It's not me, it's you

To have even half the joy and love my Mother had; what a blessing that would be.

2012-01-04T20:43:00.000-05:00

I shared this at my mother's funeral on Saturday, December 31. An unseasonably warm day to say goodbye to warm woman who will forever claim a corner of my heart.

After the funeral, several people remarked, "How could you get through that?" Or, "I don't know how you did it."

My only answer - even now, days later - is "I guess it's because I couldn't not say it. It's my Mom."

I hope in some small way you feel her joy and kindness in every word. Please hug your Mom tonight, or call her or write a note. If that can never be, just think of her with all the love you can. I'll do the same.

You may not know these two things about my Mom: her bathroom closet contains dozens and dozens of bottles of lotion. A kitchen drawer has a plastic bag that holds hundreds of twist-ties. I know both of these facts seem kind of random and unimportant but you never know: she definitely has more than enough for the entire neighborhood to be well prepared for any kind of hand-lotion or twist-tie emergency.

I share this because it’s exactly what made my Mom laugh. We would come across these kinds of things from time to time and begin to comment about it and I can just hear her: “Don’t make fun!”, or “Go ahead! Make fun!” laughing while she said it, knowing that we loved her all the more for little habits like this. She made us laugh but was always in on the joke at the same time.

One of the many reasons my Mom was so easy to love was her sense of humor. Beyond her ready smile, her laugh, and her kind disposition, her good-nature meant that she accepted with incredible good-humor the teasing we all dished out to her, especially when we teased her about her household.

Look around her home for the small testaments to the woman she was and what gave her joy. A small Boyd’s Bear in a Marine Corps uniform stands at attention in her bedroom. Her jewelry box holds six or seven rosaries. Into a framed photo of her and my Dad, she had tucked a few smaller pictures: her engagement photo, my dad at about age 18 and another of them on the 50th anniversary. An entire lifetime on display with just a couple of snapshots.

But you don’t have to look very hard to see her piano. Having the piano in our home, or hearing my mom play it, even during afternoons of mayhem according to my Aunt Kay, meant her love of music found its way into the lives of each of her children. The only thing my Mom loved more than music: her family and friends. And when she could combine the two – music and people she loved – she was in her glory. She loved playing for us; playing with us, and sharing her music with friends. She adored playing Christmas music and listening to carols; she loved the concerts at the beach house every summer.

We looked at the piano this past week and noticed the stack of music nearby, about a foot high, made up a few books but mostly of single song sheet music pieces, many of them seventy years old. I like to think about my Mom buying a new song every week and then learning it and playing it for family and friends. When she bought the Marine Corps hymn, I can imagine how excited she was to play it for Dad.

I looked at that stack of music and thought:

For every sheet there, she made so many people smile throughout her life.

For every sheet, she helped scores of people feel welcome and loved in her home.

For every one, she offered friendship to strangers. Over her decades on Ferry Street, neighbors moved in and found a second mother, or second grandmother when they met my Mom. I guarantee you she hugged them goodbye the first time they met.

For every song, someone can tell a story about her endless optimism and positive thinking about almost any situation. It was remarkable. How many of us heard this? “I have faith. You’ll see. It will all work out.”

I can’t count the number of times I’ve sobbed on the phone or in her kitchen, dumping many of my life’s challenges into her always accessible lap. I wasn’t quite looking for answers or advice, although she often offered insight I valued. No, somewhere along the line I discovered that I did it for one reason: To hear her tell me, “It will work out.” The days I would cry about some situation as a wife or as a mother and she would say, “I have faith in him. And in you. I do. Everything will all be okay.”

I’m positive many people here today did the same with my Mom for the same reason.

It’s her certainty and her faith that inspire me daily. You could call this her view through “rose-colored glasses” or quite frankly, an inexplicably and relentlessly positive point of view, when almost none of the facts would seem to offer reasons for good cheer. You could say that choosing to believe in one good scrap of promise when the reality of a situation is telling you something quite the opposite gets you nowhere.

Or does it? When she learned of her cancer just two months ago, she broke down quietly with me and said, “I’m not ready.” We held each other and I just cried along with her because if I spoke it would have been to say. “I’m not either Mom. Don’t leave me.” Then she moved onto new doctors and new procedures and what could be. And also filled those two months with concerts and shows and family visits, parties and holidays.

But it was her time. She did leave us. As Rob said so beautifully on our last afternoon with her, “You’re in your living room, Mom, looking at your beautiful tree and all the lights and decorations you loved. Everyone is with you and we’re all fine. We’re safe, and together and happy. When you’re ready, turn off the lights and go to sleep. We’ll all be okay.”

Despite the enormous emptiness in our lives, in thousands of ways, she’s here and always will be. In her children and grandchildren, in the family and friends who felt her love and kindness. I’ll feel her in every fall day she used to love. I’ll find her in every concert I attend; in every bit of music that I know would bring her joy.

If there’s a celestial piano somewhere, I guarantee you God led her to it and sat her in front of the keys. And everyone who was waiting for her looked up with great joy and said, “Marge is here! Let’s start the party.”

Love you, my Mom. Merry Christmas.

2011-12-24T18:20:00.000-05:00

I think it’s fair to say that there is some part of me that never quite detached from my mother. That’s not to say I didn’t leave home in my early twenties; marry a few years later, have children of my own and lead a life that included a mostly healthy relationship with her and with my Dad. I did. What I mean by not detaching is that I’ve never lost sight of the fact that no matter what I had weighing me down or causing my anxiety, I could tell my Mom and she would listen. No question.

I’m positive that over my half century + in her life, I haven’t been all that she hoped for in one way or another. Couple of highlights: The day I told her that my boyfriend and I were quite committed to each other and no, I wasn’t still a virgin – that must have kept her up for many a night, and worn out a rosary along the way. The day I told her I wasn’t going to be married in ‘The Church,’ also not a celebratory moment in her life, I’m sure. Announcements like these distressed her, and she shared that emotion honestly but kindly. But I never felt any coldness or withdrawal from her when I let her down in some way. And after my own twenty-plus years of motherhood, I call that miraculous. Because honest emotion without judgment has to be the hardest thing ever with children, right? Loving them unconditionally sure; but not holding any resentment or sadness or even anger about what they’ve done or not done; about choices they’ve made in their own lives? I know that’s hard for me.

I can’t count the number of times I’ve sobbed on the phone or in her kitchen, dumping many of my life’s challenges into her always accessible lap. I wasn’t quite looking for answers or advice, although she often offered insight I valued. No, somewhere along the line I’ve discovered that I did it for one reason: To hear her tell me, “It will work out.” The days I would cry about some situation with one or more of my sons and she would say, “I have faith in him. I do. Everything will all be okay.”

As much as we’d all like to believe in nothing but happy endings, things that trouble me may or may not “work out” as she always claims they will. But it’s her certainty and her faith that inspire me. I feel certainty about almost nothing these days but I am just a little suspicious of anyone who exists in a relative sea of calm. That is; toward anyone – except my Mom.

If I wanted to take a more cynical approach to her attitude, I could call it her view through “rose-colored glasses” or quite frankly, her inexplicably and relentlessly positive point of view, when almost none of the facts would seem to offer her reasons for good cheer. I could say that choosing to believe in one good scrap of promise when the reality of a situation is telling you something quite the opposite gets you nowhere.

Or does it? Here’s what I do know – and part of me will always have a girlhood point of view on this, that can’t be helped: She married a complex but loving man with his own personal sadness and demons to fight, and never, ever gave up on the good person he was born to be. She saw the loving man he truly was despite the many aspects of his young life that were a challenge as he grew to adulthood and found his way into the world. During the worst periods of my dad’s alcoholism, she was the one steady, reliable force in our home daily; the parent my sisters and brother and I knew we could rely on for everything, everyday.

My sister and I talked recently about the response many reasonable, intelligent people would understandably have to discovering and then enduring life with an alcoholic spouse who had yet to reach sobriety. Anger, resentment, fear, withdrawal, bitterness, unfairness, anxiety, sadness, and abandonment come to mind. Add children into the marriage and quadruple all those reactions.
We felt none of them from my mother; a testament to the strong woman she is. I expect she spent many an evening crying to her own mom who, according to the stories I heard, listened but then reminded her of my dad’s many good qualities, of the man my grandmother knew was buried inside him, trapped under decades of abuse of one kind or another. She reminded my mom that her love and support was absolutely required if anything positive was to come about. [After my dad died, I learned only a few of the sad stories about his childhood and young adulthood and knowing only a few is quite enough, thank you.]
…

I started this post a few days ago and my idea here was this: My Mom read every single word I ever wrote, and cut my columns out of the newspaper for almost ten years, saving them in an album. When the column ended, she lamented her “unwired” condition and as a result, couldn’t read my blog posts or online pieces easily. My goal with this piece was to help her understand how much her life and outlook has influenced me and given me a perspective I know I wouldn’t have had otherwise on many, many things. My plan was to read it to her, or at least print it out and share it that way.

When she learned of her cancer just two months ago, and the bleak prognosis, she broke down quietly with me and said, “Renee, I’m not ready.” We held each other and I just cried along with her because if I spoke it would have been to say. “I’m not either Mom. Don’t leave me.”

But because she was who she was, her next thought was, “What’s next? What do we do now?” And she moved on. To new specialists, a new hospitals and the procedures and a surgery that would arrest her condition.

Except it didn’t. And for the past five days, she has been in an intensive care unit, with no fewer than seven machines doing something for her. The yellow, blue, red, and turquoise lines that march across those screens look not unlike the rollercoaster I’m on inside.

She’s stable.
She’s slightly, just slightly in the littlest way improved.
We can’t expect much at this point.
She’s very, very sick.
She’s hanging in there.
She’s holding her own.
You need to be patient.
Let her know you’re supporting her.
Be positive.

We’ve heard these and more like it with all the best intentions from the medical people we talk with every day. All of them are some code for this: God knows. Truly: God knows what will happen here.

I’m tired of doctors asking me what I want to “do.” I want to talk to my Mom again. I want to hear her voice. I want to look at her, have her look at me – really see me – and smile at her. I want her to be comfortable. I want to tell her just one more time: I love you, and have her hear me.

I want her to be here. For a little while longer.

Saint Monica would be weeping all over again. And I wouldn't blame her.

2011-12-17T11:19:00.000-05:00

Let’s start today’s incrankulous thoughts with some context, shall we?

From Santa Monica.com:
1769: Father Juan Crespi -- a Franciscan in Gaspar de Portola’s expedition party -- inspired by a free-flowing natural spring names the area after Saint Monica, who wept for her wayward son.
“The city of Santa Monica's story began when a Franciscan monk, inspired by the region's natural springs, named the area after Saint Monica. The rest, as they say, is history, and a rich history at that.” Ho Nguyen - Santa Monica Historical Society

From The Catholic Encyclopedia and marypages.com, and I’m absolutely paraphrasing here; the prose the sites offer is much more complete and sober. But this is a blog, after all:

Turns out, St. Monica (b. 333) was a never-say-die kind of woman. The kind who refused to give up, no matter the circumstances. She and her husband, Patricius, had two sons, Navigius and Augustine, and a daughter, Perpetua. Old Pat, he was a pagan, an explosive man who wasn’t a complete joy let’s just say. Oh, he also despised Christians. As a bonus for Monica, her mother-in-law was not unlike her son in temperament. For thirty years, (that’s three zero) Monica lived with this tyrant/husband, always praying for his conversion.

Her example and piety finally prevailed. Patricius eventually converted to the faith, then up and died a year later.

Monica, not unlike other widows, said, “Never again” regarding marriage and moved in with her son Augustine in Italy. Now Augustine, being extremely bright and a young man of a certain age, had abandoned the faith of his youth and “subscribed to Manichaeism.” (Nope, of course I didn't know what that was either. According to the Catholic Encyclopedia, Manichaeism is a religion founded by the Persian Mani in the latter half of the third century. It purported to be the true synthesis of all the religious systems then known, and actually consisted of Zoroastrian Dualism, Babylonian folklore, Buddhist ethics, and some small and superficial additions of Christian elements. The theory of two eternal principles, good and evil is predominant and gives color to the whole. Manichæism is classified as a form of religious Dualism.)

So there was Monica. Devout, but sadly tormented. First by a husband who treated her like crap for thirty years before he turned over a new leaf, largely as a result of her never losing faith in him and the man he could become. Then by a son who turned to the new age religion of the day while away at school, and eventually moved in with his mistress, disappointing her in a different way.

Like any mother would, she tried to find help for him. When the Bishop himself intervened but struck out, he basically told Monica, “Sorry, he’s pretty stubborn. You better just keep praying.” More on the record, he encouraged her by saying something like, “It is impossible that the son of so many tears should perish.” Much more poetic, right?

So she did. She prayed and never gave up, and just seventeen short years later, it paid off. Augustine was baptized at the age of 28, and went on to become a priest.
When Monica died at the age of 56, Augustine had returned to the faith and her daughter had become a nun. (No word on Navigius. He may have been the boring but faithful son who never got headlines.)

Why this walk down St. Monica lane today? Because of the story in the news about the atheist group in Santa Monica that has prevailed this year and gained exposure for their philosophy this Winter Solstice Season in Santa Monica’s Palisades Park. Through a city lottery, they earned 18 of the 21 plots available to city groups for seasonal displays. The remaining three spots contain one Jewish display and two Christian ones.

Truthfully, none of this makes sense to me because it would appear that for at least 45 weeks a year, the Jewish and Christian groups in and around Santa Monica don’t angle for space to display scenes or symbols of their beliefs. The idea of offering space to them at this time of year makes sense to me but I’m not an atheist. In fact, I’m even going to allow that if I were, it might bug me to see enormous displays of something I believed to be fantasy on public display.

But here’s the part of the story that made me insane. According to Annie Laurie Gaylor, co-president of the Madison Wisconsin based Freedom From Religion Foundation, “[Christmas displays are] littering – literally littering – these spaces…[and are a] territorial attempt by Christians to impose their beliefs in this season. That creates an atmosphere of intimidation. Christians are the insiders, and everyone else is an outsider.”

Well…yeah. If you’re not a Christian, Christmas decorations and celebrations are irrelevant, and yes, possibly offensive, to you as an observer, although ‘imposing beliefs’ sounds a bit much to me.

In fact, it’s possible the displays feel not unlike the billboard from atheist.org that feature images of Poseidon, Jesus, and Santa Claus and labels them all as mythical figures. Wouldn't the same standards apply here? One could say “it is a territorial attempt by atheists to impose their beliefs in this season. That creates an atmosphere of intimidation. Atheists are the insiders, and everyone else is an outsider.” The billboard might very well offend Christians, or followers of ancient Greek religion for that matter.

We could go back and forth all day here so I'll move onto this: The other insane moment in the article I read was courtesy of Santa Monica atheist, Damon Vix. He remarked that the display “defines Santa Monica as a Christian city, and I feel excluded by that.” That’s unfortunate but at least his feelings are confined to the Christmas season.

Or are they? If he wants to feel excluded 52-weeks a year, I would respectfully direct Mr. Vix to SantaMonica.com, where he can stop on the history page. The city itself welcomes visitors to the site with references to a Franciscan monk and a Christian saint. Maybe the local atheists should leave the Hanukkah display and Christmas tableau alone and contact the city webmaster if they have a problem with the town, its tolerance of religion and its presence in their lives. I think their concerns go back almost 250 years.

I made it. So why do I feel this way?

2011-12-14T22:13:00.000-05:00

I've been neglectful of my running tally and the ongoing virtual journey to Toronto. The good news is it wasn’t for lack of progress. Quite the opposite. In fact, Thanksgiving Day turned out to be auspicious. It was the day I reached my goal: 450 miles on the record this year, which places me somewhere north of Ontario, Canada. That means I made it. I did it. With my usual clarity and forethought, I based this whole program on exactly nothing and completed the journey one month earlier than I had planned.

The numbers look something like this (so far):
Average mileage per month: 42.5
Average mileage per run: just under 3 miles
Average number of days run / month: slightly more than 15

I found myself looking at the number at the end of November and thinking: well, I can’t stop now, right? I can run about 49 miles in December and hit 500, right? Right? I had logged that many miles (and more) in a month already. I could do it again, this time for the big payoff; the ‘extra’ mileage I never imagined I’d be able to claim.

Well, I might. But I might not. The month started off slowly and I have another 30 miles to go before the ball drops in Times Square again. Sure, I could do it. Sure I could.

The good news is I can always fall back on my “go to” movies to make the time pass more comfortably on the treadmill. For the record, these movies make my all-time, top eleven, always watchable, always distracting list. That means I’ll stop on them, knowing them well enough to not need every word; knowing they will engage me to the point where I can disengage from the numbers that are moving way, WAY too slowly on the mileage tracker or the timer, depending on how I’m running that night:

11 The Hangover

10 The Break Up

9 Leap Year

8 Tropic Thunder

7 The Muse

6 Rudy

5 Wedding Crashers

4 Along Came Polly

3 Forgetting Sarah Marshall

2 The Princess Bride

1 Groundhog Day

Three Vince Vaughn and two Jennifer Aniston? Why not – never said I was looking for deep while I run. I can barely manage it when I’m sitting still.

The thing is: I should be celebrating this accomplishment with a little more enthusiasm than I feel right now, shouldn’t I? Maybe it’s because my right knee is starting to ache a tiny little bit. (It does, really.) Maybe it’s because I wish it all felt more effortless than it did a year ago. (It doesn’t. Really.) I think it may be because I want to feel like a runner and I don’t. I’m not even sure what that means. Or maybe – and this is closer to my typical truth about lots and lots of things in life – actually accomplishing something might just mean it couldn’t have been that hard. More positively stated, I could say that my passion lies in the journey, not in the arrival.

The support I've felt – from personal friends and blog friends - all year long has inspired me to keep it up; to keep moving; to keep believing this is not at all insane. I can’t explain the kindness of so many, who wanted to help me succeed and meet my goals. Thank you doesn’t begin to cover it but thank you. You were my virtual pace group, keeping me on the road and focused.

So here I sit, or run, as the case may be, just about 31 miles away from hitting a total of 500 for the year. I have about 15 days to do it but let’s face it: they’re in the second half of December, when I just happen to have a couple of (dozen) other things to do. So I’ll aim for a nice round 475. That’s only six more miles. And then 480. And then, well, who can’t find time for 20 miles? Honestly, who? Me, probably, but you can see where this kind of thinking has gotten me: Just 468 miles from Allentown in eleven short months.

Who would’ve believed it? Certainly not I.

Kind and generous doesn't do this reunion justice. But it's a start.

2011-11-26T12:05:00.008-05:00

The only thing more surprising than having a 35th High School reunion – that feels like it can’t be true, but it is – was learning that not only did our class have a “theme song,” apparently we sang it at graduation. No memory of that. Zip. It was the almost inevitable “You’ve Got a Friend,” a title that will always aggravate the English major in me.

But my legendary, terrible memory skills aside - and they were in full view last night as I said at least a dozen times to various friends, “Sorry, I have no memory of that. Nope, don’t remember that either. What? We did that? We went where? How can you remember that?” - seeing everyone last night was a gift. These friendships, formed so many years ago when we had our entire lives filled with dreams, when we were facing decades of discovery about just who we would become, felt renewed, fresh and alive, even as we’ve all indisputably entered what I’ve heard someone call the youth of old age. Yes, we’re all 50 + but we’re also the ‘kids’ in AARP.

Seeing someone after thirty-five years: how do you even begin that conversation? First, you get past that nano-second in your brain going, “Name? NAME? NAME!! Oh – got it…Hi!!! How are you? Whew.” (Maybe that was just me because everyone else knew everyone else immediately. See the notes about memory or lack thereof above.) But back to the conversation. Sure, a glass of wine helps, just as it helps with many things in life. And in a way, I felt very humbled and blessed to have many old friends already feel a connection because of my writing over the years. We inevitably caught up on kids, marriage(s), jobs, and life. I loved hearing about the paths we’ve taken, and meeting their partners, who, like my own, played heroic and indefatigable “good sport” roles by patiently meeting dozens of people and then nodding, smiling and saying where they were from or what they did for a living dozens of times as well.

But what I really wanted to say was something like this: ‘Remember us? Remember when we were 17? Remember what we thought was important or life-altering back then? We’re different now but then again, maybe we’re not…in a good way. Maybe we’re still almost exactly who we used to be in the hundreds of small ways that really matter, and despite everything that’s different about us and who we've become, we can still share a hug and a kiss, a smile, a kind word.’

I didn’t, of course.

Seeing old classmates, vibrant, fun, accomplished and caring people, was a moment of restoration for me. These last few months, which have been some of the most challenging in my life, took a back seat to the realization that friendships from our youth may grow hazy but they never quite leave our consciousness. They make up huge parts of the ‘glory days’ Springsteen sings so energetically about in his song. They’re part of us - of who we turned out to be. It’s impossible to know whom we would have become without the people who sat right beside us, everyday in our classes, our clubs, our activities, some of whom we’ve known almost our entire lives. Yes, decades have passed and yes, we’ve long since ‘grown up.’ But some part of us still imagines each other as we were, standing on the brink of our lives; waiting to join the adults and really begin our lives.

And thirty-five years ago, not one of us could have predicted what that would mean. The intervening years may have seen some of us grow wealthy or fulfilled by a career. They have included heartache and pain as a result of lost marriages, long walks down Green Day's boulevard of broken dreams or challenging circumstances of many kinds. We’ve lost spouses, parents, siblings, and children. We’ve lost some classmates. But for those of us who gathered for the evening, we rediscovered this one true thing: we're here; and we’re all better people for having known each other. I believe that now, maybe more than I ever could have imagined in 1976.

So like everyone there, I shared my story and listened and just loved the moment. The unassailable fact is that we will always have our history as classmates. We can live six blocks from our childhood homes or across the world, and we’ll always be part of that group of people who formed a little community for that particular moment in time.

I joined the circle of my classmates, holding hands and singing along with James to close out the evening. But as the song played on, I sang more softly and just looked at the group, thinking: this is one of those images that will linger; the legendary tie that binds. But not a heavy, cumbersome chain; more like a strong silky thread that connects us; loose and flexible but unbreakable.

I’m not a poet but Natalie Merchant is and the lyrics of Kind and Generous seem more than appropriate here. To the Class of ’76, I thank you for who you were then, who you are now, and for sharing the ride.

Kind and Generous

You've been so kind and generous
I don't know how you keep on giving
For your kindness I'm in debt to you
For your selflessness, my admiration
And for everything you've done

You know I'm bound...I'm bound to thank you for it

You've been so kind and generous
I don't know how you keep on giving
For your kindness I'm in debt to you
And I never could have come this far without you
So for everything you've done

You know I'm bound...I'm bound to thank you for it

I want to thank you for so many gifts you gave with love and tenderness
I want to thank you

I want to thank you for your generosity
The love and the honesty that you gave me

I want to thank you; show my gratitude
My love and my respect for you; I want to thank you

I want to...
Thank you

Appropo of nothing: one women's perspective on men.

2011-11-23T10:58:00.000-05:00

I was looking for an old email and came across this one instead. It started out as an internet note that was passed from person to person for fun - you remember those days; in the time before everyone posted everything that crossed our path or our minds on Facebook or sent tweets every nineteen minutes?

So without much further ado, and with great affection for the many wonderful men I know and love, while you're feeling properly grateful for those you love, here's a little perspective on why men and women might not ever quite sync up. And why that's mostly funny, not fatal.

Note: The list is the original email list; my comments on the list are in italics below each item.

Here are the rules from the male side. Please note: these are all numbered "1" ON PURPOSE!

# 1. Learn to work the toilet seat. You're a big girl. If it's up, put it down. We need it up, you need it down. You don't hear us complaining about you leaving it down.
Maybe that's because you'd feel pretty uncomfortable trying to....oh , never mind.

# 1. Sometimes we are not thinking about you. Live with it.
OK, that makes sense. But I guess most of us would like to believe you'd be thinking about us at least twice a year, say - on our birthday or anniversary without us hitting you over the head???? See # 1 below.

# 1. Sunday = sports. It's like the full moon or the changing of the tides. Let it be.
Fine by me. What day of the week is our day? I forget.

# 1. Shopping is NOT a sport. And no, we are never going to think of it that way.
Except when we're shopping for electronics.

# 1. Ask for what you want. Let us be clear on this one: Subtle hints do not work! Strong hints do not work! Obvious hints do not work! Just say it! We'll get it for you, but just LET US KNOW WHAT YOU WANT!!!
We want men who ignore these rules.

# 1. We don't remember dates. Mark birthdays and anniversaries on the calendar. Remind us frequently beforehand.
We don't remember the last time we put oil in the car, or when your next dentist appointment is, or what time the cable guy is supposed to come, or when the permission slip and field trip money is due, or when the dog needs to go to the vet. I guess we should write it down. Please remind us frequently.

# 1. Most guys own three pairs of shoes. What makes you think we'd be any good at choosing which pair, out of thirty, would look good with your dress?
Just trying to please the one we love.

# 1. Yes and No are perfectly acceptable answers to almost every question. Please pick one.
Please see the question #1 below about being fat. The answer is NO. Use it please.

# 1. Come to us with a problem only if you want help solving it. That's what we do. Sympathy is what your girlfriends are for.
And apparently, they're also to help us find something to do on Sundays.

# 1. A headache that lasts for seventeen months is a problem. See a doctor.
A cold is not necessarily life threatening. Take a Tylenol.

# 1. Let us know about that funny noise in your car engine as soon as you hear it.
And put that new roll on as soon as the old one is empty.

# 1. Anything we said six months ago is inadmissible in an argument. In fact, all comments become null and void after seven days.
Except the wedding vows, right?????

# 1. If you won't dress like the Victoria's Secret girls, don't expect us act like soap opera guys.
We might if we got the right answer to the next question.

# 1. If you think you're fat, you probably are. Don't ask us. We refuse to answer, but still love you.
See above re yes and no questions.

# 1. If something we said can be interpreted two ways, and one of the ways makes you sad or angry, we meant the other one.
We did, too.

# 1. Whenever possible, please say whatever you have to say during commercials.
Got it. It would probably be something like: I'm leaving to go shopping with my girlfriends and talk about our relationship, get some sympathy and celebrate my birthday. And by the way, the car is smoking a little bit every time I hit the brakes and your mom’s birthday is on Tuesday.

# 1. Christopher Columbus did not need directions, and neither do we.
Yeah, but he was on his way to India for God's sake!! He ended up somewhere else as I recall.

# 1. The relationship is never going to be like it was the first two months we were going out. Get over it. And quit whining to your girlfriends.
You don't have to tell me! I live here, remember? Besides, didn’t you just tell me that's what my girlfr….forget it.

# 1. ALL men see in only 16 colors, like Windows default settings. Peach, for example, is a fruit, not a color. Pumpkin is also a fruit. We have no idea what Mauve is.
And we have no idea what "special teams" do and why if they're on every football team on the planet they're so freakin' special to begin with.

# 1. If it itches, it will be scratched. We do that.
Except on Sunday, right??

# 1. We are not mind readers and we never will be. Our lack of mind-reading ability is not proof of how little we care about you.
How come everybody knows what Lee Corso is thinking?

# 1. When we have to go somewhere, absolutely anything you wear is fine. Really, you look fine!!
Change "fine" to "beautiful" and you've got a deal.

# 1. NASCAR is as exciting for us as handbags are for you.
Handbags??? Try SHOES.

# 1. I AM in shape. ROUND is a shape
Me too.

# 1. Thank you for reading this. Yes, I know, I have to sleep on the couch tonight, but did you know we really don't mind that? It's like camping.
We don't mind, either. We get the remote in the bedroom.

Just say no, thank you. And send Kim down the street to the next house.

2011-11-04T08:24:00.000-04:00

An Open Letter to every book publisher on the planet:

Please, for the love of everything we hold sacred, take a breath. I guarantee you – absolutely guarantee you – that if none of you choose to publish Kim Kardashian’s soon to be shopped around tell-all about her 72 days of wedding hell, you won’t receive nor read even one letter, email, tweet, fax, facebook post, text or voice mail from the book-buying public, demanding that you give poor Kim the platform she needs to tell her story.

To publishers who have all the money and confidence in the world that book will rack up record-breaking sales, please put the money to better use. Take the advance you were going to pay Ms. Kardashian to bear her wounded soul to the world and donate it to women’s shelters, reforestation efforts or your favorite rehab center. It may do some actual good and reach people or causes that need financial support.

To the editors who have held meetings since Wednesday about how to approach Kim’s very busy agent and put together the best deal for everyone: please stop right now. Promise yourself that if anyone in your entire building is still talking about Kim and the seemingly inconsequential Kris in two weeks, you’ll make that phone call and begin negotiations. Wait – make that one week.

To marketing teams who apparently have pictures of endcaps, table displays and book signings that are all but scheduled dancing in their heads, stop being so lazy. Commit to marketing good but unknown writers who have an actual voice and talent. Use all your efforts and good old-fashioned sell-in skills (remember those?) to help them find the readers they deserve.

I don’t expect this will make one bit of difference to anyone who makes these decisions. Times are hard and easy money is easy money. But what I will never understand is how the same publishing industry that participates in the erudite National Book Awards annually and nominates mostly obscure, literary writers for lofty awards and virtually dismisses “popular” fiction as too base and tawdry for consideration, could also be the same publishers who compete for a book from the likes of Kim or any number of “famous for being famous” people like her. It makes no sense. Who are you?

Once again, the genius of Ricky Gervais / Andy Millman on “Extras” rings true. To update his final episode, brilliant observation slightly, I have to agree: “The Victorian freak show never went away. But now it’s called Kim Kardashian or Lindsay Lohan or Snooki or Chaz.”

God help us, we’re still lining up for tickets. The question is: do we blame the ticket seller or ourselves?

Why no! You won't be surprised to hear my costume isn't ready.

2011-10-24T22:13:00.000-04:00

I just read a study that reports the following:

Top 5 US Holidays according to a survey of American men and women:

1. Christmas
2. Thanksgiving
3. Well, let's hold on this one for a moment...
4. Independence Day
5. Easter

Number Three is the tricky one here; that's where the survey takes a bit of a turn. In fact, depending on who is answering, the list changes from group to group.

For a few groups (Echo Boomers, age 18 - 34; Generation X, age 35 - 46 and women), HALLOWEEN ranks third.

For Baby Boomers (47 - 65), Matures (66 +) and men, INDEPENDENCE DAY comes in third.

Let's translate, shall we?

Women are fans of gifts (giving and receiving), food (preparing and eating) and candy + costumes.

Men appear to be fans of gifts (giving and receiving), food (preparing and eating) and food + fire.

I guess many women feel this way: if I get to buy and eat candy and dress like a slutty nurse or a witch while I do, well, that works for me. Personally, I can't quite relate because while I am an enormous fan of candy of almost any kind, dressing up for Halloween never did much for me. In fact, regular readers of my now departed newspaper column will remember that every single year, I was always the mother who was stunned year after year when the end of October arrived and it was Halloween again. Not only was I the one who bought the boys' costumes from catalogs, I paid FedEx for overnight delivery.

Thankfully, they had their dad. He could somehow coordinate three reasonably good costumes for them out of nothing in a matter of hours; I'm not kidding. Give him an old coat, a tennis racquet and a hardhat and he'd turn random accessories into costumes that were somehow pretty good. God knows how he did it.

Back to the survey: It's not that women don't like celebrating Fourth of July; we do. It's just fifth in a list of five. You'll note it comes in after another religious-with-heavy-candy-overtones-holiday: Easter.

Number 5 for men? New Year's Eve.

Personal sidebar: Yet another holiday that never did much for me. Over-rated; too many expectations. When I was younger and single, I either worried about the date I had or the date I didn't have. When I was younger and in love, I appreciated the sure-thing-of-it all. When I married and realized I'd never have to think about New Year's Eve in a certain way again, I was relieved. These days, the holiday arrives and it's become the perfect opportunity for me to brood about the year that has passed and the year to come.

Many men - not all certainly - may like Thanksgiving and New Year's because of the football games that take place on those holidays. That means food, drink and sports. Some might call it the trifecta of a perfect day. (I wouldn't, but some might.)

Maybe men also think this on December 31: festive party + drinks = maybe I'll get lucky. With my wife. Maybe.

You know what women are thinking? Only about six weeks until another national holiday built around candy.

G'night everybody! Tip your waiters and waitresses!!!

2011-10-09T19:19:00.001-04:00

Sometimes it takes one comment from one reader to remind me that it’s not all a drag. That not everything is as bleak as I might imagine it is, and that’s on my good days. Thank you, c.c.!

Coincidentally, I just finished a book called Heidegger and a Hippo Walk Through Those Pearly Gates, by Thomas Cathcart and Daniel Klein. Now, before everyone gets worked up, I fully admit I’m not nearly smart enough to understand at least two-thirds of this book but in terms of philosophy, debating philosophers and trying to figure out why we’re on this planet, it’s about as close as I’ll ever get.

And in that spirit, I share the following with you. Made me smile and once again, reminded me that a little perspective and a good dose of humor can really help smooth out a path that feels a little rocky these days. Enjoy.

So Heidegger and a hippo stroll up to the Pearly Gates and St. Peter says, “Listen, we’ve only got room for one more today. So whoever of the two of you gives me the best answer to the question, ‘what is the meaning of life,’ gets to come in.”
And Heidegger says, “To think Being itself explicitly requires disregarding Being to the extent that it is only grounded and interpreted in terms of beings and for beings as their ground, as in all metaphyics.”

But before the hippo can grunt one word, Saint Peter says to him, “Today’s your lucky day, Hippy!”

Grimsby Ontario feels anything but grim.

2011-10-03T07:08:00.004-04:00

I made it I made it I made it I made it. On screen anyway.

I've "arrived" in Canada and am now near a town called Grimsby, Ontario. As of September 30, I'm in pretty good shape to complete my virtual run from Pennsylvania to Canada, which may put me significantly ahead of my goal of running 450 miles this year. If I keep up my pace, I'll complete about 500 miles for the year. In fact, September was my best month ever. I ran about fifty miles, and on several days ran longer distances than I had run previously.

For those who need the numbers (AKA Capricorns):
375 down
75 more to go
3 months to do it...
which means...
25 miles a month
or about 6.25 miles a week
or about 1.5 miles / run, 4 times a week

Since my monthly goal at the outset was 37.5 miles, you can see where I may, in fact, overshoot Toronto.

No, I have no explanation for that.

No, I would have never anticipated that come the beginning of October, I would still find myself on track to reach my goal. The fact is I can’t quite believe I’ve been running every week for about a year and half now.

As I think about this, it occurs to me that I can’t remember the last long term commitment I made to anything. That’s kind of troubling. I’ve made plenty of false starts and plenty of resolutions about doing something differently, trying something new, or even believing in something more fervently than I ever had before. All resolutions that meant something to me and flickered brightly for a short time and then burned out.

So what's that about? When I find myself in this kind of mood I think about the speech Andy Millman (the character Ricky Gervais brilliantly embodied in his show, Extras) gave when he described his lack of initiative or dedication on camera: “I would have loved to have been a doctor. Too hard. Didn’t want to put the work in. I’d have loved to have been a war hero. I’m too scared. So I go [referring to his career as an entertainer]: ‘Oh, it’s what I do.’ ”

I’m not saying I wanted a medical or military career and that I am sorely disappointed in myself. It’s more about the frustration I often feel about trying to be ...hmmmm...more than I really am? Or maybe a better version of myself? In my head, I’m always open to new ideas and new experiences; open to the ways I can explore what's possible and where that might take me. But in reality: not so much.

I'm going to stick with my "professional" life for now and list a couple of the plans I make in my head regularly to give you a sense of my immobility.

Today is always the day I’m going to register that amazing domain name for the website I thought about starting something like nine years ago. Which means that by now it should probably be an app, not a website. Which would mean so much more to me if I ever used any apps.

It’s the day I’m going to begin writing the business plan for the Shoe-of-the-Month Club (and idea I had circa 1995) that it's now too late to do: Kim or Khloe or some other Kardashian attached her name to the idea already and it's up and running.

It’s the week I’m going to start submitting weekly columns to the websites who have published my work. (Immediately following this resolution, while staring at a blank screen, I begin to wonder how in the world I wrote and submitted weekly newspaper columns for something like eight or nine years.)

It’s the week I’m going to find a new agent and figure out how to refresh the well-received but unpublished book that sits on top of the trunk in my bedroom. (Summary of every rejection letter my now retired agent shared with me: "Love this!! Love the writing, love the voice. Who is she?? Does she have a show on NPR, CNN, MSNBC, a national column, a reality show appearance or a syndicated deal??") Note to self: find a place for that manuscript and put it away.

Oh wait, no, it’s the day I’m going to figure out that “i-universe” thing and self-publish the book.

And one more, semi-professionally related:
It’s the day I’m absolutely going to call my old therapist and beg him to see me. (Luckily, this would be an easy appointment for him. As you’ve already no doubt concluded, not much has changed since the last time we spoke.)

I’m ignoring the list of the day-to-day projects large and small I seem to think I’ll begin any minute now, but don’t. In reality, describing myself as someone who is ‘risk averse’ is like calling Tiger Woods someone who flirts a lot. The positive spin is to imagine that I’m basically “content.” Another word that springs to mind: lazy. And yet another: fearful. God knows.

I envy – okay, I admit it – I envy the energy and activity I see so many people exhibiting in so many parts of their lives. Friends who are discovering their Act 2, or even Act 3 in some cases; trying something kind of scary but rewarding. They believe in something I would quietly see as “impossible” and then they make it possible, and positive.

How does everyone else do this? How do you ignore the small but relentless voice inside that says with enormous conviction, "You can't do this," without succumbing to the b-s voice that cheers and screams, "You're awesome! You can do anything you want!!!" Is there a middle ground, where realism meets creativity?

Maybe all of this reinvention and resolve to drive ourselves to the next level of success is a technology-driven phenomenon. As I've said before, we're way beyond Thoreau at this point: we're living lives of strident desperation. We seem to want to be seen, heard, and adored by everyone. Our parents seemed to live satisfying lives. They were mostly content to be the co-stars of their own stories; to be part of an ensemble cast in the local theater company. These days, many of us want to be the star on a worldwide tour.

As Andy Millman put it, "The Victorian freak show never went away. But now it's called Big Brother or American Idol...." This may be one of those "careful what you wish for" moments.

All this to say, my partial paralysis in so many parts of my life is probably the only reason I’ve refused to give up on my annual resolution. I've stated my intentions and am determined to see it through. Given my history, it’s a minor miracle that I actually started the run and it's even more astounding that I’m still on it. I’m proud of my tenacity. I’m almost to the point where even I believe I’m going to make it and feel proud of taking on the challenge and meeting it.

Now I just need to figure out how to translate that into the rest of my life, without entering the freak show.

Looking for "the one?" Or just a date? Your calendar is your friend.

2011-09-27T22:15:00.001-04:00

From the studies I’ve come across that give me pause, I relate the following for your consideration:

According to a study from researchers at the University of Toronto and Tufts University, there is something to be said for the fertility cycle a woman experiences on a monthly basis and her ability to perceive a likely mate. Not unlike my most recent post, the idea that we’re wired somewhat similarly to animals is not lost on me. Here’s the story:

Three different kinds of experiments were conducted. In the first, forty women were shown individual photographs of eighty men. The pictures showed men of similar attractiveness, all with similar emotional expressions. The only question the women had to answer – based on intuition and perception alone - was to identify the sexual orientation of each man. (Half of the subjects in the photos were self-identified gay men; the other half were straight.) The results: women who were nearest to their peak ovulation time could more accurately assess each man’s sexual orientation.

Next up: this time, women viewed individual photographs of two hundred women, half of whom self-identified as lesbians; the other half as straight. Surprise! (Or not.) There was no relationship found between a woman’s fertility cycle and her ability to identify the sexual orientation of the women in the photos.

Finally, forty women were again asked to view photos of men and identify the subject’s sexual orientation. This time, half of the women read a story that described a romantic encounter and the other half did not. Priming the pump, so to speak, seemed to help. Turns out the women who read the story could more accurately identify the gay men and straight men in the images.

So what have we learned? That biology – in straight women anyway - is formidable and undeniable. And that a good romance story is not to be taken lightly. I wish the researchers had conducted the same three tests with lesbians viewing all the images. I wonder if the results would change or if biology – irrespective of sexual orientation – would result in more accurate assessments of men at least, by every woman at a certain point in her fertility cycle.

I love this kind of stuff. Science has given us thermometers and ovulation kits that will help us conceive a child. Science has helped sell millions of boxer shorts to men who want to keep the boys cool on a daily basis while trying to father a child. It has developed early pregnancy tests that will help us start tracking a pregnancy from Day 9.

But who could have imagined this? Something as natural as a released or about to be released egg could help women identify a potentially willing candidate for fatherhood from an array of photographs. Conversely, it also somehow helps women determine which men would be disinclined to show any interest in her fertile state. And, not for nothing, turns out to be absolutely inconsequential when viewing women and trying to identify sexual orientation.

Let’s sum up – I’ve said this before and I stand by it. Women just aren’t that complicated. When we’re ready to conceive a child, biology can help us identify a likely partner which is kind of awesome. It can help us dismiss those men who are disinterested in our sexual selves, which - let's face it - can save us a lot of heartache in the long run.

And maybe best of all: it proves that a sister is a sister is a sister. : )

Men will be women. Kinda sorta. : (

2011-09-17T14:24:00.001-04:00

As regular readers of this blog know – go ahead, raise your hands, all nineteen of you!! – I tend to collect bits of information I come across in my everyday reading, scanning, stumbling across kind of way (in other words, random facts) with the goal being that they will somehow coalesce into some reasonable commentary or response that feels somewhat cogent and thought-provoking. I don’t promise this will be one of those times but here we go.

In May, I read the summary of a study about the “precarious” status of manhood today. Researchers at the University of South Florida found out the following: It’s important to men that they look like and are perceived as men by everyone around them. And the more they care about this, the more horrible they’ll feel when they’re perceived otherwise.

Psychologists Jennifer K. Bosson and Joseph A. Vandello conducted research that included the following: One group of men was “forced” to exhibit a feminine behavior; one group was not. The task at hand: Braids. The “feminine” group was forced to braid hair; the other more gender-neutral group braided rope. Fine. Lovely.

When the tasks were completed the two groups were given a choice of what to do next: hit a punching bag or do a puzzle. You know what’s coming, right? The results were tabulated in a few ways. The hair-braiders “overwhelmingly chose the punching bag.” Even better, when all the men (both hair and rope-braiders) had to punch the bag, the hair-braiders hit it harder. Finally, when everyone had to braid hair but not everyone got to punch the bag, the ones who didn’t get the chance “evinced more anxiety on a subsequent test.”

Fascinating. Why the activity of braiding hair meant that men chose to not only hit a punching bag to validate their testosterone, but hit it even harder than others when they did so is mystifying to me.

The authors’ conclusion? “Aggression is a manhood-restoring tactic.” Which seems to beg the question: is participation in “feminine” activities a manhood-robbing tactic?

In fact, further research indicated that gender is not biologically based, but more of a social circumstance. Men can “lose” their manhood by social transgressions. Women lose their womanhood by menopause.

You know what I mean. Think about it. How about the man couch? Or the man chairs?? The ones outside dressing rooms in department stores where men sit and look appropriately bored and uncomfortable and out of place while shopping with their wives or girlfriends? The one where the looks on their faces says:
“Idon’twanttobehere -
Ican’tstandbeinghere –
Shemademebehere - IfitwereuptomeI’dbeplayingrugbyorfootballorpokeranddrinkingjackandcoke - No,Ididn’twanttoholdherpursebutshemademedothat,too.”

Those seats are like fabric-covered estrogen drips.

Other tests and measurement tools used by the researchers concluded that the harshest critics of men were other men, not women. In other words, women don’t care how often you braid your daughter’s hair: you’re still a man. And a helpful one at that. Men – not so much.

In fact, turns out that being around his daughter – or his son for that matter – makes a man just a little more feminine. It’s true. A Northwestern University study, co-authored by Professor Chrisopher W. Kuzawa and doctoral candidate Lee Gettler (along with several other contributors) concluded that fatherhood lowers a man’s testosterone levels. Put another way: proving you can be a dad makes you more of a mom. Weird, right?

I’ll pause here so everyone can take a breath.

We can thank nature for this. In other species – maybe in humans, too - the male needs testosterone in huge quantities to compete with the other males for a mate. The winner gets the female, then they mate, then they have offspring. Following that blessed event, what the researchers call the “mating related” activities – it’s been too long; I can’t even remember what these are in men - may conflict with being responsible for the brand new litter, so the testosterone level of the new animal dad drops.

I get it. This happens in the animal kingdom, not during happy hour at Dave and Buster’s. In the immortal words of Joseph (not John) Merrick and Jerry Seinfeld: I am NOT an animal!! Since men don’t have to smash into each other with their horns, or drive off competitors for a female’s affection with aggression using paws and jaws – not overtly anyway - here’s a question for human males: do testosterone levels drop because men become fathers or do men become fathers because they have low testosterone levels to begin with?

The former. The same study showed that men who had higher levels of testosterone were more likely to become fathers, but like physics tells us: for every action there is an equal reaction, or something like that. Once these guys are dads, their testosterone drops – by a lot. And even more if they are really involved dads.

That’s super, right? “Nope. Not changing the baby, honey. It makes me feel too weird.” Good lord – just what women need. A husband who feels like his manhood gets threatened by a newborn’s diaper.

And just to make the whole situation more acute, the biggest drop in testosterone is right after the newborn baby comes home with the parents. Sure, the drop is temporary but everything makes more sense now. How many new moms have ever had the feeling that they have two new babies at home? The researchers state that men are preoccupied with the “many emotional, psychological, and physical adjustments” that come with being a parent. Unfortunately, women don’t have that kind of time. We're preoccupied with wondering if we’ll pee just a teeny little bit every time we sneeze for the rest of our lives. Oh, and caring for a newborn.

The silver lining? (Yes, guys, there is one.) A lower testosterone level means you’re better protected against chronic diseases as you age. So the good news is you’ll live longer. The bad news is you may feel like your grandmother while you do.

In conclusion, ...I know – you’re confused. “How can she reach a conclusion without really saying anything yet?” It’s a gift, what can I tell you. I turn to someone much more eloquent than I; someone who knows whereof he speaks: Adam Carolla. In his hilarious book, In Fifty Years We’ll All Be Chicks, he writes:

“It used to be that a fella would at least have the dignity that when he was driving with the missus and the car wouldn’t start, even though he didn’t know what the f--- to look for, he’d say, “Pop the hood.” He’d stand there and stare at the engine for a while, set his cigarette on top of the air cleaner, and yell, “Try it now.” Of course the engine wouldn’t start, but at least he looked like a man. Now the guy says, ‘Call Triple-A. I don’t want to get my cuticles dirty.”

“It’s the same thing with fighting. Guys used to have stories where they said, “This SOB spilled a drink on my old lady [Renee aside – old lady is annoying but sadly accurate and the thing is, you know the guy who said it meant it with great affection somehow] at the bar, so I got in his face and said, “ ‘If you’re looking for trouble, you found it. You’re in for a world of hurt.’ ” Now dudes tell stories that go, “I honked at a guy and he got out of his car so I called 911. But I got a busy signal, so I locked myself in and hit the OnStar button.”

I guess what I’m wondering is this: if it’s true that testosterone drops when a man becomes a father…if it’s true that doing something that feels and looks “feminine” makes men want to hit a punching bag…where does that leave us? Doesn’t this prove that it’s both biological or societal? Maybe men are much more sensitive than any of us ever imagined and women are much tougher and less prone to psychological influences than any of us ever imagined. Maybe we’re all just ‘evolving’ into gender- neutral versions of humanity.

Yuck.

PS Thanks for visiting and if you enjoyed this post, and felt a moment of connection, you can read more like it by "following" the blog (upper right) or joining me on Facebook here. If you didn't enjoy it, and felt I needed a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, you can do the same and continue to shake your head in disbelief. : )

The surprising aftermath: comfort

2011-09-11T17:36:00.000-04:00

I can't quite think about this day yet - and as much as part of me wanted to watch and remember the events of ten years ago, another part of me didn't. Not sure how many other people felt that way.

Ten years ago, they were 10, 10 and 11. Old enough to be aware, ask perplexing questions, witness our own confusion and retain the memories of a country in shock. And now at 20, 20 and 21, they have virtually grown up recognizing and living with the reality of a world of terrorist activity.

As I cherish and recognize the amazing young men my sons have grown into, I recall this piece they inspired, written in November, 2001. I hope it offers a moment of comfort.

Thank you, boys.

Over the past few weeks, a time that will be forever mourned in our nation and around the world, you’ve taught me that innocence still exists, that understanding and compassion do not come with an age requirement and that life does indeed go on.

This year, on a Thanksgiving that will take on a very different tone across the country, I’m especially grateful for you, my sons. You held my hand, rubbed my arm, or simply inched a little closer on the sofa, not completely understanding the depth of my sadness on September 11 and the days that followed. You served as silent witnesses to my own pain and confusion.

But somehow you knew that touch was a good thing, that closeness would matter. You felt my tears as I hugged you a little more tightly than I had the days before, and you offered 10- and 10- and 11-year-old comfort. You couldn’t know how many nights following September 11 I looked in on you as you slept, silently thanking God for the miracle of you.

Through you, I can still see hope where grownups feel despair. A promise of tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, while the world swirls in seemingly endless threats and anxiety. I sense innocence and uncertainty about what happened and what’s to come; surprisingly mixed with an unceasingly kid-like attitude of frivolity and optimism. Is it possible to remind someone of the future? That’s what you do everyday.

When you’re my age, will you talk about this event with your own children and add: “I have a clear memory of your grandmother crying, watching TV and trying to explain it to me.”

Will you remember your teachers, quietly gathering in the hallways of school, trying so desperately not to betray their horror and anxiety to their students? Will you tell the story of one teacher, returning to the classroom with her eyes red, looking at her class and saying, “Do you all know how much you mean to me?”

Will you forever hold the mental image of your father and me, leaning on each other in church on Sunday, September 16, as we ended Mass with ‘The Star-Spangled Banner?”

Through the endless, hysterical quotes you throw at each other from your many “Calvin and Hobbes” books, your enthusiasm for football and basketball practices for the Christmas concert coming up, the almost-every-Saturday morning “can we ride our bikes to…?” questions, and your restless anticipation of the Harry Potter movie and the half-dread you feel in case it’s not quite “right,” you remind me that the world goes on and we will somehow help each other through.

You helped me understand that sometimes “Shrek,” not CNN, is what we need to get through the evening.

The good stuff has not disappeared. Thank you, boys, for helping me appreciate that "stuff" for the gift it truly is. Babies are born and new parents praise their miracles. Young couples marry and celebrate with family and friends. And sometimes, just sometimes, you have glorious fall Sunday afternoon come along for the perfect flag football game.

When you confronted me with the “What happened today?” question on September 11, I had no ready answer. I’m not sure who did. But maybe I do now.

What happened was this: September 11 gave me the chance to tell you again how much I love you. How thankful I am to have you in my life. How simply by being here, you’ve helped restore my perspective and my priorities, and have reminded me each day about what matters.

I'm shuffling off something alright, although I don't think it's to Buffalo.

2011-09-05T11:10:00.002-04:00

Nothing like Buffalo, New York as the summer begins to wind down. Just 324 miles later, I’m virtually in Buffalo, with Canada so close I can almost touch it.

The bad news: my August was off just a bit – missed my minimum but about 1/10th of a mile. I hadn’t missed a minimum since being sidelined in April with my bad sciatic nerve.

The good news: I ran a week of August in the heat at the shore, and wasn’t quite able to track my mileage as carefully as I usually do. When that’s the case, I estimate down. So maybe I really did hit my minimum but who knows.

I still had my 26-mile cushion to see me through. So by the numbers, for anyone keeping track.

Through August:
326 miles in

124 to go

4 months to do it

That’s only 31 miles a month – which is considerably lower than my stated monthly goal of 37.5

Or 7.75 miles a week

Or just under 2 miles, four times a week

You know what that means. One of two things will happen:
Come December 31, I’ll have overshot Toronto by about 30 miles and end up in someplace called Barrie, Ontario; or have taken it easy, not unlike the hare in the fable, and after all this time, missed my number completely.

I suppose this is as good a time as any to ask the obvious question: why? What does this all say about me or my life at this time? Why, after more than half a century on the planet, and more than thirty of them as a full-fledged adult who is wholly responsible for her choices, did I choose this particular challenge at this particular time?

I think I alluded to this is a previous post but I keep coming back to it: control, and the inevitable flip side – lack of control. Because the further I run, and the longer I keep at it, the more I realize that the neat little columns of numbers in the little grid, with the monthly totals and the boxes that highlight the miles ahead or miles behind and those indicating miles logged vs. miles to go may all be perfectly calculated, clear and unambiguous. Don’t get me wrong. There’s some comfort and sense of accomplishment in the measureable, the indisputable nature of numbers. But understand this much as well: they’re perfectly meaningless.

But even at that, they are also one other thing: perfectly and completely within my control. No one else runs them, no one else logs them and no one else adds them up each month. And all of that has to count for something, right?

Wrong. Today’s lesson, one that took only eight short months to learn: Control is an illusion. Chaos is reality. This seems to be a very big deal for me these days.

Let me back up a little bit here. (I know I’m going off track here but so be it. I never promised a strict narrative.)

My sons are young adults. Their paths into adulthood are divergent and at this point, anyway, appear not quite as clear cut as some others have taken. And – utter honesty here – not as clear cut as I would like them to be. I suppose that had to be okay with me – has to be – because I can’t control that kind of thing.

The phrase “waiting to exhale” comes to mind. Is that something all parents do at least once in a while? And then when you let it all out, is it nothing more than a respite until you have to take the next deep breath and hope for the best?

We’ve all heard about the legendary roads not taken. I’m here to tell you that we seem to be on nothing BUT the roads not taken these days in my house, and no one is more surprised than I. It feels like I keep pointing down a familiar path, saying, “This way! I’m sure this is the way!! Follow me!” Two of my sons peer down it and understand why I like it. They consider the route then shake their heads and say, “Nah…I’m going this way instead. I’ll be okay.”

The confounding thing is: they could be right. They really could be and I try to remind myself about that maybe thirty or ninety times a day. I could be wrong and if I am, I wonder: What happened to my certainty? I was always a Point A to Point B person. What I was certain I could control all these years was myself. That choosing X + Y + Z for my life, then adding in some A, B and C would land me here: in a place of love and logic; where things (and people, yes, even people with all their quirks and personalities and peculiarities) moved along in a mostly predictable way to a mostly predictable outcome.

You remember today’s lesson, right – about control? Yup – it’s an illusion.

I spent the better part of two decades as a parent modeling and demonstrating the kinds of actions, behavior and beliefs I held dear. What kinds of things? Same as most people I would think; maybe more than some; less than others. Like what? Well, it was important that our family found time to connect each day over dinner and for many, many years we did just that. Even throughout high school, through the activities and obligations that pulled us in different directions, we fit in many family dinners. And when we had the time, we often found ourselves lingering for hours at the table. We attended church together, and then discussed the sermon on the way home.

We created traditions large and small together. We read books, played music, traveled. We cheered every soccer, basketball, football and baseball season. Holidays included large and mostly intact extended families. We took in zoos and museums and amusement parks; we attended concerts and plays and ballgames and festivals. As they grew older, they picked up some of my habits: like flipping to the last page of The New Yorker each week to check out the cartoon, and later, read the caption contest each week. I made them read Catcher in the Rye. They loved it on their own.

Me: Do me one favor. Do not marry a woman who doesn’t love Catcher in the Rye.
Son: Why?
Me: Please trust me. Just don’t.

In living every day, I thought I shared what I value (working hard to do your best) and what I didn’t (tattoos). At different points along the way with my children, at various age-appropriate and situation-appropriate times, I shared selected stories of struggle and sadness from my own childhood. I talked of my own family life as a girl and as a young woman, to help my sons understand a little more about who I was and why I believed certain things. [It wasn’t all a complete downer. I thought I used my own stories judiciously to illustrate some choices, some circumstances and some lessons that could perhaps be passed along and learned by my children, without them having to endure the pain.]

Turns out, none of that seems to matter. Lessons without pain may just be another illusion.

At this point, it feels like I should take a cue from Margo Channing and buckle my seatbelt for the bumpy night ahead. And I have to ask, as I lurch along with the ups and downs: what do you do when your view of “the future” veers out of your control? Maybe you realize, slowly and wincing with no little pain that much of it wasn’t in your control from the start.

And that staying on the road together, with its bumps, holes, hills, ditches and sharp turns, is really what matters. Staying on the road. I have to believe it smooths out; that at some point it has to come out somewhere, and you’ll all be okay when it does.

Way to go! We knew you could do it!! You're on your way!!!! [Insert generic, ultimately meaningless platitude here!!!!!]

2011-08-31T22:40:00.000-04:00

The older I get, the more I respect my parents and people of their generation who seemed to not only have common sense; they used it daily. Which is why they never ever had to come across something like this. My ff (facebook friend) Debbie mentioned something on her wall today that mystified me so of course I had to hop on line this evening to look around.

I’m sorry to tell you that there was an assortment of cards with this message. Who could have imagined this? Honestly, the only correct inside message on this card should read: "… and congratulations on learning to read as a toddler!"

I have questions. Of course I have questions. Who sends these? Grandparents or aunts and uncles who are insane? Condescending "friends" from the moms club who just can’t help themselves? The local furniture store soliciting business for families in the youth bed market? Nannies who are tired of changing diapers?

Well, if you’re like me, you immediately start to list other occasions that have belied any card-giving status. Until now, that is. But before we go there, let me also tell you that an enormous selection of cards already exists for the following occasions:

Getting your braces on

Getting your braces off

Getting your contacts

Getting your first period

Getting your ears pierced

Earning a first chair position

Becoming a Big Brother, Big Sister, Aunt or Uncle

Congrats on your recital

I could go on, but I won’t. Greeting Card Universe (“any card imaginable”) offers 1,083 congratulations cards, fifteen in potty-training alone. (Fifteen. Fifteen messages about peeing and pooping on a potty chair. People have spent less time thinking about the text in eulogies or wedding vows.) Far be it from me to intrude on their already fertile field of greetings.

But let’s try to inaugurate a few more, shall we?

You lost your first tooth! Grammy and Grandpa are so proud of you!!! (Wait a minute. Just checked. These cards exist.)

Let’s try again:

No training wheels? WOW!!

What a big girl you are! You feel asleep all by yourself five nights in a row!!

Awesome!! You’ve eaten all your vegetables!!

Thanks for biking to practice once a week! So proud of your carbon-footprint awareness!!!!

Good job! Your geography diorama is amazing!!!

Congrats to our Science Fair participant!!

All our best wishes to the Chess Club second alternate!!!

But why limit this to the joys of early childhood and school highlights. Surely there are lifelong moments that don’t get their due as we linger in the card aisle. How about these:

Way to go! Heard you purchased your burial plot!

Congratulations on finding that loose change in the sofa!

Great news! You read nine complete New Yorker's this year!

Wow! Super pedicure!

World's Best Junk Drawer Organizer!!! Way to go!!

To my dearest friend: I could barely tell about your Botox. Nice!!

And my favorite:

So happy for you! You’ve had your last period!!!

Once again, I'm falling back on my fallback. There are two kinds of people in the world: people who buy "we're so happy for you and your potty" cards and people who are endlessly amused by people who buy "we're so happy for you and your potty" cards.

If only there were an escape from this. (Read on. See what I did there?)

2011-08-23T23:07:00.000-04:00

You can’t make this up.

Well, you could but no one would believe you. This, I promise you, is entirely true.

As I drove home from work today, I thought: “Wow! I guess I don’t remember falling down and hitting my head very, very hard during the earthquake this afternoon. Because there is no way what I’m hearing on the radio could be true.” Through the magic of technology and satellite radio, I pulled over, replayed it a few times, and jotted down every word.

You may recall the song, Escape, the inexplicable number one pop hit from Rupert Holmes that told the lovely little story of an adorable couple who were bored and unhappy together. The man discovers a classified ad – match.com for the twentieth century – from a woman looking for love; a woman who sounds like she just may be the answer to his dreary, mundane relationship. He writes his own horrifying little response to her and suggests they meet in a bar where – surprise!!!!! – he encounters his wife instead. And no, it doesn’t turn ugly and accusatory. Instead, they’re equally amused by each other’s deception and rediscover that they simply love each other to pieces. (Please. I just read the lyrics again and it’s even more horrible than I remember. Detested it in 1979 and I detest it still.)

In a moment of marketing genius, I have to admit this: Ashley Madison.com could not have chosen a more appropriate tune than Escape to deliver its singular message of cheating, deception and the right approach to attracting someone other than your spouse. It’s the perfect subconscious musical cue to forty, fifty and sixty-somethings, committed to having an affair. So without further ado, I give you: the new Ashley Madison.com jingle, sung (sort of) to the tune of “Escape.”

My wife’s on Ashley Madison, looking hot as hell.

And I would totally hit that, if I didn’t know her so well.

My wife’s on Ashley Madison, I guess it’s something she needs to do.

I’d be a lot more bothered, if I weren’t there, too.

“ ______.”

To quote a favorite colleague: Christ on a bike.

If you’ve read this blog even occasionally in the past, you may recall how I feel about AM.com and her detractors. If you want to catch up, try this and this.

All that said, and all those prior posts notwithstanding, I’m kind of stunned by this jingle. Let’s review, shall we?

Leaving aside the fact that a man finds his wife’s profile on a website dedicated to matching up one cheating spouse with someone else also in a committed relationship, and his first reaction is that she looks “hot as hell”…

Leaving aside his charming expression of his own attraction to her – “I would totally hit that” - before he disparages her personality…

Leaving aside the fact that after finding her profile and then dismissing her, his only additional reaction is little more than a virtual shrug: “I guess it’s something she needs to do.”…

Leaving aside the idea that he isn’t going to cast the first stone since he is also featured there…

I am almost speechless that the text includes the correct use of the subjunctive mood: “…if I weren’t there, too.” You just don’t find that construction very often in advertising.

You also rarely find this: a promise you can take to the bank. Ashley Madison doesn’t quibble: Where affairs are guaranteed. Finally. A company with some integrity.

I keep telling myself that more than halfway counts as almost there. Right?

2011-08-17T21:28:00.000-04:00

Fully seven months into the year, I haven’t yet given up on the run. (For first-time readers, I’ve committed to making a virtual run from my home in Pennsylvania to Toronto, Canada, a total of about 450 miles, this calendar year.) I’m on track to make it to my destination – sort of – by the end of December. In fact, I’ll probably overshoot it to some degree. All of this defies any rational explanation since my running history up until about a year ago was non-existent and my form, style and ability as a runner are not only severely limited, they too, are basically non-existent.

So where am I? As of the end of July, I was somewhere in the neighborhood of Smith’s Corner, NY, approximately 288 miles from home. In case you haven’t been there, Smith’s Corner is near Griffith Corners, NY. It’s also just more than eight miles from Frink’s Corner, NY. And, why yes, it’s just about ten miles from Plants Corner, NY. What exactly makes up all these corners and what they’re on the corner of is beyond me but they sound charming, don’t they? Wasn’t the name of the place in ‘Our Town’ a corner??? Grover’s Corner, maybe? I love the Americana, the small town charm, the Andy-of- Mayberry of it all.

I also learned that there are no less than seven mobile home parks in the area. I’m not sure if these corners and the nearly housing developments are related.

All I can say for myself is that I really can’t give it up now and I don’t think I will. I’m more than halfway in every way!!! Only five months left to the end of the year with only 161 miles left to go. That sounds so reasonable. Although even imagining that sounds like a reasonable distance and a reasonable amount of time still sounds unreasonable to (non-runner) me.

I’ve tried to figure out why this seems to be the time of my life when I’ve finally committed to running for fitness and health. The expected answers don’t quite get to the truth of the matter. Sure, I want a healthier cholesterol level and a reasonable blood pressure reading. I want to avoid the diabetes that my mother encountered in her fifties and has lived with for the past thirty years. I want to lose some weight (always.) But none of those goals or reasons are particularly new.

No, the more the miles add up, the more I realize the purpose for this year’s run. Although to be honest, the purpose behind it is an illusion, really: An illusion of control. More and more, it feels like there is so little I can control in my life. Even more disturbing: could I ever? Was it all an illusion?

But this is true: I do control the numbers I put on my running log. I control the intensity of the run. To a large degree, I control the frequency and the distance of each run. I say “to a large degree” because even when I say I’m going to quit, I never do; and I almost always make the minimum I’ve set for myself for that day. I’m largely in control of my own mind as I rack up the miles and stay committed to this number and virtual trip.

And thank God for it. Control over my running feels like all I have these days.

More on this – on a related but different topic – to come.

On kites, kids and college: Hold on. Let go. The perfect combination.

2011-08-16T21:01:00.000-04:00

For every parent packing up their own personal BBBBB (Best Buy / Bed Bath Beyond) for a son or daughter about to move out and begin a college career: hang in there. You did your best - most of the time anyway - and now you need to step away.

What follows is a piece that may speak to you. It's been a few years since I published it but maybe it will give you a little something to think about as you make the transition. So if I could offer a word or two, it would be these: Hold tight. Let go.

Enjoy.

For many years, one of our annual summer vacation rituals was kite-flying on the beach. We’d arrive just as dusk was on its way out and nightfall on its way in. For years, we guided the kites our boys held in anticipation of the perfect breeze. Some nights, we found that perfect combination of air, string and nylon that resulted in soaring specks of color in the night sky. Other times, we couldn’t seem to catch the wind, or we pulled too tightly on the string and crashed the kites into the sand, or we somehow lost the string altogether and watched our kites drift away and out of reach.

We still carry on that ritual, mostly for my niece who is younger than her cousins and enjoys our mini-kite festival every year. (Lately, my boys, their dad and their uncles toss around a football while my sister and I wrestle the kites into the air.) The thing is, even when we’re successful, and one or more of our kites have reached a high point, we turn to each other and ask: now what? Hold that thought.

Last week, we moved our oldest child into college. Because I can’t seem to relax about managing all the details about situations like this, I spent a lot of time leading up to moving day checking off lists and times and logistics about the process. I spent almost no time checking on myself and the new place I would move into once our son left home.

So we packed and then unpacked. Plugged in and wired up everything, made a bed, hung up clothes and found a new place for the bits and pieces of his life that he carried with him. We met the young man - the stranger - who would share the dorm room and possibly share a lifelong friendship with him. We met his parents, too, and tried to answer, in a matter of twenty minutes, these questions: who they were, what they believed, how they raised their son and whether or not they were people of character and principles. (I told you I couldn’t relax about stuff like this.) Thankfully, my first impressions told me the following: friendly, approachable, bright people, who held the same values in terms of education and love of the arts. They raised a polite young man, who was clearly dedicated to his studies, and they were committed to supporting him to help him succeed.

As the moving in ended and the moving on began, my son and I hugged goodbye – and spent an extra couple of seconds hanging on while we did. Then, just eighteen and half years after he arrived, my oldest son walked away in one direction and I in another.

A few months ago, I received an email from a friend who read a column I wrote about my children growing up. In it, Joanne artfully expressed the challenge we all face in raising our children. She reminded me that raising children is kind of like flying a kite: hold on too tightly, and a kite doesn’t get very far. Give it too much slack too soon, before the wind has really caught hold and it can move freely without danger, and it comes crashing to the ground. But when you can find that perfect ratio of give and take while holding the string that connects you and the kite, it soars almost effortlessly into the sky.

I experienced the “too much slack vs. too tight” ratio last week during the move into college. In fact, it almost felt like I dropped the string. I gave my son a generous amount of freedom. He was ready for it; it was the right time to set him on his own path. He took off; maybe with a bit of shakiness at first, but he’s soaring now.

The kite is airborne. Which brings the inevitable question: now what? I don’t have that answer yet. Maybe we just enjoy the flight. We watch the kite flutter, and even dive a bit from time to time. We help it move ever higher, and keep letting that string out even more, more than I would have ever believed would be possible. We watch it climb and dance and create its own path as it crosses the universe – and are amazed.

But we never quite let it go.

A pantyliner just for you. And you. And you.

2011-07-15T21:28:00.000-04:00

Before I get into my latest incrankulous marketing moment, let’s get a brief refresher on 21st century western civilization. Specifically, we have the following television programs assaulting us on a regular basis, in the name of entertainment:

Keeping Up with the Kardashians

Real Housewives of Everywhere You Can Think Of

Holly’s World

My Super Sweet Sixteen

Teen Mom

16 and Pregnant

Jersey Shore

Skins

Bad Girls Club

The Girls Next Door

If I wanted to label these very generously, I could put them all in the “isn’t giving everyone a chance to express themselves a wonderful thing?” bucket. I could put them in the enlightened and forgiving “no barriers, no rules, no judgments” bucket. Or I could add them to the “Lighten up, Francis” bucket.

On the other hand, I could use my fallback, overused phrase that too often captures my feelings: we’re doomed.

If you aren’t familiar with most of these shows, congratulations and hope you’re enjoying C-SPAN, Rick Steves and the Nat Geo channel. I’ll admit I’ve never watched a single episode of any of these programs but I know enough about them to know they’re base and juvenile. They’re mindless distractions full of caricatures masquerading as real people.

But that’s not really what this post is about. I’ve listed some of cable’s most offensive, lurid, unprincipled (and most popular!!) shows to put some context around a recent marketing program from Kotex. It's built around something called U by Kotex Tween line, products that are no doubt an attempt to encourage proper spelling among adolescent girls. Kidding. The pads and liners are designed to fit a young girl’s smaller shape comfortably. Got it. As a woman who remembers the “belt” required in the old days (How hideous and dark-ages were they?), I applaud the good sense that resulted in these products. Unfortunately, the good sense may end there.

The pads also include “tween-inspired” designs and the package has glitter on it. I don’t know what tween inspired designs are. Perhaps they’ve added a silhouette of Justin Bieber to the pad itself. Or a shimmering Edward Cullen. Turns out they’re colorful hearts and flowers and swirls. I’ve always believed that getting your period isn’t exactly a designer moment and not one bit of glitter will make it more festive. But I’m not in marketing at Kotex and maybe this initiative will add more fun to the entire experience, at least for tweens.

Brief aside 1: I want Kotex to introduce “woman-of-a-certain-age” inspired designs on pantyliners. (They can skip the package glitter.) I’m thinking a Colin Firth / Hugh Jackman / Josh Holloway / Hugh Grant / Brad Pitt combo pack would do it.

Brief aside 2: And as long as they’re adding a design, they can add a little microchip, similar to the kind that get embedded in greeting cards these days. You can imagine this, right? Believe me, there were times in my life where I would have celebrated the arrival of my period by opening up a pad that played “Happy Days Are Here Again.” Right? You would have, too, admit it.

Back to Kotex and their tween products. Here’s the part of the marketing story that really startled me. Keeping in mind the list of programs that introduced this post, programs that reach everyone who has basic cable or a satellite dish, you may be surprised to learn the following statistics, courtesy of the Kotex research:

One in three young girls has no idea what’s happening when she gets her first period. One in three. Has NO IDEA. Disturbing.

Four out of five Moms feel “only somewhat or not at all” prepared to talk to their daughter about her changing body. Four out of five. That’s 80%. “Only somewhat.” Or “NOT AT ALL.”

What? How is this possible? I can’t figure out what’s so complex or confounding about being “prepared” to talk with your daughter. How could it be that when we had exactly twelve channels on our television sets and no Google, no “Real World” and no daycare centers in the local high schools, our mothers found a way to inform themselves – and us - about our changing bodies? They handed over that belt, that enormous pad, designed very specifically to fit every woman on the planet, and then explained that we were growing up. I don’t think my mother felt over-prepared or under-prepared to discuss this rite of passage with her three daughters. As I remember it, she was calm, pragmatic and factual. Very little drama, with just the right amount of “you’re growing up!!” emotion on her part.

I can only assume that about 30% of the tween girls who watch “16 and Pregnant” don’t learn one thing about menstruation and conception and pregnancy. Isn’t there at least one moment in every episode where the young mother explains the failure of her birth control, the absence of her period and the confirmation of her pregnancy? Certainly this chain of events would prompt a question or two from the audience. Then again, maybe that explains “16 and Pregnant.” Maybe no one is asking, nor answering, questions.

In typical 21st century fashion, Kotex has turned to the web to refresh their message and help inform and yes, empower, mom to “pick her day to talk to her daughter about her first period.” God forbid moms didn’t feel empowered to do so. The press release I read included this nugget: “…Kimberly Clark believes informing moms and tweens on the topic is the right thing to do because so many are unprepared for menstruation and reaching tweens at this age can mean building strong relationships for life.”

Translation: “We want young girls to use Kotex products from day one so they use them for the next forty years.” Fair enough. Product loyalty is key and every marketer wants a customer for life. But the part about “so many” being unprepared is confusing. Then again, their research and statistics seem to indicate everyone is confused: the girls, one third of whom are uninformed at best and terrified at worst when they get their first period; and their moms, 80% of whom are “somewhat” or “not at all” prepared to discuss menstruation with their daughters.

The only good news I found in this story was that no experts or advisors used the phrase “teachable moment.”

I can only wonder if Trojan has been watching this product launch with interest. What’s next? Condoms with "ink" on them? Condoms covered with team logos? I can’t wait to read about that campaign.

Oh, and P.S. Kotex just wrapped up a “design your own pad” contest. More on this in another post. Honestly, it’s just too nonsensical to add this discussion.

Six months in. Six to go.

2011-07-09T10:52:00.000-04:00

This post is overdue and apologies to anyone who may have wondered about my whereabouts. (Thanks to those who sent a note! Very kind of you.)

No, I haven’t given up on the run, and no one is more surprised than I. In fact, I found myself more than on track as I hit the six-month mark. We’ll see what the next six months bring in terms of time, health and stamina.

I’m somewhere near Dansville, NY, which as far as I can tell from Google, is the nation’s number one spot near something else. And if I were more of an “outdoor” girl, I’d be delighted to find myself living there on a year round basis. From the town’s Chamber of Commerce, I learned the following (bold my own):

Just five minutes south of the Village is Stony Brook State Park with 130 trailer and tent sites. Letchworth State Park—the “Grand Canyon of the East”—with its breathtaking waterfalls, can be found 15 minutes to the west. Dansville also has three other major campgrounds in the immediate area.

Fishing, boating and hunting, and snowmobiling are in ample supply in the surrounding hillsides and nearby lakes and streams. Swain and Bristol ski & snowboard centers are both within 30 minutes of Dansville offering ample winter recreational activities.

Dansville is surrounded by fertile farmland, rolling wooded hillsides, lakes, streams and is adjacent to the southern part of Livingston County. With a population of around 6,000 Dansville offers small town charm, yet is near some of New York State's largest cities. [Rochester - 45 miles north; Buffalo - 65 miles to the northwest, Corning - 60 miles to the south. Let’s face it, when you’re in upstate NY, an hour plus drive to somewhere else is around the corner.]

Located near the scenic Finger Lakes, Dansville offers numerous attractions year round. Nearby are Letchworth (The Grand Canyon of the East) and Stony Brook State Parks, SUNY-Geneseo, SUNY Alfred, Alfred University, Wineries and Ski resorts.

Brief aside: Just as when I "ran" near Clark's Summit, PA, my past beckons. I had clients near Alfred, NY about twenty three years ago and drove here to see them and spent time in the area. I remember stopping into a drugstore / coffee shop at the time. [In the dark ages, there were no Starbucks in every hamlet in America and almost every store or restaurant was by default, "local."] There were coffee cups of all kinds hanging on hooks behind the counter and I asked about them. The woman there told me her customers - the people in the town - just leave their own mugs in the restaurant so when they come in, they each use their own over and over again. Makes everything easier on everyone. The staff knows everyone by name and by coffee mug. I kind of love that. [If anyone knows if this place is still around, in or near Alfred, NY, I'd love to hear about it.]

So here it is by the numbers as of July 1:

239+ miles complete

210+ to go to reach

Goal: 450(ish) from Allentown to Toronto(ish).

I’m ahead of my pace by about 14 miles, which I still can’t quite explain. And July has started out strong. If my back, knees and hips hold out, I’ll be in good shape to finish on time and reach my numbers.

And what have I learned? That I’m not a “natural” runner. Every mile, while not torturous, isn’t entirely enjoyable. Shouldn't it get easier? Or more fun? (I'm really asking. If anyone has any wisdom here, I'd appreciate hearing it.) My timing has picked up and I’m mostly back to my regular pace – running 3.25 miles in about 34 minutes. At my age, and given my lifelong history of non-athletic pursuits, I think that's respectable. Reminded myself this month a few times that running with music results in a longer and faster run. Added The Princess Bride and Toy Story 3 to my TV running playlist. Acknowledged once again the relentlessly sentimental Irish genes in me (thank you, Dad) when I teared up at the end of The Natural and Everybody’s Fine, after catching only the last fifteen or twenty minutes of each.

And on that note, I think I’m being too hard on Dansville. The town hosts the New York State Festival of Balloons every fall, which sounds lovely. It may even have a coffee shop with mugs for everyone in town.

I should have run slower.

Well, I know I'll feel safer in the air, now.

2011-07-02T21:17:00.000-04:00

“We are conducting a top to bottom review of the way we operate our air traffic control system. We are all responsible and accountable for safety–from senior FAA leadership to the controller in the tower. Employees at the FAA work diligently every day to run the safest air transportation system in the world. But I will continue to make whatever changes are necessary to ensure we concentrate on keeping the traveling public safe.” FAA Administrator Randy Babbitt, April 16, 2011

“…the agency and the controllers association said they are also working on developing new work schedule "principles" aimed at reducing fatigue. They said those principles will be ready in 14 months if not sooner…” USA Today, July 1, 2011

Clearly, this is getting top priority in terms of research and a plan of action.

In a display of uncommon common sense rarely found in a government agency, the FAA has gone on record with some new rules: air traffic controllers may now listen to music and read "appropriate" materials in order to remain awake and alert during their shifts.

Let’s face it. We have nothing but government agencies in DC. If I had to fix the “sleeping on the job” problems in control towers from coast to coast, I’d turn to at least one of them for some help. Why not try?

From the ‘Glass Is Half-Full’ department: The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) and the National Institutes of Health (NIH) will fund a multi-million dollar study to conduct preliminary, exploratory research to begin to get a rudimentary understanding of the sleep / wake cycles of air traffic controllers. Since they appear to be the only adults in America able to sleep easily and soundly without medical assistance, mimicking the conditions found in air traffic control towers in bedrooms across the country may bring an end to insomnia, or at least teach the rest of us how to grab a nap anytime, anywhere. The researchers expect to publish an abstract of the study sometime in the fall of 2019.

From ‘The Answer Is Right Under Your Nose’ department: The National Endowment for the Arts (NEA) will sponsor a photo contest, where controller’s can post creative, hilarious images of co-workers asleep on the job. Citizens can vote on their favorites on the NEA / ATC fan page on Facebook. Prizes include a year’s supply of Perfect Liquid Protein, plus two gadgets that may help keep the winner alert and responsive: Light Relief Light Therapy and the Sunlight 365, all courtesy of, coincidentally enough, Skymall. The runner-up gets a choice between a packable walking stick and a genuine Handmade Irish Shillelagh, both perfect for awakening a dozing colleague.

From the ‘Turning Lemons Into Lemonade’ department: To keep people awake and alert, and to add some “fun” to the job, the Congressional Budget Office (CBO) will sponsor 24/7 Texas Hold’em Tournament, open only to FAA ATC employees. Players log in and then ante up at the beginning of each shift. If and when an aircraft demands their attention, they sit out a hand or two. Winnings get deposited into PayPal accounts and five percent of each evening’s proceeds will be paid toward reducing the deficit. A CBO spokesperson claims this alone will get the budget into the black in about eleven weeks.

Finally, from the ‘Silver Lining’ department: the White House has expanded its “Let’s Move” initiative into control towers from coast to coast. Controllers can now use a Sit-N Stroll Deluxe, a Spring Flex UB and an ePulse Heart Rate Monitor band to make sure no one overdoes it while they log miles on a stepper and build upper body strength, all while never leaving their desks.

The FAA itself continues to address the problem in that special way only a government agency can: by throwing more money and people at the problem. Now we have two people doing the job of one by adding more personnel to the towers where controllers have fallen asleep. This not only creates more wakefulness, it creates more jobs.

If only the private sector would follow suit – and hire two people to do a one-person job - we’d have everyone back to work in no time.

I know. This doesn't explain my Law & Order obsession. I prefer to think of myself as complex.

2011-06-29T22:56:00.000-04:00

We are the dumbest people ever. Okay, maybe not the dumbest. But certainly the most vapid, empty-headed, insipid, trite people ever. We are. And I have proof.

But first, let’s step back a few decades, and visit primetime television circa 1964. Remember actor Dick York? From 1964 to 1969, in a grand total of 156 episodes, he portrayed Darrin Stephens, the agitated but devoted husband of one beautiful witch, Samantha, on the primetime comedy, Bewitched. Lovely. In 1968, Dick York disappeared from the cast, almost by magic, and was replaced by another actor, Dick Sargent.

Here’s how CBS and the producers of the show explained the change in the cast to viewers. “Samantha” addressed him as “Darrin” the first time we saw him on screen and he responded. It took the audience, including me at the tender age of 9 years old I might add, about three seconds to process the following (challenging) bit of information:

The other guy: out.

This guy: in.

Got it.

No one had to tell us what happened to the other Darrin. No one had to write a script explaining how Darrin #1 had been killed in a tragic accident and how Samantha found new love in yet another man who, interestingly enough, worked in advertising at McMahon and Tate, and was also named Darrin Stephens.

I’m leaving aside the fact that in this same series at least two actresses portrayed neighbor Gladys Kravitz and two actresses played Louise Tate. Admittedly, neither role was a lead in the show but still; no one was ever confused or concerned about the changes.

Then again, you have your “Bonanza” cast changes from the ‘60s and ‘70s. Pernell Roberts chose to leave the show and his character, Adam, was conveniently relocated to Australia. Actor Dan Blocker died unexpectedly after surgery as the last season was about to begin and the producers responded by killing his character, “Hoss,” instead of hiring another actor for the role.

This notion of the viewing public having the intelligence God gave a flea started to get some additional traction in the 1970s and 1980s.

Who could forget M*A*S*H*? Instead of replacing Wayne Rogers in the role of “Trapper” John McIntyre, M.D. (a character and role resurrected in an entirely different series by the previously noted Pernell Roberts) the show sent McIntyre home and introduced Dr. B.J. Hunnicutt, played by Mike Farrell. And as the saying goes, war is hell. When McLean Stephenson (“Lt. Henry Blake”) left the show, the creators killed Henry.

Then there’s Cheers. Nicholas Colasanto, playing the beloved “Coach,” died and the bartender who took his place was a younger man with the same sweet disposition, Woody Harrelson playing Woody Boyd. (Please note the actor name matching the character name. This will come up again later.)

My favorite ridiculous story about stars and characters and our seeming unwillingness to suspend disbelief is from the sitcom, “Valerie.” Or should I say, “Valerie’s Family.” Or should I say, “The Hogan Family.” Remember this?

Valerie Harper started on her road to television sitcom fame playing the best friend, Rhoda Morganstern, on The Mary Tyler Moore Show, where Mary Tyler Moore played “Mary.” Harper eventually leaped to her own spinoff, “Rhoda,” playing the lead this time.

Like MTM, she somehow moved beyond a character name and in 1986, she starred in “Valerie,” playing Valerie Hogan, the mother of three sons. When she quit the show after just one year over her contract, she was replaced by the ever-perky and ever-popular Sandy Duncan, playing a close Hogan family relative who joined the household after Valerie “died.”

Let’s take a moment here to pose a question: one season? Are you kidding me? After one season we were all so connected to and fond of Valerie Hogan that we just couldn’t give her up? Why not hire Sandy Duncan, call her Valerie and be done with it?

I don’t know. But I guess I shouldn’t be all that amazed that CBS may in fact be killing off Charlie Sheen’s character, Charlie Harper, on Two and a Half Men. Was the character that nuanced? That deep? So complex that in the hands of a lesser thespian, viewers would have suffered in dismay as they watched a new “bad guy” on the show?

Exactly.

What I can’t figure out is why more producers don’t take their cue from Bewitched and just replace the actor / actress who is not available for whatever reason and move on with someone new playing the same character.

I can hear the outcry already. Impossible! There could never be another Hoss. Or another Coach. Or another Henry Blake. Or another Charlie Harper.

Nonsense. Of course there could be. But producers and creators seem to buy into their own fantasies to the point where they get delusional. According to IMDB, Jean Stapleton was the only realist on All in the Family: When the show was ending its run, Norman Lear spoke with Jean Stapleton (who was growing weary of playing Edith Bunker) about how they would respectfully have Edith die. She said, "Just have her die off, she's only fiction." Lear paused, then said, "Not to me, she isn't."

And there it is.

Look, I love characters and stories and I love feeling like the people we love in stories or on television or on film are real. But they’re not and never will be. And we all have our favorite portrayals and favorite characters. Firth = Darcy. Stallone = Rocky. Gable = Butler. Garland = Dorothy.

But then again: Connery – Lazenbi - Moore –Dalton - Brosnan – Craig = Bond. Then again (again), a tuxedo and a martini can work miracles.

Pause your brain in one room; resume it in another. Or not. Whatever.

2011-06-14T22:48:00.001-04:00

Reason # 7,458 we are doomed as a society: Direct TV. Well, it’s not really the idea of Direct TV or digital programming that signals our downfall. It’s more that our entertainment needs seem to have become all but obsessions at this point.

Exhibit A. You know that Direct TV commercial? It opens with a man watching a movie or television show. On the screen, we see some kind of CGI robots or droids or whatever they are in a battle of some sort. In other words, a scene almost no woman alive would watch on purpose with much enthusiasm, much less be concerned about missing the whole thing or part of it if they left the room. But back to our male viewer: In the midst of the action, the guys hits “pause,” walks into his kitchen, and on another very beautiful, very ‘this year’s model’ flat screen TV, he hits “play,” and continues to watch the scene.

And what was so important in the kitchen? Why did he need to leave the comfort of his living room to spend time in there? Good question. I’ll tell you what he wasn’t doing there. He wasn’t standing at the stove stirring the risotto. He wasn’t trying to distract himself while he spooned strained peas into his squirming toddler. He wasn’t even taking food out of the oven and to settle down in front of the set to continue watching the movie while he ate dinner.

So what was it? What interrupted him to begin this whole mini-drama? What disrupted his entertainment and called him away from room # 1? What could possibly be so important and demanding that he had to resume watching in a new room?

He had to get his microwave popcorn. Some MICROWAVE popcorn. That takes something like three minutes to prepare.

Dear God.

Let’s dissect this for a moment, shall we?

A viewer enthralled with a scene. Got it. (We’ve all been there although in my case, I can practically guarantee you there was a Hugh or a Colin or a Brad involved.) In the Direct TV commercial, the guy is so enthralled that he doesn’t want to miss a second of the action and he stops the action before walking into another room. Fine. We’ve all hit pause. But he can’t wait to continue watching so he starts the action up again in room # 2, because forcing himself to find his way back to room # 1 to resume watching the original scene is just too painful and demanding to imagine.

Fine. Sure. We all refuse to miss a moment of anything on a screen. We have digital recorders that allow us to pause a live broadcast and start it on command. Or stop a streaming movie and start it when we want to watch again. Or record a movie on one set and watch it on another. Super. I don't object to technology.

I object to our attitude. Our entitled, oblivious attitude about what we think we need to own in order to feel validated as technology-savvy consumers. To feel like consumers who are ahead of - or at least keeping up with - the game. But even that assessment sounds snotty and entitled, too, doesn’t it?

Try thinking of it this way. My boys told me about a tweet from Drew, an artist who writes Toothpaste for Dinner, that went something like this: “I was using the light from my laptop to look for a Skittle I dropped and remembered that millions of people don’t have clean drinking water.”

Yup. What he said.

Honestly, I could do this all day. Ironically, many of these men probably said the same thing.

2011-06-06T22:43:00.000-04:00

You know who was really happy to read the Representative Anthony Weiner news?
Governor Arnold Schwarzeneggar.

You know who was really happy to read the Arnold Schwarzeneggar news?
IMF Chief Dominique Strauss-Kahn.

You know who was really happy to read the Dominique Strauss-Kahn news?
Senator John Edwards.

You know who was really happy to read the John Edwards news?
Representative John Ensign.

You know who was really happy to read the John Ensign news?
Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi.

You know who was really happy to read the Silvio Berlusconi news?
Representative Christopher Lee.

You know who was really happy to read the Christopher Lee news?
Representative Mark Souder.

You know who was really happy to read the Mark Souder news?
Representative Eric Massa.

You know who was really happy to read the Eric Massa news?
Governor Mark Sanford.

You know who was really happy to read the Mark Sanford news?
Governor Eliot Spitzer.

You know who was really happy to read the Eliot Spitzer news?
Representative Vito Fossella.

You know who was really happy to read the Vito Fosella news?
Senator Larry Craig.

You know who was really happy to read the Larry Craig news?
Representative Mark Foley.

I can do this all night, folks. Sadly, that’s the truth. And I haven’t even left the political arena yet. Let’s not get into sports, entertainment and business leaders.

Otherwise, the list could quickly get unwieldy.

New York State (of mind)

2011-06-03T22:34:00.000-04:00

So close….but not quite.

I am hovering on the NY border, just this side of Elmira, New York as I head to Canada on my virtual run. By the end of May, I had logged just over 200 miles with 250 more to go. Incredibly, that puts me on track to hit my 450 mile total by year’s end, and land me about thirty miles north of Toronto, Ontario Canada. Believe me, no one is more surprised than I at this tally.

Couple of things I learned this month, most of which I should have figured out about forty years ago. First: when you go out of town for an overnight trip, it’s probably not worth dragging your running shoes, shorts, and a T-shirt to get in a couple of miles. There are two reasons for this. One: Given the time of year and the state of commercial aviation these days, a two day trip rarely seems to work out. You sit in an airport for the better part of a day waiting for your delayed and ultimately cancelled flight. Your subsequent travel compresses into one day to accommodate your schedule which means the out of town run never happens.

In my case, it was a one-day out and back to Houston, plus the roundtrip drive to Newark, with the added bonus of sitting in a meeting for about four hours. Sixteen hours spent sitting in a car / the middle seat / a conference room chair isn’t nearly as enticing as it sounds. I spent the next two or three days recovering from the trip and even contemplating a run is difficult when you can’t quite stand upright the next day.

And two: Even when your travel starts out as planned, it’s not worth packing your duds because it probably won’t end well. Despite any delusions you hold about how and when you plan to run, it’s unlikely you’ll get one in when you have a 4:45 wakeup call to meet a client for a meeting by 6 am. And you won’t get it in the next day either, after you get stuck in Charlotte at midnight and then have to wake up (again) at 4:45 to catch the 5:30 am shuttle from the hotel to the airport to get your flight home.

And three: Running a 3+ mile loop in my neighborhood feels refreshing and good and absolutely do-able on a cool Saturday morning. It feels exactly the opposite of that on a hot Friday night.

But I did learn this as well: a few days off doesn’t mean it’s over. A sore back doesn’t necessarily mean you’re sidelined forever. Building up to a previous pace after some recovery time off won’t happen overnight but it’s possible and a worthy goal. I suspect there could be some kind of metaphor for life’s challenges hovering around the edges here but then again, maybe not. I leave it to you to decide.

So to summarize: five months in; seven to go. About two hundred miles on the books; just less than two-hundred and fifty to go. That’s 35.62 miles a month. Or 8.9 miles a week. Or 2.226 miles four times a week.

That I can do.

Hamlet was right: The play IS the thing.

2011-05-27T17:28:00.000-04:00

NOTE: I spent many hours as a "theater mom" while my boys enjoyed participating in a number of theatrical productions and musical performances during their high school years. For years, I've likened the hours I've spent as an enthralled listener to a spa treatment: the ultimate relaxation and balm for my soul at the same time. Too many time to count, I've been beyond proud of them as they would confidently stride across a stage and capture the audience with their vocal gifts.

The post below reflects back on those years and is my small thank you to "theater kids" of every age who will never lost the sparks that makes the magic happen.

As Hamlet proclaimed: “The play’s the thing…” I don't have nearly the subterfuge Hamlet had in mind by quoting this line but I will say this: he was right. Backstage, as I stand in silent awe of the tumult and talent surrounding me, I think I understand him at least form one perspective. Just as certainly as night follows day, this season finds hundreds of students experiencing the culmination of months of hard work and dedication: the high school musical.

What’s endlessly remarkable to me about the whole enterprise is the absolute passion of every single person concerned. But in the marathon run up to opening night, I wonder if that passion sometimes gets overshadowed by the “business” – the lists, tasks, details and sure, stress levels – that creates the well-oiled machine of a show that “works.”

Set designers start with a plan, and then follow it up with hundreds of details surrounding the construction, painting and portability of each piece. The talented crew has little desire to stand in front of a spotlight but their work helps every moment, every nuance come alive on stage. They step up to build it, to paint it, to move it – and then they step down; out of sight, behind the curtain.

Lighting and sound techs want nothing more than to make sure everything is seen and heard precisely as planned for the audience in the darkened theater. They transport us to a different time and place as they create the mood and allow us to enter the world of the story. A dark forest feels like a dark forest; a raucous tavern sounds like a raucous tavern. And although they, too, work out of sight, we see and hear their work throughout a successful performance.

Musicians move us with every note. Sitting unobtrusively in the dark, they help create the mood of the story that unfolds on stage. The score makes us laugh, makes us tear up, or cues us at critical moments. Musicians touch us with stirring anthems or delicate harmonies as they accompany the vocalists, and add texture and layers to each piece.

Costumes, makeup and props create entirely new characters out of the everyday teenagers who step on stage to entertain us with drama and song. Ultimately, we’re face to face with the actors and actresses themselves. The months they spend moving thoughtfully from place to place on stage, blocking a scene one way, then another, then another and then possibly another before settling on exactly who stands/moves/sits where and when appears casual and spontaneous during a performance. The turn, or nod, or touch that appears unpracticed and genuine goes through a number of versions before it becomes second nature to the character and the performer.

Dedicated directors want nothing more than to help every student have fun, improve their skills, and enjoy their experience. They, too, sit quietly in the dark, or walk the halls backstage, as the performance unfolds. Everything is in the hands of their students, and they surrender it all to the curtain up cue.

There comes that point where they know every move, they know every word, every note, every cue, every set change. They simply can’t know it any better. But the question is: what do they know? They’ve spent months concentrating on the dynamics, the marks, the costumes, lights, sound, and make-up – yet I hope they remember the whole, not necessarily the pieces.

As theaters go dark this spring, I wonder: what does this all come to – when the final note plays and the curtain falls? Surely the participants take something away from the experience as they return full-time to their real lives and leave the show behind.

Sure, no one wants to drop a line or miss a cue – but now and in the years to come, I hope the actors, technicians and musicians have learned so much more than the mechanics. I hope they discovered that, at its best, the pure essence of theater transports all of us beyond the everyday world.

I hope they’ve found the heart of the show; and the commitment they made to express that heart with every bit of their being. I hope they recall how the lighting they created looked soft and entrancing; how the set they built evoked exactly the right atmosphere; how the words they delivered or music they performed emerged from a place they had not fully explored until exactly that moment; that moment of fulfillment and triumph on stage.

This is about the joy and passion for the craft, about collaborating and celebrating each other’s gifts. It’s digging deep, and bringing what lies within them to the surface for all to see.

You’ve created that miraculous, unforgettable, always unique experience called theater. To everyone who has already taken their final bows this year, and to those who are about to: thank you. And as they sang in Les Miz: here’s to them; and here’s to you.

On coloring, outlines, and no lines.

2011-05-21T19:56:00.000-04:00

It may take me a while, but I eventually get there. By “there,” I mean it takes me a while to connect the dots, to follow the threads that weave themselves throughout an event or a series of events. Before we go any further here, let me assure you: this post isn’t going to be deep, or at least what passes for deep for me.

No, it’ s just one of those light bulb moments that probably switched on for millions of women before me. Let me explain.

A few days ago, I saw several posts on Facebook showing a princess and her prince – Cinderella, maybe - along with two other characters, and the wardrobes and colors on the drawings were reminiscent of those worn by the party at Westminster a few weeks ago. But for me, I was immediately back on my parents’ front porch, on a warm spring or summer morning, with a coloring book, crayons and nothing but black and white pages that were just waiting for my touch.

I remember sitting there with my sisters and our friends, as we all colored in the pages then looked over each other’s work. Since I didn’t raise girls, and I’m not around them these days, I don’t even know if girls do this anymore. All I know is we had fun more than forty years ago. And here’s what I remember most: if I wanted my pictures to look really spectacular, I would outline them, then darken each detail line before adding the overall color to the entire page. Wow – I could probably be a professional artist, I thought.

So where’s the light bulb? What did this remind me of? Something about those pictures and coloring but something that wasn’t about them and wasn’t about crayons. Something from my current life. I’m getting there.

A day or two after seeing the Facebook pictures, I’m standing in front of the mirror, with no fewer than three tubes or jars of cream in front of me. Believe me, I have plenty to choose from: The eye restoration complex, the positively ageless lifting and firming eye cream, and the divine eyes ultimate youth eye treatment eye contour cream. The deep wrinkle treatment, deep wrinkle night cream, hydra firming cream, age repair lotion (note: the label advises you to consult a doctor if using this on children under six months old), skin firming moisturizer, and dramatically different moisturizing lotion. The reversing Gelee transforming lift and glycolic vital renew. (I don’t even know what that one means.) These represent products from eight different companies.

Don’t get me starting hair products.

Then we have the other extreme: tools and materials to create, not erase, lines. If you were to document the makeup in my cabinet, you’d find at least three pencils: eyebrow, eyeliner, and lip liner. A few of those get pretty regular use, although the eyeliner less so than in years past. Once I’m all moisturized and treated and lifted and restored and repaired every morning (well, almost every morning), the artistry really begins. Because some lines you want to enhance a little and others you need to restore a little.

I dutifully stroke and massage various bits into various parts of my face, and then follow up with the daily “outlining” required to stave off the signs of my life. And it hit me. Who knew? I’ve been training to follow the lines since I was about 6 years old. Every morning, and most nights, I spend a little time exfoliating, gently cleansing and/or foaming away the cares of the day from my face, then follow the lines and the various wrinkles, marks and general blahness of my 50+ skin with some of the products listed above. Except now, instead of highlighting the lines, I’m trying to erase them.

A dubious goal with almost nothing to indicate I’m making any headway.

So the question is this: does the daily ritual satisfy me because it’s an attempt; because at least I’m trying; or is it ultimately just the activity I built around my growing collection of jars and tubes and bottles? And is that collection little more than substitutes for the Crayolas I wielded with such confidence forty-six years ago? Is all of this an attempt to capture a princess moment of my own?

That’s a little depressing.

Maybe it’s really more about the fact that one day, much sooner than I'd ever expected, I find myself absolutely and indisputably in the throes of middle age. I'm surrounded by co-workers who could be my children. In fact, I'm one of the oldest people in the department. And I think: if all this is true, why don’t I know more about life? Why am I still so mystified on a daily basis? How am I getting so much of it wrong?

I admit the following: I don’t know the formula or the perfect ingredients for a blissful, idyllic marriage. I don’t know how to raise children that will never take a wrong turn. I’m often conflicted, often doubtful, often full of trepidation. Somewhere along the line, I thought confidence and certainty would come along with aging. All I got were the lines.

So maybe I can’t spend time outlining the folds of a princess dress in a coloring book and then coloring it in. I get it; I can’t quite list that as an “interest” on my resume. But I can outline my lips with a perfect shade of reddish gold and color them in. Some days, that will have to suffice as the only thing grown up thing about me.

On proms, pleats and Peter Rabbit

2011-05-13T19:01:00.000-04:00

Over the past week or two, I've enjoyed reading so many Facebook posts about high school proms, and looking at the pictures of young people enjoying their evenings.

This post is a reflection on my first "prom as a mom" experience, going back to 2006. Whether this is the first or last prom night in your house, I hope the parents who read it find a moment they recognize in it. Do we all feel something like this as the experience unfolds?

Enjoy.

On one hand, I watched the tuxedo-ordering event for the senior prom unfold in bemused silence. Never had so many questions about so many details been posed to so few people who had not one definite answer between them. And why would they? Who ever imagined how many choices you have in a formal wear shop? Suit without stripes, suit with stripes. Long or regular length jacket? Shirt with one inch, half inch or quarter inch pleats? Maybe no pleats. Bow tie or not, in black or in a coordinating color, striped or plain? Vest or cummerbund? In black or matching color or coordinating pattern? Jewelry: all black, black and silver or black and gold? Shoes: round or square toe style? Oxfords or loafers? I didn’t make this many decisions about what I wore to my wedding.

We began with the sample tuxes on display in the store, samples that turned out to be not quite right. After paging through a catalog to find just the right one, my son and his girlfriend made another half a dozen choices (see above) before finalizing the entire transaction.

On the other hand, as I watched the sales clerk help my son into a jacket and smooth it out to make sure of the size, I was terrified. The fit was very nearly perfect, and he buttoned it with confidence as his girlfriend nodded that it looked good. I thought so, too, but as I think back on it, the tuxedo jacket kind of disappears. In my mind, I see my two-year-old lay his little winter coat out of the floor, slip his hands into the sleeves, and flip it over his head to show me he can do it “all by self.”

The white dress shirt he selected was a very distant relative of the t-shirts and casual clothes I see daily. The crisp quarter-inch (not half-inch, not full inch) pleats would create just the right look under the black vest. The sales clerk took his collar and sleeve measurements, and in my mind, I remember another ‘dress’ shirt he used to have: the little blue one from pre-school days. I see him wearing it over his t-shirts - unbuttoned - because “Peter Rabbit never buttons his blue jacket.”

I noticed the shine of the dress leather shoes, the final touch that would add the perfect formality to the evening clothes. He reviewed the choices and decided on the round, not the squared off style. In my mind, he stands before a row of shoes in a discount store. I see him search the display for sneakers that feature his favorite cartoon or movie hero of the day, complete with lights in the rubber soles. He and his brothers would wear out those Velcro light-up shoes before they would outgrow them. “Watch me, Mommy! Watch how fast I can run with these!”

They selected a tie that will match her dress perfectly and add a touch of color to the black and white formal wear. But I look past that one and instead see the dozens of clip-ons and bow ties - so tiny! - he used to wear. I see Daddy teaching him and his brothers how to tie a “real” tie.

On our way home that evening, we talked about flowers. I felt just a little delighted - and surprised - when he casually named his girlfriend’s favorite flower. When did he find that out? Does he know my favorite flower? (Do I even have one? Am I losing my mind?)

The whole event was more than the sum of its parts. Yes, it was about a special suit of clothes and a dance and a girl but it was more than that, too. I didn’t realize it at the time but we walked through an unmarked door, my oldest son and I, and it’s unlikely we’ll be able to turn back. The sign on the store indicated a formal wear shop but it should have read: This way to adulthood. There was a moment during the tuxedo rental experience when I watched him change just a little bit, right before my eyes. I had those familiar feelings of displacement I’d felt occasionally over the past few years.

But this was more than another sappy, corny “Sunrise, Sunset” moment. This time the feelings arrived all dressed up, proud and confident, complete with a pocket square, a set of cufflinks and shiny shoes. They were inescapable. And impressive. And in my mind, they were unforgettable.

Today’s fun marketing fact: Condescension has no age limit.

2011-05-09T21:40:00.000-04:00

A couple of posts ago, I wrote about an annoying little ad campaign that implored women to “have a happy period.” The idea that a company did enough research, then focus-grouped and tested the idea of labeling a healthy fact of female life as “happy” in order to convince women that we could actually endure – and enjoy! – menstruating for about forty years or so felt incredibly condescending to me.

As I noted, it would seem that men never have to endure marketing campaigns that label certain necessary products as “happy” in order for them to buy them. Example: Have a happy shave! Or how about this: Don’t worry about that annoying jock itch – be happy! Or this: Don’t call it ‘having to get up from a sound sleep to pee in the middle of the night. Call it claiming your own happy moment of peace in the still of the night.’ See what I mean? Sounds ridiculous, right?

Apparently, women’s products can’t get marketed and sold based on their attributes, benefits and price. I don’t need to feel an emotional connection or create some sort of bond with a tampon before I’ll purchase it but you'd never know that based on the commercials that sell us these.

Well the good news for me as I grow older is that if there is a God in heaven, soon enough I can stop caring about having a happy period (or even an unhappy one as a matter of fact. Fingers crossed, I’ll celebrate that occasion in about five months.) The bad news is that the hits just keep on coming. A few years ago, I read about – and then hoped online to experience – a place called Menopauseland. I’m not joking. Yes, exactly like Disneyland, except it’s Menopauseland.

Well, not exactly. Menopauseland was a cyber community, courtesy of Amerifit brands and their supplement, Estroven, developed to ease the symptoms of menopause. According to BrandBuzz, the creative agency behind M-land, their goal was to reach the “fastest-growing user group of the Internet,” women of a certain age. Their microsite on the web enabled them to learn more about their customers and hone their message even more effectively as a result of the research they could conduct and measure.

Their national television commercial depicted a menopausal – well, I assume she was supposed to be in menopause – woman, enjoying the delights of a gorgeous, sunny, private spa-like retreat, complete with an anonymous cabana-boy type of guy handing over a towel and massaging her shoulders after she emerges from the pool. Her voiceover narrated a postcard she dropped in the mail to a friend: something about the fact that despite the many kinds of travels she’s taken throughout her life, she’s never been anywhere as liberating as “here.” I guess we were supposed to assume the cabana boy had something to do with that liberation but it’s unclear.

The narration continued and informed women about how Estroven could help them manage their “journey” into another life stage beyond menopause.

Fine. Lovely. I hope Estroven eases symptoms many women could find annoying or even debilitating. But that’s not really my point. I’m back to the same thing I asked about having a “happy period.” What are we – six years old? It feels like any company marketing women’s products to women needs to convince us that we can – and should – have fun while we deal with somewhat intrusive (but healthy) life stages. In other words, there is no need to be down in the dumps about cramps, mood swings, hot flashes and night sweats. Pre-menopausal women who don’t feel joyful every 28 days or so simply need to adjust their attitudes and instead enjoy their happy periods. And thanks to Menopauseland, women who somehow don’t understand the bliss connected to the end of their child-bearing years need to hop onboard an express train to Menopauseland to savor the journey and get their heads on straight.

I’m absolutely positive that no other generation of women – women by the millions who passed through menopause without so much as a hint of something called Menopauseland – would have sat quietly by and witnessed such nonsense. But this isn’t any other generation. It’s Baby Boomers, the generation that demands all new rules all the time for all that life has to offer. According to an article in The New York Times, “baby boomers by the millions are entering menopause, and its talked about in the open.” Amerifit's research informed them that women believe “Menopause isn’t the end of anything; it’s the beginning, it’s positive.”

Fine. Lovely. If that's true, why create a cyber-theme park called Menopauseland to convince us? Can’t we learn about Estroven and how it may ease some symptoms without making it a playland? Oh, that’s right. It’s because we’re women. If we’re not happy, we're not going to have fun. And if we’re not going to have fun, we’re going to pout and be bitchy to everyone around us.

Estroven seems to have found a moment of clarity because I think they closed down Menopauseland. At least I couldn’t find it on their website. They’ve updated their campaign. Now their commercials show women holding up signs, signs that ostensibly “say something good about menopause.” Whatever.

Look, I’m all for clever and captivating marketing and advertising campaigns. But that doesn’t require a patronizing, juvenile or aggravating attitude. We need women communicating the truth to women, yes? Without the cutesy nonsense?

Don’t count on it. More to come in the next “women’s” post. Stay tuned.

The road not taken might be the way home.

2011-05-07T10:45:00.000-04:00

When I’m around new moms, I play a role I never imagined: the elder statesman (stateswoman?) among working mothers. Women in the forty-plus demographic embody the first generation of “modern” women who earned degrees and entered the workplace in large numbers. Somewhere along the line, many of us married, had children, and kept our day jobs. I guess that makes us the prototype for the next generation.

I find myself facing younger mothers, full of questions and incredulity, mostly of the “how did you ever do all this?” or “how did you make this look so easy?” variety. As they look to me for words of wisdom - big mistake - I look back at them and their young children and think, ‘So soon! This stage will be over and you’ll wonder how it all flashed by so quickly.’

Yes, caring for babies and chasing toddlers is exhausting. You learn how to interpret almost every move your child makes and figure out how to meet his or her every need. It’s rewarding and exciting because as they grow, you watch them - day by day, inch by inch - become the person they were born to be.

But the older my children get, the more they teach me about being a mother. They’re teaching me to listen; that it doesn’t really matter how tired I am on any given night, or what I may have on my “to do” list. The “on call” aspect of motherhood that begins with overnight feedings doesn’t ever really go away. Example: when one of them wanders into the TV room at eleven p.m. and sinks into a chair across the room, it’s time to perk up and be ready to listen. At that moment, he’s reaching out, even in the most unobtrusive way, to say, “please listen to me” and sometimes the words aren’t the most important part of the exchange.

They’re teaching me to relax. When they were growing up, the best part of our lives mostly happened around the dinner table, four or five nights a week, when we talked and laughed to see where that would lead us. The dinner table has fewer people around it these days but when it’s full, we usually sit around for hours and unwind together. We solve nothing; we debate everything; we challenge each other; we tell incredible stories. Their beliefs and their point of view on everything from Princess Eugenie’s hat (a total non-issue for them) to a madman in a mansion in Pakistan (a very big deal) captivate me.

Years from now, I hope I’ll remember what amazing memories they had for details about absolutely everything. I know I’ll remember their unquenchable thirst for random yet interesting facts. I’ll hear the music they made in the house every night. Every day, even now as they are beyond high school and making their way into adulthood, they teach me that they’re so much more than the “numbers” we use to measure our children, so much more than projects and grades and tests.

As young adults, they’re pulling me – reluctantly – into the next stage of being a mother. The one where you observe, and offer a thought or two that may just have some basis in reality but nonetheless feels intrusive and smothering to the recipient. The one that teaches you to have patience, and trust that they'll reach out if they need any of the following: help, a shoulder to cry on, a trusted confidant, a place to vent, an objective observer, or money. The one where you want to scream – and sometimes do: “Please, please trust me! You’re making an enormous mistake!” But you try to convince yourself that some mistakes may have to happen once, just so they never happen again.

They’re teaching me, incrementally and relentlessly, how to let go. I remember one night years ago, when one of the boys was upset about an audition at school. He wouldn’t share many details, except to tell me that he “blew it . . . I was terrible.” I tried to reassure him that he almost certainly did better than he imagined but he refused to discuss it.

Turns out, he did want to talk about it - just not to me. He spent at least an hour on the phone with a friend - a girl - and she was able to give him the comfort I couldn’t. This was becoming more and more the norm.

I felt lost. I felt disposable and replaced and irrelevant. I also felt - reluctantly - enlightened and proud to watch him as he “grew up.” It was natural that he would want turn outward - to a girlfriend - for the reassurance he needed. It was right that he should begin to loosen the ties I worked so hard to weave. But still, it felt strange.

Before he went to sleep, I shared some of these feelings with him. I told him I understood he needed some independence and privacy. When I hugged him goodnight, I said something like, “I get it - but I miss you.”

He seemed to “get it” too, and reassured me quietly, “I’ll come back.”

Here’s the thing: I’m trying to balance the “spread your wings and fly” schmaltz with the “why don’t you ever call [or text or Facebook or IM] your mother??” guilt trips. Haven’t quite worked that out yet. The reality is this: I want to admire their independence. I want to watch them grow and find their way and build a life. But I also want them to remember that sometimes, the road not taken during times of trouble might be the one that leads home.

I don’t NEED any of my boys to come back home in order to feel fulfilled or “successful” as a mom. I just want them to know they can. And I’ll be here.

Still not completely there but at least I'm moving again.

2011-05-04T21:07:00.004-04:00

The best that can be said about April is that it's over.

The miles I put into the record book were nothing compared to the days that were marked off with big X’s instead of mileage through the cold hard month of April. It was frustrating to feel like I was 92 not 52, and watch the days tick by with nothing but inactivity to show for them. But the month is over and we’ve moved on to May.

You may recall that sciatica sidelined me for about two weeks. In fact, according to my grid, I didn’t run a single step from April 6 until April 20. All I could think was, “Well, this is no good! This isn’t getting me any closer to “Can’t even find it on a GPS, Canada,” which is a northern suburb of Toronto. Plus, Joe was getting WAY ahead of me on his run to the balmy south.

But the good news is, I had somehow banked a couple of miles ahead of my quota. Put it this way: Although I ended April about seven miles behind in my monthly goal, I’m not behind on my annual goal. So far on the year, despite my month on and off the DL, I’ve remained about 8 miles ahead of my goal.

The better news is I seem to have recovered my health. Nothing like a debilitating ache to remind you to be grateful for simple mobility. So where am I? Almost 160 miles north of Allentown, just south of Sebring, PA, near the Tioga State Forest. It looks very lush on the Google map; I can only hope the scenery would take my mind off the not 100% comfort I have in my right leg were I really running along the trail.

I’ve been taking it a little slow – still getting in a 5k or near it with every run but it’s taking me a little longer, or I find myself walking about a quarter mile or so. I’m giving myself until the end of May to get back to “my” time which is not at all fast but is comfortable for me: a 9 ½ minute mile or so. Then I’ll start to add some speed or distance or both.

For now: I’m grateful to be upright and mobile. For anyone keeping track: that’s four months in; eight to go. As of today, I’ve logged about 161 miles and have 288 to go. That’s just over 36 miles a month for the rest of the year. Or about 9 miles a week. About 2.25 miles a day, 4 days a week.

I figure by this time next month, I’ll have entered New York or be very, very close. And if Lawrenceville, New York is close, can Toronto, Ontario be far behind? Well, yes. Yes, it certainly can be.

But I’ll get there.

In honor of the happy couple....

2011-05-01T17:09:00.003-04:00

Read an article today in Us, or People, or OK or something like while I was indulging in that great spring equalizer among women: the pedicure. Because of the article and the worldwide romance we've all witnessed over the past few days, I'm re-posting a column that appeared a few months ago on Jewish World Review.

Now, this should by no means imply that Catherine Middleton Windsor did any such preparation for her big day. But she and her Prince do seem to have found their "ever after."

Sadly, at least someone who sends a daughter to Princess Prep must believe a dream can come true for their own little darling.

Hope you enjoy.

Awake at night in Allentown. Again.

2011-04-30T19:40:00.007-04:00

Once again, my subconscious is alive and well.

I can’t remember the last time I slept through the night because like a number of people I know, I find myself startled awake by some idea or situation that simply will not leave my mind and as a result, I can’t fall back to sleep.

Since I slept poorly last night, I felt very tired by about 3 pm and tried to take a nap this afternoon. It was mostly pointless for quite a while and then I fell asleep. You know how I know? My dream.

I’m not going into every detail here – you’re welcome – but the highlights include the following:

I had a new boss at my current company: Barack Obama.

After several delays, he and I had a meeting in an enormous unfamiliar, conference room.

He handed over sheets and sheets and sheets of legal pad pages, all containing notes and figures. Nothing more formal than that – no reports, charts, or presentations.

He went on to tell me that my sales of $14,000 (I’ve not been in a true sales position for many years) were inadequate. I told him that figure wasn’t correct; that it was significantly higher but he didn’t seem to hear me.

Bottom line: I lost my job.

I’m still not a big believer in dreams but here’s what I learned from Dream Moods: Your Dream Symbol Interpretation.

To see a stack of papers in your dream, denotes lots of stress and lots of responsibilities. And surprise - I'm not handling it well.

To dream that you lose your job, represents instability and insecurity in your waking life.

Fired: to dream that you are fired from your job apparently has nothing to do with your career. It's a symbol of something else and a desire to end it. As a bonus, I"m "supressing" what I really want out of life.

I'm just a party waiting to happen, right?

To all this may I simply say: no kidding. Suffice it to say, life is more than a little challenging these days for many, many reasons. Working on it with limited success but I’m trying. Not one bit of it is welcome or easy. Despite my glacial efforts to make positive change, it would seem that even when I‘m sleeping, I can’t seem to find any relief.

I’m kind of tired of using the OTC sleep aids, which are not really a solution. So if anyone has any ideas about overcoming this nighttime wakefulness – ideas that really work – I’m listening.

For the record: I don't need to love everything. And neither do most women I know.

2011-04-27T20:44:00.005-04:00

NOTE: this is the first in a series of posts that will - my hand to God - lead to some kind of conclusion. Fair warning to anyone who will get three sentences in and think: "For God's sake, not this 'women's s--t, again! Really, Renee?" STOP NOW. You've been warned.

Now, onto the post. And be happy.

If anyone is looking for proof that the women’s movement has landed in the twenty-first century with a decided thud, turn on your television set. Women may think we’ve attained equality of the sexes - whatever that was supposed to mean - but we’re wrong, at least according to one major consumer products company. Turns out that for about five days every month, many of us turn into needy, easily satisfied, empty-headed whiners who just want to be pampered. Don’t believe me? Okay, remember this ad campaign? Sadly I do. I went something like this:

During a certain week of the month, to quote the ad copy, “looks like it’s time to bloat, whine, pig out, cry for no reason and smile.” But hey, it doesn’t have to be a sad, gloomy couple of days. Gosh no! It can be a “happy” time. The new campaign reminded women that in addition to buying one particular brand of protection, they could overcome their monthly nuisance by doing small things for themselves that will add delight and contentment to these dreary days. Some suggestions: by all means, take a cab for once. Put on some nail polish, or as they so subtly suggested in their print campaign: “If your claws are out, you might as well paint them.” (I’m not making this up.) Eat some cookies or some chocolate! Crown yourself ‘Queen for the week’ and indulge yourself.

Just stop this. Right now. And forget about the affront to women this whole campaign represented. The question is this: Does everything in our lives have to be ‘happy’ for god’s sake? Some things, like a monthly cycle, just ain’t that happy most of the time. I’d call it normal and I’d call it natural but I’m not willing to go so far as to call it happy. And it absolutely does not warrant this kind of “treat yourself - you deserve it” drama. I’d have thought we’d moved past that about thirty years ago but I’d be wrong about that, at least according to the focus groups.

When the ad agency tested the idea of “a happy period” with groups of women, they were “ready for this,” according to the product’s brand manager, as reported in The New York Times. The brand wanted to make an emotional connection with women because their research told them that women respected the brand but they didn’t love it.

Can we pause on that for a second, please? “…they didn’t love it.” Do we need to love it? Do men need to love the stuff they buy?

This is so annoying for so many reasons. I guess no matter what we face during our monthly cycle, we can manage it with some chocolate, some grooming or some “me” time. Any of these options will make us feel better, even if we have to run the kids halfway to Philly and back five days a week for soccer camp. Or maybe a woman has to run the school board meeting. Or the company sales conference. Or the country. But don’t you worry for one single second about the added stress that accompanies that one special week every month. Have some candy or a cookie and feel better! (God forbid we should try doing some stretching, or walking or any other form of exercise, which could help alleviate any discomfort once a month.)

Is it just me or is this entire campaign built on the antique notion of women as the weaker sex?? Lesson one: Working women can’t be trusted to handle the really big stuff because we’re out of commission at least a few days every month. Fortunately, this lasts for only about forty years of our lives. Lesson two: For non-working women, God help the people in their lives - husbands, friends, and neighbors - who encounter them during a bad moment each month.

Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m just too cranky today. Wait...checking a calendar....oh, good. This is not my fault! It’s just my ‘happy’ time again.

You might say competent is "the new black." Or "the new forty." I wouldn't but whatever it is; I like it.

2011-04-25T20:34:00.005-04:00

What’s wrong with being competent? I’m not sure when that word developed such a negative connotation in our collective view although I suspect it was right around the time just about every student in every second grade around the country was enrolled in the “gifted” program at school. Around the same time our national pendulum of imagined ability was swinging a wide arc pretty far away from “average.” But I digress.

I checked several sources and not one of them indicated that the act of being competent is a “negative.” Webster’s Comprehensive Dictionary defines the word as “having sufficient ability or authority.” The Oxford University Press Dictionary takes it a step further and then defines competent as “having the necessary skill or knowledge to do something successfully.” Secondarily, they define the word as “satisfactory or adequate, though not outstanding.”

You might say that’s damning with faint praise, but given the stories that dominate headlines of the day, doesn’t competent sound pretty darn good? No? Consider this: What if the response and solutions offered to address the economic meltdown during the fall of 2008 had been termed “satisfactory or adequate?” Or how about the devastation that resulted from the Oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico? Wouldn’t we feel better if we could've called that response “satisfactory or adequate?” Ditto the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. I rest my case.

I’m taking this opportunity to launch a campaign to reintroduce the word ‘competent’ into our national lexicon. And yes, can I get an “amen!” on that?! Some genuine enthusiasm, satisfaction and confidence in our voices when we use it? We can do it. We really can. Let’s try.

“How was the customer service rep when you called about that mistake on your invoice?” “Competent! He was competent!”

Or how about this: “Did you get the report you requested on the survey results?” “Yes, she did a competent job.”

“How was the city snow removal last winter after the big storm?” “It was competent! What a relief.”

Who wouldn’t welcome this? How content we would be if instead of waiting to be wowed by the creative geniuses we hope to find in our families, our schools, our employers, our communities and our elected officials, we were all nicely satisfied with competence. I’ll take competence any day.

It’s all about expectations. Somewhere along the line we decided that when it comes to quality of life, good enough wasn’t good enough. We want outstanding. We need exceptional. We desire unprecedented success in order to deem anything worthwhile. And the sad fact is that much of this expectation for “the best” in every facet of life was the result of exactly nothing. We haven’t grown increasingly smarter. We’re not more clever than we ever were. It’s little more than an outgrowth of what Alan Greenspan rightly called “irrational exuberance.” Competence was viewed as just one baby step away from failure, or at the very least, from the dreaded “average.”

Being competent has been severely underrated; we should give it its due. In fact, in light of the endless blame, the divisive rhetoric and the lack of responsibility being spouted by so many government officials these days in the wake of our deficit, our involvement in the Middle East, and the relentless employment malaise, I submit the next candidate searching for wholehearted support from Americans of every political stripe adopt this slogan as his or her campaign tag line: “The competent candidate.” Talk about capturing the public’s attention! Imagine what could be accomplished simply by competence!

Where’s Harry Truman when you need him? I’m sick of everyone who claims to have the answers, or lists the excuses, or calls for investigations or spends time passing the buck. I’m already tired of the 2012 Presidential campaigns. I suggest we choose to support candidates who show by word and deed that they can do the job at hand. While we can’t predict the circumstances that may arise to challenge any leader’s ability, we can hedge our bet by voting for garden-variety competence over flash any day of the week. I can’t help but think we’d all be much better off supporting candidates who demonstrate that they have limited interest in their legacies or in their own re-election but have relentless interest in the situations right in front of them. And guess what? It just can’t be a bad thing to leave behind a legacy of competence. What a concept.

On Quik and bag lunches, AKA: the bad old days

2011-04-18T23:50:00.007-04:00

Two seemingly disconnected but real life memories occurred to me in light of some of the latest headlines:

Memory 1: I have this amazing soft spot in my heart – and elsewhere – for chocolate milk. I come by it honestly and with great affection. In fact, it wasn’t until I saw “chocolate milk” listed in a quiz titled something like “favorite kids’ treats you miss as an adult” that I realized I might be some kind of chocolate milk freak. Did that mean all adults didn’t drink chocolate milk? Who knew?

This is the result of a girlhood memory. Too many times to count, I heard this request from my Dad at some point during the evening: “ ’Nays, make me a glass of chocolate milk.” And because he retained just the littlest bit of his boyhood Brooklyn home in his voice, it sounded kind of like “Chaulk-lit milk.”

So there you go: I grew up spooning out the Quik, watching a grown man drink chocolate milk pretty regularly. (I have not one memory of my Mom ever requesting or having a glass of her own.) My siblings and I must have stirred up our own glasses of chocolate milk at the same time but I can’t quite remember doing that.

Memory 2: For about fourteen years, my husband packed lunches for our three sons to carry to school. The reason he made them was simple: he did it very well. He spent real time on their sandwiches, creating popular, delicious “main courses” for them five days a week, as opposed to what I would do: slap some lunchmeat between slices of bread, use few if any condiments, and call it done. The boys would often remark in the evening how tasty a particular sandwich was that day. They never said that to me. (Saying I have a knack for creating sandwiches is like saying Charlie Sheen has a knack for creating a calm, spiritual atmosphere wherever he goes.)

Other than the great vs terrible sandwiches, their dad and I took the same approach to their packed lunches: a sandwich, a piece of fruit or some grapes or carrots, plus a pudding cup, or Jell-o, or String cheese or a cereal bar of some kind, or maybe one other kind of treat. We also offered beautifully decorated hard-boiled eggs for a few days every spring, following PB&J on Fridays for six weeks every Lent. (They were my specialty.)

I did write notes to the boys once in a while and tuck them into their bags. And everyone knows one note = 47 really good sandwiches.

You can imagine my incrankulous response to the headlines in the news about food in schools. One story reported on schools in the D.C. area banning chocolate milk from their cafeterias, in an effort to address childhood obesity and remove the high-fat, high-sugar drink from cafeterias. Their confounding choice came down to this: students getting less calcium and fewer nutrients as a result of the ban or students taking in more calories and sugar by drinking chocolate flavored milk. Uproar from parents and students alike led to the drink being reformulated into a “healthier” version and reinstated in many schools. Sounds delicious.

The second news story goes a bit further than addressing the “problem” drinks in the cafeteria. Teachers and administrators reported seeing too many unhealthy lunches over the years and believed that students would get better nutrition by purchasing lunch in school. New rule: Students may not bring a packed lunch from home. They must buy what the school offers in the cafeteria.

This might be the perfect time to pause to ask this question: For God’s sakes of America, what is going on here? Schools and parents are beside themselves because children are drinking five cartons of chocolate milk a week. Administrators and teachers are horrified at the chips and sodas included in the lunches some students carry to school each day.

You know what might be a good idea, right about now? You know it – I know you do. Moderation. Remember moderation? Neither do school administrators.
Go right ahead and serve chocolate milk; but serve it just once a week. You’re concerned about the packed lunches that contain cupcakes, not carrots? Sure you are but what do you do about the lunches that have the carrots not cupcakes? The phrase 'baby and bathwater' springs to mind.

Since most physical education classes are just short of a joke these days, here’s an idea: everyone gets up and takes a walk around the school or around the perimeter of the gym or the cafeteria for the last 5 minutes of lunchtime everyday. That way, you address your concern about what’s in the lunch bags by encouraging activity to offset it. Sadly, five minutes of activity a day or twenty-five minutes a week may be all the exercise many kids get these days.

Or how about this: offer students a reward for bringing a healthy lunch from home. A healthy lunch five days in a row gets you credit at the school store. Or a “library late fee forgiveness” voucher you can use the next time you have an overdue book. Talk with business in the community and see what you can cobble together for prizes.

Obviously, I don’t have the answers. But making rules - just because you can - is never a good idea. The question is this: What does it profit a man to ban Fritos in a lunch box if the alternative is a plate of chicken nuggets or mozzerella sticks?

And I'm sorry, but the idea of a childhood that is chocolate-milk-free just sounds kind of sad.

I am really, really old. Well, for the past two weeks, anyway.

2011-04-16T11:57:00.004-04:00

Sciatica: pain, tingling, or numbness produced by an irritation of the nerve roots that lead to the sciatic nerve. The sciatic nerve is formed by the nerve roots coming out of the spinal cord into the lower back. Branches of the sciatic nerve extend through the buttocks and down the back of each leg to the ankle and foot.

Note to Sharon: I'm right there with you, sister.

And let me just say: this kind of nonsense isn't getting me any closer to Toronto!! I started limping around two weeks ago, was quite debilitated for several days following that, and finally gave up on even walking on the treadmill about ten days ago. Because not being able to walk and drive everyday isn't an option, I finally saw a doctor and now have a prescription. I feel better after only two days of meds but the bad news is he told me not to run for about two more weeks.

So there it is. A month ticking by, with only a handful of miles on the books to show for it, before I became the non-walking, non-running wounded, with an aching butt (which I didn't even know was possible) and an aching leg. Fabulous.

The last time I felt this kind of pain was around the 11th month of a pregnancy, when I was literally limping around Giant one evening, hanging onto a cart so I didn't fall over. (I'm not a martyr, really. I don't think I would have attempted shopping if I were in pain before entering the store. It kind of came over me quickly and pretty strongly.)

So the good news / bad news here:

The good news: I'm not pregnant.

The bad news is: at least the last time I experienced this, at least I ended up with an adorable baby, or two or three. (I can't remember which pregnancy this was.)

This time, I end up behind - so to speak - on my run to Canada. I may push that 'no running for two weeks' window.....hmmm. Just a mile or two or three. (Looking for any advice here from someone who has dealt with this successfully.)

If not, then onto May and a bit of a 'make up for lost miles' kind of month. Yay.

Despite my recent posts, I still believe in love.

2011-04-13T22:57:00.003-04:00

Husband or Boyfriend: You Make the Call: A Wedding Season quiz for the alert bride-to-be

This quiz is my gift to brides-to-be, about to spend their lives sleeping beside, and putting down the toilet seats of, the men they love. If you don't do very well and find yourself uncomfortable at the end of it, don’t postpone the big day. Just go into it with a little more information than many of your older sisters had when we said, “I do” and ... you're welcome.

Let’s begin.

1. You’re dining with two other couples, including women you've befriended through your job. As you pull into the parking lot, you turn to the man of your dreams and say: “Okay, they're Ken and Dana, Mary and Chris. Right? Remember?” Your companion that night is:

A. your husband

B. your boyfriend

Correct answer: A. Your husband always enjoys these evenings enormously but will barely recall one scrap of information about anyone between occasions. You recite crib notes before every get-together. You: “I worked with Dana and her husband is the engineer? Mary works freelance and her husband is the cop?” [Your husband is concentrating; possibly on the clues, possibly trying to remember who played right field for the Phillies in 1964.] “Anything sound familiar?”

He retrieves a shred of knowledge from his memory, and with a look of satisfaction he declares in triumph: “Chris follows Penn State? And Ken is the cyclist?” Atta boy.

Never correct: B. Your boyfriend knows exactly who they are. Couples don’t categorize friends until they’re about to marry and are drafting guest lists and seating charts and overhearing the inevitable “bride or groom?” question posed by ushers the world over.

Fun fact related to question 1:

As a dating couple, you see friends regularly.

As a married couple, you have his and her friends you see bi-annually, until you have children. Then you see them every leap year.

2. The man who obsesses about the dog’s burned out four-inch-square patch of dead grass on the perimeter of the yard will ignore the twelve inch gouges your son’s football cleats left in the center of the kitchen floor. This keen eye belongs to:

A. your husband

B. your boyfriend

C. the landscaper you paid $7,800 (plus shrubs) to upgrade your property.

Correct answer: A or C. But the landscaper will comment on the damaged linoleum before your husband does.

Never correct: B. Your boyfriend doesn’t know you have a yard.

3. It’s after ten p.m. The man across the room wants a little snack and asks: “Do you have any ice cream?” He is your:

A. husband

B. boyfriend

Correct answer: A or B. This is a trick question, with the latter being slightly more logical but that doesn’t matter. My husband is perennially curious and surprised about the food in our kitchen. Despite the fact that he does more grocery shopping than I, he continues to ask, “Do you have any chips?” “Do you have any cookies?”

It couldn’t have been this way when we all lived in caves and wore animal skins. Did the men ask the women, “Do you have any mastodon?” "Did you save any of those nuts and berries I gathered?"

4. It’s snowing and the roads are treacherous. You’re behind the wheel and your hero has dug out a reasonable path in the snow and ice for the car. He wants you to give it a shot and he straightens up, backs away and calls out: “Now...cut the wheel!” He is your:

A. Husband

B. Boyfriend

C. Tow-truck guy

Answer. All of the above. All men say, “Cut the wheel” and I guarantee you there is not one woman alive who has ever said it. I always make the wrong move, and my husband in his infinite patience will shout over squealing tires, “Stop!” as he shakes his head at my lack of fluency in his language.

5. You stand before family, friends, God and everything you hold sacred, as the man beside you pledges to love and cherish you - cherish you! - for the rest of your life. He is your:

A. Husband.

B. Friend.

C. Confidant.

D. Advocate.

E. Beloved.

Correct Answer: All of the above.

Note to developers: not everything needs a website.

2011-04-11T22:19:00.005-04:00

“Don’t be the last to know.” Ominous, right? “The last to know what?” you may be wondering. It’s a pretty good tagline as those things go.

This is one of those times of kismet where I find something that reminds me of a previous post. A little while ago, I included a reference to an abomination titled AshleyMadison.com in a blogpost and in an effort to be equitable; I offer this cyber-response for your consideration: Cheaterville.com

This is a website that masquerades as a public service but it’s nothing of the kind. It’s a way to identify and humiliate cheaters online and inexplicably, humiliate those being cheated upon at almost exactly the same time.

Say you have a friend and you know her husband is having an affair. This kind of knowledge is never pleasant nor welcome. You want to do the right thing but what is the right thing? You can’t quite convince yourself to tell her because it will be sad, and difficult and risky, but she has a right to know, yes? Let’s read what Cheaterville.com has to say about their purpose and then discuss.

In a world where temptation and lust are facilitated by online media, where does moral accountability fit in? With terms like discreet adultery and cyber affair, how is the truth to be told and where can it be found? Cheaterville was created with one goal in mind, keeping you ahead of the heartache -- even when it hurts. So whether you’re a victim, perpetrator or curious acquaintance, Cheaterville can give you the inside scoop on that special someone before you’re another heartbroken mess writhing in the wake of Ms. Madison or Craig and his lists.

Cheaterville gathers information from a variety of sources using our proprietary advanced search engine algorithm. Our database will show you postings from other Cheaterville members on a specific person and information gathered from the web. If you meet someone and want to know if they are playing it straight, or playing you, Cheaterville will let you know if they are married, have a sordid past, or a crazy ex! If you’re in a relationship and want to make sure your significant other stays on the straight and narrow, Cheaterville can alert you if anything is posted about them – good or bad and free of charge.

Got that? That means you may be off the hook. Instead of confronting the horrible truth face to face, you can send someone a link to Cheaterville and leave them to it.

So we now have a website dedicated to exposing cheaters and measuring our dedication to our relationships. Why not – we have them for everything else. I refused to register for the site because I already get too much spam but I think it works like this:

1. Sign up – for free

2. List specifics about the cheater you want to reveal, including telling the story behind their behavior, posting a picture, and warning others away from the heartbreak that’s surely waiting for them.

You can also search for a cheater by filling in his / her name and location. But even if you don’t have a cheater to report and no one to check on, the site offers some diversions. Read the “Top Cheaterville Posts,” and vote on “Cheater of the Week,” based on the stories posted about their transgressions. The “Post of the Week” carries a $100 prize for the best story about a cheater. Or play “Whack a Cheat” or “Sheen Shoot Out.” (I’m not making this up. I earned 250 points playing “Whack a Cheat.”)

This is America after all so, yes, you can shop on Cheaterville.com. In addition to the T-shirts, mugs, and mouse pads, I found boxer briefs and thongs, a journal and a keepsake box, a gym bag, beach tote and a messenger bag, a stadium blanket, presumably to display at the football game you attend alone, and a Christmas ornament. (A Christmas ornament?)

Aside: I haven’t been on a date to meet someone new in almost thirty years but let me just say this: if I were in a relationship and in an intimate moment, or about to be, I might find myself suddenly distracted and possibly even called away on an emergency if I saw the Cheaterville boxer briefs. Hmmmm. A Cheaterville gym bag in the corner wouldn’t exactly inspire confidence and trust, either.

I’ll give the company this: they built a better mousetrap, or saw a need and filled or even better, created a need and then filled it. They tapped into the power of the web and turned the plot of “The Dilemma” into a website everyone can visit, to post or to check on posts.

The watched something like AshleyMadison.com emerge and succeed in the marketplace and thought: what about the people left behind? Don’t they deserve a site of their own? Where is their justice?

I can't answer that. But here's the bottom line for me. There just isn't much about an adulterous affair, or cheating on your partner that I find entertaining. I don't need to play games or vote on "cheater of the week" to amuse myself.

But I do know we can hop on AshleyMadison.com to look for a date while we’re married or committed and everyone we meet there will understand. We can go on Cheaterville.com to report a cheater (although presumably not someone we met on AM.com) or check on someone’s track record.

It’s easy. It’s the way of the world. And sorry - it’s depressing.

The score is: NFL: up 10% - 20%; WOMEN: 0

2011-04-04T12:00:00.003-04:00

I think we all read and heard much more about Michael Vick and his past criminal behavior than we have about this horrifying NFL-related news.

And if that's the case, shame on us. And if that's not true, well it feels true. Maybe I've missed the outrage, the talking heads, the endless opinion pieces...

Today's Daily Caller column is linked above - please take a look and share it in the name of a woman you love.

Thanks, everyone.

That I can do. So far, anyway.

2011-04-02T11:49:00.004-04:00

I’ve never heard of Mt. Pisgah State Park, nor, Troy, PA.

But it’s the end of March and I’ve logged about 127 miles on my virtual run to Canada. I’m nearly to the border between New York and Pennsylvania, to the east of something called Mt. Pisgah State Park. And since I have no intention of doing all the research that will turn this journey into a travelogue, that’s about all I’m going to say about my current location. (I never promised enlightenment, here. Just a month-by-month account of my year-long attempt at running 450 miles.)

And speaking of 450 miles, turns out Toronto is slightly closer to me than I thought. I had to tack on another 30 miles or so to hit my number so now I’ll end up in “You Never Heard of It,” Canada. It’s just north of “Nothing Listed on the Map,” Canada. That’s awesome.

And how am I feeling? Well, I haven’t yet leaped onto the treadmill in delight and squealed with happiness as I pounded the miles out. I can’t believe that will ever happen, as a matter of fact. The only thing that delights me in a weird way is that I haven’t given up – yet. I’ve done my first three months and it’s been almost a year since I started using our treadmill a few times a week.

And if we get to a more micro level about this, I’ve very rarely ever given up on running a 5k, either. My rationale: If I’ve done a mile, I can do two. If I’ve done two, I can do three, for God’s sake. And if I do three, I can certainly remain upright for another tenth of a mile, yes? That’s what I tell myself anyway.

Here’s how my mind works – and what I discussed with my husband and a younger co-worker the other day. I relate almost anything uncomfortable, challenging, or exhausting to having a baby. It’s kind of cliché but hear me out, please.

My friend Molly shared this bit of wisdom with me when we were both pregnant twenty-one years ago: every labor pain you have is one less you have to have before the baby arrives. It’s come and gone and you never have to have that particular one again: it’s on the record and you’re onto the next. And one of them will ultimately be the very last one you have before you’re holding your baby.

So somewhere out there in the universe, even when labor ends in a Cesarean delivery, there is an unknown, finite number of contractions and pushes you have to do, and then you get your baby. And the better news is that you have to do only one at a time. As someone said in Chorus Line, “That I can do!”

I feel like that while I’m running. Run another quarter mile, another half mile and you never have to run that one again. It’s on the record. It’s not entirely comfortable all of the time and more than anything, you just want to get to the end but you can do anything for a little while, right? And you’re that much closer to your 450.

So – after the month of March, I am that much closer. I have 127 miles on the record; another 323 to go. Which is about 35.88 miles a month for the rest of the year. Which is about 8.97 miles a week. Which is about 2.24 miles four times a week.

That I can do.

This is just so dumb. Who's with me on this?

2011-03-30T19:37:00.004-04:00

I read this today on my favorite daily newsletter, Levine Breaking News, and wondered: is this as obviously stupid, misguided, blind and ill-advised as I think it is or is it me? Read on:

DEADLY WHALE TO RESUME: Tilikum, the killer whale who killed his trainer at Sea World last year, will resume public performances on Wednesday. Trainers, however, will not work directly in the water with the whale: They will massage him with hoses instead of their hands. Sea World is also installing fast-rising floors on the bottom of its killer-whale tanks, which will be capable of lifting the whales and their trainers to the surface in less than a minute. Tilikum had been involved with two other deaths before last year’s incident.

These are the words and phrases that troubled me just a little bit:

"...killed his trainer at Sea World last year..."

"...resume public performances..."

"...to the surface in less than a minute..."

and this one - my favorite:

"...involved with two other deaths before last year's incident..."

Who decided this was good idea? This is an animal that was "involved" in three deaths, the most recent taking place one year ago.

Sea World is taking the obvious precautions here: trainers no longer actually touching the whale is one of them. The other is installing some kind of hydraulic lift that will bring both trainer and whale to the surface in "less than a minute."

I think that's super. As long as it takes much longer than one minute for a killer whale to kill the human being thrashing alongside him under the surface.

For God's sake. Who is already anticipating this news story:

"Tilikum, the killer whale who killed his trainer at Sea World two years ago before resuming his performances under more stringent training and performance rules has once again been 'retired' for killing his trainer. Tilikum had been involved with two, make that three, other deaths before this latest incident."

Don't you wonder if Tilikum is thinking:

"For the love of Pete, what do I have to do before you numbskulls figure out I hate performing and I'm going to probably kill someone out of frustration from time to time? You're putting me back in that tank? At your peril, I'm warning you."

I have a suggestion: Retire Tilikum. End any human contact and training he now endures, and let him live the rest of his days on his own, without hearing the (muffled underwater) roar of the crowd.

It's either that or get those trainers whale-proof, waterproof chain mail suits that will last through at least one minute of a killer whale gnawing on it as you both race to the surface on a hydraulic lift.

Well, that and possibly some new management at Sea World.

This is your basic 'one step up, two steps back' scenario.

2011-03-29T20:51:00.006-04:00

In these challenging times, we need to find our bright spots wherever we can. For me, one of those bright spots came when I read the revenue numbers for the new Owen Wilson film, Hall Pass. (Disclosure: I haven’t seen it. This is one of those ‘wait for it and if you come across it on TV while you’re on the treadmill one night it may be watchable’ movies.) The reason for my delight was this: after six weeks in release, as of March 25 it had earned about $42 million at the box office.

Don’t get me wrong. That’s not completely terrible. I adore Owen Wilson and have enjoyed many romantic comedies for men, like Wedding Crashers, Forgetting Sarah Marshall and Failure to Launch. They’re hilarious. But the diminishing return on this particular movie tells a story. More than half of the revenues earned on Hall Pass came during the first two weekends of release. That’s not uncommon but a great movie builds its box office and opens in even more theaters before running its course in first run houses.

Take Wedding Crashers. Released in July, 2005, it earned more than $200 million at the box office. It started strong, with $10 + million in sales on July 15. On August 15, it took in another $1.5 million. On September 17, it earned another $1.2 million. Hall Pass took just one month to fall from a high of $4.6 million to $514,000 on March 25. I’m pretty sure it won’t be showing in many places a month from now.

What does this tell us? Perhaps that as movie-going public, we’re more discerning than we think. That a mostly charming but dated “we’re having an affair” movie like Same Time, Next Year holds some appeal as we secretly cheer for the happy albeit adulterous couple; but a ‘free week granted to husbands to be single and score chicks’ movie doesn’t quite give us the same warm fuzzies.

Then again, it may tell us that women choose which film to see every weekend and that few of us are anxious to pay to see the ‘I’ve allowed my husband to act like a skank’ shenanigans found in Hall Pass.

But not everything is rosy these days. To balance out my contentment about our collective good sense, I offer the tagline I heard on an Ashley Madison.com commercial recently. (AM.com is a dating website designed specifically for people who are married or otherwise in committed relationships…but want to meet someone new. The whole premise makes little sense to me but let’s table that for now.) Here’s the closing line of their radio commercial: If you’re not cheating, you just might be cheating yourself.

Let’s take a look at that again, shall we? “If you’re not cheating, you just might be cheating yourself.” In other words: don’t be pathetic and cheat yourself out of the opportunity to find your one (untrue) love! Or your second or third untrue love as a matter of fact. Why remain committed to a spouse or partner if you’re bored or feeling sad or lonely or unloved? Meet the other half of your (lying) self on AM.com! And don’t worry: your new partner is just as slimy, just as deceitful, just as delusional as you are.

Here’s the thing. Marriages break up. People sometimes have affairs and leave a spouse behind as a result. I’m apparently stuck in the twentieth century because I thought an affair begins because two people meet, finds they share many things in common, spend time together and then choose to act on their mutual attraction. One or both of them risk a relationship/marriage because the allure of that new found partner is simply too much to resist.

It happens - and it makes me sad for everyone involved.

What I don’t get is why anyone would seek out an affair on AM.com and somehow feel superior about it. People who apparently have no problem identifying themselves as liars sign up “looking for same” online. That doesn’t make them honest liars, does it? Is it simply that everyone has something to lose and therefore the site offers a kind of ‘honor among thieves’ flavor to the whole thing?

I’ll go on record here and admit to the following: I’m not cheating and no, I don’t feel like I’m cheating myself. I go you one better and say I’m a two-time winner. After all, I didn’t pay to see Hall Pass and I don’t pay a membership fee to Ashley Madison.com.

The good news is: I don't believe in dreams.

2011-03-25T23:11:00.003-04:00

Okay. I don’t know anything about dream interpretation and the truth is I don’t even believe in dream interpretation. But as I woke up this morning, I had a very, very clear impression of the dream I just had. Listening to people recount dreams is usually deadly but please bear with me:

I was behind the wheel of my car, with a co-worker in the passenger seat. She had just taken a new job and we were catching up on news. As we talked, I put my foot on the gas pedal but instead of pulling forward, the car unexpectedly moved in reverse. I stopped and checked the gearshift but it was correct: the car was in ‘drive.’ Tried again, but moved backwards again.

Then I lost even more control: the car just kept moving in reverse. I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to, nor could I see behind me for some reason. The side mirror revealed only about two or three feet and beyond that: absolute darkness. I don’t remember seeing or checking an inside rear view mirror.

So to recap: I’m not in control, heading backwards, into darkness, accompanied by someone who had moved on, into a new job and new place. I’m fearful of the danger; my passenger is terrified; and I can’t stop.

Then – miraculously – I was able to slow the car down somehow, stop and then begin to move forward. But even that was scary because for some reason, I maneuvered the car to the top of an enormous, steep staircase that would accommodate the width of the car. I turned to my passenger to ask if she was ready.

For God‘s sake. Am I that troubled? Even leaving aside the ‘Thelma and Louise-ness’ of it all, this is disturbing. I’m going backwards? In the dark? And even when I finally get to move forward, I place myself in a dangerous situation?

And why the passenger? To act as a ray of light, personifying the idea that it’s possible to move forward; that life can change in a good way?

Like anyone over the age of four, I Googled dream interpretation and driving. Believe me, you don’t want to know but here are a few highlights from the passage that discusses driving:

…driving a vehicle signifies your life's journey and your path in life…telling of how you are moving and navigating through life. If you are driving and cannot see the road ahead of you, then it indicates that you do not know where you are headed in life and what you really want to do with yourself. You are lacking direction and goals.

…driving at night suggests that you are unsure of where you are headed in life….experiencing obstacles toward your goals. Perhaps you do not want to see what is ahead for you or you are afraid to confront certain issues….feeling apprehensive about the future. If your view is blocked or obstructed while you are driving, then it symbolizes your lacking awareness of something in your life….overlooking certain aspects in your life.

To dream that you are driving a car in reverse, suggests that you are experiencing major setbacks in your goals.

Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln…..

Three words to describe the dream and the dreamer: Directionless, lost, fearful. And even worse, even if I have goals, I’m “experiencing setbacks.”

But since I don’t believe in dreams, I guess I’m okay.

Insomnia, anyone? It can’t feel worse than having this dream again.

Greetings from beautiful Clarks Summit, PA

2011-03-05T09:15:00.004-05:00

And the annual virtual run to Toronto continues....For anyone keeping track, at the end of two months, I’ve run just over 80 miles.

That puts me in lovely Clarks Summit, Pa, which I have actually visited in my lifetime. That trip is a little vague now – an increasing circumstance as I grow up – but more than 20 twenty years ago, I think I had a client there and went on a business call to visit them. I don’t remember what their business was (it had something to do with woodworking) or who was more stunned; me – that I had driven to such a teeny little town to see them; or them – that I had driven to such a teeny little town to see them.

My regular disclaimer about the running and my goal this year applies: to anyone who does a quick and easy 20 miles or more a week, this total represents little more than baby steps. I acknowledge that and salute your fitness and commitment. But this past month was a bit more challenging than I imagined: It was about 17 degrees outside and our treadmill at home was out of commission for pretty much the entire month. The guy from Sears came to assess the damage one Saturday and spent 30 minutes confirming what we knew when we called: it was broken. It took another week for parts and another two weeks before he was back to fix it.

I was not long deterred. I have the very good fortune to work at a company with a fully appointed fitness center available to employees and that fact was never more welcome than this past month. Despite many (many) years of absence, I was welcomed back like the prodigal daughter. (One of the T-shirts I wore one evening brought back memories for the fitness center director. We determined it was vintage 1997 or ‘98.) Bottom line: I hopped on a treadmill after work a few nights a week and on Saturday mornings to keep my commitment to the Toronto run throughout the month.

I’ve learned the following: very, very rarely do I feel entirely fabulous throughout the entire run. There is inevitably a moment – or several – where I say: Stop. Just stop. That’s it.

Or this: Really? All that effort and it’s only been 9 minutes! Twenty-one more to go? I’m doomed.

Or this: You really don’t have another 1.7 miles in you today. You really don’t. It’s been a rough day. Quit now and call it a run.

I also learned this: when you run on a treadmill with a past winner of the Boston marathon running on the one beside you, you feel like you’re running underwater and he has wings on his heels. (He’s a delightful person – this was all my perception, I assure you.)

Thing is: I didn’t ever quit a run. I suspect the next lesson had something to do with it.

I learned this: TV is good but music is better. I am perfectly content to wander into our basement a few times a week and settle in for a 5K with Jack and Abby and Adam as my witnesses. And tell myself things like this: during the commercial, you’ll sprint and then back off again during the show. Or during the summation to the jury you can run another ½ mile an hour faster.

Basement bonus: at the end of every run, I throw darts. Only one round, one after the other, without a ton of technique. Correction: with no technique at all. I’ve hit the bulls-eye once, although not dead center. But I’m getting better.

When I ran to music over the past month, I found the song-size components that made up the distance the perfect way to mix up the pace. And even at the end of the run – even when I was well past 3 miles (I know. Unbelieveable, right?) – a really energetic song would create a burst of energy.

Music bonus: I listened to my boys sing. How does it get better than that? Encouraging words from my sons while I ran awkwardly and with little grace a few nights a week. Throw in a little Treme soundtrack, a little Godspell, some U2, Bruce, Stones and La Boheme. And there it is: another day, another 5K done on the record.

Onto March.

"We're gonna need a bigger table."

2011-02-10T20:00:00.007-05:00

I'm weary of this topic that gets resurrected every couple of years, possibly with every new Congress come to think of it.

The webs that government weaves never cease to confound me, this among them. I suppose this was some kind of quid pro quo: keep the drinking age at 21 and we won't impose any additional fees on your highway system. Then again, I don't think the government is half as confusing as the brain trust behind the Amethyst Initiative.

Attached is a link to my Daily Caller column. Would love to hear what you think.

PS If you haven't been to the blog for a while, I hope you'll settle in and look around for a bit. Thanks for visiting.

Neither pure, nor wise, nor good. But I'm trying.

2011-02-06T20:35:00.005-05:00

One of the simplest joys in my life takes place once a week, on Sunday mornings, at my kitchen table: while I read the papers and drink coffee, I listen to a Sunday morning concert, featuring my three sons. Because they have been singers and have belonged to a number of ensembles and choruses over the past eight years, we’ve collected many hours of gorgeous choral music concerts. And because they have been among the soloists featured in those groups from time to time, I’m able to lose myself for a few minutes in one of their lovely tenor voices as I relive a particular performance.

I was jolted into present day this morning as I listened. Maybe because it’s February and maybe because we’re coming up on Valentine’s Day, I lingered over one particular song this morning. It was the gorgeous melody and lyrics of “Make Our Garden Grow,” the finale of Candide, a musical by Leonard Bernstein, Richard Wilbur and Stephen Sondheim. Confession: Shortly after I outgrew the “everyone gets a card from everyone else” boxes found in my grade school classrooms each year, Valentine’s Day became one of my least favorite days of the year. An annual forced moment to celebrate love – even if it occurs during years of blissful romance - has never felt right to me.

The question I find myself contemplating this year is how Voltaire (and Bernstein, Wilbur and Sondheim), got it so right yet could be so confounding. And how they were able to pose the day-to-day situation that surrounds love and life so poetically. In “Make Our Garden Grow,” we hear Candide and Cunegonde share their thoughts about the future, and how they can build it together. Here are the lyrics.

CANDIDE: You've been a fool and so have I, but come and be my wife.
And let us try, before we die, to make some sense of life.
We're neither pure, nor wise, nor good
We'll do the best we know.
We'll build our house and chop our wood
And make our garden grow...and make our garden grow.

CUNEGONDE: I thought the world was sugar cake for so our master said.
But, now I'll teach my hands to bake our loaf of daily bread.

CANDIDE AND CUNEGONDE: We're neither pure, nor wise, nor good
We'll do the best we know.
We'll build our house and chop our wood
And make our garden grow...and make our garden grow.

CANDIDE, CUNEGONDE, MAXIMILLIAN, PAQUETTE, OLD LADY, DR. PANGLOSS
Let dreamers dream what worlds they please
Those Edens can't be found.
The sweetest flowers, the fairest trees are grown in solid ground.

ENSEMBLE (a cappella)
We're neither pure, nor wise, nor good
We'll do the best we know.
We'll build our house and chop our wood
And make our garden grow.
And make our garden grow!

The idea of doing “the best we know” is what intrigues me. We may all sincerely pledge to do this and that’s terrific. But what if the best we know isn’t enough? What makes one couple endure and another move apart, even when they may face identical circumstances? Maybe one couple knows more than the other.

I think a wedding or a public commitment to each other is the one particular point in time when a couple pledges, before they die, to make some sense of life. If you think about it, all the ballads aside, people build a life together in an effort to do exactly that: to make some sense of life, and prop each other up while they do.

But here’s the thing: sometimes life doesn’t make a lot of sense, even when it should. You do everything “right,” you follow the “rules,” and still, you find yourself wondering where and how you stepped off (or were pushed off) the “sensible” path somewhere along the line and are baffled by the situations you face and what to do next.

Maybe that’s precisely where the pledge to do ‘the best you know’ kicks in. It could be that sometimes the only thing you can agree on is that life makes little sense – but you hang on together and try to figure it out. Maybe you decide to do the best you know…for as long as you can.

On balance, though, I suppose it’s a good thing when the initial excitement of a relationship wanes and daily life emerges to take its place. I suppose that when a couple realizes that the world isn’t only a sugar cake; when they realize it takes work every day to make a life together, a life that’s about as exotic and fanciful as a loaf of bread, they’ve embraced a realistic view of their future.

The pragmatic, practical side of my nature relates strongly to this message. Does that make me cold? After all, almost anyone would agree that dreams and fantasies do not a strong foundation make. Solid ground gives everything a better start, right?

Hmmm. I’m not sure about that, anymore. Solid implies something that’s trustworthy, reliable and safe. But maybe “solid ground” is over-rated. Maybe it’s just way to label something that’s little more than a rigid, unmoving, cold, hard surface. Maybe the sweetest flowers (and children? And marriages?) come from the softest, most pliable soil instead.

What does that mean about the rest of the lyrics? If dreamers dream “what worlds they please,” can they really not be found?

Despite everything I just wrote above, the part of me that’s relentlessly romantic hopes they can be. Because when I choose sentiment over logic, I don’t want to live without imagining the worlds we please. How bleak an outlook we might have without the dreamers among us, willing to share their hope.

Tiger moms aside, we encourage dreams in our children; we used to nurture them in ourselves, too. Dreams of a life, a marriage, a partnership that would make our gardens grow. I think as we grow older, we tuck our own dreams further and further away. We get too busy: building a house and chopping wood and not spending much time at all on “what worlds we please.” I also think that the difference between people who pursue their dreams and people who don’t is that the first group never quite tucks them completely out of sight. Maybe they evolve, maybe they get re-imagined as the years pass and circumstances change but they never really lose sight of them.

I may have overlooked the most important phrase of the lyrics. “We’re neither pure, nor wise, nor good.” Thank God. I’m thrilled to accept that description, and by extension, that definition of some of the decisions I’ve made in life. Sometimes – sure. I suppose there may have been moments during my life when any one of those words could be ascribed to something I said or did. Few and far between no doubt but even very occasionally, I’ll take it. But as a rule, when it comes to the big things: no, sorry. There are simply too many variables in just about any choice I made that make the answer complicated.

The trouble is that sometimes the right choice at twenty isn’t the right choice at thirty-five. Or the right one at 35 no longer works at 52. What does that imply about me? Selfishness? Egocentricity? That everything is relative; that decisions are pragmatic at best and should never be considered final?

I don’t know.

I’m over-thinking again, I get it. Maybe the lyrics will save me from myself and my confusion about just about everything these days if I let them. Maybe the best that can be said is that no matter the outcome, no matter how it’s perceived, no matter how it feels or looks or appears to be, the simple truth of life is that we try to do the best we know. And make our garden grow.

The little runner who could. Or couldn't. We'll find out soon enough.

2011-01-31T21:08:00.006-05:00

Okay. That’s 37.1 down; 413.9 to go.

Almost inexplicably, I’ve become a runner. Let me rephrase that: I'm not a “real” runner because I log nearly all my miles on a treadmill, and I’ve never run a road race, and I’ve never considered myself even remotely athletic. Ask anyone who knows me: I’m not. Not by the longest shot.

But last year, I started worrying about my health. I weighed more than I ever had without being pregnant – maybe even without being pregnant. (I never put on more than twenty pounds or so with my pregnancies, even when I was carrying twins.) I worried about my sugar and my blood pressure. This was no good and just because I was getting older, I didn’t have to get fatter, did I? If I kept going at this rate, I’d be ten pounds heavier every ten years. No thanks.

So last spring, I started a diet. I’ve been on it ever since and have lost about thirty pounds. (I can't believe I had to lose thirty pounds but I did. That's what happens when you tell yourself things like, "I just need to lose maybe 10 or 12 pounds." Except you really need to lose much, much more.) Not to say I don’t indulge once in a while in truly decadent food but much more often, I consider and am aware of what I eat.

Last spring, I also started walking on our treadmill, and then walking and running a tiny bit, and then running slowly for a little tiny bit of time and then running faster and longer. And now I’m running a 5k a few times a week in under thirty minutes.

That’s not amazing or anything – I get that - but for someone like me, it’s very nearly miraculous. Who knew? If you’re someone who has been running for twenty years, you’re thinking a combination of “this is barely worth noting,” and “what took you so long?”

You're right but even with my very delayed start, I like the energy it seems to give me. I even like challenge it still presents every single time I get started. I like that I’ve been able to pull some of my favorite clothing out of my closet, clothing that I tell myself I've been “resting” for a couple of years.

It’s never easy but it is satisfying on some level. I sometimes have a few days go by and worry that this is the beginning of the end and I won’t run another step for months. That hasn’t happened in the past eight months but still, it could. It might. It really might.

But I have few illusions about this. I don’t ever expect to run a race of any kind because that’s not what running is about for me. It’s about blood pressure and cholesterol and being grateful for the healthy body I’ve been given.

Here’s how I’ve been able to keep going. Even when I really want to quit, I break my time down into tiny bits and convince myself to stick with it. “My God, you can do anything for another two minutes, can’t you?” “Okay, another 8/10th’s of a mile. You can do 8/10th’s of a mile, right?” “You’ve run for 26 minutes. Four more? Four more? I think so….” And it seems to keep me going.

But even that gets tedious. So when the new year started, I thought about what could possibly keep me going all year. What could I track in a bigger way to keep me slogging through, week after week?

I decided to run to Toronto, on paper anyway. That means over the course of the year, I’ll need to run 450 miles. Or, since I’m nothing if not anal about numbers, that means I need to cover 37.5 miles a month. And as you could see at the start of this post, I’m not too far off my mark.

The bad news is we’ve done something that has to be almost unprecedented in our home. We’ve owned two treadmills in the past twenty-five years or so and after years of on and off use, we wore out the first one. Over the weekend, we wore out the second. It's under warranty and we're getting it fixed but who could imagine that? How often does Sears get a call to fix a treadmill, much less two calls from the same household?

So I need to get my miles in elsewhere. Not impossible but not nearly as easy as wandering into my basement a couple of nights a week. Especially when it’s a pretty miserable winter. When it’s not snowing or sleeting outside, it’s seven degrees. That’s super.

Maybe this little note to myself – and you - will help keep me on track. Maybe not. Maybe I’ll get as far as the greater Scranton area and find myself figuratively hanging around there for months on end as I lounge on the sofa. Or I’ll get in a good hundred miles, take a break, and still have 345 miles to go on November 30. For now, I’m looking at the next month, and another 37.5 miles.

Which is about 9.4 miles a week.

Or about 1.34 miles a day.

Or 2.34 miles, four times a week.

I can do that, right? For another 48 weeks or so?

I guess we’ll find out.

Love: It might not be all you need, but it’s almost all you need.

2011-01-23T19:45:00.005-05:00

Amy Chua has ruffled a lot of maternal feathers over the last few weeks. She is a Yale Law School Professor and author of Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, a book that chronicles her experience as a mother of two daughters. Her twist? Her Chinese heritage and how it had an impact on the choices she made as she raised her children.

Without belaboring this, she tells story after story about how the Chinese perspective on raising children differs from that of the “Western” moms and dads. If you haven’t seen her interviews or read any articles, here are a couple of quick statistics and a few excerpts to give you a flavor of her view:

Almost 70% of Western mothers said either that “stressing academic success is not good for children” or that “parents need to foster the idea that learning is fun.”

0% of Chinese mothers agreed.

Most Chinese mothers believe their children can be “the best” students.

They believe “academic achievement reflects successful parenting.”

They believe unsuccessful students were the offspring of parents who “were not doing their job.”

Chinese parents spend about 10 times as long as Western parents drilling their children on academics.

There’s plenty more but that’s enough to tell you that Chua takes an approach that assumes a couple of things raising children:

Instead of focusing on and worrying about a child’s self-esteem and fragile ego, she claims that Chinese parents “assume strength, not fragility” in their children and “as a result, they behave differently.”

She believes her children owe her everything. She’s done her part at making them a success; they must spend the rest of their lives acknowledging that and “repaying their parents by obeying them and making them proud.”

Chinese parents like Chua believe that “they know what is best for their children and therefore override all of their children’s own desires and preferences.”

I have no idea if she’s onto something here or if she’s a nut job who has browbeaten her daughters into submission on the road to her definition of “success” and quelled any dreams they may have had that didn’t quite mesh with her idea of what is valuable. Among those ideas: earning a grade lower than an A [ever, in any subject], being the number one student in every subject other than gym and drama, learning only piano and violin [no other instrument, ever], not being part of the school play and watching no television and playing no video games. Ever. Many typical childhood activities seem pointless and intrusive in Chua’s view, sleepovers, camp, and play dates among them.

Look, the village that many claim it takes to raise children notwithstanding, every parent on the planet has at least some autonomy when it comes to their children. We’re all, hmmmm, quirky and crazy in all kinds of ways and all of us come up with some strange ideas along the way as our children arrive and make us into instant parents. With little more to go on than instinct, the endless and well-meaning advice from people I mostly ignored, and a combination of Drs. Brazelton (since dismissed) and Spock (less so), and a dose of Rosemond good sense plus Quindlin pragmatism and brilliance, I tried my best to help the boys go through challenging life stages and then move onto young adulthood.

I might not agree with Chua and so what? I’m not raising her children and she’s not raising mine. And absolutely, I think she’s extreme and possibly borderline abusive but I don’t have her heritage. I didn’t grow up with parents who very likely modeled that kind of “practice, practice, practice, practice, practice until you attain excellence” behavior for her.

She admits to calling her daughter “garbage” as a result of her disrespectful behavior. She claims bad academic news [which is the rarest of occasions] would be met with “a screaming, hair-tearing explosion.” The Chinese solution to sub-standard performance “is always to excoriate, punish and shame the child.” When her daughter, Lulu (age 7), was unable to learn a piano piece, she drilled her relentlessly, threatened to give away toys, and then threatened “no lunch, no dinner, no Christmas or Hanukkah presents, no birthday parties for two, three, four years” and told her to stop being “lazy, cowardly, self-indulgent and pathetic.” (Surprise! Lulu learned the piece perfectly. Quite a victory, yes? And well worth the effort to perform perfectly at a children’s piano recital, right?)

But here’s the thing: in one way, and one way only, I envy Chua. I envy her certainty. If nothing else, she has complete confidence in her choices as a mother. She doesn’t appear to have spent so much as half a minute wondering if her choices are correct, or healthy, or harmful or bats- -t crazy.

While I don’t agree with her, the idea of being so secure, so absolute about the choices you make with your children and how you ultimately raise them appeals to me on some level.

Maybe this is erupting in me because my oldest child just turned twenty-one. By almost all standards, and certainly in the Western world, he is an adult. And as we drove to Philadelphia to take him out for dinner and celebrate his landmark birthday, I kept thinking: how did this happen? How did he get to be 21? What did I forget to do, to tell him, to teach him, to warn him about? (What didn’t I forget, more likely.) What did I do too often, to seldom? What did I do very, very badly?

I’m certain Chua has never had a moment like this. I’m also certain she’d consider me a slacker beyond all hope and label my children “failures.”

And this is where I have my absolute certainty. That would be exactly where she is entirely wrong. I’ll readily admit to breaking many of her “rules” for raising “successful” kids. And in exchange for that choice, I had experiences with my sons that I wouldn’t trade for a lifetime high honor rolls, perfect recitals and valedictory speeches. Experiences I’ll remember until the day I die because they are just that amazing; just that loving; just that – shall I say it? – perfect.

Somehow, when I look at it that way, even with my questions unanswered and still troubling, and when on a very bad day, the moments of ‘growing up’ sadness and discomfort loom large in my memory, I’m not longer unsure about what a “successful” parent is.

Amazing where just three miles will take you.

2011-01-15T12:55:00.007-05:00

In the spirit of “who would have expected THAT could happen?” I give you the following observation, that occurred to me, as most interesting ideas do, while I was logging in my 3 miles this morning on the treadmill.

The always watchable Groundhog Day was on a channel that appears to be the "All Groundhog Day Almost All of the Time Channel" and I stopped on it for a while. It was the party scene, where Phil Conners bestows a wedding gift on the newlyweds, Fred and Debbie Kaiser: tickets to Wrestlemania. They are overjoyed and thank Phil for keeping them together even though Debbie had expressed some doubts about the wedding.

As I hit the 1.2 mile mark and flipped though channels, I skipped the MAX channels since we don’t subscribe to that service. I noticed the always compelling Revolutionary Road was playing at some point today, and thought about one of the most interesting characters in it: John Givings. That guy was crazier than a fruit bat (thank you, Urban Dictionary) but you couldn't take your eyes off him during his brief, memorable scenes.

Which started me thinking about Boardwalk Empire, the biggest series HBO has introduced in years. Packed with characters we can’t decide whether we love or despise, Federal Agent Nelson Van Alden may well be crazier than a fish with t--s. (I LOVE U.D.!) He’s disturbing in so many ways and yet you have to feel compassion for him. At least I do.

Anyway, getting back to the subject at hand: who would have expected that Fred Kaiser would one day become Nelson Van Alden? Michael Shannon, playing a very minor role in 1993 in Groundhog Day, built a career, as many actors do, year after year, in theater after theater, in film after film, and nearly twenty years after his first Internet Movie Database credit, stars in one of cable television’s marquee shows of the season.

2. something miles ....

Which brings me to this, really. It’s a new year. Every January I kind of get into this “measurement” frame of mind and wonder if I’ve reached the place I imagined I would a year earlier; how many opportunities I may have missed over the past twelve months. How many I took that came my way. What brought me some joy; what didn't. As my lovely, brilliant friend Cindy asks: what to take with me and what to leave behind?

I used to take comfort in the fact that my zodiac sign indicated that I would achieve success “later in life” – but I’m getting there so hurry up already! - although now I can’t even count on that anymore since apparently I have a new sign. For God’s sake: if you can’t count on your astrological sign to help frame your life, what can you count on??! [Kidding – I have no interest in nor do I follow astrology.]

From there, I leap to a “what is success?” question and try to remind myself that in so many ways my life is blessed. So many ways.

So okay – I don’t have a syndication deal. I have – on a very good day – about one thousand people reading this blog and a bunch of people sharing columns through Facebook or email. I'm sincerely and deeply grateful for every bit of it and encouraged to continue doing whatever this is. Many of the people who contact me are lovely folks who take a moment to write to tell me how ill-informed, miserable and misogynistic I am. I prefer to think of myself as incrankulous (feeling incredulity and cranky simultaneously.)

Others are much more straightforward: "You're an idiot." Still others are kind and help me believe I’m not the last person on earth who looks askance at the world around us and wonders what the ---- happened.

The instant gratification that’s now standard has killed the work ethic - and the excellence - that used to be required for success. It takes a You Tube moment to get you a voice over deal for your golden voice. It apparently takes a national campaign for the second highest political office on this country to get your own travel show on a cable channel. It takes an MTV show about young people living at the shore to get you a book deal and allow you to create your “brand.” It takes a Twitter feed to share your father’s ideas on a regular basis to publish a book of them and develop a television show.

Here’s the thing. I’m not saying these people shouldn’t have “worked it” and come out of their fifteen minutes with the deals they have. I don’t support them but others do and whatever. I won’t buy Snookie’s book but she’ll sell plenty without my twenty bucks. I don’t watch Sarah Palin’s Alaska but plenty of people do. God bless.

But I am troubled by this: work hard, do it by the rules, try your best, strive for excellence, keep honing your skills, put yourself out there regularly in front of the right people, make connections, keep building your portfolio – that’s all so retro, isn’t it? So pointless. I have a feeling every single one of these ideas is going to make its way out of our lexicon.

I think about the voiceover / broadcasting professional who didn’t get the job because Ted Williams did. ( I appreciate that Williams turned his life around and respect that enormously. Achieving sobriety is awe-inspiring to me. I'm just wondering why, in his 2 + years of sobriety - he wasn't applying for jobs, and possibly working at a small station to start to rebuild his career. Why stand at the roadside hoping for a break? I guess that's another way to go with the job search.)

I think about the travel journalists who have educated themselves about the wilderness but don't even get an interview when Discovery produces a show about Alaska and needs a host.

I despair for the writer who has a fabulous manuscript languishing in an editor’s office because she doesn’t have a national cable show to back it up. For the hilarious writer who can’t get an appointment with an agent because he has only 10,000 Twitter followers.

And then there is someone like Susan Boyle. Like the others, she came out of nowhere and is now an international sensation but I give her this: at least she pursued her dream, albeit through a television talent show. The truth is, she knew she would never achieve success taking a conventional route. She was too old, too fat and too dowdy. She took a chance, and put herself out there in front of one of the more ruthless judges on the planet, and that’s what sets her apart for me.

But if You Tube, unsuccessful political campaigns, Twitter feeds and cable television are singularly shaping our national conversation and serving as the threshold for our culture, for our entertainment, and for our enlightenment, we’ve set the bar very low indeed. I get it: The people who produce the books and shows and commercials want success - NOW - and they're going to make the deals that get them headlines and money or, ideally, both. Calling them "risk averse" is putting it too mildly.

Honestly, is it me this time? Am I the only one who feels this way???

God knows. But all this to say: I salute Michael Shannon on his career and the long build that has resulted in his "overnight" success. I thank him for reminding me that hard work, tenacity, and talent sometimes – just sometimes – trump hype and headlines.

And that’ll do it. 3.1 miles.

Why skilled translators – and a good copyeditor – are worth the money.

2011-01-08T12:14:00.006-05:00

Clarifying note: I left my new book at home, and had already read the magazines I bought in the terminal, and done some work on my laptop. Hence, the following:

I know I shouldn’t admit this but I RARELY read advertorials in magazines. You know, those pages designed to look like articles that are really ads. I say rarely because once in a while I am interested – at least somewhat – in the content but they always look like a “cheat” to me and somehow less worthy of my attention.

However, they often do contain reasonable, useful information for the right reader. Who am I to judge? In an effort to broaden my horizons and stop being so rigid, I read one on my flight last week, in the same issue I read in December. (Note to Continental: refresh your magazines!!)

It was enlightening. Turns out, I’ve been missing out on a lot of entertaining reading by skipping these pages. I offer the following excerpts for your reading pleasure, all punctuation and sentence (?) construction intact from the printed page:

Modern medical science now regards aging as a disease that is treatable and preventable and that “aging” , the disease, is actually acompilation of various diseases and pathologies, from everything, like a rise in blood glucose and pressure to diabetes, skin wrinkling and so on.

Review your comma splice rules and try this:

The next big breakthrough was to come in 1997 when a group of doctors and scientists, developed an all-natural source product which would cause your own natural HGH to be released again and do all the remarkable things it did for you in your 20’s. Now available to every adult for about the price of a coffee and donut a day.

Or this:

GHR is truly a revolutionary paradigm shift in medicine, and, like any modern leap frog advance, many others will be left in the dust holding their limited, or useless drugs and remedies.

Or this! I'm so sorry.

It is now thought that HGH is so comprehensive in its healing and regenerative powers that it is today, where the computer industry was twenty years ago, that it will displace so many prescription and non-prescription drugs and health remedies that it is staggering to think of.

Finally, my favorite passage (italics my own): It scares you! It scolds the government! It makes a compelling offer! Offers a case study! It's ridiculous!

If you want to stay on top of your game, physically and mentally as you age, this product is a boon, especially for the highly skilled professionals who have made large investments in their education, and experience. Also with the failure of Congress to honor our seniors with pharmaceutical coverage policy, it’s more important than ever to take pro-active steps to safeguard your health. Continued use of GHR will make a radical difference in your health, HGH is particularly helpful to the elderly, who, given a choice, would rather stay independent in their home, strong, healthy and alert enough to manage their own affairs, exercise and stay involved in their communities. Frank, age 85, walks two miles a day, plays golf, belongs to a dance club for seniors, had a girlfriend again and doesn’t need Viagra, passed his drivers test and is hardly ever home when we call – GHR delivers.

“..had a girlfriend again?” Had her? Is she gone? Did she not take HGH or GHR?

Okay, okay, okay. I know. I’m being very hard on the “reverse aging miracle” that is found in HGH or GHR or whatever they’re calling it. I am overlooking the “doctor recommended,” “all natural formula” being offered by Global Health Products. Who am I to judge? After all, it claims it can relieve symptoms of Asthma, Angina, Chronic Fatigue, Constipation, Lower back pain and Sciatica, Cataracts and Macular Degeneration, Menopause, Fibromyalgia, Regular and Diabetic Neuropathy, Hepatitis, helps Kidney Dialysis and Heart and Stroke recovery. It also reverses baldness and color restored. Improves sleep and emotional stability. Heightens five senses awareness. Increases skin thickness. What doesn’t it do????

It’s finally available to me: “..just in time for the aging Baby Boomers and everyone else from age 30 to 90 who doesn’t want to age rapidly but rather stay young, beautiful and healthy all of the time.”

“All of the time.” I ask you: if you’ve made it to age 90, do you want to stop aging rapidly? Do you want instead to stay young and beautiful ‘all of the time?’ And if you’re 30, are you concerned that you’re not staying ‘young, beautiful and healthy all of the time?’

And not for nothing, what if you’re, let’s say, 51, and you’re not beautiful? Does this make you beautiful? I’m guessing most of us need some help if I read this passage correctly: “Like a picked flower cut from the source, we gradually wilt physically and mentally and become vulnerable to a host of degenerative diseases, that we simply weren’t susceptible to in our early adult years.” Good God. Now I’m really depressed.

And by the way, they offer a guarantee. “..we are so confident of the difference GHR can make in your life we offer a 100% refund on unopened containers.” But how do you know if it works if you don’t open any ….oh, forget it. I want to try it. Just need to know if I can afford it…let me check. Okay. They offer an 877 number, a website …and NO PRICE. Anywhere on the page. I have no idea if this is $9.99 plus Shipping and Handling or $39.95 or $299.95 a month.

I know it probably costs no more than $9,999 / year (asides my own): “Growth Hormone first synthesized in 1985 under the Reagan Orphan drug act, to treat dwarfism (dwarfism??), was quickly recognized to stop aging in its tracks and reverse it to a remarkable degree. Since then, only the lucky (lucky??) and rich have had access to it at the cost of $10,000 US per year.

Oh, by the way: “These statements have not been evaluated by the FDA.”

I can only guess the following: many of the passengers on a plane are tired, cranky, business people who spend at least part of every flight re-evaluating their lives and trying to figure out how being on a plane and traveling to God knows where is what they imagined they’d be doing at this point of their lives. Or maybe that’s just me – I admit it. At some point in every trip, whether it’s on the plane, or in the rental car driving to another hotel, I think: “Really? This is what you were born to do?” And then I get lost – invariably – and get crankier because I missed the turn to What’s It Hotel just outside You Never Heard of It, Texas, Not Near Anything Remotely Fun, Florida or someplace equally diverting.

Maybe it’s the recirculated air in the plane that helps us believe these kinds of offers could be valid.

It was amusing, nonetheless and I'm not one to turn down amusement of any kind. Now I’m going to read these ads on every flight.

New year , anachronistic calendar. Now that's progress.

2011-01-01T21:23:00.004-05:00

A few years ago, I stumbled upon a harmless enough sounding website titled See Jane Work. The premise of supplying women with useful, attractive tools to manage our busy lives is inoffensive enough. Nothing wrong with a little stylish organization, I thought.

Then I wondered if I could find something like it called See John Work, a website developed to accomplish the same thing for men. You won’t be surprised to hear that it doesn’t exist. I did find websites called 'Office Depot' or 'Staples.' They sell similar kinds of stuff – but only to men I guess. We’ve come a long way, baby.

I didn’t really mind the See Jane Work website, or even the idea of it, until I came across my favorite thing: calendars for women, with an example already filled in so one could more easily grasp the concept of how one is supposed to utilize such a mysterious tool. This one was particularly disheartening, but not in the usual way. Sure, it had the usual notations I find maddening: in this case, our fictitious super mom of three had no less than six activities in one week scheduled for her own pleasure, including lunch and dinner dates, coffee catch-ups, a party, an exercise class and a walk with a friend. She also noted that she had to “order pizza” on Friday evening and “go grocery shopping” on Sunday.

Whew! Isn’t that the truth! I, too, find it’s so hard to remember stuff like that unless I write it in my calendar.

I want the kind of life – I swear to God I want to at least try it – where you are so ridiculously rigid or so blatantly not busy that you have the time to write ‘order pizza’ or ‘go grocery shopping’ on your calendar.

But that’s not the worst of it. Jump onto See Jane Work and you can buy a copy of something called the Mom Agenda. The agenda gives you room for multiple kids or commitments so you can schedule your week something like this one, from the sample pages: swimming class that conflicts with tumbling class that conflicts with soccer that conflicts with you baking brownies or cupcakes or attending enrichment puppet-making class, whatever that is. Somewhere along the line you can also write yourself this quick note, “don’t forget cello.” I studied the example weekly planner very carefully, and I couldn’t find cello lessons scheduled for anyone during this busy week. Maybe our super Mom is doing her Nero impersonation, if you will, and playing while her calendar (and her sanity) burns.

My very favorite notation on the Mom Agenda was this one that our stylish, organized Mom wrote to herself about picking up her daughter: “4:20 – pick up Jenna.”

4:20? 4:20??? Are you kidding me? What did she do before she became a mother, launch the space shuttle? My kids were lucky if I knew the right day to pick them up, let alone the right hour. Okay, it wasn’t quite that bad but I admit to driving them to places they didn’t need to be on days they didn’t need to be there for appointments they didn’t have.

I know what you’re saying. If I had used a planner like the Mom Agenda, I’d never goof that stuff up again. Well, you’d be wrong about that. I guarantee you I’d write it down on the wrong day.

You won’t be surprised to learn I discovered this whole bit of nonsense though another website: Alpha Mom. Yes, of course I checked. There is no website titled Alpha Dad.

While I was shopping for Christmas gifts, I stood in awe of the calendars on display in Barnes and Noble. More of this mom-madness. Ready? Here’s a sample of what I found: Mom’s Plan It (Plan it – get it?), Do-It-All Mom, More Time Moms, Mom’s Family Calendar and Mom’s Home Planet. All told, there were nine calendars designed specifically for Moms, one family calendar, one for teens, and one for college students.

There were ZERO calendars developed for Dads. ZERO.

You know why? Because the idea of a calendar that works very well for a woman vs. a calendar that works for men is ridiculous. Also because men understand that they don’t need a specific “man” calendar to schedule appointments or reminders about events. They would simply never support an industry as specious one that publishes “guy” calendars. The calendars men use have nothing to do with family, or noting soccer practice or school events or music lessons or buying groceries or ordering pizza. The only calendars I’ve ever seen men buy have women on them. There you go. Sports Illustrated Swimsuit models. That’s a guy calendar.

Okay. I know men buy other calendars. Let’s just leave it at this: men use calendars as organizational tools and invest nothing more and nothing less into them. They don’t imagine they could ever validate them as men, or as fathers or as professionals. How very sensible.

It’s 2011. Thirty-nine short years ago, Ms. Magazine hit newsstands and put a printed stamp of legitimacy on the nascent women’s movement in this country. And just thirty-nine years later, I’m standing in Barnes and Noble facing a wall of “women are still more needy and less secure about themselves and their roles in life than men” calendars. We marched for this?

My question is: Why do some women still feel compelled to prove something amazing and marvelous about themselves to every other woman on the planet, in this case, something that usually involves uber-organization and efficiency, all wrapped up in the latest style?

Someday – with apologies to Tom Wolfe - I’m going to write a book and call it I Am Renee’s Planner. I’ll discuss the many life stages I’ve weathered – and triumphed over - using nothing but a 99-cent spiral notepad and a leaky pen. Maybe I can sell it on See Jane Work.

My Christmas list (no shopping required.)

2010-12-24T08:37:00.003-05:00

Sometimes I think I’m really two people. One part of me is relentlessly pragmatic, reasonable and logical. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, except when it gets in the way of the magic that can be found in everyday life. The confounding counterpart to this is that another part of me is just as relentlessly sentimental, emotional and hopeful.

Here’s an example. I can’t read an email that cries out for help regarding a lost child without immediately hopping onto Snopes.com to check it out. (They’re always fake, by the way.) I also find myself reading emails that contain heartwarming stories of love, fellowship and encouragement; the kind people often send to friends and family with the best intentions. Deep down, I’m glad they include me in their list of those who will enjoy the story; they’re mostly right about that. Yet even as I read it, I think (in my logical way), do I have time for this today? I have sit on mute for back-to-back conference calls! I have to create two more Powerpoints today!! I have to work out a P / L by ten a.m.! God knows I’d rarely seek these things out on my own.

That’s why when I read a holiday story a few days ago, I couldn’t imagine why I stopped on it in the first place. I had little doubt I’d be left wallowing in sappy Christmas schmaltz. Without going into every detail, the story told of a young boy who comes to understand the spirit of Christmas. In an effort to prove that Santa Claus is real, his grandmother gives him ten dollars and drives him to a store, telling him “to buy something for someone who needs it.” After much thought, the boy decides to buy a coat for a classmate who doesn’t have one. (All of these stories paint a picture of someone who is sad, alone and needy or someone dead or dying, along with someone who steps in to help. Sorry; that’s an editorial comment from my reasonable side. In this case, the student in need never joins his class in recess because he doesn’t own a heavy coat. He pretends to have a cough so he has an excuse to stay indoors. )

The young boy chooses a jacket and takes it to the counter to buy it. When the clerk asks if it’s a present, he explains the story of his needy classmate. The clerk smiles as she puts it a bag and wishes him a Merry Christmas.

Your typical Christmas story, right? I probably don’t have to tell you that as the grandmother helps the boy wrap the coat, she removes the little tag and places it in her Bible. They hide the gift outside “Bobby’s” house, knock on the door, then watch him come outside and discover the package. The rest, as they say, is warm Christmas history.

Except it wasn’t. The story ends with the boy recalling that he still remembers the spirit he felt that day. As the author puts it, “Santa Claus was alive and well and we were on this team.” Fifty years later, he still had his grandmother’s Bible, and the Christmas coat’s price tag she tucked into it: $19.95.

The tears that filled my eyes when I read the ending of the story sprang directly from my sentimental side. I loved the quiet notion of sales clerk, seemingly just a bit player, turning out to embody the spirit this boy was seeking.

So where does that leave me, this Christmas Eve? My practical nature has me counting up the cookies I didn’t bake, the cards I haven’t written and the gifts I haven’t wrapped. The logical part of me is already making plans about how this absolutely will not happen again next year. I’m mentally writing a list of the list of things I won’t forget to do earlier next year so help me God.

And where does that leave the softness, the magic, this Christmas Eve? It’s buried, under layers of planners and errands and tasks. It pokes its head up from time to time: when I hear my boys sing Christmas Carols, or watch them decorate cookies and imagine them fifteen years younger, when their cookie icing and sprinkles were simply out of control.

Everything I want to give to those I love can’t be wrapped and placed under a tree. Mostly, I want to help them feel the spirit of Christmas. When our sons grow up, I want them to give in to sentiment, much more than I do. I want them to give up – at least temporarily - on the measurable. I want them to relinquish what’s practical from time to time.

I want them to pay the difference for the jacket.

That’s hope. That’s love. That’s Christmas.

Why do I have the feeling I'd be tempted to say: watch this.

2010-12-17T09:48:00.007-05:00

With particular thanks to Jen H. and her book group for the inspiration:

You won’t be surprised to hear that I was horrified but also amused to learn the details about some fresh hell called The Elf on the Shelf: A Christmas Tradition or some such nonsense. I don’t know how long this elf has been wreaking havoc in homes around the world but thank God my boys are young adults. I can practically guarantee you we would have been the family that never had an elf on any shelf on our home. Or we would have been the family with the reluctant mommy dragging an elf out of storage every November and regretting every moment she spent rearranging it for a month.

But my own acceptance or rejection of this is an unanswerable notion, really. I may have bought into this “tradition,” given my sentimentality about Christmas. I still may have regretted it but I may have been right there along with other parents who wanted to add to the magic of the season for their children. Let’s just say I’m assuming everyone is adding to the magic, not trying to traumatize their children, which is all too possible according to some of the reviews I’ve read.

Here’s the idea, in case you aren’t already living through this elf / shelf mania. The book tells the story of this helpful little elf that joins your household – your family must give him a name, by the way - to do nothing more than spy on the children who live there for the express purpose of reporting their behavior back to Santa on a nightly basis. He's Santa’s helper, on the job daily, who sees everyone while they’re sleeping, and watches them when they’re awake. Not to put to fine a Christmas point on it: he knows if you’ve been bad or good. But let’s make this distinction: his message isn’t to be good for goodness sake. No, this spy-elf more or less promises good children that Santa will reward them with every gift on their lists. The bad children will be left with nothing, no doubt.

Talk about behavior modification! Every night, the elf returns to the North Pole to make his report, but he’s right back on the job before day breaks, ready for a new round of noticing every move the kids make. The parents help create the illusion of a globe-trotting elf by carefully placing him in a new spot every day, so it’s clear he’s been away filing his report while the children slept. Upon his return, he settles into a new spot in the house, ready to keep his eye on the kids. Some children apparently just love searching for him each morning.

So let’s summarize this from a child’s point of view: a daily recap to Santa on your every move, and a promise of material rewards for good behavior. Charming. What’s not to like about that?

First, I love that kids seem excited about this little guy. It’s adorable. Little children at Christmas are mostly adorable. Second, well…there is no second.

I think it’s kind of risky for parents to invite a fictional Christmas spy – even a sweet little elf spy - into the home to help keep the children in line. Believe me, they’re not doing themselves any favors. In fact, more than a few reviews I’ve read on websites indicate that once Christmas has come and gone, the resolutions about good behavior last about as long as the dead tree no one has watered since December 21.

I’ve heard first-hand stories this mid-December from parents, strongly indicating that they’ve reached just about at the end of their tether when it comes to moving this cockamamie elf to a new location every day. Do you hide him? Leave him in plain view? Make it easy for kids to reach or position the elf in some inaccessible places? (And I think all the elves are boys, by the way. Which is annoying for some reason but I don't have the energy to wage a battle about that just now.)

Tales abound of parents leaping out of a sound sleep at 3 am because they forgot to move the elf before going to bed. [Moment of recognition: I used to slip tooth fairy money under pillows as I woke my kids up in the morning. Yes, we often – perhaps almost always – forgot to place the silver dollar we gave them under their pillows before we went to bed for the night. I’m positive I’d forget about this ridiculous elf at least four times a week.]

I heard the story of one mother who made the mistake of dangling their elf from a lighting fixture and he was slightly singed as a result. Her children were inconsolable. I can only imagine what cover-up story she told them. Maybe he stood too close to the fireplace in the workshop at the North Pole.

I guarantee you had we owned an elf on the shelf, I would have moved him incrementally from day to day. I’m not certain but I don’t think the rules call for him moving from room to room or floor to ceiling. He would have moved from one side of the sofa to the other, or one side of our bookshelf to another all month long.

So where are we with this? I don’t know. It’s kind of cute but kind of odd. It’s indicative of what we’ve become in a way. It’s not enough to tell our children about Santa Claus, with some kind of benign “he’s keeping an eye on you!!” story. In the good old days, elves made toys, they didn’t spy on children. In the words of the chipper little song that accompanies the book on CD,

"Every year at Christmas Santa sends his elves to watch you

And they go back to tell him who’s been bad and who’s been good!

The elf on the shelf is watching you – what you say, what you do…

The elf on the shelf is watching you each and every Christmas.

The elf on the shelf is watching you each and every Christmas."

Dear God. I wonder if the elf on the shelf would watch me not write out the Christmas cards that have been sitting on our coffee table for two weeks. Watch me hop online and order more gifts that I’m positive will arrive promptly on December 28. He could watch as I have yet to bake even one cookie.

I’d love to hear from parents who have invited this little fellow into their Christmas holidays. I am probably entirely wrong about this and it's delightful and I need to lighten up. Maybe kids love it. Maybe parents love the fantasy as well. God bless.

But it’s still a little creepy.

Quite literally, I am missing the point here.

2010-12-08T22:57:00.004-05:00

Honest to God, I think we all must have too much money again.

I was reading the Continental magazine on my latest trip and came across an article titled Presents of Mind, that offered the perennial "gift ideas for everyone on your list." The point here was that we need to be creative and give gifts that speak to the recipient's interests or character. Yes, who would dispute that?

I doubted that I'd find any real ideas but hey – it’s already about two weeks until Christmas and I’ve purchased exactly two gifts so maybe I needed a push. Maybe there were ideas here after all.

LEGO Container Truck ($69.99) – nope. Fun - especially since it had functional steering and a motor and a linear actuator - but we’ve been out of the Lego world for years now. I don't know what a linear actuator is, anyway.

An Apple Magic Trackpad ($69), which could be a good idea for someone except I read the description twice and I still don’t know what it does. Plus, the description said it requires OS X 10.6.4 or higher. I don’t know what that means.

Some kind of combination light / speakers things ($599) that delivers different songs to different speakers throughout your home: “ a stand-alone transmitter sends audio wirelessly to an LED bulb, which fits into a recessed light fixture…and because you can send signals to different bulbs, you can pump beats into one room while enveloping another in soothing jazz and yet in another….” Whatever. I haven’t figured out how to turn on our stereo at home and we’ve lived there for about eighteen years. Like the Apple product, this description contained many words and phrases I couldn’t define accurately.

A Bugaboo Bee stroller. Finally, something I understand. I’m not in the market for a stroller but even if I were, I can’t imagine spending $600 on anything even remotely connected to transportation that doesn’t also come with a key.

A pretty overnight weekender bag ($240) – maybe. But I really wanted it for myself when I saw it so I’d buy one and want to keep it. Not good.

A diver’s watch – except it cost almost $5,000. Plus, I don’t really know anyone who dives regularly and frequently enough to warrant a watch. Plus, anyone who would wear this without diving is annoying. Plus, this was available from a high-end, used watch dealer, which makes me worry about the diver I never met who wore it last.

Wait a minute – here we go! A croquet set! Lovely! Fun for everyone!! And a rule book, and a history / tactics book. And a handmade, gold-lined winning post. Wait a minute. Here we don’t go: $1,650.

A Rock’n’Roll Hall of Fame jacket ($64.99). Nah.

A coffee table book full of gorgeous dessert photography ($29.95). Could be fun for the right person but I don’t have that person on my list. And if I owned it, I’d want to eat dessert even more often than I already do. Nope.

Ah – here we go, yet another item that doesn’t work for my list. Bark’n’Boot Polar Trex. Extra traction booties of some kind for dogs to wear to protect them from ice, rocks, frozen terrain…and salted sidewalks. They’re $89.95 and I couldn’t tell if that was for a set of four Bark’n’Boots or for just the one. No matter. I’m not buying them for any dog I know. And I don’t care how sturdy they are, I guarantee you our Charlie-dog would have chewed them to bits before sunset on Christmas Day if we had ever tried to affix them to his paws.

This isn’t working. I’ve found nothing for anyone on my list. Most of this stuff is too expensive, anyway. Is there nothing for under twenty bucks? Something perfect and fun and quirky and unique?

Hold on. Here you go. And before you read any further, I swear to you I am not making this up. For just $15, Artisanal Pencil Sharpening (yes, you read that correctly) will choose a standard #2 pencil for you – or send them your own! – and craftsman David Rees will sharpen it by hand “to as fine a point as you have ever seen.” He’ll even bag and send the shavings to you; shavings that were “painstakingly removed from the pencil during the sharpening process.”

And please don’t worry about being misled (Get it?? Mis-led?). They’ll stand behind their excellent work and send you “a certificate that attests to the sharpness of your writing implement.”

“ .”

I’m mostly speechless, here. And not to put too fine a point on this (see what I did there?) … but … what? You send this guy, David, a pencil and $15 and he’ll send it back sharpened by hand? Along with the shavings he took off the ‘writing implement?”

Dear God, we are in danger of dying off as a species if we can’t quite manage, nor are we satisfied with, a pencil that hasn't had its tip crafted and shaped by hand by sending it off to artisanalpencilsharpening.com.

But I’d like to think I’m a glass half full girl. Someone please call the AP and the other wire services. Send press releases to The Economist, Fortune, Forbes, Business Week, Financial Times and Kiplinger’s. The recession – long rumored to be over – is truly behind us.

"Nobody'd be different. The only thing that would be different was you." Hmmm.

2010-12-02T23:51:00.008-05:00

It’s been a week.

That sound you don’t hear is the sound of mothers from coast to coast, sitting amidst the quiet in their homes this evening. They’re walking past doors they slip a chain lock across at the end of the evening, past beds that remain smoothly made in tidy rooms and past towels that hang neatly – for days on end - in the bathroom. They notice the car parked outside, albeit with only half a gallon of gas in the tank. They walk past kitchen cabinets where favorite cereals, snacks and drinks that were on hand just one week ago, are all gone.

They’ve all said a post-Thanksgiving goodbye to sons and daughters who headed back to college following the holiday break. And almost no part of it feels very good.

This is the third year I’ve sent someone back to college after Thanksgiving. In 2008, my oldest son came and went, exhibiting a bit of the “you’re not the boss of me” attitude I’d anticipated from my college freshman but somehow was still not fully prepared to handle. In 2009 and again this year, my second and third sons joined in the fun of arriving home, hovering in and around the family for several days, and then leaping back into what had quickly become their new normal.

So – three rounds of this and you know what? It doesn’t get easier. At least for me it doesn’t.

What became evident to me, this year more than in the past, is that no matter how much you want it to remain safe and familiar, and no matter how hard you try to recreate a moment, you can’t do it. Life continues to evolve and the people in it do, too. Salinger expressed this so much more poetically in ‘Catcher’ when Holden talked about walking through the unchanging exhibits and figures in the Museum of Natural History: “Nobody’d be different. The only thing that would be different would be you. Not that you’d be so much older or anything. It wouldn’t be that exactly. You’d just be different, that’s all. … Certain things they should stay the way they are. You ought to be able to stick them in one of those big glass cases and just leave them alone.”

Well, let me think about this. Our rooms remain the same, with the same picture still leaning against one wall, waiting to be hung properly (it’s been there for eleven months – I’m not joking.) Other photos sit on a table, waiting for the right frames. The rooms remain filled with the papers, books, magazines, notes, flyers, and newspapers. [For years, I’ve believed in the ‘butterfly effect.’ A butterfly flaps its wings in Beijing and a piece of paper lands on a flat surface in our home.] But even if all that remains unchanged, I feel like we’re all different, in small almost indefinable ways this year.

For example, despite their protests, I used to “wait up” for the boys, dozing on the sofa until I heard the door open and I could hug them all good night. I don’t know why I thought this made a difference to the outcome of any activity on the planet, or why sofa-sleep somehow indicated I was more attentive than bed-sleep. (It didn’t by the way, although no one could convince me of that at the time.)

That has given way to “waiting up” while lying comfortably in bed, and sleeping lightly until I hear their footsteps on the stairs. I’ve told the boys that no matter the hour, I will hear them arrive home. At night, I have the hearing of an Egyptian slit-eared bat. Last week, I heard one, then a second son enter and exit a bathroom, then heard two bedroom doors close. In my mind: “Two? Only two? “ Someone’s missing… Click. A third door. “Ah, there he is.” And then I snuggled under covers and dozed off.

So what does that make me? Less concerned? Less committed to motherhood? Neither of those things. It just proves my point: the setting remains but the people evolve.

But I guess I’m wondering what Holden may have meant by having “certain things” stay the way they are. I don’t really want to stick anything or anyone in a glass case but the idea of preserving the moments I’ve cherished as the boys grew up is tempting. Then I remind myself that this is real life, not a museum of life. The only person I can think of who preserved the past to help him live in the present was Norman Bates, for God’s sake.

Every stage of their lives has been a fascinating journey of discovery as we all found out - incredibly incrementally I might add – who we were. Who we were when we were fighting, or furious. When we were thrilled with our circumstances and laughing uncontrollably. Or when we were bereft and very nearly inconsolable. And who we were for every single hour in between. Every moment left its own little footprint, and each one was a discovery we wouldn’t have made had we been frozen in one spot.

Here’s the thing. I watch my boys – who are really no longer boys, but young adults – and I think, for the nine millionth time – are you okay? I’m wondering if any of the fourteen thousand decisions I made about anything that was super-critically, God-we'd-better-get-this right important while you were growing up – not one of which I can name right now - meant anything in the long run.

At the same time, let me just say: they’re amazing people. All on their own, they’re each one an amazing young man. It’s been my enormous good fortune and blessing to have them in my life for more than twenty years. And in these last few years, as they wander in and out of our home on their way to the future, I keep thinking about another line from Holden’s visit to the museum: “The birds nearest you were all stuffed and hung up on wires, and the ones in the back were just painted on the wall, but they all looked like they were really flying south…”

So yes; I see them but they’re moving further away, on their way to a new destination.

But it’s all good! I’m good! I’m good with that. And I’m bad with that. And thinking: only about two more weeks until winter break.

There are two kinds of women on the planet.

2010-11-20T00:41:00.004-05:00

This is going to be one of those posts that could get me in trouble. And while I welcome – and cherish – all comments, tonight’s little rant is mostly directed at the women reading this, women who may decide never to stop back here, and never comment, again. But I hope that’s not the case because you often prop me up and keep me from teetering right off the edge. (And for the men who read this, and the men who comment: you are some of my favorite people ever, even if we've never met.)

Over the past few weeks, I’ve had a theme keep resurfacing in my life and today, a woman I work with synthesized the whole thing in one succinct statement. As we caught each other up on the details of our lives, she explained some of her attitudes and behavior by saying, “You know I’m really gay man inside, right?”

Now, before anyone gets offended, this was in no way a slight to men or women, gay or straight. I knew exactly what she meant. She described herself as someone (in her case, at least partially) driven by testosterone, who is attracted to others mostly driven by testosterone. Put another way, she meant exactly the same thing another friend of mine and I said to each other earlier this week. We were discussing our (admittedly perhaps, harsh) approach to a business challenge and I said something like, “I must have misplaced my estrogen somewhere along the line.” She totally understood what I meant.

Let me sum up here: sometimes I feel like I’m SO not a girl. I don’t understand how women tick, and I don’t mean that in a nasty, catty way. To coin a phrase, some of my best friends are women. It’s just that often, I watch other women, or listen to them, and realize that I’m about seven lifetimes away from doing or saying anything like that. What follows is a partial list of stuff I don’t seem to have a natural affinity toward doing, any inclination to do, or any real interest in pursuing:

Decorations: The one and only time I decorate our home is at Christmastime, and I do have to admit I go a little crazy there. But when my boys were younger, I tried to be a good mom and celebrate holidays in a ‘mother of small children’ kind of way but even I can admit it was half-hearted, if that. (Quarter-hearted?) Suffice it to say I never put out flags of any kinds, or valentine hearts or shamrocks or gourds or turkeys or pilgrims. On or about October 29 each year, I’d unpack a few pumpkins and skeletons from a box tucked away in our storage area and scatter them around. Sometime every spring I’d find some bunnies and eggs, just in time for Easter Sunday. That was it. Absolutely it.

That’s kind of pathetic; you don’t have to tell me that. Put it this way: walk into our house on February 14 and take a good look around. I guarantee you it will look exactly the same if walk in again on July 4.

Thing is: I love to see a beautifully decorated room. I love to walk into someone’s home and see that she’s taken some time to welcome a season or a holiday and has shown it in her surroundings. So what’s with me? How did I not learn this?

Decorations, part 2: sweaters. There are two kinds of women in the world: women who own holiday sweaters and women who don’t. This isn’t a judgment; just an observation. You won’t be surprised to learn I don’t own a holiday sweater of any kind. I don’t know why, exactly. I don’t dislike them, and in fact felt a little out of place NOT wearing one while my boys were younger. Seemed like every woman I ran into at various school events had the season cheerfully displayed on her sweater (some more, err, cheerfully than others but let’s leave that discussion aside for now.)

And yet – never bought one. Never wore one. How did I not learn how to do this? How is this not a natural part of my middle-class American Mom DNA?

Supplies: First aid, snacks, wipes, and various other small miracles women pull out of their purses on a daily basis. I never carried a small bottle of Tylenol, a pack of Band-Aids, tissues, or a small scissors on me to be prepared for possible small emergencies. (Still don’t, to this day.) I never carried a tiny container of goldfish snacks for the boys; I never had a damp washcloth in a Ziploc bag to wipe sticky hands or faces.

I love that some women can reach into their bags and practically stitch up a minor injury or splint a fractured finger on the fly should it be required. They always carry treats, comforting little extras of all kinds and always enough for everyone. Amazing. Admirable. And absolutely foreign to me.

And speaking of their bags, I never quite got that memo, either. I went through a brief purse phase when I was in my twenties, and I sort of outgrew it. Purses haven’t meant much to me since, although I have purse envy quite often. Women always have better, nicer, cooler, more stylish purses than I. And I never really seem to do much about that.

Okay, I think you’re getting the picture here, right?

My point is that given my interactions with the women I mentioned earlier, maybe I’m not such a freak. Maybe there are more of me out there than I think. (Maybe not.) Then again, it’s probably not an accident I would connect with women friends who are simpatico with my point of view.

It could also be that because I’ve been in the workplace for more than thirty years, I’ve lost touch with some of the softer sides of womanhood. The sides that celebrate things like valentine hearts and purses with a million cool little sections to hold dozens of cool little things. The sides that remember that Halloween comes every year at the end of October and any thinking about the costumes the kids would wear to go trick-or-treating should probably take place earlier than the afternoon of October 30.

So is there a conclusion here? Can I really just fall back on my “I blame Gloria” catch-all explanation for everything I find confounding and mildly disturbing about the reality of womanhood these days?

Why yes; yes, I think I can. Somewhere along the line, Gloria and her cohorts planted some kind of seed in at least some of us, a seed that grew into a veritable garden of overcompensating for our gender – as if that were a hindrance - and trying too hard to be “neutral.” At this point in my life, I can’t tell how much of this is me and how much of it is her. And it’s kind of pissing me off to tell you the truth.

But I don’t think I’m entirely a lost cause. I still totally have faith in my shoe-of-the-month club concept, for example. And I have, right now, at least eight kinds of black slacks hanging in my closet because you can never stop shopping for the perfect black slacks. Let’s not even get into my Colin Firth issues.

My real question is: how did I get to be a certain age and still have so many doubts? Are we all kind of faking it – the confidence, the stiff upper lip, the Helen-Reddy-ness of it all? Maybe some of us don’t. I’d love to meet the woman who doesn’t. She would be formidable and fierce and fabulous.

Maybe we all go on ‘girl weekends’ or ‘girl getaways’ and ‘girls night’s out’ or ‘in’ so we can reassure each other that we’re not insane. That taking divergent paths toward womanhood doesn’t mean we’ve traveled on parallel paths that never intersect. Not at all. Sometimes I feel like we’re just a nation of Kate’s and Allie’s, trying to figure out the next steps as we enter the last 30 or 40 years of our lives. And if that’s the case, it feels good to have all kinds of companions along the way.

No. No one needs one of those, either.

2010-11-17T23:22:00.003-05:00

Despite what the last post implies, whenever I’m perplexed about what to buy someone, I usually solve the problem by visiting a bookstore. I ask you: where else can you shop for people on your list who have interests that might range from Harley Davidson to Jacques-Louis David?

Which is why I cannot understand the items you find near the checkout in bookstores. Well, yes I can, from a purely marketing perspective. Like all retailers, booksellers design “cash wrap” displays specifically to appeal to buyers on an impulse level, and entice us to pick up just one more item on our way out the door. We’re already in line, credit card or cash in hand – why not add the little bonsai in a box kit or a startling little journal called “All About Me?”

Impulse is one thing. But from a “what can I buy Aunt Alice this year” perspective, I just don’t get it. Browsing this eclectic display, much less buying anything here, makes no sense to me when the bookstore itself lays the entire universe at our feet.

Sadly, this selection of “gifts you might never ever think about buying someone” isn’t a bookstore-only phenomenon. You can’t navigate any retail establishment this time of year without bouncing off a kiosk packed full of “does anyone really need this” right next to the ”I’m positive no one needs one of those.”

I’d like to go on record here but before I do, let me say this: If you already own one of the items that follow and simply love it to pieces, God bless and enjoy. If you’ve purchased one or more for someone on your list, may they live long and happily with it. The spice of life, and all that. But for me, I’ll know I’ve inexplicably reached the “she’s impossible to buy for” list if I ever receive any of the following:

1. A pillow with the word “dream” stitched across it. Or “love” or “serenity” or “breathe” or “vision.” It’s not that I begrudge these feelings or states of mind, but embroidering it on a pillow doesn’t make it so no matter how much we all channel our inner Julia Roberts. [Yes, I do sometimes wonder where I’ve misplaced my estrogen.]

2. One candle and one bottle of bath oil packaged up as something called “spa in a box.” I’m far from the most worldly, the most cosmopolitan woman on the planet but if this is a spa in a box, I’ve been sadly led astray about the spa experience.

3. And if only because it sets my teeth on edge, I don’t ever want a “pocket ‘brella,” although it might come in handy during the next ‘understorm.’

But far be it from me to suggest you bypass those “great gift ideas!” kiosks you’ll run into over the next few weeks. You never know what gems night be hiding there. Just be aware that some enthusiasts are better served than others. Golfer on your list? You’re all set. Buy a golf business card holder, a snow globe containing a golf ball, a mini-golf bag designed to carry toiletries, a barbecue set where the handles look and feel like golf clubs, a talking pop-up putter cup, golf club bookends, gold ball finder glasses, or a golf picture frame.

For the wine lover on your list, create a gift set with the battery-operated corkscrew (“no more twisting or tugging!!”) and the electronic pocket wine master, so he or she will always select the perfect wine in a restaurant. I’m sorry, I thought that nugget of information was exactly what a wine steward lives to discuss with you. Not every single bit of information in the universe has to be captured in a handheld device, does it? How did something so organic – wine- become so gadget-laden?

Moving beyond the special interest groups, let’s review the annual standards: the ubiquitous lock de-icers, electric windshield scrapers, and electronic tie-spinning racks. All useful enough, I guess, but each one cries out: “You’re so hard to buy for! I finally picked this up after I spent four hours wandering around the store.”

But not one of these are quite as useless as the basketball shot glass game, the mini-helmet display case, or the diaper dude pacifier pouch.

But I suppose it’s true enough that one woman’s lavender aromatherapy is another woman’s sleep sound pillow, so to speak. At this forgiving time of year, I’m trying to remind myself that the magic of the gift-giving season lies in the joy behind the giving, even if that joy comes wrapped as a mounted, singing, plastic bass. So if you know someone who will absolutely cherish the Chihuahua who dances to “Oye Como Va” at the touch of a button, knock yourself out. The smile that morning is what you’ll remember, long after the present disappears in the yard sale next spring.

The Christmas Treacle

2010-11-07T20:55:00.003-05:00

Nothing like a quick Sunday evening trip to Barnes and Noble to wind me up.

Before I hear from everyone who is ready to accuse me of jealousy and envy, let me stop you right there. I LOVE to read good writing and have nothing but admiration for authors who challenge me or entertain me. How any writer breaks out of the pack of thousands and thousands of titles and finds a following is beyond me (obviously.)

Mostly, I deeply admire and yes, maybe envy, writers who can make me laugh. It’s not that I’m difficult to please. It’s mostly that “writing funny” is pretty difficult and few people do it well.

This post isn’t about any of that. It’s about Christmas. Or more specifically, about Christmas books.

For some reason, this latest trip to the bookstore made it obvious that one of the components of publishing success that has somehow eluded me is using the word “Christmas” in your title, preferably linked with something admirable, lovely, warm, promising or comforting. Amazon.com lists indicates it offers 90,899 books that contain “Christmas” in the title. I offer the following partial list to review:

A Cup of Christmas Tea

The Christmas Box

The Christmas Sweater

The Christmas Shoes (This is of particular note in our house for many reasons. We mock this one relentlessly and without remorse every single year.)

The Christmas Secret

The Christmas Hope

A Christmas Promise

The Christmas Promise

The Christmas Pearl

The Christmas Clock

The Christmas Dog

The Magical Christmas Cat

The Christmas List

The Christmas Cookie Club

A Plain & Simple Christmas

The Christmas Bus

The Christmas Train

Christmas Jars

Christmas Jars Reunion

Subtitles also matter here:
The Christmas Spirit: Memories of Family, Friends and Faith

The Christmas Box Miracle: My Spiritual Journey of Destiny, Healing and Hope

The Christmas Sweater: A Picture Book

Had enough yet? Me, too.

Let me clarify one other point here. I adore Christmas. I do. Ask my kids or my husband.

I start listening to Christmas music without apology in November.

I’m the one who arranges our theater evening every year to attend Civic Theater’s production of A Christmas Carol. Over the years, two of my boys have appeared in the show. I watch the movie on television every year, the George C. Scott version. (Don’t even speak to me about any others, including the Alistair Sim version. Not open to debate as far as I’m concerned.) I read the Dickens story.

I find a performance of The Messiah each year.

I bake. I send cards. I decorate. In fact, Christmas is the one and only time of year my house gets any kind of decorative treatment.

I get sentimental about Christmas. There. I said it. But I don’t “get” the ideas behind these kinds of Christmas books. I haven’t read even one of them but I guarantee they all tell a story of love and sacrifice and compassion and humanity and fellowship. A story of a despairing someone meeting a wise someone – and the source of that wisdom can be older (see The Christmas Box) or younger (see The Christmas Shoes), makes no difference – and then learning the “true meaning” just when they need it. The story of how almost anything you can name is a metaphor for Christmas.

Well, I guess not almost anything. Admittedly, I paged through only ten pages of the Amazon list so I barely cracked the 90,000 +, but I’ll bet I won’t find these:

Christmas Turtle

Wrong. That book exists. And guess what? It’s “a heartwarming story that explores the special love a grandmother has for her grandchildren.”

Maybe choosing an object to symbolize the season isn't a good idea. What about using those moments of life that aren’t so darned happy? I’ll bet I won’t find any of them in Christmas books. Wrong again. Pages of titles described less than golden moments around the tree: Oscar’s Lonely Christmas, The Lonely Snowman, Byron the Lonely Christmas Tree, All Alone at Christmas, Oliver All Alone, A Cold Christmas, and Kitten in the Cold. (Several of these had adorable yellow lab puppies on the cover who looked sad.) Dear God! Who buys these? Are you crying yet?

Or how about this? A Stranger for Christmas. Guess what? It’s a “very special story about love, family, and miracles…the true meaning of Christmas… a story to remind us of the values we cherish, the people we love, and the lessons of the holiday season.”

Ugh. I’m about to get Christmas Nauseous. Or Christmas Cranky. I wonder if anyone would buy Christmas Curmudgeon, the story of a woman of a certain age who discovered ‘the true meaning of Christmas’ after she was inundated with cloying, vacuous Christmas books one night in the bookstore. She discovered ‘the lessons of the holiday season’ by resolving to eat more cookies, drink more eggnog and surround herself with people who celebrated the season by never reading books like these.

My day feels more merry and bright already.

5 hours? Try 30 seconds. That's all you'll need to view proof that the "women's movement" was an illusion.

2010-11-04T22:38:00.006-04:00

Opening shot: a harried, attractive woman arrives home. She walks in, and closes the front door behind her with her foot. Two young boys who look about ten years old go running by, without acknowledging her, waving toys and making noise. She drops her shoulder bag on to a bench and continues into the home, carrying two packed grocery bags into her kitchen. She’s talking to us about her “2:30 feeling,” as she arrives home after her ‘first job’ to begin her ‘second job,’ presumably with her family.

She enters her spacious, spotless, granite-filled kitchen. At the table sit two other children, more sedate than the high-spirited youngsters who ran through the foyer earlier, children who appear to be either happily working on homework or otherwise quietly occupied. Note: neither of them greets the woman either.

At this point, I’m confused. I can only guess she’s either the hired help everyone feels perfectly comfortable ignoring for some reason or their over-worked, exhausted mother who demands not one thing from them, not even a greeting when she enters the room.

A cautious, responsible woman, she despairs about her stressful, tiring day and then informs us of her recent decision to load up on legal stimulants. She admits that she was “nervous” at first, but her husband reassured her of the efficacy and safety of this miracle drink. She takes two packages out of her grocery bag – his and her, I guess – and as she tells the story of his endorsement, she mimics his yapping mouth and rolls her eyes, as if he couldn’t possibly tell her anything of value about any subject at any time that could be trusted. Her husband – the moron! – this stuff works for him. Somehow, despite his seemingly poor track record for sharing relevant, factual information, she decided to give him a chance and give his suggestion a whirl. It has only a few calories – thank God! She can keep her girlish figure. Zero sugar – again, so she can fit into her skinny jeans easily.

[I’m interrupting this narrative to admit that this is nothing new. Men shown in commercials have been the recipients of derisive comments, mockery and other uncharitable depictions for years. This one is sort of like that but it’s more than that, too. It’s an equal opportunity insult-fest. Read on.]

She walks over to him to deliver his own little set of bottles, presumably to help him overcome his debilitating “2:30 feeling” and…wait a minute! I know what you’re thinking but you’re wrong. Unlike his wife, he’s not frantic with activity and just trying to make it through his own slump. He’s not vacuuming or changing the oil or raking the yard or cleaning the gutters or doing another load of laundry or starting dinner. He’s on the sofa. Sitting on the sofa quietly, as two boys run amok, as two other kids do homework and as his wife – between her two jobs apparently - carries two full bags of groceries in to the house. There he is – just sitting. And even better: reading a magazine.

She plops down next to him and then admits he was right about one thing: exactly what she needs to drink to get more energy every day. He delivers one line in this marketing masterpiece: “Told you so.”

Is it me? (Don’t answer that.) This makes me insane. I hate that it’s nearly 2011 and we’re subjected to a little commercial tableau featuring a wife/homemaker/working woman, reminiscent of Ms. Helen Reddy circa 1972. I hate that this husband sits around like a king in his castle.

And all this time, I thought AMC’s Madmen was supposed to be a period piece, pointing out the quirks and wrong-headed thinking of a different age. If this commercial is an example of the sales pitches created by ad agencies these days, it turns out not one thing has changed on Madison Avenue in fifty years, except possibly the smoking policies.

I dearly wish I could tell you I made this up. Wrong.

2010-10-28T23:39:00.008-04:00

Just in time for the midterm elections, I have some news to share. It’s official: the recession is over.

Exhibit A: the placenta teddy bear.

In an amazing display that combines equal parts narcissism and queasiness, new parents can now preserve the awe-inspiring, nourishing, life-giving force from a mother’s womb as a leathery, frightening-looking teddy bear, made entirely from a placenta. It looks kind of like a bear that would lead to night terrors, if you ask me.

I don’t know about you but I have just about had it with the egocentricity of people who have a child, and then proceed to act as if they are the first parents ever on the planet. You’ve been around them, I know you have. They give themselves away by using phrases like “teachable moment.” They read things like Cookie and Brain Child, The Magazine for Thinking Mothers. They worry endlessly about stuff like high-fructose corn syrup and other poison-laden Halloween candy. And now, apparently, they make teddy bears out of a placenta.

It’s exactly what you imagine it to be; in fact, it could be even worse. Let’s take a look at this, shall we?

After delivering your genius-to-be, you lovingly and ceremoniously cut that cord, then save and prepare your placenta for what’s to come. You stretch and “cure” the membranes for a while. [Stop reading right now if you’re anticipating step-by-step instructions with a time frame, a list of curing ingredients and other details from here on out. I was too incredulous to take notes on this.] Then you stuff it with something – God knows what – and sew it up with something else – no idea - and there it is. Arms and legs; a body and a face without eyes that, sure, looks kind of like a bear. The no-eye look is kind of creepy, and that’s saying a lot since this whole thing is a world of creepy to begin with.

But sure, it's a bear I guess. The kind a prehistoric toddler may have dragged around the cave while the Neanderthal moms had playgroup together and cured meat/skins in their cave kitchen area, meat and skins not unlike the cured materials used to create the teddy bear their child never puts away in the cave toy box. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves here – or behind ourselves, maybe?

I couldn’t tell from the website whether or not 21st century children actually ever play with their placenta bear or not. I suspect not since it was displayed in a glass container. It didn’t look all that sturdy to tell you the truth. Instead, it appeared to be kind of decorative, if by decorative, you mean ‘Silence-of-the-Lambs-basement’ decorative.

I blame the mother, here. I really do. Isn’t it enough that she experienced a healthy pregnancy and delivered a child? I would imagine the existence of the child is proof enough of the miracles her nourishing womb is capable of producing. But no, that’s not enough. She needs her placenta on display, albeit shaped and stuffed, to prove to the world that she and her body nursed a child to life.

I ask you: why else would someone do this? It’s the worst kind of “look at me,look at me, look at me, please” behavior because it’s not even honest. They disguise it as something ostensibly for their child. And the worst part? If this is what they do after just a few weeks or months of motherhood, what will they do after years? Oy. This is just the beginning.

I'm a true Capricorn. (A statement that would mean so much more if I believed in astrology.)

2010-10-26T22:39:00.004-04:00

Possibly surprising facts that may not be entirely obvious nor entirely congruent about me. I don’t promise this will be cohesive or satisfying. You’ve been warned.

Am I getting more impatient or are people getting dumber?
I hate when people make you stop giving out a phone number because they have to interrupt you to repeat the number after you. You know what I mean. You start with 101 (the area code, since we all now have nineteen phones with 14 different areas codes), and then they jump right in and say, “101”, then you say “202,” (“202” they exclaim, with great concentration), then you try to finish with 33 (“okay, 33”), and you finally conclude this complex algorithm with 44. (“44. So: 101-pause-202-pause-33-pause-44.”) Hate it. It makes me clench my teeth. How is it possible that you can hold no more than three numbers in your head at one time? How?

I’ve found that I can fool people into skipping this moronic routine by giving out phone number like this: 101 (pause) 202 (pause) 3 (pause) 344. That way, I have to endure only two pauses, because very few people will actually take a moment to repeat just one number back to you.

I prefer to think of it as dedication.
I play ENTIRELY too much solitaire online.

I used to play in the early evening, during the years I wrote the weekly newspaper column. As I did this very, very mindless exercise, I would compose the column in my head. I would organize it, think about the pace of it, the structure, the phrases I wanted to use, the parallels, the analogies and how it should begin and end.

All of this was quite unconscious to a large extent – not all of it – but much of it was. It was kind of in the back of my mind, simmering and fermenting and coming to a rolling boil, all while I did something else in the front of my mind. And then when I was ready to let it out, it went from the back of my mind to the keyboard, usually in one continuous session, almost as if I were taking dictation from my head.

It wasn’t done by any means. But it was there. And I could read it and fix it and cut entire paragraphs out of it before I turned it in, usually the first one. I would rarely love the column when it appeared, but it usually didn't make me insane to read it. Once in a while it did, though. When that happened, I would call them "the columns that got away."

But these days, I find myself playing solitaire and composing very little in my head. I seem to be in some kind of “this writing is crap,” “this reads like garbage,” and “this is so uninspiring it’s awesome” mode, which may well be all too true.

Music transcends life.
I LOVE gospel music. I must have been a Baptist in another life, who sung in the choir every week. It’s just so heartfelt and so passionate. It’s so full of hope and honest emotion. The singers seem to put it all out there, which is something I doubt I’ve ever felt comfortable enough to do even once in my life. And there’s a small part of me that regrets it.

You say obsessive; I say scarily, enthusiastically focused.
I can be just a little, just a smidge, just a tad…obsessive. I tend to immerse myself in something that fascinates me at any given moment. When I love a movie, I LOVE it. Same with a TV show. I have been known to watch hours (literally) of Law & Order or In Treatment or Lost.

If I read a non-fiction book I like, I’ll read everything I can about that topic for a while. I’ll discuss it like crazy with people I more or less force to read it just so we can talk about it. Or if I like a novel, I’ll re-read it a bunch of times – I’ll leave it at that (“a bunch”) – and try to find something new that fascinates me. I usually do, too. Somewhere along the line, my re-reads become explorations, mostly about the language or the choices the writer made. I wonder why and I wish I could have him or her over to dinner to chat about it. Until dawn, maybe.

I'm outing myself. Give me credit for that, at least.
I really don’t “get” NPR. I tried for a long time. I really did. But when I stopped listening, it was because I finally realized this: the best way to make a bleak day even bleaker was to listen to NPR. And the last thing I need is to find a way to add more bleakness into my life.

Maybe that makes me a moron. Or at least not nearly as smart as everyone who simply adores NPR. There’s that whole “I’m smarter than you are” aspect of NPR that makes me insane. (This feeling is connected by a dotted line to the contrary streak I have that makes me want o dislike things that almost everyone likes.)

(In)Conclusion
Hmmmm. Does any of this resonate with anyone? Am I simply too mean to live sometimes? I’ll try to think of some more pleasant aspects of my personality to share. That should be interesting.

In praise of HBO's 'Darkness,' Bruce and being perennially 19.

2010-10-09T18:28:00.004-04:00

“So you’re scared and you’re thinking that maybe we ain’t that young anymore. Show a little faith!

There’s magic in the night. You ain’t a beauty but hey, you’re all right. And that’s all right with me.”

I can tell you exactly where those words take me. I’m 19 again. It’s August 18, 1978…just after 2 a.m. outside the recently departed Spectrum. There we stood, first with a crowd of 100 people or so. And as the hour got later, and then later, we dwindled down to a group of maybe 15 or 16. People who were, for that moment in time, our closest friends. Springsteen fans all, gathered by that inconspicuous little door, daring to imagine how the evening might end before we all headed out to our deserted cars in the parking lot.

It was different times, back in ’78. We were different. It was long before we had jobs, husbands, houses or kids. Before our 401(k)s and Visa cards and life insurance. Before the stretch marks and tiny, fine lines; before we patronized colorists and invested in Spanx. Everything about us was 19. We were all about the warm August night and the cold beer in our hands. All about dancing and singing and clutching each other as we paid homage with 20,000 other faithful. That night, we were all about Bruce and the band and the music and the moments he spoke to us from his soul, from the stage.

Janice, Cathy, Leslie and I – all 19 – wondering just what in the world we thought we were doing there. Not quite understanding why we hadn’t simply hit the road and headed for the shore after the concert, which had been the plan from the start. But we’d already invested $8.50 a ticket in this show, plus parking; and already waited this long. Maybe he’d come out and say hello.

I’ll see this forever in my mind. A small window in the door. One of the girls pressing her face against it for what seems like one solid hour. She backs up – and with a small shriek, throws her arms around his neck. And then, just like that, there he was. White T-shirt, jeans, walking toward what had become our intimate little group, asking us what we thought of the show. Bruce. The man we’d all zeroed in on through our binoculars not three hours earlier that night, now, literally, within arm’s reach.

Another clip from my mind: one of the guys had skipped out on his wife to go to the concert with his buddy – the night of his first wedding anniversary for God’s sake. He confessed it all to Bruce who took the beer bottle from the guy’s hand, then wrote a note to her on the label, something like: “Forgive him – he seems like a good guy – Bruce.”

We all came up with scraps of paper and ticket stubs and anything else we had to get an autograph and wouldn’t you know – Bruce had nothing to lean on to sign our scraps. I immediately stepped up – with my binoculars’ case the size of Delaware (’78, remember?) – and held it steady so he could write out his notes to all of us.

Then we all gave him a hug and a kiss – maybe even the guys did that, too – and snapped pictures to prove it. He drove off in a canary yellow Camaro with a smug-looking blonde in the front seat who looked completely bored by the whole thing.

We screamed from Broad Street to Seaside Heights.

Fast–forward several decades. Now wearing our Springsteen T-shirts with the 1978 photos silk-screened across them, we’ve gone on many extended tours with Bruce and the band. At Madison Square Garden in 2000, Janice, Leslie and I staged our own reunion. Fans read the date on our shirts and asked, “Is that you? I was five years old in 1978.”

Les and I have attended many other shows over the years with our husbands, who have no interest at all in hanging out by the loading dock afterwards. Something about Turnpikes or Expressways and backups at the exits…

But you know what? Even as we tramp out to the minivan and try to beat the traffic, we’re all 19 again. But we’re more than that, too. We all hear that screen door slam in our minds. We’re all old enough to understand that should one of us fall behind, the other will wait. We know that lots of times in life, it does feel like you take one step up and two steps back. We’ve learned to live with what we can’t rise above. We’re ready to grow young again.

And that’s all right with us.

My Tank and Me: One Woman's Search for Peace

2010-10-05T22:49:00.010-04:00

Oh my God.

I swear to you this kind of kismet-y stuff seems to happen to me all the time. ALL THE TIME.

So I open USA Today – which I do on a semi-annual basis – and what’s the lead story in the "Life" section on Monday? A story about a new book, from Gotham Chopra and Krishu Chopra, with Deepak Chopra. This amazing new book is titled Walking Wisdom: Three Generations, Two Dogs and the Search for a Happy Life.

Anyone who has even visited this blog even once has probably heard me say this before but I can’t help myself: Oh my dear God in heaven, help me please. I can’t stand this.

Yes, yes, yes. I know. I need to chill. I need to direct this outward. I am doing that. This is my outlet, okay? I might implode otherwise.

I ask you: was the world looking for a guide to stress-free living, the kind that results from walking a dog? You’re kidding me, right?

But let’s assume we were. Everyone was looking for the perfect book about stress-reducing via canine exercise. We all were desperate for guidance on how to walk our dogs, ruminate about life and love and lollipops (or whatever the three Chopra men chat about during their walks in Central Park) and figure out how to release our anxiety, let it travel down the leash in a manner of speaking and away from our inner cores. Assuming everyone was searching for it, is there any reason we had to find it in a book from Gotham Chopra? And, even better, from his three-year-old son, Krishu?

We’ve had books emerge from Mrs. Dr. Phil, from Jay McGraw, Dr. Phil’s author-son, and from Sean Covey (of the Seven Habits Covey’s), among others. Question: Do they have any credentials, other than their personal relationships? Irrelevant, and already addressed by every marketing exec in publishing. They have what passes for credentials these days: the ability to capitalize on an enormous and fawning fan base and sell them even more crap that they don’t need.

Let’s get back to the dog-walking lessons, or stress-free lessons or whatever the Chopra’s have to sell, errr, share with us, shall we? This is my favorite quote in the USA Today article, and the kismet-y part of this story: "My father is all over this book in his own words, so we thought the 'with' was the best way to recognize that," explains Gotham, 35. Having the Deepak Chopra name on a book cover isn't a bad thing, either. He has sold more than 20 million books over the years.

[NOTE: “Having the Deepak Chopra name on a book cover isn't a bad thing, either.” When I was much younger, we used to think about this confluence of favorable circumstances, where one naturally followed the other, a little differently. I think we used to recognize it with a poetic phrase that went something like, “No s--t, Sherlock. “]

Honestly, I found many, many more moments of pure gold in this article. I can only recommend you read it for yourself and enjoy. But here are a few I couldn’t resist noting here:

"She grounds us. We're going in so many different directions. Cleo teaches us to live in the present. She doesn't take herself too seriously." What humans need to do, adds Deepak, is to "tap into that."

"Infinite flexibility is the secret of immortality, and dogs have that ability to adapt," says Deepak, who once again lapses into workshop-speak. Speaking of workshops, he has worked the power of dogs into his seminars, meeting with celebrity dog trainer Cesar Millan to talk about leadership.

Apparently, people buy this stuff, literally and figuratively. Remarkable. Maybe I need to turn this around and just be more positive. Maybe I can do this and share the love. Why not? Why not me?

Before we go there, let me make this clear. We all need some form of peace; I get that. And if that means you take a moment each day with the Bible, or you spend time contemplating the Four Noble Truths and the Eightfold Path; or you do TM or run a 5K; or you create a mandala or play a mandolin - God Bless. Namaste. You get no argument from me.

But this kind of specious, vacuous, insipid, cloying attempt to "sell" peace to the masses is repugnant to me. Especially when it trades on the name of someone who has millions of "followers" who are inclined to continue feeding their self-help habits. No matter what form the new "lesson" takes.

So - onto my idea: I’m going to set up a gorgeous, colorful, soothing and restorative tropical fish tank in my home. About two weeks after that, I’m going to submit an outline for the following book proposal to my agent and see where we land: Swimming Smart: Three Generations, Nineteen Fish, and the Search for a Splash-Free Life. (I'll ask my six-year-old great-niece to be my co-author and give my mother a "with" credit.)

The chapters shape up something like this:

The Palette of the Sea: how the many colors, shapes and sizes of fish happily swim side by side, and through their serenity and their (how did the Chopra's put it? Of yeah..) "living in the present," teach us the secrets of living in peace together. (Note to self: do NOT include the fighting fish in this chapter.)

Less is Enough: how fish can teach us the top five tips about healthy nutrition and the dangers of emotional eating. (Tip 1: Eat when you're fed!)

Silent Waters: why talking is highly overrated.

Castles Aren't Roadblocks; They're Beautiful Ways to Teach Us a New Path: swimming through, around or above obstacles with ease.

Moving Is Life: ‘cause if you stop, you’re floating; and if you’re floating, you’re dead.

What do you think?

So scootch over, Gotham. I'm going to be sitting on that couch on Oprah right next to you and Krishu. Just me and my tank. And my 'wisdom.'

"The way people speak and write nowadays makes my head hurt." Act 1, Cyrano deBergerac

2010-10-02T22:33:00.005-04:00

I have no idea how to get an “official” day declared but I’d like to figure it out and suggest one. It will be called: “In Honor of ‘With’” Day. With? With whom you would rightly ask? In this case, the day will be set aside to thank and celebrate the talents and collaboration of the “With” who sits solidly, quietly and barely noticed beneath the “By” name on book covers these days.

Like most blog posts and columns I write, several stars (AKA stories and headlines) collided and I started to think about the underappreciated, workhorse writers whose words make certain books come to life. Don’t misunderstand me: I’m not sure many of these books should ever come in contact with a printing press or see the light of a Kindle, but I don’t make that decision. What’s done is done, and in cases like this, done in large part due to the skilled writers who tell the story of the celebrity “author” on the cover.

First, the good news. According to the New York Post, no publishers appear to be interested in publishing the memoirs of Nadya Suleman, the Octomom. She’s been shopping a book around but so far, no takers. I’m positive that’s not due to a wave of rational thinking crashing onto the shores of Manhattan; more like overexposure for a woman who doesn’t have a story that hasn’t already been told on the pages of People or Us magazines. Nonetheless, I guarantee you Suleman’s book would have carried a “with” credit.

Now the bad news: Nicole Polizzi is publishing her first book. A novel, for God’s sake. From the mind of Snookie. It’s due in January and titled something like “A Shore Thing.” Some kind of ‘falling in love at the shore’ epic, no doubt. The book’s online listing doesn’t list her “With,” and I can certainly understand that. The “With” in this case will probably use a pen name to ensure that he or she will continue to work in the publishing industry. And I don’t blame the writer for one second. Getting paid to write anything these days is something of a miracle. So go with God, “With,” whoever you are.

Although it occurs to me that there could be a reason to buy “A Shore Thing.” You know those books and websites that suggest surprising uses for everyday objects? I could buy this book, cut out the middle of all the pages (leaving the perimeter of each intact) and use it to hide my good jewelry in plain sight. Well, if I owned enough good jewelry to warrant that, I would. Let’s face it: once this book is on a shelf, no one would ever pull off again, right? That thing would sit there for years, untouched, and my jewelry would remain safe.

Snookie’s as yet unnamed collaborator notwithstanding - who may turn out to be quite a story-teller, who knows - the list of “With” ’s is long and distinguished. They’ve assisted all kinds of authors telling all kinds of stories: from Lee Iaccoca to Howard Stern; from Patti LuPone to Laura Bush. They listen. They take notes and tape hours of interviews. The best of them smooth out the details and evoke a “voice” we’ll all recognize on the page, while suppressing their own. They watch “their” book climb the bestseller list, and congratulate the author.

Sure, they’ll cash a check for their work. But I’d like to see them take a bow of their own. So who’s with me? I’m proposing April 1, birth date of Edmond Rostand, the French dramatist who wrote the play, Cyrano de Bergerac. If anyone knows the story of supplying someone else with words and taking no credit, Rostand’s character does.

So there it is: Let’s set aside April 1, as our official “In Honor of ‘With’” Day, celebrated the world over by everyone who loves a good read.

I feel much better now. Thank you.

2010-09-23T17:05:00.003-04:00

I often find that when something needs saying, it helps me to just put it all out there and then let it go. This is one of those times.

Unfortunately, I also often find brooding about something for decades is almost as helpful.

Which only goes to show - once again - that I have issues.

Irregardless - wait - that's not a word!! See what I did there??!? - I hope you enjoy this piece.