Surrounded by Sulemans

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

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

Nadya: Angelina Jolie?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blurb from the 'Burbs

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

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

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

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

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

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

Less is More

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

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

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

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

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

Gratitude

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

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

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

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

Here are some of the things we ARE doing:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beyond the Snuggie

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

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

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

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

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

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

When I Grow Up...

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

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

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

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

Super Dilemma

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

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

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

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

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

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