The Virtual Vixen

Euphemistic Euphoria

2009-04-21T16:27:00.003-04:00

I love semantics. Webster’s defines semantics as “the meaning of a word, phrase, sentence or text”. The innocuous definition itself lays bare the conundrum—one man’s “meaning” is another man’s call to arms. The most infamous semantician in recent memory is, of course, Bill Clinton. Who can forget how he brilliantly parsed “is”, a word that had previously been shrouded in mystery and nuance?

Indeed, politicians are the master race when it comes to employing semantics. Every utterance becomes a virtual taffy-pull, subject to a variety of interpretations depending on which direction the latest Gallup poll is blowing. Does this infuriate anyone else? I know I long for a representative who will say something because he or she believes in it, sticks by it and does not cave with the first puff of ill wind.

Along these same lines, I’m also a little steamed at the way our current administration is reworking some tried and true terminology that has become part of our common parlance. In an effort to apologize to the international community for the United States and its primacy on the world stage, the Obama administration is adopting a form of international political correctness that is cowardly at best and revolting at worst. Thus, terrorists are now known as “Enemy Combatants”, the War on Terror has become “Overseas Contingency Operations” and terror attacks have been renamed “Man-caused Disasters”.

I don’t know about you, but to me these newly-minted euphemisms do not carry the corollary amount of gravitas. For instance, a contingency plan in my household might mean throwing a container of wet wipes or a box of granola bars in the car as we head out on a road trip. And a “Man-caused disaster” recalls a time my husband accidentally applied spray-bleach rather than carpet cleaner to our previously brown carpet. Or inadvertently crushed my daughter’s guinea pig.

It’s obvious we’ll continue to head down this road, soaking tough reality in a palatable and aromatic marinade. Particularly when it comes to our posture internationally, the United States, aka The World Safety Net, appears to be losing its confidence. Or at least that’s the face our leaders are presenting.

Lucky for the Obama administration, constructing unintentionally ironic euphemisms is right up my alley. I am happy to stay way ahead of this trend and help put a softer face on pesky traditional American forthrightness. And when I survey the news, I think there are plenty of in-your-face phrases that are just begging for a bow and a lollipop.

Here’s a sample:

Somalian Pirates—that just really sounds too menacing—we wouldn’t want to make them mad. Let’s start calling them…Overzealous Marine Opportunists! They’re just a couple of fishing poles away from an honest day’s toil!

Crushing Budget Deficit—OUCH! The American people sure don’t like to think about that! Let’s soften the blow…Pre-Natal Patriotic Financial Service! Kind of like Original Sin but less venal. After all, why shouldn’t the unborn be expected to pitch in?

Income tax increases—is there any phrase that causes more anger? Let’s give it a more charitable veneer: the Unborn Debt Burden Relief Fund.

Cap and Trade—don’t call this another new tax. It’s a way to help make our world a little greener by allowing some companies to continue polluting but having to pay other companies who pollute less to cover for them whilst passing along those additional energy costs to taxpayers... Sooooo….as we all lower our thermostats even further to soften the financial blow, let’s just call this the HVAC Rollback Initiative. Pretty soon it will make sense for homeowners to just pitch a tent and build a fire.

Amnesty—this concept really gets people riled up. I think the President would be wise to call this the “Taxpayer Creation Project”. I think that would allay the fears of many Americans. And, once explained to illegals, would also create a huge sucking sound along our southern border as Mexicans flee the country en masse.

Dictators—we need a descriptor that says, “ I will bow down to you, shake your crazy ass hand or even help you sell your political manifesto if it means we can be buddies!” So let’s scrap “dictator” in favor of “L’il Rebel” as in “Oh jeez, that L’il Rebel Kim Jong Il just launched another missile!”

Our new administration is not yet 100 days old. So I am sure there will be many more chances to witness our president calling a “spade” a “heart”. Or learning new descriptive phrases that go around the rear, through the legs, up and around the neck and back down to the toes before reaching the elbow in an effort not to raise one eyebrow follicle on anyone, anywhere. I’m a little skeptical that the rest of the world will see this as a sign of national self-esteem and strength, but now maybe at least Hugo Chavez and President Obama can be friends on Facebook.

The Best and Worst in Obamaland

2009-04-07T16:38:00.001-04:00

It’s been a couple of weeks since I posted my last article. I think that’s the product of a couple of different things. Number one, I was just out of juice if you don’t mind. A person does need to just fall off the treadmill once in a while. And number two, so many potential topics have been launched out there in Obamaland, I don’t know where to insert myself. I feel a little like Wile E. Coyote after his most recent tangle with the Roadrunner, birdies a-tweet in an orbit around his trauma-proof noggin. But like Mr. Coyote, it will take more than a crushing blow to the head with an anvil to keep me down.

A couple of weeks back, what started for me as a rumination on the AIG Bonus debacle got abandoned for the GM/Chrysler debacle which ran into the 2010 Budget soon-to-be-debacle. Then Tim Geithner limped out from his bunker, Michelle Obama skipped through Buckingham with the Queen and those wacky jokesters from North Korea had a little fun with a missile.

I will be the first to admit that there is just too much material here for this humble scribe to properly analyze and comed-i-fy (joke-i-fy? snark-i-fy?). So I’m going to take the lazy way out and just throw out my best pitch for the best and worst developments in the news, according to me, of course.

Worst Attempt to Feign Outrage and Surprise: Congress was shocked, absolutely SHOCKED to learn that retention bonuses would be paid to AIG executives within the same Financial Products division that many credit for igniting the financial crisis. Did they approve the bonuses last fall—YES! Even changing the wording at the urging of the Administration to make sure they would be paid out—YES! Please Chuck Schumer, give it a rest all ready. The Academy Awards are still about a year away. Coming soon: more Oscar-worthy performances as Congress gasps and wails in disbelief to learn that Social Security has run dry. Finger-pointing and indignant speechifying ensue.

Best Power Grab: Barack Obama kicking GM CEO Rick Waggoner to the curb. The poor guy could only wave a hanky as he watched the Prez zoom off in a cloud of exhaust and chutzpah. Wall Street just LOVED watching that little curbside dust-up. The market had a good cry, waxing nostalgic about the good old days when businesses were part of the private sector and “subject matter experts” called the shots. Not to worry though. I’m confident that this is an isolated incident—surely we won’t see more Big Government playing Big Brother in the private sector…right?

Biggest Waste of Time and Ink: The Republican Budget alternative. With great fanfare and press coverage, the Republican leadership on Capitol Hill came forth with their answer to the debt-soaked budget proposal from President Obama. Except the Republicans used their time in the spotlight to hand out a brochure that basically said “Stay tuned…”. By the time they brought out the real goods a week later, no one gave a rip, and more to the point—why bother? I’m sure Nancy Pelosi and Harry Reid are now using the Republican recommendations as toilet paper.

Best Show of Tenacity: You have to give some props to Tim Geithner. The day he announced his plan to help the banks climb out of their toxic stupor was a banner day for Wall Street. And Geithner needed a big win. But I still wonder whether he’s got the stamina for the long haul. I’m no body language expert, but have you ever noticed how he talks? Head angled slightly down and forward, eyes peering up under his brow toward his audience—the way a guilty child might look up at his mother after supergluing his baby brother to the refrigerator? His is not the face of certainty. I want a bold visionary with steely-eyed confidence! Someone who’s a mix of Oprah and Warren Buffet with a dash of Putin—now we’re talking!

Most Overblown Accolades: The Obamas recent overseas visit anchored by the G-20 summit was a huge success. As predicted, Michelle Obama stole the show and generated more excitement with her outfits than with anything she actually did or said. Now I ask you—was she really that spectacular? Believe me, I love her fashion sense—the way she mixes color and pattern are right up my alley. But I think the press acted like the “Koo Koo for Cocoa Puffs” bird in their coverage. I really didn’t see anything so stunning, and there were certain outfits that I thought were downright unflattering! And please, make it official all ready and plaster the J. Crew logo on Air Force One. Come to think of it, offering sponsorships like this could certainly open up a whole new revenue stream. After all, somebody’s got to pay for the G-20’s 500-person entourage and $40MM price tag.

Worst Excuse for Firing a Rocket: North Korea was clearly looking to test its ability to launch a long range ballistic weapon. But they sure cleared up that misconception when they explained they were absolutely NOT doing anything of the kind (WINK!). They were simply launching a satellite (WINK!) and the world should just keep its panties on (WINK!) I’m sure they are now scratching their heads wondering what happened to that rascally satellite since all three stages of the rocket detached and fell harmlessly to earth, minus any distinguishable satellite. Nonetheless, the stunt stole Obama’s European spotlight and you could almost hear crazy old Kim Jong Il screaming, “I DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE!” Stay tuned as they launch their next missile carrying a payload of Girl Scout cookies.

Whew! Felt good to get all that bottled-up dart-throwing off my chest. But now, even as I post this, I feel a swirl of new material coming at me like a fast ball on opening day. Time to climb out of my stupor and get back in the game. With so many balls in the air, I don’t want to miss a single play.

TV: The Opiate of the Martins

2009-03-26T13:00:00.002-04:00

I don’t know if I’m proud of this, but I have to admit that my family watches a lot of TV. And if we can’t claim family bonding rituals over the Scrabble board, we can at least take pride in the fact that we are experiencing the TV together, staring in the same direction heaped under afghans on the same couch.

When my kids were little, I might have taken the initiative to hoist my keester off the couch, play a game or grab a book and curl up on the bed with my progeny spread out around me. Now, I’ve caved in to the inertia of passive entertainment—hey, if you don’t like it, go play a computer game or zone out to your Ipod.

Now that’s parenting.

Lest you start planning an intervention on behalf of my poor children who are obviously receiving substandard cultural influences, please know that we sometimes watch shows like “Planet Earth” and…well, that’s pretty much it in the educational column. I’ll cop to the fact that we’re much more likely to be watching “Ugly Betty”, “Grey’s Anatomy”, “House” and my seasonal favorites, “American Idol” and “Dancing with the Stars”.

Now my teenagers have their own shows, most of which I think caused the V-Chip in my TV to explode—“The Secret Life of Teenagers”, “Gossip Girl”, “Real World”, etc—but they will still join us for some “wholesome” family viewing. If they are completely desperate. Or all ready asleep on the couch.

But you know, you can make what you want out of family time. Even when it involves staring at the flat screen. For instance, my youngest has created a ritual around “American Idol” nights. We like to watch together in our rec room, which has a long sectional sofa and a large TV. So on Idol night, she stretches ribbon across the entry to the room and allows access to only those who have made a “reservation”. She will check your name off a list in her folder and escort you to your assigned seat on the couch. Everyone goes through this process, even the dog. We listen carefully to the judges’ critiques—except for when Paula speaks, when I might take a quick toilet break or a catnap—and have gotten a bit of a music education. Now my daughter understands what it means when I describe her dad’s singing voice as “completely wretched” with a British accent.

“Dancing with the Stars” nights involve a lot of dancing during the commercials. Except for me—I’m the judge. And I am usually handing out raspberries rather than raves—no natural rhythm in this house! Which makes it all the more hypocritical that we have spirited discussions about some of the dancers and their very sketchy abilities. But even my daughter could see that Steve Wozniak deserved to be booted this week before the slightly less dubious Denise Richards. Steve’s partner, Karina Smirnoff, is virtually grimacing with embarrassment after each dance. And the judges are searching for paddles with negative numbers on them to score him with. Surely it won’t be long before Karina (gladly, I’m sure!) and Steve get jettisoned and she can join her fiancé, Maksim “My Chest is on Fire” Chmerkvoskiy (who was attached to the beautiful but bumbly Denise Richards).

Can you see that I am just completely a loser here?

And there are sub-rituals. I usually DVR one of my faves, “24”, since it is airs opposite the aforementioned “Dancing”. And my oldest daughter and I try to watch this together after school the next day. We expel the same sigh of frustration at the end of each episode that the show has shockingly, once again, left us with a cliffhanger! My two oldest daughters together have roped me into Food Network’s “Ace of Cakes”, which follows the real life adventures of Charm City Cakes in Baltimore and the extravagant custom-order cakes they make. That show has inspired some very interesting conversations about careers and how my kids can apply their creativity and passions to make a living. We are even going to try to visit the bakery when we are in Baltimore in April.

Then my husband and my youngest break away for their own little ritual watching “Ugly Betty”—which I sometimes watch with them—and “Ghost Whisperer”—which you would never find me watching even if a nuclear holocaust wiped out all television transmission and this one program somehow survived. I have to draw the line somewhere.

Every once in a while, I feel a pang of guilt that we have so many TV moments together. I’m trying to remember what my habits were growing up, and I do seem to recall there was a good amount of couch time. Who could forget the “Partridge Family/Brady Bunch” dynamic duo? Or “Donny and Marie”, “Sonny and Cher”, and my personal favorite, “Lost in Space”. Man, I loved that show!

Now that I think about it, my sister and I had some rituals of our own. Especially on Saturday nights. We would get in our jammies, wash up, grab some blankets and settle in on the couch to watch Saturday Night Live. We fully intended to fall asleep right there, and often woke up to the only program that aired after 1:00 a.m.—a static picture of the American flag set to the soundtrack of an air raid siren.

My husband talks nostalgically of his family’s weekly TV event watching “The Wonderful World of Disney” on Sunday nights. He and his brothers had the once-a-week thrill of eating dinner off of those foldable TV trays right there in the family room. As they enjoyed the rare treat of TV-side dining on grilled cheese and root beer floats, my mother-in-law must have enjoyed the relative peace and harmony. That poor woman could have used a good dose of Nickelodeon to get her through her days.

So there’s probably a genetic component at work on both sides. But maybe it’s also the economy, the nature of the winter months, or maybe my people are just human tubers. But we’ve managed to cobble together our own fun and family togetherness using the path of least resistance. I guess we’ll just have to wait for the next blackout to start reading “Wuthering Heights”. My kids will like that one—they watched it last month on The Movie Channel.

A Liberal Dose of Moderation

2009-03-22T21:29:00.001-04:00

If you live in the Northeast like I do, you know that by the time March rolls around, you are ready for spring. I have to admit though, I like my four seasons. (I spent a Christmas in Jamaica once and watching people walk by on the beach with umbrella drinks, speedos and Santa hats did not underscore the gravitas of the season.) I always appreciate the upcoming season mainly because I get tired of the clothes I’m wearing in the current one.

As with most people who live in the northern climate zones, when the winter weather moderates, so do my spirits. And there seems to be a lucky concurrence this year of the arrival of spring and the appearance of some voices of moderation within the Democratic Party in Washington. All of a sudden, I’m starting to feel how my grass must feel after I get out there and poop-scoop my lawn. Wow! Sunlight and air! And the possibility that I might actually stand tall and thrive!

It’s sad that I can relate to a blade of grass weighed down by dog poo, but it’s true thanks to all the talk of monstrous budgets, more taxing and spending. I know we’re in a recession and there must be some infusion of cash, but we’re kidding ourselves if we think we can spend our way out of this on every front. Since Obama’s inauguration and the onset of the massive spending bills, there has not seemed to have been any cogent opposition. The Republicans can wield the equivalent of a Swiss Army knife in the Senate, and the House Repubs might as well just pull a Rip Van Winkle and snooze this one out until at least 2010.

So I have been reading with great interest about a group of 13 moderate Dems and one Independent in the Senate who have been quietly coalescing to exert their own more centrist views. Finally! I just knew that there had to be some rational voices among the Democrats, regular-thinking “Joes” who felt that the Republicans screaming “Hit the brakes!” might be onto something. Now the House is a different story. Those poor Blue-Dog Democrats are stuck on the SS “Crazy Eye” Pelosi, and that boat is listing so far to port, they’ll have to jump overboard to make any kind of splash.

I anxiously await the fight over the budget that will be upon the Congress in a matter of days. The spending of $3.6T is no small thing. The President characterizes his budget as a way to cut the deficit, boost spending on education, invest in alternative energies and reduce our dependence on foreign oil. The opposition sees this as a massive spend/borrow/tax scenario, one that could bankrupt the United States according to Senator Judd Gregg, Obama’s onetime pick for Commerce Secretary.

I predict this bill will ultimately sail through the House as breezily as pollen in the spring air, but my hope resides with the Senate. That group of 14 moderates gives me optimism that there will be some real exposition of how overzealous spending leads to crushing debt. And if members of Obama’s own party shake off their stupor and start exposing these realities, perhaps these more moderate views will gain traction with the American people.

After a true “Winter of Discontent”, I think it’s safe to say most Americans are looking forward to a season of literal rebirth for our country. Major changes are afoot and it is my pledge to pay closer attention than ever before to the breadth and scope of what our elected officials claim is necessary to move us forward. The seeds of moderation that are being planted now are barely sprouting and are in need of care and feeding. I, for one, will be lining up with my watering can.

Reining in the Madness

2009-03-17T12:12:00.002-04:00

If you are one of those people for whom the month of March brings to mind either pre-emerging your lawn or puking up green beer, then read no further. But for the rest of you, March can only mean one thing—though it may well involve beer, green or otherwise. And lots of nachos.

I’m speaking of course of March Madness, the most extreme incarnation of basketball fervor, the likes of which surely could never have been imagined by James Naismith, the founder of modern-day basketball. When Dr. Naismith nailed a peach basket to the wall of a gym at Springfield College in Massachusetts circa 1891, he was just looking for a way to encourage indoor physical activity during the long New England winters. More than 100 years later, we still look for ways to keep ourselves active during the winter months. Though it more likely involves lying prone on a couch watching others play basketball on TV. And the physically active part entails a repetitive motion of hand to mouth, with the occasional fist pump or leap of excitement (e.g. three pointer at buzzer or completely blind ref). Believe me, I have been known to have heart palpitations and struggle for breath while watching games, so I know I’m getting some sort of workout!

It’s hard to imagine a day when spectators calmly enjoyed the simple pleasure of men tossing a ball into a basket that hours before had held actual produce. Today the NCAA tournament is big business—sponsors, media, bookies, crazed fans—a moveable feast spread out across the country for three weeks. It’s impossible to think of any other single US sporting event that elicits so much excitement and attention over such a prolonged period as does the Big Dance. By the time it’s over, I actually feel a little blue. In fact, this is probably the best way for men to experience something akin to post-partum depression in women. We build up the main event for so long, once the new champion is born, we realize the hoopla is over and we may have a baby we weren’t expecting…like one that isn’t wearing navy and white with a big, ugly Blue Devil head.

Have I mentioned that I went to Duke? Yes, I’m SURE I have (ad nauseum), so I don’t need to tell you where my sympathies lie. And because I went to Duke, I am prepared to be hated and reviled during the NCAA tournament. I think it’s safe to say that Duke might be the most despised team in college basketball. (NY Yankees—we feel your pain!) I’m sure the evil plotters down the road at Chapel Hill are responsible. But we can’t help the fact that just about anybody can go to Carolina and Duke actually has standards. People think of that as elitist. That and the fact that that half of Duke’s student body is from New Jersey which is never something a southern school wants to advertise.

But I digress…the tournament is way beyond the marquis programs. It’s as much about the dreams of the “who’d a thunk?” teams—can Robert Morris get by Michigan State? Does Stephen F. Austin have a prayer against Syracuse? Anything can—and does occasionally—happen in a one-and-done bracket. After all, 2008 was the first time since the tournament started seeding teams in 1979 that all four #1 seeds competed in the Final Four. Remember also that in 2008, #10 seeded Davidson made it to the Elite Eight and #11 seed George Mason to the Final Four in 2006.

So even though you may think you’re hosed little #16 seed Radford, having drawn the short stick for Thursday’s match up with #1 Carolina, take heart. Ty Lawson might not play and maybe Tyler Hansbrough slips on a well-placed banana peel. A victory could be just one undercooked burrito or late season flu attack away.

As excited as I am about the upcoming spectacle, I had a philosophical epiphany about our collective sports-watching psyche recently. In the lead-up to the tournament, I was watching one of the Duke’s home games and observing the infamous “Cameron Crazies”—legendary student fans so queasily over-the-top, yet so creative and zealous, you have to give them props. (I can remember sitting in the stands of Cameron Indoor Stadium myself yelling, “I beg to differ!” in unison with the crowd at a questionable call by a referee. I mean anybody can drop the f-bomb—it takes true inspiration to take it to the next level!)

As I watched the rabid fans, I realized how easy it is to lose perspective on the barest essential of the game—that these are just young guys playing a game of basketball. Teenagers still, some of them. The players aren’t robots—they’re just kids. Albeit very talented, athletic and well coached ones. But think of them as human beings for a second—can you imagine being under the same pressure they are under and still performing at the highest levels?

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m as guilty as the most fanatical student fans—I scream at the TV, rant at players in frustration and take it personally if they don’t hit that crucial shot at the buzzer. But this year, I’m going to make the effort to remember that these are actually boys in the greatest pressure cooker of collegiate sports and I’m going to cut them some slack. (I can hear their collective sighs of relief right now.) I’ll try to think of them through the eyes of their parents who undoubtedly made sacrifices along the way to encourage and shape their natural talents. As a parent, I can’t even imagine having a child with this kind of ability—how proud they must be! Now if the NCAA ever decides to have Texting Play-offs or How-Long-I-Can-Go-Without-Checking-My-Facebook-Page Endurance Matches, I’m nurturing a brood of champions!

So whomever you are pulling for this year, as the game is about to start and the players are warming up, take a minute to think back on the humble beginnings of basketball and the human face of the young players who are the engine of today’s vast tournament machine. But by all means, pile on the nachos, ice down the beer and hand me the remote!

Fight Blue Devils, Fight!!

Obama's Confidence Game

2009-03-11T14:52:00.004-04:00

Our economy is saved! The market is up 300 points! Let the milk and honey flow and private jets once again course the heavens!

Oh, wait a minute. I lost my head there for a moment. We're still in the neighborhood of 6800 for the Dow which means now my investments are down only 40% rather than 42% from last week. A little premature to be popping open the bubbly. Tomorrow the whole fragile victory could disintegrate like spun sugar.

Such is the new reality. One foot in front of another, small victories celebrated cautiously. Followed by the inevitability of some bank toppling or a genius pundit tossing out the "D" word. Can't we just wallow in the recession for a while? Is it necessary to force us into a deeper ditch?

But I'm not ready to give up. Are you with me people? What do we need? Give me a C! Give me an O! Give me a...oh just spell it out all ready--CONFIDENCE! And who's our head cheerleader? BARACK OBAMA HE'S OUR MAN! IF HE CAN'T DO IT...then we're screwed.

Because really, who else is there? The American people are like the frightened townsfolk in “High Noon”. They’re huddled behind saloon doors and post office counters waiting for Gary Cooper to stride out and mow down the bad guys. They’re not looking for Elmer Fudd or Don Knotts. And they don’t want to see Gary Cooper pulling a bag of marbles out of his holster. They want the sheriff to haul out the AK-47 and git ‘er done!

Right now, I think the American people have more confidence in the aim of Simon Cowell than of anyone in Washington.

But why is that? Because apparently at the moment, there is no one attached to the White House that can call the plays and make the pitch like Obama. I mean it’s not even close! And they have tried to run others up the flagpole (think Tim Geithner doing his best deer-in-the-headlights impression during that Congressional hearing) with pretty horrendous results. For better or worse, for the moment, Obama has to play all the positions on the field. But he’s about to throw himself out if he doesn’t watch it.

Yes, his approval numbers are still high. But they should be because of the promises he made last fall. Obama campaigned as a blast of "The Master Cleanser" for the sludge-caked bowels of Washington. The public was tired of back-room deals, broken promises, presidential obfuscation. We needed someone to ride in on the white horse and throw the bums out, promising "Change We Can Believe In!"

Other than what I consider to be negative change—i.e. the trending toward socialism--I’m not sure I see a lot of positive changes, or even the momentum for change. And the things I remember Obama campaigning on that would inspire my confidence in his words--transparency, bipartisanship, an end to government waste and “business as usual”—don’t seem to be panning out either.

Take transparency. I swear I remember our President promising not to hire lobbyists to work in his administration. Yet, there are waivers to his anti-lobbyist requirements being granted behind the scenes for just that purpose. And bipartisanship seems deader than Chris Brown’s endorsement prospects. It was clear from the budget and stimulus bill process that Republicans got the Heisman stiff-arm pretty much the whole way. Let’s face it—a White House tea and cookies reception or Super Bowl party invite do not constitute “Mission Accomplished” for productive bipartisan collaboration.

Here’s the one that really gets me steamed—President Obama’s vigorous and persuasive admonitions that there would be an end to pork barrel spending and government waste. And yet, the 2009 Omnibus Spending Bill sailed through Congress, dragging along 8500 earmarks totaling over $7B in spending on behalf of both parties! It is now sitting on his desk, waiting for signature.

I don’t care what excuses Capitol Hill throws out there to deflect attention away from the President on this one. Do you mean to tell me that Obama could not take a stand and send that bill back for some trimming? At least make a show of living up to his campaign promises? Of course he could! So why won’t he? Politics as usual, knowing that one hand washes the other. I do this for you this time, and you owe me a solid next time.

So my confidence in his abilities to be any different than any other politician is sinking fast. And on top of that, I’m worried about his ability to focus on and prioritize his “To Do” list. Is there any doubt about what needs to happen right now? Put the basketball down and listen to me please. Banks and financial markets need to be stabilized, not through wholesale takeovers, but through temporary government intervention that allows for relief from toxic assets so money can flow again. Because if I can get a loan to buy a house, then I go shopping for furniture to put in it. And that furniture purchase will allow the furniture retailer to keep the doors open. And that will funnel new orders to the furniture manufacturer who can keep his workers employed who will then go out and buy new TVs and DVD players so they can watch old movies like “High Noon” in “High Def”.

But Obama is spreading himself too thin. Like the Health Care Summit—was that necessary at this moment? Other than a lipstick-covered rear end, did Obama reveal any quantifiable result from this? And his pronouncements on Education and Stem Cell funding—all worthy causes, but our kids are still going to school, research is soldiering on and even health care is still available. Each needs attention, but they are not in danger of becoming extinct. Like my 401k.

I know how it is to want to be all things to all people. I have those instincts myself. But if you take on too much and don’t live up to your commitments, people lose faith. And faith (or the lack of it) seems to be trumping facts in the markets these days.

I was watching comedian Jimmy Fallon this morning on TV talking about trying to build an audience and confidence in his abilities as he starts his new late night talk show. He was giving himself 3 months to “figure out” his style, what worked and what did not. I think that’s fair. And I think he’ll succeed. He’s got good people around him, a great house band and a well-established format to work with. No matter what, though, the host has to be able to carry the show.

Like Jimmy Fallon, Obama’s got the established format to step into, but I’m not so sure about the people around him. And I don’t think he can afford the luxury of 3 months to figure out his style. Now if the President would just hire a (White) house band, I would be very confident in his hipness, but he’s still got to be able to live up to his hype and carry the show.

RIP to my Hard Drive (and My Optimism)

2009-03-08T14:14:00.004-04:00

I’m one of those eternally optimistic people who never think the “worst case scenario” will happen to me. I never buy extended warranties on electronics, sign on for the extra insurance they try to sell you when you rent a car or get suckered into buying travel insurance when I’m planning a vacation. That’s all for losers, gloom-and-doomers who think every step they take is just another excuse to step in dog poop. So after the stock market crash wiped out my retirement/college savings and my husband and I both lost our jobs, I guess I should have adjusted my own view, become more cautious and stopped brazenly spitting into the wind.

Right now, I feel like I’m covered in loogies.

On top of everything else that has happened to us lately, here’s the latest: my hard drive crashed. Completely fried and deceased. I now realize I completely ignored the warning signs. My trusty computer was a Mac, after all. Aren’t they practically indestructible? Their clean, sleek forms lull you into a false sense of technological invincibility. I have to admit, my PC never makes me feel that way. It’s kind of like comparing Gwen Stefani and Heather Locklear. One seems smooth, hip and totally in control, out in front of the next trend. The other has held up well through the years and managed to stay relatively current, but really could self-destruct at any moment.

But I digress. Did I mention there were warning signs? Even as the trusty PC lumbered along like the steady tortoise, the Mac was the speedy hare and definitely the favorite thanks to its cool features. But a couple of months ago, we all noticed that the Mac seemed to be getting a little overloaded, asking us to delete files before more could be added.

Did I also mention that the two main users of the Mac are my teenage daughters? For those of you who don’t enjoy the privilege of housing teenagers in your home, here’s a simple equation: teenagers + Mac = Itunes. And Facebook. But Facebook doesn’t fry your hard drive. Massive Itunes libraries do. At least that was a major contributor. But I found out later that my hard drive was relatively puny by current standards—only 160 GB—and really was not able to withstand the amount of data and downloads that were being heaped on.

My bad. I forgot that a two-year old computer is really just one snotty-blow from being a used Kleenex these days.

Anyhoo, after the first signs that the computer was about to blow, came a real hard slap of reality. One night about a month ago, my daughter was on the Mac trying to get on the internet and the screen just froze. She eventually turned the computer off and when it came back on again, there was a grey screen and folder with a question mark in the center, blinking…and blinking. No amount of mouse clicking or rebooting could erase that malevolent, pulsing, question-marked folder of doom.

I ran to the Apple store the next morning. The Genius at the store sucked in her breath when I described the symptoms. It was clear this was terminal—the hard drive was gravely wounded and would not recover. However—I told you bad things didn’t happen to me!—the hard drive still had a pulse and the data could be saved. She recommended a larger hard drive be put in and nodded in a knowing way like Yoda when I mentioned that I had children in high school.

The Mac was scheduled for immediate surgery. The augmentation of my hard drive would take it from a boyishly-bosomed Kelly Ripa to a bodaciously-buxom Anna Nicole Smith overnight. (That’s from 160GB to 500GB for those of you who actually care.) Eureka! My luck was NOT turning for the worse! Could employment and a robust retirement portfolio be far behind?

We got the computer back and WOW! Faster, better, stronger—invincible once again! They even gave me the old, burned out hard drive as a souvenir and mentioned that backing up data once in a while might be a good idea. Whatever! Now all the data that had been overwhelming the old hard drive was just bouncing around in all that 500GB of space!

That was three weeks ago. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Last Thursday night, the same thing happened. My daughter attempted to access the internet, the Mac froze, then the blinking folder of doom again. HOW COULD THIS BE? I rushed the computer in again on Friday morning and they called me with the diagnosis that afternoon. Actually, before they gave me the bad news, they asked if I had kept the old, almost dead hard drive “souvenir” from when the hard drive was first replaced. Uh-oh. My mind flashed back to the day, about a week after we got the “new and improved” Mac back from repair, where I looked at that old, dead hunk of metal that had started this mess, and unceremoniously dropped it into the garbage. What use other than as a doorstop could it possibly be to me now! (Remember—I don’t ever think “worse case scenario”).

When I confessed to the technician that that old sucker was landfill bound, there was a moment of silence. When he told me that this time, there was no hope of reclaiming any of my data, that the new hard drive had some fatal flaw and would have to be replaced, I was stunned. I was actually at the grocery store at the time and had mindlessly wandered away from my cart as I took in this news. I found myself leaning against a freestanding display of precooked bacon and only snapped out of it when the whole display came tumbling down. I hung up with the repair guy, picked up the bacon, checked out and shuffled dejectedly to my car.

On the way home, I mused over the losses: the Itunes, the homework, the unfinished columns and worst of all…the photograph library. This computer only has two years of files on it and we did make prints of all the pictures, but still, that is a very painful loss.

We get the new, replaced hard drive installed on Monday, and should be back in business. But my sunny outlook on life has finally taken a hit. If losing jobs and crashing portfolios weren’t enough to do it, this event was the final straw. I’m buying an external drive and will actually “back up” my important data.

I really hate to give up my optimistic nature, but all of a sudden the thought of booking a rental at the Outer Banks in August is conjuring up the word “hurricane” in my brain. Did I say I never bought travel insurance? Time to start thinking like a “blinking folder of doom”. At best, a cautionary tale and at worst, an unfortunate reality of the times.

Obama's Flying Leap Into the Unknown

2009-03-04T16:37:00.003-05:00

Whatever deodorant President Obama is using, I want to use it too. Because if there is one person on this earth that must be getting a little moist in the pits, it’s him. I can’t help but wonder if he could have foreseen the enormity of the job at hand when he launched his presidential campaign two years ago. I mean, I’m wondering if ANYBODY would have jumped into the ring if he/she could have had a preview of what was to come.

When I take stock of Obama’s journey over the last six to nine months, I am reminded of one of those cartoons where the character does a gorgeous flip off the high dive, sailing acrobatically through the air, only to realize he’s overshot the pool. And when he peels himself up from the pool deck, dazed and confused from the seemingly fatal fall with stars and birdies circling the bump on his noggin, he looks dazed and wobbly, but at least he’s alive.

Kinda like President Obama.

Well, maybe I’m exaggerating a little bit here. He doesn’t seem dazed and I don’t see stars and birdies over his head--yet. But Obama seems to be wobbling, ever leftward, even as he campaigned with a centrist zeal.

And his approval numbers are staggering slightly southward too. The President’s poll numbers posted by NBC News/Wall St Journal on 3/3 show a fall from a 79% approval rating right before the inauguration to 60% this week since he unveiled his most recent 2010 budget proposal. Even more telling, only 54% of people believe he has the right goals and policies for the country. This suggests that though people think highly of the President personally, they are becoming more skeptical about what he’s doing.

Now, I will certainly concede that these numbers are still pretty impressive. And even Santa Claus probably has a drop in approval ratings after Christmas Day. But I’m just saying, there are definitely some people out there who are nervous about what’s coming down the chimney.

I know, I know. “Change We Can Believe In”, “Yes We Can”, blah, blah, blah. But people—and the collective markets made up of those people—don’t like change for change’s sake. Obama this week was almost dismissive about what he called “the current market gyrations”. Since those “gyrations” equate to the headlong crashing and burning of people’s retirement and college savings, I don’t think he should be so offhanded.

And what about Obama’s must-have Treasury Secretary, Tim Geithner, the expert who should be out front inspiring confidence and revealing the new playbook? Geithner seems to playing a game of “Whac-A-Mole”—where is this guy? Say what you want about Henry Paulson, but at least he was out there, explaining himself. Obama seems to be rushing in to fill this void with his smooth delivery and incredible charisma. But eventually, the markets want to see some expertise, stability, an endgame and a structure with rules and principles. They don’t want to see our leaders throwing darts and wobbling out of the bar.

Feeding into this has got be some worry that Obama’s 2010 budget is just too expansive, not to mention expensive. Trying to completely reverse course is one thing, but do you have do it all in the next 15 minutes? We know we have to cough it up for all the regular infrastructure items, but right now do we have to take on expanded welfare, cap and trade, universal healthcare and more on top of everything else? Maybe I’m watching too many hospital dramas, but it looks like to me that the patient—the economy—is in danger of bleeding out. Let’s triage, hang a couple of bags of O Neg and get the patient stabilized before we schedule further surgery.

While Obama is sweating it out, I know a couple of people who are happier than the cast of “Slumdog”—John McCain, for one. He’s like the lucky slob who arrived to board the Titanic as it was pulling away from the dock. Don’t you know when he gets home at night, throws on his slippers and smoking jacket and turns on the news, he clicks his heels together murmuring "There's no place like the Senate...there's no place like the Senate..."?

And the other blissful guy? George W. Bush. He’s the happiest private citizen in the world. He’s just a regular schlub now, popping up at hardware stores and diners, surprising the folks around town in Dallas after leaving behind a flaming bag of poo on the White House steps.

I’m sure no one envies the job Obama has been handed. I certainly make no claims to being more capable or having all the answers. But if he asked for my advice, I’d say he needs to take it a little easier, stop rushing along at breakneck speed. Take another crack at diving into that pool. But this time, use the low board, not the platform. And just give us a clean, swan dive without all the crazy acrobatics. By lowering the degree of difficulty, he might actually hit the water, not the pavement.

Have Your People Text My People

2009-03-01T12:46:00.002-05:00

I came upon a scene in my house the other day that gave me pause. My 5th grade daughter had two friends over after school. At some point as I walked by the living room, I saw the three girls sitting there facing each other, but they were not talking. They were looking down at their cell phones, thumbs busily hunting and pecking at the keys. I thought, oh geez, here it comes. The day I’ve been expecting. They’re sending little notes to the boys, giggling an oogling. A rite of passage that marks the onset of the teen years. So I walked in the room and peeked over my daughter’s shoulder. And do you know what I saw? She was texting her two friends. The ones that were sitting arm’s length away. And they were doing the same!

I shooed them away and told them to go actually PLAY somewhere. They got up and I went on about my chores. A few minutes later as I turned the corner to descend the basement stairs, there was the little trio, sitting clustered together on the risers, heads almost touching, STILL TEXTING EACH OTHER!

This incident got me thinking on a larger scale about this generation of kids that has significantly retreated from human contact—what type of communicators will they be when they hit the business world? With the advent of texting, Facebook, IM-ing and the rest of electronic communication, will we even need telephones? Hell, will we even need voice boxes?

Indulge me, please, as I take a trip down memory lane to the good old days when I was a kid. First of all, calling your friends meant waiting for your sister to shut her piehole and get off the phone (which was green, had a rotary dial and was mounted to the wall) so that you could make a call. Actually dialing the number took some time with those rotary dials, and pack a lunch if your friend’s number had a lot of zeroes.

Once the call was made, you may or may not have gotten a “busy signal” when you called your friend. If the line was busy, well, shucks—you just had to call back a few minutes later. If you got through and your friend was not home, you might have to leave a name and number with an adult person, often using phrases like, “Please tell Susan I called,” and “Thanks Mr. Peters,” as you hung up.

In college, same thing. No cell phones, no email. And no caller ID. You could stalk that dude you met at the kegger last night by calling him and hanging up when he answered as many times as you wanted! Good times…

But in general, I had pretty good phone etiquette instilled in me by my parents. This behavior prepared me for the business world. When I got my first job, whenever I was in the office, I would answer the phone. There was no call screening, no voicemail. Every time you picked up the receiver, you rolled the dice. It might be a hot prospect or it could be your mom, but you took all comers.

Little by little this direct contact with the outside world started to break down. First we got voicemail at the office and answering machines at home. Then I remember in the late 80’s early 90’s, the advent of email, though it was rudimentary at best. But that was the beginning of the slow, insidious march from human to electronic handshake.

Flash forward to today. Because I spend a lot of time doing recruiting, I am probably more likely to actually talk to people on the phone than a lot of professions. But there are definitely days when I can get almost everything I need done via email. I am ashamed to say, that I don’t mind that too much sometimes. It just makes it easier to get to the point without all the niceties and human kindness. Hey, I’m usually in a hurry…isn’t everyone?

So I’m copping to buying into the non-human/human interaction hybrid that now dominates our business and personal relationships. I have told my dear geographically dispersed college friends that it’s a good thing email came along or I’d probably have ditched them long ago. But I have to say that the kids who will be running the show in the near future have taken this to a whole new level.

Like my 5th grade daughter and her friends, kids barely talk to each other anymore. But the electronic communication is almost constant and there do not seem to be any boundaries. During school, during dinner, while they’re in bed or at church—how much could they possibly have to say?

A lot of this texting-type behavior is pretty much time wasted. Prime examples are my two teenage daughters. Their ability to stretch what would have been a 30 second phone call into a 30 minute texting session is a case study in inefficiency.

Here’s a transcript of just such a texting session:

Daughter: Whr r u? i hv gtg 2 th mall

(10 minutes passes)

Friend: B thr in 15…sry 2 b late

Daughter: OMG cud hv got ride w/Kev u b!

I know there are several disturbing elements to this encounter, not least of which is that none of our kids will be able to compose a formal letter, much less spell half the words. And I am certainly concerned with the fact that my daughter could have easily resolved this issue, figured out that her friend was going to be late and gotten a ride with Kev in about 15 seconds of actually speaking, person to person.

When I suggest to my daughters that they might get quicker response if they actually call rather than text in certain situations, they look at me like I’m wearing a hoop skirt and a corset. Which leads me to believe that our kids are actively avoiding talking to each other. That sounds bad to me.

The same is true for the computer. I have seen my daughter spend 30 minutes composing a message on Facebook, trying to resolve some ridiculous he said/she said dispute that could have been much more effectively solved in person. Not only that, there is now a cyber-record of her ridiculous rantings that can easily be passed around and will likely come back to haunt her and all the people she threw under the bus.

So when we put our future in the hands of this generation, what can we expect? I’m guessing normal workdays are out the window—our kids are used to having instant results and communication 24/7. I’m also wondering how efficient they’ll be. The good news is technology will help them compensate and they are certainly not afraid to embrace it.

But will they have the ability to understand social nuances? Know when to don the velvet glove versus when to go in for the kill? I’m wondering if they will have the patience to stick with something, get to the bottom of it and see it through. Or is their need for instant gratification undermining their ability to think long term and big picture?

The greatest deficit of all is the ability to resolve conflicts. To have to look someone in the eye, settle a dispute, give an apology. I am picturing my daughter in the professional world, sitting across a desk from a colleague. And when the conversation gets tough, will she look down at her Blackberry and fire off a text to express her dissent?

I feel like I may have let this communication issue get away from me in my house. But it’s pretty hard to unring a bell, especially if the bell is ringing away in everyone else’s house too. So I will plant my stake in the ground and demand a higher standard for my own interactions with my kids. Step away from the electronics and go low-tech with me for a while…at least until your cell is done charging.

Son of Stimulus: Obama Budget Bills Batter My Brain

2009-02-27T10:45:00.002-05:00

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

2009-02-25T19:03:00.004-05:00

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!

2009-02-23T17:56:00.002-05:00

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

2009-02-21T16:30:00.001-05:00

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?

2009-02-18T22:11:00.001-05:00

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

2009-02-15T23:00:00.000-05:00

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

2009-02-14T12:02:00.002-05:00

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

2009-02-11T15:45:00.003-05:00

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

2009-02-09T14:21:00.001-05:00

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

2009-02-07T18:39:00.001-05:00

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

2009-02-05T18:29:00.000-05:00

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...

2009-02-03T17:46:00.000-05:00

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

2009-02-01T14:26:00.000-05:00

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.

Reunion Readiness 101

2009-01-31T14:27:00.000-05:00

So I’m headed to my 25th college reunion in April. I can scarcely get those words out without my head spinning. I swear, I sound like a big geezer, but it seems like it was only yesterday that I was having the time of my life…I mean studying and applying myself…at Duke University, my home from 1980-84. I’m not sure if everyone feels as strongly about their college experience, but as anyone who knows me will tell you, I would gladly chuck it all, ditch my kids, husband, even my dog and skipity-doodle in my time machine right back to those glorious days of yore. A time of learning, personal growth, self exploration, blah, blah, blah (that’s for my parents!) but more importantly, a time of excitement and freedom and unrestricted partying that I will never see the likes of (or have the strength to endure) again. The two best by products of my time at Duke are: 1. the fact that I can say I graduated from Duke which often gives me a modicum of respectability; and 2. the finest and most enduring friendships that anyone could ever boast. Women who I would do just about anything for, who provide a support system for each other on a daily basis and who are STILL looking fabulous after all these years. (Just feast your eyes on this picture—you gotta admit, this crew is holding up nicely!)

In the meantime, I’m just now starting to think ahead to April and am wondering how I’d like to present myself. It’s not so much the aforementioned group of girlfriends I’m thinking about—we get together about once a year anyway, so their faces and biographies are pretty familiar. It’s the rest of the once-every-five-year crowd I’m considering. I have to confess, I’m a little vain, so the phrases “weight loss” and “spray tan” intermittently pulsate through my brain, like those unexpectedly fluorescent sea creatures that float up from the darkest ocean depths. I admire my friends who fly in, obviously just being themselves, nary a special manicure or false eyelash to be found. But I’m not quite so cavalier, though I will be working extra hard to give the appearance that I gave no more thought to my outfit than I did to the choice between light or regular cream cheese on my breakfast bagel. So even though it’s January, I’m starting to take some stock, do a little recon and take appropriate action.

Could January be a worse month for self-assessment? Coming off the gluttonous holidays packing an extra 3-5, skin tone a definite Casper on the “Casper-to-George-Hamilton” scale and constantly feeling like the Michelin man in bulky layers of clothing. I swear, the other day, I had a fingernail that needed to be filed—I just rubbed it back and forth against my cheek, such is the texture of my winter-time skin. But the good news, is that most of these issues can be remedied. The bad news is that there’s the T-Rex in the room that no woman wants to acknowledge and can do nothing to prevent—I’m getting old! I have crow’s feet around my eyes! My upper eyelid flap is starting to droop over my lower eyelid! I have to practically apply surgical clamps at my temples in order to apply eyeliner! And that is only possible with a mirror so magnified I can see the hair follicles on the back of my head! I’m looking for signs of a wattle, launching assaults on random, beard-like hairs on my chin and applying Crisco-esque creams under my eyes! Sometimes, I have to step back from my own self-critique and remember that I didn’t age alone while time stood still for the rest of my classmates. No, in those moments, I cheerfully remember that they’ll all be looking like crap too!

Why do we feel this way about reunions? I’ve gone through the same gyrations for high school gatherings as well, but those are not as important to me. I guess I still see my college friends in my mind’s eye as we were back then—young, unencumbered by jobs, families, responsibilities, optimistic, uninhibited and unwrinkled. I cannot shake the context of our coming together all those years ago; it is frozen in time and therefore, so are they. I don’t see them as people who have grown up and moved on; I see them as the same people I knew, with just a blur of time between then and now. I have noticed that we even try to conjure up some of our old behaviors at these reunions, though in slightly less ridiculously embarrassing extremes. But over the last few years, there have been reunions where 30 to 40-year olds sat around tables, played quarters, passed out in closets, got into food fights at restaurants, urinated in public and puked up tequila shots. And that was just the women! (Or so I have heard…!) Perfectly acceptable—expected even!—in this context alone. When we get up bleary-eyed on Sunday morning, catch our separate flights and return to our families and our communities, the moment passes. We are back to our post-graduate personas, and we recloak ourselves in our established traditional roles.

So, while we’re together, I’d like to be part of that illusion that we’re really back at Duke. The one that’s created through the group effort to recount and/or recreate our youthful exploits. It’s getting harder every reunion to pretend we can hold up the same standard, especially for us women. The additional physical maintenance—at least for me--will shortly approximate the story of the little Dutch boy holding his finger in the dyke. Pretty soon, the whole dyke is gonna blow. But for now, I’m still optimistic that I can pull it together. With a little help, the march of time will reverse itself for one weekend and I’ll see the world—and it will see me--through a hazy, melanin-enhanced filter.

Surviving the Pet Parade

2009-01-28T13:16:00.000-05:00

Like a lot of Americans, I went to see Marley and Me over the holidays. Since I had read the book, I was skeptical—as I always am—that the book would live up to the written word. And in this, I was not disappointed. The Marcy Martin Movie Ratings Scale goes from “Better than Shawshank” on the high end to “I’d rather sit through Power Rangers: The Movie” on the bottom. Marley and Me falls somewhere in between. But I’m not here to critique the movie—that’s obviously been done to death. I am here to share my own animal love story, let’s call it “Kirby and Me”. And before that there was “Peanut, Sugar and Me”. And “Spanky and Me” and let’s not forget the others—“Tigger, Daisy, Maggie and Tutty and Me”. (Sorry fish—you don’t get a marquis.) They all have come into my life and left their imprints—some more profoundly than others—and taught me some lessons.

The current animal kingpin in my house is my Westie, Kirby. Because I have all daughters, Kirby gets to qualify as my son. (Although, I don’t want you to think I have elevated him to the same level of consideration that I reserve for my actual human offspring. There are a lot of people who take pet-worship just a little too far, and at the risk of losing my PETA audience, I find that a little creepy!! ) Kirby doesn’t have anywhere near the makings of a whole book as Marley did, much less a motion picture. He’s just too damned relaxed and normal. And I did not grow up with dogs, so I was not that anxious to commit to one. By my husband canoodled me into it (“For the kids!”) seven years ago, and now I’m all ready dreading the day he chases his last chipmunk.

Though Kirby is our only pet at the moment, we have had some pet overlap in the last few years. Let me just say that if I were drawing a Venn diagram that represented the total set of our family pets with each circle drawn labeled as a single pet in the Martin household, there wouldn’t be much overlapping of the circles; but where there were intersections, there was generally gnashing of teeth (and I’m being literal here!) and wailing (generally from me and/or one of my children).

Take Christmas two years ago. My youngest, Claire, had asked Santa for a hamster. My husband, the pet promoter, caved in on this request and ran out on Christmas Eve to get the hamster and one of those 5000-piece Habitrail plastic cages. After the kids went to bed, “Santa” set up all the gifts under the tree including the hamster in its cage on top of some boxes. As we collapsed exhausted in a heap “for our long winter’s nap”, unbeknownst to us the hamster began her nocturnal routine, blissfully running on the wheel in her cage beneath the festively adorned branches of the tree. She could have run noisily away until Christmas morning and the story would have had a happy ending but for one canine Grinch, his superior auditory senses and the instinctual call of his rodent- hunting ancestors. By the time I came down early on the 25^th to organize the cooking before everyone woke up, I was greeted by an unusually perky Westie, wagging his tail with abandon and eyeing me expectantly at the bottom of the stairs. Immediately a chill went down my spine. As he darted into the living room, I knew before I even got there—standing in triumph, waiting for me to give him a treat and an attaboy, was Kirby, nose pointing at a soft, caramel-covered lump on the floor. Holy Mother of God—where am I going to find another hamster at 7:00 a.m.on December 25? As it turned out, the hamster was not actually dead, but severely crunched and traumatized. I laid her back in her cage and by the time Claire came bounding down to see what Santa had brought, we had to ‘fess up about the Kirbenator. Claire named her Sugar, and we placed the poor little gal in her Habitrail up high on Claire’s dresser where no stumpy-legged dog could have access. Sugar took about a week to start really looking lively again, but she did seem to have a miraculous recovery. The story should finally have had a happy ending from there, except that Sugar obviously had a death wish. She somehow escaped from her cage—don’t they always?—managed to parachute off the dresser whereupon at some point Kirby found her scuttling around the house and crunched her again, but good this time, depositing her in triumph in front of the fireplace. Her adventurous two weeks in our household came to an end, though she was quickly replaced with a surrogate hamster that Claire named Peanut. Peanut is also now deceased, though admittedly she was a geezer at the ripe old age of 18 months.

Previously, Kirby had to interact with Tigger, a stray cat we had adopted about a year before his arrival. Tigger took some time to acclimate to domestication, living at first on the perimeter of our house, and eventually working her way inside. By the time Kirby arrived on the scene, Tigger was pretty much living large at casa Martin, though we had to endure her Wild Kingdom stage for awhile. (The cat actually set up a game preserve within our home, bringing in live mice, chipmunks and rabbits to run around freely while she leisurely hunted them down…ick!) Tigger seemed to be okay at first, but after a while, her behavior started to go downhill. And frankly, we began to realize we were getting more out of the dog relationship than we were from the cat/wild game relationship. Even though Kirby never really attacked Tigger, she hated him and began to occasionally take her frustrations out in urine—peeing on a pillow, a rug, some laundry. It got to the point that we had to kick her almost completely outside except to be locked in the laundry room at night. Eventually, we had to “volunteer” her for euthanasia I’m afraid. Topped off by the fact that my husband developed some cat-related asthma along the way—allegedly!—I think we’ve seen the last of the feline persuasion.

And there were others—our first impulsive attempt to get a puppy when my first two daughters were 3 and 5 was a spectacular failure. We adopted Maggie as a surprise from the Easter Bunny. I think I gave more consideration for the ramifications of the color of pantyhose I was wearing than to the characteristics of this dog. She was half German Shorthair Pointer and half Australian Shepherd—a beautiful combination—but we came to realize that we were not the hearty sort needed for high-maintenance pets. (As I watched Marley and Me, I thought of Maggie and knew that I would have never gone the distance with a dog like Marley—I really just value the interior of my home too much.) So two months in with Maggie, after numerous garbage bags had been torn to shreds, my kitchen table had become an occasional toilet and my backyard looked like someone was digging a swimming pool, we packed her off to more tolerant owners. Try explaining that to two simpering little girls watching their first and only pet sent packing in some stranger’s pickup truck. And so we did the guilt march to the pet store and came home with not one, but two compensatory substitutes, Spanky the parakeet and Daisy the guinea pig, both also now deceased.

I’ve learned a lot watching my kids care for their pets and suffered their pain when they inevitably left us. Some were better caregivers than others, but all were pretty hands on masters with their little charges. In the end, it’s pretty hard for a parent to get worked up over a parakeet that goes toes up, but it is not hard to ache for the child who nurtured that bird. I’ve also learned not to overcompensate for these events, resisting the urge to run out and replace that hamster or goldfish. Time will pass and other interests will fill the void. But the relationship with my dog Kirby might be a little different. There’s so many upsides to a good dog—unconditional love, companionship and total devotion. I definitely was not getting that from the guinea pig. And it’s a little different investing 15 years of your life to a dog or cat versus a year or two to a rodent or fish. A dog’s tenure could amount to 20% of your lifespan. And I marvel at the people who run out and buy an instant replacement when their dog dies, often insisting on the exact same breed. I don’t think that will be me. When Kirby goes, I’ll cry real tears, not parakeet tears. I’ll grieve for him probably as much as I grieved for my grandmothers, I’m ashamed to say. But like all of us, I’ll find something to fill the void. I’m guessing by then that I, and my lint roller, will really need a break.

Scene from the Rearview

2009-01-27T16:50:00.000-05:00

I asked for it and I got it. My oldest child got her driver’s license this week. 17 long years of minivan-facilitated conveyance has come to an end. I should be celebrating—bring on the Mini Cooper convertible! But I am conflicted. What I first viewed as a freeing of the shackles, I am now seeing as an opportunity for the further graying of my hair. Nonetheless, I celebrated this milestone the other day on my Facebook page:

Marcy is excited that her daughter, Lauren, just passed the test for her driver’s license!

One of my friends helpfully responded:

Excited? Are you crazy? It’s January!

Thanks for putting the best possible spin on that one, homey.

But I can’t deny the benefits. All of a sudden, no task it too menial. Out of dog food? I might as well have offered to take my daughter for a mani/pedi, such was the zeal expressed at embarking on this errand. Little sister needs to be picked up at school? No problem for the novice driver. And why not throw in a detour to Starbucks on the way home? These little opportunities continue presenting themselves. I did have to dash her spirits a bit earlier this week. The night before the inauguration, she bounced in at dinnertime, all youthful confidence and spirit and laid out her “Obama Inauguration Day Concept”. I didn’t really get too far into the “Concept” once I heard that it involved her packing one of our cars with friends and navigating to Washington from our home near Philadelphia. Parking nightmares aside, I had a premonition of car keys being inadvertently flung from unsecured pockets in the celebratory melee, the humanity of the SOS phone call from tearful, stranded teenagers and the extreme grumpiness of my husband pressed into service as my daughter’s personal AAA. No, these are not the kind of liberties you take 1 week A.D.L (After Driver’s License, our new way of measuring the passing of days). Nor am I naïve enough to think her newfound freedom will only be spent on benign excursions to get coffee or dog food or pick up siblings.

For this reason, I have to confess I have been eyeballing those ads for tracking devices that you can attach to your car, so that if your car is stolen (or simply wayward!) you can track it down. If my daughter knew I was even considering this possibility, I’m sure she would never speak to me again. (Until she needed the car keys…or money.) And I have to admit I feel a little conflicted about this technology, although I can rationalize it based on my concern for her safety. And I know whereof I speak. When I was in high school, my friends and I made some pretty questionable road trips unbeknownst to any of our parents. The most obvious destination for those of us growing up in northern New Jersey was the big City, New York, of course. And I can remember some pretty harrowing drives in and out, music blaring, windows down, seat belts extremely optional. And of course, cell phones were only dreamy figments best conceptualized by watching reruns of the Jetsons. At any given time, no adult had any concept of our whereabouts beyond the sketchy “check-in” call that could as easily have been made from a payphone at the local mall as from the Blarney Stone Restaurant and Bar in Times Square. How we made it out of high school in one piece, I can only credit a higher power. Thinking back, it’s best our parents didn’t know. I’m sure that with improved driver education and the sage parental advice and counsel I have offered through the years, my daughter’s driving excursions will be much more sober and considered.(?!)

The truth is my daughter has just passed one of those great milestones in life that, for a time, fill the field of vision to the exclusion of everything else, and then in an instant are like specks in the rearview. And can’t we all string our lives along on these events, like telephone wires hung from post to post? Driver’s license, graduation from high school, then college, our first job, our wedding, our first child, first baby steps, child goes to kindergarten, then high school, then gets driver’s license. The circle is complete. (Of course, I left out a few more like grandchildren, retirement and death, but work with me here). There’s always something on the horizon--to look forward to, to dread—that looms large and passes us by. Would we want it any other way? Imagine if our lives were a desert of sameness? How tragic and sad. And the teenage to young adult years seem to have a high concentration of these moments. That’s why I often look back on that time of my life with such longing and pleasure. The quality and quantity of life-altering and affirming moments condensed into such a brief time could not possibly be sustained in the ensuing years. And so, we become accustomed to a slower pace, and try to savor more fully each opportunity to embrace what is in front of us. And we live vicariously through our children’s experiences, living their joys and pain.

So I’m sharing my daughter’s excitement but I’m waiting for her rearview moment on this driving thing, which I’m sure won’t come for a few more months. The lure of independence provided by access to the open road is too powerful. It’s one more step toward adulthood and the fracture of parental shackles. And certainly, the days that she will do my bidding and run my errands will quickly come to pass. The next milestone will soon fill the void—college and what lies beyond. Her days of being under my thumb are few and far between. But I’m not worried—there are more milestones in my future. My next recruit gets her driver’s permit in June--another post ready for stringing.