MY UN-INSPIRATIONAL MESSAGES FOR 2014

The New Year is just an hour away. Like many of you, I feel a sense of renewal and optimism. I’m like a racehorse at the gate, waiting for the starting gun to go off. I feel I’m ready for all the opportunities a fresh year brings. And along with it comes a surge of inspirational messages to get me started. What better time to consider your intentions and focus on your hopes and goals?

Forget the past. Just jump. Fight for what you want. Have no regrets. Take risks.

Don’t they make you ready to start the New Year? Sure they do, but by definition, inspiration is merely a starting point. Its job is to stimulate you; to stir something within you. Hence, the resolution is made…and then within weeks, dropped.

I would like to offer up something new. Granted, my approach is not as sexy as the usual motivational quotes. They probably don’t sound as fun or cool, and in the short term, they’re most likely not. But motivation only takes you so far, and then what are you left with to guide you the rest of the way? So with that in mind, here are my un-inspirational messages:

Don’t forget the past. You don’t need to live in it, but you do need to learn from it.

Have regrets. If you’ve hurt someone, you ought to regret it. It doesn’t mean you can’t forgive yourself, but without regrets, you lose your moral compass.

Don’t take risks. I believe in taking calculated risks, otherwise you’re just satiating your need to be self-indulgent, and probably not taking into consideration the people you care about. It’s more likely your risk will pay off if it’s a calculated, planned one (if that’s not too much of an oxymoron).

Don’t just jump in. If you do, you’re closing your eyes to all the signs around you that are helping to lead your way and turning your back on the decisions and people who brought you to where you are. Jumping in sounds better than running away, but it’s often the same thing.

Don’t fight for what you want. If you look at life as a fight, it’s going to feel like one. You’re only in competition with yourself to be better and do better when you know better. Be gentle with yourself and others and go for what you want in the spirit of love and connection. You’ll be amazed at the people willing to help you along the way.

Stay in your comfort zone. Or more accurately, broaden your comfort zone. Yes, try things that give you butterflies. Stretch yourself. Find your passion and focus on it. But if you’re happy in your comfort zone, you shouldn’t be made to feel bad about it. I’m not sure why our comfort zones have gotten such a bad wrap. We should not be made to feel like we’re settling because we’re at a place where we feel comfortable with ourselves. Isn’t that where everyone else is striving to be? I feel bad for those who feel such a constant unease with their lives that they have to always leave it to chase a new high. Everyone should be able to settle into his or her own comfort zone and thoroughly enjoy it.

There isn’t a rockin’ quote for making the tough choices, for sometimes making sacrifices for others, and for taking full responsibility for your life. Avoid hedonism isn’t as enticing as Go for It. But in the long run, honestly working your way towards personal fulfillment and lasting love is where the real joy lies.

Happiness is complicated. Challenges will feel daunting. Mistakes will be made. Expectations won’t be met. The unexpected happens. And that’s when I get uninspired. I remember the past and my regrets. I appreciate where I am. Then, with a solid plan and my eyes wide open, I step forward with care. My enthusiasm is no less than if I jumped, but I'm more prepared for the commitment my goals will require. I’m in it for the long haul, for 2014 and beyond. Inspiration is a good starting point, but determination and discipline will be my guides.

MANY THINGS YOU NOW KNOW ABOUT ME

     There’s this thing going around Facebook where someone gives you a number and then you list things people may not know about you. I got the number seven and without too much thought, here are the seven things I wrote:

1. I am deaf in my left ear and have tinnitus in both. So if I ignore you, I might not have heard you...or I might be ignoring you.

2. I wrote a ballet that was performed at the Bushnell Theater in Hartford, CT. I knew nothing about ballet, but what the heck.

3. I paid my own way through college.

4. I chose to go to graduate school at the University of New Hampshire solely because it was about as far away from Texas as I could get. No wonder grad school didn't work out so well.

5. When I was a young girl, I dreamed of someday using my life's savings to go to Rome to see the Coliseum. Little did I know I would end up traveling to Europe many times, and when I went to Rome and saw the Coliseum I almost cried (or I might have actually cried).

6. I've been inside the Kremlin.

7. At one time, I suffered from severe vertigo for 18 months straight and could barely leave the house. Dr. Steven Rauch saved my life.

Top of Form

     Do any of you who know me really think I could stop at seven? Call it being loquacious. Call it being self-indulgent. Call it what you want, but it got me to thinking about all the indiscriminate things in my life that contribute to who I am. Not the big stuff that we often re-visit, but the inconsequential entities. I enjoyed going over in my mind all these random things about myself. If you are reading this and don’t know me at all, I would be curious to hear what kind of composite you come up with based on this arbitrary list. So here we go: Things you may not know about me:

I grew up with a St. Bernard named Bruno. When he got old, I believed my mother when she said he went away to live on a big farm.

While strolling down a sidewalk on Martha’s Vineyard, Brooke Shields walked up next to me and I instantaneously looked like a troll.

I always choose Raisinets for the Drive-in movies, even though it’s not my favorite candy.

I wrote one of the stories in the book Chicken Soup for the Kids’ Soul. The book is one of my son’s favorites.

I met Tomie dePaola at an authors’ dinner once and he was kind of a dick. My son never liked his books.

Jaws is my favorite movie of all time. It was released on my 9th birthday.

One of my top three favorite concerts was Willie Nelson, even though I’ve never cared for his music.

I rushed the stage during the encore of a James Taylor concert and he touched my hand and now we’re likethis. (Ok, the last part of that isn't true.)

I had to give up alcohol and caffeine. I miss caffeine more.

I never wear lipstick.

I am only two degrees of separation from Oprah. So close and yet so far.

In high school I weighed 109 pounds. And I thought I was fat.

First impressions go a long way with me. If I don’t like you after the first time we meet, it takes me a long time to change my mind.

I agreed to go surfing with a guy just to impress him. I’ve never surfed since. I didn’t have to, because I impressed him... and married him.

An MRI showed that I have a significant section of frontal lobe missing from my brain. Doctors can’t explain it, but my husband says it explains a lot!

People may already know that I brag about my husband and son on a regular basis. What they may not know is it’s because I think everyone should have someone who is sincerely their biggest fan.

I do my best writing late at night but mom duty rarely allows me to stay up to take advantage of it.

I’d much rather go shopping for kitchen things to cook with than for clothes to wear, even though I don’t like to cook.

I probably say a variation of the word Fuck at least once a day.

Only my husband knows my greatest fear. 

And since I love to travel, here is my “Most” list of some of the places I’ve visited:

Most beautiful architecture: Paris, France  

Most fascinating: Moscow, Russia

Most fun: London, England

Most delicious: Florence, Italy

Most like paradise: Maui, Hawaii

Most relaxing: Nantucket, MA

Most perfect sunsets: Long Beach Island, NJ

Most festive at Christmas: New York City, NY

Most gorgeous vistas: Hailey, Idaho

Most jubilant: Disney World, FL

Most want to visit next: Greece 

 
So now do you think you know me?

Even Scrooge and The Grinch Stopped Complaining

            Ah, it’s November and you know what that means! The complaints are already beginning to trickle in. Everyone seems to love the holidays but hate everything about them. They hate the shopping, the Christmas tunes while shopping, the traveling, the decorating, feeling forced to say “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas”… The list is as long as Santa’s. ‘Tis the season for cheer and goodwill…but only from a distance, please.

            There are some years when the Christmas spirit hits me right between the eyes. I spend weekends baking batches of homemade fudge for the neighbors, I ransack Michael’s for new decorations, and I happily volunteer at my son’s school holiday events. Other years the Christmas spirit knocks me upside the head. Those years I daydream of using my Christmas ribbon to strangle the ultra-organized PTA members who scheduled those extra school events. Instead, I volunteer less, buy a Costco bag of chocolates for my neighbors, and only bring up one container of decorations from the basement. So sometimes people get my Suzie Homemaker Christmas and sometimes they get my half-assed version. But at least that half is happy and not too stressed to appreciate the holidays. And I’m not complaining.

            The reason I can exempt myself from the list of holiday haters is because I finally let go of everyone’s expectations for the perfect holiday, most importantly my own. Through trial and error and some self-reflection (and possibly old age), I’ve learned a couple of things.    

            One, traditions can be stifling. I used to be overly concerned about developing traditions for my family until I realized the only tradition I was keeping was the one of putting too much pressure on myself. I was trying to create Norman Rockwell experiences instead of figuring out what we really enjoyed doing and what we really didn't. Traditions are more meaningful when they happen naturally over time, not when you feel obligated to do exactly what your parents did or what your family expects of you or even what you’ve done the year before. Life is fluid, so why shouldn’t holidays be?

            Do what you feel like doing this year and scrap the other stuff. I think I speak for everybody when I say I don’t want a gift from you if it drains you to buy it - financially, physically, or emotionally. If we care enough about each other to want to exchange gifts then we should care enough to want each other to be happy and unburdened, especially around the holidays. Do something fun together instead. Take each other out for a decadent dessert or go ice-skating or sledding. Pack all your nieces and nephews in the car after dark and find one of those giant light displays to drive through. Forget the extensive gift list and spend your weekends doing festive activities instead of trudging through crowded malls. (Unless, like me, you love the malls at Christmas time, then shop ‘till you drop!) If you enjoy baking, take the extra time to do it. If you find it a hassle, go to a bakery or candy shop and buy some goodies. I’d rather fall short at being the Queen of Christmas than subject others to Ms. Crabby Christmas.

            Maybe it’s easier for me because I don’t have the guilt or martyr complex that some other people may suffer from. So making those kinds of compromises has been easier to reconcile than another realization I finally came to. I think everyone can agree, holidays are supposed to be about family. Lots of family. In all the Christmas movies, in all the Thanksgiving snapshots, even in my own childhood memories, there was lots of family. So even after I grew up and left our nuclear family of eight, plus a host of local cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents, I couldn’t help but feel my new family of three wouldn’t cut it for the holidays. How can it really feel like Thanksgiving or Christmas with just the three of us?

            I came to the slow realization that as a carefree child, I adored that happy chaos. As an adult, I really like the simplicity and tranquility that my cozy little family offers. When we finally ventured to have a Thanksgiving and Christmas by ourselves, we found that the holiday was just as special with just the three of us as it was with a multitude of beloved family members.

            So now our only holiday tradition is the one where we allow ourselves to do whatever we want each year. Taking stock of our present mood and circumstances is our gift to each other and to ourselves. In past years, we’ve traveled to spend wonderful Thanksgivings at my in-laws and my cousin’s homes, as well as hosting friends in our own home. There were other times when we’ve preferred a more subdued, easy peasy Thanksgiving at our favorite restaurant. Last year we spent a terrifically boisterous Thanksgiving in Florida with my husband’s family. This year, we feel like nesting at home and getting to watch the Thanksgiving Day parade all the way to the end. We do miss whichever family members we’re not with, but it's also fun to spend part of the day reminiscing about past feasts.

            Christmas, on the other hand, has become our treasured alone time. The only expectation is that Santa will arrive at midnight. With all the hubbub leading up to it, we prefer to safeguard a leisurely Christmas day. One where my son can stay in his pajamas all day and play with his newly unwrapped toys; where my husband can eat as much crumb cake as he likes because Christmas dinner is whatever time we want it to be; where we can play in the snow if there is any, then lounge by the fire the rest of the day and watch a marathon of Christmas movies. Our lazy Christmas has evolved naturally to become tradition. Who knew?

            I’m not saying the way we spend our holidays is the way everyone should do it. In fact, I’m saying just the opposite. Celebrate the season in the way that will make YOU happy. Discover what you really enjoy about this time of year and spend the most time doing that. Treat yourself to at least one really fun outing in December to infuse some Christmas spirit. And if you find yourself complaining, try skipping whatever it is you’re complaining about. Just this year, just to see if the world ends if you don’t make four pies from scratch or mail 75 Christmas cards or show up at your Aunt Ida’s. I bet my neighbors don’t even remember what I gave them for the holidays last year, but I remember, because I enjoyed making all their treats. That enjoyment - or conversely annoyance had that been the case - is a part of my holiday memories, not theirs. This Thanksgiving and Christmas, let’s give ourselves a holiday from our own Quixotic expectations and learn to really appreciate what the season offers. Radiating joy in the season meant for it is the best gift we can give each other.

Bacon Wrapped Twinkies: The Rebellion Against Nutrition Snobs

            Sometimes I feel like grocery shopping carts ought to be solid black boxes with lids so shopping can be a judgment free zone. My Cheetos can rest beside my can of Manwich without fear of reproving looks. Like from that woman in yoga pants who raises her eyebrow as I start unloading my cart, putting my 5-pack of Kraft macaroni and cheese behind her 6-pack of Vitamin Water. I reach for my produce – yes, I buy produce, too! – but she trumps me again. Her package of fresh raspberries is organic. When I did the math, it came out to be about 87 cents per berry, so I bought apples. I start rooting around in my cart for the “good” foods that I bought. Look, I got the Skippy Natural peanut butter with no hydrogenated oils. I got the block of cheddar, not the Velveeta. I got the local Farmer’s Cow eggs. But it doesn’t matter. I can’t hide the big guns left in my cart: two bottles of Cherry Coke Zero. I put the first one on the conveyor belt, where its 2 liters of caramel colored liquid aspartame tower over her faux vitamin packed beverages. As the cashier begins to ring up her purchase, the bottle falls over onto her side of the plastic divider. We both grab for it at the same time, but as we put it back on my side, I see a wistful look that I didn’t see the first time. I almost feel sorry for the deprived yoga lady. Should I throw my Cheetos in her cart as a parting benefaction? Nah, the self-tanned, teeth whitened, nail polished, Botox injected, hair highlighted woman would never do something as unhealthy as eat some Cheetos.

            Perhaps this is why Peapod, the food delivery service, stays in business. With one click of a computer mouse you’re able to get two weeks’ worth of pudding cups anonymously. Head down and hoodie up, you hand over your cash to the driver, grab the plain paper bags, and hustle into your house. Because eating normal foods nowadays feels almost criminal, doesn’t it? You have to prove its nutritional value or eliminate it from your life.

            Eat nothing white. Eat nothing from any breathing source. Eat nothing that begins with the letter P. Eat nothing that might taste remotely like you’d want to eat it. If people have to forego certain foods for medical reasons (like gluten), you shouldn’t eat that food either. These are the rules to maintain your nutritional hubris.

            If you’re craving sugar, firstly, do not admit it. Just be sure to go to a cool café and pay an inordinate amount for a cold beverage with a healthy name and something “green” in it. It doesn’t lessen the 21 grams of sugar it has, but by God at least you’re not eating a cookie!

            If you get a coffee drink, by all means, do not have it with cow’s milk. Anything but cow’s milk. Don’t you remember that cow milk plague that wiped out thousands of people in the early 19^th century? No? Me, neither. Some of the same people who refuse to vaccinate their children against (real) deadly diseases like the mumps and whooping cough want to tell us how bad cow’s milk is for us. La la la la. (That’s me with my fingers in my ears not listening.)

           It’s not so much a matter of health as it is dietary superiority. Don’t be fooled into thinking you’re doing fine by eating your vegetables. You should be drinking them. If you’re not juicing, you might as well be eating ice cream three times a day. (Hey, there’s a thought!) Vegetarians touted their diets as better, but when everyone started doing it, they had to up the ante. I see your meatless meals and I raise you sans animal byproducts. Thus, vegans were created. Their way of eating is compassionate, whereas ours is SAD (Standard American Diet). They won’t even eat honey because bees make it. Those poor bees! If only they had unionized and weren’t forced to produce honey for us greedy honey eaters they could go on to be bees that…um, what would they be doing? Oh, yeah, making honey.       

            I think the push to eliminate “bad” foods is just turning grown people into teenagers and making them rebellious. They’re flocking to the likes of The Heart Attack Grill in Las Vegas to order stuff like the Double Bypass burger. Burger King is offering burgers with French fries in them, just to be sure you’re getting something fried. If people are constantly told what they can’t eat, they’re going to show you what they can.

            Take Thanksgiving for instance. The week before the holiday, we’re inundated with how not to eat what you want to eat on the one day you should be allowed to eat it. People used to be happy with their roasted turkeys, but the more they tell people to eat celery sticks before sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner, the more people go out and buy deep fat fryers for their turkey.

            The one place that food elimination snobs haven’t touched is the fair. It’s one of the last places people can eat freely without someone telling you what you ought to be eating instead. (Unless it’s, “You ought to be eating that cheesesteak gyro turkey leg kebab.”) Knock wood, I have yet to see a bad Today Show segment on how to eat healthy at the fair. Even the media still seems to revel in fair foods. Where else can you get bacon-wrapped butter stuck in a Twinkie deep-fried covered in chocolate and sprinkled with powdered sugar? More importantly, where else can you eat one in plain sight?

            I’d love for the vegans and the fast foodies to meet in the middle: Balanced eating, no guilt, an occasional indulgence. And no judgment. We should do like my mother always said as the six of us squabbling kids sat down to the dinner table. Just shut up and eat.

Powerball Jackpot: I Totally Deserve To Win

            I checked our Powerball ticket Thursday morning to find out if our lives had changed overnight. Nope, not one iota. We didn’t get a single number matched, which is probably a good thing because almost winning $448 million is even worse than not coming close to winning $448 million. They can keep their hundred bucks; knowing I had four numbers right would kill me.

            They say the statistics of winning are astronomical, that you’ve got a better chance of being struck by lightening. Let me just say that I don’t play golf and I’m not in a boy scout troop, so I think they’re wrong on my lightening chances. Besides, the proof is in the pudding: somebody wins and it might as well be me.

            I liked one of the guys who won this latest one. He quit his job immediately and announced he didn’t want to work for the rest of his life. Now this is a deserving lottery winner. Not like the ones you hear about from places like North Dakota who say they’re real happy at their factory job and still plan to keep on working. “I’ll probably just buy a new pick-up truck,” they say. They should invent a special lottery for these kinds of people. Perhaps a Schlitz Scratch-off. They could win a six-pack a week for life. They’d be good to go.

            Deserving winners quit their jobs and overhaul their lives. They take that giant check and sail around the world. They don’t add on a new deck to their raised ranch house. They walk away from their home and pick out a mansion…which they’ve driven to in their new Bugatti…just before getting on a private jet to a Caribbean island and deciding which oceanfront property to buy there.

            Of course, I feel my husband and I would be the best lottery winners. We only play the really big jackpots so that we won’t need to hire lawyers and estate planners and figure out the smartest thing to do with the money. Who wants to bother being smart? We’d be rich for heaven’s sake! In fact, when my husband heard there were three winners who had to split the jackpot, he stated, “That would suck.” That’s the kind of dedicated money spenders we would be. Sure, the $58 million each of them will get after taxes would be plenty, but we had already devoted the previous evening to how we were going to spend the full $175 million. We had planned to be the ultimate Reaganomics couple and allow our good fortune and hefty spending habits to trickle down.

            But, alas, we didn’t win. Everything that’s good and right with our lives won’t get chucked aside by the promise of what lots of cash can give us. We won’t get the chance to suddenly come across a ton of new friends and long-lost relatives. We won’t even get the opportunity to get seasick sailing around the world. (Did I ever tell you about that whale watching trip? Blech!)

            The thing is, even if we were to have an almost unlimited supply of cash, we'd still be us. A private jet won’t stop my palms from sweating every time I fly. Living in Paris won’t make us suddenly like staying out past midnight any more than fancy restaurants would change my aversion to wearing high heels. A tropical beach won’t make my husband like the sand any more than he does now and affording a trip to Aspen won’t make me hate the cold any less.

            Now that I think of it, I’m pretty happy not overhauling our lives. I mean, how pathetic would it be searching for a TV in Bali so I don’t miss the final episodes of Big Brother? Maybe we're not the most deserving lottery winners after all. Maybe we're the New England version of that guy from North Dakota. Invent a Ben & Jerry’s Scratch-Off ticket and we're good to go.

Only in New York

             My family and I try to get to New York City every few months to enjoy the changes with each season. We hadn't been there since the spring, so last weekend we made another trek. The one thing that doesn't change? The food, and my love/hate relationship with it. I love it when I’m there and I hate it when I leave.

             I’m not even talking about the plethora of chi chi restaurants owned by TV chefs. I’m talking about the every day food, real food that you can only get in New York. Although this delectable food does eke into bordering Connecticut, I live in the northeastern section, which in this case might as well be Ohio. I know Mayor Bloomberg was trying to pass a law against selling giant sodas, but is there another law I haven’t heard about? The one that says only New Yorkers are allowed to enjoy authentic food while the rest of us are stuck with the generic kind?

            On this trip, we stop for a bite to eat about a half hour outside of the city in Greenwich, CT. We choose Corbo’s, a deli my husband frequents when he consults down there. My husband is originally from Long Island so he knows from delis. The minute he orders, the university professor who’s been living in New England for over 20 years disappears and his Long Island accent and mannerisms emerge. He immediately bonds with the New Yorkers behind the counter.

            We get our sandwiches even before we’re done paying, because that's how these guys roll. Not like Panera, where you might wait ten minutes just for them to throw some lettuce and dressing in a bowl. They don’t take numbers or names. They just point at you and toss you your foil-covered sandwich.

            My husband wasn’t sure I’d want to go there. “The place has no atmosphere,” he said. No atmosphere? It’s got New York deli atmosphere! (Does he forget that I’m a New Yorker, too?) There are a few tables in the front. There’s a rack of potato chips: plain, salt and vinegar, or sour cream and chives. There’s a refrigeration unit that sells bottles of Cokes and Dr. Peppers and cream soda. I neglected to check, but I’d bet they even sell Yoo Hoo.  

            We open the foil to reveal our sandwiches. And this is the thing: They’re on hard rolls. These are rolls that you can only get in New York. They’re the type of rolls I used to put slabs of butter on in my youth and eat for breakfast in my high school cafeteria. Yes, my school cafeteria. You didn’t have to go anyplace fancy to get the best hard rolls on the planet. You could stop at the local mini mart and pick one up buttered or with an egg and cheese in it. But it didn’t matter what was in it or on it, it was all about the roll. Eating that deli sandwich was the ultimate sense memory from my youth.

            It was the most satisfying lunch I’ve had since…well, since the last time we went to New York. I felt I could be fine the rest of the day on simply the memory of it, but then we make our way into the city, park the car, and step out onto the sidewalk. The aromas wafting from the food carts assault us. Intellectually, I know it’s not the cleanest place to get your food from. In the back of my mind, I’m thinking the rats probably exit them every morning before their owners fire them up for another day’s business. Still, it’s difficult to walk past one of those stainless steal carts with the yellow Sabrett’s umbrella and not salivate at the thought of a dirty water dog.

            My son has his eye on a hot pretzel. It would be his first and I debate about not buying it for him, only because it will ruin him from ever being able to eat one elsewhere. No one else can apparently make a proper hot pretzel, not at the mall or at the movies. Yes, they all sit there the same way under the warm lights, presumably hours old. But somehow, the ones in the city aren’t hard and flavorless like all the others. These are soft and chewy and salty, and with a thick line of yellow mustard, they are worth every cockroach-infested nightmare you might have.

            Ditto with the hot nuts. Hungry or not, every visit I find myself in zombie mode heading to a Nuts 4 Nuts cart and taking out a few singles for a waxed bag of warm, sugar-coated peanuts. What other food makes you crunch and hum at the same time as you’re walking down the street?

            It’s all the walking; that’s why we keep eating (or so I tell myself). For blocks and blocks we walk and take in all the sights and sounds that only New York City can provide: the vivid lights of Times Square, the bells of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the crowds in Rockefeller Plaza. The eclectic vibe continues into Central Park and we eventually make our way to the neighborhoods of Greenwich Village.

            Although you can get real New York pizza many places in the city (even a quick slice at Penn Station doesn’t disappoint), we like John’s of Bleeker Street. It’s small with wooden booths etched with years of diners’ graffiti. Like Corbo’s, the talented Italian guys who run it are no nonsense. No reservations, no credit cards, no slices. Order a pie and a pitcher of soda and you’re good. And really, what else do you need? What you get is a foldable, mouthwatering pizza. In my book, if you can’t fold a slice, it’s not real pizza. Don’t give me those blackened brick-oven pizzas. Don’t sell me on stuffed crust or pan pizza. You fold it in half, let some of the oil drip off the end, and then take that first mouthwatering bite that always burns the roof of your mouth because you just can’t wait. That’s pizza that for some reason you can only get in New York.

            True story: My nine-year-old son never liked pizza. He rarely ate it. A few years ago we took him to John’s for the first time. “This doesn’t taste like pizza,” he proclaimed, gobbling it up. Our poor little suburban boy who had only known the likes of Papa Gino’s and birthday party pizzas had gotten a taste of his first real pie. It was a bittersweet day for our family. 
            After stuffing ourselves at the pizzeria, what’s left to do but get a Junior’s cheesecake? I can never quite remember the flavor, because there’s nothing else like it. That first heavenly forkful reminds me of its light yet deep texture, delicate yet robust flavor, and the perfect balance of sweetness and tartness. It’s the epitome of New York cheesecake. In fact, it makes me want to picket The Cheesecake Factory and tell all their customers that what they’re selling might seem good, but it’s not cheesecake. It’s not even in the cheesecake family. It’s some globby composite of sweet upon sweet, which can be interchanged with chocolate or peanut butter or Oreos. That’s not cheesecake. Real cheesecake can stand alone, exposed, without any bells or whistles or even cherries.

            At the end of the day, we make our way to the parking garage, feet sore, bellies stuffed, palates humming with satisfaction. Oh yes, it’s all happiness as the flavors play over again in my mind on the ride home. I go to bed exhausted but fulfilled. But what do I wake up to? The knowledge that we have to drive three hours to get food that tastes like something.

            Like lemmings, we all go to our chain restaurants and fast food joints, thinking we are enjoying these foods because it’s what we’ve become accustomed to. But I know better and believe me, it would be better not to know. I almost wish the toll on the Tappan Zee Bridge was a mind eraser. You pay your $5 and you get your memory erased of all those rich flavors that are still lingering on your taste buds. Then you could happily go back to your white bread life without knowing any better. I could go back to being a Stepford eater.

            “Yes, I’ll have the white chocolate caramel macadamia nut cheesecake, please. It’s delicious.”

Why The Bachelor Is Such A Thorn In My Side

            Oh, Good God. Another season of The Bachelor is here. This time it’s The Bachelorette’s turn. Hurrah, equal opportunity abasement.

            I’ll admit, I used to watch the show. I even bought into the “true love” aspect of it for the first, oh, three times. Then I stuck with it another season or two just for the recreation of watching all those drunken, sobbing, catty oh-no-she-didn’t moments. But after a while, the entertainment value of watching younger, prettier women degrade themselves and each other even lost its appeal. Or maybe I started watching The Real Housewives franchise, which adequately fed my desire to feel superior to thin blondes. Either way, I stopped watching, certain that if a reality junkie like me was tired of it, everyone else would soon be, too. Even if viewers weren’t turning away, surely they would run out of women willing to subject themselves to the humiliations of the show.

            Alas, I was wrong. There seems to be no end to the number of desperate 23-year-olds certain that Mr. Right is just a limo ride and eight or nine glasses of champagne away. I think in seventeen seasons of the show, only one woman has ever bowed out before the rose ceremony because she actually stopped to consider whether she liked him. Those are incredible odds that out of 25 women, every one of them falls for whichever guy the show happens to serve up. Are women really that acquiescent these days or are they all drinking some kind of Mormon Kool Aid in the back of that limo? What I’d like to see, frankly, is a Bachelor who purposely acts like an asshole during the show, and let’s see how many of the women stick around. I’m betting most of them, sadly. The Rose Ceremony is The Bachelor version of Sally Field’s acceptance speech: “He likes me. He really likes me.” Cringe.

            I like to think The Bachelor women are in on it and just want to win, whether they’re taking home a fiancé or a booby prize. They’ll get their fifteen minutes of fame, and if they’re really lucky, a contestant spot on Dancing with the Stars. Yes, that’s today’s version of a television star  -- people who get engaged two days after one of them just slept with the lucky runner-up.

            It makes me yearn for bygone reality shows like Battle of the Network Stars. Those were the days when TV knew the definition of a star. They wouldn’t let just anybody don knee socks and matching headbands to compete in that obstacle course. No, you had to be a real star like Kristy McNichol, Parker Stevenson, or Adrienne Barbeau. You had to earn your star status with a hokey television show or at least a few After School Specials. Teen Beat pin-ups like Leif Garrett, Scott Baio, and Willie Aames earned their celebrity status. They might’ve kissed as many girls in one week as the Bachelor, but they did it on their own time. If people like Farrah Fawcett, Suzanne Somers, and Lynda Carter were going to show off their breasts, they were going to do it for the sake of art, not in hopes of a rose. (What? Are you saying Charlie’s Angels wasn’t art?) They had television standards back then. Stars would only get in hot tubs and suck face on television if it were scripted.

            Ah, so maybe we haven’t fallen so far after all. Today’s version of scripted TV is a little more opaque than the laugh track days. A former Bachelor, Brad Womack, got lambasted by viewers for having the nerve not to fall in love within the allotted eight weeks of the program. How dare he not follow the script! Here the viewers are, totally invested in whether DeAnna or Jenni gets the final rose. They blog about it, they Facebook about it, they chat about it. Only, the viewers are more invested than either of the women. DeAnna and Jenni are probably just psyched to get to go to Tahiti or Belize or whatever paradise ABC sends the final "ladies". More important than going home with Brad or Sean or Travis is going home with two and a half carats of Neil Lane.

            I’ll concede it’s possible they may have real feelings for the guy. I mean, who wouldn’t after being wooed on fantasy-like dates in magical locales. It’s not hard to impress a date when someone else makes the plans and foots the bill. But what's a date with him like when a major television network's not involved? I'm betting popcorn and a movie is more likely than lobster and a yacht. Will he spring for a large with extra butter? That could make or break a relationship. Instead of taking a trip to New Zealand, they ought to be taking a trip to Costco. How much beef jerky does the man eat on a regular basis? That’s going to decide whether you make it for the long haul.

            Then again, maybe I’m old fashioned. The long haul for a Bachelor couple might be making it through a Vodka launch party in Vegas. Since they date and get engaged within two months, maybe everything’s in fast forward. If Bachelor couples count their time together in dog years, they’re all a success. If not, well, there’s always next season. Oy.

Is It Too Late to Be a Brady?

 

            I just read an article http://www.tvguide.com/News/Brady-Bunch-Reunion-Kings-Island-1065862.aspx that three of the Brady kids  - Greg, Peter, and Cindy – recently returned to King’s Island Amusement Park for a reunion. Remember that episode? All the Brady's got to go along – even Alice! – on Mike’s all-expense paid business trip to an amusement park so he could try to sell them his architectural plans. And of course Jan almost ruined everything - as Jan always did - by mixing up her Yogi Bear poster with her dad’s sketches and then losing them. It was a classic, as they all were.

             If you don’t remember that episode, and every other gloriously corny episode from the Brady Bunch series, you can probably stop reading right now. But if you grew up with the Brady’s as I did, then you’ll understand the nostalgia the reunion brings. 

            Let's face it, we all wanted to be a Brady. Even though we were all living in the 1970’s at the same time, the Brady version of the 70’s was so much cooler. Their bell bottoms seemed wider, their lingo seemed hipper, and their house had TWO sliding glass doors! And what about that baby blue Plymouth convertible they had? Right on, man!

            The Brady’s had a lot in common with my family. The Brady family had six kids. We had six kids. The Brady mom drove a wood paneled station wagon. My mom drove a wood paneled station wagon. The Brady’s had a dog (until that darn Jan was allergic to it and almost ruined everything AGAIN). We had a dog. The Brady’s had a live-in housekeeper. Ok, that’s where the similarities end, but it was enough of a connection for me to think becoming a Brady wasn’t too much of a leap.

            It wasn’t like I was totally delusional; I didn’t think I could be any of the three Brady girls, I just wanted to be part of the Brady household. The only problem I saw was that it would upset the 3x3 grid during the opening song. Even at a tender age, I knew ten squares wouldn’t work. The craning of their necks was bad enough as it was. I planned to solve that dilemma by offering up a trade. Jan was never good at anything and she did ruin that anniversary portrait when she rammed her bike into it while not wearing her glasses. With a little coaxing, surely they would agree to swap Jan out for me. Goodness knows she’d be glad to get away from Marcia, Marcia, Marcia! After all, Marcia got to kiss Davy Jones and Desi Arnaz, Jr. The closest Jan got was George Glass, her pretend boyfriend.

            Assuming I could take Jan's place, I always thought Peter would be a hoot to have for a brother, with his goofy demeanor and his love for messy volcanoes. I would even put up with Bobby. But I had more than brotherly thoughts about Greg. You have to admit, he was kind of dreamy. I think I first realized I had a crush on him when it made me giddy that his Drive-In date ended up with a frog on her head.

            So maybe having Greg for a brother might've been complicated, but having Mr. Brady for a dad would’ve been pretty awesome. He was so level-headed and fair, with his advice handed out with a sincere pointing of the thumb, “You know, Bob…” he’d say when telling Bobby why he was as good as his brothers. This aptly demonstrated what a great dad he really was, because – let’s face it - Bobby wasn’t nearly as good as his brothers. I truly think President Bill Clinton picked up the sincere thumb point from Mike Brady.

            Mrs. Brady was nothing like my mother, probably because my mother didn’t have an Alice. When my mom was in the kitchen, she was actually cooking for her husband and brood of six. Carol Brady would sometimes hang out in the kitchen with Alice when Mike was due home, to feign helping with dinner or baking cookies, but that seemed the extent of it. I loved the episode when Carol told Alice that she shouldn’t be doing all the cleaning up after the kids, as she herself was performing the arduous task of deciding on a party costume. Subsequently, Carol’s earrings went missing (accidentally thrown in the laundry) and got ruined, which I think was housekeeping karma giving Carol a kick in the ass. But how else was she going to keep her bangs just so and wear those outta’ sight pantsuits, even to the amusement park.

            Even though we all knew the show needed to end when they jumped the shark and added (an undeserving) Oliver to their clan, I was still never ready to give up being a member of the Brady family. So reading about their reunion without me is bittersweet. Let’s get past the fact that it’s been (gulp) 40 years. And that the Brady kids are no longer kids. At least the current Greg still knows how to sport a groovy shirt. 

Cindy, Peter, & Greg at King's Island, 2013

            I console myself by recalling that sometimes it’s not so good to re-visit your childhood. I made the mistake of looking at H.R. Pufnstuf on You Tube as an adult and was as traumatized as I should’ve been seeing it as a kid. All I could think was, #1 – I must’ve had an extremely active imagination as a child, and #2 - Yes, every adult in the 70’s really was on drugs. My childhood memory of Pufnstuf exceeded its reality, which I'm sure would also be true of meeting the Brady kids all grown up.

            I mean, if I could’ve gone to their reunion, I suppose I would’ve had to call them by their real names, which would be a real bummer. And then I’d be disappointed if Peter’s voice had finished changing and Greg didn’t make a move on me. Already it was disconcerting that Cindy decided to do the reunion trip sans pigtails, although I believe she still has her lisp, which would be a little bit of a consolation. But without Jan at the reunion messing everything up and Marcia stealing the spotlight, I would surely be brought into the fold as a Brady sister. Heck, I’d take a football to the nose if I had to.

            Perhaps I should’ve traveled to that amusement park in Mason, Ohio to cross Being a Brady Kid off of my bucket list. Who knows, I could’ve had my very own Jerry McGuire moment: As I approached in my clogs and flashed the peace sign, we could’ve exchanged some 70’s lingo, which would’ve ended with the Brady kids saying, “Korina, you complete us.”

            And I would’ve replied, “You had me at ‘far out’.”

Waiting on the World to Change

            With so many graduations going on this time of year, there are a lot of proud parents out there. I’m sure they’re (almost) always proud of their children, but a diploma gives them carte blanche to be loud about their pride, and rightly so. Personally, I foresee possibly getting thrown out for standing on a chair whooping it up when they call my son’s name, even though we’re supposed to hold our applause until the end. It’s definitely one of those milestones every parent looks forward to. Although I try not to rush time by thinking too much about the future, I find it’s helpful in raising my son on a day-to-day basis to step back as often as I can to keep in mind the big picture.

            When people have disagreements about raising a child successfully, you often hear the ones with grown children say, “Well, mine graduated [insert ivy league school here]” or “Mine graduated magna cum laude,” as if that trumps everything. With all our insecurities as parents, maybe that’s a simple way to confirm that we did ok. They graduated from college, end of story. Maybe they think their child is the one immune from being among the many stressed out, maxed out young adults walking around with a college degree. And maybe their child is. However, with the ever-increasing list of achievements teens are compelled to put on their college applications, chances are there aren’t going to be very many young adults who aren’t burnt-out by the age of 22. As parents, we’re not only contributing to this trend, we’re the ones setting it.

            What do you mean, Korina? We’re just doing what we have to do for our kids to be successful later in life. Tell me, if we’re not setting these rules, then who is? Certainly not the kids, but we keep using them as an excuse for our own past regrets and competitive tendencies. Maybe we think, If only I had gotten to play the violin from the age of six… or If only I had gotten to go to soccer camp… or If only my parents had pushed me to take all AP courses… So we do it for our kids without finishing those sentences for ourselves. So what if you had? That’s right, that’s what kept you from being the multi-talented, multi-faceted, good looking, multi-millionaire that you were destined to be! More likely, you might’ve been good at playing an instrument or better at soccer or had a leg up on some freshman college courses, but at what expense? Is racking up the longest checklist what our lives are about?

            For some people, perhaps it is. When I was in my mid-twenties I met someone who often – for years - brought up her SAT score in regular conversation. After being accepted to college, I don’t think I even remembered what my SAT score was. It was just a means to an end, not who I was. But apparently those four numerals defined her. Now that her daughter will be taking the test soon, I’m certain we’ll be subjected to a new generation of score keeping.

            Because sometimes that’s what it is, isn’t it? Keeping score, keeping up with the Jones’s, making sure your kid isn’t a single step behind anyone else’s kid. I think what we need to be clear about is that this need (and fear) is about us, not about our children. We can say we’re doing it for our kids; we just want them to be successful adults. But what is it that we really want for our children? I think we can all agree, we want them to be happy. That’s the bottom line. Even for those people whose identity depends upon which college their child goes to, they still want their children to end up as contented adults. So maybe we ought to step back more often and think about what makes us happy as adults.

            How many of us are happy being scheduled to the hilt, even for things we might enjoy? Yet our kids don’t even get the weekends off from schedules. How many of us want more time with our families? Yet mom and dad spend all weekend, every weekend split apart taking each kid to his or her sporting event. How many of us wax nostalgic about how we spent hours playing outside with our neighborhood friends? Yet we don’t allow that kind of free time for our own children.

            While we’re giving our kids every possible opportunity to excel, we might just be depriving them of the precious freedoms that come with childhood: the freedom to live in the present moment, the freedom to be creative, and the freedom to enjoy quality time with their family. Frankly, we’re cheating ourselves, too.

            I’m not saying we shouldn’t help our children be the best they can be. I’m all for being an involved, participating parent. The bar my parents set for my siblings and me was to stay out of jail and off of welfare. For the record, I think the bar ought to be a hell of a lot higher than that. But we don’t want our children growing up so single-minded in their quest for society’s notion of success that they end up like Suzy Lee Weiss, an angry high school senior who felt entitled to get into her first choice of college, and robbed when she didn’t. (http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424127887324000704578390340064578654.html) Or worse, Paige Aiello, captain of her college tennis team, who was accepted to nine law schools, but committed suicide just before her graduation. (http://www.nydailynews.com/new-york/body-id-new-jersey-college-student-article-1.1339669).

            Those are extreme cases, but I see the next generation inching closer to those scenarios. Let’s stop with the excuses about why we can’t ratchet it down, scale back on extra curricular activities, and stop making our kids believe that their school test scores will be on “their permanent record.” On their permanent record will be whether they were kind, honest, emotionally healthy contributing members of society. They shouldn’t forever be quoting their SAT score in order to feel accomplished.

            Perspective might be the best thing we can give to our children. We seem to be telling our kids, “This is how the world works and you have to follow it.” What we could be saying is, “Make your world what you want it to be.” As parents, let’s lead the way.

Slice of Life: Tiptoe Through the Tulips At Your Own Risk

Last year we bought an annual pass to the New York Botanical Garden in the Bronx. Our nine-year-old son loves the outdoors and science in equal measure, so it’s a treat for my former botanist husband to give him lessons on plant life as we stroll through. So far we’ve seen the fall foliage, the heralded Holiday Train Show, and the spectacular tulips, azaleas, and magnolia and cherry trees of spring. However, after our third visit last weekend, we realize the NY Botanical Garden has managed to achieve the unachievable: making their visitors feel confined amid 250 acres.

We refer to it as the zoo for gardens for its extreme look, don’t touch attitude. After all, why would they want us to experience the natural environment all around us when we can stick to the concrete paths? Why would they want to foster an interconnection between people and nature when they can spend the entire day telling us to stay off the grass and only smell the flowers that emit a fragrance from a safe distance of at least three feet?

Maybe I exaggerate…but just a little.

My son was longing to climb a couple of giant boulders and asked if he could do so. I, of course, said yes, only to hear a few moments later from somewhere unknown a bellow to “Get off the rocks!” I felt like Dorothy Gale, the small and meek, when the Great and Powerful Oz was berating her for daring to stand before him. He got off the rocks, knowing that the many footprints on that boulder may speed up its erosion to under a million years, and we wouldn’t want that. But it wasn’t just us being targeted. Oz could be heard intermittently shouting at people of all ages to get off the grass.

The amount of visitors the NYBG gets – 800,000 annually – makes rules necessary to maintain its beauty. After all, who wants to pay to see trampled tulips? So yes, stay off the flowerbeds. Don’t climb the trees. Don’t let your children wade into the water. Don’t litter. Ok. But surely within their 250 acres, they could have green spaces for visitors to do more than look longingly from afar. We had brought a lunch; envisioning picnicking with the grass beneath our bare feet, but that was not to be. There was one designated picnic area, tables and chairs only, so people would eat like civilized city folk. Our boy begged us to let him feel the grass between his toes. No son, why would you think that would be allowed here, out of doors?

Although we enjoyed our spring afternoon, the Garden captivity atmosphere came to a head at the end of our visit. There was a maze sculpture in front of the conservatory. There are two openings in the hedges to access it, as well as a wide staircase leading down to it. I stayed back taking photos while my husband and our son walked towards the structure. As our son started through the maze, again we heard shouts from the Great and Powerful. This time, however, he emerged from behind the curtain to run towards the maze as he continued yelling at our son to get out. I mean really yelling, as if our son had started spray painting it. I could hear him from where I stood some fifteen yards away. Our son immediately ran over to his dad, frightened and unsure of what he had done wrong. From this point on, I didn’t hear the conversation between my husband and the employee, but I didn’t have to. My husband’s hand gestures were enough to know that he was going a little New York on the guy. The sign in front of the maze sculpture read: Do Not Climb the Sculpture. There was no climbing. And did I mention it was a maze.

After we got to our car, I tried to do damage control, letting our son know that he did nothing wrong, but that maybe daddy could’ve handled that a little more calmly.

“That was calmly,” my husband said. “I’m from New York.”

Because I was secretly happy that he had told the guy off, I conceded by telling our son that he should always let us handle it as he did, and he should never speak to an adult like that.

He said, “Oh, I wouldn’t.” Pause. “But I did smile while Dad was chewing him out.”

Oh, boy. I guess he got more than a botany lesson this time.

From Housewife to Pioneer Woman

I want to be the pioneer woman. Not a pioneer woman, the pioneer woman. Are you familiar with Ree Drummond from The Food Network? She lives on a working cattle ranch in Oklahoma and also has her own blog (www.thepioneerwoman.com) where she shares her recipes, her photography, her gardening tips and oh yeah, she homeschools her four kids, as well. And I want to be her. Despite the fact that I can’t handle more than my one child, I don’t like cooking or cowboys, and my son goes to public school for a good reason. Ok, so maybe I can be a mini-pioneer woman, because we still have a lot in common. She lives “in the middle of nowhere” and so do I. Well, she might be more out there than I am, living on a sprawling Oklahoma ranch. But I have to drive twenty-three miles to the nearest Barnes & Noble. Does that count?

She may have given herself the Pioneer Woman moniker when she transitioned from working city girl to married country girl, but for me, it’s got nothing to do with the ranch. I think she’s a true pioneer for a different reason: she embraces her choice to center her life around her family, and she doesn’t apologize for it.

I like Ree’s spin on her role. Pioneer Woman captures it so much better than stay-at-home mom or housewife. Those pioneer women were revered. Their importance to the foundation of their family was appreciated. Today, women who choose to be “housewives” are often looked down upon. Ree writes about herself: “My days are spent wrangling children, chipping dried manure from boots, washing jeans, and making gravy. I have no idea how I got here…but you know what? I love it.” Then she jokes, “Don’t tell anyone!” Because she knows educated women of the 21^st century aren’t supposed to be satisfied, much less fulfilled, by any of that stuff. We must still be brainwashed from prior generations if we choose to do our husband’s laundry or cook the family meals.

Hence, the battle rages on between working moms vs. stay-at-home moms. Women argue over which is better for the kids, but I don’t understand that debate. If you’re happy and fulfilled in your situation, then that’s what’s better for the kids. You know the saying, “If mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.” It’s true whether you work outside the home or in it.

A large part of Ree Drummond’s focus on her family includes making meals for them and even though it’s 2013, she feeds them regular food. Ludicrously, this too makes her a pioneer in today’s society where you’re shamed for eating anything white…or eating at all! One of Gillian Michaels’ food rules is to wear a ribbon around your waist so it gets tight while you’re eating so you’ll stop. Why not just have someone slug you after every third bite? That should keep you in shape. And let’s not start with Gwyneth Paltrow’s food rules. Suffice it to say, don’t eat anything you can find in your grocery store. (Let’s not pretend she’s an expert on health, because she admits to being a smoker.) There are so many people telling us which foods we must eat. Funny thing is, once that food goes out of style, you never hear about it again. Kale, anyone? “Nutrition coaches” were practically bathing in it last year. Then it was acai berry juice, then quinoa, and now it’s coconut water (or maybe that’s passé already, too). There are too many morning show slots to fill, too many beauty articles, and too many food blogs. People aren’t trying to make the rest of us healthy, they’re just trying to stay relevant.

How pioneering it is for Ree Drummond to be relevant by being traditional. By cooking some of her husband’s grandmother’s recipes. By making her home and family her main focus, even as she continues her love of writing, photography, and cooking. Even though that might not be the thing for everyone, I admire her for unabashedly embracing her choice.

As I said, my cooking skills are rudimentary, so I don’t usually turn to the Food Network for recipes. Still, when I watch The Pioneer Woman, I get the cozies. I understand the appeal of being the one who keeps your home humming. Comfort can come from doing something as simple as packing a peanut butter and honey sandwich in my son’s lunchbox every day. I can relate to her fulfillment in the life she’s chosen and the pride she takes in it.

Yes, she has a TV show, but it organically emanated from a life she was already leading. Personally, I think she’s pioneering a new definition of success, one not based on money, degrees, or status.

Sheryl Sandberg, COO of Facebook, recently started a “Lean In” movement. Her website describes it as “a global community committed to encouraging and supporting women leaning in to their ambitions.” I wonder if women can also support other women whose ambition it is to be the true matriarch of their family. In other words, a pioneer woman.