Voyage en Voiture

Traveling by auto can be very relaxing. Except when there is an oil well gushing uncontrollably in the Gulf as you set out on your adventure.



Once over the guilt, I was excited about tossing casually packed bags into the boot of the car, plotting a route that took us over scenic waterways, and stopping for lunch at a funky roadside cafe.



Everything except the fossil fuel consumption and actual driving part fits into my vignette of a perfect road trip. Slipping into a car that has a radar detector mounted on the windshield and a nav system talking at me makes me feel more like Lieutenant Uhura than a cute passenger on a romantic getaway.



We arrived in Montreal in record time and enjoyed a very French experience with lots of walking, talking and eating.



The city is beautiful and as progressive as it is historic.



The pièce de résistance was the last evening when we tried a tasting menu at a trendy restaurant. There was no description about the meal—and when we asked, the waiter in a pitch perfect accent told us, “No, no, it is the chef’s surprise.” I was never more happy in my life to have chosen the vegetarian option than when they presented a pigeon leg over foie gras to the Professor.

Bon Appetite!

Secrets and the City

I am a little nervous about this post because I did something sneaky.

No, I didn’t swap out strawberries from my pint for better ones from another at the market or feign an injury to get out of chaperoning travel lacrosse.

I went to NYC to meet up with friends from La Jolla for dinner and a show and didn’t call my in-laws who live there. In my defense, I made this decision because I knew I was going to see Grammy & Grampy the very next day in Ithaca and wanted to just dart in and out.

So now I am in jeopardy of all sorts of horrible outcomes, the likes of which you’ll never guess unless you have been a part of the Jewish family guilt system.

Big thanks to Sabrina, Heather and Ali for inviting me and planning a really fun girls’ night. The show was pretty good, even if we did have to pinch ourselves to keep from taking really expensive naps!



I enjoyed my time with the ladies (two of them are in the book club that I sorely miss). Between the pre-theatre drinks and post-theatre dining, we managed to catch up on the past 11 months, check out some happening places, spot a star and solve most of the world’s problems…

Except the one about how to not offend your mother-in-law.

Dear John

My friend forwarded me her lover’s kiss-off e-mail. He signed it with a dash, then his initials, in all caps.

-JRB

That was how he chose to end a chapter of his romantic life? With a dash and capitalized monogram?

Either the guy has no imagination, is terribly stiff, or both.

I told her it was his parting gift—perfect closure to a relationship that wasn’t fulfilling enough for her in the first place.

The lack of passion makes me cringe. Call me old fashioned, but I’d rather have someone slap me in the face than send me a cold, preppy e-mail.

Thankfully, my friend has happily moved on to someone new, someone more her speed.

I dare say that if you take the time to get know a person, and actually figure out what makes them…laugh…or…cry… would it really be too much to use an emotional word, or at the very least, type out your entire first name when saying good-bye?

Love,
Lisa

Steep Hollow Farm

My friend and neighbor (aka Godsend) turned me on to a local farm that delivers beautiful eggs to your door every week for only $3.50 a dozen, or, as the farmer joked, the bargain price of 10 weeks for $35.00.

My first delivery arrived on Monday. It feels scandalous to be getting fresh eggs from happy hens so easily.

Except not all of them are happy.

The owner of Steep Hollow Farm, home of the Sustainable Chicken Project, e-mailed me to explain:

Broody Mysteries

We have about 90 hens right now. 14 of them have gone broody, which means they think they are/want to be incubating eggs. They stop eating and drinking, stop laying eggs and just sit in the nest boxes, with their wings a little spread and feathers all puffed out. They keep other hens out of the nest boxes and are generally grumpy. We take them out and set them on the roosts at night but they simply hop off and motor back to the nest boxes, clucking steadily, like little robots. It’s such a phenomenon! We collect the eggs three times a day, so they are seldom actually sitting on any eggs. It’s just a hormone induced trance that they have gone into...these are a heritage breed called Black Australorp, and they are very good at some of the normal chicken activities which may have been bred out of more modern domestic chickens. For instance they are very good at foraging, which is why we chose them. They eat grass readily and scratch and find lots of bugs, which are a good source of protein.

This was an explanation I asked for in an e-mail exchange, but I was still impressed that this very busy lady took the time to write out a thoughtful answer.

We are full circle now, as that was the first thing I noticed about Ithaca--how much of that precious commodity people have here--and are willing to share.

Time is on my side. Yes it is.

Show Me the Money

I have loved this poster since the first time I saw it in my pediatrician’s office when I was in junior high school. Since then, whenever I see it—schools, museum gift shops, rec centers—I get a fuzzy feeling inside. It is the exact opposite of the feeling I get when a no-talent person dressed in everything expensive and brand new for his or her thing prances around in front of me.

I saw that Cornell was hiring for their “Life on the Hill” blog. Even though I do not exactly fit the student blogger profile, I decided to check it out. I was excited about the opportunity to contribute my voice to a collective that I admire and respect. When I saw how much it paid, the weight of my decision to be a writer hit me like a bag of quarters.

A friend of mine joked that what they pay won’t even cover the cost of Road Runner to do the work. But hey, you have to start somewhere. Trying hard to build a career means showing up at square one, working your ass off, and sometimes, accepting bubkes in order to make a name for yourself.

The Professor asked if I would be disappointed if I didn’t get the job. That’s when I realized where the little warm feeling from the poster comes from. I do care. I value the connection between passion for achieving something and the trade-offs you have to make to get there. Even though most dancers worry about paying rent and grocery bills, they are not getting out of bed for the money.

Ten years ago I wouldn’t have set my alarm for what I will probably make as a writer but now I am ready to pimp myself out for pennies on the dollar.

I am starting to see the sparkle of something besides coins.

Facebook Nation

I caught the headline of an article from Consumer Reports, “7 Things to Stop Doing Now on Facebook.” I clicked on the article to make sure DFB (drunk Facebooking) wasn’t on there.

1. Using a Weak Password
Some people have elaborate algorithms for assigning unique passwords for each protected entity. If I was that savvy, I wouldn’t be spending my free time on Facebook.

2. Leaving Your Full Birth Date in Your Profile
How else will people know I share the same birth year as Lisa Marie Presley? Unless identity thieves can’t piece together basic guess work from high school or college graduation dates, the jig is up.

3. Overlooking Useful Privacy Controls
Who besides my stalkers care about what I read or where I took my kids on spring break?

4. Posting Your Child's Name in a Caption
Now there’s a move for the true narcissist. You are better off doing a background check on the priest in your neighborhood.

5. Mentioning That You'll Be Away From Home
As long as you remember to post how much you adore the Israeli soldier who will be house sitting for you, I think it’s okay to say you’re on vacation.

6. Letting Search Engines Find You
If my ex boyfriends were that smart, they would have married me. I don’t think I have anything to worry about.

7. Permitting Youngsters to Use Facebook Unsupervised
Yes, ladies, put down that glass of wine, get out of the tub and go sit in your teenage sons’ room while they comment on their friends’ skateboarding photos.

I think I can provide more useful tips, “7 Things to Start Doing Now on Facebook”:

1. Use humor and wit—they are free!
2. Let the love flow—if someone says something that makes you smile, “like” it.
3. If you have an annoying “friend” just “hide” them—you do not have to witness their entire Farmville escapade on your screen.
4. Appreciate the fact that your older relatives have figured out to sign-up, import a picture and friend you. Even if their comments are painful (“I remember when you were chubby!”)
5. It’s okay to friend your boss. She doesn’t really care if you went hog-wild at Target during lunch. She knows you blew off the conference call.
6. Resist the temptation to tell us what you ate for breakfast, unless it was newsworthy. Really.
7. “Untag” yourself from photos you don’t like. Gisele and Jennifer didn’t make it this far without editing.

Watch Me Now

"If you can't be a good example, then you'll just have to be a horrible warning."

I have been thinking a lot about modeling lately. No, not the infamous hand modeling career I passed up or the job most girls from California that are 5’10” think they can have if they just get discovered.

I mean modeling behavior…mostly for my children. Want your kids to tell you about their day? If they are male, for God’s sake don’t ask them about it or they will clam up immediately. Rather, start talking about what happened to you, enthusiastically, and before you know it, they are falling over each other like puppies to share their news.

In my quest for showcase actions, I have given up Diet Coke, smoking (come on, it’s not like I had them hanging out of my mouth when I talked) and over-scheduling.

Sadly, I still curse (Damn habit!), drink (moderately, I swear) and don’t make my bed.

“Mom, why do we have to make our beds if you don’t?”

Oh, the witty quips that went flying through my head. I decided to quote my father, the master.

“Do as I say, not as I do.”

“That’s only going to work for so long, Mom.”

Let that be a lesson to you, my boy.

No Fear

My grandfather had a poster hanging in his bathroom, “Behold the turtle. He makes progress only when he sticks his neck out.”

I adored my grandpa. He taught me how to ride a bike, how to dry off properly with a small towel, how to stare down my opponent in dominoes, backgammon and Scrabble, and most importantly, how to get dessert out of my grandmother without finishing my tomato soup.

Watching my mentors, then peers and friends, and now, finally, protégés and children, I am struck by how much perspective brings to the party.

It is comical what we thought would finish us off at different stages in our lives. What doesn’t kill us, really does make us stronger.

I am thankful I made it past…

Six-years-old: Death by broccoli.

16-years-old: Death by broken heart.

26-years-old: Death by evil client.

36-years-old: Death by responsibility.

As I walk towards the next milestone, I pledge to keep my sense of humor intact as I fight off...

Death by PTA, Fannie Mae, oil spills, terrorism, E. coli and Tiger Woods.

One Free Kiss

My (Not so) Funniest Mother’s Day
This was before I became a mother myself. We took my grandmother to a traditional brunch at the Newport Beach Marriott. These were in the days when Grandma was still cruising around the buffet, filling up her own plate. I remember looking over at her and her nose was bright red and her eyes were watering.

Come to find out it wasn’t avocado she piled on her fork. It was wasabi. Damn sushi station.

My First Mother’s Day
I was a dot com widow, so it was just me and my gorgeous seven-month-old baby boy. We went to Houston’s for lunch and walked all over San Francisco that day. It was sunny and everything was right in the world. I imagined people looking at me and thinking either, “Poor woman, all alone with her baby” or “How lucky can you get? Look at that child!”

My Best Mother’s Day
Last year I got homemade cards from my boys filled with kiss and hug coupons. They will even redeem them past their expiration dates.

My Worst Mother’s Day
The Professor’s gift-giving style used to make me mad.

“What would you like for Mother’s Day?”

“I don’t know, surprise me.”

“You better tell me, Lisa, or it isn’t happening.”

“I want you to be a mind-reader.”

This Mother’s Day
There are still three generations of us mothers in my family. This will be the first year in a while I am away from my mama on our big day. I’ll be thinking of her, finally understanding why hotel brunches aren’t that fun, all that matters is who you are with, gifts from the heart are always the best…and sometimes you have to ask for what you want in order to get it.

I’m waiting.

Sleepless In Ithaca

1:27a.m.
Glance at clock. This is not happening.
Lay in bed resisting temptation to do something stupid. Like Facebook.
Try breathing technique learned in meditation class. What? It could work!
Take Chinese Special Formula herbs.
Open computer. Read headlines. Wonder if I should feel alarmed.
Pirates indeed.
Close computer. Read interesting article on amazing COO of Facebook in Vogue magazine.
Some women have all the energy.
Turn light out.

2:48a.m.
Was it the red meat? Red wine? Both! Bastards!
Go downstairs. Refill water glass.
Consider cleaning up dining room from dinner guest. Not. A. Chance.
Go back upstairs. Listen to rain storm outside. I like Ithaca.
Charming Baby wanders in and climbs in and starts snoring. Men.
Leave light on.

4:19a.m.
This is not pretty.
Think of funny jokes to lighten mood. Afraid chuckling will wake others.
Allow Lulu to make pies on belly.
Allow Lulu to clean my arm. God am I generous.
Consider getting dog again.
Think of possible dog names: Lover Boy. Beast. Time Suck.
Maybe I should name something we already have.
Think of possible boat names: The Goodwife. Fast Company. Time Suck.

5:04a.m.
Hear bird chirp.
Game over.

How do you spend your sleepless nights?