Ten Items or Less.....

Sass met wearied indifference at the express lane... and guess who won?

 In the midst of a hectic week of Passover cooking, serving, and cleaning up after a houseful of guests...o.k., my married children and their adorable offspring, my garbage pail up and died. I was rocking two other garbage pails at strategic locations in the kitchen and truthfully, the foot lever on the main garbage had declared itself on strike months ago, but it seems as if the Passover strain was getting to everyone. So off I went to the store that in a wink to the universe, rhymes with smart. Every time I enter the hallowed halls of the 'smart' store, I swear on my pinkie finger never to step a toe in there again. My experience last week was no exception. 

I raced down the appropriate aisles until I saw the trash receptacles (even garbage cans choose to be politically correct). I tried the foot lever, it seemed sturdy and the front panel had a large sticker on it boasting of a one-year warranty. Grabbing the large round cylinder in my arms, I was good to go, until I saw the checkout lines snaking toward me, daring me to choose one of them while knowing full well that the one I would select would having a delay resulting in a call to the manager who would be in a meeting...I stood frozen in indecision until I saw the express lane. Success! I waddled my unwieldly package over and plopped it down on the floor to wait my turn. And wait I did.

The woman in front of me began to unload her cart and was still unloading after she reached item ten. Item eleven began to make its way onto the conveyor belt when the cashier made a half-hearted attempt at stopping her:

"You can't buy that, you got maw than ten."
"I AM buying it, and this, and this, and this..."

She continued to unload the REST of the wagon. Didn't even look in my direction. Didn't even acknowledge that in a free and democratic society we have all agreed to abide by the clearly written and unwritten law of the frequent shopper, Thou Shalt Not Desecrate the Ten Items or Less line. There is a special Hell reserved for people who do, and in a more upscale shopping establishment appropriate steps would have been taken. I knew I would be alone in my protestation of her flagrant disobeyance of the law and since there no one on line behind me to rabble-rouse, I sucked it in and remained silent.

Another feeble attempt by the cashier who seemed to be taking a nap in between scanning each item:

"You're not supposed to buy more than ten things on this line."
"Well, I am!"

And she did. I was fascinated. She packed up her purchases, no manager was called over, no sheepish apologies were offered about running late to get the kids from school or that she'd left a pot cooking on the stove, just a moment of freewheeling unabashed political incorrectness.

I thought about her on the ride home and wondered what I was always apologizing about, what we, collectively as a nation, was always apologizing about. Every word we say nowadays is parsed. The President can't even compliment a female attorney general without an immediate outraged response from the media and watchdog groups whose existence is predicated upon catching people being human and saying stupid things, sometimes.
 Don't you dare call the woman serving soda at ten thousand feet a stewardess, she's a flight attendant...the person on the phone whose accent and poor connection makes them sound as if they're speaking underwater is not someone in India (who's being paid half of what an American would be paid) she  is a service care coordinator...seriously, what does that even mean? A fireman....nope, don't even think about it, it's firefighter to you, thank you very much. Be afraid to speak, be very afraid.

And here I had just stood in line behind a woman who is probably a fair representation of the collective mentality of many Americans who are simply trying to get through their day, make some purchases and basically keep their focus primarily on themselves, not about what's happening anywhere else, in other countries, other states, even what's happening right behind them. She had exactly one goal in mind, to service herself in any damned way she pleased, disregarding anyone and everyone that might get in her way. It was so the antithesis of liberal America and the rhetoric spewed by the talking heads on TV and in the papers that I actually found it refreshing and mildly amusing, even if I was the recipient of her lack of largesse, the unwitting victim of her general disdain.

I came into my kitchen filled with my children sitting around the table, enjoying each others' company and with a sigh of satisfaction set down my new purchase.

My son jumped up, "Great! A garbage pail (political correctness only goes so far, even from a liberal college freshman) that finally works!" He pumped the foot lever a few times and I was glad to put the whole episode from my mind. As I headed to the laundry to search for some clean linen I heard him call after me.

"Ma, the bottom of the garbage pail is cracked. You're probably going to have to return it if you don't want garbage leaking all over the floor."

I hid my smile and poked my head around the door, "I think I'll send you to do the return."

Perhaps it was time for the college liberal to get a civics lesson into the mind of middle America.
 

Valentine's Day...feh

Valentine's Day is tomorrow.  Although I don't subscribe to the commercialized Hallmark/Godiva-chocolated notion of love and actually feel sorry for the poor sots who will find their efforts deemed subpar by their supposed love ones, I want to weigh in with a thought about finding love.

Tuesday's Science Times reports on the effectiveness of the algorithm behind the matchmaking site eHarmony. This site makes the choice for the client based upon their answers to the extensive 200 questions that they need to answer and forwards the site's computer-generated selections, rather than forwarding an array of available  mates for the client to choose from themselves. I find this distinction especially interesting because I do something similar when I attempt to set up singles at the local "matchmaking" group I volunteer at.

 Let me explain. Along with Patti Stanger, the Millionaire Matchmaker, but at a much lower pay grade, I set up marriage-minded couples who would not have met on their own and hope they date successfully, resulting in a match. I have noticed that when I present a boy/girl (I deal primarily with young professionals in their late twenties) with ONE selection and sell the hell out of it, I stand a better shot at a successful meeting and if I'm any good at this, many more dates and possibly a marriage proposal.  If I offer three or four ideas and leave the choice up to them I find it leads to the shmorgasboard effect. You know how it is at a sumptuous buffet. Everything looks delicious and is enticingly presented. The vast array of selections available is tempting and even if your plate is full and you are chewing away on a gastronomical delight, your eye is still roaming the room looking for more. 

The first thing eHarmony has going for it is that anyone willing to spend the time answering 200 questions, 180 of which are pointless, is either very serious about getting married and knows it takes effort to make a relationship successful or is out of work and has nothing better to do with their day than answer questions. Hence a successful weeding out process right there. According to the article in The Times, there are many factors that translate into an easy match: level of agreeableness, level of willingness to experience new things, spirituality, general optimism...the list goes on. These things can be matched easily through a dating website and actually offer a firm foundation for seeking a like-minded mate. And I would tender the theory that these matches have a certain predictable solidity and staying power to them.

But what about the well-known law of "opposites attract?"

My theory on opposites attracting is that the exact thing that you found so cute about your partner at the six-month point is the same thing you have to gnash your teeth at ten years down the road. I believe a more subtle version of the opposites attract tenet leads to greater satisfaction. A couple that complements each other and thereby creates a whole by contributing their half of the equation--he has great ideas but lacks the follow through and along comes a very organized woman who is lacking in creativity but has great organizational skills. These two halves are opposite but not necessarily completely opposing. These two halves equal the whole and hopefully the sum total is greater than the parts. This, I believe, is something less jarring and has staying power.

Ultimately, you have to know yourself and what works for you. Every person is unique and every couple has their own dynamic that might be easily predicted by a computer, or not, but I also like to rely on that elusive element known as "Kismet" or "Bashert"--which is a Yiddish work for it. We are hopeful there is that extra plus of Fate that leads us to the person of our dreams and pray that we look for ways to make it all work out rather than look for ways to complicate it.  

And if you find yourself alone on Valentine's Day, really, who cares, it's just a day and the good thing is there are 364 more of them to find someone before next year's February 14th rolls around.

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire

What is up with all the lying? Lance Armstrong, Manti Te’o, Susan Rice, every politician who has ever stood in front of a microphone…what happened to the antiquated notion that most of us grew up with—Honesty is the best policy?  Who cares anymore about integrity and honesty? Frankly, the truth seems to be beside the point, a notion reserved for people from a different generation. As a concept, it leaves a lot to be desired, but notoriety, now that's an idea with bite.

I don’t follow football, but being the mother of two avid fans, I can claim a middling ability to recognize some names. I’ve heard of Mark Sanchez, Drew Brees, Tim Tebow, Peyton and Eli, Tom Brady and a couple more names that escape me at the moment. Owing to the latest firestorm of incredulity at the whopper of a story delivered by the Notre Dame Heisman almost, the name Manti Te’o is now a household name—so, mission accomplished, I guess.

But if we’re all going to find out the truth anyway, what could be the point of lying? 

My guess is that it’s Ego—the insecure need to feed it, the belief that some people are above the truth, that their awesomeness can transcend it. It can be as simple as that. Either we won’t catch them because they’re that good at covering their tracks, or we’ll be so enamored of them anyway that we’ll forgive them. Maybe it simply never occurred to these liars that they would be held accountable for their actions. That takes a strong helping of ego, and I believe that is the common denominator here. 

All of this denial while the public is watching the cringe-worthy protestations allows these lying, slippery, snakes (sorry) to dig in deep after being found out, continuing the charade until it becomes a living breathing thing, at which point it is time for the 'sit down interview' with whoever lobbied hardest for the ‘get’.   

Lance Armstrong chose Oprah who showed the interview on her cable station OWN that no one can find (which would have been a great idea, Lance, in the days before ‘you tube’). 

Nevertheless, this was a brilliant move on Lance’s part for another reason. We all know what happened when James Frey lied to Oprah about what we now know is a highly fictionalized account of his memoir about his struggle with addiction, A Million Little Pieces. She was furious that she and her millions of followers were all duped into believing his fabrication of events. Knowing of her integrity and gravitas, Lance and his people probably figured he would give his redemptive interview to her in a last attempt at salvaging his tainted reputation. Oprah was well aware that she would be giving a platform to a known liar and scrupulously had the 112 points he made during the interview thoroughly checked, finding them to be factual. Imagine her shock at having been fooled again when 60 Minutes released their story a couple of days ago that the chief of the USADA claims Lance lied to Oprah during his interview.

If I wasn’t dizzy trying to keep track of all the lies by our reigning whopper champs, Lance and Manti, I’d be truly entertained. But as it is, I'm just sad.

My cleaning lady, who is paid an hourly wage, told me she left an hour and a half early last week, having forgotten to tell me about a doctor appointment. I had paid her for the day before I left, and there was no reason for her to be honest about the missing hours except for her own innate integrity and conscience. And because I always despised those teachers who would take off the two points you discovered when you added up your test score rather than leave the grade intact for your honesty, I’m not docking her pay. Her admission was refreshing rather than distressing. I appreciate her having been adult enough to do what others who have been propped up by our society aren’t man enough to do--speak the truth and take a chance on the fallout.

 It is truly a sobering day when someone we have allowed to represent our country in a worldwide sport, a multi-millionaire, a spokesman for charities, sports equipment and a myriad of products has less integrity and a whole heck of a lot less grace than a maid who takes pride in her work and herself. 

Powerless on Plum

6:42 last night marked our one week anniversary of no power…in many, many ways, but most specifically the kind that comes through a mysterious labyrinthine set of wires fondly remembered as electricity that we never think about…for one minute, until we get the enormous bill each month. And yet we count ourselves as among the fortunate. Catastrophic, unprecedented total devastation…these are some of the terms used to describe what a lot of us on the East Coast are experiencing right now.  Hurricane Sandy chewed up and spit out most of the seaside from Maine to New York and a lot of real estate in between. And even if we can all agree that the destruction is no laughing matter, humor, and looking on the bright side is what will get us through the days ahead. Except of course for the corny jokes that started several days before the storm made landfall. Interestingly enough, my husband bore the brunt of them through silly emails. 

Your wife, heh, heh, when she lets it rip, look out...I always thought Sandy was so sweet, let’s see what she has in store…

“Did you remind them I spell my name with an i….” I snapped. If the jokes were funny I would have laughed along, I think.  Apparently people become hard of hearing when they are looking to lay blame at your doorstep, to which I say I’m grateful I have a doorstep. It’s a cold, dark, doorstep, but my home is still standing.

“I think we should book two rooms at a hotel, you know, just in case,” I told my husband last Sunday morning.

“O.k.”

“You don’t think we should?”  

“If you want to…”

I frowned, “You weren’t here during the Halloween storm; you were in China. We were without power for four days. It was nuts.” When the lights went out Monday night I looked at him accusingly.

“Fine, I’ll make some calls.” Turns out most of the hotels in our area and beyond had no power and those that did were already booked. I was careful to keep the judgment from my voice. We pulled out candles, turned on flashlights, donned our winter coats and huddled. My son quickly bought a month of 3G service for his iPad and we sat glued around the dark kitchen table hanging on Mayor Bloomberg and Governor Christie’s words as the live feed kept us informed. The next morning I pulled out a trimline phone I had bought years ago at Radio Shack during a power outage and plugged it into the wall. We didn’t have phone service until Wednesday and when it rang shrilly we all jumped.

“What was that?” my eighteen year old asked.

“A telephone,” I said, pointing at the wall.

Wrinkling his nose as he looked at the alien object attached to the wall, “Really?” he said as he ran to pick up the novelty item. He must have been fascinated because the phone could sit three inches from his hand as he watches the Giants game and he still wouldn’t answer it. This phone (without a caller ID display) was the black version of the white one I got as a teenager for my own room…several years ago.

Wednesday morning I opened the fridge, pulled over the garbage and started dumping things in.

“What are you doing?” my husband asked.

“The…Power…Is…Not…Going…Back…On,” I said, gesturing at Bloomberg’s overly enthusiastic deaf translator who stayed stalwartly by his side even through his mangled Spanish, offering us the few moments of comic relief we desperately needed in what was clearly an escalating situation. I looked at my usually take charge husband, whose biggest fault right then was his optimism and saw it register.

“I’m going to get a generator.”

“Finally,” I muttered, not believing that any generators still existed within a six hour driving range, but held my tongue.

He called me two hours later. “I called that guy I know upstate who knows a guy that owes him a favor. It will be here this afternoon.”

I let out a shriek. The power was back on Plum.

Then we became slaves to the beast. It ate more than my sons, made more noise than them, and spewed more noxious fumes. But we were grateful. My take charge husband had a goal—making sure it never ran out of gas—quite a challenge since we had four cars to keep filling up as well and lines rivaling the gas shortage of the Carter administration. First World problems, my sons told me, still recovering from their forty-hour loss of internet.

By Friday the whole neighborhood was up and running except for Plum Road. We had gone to Queens to our daughter for the weekend and met many other displaced people. My brother called from the block on Sunday.

“There’s a truck here, I think the guys are from Ohio, or maybe the moon.”

“What do they say?” I asked eagerly.

“We have no electricity.”

Geniuses. Maybe they’ll be able to predict who will be the next president.

.

If we only knew...

I got my aerobic exercise for the morning trying to change the sheet in my granddaughter’s crib. Due to new safety regulations, the cribs no longer have a drop down latch that allow you to change a sheet without breaking a rib or two. In addition, mattresses are made to be very close to the railing allowing so no precious head can get caught there, but also allowing for only a contortionist who is part of the Cirque de Soleil troupe easy access to it. Since babies have a tendency to spit up and poop at least three times a day in their cribs, that makes for a lot of inept maneuvering by parents and grandparents. Yet, this is something we gladly do, anything to protect our children. We urge them to wear elbow/knee pads and helmets when careening down hills on their skateboards and bikes (although we survived without the cumbersome safety devices), and we are grateful for them. Many safety measures in place now, whether crib, toy or clothing related are a result of tragic, preventable deaths.

But what to do after the children have survived their childhood and have become teens? They are under siege by digital sexual predators looking to strip them of their vulnerability and much worse, as well as other scary temptations. One in five teens will be solicited unknowingly by a predator through the internet or an innocent-looking text message.  Gone are the halcyon days when we told our kids don’t accept candy from a stranger, or if a stranger rolls down the window of his car, run like hell in the other direction. Now, the danger waltzes right into our homes. Progress is a double-edged sword and being a parent today is more challenging than it ever was.  An aware and present parent goes a long way to keeping one’s child safe—unless all that awareness and hanging around makes you want to strangle your teen, but that’s for another blog.

It’s a balancing act, this thing we call parenting. We want our children to grow into independent, thinking adults and we wrestle daily with how much freedom is too much.  We throw up our hands in frustration, and then we throw them around our kids and tell them how terrific they are and how much we love them, even if we have to grit our teeth doing it. Has anyone noticed how INCREDIBLY SMART the eighteen-year olds are today? In addition to solving the crisis in the Middle East, they have solutions for the economy and world hunger.  But don’t forget , as much as your teenager has evolved from that  tiny, mewling, slippery eight pound baby the doctor handed you  many years ago, he stills needs to be parented. He still needs direction and focus and that gentle admonition from time to time. And maybe, with any luck, by the time he turns twenty-five, he may just realize how smart YOU have actually become.

Where Are The Lions?

My first grandson was born last week, and we are all delighted except for one small issue. After two granddaughters, I have to say that baby boy clothing is in need of a real fashion makeover. I'm suffering from powder-blue blindness and overexposure to zoo animals. Yes, there are a few yellow or green layette items, but those clearly mean that you just didn't know the sex of the child and purchased the items ahead of time. Since most parents know the sex of their child nowadays, even if they choose NOT to share this information with the anxious grandparents, the unisex colors are unnecessary. There are a few tan/khaki items sprinkled around, but they make the baby look like an early recruit for the army or a future sanitation worker.


My daughter got some gifts in bigger sizes for her baby and those did come in navy blue, accompanied by sail boats--do we want him to join the navy when he gets older or the Southampton Beach Club? There was a smattering of tools on a couple of outfits, hammers, shovels, ditch diggers--hm, subliminal message to become a teamster? I'd rather bet on his becoming a doctor like his Dad, but time will tell.  Giraffes and elephants are de rigueur for the baby under three months. These are deemed friendly and harmless, I've actually never seen such a conglomeration of elephants and giraffes printed on soft blue cotton in my life. Peeking at the clothing in the next size, I spotted a couple of monkeys. Apparently six  months is old enough to allow for mischief and curiosity.


When my now twenty four year old son was a baby, there were all sorts of animals on his baby clothes--zebras, bears and lions. I especially remember the lions because his name in Hebrew means lion and it connotes strength and leadership, an appropriate message I feel for a male (or female) child. But it appears as if the lions have gone the way of winning sports trophies based on skill and achievement and fairy tales in their original form. There is no end to sanitizing experiences for our young children that previously were considered acceptable and necessary for problem-solving and emotional growth--the chief one being allowing them to fail. Failure is vital for success.


If we change the raw and admittedly offensive language of the classic, Tom Sawyer, our children will never truly know the struggles other children faced growing up. If we give the losing team a trophy just for trying then where is the incentive to try harder the next time? Our children are a lot sturdier and more malleable than we realize and by spoon feeding every activity and weeding out every potential pitfall that may come their way we are depriving them of the right to figure things out for themselves. Of course we as parents want to protect our children, but stripping their stretchies of lions isn't the way. In the feel good era we are living in too many messages have been reduced to their least threatening image so as not to offend anyone. Well, guess what? I'm offended. Who decided that my grandson can't wear a lion or a bear on his outfit lest he exhibit aggressive behavior a few years from now? Have we "wussied" our children to the point that we have to worry what zoo animals are allowed on their clothing?


I think it's time for parents to take a giant step back and allow their children to fall and fail. As long as you're there to kiss a scraped knee or lend a supportive shoulder, you're doing your job. Let's give our children a little more credit and allow them to step in the mud, splash in the rain, and make a couple of mistakes. And for goodness sakes, bring back the lions!

Pretty Woman

I've written on previous blogs about attending singles events, not for myself, since I'm married, but as a coordinator/matchmaker/facilitator/therapist, and I've just come back from another one. The group this time was primarily in their thirties and forties and for a number of them, it was a second time around. Married ladies, if you have a good guy, try  to hold onto him, and vice versa, because the pickins' are slight. Every man, regardless of his appearance, told me  I want a pretty woman--and their list of other qualities was nonexistent. They admitted in varying degrees to being shallow--some sheepishly, others defiantly. I wondered what they would be offering in the deal. Because lest anyone forget it, marriage is a deal, with each side bringing something valuable to the table.

I'm a huge fan of the ABC show, The Bachelorette. I love it because it gives the woman the power to decide while the men fall over each other to win her over. Their tactics become increasingly juvenile and bizarre as they compete gladiator-style with each other, only occasionally remembering the woman they are competing for. And it is the exact reason why I find The Bachelor unwatchable.

This is the first time a Bachelorette is a mom. Emily Maynard, a real beauty hailing from North Carolina, has an adorable blond haired daughter, Ricki, named after the child's father, Ricky Hendrick, a well-known Nascar driver and Emily's fiancee who died in a plane crash before he knew he was to become a father! I'll give you a moment to dry your eyes. The current bachelorette is more than a pretty woman, she is a fierce mama bear, and heaven help any bachelor who doesn't fully comprehend that Emily and Ricki are a package deal. I point this out for a reason. This steely-eyed magnolia doesn't wither under intense heat. She was on a date with one very good-looking suitor and over dinner she asked him where he saw her daughter and herself fitting into his life. He stammered his answer, "Uh, duh, I mean, I'll go wherever you go." She fixed him with a laser-look as she got up from her chair and escorted him out the door and off the show. As she stood on the veranda and looked out, dramatic fireworks appeared in the midnight sky. Apparently the show's producer had overconfidently decided the bachelor had been a keeper. Emily hadn't. The bachelor's simple miscalculation? Pretty doesn't equal stupid.

So you guys looking for that pretty woman, here's a piece of advice. You may be able to get her on a date, but if you don't have something more than, "Uh, duh," to contribute, you may just be sent packing before you have the chance to enjoy the fireworks.