Don't Let the Door Hit You in the Arse on the Way Out: See Ya, 2014

Remember when HRH Queen Elizabeth II had her annus horribilis? Well, I do, and I wish that I had the honor of presiding over a dinner at Guildhall and making everyone listen to just how horribilis this annus was.  Since I don't own a tiara (although I should), I'll just blog about it.

2014 was the year in which a well-financed group of terrorist thugs made sport of beheading journalists and aid workers.

It was the year in which a very nasty scab was ripped off of the wound of endemic racism in the United States and unarmed black males, including a twelve year old boy, were shot and killed by police; black and interracial Americans responded with protests and white Americans responded with everything from sympathy to patronage to confusion (I mean, I voted for Obama.  And Deval Patrick. Aren't we post-racial?) to ignorance and undiluted racism.  Meanwhile, protests, which were meant to be peaceful and didn't stay that way were met, in many situations, with overly armed and under-trained police officers.  The protestors who came out to provoke and to riot managed to give reason to people who think that police forces are under-armed, as we watched violent people spit at, kick, throw bottles at, and otherwise provoke the police officers who were there defending the First Amendment Rights of the protestors.

Then, of course, because of the virtual non-existence of common sense gun laws in this country, we watched as a convicted felon with a documented history of mental illness was able to access a gun and use it to shoot his girlfriend and then take that same gun to New York City to assassinate two police officers.  Two good police officers, one of whom wanted to be a chaplain and the other who was an immigrant and a newlywed in search of the American dream.

Sadly, journalists covering wars in faraway places, black Americans, and police officers weren't the only ones who made me hang my head in despair this year.  As soon as the issue of sexual assault on college campuses was raised as a national issue and one which must be dealt with as a criminal offense rather than a youthful indiscretion of liquored up frat boys and football players, the pundits continued to blame and shame victims everywhere.  Rolling Stone did a great service to sexual assault deniers everywhere by not using the basics of journalistic fact checking in their story about rape at the University of Virginia.  Florida State University, alma mater of Aaron Hernandez, became the most egregious example of criminal cover up, rewarding its head coach with another lucrative contract, much of it violent crimes against women.

College campuses weren't the only place where women were serially victimized, as a hotel security camera in an elevator showed the brutal reality of what it's like to be the partner of a professional football player. And another case showed us what it's like to be the four year old child of another NFL pro.

Of course, there were the usual, run-of-the-mill things, like school shootings, a crazy Russian dictator, an even crazier North Korean dictator, more white GOP congressmen debating *legitimate rape*, Ebola in West Africa, the Ebola insanity in the US, and far too many other things for me to note here.  NPR warns me about this.

But, hey! The Dow is up, gas prices and unemployment are down, and, despite climate change, the sun still sees fit to rise everyday.

Here's to a better 2015.  One with less accusation, less hate, less vitriol, less division, more understanding, more tolerance, more kindness, more peace.  Cheers.

Of Mean Girls, Cliques, and Exclusion

When I was 9, my family moved from our row home in Northeast Philly (Oxford Circle, to be exact) to a four bedroom duplex in an insular borough a stone's throw from the city line. We weren't quite suburban, like Abington and Jenkintown to our west and we were still no longer in the City.  The family on the other side of the duplex had a daughter my age: Pam. Next door, there was a family with five kids, including another girl my age, Laura. Pam and Laura were close friends with Lori. I was quickly absorbed into their circle and, a few weeks later, for reasons apparent only to Pam and Laura and Lori, I was thrust out. And that was the first time I encountered Mean Girls and their power.

I survived that period of time and the many cliques and mean girls I encountered through the rest of elementary school, and junior high, and high school. I may have even been a part of a clique and I was likely mean to people. I chalked it all up to human nature and growing up and I moved on.

As I got older, finished college, moved to Massachusetts, got a job, made friends, got a different job, went through numerous roommates, met a boy, married him, bought a house, I had many different groups of friends. I had friends from work, friends I met through my roommates, friends I met through volunteer work, friends who I did sprint triathlons with, friends I played tennis with. I threw epic parties and invited all of these people and they all got along and sometimes even started new friendships. I never called any of these groups of friends a 'Clique' because, of course, I had left cliques where they belong: in the heated imaginations of pubescent Mean Girls and the girls denied membership to the clique at hand.

Imagine my surprise when, after having two kids, and getting involved in the goings on at their school, I was accused of belonging to a clique. Wut?  For reals?

All of the definitions of the word 'clique' include 'exclusive' in the definition. Meaning that a clique works actively to exclude others. So, when I served as Board President of the PTO at my kids' school,  a time spent begging parents to step up and volunteer, who, exactly, was I trying to exclude?

I met a few friends last night and they were astonished that I didn't think that there is a PTO Clique. And I am still stunned by this thought. I see people who can and want to do things and people who can't or who don't want to. I'm grateful to the parents who can adm do, because my kids benefit from that, which is why I step up and do whenever I can. If, in the process of doing, I meet other parents who do, and we become friends, how does that count as exclusion?  Isn't a benefit of being a volunteer the ability to meet new people?

I am a born extrovert. I understand that there are people who are not; in fact, I married one (proving that we can get along). And I understand that it can be hard to step forward when you think that you are going to be judged or unwelcome.

I also understand that people choose where to live based on all sorts of reasons: proximity to work or family, cost of housing, the schools. And then we are all mashed together: those of us born and bred here, those of us here because we couldn't afford Newton, those of us who work in the 128 belt or take the train to Boston every morning. And then, our kids all end up in school together and we are
forced to acknowledge each other: Republicans and Democrats, cat people and dog people, parents of boys and parents of girls, sports parents and dance parents.

Can we leave the Mean Girl cliche behind? Be done with the concept of exclusion? Teach our kids that they can do anything they want to do without worrying about fitting a mold or others' perceptions?

Or is being a parent of a school -aged child nothing more than an awkward return to the days of Pam and Laura and Lori?

My Facebook Life may not be as Pristine as it Appears

A friend posted today on Facebook that a local toy store would give kids a $5 gift certificate for bringing in one pound of Halloween candy, which the toy store would donate to active duty members of the Armed Forces.  So, after the Flag Football games, which were played in 50 mile per hour winds and very wet snow, just so that we get some New England cred in this age of climate change, I took my two sons to the toy store, each carrying a pound or so of Halloween candy.

The toy store did a fantastic job of patiently weighing the candy and issuing the gift certificates.  It should have been blissful: the store was well stocked with art supplies upstairs, lots of books, a small but significant supply of sports-related toys, a great selection of games: just charming goodness oozing from the walls. There was a section for littles and a section for babies; an area that would appeal to girls; science-themed toys; buckets and buckets of fun toys that cost $5 or less.  In short: toy nirvana.  There's even a separate room upstairs where there are classes in art and magic and yo-yos.

Immediately after being give the $5 certificate for his candy, my 8 year old imploded into a 2 year old version of himself.  "Help me find something!"  "What do you want?"  "I DON'T KNOW!  YOU DO IT!"  Gah.  The 10 year old poo-pooed most of the offerings, settling on a glow-in-the-dark football and glow-in-the-dark paint, with which he plans to paint a trash barrel to use as a target for the football.  [BTW, he brought his own money to pay for the $14 in excess of the $5 certificate.]

The charming little shop was crowded with kids and staff.  It was late.  I was hot.  The 8 year old couldn't decide.  On anything.  He picked out a $60 remote car thing and was told "No."  He picked out an amphibious truck thing for $30 and was told that we had just SOLD the exact same thing at our Yard Sale because he never played with it and insisted on selling it.  He was directed to Pick-Up Sticks, and Gyro-Wheel, and Stomp Rockets, and Sky Raider Foam Gliders, and Metallic Markers, and games and NONE of these were any good.  I told the 8 year old that he needed to decide and he then realized that he had lost the gift certificate AND the two dollars that he had brought with him and had refused to let me hold for him.  My immediate inclination was to drag him from the store, while his brother followed with his head down, embarrassed of his mother, and get to the car.  Then, the 8 year old smashed his finger on something and started to bleed and cry at the same time.

I took a breath, applied pressure and a hug, and told the 8 year old to find the certificate and money.  We searched the store and couldn't find either.  I told him that I would front him the money for a toy if he would just please for the LOVE OF GOD AND ALL THAT IS GOOD pick out a toy so that we could LEAVE THE STORE.  As the very last straw of my entire being was getting smashed into a hay bail, the kid acquiesces and agrees that a $10 stop watch will be OK.

We went to the register to pay.  The shops owners were very sympathetic and asked us to come back in a week or so to allow them to check off all of the certificates that had been given out that day and that they would then give us another certificate.  I asked the 8 year old if he could choose a small toy of less than $5 and then get the $10 stop watch when we come back in a week.

And, oh!, the quivering of the chin and the indignation of the 8 year old!  The kid deserves an Oscar, an Emmy, and a Tony, and probably a Palme d'Or.  I bought the bleeping ten dollar stop watch and thanked the shop owners and got the eff out of the charming shop before I was arrested for screaming at children while under the influence of gift certificates.

So, here's the thing: if you are my Facebook Friend, you will see that I posted a lovely little check-in at the toy store!  'Cashing in our Halloween Treats!' or somesuch.  And yet, the sturm und drang is missing from the missive.

My perfect little Facebook life.

Work

I had my annual physical exam today, which gave me an opportunity to kick back and read a magazine titled "Working Mother."  In case you wondered what, exactly, Working Mothers look like, here is a photo:

I confess that I look nothing like this.  I don't look like this now, in my dotage, and I didn't look like this when I was young and, if not *hawt*, then somewhat simmering.  I also do not dress like this when I go to work: that white shirt and light pink jacket would have coffee all over them before I managed to merge onto Route 128.  Which leaves me to conclude that the woman on the cover of the magazine is not an actual "Working Mother," but rather someone who poses as an idealized version of a Working Mother for magazine covers that make us all feel bad.

Surprisingly, my blood pressure was still in normal range when it was measured.

The cover of the magazine got me thinking about the Zellweger Conspiracy Theories.  I hadn't thought much about Zellweger in some time and, when I saw the recent photos of her, I thought that she looked good: she's slim and her skin is all Hollywood glowing and her hair is wavy.  However, I am NOT supposed to think that she looked good.  I am supposed to think that she looks HORRIBLE!  And that she may have had the euphemistic *work* done, which means surgery to help her look like an idealized version of herself.  And she should not be allowed to have had *work* done unless done by the doctors who have never met her who say that she looks like she had the *work.*  Gah!  It's not like anyone expects actors and celebutantes to look good and perfect ALL of the TIME even when they have just given BIRTH or gotten out of a SWIMMING POOL or off of an AIRPLANE or while they are eating or anything.

I know that I look exactly the same as I did 15 years ago, so why shouldn't RZ?  The audacity of aging!  And of cosmetic surgery!

So, I am off to crawl into a hole because I do not look like the Working Mother that I am and because I think that RZ looks good and that it's her beeswax if she wants to have surgery.

On Gin

If you are drinking a drink that does not contain gin, it is not a Martini. I don't care how cute the name is -- Chocotini, Limontini, Pumpkintini -- it's not a Martini. Because a Martini has gin.

 There are more brands of gin out there than ever: lovely, small batch potions, with various levels of Christmas trees. Hendricks Gin, which has become popular, is botanical and flowery and tastes best with cucumber. I like my gin with lime and simple syrup (a classic gimlet), and the best gins for that are Beefeaters and Gordon's: they don't compete. I also like the occasional iconic Martini, and, for that, it's a dash of vermouth, Bombay Sapphire, and as many olives as I can get (this is also called 'dinner'). If you are drinking gin with tonic water, please use decent tonic water, fresh limes, and don't waste money on name brand gin. Get some Gordon's. Same for a Negroni: spend the money on Campari and good rosso vermouth, and use some Gordon's or Beefeaters. For an Aviation, spend on Creme de Violette and Maraschino liqueur and fresh lemons with those lovely neutral gins.

A colleague today told me that gin is the only spirit distilled on the basis of taste instead of time. I say, bully to that.

Apple Picking. Or Purgatory

When I picked up the kids from their basketball clinic yesterday at 12 (because of the faux-holiday), I had plans.  It would, I thought, be a great day to either go hiking at Purgatory Chasm; do a little Urban Hiking in Boston, hitting the MFA and the ICA to get some culture on; or to ride bikes along the Charles into Harvard Square.  I presented these options at lunch and the options were immediately dismissed because the Friends were going to Honey Pot Hill Orchard to go Apple Picking!

I knew that I was defeated.  This is because of the power of the Friends. I used to be cool and I used to have the best ideas and now I am only as good as the amount of time I spend doing what all of the other parents do so that my kids are with their friends as close to 16 hours per day as possible.  I tried.  I laid out my three paltry substitutes for Honey Pot Hill.  They were rejected.  Immediately.  On the grounds that there would be no Friends at any of the places I wanted to go.

And so we got in the car and drove for 45 minutes (it was a pretty drive and relatively traffic- and construction-free) to get to the land of Chaos and Bedlam.  I should have turned around and gone hiking along the Assabet River as soon as I saw the first police officer directing traffic.  The second police officer directed us to a parking lot where parking lot attendants directed us to a parking space.  I wondered if Bono or Taylor Swift or Tom and Gisele were picking apples, too.

No, they were not.  Everyone else in the world was, however.

So we parked and immediately there was a scramble for my PHONE to see the TEXTS from the FRIENDS' mom so that we could find the FRIENDS.

The Friends had not yet arrived, so we went to look at the animals, which made me very sad, because there were hundreds of people staring at three little pink pigs, two goats, two sheep, some chickens, and some rabbits.  Less farm animals than sideshow.  The pigs were even made to hang out in front of three dog houses -- you guessed it -- made out of bricks, straw, and twigs, respectively.  I was grateful that there was no wolf in evidence.

Still awaiting the Friends, we selected a pumpkin to bring home and walked with our 26 pounder, which cost $14, back to the car.

The Friends arrived.  The kids were hungry.  There was a farm store with a long line and there was a grill with a longer line and there was a bakery with a line that rivaled the lines outside the Apple Store when the new iThings are released.  We were told that the caramel apples were not in the Farm Store, and so we got out of line and went to leave, only to see a tray of caramel apples near the register.  We got back in line.  As we got to the tray of caramel apples, they were purchased, one by one, until there was only one left.  With nuts.  We had five kids with us.  We got out of line again.  

We went to another window without a line, where we were told that that window was for Family Fun Pack, which came with a caramel apple, an apple cider donut, and apple cider.  Only we couldn't BUY the Family Fun Pack there, we had to buy it in Parking Lot B.  Wherever that was.  

So, we walked over to the hayride, where we were allowed to buy a Family Fun Pack, which cost $16 and included a small bag for apple picking and a hayride and a Hedge Maze.  For one person.  We figured that took care of one kid's rides and three kid's snacks, and the apple picking, so we bought one, paid $2 each for everyone else for the hayride, and got on the hay bails.  The tractor dumped us in the middle of the orchard, which actually was lovely, except that there were 10,000 people there and smooshed apples everywhere, making it slippery, so, inevitably, my younger kid fell in the smooshed apple and got smooshed apple all over himself.  The other kids were all climbing precariously perched ladders.  How much do these people pay for insurance at Honey Pot Hell?

When we got back to the Maze, we discovered that the Family Fun Pack ticket was lost.  The kids did the Maze (at a cost of $4 per kid), and the other parent found a nice Honey Pot Hell Employee, who believed her that her ticket had been lost and got her a caramel apple, a cider donut, and an apple cider.  This took care of the 3 youngest kids.  The two bigger kids went back to look at the pigs and I got in the Bakery Line, which was not a line but a chaotic crush of people wanting their donuts and caramel apples.  I waited 20 minutes.  The line was no closer to the bakery window.  I pleaded with the two older kids to allow me to get out of the line and told them that I would find them a caramel apple somewhere else.  I did not specify a time frame for this.

We got back in the car and my older kid, the one who didn't get a caramel apple, asked where we would get one.  I drove the 45 minutes back to Waltham and then to the other side of town and, once there, went to the little Wagon Wheel farm stand, where they had caramel dipping sauce for apples, but no caramel apples.  So, the older kid, who was stoic, opted for a chocolate Dracula head on a lollipop stick.

We got home and I swore to my husband that I will NEVER go apple picking again, unless it is at an orchard where there are apples on trees and no amusement park accoutrements and no other people.

What Holiday?

Americans: can we please get our act together with the whole *what constitutes a day off* thing?  Today is Columbus Day, celebrating a guy who did not *discover* America and was actually, according to some of the guys who sailed with him, a sick, depraved, cruel excuse for a man.  My kids have off from school.  Their out-of-school-time program is closed.  We won't get mail and the banks are closed, which doesn't mean much because who goes to the actual bank anymore anyway?

My place of work, however, and that of most others, is open.  Retail businesses are all open with their Columbus Day $14.92 specials.  Unless you are a person who works in a bank or at a non-profit organization, or in education, you are probably working today.  Unless you had to use a vacation day or a sick day to stay at home to watch the kids.

I spent many years working in direct patient care in the hospital setting.  My co-workers and I were always bemused at our non-healthcare friends who expected to not work on, not just Thanksgiving Day, but the day after.  And it's not just healthcare people: who do you think is working at the restaurants you go to on Thanksgiving, or the movie you go see on Christmas Day, or the hotel you stay at on the Fourth of July?  People who are working, that's who.

The holidays can't be separated from the demands of retail: President's Day demands that you buy a Car.  Now.  In fact, I cannot believe that I am not somewhere RIGHT NOW getting my 14.92% OFF of EVERYTHING.  Soon, it will be the time to shop for Thanksgiving, because you must need another turkey-shaped soup tureen and orange tablecloth to go with your Pilgrims.

So, when I am made Empress of Everything, I will pick ten days out of the year on which no one will work, except for the hospital peeps, who will get super-triple-overtime, because I will remember my friends when I am Empress.

Update: the Things for the Car were even more Costly than Initially Thought.

Loaded kids into Darling Husband's car to go get DH at work so that he could drop me at the Car Service Place.  Upon arriving at the Car Service Place, I was presented with a bill for the Things for the Car and the bill had a whole lot of numbers on it.  The big number at the bottom was ONE THOUSAND four HUNDRED US American dollars.  Which is a lot of greenery. Or plastic.  Because of course it went on the Plastic because, while I have $1400 US American dollars, if I spent all of them at the car place, there would be not enough for the Food and the Mortgage and the Electricity and the SpongeBob Station (which actually might save some sturm and drang in the  mornings, so is something that I should think about.)

And now, it is cold and dreary and, because it is Saturday, the Kids don't want to watch the teevee; they want to DO things.  Things that involve ME.

#gonnabealongday

The Annals of the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Morning

I know that you will read this and wonder what the aitch ee double hockey sticks is wrong with me.  Because I know that you are able to get yourself and your kids out the door without having it look or sound like Army Basic Training.  But for me, this is a pretty routine morning and this morning was even worse than most.  Forthwith:

• The small kid wakes up at 0600, crawls into my bed, demands things that I do not immediately produce, so he wakes his dad instead and continues this until his demands are met
• Please note that the smaller child is almost eight and is physically able to produce most of these things (juice, cereal) himself, however, he loves an audience
• At 0730, I drag older kid from his bed.  He comes downstairs and immediately jumps on the computer to look at his Fantasy Football team.  It is Friday morning and none of his players played in any Thursday night games.
• 0735: tell older kid to come into kitchen and eat breakfast
• 0740: tell younger kid to get dressed because he has finished breakfast
• 0745: tell older kid that he cannot watch SpongeBob in the morning because it has a strange hypnotic power over him and we have agreed that there can be no watching of the Sponge on school mornings because of the strange hypnotic power.
• 0747: tell younger kid to get dressed.  Tell him it's cold outside.
• 0748: tell older kid to turn off SpongeBob
• 0750: younger kid presents with the flimsiest of shorts and a very rumpled t-shidt that may or may not have holes in it.  When questioned about his clothing choice, he tells me that he has gym today.
• 0751: locate remote for the teevee and turn off SpongeBob
• 0752: tell older kid to finish toast. Remind him that he has to fill out math and reading logs and place them in his folder and place the folder in the backpack; get dressed; and brush his teeth.
• 0755: tell younger kid to fill out reading log and place folder in backpack and to brush teeth and then put on shoes
• 0800: older kid is calmly sorting through a laundry basket because he needs the orange 'elite' socks.  Tell him to get two matching socks, a shirt, and pants and to get dressed.
• 0810: older kid is dressed in shorts and wearing orange elite socks.  He cannot find his math log.
• 0815: younger kid is outside playing in mud or some other dirty substance.  Tell him to brush his teeth.
• 0817: tell younger kid to come in and brush his teeth.  Tell older kid to complete his logs and put them in his folder in his backpack and to brush his teeth and to put on his shoes.
• 0818: Give the two minute warning.
• 0821: older kid is calmly and patiently drawing a very detailed math log on a sheet of paper because he cannot find his math log.  
• 0822: tell older kid to brush his teeth, put his logs in his folder, put his folder in his backpack, put on his shoes, get a hoodie and get OUT THE DOOR to walk to school, which has EARLY RELEASE today
• 0823: older kid tells me that none of this is done because I am yelling at him and so he can't get any of it done and it would all be done if I wasn't yelling at him
• 0824: I yell some more.  I am not proud of this.
• 0825: younger kid, trying to be delightful and helpful, tells me that he packed his own snack.  I realize that I have not packed the snacks.  I yell again.
• 0826: older kid is now sobbing.
• 0827: younger kid, who is usually the one who is in trouble, is basking in the fact that he actually DOES have his shoes on, his logs in his folder, his teeth brushed, and his clothes on.
• 0828: leave to watch younger kid walk to end of road while older kid tries to compose himself.  Older kid is yelling that this is ALL MY FAULT for yelling.
• 0829: older kid comes out.  I make him stop and shake my hand so that we can part friends. He refuses. I tell him to consider the repercussions of his actions. He gives in and grudgingly shakes my hand, then turns and walks to school.
• 0835: I get into car, push the ignition, and the coolant light comes on and flashes and tells me to CONSULT THE SERVICE MANUAL.  I drive to the VW Service Center instead.
• 0915: VW calls me to tell me that it will cost $800 to fix the Things.
• 0930: Walk to Darling Husband's place of work to get his car to drive home.
• 0945: cancel appointment with customer; reschedule for Monday, then realize that there is no school on Monday and I only have a place to put the kids for 3 hours in the morning.
• 0950: Wonder how much gin is left in the cupboard.

Endemic

There is much hand-wringing and concern and, even, panic over the Ebola virus.  There is considerably less panic about Enterovirus D68, even though it's exponentially more likely that you, or your neighbor, or your cousin's kid will get EV-D68 than Ebola.  And still, many Americans won't get their flu shot, which is exponentially more likely to infect than either EV-D68 or Ebola.  I guess we like the adrenaline rush of the panic.  Sigh.

What's endemic and largely ignored and is killing us and hurting us in large numbers is something much more insidious: violence.

I just heard the story (yes, I'm late to the game in this case) of the Freshman boys in Sayreville, NJ who were hazed by upperclassmen.  This hazing wasn't the despicable yet widely accepted punching, shoving, shaming, and other bullying tactics.  This involved digital anal rape while the Freshman boys were held down by other teammates.  And THEN the 13 and 14 year olds were made to LICK the finger just used to rape them.

How did the upperclassmen think of this sadistic rite of passage?  It was done to them.

Let's not pile on Sayreville and think that it's in any way isolated.  Violence is endemic in our society and we are doing very little to stop it.  While NFL players get the spotlight, don't forget that Domestic Violence is an epidemic that isn't going anywhere: facts.  Neither is child abuse, even when the cameras go away from that house of horrors in Blackstone, MA where the bodies of three infants were found along with children who were obviously maltreated.  Then, of course, there's the gun violence.  For every Sandy Hook or Aurora, as horrifying as those are, there's somebody getting shot right about now, since the rate of firearm homicide is about 30 per day.  [Please note that the stats from the Bureau of Justice are intended to show how the rate of firearm violence has DECREASED.  God help us if 11,000 deaths per year is a good thing.]  There's the father of two who made the mistake of confronting a guy with a short trigger and a loaded gun over a driving dispute.

After the shooting at the Navy Yard in Washington, DC, the Chief Medical Officer and Trauma Surgeon spoke so movingly and eloquently.  When she said, though, that "this is not America," I think that she was wrong.  I think that it is, sadly and tragically, America.  And that only Americans can change the culture of violence here.

Where, exactly, is Garnet Hill and how do I get there?

Despite my best efforts to STOP the onslaught of the glossy catalogs that show up uninvited in my mailbox and stuff the recycling bin, they still show up.  And some of them are like shopping porn.  Of those that I cannot simply place in the bin without lovingly paging through them are:

• Athleta.  Because, if I stare at this catalog long enough, I will get toned abs and learn how to surf
• Boden, which takes me to Hampstead Heath, where I spend my days at the Tate and my nights at fabulous soirees with people who know the Royals
• And, most scintillating of all, Garnet Hill.

So, where IS Garnet Hill?  I know who lives there: beautiful blonde women who can wear casual-chic all week long and who have adorable daughters and whose handsome husbands show up once a year at  Christmastime, draped in cashmere and wearing slippers.  These women are tall and athletic and have amazing hair.  Even though they don't work in traditional business, evidenced by their attire (except, maybe, the Eileen Fisher line, which I'll get to in a moment), they can afford Chan Luu jewelry and $350 Frye boots and lots of cashmere. 

And it doesn't stop there.  No!  It migrates to their homes, where their housekeepers make up the beds with Eileen Fisher quilted silk comforters that cost more than one month's mortgage.  And the sheets that are made by hand by elves in Switzerland from the strands of little Alpine flowers.  And the  PILLOWS!  And the RUGS!  And the tchochkes!

It's enough to make my heart race and my credit card leap from my wallet because if I get the cashmere sweater, surely I will grow seven inches and suddenly sprout golden highlights in my hair and my husband will wear SLIPPERS and I will go to bed at night in the most beautiful bed EVER which will NEVER be wrecked by my kids, because my boys will morph into well-behaved, beautifully dressed little girls.  And I will reach into my Italian leather bag to replace my wallet and I will be HAPPY!

So, if you know how to get to Garnet Hill, please let me know.  I know I'd be happy there.

The Carbon Footprint of my New Shoes

Two weeks ago, after sending back a pair of shoes to 6pm because they were fugly upon arrival, I ordered up these Geox booties from Yoox.  Yum.

Yesterday, I went onto yoox.com to see where the aitch ee double hockey sticks they were because a girl needs her new shoes.  And this is what I found:

Next Scheduled Event:  Monday,10/06/2014 by 10:00 A.M.

Location	Date	Local Time	Activity
East Boston, MA, United States	10/04/2014	7:10 A.M.	Departure Scan
	10/04/2014	6:19 A.M.	Arrival Scan
Louisville, KY, United States	10/04/2014	4:19 A.M.	Departure Scan
	10/04/2014	12:39 A.M.	Import Scan
Louisville, KY, United States	10/03/2014	5:02 A.M.	Warehouse Scan
	10/03/2014	12:57 A.M.	Your package will be held at a warehouse until it is released by the clearance agency. / Your package was released by the clearing agency.
	10/03/2014	12:57 A.M.	Your package was released by the clearing agency.
Louisville, KY, United States	10/03/2014	12:50 A.M.	Import Scan
Louisville, KY, United States	10/02/2014	11:41 A.M.	Import Scan
	10/02/2014	1:43 A.M.	Your package will be held at a warehouse until it is released by the clearance agency.
	10/02/2014	12:09 A.M.	Arrival Scan
Koeln, Germany	10/01/2014	8:54 P.M.	Departure Scan
Koeln, Germany	09/30/2014	3:52 P.M.	Arrival Scan
Nurnberg, Germany	09/30/2014	9:41 A.M.	Departure Scan
	09/30/2014	9:30 A.M.	Arrival Scan
Milano, Italy	09/29/2014	9:00 P.M.	Departure Scan
	09/29/2014	1:52 P.M.	Export Scan
	09/29/2014	1:50 P.M.	Warehouse Scan
	09/29/2014	9:54 A.M.	Your package is at the clearing agency awaiting final release. / Your package was released by the clearing agency.
	09/29/2014	6:55 A.M.	Your package is at the clearing agency awaiting final release.
Milano, Italy	09/27/2014	7:00 A.M.	Arrival Scan
Bologna, Italy	09/27/2014	4:00 A.M.	Departure Scan
Bologna, Italy	09/26/2014	8:04 P.M.	Arrival Scan
Bentivoglio, Italy	09/26/2014	7:50 P.M.	Departure Scan
	09/26/2014	6:49 P.M.	Location Scan
Italy	09/26/2014	1:01 P.M.	Order Processed: Ready for UPS

The enviable passport of my new kicks.  What do I need to do to offset the carbon footprint of these babies?

A Cautionary Tale: Cooking while Drinking may Lead to Unintended Pasta

We got home from Waltham Fields with our share yesterday (which, of course, required the Boyz, an additional five-year old borrowed from the neighbor, and me to halt the railroad track construction TWICE as we carried our wagon over the tracks and on down Beaver Street) and made this for lunch:

It was delish.  

Inspired, I made Mommy Chicken for my kids for dinner (chicken breast pounded flat and then dipped in egg, flour, and panko bread crumbs and fried in a little canola oil) and then took out the cod from Red's Best that I got with my weekly order from Farmers to You and prepared to cook it for Darling Husband and me for our dinner.

I found this recipe on Epicurious and poured myself a glass of Albarino and started cooking.  DH hates mushy fish and I hate fried food, so it's hard to find a fish dish that works for both of us.  I usually resort to fish tacos.  This, though, promised awesomeness, along with bonus actual SAUSAGE for DH (I think that he would eat plywood if I told him that there was chorizo on it.  Which is actually an idea to get him to eat tofu. Hmmm.)  So, since the fish was cooked on the stove until there's a nice crustiness to the bottom and then finished in the oven and topped with toasted breadcrumbs (I used more of the panko, toasted in a wok, because all of the other pans were in the sink.  Don't judge me) and the CHORIZO, it was crunchy, fresh cod delight all around.  Served with some steamed green beans.  And more wine.

Which inspired me even more, so I took the escarole from the fridge and went onto the next recipe: escarole soup.  I poured another glass.  The albarino was really good and I would recommend it to other Sauvignon Blanc, Sancerre fans out there. I cannot, however, recommend finishing the bottle while cooking.  I should also point out that my approach to cooking is to read the recipe, assume that I have memorized it, and proceed.  As most people know, alcohol impairs both memory and judgment, and so I sometimes get some interesting outcomes.  The escarole soup recipe was simple and straightforward.  Not an iota of heavy lifting, so I lifted another glass and then poured the entire package of tiny pasta into the pot.

So, what I have is teensy tiny macaroni and cheese with some escarole visible in what would have been a lovely broth.

Cheers.

Ground Control

Today, the street next to my house is closed.  It's a busy street that connects the east end of my town and all of the towns east of me to the center of Our Small City.  There are houses, an office park, a gas station, a Girl Scout Camp, a Community Farm, Bentley University, a Private School, a baseball field (which is hosting a big fair today), and two historic estates (Lyman and Stonehurst, the Paine Estate) along the two mile length of the road.  And it is closed, which is annoying and inconvenient and a pain in the arse.  

But that's not what this is about.  No, what this is about is the police details that accompany every single construction project everywhere ever.

I am a supporter of community police and I think that, in general, police have a pretty crappy job and that they should be able to supplement their income with overtime.  Also, having police presence along a gridlocked road probably goes a long way to stop people from actively killing each other while trying to cut in front of cars in a lane closure.  The police are very helpful at directing traffic.  When they do that.

What bugs me is how many of the police officers stationed at construction sites do NOT direct traffic or assist motorists in any way.  Instead, they WATCH the construction.  As if they are supervising the work.  Their backs are typically turned away from the traffic which they are supposed to be directing and they are watching the diggers and the jackhammers and the guys who are in the holes in the ground.  Meanwhile, there are jackaninnies trying to avoid the delay by DRIVING ON SIDEWALKS or making U-turns in the middle of intersections with pedestrian crosswalks or driving up in the Left Turn Only lane and then trying to cut into the right lane because the jackaninnies are MORE IMPORTANT THAN ANYONE ELSE.

Instead of observing the construction workers, I would like to see the police officers ARREST THE JACKANINNIES and put them in Bad Driver Jail, which will teach them a Thing.

Or, the police officers could just direct the traffic.

LHRD

Love Hate Relationship Disorder
http://www.buzzfeed.com/ryankincaid/first-world-problems-people-had-at-whole-foods#1v9cw1h

Just stop already

Over at the Bloggess, Jenny Lawson is getting the same panicked e-mail messages as I am.  Messages from the Democratic National Committee and the Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee and EMILY's List and ActBlue and Organizing for America (which used to be Obama for America, but now that Barry's in his second term, I guess that he has already established himself for America.)  The messages are sent from Very Important People.  The people who send the e-mail messages vary: if I don't respond to Bill Clinton (and who wouldn't respond to Bill?), I get a message from Debbie Wasserman Schultz.  If I ignore Debbie, Deval Patrick, the Governor of Massachusetts, sends me a message.  If I don't write back to Deval, I get a message from Elizabeth Warren, who seems to have become Everyone's Favorite Democrat.  And then there are the messages from Michelle Obama!  Michelle.  Obama.  Whoa.

What do Bill, Debbie, Deval, and Elizabeth want?  Money.  They want me to give money.  And if I don't give the money to the DNC or the DCCC or ActBlue or EMILY's List, it is MY fault, and mine alone, that Democrats will not hold the Senate in November and the Republicans will retain control of the house.

That's quite a burden.  And so I look at my checking account and it still says that there is enough money to pay for groceries and the mortgage and that we are still contributing monthly to Jack's and Finn's college savings accounts and that, after all of that is done, there isn't much left.

A few of the messages stated that if I gave money, I would be entered in a contest to see President Obama in LA.  There was one that incentivized with a trip to Washington DC to have dinner with Hillary Clinton, Joe Biden, and Barry and Michelle.

Wait a minute: if I give money, say $20, the D-organization is going to spend $1000 or more to fly me somewhere?  How about I just don't give any money and you guys keep the $1K in the bank, which will net you $980?

Another message, from ActBlue, used this logic:
The GOP is on the ropes!  They can't raise anymore money!  We are raising more money than they are!  So you should give more money NOW!

Um, OK.  Have these people not heard of Compassion Fatigue?  Or The Boy Who Cried 'Wolf'? Or The Woman Who Unsubscribed from All Organizations Because She Couldn't Stand Looking at Her Inbox?

This is, of course, happening to my friends on the right, too.  I know that they are getting letters from Marco Rubio and Jeb Bush and Barbara Bush and George Bush and Bobby Jindal and Scott Brown and maybe even from the Crazy Sisters, Sarah Palin and Michelle Bachman.

The panicked pandering is happening on the state level, too.  Martha Coakley never hesitates to remind me that she is a woman and that, because we both have lady parts, she knows what is best for me and Charlie Baker cannot know.  I am sure that if Charlie Baker had my e-mail address, he would send me a message that began 'Dear Sweetheart.'

Maybe, just maybe, what Bill, Debbie, Hillary, Elizabeth, Deval, Martha, Joe, Hillary, Jeb, Barbara, George, Michelle, Joe, and Marco should consider investing in is a way to do this whole election thing without it having to cost a gazillion dollars.  Maybe that would help elected officials actually do the job they were elected to do instead of needing to raise money for the next race as soon as they win.  Maybe it would get all of the special interest groups out of it and make people get information on candidates someplace other than from attack ads on the teevee.

For now, for me, it's all about the 'delete' button.

Zackly

Thank you, reader Jill, for this. Perfect! A flowchart!

What Not to Wear

Yesterday, I attended a conference for health care professionals as an exhibitor.  I wore a navy pinstripe sheath that I got at Nordstrom 2 years ago,  my favorite navy, 3-button jacket from Pink Tartan that is flecked with silver metallic thread, and a pair of tan (I hate the word 'nude', because I am not the color of these shoes when I am nude and I don't think anyone else is, either) slingbacks from Cydwoq because they are so very comfortable and I was going to be standing for most of the day.

I attend these conferences about six times each year, and at every conference, I am always appalled at what the attendees are wearing.  I don't expect health care professionals, for whom this is a day off, to show up in a suit, however, do they have to show up in clothes that they could have (and may have) worn to the gym?

The misappropriation of workout clothes for things other than actually working out drives me batty.  I'm not necessarily talking about the ubiquitous black stretch pants (I'll get there in a minute); rather, I mean nylon shirts emblazoned with Nike swooshes or Puma pumas or the UnderArmour logo.  I am talking about sweatpants.  I am talking about running shoes when there is no running taking place (and, from the looks of it, there hasn't been in some time.)  It is a look that is sloppy and unprofessional and says, "I care so little for how I look and how I am perceived that I will just wear these gym clothes.  I have no respect for myself or my profession."  And it is EVERYWHERE.  Is it really that hard to put on a pair of nice jeans in a  dark wash (one idea ), or a pair of flat front khakis (these work) and a sweater?  And, for footwear, if one must wear sneakers, why not some nice vintage tennies or even a slip-on pair of Vans?

While some women do show up wearing the gym attire shown above, it's relatively rare.  The Fashion Don't committed by womenfolk again and again is confusing leggings with pants.  Leggings are meant to be worn under a tunic, or a dress, or a long cardigan.  Pants have structure, and seaming, and zippers, and pockets.  If the subtle topography of your butt is apparent through the fabric, then you cannot wear them out of the house.  One possible exception may be a pair of well made, black, bootleg (not tight around the calf and ankle) stretch pants, like those sometimes worn for yoga.  Well-made, black, bootleg stretch pants (like these ) can be combined with a nice jacket or sweater and nice shoes or ankle boots and can pass, especially for a long plane or car ride.  Otherwise, get a skirt, or a pair of actual pants and some actual shoes and wear them.

Of course, there is the other side of the coin, which is "trying too hard".  I have seen women wearing stiletto heels at 7AM and I have seen these same women lurching through the buffet lunch with less grace than a stilt-walker.  Inappropriate dressing is as wrong as underdressing, so save the Carine Roitfeld heels for your trip to New York Fashion Week.

The final sin is that of wearing clothing that does not fit.  If there is clothing in your closet that does not fit, you should get rid of it.  Immediately.  Because the next time there is a reason to wear something presentable, whether it's a professional conference or a funeral, you need something reliable that fits you now.  Not the thing that fit you 8 years ago.  If you have worked hard to lose weight and have been successful, it is not okay to just pull the belt tighter.  And if you haven't been successful in losing weight, even Spanx aren't going to help you.

When I worked in hospitals, I wore scrubs to work every night.  Light blue scrubs, usually with a long sleeved tee-shirt underneath because I was always cold.  I understand that dressing like that becomes habit -- if you're a pre-school teacher who wears yoga pants and oversized sweaters everyday, it's hard to make the switch to a different style of dressing.  Give a thought as to how you want to be seen and perceived and dress for where you are going and what you're doing.  Dress respectfully.

If I had my way, we would all be forced back into the early 1960's, before the Summer of Love, when everyone wore a hat, and women wore gloves, and people dressed up to go on airplanes and addressed each other as Mister and Miss.  Of course, we would go there only sartorially, without repression, and with civil rights.  And we would look much better once we got there.

Offensive Driving

Most of the jobs I have held as an adult have required me to drive: I worked in Home Health in the mid-80's, driving into all of Boston's neighborhoods, the projects in Lynn and Charlestown, into Chelsea and Malden and Revere and Medford.  In my first sales job, I covered all six New England states, plus upstate NY and, oh, eastern Canada, including the Maritimes.  Although I did fly on occasion, I spent untold hours on Interstate 90 driving from Boston to Buffalo, and often a little side trip to Toronto.  I have driven in Quebec in snowstorms and I have driven to Presque-Isle, Maine.  Other jobs have had me driving rental cars all over Texas (DFW to Lubbock during a thunderstorm that grounded the plane); in Pittsburgh (where they stop at yield signs and call the shoulder of the road a 'berm' and frown on drivers who pass left-turning cars by using the berm); in Atlanta (where there are not highways, but instead 10 lanes of cars in a parking lot and where there is general panic if something happens, like, say, rain).  I have covered New York City as a territory, where each borough has its own driving style, each a bit more manic that the other.  I would be remiss if I left off my hometown of Philadelphia, where the main thoroughfare into the city from the west is the truly death-defying roadway lovingly renamed the Sure-kill Distressway.

This background and experience makes me, of course, an expert in, not only driving, but also in critiquing the driving habits of everyone else everywhere.  So in this season of interminable gridlock, allow me to offer a few observations.

• Massachusetts recently embarked on a Public Service Announcement campaign by placing LED signs along highways admonishing drivers to "Use Yah Blinkah" (translation: use the directional signal when changing lanes.)  If I had a nickel for every time I have had that thought and even said it aloud to fellow motorists, with a few colorful adjectives added, I probably wouldn't be sitting here blogging about it because I would be in my home in the South of France.
• Yielding.  This is a dichotomous topic, because there are the people who WILL NOT YIELD when there is a lane closure (probably because half the people wanting to merge into the lane will not USE A BLINKAH and they get mad and just tailgate the car in front not letting ANYONE in).  Then there are the people, who possibly grew up in Pittsburgh, who STOP at YIELD signs, a practice which makes me yell things with many colorful adjectives.
• Jake-braking.  Why?  Why would you do that?  You are all hacked off because you perceive that I did something that was offensive to you.  Like driving in a lane of traffic trying to get somewhere.  So, you maneuver ahead of me and then slam on your brakes.  Because if that caused me to hit you, or, more likely, the guy behind me to hit me, then that would be really cool and that would SHOW me.  Really?  Think this one through.
• The opposite of jake-breaking, which is tailgating.  If I am in the left lane and you want to go way faster than I am going because you CAN, I can only merge to the right when there are NO CARS OR TRUCKS IN THE WAY.  I cannot just imagine my car safely to the right so that you can pass me; I actually need to move my car into the lane.  And, BTW, I am probably doing 80 if the speed limit is 65, so you might consider your rate of travel and cost of the speeding ticket.
• Side view mirrors are on cars and trucks for your use when changing lanes or parking in a tight spot or even just STAYING in a lane.  Consider using them.
• Parking lots have designated spaces with LINES and the idea is to put your car or your astoundingly oversized SUV in between TWO  of the lines and parallel to the lines.  If you can't use your side view mirrors to navigate the SUV between two lines, perhaps you should consider downsizing.
• Rear view mirrors are for seeing things behind you, not for make-up application or just gazing at your handsome mug, nor are they for storing your rosary beads and tassel from high school graduation ten years ago.  Consider using the rear view mirror when backing up, so that you don't hit things like other cars or dogs or short, middle-aged, hobbling women.

I am certain that there are more constructive ideas for fellow motorists.  What are yours?

Apropos

Many thanks to Michele for sending this apropos photo along.  Yes, I do.

Weekends stink

Really.  Here's why:
The weekends used to be fun, restful, and quiet.  They would begin on Fridays, typically at a pub or a club or a bar or a restaurant or a party, always with friends.  Saturdays would feature laundry and a little house cleaning; exercise of some sort; trips to the beach; shopping for things other than food; maybe dinner out.  I would hit the 8AM service at the Church of the Advent on Sunday mornings, because of the quiet, meditative service with no music and few parishioners.  For the 15 years (but who's counting) of our courtship, DH and I would ride our bikes along the Charles into Boston nearly every Sunday.  We would buy a NY Times (an actual paper version) and ride with it to the Esplanade and we would sit there and drink iced tea and read the entire paper and then ride back to Watertown (me) and Newton (he) and catch up later for take-out and football or movies on TV.

So what happened?  Matrimony and home ownership and, of course, the kids.

I don't blame matrimony, because, up until the part with the kids, very little changed in our weekend routine.  Home ownership, though, has been one of the most overrated rites in which I've willingly participated.  Why can't I just call the landlord anymore?  Life was significantly easier when I wasn't the one who was responsible for the leaves in the yard and the grass and the crumbling steps and cracked driveway and damp basement and perennial garden and trees (I am responsible for the trees! In my yard!) and the garage that may someday just fall off of the rest of the house and the snow removal and the planting of the bulbs.  So there went Saturdays.

And then there are the kids.  And I don't blame them, because when they were small, there wasn't much that was expected.  A few birthday parties; walks to the park; a play date here or there.  But the kids got bigger.  And the Law is, apparently, that Down Time is a Great Sin.

When I was a kid, back in the Dark Ages, we spent Saturday mornings watching TV.  Unsupervised, unstopped, largely ignored.  TV was the babysitter.  When we got bored with the TV, we went outside and played with the other kids.  Again, unsupervised and largely ignored.  I remember dance lessons when I was very little, and Girl Scouts, which took place after school.  Organized sports didn't begin until 7th grade.  Until then, we just played.  We played hide and seek, and Barbies, and with blocks (building houses for the Barbies), and stickball, and kickball.  We rode bikes.  We read books.  We went to Sunday School and then we went home and played.  Sometimes, someone would take us to a playground or park, but usually we were expected to entertain ourselves.  That was it.  I truly do not remember any parental involvement in all of this unless we got in trouble for sneaking through the back yard of the mean old lady who lived behind our house or when I fell and broke my arm.

Today, there are all sorts of child-related things that take precedent over everything else.  My two boys are slackers in our neighborhood because they typically do only 1 or maybe 2 sports per season.  My friends who have girls spend inordinate amounts of time shuttling from dance to gymnastics to basketball to Brownies.  Some friends have kids, boys and girls, who play ice hockey, which is the largest parental sacrifice of all.  There is soccer (and travel soccer), basketball, lacrosse, baseball (and summer baseball, and City League Baseball, and Fall Ball), Karate, Pop Warner football, flag football, and skills clinics for all of them.  There are music lessons and music recitals and dance recitals and children's theater and Girl Scouts and Boy Scouts and CCD and Hebrew school.  There isn't enough time on Saturdays to fit all of this in, so it spills over into Sundays.

AND, parents are expected to BE THERE for ALL of it, often including practices.  Frankly, when I saw my then-five-year old play rookie baseball once, that was all I need to see, thank you very much.  So, I started volunteering at the Little League Shack and friends would come over to tell me about the spectacular play my son had made in Center Field.  If a kid in Rookie Little League actually gets a piece of glove on the ball, that's a spectacular play.  I think that, when I am ensconced in my nursing home rocking chair, I will have enough memories of my cute little boys catching or throwing or hitting a ball to fill my time.

So, if this is the expectation in grade school, what happens next?  When am I able to miss a game?  The answer right now is: if the other kid has a game in a different city at the same time.  Parents: how have we allowed this to happen?

I want my weekends back.

Proof

This.  Decline and Fall, People.
With thanks -- I think -- to friend Lakay.

Finished

I am standing near a reception area.
I am at a table in a restaurant.
I am standing near a counter that has a cash register on it and I am holding items from the store.
I am standing in a building and am looking studiously at a directory or map.

In all of the above scenes, a person who is employed in the business of the place approaches me and says, "All set?"  or, the more formal, "Are you all set?"

The next time this happens, which will probably be today, I will again try to refrain from shouting, "What does that EVEN MEAN?!"

Because I am NOT "all set."  That is what happens to pudding or concrete or a perm or even Jello.  It also happens to opinions and can be used to describe someone's ways.

I may be finished with my meal, or I may have completed my shopping, or I may be lost (which is often the case), or I may be waiting to speak with a receptionist.  I am most decidedly NOT "all set."

I can't remember the first time I heard the phrase, so I can't tell if it's a New England thing that spread like Dutch Elm disease up and down the coast or if it is something invasive that entered the lexicon of familiarity as language has evolved and eroded to the point that it is somehow acceptable for people in positions of power to say "that sucks" or "what the…?" leaving off the eff at the end.

The reason that "all set" is different is this: in the scenarios where the term is most frequently used, I am a customer.  That is, I am paying for a service or products, whether it's a pedicure, a meal at a restaurant, a doctor's appointment, a department store, or the Ocean State Job Lot (and, actually, I would forgive anyone who works at the Ocean State Job Lot for using "all set.")  And "all set" has become so pervasive that it is used at places where I am spending a lot of money and expect some professionalism and deference and, even, respect.

Whatever happened to "May I help you?" or "May I clear your plate?" or "Are you ready to check out?"  "All set" is just another chink in the armor of Western Civilization, which is surely falling.  Or maybe I'm just getting old.