to be accessible to anyone other than me it is a chore I must complete. Because despite thinking that all of my blog posts were perfect the second I clicked “publish” on my website, some are not--particularly the early ones. Only now, when I look back can I see the revisions that are needed.

Editing is tricky business. There is a fine line between overdone, underdone and just right. Sometimes you can see errors right away, and other times you need calendar time to modify the content. They say the best way to accessorize an outfit is to put on what you think looks well and then before venturing out, remove one piece. The theory being less is more.

The same is true with words. Less is more. And the more you create less, the faster the meaning falls in place. It’s the touch of Zen I was referring to. Good editing leads to perfection.

A Little Bit of Lipstick

From time to time when I was working at the lab the press would cover a news story about tainted water. And when I was 20 and working as a summer intern the Westchester beaches were closed due to sewage contamination. The local NBC station sent a crew to the lab to film lab procedures. They also came to interview important lab personnel.

And when I heard News-4 NY was on its way I immediately ran to the ladies room to fix my hair and touch up my make-up. And when I returned to my work station looking more glamorous than I had 5 minutes earlier my co-workers laughed at me--particularly Jerry--my supervisor  who was slated for the interview. He reminded me that I was just an intern—not even an official lab technician. I was merely the summer help. He quipped that a little bit of lipstick could not change that fact. He mocked me and the possibility that I could be on the news that night. I was too inconsequential.

But when the news team arrived I edged my way forward and flirted with the twenty-something year old cameraman. The cameraman then called over the news reporter who was engaged in conversation with Jerry. The cameraman suggested that I should be the one filmed performing the lab procedures. And although Jerry told the news reporter that I was only an intern the news reporter agreed with the cameraman that I should be the one recorded on camera.

And so it happened. I pipetted a water sample into a petri dish and then did a pour plate. I discussed the hows and whys as I performed the procedure. And because I had been so thorough in my description the newscaster chose to not interview Jerry at all—they had enough material.  I had completely robbed Jerry of his 5 minutes of fame. He shook his head and walked away defeated.

Today I decided it was time to upgrade the layout of my website. I kept the originally used font in the heading of my blogsite but added and modified other things to be more aesthetically pleasing to the reader. And while I will remain true to the content I understand that sometimes good-looks are a decisive factor. Sometimes good-looks are more important than the core. Who knows who might happen to view my website and make me famous just because the format was visually appealing. It could happen. Sometimes a little lipstick is all it takes—God knows Jerry learned that the hard way.

For the Love of Dogs

Animal behaviorists like to throw a big word around: anthropomorphism. It refers to attributing human characteristics to animals. The supposition is that animals are incapable of human emotion and decision making. So when humans say for example my dog is angry with me, an animal behaviorist would say that the human is projecting the emotion of anger on the dog--because a dog is incapable of feeling the emotion of anger.

If you have ever owned a dog you understand that that is a bunch of crap. Unequivocally dogs (at least) are positively capable of human emotion and unquestionably capable of decision making.

A bunny lives in my yard. She is quite pretty. Her lashes are so long I suspect she wears mascara. And she has a coy way of wriggling her nose and batting her sepia colored eyes. Her coat is tawny with blond highlights. Her plush tail is a rich shade of winter white. My goldendoodle Cosmo has a crush on her. For the entirety of the summer he would gaze at her through the window and say Ohh Ohh Ohh. And then he would run to the back door and ring the bell that hangs from the door handle to signal me that he wanted to go out to meet her. But I never let him out when I saw the bunny. I would tell Cosmo that the bunny did not want to be his friend. Bunnies do not like to court adolescent puppies. She wanted to be left alone—like Greta Garbo. And Cosmo would sulk off and fold his paws around his chest.

The other day when I let Cosmo out I watched him sniff around the shrubbery near my back window. And as Cosmo poked his nose through the branches he found himself nose to nose with the bunny. It startled him to such a degree that he jumped back a foot or two and sat upright to recover and develop a plan. But the bunny, upon becoming nose to nose with Cosmo, speedily hopped away into the neighbor’s yard. And by the time Cosmo noticed her quick speed he was left on the other side of the fence. He was dejected. But he decided to try and win her affection. So since then, several times a day Cosmo takes one of his favorite toys and runs to the spot where he met the bunny and leaves the toy there. Then he waits by the window hoping to entice her to see his gifts. His red ball and smokey bone is the canine equivalent of roses and chocolate. Yet sadly, days later, his love remains unrequited.

As a dog mother it is difficult to witness your dog child engaged in a love that will never be returned. Because while that bunny is so very beautiful, she is not good enough for my dog son. My dog son deserves some one better—Cosmo deserves a partner who will love him for the sensitive pup he is—not a canine to be toyed with or teased. So every day now I pick up those toys—they are wasted on that full-of-herself bunny. And then I give Cosmo some Frosty Paws ice cream—because dogs may not eat Hagen Daas out of the container with a spoon like humans can—just to soothe his broken heart.

And if an animal behaviorist lived in my house and watched all this he would be forced to conclude only two things: either I need therapy or there is no such thing as anthropomorphism. I choose to believe that he would conclude the latter. Dogs are people too.

AP Scholars: Cherry-picked Statistics

I studied logic in college as part of obtaining a minor degree in Philosophy. And among the most valuable lessons learned was the recognition of fallacies. Detecting fallacious arguments is key to winning your own argument. One of the most common fallacies is “cherry-picking.” According to Wikipedia cherry picking may be defined as:

The act of pointing to individual cases or data that seem to confirm a particular position, while ignoring a significant portion of related cases or data that may contradict that position.

And for the past three years right around this time of year I have read in my Garden City News how the number of AP scholars at Garden City high school has risen. And while prima facie that is a good thing it is also meaningless information. The number of yearly AP scholars is not relevant information—the percentage of AP scholars from year to year is. Because while the number of AP scholars may have risen it does not necessarily follow that the percentage of AP scholars has risen also—in fact the number of AP scholars could have increased and the percentage could have remained equal or worse decreased. This is because every year the district not only adds more AP courses but also expands enrollment. So since students are eligible to become scholars based on the number of AP courses they take  it is little surprise that the number of AP scholars has increased with the increased opportunity to enroll---but it does not follow that student performance is any better. Quality and quantity are not equal partners. The percentage of AP scholars per year is the determiner of how well students are performing—not the raw number.

And the fact that this statistic (percentages) is conspicuously ignored during the Board of Education presentations is troublesome on two accounts—the first being that perhaps the Superintendent of Curriculum (a former math teacher) was not sharp-minded enough to broadcast such meaningful information to the public or equally or more disturbing is that she knew the meaningful information but chose to ignore it so it would not negatively reflect back on her administration. Either way it does not bode well. It shows a grand lack of transparency--cherry picking at its finest.

An old Trident gum commercial boasted that 4/5 dentists surveyed recommended Trident. What they didn’t advertise is how many dentists chose not to be surveyed or the number of dentists that had no preference at all. So the 4/5 statistic is as meaningful as saying Adelphi has the highest number of students on the Dean’s list of any university in Garden City. Because while that statistical fact (i.e. Dean’s list students)  is true, the information is meaningless as there is only one university in Garden City. And while cherry picking is not the speaking of untruth, it is deception nonetheless. It is selective lying which leads to erroneous conclusions.

Seinfeld and Cell Phones

I loved the show Seinfeld. It was the I Love Lucy of my generation. In fact one might observe that my blog writing is often Jerry-esque. Much of what I post concerns the minutia of life and the absurd way it becomes relevant.

But what I have noticed of late when I stumble upon a Seinfeld rerun is Jerry’s huge cordless phone with its long antennae. I remember that if you answered one of those cordless phones and you didn’t pull the antennae fully you had no reception. You also couldn’t walk more than 15 feet without it cutting out. It is amazing how phones have evolved. We have gone from corded, to cordless to cellular and beyond.

Early on I was not necessarily interested in the type of cell phone that I owned. All I cared about was that it had service and that it was light weight. And when my girls begged for pink Motorola razors and the early Blackberry models I remained content with my cheap Samsung model. But what I did care about in those days was my ring tone. My ringtone was very important. That was the thing that defined me. The song my phone played told the world who I was in just a few notes. It was the thing that I spent way too much time researching on the internet and downloading.

For many years I was on the executive committee of PTA. In my day PTA was a powerful organization. Our relationship with central administration would best be described as healthy (and sometimes unhealthy) tension. And as a group every six weeks or so, depending on the dates of Board of Education meetings we would meet behind closed doors with central administration to discuss educational issues and resolution strategies. Often the discussion became heated—very adversarial as both parties understood the gravity of the stakes. And it was during a very very intense discussion between a headstrong member of the executive PTA committee and the superintendent of schools where teeth were bared, claws escaped retraction, and tempers were barely at bay when my cell phone went off.

And as I fumbled through my handbag to locate it all eyes in the room shot hateful looks at me—except for two people: Dr. McDermott the assistant superintendent for Curriculum and my friend Lynn. They were the only ones who—understanding the heat of the moment—understanding the parties engaged in discussion--understanding me and my approach to things—and most importantly understanding the lyrics of the song—snickered as Mick Jagger bellowed  out I’ll never be your Beast of Burden. They were the only ones who could rise above the tension and annoyance of a forbidden cell phone interruption and appreciate the irony and humor of the moment. It could not have been scripted any better—even by Larry David.

I no longer concern myself with ring tones. But what I and the rest of my family now concern ourselves with are our iphone cases. Our cases now define us—they let others know who we are by the patterning or texture of our protective coverings. And we are not alone. On Facebook today my friend Beth uploaded a photo of her family’s iphone cases—all five were different and representative of each’s personality.  Iphone cases are the new ringtones. They clue the world in about the person behind the handheld device.

It’s amazing how minutia becomes absurdly relevant--- even when it is not portrayed on a sitcom.

On Sleeping Late

When my brother and I were teenagers and my mother wanted to rouse us from our beds on a Saturday morning she would empty the dishwasher—loudly. She would raise the basket of utensils at least 18 inches off of the countertop, flip it upside down, and all the silverwear would clank down in a shower of cacophony. My brother and I never slept past 9 or 10 o’clock in the morning. It was physically impossible. Because if the dishwasher didn’t rattle your brain enough the vacuum cleaner certainly would.

A few days before Christmas I dropped off a gift for my neighbors across the street. The husband answered the bell.  He asked me which of my children had arrived home for the holidays. And then he told me that that 3 of his children were still sleeping upstairs at his house. It was already 10:30 am. He expected them to remain in their sleep coma until at least 1 pm.

Aside from the trail of coats, the toothpaste congealed in the bathroom sink, the blow dryer and flattener hanging from their cords in the bathroom, the crumbs on the countertop, the dirty cereal bowls on the computer desk, and the shoes and empty water glasses in every room (on all three floors and in the basement), the single most annoying thing about having college (and post college)  kids home is dealing with their unconventional sleep cycle. Because even if they do not go out at night, their day still begins in the pm of the day. Breakfast always begins at lunchtime. My day is half over before theirs even begins.

And I permit all those little annoyances including the extended sleep cycle to proceed without my intervention. Because I still haven’t recovered from the trauma of the silverware clanking on the countertop from my youth. So in good conscience I cannot inflict a similar torment on my own progeny-- I allow them to sleep. Because as messy and as off-schedule as my house is, it will return to its normal state once they depart. And my house and time-clock will be no worse for the wear. It’s just a house and an appointment book—not an animate being. And just like a forgotten toothache I will fail to recall the agony of the disruption once they are gone. I will remember only the joy of time well spent, and I will look forward to their next visit when the cycle begins all over again---assuming I am lucky enough-- and they still want to come visit.