Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Freedom




Swish, smash, slam!

I looked at my bedside clock. 11:47 p.m. WTF?

Clash, clamor, clink!

The Professor was either being really sweet or really annoying.

Thud, thump, thrash.

Or both.

We had our Passover Seder. Our roles have been defined for a long time now. We both invite, I plan the menu, shop and cook, set the table, he leads the Seder, we ro sham bo for who clears and loads, and then the pots, pans and wine glasses are left to the person with the least tolerance for mess. Or, as in last night’s case, the person looking to get laid or just can’t sleep. Or both.

My mother taught me never to criticize how someone does something or else they might stop doing it. So when I hear the dishes being tossed around the kitchen like Frisbees, I just do my best to turn a deaf ear. When I think a serving platter is being shoved into the dishwasher, I bite my tongue really hard. What is more important? The Professor helping out or a non-chipped heirloom?

Passover is about celebrating freedom. On this night, Jews all over the world get together, recline around a table, eat special foods, drink ceremonial wine and tell the story of how the Israelites were freed from slavery in Egypt. It’s an inspired tradition, to say the least.

I reminded myself of that as I turned out my light and went back to sleep. Who was I to tell someone how to hand wash dishes (super hot soapy water--glass first, greasy pots last) or dry wine glasses (do not attempt to force a towel in them with your large hand). No, I didn’t dare. That not only would have broken a covenant but would have cost me as well.

Freedom
You've got to give for what you take.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

Meet Lulu




Last night I was awoken at 3:15a.m. by the bemoaning and ranting of Her Royal Majesty the Queen. Standing 13 inches tall and cloaked in silver fur, she rules with sharp tongue and declawed fist. She is most punitive when her food dish is empty or we’ve been away on a trip.

I think Her Highness was especially wrathful this time because not only had we left her for a week, but First Born Prince had inadvertently shut his bedroom door, thereby blocking her entrance to her favorite chamber. So, after her midnight hunting expedition and customary jaunt around the house looking for suitcases to defile, she sat in the hallway and started complaining at full decibel.

Long, guttural cry.

“Lulu! Lulu! It’s okay, we’re home.” If you piss on my suitcase, you are a dead woman.

More howling.

“Come here. Lulu! Sweet kitty.”

Short, mournful meows.

“It’s okay, Lulu. Come here.”

I made some kissing noises and rubbed my fingers together. This works for every cat I’ve ever met. The house was quiet as I listened for any signs of cloak and dagger activities. She found her way to my chest where she made some pies, gave herself a bath, and then, mercifully, went to sleep.

I am not sure if I was pardoned or not. The subjects are always the last to know.

Saturday, March 27, 2010

Little Darlings



While watching the second of the three Cornell NCAA games last week, I ended up in a long conversation with a college basketball coach. That night Big Red was playing Wisconsin, and, if we won, we were going up against Kentucky, one of the top teams in the country. He filled me in on the "David vs. Goliath" view that most of college basketball felt. I was intrigued and so I followed up with some research. As I read about the public profiles of the two teams, it dawned on me that we were talking about a battle in a much bigger war.

No one can deny we are all living with the effects of capitalism and consumerism, but I was still surprised to learn that the coach of Kentucky has a four-year contract for $35 million. His job is clear: win at all costs. Kentucky has the fewest number of players graduating from college as compared with almost any other school. They even had titles revoked when follow-up research revealed that players didn’t meet the NCAA minimum SAT score requirements. When did college ball move from being about student athletes competing to a breeding arena for the NBA?

I am not writing this because I am bitter we lost to Kentucky. Our Cornell boys are smart and hard working and all of them will go on to graduate. Maybe one or two will play professional basketball, but the majority will have careers in engineering, medicine, or business. Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to go? I am all for awarding scholarships, but it seems like a joke to blatantly ignore academic standards at a university just so you can build a team of gladiators.

There is talk that Big Red’s coach of 10 years will leave, as he is being recruited and will probably have an annual salary of at least $1 million dangled in front of him. I hope that he will think about the spirit of the school and balance the temptation for more money against the quality of life found in a small college town like Ithaca and make a decision to stay. I wouldn’t blame him for moving on but it sure would be an inspiration if he stayed.

Consumers demand entertainment and March Madness delivers. Who knows if any of the teams' fans really care if the players in the games go to class at their schools, or what happens to them after the tournament is over.

I know, I sound like a mom. Well, that's what I get for caring about the people in the game.

Don't even get me started on the cheerleaders.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

Miami Vice




We are staying in downtown Miami and have been trekking out to the Everglades for hikes and boat trips. After dinner last night we went for a walk at South Beach. It felt like cruising the Vegas strip, except everyone was fit and still had their shoes on.

The Professor can’t wait to get down to the beach today. He has probably deduced that if what we saw last night is considered evening attire, he will be in luck with the sun shinning hot today. I voted for another kayak trip to a swamp, thinking I would rather instill a love of nature…

I didn’t win, but I am not worried. I figure it’s all a balancing act anyway and with any luck, my boys will care as much about saving wild life as they will about dating it. I am hoping that if they get a few eyefuls when they are young, maybe they wont bring home a stripper when they are in college.

Not that stripping your way through Cornell Pre-Med is a bad thing.

Monday, March 22, 2010

March Ups and Downs




March Madness has been bittersweet this year. The headlines out of Cornell University this past month have been as taunting as they have been haunting.

Cornell clinches NCAA berth -- Cornell earned the Ivy League title with an 86-53 win over Harvard Saturday.

College on edge after recent wave of student suicides --A wave of suicides at Cornell University in the past two semesters is a "public health crisis," the school's mental health initiatives director said.

Historic day for Cornell: Basketball team upsets Temple, advances in NCAA...

Cornell posts lookouts on bridges after suspected suicide…

Cornell basketball dominates Wisconsin, will play Kentucky in NCAA Tournament Sweet 16…

Two suspected suicides confirmed at Cornell; total now at six …


I have been impressed with how the university community has reacted to the suicides. The Administration is doing a tremendous job reaching out and the students are rallying to support each other, too. The feeling on campus is that people care. Students even took it upon themselves to take the words of encouragement printed in the newspaper by the President of Cornell and write it in chalk on the bridges, “Ask For Help.”

It has been shocking to read some of the comments following the online media reports.

“Spoiled little silver spoon kids. Too bad being born with money can't buy you a perspective of having to work for everything you get!”

Thankfully articulate students responded to those posts.


“You are obviously ignorant to say spoiled ivy league kids ... What does learning how to make a living for yourself by working have to do with Cornell suicides? Nothinggg.”

Since I have been in class with them, my husband teaches them, and my kids are babysat and coached by them, I can tell you they are smart and work harder than any students I have ever met. And by the way, most of them are not rich.

At Cornell, you can see the spirit of the school in sports, too. Between all the hockey and basketball we have watched this year, it is clear these Ivy Leaguers are serious student-athletes that are recruited because they are not only passionate and talented, but are willing to sacrifice in order to achieve goals.

Trying to make sense out of all that has happened this month for us in Ithaca, New York, I can tell you in one word what does work: Teamwork.

Thursday, March 18, 2010

Kings, Kites & Ketchup




Some tips on savoring the precious gifts we have been given:

In order to really connect, you need to communicate properly with your children. This means you need to speak their language. There is a difference between a lord and a king, a ninja and a samurai, a wizard and a warlock, and a chief and a captain. You may not use the titles “Lieutenant” and “General” interchangeably, or mix up the terms Battle Droid and Clone Trooper. Learn it, know it, use it.

Also, friends, there is a window of time you will be invited to play with them, rather than simply asked to facilitate fun things for them to do with their friends. So when any little one asks you if you want to go fly a kite, rather than look wistfully at your pile of laundry you were planning to fold, jump up and holler, “Yes, I do! Right now, as a matter of fact!”

Finally, when your grimy, sweaty, dirty love bug gets a sweet look in his eye and wanders over to you, wraps his arms around you and presses his face against your belly, grinding ketchup into your new white GAP t-shirt, don’t run for the Tide stick. Just hug as tightly as you possibly can and hold him there for as long as he will let you, kissing frequently.

Repeat as needed.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Lucky Charms



There is a black and white photo on my dresser—it’s of me, two-years-old and I am tucking in my baby – bent over a doll cradle, fussing with a blanket. I love that picture, the essence of a busy mama.

I picked up the frame and was thinking how fast childhood goes, how precious the memories are, and I started getting all choked up.

Wait a minute! Look at the size of those feet! That is no baby doll! That is my one-year-old little brother! How on earth did I manage to lure him into that?

He was such a good sport—always there to shop in my store, attend class at my school, eat in my restaurant, and apparently, when he was very young, sleep in my nursery. He never questioned our games, just faithfully handed over pretend money, menus and math homework.

I used to tell people he was my Irish twin, but that was before political correctness, when you would say things like "sit Indian-style", "No way, Jose", or "You better not gyp me!" Now it’s uncouth to say anything that hasn’t been run past a lawyer or team of government experts.

We weren’t even Irish, but I liked the idea that we were twins of some sort and I was usually trying to model myself after our Irish neighbor. Her family attended church every Sunday and they sat down to hot lunch together on weekends.

Whatever you want to call us, I am so very thankful I had a live-in playmate. The closeness in age meant we usually ended up in tears or tattling, or both. We vied for our mother’s attention and would fight to the death for the last Ding Dong, but mostly I remember a friend, always around, almost my height, definitely as strong, and up for anything!

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Organic is the new Kosher



Opening my Stonyfield yogurt this morning, the top of the container read, “Cows are people, too, you know!”

“Okay, not really. But the organic farmers who supply us with milk treat their cows with care, giving them access to the outdoors, exercise areas and pasture.”

Is that so? I peeled off the foil and flipped it over.

“Organic regulations require the humane treatment of animals.”

Is that why we do it? Is that the reason we spend an extra buck fifty on a carton of yogurt? I think many of us are concerned about carcinogens and keeping our families healthy. Thankfully some of us worry about the animals, too.

I’ve been paying for peace of mind for a very long time now. When we first moved to Beverly Hills in 1993, I went grocery shopping and thought something was terribly wrong, like maybe the stock clerks inadvertently transposed all the numbers on the price stickers.

Jesus Christ! I can’t believe chicken is $10 a pound in this town.

After closer inspection of the label, I saw the word, Kosher, printed in a small stamp beneath “Boneless Skinless Chicken Breast.”

“What, in God’s name, is the difference between Kosher and regular?” I asked my husband, who is not only Jewish but has an answer for everything. And if he doesn’t know the answer, he can get it in two minutes flat. This was before the days of the Internet access and Google, I might add.

“The chickens were raised humanely and slaughtered without cruelty. It’s also very clean. No dirt in Kosher butcher shops.” He laughed.

I suspect that was my first introduction to thinking about my food source and whether or not it suffers on its way to me.

“Does it taste differently?”

“I don't think so. But it's better--less chance of salmonella.”

“So you’re cool with me spending double on chicken?" So we can rest easy knowing we won't get sick and that our food has not been tortured or abused?

“Yeah, it’s worth it.”

"Good." So are the chickens.

Friday, March 12, 2010

Reduce & Don't Use



The amount of recycling we put out last week was sickening. In our defense, we had done some spring-cleaning, thrown a party and also missed a pick up, so there was much more than our regular amount of lifestyle evidence.

Ithaca is counter-consumerism and that is by design. First of all, the minute the sun peeks out, most people want to head outdoors--hiking, skiing, running, fishing, bird watching, foraging for mushrooms, you name it.

Some of us have Bunyanesque children to feed, so skipping food shopping is not an option, no matter how gorgeous it is outside. My saving grace is that I have found a local farm and country store (http://www.ludgatefarms.com/), which does not feel like a chore, and, bonus, they do not offer much in the way of packaging.

Beyond boycotting conglomerate waste, upstate New York is very aware of their carbon footprint. Lots of people have their own gardens and raise their own chickens. There is even a farmer who will sell you ¼ of a butchered cow for $1.70 a lb—“from hoof to freezer in five days”. You can order ½ a lamb or part of a pig, too. No cruelty, no hormones, no fossil fuel, and no Styrofoam!

I’m not going to provide a home for my food before I eat it or start fermenting my own grapes, but I will finally compost and possibly, just possibly, even stop trolling around Target.

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Never underestimate your cleaning woman.



The first time I met Thupten, she was working at the hotel where we were staying. I kept running into her all week and she would always greet me with the nicest smile. I figured she was Vietnamese or Laotian. I later discovered she was a Buddhist nun from Tibet.

She entered the monastery at age 11. After 18 years she left, married her husband and then they moved to Ithaca. He works as a translator here. She has a school-age son and took a job as a chambermaid at the university hotel on campus, which is where I shanghaied her to clean house for me.

I thought Thupten became a nun because her family couldn’t afford to raise her. Turns out Tibetan families pay to send their daughters to be educated, it is a great honor, very prestigious and the girls study hard. The newly ordained nuns work from early morning into late at night, learning language, grammar, literature, prayers, sutras, tantras and texts. Crafts, astrology and medicine are also subjects they master. Generally, the education process lasts 18 years.

Well, with all that, who has time to sit around daydreaming about sex anyway?

Before I jumped to conclusions about why she left the monastery, I thought I best do a little research. I found this great explanation from a Buddhist nun:

“When most people hear the word ‘nun’, they think of Catholic nuns. Often, their first question is why would I want to give up having sex forever. Stated in this way, it puts sex on a par with things such as smoking or drinking: self-gratifying acts of pleasurable consumption. If one understands sex according to such a selfish, loveless definition, then I suppose that yes, I have "given it up". One of the vows I made when I was ordained pertains to sex, and it states that you should not use your sexuality in a way that harms. It is not what you do, therefore, but how you do it: using someone as a commodity for one's own satisfaction is definitely harmful if considered in that light.”

My cheeks flushed as I read. Here is a religion thousands of years old and they have had it right all along. No shame, no guilt, no pressure, and no fine print: for reproduction only!

No wonder Buddha always has a smile on his face.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Why is Denny's trying to kill my husband?



The Professor sends me business e-mail every day. Sometimes he wants me to schedule something, other times he's requesting information. You can imagine my surprise when I got this today:

From: Professor
Date: March 9, 2010
Subject: You can use this in your blog: Why is Denny’s trying to kill me?

In the course of breakfast, I was asked:

Would you like a Minute Maid orange juice or another juice?

Can I interest you in a pancake popper appetizer? (since when does
breakfast include appetizers?)

Would you like your hash browns "covered and smothered"? (As if the
hash browns are not bad enough - smothered in cheese and gravy?)
---

Nice observation! Thinking I might be able to use it, I dragged it into my Save folder. Then I stopped, opened the e-mail back up and examined it more closely.

What was my husband doing at Denny’s at 9:27a.m. on a Tuesday? A) He usually mentions breakfast meetings, B) What type of business men meet at Denny’s?, and C) He was dressed rather nicely today, a bit much for a restaurant that has photos of the items you can order on the menu.

I remember this tonight when we are alone in the kitchen together.

"I didn’t know there was a Denny’s in Ithaca."

“I wasn’t at Denny’s this morning. That was from a long time ago. I was going through old e-mail drafts.”

“Oh. When did you go?”

“When I was in San Diego.”

“So, you have a friend that likes to eat at Denny’s?”

“I ate alone.”

If he was having breakfast with another woman, not only was the poor thing only treated to Denny’s but he had the nerve to be thinking of my blog throughout the entire meal!

Sunday, March 7, 2010

Dream Team




We had the end-of-season celebration for the Cayuga Heights Elementary School (CHES) basketball team at our house last night. I tried to keep it low key but that is like telling Martha Stewart to serve Pabst beer in the can. I was totally paranoid about using paper plates and plastic cups, too, because I feared the green police might show up and arrest me.

A normal person would have ordered pizza and called it a day. But since the forecast was for sun and the families that were coming over were all People I Know and Like, we decided to turn it up a notch.

The Professor dug through ice and snow to unearth our BBQ while I marinated flank steak and skewered chicken. I showed remarkable restraint with the decorating (didn’t want to emasculate First Born Prince with the multi-tiered basketball centerpiece I had dreamed up) and dared to put out wine and beer with the soda and iced tea.

It is very difficult for me to host a “potluck”. The operative part of the term makes me nervous. I don’t like to leave anything to chance, and in Ithaca we might have gotten eight kale and quinoa salads, but I was determined to stay relaxed. We ended up with an amazing spread and nice variety of delicious dishes. Coach’s wife even made an awesome basketball cake!

Watching everyone pile their plates with good food and hearing the music of happy people in my home, I realized I had reconnected with the joy of entertaining. It has been a long time since I felt like throwing a party. By the time we left California, I was so burnt out that the thought of even rinsing a carrot for a guest made me gnash my teeth.

It’s not a blind pass after all. If you trust your teammates, there’s a high percentage shot you won’t have to free throw to save your back from a layup, or get defensive about someone making a foul. I just needed to stop dribbling, and make a fast break. I learned that without blocking everyone so they could assist me, I was able to rebound my way to a slam dunk.

Thursday, March 4, 2010

Trapped



The Professor couldn’t wait to schedule his first poker night. Probably a lot like I felt hosting my first book club. Filling up the house with friends and food is a lot of fun.

I remember the evening they all came over, bearing cigars and bottles of red wine. Boy, times have changed since my dad’s poker games when all you needed were some Planter’s peanuts and a six-pack.

After tucking the kids into bed, I went upstairs, put on my pajamas, washed my face and sat down to my computer. Damn. What I would have done for a glass of wine. I logged onto Facebook.

What’s on your mind?
Am trapped in upstairs office without wine while husband’s poker night is going on downstairs. Have already applied zit cream.

My next-door neighbor caught my update.

Comment:
I can try tossing a bottle up to you from the side yard.

I imagined trying to explain the smashed chardonnay to the Professor, his work associates and the fathers of my sons’ friends, while hanging out of my bedroom window.

Reply to comment:
Thanks—u r sweet but I’ll manage!

That was when I lived in La Jolla, back in the day, before I moved to Ithaca, before my mother, three aunts and father-in-law joined Facebook. Before my husband worked at a prominent university and I befriended some of his colleagues.

I caught myself really cooking my writing. No one wants to read the first raw thought out of my head but sometimes that's the funniest, best stuff we've got. I feel like I have only two choices. Curb my enthusiasm or be exposed as an unfit wife and mother.

I want to break free.

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

Bikini Bottom



We are going on a special outing tomorrow. School lets out at 11:00a.m. for parent/teacher conferences, so the ski club is heading back up to Greek Peak (http://www.greekpeak.net/). We were just there Monday, skiing as usual. I was chaperoning, however I don’t think that’s the proper term for chasing six-year-olds down snowy mountains. That is speed skiing.

This week the resort is treating us to a change of pace. Planning to fulfill my supervisor commitment, I asked the president of the PTA about it.

“They have an indoor water park?”

“Yes, it’s not open to the public, only resort guests. But as part of our ski club package, we get to go for the afternoon.”

“You mean like with inner tubes and chlorine and nasty little bits of unidentifiable matter floating in the water?”

“Ha, ha, Lisa. You are so funny!”

I was actually being serious.

“So, you’ve been there before?” How old are the lifeguards and do they serve margaritas?

“Oh, yes! It’s really fun.”

I am imagining myself poolside, holding out fluffy towels in between reading my book or answering e-mail.

“The water’s pretty warm, actually.”

I snap out of my daydream.

“Excuse me?”

“They heat the water to 82 degrees, so it really feels nice.”

These Ithaca moms actually go on the water slides with their kids! I wonder if they body surf the wave pool, too.

“Fabulous.” Not a single one of my bikinis is going to hold up against a deluge bucket or activity tower.

How fast can L.L. Bean deliver in the snow?

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

What the hell are we fighting for?




There was not a single episode showing June Cleaver away from her home. No, she was always doing housework, greeting Ward when he came walking in the door from work, or making Wally and Beaver a snack.

Carol Brady managed to slip out once in a while, when she wasn’t locked in the bedroom servicing Mike, but it was only to the butcher shop and mostly the focus then was on what horrible thing happened while she away, not watching the kids.

At least Lucy Ricardo was seen regularly out and about, trying a part time job here or hanging out with her girlfriend there. Of course, she liked to drink, had a green card marriage and her confidant, Ethel, was a dingbat, but hey, she was teaching us girls there was something for a stay-at -home mom to do besides laundry.

So here we are--2010. Our foremothers burned their bras, broke glass ceilings and changed policy enabling us to do anything. We can even power around in a submarine now if we want to enlist. Yet still many of us are choosing to stay home. It’s not an easy decision.

Here in Ithaca there is no where to hide. Not a lot of distractions for a gal hoping to do something besides grocery shop, hang out with her kids or get crafty on a snowy afternoon.

They say parenting is humble work. Parenting full-time is even more of a lesson in humility. When someone asks us what we do, no one I know sticks her chest out and says, “Home maker!” It doesn’t roll off the tongue in a professional way like “Defense Attorney” or “Financial Analyst.” I have found I like to embellish a little and throw in extras like “I volunteer” or “I started a second career as a writer". Announcing that I am also “wanton sex goddess” might scar my children.

Whatever we decide to do, my wish for our generation is that our work is meaningful (either pay me or get down on your hands and knees and thank me); our peers respect us (no, I don’t lay around all day checking Facebook!); and that someday, when our sons and daughters look back, they will have good memories of moms who got out of the house, enjoyed their time away from the family, and kept learning and growing and challenging themselves without guilt, fear or June Cleaver flash backs.

Monday, March 1, 2010

Someone’s Singing, Lord



I used to snicker and roll my eyes at the mere mention of a Bake Sale. This is not 1950 where the only skill we homemakers have is making and hocking muffins to raise money for our kids’ school. We used to be attorneys and accountants, doctors and teachers. Some of us billed out at $250 an hour, for God’s sake. And now someone is asking us to turn out a batch of brownies. For profit?

Two weeks ago there were 4 volunteers over 3 hours selling various donated items. They made $100. Quick math pencils out to a little over $8 an hour each. Isn’t that minimum wage?

I am in charge of raising money for the 5th grade class trip to Niagara Falls next year and the PTA offered up this past weekend’s basketball concessions for us to get a jumpstart on our fundraising efforts. I figured that rather than making a fuss, I would just go along with the program.

A few e-mails netted us some very tantalizing homemade goods. I was drooling over the chocolate chip cookies, blondies, apple galettes, cocoa butter wafers, and cinnamon rolls hot out of the oven…we even had pizzas, fresh fruit and popcorn.

The other volunteers were coy, not wanting to overprice things. Hello! The last time I made $8 an hour I was 12 years old! So we asked top dollar and none of our customers flinched. We even had some big spenders tell us to “keep the change.”

In addition to other moms, a dad, a custodian, my two sons and some of their classmates helped run operations.

I’ll confess I’ve been in charge of projects that yielded higher returns for less investment. I took on the assignment prepared to change everything. This expert was going teach Ithaca how to make some real cash. But, sitting at home Saturday night after a dinner of pizza, fruit cups and cookies, I was thinking about how successful the sale was, how much fun we all had and how it really felt like a community effort.

I never thought I’d say this, but it was worth it. One little boy had a sandwich baggie full of change and bought at least a half a dozen treats, one at a time, throughout the day, right up until the end when he hoped I would take his last 67 cents for a 75 cent bag of popcorn.

When was the last time you felt like singing “Kumbaya”??