The Right Thing

Sometimes the best thing isn’t the easy thing. Sometimes the best thing breaks your heart.

Samson, my mother’s dog, without provocation, bit her. It wasn’t the first time. And even though she loved him, she had to let him go. Sometimes love works that way. Sometimes break ups are the healthiest alternative.Giving him up was the best thing--the right thing--but it doesn’t diminish the sadness.

Pascal says the heart has reason that reason cannot comprehend. If you have ever loved and lost you understand this is true. Your mind understands what your heart refuses. There is a disconnect. And while time does not necessarily heal the heart, time quiets it, and over time the heart submits to truth. It isn’t easy, but it is best. Sometimes life is like that.

The Agony of Moving

The day after I closed on the sale of my first house I swore I would never move again. I told everyone that I was going from my new house straight to the cemetery.

I bought my house on Poplar Street from The Taylor family. The Taylors had raised 6 kids there. And when their last child went off on his own it was time for them to move. The house was too big.

The Taylors were lovely people. Our purchase was completely amicable. We disagreed over nothing. Buying the Poplar street house was a smooth experience. Selling my first  house was nowhere near as pleasant.

The couple that bought our first house made everything difficult. They were first time homeowners--and it showed. Everything was an issue. I spent hours and days going to the building department to get official documents that proved we used town water (not a well) and that the house was connected to a sewer (not a cesspool). And even though the building plans showed that the downstairs closets stood outside of the footprint of the house, I had to take photographs of several other houses like ours to prove it . If these people could ask for a piece of paper –they did.—and I thought I was going to lose my mind. I thought then, and still do believe now, that the buyers got sadistic pleasure in making me crazy.

And then there was other weird stuff---the buyers  didn’t have any joint bank accounts. And so their mortgage was complicated—and we sweated out their bank commitment. The entire experience was drama-ridden. Every time the phone would ring I found myself thinking—now what?

And the day before we closed we had the walk through. I was prepared. I had filled and touched up the paint on the walls. I soft-scubbed behind where the television sat.   The house was immaculate. Everything was in perfect order. But when the buyer and his lawyer (his wife was AWOL) did the walk through, they perpetrated one final annoyance. They said the house was not empty. I left an area rug in the basement and the old refrigerator. On a shelf I left them the leftover tiles from the bathroom renovation and a roll or two of wallpaper. In the garage I left the leftover paint cans (marked by room) and extra pieces of moulding. They told me if I did not get rid of it by the next day, they were not closing. And I flipped out in silence.

And I immediately called the department of sanitation who were very accommodating ,and they promised me that no matter what I put to the curb, they would take it—and they would do it first thing in the morning—before the buyers and the lawyer returned for the walk through. And I was so angry I summoned the strength of Hercules and brought the rug up by myself and all the other stuff normal  house buyers want. My husband came later in the evening with a friend to remove the old refrigerator.

And when the morning walk through took place, the house was empty—really empty. Not only did I remove all the stuff they requested but I took every light bulb from every single lighting fixture and the fireplace doors and the fireplace grate along with the solitary piece of decorative firewood(it was not in the contract.) And I went into the attic and took all the excess cable wire—extra cable wire was not in the contract either.  And when the buyer complained that there was lint left on the carpeting from my herculean removal of the area rug, I reminded him that the contract said broom-clean—which it certainly was. And we finally got our money.

Years later when I was in PTA, the buyer-woman’s application to become a class mother somehow got misplaced. And later when she was nominated for a PTA position, someone lobbied for the other candidate. And when the woman entered a tournament at the country club somehow she did not get a good partner. And she and her husband were made to leave the golf course once for attempting to golf less than five minutes after the time women were allowed to go out—someone had reported them to the starter.

To this day I have imaginary conversations about what I will say if I am ever in a situation to converse with the buyers. Up to now I have only glared daggers at them.  I plan to mistakenly call the man Dick---and then say Oh I am sorry I just thought you looked like one.

I still meet people who knew the Taylors—it happened as recently as 3 weeks ago. I always tell people with pride how lovely they were—it was an honor to have bought their home. And the thing is, when you live in a small town like this, it is good to have a stellar reputation --because it will follow you for years and years later. The Taylors never need worry---I will make certain of that.

Sometimes I look around at my house and think—gee do I really need this house anymore? It has gotten too big for my needs. It might be nice to downsize---some of my friends are doing that now. And then I remember all the anxiety and the work. And I think of the mess of renovation and the cost. I remember how much I still want to choke the people who still reside in my old house—and I can only conclude that moving is just not worth the aggravation—even if your house turns into a museum.

Good Fit

The last great seamstress I had was Franka—that was 25 years ago when I still lived in Dobbs Ferry. Franka made average clothing look couture.

Because the thing is this—fit sometimes is more important than style. Good fit is what makes inexpensive clothing look expensive. And conversely, ill-fitting clothing can ruin good style. If you watch Project Runway like I do, you know this is true. Design and fit go hand in hand. They must be fluid.

Today was fitting day. My niece Sara was fitted for her maid of honor dress. As the shoulders were picked up and a seam or two was pinned here and there, the already beautiful dress became magnificent. And after Sara’s fitting I went with both my mother and my sister-in-law Jodi to have their dresses fitted. And it was at this fitting that I truly admired tailoring as an artform—a creative talent---a gift that few possess. Here was where I saw vision and perfection become one. Catarina, the seamstress, saw flaws that none of us noticed—and she pinned creative solutions. And when she was done both my mother and Jodi looked red-carpet worthy. Good fit elevated good style to a celestial state. The reflection in the mirror was unrecognizable—neither my mother nor Jodi ever looked so glamorous. The dresses looked nothing like the samples they had tried on months before---the final product was the elevated version.

And I am no fool. I found a way to have Catarina fit my dress even though I did not purchase it at the store where Jodi and my mother bought theirs. I too will look couture. My dress, through the eye of perfection and at the hand of talent, will elicit envy. It will look richer than the price tag.

But do not ask me to share Catarina with you—because I won’t. Talented seamstresses are too hard to find--and when you find one you must keep it to yourself. It’s why it took me so long to find Catarina---no one would give me a good recommendation—people kept their secret.

As Heidi Kum says: in fashion one day you are in, and the next day you are out. Catarina is in. She is also the winner of our own wedding  project runway. Catarina understands how to make it work.  We look couture. We look fashion forward .Even Nina Garcia would give us rave reviews.

Challenging the Drinking Age

There is Ken Burns documentary on PBS right now about Prohibition. It chronicles the rise and fall of America’s attempt to legislate morality.

The drinking age nationwide is 21. And I am comfortable saying that reform is needed.  The current age restriction has created a monumental scofflaw. If you set foot on any college campus you will understand this to be true. And parents of college students are complicit in defying the law—parents understand that the law flies in the face of reality.

When I was in college we did not pre-game, funnel or do shots. Beer Pong had not been invented yet. There was no need to. We were allowed to go to bars—we were allowed to drink at 18--in fact most college campuses had their own drinking holes run by the university—mine was called Plato’s Cave. Plato’s Cave was a cheap, safe, place to hang out and have a couple of beers. It was a win-win for the school—they could keep a protective eye on their students while simultaneously making money off of them.

And in my day people did not get “retarded.” And rarely did people wake up and wonder what did I do last night?—it wasn’t good form to get that wasted—it wasn’t a badge of honor. I knew of no one who was rushed to the emergency room with alcohol poisoning. The point of drinking was to get a buzz on, not to get incapacitated.

But things were not perfect—kids died from drunk driving back then. This current generation was schooled better. They take taxis and appoint designated drivers. They fully understand the ramifications of using heavy machinery under the influence of alcohol. Drunk driving deaths are seriously reduced for this generation—but deaths from other alcohol related activities are seriously up. The intended consequence of raising the drinking age was to prevent drunk driving fatalities—it worked—but the socialization and nonchalance of binge drinking is the fatal unintended consequence. Kids are still dying—the cause is just different.

And the people who have profited most from the scofflaws are the lawyers and town coffers. College towns that are located in Nowheresville USA with small town police departments with little to do because of a zero  crime rate, just love to take advantage of college kids and their parent’s pocketbooks. It’s like a turkey shoot for them.  Parents spend lots of money to local lawyers to have their kid’s underage drinking offense  (in some states a misdemeanor)reduced to a parking ticket.

The only benefit that I see of keeping the drinking age at 21 is this—the family restaurant bill is lower for the 3 years between 18 to 21. Now that everyone in my family is over 21 those glasses of wine with dinner at $10-$15 a clip really add up. The bar bill nearly exceeds the food bill.

But even so, I think it’s time to reconsider the wisdom is maintaining the drinking age at 21. Kids no longer drink and drive—they got that message loud and clear—now instead they die from alcohol poisoning and fatal hematomas from falling down drunk.

In his documentary Ken Burns asserts this:

Prohibition turned law-abiding citizens into criminals, and made a mockery of the justice system causing illicit drinking to seem glamorous and fun….

It appears history has repeated itself. We did not learn from past mistakes. Prohibition did not then, and does not now, work particularly well. This will be the rehab generation. Maybe there is discount if you pre-pay.

Making College Connections

It took two full years to research, apply and feel Samantha was settled into college. And the second I exhaled I realized I had to do the process all over again with Briana---and then Kara. For 6 straight years I was consumed by the college process.

What I learned very early on from one of the better guidance counselors (Mr. Malone) at the high school during an college overview meeting was this---the more a school or an admissions counselor gets to know an applicant personally, the more difficult it is for the admissions counselor to reject them. The goal is for admissions to want you—it gives you the upper hand. I paid attention. And thus I nudged my girls to walk the fine line of being assertive and not aggressive. I nudged them to befriend the admissions counselor at their first choice schools. I nudged them to ask smart questions and write pointed emails. And while reluctant, my girls did just that. By the time my girls applications hit the desk of admissions, the counselors had personally spoken to , met, and  communicated by email with each of them.  And all three  girls had their acceptance letters by December—Briana’s acceptance packet even came with a hand written note from her admissions counselor welcoming her.

Laura from Lehigh knew Samantha; Jarett  from Bucknell knew Briana; and Scott from Emory knew Kara. And the connections the girls made were genuine. And Briana in particular, maintained her relationship with her admissions counselor the entire time she was at Bucknell.  Briana met Jarett from time to time for coffee and gave him the scoop on college life.  He attended  many of her dance performances.  But the child who reaped the most benefit of admissions councelors’ connections was Kara. She not only spun her relationship with her admissions councelor into an acceptance letter from Emory, but she,  because of Scott knowing her, got a work study job with him in the admissions office her freshman year. And months later he gave her a pivotal recommendation when she applied to Emory’s Business School. He also made key phone calls to important people on her behalf.

And Kara was at work one day when Scott called her into his office. Scott had just come back from an admissions counselor’s conference. And Scott told her the story of how when he was at lunch at the conference, the guy sitting next to him, upon finding out that he worked at Emory, said your school stole one of our best candidates. We really wanted her. Her sister attends my school and has been very successful there. He said I wonder if you know her—her name is Kara Ciccone. And apparently Scott laughed and said Yes!--she works for me. She is great. And the two men continued to speak of both Kara and Briana. And Scott remarked to Kara that he didn’t realize she was so famous—or her sisters and Mom too. The guy Scott was talking to was Jarett.

At Emory, 17,000 students apply for 1400 seats. At Bucknell 8,000 students apply for 900 seats. The fact that Kara came up in conversation between the two admissions counselors speaks to the importance of establishing connections and retaining contacts. It speaks to the rewards of taking the college process personally. Admissions counselors are people---they want to chose good candidates—often times they chose student s that they themselves identify with. They chose kids they might like to have a cup of Starbucks with.

When Samantha, Briana and Kara would get worried about the college process I would always tell them that they were lucky. They had a secret weapon that no one else had---the secret weapon was me. They were the performing cast  but I was the director. I soaked up the nuances of the college process and nudged the girls forward—I urged on their best performance as all good directors do. Their colleges wanted them. They stood out from the crowd. And letters of acceptance were awarded and displayed on the mantel—just like an Oscar.

I met a woman in the spring of Kara’s graduation year. And the woman asked me Where is Kara going to college next year? And I said Emory. And the woman looked a little bit incredulous and with a   condescending tone said Oh I guess she is going for golf. And cheerfully I said No—Emory doesn’t have women’s golf---they don’t have field hockey either. Kara is going to Emory on her brains—and under my breath I said her brains and mine and Scott’s and Mr. Malone’s. It takes a team of brains to get a kid into college.

Weight Watcher-ing

Most people have at least a rudimentary understanding of finance and banking. They understand the idea of credits and debits. People understand that you cannot spend what you do not have. To maintain the status quo the credits must equal the debits---they must zero out. Even I understand this and I am not financially astute.

When I was a child I was borderline heavy. My grandmother was heavy and both my parents struggled with weight gain. And whether it was articulated or not, what I understood was that being fat or not being fat was an inherited thing. The understood concept was that our family had a tendency for weight gain. We were biologically different from thin people.

And both my parents gained and lost entire people in their lifetimes. Several times of year they both went on diets. And they yo-yo-ed up and down the scale. I stood on the sidelines and watched. And I was always conscious of my body and cursed my genes—I cursed my DNA for my tendency to be on the heavier side of normal--because I too had fluctuations in my weight.

And only when I reached my early twenties did the bell go off. The reason for the number on my scale had to do with the type and volume of food I thought I deserved to eat. My body only needed 4 raviolis for sustainance—but because Suzy May ate 12 raviolis I thought I deserved to eat 12 too—it doesn’t work that way. My food choices were out of wack. I was borderline overweight because I simply ate too much.  My caloric debits and credits did not zero out.

My weight was not controlled by my DNA it was controlled by my hand to mouth action. I was not genetically predisposed to gaining weight-- I was socially predisposed to overeating. My brain was in charge. The secret was revealed.

And later, when my mother joined Weight Watchers in 1984, did I finally understand nutritional balance. The diet proposed that there were healthy amounts of protein, breads, milks, fruit, fat and vegetables that one should consume daily. And the formula was simple—if you ate less than what your body burned , you lost weight. If you ate the same amount as your body burned, you maintained your weight.  And if you ate more than your body burned, you gained weight. Period. There was no magic involved. It was a credit and debit system. The only thing I had to get over was that my body may have had a different caloric rate of burn than someone else’s . Every “body” was different. And as one ages, the zero point adjusts.

This past February my mother wanted to go back to Weight Watchers. She wanted to learn about the new program. And I said Why? You know what to do by now. And she said I just want to see what they have to say. And I rolled my eyeballs up into my head. I think after all these years my mother is still hoping the mathematical formula will change--she wants to eat anything she wants without worrying about a caloric financial report. She holds out hope that the next incarnation of Weight Watchers will make all foods free—not just the vegetables. She wants to eat a box of Mallomars and not be required to count the points. It’s never going to happen. It’s always going to be calories in, and calories out—credits and debits. The formula never changes.

My Piano Teacher: Miss Willkie

By the time I was 10 years old, I dreaded Tuesdays. I walked very slowly home from school. And when I saw the silver grey Ford Falcon parked in front of my house, my stomach did flips. She was here again. I could look forward to an hour of hell. And I mean an hour—exactly—not a minute less. And when my torture was over, my brother could look forward to his.

Miss Hubertine Willkie was my (and my brother’s) piano teacher. Miss Willkie was ancient. Really ancient. You could get carbon-14 readings off of her. She enjoyed telling everyone how she was from one of the first founding families in Yonkers. Her dress was modest.  And she wore her hair rolled up onto the top of her head and secured it with pins. And in the late 1960’s where everyone wore plastic framed glasses, Miss Willkie wore wire frames—not the John Lennon kind—the Teddy Roosevelt kind. In fact she may have even voted for old Teddy. And on her feet she wore beige tied orthopedic shoes. She wore naphthalene as her signature scent. Her breath smelled like gingivitis.

Miss Willkie was a spinster. She had a “sweetheart” during World War I—not World War II—who died in combat. Miss Willkie was so overcome with sorrow and grief that she never had a gentleman caller ever again. She was rigid. Bitter. Her voice sounded a lot like Julia Child. Her favorite catch phrase was My Dear. And from what I could tell she didn’t like children very much—that is, except for Walter—who lived down the block. Walter was a musical prodigy. And it is a good thing because pretty much that is all that he had going for him. Walter was a social failure and Miss Wilkie loved him.

I had a bare minimum of musical talent. I had just enough talent to recognize that I had none. Sometimes I felt badly for my father—my father was a very talented musician and could play multiple instruments well. And my brother and I did not pull anything from that gene pool. But my parents wanted us to be exposed to music and thus they gave us piano lessons. And Miss Willkie was considered one of the best teachers—and she herself was cultured --and that’s how we got stuck with her.

I hated piano lessons and I really resented not being able to either play outside or watch TV to practice. My mother would yell from the other room Are you practicing? -- because I don’t hear anything.

And the selection of music for my lessons did not interest me either. Miss Wilkie only taught classical music. The only kid I knew who enjoyed classical music was Walter. And Walter was weird.

So my hour long piano lesson had lots of No! No! No! and You must practice more!! And why can’t you can’t you play like Walter? And the killer—you must keep your fingers up over the key board--You must have proper technique (like Walter.)

You see, I am double jointed in my fingers—I am  physically incapable of keeping my fingers up over the keyboard—even if I try I cannot do it--it is a genetic aberration---like the ability to roll your tongue. Miss Willkie either didn’t, or didn’t care to understand my physical handicap. She drew diagrams in my piano workbook of what my fingers looked like, and what they were supposed to look like.

And even though I was an obedient child and was prepared for the weekly verbal abuse, one day in the spring of 1970 I snapped. I guess the pre-teen hormones were making a debut. And while Miss Willkie was chastising me with her cutting tongue for my lack of musical talent and poor technique, I found anger rising in me—I was tired of this whole charade. So when for the umpth-teenth millionth time Miss Wilkie demanded why do you insist on not holding your hands up over the keyboard? I said in a not-so-respectful tone maybe you should ask Walter. And Miss Willkie turned ashen. And she picked up her little tote bag and she stomped up the steps and my mother asked what happened? And Miss Willkie started to cry. And I was in deep deep deep trouble. And even though I knew my mother was secretly delighted at my spunkiness, she made me apologize. I crossed my toes when I did it.

Weeks later there was a different ruckus. My brother asked Miss Willkie to play some music for him—Miss Wilkie could play any sheet of music you gave her. But my brother asked her to play Whole Lotta Love by Led Zeppelin. And Miss Willkie went into a tirade about rock and roll. She nearly had a coronary. My mother had to get her some Maalox and Excedrin. My poor mother had to smooth things over—again.

And even though it is evil to say, when Miss Willkie fell ill shortly after the Led Zeppelin incident and had to go to the nursing home, I was ecstatic. I could end my piano lessons gracefully. I did not have to tell my parents I desperate wanted to quit. Piano lessons had quit me first.

And when my daughters came of age, I too gave them piano lessons—I wanted to expose them to music like I had been. But I made sure the teacher was child centered. And Susan, their piano teacher, taught both classical and modern music to keep their interests going.  Because learning to play the piano is the root of all instrument play—the root of all music; just like ballet is the root of all dance. It’s like eating spinach. When you are young spinach does not taste very good even though it is good for you. But when you become an adult you appreciate its value and you find yourself ordering it at restaurants.

 And if I really focus, and the written music is not too treacherously difficult, I can still hammer some things out on the keyboard.  I am grateful for my knowledge. Piano playing is like riding a bike. You never forget.

Miss Willkie lived a very long time in the nursing home. She was nearly 100 when she died. From all reports she was ornery right up until the end. I am sure the nurses secretly clapped when her final performance was over. They had endured her much longer than I had— and that was too too long. Maybe God didn’t want her either.