Originally posted on the Huffington Post on January 18th. Read it here or below.
Let me get one thing straight here, oh Moms In Desperate Need of Erotica: I am not joking. This is not about getting hot and bothered by watching your husband clean the kitchen. It’s not even about getting turned on by hiring a sexy electrician to boss around your kitchen.
I have done both of these things in the name of love, but I no longer need to, thanks to E. L. James and her erotic romance novel, 50 Shades of Grey.
I heard about this book from a friend, who spoke in hushed tones over the tops of her children’s heads as we waited in line for tables one Sunday at the local diner. That’s how you know a book is really dirty, by the way, because of the hushed tones. That’s how I found out about Judy Blume and Francine Pascal and V. C. Andrews, the holy trinity of early 1980’s soft porn. Granted, I was 11 at the time, and I didn’t know squat about sex, so I thought reading about it was amazing. I turned down pages where Something Happened (He put his hand into her pants! Shit, he’s her brother!) and re-read them over and over, just enjoying the feelings these words created in me.
“Everyone in Armonk is reading 50 Shades of Grey,” my friend Deena insisted, her hushed tones becoming less hush and more hysterical. “Moms are forgetting to pick up their kids at school! You can’t even get it! It’s sold out at bookstores everywhere!”
Since when are there bookstores everywhere, I wondered? I haven’t seen one for two years. This book is making people cookoo for cocoa puffs. And it’s not like this is the first time erotica has infiltrated the suburbs. What about Anne Rice’s Sleeping Beauty series? Or Blume’s Wifey? Or every Harlequin Romance since the beginning of Fabio?
And, since when is the phrase “everyone in Armonk” an endorsement for anything, except perhaps…Armonk?
So, naturally, after leaving the diner, I downloaded the book on my Kindle and began having virtual sex in under a minute.
(That’s an exaggeration because it doesn’t really get good until 20% in. But after that, the sex doesn’t stop. Sorry about the ridiculous Kindle math – I have no idea what this equals in realtime pages.)
Is the book cheesy and awful? Yes. In order to get to the good stuff, you will have to sit through a British author who sometimes forgets her characters are American (“marquee,” by the way, means “tent”) and who likes her adjectives in triplicate, since the author couldn’t trust us (or herself) to think we could picture the image with only one descriptor. Therefore, Grey’s personal office is “palatial, swanky, sterile,” while the rest of the office space is “cold, clean AND clinical.” (Now that I’ve pointed this out, it’s going to drive you crazy.) And I’ve never read about a character that moves his features quite so much. In one scene alone, Grey’s mouth “quirks up,” “his lips curl in a wry smile,” and “a ghost of a smile touches his lips.” His grey eyes “alight with curiosity” or turn “dark” and “distant” within seconds.
As one would expect from a good romp, there’s a lot of overtly suggestive writing to laugh at. I mean, this guy “cocks his head” five times in the first few scenes of the book. Gee, I wonder what that means? Oh, naturally, that he’ll end up showing us his penis! (Excuse me, I mean his “impressive length.”) Duh. And, for the record, Christian Grey has the longest index finger of any character in the history of literature. It starts out as a “long-fingered” handshake when they meet, but follow it as you read, because eventually, that long finger is literally everywhere. And you will admire him all the more for it.
What is Anastasia doing in this pre-sex dance of theirs? “Squirming uncomfortably under his penetrating gaze,” of course. And tripping, and blushing nonstop. It’s hard not to blush when a man (hot, long-fingered, or otherwise) says, “first I’m going to spank you and then I’m going to have my way with you.” Oh, sorry. Did I give too much away?
Here’s the fun (funny? strange? uncomfortable to admit?) part: when you put the book down, you will actually want to have sex with your husband. Like, a lot.
After 13 years of marriage, it’s a damned revelation.
“Matt’s exhausted,” my friend, Sarah, told me.
“Jim’s excited that there’s a sequel!” another friend said.
“It’s actually a trilogy,” Sarah said, slightly awe-struck. With over 900 pages of E. L. James on our bedside tables, we could all be having sex with our husbands…indefinitely.
“Jeff and I are going away this weekend – should I bring this book?” Amy asked.
“Yes!” We told her.
Yes, I tell you. Yes, and yes, and oh, baby, yes.
Showing posts with label suburbia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label suburbia. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Friday, January 13, 2012
How Old is Too Old?
My son, Andrew, wants to know when he will be old enough to get a dog. The answer, scientifically speaking, is “When Mommy thinks you’re old enough to hear her curse when the dog chews through her Ugg slippers.” My daughter, Zoe, wants to know when she can get her ears pierced. The answer to this deep conundrum is, “At double digits, or once you remember consistently to flush the toilet every time you go. Whichever comes first.”
To vote, the magic number is 18. To drink, it’s 21. To start driving, 16.
Everyone wants to reach these markers of maturity, the signposts along the road of life telling them at what age they can begin. But people rarely stop to think about when they should just stop. Like, when exactly is one’s grandma too old to drive? It’s a slippery slope. Where to draw the line? (From experience, the answer in my family is, “When she gets into a major-minor accident in which police are involved although no one is really hurt except her ancient Oldsmobile and an Oak tree in White Plains.”)
Which brings me to the burning question behind today’s article: At what age should a grown wife, mother, and columnist just say no to learning hip-hop in a friend’s basement?
How old is too old?
To give you context for this physical and ethical dilemma, I’d like to first present some evidence from my mother, the 65-year-old tap-dancer.
“Ma,” I asked, calling her cell phone in the middle of the afternoon and interrupting her day with this crucial question, “How old is your tap dance teacher again?”
“Oh…” she thought, “80, 81. Why?”
I explained the topic I was wrestling with.
“Betty is not too old, she just has to wear sunglasses in the studio because the wall is so bright that it hurts her eyes. And she also holds on to that wall for balance.”
“Okay, thanks, Ma.” I was ready to hang up, having gathered enough research.
“And we kind of made our own tap shoes. We had the taps put onto orthopedic oxfords. They have arch support!”
“I’m confused…did you do this for Betty, or for you?”
“For both of us. Susan is the only other member of the class, and she’s still under 65, so she can wear regular tap shoes.”
Go, Susan!
So, of course, based on my fine genetic dance lineage, I went to the hip-hop class.
My friend Jen, who was hosting this event at her house, sent an email invitation including the date and time. She also mentioned that our instructor, Wadi Jones, is world-renowned.
As if that makes any difference to me. What am I? Hip-hop know-it-all, Jazzy JulieG? Did she think I wouldn’t show up if the teacher were just regular, because I’m such an accomplished hip-hop snob?
No, I went because it sounded like fun.
Right away, I realized I was not dressed correctly. Most of the women donned sneakers and sweatpants. I was in stretchy pants (good for movement) but a wool sweater (very bad for perspiration). My friend Kate, in her skinny jeans and riding boots, made me feel much better about my poor choice of hip-hop gear. Who knew that we were really going to dance? I thought it was kind of a joke, because I think everything is kind of a joke.
But Wadi is no joke. I know that now, because I have seen him spin on his head.
To learn the hip-hop routine (yes, routine) we put down our cups of sauvignon blanc and formed a few lines in front of Wadi, who was on the platform stage in Jen’s basement (yes, stage). He taught us how to pop and slide and glide and pump and walk (yes, walk. It’s just a grapevine). We learned important technical aspects of the ancient art of hip-hopping such as how to point correctly, with thumb facing down instead of up, so as not to appear like a cowboy with a fake gun. We even gave input, so that, when I jokingly said that one lurching-like move reminded me of something out of Michael Jackson’s Thriller video, Wadi changed the move and called it the Jackson. Eventually, when put to music (LMFAO’s Party Rock Anthem), the combination went something like this: “5, 6, 7, 8, and Jackson, and Jackson, and Jackson, and Jackson, and slide, and slide, and walk, walk, walk, walk, stop.”
Every fifteen minutes, I took off more clothing. My socks and sweater now lay in a corner by the couch. I wiped my brow with the hem of my shirt and piled my hair into a bun. People were panting. My back ached.
“It’s time to learn the cat daddy,” Wadi announced.
“Oh, good. I was wondering when you’d do that,” I said.
“It’s like you’re rolling a wheelchair.”
Now the man was speaking my language. I rolled my wheelchair quite successfully.
“Next we’re going to dougie.”
I wanted to know if he knew a move called shvitzing through my tank top. I also wanted to know why my moves had so much bounce, making them less gangsta and more cheerleadah.
After an hour plus of hip-hopping, my brain and body were tired. I couldn’t keep up and I kept forgetting the new part of the routine. But I was having a great time. We all were.
“We should do this again!” Someone exclaimed and a bunch of us nodded our sweaty heads in agreement.
“We should practice and then perform as a flash mob at elementary school pick-up!” One columnist declared. (What? Hysterical idea, no?)
Another woman decided that we might lend ourselves out as the entertainment for the teacher appreciation lunch in the spring.
After Wadi left, we stood around chatting about the kinds of things middle-aged women talk about, like doctors’ appointments and vacations. My friend Maya, pregnant with her third child (yes, pregnant and hip-hopping), asked if I could recommend a good local mohel. We had quickly returned to the status quo, but I like to think that we had all been changed in some small way.
I know that by the next day, I had changed. My sciatica was radiating pangs of regret down my backside, and my Achilles tendons were sore (yes, Achilles tendons. Told you I was too bouncy.)
“What did you expect?” My oh-so-supportive husband, Brett, asked at breakfast. “That’s what happens every time you decide to do a back flip off a diving board or perform some gymnastics.” He imitated my voice and continued. “Look, I’m going to do a double round-off!”
“That’s not even a thing,” I said. “It’s a round-off back handspring. And it hurts like hell.”
In my mind, I’m 16. I’m a gymnast and a cheerleader and my eyes work just fine without reading glasses. In my mind, I can move with the best of ‘em. I bet, if you asked Betty, the 81-year-old tap dance instructor, she would say she feels the same way. Because, on the inside, we’re all young. We’re agile and strong and wrinkle free and dancing our asses off.
So, how old is too old?
Don’t ask me.
To vote, the magic number is 18. To drink, it’s 21. To start driving, 16.
Everyone wants to reach these markers of maturity, the signposts along the road of life telling them at what age they can begin. But people rarely stop to think about when they should just stop. Like, when exactly is one’s grandma too old to drive? It’s a slippery slope. Where to draw the line? (From experience, the answer in my family is, “When she gets into a major-minor accident in which police are involved although no one is really hurt except her ancient Oldsmobile and an Oak tree in White Plains.”)
Which brings me to the burning question behind today’s article: At what age should a grown wife, mother, and columnist just say no to learning hip-hop in a friend’s basement?
How old is too old?
To give you context for this physical and ethical dilemma, I’d like to first present some evidence from my mother, the 65-year-old tap-dancer.
“Ma,” I asked, calling her cell phone in the middle of the afternoon and interrupting her day with this crucial question, “How old is your tap dance teacher again?”
“Oh…” she thought, “80, 81. Why?”
I explained the topic I was wrestling with.
“Betty is not too old, she just has to wear sunglasses in the studio because the wall is so bright that it hurts her eyes. And she also holds on to that wall for balance.”
“Okay, thanks, Ma.” I was ready to hang up, having gathered enough research.
“And we kind of made our own tap shoes. We had the taps put onto orthopedic oxfords. They have arch support!”
“I’m confused…did you do this for Betty, or for you?”
“For both of us. Susan is the only other member of the class, and she’s still under 65, so she can wear regular tap shoes.”
Go, Susan!
So, of course, based on my fine genetic dance lineage, I went to the hip-hop class.
My friend Jen, who was hosting this event at her house, sent an email invitation including the date and time. She also mentioned that our instructor, Wadi Jones, is world-renowned.
As if that makes any difference to me. What am I? Hip-hop know-it-all, Jazzy JulieG? Did she think I wouldn’t show up if the teacher were just regular, because I’m such an accomplished hip-hop snob?
No, I went because it sounded like fun.
Right away, I realized I was not dressed correctly. Most of the women donned sneakers and sweatpants. I was in stretchy pants (good for movement) but a wool sweater (very bad for perspiration). My friend Kate, in her skinny jeans and riding boots, made me feel much better about my poor choice of hip-hop gear. Who knew that we were really going to dance? I thought it was kind of a joke, because I think everything is kind of a joke.
But Wadi is no joke. I know that now, because I have seen him spin on his head.
To learn the hip-hop routine (yes, routine) we put down our cups of sauvignon blanc and formed a few lines in front of Wadi, who was on the platform stage in Jen’s basement (yes, stage). He taught us how to pop and slide and glide and pump and walk (yes, walk. It’s just a grapevine). We learned important technical aspects of the ancient art of hip-hopping such as how to point correctly, with thumb facing down instead of up, so as not to appear like a cowboy with a fake gun. We even gave input, so that, when I jokingly said that one lurching-like move reminded me of something out of Michael Jackson’s Thriller video, Wadi changed the move and called it the Jackson. Eventually, when put to music (LMFAO’s Party Rock Anthem), the combination went something like this: “5, 6, 7, 8, and Jackson, and Jackson, and Jackson, and Jackson, and slide, and slide, and walk, walk, walk, walk, stop.”
Every fifteen minutes, I took off more clothing. My socks and sweater now lay in a corner by the couch. I wiped my brow with the hem of my shirt and piled my hair into a bun. People were panting. My back ached.
“It’s time to learn the cat daddy,” Wadi announced.
“Oh, good. I was wondering when you’d do that,” I said.
“It’s like you’re rolling a wheelchair.”
Now the man was speaking my language. I rolled my wheelchair quite successfully.
“Next we’re going to dougie.”
I wanted to know if he knew a move called shvitzing through my tank top. I also wanted to know why my moves had so much bounce, making them less gangsta and more cheerleadah.
After an hour plus of hip-hopping, my brain and body were tired. I couldn’t keep up and I kept forgetting the new part of the routine. But I was having a great time. We all were.
“We should do this again!” Someone exclaimed and a bunch of us nodded our sweaty heads in agreement.
“We should practice and then perform as a flash mob at elementary school pick-up!” One columnist declared. (What? Hysterical idea, no?)
Another woman decided that we might lend ourselves out as the entertainment for the teacher appreciation lunch in the spring.
After Wadi left, we stood around chatting about the kinds of things middle-aged women talk about, like doctors’ appointments and vacations. My friend Maya, pregnant with her third child (yes, pregnant and hip-hopping), asked if I could recommend a good local mohel. We had quickly returned to the status quo, but I like to think that we had all been changed in some small way.
I know that by the next day, I had changed. My sciatica was radiating pangs of regret down my backside, and my Achilles tendons were sore (yes, Achilles tendons. Told you I was too bouncy.)
“What did you expect?” My oh-so-supportive husband, Brett, asked at breakfast. “That’s what happens every time you decide to do a back flip off a diving board or perform some gymnastics.” He imitated my voice and continued. “Look, I’m going to do a double round-off!”
“That’s not even a thing,” I said. “It’s a round-off back handspring. And it hurts like hell.”
In my mind, I’m 16. I’m a gymnast and a cheerleader and my eyes work just fine without reading glasses. In my mind, I can move with the best of ‘em. I bet, if you asked Betty, the 81-year-old tap dance instructor, she would say she feels the same way. Because, on the inside, we’re all young. We’re agile and strong and wrinkle free and dancing our asses off.
So, how old is too old?
Don’t ask me.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Dressing for Success
“Where are you coming from?” My friend Amy asked as we chatted briefly in town. I was dripping sweat from head to toe. “Lemme guess? Spin?” She asked. I nodded, feeding more quarters into my parking meter. “I can’t do spin,” Amy said. “I don’t…”and here she tilted her head skyward, searching for the right words.
Let’s pause. For instructional purposes, I’m going to ask you to guess the end of her sentence. Remember, it began with “I don’t.” Was Amy’s predicate:
a) like sweating profusely while pop music pounds in my inner ear, or
b) enjoy riding a stationary bike to nowhere, or
c) have the right outfit.
If you guessed c, then this is the article for you.
Press play.
“Not true!” I said. “You don’t need an outfit. You just need leggings.” I inspected Amy’s legs, which were already clad in tight black lycra. “Like those! You’re good to go.”
And then I invited her to join me any time she wanted to try a class.
We waved goodbye. I watched her go, a thought bubble developing in the empty air between us.
Who was I kidding? Of course she needed an outfit.
Here’s why. A few years ago, I was struggling to complete my doctoral dissertation. It was a bitch. I had just received feedback on a round of revisions that I felt were satisfactory; my doctoral committee disagreed. I had to re-write about 100 pages of text and I didn’t know if I had the mental or physical endurance to do it. I didn’t even know if I cared anymore about finishing my degree. So I did what any self-respecting 38 year old woman would do in such a situation: I scream-cried to my mom on my cell phone about it after dropping off my children at school, with a narrative that went something like this: “I-can’t-won’t-do-this-anymore-hate-them-me-you-Brett-all-suck-getting-fat-want-to-give-up-so-mean!” I hung up on her mid-panic attack and drove around for a while.
Then I went to the gym.
I took a deep breath and entered a 9:30 stretch and strength class, grabbing some 2-pound weights. I selected a spot on the carpet that seemed like a good location based on my ability; just left of center from the middle of the square room. And then I caught a look at my reflection, and panicked all over again.
When my friend Sloan entered the class, I took one look at her and burst into fresh tears.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, her sharp blue eyes showing concern. She came and sat next to me.
I told her about the failed attempt to complete my dissertation. “And,” I added, gaining momentum, “everyone in this class is wearing LONG pants and I have on these wide, weird, CROPPED ones!”
“Oh,” she said softly, her consoling eyes gazing around the room. “That’s true.”
But then Sloan gave me some wise advice: It was a problem that was easily fixed. All I had to do was to buy a nice, new pair of long, lean yoga pants. I’d feel better the next time I came to class because I’d blend in. The dissertation? She was sorry, but her advice couldn’t really help me with that.
You may be rolling your eyes at me now, thinking that I’m only going skin deep to believe – and, further, to admit in the newspaper to believing – that what I wear to a stretch class or what my friend Amy (or anyone else for that matter) wears to a spin class (or any other venue, for that matter) matters.
But it does.
We all know that old adage to “dress for success,” which has certain connotations for the business world. In our careers, we have been told to dress more like the part we want to be (boss, leader, corporate somebody) instead of the part we really are (harried mom, student, corporate nobody). Put on a power suit and feel powerful, the advice goes. Well, I would like to suggest that the same is true for gym attire.
I am not what you’d call a big fan of exercise. I lack some pretty elemental hand-eye coordination, making the catching and throwing while running portions of sports implausible. Plus, I am in no way competitive. I could seriously care less if I win or lose on the field. In fact, I used to try my hardest to be picked last for teams in gym, and then wished with all my might to be positioned somewhere on the fringe of the game or deep in the outfield.
Not every sport has an outfield in which to hide. But, they do all have uniforms. Standard outfits, some basics for what to wear while playing (or pretending to play) said game. And so, for me to feel competent and comfortable while at spinning class or in yoga, I need to dress the part. Much like a secretary who hopes someday to have the corner office, I dress for the back row of spin class like I’m someday going to be front and center.
This requires a few pairs of basic (but cute!) leggings and tanks that I can mix and match and grab and go. Having a uniform like this makes my mornings stress-free and makes me feel athletic, even though I’m totally not. In my exercise clothes, I feel like people look at me and say, “Oh, she’s so fit! Look at Julie going off to spin class again.” What they don’t know is that, sometimes, I drive right from spin to my favorite bakery.
They may notice, however, that I do not wear the newest, latest, couture fashion tank, nor do I wear bright leggings or clothing studded with bling. This kind of adorable hipness I reserve for the true athletes. They’ve earned it, what with their triceps and biceps and sculpted shoulders, shoulders that I’m not sure I even have under all the layers of croissant. Part of me worries about over-dressing for the part, calling attention to my weaknesses (spinning really fast while standing) instead of my strengths (rocking out on a hill and singing along with the tunes). When I lack the skills, I’d rather be doing it in a basic (but cute!) uniform that doesn’t attract too much attention.
So, to answer your question honestly, Amy, yes. You require an outfit. Embrace it. Own it. Do it. It’s okay. I’ll help you pick it out, if you’d like. Then you’ll have the right gear for the occasion, and it will be one less thing to worry about. And then we can hit the gym together in style.
Today I can do four push-ups. Tomorrow, after I put on my Lululemon yoga pants, I can most certainly imagine myself doing five.
Let’s pause. For instructional purposes, I’m going to ask you to guess the end of her sentence. Remember, it began with “I don’t.” Was Amy’s predicate:
a) like sweating profusely while pop music pounds in my inner ear, or
b) enjoy riding a stationary bike to nowhere, or
c) have the right outfit.
If you guessed c, then this is the article for you.
Press play.
“Not true!” I said. “You don’t need an outfit. You just need leggings.” I inspected Amy’s legs, which were already clad in tight black lycra. “Like those! You’re good to go.”
And then I invited her to join me any time she wanted to try a class.
We waved goodbye. I watched her go, a thought bubble developing in the empty air between us.
Who was I kidding? Of course she needed an outfit.
Here’s why. A few years ago, I was struggling to complete my doctoral dissertation. It was a bitch. I had just received feedback on a round of revisions that I felt were satisfactory; my doctoral committee disagreed. I had to re-write about 100 pages of text and I didn’t know if I had the mental or physical endurance to do it. I didn’t even know if I cared anymore about finishing my degree. So I did what any self-respecting 38 year old woman would do in such a situation: I scream-cried to my mom on my cell phone about it after dropping off my children at school, with a narrative that went something like this: “I-can’t-won’t-do-this-anymore-hate-them-me-you-Brett-all-suck-getting-fat-want-to-give-up-so-mean!” I hung up on her mid-panic attack and drove around for a while.
Then I went to the gym.
I took a deep breath and entered a 9:30 stretch and strength class, grabbing some 2-pound weights. I selected a spot on the carpet that seemed like a good location based on my ability; just left of center from the middle of the square room. And then I caught a look at my reflection, and panicked all over again.
When my friend Sloan entered the class, I took one look at her and burst into fresh tears.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, her sharp blue eyes showing concern. She came and sat next to me.
I told her about the failed attempt to complete my dissertation. “And,” I added, gaining momentum, “everyone in this class is wearing LONG pants and I have on these wide, weird, CROPPED ones!”
“Oh,” she said softly, her consoling eyes gazing around the room. “That’s true.”
But then Sloan gave me some wise advice: It was a problem that was easily fixed. All I had to do was to buy a nice, new pair of long, lean yoga pants. I’d feel better the next time I came to class because I’d blend in. The dissertation? She was sorry, but her advice couldn’t really help me with that.
You may be rolling your eyes at me now, thinking that I’m only going skin deep to believe – and, further, to admit in the newspaper to believing – that what I wear to a stretch class or what my friend Amy (or anyone else for that matter) wears to a spin class (or any other venue, for that matter) matters.
But it does.
We all know that old adage to “dress for success,” which has certain connotations for the business world. In our careers, we have been told to dress more like the part we want to be (boss, leader, corporate somebody) instead of the part we really are (harried mom, student, corporate nobody). Put on a power suit and feel powerful, the advice goes. Well, I would like to suggest that the same is true for gym attire.
I am not what you’d call a big fan of exercise. I lack some pretty elemental hand-eye coordination, making the catching and throwing while running portions of sports implausible. Plus, I am in no way competitive. I could seriously care less if I win or lose on the field. In fact, I used to try my hardest to be picked last for teams in gym, and then wished with all my might to be positioned somewhere on the fringe of the game or deep in the outfield.
Not every sport has an outfield in which to hide. But, they do all have uniforms. Standard outfits, some basics for what to wear while playing (or pretending to play) said game. And so, for me to feel competent and comfortable while at spinning class or in yoga, I need to dress the part. Much like a secretary who hopes someday to have the corner office, I dress for the back row of spin class like I’m someday going to be front and center.
This requires a few pairs of basic (but cute!) leggings and tanks that I can mix and match and grab and go. Having a uniform like this makes my mornings stress-free and makes me feel athletic, even though I’m totally not. In my exercise clothes, I feel like people look at me and say, “Oh, she’s so fit! Look at Julie going off to spin class again.” What they don’t know is that, sometimes, I drive right from spin to my favorite bakery.
They may notice, however, that I do not wear the newest, latest, couture fashion tank, nor do I wear bright leggings or clothing studded with bling. This kind of adorable hipness I reserve for the true athletes. They’ve earned it, what with their triceps and biceps and sculpted shoulders, shoulders that I’m not sure I even have under all the layers of croissant. Part of me worries about over-dressing for the part, calling attention to my weaknesses (spinning really fast while standing) instead of my strengths (rocking out on a hill and singing along with the tunes). When I lack the skills, I’d rather be doing it in a basic (but cute!) uniform that doesn’t attract too much attention.
So, to answer your question honestly, Amy, yes. You require an outfit. Embrace it. Own it. Do it. It’s okay. I’ll help you pick it out, if you’d like. Then you’ll have the right gear for the occasion, and it will be one less thing to worry about. And then we can hit the gym together in style.
Today I can do four push-ups. Tomorrow, after I put on my Lululemon yoga pants, I can most certainly imagine myself doing five.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Battle Hymn of the Mouse Mother
A lot of people wonder how it is that Jewish parents raise such stereotypically successful kids. They wonder what these parents do to produce so many doctors and lawyers, so many rabbis and Hollywood producers, one Itzhak Perlman and the occasional Madoff. They want to know what it’s like inside the suburban minivan of a Mouse mother’s world, to see whether they, too, could drive a perfectly normal child into years of psychotherapy.
Well, I am here to say that they can, because I am doing it.
People see me out with my daughter in public and comment at how well behaved I am, even as she is brow-beating me and publicly humiliating me. So many people wonder why, when my children call me stupid, I am able to remain calm and not smack them upside the head. They say, Mouse mother, how can I emit calm like you, even while raising independently-spirited, self-directed, emotionally strong children? How is it that your children are bright even though you got a D in 8th grade Latin and attended a college known more for its fraternity system than for academic rigor? Mouse mother, please, they beg, tell us your secrets. And so, after generations of protected silence, I am here to squeal the truth.
With a little practice, you, too, can be a Mouse mother like me.
Not sure why you’d want to, but that’s for another memoir with a high six-figure advance entirely.
Anyway! Back to my battle hymn, which is really much more of a whine.
Anyone can be a Mouse mother; you need not be Jewish to lack Tiger skills. So, please understand that for legal purposes, I’m using the term “Jewish mother” loosely. So loosely, in fact, that when I say “Jewish Mother,” I mean absolutely anyone except for Amy Chua.
Here are the things that I, as a liberal Jewish mother have allowed my children to do and/or done for them:
• Skip 2 months of Hebrew school in order to perform in a local performance of The Nutcracker
• Bribe them to play piano, practice the violin, make their beds, brush their teeth, and to be nice to me and others – oh, what
the heck, let’s just say “bribe them constantly” and leave it at that
• Talk them out of playing any and all contact sports for fear of them breaking their noses
• Talk them out of playing any sports that involve running because of the funny way they run
• Allow them to watch no less than 2 hours of television a day and to not let them stop until they had both committed to
memory a complete episode of iCarly
• Suck their thumb until the age of 7 and/or carry around a dirty, beloved shmatte like Linus from The Peanuts
• Write notes to a teacher excusing their inability to do homework because American Idol was on
• Choose all their own extracurricular activities, including fencing, Lego robotics, and a class in which my 5-year-old daughter was taught how to sing karaoke like a drunken idiot at a bar.
Now I know some of these seem unconventional, but if your goal is to have a human child like mine, as opposed to an automaton, for example, then you’d do well by following my example of mediocrity and a little dose of who-gives-a-hoot.
To prove that this type of parenting can achieve the desired results, I would now like to share a few success stories.
A Tiger mother might spend two complete chapters of her memoir explaining how to get one’s children to perform at Carnegie Hall, or at the very least, how to obtain an audition to the Pre-College program at Julliard. But a Jewish mother can boil the answer to that down for you in a few simple words: by kicking and screaming. As a Mouse mother, I prefer to regale you with impressive stories of just the opposite, and so I shall call this instructional section of my writing “How To Ensure That Your Child Never Achieves Much of Anything in The Arts.”
I recently took my daughter, Zoe, for a trial class at a ballet studio where some of her friends were enrolled. After the class, we discussed what she thought about it and tried to decide together whether or not she would be signing up. Being a Mouse mother, I didn’t really care either way. The signature move of the Mouse mother is the shrug, which I did repeatedly as we spoke. I wrote down our conversation verbatim because I thought it was so emblematic of our mother-child dynamic.
Me: So, what did you think of this ballet class?
Zoe: I didn’t see any machines there.
Me: Huh?
Zoe: You remember that place where Andrew took a class once? They had candy and drink machines.
Me: Oh.
Zoe: And ice cream. We used to eat ice cream before his class.
Me: You mean, that hip-hop class on Central Avenue?
Zoe: Yes! And they had stuffed animals to buy and also dance clothes. And a TV to watch.
Me: Uh-huh.
Zoe: That’s the kind of dance class I want to take.
It’s clear to any Jewish mother out there that this girl understands her culture. Zoe knows that professional ballet is just not in her future, so why even try? How smart of her to know that, come puberty, her Polish genes will betray her, ensuring a body so low to the ground that it’s better constructed for potato farming than arabesquing. The closest she will ever come to doing a split is with her Barbie doll’s legs. And that’s so totally cool with her, as long as she can buy stuff and enjoy snacks.
It was one of the proudest moments of my life.
My firstborn, Andrew, proved to be another story entirely. He actually seemed to have some drive beyond the candy-and-shopping aspects of the theater. In fact, he tried out for and was given the coveted role of Fritz in last winter’s production of The Nutcracker at SUNY Purchase. Now, a Tiger mother would have spent weeks, days, and hours preparing her child for such an audition and would then feign modesty and humility but secretly take credit for the child’s success when he did well. But not me. I merely got Andrew a nice haircut and told him to smile a lot in front of the choreographers. Like the Mouse mother I am, I believe a nice Jewish boy with dimples can get ahead in this world merely by knowing his left from his right and by following his own interests.
Seeing that her child has a passion and talent for something of worth, a Tiger mother would certainly push and squeeze and prod and threaten to the point that a) the child got really freaking amazing at the skill and b) the child really hated both the activity and the Tiger mother. Where a Tiger mother values perfection, a Mouse mother values diversification above all else. Why stick to just one thing and become the best at it when you can try so many fun activities and be mediocre at all of them? Which is why, once Nutcracker season had passed, I did not take Andrew to The New York City Ballet. Instead, I took him straight to rec basketball.
Call me naïve, but so far, this renegade technique really seems to be working. And by “working,” I mean its produced children who, at the ages of 8 and 5, are pretty happy doing their job…of being kids.
Well, I am here to say that they can, because I am doing it.
People see me out with my daughter in public and comment at how well behaved I am, even as she is brow-beating me and publicly humiliating me. So many people wonder why, when my children call me stupid, I am able to remain calm and not smack them upside the head. They say, Mouse mother, how can I emit calm like you, even while raising independently-spirited, self-directed, emotionally strong children? How is it that your children are bright even though you got a D in 8th grade Latin and attended a college known more for its fraternity system than for academic rigor? Mouse mother, please, they beg, tell us your secrets. And so, after generations of protected silence, I am here to squeal the truth.
With a little practice, you, too, can be a Mouse mother like me.
Not sure why you’d want to, but that’s for another memoir with a high six-figure advance entirely.
Anyway! Back to my battle hymn, which is really much more of a whine.
Anyone can be a Mouse mother; you need not be Jewish to lack Tiger skills. So, please understand that for legal purposes, I’m using the term “Jewish mother” loosely. So loosely, in fact, that when I say “Jewish Mother,” I mean absolutely anyone except for Amy Chua.
Here are the things that I, as a liberal Jewish mother have allowed my children to do and/or done for them:
• Skip 2 months of Hebrew school in order to perform in a local performance of The Nutcracker
• Bribe them to play piano, practice the violin, make their beds, brush their teeth, and to be nice to me and others – oh, what
the heck, let’s just say “bribe them constantly” and leave it at that
• Talk them out of playing any and all contact sports for fear of them breaking their noses
• Talk them out of playing any sports that involve running because of the funny way they run
• Allow them to watch no less than 2 hours of television a day and to not let them stop until they had both committed to
memory a complete episode of iCarly
• Suck their thumb until the age of 7 and/or carry around a dirty, beloved shmatte like Linus from The Peanuts
• Write notes to a teacher excusing their inability to do homework because American Idol was on
• Choose all their own extracurricular activities, including fencing, Lego robotics, and a class in which my 5-year-old daughter was taught how to sing karaoke like a drunken idiot at a bar.
Now I know some of these seem unconventional, but if your goal is to have a human child like mine, as opposed to an automaton, for example, then you’d do well by following my example of mediocrity and a little dose of who-gives-a-hoot.
To prove that this type of parenting can achieve the desired results, I would now like to share a few success stories.
A Tiger mother might spend two complete chapters of her memoir explaining how to get one’s children to perform at Carnegie Hall, or at the very least, how to obtain an audition to the Pre-College program at Julliard. But a Jewish mother can boil the answer to that down for you in a few simple words: by kicking and screaming. As a Mouse mother, I prefer to regale you with impressive stories of just the opposite, and so I shall call this instructional section of my writing “How To Ensure That Your Child Never Achieves Much of Anything in The Arts.”
I recently took my daughter, Zoe, for a trial class at a ballet studio where some of her friends were enrolled. After the class, we discussed what she thought about it and tried to decide together whether or not she would be signing up. Being a Mouse mother, I didn’t really care either way. The signature move of the Mouse mother is the shrug, which I did repeatedly as we spoke. I wrote down our conversation verbatim because I thought it was so emblematic of our mother-child dynamic.
Me: So, what did you think of this ballet class?
Zoe: I didn’t see any machines there.
Me: Huh?
Zoe: You remember that place where Andrew took a class once? They had candy and drink machines.
Me: Oh.
Zoe: And ice cream. We used to eat ice cream before his class.
Me: You mean, that hip-hop class on Central Avenue?
Zoe: Yes! And they had stuffed animals to buy and also dance clothes. And a TV to watch.
Me: Uh-huh.
Zoe: That’s the kind of dance class I want to take.
It’s clear to any Jewish mother out there that this girl understands her culture. Zoe knows that professional ballet is just not in her future, so why even try? How smart of her to know that, come puberty, her Polish genes will betray her, ensuring a body so low to the ground that it’s better constructed for potato farming than arabesquing. The closest she will ever come to doing a split is with her Barbie doll’s legs. And that’s so totally cool with her, as long as she can buy stuff and enjoy snacks.
It was one of the proudest moments of my life.
My firstborn, Andrew, proved to be another story entirely. He actually seemed to have some drive beyond the candy-and-shopping aspects of the theater. In fact, he tried out for and was given the coveted role of Fritz in last winter’s production of The Nutcracker at SUNY Purchase. Now, a Tiger mother would have spent weeks, days, and hours preparing her child for such an audition and would then feign modesty and humility but secretly take credit for the child’s success when he did well. But not me. I merely got Andrew a nice haircut and told him to smile a lot in front of the choreographers. Like the Mouse mother I am, I believe a nice Jewish boy with dimples can get ahead in this world merely by knowing his left from his right and by following his own interests.
Seeing that her child has a passion and talent for something of worth, a Tiger mother would certainly push and squeeze and prod and threaten to the point that a) the child got really freaking amazing at the skill and b) the child really hated both the activity and the Tiger mother. Where a Tiger mother values perfection, a Mouse mother values diversification above all else. Why stick to just one thing and become the best at it when you can try so many fun activities and be mediocre at all of them? Which is why, once Nutcracker season had passed, I did not take Andrew to The New York City Ballet. Instead, I took him straight to rec basketball.
Call me naïve, but so far, this renegade technique really seems to be working. And by “working,” I mean its produced children who, at the ages of 8 and 5, are pretty happy doing their job…of being kids.
Friday, February 11, 2011
How Easy is That?
The other day, I ran into my friend Andie at the supermarket. I always run into Andie at the supermarket. “So, what’s up?” She asked as our carts kissed hello. We paused to chat at our favorite hangout, halfway between the lightbulbs and the refrigerated pasta and basically in the way of anyone trying to pass by.
“Nothing,” I said, scanning my shopping list.
“Ooo! You made a list. You’re so good.”
I shrugged. “Not usually, but tonight I’m actually cooking!” I said, pleased with my own initiative. “I told Brett that, every week,
I’m going to try a different recipe from this new cookbook I got. These are the ingredients I need.”
She asked what the cookbook was, and I told her: Ina Garten’s How Easy is That? “Only, I already tried one of the recipes and, I gotta say, it wasn’t that easy.”
“I smell a column!” She sang, smiling and pushing her cart towards the dairy aisle.
And so, here we are again. You and me and a random story from my life that’s just begging to be told.
And we have Andie to thank.
Just about a year ago, Andie and I decided that it would be fun to flex our culinary muscles together, and so we signed up for a baking class through the Scarsdale Adult School.
Now, neither one of us is what you’d call a baker. Shoppers, yes. Eaters, perhaps. Fans of reality television, definitely. But bakers? Not so much. Luckily, that first class called for a good deal of watching and a bit of eating. Not to mention the potential for shopping.
“You see these lovely cookies?” The instructor asked, showing off several iterations of the finished product. “With this one dough, you will be able to create a few different cookies. All you need are linzer cutouts – both fluted and plain, in a variety of sizes -- as well as several dowels from the hardware store.”
Andie and I nodded. We both wrote buy cookie cutouts and dowels on the back of our recipe sheets.
“In order to ensure that your ingredients are measured correctly, you really should use a food scale,” the instructor advised while measuring the butter.
Andie and I nodded. We both wrote “buy food scale” underneath the other items.
“You can use any kind of flour and any kind of raspberry jam, but I really like the ones from Fairway the best.”
Andie and I nodded and wrote “go to Fairway for best flour and jam” under the food scale.
This is about the point in the class when my head started to hurt.
“Now, once you’ve attached the correct paddle to your mixer, you really have to let the dough go for a good three minutes.”
“Mixer?” Andie gasped.
“You don’t have a mixer?” I whispered under the hum of the mixer.
“NO!” She barked. “Why would I have a mixer?”
“Because we’re baking!” I snapped back.
“So, fine, I’ll get a mixer!” She declared.
“I think I have a coupon for Chef Central,” I said, trying to placate her.
“Yeah, yeah,” she sighed, just as the teacher told us what kind of baking sheets, sieve, and parchment paper we needed.
“Bring your cookies in next week so that I can taste them and make you feel bad in front of everyone if they suck,” the teacher said.
Fine. He didn’t say that.
But we all knew that’s what he meant by saying there would be a taste test.
Now Andie might not be much of a baker, but she has what I’d call a nice competitive spirit, and so, once she had bought the requisite equipment and ingredients, she went to work preparing the perfect cookie.
I got a call from her two nights before we were to present our homework to the class. “The first batch was too flaky,” She said. “So were the next three. They all taste fine, but I can’t bring them in looking like this. I’m making another batch.”
I, preferring to write about my experiences rather than perfect them, decided that one mediocre bunch was more than sufficient. I saved four very good-ish cookies in a plastic container and let my kids have the rest.
Then I went over to Andie’s and helped her get rid of all that imperfect evidence.
The classes continued. We graduated from cookies and made our way to cakes. The first was a classic seven-layer cake, which required its own treasure-hunt shopping list, including a certain kind of foreign cocoa powder, an offset spatula, and a perfectly sized cardboard box top with which to measure the layers.
Andie had missed the class pertaining to the assemblage of said cake and thus decided to forego any attempt of accomplishing the task. We both agreed that she had gone above and beyond for the cookies and that she could take a bye for cake week.
I, however, was kind of looking forward to the assignment. I read over the two pages of single-spaced directions and my hand-written additional tips scribbled in the margins, getting myself prepared until I was what you might call stoked. Stoked for seven layers.
I put on my (new, cute, French) apron and began measuring. A few hours later, I was done. I had ganashed the ganache until it shined like silken silk. I had cut off the uneven parts so that the cake was not leaning like the tower of Pisa. I had so totally and completely dominated this cake.
How I wish you had seen it! How I wish you had tasted it! It was delish. It was pretty.
And, for some reason, it had only six layers.
It was my almost perfect six-layer seven-layer cake.
Not sure how that happened, thinking back. But when I cut into it that night, Brett and I cocked our heads sideways and paused. Then we counted and recounted, tasted and re-tasted until we were sure: this cake was short one layer.
Brett tried to cheer me up. “Have you ever counted the layers on a seven layer cake before?” He asked. “Just to make sure they are all there?”
“Huh.”
“Maybe they all have six layers!” He reasoned. “Maybe the seventh is like a phantom layer, a tall-tale layer, the whale that got away layer. Maybe it just doesn’t exist.”
“Or, maybe,” I added, “When I bring it to class, I can tell the teacher that you and I ate the seventh layer!”
“Like the way Andrew eats only the green layer from the rainbow cookies.”
“Right!”
Thanks to my husband, I was all set to completely lie my way through the next session of class, only a snowstorm came along and allowed me to miss the class for real.
And so that was pretty much the last time I baked.
Because now, when I feel the need for linzers or any amount of layers, I just head to my favorite bakery.
In less than 10 minutes, I am face-to-face with a plethora of perfect cakes and cookies smiling at me from behind a glass display case. And in less than 11 minutes, I am eating them.
So, I ask you, Scarsdale, how easy is that?
“Nothing,” I said, scanning my shopping list.
“Ooo! You made a list. You’re so good.”
I shrugged. “Not usually, but tonight I’m actually cooking!” I said, pleased with my own initiative. “I told Brett that, every week,
I’m going to try a different recipe from this new cookbook I got. These are the ingredients I need.”
She asked what the cookbook was, and I told her: Ina Garten’s How Easy is That? “Only, I already tried one of the recipes and, I gotta say, it wasn’t that easy.”
“I smell a column!” She sang, smiling and pushing her cart towards the dairy aisle.
And so, here we are again. You and me and a random story from my life that’s just begging to be told.
And we have Andie to thank.
Just about a year ago, Andie and I decided that it would be fun to flex our culinary muscles together, and so we signed up for a baking class through the Scarsdale Adult School.
Now, neither one of us is what you’d call a baker. Shoppers, yes. Eaters, perhaps. Fans of reality television, definitely. But bakers? Not so much. Luckily, that first class called for a good deal of watching and a bit of eating. Not to mention the potential for shopping.
“You see these lovely cookies?” The instructor asked, showing off several iterations of the finished product. “With this one dough, you will be able to create a few different cookies. All you need are linzer cutouts – both fluted and plain, in a variety of sizes -- as well as several dowels from the hardware store.”
Andie and I nodded. We both wrote buy cookie cutouts and dowels on the back of our recipe sheets.
“In order to ensure that your ingredients are measured correctly, you really should use a food scale,” the instructor advised while measuring the butter.
Andie and I nodded. We both wrote “buy food scale” underneath the other items.
“You can use any kind of flour and any kind of raspberry jam, but I really like the ones from Fairway the best.”
Andie and I nodded and wrote “go to Fairway for best flour and jam” under the food scale.
This is about the point in the class when my head started to hurt.
“Now, once you’ve attached the correct paddle to your mixer, you really have to let the dough go for a good three minutes.”
“Mixer?” Andie gasped.
“You don’t have a mixer?” I whispered under the hum of the mixer.
“NO!” She barked. “Why would I have a mixer?”
“Because we’re baking!” I snapped back.
“So, fine, I’ll get a mixer!” She declared.
“I think I have a coupon for Chef Central,” I said, trying to placate her.
“Yeah, yeah,” she sighed, just as the teacher told us what kind of baking sheets, sieve, and parchment paper we needed.
“Bring your cookies in next week so that I can taste them and make you feel bad in front of everyone if they suck,” the teacher said.
Fine. He didn’t say that.
But we all knew that’s what he meant by saying there would be a taste test.
Now Andie might not be much of a baker, but she has what I’d call a nice competitive spirit, and so, once she had bought the requisite equipment and ingredients, she went to work preparing the perfect cookie.
I got a call from her two nights before we were to present our homework to the class. “The first batch was too flaky,” She said. “So were the next three. They all taste fine, but I can’t bring them in looking like this. I’m making another batch.”
I, preferring to write about my experiences rather than perfect them, decided that one mediocre bunch was more than sufficient. I saved four very good-ish cookies in a plastic container and let my kids have the rest.
Then I went over to Andie’s and helped her get rid of all that imperfect evidence.
The classes continued. We graduated from cookies and made our way to cakes. The first was a classic seven-layer cake, which required its own treasure-hunt shopping list, including a certain kind of foreign cocoa powder, an offset spatula, and a perfectly sized cardboard box top with which to measure the layers.
Andie had missed the class pertaining to the assemblage of said cake and thus decided to forego any attempt of accomplishing the task. We both agreed that she had gone above and beyond for the cookies and that she could take a bye for cake week.
I, however, was kind of looking forward to the assignment. I read over the two pages of single-spaced directions and my hand-written additional tips scribbled in the margins, getting myself prepared until I was what you might call stoked. Stoked for seven layers.
I put on my (new, cute, French) apron and began measuring. A few hours later, I was done. I had ganashed the ganache until it shined like silken silk. I had cut off the uneven parts so that the cake was not leaning like the tower of Pisa. I had so totally and completely dominated this cake.
How I wish you had seen it! How I wish you had tasted it! It was delish. It was pretty.
And, for some reason, it had only six layers.
It was my almost perfect six-layer seven-layer cake.
Not sure how that happened, thinking back. But when I cut into it that night, Brett and I cocked our heads sideways and paused. Then we counted and recounted, tasted and re-tasted until we were sure: this cake was short one layer.
Brett tried to cheer me up. “Have you ever counted the layers on a seven layer cake before?” He asked. “Just to make sure they are all there?”
“Huh.”
“Maybe they all have six layers!” He reasoned. “Maybe the seventh is like a phantom layer, a tall-tale layer, the whale that got away layer. Maybe it just doesn’t exist.”
“Or, maybe,” I added, “When I bring it to class, I can tell the teacher that you and I ate the seventh layer!”
“Like the way Andrew eats only the green layer from the rainbow cookies.”
“Right!”
Thanks to my husband, I was all set to completely lie my way through the next session of class, only a snowstorm came along and allowed me to miss the class for real.
And so that was pretty much the last time I baked.
Because now, when I feel the need for linzers or any amount of layers, I just head to my favorite bakery.
In less than 10 minutes, I am face-to-face with a plethora of perfect cakes and cookies smiling at me from behind a glass display case. And in less than 11 minutes, I am eating them.
So, I ask you, Scarsdale, how easy is that?
Friday, November 26, 2010
You Win Some, You Lose Some
I’m off to another charity benefit. Want to join me?
Here’s the deal. It’s a Saturday night. I’ve blown my hair dry so that it looks almost as shiny and straight as the locks of my friends who have had Keratin or Brazilian blow out treatments. I remind myself that I should just get a salon blow dry for “special” nights out and then feel ridiculous for caring so much about my hair.
I deliberate what to wear and end up in something black. Black with Spanx.
Next, I apply mascara and eye liner, which I find irritating, and so, by the time the babysitter and the pizza arrive, it looks like I have been crying and/or have a black eye.
I notice that it’s cold outside. And so very, very dark for only 6:00.
I contemplate putting on my robe and Ugg slippers and climbing into bed with my Kindle.
But, no! The Cause needs me!
The Cause needs my husband, Brett! (Actually, the Cause definitely does not need Brett. But more about that later.)
Zoom ahead an hour or so. I’m out with my friends. I’ve had a few glasses of wine by now and have stuffed several unsatisfyingly small hors d’ouvers into my mouth. Although I participate in the buzz and hum of conversation around me, I am actually a vulture, continuously scanning the room for the next tray of bite-sized morsels to emerge from the kitchen. When I see a jacketed waiter come near, I pounce like a grown-up barbarian version of Cookie Monster, loading up on tiny tuna tartare. I eat and eat, but no matter how many trays I accost, I’m still starving.
Once I’ve made the rounds and said hello to most of the Important People at the event, it’s time to get down to business. It’s time to bid on the silent auction items. Or, as I like to say, it’s time to shop competitively for the Cause.
The world disappears as I scan the items up for sale and imagine how much I need them. Before this evening, indeed, right up until this very moment, I didn’t know I needed these things. But now, I do. I very much do. Like, for example, the two-hour DJ party, complete with mirrorball. I need that. And, then there’s the catered dinner for 10, for which a chef comes into your home and cooks a gourmet meal in your kitchen and then serves it to you and your friends in your own dining room. I scan the room and decide which couples I’d invite, were I to win this item tonight. Then I scribble my assigned bidding number under some others, upping the big by $50, because, who wouldn’t want to win that? And donate the money to charity? I leave my post for a moment to tell everyone the good news: I’m bidding on a party – for us! With a catered dinner and a DJ! Everyone agrees: I’m awesome. I must win, win, win.
But I’ve only seen, like, half the items. I quickly forego more socializing to return to the Cause, pen in hand. There’s a session with a photographer, and I think, when was the last time I had professional pictures taken of my kids? And since the answer is “before Zoe was born,” I scribble my number there too. I mean, I’m quite delinquent as a mother to not have professional photos of both of my offspring, right?
Oooo. A wine tasting. That would go nicely with the DJ and the dinner party.
Then there are several items that fall into the “Duh” category, as in “Duh, you’d be stupid not to bid on me since you use me anyway.” Camp tuition, gift certificates to local merchants, and Soul Cycle classes, for example. Sign me up.
Once I’ve gone the full length of the tables and made my interests known, it’s time to start looping back and checking on the status of my bids. I play a little game with bidder number 37, clearly another spinning fanatic, as we dance the Tango of the bidding war. I add $20, she adds $20. I add $20 more, she pulls a bold move an adds $40. I am on the verge of being outbid, and eventually, I am. I concede defeat. Which is fine. You win some, you lose some.
I mean, it’s fine as long as I win the DJ, that is.
My friend Sloan wants me to win the DJ too. She has an inventive strategy. “I’m going to just sit on the bidding sheet, so no one sees it,” she says, plunking her butt down on the table.
“Move on, people, there’s nothing to see here,” she tells the crowd. Crossing one leg over the other, Sloan’s black stiletto booties dare anyone to get too close to my DJ.
Eventually, the evening ends, and I collect the spoils of my war for the Cause.
“Look!” I enthuse to Brett at the end of the evening. “We won some great stuff!”
My husband is not impressed.
“We didn’t need any of it.” He says. Always so reasonable. Always so practical. “Plus, did you check the dates on any of these things?”
“No.” I say, rolling my eyes. “It’s for charity.” My husband is such a buzzkill.
But then I sneak a peek at my items when Brett isn’t looking. I discover that the DJ party is only good on weekdays and expires in March, which means I have to use it in the winter. Which means indoors. Oh well, I think, I’ll move the couch. And the coffee table. And the rug.
Only, where will I move these things to? And, if I don’t have a couch, where will people sit when they are not dancing under my new mirrorball?
Then again, maybe there will be no people sitting or dancing since I’ll be having my party on a Tuesday in January and who wants to attend something awful like that?
Luckily, the DJ company goes out of business the following week and I don’t have to worry about the party specifics at all.
Other flaws with my “winning” items reveal themselves more slowly. I do have the dinner party for 10, only the hot soup is served lukewarm and the chewy steak even lukewarmier. The wine tasting is fun. Just ask the sommelier who came with the prize; he’s so wasted that I can’t get him to stop a) talking incoherently and b) chugging all my best bottles.
The photo session goes well, but when it comes time to view the shots, the company will only show us 20 of the estimated 3000 images taken. Brett, a designer, would like to view them all. The photography salesman tells us he’s sorry, but that’s just not possible since they deleted them. I quickly usher my kids out the door as Daddy Talks with Angry Language and a Loud Voice to the manager of the photography studio.
The only picture I have from that experience is the last image of Brett on that day, frozen permanently in my mind’s eye.
“No more bidding,” he huffs, getting into the car and buckling his seat with more hostility than necessary. “Promise me. Ever. On anything.”
And just like that, I am done.
Like Mike Tyson biting Evander Holyfield’s ear, I have gone too far for my Cause. And now, due to my enthusiasm, I have paid the price. I have been kicked out, banned from fighting the good fight, never again allowed to participate in a sport I love.
Good thing there are other ways to support my favorite causes. Like online pledging. And bake sales. And holiday boutiques.
What? That’s totally different than bidding at an auction. Just ask Brett.
(Or better yet: don’t.)
Here’s the deal. It’s a Saturday night. I’ve blown my hair dry so that it looks almost as shiny and straight as the locks of my friends who have had Keratin or Brazilian blow out treatments. I remind myself that I should just get a salon blow dry for “special” nights out and then feel ridiculous for caring so much about my hair.
I deliberate what to wear and end up in something black. Black with Spanx.
Next, I apply mascara and eye liner, which I find irritating, and so, by the time the babysitter and the pizza arrive, it looks like I have been crying and/or have a black eye.
I notice that it’s cold outside. And so very, very dark for only 6:00.
I contemplate putting on my robe and Ugg slippers and climbing into bed with my Kindle.
But, no! The Cause needs me!
The Cause needs my husband, Brett! (Actually, the Cause definitely does not need Brett. But more about that later.)
Zoom ahead an hour or so. I’m out with my friends. I’ve had a few glasses of wine by now and have stuffed several unsatisfyingly small hors d’ouvers into my mouth. Although I participate in the buzz and hum of conversation around me, I am actually a vulture, continuously scanning the room for the next tray of bite-sized morsels to emerge from the kitchen. When I see a jacketed waiter come near, I pounce like a grown-up barbarian version of Cookie Monster, loading up on tiny tuna tartare. I eat and eat, but no matter how many trays I accost, I’m still starving.
Once I’ve made the rounds and said hello to most of the Important People at the event, it’s time to get down to business. It’s time to bid on the silent auction items. Or, as I like to say, it’s time to shop competitively for the Cause.
The world disappears as I scan the items up for sale and imagine how much I need them. Before this evening, indeed, right up until this very moment, I didn’t know I needed these things. But now, I do. I very much do. Like, for example, the two-hour DJ party, complete with mirrorball. I need that. And, then there’s the catered dinner for 10, for which a chef comes into your home and cooks a gourmet meal in your kitchen and then serves it to you and your friends in your own dining room. I scan the room and decide which couples I’d invite, were I to win this item tonight. Then I scribble my assigned bidding number under some others, upping the big by $50, because, who wouldn’t want to win that? And donate the money to charity? I leave my post for a moment to tell everyone the good news: I’m bidding on a party – for us! With a catered dinner and a DJ! Everyone agrees: I’m awesome. I must win, win, win.
But I’ve only seen, like, half the items. I quickly forego more socializing to return to the Cause, pen in hand. There’s a session with a photographer, and I think, when was the last time I had professional pictures taken of my kids? And since the answer is “before Zoe was born,” I scribble my number there too. I mean, I’m quite delinquent as a mother to not have professional photos of both of my offspring, right?
Oooo. A wine tasting. That would go nicely with the DJ and the dinner party.
Then there are several items that fall into the “Duh” category, as in “Duh, you’d be stupid not to bid on me since you use me anyway.” Camp tuition, gift certificates to local merchants, and Soul Cycle classes, for example. Sign me up.
Once I’ve gone the full length of the tables and made my interests known, it’s time to start looping back and checking on the status of my bids. I play a little game with bidder number 37, clearly another spinning fanatic, as we dance the Tango of the bidding war. I add $20, she adds $20. I add $20 more, she pulls a bold move an adds $40. I am on the verge of being outbid, and eventually, I am. I concede defeat. Which is fine. You win some, you lose some.
I mean, it’s fine as long as I win the DJ, that is.
My friend Sloan wants me to win the DJ too. She has an inventive strategy. “I’m going to just sit on the bidding sheet, so no one sees it,” she says, plunking her butt down on the table.
“Move on, people, there’s nothing to see here,” she tells the crowd. Crossing one leg over the other, Sloan’s black stiletto booties dare anyone to get too close to my DJ.
Eventually, the evening ends, and I collect the spoils of my war for the Cause.
“Look!” I enthuse to Brett at the end of the evening. “We won some great stuff!”
My husband is not impressed.
“We didn’t need any of it.” He says. Always so reasonable. Always so practical. “Plus, did you check the dates on any of these things?”
“No.” I say, rolling my eyes. “It’s for charity.” My husband is such a buzzkill.
But then I sneak a peek at my items when Brett isn’t looking. I discover that the DJ party is only good on weekdays and expires in March, which means I have to use it in the winter. Which means indoors. Oh well, I think, I’ll move the couch. And the coffee table. And the rug.
Only, where will I move these things to? And, if I don’t have a couch, where will people sit when they are not dancing under my new mirrorball?
Then again, maybe there will be no people sitting or dancing since I’ll be having my party on a Tuesday in January and who wants to attend something awful like that?
Luckily, the DJ company goes out of business the following week and I don’t have to worry about the party specifics at all.
Other flaws with my “winning” items reveal themselves more slowly. I do have the dinner party for 10, only the hot soup is served lukewarm and the chewy steak even lukewarmier. The wine tasting is fun. Just ask the sommelier who came with the prize; he’s so wasted that I can’t get him to stop a) talking incoherently and b) chugging all my best bottles.
The photo session goes well, but when it comes time to view the shots, the company will only show us 20 of the estimated 3000 images taken. Brett, a designer, would like to view them all. The photography salesman tells us he’s sorry, but that’s just not possible since they deleted them. I quickly usher my kids out the door as Daddy Talks with Angry Language and a Loud Voice to the manager of the photography studio.
The only picture I have from that experience is the last image of Brett on that day, frozen permanently in my mind’s eye.
“No more bidding,” he huffs, getting into the car and buckling his seat with more hostility than necessary. “Promise me. Ever. On anything.”
And just like that, I am done.
Like Mike Tyson biting Evander Holyfield’s ear, I have gone too far for my Cause. And now, due to my enthusiasm, I have paid the price. I have been kicked out, banned from fighting the good fight, never again allowed to participate in a sport I love.
Good thing there are other ways to support my favorite causes. Like online pledging. And bake sales. And holiday boutiques.
What? That’s totally different than bidding at an auction. Just ask Brett.
(Or better yet: don’t.)
Saturday, September 4, 2010
How I Spent My Summer Vacation
Dear Scarsdale,
Welcome back! I hope you enjoyed the Hamptons/Europe/the New England coast/horseback riding in the Grand Tetons (circle one). Here’s what I did while you were away.
June:
After nine summers camped out at the Scarsdale Municipal Pool, I have become an expert at understanding its culture. This year, I entered the complex and immediately began a strategic assessment so as to determine the perfect place to sit. The pool is a bit like a middle school cafeteria that way; everyone knows that once you’ve picked a spot, it’s hard to switch out and become a member of another locale. So the first day at the pool is critical. Sun or shade? Hill or valley? Near the new moms or the new grandmas? Find some other Fox Meadowans, or branch off? As Brett and I perused the grounds with our children, chairs strapped to our backs, it all became clear: this was make-it-or-break-it time.
After some deliberation, we settled on the Greenacres Knoll, a grassy rise equidistant between the baby pool and the main pool, favored by a few families from one part of the village. With growing excitement, we realized that neither or our children, ages 8 and 5, would be spending much time – if any – in the two smaller pools this summer. When my children were little, I waded through the baby pool for weeks on end, only wet to the ankles. Then I spent a summer or two submerged mid-thigh, and then the following two fully soaked. Last summer, we turned a corner, and I didn’t even have to get wet! And, now that Zoe, my younger one, is a confident, able swimmer interested in doing handstands in the main pool when not diving off the high dive, we could literally turn our backs on the baby and medium pools.
Truth is, a kid could defecate in one of those small pools and throw up in the one, closing both indefinitely, and it would not affect our nuclear family’s happiness in the least!
We had progressed.
July:
The phone rang one afternoon as I was home working on my novel, jarring me out of my creative spell. I saw the ubiquitous “Scarsdale Public Schools” number pop up on caller ID, and immediately assumed Zoe had been hurt at rec camp.
Turns out, she had actually hurt someone else. “Hi, Mrs. Gerstenblatt, this is Jill, over at Camp Sagamore. We had a little incident at the pool today, in which Zoe hit her friend, Daisy.” Oops, I thought, cringing. I had never received a call like this, one in which you instantly feel like the worst mom ever. As a former teacher, I had certainly made those calls, and now I hoped that Jill over at Camp Sagamore would not think less of me and that Daisy’s mom would forgive us both. “I’m going to call Daisy’s mom next,” Jill explained. “Please tell her that I am soooo sorry, will you?” I begged.
When I asked Zoe what happened, she explained it like this: “Well, Daisy was talking to me in the pool and I wanted to swim. And she just wouldn’t let me! So I punched her.” She took a deep breath. “And then, she punched me back. In the wiener.”
Which is worse, I wondered, sending Zoe off to kindergarten with a strong left hook and her own sense of justice or with an incorrect understanding of her own genitalia?
During the same week, my son Andrew came home from his swanky private day camp – complete with door-to-door bus service each day -- with an announcement. “I think I want to go to sleep away next summer,” he said, between bites of his cookies and milk. I might have gasped. I looked at him across the kitchen island, fighting back tears. “But – but – you said you’d always live at home, even when you went to college! Even when you got married! You never wanted to leave me!” Andrew shrugged. “Yeah, well, I changed my mind. Plus, day camp is getting a little old.”
Well, excuse me. Maybe next summer, we should trade places. I’ll go to swanky day camp with water slides and zip-lines and he can go to the Scarsdale pool and try to find the perfect, quiet spot in the shade in which to read, preferably upwind of the sewage drain and downwind of the distracting chatter of the circle of friends on the knoll.
August:
There is nothing I love better than trying on last season’s cashmere over my workout clothes in 95-degree heat while fighting off others who want the same item because it’s now 75% off.
That’s right: the first weekend in August brings the Scarsdale sidewalk sale! Of course, the sidewalk sale is a bit like the Jewish holidays; they come early or late but never on time. This year, the first weekend in August was actually the last weekend in July, but whatever. I’m not going to try and explain the complexity of this. I’m only going to say that I put it on my calendar and I came, I saw, and I conquered.
The sale, like the pool, has its own, unique culture. You basically find yourself half-naked in the back of a store like Pamela Robbins, giving strangers advice about what to buy. “Oh, my God, that looks awesome on you,” I said to a woman that I see regularly at spin class who basically ignores me, and I her. But today, bolstered by fashion at deep discounts, we could not only speak to one another, we could become each other’s temporary BFFs. “You think?” She asked, turning this way and that in the mirror. “Yes, I think!” I enthused, thinking, Duh, Dolce and Gabana, what a no-brainer. “Here, try this, it’s too small for me but it will probably fit you perfectly.” I added.
Too small for me? Had I just admitted that she was thinner than I was? Who was I, and why had I become so nice? Anyway, after 9 minutes of love-fest, we parted ways. I knew we’d see each other at spin class, but I waved goodbye like she was going to sleep away camp. “Talk to you next year!” I joked, sort of.
August is also when I head to Staples to buy school supplies. The third grade list wasn’t so bad; it was the kindergarten one that got me.
“Twistable crayons, thin and thick markers, and colored pencils, all have to be branded Crayola?” I said aloud in the middle of the store, to no one. “15 thick glue sticks?” The list also included two large boxes of tissues and pump soap and a Purell, plus two containers of wipes per child. At 48 wipes per container, that’s 96 wipes. Let’s say the class has 22 children in it. That’s 2,112 wipes per classroom. I pictured the kindergarteners, very clean and germ-free, stuck to their seats with all that glue, like something out of The Little Rascals.
But, then I thought, given Zoe’s track record, glue might not be such a bad idea.
Is Andrew on the verge of going to sleep away camp? Will Zoe make it through kindergarten without being sent to the principal? Will I ever finish writing my novel? The school year of 2010-2011 has all the answers. Stay tuned.
Your Pal,
Julie
Welcome back! I hope you enjoyed the Hamptons/Europe/the New England coast/horseback riding in the Grand Tetons (circle one). Here’s what I did while you were away.
June:
After nine summers camped out at the Scarsdale Municipal Pool, I have become an expert at understanding its culture. This year, I entered the complex and immediately began a strategic assessment so as to determine the perfect place to sit. The pool is a bit like a middle school cafeteria that way; everyone knows that once you’ve picked a spot, it’s hard to switch out and become a member of another locale. So the first day at the pool is critical. Sun or shade? Hill or valley? Near the new moms or the new grandmas? Find some other Fox Meadowans, or branch off? As Brett and I perused the grounds with our children, chairs strapped to our backs, it all became clear: this was make-it-or-break-it time.
After some deliberation, we settled on the Greenacres Knoll, a grassy rise equidistant between the baby pool and the main pool, favored by a few families from one part of the village. With growing excitement, we realized that neither or our children, ages 8 and 5, would be spending much time – if any – in the two smaller pools this summer. When my children were little, I waded through the baby pool for weeks on end, only wet to the ankles. Then I spent a summer or two submerged mid-thigh, and then the following two fully soaked. Last summer, we turned a corner, and I didn’t even have to get wet! And, now that Zoe, my younger one, is a confident, able swimmer interested in doing handstands in the main pool when not diving off the high dive, we could literally turn our backs on the baby and medium pools.
Truth is, a kid could defecate in one of those small pools and throw up in the one, closing both indefinitely, and it would not affect our nuclear family’s happiness in the least!
We had progressed.
July:
The phone rang one afternoon as I was home working on my novel, jarring me out of my creative spell. I saw the ubiquitous “Scarsdale Public Schools” number pop up on caller ID, and immediately assumed Zoe had been hurt at rec camp.
Turns out, she had actually hurt someone else. “Hi, Mrs. Gerstenblatt, this is Jill, over at Camp Sagamore. We had a little incident at the pool today, in which Zoe hit her friend, Daisy.” Oops, I thought, cringing. I had never received a call like this, one in which you instantly feel like the worst mom ever. As a former teacher, I had certainly made those calls, and now I hoped that Jill over at Camp Sagamore would not think less of me and that Daisy’s mom would forgive us both. “I’m going to call Daisy’s mom next,” Jill explained. “Please tell her that I am soooo sorry, will you?” I begged.
When I asked Zoe what happened, she explained it like this: “Well, Daisy was talking to me in the pool and I wanted to swim. And she just wouldn’t let me! So I punched her.” She took a deep breath. “And then, she punched me back. In the wiener.”
Which is worse, I wondered, sending Zoe off to kindergarten with a strong left hook and her own sense of justice or with an incorrect understanding of her own genitalia?
During the same week, my son Andrew came home from his swanky private day camp – complete with door-to-door bus service each day -- with an announcement. “I think I want to go to sleep away next summer,” he said, between bites of his cookies and milk. I might have gasped. I looked at him across the kitchen island, fighting back tears. “But – but – you said you’d always live at home, even when you went to college! Even when you got married! You never wanted to leave me!” Andrew shrugged. “Yeah, well, I changed my mind. Plus, day camp is getting a little old.”
Well, excuse me. Maybe next summer, we should trade places. I’ll go to swanky day camp with water slides and zip-lines and he can go to the Scarsdale pool and try to find the perfect, quiet spot in the shade in which to read, preferably upwind of the sewage drain and downwind of the distracting chatter of the circle of friends on the knoll.
August:
There is nothing I love better than trying on last season’s cashmere over my workout clothes in 95-degree heat while fighting off others who want the same item because it’s now 75% off.
That’s right: the first weekend in August brings the Scarsdale sidewalk sale! Of course, the sidewalk sale is a bit like the Jewish holidays; they come early or late but never on time. This year, the first weekend in August was actually the last weekend in July, but whatever. I’m not going to try and explain the complexity of this. I’m only going to say that I put it on my calendar and I came, I saw, and I conquered.
The sale, like the pool, has its own, unique culture. You basically find yourself half-naked in the back of a store like Pamela Robbins, giving strangers advice about what to buy. “Oh, my God, that looks awesome on you,” I said to a woman that I see regularly at spin class who basically ignores me, and I her. But today, bolstered by fashion at deep discounts, we could not only speak to one another, we could become each other’s temporary BFFs. “You think?” She asked, turning this way and that in the mirror. “Yes, I think!” I enthused, thinking, Duh, Dolce and Gabana, what a no-brainer. “Here, try this, it’s too small for me but it will probably fit you perfectly.” I added.
Too small for me? Had I just admitted that she was thinner than I was? Who was I, and why had I become so nice? Anyway, after 9 minutes of love-fest, we parted ways. I knew we’d see each other at spin class, but I waved goodbye like she was going to sleep away camp. “Talk to you next year!” I joked, sort of.
August is also when I head to Staples to buy school supplies. The third grade list wasn’t so bad; it was the kindergarten one that got me.
“Twistable crayons, thin and thick markers, and colored pencils, all have to be branded Crayola?” I said aloud in the middle of the store, to no one. “15 thick glue sticks?” The list also included two large boxes of tissues and pump soap and a Purell, plus two containers of wipes per child. At 48 wipes per container, that’s 96 wipes. Let’s say the class has 22 children in it. That’s 2,112 wipes per classroom. I pictured the kindergarteners, very clean and germ-free, stuck to their seats with all that glue, like something out of The Little Rascals.
But, then I thought, given Zoe’s track record, glue might not be such a bad idea.
Is Andrew on the verge of going to sleep away camp? Will Zoe make it through kindergarten without being sent to the principal? Will I ever finish writing my novel? The school year of 2010-2011 has all the answers. Stay tuned.
Your Pal,
Julie
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Competitive Parenting for Beginners
If there were such a manual as “Competitive Parenting for Beginners,” my husband Brett and I would be the authors of chapter 6, “Arts and Crafts Projects that Leave Others in the Dust.” Forget chapter 4, “Scream-Coaching from the Sidelines” and chapter 10, “Throwing Your Money Around.” That’s just not our style. We are psychotic creative types. And, since our kids are only 7 and 4 years old, we’re just getting started.
Brett and I made the discovery that we are co-dependent in our artistic insanity when our son Andrew was Child of the Week in his preschool class. This is one of the earliest opportunities parents have in the lives of their children to show off their own artistic agility. We recognized the prospects for greatness right away, as the cogs in our delusional minds began churning in excitement.
The directions for Child of the Week are rather simple: create a 24 x 36 poster that celebrates the child. In normal households, those directions would lead one to glue on a bunch of cute family photos and call it a day. In our house it became an opportunity to engage in a series of roundtable discussions that would eventually lead to a culminating thematic exploration of Andrew’s first four years on earth. We would have to create a single point message, visual identity system and multi-point integrated marketing campaign. Andrew would be the first-ever branded Child of the Week.
At the very least, this was certainly an occasion that called for foam core, Exacto knives, Photoshop, and a whole lot of string.
What emerged was a kick-ass poster, if I must say so myself.
We still have it. I’m on the verge of inviting you over to see it.
In the center, Andrew is dressed like Spiderman and is crouched in the famous spidey-pose. This large, colored image is mounted onto foam core and is raised in two dimensional, bas relief. Andrew seems to be jumping out from the center. Radiating out from behind him is a gigantic web of black string. At the end of each corner of the web, groupings of photos are arranged by genre (“family,” “favorites,” “friends”). Each has its own think bubble a la comic books. It’s intense.
Kindergarten provided several other opportunities for artistic parental acrobatics. There was the Thanksgiving Turkey Vader, a cardboard turkey dressed with poultry-sized mask and cape (made out of a black garbage bag), brandishing a red lightsaber (made by covering a packet of chopsticks with the red plastic pull-chord from the same garbage bag). This was followed by the 100th day of school project. Late into the evening, we strung together 100 paper balloons, each one celebrating something that Andrew had learned.
“Is this…normal?” I asked Brett as I sat counting and then re-counting the 99 luft balloons.
“Who wants to be normal?” He asked, half-joking, half twitching.
Kindergarten culminated with a book jacket jacket. This is a costume made out of a paper bag that celebrates the child’s favorite book. It fits over the child like a vest, so that he or she can parade around the school in it and be laughed at by the 5th graders.
Andrew’s favorite book at the time was the Caldecott winner, Make Way for Ducklings. Hence, his book jacket jacket was covered in felt ducks, gold medals, and feathers. Lots and lots of feathers.
Alas, Andrew was absent from school that day, saving him from the humiliation of looking like the littlest member of The Village People.
We still have that creation, too. I might wear it next Halloween, just to see who reads the newspaper.
Last year, Andrew and Brett entered Scarsdale’s window painting contest, which in first grade is actually not a contest.
“Everything is a contest,” Brett replied, having set up his art supplies 6 hours before anyone else on Garth Road in order to “prime” his “canvas.” Andrew was still home sleeping.
“It’s the bagel shop window, Rembrandt.” I rolled my eyes. Some people get so carried away.
For this year’s window painting contest, Brett made a colored mock-up of the actual design days before. I can’t tell you what it was, though, since we had to miss the event. Andrew will be unveiling the design next year, so until then, it remains top-secret.
“You know that in third grade, the kids have to paint on their own, without parental intervention.” I warned Brett.
He took the news pretty well. “That’s okay. Pretty soon I can help Zoe with her windows!”
Ah, yes, Zoe. A few weeks ago it was her turn for Child of the Week at preschool. Brett and I make several trips to Michael’s craft supply store in anticipation of the week ahead. But as we began to discuss the conceptual framework for Zoe’s poster, a question lingered: can we out-do ourselves? Has greatness at this level of poster mania ever been achieved twice?
The legacy of one-hit wonders haunted us.
Luckily, what emerged was akin to Michael Jackson’s second solo album, Thriller. It was even better than Off the Wall.
After three hours huddled around the kitchen island, we stood back to admire our handiwork. The poster was a life-sized, cardboard dress suspended by pink leopard-print spaghetti-straps attached to a real hanger. The “dress” was fringed in black, silver, and pink ribbons and bedazzled with rhinestone studs. It was tacky. It was fancy. It was so Zoe.
“We did it!” We called out to each other and to the kids who were glued to the television set in the sunroom, in lieu of having attentive parents to play with.
Zoe came wandering in. “I’m hungry. You forgot lunch.” We conceded that we had, in fact, skipped some meals in order to concentrate on the poster. Then she saw it. “What’s that?” She snapped.
“It’s your Child of the Week poster!” We exclaimed.
She scrunched up her face, and turned her head to the side, deliberating. “Why is it blue? I hate blue.”
“It’s silver. The dress part is silver.” I cooed soothingly, trying to keep the level of conversation from escalating.
“But the poster is blue! I said no blue!” She may have stamped her foot. “And I want a cheese stick!”
Brett and I exchanged sad looks as he headed to the refrigerator. Clearly, this child was not getting it.
As Zoe chewed greedily, I paused to consider whether or not Brett and I were getting it. Perhaps our need to achieve on behalf of our children was not really good for them, or good for us.
But then I imagined the upcoming Jackson Pollack workshop that Brett would be leading on Thursday in Zoe’s class and the dress-up tea party I had arranged for her on Friday. If I played my cards right, there were years of science fairs, historical re-enactments, and creative extra credit projects in my future.
I looked again at that sparkly poster and pushed the doubt away.
Brett and I made the discovery that we are co-dependent in our artistic insanity when our son Andrew was Child of the Week in his preschool class. This is one of the earliest opportunities parents have in the lives of their children to show off their own artistic agility. We recognized the prospects for greatness right away, as the cogs in our delusional minds began churning in excitement.
The directions for Child of the Week are rather simple: create a 24 x 36 poster that celebrates the child. In normal households, those directions would lead one to glue on a bunch of cute family photos and call it a day. In our house it became an opportunity to engage in a series of roundtable discussions that would eventually lead to a culminating thematic exploration of Andrew’s first four years on earth. We would have to create a single point message, visual identity system and multi-point integrated marketing campaign. Andrew would be the first-ever branded Child of the Week.
At the very least, this was certainly an occasion that called for foam core, Exacto knives, Photoshop, and a whole lot of string.
What emerged was a kick-ass poster, if I must say so myself.
We still have it. I’m on the verge of inviting you over to see it.
In the center, Andrew is dressed like Spiderman and is crouched in the famous spidey-pose. This large, colored image is mounted onto foam core and is raised in two dimensional, bas relief. Andrew seems to be jumping out from the center. Radiating out from behind him is a gigantic web of black string. At the end of each corner of the web, groupings of photos are arranged by genre (“family,” “favorites,” “friends”). Each has its own think bubble a la comic books. It’s intense.
Kindergarten provided several other opportunities for artistic parental acrobatics. There was the Thanksgiving Turkey Vader, a cardboard turkey dressed with poultry-sized mask and cape (made out of a black garbage bag), brandishing a red lightsaber (made by covering a packet of chopsticks with the red plastic pull-chord from the same garbage bag). This was followed by the 100th day of school project. Late into the evening, we strung together 100 paper balloons, each one celebrating something that Andrew had learned.
“Is this…normal?” I asked Brett as I sat counting and then re-counting the 99 luft balloons.
“Who wants to be normal?” He asked, half-joking, half twitching.
Kindergarten culminated with a book jacket jacket. This is a costume made out of a paper bag that celebrates the child’s favorite book. It fits over the child like a vest, so that he or she can parade around the school in it and be laughed at by the 5th graders.
Andrew’s favorite book at the time was the Caldecott winner, Make Way for Ducklings. Hence, his book jacket jacket was covered in felt ducks, gold medals, and feathers. Lots and lots of feathers.
Alas, Andrew was absent from school that day, saving him from the humiliation of looking like the littlest member of The Village People.
We still have that creation, too. I might wear it next Halloween, just to see who reads the newspaper.
Last year, Andrew and Brett entered Scarsdale’s window painting contest, which in first grade is actually not a contest.
“Everything is a contest,” Brett replied, having set up his art supplies 6 hours before anyone else on Garth Road in order to “prime” his “canvas.” Andrew was still home sleeping.
“It’s the bagel shop window, Rembrandt.” I rolled my eyes. Some people get so carried away.
For this year’s window painting contest, Brett made a colored mock-up of the actual design days before. I can’t tell you what it was, though, since we had to miss the event. Andrew will be unveiling the design next year, so until then, it remains top-secret.
“You know that in third grade, the kids have to paint on their own, without parental intervention.” I warned Brett.
He took the news pretty well. “That’s okay. Pretty soon I can help Zoe with her windows!”
Ah, yes, Zoe. A few weeks ago it was her turn for Child of the Week at preschool. Brett and I make several trips to Michael’s craft supply store in anticipation of the week ahead. But as we began to discuss the conceptual framework for Zoe’s poster, a question lingered: can we out-do ourselves? Has greatness at this level of poster mania ever been achieved twice?
The legacy of one-hit wonders haunted us.
Luckily, what emerged was akin to Michael Jackson’s second solo album, Thriller. It was even better than Off the Wall.
After three hours huddled around the kitchen island, we stood back to admire our handiwork. The poster was a life-sized, cardboard dress suspended by pink leopard-print spaghetti-straps attached to a real hanger. The “dress” was fringed in black, silver, and pink ribbons and bedazzled with rhinestone studs. It was tacky. It was fancy. It was so Zoe.
“We did it!” We called out to each other and to the kids who were glued to the television set in the sunroom, in lieu of having attentive parents to play with.
Zoe came wandering in. “I’m hungry. You forgot lunch.” We conceded that we had, in fact, skipped some meals in order to concentrate on the poster. Then she saw it. “What’s that?” She snapped.
“It’s your Child of the Week poster!” We exclaimed.
She scrunched up her face, and turned her head to the side, deliberating. “Why is it blue? I hate blue.”
“It’s silver. The dress part is silver.” I cooed soothingly, trying to keep the level of conversation from escalating.
“But the poster is blue! I said no blue!” She may have stamped her foot. “And I want a cheese stick!”
Brett and I exchanged sad looks as he headed to the refrigerator. Clearly, this child was not getting it.
As Zoe chewed greedily, I paused to consider whether or not Brett and I were getting it. Perhaps our need to achieve on behalf of our children was not really good for them, or good for us.
But then I imagined the upcoming Jackson Pollack workshop that Brett would be leading on Thursday in Zoe’s class and the dress-up tea party I had arranged for her on Friday. If I played my cards right, there were years of science fairs, historical re-enactments, and creative extra credit projects in my future.
I looked again at that sparkly poster and pushed the doubt away.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
To Market, To Market
The other day, I went grocery shopping. I don’t know how you shop, but I have a feeling it’s not all that different from how I do it. It always starts out the same way, by heading to a big supermarket to try and purchase everything I need in one place. The shopping experience quickly slides downhill from there.
I arrive at the store with a scribbled, crumpled piece of paper containing about half a list of things I really need, with the other items stored safely in my head, repeated like a religious mantra until they are securely stowed in the cart. (Eggs, milk, juice, butter. Eggs, milk, juice, butter. Eggs, milk…you get the point.) This is then combined with spontaneous discoveries made up and down each aisle. (“Oh! Muffin tins! Didn’t I need new ones?” or, “Look! Capri Sun is on sale. Let me buy 4 of them.”)
Undoubtedly, however, two things happen. One: the store does not have the brand, shape, flavor or manner of mozzarella cheese sticks preferred by my son (or yogurt, cereal, turkey, fill-in-the-blank), and Two: I forget one crucial, critical item needed to make an actual meal. Like a chicken.
Forty-five minutes later, the trunk of my SUV is filled with over a hundred dollars worth of mostly snack items. These are stored in plastic bags instead of my oversized, burlap recyclable bags because I left those in the car. Again.
Glaring at me from the list of things not yet purchased are 5 or 6 items that can only be found at specialty stores. Two of the items are at Trader Joes’s but not Mrs. Green’s. Three of the items are at Mrs. Green’s but not Whole Foods and one of the items can only be found at an ethnic foods store on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn.
Two hours and 16 grocery stores later, I make it home. I am exhausted and my head is spinning. I have been to the butcher as well as to all the stores mentioned above.
I am only missing three items from my list now, and am feeling much closer to the finish line of this week’s market marathon.
As I’m unpacking, the phone rings. It’s Brett, my husband.
“Hey,” he says. “How’s your day?”
“Just tremendous!” I declare. “I’m unpacking the groceries.”
“I hope you didn’t buy more couscous.” He warns.
“Why?” I pause, holding in my hand at that very moment three boxes of couscous.
“Because we have like 10 boxes already. Remember? I declared this ‘couscous awareness week.’ Everyone needs to check and see how much they have before heading to the store.”
“I thought this was ‘get your ketchup under control week.’”
“That was two weeks ago.”
“Huh.” I hide the new couscous behind the ketchup in the pantry and quickly try to get off the phone.
“I have to go,” I tell him. “I need to get over to the vegetable stand before writing an article about going over to the vegetable stand.”
“Okay,” he relents. “So…what’s for dinner?”
“Pizza!” I smile.
I arrive at the store with a scribbled, crumpled piece of paper containing about half a list of things I really need, with the other items stored safely in my head, repeated like a religious mantra until they are securely stowed in the cart. (Eggs, milk, juice, butter. Eggs, milk, juice, butter. Eggs, milk…you get the point.) This is then combined with spontaneous discoveries made up and down each aisle. (“Oh! Muffin tins! Didn’t I need new ones?” or, “Look! Capri Sun is on sale. Let me buy 4 of them.”)
Undoubtedly, however, two things happen. One: the store does not have the brand, shape, flavor or manner of mozzarella cheese sticks preferred by my son (or yogurt, cereal, turkey, fill-in-the-blank), and Two: I forget one crucial, critical item needed to make an actual meal. Like a chicken.
Forty-five minutes later, the trunk of my SUV is filled with over a hundred dollars worth of mostly snack items. These are stored in plastic bags instead of my oversized, burlap recyclable bags because I left those in the car. Again.
Glaring at me from the list of things not yet purchased are 5 or 6 items that can only be found at specialty stores. Two of the items are at Trader Joes’s but not Mrs. Green’s. Three of the items are at Mrs. Green’s but not Whole Foods and one of the items can only be found at an ethnic foods store on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn.
Two hours and 16 grocery stores later, I make it home. I am exhausted and my head is spinning. I have been to the butcher as well as to all the stores mentioned above.
I am only missing three items from my list now, and am feeling much closer to the finish line of this week’s market marathon.
As I’m unpacking, the phone rings. It’s Brett, my husband.
“Hey,” he says. “How’s your day?”
“Just tremendous!” I declare. “I’m unpacking the groceries.”
“I hope you didn’t buy more couscous.” He warns.
“Why?” I pause, holding in my hand at that very moment three boxes of couscous.
“Because we have like 10 boxes already. Remember? I declared this ‘couscous awareness week.’ Everyone needs to check and see how much they have before heading to the store.”
“I thought this was ‘get your ketchup under control week.’”
“That was two weeks ago.”
“Huh.” I hide the new couscous behind the ketchup in the pantry and quickly try to get off the phone.
“I have to go,” I tell him. “I need to get over to the vegetable stand before writing an article about going over to the vegetable stand.”
“Okay,” he relents. “So…what’s for dinner?”
“Pizza!” I smile.
Friday, September 11, 2009
School Daze
Imagine, if you will, a suburban household at 8:15 a.m. Let’s just pretend that the house exists on a quiet, shady street, in the middle of bucolic bliss. Like perhaps in a village 30 minutes north of New York City.
Oh, what the heck, let’s just call it Scarsdale.
So it is 8:15 in the morning in Scarsdale, and it’s September. And in this particular place at this particular time, the household goes into momentary panic mode. For argument’s sake, let’s just pretend that there is a mom and three elementary-aged kids inside this abode. Now, I’m just guessing here, and remember that this is pretend, so I can make up all kinds of crazy stuff if I want to, but I think the mom is shouting at two, if not all three, of her children, at this very moment.
“Molly, put on your shoes!”
“David, where is your homework? Did you do it last night? Did you put it in your homework folder?”
“Remember the permission slip!”
“Don’t forget that you are going home with Tyler after school!”
“Please eat your lunch today – I packed your favorite!”
“Brush your hair!”
“Brush your teeth!”
“Pee!”
“The bus is coming!”
“The bus is here!”
“YOU MISSED THE BUS!!!”
It is now 8:16 am. The children pile into the minivan with an over-the-top, harried mom, who is on the verge of cursing under her breath in all manner of colorful language. She cannot believe that the children need to be driven to school again when she pays taxes for the convenience (and green-ness) that is known as the yellow school bus.
If all that carbon monoxide is green, that is.
Is this your morning?
Welcome back-to-school, everyone! Happy September to you all. Hope you had a nice, relaxing vacation down the shore or up the coast or right here in the middle.
My summer was lovely, thanks for asking.
Yes, I missed you too.
For those of you who know me, you know that I always – and I mean like 30 plus years of always – go to Nantucket for my summer vacation. Not this year. This year, my children and Brett and I tried something different, something novel, something completely in-law-less.
First, we went to the Jersey Shore. Way down. Exit 13 off the Garden State Parkway, where no Scarsdalian has gone before.
Down there, people come from Philly, and random parts of Pennsylvania that I’ve never heard of, and even Delaware. I didn’t see anyone I knew. For seven relaxing, sun-filled days, I didn’t see any Bodyfit or Circle of Friends stickers on any cars, or any New York license plates whatsoever.
“What’s that accent I keep hearing everywhere?” I asked Brett one afternoon in Cape May, as we strolled the quaint Victorian streets with our kids. “Is it…southern?”
“Yeah. We’re in the beginning of the south, you know.” Brett teased.
“New Jersey was a part of the Confederacy?” I paused, trying to think back to 11th grade. “Really?”
So close to home, and yet a world away from all the New Yorkers in Massachusetts.
On the Jersey Shore, we played a lot of mini-golf. We ate something called “water ice” which is basically Italian Ice, only somehow better. Creamier. Like sorbet. (Brett thinks they removed the national label for political correctness. I’m like, “is the term ‘Italian Ice’ derogatory? Since when?” We debated this for quite some time. When on a family vacation, you can do this sort of thing since no one has to leave to catch a train to the city or a bus to school.) On the Jersey Shore, we walked the boardwalks and spent six hours straight in inner tubes at a water park and then rode on huge Ferris wheels perched next to the Atlantic. We bought hermit crabs painted as Sponge Bob and kept them as pets in fancy cages bought at the five and dime in town. We jumped off a private dock into the bay located right in our own backyard. And we all had a blast.
But wait: there’s more. Then we spent a week in the Hamptons, reconnecting with our peeps. Get-togethers with different friends from Scarsdale moved seamlessly from lazy afternoons on the beach to tranquil evenings all together, with wine in hand. Every day was more restful and beautiful than the next.
And then September 7th arrived and my summer came to a screeching halt.
Registration for fall classes nearly sent me over the edge. Is Andrew elite enough for junior elite tennis? Will Zoe get off the waitlist for preschool gymnastics, and will her name be selected by lottery for the coveted Wednesday Coach Terrific class? Will my doctoral committee member who is on sabbatical in Sweden (or Denmark? Maybe Norway? Definitely not New Jersey) ever get back to me about revisions to chapter five of my dissertation?
Coming home after summer vacation is like being in a car commercial: I go from zero to sixty in under five seconds.
To manage the stress of September, I tried to plan ahead. Really I did. This year, I went to Staples for school supplies over Fourth of July weekend in order to beat the back-to-school crowds. Only they hadn’t gotten their back-to-school shipment in yet. “Come back in, like, August?” The girl behind the counter said. “You know, when everyone is like shopping for back-to-school stuff?”
“But, you see,” I wanted to tell the clueless sales girl, “that’s exactly when I go on vay-cay-shun!”
Some people handle back-to-school planning differently. To stay ahead of the crowd and get a leg up on the latest fall trends, my friend Sloane did some clothes shopping for herself on one of the muggiest days of the summer. “I bought leather leggings,” she confided as we watched our kids splash in the town pool a few weeks ago.
“In August.” I countered.
“Yeah. It was like 94 degrees out.”
“You so needed those.”
“I did. And the cute booties that go with them. Now I’m all set for fall.”
Sloane is going to be styling’ in her black leather leggings with coordinating booties and I still cannot locate 5 inch Fiskars scissors to satisfy the particular demands of a second grade school supply list.
But the worst is behind me now. The kids are successfully off to school -- with or without scissors -- and the after-school activities have been lined up for the most part, with coordinating carpools in the works.
And now that it’s underway, I remember how much I love September. New books, new clothes, a hint of chill in the air. The promise of something; a fresh start. A few hyper moments each morning are worth it. Because once the kids are out of the house and off to school, I can breathe in that clear fall scent in relative peace, and look forward to the season ahead.
Whatever it may bring.
With or without leather leggings of my own.
Oh, what the heck, let’s just call it Scarsdale.
So it is 8:15 in the morning in Scarsdale, and it’s September. And in this particular place at this particular time, the household goes into momentary panic mode. For argument’s sake, let’s just pretend that there is a mom and three elementary-aged kids inside this abode. Now, I’m just guessing here, and remember that this is pretend, so I can make up all kinds of crazy stuff if I want to, but I think the mom is shouting at two, if not all three, of her children, at this very moment.
“Molly, put on your shoes!”
“David, where is your homework? Did you do it last night? Did you put it in your homework folder?”
“Remember the permission slip!”
“Don’t forget that you are going home with Tyler after school!”
“Please eat your lunch today – I packed your favorite!”
“Brush your hair!”
“Brush your teeth!”
“Pee!”
“The bus is coming!”
“The bus is here!”
“YOU MISSED THE BUS!!!”
It is now 8:16 am. The children pile into the minivan with an over-the-top, harried mom, who is on the verge of cursing under her breath in all manner of colorful language. She cannot believe that the children need to be driven to school again when she pays taxes for the convenience (and green-ness) that is known as the yellow school bus.
If all that carbon monoxide is green, that is.
Is this your morning?
Welcome back-to-school, everyone! Happy September to you all. Hope you had a nice, relaxing vacation down the shore or up the coast or right here in the middle.
My summer was lovely, thanks for asking.
Yes, I missed you too.
For those of you who know me, you know that I always – and I mean like 30 plus years of always – go to Nantucket for my summer vacation. Not this year. This year, my children and Brett and I tried something different, something novel, something completely in-law-less.
First, we went to the Jersey Shore. Way down. Exit 13 off the Garden State Parkway, where no Scarsdalian has gone before.
Down there, people come from Philly, and random parts of Pennsylvania that I’ve never heard of, and even Delaware. I didn’t see anyone I knew. For seven relaxing, sun-filled days, I didn’t see any Bodyfit or Circle of Friends stickers on any cars, or any New York license plates whatsoever.
“What’s that accent I keep hearing everywhere?” I asked Brett one afternoon in Cape May, as we strolled the quaint Victorian streets with our kids. “Is it…southern?”
“Yeah. We’re in the beginning of the south, you know.” Brett teased.
“New Jersey was a part of the Confederacy?” I paused, trying to think back to 11th grade. “Really?”
So close to home, and yet a world away from all the New Yorkers in Massachusetts.
On the Jersey Shore, we played a lot of mini-golf. We ate something called “water ice” which is basically Italian Ice, only somehow better. Creamier. Like sorbet. (Brett thinks they removed the national label for political correctness. I’m like, “is the term ‘Italian Ice’ derogatory? Since when?” We debated this for quite some time. When on a family vacation, you can do this sort of thing since no one has to leave to catch a train to the city or a bus to school.) On the Jersey Shore, we walked the boardwalks and spent six hours straight in inner tubes at a water park and then rode on huge Ferris wheels perched next to the Atlantic. We bought hermit crabs painted as Sponge Bob and kept them as pets in fancy cages bought at the five and dime in town. We jumped off a private dock into the bay located right in our own backyard. And we all had a blast.
But wait: there’s more. Then we spent a week in the Hamptons, reconnecting with our peeps. Get-togethers with different friends from Scarsdale moved seamlessly from lazy afternoons on the beach to tranquil evenings all together, with wine in hand. Every day was more restful and beautiful than the next.
And then September 7th arrived and my summer came to a screeching halt.
Registration for fall classes nearly sent me over the edge. Is Andrew elite enough for junior elite tennis? Will Zoe get off the waitlist for preschool gymnastics, and will her name be selected by lottery for the coveted Wednesday Coach Terrific class? Will my doctoral committee member who is on sabbatical in Sweden (or Denmark? Maybe Norway? Definitely not New Jersey) ever get back to me about revisions to chapter five of my dissertation?
Coming home after summer vacation is like being in a car commercial: I go from zero to sixty in under five seconds.
To manage the stress of September, I tried to plan ahead. Really I did. This year, I went to Staples for school supplies over Fourth of July weekend in order to beat the back-to-school crowds. Only they hadn’t gotten their back-to-school shipment in yet. “Come back in, like, August?” The girl behind the counter said. “You know, when everyone is like shopping for back-to-school stuff?”
“But, you see,” I wanted to tell the clueless sales girl, “that’s exactly when I go on vay-cay-shun!”
Some people handle back-to-school planning differently. To stay ahead of the crowd and get a leg up on the latest fall trends, my friend Sloane did some clothes shopping for herself on one of the muggiest days of the summer. “I bought leather leggings,” she confided as we watched our kids splash in the town pool a few weeks ago.
“In August.” I countered.
“Yeah. It was like 94 degrees out.”
“You so needed those.”
“I did. And the cute booties that go with them. Now I’m all set for fall.”
Sloane is going to be styling’ in her black leather leggings with coordinating booties and I still cannot locate 5 inch Fiskars scissors to satisfy the particular demands of a second grade school supply list.
But the worst is behind me now. The kids are successfully off to school -- with or without scissors -- and the after-school activities have been lined up for the most part, with coordinating carpools in the works.
And now that it’s underway, I remember how much I love September. New books, new clothes, a hint of chill in the air. The promise of something; a fresh start. A few hyper moments each morning are worth it. Because once the kids are out of the house and off to school, I can breathe in that clear fall scent in relative peace, and look forward to the season ahead.
Whatever it may bring.
With or without leather leggings of my own.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Bookstalking 201: Summer Reading for Adults
Last week, in Part I of this summer reading guide (written for pre-teens and teens), I confessed that I am a bookstalker. This is a person who follows people around bookstores and tells them what to read. Since writing this, several other bookstalkers have come out of the woodwork to tell me that I am not alone and that they, too, bookstalk strangers.
Why would someone do this? I can’t speak for the others; after all, they just might be crazy. However, I bookstalk because I am a little bit bossy and also pretty passionate about reading. I like to think that I can make the world a slightly better place, one book recommendation at a time.
I tend to use my superhuman book sense on kids, since they are less likely to harm me for butting into their reading life than adults are. Also, they are cuter than grown-ups and get excited about reading in a jump-up-and-down kind of way. However, with summer just around the corner, I sense some grown-ups are jumping up and down too. I figured you might as well do it with a good book in hand.
Ladies, I just read Kelly Corrigan’s memoir “The Middle Place” and I cried like a baby. Now that may not sound like a glowing recommendation, but it is. Oh, what a nice little read. Moving, real, and deeply personal, this one has it all. Do yourself a favor and read the essay about the power of female friendship included at the back of the book in the privacy of your own home. Unless you want to blubber in public, that is. My sister-in-law heard Corrigan read the essay in her own voice through an online version that I can’t wait to listen to myself.
Now, here’s the rest. “The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society” is set on a small English island occupied by the Germans during World War II. In this poignant and witty tale, readers get to meet a wide variety of quirky and charming characters who pass the time of their occupation by forming a book group. This is not a traditional holocaust tale, but rather an interesting look at what life must have been like on the periphery of war.
For more historical fiction, try Geraldine Brook’s “Year of Wonders,” and Lisa See’s new novel, “Shanghai Girls” (to be released May 26th). For lighter, contemporary reading, grab Elin Hildebrand’s “A Summer Affair” (comes out in paperback June 1) and Jane Green’s “The Beach House,” both set in Nantucket. Can’t get there this summer, thanks to the economy? Sit at the town pool with a big straw hat and pretend you are out in ‘Sconset with these characters. And if you’d like to read about (and hopefully also be in) the Hamptons this summer, try Jane Green’s newest, “Dune Road,” to be released on June 16th. Read anything by Jodi Picoult and then give her books to your high school or college-aged daughter.
If you want to read along with me, I’m reading “The Help” by Katherine Stockett because, if for no other reason, a book that gets 5 stars based on 275 reviewers on Amazon deserves my attention. I’m also going to try and get my adult book club out of our leper-and-plague-infested-reading-rut (otherwise known as our “Great Books About Awful Things” phase) by suggesting that we read “Secrets to Happiness” by Sarah Dunn. This novel, about a New York City writer and divorcee, got a nice review in The New York Times Book Review last weekend. Also, according to Amazon, it contains “witty prose” and, although, bordering the chick-lit genre, “it's smarter than the usual single-in-the-city fare, and funnier, too.”
If you want to read along with my husband Brett this summer, try the new Elmore Leonard book, “Road Dogs,” which came out earlier this month. “And, because we live in the suburbs, I’m interested in reading John Cheever’s new biography,” Brett adds.
“You know it’s 800 pages long.” I interject.
“Revise that: I’m interested in reading some of “Cheever: A Life.””
Also on his list is “The Watchmen”, the graphic novel that inspired the movie and Micahel Chabon’s “The Mysteries of Pittsburgh,” which Brett calls “the sleeper hit of the summer.” It has also been turned into a movie, “though the book is much better than the movie is going to be, trust me,” Brett adds with uncharacteristic swagger. It’s about a recent college grad who does something to cross his gangster father. Hey – you can give it to your recent college grad!
Our friend Dave is reading “The Best Nonrequired Reading 2008,” put together by Dave Eggers, which he calls “a compilation of random nothing, actually,” and has just finished Adiga’s “The White Tiger,” a sarcastic critique of the inequity in Indian society, about a taxi driver and the corruption surrounding him. “All fiction. I used to read a lot of nonfiction but have lost the vibe recently,” he added. I can’t imagine why – reality these days being such fun! Escape, much?
There is also “City of Thieves,” about a man’s survival in Russia during World War II, based on stories told to the author by his grandfather, and “The Book Thief,” also set during World War II, which is already considered a modern classic. Anyone and everyone over the age of 14 should read it. No pressure. You just have to.
I’d like to take a moment to thank all the people who give me advice when I’m looking for my next great read, from my book groups to local librarians and booksellers to my mom and my friends. To be a good bookstalker, you have to know when to give advice and when to take it. You have to keep lists. You have to be open to the possibility of trying different genres and new authors. You have to have what I call a “balanced reading diet.” Sometimes you have a full meal and sometimes you just have a snack. Sometimes, you skip the protein altogether and just go straight to dessert. And that’s what summer reading is all about, if you ask me: sugary beach reads. Yum.
So please, read something delicious, something you just want to devour. I think we all deserve a little indulgence this summer, don’t you?
If you want a more personalized list of titles, either for you or your children, just ask. After all, I’m always happy to bookstalk you.
Why would someone do this? I can’t speak for the others; after all, they just might be crazy. However, I bookstalk because I am a little bit bossy and also pretty passionate about reading. I like to think that I can make the world a slightly better place, one book recommendation at a time.
I tend to use my superhuman book sense on kids, since they are less likely to harm me for butting into their reading life than adults are. Also, they are cuter than grown-ups and get excited about reading in a jump-up-and-down kind of way. However, with summer just around the corner, I sense some grown-ups are jumping up and down too. I figured you might as well do it with a good book in hand.
Ladies, I just read Kelly Corrigan’s memoir “The Middle Place” and I cried like a baby. Now that may not sound like a glowing recommendation, but it is. Oh, what a nice little read. Moving, real, and deeply personal, this one has it all. Do yourself a favor and read the essay about the power of female friendship included at the back of the book in the privacy of your own home. Unless you want to blubber in public, that is. My sister-in-law heard Corrigan read the essay in her own voice through an online version that I can’t wait to listen to myself.
Now, here’s the rest. “The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society” is set on a small English island occupied by the Germans during World War II. In this poignant and witty tale, readers get to meet a wide variety of quirky and charming characters who pass the time of their occupation by forming a book group. This is not a traditional holocaust tale, but rather an interesting look at what life must have been like on the periphery of war.
For more historical fiction, try Geraldine Brook’s “Year of Wonders,” and Lisa See’s new novel, “Shanghai Girls” (to be released May 26th). For lighter, contemporary reading, grab Elin Hildebrand’s “A Summer Affair” (comes out in paperback June 1) and Jane Green’s “The Beach House,” both set in Nantucket. Can’t get there this summer, thanks to the economy? Sit at the town pool with a big straw hat and pretend you are out in ‘Sconset with these characters. And if you’d like to read about (and hopefully also be in) the Hamptons this summer, try Jane Green’s newest, “Dune Road,” to be released on June 16th. Read anything by Jodi Picoult and then give her books to your high school or college-aged daughter.
If you want to read along with me, I’m reading “The Help” by Katherine Stockett because, if for no other reason, a book that gets 5 stars based on 275 reviewers on Amazon deserves my attention. I’m also going to try and get my adult book club out of our leper-and-plague-infested-reading-rut (otherwise known as our “Great Books About Awful Things” phase) by suggesting that we read “Secrets to Happiness” by Sarah Dunn. This novel, about a New York City writer and divorcee, got a nice review in The New York Times Book Review last weekend. Also, according to Amazon, it contains “witty prose” and, although, bordering the chick-lit genre, “it's smarter than the usual single-in-the-city fare, and funnier, too.”
If you want to read along with my husband Brett this summer, try the new Elmore Leonard book, “Road Dogs,” which came out earlier this month. “And, because we live in the suburbs, I’m interested in reading John Cheever’s new biography,” Brett adds.
“You know it’s 800 pages long.” I interject.
“Revise that: I’m interested in reading some of “Cheever: A Life.””
Also on his list is “The Watchmen”, the graphic novel that inspired the movie and Micahel Chabon’s “The Mysteries of Pittsburgh,” which Brett calls “the sleeper hit of the summer.” It has also been turned into a movie, “though the book is much better than the movie is going to be, trust me,” Brett adds with uncharacteristic swagger. It’s about a recent college grad who does something to cross his gangster father. Hey – you can give it to your recent college grad!
Our friend Dave is reading “The Best Nonrequired Reading 2008,” put together by Dave Eggers, which he calls “a compilation of random nothing, actually,” and has just finished Adiga’s “The White Tiger,” a sarcastic critique of the inequity in Indian society, about a taxi driver and the corruption surrounding him. “All fiction. I used to read a lot of nonfiction but have lost the vibe recently,” he added. I can’t imagine why – reality these days being such fun! Escape, much?
There is also “City of Thieves,” about a man’s survival in Russia during World War II, based on stories told to the author by his grandfather, and “The Book Thief,” also set during World War II, which is already considered a modern classic. Anyone and everyone over the age of 14 should read it. No pressure. You just have to.
I’d like to take a moment to thank all the people who give me advice when I’m looking for my next great read, from my book groups to local librarians and booksellers to my mom and my friends. To be a good bookstalker, you have to know when to give advice and when to take it. You have to keep lists. You have to be open to the possibility of trying different genres and new authors. You have to have what I call a “balanced reading diet.” Sometimes you have a full meal and sometimes you just have a snack. Sometimes, you skip the protein altogether and just go straight to dessert. And that’s what summer reading is all about, if you ask me: sugary beach reads. Yum.
So please, read something delicious, something you just want to devour. I think we all deserve a little indulgence this summer, don’t you?
If you want a more personalized list of titles, either for you or your children, just ask. After all, I’m always happy to bookstalk you.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Making Friends with the Past, Part II
In case you didn’t read it or don’t remember, Part I of this series took a hard look at the somewhat misguided preparations I made for my 20th Edgemont High School reunion. When last you saw me, I had secured the perfect outfit for the event but had an ill-timed encounter with a dermatologist and her v-beam laser.
“So, what else is there to say?” my friend Jessica asked. “How can you even have a Part II? Everyone knows that the biggest piece of the reunion experience is the getting ready component. Did you lose the ten pounds? Get a boob job, tummy tuck, or Botox? How’s your hair? How’s your husband’s hair?”
Like me, Jessica had graduated from high school in 1988. She had recently attended had her own 20th reunion on Long Island. She talked like such an expert that she may also have crashed some others, just for fun. I hung on to her every word.
She explained that the event is really just about the women. “They all look great, better than they did in high school. But the guys get old and bald. The captain of the football team is now fat, and the brainy nerdy guys are the best husbands of the bunch.” She shrugged like this was common knowledge.
I pondered it for a minute. “Your husband is bald.”
“Like a baby.” She added.
“And mine was a brainy nerd.”
“Doesn’t Brett still brag about winning the perfect attendance award in high school?” Jessica asked.
“And he’s a good husband.”
We nodded in unison. “Amen to that.”
Case closed? I wasn’t so sure. My friend Steve, with whom I was planning the reunion, was the captain of the football team in high school, and he still looked great. I decided to put Jessica’s logic on my brain’s back burner.
And before I could say Karma Chameleon, the months of anticipation were past. On a crisp evening last October, Brett and I headed into the city for the reunion.
Had anyone changed dramatically, I wondered? It was time to find out.
Now, there’s two ways I can go with this story, from this point on. I could either tell witty anecdotes filled with quippy dialogue, filling you in on all the details as Brett and I chatted it up with my ex-boyfriend and some old frenemies. I could mention that everyone looked great, not just the women. I could tell you that, at two in the morning, the last of the group made its way down to the street from the roof-top bar where we had spent the evening. My prom date, a mild-mannered pediatrician, patted Brett on the shoulder and smiled, declaring that he was now one of The Guys. I could tell you that, as Brett and I debriefed on the ride home, he decided that my ex-boyfriend, Joe, a graduate of my class who I dated after college, was his favorite person at the event.
“Really!? That’s so bizarre!” I declared, shaking my head.
“What? Joe’s a cool guy. He’s smart and funny and interesting, and…”
“And he broke my heart, remember!”
Brett was quiet. “Good thing he did, too.”
“Huh. Hadn’t thought of it that way. Remind me to send him a thank you note.”
So, that’s one way to re-tell this story. This is the other.
In a lot of ways, this reunion was surreal. Two decades have passed, and yet, as soon as I think of high school, I can go right back there. If I watch an 80’s movie like Valley Girl or hear a certain long-forgotten song, my reaction is actually visceral. It’s as if there is a souped-up DeLorean with a flux capacitor waiting outside my house to zoom me back to 1987.
This ability of mine to go back to the future proved to be both good and bad. In response to the reunion, I immediately acted like a teenager again, focusing on all the outward appearance stuff and feeling irrationally insecure. The main difference this time was that my 38-year old brain could talk the inner teen down from the ledge. Yes, I could obsess about what to wear and how I looked, but concurrent with those actions, I understood just how silly my behavior was. I also knew that none of it really mattered, having the benefit of 20/20 hindsight.
Also, as much as I remember about those good old days, I also seemed to have forgotten quite a lot of it as well. Here’s an awkward moment: when an old friend tells you a story about you and you don’t remember it at all.
“How could you forget that?” Paul asked. “It’s like the best memory I have of you,” he said.
“Well, then I’m so glad you have it!” was all I could come up with in response.
I didn’t know what to say. Is the appropriate retort something like, “Please don’t take it personally! If I knew how to not forget I would have definitely remembered!”
Perhaps more than the wrinkles, that made me feel old.
Although my forgetfulness was not a hit with that particular friend, senility worked really well with the female frenemies. I was able to go up to them and be like, What did I hate you for? Oh, who the heck remembers? Come here and give me a hug! Call it time and distance; call it mellowing out and maturing. Call it early onset dementia, if you must. There was something really beautifully “kum-ba-yah” in all that collective memory loss.
The morning after the reunion, there was more socializing to do. It was like an after-prom party only instead of going to the beach we held a bagel brunch in the EHS cafeteria. This was a family-friendly event, with a magician entertaining our children in the senior lounge. Several teachers and administrators from the district came by to say hello.
At one point, I was standing next to my former 6th grade teacher, a man who I have known since I was 10, pointing out to him my kids and husband, and discussing my own career as a 6th grade teacher. I was simultaneously wishing away a little bit of a hangover, cursing at myself for having that extra margarita and for staying out so late. I was actually on the verge of asking him for the keys to the nurse’s office so I could grab some Tylenol.
Now that was an exceptionally surreal moment.
The principal of EHS then took us on a tour of the campus, pointing out the changes made in the decades since we’d been students there. We kind of marched in a line behind him, which made me feel a little bit like I had for 7th grade orientation, only I wasn’t wearing my rainbow-banded blue tracksuit this time. But as I turned to my right, I realized that I had gone on that very tour with Lindsay, who stood beside me now. Granted, her two-year-old son was having an absolute meltdown, and his screaming was preventing me from hearing anything the principal was saying, but other than that, it was just the same as it was in 1983.
On the walk, I got to take a moment to visit a memorial set up for Lois Van Epps, one of the most wonderful teachers that I have ever known. Although I had said goodbye to her in my mind years ago and had tried to honor her in my own teaching, I had never been to the spot on campus dedicated to her memory. There was something very moving about that for me, but I figured that if I burst into tears, my former classmates might think I was crazy in addition to senile. I pretended instead to have hay fever as I dabbed at my eyes and said another silent farewell to Ms. Van Epps.
My memory may not be what it used to be, but as I strolled the campus, a mantra of recollections filled my mind.
Here’s where we took our senior class picture.
Here’s where that backpack flew out the second floor window.
Here’s where I stood at graduation.
Here’s where a junior made fun of me when I was a freshman.
Here’s where Mr. Mallia blew things up in the name of science.
Here’s where I hit a car in the parking lot.
Here’s where I hit another.
Here’s my picture from the musical Grease.
Here’s where I hung out with friends on warm days.
Here’s where I hung out when I cut gym class.
Here’s where I hung out.
Here is where.
The reunion weekend was fun. And it flew by. Just like high school.
“So, what else is there to say?” my friend Jessica asked. “How can you even have a Part II? Everyone knows that the biggest piece of the reunion experience is the getting ready component. Did you lose the ten pounds? Get a boob job, tummy tuck, or Botox? How’s your hair? How’s your husband’s hair?”
Like me, Jessica had graduated from high school in 1988. She had recently attended had her own 20th reunion on Long Island. She talked like such an expert that she may also have crashed some others, just for fun. I hung on to her every word.
She explained that the event is really just about the women. “They all look great, better than they did in high school. But the guys get old and bald. The captain of the football team is now fat, and the brainy nerdy guys are the best husbands of the bunch.” She shrugged like this was common knowledge.
I pondered it for a minute. “Your husband is bald.”
“Like a baby.” She added.
“And mine was a brainy nerd.”
“Doesn’t Brett still brag about winning the perfect attendance award in high school?” Jessica asked.
“And he’s a good husband.”
We nodded in unison. “Amen to that.”
Case closed? I wasn’t so sure. My friend Steve, with whom I was planning the reunion, was the captain of the football team in high school, and he still looked great. I decided to put Jessica’s logic on my brain’s back burner.
And before I could say Karma Chameleon, the months of anticipation were past. On a crisp evening last October, Brett and I headed into the city for the reunion.
Had anyone changed dramatically, I wondered? It was time to find out.
Now, there’s two ways I can go with this story, from this point on. I could either tell witty anecdotes filled with quippy dialogue, filling you in on all the details as Brett and I chatted it up with my ex-boyfriend and some old frenemies. I could mention that everyone looked great, not just the women. I could tell you that, at two in the morning, the last of the group made its way down to the street from the roof-top bar where we had spent the evening. My prom date, a mild-mannered pediatrician, patted Brett on the shoulder and smiled, declaring that he was now one of The Guys. I could tell you that, as Brett and I debriefed on the ride home, he decided that my ex-boyfriend, Joe, a graduate of my class who I dated after college, was his favorite person at the event.
“Really!? That’s so bizarre!” I declared, shaking my head.
“What? Joe’s a cool guy. He’s smart and funny and interesting, and…”
“And he broke my heart, remember!”
Brett was quiet. “Good thing he did, too.”
“Huh. Hadn’t thought of it that way. Remind me to send him a thank you note.”
So, that’s one way to re-tell this story. This is the other.
In a lot of ways, this reunion was surreal. Two decades have passed, and yet, as soon as I think of high school, I can go right back there. If I watch an 80’s movie like Valley Girl or hear a certain long-forgotten song, my reaction is actually visceral. It’s as if there is a souped-up DeLorean with a flux capacitor waiting outside my house to zoom me back to 1987.
This ability of mine to go back to the future proved to be both good and bad. In response to the reunion, I immediately acted like a teenager again, focusing on all the outward appearance stuff and feeling irrationally insecure. The main difference this time was that my 38-year old brain could talk the inner teen down from the ledge. Yes, I could obsess about what to wear and how I looked, but concurrent with those actions, I understood just how silly my behavior was. I also knew that none of it really mattered, having the benefit of 20/20 hindsight.
Also, as much as I remember about those good old days, I also seemed to have forgotten quite a lot of it as well. Here’s an awkward moment: when an old friend tells you a story about you and you don’t remember it at all.
“How could you forget that?” Paul asked. “It’s like the best memory I have of you,” he said.
“Well, then I’m so glad you have it!” was all I could come up with in response.
I didn’t know what to say. Is the appropriate retort something like, “Please don’t take it personally! If I knew how to not forget I would have definitely remembered!”
Perhaps more than the wrinkles, that made me feel old.
Although my forgetfulness was not a hit with that particular friend, senility worked really well with the female frenemies. I was able to go up to them and be like, What did I hate you for? Oh, who the heck remembers? Come here and give me a hug! Call it time and distance; call it mellowing out and maturing. Call it early onset dementia, if you must. There was something really beautifully “kum-ba-yah” in all that collective memory loss.
The morning after the reunion, there was more socializing to do. It was like an after-prom party only instead of going to the beach we held a bagel brunch in the EHS cafeteria. This was a family-friendly event, with a magician entertaining our children in the senior lounge. Several teachers and administrators from the district came by to say hello.
At one point, I was standing next to my former 6th grade teacher, a man who I have known since I was 10, pointing out to him my kids and husband, and discussing my own career as a 6th grade teacher. I was simultaneously wishing away a little bit of a hangover, cursing at myself for having that extra margarita and for staying out so late. I was actually on the verge of asking him for the keys to the nurse’s office so I could grab some Tylenol.
Now that was an exceptionally surreal moment.
The principal of EHS then took us on a tour of the campus, pointing out the changes made in the decades since we’d been students there. We kind of marched in a line behind him, which made me feel a little bit like I had for 7th grade orientation, only I wasn’t wearing my rainbow-banded blue tracksuit this time. But as I turned to my right, I realized that I had gone on that very tour with Lindsay, who stood beside me now. Granted, her two-year-old son was having an absolute meltdown, and his screaming was preventing me from hearing anything the principal was saying, but other than that, it was just the same as it was in 1983.
On the walk, I got to take a moment to visit a memorial set up for Lois Van Epps, one of the most wonderful teachers that I have ever known. Although I had said goodbye to her in my mind years ago and had tried to honor her in my own teaching, I had never been to the spot on campus dedicated to her memory. There was something very moving about that for me, but I figured that if I burst into tears, my former classmates might think I was crazy in addition to senile. I pretended instead to have hay fever as I dabbed at my eyes and said another silent farewell to Ms. Van Epps.
My memory may not be what it used to be, but as I strolled the campus, a mantra of recollections filled my mind.
Here’s where we took our senior class picture.
Here’s where that backpack flew out the second floor window.
Here’s where I stood at graduation.
Here’s where a junior made fun of me when I was a freshman.
Here’s where Mr. Mallia blew things up in the name of science.
Here’s where I hit a car in the parking lot.
Here’s where I hit another.
Here’s my picture from the musical Grease.
Here’s where I hung out with friends on warm days.
Here’s where I hung out when I cut gym class.
Here’s where I hung out.
Here is where.
The reunion weekend was fun. And it flew by. Just like high school.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Making Friends with the Past, Part I
It was around this time last year that I had to face a harsh reality: my 20th high school reunion was quickly approaching. I don’t know why this news sent me into a panic, but it did. I suddenly felt really old. Overnight, my laugh lines turned into wrinkles, and purple bags formed under my eyes. This rapid deterioration couldn’t be all in my mind, could it? Was it the fear that I would soon have to face the clique of girls that always reminded me of that classic movie, Heathers? And what about those friends that I had lost touch with, whether amicably or not-quite-so? Did I really want to deal with all the feelings the past might stir up? In short, was I ready for this reunion?
While I was mulling this over, a website had been set up, and people from the Edgemont High School class of 1988 were now chatting online.This is what I heard through the grapevine, at any rate. I couldn’t actually verify the fact that my former classmates were reconnecting via this new-fangled, post-80’s technology because I had decided not to follow the link sent to me by Sarah, one of my best friends from high school.And that’s because I had decided that I wasn’t going to go to the reunion.
“I think that’s a wise decision,” my husband, Brett, concurred. He and I were waiting for a table at the diner with our children one Saturday morning last March. In the 10 minutes that we were standing there, I had run into about 5 people I knew from high school.“Every day in Scarsdale is like a reunion for you. I say, save the 85 bucks per person and take a walk around the village, waving at all the people you’ve known since the mid 70’s. Call it a reunion.”
He had a point.And he was on a roll.“Clearly, you should not go to the reunion. You loved high school. We go out with all these ‘Edgemont couples’ – people who actually married their friends from high school, and it’s like some sort of convention where I don’t know the language. You guys are like Trekkies. I don’t think I could take a whole room of you people, gushing about the good old days when you went to Madonna concerts and wore finger-less lace gloves, or smoked cigarettes while eating fries dipped in gravy at The Mont.”
He had another point.High school really was fun, come to think of it.“You had friends you loved, and teachers that you loved so much that you decided to become a teacher yourself. You moved back to your hometown! You were even a cheerleader! Yeah, you totally shouldn’t go to that reunion.”
I was detecting some sarcasm from my normally sarcastic husband.“Okay, I hear you. I’m like the poster child for it,” I admitted. “I’ll probably end up going. And you’ll probably have to come along. But please, let’s get one thing straight: I was not just a cheerleader. I was a cheerleader who made fun of cheerleaders. It’s the essence of who I am. You know, insider/outsider.”
“Whatever. Did you wear the little skirt? Did you jump up and down and shout rhymes at athletic boys?”
I nodded. “Then you were a cheerleader. You did not take a political stance.”
“I’m not sure about that. Senior year, we put together a very impassioned petition stating that cheerleading was indeed a sport and therefore worthy of exemption from gym class. It was highly politicized.”
“And how’s that turn out for you?”
“Some of the squad had to make up gym credits over the summer in order to graduate.”
The memory of it made me wistful.By the end of that breakfast, I had decided to go to the reunion.That night, I went online and updated everyone with my 20-year story in about a paragraph of text. I also casually mentioned in that note that I would be glad to help Steve, now living in New York City (and married to another EHSer, of course), who had come forward to organize the reunion.
The next day, my phone was ringing.“Hey, Julie! How’d you like to plan this thing with me?” Steve asked. By the end of the week, I had gone from not attending the reunion to actually co-chairing it.
“Now, that’s my cheerleader!” Brett winked.I dug through the attic to find my pom-poms. Goooooo Re-union!!!
******
Spring turned into summer and summer into fall. Before I knew it, the scent of football season was in the air. The reunion was now a mere 4 weeks away. RSVPs had been pouring in from across the country and around the world. I had been connecting with people via email that I hadn’t seen since graduation. The experience was strange and exciting at the same time. I was starting to really look forward to this event.Dana was coming from Bulgaria. Sarah from New York City. With them by my side, I could walk into that reunion and feel confident.As long as I had the right outfit.It was time to get my game on.
Several trips to the city later, I had fourteen options and nothing to wear. Was the black cocktail dress very Jackie O. or very Nancy Reagan? Were wrap dresses so 2005? And should I wear fierce boots or stiletto heels?I was having trouble focusing on anything other than the big R.
My book group had witnessed enough, and was on the verge of kicking me out. On a Tuesday in early September, they cornered me in a corner of Lila’s living room. Lila spoke.“We need to stage an intervention. We’ll be over Friday night at 7:00. You’ll try it all on for us and we’ll decide.”
“But…” I began.They held their paperbacks up to me, as if to strike.
“No buts! We’re coming. End of story.”
To take my mind off the costuming issues, I decided it was high time to see my dermatologist. There were capillaries on my face that needed zapping.“Now, this might sting a little bit,” the doctor with milky-white, perfectly unwrinkled, rosacea-and-mole-free-skin warned. “Like rubber bands being snapped against your cheeks.”I looked at her and thought, I’ll endure almost anything to have skin as blemish-free as yours. Bring on the rubber bands!
“Also, you will have some bruising. It might take a few weeks for your skin to heal fully.”Bring on the bruising! I have 15 days!
Now here’s a little lesson for you folks who, like me, might not see the danger in those words. If a doctor ever says to you that “there might be bruising,” you should stop right there and ask some questions. Like, how bad will that bruising be? And, for how long will that bruising last? And then you should up and run, even if only wearing a backless paper gown. Because, otherwise, you will end up like me.I left that office $400 poorer and in a deep state of psychic disarray.
In the first hour post-procedure, my face looked so bad that I thought, surely there has been some mistake. The v-Beam is lauded by movie stars precisely because it doesn’t cause any bruising. There is not supposed to be downtime between the procedure and the perfection.For me, the not-Angelina girl, this harmless laser caused 12 days worth of brownish blackish, bloody-looking pustules that threatened to take over the entirety of my face.“Remember that guy who got shot in the face by Dick Cheney?” Brett asked me as I sat to write this article. “I didn’t want to tell you at the time, but you looked just like him.”
Thanks, honey.
In order to take my mind off the bruises that I was sure would keep me disfigured for life, I decided to go back to obsessing over what to wear. I headed into Scarsdale village for one last look around before the book group intervention that evening. And at one store, I found something that could be perfect. It was a shimmery dark blue dress with a deep v-neck and some stretch to it. Accessorized with a thick black belt and a little cardigan, it felt very me.But since the return policy would leave me with a store credit if I changed my mind, I had to be certain before purchasing it.I looked at my watch. 12:00. Which of my friends might be on-call at this hour? I dialed Janie, my friend from high school who now lives in Edgemont with her EHS husband. I explained my precarious situation to her voicemail. It went a little something like this: “I’m-in-the-village-and-I-need-help-deciding-what-to-wear-to-the-
reunion-because-as-you-know-I-am-a-crazy-person-help-me-
my-face-is-all-messed-up!!!!”
Next person on the list: Lila from book group. She already knew how insane I was, having planned the intervention. She answered the phone and I explained.“Oh, I’d love to come see, but I’m getting a pedicure. Can’t leave the chair.”
“Are you getting a pedicure in the village?” I asked, an idea forming in my mind.
“Yes….”
“Then I’m coming to you.”Don’t you just love shopping in a small town? The saleswoman in the store shooed me out, seemingly not too worried about the fate of the dress and whether or not I would ever return with it. I marched over to the nail salon, price tags flapping all over me.A few people stared and I smiled back. Then I remembered what my face looked like. People weren’t gawking because of my outfit.
Lila loved the dress. So did the woman in the pedicure chair next to her, as did all the ladies who worked there. My second bit of advice to you is this: if you ever need an opinion about something, just walk into a nail salon. Doesn’t matter if you know anyone there. You will have a captive audience, a committee of commentators!“Honey, turn around. Let me get a good look.” An elderly woman called from the front of the salon, where her fingernails were drying by the windows. I obliged.“Very pretty. But what happened to your –?”
Want to know how it turned out?Seeing the clique of girls? Former boyfriend? Prom date?Tune in next week.
While I was mulling this over, a website had been set up, and people from the Edgemont High School class of 1988 were now chatting online.This is what I heard through the grapevine, at any rate. I couldn’t actually verify the fact that my former classmates were reconnecting via this new-fangled, post-80’s technology because I had decided not to follow the link sent to me by Sarah, one of my best friends from high school.And that’s because I had decided that I wasn’t going to go to the reunion.
“I think that’s a wise decision,” my husband, Brett, concurred. He and I were waiting for a table at the diner with our children one Saturday morning last March. In the 10 minutes that we were standing there, I had run into about 5 people I knew from high school.“Every day in Scarsdale is like a reunion for you. I say, save the 85 bucks per person and take a walk around the village, waving at all the people you’ve known since the mid 70’s. Call it a reunion.”
He had a point.And he was on a roll.“Clearly, you should not go to the reunion. You loved high school. We go out with all these ‘Edgemont couples’ – people who actually married their friends from high school, and it’s like some sort of convention where I don’t know the language. You guys are like Trekkies. I don’t think I could take a whole room of you people, gushing about the good old days when you went to Madonna concerts and wore finger-less lace gloves, or smoked cigarettes while eating fries dipped in gravy at The Mont.”
He had another point.High school really was fun, come to think of it.“You had friends you loved, and teachers that you loved so much that you decided to become a teacher yourself. You moved back to your hometown! You were even a cheerleader! Yeah, you totally shouldn’t go to that reunion.”
I was detecting some sarcasm from my normally sarcastic husband.“Okay, I hear you. I’m like the poster child for it,” I admitted. “I’ll probably end up going. And you’ll probably have to come along. But please, let’s get one thing straight: I was not just a cheerleader. I was a cheerleader who made fun of cheerleaders. It’s the essence of who I am. You know, insider/outsider.”
“Whatever. Did you wear the little skirt? Did you jump up and down and shout rhymes at athletic boys?”
I nodded. “Then you were a cheerleader. You did not take a political stance.”
“I’m not sure about that. Senior year, we put together a very impassioned petition stating that cheerleading was indeed a sport and therefore worthy of exemption from gym class. It was highly politicized.”
“And how’s that turn out for you?”
“Some of the squad had to make up gym credits over the summer in order to graduate.”
The memory of it made me wistful.By the end of that breakfast, I had decided to go to the reunion.That night, I went online and updated everyone with my 20-year story in about a paragraph of text. I also casually mentioned in that note that I would be glad to help Steve, now living in New York City (and married to another EHSer, of course), who had come forward to organize the reunion.
The next day, my phone was ringing.“Hey, Julie! How’d you like to plan this thing with me?” Steve asked. By the end of the week, I had gone from not attending the reunion to actually co-chairing it.
“Now, that’s my cheerleader!” Brett winked.I dug through the attic to find my pom-poms. Goooooo Re-union!!!
******
Spring turned into summer and summer into fall. Before I knew it, the scent of football season was in the air. The reunion was now a mere 4 weeks away. RSVPs had been pouring in from across the country and around the world. I had been connecting with people via email that I hadn’t seen since graduation. The experience was strange and exciting at the same time. I was starting to really look forward to this event.Dana was coming from Bulgaria. Sarah from New York City. With them by my side, I could walk into that reunion and feel confident.As long as I had the right outfit.It was time to get my game on.
Several trips to the city later, I had fourteen options and nothing to wear. Was the black cocktail dress very Jackie O. or very Nancy Reagan? Were wrap dresses so 2005? And should I wear fierce boots or stiletto heels?I was having trouble focusing on anything other than the big R.
My book group had witnessed enough, and was on the verge of kicking me out. On a Tuesday in early September, they cornered me in a corner of Lila’s living room. Lila spoke.“We need to stage an intervention. We’ll be over Friday night at 7:00. You’ll try it all on for us and we’ll decide.”
“But…” I began.They held their paperbacks up to me, as if to strike.
“No buts! We’re coming. End of story.”
To take my mind off the costuming issues, I decided it was high time to see my dermatologist. There were capillaries on my face that needed zapping.“Now, this might sting a little bit,” the doctor with milky-white, perfectly unwrinkled, rosacea-and-mole-free-skin warned. “Like rubber bands being snapped against your cheeks.”I looked at her and thought, I’ll endure almost anything to have skin as blemish-free as yours. Bring on the rubber bands!
“Also, you will have some bruising. It might take a few weeks for your skin to heal fully.”Bring on the bruising! I have 15 days!
Now here’s a little lesson for you folks who, like me, might not see the danger in those words. If a doctor ever says to you that “there might be bruising,” you should stop right there and ask some questions. Like, how bad will that bruising be? And, for how long will that bruising last? And then you should up and run, even if only wearing a backless paper gown. Because, otherwise, you will end up like me.I left that office $400 poorer and in a deep state of psychic disarray.
In the first hour post-procedure, my face looked so bad that I thought, surely there has been some mistake. The v-Beam is lauded by movie stars precisely because it doesn’t cause any bruising. There is not supposed to be downtime between the procedure and the perfection.For me, the not-Angelina girl, this harmless laser caused 12 days worth of brownish blackish, bloody-looking pustules that threatened to take over the entirety of my face.“Remember that guy who got shot in the face by Dick Cheney?” Brett asked me as I sat to write this article. “I didn’t want to tell you at the time, but you looked just like him.”
Thanks, honey.
In order to take my mind off the bruises that I was sure would keep me disfigured for life, I decided to go back to obsessing over what to wear. I headed into Scarsdale village for one last look around before the book group intervention that evening. And at one store, I found something that could be perfect. It was a shimmery dark blue dress with a deep v-neck and some stretch to it. Accessorized with a thick black belt and a little cardigan, it felt very me.But since the return policy would leave me with a store credit if I changed my mind, I had to be certain before purchasing it.I looked at my watch. 12:00. Which of my friends might be on-call at this hour? I dialed Janie, my friend from high school who now lives in Edgemont with her EHS husband. I explained my precarious situation to her voicemail. It went a little something like this: “I’m-in-the-village-and-I-need-help-deciding-what-to-wear-to-the-
reunion-because-as-you-know-I-am-a-crazy-person-help-me-
my-face-is-all-messed-up!!!!”
Next person on the list: Lila from book group. She already knew how insane I was, having planned the intervention. She answered the phone and I explained.“Oh, I’d love to come see, but I’m getting a pedicure. Can’t leave the chair.”
“Are you getting a pedicure in the village?” I asked, an idea forming in my mind.
“Yes….”
“Then I’m coming to you.”Don’t you just love shopping in a small town? The saleswoman in the store shooed me out, seemingly not too worried about the fate of the dress and whether or not I would ever return with it. I marched over to the nail salon, price tags flapping all over me.A few people stared and I smiled back. Then I remembered what my face looked like. People weren’t gawking because of my outfit.
Lila loved the dress. So did the woman in the pedicure chair next to her, as did all the ladies who worked there. My second bit of advice to you is this: if you ever need an opinion about something, just walk into a nail salon. Doesn’t matter if you know anyone there. You will have a captive audience, a committee of commentators!“Honey, turn around. Let me get a good look.” An elderly woman called from the front of the salon, where her fingernails were drying by the windows. I obliged.“Very pretty. But what happened to your –?”
Want to know how it turned out?Seeing the clique of girls? Former boyfriend? Prom date?Tune in next week.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Searching for Mary Poppins
A few weeks ago, I put an ad on Craigslist for a babysitter-slash-housekeeper. Given the current economic climate, I was quite optimistic that I would find tons of highly (and overly) qualified applicants for this position. A friend in Brooklyn recently went through a similar search process and said she received over 100 responses to her ad. One applicant was even willing to teach the children 19th Century French poetry between doing the laundry and making dinner!
After hearing that glowing report, “optimistic” might not be the right term for my state of being. I actually woke up the morning after placing my ad and peered out my window, expecting to find a line of spiffy-looking Victorian ladies in wide-brimmed hats with resumes and umbrellas in hand, winding around the block like in the opening scene of Mary Poppins.
Instead I saw my filthy car in the driveway, sighing under the weight of its own ugliness. The list of things to do had just gotten a little bit longer.
I had been without a babysitter for two months when I finally bit the bullet and started looking for someone new. Truth was, I didn’t even want anyone new. I had stopped working in large part due to my desire to actually be my own children’s babysitter. What a novel idea! And now that my kids were in school all day, wasn’t it possible – indeed probably – that I could accomplish a great deal between the hours of 9-3?
During that time, I figured I could do everything except teach graduate school or see a Broadway matinee. But since I was to begin teaching every Wednesday night during the Spring semester from 3-8 pm, a babysitter was indeed required. Of course I immediately thought of my mom as a free source of support. Unfortunately, my mom tap dances on Wednesday nights – yes, you heard that right, she tap dances – and so, a paid babysitter would have to be found.
My former babysitter was great until one day when she suddenly wasn’t even good. That’s the only way I can explain the rapid decline in Wanda, my family’s long term babysitter. I think the change in her had something to do with skydiving. Yes, you heard that right, I said skydiving. Once Wanda started jumping out of airplanes every weekend – and then falling in love with her instructor for this death-defying activity – things changed. She stopped caring about finishing the laundry, often leaving it for me in the dryer and mentioning on her way out the door, “Oh, Julie, there’s some towels that need to be folded.” I would nod and thank her as she headed off to some concert in the city. Thank her!? Then I would clean up all the toys left out in the playroom, detox my children from three hours of television viewing, and fold towels.
I was on the verge of firing Wanda when she quit. She had decided to move upstate to live with her boyfriend. I had cut her job down to something like 10 hours a week and the minimal amount of work just wasn’t enough for her to live on. So we all went out to dinner to celebrate her departure. My kids cried when Wanda waved goodbye as our car pulled away from her house. They loved her and would miss her. I was feeling lukewarm.
It was only after she left that I noticed things missing. They were odd things, like a pair of designer jeans and some great black workout pants. Brett turned the house upside down one morning to no avail, looking for his new t-shirts and a zippered sweatshirt. He actually missed his train that day obsessing over the vanished items.
“I swear, they were right here! In the laundry room!”
I think I said something really helpful like, “Yes, dear. Whatever you say. The little mice people keep moving your stuff. I get it. Now go to work!”
Later that very day, my friend Kate called to say that while Wanda had worked briefly for her, she noticed a fleece North Face jacket of hers missing. She didn’t want to accuse Wanda, but…had I also noticed anything like that?
Lightbulb!
In retrospect, Wanda’s huge pocketbook didn’t seem like a fashion statement.
I immediately called Brett at work and told him that I knew where all his stuff was.
“Great!” he enthused. “Where?”
“New Paltz!”
In re-telling this story to people, I heard from many who experienced something similar. One friend said that her former babysitter had also stolen small items from the house, mostly of the candles-and-wine variety.
“She sounds like a romantic,” I mused. “Mine was more into the gym and the Great Outdoors.”
“How about this one?” My friend Laura confided. “A while ago, I got this huge cable bill. It was just after we moved into the house and I thought maybe the cable company had miscalculated, or that we had signed up for the wrong plan. But no. The bill was filled with pages of paid porno.”
Yes, you heard that right, she said porno.
Laura went to her husband, trying to approach the subject gently and with understanding. She used phrases like “Honey, there’s something I need to ask you….it’s okay if you feel you need to…I know men have needs….” and the like. After hearing her out, however, Laura’s husband laughed in her face and declared in no uncertain terms that the porno was not ordered -- or viewed -- by him.
Laura became a detective. Like in a game of Clue, she put the pieces together. She called the cable company and traced the bill to a particular cable box in the house, discovering the source and finally determining whodunit.
It was the foreign au pair, with the porn, in the basement.
What was the solution, I wondered? Did she confront her? Yes. “I asked her not to rent ‘movies’ quote/unquote from the television anymore.” Here she paused. “And I also decided that I needed to keep her busier. Much busier.”
Nobody is perfect. But when you let someone into your home and give them charge of your children, they need to be pretty darn close to perfect. To me, there is no job more important in the world than this one.
So, faced with the task of finding a new sitter, and feeling a little bit jaded, I opened my email and began to look at the responses from my Craigslist ad. All in all, I received about a dozen. Which, in case you are doing the math, is pretty far off from 100. But several of them seemed promising, and so I began to call.
I left messages for some, and spoke to the roommate of another. After speaking to one really nice-sounding person named Lina, I decided to move our relationship quickly to the next level. I asked her for a reference and she gave me a woman’s number in Westchester. I called and got the reference on the phone.
I told her the purpose of my call.
“Ah, yes!” She began. “Lina. She worked for me for a year.” That’s good, I thought.
“Now, what can I tell you about Lina? Well, she drives.” That’s good too, I thought, though not a necessity. I started taking notes as the woman continued.
“Though she did have two rather serious car accidents with our car while working for us, so maybe you won’t want her to drive for you, on second thought.”
I crossed off the word “driver” from my notes.
“Also, you should not expect her to cook.”
That’s okay, I explained. It’s mostly mac-n-cheese and chicken nuggets around here. No real cooking required.
“Yes, but for example, take those chicken nuggets. Lina only listened to half of the directions. So she would put the food in for 8 minutes, and then forget to turn them around for the other eight minutes. Your kids will have to eat slightly frozen chicken nuggets, you see. But my kids didn’t mind. They just took a deep breath and ate it.”
I started to think that my kids might mind this. It bothered me. Really…who lacks the capacity to successfully defrost chicken nuggets?
As the woman continued in this vein for a good 10 minutes, I wondered if this was a real reference or not. Was it possible that I was I on some sort of reality TV show without my knowing it?
In short, the best this woman could say in support of Lina was that she had a serious lapse in judgment. However, she was really a lovely person, and, were my house on fire, she was petty sure Lina would get the kids out safely. “You should really try her out!” She concluded.
I started my day wishing for Mary Poppins and ended up with something more akin to Amelia Bedeila.
No matter. I peered out the window again. There was a definite change in the wind. I remained hopeful that my perfect babysitter would blow into town tomorrow.
Transportation? Umbrella, perhaps.
After hearing that glowing report, “optimistic” might not be the right term for my state of being. I actually woke up the morning after placing my ad and peered out my window, expecting to find a line of spiffy-looking Victorian ladies in wide-brimmed hats with resumes and umbrellas in hand, winding around the block like in the opening scene of Mary Poppins.
Instead I saw my filthy car in the driveway, sighing under the weight of its own ugliness. The list of things to do had just gotten a little bit longer.
I had been without a babysitter for two months when I finally bit the bullet and started looking for someone new. Truth was, I didn’t even want anyone new. I had stopped working in large part due to my desire to actually be my own children’s babysitter. What a novel idea! And now that my kids were in school all day, wasn’t it possible – indeed probably – that I could accomplish a great deal between the hours of 9-3?
During that time, I figured I could do everything except teach graduate school or see a Broadway matinee. But since I was to begin teaching every Wednesday night during the Spring semester from 3-8 pm, a babysitter was indeed required. Of course I immediately thought of my mom as a free source of support. Unfortunately, my mom tap dances on Wednesday nights – yes, you heard that right, she tap dances – and so, a paid babysitter would have to be found.
My former babysitter was great until one day when she suddenly wasn’t even good. That’s the only way I can explain the rapid decline in Wanda, my family’s long term babysitter. I think the change in her had something to do with skydiving. Yes, you heard that right, I said skydiving. Once Wanda started jumping out of airplanes every weekend – and then falling in love with her instructor for this death-defying activity – things changed. She stopped caring about finishing the laundry, often leaving it for me in the dryer and mentioning on her way out the door, “Oh, Julie, there’s some towels that need to be folded.” I would nod and thank her as she headed off to some concert in the city. Thank her!? Then I would clean up all the toys left out in the playroom, detox my children from three hours of television viewing, and fold towels.
I was on the verge of firing Wanda when she quit. She had decided to move upstate to live with her boyfriend. I had cut her job down to something like 10 hours a week and the minimal amount of work just wasn’t enough for her to live on. So we all went out to dinner to celebrate her departure. My kids cried when Wanda waved goodbye as our car pulled away from her house. They loved her and would miss her. I was feeling lukewarm.
It was only after she left that I noticed things missing. They were odd things, like a pair of designer jeans and some great black workout pants. Brett turned the house upside down one morning to no avail, looking for his new t-shirts and a zippered sweatshirt. He actually missed his train that day obsessing over the vanished items.
“I swear, they were right here! In the laundry room!”
I think I said something really helpful like, “Yes, dear. Whatever you say. The little mice people keep moving your stuff. I get it. Now go to work!”
Later that very day, my friend Kate called to say that while Wanda had worked briefly for her, she noticed a fleece North Face jacket of hers missing. She didn’t want to accuse Wanda, but…had I also noticed anything like that?
Lightbulb!
In retrospect, Wanda’s huge pocketbook didn’t seem like a fashion statement.
I immediately called Brett at work and told him that I knew where all his stuff was.
“Great!” he enthused. “Where?”
“New Paltz!”
In re-telling this story to people, I heard from many who experienced something similar. One friend said that her former babysitter had also stolen small items from the house, mostly of the candles-and-wine variety.
“She sounds like a romantic,” I mused. “Mine was more into the gym and the Great Outdoors.”
“How about this one?” My friend Laura confided. “A while ago, I got this huge cable bill. It was just after we moved into the house and I thought maybe the cable company had miscalculated, or that we had signed up for the wrong plan. But no. The bill was filled with pages of paid porno.”
Yes, you heard that right, she said porno.
Laura went to her husband, trying to approach the subject gently and with understanding. She used phrases like “Honey, there’s something I need to ask you….it’s okay if you feel you need to…I know men have needs….” and the like. After hearing her out, however, Laura’s husband laughed in her face and declared in no uncertain terms that the porno was not ordered -- or viewed -- by him.
Laura became a detective. Like in a game of Clue, she put the pieces together. She called the cable company and traced the bill to a particular cable box in the house, discovering the source and finally determining whodunit.
It was the foreign au pair, with the porn, in the basement.
What was the solution, I wondered? Did she confront her? Yes. “I asked her not to rent ‘movies’ quote/unquote from the television anymore.” Here she paused. “And I also decided that I needed to keep her busier. Much busier.”
Nobody is perfect. But when you let someone into your home and give them charge of your children, they need to be pretty darn close to perfect. To me, there is no job more important in the world than this one.
So, faced with the task of finding a new sitter, and feeling a little bit jaded, I opened my email and began to look at the responses from my Craigslist ad. All in all, I received about a dozen. Which, in case you are doing the math, is pretty far off from 100. But several of them seemed promising, and so I began to call.
I left messages for some, and spoke to the roommate of another. After speaking to one really nice-sounding person named Lina, I decided to move our relationship quickly to the next level. I asked her for a reference and she gave me a woman’s number in Westchester. I called and got the reference on the phone.
I told her the purpose of my call.
“Ah, yes!” She began. “Lina. She worked for me for a year.” That’s good, I thought.
“Now, what can I tell you about Lina? Well, she drives.” That’s good too, I thought, though not a necessity. I started taking notes as the woman continued.
“Though she did have two rather serious car accidents with our car while working for us, so maybe you won’t want her to drive for you, on second thought.”
I crossed off the word “driver” from my notes.
“Also, you should not expect her to cook.”
That’s okay, I explained. It’s mostly mac-n-cheese and chicken nuggets around here. No real cooking required.
“Yes, but for example, take those chicken nuggets. Lina only listened to half of the directions. So she would put the food in for 8 minutes, and then forget to turn them around for the other eight minutes. Your kids will have to eat slightly frozen chicken nuggets, you see. But my kids didn’t mind. They just took a deep breath and ate it.”
I started to think that my kids might mind this. It bothered me. Really…who lacks the capacity to successfully defrost chicken nuggets?
As the woman continued in this vein for a good 10 minutes, I wondered if this was a real reference or not. Was it possible that I was I on some sort of reality TV show without my knowing it?
In short, the best this woman could say in support of Lina was that she had a serious lapse in judgment. However, she was really a lovely person, and, were my house on fire, she was petty sure Lina would get the kids out safely. “You should really try her out!” She concluded.
I started my day wishing for Mary Poppins and ended up with something more akin to Amelia Bedeila.
No matter. I peered out the window again. There was a definite change in the wind. I remained hopeful that my perfect babysitter would blow into town tomorrow.
Transportation? Umbrella, perhaps.
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