HELLO MY NAME IS

Mysteriously, no one every forgot Eddie's name.

Don't you hate when you run into someone at the grocery store and cannot remember her name? You know how you stand there, while she says something chatty, and your mind is saying, "Think, think, think! You know this woman. She is a neighbor. She has three kids and she once brought rice-krispy treats shaped like shamrocks to a Brownie meeting. Think, think, think. You know this!" Meanwhile she chats on about the PTA carnival, remembering to call you by name, using your children's names and even (if she's very good) slipping in your husband's name. Then you feel you are getting closer--it starts with a J. No, maybe a K. Shit. what is her name, and then just as she says your name one more time you give up and say, "See you later," and slink through the grocery store, praying you won't do that weird thing where you manage to run into each other again down every aisle. You may even reconfigure your regular shopping pattern specifically so this won't happen. Don't you hate when that happens?

Later in the day you will remember her name as you are driving around running errands. You will even shout it out, "Debbie! Her name is Debbie!" and you pound the steering wheel and your children will ask you what you are talking about. You will tell them the story and your oldest might even point out the obvious, "Mom, how can you forget your sister's name?"

Well. Okay, maybe I'm not that bad, but pretty damn close. Some will say I am bad at names because I'm self-absorbed. Duh. Some will say it's because I'm getting older and my memory is fading. Again, duh. Some will say almost everyone is bad at this. And that is true enough, except for Mark Walther the principal at my children's school who is so good with names it is somewhat of a savant skill for him.

But for the rest of us, mere mortals, we are not very good at remembering names. That's why I really liked the name badges at the conference we attended last week. They had our names typed fully at the bottom but smack, dab in the middle, in a huge font that even aging eyes could read from a respectable distance, was our first names.

At these conferences you can sit next to someone at lunch and have a really long conversation but then the next day you will see them by the pool and not for the life of you remember their name. We discussed this---Linda from Ireland and I (see I rememberd her name because it was there for me to see the whole time). She said, "I love these name badges because I'm really bad with names. I will remember for years that I met you and you have three children and you live in Chicago but I will forget your name the second we walk out this door. But with this badge I can see you and say ,'Hey Judy' how's it going?" Exactly.

With these name badges I was freed of the task of trying to remember a name. I found that I used this freed-up energy to actually LISTEN to what the person was saying! It was positively exhilirating.
I also liked being called by my name by so many people. It made me feel semi-famous. It was great when the bartender said, "Judy, another gin and tonic" or other conferees would say, "Hey Judy, nice work at the hula hoop contest" or "Judy, you really nailed the Supremes imitation up on stage last night." (It was a really fun conference).

After a few days of this I came up with this brilliant idea--what if everyone had their first name monogrammed on every piece of their clothing!! In big, bold, easy-to-read Arial typeface!!

Think of how much easier life would be. You could see someone at Target--that woman you sort of remember you know from when your kids were in nursery school togheter or is it that you met her at school when you were on that board or maybe your kids played soccer together---and instead of wondering all day long what her name is you could just say it right outloud!

And think of all the other times it would be useful. At a restaurant when the hostess takes your name and it's noisy and you shout your name "Judy!" and they write down "Julie" instead you could just point to your shirt. At Starbucks they'd just look at your name on your shirt and write it on your half decaf/caf, soy, lowfat, extrashot latte cup. Wait--what if we had that order monogrammed on our shirts? And our orders for McDonalds too? No, wait, I'm getting carried away and our shirts would be full of words. I think just our name is good.

I'm sure there are dozens of ways this would improve the quality of life. Not to mention the people who do monogramming--they'd be thrilled with this idea.

Okay, I gotta go--lots of work to be done, shirts to be mongrammed--and I have to find a number for the monogramming lobbyists group.

GETTING OLD: GETTING WACKY

Warning: If you believe this is a symbol of fine dining--

this article might be about you.

April 6, 2007

Nearly everyone I know, it seems, is suddenly dealing with wacky aging parents. This is no surprise as we ourselves are not exactly spring chickens. Those of us fortunate to still have aging parents are headed into (or are well into) the wacky years.

Now of course, I am not talking about my own parents. No. My own parents are not getting wacky in their old age. And they read this blog regularly.

I am talking, of course, about everyone else's parents. Here are a few stories to illustrate this point:

-Friend A from college: her mother goes out to lunch and finds she has trouble paying the bill. She can't figure out how much it is and she is fumbling with the change. When she gets in the car she can't remember how to buckle her seatbelt. Her lunch friend does the logical thing--reaches over and buckles her up so she can (get this) START DRIVING!!! (well her lunch friend had to do it because she herself has macular degeneration and it wouldn't be safe for her to drive). Blocks later my friend's mother runs a red-light and crashes into another car because as you have no doubt guessed by now--she was having a stroke. On the upside, no one was hurt and she's recovering well. No report on the friend who was helpful enough to buckle her up.

-Friend B a neighbor: her parents live in Florida, God's waiting room. One day dad feels the symptoms of a heart attack coming on so he decides maybe his wife should take him to the hospital. He lets her drive (this is perhaps the first and only time he allows this). They do not call 911--that's for emergencies. They set off to the hospital but he insists they not drive to the closest hospital because that one is "No good" so they drive another hour and half to a better hospital. Miraculously he survives to attend another early bird senior special at the Cracker Barrel.

-Friend of a friend I don't even know but heard about: She goes to visit her mother in St. Louis. Her mother has to go to Steinmart every day (Steinmart, I am told, is like a TJ Maxx--a dishelveled discount department store that offers bargains for those willing to wade through a lot of crap surrounded by crazy people). She goes every day because "You never know what will be new." She yells at the young manager (who does not yet have crazy parents of his own but is starting to recognize the type) because he has the nerve to "move things around every day so I can't find anything." One day the daughter says she does not care to go to Steinmart with her mom. That's okay, mom is going anyway. She asks her daughter --who has lost a lot of weight--"What size are you nowadays? 10 or 12?" "No mother, more like a 4 or 6." "Right, okay a 6 or 8." "No, mom, I just said, a 4 or 6." When she comes home from her daily pilgrimage to Steinmart (even the name of that store makes me want to laugh) her mother has a treat--she has bought her a new wardrobe. Everything is a size 8.

You get the picture. You have parents. They are aging. You have your own collection of wacky stories. Though if you need some general topics to get started here are two: old people and being tight with a dollar or my personal favorite--old people who tell pointless stories in real time.

Speaking of pointless stories--I do have a point to make here--it's that apparently growing old means you grow wacky. I mean we all knew our parents would get older. We all knew their bodies would slow down, and maybe even their memories would fade. But what we didn't bargain on is that they would become different . Organized parents can get disturbingly sloppy. Disorganized parents can become fastidious. Parents who taught us important values can start ignoring them when convenient. Parents who once juggled full-time work and young children without complaint and little sleep are suddenly overwhelmed and "busy" with the overwhelming task of --of what?--being retired?They are always "busy, busy, busy."

Our parents aren't just getting older, frailer, or more forgetful--they're getting wackier and this can be challenging to live with. To quote Coffee Friend 2 who has the great fortune/misfortune of living around the corner from her retired parents, "At least twice a day I want to take my parents by the hair and bash their heads together."

So there you have it. And the worst of it all is that if they're ALL getting wackier we all know the inevitable truth--we will too.

HIT IT STRAIGHT

April 2, 2007

Today I venture into the very crowded field of diet advice. As a forty-(soon-to-be)-seven-year-old who weighs as much today as the day she was married, who has never been overweight (except when pregnant--I put 50 pounds on with one kid!) I guess I have as much credibility on the subject as anyone. So here is how I do it.

Wait, first I have a story that will be an analogy for how I approach eating. Actually it's an anology for how I approach a lot of things in life--here goes:

I once took golf lessons from a very zen-like young man named Jeff (no not my husband, an actual golf pro). He was a wonderfully laid-back guy who would answer almost any question or request with a slow, confident, "We could do that."

One day he took me and my three children out to the driving range. He said, "Now hit this first ball as hard as you can," and we all did. Mine sliced crazy and hit me in the ankle, my son's hooked into the woods, my daughter's dribbled off the tee, and the youngest sat down on the green and rolled balls around making them talk as if they were mice (admittedly, she wasn't really into the lesson.)

Then Jeff said, "Now hit the ball as straight as you can." My ball sailed off into the distance as far as I'd ever hit a ball. So did my son's and so did my daughter's. The youngest continued to play mousey.

Jeff had made his point and I have since then seen this truth about life play out in many arenas. In parenting, in careers choices, in caring for our bodies--you will always achieve greater success if you concentrate not on the final result but on pursuing your goal with honesty and good intentions.

Okay, so having said that I will tell you a secret on how I stay fit--I do not diet. Dieting makes people crazy and food-obsessed and it is not what God/Spirit/Mother Earth whatever you want to call it wants you to do. I concentrate on eating nutritiously and the pounds take care of themselves. Every time I make a meal I ask "Is this really the best food I can put in my mouth right now?" (Okay, not EVERY time--but most of the time).

I eat as many vegetables and fruits as I possibly can then I add the other stuff. It turns out that, yes, it is that simple. For a BILLION reasons we are supposed to be eating our veggies--not as medicine or poison or a condiment but great big servings of produce.

I do not start with a hunk of meat or casserole then add a pale, lifeless boiled vegetable. I start with beautiful fresh produce and add wonderful things like olive oil and garlic and make a masterpiece. I am not afraid of oil and butter --I believe in plenty of good fat because it fills you up and keeps you from eating processed crap. Then I might add a little meat or cheese or egg.

I only eat whole foods--not processed and I NEVER eat anything "lite", "lo-fat", or "diet". That is just a bunch of words that mean chemicals. If I want something sweet I add sugar. Not Equal. If I want something sauteed I add butter. Not margarine. If I want a beer I drink a beer. Not Lite. If I want coffee I drink coffee. Not decaf. It's about eating authentic, real food.

So that's my secret. You can join me. You can eat richly, deliciously, and abundantly if you eat this way.

So today, join me in the non-diet life. Make yourself a gorgeous vegetable fritatta with tomatoes, onions, asparagus and red peppers. Then add one egg to hold it all together. Make it two eggs if you're hungry--eggs are good too--pure and whole. Sautee it all in butter.

Eat well and quit worrying about the pounds.

Do it for Jeff. Hit it straight .

THE REMODEL:WHITE BY DEFAULT

Grout comes in many colors. Who knew? Who cares?

Because I am on spring break I am being lazy and recycling an oldie but a goodie. Apologies to those who have already seen this one.

JZ March 29, 2007

We live in a very old neighborhood. Not old by European standards but old by American standards—most of the homes were built in the 1940s. The homes are charming and quaint by which I mean old and small. Until we put on our addition, we had one closet on the entire first floor to house the dozens of coats needed by a family of five to survive the vagaries of Chicago weather. We had a powder room that was so small (how small was it, you ask?) that I could literally wash my hands while using the toilet. I wouldn’t advise that though, it’s definitely putting the horse before the cart, if you know what I mean.

All the homes in my neighborhood are spatially-challenged. But because our neighborhood is also in a great town with friendly people and good schools and conveniently close to the city of Chicago, no one wants to move out to a farther suburb just to get a bigger house. So we all stay put but we all add on eventually. Everyone on my block has either added on, is adding on, or has the plans to add on.

Recently, it was our turn to add on. It had been our turn to add on for some time but little things like a job loss, and 9/11, and a health issue too depressing to even make a joke about had gotten in the way—but finally we were over all those minor hurdles and ready to add on. I was ready. I had done my research. I had heard all the horror stories—, how contractors and subcontractors can let you down in a million different ways, how living through the chaos and dust can drive a mother with young children mad and lastly about how the decisions you have to make while doing an addition can become overwhelming and in the end you may not make the best decisions.I had even heard several versions of the “white by default” horror story.

Though there are different variations, the story is the same. The homeowner, completely exhausted after picking out tile, countertops, doorknobs, and paint chips reaches a point in the process when she screams at the builder, “White, white, just make it white!” and inevitably there is one room, (hopefully the laundry room) that is strangely bereft of personality when a remodeling project is done. Now you know why. But I was sure this would not happen to me.

First of all, I do not now, nor have I ever had a white wall or white floor. I am all about the color. So no, I was not worried I could ever sink so low as to fall back on white.I was also not worried about the contractor stories I’d heard because I had Michael, the perfect contractor, and I knew in my heart he would never let me down.As for the issues that arise from trying to live in a house that is under major reconstruction—well, I was also not worried because I am like a pioneer, I welcome the challenge to live with no modern conveniences. I was prepared to wash dishes in the laundry tub and cook on a hot plate. No problem. Lastly, I was not concerned about any of this because despite all evidence to the contrary, I labor under the delusion that I am not subject to the same laws of the universe that everyone else is.

Things started out great. I had been right about Michael. He was indeed the perfect contactor: polite, professional, smart, and incredibly organized. He had his crew in every day including Saturdays and most Sundays. The project moved at a dizzying pace. He was honest, nice to the kids and a masterful negotiator with sub-contractors and suppliers alike. He brought a sort of zen-like balance into the chaos of the reconstruction. He remained calm in the face of inept electricians or slightly less than dependable dry-wallers. I didn’t have to worry about a single thing because Michael took care of everything. He was also hot. So I had that going for me.

Things went great for four weeks. Then they broke down the wall between the old house and new construction. I lasted two days before I fled with my children to my parents’ apartment in the city. I have no idea why I thought I could live in the house with all that concrete dust and asbestos flying around and no kitchen. I don’t even like to camp. So I was wrong about that one.

But as for the third concern, that I would cave under the pressure of making decisions—well I was right about that . In the first four weeks I picked out, purchased, and had delivered all the plumbing fixtures, two vanities, kitchen cabinets, four kinds of countertops, light fixtures for two bathrooms and the kitchen, and all new kitchen appliances. I was more than a little bit smug.

Then I went on vacation.When I got back I met Michael, my builder and life-coach, in the front yard to review the progress.“You need a painter in there. Today. Oh, and you need all the tile by tomorrow,” then he strode away confident that I could deliver the goods.

I headed out to the tile store. Now let me tell you that of all the bad places the builder will send you (and he will send you to many) the tile store is by far the worst. That is because there are eleventy billion different sizes, colors, shapes, textures, and materials to choose from in a tile store and not one human being salesperson willing to help you even the tiniest bit in making your decision. If you are a contractor and already know what you’re doing they will help you but if you are a mere homeowner with three cranky kids they will avoid you like an ebola virus carrier.

I was reduced to asking my five-year-old daughter for help with questions like, “Do you think this tile has too much orange in it to go with the countertop I picked out?” (Of course I hadn’t thought to bring paint chips or other samples to help me with this) and, “Is my shower too small to handle tile this large?”“It looks pretty, Mommy,” she said to everything I showed her, which was more helpful than my other two offspring who were hurling tile samples at each other out of boredom saying, “This is the worst! It’s more boring than the wallpaper store!”

Somehow, despite all of this, I managed to pick out the tile for two bathrooms, two showers, a mudroom, laundry room, and a sunroom in just two trips. In between, I was on my cell phone trying to find a reputable house painter who could start tomorrow, which is only slightly harder than you might imagine it to be. Finally, I strong-armed one into loaning me his nephew for a few days.

I met with Michael to tell him how I’d done. I was triumphant and a little cocky.

“Okay, that’s good," he was proud of his pupil but like all good masters needed to push me, "Now what color grout did you choose for each room?”

“Grout? It comes in colors?” I said weakly. “You mean like cream or white?”

“No, no. There are over thirty different colors to choose from. Didn’t you check that out at the tile store?”

“Oh for God’s sake, Michael! Who cares?” I shouted, panic rising in my voice. “Just make it all WHITE! WHITE! WHITE!”

Michael blinked and was quiet a moment. “You don’t really mean that,” he said quietly in a voice reserved for children and lunatics. “Grout color can make or break a room.”

“Please, Michael,” I whimpered, all dignity having left me, “Please don’t make me go back to the tile store. I don’t know what I did in a former life to deserve being sent there in the first place but I’m sorry for it, truly I am.”

Michael is not new to this business. He knows a broken homeowner when he sees one. He sighed and went out to his truck to rummage around a moment, coming back with an out-dated grout chart. He took me quietly through each room helping me choose the grout color he clearly knew I needed (“Now this color won’t show the dirt,” in the mudroom, and “This will bring out the warm tones in the tile,” in the sunroom.)

It was a pivotal moment in the project. My self-delusion was over and there was no turning back. I knew, and Michael knew, that despite my good intentions, that if it weren’t for him, I’d have white grout.

So if you’re thinking of adding on to your house my advice is to plan ahead. Go through the magazines and cut out things you like. Make notes of colors you like in other people’s houses. Visit home stores and jot down the names of fixtures and tile you like. Start a notebook and keep track of all your notes and pictures. After you’ve done that, throw it all away and call Michael. You’ll be glad you did.

GET OFF THE PHONE YOU MORON

"I am very important. I am on my cell phone and

I'm much too busy to play with my children on the beach!"

March 16, 2007

Today's post is by request. Coffee Friend #2 asked me to address the appalling habit some mommies and daddies have of talking on their cell phone while they are with their children. Of course, I do not mean a mommy who makes a quick call to ask the daddy what time he'll be home for dinner, I am talking about the mommy who calls everyone on her speed-dial list to catch up, clearly sending the message to her children that they are the least interesting people in the world to her and that she'd rather talk to anyone else but them.

You have seen these people. They are in the park, the coffee shop, the grocery store, and in their cars. Especially in their cars. Instead of taking this precious together time to chat with their offspring, point out sights of interest, push them on the swing, give them a cuddle, teach them manners by example, and otherwise engage them, they are on the phone barking orders into their cell phone to someone at work, talking too loudly to make sure the rest of us see just how very indispensable and important they are.

Yes, we see you! Aren't you important! By your conversation I can tell that you sell stuff! You have a job! You have a home to take care of! You have friends and family who want to hear from you! Yes, we get it, you are very special and you know lots of people.

Meanwhile, their neglected children stand quietly, politely waiting for mom or dad to get off the phone so they can ask if they can go potty, or go play on the slide. In the car, strapped into their car seats, they stare off into the distance, eyes glazed over, wondering to themselves what on earth they did to deserve being ignored like this. Or worse, they don't give it any thought because it is the norm.

I have a theory that if people could only see themselves behaving badly they would stop much of their bad behavior. So today, I am holding up a metaphorical mirror as you're on the phone. See those sweet kids at your feet waiting for your attention? See yourself? You don't really look important do you? You kind of look like a jerk--or worse--you kind of look like a bad parent.

Hang up now. There's someone more important to talk to waiting right next to you.

IT'S COMCASTIC MY ASSTIC

February 27, 2007

If you don't live in a part of the world where you are subjected to a daily barrage of advertisements telling you about the fabulous service provided by Comcast (the giant telecommunications company that used to be AT&T before it was Illinois Bell but after it was bought out by Sprint just before they sold them to Qwest but after they were purchased by GE and NBC, but prior to being owned by a Japanese media mogul) then perhaps you haven't heard the expression "It's Comcastic!" These ads would be annoying on a good day but when you are in a constant state of man versus technology warfare with the company they are enough to provoke violence from even the mildest mannered self-righteous housewife.

Around here (Chicago area) EVERYONE has a Comcastic nightmare to share. The moral of all the stories is this--never, ever, ever, even if they promise you free service and a lifetime supply of home massages, should you EVER attempt to CHANGE anything with your phone service. Even if the change is within the company, Comcast will punish you. Like a spurned lover they will find nasty and creative ways to mess with you. And since, unlike a spurned lover, they have the ability to turn off your phone and internet and cable service, you do not want to piss them off.

So, here is my latest Comcast story. I have more, but this one is most recent and pretty typical.

Phone rings, caller ID says "Comcast". As I live in fear that they will punish me if I ignore them, I foolishly answer the call.

Me: Hello

Comcast Sales Hack: Yes this is your Comcast company and we have a fabulous upgrade available to you that will lower your combined cable/internet/phone service to 75cents a month with unlimited phone calls and all the porn channels you would ever want.

Me: Really? How can that be?

C: We come to your house and install a magic box and then that's it!

Me: But I already have digital phone, how is this different?

C: It just is! And it's really, really cheap.

Me: Umm, okay, I guess.

The day before the scheduled installation I tell Jeff about it. "Uh oh! That means extended interrupted phone service."

"Maybe this time it will be different," I muse.

The next day a very nice man appears at my door with a modem under his arm.

Me: Hold on there pardner, are you hear to install INTERNET phone service? (Now I'm terrified, I had two friends who switched to this service and their phones NEVER work. They have basically fallen off the face of the earth as no one can ever reach them).

Comcast: Yes ma'am.

Me: Umm, I don't think I want that. The salesman was very vague about this service and not once used the word 'internet'.

Comcast: (Sighs) Yes, I'm afraid they may be over-selling this.

Me: I don't want it. I'm sorry.

Comcast: No problem. I understand. Let me just call to cancel the order. (He does that) Okay, you're all set, now just call this number to officially cancel the order.

I do as I'm told. I've learned not to take anything for granted with them. Three days later I get a call from Comcast. "Ma'am we see you've cancelled your order for phone service with us. Is that correct?" Yes, I say, I do not want internet phone service.

Now I have pissed them off and they move to punish me. I notice it first when people start telling me they got a message when they called that said my phone is no longer in service. "But it is," I say to my friends, "I just called from this phone."

Oh dear, now I will have to call Comcast service otherwise known as the third level of hell. After three calls in which I am cut off (not kidding here) I get a technician. I explain that my phone works but if I'm on it when people call they get a message that says it is diconnected. She checks her records. "Well, I show here that you've been dropped from our service."

Now I put the phone down and scream. My children look at each other knowingly and nod. My eldest says, "She's talking to Comcast."

I come back on the phone, "Please do not take this personally, but you people. Drive. Me. Crazy." I say. I explain to her the whole situation. She says I have to talk to a supervisor to get reconnected. I do not point out to her that I have never been disconnected (technical note here--they cannot just disconnect you if you do not have another service hooked up --this is a law--what they do though is drop you from their books and for all appearances you have NO service. I have learned all this from another similar situation in which I got free service for six months because they kept saying I was not their customer)

She transfers me to a supervisor. I wait another 12 minutes on hold in which time I am told in both English and French to please wait. I do not know where this supervisor must be. Quebec? France? French Guyana?

At last the supervisor comes on. I tell her my sad, sad story. She explains that I have to sign back up for my original service (which I never cancelled) and I go through an annoying time consuming process to do that. If she told me I had to hop on one leg and squawk like a chicken I would have done it because they have the power to disconnect me from EVERYTHING.

All so I could keep my phone service which I had never cancelled.

So if you call me in the next few days and get a message that says my phone has been disconnected--don't believe it--It's not disconnected it's just Comcasticked.

Can you hear me now?

WHAT IS YOUR PARTY AGE?

February 20, 2007

I ran into an old friend, Ann C., the other day and she reminded me of something I'd written some time back on party etiquette---inspired by a story she told me. I haven't posted this yet so today, in honor of Fat Tuesday the party day of all party days, is my party etiquette quiz.


My friend Ann turned 40 recently and I asked her how her big birthday party went. "Oh it was fun. But I'm getting older because before I jumped on the coffee table to start dancing I checked to see if the legs were sturdy."

Yes we all get older. Fortunately, we grow and mature along the way and nowhere is that more evident than perhaps in the way in which we party. So take this quiz and see if you are acting your age when it comes to party etiquette.

1. You are invited to a party. Your response is:

a. "We'd love to come. I'll bring my artichoke cheese dip."

b. "Thanks for the invite. Do you need me to bring anything?" (in a tone that clearly conveys you hope otherwise)

c. "Who's going to be there?"

2. When you arrive at the party you are carrying:

a. A thoughtful hostess gift you picked up at an antique store and your artichoke cheese dip

b. A bottle of cheap wine you bought on the way over

c. A bag of Doritos


3. You have just arrived at the party. You walk in the kitchen and see that the hostess is very busy. You say:

a. "Let me help," and start chopping onions

b. "Umm, do you need help?" as you are backing out the door

c. "I'll get out of your way," and run to find the keg.


4. You are in the hostess's bathroom and you use the last of the t.p. You:

a. Open the nearest cabinet, find a new roll and put it on the dispenser.

b. Go find the hostess and tell her she's out of paper.

c. Leave the bathroom furtively and hope no one comes in right after you.


5. Throughout the party you:

a. Make sure you introduce yourself to all the people you don't know and try to get to know a little about each one.

b. Talk to a few people you don' t know if you find yourself standing next to them at the keg.

c. Ignore everyone except your best friend and anyone hot enough to flirt with.


6. Occasionally, througout the party, you think to yourself: "This party would be perfect if only..."

a. I could sneak another bite of turtle pie without looking like a pig.

b. My date would stop flirting with that slut in the kitchen.

c. There were a few more hot guys.


7. When the party is in full swing you:

a. Check the legs of the nearest coffee table and hop on

b. Hop on anything elevated and dance

c. Hop on the host


8. When the party is winding down you:

a. Collect dirty plates, cups, and napkins and take them to the kitchen.

b. Throw your beer cup away and try to scoop up some of the dip you dropped on the carpet.

c. Start drinking faster and say to the host, "Man, I wouldn't want to clean this up tomorrow!"


9. When the party is over you:

a. Grab a cup of coffee, your empty appetizer plate, and your spouse

b. Grab a sandwich and your date

c. Grab one for the road and someone else's date


10. One week after the party you:

a. Send a handwritten thank you note to the hostess on your personalized stationery

b. Run into the hostess and say, "Hey, great party."

c. Have finally sobered up.


Okay, how did you do with the quiz. If you answered mostly "As" you are dreadfully middle-aged but at least people like to have you at their parties. If you answered "B" to most questions and you are over 30, you may need a few ettiquette lessons. If you answered "C" to most questions, I sincerely hope you are in your 20s. If you're not it will explain why you aren't invited to many parties. Or it could just mean that you're a guy.

Laissez les bon temps roulez!

GREEN WALLS AND PLATINUM BLONDE HAIR

February 9, 2007

Yesterday I decided I don’t really like the color of my kitchen anymore so I went to the paint store and bought a gallon of white paint to cover up the green. I had gone with a vintage Coke bottle green, for a 40s feeling paying homage to the decade our house was built. But I have a lot going on in the kitchen like bright red granite counters (when they came to install them the counter guy said, “Picked out your own colors?”) and black and white checkerboard backsplash and I thought it might be time tone it down a little.

I didn’t discuss this with Jeff because frankly, he doesn’t give a damn about such things. I once kissed him goodbye in the morning as a brunette and greeted him at the door a platinum blonde and he didn’t even notice.

I like change and I like color. My motto is “If it’s time to repaint you should move. If you can’t move then for God’s sake, change the color.” I find it appalling and mystifying that some people repaint walls or houses the same color. I once had a turquoise and pink kitchen (“Not worried about resale, I see,” my father said). When I lived in an apartment and couldn’t repaint or wallpaper on a regular basis I used to rearrange the furniture about once a week. Jeff never commented.

We have lived in this house ten years and the kitchen has been repainted or re-wallpapered five times (counting yesterday) and Jeff has never blinked. Not even when I painted the kitchen tomato soup red on the top half and sunflower yellow on the bottom half. (“Certainly wakes you up,” my father-in-law said about that one.) I have lost count of how many colors the front door has been. At one time, I considered repainting it for each holiday. Jeff doesn’t mind that either.

So it was with genuine surprise that when he came home yesterday, he not only noticed the kitchen was not green anymore, he expressed disappointment. “Umm, shouldn’t we discuss these things before you do this?”

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I liked the green,” he said.

“I thought you had no opinion.”

“I told you just a few weeks ago when you were saying you weren’t sure you liked it, that I liked the kitchen green.”

“I thought you said that the same way you say, ‘Those pants are fine, they don’t make your butt look big’ when we’re trying to get ready to go out. I thought you just meant, ‘Please don’t make me look at paint chips.’ Never in my wildest dreams did I think when you said “I like the kitchen green” did you actually mean ‘I like the kitchen green’.”

“So you’ll repaint it green tomorrow?” he asked hopefully.

Maybe I threw him off by painting it white. I don’t believe I’ve every painted a wall white in my life before. My dining room is robin’s egg blue, our bedroom is tropical-ocean blue, and our sunroom is burnt orange. I once painted our bedroom melon orange on the top and eggplant purple on the bottom. It was great. But I don’t believe I’ve ever painted a room white and I don’t believe Jeff has ever expressed an opinion on the color of our walls. I guess after 25 years people can change. Go figure.

Okay, I should get going. I have to turn the walls back to green by dinnertime. Hmmm, maybe he’d agree to a fire-engine red, or a slate gray, or sunshine yellow, or a classic gingham blue….

IT'S ALL ABOUT THE FOOD

February 3, 2007

15,400 pounds of beef; 2,500 pounds of lamb; 3,100 pounds of pork; 2,050 pounds of veal; 1,900 pounds of sausage; 3,000 pounds of chicken; 2,200 pounds of turkey; 5,380 pounds of fish; and 900 pounds of lobster—

And that’s just the meat that a cruise ship of 2,618 people will consume on an average 7 day cruise, according to the literature we got on the cruise we took last week. In case you’re wondering, that works out to about 2 pounds of meat per person per day which I’m guessing is a little bit higher than the average daily recommendation.

As anyone who has ever cruised knows – the focus is always on the food. Our cruise was no exception. There was a trough, I mean buffet, which wrapped around the entire center of the ship (roughly the size of a Target store) that was constantly full of super-sized people waiting for made-to-order omelets or pizza or chicken wraps or waffles. There was also a formal dining room serving a full-course dinner every night as well as various grills and cafes around the ship. And there was room service available 24 hours a day. Since the food is included in the price, people are inclined to overeat –I mean overeat even more than your average American. I found the gluttony a bit off-putting—at first.

There was also plenty of healthy fare available on the cruise. I would like to report that I stayed away from the buffet, and only ate at the healthy spa café, but that would be a big fat, stinking lie.

I had good intentions at the start, as did my friend K. We compared notes at the end of the first day, pointing out where the healthy food could be found. “There’s a great salad bar and you never have to wait for it either. There’s never a line at the fruit bar either,” I said.

“Go figure,” she said. “And you can get salmon and vegetables at the spa café.”

On the second day I avoided all the crowds at the donut buffet and just had oatmeal and raisins—there wasn’t really a big rush to get to the oatmeal. I felt self-righteous for a few hours but by 10:00 I was ravenous and found myself waiting in the waffle line for a little bit of heaven. That same day, K., who weighs about 100 lbs soaking wet, admitted she had ditched the healthy spa café and gone for a made-to-order omelet and a pancake. “And a waffle,” her fiancé added. “Well, maybe a little one,” she said.

By the fourth day all attempts at eating healthy had gone out the window. K. had discovered the joys of 24-hour room service. She grew giddy and began ordering without even bothering to look at the menu, “What do you mean you don’t have biscuits and gravy!” she barked into the phone. “You have them up on the 11th floor in the buffet!”

And on the fifth day when they announced we would have to make an emergency medical stop in Cancun for a crewmember I turned to Jeff, my face full of concern and said, “God, I hope it isn’t the waffle guy!”

I’m home again and trying to eat normally which isn’t too hard considering I don’t have an all-you-can eat buffet that runs the length of my house. Last night as I drifted off to sleep I felt a familiar feeling in my stomach though I couldn’t quite place it. I described it to Jeff and he said, “I’m not sure, but I think that’s a hunger pang.” I drifted off to sleep dreaming of the four-o clock sushi bar and the afternoon sundae bar and the waffle man who will forever hold a dear place in my heart. I hope his appendectomy went okay.

Bon Voyage

YOU ONLY GET ONE

January 19, 2007

A friend sent me an e-mail that her cousin had written on the topic of savoring every day of our lives. Actually, a good deal of the e-mails that circulate are on this topic. This particular e-mail pointed out that we have only one day—today—to make the most of our lives. I’ve started sending my kids out the door each morning with that message. So far they are not too annoyed by this and in fact, seem to embrace the notion. Our routine goes like this:

Me: Remember what today is
Child: It’s January 19, 2007
Me: How many of those do we get in our life?
Child: Just one.
Together: So let’s make it a good one.

This got me thinking about all the days of our life. There are so many kinds of days we have. Most of us will have a few awful, dreadful, horrific days. We will have more than a few awesome, wonderful, perfect days. In between we have tons of great days, lots of special days, thousands of average days, and plenty of bad days.

What if, in the end, you could line all the days up in order from the very best, best day of our life to the very worst, hideous day of our life and then rank them all in order like that.
Now, imagine that you had the chance to live your whole life over but you were allowed to pick a point on this continuum and say, “I choose not to live the days from this point on” and point to a day that divides the good from the bad.

Like all good scenarios that mess with time, I stipulate that not living these days would not change anything—in other words, by choosing not to live the day your mother died would not mean she hadn’t died—it would simply mean you didn’t have to suffer through that day.

Now given all this, how many days would you choose to NOT live over?

It’s an interesting prospect isn’t it?

Where would you put your finger on that line? Would you pick a day that you had stomach flu and choose not to live that day or any day worse than that? Would you choose a dull, uneventful day when all you did was go to work and eat a meal and fall in bed dead tired?

I’ve been thinking about it and I guess I would not pick even one day to not live over. If I did, I would have to hear over again that my child has cancer but if I missed that day I would not hold her so tight every day.

And on those other, thousands of crummy or not so great days—well if I chose not to live even one bad day I would miss the “I love you” my husband whispers to me every morning as he goes off to work; the “Mama, where are you?” that echoes in my hallways; the first sip of my morning coffee; and the quiet satisfaction of finishing a crossword puzzle.

What about you? Would you give up even one day of this precious, glorious, annoying, messy thing we call life?

Today is the only January 19, 2007 you will have. Make it a good one.

ANOTHER DISASTER AVERTED

December 18, 2006

So yesterday, Grace (my 11 year old) spent nine hours on a school project. Yes nine hours trying to compile statistics on homelessness. I tried to help her, Jeff tried to help her, Atticus (our 13 year old son) tried to help her and two anonymous help-desk librarians tried to help her. But no dice. The stats she needed remained elusive.

At bedtime she was still struggling at the computer trying to find the homeless rate for Illinois. SHe had already found the homeless rate for the US--she showed me--it was 42%.

I said carefully, "Umm, honey, this number of 42%...." over her shoulder I could see Atticus trying to give me the "cut" signal. I shook him off. "Does it seem likely to you that nearly half the US is homeless?" I said gently.

She blinked behind her glasses and said, "Not really but that's the number Atticus came up with." Oh, man, she threw him under the bus.

Anyway, as I said, it was bedtime so I began the arduous process of trying to (once again) get her to grasp the concept of cutting bait--giving up--throwing in the towel -- moving on. She is like her daddy; she does not gracefully accept this part of the process.

I began by explaining to her that she had done all she could and she needed sleep more than anything right now. I assured her that even though the project was not done her teacher would understand when she explained how long she'd worked on it. Grace was not buying it. She dug in deeper and started pounding at the keys more frantically. Her voice rising hysterically and tears coming again.

I tried another tack. I told her that even if she got a bad grade in this class I would not care. This helped a little but I suspect fears of her "permanent record" were looming, so she kept Googling away.

Finally, I offered to email her teacher and explain how much she'd worked on the project--she would still get a bad grade but her teacher would not be mean about it, I assured her. Throughout it all Jeff bolstered my arguments by agreeing with me and Atticus backed me up on whatever I said about the teacher (it helped immensely that he had the same class last year). Finally, our combined efforts yielded the desired result and Grace relented. She reluctantly sighed and logged off the computer and headed to bed, her feet dragging on the stairs in defeat.

As she clumped up the stairs, Atticus joined me and Jeff in the living room. He was giddy with relief that we had worked together to negotiate a peaceful end to the stand-off. These scenes don't usually end so well. Usually they escalate to a fevered pitch and end when Grace turns into "Carrie-at-the-prom" and we all end up covered in blood (err, metaphorically speaking of course).

"Whew!" he said, "We avoided another disaster! I feel like it's the end of a thriller movie when they manage to point the bomb that was just fired at the US from some eastern European country like 'Kerzerkistan', " he warmed to his analogy, "It's like we were all in that dark NASA room staring at computer screens trying to figure out how to change the trajectory of the bomb, our ties all loosened, coffee cups everywhere and we did it. Now's the part where we all cheer and high five and stuff, because we saved Western Civilization!" and he did a victory dance.

We laughed and then enjoyed a quiet moment of commaraderie, my husband, my son, and I and I thought about how my friend Val always says a little dysfunction is good for a kid because it brings the family closer and I think she's a wise woman.

GUEST POST FROM EUROPE

December 8, 2006

Today's post is from my friend Laurent who lives in the Netherlands. He recently took one of those "actual age" quizzes online and did not like the results. Here is his email about it--he is a quirky, single man whose passions are guitar, vintage cars, and wine...

" I did this test called 'your-real-age'. Now, three years ago it was 40.5 years, so actually what it really was back then.

I just filled it out truthfully again, and now it is 48.4 years!!!

This test also indicates what you should do to improve your health.

Amongst them--

-Eat more vegetables and fruit

I will, once they manage to increase the ratio of non-disgusting pieces of fruit above 70%, i.e. non-mealy-apples, non-potentially-rust-removing sour grapes/oranges, no tangerines that either eat away the intestines or make you retch because of their lack of taste)


- I should spend more time in building and maintaining long-lasting relationships with others.

Haha, very funny! Most of the stress that raised my 'real age' several years this should prevent COMES from me trying desperately to find someone to start a relationship with.

- Decrease your alcohol consumption to one glass a day.

Yeah right.

- Decrease your cholesterol level, increase your HDL-cholesterol level.

WTF? I indicated my levels were average! (well, what do I know?) And how the hell am I supposed to increase my HDL-cholesterol level?

- Decrease your average driving speed to the maximumspeed allowed.

Yeah, and have my 'real age' increased to 55, because that is about the age at which people start keeping to maximum speed limits at a regular basis.

- Get a dog.
Er...

- Always get airbag protection when driving a car.

I will, as soon they build classic cars with airbags.

- Floss every day.

Hmm, why would this be so important? Probably because not having spinach or broccoli between your teeth increases your chances of finally finding a girlfriend
.
- Schedule time for yourself!

I did, that's why I got into that financial stress that raised my 'real age' at least two years."

IT SNOWS IN THE MIDWEST EVERY YEAR

December 1, 2006

This morning I ran out to Target in the middle of a blizzard to buy some boots. I woke up to 6" of snow--the first snowfall of the year-- and panicked when I realized that 1) the kids have the day off from school and 2) they have no boots. None.

Now this statement begs so many questions from you that I will answer them one by one.

How can you not have boots in December? Do you live in Arizona? Umm, err, no. I live in the Chicago area and I have lived in the midwest my entire life.

Why didn't you just cram last year's too-tight-boots on your kids' feet until the blizzard ended? Well, yes, this would be the normal thing to do but I foolishly threw last year's boots out at the end of the season, including my own, in a cleaning frenzy.

Did you say you threw boots away? Yes, sorry, I usually observe the unwritten, universal law of passing the boots on to the neighbor's children but this batch was particularly ratty and I didn't have the heart to saddle anyone with them.

Why didn't you wait until the blizzard stopped? Guilt. I felt guilty knowing that the kids would wake up and see the first snowfall and not be able to go outside right away. Also, I've made this mistake before and I know that by mid-day, you will not be able to buy, beg, borrow, or steal a pair of boots on the entire North Shore.

So there you have it. That's why I was at the door of Target at 8:00 am--the first, and only customer-- since no one else was stupid enough to go out in a blizzard. The manager chuckled and said, "You win the most dedicated customer award." At least I think he said dedicated. Maybe he said "demented". I felt a response was needed.

"Boots," I said by way of explanation. "Not one of us has a pair of boots!" I considered telling him we'd just been transferred here from Africa because only foreigner or an idiot can be found wearing tennis shoes in December in Chicago. But I resisted.

He was polite enough not to ask any of the above, italicized questions and instead just said, "They're over there," pointing towards the shoes (as if I needed directions--I could draw a map of my Target from memory ).

I bought the boots, and the half dozen other things I always manage to "need" when I go to Target and checked out.

In the parking lot I had to schlep the bags to the car because the cart wouldn't go through the snow. I got in the car and immediately got stuck in a snow drift. After about 20 minutes of digging with the handle of a scraper and rocking the car back and forth I was good to go. At one point I thought I was stuck for good like the four laughing young Mexican men in the car next to me who did not grow up in snow and had no idea how to get their car unstuck. But I said to myself, "I am from the midwest, I am from the midwest," until I willed myself out.

When I was driving home I asked myself, "Why am I, once again, running around town looking for boots on the first day of snow? What is it about me that I cannot think about boots until I am actually standing in snow?"

It's just that even though I know we will need boots by December I cannot feel we need them. Especially when we've been enjoying a freakish warm spell of 60 degree weather for a week in November. It's hard for me to buy boots when I don't really believe it could ever snow again.

I have to admit to myself that I ve exhibited similar behavior about other topics. Meals for example. I find it nearly impossible to think about a meal until I'm very hungry. This is problematic as I am the one in charge of making meals for a family of five. For years my husband thought this was a passive-aggressive act on my part. He's so wrong. I have plenty of passive-aggressive acts but failing to feed my family in a timely manner is not one of them.

This went on for years--my family wanting to eat--me not feeding them--until finally, I managed to overcome this deficiency. By sheer force of will, I made myself think about food even when I was not hungry. Now I think about dinner right after breakfast. Sometimes I even take something out to thaw or I put something in the crockpot or I make reservations. But make no mistake, none of this comes naturally to me. My being able to think about dinner at 10:00 in the morning is something akin to an autistic person training himself to hug his mother. We can do it, but it sure doesn't feel right.

I thought of all this as I battled the blizzard on my way home from Target. When I got home I realized I had left my new, favorite, leopard print gloves on a shelf in the boot department, the boots I had bought myself had a broken zipper, and the kids for whom I'd suffered so much were already out in the snow wearing old shoes with plastic bags over them, happily building a snowman.

Next year I'm going to make sure this doesn't happen again. I'm saying it here first--this is the last time I wait until the first snowfall to buy boots! I'll overcome this boot-planning weakness just like I overcame my meal-planning deficiency--by sheer force of will. I'm going to order boots online early in the season. I'm going to order those damn boots even if it's a 70-degree day in October.

But it won't feel right.

.

IT'S MY PLEASURE

November 13, 2006

So, Jeff and I just spent a fabulous week in Hawaii, courtesy of a free business trip. We stayed at the Four Seasons and I just have to tell you about this kind of place for those of you who may be reluctant to spend the $600-$1,000 a night a room goes for. I have now stayed at the Four Seasons on two occasions--once in Nevus (Carribean) and now Hawaii and both times corporate America footed the bill and both times the experience was nearly other-worldly.

I remember someone once said about Fred Astaire, "The rest of us were dancing; I don't know what Fred was doing." Well, similarly I say "The rest of those places provide service; I don't know what they're doing at the Four Seasons."

Here are just a few examples--and no, I am not wrangling for a freebie from the Four Seasons though if that were to come my way, who am I to say no?

- On the first night there was a reception on the main lawn. With a sweeping view of the infinity pool that leads into the majestic ocean it was breathtaking. We were met by several waiters and waitresses with trays of Mai Tais and Midori Coladas as the sun set over their shoulders. Just as dinner was to be served it began to rain. Even the rain was pleasant--a slight drizzle--not that crazy midwestern cold splash we're used to. We all waited to see if someone would suggest we move inside, reluctant to leave the beautiful setting. Just as the rain picked up, dozens of hotel workers came out with enormous golf umbrellas--enough for each of us to have our own. As they handed them to us they greeted our thanks with their signature response, "It's my pleasure" without a trace of irony in their voices.

-The next morning, as Jeff went deep-sea fishing, I wandered out to the pool. I started to sit down on a luxurious chaise longue when a hotel worker came up with towels. "Do you need a set-up?" she asked. "Sure," I said. She took out a towel sewn like a fitted sheet and tucked it on my chair leaving me with ice water and a second towel. "If you need anything, just turn the wooden block down so the turtle picture can't be seen." I told her I needed a fruit smoothie and off she rushed to get that for me. As she left, another woman approached with a tray. "Would you care for a fruit kabob?" she offered. This was all before 9:00 am. The next day I would learn that a woman with a cooler comes by in the late afternoon to offer popsicles. I cannot think of the last time someone offered me a popsicle and it is delightful.

- That night our hosts arranged to have us driven to a local beach for a beach party. The tables were made of surf boards and the stools had grass skirts. Our servers were all Four Seasons staff. I have no idea how they got there or how all the food got to the beach. It was magic. There was a band playing and we danced barefoot in the sand. When it was time to go, I realized as I boarded the bus that my bladder was full and I would not make it the twenty minutes back to the hotel. I asked our event coordinator if they would wait while I went back to the bathroom. "Okay," he said, "but hurry or you'll have to take the next bus." I assured him that I was very quick and I ran back a ways but realized I wouldn't make it all the way back to the bathrooms so I squatted like a sorority girl in a dark corner. Unfortunately, I forgot I was wearing a festive glow stick around my neck. A concerned hotel worker shouted over to me, "Are you alright ma'am?" Hmm, there was a downside to attentive service. I assured him I was fine and he discretely left me alone but I think if I'd asked for toilet paper he would have gotten some. When I got back to the bus the driver said, "Hey you are quick! You didn't go all the way back to the bathroom did you?" and the bus erupted in applause.

- The next night we went to the bar on premise, "The Lava Lounge". When I excused myself to find the bathroom I was unable to find it. As I stood there looking confused, a hotel worker came by and asked if he could help me. "Umm, yes, where are the restrooms?" "Follow me," he said and he walked me there--really at the Four Seasons you don't just give someone directions to the bathroom! As I thanked him he said, "It's my pleasure" and I believed him.

- At the pool on Wednesday I was seated one cabana away from Frank Thomas and his trophy wife. Frank Thomas is a very famous baseball player, in case you didn't know. Hotel workers went by periodically to offer us cold towels and spritz us with cool Evian water. I loved that I was getting the exact same service as Frank Thomas. When he was getting ready to leave I heard his young wife say, "I can't go yet, I haven't had my popsicle." Of course, she didn't have to wait long.


I am back in the real world now. My first night home my youngest woke up barfing and I was up all night with her, cleaning up puke and holding her head. At one point she lifted her head from the toilet and said, "Momma, thank you for taking care of me" and I replied, sincerely, "It's my pleasure."

Aloha

AND WE'LL ALL MEET UP IN DOWNWARD DOG

I'm in the zone; head down, butt up, as close to a perfect inverted v as I can manage. Blood rushes to my head as I let go of all my worldly cares and concerns. I imagine I am floating above the earth , maybe just a little superior to other earthlings. I'm in the classic Yogic position of "Downward Dog".

Just as I reach a near state of nirvana, the pounding rhythm of a techno beat comes crashing through my inner calm. I focus on my breathing as I've been taught, to observe the distraction but not judge it, not own it.

I can't do it, I'm distracted and I sneak a peak under my arm and see the idiots in the studio next door. They're all jumping up and down on the step like their lives depended on it while I and my enlightened sisters continue to seek the path to truth. I can see their instructor, a skinny 20-something who is shouting out commands like "GET YOUR KNEES UP! YOU WANT YOUR BUTT TO LOOK GOOD IN THOSE NEW JEANS DON'T YOU"

Fools, I think, as I move into a near-perfect triangle pose. (That entire previous sentence is anti-Yogic by the way). But I can't help but look down on those sweaty people in the next room. In Yoga we are taught to accept ourselves where we are, to know that we are just where we should be and to never push or punish ourselves. Yoga is a healing, not punitive, practice. And above all it's about the spirit and the body as one, not looking good. We would never discuss how a pose might help us get into our jeans.

Of course, we might be thinking it. Because the truth is, that after 25, no wait, probably closer to 30 years of jumping up and down in aerobics classes, sweatin' to the oldies, using goofy excercise devices from leg weights to the Bosu ball at trendy gyms from Elaine Powers to Bally's to keep in shape and be heart healthy (yeah right, that's why I was doing that, so my heart would look good), I am now --ohm---a Yoga convert.

I didn't move to Yoga intentionally. In fact, I stumbled across it. I had taken a few classes but always thought, "What a waste of a perfectly good hour I could have been exercising." In short, I lacked a bit of respect for the centuries old discipline. But then they changed the class schedule at my gym and the Yoga class worked best into my schedule. After three consecutive classes I was hooked.

I'd like to say I was drawn to yoga for it's calming and enlightening benefits. But the truth is, after just a month or two of Yoga my husband said, "You look great. What are you doing? You have back muscles, and abs all of sudden." And he was right! Though aerobics and weights kept me in decent shape they did not give me, in 20-some years, the definition and strength that Yoga has given me in 2 years.

Tight abs and defined back muscles drew me there but the whole idea that exercise can be healing and nurturing has kept me there. That and I look great in my jeans. Well, really, you can put a little eastern into the girl but you can't take the western out of her. She needs results, she needs outward proof of her inward growth and maturity and what better way to show that growth and maturity than by slipping into a pair of skinny jeans?

I finish my Warrior II pose and look over at the sweating people in the next room. I wonder how it is that they (and I for years) haven't noticed that the people in this Yoga class all look noticeably more fit than they do. I want to run in there and turn off that stupid, migraine inducing music and push those people off their exercise balls and say, "Look at us in there! If you want to look good AND be relaxed then grab a Yoga mat and leave this nonsense for the twenty-year olds!"

But I don't. Instead I breathe in rhythmically as my Yoga teacher gently brings me mindfully back to my Yoga practice and leads us all through a strenuous but not unpleasant Sun-Salutation. She encourages the newcomers to rest if needed and then says calmly, "And when you're done, we'll all meet up in Downward Dog."

Indeed, I hope someday we can all meet up in Downward Dog.

Namaste.

By Judy Zimmerman

ARE YOU A HELICOPTER PARENT?

Helicopter Parent--Wikipedia defines this as “a term for a person who pays extremely close attention to his or her child or children, particularly at educational institutions. They rush to prevent any harm from befalling them or letting them learn from their own mistakes, sometimes even contrary to the children's wishes. They are so named because, like a helicopter, they hover closely overhead, rarely out of reach whether their children need them or not.”

I was discussing this type of behavior with my friend Dan, a stay-at-home-father with a set of triplets and a pair of twins. We like to make fun of helicopter parents, because it’s fun and it makes us feel better about our own style of parenting. He told me he’s reading The Price of Privilege, which is a parenting book that explores why children of affluence are so depressed, angry and bored. This book suggests (among other things) that we should teach our children to be autonomous and we need to set boundaries between our lives and our children’s lives. The book says that a lot of parents have trouble distinguishing where their own life ends and the life of their child begins.

No shit.

I’m surrounded by boundary-less, hovering parents who know WAY too much about their children’s world-- like when the next science quiz is, who’s taking whom to the prom, who’s doling out blow-jobs under the bleachers, and where you can score some smack. Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating—I haven’t really heard any parents talking about where to score smack. But they do know other things.

This is in stark contrast to our parents of the sixties and seventies who barely knew where the school was and didn’t feel it was necessary to show up for every single blessed practice, rehearsal, game, and performance we attended. They just dropped us off and went back to their own lives, confident that we’d find our way home eventually. In fact, things were so lax-- we used to wait for the bus by ourselves! Yessiree, kids were kids and parents were parents and we were all slightly neglected.

Okay, maybe that wasn’t ideal either, but for some reason the pendulum has swung from a kind of benign neglect all the way to helicopter parenting in which we see parents calling college campuses to complain about the quality of the dorm food.

You may ask, How did we come to this? To which, after careful consideration and contemplation I say--I have no idea. But it ain’t right and I’m here to say stop the madness!


Maybe you’d like to stop the madness but you’re not really sure about your own parenting. You’re not really sure if you are a helicopter parent yourself and would like to know how to gauge your level of involvement. Well, a good rule of thumb is this--everyone who knows more about what’s going on in her kid’s life than I do is over-involved and everyone who knows less than I do is under-involved. Just kidding, (no I’m not, do you see the title of this website?)

Okay, that is a little bit subjective so I’ve devised the following scientific quiz you can take to find out where you fall on the spectrum of “neglectful to helicopter”. Good luck and no fair asking your kid for help.

1. Your toddler comes crying to you at the playground because another boy pushed him. You:
a. Tell him to go back and tell the boy to stop doing that
b. Find the bitch who brought the little felon to the playground and threaten to sue
c. Tell him to quit crying or you’ll give him something to cry about then wave your hand around like you’re going to smack him

2. Your 12th grade son is sad because the girl he asked to prom turned him down. You:
a. Tell him you know it’s disappointing but not everyone goes to the prom
b. Tell him he’d better start calling around because you already bought your chaperone dress and you are not going to miss prom this time around
c. Tell him to get used to it—life’s tough and then you die

3. Your daughter comes home from school and says all the kids were talking about a birthday party she’s not invited to. You:
a. Explain to her that no one is invited to every party and that’s okay
b. Call the mother of the child and say, “I’m sorry but Caitlin didn’t receive her invitation to the party. That darned post-office is so unreliable! What time should I bring her by?”
c. Tell your kid to quit whining—she’s lucky she ever gets invited to any parties

4. Your son forgets his social studies project that you reminded him to put in his backpack (three times) the night before. It is the fourth time this week he’s forgotten homework but this is for a big grade. You:
a. Leave it on the counter but it about kills you and you have to call two friends to make sure you’re doing the right thing.
b. Drive it up to school and make sure it gets taken to the classroom--you didn’t work that hard on a replica of Fort Dearborn made of toothpicks just to get a zero!
c. Throw it in the trash and think “That’ll teach the little bastard some responsibility”

5. Your child complains that she can never remember her locker combination. You:
a. Suggest she write it on the inside of her notebook.
b. Tell her what it is since you’ve memorized and she’s just called you on her cell phone to ask you
c. Tell her she’s lucky she has a locker—when you were in school you had to carry your books around all day—uphill both ways.

Scoring the quiz: Oh come on now, you know how this works. If you answered “a” to most of these questions you’re a concerned parent who respects the boundaries between yourself and your child. This will serve you both well as he grows into adulthood and with any luck he will be independent enough to move out of the basement by his 30th birthday.

If you answered “b” to most of the questions then you really are a helicopter parent and you should consider backing off. Your kid deserves a life of his or her own and so do you. Also, the other moms are totally making fun of you

If you answered “c” to most of the questions then your boundaries may be a little too well defined. Oh, and come on over Friday night. The kids have plans of their own and I’m hosting cocktails.

LOSING NEMO

When you go into any kitchen around here you will see a fish bowl with at least one goldfish swimming around inside of it. The reason you will see this is that everyone around here attends the annual PTA carnival at which the poor deprived children of this suburb are given the opportunity to win a goldfish.

No parent really wants a goldfish but no parent wants to be the one to stand up at the PTA meeting following the spectacularly successful PTA carnival and say, "For the love of god can we lose the friggin' goldfish!" No. No one wants to be the killjoy to say that.

So year after year there are goldfish at the carnival.Every fall you troop off to the PTA carnival and despite your best efforts to distract the children, "Look Michael here's the clothespin drop, you could win a plastic parachute guy," they are lured by the siren call of the goldfish tank. It does not help that your husband is standing a few feet away saying, "Dude, forget the lame parachute guy, if you throw a ball in an empty applesauce cup you win a LIVE FISH! Look it's easy even the first graders are winning!"

Yes, your son is pleased as punch when he carries his new pet home in a baggie that night. But the next day you are forced to go out and buy a goldfish bowl and food. And guess who gets to clean the bowl? Not the bonehead who encouraged your son to win the goldfish. And no, not your son. You. Because despite the fact that you vowed when you brought the stupid fish home that it would be a good experience for your offspring, that it would teach him to be responsible, it turns out that his tolerance for fish scum is much, much higher than your tolerance. And so by default you find yourself emptying the fish bowl and scraping that green gunk off the sides of the bowl.

Nevertheless, you feel sorry for the little guy swimming around all alone and you let Michael talk you into buying the fish a friend. After all, no creature should be alone, and they only cost 10 cents at the pet store. And so it goes, month after month, you scraping the fish scum, you feeding the darn things because although you have no affection for them you certainly don't want to see them starve to death and though Michael never forgets what time "Simpsons" is on, he cannot seem to remember when he should feed his pets.

Sometimes you go on vacation and you hope your neighbor will forget to feed the little devils. No such luck, your neighbor is alarmingly reliable.One day you think you can't take it anymore and even Michael and all his siblings are tired of pretending they want the fish let alone pretending they take care of the fish. You pass a major hurdle; you get all the children in your house to agree that they would not be very sad if the fish went away.

Now you have the nearly insurmountable task of getting rid of three (you've been to another carnival in the meantime) relatively healthy goldfish. The pet store doesn't want them. None of your friends wants them; they have five or six of their own. You know from all the "Nemo" publicity that you can't really humanely flush them. You think if only someone would sneak into your house and take them out back and bury them you would not be sad. But you cannot bring yourself to be the executioner. So you keep feeding them and scraping the scum off the sides of the bowl.

Then one night it's time to go to the carnival again. You have an idea. You get out a Tupperware container and you fill it with water and put Pearly, Nemo, and Squiggley inside. You carry this container boldly into the carnival.Your crime is surprisingly easy. You march right past the big long line of children and their idiot fathers waiting to take their own fish home in a baggie. You walk past the poor unsuspecting teenager who has been roped into running the booth this night. You open the container and dump your three pets into a tub of goldfish. They look much larger than the others, but they look quite content. The teenager looks surprised, "Didn't your kid want his prize?" she asks. She is wondering what the return policy is.You simply say, "No. He didn't want them after all."

A few weeks later you visit a friend. She is lamenting that her daughter won some fish at the carnival this year. She has won fish before but this year it was different. The fish she won were full-grown. You agree with her that that is very strange indeed.

by Judy Zimmerman

4002-3

THE MIDDLEST MIDDLE CHILD

This is my middlest middle child on the first day of school.

July 2006

“Who is that girl? She has a lovely singing voice!” I whisper to my husband as we sit in the darkened auditorium watching a local theater production of “Annie” featuring kids from our church and the neighborhood.

I’m referring to the girl on stage: she’s about ten, with glasses, looks like a tiny librarian, and is holding the audience transfixed with her sweet, tremulous solo.

“That’s our daughter,” he whispers back.
“Are you sure? That doesn’t look like Lilly.”
“Not Lilly, the other one. I think her name is Grace,” he says.
“Oh, yes, Grace. I don’t really know much about her.”

Well, who can blame me? Grace is a middle child and as all parents (and all middle children) know too well, they can sometimes get lost in the shuffle. I’m a middle child myself but since I came five years after my brother I wasn’t as squeezed as some middle children. But Grace—well there’s no way to put a good spin on it. She is stuck between two siblings who could suck the life out of a room let alone a quiet, introverted middle child.

The older sibling is her brother, “Atticus-the–wonder-boy”, who is just a year ahead of her in school. He is blessed with both brains and a heart of gold. He can hold an intelligent, friendly conversation with anyone from the grocery clerk to his great-grandmother. He is the kind of kid elderly neighbors, teachers, and ministers love. When I see teachers who have had both Atticus and Grace in class they inevitably say, “Tell Atticus I said hi,” and when I add, helpfully, “And Grace too?” they squint a moment, trying to figure out who I’m talking about then finally say hesitantly, “Oh, yes, and Grace.”

Grace’s other sibling is “Lilly-the-hilarious-baby-of-the-family”. She is funny. Not just “kids-say-the-darndest things” funny but “pitch-perfect delivery” funny. Once, when she had just turned four, I was admonishing her to be more grown-up as she was throwing a tantrum in the car on the way to Starbucks for my usual. She said, “Mom, look at me. How grown up can I be? I’m sitting in a baby seat and I don’t even know what a latte is.”

To make things worse for Grace, Lilly is also a cancer survivor. Yes, you’d be hard-pressed to come up with a bigger attention-stealer than getting the big “C” at the age of 3. Poor Grace, at one point during the ordeal, when Lilly was receiving yet another package of toys from well-meaning friends, Grace blurted out, “No fair, I want to get cancer too!”

That’s Grace in a nutshell—so squeezed between a math genius with the gift of gab and a stand-up comic cancer survivor that she’d risk a life-threatening disease to get a little attention. She might just be the “middlest middle child of all time”.It’s not that Grace doesn’t have many wonderful attributes too—she does—it’s just that they aren’t of the attention-getting variety. At the age of eleven, she can bake homemade bread from scratch, sew doll clothes without a pattern, and create art projects from nothing at a moment’s notice. She is so good at taking care of her little sister that Lilly often calls her “Mom” accidentally. Her talents are many but they don’t often bring her the attention she’d like or the attention every child deserves—she’s just too normal for that.

At the end of third grade when the school sent the paperwork home about the gifted program, (they send it home with everyone because all the children in my town are gifted, just ask their parents, which makes it rather awkward for the three of us with non-gifted children) I looked at it and set it aside casually saying, “Oh, we don’t need to fill this out.”

“But you filled it out for Atticus,” she pointed out. (She’s not gifted, but she’s not stupid, either.)
“Yes, well, it’s for that gifted crap,” I said, waving a dismissive hand.
“Oh,” she said quietly thinking about that, “You’re right, I don’t need that, I’m normal,” she said.

Amen to that. The world could use a little more normal—but normal does not get you noticed. For years I’ve worried about this fact. I mean we, her parents and family have always thought she’s fabulous but we’re aware she was often overlooked by the outside world. She has had to remain in the shadows of her more noticeable siblings.

All that changed, that night in the auditorium, when she took the stage. I literally did not know she could sing. Hell, she’s so soft-spoken, I barely know what her speaking voice sounds like. She walked out on stage and opened her mouth to sing and I had butterflies in my stomach (as all mothers do when their children perform) and I was a little worried about how this could turn out. But out came the clear, sweet tones of a very talented little girl.

A girl with a gift! I could not have been more delighted.Grace’s singing has turned out to be a true gift: unexpected, unasked for, and exactly what she needed. It has opened up doors to performing and applause. It is the perfect gift for all middle children and affords her the attention she craves and deserves. I wish I had thought to give it to her; I’m grateful someone did.Now when she takes the stage and starts to sing I am no longer surprised, but I continue to be delighted. The other two kids (what are their names?) sing too, but it isn’t the same thing, those two are always on stage. The true miracle is Grace, the quiet, unassuming, middlest of all middle children, singing like a nightingale, finally in the spotlight.Sing on sweet Gracie, sing on.

By Judy Zimmerman

This essay dedicated to Pam Boudreau who discovered Grace's talents long before the rest of the world