Birthday Thoughts

I have always hated my birthday—and I mean always—even and especially when I was little.

Because not only did it fall in summertime when school was out and there was no opportunity to share cupcakes with classmates at snacktime, my birthday almost always fell on Labor Day weekend.

Labor Day weekend marks the end of playtime. It is the unwanted ticket to homework and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. It is when pools and beaches shut down--lobster shacks hide behind whitewashed boards.  It is the time when flip-flops and sneakers are switched out for shoes.

My birthday was always a harbinger of doom—a send-off to academic prison.

And now that I am older, it is a bit better—but still not so much. Department stores are still in transition—there is nothing good to buy to satisfy the void. Everyone is distracted by their own spiral of plans. Things get left behind.

But the pit is an opportunity to rise up and take charge—to use calculated information wisely. The pit is the final resting place of fallen ash—the point of dusting off. Because all birthdays—even and especially those on Labor Day weekend are like New Year’s Day. They are the time for a new start—like the crack of an untouched marble composition notebook opening for the first time. The lines are blank—in wait of words.

And so promise begins and hope takes hold. Because the past cannot be changed—only the future. Plans move forward to ensure that this time things will be different—that this revised formula will be the perfect balance. And when the candles extinguish and the grey smoke rises up, maybe this time  I will be compelled to say out loud: now that was a great birthday!

ADD and Scorekeeping

I was a good student. I listened and raised my hand. I got good grades and handed in my assignments on time.

I was always engaged.

But I was also the person in class who diverted the discussion. I was the tangent-maker. I would pay such attention to the lesson that I would curiously inquire  But is that always the case? Which would inevitably lead to some other teacher-ly thoughts outside of the lesson plan.

This need to go off course is a mutant form of ADD: Attention Divergence Disorder.

It means: habitual meandering from the topic.

It means: my interests lie outside of the box.

In Robert Frost terms it means inquisitively investigating the road less traveled by.

And this is what I was thinking about at the US Open Qualifiers the other day—how I could never be the person sitting in the chair keeping the score. I would find too many other things beckoning me from the job at hand. I could not simply count point after point and enter them into the computer. I would think Why is that player continuing to make drop shots when it is clear from the 20 failed attempts that that isn’t a good play? I would look around at the crowd and wonder Is that guy the coach or just a really dedicated fan? I would wonder why a stance was so peculiar or what the player was saying in their native tongue.

All that divergent thinking would impede my record keeping. Too many of my thoughts would lie outside of my demands.

Because tangent-makers do not make good scorekeepers. A scorekeeper’s role is to count without investment---to remain in a vacuum—to have Attention Revert-gence Disorder. They must remain on the road well traveled by. Because the only points that count in tennis are the ones that fall inside and not outside of the "box".

The Ant and his Uncles

I need a few questions answered that I cannot ask. They are a bit delicate—and they all revolve around gay marriage.

 I am curious to know what the protocol is—do gay couples keep their own names when they marry and if they don’t which partner surrenders it? How do they choose? And what about the offspring of gay families—especially if surrogates or donor eggs and sperm are involved--what does the birth certificate look like? What last name is chosen for the child?  

Because things are complicated—particularly for children—and particularly when they get to school. Formerly, class lists had a column each for the  mothers’ and fathers’ name—who’s name goes where if there are 2 Mommies or 2 Daddies? Who is the designated class Mom in the 2 Mommy scenario and in the case of the  2 Dad scenario?

Inquiring minds like me want to know.

Because if the ant was confused to find out that all his uncles were “ants,” imagine how confused the human will be when asked to fill in  his/her mother’s maiden name on the profile form for their SAT.

Gatekeepers

A higher up in PTA expressed her disapproval at my candor with the new principal. She pulled me aside and very brusquely said : You have to stop telling her [the principal] about all these things—because once she knows, she will be obligated to do something about it.

During the second heat wave this summer it became obvious to everyone in my household that the second zone air conditioning unit was failing to keep the upper floors cool. And when I called the repair company to report my dissatisfaction I was met with a woman who explained that during record heat, it was normal to experience fluctuations in temperature within the house-- and since the unit was checked the week before and found to be in working order there was nothing more that could be done about it.

 I reminded her that the point of central air conditioning was climate control, and if this was normal, then I needed a new normal. I thus requested to speak with the engineer.

And I read today that a man discovered a way to circumvent all the security controls on Facebook. The man then attempted to report his hacking ability to the underlings at the company so that the problem could be resolved. But the man was ignored. And so this hacker used his knowledge to illegally post about his newly acquired skill on Mark Zuckerburg’s personal Facebook page.

And I, completely understand the role of the gatekeeper. They are the person responsible for keeping the kingdom (as well as the King) running in a high performance mode. They sift through the debris to find that which is of value. They pan tirelessly with little reward.

 But it can make them a bit too heady. And as a result they make decisions not for them to decide.

They impede, rather than promote progress.

Because a gatekeepers job is to keep the gate—not rule the kingdom. They should be a conduit of information—not the editor. Principals, engineers and CEOs cannot fix that which they have no knowledge of being broken.  Which is why I ignored the PTA higher up, I enjoy a climate controlled second and third floor courtesy of the engineer, and the glitch in Facebook has been corrected.

 

A Teachable Moment

When my brother, my cousin and I were little, Nonny, our grandmother, would always sneak away from the adults and find us with her change purse in hand. She would hand each of us a quarter (which was probably the equivalent of a $5 bill in today’s world) and ask Are you going to spend it or are you going to save it for college?

The three of us knew the correct answer.

I was a visitor at a physical rehabilitation center a few times a week over the course of 4 weeks this past summer.

It was not the most uplifting experience or destination. The hallways of the facility were littered with patients unable to self-navigate without steel-reinforced equipment. It was a sad reminder of the perils of age. The air was thick with surrender.

But not so much on Sundays. On Sundays, the rehab center had a different atmosphere. It had some to do with the bounty of human visitors, but it mostly had to do with the bounty of canine visitors.

Sunday was the day the therapy dogs came calling. It was the day I leapt over people in wheel chairs and walkers to get some loving attention from furry friends on lend.

It is also the day that my guilt bubbled up—and not just because I thoughtlessly hogged therapy time from the people for which it was intended. It was because I realized that my dog Cosmo, who descended from a long line of therapy dogs, had the temperament and intelligence that would have made him a star pupil had I sent him to Canine Service School.

I remained steeped in guilt over the fact that I had denied my goldendoodle his education.

He is the only one of my children without a diploma from an institution of higher learning.

And so that old commercial from the United Negro College Fund replayed in my head: A mind is terrible thing to waste.

And my brother, my cousin, and I knew that my grandmother asked us that question with her change purse in hand as a means to lead us in the right direction. Issuing a quarter was not so much a financial transaction as much as a teachable moment: Nonny wanted us to understand the value of education. She wanted us to appreciate that college was in all ways an investment—an aspiration that required sacrifice. But it was also something with limitless reward—the least of which was pride.

And pride she had—as did we. Especially when we answered I am going to save it for college-- and we could see the joy in her face over wisdom well-understood.

The Necessity of Bottled Water

One of my very real  fears about having  Kara study abroad in Nicaragua concerned her potential exposure to parasitic disease—either via mosquites (yellow fever, malaria, Dengue fever) or through tainted water (dysentery, giardia, ameobiosis).

When you visit third world countries, sanitation is not equal to that of the United States. Which is why the CDC states on its travel website the importance of vaccines and drinking bottled water.

Because something as simple as consuming bottled water can prevent death.

I live in New York. It is civilized. It is not a third world country. The Health Department, in conjunction with the Department of Labs and Research tests the potability of drinking water 365 days of the year. The standards for tap water are stringent—more stringent than what the EPA sets for bottled water like Poland Springs or imported water like Pellegrino.

Yet I have noticed a trend in the last year or so. And it is not just in the high end restaurants of Manhattan, but at local eateries here in the suburbs as well. Waiters are trained to come to the table just after customers are seated to ask Would you prefer bottled or tap water?

And what is to be inferred is that tap water is an inferior option—that tap water is dirty and of questionable origin—and that both my health and palate may be in jeopardy if I make the wrong choice.

It’s a total scam--- and I resent it.

Because I do not wish to pay for my glasses of water when I venture out to eat. My water should be free just like the bread on the table.

And so in an affirmative do you really think you can pull the wool over my eyes? tone I say Tap water will be fine.

Because I do not live in Nicaragua. The water here in America is completely safe. I do not need a pseudo-sommelier recommending  bottled waters as if it were fine wine. And if the day comes, and I am faced with a water steward, then I will say I’ll take the regional water—i.e. from the tap.

Smell vs. Taste

Not everything tastes as good as it smells.

My friend Elissa and I proved this point when we were teenagers by having her silver-gray miniature poodle named Starfi sniff an orange peel and then watched the dog try and rub the bitter taste off of her tongue with her paw after biting into the peel.

The skin of an orange smells great—the taste-- not so much.

Which is why I was dumbfounded the other day that Fozzie, my visiting goldendoodle dog-nephew, ate a small handmade violet scented bar of soap which was hidden in my daughter’s overnight bag.

Because all soap—even if it is all natural and violet infused from Nicaragua, does not taste very good.

It is something I am certain of.

And so should dogs—whose sense of taste and smell is magnified 30-fold compared to humans.

Unless of course Fozzie is part bumble bee—and can convert the aromatic violet into a sweeter than sweet comb of honey.