What’s Left to Wear?

The other night when there was “nothing on TV,” and I was not yet ready to retire with a good book, I got caught up in a “What Not to Wear” marathon. If you are unfamiliar with the program, here’s the brief synopsis: Stacy (snarky well-dressed woman) and Clinton (slightly less snarky well-dressed gay man) receive a “tip” about a person, usually a woman, who dresses badly.These women are turned in by spouses, “friends” and family members, about which I will only say this: I would never ever forgive you. Never. Often, there is a back story: the woman has recently lost weight, gotten divorced, gotten married, gotten employed, gotten unemployed…you get the picture.

Stacy and Clinton go to the scene of the crime, as it were, surprise the Subject, and tell her they’ll give her $5,000.00 to spend on a new wardrobe in New York City if she’ll abide by their rules and get rid of her old clothes. There follows a sequence of intense humiliations, including the showing of the “secret footage” of the Subject, during which her clothes are mocked, the “three-way mirror” segment in which three of the Subjects favorite outfits are explained, and then mocked, and the “ritual tossing of the clothes” during which the contents of her closet are mocked and tossed into a giant trash can. The Subject is then told The Rules by which she is to dress herself, and goes to New York where she shops, at first helplessly, while Stacy and Clinton observe (and continue to mock) from a remote location. They then swoop in to assist her on site, after which she is able to select appropriate items of clothing, after which she has all of her hair cut off and straightened (they are very big on straightening) and makeup applied by the improbably effervescent Carmindy.

There is then a “reveal,” first for Clinton and Stacy, and then at a large gathering of family and friends back home. There is much gushing about “never having felt so beautiful and empowered,” followed by footage of the Subject twirling around the local flora in a series of A-line skirts and impeccable pant suits with two-inch, pointy kitten heels. As far I am able to discern, the woman continues to have recently lost weight, gotten divorced, gotten married, gotten employed, or gotten unemployed; she is just doing it in more expensive clothes selected based on advice from Clinton & Stacy.

I’d watched the show before, and never thought much about it; I cringe when they taunt the Subject in front of the three-way mirror, and usually think they’ve done a great job when I see the “reveal.” I have picked up the odd bit of useful information about, well, what to wear, and I envy the streak of white that so perfectly sets off Stacy London’s otherwise jet-black hair. Watching the odd episode here and there, the show is entertaining and maybe even inspirational when one is in Dressing Room Hell with the pants that grip the gut and bag at the knee, and the sheer floral blouse with a semi-attached opaque lining that grabs you like an octopus and makes it nearly impossible to get the thing off over your head after you discover that it makes you look precisely like your Aunt Betsy’s love seat. I do admire the admonition to select clothes with structure in order to shape one’s body and highlight the positive, and appreciate the fact that Clinton & Stacy encourage women to embrace whatever body they have at a given moment, rather than hiding it in baggy garments or stuffing it into obscenely tiny ones in a vain attempt to be something other than what they are.

This morning, as I threw on baggy athletic pants, a seven-year-old sweatshirt with some kind of fish on the front, and my son’s soccer slides, the full impact of a “What Not to Wear” marathon hit me in mid-grungification. I am the “before.” In the clothes that I put on in the morning to write, and work, and make soup, I am wearing exactly the kind of outfit that sends Stacy and Clinton into paroxysms of giggles when they show the “secret footage” of the Subject living her daily life. These wayward and hapless women go to work, have a drink with friends, and pick up their children from school wearing baggy sweats, obscenely tight crop tops and cutoffs, flowing Bohemian gypsy garments or cutesy sweaters with appliqued cats…I own nothing obscenely tight or adorably appliqued, but I am definitely implicated in the Baggy and Bohemian categories, depending on the season.

When I worked with live people, as recently as a year ago, I dressed nicely in skirts, jackets or sweaters, and shoes or boots with at least a little heel. Back in my full-on lawyer days, I had a fabulous wardrobe of dresses, jackets, skirts and very expensive (high-heeled) shoes.  I spent my weekends grooming and petting my clothes and accessories; polishing shoes, making dry-cleaning runs, mending, replacing buttons and polishing jewelry. It is important to note that at that time, I did not have a husband, a child, or a house. Within a year of getting married and having a baby I grew out of the beautiful clothes, and acquired two dogs, one of whom ate every single expensive shoe, even the Stuart Weitzmans. Since I was working at home, and only part – time, it never made sense to me to replace an entire wardrobe of lawyer-wear so that I could stun and dazzle the kindergarten class when I went in to help them make terrariums out of soda bottles.

While they might have found my working wardrobe acceptable, I am certain that Stacy and Clinton would throw away most of my current collection. My standard at-home rotation includes a variety of athletic pants which are now too big, but which are very cozy; these are worn with T-shirts in the summer, and sweatshirts in the colder months. In the summer, I also wear long, flowing skirts with T-shirts and flip-flops. Since Stacy  & Clinton ban all T-shirts and flip-flops, and prohibit the wearing of athletic clothing anywhere other than the gym, all of my easy standards would be tossed. I would lose all of my loose, flowing summer skirts, and all of the three-quarter sleeve T-shirts that I wear with them, as well as the gauzy tops that so neatly skim my un-toned midriff.  My Sam’s soccer slides, my Ugg boots and my sneakers would be banned along with my beloved flip flops, even my very expensive Fit Flops.

My collection of knit shells and “dress” Ts would would not pass muster because they are not “structured,” and would probably be pitched in favor of something starchy and seamed, with darts to “nip me in at the smallest part of my waist.” (I believe this to be a fictional location, much like Narnia).  Realistically, I would be left with my one pair of dark-rinse, trouser-cut jeans, about 27 black skirts of various materials, shapes and lengths, the black, knit St. John suit I got from my mother in law, and three very uncomfortable pairs of black heels. I might be willing to live with that in exchange for a wad-o-cash, but I would still have issues with the premise.

The most common complaint to rise from the souls of the Subjects is that they are “losing their identity” as their beloved clothes are replaced with a series of attractive, but anonymous jackets, trousers and blouses. Many of them do come out looking objectively “better” in the context of the contemporary standards of the masses, but this is often a matter of fit, rather than the superiority of the new style. If a woman is a jeans-and-T-shirt kind of gal, why can’t she just wear appropriately fitted versions of those items, and throw on a little a Polartec when the wind blows? If I am happy in my Bohemian summer drag, with my hair un-straightened and my flip-flops flapping, why should I have to dress like June Cleaver to run to the library before the fines kick in? If no one is following us with hidden cameras, and we know enough to put on a nice dress to go to a wedding or a cocktail party, who the hell cares if we wear our Led Zeppelin T shirt to pay the bills? And if someone does care, why don’t they have something better to do? (Unless they are Our Mother, in which case an entirely different set of standards applies).

The other common issue raised by the Fashion Novitiates  is comfort. While I might be willing to give up the flip-flops for $5,000.00 and a trip to Manhattan (hell, I’d give up my liver for that) I cannot imagine converting to a life in which I had to “dress up” to go about my daily tasks. If I am going to get Sam off to school, write a blog post, do some lawyer work (at my dining room table), make turkey stock, vacuum the living room, make dinner and watch “House,” at what point do I need to be wearing tailored jeans and a fitted blouse? Do I throw on the adorable cropped jacket for peeling the carrots or checking Facebook? Will I feel any better, do better work, or become a little ray of sunshine for those around me if I am dressed better? My bet is that I would be itchy and squirmy,  unable to carry the laundry up and down the stairs in my heels, spill stock on my fitted blouse and generally find myself distracted and limited at every turn. I can vividly imagine myself casting off my new outfit in the kitchen in an Incredible Hulk-like transformation, roaring (and possibly turning chartreuse) as I stomped off to hunt for my comfy clothes and my flat shoes.

I like to look nice, I really do, and I see some value in the aspirational makeover show. I do not think, however, that it is wise to work with the premise that a woman is empowered and liberated entirely by the cut of her jib, or her jacket. I do not want to see you at a funeral in a denim mini and a racer-back tank with visible bra straps, but otherwise, I would like you dressed in a way that makes you feel comfortable and capable, and for you to be empowered by your good brain and your loving heart, with clothing as nothing more than the cherry on top (of your straightened hair).

My Dad.

On my 21st birthday my father sent me a card in his distinctive, backward-slanted hand. He had written out a quote from Yeat’s “A Prayer for my Daughter:  “May she become a flourishing hidden tree/That all her thoughts may like the linnet be,/And have no business but dispensing round/Their magnanimities of sound…”. He had read the same poem to my mother after I was born. There was no doubt then, nor has there ever been, that I had cornered the market on good fathers.

He turns 81 today, my dad, and I want to share him, just a little, with the world because he has been such a good thing in my life. Lest you should think I am so smitten that I will launch into some sort of smarmy, Hallmark-flavored tribute, I will start by telling you the bad things. My father has a martyr complex that could be used as an example in psychology classes. He is terrible with languages. When he is angry, he rarely yells, but compresses his lips into a thin, white line. My brother and I always recognized this as the most silent and deadly of “cease and desist” orders. He suffers neither fools, nor foolishness gladly, and hates sitcoms. We battled, bitterly when he tried first to teach me how to sail, and then how to drive; in the first case the cause was abandoned, in the second it was turned over to a more objective instructor. Finally, and most damningly, he folds jeans incorrectly so that a crease is created up the front of the leg. (It is possible, although I will never know for sure, that this was not, in fact, a failure on his part, but a clever and successful ploy to get me to do my own laundry).

My father was the only child of an Army officer and the first woman to graduate with a degree in chemical engineering from the University of New Hampshire. When he was young, his father was stationed overseas (most often in Aruba), and he spent most of his time with his mother, learning to sew, cook, clean and fix things. As the result of this training, he is a good cook, and taught me how to make souffles, omelettes and quiche, among other things. Big on self-determination, he insisted that I learn how to fix a faucet washer, bone a chicken, and change a tire, for which I am eternally grateful. He fixed all broken things in our house, and built bookshelves, cabinets and window seats. It never occurred to me that there was anything he couldn’t repair or create; perhaps there wasn’t.

When he was five and had missed a great deal of school due to an illness involving a high fever, two doctors came to my father’s house to test him, on the suspicion that he might have suffered brain damage. After he answered a question by demonstrating the meaning of a “trajectory,” the testing was abandoned.  When his father returned from the military, he worked as a teacher and football coach at Norwich University, in Vermont. My  grandfather, a former college football star, was a garrulous, charming extrovert nicknamed “Chief,” and although my father did eventually play football, he was a more contemplative type, and disliked being called “Little Chief.”  Although he is not particularly given to self-analysis (and would, in fact, go to great lengths to avoid being analyzed by anyone) I’ve always believed that dad’s early experiences  gave him the compassion and depth that he showed as a teacher, a father and a husband. Although I get a lot of characteristics from my mother,  I have always been temperamentally like my father: too sensitive, too analytical, too insecure and unable to relax into being loved and accepted. It is fortunate for both of us that we chose partners with the patience and will to bring us out and buck us up on a regular basis.

By the time I remember anything, Dad was a college professor, first of Humanities, and later specializing in Chinese history. It was my firm belief that he knew everything, and most of the time he did (and does). This was both a blessing and a curse. Traveling in Europe, he would often draw a crowd as he explained to us the design of Brunelleschi’s Duomo in Florence, or the symbolism in a Caravaggio painting. This was a good thing, and we were always proud to be with “that guy who knows everything, but he doesn’t work for the museum I don’t think” but the dark side emerged at home, when he was asked a “simple” question about something we were studying in school. Although we might be looking simply for confirmation that John Adams was, indeed, the second president of the United States, we were often given a lecture, after which we knew everything about Adams including the fact that he favored a little cold squab for breakfast. While other people seemed to find this an endearing and enviable quality, it is more complicated when one is thirteen and trying desperately to finish a  Social Studies worksheet before “The Partridge Family” starts.

These days, I pick his brain as often as possible. He is an atheist who knows more theology than anyone I have ever met, and he can answer questions about everything from St. Augustine to Taoism. If we watch a movie about Genghis Khan, or the exile of the Dalai Lama from Tibet, he knows whether the story line was accurate, and can often fill in the blanks created by artistic license. He can discuss with any of his grandchildren their respective studies of steam engines, Civil War Battles or condensation, and there is no pulling of intellectual punches; there is no Disney version with my dad. It is my firm belief that in a world of sound bytes and constant sensory input, it is extraordinary for our children to have the experience of listening to a natural teacher who is expecting them to rise to the occasion, hanging in and listening because they are capable and he is willing.

Smart is as smart does, though, and the ability to recite Tennyson at the drop of a hat doesn’t make anyone a good father. I have known many people who were highly intelligent, well-educated and undoubtedly well-intentioned,  yet unable to create or sustain good relationships with their children. My brother and I did not need a font of knowledge or a bookshelf designer nearly as much as we needed someone who loved our mother, treated her well, and demonstrated consistently what a good marriage can and should be. We saw a man who, despite being a reserved, Catholic-turned-atheist, willingly and graciously immersed himself in the flamboyant Jewish tribe whence came my mother. We saw compromise, we saw good sportsmanship elevated to a fine art, we saw arguments resolved in good faith and remembered with laughter, and we saw an unbreachable unit of Parents that could not be reconfigured as a triangle, no matter how hard we tried. It was, and is a template to which I refer often, and I’m pretty sure my brother does, as well. [Note: I do not mean to make it sound as if my mother was and is not an equal partner in all of this goodness; first of all, it's not her birthday, and second of all, she is a naturally ebullient, resilient and social creature who did not have as much to overcome as my father].

Finally, it is just a fact of life that a daughter needs a good father. Not a good father in the sense of material indulgence, or some kind of simpering daddy-daughter adoration fest, but a father who believes from the moment a baby girl is put into his arms, that she can do anything. My father, despite childhood struggles with weight, never, ever made me feel judged or insecure about the way I looked, or what I ate, even during my lumpiest periods. When he thought I looked pretty he told me so, and he still does. Because he has always been critical where criticism was due – particularly in relation to shoddy academic work, vile boyfriends, and terrible life choices (law school, for example), I know that his encouragement is genuine, and it means the world to me. I have always believed that I could learn anything, write anything, and endure anything because he has always believed that I could.

I might wish that he had not passed on to me his cavity-prone teeth, his sun-averse skin or his tendency towards self-criticism, but I cannot imagine a better father for me or my brother, a better husband for my mother, or a better grandfather for our children. I am lucky to have had him as long as I have, and if you have a dad, or a stepfather or a father-in-law (even if it’s not his birthday today) I think you should tell him what he means to you, even if it’s awkward, or things haven’t always gone well between you. If your father is gone, see what you remember about him that makes you smile, or think, or cry, and recognize that he is still a part of you from your crooked left ear to your sense of humor. (The last part is far too smarmy for my dad’s taste; it’s all me. I mean it, though).

Oberlin

I still remember the night in 1979 when I looked out the window of the Oberlin Inn and watched snow fall on Tappan Square. I felt a peace, and a rightness about my audition for the Oberlin Conservatory earlier that day, and about the little college, the town, and the world in general. Unfortunately, when my acceptance letters arrived in the spring of 1980 I decided to attend a conservatory in Boston because it was more prestigious and had the cache of being East Coast as opposed to keeping me in the Midwest for another four years. As it turned out, it was a bad choice, and within two years I was fighting my way back into Oberlin not as a potential cello student at the Conservatory, but hoping to be an English major in the College.

Its not nearly as easy to transfer into a good school as it is to get in as a freshman, and its even harder when you want to pursue an academic degree and you have spent the past two years studying nothing but chord progressions and the evolution of the symphonic form. I was “summoned” to Oberlin for an interview based on the mixed feelings of the admissions panel about my prospects. The head of admissions told me that they were “on the fence” and would like me to go to Oberlin and persuade them that I was a good fit with the school, notwithstanding my atrocious high school math grades and my recent history of picking The Wrong School. I took a day off from my job as a waitress, drove the four hours to Oberlin, and managed to convince the panel that I deserved the fresh start I so passionately wanted at the school with the town square, the Conservatory where I could still play my cello, and the fantastic English department.

 

Recently, my husband called me from Oberlin. He is a salesman, and his territory includes Ohio. He had never seen my alma mater, and called to tell me he was in Oberlin, wondering “where the college was.” Since we live in a town with a gigantic, sprawling, state university, it is understandable that he failed to identify the small, compact college whose Gothic spires emerge from the middle of country roads and cornfields like something out of a pop-up book. There are, I believe, dormitories at our local university that house the equivalent of Oberlin’s student body.

There aren’t many buildings at Oberlin College, but I lived, and learned and loved and cried and wrote and did a lot of growing up in most of them. I ate at Dascomb, played quartets in the Conservatory, dropped off papers at the 11th hour in Rice, and learned to love Edith Wharton in Peters. I lived in a beautiful single room in a turret in Talcott, ditched fetal pig dissection in Kettering, read Northrup Frye in the “moon” chairs of Mudd Library, and ate blueberry whole wheat doughnuts with my roommate Joan in East Hall. I ate in the vegetarian dining hall my senior year, and choked down baked tofu squares and lentil cheddar loaf while debating whether it was really music if you were just breaking a vase on a piano and then plucking the strings.

Every year I fell in love with one of my gay friends (First Larry who composed to the poems of Sylvia Plath, then Andrew who acted scenes with me for Shakespeare 301, then Jeff who played the viola in my quintet), and every year I realized that they were going to persist in their gaiety but were the dearest and most loving friends I could hope for. I was a classical DJ at the radio station, climbing up three flights of stairs once a week to spin carefully-themed programs. Every year I watched “Its a Wonderful Life” before going home for Christmas, and “The Graduate” before going home for the summer. I watched “Ghandi” at the tiny Apollo Theater off campus, eating toothpaste I had just purchased at the Ben Franklin because I had no money left for popcorn. When the time came to graduate, I was so despondent about leaving that I could not enjoy the lovely illumination ceremony that takes place in Tappan Square the night before commencement. I was convinced that there was no other place on earth that could be so right for me, and that I would never really be happy again.

Its funny to see my beloved school through the eyes of my husband, who is willing to be persuaded because he loves me, but who sees only a small-ish group of buildings in the midst of the cornfields instead of the complex, bustling, big world I have always described. “If Talcott’s on your right, then the Conservatory’s on your left,” I babbled to him excitedly “I lived there my last year! If you park in the Con lot you can get out and go to the Oberlin Co-Op, or you can drive out and see the Museum and where I took Art History classes.”

It was love at first sight for my school and me; it was my Camelot. Although I’m a little teary just at the moment thinking of a crisp fall day on Tappan Square with a weekend of Dreiser ahead of me, I feel tremendously blessed that there was such a time in my life. We should all be so lucky.

 

Checking it Twice

“The price of peace is eternal vigilance.”

-Attributed to Leonard H. Courtney

This is not about making a Christmas list, although I should do that, I guess. It is about my need to check and monitor things constantly, as if I were the Chief of the Baguette Patrol for a supercollider. Not all things. I do not monitor the dust balls in the corners of my dining room, the balance in my checking account, or Sam’s grades. These things I consider on a need-to-know basis; if company is coming, I vacuum, if I get a menacing call from Comcast, I check the bank account, and if Sam claims he has no homework for the third day in a row, I check his grades using the magic of Power School. I know people who are very concerned about one or all of the above, which is why they have cleaner houses, better cash flow and more disciplined children than I do.

The things I am compelled to monitor include my e-mail, Facebook, my blog stats, and (when I am away from my computer) my Blackberry. I cannot walk by the computer without looking at my Inbox, deleting all irrelevant items, and (unless I am dragged away by a raging family member) answering the legitimate messages. My idea of “legitimate” is very expansive, and includes comments left on Facebook, requests from my boss, and newsy missives from my friends far away. I feel a great sense of accomplishment when my Inbox is “cleaned out;” and am genuinely tormented by items that cannot readily be deleted, answered or put into a folder (because if I put them into a folder I will forget about them and fail to do something important). I will sometimes “play Inbox” as one might play Brickbreaker; sitting at the computer answering e-mails, checking back to see what’s new and requires deletion, response or filing, and getting back to answering the next one on the list. When there is nothing left, I win.

I also check blog stats as often as I can get away with it, sometimes telling myself I won’t look until after I have folded all of the laundry, sometimes having to cut a deal with me in which I can hit “refresh” after every three pieces folded. (Socks do not count until they are actually matched and rolled). I get excited by big jumps, discouraged by static figures, and intrigued by where visitors are coming from and going to. Does a surge in views of a certain post mean that it’s fabulous, and people are passing it on? (Ecstasy). Or does it mean that I stole an image of the cast of “The Hills” that everyone wants, and I come up first in a Google Image search? (Agony). If someone clicks on “feedburner” does that mean they subscribed, or that they went to look for another blog they might like better? Am I being bookmarked because they want to read what I write, or because they want to be able to find that picture of “The Hills” again? Why do I get people searching for “old tv,” “cornucopia,” “woman crying” and “jamie oliver hair” (all real searches) instead of “bullying,” “popularity” or “parenting?!” (It occurs to me that if I stopped poaching images from other sources I wouldn’t have this problem, but it seems unlikely that I will reform. How else am I going to get a picture of a baguette falling into a supercollider?!).

I monitor Facebook to make sure that I never. miss. anything. (Admittedly bizarre behavior for a person who famously doesn’t answer her phone much of the time). I do not want to miss the rare sighting of an elusive college friend, a cute YouTube video with dancing babies, or an opportunity to be the first to make the witty comment. When I have to step away from the computer, I monitor the Blackberry. I have been known to settle down for a cozy nap with Rob, book-in-hand, with the Blackberry on “Quiet,” placed where I can watch it from the corner of my eye as I “read,” ready to pounce if the flash goes from green to red. It is usually just that person I forgot to block from Twitter advertising muscle-building protein powder, but it could be a blog comment from an editor at the “New Yorker” who received one of my posts from an observant friend, and wants to publish my entire output over the next few years.

It seems that, for those of us who are compulsive checkers, we check the things that most directly relate to our own unique pathologies. The people who become apoplectic at the sight of a ring left on a coffee table (in fact, in my opinion, anyone who even owns a set  of coasters that were not a cheap-ass gift from a Secret Santa exchange) act from a deep-seated fear of mess and loss of control, literal or figurative. Frequent balance checkers are afraid of shame and poverty, and by making sure things are in order at the bank, they prevent themselves from receiving dunning calls or having a nasty surprise at the ATM. Grade-monitors fear that their children will not succeed (and may be projecting their own fears and regrets onto their offspring) and make themselves feel secure by discovering that Billy’s science grade has plummeted to a B+ and Doing Something About It. Clearly, these people are all crazy.

I, on the other hand, am motivated by a charming and possibly even raffish need for approval. I want to, need to have to please anyone who comes to my inbox, my blog, or my Facebook Newsfeed, and I believe they will all like me better (and be more likely to remember that they have a cousin who is an editor at the “New Yorker”) if I am on top of it all, every waking second. If I were this vigilant about cleaning, or financial planning, or making Sam do his homework, I would simply be happier safer a better person conventional and dull; as it is, I am quick to respond to a message or comment with the appropriate level of wit, gravity or compassion, and hope that I am a shining star in the firmament of all e-mailers, Facebookers and blog readers in my orbit.

Another time, we will address the possibility that there is something seriously the matter with me.

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Thank You.

This is the day when Americans focus on all the things for which they are grateful, as part of Thanksgiving. I am always grateful for my family, the roof over my head, the good food I eat, my access to good medical care, the availability of meaningful work, free speech, and a whole set of less important (things like my stand mixer and my iPod).

I also have one big surge of gratititude every year for the young man who died and gave my mother years of life. About a week before Thanksgiving in 2002, my mother was on dialysis, and had been approved for a kidney transplant. Her kidney had failed several years earlier, as the result of poorly controlled hypertension, and she then began years of dyalisis which involved the insertion of a shunt, and thrice weekly sessions hooked up to the giant machine that cleaned her blood. She could no longer travel, she was often exhausted, and after a long life as a dynamic and involved person she felt useless and hobbled. She was on “the list,” but could not receive a transplant unless a donor was found who was a good match. My brother and I couldn’t donate because of our family history of hypertension and diabetes, which made it inadvisable for us to give up our own kidneys.

About a week before Thanksgiving that year, the “transplant beeper” went off, letting us know that a donor kidney had been found. In the middle of the night my father, mother and I drove the 60 miles to the hospital where the surgery would be performed. We were greeted by the surgeon, my mother was wheeled off to be prepped, and my father and I settled in on hard plastic chairs for the night. Off and on during the night, I prayed for my mother, the surgeons and attendants, my father’s spirits, and the family of the donor, who we knew had been killed in an accident. The next morning we were allowed to see my mother, already more pink and less yellow than the day before. The surgeon was cautiously optimistic, and although she would miss Thanksgiving dinner at home, we would all have much to be grateful for.

We subsequently discovered that the donor had been a young man attending a local high school who had died in a motorcycle accident. As a mother, I cannot imagine the pain that the boy’s family endured then, or that they feel to this day. I imagine that this week is always as sad and difficult for them as it is joyous for my family. I  hope that they know that by choosing to donate organs they gave many people the gift of years of loving their mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, parents and children. There is nothing “right” about losing a child on the brink of his adult life, but if there is anything good, it is that so many lives were saved by the loving choice that his family made during a time of tremendous pain and grief.

Have you signed an organ donor card?

Grateful. My Way.

I wasn’t going to write at all today. Nobody is reading blog posts the day before Thanksgiving; I myself should be making cranberry sauce, shredding Brussels Sprouts and dicing celery and onions for stuffing. Gratitude is in the air, however, and it seemed like The Thing to Do to write about the things for which I am grateful. Everybody’s doing it. (Although if you buy that as a reason for me to do anything, you haven’t exactly been paying attention. My mother never had to say “if everyone jumped off a bridge, would you do it, too?” She had to say “Ann, half the kids in the neighborhood have jumped off the bridge, and they’re fine – would you at least just climb up there and look over the edge?!”).

At the same time, however, wishing to present you with a certain economy and symmetry of thought, I am thinking about the things for which I am most definitely not grateful. It isn’t as sweet or cozy to talk about those things, particularly at this nut-cracking, turkey-brining, family-hugging juncture of the year, but it does serve as a nice foil for the good stuff. Like a little salt makes a bland melon sweeter, or solitude makes us happy to be among people again, maybe my selections of things undeserving of gratitude will cause your heart to swell and your eyes to brim when you get to their opposites. Or, if you prefer, think of it as poison and antidote. I’m out of similes, here; you’re on your own.

UNGRATEFUL

1. The Food Network. To quote Madonna (as I so often do):  “This used to be my playground/This used to be my childhood dream/This used to be the place I ran to/Whenever I was in need of a friend/Why did it have to end?” Unless it’s on at 6:00AM on Sunday morning, and I missed it, there is nothing left on Food Network that I would watch on a bet.

2. Thick Plastic Packaging. Everything from Habanero peppers to batteries seems to come in plastic packaging that often requires the use of an axe during the opening thereof. It is un-green, un-easy to open, and there has to be a better way to package things.
3. The Kardashians. Did any of them ever actually do anything?! Am I missing Khloe’s career as a singer, Kim’s turn as a UNICEF Ambassador, or Kourtney’s recurring role on “NCIS Miami?” As far as I can tell, they are famous mainly for being rich and behaving badly. (As a bonus, they also fall under #2, above).

4. Airline Travel. In its current incarnation, commercial airline travel is uncomfortable, harrowing, and generally miserable. There has to be a better way for the airlines to balance their budgets and for airports and the FAA to regulate air traffic; I would gladly pay more for my ticket if I knew that I would not be stranded anywhere overnight with a $40.00 voucher for a $90.00 hotel room, be made to sit in a grounded plane for 2 hours, or have to run through three airports trailing an exhausted kid to make a connecting flight.

5. Chewing Gum. I’ll admit that I have some in my purse for breath emergencies, but in general, I don’t get it. I do not want to see you chew your gum, nor do I want to find strategically placed wads stuck to the door frames, chairs or notepads in my house. I really don’t want to hear you snap it, pop it or use it in any way to create an audible presence. Ever.

6. Chick Lit. (Not the gum; I already covered that). I guess it’s better to read something than to read nothing, but these thinly-veiled and predictable pieces of fluff seem to be celebrated precisely because they are the literary equivalent of Xanax. I’ve read many, and I’ll read them again, but I sometimes worry that they are edging out the reading of more substantive (and more challenging) works of fiction.  Some of them are really well-written, and funny, and I guess I think the authors could aim higher. That’s not up to me, and they are clearly making bank (!), but unless I am totally exhausted or ill, I choose Lit-Lit every time.

GRATEFUL

1. Family. [Originally this appeared below "Morning coffee," but due to a combination of embarrassment and fear of reprisal, I moved it]. I am beyond thankful that both of my parents are alive and well, and that I am actually friends with my brother, and have a relationship with his children. I am lucky to have a mother in law who I actually like, and even love. I am also surprised daily by a husband who puts up with my eccentricities and takes the dead squirrels off the porch, and a son who can stick out his lower lip and melt me just as he did when he was three. They are all as dysfunctional as the average family, but also loving, generous and essential as air.

2. Morning coffee with half & half and 2 packets of Splenda. It gives me both a lovely visual and the feeling that I’m getting away with something dangerous.

3. Facebook. It can be addictive, and a huge time-suck, but it has also provided me with connections to people I don’t see often enough, and to those I thought I had lost forever. It does not, and cannot replace human contact or face-to-face relationships, but it is a community of its own kind, and there isn’t a day that I don’t laugh about, cry about, or learn something there.

4. My Magic Computer Box. Every day I am amazed that somebody invented this thing. Every single day. I can write and re-write to my heart’s content without Wite-Out, I can communicate with people in Australia, I can find out anything I want to know (for example, the regrettable names of the Kardashian sisters), and I can do both of my jobs in my jammies at the dining room table. I also have many “virtual friends” who I have never met in the corporeal sense, but who feel to me like the real deal in every way that matters.

5. Good Books and Good Music. Nuff said.

6. Dreamfields Pasta. After the word came down that we had to Count Carbs or Die (seriously), it looked like we would see pasta only in the rear-view mirror of our gastronomic lives. Enter Dreamfields pasta, which, through some kind of magic, locks up the excess carbs in some kind of organic lock box so that they don’t cause a spike in blood sugar. Pasta is back in the rotation, and I couldn’t be happier.

7. My readers. I write for 30 days in a row. I disappear for a month. I write about food. I stop writing about food. Like a dog shaking off water, I’ve done enough vigorous and inconsistent changing to displace and discourage the most ardent follower. I am so grateful for those of you who waited, and read, and supported me when I pathetically begged for validation. You know who you are.

This used to be my playground (used to be)
This used to be my childhood dream
This used to be the place I ran to
Whenever I was in need
Of a friend
Why did it have to end
And why do they always say

Ignorance is Bliss?

Last night I watched “House.” This is a religious observance for me, and it has long been my belief that Gregory and I are soul-mates destined to be together, regardless of the facts that I am married, and that he doesn’t so much exist. It would be a terrible relationship anyway, what with both of us tending towards the melancholy and sardonic; it’s been my observation that relationships work better when at least one of the parties is capable of a little joie de vivre.

Although the medical storyline is often predictable (“it’s TTP-it’s ALS-it’s lupus-it’s his kidney-it’s his spleen-it’s his lungs-let’s drill a hole in his brain-let’s remove his spleen-let’s break into his house and snoop”) that is not usually the aspect of the show that interests me. Mostly, I am interested in the characters, and enthralled that they are allowed much more latitude to change and grow than the more static types in the average hour-long drama. Last night, however, I was all about the case.

The situation, in brief, was that the Major Patient was a former genius who had been living a “regular” life for many years, including a job as a courier, and marriage to a woman of average intellect. In the course of his treatment for Mysterious Symptoms,  it was discovered that he had been “robo tripping” by ingesting cough syrup containing DXM, along with a little daily alcohol. He had been doing this not to get a buzz, but because the effects of the drug made him dumber, and therefore able to live happily with his ordinary job and his ordinary wife. After having the drug flushed from his system, he returned to drawing complex molecular structures, but was miserable because, in his natural state of genius, he could not love a wife with an IQ 91 points lower than his own. (He compared her, unfavorably, to “a Gibbon”). In the end, with House’s tacit blessing, Major Patient went with the cough syrup, the courier job, and the wife, choosing to shutter the part of his brain that offered unlimited potential for both achievement and suffering.

This story line stirred up an issue I have wrestled with for at least 30 years. I am not a genius (and my husband is, by no stretch of the imagination, a Gibbon), and I am unlikely ever to be diagramming molecular structures. I do, however, have intellect of a kind that seems to result in excess thinking that is rarely productive and often misery-inducing. I am not speaking here of mere worry, but of a brain crowded with cacophonous noise. This is not “Sam’s English grade is a ‘B;’ I wish it were an ‘A’” but “How can Sam not love reading like his father and I do? Don’t we set a good example? Didn’t we read to him enough when he was little? Will he ever enjoy reading? What kind of life can a person have without reading? Is there something I can do? No, wait, I have to let him be who he is. But maybe if I found the right book?” I don’t forget much, I tend to be obsessive and competitive, and I am often working and re-working ideas, disaster scenarios, and new menu ideas while obnoxiously calling out “Jeopardy” answers. My brain stops this jangling noise when I sleep, when I drink more than I can actually drink without getting sick, or, as I discovered recently, when I am taking Vicodin, Flexeril, and Valium at the same time. A legit and medically indicated chemical lobotomy, but a chemical lobotomy nonetheless.

So would I be happier if I were dumber? Leaving aside all collateral issues of socioeconomic consequences, would I be happier if I were living my life with a lower IQ. (Well, it couldn’t really be my life because I am married to a man who thought it was hot that I was smart, and I am the mother of a child whose favorite class is Advanced Math. I think this scenario only works if I am less intelligent and living somebody else’s life).

If my IQ were lowered just the right amount, I would likely lose the ability to write this blog, to do either of my jobs, or to read the book I’m reading with any real comprehension. My grades would have been lower (except in math, where there was no “lower”), I might not have been able to get through law school, and I would be less capable of making rapid connections and synthesizing facts and concepts. I would probably stop reading theology and literary criticism. I might watch the same things on TV, but be able to relax and enjoy them more without focusing rigidly to make sure no plot point passed me by. I might possibly accept things more readily rather than scheming frantically to fix, change, or otherwise re-cast reality in a way that it suited me better. I would undoubtedly be less judgmental, less analytical, and more at ease with myself and other people.

Or not. The problem with this experiment is that it’s nearly impossible to separate intellect from personality. I have “smart girl” neuroses, as do legions of women, and a lower IQ would not necessarily make me happier, just worried about a whole different set of things. The genius on “House”did not just lower his intellectual functioning by drinking cough syrup; he mellowed his harsh.

Intellect is not a personal attribute that can be sifted out from an individual’s history and wiring, from upbringing to emotional temperature. Even with an objective IQ score significantly south of the real deal, I might have become interested in theology and literature because I grew up in a household in which people were interested in, and talked about such things. Similarly, I might also be just as neurotic and hypersensitive as I am, perhaps about people thinking I was dumb, instead of thinking I was odd, or ugly. I just don’t encounter many people in my daily life who are worry-free, and some of the people I see must be of “average” intelligence or less; otherwise it’s not “average,” right?

I’ll never know. There is no cough medicine in the house, and it seems like poor judgment to run out and buy some in time to lower my IQ for Thanksgiving. (Although I might be happier as I mashed two kinds of potatoes and dissolved sugar for the cranberry sauce). My best guess is that ignorance is not bliss; it’s just all the same stuff with less compulsion to write in iambic pentameter or compose tone rows. Sanity, or at least a sunnier disposition and a more even keel might be bliss, but would mean the loss of all of the edge and darkness that make me who I am. Probably, we are all meant to be exactly who we are, and the work of our lives is to “accept the things we cannot change; have the courage to change the things we can; and possess the wisdom to know the difference.” Without cough syrup.

Bullying: The New Witchcraft?

Imagine that you are a parent, and that your child comes home from school and tells you that she is being tormented by a group of other girls. They call her names, they exclude her from group activities, and they write nasty notes and leave them in her desk or locker. She cries, and says she doesn’t ever want to go back to school. Your immediate response will probably be a combination of sympathy and rage that will leave you wanting first to reassure your child that she is wonderful and valuable, and then to call the parents of the other girls, the principal of the school and anyone else who may be responsible for hurting someone dear to you. You may be irrational and fuming, or you may be calm and methodical; either way, you will want apologies, punishment, and a reassurance that it will not happen again. You will want justice, and for your child to feel safe and happy in a place that you send her five days a week. You may also, in the darkest part of your soul, want the persecutors to feel the pain they have inflicted, and to understand the harm they have caused.

Now imagine that you have a child who, while far from perfect, is a generally decent human being, kind to babies, animals and grandparents, and doing well at school. Imagine that you receive a call from an irate parent claiming that your child has been bullying their son or daughter, and that he has behaved maliciously and cruelly. Although your child not only pleads innocent, but has actual proof that he did not do the things of which he is accused, there is no possibility that the issue will be resolved objectively, based on this evidence. A rational resolution is impossible because “bullying” has become in our schools what witchcraft was in Salem; if a child cries “bullying,” the complainant must generally be pacified, and the accused punished. There is no hanging in these cases, merely the requirement that a possibly innocent child be labelled and punished in order to satisfy his accuser.

This crime and punishment is codified, in our school district, by a “discipline rubric” which categorizes behavior  with specified consequences for a first, second or third infraction. Included on the first level of this rubric are “eye rolling, intimidating stare, leering, shunning,” and ” gossiping.” I will force myself to move on without editorial comment, except to say this: remember yourself as a child, and consider whether or not you engaged in any of these “first-tier” behaviors. I can tell you that if eye rolling had been a punishable offense in my elementary school, I would have been punished daily with “loss of social lunch and all recesses for two days.”

In the same way that male teachers are vulnerable to ruin when a female student invents an accusation of inappropriate behavior, all children are at risk of being tarnished and diminished by any accusation that they have bullied another, particularly in a system that classifies normal (if regrettable) human behavior as punishable bullying. In the rush to protect putative victims, I have seen relatively little interest in weighing facts or (horror of horrors) taking a hard look at the character or conduct of the alleged victim. The original goal of school “anti-bullying” rules was a noble one: to protect vulnerable children from the cruelty or violence of their peers. It now seems, however, that merely invoking the “B” word is enough to erase all rational thought and to create an environment in which a child crying “wolf” is able to trigger the same regulatory response as a child genuinely in harm’s way. It is easy for a busy principal to listen to an emotional accusation, consult a rubric and impose a punishment. It is much harder, and more time-consuming to hear all sides of a story, apply common sense, and respond in a way that does real justice.

Having been teased as a child, I am keenly aware of the pain and psychic damage that can be done by even the most negligent name-calling or the most careless remark about one’s looks, brains or social skills. I believe that it is never acceptable for a student to be teased or bullied because of her appearance, skin color, ethnicity, handicaps, sexual orientation, social status, religion or family situation. It is our job as parents, to raise children who clearly understand that such behavior is abhorrent, that it does not meet community standards for compassion and decency, and that it will be punished at home as it is in school. There is no wiggle room there; and if I received a call saying that my son had used a racial or ethnic slur, and there was some objective indication that he had actually done such a thing, I would be on my way to school at barrier-breaking speed to read him the riot act.

On the other hand, there are gray areas which require not the blind and fearful application of rules, but careful consideration of the variables involved. There are children who are obnoxious and provocative, and who, in some cases, are encouraged by their parents to believe that they are special snowflakes who do not have to learn or follow the rules of social interaction followed by their peers. It is the perogative of parents to encourage and indulge their child in the belief that he is a genius compared to his classmates, or that it is adorable to follow people around and repeat whatever they say all day, but those parents should understand that there are consequences for engaging in behavior calculated to irritate and repel. I am, again, not referring to kids who have a medical condition which prevents them from understanding and following standard social cues; I am speaking of children who choose not merely to march quietly to a different drummer, but to create constant social friction and classroom drama. If Sam were being teased because he was small, or fat, or had an emotional impairment, I would have to restrain myself from stalking the responsible children and poisoning their Luncheables. If Sam told me he was being teased for “no reason,” I would push him hard for possible causes – was he bugging people who clearly didn’t want to hang out with him? Was he telling other kids how they should draw their pumpkins more like his? Was he hanging over someone else’s desk during a math quiz and talking about how he had finished in three minutes? It would be tough, but I hope that I’d be able to explain that certain behaviors have drawn fire through the ages, and that while they certainly don’t justify physical violence, they might legitimately deserve a little eye rolling or a mean look.

There are also, frankly, children who lie. Every child who uses accusations of bullying to level the social playing field requires an institutional response, and given the decreasing budgets and increased demands on the time and energy of educators, it’s a lot to ask of them to launch a full investigation every time a complaint is made. Sometimes, it’s just easier to figure “something must have happened,” and punish the accused. No one wants to believe their child is lying, and no school administrator wants to be in the position of refereeing a fight between two children, parents or families. The problem is, that every time a principal “caves” for the sake of expediency, there are consequences including teaching one child that lying pays, teaching another that it doesn’t help to be honest, and cheapening the whole idea of real bullying.

We would all like our children to be kind, inclusive, and generous of spirit. Most folks are not born that way; it takes years of patient, consistent and sometimes difficult work to teach a child when it is appropriate to “let it all hang out” and when it is necessary to do something you might not want to do because it  is right. There are people I do not particularly enjoy, and I understand the necessity of being courteous, friendly and inclusive regardless of my own impulse to stick my tongue out and tell them what I really think about their endless bragging. I was not born with this kind of control, and during elementary and middle school, most kids are still fine-tuning the ability to act not from gut instinct, but based on an objective standard of acceptable conduct.

In the current system, a second grader may be punished under the “Discipline Rubric” for telling another child that she would rather eat lunch with someone else. While it’s debatable whether or not we should be teaching children to override all of their own personal preferences in favor of the needs of other people (particularly in the case of girls, who tend to develop the “disease to please” with no outside help), I would definitely argue against penalizing a very young child for doing what comes naturally. It is a teachable moment, to be sure; there is much to be taught about walking a mile in someone else’s shoes, and acting accordingly. There does, however, have to be a high level of discernment and empathy on the part of the teacher or administrator handling the situation. When this keen, personal observation is replaced by an inflexible set of rules, the important lesson about treading gently with the feelings of others may be entirely obscured by a red haze of crime and punishment. To what extent can we, or should we legislate the inherent personal preferences of our children? It’s clearly not okay to hit or call names, but is it okay to choose to play a game only with your own friends? Is it actually beneficial to an excluded child if other children are forced to include him?

This same rubric has also, to my certain knowledge, been used as the basis for suspending students involved in a physical fight which they did not initiate, and in which they were demonstrably defending themselves. As a pacifist of longstanding, I don’t believe that anybody should use physical force against another, but it defies logic to instruct children to allow themselves to be hit, kicked or slammed into lockers because, if they raise a hand in self-defense, they are “participating,” and therefore “involved in bullying.” I cannot wrap my brain around any way in which fighting back in the interests of self-preservation is analagous to a campaign of belittlement or harassment intended to put down another person.

Clearly, we are going through a period in which the faintest whiff of bullying is a red flag, with experts available at a moment’s notice to address parents, teachers and students about the continuum of insensitive and harmful behavior, and the damage done if those behaviors are not extinguished quickly. The attention to bullying is a good thing for a broad spectrum of real victims, including those who might previously have gone unprotected. The objective codification of right and wrong makes it easy to correct the taunting of an effeminate boy or a girl with a speech impediment without the necessity of complaint and possible retribution; if an adult in the building is aware of such behavior, most modern rules allow them to discipline offenders based on what they observed. This is, in my opinion, a good thing.

The problem, and it is a big one, comes when the victim is not so clearly innocent, and/or the alleged “bully” has acted out of mere immaturity, in self-defense, or not at all. We cannot wrap our children in foam rubber and protect them from all harm, and to do so would handicap them as they find their way in the world. We can show them all we know of kindness, and instruct them in the habit of imagining themselves in the skin of another human being. What we must not do is allow all awkward, unpleasant social interaction to be classified as “bullying.” We should expect the shining of a bright light on all muddled cases before rushing to judge and punish, rather than a knee-jerk administration of discipline. Taking this easy way out saves time and avoids pesky law suits, but if the goal of education at home and in school is to raise good citizens, why are we teaching our children that it makes no difference what really happens, and that they must conduct themselves in such a way that there is no possibility that an accusation of bullying could be made. Do we really want to teach our children that they must never respond to provocation, that they must pull their punches after being struck, and that they must never show any attachment to or preference for their natural circle of friends, lest they should be accused of bullying? The fear of irrational and random accusation didn’t do much for the town of Salem, and it’s no better in the halls of our schools.

Martha v Rachael

It has come to my attention that Martha Stewart has thrown down the (hand-crafted, freshly-cleaned) gauntlet as the first strike against competitor Rachael Ray. In her first interview since concluding her prison term for insider trading in 2005, Stewart ” told ABC News’ Cynthia McFadden that Ray’s approach to cooking – and cookbook writing – is ‘not good enough for me.’” Stewart criticized Ray’s self-admitted inability to bake, her release of a “new” cookbook that is made up of re-edits of previously published recipes, and stated that “she’s – more of an entertainer… with her bubbly personality, than she is a teacher, like me. That’s not what she’s professing to be.”

Being a smart (if not home-baked) cookie, Ray responded in the best possible way to defuse the situation. “Why would it make me mad?” Ray told ABC. “Her skill set is far beyond mine. That’s simply the reality of it. That doesn’t mean what I do isn’t important, too … I don’t consider it needling. I really just think she’s being honest.” In a flourish worthy of Machiavelli, she added: “I’d rather eat Martha’s than mine, too.”

It will no doubt come as a shock to you that I have an opinion about all of this. I have no dog in this fight; I find both women equally loathsome in their own, special way. I do, however, see this episode as emblematic of an epic battle between two opposite poles: Hard and Perfect or Easy and Sloppy.

I have spent time in both camps, over the years. I have read Martha’s magazine, watched her television show and used her recipes.  The magazine is lovely to behold, the recipes are solid and reproducible, and I find her somewhat dry and reserved television persona to be refreshing. Although I have sometimes had to block out the list in the front of the magazine detailing daily tasks to be done by the A+ homeowner (mulching, weeding, filter-cleaning, sweater-darning and trim-washing) lest I should be sucked into a downward spiral of Inadequacy Psychosis, there is arguably a place for a thorough and painstaking breakdown of the jobs that should be done regularly in order to insure optimal living. I also believe that I would enjoy Martha’s company; she has a dry wit and a classy reticence that appeals to me, and I can easily imagine drinking a martini with her (not a fruity one, but a real one with only a whisper of vermouth) and talking paint colors.

I have also watched Rachael’s 27 television shows, read her magazine, and owned one of her cookbooks. Her goal of creating recipes that can be cooked by novices and still offer a variety of flavor and influence is commendable. I have found, however, that many of her recipes don’t work, and that some are reproducible but not in anything like 30 minutes unless one has a prep staff hidden off-camera to slice, dice and saute. Because I can cook, and have fairly high standards for authenticity and execution, I have historically been unable to watch “Thirty Minute Meals’ with its heavy emphasis on shortcuts, and heavy use of “grilling spice” in everything from curry to paprikash. I do not hate her, and I have neither the time nor the energy to frequent sites like “I Hate Rachael Ray” (there’s another whole post there, somewhere) but I privately imagine that I would not want to have a drink with Rachael. She is cute and cool and loves Foo Fighters, but she would undoubtedly order something vile like a Chocolate Martini and giggle ceaselessly. She would probably also say “yum-o” at some point, and make faces approximating orgasmic delight after sampling the bar nuts.

Both women have devoted followers. I know, because of my work, that there are people who write posts on Martha Stewart’s website lamenting their inability to shape marzipan into a tiny banana, or attach lace trim to their knitting projects. I also know that there are also people who are enthralled with Rachael’s promise of dinner in 30 minutes sans Hamburger Helper, and who buy all of her cookbooks which are, as far as I can tell, basically the same. She is a relaxed, bubbly beacon of salvation to those who feel “less than” in a Martha Stewart world of perfection and order.

The truth, people, is that they are both representing extremes, neither of which is necessarily ideal. If you have the time to trace maple leaves onto fabric in autumnal colors, cut out the shapes, dip them into a starch solution, air-dry them and shape them into realistic shapes, have at it. If you are bedeviled by the demands of your job, your budding adolescent, your teething baby or your depressed spouse, you might more profitably buy plastic leaves from the craft store and tend to your real life. Martha Stewart’s world is largely aspirational for most of us, and while I do sometimes use one of her recipes, or adapt one of her craft ideas, she represents for me a kind of repressive and judgmental regime that could be toxic if ingested whole. I do, personally, prefer to cook from scratch, and I enjoy decorating, but those are recreational activities for me. No one should ever feel diminished because they are doing their very best, and still failing to make homemade buttercream frosting or lay their sweaters to rest for the warmer months in satin bags with lavender sachets.

On the other hand, there is nothing glorious about the shortcut. There is nothing wrong with cooking like Rachael Ray if you are pressed for time, or if you are a new and unsteady cooker of food. There is also nothing wrong with working at a higher level in the kitchen if you are willing and able. It has become acceptable to tease the parent who brings in the perfectly decorated cupcakes for the bake sale, or the friend who grinds their own spices to cook Indian food. It is okay to say things like “I could do that, if I had the time…” implying rather strongly that the precise and dedicated approach to cooking is outdated and ridiculous.

Speaking as a person who grinds her own spices and threw away 4 failed “Buches de Noel” before rolling one successfully into a log, there is no shame in aiming high. Many of the best things to eat cannot possibly be cooked in 30 minutes, and Rachael’s World of Quickies would lead an unsophisticated viewer to believe that we should live in a world without braises, roasts, slow-simmering sauces or…baked goods. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to live in that world. Martha is also entirely correct in stating that she is a teacher, and that Rachael is not. I have turned to detailed, and so far infallible instructions from Martha on brining meat, creating a spun-sugar “cage” for a cake, and prepping artichokes, among other things. There is nothing offered by Rachael that is instructional if one is able to read well enough to follow a recipe and tell when something has turned from pink to brown, or from rigid to al dente.

Clearly, post-prison Martha is striking out at Rachael because she is still scrambling to recoup the damage to her brand caused by, uhm, being in prison. Just as Martha is an easy target for everything from “Saturday Night Live” writers to greeting cards, Rachael is an easy target for Martha, and I am a little surprised that someone representing all things gracious would take such cheap and public shots. I guess I hope Martha gets her stock up (and her manners back), because she is damned good at what she does, and I wish for Rachael to continue to take the high road and skillfully deflect all fire from Camp Stewart, while amassing a huge fortune based on Variations on a Theme of Speedy Stovetop Schlock. As for me and my house, I will go my own way, neither subjugating myself to the demands of icy perfectionism nor throwing up my hands and buying a Garbage Bowl.

Don’t Leave Me Hanging on the Telephone…..

I am not a fan of the “connected” lifestyle. The notion that I am reachable at every waking moment does not make me feel at one with the universe; it makes me frantic. In the same way that I feel perfectly justified in lying on the living room floor until the girl selling magazines gets off my porch, I feel that I am permitted to choose whether or not to answer the landline or cell phone. The fact that someone has chosen a certain moment to speak to me creates no obligation on my end; it merely presents me with a choice.

Many people, including the ones that I live with, pick up the phone whenever it rings unless it is clear from the caller identification feature that a minute of our time is being sought by TruGreen, Chemlawn or “Unknown.” Even as I plead “I don’t want to talk to anybody right n-” they are answering, bringing me the receiver and making gestures of “too-late” helplessness. Whether or not I am ready to discuss the poor choices of City officials, the fall-out from a heated meeting or how to thicken flaccid gravy, I am “on.” Both of the men in my family believe that if someone calls, one should make oneself available, and that my policy of taking calls only when I actually want to talk is rude and offensive.

I argue that there is no reason to have Caller ID and an answering machine if one is obligated to respond any time someone chooses to interrupt. Yes, I am a “screener,” and completely unapologetic. There are people who inhabit the very outer orbits of my consciousness, and who sometimes decide, when they are very bored, or drunk, or nostalgic, to call me and talk for two hours about the minutiae of their lives. These are not people who need my help or even care about me very much. There are also people who are important to me, but who have issues that require frequent, extensive, soul-searching, agonizing, discussion and resist any possible  resolution. I will always return their calls, but sometimes I need a break so that I can return, fresh, to the fray.

It is sometimes difficult to communicate the necessity of supervising homework, or the desire simply to spend an hour interacting with the “live” people to whom I am tied by love and biology. I would not call these people at their workplaces and expect them to be available for a 90 minute stream-of-consciousness discussion, and I am similarly unavailable during the time that I choose to spend with my family. Since I historically have difficulty saying “this is not a good time to talk,” it is far easier for me to screen the call and return it when I do have time. Wuss? Yes. Sorry? Not at all.

It’s important to note that I do not leave anyone in distress because I want to be alone or with my family. Through the miracle of Caller ID and the digital answering device, I know who is calling, and can usually gauge the level of urgency as the message is recorded. If there is any doubt about the appropriate response, there are almost always clues; I have learned to pick up quickly in response to words such as “emergency,” “fracture,” “hospital,” “disconnection” and “principal.” Messages involving the key words “chat,” “checking in,” “saying hi,” or “next week” can wait until I am done watching “The Office,” or Sam’s latest You Tube video. I will always pick up calls from my parents, Rob’s parents, friends and family experiencing medical crises, expecting babies, or waiting for important news. If I don’t pick up, I call back, and if I don’t call back, trust me, it’s for a damned good reason.

So if you call, and I don’t answer, I may indeed be sitting two feet from the phone reading “Vogue.” If you need me, I will be there. If not, I assure you that we will (eventually) have a much pleasanter chat if you allow me to enjoy my peace and privacy when I need them.