The end of Christmas. No more christmas gifts. There are no surprises left. We have everything. Now we get gift cards. What is more ridiculous than a gift card? Cash?
Even the toys for tots list gets ridiculous. Electronic games, iphones, elaborate over-designed gimmicky plastic trash.
We-have-too-much-stuff.
This generation of parents bemoans the state of their offspring's rooms. Think about it.
Who had a room of their own in previous generations? What stuff did a child own? Nothing that required electricity, batteries, or special cables.
I looked in my daughter's room the other day and realized it was impossible for her to be tidy. She simply has too much stuff to fit in one room. She needs her own apartment. But that is a subject for another post.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
December 19,2009
My husband tried to help me make our bed this morning. It is a rare occasion when we rise together. Usually I make the bed as I am the last to get up. On weekends if I should arise first he leaves it unmade. I remember my father and mother making their bed. It was one of the few chores they performed well together. Since there were no fitted bottom sheets it was much more of an undertaking then it is now. The bottom sheet often had to be straightened and re -tucked under the mattress corners. Then there were several woolen blankets and a large bedspread that had to be positioned just so before it could be smoothed and tucked and tweaked into place. With 2 people, one on each side of the bed, the job went much quicker. One bed maker spent a lot of time walking around the bed to adjust the overhangs. As my husband tried to help with our much simpler bed covers I realized it was test of a couple's relationship.
Our bed is much simpler to make. The bottom sheet is fitted. It gets wrinkled in the center. I like to smooth it out with a few brisk swipes of my hand. Four pillows that need to be fluffed and plumped, a top sheet that needs to be positioned evenly on both sides and then set top to bottom so there is enough to fold over the fluffy quilt that goes on top. Here is where my husband and I run into trouble. He sort of gets the pillow fluffing and positioning. But as I lift and furl the top sheet to layer it over the mattress he starts trying to help. He puts it on lopsided , not square to the mattress side. He puts too much at the bottom end. He puts it on upside down with the wide hem at the bottom. I tweak and smooth on my side and his side is wrinkled and lumpy and I give him the look. He doesn't respond. It's his side of the bed. Should I ignore it? We have been married for 23 years, my husband and I, but we still don't know how to make a bed together.
Our bed is much simpler to make. The bottom sheet is fitted. It gets wrinkled in the center. I like to smooth it out with a few brisk swipes of my hand. Four pillows that need to be fluffed and plumped, a top sheet that needs to be positioned evenly on both sides and then set top to bottom so there is enough to fold over the fluffy quilt that goes on top. Here is where my husband and I run into trouble. He sort of gets the pillow fluffing and positioning. But as I lift and furl the top sheet to layer it over the mattress he starts trying to help. He puts it on lopsided , not square to the mattress side. He puts too much at the bottom end. He puts it on upside down with the wide hem at the bottom. I tweak and smooth on my side and his side is wrinkled and lumpy and I give him the look. He doesn't respond. It's his side of the bed. Should I ignore it? We have been married for 23 years, my husband and I, but we still don't know how to make a bed together.
December 27, 2009
Surfeited with too much rich food. Prosperity problems.
I had brunch with some rich Republican friends today at a private golf club. It was lovely. Designed to appeal to the senses. Dark wood, white table cloths, a sunny window framed the rolling greens, a view of Washington Cathedral on the distant horizon. The food was set out as a buffet. A table of salads; mixed greens, orange and jicama, spinach and baby beets, endive leaves holding salmon slices, oil cured manchega cheese with quince puree, smoked baby octopuses, pineapple slices, strawberries, melon slices, more exotic cheeses. A table of entrees; beef stroganoff with noodles, shrimp creole with brocolini, eggs benedict, and several others I have already forgotten. A table with omelets made to order or waffles with all the toppings; whipped cream, strawberries, bananas in syrup. A large roast beef sliced to your order , a whole salmon waiting for your command. Another table of desserts, a yule log, chocolate layer cakes, a cheese cake, bread pudding, individual chocolate desserts from the best pastry shop in town. The challenge is to practice restraint of selection and put together a balanced and tasty meal not a hodge podge of everything. We sat, we ate, we conversed, we enjoyed each others company. Told travel horror stories, Christmas survival stories, compared notes about books worth reading movies worth seeing. I looked at the wait staff and wonder what they see in us? I looked at the other diners many with young children all dressed up in those dresses you only see in magazine layouts. You know the black velvet, the red plaid,the headbands and hair-ribbons, the shiny leather shoes that no real children wear. What must it be like to grow up with this as your birth right? To be on the inside looking out. I used to feel like an interloper in such places, as if at any moment I would be found out and rejected. Now I feel like a visitor. I know how to behave. I know which fork to use, how to relate to the staff. I not only recognize, I can appreciate the various high end ingredients. I don't let guilt spoil my pleasure. But I am not oblivious to the unfairness of it all.
I had brunch with some rich Republican friends today at a private golf club. It was lovely. Designed to appeal to the senses. Dark wood, white table cloths, a sunny window framed the rolling greens, a view of Washington Cathedral on the distant horizon. The food was set out as a buffet. A table of salads; mixed greens, orange and jicama, spinach and baby beets, endive leaves holding salmon slices, oil cured manchega cheese with quince puree, smoked baby octopuses, pineapple slices, strawberries, melon slices, more exotic cheeses. A table of entrees; beef stroganoff with noodles, shrimp creole with brocolini, eggs benedict, and several others I have already forgotten. A table with omelets made to order or waffles with all the toppings; whipped cream, strawberries, bananas in syrup. A large roast beef sliced to your order , a whole salmon waiting for your command. Another table of desserts, a yule log, chocolate layer cakes, a cheese cake, bread pudding, individual chocolate desserts from the best pastry shop in town. The challenge is to practice restraint of selection and put together a balanced and tasty meal not a hodge podge of everything. We sat, we ate, we conversed, we enjoyed each others company. Told travel horror stories, Christmas survival stories, compared notes about books worth reading movies worth seeing. I looked at the wait staff and wonder what they see in us? I looked at the other diners many with young children all dressed up in those dresses you only see in magazine layouts. You know the black velvet, the red plaid,the headbands and hair-ribbons, the shiny leather shoes that no real children wear. What must it be like to grow up with this as your birth right? To be on the inside looking out. I used to feel like an interloper in such places, as if at any moment I would be found out and rejected. Now I feel like a visitor. I know how to behave. I know which fork to use, how to relate to the staff. I not only recognize, I can appreciate the various high end ingredients. I don't let guilt spoil my pleasure. But I am not oblivious to the unfairness of it all.
Monday, December 14, 2009
December 14, 2009
There is a difference between taking a vacation and travel. It is a good idea not to be confused about which kind of trip you are taking. Going to the beach simply to swim, bask in the sunshine, amble along the shore looking for shells; that's a vacation. Going to a big city, staying in a fine hotel, eating in good restaurants, seeing the sights; vacation. Leaving the country, coping with a different language, a time zone change, culture shock; that's travel. Both experiences are valuable. Sometimes we need to relax, unwind, chill. We also need to change the scenery; both for our bodies and our minds, be uncomfortable and uneasy, shake up our perceptions.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
December 9, 2009
As I passed the church pre-school this morning I noticed a little fellow, 4 years old maybe, hauling a wheeled back pack across the sidewalk. What on earth can a 4 year old require at pre-school that he needs a back pack with wheels? And what kind of mindset does this create at 4 years old that we need to go through our days lugging around so much stuff? Maybe you need a lunch or your favorite stuffed toy to keep you company. Do you remember when going to kindergarten meant choosing a lunch box? It was a rectangular box with a lid that opened on the large side. It had 2 snap clips to close and a short handle on top. Each year the designs changed depending on what cartoon character or TV show was popular. Mothers packed a change of clothes to be stashed in the child's cubby. High school students carried their books under their arms, their lunches in a brown paper bag. Then someone invented the school back pack. Initially it seemed like an advance. No more hunched backs from clutching a pile of books to your chest. Now the back pack could be filled, zipped against the weather and worn high on the back supported by a strap over each shoulder. That was the theory anyway. The reality was somewhat different. Backpacks became another way to identify. The cool kids wore them slung over one shoulder only. Middle schoolers decorated them with a multitude of key chain fobs. Elementary school backpacks came disguised as teddy bears or pre-printed with the characters from the latest TV show. Eventually it evolved, as have suitcases , and now we have a back-pack on wheels for the pre-kindergarten set.
December 11, 2009
Why do we wear clothes that are unsuitable for the weather?
My daughter left the house yesterday wearing a warm, wool coat suitable for the 32ยบ temperature but on her feet she had the equivalent of ballet slippers. As diplomatically as I could I suggested she wear boots ( of which she has at least 4 pair; high heeled dress boots, fur-lined- Uggs, low heeled suede boots etc) and stash the light weight flats in her purse. "Oh, she said I'm carrying my heels" and waved a pair of high heeled pumps in my face as if this made perfect sense. Her day involved walking from metro stop to place of work, back to the metro, then catching a shuttle bus and walking some more. The temperatures were dropping and the wind chill factor increasing. I thought she was in serious danger of frostbitten toes. She's past the age where I can insist on anything I can only suggest. I'd done my job. I let her go without further comment.
She re-appeared at breakfast this morning with all ten toes intact.
My daughter left the house yesterday wearing a warm, wool coat suitable for the 32ยบ temperature but on her feet she had the equivalent of ballet slippers. As diplomatically as I could I suggested she wear boots ( of which she has at least 4 pair; high heeled dress boots, fur-lined- Uggs, low heeled suede boots etc) and stash the light weight flats in her purse. "Oh, she said I'm carrying my heels" and waved a pair of high heeled pumps in my face as if this made perfect sense. Her day involved walking from metro stop to place of work, back to the metro, then catching a shuttle bus and walking some more. The temperatures were dropping and the wind chill factor increasing. I thought she was in serious danger of frostbitten toes. She's past the age where I can insist on anything I can only suggest. I'd done my job. I let her go without further comment.
She re-appeared at breakfast this morning with all ten toes intact.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
December 6 2009
When I was a child I was shocked to see my teacher at the grocery store. Like most children, it turns out, I thought that teachers really only existed at school. After we left, they finished their chores in the classroom then ceased to exist until school started the next day. It was disconcerting and disorienting to see a teacher in play clothes in a non educational setting.
Similarly when my children leave their home for college they seem to imagine that home, the house and the people therein stop metabolizing. That we go into suspended animation until they need us. They meanwhile are going through profound metamorphoses discovering sex, mood altering substances and maybe even new ideas. They return demanding that we recognize their newness, their independence, chafing at the strait jacket of family life only to be disconcerted to find their room violated. The floors cleaned, the debris disposed of. Maybe the walls are repainted or the space has been re-purposed as a guest bedroom, a study, a storage room. "But it's my room!" they howl. Yes, it's your space when you are here but, my dear child, it is not your personal shrine.
Similarly when my children leave their home for college they seem to imagine that home, the house and the people therein stop metabolizing. That we go into suspended animation until they need us. They meanwhile are going through profound metamorphoses discovering sex, mood altering substances and maybe even new ideas. They return demanding that we recognize their newness, their independence, chafing at the strait jacket of family life only to be disconcerted to find their room violated. The floors cleaned, the debris disposed of. Maybe the walls are repainted or the space has been re-purposed as a guest bedroom, a study, a storage room. "But it's my room!" they howl. Yes, it's your space when you are here but, my dear child, it is not your personal shrine.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
November 28, 2009
We hung lights on the outside of the house today. The days are short, the nights are long, the temperatures dropped precipitously last night and the wind was cutting. Thanksgiving feast finished; the garden cleaned up of dead leaves and everything looks brown and bare. Wintry. I like lights on bushes and around doorways. I like the bravery of it. Yet as I connected string to string, I couldn't help but wonder how many watts I was consuming. Inside the house we have converted to CFL bulbs in an effort to conserve energy. When I buy a new light fixture I choose one that will accept a CFL. I follow my teenagers around shutting off the light fixtures they leave burning. Then I blithely string lights around the outside of my house on the off chance they will cheer the passerby!
In everything we do we make a choice. We can weigh the monetary cost and the environmental cost. To live without consuming excessively what does that mean?
In everything we do we make a choice. We can weigh the monetary cost and the environmental cost. To live without consuming excessively what does that mean?
Thursday, November 26, 2009
November 26, 2009
Thanksgiving 2009, we had five for dinner. It was going to be four, the nuclear family, mom, dad, sister, brother. At the last minute we added another teenager. It was easy. No tension. Low expectations. Turkey, gravy, stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce and a green vegetable. Simple food, nothing elaborate.
I celebrated my first Thanksgiving in 1964 in Queens, NY, three weeks after my family emigrated from England. I don't remember it. It was, in all probability very, very tense. We were staying with my uncle and his family while my father looked for a job and a place for us to live. My mother did not like my aunt. There was a huge clash of will, personality, and expectations mostly because of cultural misunderstandings. My aunt was well meaning but my mother was hyper-sensitive and very homesick. The next Thanksgiving we were established in a home of our own and my father was earning a wage at his trade. We began to establish our own Thanksgiving traditions. Turkey with gravy and stuffing, yes. My mother could easily do that. Cranberry sauce she refused to adopt. Two years later I was away at college and began the tradition of travelling home for Thanksgiving. It is a short holiday. Which makes travel over any great distance arduous. Because you hit the road or the airport in a very small window of time with a great many other people often in some of the worst weather possible for long distance travel. I hadn't yet acquired a lot of emotions around eating turkey on one particular day but I had no desire to stay in empty dorms and a desperate need for a break from classes so it became a fixture for the next 4 years. Get a ride for the 300 mile trip from upstate NY to the southern tip of Long Island. The next 2 years were easy. I had a job on the Northern tip of LI, a car and no friends in the area. Naturally I went home to my family of origin.
By 1973 I was living and working in London, England. I didn't miss Thanksgiving but Christmas was tough. Like my mother before me, I wasn't comfortable with my new in-laws and they didn't much like me. It wasn't a problem for long. 1975 found my new British husband and I celebrating his first Thanksgiving in Madison, Wisconsin. We were back on the road again. Driving up North to have dinner with the family of one his new American friends. It was a big gathering and I remember feeling embarrassed when I was asked to say what I was thankful for. I couldn't think quickly enough with all those strange faces looking at me. It was a lovely traditional dinner. I was impressed with the grandeur of the table, the quantity of food and the large number of people present. It became, for me, a standard to aim for.
By 1978 we were living in Iowa. The next 2 years were strange. At holiday times all the native Iowans we knew went home to the farm. We were left to our own devices. All that changed in 1980 when we moved to Massachusetts. Now we were back in driving distance of my parents. Thanksgiving meant a ferry trip across the LI Sound. We were a married, but childless couple so we did the traveling. My parents were still hosting my younger siblings so Thanksgiving was a family re-union of sorts. There was never any discussion of where we go it was assumed we would join my parents. My mother was in charge of holiday celebrations. They succeeded or failed according to her mood and expectations.
It wasn't until I was in my early 30's that I began to think about this. There were other options. Thanksgiving celebrated with a group of un-related people. Friends, co-workers, strangers. It wasn't until I had children of my own that the holiday pivot point changed from my mother to myself. Thanksgiving became my show. Grandparents travelled to be with grandchildren. My sister, brother and I consulted and divvied up the job of celebrating with our parents. Travel, distance, age of children, health of parents all had to be factored in. Until it got to the stage where the grandparents were too old, too fragile to travel. Then it became a different calculation. How to take care of them. How to make sure they had a Thanksgiving celebration without unduly burdening them with either cooking or travel. The tussle between my mother and her daughters over who was going to prevail when it came to "staging" the dinner. Every year when I put the cranberry sauce on the table she would screw up her face and pronounce it disgusting because she didn't like ( had she ever tried?) cranberry sauce. The year I cooked the dinner following a Julia Child recipe and made an elaborate wine based gravy. My father ate with a long face because it wasn't the gravy my mother made.
Dad died 2 years ago. Mom is in assisted living. My children are now in their early 20's. Soon they will be debating whether they want to travel for Thanksgiving or spend it with their friends. The wheel keeps turning.
I celebrated my first Thanksgiving in 1964 in Queens, NY, three weeks after my family emigrated from England. I don't remember it. It was, in all probability very, very tense. We were staying with my uncle and his family while my father looked for a job and a place for us to live. My mother did not like my aunt. There was a huge clash of will, personality, and expectations mostly because of cultural misunderstandings. My aunt was well meaning but my mother was hyper-sensitive and very homesick. The next Thanksgiving we were established in a home of our own and my father was earning a wage at his trade. We began to establish our own Thanksgiving traditions. Turkey with gravy and stuffing, yes. My mother could easily do that. Cranberry sauce she refused to adopt. Two years later I was away at college and began the tradition of travelling home for Thanksgiving. It is a short holiday. Which makes travel over any great distance arduous. Because you hit the road or the airport in a very small window of time with a great many other people often in some of the worst weather possible for long distance travel. I hadn't yet acquired a lot of emotions around eating turkey on one particular day but I had no desire to stay in empty dorms and a desperate need for a break from classes so it became a fixture for the next 4 years. Get a ride for the 300 mile trip from upstate NY to the southern tip of Long Island. The next 2 years were easy. I had a job on the Northern tip of LI, a car and no friends in the area. Naturally I went home to my family of origin.
By 1973 I was living and working in London, England. I didn't miss Thanksgiving but Christmas was tough. Like my mother before me, I wasn't comfortable with my new in-laws and they didn't much like me. It wasn't a problem for long. 1975 found my new British husband and I celebrating his first Thanksgiving in Madison, Wisconsin. We were back on the road again. Driving up North to have dinner with the family of one his new American friends. It was a big gathering and I remember feeling embarrassed when I was asked to say what I was thankful for. I couldn't think quickly enough with all those strange faces looking at me. It was a lovely traditional dinner. I was impressed with the grandeur of the table, the quantity of food and the large number of people present. It became, for me, a standard to aim for.
By 1978 we were living in Iowa. The next 2 years were strange. At holiday times all the native Iowans we knew went home to the farm. We were left to our own devices. All that changed in 1980 when we moved to Massachusetts. Now we were back in driving distance of my parents. Thanksgiving meant a ferry trip across the LI Sound. We were a married, but childless couple so we did the traveling. My parents were still hosting my younger siblings so Thanksgiving was a family re-union of sorts. There was never any discussion of where we go it was assumed we would join my parents. My mother was in charge of holiday celebrations. They succeeded or failed according to her mood and expectations.
It wasn't until I was in my early 30's that I began to think about this. There were other options. Thanksgiving celebrated with a group of un-related people. Friends, co-workers, strangers. It wasn't until I had children of my own that the holiday pivot point changed from my mother to myself. Thanksgiving became my show. Grandparents travelled to be with grandchildren. My sister, brother and I consulted and divvied up the job of celebrating with our parents. Travel, distance, age of children, health of parents all had to be factored in. Until it got to the stage where the grandparents were too old, too fragile to travel. Then it became a different calculation. How to take care of them. How to make sure they had a Thanksgiving celebration without unduly burdening them with either cooking or travel. The tussle between my mother and her daughters over who was going to prevail when it came to "staging" the dinner. Every year when I put the cranberry sauce on the table she would screw up her face and pronounce it disgusting because she didn't like ( had she ever tried?) cranberry sauce. The year I cooked the dinner following a Julia Child recipe and made an elaborate wine based gravy. My father ate with a long face because it wasn't the gravy my mother made.
Dad died 2 years ago. Mom is in assisted living. My children are now in their early 20's. Soon they will be debating whether they want to travel for Thanksgiving or spend it with their friends. The wheel keeps turning.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
November 21, 2009
I lost myself today. I decided to wander around Washington DC. I wanted to amble from the Smithsonian mall to Dupont circle. I wanted to explore to get the feel of the city. I started with an exhibition at the African art museum, Yinka Shonibare MBE It was energizing. I enjoyed the looking. When I emerged the sun was shining and I wasn't yet ready to return home. So I started walking through some of my favourite spaces the Enid Haupt garden in its winter state, then the NGA sculpture garden. They removed one of my favourite sculptures next to the cafe. Four silver cubes that rotated freely yet were attached to a vertical support. Replacing it is a metal tree. It's OK. Less interesting.
I thought I would use the Archives metro to move me some distance. There were problems on the yellow line; smoke at Gallery place. So I re-emerged above ground. Started walking up 7th. Looked for another station as I was starting to tire and the weather was changing to cold and looked like rain. The next station was also green/yellow line. So changed direction. Ended up following Mass ave ( not the kind of walk I had in mind) to Dupont circle and it was there I got a brain freeze. I knew where I was, Dupont circle, yet it didn't make sense, didn't connect with anything else I recognized. I could just give up and get back on the train. I could see the metro entrance. But I wasn't done yet. I needed to rest. Ducked into Books-a-million. It isn't the kind of bookstore that encourages reading and sitting. Left. Crossed the road to the grassy area of Dupont circle. Found a bench. Sat. This must be what it feels like to be homeless. My back hurt. I was tired. I didn't know what to do with myself. But it wasn't raining, I wasn't too cold and I had found a place of reasonable comfort where I could just sit and pull myself together. I had a piece of technology with me that was supposed to enable me to find myself, to make a phone call, get a direction. It was giving me mis-answers. It supplied information that didn't help my dilemma. I was still lost. No one home when I phoned. I continued to sit. There was a guy under the statue with a bunch of vinyl LP's for sale. The Doors. He wasn't making any sales. I thought about using my new technology to make a photograph of the statue, or the salesman but I knew I couldn't do it. So I sat some more and checked my phone. Finally a text message to an earlier query. I was welcome to visit at my daughter's place of work, Studio gallery. I thought it was 2 blocks away from Dupont circle. But nothing looked familiar. I struggled to access my biological technology, my random access memory, my brain. Nothing was computing. I had rested enough that I could walk again so I got up and changed the location of my body in space hoping to reboot my brain. Phoned again still no answer. I was slightly relieved. I wasn't eager to confess how confused I was. It would only invite exasperation. And then; oh joy; the world came into focus, the little cylinders shifted and rotated and clicked and suddenly I knew! If I exited the circle at Connecticut avenue I could find my way to the gallery.
I thought I would use the Archives metro to move me some distance. There were problems on the yellow line; smoke at Gallery place. So I re-emerged above ground. Started walking up 7th. Looked for another station as I was starting to tire and the weather was changing to cold and looked like rain. The next station was also green/yellow line. So changed direction. Ended up following Mass ave ( not the kind of walk I had in mind) to Dupont circle and it was there I got a brain freeze. I knew where I was, Dupont circle, yet it didn't make sense, didn't connect with anything else I recognized. I could just give up and get back on the train. I could see the metro entrance. But I wasn't done yet. I needed to rest. Ducked into Books-a-million. It isn't the kind of bookstore that encourages reading and sitting. Left. Crossed the road to the grassy area of Dupont circle. Found a bench. Sat. This must be what it feels like to be homeless. My back hurt. I was tired. I didn't know what to do with myself. But it wasn't raining, I wasn't too cold and I had found a place of reasonable comfort where I could just sit and pull myself together. I had a piece of technology with me that was supposed to enable me to find myself, to make a phone call, get a direction. It was giving me mis-answers. It supplied information that didn't help my dilemma. I was still lost. No one home when I phoned. I continued to sit. There was a guy under the statue with a bunch of vinyl LP's for sale. The Doors. He wasn't making any sales. I thought about using my new technology to make a photograph of the statue, or the salesman but I knew I couldn't do it. So I sat some more and checked my phone. Finally a text message to an earlier query. I was welcome to visit at my daughter's place of work, Studio gallery. I thought it was 2 blocks away from Dupont circle. But nothing looked familiar. I struggled to access my biological technology, my random access memory, my brain. Nothing was computing. I had rested enough that I could walk again so I got up and changed the location of my body in space hoping to reboot my brain. Phoned again still no answer. I was slightly relieved. I wasn't eager to confess how confused I was. It would only invite exasperation. And then; oh joy; the world came into focus, the little cylinders shifted and rotated and clicked and suddenly I knew! If I exited the circle at Connecticut avenue I could find my way to the gallery.
Friday, November 13, 2009
November 13, 2009
The phone rang today. It was a California number. I picked up and a recorded voice said "this is a call from (telephone #) for a cause that you support. We realize that we called you but there is no-one available to talk to your right now....." Abruptly I disconnected. Ten minutes later the same California number rang again. I picked up the phone and without saying anything put the receiver down on the kitchen counter until I heard a dial tone. I have registered on every do not call list that is out there. But organizations that have benefited from my money are exempt. Its maddening. We all do it. Send our $ then watch the recipient spend it mailing us back to ask for a larger gift.
Fund raising is not about doing good anymore its a business. There are so many non-profits out there they compete with each other. Medical school is over, MBA's are over, dot coms are over the next trend is start your own foundation! That is what the bright young things who graduate today are doing.
Fund raising is not about doing good anymore its a business. There are so many non-profits out there they compete with each other. Medical school is over, MBA's are over, dot coms are over the next trend is start your own foundation! That is what the bright young things who graduate today are doing.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
November 10, 2009
I ironed a tablecloth this morning.
As I was doing this I was laughing at myself because I used to be so arrogant about not ironing. I considered it beneath me, too domestic. I had more important things to do. So here I am ironing a table cloth that I inherited from my mother. It is white, heavily embroidered with cross stitch roses. There is cutwork too. And in the cutwork there is crochet. Very fine crochet. As I am ironing this article I'm thinking about the woman who made it. The embroidery is neat and small and even. It looks as good on the reverse as on the front. I have to be careful with the iron because it gets snagged in the openwork and I don't want to damage it. There is puckering because the crochet thread has shrunk a little more than the fabric in the wash and I have to ease it out with the tip of the iron. Doing this causes me to really look at the workmanship, to admire the design, the intricacy and neatness of the stitches. The act of ironing is making me see. I have looked at the stitching as I might look at an object in an art gallery. Even though the creation of this tablecloth was an act of craftmanship rather than creativity the act of ironing has brought me into relationship; with the woman who made it, with my mother who selected and purchased it, with all women who launder and press and select and display their household goods when it comes time for a special dinner celebration.
As I was doing this I was laughing at myself because I used to be so arrogant about not ironing. I considered it beneath me, too domestic. I had more important things to do. So here I am ironing a table cloth that I inherited from my mother. It is white, heavily embroidered with cross stitch roses. There is cutwork too. And in the cutwork there is crochet. Very fine crochet. As I am ironing this article I'm thinking about the woman who made it. The embroidery is neat and small and even. It looks as good on the reverse as on the front. I have to be careful with the iron because it gets snagged in the openwork and I don't want to damage it. There is puckering because the crochet thread has shrunk a little more than the fabric in the wash and I have to ease it out with the tip of the iron. Doing this causes me to really look at the workmanship, to admire the design, the intricacy and neatness of the stitches. The act of ironing is making me see. I have looked at the stitching as I might look at an object in an art gallery. Even though the creation of this tablecloth was an act of craftmanship rather than creativity the act of ironing has brought me into relationship; with the woman who made it, with my mother who selected and purchased it, with all women who launder and press and select and display their household goods when it comes time for a special dinner celebration.
Monday, November 9, 2009
November 9, 2009
On our last trip to Canada, we pulled off at a highway rest stop for coffee to go with the sticky buns my sister had baked for us. The building reverberated with jangling artificial sounds so we found a bench in the sun. As soon as we seated ourselves the sparrows appeared. Bold little guys hopping around our feet. Clearly they were used to being fed or just scarfing up dropped crumbs. I normally don't feed birds where people eat but these two were so direct, so bold that I encouraged a few more crumbs to crumble. One dived forward, the other held back. Soon they were joined by others and my husband joined in the feeding game. Within minutes it was clear he had a game plan; to distribute the crumbs equitably. This involved, as you might guess, scattering a few crumbs close in for the brazen and pitching a larger piece far out for the timid. I'm sure he is not unique in his bird feeding behavior. How many of us do the same, trying to even out the odds. We root for the underdog, or in this case the underbird. But the underbird with the big crumb only attracts the attention of the top-bird and often looses his crust. Thereby earning the scorn of the dispenser.
Monday, October 19, 2009
October 19, 2009
Today, as I do once a month, I got ready to sample the water in Four Mile Run. After collecting my equipment I coaxed my 14 year old Corgi, Dazzle, out to the car. She was reluctant to leave her warm corner. Her hips are stiff and weak and don't always hold her upright. We had to build a ramp from the back door step as she wouldn't stop hopping down, and crashing into the the ground and smashing her chin. I scooped her up and deposited her in the floor well behind the driver's seat. She used to settle in there, tucking her tail around her, so it wouldn't get caught in the door, resting her chin on the bump in the bump in the floor. I thought she was so smart. Now she barely knows who she is. She used to be delighted with a car ride knowing that we only put her in the car to go somewhere good, with water, and trails and lots of good smells. When the car slowed to a stop she would hop on the back seat, circle around, then hop back down ,over and over again, no matter how hard I tried to train her to wait. I never succeeded in training her, time did that. Now she whimpers softly and I can tell she is unhappy but I'm not sure why. I suspect she wants to "go", even though we already took care of that. I wonder will she wait or has she declined so far that she will soil her space in the car.
As I drive down to the stream, I wonder is this the last trip? As little as 6 months ago she still went on long distance road trips. She loved to sleep in the big van, as we cruised on down the highway. At the rest stop it was clear that she enjoyed the novelty of place. New smells, new smells! That phase had lasted a year or so as it coincided with my need to make frequent visits to my mother who lived in upstate NY. Now it is clear the time of extended car trips with Dazzle is over. This short trip is more than enough. I scoop her out and deposit her gently on the ground. She rallies enough to take care of business, explore a few feet and then makes it clear she is done. She wants back in the car where she feels safe.
As I drive down to the stream, I wonder is this the last trip? As little as 6 months ago she still went on long distance road trips. She loved to sleep in the big van, as we cruised on down the highway. At the rest stop it was clear that she enjoyed the novelty of place. New smells, new smells! That phase had lasted a year or so as it coincided with my need to make frequent visits to my mother who lived in upstate NY. Now it is clear the time of extended car trips with Dazzle is over. This short trip is more than enough. I scoop her out and deposit her gently on the ground. She rallies enough to take care of business, explore a few feet and then makes it clear she is done. She wants back in the car where she feels safe.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
October 4, 2009
It was time to tidy up the garden. I cut back the Iris leaves, trimmed the cinquefoil and excavated the weeds. Found my two basil plants. I had used a few leaves here and there with tomatoes, in a pasta dish but had never made pesto sauce. I decided it was time to make a batch before the frost killed the plants. I had been gardening all day so I was tired, not looking forward to standing in the kitchen plucking basil leaves. I grabbed a colander, found a chair on the deck and sitting in the sun with the colander between my knees I started plucking basil leaves. With a surplus of plants it wasn't necessary to get every last leaf I could just choose the best, freshest unblemished leaves. As I sat and plucked it reminded me of being a kid, sitting on the stone back door step, colander between my knees shelling peas. Eating as many as I put in the colander. What a simple pleasure that was. My favorite chore. It strikes me that the childish pleasure of shelling peas has transformed into the yuppie ritual of stripping basil.
Friday, October 2, 2009
October 2, 2009
My daughter obtained a baccalaureate with a major in English and a minor in Studio Art this year. Needless to say she is unemployed. She is fortunate in that she graduated debt free, and in that she lives in Arlington, Va. This location gives her access to one of the best job markets in the country (even in this recession) and to a huge number of free cultural events.
In spite of these advantages she is unhappy. She is lonely; missing the casual socializing of college life. She spends her days, going to the gym, devouring novels, and volunteering at 2 different arts organizations. Her nights she spends watching movies and agonizing over her long distance boy friend's text messages and phone calls or lack thereof.
We have different ideas about how to job hunt. I scoured the classified section of the NY Times and "interviewed for information". My job hunting manual was What Color is Your Parachute? by Richard Bolles. I was repeatedly told, and believed, that "looking for a job is a full time job." She scours Craig's List and Monster.com. Considers Richard Bolles to be old and hopelessly antiquated. And since she does her job hunting online I have no idea how much time she thinks it is necessary to invest.
Meanwhile my second child is starting his college career. He is avoiding all math courses. No foreign languages. Science? Well nothing with a lab that's for sure. I can feel another English major about to emerge. And I am wondering when did a 4 year college degree change from a preparation for life to an extended vacation from life?
Meanwhile my second child is starting his college career. He is avoiding all math courses. No foreign languages. Science? Well nothing with a lab that's for sure. I can feel another English major about to emerge. And I am wondering when did a 4 year college degree change from a preparation for life to an extended vacation from life?
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
September 24, 2009
There are three people in my life that I love; husband, daughter, son. Yet I don't always show it. My husband comes home from work and I'm not quite ready to stop what I'm doing to greet him. I know he craves some small attention; a kiss, a brief caress, eye contact. It seems so simple when I write it and yet............... Some stubborn part of me can't, won'.
My daughter is as prickly as I am. She too needs attention but it is not easy to figure out when. She also desperately needs non-attention. To be left alone kindly. She has a strong sense of personal space and cannot stand to have it violated. This has been true since middle school when her science teacher leaned over her at her desk and she had to repress a violent desire to snarl "get away from me". When she cooks she bars me from the kitchen. When she watches TV I may sit in the same room "by invitation only."
My son is even more complicated. For the first 5 years of his life he couldn't bear to be separated from me, for the next 5 years he didn't want to leave home, yet beginning around age 12 he couldn't bear the sound of my voice and preferred any of his friend's homes to his own. Now he is away at college and virtually incommunicado.
The ones we love. Why is it so difficult to show it?
The ones we love. Why is it so difficult to show it?
Thursday, September 24, 2009
September 24, 2009
There seems to be an epidemic of stink bugs hanging around my house. I never even knew what a stink bug was until earlier this summer. I actually thought they were kind of cute. (That was also my reaction when I first met a Japanese beetle. Oh what a beautiful bug! Then I saw the mess they made of my flowers) The stink bug is interesting in design. It's shield shaped and mottled and sort of solid looking. There is nothing flittery or slimy or creepy or weird about them. Then I learned their name. I haven't actually smelled one yet. Because I haven't squished one. A bug has to be really offensive or dangerous to get squished in our house. Yes, we trap 'em and carry them outside. (With the exception of dog fleas and head lice which get thoroughly doused in poison.) Fortunately as the stink bug sightings go up so do the spider sightings. I am also seeing more spider webs patrolled my mega-sized spiders. Today I almost ran through one strung between the car's side mirror and the car port wall. In the middle of this web was a large spider feeding on a stink bug. Gruesome and awesome all at the same time.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
September 22, 2009
On a recent visit to my 84 year old mother I was distressed to see that she had food stains on the front of her dress. She takes pride in her appearance, dressing with an eye to color and style, carefully choosing jewelry to enhance her outfit, so I knew this was because she was unaware and not because she didn't care. Her eyesight is not as sharp nor her fingers are as nimble as in days gone by. I've also noticed that when we share a meal together food tends to stick to her lip, or a crumb will adhere to her chin for the duration of the meal. This I can point out and she can take care of it with a napkin. I wonder is this a benchmark of advancing age?
The next day I was giving my daughter a ride to work and since I had missed lunch I was munching on an apple while driving a manual shift car. It was a good apple, crisp, juicy and inevitably my hand got a little sticky and I was uncomfortably aware that I was transferring apple juice to the shift lever. When I got home I found that wasn't the only thing to get sticky. My fresh white T shirt had light yellow spots down the front. Food stains! If I pay attention when I do laundry I can probably return my white T shirt to its pristine condition. But how many shirts have I spoiled by drinking coffee or black tea while driving? Do I notice when I toss one on?
I may not be able to reverse the aging process as it softens my jawline, thickens my waistline and deprives my skin of elasticity but I can go back to eating and drinking in a civilized fashion.
I often eat lunch and breakfast by myself and I am addicted to reading. Yet it is, I have found, rather messy to eat while reading. The book has to be maintained in an open position with one hand, the newspaper if not folded very carefully tends to be too far away from the plate. As for driving while drinking coffee well who doesn't? The results are not pleasant. Butter smears, tomato sauce splashes, ice cream splodges all decorated with indelible coffee drips. It only takes one drop of coffee to convert a sexy little T to an old-lady top. So I ask myself am I dining or merely stuffing my face?
Sunday, September 20, 2009
September 20, 2009
I never had to fuss about my eyebrows. Fair skinned with dirty blond/mousy brown hair my eyebrows were just there. No uni-brow to worry about. I focused on my eyelashes using mascara to draw attention to my blue eyes, my best feature or so I thought. Now, however, I have lines around my eyes, incipient eye bags and mascara just doesn't enhance the way it used to. So I turned to my eyebrows to bring my face back into focus. And found they were migrating! There are no strays to pluck. There are only strays. There are long springy black hairs shooting up and out that seem to be eyelashes emerging from the wrong place. There are little short hairs growing backwards. There is it seems, a general rebellion in the ranks as the brow hairs spread out and meander around no longer deigning to lie together in an orderly brow like fashion. What to do? I stroke on some eyebrow powder attempting to create a delicate arch. Oh dear! Now my left brow arches nicely, but the right one is stubbornly straight and thick and distinctly lower than the right. A curve on the left, a deep frown line above my nose and a dash on the right. I have created a punctuation mark on my face ~/-
I decide my face has character.
I am interesting .............and old.
Friday, September 18, 2009
September 18, 2009
Once again fashion magazines are entering my mail box. We now subscribe to three, Harper's Bazaar, Elle, Marie Claire and soon Cosmopolitan will join the list. New college graduates (like my daughter) attract all kinds of cheap subscription rates. We even get the Economist. Her Dad and I like that.
Remembering when I was in my 20's and addicted to magazines I thought it would be a nice gesture to sign up. After all the offer was $12 for 2 years. Be nice to look at the latest clothes and makeup styles again , I thought. Wrong! Boring, boring, boring. In three different magazines there wasn't one item of clothing, one gorgeous outfit that I could lust after. Am I jaded, have I just seen it all? Worse yet are the shoes. They seem to be designed as instruments of repression. Not only are the heels getting higher, they are getting thinner or disappearing altogether. So the model is balanced on a 4 inch platform sole with no heel to balance on. OK, so the latter is in a Tim Burton spread and you could argue its art and not everyday wear. I would counter with Japanese foot binding . Equally artful, but imposed on many women and hideously painful and debilitating. It just seems to me that designers are deliberately crippling women. I've watched the career women crossing the street in downtown DC in there career suits and high heels and I can tell you their feet hurt and their lower back will punish them at the end of the day.
What is the function of a blog
So I've already speculated about this, comparing personal journals to online musings. So far I've posted twice and neither of my posts has a photo or a link. Doesn't look much like a blog. Looks, reads much more like a personal essay and takes considerably more time and thought. Not like what I've just written which is more like, as my daughter so colorfully puts it, "vomiting on the page." And thus far it doesn't matter because I have precisely one reader. I could invite other people, like my friends or my family. But then I'm exposed. They get to judge me on my choice of subject and what I say. So actually it might be easier if I had readers who were completely unknown to me as if I had actually submitted my writing to a magazine or newspaper and been selected for publication . In which case there is already one level of selection. The type of publication delineates the subject matter and also draws readers who are likely to be interested.
How would anyone in the general public find this blog and why would they read it?
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
"I'm a very likable person."
" I'm a very likeable person." My daughter replied when I passed on a compliment from one of our neighbors. 22 years old, she is lovely to look at, generous to her friends, with a smile that can rock your world. She is capable of being delightful and charming. She is also moody, emotional, extremely self conscious and quick to take offense. Likeable? As in easy to get along with?
At her age, I too believed that I was likable and easy to get along with. Why wouldn't anyone like me? I believed that I was innocuous because I was non-confrontational, quiet and withdrawn. It took me decades to understand that quiet does not mean benign; that non-confrontational did not mean easy-going. That even though I was neither quick-witted or good with repartee, I was sharp and sarcastic and to some people frighteningly smart. Although inside I felt fearful, anxious and insecure outside I appeared arrogant, superior, and unapproachable. Ouch!
Self knowledge is good but doesn't automatically lead to change. What has changed is that I am now sensitive to the poor impression I might create. I have learned that I do get angry and that it is often evident to those around me before I recognize it in myself. I am also not unique. So when another person is scaring me, or turning me off, or rejecting me I consider the possibility that they too might be hiding fear, anxiety and insecurity.
So is my daughter correct when she calls herself likable? Definitely yes.
Does she have some things to learn about herself. Yes, again.
Doesn't everyone?
That is what living is about. Learning who we are meant to be.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
My daughter says I need a blog!
I am a journal writer, not a blogger. I have a notebook in which I write sporadically. I used to write primarily when I was unhappy. I found it useful to look back and realize that whatever I was fretting about had diminished. Then as I got older I used it as a memory device. There were events, places, people that I wanted to remember. Writing them down helped me do this. I have a collection, now, of about 20 composition notebooks ( the kind with the marbleized covers) covering a span of about 30 years. When I have to travel by air, I select one at random and read it. Sometimes they make me laugh but always I get perspective. "The unexamined life is not worth living" as Socrates is supposed to have said. The last 5 journals have illlustrations, photos and clippings. Again, my daughter's influence and the advent of digital photography.
My father died 2 years ago and my mother has reached a stage in her life where her mobility is severely limited, her mental powers are sometimes fuzzy and she is becoming more child-like in her demands for emotional as well as physical support. When she decided to subsist on tea and biscuits during the day and alcohol and potato chips at night we moved her into an assisted living facility. Slowly I am beginning the task of sorting through the accumulations of a 50 year marriage. The usual photos, bibelots, tchotchkes. Hundreds of items of clothing ( my mother shopped as a hobby) many with the tags still attached. As I folded up the clothes for Goodwill it was like sifting through the layers of an archaeological dig. The layer of chenille sweaters, the next layer of shirts with shoulder pads, the collection of 1970's silk blouses, the corduroy jumpers and turtle necks. Having helped my mother pack all these clothes a few years prior I knew that she could identify each piece, and tell a story about where she bought it, who she was shopping with, and if it was a successful piece on what occasion it had been worn. My mother's life story is told in her clothes. My life story is in my notebooks. Will anyone ever read them? Indeed would I want them to? The most likely reader would be the self same daughter that prompted this blog. Would she really want to wade through a rather large collection of often undecipherable scribble? Further more wouldn't some of what I had written cause her pain? After all I had written these notebooks for my self. I used them as a vehicle to vent, to say the things that should not be said out loud. Even I don't agree with some of my conclusions when I go back later.
So maybe that is a function of a blog. A journal for public consumption.
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