Son of Stimulus: Obama Budget Bills Batter My Brain

I guess we should be getting used to these astronomical price tags coming out of Washington. $700 billion here, $800 billion there, bank bailouts, auto bailouts, pretty soon we’ll be seeing a Suleman Octuplet bailout. Do most Americans have a firm grasp on the who/what/when/why and where-the-hell-the-money’s coming from of this situation? Does anybody really give a rip? Or are people just succumbing to the government’s siren song…“Don’t worry…we’ll take care of you…President Obama is such a good speaker…listen to his soothing voice…” Because if you thought we’d all ready seen some doozies in the previous money grabs, wait til you look a little closer at the $410B 2009 Omnibus Appropriations Bill that the House approved on February 25.

Have you heard much about this Bill? No, I didn’t think so. In fact, the day the Bill made it through the house, another more imperative piece of legislation was highlighted on the network news. HR 80, the Captive Primate Safety Act, aka “Chimps are Chumps”, sailed through Congress as a result of the tragic chimp attack a couple of weeks ago in Stamford, Ct. The Chimp Bill makes sure that no chimp, no matter how cute and commercially marketable, can ever be kept as a pet again. Although the bill was largely “pork free”, there was one last minute amendment allocating $20M for a study entitled “Butterflies in Flight: Thing of Beauty or Ground Zero for Global Warming”. After even President Obama was heard to say, “You guys are kidding, right?” the amendment was removed.

But back to the Omnibus Bill. For those of you who are numb or just too exhausted to even figure out what “Omnibus” means, this $410B Bill is basically a continuation of the existing Fiscal 2009 budget that adds on a few more amendments in an effort to keep the government running until Fiscal 2010 begins on October 1. And thank goodness that President Obama came along when he did because we KNOW that this bill will be clean as a whistle, no more earmarks, no siree! I mean, he made that pledge during his campaign, during his inaugural, during his address to Congress…right?

But wait! I just read an email from Taxpayers for Common Sense that has identified 8500 earmarks totaling $7.7B worth of bacon-wrapped projects that are part of the Omnibus. I guess the folks who attended the President’s Fiscal Responsibility Summit on 2/23 consider this Bill a “mulligan”. Because otherwise how do you explain spending (by both parties!) like this:

1. $190K to update a collection at the Buffalo Bill Historical Center in Cody, Wyoming. Are we sure this is actually a real place? Is it possible that we might be sending money to some sophisticated computer geeks from the University of Wyoming who have set up shop at an old Linens&Things and are planning one humdinger of a kegger?

2. $238K for a Polynesian Voyaging Society in Hawaii. Listen, if that’s all it takes, my friends and I could put together a French Wine Country Inspection and Appreciation Society in about 5 minutes for a fraction of the cost.

3. $950K for the Myrtle Beach, SC Trade and Convention Center. Now I am a big fan of Myrtle Beach, but this is just obviously an excuse to give the Hells Angels a hangout for their semi-monthly conventions on the Grand Strand.

4. $300K for a Montana World Trade Center. I think the people who wrote the bill heard this one wrong. I’m pretty sure the sponsors meant $300K to build "Hannah Montana World"—that would be WAY more believable.

Need I say more? Now that I think about it, the President made a pointed remark in his address to Congress the other night about earmarks in the budget. He said something about making sure that the 2010 budget was clean of any pork, but made no mention of holding this same standard to the budget for 2009. Hmmmm. Crafty, Mr. President. Now you’re thinking like a pol!

And when Nancy Pelosi was asked about the Omnibus Bill laden with 8,500 pieces of pork, she responded that the bill was “unfinished business of last year when (President Bush) refused to address the priorities of the country.” (How DARE George Bush ignore the Polynesian Voyaging Society!) I only wish the follow up question had been “Speaker Pelosi…ever heard of a Sharpie?”

This incredible hypocrisy on the part of politicians makes me so angry; I almost want to rip up my unemployment check in protest. But let’s not get too crazy here. I need to cut my losses and move on, because the next body blow is all ready on the way…

The $3.5 T (for Trillion!) 2010 budget which will leave us with a $1.75 T (for “Too-bad-for-our-grandkids!) deficit. I am not going to even pretend to be able to dissect this one, but based on the spending habits we’ve witnessed so far, I am not optimistic. But there’s definitely something for everyone: Healthcare! (More) Bank Bailouts! Middle Class Tax Cuts! Global Warming Programs! Middle East Wars!

And we know who will be paying for this and upon whose backs Obama plans to bring down the deficit—that’s right! The “rich” people making $250,000 or more. Has anyone ever examined how far $250,000 really goes for a family these days? Let’s take a family living in the Northeast or out in California. It really just keeps the roof over the head, food on the table, a vacation or two a year and maybe some savings toward college and retirement. Now $250,000 in Arkansas or South Dakota—you might be living large and good for you! Couldn’t we all just pay 15% and call it a day? Isn’t that fair?

Wherever you live, I think there’s a new strategy for staying in the “middle class”. Anyone who is about to become “rich” should make a concerted effort to make sure they’re making $249,999. When it comes time for that raise or bonus, just say no! Or just do a mediocre job for your employer—you don’t want to incur a promotion! You’ll actually come out AHEAD financially staying right where you are!

I know I sound cynical. And I am not opposed to spending money for the greater good. But I say to Congress, be honest about it. If you say you’re going to clean it up, keep it clean and spend it wisely. Having government running anything usually means going around your posterior to get to your elbow. Stimulate—don’t stifle--private investment. Reward ­everyone who has worked hard and achieved. And if you ask me to sacrifice, don’t forget, you may have to step away from that plump, juicy, constituent-pleasing, lobbyist-rewarding pork roast.

Who’s with me? Are you riled up or still in a stupor on the La-Z-Boy? Can we raise our voices and demand accountability? Or at least shout out a rousing “Sue-EEEEEE!” in protest? Don’t get me wrong, I love me some pork, but I prefer it nice and crispy next to my pancakes—not fueling the narcissism and re-election dreams of the US House and Senate.

The Ineffective Habits of Highly Stressful People

In 1989, Steven Covey published a book called The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People. The book and the franchise it spawned have been wildly successful for Mr. Covey. This article is about the opposite of that. In fact, it it’s okay with Steven Covey, I may have to follow up with a book titled, The Unlimited Number of Ineffective Habits of Highly Stressful People. I literally have so much material here that, like Mr. Covey, I could start a “Habits” franchise and just completely sell out. (Oh, to get to the point where I could unceremoniously “sell” something “out”!)

In fairness to the people that I am about to throw under the bus, I think one would be hard pressed to find a person on this planet that did not have one or more annoying habits. But it is the rare gem of a human that will actually listen to the objections being raised (in some cases, multiple times over the course of many years for the same friggin’ infraction) and change his/her behavior in response.

Let’s take my husband, for instance. Early in our marriage, I noticed that he did something unusual and irritating when he brushed his teeth. He would turn on the water, let it run throughout the brushing session (ahhh, the good old days when you could just let the water run), and then at the penultimate moment, just as he was about to spit, he would turn the water off. From the next room, I heard the spitting and then silence. No water rushing in to carry away the used toothpaste, food bits and saliva. At first I said nothing, but eventually, I had to make a comment. And the most incredulous thing about it was he really didn’t get it! He couldn’t look down at the sink loaded with the dried leavings of multiple brushings and understand the gravity of the situation!

Flash forward 20 years. We are still married—I know, you’re wondering how I lived with this monster—and here is the concession that my husband has ONLY RECENTLY has made to my 20-year old teeth-brushing gripe: he brushes, keeps the water running, turns the water off, spits, then BRIEFLY turns the water back on so it rinses away maybe half of his discharge. Now, I ask you, is that logical? JUST LEAVE THE DAMN WATER ON TIL AFTER YOU SPIT!

Here’s another one. We share a dresser in our bedroom. On the occasions that my husband takes out a pair of socks or a t-shirt from one of the drawers, he can’t seem to close the drawer all the way. Like his muscles had just enough energy to slide the drawer in, but ran out of gas ½ inch from paydirt. I half expect to see him collapsed on the bed holding a t-shirt in one had, a pair of gym socks in the other declaring, “Wow—that really knocked the wind out of my sails!” So I mentioned this to him a few months ago. And again at Christmas. And once more last week. Really, is drawer closing too much to ask?

I could go on, but let me trash my children for a minute. Of the three, two are such egregious offenders that their bad habits are too numerous to recount. But they are teenagers, so I am willing to write off these years. I'm pretty sure that when I ask them for the bazillionth time to stop leaving clothes on the floor, to start their homework before midnight, to use a bath towel more than once, that I make the sound effect that comes out of the mouth of any adult who speaks in a Peanuts cartoon. Short of running through the halls of their high school in my bra and undies, the chances of getting them to pay attention to me are pretty slim. My 5th grader still yields to my dictates, but let' s face it, with her I'm hosed in about 3 years.

Now I am also willing to self-identify. My husband will tell you that it bugs him that about 50% of the time, when I am washing up dishes, like pots and pans, I am happy to leave them to air dry next to the sink rather than stand there, wasting my time drying with a towel. They are CLEAN dishes after all and they do actually sell freestanding dish drainer stands you can put on your counter for just this purpose. But looking at perfectly clean pots, glistening with moisture, awaiting nature’s evaporating force drives my husband crazy. He also CLAIMS that I leave my shoes around the house too much. I think he’s just jealous that as a woman, I get to wear a much more exciting variety of footwear than he does. Or maybe he’s just cranky because he’s beginning to realize he never sees the same pair of shoes twice and thinks I buy too many shoes which I MOST CERTAINLY DO NOT!

The point to all of this, is that no one is perfect. I’m sure even Michelle Obama after a couple of glasses of wine will cop to the fact that Barack squeezes the toothpaste from the middle or occasionally forgets to pull the nation out of a Depression. (That can be SO annoying!)

But the older I get, the more I’ve learned how to deal with my exasperation. Here’s the secret: I have made extra efforts lately to just dry the pots and I put away my shoes. I actually give some credence to my annoying habits and thereby validate my respect for the concerns of the complainer. And I also know when to pick my battles these days. I’ve just eased up a little, and I’m finding the more I do that, the easier it is to get some attention on the big things.

And where has that gotten me? Well, I’m not going to lie to you, there’s still room for improvement. But I’m feeling like I have a better attitude which in turn lowers the stress factor. I’ve also developed a new habit—it involves a glass of wine, a wedge of cheese and a lounge chair at about 5:00 every night. And I think if I follow Steven Covey’s “7 Habits” principles and perform this action 7 days a week…well, I can feel the last remnants of stress evaporating like wet pots on a countertop…

Get out the Kitty Litter--It's Oscar Time!

Can you hear me purring?  The Oscars just bring out the bitchy kitten in me.  Maybe it’s because I love zinging barbs at people whose biggest concern is whether or not they have enough botox in their earlobes to hold up their Fred Leighton chandelier earrings.  But I simultaneously hate and LOVE the Oscars.  Even during the good old days of in-your-face prosperity, the Oscars were an excuse for champagne and brie.  Now I’m in more of a bean dip and Bud Light situation, but the guilty, escapist pleasure remains.

 

Where to begin?  How about the red carpet?  For me, the commentators were a little annoying.  Especially Tim Gunn.  I love Project Runway, but a little Tim Gunn goes a long way.  The way he gushed over every designer dress just got a little tiresome.  I’m wondering if Meryl Streep wandered up offering the cure for cancer, if Tim would say, “That’s super…but whose shoes are you wearing?”

 

And the way he spoke worshipfully to Brad and Angelina was a little repulsive.  Let’s just stipulate to the fact that they are the most gorgeous couple on the planet and are so magical that they actually float above the red carpet so as not to scuff their Ferragamo/Laboutin shoes.  Did any of you ladies ever have those cutout paper dolls when you were little? They came with a bunch of outfits that had little paper tabs that you could fold over to hold them on the doll?  Well, that’s how I think of Brangelina.  All you need to do is get some life-size cardboard cutouts of them joined at the hip staring demurely into the camera and just keep switching out the clothes. Enough all ready.

 

Other than Brangelina, there weren’t that many biggies on the red carpet this year—apparently they wanted to “stay fresh” for their presentation gigs.  So let’s move inside to hunt the big game, shall we?

 

First of all, Hugh Jackman.  Smokin’ H-O-T!  Loved the recessionista opening.  The only way it could have been better is if he had done it shirtless.  I really was impressed with his ability to sing, dance and rock that tux without a glitch.  I’m not sure if he’s slated to host again next year, but from here on out whoever gets the gig should have to pass the topless test.  I would think that this would pretty much eliminate Billy Crystal and Whoopi Goldberg.

 

Speaking of Whoopi, I liked the whole 5-presenters concept for the Best Actor and Actress awards. That was really cool and dramatic, and I’m sure a thrill for some of those previous winners.  I think Whoopi appeared as one of the “Best Supporting Actress” crew, which made me wonder how hard the competition could have been the year Whoopi won an Oscar.  Who was she up against—Betty Rubble and Alice from the Brady Bunch?  Also among the group that walked out with Whoopi was Tilda Swinton who I really love, but did she remind you of anyone last night?  I say pop a green contact in her left eye and you’ve got David Bowie.

 

While we’re talking about the women, here’s a montage of my impressions… I’m torn on the topic of who is more gorgeous—Jennifer Aniston or Angelina Jolie.  It must have been weird for those two women to be basically staring at each other and you have to wonder what’s going through Brad’s head…Meryl Streep looked great from the neck up.  But as usual, she picked a dogger of a dress…Marisa Tomei had on a really cool dress but they never showed her walking around in it—too complicated.  I think she had to be transported via golf cart any time she stood up…Great hair on Kate Winslet but I say SJP needs to go back to blonde…Reese Witherspoon, usually so cute looked so tragic in that black and blue calamity…Mega thumbs up to Ann Hathaway, Penelope Cruz and Taraji Henson…Mega thumbs down to Miley Cyrus who looked like she was competing for Oyster Queen of the Bayou.

 

But let’s move on…I think we’re to the part of the show called the “endless desert of zilch” where basically nothing happened.  We could have used a little shirtless Jackman here.  Hell, I’d have even settled for a little shirtless Frank Langella to spice things up.  But I was revived when they threw in that musical montage with Beyonce.  Is she gorgeous?  Yes.  Can she sing? For real.  Does she have thunder thighs? And how.  So either cover them up all the way, put them out there or get a thigh master, but the peek-a-boo red fringe was just dishonest.

 

After the musical tribute, back to the momentum-killers.  Film Editing…Sound Mixing…Sound Editing… Sound of Snoring…and then the sound of the infectious Oscar Winning song “Jai Ho” from “Slumdog Millionaire”.  I loved that!  And everything about “Slumdog”!  Danny Boyle’s maniacal grin every time the camera cut to him in the audience, Dev Patel’s expression of wonderment, the innocence of the cuddly child actors—the whole cast had that fresh-faced, unjaded, anti-Hollywood aura not usually associated with the Oscar night crowd.  So refreshing!

 

Enough being nice.  Time to trash some of the dudes.  Mickey Rourke looked slightly more put together than usual, but still inappropriately dressed in white before Easter…Did Philip Seymour Hoffman hit the Oscars on his way home from a bank heist? And Chris Walken and Adrian Brody—Larry the Cable Guy called…he wants his greasy mullet back. On the other hand, I must give props to Robert Downey, Jr. for sprucing up—that is so old school!  And the most improved award goes to…Jerry Lewis.  Last time I tuned in to one of his Muscular Dystrophy telethons, he looked like he had just eaten the whole rat pack.  At the Oscars, he looked trim and was surprisingly humble and reserved.  Well played.

 

You know you’re close to the end of the show when they run the “Death Reel”.  I actually get a little choked up when I watch this for some reason.  Although last night it was kind of hard to get worked up about Emil Hossenfeffer, Scooby Dingleberry and the rest of the unknowns.  About the only names I recognized were Paul Newman, Bernie Mac and Heath Ledger.  The rest of the folks were pretty obscure.  And they left off Harvey Korman—for shame!

 

Also a little anticlimactic was the announcement for best picture.  Slumdog, the little movie that could, was the clear darling and I’m happy it won.  And at a little before midnight on the east coast, staying up to watch this extravaganza until the bitter end on a school night is no small feat for this humble scribe.  The whole show is slightly boring on balance, but I’m glad I stuck with it.   Now I will go out and actually see the movies that were nominated and eagerly anticipate this year’s crop that will contend a year from now. 

 

So while we wait for Oscar 2009, enjoy all the fashion knockoffs soon to be available at JC Penny and the movies that will shortly be out on DVD.  Can’t wait to do this again next year!

 

Until then…meow.

Being Memorable

I was reading an article in USA Today by Craig Wilson who regularly appears in the “Life” section (also known as the section most likely to be dragged into the john around my house). I like Craig Wilson and always look forward to his columns. I can relate to his “slice of life” musings because I like to write about those things too. In his most recent column, he talked about his thoughts as he takes public transportation to work. How he looks at the strangers around him and wonders about their lives. I can totally relate. I do that in my own household: Who are you and why are you taking $20 out of my wallet? Wearing my Gucci pumps? (Relax…I have teenage daughters.)

Like Craig Wilson, I have also always given more than a passing thought to people who seem interesting or inscrutable. Usually, I have to admit, it’s because of their outward appearance. They just stick out. Some I see wandering around town. Others are in my family. And some are busy hatching embryos and falling on the mercy of California taxpayers…but that’s another column.

I was reminded of Craig’s column today as I drove through my quaint little town of Haddonfield, NJ. There’s a gentleman who lives here—and I won’t use his real name, especially since I can’t even remember it—named Bill. Bill is a guy who has lived here his whole life and I sincerely doubt he’ll ever live anywhere else. I’m guessing he’s about 40 and I know he has a little house somewhere, but if you didn’t know better, you’d swear he was homeless. Today I was driving through town, I spied him “on patrol” around 9:30 a.m., easily recognizable as he bounced along the sidewalk with his long grey hair and beard spreading out like ashy roots beneath his bright red stocking cap. A sensible trench coat, jeans and sneakers completed the ensemble. But what sets Bill apart is his briefcase—old school, black leather with brass spring latches. Like the one I got for Christmas after I graduated from college. (I can still remember how pointedly my parents looked at me when I pulled the wrapping paper off of that little wake-up call.)

Bill is the kind of guy that visitors to our town would instinctively know is probably not wearing deodorant, just by looking at him. But Bill serves his purpose here—he’s the conscience of our town. No matter the weather, no matter the season, he is on patrol, peering at medians in need of beautification, calling attention to parking regulations, demanding better snow removal and attending every City Council meeting with a written agenda in hand. I would love to pop open his briefcase and sift through the contents. Would there be clues to his past? How and why he’s wired the way he is? Or maybe he’s collecting birds’ nests or pizza crusts or grass clippings…who knows. All I do know about him is that he is a steady presence, the unheralded sentinel of Haddonfield. And though we may look at him askance or sigh when he raises his hand to interrupt our mayor, we can concede that Bill has a mission and a credo—how many people can say that about themselves?

There’s another woman who wanders around town, though I don’t see her as often. I don’t know her name and her purpose is much less obvious to me, but she is also quite distinctive. She is rail thin, maybe in her late 30’s, early 40’s, with long blond hair. When I first saw her walking along the street as I was driving by, I did a double take and almost knocked over my Dairy Queen malt. She looked like an apparition, in a long flowy dress with an extremely pregnant belly, so at odds with her stalky arms and legs. And her expression didn’t look right—there was something hazy and unfocused about her. I filed her away in the “To be continued…” folder in my brain.

I saw her again about 6 months later on a hot summer day. She had taken refuge inside one of the boutiques and as I came inside, I recognized her immediately. But funny thing—she was still extremely pregnant. Now my sense of curiosity was on high alert, but I also felt compassion. What was the back story here? An unbearable loss? A private pain expressed in a public way?

I have not seen her since, but she’s part of our town’s fabric too.

In my own family, I have an aunt, my mother’s only sibling, who is not exactly mainstream. I can remember when I was a kid, my mom would ask me not to tell my friends about Aunt Carole. It wasn’t that she was such a wack job I realize now, it was more that my parents were such straight arrows and probably did not want anyone knowing about the crazy things my sister and I witnessed on our visits alone with my Aunt. She took us to see an Indian guru, joined the Baha’i faith, killed a rattlesnake with a shovel right in front of us and then made into a soup, joined the Libertarian party and ran for mayor, smoked pot, stuck her dead dog in the freezer and performed her own taxidermy …the list goes on. I think it was more than my southern Republican parents could take. Even I had to do damage control after she told my bridesmaids at my wedding that she had purchased 365 pairs of underwear so she would only have to do laundry once a year.

Unlike the eccentrics wandering around Haddonfield, I know what’s in my Aunt Carole’s briefcase; an unsettled childhood and a propensity for artistic genius. But having her in my childhood was thrilling—every visit was an exotic spin of the dial and some of my most vivid young memories are of adventures in her care.

There have been plenty of other interesting folks that have crossed my paths through the years. A woman I’d pass in the halls at work who would only wear black and white, a blind guy who would walk the neighborhood for exercise every day, come rain, snow sleet or hail, a strange woman who liked to walk around town wearing shoe polish as bronzer. They all have stories to tell, I’m sure. I’ll likely never know their stories, but I’ve filled in their blanks on my own. They’re part of my memory and my story now.

Will anyone think of me this way? Have I done anything to deserve more than a passing thought? Does my back story warrant further exploration? Probably not. But it’s an aspiration of mine to leave my mark on this earth.

There’s a PR and Design firm in town that always runs an ad in our town’s paper, The Haddonfield Sun. I look forward to their ads and I love their tagline: Above all, Be Memorable.

Not a bad way to live.

Are You Enhanced or Just Happy to See Me?

My girlfriends from college and I were having an online discussion the other day about a topic that I think warrants exposure to the broader public. A condition that is encountered more frequently among our peer group, yet so little recognition has been given to its ability to wreak havoc on relationships. So, let us cut to the chase, nip this situation in the bud, tuck our modesty away and help implant a more civilized and open discussion of “Suspicion of Plastic Surgery Syndrome”.

Have you experienced this socially paralyzing disorder in your circle of friends? A situation that begins with a face-to-face encounter with a (usually female) chum who you may not have seen in a while and ends with you staring pointedly at her perky chest/nose/forehead like Jack Black eyeballing…well…anything? The question to be answered here is—what is protocol? Do you go full frontal and acknowledge the rhino(plasty) in the room or avoid the surgical strike and play along with nature’s (unnatural) reversal?

There is precedent for this—a related disorder called “Moley-Mole Stupefaction”. The sufferer finds him/herself unable to carry on normal human discourse when confronted with a distracting mole/birthmark/ripe-and-ready zit on the face of another. The urge to grab a scalpel/tweezer/bandaid overwhelms all conversational focus. Moley-Mole does resemble Suspicion of Plastic Surgery Syndrome since the two share the element of surprise and the need to suppress a laser-like staring reflex. But from there they part company. After all, you will not likely have to see Moley-Mole again once he unclogs your toilet and gets back into his van. Your surgically enhanced chum will be coming to your Christmas party in two weeks.

I have a friend who was visiting her old buddy whom she hadn’t seen in a couple of years. My friend had gone from “flat to fluffy” in the pectoral area (if you know what I mean) and was a little nervous about how to broach the topic—if at all!—during her lunch visit. Feeling a little self-conscious and unsure of how to proceed, my friend arrived at the restaurant, located her friend and as she approached the table was shocked to see that her long-lost pal had also experienced miraculous mammary expansion! The two friends and their 4 silicone companions sat through the meal with nary a comment, as if they had been chesty specimens their whole lives.

But I have other friends who are proud to announce their enhancements. That really takes the pressure off. Although this scenario presents its own etiquette minefield. When a friend confesses that she just had her eyes done and you (or more likely your husband) say, “Really?” well just assume that your invitation to join your friend’s Book Club got lost in the mail.

Where is Emily Post when we need her? I’m not sure that society has settled on a solution for this quandary. I have witnessed some pretty drastic extremes in how people behave. To protect their identities, I will not use names here, but let’s call example number one “My mother-in-law” or MMIL for short. The MMIL’s of the world are not endowed with a tact meter, so that any thought that flows through their brain comes flying out of their mouth. Upon seeing a friend that has just had her face refreshed, the MMIL, might say something like, “Wow Betty, you must have had that face job you always wanted. Now you barely notice your yellow teeth!”

And then there’s the opposite end of the spectrum—let’s call this one “Angry Ex-Sister-Law” or AESL—who won’t acknowledge enhancements even when they are self identified. AESL is so unhappy/jealous/dissatisfied with her own genetics that she can’t be happy for anyone else who improves upon their own flaws. The AESL might say, “Why did you do that? Now you just look desperate!” Nice touch.

The way our government is thinking these days, there may come a time when we see openly encouraged, government sponsored cosmetic surgery. Why should people be held accountable for their own inherited traits? Bring on the “Genetic Compensation Bill” Speaker Pelosi! And once an aquiline nose and lipo-suctioned thigh are commonplace, we won’t have this dilemma. But until then, I think Emily Post would agree that there is a happy medium to be reached when one encounters a plasto sneak attack. A simple, “Wow, you look great! Did you lose weight?” is safe in most situations. Unless you’re talking with the Olsen twins, it’s a pretty good bet that this would be considered a compliment. And if the enhanced one chooses to ‘fess up, good for her. If not, let the nips fall where they may.

The Stimulus Package: One Snarky Perspective

Like the rest of America, I am hoping for great things from the recently signed Stimulus Bill. But, like a lot of people, I’m a little nervous about how effective and/or immediate some of the spending will be. And now that it’s a done deal, I am sampling the virtual graffiti that is floating around in the cosmos. I’m seeing a lot of what you might predict from the “Dig-up-Reagan-STAT -and-wheel-him-down-here” crowd, but interestingly enough, I’m not seeing a lot of end-zone high-fivin’ from the “Pelosi 2012” set. The more liberal-leaners are acting like they’re at a party where someone keeps ripping some silent farts which everybody smells but no one wants to get to the “bottom” of. As if I weren’t skeptical enough about the whole, slightly shady dealings, this makes me even more nervous.

Sure, there are some obvious indications that our leaders look at us “common folk” like we’re rubes. Like Harry’s Reid’s train from Disneyland to Las Vegas, part of an $8B transportation package. Surely an altruistic gesture from this Senator (who by sheer coincidence seems to be from Nevada) to provide immediate employment stimulus—that is, after a 5-year environmental impact study, the cost of which I’m sure will encourage consumer retail spending. Or the $2B allocated for community activists like ACORN—I see an immediate impact here to our nation’s economic health, don’t you? At least for those in the business of producing megaphones and protest signs. Or the $2B for NASA. Hey, I’m all for space exploration, but I haven’t seen a bunch of astronauts down at the unemployment line, so I really wonder if they’re in immediate need of support. Maybe Congress is just hoping we’ll make contact with some intelligent life forms who can lead us out of this mess.

Does anybody know if they got that $600M for converter boxes out of the final bill? I was really hoping the President would address that at his news conference. Nothing says “Get Out of the House and Spend Some Money” like a $40 coupon to encourage you to remain on the couch getting digital TV reception. And the “tax break” in the bill? Get ready for that extra $13/week you Starbucks fans! You can add back in at least 2 Venti skim, ½ caf, decaf, chai, mocha-choka lattes a week!

No matter your political persuasion, do you suspect that there might be just a teensy, weensy bit of nonsense in this stimulus? That a bill that should be about throwing a drowning man a life preserver is more like throwing a 786 billion corks overboard and hoping he’ll be able to eventually scoop up enough of them to stay afloat?

I think we could come up with some really creative ways to stimulate our economy with almost $800B. What do you think about these:

1. The most obvious: give $2,300 to every man, woman and child in the US. Any complaints?
2. Pay off 90% of all mortgages. And guess what? Added bennies for the government as they get more tax revenues since we won’t be writing off mortgage interest!
3. Spend the $ on Snuggies. Every American would receive a lifetime supply (approximately 114 each) and we’d be supporting the business model of the only company in America that doesn’t seem to need a bailout.
4. Buy every American driver a new car. Like Oprah, but on a bigger scale. The downside is it would have to be an American car, but it’s free, so quit your bitchin’.
5. Give all taxpayers a 3-month income tax holiday—party like its 1912! (The year before the Federal Income tax was ratified under the 16th amendment to the Constitution for those of you who snoozed through US History class.)
6. Hire the most brilliant scientists in the world to build a time machine so we can bust ourselves into 2019 before the next Congressional money grab
7. Spend all the money on proliferation reeducation. We’re going to need to get our children and grandchildren indoctrinated into maximum reproduction behavior if we’re going to have enough taxpayers in the future to pay for this debacle.
8. Pay for speed-reading classes and a lifetime supply of Red Bull for all the Congressman who had less than 24 hours to read, digest and vote on the 1500 page Bill in its final form. And hopefully there’d be a little money left over for neurosurgical repair of all the congressional brains that melted from the stress of forceful suspension of reason and credibility.

Sure we need help out here. But do we need this kind of help? Do you have faith in the guys and gals that got us to this point? The same ones that along the way tried to sneak in earmarks for Frisbee parks and studies on the sex habits of Green Frogs—do you trust that they’re looking out for the common good, or is it just every (Congress)man for himself as usual? I just don’t want to be told I’m being served a steaming helping of meatloaf when underneath the delicious ketchupy topping…well there’s a steaming loaf, all right.

I have no choice but to hope for the best. But I am all ready marking my calendar for the first Tuesday in November, 2010. By then, we might be seeing the first trickle of real stimulus impact…if we’re lucky. If not, and if our leadership in this country really threw our money down the toilet, I’ll be digging up old Ronnie myself.

Surrounded by Sulemans

Is it really necessary to have 14 children? If Nadya Suleman’s goal was love and a sense of belonging, wouldn’t it have been easier to get 14 puppies or just join a cult? Or here’s a crazy concept—start the process with a husband! Or a boyfriend or something! Maybe she’ll belatedly come to the realization that she might need a guy in her life to, at best, serve as a father figure and, at worst, help take the financial burden off the California taxpayers. But good luck finding any takers now. I’d like to see Nadya on her next blind date. I think the conversation might go a little something like this:

Dude: Wow, Nadya, you’re a good kisser. What luscious lips you have. You remind me of a celebrity…

Nadya: Angelina Jolie?

Dude: Actually I was thinking Daffy Duck. Let’s go back to your place and see what else is plump and kissable…

Nadya: That’s cool. Let me just call my mother and tell her to get my 14 plump and kissable kids off the couch so we can have a little privacy.

Dude: Did you just say 14 kids? Wow! Holy Moodkiller! I did NOT realize it was so late—check please!

But finding a man is really the least of her worries. I went to the Nadya Suleman Family website and navigated around. There’s really not much to it, other than pictures of the babies and Nadya and a button you can click on to give donations. The button is easy to locate. It says “HOLY MOTHER OF GOD WHAT HAVE I DONE…CLICK HERE TO HELP ME OUT OF THE DOG DOO I JUST STEPPED IN!!” Another thing I noticed looking at the pictures on the website is that Nadya has a nice manicure—looks like acrylic nails to me. Just know that some of your charitable donations will be going to the care and maintenance of those nails—they don’t refill themselves, do they ladies?

Beyond worrying about money and her next salon appointment, Nadya must be thinking about the sheer mathematics of her new life. She all ready has the other six kids to maintain and now she’s got to change all those diapers and feed 8 babies multiple times a day. I wonder if she’s nursing? Too bad for her that women are not built like dogs—if she had 8 boobs she could just lay down on the floor and have all those babies suckling away at once. She must be counting on offers of help from her church and her community. She’s got to line up volunteers from some sector—she only has two well-manicured hands!

I can tell you one group that is not likely to be offering aid—her family! Her dad disappeared quicker than Bernard Madoff’s accountant. I heard he took a job in Iran or Iraq to get the heck out of dodge—could he be hoisting his middle finger any higher? And her mom is trash-talking her six ways to Sunday. But who could blame her? I’m sure she’d like to get out and get some salon services too, but she hasn’t been able to since she’s been babysitting six kids 24/7.

But Nadya surely has her eyes on a bigger prize now that she’s got a PR team in place. Do any of you doubt that at a minimum we’ll see an autobiography in the near future or, even better, a TLC or Discovery Channel series? I’m trying to imagine a new spin on the Suleman story, something that would really compel viewers or readers to tune in. Here are some options:

“IVF’n and BFF’n”: Nadya Suleman and Paris Hilton hit the streets of LA lookin’ for love (and child support)

“Cribs: yo, for REAL”: no longer just a show about the homes of the rich and famous, this series takes you inside REAL cribs—the tears, the joy, the stench.

“Child Swap”: swapping wives is so pedestrian. Step up to the plate and live the Suleman lifestyle for 1 week. While Nadya gets some needed R&R at your house, immerse yourself in her hell!

“Law and Order: Fertility”: Nadya Suleman teams with Mariska Hargitay in the most far-fetched spinoff of the Law and Order franchise to date. They’re on uterus patrol, and no ethically-challenged fertility specialist is safe from over-implantation examination.

“14 is Enough All Ready”: Dick Van Patten and Betty Buckley entertain their 14 grandchildren as their daughter Nadya gets her nails done.

I could go on and on…but mark my words, that show is coming. If she can get it, good for her. Those extra Discovery Channel cameramen and production assistants will come in handy when those diapers are nice and ripe. And Lord knows, Californians are rooting for that eventuality. But will the viewers tune in? I say yes. Especially during these dark times, don’t we all want to be able to say, “Well, I may be homeless and counting my own urine as a food group, but at LEAST I’m not Nadya Suleman!”

The fervor over Nadya will surely die down…for now. But when those babies come home in a few weeks, look out. I know I’ll be watching. And waiting for the high concept media creation that will pull her through. How come I can’t get a media vehicle for my life? I know….HONEY!!! Come here!!! I got a great idea!!! Let’s go for nine babies!!!

I think I just heard the screech of tires in my driveway…

Blurb from the 'Burbs

I’m a suburban kind of gal. That’s probably not considered very hip, but it is what it is. I haven’t done much real city living, though it’s something I’ve wanted to do. Maybe someday when I’m not worried about my schools having grass instead of metal detectors, I’ll take the plunge. But until then, I have had the opportunity to analyze my suburban lifestyle. And there is definitely a spectrum, each sector with its fierce proponents.

I’m currently participating in what I call “close living”. That is to say, you have to try really hard not to observe your neighbor as he/she exits the john or applies deodorant a scant 20 feet away. Houses stand shoulder to shoulder, and anything beyond ¼ acre of property is considered “grounds”. I am not knocking this arrangement—there is definitely a heightened feeling of community engendered by living cheek-to-jowl. Kids ride bikes on sidewalks and run yard-to-yard, residents walk to town for dinner or to shop. Of a summer evening, I can hear the soft tinkling of my neighbor’s wind chimes, the comforting white noise of lawn mowers, the ripple of children’s laughter through my screen door. As I lay down my head at night, I feel secure in the knowledge that at approximately 11:15 pm, I’ll be woken by the Cujo-esque barking of the demented Weimeraner that lives two houses down. And with any luck on the weekend, as I settle down on my deck to enjoy a glass of wine and wedge o’cheese, I know I’ll be assaulted by the heavy metal stylings pounding from the outdoor speakers as my neighbor’s teenage boys “unwind” with their “youth group”. Yes, the problem with close living is that you buy into the real estate equivalent of a flying leap. It’s not like you can interview all the inhabitants on your potential new block prior to placing your bid. Or sit in a car on the curb of your prospective residence and make like a PI, observing neighbors’ habits, comings and goings, sifting through their garbage, til someone calls the police to report a stalker and you get hauled away to the local lockup and your husband has to come bail you out…I’m just saying it’s one tactic to consider.

Prior to my current lifestyle, I lived in “the country”. Now I’m not sure people from smack-dab-in-the-middle-of-Iowa would call suburban Northern New Jersey “the country”, but for a New York City satellite area, it’s pretty out there. Ahhhh, the country life. Lots of quiet, green space, beautiful trails through the woods behind your house, outdoor living, large properties, deer frolicking through yards and meadows. And deer being shot point blank at the bus stop. That’s right. Like the morning I was pulling up to the bus stop with my 2nd grader and a friendly town cop was in the process of dispatching an injured deer with his service revolver a mere 50 feet from my daughter’s Barbie-clad feet. Nothing says “Have a good day at school, honey!” like the echo of gunshot and bleeding deer carcass. Or the fact that when you live on a septic system like we did, our entire front yard was our toilet. Well, it’s not like we went out and squatted on our haunches for all to see. But the thought of pipes that led directly from our toilets, under my flower beds, and straight into the expanse of our front yard…well, let’s just say it gave new meaning to the phrase “poop chute”. No wonder my grass was so green.

The final straw with country living for me was the “Target Test”. If it takes me more than 10 minutes in any direction to locate a Target store, honey, stick a “For Sale” sign in the yard—we’re moving. Green acres or no, if I can’t aim my minivan at that red and white bullseye and be there in a reasonable amount of time, I might just start have to stay at home and start ordering my undies and t-shirts from the Neiman’s catalogue…And I’m sure no one wants to foot the bill for that.

We did briefly live in the city of Philadelphia for about 2 weeks in between moves one summer. I was most worried about my dog in this situation—he was used to a soft, grassy urinal and a little privacy when he had to pinch a loaf. But he took to those city streets with abandon—peeing on concrete and lampposts and (though I thought it was just a cartoon cliché) actual fire hydrants. He LOVED being a city dog. And I liked being a city gal. Except apartment living takes a little getting used to. Lots of people crammed into a small space, constant street noise, neighbors’ noisy sexcapades. If I wanted to hear strangers moan and scream in ecstasy, I’d have headed for the nearest Obama rally.

After carefully reflecting on the style that suits our family, I have to say, I’m a little torn. I love the hometown feel of real neighborhoods, but I do also love to hike in the woods after breakfast if I feel like it. I’m sure it’s exciting to live in a city, but peace and quiet is hard to come by. The conclusion I am increasingly drawn to is that I might need to completely rethink my long term living conditions. It’s tempting to get the heck out of being tied down to a terrestrial home—I’ve been thinking I should eventually buy a houseboat. Or a sailboat. Whatever. No mortgage, no lawn, no flower beds to mulch. If neighbors are getting on your nerves, sail on! No need to worry about plumbing--the ocean is your septic tank! If my dog flies overboard, well maybe that’s just payback for all the seafood I’ve eaten through the years. I’m sure as with everywhere else I’ve lived, I’ll find some flaws with my water-borne existence. But by the time that happens, they’ll probably be offering residences on the moon. I’d even be up for that kind of adventure—no question!! As long as there’s a Target nearby.

Less is More

Wrap me up in a box and call me a square. I cannot figure out what’s up with the crazy kids these days and their obsession with piercings and tattoos. As the mother of three daughters, I live in constant fear that their childhood dread of needles will eventually be overcome by their misguided attempts to immortalize their current boyfriend or artfully display some drug paraphernalia. And what mother wouldn’t love to see rising above her daughter’s thong one tattoo that seems to live up to its nickname—the tramp stamp? Whatever mischief I was up to back in the day, tattoos were about as likely a plan of action as braiding my armpit hair. In fact, my context for tattoos was generally in one of two camps: old dudes like my grandfather with the obligatory “MOM” or anchor or cross, most likely received during military service, or prison inmates that you’d see on documentaries or on trial for murder or drug trafficking. I am really struggling mightily to think of anyone I knew from high school or college who ever got a tattoo. I’m not saying there aren’t some, but during my era, tattoos were most often small and placed in areas that might not normally be exposed to the public. I think the reasoning here might have been along the lines of wanting to get a real job. Or maybe I am a huge nerd and just not hanging around with hip enough friends.

But wait a minute!! Though I didn’t get tattoos, I did get piercings!!! Two, to be exact. One in each ear. And let me tell you, when I got that third piercing in my left ear in college, I felt as exotic and edgy as a preppy, blonde-bobbed sorority girl in the heart of North Carolina could feel! Even the guys got in on the ear piercing act in college. But it was usually associated with some theme party and therefore pretty short-lived and painful. No wonder since the actual piercing was generally conducted under conditions of maximum inebriation and minimum sanitation.

But like the tattoos I’m seeing, the piercings of today are really just a little over the top. I can’t help but think that in some cases these people just really didn’t think these things through. Take for instance, the ear piercings they call “gauges”. You must have seen these—the people start with basically a toothpick size tube they pierce through the ear, and then over time insert tubes or discs with progressively larger diameters. Eventually they are sporting what look like black checkers in each ear. Or sometimes you see them with metal “flesh tubes”, which allow you to see all the way through the earlobe which is nice since earlobes have for too long obscured our collective landscape. I do not think I have seen these gauges on anyone over the age of 30. And where did they get the inspiration for this? National Geographic? I’m trying to picture the aftermath of years of ear gauge wear and tear. I’m guessing the ear lobes lose their elasticity over time and perhaps get a little droopy. So will there be a generation of geriatrics with low hangin’ lobes with big, flappin’ holes? Will they have to have them surgically repaired? Use them as eyeglass holders? I mean, really—where are they going with this?

And that goes doubly for tattoos. A tramp stamp on a 20-yr old will just look really sad and repulsive peeking out above her Depends waistband when she’s 80. And I’d like to see the lifetime earnings report on the guy who inked a bunch of serpent tentacles all over his face. Where is this guy working and what must his mother be thinking? Since the needle argument seems to be losing potency with my older kids, my scare tactics about tattoos and piercings have shifted to this think-about-when-you’re-80 argument. As I was shopping with my teenage daughters one day, we saw someone both heavily tattooed and pierced. Not wanting to lose the opportunity for a “teaching moment” I asked each of them to imagine that person 50 years from now, covered in wrinkly, faded ink and droopy, dangly skin holes. My 15-yr old said, “I think he would look cute!” Obviously, I have to think up some better scare tactics.

I guess I should be a little more open-minded, a little more tolerant. There are so many ways that people find to express themselves out there in the great, wide world. And who am I to judge? If you want to dye your hair purple and green and wear it in a mohawk shaped like a dog biscuit, knock yourself out! If you feel you look bitchin’ wearing Goth makeup and red zombie-eye contacts a la Marilyn Manson, you go girl! Shave off your eyebrows, wear your pants so low your can put your knees in your pockets, sport an eye patch and a monocle—you ‘da man!!! But when you have come to your senses and decide to assimilate with the regular folk, no one need be the wiser. (Save whatever ill-advised pictorial evidence you may have left out there on Facebook.) Not so for the tattooed and pierced set. Your course is set—no turning back. Just please…steer clear of my daughters.

Gratitude

Boy, have my dreams taken a haircut. One minute, it’s like I’m looking at my long, silky, perfectly highlighted golden tresses in the mirror and the next time I check myself out I look like I’m 6 months into chemotherapy. What happened? Reality happened, that’s what. First my husband got laid off last fall. Then my job went up in smoke. And here’s the funny part—both of us are in the same profession, performing the least necessary function in corporate America today—recruiting! It’s so funny, I’m crying all the way to the unemployment office! So now we’re both at home, networking, sending out resumes, allowing ourselves moments of hope through the hours of worry and waiting.

We’re not used to this. We’ve always been beneficiaries of the “American Dream”. Working, raising kids, saving, spending—viewing our efforts as a collective, upwardly mobile climb to the finish line. Nothing crazy, mind you. We’re not the kind who were careening through life at top speed in a souped-up Hummer, weaving in and out of cars on the Autobahn. No, we’re the kind of people who drove the speed limit, stayed in our lane on the freeway, strapped in securely in our safe and steady Volvo. It’s a good thing too—we’re now the beneficiaries of our sensible habits and “rainy day” principles. But we never planned for Armageddon, which is how this economic collapse is starting to feel.

Like a lot of Americans, we’ve made adjustments. Here are some of the things we are NOT doing:

1. Saving. Not for college or retirement. Nada.
2. Spending. Unless I can eat it or put it in my gas tank, it’s extraneous.
3. Heating my home. Well, this may be a slight exaggeration, but in a 100-yr old home with 3 stories and high ceilings, something’s got to give. Let’s just say there are definitely zones in my home that would require 2 or 3 Snuggies for comfort.
4. Taking vacations. And my kids do not consider visiting grandparents a vacation.
5. Allowing ourselves to think too far ahead—it’s scary.

Here are some of the things we ARE doing:

1. Waiting for unemployment checks like we just hit the lottery
2. Considering putting our house on the market. It’s a good thing we bought it during the height of the market 3 years ago.
3. Carefully educating our children that we are facing some new economic realties ranging from a suspension of their allowance to the possibility they will have to take out loans for college.
4. Dining in, watching Netflix movies
5. Thinking creatively—a career at Barnes and Noble is not beyond imagining

When you’re living through something like this, you feel alone. It’s embarrassing, humbling, frightening—little comfort that you’re in the same boat with 7.25% of the American workforce. And it’s very easy to get taken down by a spiral of panic when you let your mind wander into the devil’s workshop.

I’ve found a couple of ways to cope. First, I’m writing about anything and everything that comes to mind. (Not that you’ll actually see all of this writing, especially not the stuff written after a couple of glasses of wine. I’ve learned not to drink and write.) It’s like a diary, but for some strange reason, I feel the need to make it public. For those of you who have a little more dignity and understand the need for privacy, I encourage this practice. Years from now when we’ve all returned to some semblance of prosperity, looking back on our struggles will make the present feel all the sweeter.

Second, I’m training myself to be grateful. This may sound counterintuitive when I’m so worried about what I don’t have, but a couple of tangible signs have appeared on my path over the last couple of weeks and I’m taking heed. The most important sign was the death of a good friend, Fernanda Smith of Mendham, NJ, who died on January 26th at age 47 of breast cancer. She had just celebrated her 5-year remission date in January of 2006 when she found that the cancer had returned. For the last 3 years, she has battled what she must have known was a losing fight. At her funeral, there were so many people—I’m sure I don’t even know that many people, much less have them come to eulogize me. And she leaves behind 2 children and a devoted husband who I’m sure would gladly give up jobs, homes, cars and vacations to have Fernanda back.

The same weekend of the funeral, I was visiting my sister and she gave me another tangible sign. A friend of hers had given her a couple of bracelets, like the Lance Armstrong “Livestrong” ones. She handed me one—it says “Thank you God. I am Grateful.” I’ve been wearing it ever since. The point of wearing it is to train yourself to think more often to appreciate what you DO have. And it works. Several times a day I read the words and really think them through. I have a house, a beautiful family, we eat 3 meals a day, my children are healthy and happy, my husband and I love each other and we do have faith in God. I think of the many people who have lost their homes. Of the people who don’t have health insurance. And I think of my friend Fernanda.

They say hope springs eternal. Unfortunately, like dandelions and crabgrass, so do fear and anger. But I’m not wasting my efforts on weedkiller to banish those demons. I’m relying on a higher power to remind me every day, in ways both big and small, to remember that I can still feel the grass between my toes and the sun on my face and for that, and so many other "simple" things, I am grateful.

Beyond the Snuggie

At the risk of extending the notoriety being given the Snuggie at the moment, I must make some observations. (For those of you who are not acquainted with the Snuggie, please just go turn on daytime TV and the beyond-cheesy commercial will bombard you up and down the dial.) First of all, who is the lucky rube who stumbled accidentally into this fashion juggernaut? I’m sure he’s sitting at a desk somewhere, counting his millions, alternately laughing and checking to make sure the checks are actually addressed to him. And secondly, where did this dude find inspiration for what must be the most unnecessary garment since gaucho pants? Perhaps an unusually plush hospital gown? A fortuitous dark-of-night blind struggle with a robe? Hard to say, yet the whole thing still brings to mind the phrase, “Why the hell didn’t I think of that?” Having spent some time in the fashion biz, I know the costs associated with sampling and production of new products. Putting together this line, must have cost the guy upwards of $10!

Of course, the Snuggie has, in spite of itself, passed the threshold from “useful gadget” to “must have cuz it’s such a goof” item. And hey, I’m sure the folks selling it could care less about peoples’ motivations for purchase. Other kitsch infomercial items have experienced similar success—Pet Rocks, Chia Pets, Ginsu Knives. I’m actually thinking about purchasing the Sham-Wow! Every so often, out of the orbit of unnecessary crap that makes up the world of infomercials, come a few supernovas. This Snuggie is one of those—it definitely has legs. (Well, actually it has arms, the one feature that keeps it a rung up on the evolutionary chain from the common blanket. And Lord knows, haven’t we all been waiting for the blanket to make something new of itself.)

Truly, I’m just jealous. The creative side of me has long wanted to produce a product that was revolutionary in its simplicity, something that people didn’t realize they needed until it appeared on the scene. Remember Ron Popeil? He’s my idol. Here’s the guy that really paved the way for the Snuggie. He’s got to be considered the true pioneer of this kind of gadget marketing. I can remember watching Ron on TV as a kid, hawking the Veg-o-Matic and the Pocket Fisherman. It was all I could do not to throw my babysitting money into an envelope and happily mail it off in anticipation of receiving some items I didn’t need and probably would never use. And who could forget the most ludicrous infomercial product of all—the “Hair in a Can” spray? I can’t say I was hankering for this product, but I did love watching the commercials, like peering through one’s fingers at a horror movie. Men would actually spray this stuff onto their bald spots and, from my vantage point on the couch, it seemed to provide some coverage. It even looked like it added some texture. And this is where it crosses over from kitsch to creepy for me—were there actual hair chunks that sprayed out of that can? If so, whose hair? And from where? YEESH!

Mystery hair chunks aside, as I mentioned, I’ve had a couple of creative ideas through the years. Nothing to give Ron Popeil or Mr. Snuggie a run for their money, but I keep trying to wrap my noodle around the next trend. For example, a few years ago when my kids were younger and were unable to tell time, I had a brainchild for a simple, disposable timer with a brain the size of a watch battery that would be pre-programmed in adjustable, 15-minute increments. Whenever you needed the kid home, the timer would beep to remind them to get the show on the road. It could come in a couple of different forms—something like a bandaid that was really disposable, or a wristlet that could be used again. The device would be called “Timezup!” and it would help mothers to give time parameters to their young children who might be out in the yard or down the street at a friend’s house. I even had images of this device having military applications. Like when soldiers are on the down low reconnoitering in some dangerous area and need to make sure they meet up at a specified time and place. All they would need to do would be to synchronize their Timezup! bandaids or wristlets for the same 15 minute interval and they would have complete accuracy for their rendezvous planning. But Marcy, you ask, wouldn’t all that simultaneous beeping of the Timezup! devices give the enemy a bead on our soldiers’ positions? Couldn’t they just wear watches and remember to look down at their wrists? And I say to you…details, my friends. Mere formalities to be worked out with the DOD.

I’ve had other ideas, too. There’s one involving the home interiors market that may hold more promise, but I just don’t know where to begin. My husband and I love interior decorating and have always noticed that most people don’t know what the heck to do with their mantles. In our experience, it really doesn’t take much to artfully arrange a mantle, but most people really do either over- or under-do it. And though that may apply to their entire home decorating scheme, I’m just trying to bite off a little bit that I can manage in one sales pitch. So, we came up with an idea for “Mantle in a Box” with a few key items that will give any mantle that showhouse panache!!! Conjuring up the various mantle concepts is easy—country, modern, traditional—but then comes the logistics phase—finding the product, ordering in bulk, packaging—and that’s where we get lost.

So as much as we may be rolling our eyes over this Snuggie craze, those people really solved for the right equation—moronic plus simplistic equals cha-ching!!! If I’m going to be successful at this, I need to think low-tech. If I could just order a bunch of polyster plush blanket material, cut it into strips that would fit a mantle and offer it in leopard, zebra and mauve, I’d probably have a hit. And I'm not giving up on my military applications pitch--I could do a copycat Snuggie for the military in camo, either desert brown or jungle green. Selling to the government is where you really cash in. They'd probably pay twice the price and I'd throw in some Timezup! prototypes! All I can say is, this craze has my juices flowing. Now if I could just find a way to glue my construction hardhat to this I-beam...

When I Grow Up...

I am a woman in my 40’s. And with those words I seal my fate as an entry-level wannabe in the world of broadcast journalism. Sadly, I came to this realization too late in the telegenic/chronologic time horizon that haunts the woman broadcaster. My lightbulb moment came when I entered a contest to be “Anchor for the Day” on the Today Show in February 2007. I put together a 2 minute video, sent it off, and wouldn’t you know, I beat out thousands of others to become one of the finalists. I’m good at that kind of humorous vignette production—I know how to be snappy, funny and strike the right balance between cheeseball and someone-you-could-potentially-take-seriously-reading-from-a-teleprompter. But to cut to the chase, I didn’t win. I was outvoted by a lovely school teacher from Houston who had her entire school district, her husband’s entire school district, her mega-church and all their extended networks across the state of Texas voting for her. Sadly, I can’t claim to be that popular.

But I can claim to be delusional. I still, at age 46, have this inner voice telling me that I’m gonna “make it big”, though the details on how that will happen are a little hazy. By day, I have recently gone back to work after some years of basically staying at home with my kids. I started my career as a corporate recruiter which I did for many years before taking a break. Right after my Today Show defeat a couple of years ago, I started recruiting again. I do enjoy it and it certainly pays well. But I can’t say it’s my passion. During my corporate recruiting “hiatus at home”, I spent about 3 years in the fashion business. My sister had started a small women’s shirting business that blossomed into a full collection, complete with sales reps, an investor and she and I running the show. That was great fun—I am passionate about fashion and beautiful fabrics—and I loved working with my sister, but the business itself demands not only every last moment of your day, but every inch of your soul as well. That movie “The Devil Wears Prada” is really not far off the mark. So eventually, we closed the business and went back to our normal lives. And still, that little nibbling, nattering voice telling me to keep moving, keep putting myself out there. I guess I thought the Today Show gig was the antidote to the naggin’ in my noggin, but since it doesn’t like I’ll be hanging out over the Starbuck’s decanter with Matt, Meredith, Ann and Al, I had to keep moving. I just wish I’d embarked on that broadcasting career when I wasn’t so chronologically challenged.

One thing I’ve always enjoyed and done pretty well is writing. It’s a thread that runs through all of my personal and professional life—writing up candidate profiles, composing copy for brochures and websites, creating entertaining emails, always trying to make the mundane seem less vanilla, more thrilla’. And my friends have always encouraged me to do something about it, but I was always too busy to sit down and find a starting point. Last spring, I had a dream that led me to that starting point for a book. The next morning, I sat down, wrote out the first page in one ten minute rip, and then put it away. For a couple of months. I had my beginning, the rest would come later. And an interesting thing happened. That voice in my head went into remission, into sort of a low-grade hum. Not gone, but hovering, as if after months of telling me, “Cold, colder--FREEZING!” as I went in other directions, it was now telling me, “Warm, warmer, getting hot…”

By this past fall, I had started adding tentatively to my book, and then a major life event fell on me out of the sky—my husband was laid off. To this day he is still unemployed. I don’t know if it was fear or the need to emote or the hope I could make some cash from this someday, but that event took my writing to a new level, from spigot to firehose. And not just my efforts on my book. Suddenly my mind was making stories out of everything—an interesting trip I had to the grocery store, people with tattoos and piercings, my dog, the etiquette of neighborhoods, my family’s annoying habits—but would anybody care about my musings on all these random topics? Really, the only way to tell now is to put the stuff out there in cyberspace and let it float downstream with the rest of the flotsam and jetsam and see if anyone snags me on their hook. All I know is that I’m doing something I love, keeping my mind from straying to darker corners and hoping that, at long last, I have finally found my groove. And that freakin’ little voice in my head has stopped its yammering. It seems to be singing my tune, and I’m doing my best to warble along.

Super Dilemma

When it comes to sports, I am a pretty big fan. That is as measured by the traditional idea that women could take or leave a fall Sunday afternoon spent in front of the flat screen. In fact, in my house, we are pretty catty-wompus when it comes to traditional roles; my husband would much rather be watching HGTV or an old movie than any baseball/football/basketball contest. I swear during the days when we’d go to my kids’ soccer or basketball games, you could catch the dude snoozing or reading People magazine. And since I have all daughters, they are generally not sitting next to me on the couch while I’m screaming my lungs out and jumping up and down. But I’m hopeful—I wasn’t always this way either. There is still time to mold them into epithet-screaming, fist-pumping, nacho-eating enthusiasts.

My favorite sports are football—professional—and hoops—college. Naturally, since I went to Duke, I am completely indoctrinated in the ways of March Madness and luckily, Duke usually is a contender. But unless I’m with my Duke friends, it’s a little lonely rooting for the Blue Devils. Does anyone who isn’t an alum really want to see them win? They’re the Yankees of college basketball—I’d say 98% of the country probably delights when Duke is knocked out of the NCAA tournament. Last year I think we were eliminated in the first round—horrifying!! But in some ways, that’s better. It’s much more painful to make it all the way and then lose that National Championship game. My husband can attest to the mood-altering impact of those occasions—didn’t Coach K hear me screaming to stay with man-to-man instead of zone??? And, I’m afraid, I have broadened my children’s vocabulary in very unintentional ways during these moments of extreme stress.

Which brings me to the main topic of discussion for today: the Super Bowl. As I mentioned above, the NFL is my other main sports obsession and I have been an ardent fan of several teams throughout the years. When I graduated from college, I lived in Dallas—my years of following “America’s Team” were richly rewarded with at least one or two Super Bowls. Then I moved to St. Louis and was living there when we got the Rams franchise. I’m ashamed to admit I basically tossed the Cowboys aside like a used Kleenex when the Rams started to click on all cylinders. And who couldn’t love the rags-to-riches story of Kurt Warner and the domination of the “Greatest Show on Turf”? Again, Super Bowl glory!! (I’m beginning to think I’m a good luck charm, so great are my fan delusions…) Then five years ago we moved back to my home state, New Jersey, where fans don’t know who to commit to—Jets? Giants? Yankees? Mets? As dense a sports lineup as you’ll find anywhere else. But I live in THE OTHER Jersey, South Jersey, not to be confused with North Jersey. So that makes me a Philadelphia Eagles fan, part of a group that encourages the kind of behavior normally only seen in maximum security prison riots. And though the Eagles were just a whisker away from this year’s Super Bowl, I’m compensating by telling myself that at least I won’t have to suffer deep doldrums of despair had they actually played and lost the Big One.

The problem now, though, is who to pull for when I don’t really have a horse in the race? I like to be invested in one team or another—it just makes the space between the commercials all the more compelling. So this year, I’ve developed a more cerebral, scientific approach to team selection that I think will be my standard going forward. I will be lending my support to the team…(drumroll, please)…with the foxiest quarterback. And as I’m sure you will agree, there is a clear choice here—sorry Ben Roethlisberger. I mean, come on! Kurt Warner has got this choice nailed! Unless the Steelers are making a surprise substitution with Tom Brady, they are hosed in this face-off. Of course, as mentioned earlier, I do have a (imagined!) connection with Kurt thanks to my years of worshiping him in St. Louis, so I will admit there was some bias from the start. And please, Pittsburgh, enough with the over-the-top fan devotion and the annoying Terrible Towels. We know the interiors of your homes are painted black and gold and every other baby boy in Pittsburgh is named Hines. Maybe you should be paying a little more attention to how GQ cover-worthy your players are and you might just garner a little more national—and/or feminine--support!

It really would have been so fun to have an all-Pennsylvania Super Bowl. I saw Pennsylvania Governor Ed Rendell on the Today Show this morning. He was lamenting that same thing, but also assuring Tampa that the city was much better off with the Steelers/Cardinals matchup. An Eagles/Steelers contest would have visited on Tampa the equivalent of one of those high school parties that starts out with just a few friends over and turns into a Police Blotter lollapalooza. So this Steelers/Cardinals pairing diffuses that dynamic, which is a good thing for the promoters. That and the fact that 49 other states would be watching HGTV or old movies with my husband.

In a few minutes, I’ll be firing up the crockpot, melting some Velveeta, throwing in the sausage and Rotel and popping open that fresh bag of tortilla chips. Will I have a brewski? You bet your Terrible Towel I will!!! And I’ll be glued to the TV, now that I am a newly-minted Cardinals fan (for a day). But tomorrow, when the dust settles, the chips are eaten and we can all go back to the lives that do exist beyond Super Bowl-world, I hope I’ll have invested my energies in the winners. May the best—and foxiest-- team win.