Monthly Archives: February 2010

Another gym story

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Yesterday, after a long day being charming at a conference on how to survive a bad economy (I think “pray” was the most viable strategy), I went to a nearby branch of my gym to work away the blues. This branch is located in a very expensive and fancy hotel and shopping complex. It is definitely a “flagship” branch with all of the bells and whistles and expensive amenities.

One notable amenity is the modesty areas, where one can dress and undress in private.  A premium in a city where every square foot costs a fortune.  Yet, it did seem unnecessary in a place where only the beautiful, the buff and the European work out and parade around.  What is naked hair drying about?  Naked nose-blowing?  Naked blackberrying?  Ok, the truth is that if I receive a message on my blackberry, I want the sender to be fully clothed.  I don’t need any other image clouding my brain and destroying cells.  If someone were to email me that he or she was in the gym locker room (because, like bloggers, people will write just about anything in an email), I would stop reading and wait for about a half hour until I thought the person was dressed and then continue reading.

The worst?  Naked blackberrying while standing in front of the mirror.  

Me? I like just being regular weird and not doing any of that eccentric stuff.

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Aging.

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Ok, so a friend told me, in a meaningful and affirmative way, that my new picture on my new company’s website is not horrible.  She said, “it looks like you.”  Excuse me while I have a body lift. Don’t think that I wasn’t being self-affirming in that statement.  My first thought was: excuse me while I put my head in the oven.

After 45 years, I have got to come to terms with what I look like.  I have to stop hoping that a glamorous woman is going to stare back at me in the mirror one morning.  Years ago, I had an apartment mate who believed she would wake up one morning transformed into a six-foot tall blonde. Ok, the blonde part could be done. But growing 12 inches when you are 22? Nah. This is a long winded way (who, me?) of saying, I used to laugh about that until I realized that I have the same insane delusions.

Too things about aging really annoy me:

(1) puffy eyes. I have those now from doing the client/prospective client blitz now that I changed jobs.  And I spent the last two days at a conference schmoozing people I never met before.

(2) sagging neck skin. If only my neck skin wasn’t starting to do the chicken dance.

One part is getting easier with age. People (mis)take my gray hair for experience and knowledge. Would I be less smart if I got my hair colored?

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Why is Sarah still in my life?

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How does a woman deride hope and faith in our democracy and receive standing ovations?

I am going out on a limb here, but not everyone can be president of the United States.  Neither Joe Six Pack nor Joe the Plumber can run a nuclear superpower.  Also, not every opinion is worth as much as any other.  To think otherwise is ridiculous.  One may have a right to one’s opinion, but if it is illogical or ill-informed, it should be ignored.  Remember how much flack then-President Carter got when he said he asked his daughter Amy what she thought of nuclear disarmament?  Because we knew that a 13 year-old is not an expert (to be fair, he was making a point about that younger generation’s desire to live nuclear bomb-free).  The GOP lambasted him.

Now, the GOP thinks that every stupid idea based on half-truths and discredited sources should be held as on par with those of the President of the United States and his cabinet and advisers.  That is just mean-spirited, corrupt and disrespectful.  [Now, I didn’t think much of the ideas of GWB, his cabinet and his advisers, but I certainly agree that they knew more than most people and that the relevant opinions were those of experts who thought the Bush doctrine and the Cheney secret police were ill-conceived and ignorant.]

Sarah Palin has some great one-liners but a stand-up comic is not good training for president.  Also, other than one-liners, she cannot put together a string of words to make a coherent sentence.

Ok, I am going to pretend I am a GOP operative and Sarah is a Democrat (G-d forbid).  Here is my theory:

No matter how many times she makes mistakes or shares her baseless views and ideas, there is this invisible machine that rehabilitates and spins the mistakes and idiotic policy statements into victories for the true America.  Any ordinary candidate — especially a female candidate — would be left to tend the embers of her political career after the various Sarah fiascoes.  But there is an invisible force that will not let her fail.  Why are people so invested?  Well, I just keep thinking of that cold war movie about a sleeper mole who is in line for the presidency . . . . maybe . . . naw . . . yes? . . . Is Sarah Palin the real Manchurian Candidate?

Hey, according to the GOP, my opinion is as important and valid as that of any politician or commentator.  So, my opinion is that Sarah Palin is the Manchurian Candidate and she was sent to the US to ruin us.  In your face, lady in the McCain town hall who believed that President Obama is Arab (and so what if he was).

But Sarah was right about one thing:  “President Palin” breeds fear in my heart AND, I hope, all those who love their children and want the world to survive for a few more generations.

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Snow Day

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It isn’t even snowing in NY yet and the public schools are shutting down for TOMORROW.  My son doesn’t go to public school but his school is nevertheless following the Board of Education’s lead.  Ok, why anyone would follow the Bd of Ed’s lead is beyond me.  In fact, he is in private school precisely because the Bd of Ed has no business running schools.

Since parents who are urban dwellers don’t get snow days (the subway always works), tomorrow will be a problem for child care.  POB (partner of blogger) and I have to figure this out.  Actually, all I want to do is stay in my jammies and watch cartoons with our son and eat ice cream and laze around, until about 4pm and THEN hand him off to a sports coach to tire him out.  Of course, we do have the trampoline that is now a fixture in his room until our downstairs neighbor complains.  Luckily, the guy is a midlevel associate at a huge law firm that probably makes him work around the clock.  Thank Goodness for modern-day, high-paying, low quality-of-life sweat shops.

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The generations of progress

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Sunday night is family dinner night.  SOB (sister of blogger), HOSOB (husband of sister of blogger) and FOB (father of blogger) come over.  From time to time, COB (cousin of blogger) and COROBs (cousins once-removed of blogger) also come over [there is one COROB whom I miss very much — she knows who she is — I would love for her to come, too, when she is ready].

So, on Sunday night, we had the usual gang plus a COB and COROB.  COB is the de facto family historian, so sometimes we discern breakthroughs of understanding and gentility invading our otherwise harsh and unforgiving gene pool.  COROB’s brother is coming in with his girlfriend in a few weeks.  COB asked COROB if “we” liked the girlfriend — one person’s opinion can shape a multi-generational disposition towards an interloper in — I mean new person to — the family.

COROB answered, “I don’t know, I haven’t met her.” And the generations of the family fell quiet.  This was indeed momentous.  Any member of a prior generation would say something like, “How could we possibly like her?  He would have brought her around before if she was a keeper.”  In other words, unworthy unless proved otherwise through hazing rituals only known among the clan.  Here was an opening to be level-headed about the matter.  The profundity cannot be overstated.  We older cousins could not grasp this “perestroika” of a sort at first.

Luckily, just when the world as we knew it was teetering on the edge of kindness and generosity, we had a disagreement over whether kashrut is important as a sign of belief in G-d or because it was sound eating practices.  Were the rules codified because of hygiene or because they set the tribes of Israel apart from other regional tribes?  The COROB and COB disagreed with me somewhat assertively but something had changed in the dynamic of the family just from that little openness shown by COROB earlier towards her brother’s girlfriend.

I heard myself say, “you’re wrong AND you can still come back for dinner next time.”  Wow.  Now, that’s progress.

Hmmmmm.

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The Slug in Winter

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Our son has no interest in going outside in cold weather.  He would much rather watch movies and read books.  I don’t blame him, but POB (partner of blogger) and I get cabin fever.  Also, reading and watching movies is great until our son starts bouncing off the walls from lack of activity.  Boys need to run around.  Think golden retriever.  Lots of running, for running’s sake.

Last winter I bought one of those tiny exercise-trampolines — the kind that slides under our bed when not in use (and it is often not in use).  Realizing that our son is as strong-willed as she is (genetic code cannot be denied), POB brought out the trampoline and made our son jump up and down as he told us stories and whatever else came to his head.  POB and I took turns taking walks outside.  It wasn’t exactly “family” time, but it was the best we were going to get on a frigid winter day.  (I hope Groundhog Phil was wrong and we will have an early Spring.)

It reminded me about the commercial with the parents running the kids up and down hills and then putting them on treadmills just to get them tired out.  Life imitates art or art imitates life.

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My inner diva

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I had to have a close-up taken for my new firm’s website.  Last time my picture was taken for a firm website, I had no wrinkles or gray hairs.  What a difference 3.5 years makes.  Now, laugh lines and a shock of gray.  Last time, the pictures were taken by a professional photographer.  This time, by someone in the mail room.

Nevertheless, the difference in photographs was shocking (to me).  And the transition from the color picture to black and white didn’t do anything to help.  In a culture where young and cute mean success, this was my very own personal reality check and public relations disaster.  I can’t turn back time and pretend I am young and cute, but I can have a passable picture that doesn’t scream old and wrinkled.

At my insistence (and that of my assistant, G-d bless her), the guys in the mailroom tried to enhance the picture as much as possible, at least to get rid of that strange patina that affected part of my face as if a skin disease. But, I just have to get used to the fact that I am older and it shows.  I guess I will market that as “experience” and “judgment”.

I saw a lapel button once that said, “Aging to Perfection”.  That picture — which probably captures how I really appear — is more like “Aging Out to Pasture”.

And, yes, I had a diva moment.  And it isn’t like I have a right to be.  Nevertheless, let this be a warning to all:  Beware an aging woman and her photo.

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It’s a small world after all

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I was emailing my friends that someone at my new job uses the “air quotes” so continuously it reminds me of the hand motions for the camp song, “Little Rabbit Froo Froo” [hoppin’ thru the forest . . .].  In fact, I giggle every time I see her.

I learned that the little rabbit was also known as the little bunny and was also known as “Foo Foo” and “Frou Frou”, although I know my version is right.  Even if Wikipedia says otherwise, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Little_Bunny_Foo_Foo. Then, a friend from Canada thought the field mice were wiggly worms.  Ok, that is just WRONG.

One of my friends posted the debate on Facebook and, within ten minutes, she got ten responses with alternate theories of the song and the animals in it.

People are fierce on this subject.  It took a Facebook responder to remind us that the moral of the story is:  “hare today, goon tomorrow.”

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Tea Party-ers in Revolutionary Get-Ups

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Ok, I don’t get what was so great about the pre-Revolutionary War period.

Milk and water had deadly bacteria, “medicine” consisted of bloodletting and leaches, and the economies of the colonies went through more boom and bust cycles than we have in the 20th and 21st centuries combined.

Also, women didn’t vote, slavery was legal and an education was a luxury.  Life expectancy was short and infant mortality high.  You were either born into poverty or great wealth — no in-between.  There was war and its unspeakable human carnage.

In case the tea party-ers are not students of history, they are in the costumes of either the unofficial American aristocracy who made incredible fortunes from smuggling and the slave trade or those who were the impoverished masses and were controlled by that unofficial aristrocracy.  And the Boston tea party was a Samuel Adams’ instigated mob riot intended to rile everyone against the king of England.  All engineered by the wealthy colonials, not the “common people”.

If you are looking for grass roots democracy, try the Native American tribes on which Jefferson based his vision of government.

So, tea party-ers, what is your point?  If you want to go back to that time, well, have fun but count me out.  I would rather deal with a spoiled society on the verge of global devastation, but with the brain power and ultimately, I hope, the conscience and the technology and intelligence, to figure out how to save our earth and our humanity.

But if you just want to dress in knickers and wigs, then knock yourselves out.

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Oh when the Saints go marching in . . . .

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My son wants the Saints to win the Superbowl.  His reason is rather endearing: the only thing about football that amuses his other mom, POB (partner of blogger), is that she can sing, “When the Saints go marching in” whenever the team is playing. 

Ok, enough cooing about my charming and sweet child.  Why would I say such a thing?  Since I have been watching  all these football games with my son (a new test of my love for him), AND I actually want the Colts to win the Superbowl (I like Peyton Manning). 

Leave it to me to turn a simple football game (ok, a Superbowl game) into a referendum on whom our son loves more.   As if it matters.  In fact, it doesn’t matter — as long as I win. 

Who’s competitive?

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